CONCLUSION.
FOUR years after the events recorded in the last chapter, two young
ladies were sitting in a sunny room at Shanklin, looking out on to the
sea.
On the knees of the elder of the two lay an infant, and over it bent a
fond, lovely face, not altered but improved by its motherliness.
By the side of the other, stood a little roundabout of two years old,
gazing up in her face, as she told her a history of a brightly coloured
picture.
Her mother glanced at the group with a sweet, tender look. "Kind Auntie
Nellie," she observed.
"Tind auntie!" responded the little creature, patting Nellie's hand.
"How she gets on, Christina," said Auntie Nellie, looking up; "I never
heard a child talk so plainly."
"That is because I always speak to her so distinctly."
"I believe it is," answered Nellie, smiling. Then, turning to a little
maiden of about six years old, who stood looking out of the window, she
added:
"Come, Alice, would you not like to see these pictures too?"
The child turned and came close, putting her arm affectionately round
little Eleanor.
"And so," said Nellie, continuing her story, "God gives us just what He
sees the very best for us. See, that man is handing his little child
a great heavy stone; and that one, in contrast, is giving his child a
nice piece of bread."
"Yes," said Alice; "but I don't like that other father; he doesn't look
kind."
"No; it is just to teach us the lesson how unkind we should think it in
our father; and God is better than any earthly father."
"And He's always thinking about being kind," said Alice, with kindling
eyes. "Don't you remember last week, when I was poorly, and couldn't
eat any nice things or fruit for ever so long, how He sent me—told
someone to send me—that tiny, tiny little text-book?"
"Yes, darling; I thought so when it came."
"So did I," said Alice, nodding, "because He's so kind."
Eleanor looked on wonderingly, only half comprehending, but still
taking in part of the picture into her little mind, and carrying away
with her into the garden, whither the children now ran, an impression
that "God was kind."
Just outside the verandah—the same old verandah where Nellie used to
sit and dream and pray—Tom, little no longer, reclined in an invalid
chair. His face was altered from the delicate child's face, but it had
the same sweet trustful expression, though he was now a boy of fourteen.
He had been allowed by his physicians to sit up a little every day; but
his slight form was even thinner than it had been, and those round him
knew that he was slowly but surely preparing to leave them.
He knew it himself, and talked of it peacefully and happily, not as a
thing to be dreaded, but as a change from tender love here, to even
better beyond.
His patience, as the years rolled slowly on, increased rather than
diminished, and the absence of fretfulness, which had once been
obtained with great inward struggle, now was habitual.
He and Nellie were the firmest friends and dearest companions; and if
anything lightened her cares, it was to have "a talk" with little Tom.
When she was burdened or weary, she would sit silently by him, leaning
her head on his cushion, content to be quiet; and often if they did not
speak a word, comfort would steal over her. So, peaceful and still, she
would remember the patiently-borne suffering of her young brother—the
hopelessness of his earthly prospects, the hopefulness with which he
regarded his heavenly prospects; and any repining would be rebuked when
she thought of how much more enjoyment she had after all, than he.
Just now he was lying with closed eyes listening to the song of the
waves, occasionally catching the low talk of the two sisters.
"Ada gets a handsome girl, doesn't she?" said Nellie.
"Yes; but she thinks nothing about it, but just goes on her sensible
way as nicely as possible."
"I have much to thank her for since dear mamma's death," responded
Nellie. "She has been a dear sister to me."
"I am sure she has. There was one time that I was rather afraid, but
your love and patience tided over the difficulty."
"It was very hard for her to have to yield to me, if there was a
difference of opinion; and yet sometimes you know I was forced to carry
out what I thought right. It was about the children generally that we
had trouble; but, after all, she acted so beautifully."
"Dear Ada! And now she does so much credit to your love and care."
"Not mine; I do not feel I can take any credit. I was always helped
over every difficulty. At first I used to think I could never succeed
in managing it all; and then I learnt gradually that every time I got
perplexed, I had nothing to do but to ask for wisdom. Sometimes I felt
as if the wisdom had hardly been given, as if things had not quite gone
right after all; but I learned gradually to believe in the answer to
my prayer being sent, and the more I trusted, the more I found I might
trust."
Nellie smiled brightly when she got to the end of this long sentence,
and Christina looked with soft appreciating glance back at her.
At this moment, a sound of merry voices came nearer and nearer. The
gate creaked on its hinges, and a number of young people came quickly
up the path, and entered the sitting-room.
"We have had such a lovely ramble," exclaimed Ada, holding in her hand
her pet brother, a sturdy little fellow of six years old.
"I'm not a bit tired," said he, stumping along bravely; "and Ada says
we've been six miles."
"Yes, that we have," answered Arthur, "and I think Cecil has done well.
So your wee birdie is asleep, Christina?"
"Yes; and I must go and lay her in her cot. Ada, bring Eleanor with
you."
Eleanor climbed up into Auntie Ada's arms, and was carried off smiling
to her nurse; while Nellie went out to Tom, and asked him if he were
ready to come in.
He turned his face up to hers. What a look of affection was in his
eyes! "I like being here, Nellie," he said; "and now I have this, I can
come in when I like, you know."
He referred to his invalid chair, with its large, easy wheels, which he
could move with a touch of his hand.
She smiled in answer, and settling his pillow stood still, looking down
upon him.
"You are in pain to-day I fear, dear?" she said softly.
"Only a little."
"Your back?"
"Yes; but I must expect it, Nellie. Don't look sad, darling. 'Neither
will there be any more pain there.'"
"No, dear. 'The former things will be passed away;' but I wish—"
"Do not wish anything but what is sent me," he answered. "It is all
love."
Nellie kissed his forehead, and turned away. "All love," she repeated
to herself, as she went up to her room; "all love.
'All the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth.'"
As she looked from her window over the sea, and thought of all these
things, she saw Walter come in from his walk, with Netta and Isabel
leaning on him on either side, full of life and spirits.
"There's Nellie at her window," exclaimed Netta, looking up. "Nellie,
Walter wants you to come down. He's cut his finger, and Christina is
nowhere to be seen."
"I will come," said Nellie, hastening down.
"Is it bad?" she asked, as she rapidly got out rag and calendula, which
she always kept handy.
"Oh dear, no; a mere scratch. But where is Christina?"
"Can't do without her for five minutes?" asked Arthur saucily from the
sofa, where he lay luxuriously enjoying a delightful book.
"No, not if I can help it; where is she?"
"He will have an answer," said Arthur, going on reading.
"He cannot get one," answered Walter, as he held out his finger to
Nellie's soft touch.
"She is with her little ones," said Nellie, "but will be back in a
minute. Oh, here she is!"
"Papa is coming down to-night, Walter," said Christina. "I have just
had a note from him, so we shall have a happy Sunday. Oh, dear, have
you cut your finger?"
"It is nothing serious; I did it sharpening my knife. And so you have
heard from my father?"
"Yes; and I have two other letters in which you will be interested."
"Are we to hear them now?"
"If you like. One is from Mrs. Wood, Charlie's mother, you know."
"And the other?"
"From home."
"Are all getting on well?"
"Yes. You shall have Mrs. Fenton's letter first."
"Dear Mistress,—You will be glad to hear that all are well, both at
Sunnyside, and at our little Home. Alfy has been a very good boy, and
he sends his love to you. So do Georgie and Frank. Alfy's grandfather
died the end of last week; and his grandmother is very sadly. I do
not think she will last long. Miss Arbuthnot returned from the north
safely, yesterday. I hope you, and master, and the dear little ones are
quite well, and enjoying yourselves. We miss you all very much.
"With our respects, in which all unite—
"I am, dear Mistress,
"Your obedient servant,
"Mrs. Fenton."
"Good old creature," said Walter, when the letter was read; "it is a
real treat to talk to her. I often go and have a chat with her in her
cottage, Nellie."
"Does she like having the three little boys to live with her?" asked
Arthur.
"Yes, very well," answered Christina; "she is very good to them, and
they go to school, so she does not get quite so much of them."
"The plan acts very nicely," said Walter; "and no one knows what
blessing she may bring to those little lads, by her bright faith and
cheerful loving service. She said, when we first told her that we
thought of building two more rooms to her cottage, and getting her to
mind these boys, 'Well, sir, I'll think it over, and if I find it is
the work my Father has set me to do, I'll do it.' And she waited a day
or two, and talked to 'her Father' about it, and then came to us and
accepted."
"I do like her," said Ada; "and now, Christina, let us have your other
letter, if we are to hear it."
"My dear Mrs. Arundel,—It is with the greatest pleasure I take up my
pen to send you these few lines, for I feel you are the dearest friend
to whom I can write. We are getting on so happily, and I am so well,
and our business is much improved. All owing to you, dear Mrs. Arundel;
and I can never be grateful enough.
"My husband is coming to London in September, and he promises to bring
me and Charlie with him, that we may have a sight of your face, and we
are longing for the time to come.
"We keep the text you gave us on our wall, and read it over very
often. I have found it true many a time. You remember it, do you not?
"'God is our Refuge and Strength—a very present help in time of
trouble.'
"We have proved Him that, and daily He is my strength, as He says.
"You will excuse this long letter; but it is so nice to be allowed
to talk to you. I often think of the home above, where I shall, through
God's forgiving mercy, meet you; for He has cast all my sins into the
depths of the sea.
"With our very kind respects, and my and Charlie's love—
"Yours most gratefully,
"Clementina Wood."
"Poor thing," said Walter.
"She is happy though, now?" asked Ada.
"Yes; but oh, Ada! It must be dreadful to have such a past to look back
upon," said Christina.
"We have all plenty to regret," answered Ada, sighing.
"Heigho!" said Arthur, "I have only a week more holiday, I declare, and
then I must grind, grind, again."
"Is 'walking the hospitals,' 'grinding'?" asked Cecil.
"I should say so," said Arthur, "just."
"It isn't my idea of it," said Cecil, and the elders laughed, while
Arthur was not sure whether he was being made fun of; but Cecil looked
so stolidly at him after his remark, that he concluded to let the
matter drop.
"We shall all have to 'grind' soon," said Walter.
"So you will," said Dolly; "for besides your business, you're always
going out preaching to children."
"Not always, Dolly, or poor Christina would see nothing at all of me."
He seated himself by his wife, and began playing with her knitting ball.
She removed it from his fidgety fingers smilingly, and said, "Yes, life
is busy to us all, isn't it, Nellie?"
"Yes," answered Nellie, "very; but I for one am not quite so busy as I
used to be."
"And I am more busy than I ever was," said Christina.
"Of course with those 'blessed infants,'" said Arthur.
"You know you love them dearly, Arthur," said Netta.
"You do?"
"I don't pretend to deny it," she answered.
"Oh, well.—When is tea coming, Nellie?"
"In a few minutes. You are hungry, I suppose."
"Don't you think six miles has earned an early tea?"
"I will ring; but you know the water doesn't boil till five."
She laughed; and when the little maid came, she suggested that all had
come back hungry.
"I'll see 'm; I'll tell misses, 'm. The kettle do nearly boil, 'm."
After tea, most of the young party proposed to go to meet Dr. Arundel.
Nellie said she was rather tired, and would sit in the garden instead,
and bear Tom company.
Tom, however, felt chilly, and soon wheeled himself into the
sitting-room, which was particularly convenient, as the French door
opened to the garden without a step of any kind.
He begged Nellie to sit out in the air as long as she felt inclined, as
he should be reading to himself; so she sat on, thinking them rather a
long time gone. When at last she heard their voices returning, she was
surprised to find that they passed the house, and continued their way
along the walk by the sea.
But the gate swung to, and Dolly's little feet ran lightly up the path,
then through the house and into the garden, and paused by her side.
"They have taken papa a little walk, Nellie, and I've come to tell you
so, and to say that there's a friend come down with papa from London,
and I was to tell you so."
"A friend? Who, dear?"
"He's coming in; he doesn't want to go for a walk. He's just outside,
Nellie."
She hastened away, having discharged Walter's message most faithfully;
and only waiting to lead their visitor through the room to the French
door, she hurried back after the others, and left him to make his own
introduction.
He advanced over the soft little lawn to where Nellie was standing,
waiting and wondering.
As he came nearer in the half-light, she failed to recognize the
stranger; but something in the sound of his step made her heart give a
strange leap.
He came closer and held out his hand.
"Do you not remember me, Miss Arundel?"
"Mr. Elliot!" exclaimed Nellie.
"I have come back," he said, still clasping her hand in both his; "and
I want to know if you can forgive me for going away and leaving you all
these years?"
"I have nothing to forgive," answered Nellie, trembling violently, and
sitting down.
"I am afraid you have. Such hard, bitter thoughts at first. Such a
hurry to go and leave you, and try to forget you. But after a while I
came to better feelings."
Nellie bent her head lower, but knew not what to say.
"But I have come back, Nellie. I may call you Nellie now, may I not? I
have waited a long time, and I have come to ask again. Can you tell me
now whether, as I have loved you so long, you can love me?"
"I did not mean to be unkind then," she said softly.
"I am sure you did not. Come, Nellie, it has been such a long weary
time; can you not make me happy at last?"
"I will try to," she said, whispering low.
And then Wilmot knew that he had obtained his heart's desire.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., PATERNOSTER ROW.