CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST OF THE “SLAINS CASTLE.”
“I am all curiosity to hear your secret, Charlie,” pleaded his wife.
“Well, as I tell you, it is your secret which has given any meaning to mine,” he said. “It is as if I picked up an odd-shaped bit of wood, which seemed a mere chip, but presently you came in with a puzzle, all fitted, save for one vacant place, and lo, my chip exactly fills it!”
He had taken up the bulky pocket-book which lay on the sofa beside him. He searched through its contents, selected one letter, and handed it to Lucy.
“Read it,” he said, “and tell me what you think.”
Lucy instinctively looked first at the envelope. The post-mark was “Peterhead”; the handwriting was strong and manly.
“Why, it is from your old acquaintance Captain Grant!” she said.
Charlie nodded.
“Read what he says,” he repeated.
It was not a long letter. The Captain, who was an old schoolfellow of Charlie’s, had heard of his illness and wrote to inquire how he was.
“It is my belief, my boy,” he said, “that all the medicine you want is a good draught of salt air taken straight off the top of the ocean waves. You can’t get it quite right on the best of shores. What a pity you can’t come with me in my fine ship the Slains Castle. We are going straight to New Zealand, and then perhaps we shall trade a little among some of the smaller islands; but the Slains Castle is a fast goer, and unless the winds are very dead against us, we shall be home well within a year. That’s the sort of thing that would really do you good, and not a petty little voyage on a passenger steamer, where you smell more of the engines and the cook-room than of the briny. Can’t you make up your mind and come with me? Health before income, old man! If you were by yourself, I’d press the idea; but, as there is the little wife, I suppose I mustn’t. For there is no room to offer to her on the ship.”
“I shall write and tell him that just because there is a little wife, he must press the idea!” cried Lucy, with shining eyes. “Why, a whole year on the open sea—you, who love it so much and are never sea-sick—it would make a new man of you!” And then her brave heart quailed secretly at the thought of the long absence, and the long silences which lay within it, and she added kindly, “But might you not find it a rough life, Charlie, and lonesome?”
Charlie laughed kindly.
“I can trust Grant’s ideas of comfort,” he said; “they are quite up to wholesome point, and I want nothing more. He is good company too, and so are sailors generally. I could not bear the thought of any very long journey in a big passenger steamer with strange men, possibly gamblers or drunkards, sharing one’s cabin, the social tone set by the smoking-room and the bar, and possibility of the truly awful solitude of living among two or three hundred people with not one of whom I might have a single idea in common! No, dear little Lucy, if I am to have a really long voyage, give me a sailing vessel, when I can secure such advantage as sailing with Alick Grant.”
“But suppose you should be ill?” suggested Lucy in a low voice. “There would be no doctor.”
“Suppose I should be ill!” answered Charlie cheerfully. “Grant would see that I was properly taken care of. All that could be done in my case, he knows how to do.”
Mr. Challoner paused.
“Even so,” he went on; “it would be better for you to think of me as lying quietly in my berth, looked after by an old friend, and an object of genuine interest to all his men, than as I should be on a passenger steamer, with an over-driven steward and stewardess running in and out, dancing going on overhead, and sounds of comic songs coming from the saloon. No, I should not like to run risks of serious illness on a big passenger steamer,” he decided.
He did not remind Lucy—but she remembered, though she kept silence—that in the one lengthy ocean voyage he had ever enjoyed—a business trip to and from New York—a passenger had met a frightful death by accident in the steamer’s saloon, and two days afterwards a flippant “charade” had been enacted, with every circumstance of levity, on the very spot.
“What did you think, Charlie, when you first got that letter?” asked his wife. “Did you wish you could go?”
Her husband shook his head.
“We do not wish for what we believe to be absolutely impossible,” he said. “As I say, I never gave it another thought till you brought out your plans this afternoon. I did not tell you a word about it, because I thought the suggestion would only worry you, when it could not be carried out.”
“But you see now that it could be done,” said Lucy bravely.
“There is another thing too,” Charlie went on; “to go in this way will cost far less than to go in any other. From what Grant has told me about other voyages, I know he takes a passenger in this way at about what one may call boarding rates, say a hundred pounds for the whole year. Now, on a steamer one could only be away about three months at most for that sum, and unless one took the return journey at once, one would also have hotel and travelling expenses. If I go with Grant, Lucy, I need not take more than one hundred and a few odd pounds with me, and I can leave you all the rest of our little hoard. So thriftily as you will manage, I believe you need not trouble about earning, and yet we sha’n’t be penniless when I get home.”
Lucy answered in nervous haste.
“Oh, but I must do all I can. It will help to pass the time; it will help me to bear your being away.”
Charlie put out his hand towards her.
“Little woman,” he said, “is this going to cost you too much in this way? What is the good of making any effort to save me which is to kill you? And perhaps I don’t need any such saving after all. Why should I go?”
Lucy rallied herself.
“Of course it will be very terrible to miss you,” she said, feeling instinctively that if the part she was playing was to be accepted, she must not overdo it. “The days will be very long without you to wait for and to talk with. I shall need all I can get to occupy me. But as for not being able to bear it, Charlie, I suppose I am made of the same stuff as other women. Plenty of them have to bear the same—and worse. Captain Grant’s wife herself has to bear it, and from her photographs she does not look as if it wore her to fiddlestrings.”
“She is used to it,” said Charlie, with a man’s easy way of “seeing a difference.”
“Certainly. I daresay she felt it worse the first time,” assented Lucy. “On the other hand, it is always going on. Almost as soon as one absence ends another begins. Now, I shall know that mine is one supreme effort, and then—reunion!”
“I wish Captain Grant’s wife were nearer at hand—in London instead of in Peterhead,” said Charlie. “It would seem cheery for you wives to be together at home, while we husbands were together on the ocean.”
“Well, perhaps she will come up and spend a month with me,” remarked Lucy. “If she comes in the Institute’s holidays, I should be at leisure to show her the sights, if she has not seen them all already. It would be great fun to have her here.” (Long afterwards Lucy remembered that little speech.)
“One thing is, if I go, I am not leaving you lonely, Luce,” mused Charlie. “There’s Florence and Brand not very far off.”
Lucy said nothing. Her husband looked up with the brightness born of a sudden thought.
“How would you like it if they invited you to stay with them while I was away?” he asked. “Hugh could play with his little cousin, and I’m sure Pollie could make herself useful, seeing what hot water they’re always in with their servants. This house would cost little shut up, and you could keep an eye on it, or even get it let as it stands for a few months out of the twelve.”
“No, Charlie,” said Lucy. There was an almost fierce decision in her voice. “No, I can bear to miss you, if I am in my own place, our place, and can be by myself when I choose, and am doing all I can to serve our future. I could not bear to sit down at dinner-parties, and to have to dress of an evening, and to talk small talk in the drawing-room. The Brands mean to be kind of course,” she added hastily; “but they like to have crowds of people about, and I don’t. Florence had thirty-five callers at her last weekly ‘afternoon’; while I’m one of those who think that ‘a world in purchase of one friend to gain.’ No, Charlie, don’t try to take care of me in these ways. Trust me with myself. I know what is good for me. There are some matters men never quite understand.”
“Well, if you are to take your own ways, you must be careful that they succeed,” said her husband. “One comfort is, you have Pollie, and can trust and depend on her. Those cheeks of yours are thin and pale. I must find round roses on them when I come back—if I go! Oh, Lucy, why did you make these plans, and why did Alick Grant write that letter? We should have gone on so happily as we are, and I should have picked up strength gradually. Why has this come into our heads?”
“I think because it is the will of God that you should go,” answered Lucy with sweet reverence. “I thought so all the while when it was only my own plans, which were working out so well. I think so more than ever now, Charlie, when I find that all the time you, as it were, were holding the other end of the same stick.”
“Shall we put the matter to one more test?” said Charlie. “Shall I write to Grant asking when he sails and if he will take me for the year at one hundred pounds, telling him that if he can, and if I can be ready by his date, I will entertain the idea.”
“You can be ready by any date if Dr. Ivery thinks you are strong enough,” said Lucy, “and we could afford more than one hundred. If this is the path of Providence, Charlie, ought we to be turned aside by these things?”
“Such a letter will not bind me either way,” returned her husband, “it is purely tentative; and yet if the date and the terms prove suitable, the leading will seem the clearer. I will write at once, and until we get Grant’s answer, we will not say a word on the matter to anybody.”
The epistle was soon written, and Lucy herself hurried on her bonnet and ran with it to the post, lest Pollie should not be quick enough to catch the night mail for the north.
“I feel sure you are to go,” said Lucy. And as two or three days passed by without an answer, she hung upon her husband’s presence as those do who count the running down sands of a dear joy. She could soothe herself only by doing something for Charlie, though it was only pathetic little preparations for the possible departure. Of course there was no use thinking of “outfit” until that departure was definitely decided. But there were “thin places” to be darned in the fine, carefully-kept underclothing, and all the three guineas she had got for her sketch, went to procure little supplementary comforts and conveniences which would be certainly useful whether Charlie went away or remained at home.
It was indeed a waiting time, and waiting times invariably try nerves and spirits, even though so strong a self-control be set upon these, that they may not tamper with temper or will. Lucy Challoner never dared to be idle for a moment. She felt that she must hold herself with a strong hand. When it seemed to her that Pollie was rather self-absorbed, less interested in her work, and indeed almost negligent, Lucy set it all down to her own imagination, fevered by restrained excitement.
In the course of that waiting time, Florence Brand put in an appearance at the little verandahed house. She came in the afternoon, and Charlie was asleep. For this Lucy was secretly thankful, being always unable to realise that Florence did not irritate Charlie—who was a woman and not his own sister—as she often did herself—a woman and a sister! Pollie was so slow to admit the visitor, or the visitor was so impatient, that the door-bell was rung twice, the second time with such vigour that Lucy feared her husband would be startled from his slumbers, and flew to open the door herself.
“What! You have to do this yourself, now, do you?” cried Mrs. Brand before she had crossed the threshold. “How’s Charlie? Getting all right, I suppose, or we should have heard. I had a fine time at the seaside, it would have done me worlds of good to have stayed there another week. But I saw so many high-class autumn sales being advertised, and I’ve so many things to buy, that I thought I’d best come straight back. If you’re busy, I sha’n’t interrupt you. I can only stay five minutes. I did not mean to call when I left home, but since I’ve been out, I’ve heard something that I’m determined you shall hear at once. Prepare for a shock!”
Lucy’s face grew so white that it startled even Mrs. Brand.
“Dear me, child,” she said, “it is not really anything; nineteen people out of twenty would not mind a bit, though they might be angry. But I know it will startle your confiding trustfulness. Your treasure Pollie is on the eve of giving you notice because she is going to be married!”
Lucy Challoner sat down. She felt her strength gone from her. In another moment she rallied, remembering that she had to hold the fort of domestic serenity for Charlie’s sake, and that she must not yet reveal to Florence the full force of the blow she had given her.
“How did you hear this?” she asked.
“I heard it at your Italian warehouse,” Florence answered. “You know Jem has an idea that they keep better curry powder than anybody else. So this afternoon I looked in there with an order, and to pay a little account. That took me to the desk, where the girl-clerk sits. She has often seen you and me together, and of course she had heard of Charlie’s illness. So says she, ‘I hope Mr. Challoner is better, ma’am?’ ‘Oh, dear, yes,’ I replied, ‘I daresay he is nearly as well as he will ever be. He will always be delicate.’ ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am,’ she said. ‘It’s so sad for Mrs. Challoner and the dear little boy, and what a pity it is she should be troubled about a new servant at such a time.’ ‘A new servant!’ I cried in amaze. ‘Oh, perhaps I should not have spoken,’ said she. ‘Hasn’t her maid given notice yet? I know she has arranged to be married at Christmas.’”
“There may be some mistake,” observed Lucy. “But thank you for telling me. I only wish Pollie had told me herself. I did not know even that she had a sweetheart.”
Mrs. Brand laughed.
“She may not have known that herself very long,” she said. “These girls are generally of an opinion that ‘happy’s the wooing that’s not long undoing.’ When do her wages fall due?”
“The day after to-morrow,” said Lucy drearily.
“This is only the first of October,” commented Mrs. Brand. “If she gives you notice now, she will be away by the first of November. I should not wonder if she doesn’t give you notice for another month. Well, you’ve had her more than seven years, so you may think yourself lucky. The worst of it is that a change comes harder in such a case than when one is always changing as I am. I must be going now, Lucy. And don’t you fret. I’ll help you to look for another girl. I rather enjoy the fun. But I sympathise with you, my dear, for I didn’t like the task once, but practice makes perfect, and now I expect nothing and am never disappointed.”
She was gone, Lucy closing the hall door softly behind her that Charlie might not be roused. She wanted to make herself more accustomed to this new aspect of life, ere the tinkle of his little handbell should summon her to his side.
The first thing was to question Pollie. “There may be some mistake,” Lucy repeated to herself. Yet she felt a secret conviction that there was none.
She did not ring the bell and “summon Pollie to her presence.” She had the thoughtful woman’s habit of seldom ringing the bell to claim the attendance of the solitary servant. She went towards the head of the kitchen stairs and lingered there a moment. She heard Pollie walk across the kitchen, and then the rattle of some tin vessels. She made up her mind to go down and face the worst at once.
Somehow the kitchen did not look quite so pleasant as usual. It was clean and fairly tidy, but the things last used were not cleared away, and the dresser lacked the glass with a few flowers which generally adorned it. Pollie was busy at the fire-place. She looked over her shoulder at her mistress, but did not turn round, and went on with what she was doing.
She was a comely personable girl with a good head and a trim figure. Perhaps there was a little hardness about her mouth, or it might be that she was setting her teeth in face of what was coming.
“Pollie,” said the mistress very gently, “I have just been told that you are thinking of leaving us and getting married?”
Pollie did not answer quickly. She went on doing something with great energy.
“Well, ma’am, yes,” she said; “it is so.”
“And when is it to be, Pollie?” asked Mrs. Challoner.
“I’m to be married at Christmas,” Pollie answered with great firmness.
“Then I am to take your notice at once?” said Mrs. Challoner.
“Well, ma’am, yes. I’d like to leave on the 1st of November. I’ve things to do. But if you would like me to stay a week or two longer, I’d be willing to oblige you.”
Mrs. Challoner reflected for a moment. It is well-nigh impossible to accept a favour from one who has suddenly cut us down to the bare legal rights of our position.
“No, Pollie, thank you,” she said; “you can go at the time that suits you best.”
“Thank you, m’m,” said Pollie, still rubbing vigorously.
Mrs. Challoner did not feel as if she could drop the matter right off here. It did not seem even fair to this girl, who had been with her and had worked faithfully for her for seven years, not to let her know exactly what feelings her present course had evoked.
“Pollie,” she began very gently, “is not all this rather sudden?”
“Well, ma’am, you’ve got your proper notice, and I’ve said I’d not stand on giving you a week or two extra. What more can I do?” said Pollie.
“That is quite true, Pollie. But look at it in this light—if you had only been with me for two or three months, you would be obliged to do as much as you are doing now. Don’t you think something else comes into the matter when people have been together for years and have grown to rely on each other and to feel as if each other would be always there, unless they knew that something was coming to part them?”
“I was not to know that you mightn’t get rid of me any day, ma’am,” said Pollie. “It seems like as if there might be changes.”
“Pollie, do you really think I would not at once have told you of any possible change which, if it occurred, might interfere with you?” asked Mrs. Challoner. “Legal notices are necessary between everybody, strangers or friends; but full and timely warning beforehand is surely due from those who have been long associated. Don’t you feel you would have had this if change had threatened from my side?”
“I don’t know, m’m,” said Pollie rather sullenly. “Ladies don’t always think of those things. Girls have to look after themselves.”
“But I am certain you would have felt hurt,” said Mrs. Challoner. “If not, you can have never had much regard for me or confidence in me.”
Pollie began to cry.
“I ain’t leaving you to go to another place, m’m,” she said. “I’d never have done that. I’ve been tempted, though you’ve never heard of it. ‘Wages isn’t everything,’ I’ve always answered. But this is different.”
“Of course it is, Pollie,” Mrs. Challoner responded patiently. “But I am the more taken by surprise because I never dreamed you had a lover. I hope you are not doing anything rashly, Pollie.”
“Oh, he hasn’t been any lover; but I’ve known him long enough!” gasped Pollie. “I didn’t know as he thought anything about me. Only when I said to him I thought there would be changes an’ I’d never take another London service, he ups and speaks out, thinking, I suppose, that I’d go away and he’d lose me altogether. And at Christmas he gets a week’s holiday, and that’s why we’ll be married then and go down to Leeds to see his mother. ‘We’ll get it over,’ says he, ‘and do the courtin’ afterwards.’ I’m sure there’s been none yet,” Pollie added with a dash of feminine scorn.
“Well, Pollie, you know I am sorry to part from you, and it is sadder still when we have just been through so much anxiety together. But I hope you’ll be happy. I wish you had told me about it yourself. It is hard to hear such things from other people.”
“Other people might mind their own business, m’m,” said Pollie, with some spirit. “There’s some people who are a deal too busy with their tongues.”
“But they only told the truth,” Mrs. Challoner suggested.
“If they hadn’t had no truth to tell, they’d have had a say about something or ’nother, I guess!” cried Pollie, heaping up negatives in her flurry.
“Well, Pollie,” said her mistress, “all I have now to ask is that you will not mention your leaving to your master—at least, at present. You can understand that we must keep all worry from him while he is regaining strength. In a day or two I will tell you my special reason for asking this silence.”
“‘He’ ought to be very good to me to be taking me from a place where I’ve been treated like as I’ve been here,” reflected Pollie when Mrs. Challoner had left the kitchen. “And here I’d have been for years, maybe—and maybe for ever—and certain never in no such hurry would I have jumped at any journeyman tailor, if it hadn’t been for that Mrs. Brand a-shaking of her head and saying I must be prepared for changes—and them soon too—she feared the master wasn’t for long, and it was a good thing the mistress had their house to turn to. And when a woman’s getting nigh thirty and changes begins to—to be talked about, it comes as a sort of Godsend when she’s asked to change her name! But how I’ll get along without Master Hugh, it beats me to know!”
That night Lucy Challoner never closed her eyes.
(To be continued.)
[HER KINGDOM OF DREAMS.]
By EDITH RUTLAR.
She saw the storm sweep down the length of the street,
And the year, growing old, dash his tears on the pane;
She heard the dull patter of wet little feet
’Midst the pitiless gusts of the wind and the rain.
An opaline light lit the clouds in the west,
And a cruel grip tightened the teeth of the blast;
The watcher’s stiff limbs sought a posture of rest
As she slipped into dreams of the days of the past.
Her toil-hardened fingers lay still on her knee,
And the light of the moon at the full lit her face;
The poor stricken seamstress of worthless degree
In the Kingdom of Dreams had a home and a place.
One hand raised itself, then fell weakly away;
So the night came apace, and the clock ticked its round:
Whilst the words the white withered lips would betray
Died into the Silence no mortal can sound.
A voice said, “She sleeps, and the work not begun”;
But a kind hand had banished “the rule and the rod”:
And another voice answered, “The work is done,
For her Kingdom of Dreams is the Kingdom of God.”
[SHEILA.]
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.