The next day was Sunday. Cardigan, who had learnt from his young
hostess all that she could tell of her dressmaker, looked eagerly for
Alice's face in the village church. But he could not find her there.
She had gone away over the hills to a smaller church, to which the
Monteagles never went, and was not to be seen with the Bowers in the
seat allotted to the tenants of Swallow's Nest.
He was restless, and longed to secure a little time to himself in the
afternoon. Somehow, without being observed, he contrived to slip away,
out of the Hall, through the gardens, and then up to that high ground
from whence he had first looked down upon the old farm.
There it lay in the still sunshine, asleep in a Sunday peace. He waited
there, and watched until he saw the slender, upright figure of a young
woman come out of the porch. She went down the little garden-path,
opened the wicket, and then sauntered slowly across the grass to the
lane.
She was in a very thoughtful mood as she paced deliberately under the
shade of the old oaks. The sun, now getting low, burnished the brown
hair, wound so simply around her uncovered head. Once she paused to
reach a spray of late honeysuckle growing on the top of the hedge, and
then stood still to tuck it into the front of her dress. When she moved
again and lifted her eyes, she saw Cardigan standing before her under a
tree.
"Miss Harper," he said, rather awkwardly, "it is a great pleasure to
see you again. You have been hidden away so long!"
"I wanted to be hidden," she answered, as she gave him her hand. "Is it
not very natural that I should hide myself, Mr. Cardigan? My life was
darkened; it was best to live it all alone."
"I don't know if it was best," said he, reddening to the roots of his
hair with the endeavour to speak his thought. "There were those who
would have helped you to live it, if you would have let them."
"Ah, but I could not." Her face softly reflected the glow on his. "But,
by the way," she added more lightly, "you have come to spoil the life
I am leading here. I am told that you have bought Swallow's Nest, and
mean to pull the old house down. Have you, by chance, given just a
passing thought to those who are living under its roof?"
He flushed again.
"I confess I didn't," he said penitently. "But----"
"Oh, you rich men!" she interrupted, with a weary sigh. "With you to
see is to desire, to desire is to have, to have is to leave others
lacking. Shall I tell you what you were going to do?"
"Tell me anything you please," he answered eagerly.
"It is always much easier to pull down than to build up," she went on.
"The old home yonder has been years in making. More than a century
ago, when it was fresh and new, a young couple began there the serious
business of life. They were poor in money, but very rich in love and
faith. Their prayers are built into the walls; their angels have
hallowed every humble room with holy ministry; their souls passed
gently from that earthly dwelling to the Father's house on high.
Children and children's children have filled the places that they left
vacant, living just the same simple, God-fearing life. The old house is
still sound and strong; there are no cracks anywhere; it keeps out the
rough weather. But a rich man has decided that it is old-fashioned and
ugly, therefore it must be pulled down."
Cardigan had grown pale. Her words had gone down right to the deeps of
his heart, and moved him painfully.
"It shall not be pulled down!" he cried. "Miss Harper, I have been a
stupid, selfish man. But it is not too late to begin again?"
"No, it is not too late," she said, with a very bright face. "And you
will really let the house stand? Well, so much the better for us and
the swallows. Dear birds, they are just going away. I wonder what they
would have felt if they had come back to find their old nest in ruins.
Mr. Cardigan, I think it is a good thing that I met you to-day. Now I
must go back quickly and set some troubled hearts at rest."
"Do not go yet," he pleaded. "No one has ever given me such a straight
talking to before. My money was making a selfish brute of me very fast.
Hit me as hard as you can, Miss Harper. Every blow knocks some of the
evil out."
She gave a soft little laugh.
"Why, it seems that I have found a new vocation," said she.
"I wish you had found it sooner!" he cried. "Can you not leave the nest
to the swallows, and take me in hand? Is it too much to ask?"
There was a silence which only lasted for a moment, and yet seemed half
a lifetime. The bright look faded from her face; she was perplexed and
troubled.
"Mr. Cardigan," she said gravely, "you must take yourself in hand."
"That means that a man should not ask a woman to do for him what he
ought to do for himself," said he, in a saddened tone. "Well, you are
right. I have not given any proof of amendment."
"You have given a very plain proof of a kind heart," she said, with an
earnestness that made her eyes glisten. "I thank you for it. But I must
go now and carry the good news indoors."
He did not try to detain her again; but, just as she was turning away,
he made a last request.
"Miss Harper, will you let me see you once more before I go away? Will
you meet me here again, in this spot, next Sunday afternoon?"
"I will," she said quietly. And there was a very sweet look on her face
as she made the promise.
Robert Cardigan went back across the fields with a great hunger in his
heart.
He knew now that he loved her. He had begun to love her unconsciously
when she was a girl in Park Lane, looking at life with serious eyes,
and talking of the things that she would do some day.
How strange it was that wealth had been taken out of her hands, and put
into his. Life is full of riddles like this. Strong, tender spirits are
left to work hard for a pittance, suffering the heart-thrill of those
who have nothing to give but prayers and love. Lazy men and women have
their hands crammed with gold, and look round constantly for some new
pleasure to buy for themselves. And yet there is One who is mindful of
His own.
It was a very long week. Alice, busy with her work, was conscious of a
dull ache when she called up a vision of Cardigan's face. The Bowers
rejoiced with a great joy. They did not ask how it was that she knew
Mr. Cardigan, and they promised not to speak of the matter. But they
wondered silently why she, who had brought them gladness, should be sad
herself.
Quite alone, in the stillness of another golden Sunday, Alice slowly
took her way to the quiet lane. She knew that she should find him
waiting there; and she knew, too, the answer that she would give him.
Yet, in her innermost self, there was a deep regret that she could not
give a different answer. A man must work out his own salvation, she
thought. He must not put the tools into a woman's hand, and say, "Shape
and fashion my life according to your will."
"So you have come. It is kind of you," he said.
Her face was a little paler than it had been last Sunday, and her lips
slightly quivered.
"You have made us all so happy," she said, in a soft, hurried voice.
"The Bowers are good people, and the old place feels like a home to me."
"Do you want to stay there always?" he asked with an impatient sigh.
"I have not lived there long," she said evasively. "You cannot realise
what a rest it is. For two years I worked hard in London, learning my
business; and I used to pine for fresh air, and the sight of fields and
trees, as only working girls can. It was Miss de Vigny who found this
home for me."
"She would not tell me anything about you," said he. "Do you know what
I feel when I hear of all your sorrows and struggles? I feel mad to
think that I have got so much money. It seems as if Providence were
playing with us both. Don't look shocked. I have a bad habit of saying
odd things when I am wrought upon."
She stood still. Her face was beautiful, but very pale.
"But I didn't bring you here to listen to my ravings," he went on. "I
want to ask if you can give me any hope? Will there ever be a time when
we shall work together? Only tell me this!"
She turned her face away that he might not see the tears gathering in
her eyes.
"How can I answer?" asked she, sadly. "I do not know. We have seen so
little of each other. You are under the spell of strong feeling; but
feeling only changes a man for a little while. It alters the surface of
his nature, but leaves the inmost self untouched."
"Ah," he said bitterly, "you could not say that if you, too, were under
the spell!"
"That is the truth." She looked up at him with a face that seemed to
apologise for her words; it was so tender, as well as so true. "I am
free from the spell. Because I am free, I would leave you so also. You
think, just now, that you could do all the things and make all the
sacrifices which I feel right. But, if we were together always, that
mood of yours might not last."
"Does not love last?" he asked impatiently.
She shook her head, with a sad little smile.
"Miss Harper," he cried, "where did you learn this bitter wisdom? Why
has God given us these feelings which you seem to mistrust?"
"I mistrust them only till I see what they will lead to," she said
gently. "They are the beginnings of love, but not love itself. That
which you call love is not lasting; it is a blossom that the wind blows
away."
There was a silence so deep that they could hear the rustle of a
falling leaf. Cardigan broke the pause with a voice full of pain.
"Once more," he said, "I ask if you will give me a hope? To-morrow I am
going away. May I come back again?"
"Yes," she answered, with a sudden bright look. "Come back when the
swallows build. They owe it to your kindness that they will find the
old place just the same. Mr. Cardigan, I am not as hard-hearted as you
suppose. But a man must put himself to the test."
The fall of the year brought a quantity of work to the industrious
fingers at the farm. Miss Harper's fame was spreading far and wide.
Letty Monteagle's tea-gown was the forerunner of a great many orders
from her and her friends. The squire's young wife would have been more
sociable if Alice had not persisted in keeping her at a distance. More
than once, when Letty tried to begin a conversation she felt herself
very gently, but very firmly, checked. She had never found out that
Cardigan had seen Alice before he went away.
All through the short, sharp winter, and into the early spring, the
busy fingers toiled on. There was a pause when Alice paid a flying
visit to a famous drapery house in London. She went for patterns and
goods, but found time to see Mary de Vigny.
"Have you heard that Robert Cardigan is making himself useful?" the
little lady asked. "Really useful, I mean. He came to me for advice,
and I gave him some. It does not do to plunge into amateur philanthropy
unaided, you see. Well, my dear, the country seems to agree with you. I
never saw you looking so well, and yet you are as grave as a nun."
"Oh, that is the result of constant work," Alice replied.
In June a son and heir was born at the Hall. And then Miss Harper broke
through her usual reserve, and sent an exquisite cover for the baby's
cradle. The young mother wrote a cordial note, so full of genuine
feeling and happiness that Alice was gladdened herself, and went out
into the porch to watch the swallows. They darted round and round the
old house, and the sunlight shone upon the rapid wings.
"They are building," Milly said, a little later, when the sun was
pouring down upon the fields. "See, they are making their nest in the
old spot!"
On the evening of the same day the farmer came indoors with a grave
face. There had been an accident, he said. The squire's new groom had
gone to the station with the dog-cart to meet a gentleman. It was a
mistake to trust a young fellow with that flighty chestnut; in Bower's
opinion the groom was as bad a whip as he had ever seen. On the way
back the mare had bolted; both the men were flung out, but it was the
gentleman who was hurt--very badly hurt, it was feared. They had got
him to bed at the Hall, and the doctor would stay with him far into the
night.
A woman, pale and sorrowful, knelt alone in her room, with her face
uplifted to the stars. "If it had not been for me, he would not have
come back! Oh, God, spare his life," she prayed. "Spare him, and let
the way be made clear for my feet!"
Days came and went--brilliant days, full of summer sweetness and bloom,
but Cardigan lay crushed and helpless at the squire's house. He was a
lonely man. There was neither mother nor sister to share the nurse's
watch in the sick room; but when the news of the disaster came to Mary
de Vigny's ears, she wrote to the Monteagles and said that she was
coming. She arrived, quiet and self-possessed as ever; and with her
presence came a gleam of hope and light. The patient began to rally.
Very slowly, very feebly, he seemed to feel his way back into life.
One evening Mary de Vigny sent a note to Swallow's Nest. The squire
himself was the bearer. He drove to the gate in his wife's pony-cart,
and waited till Miss Harper was ready to go up to the Hall.
Cardigan, propped up on his pillows, motionless and pale, brightened
wonderfully when she entered the room.
"Ah, I knew you would come," he said. "I could not lie here any longer
without seeing you, and hearing your voice. Do you believe in me yet,
Alice? Is there any more hope for me now than there was last year?"
"Hush," she said gently. "You are not well enough to talk about these
things."
"I shall never get well till I have talked about them! Alice, I want to
tell you that I made my will after I saw you last. I left you Swallow's
Nest, and everything else besides. Perhaps I had better die, for you
will know what to do with the money. A man's life, after all, is a
little thing, and I never was good enough for you. If I die----"
"Hush," she said again. "If you die, I will never marry anyone else as
long as I live. But you mustn't die."
She burst into tears; and then his hand stole along the coverlet until
it found hers, and held it fast.
[THE END.]
[Illustration]
OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: A SHORT STORY IN VERSE.
SOLUTION.
A SHORT STORY IN VERSE.
A short-sighted stork
Was once taking a walk,
When he met with a rusty old nail;
And, being in the mood
For a mouthful of food,
He waggled the tip of his tail.
Said he, "I opine
"I can very well dine
"Off this small but acceptable bone;"
But when he had dined
He more sagely opined,
"I wish I had let it alone!"
* * * * *
PRIZE WINNERS.
_Twelve Shillings and Sixpence Each._
Rose S. Bracey, 92, Upper Tollington Park, N.
Mrs. J. Cumming, 1, Elvan Terrace, Ibrox, Glasgow.
Rose D. Davis, St. Georges, Roundhay, Leeds.
Mrs. Grubbe, Mentmore Vicarage, Leighton Buzzard.
J. Hunt, 42, Francis Road, Birmingham.
Edith Morrison, 65, St. Peter's Road, Handsworth, Birmingham.
Kate Robinson, 4, Queen Street, Horncastle.
_Five Shillings Each._
Lily Belling, Wribbenhall, Bewdley, Worcestershire.
Eva M. Benson, The Rectory, Ballymoney, Co. Antrim, Ireland.
Ethel M. E. Lea, Northfield, Royston, Herts.
Polemarchus, 24, Tay Street, Dundee.
_Very Highly Commended._
Eliza Acworth, Maud L. Ansell, Ethel C. Burlingham, M. J. Champneys,
Helen M. Coulthard, S. Dewhirst, Lily Dickin, Mabel Dickin, Edith E.
Grundy, Alice E. Johnson, Rev. V. Odom, Ada Rickards, Mrs. G. W. Smith,
Gertrude Smith, Isabel Snell, S. Southall, Ellen Thurtell, May Tutte.
_Highly Commended._
N. Campbell, M. Christie, Mabel E. Davis, Ethel Dobell, A. and F.
Fooks, E. F. Franks, Eva Florence Gammage, Nelly I. Hobday, Eva Hooley,
D. A. Leslie, Nellie Meikle, E. M. Rudge, Jas. J. Slade, Constance
Taylor, C. E. Thompson.
_Honourable Mention._
Maud Allen, Mrs. Astbury, Agnes Beale, Isabel Borrow, Leonard Duncan,
Annie K. Edwards, Dorothy Fulford, Peter Kelly, E. M. Le Mottée, Fred.
Lindley, Marian E. Messenger, J. D. Musgrave, E. Cunliffe Owen, Alfred
Scott, Miss Sharp, M. Short, Winifred Skelton, Ellen R. Smith, C. E.
Thurger, Ethel Tomlinson, Edward Tweed, E. Watherstow.
EXAMINERS' REPORT.
The title is _not_ "A Small Conservative in Verse." Apart from its
absurdity there is an objection against it which appears to have
escaped the notice of many competitors. Concerning the rest of the
puzzle, there is little to say, it is so simple. The chief value of
it lies in the instruction, afforded by the solution, on the use of
quotation marks in verse. These should be placed at the beginning of
the quotation, at the beginning of every line of quotation, and at the
end of the whole quotation.
The solutions of the 1st prize winners were perfect; those of the 2nd
prize winners only failed to give the form of the verse correctly. The
solutions very highly commended placed the quotation marks wrongly but
gave the form properly; those highly commended were incorrect in both
respects, while those in the last list contained trifling errors in
other ways.
"Wisely" and "rightly" often took the place of _sagely_ in line 11. The
picture represents a sage, and though sages are often wise there was
no necessity to go so deeply into the matter to obtain a good reading.
"Rightly" is altogether wrong.
To _Violet_ and others. The "O" in the solution of Fluctuations should
have been Oh.
GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.
BY ELSA D'ESTERRE KEELING, Author of "Old Maids and Young."