Poor Jim! his pride had indeed met with a fall. The rector's letter
was soothing enough, but the winged messenger which he himself had
demanded had arrived full twenty-four hours earlier. Full of the most
ridiculous dreams, that he would have been ashamed to put in words even
to himself, the young man tore open the brown cover. One glance at the
cruelly brief, well-written announcement, and all the top-heavy aerial
erection his vanity had heaped up lay shattered around him. Poor boy!
shall we not pity him? From very childhood, though so silent and
undemonstrative, he had fed himself with extravagant visions and wild
speculations. All this had been merely an amusement, though an
unhealthy one. The dreamer had scarcely entertained the idea of his
dreams possibly proving true. But the train was laid for a future
explosion--the imagination was diseased, and so when the watchmaker's
letter came, all the shadowy fancies of the past seemed to be suddenly
transformed into substantial realities. He fancied ho had always
_known_ that which hitherto he had only amused himself by fancying.
The blow was sharp and decisive, and Jim felt he had brought it on
himself. Curiously enough, however, the sudden stinging pain acted as
a tonic stimulant. The lad summoned up all the latent manliness and
force of his character. He looked the thing in the face, and saw
clearly that he had played the fool. He knew that he would be laughed
at, and resolved to bear it like a man.
Next day came Mr. Smith's letter, and it was as balm to the wounded
spirit. Elsie also wrote a line to say she was glad not to be a lady,
and believed that he would get on all the better for not being a lord.
Thus it came to pass that when the Rev. Cooper Smith arrived at
Ballymena station, the first person he met was Jim McAravey.
"I do not know how to thank you, sir, for all the trouble you have
taken; I at least was not worthy of it. But I trust this piece of
folly has been enough for me. I hope I am wiser, but I shall strive
not to be sadder."
Mr. Smith was as much surprised as pleased at this change in the young
man's character, and he the more regretted having to tell the whole of
the narrative, which was sure to cause further pain to the lad.
However, it had to be done, and Jim, who was no coward, took it all
better than might have been expected.
"And so I am only Elsie's half-brother, at best--or shall I say at
_worst_?" said the poor lad, with trembling voice. "I'm afraid, sir, I
shall be terribly laughed at here, but I must bear it as best I can. I
have brought it on myself."
Elsie was profoundly thankful for the result of the investigation. As
she had said herself, she "did not feel like being a lady," and was
therefore glad to be delivered from what would have been, to her, an
unwelcome fate. At the same time it was a pleasure to obtain definite
information as to her parentage, and also to find that in Lady Eleanor
she had a friend who had known and loved her mother, and who was bound
to herself by a sacred tie. That Jim had proved not to be her brother
was, if the truth be told, a relief. Elsie had often reproached
herself that she did not feel for him that sisterly affection which she
believed it her duty to cultivate. In fact she began to like Jim
better now, partly because he was decidedly improved by the "taking
down" he had received, and partly because affection was no longer a
duty to which the girl had to school her heart.
Lady Eleanor's letter was kind in the extreme. She told Elsie in
simple language how they had all loved her mother, and enclosed for her
perusal the one or two letters that had been preserved. "Although
Elsie could not remember their last meeting, yet they were not
strangers, since Lady Eleanor did not forget that she had held her in
her arms at the baptismal font." Elsie was urged most affectionately
to go over to England, if it were only for a time; and it was suggested
that if she settled there Mrs. McAravey might accompany her. Elsie,
however, felt at once that, even could she bear the journey, it would
be a cruelty to transplant the aged woman from her native soil to a
region where she would find all things alien and strange. Nor would
she entertain the idea of deserting the poor old body, though Mrs.
McAravey stoically offered to give her up.
"I won't stand in your way, Elsie, lass, though I can't bear to think
of it; but it's not long I'll be here to trouble anyone, and I'd like
to know you were well provided."
But Elsie would not be persuaded, nor could her new friends do
otherwise than approve her noble resolve. They were disappointed, but
felt that such a girl was worthy of their affection and patronage, and
trusted that time would afford them opportunities of benefiting her.
The winter that ensued was a trying one. The snow lay deep on the
moors, so that Tor Bay was practically shut off from the rest of the
world. The rector was not able to get over, and even George Hendrick's
visits were few and far between. For several weeks Elsie could not go
to church, and when she did the fatigue and wet brought on a cold which
stuck to her all the winter. Old Mrs. McAravey seemed fast approaching
her end; she long had been quite crippled with rheumatism, and now her
mind was at times beginning to give way. It was a sad, dreary time for
Elsie. Scarcely any children were able to come to school; and as she
struggled on day after day at what seemed, in her present low state of
health, a barren and uninteresting task, she could not but have visions
of the comfortable home she might have acquired with her hitherto
unseen friends. Not that she ever regretted her decision; indeed Elsie
was scarcely capable of entertaining a selfish thought. Without any
apparent effort she lived for others, and habitually thought of them
before herself. Yet it was a trying time for the poor young
girl--gloomy and disheartening days, succeeded by restless and anxious
nights, and literally not a soul to speak to.
Jim, too, had a bad time of it that winter. So great had been the
ridicule to which he had been subjected in Ballymena, that he was at
length forced to abandon his position. Messrs. Moore accepted his
resignation somewhat coldly. They regretted the loss of a valuable
servant, but Jim had failed to gain the affection of his employers. He
had "kept himself to himself" with such reserve that no one took much
interest in him, though his good business qualities were fully
appreciated. Messrs. Moore gave him a high character for steadiness
and capacity, but they did not seem inclined to go out of their way to
obtain him employment. Poor Jim was much mortified at the calmness
with which his resignation was received. He knew that he had done his
duty to his employers faithfully, and therefore he felt hurt when they
made no effort to retain him. The poor lad had well-nigh to begin
again. He went to Belfast, and there soon obtained employment, but in
a far inferior position to that which he had occupied at Messrs.
Moore's. Moreover, he soon found that in the great capital of the
linen trade there were numbers of young men as capable, as energetic,
and in many cases better educated than himself. It was a harsh and
unpleasant experience, but Jim had the strength and courage to bear up
under it. He still was full of a laudable confidence in himself, and
felt sure that patience and diligence would have their due reward. It
was a hard struggle, however. Trade was bad, and after a few months
the house in which he was just getting established was compelled to
stop payment. For a few weeks Jim was absolutely without employment.
After that time he obtained another situation, and thus escaped being
reduced to actual poverty; for the first time, however, he was brought
face to face with the possibility of privation--of being unable
(however willing and however anxious) to obtain the means of gaining
his daily bread.
Thus the winter and spring wore on. Almost the first gleam of sunshine
that came to Elsie with the reviving year was a letter from Lady
Eleanor, in which she said that as Elsie would not come to see them,
they had almost resolved to go and look for her. The earl, her father,
had often spoken of taking them to the Giant's Causeway, and so they
thought of running over before Easter if the weather was fine, which
after so severe a winter they hoped it might be. The hope thus held
out was destined to be gratified. Easter was late that year, and the
weather in March and April beautiful. Jim was astonished one day early
in April by receiving a letter from Elsie, directing him to wait upon
the Earl and Lady Waterham, who were to arrive from Fleetwood next
morning, and would stay a day at the Royal Hotel. Jim blushed as he
recalled the vain dreams of six mouths before, and naturally felt some
embarrassment at the prospect of meeting such exalted personages.
However, he conducted himself so modestly and naturally that he won the
approval of the whole party. Even the earl, who, out of dislike to
Damer, was much prejudiced against the lad, spoke kindly to him, and
expressed a willingness to serve him, if possible, at any time.
Having proceeded to Larne by train, the party posted along the noble
coast road, arriving at the Ballycastle Inn in time for a very late
dinner. Next day the younger ladies, having procured two stout ponies
and a guide, started for Tor Bay, taking the magnificent Fair Head _en
route_. They were determined to find out Elsie for themselves, and to
take her by surprise in the midst of her ordinary work. It was one of
those glorious spring days that might have belonged to June, were it
not for a keenness in the air that surprised you when the sun was for a
few seconds over-clouded. There was, too, a clearness in the
atmosphere that warm summer days cannot claim, with a suspicion of
frost, as you looked towards the sea. And often did the two ladies
look in that direction during their ride on the lofty headlands.
Rathlin Island lay below them, separated by the few miles of narrow and
often impassable sea, but to-day it was but a "silver streak." Far in
the horizon the Scotch coast could be seen all along the line, while
the Mull of Cantyre looked but a few miles away, the very houses and
boundaries being almost distinguishable. Full in front the sun gleamed
on Ailsa Craig, as it rose abrupt and lovely from out of the sea.
Elsie, though familiar with it, had not been insensible to all this
beauty. She had spent almost the entire night at Mrs. McAravey's side,
nor did the old woman fall off to sleep till it was almost time to open
school. It was a weary morning's work; and when the children went home
to dinner the exhausted girl wandered down to the beach (having seen
that Mrs. McAravey still slept) in search of fresh air and quiet before
resuming her duties. Since the arrival of Lady Eleanor's last letter
she had naturally enough been excited and nervous. She knew that in a
few days at latest she should see her mother's friend, and one who
promised to be hers. Would she like her? Would the meeting be a
disappointment, or otherwise? What should she say? Where would they
meet? How should she dress herself? The first meeting with one to
whom we are bound by any ties, whom we have long corresponded with, or
are likely in the future to be much associated with, is always looked
forward to with embarrassment and nervousness. How much was this the
case with a poor, simple orphan girl, who had never been five miles
from home, called upon to encounter a titled lady, who actually claimed
her as her godchild, and to whom she felt bound by so many tender
associations? Filled with thoughts of the approaching interview, Elsie
wandered, she knew not whither, on the beach. Suddenly a shadow seemed
to pass over her, and she became conscious of the bitterness of the
north-east wind that blew upon the shore. Drawing her cloak round her,
she looked up and found that she had come under the shade of the great
cliff that rose at the extremity of Sandy Creek. She stood still a
moment, gazing on the dreary scene, and then a sudden flood of
recollection came over her. The tide was low, and she stood on the
very spot, as it seemed, where, twelve years before, she had caught
sight of the strange black mass that was being tossed on the sand amid
the tangled sea-weed. She saw herself a trembling, ragged child, alone
by the dead body in the fast gathering twilight. And this was the only
time that she had seen her mother. The girl was out of spirits, low in
health, and very weary, and so, for the only time almost in her life,
she gave way to repining thoughts. All the gracious path by which a
kindly Providence had led her was obscured, and she thought of herself
merely as the orphan child of this poor dead thing that lay upon the
sand. The whole history of the past flooded back upon her. She saw
little Jim, so eager to escape from the gruesome sight; then Mike
McAravey approaching through the twilight, and herself as she ran up
against good George Hendrick; then rose up the horrid bewildering scene
at the inquest; and finally she seemed to stand in the bleak wind-blown
moorland churchyard, and before her was the nameless head-stone, "In
Memory of E. D." The sense of loneliness was complete as she stood
beneath the overhanging cliff exposed to the biting nor'-east wind.
With an effort she aroused herself, and looking up with tear-filled
eyes to the pale clear blue sky so far away, she resolutely turned back
into the warm sunshine that seemed the more dazzling after its
temporary withdrawal. It was almost school-time, and on the far
hill-side path Elsie's quick eyes caught sight of two or three tiny
little figures, as they trotted down the path towards her
cottage-school. In a moment all sadness was banished, and she felt
herself again.
"Have we not all one Father?" she murmured; "and have I not One to love
me who has said, 'Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did
it unto Me'?"
Glancing again to the hill, she perceived that the children had
stopped, and were forming a little group as they looked backward up the
path.
"They 'll be late, my little loiterers," said Elsie, with a smile; "I
must scold them well. But what is it?"
An uncommon sight indeed for Tor Glen, and one that might well distract
the whole school's attention. Two discreet ponies were picking their
way down the zig-zag path, while behind walked a man. But greatest
wonder! on each pony was seated a real lady. Erect and gracefully,
too, did they keep their seats, as the patient beasts let themselves
slip down the gravelly path.
"It's early for tourists," thought Elsie, as she quietly walked on her
way.
The travellers and their attendant group of urchins had now passed out
of sight behind a screen of the thick foliage, which we have described
as adorning the sheltered bottom of the glen. Elsie thought no more of
the tourists. Their pleasure-seeking was a thing she had absolutely no
experience of, and the sight of her scholars had banished all other
thoughts but practical ones as to the conduct of the afternoon lesson.
A sudden turn brought the young mistress in front of her school. It
was a humble enough affair--a mere shed in fact, built on to the end of
Mrs. McAravey's cottage, and adorned over the door with a plainly
printed sign-board, "Tor Glen National School." But the place did not
look uncared for. The school indeed was bare enough, and surrounded by
a brown wilderness, in which the children used to play, but the
adjoining dwelling-house was made green and warm with ivy and fuschia,
while the little garden was neat, and for April almost gay.
To her surprise, Elsie's ear caught no sweet clamour of children at
play; there was indeed a sound of voices, and as she turned the corner
some dozen eager voices cried together, "Here she is; here's mistress."
Elsie stepped hastily forward, fearing some mischief, and then paused
as she saw the two strange ladies standing in the midst of an admiring
and wondering group of children, while the guide stood by, a pony
bridle in each hand.
In a moment one of the ladies had pushed through the little circle and
seized the girl's hand.
"Elsie Damer! I 'm your godmother, Eleanor More. I 'm so glad."
Poor Elsie knew not where she was, or what it meant, and could find no
better thing to say than "Your ladyship!"
"There, don't talk like that," was the quick reply; "I'm so glad we've
met at length. What a sweet little nest this is, hidden away from the
world by these great cliffs. We were fortunate, too, to find you out
so soon," continued Lady Eleanor, who, perceiving that Elsie had not
recovered the sudden shock and embarrassment, considerately gave rein
to her power of speech, which was by no means limited.
"We met a nice little fellow on the top of the hill, and I asked him
whether he knew where Elsie Damer lived. I stupidly forgot about the
name, so he answered 'Now.' Then I remembered, and asked about Mrs.
McAravey. 'It's teacher she 's askin' for,' said a little girl who had
come up. Then I saw it was all right, and so we all came tumbling down
the hill together."
"I saw you," said Elsie, "in the distance, but of course I had no idea
who it was. How very kind you have been to me!" and again the tears
were trembling in the nervous eyes of the poor, overwrought girl.
Lady Constance had now joined them, and the children stood around, all
eyes and ears.
"Kate, take them in," said the mistress to a tiny monitress, when she
became conscious of the inquiring glances. All were seated demurely as
Elsie and the two ladies entered.
"Now," said Lady Constance, "do you not think you might give these
little ones a holiday this fine afternoon, so that you and my sister
may have a good chat?"
"Perhaps I had better," replied Elsie; then turning to the eager
audience, "Children, these kind ladies have come all this way to see
me, and have asked me to give you a holiday; what do you say?"
"Thank you, ma'am," responded the little chorus.
"Very well," said the mistress; "mind you don't get into any mischief.
No noise," she added quickly, as she perceived that Lady Eleanor's
friend was expanding his lungs, and gathering up his little
bantam-cock-like figure, preparatory to starting a cheer. "No noise;
poor gran is very bad to-day, and would not like it. Go quietly."
And so they did, under the generalship of tiny Kate, all defiling past
in silence, save Master "Naw," who, being the hero of the school,
thought it necessary to distinguish himself; therefore, being forbidden
to cheer, he stepped forward, and touching his forehead with a bow,
said--
"Thank your ladyships both;" and then, with a rush to the door, "Now,
boys, we'll have a look at the ponies."
"He is almost past me," said Elsie, laying her hand on the boy's
shoulder as he darted through the door.
"You have them in very good order, I think," said Lady Constance; "but
I was sorry to hear you say the old lady was so poorly. Let us go and
see her."
Elsie led the way, and as she lifted the latch they caught Mrs.
McAravey's plaintive voice--
"I 've been thinking long for you, Elsie, lass, for I heard the
children say as the ladies had come. You won't take her from a poor
old creature, will you, miss?" she added, as the visitors came in view;
"I won't have long to trouble you."
"O no," said Lady Eleanor, kindly; "we 've only come to pay you and
Elsie a visit. She is just like her mother, Mrs. McAravey; and now
that you are so weak and low you ought to be glad she has found some of
her mother's friends. We will always take care of her."
"The Lord be thanked!" murmured the old woman, lying back with closed
eyes; "and I bless His name He has brought me to see the day. Elsie's
a good lass--none better, ladies."
Almost immediately she fell off into a broken and uneasy sleep, while
Elsie and her friends whispered together at the door.
"We shall gee you again the day after to-morrow, Sunday," said Lady
Eleanor, as they prepared to start. "We are going to Ashleigh Church,
and will lunch at Mr. Smith's--he says you always stay for
Sunday-school."
"Yes," said Elsie, "that is very nice, and I'll be sure to be
out--unless gran is too bad," she added, anxiously glancing towards the
bed.
Sunday came, and there was quite an excitement at Ashleigh Church when
the clumsy hired carriage from Ballycastle drove up, and the two ladies
appeared.
The Rev. Cooper Smith, who had been popping his head out of the vestry
door off and on for the last ten minutes, was in readiness to receive
his guests, and then retired to have as much time as possible for a
last look at the specially prepared sermon. Mrs. Cooper Smith was too
anxious about the lunch to go to church, but all the rest of the family
were assembled in full force. Elsie, however, did not put in an
appearance, and the absence of her fine voice left a sad gap in the
somewhat too elaborate service that had been, got up for the occasion.
After service was over the clergyman took his guests to see poor Elsie
Damer's grave. Lady Eleanor suggested that something should be added
to the inscription, setting forth the way in which the name had been
discovered. How this should be done was the subject of conversation
during the walk to the rectory. There they found Elsie just arrived.
Mrs. McAravey had been much worse all Saturday, and Elsie could not get
away in time for church. She had only come now because the dying woman
had expressed a wish to see Mr. Smith. This news cast a shadow over
the party. Elsie remained for luncheon, on Mr. Smith's promising to be
ready to start immediately after, when the returning carriage could
bring them a considerable distance on the way, dropping them at a point
not more than two miles from Tor Bay.
"I must say good-bye now," said Lady Eleanor, drawing Elsie aside as
they left the dining-room; "I cannot tell you how glad we are to have
found you, and to have found you so like your dear mother too. It is
too bad papa and mamma cannot see you, as we must leave to-morrow; but
we shall meet again soon."
"I do not know about that," replied poor Elsie, almost breaking down.
"My dear child, you do not think we are going to let you be lost again!
And this is what I want to say to you, Elsie, dear: will you promise to
come over to us when--I mean if anything happens to Mrs. McAravey?--she
cannot live long, poor old body."
"Oh, you are too kind!" cried Elsie, fairly bursting into tears, and
hiding her face on her new friend's shoulder--"you are too kind; but
how can I promise? It sometimes seems my duty to stay here."
Eleanor More was a true woman, and so--though surprised at this sudden
outbreak--she lifted the girl's head between her hands, and kissing her
forehead, said, "There, Elsie, child, don't fret, I will not press you
now. God will show you your duty, and make your way plain before you.
They are coming now, and the carriage is at the door."
CONCLUSION.
The summer had waned away; the autumn tints were already on the trees,
and the light of the September afternoon was growing feeble and
uncertain, as a dainty little figure scrambled out of the low carriage
that had drawn up before the neatest and most ideal of English cottage
homes. Lady Eleanor More stood at the garden wicket to receive her
friend, and behind her in the doorway was to be seen a tidy,
white-capped little old woman.
"So we have got you at last, Elsie; and here is the prison where you
are to be confined at hard labour, and this is your gaoler, Mrs.
Nugent. How do you like it all?"
Elsie was delighted, and could find no words in which to thank her kind
patron. Everything was charming, and everything had been arranged with
that thoughtful consideration which nothing but real affection produce.
The old man and woman with whom Elsie was to be lodged, for the present
at least, were established pensioners of the Waterham family. They had
known and sorrowed for Elsie's mother, who had stayed with them for a
few weeks after her unfortunate marriage. Thus the orphan felt almost
at home, and was rejoiced to find that a little room had been set apart
for her private and special use.
Nor was it designed that Elsie should become a mere dependent.
Fortunately enough a vacancy had recently occurred (by marriage) in the
mistress-ship of a small school situated close to the gate of Burnham
Park, and almost opposite Nugent's cottage. This was the sphere of
labour for which Elsie was destined. The school was a neat,
well-cared-for place--the special hobby of Lady Eleanor, who seldom let
a day pass when at home without visiting it. Here Elsie Damer at once
commenced her labours. The children were bright and clean, and had
evidently been carefully taught by her predecessor. Miss Damer was
also a welcome acquisition to the village choir; and those were among
the happiest moments of her life when she let her rich, clear voice
ascend in songs of praise to the throne of Him who had guided her all
her journey through, while her dear friend and second mother presided
at the organ.
Elsie's only care was about Jim. She had seen him in Belfast looking
worn and anxious. His letters had never been complaining, nor were his
words so then; yet he could not conceal the fact that his position was
by no means satisfactory. But this cloud too was soon to be cleared
away. The earl had been favourably impressed with the lad, and was
highly amused when he heard from his daughter a somewhat toned down
version of the foolish conduct which had resulted in his resigning his
situation. In the course of a year after Elsie's establishment at
Burnham, a post of some responsibility in the earl's rent office became
vacant, in which we find Jim shortly afterwards comfortably installed.
* * * * * *
And here ends our tale. Elsie Damer's life is after all only
beginning, and doubtless she will have her trials and sorrows. Not for
ever can she be the young girl living in that sweet rose-covered
cottage. Indeed, before we lose sight of Elsie, there is rumour of a
coming change. Mrs. Nugent said, "It's a shame to take you from us,
Missie, but every one likes a spot of their own, I suppose; I know I
did in my time." And Robert Everley, the head-gamekeeper's strapping
son, who was settled now in one of the home farms of Burnham, blushed
and looked apologetic as the earl hailed him one day, "Hey, Bob! what's
this I hear about you, lad? I wonder what Lady Eleanor will say to it,
stealing her godchild from her."
"I couldn't help it, your lordship," replied the embarrassed Bob.
"Well, all I say is you are a lucky fellow, and Elsie might have done
worse too."
But whatever lies before our Elsie, she has deep stored within her that
hidden peace that the world knoweth not, and which can smooth over, as
with holy oil, the roughest and most sudden-rising of life's stormy
waves. The discipline of the past had moulded and set, without unduly
hardening, the lines of her simple, cheerful character. Looking back
to the earliest dawn of her recollection, she believed herself able to
trace a golden thread through all. The ideal of calm beauty and purity
which the child's vivid imagination had developed out of the dim memory
of her drowned mother's face had been her good angel, and had led her,
by sweet, insensible gradations, up to Him of whose glory all earthly
beauties are but the far-off reflection. From first to last she had
lived in the consciousness of the Unseen Presence, and no words better
expressed her simple faith for the present and for the future than
those of her favourite hymn--
"The King of Love my Shepherd is,
Whose goodness faileth never,
I nothing lack if I am His
And He is mine for ever.
* * * *
"And so, through all the length of days,
Thy goodness faileth never;
Good Shepherd, may I sing Thy praise
Within Thy house for ever."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Child of the Glens, by Edward Newenham Hoare