Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "I POINTED OUT THE DRAWER, AND HARPER TOOK THE GOLD."]
FOOTPRINTS.
_A STORY OF THE SNOW._
BY
ANNETTE LYSTER
AUTHOR OF "THE WHITE GIPSY," "A LEAL, LIGHT HEART,"
"FAN'S SILKEN STRING," "ETC."
ILLUSTRATED BY J. NASH.
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PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE COMMITTEE
OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION APPOINTED BY THE
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE.
—————————————
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE. W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET. E.C.
BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET.
NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG AND CO.
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CONTENTS.
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CHAPTER
I. SNOW AND SNOW-MEN
II. KATIE
III. GROWING UP
IV. OLD ROVER
V. THE THAW
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FOOTPRINTS.
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CHAPTER I.
SNOW AND SNOW-MEN.
VERY early in the reign of Queen Victoria there lived near a large
town in Devonshire a farmer named Marlowe, a prosperous, well-to-do
man, with a thrifty, good-tempered wife and half a dozen children. Mr.
Marlowe owned his farm, which was a large one; and in those good old
times farmers could live comfortably, and lay by a little money for
their children—a state of things which has well-nigh passed away.
In Devonshire, as perhaps most people know, a heavy fall of snow is
a most unusual thing. The mild, damp climate forbids the snow to lie
long; indeed, it generally melts in the act of falling. But one year,
early in the queen's reign, there was a snowstorm in Devon which would
have been considered heavy in Scotland or Yorkshire; and with the snow
came a hard frost.
Farmer Marlowe's five sons and one daughter were in strange glee. There
was a large grammar-school not far off, which the three elder lads
attended, and some of the boarders who came from colder regions had
often described to them the delights of snow and frost—snow-balling,
sliding, and even skating; but never had the young Marlowes partaken of
those joys. Now they were determined to make the most of them.
In the school playground a large snow-man was built up by the boys
during the play-hours "between schools," and Harry, Hugh, and Frank
Marlowe thought themselves very kind and considerate for their sister
Lucy and the two little boys at home, in that they refused to remain in
the playground in the afternoon to assist in finishing the snow-giant,
and perchance in demolishing him, should the popular fancy turn in that
direction. As they trudged off, Hugh looked back, saying—
"Oh, boys, I can see his head—the snow-man, I mean. I see it over the
wall, and that wall is ten feet high at least. Why, he must be fifteen
or sixteen feet high!"
"Not he," said Harry, the eldest; "not more than ten, if so much. You
forget that we are going uphill."
"No, we are not," said Hugh, who was somewhat famous for contradicting;
"and if we were," he added hastily, "what difference would that make?"
But Harry was not going to be entrapped into an argument with Hugh,
whom their father declared was born half a lawyer, so he only answered—
"Well, if you can't see for yourself, Hugh, 'I' can't make you."
"He sees well enough," said Frank; "only he must be talking. I'm half
sorry, Harry, that we didn't stay, for if Uncle Jasper is as queer as
he was yesterday, ten to one Lucy won't get out at all, and Jim and
Polly are no good."
Polly, I must explain, was a pet name for the youngest boy, whose name
was Paul.
"Well, that may be," Harry answered; "but it would be hard on the
little chaps to get no fun out of the snow. Why, I'm fifteen, and I
never saw a snow like this before. Uncle Jasper may have come all right
again."
"'I' couldn't see a bit of change in him," said Hugh; "only Lucy and
mother made a fuss."
Harry turned sharply, and caught the speaker by the collar of his
jacket.
"Say that again," said he.
"No, I shan't," replied Hugh promptly, and the elder's brief anger
ended in a laugh.
"Well, you 'are' a funny chap, Hugh. Don't you let me hear you saying
anything saucy about mother, mind."
"I shall just turn round and go back to the playground," said Hugh as
soon as he was released. "Because you are big and strong, that's no
reason why you should be a bully. A bully is a disgusting character. I
don't care if Lucy and the two young ones never see snow-balls. What
matter about a girl and a couple of babies? I shan't lose all my fun
for them. I'm going back."
"All right," said Harry composedly; "off you go;" and he trudged along
the beaten track by the side of the road, followed by Frank, who,
however, kept looking back as if divided in his mind.
"Why must we go home, Harry? It was such good fun in the playground."
"So 'twas, Frankie, and we had it for a good long time, and shall have
more to-morrow. But we must not think of no one but ourselves, you
know."
"And Hugh will be sorry by-and-by," said Frank.
"Do you know Hugh no better than that?" Harry asked, with a laugh.
"Come, let us run down this hill. No, Frank; take care—it's too
steep. We couldn't run. I wonder which will be at home first—Hugh or
ourselves?"
They presently turned off the high-road into a lane with high banks
on either side, and great ferns growing all the way from the ground
to the top. These ferns looked so wonderfully beautiful that even a
couple of schoolboys could not pass them without remark. The high banks
had partially sheltered them, and they were not smothered in snow—only
turned into white ferns, every bit of the brown and yellow of their
winter coats being covered.
"Don't they look as if they were cut out in white stone?" said Frank
admiringly. "Well, snow is very pretty! Still, I think I like colours
best, for always."
Harry had reached the gate which shut in his father's house and
garden—a large, formal garden, with one broad walk leading straight
from the gate to the house. He stopped, and made a sign to the other
boy to come on quietly.
"Look there!" said he. "What did I tell you?"
And there, in the middle of the broad walk, was the humble commencement
of a snow-man, and hard at work collecting snow were the two little
boys, Jem and Polly, aged respectively six and four, while busy about
the formation of a pair of shapeless feet was no less a person than
Hugh himself.
"Well, if he isn't a queer fellow!" cried Frank, with his eyes wide
open.
They raised the latch of the gate, and at the sound Jem called out,
"Here's the other two, Hughie."
"At last!" said Hugh. "Never thought of taking a short cut through the
wood, of course! Lucy will be out in a minute or two. I say, Harry,
Uncle Jasper's queerer than ever."
"He's ill, I'm afraid," said Harry. "Here, Frank, give me your books.
I'll carry them in. I'll be back directly; but I want to see about
Lucy."
He went on to the house—a square brick house, with a very pretty old
wooden porch all overgrown with ivy, jasmine, and roses, now looking
like delicate tracery cut in fine white marble. This picturesque,
many-pointed porch was the only pretty thing about the house. The
building was square, with smallish square windows, one on each side of
the hall door, and others above them, for the upper rooms. Over the
porch there was a third window in the upper row. But there was an air
of solid comfort and respectability about the place, and the Marlowes
saw no faults in it.
Harry entered, stamping the snow off his feet in the porch. Passing
through a rather darker hall, he went into a large, comfortable room on
the left side of the hall. Here a fire blazed cheerfully, and here he
found his sister Lucy, a pleasant-faced, blue-eyed girl of sixteen. She
held up her hand in warning, and whispered—
"Don't wake him, Harry dear."
Harry sat down near the door, and pulled off his heavy shoes; then,
coming forward, he looked curiously at an old, old man, who was lying
back in a great armchair placed before the fire; fast asleep, he seemed
to be.
"What is the matter with him, Lucy?"
"I don't know. It seems to me as if the snow frightens him, only that
is absurd, for he is not a bit silly, though he has grown so silent.
But I'm sure it has something to do with the snow, and that he is
always so when snow comes; for I heard father say, 'I wish the poor old
chap could sleep till the thaw.'"
"He looks very weak; don't you think so?—All grey and pinched-up like.
Lucy, can't you come out at all?"
"Oh yes; mother has just got through her work in the kitchen, and then
she'll sit here, and let me go."
"Very good. Go you and get ready, then; I will sit by Uncle Jasper till
mother comes. Put on lots of things, Lucy, for it's stinging cold."
Lucy laid by her needlework and ran lightly off, and for a few moments
all was very quiet. But probably the soft buzz of the young voices
had broken the old man's slumbers, for he soon moved uneasily, and
presently sat up, looking round in a dazed kind of way.
"Where's Harry?" said he.
"Here I am, uncle. Do you mean me or father?"
"Is this Harry? Why—have I been dreaming? Harry was like this once. Oh,
I know. I remember now. You're not 'my' Harry; but you are a good boy.
Mind you always keep so, Harry. Never wander from the right way; never
forget that God sees you always. You don't know what you may come to.
We never know what sin we may commit, if once we go into the wrong way.
Harry, is the snow gone?"
"No, sir," said Harry, a little surprised both at the long warning
and the abrupt question; "no fear of that. We are going to build a
snow-man. You can see a bit of him already from the window."
"Ay, ay—the window. That was the window," Jasper added, pointing to one
at the end of the room, from which, of course, the broad walk and the
snow-man could not be seen.
"No, not that—the front one," said Harry, a good deal puzzled.
"No! Do you think 'I' can forget?" old Jasper said, half-angrily.
"It was the end window. That's the same bureau. It stood near the
fireplace in those days, and old Rover was lying on the sheepskin rug.
Ah me—it's a long, long time ago! When I get to heaven, I may forget,
but not here, and the snow wakes it all to life. I know I am forgiven,
but I never can forget. Uncle Hugh said just the same—he never could
forget—and what was his sin to mine?"
"What is it that you cannot forget—and who was Uncle Hugh?" said Harry.
Old Jasper considered for a moment.
"Katie was his daughter, and she was your grandmother—so he was your
great-grandfather. Oh, how long I have lived—they are all gone but me.
Uncle Hugh—Harry—young Hugh—all gone. He was not really my uncle, only
a cousin, but we called him uncle, Harry and I did."
"Harry—that's my father?" questioned the boy.
But he got no answer, for old Jasper had risen and gone to the front
window.
"All white and pure," he said, "but treacherous too. Hiding things
sometimes, and then—But the fault was not in the snow, it was all my
own. Well, well! I'm forgiven, I know that. 'I have blotted out as a
cloud'—eh, what's the rest of that, now? My head's going I doubt—I
can't remember even that."
Harry came over to him and repeated the verse,—
"'I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a
cloud, thy sins.'
"But, 'indeed,' Uncle Jasper, I don't think you ever did anything very
bad. You've always been so good, as long as I can remember anything."
Jasper took a long look at the dazzling whiteness—made more dazzling
just then by a sudden burst of sunshine. He shivered and said in a low
voice—
"When the snow melts you will know all about it."
"Oh, he's going crazy!" muttered the boy, sincerely frightened—so
frightened that it was a great relief to hear his mother's step in the
hall.
"Mother!" he said, running to the door. "Come to Uncle Jasper—I don't
think he is quite well."
"Why, Lucy said he was asleep! What is it, Jasper? What's making you
shiver? Are you cold?"
"Cold at heart—a coward, Mary, always a coward. When the snow melts—and
look at the sun now!—then all the world will know what I am. And I
cannot bear it; I always said so. I can't bear it!"
"Run away, Harry; Lucy is ready now. Now, Jasper, dear heart, listen to
me. Don't be gazing out at the snow, but turn this way and look at me,
and put your mind to what I'm going to say."
She took his hand, and whenever his eyes began to wander from her face
she pressed his poor old withered hand gently, and recalled him to
attention.
"Jasper," she said, "whatever misery comes back to you with the snow,
there is no one living who knows aught about it. My good-man himself
only knows that you are always ill and unhappy whenever snow comes; I'm
thankful that it does not often happen here. I suppose something was
done when there was snow long ago; but all that knew it have passed
away: and when this snow melts we shall know no more than we do now,
unless you tell us yourself."
"I am always afraid I shall tell when there is snow," he said.
"And, in my opinion, you would be happier if you did tell," Mary
Marlowe answered. "I don't mean, tell me, or tell every one; but my
husband is a good, wise man, and, if you have a burden on your mind,
he'd give you help and comfort."
Old Jasper was attentive enough now. His face was quite changed; all
the look of vacant, anxious unrest had left it, and he looked many
years younger and more like his former self.
"Tell the whole story!" he cried. "Why, Mary, Heaven forgive me! I
remember feeling a little bit of comfort when those I truly loved were
taken from us, because I could not help saying, 'Now no one living
knows of my sin.'"
"Well, and has it made you happy, Jasper? Sure, I know it hasn't."
"But," he answered anxiously, "I've repented, Mary, long ago—bitterly
repented! I am forgiven! Oh, surely, Mary, you think I am forgiven—and
when I meet them again there will be no cloud between us."
"And what was the cloud, Jasper? I know enough of the
Marlowes—open-hearted, kindly souls—to know that if they forgave, they
did it heartily. So what was the cloud between you?"
"Shame," he answered.
Mary shook her head.
"Well," he went on, "if it was not that, what was it?"
"If you ask my opinion, Jasper, I'd say it was pride. When we've done
wrong, and been forgiven, it is my mind that we should just make no
concealments and keepings back, but stand fair out in the sight of man
as we stand in the sight of God. I am sure of this—a concealed sin does
our own lives more injury than any shame or any sorrow. Being hidden,
it lives and gnaws at us; drag it out into the light of day, and you
will kill it. All your life, ever since I came home to Marlowe Hay,
you've been a gentle, loving-hearted, good man, a good friend to my
children, as you were to their father before them, and to his father,
as I have often been told. And yet you are not a happy man; though I
know you are a true Christian, yet you are never happy. I have wanted
to say this to you ever since a talk we had last summer—that there
'must' be some reason for this in yourself, for well you know there is
no religious reason. He forgives freely, and puts the sin away; but you
keep it to think about and grieve over—while all the time you care more
that no one should know it than for anything else."
"Oh, Mary, you are hard upon me!"
"I don't mean to be hard, indeed; but I am all for being above-board
and true. And don't I know that half your misery is, 'If they knew what
I once did, they would never love me'? And I am very sure that that is
a mistake. You are a real self-tormentor, Jasper, and always were."
"Why, that's what Harry—'my' Harry, as I call him—said to me when he
was dying. He said,—
"'We never told the little lad, Jasper; and when I am gone there will
be no one but poor Katie who knows a word about it, and you know she
will keep your secret. This was your wish, and we have done so; but
you'd be a better and a happier man if you could make up your mind to
have no concealments. You will only torment yourself all your life, as
you have done these many years; and though I cannot bear to vex you, I
must say, once for all, that I think God means us to bear the shame of
our deeds.'
"But I never had the courage to do it."
"And what a deal of sorrow and fretting you've made for yourself by
it," Mary said gently.
"He added, 'And God will bring you to see it before you die,'" the old
man went on thoughtfully.
He spoke no more, and Mary led him over to his chair, and made him
comfortable in it. Then she took out her needlework, and a long time
passed in silence, during which her mind had gone off to other matters,
when suddenly the old man spoke again.
"This is 1840, is it not? Then am I ninety-five years old. And my Harry
died at fifty, and his son died young, and there's no one living now
that I knew when I was young. Why am I left, I wonder? Maybe, I am
spared so long just to give me another chance to do what I ought. 'Tis
pride. I thought it was shame and humility, but I see now 'tis just
pride. And to think of such as I being proud! Well, I will give it
up; I will tell it all. They'll shrink from me—the lads that I love,
because they are so like my Harry. And Lucy, when she laughs, she minds
me so much of Katie. She'll hardly bear the sight of me again. But I
deserve it all. And when it's done, maybe God will take me home. Maybe,
this is the last thing I have to do in this world. I'll do it, Lord.
This very evening, if I live to see it, I will do it."
He got up slowly, took up a crutch-handle stick that lay near him, and
left the room. Mary heard him cross the hall and enter his own room.
She looked after him pityingly; he had a deformed foot, and walked very
feebly.
"Poor old man!" she said. "I wonder will he remember? He'll be twice as
easy in his mind if he keeps to his resolution; and I dare say 'twas
nothing so very dreadful, after all."
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