'Come upstairs. I won't stay down here a minute longer!'

And Clare fled trembling to her room. Agatha did not go up till she had made sure the windows and shutters were securely fastened, and had also been the round of the house. Then she went to Clare, who was in such a panic of fright that she persuaded her to come and share her bed; and after she had grown calmer and finally dropped asleep, Agatha lay quiet and sleepless, revolving the events of the night, and praying for wisdom in dealing with the suspected Jane.

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, she called her into her room, and the very sight of her white trembling face proved her guilt. By dint of cross questioning, and much entreaty, Agatha was at last possessed of all information.

Watson, Major Lester's valet, was a devoted admirer of Jane. Together they often talked over their respective master and mistress, and Watson had told her of Major Lester's unsatisfactory interview with Agatha.

'It's some family papers that is locked up in that there cupboard he is wild to get at, and he says he has a right to 'em; and so he has, for he told a gentleman who was visitin' him that they would do him a mischief if they got into wrong hands. And it seems that Mr. Tom told Miss Dane all about 'em, and gave her the secret of opening that cupboard.'

From this statement Watson went on to work upon Jane's love of discovering a mystery and her insatiable curiosity; and at last led her to thoroughly search Agatha's room for any papers bearing on the subject. Quite by accident she came upon the secret drawer in the dressing-case. The fastening had become insecure, and, trembling at her audacity, Jane carried the packet to her lover, begging him to return it to her when he had possessed himself of its secret. The next move was to get her to leave the study windows unfastened, and here Jane's fortitude gave way.

'I know it was wicked, ma'am, but Watson, he told me it couldn't do you a injury; he wasn't a housebreaker, he wouldn't lay his finger on any property of yours! he only wanted to get his master what rightfully belonged to him. Major Lester, he would handsomely reward him for it, and so I did as he told me, but I never slept a wink all last night, and when I heard you go downstairs, I could have screamed out "Murder!" I was that scared.'

Then Jane begged and prayed with heartfelt sobs for forgiveness, and Agatha, feeling a pity for her, told her she would not dismiss her without a character, as at first she had determined to do, but would let her stay on for the month, at the end of which time she must go, as she could never keep a maid who had proved so utterly untrustworthy.

Coming downstairs from this interview with a worn face and anxious heart, Agatha was met by Elfie.

'Mr. Lester has come, Agatha. I met him in the garden, and he is in the drawing-room waiting for you.'



CHAPTER XV

Alick Lester

He was a man of honour, of noble and generous nature.'—Longfellow.

Mr. Alick Lester proved to be a pleasant, frank young fellow, with the sunniest eyes and smile that Agatha had ever seen. She took to him at once, and found herself telling him without any hesitation the history of the lost packet. He listened attentively, but was indignant when Agatha hinted that Watson might have acted under the major's instructions.

'No, Miss Dane, my uncle is a gentleman. He would never stoop so low as that. I know he tried to blacken my dear father's character, but he idolized his son, and hardly realized the mischief he was doing. Watson is a thorough scoundrel! I have always known it, and my uncle has already dismissed him for tampering with some of his letters. He was telling us about it last night, and Watson leaves him at the end of this week. Depend upon it, the chap was trying to get the papers in his own hands for ends of his own, and I think you were awfully plucky to catch him at it as you did. But now we must get hold of him at once, and get the packet from him.'

'I expect he will have left the neighbourhood,' said Agatha. 'If you wish to open the cupboard, my sister will tell you the secret. She has accidentally discovered it. Shall we go to the study now?'

The young man agreed at once to this proposal, and when Clare came forward, he looked at her with secret laughter in his eyes.

'They say a woman never rests content under a mystery,' he said; 'and you have proved my good angel, so I can only avow my gratitude. But do you know that from a boy I have viewed that cupboard as impenetrable as the sphinx itself? And yet my energy or ambition to solve its secret was never sufficient to allow me to succeed. My father always told me that age had some advantages, and that when the time came for me to know all that he did, I should do so.'

Clare flushed and felt very uncomfortable; then she met the young man's gaze calmly.

'I know I have shown the weakness of our sex, but it is not often one is brought into contact with such a mystery; and having had your father's Arabic motto translated to me, I could not resist the temptation of trying to prove its truth. I need not say I have not opened the cupboard. That temptation I was enabled to resist.'

'And the motto?' inquired the young man, passing his hand almost tenderly over his father's handiwork, and a shade coming over his brow as he spoke.

Clare's face was sad too, as she remembered from whom the translation had come, but she repeated quietly,—

'"A closed bud containeth Possibilities infinite and unknown."'

Then, stooping down, she turned the carved bud, until a sharp click was heard, and the door moved forwards; and then linking her arm in that of Agatha the sisters left the room, and Alick Lester was alone with the secret solved at last.

Two or three hours passed, and still he was shut in the study. When he at last appeared in the drawing-room, he seemed to have left his youth and brightness behind him there. He asked with knitted brow and anxious face if he might speak to Agatha alone, and then drawing a dusty leather portfolio from under his arm he held it out to her, saying, 'I received a letter written by my father shortly before his death, and which he had left in the charge of our lawyer. He told me to give this to you. I fancy it may not prove so valuable to you as my dear father hoped. It is merely a collection of notes of his, and a few valuable papers about some Assyrian and Egyptian antiquities. He always hoped to write a book upon the subject, but put off doing so until he could obtain more information on certain points, or links, that were missing.'

Agatha took her legacy very calmly.

'I daresay my sister Gwen, who is now abroad, will be interested in it. She is very fond of antiquities of all sorts.'

Then looking at the young fellow's dazed, troubled face, she said sympathetically, 'I am afraid you have spent a sad morning in looking over your father's belongings.'

He laughed a little shortly.

'I have had a shock, and feel bewildered. I have not the faintest idea how to act, and it is at present all dark to me. Miss Dane, you are a good woman, my father says. Will you pray that I may have right guidance about a very difficult matter? And may I come and see you again? I shall be staying at the Crown Hotel in Brambleton for the present. The Millers wanted me to go to them, but I cannot. If I stayed in this village at all, it would have to be at the Hall, and they—I do not want that.'

'I hope you do not look upon us as usurpers,' said Agatha. 'I cannot tell you how guilty I feel sometimes about accepting this house from your father, especially since your return. It seems as if you ought to be here.'

Then Alick Lester looked up with his sunny smile.

'Miss Dane, I assure you I would never live here! My future is to be spent either out in the colonies or—or in a different house to this. And I cannot tell you what a cheery, home-like aspect you have given to this old house. I am sure you are a boon to the neighbourhood, and I should like, if you don't think it forward of me upon so short an acquaintance, to look upon you all as friends.'

He grasped her hand warmly and departed; and from that time forward he was on a friendly and familiar footing with the inmates of his old home.

Watson was found to have already left the neighbourhood, as Agatha surmised, and no one was able to trace his movements. Not wishing to create disturbance in the village, Agatha did not mention his nocturnal visit to any one, and Alick was the only one who knew of it besides themselves. Elfie and Clare were both rather disappointed that the mystery of the cupboard seemed to be such a common-place affair, but they noticed that it had brought a great deal of anxious thought to Alick Lester. His face was almost careworn at times, and he seemed now to spend most of his time in London, occasionally coming to have a further rummage in the cupboard.

'It is crammed full of old letters and papers,' he said once to Agatha; 'and if you will let me look through them on the spot, it will be such a help to me.'

One day he brought in Roger Lester, and introduced him; and after that the two young fellows often dropped in to afternoon tea, assuring Agatha that they never felt so much at home anywhere else. They both had a fund of high spirits, and though Alick at times looked absorbed and pre-occupied in anxious thought, he knew how to throw it aside and be as light-hearted as his cousin.

They were sitting one afternoon on the verandah outside the drawing-room, when Roger turned to Agatha and remarked,—

'You would not imagine it, Miss Dane, but we two have grown up with such perfect cameraderie that until quite lately, I believe, we have never concealed a single thing from each other. And now if you hear of us drifting apart, and our liking turning to hate, you will know the cause—it is the renowned old carved cupboard.'

Alick had been talking and laughing with Elfie, but he stopped instantly as if he had been shot when he heard this speech, and there was an awkward silence for a minute.

Roger added with a laugh, 'It is some skeleton he has unearthed; but why he should refuse to let me share in the secret I can't imagine!'

'I don't think we need make it a matter of public talk,' said Alick hotly.

His cousin looked at him in astonishment, then changed the subject with a shrug of his shoulders and a laugh.

When they were gone Clare said thoughtfully, 'There is a mystery after all, and not a very pleasant one, apparently. I feel sorry for Mr. Alick.'

'Which do you like the best of the cousins?' asked Elfie carelessly.

Clare's face looked sad as she replied, 'Oh, I don't know. I don't think any young man is worth a thought. They amuse one by their fun, but I would just as soon not have them come here so often. Miss Miller will be attacking us soon on the subject. She was beginning this morning, when I met her out, but I always flee from her when she is in her aggressive moods.'

'What did she say?'

Clare looked at her younger sister with a little smile.

'Perhaps I had better not tell you. She saw you cut a rose off the other afternoon and offer it to Mr. Alick, and she considers that the depth of iniquity. "Such a piece of audacious flirting I have rarely seen carried on within a few yards from an open road in full view of any passer-by!" And then she turned the tables on me, and I came off, because she was making me boil with indignation. I think she delights in making her fellow-creatures as uncomfortable as possible.'

'It is only her way,' put in Agatha; 'she does not realize what a sting her words have. She told me last Sunday, when I unfortunately gave an order to some of my Sunday class in front of her, that however much I might try to slight her and usurp her place in the vicarage and parish I would not be successful, for the vicar was proof against all young ladies' blandishments!'

'She ought to be horsewhipped!' cried Elfie hotly, and then she began to laugh.

'There is one that is a match for her in the parish, and that is Deb Howitt. She was covering a chair at the vicarage, and Miss Miller was abusing some of the congregation—I forget who it was now. It was about the behaviour of some girls—I think she is always specially hard on them—and Deb looked at her very quietly. "Ay, ma'am, we mustn't grudge them their sweethearts! 'Tis better for most to have the cares of a family to soften them, for 'tis the spinsters that have the name for getting hard and bitter. Sharp tongues are not so frequent amongst mothers, and the world would be better without bitterness, I reckon!" Miss Miller shut up at once.'

'Deb asked me yesterday when Gwen was coming back. What do you think, Agatha?' said Clare.

'I don't know at all. You know what her last letter said. That Walter had sold his farm and gone off with Mr. Montmorency, and she was staying with Mrs. Montmorency in Loreto. She did not seem in a hurry to leave, and as long as she is happy we must be content that she should be out there.'

And the autumn came and went, and winter set in without any word or sign from Gwen of home-coming.

Alick and Roger spent the autumn in Scotland, but Christmas found them both at the Hall. Major Lester seemed to have overcome his dislike to his nephew, and the Hall was quite a cheerful centre in the village. Visitors came and went, and Agatha and her sisters were asked up there more frequently than they cared to go.

Agatha still possessed Alick's confidence. He would come to her for advice, as most people did, but yet would never touch upon his serious difficulty; and she sometimes wondered if the cupboard's secret was no longer a trouble to him.

'Do you think I am leading a lazy life?' he asked her one day, when he met her walking out and insisted upon accompanying her home.

'I think you are. It is always a pity when young men have enough income to live independently without any responsibility attaching to their wealth.'

'I am not wealthy,' he responded quickly. 'I have just enough to live upon. What do you think of Roger? He is as idle as I at present.'

'I think not. He helps his father with the property, which is a large one, and if anything happened to Major Lester he would have his hands full.'

Alick laughed a little hardly.

'Lucky fellow! So if I were in his shoes you would not find fault with me!'

'I think,' said Agatha gently, 'that each one of us ought to realize that we are not placed in this world to live for ourselves. There is so much to do for others who need our help. You are young now, and have life stretching out in front of you. Do not waste it, do not have to acknowledge when your life is over that no one will have been the better for your existence.'

'Would you have one sink one's own individuality in the lives of others, like some of our great philanthropists?'

'No, our first duty is to ourselves. I think too many in the present day rush into work of all sorts, trying to please and satisfy others at the expense of their own peace and satisfaction, and that is wrong.'

'I don't understand you.'

'I mean this. We have two lives: the outer one which every one sees, and the inner one which only God and ourselves know about. Our inner life is the more important one of the two, is it not? For it is the spiritual part of us that is immortal. First let us satisfy and ensure the safety of our own souls, before we seek to satisfy the hungry and thirsty ones around us. And then if our inner life is adjusted rightly—is in touch (shall I say?) with its Maker—the helping others becomes a pleasure as well as a necessity.'

Alick did not reply, and Agatha delicately turned the subject; but her words made him ponder much afterwards, and had far more effect upon him than ever she imagined.



CHAPTER XVI

Bringing Bad Tidings

'A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser to-day than he was yesterday.'—Pope.

It was towards the end of February that old Nannie sat by her fire in the peaceful almshouse in which she had taken shelter. Rain was falling fast, and when she heard a knock at her door, she hardly turned in her chair, for she thought it could be only one of her neighbours come for a chat.

When the new-comer came silently forward and stood in front of her, Nannie looked up with a gasp and a cry.

'Miss Gwen! My dear Miss Gwen, is it you? Where do you come from? And oh, how ill you look!'

Gwen bent over the old woman and kissed her; then she took a seat by her and gave a hard little laugh.

'Oh no, I am not ill. I wish I could be—at least, I am almost coward enough to wish it. I only landed early this morning in the London Docks. I have come from California, Nannie. Aren't you glad to see me?'

Gwen was clad in a plain dark blue serge and sailor hat, but somehow had not her habitual neat appearance. Her face was wan and white, she seemed to have aged ten years, and her once sparkling eyes were now dim and worn-looking.

'Just off a voyage,' murmured Nannie, putting on her spectacles and peering anxiously into her face. 'Ay, my dear, surely them foreign parts don't bring such change and misery to all the folks who venture out?'

Gwen laughed again.

'Every one, I hope, has not had my experience,' she said. 'If I may quote from your favourite book, Nannie, I can say truly, "I went out full, and have been brought home again empty!"'

'"The Lord hath brought me home again empty,"' corrected Nannie.

Then Gwen leant forward, and taking Nannie's two hands in hers, she said in a hard, strained voice:

'Nannie, I have come to you because I am desperate, and I thought perhaps you would give me courage to face them at home. I have never had such a hard task set me in my life; but I deserve it, and I am not going to flinch from my duty. I have ruined four people's lives, my own included!'

She strangled a dry sob in her throat, then went on,—grasping the withered hands in hers, as a drowning man might a rope,—'Nannie, do you remember my verse you gave me this time last year?'

'Ay, Miss Gwen, my dear, surely, and many's the prayer I've offered up at the throne of grace for you! "Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass!" Maybe you've come to the end of your own ways by this time—will that be it?'

'Judgment has come on me. I was so sure, so certain of my plans. I frustrated every difficulty, I forced some against their will to assist me in carrying them out; and yet all this last year your verse has haunted me. I was determined to be independent of God. I was so self-assured, and my pride and spirit carried me through all, that I laughed at the idea of failure; and then when the blow fell, it crushed every atom of self-confidence and spirit out of me! I am a poor, miserable, broken-down creature, Nannie; what can you say to help me?'

Nannie gently withdrew her hands, and leaning forward, placed them on Gwen's shoulders. Then in a tender, solemn tone she said, '"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven!"'

There was dead silence for a few moments, and then Gwen bowed her head in her old nurse's lap, and tears came thick and fast.

Nannie let her cry on, but her lips moved in prayer. 'Dear Lord, Thou hast smitten to heal; Thou hast broken to mend; let her meet with Thee now, and get Thy blessing!'

'I have never shed a tear until now,' uttered Gwen at last, looking up at Nannie with almost a pathetic look in her tear-dimmed eyes. 'I felt my trouble was too great for tears. I was turning to stone until I saw you. Oh, Nannie, if you knew all, you would be sorry for me!'

Will you be telling it to me, Miss Gwen?'

'Yes, indeed I will.'

Gwen gave a rough sketch of her life for the first month with her brother. She told of the bitter blow it was to find him about to be married; and then told Nannie of Mr. Montmorency's arrival, and the pressure put upon her brother to sell his farm, and join him in his quest for gold.

'I gave him no rest, Nannie, until he promised to do as I wanted. I even went to the girl he was going to marry, and coaxed and entreated her to add her persuasions to mine. She was bitterly disappointed, poor little thing, at their marriage being postponed, but she was thoroughly unselfish, and only thought of Walter's good. Mr. Montmorency worked hard too. He wanted more capital, and said Walter must do his share in getting it, if he was to be a partner, so I worked with all my might and main to get it for him. I persuaded Meta Seton to invest a legacy of hers in the scheme; I wrote home and implored all the others to invest in it too. I put all the money I had myself in it, and then when all was done, and I had broken up Walter's home, I sat down in complacency and waited for the success that was sure to follow. I can't tell you when the first doubts of the whole thing crept into my mind. I only know the last four months have been ones of torturing suspense and uncertainty. I wonder I have not come home grey-headed. The crash came six weeks or so ago. Mr. Montmorency, after ruining himself, my brother, and hundreds of others, decamped, and has not been heard of since. It was simply a mad speculation set on foot by a clever man with little capital of his own. Walter is ruined; he has crept back to his own part of the country, and has to begin life all over again; his hopes of a married life and a happy home have been dashed to the ground. Meta's father is so enraged at his daughter's legacy being lost, that he has forbidden Walter the house, and his bride as well as his farm has been taken from him. I wonder he did not curse me, as he came to see me off in the steamer; but his face—the hopelessness and despair written there—was quite enough for me. And now I am going back to break to Clare and Elfie that they as well as myself are absolute beggars. Agatha was the only wise one amongst us. She refused to trust Mr. Montmorency with one farthing of her money.'

'Ay, my dear, it's terrible—terrible for you; but loss of money is not ruin. You have health and strength and youth to sustain you, and though the cloud has been dark, it will have a silver lining!'

'How can I tell them!' cried Gwen; and her face grew set and hard, as she stood up, and dashed the tear-drops from her eyelashes. 'They have no idea I am returning home, or what has happened. I have been to our lawyer before I came to you, and though he has heard bad reports of Mr. Montmorency, he has never said a word to them. Do you realize I have beggared our whole family, Nannie? Poor Clare has had trouble enough of her own, without this in addition; and Elfie, who has never had a care or thought, how will she take it? I wish—I wish I were dead!'

'Hush, hush, my dear!' said Nannie, almost sternly. 'That would be a coward's wish, and you are not that! If you learn the lesson the Lord would have you learn, you may yet live to find that this big trouble has been the biggest blessing in your life.'

'Do you think if I had been like Agatha, who prays even if she goes shopping that she may spend the money properly, and if I had committed my plans to God, this would have happened, Nannie?'

'No, I don't think it would,' was Nannie's grave reply.

Then there was silence, which Nannie broke by begging Gwen to have some refreshment.

'No, thank you, Nannie, I must be going. I wish I had done with life, and was in an almshouse with you. It would be so easy to be all that one ought to be. Good-bye, you old dear. Pray for me, for I have a dreadful time before me, and I don't see how on earth we are to live. I shall have to earn money somehow at once. Perhaps I shall go into service—that is the fashion now. Ladies are becoming servants to the class who used to be in service. Give me your blessing and let me go!'

Gwen was talking fast and lightly to hide her emotion, but old Nannie took hold of her hands and looked up at her very solemnly.

'My dear Miss Gwen, you have heard God's voice speaking to you many times since you were a little girl. You are hearing it again now. Are you going to close your ear to it? If your pride and self-confidence is crumbled to dust, 'tis the opportunity to confess it to Him who hates a proud look, and says the humble shall be exalted. Take your bitterness of soul to the Saviour, and He will heal and comfort you. Promise me you will listen to His voice!'

'You're a saint, Nannie; I promise you I will pray, if I have never done so before. Good-bye.'

She went out into the pouring rain, found her way back to the station, and an hour after was at Waterloo Station starting for Brambleton. She was just getting into the carriage when some one accosted her. It was Clement Arkwright, who had travelled out to California with her. He looked unfeignedly pleased to see her.

'Just come home again, Miss Dane? How did you like California?'

Gwen hardly knew how to answer him. A rush of memories came over her. The time on board ship when she had so systematically avoided him, and cultivated with assiduity the one who had ruined her, stood up before her with awful distinctness. But she pulled herself together, and tried to speak unconcernedly.

'I am glad to be back again.'

'How is your brother? I hope the report I heard was not true, that he had joined Alf Montmorency in his search for gold?'

Gwen was in the carriage now, and the train was just starting. She spoke on the impulse of the moment, and Clement Arkwright never forgot the look of despairing hopelessness on her face as she held out her hand to him.

'Good-bye—we are off. You told me once that I would bring disaster upon myself by my obstinate wilfulness. I have done so. You warned me on the steamer against Mr. Montmorency. But I would not listen, and he has ruined the whole lot of us.'

The train steamed out of the station, and Clement Arkwright turned away with a grave, thoughtful face.

'Poor Gwen! Yet it will be the making of her, if she can once be got to confess that her judgment is not infallible. I should like to get hold of that scoundrel!'

It was about five o'clock when Gwen reached Brambleton. She left her luggage at the station, and tramped through the driving rain and wind with fierce indifference, arriving at Jasmine Cottage with drenched garments, and weary, footsore feet.

The lamps were lighted in the drawing-room, and the shutters were not closed. Gwen stepped quietly up to the window and looked in. It was a cosy, cheerful scene. Agatha was sitting with a smile on her face by a bright fire, knitting in hand. Clare was reading aloud on the opposite side of the fireplace, and Elfie in her favourite position on the low fender-stool, tempting a grey Persian kitten to perform acrobatical antics with Agatha's ball of wool.

'How changed will be the scene a few minutes later!' thought Gwen bitterly, and she knocked sharply at the door. It was opened by a maid who had superseded Jane, and who looked suspiciously at the drenched figure.

'You have mistaken this for the vicarage,' she said superciliously. 'If you want shelter or food, you will get it there!'

Gwen swung her aside with a quick impatient laugh, and opened the drawing-room door. In another moment, with cries of astonishment and delight, her sisters were caressing and welcoming her; but she pushed them away from her.

'Let me tell you how I come back first,' she said sharply. 'You will not give me such a hearty welcome when you know. I have ruined Walter; the gold company has been a big swindle, and every penny of our money has all gone. Now what do you say to me?'

'Never mind the money now,' said Agatha, who was never discomposed. 'Come upstairs to bed at once, you are wet through. How could you walk through such a storm! Not another word till you have had something to eat. Come along—you are dead beat.'

She led her away, motioning to Clare and Elfie not to follow, and they stood looking at each other with dazed, bewildered eyes.

'Does she mean it? Is it really true?' exclaimed Elfie, 'Oh, how ill she looks!'

'What a dreadful thing for Walter!' was Clare's response; and then the full force of Gwen's words dawned upon them.

'Whatever shall we do? Agatha's hundred pounds will not keep four of us!'

When Agatha returned to the room, nearly an hour later, she found an anxious consultation going on by the fire. Her face was just as placid as usual, though a shade graver.

'I have left her to sleep,' she said; 'it is the best thing for her. She seems quite worn out, and I think it is best for none of us to go near her till the morning.'

'Is it really true what she says?'

'I am afraid so. I would not let her give me details. She is so filled with remorse at having persuaded you to invest your money so, that I saw she was working herself into a perfect fever over it, and I stopped her at once. I am thankful she is home again. I have been very uneasy about her lately.'

'I never thought you were uneasy about anything,' said Clare, trying to smile.

'We are planning what we can do to earn our livelihood, Agatha,' said Elfie. 'Have you any idea to give us?'

'We will not go into that to-night,' was Agatha's quiet response. 'This house is our own, and so is the furniture. We have sufficient for the present. When Gwen has got over the fatigue of her journey, we will have a talk together about ways and means.'

Just before going to her own room for the night, Agatha stepped quietly into Gwen's room.

She found her lying wide awake staring at the flickering fire with a hard set face, and determined lips. Agatha came up and put her hand on her forehead.

'You are feverish,' she said. 'Are you comfortable? Do you not feel sleepy?'

'Would you?' was the quick retort.

'I am sure I should, after the journey you have had. Oh, Gwen dear, don't look so! There are worse losses than money. Don't reproach yourself too much.' And Agatha was so touched by the hopeless misery in her sister's face that tears filled her eyes.

Gwen looked at her, and her face began to soften.

'You're a good old thing, Agatha. I wish I were more like you. You will need all your faith and prayer now, and so will the others. Good-night.'

She turned her face away, and with a kiss and an unspoken prayer, Agatha left her.



CHAPTER XVII

Elfie's Choice

'Go, whate'er the lot may be That my Father sends to me, Never am I comfortless With His Word to aid and bless; And while He His help is bringing, I will cheer the way with singing.'—Farningham.

Gwen refused to have her breakfast in bed the next morning, and appeared downstairs at the usual hour with a white determined face.

She looked in astonishment at Elfie, who was flitting round the room singing merrily, as she added fresh flowers to the vases on the breakfast table.

'Well,' said Elfie, a little defiantly, 'I am not going to be miserable, even if we have lost our money. There is no death in the house, and they say beggars have lighter hearts than kings!'

And she would not have breakfast a silent meal, but chatted and laughed, and had so much to tell Gwen of all that had happened during her absence, that she infected the others with her light-hearted gaiety.

It was after Agatha had done her housekeeping that, sitting round the fire, Gwen gave them full details of all they wished to know. She did not spare herself, and her sisters wondered at the change in her, for never before in their lives had they known Gwen to own herself in the wrong. Then ways and means were discussed, Agatha declared she would send away the two maids at once, and then with the help of a woman from the village, she was sure they could still live together on her income; but this the others would not hear of.

'I would set up a village shop if I had capital,' asserted Gwen, with a little of her old spirit; 'the role of governess for needy women is past and gone; but for myself I know I shall not do better than stick to literature. I can write, and I have had many openings which I have refused, because I did not want the grind of it. If I set to work in earnest now, I shall soon bring some grist to the mill.'

'By the bye,' said Agatha, 'I wonder if you could make anything of a fat bundle of manuscripts that Mr. Lester bequeathed to me. I know you love any ancient papers, and though they're Latin and Greek to me, you may make something of them.'

She left the room, and soon returned with the papers. Gwen's eyes glistened as she looked them through. And she seemed to forget time and surroundings as she sat down and pored over them with eager interest.

At last she looked up.

Agatha, if I can put these together, it will prove a valuable legacy. Will you hand them over to me? There will be months' work, but it will be well worth the labour. I know some men in London would give you hundreds of pounds for some of these papers, but I shall not let them slip out of my hands.'

'I am so glad you will be able to make something of them,' responded Agatha simply. 'He said I might make what use I liked of them, so I willingly give them to you.'

'So Gwen's livelihood is secured,' said Clare, trying to speak lightly. 'Now let me tell you what I propose to do. The other day Miss Villars asked me if I knew of any lady who would undertake the post of matron to a small Convalescent Home for clergymen's wives and daughters. It is a private one that Miss Villars has started herself. She said she wanted some one who was quite a lady, and who would be able to make every one feel comfortable and at home. The salary would be about 50 pounds. She said she would only give the post to some one who was really needing the money. I believe she would give it to me at once if I told her how things were with us, and I should like it. I mean to go over to her this afternoon and ask her about it. Well, Agatha, don't you approve? Do you think me too incapable for the housekeeping?'

Clare finished her proposal rather wistfully, and Gwen looked at her in wonder. She had noticed, as perhaps the others had not, the great change that had passed over the wilful, capricious girl during the last six months. There was a subdued tone in her voice, but a glad light in her eye and a quiet restfulness about her manner that had been utterly foreign to her before.

Clare had come through the refining fire, softened and purified; she was a little quieter than she used to be, but every now and then her old, clear laugh would ring out, and if her moods were not so mirthful as Elfie's, they were quite as bright. Quietly and unassumingly she had slipped into the way of giving her help whenever it was needed, and now when Agatha contemplated the possibility of a coming separation from her, she began to realize how much she would miss her. The conversation continued, and then Elfie put in her word.

'And now what in the world am I to do? Will you agree to letting me go up to London and play to the public? I could get pushed on by Professor S——. He told me in Germany he could give me several very good introductions, if I wished to make music my profession. There is really nothing else I am good at.'

No one would hear of this suggestion, and later in the day Agatha confided to Gwen a little of her anxiety about Alick Lester and Elfie.

'I do not think it is fancy. He is a great deal here—more than I like—and now he has no eyes or ears for any one but her. I do not know whether she likes him; I notice she is self-conscious and absorbed when he is here, and that is not at all natural to her.'

'What prospects has he?' asked Gwen abruptly.

'I don't know. I sometimes wish I knew a little more about him. Ever since he has opened the cupboard, he has had something weighing on his mind, and though he tells me he has only about 200 pounds a year to live upon, he seems in no hurry to get anything to do. It is an idle life for him in this small village. He is with his cousin most of his time, but he drops in to see us in the evening; in fact, they both come here a great deal, and though Miss Miller has put her veto on it, nothing will keep them away.'

'I wish Elfie would marry. She is not fit to fight life's battle;' and Gwen sighed as she spoke, and her face relapsed into its now habitual gloom.

But the next day brought a letter that decided Elfie's fate.

She opened it with a grimace at the handwriting.

'Now what does Cousin James want to say to me! Do you think he has heard of our misfortunes?'

She read on, and her face grew thoughtful. Instead of handing it over to any of her sisters to read, she left the room with it in her hand.

And in the privacy of her own bedroom she spread it out before her, and a hard and sore battle commenced in her heart.

The letter was as follows:—

'DEAR ELFRIDA,—

'I have just heard in the city from Watkins, that your clever sister has squandered out in California, all the money that was left you by our aunt. It is a pity that you are all so wilful and ignorant about money matters. However, I am quite willing to come forward and offer my help, though in these hard times, with such an establishment as Dane Hall to keep up, I find it increasingly difficult to live within my income. Your cousin Helen is in very delicate health, and has for some time past felt unequal to managing our large household. She needs some bright companionship; and I now offer you a home with us, on condition that you make yourself generally useful, and relieve your cousin of all the house-keeping details that fret and annoy her. I shall allow you a handsome allowance for dress in addition, as I shall wish to see you suitably dressed for our position here. Let me hear how soon you can come, and I will arrange that you shall be met at the station. Tell Agatha I commend her for her prudence in refusing to let her money be used for speculation. I hope it will be a lesson to Gwendoline in the future. Her self-confidence needed to be shaken.

'Your affectionate cousin, 'JAMES DANE.'

Elfie read and re-read this through in a mist of tears.

'O God,' she murmured, 'anything but this! I cannot go. It would be slow torture! Do Thou guide and direct me, and help me to decide; but oh, if it is possible, do Thou open another door for me!'

Poor Elfie knew well enough that if she asked her sisters' advice, they would be all agreed as to the impossibility of her accepting her cousin's offer. She knew her Cousin Helen would not make her house a happy or an easy home to live in, for she was a weak, nervously-strung woman, with an irritable temper and an abject fear of her husband, whose will was absolute law. And in the secret depths of Elfie's heart there was a strong disinclination, even though she would not own it to herself, to leave home at present. Though Alick Lester had not said much to her, she knew well enough what his state of feelings were about her; his frequent visits were becoming very pleasant to her, and to leave it all, and perhaps never see him again, was hard to contemplate calmly. He often talked to her of going abroad, and she feared he might do so at once, were she gone. Yet, as she looked the matter straight in the face, she could not but acknowledge to herself that she had no right to refuse it.

'I will not live on Agatha's money; she would share her last crust with any of us, but I am young and strong, and this has come when I am looking out for employment. Many a girl would be thankful to have such a home offered her. I must go and do my best, and I must decide myself, without listening to the others. But oh, it will be a hard life after our happy little home together here!'

The battle was won after she had knelt in prayer, and when she joined her sisters again she was her sunny self.

But when she let them read the letter, they were all indignant at the thought of it.

'I should think you would rather sweep a crossing than go!'

'To be a dependent on Cousin James, and a member of his household, would be more than flesh and blood could stand!'

'Can you imagine the life of Cousin Helen's companion?'

And so on, until throwing back her little head importantly, Elfie was able to protest.

'I know you won't approve of it, but I have decided that I shall go, and you must look at the advantages and make the best of it if you want to help me.'

'You shall never go with my consent,' said Agatha, roused from her usual placidity.

'Then,' said Elfie, laughing, 'I shall go without it, or rather, I shall never rest till I have coaxed a consent out of you. Think of living in the dear old place we all love so well, in the lap of luxury, with nothing to do but dress well, and eat well, and order the dinners, and see that the servants do their work properly! And hasn't it just come at the right time, when my future was so unsettled? Now if Clare succeeds in her plan we shall be all provided for, and life will go smoothly again. And we must comfort ourselves with the thought that we are only paying visits away from home, and perhaps next Christmas we may get together again!'

She rattled on, and then ran out of the room to hide the little choke in her throat, and her sisters looked at each other in bewilderment.

'I never could have thought Elfie would have entertained the idea for a minute,' said Agatha; 'she cannot have the same feelings we have about Cousin James if she can so calmly accept his offer. But she was away in Germany, I remember, when it all happened. I suppose it is rather attractive to her than otherwise. She does not know Cousin Helen as we do.'

'She has no proper pride,' said Gwen, with flashing eyes; and then she pulled herself up.

'Well, I have driven her to it. That will be consolation to me!'

'She talks very lightly of leaving home,' said Clare. 'I wish I had her happy way of looking at things. Nothing seems to trouble her.'

It needed a great deal of coaxing and persuasion to bring her sisters round to her way of thinking; but Elfie was allowed at last to send off her letter accepting her cousin's offer, and none of them ever knew how much it cost her to do it.

Her sunny temper and light-hearted mirth often hid a good deal of feeling; but, like many others with such a disposition, she never got the credit of taking life seriously.

'She is such a child,' Agatha would say; 'she will be happy in any circumstances. I am thankful she does not feel things deeply.'

And so none but One above knew the scalding tears dropped in secret, and the terrible sinking of heart with which she viewed her future.

Clare went over to see Miss Villars in the afternoon, and after a long talk obtained the post she coveted.

'You know,' she confided to her friend, 'since I have felt so differently about things, I have been longing to do some work for God. It is very pleasant living at home, but it is an idle life, isn't it? With Miss Miller's energy, and Agatha aiding her in all the village work, there is nothing left for me, and I long if I can to influence others for good.'

'I am so thankful to hear you say so, and doubly thankful to think of you being in a position to influence others of your own class. The young people at the convalescent home will be so much more likely to confide in you, and be impressed by what you say, from the very fact of your being young yourself, and not beyond all the innocent pleasures of youth.'

'But,' said Clare depreciatingly, 'I am such a beginner; that is the one thing frightens me—my want of experience. And I am still very moody, Miss Villars. Don't smile; I do think at the bottom of my heart my restlessness and discontent is gone; but some days everything seems black, and I wonder if I am a real Christian after all. I wish I had your feelings.'

'Oh, these feelings!' said Miss Villars, with a little laugh. 'You will be better, my dear child, when your life is more filled up, and you have so much of others' troubles and pleasures to think of, that you will have no time for your own.'

So Clare came back with her future settled, and the sisters were very busy for the next few weeks making preparation for the two departing ones. Alick and his cousin were in and out, and the former seemed to get doubly depressed when he heard that Elfie was going away. Yet up to the last his tongue seemed tied, and it was not until she was actually in the railway carriage that he said a word. He had insisted upon seeing her off, and Agatha, fussing over the luggage, was not aware that anything passed between them.

Holding Elfie's hand tightly in his own, he said huskily and with emphasis:—

'You won't forget me? I shall see you again; and meanwhile, believe I mean it!'

That was all that was said, but the two understood each other, and Elfie leant back in her seat, as the train steamed out of the station, with joy throbbing through her heart.

'I shall not be at Cousin James' long, I am sure,' she repeated over and over to herself; and so bravely and cheerfully she took up her new life, and her letters home were so bright and amusing, that both Agatha and Gwen thought that she was perfectly happy and well.



CHAPTER XVIII

Patty's Grave

'But when they left her to herself again, Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field, Approaching through the darkness, called.'—Tennyson.

The summer came and went very quietly. Gwen remained with Agatha, but was wholly engrossed in her writing. Sometimes Agatha would remonstrate with her, when she came to breakfast looking worn and haggard, and confessing she had been writing in the study till between two and three in the morning.

'You will wear yourself out. Why don't you take it more quietly? There is no need for such labour.'

'You would realize the need if you were in my shoes,' said Gwen, 'and felt your debts hanging over your head every minute of the day. I will never rest until I have repaid all that has been lost.'

'But that will be impossible, and unnecessary.'

'I don't think so,' was the curt reply.

Gwen was much up in town, sometimes at the British Museum, and she worked away at Mr. Lester's manuscripts whenever she could spare time from her usual writing. One afternoon she rejoiced Agatha's heart by announcing her intention of taking a walk.

'I shall stroll over to the Howitts. Have you any message for Deb?'

'I think not. I hear that Patty has not been well this last week. You might take her a little pudding. Deb was not working at the vicarage this week because of her illness.'

Gwen set out, and the fresh, keen autumn air refreshed and invigorated her. She found the little cottage nearly hidden from view by the heavily-laden apple trees, but there was a stillness about the place that was not usual. The door was on the latch, and when she stepped inside the kitchen, it was empty.

However, the door leading into the sisters' bedroom was ajar, and Gwen found Patty in bed, and Deb vainly endeavouring to make her swallow a basin of gruel.

'It isn't gruel I'll be wantin', when I know how you burns my best 'namel saucepan in the doin' of it. 'Tis a mercy I've got the honey all in, and now there'll be the apples to be gathered and preserved; and who's to have the doin' of it, wi' you, whose heart and hands are only in the dressmakin', and me a achin' and smartin' wi' pains from head to toe, and worse to foller?'

'Then I'll away to the doctor this blessed minit, and Miss Miller will be for sendin' that parish nurse she's a startin' of, and who's a kickin' up her heels with naught to keep her out o' mischief. She'll be flyin' down here wi' the greatest joy, and will handle your pots and pans as poor me isn't able, and I'll be back to my dressmakin', not being of no manner o' use in tendin' a sick sister, who's that partickler, and full o' fuss——'

Deb stopped here, catching sight of Gwen, and her face brightened as she turned to her.

'Come in, my dear; we're just two quarrelsome old women, as you know, and Patty, poor thing! is a new hand at illness. 'Tis a bad attack o' cold in the innards—flannelation o' the lung, a neighbour thinks; but she be a contrary patient, and she won't have no doctor.'

Gwen stepped up to the invalid, and looked down with pity upon the thin gaunt frame stretched on the tiny bed. Patty's face was flushed, her lips dry and parched, and her eyes feverishly bright. She seemed very talkative.

'Come in, miss, and welcome. Better in here, where I can see things is what they should be, than out in the kitchen, which to my certain knowledge hasn't been cleaned out proper since I took to bed, and that was week ago yesterday. If I could get better, please God, I never would put off the scrubbin' out o' the cupboards agen. Twas Toosday, the day for to do 'em, and I says to myself, "I seem strangely tired, I'll leave it till tomorrow;" and Wednesday found me in my bed, too bad to move, and the cupboards hasn't had their right chance yet, and Deb she be but a poor cleaner. Ay, dearie me, it'll go hard wi' me if I'm not so much as able to wash myself, and—but there, the good Lord will take me home when it comes to that, for when my cleanin' days be over my livin' days will be over too.'

'Now look here,' said Gwen authoritatively, 'you are talking yourself into a fever. Lie still, take your gruel, and hear me do the talking. Now, Deb, give me the stuff. It looks delicious. I'll turn nurse.'

There was no resisting Gwen. Patty took it from her hands as meekly as a child, and Deb heaved a deep sigh of relief when she saw the last drop swallowed.

''Tis a great gift to be determined in your will,' she said to Gwen. 'Patty never has had any who could master her. We be both so masterful; that is where all the trouble cometh between us.'

'Determination, or, rather, self will, has been my curse,' said Gwen, with a smile and a sigh.

'Now has it now?' said Deb, leaning her bare elbows on the bed rail, and looking at her with interest. 'Folk do say in the village that you met with a deal o' trouble out in them foreign parts, and some haythen rascal robbed you of all you stood up in. When you come to see us after your return, we kept quiet, not likin' to ask; but Patty says to me when you'd a gone, "She's been through a deal o' trouble, for there be hard lines on her face, and a sad ring in her laugh," and we felt mortal sorry for you, my dear.'

'Tis a good thing to have a will,' said Patty from her pillows, 'so long as it don't get above the Lord's will.'

'That it couldn't never do,' quickly returned Deb; 'for God Almighty can snap a body's will like dry twigs, and He be our Master. 'Tis a blasphemous thing to try to get the better o' our Maker; and Miss Gwen's will be not that sort.'

'I think it has been,' said Gwen, sitting down and softly stroking one of Patty's withered old hands. 'I thought I could manage my life and everybody else's independent of God, and He has shown me my mistake. It has been a bitter lesson, but I hope I have learnt it.'

There was silence. Something in the simplicity and quaintness of this old couple always drew out Gwen's best feelings, and she spoke to them of things she would never mention to any one else.

'We've heerd say,' said Deb, after a pause, 'that all you young ladies have lost your money. But that, may be, is only a tale.'

'Very close to truth,' said Gwen; 'and my earnest desire is to earn as much money as possible. Can you tell me how to do it?'

'Young ladies set about such things different to us,' said Deb, thoughtfully.

Patty looked up quickly.

'If so be that this is my last sickness, you'll not be long after me, Deb, I'm thinkin', and then what about the golden russet? Will Miss Gwen like to have the use o' it?'

Gwen thought her mind was wandering, until she saw how fearfully Deb looked round the room, as if afraid any neighbour might be within hearing.

'Hush you now! 'Tis not the time to be talkin' of our savin's. Miss Gwen will take no notice o' such talk.'

And Gwen did not, only chatted on till Patty seemed to grow more restless, and then she took her leave. When she told Agatha how she had found them, Agatha at once resolved to send the doctor.

'She may die. So often, when once people like her give up and take to their bed, they never leave it again.'

The doctor went, and thought very gravely of Patty's state. Agatha and Gwen were constant visitors at the cottage, and did much to comfort poor Deb, who, now convinced that her sister might never recover, was overwhelmed with misery.

'We come into the world together, and we're bound to go out together,' she kept repeating; 'it ain't likely as how she'll leave me behind.'

And if a neighbour would assure her that she was well and strong, and likely to survive her sister for many years, she would only shake her head and say, ''Tis against nature; and if so be as her days are numbered, then so is mine, and I shall be taken, disease or no disease.'

She went about the cottage in a solemn way, turning out old hoards, writing in crabbed handwriting directions about various matters, and Gwen came upon a scrap of paper one day with the following items:—

Cost of two plain coffins . . . Parish clerk's fee . . . . . . . Bit of ground by the corner yew. Bearers for Patty . . . . . . . Bearers for Deborah . . . . . .

The spaces left she evidently meant to fill up. Gwen promptly burnt the paper, and took her to task about it; but nothing would comfort her, or convince her that by any possibility she could outlive her sister.

And then one evening, quietly and simply, like a little child, Patty passed away. Her last words were to her sister:—

'The good Lord has got me, Deb, and He'll not let me fall.'

Deb sat by her bedside as one stunned. She looked up pitifully when Gwen came to her side.

'I'm still here—but I'm just waitin' my call.'

It was with difficulty that she could be induced to eat anything, and when the time came for Patty to be carried to the grave, she saw the little party of mourners set out in stony unconcern.

'They might have let her bide till I were ready to go, too. It'll be a double expense, and I can't be here much longer.'

Gwen's heart went out to the desolate old woman, and she hardly let a day pass without going over to see her. About a week after, she went one afternoon, but found the house closed. The stillness and desertion of the cottage sent a thrill of fear through her. Fearing that Deb's mind had become slightly unhinged, she wondered if she had destroyed her own life. She tried the door, but it was locked; and then she noticed a piece of paper tucked into the sill. Taking it out, she read:—

'If you be Miss Gwen, the key is under the water butt; if you be any other body, let it be. Deb.'

Gwen took the key up, unlocked the door, and went in. The kitchen was spotlessly clean, the grate shining with blacklead. On the square deal table lay a letter with her name upon it. But before reading it, Gwen hastily searched the house, to make certain that it was empty, and then she perused the badly written epistle.

'Miss Gwen,—

'Your humble servant Deborah Howlitt write these lines to you hoping it may find you as it leaves her at present knowing your kind heart, and I always did have a leaning towards you more than most, and so did Patty for her said you were a woman of good understanding I think it best to leave you all our savings which you will find under our golden russet in my mother's china tea-pot, for Patty said the same when she were a dying. And you will use them to save you from the House if your money has gone from you. Will you be so good as to give the clothes in our chest of drawers to them that need them. We did think of turning our brown serges, and if they were ripped round the bottom and braided afresh would be good Sunday skirts. I have been to our grave three nights running for I heard her calling, but the good God won't take me yet. I'm going to-night, and may be I shall not be back. Patty could not say I have not cleaned for there is no speck of dirt to be seen. And now goodbye and never put your will against the Almighty for I am praying not to do it myself for I am a poor old desolate woman and if He says "Live," I will live, but He seems to say to-night "Come," and,—-

"Just as I am, without one plea, But that Thy blood was shed for me, And that Thou bidst me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come!"

'Your obedient servant, 'DEBORAH HOWLITT.'

Gwen hurriedly left the cottage after reading this, and went straight to the churchyard. No one evidently had been near Patty's grave that day, for there, lying in long grass, with her arms crossed on the uncovered mound, and her grey head bowed upon them, was the cold, stiff form of poor Deb. How many hours she had been there in the still coldness of an October's night no one could tell; but the doctor put down her death to grief and exposure. Gwen broke the tidings to Agatha with a sob in her voice.

'I loved those old women. They were the only friends I had here.'



CHAPTER XIX

The Rightful Heir

And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, As singing birds from one bough to another.'—Longfellow.

When Gwen had the savings of the old women dug up from the roots of their favourite apple-tree, she found to her amazement that no less than 95 pounds had been put away in the old teapot, and for some time she hesitated about appropriating it.

Miss Miller came round to advise, for she was most excited about it all.

'I have been making inquiries, my dear, about their relatives as if you feel any qualms about taking their savings, I thought you would be glad to hear of their next-of-kin. But they seem to have no one left belonging to them. A friend of mine in this neighbourhood was left 300 pounds by an old nurse once. She founded a parish room and club with it, and I need not say that if you wish to give it away in charity, I shall be very glad to advise you. I said to Wilfrid that I did not believe you would keep it yourself, for though tales have been flying about that you and your two younger sisters have lost your money, I can see that you are not destitute. You still keep a very good table, for Mrs. Stone tells me she supplies you with poultry and eggs, and is not able to sell me her fowls under 2s. 6d; as she says you always give a fair price for your things.'

'I have quite made up my mind about the way in which I shall use it, Miss Miller,' said Gwen, trying hard to speak politely.

There was never any love lost between that good lady and herself, and Agatha dreaded every encounter between them.

'On some pet charity of your own?'

'You may call it so, if you like;' and nothing more would Gwen say on the subject.

Later on, she told Agatha she would send it straight to Walter.

'He is on my mind dreadfully. Not one word of reproach did he ever give me, and I am thankful I can help him this much. It is more of a charity to give it to him than let it drift through Miss Miller's fingers. What an odious woman she is!'

'Oh, hush! I can't bear to hear you talk so. She has no tact, and makes many blunders, but is really thoroughly kind at heart. I never mind her speeches. I don't think any one does who really knows her. But I am very glad you are sending it out to Walter, and I shall be able to add a little to it when you do so. Our expenses are very small now, and if you will not let me spend any on yourself, I shall gladly send it abroad.'

'How well old Nannie's text has fitted into your life!' said Gwen, musing: '"Trust in the Lord, and do good, . . . and verily thou shalt be fed." You have proved that promise true, for you are the only one of us all that is provided for life.'

I think we have all been cared for so far,' said Agatha quietly. 'You will find your verse no less true than mine: "Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass."'

Gwen was silent. She could not talk freely about her feelings to any one, but she had, as she expressed it to Deb, 'learnt her lesson.' Her self-confidence had been shaken to the roots, and she was no longer desirous of following her own plans to the exclusion of all advice from others. Having discovered that she could make mistakes, she began to wonder whether her life had not been full of them; and the gradual conviction of this drove her to her knees, and led her to the feet of the great Teacher as a little child.

One evening, soon after poor Deb's death, Agatha and Gwen were sitting down to a cosy evening together, when they were surprised by the sudden entrance of Alick Lester. He seemed strangely perturbed, and very anxious to pour out his trouble into Agatha's ears. When Gwen made a movement to go, he begged her to remain.

'You will all know it soon. It will be no secret, but I'd give a good deal to have prevented it coming out now. May I begin from the beginning?'

Then, taking a seat, he plunged into it at once.

'You know I found some papers in my father's cupboard. He knew of them, but had never given me a hint of it, except that he had made me promise to be home if possible last autumn. It appears that my grandfather before he died made a codicil to his will, and handed it over to the keeping of my father, forbidding him to ever show it to any one, until the right time came to act upon it. I suppose the poor old man may have wished to right matters a little, and had got over his bitterness about my father's marriage. I know he took a good deal of notice of me as a small boy, but I never dreamt he had any special reason for it. The codicil simply transferred the whole of his property from the hands of my uncle to myself when I should reach my twenty-sixth year. This I did last September, and this accounts for my father's anxiety to have me back at that time. It appears now that my uncle's valet got wind of this—how, and where, I can't imagine—but he told my uncle he knew my father held some important papers in his hands that concerned him. And after my father's death, as you know, Miss Dane, my uncle came down here to try and get hold of them. Well, after our return, I suppose the delight of having Roger back again put the whole affair out of my uncle's head, but lately he hasn't been very well—at least that is the most charitable way to look at it—and he has been perpetually nagging at me about the contents of the cupboard, and asking to see them.'

'I cannot think why you did not show them at once to him,' interrupted Agatha.

The young fellow looked a little confused.

'I daresay you may think me an ass, but I could not for the life of me bear the thought of turning the old man out after all these years. He hasn't got many more years to live, and has seemed so perfectly secure in his possession that I hadn't the heart to show the codicil to him. Of course, I know most people would call me a fool—our old lawyer practically did so—but I put off doing anything about it, as much for the sake of Roger, perhaps, as his father.

'Well, last night I lost my temper, and when my uncle began to attack my father's good name, and hint that he had dishonourably kept family papers from the head of the family, I whipped out the codicil in his face, and asked him to read it through. Of course there was an awful row. At first he thought I had forged it, and he telegraphed to his lawyer, who came down the first thing this morning, and we had a great consultation in the library. Then my uncle shut himself up in his room, and has refused to see me since. I don't know how it will all end. I have begged and implored Roger to persuade him to stay on, and let things be as they were; but he won't hear of it, and meditates leaving at once. I feel awfully low about it, but what can I do?'

'You are a very quixotic young man,' said Gwen, unable to keep from smiling at the woe-begone face in front of her. 'You should be thankful it's all out, and your uncle knows the truth.'

'Yes, and to a certain extent I am. But I don't want them to clear out, and leave me in possession. I never expected to be a rich man, and don't altogether like the idea of settling down here.'

Gwen laughed again, and left the room, saying, 'You shouldn't quarrel with good fortune when it comes to you.'

For a moment there was silence, then Alick turned to Agatha a little awkwardly, a blush coming to his bronzed cheeks.

'Miss Dane, do you know my one comfort in all this? It is thinking that now I have a right to speak to your sister.'

'To Elfie?' asked Agatha.

'Yes, I am sure you won't raise an objection, will you? I know I'm not half good enough for her; but if she'll only listen to me, I feel as if life will be too good to live.'

And for the next half-hour Agatha listened to a flow of eloquence on Elfie's perfections, which amused and yet touched her, for it showed her how deeply devoted the young man was in his love.

Major Lester was not long in leaving the Hall. He announced his intention of travelling abroad with his son, and before a month was gone Alick was left alone. The cousins parted with mutual regret. Roger took the blow to his future prospects bravely and manfully, and told Alick that he looked forward to see his bride at the Hall very soon.

And then, one day, without a word to any one, Alick travelled down to Dane Hall.

Elfie had been having a trying time—a time that tested all her powers of cheerfulness to carry her through it. Mrs. Dane was confined to her room with bronchitis, not ill enough to lie still and leave the responsibility of her household to Elfie, but perpetually questioning the girl's management, and giving contrary orders to the servants, who were all in a state of irritation and turbulence. Mr. Dane was impatient of the slightest hitch in the domestic machinery, and, now that his wife was too indisposed to hear his complaints, vented all his ill-humour upon his young cousin.

But Elfie's sunny temper did not forsake her; and if, in the privacy of her own room, home-sickness and loneliness got the better of her at times, she always preserved a cheerful front in public, and earnestly strove, not only to do her duty, but to be happy in doing it, and to make those around her happy too.

It was a bright, spring afternoon, when, at last relieved from attendance on the invalid, Elfie took her hat and went out into the garden to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. She was singing away to herself and gathering some jonquils for the dinner-table, when she was joined by her cousin James.

'Elfrida, I am told that neither of the carriage horses can be taken out. It is extraordinary that with four horses doing hardly anything there should be this constant difficulty in getting one of them to drive.'

'Yes,' said Elfie a little carelessly, 'I have always heard that the more horses you have the less work you get out of them. Where do you want to go, Cousin James? Can't you take Firefly in the dog-cart?'

'It does not matter to you where I wish to go. I wish to drive the pair, and I am convinced this new groom is an utterly incompetent man. Ever since we have been in this house we have had a perpetual change of servants, and I was in hopes that when you came it would be different.'

'I am not responsible for your grooms. I have nothing to do with them,' said Elfie brightly. 'I should ask Fenton what he think of this new groom.'

'Fenton is insufferable with his insolent bearing and behaviour, and you encourage him in his familiarity. I heard you were taking tea with him and his wife yesterday. I must beg you never to do such a thing again as long as you are under my roof.'

'You must remember, Cousin James, Fenton has known us all since we were tiny children. He gave us our first riding lessons, and Aunt Mildred treated him very differently to most of the servants. He lived with her for forty years, he was telling me.'

'I don't wish for any arguments, if I give you an order. I think you sometimes forget your position with us. You are here to relieve your cousin Helen of all worry and anxiety about household matters, and it has been a great disappointment to us both that you seem incapable of keeping things straight. I hear that the cook is leaving, and has been exceedingly insolent to your cousin, telling her that she will not have two mistresses. I do not wish to interfere in these matters, but I must request you to make more effort to maintain the discipline necessary in such a large household.'

Elfie was so accustomed to these daily grumblings that she went on picking her flowers in silence; the brightness of the day seemed already clouded for her, and she gave an involuntary sigh, as after a little further complaining her cousin walked away.

'They have it all, wealth and comfort all round them; and yet are two discontented, miserable people. I wouldn't exchange places with them for all the world.'

'A gentleman in the drawing-room has called to see you, miss.'

It was the footman brought the message.

Elfie started, flushed, and then went into the house to meet her fate. There was only one person it could be, and her instinct told her that life would be different after this interview to what it was at present. Her time of uncertainty and waiting was now at an end, and Dane Hall would soon be her home no more.



CHAPTER XX

Brought Back

'Far, far above thy thought His wisdom shall appear, When fully He this work hath wrought, That caused thy needless fear!'

Three months later. Jasmine Cottage was full of lively voices and laughter. Clare and Elfie were both at home, the former for a month's holiday, and the latter till she left it to take up her quarters in the Hall as bride and mistress. Alick was there, with no cloud upon his brow, and full of eager anticipation of all that he was going to do upon the estate in the future; and Agatha and Clare looked on at the young couple with interest and sympathy. They were gathered together in the verandah, and Gwen only was absent. Alick presently asked for her.

'She has gone to London to her publishers. You will be interested to know, Alick, that it is about your father's manuscripts. Gwen has finished them at last, and it is to consult about bringing them out, that she has gone. We expect her back every moment.'

Agatha looked along the road as she spoke, and Alick's eyes followed her gaze.

'Here she comes; I know her walk!' he exclaimed. 'Rapid, defiant, and indifferent to all around!'

'You shall not talk of her like that,' remonstrated Elfie, 'and it isn't true of her.'

'I admire her awfully, only I'm just a little bit afraid of her.'

'I don't believe you're afraid of any one!'

Here Gwen appeared on the scene. She seemed flushed and rather perturbed.

'Have I got my business done satisfactorily? Yes, I hope I have. Agatha, I am famishing; have you got anything for me to eat? That's right. I will go straight into the dining-room now.'

Agatha followed her in.

'You look tired out. Sit down, and I will pour you out a cup of coffee. I expected you back earlier.'

'I was detained.'

For a few minutes there was silence. Then Gwen leant back in her chair and regarded Agatha with serious eyes.

'You're a safe old thing. I think I can trust you,' she said. 'First of all tell me, do you think Clare happy now?'

'I have never known her so happy in her life before,' said Agatha, wondering at Gwen's tone. 'Of course, I know she has her sad times, but she is far sweeter and even-tempered than she used to be. Miss Villars was telling me the other day, she has found her niche exactly. All the visitors at the Convalescent Home are loud in their praise other, and I really think her heart is in it.'

'Then it would be a pity to disturb her.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, the fact is, I heard in town to-day rumours about Hugh turning up at some mission station in Africa. People say he was never killed after all. I went to the Foreign Office about it. They know for certain it is some English officer, but cannot be sure it is Hugh.'

'Oh, Gwen!'

Agatha seemed too dazed by the news to say more at first.

'We must keep it to ourselves for the present. It would be dreadful for her if it proved a false report,' continued Gwen; 'and really, she seems so resigned now, that one dreads the effect of such news upon her. Do you think she ever really cared for him? I have my doubts. I remember how restless, and discontented she used to be when he was alive; and look at the change in her now!'

'Yes,' said Agatha quietly; 'but the change is not due to his death, Gwen. Clare has found out for herself the truth of Nannie's verse for her. She was always restless until she came to the Rest-giver, and now she is at peace. Circumstances do not sway her as they used to do.'

'Well,' said Gwen, after a slight pause, 'I hope it may be true, if she really loves him. It is like a story-book, the long-lost lover come to life again! Don't say a word to any one. They have promised to send us the first information they receive.'

For the next few days both Agatha and Gwen appeared to the others very restless and pre-occupied; but as a week or two passed away without further tidings, they tried to banish it from their thoughts, and in a measure succeeded.

Gwen was delighted at the prospects of her book coming out, and hoped to realize a good sum from it, more than she at one time could have thought possible to be earned by her pen. And when, a little later, she received the first instalment of it, she sent a cheque straight out to Meta Seton.

'I feel convinced,' she confided to Agatha, 'that she still cares for Walter; and it is only her father that has insisted upon her breaking it off. I should be so thankful if they came together again. In Walter's last letter he mentions having met her, and I think that they may have arrived at a secret understanding with one another; he writes in much better spirits.'

'If she is a wife worth having, she would never desert him for his poverty,' said Agatha.

Gwen shook her head and sighed, for she knew the world better than simple-minded Agatha did. But her writing took her mind off the startling news she had heard, and Agatha was equally engrossed in preparing Elfie's trousseau, so that though they were always on the watch for any news in the papers, they did not mention the subject to one another, and it was a distinct shock to Agatha to receive a telegram one morning.

'Captain Hugh Knox alive. Coming home. Break it to his friends.'

Clare was doing some work for Elfie when the telegram arrived. Agatha hastily consulted Gwen in the study, and then came into the dining-room, where the two younger girls were sitting.

'Who is the telegram from?' asked Elfie quickly. 'We have so few here that Clare and I are quite curious about it.'

Agatha sat down, and her hands trembled as she unfolded and refolded the yellow envelope in her grasp.

'It contains very strange news,' she said slowly 'wonderfully strange, and I don't quite know how to tell it to you.'

Both Clare and Elfie dropped their work instantly, for they saw her agitation.

'Not bad news?' exclaimed Clare.

'No; very, very good news for you, Clare.'

Clare's cheeks grew pale at once.

'Oh, Agatha, speak out; don't keep us in suspense any longer!'

And then Agatha said as quietly as she could:

'It is about Hugh, Clare. Can you bear it? He was never killed, after all, and this is to say that he is coming home.'

Clare did not faint, nor call out, nor did she utter a word. Only the quick blood rushing to her cheeks, and then as quickly ebbing from them, showed that she was moved at all. Motionless she sat, staring out of the window as if she were in a dream. Then at last she spoke.

'Oh, Agatha, I shall never forgive you if it is not true!'

The vehement intensity of her tone drew Agatha to her side at once. Stooping over her she kissed her. 'My darling Clare, it is true. Thank God with all your heart that it is so!'

And then in a few minutes a burst of tears relieved the overcharged brain, and Clare fled to her room, there to thank on her knees for such unlooked-for joy.

The days that followed were trying ones, but Clare bore them well. She went to see her lover's family, and it was there in the Yorkshire home that she met the long-lost one again.

Captain Knox seemed but a shadow of his former self. Fever and privations had told upon him, and Clare shuddered when she heard his story. For many months he had been kept captive amongst the native tribe that had taken him and his comrades by surprise in the bush. He was subject to much cruelty and many indignities, but at last managed to make his escape, and for some months lived in the thick forests, striving to find his way back to civilization. At last he was found by a missionary, almost at the point of death, and tenderly nursed back to health and strength at a small mission station. It was some time, however, before he could send tidings of his escape, and long before he was well enough to be brought down to the coast. He had much to tell to Clare, and also much to hear.

'I cannot believe it is really you,' she said to him, when alone with him one day; 'I keep wondering if I shall wake up and find it all a dream.'

'You had become accustomed to live without me, had you?' he said, smiling. 'Would you rather I had not come back to disturb your life again? You seem to be so happy in your present work.'

'Oh, Hugh, if you only knew what I have gone through, you would not talk so! I don't think you have been out of my thoughts for a single day. God has helped me to bear your loss, but I never knew how your life was woven into mine, till the awful news came that I had lost you!'

'We will not think about it,' said Captain Knox, with deep feeling. 'We have been brought together again, thank God, and I believe we are both the better for what we have suffered. It is wonderful to see the way that we are led, and the goodness and love that brings sweet out of bitter, and blessing out of evil.'

'And,' said Clare softly, as she leaned her head against his shoulder, and felt the support of his strong arm round her, 'we have both been drawn inside the kingdom, Hugh. That is the best of all. We will serve our Master together, and not death itself can separate us now.'

One more scene before we leave the four sisters. Nannie is the conspicuous figure in it. She has been brought to Jasmine Cottage, and it is the eve of Elfie's marriage. The girls were gathered round her in the cosy bedroom that had been prepared for her, and they were full of mirth and happiness.

Gwen had been astonishing them by a piece of news that she had been keeping to herself for a long time, and this was that she had at last listened to Clement Arkwright, and was engaged to him.

'They say that if one wedding comes off in a family, others are sure to follow,' she said, by way of excusing herself; 'and he has been bothering my life out lately. I never seem to go up to town without tumbling across him somewhere. I think I have no spirit left to resist him as I used to do. But one thing I have told him, and that is that he will have to wait till I have cleared off more of my debts.'

'You have no debts,' said Agatha; 'it is nonsense to talk like that.'

'I shall never lift up my head and breathe freely till I have at any rate returned Walter his money,' said Gwen very emphatically.

'Ay, my dear,' put in Nannie affectionately; 'we'd rather your head weren't lifted just yet. 'Tis apt to rear itself a little too high, and 'tis the bowed head that gets the blessing of the Lord.'

'Nannie,' said Elfie impulsively, 'say our verses to us again, will you? Do you remember when you gave them to us? Put your hands on our heads as you used to do when we were little children, and we will receive them again as your blessing.'

And this Nannie did; and as she repeated the beautiful words, each sister confessed in the depths of her heart what a blessing they had been to her.

'Trust in the Lord and do good, so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.'

'Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.'

'Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.'

'Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him. . . . Those that wait upon the Lord, they shall inherit the earth.'

'And,' said Agatha, 'the key-note to that Psalm is, "Fret not." We thought it a terrible blow when Cousin James defrauded us of our rights; but how wonderfully we have been cared for since!'

'Even when I did my best to ruin the whole lot of you,' put in Gwen.

And then Nannie repeated the last verse of her favourite Psalm:

'And the Lord shall help them and deliver them: He shall deliver them from the wicked, and save them because they trust in Him.'



FINIS.