ANDREW'S FRIEND.
The little town soon felt the difference between having the Hall
occupied by its owners and tenanted by persons who had no interest in
the place. Margaret knew most of the families living in Apley, for
there had not been many changes during her absence; and as a child she
had been allowed free intercourse with the respectable householders of
the town. Now she had returned among them, she and the rector had many
schemes for their social as well as religious improvement. Sidney was
liberal, and eager to further any wish of Margaret's. He was even
willing to take a share in her plans, as far as his business gave him
time to do so; and nobody could make himself more genial and popular
than he did.
The rector's wife, Laura Martin, who had seemed willing to marry George
as a poor curate, had been very well aware that he was one of the two
nephews of the wealthy City man, Sir John Martin, to whom all his
accumulated riches must be left. Her chagrin at his being left in
poverty by his uncle had been extreme; and she was on the point of
breaking off her engagement with George Martin, when Sidney, who felt
the injustice of his uncle's will, settled £10,000 on his cousin. It
was a mere pittance, Laura felt; but it was sufficient to decide her to
marry George. With the living at Apley their yearly income was now
nearly £1200; and as she was a clever woman in household management,
she contrived to make a good appearance, and was generally more
expensively dressed than Margaret. She made, on the whole, a good
country parson's wife, looking well after the affairs of the parish;
especially in Margaret's absence, when she reigned lady paramount. It
was a sore and bitter vexation to her to suffer eclipse when Margaret
was at Apley; but the intercourse between the Hall and the Rectory was
too intimate, and too beneficial for herself and her children, for her
to show any sense of mortification. She always spoke of Margaret as
her dearest friend.
There were already two children at the Rectory, Sidney and Richard; and
soon after Philip's birth a girl was born, who was called Phyllis by
Laura. Already there was a little scheme in Laura's brain, an organ
scarcely ever used for any other function than scheming. Why should
not this little girl of hers become the wife of Sidney's son and heir?
It was a pleasant pastime to build castles in the air, on the
foundation of this unspoken wish.
Something of the gloom which was threatening Andrew Goldsmith's reason
was removed by Margaret's return to Apley, and the interest taken in
him and his sorrow by her and the rector. They frequently called upon
him to render some service; and little by little he regained the
position of importance he had once held among the townspeople, though
his influence was now exercised more on religious than political
subjects. He was superior to his neighbors in intellect; and he had
the gift of speech, being able to address them with a somewhat
uncultured eloquence, but in a manner that went home to their hearts
and understandings. His life ran in more healthy currents, and there
were times when Rachel hoped he would overcome the deep depression
which had followed upon Sophy's mysterious disappearance.
The person to whom of all others Andrew Goldsmith attached himself, in
this partial revival of his old life, was Sidney Martin. Sidney,
unconsciously perhaps, addressed the sorrow-stricken man, who was
bearing the burden of the sin he had been guilty of, in a tone and
manner of the deepest sympathy; as if he knew all his burden, and would
help him to bear it, though he would never speak of it. The sad secret
lay between them, and both were thinking of it in their deepest hearts.
There was a strange, inexplicable subtlety in this silent sympathy.
The moment their eyes met each man saw, as if standing between them,
Sophy's girlish figure and pretty face; and Andrew Goldsmith felt, with
vague and confused instinct, that Sidney looked at his grief and loss
with different eyes from other onlookers. Sidney fathomed his woe with
a deeper and truer plummet than that with which other men could sound
it; and there was a dim sense of satisfaction in the feeling that he,
who had all that earth could give, shared the pain that was gnawing his
own heart.
It grew into a habit with Andrew Goldsmith to listen for the sound of
Sidney's horse or carriage, and hasten to his shop door in time to lift
his hat to him as he went by, and to catch the subtle gleam of
melancholy comprehension in Sidney's passing salutation. There was
such a link between them as did not exist between any other two souls,
among all the souls they were in contact with; and it was a dark day
with Andrew in which he did not see the recognition of it in Sidney's
face.
Sidney would unhesitatingly have called himself the happiest man on
earth but for this singular and ominous devotion toward him of the man
he had so deeply injured. His life was all that he had ever hoped for;
Margaret a dearer wife and better companion than he had even dreamed
she might be; his child a sweetness and delight to him beyond all
words. There was no flaw in his prosperity. His sky was clear of all
but one almost invisible speck. At his gates dwelt this man whose mere
existence was a perpetual reminder of his early blunder; for Sidney
would not own it to be a sin. The friendship of this man, he said to
himself, was the bitterest penance that could be inflicted on him. But
for this he could have forgotten Sophy altogether. And why should he
not forget her? He had done her very little wrong; not the wrong
ninety-nine men out of a hundred in his position would have been guilty
of. If he could but escape the sight of this unfortunate father of
hers, his wrong-doing would soon cease to trouble him.
But Sidney could find no easy way of escape. He might have insisted on
living in or near London; but Margaret was strongly attached to her old
home, and it happened that all his attempts to buy an estate nearer to
London fell through. The estate bought by his uncle was in Yorkshire;
and consequently was too far away for him to dwell upon it; and
Margaret's place answered all their requirements perfectly. It was not
much more than an hour's journey by train from his place of business in
the City; and Margaret's position, as the last descendant of an old
county family, gave them a standing in the county which they could not
have elsewhere. It had always been a part of his ambition for the
future to become a member of the House of Commons, and he was already
recognized as the most eligible candidate of his party for a place as
member for the county at the next general election. A number of minute
threads, gathering in number and vigor as each month passed by, wove
themselves into a rope which it needed the strength of a Samson to
break through.
It was not possible, on the other hand, to dislodge Andrew Goldsmith;
nor did Sidney seriously think of it. He would not add to the harm he
had already done him the cruel injury of turning him out of his old
home, and sending him adrift among strangers. He was not in any way of
a hard and pitiless nature, and his heart was full of compunction and
kindliness toward Andrew Goldsmith. More than once he debated with
himself whether it would not be wise to confide the whole story to the
rector, and take his counsel as to the question of telling Andrew, or
of still keeping the fate of Sophy a secret. But he could not risk the
chance of Margaret knowing it; and he resolved upon keeping silence and
bearing his penalty as best he could.
His eldest boy, Philip, was three years of age; and the second son,
Hugh, his mother's heir and the future owner of Apley, was about twelve
months old, when a vacancy in the representation of the county
occurred, which gave to Sidney a fair chance of being elected, though
not without a close contest. The influence on both sides was stretched
to the utmost, and party spirit ran high. It was like the sound of a
trumpet to an old war-horse for Andrew Goldsmith. For the time being
his heavy burden seemed to slip off his shoulders, and he became again,
as in former times, the active and energetic leader of the voters in
the neighborhood. His shop and the pleasant kitchen behind it were
filled from morning to night with groups of his neighbors, eagerly
discussing the question of the coming election. Occasionally Sidney
himself dropped in, with Margaret beside him; and was thus brought into
closer contact than before with her tenants. For Sidney, busy as he
was with a multiplicity of affairs, left the management of the Apley
estate almost wholly in his wife's hands.
Life was very full to Margaret. She had her husband, her children, and
her tenants to live for, and her desire to serve them was very ardent,
to minister to their lowest as well as to their highest needs. She had
the true Christian instinct of help-giving. There was one incident of
her Lord's life over which her soul brooded, more frequently, perhaps,
than any other. She saw him sitting at the feast with his disciples,
Judas the traitor being one of them, and all of them being on the point
of forsaking him. He, who was King of kings and Lord of lords, who,
being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God,
yet took upon himself the form of a servant, and came, not to be
ministered unto, but to minister. She saw this Jesus rise from the
table, and lay aside the white robe he was wearing for the feast, and
pour water into a basin, and stoop to wash his disciples' feet, soiled
with the dust of the street. It was a symbol, but it was also a real
action of her Lord's. What service ought she to shrink from, then, if
Christ washed his disciples' feet?
Margaret was very much in earnest about her husband's election, and
threw herself with all her heart into the efforts made to secure it.
She believed him to be so good and true a man that it must be for the
welfare of the country for him to sit in Parliament. If he was
returned it would compel them to live more in London; but that was a
sacrifice she could make, and she did not flinch from the sacrifice.
She was in the habit of visiting freely and familiarly among all her
neighbors, the poor as well as the rich; and she had not failed in
winning their esteem and regard. Her canvassing for her husband was
everywhere successful.
But the chief factor in the election was Andrew Goldsmith, who labored
night and day for Sidney Martin's return. When the poll was declared
Sidney was elected by a small majority only, and everyone said this
majority was due to Andrew Goldsmith's influence in his own district,
where the voters had given their votes as one man. Sidney had reached
the goal of his ambition, or rather he had passed one winning-post to
enter upon a new path; and his heart beat high with exaltation. He was
a young man yet, and he would win such a name as should reflect glory
upon his two boys and lay the foundation of an illustrious family. He
had no long line of ancestry to boast of; his uncle had been a
self-raised man, and he was still almost unknown. But Margaret's
lineage was old enough to compensate for the newness of his own, and
his boys should have such a position in the world as few others had.
Hugh, the youngest, would succeed Margaret, and take the name of
Cleveland; but Philip would be his heir and nothing should be lacking
in his career. He would make his name illustrious for his boy's sake
as well as his own.
These thoughts were flitting through his brain as he drove homeward
with Margaret and his friends, after the declaration of the poll at the
county town. It was a very bright hour for him. But within a few
miles of Apley they were met by a procession of his wife's tenants
coming out to congratulate him, with Andrew Goldsmith on horseback at
their head. There was something very striking in the appearance of the
vigorous, soldierly, white-headed man, as he came up to the side of the
carriage to act as spokesman for the crowd behind. He sat his horse
well, as a member of the cavalry troop must do; and his deep-set eyes
glowed with pride and affection. His pale, sad face was transfigured
for the time; for this was the happiest moment he had known for years.
Sidney practically owed his election to him; and it was some return, he
thought, for all the kindness he had received from him and Margaret.
It was a singular and bitter trial to Sidney to stretch out his hand
and clasp the hand of his father-in-law. If this crowd only knew the
relationship that existed between him and the man they had chosen for
their spokesman, their cheers would turn into execrations. He had
never shaken hands with him before; for though he had visited Andrew's
house frequently during the last few weeks, the latter knew his place
too well to push himself forward so as to compel Sidney to such a
friendly greeting. But now, at this juncture, nothing was more natural
than that these two men, forgetting the differences of rank, should
clasp each other's hands in token of a victory won by both.
It was a strong grip that the saddler gave to his friend Sidney Martin,
and spoke of all the subtle, indefinable sympathy that existed between
them. Margaret's eyes filled with happy tears. So long had she felt
the gloom of this man's deep sorrow that her heart was filled with
gladness to see him escaping from its chain.
"It's you I have to thank for my election, Goldsmith," said Sidney,
glad to get his hand released from his painful grasp.
"We've all done our best, sir," he answered, "and we are come to meet
you, and say not one of us has known a prouder day than this; a proud
day and a joyful day it is. And we pray Almighty God, every man among
us, that he will bless you with all the blessings of this life, and
preserve your precious life for many, many years. And that you may
live to be Prime Minister," he added with a tone of humor in his grave
voice. There was a tremendous chorus of "Hurrahs!" and a great deal of
laughter. Prime Minister! Yes; that was what they would all like. On
Andrew Goldsmith's face there came a quiver, as if his features so long
set in sad despair were attempting to smile, and might succeed if many
more such joyous occasions came.
Sidney answered shortly and pleasantly, and the procession fell behind
the carriages. It was only as they passed along the High Street that
Andrew Goldsmith, looking at his little shop, and seeing its doorway
and windows empty, while every other house was filled with women and
children, remembered too vividly the mystery surrounding the fate of
his own daughter. He dropped behind in the procession as it passed on
to Apley Hall; and when Sidney looked for him in vain, he felt a keen
sense of relief in Andrew's absence.