“The Gables” was a very cosy house, and it had been built before land in that neighbourhood grew valuable. So it was not tall and narrow, like most small houses near London. On the ground floor there was a nice-sized drawing-room and a neat dining-room, and the kitchen and scullery were behind on the same level. And overhead were three good bedrooms, besides a dressing-room; and over those were some really comfortable garret-rooms. Then there was a long garden at the back, well stocked with vegetables and fruit trees; and in front a little green lawn, with a round bed in the centre and a narrow bed all round, and a footpath from the gate to the front door. Robert knew and loved every inch of the place. I could not feel the same love, not having known it in my young days. Still it was all very familiar and home-like to me. Till the death of Uncle Briscoe we had always looked on “The Gables” as a sort of family home.
I knew how nice and cosy everything was about the house; and how well Aunt Briscoe lived; and how little her two servants had to do. It did seem as if she might have helped us, or have offered to take in Maimie for a time. But she would not. That could be seen plainly enough. We had gained nothing by our visit,—not even a little advice,—not even a grain of pity.
And yet, to think of sending that young girl to the workhouse! I was as ready as Robert, if not more ready, to cry out, Impossible!
[CHAPTER VI.]
ANXIOUS THOUGHTS.
BUT however impossible it might seem to me, as well as to Robert, that we should send Maimie into the workhouse, yet making up my mind that she had to be kept, and making up my mind to accept the new burden cheerfully, were two entirely different things. I saw that the addition to our family was for the moment unavoidable. I did not see myself bound to take the burden with a smile. There are two ways of going through life: either smiling or sighing; either singing or groaning; either rejoicing or complaining. There are burdens which must be borne, and we cannot escape them. God chooses our way for us, and that way has to be walked. It is of no use for us to try to choose our own path; or, as it has been beautifully expressed, to attempt to row our boat any way contrary to the rowing of our Father’s Hand. Still, though the choice of a direction is not ours, we must choose whether we will go in the direction He wills with a smile, or whether we will complain and resist and only give in because we cannot help it.
I am afraid the last was the case with me. I would give in, because I felt that the thing had to be; but I would not give in happily.
The journey home from Aunt Briscoe’s was heavy and sad to me, therefore to Robert. A cloud upon one heart cannot but react upon other hearts.
We said little by the way. Indeed, a long omnibus-drive, in company with strangers, does not generally make one talk much of the things which interest one most. But I do not think I should have talked, even if we had been alone. I felt so hopelessly dull and depressed. I saw Robert steal a glance at me now and then; and the shadow on his face deepened.
The spring days were growing long. Still we had remained so late at “The Gables,” that it was almost dark when we reached home.