AT A— AGAIN.
IT was Sunday evening; and all the members of the Vicarage household
were at church with the exception of Mrs. Wallis and her little
invalid daughter. Joy lay on a sofa in the drawing-room; her face,
pale and worn with sickness though it was, wore its habitually happy
expression, and she was talking animatedly to Sir Jasper Amery, who
was seated by her side. This was her second interview with him since
Celia had made full confession. The first had been a painful meeting
for both, but it had ended in a perfect understanding between them;
and now Joy was quite enjoying her chat.
Sir Jasper had been explaining the exact amount of mischief the fire
had wrought, and that the work of rebuilding was to begin at once.
"You will see—" he was commencing, when he stopped abruptly, and left
the sentence unfinished. "I hope the journey will not be too much
for you to-morrow," he proceeded, presently. "Dr. Forbes thinks you
will be none the worse for it. I have made all arrangements for your
comfort; you will have a first-class carriage to yourselves, and—"
"Oh, how thoughtful you are!" the little girl interposed, earnestly.
"And so good to us all! Eric was saying to me last night that he was
never was so ashamed about anything in his life as about Celia's
behaviour. I'm sure I feel the same. I—"
"Celia's conduct is no reflection on her family," the old man put in,
quickly, "and I do not think that even she is as ungrateful as she
appears. I had hoped to have kept you all with me, and it is
certainly Celia's fault that the plan is impracticable. However,
she is very repentant."
"Oh, very! Everyone says that since the night of the fire she has
quite changed. She and I have had several long talks together,
Uncle Jasper, and she has told me all about the butterfly brooch,
and how she came to take it. If you only knew how fond she is
of pretty things you would understand how she gave way
to temptation."
"There is no excuse for her, Joy. I fear Lulu Tillotson, with her
love of finery, has not been a good companion for her."
"I think Lulu rather flattered Celia," Joy said, thoughtfully; "she
used to tell her how pretty she was, and that she ought to wear
some handsomer clothes; but she was very shocked about the brooch.
She was here to see me yesterday, and was so kind, and—and sorry
for me. I'm going to write to her, and—oh what do you think? I've
heard from Jane—our old servant, you know—she's out of a situation,
and mother has asked if she will come and wait on me. It's very bad
for me to be so helpless," she concluded, with a sigh.
"I suppose you have had a lot of visitors these last few days to say
good-bye?"
"Oh, yes! Last night Miss Pring and Miss Mary were here."
"Ah, Miss Mary Pring is sorry to lose her pupils; but I hear she is
not going to look-out for another situation."
"No," Joy replied, with a beaming smile; "but who told you that,
Uncle Jasper?"
"Miss Pring, whom I encountered on my road here to-night. She was
full of the news of her niece's engagement to the Vicar."
"Isn't it splendid news?" Joy questioned, eagerly. "Don't you think
Miss Mary will make a capital clergyman's wife? Mother says she will.
And it is not very far from here to Home Vale, so Miss Pring won't
feel lonely, will she? One good thing has come from my illness,
you see!"
"How do you make out that?"
"Well, Miss Mary came to help mother nurse me, and, of course,
Mr. Cole couldn't help seeing how sweet, and gentle, and—"
"Oh, so you think you have been the means of making the match!"
interposed Jasper, with a chuckle of great amusement.
Joy laughed; then stopped suddenly, a look of pain crossing her face.
"It's my hip," she explained; "it does worry me so. Mother says when
we get home she will have further advice for me, I'm afraid that will
be no good. Oh, Uncle Jasper, I can so well understand now poor
Mrs. Long feels! I wish I could have seen her before we go, but,
of course, that's out of the question."
"If you like to send her a message I'll give it to Long."
"Oh, will you? That is kind. Please him I sent his wife my love,
and say I hope God will comfort her as He has comforted me."
"Oh, my dear child, it is hard for you!" he exclaimed.
"It isn't half so hard as it was, Uncle Jasper. At first I felt
dreadful about it—it was wicked of me, I know. But not to be able
to join Eric in any of his amusements! Never to be able to run about
and enjoy any of the things I so love! And, worst of all, to have
to give up my music! I don't suppose I shall ever play 'The Last Rose
of Summer' to you again. Oh, it seemed so hard to be shut off
from everything I cared about! But I didn't feel that long. I began
to think of all the helpless people in the world worse off than
I am—people who are blind, and deaf, and even dumb, and I remembered
that if I couldn't help mother in the future as I had hoped, that God
might have a plan for me that I didn't know anything about, so I
determined to trust Him; to have patience, and wait."
"We haven't all of us your faith, my dear," Sir Jasper said, sadly.
"When my son was taken from me—"
He paused, and Joy exclaimed:
"Oh, Uncle Jasper, I've so often thought what you must have felt
then! It must have been dreadfully, dreadfully hard for you to bear."
"It was, my dear. He was all I had, and God took him from me.
It almost destroyed my faith in the Almighty—but that was my
selfishness. There is another world than this."
"Yes, and some day you will meet your son again," Joy said, softly,
"and then you will understand why God took him."
The old man talked with Joy some time longer, and when at last
he took a lingering farewell of her, Mrs. Wallis, who had been seated
at the far end of the room listening to the conversation, accompanied
him to the pony carriage. Joy shed a few regretful tears after he had
gone and her heart was sore as she remembered that she might never
see him more. She had forgiven him his unkindness to her in the
past—indeed, she never resented it, though it had grieved sorely—
and now remembered only his generosity, and that he had tried to make
them all happy.
The next day the Wallis family left Devonshire, and returned to A—.
The journey was accomplished easily, and Joy experienced no ill
effects from the move. At the end of another week Eric went back
to school, whilst his mother and sisters settled down quietly
in their old home. There was a new maid-of-all-work in the kitchen,
and Jane was in attendance upon Joy.
It had been decided that Celia was to remain at home till Christmas,
after which she was to be sent to a good boarding-school,
by Sir Jasper's desire. The three months at home did much for Celia,
for during that time she learnt many lessons she had failed grasp
before—lessons of self-denial, and patience, and humility.
Joy was always more or less ill and suffering, and Celia gave up many
a pleasure to devote herself to her sister, whom she had neglected
and ill-used during their visit to the Moat House. The old sisterly
love between the two grew and strengthened in those days till there
was full confidence between them once more.
"I believe that having every comfort and luxury at the Moat House
actually turned my head," Celia remarked to her mother on one
occasion; "it certainly brought out all my worst qualities. I never
was really happy all the time I was there. Oh, mother, I do feel so
ashamed when I remember I was as good as sent away in disgrace from
the house, and through me there was no longer a home there for you
and Joy and Eric! I was never so well off in my life as I was
there—and yet that did not make me happy."
"Because you were trying to live without God," Mrs. Wallis told her,
gravely; "you were searching for happiness where it was not to be
found."
"I always wanted to be rich," Celia confessed, "but lately I've seen
that even riches wouldn't make me happy. I've been all wrong,
somehow."
Swiftly the months slipped by, bringing news from Crumleigh of
Miss Mary Pring's marriage to Mr. Cole, and of the rebuilding of the
east wing of the Moat House; and nearly every week a letter came from
Lulu Tillotson to one or the other of the girls. These letters were
characteristic of their writer; it almost seemed on reading them
that Lulu herself could be heard speaking.
"Father and I went to Miss Mary Pring's wedding," ran one of these
letters to Celia; "we were the only invited guests, except Sir Jasper
Amery. Yes, your uncle was actually there, looking quite smiling, and
he hadn't to church till then since his son's death! Miss Pring gave
her niece away, and wore a new gown for the occasion—I think
Miss Mary must have chosen it, for it was like nothing I had ever
seen Miss Pring wear before, and actually suited her." Here followed
a lengthy description of the gown; then Lulu proceeded: "Lawrence
Puttenham's father married them, and the Vicar looked almost
handsome, and Miss Mary positively lovely—I never even thought
her pretty, did you?"
In another letter Lulu wrote:
"I'm to go to boarding-school after Christmas and father has decided
to send me with you, Celia. Oh, I am glad! By the way, I've quite
given up reading light literature, and, what do you think? Miss Pring
says I've greatly improved of late! There, you can take her word,
can't you? Seriously, though, I do believe I'm a different sort
of girl from what I used to be; I hope it doesn't sound conceited
to say that, but I do try to be less selfish, and think what father
will like, and I'm ever so much happier than I was when you knew me
first. Please give my love to Mrs. Wallis. I don't think she ever
approved of me quite, though she was always so kind; but perhaps
she may like me better when we meet next."
"When we meet next!" sighed Joy, after her sister had finished
reading Lulu's letter aloud. "I don't suppose I, for one, shall ever
see Lulu again!" —and for a few moments she looked very doleful
indeed.
"You cannot tell that, my dear," Mrs. Wallis returned, with a
cheerfulness which was really assumed.
"I get no better, mother," the little girl remarked, sadly.
"No, my dear, you do not; but do not grow faint-hearted."
"Sometimes I think my hip gets worse," Joy continued; "I have seen
several doctors now, and they all say the same, that I must have
patience; but not one of them will say there is the faintest hope
that I shall ever walk again."
"They cannot tell, Joy—clever men though they all are. Uncle Jasper
has written to me about a London surgeon whom he has heard much talk
of lately, he wants me to send for him to see you."
"Shall you, mother?" Joy asked. "I don't suppose he could do me
any good, and his fee would be a large one, I expect."
"Yes, but Uncle Jasper says he will gladly pay it."
"How good he is to me!" Joy cried, her face aglow with gratitude
as she spoke.
The great London surgeon came and examined the patient. Though she
had schooled herself to the contemplation of a life of inactivity and
suffering with resignation, Joy could not help a faint ray of hope
lingering in her heart that some day her injured hip might get
better. After his examination, the London surgeon consulted with the
two A— doctors who had lately attended the little girl; then, much to
Joy's surprise, the stranger returned to her room with Mrs. Wallis,
and taking a chair by her side, entered into conversation with her.
He was a big, powerful-looking man, with a plain, rugged countenance
which was singularly attractive, and a pair of keen, grey eyes, that
had looked on much suffering and sorrow, and yet retained a smile
in their kindly depths. He told her he had young daughters of his
own, and asked her how she would like to go to London.
"I don't know. I'm not likely to go there," Joy answered, soberly;
then she asked: "Please, doctor, what do you think of me?"
"I think you're a plucky little girl, and so I'm going to speak out
and tell you what I have already told your mother. I believe that if
you undergo a certain operation, you will eventually be able to walk;
but you will always be slightly lame. Now, what I want to explain
to you is this—the operation cannot be performed here, it must be
done in a hospital where you can have treatment suitable for your
case. You have a brave spirit, I am sure," he added hastily, as he
noticed the look of dismay and shrinking on her face, "or I should
not have spoken so plainly. Will you come to London, and go into a
hospital, as I suggest?"
"Mother, what do you say?" Joy asked, looking at Mrs. Wallis,
who stood at the foot of the bed observing her anxiously.
"You must decide, my dear," was the faltering reply.
"There is a chance that the operation may not be successful,"
the doctor said, gravely, "but I am very hopeful about it, myself."
"Who would do it—the operation, I mean?" Joy inquired, timidly.
"I should," he rejoined.
The little girl looked at him with manifest doubt, but as she met
the glance of his kindly eyes, she recalled how gentle had been
the touch of his big, strong hands, and a feeling of confidence
in him took root in her heart.
"I should be quite alone in the hospital?" she questioned. "Mother
would not be there?"
"No, but she could be near you; she could get lodgings close to the
hospital. You would see her often. What do you say?" —and he smiled
encouragingly.
"I say that if you think you can make me well enough to walk again,
I will let you do anything to me. I don't mind any pain, or how long
it takes, or—"
"Oh, you won't feel anything, my dear child! You have suffered these
last few months with this poor hip of yours, as I trust you will
never suffer again. Your mother will bring you to London, and place
you in my care. I shall do my best for you, you may depend, and the
result will be in God's hands."
The eyes of the little invalid and the great surgeon met again,
this time in a long look of perfect understanding; and the smile
which illuminated Joy's face was very confident and bright as she
exclaimed hopefully:
"I shall not mind being lame if only I shall be able to walk again!"