SARAH'S CONFESSION.
JOHN had other and more satisfactory passages at this time at the Manor
House than that jotted down in the foregoing chapter. And he had time
for a good many conversations, private and confidential, or otherwise,
as the case might be, seeing that his visit was prolonged day after day
while waiting Walter's pleasure to return.
The truth is, old Matthew Wilson had gone away from his conference
with Tincroft very considerably puzzled. Like all crafty and designing
people, he suspected everybody with whom he had to do of being crafty
and designing; and that John was disinterested in his kindness to
Walter never entered his thoughts.
"He knows more than he chooses to tell," the close-fisted, money-loving
man argued. "He has found out that Walter has got money, and he means
to have as much of it as he can get; and 'tis my duty to take care that
he doesn't get it. At all events, if it is worth his while to keep
Walter and his girl at free quarters, it would be worth my while."
Saying this to himself at first, and afterwards to his dame, increased
kindness was, for a little while, shown to the invalid, who, in the
first flush of the above evanescent conclusions, was so strongly urged
to prolong his stay at Low Beech, that he consented, the more readily,
perhaps, that the air of his native place seemed to infuse a little
fresh strength into him.
John, all this while, was pleasantly enough occupied at the Manor
House, contenting himself with occasionally looking in at the farm, to
keep up the friendly intercourse which had been asked for. Tom and he
were often together now; and in the fulness of his heart-gladness, John
spoke of the new-found joy of his home.
"I always knew I was better off than I ever deserved to be, Tom;
but I didn't know till of late what a treasure I had always had in
my possession." It was in this way John put it. "You know, my dear
fellow," said he, "I was never like other young men—you, for instance.
I had never known anything of the pleasures of home and domestic life,
so no wonder I went blundering on. At least, that's the only excuse
I can make for myself. And then, you see, without intending it, what
mischief I got into! And I can't help feeling every day, that if I
had been made to smart ever so much for my folly, it would have been
no more than deserved. And instead of that, Tom, only think what a
blessing I have had all along, and without knowing, too—that is,
without knowing its full value. If it hadn't been for my stupidity,
I should have found it out years and years ago, I am sure. But if it
hadn't been for dear Sarah herself, I shouldn't have known it even now."
"And think!" exclaimed John, as his admiring and amused former college
chum listened with praiseworthy gravity, thinking within himself that
some people's simplicity is greatly to be set above all the maxims
of worldly wit and wisdom ever enunciated. "Think, dear Tom, what a
happiness it is to me now to see that everything has turned out for the
best, not to me only; I hope I am not quite so selfish as to think only
of myself, but to others as well; and how things have been so brought
about as that Walter and Sarah and I are such friends."
"It puts me in mind," John went on enthusiastically, "of one of the
hymns in good old Mrs. Barry's hymn-book, 'Dr. Rippon's Selection,' you
remember, that you sometimes laugh at me about."
"Do I, John? I am very sorry I ever did; but I never will laugh at you
again," said Tom, who was moved by John's earnestness, so as almost to
reverence him for his humble piety.
"Oh, that's nothing, Tom. I never minded your laughing, dear friend.
I do many things that are fit only to be laughed at, I know. But that
hymn, I often think of it, Tom. It begins—"
"Through all the various shifting scene
Of life's mistaken ill or good,
Thy hand, O God, conducts unseen
The beautiful vicissitude."
"And then there's another—"
"Thy ways, O Lord, with wise design,
Are framed upon Thy throne above,
And every dark and bending line.
Meets in the centre of Thy love."
"So beautiful because so true," added John.
"You seem to have got them by heart, dear John," said Tom.
"Yes," said John, quietly, "a good many of the hymns I have. The fact
is, I have got good old Mrs. Barry's hymn-book. She left it me as a
legacy when she died, about six years ago. She thought of me as poor
little Josiah Tincroft's only child, the last of the Tincrofts, she
said, and told her son (the college scout, you remember) to send it to
me, with her love, which he did."
In her father's absence, the young Helen was passing away the time
pleasantly enough at Tincroft House; the only drawback she experienced
was her anxiety on account of his health, and this was partly modified
and allayed by the encouraging hopes that had been held out to her by
her very kind host and hostess.
There were times, indeed, when the memory of her recent loss cast an
additional shade over her young life at this time; but it was not an
entirely dark shade; for dearly as she had loved, and still loved
her mother, the cloud had a silver lining—there was hope, nay, even
certainty and glory behind it. Her darling, departed mother was "not
lost," no, not lost, only "gone before."
"I don't know how those who have no hope sorrow when they mourn for the
dead," said Helen one day to her friend Mrs. Tincroft. "But I know what
a blessed thing it is to feel sure that those who 'sleep in Jesus' are
safe and happy; and we have only to be followers of them to meet with
them again—in another and better world, dear."
The two ladies were in Helen's pretty room when the serious and
confidential talk occurred of which this formed a part. The room was
quite fit to be called a lady's bower now; for by Sarah's undiminished
attentions, with an occasional unloosing of John's purse-strings, all
manner of pretty feminine ornaments—useful and useless—had found their
way into it. As I have said, it was a pleasant room, with a southern
aspect, and by day the sun shone into it cheerily, sufficiently
screened by the Venetian verandah without, while the pretty flower
garden below had begun to put on a very lovely aspect, with promise of
other and more gorgeous hues as the summer advanced.
I do not know what led Sarah and Helen to the strain of conversation
just noted. It might be the revival of vegetation after the winter
sleep of nature; or perhaps Helen's reminiscences had wandered back
to the far-off land where her mother lay buried. But I know that
her simple observation was to be like the little mustard seed, "the
smallest of all seeds," which when cast into the ground grows, and
"when it is grown is the greatest among herbs."
And I may remark that Sarah and Helen, notwithstanding the difference
in their ages, were extremely well suited to each other in pleasant
companionship. At first, strange as it may seem, the woman of forty had
felt as though she must stand a little in awe of the girl of fifteen;
but she soon discovered that this fear was groundless.
In this respect Helen's unacquaintance with what are called the
accomplishments of modern education was an advantage to her; for she
could not, even accidentally and unintentionally, place herself, or
seem to be placed, in this respect, on higher ground than her hostess.
And then her charming simplicity, combined with natural good breeding,
was perfectly enrapturing to Mrs. Tincroft, who, I am afraid, had not
met with much of either of these desirable commodities in the few
female acquaintances she had ever known or made.
On the other hand, Helen was equally pleased with Sarah. It is no
reflection on the present condition Of society in Australian towns
to say that a good many years ago there was little in the female
portion of it, any more than in the male, to give an idea of high
polish. Perhaps what was missing in this kind of varnish was gained in
sincerity. But of this, I am not at all sure; and let this be as it
may, the young Helen had had so little experience of anything above the
rough and homely manners of life in the bush, that she was unconscious
of the little defects in her hostess which I have rather hinted at than
described. All this would have gone for but little, however, if the
overflowings of Sarah's kindly maternal, or otherwise better, instincts
had not positively overwhelmed the motherless girl with a sense of
grateful obligation. No wonder, therefore, that the two were, almost
from the first, mutually pleased with each other, and that, before
long, strong affection sprang up between them.
What added to this hidden sympathy between the matron and the maiden
was the fact that both of them were nice quiet listeners. For instance,
Mrs. Tincroft could sit for hours—if Helen had chosen to have all the
talk to herself for so long—hearing of the child-woman's life in the
bush, and of the strange adventures connected with bush life in general.
And especially poor dear Sarah was never tired of being told, again and
again, of that passage of arms (traditionally as far as the narratress
was concerned) in which her father came to the rescue of her mother,
and which led, to their after acquaintance. It was with thrilling
interest—(if such a hackneyed expression may be used here, but in this
case, it being an appropriate expression, it may, I hope, be used)—it
was with thrilling interest, then, that Sarah listened, with all
her ears, as we sometimes say, to the account given by Helen of her
mother's bravery and presence of mind.
"I never could have done such a thing as that—never," said she, half
laughing and half crying, when she first heard the story. "To think of
firing off a pistol—and at a man, too! Oh, tell it me again, dear."
So, as I have said, Sarah heard the story over and over again, much as
I have told it, and about poor Styles; and then her own father came in
for a full share of eulogy, of course. And here again Sarah's feelings
almost overpowered her, as she cried out—
"I am prouder of my cousin than ever I was—dear Walter! And I am so
glad—so glad—oh, so glad that he found such a dear precious wife as
your mother was to him, darling Helen. And, oh, if you could but know
how I do love you!"
And then came mutual embracings, and a little tear-shedding, before
they could settle down quietly again.
I have briefly described what happened at one particular time. But the
same feelings were stirred, and almost to the same excess, whenever the
story was retold. And I think it requires a subtler psychologist than
the present writer to analyse the state of Sarah's mind at those times.
Helen's talk was often of her mother, of course. And here her heart
went with all she said when she described her home piety, her loving
disposition, her gentle manners, and the general happiness she diffused
around her. It might be on one of these occasions that the weeping
child gave utterance to her faith and hope in the Gospel, and spoke of
the comfort she derived from it.
And so the time passed away pleasantly, as I have said, during the
absence of the master of Tincroft House and his friend Walter—the more
so that the two ladies received letters, by every other day's post,
from the absentees, giving tolerably good accounts of themselves. They
were not alarmed, nor greatly concerned, therefore, when the proposed
few days of absence were extended to considerably more than a month.
Of course, in all this time, Helen's bower did not monopolise all
the attention of either herself or her hostess. The commonplaces of
everyday life had to receive their share of attention, and, to the
extreme delight of Sarah, she found an able coadjutor (or trix) in the
young Helen. Wonderful was the maiden's skill in concocting rich soups
and stews, though (to Jane's horror) she laughingly regretted that the
best possible foundation for these dishes, namely, a kangaroo's tail,
could not be obtained in England for love or money, she supposed.
And then the two loving companions took many a quiet walk into the
country around Tincroft House, which was now putting on its early
summer beauty. To Helen this was all new; for nothing can be much
more distinctly different than the appearances of nature in the two
hemispheres. And the enthusiastic delight of the young Australian in
her first acquaintance with English country scenery was so contagious,
that I question if Sarah had ever before understood or appreciated how
much beauty can be discovered in a blade of grass, a wayside flower, or
a budding twig of hazel.
On one of these pleasant excursions, in an outburst of confidence,
Sarah broke the ice of reserve under which was concealed one of the few
secrets which she had kept back from Helen. It cost her some confusion
of face, perhaps, if not of mind, to make the confession, which,
indeed, sprang out of an innocent question put by Helen.
"Did you and my father know much of one another before he left
England?" the simple-hearted girl asked, as she and Mrs. Tincroft sat
under the fresh green foliage of a widespreading beech tree, which,
like themselves, was rejoicing in the midday sunshine.
"Yes, my dear; we were cousins, you know, then, just as we are now.
And we lived near one another, as I have told you. Didn't he ever say
anything about—about old times—and me, to your mother, do you think?"
"Not that I ever heard of, dear; only about your being his cousin. But
he didn't often talk about England, I think; for I remember my mother
telling me, not very long ago—for it was just before my little baby
brother was born—that she knew very little about father's relations."
"Ah, I daresay he was so happy then, dear Helen, that he did not care
to remember that he hadn't always been happy. And, dear me! I can't
think how it ever turned out that he could ever have thought of coming
back, and of living in the same house and home with his naughty cousin."
"What do you mean, dear? You are not sorry we came back, and are living
with you and Mr. Tincroft, are you?" asked Helen, in some consternation.
"Oh no, no; I am so glad, so very glad. It is so good of him, and of
you too, my dear. I never was so happy in all my life as I am now,"
said Sarah.
And then there was a renewal of embracing, and more kisses, and a few
tears, all of which, though very pleasant to the young girl, at least
as far as the embraces and kisses went, slightly puzzled her; and the
tears—what did they mean? And what did her dear friend mean by calling
herself her father's "naughty cousin"?
"I made your father very unhappy once," continued Sarah, presently, in
a whisper, when they had settled themselves down again quietly on the
grassy bank under the beech tree. "It was I that drove him away from
his home, I am afraid, dear Helen."
"Dear! Dear! So good and kind as you are! How could you?"
"I am afraid I used him badly, my dear, without intending; but I was
young and thoughtless, and liked to have my games, as silly children
do. You know, or you don't know, but I may tell you now, we were
engaged to be married, my cousin Walter and I, and should have been, no
doubt, only I was so foolish as to make-believe that I was pleased to
have another—another lover coming after me. I did not think what I was
doing, and I didn't mean anything wrong, dear; and perhaps that's why
it all turned out for the best, as it did."
"For my cousin went away, after treating me as I deserved, and we
learned to forget one another, and then I got married to that other
whom I had made game of, and who was too good for such a silly thing as
I was, and he is my dear John Tincroft now, and I love him so much; he
is so good, and I never knew how much he deserved to be loved, till it
came to me by degrees; and I do love him, my dear."
"And then, you know, dear, when my cousin went abroad, and got over his
unhappiness because of the way I had used him, he found out, I haven't
any doubt, that he had had a happy escape from such a bad bargain as I
should have been to him; and he got a better wife than ever I should
have made him; and I don't wonder he never cared to say anything about
what had gone before. All I wonder is that he could ever bear the
thought or sight of me. But it must be all because of his goodness and
John's."
"And I am so glad it has come round so, and we can look upon one
another as cousins again; and with you, darling, to make us all so
happy! And when Walter—my cousin Walter and your father—gets better,
and finds a home for himself—which I am sure he needn't think of so
long as there's Tincroft House—but whatever is to come next, I hope we
shall never be parted, dear. And now I think we had better be going
homewards, for we mustn't forget we have got to have our dinner, you
know."
To say that Helen listened to this rather tangled string of confessions
with extreme wonderment is very mildly stating confusion into which she
was thrown. Perhaps this confusion was betrayed by her looks; for, as
they walked slowly towards the house, her companion remarked,—
"You don't understand such things now, my darling, but you will come
to know more about them some day. And would you mind my giving you a
little good advice now?"
Helen would be very glad of it, and would thankfully receive it, she
said, looking trustfully into the matron's face.
"It isn't much that I shall say, dear," said Sarah, "so you needn't
be afraid of my preachment. It is only this, Helen if you ever fancy
that any person—of course I mean a gentleman, and a young one—loves
you, or wants you to love him, or if you believe you do love him, in a
certain sort of way, you know, so as that you think he wants you to be
his wife, or you seem to feel you would like him to be your husband,
don't make fun of him, dear; and don't think it clever to tease him and
plague him out of his life almost. For this isn't the way to get love,
or to keep it, and nobody knows what harm may be done without intending
it. Love-making and marrying are serious things, dear, though young
people don't always think so."
Helen promised, of course, that she would bear her friend's advice in
mind whenever there should be occasion. But she none the less continued
to wonder at all she had heard.
If it had been twice as strange and curious as it was, however, it
would for the time have been driven out of her mind by a letter which
awaited her on the dressing-table in her pretty bower, and which
Austin, the postman, had delivered during her absence. It was from
her father, announcing that on a certain day near at hand, he and Mr.
Tincroft would be reaching home, and adding the cheering intelligence
that he felt stronger and better than when he said good-bye to her so
many weeks ago.
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