"I don't like it," said Lilias.
She was sitting in the sunny front parlor, the room which was known as
the children's room at the rectory. An open letter lay on her dark
winter dress; her sunny hair was piled up high on her shapely head, and
her eyes, wistful and questioning, were raised to Marjory's brisker,
brighter face, with a world of trouble in them.
The snow lay thick outside, covering the flower beds and the grassy
lawn, and laying in piles against the low rectory windows. Marjory was
standing by a piled up fire, one of those perfect fires composed of
great knobs of sparkling coal and well dried logs of wood. She, too,
had on a dark dress, but it was nearly covered by a large holland apron
with a bib. Her sleeves were protected by cuffs of the same, on her
hands she wore chamois leather gloves with the tips cut off. She looked
all bright, and active, and sparkling, and round her on the table and
on the floor lay piles and bales of unbleached calico, of coarse red
flannel, of bright dark blue and crimson merino. In one of Marjory's
capable hands was a large pair of cutting-out scissors, and she paused,
holding this implement slightly open, to listen to Lilias' lugubrious
words.
"If you must croak to-day," she said, "get it over quickly, and come
and help me. Twenty-four blue frocks and twenty-four red to be ready by
the time the girls come at four o'clock, besides the old women's
flannel and this unlimited supply of unbleached calico. If there is a
thing which ruffles my equanimity it is unbleached calico, it fluffs
so, and makes one so messy. Now, what do you want to say, Lilias?"
"I'm troubled," said Lilias, "it's about Gerald. I've the queerest
feeling about him--three times lately I've dreamt--intangible dreams,
of course, but all dark and foreboding."
"Is that a letter from Gerry in your lap, Lilias?"
"No, it is from Val--a nice little letter, too, poor child. I am sure
she is doing her best to be a good wife to Gerald. Do you know that she
has taken up housekeeping in real earnest."
"Does she say that Gerald is ill?"
"No, she scarcely mentions his name at all."
"Then what in the name of goodness are you going into the dismals for
on this morning of all mornings. Twenty-four blue frocks and
twenty-four red between noon and four o'clock, and the old women coming
for them to the moment. Really, Lilias, you are too provoking. You are
not half the girl you were before Gerald's marriage. I don't know what
has come to you. Oh, there's Mr. Carr passing the window, I'll get him
to come in and help us. Forgive me, Lil, I'll just open this window a
tiny bit and speak to him. How do you do, Mr. Carr? You can step in
this way--you need not go round through all the slush to the front
door. There, you can wipe your feet on that mat. Lilias, say 'how do
you do' to Mr. Carr, that is if you are not too dazed."
"How do you do, Miss Wyndham? How do you do, Miss Lilias?" said Carr in
a brisk tone. "It is very good of you both to let me into this pleasant
room after the cold and snow outside. And how busy you are! Surely,
Miss Wyndham, your family don't require such a vast amount of
re-clothing."
"Yes," said Marjory, "these bales of goods are for my shivering
widows," and she pointed to the red flannel and unbleached calico. "And
those are for my pretty orphans--our pretty orphans, Lilly darling,
twenty-four in the West Refuge, twenty-four in the East; the Easterns
are apparelled in red, the Westerns in blue. Now, Mr. Carr, I'll put it
to you as our spiritual pastor, is it right for Lilias to sit and croak
instead of helping me with all this prodigious work?"
"But croaking for nothing is not Miss Lilias' way," said Carr, favoring
her with a quick glance, a little anxious, a little surprised.
Lilias sprang up with almost a look of vexation. Valentine's letter
fell unheeded on the floor.
"You are too bad, Maggie," she said, with almost a forced laugh. "I
suppose there are few people in this troublesome world who are not now
and then attacked with a fit of the blues. But here goes. I'll shake
them off. I'll help you all I can."
"You must help, too," said Marjory in a gay voice, turning to Carr.
"Please take off your great coat--put it anywhere. Now then, are your
hands strong? are your arms steady? You have got to hold this bale of
red merino while Lilly cuts dress lengths from it. Don't forget, Lil,
nine lengths of three-and-a-half yards each, nine lengths of four yards
each, and six lengths of five yards each. Oh, thank you, Mr. Carr, that
will be a great assistance."
Carr was a very energetic, wide-awake, useful man. He could put his
hands to anything. No work, provided it was useful, was derogatory in
his eyes--he was always cheerful, always bright and obliging. Even
Gerald Wyndham could scarcely have made a more popular curate at
Jewsbury-on-the-Wold than did this young man.
"If anything could provoke me about him, it is that he is too sunny,"
Marjory said one day to her sister.
Lilias was silent. It occurred to her, only she was not sure, that in
those dark, quick, keen eyes there could come something which might
sustain and strengthen on a day of clouds as well as sunshine.
It came now, when Marjory suddenly left the room, and Carr abruptly let
the great bale of merino drop at his feet.
"Are you worried about anything?" he asked, in that direct fashion of
his which made people trust him very quickly.
Lilias colored all over her face.
"I suppose I ought not to be silly," she said, "but my brother--you see
he is my only brother--his marriage has made a great gulf between us."
Carr looked at her sharply.
"You are not jealous?" he said.
"I don't know--we used to be great chums. I think if I were sure he was
happy I should not be jealous?"
Carr walked to the fireplace.
"It would not be folly if you were," he said. "All sisters must face
the fact of their brothers taking to themselves wives, and, of course,
loving the wives best. It is the rule of nature, and it would be
foolish of you to fret against the inevitable."
He spoke abruptly, and with a certain coldness, which might have
offended some girls. Lilias' slow earnest answer startled him.
"I don't fret against the inevitable," she said. "But I do fret against
the intangible. There is a mystery about Gerald which I can't attempt
to fathom. I know it is there, but I can't grapple with it in any
direction."
"You must have some thought about it, though, or it would not have
entered into your head."
"I have many thoughts, but no clues. Oh, it would take me a long, long
time to tell you what I fear, to bring my shadowy dread into life and
being. I have just had a letter from Valentine, a sweet nice letter,
and yet it seems to me full of mystery, although I am sure she does not
know it herself. Yes, it is all intangible--it is kind of you to listen
to me. Marjory would say I was talking folly."
"You are talking as if your nerves were a little out of sorts. Could
you not have a change? Even granted that there is trouble, and I don't
suppose for an instant that anything of the kind is in store for your
brother, it is a great waste of life to meet it half way."
Lilias smiled faintly.
"I am silly," she said. And just then Marjory came into the room,
followed by Augusta, and the cutting out proceeded briskly.
Carr was an invaluable help. Some people would have said that he was a
great deal too gay and cheerful--a great deal too athletic and
well-knit and keen-eyed for a curate.
This was not the case; he made an excellent clergyman, but he had a
great sense of the fitness of things, and he believed fully in a time
for everything.
Helping three merry girls to cut out red and blue merino frocks, on a
cold day in January, seemed to him a very cheerful occupation. Gay
laughter and light and innocent chatter filled the room, and Lilias
soon became one of the merriest of the party.
In the midst of their chatter the rector entered.
"I want you, Carr," he said, abruptly; he was usually a very polite
man, almost too ceremonious. Now his words came with a jerk, and the
moment he had uttered them he vanished.
As Carr left the room in obedience to this quick summons. Lilias' face
became once more clouded.
The rector was pacing up and down his study. When Carr entered he asked
him to bolt the door.
"Is anything the matter, sir?" asked the young man.
Mr. Wyndham's manner was so perturbed, so unlike himself, that it was
scarcely wonderful that Carr should ask this question. It received,
however, a short and sharp reply.
"I hope to goodness, Carr, you are not one of those imaginative people
who are always foreboding a lion in the path. What I sent for you
was--well----" the rector paused. He raised his eyes slowly until they
rested upon the picture of Gerald's mother; the face very like Gerald's
seemed to appeal to him; his lips trembled.
"I can't keep it up, Carr," he said, with an abandon which touched the
younger man to the heart. "I'm not satisfied about my son. Nothing
wrong, oh, no--and yet--and yet--you understand, Carr, I have only one
son--a lot of girls, God bless them all!--and only one son."
Carr came over and stood by the mantel-piece. If he felt any surprise,
he showed none. His words came out gently, and in a matter-of-fact
style.
"If you have any cause to be worried, Mr. Wyndham--and--and--you think
I can help you, I shall be proud to be trusted." Then his thoughts flew
to Lilias, and his firm, rather thin lips, took a faint smile.
"I have no doubt I am very foolish," replied the rector. "I had a
letter this morning from Gerald. He tells me in it that he is going to
Australia in March, on some special business for his father-in-law's
firm--you know he is a partner in the firm. His wife is not to
accompany him."
The rector paused.
Carr made no answer for a moment. Then he said, feeling his way--
"This will be a trial for Mrs. Wyndham."
"One would suppose so. Gerald doesn't say anything on the subject."
"Well," said the rector, "how does it strike you? Perhaps I'm
nervous--Lilly, poor girl, is the same, and Marjory laughs at us both.
How does this intelligence strike you as an outsider, Carr? Pray give
me your opinion."
"Yes," said Carr, simply. "I do not think my opinion need startle
anyone. Doubtless, sir, you know facts which throw a different
complexion on the thing. It all seems to me a commonplace affair. In
big business houses partners have often to go away at short notice. It
will certainly be a trial for Mrs. Wyndham to do without her husband. I
don't like to prescribe change of air for you, Mr. Wyndham, as I did
for Miss Lilias just now, but I should like to ask you if your nerves
are quite in order?"
The rector laughed.
"You are a daring fellow to talk of nerves to me, Carr," he said. "Have
not I prided myself all my life on having no nerves? Well, well, the
fact is, a great change has come over the lad's face. He used to be
such a boy, too light-hearted, if anything, too young, if anything, for
his years--the most unselfish fellow from his birth. Give away? Bless
you, there was nothing Gerald wouldn't give away. Why, look here, Carr,
we all tried to spoil the boy amongst us--he was the only one--and his
mother taken away when he so young--and he the image of her. Yes, all
the girls resemble me, but Gerald is the image of his mother. We all
tried to teach him selfishness, but we couldn't. Now. Carr, you will be
surprised at what I am going to say, but if a man can be unselfish to a
_fault_, to a fault mind you--to the verge of a crime--it's my son
Gerald. I know this. I have always seen it in him. Now my boy's
father-in-law. Mortimer Paget, is as selfish as my lad is the reverse.
Why did he want a poor lad like mine to marry his rich and only
daughter? Why did he make him a partner in his house of business, and
why did he insure my boy's life? Insure it heavily? Answer me that. My
boy would have taken your place here, Carr; humbly but worthily would
he have served the Divine Master, no man happier than he. Is he happy
now? Is he young for his years now? Tell me, Carr, what you really
think?"
"I don't know, sir. I have not looked at things from your light. You
are evidently much troubled, and I am deeply troubled for you. I don't
know Wyndham very well but I know him a little. I think that marriage
and the cares of a house of business and all his fresh
responsibilities may be enough to age your son's face. As to the
insurance question, all business is so fluctuating that Mr. Paget was
doubtless right in securing his daughter and her children from possible
want in the future. See here, Mr. Wyndham, I am going up to town this
evening for two or three days. Shall I call at Park-lane and bring you
my own impressions with regard to your son?"
"Thank you, Carr, that is an excellent thought, and what is more you
shall escort Lilias or Marjory up to town. They have a standing
invitation to my boy's house, and a little change just now would
do--shall I say Lilias?--good."
"Miss Lilias wants a change, sir. She is affected like yourself with,
may I call it, an attack of the nerves."