FROM DARENTDALE TO HIGH SEATHORPE.
All was peace. It was impossible to look upon the stately face and form
of the dead man and not feel that Christ had laid His hand upon the
white brow, and said, “Peace, be still.” The doubts and impatience which
had characterised him in his earlier years were set at rest once for
all. The strife was over, the misgivings were quieted, and if the
questions were not yet answered, the questioner was asleep in deep
repose.
Margaret could not at first believe that the kind heart which had loved
her, and the lips which had blessed her, were still for ever.
“Dr. Stapleton, surely you can revive him,” she said, “and bring him
back again to life, if only for a few weeks.”
“I would if I could, perhaps,” he said; “but no mortal power could do
it, and you should be thankful that he is spared the suffering which we
feared.”
“For his sake, my darling, you must not mourn,” said John Dallington
tenderly, as he took her in his arms, and tears were in his eyes for her
sorrow.
“Not mourn!” Had any one else uttered the words Margaret must have felt
that she was being mocked. She would mourn for him through the rest of
her life, for was he not the only father whom she had ever known, the
friend and protector of her infancy and girlhood? Oh, that she had loved
him more, that she had expressed her gratitude more earnestly! And yet
she was sure that he had understood, and was satisfied.
The inhabitants of Darentdale were greatly shocked by the news of his
death. The familiar figure, the genial voice, the friendly hand had
seemed to belong to the place for ever.
“Mr. Harris dead! Who will care for us now?” said the children. “There
is no one to take his place,” said the men. “He had a good word for us
all—he understood us,” said the women. There was no home which was not
darkened by the shadow that had fallen, and very few individuals who did
not sympathise with Margaret.
But there was one person who laughed cruelly at that which brought
sadness to so many. John Dallington took the news to his mother. “He
died suddenly,” he told her, “but the doctors had only that day
pronounced him incurably diseased; so the sudden death was a blessing to
him.”
“Did the doctors frighten him to death, then?” asked Mrs. Hunter.
“I do not think he was afraid to die; he was too brave a man for that;
but his heart must have been very weak.”
“And so my enemy is dead!” said Mrs. Hunter. “I can scarcely believe
it.”
“He was not your enemy, mother. He was everybody’s friend. If you had
known him you must have known that.”
“How I hated him!” said Mrs. Hunter.
“Yes, and it was most absurd of you, mother, for he never injured you in
the least thing.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, he did! He had my money. What will become of it now?
If he had been a just man he would have bequeathed it to me.”
John was fast losing patience. This idea which had possessed his mother
was nothing less than a craze.
“The money was not yours, and never could have been,” he said. “Do be
reasonable! How can you talk of justice, when you are so unjust in your
judgment of him? Oh, little mother, how much happier you would be if you
would only be kind! Do cast out the evil spirit of jealousy which has
poisoned so many years of your life, and see things as they are. There
will come a day when you, too, will need mercy——”
“As Henry Harris does now.”
“Yes; and as we shall soon. Be yourself merciful therefore now. He has
gone home to God. He is the Judge, and He only knew all about Mr.
Harris.”
“Is there a God? He did not believe in one.”
“How can you say so, mother?”
“I am not the only one who says so.”
“No one says so who knew the man. He certainly had what many of us have
not, the Christian spirit of love and helpfulness, which made him the
friend of everybody. But, mother, even if he was as wrong as you think
him, it is time to forgive him now. I wish you would do a kind thing for
me. Do you care for me in the least, my mother?”
“You know that I care for no one but you, John.”
“Then do me this kindness. Everybody will be calling on Miss Miller in
this her time of trouble. Will you not call too?”
“That girl! How dare you ask me!” Mrs. Hunter started up in her fury,
and her eyes blazed forth on her son. Then followed a string of
invectives, and even of curses, such as made John shudder. As he looked
and listened, a great fear entered his heart. Surely his mother must be
going mad! It was impossible in any other way to account for her rage
and hate. She was in a frightful passion; her face was ghastly, her
hands clutched each other, and there was such a baleful light in her
eyes that John was grieved beyond expression. He tried to quiet her, but
it was of no use, and presently he forced her into her own room that the
servants might not hear her ravings.
Poor John! “There is more trouble coming to me,” he said, and he was
right.
It is only natural that there should be sorrow when a good man dies; the
world cannot afford to lose him, and the people feel in a sense
orphaned. At Darentdale they had never seen such a day in the memory of
the oldest inhabitant as that of the funeral of Henry Harris. Every shop
was closed, every window had its blind down. No arrangement was made for
a public funeral; but the people obeyed the impulses of their own
hearts, and the highest and the lowest showed their sorrow in every
possible way. The whole village stood around the grave, and sobbed forth
its grief. Positively the only persons who held aloof were Mrs. Hunter
and Mr. William Hunter.
The Vicar held a service in the church; he was visibly affected as it
proceeded, for he felt that he had lost a friend. At the grave the
service was most impressive; and there was a ring of certainty in the
Vicar’s voice as he pronounced the words which seemed to him to carry
more meaning than ever now. “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God
of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother
here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the
Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall
change our vile body, that it may be like unto His glorious body,
according to the mighty working, whereby He is able to subdue all things
unto Himself.” The service did not close without earnest words to those
who felt themselves bereaved, urging them to carry on the good work
which Harris had begun, and to copy his character—a character which, the
Vicar declared, must have been founded on the religion of the Lord Jesus
Christ.
It was not during the funeral, nor even for a day or two afterwards,
that the desolateness of her position forced itself upon Margaret, for
it is never while the body of the beloved one is in the house, and the
mind is forced to lend itself to the customary preparations for the
signs of mourning (stupid enough in themselves, but serviceable in that
they compel the thought from the acute woe of the first terrible
days)—it is never then that the loss is realised in its greatness. When
the last caller has spoken the condolences which he meant to be kind,
and the door is shut, enclosing the empty house, it is then that the
weight of the loss is most crushing. To Margaret everything seemed to
have gone with that presence which had pervaded the house. The shutters
had not been taken down from the windows of the little shop, but
Margaret knew without looking for them where the books were which he
loved, and the papers he had handled. The animals that he had fed looked
at her with wistful eyes that made Margaret weep afresh. The chair in
which he had sat seemed to hold a shadowy form, and Margaret could not
but throw herself beside it and cry—
“O, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!”
It was not the time for her lover to speak of his love, or to urge its
claims. John felt that all that he could do was to sit sometimes by her
side, that she might get what comfort she could from his presence. She
was so entirely alone in the world that he thought she must consent to
marry him. What else should she do? And as he said this to himself a
great joy of hope filled him. He loved her so greatly—his own beautiful
darling, that he would gladly live with her in this little home, and
leave his own to his mother; or he would take her beyond the seas, and
work for her as a common emigrant, and feel himself a crowned king when
she rewarded him with her love. There was nothing—nothing that he would
not do to possess her; and surely the time was nearer than ever now.
But a few days afterward a terrible thing happened, which put that for
which he longed even farther away than it had seemed before, and which
would have made a weaker woman than Margaret really ill.
It was evening, and Ann Johnson had gone to visit some friends, so that
Margaret was left in the house alone. Her thoughts were very sad ones.
She was trying to face her future and arrange her course of action, but
it was very difficult. She shrank from a lonely lot, as every woman
does. And what was she to do? The new work that was waiting for her
seemed less attractive now. The poor girls who needed care and love and
training became less interesting to her mind as she thought of her own
position, and felt that she was herself a poor girl, needing everything.
And, besides, how could she give up the Old House, which her grandfather
had loved, and which belonged to her now? And, on the other hand, how
could she live in it without him? She was not obliged to remain there,
even if she did not accept the other engagement which had been offered
her, for Mr. Harris had property, and had left her with a competency.
But how could she go away and leave John? He had become unutterably dear
to her in this time of her sorrow, for he had been most thoughtful and
kind and strong for her, and she felt that she would have given much if
she might have laid her head upon his shoulder and said, “John, take me
anywhere you please, only do not leave me.” And might she not do this?
Was it right to let Mrs. Hunter keep them apart, and spoil both their
lives? She did not love John as Margaret did, or she would not have made
him unhappy. Surely she must give way at last. Why not now? If only she
could see her and talk to her!
The front door was opened when Margaret’s thoughts had reached this
point. “Ann is back soon,” she said to herself, and then it was borne in
upon her that it was not Ann who was approaching. Neither was it John.
Who could it be that came so unceremoniously into the house? A nameless
fear possessed her, and she arose to meet her visitor. It was nearly
dark, and the lamps were not yet lighted; but she saw at a glance that
Mrs. Hunter stood before her.
Mrs. Hunter in that house, unaccompanied, and at that hour! What could
it mean? Margaret held out her hand, and looked her full in the face,
and at that moment the swift conviction that had passed through John’s
mind passed through hers also—Mrs. Hunter had become insane. Hate had
made her mad.
“Will you take a seat, Mrs. Hunter?” said Margaret, trying not to be
nervous. “I am afraid you must be tired after walking so far. It is a
beautiful night—at least—no—it rains, and I see you are wet. May I help
you to remove your cloak?”
Mrs. Hunter answered not a word. She sat down wearily in the chair, and
passed her hand over her face; but the next instant she sprang up, and
to Margaret’s surprise—and, it must be confessed, to her terror also—she
seized her by the shoulders.
“I have you now, you Margaret Miller,” she said in dreadful tones, “and
I shall make you do as I wish, for I will kill you—I will kill you if
you do not! Show me now, instantly, before any one comes, where is the
hidden treasure, the gold that belongs to me and mine, which you have in
this house?”
Margaret was a strong young woman, with a considerable amount of
physical power, for which at the moment she felt thankful; but the grip
of Mrs. Hunter’s hands upon her was so violent that it was almost
certain that, small as she was, compared with Margaret, she could win a
victory over her opponent if it came to a struggle in deadly earnest.
“What is there in this house which belongs to you?” said Margaret. “I do
not want to keep anything that is not mine.”
“But you and that bad man have kept it—ah! I am glad he is dead; and
there is only you now—only you—and you are nothing! Give me my own!
Where is it? I want it for my son—the gold that his uncle had gained,
and which is his by right. The lack of it has ruined us! It has made a
wicked woman of me, and it will make me mad! Give it to me now! Show me
its hiding-place, and I will take it. Do as I tell you, or you shall
die!”
Margaret said that she did not really know whether she could find it.
And in truth she felt that she would only too gladly give up every coin
there was. It was true, she supposed, that this gold, for which she
cared so little, was the thing which brought so much hate and misery,
and was the real cause of separation between John and his mother, and
also was the secret of her hatred. She would give it to the woman who
wanted it, and then, perhaps, the trouble would be over.
“Let me get a light,” said Margaret, “and see if I can do as you wish.
It is nearly dark.”
But Mrs. Hunter held her, and laughed wildly.
“Ah! you think to escape me, but you shall not. I will go with you while
you get a light. But you do not need a light. I know the chest. Where is
it? Give me the keys. I will hold you till you do.”
“If you hold me how can I get you the keys?” cried Margaret; and then
she felt herself turn cold with fear, for Mrs. Hunter began screaming
terribly.
Margaret wondered what she could do. Her nerves had already been very
much shaken, and this seemed really more than she could bear. She would
like to have rushed into the street and summoned help, but she would not
do that for John’s sake; she must pacify and satisfy his mother in some
way, and get her home, and into John’s care before any one knew what had
occurred. As for the money——
At that moment Ann Johnson came in. She stared at Mrs. Hunter, and saw
what was the matter. Margaret signed to her to be quiet, but before she
could speak Ann rushed out of the house again, greatly to Margaret’s
vexation. But Ann had seen Mr. Dallington in the village, and had
decided that the right thing was to fetch him. She had the good sense to
speak quietly.
“Your mother is ill,” she said. “She is at our house. Come directly, but
say nothing about it—we must keep it to ourselves.”
There is no need to describe the scene which followed—a very painful
one, which the three persons who witnessed it never forgot. Ann showed
herself invaluable in the emergency, and John succeeded at last in
getting his mother home.
Ann could not quite make up her mind whether Mrs. Hunter was insane or
intoxicated, but she had not much time to consider the question, for
Margaret had borne all that she could bear, and Ann’s hands were full
for the present.
The next morning Margaret wrote accepting the management of the home for
training young girls for their future life.
John called in the afternoon, looking so ill that Margaret’s heart ached
for him. She put her arms around him, and touched his forehead with her
lips.
“Oh, my dear, I wish I could help you,” she said. “Yours is a worse
trouble than mine.”
“Were you not frightened last night, Margaret?”
“Yes, I was, and terribly surprised; but I saw at once that Mrs. Hunter
was ill. Is she better to-day?”
“She is quiet and exhausted. Margaret, what am I to do?”
“You must take care of her, and nurse her. Let Ann Johnson come and help
you. Mrs. Hunter seemed to like her. I cannot stay here, John, and you
must take this house, and all that is in it. I do not want the money. I
have no use for it, and I think your mother will get better, and look at
things differently, if I am no longer here to irritate her.”
“I shall want some one to help me.”
“Yes, you will, dear; but I must not come. It would make her worse if I
were near. Oh, John! John! I wonder why such trouble is allowed to come
to you. I would give my life to help you if I might; but you must bear
it all alone. Perhaps Mrs. Hunter is not really as ill as we fear.”
“She is worse than I thought her. I am afraid of the future. Is there
hope anywhere? Margaret, you will always love me whatever comes?”
“Always, always; be very sure of it; and when I may I will come to you.
But for the present you must take this house and the money, and let your
mother do as she likes with it.”
“You are not exactly a woman of business, my dear,” said John. “You
cannot give up your house and money like this, you know. Neither must
you go away.”
“Yes, John, I must—for the present, at all events. There is no other way
out of the difficulty.”
John considered gravely. Love ought to be first, he thought; did not
every one say it was the greatest force in the world? But Duty? John
Dallington and Margaret Miller gave Duty the highest place in their
lives, and both knew that neither could be happy by trying to put even
love itself before it.
“I can scarcely tell, I do not really know what is right,” said John. “I
could not put my mother into an asylum, unless it should become
absolutely necessary; and neither could I let her be a prisoner in her
own house. And just now I think that she is not in a fit state to be
left without my oversight, and, therefore, it seems necessary for me to
remain at home with her. As for you, my darling, I am afraid it would
not be safe to bring you to my home at present. And yet, how can I let
you go far from me? Cannot you remain here for awhile?”
“No, John, I will go to High Seathorpe and commence this new work which
has been given me to do. I shall be the better for such an occupation.
It will absorb my thoughts and fill my days with congenial labour. I
wrote this morning accepting the position, and Ann posted the letter.”
“Very well,” said John, with a sigh. “I suppose we must take life as we
find it. Perhaps things will right themselves, and bring us happiness by
the time that we are too old to enjoy it.”
Margaret laughed gently. “We are both young,” she said, “and we shall be
faithful to each other. Nor shall we have long to wait. Let us do the
right and leave it. But, John, I must show you that money which your
mother thinks, and I think, ought to be yours. Come and see where it is;
and I hope you will agree with me as to what should be done with it. You
do not want to see it? But you must, please.”
But John would not be persuaded; and his face flushed with anger. “I
will not see it,” he said. “I want to know nothing whatever about it. I
am sick of it. You ought to put it away in a bank; it is absurd of you
to keep it in the house. If it became known that you had it on the
premises you might be robbed or murdered on account of it. But I don’t
care what becomes of it so long as I never hear of it again. Sometimes
it seems that the only reason why you consent to marry me at all is that
that detestable money may be forced upon me.”
Margaret turned away with tears in her eyes. John had never spoken to
her so angrily before; and at that moment she felt also as if she did
not care what became of the money.
“Since we have to part so soon you might be kind to me,” she said; and,
of course, John called himself a brute, and begged her pardon.
A few days later, Margaret and Ann Johnson locked up the house, and went
into Yorkshire to open the Home which was already prepared for its
purpose.
Mr. Smart met them at High Seathorpe, a station between Scarborough and
Whitby, and took them to the house. It stood upon the moors, in a
sheltered hollow, with a few brave trees surrounding it, and from its
grounds, as well as from its windows, magnificent sea-views were to be
obtained.
“I am glad to welcome you, for my client’s sake, Miss Miller,” said Mr.
Smart. “I am afraid he will never be able to see for himself how the
work on which he has set his heart progresses, for he is ill; but it is
a comfort to him that you have consented to come. I think you will like
your surroundings, and High Seathorpe is exceedingly bracing.”
But Margaret was weary from her journey, and the place looked bleak and
cold in the grey of the evening. Her thoughts went back regretfully to
John, and also to her own cosy little home at Darentdale, so that for a
time she felt sad and fearful of the future, and her powers to endure
it. But when she reached the house a pleasant surprise awaited her.
Mr. Smart ushered her into a large room, well warmed and lighted, and a
lady came forward, with both hands extended in greeting.
“Miss Wentworth!” cried Margaret, in surprise. “Is it possible that you
are here! How can that have been brought about?”
“Ah, my dear, you did not expect to see me. I have brought thirteen of
my girls to start this establishment. You will need me, I know, and I
shall need you too; for girls are much more difficult to manage than
boys. Come to your room, and let me make you feel at home at once.”
It was a great relief to Margaret to find that not only was Miss
Wentworth at High Seathorpe, but that the work which she had come to
commence was already successfully inaugurated. She looked in at the
girls that night, and saw at a glance that the right ones were there.
When she opened the door one of them was saying: “I don’t care! It isn’t
nice to miss the courting, but my young man is a good fellow, and I mean
to make the most of this chance and learn how to be a real good wife to
him.”
That little sentence was like a tonic to Margaret; for her sympathy and
interest were at once aroused, and she went away to dream once more of
pleasant hours spent in the service of others.
The next morning she was ready for work, and before the day had passed
the girls had decided that she was trustworthy, and that they would like
her. One girl confided her love story to her also, and begged that she
would teach her how to cut out and make some shirt collars with her own
hands as a present for _him_. “There’s only one him in the world, you
know, miss,” she said; “though I suppose it is a hymn that may be sung
to the tune of the Old Hundred.”