Mr. Hartley was coming along the cactus-bordered way, a heavy bag in one hand, an open umbrella held up by the other, and a thick hat made of pith on his head. The missionary was pale, thin, and somewhat bent, with many a line on his face; but his mild countenance lighted up with pleasure as he caught sight of his son. Robin flung down his mattock, and bounding forward the youth greeted his parent with a most unconventional hug, which was as warmly though more quietly returned. Robin’s impetuous affection was more that of the child than that of a youth with down on his lip. It had often been said that Robin, with his rough curly head, his joyous spirit, and his absolute freedom from guile, would never, should he live to a patriarch’s age, be anything more than a boy.
Whilst, laughing and chatting, Robin is accompanying his father into the little house, the position of the Hartley family at the time when my story begins may be briefly described. The circle consisted of the veteran missionary and his two sons. Harold, the elder, on receiving deacons’ orders, had started to join his father on the mission-field in the Panjab. Robin, who was several years younger than his brother, had accompanied Harold, as the youth himself said, “as a kind of general helper, a Jack-of-all-trades—carpenter, blacksmith, builder, tailor, cobbler, and what not besides;” an unpaid but valuable servant to the mission. In vain the lad had been urged to complete his education in college. Robin perhaps under-estimated his own powers as a student. He compared himself to a rough knotted branch that might do well enough for a bludgeon, but could by no skill be shaped and planed into a library table. He would be a stick in Harold’s hand, and perhaps help him over rough bits of the road, or assist him to knock down some difficulty in his way. Mr. Hartley made no objection to Robin’s plans, for he yearned to have both his sons under his roof; and Harold secretly rejoiced that his own advice had not been taken, and that he should not be obliged to leave behind him a brother whom he would so greatly have missed.
After about a year of earnest preparatory work at Talwandi, Harold had gone to the city of Lahore to pass a double examination—that which mission-agents must undergo, and that which precedes admission into priests’ orders. Both examinations had been passed by the young clergyman with the highest credit. The effect of Harold’s success was immediately seen in his being urgently pressed to act as temporary chaplain to a large English congregation during the very severe illness of him to whom the office belonged. Harold had hesitated about accepting the post, being unwilling, even for a few weeks, to give up his own missionary work; but he knew that for those few weeks’ service he would be handsomely paid by Government, and money was urgently needed to start a school at Talwandi. “Not one piece shall be appropriated to my own use,” Harold had reflected. “My time belongs to the mission; but in procuring help for the school I may be serving my society even more effectually than by my personal efforts.” So Harold consented to act as chaplain.
The Rev. Mr. Cunningham’s illness lasted longer than had been expected; the weeks were prolonged into months. During this period Harold’s clerical duties brought him into close and friendly intercourse with those over whose spiritual interests he had temporary charge. The young missionary was welcomed almost everywhere, but specially in the house of Colonel Graham, an officer on the point of retiring from the Indian service. The colonel had a fair daughter, and Harold, at first almost unconsciously, found that his visits to Graham Lodge were rendering his residence in the city to him very delightful. There is no need to describe how these visits became more frequent, and how Harold increasingly felt that life would be a blank without Alicia. The young maiden, on her part, thought that she saw in Harold Hartley everything required to make her future life perfectly happy. Alicia, under a playful manner, had deep religious convictions. She loved Harold chiefly because she thought him the highest type of a Christian whom she ever had met with. His sermons refreshed her soul, and seemed to lift her into a higher, purer atmosphere than that which she had hitherto breathed. Alicia was not a worldly girl. She felt that she would rather share the humblest lot with Harold than rank and wealth with any one else.
Mr. Hartley and Robin were not a little startled one day by a letter from Harold asking his fathers consent to his suing for the hand of Alicia Graham. He had, as he wrote, already made the lady fully aware that his means were slender. Her father knew his position; there had been no concealment of his circumstances, no attempt to hide the fact that not only toil but something of hardship might be a part of missionary life. Miss Graham had said that she feared neither toil nor hardship.
“I think that Harold must have done the wooing already,” observed Robin, “before asking your consent to the suing.”
There was something like a smile on the lad’s lips as he spoke, but nothing of the usual mirth in his eyes. Robin was taken by surprise. He had never contemplated Harold’s seeking a wife. Perhaps there was a touch of pain in the idea of any one standing in a closer, dearer relationship to his almost worshipped brother than he did himself. But Robin’s frank, generous nature was not one to harbour mean jealousy.
“Because I was satisfied with his companionship, there was no reason to suppose that Harold would be satisfied with mine,” thought Robin. “I ought to rejoice that a true-hearted girl values my brother as he ought to be valued.”
Mr. Hartley did not speak for several minutes. As was usual with him, any emotion that stirred him deeply took the form of silent prayer. He then slowly reread Harold’s letter, pausing at every sentence as if to weigh its meaning. The old missionary then folded his thin hands, and said, rather as if speaking to himself than addressing Robin,—