CHAPTER XXIII.
SUNSHINE.
It was a balmy day at the end of April, and in the great conservatory at Monckton Manor a little group of people had established themselves amongst the tall ferns and flowers, and girlish voices and laughter mingled with the plash of the fountain in the centre of the warm fragrant place.
Upon a cane lounge lay Oscar, white and thin, and frail of aspect, yet with something of the vigour and animation of returning health, which was very visible to those who had watched tremblingly beside him during the weeks of his tedious illness.
Sheila and May Lawrence sat near him, chatting with the ease and familiarity of an intimate friendship. It had long been May’s most cherished plan that so soon as Oscar should be strong enough for the move, he should be transported to Monckton Manor; and her mother had fallen in with the idea so soon as she had been assured on medical testimony that there was no fear of his bringing infection into the house.
So a fortnight ago the move had been made, and out in the pure fresh air of the country, away from the noise and bustle of the streets and a busy household, Oscar had made a fresh start, and had surprised everybody by the rapidity with which he gained ground.
For a week past he had almost lived in the conservatory, which, with its evenly regulated atmosphere, its sweet flower scents and the sensation of airiness and freshness, was almost like a new world to the invalid. He felt as though he were living out of doors “in Madeira,” as he would smilingly say; and then he and May would get Sheila to tell of beautiful Madeira, its rainbows, its flowers, its sunshine and long cloudless days; and Oscar would lie listening and dreaming, till he felt as though he were living the life there himself.
And Sheila, talking with absolute freedom to the brother with whom she had always shared her thoughts, and from whom she had never kept a secret, and to the girl-friend whom she now felt as though she had always known, soon talked away every bit of bitterness or vexation, and would enjoy a hearty laugh with her companions over the little weaknesses of her aunt, and think instead of her devotion to her daughter, which had led her into some comical errors. Since Sheila had learned to forget herself, to lose the sense of her own little wrongs, to feel everything merged in the great ocean of the unchangeable love which had wrapped her round in the hour of her keenest need, and had given her back her brother from the very gates of the grave, it had been so easy to forgive and forget. All the bitterness had been washed away. She was ashamed to think how angry she once had been. Everything else had looked so small, so insignificant, when seen in the light of the solemn realities of life. And although now the graver mood had passed, and with a rebound of nature, Sheila was her own bright laughing self again, yet there was a new sweetness in her smile, and new softness in her manner, and Oscar would lie and look at her in a great content, wondering what the change was and whence it had come.
“Here is North!” cried Sheila, suddenly springing up to get a better view through the palm leaves, whilst a bright flush suddenly rose in May’s cheeks, and the light leaped into her eyes. “I suppose he has come to see Oscar; really he is wonderfully attentive just now. He comes very often.”
May’s eyes were dancing, as she looked eagerly towards the advancing figure; and though his errand was ostensibly to ask for the invalid, it was to her face that his eyes first leapt as he made his way towards them.
Oscar had no need to expatiate upon his progress, his face spoke for him, and North looked satisfied and pleased.
“My father wants to see you, Oscar, when you are a little stronger. He has several things to say to you. That bit of mystery about the bill has all been cleared up. He wants to speak of it to you once, and then bury the miserable business in oblivion.”
Oscar’s colour came and went. Sheila clasped her hands together in excitement, and May’s flush deepened in her cheeks as she asked softly—
“Shall I go away whilst you talk it over?”
But North shook his head.
“There is no need for that, I think. You are Sheila’s friend, and I expect you know all that we have done for some while. Of course, it is very painful for us, but the truth must not be ignored. Suspicion cannot be permitted to attach to Oscar. Even though Cyril is my father’s son, he must not be screened at the expense of another.”
“I am so sorry!” breathed May softly.
“Yes; it has been a heavy blow to both my father and mother. The chief hope is, that having had his eyes thoroughly opened, my father may see that a different method must be pursued with Cyril. Temptation has come to him through opportunity. If the conditions are changed, things may be better, for he is, I trust, sincerely ashamed and repentant at last. It has been a miserable business looking into his affairs this past year, but we have got to the bottom of things now, and I feel sure his eyes have been thoroughly opened, and our mother’s grief has touched his heart. I hope this is the end of trouble.”
“Oh, I hope so—I do hope so!” breathed Sheila softly.
“And I was still to blame,” said Oscar. “I ought never to have let the money out of my hands.”
“Well, so I say,” answered North, with a smile, “but my father exonerates you even there. He says that he would not have hesitated to place it in Cyril’s hands himself, and would have taken a receipt from him without scrutiny; and he cannot blame you for what he would have done himself without a thought. However, that can rest now. What my father wishes is to come and see you, afterwards to briefly explain the matter in the office to those who know the circumstances, during Cyril’s absence, and then to try and forget the whole business and speak of it no more.”
“Is Cyril going away?” asked Sheila quickly.
“Yes, for a time; and to Madeira first. Our uncle has just written, inviting him rather pressingly. It seems that he has been rather bitten by the tales of travel he has heard from the visitors there, and he wants to see a little more of the world before returning home. Aunt Cossart and Effie do not share this desire, and they will shortly come home together in the mail; but he wants to go to the Canary Islands, and then take a boat for the Mediterranean, and see some of the African ports, and Spain and perhaps something of Italy, before he gets back; and he wants Cyril for his travelling companion.”
“Fancy Uncle Cossart turning into a globe-trotter!” cried Sheila merrily. “But how nice for Cyril!”
“Yes, it seems just the thing for the time being. He will be better away for a little while, and we shall know that he is in safe keeping. My father will write a full account of everything to our uncle—that is only right. But he has always been a favourite with them, and they will be glad to help us out of a present difficulty by taking him off, away from his old companions, and giving him something to do in playing courier to Uncle Cossart. Cyril is a good traveller and speaks several languages with a fair fluency. He is as much pleased with the prospect as he could be with anything in his present frame of mind.”
“And are Aunt Cossart and Effie coming home?” asked Sheila with interest.
“Yes, by the next mail after Cyril arrives there. Effie is so much better that there is no need to keep her out any longer, and our aunt is beginning to tire of hotel life, and to want to get back to her own home again. She wants you and Oscar to be there to welcome them, Sheila; and invites Oscar for the whole summer. She thinks he would be much better a little way out of the town after his illness, even when he is well and at the office again; and she says that the dog-cart or a riding horse will always be at his disposal to take him backwards and forwards.”
“Oh, how kind of her!” cried Oscar, with a look of animation and pleasure in his face; and Sheila felt her own cheeks growing hot. She remembered her angry words of a few months back—“I will never forgive Aunt Cossart. I will never, never live at Cossart Place again!”—and a wave of self-reproach and humility swept over her, as she realised how hasty she had been in judging and condemning.
Her aunt might not always be very wise, or even quite just; but she was very kind of heart. If her fondness for her daughter made her foolish sometimes, she could show at others a very tender consideration and thoughtfulness.
“It would be splendid for Oscar,” she said softly; “I should like to send a letter to Aunt Cossart by Cyril. I’m afraid I have not always been quite nice to her and Effie; but I will try to be better now.”
Oscar flashed a look at her that brought sudden tears to her eyes, and May, seeming to divine that they wanted to talk to each other, suggested that North should come and see the daffodils in the copse; they were looking so lovely in this flood of spring sunshine.
“Oh, Oscar,” cried Sheila, as soon as they were alone, “I do feel so ashamed!”
He knew what she meant, and answered smiling—
“Well, you know, it was rather hard lines on you after all; and you only let fly to me. Nobody else knows; and you tell me you said hardly anything to Aunt Cossart before leaving.”
“No, I was too angry, too miserable. I knew if I talked I should cry. But, oh, how furious I was with her in my heart!”
“That was bad; but we all have our falls. You have not been furious now for a long while; and I hope you will not be tempted again.”
“Oh, I hope not—I hope I know better. But, Oscar, if it had not been for your being ill directly, and everything else going out of my head, I should have talked to Ray and everybody as I did to you. My head was full of the things I meant to say; and how I never, never, never would go to Cossart Place, or be with Effie, or do anything they wanted me to any more! Think if I had had it all out to them; and then this kind letter from Aunt Cossart, thinking of such a splendid plan for you! Oh, how miserable and ashamed I should have been. I am rather now; but it would have been ten times worse then!”
“Yes; so I suppose we had better try and learn to keep our hot angry thoughts to ourselves,” said Oscar thoughtfully, “and fight them down, and see what they are really like before we try and let fly! Looking back at things, I’ve often been sorry for speaking hastily; but I don’t think I’ve ever been sorry for holding my tongue, when it would have been rather a satisfaction to let it run away with me!”
“My tongue was always a more unruly member than yours, Oscar,” said Sheila with a smile and a sigh, “but I will try to keep it more under control; and, oh, it will not be difficult when we are together. We shall have such lovely times up there. It really is a nice place; only it was dull before. But if you are there every evening, it will always be something to look forward to. And oh, Oscar, isn’t it good that you are cleared! I had almost forgotten that—because I think in the end nobody at home believed it of you. But I am so glad uncle knows everything; though how could Cyril do it?”
“I suppose he was very much tempted. I am afraid he got into bad company and was in great straits lest exposure should follow. It is easy for us who are not tempted in that way to be very much horrified; but we have our own falls into our besetting sins. That should make us very careful how we judge other people. Should we do better in like case?”
Sheila was silent and thoughtful; she could not believe for a moment that her brother could ever fall into such a transgression; but it came to her that probably Cyril had not fallen all at once, but had given way little by little to what seemed like venial sins, till at last it had been easy to commit one from which at the outset he would have shrunk in horror.
“Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer!” The words seemed to be spoken in her ear; and she realised with a start of shame and horror her own spasms of bitter hatred. If she had given way to her impulses of anger, if she had blindly followed her own impulsive thoughts and purposes, what family breach might not have taken place—what bitterness might not have been aroused? In her heart—in the sight of God—she might have been a murderer!
She buried her face in her hands, and was silent; and Oscar, who was also very thoughtful, spoke no word. He was thinking himself to what proportions his own carelessness and shiftlessness might have grown, had it not been that the sharp lesson met with had pulled him up short.
It seemed long before the other pair rejoined them; and then North had only time to say a hasty farewell and walk off to the works again. He had stolen an opportunity when things were a little slack to make his visit; but he wished to be back before closing time.
“Oscar must have his beef-tea and a nap,” May decreed with an air of sovereignty which became her well. “Ah, and here it comes. And then you and I will take a stroll together, Sheila. It is so lovely out of doors!”
The excitement of North’s visit had disposed Oscar for a rest now that it was over, and he settled himself contentedly after he had taken his kitchen physic. The two girls left him to sleep, and passed out into the sunshine together.
Sheila talked eagerly of the future and her delight in having Oscar with her for the summer. May assented cordially and gladly; but went off into a brown study afterwards, giving her answers at random. At last Sheila stopped short laughing and looked at her. Something in her face bespoke such a vivid happiness that she was half startled.
“May, what is it? What has happened?” she asked; and the smile which broke over May’s face was brighter than the sunshine itself.
“That is what I want to tell you. That is what I got you out here for. I am the happiest girl in all the world. North has told me that he loves me. He has asked me to be his wife!”
(To be continued.)