CHAPTER IV.
eanwhile, Mrs. Shelley had washed and dressed her own three boys, and had introduced the little stranger to the two elder, Charlie, the baby, being already on intimate terms with his foster sister, for whose sake he had to submit to much less attention than had hitherto fallen to his share, for which reason he was unusually cross this morning. Willie, the second boy, the living image of his father, was barely three years old, and too young to pay much attention to the baby, or to understand that it had arrived in an unusual way; but Jack, the eldest boy, quite took it in, and stood lost in admiration of the wonderful baby with its beautiful clothes, so unlike Charlie's, and the lovely coral and bells, as his mother showed them all to him. Jack was five years old, a tall, strong child for his age, and very like his mother in face; he had her quick temper, too, though Mrs. Shelley had hers pretty well under control, while little Jack often got into trouble by giving way to his. Nothing ever escaped Jack's notice; he was always all ears and eyes, and he took in every detail of the strange baby's belongings as intelligently as his mother could have done, and, to her joy, for she was by no means sure what kind of a welcome Jack, who resented the arrival of little Charlie, saying, "Mother didn't want anyone else to love her when she had him," would give to the strange baby, he was enchanted with it, and was as anxious as Mrs. Shelley herself to keep it.
"It is the fairies' baby; they brought it, didn't they, mother? We will always, always keep it, won't we?"
"I don't quite know yet, Jack; father says perhaps we shall have to send it away," said Mrs. Shelley.
"It shan't go away. How dare father say so? He is a wicked man to want to send it away," cried the boy, with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks.
"Jack, I am ashamed of you; you must not speak of your father in that way; if he says it is to go away it must go, whether we like it or no."
Jack hung his head and hid his face on his mother's shoulder, while she, remembering how indignant she had been with the shepherd for hinting at sending it away the night before, stooped and kissed her boy's curly head, and Jack raised his head again and renewed his attentions to the baby.
"What a pretty little thing it is; see how it holds my finger. I think it will love me, mother, though it is not my real sister. Oh! do make father keep it, will you?"
For the first time since Mrs. Shelley had had the baby, she now hesitated about keeping it; the boy had unconsciously struck a wrong chord, and his mother, with a prophetic instinct, coupled with a quick imagination, for a moment saw that it was possible this little stranger who, as Jack had already grasped, was not his real sister, might, in future years, destroy the harmony and peace of the home circle. But it was only a momentary hesitation; the thought flashed across her mind and vanished again, almost as quickly as it had come. Could she have known how true that prophetic instinct was, would she not have gone counter to all her own inclinations, and disregarded all Jack's wishes and prayers, rather than have run the risk of introducing strife into her peaceful household? As it was, the motherly pity she felt for the baby was stronger at the moment than the foreboding light which had flashed across the distant future, and she answered hurriedly—
"I must go and see Mr. Leslie first, dear, and hear what he says; do you think you could take care of Charlie while I am gone with the baby? I shall take Willie with me, or he will be getting into mischief."
Jack, proud to be of use to his mother, professed his ability to look after Charlie, privately regretting it was not the beautiful strange fairies' baby which was to be left under his charge.
"Jack, I can't be back before the clock has struck twelve; it is now half-past ten, so it will strike twice before I come back, do you understand; and both the hands will have to be on the twelve at the top, do you see? So now, if it seems a long time, do not be frightened, I shall be back soon after twelve. If baby cries, rock the cradle, but don't try to take him out; if he sleeps you may wash the potatoes for dinner. Now, good-bye," and Mrs. Shelley, with the infant in her arms and Willie running by her side, set off to the Rectory, while Jack stood at the door watching her out of sight.
The first half-hour passed quickly enough. The baby slept, and Jack washed the potatoes, and was delighted when the clock struck eleven. But the next hour was interminably long, and little Jack got very tired of rocking Charlie, who was awake now, and would scream every time his brother stopped rocking. Every few minutes Jack ran to the door to see if his mother was coming, and then ran back and rocked violently at the cradle. At last he thought he heard footsteps, and, running to look, saw, not his mother, but Dame Hursey, making her way towards the house.
Now, Jack did not care about Dame Hursey's visits even when his mother was at home. He was half afraid of the witch-like old woman, and to have a visit from her while he was alone was the last thing he desired, so he came in quickly and banged the door, hoping she would think they were all out and go away, if only he could keep Charlie quiet. But Dame Hursey had seen and heard the door shut, and so, after knocking two or three times without any result, she quietly lifted the latch and walked in, while Jack, who was kneeling by the cradle, looked up, half defiantly, half frightened.
"Mother is out; there is no one at home but me," said Jack, sharply.
"Oh, is she? Well, I'll sit and rest a bit till she comes in. Who have you got there in that cradle?"
"Charlie, my new brother," said Jack.
"And where is the fairies' baby? Ah! you see, I know all about it. I know everything; there is no keeping secrets from me. That is the shawl it was brought in, isn't it, now?" said Dame Hursey, rising and examining minutely the Indian shawl in which the baron had wrapped his daughter, and which was lying on a chair.
Jack, more convinced than ever that Dame Hursey was a witch, thought perhaps she might be able to tell him where the fairies had brought the baby from if he were civil to her, so he answered all her questions and described minutely all the baby's belongings.
"Ah! well, it is the Pharisees you have to thank for bringing her here. Mind you all take care of her, and one of these fine days she'll turn into a beautiful princess and make you all very rich; but if you talk much about her the fairies will be angry and take her away. You tell your mother I said so; I can't wait any longer."
And Dame Hursey, who had been prying about the kitchen to see if she could find any other belongings of this mysterious baby, took her departure, much to Jack's joy.
Shortly after she left Mrs. Shelley came home, and Jack was so full of Dame Hursey's visit and her account of the fairies' child that he forgot to ask the result of his mother's interview with the rector, while Mrs. Shelley, on the other hand, was not at all pleased to find Dame Hursey had been prying about her cottage in her absence, and congratulated herself on not having left any of the baby's little garments about, for she might never have found them again if she had.
The next day the rector called and had a long talk with the shepherd and his wife about the baby, though he could throw but little light upon it, except, of course, to utterly discredit the ridiculous notion that the fairies had brought it. That it belonged to rich people was clear from its clothes; and to foreigners, from the coronet, which was certainly not English. More the rector could not say, except that its parents evidently wanted to get rid of it, and had connived at placing it on the shepherd's doorstep.
As to keeping it, that was a point entirely for the shepherd and his wife to decide. If they chose to send it to the workhouse, no one could blame them for doing so. He doubted exceedingly anyone ever claiming it, but he advised Mrs. Shelley to lock up all its clothes and things in case of their being needed for identification at any future period. He also counselled them, if they thought of keeping the child, to weigh the matter well before they decided, as it would be cruel kindness to take it in for a time and then tire of it and send it to the union.
But John Shelley was not a man to do this, as his wife well knew. If he decided to keep the child he would do his duty by it, and go to the workhouse himself before he suffered that to do so. All that day John was very thoughtful, but when he came in to supper that night he told Mrs. Shelley he had made up his mind, and they would keep the baby and bring it up as their own daughter. Here, however, Mrs. Shelley raised an objection.
"We will keep it, by all means, John, but we can't bring a delicate little thing like this up as we shall our own strong boys, who must work for their living. This child may be claimed any day by its parents, so we must try and have it educated like a lady when it gets old enough."
John was inclined to dispute the wisdom of this; but as its education was a thing of the far future, he very wisely thought it was useless to discuss it, and resolved to let matters shape themselves, feeling sure the baby would take its own place as it grew older. One matter puzzled the good shepherd sorely. He was most particular in having his own children baptised when they were a month old, and they could not tell whether this baby had been baptised or no, though the rector thought its parents were most likely Roman Catholics, in which case it would be sure to have been christened, as it was two or three months old.
The next question was, what was it to be called? For, if baptised, they had no means of discovering its name. But here Jack came to the rescue.
"Let's call her Fairy, mother. Dame Hursey says she is a fairy, and it is a pretty name."
"So it is, my son; and though she is no fairy, but a real child like you, we will call her Fairy. It is a very good name for her, and when she is old enough we will tell her why," said the shepherd.
And so Fairy was the little stranger called as long as she lived in the shepherd's family.
(To be continued.)
A PRINCESS WHO LIVED TWO LIVES.
A ROMANCE OF HISTORY.
here was no lovelier woman in all the Russias than Carolina, the wife of Alexis, eldest son and presumptive heir to Peter the Great. Her beauty was not only that of the body, for her sweet temper and gentle disposition made her beloved by all who were brought in contact with her. The only being who did not yield to the charms of her surpassing beauty and amiability was the one who ought to have prized her above all others—her husband. His nature was far too coarse and brutal to appreciate the treasure that he possessed, and the more he saw how universally beloved his wife was, the more did she become an object of aversion to him. For some time he treated her with cold neglect, but by degrees he became more brutal in his behaviour, until one day, when she offended him in some trifling respect, he dealt her an inhuman blow which stretched her, apparently lifeless, at his feet. Well pleased at being delivered so easily from what he only regarded as a hateful burden, he gave orders that she should be buried with all due pomp, and hastened away to another part of the kingdom.
But when her ladies of honour came to raise the unhappy princess, they found that she still breathed. Under the devoted attention of the Countess of Konigsmark, who had always been her confidential attendant, she slowly won her way back to life, and this while her funeral obsequies were being celebrated with the greatest pomp throughout the length and breadth of Russia, while the principal courts of Europe were mourning her premature decease, and while her unnatural husband was drowning the remembrance of his horrible crime in revelries and excesses of all kinds. None knew that she was still alive but the Countess of Konigsmark and one or two other of her most devoted adherents. They kept her concealed from everyone; for well they knew that Alexis, should he hear of her recovery, would take measures to rid himself of her effectually. Acting under their advice, the princess collected all the valuables she was able to lay her hands on, and, in company with an old domestic, who assumed the character of her father, set out for Paris. Here, however, she felt still within reach of Alexis, and so, with her supposed father, she set sail for Louisiana, where the French had lately formed extensive colonies. They settled down in New Orleans, and Carolina began to rapidly recover her health and beauty.
A young man, by name Moldask, who held a Government appointment in New Orleans and who had spent many years in Russia thought that he recognised in the beautiful stranger the princess who had been the brightest star of the Muscovite Court. However, he could not believe that the highborn lady of whose death he had heard and the daughter of the feeble old man who had lately arrived from France were the same person, wonderful though the resemblance between them might be. He kept his ideas secret, but made himself so useful and agreeable to the strangers, that finally they settled to cast in their lot with his, and live under the same roof. Before the lapse of many months the news of Alexis' death reached New Orleans. Moldask noticed the agitation with which his friends received it, and told them that their secret was his. They did not attempt a denial; so he offered to sacrifice his private fortune, throw up his position in New Orleans, and take Carolina back to Moscow. This offer she would hear nothing of. She thanked Moldask again and again for his noble generosity, but expressed her fixed determination not to revisit the scene of all that had been most unpleasant in her life. She begged him not to betray her secret, and he readily promised to keep it inviolate. The truth was that he had lost his heart to the widow of Czar Peter's son. Respect, however, controlled his feelings. He knew how exalted was her real station compared to his, and resolved to conceal his love.
Time passed on, and one autumn evening a pararalytic stroke carried off Carolina's pseudo-father. After this it was, of course, impossible that she and Moldask should continue to inhabit the same house. He came to her on the morning after her faithful old friend's funeral, and explained that he must seek a new abode unless she would so far cast away all thoughts of her former station as to consent to call him husband. The princess, who had long regarded him with feelings warmer than those of mere friendship, agreed to link her fate with his, and from now began the happiest period of her so far troubled life. Their union was blessed by the advent of a little girl; nothing seemed wanting to render her happiness complete.
Years rolled by, and Moldask was attacked by a disease which baffled the skill of the New Orleans doctors. His wife was determined that he should have the best medical advice, and so persuaded him to sell all his possessions and embark for Paris. Their journey was not in vain; the skill of the Parisian physicians restored Moldask to good health, and he obtained employment in a department of the French Government.
One day, as Carolina was walking in the public gardens with her little girl, she met the son of her faithful friend, the Countess of Konigsmark. She recognised him instantly, and, fearing that he might know her, tried to brush past him with averted head. The Marshal, however, was struck with her appearance, and, turning round, followed her until she sat down beneath some trees. The instant that he caught a fair sight of her he recognised his former mistress, and quickly approaching, bent his knee and carried her hand to his lips. She implored him not to divulge her secret, but to come with her to her home, and hear how she had fared since Alexis had, as he thought, killed her. The Marshal consented to accompany her; he listened with interest to her tale, and when he had heard it to the end announced his intention of informing the King of France, that her highness might be restored to her proper position and honours. Carolina, however, was quite determined that this should not be. She begged the Marshal to keep her secret for one week, as her husband had certain negotiations, which would be ruined if her identity were disclosed. This he consented to do, and Carolina dismissed him, with the assurance that on that day week he should be definitely informed of her wishes in the matter.
On the appointed day the Marshal found that the princess and her husband had left their home. However, he succeeded in tracing them, and told the king of the noble lady who was then in his dominions. His Majesty entered into negotiations with the Empress Maria Theresa, with a view to deciding upon the manner in which her august aunt should be treated. The upshot of these negotiations was a most tender letter from the Empress to Carolina, asking her to make the Austrian court her home, and promising to load her husband and herself with honours and distinctions. But the happy wife and mother felt that the life she had been leading for the last few years was preferable in every way to the artificial existence of a court, and refused her niece's generous offer. It was renewed again and again; but nothing could shake her determination.
For many years she led a life of the utmost happiness, and then death deprived her of both husband and daughter. Maria Theresa renewed her offers; but Carolina preferred to pass the rest of her days in solitude. She accepted a small pension from the Empress, and retired to a small cottage at Vitry, near Paris. After a quiet existence here for some few years more she passed away, without ever having regretted her refusal to rejoin the brilliant circle of a court.
VARIETIES.
Curious Fresco.
In the Carthusian Monastery of Garignano, a few miles from Milan, are some frescoes by Daniel Crespi, of Busto, which are said to be marvels of art and imagination. One of them is grim enough, at any rate, and awful. It represents a dead person rising from his bier, to announce to all whom it might concern that, although they were burying him in the abode of holiness, and were now adoring him as a saint, he was, as a fact, condemned to hell.
Perhaps one of our own famous modern divines was thinking of this fresco when he declared that one great source of surprise, to those who went to heaven, would be to find so many there they had not expected to see, and to miss so many they had thought to meet.
"No' the day, honest woman!"
Dr. John Erskine, a well-known Scottish divine, was remarkable for his simplicity of manner and gentle temper. He returned so often from the pulpit minus his pockethandkerchief that Mrs. Erskine at last began to suspect that the handkerchiefs were stolen by some of the old women who lined the pulpit stairs. So both to baulk and detect the culprit she sewed a corner of the handkerchief to one of the pockets of his coat tails. Half way up the pulpit stairs the good doctor felt a tug, whereupon he turned round to the old woman whose was the guilty hand, to say, with great gentleness and simplicity:—
"No' the day, honest woman, no' the day. Mrs. Erskine has sewed it in!"
A Brave Wife.
In 1872 a storm overtook a Boston ship on the banks of Newfoundland. The captain—Captain Wilson—had his shoulder-blade broken by the fall of a mast, and the first mate and part of the crew were at the same time disabled.
No sooner, however, had the captain been carried to his cabin than his wife, a woman of one-and-twenty, hurried on deck, told the men to work with a will, and she would take them into port. The wreckage was cleared, the pumps manned, and the gale was weathered. Then a jury-mast was rigged, the ship put before the wind, and in twenty-one days she reached St. Thomas. After repairing damages there, finding her husband still helpless, the indomitable woman navigated the ship to Liverpool.
Captain Wilson was never able to resume work, and for seven years his brave wife supported him and their only child by working as clerk in a dry goods store. Then he died, and Mrs. Wilson was deservedly appointed to a custom-house inspectorship by the American Government.
Old Friends.—The world has few greater pleasures than that which two friends enjoy in tracing back, at some distant time, those transactions and events through which they have passed together.—Dr. Johnson.
A Rare Companion.—She whom you can treat with unreserved familiarity, at the same time preserving your dignity and her respect, is a rare companion, and her acquaintance should be cultivated.
Things of Value.
What shines and glitters has its birth
But for the present hour alone;
The real—the thing of truth and worth—
To all posterity goes down.
—Goethe.
Beethoven in Germany.—When the German talks of symphonies he means Beethoven; the two names are to him one and indivisible; his joy, his pride. As Italy has its Naples, France its Revolution, England its Navigation, so Germany has its Beethoven symphonies. The German forgets in his Beethoven that he has no school of painting; with Beethoven he imagines that he has again won the battles that he lost under Napoleon; he even dares to place him on a level with Shakespeare.—Robert Schumann.
A New Use for a Dog.—A farmer's daughter in the West of England received a hairy poodle dog from a friend in town. The unsophisticated damsel wrote back thanking her friend for the present, and saying that she found it very handy, when tied to a stick, to clean windows with.
The Worst of Success.—She that has never known adversity is but half acquainted with others or with herself. Constant success shows us but one side of the world, for, as it surrounds us with friends who will tell us only our merits, so it silences those enemies from whom alone we can learn our defects.
Rights and Duties.—There is no right without its duties, and no duty without its rights.
MERLE'S CRUSADE.
By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of "Aunt Diana," "For Lilias," etc.
CHAPTER IV.
MERLE'S LAST EVENING AT HOME.
o it is all settled, Merle."
"Yes, Aunt Agatha," I returned, briskly, for she spoke in a lugubrious voice, and as one sad face is enough beside the family hearth, I assumed a tolerably cheerful aspect. If only Aunt Agatha's eyes would not look at me so tenderly!
"Poor child!" she sighed; and then, as I remained silent, she continued in a few minutes, "I wish I could reconcile myself more to the idea, but I cannot help feeling a presentiment that you will live to repent this strange step you are taking."
I found this speech a little damping, but I bore it without flinching. One can never set out down some new road without a few friendly missiles flying about one's ears. "Remember, I told you such and such a thing would happen if you did not take my advice. I am only warning you for your good." Alas! that one's dearest friend should be transformed into a teasing gad-fly! What can one do but go straight across the enemy's country when the boats are destroyed behind one? I always did think that a grand action on Xenophon's part.
"You have not given me your opinion of my new mistress," was my wicked rejoinder.
Aunt Agatha drew herself up at this and put on her grandest manner. "You need not go out of your way to vex me, Merle. I am sufficiently humiliated without that."
"Aunt Agatha," I remonstrated; for this was too much for my forbearance, "do you think I would do anything to vex you when we are to part in a few days? Oh, you dear, silly woman!" for she was actually crying, "I am only longing to know what you think of Mrs. Morton."
"She is perfectly lovely, Merle," she returned, drying her eyes, as I kissed and coaxed her. "I very nearly fell in love with her myself. I liked the simple way in which she sat down and talked to me about my old pupils, making herself quite at home in our little drawing-room, and I was much pleased with her manner when she spoke about you; it was almost a pity you came into the room just then."
"I left you alone for nearly half an hour; please to remember that."
"Indeed! it did not seem nearly so long. Half an hour! and it passed so quickly, too. Well, I must say Mrs. Morton is a most interesting woman; she is full of intelligence, and yet so gentle. She has lost her baby—did she tell you that? only four months ago, and her husband does not like her to wear mourning. She is a devoted wife, I can see that, but I have a notion that you will have some difficulty in satisfying Mr. Morton; he is very particular and hard to please."
"I have found out that for myself; he is a man of strong prejudices."
"Well, you must do your best to conciliate him; tact goes a long way in these cases. Mrs. Morton has evidently taken a fancy to you, Merle. She told me over again how her baby boy had made friends with you at once; she said your manner was very frank and winning, and though you looked young you seemed very staid and self-reliant."
"I wish Uncle Keith had heard that. Did she say any more about me, Aunt Agatha?"
"No, you interrupted us at that point, and the conversation became more general; but, my dear, I must scold you about one thing: how absurd you were to insist on wearing caps. Mrs. Morton was quite embarrassed; she said she would never have mentioned such a thing."
"But I have set my heart on wearing them, Aunt Agatha," I returned, very quickly; "you have no idea how nice I shall look in a neat bib apron over my dark print gown, and a regular cap such as hospital nurses wear. I should be quite disappointed if I did not carry out that part of my programme; the only thing that troubles me is the smallness of my salary—I mean wages. Thirty pounds a year will never make my fortune."
"You cannot ask more with a good conscience, Merle; you have never been out before, and have no experience. Mrs. Morton said herself that her husband had promised to raise it at the end of six months if you proved yourself competent; it is quite as much as a nursery governess's salary."
"Oh, I am not mercenary," I replied, hastily, "and I shall save out of thirty pounds a year. I must keep a nice dress for my home visits and for Sundays, though it is dreadful to think that I shall not always go to church every Sunday until little Joyce is older; that will be a sad deprivation."
"Yes, my poor child, but you must not speak as though this were the only serious drawback; you will find plenty of difficulties in your position; even Mrs. Morton confessed that."
"The world is full of difficulties," I returned, loftily; "there have been thorns and briars ever since Adam's time. Do you remember your favourite fable of the old man and the bundle of sticks, Aunt Agatha? I mean to treat my difficulties in the same way he managed his. I shall break each stick singly."
She smiled approvingly at this, and then, as Uncle Keith's knock reached her ear, she rose quickly and went out of the room.
The moment I was left alone my assumed briskness of manner dropped into the mental dishabille that we wear for our own private use and comfort. Those two had always so much to say to each other that I was sure of at least half an hour's solitude, and in some moods self is the finest company. Yes, I had destroyed my boats, and now my motto must be "Forward!" This afternoon I had pledged myself to a new service—a service of self-renunciation and patient labour, undertaken—yes, I dare to say it—for the welfare of the large sisterhood of waiting and working women. A servant? No, a soldier; for I should be one among the vanguard, who strive to make a breach in the great fortress of conventionality. Not that I feared the word service, considering what Divine lips had said on that subject—"I am among you as one who serveth—" but I knew how the world shrank from such terms.
I have always maintained that half the so-called difficulties of life consist mainly in our dread of other people's opinions; women are especially trammelled by this bondage. They breathe the atmosphere of their own special world, and the chill wind of popular opinion blows coldly over them; like the sensitive plant, they shiver and wither up at a touch. I believe the master minds that achieve great things have created their own atmosphere, else how can they appear so impervious to criticism? How can they carry themselves so calmly, when their contemporaries are sneering round them? We must live above ourselves and each other; there is no other way of getting rid of the shams and disguises of life; and yet how is one who has been born in slavery to be absolutely true? How is an English gentlewoman to shake off the prejudices of caste and declare herself free?
Ah, well! this was the enigma I had set myself to solve. And now the old life—the protected girl's life—was receding from me; the old guards, the old landmarks were to be removed by my own hands. Should I live to repent my rash act, as Aunt Agatha predicted, or should I at some future time, when I looked back upon this wintry day, thank God, humbly and with tears of gratitude, that I had courage given me to see the right and do it, "ad finem fidelis," faithful to the last?
I found those last few days of home-life singularly trying. Indeed, I am not sure that I was not distinctly grateful when the final evening arrived. When one has to perform a painful duty there is no use in lingering over it; and when one is secretly troubled, a spoken and too discursive sympathy only irritates our mental membrane. How could Job, for example, tolerate the sackcloth and ashes, and, worse still, the combative eloquence of his friends?
Aunt Agatha's pathetic looks and pitying words fretted me to the very verge of endurance. I wished she would have been less mindful of my comforts, that she would not have insisted on helping me with my sewing, and loading me with little surprises in the shape of gifts. But for the bitter cold that kept me an unwilling prisoner by the fireside, I would have escaped into my own room to avoid the looks that seemed to follow me everywhere.
But I would not yield to my inward irritability; I hummed a tune; I even sang to myself, as I hemmed my new bib aprons, or quilled the neat border for my cap. Nay, I became recklessly gay the last night, and dressed myself in what I termed my nurse's uniform, a dark-navy blue cambric, and then went down to show myself to Uncle Keith, who was reading aloud the paper to Aunt Agatha. I could see him start as I entered; but Aunt Agatha's first words made me blush, and in a moment I repented my misplaced spirit of fun.
"Why, Merle, how pretty you look! Does not the child look almost pretty, Ezra, though that cap does hide her nice smooth hair? I had no idea that dress would be so becoming." But the rest of Aunt Agatha's speech was lost upon me, for I ran out of the room. Why, they seemed actually to believe that I was play-acting, that my part was a becoming one! Pretty, indeed! And here such a strange revulsion of feeling took possession of me that I absolutely shed a few tears, though none but myself was witness to this humiliating fact.
I did not go downstairs for a long time after that, and then, to my relief, I found Uncle Keith alone; for men are less sharp in some matters than women, and he would never find out that I had been crying, as Aunt Agatha would; but I was a little taken aback when he put down his paper, and asked, in a kind voice, why I had stayed so long in the cold, and if I had not finished my packing.
"Oh, yes," I returned, promptly, "everything was done, and my trunk was only waiting to be strapped down."
"That is right," he said, quite heartily, "always be beforehand with your duties, Merle; your aunt tells me you have made up your mind to leave us in the morning. I should have thought the afternoon or early evening would have been better."
"Oh, no, Uncle Keith," I exclaimed, and then, oddly enough, I began to laugh, and yet the provoking tears would come to my eyes, for a vision of sundry school domestics arriving towards night with their goods and chattels, and the remembrance of their shy faces in the morning light seemed to evoke a sort of dreary mirth; but to my infinite surprise and embarrassment, Uncle Keith patted me on the shoulder as though I were a child.
"There, there; never mind showing a bit of natural feeling that does you credit; your aunt is fretting herself to death over losing you—Hir-rumph; and I do not mind owning that the house will be a trifle dull without you; and, of course, a young creature like you must feel it, too." And with that he took my hands, awkwardly enough, and began warming them in his own, for they were blue with cold. If Aunt Agatha had only seen him doing it, and me, with the babyish tears running down my face.
"Why, look here," continued Uncle Keith, cheerily, with a sort of cricket-like chirp, "we are all as down as possible, just because you are leaving us, and yet you will only be two or three miles away, and any day if you want us we can be with you. Why, there is no difficulty, really; you are trying your little experiment, and I will say you are a brave girl for venturing on such a brave scheme. Well, if it does not answer, here is your home, and your own corner by the fireside, and an old uncle ready to work for you. I can't say more than that, Merle."
"Oh, Uncle Keith," I returned, sobbing remorsefully, "why are you so good to me, when I have always been so ungrateful for your kindness?"
"Nay, nay, we will leave bygones alone," he answered, a little huskily. "I never minded your tandrums, knowing there was a good heart at the bottom. I only wished I was not such a dry old fellow, and that you could have been fonder of me. Perhaps you will understand me better some day, and——" Here he stopped and cleared his throat, and said "hir-rumph" once or twice, and then I felt a thin crackling bit of paper underneath my palm. "It will buy you something useful, my dear," he finished, getting up in a hurry. A five-pound note, and he had lost so much money and had to do without so many comforts! Who can wonder that I jumped up and gave him a penitent hug.
It was long before I slept that night, and my first waking thoughts the next morning were hardly as pleasant as usual. A premonitory symptom of homesickness seized me as I glanced round my little room in the dim, winter light. Aunt Agatha had made it so pretty; but here a certain suspicious moisture stole under my eyelids, and I gave myself a resolute shake, and commenced my toilet in a business-like way that chased away gloomy thoughts.
Never had the little dining-room looked more inviting than when I entered it that morning. One of Uncle Keith's carefully hoarded logs blazed and crackled in the roomy fireplace, a delicious aroma of coffee and smoking ham pervaded the room. Aunt Agatha, in her pretty morning cap, was placing a vase of hothouse flowers some old pupil had sent her in the centre of the table, and the bullfinch was whistling as merrily as ever, while old Tom watched him, sleepily, from the rug. I was rather long warming my hands and stroking his sleek fur, for somehow I could not bring myself to look or speak in quite my ordinary manner; and though Uncle Keith did his best to enliven us by reading out scraps from his newspaper, I am afraid we gave him only a partial attention. When Uncle Keith had bade me a husky good-bye, and had gone to his office, Aunt Agatha and I made a grand feint of being busy. There was very little to do, really, but I considered it incumbent to be in a great state of activity. I am afraid to say how many times I ran up and down stairs for articles that were safely deposited at the bottom of my box. Aunt Agatha put a stop to it at last by taking my hand and putting me forcibly in Uncle Keith's big chair.
"Sit there and keep warm, Merle; the cab will not be here for another half hour; what is the use of our pretending that we are not exceedingly unhappy? My dear, you are leaving us with a sore heart, I can see that, and it only makes me love you all the better. Yes, indeed, Merle," for I was clinging to her now and sobbing softly under my breath; "and however things may turn out, whether this step be a failure or not, I will always say that you are a brave girl, who tried to do her duty."
"Are you sure you think that, Aunt Agatha?"
Then she smiled to herself a little sadly.
"You remind me of the baby Merle who was so anxious to help everyone. I remember you such a little creature, trying to lift the nursery chair, because your mother was tired; and how you dragged it across the room until you were red in the face, and came to me rubbing your little fat hands, and looking so important. 'The chair hurted baby drefful, but it might hurted poor mammy worser:' that was what you said. I think you would still hurt yourself 'drefful' if you could help someone else."
It was nice to hear this. What can be sweeter or less harmful than praise from one we love? It was nice to sit there with Aunt Agatha's soft hand in mine, and be petted. It would be long before I should have a cosy time with her again. It put fresh heart in me somehow; like Jonathan's taste of honey, "it lightened my eyes," so that when the final good-bye came, I could smile as I said it, and carry away an impression of Aunt Agatha's smile too, as she stood on the steps, with Patience behind her, watching until I was out of sight. I am afraid I am different to most young women of my age—more imaginative, and perhaps a little morbid. Many things in everyday life came to me in the guise of symbols or signs—a good-bye, for example. A parting even for a short time always appears to me a faint type of that last solemn parting when we bid good-bye to temporal things. I suppose kind eyes will watch us then, kind hands clasp ours; as we start on that long journey they will bid God help us, as with failing breath and, perhaps, some natural longings for the friends we love, we go out into the great unknown, waiting until a Diviner Guide take us by the hand. "God help you, poor soul," we seem to hear them say, and perhaps we hear the drip of their tears as they say it; but in that other room, who can tell how gently those human drops will be wiped away, in that place where pain and trouble are unknown?