_CONCLUSION_
"And now those vivid hours are gone,
Like mine own life to me thou art.
Where past and present, wound in one,
Do make a garland for the heart."
--TENNYSON.
It was the evening of the day after the picnic, and all Rushbrook had
already heard the news. The Danforths had heard it in the morning from
Arnold himself, and Mrs. Verdon had heard it in the afternoon from the
Danforths.
Katherine Verdon was an unemotional woman. She did not feel in the least
inclined to go into hysterics or make bitter speeches. Mrs. Tell, who
watched her narrowly, could not detect the slightest change in her
demeanour. She remarked that Miss Kilner was very pretty--really quite
beautiful--and no one could be surprised at the turn that things had
taken.
"I don't know," replied her sister-in-law; "I confess I am surprised. He
ought to have married somebody in a better position."
"Oh, her position is good enough," Mrs. Verdon answered, "and she will
suit him exactly. He is a man who will demand a great deal of devotion
from his wife, and she will give him all he needs. It would have been
bad for him if he had married a woman whose supply was not equal to the
demand."
"What do you suppose would have happened in that case?" Mrs. Tell asked.
"She would have been bored, and he would have been disappointed and
restless. I think he would have taken to wandering again; but there is
no fear of that now. You will see that this will be an ideal marriage."
Having said this, Katherine went quietly out of the room and took her
way upstairs to the side of Jamie's bed. He was asleep; but the heat had
flushed him, and he tossed the bed-clothes away from his rosy limbs and
murmured in his sleep. Nurse had gone down to her supper; there was no
one to see Katherine as she bent over the child with a look of
tenderness in her eyes.
"My life is in my own hands," she thought.
"I have not given up myself to any one else, and it is better as it is.
I love the boy; he is the only thing I really care for."
Just then he gave another toss, and opened his eyes with a fretful
little wail. Seeing Katharine, he put out his arms and said, "Mammy!"
She soothed him with her sweet voice and soft touch, gave him a draught
of lemonade, and then laid him down again, calmed and refreshed, to fall
into a deep slumber. Yes, it was all well, she repeated to herself; she
had her own life, her own pleasures, her own ways; to give up anything
that was hers, to change any of her plans, would have cost her more than
it costs most women. She was not fond of making sacrifices; she had
never loved well enough to know the sweetness of self-surrender.
Arnold Wayne had taken her fancy, but he had never won her heart. It is
true that he had not tried to win it, and Katherine did not care to ask
herself whether he would have succeeded if he had tried. She had felt
one slight pang of jealousy when she had been told of his engagement,
and that was all. This quiet half-hour spent by Jamie's bed had set
everything right in her life. She understood herself now, and could even
think of something pretty to give Miss Kilner for a wedding present.
"Jamie shall give her something from himself," she decided. "He is very
fond of her, and she is really a nice woman. I wish them well--yes, in
all sincerity I wish them well."
If there were others who did not feel as kindly as Katherine did, there
was no manifestation of ill-will. The Danforths had expected Mrs. Verdon
to join them in bewailing the foolish match, but she had quietly and
cleverly disappointed them. They had left her with the impression that
they must have been mistaken in her from the first. She had never
thought as seriously of Arnold as they had supposed; she had amused
herself with their schemes and hopes, and that was all.
"I was never sure of her from the beginning," said Mr. Danforth to his
daughters. "She has been always perfectly contented with her position.
There were no signs of restlessness about her at all. But you girls are
dead sure of everything; when you take a notion into your heads you
can't listen to reason."
He had been very cross all day, finding fault with everything that "the
girls" said and did, until he had driven them both to the verge of
desperation; and Lily, when she went upstairs to dress for dinner, was
wondering how she should get through that miserable meal without
bursting into a great fit of crying.
She thought how happy Elsie Kilner must be at that moment with Arnold as
her declared lover. No doubt Francis Ryan was moping about Willow Farm
in a state of unacknowledged wretchedness. She was sure that Francis had
really liked that girl; she had seen his feelings plainly on the day of
the picnic. Perhaps he would go away altogether from Rushbrook, unable
to bear the sight of his rival's happiness. And this was to be the
ending of Lily's dream!
But it is best not to be too certain about endings and beginnings; they
look so like each other sometimes, and are apt to be so oddly mixed up
in our lives.
When you are thoroughly heart-sick and hopeless, dress is quite an
unimportant thing. Lily put on a cream-white cashmere gown which had
seen its best days, noticed that the skirt was soiled, and said with Mr.
Toots that it was of no consequence. There were some clusters of pink
geranium in a glass on her table, and she pinned them on her bodice in a
dejected fashion. Then she went downstairs slowly, with her bright
cheeks paler than usual and all her sprightliness gone.
The lights were golden on the lawn, and the great cedar was casting
velvety shadows there. Her father was standing under the old tree,
looking so jovial and radiant that she marvelled at the sudden change in
his mood. Some one, who stood with his back towards the house, was in
close conversation with Mr. Danforth.
"Here she is, Ryan!" her father said, as he saw her through the open
door. "Here she is! Let her come out and answer for herself."
Francis Ryan turned, and Lily, shy and trembling, went out in obedience
to Mr. Danforth's call. Perhaps her hesitation and timidity became her
better than self-confidence; anyhow, Francis thought that he had never
seen her look so pretty as she did at this moment, when she came
bashfully towards him under the old cedar with a pensive look on her
young face.
"He has come to ask me for you, Lily," said Mr. Danforth, glowing with
satisfaction. "He has my consent, and now you must give him your
answer."
Then the head of the family went off to find Mary and tell her the
joyful news, and Francis and Lily stood under the dark cedar-boughs
together hand in hand. She was too happy to know exactly what he was
saying; she only knew that she had managed to say what was required of
her, and that life had suddenly changed from gloom to glory.
September had set in, and only a few stragglers had come back to London.
Most people were still lingering on the sea-shore or among the breezy
hills; but one young woman, standing at the window of a back-room in All
Saints' Street, was looking as happy as if she loved the view of
chimney-pots and smoky tiles.
It was the last day of Elsie's single life. The bell was just beginning
to chime for five o'clock service; in the next room Mrs. Lennard and
Miss Saxon were closing the lids of the boxes and looking round to see
that nothing had been forgotten or left out. And Elsie, standing alone
in her old place, was watching the sunset shining on these crowded
house-roofs for the last time. Meta's manuscript, carefully tied up, was
lying on the little table near. As Elsie's fingers rested on the roll,
her thoughts went straying back to that evening in the early spring when
she had stood here to fight her battle in silence.
It was not until that battle had been fought and won that she had known
the guidance of the vanished hand; and now, in the golden quietness of
this hour, she recalled some lines from "In Memoriam" which seemed to
come with new freshness of meaning to her mind:--
"In vain shalt thou, or any, call
The spirits from their golden day,
Except, like them, thou too canst say,
My spirit is at peace with all."
Robert and Bertha were forgiven, although the old home had passed into
the hands of strangers, and the old haunts would know her footsteps no
more. Mr. Lennard, too, had given up the living in Sussex, and would
come, later on, to settle in Rushbrook, near Wayne's Court. Mrs. Lennard
had declared that it was impossible for her to live far away from her
adopted daughter, and Elsie longed to have this faithful friend always
by her side. And Miss Saxon, also, had promised to say good-bye to
London, and follow Elsie into her quiet world of meadows and streams.
Another summer would bring Mrs. Beaton and her son into that pastoral
country, just to refresh themselves with a glimpse of its sweetness and
light. How Elsie would welcome the sight of those friendly faces which
had gladdened her lonesome days!
To-night for musings; to-morrow for the beginning of the new life.
To-night for memories; to-morrow for the clasp of wedded hands and the
solemn troth, plighted "till death do us part."
"But there will never be a parting," said Elsie, taking a last look at
the fading light of the sunset. "Did not Harold and Meta walk together
to the very brink of the river? and is not the vanished hand still
pointing to the home of rest upon the other side?"