iiimm!'!! W: \i THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited LONDON • BOMBAY ■ CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YOUK • BOSTON • CHICAtiO ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. TORONTO THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY AUTHOR OF 'Nellie's memories,' 'no friend like a sister,' etc. God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above ; The tender one was Pity, and the dearest one was Lc-'e. Whittier. MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON I 9 I I Copyright in the United States 0/ America, 1907 First Edition 1907 Reprinted 191 1 TR 44-1 S dxiL CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE 1. Mentor hands me my Pen i 2. The New Governess 12 3. I AM Eght Years Old 23 4. I FALL IN Love with Helen 34 5. Cousin Yvonne 45 6. Sydney comes to Prior's Cot 56 7. It is always Darnell and Co. 67 8. 'Beggars All' 78 9. The Corner Room 88 10. Roy and I go down to Bayfield 99 11. Funerals and Angels no 12 St. Helen's Towers 121 13. Stella gives me a new Name 131 14. Breakers Ahead 141 15. While Ringing to Evensong 151 16. 'Why did you leave us?' 162 17. The Angel of Forgiveness 171 18. Father and I 183 19. 'It is sad as Death' 193 20. An Open Secret ......... 203 21. An Object Lesson . . . . . . . . 214 644216 VI THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS CHAP. 22. Sydney proves an Optimist 23. Golliwog and Lot's Wife . 24. * Git HA, YOU forget Yourself' 25. ' go on with your mission ' 26. Stella delivers my Message 27. A Cheque from Darnell and Co. 28. A Twilight Hour 29. Lad's Love 30. 'Then I will Come' . 31. Thurston obtains a Berth 32. At the School of Art Needlework 33. 'Titama' 34. Noah's Ark . 35. A Dreamer of Dreams 36. Phantasmagoria . 37. 'Through Pain to Peace' 38. Autumn Vintage . 39. A Golden Hour . 40. 'I have brought your Mistress Home' 41. My Woman's Heritage 42. Mentor closes the Chapter 222 232 241 250 260 271 282 292 301 312 322 344 354 363 372 382 392 402 412 423 CHAPTER I MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN Describe humbly what you see and you cannot go wrong : describe what others have been taught to see and you cannot by any possibility be right. — John Oliver Hobbes. Mv best friend said to me one day, ' Githa, you are rather an imaginative young woman, and in a feminine and amateurish way you have a pretty fancy and a tolerable knack of character-drawing ; why do you not beguile what you so improperly term the weary hours of captivity by writing your girlish reminiscences. 1 am quite serious,' as I stared at him, unable to believe the evidence of my ovv^n ears ; ' it will be good practice for you, and I do not doubt that some of your friends — your humble servant amongst the number — will find amusement in the perusal. After all,' rising from his chair as though to emphasise his remark, ' there is nothing so interesting as real life. Take my advice, my dear child ; it will be a far more healthy pastime than fretting over the doctor's orders,' and then Mentor gave me a reassuring nod and smile, and went out of the room, closing the door softly and humming his favourite little tune under his breath. If he had wanted to rouse me from my grey mood of IE I B 2 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. cheerless despondency, he had certainly taken the best means of doing so. What a strange idea, and how impossible! and yet it somehow attracted me — it would pass the time during the long days and weeks that must be spent on my couch. How I loathed the prospect, and secretly rebelled against the verdict of my kind and careful physician, for I was only a beginner in the school of life, and had many a ' turned lesson ' to learn over again. How well I remember that afternoon, and the soft briskness of the October air. The window was open, but a bright little fire burnt on the hearth. There were still some roses peeping in, but the red and yellow leaves were pattering down fast on the gravel walks. A pleasant pungent smell of burning weeds now and then reached me. The stillness seemed to soothe my nerves, and as I gazed dreamily at the fire 1 said to myself, ' Why should I not do it ? ' for I knew well that dear friend of mine was generally right, and even if I failed — well, only a few torn sheets of paper would be the result ; and then I rang the bell and asked Annie to bring me my writing-pad. No, it was no use letting my good resolution cool, * To-day does better work than half-a-dozen to- morrows,' as Nurse Marland used to say. I have a whole list of dear old Mardie's sayings copied out in a little black book. I used to read them out to father, and he would annotate them. I remember when I quoted the one I have just mentioned he repeated slowly, 'To-day does better work than half-a-dozen to-morrows. That's another version of " Strike when the iron's hot." Cooling iron needs the furnace again. Mardie is right, Gipsy ; procrastination is a feeble sort of thing.' I MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN 3 It seems to me that my autographical sketches will be as straggly and untidy as my big portfolio of water- colour drawings which was consigned to the attic. I never could be precise and methodical in spite of all Mardie's and Miss Redford's efforts, and I must write in my own desultory way or lay down my pen for good and all. A child's memory is not infallible, and imagination often embellishes it with glowing tints. A happy and healthy and well - protected childhood is spent in pleasant places not far removed from fairyland : one passes over a rainbow bridge to a wonderland, where grown-up people are always wise and can do no wrong. Giants walk the earth with pockets hard to reach, but which are always filled with sugar-plums — ' sweeties,' one termed them. * Will there be toy-shops in heaven, Fardie ? ' I remember asking my father, when I was a tiny mite, one Sunday evening. I had grown tired of the picture-books he was showing me, and wanted my doll, Mariana, who opened and shut her eyes at my bidding, and had lovely blue kid shoes ; but Mardie, who was old-fashioned, had consigned Mariana to the toy cupboard until Monday morning. ' Toy-shops, you little heathen ! ' responded father good-humouredly, as I climbed on his knee and nestled against him. ' What put such an idea in your little head, Gipsy ? — such a curly head, too,' smoothing it gently as he spoke. But I was not to be put off in that way ; I shook off his hand impatiently and frowned. ' Mardie says that heaven is a happy place,' I continued, in rather a cross tone, ' and that all good little girls and boys will be happy too. I shall play for ever and ever, so I shall want heaps of toys, and kittens and rabbits, and dicky-birds and ' — but my list 4 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. of heavenly requirements was cut ruthlessly short by a knock at the door and the usual formula, ' It is your bed-time, Miss Githa.' Alas ! even in fairyland things were not perfect. To go to bed when one was not sleepy — well, any child had a right to protest and feel injured, but father, who was aware of my powers of argument, closed my lips with a hearty kiss. ' Good-night, my pet, I will come and see you before dinner, and if you are asleep I will save the kisses for to-morrow. Now trot along, my little love, don't keep Nurse Marland waiting,' and when father spoke in that tone I never ventured to rebel. Father and Mardie and I lived in the big corner house in Cheyne Walk — St. Olave's Lodge, it was called. Dear old house, how I loved it, with its red- brick wall always smothered in Virginian creepers, and its shaded balcony, where one could sit and see the steamers passing on the river, and the wide embank- ment with its seats and trees ! On summer eveninfjs it was delightful to see the barges and steamboats laden with passengers, and to hear the washing of the water against the keel, as the swift propeller churned it into miniature waves. Dear old St. Olave's ! every brick was precious to me ; but I never pass it now without a sigh. It has been altered and modernised and improved past recognition, in my opinion ; and the plate-glass windows and grand new frontage do not compensate for such ruthless destruction of old associations. ' You must own, Gipsy, that it badly needed repair,' father would say when I complained to him. ' In our day we put up with things,' but I never would let him finish. ' It was the loveliest old house in the world,' I returned, ' before those Goths and Vandals worked i MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN 5 their will on it. What did the outside matter? the rooms inside were just perfect' ; and though father shook his head at my vehemence, he did not contradict me. I might be inclined to doubt my own youthful judgment and memory, but by a strange coincidence, a few days before this, a letter from my former governess, Miss Redford — only her name is not Redford now — had reached me touching on this very subject ; but I will transcribe the whole passage. ' I was thinking of the old days rather soberly and tenderly, dear Githa, as I walked down Cheyne Walk the other day. No, you are right, one can hardly recognise St. Olave's Lodge, it is like seeing a young mask on an old face. In those days I used to think it the most charming old house I knew ; on summer days, when the door opened, that wide, dimly-lighted hall was so cool and delightful, with its beautiful tesselated pavement and fine old staircase. And then the long drawing-room, a little faded and old-fashioned perhaps, hardly up to date in its hangings and decorations, and needing so urgently a woman's hand and eye to arrange details ; too often flowerless vases and unwatered plants, and yet what a dear old homelike room it was ! Do you remember, Githa, how often you begged to do afternoon lessons on the balcony, and more than once I was weak enough to give in to your childish wish ; but the lessons were never properly studied, for every minute a shrill, excited little voice would exclaim, " Oh, do look, Miss Redford, at those barges laden with ha}', how delightfully comfortable they must be ; there is a little boy and a dog curled up at the end of one — oh, I do wish I could be with them," and so on through the hot, drowsy afternoon. No, certainly balcony studies were sad failures, for you were a restless child, Githa, 6 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. and your father's pet name Gipsy exactly suited you.' I remember I laid down the letter with a smile, and took out a miniature that father had had painted when I was seven years old. A little brown oval face, with big, serious dark eyes, which seemed to look straight into mine with an innocent questioning expression. Child Githa confront- ing woman Githa ! Such solemn eyes, and such thick masses of wavy hair, dark brown, with here and there a ruddy light, and a mutinous, eager little mouth, ready at any moment to break into smiles. Pretty? — yes, I suppose so, or Mr. Cleveland, who was such a great artist, would not have begged so hard to paint me for his celebrated picture of Little Red Riding- Hood. How willingly father would have bought that picture, but it was not for sale. Aunt Cosie saw it when it was finished, and she told Miss Redford that it was charming, and would certainly be greatly admired. I believe a rich Australian had ordered it, to match a picture of his own little girl who was painted as Bo-peep. I suppose every child thinks there is no man to compare with her own father, but to this day I honestly believe that my father, Philip Darnell, is the hand- somest man in all my little circle of acquaintances. To my childish eyes he was simply perfect. He was tall and very strong and athletic-looking, and he held himself remarkably well. His features were good, and he had the kindest eyes in the world — they were dark blue, I discovered, and at times they were capable of a merry twinkle ; but I was once much hurt in my childish feel- ings by overhearing a remark of our cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Kennedy, to Hallett our butler, which I foolishly I MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN 7 repeated to father. Children are not remarkable for tact, and it was that unlucky speech of mine which made father complain to Aunt Cosie that his little girl was too much with the servants. I heard afterwards that Aunt Cosie advised him to turn the nursery into a schoolroom, and to engage Miss Redford as my governess. Aunt Cosie was very friendly with the Redfords, and Claudia, the second sister, was a special chum of hers, and it v/as Claudia whom she suggested. What a fuss and turmoil and upheaval of old customs, just on account of my harmless little speech ! ' Father, dear,' I had said, as I sat on his knee in the gloaming. ' I heard Kenny say such a funny thing to Hallett. They did not know I was in the pantry, because it was rather dark, and Kenny spoke so loudly. " I don't suppose you would find a finer-looking man than the master, Mr. Hallett, in a day's march, so to speak. He walks with an air as much as to say, ' I am Philip Darnell the banker' — not that he is a bit proud really." ' ' What on earth arc you talking about, Gipsy ? ' asked father, rousing himself from a brown study with difficulty. ' Oh, do let me finish, darling,' in an important voice. ' Kenny is such a wordy person.' '"Right you are, Mrs. Kennedy," observed Hallett. " If the master were a duke he could not carry himself better, and when he is on black Sultan's back I have seen folk turn their heads to look after him." ' " I don't doubt the ladies admire him " — Kenny spoke in such a funny voice. " I often say to myself, Hallett, that the master must be a bit lonely with only that child to talk to him ; there is a sad look in his eyes that makes my heart ache at whiles," and — oh, father, how you did startle me,' for father had 8 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. put me down suddenly from his knee, and was ringing the bell rather loudly. ' I have a letter to write, Githa, and it is past your bed-time, and I have no leisure to waste on such a chatter-box. Take her away, Mrs. Marland,' as nurse appeared ; ' she deserves a whipping, but I doubt if she will get it.' He spoke in jest and kissed me, but why had he called me Githa in that stiff way, and started up so suddenly without taking any notice of my speech ? I puzzled my childish head sorely over this when I got upstairs, and Mardie, who read me like an open book, soon coaxed me to tell her what was amiss with her lamb ; but she shook her dear head once or twice during the recital. I was standing before her in my little night-dress before I had finished, and Mardie drew me comfortably on to her lap, and hugged me in a comforting manner. ' Don't give it a second thought, my pet ; it stands to reason that the master must have his busy moments like other gentlemen, and with all his love for my precious, his time is too valuable to waste on talk.' ' Then you really think that he was in a hurry to write his letter and not making believe, Mardie ? ' ' The master never makes believe, dearie, except in pla}%' returned Mardie, stirring the fire a little noisily. ' I'll be bound he is at that letter now ' ; then, as the street door suddenly slammed, she coughed slightly, and went on in a ruminative manner. ' The master must have heaps of business on his shoulders, and when he comes home he wants to rest, and to have his little girl amuse him. If I were you. Miss Githa, I would not bother him with that sort of talk. Mrs. Kennedy and Mr. Hallett are excellent people in their way, but a gentleman like Mr. Darnell I MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN 9 would not care to hear their conversation. A still tongue and quick ears make no mischief. Pantry talk and drawing-room talk are mostly different. Now you are getting sleepy, my girlie ; say your prayers and nurse will tuck you up, and we'll have our hymn.' For until I was quite a big girl, my dear old nurse, who had a sweet, tuneful voice, was in the habit of singing to me a few verses of an evening hymn, ' Now the day is over ' ; and however sleepy I might be when I laid my head on my pillow, I always strove religiously to remain awake for my favourite verse : Through the long night watches, May Thine angels spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed. ' It must be like sleeping in a tent of feathers — snow-white feathers,' I once murmured drowsily, just before I sank into unconsciousness. Father never made any allusion to my remarks ; but the next day he went to see Aunt Cosic, and stayed a long time ; and then Aunt Cosie paid us a visit in the nursery and told me that father was going to take me for a walk, and that I was to get ready, and not keep him waiting. I did not need any further injunction — a walk with father was one of my greatest treats. He always asked me where I should like to go, and if he thought I was tired he would take a hansom. On these occasions he was such a dear, merry companion, and sometimes we played famous games together. What I called ' the tramping gaine ' was my favourite. We pretended to be two tramps, and Battersea Park was generally the scene of our pilgrim- age. Father, who was a capital actor, would some- lo THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. times, in an unfrequented part, act the character so inimitably that I would shiver with sympathy, especially if the weather was cold and raw. His rather stately walk would change to a shabby, limping gait, and I was his little girl selling matches or laces. Of course, this game had its limitations, as father was unwilling to take passers-by into confidence ; but in the dusk we kept it up as long as possible, though I don't mind con- fessing now that I often felt inclined to beg him to stop. ' You do look so very cold, and hungry, and miserable,' I said so piteously one day that he burst out laughing, and kissed me and called me a little goose. But he did it too well, and I had to shake myself to get rid of the notion that I was a shivering little match-girl who was presently going to sup on a saveloy and a hard crust under a dark arch not far from the river. No, I say again, father's play-acting was too dramatic and realistic for my enjoyment. We had a charming walk, and that afternoon I was a lost princess, and he was a benevolent goatherd who rescued me and then turned into a prince, and it was such a pretty story, and father carried it out so well, that I was absorbed in it, and was only sorry when we reached home. I thought Mardie looked a little grave and out of sorts that evening, but she welcomed me with her usual affection, as though I had been absent for a month. But as we sat at tea she sighed more than once, and in conversation alluded to herself as an old woman — always a sign of low spirits with Mardie. ' But you are not really old,' I objected ; ' at least father said so one day ' ; for of course, to my childish mind fifty-two was extreme old age. ' l^egging your pardon, my lamb, I am a useless old woman — but there, the good Lord has not made I MENTOR HANDS ME MV PEN ii us all alike ; changes must come, and it is not my place to grumble if they that sit in authority over mc see fit to make different arrangements. Don't sit staring at me with your pretty eyes ; eat your bread and honey, dearie, and tell your silly old Mardie that you will always love her.' And Mardie completed my mystification by taking my head between her hands, and kissing my curls with a passionate tenderness that astonished me. Poor dear Mardie, how could I guess that the prospect of the new schoolroom and governess was filling her soul with bitterness ! CHAPTER II THE NEW GOVERNESS It is thus in youth ! "We play at leap-frog over the god Term ; The love within us and the love without Are mixed, confounded ; if we are loved or love, We scarce distinguish : thus, with other power ; Being acted on and acting seem the same : In that first onrush of life's chariot-wheels, We know not if the forests move or we. E. B. Browning. Mardie had cotne to our house when I was about four years old, but she had never been in service before. She was a widow then, having lost her husband the previous year. He had been the captain of a small vessel connected with the Newfoundland fisheries, and one foggy night the smack grounded on an iceberg, and poor Captain Marland and all the crew were lost. For a cruel jag of ice had ripped up one side of the ill-fated vessel, and the waves washed from end to end of it, drowning the men as they strove to fight their way to the deck. Mardie had only had one child, a boy, who died in infancy ; and during her husband's long absences she had lived with her parents. It was their death, following very shortly after her widowhood, and her 12 CHAP. II THE NEW GOVERNESS 13 own exceeding loneliness, which induced her to become my nurse. My father greatly appreciated her, and both he and Aunt Cosie reposed entire confidence on her, and the household treated her with much respect. Mardie was a brisk, dark little woman with bright eyes and a neat figure ; perhaps it was because her expression was so pleasant, but I seriously thought her beautiful, and more than once I told her so. I remember how she laughed until she nearly cried. ' I wish my dear old mother could have heard that,' she said once. 'Bless your innocent heart, Miss Githa ; I was never bonnie even in my young days. " Hand- some is as handsome does, Pollie," how well I remember mother saying that. Well, dearie, what is it ? ' for I was staring at her with all my might. ' Was your name Pollie ? ' I asked in an interested tone. ' Yes, Miss Githa — that is to say I was christened Mary Anne, but father and mother and Fergus always called me Pollie.' I assured Mardie that it was a lovely name, and that I greatly preferred it to Mardie, but she changed the subject a little hurriedly by asking me if I should like to see a picture of her poor lost husband — 'drowned dead,' as Mrs. Kennedy used to say of some luckless black kittens ; and the next moment she offered reverently for my inspection a shabby black case containing a daguerreotype. I studied it intently. I thought the weather - beaten, florid face looked kind and good-tempered, and the brown whiskers and short curly beard appealed to my childish fancy. I assured Mardie breathlessly that her P^ergus was a splendid man, and she kissed me and then the daguerreotype rather tearfully. 14 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. 'Oh, how sorry you musc have been to lose him, Mardie,' and Mardie gave me such a sad httle smile. ' One can't talk of such things, dearie,' she returned, as she put away the sacred treasure in a safe place. ' And don't trouble your dear little heart, my pretty. God was very good and raised me up friends in my trouble, and you were such a comfort to me with your baby's ways ; but there, if we live long enough we must all sup sorrow at times,' and Mardie roused herself and suggested that we should go out and get some Bath buns for tea, these being my favourite delicacies. Mardie did not long fret over the contemplated change ; she had far too much sense, and her love for me was too real and unselfish. A long talk with father soon put her right. After all, the old nursery was not to be touched. Mardie would sit and sew there, and for the present, at least, the domestic authorities decided that we were still to have breakfast and tea there. Father was too busy with his letters and papers to be hindered by my childish chatter in the morning •, but luncheon, which was really my dinner, was to be taken in the dining- room with my governess. A room on the other side of the passage, exactly opposite to the nursery, was to be turned into the schoolroom, and some nice new furniture was sent in ; and Mardie, who took much interest in the arrangements and was very clever with her needle, made the pretty cretonne hangings and the neat coverings for the couch and easy-chairs. ' If you leave the door just ajar, Miss Githa,' she observed once, ' I shall be able to hear your dear voice quite plainly at your lessons ' ; but I interrupted her, for a sudden doubt was troubling me. ' I don't mind learning lessons,' I returned, ' and I ri THE NEW GOVERNESS 15 will say them as loudly as possible, but I want to know, Mardie, if we shall have our nice morning walks together,' but to my dismay nurse shook her head. ' It stands to reason, my dearie, that a young lady going on for eight should walk with her governess ; it is only fitting and proper, as Mrs. Bevan says ' — Mrs. Bevan was Aunt Cosic — and then Mardie cautiously and with much tact explained to me the future pro- gramme. Miss Redford would spend every day at our house from ten until six — except on Saturdays, when she would be free after luncheon. This was arranged for my sake as well as my governess's, as Saturday afternoon was always spent with father, and he had no intention of changing our old habits. ' I shall hate walks without you, Mardie,' I observed, rather crossly, for Mardie was such a cheerful, self- effacing companion. What I liked, she liked ; and she was so exceedingly sympathetic when I had a bone in my leg or growing pains, or any other childish ailment difficult to diagnose, and not very far re- moved from that distressing form of complaint which required what Mardie always termed ' temper powders,' when it was unusually acute. The rest cure in a carefully shaded room was the invariable remedy. ' Got the hump, Gipsy ? ' father asked once when he found me prostrate in my little frilled dressing-gown. I thought he looked at me rather quizzically, so I shut my eyes in a dignified way. ' A person's head must ache sometimes,' I returned stiffly, for in some moods I disliked to be laughed at. The fact was I had been excessively naughty, and even Mardie's stock of patience had been exhausted by my unreasonable fractiousness ; but I had not yet arrived at the penitent stage, so father only shrugged his i6 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. shoulders and gave a little laugh ; and when he had shut the door I cried myself to sleep, and never woke until tea-time, when Mardie came to pull up the blinds and advised me to be quick, as Mrs. Kennedy had sent up hot scones. I soon made my peace with Mardie — for she never cherished any resentment — and when I went downstairs to spend half an hour in the twilight with father, I confessed to him that the headache had been caused by my own naughtiness. I never could go to sleep until I had told father everything. It was so comfortable to receive absolution, and to be assured that he was just as fond of me however badly I be- haved ; and this fresh mark of his love always made me feel so humble and ashamed of myself ' Oh, I do wish I could be always good,' I murmured remorsefully one evening, but father only smoothed my curls caressingly. ' Oh, we all wish that, Gipsy,' and he sighed a little heavily. ' I think fathers are just lovely,'' I went on, * for they always forgive and never leave off being kind. I think you must be a very, very good man — I often tell Mardie so.' But father made no reply to this, but the next minute he asked me if I would not like to take my revenge at Halma, for he had beaten me the previous evening. I noticed that father always changed the subject if I praised him too much ; but when one loves a parent with one's whole heart, it is a little difficult not to think too much of him, and father was just perfection in my eyes. I think both Mardie and I were a little low in our spirits that Monday morning when the new governess was to make her appearance. I had a healthy appetite, and generally enjoyed my II THE NEW GOVERNESS 17 food, but even the new-laid egg and crisp roll failed to tempt me that morning. But Mardie wisely took no notice ; she only suggested that I should finish as quickly as possible, and feed my canaries as usual — my dear little Pecksey and Goldie. They always had a fly round the nursery while I cleaned their cage, and I had to bribe them with sugar or groundsel to come back. I had only just hung up the cage again when I heard father's voice outside, and the next moment he entered the room with a tall young lady in brown, whom he introduced to us as Miss Redford. ' This lady is going to teach you, and help you to grow up a clever, accomplished woman, Gipsy ; and you must be good, and learn all you can.' But I made no answer to this, only hung my head shyly as my new governess shook hands with me. ' Oh, we shall soon understand each other. Will you tell me your name, my dear ? ' Miss Redford spoke in a crisp, decided voice. Strangers often thought her a little abrupt ; she resembled Cousin Yvonne in that — and that reminds me that I have never mentioned Cousin Yvonne, but that will come later. I must confess that I did not that first minute take to Miss Redford. I felt she would inspire me with more awe than affection. She was rather dark, and not exactly good-looking ; but she had a fine figure, and carried herself well. She was dressed quietly, but in excellent taste — as father remarked afterwards to Aunt Cosie, ' he had never seen a better groomed young woman.' I remember Aunt Cosie told him that all the Redford girls were the same, and that people thought them very stylish. 'Claudia is the C i8 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. least good-looking,' she went on, 'but her friends admire iier because she is so clever,' Claudia being my Miss Redford. It is not always easy for a reserved person to win the confidence of a child, and in spite of all her efforts to be agreeable and to talk down to my level, I am afraid it was a good many weeks before we really understood each other ; and yet I tried honestly to like her, to please father. My coolness and aloofness towards the new gover- ness puzzled and disappointed him. 'Why don't you care for Miss Redford, Gipsy?' he said one day rather reproachfully. ' She is a rattling good governess, and I have to pay a pretty figure for her services. You are an ungrateful monkey, for I know she takes no end of pains with you.' * Oh, I like her pretty well,' I returned carelessly ; ' but I don't believe I shall ever love her ; she isn't exactly the sort of person one can love. But I don't mind doing lessons with her ; she explains things and makes them interesting ; but the walks — oh, father,' and here a very real sigh burst from me. ' It is so dreadful, for she will teach me the French names for everything ; she says it is impossible to carry on any real conversation for the next six months, but that this is the best way of teaching me ; and she always asks me the next day all the horrid things over again, to be sure that I remember them.' ' Poor little Gip, you want lots of breaking in,' he observed in a pitying voice ; ' but it is not a bad idea,' and partly to tease me, but perhaps to test my know- ledge, he would persist in asking the French names of the principal objects we passed during our Saturday walk — trees, palings, ducks, even labourers carrying II THE NEW GOVERNESS 19 ladders — until I rebelled and flatly refused answering another question, although he declared it was only a new teaching game ; but despite this assurance I would have no more of it. I had some childish ailment about two months after the new governess's advent at St. Olave's Lodge. I think it was German measles ; but I had to keep in my room for some days, and it was then that I began to like Miss Redford better. She was really a great resource during those trying days, for I did so hate my confinement. She spent most of the day with me, reading delightful tales to me. She was a most dramatic reader, and Mardie would often creep in with her work to listen to some thrilling scene ; and she would invent new games not too fatiguing to an invalid, and she was so amusing and good-natured that I must have been very un- grateful not to respond to her advances. I believe, indeed I am sure, that she took a deep interest in me from the first. She has often told me since that I was the most bewitching original little creature she had ever met — ' by no means faultless, Githa,' she would add. ' Dear me, what trouble you gave me those first few months ! ' I think, with all her cleverness and kindness. Miss Redford was too reserved in manner to find the way easily to a child's heart. She had none of those little petting, caressing ways to which father and Mardie had accustomed me. Her kindness was bracing ; and though she was always ready to grant me any coveted indulgence, she would not tolerate listlessness for a moment. ' I must have your attention, your whole attention,' she would say sometimes when I was staring a little 20 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. absently out of the window. ' Work is work, and play play. If you find it so difficult to fix your eyes on your book, I must pull down the blind,' and more than once she had actually done so when the sunshiny ripples on the river and the passing boats distracted me too much. There could be no doubt that Miss Red ford knew her duties, and could stimulate a pupil's flagging interest in a marvellous way. It was she who sug- gested to Aunt Cosie that I should attend some dancing and drilling classes ; and when I grew older she begged my father to allow her to take me to afternoon concerts, where I should hear good music ; and it was also owing to her wise counsel that an excellent music-master gave me lessons. She herself was fully qualified to teach me French and German ; indeed, she spoke both languages with the greatest facility. I began to get quite fond of her after a time, and I used to question Aunt Cosie about her. Aunt Cosie was really my father's cousin, but she was so much older than he that the title of aunt came to her quite naturally. She was one of the prettiest old ladies I have ever seen in my life, she was so small and dainty, with such pink cheeks and silvery grey hair, as thick and fine as a child's ; and she was so soft and gentle in manner that her name exactly suited her, and it was no wonder that father and I loved her, for every one must have done so. She was very well off, and lived in a dear little house in Kensington ever since her husband's death ; it was called Fairlawn, and was quite as comfortable and dainty as its mistress. She was exceedingly proud of her husband's II THE NEW GOVERNESS 21 memory, and she often talked of him to father. He was a General, and had done some very brave things, and he would have been knighted but for the sudden illness that carried him off. I asked father one day why Aunt Cosie had no children — little people ask these awkward questions sometimes — and he said she had had a lovely little girl, Rose, who lived until she was my age, but scarlet fever had carried her off. Both she and the General had doated on her, and Aunt Cosie had been very ill for a long time. I used to look very hard at Aunt Cosie after this. I wondered how she could have lived through such trouble, and yet look so smiling and placid, but I never ventured to ask her about Rose. When I was puzzled about anything, and father was busy, I always found a safety-valve in talking to Mardie, so one day I asked her about Aunt Cosie — * for I am so surprised that she can be so cheerful, living all by herself without that kind, brave old General and little Rose.' Mardie was sorting some clean linen, but she was never too busy to attend to me. ' Other folks have been surprised too. Miss Githa, my dear, but they don't know the secret cause of her cheerfulness. Mrs. Bevan is a dear good lady, and she lives her religion. She had many a talk with me when I first came to St. Olave's Lodge, for we had both known trouble, and she was alwaj-s ready to speak a word of comfort ' ; and here Mardie heaved a deep sigh and paused for a moment, ' I remember,' she went on presently, ' she found me crying one day, because it was the anniversary of my Fergus's death, and I was very low, and she sat down 22 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, n beside me and took my hand, and there were tears in her eyes too, and talked to me so sweetly of her own troubles, and where she had found comfort. Oh, it was just beautiful to hear her ! ' " We don't see the silver lining to our cloud at first," she said softly, " and some of us refuse to see it for a long, long time ; but when we once recognise the Father's hand " — oh, it did my sore heart good to hear her.' But just then Kenny interrupted us, and she could say no more. CHAPTER III I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD child ! O new-born denizen Of life's great city ! on thy head The glory of the morn is shed, Like a celestial benison ! Here at the portal thou dost stand, And with thy little hand Thou openest the mysterious gate Into the future's undiscovered land. 1 see its valves expand, As at the touch of Fate ! LONGP'ELLOW. It was one of my greatest treats to have tea with Aunt Cosie ; and I was always pleased when father would propose some fine Sunday afternoon that we should walk over to Fairlawn, and as I grew older these visits were made more frequently until it became part of our usual Sunday routine. Now and then, when some old friend of his was in town whom he wished to see, father would leave me for an hour or two in Aunt Cosie's charge, and call for me later ; and I only hope the dear old lady enjoyed these hours half as much as I did. I never thought tea tasted anywhere as it did when Aunt Cosie made it ! To watch her was a liberal education in the art of tea-making — to see her pretty 23 24 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. old hands rinsing out the cups and then fiUing them, and her dainty Httle manipulation of the sugar-tongs and cream-jug ! Father used to tease her sometimes, and declare that in some previous existence she must have been the wife of some grand Japanese Daimyo, her veneration for ' the honourable Tea ' was so marked ; but this speech always shocked her excessively. ' How can you say such ridiculous things, Philip, in the child's hearing ? ' she observed once in a ruffled tone, ' and on Sunday, too ! ' for Aunt Cosie had all sorts of old-fashioned prim little ways, which were excessively amusing to smart up-to-date people. Aunt Cosie was not much of a reader, and, with the exception of her Bible and the Times, she was seldom seen with a book in her hands on week-days ; on Sundays she read a good deal, though she confessed that it often made her drowsy. On other days she gardened and worked. She was very fond of knitting and crochet, and made the loveliest fleecy shawls and wraps for her friends. I never remember seeing her idle for a moment. She had what she called her fancy work and her charity work, and it was her pride and delight to accumulate a stock of warm jerseys, crossovers, and baby's vests and shoes, to distribute amongst her poor people at Christmas. The drawing-room at Fairlawn was very pleasant, and the bay window opened on the little lawn with its beds of dwarf roses. At the end of the lawn was a small pergola covered with a crimson rambler, and in one corner there was a rustic seat under an acacia-trce. Aunt Cosie loved all flowers, but roses and lilies were her favourites, and except for the tall white Madonna lilies it was almost a rose garden ; and on most fine mornings Aunt Cosie would put on her white Ill I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD 25 sun-bonnet and gardening apron and work for hours among her roses. I remember my eighth birthday fell on a Sunday, and father suggested that we should pay Aunt Cosie a visit. ' I shall have to leave you after tea for an hour or so, Gipsy,' he observed, * for I told Colonel Murray that I would have a look in at the Club to wish him good-b}'e.' But I assured him that I was always quite happy at Fairlawn. Aunt Cosie had a very pretty present ready for me, and a birthday cake with ' Githa ' in pink sugar - plums on the white frosting ; and, as we were expected, there were all kinds of good things for me, for Aunt Cosie had a treasure of a cook, and all her friends declared that they envied her. Her name was Hubbard, and I always would call her Mother Hubbard, to her great amusement. We were very friendly together, and when I ate her crisp short- cake and delicious waffles and buns I always felt a deep respect and esteem for her, and more than once I drew invidious comparisons between her and Kenny. When father had left us I drew a low ottoman closer to Aunt Cosie's chair. It was the middle of April, and though there was a bright fire in the grate the sunshine was so pleasant that the tea-table had been placed near the window, for Aunt Cosie loved to look out on her borders of spring flowers. I don't know how it was that we began talking about the Redfords, but I remember that Aunt Cosie told me a good deal about the family which interested me greatly, and she spoke of them with keen apprecia- tion. She told me that they had been very well off at one time, and that the four girls had all finished their education at Paris and Dresden. ' They had all the advantages that wealth could give,' I remember her 26 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. saying. ' Mrs. Redford was a very cultivated woman. It was not until Claudia and Helen had returned from Dresden that their father failed. You are too young to understand business, Githa ; it is sufficient for you to know that through no fault of his Mr. Redford found himself a comparatively poor man.' ' Oh dear, how dreadful, auntie.' ' It was very disastrous certainly, and not being a strong man the shock caused his death — at least the doctors said so ; but I think myself that his heart had always been weak, and that any agitation might have carried him off.' And then Aunt Cosie went on to tell me that the beautiful house at Prince's Gate had to be given up, and that during the short year or two their mother lived they had a small house in Chelsea. Mrs. Redford's health had become seriously impaired, and the doctors had long suspected there was latent incurable disease. After her husband's death this had rapidly developed, and even her daughters were thankful when she was mercifully released from her suffering. I was so interested that I begged Aunt Cosie to tell me more, and though she smiled at my eagerness, she told me that she could not refuse anything to her little girl on her birthday. ' I saw a great deal of Claudia and her sisters at that time,' she went on. ' Claudia — your Miss Redford, Githa — was younger than Helen, but she was very managing, and always took the lead. ' They were in sad perplexity, poor girls. Their mother's long illness had been a heavy drain on their slender purse, and when everything was settled they found that they had only a balance of two hundred pounds left of their capital, and some small investments which brought them in about ninety pounds a year. Ill I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD 27 ' I remember Helen telling me with tears in her eyes that they would be obliged to give up their nice little house, and move at once into some cheap flat. " We have all made up our minds not to separate, but to get daily work," she told me ; and though more than one friend remonstrated with them about this, they were bent on carrying out their plan. They were a very united sisterhood, and perfectly content with each other's society. The Redfords are always clannish and rather reserved to the outer world, but their friends appreciate them for all that.' ' And did they go to a flat, Aunt Cosie ? ' * Yes, my dear, and very uncomfortable they found it. I remember Cicely saying in her laughing way that there was not even room to swing a kitten ; but they were plucky girls, and made fun of all their difficulties, and they were so splendidly equipped for the battle of life that they soon found occupation. Helen and Claudia became daily governesses, Cicely gave lessons in a school, and Agneta, the youngest, became reader and companion to a blind lady, and only came home now and then for a week-end. Her sisters much regretted this, but the distance was too great, as Mrs. Luxmore lived at Chislehurst, and the terms were too good to refuse.' ' But she comes home sometimes ? ' ' Well, hardly,' returned Aunt Cosie, smiling. * Agneta is in India at present with her husband and baby — she married Captain Luxmore, the blind lady's son ; and Cicely is married too, to a physician in good practice, Dr. Burford.' I was very much surprised to hear this, and so dreadfully interested that Aunt Cosie was quite sur- prised and called me ' Miss Curiosity ' ; but it was not 28 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. really curiosity. In my childish precocious way I was studying my governess under a new light, and I felt more warmly towards her now I knew something of her life-story. ' I suppose it will interest you to know that Helen is engaged too, to a young barrister I know very well, Hamlyn Seymour ; but he is so poor that there is no chance of their being married for the next ten years, as I sometimes tell them. Now, Githa, my dear,' as the church bells rang out, ' we have gossiped enough. Surely you have some pretty new hymn to sing to me. Open the piano, my pet — you will find the big hymn-book all ready.' I rose reluctantly and tried to do my best, but it was a very feeble attempt, and I was quite relieved when a firm hand pushed me off the music-stool and father quietly took my place. Father sang beautifully, and he played well too, and I knew how Aunt Cosie loved to hear him. She closed her eyes, and there was such a satisfied look on her dear face as she listened. Father insisted on my joining, and we sang one hymn after another, all Aunt Cosie's favourites ; but by and by, when she asked for ' Sun of my soul,' he shook his head and said he was tired, and then he got up abruptly. ' Father never likes singing that hymn, Aunt Cosie,' I said with childish want of tact ; ' he never will sing it even at church.' ' Why not ? ' exclaimed Aunt Cosie. ' It is so beautiful, and quite my favourite hymn, and I re- member it was ' here Aunt Cosie started and flushed a little, and when father said good-bye to her she looked at him so tenderly. ' God bless you, Philip,' she said very softly ; but I heard her. Ill I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD 29 Father was very quiet all the way home ; and though I chattered to him continuously about the Redfords, I am not sure that he listened very attentively. When father was in one of his moods a person could never be sure how much he heard ! He woke up at supper-time, and we were very cosy together ; and he drank my health, and made Hallett drink it too, and Hallett made me quite a little speech. Mardie had promised that I should sit up until a quarter past nine, so I followed father to the library, and climbed up on his knee as usual, though he pretended that I was far too old and heavy, and that he had my favourite complaint — a bone in his leg — but I knew better than to believe such nonsense. I knew too well how he loved to have me there, and to feel my curls against his cheek as I leant against him. All kinds of odd thoughts were buzzing through my head that night, and I felt that I must give them vent. ' Aunt Cosie has been just lovely to-day,' I began, ■ and her present ' — a charmingly fitted up writing-case — ' is the beautifulest thing I ever saw.' ' The most beautiful I think you mean, Gip.' ' Yes, of course,' rather impatiently, for how was a person of eight on her birthday to bother herself with adverbs and adjectives. ' Yours and Cousin Yvonne's presents were lovely too,' for father's gift of a little gold Geneva watch was a source of intense pride to me, though Aunt Cosie had scolded him for his extravagance, and told him I was far too young for a watch — as though one could ever be too young to enjoy beautiful things. Even grown-up people make mistakes, I thought, when 1 heard Aunt Cosie sav this. so THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. 'Aunt Cosie is such a dear,' I went on. 'She is so nice and smiHng ahvays, but I can't make out how- she can be so happy living all alone. This house is so big, father. I wonder you never asked her to live with us.' ' It seems to me that you live in a chronic state of wonder, Gipsy,' he returned teasingly. ' No, but truly and seriously, father,' for I was not to be put off in that fashion. ' Well, then, truly and seriously, I did suggest something of the kind to Aunt Cosie a long time ago, but she did not seem to see it — perhaps she thought we should not get on at such close quarters.' Father spoke a little drily. It was not for many years that I found out the reason why Aunt Cosie refused to share our home, and yet she loved us both so dearly ! Father had just told me that I was always wonder- ing. I do not think I was more curious or inquisitive than other children, but I was certainly rather precocious and thoughtful for my age. Why did neither father nor Mardie ever talk to me about my mother — for, of course, I must have had a mother like other children. I had asked Mardie about her once, but she had said rather shortly that when 1 was older no doubt my father would tell me. * Your father has his own ideas about bringing up children,' she continued hurriedly. ' He thinks they should be as happy and free from care as the young lambs in the meadows, so he never talks about sad things to them, but keeps his troubles to himself like a kind, brave gentleman.' I thought Mardie's remarks a little disconnected and unconvincing, but her unusual stiffness of manner Ill I AM EIGHT YEARS OLI) 31 t> prevented my saying so. Of course it is sad when one's mother dies, even if one does not remember her clearly, but I felt in a dim, childish way that it would be much nicer if father talked about her sometimes, and gave me the opportunity of asking questions, but he never did, and I puzzled my childish brains over it far oftener than Mardie guessed. I think I must have been a little excited that evening, but it suddenly jumped into my head that I must ask father one question that had been rankling in my mind all the week, ever since my last dancing class. I had taken a fancy to a little pale girl in black, and now and then we found opportunity of a talk together. She was a delicate little creature, and the aunt who brought her to the class took a great deal of care of her. Though she was so small she was two years older than I. I remember she told me her name and her age when we were partners together in the lancers. 'Father,' I said suddenly, 'do you know, Minnie Linkwater — the little girl I told you about at the dancing class — said something so queer the other day. She asked me if mother's grave was in Brompton Cemetery, for she and her sister go there every week with flowers, and she did seem so surprised when I said that I did not know.' I felt father give a quick shudder as though he were cold, but the fire had died down and I could not see his face clearly, for there was a screen between us and the lamp ; then he sat bolt upright, but made no answer. 'Minnie's father goes with them sometimes,' I con- tinued plaintively, for I was bent on airing my secret 32 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. grievance, ' and he talks so beautifully to them about their mother, and you never, never talk to me of my mother.' Then father gave a quick, impatient groan, as though he were in pain. ' Githa ! ' he said so reproachfully, ' you are hurting me very much. I thought my little girl loved me too well to grieve me.' I was so shocked by this speech that my eyes filled with tears — and yet what had I said ? ' Oh, 1 do love you, I love you more than the whole world,' I exclaimed, throwing my arms round his neck ; but he would not let me kiss him, and his face looked so pale and stern. ' If you loved me you would trust me, Githa,' he went on. ' A child of your age, a mere baby, should not question her father's actions or doubt his wisdom. I have my own ideas on these subjects. If I do not talk to you about your mother, it is because I prefer silence. You are not yet old enough to share my confidence. Be satisfied, my little Githa, with knowing that your mother was a good woman, and loved you dearly, and that in this house her memory will always be reverenced, that in spite of all ' but here he stopped and looked so strange that I was quite frightened. I think he saw that, for he took me in his arms again. 'Will you do something to please me, darling?' ' Anything, anything,' I murmured with tears. ' No, do not cry about it, but listen to me. If you can help it, do not let people talk to you about your mother. I do not care for outsiders to be inquisitive over our affairs. If your little friend asks you questions, tell her that you would rather not talk about it. Will you do this, Githa ? ' ' Yes, father, I will do anything rather than make ^ t? Til I AM EIGHT YfZARS OLD 33 you unhappy,' and then he kissed me in his old way. ' Thank you, dear. Then I will promise, on my part, that when you are older, and the right time has come, that I will tell you all you want to know — but not yet, my girlie,' and then he sighed and kissed me again, and told me to run off to Mardie or she would think I was lost. I am sure Mardie knew I had been crying, but she asked no questions, only gave me a great hug when she tucked me up, and bade me go to sleep and dream of my presents. I could not at once follow her advice, for I was so wide-awake, and it made me so dreadfully unhappy to remember father's pained expression. I could not bear to think I had hurt him ; and as for loving and trusting him, he need never doubt me again. I would rather be silent all my life than displease or grieve him. I suppose I was tired out, for I cried myself to sleep at last, and only half-awake when some one kissed my forehead and murmured, ' God keep my treasure,' but I roused up when the door had closed. Of course it was father. He often stole in to wish me good-night, and I was so happy to think that he had done it to-night, and on my birthday, that I turned over on my pillow again and was soon in dreamland. D ^1 CHAPTER IV I FALL IN LOVE WITH HELEN Children have the effect on your spirit that morning air has on your body. There is no exhaustion in them ; they are charged with life, and health, and sunshine. — R. W. Barham. I shall be then a garden charmed from changing, In which your June has never passed away. Walk there awhile among my memories. Alice Meynell, It was not until Miss Redford had been at St, Olave's for nearly a year that I made my acquaintance with her sister Helen, and then it was only owing to accident. We were just returning from our morning walk one day, and I was chattering away as fast as my extremely limited stock of French phrases would permit, when a big raindrop fell on my face, and Miss Redford exclaimed in rather a troubled voice : ' We tnust hurry as much as possible, Githa. for we have no umbrella, and we are still some distance from home. I am afraid there will be a regular downpour directly, and you have a little cold, Mrs. Marland tells me,' but though I quickened my steps into a run to keep up with her my efforts were of no avail, for it began to rain in earnest. 34 CHAP. IV I FALL IN LOVE WLLH HELEN 35 ' Our flat is only round the corner,' she continued, ' and we can take shelter there while the shower lasts. Take my hand and let us make a run for it ' ; and, laughing and breathless, we found ourselves a minute later in our refuge, I was quite delighted with this unexpected inter- lude, and when we had shaken ourselves and regained our breath Miss Redford rapidly ascended three flights of stairs and let herself into the flat with her latch-key, and I followed into the narrow entry, which at first seemed rather dark. As we entered another tall }oung lady in brown, a fair edition of my Miss Redford, but, as I discovered afterwards, far better-looking than she, came out from the sitting - room ; she seemed very surprised to see her sister at this hour. ' Why, Claudia,' she exclaimed, ' what good wind has blown you in this direction so early in the day ? ' Then she caught sight of me. ' This must be your pupil, little Miss Darnell ' ; and she took my hand and kissed me so kindly. I remember I was rather sur- prised, for it was some weeks before Miss Redford left off shaking hands with me ; but then she was not a demonstrative person, as Mardie observed, and with her kisses were, like angels' visits, few and far between. I was pleased to find Miss Helen Redford so friendly, and I liked her at once. She had such a nice restful face, though it was rather pale and tired-look- ing ; and though she had the Redford voice, it was gentle and rather sweet, though, as I found out after- wards, all the other sisters spoke in the same ciuick, crisp fashion. ' We were caught in the rain, Nell,' explained mj- governess, ' and the child has a little cold ; it was care- 36 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. less of me to leave our umbrellas at home, but it looked so fine when we started.' And then they both divested me of my hat and jacket, and Miss Redford took me into a very small bedroom and dried my hair. The room was very pretty, I thought, and there were a good many beautiful silver things on the toilet- table ; but it seemed to me that there was hardly room to pass between the bed and chest of drawers. I asked Miss Redford, as she put me tidy, if this was her room, and she said ' Yes,' and that her sister's was exactly like it ; and then we went into the sitting- room, where we found Miss Helen Redford doing some lovely embroidery in a frame. She told me it was church work, and that she and three other young ladies were trying to finish an altar frontal by Christmas for a mission church in Battersea, which was extremely poor, and had only shabby things for use. ' I wish I could give more time to it,' she continued wistfully ; but her sister chimed in in her quick, decided way : ' You ought never to have undertaken it, Helen ; you have already far too much to do. It is all very well for the Pritchards and Cissie Brown, for they have no teaching or any other occupation to tire them.' ' Oh, well, I daresay you are right,' returned Helen good-humouredly ; * but it does so rest me to get to it for an hour. I have been making the most of my holiday, Claud. Why, it is nearly one o'clock ; I must have been more than three hours at it.' ' Nearly one,' observed Miss Redford in a disturbed tone ; and then she and Helen exchanged glances. ' I am afraid the rain has set in for an hour or two,' continued Helen. ' Poor Claudia ! but accidents will happen sometimes. Mrs. Brant will be going home IV I FALL IN LOVE WITH HELEN 37 soon, and we could easily get her to take a message to St. Olave's Lodge.' Then Miss Redford brightened up at this. ' That is a good idea, Nell. I will send a line to Mrs. Marland and tell her we are weather-bound ; the good soul always gets so flustered and anxious if Githa is half an hour late. But that reminds me, how will you manage?' but here Helen put her finger on her lip with a significant look. ' Write your note, Claudia, and I will come and speak to you directly' ; but Miss Redford had scarcely left the room before Helen had followed her, and I was left alone. I made good use of my time by inspecting all the pictures and photographs. The room was not large, and it was crowded with furniture, but it was very pretty and cosy ; there was a piano and a harp — Helen played the harp, I learned — and an Indian cabinet full of china, which I heard afterwards was extremely valuable. There was a writing - table, too, and some delicious easy -chairs, and some of the pictures were beautiful ; perhaps it was a little too much like a curiosity shop, and there seemed hardly room for Helen's frame. I was getting very hungry by this time. I wondered if Miss Helen would ask us to have any luncheon, and then an appetising whiff reached me ; and the next moment she came in smiling and took me into the next room. It was the smallest, funniest little dining-room I ever saw. There was only just room for a round table and four chairs beside the fire-place, and an oak corner cupboard ; you could not move without coming into contact with the walls. I remember how I enjoyed 38 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. the fried eggs and bacon ; and though there was no pudding, there was an abundance of sweet biscuits and some delicious preserve — I think it was guava jelly. ' You see, Githa,' observed Miss Redford in her calm matter-of-fact tone, ' my sister and I are generally out until six, so there was no luncheon provided, but I don't think we have done so badly after all,' and I hastened to assure her that fried eggs and bacon was my favourite dish, and that I had enjoyed my luncheon more than usual. ' Little folk are easily pleased,' observed Helen pleasantly, and then she found me an interesting book which she said her ow^^ pupils loved. It was Little Lord Fauntleroy, and I found it so fascinating that I was soon absorbed in its contents. The sisters left me alone for some time, but as the flat was small I could hear their brisk movements and voices quite plainly ; presently they came back looking very neat and trim, and Miss Redford, who was embroidering a frock for a baby niece, sat down to her work while Helen returned to her frame. They spoke to me now and then, but I was almost too engrossed with my book to answer ; it was not until the light was fading, and I was getting tired of reading, that I took any notice of their talk. When I did so, Helen was speaking. ' We were both so taken up yesterday with Cicely's party that I never told you that Hamlyn looked in on his way to town ; he told me he had just come across Elmer Pelham.' Miss Redford looked up quickly. 'Well, did he give any account of himself?' in an interested tone. ' Yes, he has been away. His brother was ill, and IV I FALL IX LOVE WIIH HELEN 39 he had to go to Liverpool. Hamlyn says he asked after us very particularly. Cicely told me she intends sending him a card for the 19th.' ' That is nice of Cicely, as 1 know she is rather afraid of him ; she will have it that he is so satirical.' ' I think she is right there ; Mr. Pelhani quizzes people unmercifully.' * Only people who pose and make themselves ridiculous,' continued her sister hastily ; ' he is far too kind-hearted to hurt any one's feelings.' ' Oh, I might have known you would defend him, Claud,' returned Helen in an amused voice ; ' for all your sparring and word-pla}- you two always stick up for each other.' ' I always stick up for my friends/ observed IMiss Redford, ' and then I am so sorry for him ; he seems so heavily handicapped, no one to give him a helping hand.' ' He is not worse off in that respect than my poor Hamlyn.' ' Oh, but Hamlyn has you, my dear Nell ; that makes all the difference.' It seemed to me that Helen was about to say something when she saw me looking at her, and changed her mind. ' How dark it is, Claud ; I dare not try my c)es any longer. I shall go and get tea. I think the rain is stopping now, and that it will soon clear up'; and she was right, so when we had finished tea we made haste to get ready for our walk home, heather often returned early, and he would not like to miss my greeting. I remember how kind Miss Helen was to me, and the way she smoothed my unruly locks. ' What a gipsy the child is,' she observed, shaking my thick 40 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. mane in an admiring way, ' Will you come and see me again, Githa.' I told her with the utmost sincerity and earnestness that I should love to come, and then she kissed me as though she were pleased, and told her sister that she must sometimes bring me to tea on Wednesday ; for Miss Helen had two half-holidays in the week, while my governess had only one, but then, as I found out later, her summer vacation was far shorter. I think Miss Redford was pleased at my eager- ness to revisit the fiat, but she told me that I must get my father's leave, for she was extremely punctilious and careful to ascertain his opinion on every point. They met seldom, for she never had luncheon with us on Saturdays when father was at home, and unless he appointed a specified time he rarely had an opportunity of speaking to her. On this evening, however, he had returned home earlier than usual, and as Hallett admitted us I saw him coming out of the library. ' Better late than never, Gip,' he called out. ' Come and give an account of yourself, you monkey,' and then he shook hands with Miss Redford, and thanked her for taking such good care of me. * Nurse Mar- land has just brought me your note ; in another minute I should have sent Hallett in a cab to fetch Githa, but as it is quite fine now I do not suppose her late walk has hurt her.' I think father expected Miss Redford to come in, but she told him that she must hurry back, as she and her sister were going out to dinner. He wanted to send for a hansom, but she would not hear of it for a moment, though it seemed to me that she took his civility as a matter of course. The Rcdfords could never forget the old days at IV I FALL IN LO\'E WITH HELEN 41 Prince's Gate, and though they were now working women they still held their heads high, and considered themselves equal to any one. ' Oh, father,' I exclaimed, blinking a little in the bright light, * I have had such a lovely time ; it was such fun running through the rain and having luncheon in the flat. It is just like a doll-house, and crammed so full of nice things that one could hardly move, and Miss Helen Redford is such a dear. She is prettier than my Miss Redford, and so kind, and she wants me to have tea with her sometimes on Wednesdays. May I go, father dear ? ' ' We will see what Aunt Cosie says,' he replied kindly, for he always consults Aunt Cosie about me — not that he alwa)'s took her advice, though he gave himself a good deal of trouble sometimes to ascertain her opinion. I found Aunt Cosie quite approved of the invitation. The Redford girls, as she called them, were her pet proteges, and Helen was decidedly her favourite. ' By all means let Githa go as often as she likes,' had been her answer. ' She will gain nothing but good from her intercourse with them. Helen Redford is a dear sweet girl, though this unlucky engagement to Hamlyn Seymour will make an old woman of her before her time.' A few days later I told my governess that father and Aunt Cosie would be very pleased for me to have tea with her sister whenever she liked to take me ; and she smiled and said that she must consult Helen, and that if I learned my lessons well for the next fortnight she would try and get me an invitation. And after this it became an understood thing that all future visits should be rewards for diligence. 42 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. I always enjoyed these Wednesday afternoons, and I liked Miss Helen more and more. I was becoming much attached to Miss Redford also. I found one could always depend on her. She was a person with- out moods ; she was invariably kind, not by fits and starts like some people, and she never said a word that she did not mean ; and in my childish way I guessed how good she would be to me if I were in any trouble. I am glad that I did her justice, for in her quiet, un- demonstrative way I know she loved me dearly, and that there was nothing she would not have done for me. ' I was always your friend, Githa,' she said years afterwards. ' Of course I know that for a time you liked Helen best, but that was only natural. She was not your governess, and she never fretted you with tiresome rules and regulations. And then Helen has a way of her own with children ; she knows how to draw them out and interest them. I tell her it is quite a gift. I am afraid I never had it myself,' and she gave a quick little sigh that touched me. I know now that Miss Redford was riglit. I always found it easier to tell Miss Helen things. She never seemed shocked, but only quietly amused when I blurted out my childish opinions. I remember one afternoon Miss Redford had an engagement, and left me for an hour with her sister, promising to be back by tea-time. Miss Helen had given me some wool to wind, and I was very happy talking to her. ' Miss Helen,' I said suddenly, ' I wish you would tell me the name of the gentleman who spoke to us on Monday. Miss Redford seemed to know him very well, for we stopped quite a long time before she said good-bye.' IV I FALL IN LOVE WITH HELEN 43 I thought Miss Helen looked amused, and I was sure from her manner that she knew of whom I was speaking, but she would not give herself away. ' A gentleman is rather vague, Githa ; )'OU must describe him better than that before I can answer you,' ' Oh, he was a dreadfully ugl}' man.' This seemed to puzzle her. ' Ugly ? ' she repeated doubtfully. ' Yes ; he had a long pointed chin, and no hair on his face, and when he laughed he was all crinkly round his eyes.' ' Why, bless the child, it could be no one else but Elmer Pelham ! but what put it into your absurd little head to think him ugly? lie has quite a nice, clever face, though he is not handsome.' But I was in the mood to be contradictious. ' i\Ir. Seymour is not a bit handsome either,' I observed in my precocious manner, 'but I like the look of him ' ; and Miss Helen blushed a little, but I could see she was pleased. ' Thank you, dear,' she said gently ; ' but I am sure if you knew him better you would not think Mr. Pelham ugly. Somehow when one likes a person one never considers if he be good-looking or plain.' But I was too young to understand this. .\s time went on I saw a good deal of Mr. Pelham, for Aunt Cosie coaxed father to show him some attention, and now and then he came to dinner. I heard Aunt Cosie tell father that Elmer Pelham was very poor and proud, and had few friends. ' He cannot afford to go much into society, and, with the exception of an cUlcr brother, he has only distant relations. lie is a clever, good-hearted man, and a little kindness would not be thrown away on him, Pliili])'; and as 44 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, iv father often acted on Aunt Cosie's advice, Mr. Pelham was always a welcome guest. I soon became friends with him, and he often told me amusing stories, and I ceased to think him ugly. Indeed,.! once confided to Helen that but for his crinkly eyes he would not be so bad-looking after all. I fancy she repeated this speech to Claudia, for I heard them laughing together in the next room, but of course she took no apparent notice. Miss Red ford was always very careful to uphold the dignity of her office. CHAPTER V COUSIN YVONNE The foundation of every noble character is sincerity. — Anon'. Cliaracter is far more an inspiration tlian a manufacture. Toil of dis- cipline and piitience of culture may accomplish wonders in shaping a S(ju1, hut the uplook of a reverent love to a nobler nature will draw down into the inner springs of the being the forces of that better life. — Helen Nkwto.n. 1 AM afraid I am writing my childish reminiscences in rather a disjointed and cursory manner, just putting down things that come into m\- head — people, faces, scenes, and scraps of conversation — little shadowy glimpses of the child Githa and tiiose w ho loved her ; a jumble or patchwork of odds and ends, without method or arrangement. All this time I have only made a casual mention of Cousin Yvonne, and yet, next to father and Aunt Cosie and Mardie, she had the greatest influence on my young life. Mrs. Darnell was a cousin of my father's, a second cousin, I believe, but she was some years younger than he. 1 never heard anything of her husband. I once asked father if he had liked him, and he said ' not particularly ' rather drily, ' but that most of his friends had thought him a good fellow.' He advised me very .seriously not to mention him to Cousin Yvonne, and being a loyal little creatine I always did my best to 45 46 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. obey him ; but I privately thought that grown-up people were too fond of mysteries, for being a chatter- box by nature I never Hked to hold my tongue about anything. It is so much more interesting to wonder about things aloud, and to talk over them comfortably. Mardie used to shake her head when I said this. ' You are a rare talker, my dearie,' she would say ; ' your tongue runs from morning to night like a little purling brook. When you are older, Miss Githa, you will find out for yourself that it is often wiser to be silent — but there, you have not cut your wisdom teeth yet,' for Mardie never could bring herself to find fault with me. I was very fond of Cousin Yvonne. I think I really loved her better than Aunt Cosie, but I never quite understood her. Until Sydney came she lived alone in a pretty cottage called Prior's Cot at Bayfield. Even in those days I used to think Bayfield a sort of earthly paradise, and I do not think I have changed my opinion yet. If I loved it in my childish days, it is still dearer to me now ! I fancy a good many people thought Bayfield a nice place. It was only a mile from the river, but it was a countrified, quiet spot, with lanes and a goose green, and such a charming church and vicarage ; and there were pleasant houses dotted here and there, some of them standing high in extensive grounds, with a delightful view of the white shining river and the boat-houses. I remember how surprised I was when father first told me that it was the same river that we saw from Cheyne Walk. It seemed to me so much broader and more beautiful, and there were no water- lilies or rushes in our part ; and then father smiled in V COUSIN YVONNE 47 a funny way, and said that water-lilies did not flourish at Battersea. Prior's Cot was not far from the Vicarage, but it was a very secluded Httle place. It was half-wa)' down a green lane, and there was no other house near it. Cousin Yvonne said that this was a recommenda- tion in her eyes, for she would hate to be overlooked b)- neighbours. ' When I want my friends I can go to them, or they can come to mc, but I am fond of my own society, and I am never dull alone ' — how often I have heard Cousin Yvonne say this. Prior's Cot was certainly an ideal cottage. It had a deep porch always filled with flowers, and the red- brick walls were almost smothered with creepers, roses, jessamine, and wistaria, not to mention honeysuckle and clematis — a perfect medley of lovely things, trying which could climb highest. And then the garden which surrounded the cottage — how Cousin Yvonne loved her garden ! I think I never saw flowers in greater profusion. In summer time the bees and butterflies came in troops to the royal feast of floral dainties spread so richly before them. But I liked the wild garden best. It was a perfect joy in spring to see the primroses like a sheet of pale gold, and little blue pools of wild hyacinths. And then there were nooks where one could find violets and forget- me-nots. There was an old wall in one part with crumbling masonry and half-rotting stones ; here in their season bloomed masses of wall-flowers, blood-red and purple, buff-yellow and orange, a perfect glor)' of tints. Clo.se by this was a big rock-garden, where hard)' ferns grew in profusion, and here one could gatiier the donbli.' cuckoo-flower — Cousin Yvonne told me once that 48 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. Lady's Smock was its old English name. ' It is rather an appropriate name,' she observed, ' for I remember reading a description of it where the writer remarked quaintly, " that its close masses of whitish bloom might well remind one of linen wear laid out to bleach."' In the rock-garden one could often find the common speedwell and thrift, and all kinds of lovely wild-growing weeds. I used to think that the wild garden never needed any care or attention, but as I grew older I soon found out my mistake, and that Cousin Yvonne had expended a vast amount of thought and energy before she brought it to its present perfection. She once explained matters to me. * You have no idea, Githa, what an overgrown wilderness it was when I first came to the cottage — every path blocked up with brambles and nettles, and so damp too. I took Moyle into my confidence ' — Moyle was Cousin Yvonne's gardener and factotum — ' and I read up all the books I could find about wild gardens and rockeries, and then we set to work — at least Moyle did — clearing paths and lopping branches, and getting rid of the nettles and noxious weeds. And then when we had made things a little tidy, and it was possible to walk there with dry feet, I set about beautifying it. We turned the old wall to account for all lime-loving plants, and used a heap of stones for the construction of a rock-garden. Then we planted in every available place violets and primroses, and daffodils and wild hyacinths, and all the hardy ferns we could collect. I am rather proud of my success,' she continued, ' and in spring it is a joy to me to see the violets peeping out from their nest of leaves.' And I remember, as we paced down the little path bordered with bracken, that V COUSIN YVONNE 49 she quoted softly some favourite verses that we both loved : God does not give us new flowers every year ; When the spring winds blow o'er the pleasant places, The same dear things lift up the same dear faces : The violet is here I It all comes back — the colour, grace, and hue ; Each sweet relation of its life repeated, No blank is left, no longing for is cheated : It is the thing we knew. It was always a pleasure to hear Cousin Yvonne repeat poetry. She had a deep musical voice, which seemed to rise and fall rhythmically with the metre. Prior's Cot had been originally built by a lady in good circumstances, and was intended as a country retreat for herself and an invalid daughter ; but the latter's sudden death gave her mother a distaste for the place, and it had not been inhabited when Cousin Yvonne bought it. I believe she paid a good deal for it. It was extremely well built, and by no means small. The porch opened into a large square hall, which Cousin Yvonne fitted up as a sitting-room, and used in the hot weather. Here there was a small organ. The drawing-room was long and somewhat low, with charming nooks and corners, and front and back it opened on the verandah which surrounded the cottage. In winter this made the rooms a little dull, but Cousin Yvonne always kept glorious fires, for she loved cosiness. All the bedrooms had pleasant views. Cousin Yvonne's, who slept in the front, had a side window looking up the lane, and through a break in the trees there was a pretty glimpse of the church and vicarage. My room was at the back, and overlooked the garden and E so THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. wilderness, as we sometimes called it. Just beyond was a little wood, and set against a dark background one could just see the white turret of St. Helen's Tower, where Lady Wilde lived. There was an old medlar-tree in the wild garden, which was very easy and safe for a girl to climb ; and as Cousin Yvonne never objected to my doing so, I used to love to sit in the low branches and gaze down into the heart of the little wood, which always looked so green and pleasant to my childish eyes. When Sydney came we used to spend hours in the old medlar- tree, and I often made up stories about the wood and about a poor little princess who roamed there. I did so like telling Sydney stories, she was such an interested listener, and then she always said I was so clever and told them so well. Lady Wilde was a widow, and her only son was dead ; but her orphaned grandson lived with her. Thurston was three or four years older than I, and he was far too big a boy to play with a little girl of my age. He was a dark-complexioned, handsome lad. He had, I fancy, a foreign strain in his blood. Some one told me his mother had been Andalusian by birth, and had been either a singer or dancer, I forget which ; but I know that Lady Wilde had objected to the marriage, and that during her daughter-in-law's life she held herself severely aloof from the young couple. In his careless boyish way Thurston took a good deal of notice of me. He was rather a lonely boy, for his grandmother was exceedingly strict with him. He used to bring me flowers and speckled eggs and peacock feathers, and petted me a good deal ; he always wanted to call me Gipsy, but I never would V COUSIN YVONNE 51 allow it, for no one but father ever used that name. I remember he argued about it for a long time one afternoon. ' Of course Mr. Darnell calls you Gipsy,' he said, quite impatiently ; * and every one ought to call you that too. You are just a little Romany girl, Githa, with your brown face and dark eyes ; and when you tied that crimson thing over your curls, you should just have seen yourself But I would not be con- vinced ; it was father's pet name and sacred to his dear lips — not even Cousin Yvonne or Aunt Cosie ever used it. Thurston was so tiresome and so persistent that I cried about it at last, and he told me that I was a baby and marched off in dudgeon ; but after that he never attempted to use it again. I was very fond of Thurston, and so was Cousin Yvonne, but when Sydney Herbert came to live at Prior's Cot he seemed to prefer her society to mine. She was a year and a half older — a nice-looking girl, with a clear skin and Irish grey eyes, and with plenty of Irish fun. I became perfectly devoted to Sydney, but my childish breast was secretly wounded by Thurston's fickleness, but I was far too proud to sa}' so. I made believe not to mind when Thurston began giving her things ; and when occasionally he seemed to forget my existence I bit my lips to keep the tears back and ran off to Cousin Yvonne, and she always seemed to understand and welcomed me so kindly. ' Two are company, and three are none,' she would say sometimes ; but I have reason to know that she spoke rather seriously to Thurston. ' You ought not to keep poor Githa out of things,' I overheard her say once. 'You are an ungrateful boy, Thurston, for the child is so fond of you.' 52 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. ' But I am very fond of her too, Madame,' returned Thurston in a surprised voice. I never could under- stand why he always called Cousin Yvonne Madame. I believe now that it was a pet name he had invented for her, for she was a great favourite of his. ' I think Githa is a dear little thing, but Sydney is older, and after all I only took her to see my pigeons. Githa has seen them a hundred times ' ; and then I suddenly awoke to the fact that I was eavesdropping, and ran off with my fingers in my ears ; but that one sentence, ' I think Githa is a dear little thing,' made me quite happy. But all this time I have not described Cousin Yvonne. Somehow I find it difficult to do so, for it seems to me that my childish memories are so mixed up with later impressions and the more perfect know- ledge of growing womanhood that I cannot distinguish them. At that time she appeared to me to be a grey- haired girl, with the nicest face possible, and rather sad dark eyes, that looked at one very kindly — but this is a very vague description. I know now that she was a beautiful woman, and that her dark eyes and silvery grey hair gave her a striking appearance. She wore her hair turned back over a small pad in the style of Marie Antoinette, and coiled very simply at the back. She was generally rather pale, but any sudden agitation or surprise brought a beautiful colour to her face, and at such times she looked extremely hand- some. All her features were good, but her mouth closed a little too firmly, and this gave a somewhat hard look to the face, but her smile, which was very pleasant, at once destroyed this impression. One thing I did notice even in those days. V COUSIN YVONNE 53 ' Cousin Yvonne,' I once said to her, ' what nice hands you have,' and I remember that she looked quite surprised at my speech. But they were beautiful hands for all that ; rather large, but so perfectly shaped, and the cool, soft touch was unlike any other hand I ever felt. But Cousin Yvonne was not the sort of woman to pride herself on any physical gifts, I believe she was perfectly conscious of her good looks, but she seemed to take little or no pleasure in the knowledge that people admired her. Dearly as I loved Cousin Yvonne I must confess I was always a little in awe of her. Reckless and daring as I was, I never ventured to take a liberty with her, or to argue or demur if she gave me an order. I had an innate consciousness that any act of dis- obedience would have had unpleasant consequences ; and yet I had no reason for this fear, for I never received anything but kindness from her. I was some- what wayward at times, probably from the effects of home petting, but she was always patient and tolerant of my childish moods. I have mentioned before that in manner she some- what resembled Miss Redford, and it is true that they both spoke in the same quick, decided way, as though they knew their own minds on most subjects, and never wasted time on argument. I have heard Aunt Cosie say that Claudia Ivedford was a little too abrupt in manner for so }-oung a woman, and probably she was right ; but no one could accuse Cousin \'vonne of abruptness, she had far too much digin't)- for that ; she was proud, reserved, and when not interested in people somewhat cold in manner, but no one who knew her well could doubt her kind and generous nature ; she was a royal giver, 54 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. but I think it was always easier for her to give than to receive. I always spent August and September with Cousin Yvonne, while father went abroad or to a shooting lodge in Scotland. This rule never varied. On the 31st of July, unless that date fell on a Sunday, and then a day earlier was fixed, Mardie took me to Bayfield, where Rebecca, Cousin Yvonne's confidential maid, met me at the station, and on the ist of October I travelled back under Becky's guardianship to Paddington, where Mardie, trembling with joy and eagerness, received her darling as though restored from the dead. Besides this annual visit I always went to Prior's Cot for a fortnight at Easter, as father usually went to Paris for ten days or so to visit some friends. Those visits were always delightful to me, and the only cloud on my brightness was the parting with father. I never could say good-bye to him without tears, and though he pretended to laugh at me I know he dreaded the long separation as much as I did. My greatest pleasure was to write to him and receive his dear letters. Not long ago father showed me a drawer full of these childish letters, all neatly tied up and docketed, with dates affixed, many of them with foreign post- marks. I opened one or two of them as he watched me ; we both smiled at the blotted scrawl, ' Your own loving little Githa,' or ' With Gipsy's dear love to darling father — with a hundred kisses.' When I was at St. Olave's Lodge I always wrote to Cousin Yvonne once a week. She asked me to do so, and I always took great pains with these letters, and if I made an unsightly blot or smudge Miss Redford made me re -write them. I think this wholesome V COUSIN YVONNE 55 discipline rather destroyed spontaneity and pleasure of composition. My anxiety about spelling, too, made me regard these weekly epistles in the light of a task ; but it was always a delight when Tuesday brought me Cousin Yvonne's answer. She always wrote so kindly, and told me what I most wanted to know — about little lame Johnnie at the Lodge, and the pigeons, and how many chicks the speckled hen had, and how Moyle was making a new rock-garden in the wilderness, and all sorts of little home details to interest me. I used to make father read these letters, and he seemed to enjoy them as much as I did, and some- times he would say nice things about them to please me. But then that was always father's way ; my childish pleasures and griefs were so much to him, and nothing was too trivial to rouse his interest or sym- pathy. Dear father, no wonder your child thought you perfect ! CHAPTER VI ■ SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT It is impossible Tor any one to see her without being deeply interested by the ingenuity, liveliness, and sweetness of her disposition. — Sir Walter Scott. I am going to take the world into my confidence, and say, if I can, what I think and feel aljout the little bit of experience which I call my life, which seems to me such a strange and often so bewildering a thing. — A. C. B E.N SON. I AM tempted to linger unduly over these early reminiscences from sheer love of my task. As I recall these memories a subtle fragrance .seems to steal to my senses — faint odours of roses and violets, and other sweet things ; rosemary there is in plenty, but little rue : the bitter flavours of life had not then reached me. I am sure that no one had a happier or more protected childhood. I write it with a grateful heart, and with tears in my eyes. I have always believed that no amount of happiness in after life can compensate entirely for an unhappy childhood. There is something incongruous and piti- ful in the very idea. Young shoulders shrinking under the weight of burdens too heavy for them, timid natures misunderstood and terrorised, spending joy- 56 CHAP. VI SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT 57 less days in the repressive atmosphere of parental tyranny — oh, the waste, the pity of it ! I think, on the great anniversaries of our lives, when we are recalling the past with all its blessings and sorrows, that we might add one clause to our thanks- givings for the priceless gift of a happy childhood, for the sweet memories stored up in our treasure-house of life. It would do us no harm, and would hallow the present hour. On my birthday, and on the anniversary of the Incarnation, when we ponder on the mysteries of the Holy Childhood, I have always made this special thanksgiving, and I trust, as I get old, I shall never omit this custom. My visits to Bayfield are certainly among my pleasantest memories, time always passed so quickly at Prior's Cot, There were so many delightful things to do : to help Cousin Yvonne feed the pigeons and chickens, and to collect eggs. Cousin Yvonne had given me a beautiful pair of fantail pigeons for my very own — Pomp and P"an we named them. Pomp was a very conceited, pompous bird, exceedingly vain of his snow-white plumage, and Fan followed his example. They thought themselves much better than the other pigeons ; but they soon became wonderfully tame with me, and when I called them, they would flutter down and eat out of my hand or perch on my shoulder. Cousin Yvonne gave me a yellow chick too ; it was such a dear thing, and I called it Downy. But on my next visit it had grov/n into an ungainly, long- legged fowl, and I lost interest in it, for ugly creatures never appealed to me. Somehow the days always seemed too short at Prior's Cot. In the morning Cousin Yvonne gave 58 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. me a few easy lessons, and insisted on a quarter of an hour's practice on the piano. I did not dare protest, but I felt inwardly mutinous. ' I thought every one had holidays,' I mumbled once, for Fiddle, the little Skye terrier, was dancing round a tortoise on the lawn, with barks of puzzled delight, and he wanted me to explain matters to him ; and even the adventures of Gaston the Savoyard did not interest me. * Two months' holiday is far too long for a little girl of your age,' returned Cousin Yvonne in her quiet, decided way. ' Come, Githa, you have only an hour's lessons, and there is all the rest of the day to play in. Be a good child, and make the best of it' And this view of the case was so reasonable that I left off frowning. Of course Cousin Yvonne was right. The hour's regular discipline gave an added zest to my play- time. I was never listless or dull for a moment. That tiresome question of spoiled childhood, ' What am I to do now ? ' was never on my lips ; indeed, the choice of employments was almost bewildering. I could climb the old medlar-tree and sit there with a story-book, or there was the swing and the hammock. Cousin Yvonne was always too busy to play croquet with me in the mornings ; but Fiddle was ever ready for a race or a game of ball. He would play hide- and-seek with me in the wild garden, or trot obediently behind me when I went to the Lodge with a message. But this was not all I had to do, for I had a little garden of my own, and Cousin Yvonne gave me a delightful set of gardening tools. There was the dearest little wheel -barrow and watering-pot. She taught me how to sow seeds and plant bulbs, and she liked me to know the names of the flowers. I took a great deal of interest in my garden. My roses and VI SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT 59 lilies and carnations were quite beautiful ; and when I was away Cousin Yvonne looked after it for me. There was another occupation I loved, and that was going with Cousin Yvonne to the cottages. Such nice people lived at Bayfield. Very few were really poor, but they loved a neighbourly chat, and the sick and aged fully appreciated the good things she took them. The old vicar, Mr. Dennison, always declared that Mrs. Darnell pauperised his parishioners ; but he would say it with a twinkle in his eye, as though he did not mean it, for he thought there was no woman like Cousin Yvonne. I liked Mr. Dennison, but I did not find him specially interesting. He was an old bachelor, and very precise and courtly in his manners, and he was rather a book- worm. He was a good, well-meaning man, but not cut out for a parish priest, and though he was charitable, and showed much kindness to his people, I think they scarcely appreciated him. His sermons were certainly a little tedious. I never could find out what Cousin Yvonne thought of them, for she alwa}s refused to discuss sermons ; but she and the vicar seemed on excellent terms. His health was not good ; and when he became a confirmed invalid, and had to keep a curate, Cousin Yvonne always went to the Vicarage every day to read the paper to him and cheer him up. She took him flowers and little dainties, because she said that his housekeeper did not understand how to tempt an invalid's palate. I am quite sure that Mr. Dennison was deeply attached to Cousin Yvonne ; he left her some very valuable books and curios when he died. I w^as between fifteen and sixteen then, and Sydney wrote to me a full description of the funeral. 6o THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. I was about ten years old when Sydney Herbert came to Prior's Cot to live with Cousin Yvonne. Sydney was not related to her ; she was the only child of an old school friend who had made an unhappy marriage. Her husband's death had left her and her child wholly unprovided for ; indeed, Cousin Yvonne found them, I believe, in a state of poverty bordering on utter destitution, for Mrs. Herbert was too ill to work. From what Sydney told me, I gathered that Cousin Yvonne had been a veritable angel to them. She took the poor widow and her child under her own roof, and provided a nurse for the invalid, and when she died Cousin Yvonne promised to care for Sydney. ' I will treat her as though she were my own child, Margaret,' the girl heard her say. ' Poor mother was so happy when Aunt Yvonne said that,' finished Sydney with a sigh ; for from the first that was what she called Cousin Yvonne. I well remember the day when I first saw Sydney. I had just arrived at Prior's Cot for my summer visit, and Cousin Yvonne came out as usual in the porch to welcome me. There was a little flush on her face, and her eyes were unusually bright as she kissed me. ' Githa,' she said, ' I have such a surprise for you, but I think you will be pleased ' ; and then she kept my hand and we went into the drawing-room together. I remember so well the mingled fragrance of tea and roses that greeted us as we crossed the threshold, and Sydney came smilingly to meet us — a tall slip of a girl in a black frock, with a plait of brown hair tied up with black ribbon, and large Irish grey eyes which were regarding me rather seriously. ' Githa, my dear,' observed Cousin Yvonne, ' this is Sydney Herbert ; her mother was a very dear friend VI SYDNEY COMES TO PRIORS COT 6i of mine. I call her my adopted daughter because she has no one else to mother her, and she has come to live with me. I want you two to be very good friends.' Cousin Yvonne had almost taken m)' breath away. I was literally too surprised to speak ; but I shall never forget the frank, sweet way in which S>dney kissed me, and the earnest sincerity of her voice as she exclaimed, ' Oh j-es, I hope so. Aunt Yvonne.' And now, as I wish to be truthful in these pages, I have a little confession to make. In spite of my pleasure at having a companion so near my own age who could share my pursuits, I am afraid my feelings were a little mixed, and not wholly devoid of jealousy, and that for the first (ew days I was not quite sure that I was glad that Sydney was to live at Prior's Cot. I am ashamed to own this, but I must plead in extenuation that all my short life I had been ac- customed to regard myself as the centre of interest to the dear people who surrounded me. I knew that, however much they tried to hide it, all my wants and wishes were of importance to them — in short, I was a spoiled and petted child. I was therefore disposed to regard Sydney in the light of an interloper, and I was afraid that, during my long absences from Prior's Cot, Sydney would so endear herself to Cousin Yvonne that I might by and by be deposed from my present position as favourite. I remember one evening when I was not well, and therefore inclined to be captious and fretful and full of fancies, that I put my arms round Cousin Yvonne, when she caine to tuck me up and see that I was comfortable — her usual custom — and said plaintively : ' Cousin Yvonne, I do hope )'ou will always be fond ^2 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. of me — I mean,' as she seemed surprised at this, ' that you will always love me better than Sydney.' ' Why, Githa,' she returned, smiling, as she sat down beside me, ' I hope you are not going to be jealous of poor Sydney ! That is not like you, my dear. Surely there is room in my heart for bolh of you.' ' Yes, but I want you to love me best,' I persisted, and I wished it so much that the tears were in my eyes, but she only stroked my hair with a firm, caress- ing gesture and seemed thoughtful. ' You are not vexed with me ? ' I whispered presently, for her silence alarmed me. Then she looked at me very tenderly. ' Not vexed, darling, only sorry that my little Githa should not be more generous. Surely you do not forget that poor Sydney has no mother to love her now, and that we must all try to make her happy ? ' I felt rather ashamed when Cousin Yvonne said this, and the tears began to flow freely. ' I am fond of Sydney,' I sobbed. ' She is very, very nice, and I want her dreadfully to be happy ; but,' choking a little, ' I can't help it. Cousin Yvonne, I do want you to love me best.' I do not know what made Cousin Yvonne so for- bearing and gentle with me that night, but, as I said this, she took me in her arms so kindly and kissed me more than once. ' Darling, put this nonsense out of your head. I love you very dearly, and it is not likely that I shall change. No one can take my little Githa's place as long as she is good and lovable, but I must love poor Sydney too, for the sake of her dear dead VI SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT 63 mother.' And then she bade me good-night and went away ; but I felt strangely comforted, for, though she had not actually said so in words, her voice and manner assured me that she cared for me most. Cousin Yvonne never referred to this conversation, and after a time my jealousy died a natural death. There w as no resisting Sydney. She was simply the most delightful companion and friend that a girl could have. She had a charming temperament, for she was sweet-tempered and unselfish, and so perfectly frank that no one could help loving her ; and though she could be thoughtful and even serious at times, she had plenty of Irish fun and drollery about her ; and to crown her other merits, she was very fond of Princess Githa, though why both she and Thurston took to calling' me ' the little Princess ' is more than I can say. I asked Sydney the reason one day, but she declared that she did not know. ' It just came into my head,' she observed, ' and somehow the name suited }'ou. You have such a funny little grand manner sometimes, and then you toss your head just as though you were a real princess. Now don't frown, Githa, for I know you are not really stuck up and proud one bit. You are just a jewel, and the darlint of me heart,' for Sydney knew how to talk blarney, and it was pretty to hear her brogue. Of course Thurston liked her best, and small blame to him, but I soon forgave his fickleness, and we were all three good friends. Sydney was absolutel\' devoted to Cousin Yvonne. She used to talk about her sometimes when we went up to our room. I remember one Sunday evening when she came and sat on my bed a long time ; it was impossible for either of us to c^o to sleep, for 64 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. Cousin Yvonne was playing on the organ in the hall below, and my room was flooded with moonlight and sound. Cousin Yvonne always played on the organ on Sunday evening. She called it her Sabbath rest. She was passionately fond of music, and she played Chopin and Beethoven with much feeling and expres- sion. That evening she had been playing selections from Handel's oratorios. Sydney and I had been listening enraptured to that lovely melody, ' He shall feed His flock like a Shepherd ' ; and when she had finished this she had taken her hands off the keys for a moment and bade us very softly leave her and go to bed. ' It is getting late ; run away, children,' and then Sydney kissed her, and I followed her example. I remember I looked back for a moment before I ascended the stairs. The moonlight poured in at the windows and open door, and the organ candles lit up Cousin Yvonne's figure as she sat there in her white dress. She often wore white, and, strange to say, it suited her in spite of her grey hair. I could see her beautiful face so plainly as she sat there, her head drooping a little over the keys. Then she took out the stops again, and that glorious refrain, ' Let the bright Seraphim,' pealed through the house. 'Did not Aunt Yvonne look sweet this evening?' observed Sydney admiringly, as she curled herself up cosily by my pillow. * I thought she looked like an angel in her white dress. Did you notice how silvery her hair looked in the moonlight ? Oh, I do think she is just the loveliest thing in the world.' ' I think so too,' I returned with conviction, ' next to father, of course.' VI SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT 65 ' Yes, but he is a man,' returned Sydney quickly. ' Men are never lovely, are they ? They are only handsome and nice. Don't begin about your father to-night, Githa, or you will never stop. I was wanting to say something. Is it not sad that, with all her goodness and kindness, dear Aunt Yvonne should not be happy ? ' I was very much startled at this extraordinary statement on Sydney's part. I felt as though a douche of cold water were suddenly turned on me. ' What do }-ou mean, S}'dney ? Cousin Yvonne is perfectly happy,' but Sydney shook her head. ' If she were happy, why should she look so sad ? Sometimes when she is playing, or at church — oh, surely you have noticed her at church — but no, you sit next her. More than once when we were alone, and it was getting dark, I have heard her sigh so heavily ; and once when Wright was bringing in the lamp she started up quite suddenly and left the room, and, Githa, I feel sure she had been crying.' ' Crying — oh, impossible ! ' I exclaimed, for the idea of Cousin Yvonne being unhappy and shedding tears like any ordinary mortal seemed quite a preposterous idea. ' I don't see the impossibility,' returned Sydney mildly. ' Aunt Yvonne may have troubles that she would not tell us. I really am afraid it is true, Githa, for dear mother once said that she was never so sorry for any one in her life as she was for Aunt Yvonne. Mother would never have said that if Aunt Yvonne had no trouble.' I was not convinced, and I remember I argued the matter very obstinately with Sydney, for I was unwilling to believe her, but she said very quietly that I should soon find out tliat she was right — ' Not that it is any 1' 66 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, vi business of ours,' she continued seriously ; ' only when people are not quite happy I^ think we ought to love them better, and do all in our power to comfort them.' And then, as the music ceased, she said she must go to her own room, as Aunt Yvonne would not like our talking so late. CHAPTER VII IT IS ALWAYS DARNELL AND CO. The child leans on its parent's breast, Leaves there its cares, and is at rest ; The bird sits singing by its nest, And tells aloud His trust in God, and so is blest 'Neath every cloud. Isaac Williams. There was one thing which often puzzled me, for children even of eight and nine think more deeply than grown-up people imagine, although they are often too shy to give expression to their thoughts. It was far easier to talk things over with a companion of one's own age. I had often wondered why Cousin Yvonne had never come to St. Olave's Lodge, and when I remarked this to Sydney she seemed rather surprised too. ' Why don't you ask Aunt Yvonne the reason,' she returned, for S}'dney was always very practical and straightforward ; she never beat about the bush on any pretence whatever. ' I have asked her,' I said, in a perplexed voice ; ' but she only said she so seldom came to town, and then only on business. But I do think, Sydney, that she might come and stay with us sometimes.' 67 68 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. ' Why don't you ask your father to invite her?' was Sydney's reply, and I thought this piece of advice so sensible that I was determined to act on it on the first opportunity. I was going home the next day, but just then father was very much taken up with some important business, and I scarcely saw him from morning to night ; but one afternoon, when I was spending a few hours at Fairlawn, it came into my head to talk to Aunt Cosie. She did not seem at all surprised at my question ; only when I suggested that Cousin Yvonne should be invited to spend a few days at St. Olave's Lodge, she said very quietly : ' I should not ask your father to do that, Githa ; he never likes to refuse you anything, and it would place him in an awkward position.' ' But why — I don't understand, Aunt Cosie.' ' No, my dear, I daresay not,' and then Aunt Cosie hesitated for a moment. ' The fact is,' she continued slowly, as though she found it difficult to explain things to my childish comprehension, ' many years ago there was some misunderstanding and difficulty connected with your Cousin Yvonne's husband, and which makes things a little awkward for both of them.' ' But father likes Cousin Yvonne,' I returned eagerly ; ' he is quite pleased for me to go and stay with her. He said once that he had an immense respect for her.' ' Then I am quite sure he meant what he said,' replied Aunt Cosie. ' Now you are a sensible child, Githa — although that father of yours and Mrs. Marland do their best to spoil you — and I want you to listen to me a moment. What I have told you is in confidence, because you have a wise little head as well as a loving VII IT IS ALWAYS DARNELL AND CO. 69 heart, and I think you are to be trusted. Now, I am not sure that father will be pleased at my saying what I have, so I don't mean to tell him,' and here Aunt Cosie gave a pleasant little laugh. ' Oh, then, I had better say nothing either,' I returned rather regretfully, and Aunt Cosie gave a little nod, and presently we began talking of other things. I was rather proud that Aunt Cosie had reposed confidence in me ; there was something flattering in the idea that she had treated me like a grown-up person. I was glad that she thought me so sensible for my age, and I determined to try my hardest to live up to this good opinion. ' Of course,' I said to myself as I walked home with Mardie, 'if father had had a misunderstanding or quarrel with Cousin Yvonne's husband, it would certainly make things a little awkward for both of them,' and then I wisely determined to put the whole thing out of my head until I was older. But I must hurry on, for I cannot expect my kind and tolerant readers to be as interested as I am in these childish recollections. I intend to skim over the next few years in an airy and birdlike manner, taking long flights, then swooping down for a moment to pick up a crumb, a worm, or a shred of wool, as birds do for the lining of their nests. When I was between twelve and thirteen I had a feverish attack which weakened me a good deal ; the doctor said I had been growing too fast and was very much run down. I certainly felt very ill, and for three or four weeks I could not leave my bed ; but Mardie and Miss Redford nursed me devotedly. It was then that I found out Miss Redford's value ; she volunteered of her ov/n accord to remain in the 70 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. house, and as Mardie insisted on sleeping in my room, she took a considerable share of the day nursing, and she was always so patient and cheery, so unmindful of fatigue and confinement, so forgetful of her own comfort and convenience, that I grew to depend on her more and more. She was such a wholesome bracing person that it made me ashamed of being fretful and impatient, and when my dear Miss Redford was in the room I always tried hard to bear my pain or weariness as well as I could. It used to help me so to hear her say, ' You have been a dear good child to-day, Githa ' ; or ' That's a brave little woman,' as I submitted to some disagreeable but necessary injunction. I think I valued praise from her more than from any one, because she commended so rarely. Mardie's treatment was hardly so judicious. She was so sorry for her darling, she sym.pathised so excessively with me, that I am sure my aches and pains were as real to her as her own. She petted and pitied me from morning to night, and until I began to get better she scarcely closed her eyes until morning, so great was her watchfulness and anxiety. My dear old self-sacrificing Mardie ! Father came up to me as often as he could, and would sit by my bed silently holding my hand if he were not allowed to talk to me. I saw Miss Redford look at him once or twice so intently, as though he interested her. It worried father so much to see me ill that I used to pretend that I was ever so much better ; but I could never deceive him ; he would shake his head, and his eyes would grow quite sad. ' I wish I could bear it for you, Gipsy,' he would say, * but we must both be patient, my girlie ' ; and somehow I understood then how he hated to see mc lying there ; VII IT IS ALWAYS DARNELL AND CO. 7! but I always assured him when I bade him good- night that I should soon be well again. I was protesting to this effect a little too eagerly one evening, when I saw a look of great fear come into his eyes, and then I clutched him and knew no more. I heard afterwards that I had fainted, and that father had been very much frightened, but Miss Redford had quietly begged him to lay me down on the pillow and had at once used the proper remedies, and I soon regained consciousness. But she would not allow me to say a word. ' You must lie still and drink this, Githa,' she said in her quick, kind way, 'and you must try to go to sleep.' And then father gave her a sign which she seemed to understand, for she went out of the room and did not return for a few minutes, and father sat down again beside me and put his arm round me, and I nestled comfortably against his shoulder and soon fell into a doze. I know when I woke up I was surprised to see Dr. Mordaunt standing at the foot of my bed with Mardie behind him. ' I did not know it was morning,' I said feebly, for I was a little dazed still. ' Bless your dear heart, my lamb, it is not ten yet,' observed Mardie ; but father checked her, and then Dr. IMordaunt put his fingers on my wrist and asked in his kind way if I felt more comfortable. * Oh, I am always comfortable when I have father's shoulder for a pillow,' I returned sleepily ; and then Dr. Mordaunt laughed. But I do not remember any more, except that I had an impression that Mardie never went to bed at all that night, and that whenever I woke father was still beside me. I had a sort of relapse after this, and Dr. Mordaunt told father that I must be kept very quiet. Aunt 72 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. Cosie, who came to see me every day, only stayed a few minutes in my room. I used to beg her in a weak voice to remain, because I loved to see her dear old face near me, but she only patted mc and said we must obey the doctor's orders, and I was not strong enough to argue the point. I used to think a good deal of Cousin Yvonne as I lay there ; it often came into my head how I should love to hear her play on her organ again, ' Let the bright Seraphim,' or ' Angels ever bright and fair.' One evening when I thought I was alone I muttered half aloud, ' I think Cousin Yvonne would make a lovely angel.* ' What is that you say, Gipsy,' asked father quickly, and I repeated my speech ; ' but I did not mean any one to hear me,' I finished shyly, but I do not remember what he said in reply. It was quite certain that Cousin Yvonne did not forget me, for nearly every day I had the loveliest messages from her. Flowers came constantly ; not only cactus, dahlias, and chrysanthemums from my special garden, and late - growing roses from the verandah, but the choicest and most delicate blooms from the greenhouse, which must have been ruthlessly despoiled for my benefit. Then every few days there was the daintiest fruit- basket with bunches of purple and white grapes, and great luscious pears and yellow bananas. They were so prettily arranged that I used to lie and feast my eyes on them ; and there were such dear little notes tucked in between the red leaves. Oh no, certainly Cousin Yvonne did not forget me. As soon as Dr. Mordaunt gave permission I was lifted from my bed to the couch in the schoolroom, and vir IT IS ALWAYS DARxNELL AND CO. -Ji then came a very eventful day when father carried me downstairs into the Hbrary, and he and Miss Redford pillowed me up on the great Chesterfield couch. After this I spent some hours there daily, and father used to come home early to have tea with me. If he were delayed Hallett carried me down, and then father found me there when he opened the door. What happy afternoons those were in spite of my weakness ! Miss Redford would make tea for us, and then she would go home to her flat, for, as Mardie always helped me to bed and slept in my room, there was nothing for her to do until morning. I loved being alone with father, and he was so dear and good ; he read and talked to me, and when I grew stronger he would play games with me, and the time always passed so quickly that it was quite a shock when Mardie came in to tell us that it was seven o'clock, and that I must be carried upstairs .again. Father used to pretend that I was getting so heavy that he could hardly bear my weight. He would pause on the landing, and puff and groan, and he was quite delighted when Mardie, who was following us with the pillows, begged him to summon Hallett. I saw the twinkle in his eyes, for he did so love a joke. ' No, thank you, Mrs. Marland,' he returned in a resigned and exhausted voice. ' St. Paul tells us that every man must bear his own burden, and there is only one more flight of stairs. Come along, Gipsy — Excelsior,' and then he toiled on heavily, while I buried my face in his coat to prevent myself laughing outright. I knew I was only a featherweight to him, and that he could have carried me a mile or two without fatigue, but I don't think Mardie discovered the joke. When Miss Redford went back to the flat father 74 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. made her such a nice little speech. ' I shall always be grateful to you for your kind care of Githa,' he said, and he gave her such a beautiful present — a lovely little watch and chain. Father was always generous, and when people pleased him he was never comfortable in his mind until he had made some return. I had mentioned to him casually that Miss Redford's watch was so old, that it was quite worn out and useless ; it had belonged to her mother. ' She means to get quite a cheap one for daily use,' I continued volubly ; but it had never occurred to me that father would take any special notice of my remark. I could see Miss Redford was intensely surprised, but she was pleased too. She coloured up, and seemed so embarrassed that father had to put her at her ease in his kind way. * You will not refuse our little gift, I hope, Miss Redford. It is from Githa as well as from me. Remember we have to thank you not only for these weeks of nursing, but for years of thoughtful training and patient labour,' and when he said this she took the little case with a shy word of thanks. It was always difficult for her to express her feelings, but as she kissed me I am sure there were tears in her eyes. ' Your father says I am to thank you too, Githa, for this magnificent present' I think I should have told her the next moment that I was quite as much surprised as she was, only father interposed. ' It is always Darnell and Co.,' he said hastily, 'isn't it, Gip ? ' and after that he often called me ' Co.' in his playful way. It was Darnell and Co. who presented that beautiful VII IT IS ALWAYS DARNELL AND CO. 75 black silk to Mardie, which was laid by in tissue paper and lavender for so many years that I threatened Mardie with divers pains and penalties unless she had it made up at once. * But I was keeping it for your wedding, my pretty,' returned Mardie regretfully. ' Why, it is far too grand for Sunday wear — it quite stands alone with richness and stiffness.' ' If I am ever married,' was my reply, ' which is not at all likely, father shall give you a black satin,' for I knew how Mardie had coveted such a possession ; but even with this inducement I had some difficulty in getting my way with the dear old thing. Dr. Mordaunt had told father that I had outgrown my strength, and that I had better go to the seaside for a few weeks ; lesson-books were to be discarded for at least two months. I was just to eat and drink and sleep and get strong, and as Dr. Mordaunt's injunc- tions had the authority of the Medes and Persians, no one ventured to set them aside. Certainly I had no wish to do so, for when one is tired to death from morning to night, and feels inclined to cry at the least exertion, lessons seem the most tiresome things in the world. Scarcely a day had elapsed since Dr. Mordaunt had delivered his verdict, when I received a long letter from Cousin Yvonne proposing the most delightful scheme. She told me that she and Sydney were going to spend a couple of months at St. Leonards. A friend of hers had lent her her house and servants while she went abroad. 'She wanted me to stay for three months,' wrote Cousin Yvonne, ' but I told her I must be back for Christmas. Mrs. Chambers's house is delightfully comfortable. It is not facing the sea, though there is a side view from some of the windows. 76 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. It has a sunny aspect, and is just the house for an invah'd, as it is thoroughly well warmed. You shall have a room quite close to mine, and Sydney will sleep in a small one leading out of it ; and as Rebecca will of course accompany us, you will have all the attention you require.' It was a very kind letter — every one said so — and of course there could be only one answer. The family council, consisting of father. Aunt Cosie, and Mardie, decided unanimously that it was far too advantageous an offer to refuse. Mrs. Chambers was a rich woman, and her house was sure to be replete with comfort. There would be no cold, draughty passages ; the rooms would be warm and snug ; and then there was the use of the carriage, and Rebecca, too, was an excellent nurse. Father told me to write a grateful letter of acceptance, and was surprised when I hesitated. * It is only the thought of leaving you,' I whispered ; ' but for that I should love to go to the seaside with Cousin Yvonne and Sydney ; but I do hate to leave you, darling.' But he would not listen to this for a moment. ' I shall be very much engaged for the next fort- night, my dear.' he said seriously. ' There will be no more library teas for some time. When I have got through the press of business I rather think of running down to Boscombe for a week or so. I promised Colonel Dacre that I would look him up, and I could not take you with me, Gip ' ; and as father had evidently made his plans, and the prospect of a few weeks at St. Leonards was decidedly attractive, and I was long- ing to see Cousin Yvonne and Sydney, I consented to the separation with a tolerable grace, though some inexplicable feeling made me say suddenly : VII IT IS ALWAYS DARNELL AND CO. 77 ' If I were to be ill again, you would come to me, would }'ou not, father, and Mardie too?' ' I don't think it is likely that we should either of us stay away under those circumstances, Githa, my dear'; but father spoke a little drily, as though he thought I need not have asked such a question. CHAPTER VIII ' BEGGARS ALL ' Once well matched and mated, conditions of life are neither here nor there, if you are born into them and they are short of absolute penury. A little house and little in it ; a great house full of fine things ; in each a man and woman, ' born for each other,' mates, comrades, lovers ; and two pair of human beings equally happy.- — F. Greenwood. The weeks at St. Leonards passed quickly and happily away, but I do not intend to dwell on them now. One thing made a deep impression on me and remained long in my memory, and that was the pained look in Cousin Yvonne's eyes when she first caught sight of me at the station. I knew by the way she took hold of me, and the quiet intensity of her kiss, that the change in my appearance had given her a shock — indeed, she owned this to me afterwards. ' If I had known how ill you had been I should certainly have come to see you, Githa ; but I never realised it for a moment.' ' But Aunt Cosie and Miss Redford wrote to you,' I returned quickly, ' for they both told me so.' , ' Yes, but they said as little as possible. Mrs. Bevan's letters were very kind, but- ■' Here Cousin Yvonne checked herself, and her lips closed as though they were suddenly locked and sealed. 78 CHAP, vrii 'BEGGARS ALL' 79 I was always sorry when Cousin Yvonne's beautiful mouth had this expression ; it made her look hard and old, and gave one the impression that nothing would induce her to speak if she wished to remain silent. At such moments I would not have ventured to say a word. 'My poor little white-faced child,' she murmured tenderly as she tucked me up in bed that first night, ' but we will bring the roses back before long.' But I heard her sigh as she left the room. I was always happy with Cousin Yvonne, and Sydney was such a dear companion, and the weeks passed almost too rapidly. I was young and my constitution was good, and I had plenty of recuper- ative force, so I soon regained strength and spirits. When I returned six weeks later to St. Olave's Lodge, father held me out at arm's length and looked at me with a pleased and satisfied expression. ' Good child,' he said briefly, 'you are a credit to }our nurses — and you have grown too' ; and all the rest of the evening he could hardly bear me out of his sight, he was so glad to get his Gipsy back again ! I saw very little of Miss Redford just then, as lessons were not to be resumed until after Christmas, but she came in sometimes to see me, and I thought then that she seemed a little preoccupied and hardly as cheerful as usual ; but when I hinted at this, she told me rather hastily that she and Helen were exceedingly busy and much taken up with some important affairs. ' I have no time to wait now, Githa,' she observed, ' for I have to go to Sloane Street for Helen. By the bye, I have not given you her message. She wants you to have luncheon with us on Thursday if }'our father has no objection. I will come and fetch you, 8o THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. and if he would be Icind enough to send the carriage for you, you could stay for tea.' I was very much pleased with this invitation, and when I told father he said at once that he would call for me on his way home. ' I fancy there's something up with your dear Miss Helen,' he said mischievously ; ' but I am not going to spoil sport, and wild horses would not drag another word out of me.' But I thought he was only teasing me, and I pretended to take no notice. Miss Redford came for me quite early on Thursday. She was still a little graver in manner, though she made an effort to be cheerful. On our way to the flat she said rather abruptly that she had some news to tell me ; her sister Helen was to be married soon after Christmas. I was so surprised at this unexpected intelligence that I stood still in the street and stared at her until a child and a hoop and a dog came blundering up against me, and then Miss Redford laughed and took my arm, and we went on again. ' She is going to be married at last, after all these years,' I gasped ; for I was nearly thirteen, and at that age a girl often manifests a lively interest and curiosit}' in grown-up love affairs. ' The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts,' and already Sydney and I had discussed these subjects with girlish zest, and Sydney, who was a year and a half older, had quite a repertoire of pretty, romantic stories, all based on fact, which her mother had told her. There was one about a girl named Sheila, who had lived in their village, which always affected me when I heard it, for she had been quite a heroine in her humble way, and had refused to marry the lad she loved because her parents were viii 'BEGGARS ALL' 8i poor and needed her to work for them — and I forget the rest, except that Patrick was faithful to her and that it all ended happil)'.' Miss Red ford gave a deep sigh when I had made this remark. ' You ma\' well say after all these years, Githa, for it is nearly eight years since she and Hamlyn Seymour were first engaged, and even now Mrs. Bevan and other kind friends think it would have been wiser to wait a little longer.' ' I hope they will not be very, very poor,' I observed anxiously. 'They will certainly not be rich,' returned Miss Redford ; ' but Hamlyn has got a little work, and hopes to get more in time, and Helen will go on with her teaching.' ' Hut it will be horrid for lier to work when she is married ! ' I exclaimed. ' And she is always so tired.' ' I don't think she will be so tired then,' observed Miss Redford in rather a peculiar tone. ' Worry is more trying than any amount of hard work. I hope you will never have reason to find this out for yourself, Githa.' And then she told me that Helen and her husband would live at the. flat. Mr.s. Brant would come daily for a few hours, and Helen would do the rest. ' They think it will work cxccllentl)',' she con- tinued ; but I interrupted her. 'Will you live with them, Miss Redford?' I asked in a perplexed voice, for the flat was so small that I wondered how three people could be accommodated comfortably, and Mr. Seymour was such a big man. ' No, my dear,' with an amu.scd smile ; ' such an arrangement would hardly answer. Cicely and Dr. liurford have been very kind, and have begged me to i. 82 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. live with them. They are dear, good creatures, and tlie children are darlings ; but I prefer to be inde- pendent, so I have taken rooms not far from St. Olave's Lodge.' 'You will live all by yourself? Oh, how dull you will be ! ' But she shook her head. ' Busy people have no time to be dull, and I shall be surrounded by kind friends. Of course,' her voice changing a little, ' I shall miss Helen — we have never been apart in our lives ; but the flat is very near Galvaston Terrace — within five or six minutes' walk — so I dare say I shall see her nearly every day.' ' Galvaston Terrace ? Do you mean that rov/ of houses facing rather an ugly bit of the river,' I inquired, ' with tall chimneys and wharves and a bridge ? ' ' Yes ; it is rather an old-world place. Do you remember a quaint little house with a small bow window and balcony, almost smothered in Virginia creeper ? You used to call it the Nutshell. Well, that is where I am going to live. The bow-windowed room is to be my sitting-room, and a very snug little room it is ; and there is a comfortable bedroom at the back. Mrs. Church, my landlady, is such a nice woman. So I think I have done the right thing.' I was very much interested in all Miss Redford had told me : it was delightful to feel that she would be so close to us ; but I could not refrain from ex- pressing my surprise that she had not accepted the | Burfords' offer. They lived in the Regent's Park, and once when Miss Redford had taken me to the Zoological Gardens we had had tea at Twyford Lodge. I had been very much impressed by the handsome house and our lively, good-natured hostess. I thought Cicely charming, and Dr. Burford exceedingly kind viii 'BEGGARS ALL' 83 and pleasant ; and the babies were such little dears. I could not help thinking that Miss Redford would have been happier with them ; but when I hinted this, her answer was very decided. ' I love all my sisters dearly, and Cicely has the sweetest temper in the world ; but I should not care to form part of another person's household. I shall be far happier and freer in the Nutshell. I really think I must keep that name. Don't trouble your dear little head about me, Githa. I am not likely to have much of my own company. Helen and Cicely insist that I must spend one evening every week with them ; and I have other kind friends who are equally im- portunate But here we are at the flat, and I am quite out of breath with talking.' Helen opened the door to us. She received me affectionately. I had not seen her since my illness, and she took me to the light to have a good look at me. ' You have grown a good deal, and still look thin and weedy,' she remarked. ' She seems older, Claud.' I took this as a great compliment, for I was .secretly an.xious to grow up as fast as possible, that I might be a companion for father, and take the head of his dinner- table ; and I used to look at myself in the glass nearly every day to see if I looked older. I thought Miss Helen looked years younger, and so bright and pretty. She had lost her fagged, tired expression, and her forehead was quite smooth. She seemed very pleased when I told her this, and blushed in quite a girlish way ; but she only said quite simply that she felt better and happier, now difficulties had been overcome and she could see her way more 84 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. clearly ; and after luncheon she took me into her room, and showed me her modest trousseau, and several very pretty and useful presents. Aunt Cosie told me afterwards that Helen had gone through a great deal of worry and anxiety ; things had seemed so hopeless that her brother-in-law Dr. Burford, and even Cicely, had begged her to break off her engagement to Mr. Seymour before she was quite worn out, and other friends had given the same advice. ' They pestered her so,' went on Aunt Cosie, ' that I believe she did offer to give Hamlyn Seymour his freedom ; but he refused to give her up. " We will stick to each other,'' he said to her, " and one day our luck will turn." And, poor dear, she was so fond of him that she would have waited for him twenty years rather than give him up.' They were married very quietly from Twyford Lodge, and, to my delight, I was allowed to go to the wedding. Helen wished to have me with her, so father gave me permission, and I had a lovely dress and hat for the occasion. Helen looked very sweet on her wedding-day. To my great disappointment she had refused to wear bridal array, but her grey travelling-dress and hat suited her perfectly. I thought Mr. Seymour looked older — he was growing grey, and his shoulders were a little bowed, as though from continuous stooping over books ; but he seemed very happy. Mr. Pelham acted as his grooms- man, and I noticed that after the ceremony he kept rather close to Miss Red ford, and that she looked more cheerful when he talked to her. Poor Miss Red ford ! I am afraid it was rather a viii 'BEGGARS ALL' 85 tr\'ing daj' to licr ; and )'ct I knew that she rejoiced in Helen's happiness, and had done all in her power to further it in the most unselfish wa}-. Of course, her feelings were a little mixed ; and once or twice 1 saw her look at Helen a little sadly and wistfully, and then Mr. Pelham said something to her in an undertone that made her smile again. I was just looking at a beautiful little picture of the Burford children, in a quiet corner behind a big palm, when I heard Helen's voice close to me. She was speaking to her husband. ' Has the carriage come for us, Hamlyn ? I thought we were not to start until three .'' ' ' No ; we have another twenty minutes, so stay where you are, love. I want to look at my wife for a moment. Nell, is this real, or am I in a dream ? I don't believe that I am never to be a lonely beggar again.' I heard Helen laugh her pretty, crisp laugh. He had taken her left hand, and was looking at the wedding-ring. ' No ; I shall always be there to take care of you,' she returned softly, and then I managed to glide unperceived out of mj' corner. Miss Redford was still talking to Mr. Pelham. I thought he did not look quite so ugly that day. He had rather a nice voice, and he seemed talking very eagerly about some book he was reading. ' You must read it, Claudia,' I heard him say as I passed. ' Claudia ' ! They were great friends, I knew ; but I never guessed that they were so intimate that he called her by her Christian name. lUit they were both of them too much engrossed with each other to notice me ; so I hastened to join Ciccl>- Burford, who 86 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. was beckoning to me from the other end of the room. She made me sit down beside her, and admired my frock, which she said was ' chic,' whatever that meant, and very smart. General Fabian, an old family friend of the Redfords, was standing just behind us with Dr. Burford, and I heard him say in his jovial manner, ' " Evil communications corrupt good manners " ; do you think Claudia means to follow Helen's bad example — eh, Burford ? It looks uncommonly like it. It will be beggars all, and no mistake.' I do not know vvhat Dr. Burford would have answered, but Cicely looked back at them smilingly and told them not to talk nonsense ; but General Fabian refused to be silenced. ' Pelham is a clever fellow, though he is a bit of a stick at the War Office. He ought to have gone in for literature.' But Cicely moved away. She seemed afraid of what he might say next ; so she hunted Helen out of her easy corner, and took her up to the nursery to bid the children good-bye ; and though she was only going to Ventnor for a fortnight, little Effie and Coralie hung about her, and gave her dozens of kisses — even baby Walter clamoured to go to dear Aunt Nellie. We spent the remainder of the day at Twyford Lodge, and after dinner we drove home, and Mr. Pelham escorted us. Miss Redford had insisted on sleeping at the flat that night, though Cicely had begged her with tears in her eyes to remain with them ; but I think Miss Redford wanted to be quite alone. ' When I am unhappy,' she said to me once, ' I prefer my own company to any other person's ; friends VIII T.EGGARS ALL' 87 are very ready with their sympathy and advice, but it is sometimes wiser to take coimsel with oneself.' I am not sure that Miss Redford acted for the best that night : the Httle flat v/ithout Helen must have been very dismal. Although Mrs. Brant had made up a grand fire and left everything comfortable, she owned that she slept badly, and that the night seemed long ; and that was perhaps why her head ached and her eyes looked so heavy the next morning. But nothing would induce her to take another holiday ; she said I had wasted too much time already with my long illness. That v/as the worst of Miss Redford — she never spared either herself or other people when there was any work to be done. CHAPTER IX THE CORNER ROOM Then I thought that others were standing by ; ' Ah, yes,' they said, ' it was even so ! Childhood is over, hope is high ; We must sail in that ship we know not whither.' Jean Ingelovv. Trust is the best o^ xe\&iionsh\^s.— Teaching of Buddha. I HAD a great surprise and pleasure on my fourteenth birthday. Easter fell very early that year, and I returned from my spring visit to Bayfield on the eve of my birthday. Sydney was with me. I had begged father, as a great favour, to allow me to invite her for a week or two, and he had given me permission very readily ; but Cousin Yvonne had hesitated, as though she were un- willing to part with her. * It will be a pity for Sydney to leave her studies,' she observed ; for Sydney was attending some excellent classes at a school almost a mile and a half from Bayfield. The masters came from London, and though the terms were high, the girls had great advantages. In fine weather Sydney used to cycle over to Wood- mancot, and in the afternoon Cousin Yvonne would often drive over to fetch her. She spared no trouble 88 cHAr. IX THE CORNER ROOM 89 or expense on Sydney's education, and she thouglit her- self well repaid by the girl's gratitude and devotion to her adopted mother. Sydney was secretly longing for the treat, but with great magnanimity she refused to say a word ; but I was not so unselfish, and I urged my point rather persistently. ' Oh, do let me have her, Cousin Yvonne,' I had pleaded. ' It is my birthday, remember, and I never have any girls of my own age to stay with me, and it will be such fun,' and then Cousin Yvonne reluctantly yielded. ' It must be only for a fortnight, then, and she must come back to her day,' she said very decidedly ; and of course we both faithfully promised to be satisfied with this condition. Cousin Yvonne gave me her present before I left. It was a very handsome one — a gold bangle set with small diamonds. Aunt Cosie shook her head when I showed it to her. ' It is very extravagant of Yvonne,' she observed ; ' you are far too young to wear such expensive jewellery ' ; for Aunt Cosie was very old- fashioned in her ideas. She had scolded father quite severely when he gave me a beautiful string of pearls, and advised me to put them aside until I was older, but I could not be induced to do this. Father received S\'dne)' very kindly. We both dined with him that night, and I could see by his manner that he was very much pleased with her. ' Miss Herbert is just the sort of friend I like you to have, Gipsy,' he said, when S>'dney had retired to her room, and I had gone down again to wish him good- night. ' She is so simple and natural, but there is plent)' of life in her. \'our Cousin Yvonne must have taken great pains with iicr.' 90 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. ' Do you think her pretty, father ? ' I asked, and he said at once that she was very bonnie-looking, and in another year or two she would be exceedingly good- looking ; and, as father was a judge of beauty, this opinion quite satisfied me. But the next moment he turned my thoughts in another direction, for to my great pleasure he told me that for the future he would expect me always to be with him at late dinner. ' Your Aunt Cosie wanted me to put it off for another year,' he went on ; ' but I do not see why we should be deprived of the pleasure of each other's society. I will dine half-an-hour earlier, and that will give me a longer evening.' I was so delighted with this unexpected privilege that I could scarcely sleep for excitement. I knew very well that, but for Aunt Cosie's advice, father v.^ould always have had me with him ; but she and Mardie had persuaded him that the late meal would be bad for me, and that I was growing and needed rest. I do not think Mardie was quite satisfied in her own mind that father was doing the right thing, but she would not have said so for worlds, and she took a good deal of pleasure in preparing my evening frocks. Father always liked me to wear white. He used often to take a flower from one of the vases on the dinner-table and tuck it into my frock. ' White suits you, Gipsy, but you want a touch of colour to finish you off/ he would say rather critically. Sydney overslept herself and was a little late the next morning, but I found father standing by the breakfast table, looking wdth amused eyes at all the parcels and letters. The Redfords and Aunt Cosie and the servants always remembered me, and two or three old family friends ; but, to my surprise, father's IX THE CORNER ROOM 91 present was not among them. His eyes twinkled as he saw my mystification. ' No, I have not forgotten you, Gip, but my gift is so unwieldy in size that it could not well be brought into the dining-room. I think we had better wait until we have finished break- fast, and then you and Miss Herbert shall give me \our opinion.' I was not at all disposed to wait, but I knew father would rather have his breakfast quietly, and though I was not as hungry as usual, I found plenty of occupa- tion in opening my parcels and letters. There was actually one from Cousin Yvonne, although we had only left her the previous afternoon ; but I was thankful when father pushed aside his coffee-cup and told us both to follow him. ' It is on the first floor,' he said in a teasing voice, ' and I have got it safe under lock and key ' ; and to my surprise he proceeded to unlock the door of a room next to his own, which to my knowledge had never been used. We called it the corner room, and it had a nice view of the garden and the river. Mardie always said it was the best room in the house, but the dark, heavy furniture and great bed never i)leased me. Father behaved in a very absurd manner. He would insist on tying his handkerchief over my eyes before he would allow me to cross the threshold, and then he took hold of my arm and led me in ; but when he removed the bandage I was too much astonished to speak. For I was in a strange and most charming room — full of things I had never seen before in my life, — a room tasteful and pretty enough for a young princess, and yet adapted to the needs of growing womanhood. The dainty cretonne hangings to the brass bedstead 92 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. were just my taste, and the furniture, though modern and up-to-date, seemed exactly to suit the room. Nothing had been forgotten ; there was a writing-table with its pretty appendages, and a delightful couch, and the easy-chair by the window was distinctly inviting. There was even a cabinet for my books, and two or three lovely engravings which father had chosen and had framed for me ; and it was all so beautiful and so unexpected that I could find no words to thank him. ' Oh fie, Gipsy ! tears on your birthday ; what will Miss Herbert think of us ? ' but I could not help crying a little, and I am sure Sydney understood. It was not so much the surprise and pleasure — though I never had been more astonished and delighted in my life, — but it was the tender thought for my comfort that thus over- came me and which made me cling to father in speechless gratitude. ' Oh, it is too much, too much ! ' I sobbed ; ' and you have never been away at all, then, except for the week- end ' ; for the two or three notes I had had from him had been written from the Metropole at Brighton, and how could I have guessed that he had spent most of the week in town to superintend the workmen. Even before I left home I knew one or two rooms on the first floor were being whitewashed and painted, but at that time I took little heed of household affairs. I think father was satisfied with the result of his plan, and when I got calm we went round the room arm-in-arm and inspected everything. He told me that Miss Redford had helped him a good deal and that she had excellent taste. ' I always meant you to hav^e this room, Gipsy,' he said ; ' I was only waiting until you were old enough to appreciate it. I am afraid Mrs. Marland did not IX THE CORNER ROOM 93 want to part witli y^oii, but I told her that I must have you near mc,' and father had that nice look in his eyes as he said this which always made me feel how dear I was to him. I had never had such a birthday as that : in the afternoon father drove us in his phaeton to Rich- mond Park, and Miss Redford came to dinner ; and after coffee father came up into the drawing-room and we pla}-ed round games, and Sydney was the life of the party. Sydney and I spent a very happy fortnight. Miss Redford came every morning, and if the weather permitted we started for some pleasant expedition or other. Sydney knew little of London ; we took her to St. Paul's and the Tower, and the Zoological Gardens, and the Kensington Museum ; and once father came home to luncheon, and we all. Miss Redford included, went to a matinee. I think we enjoyed that most of all. The late dinners and our cosy evenings in the library vv^ere also delightful. Sydney once said rather mischievously that I was more the little Princess than ever, ' for you have quite a grand air, Githa,' she observed merrily, ' when you sit at the head of the table.' Father and Sydney soon became good friends. ' He is a dear man,' she said to me on the last evening, ' and he just worships the ground you walk on, Githa,' and Sydney gave a soft little sigh as she spoke ; for it is always sad when a girl is unable to reverence the memory of her parent, and Sydney's father had only brought trouble to his family. Sydney owned frankly that she was sorry when her visit came to an end, but she confessed, at the same time, that she had been idle long enough. ' I 94 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. must work all the harder for my holiday,' she observed sensibly, 'and I shall look forward to August'; but for all her bright philosophy Sydney did not like bidding me good-bye. She v/as becoming much attached to me in a sisterly way, and I returned her affection very warmly. The next two years passed quietly and pleasantly. As I grew older I worked more diligently at my studies. Miss Redford still came each day, but I had a music master and attended drawing and dancing classes, and some excellent lectures on Literature and Church History, Miss Redford always accompanied me. Later on, by her advice, I joined French and German conversation classes, v.'hich v/ere held every Wednesday afternoon by two ladies, Mademoiselle Durant and Fraulein Sonnenschein, who lived together in a tiny flat in Chelsea. These conversation classes were very informal and original. The number of young ladies never exceeded six or eight ; the room would not have accommodated a larger number. One Wednesday Fraulein Sonnenschein presided, and the conversation was in German ; on the alternate Wednesday Mademoiselle Durant chattered to us in choice Parisian French, while we sipped cafe au lait and ate little crisp cakes flavoured with cinnamon. We all enjoyed these little gatherings and soon forgot our shyness. Mademoiselle had a knack of interesting us in some subject ; we were none of us allowed to be silent. If the conversation languished she would start a sort of round game. She would commence a simple pathetic story, and just as we were becoming interested in it she would break off" with a nod, for the young lady sitting next her to take up the thread. How we used to laugh and stumble and flounder through IX THE CORNER ROOM 95 the few sentences we were compelled to say, but we became more fluent after a time ; indeed, more than once I forgot myself in the joy of narration, and only stopped when a little murmur of applause ran through the circle. Mademoiselle clapped her little brown hands : * C'est magnifique ; Mademoiselle Darnell est une veritable raconteuse,' she said in her thin, shrill voice. When I was sixteen Sydney and I had a wonderful treat, for Cousin Yvonne took us to Switzerland for six weeks, and we spent two or three days in Paris. We were both wild with excitement beforehand, but we never guessed what the realisation would be. I do not know how Sydney felt, but I was in a dream of enjoyment from morning to night. Cousin Yvonne used to look at me with a strange little smile. ' It is good to be young, Githa,' she said once. ' You are very happy, are you not, m}' dear .'' ' ' Oh yes,' I sighed. ' I am having such a glorious time, I feel as though I could never love you enough, Cousin Yvonne, for giving us this pleasure ' ; but I wondered why Cousin Yvonne looked at me so seriously and turned away. One da\- when I was in one of my wild moods — I had caught hold of Sydney and made her waltz with me over the parquet floor of the big saloon — I saw Cousin Yvonne watching us, and when we stopped breathless and glowing with exercise, she called us a pair of silly children. ' I don't believe Githa will ever be a grown-up, sedate young lady,' she continued ; but I confuted this with much eagerness. ' I shall be seventeen next April,' I returned with dignity. 'You will see that I shall be quite grown up by then, Cousin Yvonne,' I returned grandl)'. 96 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. But I was very much surprised when she said almost passionately,'! wish with all my heart you were still little, Githa, and that you need never grow up.' And then with a laugh, in which some bitterness was infused, she continued, ' No, I am not mad, dear child, but I know life somewhat dilutes the sunshine and brings troubles. But there, it is no use wishing for the impossible : you will have to dree your weird, Githa ; be happy and free from care as long as you can, and may those days be far away indeed when you will say to yourself, " I have no pleasure in them." ' Cousin Yvonne's eyes wore a sad look in them as she said this. Mr. Dennison, the vicar of Bayfield, had died early in the spring, and his successor took up his residence in the vicarage while we were in Switzerland. I did not go to Bayfield for the last fortnight of my visit. Cousin Yvonne decided to go to Folkestone for the remainder of my holiday ; she thought Bayfield would seem unusually quiet after all our excitement, and I daresay she was right ; but I was a little curious about the new vicar, and I was sorry to miss Thurston, but Sydney told me that he and Lady Wilde had gone to Scotland and that St. Helen's Towers was empty. I learnt a great deal about the new vicar in Sydney's and Cousin Yvonne's letters. 'The Reverend Paul Carlyon is rather an imposing and striking-looking person,' Sydney wrote. ' Aunt Yvonne and I saw him at the school this morning, and he introduced himself to us, and was quite pleasant and friendly. Aunt Yvonne thinks he has such a nice manner. He is grey-haired, but his face is not at all old ; Aunt Yvonne is sure that he is not forty. He is very alert and active-looking ; one could almost take /x THE CORNER ROOM 97 him for an arm\' chaplain, he has quite a martial carriage. But there, .Aunt Yvonne is calling me, and I must fl}'. Good-b\-e, I'rincess, to be continued in my next.' S)dney generally wrote once a week, and I waited anxiously for her next letter. Cousin Yvonne had simply mentioned that Mr. Carlyon was a good preacher, and that his sermon on the previous Sunday had been exactly suited to his congregation. ' Me is very straight and simple,' she went on, and there is no seeking for effect ; he has a message to deliver, and there is no beating about the bush. I should think he has plenty of common sense, and that lie is very much in earnest,' and this was high praise from Cousin Yvonne. Sydney's next letter gave me more personal details. Mr. Carlyon was a widower, his wife had died two years ago, and he had two children, a boy and girl. ' They arc twins, and such delightful little creatures,' wrote Sydney; 'they are about four )cars old, I believe. The girl reminds me a little of you, Githa, or rather of your picture as a child ; she has the sweetest little gipsy face and dark eyes, and she is always laughing ; and the boy is such a pretty little fellow ; and they have such a nice nurse. I am sure you would delight in these children, Githa, you are such a baby lover, and all the village infants take to you. ' Mr. Carlyon looks rather old to be their father ; but Aunt Yvonne says I am w riting nonsense, and that he is not really old, and she says it is delightful to .see him with his children. Do you know, Githa, his wife was the daughter of an Irish earl, that the fiiniil>- were very poor and proud, and that her father was very I angry when I.ady Dorcen refused a grand match to II 98 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, ix marry Mr. Carlyon. Lady Wilde, who had seen her, said she was very pretty and amiable, and that the family were so poor that they lived in a corner of the castle, and that they had scarcely money enough to keep up appearances ' ; and here Sydney broke off with a declaration that she had really no more time for gossip. CHAPTER X ROV AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD That was the voyage of life, good sooth, The voyage of hfe set forth to me In a dream. Am I ready ? Nay, in truth, Not ready. Yet childhood is over, youth Is come. I must sail to that great sea, And knew it not ; but my prayer awake Pleads in the prayer of sleep Some part to lake. Jean Ixgelow. I HAD a Strange sort of half-waking dream on the eve of my seventeenth birthday, which made a curious impression on my mind. There is no doubt that I must have been asleep, and )'et the dream was so vivid that it was difficult for me to realise this. I thought that I was sitting on the balcony outside our drawing-room window looking down on the river. It was a lovely spring evening, and I was admiring, as I so often did, the golden lights on the water. Tiie western sky was softly flushed with pink, and a little boat with a tawny sail floated past. There was a man and a dog on the deck, and I distinctly heard the dog bark. * After all, the world is a beautiful place,' I said 99 loo THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. to myself. ' I am glad I am only seventeen, and have so many years before me ' ; but even as I spoke a sudden cloud blotted out the river and the sunset, and the darkness of night seemed to enfold me. I was just going to rise from my seat, in my terror, when a voice behind me said, ' The child is a woman now, and it is only right that she should know, I shall hold you to your promise.' It was my father's voice ; but what more he would have said it was impossible to know, for at that moment I woke and found myself safely in bed in the corner room ; but my heart was beating very quickly, and it was some time before I could go to sleep again, so great was my terror at that sudden darkness. I have had many strange dreams since then, which I have told to Mentor, although he always laughed at them, and called me a superstitious little heathen. But it never entered my head to tell that dream to father. Perhaps if I had done so, it would not have haunted me so persistently. I was always rather imaginative and impressionable, and it struck me as a curious coincidence that the chapter for my devotional reading that morning should be the Transfiguration on Mount Tabor. Somehow I never realised so fully before those words, ' And they feared as they entered into the cloud.' There was something so human in their terror ; they found themselves confronted by unintelligible mysteries, and blinded by unearthly light, and then came darkness. Poor, simple, ignorant disciples, how relieved they must have been when they found themselves alone with the beloved Master again. I thought father looked at me once or twice in his keen way as we sat at break- fast, as though to read the cause of my unusual gravity. X ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD loi ' You are dreadfully grown up this morning, Gipsy,' he said at last. ' You make me feel quite old. I wish you could have had jour dear friend Sydney Herbert with you longer '; but I assured him truth- full)' that I did not really mind, as I was going down to Bayfield in a day or two. ' Sydney was very sorry to refuse,' I went on, ' but she did not like leaving Cousin Yvonne, for Cousin Yvonne had taken cold, and seemed so unwell and depressed that Sydney had not the heart to leave her.' I explained all this to father, and he seemed to understand ; and then he told me that I had better be quick over my breakfast, as his present was waiting for my inspection. But this time I knew what was awaiting me, for father had always promised that I should have a horse of my own on my seventeenth birthday. The previous year he had given me a beautiful little Yorkshire terrier — - Roy, we had christened him, and he was my faithful little companion night and day. He always slept in my room ; and as Cousin Yvonne's favourite. Fiddle, had departed this life, Roy was allowed to accompany me to Prior's Cot, where he speedily made himself at home. He trotted after me as usual when we went to the front door to welcome my new favourite, Bab. She was a very pretty creature, with a dark glossy brown coat and a small head, and she was as playful as a kitten, though with no vice in her. Indeed, she received me very kindly, and took several lumps of sugar out of my hand, and only nuzzled me for more when I patted her sleek side. I'ather had taken a whole holiday, and we rode in the Park most of the morning. I had ridden before with him there, but on that da}' I had a new habit 102 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. and felt unusually smart. I noticed people looked at us a great deal, but I thought they were admiring Bab and Sultan. We had tea that afternoon with Aunt Cosie ; but we could not stay long, as father had promised to take me to the theatre that evening, and we were to dine earlier than usual. Mardie helped me to dress. I think she loved the task ; and she always brushed my hair at night, and came in the last thing to tuck me up and see that I was comfortable ; and though I was a grown - up young lady and the mistress of my father's house, I should not have rested half so well without her loving kiss and blessing. Mardie had selected my prettiest dress because it was my birthday. It was a soft, cream-coloured silk, and before I came downstairs I paused for a moment to regard myself in the big glass that hung on the landing. I wanted to know how I looked on my seventeenth birthday. No, it was no longer the child Githa ; but it was still the same brown oval little face, with thoughtful dark eyes and masses of ruddy - brown hair which seemed to wave and curl at its own sweet will in spite of all mine and Mardie's efforts ; but though I still bore my pet name Gipsy, my arms and neck were as fair as Sydney's, and my pearl necklace was still my favourite ornament. To please father I had one or two crimson roses fastened on my bodice ; a friend had sent me a box of hot-house flowers, and I had put these aside for the evening. Cousin Yvonne had given me a second bangle still handsomer than the first, and I felt a girlish satisfaction when father came out of his room and joined me, for I saw his look of X ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD 103 approval, though he pretended to twit me with m)- vanity. But I was not admiring myself; I was only curious to know if I really appeared grown up. Father always looked so handsome and distinguished in evening dress that I longed to do him credit. I managed to convey this to him rather bashfully ; and he assured me seriously that he was quite satisfied with my appear- ance, and would not have me look otherwise for the world, and I am sure he meant it. Two or three days after this I went down to Bay- field. Mardie escorted me as usual. She was going to stay with a cousin at Henley, and would go on in the train. Sydney had promised to meet me at the station. As she was over eighteen her education was practically completed ; but by cousin Yvonne's advice she still attended the French and German classes. She also had singing lessons, and was fast developing a very pretty voice. Roy sat opposite us in the railway carriage, with the sun shining on his golden head. He was grinning at us with sheer delight, and showing his little pearly teeth in the sweetest way. Roy was not fidgety and restless like some dogs when they are travelling. He was very well bred and trained, and always behaved like a gentleman ; only, when he caught sight of Sydney he quivered from head to tail with repressed excitement. I think father would have called Sydney bonnie if he had seen her that day. She was rather tall, and I always felt short beside her, though father said I was exactly the right height for a woman. ' I am afraid you are still growing,' he observed somewhat ruefull)-, which was the truth, for I did not attain my proper height until I was eighteen. 104 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. Sydney was certainly a very pretty girl. Her bright, healthy colouring, and her frank, candid expression, were very attractive, and then she had such beautiful Irish grey eyes with long dark lashes. We had greeted each other affectionately before I saw that she was not alone, for a dark, good-looking young man, standing a few steps behind her, raised his hat and smiled at me, and then I saw it was Thurston Wilde. I had not seen him for more than a year, and for the moment I had not recognised him. To my amusement I discovered that he had been also taken aback at my grown-up appearance, and though he seemed pleased to see me, and said so quite nicely, he was rather shy with me, and hesitated per- ceptibly before he called me by my name ; but I was not going to be stiff with my old playfellow because he had grown into a handsome and striking young man, and my friendliness thawed him, and we were soon chatting in our old way. Thurston had his dogs with him — ^a beautiful red -brown setter, and a large bull- terrier, who alarmed me excessively by sniffing round Roy in rather a contemptuous way ; but Thurston assured me that he was only making friendly overtures, ">and that he was the most good-natured fellow in the world. ' Ben never hurts small dogs. You need not be afraid, Githa,' he protested, as I tucked Roy under my arm ; ' better let them make friends at once,' and then I acted on this advice. Thurston seemed very proud of his new acquisition, and he tried hard to make me admire Ben ; but bull-terriers were not to my liking, and though Ben's coat was as white and glossy as satin, I objected to his broad, blunt nose and the ridiculous pink rims to his eyes, and I patted his bullet X ROY AND I GO DOWN TO 15AYFIELD 105 head reluctantl\' because Thurston expected me to do so ; but I made amends by my praises of my old friend Laddie, who was such a beautiful creature and so gentle and affectionate, and Thurston had had him from a puppy. The luL,^gage had been put on the carriage by this time, and we were about to follow, when Thurston said suddenly, ' There is the vicar, Sydney ; I think he is coming across to speak to us.' And he was right, for the next moment Sydney had shaken hands with him and was introducing him to me. Sydney's description of Mr. Carlyon had given me the impression that he was a grey -haired boy ; but this idea was wrong, there was nothing boyish about the Rev. Paul Carlyon. He was a man in the prime of life, and might probably be two- or three-and-forty. It was only his grey hair which made people think him older. He had rather a thin brown face and dark eyes, and his normal expression was somewhat grave ; but his smile and voice were exceedingly pleasant. ' I have heard a great deal of you from your friend Miss Herbert,' he said, as we shook hands, 'and I knew you were expected to-day ' ; and then he added, ' Miss Herbert is one of my best workers, so, of course, I have a great respect for her.' Sydney laughed and blushed a little. * I teach in the Sunday School now, Githa,' she observed ; ' }'ou must come with me next Sunday and see my class — such dear little children. lUit we really must not linger any longer. Aunt Yvonne will be looking out for us.' At this broad hint Mr. Carlj'on put us into the carriage. I noticed that botii he and Thurston stood outside the station looking after us until we were nearly out of sight. io6 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chau ' Well, what do you think of the new vicar ? ' asked Sydney in an interested voice. ' Oh, I am sure I shall like him,' was my impulsive answer. ' He is a very uncommon sort of person, and perhaps a little formidable at first sight, but he is undeniably a gentleman, and he has such a very pleasant manner.' ' That is what Aunt Yvonne says ; she has taken to him and likes him immensely. She says it is a pleasure to talk to him, he is so well informed and so broad- minded ; she declares that he preaches the gospel of common sense — you know what funny things Aunt Yvonne says sometimes ; but his sermons are always so simple and practical, and seem to help one so nicely.' This was very satisfactory ; but I was not inclined to discuss sermons just then, so I turned the conversa- tion into another channel. ' What a handsome fellow Thurston Wilde is,' I observed so abruptly that Sydney gave a little start. ' He was always a good-looking boy ; but he is really quite striking with his clear olive complexion and dark eyes : there was always something rather foreign about him.' ' His mother was Andalusian ; I suppose that accounts for it. Yes, every one thinks Thurston very handsome.' Sydney spoke rather hurriedly. ' By- the-bye, Githa, I forgot to tell you that we are all to dine at St. Helen's Towers to-morrow. Lady Wilde fixed the evening nearly a week ago. Mr. Carlyon is also invited.' I was rather pleased at this piece of intelligence, although Lady Wilde was not a favourite of mine. I always agreed with Cousin Yvonne that she was X ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD 107 extremely limited in her ideas ; but it would be pleasant to meet Thurston and Mr. Carlyon. I always, during my visits to Bayfield, spent an even- ing at St. Helen's Towers with Cousin Yvonne and Sydney, but only the last three years I had been invited to take my place at the dinner-table. Sydney dined there constantly, and was a great favourite with Lady Wilde. ' Will Cousin Yvonne be well enough to go ? ' I asked. ' You told me in your last letter that she was still very poorly.' ' I am afraid that is true,' replied Sydney ; ' but her cold is certainly better, and I know she intends to go. I can't think what ails Aunt Yvonne, she is so depressed and unlike herself, only she does not like me to notice it.' I was very sorry to hear this. I knew Sydney never exaggerated things. Cousin Yvonne's constitu- tion was very strong and she rarely ailed anything ; her quiet life and active habits were all in her favour ; but I had noticed something strained and forced in her letters lately, as though writing were an effort, and they had certainly seemed less cheerful than usual. Cousin Yvonne was not in the porch to receive mc, but she waved to me from the drawing-room window, and as I ran into the hall she was standing smiling in the doorway. * Was your train late, Githa ? ' she asked. ' I have been looking out for the last half-hour'; and I told her that Mr. Carlyon and Thurston had detained us at the station. ' I think I was ten minutes late,' I finished. Cousin Yvonne did not answer ; she was regarding mc rather thoughtfully. Sydney was right, and she lo8 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. looked far from well. She was thinner, and there were dark lines under her eyes. She wore a little wrap as though she had not quite thrown off her cold, and perhaps this made her look a little older, but, as usual, she made light of her indisposition. ' It was my own fault ; you must not pity me, Githa. I got wet one damp day, and did not change my things at once when I came in. Mr. Carlyon was waiting to speak to us about a sick woman, and I could not leave until he had finished his business.' ' Yes, and Sydney told me that you refused to nurse yourself properly ' ; but Cousin Yvonne only smiled and said that she was always a bad patient and disliked lying in bed. ' A cold will have its way,' she went on. ' Of course it has pulled me down a little, and I feel un- usually lazy, but I shall be able to go to St. Helen's Towers to-morrow evening.' And then she followed me to my room ; but I would not let her stay and help me, for she looked far too white and tired for exertion. We spent a delightful evening. Sydney sang to us, and I had so much to tell them about Helen Seymour's little girl, to whom Miss Redford and I had stood sponsors. Mr. Pelham was godfather, and Mrs. Kennedy had made the most magnificent christening cake, and we had had quite a festive evening in the little flat. ' Helen looked sweeter than ever with baby in her arms,' I continued. ' They are so very happy, Cousin Yvonne — only, of course, she has been obliged to give up her teaching ; but Miss Redford thinks Mr. Seymour is getting on now, and they will soon be able to have a nice little house of their own.' * And how does the other affair progress ? ' asked X ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD 109 Cousin Yvonne significantly, for it was an open secret to all their friends that there was some understanding between Miss Redford and Elmer Pelham. If they were not actually engaged, they were tolerably sure of each other. When Miss Redford and I spent an evening at the Burfords' he was always there, and he talked more to her than to any one else, and they always seemed so happy in each other's company. But Miss Redford was very reserved, and it was hardly likely that she would choose a girl of seventeen for her confidante. But, as Cousin Yvonne and Sydney knew, I was very much interested in what I termed the Claudian Romance. CHAPTER XI ' FUNERALS AND ANGELS ' Come to me, O ye children ! And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are sayint^ In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contiivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks. Longfellow. My first morning at Bayfield was always spent in revisiting all my favourite haunts and looking up old friends. Cousin Yvonne had generally been my companion, but on this occasion Sydney accompanied me, as Cousin Yvonne thought it better to reserve herself for the evening. She was down to breakfast as usual, but her appearance pleased me even less than it had the previous night. She was certainly thinner and paler, and there was a heaviness about her eyes as though she had not slept. When I questioned her she answered rather reluctantly that she had not rested as well as usual, but she refused to be drawn into any discussion about her health. ' Of course I look old and faded beside your fresh young face,' she observed no CHAP. XI 'FUNERALS AND ANGELS' in with a faint smile ; ' comparisons arc odious, Githa,' — and then she changed the subject by asking Sydney to do a Httle commission for her in the village. I felt worried about Cousin Yvonne. She was evidently far from well, and very much out of spirits ; but it was no use asking her questions, it only vexed her. She was extremely reserved about herself, and was not always disposed for sympathy; and yet no one could be kinder or more considerate of other people's ailments. I think she found it easier to sympathise with others than to accept pity or kindly offices for herself It is rather difficult to understand these strong, self- contained characters, but from a child I had always felt instinctively there were hidden depths in Cousin Yvonne's nature that no youthful plummet could sound, and this made me somewhat shy with her. I was disposed to argue the matter a little longer with Sydney, but she very wisely advised me to put all worrying thoughts out of my head and enjoy myself ; and just because the spring sunshine was so beautiful and the sap of youth ran so strongly through my veins, I found it wonderfully easy to follow this sensible advice, and we spent a delightful morning. I was very kindly welcomed by my old friends, and received plenty of compliments, all expressed character- istically, from old Mrs. Tippet's * You do be growed, surely. Miss, into quite a grand young lady,' to my prime favourite, Daniel Thoroughgood, who lifted his withered old hands with the exclamation, ' Bless my soul, Missie, if you aren't a sight for sore een ; she will make some hearts ache, for sure — won't she, old woman ? ' with a nod to his better half, who was busy at her washing-tub. lUit I only laughed as I 112 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. showed Daniel the pipe I had brought for him from London. I always visited the church and the churchyard last. It was a lovely place, especially in early summer, when the roses that bordered the path leading from the vicarage garden were in full bloom. As I sat in the church I used to fancy the air that stole through the open windows brought their perfume. To me it was the ideal of a country churchyard, it was so quiet and secluded, and the graves were so well kept, and every- where there were roses or clumps of Madonna lilies. Cousin Yvonne loved it too, for I heard her say more than once that she would rather be buried in Bayfield churchyard than in any other place. ' I should like to feel that all my old friends and neighbours would give me a kindly thought as they passed — and then so often there are little children playing there — and the birds and the bees and the butterflies love it.' I remembered Cousin Yvonne's speech as we unlatched the gate lead- ing from the village, for the first sight that met my eyes were two small children sticking half- withered flowers in a newly made grave — a mere mound of brown earth. ' Why, these are the twins,' exclaimed Sydney in an amused voice ; ' we must go and see what they are doing. They are very fond of playing in the church- yard, but they are not generally alone.' And then we made our way to them, but the little creatures were too busily absorbed to notice us ; the little girl was evidently remonstrating with her brother. 'Silly boy,' she was saying, 'you ar'n't planting, you are frowing the poor flowers in by their heads. They won't grow neither.' ' Won't grow neither,' repeated the boy anxiously ; XI 'FUNERALS AND ANGELS' 113 and then he looked up, and smiled as he saw Sydney. He was a pretty little fellow in a white sailor suit, and he looked younger than his sister. I remembered that S\'dney had declared that little Stella reminded her of m}' childish portrait, but, except in a certain similarit)- of colouring, I could see no resemblance in the laughing face and roguish eyes before me. From the way Stella looked up at me from under her dark lashes, I guessed she was already a baby coquette, but she was a dimpled, bewitching little creature. The children welcomed Sydne}- with evident pleasure, and she hugged them impartiall}'. ' Why are }OU alone, darlings ? ' she asked, when I had made friends with them. Then Stella, who evidently took the lead, was very ready with her answer. ' Peace was busy, so Boy brought us, 'cos we wanted to play funerals and angels.' 'Wanted to pla)- funerals,' echoed Cyril, who seemed rather parrot-like in his observations. ' And whose grave are you decorating, my sweet } ' asked Sydney, trying to preserve her gravity, as she looked at the uncomfortable festoon of dilapidated blossoms, many of them waving unsightly stalks in the upper air. ' Poor old man, what Boy changed into an angel yesterday,' was the puzzling answer. ' Boy read over the black box, and old man went up and up and up, where no one but God could find him.' 'Old man went up and uj),' nuuinurcci (')ril placidly ; and then he added of his own accord, ' Paul made him into an angel.' I was utterly mystified ; and when she saw my I 114 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. face, Sydney turned suddenly helpless with suppressed laughter, and was obliged to sit down on an adjoining tombstone. She told me afterwards that the children were evidently alluding to a poor old tramp who had been taken ill at a cottage near, and had made rather an edifying end. The vicar had expressed his opinion that the poor wanderer had seen better days, and he had warmly commended the good Samaritans who had received him under their roof Sydney, who had attended that humble funeral, had been much impressed by the good feeling of the villagers. ' The children were there with their nurse,' she continued, * and they behaved quite nicely. But do you know, Githa, I believe those babies have got all sorts of queer ideas jumbled up in their little heads about their father and the funeral service. Stella seems to think that he has something to do wnth changing people into angels. Aunt Yvonne and I saw that old tramp the very day he entered the village — such a miserable, broken-down old creature he looked ; and when Stella said just nou^ " Old man went up and up and up," it seemed just like a sort of glorified Jack-in- a-box '; and then we both went off into a fit of laughing, for really it was too comical. There is no knowing what curious ideas children get in their heads, and these little innocents evidently regarded their father as a miracle worker, and the funeral service as a sort of occult force for the transformation of dead men into angels. Perhaps our laughter was demoralising, for Stella suddenly became pettish, and snatched the limp flowers out of Cyril's hot, dirty little hand. ' Tired of silly game,' she pouted ; ' frow flowers XI 'FUNERALS AND ANGELS' 115 away.' And then looking up in m)' face, she asked coaxingl}-, ' Is you quite growed up, dear, like Herberts ? ' This was rather a shock after all the compliments 1 had received that morning ; but I assured her modestly that I considered myself quite a grown-up young lady. My answer seemed to disappoint her. * I thought you was only a big girl what played games and learned lessons,' she returned so dejectedly that I reassured her on the latter point. 'Oh, I still learn lessons, Stella,' for Miss Redford and I always read French or German for an hour every morning, and I still had my music and drawing masters, and attended the conversation classes ; Cousin Yvonne had begged me to continue my studies. ' People talk of a girl's education being finished at seventeen or eighteen,' she observed, ' as though a woman's education is ever ended. Some only learn their hardest lesson at the close of life.' And I certainly think she was right. Stella looked a little happier after this admission. She sidled up to me in a confidential way. ' It is nice to be a big girl and play games. Boy is ever so much bigger than you and he 'vents lovely games.' ' Paul 'vents lovely games,' echoed Cyril with a seraphic smile. Then he jumped up with a cry of joy, 'There's Paul I ' as the little gate leading from the Vicarage was quietly unlatched, and Mr. Carlson came striding uj) the path between the rose-bushes, now covered with crinkly green leaves. There was some- thing certainly martial in the man's bearing, and how silvery his closely-cropped grey head looked in the sunshine. It matched oddly with the thin brown face and vivid dark eyes. It was touching to see how the ii6 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. two small children rushed at him, Stella clinging to his arm, and Cyril clasping his knee. ' Wait a moment, children, until I have paid my respects to these ladies ' ; and then he shook hands with us, though his movements were sadly impeded. The next moment with one hand he lifted Cyril to his shoulder and gave the other to Stella. ' Peace will be here directly,' he observed. Then Stella frowned and shook her curls in rather a mutinous fashion. ' Don't want Peace. Stay with Boy and 'vent new games.' ' Paul 'vent new games, imitated Cyril, holding tightly round his father's neck. Mr. Carlyon smiled. ' I am afraid I spoil them, Miss Darnell ; your cousin often lectures me. I have rather peculiar theories on the subject of infantine education. I like to give plenty of scope to children. Here comes one of your best friends,' as a tall, respectable-looking woman, with a singularly placid and prepossessing face, came quietly towards them. But Stella only tugged at her father's hand. ' Ain't got no bestest friends, Boy,' she observed crossly. ' Have you not, my star ; that's bad hearing.' Then he set Cyril on his feet. ' Now then, once, twice, three times, and away ' ; and, as he clapped his hands, the children flew down the path and into Peace's out- stretched arms. ' I wonned the race,' exclaimed Stella triumphantly, as Peace tucked her under one vigorous arm and the boy under the other, while a submerged voice gasped out, ' I wonned it too, Paul.' ' That always fetches them,' exclaimed Mr. Carlyon, as we walked towards the church. ' What do }'ou XI 'FUNERALS AND ANGELS' 117 think of their nurse, Miss Darnell? To me she has one of the most restful faces I have ever seen ; it certainly endorses her name.' ' Is I'eace her Christian or surname?' I asked. ' Her Christian name — Peace Stephenson. She is a survival of an old Puritan family — Primitive Methodist I believe her father called himself; and all his five daughters had quaint names, savouring of Bunyan and the Pilgrivis Progress. I know there is a Prudence and Patience, as well as Charity, and I believe there is a Discretion too, though they abbreviated it for common use. Peace is the youngest, and I have thanked God for her from the day she entered my house.' I thought it nice of Mr. Carlyon to say that and not to be ashamed of owning his blessings ; people so often slur them over and gobble up their good things like greedy children who forget their grace ; and indeed I had been much impressed by the pleasant comeliness of Peace as she stood so patiently in the sunshine wait- ing for her wayward charges, and the manner in which she opened her arms and took the little panting creatures to her iieart made me feel that it was no hireling's love that was lavished on them. We went into the little church, for S)'dney wanted me to see the new alms- bags that she and Cousin Yvonne had worked for Easter ; and as we stood there in the vestry we had quite a nice little talk about some of the old people in whom I was interested, and I soon discovered that Mr. Carlyon was interested too. He said he liked the people very much, they had received him so kindlv. ' They seemed to know I had had trouble,' he continued simpl\', ' and indeed their homely sympathy was very healing ' ; and then a sad look came into his eyes, as though he was thinking of iiS THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. the poor young wife and mother who lay in her quiet grave so many miles away. Sydney had left us a few minutes previously, and we found her in the porch talking to Thurston Wilde. He had left his dog in the road outside, and had followed us ; he looked handsomer than ever, although he had rather a worried expression. I think he was airing some grievance to Sydney, for as we all walked down the churchyard he dropped purposely behind and kept beside her. ' Gran is bent on having them, but it will spoil the evening,' I heard him say ; but Sydney said something soothing in reply. As Mr. Carlyon was unlatching the gate into the Vicarage garden, for he wished us to go out that way, we saw the children kissing their hands to us from an upper window. ' Miss Darnell,' he said suddenly, ' I am afraid my little people shocked you just now ; but ever since she could speak Stella has called me Boy, and latterly Cyril persists in addressing me as Paul. I think he finds father rather difficult to enunciate, but they are such babies, and somehow I like it.' I only smiled in answer to this. Mr. Carlyon was a stranger, and it would be hardly becoming in me to argue on such a personal matter. I was rather amused at his earnestness and desire to know my opinion, but I preferred to remain silent. ' You do not agree with me,' he persisted, and I was rather confused by his keen look. I saw then that he was determined to have my answer. * I think the name of father is so beautiful,' I faltered ; for all my life I had never called father by any other name, though my childlike tongue could hardly lisp it. XI 'FUNERALS AND ANGELS' 119 ' I see what you mean,' he returned gravely, and I really believe he read m}- thoughts at that moment. ' You are afraid that my little ones will have less reverence than love ; but I believe and hope that this will not be the case ; when my boy is older I shall teach him to say father, and Stella will soon follow his example. They are the most original pair you ever saw,' with quite a boyish laugh. ' If you could only hear one of our Sunday talks ! ' I was about to tell 'Sir. Carlyon about the tramp's grave, but Sydney ran after us. She was alone, and looked a little flushed as though she had hurried. ' You must really make haste, Githa,' she observed, 'or we shall be late for luncheon.' And then we bade Mr. Carlyon good-bye. The children were still waving to us, and Stella had a black kitten cuddled up to her fat little neck. We talked about them most of the way to Prior's Cot, and I told Sydney how embarrassed I had been when the vicar had asked my opinion. ' I fancy people have been speaking to him about it,' returned Sydney, 'and that has made him a little sensitive. I am quite sure Lady VVilclc has ; she is always ready to give her opinion on every subject, and she never beats about the bush.' ' No, she can make herself extremely disagreeable sometimes. But I do hope, Sydney, that Mr. Carlyon did not mind what I said.' 'My dear child, how could he! After all, you are right, and there is nothing sweeter than the dear old names of father and mother.' ' But he .seemed as though he read my thoughts, Sydney.' 'Well, dear, \ ou have a very tell-tale face. I can I20 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, xi often guess what you are thinking about before you have said a word. Mr. Carlyon was afraid you were just a httle shocked, so he was anxious to explain matters. Bless their little hearts, they are only babies, and I think they are just adorable with him.' And then as we walked up the lane the church clock chimed the half- hour, and wc both involuntarily quickened our steps. CHAPTER XII ST. HELEN'S TOWERS Hasten [to examine] thy own ruling faculty and that of the universe and that of thy neighbour ; thy own, that thou mayst make it just ; and that of the universe, that thou mayst remember of what thou art a part ; and that of thy neighbour, that thou mayst know whether he has acted ignorantly or with knowledge, and that thou mayst also consider that his ruling faculty is akin to thine. — M. Aurei.ius Antoninus. We were half-way through luncheon when I suddenly remembered that I had not asked Sydney why Thurston had looked so worried. She seemed sur- prised at my question, and coloured a little as though she were unwilling to answer it. ' It was about the Etheridges,' she returned slowly ; ' they are back at the Mount, and Lady Wilde has invited Colonel Etheridgc and Rhona to dinner to-night — Mrs. Ethcridge never goes out in the evening.' I was quite aware of this. Mrs. Ethcridge was a chronic invalid ; but of late years the family had spent the winter abroad and were very little at Ba)'fickl. Thc\- were extremely wealthy people, and Rhona, being an only child, would be quite an heiress. Lady W^ilde had always been on intimate terms with the Etheridges, and she took a great deal of notice of Rhona. She was a nice, ladylike girl, and .Sydnc)' and I both liked 132 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. her, but Thurston always seemed indifferent to her society. She was certainly not at all pretty, she was rather colourless and insignificant in appearance, though by no means plain, but Thurston, who had his own ideas on the subject of genuine beauty, always said that she was insipid. * It is silly of Thurston to make such a fuss about a trifle,' went on Sydney, ' but he will have it the evening will be spoiled ; he was quite out of humour about it, foolish fellow ! ' I guessed the reason of Thurston's vexation when I heard this. Lady Wilde would insist on Rhona sitting beside her grandson, and she was too quiet to be an amusing companion ; probably he had hoped for Sydney's society during the long elaborate dinner. He and Sydney were great friends. I was still very much interested in my old playmate, but I had long ago got rid of my childish jealousy, and had resigned myself to the knowledge that Sydney was the prime favourite. Thurston was always very nice to me, and I secretly admired him, for he was an exceedingly good-looking fellow ; but my feelings for him were purely platonic and sisterly. I liked to be with him, even though I saw how ready he was to turn from me to Sydney. I knew that he told her all his troubles and grievances, and that her sympathy never failed him. Circumstances were always throwing them together, and a day rarely passed that they did not meet either at Prior's Cot or St. Helen's. Lady Wilde thought us all children, and I do not think it entered her head that any troublesome complications could arise from the situation. She was not a clever woman, but there were times when her denseness XII ST. HELENS TOWERS 123 surprised me. She was extremely injudicious and short- sighted with regard to her grandson. Thurston had not been to any public school or to the University ; he had been placed with a tutor, where he had only had the companionship of half-a-dozen boys of his own age ; and though he was fairly well educated as far as classical studies went, he was entirely deficient in the wider knowledge of human nature and the world, and, as Cousin Yvonne once expressed it, ' very badly equipped for the battle of life.' Thurston was just one-and-twenty. His education had been completed by a few months spent on the Continent under the care of an elderly tutor, who did his best to improve his pupil's mind, but who certainly failed to interest him ; and Thurston returned home satiated with mountains and lakes and churches and picture-galleries, and utterly bored and blase. ' What was the good of mountains if one was not allowed to climb them,' he said once to me. ' I give you my word, Githa, I felt like a tame bear being lugged about by my keeper, only I did not even dance as poor Bruin does in the market-place. I daresay,' he continued gloomily, ' that Sydney is right and that old Cathcart was not such a bad sort of fellow after all ; but you see a cub needs the com- panionship of other cubs to make things lively,' and Thurston gave vent to a bitter little laugh. Sydney had to practise her singing after luncheon, .so Cousin Yvonne and I made our.selves cosy in the drawing-room. She lay back in her easy-chair, idle for once, and bade me a little abruptly talk to her. ' I am in a lazy mood this afternoon,' she observed, ' so you may talk of what you will — cabbages or kings — there is a wide range of subjects between the two.' 124 THE ANGEL OF P^ORGIVENESS chap. I laughed at this ; but my head was just then full of Thurston's grievance about the Etheridges, so I com- menced with him. ' Cousin Yvonne,' I remarked, ' I do so wonder what Thurston will do with himself now his education is finished ; there is so little going on at Bayfield.' ' It is odd that you should say that,' she returned, smiling, for Sydney and I were talking on that very subject the other night. ' It does seem such a grievous pity that Lady Wilde will not allow him to go to Oxford.' ' But what is her reason ? ' I asked brusquely, for my private opinion of Lady Wilde was not specially flatter- ing, and, moreover, I had spoken of her to Sydney as an opinionative, crotchety old woman. Then Cousin Yvonne looked rather grave. ' Her reason is rather a sad one, Githa, and although I do not in the least approve of the way she has brought up Thurston, I can understand her point of view. ' Lady Wilde has had a great deal of trouble in her life. I believe her married life was not happy. Sir Joseph — he was only knighted for gallantry — certainly married her for her money, and though he tried to hide this from her she soon found it out for herself. It was a very ill-assorted union, and he grew more indifferent and more neglectful of her comfort every year, and so the breach widened.' I had no idea of this, but I remained silent, and Cousin Yvonne went on. ' They had only one son, Thurston's father. His name was Manley, and he was quite as good-looking as his son, though not so dark ; but Thurston takes after his mother. Lady Wilde was bound up in her son ; she literally worshipped the XII ST. HELENS TOWERS 125 ground lie walked on ; nothing was too good for him ; he must have an education fit for a prince. He was sent to Eton, and then to Christ Church, where he got into a bad set. I know Sir Joseph paid his debts more than once ; and then something happened, I do not know what, and he had to leave Oxford in disgrace. I heard all this from my old friend Mr. Ucnnison, for Lady Wilde has never mentioned either her husband or son to me.' ' She has had trouble,' I returned rather grudgingly. * But I have not finished my story yet, Githa. When his university career came to an end, Manley was sent round the world with a tutor. Sir Joseph thought a year's absence would be wise under the circumstances, and that he would come home and start afresh. ' Lady Wilde was very loath to part with him, and Sir Joseph had hard work to persuade her to give her consent. She told Mr. Dennison that she had a presenti- ment that some evil would come to him. ]^ut she had great confidence in the tutor that had been selected, and I believe that neither she nor Sir Joseph ever blamed him for what happened. ' It was in America that they fell in with a young Spanish lady who was travelling with her brother. The tutor, Mr. Trcssiter, found out that they belonged to a dramatic company. The brother was in bad health, and the sister, who was apparently devoted to the invalid, was extremely handsome. liut her manner was so coquettish and so free and ca.sy that Mr. Tressiter grew alarmed for his pu[jil, who he saw was strongly attracted by the \'Oung actress's beauty. ' Me determined to leave the hotel at once, but the young man flatly refused to accompany him. There was more than one uncomfortable scene before he 126 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. could induce his contumacious pupil to finish his pack- ing, but he yielded at last, and their departure was arranged for the next morning. ' You may imagine Mr. Tressiter's feelings when Manley failed to put in an appearance the next morning. Seiiorita Bianca and her brother had left the previous afternoon, and it was far too probable that the misguided boy had followed them ; but so cleverly had he laid his plans that it was weeks before his tutor could find him, and then it was too late. Bianca had married him. ' Mr. Dennison always declared that the trouble and worry killed Sir Joseph. It was a terrible affair, Githa. Bianca was an impossible woman, and, though Manley brought her to England, Lady Wilde refused to see her, and it was only after her death that Manley was allowed to return home with his child. ' He was in bad health then, a perfect wreck, and he did not live long. On his deathbed he besought his mother to be good to the boy. " The little chap will make up to you for all the trouble I have given you, mother," he said, and these were his last words.' ' Oh dear,' I sighed, as Cousin Yvonne paused. ' After all, I shall have to be sorry for the poor old thing.' ' Yes, indeed, we must all feel for her. I fully believe that all Lady Wilde's mistakes are due to over-anxiety on Thurston's account. The poor lad is paying dearly for his father's errors. She is almost afraid to trust him out of her sight. She would not hear of Eton or Harrow, and no one but Thurston himself dared to propose Oxford once, and then she refused to listen to him.' ' But, Cousin Yvonne, what will he do with his life ? XII ST. HELEN'S TOWERS 1-7 Thurston told Sydney once that he wanted to go into the army or enter some profession, but that his grand- mother would not hear of it. She only tells him that after her death he will be very rich, and that he will find plenty to do in managing his property. But, as Thurston says, she is so hale and hearty that she may live until she is ninety.' ' Yes, it is e.xtremely short-sighted of her,' returned Cousin Yvonne. ' I should have thought Lady Wilde would have remembered her motto, " Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do." ' ' Thurston is not exactly idle,' I observed, for I felt bound to defend my playmate ; ' he boats and rides and shoots, and manages to enjoy life.' ' A young man will always do that,' returned Cousin Yvonne, rather gravely ; ' and I do not deny that Lady Wilde provides for him very generously, and that as far as creature comforts are concerned he has every- thing he wants. But how long do you suppose that a fine young fellow like Thurston will be content to pass his existence at his grannie's apron-strings ? By-and- by there will be friction or open mutiny, and it will be the survival of the fittest.' But I had no oppor- tunity to answer, for Sydney came into the room, and Cousin Yvonne rather abruptly changed the subject. I thought I had never seen Sydney look so sweet as she did that evening ; it seemed to me that father's favourite word ' bonnie ' just suited her. Without being exactly handsome, she was exceedingly at- tractive ; her fresh, healthy complexion, the clear brightness of her eyes, and the engaging frankness of her expression always charmed people. I was rather sorry that Cousin Yvonne wore her favourite grey satin that evening ; it ditl not suit her 128 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. wan looks, and made her look dim and shadowy. She was always so beautifully dressed, but to-night she needed some relief. I remarked on this to Sydney afterwards, for no one ever ventured to criticise Cousin Yvonne's dress in her presence. ' If she had only worn black,' I said discontentedly; 'but that cold, shimmering grey dress makes her look like a French marquise in the conciergeric waiting to hear her name read out from the death-roll.' But Sydney did not laugh ; indeed, she seemed a little shocked at the ghastly comparison. ' I was sorry too,' she said simply ; ' but somehow, Githa, she cannot help looking beautiful in any gown. I am afraid she felt ill to-night, for she was so very quiet.' St. Helen's Tower was a big white castellated house, and in my opinion it was rather too large and straggling for comfort. The person who built it evidently cared for spacious apartments. Some of the rooms were immense, and in winter it was difficult to warm the dining-room and library sufficiently for comfort ; and later Lady Wilde had used the breakfast -room for meals. There were two large drawing-rooms with folding doors, which were always thrown open when Lady Wilde had company. They were magnificently pro- portioned rooms, but the arrangement of the furniture never pleased me. Lady Wilde was early Victorian in her taste, and being very conservative she had not thought fit to adapt herself to modern ideas. She delighted in heavy mahogany, and crimson flock-papers which absorbed light, and big mirrors with massive gilt frames ; silver tables and bric-a-brac she classified as rubbish. XII ST. HELEN'S TOWERS 129 When \vc entered the drawing-room at St. Helen'.s, we found Lady Wilde as usual seated in her throne- like chair beside the fire, talking to Colonel Etheridge. She was a big, heavy-looking woman, and had never been good-looking in her life, and no amount of pains on her excellent maid's part could make her look as though her clothes belonged to her. She was always handsomely dressed in either silk, satin, or velvet, and she was fond of jewellery— the massive sort which modern taste discards. She was a very plain woman, and her heavy jaws gave her a stern appearance ; but when she spoke or smiled her expression was less forbidding, though her voice was naturally harsh. She welcomed me very kindly, and then introduced Colonel Etheridge ; but he told her that we had met before, though he owned that he had some difficulty in recognising me. He was a tall, grave-looking man with a bushy grey moustache, but he could make himself very pleasant. I left him to talk to Cousin Yvonne, and crossed the room to join Rhona and Sydney, who were seated side by side on the big Chesterfield couch. They made room for me between them, and Thurston came up and chatted to us. I thought Rhona looked rather nice that evening ; she was very becomingly dressed, *and she seemed less colourless tlian usual. She had rather pretty eyes, though they were small ; her fair hair was very thick and abundant, and it was arranged with more care than usual. Thurston told us that his grannie was fidgeting because the vicar was late, but he came in the next moment and apologised for the unavoidable delay. Me had been called to baptize a dying infant, he said K I30 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, xii rather gravely, as he gave his arm to me. I was rather surprised that I should take precedence of Rhona, who, being an heiress, was rather a person to be considered, but it was evident that Lady Wilde had her own ideas. Thurston had taken in Cousin Yvonne, and Rhona was on his other hand, with Sydney beyond her. Lady Wilde never talked much at dinner, and Sydney would be expected to cater for Colonel Etheridge's entertain- ment. He was a little ponderous, and given to lay down the law in rather a sledge-hammer fashion, and Sydney flashed a naughty little look at me — as she unfolded her napkin — as though she would willingly have changed places. CHAPTER XIII STELLA GIVES ME A NEW NAME Shall one like me Judge hearts like yours ? Trench. Things done well And with a care, exempt themselves from fear. Shakespeare. Shutting out Fear, with all the strength of Hope. Browning. I NEVER enjoyed an evening at St. Helen's Towers as I did that night. During dinner I had a great deal of interesting conversation with Mr. Carlyon. We discussed not only the latest work of fiction, but a variety of other topics. I told him about the conversation classes, which seemed to impress hirn a good deal, and I also mentioned that Miss Redford and I were attending some rather advanced lectures on German literature. He seemed to have studied the subject thoroughly, and when I made a remark to this effect, he told me that he had spent eight months at Heidelberg after he had left Oxford. He was evidently a well-read, thouf^htful man, but I found no difficuU)' in talking to him ; (lail\- iiitcr- 131 132 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. course with a clever, cultivated woman like Miss Redford had been an untold advantage to me, and for the last year or two father had conversed with me on all the subjects that interested him. He called it ' forming my mind,' but I think that he liked to feel that I was in touch with him in everything. I do not remember how it was that I found myself discoursing on the merits and beauties of my mare Bab, it was probably because he had admired my little Yorkshire terrier Roy ; he told me that he was devoted to dogs and horses, and that in his palmy days he had been very fond of riding and driving. * But a poor vicar must cut his coat to suit his cloth,' he went on with a whimsical smile, ' so I content myself with boating.' But I took this remark with a grain of salt, for Cousin Yvonne had told me that Mr. Carlyon had private means and was not dependent on his living. * Of course his wife brought him nothing,' she had added. I could not help noticing how quiet Cousin Yvonne was ; she was generally the leader of the conversation, but to-night she contented herself with an occasional remark to Thurston and Rhona. • Thurston was unusually sedate ; he was evidently trying his best to discharge his social duties ; but I could not help noticing that while he talked to Rhona his eyes often wandered to Sydney's bright face, and that every now and then he seemed as though he were listening to her animated voice. Rhona was too quiet and diffident to interest him. She was one of those shy people who only appear to advantage in their own homes. Amiable and lovable as I knew her to be, I could quite understand Thurston's indifference. His nature was somewhat melancholic, and he needed to be XIII STELLA GIVES ME A NEW NAME ' jj roused and amused ; and, with all her gentleness, Rhona was rather prim and uninteresting. It was towards the end of dinner that Mr, Carlyon began speaking of his children. ' Oh, by-the-bye,' he observed somewhat abruptly, ' I have never given you Stella's message. She wants you and Miss Herbert to come to nursery tea to-morrow afternoon ' ; but, before I could reply, Sydney, who had heard her name mentioned, leaned forward rather eagerly. 'Oh, Githa,' she said in her bright way, 'you must not think of refusing Stella's invitation ; you have no idea how delightful those nursery teas are ! ' ' But are you sure that Stella really wished me to come ? ' I returned in a hesitating voice, for I was not at all certain what Cousin Yvonne would think of such an unconventional proceeding. ' Should I give you Stella's words verbatim. Miss Darnell,' he said with a pleasant smile. '"I want Her- berts and ' the big girl what learns lessons ' to come to tea to-morrow with me and Cyril and Peace — will you ask them. Boy?" I hope you will not refuse my little girl's invitation,' he continued. ' Unfortunatcl}' I have an engagement in town, so I am not likely to be on the premises.' I wonder if Mr. Carlyon said this with a purpose ; but, as I knew we had no engagement for the next day, and Sydney seemed willing, I accepted Stella's invitation without a scruple. I found out afterwards that Sydne\- had been there to tea two or three times, and that nursery teas at the Vicarage were quite an institution, even Rhona had been once invited. ' Of course, one never sees Mr. Carlyon,' observed Sydney; 'even if he is in the house he would never think of intruding. I love Stella's tea-parties ; Peace 134 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. always makes one so comfortable, and the twins are such darlings.' After dinner Sydney and I sang. There were one or two duets that we had practised together, though there had been no opportunity of trying them over, but they seemed to go very well. I loved to sing with Sydney, she had such a delightful voice, so strong and sweet, and it seemed to carry mine with it. Singing was a perfect joy to Sydney, It seemed as natural for her to sing as it was for a thrush to flute its delicious melody in the early summer. I knew Rhona was taking violin lessons, but she could not be persuaded to play, though I believe she could have acquitted herself very creditably, but the mere idea threw her into a perfect agony of shyness, ' Oh, don't ask me ! please do not let father tease me ! ' I heard her say to Thurston in such an imploring way ; and when we had finished our duet, and I had sat down beside her, she sighed in quite a pathetic manner. ' Oh, how beautifully you both sing ! ' she exclaimed almost plaintively. ' Oh, there is no comparison between us,' I returned. ' Sydney sings far better than I,' which was certainly the truth, and I never cared to sing a solo after her. ' All the same, you have a pretty voice, Githa,' she sighed, ' and it was delightful to listen to you both. My violin - playing will never give such pleasure ; besides, I am too nervous to play in public' That was the worst of Rhona, she never would make the best of herself. She had had every advantage that money could give ; she had had the best masters ; and had had lessons in Dresden and Florence, and I should be afraid to state the price of her violin ; and XIII STELLA GIVES ME A NEW NAME 'J3 she really played with a great deal of delicacy and feeling ; and I could well understand Colonel Etheridge's disappointment when she refused to take her part in the evening's entertahxment. ' It is no use,' I heard him say to Lady Wilde. ' The child inherits her nervousness from her mother ' ; but Lady Wilde's lip curled a little sarcastically. Nerves were evidently not early Victorian, and she called them by another name. ' The young ladies of the present day are extremely fanciful,' she observed in a voice audible to us both ; and poor Rhona grew very pink and seemed quite distressed. ' Lady Wilde is vexed because I do not play,' she whispered, ' and father will lecture me when we get home, and then mother will be worried ' ; for although Rhona was an only child and her parents were devoted to her, her life was not always easy. Colonel Etheridge was rather a martinet ; he was fussy and opinionative, and could put his foot down very heavily when anything displeased him ; and Mrs. Etheridge's ill-health made her at times rather depress- ing, although she was a sweet woman in her way. It was not the most healthy atmosphere for a girl of Rhona's temperament, though both Sydney and I knew how much she strove to be a comfort to her parents and to satisfy them. Rhona would have a bad quarter of an hour ; the lecture would simply crush her and do no good. If I had had her quietly to myself I should have found plenty to say to her, but I only rehearsed ni\- little speech for my own benefit in ni)' bedroom. 'It is not shyness so much as self- consciousness, Rhona,' that is what I longed to say. ' You are 136 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. always thinking about yourself and your failures ; you never think about anything else. You ought to have considered your father and tried to play, even though your hands were as cold as ice and your heart was thumping. What would it matter if you had broken down. You would have made the attempt, and we should all have been pleased with you.' But there was no opportunity to deliver my bracing little speech, for Colonel Etheridge carried her off; and then Cousin Yvonne said it was getting late, and that broke up the party. Mr. Carlyon and Thurston put us into the carriage, and as we were about to drive off he said to me, ' Am I to tell my little Star that you and Miss Herbert will come to-morrow ? ' ' Oh yes, certainly, we shall be delighted ' ; and then he smiled and said good-night. ' His little Star,' how quaint and pretty it sounded ! Cousin Yvonne responded to this thought, for she said with a little sigh, ' It is better to walk in the starlight if one cannot have the sunshine ' ; and then she added, ' Mr. Carlyon would be very lonely but for those children.' Sydney and I spent most of the next morning practising over duets together, and Cousin Yvonne sat at her needlework and listened to us ; but more than once I saw her lay down her embroidery and gaze out of the window with a strange, abstracted look, as though she were recalling past troubles. In the afternoon we went over to the Vicarage, and to the twins' intense delight we took Roy with us. The nursery was a pleasant room. Peace, who was arranging the tea-table, received us very kindly. The children welcomed us in a most demonstrative fashion, XIII STELLA GIVES ME A NEW NAME 137 and before many minutes were over we were all in a heap on the floor together, with Roy in the middle. During tea-time the twins' behaviour was most exemplary, Peace evidently kept them in excellent order. Cyril sat beaming on us as he ate his bread- and-butter, and Stella counted the buns somewhat anxiously- -' One each, and two for the big girl,' I heard her say ; and once she whispered to me to take a little more ' dooseberry jam, as Peace would not mind ' ; but Peace, with much tact, refrained from noticing these small infractions on the nursery rules. The moment tea was over I was pushed into the big rocking-chair, and both children clambered up into my lap, with Roy on the top of them. To my dismay Stella began on the subject of ' dog-angels.* ' Where do the dog-angels go ? ' she observed, as she stroked Roy's silky coat. ' Dog-angels ! what on earth do you mean, darling ? ' asked Sydney in a puzzled voice ; but Stella turned pettishl)- from her dear ' Herberts.' 'The big girl knows,' she said loftily, — 'the good little doggies wot die and are put in the ground. There must be such lots and lots of dog-angels,' she continued reflectively, as her dimpled hand rested lovingly on Roy's head. ' .Suppose there is no room for them.' ' No room for the dog-angels,' echoed Cyril sadly. Peace smiled as she carried off the tea-tray. She was evidently used to Stella's queer fancies, but I was sorely puzzled. How was I to explain to this infantine philosopher that we liad no warrant for the briiif in the immortality of animals. It was useless to (piote the text which was so conclusive to mj' own mind, ' Without were dogs,' which had destroj'ed for ever my cherished hope of a reunion in a future life w ilh Sultan 138 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. and Bab and Roy. How amused father had been with my theories on this subject. ' Well,' observed Stella, as I remained silent, ' I suppose only the grown-ups know ' ; which was a hit at me, and put me on my mettle at once. ' Grown-ups do not know everything, Stella dear,' I said mildly ; ' and no one can tell where the good little doggies go when they die ; that is why we must be so kind to them now and make them happy, because they have such a short life.' Stella seemed struck with this remark ; but Cyril had a new idea, for he suddenly took my chin in his hand to gain my attention. ' Ain't you got no name,' he asked in his soft drawl, ' no name like Herberts ? ' ' Of course I have,' I returned, smiling ; 'my name is Githa Darnell. Don't you think it is very pretty ? ' But Cyril shook his head. Stella interpreted for him as usual. ' Cyril does not like queer names, and — and yours is so very queer. I think Cyril and me had better call you Girlie, it is much nicer ' ; and for many and many a long day I was 'Girlie' to these heavenly- minded twins. Before we left we had a good game of hide-and-seek, and then the children took me into their bedroom to see mother. ' They always do that, dear little souls,' observed Peace, who was mending by the window, ' and they never go to bed without a kiss and good- night to the picture.' A curious feeling came over me as I stood before the little table where Lady Doreen's picture was placed. It was a large photograph, handsomely framed, and a XIII STELLA GIVES ME A NEW NAME 139 small vase of flowers stood in front of it. Was it because of my own motherless condition that the tears suddenly rose to my eyes and I involuntarily pressed the little creatures closer to me ? and as I did so I could almost have fancied there was a smile on the pictured face. She must have been quite young, this poor Lady Doreen. There was something very sweet and attractive in the face, and, in spite of her motherhood, a girlish look which was very pathetic under the circumstances. ' Lady Doreen must have been much younger than her husband,' I remarked to Cousin Yvonne as I narrated this little episode. ' There is no doubt of that,' she returned, with a keen look at my flushed face. I was very emotional, and she saw at once that I had been strongly moved. ' She was only seven-and-twcnty when she died. I believe she was very amiable and charming, but not at all clever. One cannot help wondering,' she continued musingly, ' whether Mr. Carlyon would not have found this out for himself if she had lived. I believe they had no tastes in common, that she never opened a book if she could help it, and that she could not talk of anything but her children and domestic matters ; but, as Lady Wilde said, they always seemed very happy. I believe it was grief at her loss that made him throw up a much better living. He told his bishop he must have a change.' I was very pleased and amused w ith my new name, though I was .secretly a little vexed that I could not make Stella believe that I was really grown U[). She was a very determined little person, and stuck to her opinions with the tenacity of a limpet. She certainly allows that I am fully grown up now, and she lias I40 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, xiii i coined a new name for me, which I will not at present divulge. I thought a good deal about Lady Doreen that night ; there was something so sad and tragical in the idea thai she had been taken away in the fulness of her happiness. The gentle face and beaming eyes haunted me. Was it any wonder that Mr. Carlyon had grown old and grey ? And yet one could not look at him without seeing that he had fought bravely and refused to be crushed by his sorrow. Perhaps his nature was buoyant, for there were times when he seemed to throw off his sadness. When he forgot himself utterly, one felt instinctively that he was a man to whom one could tell a great trouble. I remember I said something like this to Cousin Yvonne, and she looked at me a little strangely. ' You may be right, Githa,' she said, after a moment's silence. ' I am quite sure that Mr. Carlyon is a person one could absolutely trust in an emergency. He would be kind — he is always kind ; but he is inflexible too. With him right is right, and wrong wrong. He would not tolerate half measures, or turn aside if the narrow way be ever so stony ' ; and then Cousin Yvonne sighed again a little heavily. Perhaps Cousin Yvonne was right. She was a shrewd student of human nature, and she generally took her neighbour's measure correctly. Mr. Carlyon might be inflexible, but I had a secret conviction that Lady Doreen would not have endorsed Cousin Yvonne's opinion. CHATTER XIV BREAKERS AHEAD Who is so wise that he can fully know all things ? Be not, therefore, too confident in thine own opinion, but be willing to hear the opinion of others. — Thomas a Kempis. First weigh and consider, then dare. — Anon. What is right to be done cannot be done too quickly. — Anon. Cousin Yvonne received a note from Mrs. Etheridgc the next morning asking us all to have tea with her that afternoon. The Etheridges seldom invited people to dinner. Mrs. Etheridge's bad health was the reason. She was hardly ever well enough to play the part of hostess to her guests, and the fatigue of a long dinner would have tired her much. She could only see her friends in a quiet way, so there were frequent tea-parties at the Mount. Cousin Yvonne was rather fond of Mrs. Etheridge ; but on this occasion she begged to excuse herself ' I rather increased my cold the other evening,' she ob- served ; ' but I should like you two girls to go ' ; and she would not hear of one of us remaining at home, though I was anxious to stay with her. My pertinacity seemed to trouble her, for she said rather shortly that she preferred to be alone ; but, as I looked a little hint 141 142 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS CHAP. at this rebuff, she continued more gently, ' I should be very sorry for you to refuse Mrs. Etheridge's invita- tion, Githa ; Rhpna would be so disappointed. And sometimes I feel more disposed for my own company than for other people's. If you will stay with me to-morrow evening, my dear, while Sydney goes to church, I shall be very grateful.' And, of course, I acquiesced in this arrangement, though I was rather sorry to think I should miss Mr. Carlyon's evening sermon. He kept no curate, and always preached twice on Sundays. I had no particular desire to go to the Mount, but I saw Cousin Yvonne wished us to do so. But when I found myself alone with Sydney I grumbled a good deal. ' I can't think what has come to Cousin Yvonne,' I said discontentedly ; ' she does not seem a bit like herself We used to have such good times together ; but this visit things are so different.' ' Yes, I know,' returned Sydney soothingly ; ' but it is no use worrying about it. Aunt Yvonne is not well, you know, Githa. Colonel Etheridge is rather prosy and long-winded, and he would just talk her to death ; he always does. He never will talk to any one else if she is in the room. He told me once that she was a grand woman, and had a man's intellect and a woman's heart.' I smiled at this. He was not the only man who admired Cousin Yvonne, and I privately hoped that Colonel Etheridge would not think me worthy of his attentions. But, to my relief, when we arrived at the Mount we found Mrs. Etheridge and Rhona alone ; and he did not make his appearance until tea was nearly over. I always pitied Mrs. Etheridge. I know she suffered a great deal at times, though she never XTv BREAKERS AHEAD 143 complained ; but it was not always easy for her to maintain her cheerfulness. She was sometimes very low and despondent about herself; and Rhona was always so good and patient with her. Mrs. Etheridge had been very pretty in her youth, and she was a very graceful woman still, and her gentleness and refinement gave a pleasing impression. She took my hand kindly, and made me sit down beside her, and talked so nicely about my father and our home life together. She had a motherly way that appealed to young people. Rhona looked far nicer than she had at St. Helen's Towers ; her dark sapphire velveteen suited her so well. She looked brighter and more animated, and when her father entered the room she addressed him almost playfully. To my surprise, Thurston walked in a little late ; but I found out afterwards that he had been invited, and had left the invitation open until the last moment. I thought Rhona coloured up, as though she were pleased ; but Sydney, who was talking to Colonel Etheridge, never looked round until Thurston stood before her. When tea was over Mrs. Etheridge beckoned to her daughter, and whispered a word or two in her ear. Rhona glanced at her father rather apprehensively, and then she nodded. ' I will do my best, mother.' ' Do, my darling, it will please him so much, and he has had such a worrying day ' ; and then Rhona went off dutifully to fetch her violin. Colonel Etheridge always accompanied his daughter. He had been a very good pianist in his youth, and music was still a passion with him. Mrs. Etheridge lay on her couch and listened in 144 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. a sort of rapture. Colonel Etheridge might be a martinet in the household, as Cousin Yvonne said, but he was evidently a hero in his wife's eyes. The tall, spare man, with the bushy grey moustache and small keen eyes, was to her a miracle of martial prowess. She endowed him with a thousand excellences, and slurred over his faults and blemishes as only a loving woman can. From an infant Rhona had been taught that her father's word was a household law, and that she must never contradict him. ' When you are married, dearest, you will under- stand that husbands and fathers expect to be obeyed, and even if we cannot agree with them,' went on this pattern of a wife, ' it is better not to let them know it ' ; and Mrs. Etheridge carried out this wifely policy in such a masterly manner that Colonel Etheridge held up his wife to all his friends and acquaintances as the model of a woman. ' Susannah is simply perfect,' he said once to a relative. ' I tell Rhona that her mother is a saint,' and Colonel Etheridge took out his white silk handkerchief and used it lustily, while the keen irritable-looking eyes were somewhat moist. Rhona blundered a little at first, and Colonel Etheridge glanced at her rather sharply under his heavy eyebrows ; but Thurston said ' Bravo ' under his breath, and Rhona smiled faintly and recovered her- self, and then they played several charming pieces by Grieg. When Rhona gained confidence she really played extremely well. Her manipulation of the instrument was excellent, and her touch very light. She looked very happy when we told her so, and I was sorry that Colonel Etheridge recalled the old grievance. ' Lady Wilde would have enjoyed that last piece,' XIV BREAKERS AHEAD 145 he said meaningly. ' It is a pity that you deprived her of so much pleasure. I doubt whether she will ever ask you to play again.' ' If grannie does not, I will,' returned Thurston kindly, for, as he said to Sydney afterwards, 'he hated to see the poor little thing badgered in that unfeeling way.' Rhona looked quite pretty as she flashed a grateful look at him, and Colonel Etheridgc smiled under his big moustache and patted his daughter's shoulder benignantly as he passed. Sydney and I sang together after that, and the afternoon passed so quickly and pleasantly that I was quite surprised when Sydney told me that it was nearly seven and that we must go at once. Thurston evidently wished to accompany us, but Colonel Ether- idge detained him, and we were half-way on our homeward road before he overtook us, quite breathless with haste. ' The old fellow would keep me,' he said impatiently. ' I had to tell him that I should be late for dinner, or I should never have got away at all.' ' I thought Lady Wilde never dined until half-past seven,' observed Sydney coolly. ' Oh, of course it was a bit of a fib,' returned Thurston with a vexed laugh ; ' but I have been count- ing on the walk home all the afternoon.' He looked at Sydney as he spoke. The path was rather narrow, and I dropped behind for a moment, but neither of them seemed to notice it. He went on talking in a low, eager tone, but I could not catch his words. A sudden thought flashed into my mind : was it possible that Thurston really cared seriously for Sydney? I le was only one-and-twenty, and it might L 146 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. possibly be lad's love or a passing fancy, and yet I had a strong conviction that he was in earnest. Sydney, too, was different. She seemed a little shy with him this evening, and less unrestrained and spontaneous in her talk. I longed to ask Cousin Yvonne if she had noticed anything. Thurston was a great favourite of hers, and I had a notion that nothing would please her more. Sydney was her adopted daughter, and I knew how dear she was to her. I found an unexpected opportunity that very even- ing, for after dinner Sydney was called away for an hour. She was giving lessons in arithmetic to a back- ward youth of seventeen who was anxious to fit him- self for a shopman's situation, and he came to her two evenings in the week. Sydney was a very good teacher. She had a clear head, and knew how to explain things in a simple, lucid way. Cousin Yvonne was knitting a silk tie for Thurston. She always gave him some little present on his birth- day and at Christmas ; but she told me that this was what she called a ' 'tweenie gift,' and was for no special occasion. ' I shall tell him it is for a good boy,' she observed composedly. This gave me an opening. * Cousin Yvonne,' I said suddenly, 'such an odd idea came into my head as I was walking home with Thurston and Sydney this evening.' She looked up a little sharply at this, and I went on. * Do you think — has it ever crossed your mind that Thurston may care for Sydney ? Of course, I do not know. I have nothing very definite to go on, but it struck me this evening that he admires her.' I thought Cousin Yvonne seemed a little disturbed. ' I hope you are wrong in your surmise, Githa,' she XIV BREAKERS AHEAD 147 said very seriously. ' Thurston is far too young for anything but a passing fancy. Young men of his age fall in love over and over again. Thurston sees so few girls, and he and Sydney have been thrown so much together, it is just propinquit}-. They have always been good friends, and I daresay that in a way he admires her.' Cousin Yvonne was trying to explain things away, but I could read her thoughts. She was evidently- uneasy ; probably the same idea had crossed her mind, but she had refused to entertain it. She observed things so keenly, that I felt convinced that she must have noticed how Thurston's attention had wandered during dinner and how he had watched Sydney. * Sydney's manner was quite different to him this afternoon,' I went on. ' She seemed as though she wi.shed to keep him at a distance. If he is beginning to care for her ' But Cousin Yvonne interrupted me. ' I trust it is only your fancy, Githa, my dear ; you are making me very uncomfortable. I will not deny that Thurston's manner rather troubled me last even- ing, but I trusted that no one else noticed it.' ' But, Cousin Yvonne,' I exclaimed, ' I thought that you were so fond of Thurston, and that nothing would have pleased you better than to know that he cared for Sydney.' ' Nothing would please me less, you mean,' she returned in her decided way. ' Of course, I am fond of the lad, I have known him from a baby. ]^ut what has my affection to do with the matter? If the foolish boy is losing his heart to Sydney, he is just sowing trouble for himself and every one el.sc.' ' What can }'ou mean ? ' 1 faltered. ' Thurston is very young, of course — but if tiicy care for eacii other ! ' 148 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. ' Sydney must not care for him,' she returned, with a worried look. Something must be done ; Thurston ought to be warned. His grandmother would never permit him to marry a penniless girl. It is not as though Sydney were my daughter ; I can only provide for her moderately after my death. Besides,' with an impatient frown, ' Lady Wilde has far different views for her grandson. She means him to marry Rhona,' ' But this is preposterous. Cousin Yvonne. We are no longer in the dark ages. Thurston will insist on choosing his own wife.' ' You will not get Lady Wilde to believe that, Githa. She and Colonel Etheridge are bent on his marrying Rhona, and if it were not for Sydney he really could not do better for himself She is a sweet, good girl, and will make an excellent wife. The fact is, though you do not know it, Githa, and I do not rightly understand it myself, — Lady Wilde and Colonel Etheridge have interest in some big business concern ; without being partners, their interest is identical, and they are anxious that it should be kept in the family. My explanation is a little obscure, but I cannot make it plainer. From children they have been intended for each other. If Thurston marries Rhona he will be a wealthy man.' ' But if he is in love with Sydney, Cousin Yvonne ? ' ' My dear, the thing is impossible. I shall have to send Sydney away. Thurston could never marry her. He is dependent on his grandmother, and if he crosses her will, she can cut him off with the proverbial shilling. He has no profession, and has had no train- ing for business. Circumstances will be too strong for him ; he will be driven to marry Rhona.' ' But he does not love her,' I returned indignantly. XIV BREAKERS AHEAD 149 ' even if Sydney were out of the question. Thurston ought not to marry Rhona ; he does not care for her ; he thinks her colourless and insignificant and un- interesting. How could he pass his life with her? It would be wrong and wicked if he married her.' ' I am afraid many people do these wrong and wicked things/ sighed Cousin Yvonne. ' A girl will occasionally sell her fair self for a coronet, and mercenary marriages are made every day. But you are right, my dear, and it is a bitter and crying shame. But the question is, what are we to do for these poor children ? for they are little more than children. Thurston is so young that he may get over his fancy if only Sydney could be sent away, but the question is, where ? ' ' Let her come to us,' I returned eagerly. ' Father likes her so much, and I should love to have her. She could come for a visit and stay as long as you wish.' I thought Cousin Yvonne seemed pleased with this idea ; she even owned that it would be a good plan. And then she said that she must think over it very carefully. ' I cannot give my mind to it just now,' she went on hurriedly. ' I have other business on hand that needs my immediate attention, and there is no use doing things in a hurry, we must be careful to make no mistakes. You have done well to give me this hint, Githa, and I shall watch over the dear child more carefully. Heaven forbid that any such unhappiness should come to her — or to that poor boy. He is not in my hands,' she broke off with a deep sigh, as though the whole subject wearied her inexpres- sibly ; and she seemed so worn and tired that Sydney looked at her quite anxiously when she returned to the ISO THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, xiv room, but Cousin Yvonne only said her head ached and she thought she would go to bed, but I could see Sydney was not quite satisfied. ' I wonder what you and Aunt Yvonne have been talking about,' she observed when we were alone, ' your face is so hot, Githa ' ; but I only answered in a frivolous manner, and hurried off, for fear she should ask any more questions. It was a relief to shut myself in my own room. It was a lovely spring night, and the moonlight was flood- ing the little lawn and paths. I sat down by the window and thought over my conversation with Cousin Yvonne. I had only given pain where I had expected to give pleasure. But I had never guessed at all this complication and difficulty, and my heart was sore for my old playmate. Of course, I was only a romantic child, but it seemed to me such a beautiful idea that he and Sydney should learn to care for each other ; the whole thing was so idyllic and simple, a sort of lovely poem in real life ; and I knew, though Cousin Yvonne would not confess it, that nothing would have pleased her so well. And now there was Rhona — innocent, unconscious Rhona — a mere tool in her father's hands, a shadowy, pathetic little figure hovering in the background. ' And we are not in the dark ages,' I repeated again, folding my arms comfortably under my head as I gazed out on the moonlight ; and then my thoughts made a sudden divagation : ' What was that important busi- ness on hand that needed Cousin Yvonne's immediate attention ? ' But how little I guessed how soon I should be able to answer that question ! CHAPTER XV WIIILK KINGING TO EVENSONG Nothing is loo little to be ordered by our Father ; nothing too little in which to see His hand ; nothing which touches our souls too little to accept from Him ; nothing too little to be done for Him. — Anon. 'Tis the life, rather than the lips, which speak, And a man's greatest utterance is himself. Anon. From a child I had always loved Sunday at Bayfield ! I loved the quiet little services, although they were somewhat unadorned and simple in Mr. Dennison's time, and to walk through the churchyard with its rose- bordered paths and flower-decked graves. It was pleasant to see the white flocks of geese straggling over the village green in the sunshine, and now and then hissing their alarmed protests as the school lads elbowed each other noisily off the path ; and I liked to watch Gaffer Stokes hobbling down the road in his grey smock and smart red handkerchief, with his wife beside him. The old couple were survivals of the Georgian period, and Ba)Tield was absurdly proud of them. Grannie Stokes, as she was called, was still hale and hearty in spite of her eighty and odd years. She was a comely old woman, with cheeks like withered apples, i>i 152 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. and eyes that were blue and clear as an infant's ; and she always carried her prayer-book wrapped up in a blue checked handkerchief, with a sprig of rosemary, or wall- flower, or fresh lavender tucked in the folds. They were a dear old couple, and lived in a quaint little cottage opposite the church, called the Beehive, a per- fect picture of a place, with a red-tiled kitchen and a roomy porch, where Gaffer Stokes smoked his pipe in the evening. The cottage belonged to Cousin Yvonne, and I knew the old couple lived in it rent-free, and that she gave them a small weekly allowance besides. They had a large family, but all their sons and daughters were married and had children of their own ; but they were honest, hard-working folk, and each one subscribed a small sum towards their parents' main- tenance, and on washing or ironing days either Betty or Susan or Lizzie would step over to the Beehive to do an hour's turn at the wash-tub to save grannie. ' I have my fill of blessings,' grannie would say : ' we have good children, plenty to eat, and a roof to cover us in our old age. And I thank the Lord humbly for His mercies,' she finished, looking proudly round her comfortable kitchen, the house place all redded up, and always a bright little fire in the well- polished grate. Grannie had always something pleasant to relate of her children's kindness and thoughtfulness. Now it was John, — John, a grey-headed man, his shoulders already bowed with work, — who had brought them a rabbit and a fine lot of potatoes ; or Ben, who had divided the loin of pork that his master had given him, and had carried them a goodly portion, though it was none too large for his family of hungry boys and girls. ' Grannie is fond of a bit of pork and apple sauce/ XV WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG 153 he said somewhat grullly when his wife ventured to remonstrate — not that Nancy would not do a good turn for her mother-in-law, though she would have drawn the line at roast pork. Cousin Yvonne was very fond of the old couple, and she was always planning something fresh for their comfort ; but then she was good to all the village folk. I woke that Sunday with a curious feeling that either something had happened or would happen ; and then I remembered my talk with Cousin Yvonne. I wished that I had held my tongue and not given her this fresh cause for worry. When I saw her pale face at the breakfast-table, I was quite sure that she had not slept well ; but she greeted me with more than her usual kindness. ' I suppose you will go to the Sunday school with Sydney,' she observed ; ' so we shall meet in church.' And as I knew Sydney wished to introduce her little scholars to me, I assented to this arrangement, though I thought Cousin Yvonne would be wiser to stay at home. I was beginning to feel seriously uneasy about her. I was convinced that she was either ill or unhappy. Her face looked quite drawn and old that morning ; but, as Sydney said, she could not help being beautiful, and even in old age she would look better than other people. It was a lovely morning, and the promise of May was in the air. I noticed the pink and white haw- thorn in the Vicarage garden, and the great downy greenish -white balls of the guelder roses hanging heavil)' on the walls. As we passed through the outer room devoted to the infants, I was surprised to sec Stella and Cyril 154 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. sitting very erect and open-eyed at the end of the form. I nudged Sydney to make her look, but she said coolly that they always attended the morning class and generally behaved very well. But I thought little Miss Williams, the draper's pretty daughter, seemed a little overwhelmed by her responsibilities. I found out afterwards that Stella had made some very surprising statements during the morning's lessons, which were as uncalled for and irrelevant as Mr. F's Aunt's in Little Doj'rit. * Would you believe it. Miss Darnell,' observed the poor little teacher piteously, ' the smallest children were saying their " Gentle Jesus " so nicely, and dear little Cyril repeated it with them, and Stella suddenly got very red, and put up her hand and wanted to say something to teacher. And what do you think it was, Miss Herbert ? It was only " she thoughted that 'ell must be rather a nice warm place when it was cold, and that she and Cyril did so want to play with fire " — did you ever hear such a thing ? But I am thankful to say that most of the children were too young to understand,' ' You ought tp have given her a bad mark, Miss Williams.' Miss Williams sighed. ' So I did, Miss Darnell ; but she was in a perverse mood, and said she liked bad marks. And then Cyril said he wanted one too, and all the children laughed. I really felt ready to cry ; but Mr. Carlyon happened to pass through the room, and he seemed to understand without my telling him. " I am sorry you have a bad mark, Stella," he said in such a loud voice, " for I cannot possibly have tea in the nursery this evening ; so I am punished as well as you." Oh, I was so sorry for the poor little XV WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG 155 thing when he said that, though she had been naughty, for she cried and sobbed her httle heart out' Mr. Carl}'on came up to speak to us before he went into church. He wanted me to take a class that afternoon, as one of the teachers was absent. Cousin Yvonne was in her seat when we entered ; I always sat next to her. I noticed a great change in the service ; the choir was better trained, and the singing was more reverent. Mr. Carlyon read the Lesson and intoned the Litany most beautifully, and his sermon was very helpful. He had chosen such a singular text, ' And fears shall be in the way.' It seemed addressed to people advanced in years more than to the young ; and he used an odd simile, for he spoke more than once of ' the magnifying-glass of fear.' ' It has been wisely said,' he went on, ' that we project our own shadows ; and it is certain that even good and religious-minded people give themselves and others a great deal of unnecessary pain by forecasting the evil that may not come. They can trust their heavenly Father to bring them to heaven, but they cannot leave to-morrow to His loving care. " Fears shall be in the way," like the lions that lay in wait to frighten Christian when he went up to the palace Beautiful. " O ye of little faith," — can we not hear those words from the Master's lips spoken to timid disciples, and most surely addressed to us ! The other day,' he went on in a simple, impressive way, ' in turning over an old book, I came upon a quaint verse which you ma}- never have heard : ' iiuild :i little fence of trust Around to-day ; Fill the space with loving work, And therein slay. 156 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. Look not through the sheltering bars Upon to-morrow ; God will help thee bear what comes Of joy or sorrow.' And just at the close of his sermon he quoted a sentence from the old Scotch divine, Samuel Ruther- ford, in a singularly solemn voice : ' " I wonder many times that ever a child of God should have a sad heart, considering what the Lord is preparing for him." ' I looked at Cousin Yvonne as we rose at the Gloria, but her face had the same strained, weary look it had worn at breakfast ; her beautiful eyes were full of unspeakable sadness as they met mine ; but as we passed out of the church porch she left my side to speak to Lady Wilde, who was following us. I noticed how quickly Thurston seized his opportunity to speak to Sydney, and the tell-tale flush that rose to her face at his greeting ; I felt that my intuition had been correct. Unconsciously those two young hearts had been drawing closer to each other ; perhaps even now it might be too late for any warning word to avert the danger. If Sydney had not suddenly looked down in her shy consciousness, she must surely have seen the lovelight in Thurston's eyes. At luncheon Sydney repeated Stella's extraordinary remark. ' I cannot imagine,' she continued in a shocked voice, ' how a baby like Stella could ever have heard of the existence of such a place. I am quite sure Peace would not have mentioned it.' ' No, indeed,' replied Cousin Yvonne ; ' but I think it is easy to find a solution of that mystery. Do you remember, Sydney, when Peace had quinsy, and was obliged to go home for a fortnight, and Lady Wilde XV WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG 157 recommended a protege of hers, Eliza Brett, as a temporary nursemaid ? I never liked the girl, in spite of all Lady Wilde's recommendations ; there is some- thing not quite straightforward about her, and she is too plausible for my taste. I recollect I told Mr. Carlyon so, but he evidently did not share my opinion.' ' But he sent her off in a hurry. Aunt Yvonne.' ' Yes, my dear ; and it was one of Stella's speeches that opened his eyes. She asked him one day why God shut up naughty people in a nasty hot place where they could not get out ; she did not think it kind, if they were sorry and promised to be good. And when he asked her who had told her such a thing, she said Eliza had done so ; and Cyril cried and seemed frightened. I never saw Mr. Carlyon so angry. Eliza was sent off that very day.' 'To think that these mediaeval misinterpretations and hideous travesties should reach my child's ears ! ' he said to me. ' Material pitchforks and flames ; and we believe in the Fatherhood of God ! Will not utter banishment from the presence of the Beloved be punishment enough ? and absence from the Light — the outer darkness — of which we are warned ? ' ' I fancy that Mr. Carlyon holds very strong views on this subject.' Just before Sydney and I started for the Sunday school Rhona came in. She said her mother had had a great deal of pain that day, and seemed unusually nervous and depressed ; and her father thought that a little sacred music would soothe her and make her sleep. * Father wants Sydney and Githa to have supper with us ; and he promises that he will see them 158 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. home ; ' but before either could answer Cousin Yvonne interposed. ' Githa has promised to stay with me ; she is not even going to church ; but Sydney can go. There is no reason why you should not, dear.' ' If you are sure that neither you nor Githa mind,' returned Sydney. I saw from her manner that she wished to accept the invitation, though she was too unselfish to say so. Had she any hope that Thurston would be there ? I felt there would be no doubt on that point ; he generally attended evening service, and he would soon find out that Sydney was going home with Rhona, and as he had a standing invitation to the Mount he would speedily follow them. Lady Wilde would be the first to encourage him to do so, she was far too dense and unobservant to find out that Sydney, not Rhona, was the attraction. Sydney looked very happy when this point was settled, but she said little as we walked through the village. I found my class all ready for me, and as the little girls were very attentive and willing to be taught I spent a very pleasant and profitable afternoon. On our way home Mr. Carlyon overtook us ; he was going to a cottage a little beyond our lane, to see a sick man. Just before we parted I asked him if he had relented about the nursery tea, but he shook his head. ' I never think it wise to change my mind,' he returned ; ' baby as she is, my little Star needs a firm, guiding hand, and I love my children far too well to indulge them when they are really naughty, I dare say Peace will contrive some little amelioration in the shape of honey or jam.' It was pleasant to see Mr. Carlyon's look as he said this ; doubtless he himself had XV WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG 159 suggested honey to Peace. I was glad to know that he could be so wise and firm with those wayward little creatures. But what a darling Stella was after all ! It had always been Cousin Yvonne's habit to play on the organ until church time, and again after supper ; but this evening she went to her room, and never came down until S}'dne}' was just starting for church. I walked a little way down the lane with her ; it was a lovely evening ; the thrushes and blackbirds were singing their vesper hymn, and the church bells .sounded in the distance. How peaceful it was ; the soft blue evening sky was flecked with tiny clouds like baby fingers ; the air was sweet with the perfume of lilac and wallflowers. I felt a strange desire to be in the little church ; they were to sing Bishop Ken's evening hymn, it was father's favourite. I thought of dear father when Sydney had left me, and wondered if he were missing me. ' Perhaps he has gone to Aunt Cosie,' I said to myself as I turned in at the gate. When I re-entered the cottage I found Cousin Yvonne walking rather restlessly up and down the drawing-room ; but she stopped abruptly when she saw me, and sat down by the window, and, as I did not at once follow her, she called to me. ' Will you come and sit down, Githa, I want to have a long talk with you this evening, that is why I asked you to stay with me ' ; she paused as though to clear her voice. * There is something that your father wishes me to tell you, and I have only waited until you were old enough ; it is about your mother.' My mother! If a comet had suddenly flashed across the clear spring sky I could not have been more astonished ; never in all these seventeen years had any one voluntarily mentioned her name. Something in i6o THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. Cousin Yvonne's manner vaguely alarmed me. ' What do you mean ? ' I gasped. ' You knew her, you knew my mother, and yet all these years you have never spoken to me about her ! ' ' Of course that seems strange to you,' she answered slowly, ' I can put myself in your place and under- stand how you feel about it, but you cannot judge, Githa ; there were reasons, and I did it for the best.' ' Did you know her well. Cousin Yvonne ? I asked eagerly ; and again she paused as though speech were difficult. ' She was a close friend,' she returned after a moment's silence. ' I knew all her virtues and faults, and the mistakes for which she paid so dearly.' 'And you liked her?' I persisted, for she seemed so unwilling to speak. ' Liked her — yes, I suppose so — but we were too much alike. Oh,' in a voice of despair, ' it is impossible ! I never ima-^ined the difficulty, Githa,' with curious abruptness. ' i believe you have never seen your mother's port. : . Would you like to see it ? shall I show it to you ? ' Wish to see it ! The tears rose to my eyes with a sudden passion of longing. I think Cousin Yvonne saw that I was too much moved to answer her ; for her hand rested on my shoulder for a moment with a caressing pressure, then she left the room. I sat alone in the evening light, and looked out on the pink flush in the western sky that heralded the sunset ; my heart was beating faster than usual. I felt strongly agitated ; Cousin Yvonne's paleness, her constrained manner, filled me with uneasy anticipations, and yet — but before I could formulate the thought that was troubling me she re-entered with two pictures, one framed, and the other XV WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG i6i evidentl)' a large photograph ; both were loosely wrapped in tissue paper.' ' There are two,' she observed, as she placed them on the table before me ; ' you had better look first at the latest portrait that was taken of your mother, the earlier one is underneath'; then she turned her back and walked slowly to the window. My hands trembled as I drew off the cover. As I did so I gave a sudden start, for the pictured face that lay before me on the table was that of Cousin Yvonne. M CHAPTER XVI ' WHY DID YOU LEAVE US ? ' Thou art not made like us. We should be wroth in such a case ; but Thou forgivest. Browning. I bow before the noble mind That freely some great wrong forgives ; Yet nobler is the one forgiven Who bears that burden well and lives. A. Procter. Needing so much forgiveness, God grant me at least to forgive. Lytton. There are moments in life which seem to be stamped and branded on our memories as though seared by a hot iron. I verily believe that to my dying day I shall never forget that minute when I looked at my mother's picture. I was not a weak, neurotic girl. On the contrary, I was physically strong and healthy ; and though my temperament was naturally impressionable and im- pulsive, I was by no means hysterical or highly strung. Nevertheless, the shock of that overpowering surprise turned me so faint and sick that I was unable to speak or move — no exclamation crossed my lips, there were only flashes before my eyes and a choking sensation in my throat. I felt as helpless as a child who was lost, 162 CHAP. XVI 'WHY DID YOU LEAVE US?' 163 and found itself in a strange, lonely place, with night coming on. ' Githa, will you not speak to me ? ' Surely Cousin Yvonne's voice came from a great distance, it was so low and muffled. ' Oh, my darling, do not look at me like that, or you will break my heart' Cold hands were holding mine, and as I sank into a chair, unable to support myself a moment longer, she knelt beside me ; there was a mist before my eyes, and I could not see her face plainly ; but the muffled voice was close to my ears. * I have been too sudden, but the task was beyond my strength. No — do not try to speak, my precious one, you are giddy with the shock.' She drew my head gently to her shoulder, but I could feel how her arms trembled as though she were suddenly weak. ' Rest quietly a moment, your mother is holding you.' Ah ! the new tenderness in the voice. The word roused me and gave me strength to speak. ' My mother is dead.' ' No, darling, no ! no one has ever told you such a lie. She is here beside you, and loving you with all her heart. Now, my sweet, I want you to listen to me. You are not fit to talk ; you must lie down on that couch until the faintness has passed, and I will bring you some water. Rebecca is at church, and I do not want to call any of the servants. If I help you, you would be able to walk those few steps.' She passed her arm round me as she spoke, and I sub- mitted to be half fjuided and half carried across the room. It was a relief to lie still and close my eyes until my brain ceased to whirl. It was not water, after all, she gave me, but I took it readily enough ; and then she sat down beside mc, not touching me, but waiting i64 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. until the quiet and silence and the cool evening air blowing on me should give me back strength. By-and-by she closed the window and sat down again, and I opened my eyes and looked at her. I felt I could speak more calmly now. How pale she was as she smiled at me ! ' You are better now, darling ? ' * Yes, I am better. I did not mean to trouble you so, but — but — I cannot believe it.' ' You will believe it presently,' she said quietly. ' There is something else I should like to show you before we talk, it may make things more real to you ' ; and then she went to an escritoire and took out a book and a small leather case and placed them in my lap. I took up the book first. It was a Bible, bound beautifully and curiously in white vellum, with an antique clasp. I turned to the title-page, and recog- nised my father's handwriting : ' To my wife, Yvonne Darnell, on our wedding day, from her loving husband, Philip Egerton Darnell.' The date was just eighteen years before. I closed the volume and opened the case. It con- tained a bracelet, a band of solid gold, with a monogram in diamonds, the initials Y. L. D. evidently standing for Yvonne Lesbia Darnell. But it was not this which attracted my eyes ; it was a slip of paper with my father's handwriting on it : ' To my darling wife, on the birth of our child, Githa, from her devoted husband,' and there was the date of my birthday seventeen years ago. She — my mother I suppose I must call her — saw that I understood. Then she carried them away and carefully locked them up ; then in the same still way. XVI 'WHY DID YOU LEAVE US?' 165 as if she were performing some mechanical but necessary task, she placed the framed picture before me. 'It was taken just after my marriage,' she said simply. I gazed at it as though I were in a dream. Could that beautiful beaming face, so radiant with happiness, be the image of my mother in her girlhood — the grace- ful figure in the bridal dress, the dark hair with orange blossom crowning it like a diadem, the sweet, womanly expression ! Involuntarily I turned to the sad -eyed woman beside me, with her grey hair. The face was still beautiful, though there were lines of suffering and self- repression legibly traced upon it. Something seemed to stir in my breast like a live thing as I looked. Was it a sort of remorseful tenderness ? * Do you believe it now, Githa ? ' * Yes, I suppose so ' ; but my voice seemed strange and a little cold. ' You have never told me anything that is not absolutely true, and if you say that you are my mother ' ' Most assuredly I am j^our mother, and you are my dear and only child, my little Githa, whom I carried in my arms as an infant and who slept in my bosom.' Her eyes were soft with maternal feeling, but at that moment I could not respond. ' Why did you leave us ? ' I asked. Perhaps I asked the question too abruptly, for I .saw her wince as though she had received a blow. She was white as death now. 'Forgive me,' I whispered, 'but surely I must know everything, or how can I understand ? Mothers do not leave their ciiildren without a cau.se ; and then there is father. If )'ou loved us, why did you go away and leave us ? ' For until this question was answered, there could be no peace for me. i66 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. ' Githa ! ' she said solemnly and tenderly, 'do not be too hard on your poor mother, even if you misjudge me, as I fear you must. Believe this one thing — I loved your father dearly, and ' — here a spasm of suffering crossed her face — ' and I love him still, and you are my own dear child.' ' And yet you left us ! ' and again she shrank at my reproachful tone. ' Githa, you are simply torturing me. What am I to say to you .'' You are too young to understand yet how a woman of my temperament can suffer. A few years after we were married my happiness was wrecked. Your father did me a great wrong — no, do not be afraid, Githa, I would rather die than tell my child that story ; but — and herein lies the tragedy — I could not forgive, and my happy trust was gone, and so I told him that we must live apart.' ' And you left me to him ? ' Then the tears welled slowly to her eyes. ' It nearly killed me to do it — you were such a darling, Githa, and I was so proud of you, and so was he. I had meant to take vou, and he had offered no objection. He said the wrong lay at his door, and he would take his punishment like a man — he was always so generous. It was easy for him to condone even a crime ; but my nature is harder, I cannot easily forgive. When I told him I never wished to see his face again, I fully meant what I said.' I felt sure she had forgotten to whom she was speaking ; that recollection of the past trouble was so vivid and acute that it had for a moment thrown her off her balance, or she would not have revealed so much. What wrong could father have done her that she should desire never to see his face ? The sick feeling XVI 'WHY DID YOU LEAVE US?' 167 came rushing over me again, and I shielded my face with my hands. Whatever it was, I should never know — I would suffer no one to tell me. I registered that vow in my heart. She went on speaking, and there was a passionate insistence in her voice. ' I thank Heaven, Githa, that you have your father's temperament, not mine. If I had been differently constituted, more like other women, and the grace of forgiveness had been mine, the crooked might have been made straight, and the gaping wounds might have healed in time ; but I could not fight against my nature, and peace was impossible, so I fled.' ' And you left me behind.' It was strange how I harped on this one string. It seems to me now that I was almost merciless in my pain, but she was very patient with me. ' Let me try and tell you how it happened,' she said slowly. ' I meant to take you ; I had insisted on my maternal rights, and I fully intended to have my wa)-. My will was strong even then, Githa. The evening before I left home I went up into the nursery to give some order for the morrow, but the nurse had gone down to her supper. The fire had burnt low, and the room was almost dark ; but I could discern a kneeling figure by your cot, and as I paused on the threshold I heard a man's bitter sobs. Thank God that you never heard them ! ' It was Philip — it was your father — and as I was about to steal away, unwilling to intrude on his grief, I heard him say, " My punishment is too great for me to bear ! 1 have lost my wife's love, and now I must lose my little child ! " ' His voice had awakened you — you were always a light sleeper, — and as a sudden flame shot up I saw i68 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. you stretch out your little arms and clasp his neck — " Don't kye, Da, baby loves 'oo." Ah, even then you loved him best, Githa. You would leave my arms gladly to spring into his, and he just worshipped you. * That night I made up my mind that I would not inflict this suffering on him — that the sacrifice should be mine. I think death would have been easier to me. The next morning I noticed a grey streak in my hair. I came down here and left you behind me, and I wrote a letter to your father with my conditions. They were these : — 1 wished your young life to be untroubled and happy ; and until you attained womanhood — and I fixed your present age — it was my one prayer and desire that you should not know that I was your mother. I was to be Cousin Yvonne and nothing else. The rest of my stipulations you can guess. I was to be kept informed of all that concerned you, and you were to come to me twice a year. If these conditions were faithfully fulfilled, I promised that you should remain with him. But how I have watched over you from a distance ; how I have prayed for you as I could never pray for myself; how loyally your father has carried out my wishes in spite of his strong disapproval — all this it is needless to say. My object has been attained ; your childhood and youth have been unshadowed ; you and your father have been perfectly happy in each other's society.' ' Oh no, he is not as happy as you think,' I exclaimed. ' If you knew how sad he looks some- times ' but she put up her hand to stop me. ' Hush ! not a word of that ; I cannot bear it. And now, can you judge me more mercifully, Githa .' ' I stretched out my hands to her with the one word she so craved to hear — ' Mother.' She had made this XVI 'WHY DID YOU LEAVE US?' 169 heroic sacrifice for my father's sake. She who was sinned against had gone away with empty hands and a breaking heart, and yet, though it was not for her child to judge her, there was a flaw in her nobility — the grace of forgiveness was lacking. ' Mother, I did not know, but I always loved you.' Then, as she stooped over me, I laid my face against her arm, and for a little time we were silent. How quiet it was in that spring twilight, and how strangely weak I felt. It would take time to recover from such a shock. But how good she was to me. She brought me food and coaxed me to eat ; but I knew she touched nothing herself; then she persuaded me to go to bed, and helped me in her quiet, efficient way. I was still a little giddy, and I think she knew it, for she would not leave me until my head was on the pillow. I heard Sydney come in ; but she had evidently been told not to come near me, for she went to her own room. I could hear her walking on tiptoe past my door. Rut I could not rest, and sleep was far from my eyes. There was something I wanted to say to my mother, and I felt certain that she was only waiting for the household to be in their rooms before she came to me again ; and I was right. The grandfather's clock in the hall had just chimed half-past ten when she came, carrying a shaded lamp in her hand. She sat down beside me and looked at me anxiously. * I was afraid j'ou were not sleeping, dearest. Is there anything specially troubling you — something that you want to ask me ? ' Then I clutched at her hand a little peevishly. •Yes,' I said, ' I cannot rest ; I shall never rest until I have seen father. Mother, you will not think mc I70 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, xvi unkind, but I must go to him ; I must speak to him, and hear him speak to me.' Perhaps she saw that I was a h'ttle excited, for she seemed bent on soothing me. ' Do not be afraid, my child, I will not keep you if you desire to leave me. When do you wish to go ? ' ' Will you let me go home to-morrow ? ' And as she drew back with a hurt, pained look, I laid my cheek against her hand. ' Mother, you are so good and kind that I am sure you will understand. I cannot bear it somehow until I have seen him. I will come back ; indeed, I will come back ' ; and my voice rose in passionate entreaty. ' When will you come back, Githa ? ' * Oh, I cannot tell you that to-night ; but if he will, it shall be in a few days. Mother, you will not be hard with me ? You know I would not grieve you for worlds.' ' I know it well, darling, and I trust you fully. Yes, you shall go to-morrow, and Rebecca shall travel with you and put you into a cab ; there is no need for her to go the house.' ' Oh no ! there is no need for that.' ' Then we will consider it settled, and there shall be no more talk. You will leave your things here, and you will come back to me as soon as you can.' There was a beseeching, wistful look in the beautiful eyes which touched me inexpressibly. Then she kissed me tenderly. * Now you must sleep like a good child, to get strength for your journey ' ; and she would have left me, but I held her fast, and though I said nothing, I think she knew how my heart thanked and blessed her for this concession to my wishes. CHAPTER XVII THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS For all the souls on earth that live To be forgiven must forgive. Forgive him seventy times and seven ! For all the blessed souls in Heaven Are both Forgivers and Forgiven. Tennyson. 'Tis but brother's speech we need, Speech where an accent's change gives each The other's soul. Browning. My mother's promise that I should go home the following day had somewhat soothed and quieted me ; but still sleep was far from my eyes, and for hours I lay open-eyed in the darkness, thinl-cing of this strange thing that had come to my knowledge. For it seemed to me as though my little world were in chaos. Old landmarks were moved. There were curious upheavals and mysterious workings of unseen forces. Old faces looked at me with new meaning in their eyes. My mother's grave was a figment of my own imagination. The woman who had given me birth had held mc this very night in her warm, living arms, and had caressed me with maternal 171 172 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. tenderness, and yet, in spite of my gratitude, I had remained cold and stunned. Much as I loved her, and until this evening I never guessed how dear she was to me, my thoughts had turned from her to my father with a passion of longing and pity that almost broke my heart. For the veil had been torn down from my eyes. He had done some wrong, this beloved father, some grievous wrong, which had driven her away from her home a lonely, embittered woman, and spoiled her life. He had sinned, and she had not forgiven ; and yet for his dear sake she had made the noblest sacrifice that a woman could make — she had left him her child. Alas ! alas ! my idolised father was no longer the stainless, faultless being that I had imagined him to be. The shadow of wrong-doing had dimmed the brightness of the image. He was not perfect, but he was my father, and I could only love him. Was it for his only child to cast a stone at him ? My breast heaved with sobs and the tears fell fast, as I held out my arms in the darkness. The dumb cry and longing for him was so great that I felt he must know it. My one thought was to go and comfort him, to tell him that this thing should never come between us. Again and again I rehearsed over to myself the speech I would make to him. Poor, foolish child ! as though my stammering tongue would have uttered the words. ' Father, it is past and gone, let us bury it as we bury some dead thing. Do not even speak to me about it. I know nothing. I will know nothing. I love you both, and I will only remember that I am your child and you are my father.' No, no. Was it likely that such a speech would ever get spoken ? But in the darkness I registered a second time that XVII THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 173 filial vow, that no power on earth should compel me to know the sad secret that had divided two loving hearts. My father should never be shamed in his child's eyes. The sacred silence of death should invest it. It should be like a grave dug deeply and hidden away in a secret place, ' What is it to me,' I cried inwardly, ' if you have done wrong, my darling ; you have repented and suffered, and I know God has forgiven you, and one day perhaps my mother will forgive you too, for she loves you still.' At that moment there was a faint twittering of birds under my eaves, as though some wandering night thing had disturbed the tranquillity of the nest, and as I listened, and thought of the All Father's care without which ' not even a sparrow falls to the ground,' a sudden idea came to me, as though some pitying angel had whispered it in my ear. ' What if it should be my mission, my most sweet mission, to unite those two suffering hearts ! ' and words of prayer rose to my lips, that He who loved His earthly mother would vouchsafe me this great blessing. The thought seemed to comfort mc, and I lay and pondered over it, and hugged it closely to me, as though it were some priceless thing, and yet I felt instinctively that the task would not be easy, and the difficulty would be chiefly with my mother. With all her generosity and strong affection her nature resented bitterly any great injury. It was not easy for her to forgive. I know how she mourned over this failing ; how this hardness had grown with the unhappy years and taken strong root. What was it she had said to mc this evening ? — * If I had been differently constituted, more like 174 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. other women, and the grace of forgiveness had been mine, the crooked might have been made straight, and the gaping wound healed in time, but I could not fight against my nature.' My poor mother, I felt this was true ; but I had my father's temperament, and it seemed to me a most sad and pitiful thing that so noble a nature should be lacking in this one virtue. * To err is human, to forgive divine,' I murmured somewhat drowsily, and again, ' the little hearts that know not how to forgive,' but my mother was a large- hearted woman. I was spent with weary thoughts and long wakeful- ness, but as the dim grey of the glimmering dawn stole into the room I fell into a restless sleep, and a strange, half-waking dream came to me. I thought I was in a green, misty place, under clouded skies. There were trees and flowers, but they were somewhat colourless, and though the by-paths were pleasant, there was little light. There were people walking to and fro over the grass, and many were gathered before a great gateway strongly barred ; but one could see through the bars a fair and most lovely country bathed in sunshine, with groups of people in shining white dresses and faces of surpassing beauty. I noticed that those who stood on this side the gate wore grey garments, and their faces were grave and wistful ; but when I spoke to them, and asked why the gate was shut so that one could not pass through, they only shook their heads sadly and moved away, and I was left alone. Now there stood close to the gate on the other side a man, very stately and fair to look upon, and as I gazed at him in too much awe to speak, he smiled at me so graciously that I whispered, ' Are you an angel ? ' and he inclined his head. XVII THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 175 ' I am the Angel of Forgiveness,' he said, ' and I dwell in this pleasant land which they call the Land of Peace, and where our Lord loves to walk in the cool of the evening. For here are His chosen ones, the Peacemakers, and those " who have come out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb," and, like their Master and the holy- Stephen, have forgiven their murderers, and dealt kindly with those who have done them wrong. Therefore shall they dwell in eternal sunshine, and follow their Lord when He goes to gather His lilies, and the secret of everlasting peace is theirs ; for in their earthly days they loved much, and showed mercy on the unmerciful,' When I woke my room was flooded with the early morning sunshine. Was it a dream or a vision, I wondered ; and then I thought that one day I would tell it to my mother — but not now. Mentor has more than once called me a dreamer of dreams, but it is perfectly true that at more than one crisis of my life — at moments of abnormal excitement — I have had dreams so strange and suggestive that I have written them down ; but I never again had such a dream as this — the remembrance of the dark gateway watched over by the Angel of Peace haunted me for many a day. When Rebecca brought me m)- morning cup of tea I thought she looked at me a little strangely, but she was a silent woman, and rarely spoke if she could help it. She must have carried a bad report of my looks, for ten minutes later my mother came to me in her grey quilted dressing-gown, and the thick masses of her grey hair falling below her waist — such beautiful hair — shining like silver in the sunlight ; but how pale and sunken her features looked in the strong light ! 176 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. ' Rebecca thinks that you have slept badly, Githa,' she said as she kissed me. ' I would have come to you if I had known that. More than once I listened at your door, but could hear no movement.' There was a new note of gentleness in her voice as she spoke. * It was nearly morning before I closed my eyes,' I returned, ' but I have had some sleep since then. You have slept badly yourself, mother.' I almost whispered the last word, but she heard it, and a faint tinge of colour came to her face. ' That is nothing new,' she said sadly ; ' but it is different for you, dearest. You must just lie still, and Rebecca shall bring you your breakfast' I hesitated a moment. I felt strangely weak, and my head was beginning to ache. There was no hurry, as I had decided to take an afternoon train. My father would not be home until five, and I was anxious to avoid Mardie's questionings until I had seen him. Very likely if I tried to dress myself my headache would increase. ' You had better take my advice, Githa,' she went on. ' I will open your window, and the fresh air will do your head good. Close your eyes and try and get a little sleep, and I will tell Sydney not to disturb you ' ; and then she brought me a warm wrap and threw up the window, and I was too weary to argue the point. I think I slept a little before my breakfast tray arrived, and my head no longer throbbed so painfully ; and by the time Sydney came to me I felt somewhat better, though she gave a shocked exclamation when she saw me. * Why, Githa, I do not know whether you or Aunt XVII THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 177 Yvonne looks the worst, but you both seem to me on the brink of an illness.' ' How can you talk such nonsense, Sydney ! I have not slept well, that is all.' 'That is exactly what Aunt Yvonne says, but' — with a wistful look — 'there is more behind. I am sure of that. Why are you going home, Githa, when you have only just come? Aunt Yvonne says that she will explain things when you are gone, but it is very hard to wait.' ' I am very sorr}-, Sydney dear, but I am too tired to talk now.' ' That means that I am to ask no more questions. Never mind, you poor thing, you shall not be worried, and I will be patient for a few hours ; but if any trouble has come to you or Aunt Yvonne I know you will not leave me in the dark longer than you can help.' ' No indeed, you may be sure of that ' ; and then she gave a gentle sigh, and stole away on tiptoe. That was so like Sydney. She was always so ready to efface her- self, to stand aside until those she loved needed her. But she was not happy about either of us, I could see that. I lay and brooded heavily until it was time to rise and dress. When I saw myself in the glass I felt that Sydney's evident anxiety was fully justified. I certainly looked ill. Even my lips were pale, and there were ink stains under my eyes. Was I only seventeen, I wondered — sweet seventeen? I felt I had grown years older ! When I went downstairs my mother made no com- ment on my appearance, probably because Sj'dney was in the room. She only remarked that luncheon was a N 178 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. little earlier than usual, and that as I had had a poor breakfast she hoped I would do my best to make a good meal ; but she certainly did not set me an example. Sydney watched us furtively, and tried to cover up our silence by cheerful remarks. When I went to my room to put on my hat my mother followed me. • You are not fit to go, Githa,' she said in a troubled tone, 'but it would be cruel to keep you — I can see that.' ' It is so good of you to spare me, mother.' ' I do so most unwillingly, I assure you, and I shall certainly not have a moment's peace until you come back. No, I did not mean to say that,' rather remorse- fully, as she saw my face ; ' I shall live in hopes of your coming back very soon.' ' You may depend that I shall come as soon as I can.' Then in a whisper, ' Have you any message for father ? ' but she shook her head. ' You are all the message I need send. I have carried out my part of the compact faithfully. Now I hear the carriage, and Rebecca is ready.' She embraced me hurriedly as she spoke, and then half pushed me away. I think, nay, I am sure, that she could not trust herself to linger over the leave-taking. She did not accompany me downstairs, but as we drove away I saw her standing at the landing window, and as I looked at her she waved her hand and hurried away. Poor mother ! she looked like a Mater Dolorosa at that moment. Rebecca took no notice of me, and I was at leisure to indulge in my own thoughts. But they were to be interrupted in a most unexpected way, for just as we were taking our places in the train the guard opened the door for a gentleman. XVII THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 179 ' All the other carriages arc crowded, sir,' he said civilly, 'and I am sure this young lady will not object ' ; and to my astonishment I saw it was Mr. Carlyon. He looked equally surprised when he recognised me. Rebecca gave him up her seat, and ensconced her- self at the other end with her book — she was a great reader, — and Air. Carlyon settled himself in the opposite corner. But as he bent forward to speak to me his manner expressed some concern. ' You are surely not leaving Bayfield already. Miss Darnell ? I understood you had come for a fortnight at least.' ' I am coming back in a few days — at least I hope so, I only want to speak to my father. I wish to consult him about something, and I shall finish my visit later on.' I tried to speak naturally, but I am sure I failed, for his face became rather grave. He was silent for a few minutes, then he leant forward again. He was evidently unwilling that Rebecca should hear him, but there was no danger of that ; she was already absorbed in her book, and Mr. Carlyon spoke in a low voice. ' You are in some trouble, I fear, or you are not well. Is there anything I can do to help you ? ' His voice was so kind that the tears rushed to my eyes, and I dared not trust myself to speak, but again he understood me. ' No, do not answer mc, I can see for myself, and you are not fit to talk. I am going to read my paper, and if you will take my advice you will just close your eyes and try to rest.' I think I must have looked at him a little pitifully when he said that, for he went on very genth', ' One can rest even in trouble, onl)-,' in a still lower voice, ' be careful to hold very tightly to i8o THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. your heavenly Father's hand, or you may lose yourself and get hurt ' ; and then he unfolded his paper as though he were anxious to shield me from observation. No, I was not fit to talk, my nerves had not yet recovered themselves, but the tears I shed were quiet and healing ; somehow that silent sympathy seemed to soothe and comfort me, and my head felt less strained. Mr. Carlyon left me undisturbed. Once he closed the window in a tunnel, and another time he touched my arm and put a smelling-bottle into my hand. ' It is wonderfully efficacious ; please try it. Miss Darnell, it will do your head good,' and, as I thanked him languidly, he took up his paper again. At the end of our journey Rebecca came to me. ' I am to put you into a cab, miss, and then my mistress told me that I was to take the next train back'; but before I could answer her Mr. Carlyon interposed. ' Forgive me for interfering, but you are surely not going to drive to Cheyne Walk alone ? ' ' Oh yes,' I returned listlessly, ' I know the way quite well ' ; but he hardly seemed to listen. ' Will you tell your mistress,' he observed, address- ing Rebecca, ' that I shall drive with Miss Darnell and see her safely home ; I think she will be glad to know that ' ; and then, without asking my leave, he called up a hansom and put me in it, and quietly placed himself beside me ; and when the driver had received his instructions from Rebecca and we had left the station, he said in rather an apologetic tone — ' Forgive me if I am taking too great a liberty, but if you could see yourself at this moment you would know that I could not do otherwise.' ' You are very kind,' I murmured ; ' but indeed there was no need to trouble you.' XVII THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS i8i 'It is no question of m}- trouble,' he returned. ' Besides, you are not taking me much out of my way, and I should not have been comfortable if I had not seen you safely home ; I only wish I could do more for you.' ' You have done a great deal,' for I wanted him to know how grateful I felt. ' I am behaving rather childishly I fear, Mr. Carlyon, but I have had a shock — perhaps I ought not to call it a trouble — but I hardly know how I feel.' ' Perhaps I understand more than you think,' and Mr. Carlyon spoke in rather a significant tone. ' One has strange intuitions sometimes, and one has come to me this afternoon — no, I cannot explain ; another time, perhaps, when you are less confused and un- happy.' ' It is just that,' I returned in a trembling voice. ' I am so bewildered that I hardly know whether I am in trouble or not — it would not be right to tell you about it ; but I think you could have helped me, because you have been in trouble yourself ' You are right,' in a low tone. ' But I trust )'ou may be spared such sorrow as I have known. ]\Ierci- fully the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb.' Then with a change of tone, ' Do you remember what that glorious old heathen Marcus Aurclius said, " \Ve are born to be serviceable to one another " ? I want you to promise me .something, Miss Darnell : if I can ever do anything to help you or yours, will you ask me to do it? Here we are at the end of our journc}-, and I should like to have that promise.' In spite of its gentleness there was a touch of priestl}' authorit\- in his voice which seemed to thrill me ; but although our acquaintance had been short, I felt he was a man that i82 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, xvii one could trust absolutely, and a sudden impulse of gratitude made me put out my hand to him. ' Thank you, I think I can safely promise that ; you have been very, very kind.' He smiled and shook his head : ' Then there is nothing- more to say but God bless you ' ; and then, as I left him and went up the steps, he waited until the door was open before he re-entered the hansom, and Hallett had closed it again before he drove away. CHAPTER XVIII FATHER AND I To have suffered much is hke knowing many languages ; you have learnt to understand all, and to make yourself intelligible to all. — Anon. Add not more trouble to a heart that is vexed. — ECCLESIASTICUS. When God puts a burden upon you He puts His own arm underneath. Anon. I SAW a surprised and almost an alarmed expression on Hallett's face as he closed the door behind me. ' Miss Githa,' he exclaimed with the familiarity of an old servant, ' I trust there is nothing wrong that has brought you back so sudden-like ' ; but I shook my head. 'Has my father come home, Hallett?' I asked presently. ' Yes, ma'am, the master had luncheon at home to- day, and I have just taken him his tea in the library ' ; but here he stopped abruptly, for the sound of our voices had reached father, and he came hastily towards us. 'What on earth docs this mean, Githa?' he said quite sharply ; ' you have come home alone, without even sending me a telegram.' Then his manner changed •Si i84 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. when he saw my face. Perhaps he understood that I was trembling so that I could hardly stand, for he put his arm round me and drew me into the library, and when poor old Hallett would have followed us he checked him. * I will ring if I want anything ; please see that we are not disturbed ' ; and then he made me sit down in the big easy-chair, and helped me to remove my hat and veil ; but how cold his hands were ! and he looked at me anxiously. ' You are ill, darling ; I have never seen you look so pale. Perhaps, after all, we had better send for Mrs. Marland,' and actually his hand was on the bell, but I stopped him. ' No, no, I want no one but you — no one but you. Oh, father,' with a little sob I could not restrain, ' I was obliged to come home, I could not stay away another hour ; I only wanted this,' laying my head on his shoulder as I spoke, ' and to tell you how dearly, how dearly I love you.' I am sure he understood, for he held me very closely without speaking ; but his dear face had grown suddenly wan and haggard. ' Does this mean that you know all, Githa ? ' he asked presently ; his voice was strained and a little hoarse. ' Yes, I know all that is necessary for me to know,' I half whispered. * And what is that ? Do not keep me in suspense, darling, I cannot bear it ! I have a right to know everything that has passed between — you and — her ' ; and his intense anxiety was so evident that it nerved me to make an effort. ' I will try to tell you, father. I know now, though I cannot realise it, that Cousin Yvonne is my mother. She told me so last night when we were alone together. xviii FATHER AND I 185 I think the shock was too great, for it made me quite ill and giddy, but she was so dear and good to me.' ' My poor little Gipsy ! ' ' I could not believe it at first ; for all these years I have thought my mother was dead.' ' Yes, I know,' he returned almost angrily, ' but it was no fault of mine ; I told Yvonne — your mother I mean — that we should be acting a lie, and that it would lead to complications, but I could not move her.' ' Father dear, I think it would have been better if I had known.' He sighed assent to this. ' Well, Githa, what else did your mother tell you ? ' ' Only this, that when I was a little child there was trouble between you ' ; and here I rested my check against his hand. I could hardly say the words, but I knew he was determined to know all — ' She told me }-ou had done her some wrong, which made her leave her home ' ; here I heard a suppressed groan, and hurried on in a trembling voice. ' She said that she did not wish to tell me — more, — and that she had meant to take me with her, but at the last moment her heart failed her, and she left me to be a comfort to you in your loneliness.' ' God bless her for that deed of mercy ! ' he muttered, and then he put me away from him, and his face worked with emotion. ' I think if she had taken you I should have gone mad with remorse and loneliness. Child, listen to me a moment : your mother is a good woman, she is as spotless as a saint, and to my dying day I shall love and honour her, although that inarble statue beside us is not so hard as she has been to me. O my God ! ' he continued passionately, ' I know too well that i86 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. I wronged her, but good women have forgiven before now ; but when ' here I stopped him by laying my hand against his Hps. ' Father, hush, I will not hear, I will not — I will not ! the trouble, whatever it may be, is between you two, it is for no one else to judge — certainly not your child. Dearest, dearest ! ' clasping him tightly round the neck, 'if you look like that you will break my heart. If you have done wrong, you have repented and suffered ! All these years you have been sad and lonely ; you have wanted her, and hoped that she would come back to us ! Oh, father, the dearest father that any child could have, let me comfort you a little, for I know from her own lips that my mother loves you still ! ' He did not answer — I think he could not ; his face was hidden in his hands, and his strong frame was shaking with suppressed emotion, but I knelt beside him, clasping him silently until that moment of agony had passed. If only she had seen and heard him, she must have forgiven him ! ' Father, I do not think I could love you more than I do to-night ; if you are unhappy, I shall be unhappy too.' He raised his head when I said that, but I could see there were tears in his eyes. ' My little blessing,' he said tenderly, and then I crept into his arms and for a long time we were silent. This was all I wanted — to be near him, and to make him realise that not even this should come between us. I think there was something almost sacramental in that long, peaceful silence, as though some hallowed presence — perhaps the Angel of Forgiveness — was standing with folded wings in the soft evening light. I was very weary, but I was no longer giddy and confused. A certain clarity of vision seemed to XVIII FATHER AND I 1S7 come to me. If ever a woman had a mission, surely I had mine : the work so difficult in the doing, and yet so unutterably sweet and holy to a daughter's heart — the bringing back the wife and mother to her rightful place in the home. How long I should have knelt there resting against him I do not know ; only, father suddenly remembered that I was far from well, and needed food after my journey. Tea was still on the table, but no one had touched it. In moments of intense excitement bodily wants are forgotten. ' My poor dear Gipsy, you are utterly exhausted, but it is too late for tea now. It is just dinner-time, and we are neither of us ready. I should like to have you with me, if you feel fit for it.' And of course I assured him that nothing would induce me to leave him, and then we went upstairs hand in hand. Mardie met me at my bedroom door. Her face was full of concern. ' Oh, my dear,' she said in a fretted voice, 'I have been nearly distracted all these hours since Hallett told me how sadly you were looking ; and you arc like a ghost, Miss Githa, surely, and your eyes twice their size.' ' Never mind, Mardie dear,' I returned in a weary voice. ' I am too tired to talk to-night, and I want you to help me get ready for dinner.' ' You are more fit for bed,' replied the good creature in a vexed tone ; but as I made no response to this — and indeed I knew she was right — she went away grumbling to herself about the blindness of people who were half-killing her lamb ; and all the time she dressed me she kept dropping little hints, as though she suspected trouble, but I gave her no opening, only just before I went downstairs I said to her — i88 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. ' Mardie dear, 1 do not mean to be unkind, but indeed I cannot talk to-night'; and then I kissed her, and she seemed more satisfied. Father was waiting for me. ' Why did you trouble to dress ? ' he said, with a glance at my white gown ; and then the gong sounded, and we went into the dining-room. To my relief, he insisted that my place should be changed, and that I should sit beside him, and he seemed scarcely able to eat his dinner for watching me. Except a word or two, there was no attempt at any conversation, and once I saw Hallett looking at his master with evident uneasiness. How thankful we both were when the meal was over and we were at liberty to return to the library. I told father that I meant to stay with him a little, but he shook his head dubiously. I am not sure that I ought to keep you up, Gipsy, but I do not know how to bring myself to part with you.' But, after all, there was little talk between us that night ; but I think it made him happier to know that I was beside him, that I understood, and that nothing on earth could come between us. Mardie was waiting for me when I got upstairs. I think she saw how spent and exhausted I was, for she waited on me as though I were still her nursling, and never left me until my head was on the pillow. I slept like a worn-out child that night, and felt more like my old self when I woke the next morning ; for I was young, and youth is synonymous with hope, and the spring sunshine was flooding the room. As I drank my tea Mardie came with a message from my father : he wanted to know how I had slept. I assured her quite cheerfully that I was much better, and that my head had ceased to ache ; but she did not xviii FATHER AND I 189 appear quite satisfied. She shook her head in rather a tragical manner, and I knew my return message would be enriched by copious annotations of her own. When I entered the breakfast-room an hour later father met me, and taking my face between his hands, looked at it a little anxiously. ' You have haunted me the greater part of the night, Gipsy,' he said gently, and there was a tired look about his eyes which told me he had not slept well. ' I could not forget your pitiful little face — but there,' rather abruptly, ' we will not talk until we have had our breakfast. I think we both want air and sunshine — would you like me to drive you to Richmond, darling, or shall we just stroll to Battersea Park?' The last suggestion pleased me best. At this early hour Battersea Park would be quiet and pleasant, and we could easily find some nook away from children and nursemaids. I knew Roy would prefer this plan, for of all delights he enjoyed barking at the ducks in the pond. He would scamper madly round the edge of the pond, all fuss and fury, but he never attempted to go into the water. We soon found a quiet bench, and then father began to talk. He asked me at once if I intended going back to Bayfield. ' As you brought no luggage with you,' he continued, ' I guessed that this was your intention.' I told him that he was right, and that I had promised my mother to return in a few days. 'It is Tuesday ; if you can spare me, father, I think I will write and tell her to expect me on Saturday.' He assented quietly to this. ' But you will not stay long, Gip,' he added hastily. ' No, not this time — only ten days or so ' ; and he seemed relieved when I said this. 190 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS CHAP. ' I do not know what we are to do for the future,' he continued, and there was deep depression in his voice. ' I do not want to be selfish, and I suppose your mother ought to have her share ; but 1 simply cannot endure home without you. Cheyne Walk is the abomination of desolation without you, Gipsy ; besides, my daughter is the mistress of the house.' He spoke as though he were defending himself against some one. * Yes, I understand,' was my answer ; ' but you are not selfish, father ; you know that I never like leaving you. But what are we to do — there is mother ? ' and as I said this the memory of her as I last saw her came back to me, when she stood by the landing window in her grey gown, looking like a Mater Dolorosa. I noticed that father winced perceptibly when I mentioned her. I was determined to school myself to pronouncing her name, that in time I might learn to say it more naturally. My own deadness of feeling with regard to her had alarmed me. I did not under- stand then as fully as I did afterwards that I was jealous of any strong influence which threatened his monopoly of my affection. All these years it had been father and I, or, as he had more than once play- fully expressed it, * Darnell and Co.' ; it would not be too much to say that we had been all in all to each other ; and as I grew up to womanhood this bond had only strengthened and deepened. I was the light of his eyes ; I knew that well ; the one ewe lamb that had been spared to him out of his life's wreck, who meta- phorically had drunk of his cup and lay in his bosom, and he could not do without me. How the knowledge of this oneness of sympathy between us must have tortured mv mother and added XVIII FATHER AND I 191 to her loneliness ! Shut out of her woman's paradise by her own inexorable and unyielding will, by a pride which could not stoop to pity and forgive, she yet suffered all the pangs of outraged maternity ; she had to hide her mother's love, to stifle the cry of her heart, for the child she so dearly loved. Alas ! who could restore to her these past years when from afar she watched over my childhood ? Could any aftermath of tenderness make up for the years that the locust had eaten ? I was very full of pity for her as these thoughts crossed my mind, and yet — and yet my deepest sympathy was for my father. Surely he had suffered and humbled himself enough ; all this long estrangement — this cruel separation — was her doing, not his. I knew without words that at any moment, if she had chosen, she could have come back and taken her rightful place. My father sighed and moved restlessly as I made my little speech — ' There is mother.' ' Yes, yes, I know ; do you think I ever forget her for a moment ? If she had only sent me a message — but no, it is hopeless. My darling, I shall expect you to help me in this ; you must let me know what you consider due to your mother, for I cannot trust myself in this matter.' I knew what he meant — that any further sacrifice on his part was well-nigh impossible to him, that he wanted me too much to spare me willingly ; but he was giving me a harder task than he guessed. ' Whatever you decide ought to be done, Githa, shall be done ; but there is no need to settle this in a hurry. Think over it, dear, and remember you must help me not to be selfish.' Then I slipped my hand in his. ' I am selfish too, father. But you are right, and we 192 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap, xviii will decide nothing in a hurry. There is one thing I want to say : all this secrecy has been a mistake ; in my opinion it has been absolutely wrong.' ' And in mine too, Gipsy,' he said gravely. ' Yes, dearest, I know that ; but at least we may do our best to set wrong right.' ' You mean that you wish our friends to know about your mother.' ' Yes,' rather excitedly, ' our friends, our household — every one connected with us. I would have no more mysteries and false impressions.' * You are right, my child ' ; but he shivered a little as though the task would be a painful one. ' If you wish it I will speak to Hallett to-night' ' No, dear, you shall not do that. I have thought of a better plan : I will tell Mardie, and she will manage the rest,' for I was anxious to spare him all I could. For his dear sake I could be strong and courageous. ' But, father, there is Aunt Cosie ; surely she comes first ! ' Then he smiled as though faintly amused. ' Aunt Cosie has known all along, darling ; there is no need to tell her anything. She has always strongly disapproved of your mother's conditions, and has blamed me most severely for what she calls my weak compro- mise ; and I dare say she is right. It has led to a serious breach between her and Yvonne — your mother I mean — and they have not met for years. I should like you to go and see her to-morrow, Gipsy. I think you had better go alone. She will be thankful to know that the truth has been told at last, and I dare say her wise old head will help us to unravel the tangled skein.' And then, of course, I told him that I would go to Fairlawn the next day. CHAPTER XIX ' IT IS SAD AS DEATH ' Let no man shrink from the bitter tonics Of grief and yearning, and need and strife ; For the rarest chords in the soul's harmonics Are fountl in tlie minor strains of life. E. Wheeler Wilcox. Is it a dream ? Let us shape it to action. IVIighty with truth's irresistible strength, Bold with the courage that fears no tlistraction, Shall we not climb to the vision at length ? C. M. Noel. Father told me that evening that there would be an important meeting of directors the next morning, and that he must drive into town early. He suggested also that I should accompany him part of the way, and that he should drop me at Fairlawn. ' It will not make much difference to me, and we can start a little earlier,' he went on. ' You might as well stay to luncheon, Gipsy, for I am not likely to return before tea-time, I have rather a long day before me ' ; and I readily acquiesced in this arrangement. I shrank from the idea of a solitary day, and under the circumstances I was unwilling to seek Miss Red- ford's society ; so the idea of spending the day at Fairlawn seemed to me rather pleasant than otherwise. 193 O 194 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. I was very fond of Aunt Cosie ; she was such a peaceful sort of person, and somehow she never dis- appointed me in my childish troubles. She had always been so kind and sympathetic, and I felt assured that she would not fail me now. We talked very little during the drive ; but as we came in sight of Fairlawn father put his hand on mine. ' You need not be nervous, Gipsy,' he said kindly, ' your Aunt Cosie will be very good to you, and you need have no reserves with her,' and then he smiled at me, and the next moment the carriage stopped. Aunt Cosie was sitting as usual in her sunny drawing-room. She had just given her orders to her cook, and was reading the Times before she wrote her letters. Later on she would take her morning walk or potter in the garden. Her habits were like clockwork, and she seldom varied them. ' A lonely old woman is a law to herself,' she said once when father was teasing her and calling her ' the clockwork lady,' declaring in his droll way that she wound herself up afresh ' every morning for her round of duties. 'Ah, Philip, my dear,' she went on, ' it is no wonder that you cannot enter into an old wife's feelings ; but I always was an orderly sort of body from a girl, and I like my day's machinery to be well oiled and never out of gear. A little method makes " the trivial round, the common task," ever so much easier.' Aunt Cosie put down her paper with a surprised exclamation when she saw me. ' Why, Githa, child,' she observed, ' I thought you were at Bayfield. Has anything prevented your going ? ' ' No, Aunt Cosie, I came home unexpectedly because I wanted to speak to father ; but I am going back on Saturday.' XIX 'IT IS SAD AS DEATH' 195 I thought Aunt Cosie looked at mc a little keenly when I said that. Then she folded her paper in a resolute manner. ' And you have come to spend the day with me, have you not, my dear ? ' ' If I shall not be in the way, Aunt Cosie. Father has an important meeting, and a good deal of business, so I need not be home until five — so if you can keep me until then.' But Aunt Cosie paid no heed to this tentative remark. ' Go and take off your things in the blue room,' she returned quietly ; ' and, Githa, if you will just ring the bell as you pass, I have an order to give.' Of course, the dear old thing was thinking of luncheon. She would insist on having my favourite pudding or some special dainty, and I would not spoil her pleasure by telling her that I had no heart for such things. When I returned to the room her wool work was beside her, but she had not taken it up. As I came towards her she pointed mutely to the great square footstool beside her, and I thought her sweet old face looked unusually grave. ' You poor child,' she said in such a pitying voice, ' have you come of your own accord to talk to me, or has Philip, your father I mean, sent you .-' ' and then I knew that she understood all about it ; indeed, she informed me afterwards, the first glance at my face told her everything without a word. I felt an intense relief when she said this. She was smoothing my hair with her soft old hand as she spoke, in such a comforting way. 'Oh, Aunt Cosie, how could )'ou guess?' I half whispered ; but she only gave an inexplicable little smile, and went on with her caressing manipulations. 196 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. ' Father wished me to come. He said you knew all about it, and that I could tell you anything I liked. Oh, I have been so unhappy, so perplexed and miser- able, and all life seemed spoiled somehow and the sunshine blotted out ' ; and here I buried my face in her lap, unable to go on. ' You poor little child ! ' and here her hand rested rather heavily on my hair. And then she said some- thing that sounded very strange to me — ' Are you so unhappy, Githa, to find you have a good mother living ? ' How shockingly that sounded ! ' No, oh no. Of course I never meant that, and all my life I have been so fond of Cousin Yvonne.' ' But you find it difficult to realise that she is your mother. I think I understand how you feel, Githa — it has been a great shock.' 'Yes, that is just it.' ' Let us talk a little about it, dear. I think I can find some way to help you, but I must know more first ' ; and then, with much tender encouragement and a few judicious questions, she drew from me the account of that Sunday evening, and when I broke down, unable to proceed, she petted and soothed me as though I were still the child Githa. ' Oh, the pity of it,' I heard her say half to herself, — ' the cruel waste — the unnecessary suffering ! ' Then in a quieter tone, * Githa, I dare say your father has told you that from the first I disapproved of all this secrecy. You have been allowed to grow up in the belief that your mother was dead ' ; but I would not let her go on. ' It was not father's fault, Aunt Cosie.' ' He did not propose it, you mean. Yes, at heart, I know, he absolutely disapproved of your mother's con- XIX -IT IS SAD AS DKATir 197 ditions ; but it was wrong and weak of him to give in to her. How often I have told him that ! ' ' Yes, I know ; and of course it was a grievous mistake. Oh, Aunt Cosie, if you could only realise the shock it was to me ! ' ' I think I do realise it, Githa. Have you any idea how changed you are, my poor child ? You look years older since the day you came to wish me good-bye, and yet it is not a week ago.' I was silent. I certainly felt years older, and some- thing told me that I .should never be quite the same Githa again. ' It was living a lie, and that is always wrong,' she went on. ' Githa, from what you have told me, your mother seems to have said very little to you. I can understand the difficulty, and Yvonne, in spite of all her faults, can be generous ; but it seems to me, putting myself in your place, that you could hardly comprehend how this strange and unnatural separation took place ' ; but I was so afraid of what she might be going to say, that I interrupted her almost abruptly. ' Forgive me, Aunt Cosie, but I know ail that I wish or mean to know. W'h)' my parents have decided to separate is their affair, not mine. That is why I came home that evening, that I might tell father that nothing — nothing should ever make a difference between us. If 1 ever loved him in m}' life, I love him a hundred times more now when I know how unhappy he has been.' 'And your mother, Githa?' Tlic-n a chill pang crossed my heart. ' 1 have always loved her, even tlujugh I was ignorant lliat she was my mother'; but my voice was a little cold. ' But, Aunt Cosie, I do ncjt understand her. 1 198 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. think — I always shall think — that she need not have left us.' But the next moment I would have gladly withdrawn my impulsive words ; had I not said that it was not for me to judge my parents ? ' My dear child, it nearly broke her heart to go and leave you behind.' ' Yes, I know, and I ought not to have said that. You must forget it, Aunt Cosie. I mean to love my mother, and if she will only come back to us, there is nothing on earth I would not do to make her happy.' * I fear — I greatly fear — that she will not do that.' ' Why should she not do it,' I returned with much agitation, ' when we both love her and want her so badly ? She is so dear and good, why is it so difficult for her to forgive, after all these years too ? ' ' Why, indeed,' and Aunt Cosie sighed, and there was a troubled look on her face ; and then she murmured under her breath, ' " Until seventy times seven," those were the Master's words ' ; and then we were both silent. Aunt Cosie seemed absorbed in her own reflections, and I was unwilling to disturb her ; but she presently roused herself with a sigh. ' It is sad — it is sad as death, Githa, and I cannot imagine what you will all do in the future ; your mother has claims.' ' I can never leave father. He is my first duty, Aunt Cosie.' ' I was sure you would say that,' she returned quietly, ' and under the peculiar circumstances I dare say you are right. But a mother's claims must be very strong, and I do not sec, my poor child, how you arc to satisfy them.' I did not see it either, and my heart felt as heavy as a millstone as she spoke, but nothing would induce me to give up hope of a final reconciliation With XIX 'IT IS SAD AS DEATH' 199 some difficulty, and with many tears, I tried to convey this to her mind, and she seemed so touched that she could scarcely refrain from weeping too, ' Dear child, dear child,' she said softly, again and again, and then something prompted me to tell her my strange dream. I think siic was a little awed and startled, and although she said it was beautiful, she looked at me rather uneasily. ' It was an extraordinary dream for a girl of your age, Githa. Your brain must have been overwrought, my dear.' ' Aunt Cosie, one day I mean to tell my mother that dream.' She nodded gravely ; then she suddenly put her hands on my shoulder. ' Githa, my dear, there is something I want to say to you, and that you must not refuse to hear. Surely,' in rather a hurt voice, ' you can trust mc,' as I uncon- sciously shrank under her soft, constraining touch. 'Trust you — of course I do,dear Aunt Cosie, but ' ' There are no buts, Githa,' with a quiet firmness that subdued my nervousness ; ' and if you love your father you will not refuse to hear what I think it right to tell you. ' It is true that when you were a little child there was trouble between xour parents, and that }'our poor mother had much to bear.' ' Aunt Cosie, please, please ' But she only pressed her hands more firmly cm my shoulders and went on. ' No doubt Philip — your father, I mean — was to blame. As a }()ung man he was weak and easil)- led, and he came under a bad influence. I know all the circumstances, Githa, — far more than yuur mother 200 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. does. I know everything, from Philip's own h'ps, and I can tell his daughter, what I never could bring her mother to believe, that things were not as bad as they appeared to be.' ' And my mother would not believe you ? ' ' No, my dear ; she said I was prejudiced in Philip's favour, and that I always took his side. I never saw a woman so proud and so determined to wreck her own life and other people's ; she could not forgive. She told me so, with a despairing look on her poor white face ; and I could do no more for either of them.' ' And yet he had done no great wrong ? ' Then Aunt Cosie coloured and seemed a little perplexed. ' My dear child, in one sense he had wronged her cruelly, for he had made her suffer very bitter pain ; but though he acted foolishly and recklessly, and gave her just cause for her unhappiness, things never came to the worst. At the very edge of the precipice he came to his right senses. I always said a miracle saved him.' I listened in breathless interest to this vague ex- planation. In spite of my assurances that no wrong- doing on my beloved father's part should ever come between us, it was an immense relief to hear that things were not so terrible as I feared. Aunt Cosie smiled again as she read my face. ' I am telling you the whole truth, Githa.' ' Yes ; and I am so thankful to have heard it. But, Aunt Cosie, do you see, it only makes it all the more strange that my mother should have left us.' 'There is no use entering into that, Githa,' she returned sadl)'. ' There were temperamental diffi- culties on your mother's side which hindered reconcilia- tion. If she could only have brought herself to believe MX 'IT IS SAU AS DEATH' 20I the truth — if she could have cleared her mind of pre- conceived notions and prejudices — she miijht have been more reasonable ; but at that time she had so exagger- ated her own misery that she was thrown off her balance. I think a gentler nature would have forgiven even then ; but Yvonne's indomitable pride and self-will would not hear of yielding, and so,' with a heavy sigh, ' they were best apart.' ' Aunt Cosic, you cannot think so now ; they are both unhappy, and the)' do care for each other so dreadfully.' She seemed faintly amused at my childish way of expressing it ; but I saw she was not sanguine, though she was unwilling to depress me. She patted my cheek softly. ' Dear child,' she said alTect'onately, ' Heaven forbid that I should say a word to discourage you ; there are miracles even now. Follow the instinct of your own loving heart, and every blessing attend you.' And as she kissed me, I saw that there were tears in her dear old eyes, and that she was strongly moved. I saw that she did not wish to pursue the subject, so I suggested that we should go for a little walk, and she hailed my proposal with an air of relief; and I think the spring sunshine did us both a world of good. We spent the afternoon pleasantly ; and nothing more passed between us on the subject of my visit, until I bade her good-bye, and then she detained me a moment. ' \V)u are really going back to l')ayfiolrolongcd course of platonic friendship was not exactly fattening, — oh yes,' with a little shrug of disapproval, ' I know she and Mr. Pelham consider themselves engaged, but as far as matri- mony is concerned, it is likely to be a " No Thoroughfare " piece of business. I always thought Claudia a sensible, matter-of-fact .woman ; but even she has her limitations.' 1 thought Miss Redford gave me a sharp look as she laid the needlework aside, and then we sat down and began to talk ; but before I had said half-a-dozen words she almost took my breath away. ' I know what you are going to tell me, Githa,' she observed coolly, 'so there is no need for you to distress yourself in this manner. I am quite aware tliat jour Cousin Yvonne is Mrs. I'hilip Darnrll, and ynuv mother.' 212 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. I could scarcely believe my ears when she said this. ' Who told you ? ' I asked faintly. * My dear child, no one has told me. But I am very quick ; my brother-in-law often says that I should make an excellent detective or lawyer. I have got a knack of finding out things, which Helen declares is almost uncanny.' ' But no one has said anything,' I returned ; for though I had been relieved from a painful task I was not at all sure that I was grateful. Until now I had always admired Miss Redford's intellect and keen penetration, but I felt a little repelled by the idea that so strong a flashlight had been turned on our personal concerns. I think my manner hurt her a little. ' You must not judge me beforehand, Githa ; let me explain matters more clearly. It is no fault of mine that I have a mathematical brain and a certain sagacity which enables me to form conclusions long before people begin to make up their minds. From the first I knew your father was not a widower. My dear old friend, Mrs. Bevan, never told me so in words, neither do I remember that I ever questioned her directly on the subject, — nevertheless her manner gave me the clue. I was sure that your mother was living, although you were unaware of the fact ; but for a long time the whole thing was an enigma ; for all I knew Mrs. Philip Darnell might be in an asylum.' ' Oh, Reddy, how could you think of anything so horrible ? ' *My dear, imagination is a sad vagabond, and plays one sorry tricks sometimes, but I did not long cherish my hallucination. It was when you were ill, Githa, that the idea came in my head — one night when I was sitting XX AN OPEN SECRET 213 up with you — that }our Cousin Yvonne and }our mother were one and the same person.' ' But why — why,' I gasped, ' why should such a notion come into your head ? ' ' Ah, there we must ask our vagabond again. Why do the.se sudden intuitions and flashes of insiszht often come when one least expects them ? ' ' From the first I felt there was a mystery about your Cousin Yvonne. The regularity of your visits to Bayfield and your cousin's very evident kindness and generosity, the fact that she never came to St. Olave's Lodge, and that though letters passed between them, that Mr. Darnell never visited at Prior's Cot, were very perplexing. To a mathematical brain surely two and two ought to make four. It was easy to see that your cousin regarded you with almost maternal affection. You are very frank and artless, Githa, and you have told me so much ; my dear, is it so wonderful that you yourself should have unconsciously given me the clue ? That night when you were light-headed, and you begged your father to .send for dear Cousin Yvonne, I .saw him wince and change colour, and such a strange look come into his eyes, that I said to myself "That woman is Githa's mother." ' CHAPTER XXI AN OBJECT LESSON It does no good to brood over our troubles ; it does not help matters out a bit. Be on the look-out for briglit rays, and you will certainly find them. — Anon. Three blissful words I name to thee, Three words of potent charm, From eating care thy heart to free, Thy life to shield from harm ; — Pray — work— and sing. J. Stuart Blackie. I LISTENED to Miss Redford's crisp, fluent sentences without any wish to interrupt her. There was no longer a difficult task before me, but yet how suddenly tired I felt. A coming sense of unreality assailed me. Could it really be true after all ? One knows so well in after life these sudden chill revulsions and throbs of heart- sickness. The overwrought brain is confused, doubtful. There is no clearness of vision, — something, we know not what, has blurred our sight all at once. I seemed to be assisting at a strange function more tragical than joyful. I was listening to some narrative which did not seem to concern me at all. I looked helplessly at Miss Redford ; surely she would know what to do next. Was it my fancy that a startled look came into her 214 CHAP. XXI AN OBJECT LESSON 215 eyes. She leant forward and took my hand very firmly in hers ; their warmth seemed comforting ; and as I tried to smile at her, she said, very gently and (ILiietl}', ' That is right, Githa dear, pull yourself together, do not let yourself go. You have gone through a great deal since we last met, and you are exhausted.' And then she told me to sit still while she went into the other room ; and a moment later she brought me a restorative. After a few minutes I was less confused, but for some time she refused to go on with our talk. She took up her needlework, and went on sewing, but all the time she was watching me. I grew impatient of the silence at last. * I am not so tired now,' I observed ; * your dose was so potent that it has warmed me through and through.' ' Yes, your colour has come back, but you were not really faint, only a little confused ; I understand all that so well.' She spoke calmly, but there was a sort of sigh in her voice. ' Githa, I was only trying to help you when I was saying all that. You looked so terribly distressed, my poor child, that I wanted to spare you.* ' You were very good to me, Reddy.' ' My dear, there is nothing that I would not do to help you. I can quite sec that you are in a dillicult position. I'^or some cause your parents have decided to live apart ; that fact alone must point to complications.' I silently acquiesced in this. Miss Redford in- tuitively knew or guessed so much that it was clearly inadvisable to tell her more, even if I were in a position to do so. She looked at me wistfully, hesitated, and then went on. 'There is something I want to ask you, Githa, though I am half afraid to do so. I know >-ou were 2i6 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. always very much attached to Mrs. Darnell, surely the knowledge that it is she who is your own mother and not some unknown stranger gives you a certain pleasure and relief.' The question seemed a difficult one to me, and I hardly knew how to answer it. * I have always loved my Cousin Yvonne,' I replied slowly. * I have trusted and admired her all my life, but she seems to have grown suddenly strange to me.' ' That is because you are confused, my dear. You see you have scarcely recovered from the shock.' ' You may be right,' I returned, putting up my hands to my forehead in a bewildered fashion ; but I feel sometimes as though it is too impossible to believe ; it is like talking to one's dearest friend under a mask. It is not Cousin Yvonne, it is some one else.' Miss Redford smiled and patted my hands. * Yes, I know. You must be patient, and you will get more accustomed to the idea ; when shall you see Mrs. Darnell again ? ' ' I return to Bayfield to-morrow.' She seemed surprised at this. ' Are you sure that is wise, that you are fit to go ? ' Then I knew that she was a little anxious about me. ' I promised,' was my reply. ' Ah, then, in that case I will not try to dissuade you. I suppose Mrs. Marland will go down with you ? ' ' We have not arranged that. I shall talk to father this evening ; if he agrees I shall probably remain at Bayfield for ten days or a fortnight. I cannot stay away from him longer.' She nodded, and regarded me thoughtfully, and I felt that she was reading me like an open book. ' Poor child,' she said softly ; but she made no XXI AN OBJECT LESSON 217 objection when I told her that it was growing late and that I must go. * And I must not come and see you to-morrow before you start,' and I shook my head. ' I think not, Reddy ; I shall have father. Somehow it seems to make things worse to talk about them, but I wanted you to know.' And then I would have bade her good-bye, but she told me to wait a moment and she would walk with me to St. Olave's Lodge. At the gate she kissed me most affectionately, and begged me to take things more simply and quietly. ' And remember if I can do anything to help you, Githa, I shall be only too thankful to be of service,' and I knew she meant every word she said. In spite of her abrupt manner and undemonstrative nature she was absolutely sincere and reliable. She would go through fire and water for those she loved, and take no credit to herself for her self-sacrifice. I was glad that father would not be back until tea-time. I wanted a little quiet time to myself. After luncheon I went up to the corner room and sat down by the open window. In spite of the freshness of the air blowing off the river it was (juite warm in the sunshine, and I scarcely ncedetl the light wrap I wore. There had been a refreshing shower or two in the morning, and that 'clear shining after rain' gave an indescribable beauty to the scene. Such golden lights and soft shadows on the river, such wide spaces of blue sky just flecked by white, feathery clouds. A thrush was singing his spring song in the acacia below, with delicious trills and breaks of fluting melody. ' All was well,' he chanted ; winter was over, and his nest was full. He was singing to his patient, bright- eyed mate, who was intent on family cares under the 2i8 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. green leaves. They were young, and the world was young too. There was sunshine, and worms were plentiful, and that was sufficient for bird philosophy. Presently a little steam tug snorted noisily as it passed with a train of empty barges in tow. In the last one a boy lay asleep on a heap of sacks. A large white dog sat erect beside him, like a sentinel on guard. Just beneath my window a man, wheeling a heavy truck of plants and flowers, had paused for a moment to recover his breath. He was a heavily built man, with a club foot, but he looked a cheerful creature. A mite of a child in a queer old sunbonnet was laugh- ing at him out of a big basket in the midst of the plants. She was sucking a piece of sugar-stick with immense relish. Some smartly dressed children and their nurse stood for a moment to watch. One of the children carried a bag of buns, probably for the nursery tea later on. She was a fair, pretty little girl. I noticed she said something to her nurse, and then shyly offered a bun to the baby, who gave a shout of delight as she grabbed at it. * 'Ook, Fardie, a cake for Bella,' I heard her say in her shrill little voice. The sunbonnet was pushed back excitedly. The grimy little hands were as full as the thrush's nest. Happy Bella. No little princess could have been more blissful than the coster's baby in the ragged basket ; for her, too, the sun shone and the world was good. I was becoming interested. I wanted to keep sad thoughts at bay, to rest and distract myself, and so to gather strength for the evening. These little human comedies diverted me. Before the truck moved on there was another episode. A little woman in shabby black stood on the pavement looking at the plants. XXI AN OBJECT LESSON 219 She had some pence in her ungloved hand, and her covetous glance was fixed on a pot of large white daisies, tall, with golden discs, such as grow in country meadows under hedgerows. Mardie came to bring me a message just then, but she did not stay. When I looked out again the little woman was carrying the pot of daisies with an air of proud triumph. Clearly she had obtained a possession, and for her the sunshine had meaning. Just then a well-known figure, a neighbour of ours, stumbled into sight, leaning heavily on the arms of a man-servant. Poor old Colonel Thorne, an octogenarian, who had outlived his wife and family, and who had just fought through a paralytic seizure, to the astonishment of his doctors and nurses. The old man with the scythe had been cheated of his prey, for a time, but the vigorous, gallant soldier was now a pitiable wreck. Weakness and senile decay were stamped on each loose, uncertain movement. Every afternoon at this hour, when the sun shone, he passed our house with his faithful attendant, now dragging his feet with difficulty along the sunny pavement, and now resting on a bench. His huddled-up figure and white hair streaming over his fur collar always moved me to pity. And yet surely for him there were compensations. His battles were all fought ; he had worked well ; had taken his losses like a man. His dear ones were already safe in the harbour, and his battered old hulk was only held by a light chain, until the Captain gave the orders to loose from the moorings. I had always noticed that the dim, tired eyes turned involuntarily to the river ; nothing else seemed to interest him. Perhaps he unconsciously connected it with that last solemn river, which even his faltering 220 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS chap. footsteps must pass, the waters of which should be his heahng and renewal. So even for him there was the warm sunshine and the spring breezes, and the Father's smile, and perchance, before long, the 'Well done, faithful servant ' to be spoken by the Master. My quiet rest- hour had done me good, and I was more ready to play my part in the evening. I saw at once that father was not in good spirits. The shadow of our parting was over him. He never liked me to leave him, even for a day, though he rarely mentioned this fact. But I knew him too well to be deceived by any flimsy attempts at cheerfulness. After tea he asked me to read him an article in a magazine which he thought would interest us both, and the dressing-bell sounded before I had quite finished it. When dinner was over he followed me to the draw- ing-room. It was still too early in the season to sit outside on the balcony, but the window overlooking the river was a favourite evening resort. I went to the piano and played as usual, until it was too dark to see the notes, and then father rung for lights ; but when they had been brought he came to my side for a moment. ' I suppose you are going by the usual afternoon train to-morrow, Gipsy ? ' I nodded assent. • And Mrs. Marland will accompany you to Bay- field ? ' ' If you think that is still necessary, father.' < Yes — yes,' with a touch of impatience. ' I do not care for my daughter to travel alone. You are too young and attractive, Gip ; and now tell me when I may expect you back.' XXI AN OBJECT LESSON 221 ' Could you spare me for a fortnight ? ' I faltered. ' I think — I really think — I ought to stay as long as that; His face clouded, but he made no objection. * You are the best judge,' he said curtly. ' Now, and for the future, I shall expect you to decide this point for yourself His tone did not quite please me, but I let it pass, and played a few soft chords on the keys ; but the next moment his hands were on my shoulder. ' Will my little girl always be loyal to me ? ' he whispered in my ears. I drew back as though I had been stung. * Father ! ' was all I could say ; but he was instantly filled with remorse. ' Hush ! don't look at me like that, darling. Indeed I did not mean it.' Then, as I leant back against him, he kissed me in a hurried, fond way. ' No — no ; it is always Darnell and Co., Gipsy, always Darnell and Co.' CHAPTER XXII SYDNEY PROVES AN OPTIMIST I follow, follow, sure to meet the sun, And confident, that what tlie future yields Will be the right, unless myself be wrong. LOXGFELLOW. I WAS rather surprised and disappointed on reaching Bayfield the following- afternoon not to see Sydney's bright face awaiting me on the platform, and I was just wondering what could have detained her when Sam Moyle, who acted as gardener and coachman at Prior's Cot, came up to me, smiling broadly, and, touching his hat, handed me a three-cornered note. ' It is from the missus,' he observed, ' but the mare is a bit fresh, and I must not leave her ; ' and then he went off. We all liked Sam. He was an honest, reliable fellow, and, as Cousin Yvonne, my mother; I mean, often remarked, with a sigh of intense satis- faction, that he was worth his weight in gold. It was only a pencilled line from her telling me that Sydney had gone on the river with Rhona and Thurston Wilde ; that she fully expected to be back in good time to meet my train, but that probably the tide had detained them. The signature, * Your loving 222 CHAP. XXII SYDNEY PROVES AN OPTIMIST 223 mother,' made mc flush so siicklcnl\- that I saw IMardie look at mc rather ciiriousl)-. I explained matters to Iicr and bade her good-bye, but she waited to see me drive off. I am afraid Sam found me rather a quiet companion that day. It was an effort to rouse myself and ask questions about his wife and family. There were five boys and one girl, and they were all blue-eyed and red -headed, mis- chiev'ous, sturdy little urchins, who were their father's pride. He fairly chortled with joy as he narrated Bob's last prank and the saucy ways of Jemmy, who was the last baby but one, and a pickle from his cradle. I used to fear that Jane Moyle, who was a subdued, hard-worked little woman, found her unruly infants rather a trial. Even little Nancy was as great a hoyden as her brothers. Sam was just telling with great relish of the young pig that he and his missus had bought, and the fine stye that he had made for it, when we turned down the lane leading to Prior's Cot. As we drove in the gate I saw a hand waving from the window over the porch, but as I entered the house mv mother was crossing the hall to meet mc. Nothing could have been kinder than her grceting- ]