AN ERRAND OF MERCY.
"Speak gently to the aged one;
Grieve not the careworn heart:
The sands of life are nearly run,
Let such in peace depart."
_Christian Lyrics._
Caleb Runciman had told Queenie that Mr. Calcott was seriously ill;
but the girl had received the news with indifference, making no
comments. "What was his life--his useless, loveless life--in
comparison with Emmie's?" she thought with bitterness.
Presently, when her trouble had lightened a little, and Emmie was
slowly advancing towards convalescence, she remembered her hardness
with some compunction; and her heart grew soft and pitiful over the
thought of that lonely sick-room.
"I wonder if Mr. Calcott remembers my visit?" she said once to Caleb,
but Caleb only shook his head in silence. He had not as yet been
admitted to his employer's presence. The illness was enveloped in
mystery, and all sorts of reports were current with respect to it.
Neither of them guessed the truth, or knew the strange thoughts and
memories that haunted the sick man's pillow. The past was ever
before him; conscience, so long dormant, had roused at last, and had
laid hold of him with fierce and angry grip; he saw himself the
victim of a hypochondria so fell and senseless that it had warped and
scathed his better nature.
His past life was mapped out before him: a youth of disease and
suffering, soothed only by a sister's love; a querulous, discontented
manhood, darkened by fits of strange melancholy; then years of
loneliness and brooding.
Why had he failed with his life? Other men had suffered as well as
he; other men had experienced the same passionate sorrows, had reaped
disappointment where they had expected happiness, had battled with
chronic disease, and yet had borne themselves bravely before the
world! Why had he grown so hardened and exasperated against his kind
that his very servants trembled in his presence?
What words were those that rung in his ear till the very air seemed
to vibrate with them: "I am sorry for you, because you are old and
lonely; because you have only miserable thoughts to keep you company;
because when you are ill no one will comfort you, when you die no one
will shed tears over your grave."
Curses on that girl! How dared she stand and pity him to his face!
him--Andrew Calcott--whom every one feared and respected--the man so
outwardly prosperous that the world never guessed at the strange
fiend that gnawed at his vitals!
"It must be so dreadful not to want love, to be able to do without
it;" and again, "Emmie never forgets you, sir. She does not love
you; how can she? but she still says the prayer mamma taught
her--'God bless poor Uncle Andrew.'" Ah! merciful heavens, would
those words never leave him?
By-and-bye the torment he suffered became unbearable; whole sentences
of that conversation seemed stamped and burned upon the brain. He
would say them aloud sometimes, to the terror of those who watched
him, and thought his mind was wandering.
"You are refusing to help me in my bitter strait; you are leaving me,
young and single-handed, to fight in this cruel, cruel world; you
have disowned your own niece, and are sending me back to her almost
broken-hearted; but I will not reproach you;" and then she had come
closer to his chair, and had stood beside him, almost touching him
with her hand.
He could see her clearly; the whole scene seemed photographed in his
memory. Was he dreaming, or was she there really beside his bed?
He could recall every expression of her countenance, every trick of
her speech. What a young creature she had looked in her shabby
dress, sitting there before him. How eloquently she had spoken, and
with what self-possession and dignity. Once or twice her voice had
faltered, and the tears had gathered in her large brown eyes, as she
pleaded for Emmie, but she had brushed them away hastily, and had
gone on speaking.
If he had ever had a daughter he would have liked her to have looked
at him with those clear honest glances. The girl was absolutely
without guile. Hard as he was, his heart had yearned over her, and
yet he had driven her from his presence. Now and then a strange
fancy, almost a longing, seized him, to hear her speak again, if it
were only to tell him that she was sorry for him. He called himself
a fool, and chid himself for his weakness; but, nevertheless, the
longing was there and he knew it.
One evening, as Queenie was correcting some themes in the class-room,
she was told Mr. Runciman wished to speak to her.
Caleb's visits were rare now, but he sometimes came to bring a few
snowdrops or violets to his favorite. To-night he was later than
usual, and Emmie was asleep.
"I am not come to see Emmie to-night; it is you I want, Miss Queenie.
You might have knocked me down with a feather when he gave me the
message. But I suppose he is in his right mind?" continued Caleb,
his blue eyes becoming very round and wide, and his rosy face a
trifle paler than usual.
"A message from whom?" enquired Queenie, with some degree of
curiosity. She was pleased to see her old friend; any break in the
monotony of her day was welcome.
"Ay, you'll never guess. Why, my dear young lady, when he told me to
come and fetch you I was that flabbergasted--if you know the meaning
of such an outlandish word--that I could not tell whether I was
standing on my head or my heels. 'I want you to fetch me Frank
Marriott's daughter,' he says, in a queer off-hand way, and he shut
his eyes and laid quite quiet."
"Do you mean Mr. Calcott has sent for me?" gasped Queenie for the
moment. She looked quite frightened.
"Ay, sure enough, though I never thought you would have guessed it so
soon," returned Caleb admiringly; "but women's wits beat men's
hollow. Well, I couldn't believe my ears, and no wonder; so I waited
for him to open his eyes, and then I ventured to ask him to be so
good as to repeat his speech, fearing I hadn't rightly understood
him."
"'You have understood me very well, Runciman,' he said in a quiet
meaning sort of way, not quite pleased at my hesitation, you may be
sure. It is 'do this, or go there, and be sharp about it,' with Mr.
Calcott, always. 'Please lose no time over your errand, but bring
Frank Marriott's daughter back with you; I want to see if can get to
sleep to-night.' That's all, on my word and honor, Miss Queenie."
"It is very strange, but I suppose I must go; perhaps he has repented
his unkindness, and wants to tell me so. Wait a minute, Caleb, while
I tell Miss Titheridge. Emmie is asleep, and so I shall not mind
leaving for half-an-hour."
"It is a wet night, I warn you; it is all of a piece with his usual
selfishness sending for you on a night like this," fretted Caleb, who
was much perplexed and exercised in his mind by the whole proceeding;
but Queenie met this additional trial with her usual cheerfulness,
and struggled along bravely under her old umbrella.
This time they were not kept waiting. Gurnel eyed them quite as
morosely, but he ushered Caleb at once into a comfortable-looking
dining-room with a blazing fire, and wine and biscuits on the table;
while he begged Queenie civilly to follow him, which she did, naïvely
admiring the carved balustrades and soft rich carpets as she did so.
"My master is up, but he cannot leave his room," explained the
servant, as he ushered Queenie into a large handsomely-furnished
bedroom, where Mr. Calcott lay on a couch beside the fire, in his
Indian dressing-gown, with an eider-down quilt over him. A
respectable looking woman sat with needle-work at a little round
table beside him. At Queenie's entrance she curtsied and withdrew.
Queenie quietly took her place.
"You have sent for me," she said softly. "I am sorry to hear you
have been so ill. It is a wet night, but I could not help coming,"
she continued, trying to speak naturally, but she could not; the
change in the sick man appalled her. She understood, as she looked
at him, that he was slowly but surely dying.
"They tell me I have some months still before me; that's bad hearing
for those who wait upon me, as I am likely to trouble them for some
time," with a touch of his old grimness. "Well, girl, so you have
come through the wet and dark, just to gratify a sick man's whim?"
"I would do more than that to oblige you, sir," returned Queenie,
with genuine compassion in her voice. The wan suffering face, the
wasted hand, stirred a world of pity in her soul. Lonely, unloved,
and dying--resentment faded out of her memory at a spectacle so
pathetic, so truly pitiful.
"What! do more than be sorry for me?" with sardonic humor in his
voice. "You would give more than a drop of water to poor Dives in
torment? Do you remember, girl, that you dared to pity me before?"
"My pity will not harm you, sir."
"Ay, why not?"
"Now you are so very ill, it may even do you good to remember that we
feel no bitterness towards you, that we forgive all the wrong done to
us. Why do you look towards that door? do you want anything?"
"That woman has forgotten my medicine," he muttered, "and I have the
strange sinking again. Hirelings are not worth the price of the
bread they eat."
"Let me give it you," returned Queenie, rising, and mixing the
draught; but he shook his head. "You must call her; I cannot raise
myself, and the least movement gives me pain."
"She has gone downstairs; let me try what I can do. You must not
wait, indeed, Mr. Calcott; your lips are turning blue and livid. I
am used to nursing; I could lift mamma, and I have carried Emmie
about so much lately." As she spoke Queenie skilfully raised the
invalid and put the glass to his lips.
"If thine enemy hunger, feed him; and if he thirst, give him drink."
Why did these words come into the sick man's mind as he felt the
support of the strong young arm, and drank the reviving draught from
her hand?
"There, you are better now," went on Queenie cheerfully, putting the
pillow comfortably under his head. Mr. Calcott looked at her
strangely, and then he was silent for a long time.
"You are poor," he began at last.
"Yes, we are very poor; you remember I told you so."
"Ah, true! I forgot all that. You are used to nursing too. Mrs.
Morton is a very capable person, but I should like some one who would
read to me and amuse me. I--" hesitating slightly--"I would pay you
handsomely if you would come to me."
Queenie turned pale, and her eyes filled with tears. "Come to you at
once?"
"To be sure. Do you think a dying man can talk about the future? I
would make it worth your while," he continued, as though anticipating
some objection. "You shall ask your own sum; I will buy your
services at your own price."
"Hush! please don't talk so, you are only paining me; it is
impossible. What? now! come at once! I could not leave Emmie."
"What folly!" he interrupted harshly. "Have you not told me that you
are fighting single-handed against the world; that Emmie, as you call
her, is next door to starving? Were these falsehoods? were you
imposing on my credulity that you refuse real tangible help when it
comes?"
"I only refuse what is impossible for me to accept," returned Queenie
in a choking voice. "Ah, you cannot understand, you do not know,
that since that terrible night I have nearly lost Emmie." And then
she told him, as well as emotion would allow her, of all she had been
through.
"Humph! that's why you have grown thin and unsubstantial-looking. I
thought there was some change in you. You ought to get heavy damages
from those women; but the child is getting well, you say?"
"Yes; but she is not strong, and requires the greatest care. No one
could watch over her as I do; I understand her; I know her every
look; I see directly she is weary or overdone. It will be months
before I can safely leave her, even with Mr. Runciman and Molly."
"I should think the atmosphere of that precious school could not be
conducive to the welfare of a nervous invalid," interrupted Mr.
Calcott irritably.
"We shall not be there much longer," returned Queenie quietly. "At
Easter we are going to Mr. Runciman's for a little visit; and as soon
as the warm weather comes I'm going to take Emmie into the country to
get strong."
"Indeed I did not know you could afford such luxuries," with biting
sarcasm.
Queenie colored, but she went on steadily--
"Neither can we. We are indebted to the kindness of a school friend,
who has offered to take us home. I have barely money for our railway
journey there and back; but we shall manage somehow."
Mr. Calcott glanced at the girl's shabby dress and cloak, then at the
brave face, and somehow his sarcasm vanished.
"I suppose you are too proud to take a five-pound note?" somewhat
brusquely.
Queenie hesitated, and then her face grew crimson.
"Speak out; you are too proud, eh?"
"I would not take it for myself, but for Emmie's sake I should be
thankful."
"I know nothing about Emmie," with a frown. "If you take it it is
for yourself mind; the child is nothing to me; I cannot and will not
recognize her."
"If I take it it will be to buy her comforts," replied Queenie,
scrupulously.
"Spend it how you will, it is nothing to me," was the irritable
answer. "I have made you a good offer to-night. By the sacrifice of
a few months you could earn enough to maintain both the child and
yourself for more than a year to come, and you choose to refuse the
offer. I can say no more."
"I dare not accept it. If anything were to happen to Emmie, I should
never forgive myself. Mamma always told me that we must never leave
a certain duty for an uncertain one; and Emmie is my duty."
"Pshaw! female sophistry. The child would do well enough; children
always do."
Queenie shook her head.
"It goes to my heart to refuse you. If I were free I would come and
serve you, not only for the sake of the money, but because mamma
loved you so dearly."
"There, there; I can bear no more," returned the invalid impatiently.
Queenie took the hint and rose.
"I am sorry if I have tired you. May I come again?"
"Yes; come again to-morrow at the same time. Tell Runciman that he
is to bring the business letters here in the morning instead of
Smiler. Please ring the bell for Mrs. Morton, and be careful to
close the door very carefully, as the least noise jars on me. What
are you waiting for now, child?"
"I only thought I should like to shake hands with you, sir."
"There, good-night," was the brusque response; but the hand was cold
and shaking, as the warm girlish one closed round it.
"Good-night, and thank you for Emmie," returned Queenie, brightly.
Caleb sat up and rubbed his eyes drowsily as the girl entered. "How
long you have been, Miss Queenie, dear! What has he been saying to
you?"
"Hush! I will tell you as we go along. He is very ill--dying,
Caleb, and it is very, very sad to see him. Look what he has given
me," opening her hand and showing the crisp bank-note; "I think he
meant it as a sort of return for bringing me out in the wet, but of
course I shall not keep it; it is all for Emmie."
Queenie's visits to Mr. Calcott became almost a daily recurrence. It
soon became a rule for Caleb to fetch her when lessons were over and
Emmie was asleep, to sit with the invalid an hour before he retired
to rest. Miss Titheridge had probably received some private hint
from Caleb, for she made no objection to these frequent absences;
but, on the contrary, encouraged them by gracious enquiries after Mr.
Calcott's health when she encountered Queenie.
The girl soon grew used to these visits. Mr. Calcott, it is true,
never varied in his manner. He still received her brusquely, and his
remarks were as pungent and sarcastic as ever, with a strange
bitterness that often brought tears to her eyes; but still, in a
vague, uncertain sort of way, she felt he liked to have her there
beside him. Once or twice she fancied his eyes had brightened at her
approach, even while he scolded her querulously for being late. He
accepted her services reluctantly, and often found fault with her for
feminine awkwardness. Her efforts never gave him pleasure. No word
of commendation crossed his lips, no thanks for the unselfishness
that brought her out evening after evening, after a hard day's work,
to minister to a discontented old man; and yet Queenie felt rewarded
if his eyes turned wistfully to the door as she entered, or a sigh of
relief betrayed that his loneliness was at an end.
"Master has been that restless that Morton can do nothing to please
him," Gurnel informed her once when she was unusually late. Queenie
smiled and quickened her steps; she knew what she had to expect.
"I suppose you have got tired of your good work," was the only
welcome she received: but Queenie had learned how to parry such
remarks without rousing the old man's jealous temper. She turned the
subject laughingly, by telling him of the purchases she had made out
of the money he had given her.
"What! all those things out of five pounds!" he grunted
incredulously; "frock, jacket, and hat, and I don't know what beside.
I thought I said the money was for yourself."
"Emmie is so delighted with everything," she went on. "The pleasure
brought a tinge of color to her face; it would have done you good to
have seen her."
"Humph! I dare say there will be much good done to me to-night,
after being kept an hour waiting for other folk's pleasure."
"Work must be done, you know," returned Queenie lightly. "The term
is nearly over, and then I shall be more at leisure."
"Indeed, is the grand visit to be given up?"--sarcastically; but
there was suppressed eagerness in his voice.
"Oh, there is a whole month before that; we need not talk of that
yet. Now let me read to you;" but though the book was an interesting
one, and Queenie read in her best manner, Mr. Calcott's thoughts
seemed wandering.
When the last day of the term arrived the sisters left Granite Lodge.
Emmie, who had been in a state of pleasurable excitement all the
morning, grew a little tearful and silent towards the close of the
day.
Queenie, who was overwhelmed with business, and had scarcely time to
bid her friend good-bye, and add a few words as to future
arrangement, at parting, suddenly missed Emmie in her usual corner.
She had searched the house without success, and was becoming terribly
frightened, when a maid informed her that she had seen Emmie toiling
up the garret stairs with the kitten in her arms.
The little girl was curled up in her usual place, gazing dreamingly
out of the window, when Queenie entered. The little face looked
small and white under the cap-border; the soft yellow down peeping
out here and there gave her an infantile appearance.
"Dear Emmie, why have you come here?" began her sister, reprovingly;
but Emmie held up her finger and stopped her.
"Hush! of course we ought to say good-bye to the poor old place;
don't you know prisoners sometimes kiss the walls of their cell,
though they are really not sorry to leave it. We have had nice times
here, Queen, though we have been so very unhappy. As I sat here
before you came up, I felt as though there must be two Emmie's; I
feel so different to the old one that used to hide her face and cry
when it got dark."
"Then we will not stay and make ourselves miserable in this gloomy
place," interrupted Queenie, anxiously. "Caleb will be here
directly, and we must go and say good-bye to Miss Titheridge. Come,
Em, come," and Emmie obeyed reluctantly.
Miss Titheridge looked embarassed and nervous, and Queenie purposely
shortened their leave-taking. When Emmie's turn came she held up her
face to be kissed.
"Good-bye," she said, looking at the governess with her large serious
blue eyes. "Thank you for being kind to me at last. I am so sorry
you could not love me; but I dare say it was my fault;" and as Miss
Titheridge bent over her something beside a kiss was left on the
child's thin cheek.
Caleb's little house seemed a perfect haven of refuge that night.
Queenie felt almost too happy as she arranged their effects in the
little dark room that Caleb had set apart for his guests. It seemed
wrong of her to be so light-hearted while the future was so uncertain.
Emmie lay in the big brown bed, with ugly drab curtains edged with
green, and watched her as she moved about actively, singing over her
work. The room had a side window looking over a stone-mason's yard;
the white monuments gleamed in the red evening light; a laburnum
shook long sprays of gold against the panes; Molly's linnet sung
against the wall; Caleb in his old coat walked contentedly up and
down the narrow garden path between his currant-bushes; some children
were playing among the slabs and ledges of stone. How humble it was,
and yet how peaceful; a quiet waiting-place until the new work came
ready to her hand. One evening, as she was sitting sewing at the
open window, Caleb beckoned her mysteriously to join him in his
favorite walk between the currant-bushes.
"My dear," he began, his eyes becoming round as usual, and betraying
a tendency to hesitate slightly between his words, "I want your
advice, your assistance, indeed. I have--hem--I may say--I have a
delicate and peculiar commission on hand,--hem,--and I--in short, a
lady's advice would be most suitable, and, I may say, satisfactory.
Molly is a good creature," he continued, after a pause, "an admirable
creature, of course; but in this her advice is of such a nature that
I must own I should hesitate to adopt it. She is fond of bright
colors, you see; and as long as there is plenty of red and green in a
pattern she would find no fault."
"Do you want me to choose a new dress for Molly? I suppose that is
what you mean."
"Molly! oh dear, no! nothing of the kind, Miss Queenie dear. The
fact is, a young friend of mine, is--hem--is, in short, going to be
married, that is, she is going to be married some day, no doubt."
"Indeed! a friend of yours, do you say?" Caleb nodded still more
mysteriously.
"The circumstances are peculiar; yes, I am certainly right in saying
they are peculiar," continued Caleb, reflecting; "but she--that is,
he--has commissioned me to get her some things suitable to a lady in
such a position, as the same peculiar circumstances prevent her from
choosing the articles herself. She is not going to be married yet,"
rubbing his head with a little vexed perplexity; "but she is going on
a visit to his friends, and he--the young man I mean. Ah! that's
it," with a chuckle, as though he had discovered a way out of some
difficulty--"he, the young man, my dear, has a proper pride, and
wants her to make a favourable impression on his relations; do you
see, Miss Queenie."
"Is she so very poor?" returned Queenie, innocently, and not at all
suspecting the veracity of Caleb's garbled-up tale.
"Poor! well I may say that she is poor--extremely so," with a burst
of candor; "but a lady,--dear, dear,--as much a lady as yourself,
Miss Queenie."
"I should have thought her lover could have chosen some pretty things
for her himself," observed Queenie, a little incredulously, at this
juncture. "He must be a poor sort of lover," she thought, "to
devolve such an interesting duty on her old friend."
Caleb coughed, and stopped to inspect a promising gooseberry bush;
and then he discovered his pipe was out, and must replenish it; it
was quite five minutes, too, before it would draw properly, and
Queenie got impatient for her question to be answered.
"Why cannot he get them himself?" she enquired, a little scornfully;
"he need not have troubled you."
"Well, you see, a man with a broken leg is not particularly active,
and shopping does not suit the complaint," was the oracular answer,
as Caleb puffed volumes of smoke, bravely. "No, no, that sort of
thing is not good for the complaint," continued the old man, with
another chuckle; "so you see, Miss Queenie dear, if you don't help me
a bit with your advice I shall have to go to Molly after all, and
shall come back with a plaid satin, or something that wouldn't suit
the pretty creature at all. Come, now,"--coaxingly,--"what should
you think she would like best?"
Queenie wrinkled her white forehead reflectively,--poor and pretty,
and with a lover laid up at a distance. This began to get
interesting; she must do her best to help this unknown girl.
"Well, if I were judging for myself," she returned at last, "I should
think a nice useful black silk--"
"Ah! that is just it," interrupted Caleb, enthusiastically. "I ought
to have thought of that; of course, a black silk."
"And," continued Queenie, now thoroughly absorbed in a mental review
of this ideal wardrobe, "a pretty spring suit,--brown, I think, if it
would suit her,--and a brown hat with a pheasant wing. I think she
would look nice in that."
"Brown, of course; the idea of my never thinking of brown," repeated
Caleb, clapping his hands, "the very color of all others that would
suit her. Go on, Miss Queenie dear."
"Well, I suppose her lover does not wish to be extravagant, it is not
her trousseau, you see; some nice collars and cuffs and ties, and
perhaps handkerchiefs, and some brown gloves--and, oh! she must have
a box to put them in. If she be so very poor, you see, it will not
do for her to dress too handsomely," observed the young girl,
sententiously.
Caleb dashed down his pipe, and very nearly executed a _pas de seul_
on the garden path; his blue eyes danced with glee.
"There now, there now; did I not say you had a wise head, Miss
Queenie! The very thing of all other! a box!--and Molly and I would
never have thought of it--a really good handsome box that would make
the luggage porters stare, eh?" enquiring.
"Well no; a nice black leather one, like Cathy's, I think," returned
Queenie, with quiet relish. During the remainder of the evening, as
she sat over some plain sewing she was doing for Emmie, she thought
of Caleb's friend a little enviously, and wondered how she would like
the nice things. She wished Caleb would tell her a little more about
her; but, to her surprise, he did not recur again to the subject.
About a fortnight after this conversation, as she returned from her
usual evening visit to Mr. Calcott, she paused for a moment at the
door of her room, transfixed in surprise.
A large leathern trunk blocked up the room; two white letters, Q.M.,
stared her full in the face; a sudden revelation of the truth drove
the flush to her very brow.
Could it really be? She lifted the lid gingerly, almost trembling
with excitement; her hand came in contact with the folds of a black
silk; lower down lay the brown dress and jacket; the little hat with
its pheasant plume nestled snugly in one division. Queenie had just
a hurried peep at piles of snowy handkerchiefs, and collars, and
cuffs, at French gloves, and soft streaks of color in the shape of
silken scarfs, and then she rushed breathlessly down into the parlor,
where Emmie was reading fairy tales to Caleb.
Emmie put down her book and clapped her hands at the sight of
Queenie's face. Caleb's eyes twinkled over his pipe, but he said
nothing.
"Oh, Queen, isn't it lovely! better even than Cinderella's pumpkin
coach. Isn't it a dear, dear secret, for Caleb and me to have kept
all this time?"
"Do you think the young man with the broken leg will be satisfied
with my taste," chuckled the old man. Queenie put her arms round his
neck, her face was rosy with pleasure.
"Oh, Caleb, is it for me! really for me! the box with all those
beautiful things? Did you buy it for me, dear, because you knew I
was so poor and shabby, and you did not like me to go among those
strange people with my old clothes? Oh, Caleb, how could you, how
could you, and you so poor yourself?" caressing him gratefully.
"Miss Queenie, dear," confessed the old man, with tears in his eyes,
"if I had the money I would not begrudge you satin and diamonds;
nothing would be too good for you, my pretty; nothing that old Caleb
would not get you; but it is not me, bless your dear heart, that you
have to thank for all your things."
Queenie's face fell, her arms dropped to her side.
"Not you, Caleb?"
"Why no," he returned, slightly embarrassed; "I would have bought
them and gladly if I had had the money, which I am free to confess is
not the case. You have another and a richer friend at court than old
Caleb."
"Do you mean to tell me," replied Queenie, sitting down, quite pale
with the surprise, "that--that--"
"Ah, I knew you would guess it!" interrupted Caleb, sagaciously.
"'Find out what she requires for her visit, and get it, Runciman,' he
said to me; and, as I observed once before on a similar occasion, you
might have knocked me over with a feather. 'Ask some woman to help
you, for we neither of us know much of a girl's farthingales and
furbelows, I fancy,' he said, grimly enough; and so, my dear, I made
bold, and invented that pleasing little fiction in order to get at
some of your ideas."
"Mr. Calcott has given me all those things?" she repeated; and then
for the moment she could say no more.