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Afterwards, and Other Stories

by Ian Maclaren · English · Gutenberg #43192 · 442,283 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Afterwards, and Other Stories

Author: Ian Maclaren


        
Release date: September 15, 2013 [eBook #43192]
                Most recently updated: March 1, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AFTERWARDS, AND OTHER STORIES ***




Produced by David Widger






AFTERWARDS

AND OTHER STORIES

By Ian Maclaren

1898

TO

LADY GRAINGER-STEWART

IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE DAYS OF LONG AGO AND THE FRIENDS WHO ARE FAR AWAY




AFTERWARDS


I

He received the telegram in a garden where he was gazing on a vision
of blue, set in the fronds of a palm, and listening to the song of the
fishers, as it floated across the bay.

“You look so utterly satisfied,” said his hostess, in the high, clear
voice of Englishwomen, “that, I know you are tasting the luxury of
a contrast. The Riviera is charming in December; imagine London, and
Cannes, is Paradise.”

As he smiled assent in the grateful laziness of a hard-worked man,
his mind was stung with the remembrance of a young wife swathed in the
dreary fog, who, above all things, loved the open air and the shining of
the sun.

Her plea was that Bertie would weary alone, and that she hated
travelling, but it came to him quite suddenly that this was always the
programme of their holidays--some Mediterranean villa, full of clever
people, for him, and the awful dulness of that Bloomsbury street for
her; or he went North to a shooting-lodge, where he told his best
stories in the smoking-room, after a long day on the purple heather; and
she did her best for Bertie at some watering-place, much frequented on
account of its railway facilities and economical lodgings. Letters of
invitation had generally a polite reference to his wife--“If Mrs.
Trevor can accompany you I shall be still more delighted”--but it was
understood that she would not accept “We have quite a grudge against
Mrs. Trevor, because she will never come with her husband; there is some
beautiful child who monopolises her,” his hostess would explain on his
arrival; and Trevor allowed it to be understood that his wife was quite
devoted to Bertie, and would be miserable without him.

When he left the room, it was explained: “Mrs. Trevor is a hopelessly
quiet person, what is called a 'good wife,' you know.”

“The only time she dined with us, Tottie Fribbyl--he was a Theosophist
then, it's two years ago--was too amusing for words, and told us what
incarnation he was going through.

“Mrs. Trevor, I believe, had never heard of Theosophy, and looked quite
horrified at the idea of poor Tottie's incarnation.

“'Isn't it profane to use such words?' she said to me. So I changed to
skirt dancing, and would you believe me, she had never seen it?

“What can you do with a woman like that? Nothing remains but religion
and the nursery. Why do clever men marry those impossible women?”

Trevor was gradually given to understand, as by an atmosphere, that he
was a brilliant man wedded to a dull wife, and there were hours--his
worst hours--when he agreed.

_Cara mia, cara mia_, sang the sailors; and his wife's face in its
perfect refinement and sweet beauty suddenly replaced the Mediterranean.

Had he belittled his wife, with her wealth of sacrifice and delicate
nature, beside women in spectacles who wrote on the bondage of marriage,
and leaders of fashion who could talk of everything from horse-racing to
palmistry?

He had only glanced at her last letter; now he read it carefully:--

“The flowers were lovely, and it was so mindful of you to send them,
just like my husband. Bertie and I amused ourselves arranging and
rearranging them in glasses, till we had made our tea-table lovely. But
I was just one little bit disappointed not to get a letter--you see
how exacting I am, sir. I waited for every post, and Bertie said, 'Has
father's letter come yet?' When one is on holiday, writing letters is
an awful bore; but please just a line to Bertie and me. We have a map of
the Riviera, and found out all the places you have visited in the yacht;
and we tried to imagine you sailing on that azure sea, and landing among
those silver olives. I am so grateful to every one for being kind to
you, and I hope you will enjoy yourself to the full. Bertie is a little
stronger, I'm sure; his cheeks were quite rosy to-day for him. It was
his birthday on Wednesday, and I gave him a little treat The sun was
shining brightly in the forenoon, and we had a walk in the Gardens,
and made believe that it was Italy! Then we went to Oxford Street, and
Bertie chose a regiment of soldiers for his birthday present He wished
some guns so much that I allowed him to have them as a present from you.
They only cost one-and-sixpence, and I thought you would like him to
have something. Jane and he had a splendid game of hide-and-seek in the
evening, and my couch was the den, so you see we have our own gaiety in
Bloomsbury.

“Don't look sulky at this long scribble and say, 'What nonsense women
write!' for it is almost the same as speaking to you, and I shall
imagine the letter all the way till you open it in the sunshine.

“So smile and kiss my name, for this comes with my heart's love from

“Your devoted wife,

“Maud Trevor.

“P.S.--Don't be alarmed because I have to rest; the doctor does not
think that there is any danger, and I'll take great care.”

“A telegram.” It was the shattering of a dream. “How wicked of some
horrid person. Business ought not to be allowed to enter Paradise. Let's
hope it's pleasure; perhaps some one has won a lot of money at Monte
Carlo, and wishes us to celebrate the affair.

“Whom is it for? Oh! Mr. Edward Trevor; then it's a brief by telegraph,
I suppose. Some millionaire's will case, and the Attorney-General can't
manage it alone. What a man he is, to have briefs in holiday time.

“There it is, but remember, before you open it, that you are bound
to remain here over Christmas at any rate, and help us with our
theatricals. My husband declares that a successful barrister must be a
born actor.”...

An hour later Trevor was in the Paris express, and for thirty hours he
prayed one petition, that she might live till he arrived. He used to
have a berth in the Wagon Lit as a matter of course, and had begun
to complain about the champagne in the dining-car, but the thought
of comfort made him wince on this journey, and he twice changed his
carriage, once when an English party would not cease from badinage
that mocked his ears, and again because a woman had brown eyes with her
expression of dog-like faithfulness. The darkness of the night after
that sunlit garden, and the monotonous roar of the train, and the
face of smiling France covered with snow, and the yeasty waters of the
Channel, and the moaning of the wind, filled his heart with dread.

Will that procession of luggage at Dover never come to an end? A French
seaman--a fellow with earrings and a merry face--appears and reappears
with maddening regularity, each time with a larger trunk. One had X. Y.
on it in big white letters. Why not Z. also? Who could have such a name?
That is a lady's box, black and brown, plastered with hotel labels. Some
bride, perhaps... they are carrying the luggage over his heart. Have
they no mercy?

The last piece is in, and the sailors make a merry group at the top
of the gangway. They look like Bretons, and that fellow is laughing
again--some story about a little child; he can just hear _Ma petite._...

“Guard, is this train never to start? We're half-an-hour late already.”

“Italian mail very heavy, sir; still bringing up bags; so many people at
Riviera in winter, writing home to their friends.”...

How cruel every one is! He had not written for ten days. Something
always happened, an engagement of pleasure. There was a half-finished
letter; he had left it to join a Monte Carlo party.

“Writing letters--home, of course, to that idolised wife. It's
beautiful, and you are an example to us all; but Mrs. Trevor will excuse
descriptions of scenery; she knows you are enjoying yourself.”

Had she been expecting that letter from post to post, calculating the
hour of each delivery, identifying the postman's feet in that quiet
street, holding her breath when he rang, stretching her hand for a
letter, to let it drop unopened, and bury her face in the pillow? Had
she died waiting for a letter that never came? Those letters that he
wrote from the Northern Circuit in that first sweet year, a letter
a day, and one day two--it had given him a day's advantage over her.
Careful letters, too, though written between cases, with bits of
description and amusing scenes.

Some little sameness towards the end, but she never complained of that,
and even said those words were the best And that trick he played--the
thought of the postman must have brought it up--how pleasant it was,
and what a success! He would be his own letter one day, and take her
by surprise. “A letter, ma'am,” the girl said--quite a homely girl, who
shared their little joys and anxieties--and then he showed his face with
apologies for intrusion. The flush of love in her face, will it be
like that to-night, or... What can be keeping the train now? Is this a
conspiracy to torment a miserable man?

He thrusts his head out of the window in despair, and sees the guard
trying to find a compartment for a family that had mistaken their train.

The husband is explaining, with English garrulity, all the station
hearing, what an inconvenience it would have been had they gone in the
Holbom Viaduct carriages.

“Half an hour's longer drive, you know, and it's very important we
should get home in time; we are expected....”

For what? Dinner, most likely. What did it matter when they got home,
to-day or next year? Yet he used to be angry if he were made late for
dinner. They come into his compartment, and explain the situation at
great length, while he pretends to listen.

A husband and wife returning from a month in Italy, full of their
experiences: the Corniche Road, the palaces of Genoa, the pictures
in the Pitti, St Peter's at Rome. Her first visit to the Continent,
evidently; it reminded them of a certain tour round the Lakes in '80,
and she withdrew her hand from her husband's as the train came out
from the tunnel. They were not smart people--very pronounced
middle-class--but they were lovers, after fifteen years.

They forgot him, who was staring on the bleak landscape with white,
pinched face.

“How kind to take me this trip. I know how much you denied yourself,
but it has made me young again,” and she said “Edward.” Were all these
coincidences arranged? had his purgatorio begun already?

“Have you seen the _Globe_, sir? Bosworth, M.P. for Pedlington, has been
made a judge, and there's to be a keen contest.

“Trevor, I see, is named as the Tory candidate--a clever fellow, I've
heard. Do you know about him? he's got on quicker than any man of his
years.

“Some say that it's his manner; he's such a good sort, the juries cannot
resist him, a man told me--a kind heart goes for something even in a
lawyer. Would you like to look....

“Very sorry; would you take a drop of brandy? No? The passage was a
little rough, and you don't look quite up to the mark.”

Then they left him in peace, and he drank his cup to the dregs.

It was for Pedlington he had been working and saving, for a seat meant
society and the bench, perhaps.... What did it matter now?

She was to come and sit within the cage when he made his first speech,
and hear all the remarks.

“Of course it will be a success, for you do everything well, and your
wifie will be the proudest woman in London.

“Sir Edward Trevor, M.P. I know it's foolish, but it's the foolishness
of love, dear, so don't look cross; you are everything to me, and no one
loves you as I do.”

What are they slowing for now? There's no station. Did ever train drag
like this one?

Off again, thank God... if she only were conscious, and he could ask her
to forgive his selfishness.

At last, and the train glides into Victoria. No, he had nothing
to declare; would they let him go, or they might keep his luggage
altogether.

Some vision was ever coming up, and now he saw her kneeling on the floor
and packing that portmanteau, the droop of her figure, her thin white
hands.

He was so busy that she did these offices for him--tried to buckle the
straps even; but he insisted on doing that It gave him half an hour
longer at the Club. What a brute he had been....

“Do anything you like with my things. 'I'll come to-morrow... as fast as
you can drive.”

Huddled in a corner of the hansom so that you might have thought he
slept, this man was calculating every foot of the way, gloating over
a long stretch of open, glistening asphalt, hating unto murder the
immovable drivers whose huge vans blocked his passage. If they had
known, there was no living man but would have made room for him... but
he had not known himself.... Only one word to tell her he knew now.

As the hansom turned into the street he bent forward, straining his
eyes to catch the first glimpse of home. Had it been day-time the blinds
would have told their tale; now it was the light he watched.

Dark on the upper floors; no sick light burning... have mercy...
then the blood came back to his heart with a rush. How could he have
forgotten?

Their room was at the back for quietness, and it might still be well.
Some one had been watching, for the door was instantly opened, but he
could not see the servant's face.

A doctor came forward and beckoned him to go into the study....

It seemed as if his whole nature had been smitten with insensibility,
for he knew everything without words, and yet he heard the driver
demanding his fare, and noticed that the doctor had been reading the
evening paper while he waited; he saw the paragraph about that seat What
work those doctors have to do....

“It was an hour ago... we were amazed that she lived so long; with any
other woman it would have been this morning; but she was determined to
live till you came home.

“It was not exactly will-power, for she was the gentlest patient I ever
had; it was”--the doctor hesitated--a peremptory Scotchman hiding a
heart of fire beneath a coating of ice--“it was simply love.”

When the doctor had folded up the evening paper, and laid it on a side
table, which took some time, he sat down opposite that fixed, haggard
face, which had not yet been softened by a tear.

“Yes, I'll tell you everything if you desire me; perhaps it will relieve
your mind; and Mrs. Trevor said you would wish to know, and
I must be here to receive you. Her patience and thoughtfulness were
marvellous.

“I attend many very clever and charming women, but I tell you, Mr.
Trevor, not one has so impressed me as your wife. Her self-forgetfulness
passed words; she thought of every one except herself; why, one of the
last things she did was to give directions about your room; she was
afraid you might feel the change from the Riviera. But that is by the
way, and these things are not my business.

“From the beginning I was alarmed, and urged that you should be sent
for; but she pledged me not to write; you needed your holiday, she said,
and it must not be darkened with anxiety.

“She spoke every day about your devotion and unselfishness; how you
wished her to go with you, but she had to stay with the boy....

“The turn for the worse? it was yesterday morning, and I had Sir
Reginald at once. We agreed that recovery was hopeless, and I
telegraphed to you without delay.

“We also consulted whether she ought to be told, and Sir Reginald said,
'Certainly; that woman has no fear, for she never thinks of herself, and
she will want to leave messages.'

“'If we can only keep her alive till to-morrow afternoon,' he said,
and you will like to remember that everything known to the best man in
London was done. Sir Reginald came back himself unasked to-day, because
he remembered a restorative that might sustain the failing strength. She
thanked him so sweetly that he was quite shaken; the fact is, that both
of us would soon have played the fool. But I ought not to trouble you
with these trifles at this time, only as you wanted to know all....

“Yes, she understood what we thought before I spoke, and only asked when
you would arrive. 'I want to say “Good-bye,” and then I will be ready,'
but perhaps....

“'Tell you everything?' That is what I am trying to do, and I was here
nearly all day, for I had hoped we might manage to fulfil her wish.

“No, she did not speak much, for we enjoined silence and rest as the
only chance; but she had your photograph on her pillow, and some flowers
you had sent.

“They were withered, and the nurse removed them when she was sleeping;
but she missed them, and we had to put them in her hands. 'My husband
was so thoughtful.'

“This is too much for you, I see; it is simply torture. Wait till
to-morrow....

“Well, if you insist Expecting a letter... yes... let me recollect...
No, I am not hiding anything, but you must not let this get upon your
mind.

“We would have deceived her, but she knew the hour of the Continental
mails, and could detect the postman's ring. Once a letter came, and
she insisted upon seeing it in case of any mistake. But it was only an
invitation for you, I think, to some country house.

“It can't be helped now, and you ought not to vex yourself; but I
believe a letter would have done more for her than... What am I saying
now?

“As she grew weaker she counted the hours, and I left her at four full
of hope. 'Two hours more and he'll be here,' and by that time she had
your telegram in her hand.

“When I came back the change had come, and she said, 'It's not God's
will; bring Bertie.'

“So she kissed him, and said something to him, but we did not listen.
After the nurse had carried him out--for he was weeping bitterly, poor
little chap--she whispered to me to get a sheet of paper and sit down by
her bedside.... I think it would be better... very well, I will tell you
all.

“I wrote what she dictated with her last breath, and I promised you
would receive it from her own hand, and so you will. She turned her face
to the door and lay quite still till about six, when I heard her say
your name very softly, and a minute afterwards she was gone, without
pain or struggle.”...

She lay as she had died, waiting for his coming, and the smile with
which she had said his name was still on her face. It was the first time
she did not colour with joy at his coming, that her hand was cold to his
touch. He kissed her, but his heart was numbed, and he could not weep.

Then he took her letter and read it beside that silence.

“Dearest,--

“They tell me now that I shall not live to see you come in and to cast
my arms once more round your neck before we part Be kind to Bertie, and
remember that he is delicate and shy. He will miss me, and you will
be patient with him for my sake. Give him my watch, and do not let him
forget me. My locket with your likeness I would like left on my heart.
You will never know how much I have loved you, for I could never
speak. You have been very good to me, and I want you to know that I am
grateful; but it is better perhaps that I should die, for I might hinder
you in your future life. Forgive me because I came short of what your
wife should have been. None can ever love you better. You will take
these poor words from a dead hand, but I shall see you, and I shall
never cease to love you, to follow your life, to pray for you--my first,
my only love.”

The fountains within him were broken, and he flung himself down by the
bedside in an agony of repentance.

“Oh, if I had known before; but now it is too late, too late!”

For we sin against our dearest not because we do not love, but because
we do not imagine.

II

Maud Trevor was a genuine woman, and kept her accounts with the aid of
six purses. One was an ancient housewife of her grandmother's, which
used to be equipped with silk and thread and needles and buttons, and
from a secret place yielded to the third generation a bank note
of value. This capacious receptacle was evidently intended for the
household exchequer, whose transactions were innumerable, and whose
monthly budget depended for success on an unfailing supply of copper.
Another had come from her mother, and was of obsolete design--a bag
closed at both extremities, with a long narrow slit in the middle, and
two rings which compressed the gold into one end and the silver into the
other. This was marked out by Providence for charity, since it made
no provision for pennies, and laid a handicap of inconvenience on
threepenny bits. It retained a subtle trace of an old-fashioned scent
her mother loved, and recalled her mother going out on some errand of
mercy--a St Clare in her sacrifices and devotion. Purse three descended
from her father, and was an incarnation of business--made of chamois
leather with a steel clasp that closed with a click, having three
compartments within, one of which had its own clasp and was reserved for
gold. In this bank Maud kept the funds of a clothing society, whose
more masterly bargains ran sometimes into farthings, and she was always
haunted with anxiety lest a new farthing and a half-sovereign should
some day change places. A pretty little purse with ivory sides and
silver hinges--a birthday gift of her girlhood--was large enough to hold
her dress allowance, which Trevor had fixed at a most generous rate when
he had barely four hundred a year, and had since forgotten to increase.
One in sealskin had been a gift of engagement days, and held the savings
of the year against birthday and Christmas presents--whose contents were
the subject of many calculations. A cast-off purse of Trevor's had been
devoted to Bertie, and from its resources came one way or other all he
needed; but it happened that number six was constantly reinforced from
the purse with the ivory sides.

Saturday afternoon was sacred to book-keeping, and Maud used her bed
as a table for this critical operation, partly because it was so much
larger than an escritoire, but chiefly because you could empty the
purses into little pools with steep protecting banks. Of course if one
sat down hurriedly there was great danger of amalgamation, with quite
hopeless consequences; and Trevor held over Maud's head the chance of
his making this mistake. It was his way, before he grew too busy, to
watch till the anxious face would suddenly brighten and a rapid change
be made in the pools--the household contributing something to presents
and the dress purse to Bertie, while private and public charity would
accommodate each other with change. Caresses were strictly forbidden
in those times of abstruse calculation, and the Evil One who stands at
every man's elbow once tempted Trevor to roll the counterpane into a
bundle--purses, money, and all--but Maud, when he confessed, said that
no human being would be allowed to fall into such wickedness.

Trevor was obliged to open her wardrobe, fourteen days after the
funeral, and the first thing he lighted upon was the purses. They lay
in a row on an old account-book--a motley set indeed--but so absurd and
tricky a spirit is pathos, they affected him more swiftly than the
sight of a portrait Was ever any one so faithful and conscientious, so
self-forgetful and kind, so capable also and clever in her own sphere?
Latterly he had sneered at the purses, and once, being vexed at
something in a letter, he had told Maud she ought to have done with that
folly and keep her accounts like an educated woman. “A girl of twelve
would be ashamed.”... What a merciless power memory wields. She only
drooped her head,... it was on the sealskin purse the tear fell, and at
once he saw the bend of the Wye at Tintern where he had surprised her
with the gift of that purse. He was moved to kiss away that tear, but
his heart hardened. Why could she not be like the women he knew?...
Well, he would not be troubled any longer with her simple ways... he
could do as he pleased now with the purses.... A bitter madness of grief
took possession of him, and he arranged them on the bed.

One was empty, the present purse, and he understood... the dress purse,
of course, a little silver only... the rest had gone that he might have
something beautiful.... He knew that it must be done sooner or later,
and to-day was best, for his heart could be no sorer.... Yes, here they
were, the ungiven gifts. For every person, from himself to the nurse;
all wrapped in soft white paper and ready in good time.... She used to
arrange everything on Christmas Eve... this year he had intended to stay
at Cannes,... there would just have been Bertie and his mother, now...
But he must open it--an inkstand for his study in solid brass, with pens
and other things complete--he noted every detail as if to estimate its
value. It came back to him how she had cunningly questioned him about
his needs before he left for Cannes, till he grew impatient. “Don't
bother me about ink-bottles,” Yes, the very words, and others... the
secret writing of memory came out in this fire of sorrow. “Why won't
women understand that a man can't answer questions about trifles when
he has work on hand?” He could swear to the words, and he knew how Maud
looked, although he did not see.

“Don't go away; you promised that you would sit beside me when I
worked--hinder me? I suppose you are bidding for a kiss; you know the
sight of your face inspires me.”... That was ten years ago... he might
have borne with her presence a little longer.... She never would come
again... he would have no interruptions of that kind....

Her gloves, sixes--what a perfect hand it was (smoothes out the glove).
His memory brings up a dinner table. Mrs. Chatterby gives her opinion on
Meredith's last novel, and helps herself to salt--he sees a disgusting
hand, with stumpy fingers, and, for impudence, a street arab of a thumb.
A vulgar little woman through and through, and yet because she picked up
scraps from the monthlies, and had the trick of catch-words, people paid
her court And he had sometimes thought, but he knew better to-day... of
all things in the world a glove is the surest symbol. Mended, too, very
neatly... that he might have his hansoms.

It was the last thing he ever could have imagined, and yet it must be
a diary--Maud's diary! Turns over the leaves, and catches that woman's
name against whom he has suddenly taken a violent dislike.

“January 25. Was at Mrs. Chatterby's--how strange one does not say
anything of her husband--yet he is the nicer of the two--and I think
it will be better not to go again to dinner. One can always make some
excuse that will not be quite untrue.

“'The dinner is in honour of Mr. Fynical, who is leaving his College and
coming to live in London, to do literary work.' as Mrs. Chatterby has
been explaining for weeks, 'and to give tone to the weeklies.'

“'The younger men are quite devoted to him, and we ought all to be so
thankful that he is to be within reach. His touch reminds one of,'--I
don't know the French writer, but she does not always give the same
name. 'We hope to see a great deal of him. So delightfully cynical, you
know, and hates the bourgeoisie.'

“I was terrified lest I should sit next Mr. Fynical, but Mrs. Chatterby
was merciful, and gave me Janie Godfrey's father. Edward says that he
is a very able man, and will be Lord Chancellor some day, but he is so
quiet and modest, that one feels quite at home with him. Last summer he
was yachting on the west coast of Scotland, and he described the sunset
over the Skye hills; and I tried to give him a Devonshire sunrise. We
both forgot where we were, and then Mrs. Chatterby asked me quite loud,
so that every one looked, what I thought of 'Smudges.'

“The dinner-table seemed to wait for my answer, and I wish that the
book had never come from the library, but I said that I had sent it back
because it seemed so bitter and cruel, and one ought to read books which
showed the noble side of life.

“'You are one of the old-fashioned women,' she replied. 'You believe in
a novel for the young person,' with a smile that hurt me, and I told
her that I had been brought up on Sir Walter Scott I was trying to say
something about his purity and chivalry, when I caught Mr. Fynical's
eye, and blushed red. If I had only been silent,--for I'm afraid every
one was laughing, and Edward did not say one word to me all the way
home.

“February 20. Another ordeal, but not so unfortunate as the last. The
Browne-Smythes are very kind friends, but I do think they are too much
concerned about having clever people at their house. One evening Mrs.
Browne-Smythe said she was happy because nothing had been talked about
except translations of Homer. A certain guest was so miserable on that
occasion that I begged Edward to leave me at home this time, but he said
it would not be Greek again. It was science, however, and when we came
in Mrs. Browne-Smythe was telling a very learned-looking person that she
simply lived for fossils. A young lady beside me was talking about
gases to a nervous man, who grew quite red, and tried to escape behind
a table. I think she was wrong in her words, and he was too polite to
correct her. To my horror, he was obliged to take me in to dinner, and
there never could have been two people more deserving of pity, for I was
terrified of his knowledge, and he was afraid of my ignorance. We sat
in perfect silence till a fatherly old man, quite like a farmer, on my
left, began to talk to me so pleasantly that I described our country
people, and was really sorry when the ladies had to leave. Edward says
that he is one of the greatest discoverers in the world, and has all
kinds of honours. We became so friendly that he has promised to take tea
with me, and I think he does not despise my simplicity. How I long to be
cleverer for Edward's sake, for I'm sure he must be ashamed of me among
those brilliant women. I cannot blame him: I am proud of my husband.

“May 15. I am quite discouraged, and have resolved never to go to any
charitable committee again. Miss Tabitha Primmer used shameful language
at the Magdalene meeting to-day, and Mrs. Wood-Ruler showed me that
I had broken Law 43 by giving a poor girl personal aid. It seems
presumptuous on my part to criticise such able and diligent workers, but
my mother never spoke about certain subjects, and it is agony for me to
discuss them. When the vicar insisted on Sunday that thoughtful women
were required for Christian service to-day, and that we must read up all
kinds of books and know all kinds of painful things, my heart sank. It
does not seem as if there was any place left for simple folk like me.
Perhaps it would be better to give up going out altogether, and live for
Edward and Bertie. I can always do something for them, and their love
will be enough reward.

“Nov. 30 I have not slept all night, for I made a dreadful mistake about
a new book that every one is reading, and Edward was so angry. He did
not mean all he said, but he never called me a fool before. Perhaps he
is right, and it is hard on him, who is so bright Sometimes I wish-” And
then there was no writing, only a tear mark....

Afterwards he opened the letters that had come since her death, and this
is what he read:

“My dear Trevor,--

“The intelligence of Mrs. Trevor's death has given me a great shock of
regret, and you will allow me to express my sympathy. Many men not given
to enthusiasm had told me of her face and goodness, and before I had
seen your wife I knew she was a very perfect type of womanliness The few
times I met her, Mrs. Trevor cast a certain spell over me--the nameless
grace of the former days--and I felt myself unworthy in her presence.
Once when a silly woman referred to one of the most miserable examples
of decadent fiction, your wife spoke so nobly of true literature that I
was moved to thank her, but I gathered from her face that this would not
be acceptable. It seemed to me that the mask had fallen from a beautiful
soul, and one man at least, in whom there is too little reverence, took
the shoes from off his feet. Pardon me if I have exceeded, and

“Believe me,

“Yours faithfully,

“Bernard Fynical.”

The next was from the F.R.S.

“My dear Sir,--

“It is quite wrong for me, a stranger, to intrude on your grief, but I
am compelled to tell you that an old fellow who only spoke to your wife
once, had to wipe his spectacles over the _Times_ this morning. It came
about this way. The lady I had taken in to dinner at the Browne-Smythes
gabbled about science till I lost my temper, and told her it would be a
good thing if women would keep to their own sphere. Your wife was on
the other side, and I turned to her in despair. She delighted me by
confessing utter ignorance of my subject, and then she won my heart
by some of the loveliest stories of peasant life in Devonshire I ever
heard, so full of insight and delicacy. If the parsons preached like
that I would be in church next Sunday. She put me in mind of a sister I
lost long ago--who had the same low, soft voice and honest, trusty eyes.
When she found I was a lonely man, your wife had pity on me, and asked
me to call on her. But I had to go to America, and only returned two
days ago. I intended to wish her a Happy New Year, but it's too late.
I cannot get you out of my mind, and I thought it might comfort you to
know how a fossil like myself was melted by that kind heart “Believe me,
my dear sir,

“Your obedient servant,

“Archibald Gilmore.”

The third was also from a man, but this time a lad in rooms whom Trevor
had seen at the house.

“Dear Mr. Trevor,--

“You perhaps know that Mrs. Trevor allowed me to spend an hour with her
of an evening, when I felt downhearted or had any trouble, but no one
will ever know how much she did for me. When I came up to London
my faith began to go, and I saw that in a short time I would be an
Agnostic. This did not trouble me so much on my own account as my
mother's, who is dead, and made me promise something on her death-bed.
So I bought books and heard sermons on unbelief till I was quite sick of
the whole business. Mrs. Trevor took me to hear your own clergyman,
who did not help me one bit, for he was too clever and logical; but you
remember I came home with you, and after you had gone to your study I
told Mrs. Trevor my difficulties, and she did me more good than all the
books. She never argued nor preached, but when I was with her one felt
that religion was a reality, and that she knew more about it than any
one I had met since I lost my mother. It is a shame to trouble you with
my story when you are in such sorrow, and no one need tell you how noble
a woman Mrs. Trevor was; but I could not help letting you know that her
goodness has saved one young fellow at least from infidelity and worse.

“You will not mind my having sent a cross to put on the coffin; it was
all I could do.

“Yours gratefully,

“George Benson.”

There was neither beginning nor end to the fourth letter, but it was
written in a lady's hand.

“I am a clergyman's daughter, who left her father's house, and went
astray. I have been in the Inferno, and have seen what I read in _Dante_
while I was innocent One day the old rectory rose up before my eyes--the
roses hanging over my bedroom window; the birds flying in and out
the ivy; my father on the lawn, aged and broken through my sin--and I
resolved that my womanhood should no longer be dragged in the mire. My
home was closed years ago, I had no friends, so I went in my desperation
to a certain Institute, and told my case to a matron. She was not
unkindly, but the committee were awful, without either sympathy or
manners; and when an unmarried woman wished to pry into the details of
my degradation--but I can't tell a man the shame they would have put
upon me--my heart turned to flint, and I left the place. I would have
gone back to my life and perished had it not been for one woman who
followed me out, and asked me to go home with her for afternoon tea. Had
she said one word about my past, I had flung myself away; but because
she spoke to me as if I were still in the rectory, I could not refuse.
Mrs. Trevor never once mentioned my sin, and she saved my soul. I am now
a nurse in one of the hospitals, and full of peace. As long as I live
I shall lay white flowers on her grave, who surely was the wisest and
tenderest of women.” Trevor's fortitude was failing fast before this
weight of unconscious condemnation, and he was only able to read one
more--an amazing production, that had cost the writer great pains.

“Honoured Sir,--

“Bill says as it's tyking too much on the likes o' me to be addressing
you on your missus' death, but it's not her husband that will despise
a pore working woman oo's lost her best friend. When Bill 'ad the
rumatiks, and couldn't do no work, and Byby was a-growing that thin you
could see thro' 'im, Mrs. Byles says to me, 'Mrs. 'Awkes, you goes to
the Society for the Horganisation of Female Toilers.' Says I, 'Wot is
that?' and she declares, 'It's a set of ladies oo wants to'elp women
to work, and they 'ill see you gets it' So I goes, and I saw a set
of ladies sitting at a table, and they looks at me; and one with
spectacles, and a vice like an 'and-saw, arsks me, 'Wot's yer name?'
and ''Ow old are you?' and ''Ow many children have you?' and 'Are your
'abits temperate?' And then she says, 'If you pay a shilling we 'ill
put your nyme down for work has an unskilled worker.' 'I 'avn't got a
shilling, and Byby's dyin' for want of food.' 'This ain't a Poor 'ouse,'
says she; 'this is a Booro.' When I wos a-going down the stairs, a lady
comes after me. 'Don't cry, Mrs. 'Awkes,' for she had picked up my name.
'I've some charring for you, and we'ill go to get something for Byby.'
If ever there wos a hangel in a sealskin jacket and a plain little
bonnet, but the true lady hall hover, 'er name was Mrs. Trevor. Bill, he
looked up from that day, and wos on his keb in a week, and little Jim is
the biggest byby in the court. Mrs. Trevor never rested till I got three
hoffices to clean, to say nothing of 'elping at cleanings and parties in
'ouses. She wos that kind, too, and free, when she'd come hin with noos
of some hoffice. 'We're horganisin' you, Missus 'Awkes, just splendid,'
with the prettiest bit smile. Bill, he used to say, ''Er 'usband's a
proud man, for I never saw the like o' her for a downright lady in 'er
wys'--and 'e knows, does Bill, being a kebman. When I told 'im he wos
that bad that'e never put a match to 'is pipe the'ole night 'Mariar,'
'e says to me, 'you an' me 'as seen some think of her, but you bet nobody
knew what a saint she wos 'xcept 'er 'usband.'”...

Trevor could read no more, for it had dawned at last upon him that
Christ had lived with him for more than ten years, and his eyes had been
holden.




THE MINISTER OF ST. BEDE'S


I

It was in the sixties that a southern distiller, who had grown rich
through owning many public-houses and much selling of bad gin, bought
Glenalder from its poverty-stricken laird, and cleared out the last of
the Macdonalds from Lochaber. They arose and departed on a fine spring
day, when the buds were bursting on the trees, and the thorn was white
as snow, and the birds were bringing forth their young, and the heather
was beginning to bloom. Early in the morning, while the grass was yet
wet with dew and the sun had not come over the hill, Ian Dhu, at the
head of the Glen, with his brothers and their families, their sons and
their sons' wives, began the procession, which flowed as a stream of
sorrow by the side of the Alder, all the day, gathering its rivulets
from every forsaken home. When it reached the poor little clachan, where
were the kirk and the graveyard, the emigrants halted, and leaving
their goods upon the road went in to worship God for the last time in
Glenalder kirk. A very humble sanctuary, with earthen floor and bare
benches, and mightily despised by the kind of southron who visited
the new laird's mansion, but beautiful and holy to those who had been
baptised there, and married there, and sat with their heart's love
there, and who, in that place, but after many years and in old age, had
received the sacrament. When they were all in their places, the minister
of the Glen, who would fain have gone with them, but was now too old,
ascended the pulpit and spake to them from the words, “He went out, not
knowing whither he went,” charging them never to forget their native
country nor their fathers' faith, beseeching them to trust in God and do
righteousness, calling them all kinds of tender names in the warm Gaelic
speech, till they fell a-weeping, men and women together, and the place
was full of lamentation. After which Alister Macdonald, who had been
through the Crimean War and the Mutiny, and now was a catechist great
in opening mysteries, committed them to the care of their fathers' God.
They would hardly leave the kirk, and the sun was westering fast when
they came to the elbow of the hill where the traveller gets his last
look of the Glen. There they sang “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let
my right hand forget her cunning,” but it was Glenalder they meant, a
parcel of whose earth each family carried with them into exile; and as
the pipes played “Lochaber no more” they went away for ever from the
land they loved and which had cast them forth. For an hour the minister
and Alister, with a handful of old people, watched their kinsfolk till
they could see them no more, and then they went back, no one speaking
with his neighbour, to the empty Glen.

Besides the huge staring castle, with its lodges, built by the
foreigner, there are only some twenty houses now in all bonnie
Glenalder. Tourists venturing from the main road come, here and there,
across a little heap of stones and the remains of a garden, with some
patches of bright green still visible among the heather. It is the
memorial of a home where generation after generation of well-built,
clean-blooded, God-fearing Highland folk were raised. From those humble
cottages went up morning and evening the psalm of praise to God. From
them also came hardy men to fill the ranks of the Highland regiments,
who had tasted none of the city vices and did not know what fear was.
Nor were they a fierce or morose people, for the Glen sounded of
a summer evening with the sound of the pipes, playing reels and
strathspeys, and in the winter time the minister would lend his barn for
a dance, saying, like the shrewd man he was, “The more dancing the less
drinking.” The very names of those desolate homesteads and the people
that lived therein are now passing out of mind in Glenalder, but away
in North-West Canada there is a new Glenalder, where every name has
been reproduced, and the cuttings of the brier roses bloom every year in
memory of the land that is “far awa.” And if any man from Lochaber, or
for that matter from any part of Scotland, lights on this place, it will
be hard for him to get away from the warm hearts that are there, and he
must depart a better man after hearing the kindly speech and seeing the
sword dance once more.

While the exiles halted on the elbow of the hill, each man, woman and
child, according to his size and strength, carried a stone from the
hillside and placed it on a heap that grew before their eyes, till it
made a rough pyramid. This was called the Cairn of Remembrance, and as
often as any one of the scanty remnant left the Glen to go south it was
a custom that his friends should accompany him to this spot and bid him
farewell, where the past pledged him to love and faithfulness. It was
here therefore that Henry Rutherford parted from Magdalen Macdonald as
he went to his last session at the Divinity Hall.

“It's four years since I came first to Glenalder to teach the school in
the summer-time, Magdalen, an' little I thought then I would ever be so
near the ministry or win my sweetheart in the Glen.” They were sitting
on a heather bank below the cairn, and as he spoke his arm slipped
round her waist He was a typical Scot, with bony frame, broad shoulders,
strong face, deep-set eyes of grey, and the somewhat assertive and
self-sufficient manner of his race. She was of the finest type of
Highland beauty, with an almost perfect Grecian face, fair hair dashed
with gold, eyes of the blue of the Highland lochs, and a queenly
carriage of head and body. Deep-bosomed and unfettered by fashionable
city dress, with strong hand and firm foot, she had the swinging gait
and proud independence of the free hill woman.

“Had it not been for you,” he went on, “I had never persevered; it was
your faith put strength in me and hope, and then... the help you gave
me; I can never forget or repay you. To think that you should have
slaved that I should have books and--better food.”

“Hush, I command you, for I will not be hearing another word, and if you
are saying more I will be very angry. It is not good that any man should
be a minister and not keep his word. And the day I gave you the purse
with the two or three pieces of gold you made a promise never to speak
about that day again. It is not many quarrels we have had, Henry, and
some will be good quarrels, for afterward we were loving each other more
than ever. But it was not good when you would lay the bits of gold on
that very stone there--for I am seeing them lie in the hollow--and say
hot words to me.”

“Magdalen, I put the purse itself in my breast, and I loved you more
than ever for your thought of me and your sacrifice, and I wanted
to kiss you, and... you ordered me to stand off, and your eyes were
blazing. Lassie, you looked like a tigress; I was feared of you.”

“It was not for me to have my gifts given back, and if I was driving
home the cows and milking the white milk into the pail, and churning the
sweet yellow butter, all that my love should not be wanting anything, it
is not for him to be so proud and mighty.”

“But I did take your kindness at last, and it was more than two or
three pounds, and so it was you that sent me to Germany. You gave me my
learning, and some day, when we're in our manse together, I'll show you
all my books and try... to repay your love.”

“Henry, it will come over me at times in the twilight, when strange
sights are seen, that we shall never be together in our house. Oh, yes,
I have seen a room with books round the walls, and you will be sitting
there, but I am not seeing any Magdalen. Wait a minute, for there will
be another sight, and I am not understanding it. It is not this land,
but where it will be I do not know; but I will be there in a beautiful
room, and I will be in rich dress, but I am not seeing you.

“Do not speak.” She rose up and looked at Rutherford, holding him at
arm's length, with her hand upon his shoulder. “Have you got the broken
piece?” He thrust his hand into his breast, and showed the jagged half
of a common penny hung round his neck by a blue ribbon.

“My half will be here”--Magdalen touched her bosom--“but maybe it will
be better for me to give you it, and then... you will be free; each of
us... must drink the cup that is mixed. The visions will be very clear,
though I have not the second sight.”

“What is the meaning of all this talk, Magdalen?” Rutherford's face
was pale, and his voice vibrated. “Are you tired of me because I am not
bonnie of face, but only a plain Scot, or is it that you will not wait
till I win a home for you, or have you seen another man--some glib
English sportsman?”

“God forgive you, Henry Rutherford, for saying such words; is it Alister
Macdonald's granddaughter that would play her lover false? Then let him
drive the skean dhu into her heart.”

“Then it is me you suspect, and it is not what I have deserved at your
hands, Magdalen. A Scot may seem cold and hard, but he can be 'siccar,'
and if I keep not my troth with you, and deal not by you as you have by
me, then may God be my judge and do unto me as I have done unto you.”

They looked into one another's eyes, and then tears put out the fire in
hers, and she spoke with a wail in her voice.

“This is all very foolish talk, and it is this girl that will be sorry
after you are gone and I am sitting lonely, watching the sun go down.
But it was a thought that would be coming over my mind, for you will be
remembering that I am a Highlander; but it is not that you will not be
faithful to me or I to you, oh, no, and I have put it away, my love. Now
may God be keeping you”--and she took his hand--“and prospering you
in all your work, till you have your heart's desire in knowledge and
everything... that would be good for you. This is the prayer Magdalen
Macdonald will be offering for you every morning and night and all the
day when it is winter-time and the snow is heavy in Glenalder.” Then she
kissed him full upon the lips as in a sacrament, and looking back he saw
her standing against the evening light, the perfect figure of a woman,
and she waved to him, whom he was not to see again for ten long years.


II

“Just ventured to look in for a single minute, Mr. Rutherford, at the
close of this eventful day, to say how thankful we all are that you
were so wonderfully sustained. But you are busy--making notes for next
Sabbath, perhaps--and I must not interrupt you. We must keep ourselves
open to the light; in my small way I find there are times when the
thoughts just drop upon one. If we were more lifted above the world they
would come oftener, far oftener.”

A very “sleekit” personage indeed, as they say in Scotland, with a suave
manner, a sickly voice, and ways so childish that simple people thought
him almost silly; but those who happened to have had deals with him
in business formed quite another opinion, and expressed it in language
bordering on the libellous.

“Will you be seated?” Rutherford laid aside a letter beginning “Dearest
Magdalen,” and telling how it had fared with him on his first Sunday
in St Bede's, Glasgow, W., a kirk which contained many rich people and
thought not a little of itself. “You have a meeting on Sunday evening, I
think you said. I hope it was successful.”

“There was blessing to-night, I am sure. I felt the power myself. Lord
Dunderhead was passing through Glasgow and gave the address. It was
on 'The Badgers' Skins* of the Tabernacle, and was very helpful. And
afterward we had a delightful little 'sing.*' You know his lordship?”

“No, I never saw him,” said Rutherford shortly, with a Scot's democratic
prejudice against religious snobbery, forgetting that people who will
not listen to a reasoned discourse from a clergyman will crowd to the
simplest utterance of a lord.

“You will allow me to introduce you on Tuesday evening; you got Mrs.
Thompson's card. I hope we may have a profitable gathering. Captain
Footyl, the hussar evangelist, will also be present--a truly delightful
and devoted young man.” Rutherford had not forgotten the card--

     Mr. and Mrs. Thompson

     At Home Tuesday, May 2nd,

     To meet Lord Dunderhead who will give a Bible Reading.

     8 to 10.30                                Evening Dress.

And had sent it off to his college friend, Carmichael of Drumtochty,
with a running commentary of a very piquant character.

“Thank you, but I fear that my work will prevent me being with you on
Tuesday; it is no light thing for a man to come straight from college to
St Bede's without even a holiday.”

“So sorry, but by-and-bye you will come to one of our little meetings.
Mrs. Thompson greatly enjoyed your sermon to young men this afternoon;
perhaps just a little too much of works and too little of faith. Excuse
the hint--you know the danger of the day--all life, life; but that's a
misleading test By the way, we are all hoping that you may get settled
in a home as well as in your church,” continued Mr. Thompson, with pious
waggery, and then chilling at the want of sympathy on the minister's
face; “but that is a serious matter, and we trust you may be wisely
guided. A suitable helpmeet is a precious gift.”

“Perhaps you may not have heard, Mr. Thompson, that I am engaged”--and
Rutherford eyed the elder keenly,--“and to a girl of whom any man and
any congregation may be proud. I am going north next week to see her and
to settle our marriage day.”

“I am so pleased to hear you say so, and so will all the elders be,
for I must tell you that a rumour came to our ears that gave us great
concern; but I said we must not give heed to gossip, for what Christian
has not suffered in this way at the hand of the world?”

“What was the gossip?” demanded Rutherford, and there was that in his
tone that brooked no trifling.

“You must not take this to heart, dear Mr. Rutherford; it only shows
how we ought to set a watch upon our lips. Well that you were to marry a
young woman in Glen--Glen----”

“Alder. Go on,” said Rutherford. “Yes, in Glenalder, where we all
rejoice to know you did so good a work.”

“I taught a dozen children in the summer months to eke out my living.
But about the young woman--what did they say of her?”

“Nothing at all, except that she was, perhaps, hardly in that position
of society that a clergyman's wife ought to be, especially one in the
west end of Glasgow. But do not let us say anything more of the matter;
it just shows how the great enemy is ever trying to create dissension
and injure the work.”

“What you have heard is perfectly true, except that absurd reference to
Glasgow, and I have the honour to inform you, as I intend to inform the
elders on my return next week, that I hope to be married in a month
or two to Magdalen Macdonald, who was brought up by her grandfather,
Alister Macdonald of the Black Watch, and who herself has a little croft
in Glenalder”--and Rutherford challenged Mr. Thompson, expounder of
Scripture and speculator in iron, to come on and do his worst “Will you
allow me, my dear young friend, to say that there is no necessity
for this... heat, and to speak with you as one who has your... best
Interests at heart, and those of St. Bede's. I feel it to be a special
providence that I should have called this evening.”

“Well?” insisted Rutherford.

“What I feel, and I have no doubt you will agree with me, is that
Christians must not set themselves against the arrangements of
Providence, and you see we are set in classes for a wise purpose. We
are all equal before God, neither 'bond nor free,' as it runs, but it
is expedient that the minister of St Bede's should marry in his own
position. There are many sacrifices we must make for our work's sake;
and, oh, Mr. Rutherford, what care we have to take lest we cast a
stumbling-block in the way of others! It was only last week that a
valued fellow-worker begged me to invite a young lady to my little
drawing-room meeting who was concerned about spiritual things. 'Nothing
would give me greater pleasure,' I said, 'if it would help her; but it
is quite impossible, and you would not have asked me had you known her
history. Her father was a shopkeeper, and in the present divided state
of society I dare not introduce her among the others, all wholesale
without exception.' You will not misunderstand me, Mr. Rutherford?”

“You have stated the case admirably, Mr. Thompson, and from your
standpoint in religion, I think, conclusively. Perhaps the Sermon on the
Mount might...; but we won't go into that Before deciding, however, what
is my duty, always with your aid, you might like to see the face of my
betrothed. There, in that light.”

“Really quite beautiful, and I can easily understand; we were all young
once and... impressionable. As good-looking as any woman in St Bede's?
Excuse me, that is hardly a question to discuss. Grace does not go with
looks. We all know that beauty is deceitful. Knows the poets better
than you do, I dare say. There is a nurse of my sister's, a cabman's
daughter--I beg your pardon for dropping the photograph; you startled
me. But you will excuse me saying that it is not this kind of
knowledge... well, culture, which fits a woman to be a minister's wife.
Addressing a mothers' meeting is far more important than reading
poetry. Highland manners more graceful than Glasgow? That is a very
extraordinary comparison, and... can do no good. Really no one can
sympathise with you more than I do, but I am quite clear as to your duty
as a minister of the Gospel.”

“You mean”--and Rutherford spoke with much calmness--“that I ought to
break our troth. It is not a light thing to do, sir, and has exposed
both men and women to severe... criticism.”

“Certainly, if the matter be mismanaged, but I think, although it's not
for me to boast, that it could be arranged. Now, there was Dr.
Drummer--this is quite between ourselves--he involved himself with a
teacher of quite humble rank during his student days, and it was pointed
out to him very faithfully by his elders that such a union would injure
his prospects. He made it a matter of prayer, and he wrote a beautiful
letter to her, and she saw the matter in the right light, and you know
what a ministry his has been. His present wife has been a real helpmeet;
her means are large and are all consecrated.”

“Do you happen to know what became of the teacher? I only ask for
curiosity, for I know what has become of Dr. Drummer.”

“She went to England and caught some fever, or maybe it was consumption,
but at any rate she died just before the Doctor married. It was all
ordered for the best, so that there were no complications.”

“Exactly; that is evident, and my way seems now much clearer.. There
is just one question more I should like to ask. If you can answer it I
shall have no hesitation about my course. Suppose a woman loved a man
and believed in him, and encouraged him through his hard college days,
and they both were looking forward with one heart to their wedding day,
and then he--did not marry her--what would honourable men think of him,
and what effect would this deed of--prudence have on his ministry of the
Gospel?”

“My dear friend, if it were known that he had taken this step simply
and solely for the good of the cause he had at heart and after prayerful
consideration, there is no earnest man--and we need not care for the
world--who would not appreciate his sacrifice.”

“I do not believe one word you say.” Mr. Thompson smiled feebly, and
began to retire to the door at the look in Rutherford's eye. “But
whether you be right or wrong about the world in which you move, I do
not know. In my judgment, the man who acted as you describe would have
only one rival in history, and that would be Judas Iscariot.”


III

Southern travellers wandering over Scotland in their simplicity have a
dim perception that the Scot and the Celt are not of one kind, and, as
all racial characteristics go back to the land, they might be helped by
considering the unlikeness between a holding in Fife and a croft in
a western glen. The lowland farm stands amid its neighbours along the
highway, with square fields, trim fences, slated houses, cultivated
after the most scientific method, and to the last inch a very type of a
shrewd, thrifty, utilitarian people. The Highland farm is half a dozen
patches of as many shapes scattered along the hillside, wherever there
are fewest stones and deepest soil and no bog, and those the crofter
tills as best he can--sometimes getting a harvest and sometimes seeing
the first snow cover his oats in the sheaf, sometimes building a rude
dyke to keep off the big, brown, hairy cattle that come down to have
a taste of the sweet green corn, but often finding it best to let his
barefooted children be a fence by day, and at certain seasons to sit up
all night himself to guard his scanty harvest from the forays of the red
deer. Somewhere among the patches he builds his low-roofed house, and
thatches it over with straw, on which, by-and-bye, grass with heather
and wild flowers begins to grow, till it is not easy to tell his home
from the hill. His farm is but a group of tiny islands amid a sea of
heather that is ever threatening to overwhelm them with purple spray.
Any one can understand that this man will be unpractical, dreamy,
enthusiastic, the child of the past, the hero of hopeless causes, the
seer of visions.

Magdalen had milked her cows at midday and sent them forth to pasture,
and now was sitting before her cottage among wallflower and spring
lilies, reading for the third time the conclusion of Rutherford's last
letter:--

“Here I was interrupted by the coming of an elder, a mighty man in
the religious world, and very powerful in St Bede's. He tells me that
something has been heard of our engagement, and I have taken counsel
with him with the result that it seems best we should be married without
delay. After loving for four years and there being nothing to hinder,
why should you be lonely on your croft in Glenalder and I in my rooms
at Glasgow? Answer me that, 'calf of my heart' (I do not attempt the
Gaelic). But you cannot. You will only kiss the letter, since I am not
at your side, and next week I shall come north, and you will fix the
day.

“My head is full of plans, and I do not think that joy will let me sleep
to-night for thinking of you and all that we shall do together. We'll
be married early in the morning in the old kirk of Glenalder, as soon as
the sun has filled the Glen and Nature has just awaked from sleep. Mona
Macdonald will be your bridesmaid, I know, and she will wear white roses
that shall not be whiter than her teeth. Yes, I have learned to notice
all beautiful things since I knew you, Magdalen. My best man will be
Carmichael of Drumtochy, who is of Highland blood himself and a goodly
man to look upon, and he has his own love-story. All the Glen will come
to our wedding, and will grudge that a Lowland Scot has spoiled the
Glen of the Flower of Dalnabreck--yes, I know what they call you. And we
shall have our breakfast in the manse, for the minister has pledged
us to that, and it is he and John Carmichael that will be making the
wonderful speeches! (You see how I've learned the style.) But you and I
will leave them and catch the steamer, and then all the long June day
we shall sit on the deck together and see distant Skye, and the little
isles, and pass Mull and Ardnamurchan, and sail through Oban Bay and
down Loch Fyne, and thread our way by Tighnabruaich, and come into the
Firth of Clyde when the sun is going down away behind Ben Alder. Won't
it be a glorious marriage day, among lochs and hills and islands the
like of which travellers say cannot be found in all the world?

“Then I want to take you to Germany, and to show you the old University
town where I lived one summer, and we will have one good day there, too,
my bride and I. Early in the morning we shall stand in the market-place,
where the women are washing clothes at the fountain and the peasants
are selling butter and fruit, and the high-gabled houses rise on three
sides, and the old Rathhaus, on whose roof the storks build their nests,
makes the fourth. We'll go to my rooms near the Kirche, where I used to
write a letter to you every day, and here is what old Frau Hepzacker
will say, 'Mein Gott, der Schottlander und ein wunderschones madchen*
(you will English and Gaelic this for yourself), and we will drink a
glass of (fearfully sour) wine with her, and go out with her blessing
echoing down the street Then we will watch the rafts coming down the
Neckar from the Black Forest, and walk among the trees in the Vorstadt,
where I lay and dreamed of you far away in Glenalder. And we will go to
the University where you sent me... but that is never to be mentioned
again; and the students in their wonderful dress will come and go--red
hats and blue, besides the white, black and gold I used to wear. And
in the evening we will drive through the vines and fruit-trees to
Bebenhausen, the king's hunting-seat. And those will only be two days
out of our honeymoon, Magdalen. It seems too good to be my lot that
I should be minister of Christ's evangel--of which surely I am not
worthy--and that you should be my bride, of which I am as unworthy.
Next Monday I shall leave this smoky town and meet you at the Cairn of
Remembrance on Tuesday morning.

“Meanwhile and ever I am your faithful lover,

“Henry Rutherford.”

Magdalen kissed the name passionately and thrust the letter into her
bosom. Then she went to the edge of the heather and looked along the
Glen, where she had been born and lived her twenty-two years in peace,
from which she was so soon to go out on the most adventurous journey of
life. When a pure-bred Highland woman loves, it is once and for ever,
and earth has no more faithful wife, or mother, or daughter. And
Magdalen loved Rutherford with all her heart. But it is not given unto
her blood to taste unmixed joy, and now she was haunted with a sense of
calamity. The past flung its shadow over her, and the people that were
gone came back to their deserted homes. She heard the far-off bleating
of the sheep and the wild cry of the curlew; she crooned to herself a
Gaelic song, and was so carried away that she did not see the stranger
come along the track through the heather till he spoke.

“Good evening; may I ask whether this is eh... Dalnabreck? and have I
the pleasure of addressing Miss Macdonald?”

“Yes, I am Magdalen Macdonald”--and as she faced him in her beauty the
visitor was much abashed. “Would you be wanting to see me, sir?”

“My name is Thompson, and I have the privilege of being an elder in St
Bede's, Glasgow, and as I happened to be passing through Glenalder--just
a few days' rest after the winter's work--how the soul wears the
body!--I thought that it would be... a pleasure to... pay my respects
to one of whom I have... heard from our dear pastor. Perhaps,
however,”--this with some anxiety--“Mr. Rutherford may have mentioned my
humble name.”

“There are so many good people in St Bede's, and they are all so kind
to him, that... Henry”--the flush at her lover's name lent the
last attraction to her face and almost overcame the astute iron
merchant--“will not be able to tell me all their names. But I will be
knowing them all for myself soon, and then I will be going to thank
every person for all that has been done to... him. It is very gracious
of you to be visiting a poor Highland girl, and the road to Dalnabreck
is very steep; you will come in and rest in my house, and I will bring
you milk to drink. You must be taking care of the door, for it is low,
and the windows are small because of the winter storms; but there is
room inside and a heart welcome for our friends in our little homes.
When I am bringing the milk maybe you will be looking at the medals on
the wall. They are my grandfather's, who was a brave man and fought well
in his day, and two will be my father's, who was killed very young and
had not time to get more honour.”

The elder made a hurried survey of the room, with its bits of black
oak and the arms on the wall, and the deer-skins on the floor, and
bookshelves hanging on the wall, and wild flowers everywhere; and,
being an operator so keen that he was said to know a market by scent, he
changed his plan.

“I took a hundred pounds with me,” he explained afterward to a friend of
like spirit, “for a promising ministry was not to be hindered for a
few pounds! I intended to begin with fifty and expected to bring back
twenty-five, but I saw that it would have been inexpedient to offer
money to the young woman. There was no flavour of spirituality at
all about her, and she was filled with pride about war and such-like
vanities. Her manner might be called taking in worldly circles, but
it was not exactly... gentle, and she might have... been rude, quite
unpleasant, if I had tried to buy her... I mean arrange on a pecuniary
basis. Ah, Juitler, how much we need the wisdom of the serpent in this
life!”

“What a position you are to occupy, my dear friend,” began the simple
man, seated before the most perfect of meals--rich milk of cows, fed on
meadow grass, yellow butter and white oat cakes set among flowers. “I
doubt not that you are often weighed down by a sense of responsibility,
and are almost afraid of the work before you. After some slight
experience in such matters I am convinced that the position of a
minister's wife is the most... I may say critical in Christian service.”

“You will be meaning that she must be taking great care of her man, and
making a beautiful home for him, and keeping away foolish people, and
standing by him when his back will be at the wall. Oh, yes, it is a
minister that needs to be loved very much, or else he will become stupid
and say bitter words, and no one will be wanting to hear him”--and
Magdalen looked across the table with joyful confidence.

“Far more than that, I'm afraid”--and Mr. Thompson's face was full of
pity. “I was thinking of the public work that falls to a minister's wife
in such a church as St Bede's, which is trying and needs much grace. The
receiving of ladies alone--Providence has been very good to our people,
twelve carriages some days at the church door--requires much experience
and wisdom.

“Mrs. Drummer, who has been much used among the better classes, has
often told me that she considered tact in society one of her most
precious talents, and I know that it was largely owing to her social
gifts, sanctified, of course, that the Doctor became such a power. Ah,
yes”--and Mr. Thompson fell into a soliloquy--“it is the wife that makes
or mars the minister.”

“Glasgow then will not be like Glenalder”--and Magdalen's face was much
troubled--“for if any woman here will tell the truth and speak good
words of people, and help when the little children are sick, and have an
open door for the stranger, then we will all be loving her, and she will
not hurt her man in anything.”

“Be thankful that you do not live in a city, Miss Macdonald, for the
world has much more power there; they that come to work are in the thick
of the battle and need great experience, but you will learn in time and
maybe you could live... quietly for a year or two... you will excuse
me speaking like this... you see it is for our beloved minister I am
anxious.”

Magdalen's face had grown white, and she once or twice took a long, sad
breath.

“As regards the public work expected of a minister's wife--but I am
wearying you, I fear, and it is time to return to the inn. I cannot tell
you how much I have enjoyed this delicious milk..

“Will you tell me about the... the other things... I want to know all.”

“Oh, it was the meetings I was thinking of, for of course, as I am sure
you know, our minister's wife is the head of the mothers' meeting. Mrs.
Drummer's addresses there were excellent, and her liberality in giving
treats--gospel treats, I mean, with tea--was eh, in fact, queenly. And
then she had a Bible-class for young ladies that was mentioned in the
religious papers.”

Magdalen had now risen and was visibly trembling.

“There is a question I would like to ask, Mister...”

“Thompson--Jabez Thompson.”

“Mister Thompson--and you will be doing a great kindness to a girl that
has never been outside Glenalder, and... is not wanting to be a sorrow
to the man she loves, if you will answer it Do you know any minister
like... your minister who married a country girl and... what happened?”

“Really, my dear friend, I... well, if you insist, our neighbour in St
Thomas's--a very fine young fellow--did, and he was a little hindered at
first; but I am sure, in course of time, if he had waited--yes, he left,
and I hear is in the Colonies, and doing an excellent work among the
squatters, or was it the Chinese?... No, no, this is not good-bye. I
only hope I have not discouraged you.... What a lovely glen! How can we
ever make up to you for this heather?”

For three days no one saw Magdalen, but a shepherd attending to
his lambs noticed that a lamp burned every night in the cottage at
Dalnabreck. When Rutherford arrived at the cairn on Tuesday he looked
in vain for Magdalen. Old Elspeth, Magdalen's foster-mother, was waiting
for him and placed a letter in his hands, which he read in that very
place where he had parted from his betrothed.

“Dearest of my Heart,--

“It is with the tears of my soul that I am writing this letter, and it
is with cruel sorrow you will be reading it, for I must tell you that
our troth is broken and that Magdalen cannot be your wife. Do not be
thinking this day or any day that she is not loving you, for never have
you been so dear to me or been in my eyes so strong and brave and wise
and good, and do not be thinking that I do not trust you, for it is this
girl knows that you would be true to me although all the world turned
against me.

“Believe me, my beloved, it is because I love you so much that I am
setting you free that you may not be put to shame because you have
married a Highland girl, who has nothing but two cows, and who does not
know the ways of cities, and who cannot speak in public places, and who
can do nothing except love.

“If it had been possible I would have been waiting for you at the Cairn
of Remembrance, and it is my eyes that ache to see you once more, but
then I would be weak and could not leave you, as is best for you.

“You will not be seeking after me, for I am going far away, and nobody
can tell you where, and this is also best for you and me. But I will
be hearing about you, and will be knowing all you do, and there will be
none so proud of you as your first love.

“And, Henry, if you meet a good woman and she loves you, then you must
not think that I will be angry when you marry her, for this would be
selfish and not right I am going away for your sake, and I will be
praying that the sun be ever shining on you and that you become a great
man in the land. One thing only I ask--that in those days you sometimes
give a thought to Glenalder and your faithful friend,

“Magdalen Macdonald.”


IV

“It was a first-rate match, and we were fairly beaten; it was their
forward turned the scale. I had two hacks from him myself”--the captain
of the Glasgow Football Club nursed the tender spots. “It's a mercy
to-morrow's Sunday and one can lie in bed.”

“Olive oil is not bad for rubbing. You deserve the rest, old man. It
was a stiff fight. By-the-way I saw Rutherford of St Bede's there. He
cheered like a good'un when you got that goal. He's the best parson
going in Glasgow.”

“Can't bear the tribe nor their ways, Charlie, they're such hypocrites,
always preaching against the world and that kind of thing and feathering
their own nests at every turn. Do you know I calculated that six of them
in Glasgow alone have netted a hundred and twenty thousand pounds by
successful marriages. That's what sickens a fellow at religion.”

“Well, you can't say that against Rutherford, Jack, for he's not
married, and works like a coal-heaver. He's the straightest man I've
come across either in the pulpit or out of it, besides being a ripping
preacher. Suppose you look me up to-morrow about six, and we'll hear
what he's got to say.”

His friends said that Rutherford was only thirty-four years of age, but
he looked as if he were near fifty, for his hair had begun to turn gray,
and he carried the traces of twenty years' work upon his face. No one
would have asked whether he was handsome, for he had about him an air
of sincerity and humanity that at once won your confidence. His subject
that evening was the “Sanctifying power of love,” and, as his passion
gradually increased to white heat, he had the men before him at his
mercy. Women of the world complained that he was hard and unsympathetic;
some elderly men considered his statements unguarded and even unsound;
but men below thirty heard him gladly. This evening he was stirred for
some reason to the depths of his being, and was irresistible. When he
enlarged on the love of a mother, and charged every son present to repay
it by his life and loyalty, a hundred men glared fiercely at the roof,
and half of them resolved to write home that very night. As he thundered
against lust, the foul counterfeit of love, men's faces whitened,
and twice there was a distinct murmur of applause. His great passage,
however, came at the close, and concerned the love of a man for a maid:
“If it be given to any man in his fresh youth to love a noble woman
with all his heart, then in that devotion he shall find an unfailing
inspiration of holy thoughts and high endeavours, a strong protection
against impure and selfish temptations, a secret comfort amid the
contradictions and adversities of life. Let him give this passion full
play in his life and it will make a man of him and a good soldier in the
great battle. And if it so be that this woman pass from his sight or be
beyond his reach, yet in this love itself shall he find his exceeding
reward.” As he spoke in a low, sweet, intense voice, those in the
gallery saw the preacher's left hand tighten on the side of the pulpit
till the bones and sinews could be counted, but with his right hand he
seemed to hold something that lay on his breast “Look here, Charlie”--as
the two men stood in a transept till the crowd passed down the main
aisle--“if you don't mind I would like... to shake hands with the
preacher. When a man takes his coat off and does a big thing like that
he ought to know that he has... helped a fellow.”

“I'll go in too, Jack, for he's straightened me, and not for the first
time. You know how I used to live... well, that is over, and it was
Rutherford saved me.”

“He looks as if he had been badly hit some time. Do you know his
record?”

“There's some story about his being in love with a poor girl and
being determined to marry her, but 'Iron Warrants' got round her and
persuaded her that it would be Rutherford's ruin; so she disappeared,
and they say Rutherford is waiting for her to this day. But I don't give
it as a fact.”

“You may be sure every word of it is true, old man; it's like one of
Thompson's tricks, for I was in his office once, and it's just what that
man in the pulpit would do; poor chap, he's served his time... I say,
though, suppose that girl turns up some day.”

They were near the vestry door and arranging their order of entrance
when a woman came swiftly down the empty aisle as from some distant
corner of the church and stood behind them for an instant.

“Is this Mr. Rutherford's room, gentlemen”--with a delicate flavour of
Highland in the perfect English accent--“and would it be possible for me
to see him... alone?”

They received a shock of delight on the very sight of her and did
instant homage. It was not on account of her magnificent beauty--a
woman in the height of her glory--nor the indescribable manner of good
society, nor the perfection of her dressing, nor a singular dignity of
carriage. They bowed before her for the look in her eyes, the pride of
love, and, although both are becoming each day her more devoted slaves,
yet they agree that she could only look once as she did that night.

It was Charlie that showed her in, playing beadle for the occasion that
this princess might not have to wait one minute, and his honour obliged
him to withdraw instantly, but before the door could be closed he heard
Rutherford cry--“At last, Magdalen, my love!”

“Do you think, Charlie...?”

“Rutherford has got his reward, Jack, and twenty years would not have
been too long to wait.”




AN IMPOSSIBLE MAN


I

“We must have Trixy Marsden on the Thursday”--for Mrs. Leslie was
arranging two dinner parties. “She will be in her element that evening;
but what are we to do with Mr. Marsden?”

“Isn't it rather the custom to invite a husband with his wife? he might
even expect to be included,” said John Leslie. “Do you know I'm glad we
came to Putney; spring is lovely in the garden.”

“Never mind spring just now,” as Leslie threatened an exit to the lawn;
“you might have some consideration for an afflicted hostess, and give
your mind to the Marsden problem.”

“It was Marsden brought spring into my mind,” and Leslie sat down
with that expression of resignation on his face peculiar to husbands
consulted on domestic affairs; “he was telling me this morning in the
train that he had just finished a table of trees in the order of their
budding, a sort of spring priority list; his love for statistics is
amazing.

“He is getting to be known on the 9 train; the men keep their eye on
him and bolt into thirds to escape; he gave a morning on the influenza
death-rate lately, and that kind of thing spreads.

“But he's not a bad fellow for all that,” concluded Leslie; “he's
perfectly straight in business, and that is saying something; I rather
enjoy half an hour with him.”

“Very likely you do,” said his wife with impatience, “because your mind
has a squint, and you get amusement out of odd people; but every one
has not your taste for the tiresome. He is enough to devastate a dinner
table; do you remember that escapade of his last year?”

“You mean when he corrected you about the length of the American
passage, and gave the sailings of the Atlantic liners since '80,” and
Leslie lay back to enjoy the past: “it seemed to me most instructive,
and every one gave up conversation to listen.”

“Because no one could do anything else with that voice booming through
the room. I can still hear him: 'the _Columba_ six days, four hours,
five minutes.' Then I rose and delivered the table.”

“It was only human to be a little nettled by his accuracy; but you ought
not to have retreated so soon, for he gave the express trains of England
a little later, and hinted at the American lines. One might almost call
such a memory genius.”

“Which is often another name for idiocy, John. Some one was telling me
yesterday that quiet, steady men rush out of the room at the sound of
his voice, and their wives have to tell all sorts of falsehoods about
their absence.

“Trixy is one of my oldest and dearest friends, and it would be a shame
to pass her over; but I will not have her husband on any account.”

“Perhaps you are right as a hostess; it is a little hard for a frivolous
circle to live up to Marsden, and I hear that he has got up the
temperatures of the health resorts; it's a large subject, and lends
itself to detail.”

“It will not be given in this house. What Trixy must endure with that
man! he's simply possessed by a didactic devil, and ought never to have
married. Statistics don't amount to cruelty, I suppose, as a ground of
divorce?”

“Hardly as yet; by-and-bye incompatibility in politics or fiction will
be admitted; but how do you know, Florence, that Mrs. Marsden does not
appreciate her husband? You never can tell what a woman sees in a man.
Perhaps this woman hungers for statistics as a make-weight She is very
amusing, but a trifle shallow, don't you think?”

“She used to be the brightest and most charming girl in our set, and I
have always believed that she was married to Mr. Marsden by her people.
Trixy has six hundred a year settled on her, and they were afraid of
fortune-hunters. Mothers are apt to feel that a girl is safe with a man
of the Marsden type, and that nothing more can be desired.”

“Perhaps they are not far wrong. Marsden is not a romantic figure,
and he is scarcely what you would call a brilliant _raconteur_; but he
serves his wife like a slave, and he will never give her a sore heart.”

“Do you think it nothing, John, that a woman with ideals should be tied
to a bore all her days? What a contrast between her brother and her
husband, for instance. Godfrey is decidedly one of the most charming men
I ever met.”

“He has a nice tenor voice, I grant, and his drawing-room comedies are
very amusing. Of course, no one believes a word he says, and I think
that he has never got a discharge from his last bankruptcy; but you
can't expect perfection. Character seems to oscillate between dulness
and dishonesty.”

“Don't talk nonsense for the sake of alliteration, John. Trixy's brother
was never intended for business; he ought to have been a writer, and I
know he was asked to join the staff of the _Boomeller_. Happy thought!
I'll ask him to come with his sister instead of Mr. Marsden.”

And this was the note:

“My dear Trixy,--

“We are making up a dinner party for the evening of June 2nd, at eight
o'clock, and we simply cannot go on without you and Mr. Mars-den. Write
_instantly_ to say you accept; it is an age since I've seen you, and my
husband is absolutely devoted to Mr. Marsden. He was telling me only
a minute ago that one reason why he goes by the 9 train is to get the
benefit of your husband's conversation. With much love,

“Yours affectionately,

“Florence Leslie.

“P.S.--It does seem a shame that Mr. Marsden should have to waste an
evening on a set of stupid people, and if he can't tear himself from his
books, then you will take home a scolding to him from me.

“P.S.--If Mr. Marsden _will not_ condescend, bring Godfrey to take care
of you, and tell him that we shall expect some music.”


II

“Come to this corner, Trixy, and let us have a quiet talk before the men
arrive from the dining-room. I hope your husband is duly grateful to me
for allowing him off this social ordeal. Except perhaps John, I don't
think there is a person here fit to discuss things with him.”

“Oh, Mr. Marsden does not care one straw whether they know his subjects
or not so long as people will listen to him, and I'm sure he was quite
eager to come, but I wanted Godfrey to have a little pleasure.

“I'm so sorry for poor Godfrey,” and Mrs. Marsden settled herself down
to confidences. “You know he lost all his money two years ago through
no fault of his own. It was simply the stupidity of his partner, who was
quite a common man, and could not carry out Godfrey's plans. My husband
might have helped the firm through their difficulty but he was quite
obstinate, and very unkind also. He spoke as if Godfrey had been
careless and lazy, when the poor fellow really injured his health and
had to go to Brighton for two months to recruit.”

“Yes, I remember,” put in Mrs. Leslie; “we happened to be at the
Metropole one week end, and Godfrey looked utterly jaded.”

“You have no idea how much he suffered, Florrie, and how beautifully he
bore the trial. Why, had it not been for me, he would not have had money
to pay his hotel bill, and that was a dreadful change for a man like
him. He has always been very proud, and much petted by people. The poor
fellow has never been able to find a suitable post since, although he
spends days in the city among his old friends, and I can see how it is
telling on him. And--Florrie, I wouldn't mention it to any one except
an old friend--Mr. Marsden has not made our house pleasant to poor
Godfrey.”

“You don't mean that he... reflects on his misfortunes.”

“Doesn't he? It's simply disgusting what he will say at times. Only
yesterday morning--this is absolutely between you and me, one must have
some confidant--Godfrey made some remark in fun about the cut of Tom's
coat; he will not go, you know, do what I like, to a proper tailor.”

“Godfrey is certainly much better dressed,” said Mrs. Leslie, “than
either of our husbands.”

“Perhaps it was that made Tom angry, but at any rate he said quite
shortly, 'I can't afford to dress better,' and of course Godfrey knew
what he meant. It was cruel in the circumstances, for many men spend far
more on their clothes than Godfrey. He simply gives his mind to the
matter and takes care of his things; he will spend any time selecting a
colour or getting a coat fitted.”

“Is your brother quite... dependent on... his friends, Trixy?”

“Yes, in the meantime, and that is the reason why we ought to be the
more considerate. I wished to settle half my income on him, but it is
only a third of what it used to be--something to do with investments has
reduced it--and Mr. Marsden would not hear of such a thing; he allows
Godfrey one hundred a year, but that hardly keeps him in clothes and
pocket money.”

“Still, don't you think it's all Godfrey could expect?” and Mrs. Leslie
was inclined for once to defend this abused man. “Few husbands would do
as much for a brother-in-law.”

“Oh, of course he does it for my sake, and he means to be kind. But,
Florrie, Mr. Marsden is so careful and saving, always speaking as if we
were poor and had to lay up for the future, while I know he has a large
income and a sure business.

“Why, he would not leave that horrid street in Highbury, say what I
could; and I owe it to Godfrey that we have come to Putney. When Tom
went out to Alexandria, my brother simply took our present house and
had it furnished in Mr. Marsden's name, and so when he came home from
Alexandria we were established in The Cottage.”

“John is the best of husbands, but I dare not have changed our house in
his absence,” and Mrs. Leslie began to get new views on the situation.
“Was not Mr. Marsden rather startled?”

“He was inclined to be angry with Godfrey, but I sent the boy off to
Scarborough for a month; and he is never hasty to me, only tiresome--you
can't imagine how tiresome.”

“Is it the statistics?”

“Worse than that. He has begun the Reformation now, and insists on
reading from some stuffy old book every evening, _Dumas' History_, I
think, till I wish there never had been such a thing, and we were all
Roman Catholics.”

“Very likely he would have read about the Popes, then, or the saints.
My dear girl, you don't wish to have your mind improved. You ought to be
proud of your husband; most men sleep after dinner with an evening paper
in their hands, and are quite cross if they're wakened. But there they
come, and we must have Godfrey's last song.”


III

“Nurse will rise at four and bring you a nice cup of tea. Are you sure
you will not weary, being alone for two hours?” and Mrs. Marsden, in
charming outdoor dress, blew eau-de-Cologne about the room. “Don't you
love scent?”

“Where are you going?” asked Marsden, following her with fond eyes. “You
told me yesterday, but I forget; this illness has made me stupider than
ever, I think. Wasn't it some charity?”

“It's the new society every one is so interested in, 'The Working Wives'
Culture Union.' What is wanted is happy homes for the working men,”
 quoting freely from an eloquent woman orator, “and the women must be
elevated; so the East End is to be divided into districts, and two young
women will be allotted to each. Are you listening?”

“Yes, dear; but it rests me to lie with my eyes closed. Tell me all
about your society. What are the young ladies to do?”

“Oh, they're to visit the wives in the afternoon and read books to them:
solid books, you know, about wages and... all kinds of things working
men like. Then in the evening the wives will be able to talk with
their husbands on equal terms, and the men will not want to go to the
public-houses. Isn't it a capital idea?”

A sad little smile touched Marsden's lips for an instant “And where do
you meet to-day? It's a long way for you to go to Whitechapel.”

“Didn't I tell you? The Marchioness of Gloucester Is giving a Drawing
Room at her town house, and Lady Helen wrote an urgent note, Insisting
that I should come, even though it were only for an hour, as her mother
depended on my advice so much.

“Of course I know that's just a way of putting it; but I have taken lots
of trouble about founding the Union, so I think it would hardly do for
me to be absent You're feeling much better, too, to-day, aren't you,
Thomas?”

“Yes, much better; the pain has almost ceased; perhaps it will be quite
gone when you return. Can you spare just ten minutes to sit beside me?
There is something I have been wanting to say, and perhaps this is my
only chance. When I am well again I may... be afraid.”

Mrs. Marsden sat down wondering, and her husband waited a minute.

“One understands many things that puzzled him before, when he lies in
quietness for weeks and takes an after look. I suspected it at times
before, but I was a coward and put the thought away. It seemed curious
that no one came to spend an hour with me, as men do with friends; and I
noticed that they appeared to avoid me. I thought it was fancy, and that
I had grown self-conscious.

“Everything is quite plain now, and I... am not hurt, dear, and I don't
blame any person; that would be very wrong. People might have been far
more impatient with me, and might have made my life miserable.

“God gave me a dull mind and a slow tongue; it took me a long time to
grasp anything, and no one cared about the subjects that interested me.
Beatrice... I wish now you had told me how I bored our friends; it would
have been a kindness; but never mind that now; you did not like to give
me pain.

“What troubles me most is that all these years you should have been
tied to a very tiresome fellow,” and Marsden made some poor attempt at
a smile. “Had I thought of what was before you, I would never have asked
you to marry me.

“Don't cry, dear; I did not wish to hurt you. I wanted to ask your
pardon for... all that martyrdom, and... to thank you for... being my
wife; and there's something else.

“You see when I get well and am not lying in bed here, maybe I could not
tell you, so let me explain everything now, and then we need not speak
about such things again.

“Perhaps you thought me too economical, but I was saving for a purpose.
Your portion has not brought quite so much as it did, and I wished
to make it up to you, and now you can have your six hundred a year as
before; if this illness had gone against me, you would have been quite
comfortable--in money, I mean, dear.

“No, I insist on your going to Lady Gloucester's; the change will do
you good, and I'll lie here digesting the Reformation, you know,” and he
smiled, better this time, quite creditably, in fact “Will you give me a
kiss, just to keep till we meet again?”

When the nurse came down at four to take charge, she was horrified to
find her patient alone, and in the death agony, but conscious and able
to speak.

“Don't ring... nor send for my wife... I sent... her away knowing the
end was near... made her go, in fact... against her will.”

The nurse gave him brandy, and he became stronger for a minute.

“She has had a great deal to bear with me, and I... did not wish her to
see death. My manner has been always so wearisome... I hoped that...
nobody would be here. You are very kind, nurse; no more, if you please.

“Would it trouble you... to hold my hand, nurse? It's a little lonely...
I am not afraid... a wayfaring man though a fool... not err therein...”

He was not nearly so tedious with his dying as he had been with his
living; very shortly afterwards Thomas Marsden had done with statistics
for ever.


IV

Three days later Leslie came home from the city with tidings on his
face, and he told them to his wife when they were alone that night
“Marsden's lawyer made an appointment after the funeral, and I had an
hour with him. He has asked me to be a trustee with himself in Mrs.
Marsden's settlement.”

“I'm so glad; you must accept, for it will be such a comfort to poor
Beatrice; but I thought Godfrey was her sole trustee.”

“So he was,” said Leslie grimly, “more's the pity, and he embezzled
every penny of the funds--gambled them away in card-playing and... other
ways.”

“Godfrey Harrison, Beatrice's brother?”

“Yes, her much-admired, accomplished, ill-used brother, the victim of
her husband's stinginess.”

“If that be true, then Godfrey is simply a...”

“You mean an unmitigated scoundrel. Quite so, Florence, and a number
of other words we won't go over. I tell you,” and Leslie sprang to his
feet, “there is some use in swearing; if it had not been for one or two
expressions that came to my memory suddenly to-day, I should have been
ill. Curious to say, the lawyer seemed to enjoy them as much as myself,
so it must be a bad case.”

“But I don't understand--if Godfrey spent Trixy's money, how is there
anything to manage? Did he pay it back?”

“No, he did not, and could not; he has not enough brains to earn
eighteen pence except by cheating, and if by any chance he came into a
fortune, would grudge his sister a pound.”

“Then...?”

“Don't you begin to catch a glimpse of the facts? Why, Marsden toiled
and scraped, and in the end, so the doctors say, killed himself to
replace the money, and he had just succeeded before his death.”

“How good of him! but I don't see the necessity of all this secrecy on
his part, and all those stories about low interest that he told Trixy.”

“There was no necessity; if it had been some of us, we would have let
Mrs. Marsden know what kind of brother she had, and ordered him out of
the country on threat of jail.

“It was Marsden's foolishness, let us call it, to spare his wife the
disgrace of her idol and the loss of his company. So her husband was
despised beside this precious rascal every day.”

“Trixy will get a terrible shock when she is told; it would almost have
been kinder to let her know the truth before he died.”

“Mrs. Marsden is never to know,” said Leslie; “that was his wish; she's
just to be informed that new trustees have been appointed, and we are to
take care that she does not waste her income on the fellow.

“People will send letters of condolence to Mrs. Marsden, but they will
say at afternoon teas that it must be a great relief to her, and that
it's quite beautiful to see her sorrow. In two years she will marry some
well-dressed fool, and they will live on Marsden's money,” and Leslie's
voice had an unusual bitterness.

“Did you ever hear of another case like this, John?”

“Never; when old Parchment described Marsden giving him the
instructions, he stopped suddenly.

“'Marsden,' he said, 'was the biggest fool I ever came across in the
course of forty-two years' practice,' and he went over to the window.”

“And you?”

“I went to the fireplace; we were both so disgusted with the man that we
couldn't speak for five minutes.”

After a short while Mrs. Leslie said, “It appears to me that this slow,
uninteresting man, whom every one counted a bore, was in his own way...
almost a hero.”

“Or altogether,” replied John Leslie.




RIGHTEOUS OVER MUCH


I

“How do you do, Crashaw? didn't know you condescended to conversaziones
at the Town Hall, at least when there is no dancing. Their Worships will
be satisfied this evening, for the whole world and his wife seem to
be here, and some people that have never been in the world before, one
would judge.”

“There is just one person I wish particularly to see, and I can't find
her; that is Arkwright's young wife. I passed the old man himself a
minute ago, conversing with Peterson, and lecturing on the effect of the
American tariff on wool. Has he left her at home, Jack, to keep her out
of harm and to tantalise the public?”

“Not he. Jacob is quite proud of her, to do him justice, and worships
the ground on which she treads, although I doubt whether she knows that
or cares. Mrs. Arkwright is very beautiful In my humble judgment, but
there is a wide gulf between twenty-one and seventy. Besides, she has a
temper, and no sympathy with his religious notions. When December weds
May, it's bound to be either a comedy or a tragedy, and this is half and
between.”

“When you have quite finished your interesting moral reflections, Jack,
and can attend to practical detail, could you do me the pleasure of
pointing Mrs. Arkwright out to me, and, as you seem to have seen a good
deal of her, introducing your unworthy servant? I'll be able then to
judge for myself. We are obliged to Arkwright for creating a piquant
situation.”

“Come to the next room, where the band is playing; Mrs. Arkwright was
there ten minutes ago. But I don't know whether I can intrude on her
at the present moment, even although provided with so good-looking and
well-dressed an excuse. Yes; there, Crashaw, in the alcove, talking to a
parson, that is Jacob's wife. Was I right?”

“Your taste, Jack, is perfect; but, indeed, a man who admires Mrs.
Arkwright deserves no credit; it is inevitable. There is prettiness, and
there is sweetness, and there is taking-ness, and they are very well,
but this is on another level.”

“I thought you would be astonished, and am pleased to notice that even
so _blasé_ a critic of womankind can grow enthusiastic on occasion.
Isn't that a proud head?”

“Why, Jack, that woman ought to have been a duchess, and a leader of
society in town, instead of Mrs. Jacob Arkwright, wife of a self-made
wool-spinner and a deacon. Her face is the most complete piece of
Grecian beauty I ever saw--nose, eyes, chin, mouth, perfect; forehead
perhaps the slightest bit high--a Greek would have worn a ribbon--and
that glorious hair, brown shot with gold.”

“She is certainly looking splendid to-night Do you notice how she has
put the other women to confusion?”

“Simply a goddess among a lot of peasants. I say, Jack, how in the world
did that girl, with such a face and such an air, ever marry Arkwright?
Where was she hidden away? Had she no opportunity? Talk about waste,
this is an absolute sin. Do you know her history?”

“Lived with her mother, and got her living by teaching. Arkwright, who
has all his life been busy with wool and religious affairs, saw her
in chapel, and remembered he was human. Fell in love with her on first
sight, having lived scatheless unto threescore years and ten, and got a
fellow-deacon to negotiate the affair; at least, so it is reported.”

“Most likely, I should say; but, Jack, what an abandoned criminal that
mother of hers must have been, and what did she herself do this thing
for? She has a will of her own, or else I do not know a woman's face.”

“Oh, the old story. Her mother was proud and poor, and considered
Arkwright an excellent suitor. Mrs. Arkwright is not much troubled
about religion, and I fancy has a very different idea of things from her
husband, but she had the chance of a handsome provision for herself and
her mother, and she seized it There could be no romance; but can you
blame the old lady, Crashaw, urging such a marriage, or the daughter
escaping from the dreary governess life?”

“No, I suppose not. The girl took the veil, and obtained a settlement
at the same time, after a sound Protestant fashion; but it does seem
a crime against nature to sacrifice a beautiful young woman to a hard,
bloodless old Puritan like Arkwright, who is, I grant you, very able
in wool, and perfectly straight in character, but who is perfectly
uncultured and hopelessly bigoted. What a life of dreariness she must
lead in the Arkwright circle!”

“Well, of course she can't attend concerts, nor dance, nor hunt, nor go
into society, but she has a good home, and a carriage, and as much money
as she can spend. I don't suppose that she cares for Jacob, but she does
her duty as a wife, and does not seem unhappy.”

“Certainly Mrs. Arkwright is not unhappy this evening with her present
companion. I will hazard the guess, Jack, without any reflection on
her wifely character, that she never looked at her worthy, but not very
attractive, husband with the same interest which she is bestowing on
that handsome parson. Who is he, Jack?”

“Egerton's his name, and he's Arkwright's minister--a Congregationalism
or Baptist; I can never remember the difference. He is a very able
fellow, they say, and a rattling good preacher, quite broad and liberal
in his views, but a perfect ascetic in his life. He must be very much
in Mrs. Arkwright's company, and he's certainly the decentest man she
knows.”

“Arkwright is about seventy, and is not so strong as he looks, Jack; his
wife will have time to console herself, and her second husband will be a
very lucky man, for he will have a fortune and her heart.”


II

“You have come quickly, Mr. Egerton, and that was well done,” said Jacob
Arkwright, looking very white and worn, propped up with pillows. “I
have much to say, and I'll take a sup o' brandy; them that never touches
drink when they're well get the good when they're ill.

“That gives me the strength I need for the time, and ma work is nearly
done. Don't go away, Laura; I want you to hear what I say to the pastor.

“The doctor says 'at ma days are few, mayhap only to-morrow, and it's
best to speak when a man's head is clear, and I thank God mine is that,
though my body be weakened by this sickness.”

His wife stood on one side of the bed, now and then rearranging the
pillows at his back and bathing his forehead with vinegar--for scent
he would not have--and Egerton stood on the other, refusing to sit down
while she stood, and watching her strong white hands at their service,
but only once did he look her straight in the face.

“You're young, Pastor--thirty, did ye say?--and I'm owd, seventy-two
this month, and I havena' known you long, but there's no mon I've liked
better or could trust more.” And he looked steadily at Egerton with a
certain softening of expression.

“You've been very kind to me and to the chapel, Mr. Arkwright, and I
hope it may be God's will to spare you and raise you up again,” and
although the words were formal, the accent was tender and moving.

“No, no, lad; our times are in His hand, and I have received the
summons, and so we 'ill go to business. And first about ma affairs. I
wish ye to understand everything, that ye may be able to do your duty by
ma widow.”

Egerton was conscious that Mrs. Arkwright straightened herself, and
could feel the silence in the room; but the dying man was not one to
appreciate an atmosphere.

“It may be that I was too owd for marrying, and ma ways too
old-fashioned. Ma house has no been very bright for a young wife, and ma
conscience did not allow me liberty in worldly amusements. But according
to my nature I can say before God that I loved ye, Laura, and have tried
to do ma part by ye.”

“You married me a poor girl, and have been most... kind to me, Jacob.
Why speak of such things?” and her voice was proud and pained.

“You have been a faithful wife to me,” he went on, as one fulfilling a
plan, “and have put up with my... peculiarities--for I know you do not
think wi' me in things, and do not like some of the men 'at came to the
house. Oh, I said nowt, but I saw aal.”

Mrs. Arkwright laid her hand on her husband's, and it occurred to
Egerton from a slight flush on his face that she had never done this
before.

“Ma will has been made for a year”--it was plain that Mr. Arkwright was
to go on to the end, and Egerton could not have lifted his eyes for a
ransom--“and I have left aal to my wife without any condition, with
just one legacy. It is to you, Egerton, and I hope you'ill not refuse
it--just something to remind you of me, and... get you books.”

“It was very... good of you, sir, and I am most... grateful, but I...
really can't accept your kindness. It is not likely that I will ever
marry, and I've got enough for myself.”

As he spoke, Mrs. Arkwright shook up the pillows hastily, and went to a
side table for a glass.

“Well, if you will not, then there's an end of it; but you will grant me
another favour which may be harder,” and for a minute Arkwright seemed
to hesitate.

“Ma wife will be left young and rich, and although I have never said it
to you, ma lass, she is... beautiful.”

“Jacob, this is not seemly.” Her voice was vibrant with passion.

“Blame me not for saying this once, and if another be present, he is our
friend, and I am coming to my point; the brandy again, and I'll soon be
done.

“You have no brother, and I have no person of my blood to guide you, ma
lass; ye might be persecuted by men 'at would bring you nowt but trouble
and vexation of heart You need an honest man to be your guardian and
give you advice.

“Ye may never want to marry again, for I doubt ye have had little joy
these years, or again ye may, to taste some joy, and I would count it
unjust to hinder you--peace, lass, till I be done; I was ever rough and
plain--and some one must see that your husband be a right mon.

“So I turned it over in ma mind, and I sought for a friend 'at was sound
o' heart and faithful. This speaking is hard on me, but it 'ill soon
be done.” And as Mrs. Arkwright stooped to give him brandy once more,
Egerton saw that her cheeks were burning.

“An older mon might have been better, but ye're old for your years,
Pastor, and have parted wi' the foolishness o' youth. You have some
notions I don't hold with, for I'm the owd sort--believe and be saved,
believe not and be damned--but ye're no a mon to say yea and do nay.
Naa, naa, I have seen more than I said; and though some 'at came to the
house had the true doctrine, they were shoddy stuff.

“George Egerton, as I have done good to you and not ill these years,
will ye count Laura Arkwright as your sister, and do to her a brother's
part, as ye will answer to God at the laast day?”

The wind lifted the blind and rustled in the curtains; the dying man
breathed heavily, and waited for an answer. Egerton looked across the
bed, but Mrs. Arkwright had withdrawn behind the curtain. Arkwright's
eyes met the minister's with an earnest, searching glance.

“I will be as a brother to your wife while I live.”

As he spoke, Arkwright grasped his hand and gave a sigh of content; but
when Egerton left the room, Laura refused to touch his hand, and her
face was blazing with anger.


III

“You have been very generous to the chapel, and we thank you very much
for keeping up all Mr. Arkwright's subscriptions those three years.
The work of God would have been much crippled had it not been for your
liberality.”

“Do you know, Mr. Egerton, that when you talk in that grave, approving
fashion, as if I were one of your devout women like poor Mrs. Tootle,
who is really a good creature, although her husband is a sanctimonious
idiot, I feel a perfect hypocrite.”

“Why do you always depreciate yourself...”

“Do not interrupt me, for I am determined to settle this matter once for
all, and not walk about in a vain show, as if I were a saint You think
me good, and so do the chapel people, I suppose, because I give to
foreign missions and Bible-women, and go to the prayer-meeting, and
attend the special meetings. Do you know why I do those things?”

“Yes, I think so,” said the minister; “but I will hear your reason.”

“Because Mr. Arkwright believed in missions and evangelists, and he
was... a better husband to me than I was wife to him, and because
it would be dishonourable not to use his money for the objects he
approved.”

“And the services? Is that the reason you are always present, and set
such a good example?” And it was plain the minister did not take Mrs.
Arkwright at her value of herself.

“Oh, this is because... because...”

“Yes?” And Mr. Egerton smiled as one who is giving checkmate.

“Because you were Jacob's friend, and the only man he... loved, and
because, although we have quarrelled several times, and I have been very
rude to you once or twice, still”--and a smile brought Mrs. Arkwright's
face to perfection--“we are friends also.”

“You have been... angry with me,” said Egerton, “when I could not
understand the reason, but I never doubted your friendship. If I were in
serious trouble, I would come to you rather than to any man.”

“Would you really?” Then her tone changed.

“I don't believe you, for you would go to some snuffy, maundering old
minister.”

“And you are good,” he insisted, taking no notice of her petulance. “You
are honest, and brave, and high-minded, and loyal, and...”

“Pious, with a gift of prayer, you had better add. How blind you are,
for all your knowledge and... other qualities. You forgot to add
sweet-tempered; but perhaps you were coming to that.”

“No, I would not say that, and I am rather glad you are not
gentle,”--the minister was very bold,--“for you would not be...
yourself.”

“You had your suspicions, then, and are not sure that I am ready for
canonising? Do you know I feel immensely relieved; suppose we celebrate
this confession by tea? Would you ring the bell, Mr. Egerton?”

“There is something I want to talk about, and as it's rather important,
would you mind, Mrs. Arkwright, giving me a few minutes first? Tea is
rather distracting.”

“Composing, I find it--but as you please; is it the District Visitors,
or the Nurses' Home, or the Children's Holiday, and is it money?” Mrs.
Arkwright for some reason was very gracious.

“No, it has nothing to do with the chapel. I wish to speak about...
yourself.”

“Yes?” and she looked curiously at him.

“You remember that day when Mr. Arkwright committed you to my care, and
I gave my word to..

“Do your best to look after a very troublesome woman,” Mrs. Arkwright
interposed hurriedly; “it was a... risky task, and I thought you were
far too hasty, and just a little presumptuous, in undertaking it, but
you've been a very lenient guardian for your age. Have I done anything
wrong?”

“No, and you could not at any time in my eyes,”--Mrs. Arkwright made as
though she would curtsey,--“but others might do wrong to you, and I have
been anxious for some time.

“Mr. Arkwright was afraid lest some unworthy man should admire you or
desire your wealth, and... marry you, and your life be miserable. And he
wished me to save you from this, and I promised to do my best.”

“Well?” and her voice had begun to freeze. “I remember all that.”

“It is difficult to speak about such things, but you know that I...
would do anything to save you pain....”

“Go on,” and now her eyes were fixed on the minister.

“It came to my ears and I saw for myself that one whom I knew slightly
and did not like was paying you attentions, and it might be, as I also
heard, was favoured by you. So it seemed my duty to make enquiries about
Mr. Crashaw.”

“And?”

“There is nothing against his character, and I have heard much good of
him--that he has cultured tastes and is very well liked by those who
know him; personally we could never be friends, for various reasons, but
he... is not unworthy to be the husband of... a good woman. That is
all I have to say”; and the saying of it was plainly very hard to the
minister.

“You recommend me to marry Mr. Crashaw, if that gentleman should do me
the honour to ask my hand, or do you propose to suggest this step to
him, so as to complete your duty as guardian?” Mrs. Arkwright was now
standing and regarding Egerton with fierce scorn.

“My information seemed to me reliable”--he was also standing, white and
pained--“and I thought it would help you in that case to know what I
have told you, when you came to decide.”

“If I knew who told you such falsehoods, I would never speak to them
again, and I would make them suffer for their words. Mr. Crashaw! and
it was to that cynical, worldly, supercilious tailor's block you were to
marry me. What ill have I done you?”

“God knows I did not desire.... I mean... do you not see that I tried to
do what was right at a cost?... Why be so angry with me?”

“Because I do not really care what any person in this town or all
Yorkshire says about me, but I do care and cannot endure that you should
turn against me, and be content to see me Crashaw's wife or any other
man's.” And she drove the minister across the room in her wrath--he had
never seen her so beautiful--till he stood with his back to the door,
and she before him as a lioness robbed of her cubs.

“It has been my mistake, for I understand not women,” he said, with
proud humility. “I beg your pardon, and am more than ever... your
servant.”

She looked at him stormily for ten seconds; then she turned away. “If
that is all you have to say, you need not come again to this house.”


IV

“You will excuse me sending a verbal message by the doctor, for, as you
see, I am past writing, and... the time is short I wanted to speak with
you, Mrs. Arkwright, once before... I died.” And Egerton thought of the
day she had stood by her husband's deathbed as now she stood by his,
only that the nurse had left the room and there was no third person to
be an embarrassment “Do not suppose I forget your words to me the last
time we met in private,” he continued, as she did not speak nor look at
him, beyond one swift glance as she came into the room; “and believe
me, I would not have forced myself on you, nor would I have asked this
favour, had it not been that... I have something of which I must deliver
my soul.”

“You are not dying; you were a strong man, and a few days' illness
couldn't... be fatal,” she burst out, and it seemed as if Mrs. Arkwright
for once was going to lose control and fall a-weeping.

Then she mastered herself, and said almost coldly, “Had I known you
were so ill, I would have called to inquire; but nothing was said of
pneumonia, only a bad cold.”

“You forgive me, then, that ill-judged interference, Mrs. Arkwright, and
anything else in which I have offended you or failed in... my brother's
part?”

“Do not speak like that to me unless you wish to take revenge; it is I
who ask your pardon for my evil temper and insolence that day, and other
times; but you are too... good, else you would have understood.”

“You did not, then, hate me, as I supposed?” and his voice was strained
with eagerness.

“When you were prepared to approve my engagement to Mr. Crashaw? Yes,
I did, and I could have struck you as you bore witness to his
character--whom you detested. Conscientious and unselfish... on your
part, very. And yet at the same time I... did not hate you; I could
have... you are a dull man, Mr. Egerton, and I am not a saint. Is it
milk you drink?” And when she raised his head, her hands lingered as
they had not done before on her husband's.

“Are you really dying?” She sat down and looked at him, her head between
her hands. “You and I are, at least, able to face the situation.”

“Yes, without doubt; but I am not a martyr to overwork, or anything
else; my death is not a sentimental tragedy; do not let any one speak of
me in that fashion: I simply caught a cold and did not take care; it's
quite commonplace.” When he smiled his face was at its best, the dark
blue eyes having a roguish look as of a boy.

Mrs. Arkwright leant back on her chair and bit her lower lip.

“This is good-bye, then, and our friendship--six years long, isn't
it?--is over. Had I known it was to be so short--well, we had not
quarrelled.”

“Not over,” and he looked wistfully at her; “this life does not end
all.”

“Ah, you have the old romantic faith, and one would like to share it,
but no one knows; this life is the only certainty.”

“In a few hours,” he went on, “I shall know, and I expect to see my
friend Jacob Arkwright, whom I loved, although we only knew one another
for three years, and he... will ask for you.” Mrs. Arkwright regarded
Egerton with amazement.

“He will ask how I kept my trust, and I... will be ashamed, unless you
hear my confession and forgive me. For I... have sinned against you and
your husband.”

“In what?” she asked, with a hard voice.

“God knows that I had no thought of you he might not have read while
he was here. And afterwards for a year I was in heart your brother; and
then--oh, how can I say it and look you in the face, who thought me a
good and faithful minister of Christ?” and his eyes were large with pain
and sorrow.

“Say it,” she whispered, “say it plain; you must,” and she stretched out
her hand in commandment.

“I loved you as... a man loves a woman whom he would make his wife, till
it came to pass that I made excuses to visit you, till I watched you on
the street, till I longed for the touch of your hand, till I... oh, the
sin and shame--thought of you in the service and... at my prayers; yet I
had been left your guardian and had promised to be as a brother to you;
besides, nor was this the least of my shame, you were rich.”

“And now?” She had risen to her feet “I have finally overcome, but only
within these few months, and my heart is at last single. You are to me
again my friend's wife, and I shall meet him... in peace, if you forgive
me.”

For a few seconds nothing was heard but his rapid breathing, and then
she spoke with low, passionate voice.

“Your love needs no forgiveness; your silence... I can never forgive.”

He lived for two hours, and he spoke twice. Once he thanked his nurse
for her attentions, and just before he passed away she caught the words,
“through much tribulation... enter the Kingdom... God.”




A PROBATIONER

One winter I forsook the cottage at Drumtochty, in spite of the pure
white snow and the snell, bracing wind from Ben Urtach, and took rooms
in Edinburgh. It was a poor exchange, for the talk of professors and
advocates, although good enough in its way, was not to be compared with
the wisdom of James Soutar; but there were more books in Edinburgh than
in the Glen, and it was there that I met my probationer. From time to
time we passed upon the stair, when he would shrink into a landing and
apologise for his obstruction, and if in sheer forgetfulness I said
“Fine day,” with the rain beating on the windows, he nervously agreed.
With his suspicion of clerical attire, and his deferential manner, he
suggested some helot of the ecclesiastical world, whose chiefs live in
purple and fine linen, and whose subordinates share with tramway men and
sempstresses the honour of working harder and receiving less pay than
any other body in the commonwealth. By his step I had identified him as
the tenant of a single room above my sitting-room, and one wondered how
any man could move so little and so gently. If he shifted a chair, it
was by stealth, and if in poking his fire a coal dropped on the hearth,
he abandoned the audacious attempt.

One grew so accustomed to these mouse-like movements that it came as
a shock when my neighbour burst into activity. It was on a Friday
afternoon that he seemed to be rearranging his furniture so as to leave
a clear passage from end to end of the room, and then, after he had
adjusted the chairs and table to his satisfaction, he began a wonderful
exercise. Sometimes he would pace swiftly backwards and forwards with
a murmuring sound as one repeating passages by rote, with occasional
sudden pauses, when he refreshed his memory from some quarter. Sometimes
he stood before the table and spoke aloud, rising to a pitch, when
one could catch a word or two, and then he would strike a book, quite
fiercely for him, and once or twice he stamped his foot almost as hard
as a child could. After this outbreak he would rest a while, and then
begin again on the lower key, and one knew when he reached the height by
the refrain, “Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus.” It was an amazing
development, and stimulated thought.

“No,” explained our excellent landlady, “he's no daft, though ye micht
think sae. He's a minister without a kirk, an' he's juist learnin' his
sermon; but, Losh keep us, he's by ordinar' the day.

“He's my cousin's son, ye see”--and Mrs. Macfarlane settled to
historical detail--“an' his mother's a weedow. She focht to get him
through St. Andrew's, an' hoo she managed passes me. Noo he's what is
called a probationer, an', eh, but he earns his livin' hard.

“His business,” continued Mrs. Macfarlane, “is to tak' the pulpit when
a minister is awa' at a Sacrament or on his holiday, and any Sabbath he
micht be at Peterhead and the next at Wigtown. He gets his orders on
Friday, an' he sets aff wi' his bit bag on Saturday, an' a weary body he
is on Monday nicht An' it's little he maks for a' he does, bare twenty
shillin' a week clear; but naebody can stand this colie-shangie,
(disturbance).” For above the landlady's exposition rose the
probationer's voice: “Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus.”

What she said to her cousin once removed I know not, but it was not in
vain, for in the evening this was brought by the servant:--

“Dear Sir,--

“It affords me sincere regret to learn that you have been disturbed in
the midst of your literary avocations by sounds and movements emanating
from my room. They are unfortunately and unavoidably connected with a
new method of professional work which I have been advised to adopt by
experienced friends. It would, however, be unrighteous that one man
should hinder another in his daily labour, and I would be greatly
obliged if you could indicate any time of absence during which I might
be free to speak aloud and move with energy in my chamber without
offence. Apologising for my unwitting annoyance,

“I am,

“Yours respectfully,

“Hiram Clunas.”

It was written on poor paper and a single sheet, but the handwriting was
that of a scholar, a man accustomed to form Hebrew and Greek characters,
and the very flavour of pedantry was attractive, so that one wanted to
know the writer, and I seized the excuse of a personal answer.

He was quite unprepared for my coming, and upset a Hebrew lexicon and
four German books on the Prophets before he could get a chair in his
single room below the slates; nor had he any small talk to offer, but
he was ready enough to speak about his own work, and seemed anxious to
explain his recent departure. It also occurred to me that he wanted my
judgment.

“My work, let me explain,” he said, hesitatingly, “is not pastoral or...
devoted to a particular sphere, since my gifts have not yet... commended
themselves to a congregation after such a fashion that they were
inclined to... in short, wished to have me as their minister. Mine is
a vagum ministerium. I am what is called a probationer, that is, I have
been duly educated in profane and sacred learning for the holy ministry,
and have passed certain examinations... without discredit.”

“Of that I am sure,” I interpolated with sincerity, whereat the
probationer ought to have bowed and replied, “It is very good of you
to say so,” but as it was he only blushed and looked as if he had been
caught boasting.

“And then?” I suggested.

“It remains to discover whether I am... fit for the practical work of my
calling--if it be, indeed, I am called at all.. And here the little man
came to a halt.

“You are examined again,” I inquired, tentatively, “or placed under a
chief for a little?”

“Well, no, although the latter would be an excellent way--but it is not
for me to criticise the rules of my Church; if any congregation has lost
its minister, then such as I, that is, persons in a state of probation,
are sent each Sabbath to... preach, and then the people choose the one
who... And again Mr. Clunas came to a stand for want of fitting words.

“Who comes out first in the preaching competition,” I added, and in an
instant was sorry.

“It would ill become me to put the matter... in such a form, and if I
have done so it has been an inadvertence, and indeed I did not mean to
complain, but rather to explain the reason of... the noise.”

“Please tell me whatever you please, but it was not noise, for I heard
some words...

“The rivers of Damascus? I feared so, sir; that was the climax or
point of repetition--but I will relate the matter in order, with your
permission.

“It has been my habit, after I have duly examined a passage in the
original language and the light of competent scholars, and verified its
lessons by my own reason and conscience--collected the raw material,
if I may so say--to commit the same to writing according to my ability,
using language that can be understood of the people, and yet conforming
as far as may be to the Elizabethan standard.”

In my opinion, I indicated, he had done well. “I judged that I would
have your approval so far, but hereafter comes in a grave question of
expediency, on which I should like your mind as a neutral person and one
given to literary pursuits. My habit is further to read to the people
what I have written in a clear voice, and with such animation as is
natural to me, in the faith that whatsoever may have been given me by
the Spirit of Truth may be witnessed to the hearers by the same Spirit.”

This appeared to me a very reasonable method and a just hope.

“Others, however, acting according to their nature, commit their message
to memory, and deliver it to the people with many lively and engaging
gestures, which pleases the people and wins their hearts.”

“And so the groundlings prefer the windbags,” I interrupted, “and elect
them to be their minister.”

“It is not so that I wished you to infer,” and the probationer's voice
was full of reproof, “for I trust my desire is not to obtain a church,
but the confirmation of my calling through the voice of the people; yet
who knoweth his heart?” And the probationer was much distressed.

It was only my foolish thought, I hastened to explain, and besought him
to continue.

“A friend of... much shrewdness and, I am sure, of good intention, has
spoken to me at length on my... want of favour with the people, and has
pointed out that the Word must be placed before them after a winsome
fashion.”

“And so?”

“He urged me to choose texts which could be frequently repeated with
effect, and so lodge their idea in the mind of the people, and that
I should not use any manuscript, but should employ certain arts of
oratory, such as beginning low and raising the voice up to a climax
where it would be good to repeat the text with emphasis.

“As an example and... inducement he dwelt upon the case of one
probationer who had taken for his text, 'And there shall be no more
sea,' whereon he composed a single sermon, to which he devoted much
pains. This he delivered daily for some hours in his chamber, and at the
end of each paragraph said in a loud voice, 'And there shall be no more
sea.' He was elected to three churches within a short space,” concluded
Mr. Clunas.

“You have therefore thought it desirable to amend your habit.”

“Well, so far,” and the probationer was much embarrassed, “it was
impossible for me to handle what my adviser called 'repeaters,' such as
that I have mentioned, for my mind does not incline to them; but as I
had been labouring the tendency to prefer meretricious and sensational
religion to that which is austere and pure from the text, 'Are not Abana
and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? *
it seemed to me that I might for once... make trial... that is, use the
words Abana and Pharpar as a symbol to... fix the truth, as it were. It
is very laborious and... not grateful to me. Do you think that...
I am doing right?” and my probationer fixed me with an anxious eye.

“Quite so, sir, I understand perfectly,” as I was making a blundering
effort to suggest that Providence hardly intended that my probationer
should go round the country like a showman with “repeaters.”

“You have confirmed my own idea and... delivered my feet from falling,
for I had come nearly to unreality in a holy thing, besides ridding me
from an irksome task,” and he regarded the sheets--the “rivers” standing
out in half text--with strong dislike.

“There is another matter,” he continued, “on which I would fain have
your mind, since you have shown so much sympathy. It is now, I regret to
say, the custom for a person in my position, that is, on probation, to
print a number of certificates from influential persons and send them
to... the authorities in a vacant church. This I have refused to do;
but there is a special reason why I strongly desire to be settled...
not quite unworthy, I hope,” and a faint flush came to the probationer's
face.

“I understand”--for it was natural to suppose that he was engaged, as
many in his circumstances are, which grows into a pathetic tragedy as a
girl waits for long years till her betrothed is approved in his work and
can offer her a home--“and you have got your certificates.”

“A few, and it may be that I could secure more; here is one which...
I value deeply... count above gold. It's from Prof. Carphin; you know
what he has done, of course.

“Hebrew scholar”--the probationer rose from his chair and paced the
floor--“that is inadequate, quite inadequate; there are many Hebrew
scholars, thank God, but Prof. Carphin has gone deeper. Why, sir, he has
made a race of scholars, and changed the face of theological thought in
Scotland; he is the modern Erasmus of our land,” and the probationer was
very warm.

“This is what he has written of me, and it is superfluous to say that
from such a man this testimony is the highest praise; I ought hardly to
show such words, but you will not misjudge me.”

“I beg to certify that Mr. Hiram Clunas, Master of Arts and Bachelor of
Divinity, late Fellow of this College, is in my judgment fully competent
to expound the Hebrew Scriptures after an accurate and spiritual fashion
to any body of intelligent people.

“Zechariah Carphin,

“D.D., LL.D.

“Calvin College, Edinburgh.”

“Pardon me, it is my foolishness, but you notice 'fully'; this extremity
of language is, I need not say, undeserved, but that Dr. Carphin should
have written it is... a compensation for many little disappointments,”
 and the probationer's voice trembled.

“No, it will not be of material service in the way of gaining me a
hearing, for it is a... moral disgrace to my Church that the word of
this eminent man carries little weight with... committees and such like,
and that many people in this University city do not know his face when
he walks along Princes Street.

“This is from another kind of man, who is very... acceptable as
a preacher, and has much influence... in vacancies; it was an
indiscretion, I fear, to have asked him for... a certificate, as he has
only seen me once; but when one is pressed he is not always wise.”

“I have had the pleasure of knowing the Rev. Hiram Clunas for a
considerable time, and have much satisfaction in recommending him to
the favourable consideration of selection committees of vacant
congregations, He is a ripe scholar, a profound divine, an eloquent
preacher, a faithful pastor, an experienced Christian, with an
attractive and popular manner, and general knowledge of a varied and
rich character. Any congregation securing Mr. Clunas is certain to
increase both in number and finance, and I anticipate for this talented
young minister a future of remarkable and rapid success.

“MacDuff MacLeear, D.D.”

“Yes, it is a curious name, and I believe was, so to say, adopted.
Originally he was James MacLeear--MacLeear is his own--and some years
ago he inserted MacDuff, I am credibly informed, and now he has dropped
his Christian name.

“The reason for the change, it is understood, is for purposes of
advertisement in the public prints, where, I am informed, ordinary names
such as James or John are less... striking, so that preachers who desire
to appeal to the people use two surnames, as it were; it seems to me
doubtful in ethics, but one must not be ready to judge his neighbour in
such straits.

“No, his degree is not from a Scots University, but from a seat of
learning in a Western State of America--Auroraville, I think it is
called, but I am not sure. Yes, he wrote a little book on the _Maidens
of the Bible_ of a popular cast.

“You agree with me that no one could use such a testimony with...
self-respect, and I have resolved to print no certificates or make
any personal appeal; but I do not regret the effort I made, for it has
gained me the Professor's letter,” and the probationer folded up the
letter carefully and placed it in his desk.

“I fear that you must think me charged with vain ambition, but... it is
not for my own sake.”

From time to time we spent an hour together, and he told me of his
journeys, many and toilsome.

“Of course I am not sent to supply in cities, for they require men of
greater... experience; my allotment is always in the country, and I like
that better.

“When my station comes near I begin to look out of the window and see
whether the district is level or hilly--for though climbing tries one
a little, one has a fair view to refresh the soul, and I like woods
because of the mystery and the rustling of the leaves.

“Sometimes a farmer will meet me with a dogcart--and there are no men
so kind as farmers--but mostly I walk, and that is nothing unless the
distance be far and it be raining heavily. No, it may be a weakness of
the flesh, but I do not like a night walk, and yet to see the squares of
light in the cottage windows, flashing across a glen or breaking out of
a wood, is very pleasing.”

One snowy morning in February he came into my room in evident
excitement, with a letter in his hand.

“You have taken such an interest in my affairs that I thought you would
like to know... I have received a letter informing me that I am on
the short leet for Tilliegask... just two, and I am one... and I am to
preach next Sabbath... and the farmer with whom I stayed has sent a very
encouraging letter.”

During the week the probationer was much tried on a question of
conscience, whether he ought to act on a suggestion of his friend at
Tilliegask.

“It happens,” he explained to me, “that the people at Tilliegask are
very conservative in their views of the Bible, while, as you are aware,
I have been led to accept certain modern conclusions regarding the
history of the books, and my good friend desires that I should... make
no allusion to them in my discourse.

“Now,” went on the probationer, “it was not my intention to do so, but
after this advice am I not bound in conscience to indicate, simply to
indicate, my position, that they may not be deceived, and that I may not
obtain a church by guile?” And he read to me the sentence, which I make
no doubt no one understood, but which was to Mr. Clunas a great relief.
He came home from Tilliegask in high spirits, and speculated every
evening on his chances as against the other man who was to preach on
Sabbath.

“No, he was not what you would call a scholar,” and then the probationer
laughed aloud--a rare occurrence; “well, it was a translation in the
Latin class; he rendered _adhuc juvenis_ as 'a still youth,' which was
much tasted, and others, too, as remarkable; but it is not generous to
remember such... failings.”

The good man was indeed so distressed by this disparaging allusion to
his rival that he searched his heart for the sins of pride and jealousy,
which with envy and worldliness, he confessed to me, constantly beset
him. He also impressed upon me that although Mr. Tosh might not be a
scholar in the academic sense, yet he had such gifts of speech that
he would be an excellent minister for Tilliegask if the choice of that
secluded place should fall on Tosh. But the probationer waited anxiously
for the first post on Tuesday, which would give the result, and I was
only less anxious.

When he did not come down with tidings, and only the faintest sound came
from his room as of a chair occasionally shifted before the fire, I went
up, and found my friend very low and two open letters on the table.

“It has not been... God's will,” and he signed that I should read the
letters. One was from the ecclesiastical functionary who presides over
elections and church courts, and who is called by the suggestive name
of “moderator”; that the vote had been fifty-two for Mr. Clunas and
ninety-three for Mr. Tosh; that Mr. Tosh had been elected; that on
his, the moderator's appeal, the minority had “fallen in”; that he, the
moderator, was sure that Mr. Clunas would be pleased to know that his
supporters had shown so good a spirit, and that there was no doubt that
the Great Head of the Church had something in store for His servant;
and that in the event of Mr. Clunas applying in another vacancy he, the
moderator, would be willing to give him a strong certificate as to
the impression he, Mr. Clunas, had produced on the congregation of
Tilliegask. The second letter was from Wester Tilliegask, my friend's
host, who was full of genuine regret that Mr. Clunas had not won the
poll, who explained that up to Sabbath his chance was excellent, but
that Mr. Tosh had carried all before him by a sermon on “A Rainbow round
about the Throne,” with very fetching illustrations and quotations--Mr.
Tosh had also won several votes by shaking hands with the people at
the door, and ingeniously giving it to be understood that his idea of
pastoral duty was to visit his congregation four times a year; that,
notwithstanding all these Tosh attractions, he, Wester Tilliegask,
would have preferred Mr. Clunas; and that as there was a rumour that the
minister of Ballengeich would soon need a colleague, he would arrange
through his, Wester Tilliegask's, wife's brother that Mr. Clunas should
have a hearing. He added that a certificate from MacDuff MacLeear,
placing Mr. Tosh a little lower than St Paul, had told.

The probationer was very brave and generous, blaming no one, and
acknowledging that Tosh would be a more suitable man for Tilliegask, but
it was evident he was hardly hit.

“It was not to escape the unrest of this life,” he said, “nor for the
position, nor even for the sanction of my work; it was for the sake
of one who... has waited long to see me an ordained minister. She may
not... be spared much longer; my mother is now nearly seventy.” So it
was no sweetheart, but his mother of whom he thought.

“If I had been elected, I had purposed to start this forenoon and carry
the news myself, and I imagined the scene. I never could reach the
cottage unseen, for there is a window in the gable which commands the
road, so that mother is ever waiting at the garden gate for me.

“Do not count me foolish, but I was to pretend that I had just come to
visit her for a day, and then ask her how she would like to leave the
cottage and live in a manse.

“By this time she would jalouse something--'tis her word--but I would
tell nothing, only expatiate on the manse and her room in it, and...
and... she would suddenly throw her arms round my neck.... Excuse me,
sir; I will come down in the evening, if you please.”

Before evening he was hurrying down to the cottage, for after all he had
to go to his mother, and when he came back next Monday she was dead and
buried.

“Your sympathy is very grateful,” as we sat together, “and it helps me,
but I think my heart is... broken; although I had to live in Edinburgh
in order to accomplish my railway journeys, and we only saw one another
at intervals, we were all in all to one another....

“There were things passed between us I cannot tell, for it seems to me
that a mother's death-bed is a holy place; but she knew that I had lost
Tilliegask, and... she was not cast down, as I was for her sake.

“'Dinna lose heart, Hiram,' she said, her hand in mine, 'for my faith
will be justified; when I gave ye to the Lord the day your father died I
was sure, a' through the fecht o' education I was sure, an' when you got
your honours I was sure, an' when you got no kirk I was still as sure,
and now my eyes are clear, an' I see that God has savit you for a work
that hath not entered into my heart,' and she blessed me....”

From that day he began to fail, and although he struggled to fulfil
preaching engagements, he had at last to give up public work. But he
toiled harder than ever at the Semitic languages.

“It is not that I am deceiving myself with vain hopes,” he explained to
me one day, “for I know full well that I am dying, but it seemeth good
that whatsoever talent I have should be cultivated to the end.

“The future life is veiled, and speculation is vain, but language must
be used, and they who have mastered the ancient roots will be of some
service; it is all I can offer, and I must give of my best.”

The morning he died I looked over his few affairs and balanced his
accounts, which were kept in a small pass-book, his poor fees on one
side and his slender expenses on the other to a halfpenny.

“The expenditure may seem heavy the last few journeys, but my strength
failed by the way, and I was unable to walk to my destination, but there
may still be enough at the end of the week for what has to be done.

“There will be £9 15s. 6d. when all is paid.

“With the sale of my books it will suffice, for I have carefully
enquired, to buy a grave and defray the cost of burial. It is not
possible to be buried beside my mother, for our ground is full, so let
me lie where the sun is shining on the Grange Cemetery.”

Soon after his mind wandered, and I gathered he was in the vestry of
Tilliegask Kirk.

“Lord, be merciful to me and remember my infirmities... deliver Thy
servant from the fear of man and all doubleness of heart... give me
grace to declare Thy truth and to set Thee before me... bless my mother
and hear her prayers....”

After a little while he began to preach, but we could make nothing of
the words till he suddenly stopped and raised himself in the bed.

“Thou, Lord,” he cried, with great astonishment, “hearing me...
Forgive... I am not worthy to declare Thy Gospel....” What was said by
the Master none of us heard, but the astonishment passed into joy,
and the light thereof still touched and made beautiful his face as the
probationer fell on sleep.

It was a spring day when we laid his body to rest, and any one who cares
can find his grave because a weeping willow hangs over it, and this is
the inscription on the stone:

Hiram Clunas,

Probationer.

“It is a very small thing that I should be judged of man's judgment.”





A GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL


Never had I met any man so methodical in his habits, so neat in his
dress, so accurate in speech, so precise in manner as my fellow-lodger.
When he took his bath in the morning I knew it was half-past seven,
and when he rang for hot water that it was a quarter to eight Until a
quarter-past he moved about the room in his slow, careful dressing, and
then everything was quiet next door till half-past eight, when the low
murmur of the Lord's Prayer concluded his devotions. Two minutes later
he went downstairs--if he met a servant one could hear him say “Good
morning”--and read his newspaper--he seldom had letters--till nine, when
he rang for breakfast. Twenty-past nine he went upstairs and changed his
coat, and he spent five minutes in the lobby selecting a pair of gloves,
brushing his hat, and making a last survey for a speck of dust One glove
he put on opposite the hat-stand, and the second on the doorstep,
and when he touched the pavement you might have set your watch by
nine-thirty. Once he was in the lobby at five and twenty minutes to ten,
distressed and flurried.

“I cut my chin slightly when shaving,” he explained, “and the wound
persists in bleeding. It has an untidy appearance, and a drop of blood
might fall on a letter.”

The walk that morning was quite broken, and before reaching the corner,
he had twice examined his chin with a handkerchief, and shaken his head
as one whose position in life was now uncertain.

“It is nothing in itself,” he said afterwards, with an apologetic
allusion to his anxiety, “and might not matter to another man. But any
little misadventure--a yesterday's collar or a razor cut, or even an
inky finger--would render me helpless in dealing with people. They would
simply look at the weak spot, and one would lose all authority. Some of
the juniors smile when I impress on them to be very careful about
their dress--quiet, of course, as becomes their situation, but
unobjectionable. With more responsibility they will see the necessity of
such details. I will remember your transparent sticking-plaster--a most
valuable suggestion.”

His name was Frederick Augustus Perkins; so ran the card he left on my
table a week after I settled in the next rooms, and the problem of his
calling gradually became a standing vexation. It fell under the class of
conundrums, and one remembered from childhood that it is mean to be
told the answer, so I might not say to Mister Perkins--for it was
characteristic of the prim little man that no properly constituted
person could have said Perkins--“By the way, what is your line of
things?” or any more decorous rendering of my curiosity.

Mrs. Holmes, who was as a mother to Mr. Perkins and myself, as well as
two younger men of literary pursuits and irregular habits, had a gift of
charming irrelevance, and was able to combine allusions to Mr. Perkins'
orderly life and the amatory tendencies of a new cook in a mosaic of
enthralling interest.

“No, Betsy Jane has 'ad her notice and goes this day week; not that her
cookin's bad, but her brothers don't know when to leave. One was 'ere
no later than last night, though if he was her born brother, 'e 'ad a
different father and mother, or my name ain't 'Olmes. 'Your brother,
Betsy Jane,' says I, 'ought not to talk in a strange 'ouse on family
affairs till eleven o'clock.'

“'E left at 'alf-past ten punctual,' says she, looking as hinnocent as
a child, 'for I 'eard Mr. Perkins go up to 'is room as I was lettin' Jim
out.

“'Betsy Jane,' I says, quite calm, 'where do you expeck to go to as
doesn't know wot truth is?' for Mr. Perkins leaves 'is room has the 'all
clock starts on eleven, and e's in 'is bedroom at the last stroke. If
she 'adn't brought in Mr. Perkins she might'ave deceived me, gettin' old
and not bein' so quick in my hearing as I was; but that settled her.

“'Alf-past,” went on Mrs. Holmes, scornfully; “and 'im never varied
two minutes the last ten years, except one night 'e fell asleep in 'is
chair, being bad with hinfluenza.

“For a regular single gentleman as rises in the morning and goes out,
and comes in and takes 'is dinner, and goes to bed like the Medes and
Persians, I've never seen 'is equal; an' it's five-and-twenty years
since 'Olmes died, 'avin' a bad liver through takin' gin for rheumatics;
an' Liz-beth Peevey says to me, 'Take lodgers, Jemima; not that they
pays for the trouble, but it 'ill keep an 'ouse.'...

“Mr. Perkins' business;” it was shabby, but the temptation came as a
way of escape from the flow of Mrs. Holmes' autobiography; “now that I
couldn't put a name on, for why, 'e never speaks about 'is affairs; just
'Good evening, Mrs.'Olmes; I'll take fish for breakfast to-morrow;' no
more than that, or another blanket on 'is bed on the first of November,
for it's by days, not cold, 'e goes....”

It was evident that I must solve the problem for myself.

Mr. Perkins could not be a city man, for in the hottest June he never
wore a white waistcoat, nor had he the swelling gait of one who made an
occasional _coup_ in mines, and it went without saying that he did not
write; a man who went to bed at eleven, and whose hair made no claim
to distinction. One's mind fell back on the idea of law--conveyancing
seemed probable--but his face lacked sharpness, and the alternative of
confidential clerk to a firm of drysalters was contradicted by an air
of authority that raised observations on the weather to the level of a
state document The truth came upon me--a flash of inspiration--as I saw
Mr. Perkins coming home one evening. The black frock-coat and waistcoat,
dark grey trousers, spotless linen, high, old-fashioned collar, and
stiff stock, were a symbol, and could only mean one profession.

“By the way, Mr. Perkins,” for this was all one now required to know,
“are you Income Tax or Stamps?”

“Neither, although my duty makes me familiar with every department in
the Civil Service. I have the honour to be,” and he cleared his throat
with dignity, “a first-class clerk in the Schedule Office.”

“Our work,” he explained to me, “is very important, and in fact... vital
to the administration of affairs. The efficiency of practical government
depends on the accuracy of the forms issued, and every one is composed
in our office.

“No, that is a common mistake,” in reply to my shallow remark; “the
departments do not draw up their own forms, and in fact they are not fit
for such work. They send us a memorandum of what their officials wish to
ask, and we put it into shape.

“It requires long experience and, I may say, some... ability to compose
a really creditable schedule, one that will bring out every point
clearly and exhaustively--in fact, I have ventured to call it a
science”--here Mr. Perkins allowed himself to smile--“and it might be
defined Schedulology.

“Yes, to see a double sheet of foolscap divided up into some twenty-four
compartments, each with a question and a blank, space for the answer, is
pleasing to the eye, very pleasing indeed.

“What annoys one,” and Mr. Perkins became quite irritable, “is to
examine a schedule after it has been filled and to discover how it has
been misused--simply mangled.

“It is not the public simply who are to blame; they are, of course,
quite hopeless, and have an insane desire to write their names all over
the paper, with family details; but members of the Civil Service abuse
the most admirable forms that ever came out of our office.

“Numerous? Yes, naturally so; and as governmental machinery turns on
schedules they will increase every year. Could you guess, now, the
number of different schedules under our charge?”

“Several hundred, perhaps.”

Mr. Perkins smiled with much complacency. “Sixteen thousand four hundred
and four, besides temporary ones that are only used in emergencies. One
department has now reached twelve hundred and two; it has been admirably
organised, and its secretary could tell you the subject of every form.

“Well, it does not become me to boast, but I have had the honour of
contributing two hundred and twenty myself, and have composed forty-two
more that have not yet been accepted.

“Well, yes,” he admitted, with much modesty, “I have kept copies of the
original drafts,” and he showed me a bound volume of his works.

“An author? It is very good of you to say so,” and Mr. Perkins seemed
much pleased with the idea, twice smiling to himself during the evening,
and saying as we parted, “It's my good fortune to have a large and
permanent circulation.”

All November Mr. Perkins was engaged with what he hoped would be one of
his greatest successes.

“It's a sanitation schedule for the Education Department, and is, I dare
to say, nearly perfect It has eighty-three questions on every point,
from temperature to drains, and will present a complete view of the
physical condition of primary schools.

“You have no idea,” he continued, “what a fight I have had with our
Head to get it through--eight drafts, each one costing three days'
labour--but now he has passed it.

“'Perkins,' he said, 'this is the most exhaustive schedule you have
ever drawn up, and I'm proud it's come through the hands of the drafting
sub-department Whether I can approve it as Head of the publishing
sub-department is very doubtful.'”

“Do you mean that the same man would approve your paper in one
department to-day and...

“Quite so. It's a little difficult for an outsider to appreciate the
perfect order--perhaps I might say symmetry--of the Civil Service,” and
Mr. Perkins spoke with a tone of condescension as to a little child.
“The Head goes himself to the one sub-department in the morning and to
the other in the afternoon, and he acts with absolute impartiality.

“Why, sir,”--Mr. Perkins began to warm and grow enthusiastic,--“I have
received a letter from the other sub-department, severely criticising
a draft he had highly commended in ours two days before, and I saw his
hand in the letter... distinctly; an able review, too, very able indeed.

“'Very well put, Perkins,' he said to me himself; 'they've found the
weak points; we must send an amended draft;' and so we did, and got a
very satisfactory reply. It was a schedule about swine fever, 972 in
the department of Agriculture. I have had the pleasure of reading it
in public circulation when on my holidays.”

“Does your Head sign the letters addressed to himself?”

“Certainly; letters between departments are always signed by the chief
officer.” Mr. Perkins seemed to have found another illustration
of public ignorance, and recognised his duty as a missionary of
officialism. “It would afford me much pleasure to give you any
information regarding our excellent system, which has been slowly built
up and will repay study; but you will excuse me this evening, as I am
indisposed--a tendency to shiver which annoyed me in the office to-day.”

Next morning I rose half an hour late, as Mr. Perkins did not take
his bath, and was not surprised when Mrs. Holmes came to my room,
overflowing with concern and disconnected speech.

“'E's that regular in 'is ways, that when 'Annah Mariar says 'is water's
at 'is door at eight o'clock, I went up that 'urried that I couldn't
speak; and I 'ears him speaking to 'isself, which is not what you would
expect of him, he being the quietest gentleman as ever...”

“Is Mr. Perkins ill, do you mean?” for Mrs. Holmes seemed now in fair
breath, and was always given to comparative reviews.

“So I knocks and says, 'Mr. Perkins, 'ow are you feeling?' and all
I could 'ear was 'temperance'; it's little as he needs of that, for
excepting a glass of wine at his dinner, and it might be something 'ot
before going to bed in winter....

“So I goes in,” resumed Mrs. Holmes, “an' there 'e was sittin' up in'is
bed, with 'is face as red as fire, an' not knowing me from Adam. If it
wasn't for 'is 'abits an' a-catching of 'is breath you wud 'ave said
drink, for 'e says, 'How often have the drains been sluiced last year?'”
 After which I went up to Mr. Perkins' room without ceremony.

He was explaining, with much cogency, as it seemed to me, that unless
the statistics of temperature embraced the whole year, they would
afford no reliable conclusions regarding the sanitary condition of Board
Schools; but when I addressed him by name with emphasis, he came to
himself with a start:

“Excuse me, sir; I must apologise... I really did not hear... in
fact,” and then, as he realised his situation, Mr. Perkins was greatly
embarrassed.

“Did I forget myself so far as... to send for you?... I was not feeling
well. I have a slight difficulty in breathing, but I am quite able to go
to the office... in a cab.

“You are most kind and obliging, but the schedule I am... it just comes
and goes... thank you, no more water... is important and... intricate;
no one... can complete it... except myself.

“With your permission I will rise... in a few minutes... ten o'clock,
dear me... this is most unfortunate... not get down till eleven... I
must really insist...” But the doctor had come, and Mr. Perkins obeyed
on one condition.

“Yes, doctor, I prefer, if you please, to know; you see I am not a young
person... nor nervous... thank you very much... quite so; pneumonia is
serious... and double pneumonia dangerous, I understand... no, it is
not that... one is not alarmed at my age, but... yes, I'll lie down...
letter must go to office... dictate it to my friend... certain
form... leave of absence, in fact... trouble you too much... medical
certificate.”

He was greatly relieved after this letter was sent by special messenger
with the key of his desk, and quite refreshed when a clerk came up with
the chiefs condolences.

“My compliments to Mr. Lighthead... an excellent young official, very
promising indeed... and would he step upstairs for a minute... will
excuse this undress in circumstances... really I will not speak any
more.

“Those notes, Mr. Lighthead, will make my idea quite plain... and I hope
to revise final draft... if God will... my dutiful respect to the Board,
and kind regards to the chief clerk... it was kind of you to come, most
thoughtful.”

This young gentleman came into my room to learn the state of the case,
and was much impressed.

“Really this kind of thing--Perkins gasping in bed and talking in his
old-fashioned way--knocks one out of time, don't you know? If he had
gone on much longer I should have bolted.

“Like him in the office? I should think so. You should have seen the
young fellows to-day when they heard he was so ill. Of course we laugh
a bit at him--Schedule Perkins he's called--because he's so dry and
formal; but that's nothing.

“With all his little cranks, he knows his business better than any man
in the department; and then he's a gentleman, d'y see? could not say
a rude word or do a mean thing to save his life--not made that way, in
fact.

“Let me just give you one instance--show you his sort Every one knew
that he ought to have been chief clerk, and that Rodway's appointment
was sheer influence. The staff was mad, and some one said Rodway need
not expect to have a particularly good time.

“Perkins overheard him, and chipped in at once. 'Mr. Rodway'--you know
his dry manner, wagging his eyeglass all the time--'is our superior
officer, and we are bound to render him every assistance in our power,
or,' and then he was splendid, 'resign our commissions.' Rodway, they
say, has retired; but the worst of it is that as Perkins has been once
passed over he 'ill not succeed.

“Perhaps it won't matter, poor chap. I say,” said Lighthead, hurriedly,
turning his back and examining a pipe on the mantel-piece, “do you think
he is going to... I mean, has he a chance?”

“Just a chance, I believe. Have you been long with him?”

“That's not it--it's what he's done for a... for fellows. Strangers
don't know Perkins. You might talk to him for a year, and never hear
anything but shop. Then one day you get into a hole, and you would find
out another Perkins.

“Stand by you?” and he wheeled round. “Rather, and no palaver either:
with money and with time and with... other things that do a fellow more
good than the whole concern, and no airs. There's more than one man in
our office has cause to... bless Schedule Perkins.

“Let me tell you how he got... one chap out of the biggest scrape he'll
ever fall into. Do you mind me smoking?” And then he made himself busy
with matches and a pipe that was ever going out for the rest of the
story.

“Well, you see, this man, clerk in our office, had not been long up from
the country, and he was young. Wasn't quite bad, but he couldn't hold
his own with older fellows.

“He got among a set that had suppers in their rooms, and gambled a bit,
and he lost and borrowed, and... in fact, was stone broke.

“It's not very pleasant for a fellow to sit in his room a week before
Christmas, and know that he may be cashiered before the holidays, and
all through his own fault.

“If it were only himself, why, he might take his licking and go to the
Colonies; but it was hard... on his mother--it's always going out, this
pipe--when he was her only son, and she rather... believed in him.

“Didn't sleep much that night--told me himself afterwards--and he
concluded that the best way out was to buy opium in the City next day,
and take it--pretty stiff dose, you know--next night.

“Cowardly rather, of course, but it might be easier for the mater down
in Devon--his mother, I mean--did I say he was Devon?--same county as
myself--affair would be hushed up, and she would have... his memory
clean.

“As it happened, though, he didn't buy any opium next day--didn't get
the chance; for Perkins came round to his desk, and asked this young
chap to have a bit of dinner with him--aye, and made him come.

“He had the jolliest little dinner ready you ever saw, and he insisted
on the fellow smoking, though Perkins hates the very smell of 'baccy,
and--well, he got the whole trouble out of him, except the opium.

“D'y think he lectured and scolded? Not a bit--that's not Perkins--he
left the fool to do his own lecturing, and he did it stiff. I'll
tell you what he said: 'Your health must have been much tried by this
anxiety, so you must go down and spend Christmas with your mother, and I
would venture to suggest that you take her a suitable gift.

“With regard to your debt, you will allow me,' and Perkins spoke as
if he had been explaining a schedule, 'to take it over, on two
conditions--that you repay me by instalments every quarter, and dine
with me every Saturday evening for six months.

“See what he was after? Wanted to keep... the fellow straight, and cheer
him up; and you've no idea how Perkins came out those Saturdays--capital
stories as ever you heard--and he declared that it was a pleasure to
him.

“'I am rather lonely,' he used to say, 'and it is most kind of a young
man to sit with me.' Kind!”

“What was the upshot with your friend? Did he turn over a new leaf?”

“He 'ill never be the man that Perkins expects, but he's doing his level
best, and... is rising in the office. Perkins swears by him, and that's
made a man of the fellow.

“He's paid up the cash now, but... he can never pay up the
kindness--confound those wax matches, they never strike--he told his
mother last summer the whole story.

“She wrote to Perkins--of course I don't know what was in the
letter--but Perkins had the fellow into his room. 'You ought to have
regarded our transaction as confidential. I am grieved you mentioned my
name;' and then as I--I mean, as the fellow--was going out, 'I'll keep
that letter beside my commission,' said Perkins.

“If Perkins dies”--young men don't do that kind of thing, or else one
would have thought--“it'ill be... a beastly shame,” which was a terrible
collapse, and Mr. Geoffrey Light-head, of the Schedule Department, left
the house without further remark or even shaking hands..

That was Wednesday, and on Friday morning he appeared, flourishing a
large blue envelope, sealed with an imposing device, marked “On Her
Majesty's Service,” and addressed to--

“Frederick Augustus Perkins, Esq.,

“First Class Clerk in the Schedule Department,

“Somerset House,

“London,”

An envelope any man might be proud to receive, and try to live up to for
a week.

“Rodway has retired,” he shouted, “and we can't be sure in the office,
but the betting is four to one--I'm ten myself--that the Board has
appointed Perkins Chief Clerk,” and Lighthead did some steps of a
triumphal character.

“The Secretary appeared this morning after the Board had met 'There's a
letter their Honours wish taken at once to Mr. Perkins. Can any of
you deliver it at his residence?' Then the other men looked at me,
because--well, Perkins has been friendly with me; and that hansom came
very creditably indeed.

“Very low, eh? Doctors afraid not last over the night--that's hard
lines... but I say, they did not reckon on this letter. Could not you
read it to him? You see this was his one ambition. He could never be
Secretary, not able enough, but he was made for Chief Clerk. Now he's
got it, or I would not have been sent out skimming with this letter.
Read it to him, and the dear old chap will be on his legs in a week.”

It seemed good advice, and this was what I read, while Perkins lay very
still and did his best to breathe:--

“Dear Mr. Perkins,--

“I have the pleasure to inform you that the Board have appointed you
Chief Clerk in the Schedule Department in succession to Gustavus Rodway,
Esq., who retires, and their Honours desire me further to express their
appreciation of your long and valuable service, and their earnest hope
that you may be speedily restored to health. I am,

“Your obedient servant,

“Arthur Wraxhall,

“Secretary.”

For a little time it was too much for Mr. Perkins, and then he
whispered:--

“The one thing on earth I wished, and... more than I deserved... not
usual, personal references in Board letters... perhaps hardly regular...
but most gratifying... and... strengthening.

“I feel better already... some words I would like to hear again... thank
you, where I can reach it... nurse will be so good as to read it”

Mr. Perkins revived from that hour, having his tonic administered at
intervals, and astonished the doctors. On Christmas Eve he had made such
progress that Lighthead was allowed to see him for five minutes.

“Heard about your calling three times a day... far too kind with all
your work... and the messages from the staff... touched me to heart...
never thought had so many friends... wished been more friendly myself.

“My promotion, too... hope may be fit for duty... can't speak much,
but think I'll be spared... Almighty very good to me... Chief Clerk of
Schedule Department... would you mind saying Lord's Prayer together...
it sums up everything.”

So we knelt one on each side of Perkins' bed, and I led with “Our
Father”--the other two being once or twice quite audible. The choir of
a neighbouring church were singing a Christmas carol in the street, and
the Christ came into our hearts as a little child.




THE RIGHT HAND OF SAMUEL DODSON


I

“Smoking, as usual, and wasting your time after luncheon, instead
of hurrying to your offices and coining time into money like old Sam
Dodson, who can give the cash value of every five minutes,” and Welsby
sat down beside three other young Liverpool merchants in the club--all
men who had one eye on business and the other on the good of the city.
“Something's happened since I saw you fellows last on 'Change. Guess.”
 “Cotton up three points? A corn corner at Chicago? A big bear in lard?
Anything to do with fruit?”

“Nothing whatever to do with such prosaic subjects, and I am ashamed to
notice your mercenary tempers; this is a public affair, and is to be a
profound secret for exactly seventy minutes, after which it will appear
in the fourth edition of the _Evening Trumpet_.

“It's a pity that the early news could not be used for an operation in
cotton, but I'll take it along to the 'Flags,' and tell it under pledge
of silence to half a dozen brokers. If you are really interested in the
matter, this will give it a wider and more certain circulation than any
_Trumpet_ could.”

“We're all ears, Welsby.”

“Well, to begin at the beginning, you know how our people in Liverpool
are crowded together in courts and rookeries without room or air. It's
hard on the men and women, but it's hardest on the children, who have no
place to play in but the gutter.

“So a man wrote a letter to the papers about a month ago, pleading for
a fund to put down small playgrounds in the crowded districts, where the
little folk could come of an evening, and the mothers could sit, and the
men might smoke a pipe...

“I remember the letter,” broke in Cotton; “it was signed
'Philanthropist,' and was generally supposed to have been composed in a
moment of inspiration by some proprietor of insanitary property; it was
an elegant letter, and affected me very much--to tears, in fact,”

“It was signed 'Charles Welsby,' and you never read a word of it,
because it had no reference to polo nor the Macfarlane Institute for
Working Lads, the only subjects to which you give any attention. Four
people read it, however, and wrote to me at once. One man denounced the
scheme as another instance of the patronage of the rich. He added that
it was a sop, and that the toilers would soon find open places for
themselves.”

“He would mean your garden, Welsby,” suggested Lard. “The Socialist has
two main principles of action: first, to give nothing to any good cause
himself; and second, to appropriate his neighbour's property on the
first opportunity. And your other correspondents?”

“I had a letter from the inventor of a nonintoxicating beer, offering
£5 on condition that we advertised his beverage, which he discovered by
supernatural guidance and sold for philanthropic ends.”

“All queer beverages and patent medicines are owned by high-class
religious people, as far as I can understand,” remarked Com.

“Go on.”

“A third letter warned me that such spaces would be abused by bad
characters and sap the morals of the people; the writer also wanted to
know whether they would be closed on the Sabbath.”

“A publican evidently,” remarked Cotton; “no man is so concerned about
Sabbath observance. And so you got sick of the whole affair?”

“Rather, till I got this letter. I'll read it, and then you can make
your guesses at the enclosure.

“'Liverpool, June 9, 189-.

“'MY DEAR Sir,--Your letter of 7th ult, in the issue of the _Morning
Trumpet_ of May 8, caught my eye and received my most careful attention.
As you appeared to have established a _primâ facie_ case for what you
designate “People's Playgrounds,” I have occupied my leisure time in
examining the sanitary and social condition of certain parts of our
city which were more or less distinctly indicated in your letter. As
the result of my investigations, I am thoroughly convinced, in the
first place, that you have proved your case as regards the unfortunate
circumstances of the children in such parts, and, in the second place,
that your plan for their relief is practical and wisely considered,

“'It then became my duty as a citizen of Liverpool to consider what I
could do to further the ends of your scheme, and it seemed to me on
the whole most advisable to place a sum of money at your disposal, on
condition that it be spent with such other sums as may be sent you in
purchasing decaying property and creating playgrounds--said playgrounds
to be vested in the Parks and Gardens Committee of the City Council--and
I would suggest that people interested in each district be allowed
and encouraged to contribute to the furnishing and adornment of the
playgrounds.

“'I beg therefore to enclose a draft in your favour on Messrs.
Goldbeater & Co., Lombard Street, London, and I have only to add my
sincere approval of the good work you are doing among the poor of
Liverpool, and my wish, which, as a man of honour, you will doubtless
carefully respect, that you will take no steps to discover my name.--I
have the honour to be, your obedient servant,

“'Zaccheus.'”

“Satisfactory, very, although a trifle pedantic and long-winded. And the
sum, Welsby? I say £250.”

“£500” said Cotton.

“£1,000,” cried Lard.

“What do you say to £10,000?” and the draft was handed round.

“Congratulate you, old man.” Com shook hands with Welsby, and so did
they all, for he had worked hard in many a good cause. “You deserve your
luck; think I'll take to writing letters for my pet hospital. Who can he
be? Do you suspect any one?”

“Half a dozen, but I'm bound not to inquire; and I rather think that the
trail is covered at Goldbeater's beyond finding. But I know who did not
give it--Sam Dodson.

“No, of course I did not ask him for help. One does not court refusals;
but you know his meddling, ferreting ways. If he didn't stop me in the
street and ask fifty questions till I hinted at a subscription, when he
was off in a minute.”

“Nothing frightens him like a suggestion of that kind. He has raised
meanness to the height of genius. They say that he is worth £200,000,
but I wouldn't change with him,” said Lard, “for a million. When he
dies, Dodson will not leave a soul to regret him, and there'll not be
six people at his funeral.”

“You can't be sure, gentlemen,” said a quiet voice behind; “I've
overheard you on Dodson, and I hope what you say is not true.”

The speaker was one of those rare souls God sends forth at a time to
establish our faith in goodness; who are believed in by all parties, and
respected by all creeds, and loved by all classes; who sit on all the
charitable boards, and help on every good cause, and make peace in
quarrels; whom old men consult in their perplexities, and young men
turn to in trouble, and people follow with affectionate glances in the
street; who never suspect their own excellence, always take the lowest
seat, and have to be compelled to accept an honour.

“You have a good word to say for everybody, sir,” said Cotton with deep
respect; “but have you, even, ever got a penny from Mr. Dodson far a
charity?”

“Well, I cannot say that I remember an instance; only I'm sure that he
has his own way of doing good. Every one has, unless he be utterly bad;
and I'm seventy years old, gentle-men, and I never met that kind yet.”

“Greatheart is the only man in Liverpool who would say a word for
Dodson,” said Lard a minute later, “and in this case his charity has
rather overshot the mark; but it does one good to hear the old man. He
is a walking Sermon on the Mount, and the best thing about him is that
he believes in everybody; the very sight of his white hair makes me a
better man.”


II

“How tired you must be, Fred, after four hours' begging in offices! I'll
bring you a cup of tea in the study at once, and then you are to have a
nice little dinner all to yourself.

“Oh, no, I've not been extravagant at all, and I've not taken any money
out of our alms-box, and I'm not a wicked parson's wife who gets into
debt; but a hamper came from the country, with lots of good things in
it, and you will have the chicken; the children and I simply rioted in
plenty to-day. Now, I'll not hear a word about your expedition until you
have had some food.”

“There, I feel a perfect glutton, Ethel. I hope you have sent some of
the h-hamper to the sick.”

“I've done nothing of the kind; every single bit is to be eaten in this
Vicarage of St Ambrose; you would starve yourself and your family for
the parish, and I am sure you are the hardest working man in it. Well,
have you got the money to furnish the playground of St Ambrose's?”

“Do you mean have I come home with £54 in my pocket as the result of
one r-raid by a poor, dull, s-stammering parson, who couldn't make an
eloquent appeal to save his life?”

“You don't stammer, Fred, and I wish you wouldn't say such things; you
may... hesitate at a time, and I am sure any one would give you money
for a good cause, because you are... so sincere and...”

“That will do, Ethel; it's a great h-help to an obscure parson in the
poorest of parishes to have a wife who believes in him, and makes four
hundred pounds out of two.”

“And now about the money. Was the asking hard?”

“It might have been, but every one was so j-jolly. The first man I went
to was Mr. Welsby, and as soon as I came into his room he cried out,
'Was just thinking of you: I hope you're on the w-warpath for that
playground, for I've a five-pound note ready for you.'

“He sent me on to a cotton b-broker, and he thanked me several times
for coming on such a good errand, and backed up Welsby with five pounds.
Every person had a kind word, and by five o'clock I had...

“The whole sum?”

“With six p-pounds over, which will get a little sheltered seat for old
people. How good those city fellows are when they fancy a cause.”

“And when they fancy the man who pleads it, Fred. Did you not get one
refusal?”

“Well, I was h-hurt by one man, who treated me rather shabbily. He
allowed me to explain the whole scheme--swings, sand-heaps, seats and
all--and he asked me a hundred questions about the parish and my work,
till I think he knew as much about the place as we do ourselves, and
then sent me off without a penny--said he didn't give to subscriptions
on p-principle.”

“What a mean, hypocritical wretch!”

“I left rather down, for I had lost h-half an hour with him, and I was
afraid I had offended him by some remark, but when I met Welsby again in
the street and told him, he declared that I ought not to have been sent
there, because D-Dodson--that's his name--was the most inquisitive and
hardest man on 'Change.”

“He can't be a gentleman, at any rate, to question you for mere
curiosity; I hope you gave him something to think over.”

“No, I didn't; it's no use, and only frets oneself. He had a big
c-chance and lost it What do you say to inviting the subscribers down
some evening when the playground is in full occupation? They will get
full value for their money at the sight of the girls on the swings, and
the boys at ball, and the b-babies scooping up the sand, and the old
folks sunning themselves on their seats.”

“It will be splendid; but Fred, it goes to my heart that our own boys
can have no holiday, and when their schoolfellows are away in Wales,
will be sweltering in this close house.”

“How much have we in the h-holiday fund?”

“Just two pounds and sixpence. Save as I would, that is all I could
manage... If we had not given so much away we might...”

“You are just as r-ready to give as I am, my little wife, and none of us
regret anything we've done for the poor souls around us; but I'm sorry
for the boys. Did you tell them?”

“No, I hadn't the heart, so I played the coward and said you were
thinking the matter over, and that you would tell them, perhaps,
to-morrow morning.”

“Do you know I rather s-suspected this would be the end of it, and I
was planning how to make the best of things. I made up a series of cheap
trips, personally conducted, to New Brighton, and Cheshire, and Hale;
you'll give us our l-lunch, and we'll have a regular picnic. I have some
old knick-knacks of my schooldays at Shrewsbury, and I'll offer them as
p-prizes for the best account of the day. You'll come with us, too, and
we'll have a particularly jolly time.

“Letters? The post is late to-night That is about the c-contract for
swings, and this is a diocesan circular, and there is a new company
p-prospectus--rather an irony sending it to me--but here are two unknown
hands; let us see the news.

“Now isn't this good? £3 for the playground from a Dissenter who
c-complains I didn't call on him, and has a kind word about my hard
work, as he calls it; and I've been often annoyed at that man for the
things he said on Disestablishment. He may say anything he pleases now
on a platform; I know there is a kind heart behind the words.

“Will this be more money for the s-swings? Hurrah! here is an enclosure
of some sort But what is this...?”

“What's wrong, Fred? Is any one dead? Are you ill...?”

“Ethel, you are an excellent m-manager.”' The Vicar, very white as to
his cheeks, and somewhat wet as to his eyes, stood on the hearthrug and
waved his wife to a distance. “Be g-good enough to secure a commodious
farmhouse in North Wales, somewhere between Bettws-y-Coed and Llanberis,
for the month of August--with a little f-fishing attached, if possible.

“Please sit down, Ethel, and don't interrupt. I'm sane, quite sane; much
p-playground and domestic affliction have not made me mad. Now, where
was I? Yes, and arrange quite a s-series of tours round by Festiniog,
and up Snowdon, and down to Llandudno, and another to the Menai
Straits....

“You are an extravagant, d-dressy woman, Ethel, so you may get a
n-natty walking dress and three blouses, but keep a trifle for f-fishing
apparatus and special provisions... you are t-throttling me... then read
it yourself, read it aloud, and... I will p-process round the table. I
wish the boys had not gone to bed.”

“'Liverpool, _July_ 16, 189--.

“'Reverend and Dear Sir,--It has come to my knowledge from various
quarters that you and your devoted partner in life are doing a most
beneficent work, both sacred and secular, in a very necessitous district
of our great city, and that you are discharging this duty to your
fellow-creatures at severe cost to yourselves and your family.

“'My observation of life leads me to believe that none of our citizens
live harder lives, or make greater sacrifices, than clergymen of limited
means whose sphere of labour lies in poor parishes, and, without being
in any sense a good man--for my whole life is a struggle with one
besetting sin, which often getteth the victory--I have been filled
with respectful admiration, and have wished to assist, after a humble
fashion, in this Christian service.

“'As you may have some difficulty in securing a suitable holiday for
your family through your notorious charity--for such is the report
concerning you--I venture with much diffidence to enclose a draft
on London, which can be cashed at any bank, for your use, under two
conditions, which I must charge you to observe: (i) that the whole
sum be employed to the last penny in holiday expenses--including such
special outfit as may be judged fit by your wife for you all; and (2)
that you make no effort to discover the name of your unworthy friend.
The endorsement of this draft will be sufficient acknowledgment.

“'Trusting you will all have a health-giving, happy, and long holiday,

“'I have the honour to be,

“'Your humble servant,

“'Zaccheus'”

“Your voice is a little shaky, Ethel... don't wonder... such nonsense
about me and such c-compliments to you... yes, it will be g-glorious,
another honeymoon, and those rascals of boys, why won't they... Let us
thank God, wife; it came from Him....”


III

“You will be pleased to hear, mater dear, that corn is up twopence a
cental, and that the market is buoyant; that's the good of new blood
being brought into corn. I would have been lost in medicine.

“I have been studying the career of a corn prince, and it has five
chapters. He begins a poor boy--from the North of Ireland by preference,
but that is not necessary--then he attracts his chiefs attention, who
sends him out to America, where even the Yankees can't hold their own
with him, and he becomes manager of his firm. His next move is to start
in partnership with some young fellow who has money and no brains;
by-and-bye he discovers by instinct that corn is going to rise, so he
buys it ahead by the cargo, and piles up a gorgeous sum--say one hundred
thousand pounds. Afterwards he buys out Emptyhead, and becomes the
chief of a big house with lots of juniors, and he ends by being a Bank
director and moving resolutions at the Town Hall.

“Please don't interrupt, mother, for I have not done yet. Long before
the Town Hall level this rising corn man has gone up by stages from the
street off Princes Road to an avenue near the Park, and then into the
Park, and perhaps into the country, whence he appears as High Sheriff.

“One minute more, you impatient mother. A certain person who will
pretend to be nearly fifty when the corn man comes into his kingdom, but
will remain always at twenty-five exactly, and grow prettier every year,
will have a better set of rooms in each new house, and, at last, will
have her own carriage, and visit whole streets of poor folk, and have
all Liverpool blessing her. This is the complete history of the corn
man and his mother, as it will be expounded to after generations of
schoolboys by informing and moral philanthropists. What do you think of
it?”

“I think that you are a brave boy, Jack, and your mother is proud of you
and grateful; if it's any reward for you to know this, I can say that
the way you have taken your disappointment has been one of my chief
comforts in our great sorrow.”

“Don't talk as if I were a sort of little tin hero, mater, or else I'll
have to leave the room, for I'm nothing of the sort, really. If you only
saw me at my desk, or fussing round the offices, or passing the time of
day on corn, you would see that I was simply born for business.”

“Jack,” said Mrs. Laycock solemnly, “you have not been without faults,
I'm thankful to say, for you've been hot-tempered, hot-headed,
wilful, and lots of things, but this is the first time you have been
deliberately untruthful.”

“Mother, with all respect to you, I will not stand this insult,” and so
he slipped down on the floor and caressed his mother's hand. “You think
that I've no commercial ability. Wait for the event It will be swagger,
you bet.”

“I think everything that is good of you, Jack, as I ought, and your
father did; but I know that it was very hard that you could not go back
to Rugby this autumn and finish in the sixth, and go to Cambridge and
study at Caius, your father's college, and get your M.D., and take up
your father's profession and the one you loved, the noblest a man can
live and... die in,” and there was a break in the widow's voice.

“Of course, mater, that is what I would have preferred, and it was a
bit... stiff when I knew that it would all have to be given up; but that
was nothing to... losing father. And besides, I think that I may get on
in business and... help you, mother.”

“Your father had set his heart on your being a doctor, and I don't know
whether he ever spoke to you about it, but he hoped you might become a
specialist--in surgery, I think; he said you had the hands at least for
a good surgeon.

“It was his own heart's desire, you know, to be a surgeon, pure and
simple, and Mr. Holman, the great consultant, considered him to be
one of the best operators in the provinces, but he was obliged to be a
general practitioner.

“Why? Oh, because he had no private means, and he had you and me to
support, so he couldn't run any risks; he had to secure a regular
income; and there is something I wish you to understand, in case you
should ever think hardly of your father.”

“Mother--as if I could! The very people in the street admired
father; you know what they said in the _Morning Trumpet_ about his
self-sacrificing life, and his skill being at the disposal of the
poorest, without money and without price.”

“Yes, the papers were very kind, and his patients adored your father;
but I am certain some of our neighbours criticised him because he did
not make better provision for his wife and child. As if he had been
extravagant or improvident, who never spent a farthing on himself, and
was always planning for our welfare.”

“You are just torturing yourself with delusions, I am sure, mater. Did
any single person ever hint that father had not done... his duty by us?
I can't believe it.”

“One man did, at any rate, Jack, and that was our neighbour, Mr.
Dodson.”

“What did he say, the miserable old curmudgeon? Did he dare to bring a
charge against father? I wish I had been with you.”

“No, it was not that he said anything; it was rather what he implied;
he just questioned and questioned in an indirect fashion, all by way
of interest in our affairs, but left the impression on my mind that he
thought the doctor ought to have done better for his family.”

“What business had Mr. Dodson to call at all and to ferret into our
affairs, who was never before in our house? If we needed help--which we
don't--he is the last man in this district to give it. Do you know he's
the hardest, meanest creature in Liverpool? He'll leave a cab thirty
yards from his house when he's coming from the station, to keep
within the shilling limit, and he goes down in the penny 'bus with the
working-women to save twopence.”

“There is a certain young corn-broker,” interpolated Mrs. Laycock, “who
walks all the way to save even that penny, and I don't consider him
mean.”

“That is economy, and indicates the beginning of a fortune, which will
be shared with a certain sarcastic mater. But Dodson is a millionaire,
and has nobody depending on him but an old housekeeper. Certainly father
was not economical by his standard.”

“Your father was most careful and thrifty,” said the widow eagerly, “and
that is what I want to explain. He had to borrow money to educate
himself, and that he paid back, every penny, with interest Then, you
know, a doctor cannot keep himself for the first few years of his
practice--he only made £32 10s. 6d. the year he began--and when he
reached £200 he did a... foolish thing.”

“Let me guess, mater. Was it not marrying the dearest, sweetest,
prettiest...”

“Hush, you stupid boy! And we had to keep up a certain appearance and
pay a high rent, and we were very poor--poorer than the public ever
knew.

“Of course, the doctor had a large practice before he died, and people
used to think he made two and three thousand pounds a year; and Mrs.
Tattler-Jones, who knows everything, said our income was £4,000.

“His last year, your father earned £1,800 and got in £1,200; the other
£600 will never be paid; and yet he was so pleased because he had
cleared off the last penny of his debt, and thought he would begin to
lay something aside for your education.”

“But why did he not get the other £600? Could the people not pay?”

“They could pay everybody else--wine merchants, jewellers, and
car-owners--but their doctor's bill was left last, and often altogether,
and your father would never prosecute.”

“And didn't father attend many people for nothing?”

“No one will ever know how many, for he did not even tell me; he used to
say that if he didn't get often to church, he tried to do as people were
told to do there; his commandment was the eleventh, 'Love one another.'”

“Did father believe the same as clergymen about things, mater?”

“No, not quite, and I suppose some people would call him a heretic; but
you and I know, Jack, that if to do good and to be quite selfless, and
to be high-minded, pure, and true, is to be like Christ, then the doctor
was a Christian, the best I ever saw.”

“Very likely he was the same sort of heretic as Christ Himself. I say,
mater, there will be a good lot to speak up for father some day--widows
and orphans and such like. I'm proud to be his son; it's a deal better
to have such a father, of whom every person speaks well, than to come in
for a pot of money. If old Dodson had a son, how ashamed he would be of
his father.”

“Money is not a bad thing, all the same, Jack,” and Mrs. Laycock sighed.
“If we had had a little more than the insurance policy, then we would
not have had to come to this house, and you would not have been in an
office.”

“It's a jolly house, I think; and when the Christmas cards are stuck up
the decorations will be complete. I wonder if the advance ones will come
by this post? We'll see who remembers us.”

“That's the bell; and see, six, seven, I declare, ten to begin with!
Here's one in a rare old-fashioned hand. I'll take off the envelope and
you will see the name. Why, it's a letter, and a long screed, and a...
cheque!”

“Have some of those thieves paid their account? You are crying, mater.
Is it about father? May I see the letter, or is it private?”

“No, it's about you, too, my son. I wish you would read it aloud; I'm
not... quite able.”

“'Liverpool, _December_ 24, 189--.

“'Dear Madam,--

“'Along with many others in Liverpool, I experienced a feeling of keen
regret that in the inscrutable actings of Providence your respected
husband, Dr. Laycock, was, as it appears, prematurely removed from his
work and family.

“'It must be a sincere consolation for his widow to know that no man
could have rendered more arduous and salutary service to his fellows,
many of whom he relieved in pain, not a few of whom he was instrumental
in restoring to their families from the portals of death. Without
curiously inquiring into the affairs of private life, many persons were
persuaded that Dr. Laycock was in the custom of attending persons of
limited means as an act of charity, whereby he did much good, won much
affection, and doubtless has laid up for himself great riches in the
world to come, if we are to believe the good Book.

“'I have not, however, sent you this letter merely to express my
sympathy, shared with so many who have the privilege, denied to me, of
your personal friendship, or to express the admiration felt by all
for the eminent departed. My object is different, and must be its own
excuse. Unless I have been incorrectly informed--and my authority seemed
excellent--the noble life of Dr. Laycock hindered him from making that
complete provision for his family which he would have desired, and which
other men in less unselfish walks of life could have accomplished. This
disability, I am given to understand, has seriously affected the career
of your son, whom every one describes as a promising lad, so that he has
been removed from a public school, and has been obliged to abandon the
hope of entering on the study of medicine.

“'If my information be correct, it was his father's wish that your son
should follow in his steps, and it is incumbent on those who honoured
Dr. Laycock for his example of humanity, to see that his cherished wish
be fulfilled. Will you, therefore, in the light of the explanation
I have made at some length, accept the draft I have the honour to
send--value £1,000--and use the proceeds in affording to your son a
complete medical education at home and abroad? The thought that the just
desire of a good man has not fallen to the ground, and that a certain
burden will be lifted from his widow's life, will be more than
sufficient recompense to one whom you will never know, but who will,
so long as he may be spared, follow your son's career with sincere
interest.--Believe me, my dear madam, your obliged and grateful servant,

“'ZACCHEUS.'

“Hold it up against the light, mater; it's the prettiest Christmas card
we'll ever see.... You ought to be laughing, and not crying.... But I
feel a little--just a tiny wee bit watery myself.

“He might as well have told us his name; but I suppose he was afraid of
a row. Zaccheus? Why, that's the man who gave the playgrounds.
He must have a pile, and he knows how to use it; he's no Dodson, you
bet At any rate, though we don't know him, we can say, 'God bless him,'
mater.”

“Amen,” said Mrs. Laycock. “I hope the father knows.”


IV

“How do I know that there is something wrong, Bert? Because we've been
married five years last month, and I can read your face like a book,
or rather a great deal better than most books, for I'm not clever in
following deep books, but I'm quite sure about your face.

“No, I don't imagine, for you may be able to hide what you feel on the
'Flags,' but you let out the secret at home; and that is one reason why
I love you--because you are not cunning and secretive. Now tell me, is
cotton down, and have you lost?

“Oh, yes, Bert, I know your principle, that a man ought to bear the
burden outside, and the woman inside the home; but there are exceptions.
You have acted up to your principle splendidly. You have never said
a word all these years, although I know you've had anxious times, and
you've helped me many a time with my little troubles. Let me help you in
yours now.”

“Queenie, if you want to put me to utter shame, you have taken the right
way, for it's your thrift and good management which has given us our
happy home, and I...”

“Yes, you, Bert, you have idled your time, I suppose, and spent your
money on dress, and generally neglected your family. For shame, sir,
when you have done so well, and every one says that nobody is so much
respected. Don't look like that if you love me. What is it?”

“It is necessary that you be told, and I was going to speak this
evening, but it is very hard. Queenie, when I kissed the children and
looked at you all so happy, I felt like a... murderer.”

“Have you..

“No, on my word of honour, I have done nothing wrong, _that_ I can say;
neither you nor the little ones have any cause to be ashamed of me.”

“If you had, I would have stood by your side, Herbert, but I knew
disgrace would never come by you; then what is it? If it's only the loss
of some money, why, I know half a dozen economies.”

“It's far worse than that, wife, I fear. This will be our last Christmas
in our dear little home, and it's all my blame, and I feel... the basest
of men. As if you had trusted me when I had deceived you all.

“You are the best wife ever man had.... I feel better, and I'll explain
it all to you. It is not very difficult; it is so easy to be ruined.

“You know we are brokers, and our business is to buy or sell cotton for
other people, and we are responsible for them, so that if they cannot
pay the losses, we have to find the money.

“Two of our firms, which have been very kind to us, were sure cotton
would go up--and so it ought to have done, and will in the end--and they
bought so many bales through us.

“Well, a big house, which can do pretty much as it likes, seized the
opportunity of a fraud to rush in and upset the market, so our friends
and many others have to face declines they cannot meet So unless our
poor little firm can pay £10,000 at least on Monday, we must stop,
and... all our hard work to build up an honourable name is lost.

“We can scrape £4,000, and my partner and I have £1,000 private means to
put in, and... that's all. £5,000 short

“Yes, we have tried the Bank, but they can't do anything there.
Goldsworthy, the manager, is the nicest fellow living, and his 'No' is
almost as good as another's 'Yes'; but of course it was 'No'; we had no
security; the cot

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