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 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 SECOND EDITION
 
 'was I WRONG TO COME IN?" HE ASKED Page 3/6
 
 THE ANGEL 
 OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 BY 
 
 ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY 
 
 I I 
 
 AUTHOR OP "Nellie's memories," "no friend like a sister," etc. 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BY 
 MARY E. FRATZ 
 
 God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above; 
 The tender one was Pity, and the dearest one was Love. 
 
 — Whittibr. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA &- LONDON 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 1908
 
 Copyright, 1907 
 By J. B. LippiNCOTT Company 
 
 Published September, 1907 
 
 Electrotyped and printed by J. B. Lippincott Company 
 The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. FAGB 
 
 I. Mentor Hands Me My Pen 7 
 
 II. The New Governess i8 
 
 III. I AM Eight Years Old 28 
 
 IV. I Fall in Love with Helen 39 
 
 V. Cousin Yvonne 49 
 
 VI. Sydney Comes to Prior's Cot 59 
 
 VII. It is Always Darnell and Co 69 
 
 VIII. "Beggars All" 79 
 
 IX. The Corner Room 88 
 
 X. Roy and I Go Down to Bayfield 98 
 
 XI. Funerals and Angels 108 
 
 XII. St. Helen's Towers 118 
 
 XIII. Stella Gives Me a New Name 127 
 
 XIV. Breakers Ahead 137 
 
 XV. While Ringing to Evensong 147 
 
 XVI. "Why Did You Leave Us?" 157 
 
 XVII. The Angel of Forgiveness 166 
 
 XVIII. Father and I 177 
 
 XIX. "It is Sad as Death" 187 
 
 XX. An Open Secret 197 
 
 XXI. An Object Lesson 208 
 
 XXII. Sydney Proves an Optimist 216 
 
 XXIII. Golliwog and Lot's Wife 226 
 
 XXIV. "Githa, You Forget Yourself" 235 
 
 XXV. "Go on with Your Mission" 243 
 
 V
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGB 
 
 XXVI. Stella Delivers My Message 252 
 
 XXVII. A Cheque from Darnell and Co 262 
 
 XXVIII. A Twilight Hour 272 
 
 XXIX. Lad's Love 281 
 
 XXX. "Then I Will Come" 290 
 
 XXXI. Thurston Obtains a Berth 301 
 
 XXXII. At the School of Art Needlework 311 
 
 XXXIII. "Titania" 322 
 
 XXXIV. Noah's Ark 332 
 
 XXXV. A Dreamer of Dreams 342 
 
 XXXVI. Phantasmagoria 351 
 
 XXXVII. " Through Pain to Peace" 360 
 
 XXXVIII. Autumn Vintage 369 
 
 XXXIX. A Golden Hour 378 
 
 XL. "I Have Brought Your Mistress Home" .... 388 
 
 XLI. My Woman's Heritage 398 
 
 XLII. Mentor Closes the Chapter 408
 
 The 
 Angel of Forgiveness 
 
 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. 
 
 My 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. I 
 am quite serious," as I stared at him, unable to believe 
 the evidence of my own 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 noth- 
 ing so interesting as real life. Take my advice, my dear 
 child ; it will be 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.
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 If he had wanted to rouse me from my grey mood of 
 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 pleas- 
 ant 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 I 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."
 
 MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN 
 
 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 remem- 
 ber 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 con- 
 signed 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 con- 
 tinued, 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 of 
 
 9
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 v^hen 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 Virginia creepers, and its shaded 
 balcony, where one could sit and see the steamers passing 
 on the river, and the wide embankment with its seats 
 and trees ! On summer evenings 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 destruc- 
 tion of old associations. " You must own, Gipsy, that 
 it badly needed repair," father would say when I com- 
 plained 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 their 
 will on it. What did the outside matter, the rooms inside
 
 MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN 
 
 were just perfect " ; and though father shook his head 
 at my vehemence, he did not contradict me. 
 
 I might be incHned to doubt my own youthful judg- 
 ment 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, ATiss Redford, at those barges laden with hay, 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, and 
 your father's pet name Gipsy suited you." 
 
 II
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 confronting 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 handsomest 
 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 
 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 
 
 12
 
 MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN 
 
 too much with the servants. I heard afterwards that 
 Aunt Cosie advised him to turn the nursery into a school- 
 room, 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 was 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 are 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 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- 
 
 <3
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 
 play," 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 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 
 
 14
 
 MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN 
 
 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 how- 
 ever 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 Cosie, 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 game " was my favourite. We 
 pretended to be two tramps, and Battersea Park was 
 generally the scene of our pilgrimage. Father, who was 
 a capital actor, would sometimes, 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 
 
 IS
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 unwilling to take passers-by into confidence ; but in the 
 dusk we kept it up as long as possible, though I don't 
 mind confessing 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. 
 
 " Begging your pardon, my lamb, I am a useless old 
 woman — ^but there, the good Lord has not made us all 
 alike ; changes must come, and it is not my place to 
 grumble if they that sit in authority over me 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 tak- 
 
 i6
 
 MENTOR HANDS ME MY PEN 
 
 ing 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 !
 
 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 come 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 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 
 
 i8
 
 THE NEW GOVERNESS 
 
 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. 
 ' Handsome 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 rever- 
 ently 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. T assured Mardie breathlessly that 
 her Fergus was a splendid man, and she kissed me and 
 then the daguerreotype rather tearfully. 
 
 " Oh, how sorry you must have been to lose him, 
 Mardie," and Mardie gave me such a sad little 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 
 
 19
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 covering 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 
 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. 
 
 30
 
 THE NEW GOVERNESS 
 
 Bevan was Aunt Cosie — and then Mardie cautiously and 
 with much tact explained to me the future programme. 
 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-effac- 
 ing 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 removed from that distress- 
 ing 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 shoul- 
 ders 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 cher- 
 ished any resentment — and when I went downstairs to 
 
 21
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 spend half an hour in the twihght with father, I con- 
 fessed 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 behaved ; 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 
 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 around 
 the nursery while I cleaned their cage, and I had to bribe 
 them with sugar or groundsel to come back. 
 
 aa
 
 THE NEW GOVERNESS 
 
 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 intro- 
 duced 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 least good-looking," she went on, " but 
 her friends admire her 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. 
 
 23
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 My coolness and aloofness towards the new governess 
 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 knowledge, 
 he would persist in asking the French names of the prin- 
 cipal objects we passed during our Saturday walk — 
 trees, palings, ducks, even labourers carrying ladders — 
 until I rebelled and flatly refused answering another 
 question, although he declared it was only a new teach- 
 ing 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.
 
 THE NEW GOVERNESS 
 
 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 ungrateful 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 T was staring a little 
 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 Redford knew 
 her duties, and could stimulate a pupil's flagging interest 
 in a marvellous way. It was she who suggested to Aunt 
 Cosie that I should attend some dancing and drilling 
 classes ; and when I grew older she begged my father 
 
 25
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 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 chil- 
 dren — little people ask these awkward questions some- 
 times — 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. 
 
 26
 
 THE NEW GOVERNESS 
 
 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 cheer- 
 fulness. 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 always 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 
 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.
 
 Ill 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 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 educa- 
 tion in the art of tea-making — to see her pretty old hands 
 rinsing out the cups and then filling them, and her dainty 
 little manipulation of the sugar-tongs and cream- jug! 
 
 28
 
 I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD 
 
 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 tree. 
 
 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 sun-bonnet 
 and gardening apron and work for hours among her 
 roses. 
 
 I remember my eighth birthday fell on a Sunday, and 
 
 39
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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-bye." 
 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 appreciation. 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 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 
 
 30
 
 I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD 
 
 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 man- 
 aging, 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. 
 
 " 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 
 
 31
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 dis- 
 tance was too great, as Mrs. Luxmore lived at Chisle- 
 hurst, 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 dread- 
 fully interested that Aunt Cosie was quite surprised and 
 called me " Miss Curiosity " ; but it was not 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, 
 
 32
 
 I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD 
 
 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 beau- 
 tiful, and quite my favourite hymn, and I remember 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. 
 
 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 too, and Hallett made me quite a little speech. 
 3 33
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 things 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 beautifullest 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 
 I heard Aunt Cosie say this. 
 
 " Aunt Cosie is such a dear," I went on. " She is so 
 nice and smiling always, 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 some- 
 thing of the kind to Aunt Cosie a long time ago, but she 
 
 34
 
 I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD 
 
 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 wondering. 
 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 or 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 I 
 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 pre- 
 vented 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 
 35
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 
 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, I 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 stem. 
 
 " If you loved me you would trust me, Githa," he 
 went on. " A child of your age, a mere baby, should 
 
 36
 
 I AM EIGHT YEARS OLD 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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 
 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 girUe," 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 
 
 37
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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. 
 
 38
 
 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 Meynkll. 
 
 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 must 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. 
 
 " 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, 
 
 39
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 laughing and breathless, we found ourselves a minute 
 later in our refuge. 
 
 I was quite delighted with this unexpected interlude, 
 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 latchkey, and 
 I followed into the narrow entry, which at first seemed 
 rather dark. As we entered another tall young 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 surprised, 
 for it was some weeks before Miss Redford left off 
 shaking hands with me; but then she was not a demon- 
 strative 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-looking; and though 
 she had the Redford voice, it was gentle and rather sweet, 
 though, as I found out afterwards, all the other sisters 
 spoke in the same quick, crisp fashion. 
 
 " We were caught in the rain, Nell," explained my 
 governess, " and the child has a little cold ; it was care- 
 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 
 
 40
 
 I FALL IN LOVE WITH HELEN 
 
 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 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 
 
 41
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 cup- 
 board; you could not move without coming into contact 
 with the walls. I remember how I enjoyed 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 
 
 42
 
 I FALL IN LOVE WITH HELEN 
 
 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 enjoyed my luncheon more than usual. 
 
 " Little folk are easily pleased," observed Helen pleas- 
 antly, and then she found me an interesting book which 
 she said her own 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 somiC 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 embroid- 
 ering 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 
 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 I know she is rather afraid 
 of him ; she will have it that he is so satirical." 
 
 " I think she is right there ; Mr. Pelham quizzes 
 people unmercifully." 
 
 43
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " Only people who pose and make themselves ridicu- 
 lous," 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-play you two always stick up 
 for each other," 
 
 " I always stick up for my friends," observed Miss 
 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 some- 
 thing when she saw me looking at her, and changed her 
 mind. 
 
 " How dark it is, Claud ; I dare not try my eyes any 
 longer. I shall go and get tea. I think the rain is stop- 
 ping 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. Father 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 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 some- 
 times 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. 
 
 44
 
 I FALL IN LOVE WITH HELEN 
 
 I think Miss Redford was pleased at my eagerness 
 to revisit the flat, but she told me that I must get my 
 father's leave, for she was extremely punctilious and care- 
 ful 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 Marland 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 Redfords could never forget the old days at 
 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 
 
 45
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 always 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. 
 
 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 without 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 undemonstrative way I know 
 she loved me dearly, and that there was nothing she would 
 not have done for me. 
 
 46
 
 I FALL IN LOVE WITH HELEN 
 
 " I was always your friend, Githa," she said years 
 afterwards. " Of course I know that for a time you Hked 
 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 right. 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." 
 
 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 ; you must 
 describe him better than that before I can answer you." 
 
 " Oh, he was a dreadfully ugly 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." 
 
 47
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 ** 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 ? He has quite a nice clever face, 
 though he is not handsome." But I was in the mood to 
 be contradictious. 
 
 " Mr. 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 con- 
 siders if he be good-looking or plain," But I was too 
 young to understand this. 
 
 As 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 elder 
 brother, he has only distant relations. He is a clever, 
 good-hearted man, and a little kindness would not be 
 thrown away on him, Philip " ; and as father often acted 
 on Aunt Cosie's advice, Mr. Pelham was always a wel- 
 come guest. 
 
 I soon became friends with him, and he often told 
 me amusing stories, and I ceased to think him ugly. 
 Indeed, I 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 Redford was always very 
 careful to uphold the dignity of her office.
 
 V 
 COUSIN YVONNE 
 
 The foundation of every noble character is sincerity. — Anon. 
 
 Character is far more an inspiration than a manufacture. 
 Toil of discipline and patience of culture may accomplish wonders 
 in shaping a soul, but 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 Newton. 
 
 I AM afraid I am writing my childish reminiscences in 
 rather a disjointed and cursory manner, just putting 
 down things that come into my head — people, faces, 
 scenes and scraps of conversation — little shadowy 
 glimpses of the child Githa, and those who 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. I never heard anything of her husband. I once 
 asked father if he had liked him, and he said " not par- 
 ticularly " 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 creature I always did my best to obey him ; 
 but I privately thought that grown-up people were too 
 fond of mysteries, for being a chatter-box by nature I 
 never liked to hold my tongue about anything. It is so 
 4 49
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 under- 
 stood 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 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 little place. It was half-way down a 
 green lane, and there was no other house near it. Cousin 
 Yvonne said that this was a recommendation in her eyes, 
 
 so
 
 COUSIN YVONNE 
 
 for she would hate to be overlooked by neighbours. 
 " When I want my friends I can go to them, or they can 
 come to me, 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, jessa- 
 mine, and wistaria, not to mention honeysuckle and 
 clematis — a perfect medley of lovely things, trying which 
 could climb highest. And then the garden which sur- 
 rounded 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 glory of tints. Close 
 by this was a big rock-garden, where hardy ferns grew 
 in profusion, and here one could gather the double 
 cuckoo-flower — Cousin Yvonne told me once that Lady's 
 Smock was its old English name. " It is rather an appro- 
 priate 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. 1 used to 
 
 51
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 think that the wild garden never needed any care or 
 attention, but as I grew older I soon found out my mis- 
 take, 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 wilder- 
 ness 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 he 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 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 52
 
 COUSIN YVONNE 
 
 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 wilderness, as we some- 
 times 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 
 
 53
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 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 convinced ; 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 oflF in dudgeon ; but after that he never 
 attempted to use it again. 
 
 54
 
 COUSIN YVONNE 
 
 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 say 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 ofif to Cousin 
 Yvonne, and she always seemed to understand and wel- 
 comed 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." 
 
 " But I am very fond of her too, Madame," returned 
 Thurston in a surprised voice. I never could understand 
 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 
 
 55
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 impressions and the more perfect knowledge 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 handsome. All her features were good, but 
 her mouth closed a little too firmly, and this gave a some- 
 what 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. 
 
 " 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 disobedience would 
 have had unpleasant consequences ; and yet I had no 
 reason for this fear, for I never received anything but 
 
 56
 
 COUSIN YVONNE 
 
 kindness from her. I was somewhat 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 mind on most subjects, and never 
 wasted time on argument. 
 
 I have heard Aunt Cosie say that Claudia Redford 
 was a little too abrupt in manner for so young a woman, 
 and probably she was right ; but no one could accuse 
 Cousin Yvonne of abruptness, she had far too much 
 dignity 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 gen- 
 erous nature ; she was a royal giver, 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 
 
 57
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 postmarks. 
 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 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 sometimes 
 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 sympathy. Dear father, 
 no wonder your child thought you perfect! 
 
 S8
 
 VI 
 
 SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT 
 
 It is impossible for any one to see her without being deeply 
 interested by the ingenuity, liveliness, and sweetness of her dis- 
 position. — Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 I am going to take the world into my confidence, and say, 
 
 if I can, what I think and feel about 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. Benson. 
 
 I AM tempted to linger unduly over these early remi- 
 niscences 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 child- 
 hood. 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 pitiful 
 in the very idea. Young shoulders shrinking under the 
 weight of burdens too heavy for them, timid natures 
 misunderstood and terrorised, spending joyless 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 
 
 59
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 pleas- 
 antest 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 Fan 
 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 grown 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 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 
 
 60
 
 SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT 
 
 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 playtime. 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 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 
 
 6i
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 always refused to 
 discuss sermons ; but she and the vicar seemed on excel- 
 lent 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 val- 
 uable books and curios when he died. I was between 
 fifteen and sixteen then, and Sydney wrote to me a full 
 description of the funeral. 
 
 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 hus- 
 band'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. 
 
 62
 
 SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT 
 
 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 
 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 my breath away. 
 I was literally too surprised to speak ; but I shall never 
 forget the frank, sweet way in which Sydney kissed me, 
 and the earnest sincerity of her voice as she exclaimed, 
 " Oh yes, I hope so, Aunt Yvonne." 
 
 63
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 few 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 extenu- 
 ation that all my short life I had been accustomed 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 import- 
 ance 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 came to tuck me up and see that I was comfortable 
 — her usual custom — and said plaintively : 
 
 " Cousin Yvonne, I do hope you will always be fond 
 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 both 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 caressing 
 gesture and seemed thoughtful. 
 
 64
 
 SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT 
 
 "You are not vexed with me?" I whispered pres- 
 ently, 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 mother." And then 
 she bade me good-night and went away ; but I felt 
 strangely comforted, for, although 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 was 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 
 5 65
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 you. 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 absolutely 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 go to sleep, for 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 pas- 
 sionately fond of music, and she played Chopin and 
 Beethoven with much feeling and expression. That even- 
 ing she had been playing selections from Handel's ora- 
 torios. 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 oflf the keys for a moment and bade us very 
 softly leave her and go to bed. 
 
 66
 
 SYDNEY COMES TO PRIOR'S COT 
 
 " 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 droop- 
 ing a little over the keys. Then she took out the stops 
 again, and that glorious refrain, " Let the bright Sera- 
 phim," 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." 
 
 " Yes, but he is a man," returned Sydney quickly. 
 " Men are never lovely, are they? They are only hand- 
 some 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 state- 
 ment on Sydney's part. I felt as though a douche of 
 cold water were suddenly turned on me. 
 
 "What do you mean, Sydney? 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 
 
 67
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 that she was right — " Not that it is any 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. 
 
 (96
 
 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 chil- 
 dren 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 Sydney was always very practical and 
 straightforward ; she never beat about the bush on any 
 pretence whatever. 
 
 "I have asked her," 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." 
 
 " 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 
 
 69
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 then father was very much taken up with some import- 
 ant 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 
 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. 
 
 70
 
 IT IS ALWAYS DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 " 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 own accord to remain in the 
 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 
 
 71
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 sympathised 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 for 
 you, Gipsy," he would say, " but we must both be patient, 
 my girlie " ; and somehow I understood then how he 
 hated to see me lying there ; 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 
 
 72
 
 IT IS ALWAYS DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 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 conscious- 
 ness. But she would not allow me to say a \Tord. " 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. 
 Mordaunt 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 T 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 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 me and said we must obey the doctor's orders, 
 and I was not strong enough to argue the point. 
 
 73
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 I used to think a great 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 vi^hen 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 mes- 
 sages 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 green- 
 house, 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 
 then came a very eventful day when father carried me 
 downstairs into the library, and he and Miss Redford 
 pillowed me upon 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 
 
 74
 
 IT IS ALWAYS DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 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 
 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 
 
 75
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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. Remem- 
 ber 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 
 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 
 76
 
 IT IS ALWAYS DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 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 injunctions had 
 the authority of the Medes and Persians, no one ven- 
 tured 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. It has a sunny aspect, and is just 
 the house for an invalid, 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 atten- 
 tion 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 advan- 
 tageous an offer to refuse. Mrs. Chambers was a rich 
 
 •J7
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 woman, and her house was sure to be replete with com- 
 fort. 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 longing to see Cousin 
 Yvonne and Sydney, I consented to the separation with 
 a tolerable grace, though some inexplicable feeling made 
 me say suddenly : 
 
 " If I were to be ill again, you would come to me, 
 would you 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. 
 
 78
 
 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 appear- 
 ance 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 real- 
 ised 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. 
 
 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 
 
 79
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 SL dear companion, and the weeks passed almost 
 too rapidly. I was young and my constitution was good, 
 and I had plenty of recuperative 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 your 
 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, 
 " foi» I have to go to Sloane Street for Helen. By the 
 bye, I have not given you her message. She wants you 
 to have luncheoH with us on Thursday if your father has 
 no objection. I will come and fetch you, and if he would 
 be kind enough to send the carriage for you, you could 
 stay for tea." 
 
 I was very much pleased with this invitation, and 
 irlren I told father he said at once that he would call for 
 me on his way home. 
 
 80
 
 BEGGARS ALL 
 
 " 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 curiosity 
 in grown-up love affairs. " The thoughts of youth are 
 long, long thoughts," and already Sydney and I had dis- 
 cussed 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 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 happily. 
 
 Miss Redford gave a deep sigh when I had made 
 this remark. 
 
 " You may well say after all these years, Githa, for 
 it is nearly eight years since she and Hamlyn Seymour 
 6 8i
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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." 
 
 " But it will be horrid for her to work when she is 
 married ! " I exclaimed. " And she is always so tired." 
 
 'T 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. Mrs. Brant would come daily for a few 
 hours, and Helen would do the rest. " They think it will 
 work excellently," she continued ; 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 com- 
 fortably, and Mr. Seymour was such a big man. 
 
 " No, my dear," with an amused smile ; " such an 
 arrangement would hardly answer. Cicely and Dr. Bur- 
 ford have been very kind, and have begged me to live 
 with them. They are dear, good creatures, and the chil- 
 dren are darlings; but I prefer to be independent, 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 
 
 82
 
 BEGGARS ALL 
 
 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 row 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 remem- 
 ber 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 expressing 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 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 at 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 
 
 83
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 company. Helen and Cicely insist that I must spend one 
 evening every week with them ; and I have other kind 
 
 friends who are equally importunate 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 affec- 
 tionately. 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 
 anxious 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 expres- 
 sion, 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 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 engage- 
 ment 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
 
 BEGGARS ALL 
 
 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 grow- 
 ing 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 groomsman, and I 
 noticed that after the ceremony he kept rather close to 
 Miss Redford, and that she looked more cheerful when 
 he talked to her. 
 
 Poor Miss Redford ! I am afraid it was rather a 
 trying day to her ; and yet I knew that she rejoiced in 
 Helen's happiness, and had done all in her power to 
 further it in the most unselfish way. Of course, her 
 feelings were a little mixed ; and once or twice I 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 speak- 
 ing 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 
 85
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 my 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. But they were both of them 
 too much engrossed with each other to notice me ; so I 
 hastened to join Cicely Burford, who 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 beg- 
 gars all, and no mistake." 
 
 I do not know what 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 
 86
 
 BEGGARS ALL 
 
 stick at the War Office. He ought to have gone in for 
 Hterature." 
 
 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 clam- 
 oured 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 Red- 
 ford 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 
 are very ready with their sympathy and advice, but it 
 is sometimes wiser to take counsel with oneself." 
 
 I am not sure that Miss Redford acted for the best 
 that night ; the little flat without 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 was the worst of 
 Miss Redford — she never spared either herself or other 
 people when there was any work to be done. 
 
 87
 
 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 Ingelow. 
 
 Trust is the best of relationships. — 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 unwilling 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 Woodmancot, and 
 in the afternoon Cousin Yvonne would often drive over 
 to fetch her. She spared no trouble or expense on 
 Sydney's education, and she thought herself well repaid 
 by the girl's gratitude and devotion to her adopted mother. 
 Sydney was secretly longing for the treat, but with great
 
 THE CORNER ROOM 
 
 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 Sydney 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 Sydney 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 plenty 
 of life in her. Your Cousin Yvonne must have taken 
 great pains with her." 
 
 "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 bjeauty, this 
 
 89
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 would 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, bvit 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 with 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 present was not 
 among them. His eyes twinkled as he saw my mystifi- 
 cation. " 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 l;ad better wait until we 
 have finished breakfast, and then >ou and Miss Herbert 
 shall give me your opinion." 
 
 90
 
 THE CORNER ROOM 
 
 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 pleased 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 for the brass bedstead 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.
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " 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 afifairs. 
 
 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 Red- 
 ford had helped him a good deal and that she had excel- 
 lent taste. 
 
 '* I always meant you to have this room, Gipsy," he 
 said; " I was only waiting until you were old enough to 
 appreciate it. I am afraid Mrs. Marland did not want to 
 part with you, but I told her that I must have you near 
 me," 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 after- 
 noon father drove us in his phaeton to Richmond Park, 
 and Miss Redford came to dinner; and after coffee 
 father came up into the drawing-room and we played 
 round games, and Sydney was the life of the party. 
 
 Sydney and I spent a very happy fortnight. Miss 
 92
 
 THE CORNER ROOM 
 
 Redford came every morning, and if the weather permit- 
 ted 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 were 
 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 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 was 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 
 
 93
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 classes, which were held every Wednesday afternoon by 
 two ladies, Mademoiselle Durant and Fraulein Sonnen- 
 schein, 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 an 
 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 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 enjoy- 
 
 94
 
 THE CORNER ROOM 
 
 ment from morning to night. Cousin Yvonne used to 
 look at me with a strange httle smile. 
 
 " It is good to be young, Githa," she said once. " You 
 are very happy, are you not, my 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 day 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 glow- 
 ing 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 grandly. 
 
 But I was very much surprised when she said almost 
 passionately, " I 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 im- 
 possible : 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 
 
 95
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 him 
 for an army chaplain, he has quite a martial carriage. 
 But there. Aunt Yvonne is calling me, and I must fly. 
 Good-bye, Princess, to be continued in my next." 
 
 Sydney 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. 
 
 " He 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 he is very much 
 in earnest," and this was high praise from Cousin Yvonne. 
 
 Sydney's next letter gave me more personal details. 
 
 96
 
 THE CORNER ROOM 
 
 Mr. Carlyon was a widower, his \vife had died two years 
 ago, and he had two children, a boy and girl, 
 
 " They are twins, and such delightful little creatures," 
 wrote Sydney ; " they are about four years old, I believe. 
 The girl reminds me s 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 chil- 
 dren, 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 writing 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 family were very 
 poor and proud, and that her father was very angry when 
 Lady Doreen refused a grand match to 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 ofT with a declaration that she had 
 really no more time for gossip. 
 
 97
 
 X 
 
 ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD 
 
 That was the voyage of life, good sooth, 
 
 The voyage of life 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 take. Jean Ingelow. 
 
 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 
 yet 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 often did, the golden lights on the water. The 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 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 dark- 
 ness 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 
 
 98
 
 ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD 
 
 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 that cloud." There was something 
 so human in their terror ; they found themselves con- 
 fronted 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 breakfast, as though 
 to read the cause of my unusual gravity. 
 
 " You are dreadfully grown up this morning, Gipsy," 
 he said at last. " You make me feel quite old. I wish 
 you could have had your dear friend Sydney Herbert 
 with you longer " ; but I assured him truthfully 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 
 99
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 under- 
 stand ; and then he told me that I had better be quick over 
 my breakfast, as his present was waiting for my inspec- 
 tion. 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 wath 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. 
 
 Father 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 day I had a new habit 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 
 
 lOO
 
 ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD 
 
 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 hand- 
 somer 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 approval, though he pretended to twit me with 
 my 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 appearance, 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 Bayfield. 
 
 lOI
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 com- 
 pleted ; 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 ruefully, which was the truth, for I did not 
 attain my proper height until I was eighteen. 
 
 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 afifectionately 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
 
 ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD 
 
 seemed pleased to see me, and said so quite nicely, he 
 was rather shy with me, and hesitated perceptibly 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 exces- 
 sively 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 head reluctantly 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 luggage 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. 
 
 103
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 ; " you must come with me next Sunday and see 
 my class — such dear little children. But we really must 
 not linger any longer, Aunt Yvonne will be looking out 
 for us." At this broad hint Mr. Carlyon put us into the 
 carriage. I noticed that both he and Thurston stood 
 outside the station looking after us until we were nearly 
 out of sight. 
 
 "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 unde- 
 niably 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." 
 
 104
 
 ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD 
 
 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 
 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 evening 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 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 constitution was 
 very strong and she rarely ailed anything; her quiet life 
 
 105
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 me, 
 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 
 me rather thoughtfully. Sydney was right, and she 
 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 unusually 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. 
 
 io6
 
 ROY AND I GO DOWN TO BAYFIELD 
 
 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 spon- 
 sors. 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 
 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. 
 
 107
 
 XI 
 
 "FUNERALS AND ANGELS" 
 
 Come to me, O ye children ! 
 
 And whisper in my ear 
 
 What the birds and the winds are saying 
 
 In your sunny atmosphere. 
 
 For what are all our contrivings, 
 And the wisdom of our books, 
 When compared with your caresses, 
 And the gladness of your looks. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 My first morning at Ba3^eld was always spent in revisit- 
 ing 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 with a faint smile ; " comparisons are odious, 
 Githa," — and then she changed the subject by asking 
 Sydney to do a little commission for her in the village. 
 I felt worried about Cousin Yvonne. She was evi- 
 io8
 
 FUNERALS AND ANGELS 
 
 dently 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. 
 But I only laughed as I 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 
 
 109
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 everywhere 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 leading 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 churchyard, 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 remon- 
 strating 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 ; 
 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 
 Sydney had declared that little Stella reminded her of my 
 childish portrait, but, except in a certain similarity of 
 colouring, I could see no resemblance in the laughing 
 face and roguish eyes before me. From the way Stella
 
 FUNERALS AND ANGELS 
 
 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 
 Sydney with evident pleasure, and she hugged them 
 impartially. 
 
 "Why are you 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 play 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 blos- 
 soms, 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 up," murmured Cyril placidly ; 
 and then he added of his own accord, " Paul made him 
 into an angel." 
 
 I was utterly mystified ; and when she saw my face, 
 Sydney turned suddenly helpless with suppressed laugh- 
 ter, and was obliged to sit down on an adjoining tomb- 
 stone. 
 
 She told me afterwards that the children were evi- 
 dently 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 
 
 III
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 wanderer had seen better days, and he had warmly com- 
 mended 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 con- 
 tinued, " 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 with 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 
 now, ' 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 chil- 
 dren get in their heads, and these little innocents evi- 
 dently regarded their father as a miracle worker, and the 
 funeral service as a sort of occult force for the transfor- 
 mation 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 
 away." And then looking up in my face, she asked 
 coaxingly, " Is you quite growed up, dear, like Her- 
 berts?" 
 
 This was rather a shock after all the compliments I 
 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
 
 FUNERALS AND ANGELS 
 
 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 ! " as the little gate leading from the 
 Vicarage was quietly unlatched, and Mr. Carlyon came 
 striding up the path between the rose-bushes, now cov- 
 ered with crinkly green leaves. There was something 
 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 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. 
 8 113
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " 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 outstretched 
 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 you think 
 of their nurse. Miss Darnell? To me she has one of 
 the most restful faces I have even seen; it certainly 
 endorses her name." 
 
 " Is Peace 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 Pilgrim's Progress. I know there is a Prudence and 
 
 114
 
 FUNERALS AND ANGELS 
 
 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 waiting 
 for her wayward charges, and the manner in which she 
 opened her arms and took the little panting creatures to 
 her heart made me feel that it was no hireling's love that 
 was lavished on them. 
 
 We went into the little church, for Sydney 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 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 kindly. 
 " They seemed to know I had had trouble," he continued 
 simply, " and indeed their homely sympathy was very 
 healing " ; and then a sad look came into his eyes, as 
 though he was thinking of 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 griev- 
 ance to Sydney, for as we all walked down the church- 
 yard he dropped purposely behind and kept beside her. 
 " Gran is bent on having them, but it will spoil the even- 
 
 "5
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 ing," I heard him say ; but Sydney said something sooth- 
 ing 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 Damell," 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 pre- 
 ferred 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 an answer. 
 
 " I think the name of father is so beautiful," I fal- 
 tered. For all my life I had never called father by any 
 other name, though my childlike tongue could hardly 
 lisp it. 
 
 " I see what you mean," he returned gravely, and I 
 really believe he read my thoughts at that moment. 
 " You are afraid that my little ones will have less rever- 
 ence 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 Mr. Carlyon about the tramp's 
 n6
 
 FUNERALS AND ANGELS 
 
 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 sensi- 
 tive. I am quite sure Lady Wilde 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, you have a very tell-tale face. I can 
 often guess what you are thinking about before you have 
 said a word. Mr. Carlyon was afraid you were just a 
 little 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 we both involuntarily quick- 
 ened our steps. 
 
 117
 
 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. Aurelius 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 surprised at my 
 question, and coloured a little as though she were unwil- 
 ling to answer it. " It was about the Etheridges," she 
 returned slowly ; " they are back at the Mount, and Lady 
 Wilde has invited Colonel Etheridge and Rhona to dinner 
 to-night — Mrs. Etheridge never goes out in the evening." 
 I was quite aware of this. Mrs. Etheridge was a 
 chronic invalid ; but of late years the family had spent 
 the winter abroad and were very little at Bayfield. They 
 were extremely wealthy people, and Rhona, being an 
 only child, would be quite an heiress. Lady Wilde 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 Sydney and I both liked 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 
 
 ii8
 
 ST. HELEN'S TOWERS 
 
 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 amus- 
 ing 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 sur- 
 prised me. She was extremely injudicious and short- 
 sighted with regard to her grandson. Thurston had not 
 been to any public school or University ; he had been 
 placed with a tutor, where he had only had the com- 
 panionship of half-a-dozen boys of bis own age; and 
 though he was fairly well educated as far as classical 
 
 119
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 con- 
 tinued 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 companionship 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 ourselves cosy in the draw- 
 ing-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." 
 
 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." 
 
 120
 
 ST. HELEN'S TOWERS 
 
 " It is odd that you should say that," she returned, 
 smiHng, " 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 ground he 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. Dennison, for Lady Wilde has never men- 
 tioned either her husband or son to me." 
 
 121
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " 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. But 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. Tressiter, 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. But her manner was so coquettish 
 and so free and easy that Mr. Tressiter grew alarmed for 
 his pupil, who he saw was strongly attracted by the young 
 actress's beauty. 
 
 " He 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 could 
 induce his contumacious pupil to finish his packing, but 
 he yielded at last, and their departure was arranged for 
 the next morning. 
 
 " You may imagine Mr. Tressiter's feeling when 
 Manley failed to put in an appearance the next morning. 
 Senorita 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. 
 
 122
 
 ST. HELEN'S TOWERS 
 
 " 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? 
 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 extremely 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.' ■ ' 
 
 123
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " 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 everything 
 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 opportunity 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 attractive ; 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 did not suit her 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 
 conciergerie 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, 
 124
 
 ST. HELEN'S TOWERS 
 
 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 Towers 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 proportioned 
 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. 
 
 When wc 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 dis- 
 cards. 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 
 
 U5
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 than usual. She had rather pretty eyes, though 
 they were small ; her fair hair was very thick and abun- 
 dant, 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. He 
 had been called to baptize a dying infant, he said rather 
 gravely, as he gave his arm to me. I was rather sur- 
 prised 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. 
 
 126
 
 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 con- 
 versation 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 him 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, thoughtful man, but 
 I found no difficulty in talking to him ; daily intercourse 
 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 
 
 127
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 York- 
 shire 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 listen- 
 ing 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 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. 
 
 128
 
 STELLA GIVES ME A NEW NAME 
 
 " 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. " Unfortunately 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 Sydney had been there for tea two or three times, 
 and that nursery teas at the Vicarage were quite an insti- 
 tution, 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 
 always makes one so comfortable, and the twins are such 
 darlings." 
 
 After dinner Sydney and I sang. There were one 
 or two ducts that we had practised together, though 
 there had been no opportunity of trying them over, but 
 P 129
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 she really 
 played with a great deal of delicacy and feeling; and I 
 could well understand Colonel Etheridge's disappoint- 
 ment when she refused to take her part in the evening's 
 entertainment. 
 
 " It is no use," I heard him say to Lady Wilde. " The 
 
 130
 
 STELLA GIVES ME A NEW NAME 
 
 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 dis- 
 tressed. 
 
 " 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 my little speech for 
 my own benefit in my bedroom. 
 
 " It is not shyness so much as self-consciousness, 
 Rhona," that is what I longed to say. " You are 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 
 
 I3i
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 have made the attempt, and we should have been pleased 
 v^ith 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 prac- 
 tising 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 wel- 
 comed us in a most demonstrative fashion, 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 exem- 
 plary. 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 
 
 132
 
 STELLA GIVES ME A NEW NAME 
 
 each, and two for the big girl,*' I heard her say ; and once 
 she whispered to me to take a Httle 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 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 
 pettishly 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 philoso- 
 pher that we had no warrant for the belief in the immor- 
 tality of animals. It was useless to quote the text which 
 was so conclusive to my own mind, " Without were 
 dogs," which had destroyed for ever my cherished hope 
 of a reunion in a future life with Sultan 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 
 
 133
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 Hfe." 
 
 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 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. 
 
 134
 
 STELLA GIVES ME A NEW NAME 
 
 " Lady Doreen must have been much younger than 
 her husband," I remarked to Cousin Yvonne as I nar- 
 rated this Httle 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-twenty 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 with my new name, 
 though I was secretly a little vexed that I could not 
 make Stella believe that I was really grown up. 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 has 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 that 
 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 
 
 135
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 is 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. 
 
 136
 
 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. — Thomasa 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. Etheridge 
 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 
 observed ; " 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 hurt 
 at this rebuff, she continued more gently, " I should be 
 very sorry for you to refuse Mrs. Etheridge's invitation, 
 
 137
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Githa ; Rhona 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 arrange- 
 ment, 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 com- 
 plained ; 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. 
 
 138
 
 BREAKERS AHEAD 
 
 Mrs. Etheridge had been very pretty in her youth, 
 and she was a very graceful woman still, and her gentle- 
 ness 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 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 
 
 139
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 with a thousand excellencies, 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 herself, and then 
 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," 
 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 grate- 
 
 140
 
 BREAKERS AHEAD 
 
 ful look at him, and Colonel Etheridge smiled under 
 his big moustache and patted his daughter's shoulder 
 benignantly as he passed. 
 
 Sydney and I sang together after that, and the after- 
 noon 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 Etheridge 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 counting 
 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? 
 He was only one-and-twenty, and it might possibly be 
 lad's love or a passing fancy, and yet I had a strong con- 
 viction that he was in earnest. 
 
 Sydney, too, was different. She seemed a little shy 
 with him this evening, and less unrestrained and spon- 
 taneous 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. 
 
 141
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 I found an unexpected opportunity that very evening, 
 for after dinner Sydney was called away for an hour. 
 She was giving lessons in arithmetic to a backward youth 
 of seventeen who was anxious to fit himself for a shop- 
 man'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 birthday 
 and at Christmas ; but she told me that this was what 
 she called a " 'tweenie gift," and was for no special occa- 
 sion. " 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 even- 
 ing." 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 
 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 propinquity. 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 
 
 142
 
 BREAKERS AHEAD 
 
 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 
 wished 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 evening, 
 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 w6uld 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. But 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 else." 
 
 " What can you mean ? " I faltered. " Thurston is 
 very young, of course — but if they care for each other ! " 
 
 " 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 
 143
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 under- 
 stand 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 training for busi- 
 ness. Circumstances will be too strong for him ; he will 
 be driven to marry Rhona." 
 
 " But he does not love her," I returned indignantly, 
 " 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 uninteresting. 
 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 occa- 
 sionally sell her fair self for a coronet, and mercenary 
 marriages are made every day. But you are right, my 
 dear, and it is bitter and crying shame. But the question 
 
 144
 
 BREAKERS AHEAD 
 
 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 that poor boy. He is not in my hands," she broke off 
 with a deep sigh, as though the whole subject wearied 
 her inexpressibly; and she seemed so worn and tired 
 that Sydney looked at her quite anxiously when she 
 returned to the 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 room. It was 
 a lovely spring night, and the moonlight was flooding 
 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 
 10 145
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 pleasure. But I had never guessed at all this complica- 
 tion 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 business 
 on hand that needed Cousin Yvonne's immediate atten- 
 tion ? " But how little I guessed how soon I should be 
 able to answer that question ! 
 
 146
 
 XV 
 WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG 
 
 Nothing is too 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 some- 
 what 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 ofif 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 Bayfield 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, and eyes 
 that were blue and clear as an infant's ; and she always 
 
 147
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 carried her prayer-book wrapped up in a blue checked 
 handkerchief, with a sprig of rosemary, or wallflower, 
 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 perfect 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 daugh- 
 ters were married and had children of their own ; but 
 they were honest, hard-working folk, and each one sub- 
 scribed a small sum towards their parents' maintenance, 
 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," 
 he said somewhat gruffly when his wife ventured to 
 remonstrate — not that Nancy would not do a good turn 
 
 148
 
 WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG 
 
 for her mother-in-law, though she would have drawn 
 the Hne at roast pork. 
 
 Cousin Yvonne was very fond of the old couple, and 
 she was always planning something fresh for their com- 
 fort; 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 break- 
 fast 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 hawthorn 
 in the Vicarage garden, and the great downy greenish- 
 white balls of the guelder roses hanging heavily on the 
 walls. 
 
 As we passed through the outer room devoted to 
 the infants, I was surprised to see Stella and Cyril 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 gen- 
 erally behaved very well. But I thought little Miss 
 
 149
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Williams, the draper's daughter, seemed a little over- 
 whelmed 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 Dorrit. 
 
 " 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 some- 
 thing 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 to 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 thing when he said that, 
 though she had been naughty, for she cried and sobbed 
 her little heart out." 
 
 Mr. Carlyon came up to speak to us before he went 
 into church. He wanted me to take a class that after- 
 noon, as one of the teachers was absent. 
 
 Cousin Yvonne was in her seat when we entered ; 
 ISO
 
 WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG 
 
 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 may never have heard : 
 
 " Build a little fence of trust 
 Around to-day ; 
 Fill the space with loving work, 
 And therein stay. 
 
 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 Rutherford, in a 
 
 151
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 con- 
 sciousness, 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 
 recommended a protegee of hers, Eliza Brett, as a tem- 
 porary nursemaid? I never liked the girl, in spite of 
 all Lady Wilde's recommendations ; there is something 
 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," 
 152
 
 WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG 
 
 " 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 banish- 
 ment from the presence of the Beloved be punishment 
 enough? and absence from the Light — the outer dark- 
 ness — 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 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 unsel- 
 fish to say so. Had she any hope that Thurston would 
 be there ? I felt there would be no doubt on that point ; 
 
 153
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 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 Sydney was just starting for church. I walked a 
 little way down the lane with her; it was a lovely even- 
 ing; the thrushes and blackbirds were singing their 
 vesper hymn, and the church bells sounded in the dis- 
 tance. How peaceful it was; the soft blue evening sky 
 
 IS4
 
 WHILE RINGING TO EVENSONG 
 
 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 aston- 
 ished ; never in all these seventeen years had any one 
 voluntarily mentioned her name. Something in 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 understand 
 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. 
 
 155
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " 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 impos- 
 sible! I never imagined the difficulty, Githa," with 
 curious abruptness. " I believe you have never seen your 
 mother's portrait. 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 even- 
 ing 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 evidently a large 
 photograph; both were 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. 
 
 iS6
 
 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 impulsive, 
 I was by no means hysterical or highly strung. Never- 
 theless, 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, and found itself 
 in a strange, lonely place, with night coming on. 
 
 157
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " 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 sup- 
 port 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 submitted to be half guided 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 me, not touching me, but waiting 
 until the quiet and silence and the cool evening air blow- 
 ing 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 
 
 158
 
 WHY DID YOU LEAVE US 
 
 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 — 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 beau- 
 tifully and curiously in white vellum, with an antique 
 clasp. I turned to the title-page, and recognised my 
 father's handwriting: "To my wife, Yvonne Darnell, on 
 our wedding day, from her loving husband, Philip Eger- 
 ton 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, 
 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, 
 
 159
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 your 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 children without a cause ; and then there is 
 father. If you loved us, why did you go away and leave 
 us?" For until this question was answered, there could 
 be no peace for me. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 i6o
 
 WHY DID YOU LEAVE US 
 
 " 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 you, 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 speak- 
 ing ; 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 came rush- 
 ing over me agin, 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 insist- 
 ence in her voice. 
 
 " I thank Heaven, Githa, that you have your father's 
 II i6i
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 temperament, not mine. If I had been differently con- 
 stituted, more like other women, and the grace of for- 
 giveness 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 way. 
 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! I 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 
 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. 
 
 162
 
 WHY DID YOU LEAVE US 
 
 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: — I 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 ful- 
 filled, 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 sometimes " 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 
 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 
 
 163
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 her- 
 self ; 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. But 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 you 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 me 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 little 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 
 
 164
 
 WHY DID YOU LEAVE US 
 
 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 pas- 
 sionate 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 to 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. 
 
 165
 
 XVII 
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 For all the souls on earth that live 
 To be forgiven must forgive. 
 Forgive him seventy times and seven 1 
 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 follow- 
 ing 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, thinking 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 mys- 
 terious 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 me this very night in her 
 warm, living arms, and had caressed me with maternal 
 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 
 
 . i66
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 to him 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 
 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 
 
 167
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 lis- 
 tened, 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 me, 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 me this evening? — " 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 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. 
 
 i68
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " To err is human, to forgive divine," I murmured 
 somewhat drowsily, and again, " the Httle 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 and 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. 
 
 " 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 Peace- 
 makers, and those ' who have come out of great tribula- 
 tion, and have washed their robes in the blood of the 
 Lamb,' and like their Master and the holy Stephen, have 
 
 169
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 won- 
 dered ; 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 my 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 qviilted 
 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. 
 
 " 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 
 
 170
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 
 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 sorry, Sydney dear, but I am too tired 
 to talk now." 
 
 " That means that I am to ask no more questions. 
 171
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 Sydney was in 
 the room. She only remarked that luncheon was a 
 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 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 remorsefully, 
 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 
 172
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 hur- 
 riedly as she spoke, and then half pushed me away. I 
 think, nay I am sure, that she could not trust herself 
 longer over the leave-talking. 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. 
 
 " All the other carriages are 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 herself 
 at the other end with her book — she was a great reader, — 
 and Mr. 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. 
 
 173
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 He was silent for a few minutes, then he leant for- 
 ward 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 me, 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 gently, 
 " One can rest even in trouble, only," in a still lower 
 voice, " be careful to hold very tightly to 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 recov- 
 ered 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 Mr. Carlyon interposed. 
 
 174
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 '*' 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 instruc- 
 tions from Rebecca and we had left the station, he said 
 in rather an apologetic tone — 
 
 " Forgive me if I am taking too great 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." 
 
 " It is no question of my 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 child- 
 ishly 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 unhappy." 
 
 " 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 
 
 175
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 you 
 may be spared such sorrow as I have known. Mercifully 
 the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb." Then with a 
 change of tone, " Do you remember what that glorious 
 old heathen Marcus Aurelius said, ' We 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 journey, and I should like to have 
 that promise." In spite of its gentleness, there was a 
 touch of priestly authority in his voice which seemed 
 to thrill me ; but although our acquaintance had been 
 short, I felt he was a man that 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 noth- 
 ing 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. 
 
 176
 
 XVIII 
 FATHER AND I 
 
 To have suffered much is like 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. — Ecclesias- 
 
 TICUS. 
 
 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 ser- 
 vant, " 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 does this mean, Githa?" he said 
 quite sharply ; " you have come home alone, without even 
 sending me a telegram." Then his manner changed 
 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 
 12 177
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 every- 
 thing 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. 
 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 ! " 
 178
 
 FATHER AND I 
 
 " 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 cheek 
 against his hand. I could hardly say the words, but I knew 
 he was determined to know all — " She told me you had 
 done her some wrong, which made her leave 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 marble statue beside us 
 is not so hard as she has been to me. O my God ! " he 
 continued passionately, " I know too well that I wronged 
 her, but good women have forgiven before now ; but 
 
 when " here I stopped him by laying my hand against 
 
 his lips, 
 
 " Father, hush, I will not hear, I will not — I will 
 not ! the trouble, whatever it may be, is between you two, 
 
 179
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 shak- 
 ing 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 stand- 
 ing 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 come to me. If ever 
 a woman had a mission, surely Ihad 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 
 i8o
 
 FATHER AND I 
 
 him I do not know; only, father suddenly remembered 
 that I was far from well, and needed food after my jour- 
 ney. 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 yovi were looking; and you are 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 — 
 
 " Mardie dear, I 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 
 
 i8i
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 then the gong sounded, and we went into the dining- 
 room. To my rehef, 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 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. 
 
 182
 
 FATHER AND I 
 
 " 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 break- 
 fast. 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. 
 
 " 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 I simply cannot endure 
 home without you. Cheyne Walk is the abomination of 
 
 183
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 men- 
 tioned her. I was determined to school myself to pro- 
 nouncing 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 understand then as 
 fully as I did afterwards that I was jealous of any strong 
 influence which threatened his monopoly of my afifection. 
 All these years it had been father and I, or, as he had 
 more than once playfully 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 
 metaphorically 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 my mother and added 
 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 child- 
 
 184
 
 FATHER AND I 
 
 hood! 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 
 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." 
 
 I8S
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " 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 dav. 
 
 i86
 
 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 found in the minor strains of life. 
 
 E. Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 Is it a dream? Let us shape it to action. 
 Mighty with truth's irresistible strength. 
 Bold with the courage that fears no distraction. 
 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, 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 Fair- 
 lawn seemed to me rather pleasant than otherwise. I 
 was very fond of Aunt Cosie ; she was such a peaceful 
 sort of person, and somehow she never disappointed me 
 
 187
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 excla- 
 mation 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." 
 
 I thought Aunt Cosie looked at me a little keenly 
 when I said that. Then she folded her paper in a reso- 
 lute manner. 
 
 z88
 
 IT IS SAD AS DEATH 
 
 " 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 tenta- 
 tive 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 in- 
 formed me afterwards, the first glance at my face told 
 her everything without a word. 
 
 T 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 you guess ? " I half 
 whispered ; but she only gave an inexplicable little smile, 
 and went on with her caressing manipulations. " Father 
 wished me to come. He said j'ou knew all about it, and 
 that I could tell you anything I liked. Oh, I have been 
 so unhappy, so perplexed and miserable, and all life 
 
 189
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 something 
 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 pro- 
 ceed, 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- 
 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 mis- 
 take. Oh, Aunt Cosie, if you could only realise the 
 shock it was to me ! " 
 
 190
 
 IT IS SAD AS DEATH 
 
 " 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 under- 
 stand 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 all that I wish 
 or mean to know. Why 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 
 I ever loved him in my life, I love him a hundred times 
 more now when I know how unhappy he has been." 
 
 "And your mother, Githa?" Then a chill pang 
 crossed my heart. 
 
 " I have always loved her, even though I was ignorant 
 that she was my mother " ; but my voice was a little 
 cold. " But, Aunt Cosie, I do not understand her. I 
 think — I always shall think — that she need not have left 
 us." But the next moment I would have gladly with- 
 drawn 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." 
 
 191
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " 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 yeara 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 see, my poor child, how you are 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 
 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 she was a little awed and startled, and although 
 
 192
 
 IT IS SAD AS DEATH 
 
 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 me," 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 your parents, and that your poor 
 mother had much to bear." i 
 
 " Aunt Cosie, please, please " But she only 
 
 pressed her hands more firmly on my shoulders and 
 went on. 
 
 " No doubt Philip — your father I mean — was to 
 blame. As a young man he was weak and easily led, and 
 he came under a bad influence. I know all the circum- 
 stances, Githa, — far more than your mother does. I 
 know everything, from Philip's own lips, 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 ? " 
 X3 193
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " 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; hut 
 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 explana- 
 tion. In spite of my assurance 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 sadly. " There were temperamental difficulties 
 on your mother's side which hindered reconciliation. If 
 she could only have brought herself to believe the truth — 
 if she could have cleared her mind of preconceived 
 notions and prejudices — she might have been more 
 reasonable ; but at that time she had so exaggerated 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 
 
 194
 
 IT IS SAD AS DEATH 
 
 hear of yielding, and so," with a heavy sigh, " they were 
 best apart." 
 
 " Aunt Cosie, you cannot think so now ; they are 
 both unhappy, and they do care for each other so dread- 
 fully." 
 
 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 affectionately, " 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 he detained me a moment. 
 
 " You are really going back to Bayfield on Saturday, 
 Githa?" she said a little wistfully. 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Cosie, but I shall not remain long this 
 time. Have you — have you any message? " 
 
 She flushed a little at my question, and hesitated. 
 " It is long since we exchanged messages," she returned 
 rather sadly. " Still, perhaps it will be as well to make 
 a beginning. Will you tell Yvonne — I mean your mother 
 — that I am glad and thankful that you know every- 
 thing?" 
 
 " And is that all, auntie? " 
 
 " No ; you may give her my love, if she cares to have 
 1 95
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 it, and tell her — yes, Githa, you may tell her this — that 
 if she values her child's peace of mind, as well as her 
 own, she will come to me of her own accord, and let an 
 old woman tell her the truth " ; and then she gave me a 
 little nod of dismissal. 
 
 But in spite of all her kindness and gentle sympathy 
 a heavy weight still lay on my heart. If Aunt Cosie, 
 who knew all the circumstances, and who understood my 
 mother's complex nature, was so hopeless of results, was 
 it likely that I, scarcely more than a child, without knowl- 
 edge and experience, could expect to surmount such 
 difficulties ! A sense of my utter helplessness almost 
 crushed me ; the cold wind of disillusion seemed to chill 
 me as I walked along. " What am I to do ? How am 
 I to set about it? " I thought. " I feel as though I were 
 in fog, and could not see my way. Shall I ever see it, I 
 wonder ? " still more hopelessly, and then a quaint Eastern 
 proverb came into my mind," God makes the blind bird's 
 nest." What depths of meaning were concealed in that 
 saying! If for the dim-eyed fluttering thing there was 
 shelter and help, surely an ignorant and helpless girl 
 might find guidance. And these other more sacred words 
 came into my mind, " I will lead them by ways that they 
 have not known " ; and then it seemed to me I was no 
 longer afraid. 
 
 196
 
 XX 
 
 AN OPEN SECRET 
 
 It may be little we can do 
 
 To help another, it is true ; 
 
 But better is a little spark 
 
 Of kindness when the way is dark. . . . 
 
 See how, everywhere, 
 
 Love comforts, strengthens, helps, and saves us all, 
 
 What opportunities of good befall 
 
 To make life sweet and fair. 
 
 Celia Thaxter. 
 
 I WAS surprised to find that father never questioned me 
 at all about my visit. He gave me one of his quick, 
 searching looks when he came in ; then he sank into his 
 chair with a weary air as though he were extremely tired, 
 and asked me to give him a cup of tea. As he seemed 
 out of spirits, I proposed going on with the book we had 
 been reading aloud, and he assented gratefully. He always 
 said that my voice had a soothing effect on him ; but this 
 evening it acted as a narcotic. I knew he had slept 
 badly, and I was relieved to find that before half-an-hour 
 had passed he was in a peaceful slumber. I went on 
 reading for another ten minutes, then I slipped away so 
 quietly that he was not disturbed. The long sleep 
 refreshed him, and he seemed more rested and like him- 
 self when we sat down to dinner, and we talked on ordi- 
 nary everyday topics with some degree of cheerfulness. 
 I saw that he was anxious to keep up appearances before 
 
 197
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 the servants, and I tried to second him to the best of 
 my abiHty. As we went back to the Hbrary he put his 
 arm around me — " So Aunt Cosie was good to you, 
 Gipsy." 
 
 " Oh yes, father; she was as dear and nice as possible." 
 
 " She has always been my best friend," he returned 
 in a tone of deep feeling. " I suppose it is natural, darling, 
 that one should find the greatest comfort in the friends 
 who never lose their faith in one. My Cousin Constance 
 has been staunch to me through good and evil report ; 
 she has a heart of gold, and no amount of digging can 
 exhaust her mine of charity — if others could but learn 
 from her." Then I knew that he was alluding to my 
 mother. 
 
 I liked to hear him speak in this grateful, appreciative 
 way of dear Aunt Cosie, but he did not pursue the sub- 
 ject, and the next moment he asked me to play to him. 
 I spent most of the evening going through his favourite 
 symphonies and sonatas, and when my fingers were 
 weary I sat down beside him. He was still in no mood 
 for talking, but he drew me closer to him until my head 
 rested on his shoulder ; and so we remained in a peaceful 
 sense of companionship, which needs no words, until it 
 grew late ; then silently wrapping me in his arms, with 
 an earnest kiss or two he dismissed me to my rest. 
 
 I was too tired to talk to Mardie that night, and it was 
 not until the following evening that I found my oppor- 
 tunity. Father and I had spent the whole day together. 
 We had a long ride before luncheon, and in the afternoon 
 he took me to see a fine collection of pictures, and we 
 afterwards had tea in the studio of an artist friend of 
 his. He had just completed a picture for the Royal 
 Academy, and was anxious for father's opinion. I think 
 the little change did us both good. Cyril Brodrick was
 
 AN OPEN SECRET 
 
 rather Bohemian in his tastes, but some of his friends 
 were dehghtful, and one was always sure to find a pleasant 
 social gathering on Thursday afternoon. In the evening 
 I read aloud and played, but I could not trust my voice 
 to sing. I am quite sure father guessed the reason, for 
 he did not ask me for any of his favourite songs, and 
 contented himself with Chopin and Beethoven ; his tact 
 was never at fault. 
 
 I went upstairs earlier that night, for I was deter- 
 mined to talk to Mardie before I slept. I had noticed 
 a trace of anxiety in her manner the previous evening, 
 and she had lingered in my room rather unnecessarily 
 as though to give me an opportunity. I felt sure she 
 suspected that all was not right with me, and was far 
 from easy in her mind. 
 
 To-night I hurried my preparations for bed, and cut 
 short rather ruthlessly the hair-brushing in which she 
 took such pride and delight. She was never weary of 
 commenting on the length and thickness of my brown 
 mane. " Few young ladies had such lovely hair," she 
 would say quite seriously, and she even assured me that 
 it swept the ground when I sat down. 
 
 I confess that I liked to hear her praises of its soft- 
 ness and gloss, for no girl of seventeen is quite devoid of 
 vanity, but to-night I begged her to arrange it quickly 
 in the loose plait that I always wore at night ; and when 
 my head was safely on the pillow I asked her to come 
 and sit beside me, and the dear old thing did not hesitate 
 for a moment. 
 
 " You have something to tell me, dearie," she whis- 
 pered, and her voice was full of understanding and 
 sympathy, as though she guessed trouble had touched 
 me. 
 
 "Yes, and there is much to tell," was my answer. 
 199
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " Mardie, do you know that my mother is not dead 
 after all?" 
 
 I had been a little abrupt, for I felt her start at this, 
 but again there was no hesitation. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Githa, my dear," she returned gravely. 
 " Somehow I always knew that from the first, though 
 no one ever told me so outright." 
 
 " No one? Are you quite sure, Mardie? " 
 
 " Perfectly sure, dearie. I only guessed it from 
 something Mrs. Bevan once said, — it was only a word 
 or two, and she never dreamt that I understood her. 
 But when she went away I said to myself, ' The poor 
 lady is living, but they don't mean the child to know it.' " 
 
 I pondered over this surprising piece of intelligence. 
 Mardie knew. She had guessed, had pieced stray words 
 together in her clever way. I had now to find out how 
 much she knew. To my astonishment her knowledge 
 was absolutely nil. 
 
 " I only knew for certain that your mother was alive," 
 she said quietly, " and that the master had a sore heart. 
 All the world could see that he was in grievous trouble." 
 
 " But surely, Mardie dear, you guessed more than 
 that." Then she drew herself up in almost a dignified 
 manner for so small a woman. 
 
 " It is not for a servant, however trusted and es- 
 teemed, to pry into her master's private concerns. Miss 
 Githa, my dear. Your father is a kind, good-hearted 
 man, and none of us has ever known him to be unfair 
 to man, woman or child. You should just hear Mr. 
 Hallett speak of the master. He fairly worships him. 
 Hallett knows as much as I do, and perhaps it will be 
 no harm to repeat a speech he once made when you were 
 a tiny mite between five or six. Hallett had only been 
 
 200
 
 AN OPEN SECRET 
 
 twelve months at St. Olave's Lodge then, but from the 
 first I knew he was to be trusted. 
 
 " ' I don't know what your opinion may be, Mrs. 
 Marland,' he said in a vexed sort of voice, ' but it is 
 my firm beHef that the master is an ill-used man. No 
 one could see him with that child and doubt it. When 
 our young lady has left him of a night, I have seen him 
 sitting over his books and papers and the look in his 
 eyes would have made your heart ache. It is no business 
 
 of ours, of course, but ' " but here I clutched Mardie's 
 
 sleeve to stop her, for I was afraid to let her go on. 
 
 " Hallett knows as well as you that my mother is 
 not dead ? " I asked. And she nodded assent. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Githa, and Mrs. Kennedy too ; we have 
 often wondered where the poor lady could be ; but there, 
 as Hallett said, it is none of our business. There are 
 plenty of cupboards in many households where there 
 is the skeleton of a secret trouble, for there's sore afflic- 
 tions in this life, and it is not always the worst of troubles 
 to stand by an open grave." 
 
 Mardie's homely philosophy was seldom at fault. I 
 saw she was trying to repress her intense curiosity, and 
 that she was longing for me to tell her more. 
 
 " Mardie dear," I said slowly, " last Sunday evening 
 I had a great shock ; and," the tears rising to my eyes, " I 
 am afraid that life will never seem quite the same to me 
 again. No," as she uttered an inarticulate exclamation 
 of sympathy, " do not interrupt me — let me go on. On 
 Sunday morning I believed tliat my mother lay in some 
 quiet grave, — a few hours later I met her face to face." 
 
 " My lamb, my precious lamb," fondling my hands. 
 
 " Hush, Mardie, for I have not finished. My mother 
 is a good woman, and I have known and loved her all 
 my life. She is — Cousin Yvonne." 
 
 201
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Again I had been too abrupt. My dear old nurse was 
 so shocked and surprised that she could not speak. She 
 looked quite dazed with the news. 
 
 " Am I awake or dreaming, Miss Githa ? " she said 
 in quite a helpless tone ; but I waited a little until her 
 brain began to realise it, and then I saw her quick wits 
 were piecing things together. 
 
 We had a long talk after this. I took Mardie into 
 my confidence. I told her quite frankly that I was still 
 ignorant of the reason that had led to my parents' separa- 
 tion, that whatever trouble had caused it was aggravated 
 by misunderstanding and temperamental difificulty. " My 
 Aunt Cosie tells me," I continued, " that there was not 
 sufficient cause for so serious an estrangement; but my 
 mother is very proud, and, I think, a little hard, and she 
 does not find a reconciliation easy. My dear father has 
 a softer nature." 
 
 I think I never loved nor respected Mardie as I did 
 that night. No lady in the land could have shown such 
 true delicacy and tact. She asked no questions beyond 
 what I told her. It was none of hers or Hallett's business 
 to meddle in their master's private affairs, she said. And 
 then she assured me again and again of her sympathy, 
 and begged me not to lose hope in a brighter future. 
 
 " Even good people fall out sometimes. Miss Githa," 
 she went on, " for does not the Bible tell us that matters 
 were so sore between St. Paul and Barnabas, for all 
 their friendship, that they parted and went different ways. 
 And if, as you say, Mrs. Darnell is a proud lady, and 
 stand-offish and fond of her own will, they may have 
 thought it better to part for a time ; and it must be your 
 work, my darling dear young lady, to bring them together 
 again." 
 
 I had hinted at this to Mardie, and she had caught
 
 AN OPEN SECRET 
 
 at the idea as though it were a rope to save drowning 
 mariners, and in her homely womanly way gave me a 
 good deal of encouragement. 
 
 She said so little that I do not know why I retained 
 the strong impression that her symapthy was with my 
 father ; even when I told her of my mother's supreme 
 act of self-sacrifice, she only shook her head with a heavy 
 sigh. " Those whom God has joined together," I heard 
 her whisper, and I knew then, as I knew afterwards, 
 that the household would side with my father. 
 
 It was very late. An hour ago we had involuntarily 
 hushed our voices as father went past my door, but 
 Mardie positively refused to leave me. It would be 
 useless for her to go to her bed, she said ; she would only 
 lie awake and worry. She would be far happier to sit 
 beside me until I fell off into a peaceful sleep ; and as 
 nothing would move her, I took the full comfort of her 
 silent-companionship. I heard afterwards that it was not 
 until the dawn that she crept way to her own room — 
 dear, faithful Mardie. 
 
 There was one thing we settled before I slept that 
 night, that Mardie should choose her own time and 
 opportunity for imparting the information of my mother's 
 existence to Hallett and Mrs. Kennedy, " our trusty 
 council of Three," as father often called them, but that 
 for the present the rest of the household should be left in 
 ignorance. 
 
 I knew well how faithfully and discreetly Mardie 
 would guard our interests, that in spite of her friendly 
 relations with Hallett she would be very sparing with her 
 tongue. 
 
 One more duty reinained to me. Miss Redford had 
 become a trusted friend of the family, and I was unwill- 
 ing to leave her in ignorance. When one has a difficult 
 
 203
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 or painful task to perform, it is useless to procrastinate. 
 No amount of contemplation or preparation beforehand is 
 likely to make the softest dentist's chair a comfortable 
 or luxurious seat, and a nauseous dose is swallowed more 
 readily and with fewer grimaces if taken at once. Much 
 as I cared for my dear Reddy — as I had grown to call 
 her — since my emancipation from the schoolroom, I was 
 always afraid of a certain cool matter-of-fact criticism. 
 Her sympathies lay deep, and were shown more in deeds 
 than in words, though Reddy had her softer moods too. 
 
 When I told father the next morning that I intended 
 calling at the Nutshell, as we always named it, he nodded 
 rather gravely, as though he understood. But he did 
 not suggest, as he generally did, that I should invite 
 her — Miss Reddy — to come to dinner ; we were neither 
 of us inclined to be sociable, and preferred our cosy 
 tete-a-tete in the evening. 
 
 Miss Redford was at home ; she was sitting in the 
 tiny bay window, busily engaged in making a pelisse for 
 Helen's bonnie boy. She seemed much surprised to see 
 me, as she thought I was still at Bayfield; but she wel- 
 comed me most cordially, and exhibited her needlework 
 rather proudly. " Nellie declares that it is far fitter for 
 a young marquis than for Elmer John Seymour," she 
 observed laughingly; and indeed the fairy garment was 
 a marvel of fine needlework. 
 
 During the last year or two I had noticed a great 
 alteration in Miss Redford. She looked older and more 
 mature, and she had certainly lost flesh, though she 
 seemed as strong and capable as ever. I had commented 
 on this change to Aunt Cosie, but she only looked as 
 though she agreed with me. " Oh yes," she observed. 
 " Claudia is certainly thinner ; she is not the sort of 
 woman to make flesh as she grows older. Helen was 
 
 204
 
 AN OPEN SECRET 
 
 worrying over it the other day, but I told her that a 
 prolonged course of platonic friendship was not exactly 
 fattening, — oh yes," with a little shrug of disapproval, 
 " I know she and Mr. Pelham consider themselves en- 
 gaged, but as far as matrimony 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." 
 
 I 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 that your 
 Cousin Yvonne is Mrs. Philip Darnell, and your 
 mother." 
 
 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 pene- 
 tration, 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 
 
 205
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 
 up with you — that your Cousin Yvonne and your 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 these sudden intuitions and flashes of insight 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 
 
 306
 
 AN OPEN SECRET 
 
 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.' " 
 
 207
 
 XXI 
 
 AN OBJECT LESSON 
 
 It does no good to brood over our troubles ; it does not help 
 matters out a bit. Be on the lookout for bright 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 Rcdfofd'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 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 quietly, 
 
 " That is right. Githa, dear, pull yourself together, do 
 208
 
 AN OBJECT LESSON 
 
 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 needle- 
 work, 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 dis- 
 tressed, 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 see that you are in a difficult posi- 
 tion. For some cause your parents have decided to live 
 apart ; that fact alone must point to complications." 
 
 I silently acquiesced in this. Miss Redford intuitively 
 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 you were 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 
 14 209
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 sur- 
 prised 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 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 
 
 210
 
 AN OBJECT LESSON 
 
 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 quite warm in the sunshine, 
 and I scarcely needed 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 
 green leaves. They were young, and the world was 
 young too. There was sunshine, and worms were plen- 
 tiful, 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 
 
 211
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 laughing 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. 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 pos- 
 session, 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
 
 AN OBJECT LESSON 
 
 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 qf his prey, for a time, but the vigor- 
 ous, 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 footsteps must 
 pass, the waters of which should be his healing and 
 renewal. So even for him there was the warm sunshine 
 and the spring breezes, and the Father's smile, and per- 
 chance, 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. 
 
 213
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 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 out- 
 side 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." 
 
 " 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 your- 
 self." 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. 
 
 214
 
 AN OBJECT LESSON 
 
 " 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." 
 
 315
 
 XXII 
 
 SYDNEY PROVES AN OPTIMIST 
 
 I follow, follow, sure to meet the sun, 
 And confident, that what the future yields 
 Will be the right, unless myself be wrong. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 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 satisfaction, 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 
 mother," made me flush so suddenly that I saw Mardie 
 look at me rather curiously. 
 
 I explained matters to her and bade her good-bye, 
 but she waited to see me drive off. I am afraid Sam 
 
 216
 
 SYDNEY PROVES AN OPTIMIST 
 
 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, mischievous, 
 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 my mother was crossing the hall to meet me. 
 Nothing could have been kinder than her greeting-kiss, 
 and as she stood holding my hands there was a new look 
 in her eyes, as though her mother love, so unnaturally 
 starved and repressed, was compelled to find vent. It 
 gave me a curious thrill as I recognised this. 
 
 " You had better have some tea before you go up 
 to your room, Githa," and then she led mc into the 
 bright, sunny drawing-room. And as I took my wonted 
 seat beside the little tea-table, and the old dreamy feeling 
 took possession of me again, was it my fancy that my 
 mother looked thinner — yes, and a little older? But how 
 beautiful she was with the silvery masses of hair piled 
 so lightly on her forehead, and those dark, melancholy 
 eyes that looked into mine so lovingly. 
 
 " Your train was very punctual, my dear. Poor 
 vSydney will be sadly disappointed at missing you. I 
 believe they all meant to meet you, but the tide must 
 
 217
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 have been against them. They took their hmcheon with 
 them, — it is such a lovely day. Rhona's aunt, Miss 
 Etheridge, was with them." 
 
 Miss Etheridge was a stranger to me. and I was not 
 sorry to have missed the party. I did. not say so, but I 
 am sure my mother understood, for as she handed me a 
 cup of tea she looked at me rather intently. 
 
 " You are not quite well yet, Githa," she observed, 
 and there was a new note of gentleness in her voice. 
 " I hoped your pretty colour would have come back," 
 touching my cheek with caressing fingers. 
 
 I was perilously near tears at this moment, she was 
 so dear and loving. Why was I so slow to respond ? 
 
 " I am only a little tired." I stammered. Then she 
 sighed, but let the excuse pass. 
 
 " How long shall you be able to remain with me ? " 
 was her next question, but my answer did not seem to 
 fully satisfy her. 
 
 " Only a fortnight " — then she checked herself, and 
 her manner stiffened for a moment. 
 
 " I have no intention of being exacting, Githa," she 
 went on. " You are of an age now to make your own 
 arrangements. It is natural that I should wish to have 
 you with me as much as possible, but I realise the diffi- 
 culty." Then she sighed again and changed the subject 
 a little abruptly by telling me that Sydney was going 
 up to town the following Tuesday to stay with the 
 Etheridges for a few weeks. Mrs. Etheridge was less 
 well than usual and wished to consult her London doctor ; 
 an old friend had lent them a house for a month, and 
 they had invited Sydney to accompany them. " Miss 
 Etheridge — Aunt Laura as they call her — will be there 
 too," continued my mother. " She is an active, sociable 
 person, and will take the girls about to concerts and 
 
 218
 
 SYDNEY PROVES AN OPTIMIST 
 
 theatres ; it will really be a great treat to Sydney, only 
 she is so sorry to miss so much of your visit." 
 
 I was sorry too, and yet, perhaps, under the circum- 
 stances a third person would be embarrassing; it would 
 be easier to find opportunities for opening my heart to 
 my mother when we were alone. " We shall both miss 
 her I am afraid," I returned; and as far as I was con- 
 cerned it was certainly the truth, but my mother shook 
 her head. 
 
 " No, I am glad for her to go for several reasons. 
 I shall like to have you to myself for a little, Githa ; dear 
 Sydney, sweet and good as she is, would be rather de trop 
 just now." She paused a moment as though she hoped 
 for some response on my part, but I only listened silently, 
 and she went on : " And there are other reasons why I 
 shall be thankful to get her away from Bayfield for a 
 few weeks. I begin to think that you were right, and 
 that Thurston is paying her far too much attention — 
 there is no keeping them apart. He and his dogs are 
 always hanging about the lane ; she can go nowhere that 
 he does not waylay or follow her. If this went on I 
 should be obliged to speak to Sydney, but I am unwilling 
 to do that." 
 
 " It would be better," I said, " to speak to Thurston " ; 
 but my mother did not seem willing to do this at present. 
 Thurston had a quick temper, she remarked, and would 
 readily take offence ; his will was strong, and if he were 
 really in love with Sydney, opposition would only fan 
 the flame ; the little break would be good for both, and 
 when Sydney came back to Bayfield she would keep a 
 stricter watch over the girl, and, if necessary, give her 
 a hint. 
 
 " I suppose Thurston will see them in town," I sug- 
 gested. 
 
 319
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " Oh yes, there can be no doubt of that, for he told 
 me that Colonel Etheridge had given him a general invi- 
 tation ; but he will hardly venture to pay Sydney attention 
 — there are too many chaperones, and he will certainly 
 not see her alone. To add to the complication, I am 
 afraid poor little Rhona is beginning to care for him. I 
 was at the Mount yesterday and Thurston came in with 
 a message from his grandmother, and Rhona flushed up 
 so when she saw him — she really looked quite pretty for 
 the moment — but Thurston hardly noticed her." 
 
 I think all this talk was just a ruse on my mother's 
 part to put me at my ease ; it was evident that my looks 
 did not satisfy her — things had gone more deeply with me 
 than she had supposed. She had cheated herself with the 
 idea that I was too young to suffer — that I should placidly 
 adapt myself to the situation ; but she found my reserve 
 and nervousness a little baffling. 
 
 She took me up to my room after that. The toilet 
 table was decked with the loveliest spring flowers, and 
 I knew that she, and not Sydney, had gathered and 
 arranged them. When I thanked her she only looked at 
 me with a wistful smile. 
 
 " I scarcely slept all night for pleasure at the thought 
 that you would be lying here to-night " ; and her hand 
 touched the pillow. " How I have longed for you, 
 darling, night and day, night and day " ; and then with a 
 sudden break in her voice : " Be good to me, dear child, 
 and let me see you more like your old self during the 
 short time we are together." But before I could answer 
 her she had left the room. 
 
 There was a lump in my throat as I began to dress 
 myself, and my eyes were hot and smarting with repressed 
 tears. My mother's tenderness only added to my pain. 
 I felt as though I were being torn asunder between these
 
 SYDNEY PROVES AN OPTIMIST 
 
 two. " Surely," I said to myself, " if my mother needs 
 me so much, she will not refuse to listen to me; for my 
 sake she will be more ready to yield." And then in the 
 sweet evening light I knelt down with the brief prayer 
 that when the right time came I might have courage and 
 strength to speak, and that her love for her child might 
 teach her to forgive ; and after that I felt a little less 
 troubled. 
 
 I even repeated to myself a few lines by Sutton that 
 I had committed to heart that very morning. They had 
 taken my fancy, and I had stored them, as a bee stores 
 honey, for future use ; they were strangely applicable 
 now : 
 
 Who uses prayer, a friend shall never miss; 
 If he should slip, a timely staff and kind 
 Placed in his grasp by hands unseen shall find ; 
 Sometimes upon his forehead a soft kiss, 
 And arms cast round him gently from behind. 
 
 It was at this moment that there was a light tap at 
 the door, and Sydney's clear voice demanding admission ; 
 and the next moment she was hugging me as though 
 we had been parted for years and not days. She looked 
 flushed, excited, and rather perturbed, and she was 
 panting with the haste she had made. 
 
 " Oh, Githa, I never was more sorry about anything. 
 We all meant to meet you and bring you home in the 
 wagonette, but it was Thurston's fault. He would not 
 allow sufficient time for the return journey, and the tide 
 was against us, and we were nearly an hour late ; and the 
 wagonette was wanted for Colonel Etheridge ; and we 
 had to walk home all that way. Rhona and I would not 
 have minded, but Aunt Laura was so cross — she is not 
 a good-tempered person, though nice in her way — and 
 
 221
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Thurston was annoyed, so I can't say I enjoyed my 
 walk." 
 
 " You look very hot and tired, Sydney." 
 
 " Oh, that was just the worry of missing the train. 
 But Aunt Yvonne told me that there was no time to 
 chatter, and that we must wait until dinner." And then 
 Sydney hugged me again, and I knew by the way she 
 looked at me that she was dying for a talk. 
 
 The opportunity soon came. It was a lovely evening, 
 and the air felt as though it were June, and the moon 
 was rising. Sydney, who seemed exhilarated rather 
 than tired by her river excursion, begged us both to 
 come out in the garden ; but my mother refused. 
 
 " Githa will go with you," she observed. " There is 
 a letter that I really must finish ; but you must not keep 
 her out too long, as she has had a journey." 
 
 " Oh no, I will take care of her," rejoined Sydney, 
 tucking my arm under hers. " The air is just delicious 
 this evening — like snow and honey and a dash of cream 
 — a regular syllabub of good things," laughing and hurry- 
 ing me away. 
 
 All through dinner she and I had discussed the 
 London visit, and my mother had listened to us silently, 
 only putting in a word now and then. It was a safe 
 subject, and Sydney had a good deal to tell me about her 
 own and Rhona's plans. There were visits to the dentist, 
 as weW as theatres and concerts. " Colonel Etheridge 
 means to take us to the Royal Academy, and to the Tate 
 Gallery, and the National Gallery as well. He is per- 
 fectly devoted to pictures. He has found out that Rhona 
 has never been to the National Gallery, and he was quite 
 shocked about it. He told her that he should take her 
 art education in hand, but I don't believe that Rhona 
 cares much about pictures; and, oh, Githa, we are both 
 
 222
 
 SYDNEY PROVES AN OPTIMIST 
 
 to have riding lessons in town, and Aunt Yvonne is 
 giving me a habit." 
 
 We all knew why Sydney was talking so eagedy 
 about her promised treat. I am sure she felt the air a 
 little electric, and was afraid of an embarrassing silence, 
 and I seconded her to the best of my ability. 
 
 Sydney's manner quite changed directly we found 
 ourselves outside. 
 
 " Let us go down the lane," she said in a low voice. 
 " No one will ever hear us there, and the moonlight on 
 the meadow is so lovely " ; and as I agreed to this she 
 gave my arm a little squeeze. 
 
 " It will be such a comfort to talk to you quietly, 
 Githa dear ; it really seems weeks since Monday. Aunt 
 Yvonne told me that night, and I was so excited and 
 happy that I could not sleep for hours." 
 
 I felt a little surprised to hear her say this. I knew 
 that Sydney had a beautiful nature, but I never thought 
 that she was so absolutely free from all taint of jealousy 
 or selfishness. In her place as Cousin Yvonne's adopted 
 (laughter, the unexpected arrival of a real daughter would 
 have made me feel out in the cold ; but Sydney had none 
 of this shivery self-consciousness. 
 
 " How could I help being happy," she returned a 
 little reproachfully, " that you should have such a dear 
 wonderful mother? Of course, as I told 7\unt Yvonne, 
 it seems a little strange at first, and that we should have 
 to get used to the situation ; but that did not make it 
 any the less joyful. Oh, how touching and sweet Aunt 
 Yvonne was that night ! I could not help crying as I 
 listened to her. I think no mother ever loved her child 
 as she loves you." 
 
 " If she had loved me a little more she would hardly 
 have left me." Then Sydney stood still in the moon- 
 light, and I saw that her face was rather grave. 
 
 223
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " I do not like to hear you say that, Githa dear ; but 
 I am sure that you do not really mean it. Don't you 
 see what a grand and noble thing it was? — to sacrifice 
 herself for her husband ; it almost broke her heart to 
 do it." 
 
 " Yes — and I ought not to have spoken as I did. You 
 must forget it, for dearly as I love my new mother I am 
 not at all happy. How am I to do my duty to my parents ? 
 They both want me; but I think — nay, I am sure — that 
 my father needs me most. Sydney, you look at every- 
 thing in such a bright, hopeful way, that you do not see 
 all the complications." 
 
 " I am afraid you are right," in a low voice. " But 
 I think I do understand the difficulty, only I believe it will 
 be solved somehow. Aunt Yvonne only told me as 
 much as she thought necessary. There was trouble, and 
 she and Mr. Darnell had decided to live apart. You were 
 left to your father's care on condition that you were not 
 informed of your mother's identity until you were of an 
 age to judge for yourself. Perhaps it is a little perplex- 
 ing for us to understand ; but I am quite sure of one 
 thing — that when Aunt Yvonne took this singular step 
 she thought she was doing the right thing." 
 
 I let this pass, for I found it almost impossible to 
 answer such speeches truthfully. Could it be that I had 
 inherited my mother's nature after all? I could forgive 
 — oh yes, thank God, I could forgive — but I could not 
 understand. I had an innate conviction that my mother's 
 complex personality would present obstacles that I might 
 not easily surmount. Surely with a little more patience, 
 a little more love, all this suffering and misery might 
 have been averted. This was Aunt Cosie's opinion, and 
 I felt that I agreed with her. 
 
 Sydney went on talking in her sweet way. She was 
 224
 
 SYDNEY PROVES AN OPTIMIST 
 
 overflowing with affection and sympathy, and said so 
 many nice things about my mother, that I felt deeply 
 grateful. 
 
 "Have I comforted you a little, Githa dearest?" she 
 asked wistfully. " Will you try and think more hopefully 
 about the future ? " 
 
 " I will try my best," I returned. " I am afraid I am 
 disappointing you because I am not happier, but you 
 must not misunderstand me. I am very grateful for the 
 new blessing vouchsafed to me, but I am weighed down 
 with a sense of responsibility. Oh, Sydney ! if I could 
 only bring about a reconciliation between those two dear 
 people." 
 
 " And what then, dearest ? " 
 
 " Ah, then, young as I am, I feel as though I could 
 use old Simeon's prayer, and that the Angel of Forgive- 
 ness and I would smile at each other through the ages." 
 
 I am afraid Sydney thought I was talking a little 
 wildly — for how could she know what I meant? But 
 she was full of tender concern when I suddenly burst 
 into tears, for I was still weak and overwrought ; but 
 the relief did me good. No, I shall never forget how 
 gentle and dear she was that night. 
 
 15 225
 
 XXIII 
 GOLLIWOG AND LOT'S WIFE 
 
 You ask for the effect to follow cause 
 
 Too soon and visibly. 'Twere well to wait. 
 
 The pears upon my trees are still but green. 
 
 But they will ripen in the summer sun. 
 
 Our vanity would do all things at once ; 
 
 God takes His time and puts us all to shame. 
 
 Aaron Watson. 
 
 We had stayed out so long that my mother came in 
 search of us. She wore a grey silk gown that evening, 
 and as she walked down the lane towards us in the clear 
 white moonlight, with a fleecy wrap thrown over her 
 head, she looked like some fair, stately wraith — more like 
 a vision than a living woman. 
 
 " Sydney, is this wise? Githa is tired from her jour- 
 ney and is not as strong as usual." She spoke gently, 
 but there was implied reproach in her voice. 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry, Aunt Yvonne," returned Sydney 
 penitently. " It was so lovely in the lane, and we were 
 talking and forgot all about the time." 
 
 " That is exactly what I imagined. Do you know, 
 children, that it is past nine o'clock?" 
 
 I do not know whether my mother noticed that I had 
 been shedding tears ; but she put her arm round me, and 
 we all walked back a little silently, and I was not sorry 
 when she begged me to go up to my room. 
 
 " I will say good-night to you when I come upstairs," 
 226
 
 GOLLIWOG AND LOT'S WIFE 
 
 she observed. " I hope I shall find you in bed by then." 
 But though she kept her word, I was relieved to see 
 that she did not mean to stay and talk to me. She only 
 asked me if I were comfortable, and hoped that I should 
 sleep well ; and then as she stooped and kissed me she 
 whispered, " God be with you, darling," and left me 
 alone in the moonlight. 
 
 I was so spent and weary that I soon fell asleep ; 
 and I remember that something she had said to me that 
 afternoon was my last waking thought : " How I have 
 wanted you night and day — night and day." 
 
 " That is how mothers feel," I said to myself drowsily ; 
 " mothers — and fathers too " ; and then I sank into a 
 heavy slumber. 
 
 When I woke the next morning I was glad to remem- 
 ber that it was Sunday. From a child I had always 
 loved Sundays at Bayfield. There was something so 
 peaceful in the Sabbath stillness that seemed to brood 
 over the village ; the children with freshly washed faces 
 and clean frocks, tripping by in twos and threes to the 
 Sunday School ; the little group of village lads loitering on 
 the green until the church bell had stopped ; the dropping 
 of curtseys from the old women in the porch when the 
 ladies from Prior's Cot made their appearance, — and then 
 the hearty, simple service. Yes, even our dear old Chelsea 
 church, where we went morning and evening, did not 
 appeal to me so strongly. 
 
 " It always seems so much more like Sunday in the 
 country," I once said to father; and, as usual, he under- 
 stood and agreed with me. 
 
 " I know what you mean, Gip. I have often felt the 
 same." 
 
 We were walking along the Embankment when he 
 said this; and then we stopped, as a pleasure steamer, 
 
 227
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 full of people, passed us. A band was playing, and some 
 children were dancing on the deck. Some smartly dressed 
 girls, arm-in-arm with their sweethearts, were strolling 
 towards Battersea Park ; rough lads were lounging on the 
 benches and making remarks on the passers-by ; now and 
 then a carriage, full of gaily-attired women, rolled by ; 
 church bells were ringing, but they fell on deaf ears. 
 Then, and often, my thoughts had turned longingly to 
 the Sunday at Bayfield. 
 
 During the week I had often thought of Mr. Carlyon's 
 kindness to me during the journey home. I felt grateful 
 to him for his silent sympathy. He had said little, but 
 his manner had implied so much. Nothing could have 
 exceeded the delicacy of his tact and his wish to help me, 
 and I told myself more than once that he would be a 
 friend for adversity. 
 
 I longed, yet I dreaded to see him again, for I knew 
 the sight of him would bring back the remembrance 
 of the old bewildered pain, and I was glad that I should 
 see him first in church. Sydney wanted me to go with 
 her to the Sunday School, but I made some excuse, and 
 remained quietly in my room trying to read until it was 
 time to dress for church. 
 
 I found the service very soothing. I fancied that 
 Mr. Carlyon glanced at our pew as he entered ; his sermon 
 was beautiful and exceedingly helpful, only it was far too 
 short. In the evening a stranger preached, and I am 
 afraid my attention wandered a good deal. 
 
 I had found it very difficult to keep thought at bay ; 
 the remembrance of my last Sunday evening and the 
 momentous talk with my mother came back with disturb- 
 ing force. I felt sure by her manner, and a certain pained, 
 drawn look in her face, that my mother shared this 
 feeling. Throughout the day she had talked only of 
 
 228
 
 GOLLIWOG AND LOT'S WIFE 
 
 passing things — a book she had been reading, and which 
 she thought would interest me ; and she made me come 
 round the garden with her in the afternoon to show me 
 some improvements she had planned. " I like to have 
 your opinion about things, Githa," she said in the old, kind 
 way ; and though I knew little about such matters, I 
 praised eagerly everything that she pointed out — so great 
 was my desire to please her. I remember once when she 
 was showing me the new carnation-bed, that I called her 
 Cousin Yvonne by mistake, and that I flushed so hotly 
 that my face quite burnt ; but she only put out her hand 
 to me, with rather a sad smile. 
 
 " I forgot," I said, feeling ashamed of my awkward- 
 ness ; " please forgive me, mother." 
 
 " My dear, there is nothing to forgive — a trifling 
 mistake like that is only natural " ; and then she went 
 on talking about a projected flower-border. She wanted 
 to put me thoroughly at my ease — to make me feel more 
 at home in my new role of daughter. Perhaps for the 
 first time she realised my difficulty ; it was no new idea to 
 her all these years. I had been her child, the hidden 
 treasure of her heart, on whom she had watched from 
 afar with mute mother-love — for her there were no fresh 
 developments or complications. She had only to open 
 her arms and say to me, " Githa, T am your mother " ; 
 that was all. 
 
 But for me it was different, and I was sure from her 
 manner that afternoon that she had made up her mind to 
 be patient with me, and to win the confidence of my young 
 heart by only the gentlest means, and, above all things, 
 not to let me know how my new reserve pained her. 
 Dear mother, it grieves me even now to think how I must 
 have disappointed her! After supper that night mother 
 played on the organ as usual, and Sydney and I sat 
 
 229
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 together in the window seat. It was not quite dark, and 
 the moon was rising, but the organ lamps had been 
 Hghted. The radiance streamed full on my mother's 
 face — on the pale, perfect profile — the beautiful hands, 
 with their glittering rings, moving so rapidly over the 
 keys — and this fair, queenly woman was my mother ! 
 A sudden thrill of pride of possession seemed to pass 
 through me. I felt at that moment a strange yearning 
 to kneel down by her and take her hands, " Mother, come 
 home with me ; we both need you so much " ; and so 
 overpowering was the impulse to say those words, that 
 but for Sydney's presence I must have yielded to it. 
 
 The next morning I found plenty of occupation in 
 writing to father and helping Sydney to pack. She talked 
 in her cheerful fashion all the time, and hindered me a 
 good deal ; but she wanted to explain to me clearly how 
 sorry she was to leave me, and at the same time she did 
 not attempt to disguise her pleasurable anticipations. 
 " I am getting very fond of Rhona," she went on ; " she 
 rather grows on one. She is really very unselfish, and 
 has such a sweet temper, and she has far more in her 
 than you would ever guess." 
 
 " Take care, Sydney," I returned warningly, as I 
 folded her new evening dress. " Rhona may be all very 
 well, but I won't have you liking her best." 
 
 " There is no fear of that," with a merry laugh. " By 
 the bye, Githa, if you only stay here a fortnight we shall 
 be able to meet in town " ; and then we two fell to making 
 plans. 
 
 When Colonel Etheridge took them to the Tate Gal- 
 lery, they must all have luncheon at St. Olave's Lodge, 
 and she and Rhona must come for a long day. " I would 
 rather have you by yourself, Syd," I continued frankly; 
 " but we must not be unkind to poor Rhona, and we must 
 
 230
 
 GOLLIWOG AND LOT'S WIFE 
 
 have riding expeditions together." But the rest of our 
 plans awaited development, for at that moment my mother 
 came in to see how we were getting on, and to remind 
 us that it was nearly luncheon-time. 
 
 Sydney wanted to say good-bye to the twins, and 
 urged me to accompany her to the Vicarage. She seemed 
 rather surprised when I hesitated. " We shall see no one 
 but the children," she continued ; " for even Peace is away 
 to-day, and Thurston told me yesterday that he and the 
 vicar were going to Henley this afternoon " ; and after 
 this I made no further demur. 
 
 We found the twins playing in the garden. There 
 was a curious assemblage on the lawn — all Stella's dolls 
 had been brought out for an airing, and sat in a row on 
 the grass, headed by Cyril's special fetish, a huge Golli- 
 wog. This creature was the object of his tenderest devo- 
 tion ; he refused to go to sleep unless the black head 
 reposed on the pillow beside him. " Dear Duckems," as 
 he termed it, " wanted to be cuddled." When Peace 
 objected to this arrangement, Stella took his part. 
 
 " Of course Cyril wanted his little black boy to be 
 happy — poor, dear Golly, it had no nice father or mother 
 to love him." And as Stella ruled the nursery, the limp 
 figure of the orphaned Golliwog soon occupied its accus- 
 tomed place. Cyril was employed at the present moment 
 in loading a small red cart with stones, with which he 
 proposed to mend the road, as he called it — a narrow, 
 uneven path leading to a small fernery. Both the children 
 hailed us joyfully, and Stella took a flying leap into my 
 arms. 
 
 " Why, it is our own dear Girlie comed back," she 
 shouted ; and Cyril, echoing placidly, " Girlie comed 
 back," hung affectionately on my dress. Their joy over 
 me was so touching, and they kissed and loved me in 
 
 231
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 such an engaging way, that I was obhged to sit down on 
 the grass and hug them both. Sydney regarded us from 
 the background with amused eyes. I had to remind Stella 
 that she was performing the part of hostess rather imper- 
 fectly ; she only shrugged a plump shoulder, and turned 
 a trifle pettishly. " Oh, Herberts is always here ; we are 
 used to her, aren't we, Cyril? " and Cyril nodding gravely, 
 and muttering sotto voce, " Erberts always here," went 
 ofT to his road-mending. 
 
 " I shall not be here to-morrow," observed Sydney 
 plaintively. " I am going away for a whole month, Stella ; 
 that is four weeks — thirty-one days." 
 
 Stella tossed back her curly mane, and regarded her 
 old friend from under her long eyelashes in quite an irre- 
 sistible way; but she was in one of her wilful moods. If 
 Stella lived to grow up, she was likely to break a good 
 many hearts ; from her birth she had been a baby flirt, 
 and before she could walk she had dispensed her favours 
 with the air of a princess. 
 
 For some occult reason " her dear Herberts " was not 
 in her good graces. Stella only looked bored. 
 
 " A month isn't long," she remarked carelessly. 
 " Come and see my children. Girlie dear. Cyril told 
 Golliwog to mind them ; doesn't he look beautiful in his 
 new red tie? Boy says he is a regular Masher; didn't 
 he, Cyril ? " 
 
 " Paul said he was regularly mashed," observed 
 Cyril thoughtfully ; then his manner changed as he caught 
 sight of an unusually large stone. 
 
 " I have got a milestone, Stella," he exclaimed joy- 
 fully ; " such a great, big, white, lovely stone " ; but Stella 
 eyed it with scant interest. 
 
 " I don't care much for milestones ; don't interrupt, 
 Cyril. I want Girlie to be introduced to the family " ; 
 
 232
 
 GOLLIWOG AND LOT'S WIFE 
 
 and Cyril, who seemed to have no will of his own, sat 
 down on the gravel and, with a red face, tugged at his 
 milestone. 
 
 The introductions took a long time. Stella was a 
 little exacting in her demands. The limp kid or waxen 
 hands were all to be shaken, and a kiss imprinted on 
 each rosy cheek. Stella would not let me off one. I 
 began to wish the family was smaller. There were six- 
 teen dolls of all sizes, and I had to hear the name and 
 history of every one. Stella wished me to kiss the Golli- 
 wog too, but I avoided the situation by saying that I never 
 kissed any gentleman but father ; and I spoke so gravely 
 and seemed so shocked at the idea that even Stella seemed 
 surprised. We played kiss-in-the-ring after this, but it 
 was such a very small ring that there were many kisses 
 and short runs; and then Cyril, who had seemed rather 
 absent in his mind, slipped his grimy little hand in mine 
 and begged me to help him set up his milestone. Stella, 
 who never liked to be out of anything, accompanied us. 
 
 " Isn't it a great, big, lovely stone," he chuckled, " and 
 won't the road look grand ? " But Stella's face wore a 
 judicial air. 
 
 " The road is all holes, and the poor dear ants do 
 look so unhappy, and the stone is far too big, Cyril." 
 She put her head on one side reflectively. " Oh, I have 
 got such a ducky idea — it will make such a splendid Lot's 
 wife turned into a pillar of salt ; that is ever so much 
 nicer than milestones. Do set it up, Cyril, and we will 
 bring Boy, and ask him to preach a sermon about it." 
 
 But for once Cyril looked unhappy. 
 
 " Must I, Stella— really and truly ! " 
 
 " Of course you must, and Herberts will help you," 
 was Stella's peremptory response. 
 
 Then Cj^ril slowly and reluctantly set uj) the monu- 
 233
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 ment. As he did so we heard him murmur under his 
 breath, in rather a distressed way : " Poor Lot's wife — 
 turned — into — pillar — of — salt — woman — want to love 
 her, and be kind to her " ; and the dear little fellow looked 
 ready to cry. I was glad when Sydney coaxed him away 
 from the damp path and its distressing memories, and 
 proposed Hide-and-Seek and Puss-in-the-Corner. 
 
 234
 
 XXIV 
 
 "GITHA, YOU FORGET YOURSELF" 
 
 How easy is the thought in certain moods of the loveliest, 
 most unselfish devotion ! How hard is the doing of the thought 
 in the face of a thousand difficulties ! — G. MacDonald. 
 
 God called the nearest angels who dwell with Him above; 
 The tender one was Pity, and the dearest one was Love. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 I DROVE to the station with Sydney the next morning, 
 and on our way we passed Thurston and his dogs ; he 
 was walking very fast, as though he were in a desperate 
 hurry, and the dogs were barking and racing each other 
 from the sheer joy of exercise. I saw a conscious flush 
 on Sydney's face as she smiled and waved her hand. 
 
 " I said good-bye to him yesterday," she observed care- 
 lessly. "I suppose he has some business in the town"; 
 but she did not look at me as she said this, and I was 
 sure from her manner that she was fully aware of the 
 business that brought him to Great Bayfield. In a sur- 
 prisingly short time, considering the distance, he joined 
 us on the platform. He had some flowers in his hand, 
 which he gave to Sydney, to refresh her on the journey. 
 He said it laughingly, for of course it was an absurdly 
 short journey. Sydney would be at Belmont House and 
 would probably have unpacked before luncheon ; but 
 Thurston had cut the choicest blossoms in the hothouse, 
 and had arranged quite an exquisite little bouquet. For 
 
 235
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 once in her life Sydney looked excessively nervous ; she 
 kept her eyes fixed on the flowers, and seemed scarcely 
 able to look at either of us. I am sure it was quite a relief 
 to her when the train started. 
 
 I could not help watching Thurston. I thought he 
 had never looked to such advantage ; it was impossible 
 to deny that he was a most strikingly handsome young 
 man. The strain of Spanish blood in his veins was appar- 
 ent in his pale olive complexion and dark hair and eyes. 
 When his face was in repose there was rather a proud 
 expression about the mouth ; the short upper lip curled 
 a little disdainfully under the black moustache ; but his 
 smile was particularly pleasant and winning, his tempera- 
 ment was ardent, and he would know how to play the 
 role of a lover better than most men. 
 
 I was not surprised to hear him tell Sydney that he 
 would probably be in town the following week, and should 
 certainly call at Belmont House; but I am sure Sydney 
 looked a little frightened when he said this. 
 
 Thurston did not ask me to drive him back, as I 
 expected ; he said he had a note for the mill half a mile 
 farther, and that he and the dogs needed exercise. They 
 were certainly uiuisually frolicsome ; I saw them leaping 
 on him as he left the station, as though they were a pack 
 of puppies. 
 
 I thought my mother looked a little vexed when I 
 narrated this episode. " Foolish fellow," she said impa- 
 tiently, " he is just stirring up a hornet's nest, and no 
 good will come of it." 
 
 The next three or four days passed very quietly and 
 pleasantly; if there were hidden undercurrents, the sur- 
 face was smooth and unruffled. 
 
 Every morning, while my mother discharged her 
 housekeeping tasks, I wrote to father. I had little news 
 
 236
 
 GITHA, YOU FORGET YOURSELF 
 
 to tell him, but I knew how he loved to see a letter in my 
 handwriting lying beside his plate when he came down 
 to breakfast. When my mother came into the room she 
 never took any notice of my employment. 
 
 '' When you have finished, Githa, we will go into the 
 village; but there is no hurry, we have the day before 
 us," she would invent some such speech as that. 
 
 My mother had not recovered her normal strength, 
 and could not walk far; but we pottered about the cot- 
 tages, and looked in at the school, and killed time very 
 agreeably. We generally took a long drive in the after- 
 noon, coming back to a late tea ; but, with the exception 
 of St. Helen's Towers, we paid no visits. I thought Lady 
 Wilde was not quite as cordial in her manner to either 
 of us ; but I did not venture to question my mother, even 
 when she said very kindly that she feared I had not 
 enjoyed my visit — a fact which I could not deny. I was 
 afraid to continue the subject, and I could not be sure that 
 the truth had not leaked out. Lady Wilde was not a 
 sympathetic person ; she disliked secrets and mysteries, 
 and was rather intolerant and critical on matters she did 
 not fully understand. 
 
 In the evening we generally had music, or my mother 
 read to me. She had a beautiful voice, which much 
 enhanced the interest of the story. She had a great 
 partiality for poetry, especially sacred poetry, and it was 
 she who taught me to love The Christian Year all my 
 life long. I shall never forget the exquisite timbre and 
 sadness of her voice when she once repeated from memory 
 those lines — 
 
 Why should we faint and fear to live alone, 
 Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die? 
 
 Not even the tcnderest heart, and next our own, 
 Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh. 
 
 227
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Young as I was, it brought the tears to my eyes. I was 
 quite content to sit at my fancy work and Hsten. I am 
 sure no outsider watching us could have detected any- 
 thing to mar the perfect harmony and peace of the scene ; 
 and yet at times, when we had been silent for a few 
 minutes, I had raised my eyes from my work and found 
 my mother's gaze fixed on me with a grave intensity 
 that bordered on sadness. Those glances, so penetrating 
 and yearning, always brought back the old ache. Clearly 
 she was not satisfied or happy about me ; and yet was it 
 all my fault? 
 
 To my regret, I had not yet seen Mr. Carlyon. He 
 had called one afternoon when we were driving, and had 
 not repeated his visit. I do not know if it were my fancy 
 that my mother seemed rather relieved that we had missed 
 him ; at least, her manner gave me this impression ; and 
 yet I knew how much she thought of him. 
 
 One evening, when I had been playing as usual, my 
 mother asked me to sing to her. I hesitated for a moment, 
 and she repeated her request. My voice was not as clear 
 as usual, and I felt it was not under my control. I became 
 a little nervous, and broke off presently, saying that I 
 was out of practice, and that I was acquitting myself too 
 badly to give her any pleasure. She accepted my excuses 
 rather gravely, and I closed the piano, and came to the 
 table to take up my work ; but she checked me. 
 
 " I am not going to read to-night, Githa ; like you, 
 I am not in the mood." Her manner made me vaguely 
 uneasy. 
 
 " I am sorry ! but indeed I could not sing to-night, 
 mother," I said hastily ; " I really have neglected practis- 
 ing lately." 
 
 " That is a pity," she returned a little dryly ; " it is 
 not right to let yourself go like this, Githa." I felt rather 
 
 238
 
 GITHA, YOU FORGET YOURSELF 
 
 hurt by this remark ; surely she must know why I could 
 not sing. But the next moment her manner softened. 
 
 " We are both a little out of gear to-night," she 
 observed kindly ; " supposing we talk instead." 
 
 " Do you mean I am not to work ? " 
 
 " Yes, we will both be idle for an hour, Githa, my 
 dear. You have been here nearly a week, half your visit 
 is over, and yet we have said little to each other." 
 
 It was the truth, though I quaked nervously to hear 
 her say it. 
 
 " And yet we have talked a good deal," was my some- 
 what lame rejoinder. 
 
 *' Oh yes, we have talked. It is easy to skim over the 
 surface in an easy, birdlike fashion, but one should go 
 deeper than that. Githa, I have watched you closely these 
 five or six days, and it has struck me more than once 
 that Cousin Yvonne came closer to you than your 
 mother." 
 
 " No, no ; how can you say such things ! " 
 
 '' But if it be the truth, my dear, would it not be 
 wiser to face it ? " She looked at me with wistful tender- 
 ness, and there was a faint trembling about her beautiful 
 mouth and chin, always with her a mark of intense agita- 
 tion. " Darling, I wish you would tell me in what way my 
 love has been remiss — have I not been good to you?" 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, you have," I returned with emotion. 
 " No mother could have been kinder." 
 
 " And yet you cannot reconcile yourself to the fact of 
 our relationship. You could love Cousin Yvonne and 
 open your heart to her freely ; there was little or nothing 
 that you kept back from her ; and you are reserved and 
 retiring with her now you know she is your mother." 
 
 I could not answer her, it was all so absolutely true. 
 
 " Is this right or reasonable? " she went on. " I have 
 239
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 not changed, nothing is really changed ; as your father 
 and I were relations, it is still the truth that I am your 
 Cousin Yvonne. But I am your mother as well, who 
 nearly died in giving you life, and watched over your 
 infancy with such love that no other mother could sur- 
 pass ! " 
 
 Oh, the wonderful passion of her voice as she said 
 this ; it thrilled me through and through ! If I could only 
 make her understand what I really felt — the yearning 
 pity, the afifection, the sense of utter helplessness. 
 
 " Indeed, I love you mother," I faltered. " If you 
 'could only read my heart, and know how I long to be all 
 you desire, and to make your life happier! But I am so 
 young to have such a burden laid on me. If it were only 
 you, but there is father," and tears rushed to my eyes 
 at the mention of that beloved name. 
 
 I saw a pained expression cross her face ; the hand 
 she laid on mine was rather cold. 
 
 " Do you think I forget — that I do not realise all the 
 difficulty, Githa? Heaven forbid that I should be exact- 
 ing, or make unreasonable demands on your young life. 
 You are no longer a child, you are of an age to judge; 
 give me as much or as little of your time as you think 
 best. I am used to loneliness, only for pity's sake do not 
 shut me out of your confidence." 
 
 I could have sobbed aloud at the tenderness of her 
 voice ; proud as she was, she could stoop to humbly entreat 
 her child's love. 
 
 " Try to be patient with me," I pleaded. " I want 
 to be all that a daughter should be, but just now I feel 
 confused and sad." 
 
 " Why sad, my darling? " 
 " Because I cannot do my duty to you both ; because 
 one or other of the two dearest to me on earth must be 
 
 240
 
 GITHA, YOU FORGET YOURSELF 
 
 lonely and wanting me, and the knowledge gives me 
 pain." 
 
 " Poor child — yes, I see — your nature is sensitive, and 
 you feel things more keenly than I guessed ; but it was 
 right for you to know, Githa." 
 
 I assented so vehemently to this that rather a bitter 
 smile came to her lips. 
 
 " That means that you blame me for letting you grow 
 up in ignorance." 
 
 " No, do not say that ; it is not for me to blame my 
 mother ; doubtless you had your reasons ; but it was a 
 mistake. I shall always feel that; it has certainly added 
 to the difficulty." 
 
 Her gravity grew deeper, but she evidently did not 
 resent my frankness. She had asked for my confidence, 
 and she must not shrink from any chance wound. 
 
 " In that case it is clearly my duty to help you," she 
 returned quietly. " I see your position, Githa : you cannot 
 content one parent without leaving the other sore and 
 dissatisfied. Well, that is no fault of yours. Let me try 
 to solve the difficulty. You and your father are every- 
 thing to each other ; from a mere infant you loved him 
 best. Do you think I do not recognise the fact — that I 
 have not faced it all these years? Go on as you have 
 been doing, let him have the lion's share of your time and 
 affection ; you are the mistress of his house, and you must 
 not neglect your duties. I will be content — yes, I mean 
 it, Githa — with such fragments as you can spare me." 
 
 " You cannot really mean that, mother." 
 
 " But I do, my dear ; have I not said more than once 
 that I am used to loneliness? If I were ill or dying I 
 knov\^ you would come to me. Let it be as I say, and try 
 and be at peace, my child. There shall be no specified 
 conditions, you shall be free as air. When you come your 
 
 l6 241.
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 mother will welcome you gladly ; when you stay away 
 there shall be no word of reproach to harm you." How 
 generous she was ; certainly at that moment I loved her 
 well. "Will this content you, Githa? " putting her hand 
 on my shoulder with a brave smile. Then again an over- 
 powering impulse seized me ; whatever came of it I must 
 speak. 
 
 " No," I returned, and my voice sounded a little 
 strange to me. " Am I made of stone, that anything so 
 unnatural could satisfy me? Mother, dearest mother, 
 father and I both love you — we both want you — come 
 home." 
 
 " Githa ! " I am sure for the moment that she did not 
 believe her ears. 
 
 " Come home," I repeated earnestly ; " your place is 
 ready, it has been ready all these years. Oh, mother, 
 listen : father wants you, and he and I will make you so 
 happy " ; but she freed herself from my grasp, and drew 
 herself up to her full height. She had grown white to her 
 very lips, but there was no yielding in her voice. 
 
 " Githa, you forget yourself," she said quietly, and 
 then, without looking at me, left the room. 
 
 ■zaa
 
 XXV 
 
 "GO ON WITH YOUR MISSION" 
 
 Argue not 
 Against Heaven's hand, or will, nor bate a jot 
 Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer right onward. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 On bravely through the sunshine and the showers, 
 Time hath his work to do, and we have ours. 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 A FEELING akin to despair took possession of me as the 
 door closed behind my mother, a sense of humiliation 
 which was hard to bear. 
 
 I had done no good, rather the reverse, by my earnest 
 appeal. I had been silenced, and put into my right place 
 — rebuked for my officiousness — told in plain terms that 
 I had meddled with business which I did not understand. 
 All this had been conveyed to me in those four words, 
 " Githa, you forget yourself." 
 
 My mother's inflexible will had sealed my lips. I had 
 hurt, angered her. Instead of being drawn nearer, I felt 
 that the distance had widened between us. 
 
 It is impossible to describe the bitterness of my disap- 
 pointment, the utter blankness that seemed to engulf me 
 — this was how I had commenced my mission of reconcili- 
 ation. Then as I remembered my dream, and the fair 
 vision of the Angel of Forgiveness, my tears fell faster 
 and faster. I was so young; even now when I think of 
 that hour T am filled with pity for that weeping girl, sud- 
 
 243
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 denly brought face to face with the stern reahties of life. 
 
 It was as though a blank wall suddenly closed my 
 path, and I could take no step forward without hurt or 
 damage. " I may as well give it up," I said to myself, 
 " and try and make up to father for all he has to bear." 
 My mother's stern rebuff had so repelled and unnerved 
 me that I turned to him with a new yearning — my father, 
 who had never spoken a harsh or severe word to me in 
 my life ; how could I be sad and lonely as long as I had 
 him ! I do not know how the next hour passed. My 
 tears had ceased, but I was still sitting brooding heavily 
 over my trouble, when my mother re-entered the room. 
 She was still very pale, but she had evidently been making 
 a great effort to regain her composure. 
 
 " It is very late, Githa," she said quietly. " Jane is 
 coming in directly to shut up and extinguish the lamps ; 
 you had better go to bed." Then as she saw my face 
 more clearly, she came across the room to me and put 
 her hand on my shoulder. " I am not angry," she said 
 very gently ; " it grieves me to see that you have been 
 fretting — it was a mistake, but you meant it for the best " ; 
 and then she kissed me with more than her wonted affec- 
 tion, but I fear, I greatly fear, that I did not respond. 
 
 I did not sleep for hours — I could not rid myself of 
 a vague expectation that she would come to me in the 
 darkness, but she never came ; and though I fevered 
 myself with listening for her step, I could hear no move- 
 ment — perhaps she too kept midnight vigil ! 
 
 When I entered the breakfast-room the next morning 
 mother gave me a scrutinising look, but she made no 
 remark ; only, when we had finished our meal she observed 
 that she was likely to be engaged for an hour or two. 
 " I should advise you to take a walk, Githa," she went on, 
 " there is nothing like air for a headache." I had not 
 
 244
 
 GO ON WITH YOUR MISSION 
 
 told her that my head ached, but I suppose she drew her 
 own conclusions. 
 
 As the idea of letter-writing was abhorrent to me, I 
 acted on this advice. I was in that unhappy mood when 
 one is only fit for one's own society — any casual talk 
 would have jarred on me. I had slept badly and felt 
 unusually weary, and after a slow stroll I sat down on a 
 little bench that had been placed on the grassy border of 
 the road, and tried to pull myself together and get my 
 thoughts into order. It was a quiet, secluded road, and 
 there were few passers-by to disturb me — a boy leading 
 a kid, and two little girls carrying a basket between them, 
 a waggoner walking beside his gaily caparisoned team 
 carrying sacks of flour from the mill. 
 
 By and by a tall figure that I seemed to recognise 
 came across the meadow, and vaulted over the stile with 
 the ease of a practised athlete. I was a little troubled to 
 see it was Mr. Carlyon. As the stile was just opposite 
 the bench, it was impossible for him to pass without 
 seeing me — indeed, I was sure from his manner that he 
 had recognised me long before I saw him. He shook 
 hands very cordially, and then sat down beside me. His 
 first question was why my little Yorkshire terrier was not 
 with me as usual ; had I left him in town ? 
 
 " Oh no," I returned, " Roy always accompanies me 
 to Bayfield, but he was so busily engaged this morning 
 hunting for imaginary rabbits in the wilderness that I 
 would not disturb him." 
 
 He smiled at that. 
 " I was sorry to find you and Mrs. Darnell out the other 
 afternoon. I rather thought of repeating the attempt 
 either to-day or to-morrow." 
 
 " You had better come a little later," I observed ; 
 " we are seldom back from our drive before five." 
 
 245
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " I will remember that." Then, with a quick change 
 of tone, " Miss Darnell, I am sorry to see that you are 
 still far from well — I hoped that your f^w days at home 
 would have done you good." He looked at me with grave 
 kindness as he spoke; his tone, quiet as it was, conveyed 
 to me that he was sorry to see my changed look. 
 
 " Thank you, but I am not ill," rather miserably, — 
 " I mean not physically ill " ; for there are maladies of 
 the mind more difficult to diagnose, and infinitely more 
 painful. 
 
 He paused a moment, hesitated as though not sure of 
 his ground. " Miss Darnell, it is easy to see that you are 
 in trouble. I should like to help you if possible — if you 
 would not think me impertinent or interfering." 
 
 " ' Interfering,' " almost indignantly. " Oh, if you 
 only could help me ; but I fear — I greatly fear — that no 
 one can lift my burden." 
 
 " No one human, perhaps," in a tone which, gentle as 
 it was, seemed to revive my want of faith. " Will it 
 make things a little easier if I tell you frankly that I know 
 the cause of your trouble ? " I looked at him, too much 
 surprised to speak. How had he guessed it ? But his next 
 speech fully enlightened me. " The day after my return 
 from town I called at Prior's Cot. I found Mrs. Darnell 
 looking ill and much depressed. We had a long talk, and 
 she was good enough to confide in me, and tell me much 
 about her former life. She said that she had always in- 
 tended to do so, that she owed it to me as her clergyman." 
 
 " Then you know ! " but here I stopped rather 
 awkwardly. 
 
 " I know that Mrs. Darnell is your mother," he went 
 on calmly ; " but I shall surprise you when I tell you that 
 I had already guessed that fact before she said a word to 
 me. 
 
 246
 
 GO ON WITH YOUR MISSION 
 
 " But why — how — what can you mean ? " I asked in 
 some perplexity. 
 
 " Do you not remember what I said to you that after- 
 noon in the railway compartment — that I have strange 
 intuitions at times ? As I sat opposite to you I was struck 
 by a decided likeness to Mrs. Darnell — you were in pain, 
 and your eyes were closed. In spite of the dissimilarity 
 of colouring, there was a remarkable resemblance between 
 you ; the truth seemed to flash into my mind. You were 
 in great trouble, that was evident. I saw at once you had 
 had a shock. There were other reasons, which I will not 
 mention, which strengthened me in my surmise ; if you 
 knew them you would not be surprised that I said to 
 myself, ' Mrs. Darnell is her mother, and she is just aware 
 of the fact.' " 
 
 I was intensely relieved by this explanation — I do 
 not know why ; but I was glad and thankful that my 
 mother had given Mr. Carlyon her confidence. I knew 
 how good his influence would be ; his knowledge of the 
 world and human nature was so great that he was less 
 likely to fail by want of tact. 
 
 "Did — did my mother tell you all, Mr. Carlyon?" 
 
 " She told me a great deal which, pardon me, must 
 be sacred even from her daughter." 
 
 " Oh, I did not mean that," with a faint blush. " So 
 far from expecting you to repeat anything that passed 
 between you, I have refused to allow any one to tell me 
 things " ; and then in a very stumbling fashion, and with 
 many hesitations and pauses, I made him understand how 
 I had felt the worshipping love for my father which 
 refused to listen to anything that threw discredit on his 
 honoured name ; the pity and yearning sadness I felt on 
 my mother's account; my ardent desire for a reconcilia- 
 tion. 
 
 247
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 I could see from Mr. Carlyon's intent look how deeply 
 he was interested. Now and then he said a word or two 
 to encourage me, and at times when I paused he would 
 annotate some speech ; when, for instance, I spoke of 
 my affection for my father, and my desire to spare him 
 pain, he said in his quiet way, " One can so fully under- 
 stand that ; he was mother as well as father to you, and 
 you held him with both hands." 
 
 And again, when I spoke of my distress at my mother's 
 evident unhappiness, he returned rather quickly, " It is not 
 wise to make large demands on human nature ; it is so 
 much better to expect little, and then ' the m.uch ' comes 
 as a glad surprise." I found this speech a little enigmat- 
 ical. I fancied that he was alluding to my mother, and 
 did not wish to speak too plainly. Perhaps even Mr. 
 Carlyon, with all his experience and wisdom, found her 
 a baffling personality — ice without and fire within — a 
 bed-rock of obstinate reserve and threatening volcanic 
 upheaval, — certainly not an easy nature to master. 
 
 Perhaps his sympathetic manner drew me near ; he 
 certainly inspired me with confidence, and I found myself 
 telling him things which it surprised me to remember 
 afterwards, though I did not repent even then. 
 
 I have a keen remembrance of his moved look when 
 I told him of my intense longing for a reconciliation ; I 
 heard him say, as though to himself, " Poor child, and 
 yet the age of miracles has passed." 
 
 " Does that mean that you also are hopeless of 
 results?" I asked in a dejected tone. 
 
 Then he seemed to take counsel with himself. " I 
 will not deceive you," he returned slowly: "as far as I 
 can judge, there is no adequate cause why Mrs. Darnell 
 should not take her rightful place in your home. I 
 cannot help thinking that the time has come for her to 
 
 248
 
 GO ON WITH YOUR MISSION 
 
 do so, and that she is making a sad mistake if she does 
 not reaUse this." 
 
 " Oh, I was so sure you would say that ! " clasping 
 my hands. 
 
 " Any one would say the same ; and yet, humanly 
 speaking, I can see very little reason to be hopeful. It 
 is not possible for me to speak plainly, but there is no 
 harm in my saying this one thing — your mother has a 
 higher ideal than most people. She has also a strong 
 will. I was wrong, let me confess it, in saying that the 
 age of miracles was past. It was a faithless speech, and 
 I cry shame to myself for having uttered it. Can anything 
 be too hard for the Lord ? " There was a touch of priest- 
 liness in his voice which awed me a little, but when he 
 next spoke there was a new gentleness in his voice. 
 
 " God forbid that I should break the bruised reed. 
 Miss Darnell, let me say one word of comfort. Do not 
 renounce your mission ; go on as you are doing — only 
 pray more, and be patient. ' Blessed are the peace- 
 makers ' — take that as your motto for the present — yea, 
 and they shall be blessed." He stopped abruptly, and 
 rose from his seat and paced up and down once or twice 
 while I watched him. He had given me little hope, and 
 yet I felt soothed and in some measure comforted. " Go 
 on as you are doing, and pray more, and be patient " — did 
 he guess how I needed patience? And then he had pro- 
 nounced that benediction. When he came back to me I 
 held out my hand to him. 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Carlyon, you have been very kind. 
 I will try and take your advice." 
 
 " I have not helped you much, I am afraid " — retain- 
 ing my hand in his firm, warm grasp — " but at least I can 
 promise you my prayers " ; and then he sat down again 
 beside me and asked me in the kindest manner if there 
 
 249
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 was anything else he could do for me, any point on which 
 he could advise me. 
 
 I considered this for a moment. 
 
 " I should like your opinion on one thing," I returned 
 presently ; " am I wrong in thinking that my duty lies 
 principally with my father? I am so strongly biassed 
 that I fear my own wishes may blind me a little." 
 
 " I see what you mean ; you would like an unpreju- 
 diced opinion. No, Miss Darnell, I cannot see how you 
 can do otherwise ; you are in a measure responsible for 
 the care of your father's household. You cannot desert 
 your post." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, thank you." 
 
 He gave me a friendly little smile at that. " Do not 
 add to your difficulties by too much introspection. Take 
 things as simply as you can. Believe me, there is rare 
 virtue in simplicity; that is why children are such object 
 lessons to us. Shall we walk back now ? We can talk as 
 we go; and will you let me change the subject? You 
 look tired, and we may as well let worries lie like sleeping 
 dogs. I want to tell you something which rather amused 
 me just now — indeed I could not help smiling as I crossed 
 the meadow. I think you and Mrs. Darnell take a great 
 deal of interest in old Peggy Knowles." 
 
 " Oh yes, the dear old thing ! but mother and I are so 
 afraid that she is going to die." 
 
 " Peggy is not afraid " — with a reassuring smile ; " we 
 have been having a long talk this morning. She thinks 
 she is not likely to see the sun rise again, and she was 
 anxious to set her house in order. She was always a 
 methodical, tidy sort of body ; and in my experience, Miss 
 Darnell, people die very much as they have lived — the 
 old habits cling to them like well-worn garments." 
 
 " But Peggy is such a good old woman." 
 250
 
 GO ON WITH YOUR MISSION 
 
 " Granted ; but even good old women have their little 
 harmless fads and fancies. Peggy wanted me to reassure 
 her on a few trifling points. Her worldly possessions 
 were not many, nevertheless she felt as great a sense of 
 responsibility with regard to them as though she were a 
 multi-millionaire. When her mind was relieved I read to 
 her. I chose, as I generally do in such cases, the four- 
 teenth of St. John — ' In my Father's house are many 
 mansions.' " He smiled again to himself at the recollec- 
 tion, and then went on : "I was a trifle surprised when 
 Peggy seemed still a little restless and uneasy; her face 
 grew long and pitiful as a child's. 
 
 " ' What is the trouble, Peggy ? ' I asked, laying down 
 the book. ' Don't you think it is a grand thing that our 
 heavenl)- home should be made all ready for us ? ' 
 
 " ' It is not that, sir,' she returned ; ' it is the thought 
 of the fine big house that worries me a bit. It is not as 
 though Steeve and I had children — and what should we 
 do with a grand mansion all to ourselves? Vicar, dear,' 
 pulling at my sleeve in a coaxing way, ' aren't there no 
 cottages in Heaven? ' I hope it will not shock you, Miss 
 Darnell, that I assured the poor old thing that I had not 
 a doubt of it." And as he looked at me with that kind, 
 humorous smile, I forgot my sadness in a girlish laugh. 
 
 251
 
 XXVI 
 
 STELLA DELIVERS MY MESSAGE 
 
 Where love is there cometh sorrow, to-day or else to-morrow. 
 Endure the mood, love only means our good. . . . 
 Be love thy watch and ward, be love thy starting-point. 
 Thy goal and thy reward. 
 
 C. ROSSETTI. 
 
 Life is measured by intensity, not by dial, dropping sand, or 
 watch. — George MacDonald. 
 
 As we crossed the little Goose Green before the Vicarage 
 gate, Mr, Carlyon looked at his watch and exclaimed at 
 the lateness of the hour. 
 
 " I see Mrs. Darnell coming round the corner of the 
 lane," he observed ; " she is probably looking out for 
 you. Will you explain to her that I am expecting an old 
 friend to luncheon, and as his train was due half an hour 
 ago, I should not be surprised if he is already in my 
 study awaiting me ; so I must not stay another moment. 
 I will call at Prior's Cot another afternoon." 
 
 He lifted his hat with a pleasant smile. In spite of 
 his grey hair, and the lines that trouble had traced upon 
 his face, he looked young, alert, and full of life. I have 
 never seen any one in the least like Mr. Carlyon ; his 
 personality was at once unique and complex. There was 
 a strange mixture of strength and tenderness about him, 
 and a certain lurking sense of humour that saved him 
 from pessimism. He was not a man to speak easily of his 
 
 252
 
 STELLA DELIVERS MY MESSAGE 
 
 deepest feelings ; his innate dignity and sense of what 
 was fitting in his position forbade this. I had heard 
 people call him proud and reserved. Lady Wilde once 
 said so, and my mother had been quite indignant with her, 
 and had defended him with a good deal of spirit. And 
 as we walked back through the plantations she had been 
 almost crushing in her remarks on Lady Wilde's want of 
 perception. 
 
 " The fact is, a woman like Lady Wilde," she observed, 
 " is quite incompetent to judge of a fine nature like Mr. 
 Carlyon's ; she does not in the least understand him. 
 His pride is simply self-respect, and his reserve is only 
 natural under the circumstances " ; and as I learnt to 
 know him better, I fully agreed with her. 
 
 Mr. Carlyon was right. My mother had grown uneasy 
 at my prolonged absence. 
 
 " I thought Mr. Carlyon was with you," she observed, 
 a little quickly ; and I explained how we had met in the 
 Feltham Road, and then I gave her his message. 
 
 " But we are always out driving in the afternoon, 
 Githa." 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but we are generally in by five." 
 
 " I suppose you told him that? " 
 
 " Yes, I believe so " ; and my mother said no more, 
 but her manner gave me the impression that his visit 
 would not be welcome to her. 
 
 This idea was confirmed, when the following after- 
 noon the carriage was ordered half an hour later, and 
 it was nearly six before we returned. Of course, Mr. 
 Carlyon had called ; and two afternoons later he came 
 again, with the same result. 
 
 I was quite sure that my mother had no wish to dis- 
 appoint me. Probably she did not for one moment guess 
 how great the disappointment was. She was simply 
 
 a£3
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 anxious to avoid an embarrassing situation. Her con- 
 fidential talk with Mr. Carlyon made her averse to seeing 
 him again in my presence. She seemed to regret his 
 second fruitless visit, and announced her intention of 
 sending him a note of apology. As it was my last day at 
 Bayfield, it was rather tantalising to hear that she intended 
 to remain at home the following day, and had invited him 
 to tea. I heard afterwards that he excused himself ; 
 possibly, with all his good nature, he could not deny him- 
 self this little piece of revenge. 
 
 With the exception of this one drawback, the re- 
 mainder of my visit passed tranquilly enough. My 
 mother had evidently made up her mind to have no more 
 risky arguments. We resumed our old habits. Every 
 evening she read aloud to me, or I played to her ; but she 
 never again asked me to sing, neither did I volunteer to 
 do so. 
 
 I regretted leaving Bayfield without bidding Mr. 
 Carlyon good-bye ; for, except in church, I did not see 
 him again. But I hoped that he would understand that 
 it was not my fault. 
 
 It was impossible for me to go to the Vicarage, but 
 I saw the twins constantly in the churchyard. It seemed 
 their favourite playground. They always called it '* the 
 dead garden " ; and if there was a funeral, Golliwog was 
 always brought to witness it. I have seen him more than 
 once perched on a tombstone, to the evident consternation 
 of the birds. His ridiculous black head and red tie were 
 always in close proximity to his doating master. I think 
 I loved Stella more every day ; the very sound of her dear 
 little voice seemed to thrill me. " There's my Girlie," 
 she would say, in a tone of rapture — " my sweet, dear, 
 darling Girlie " ; and Cyril would hum the refrain in his 
 sing-song fashion, " sweet, dear, darling Girlie." 
 
 254
 
 STELLA DELIVERS MY MESSAGE 
 
 On the last morning Stella seemed unusually pleased 
 to see me. She slipped a small and rather grimy hand 
 into mine. " There is such a big, big, great hole over 
 there," she observed, with very round eyes. " Peace 
 won't never let Cyril and me go near such places ; she 
 says we might tumble in." 
 
 " Well, so you might, dear," I replied anxiously, for 
 the yawning grave in the distance seemed to me a deadly 
 peril. But I need not have been alarmed ; nothing would 
 have induced the children to disobey Peace. With all 
 their oddities and innocent profanities they were reliable 
 little creatures. 
 
 " Peace will let us look into the hole if you hold our 
 hands tight," she continued coaxingly. " Perhaps Cyril's 
 too busy feeding his new horse ; he wants Golliwog to 
 have a ride " ; and Cyril assented to this. " Then you and 
 me will come, Girlie," she continued innocently ; " and 
 you won't let me tumble in, will you, dear ? " — throwing 
 back her brown mane in the most fascinating way. 
 
 I had rather a repugnance to look in at an open grave, 
 but I could not shake Stella's determination ; so I could 
 only hold her hand so tightly that she winced with pain. 
 
 " You are pinching me dreadfully, Girlie," she said 
 quite crossly at last ; and then I relaxed my hold a little — 
 not much, however, for she was hanging over the brink 
 in a way that made me giddy. 
 
 " What can make you care to look down into a horrid 
 black hole ! " I exclaimed at last, puzzled at her rapt 
 expression. 
 
 " Oh, I am only looking for the poor dear worms," 
 she returned blissfully. "Don't you like worms. Girlie? 
 They are such sweet wriggling things." 
 
 " Good gracious ! no, Stella. T hate and detest them." 
 
 " Well, Peace always says they are nasty things," she 
 255.
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 returned, in a composed voice : " but Boy says nothing is 
 nasty tiiat God made " : and Stella's face assumed a 
 heavenly expression, " Of course the poor worms can't 
 help being ugly, and as they have no legs, they must 
 wriggle, you know. Cyril and me used to try and help 
 them. We carried them quite a long way, but Peace said 
 she could not bear to see it — it seemed to turn her inside. 
 Of course " — with seraphic gentleness — " we wouldn't 
 do it after that. We did not want Peace to turn anything, 
 so we don't cuddle them no more." 
 
 I was glad when Stella changed the subject. 
 
 I could not stay long with the children that morning. 
 I told them that I was going away that afternoon, and 
 they both kissed me hard and begged me to stay ; and then 
 it suddenly struck me that I might send a message to 
 Mr. Carlyon by Stella. She was a very knowing little 
 person, and might be trusted to deliver it. I therefore 
 commenced setting about my task. 
 
 " I shall not be able to see your father before I go," 
 I began, " but I wanted to bid him good-bye." Then 
 Stella took hold of my hand. 
 
 " Boy's in the study — come now," she observed. " He 
 won't be cross with you, Girlie, though he is busy — 
 dreadful busy." 
 
 " No — no — I would not interrupt him for worlds " — 
 growing quite hot at the idea. " Suppose you give him 
 a nice little message." Stella nodded. 
 
 " Tell him I am leaving this afternoon, and am sorry 
 not to wish him good-bye." 
 
 Stella shut her eyes and put her fingers in her ears. 
 " That's quite long enough," she remonstrated ; and to my 
 great amusement she repeated the words over and over 
 again to fix them on her memory : " Tell him I am leav- 
 
 256
 
 STELLA DELIVERS MY MESSAGE 
 
 ing this afternoon, and am sorry not to wish him good- 
 bye — and Girlie sends her love." 
 
 " Stella, you know I never told you to say that. You 
 may give my kind regards if you like." 
 
 " I don't know what kind regards mean. Do you, 
 Cyril? Love is ever so much nicer." 
 
 Then I began to repent my misplaced confidence. 
 After all, Stella was only a baby — a perverse baby, 
 too, to look at her mutinous little mouth. 
 
 " Well, then, say nothing but what I told you first — 
 that I am going away, and am sorry not to bid him good- 
 bye. That is quite a long enough message for your 
 small head." But Stella suddenly assumed an injured 
 expression. 
 
 " Boy won't like that message one little bit ; he likes 
 lots of love." But I would not listen, 
 
 " Stella, darling, don't be tiresome. You must say 
 what I tell you — and nothing else. Now I must go." 
 And as soon as I could disengage myself from their 
 clinging arms, I hurried back to Prior's Cot. I com- 
 forted myself with the thought that Stella had only been 
 teazing me, and that she was really to be trusted ; but I 
 should not have been quite so easy in my mind if I had 
 guessed the free translation of that message, which was 
 repeated to me long afterwards : 
 
 " Girlie is going away this afternoon, and is so sorry 
 she can't bid you good-bye. Boy. She looked sorry — 
 didn't she, Cyril? — just as though she were going to cry." 
 
 " But she didn't cry, Paul." 
 
 " No, of course not — big, grown-up young ladies 
 don't behave in that ridiculous fashion. I expect Miss 
 Darnell was trying not to laugh." 
 
 " Oh no, indeed, Boy, dear, she was quite, quite 
 grave ! I wanted her to send love — lots of love — but she 
 17 257
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 got quite red — didn't she, Cyril? — and said I was to give 
 something, but I forget what," 
 
 "Kind regards, perhaps?" 
 
 " There ! to think of you guessing it ! " in an admiring 
 tone. " Don't you love Girlie, Boy ? " But here the 
 narrator checked himself in rather a guilty fashion. 
 
 I knew that my mother intended to drive with me to 
 the station. She seemed silent and rather depressed dur- 
 ing luncheon, and I could not help saying in a tone of 
 regret that I was sorry to leave her alone. " If only 
 Sydney were not away," I added ; but she looked at me 
 with rather an inscrutable smile. 
 
 " Sydney is a dear girl, and, as you know, I am very 
 fond of her, but I think I am rather glad than otherwise 
 that she is absent just now; and then " — in rather a sad 
 voice — " it is sometimes a relief not to make efforts." 
 
 My mother's speech did not tend to raise my spirits. 
 " Will it always be like this ? " I thought, a little bitterly, 
 as I went upstairs to put on my hat. It was evident to 
 me that she intended to say no word about the probable 
 date of my next visit ; she had told me plainly that for 
 the future I was to decide such matters for myself. I 
 was to be free to come and go as I liked, and yet it seemed 
 to me that such liberty only added to my perplexity. 
 
 I do not know how it happened, but we were only just 
 in time for the train, and our good-bye was a hurried 
 one. The guard almost lifted me into the compartment, 
 and banged the door; but I let down the window and 
 leaned out for a parting look. My mother stood a little 
 apart — the afternoon sunshine seemed to illuminate her 
 pale face. How beautiful she looked ! Her tall, graceful 
 figure in the grey gown looked wonderfully youthful, but, 
 oh, the unspeakable sadness in her eyes ! Though she 
 waved her hand and tried to smile, I felt a strange sinking 
 
 258
 
 STELLA DELIVERS MY MESSAGE 
 
 of heart as the train moved out of the station. I was 
 leaving her to her loneliness and sorrow — true, it was 
 not my fault ; but none the less I suffered. 
 
 When I reached town I was surprised and pleased to 
 see father awaiting me on the platform. It was the first 
 time he had ever done so. He declared the fineness of 
 the evening had tempted him, but I knew better than 
 that; and as I took my seat beside him in the phaeton a 
 pleasant sense of comfort and enjoyment stole over me. 
 
 " So I have got you back, Gipsy ? " he said, looking 
 at me affectionately as he took the reins from the groom. 
 
 "Have you missed me very much, father?" 
 
 " Oh, Darnell always misses Co.," he returned lightly ; 
 and then, with a change of tone, " I hope you have left 
 your mother well." He said it so naturally that I almost 
 started. 
 
 " Yes — No. I do not think that she is as strong as 
 she used to be. She tires so easily, and I think — I am 
 sure — she is thinner." 
 
 He frowned, but made no answer, and I thought it 
 better to change the subject. 
 
 " I suppose you have not come across Sydney ? " I 
 asked presently. 
 
 " Yes, I stumbled upon the whole party at the Army 
 and Navy Stores yesterday — Colonel Etheridge and his 
 daughter, and another lady, whom he introduced as his 
 sister. What a charming girl Miss Herbert is ! She was 
 always a favourite of mine, Gipsy. By the bye, as we 
 were talking, another of your Bayfield acquaintances 
 joined us — an exceedingly handsome fellow. Ah, I see 
 you recognise the description." 
 
 Was it my fancy, or did father look at me a little 
 searchingly ? 
 
 " Of course you mean Thurston Wilde, father dear. 
 259
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 We are so afraid that he and Sydney are falHng in love 
 with each other, and as Lady Wilde and Colonel Ether- 
 idge want to make up a match between him and Rhona 
 there will be a regular muddle." 
 
 To my surprise father seemed quite indignant at this. 
 " Rhona — do you mean that little fair quiet girl ? What 
 an absurd idea! One might as well fall in love with a 
 little white mouse. Fancy contrasting her with Miss 
 Herbert ! I hope they will allow the poor lad to choose 
 his wife for himself." I hinted vaguely at Thurston's 
 dependence on his grandmother, but father was quite 
 wrathful at the idea. " Mediaeval rubbish," he remarked 
 contemptuously. " We don't live in the Dark Ages, Gip. 
 
 A fine young fellow like that " And then I saw that 
 
 father had taken one of his sudden likings for my old 
 playfellow. 
 
 " By the bye, Gipsy, I have a message for you from 
 Miss Herbert. They want you to go over to luncheon 
 to-morrow, and Colonel Etheridge has civilly included me 
 in the invitation." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad, for I should certainly not have left 
 you the first day. Are you sure it will not bore you, 
 father?" 
 
 " Not in the least, my dear. They seem pleasant 
 people, and I find Colonel Etheridge and I have mutual 
 friends." And then it was settled that I should send 
 Rhona a note accepting the invitation for us both. 
 
 We spent a very pleasant evening; but more than 
 once I saw father look at me with rather a dissatisfied 
 expression, and later — just as I was about to wish him 
 good-night — he detained me. 
 
 " Gipsy, I don't think you are looking quite like your 
 old self. Did — did — your mother question you about 
 your health ? " 
 
 360
 
 STELLA DELIVERS MY MESSAGE 
 
 " She thought I was not as well as usual," I returned 
 reluctantly. " A little run down — below par, as Dr. Tres- 
 siter says " ; for our dear old doctor had died two years 
 before this, and Dr. Tressiter had taken the practice. 
 He had attended father when he had influenza, and we 
 both liked him. 
 
 " I was sure my eyes did not deceive me," he returned 
 quite anxiously. Father always made a fuss if my finger 
 ached. " I shall have Tressiter round to look at you " ; 
 but I would not hear of this for a moment. 
 
 " You must do nothing of the kind," I returned rebel- 
 liously. " I am quite well — really well, father — only so 
 troubled." 
 
 " Troubled, my darling?" And then as he drew me 
 closer to him I put down my head on his shoulder and 
 poured out to him a little of the pain that had oppressed 
 me. He listened quietly and without interrupting me 
 until I had finished. 
 
 " Did your mother know all this, Gipsy? " 
 
 " Yes, we had a long talk about it. She was very 
 kind and loving, and I think she understood. Father 
 dear " — pressing my cheek against his, as the child Githa 
 used to do in the old days — " do you know what I said 
 to her ? ' Father and I both love you ; we both want you 
 to come home.' " I felt him start almost convulsively. 
 
 " What did she say? " he whispered ; but I would not 
 tell him that, and he did not repeat his question. Proba- 
 bly he guessed the answer. 
 
 He held me in silence for a moment, and I could 
 feel the strong beating of his heart. Then he kissed me 
 very hurriedly and rose. " Go on asking her," he said, 
 in a curious husky voice, " and tell your mother that what 
 you said is true as death. There, good-night, my little 
 blessing " ; but it was father who left the room first. 
 
 261
 
 XXVII 
 
 A CHEQUE FROM DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 Be yourself — simple, honest, and unpretending — and you will 
 enjoy through life the respect and love of friends. — Shennan. 
 
 What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult to 
 each other? — George Eliot. 
 
 The luncheon party at Belmont House was very pleasant. 
 Of course Thurston was there. He sat by me and 
 seemed in excellent spirits. He was staying with an 
 elderly cousin in Bayswater. I fancied, from a hint he 
 dropped in the course of the conversation about Mr. 
 Manifold's pecuniary difficulties, that he was a paying 
 guest ; but he certainly spent most of his time at the 
 Etheridges'. He assured me that he was having a good 
 time and enjoying himself immensely, and that " Gran," 
 as he called her, had given him a free hand. " I am to 
 stay as long as I feel disposed," he observed complacently. 
 Sydney and Rhona sat opposite to us, and I noticed that 
 both girls looked rather conscious as he glanced at them ; 
 and Sydney turned hastily to father, who was her next 
 neighbour, and said something to him in a low voice ; but 
 I saw that her cheeks were quite pink, as though there 
 were some occult meaning in Thurston's speech. 
 
 We saw a good deal of Sydney and the Etheridges 
 during the next fortnight or three weeks, and Thurston 
 was generally with them. We rode together in the Park, 
 and made appointments to meet at some picture gallery 
 
 262
 
 A CHEQUE FROM DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 or exhibition. Once I accompanied them to the theatre, 
 and on another evening father took a box at the Albert 
 Hall for a grand concert, and we included Miss Redford 
 in the party. The music was beautiful, and I should have 
 enjoyed it intensely but for my uneasiness about Thurston. 
 
 He would persist in remaining at the back of the 
 box, where he could talk to Sydney ; and no hints on 
 mine or Colonel Etheridge's part could induce him to 
 change his place. I saw poor little Rhona glancing 
 timidly once or twice in his direction; as the evening 
 went on she grew paler and paler, and there was such 
 a tired look in her blue eyes. I was not surprised to 
 see Colonel Etheridge frowning and pulling his mous- 
 tache rather fiercely. I do not know what would have 
 happened, only father, who is very quick in such matters, 
 suddenly grasped the situation, and asked me to change 
 places with Miss Herbert. Sydney rose with such alacrity 
 that I felt sure that she had been uncomfortable ; but 
 Thurston looked vexed and a little sulky — he was utterly 
 reckless that evening. But Sydney was looking so sweet 
 in her new dress, that perhaps he had some excuse for 
 his rash behaviour. 
 
 Sydney had prolonged her visit for another week, 
 and the evening before she went back to Bayfield they 
 were all to dine at St. Olave's Lodge, with the exception 
 of Mrs. Etheridge, who never went out in the evening. 
 Of course Thurston was included, and father wished me 
 to invite Aunt Cosie, and Miss Redford and her Uance 
 Mr. Pelham. It was my first large dinner-party, and 
 father took a great deal of interest in the arrangements. 
 I wore my prettiest dress, and Mardie seemed to admire 
 the result excessively. Father only said, " You look nicer 
 than usual, Gipsy," and turned hastily away. I wondered 
 why his face wore such a pained expression ; but he told 
 
 263
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 me afterwards that the thought had suddenly crossed his 
 mind, " If only my mother could have seen me ! " 
 
 Aunt Cosie said a great many kind things to me that 
 night. " You are a very young hostess, Githa, my dear," 
 she observed ; " but you did extremely well, and I am 
 quite sure that Colonel Etheridge enjoyed his dinner, 
 and you divided your attentions very prettily between 
 him and Mr. Pelham." 
 
 Aunt Cosie was sleeping at our house that night, and 
 as father was in the room he overheard her little speech, 
 for he came behind us and put his hand on my shoulder. 
 
 " Gipsy was a regular darling ! Constance, don't you 
 think that I have every right to be proud of my little 
 girl " ; but father's look said more than his words. 
 
 " It is a blessing that Githa has turned out as well 
 as she has," returned Aunt Cosie quite seriously ; *' for 
 the way you and Mrs. Marland have spoiled her, Philip, 
 is enough to turn the child's brain." But father only 
 laughed, and assured her that I was unspoilable. 
 
 I was glad that they were both so satisfied with me, 
 for I wanted so much to please father. I knew that he 
 intended to entertain his friends more frequently, and that 
 I should have far more onerous duties to discharge in the 
 future, and I wished to accustom myself to then? ; but how 
 little he and Aunt Cosie guessed the strange sinking of 
 heart under my outward cheerfulness. I was in my 
 mother's place — how was I to forget that? 
 
 I was relieved to see that Thurston behaved more 
 discreetly this evening. I had arranged that he should 
 take Rhona in to dinner; and, as Miss Redford was on 
 the other side, he had no opportunity to transgress, espe- 
 cially as Sydney was somewhat screened from his view. 
 Rhona had her innings that evening, and the poor little 
 
 264
 
 A CHEQUE FROM DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 thing certainly looked happier ; but when I said so to 
 father he only shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 I never could get father to be properly interested in 
 Rhona. He always spoke rather disparagingly of her; 
 he used to call her " little Miss Prim," or " Prunes and 
 Prism." I took him to task at last. 
 
 " I can't imagine why you are so prejudiced against 
 poor Rhona," I said in quite a hurt tone. " It is not 
 like you, dear; for you are always so kind and attentive 
 to even unattractive people, and really Rhona is not the 
 least plain. I am sure that she looked quite pretty the 
 other night " ; and then I proceeded in my enthusiastic 
 way to tabulate her virtues. But father was bent on pro- 
 voking me, and sometimes when he chose he could be 
 extremely obstinate. 
 
 " What ! all those good qualities ! " he exclaimed. 
 " No wonder the poor little girl sufifers from moral indi- 
 gestion. I suppose that gives her that flabby, colourless 
 look." But of course he was only teasing me ; he simply 
 considered her an uninteresting young person, and noth- 
 ing made him more indignant than to hint at Colonel 
 Etheridge's desire to annex Thurston Wilde as a son-in- 
 law. He said quite seriously that such a marriage would 
 be utterly disastrous to both of them. " Granted that your 
 little friend fancies herself in love with him, would it not 
 be better for one to suffer than for both to be miserable ? " 
 Father evidently meant what he said ; he felt strongly on 
 the matter. 
 
 " Any one can see that he cares for Miss Herbert," 
 he went on, " and as far as I can judge I should say his 
 affection is reciprocated," and he looked rather sharply 
 at me as though challenging me to deny the fact ; but I 
 could not perjure myself. I saw more plainly every day, 
 however Sydney might be trying to blind herself and 
 
 26s
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Thurston, that her heart was no longer in her own 
 keeping. 
 
 " Of course I see you agree with me," went on father 
 triumphantly, " and I don't understand why you are not 
 on their side, for I never saw a better matched pair. He 
 is a thoroughly nice fellow, and Miss Herbert is one of 
 the most charming girls I ever met, and small blame to 
 Wilde if he thinks her the dearest girl in the world." 
 
 I was so fond of Sydney that I could not help giving 
 father a grateful hug for speaking so nicely of her, 
 
 " I don't deny that they seem made for each other," 
 I returned: "but you forget, dear, that Sydney is quite 
 poor, and that Thurston is dependent on his grand- 
 mother." But father only said, " Pshaw, what does that 
 matter; if the old lady cuts up rough, which I don't 
 believe for a moment, he has a head and two hands, and 
 they are both young enough to wait." And though I 
 tried to explain to him that Thurston had not been 
 brought up wisely and was not fitted for any profession, 
 father persisted in his opinion. 
 
 " He could find some work to suit him," he remarked 
 quite severely. " Necessity is the mother of invention, as 
 you know — it will make a man of him. Anything would 
 be better than selling himself for money. Mercenary 
 marriages are certainly not made in heaven, Gipsy; the 
 devil has far too much to do with them " ; and as in my 
 secret heart I agreed with everything he said, I allowed 
 him to have the final word. 
 
 We began talking about Miss Redford after this ; and 
 Aunt Cosie, who had just entered the room, joined in 
 the conversation. 
 
 " Claudia always looks well in evening dress," she 
 observed, " her neck and shoulders are finely moulded and 
 she holds herself well ; but both Githa and I were sorry 
 
 266
 
 A CHEQUE FROM DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 to see how thin and worn she had grown lately. Really 
 no one would think that she is only two years older than 
 Helen ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Seymour has certainly grown younger since 
 her marriage," observed my father. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," returned Aunt Cosie happily ; " really, 
 that marriage, improvident as we thought it at the time, 
 has turned out remarkably well. I had quite a nice talk 
 with Claudia last night, Hamlyn Seymour's prospects 
 seem to warrant them in taking a comfortable house. 
 They have seen one likely to suit them quite close to 
 Cicely," she said. " Helen was in such spirits about it ; 
 and really with two babies that doll-house of a flat is too 
 absurd." 
 
 We both assented to this, though I took care to add 
 that Helen was so good a manager that she always con- 
 trived to keep her doll-house as neat and cosy as possible ; 
 " if only Mr. Pelham had a chance of getting on as well," 
 I concluded. I fancied father smiled in rather a knowing 
 way when I said this ; but as he made no remark I thought 
 I must be mistaken. In fact, he changed the subject as 
 though it bored him. 
 
 Aunt Cosie spent nearly a week with us. Father and 
 I loved having her ; she was such a dear peaceful soul. 
 I never knew any one so kind and tactful, and as Sydney 
 had gone back to Bayfield I was very glad of her com- 
 panionship. I wanted her advice too, for I was taking 
 up the reins of domestic government just then, and Aunt 
 Cosie was just the right person to help me. She had been 
 a notable housewife in her day, and had all kinds of little 
 methods. She was kind enough to tell me that I was an 
 apt scholar. 
 
 " Keep a firm hand on the reins, Githa," she said 
 once ; " never mind your age, you must maintain your 
 
 267
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 position as mistress of your father's house. There is one 
 disadvantage in having reliable old servants, that they are 
 apt to get their own way — even make their own rules." 
 
 " You see they have known me from a child, Aunt 
 Cosie." 
 
 " Just so, and it is difficult for them to recognise that 
 you are a child no longer; for example, ]\'Irs. Kennedy 
 had no right to make that alteration in the menu without 
 consulting you." 
 
 " So I told her. I did not take it quietly, I assure 
 you, Aunt Cosie, for I had been much vexed at the time, 
 and Kenny had apologised most humbly." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it, my dear ; you must put your 
 foot down once for all, it will save you trouble in the 
 future." And I was careful to follow this advice, for 
 Hallett, faithful and devoted as he was, was not wholly 
 immaculate, and if he differed from me about some table 
 arrangement, was given to maintain his opinion with a 
 tenacity which borders on obstinacy. On these occasions 
 I never argued the point, but quietly referred the matter 
 to father. 
 
 The day after the dinner-party Thurston paid a formal 
 call ; but he did not stay long, he had to meet Colonel 
 Etheridge and Rhona in town. I asked him hew much 
 longer he intended to remain. I thought the question 
 rather embarrassed him. He hesitated, looked down, and 
 then replied briefly that he had not made up his n?ind, but 
 that he would probably return to Bayfield in a day or two. 
 He must have made up his mind very quickly after this, 
 for we heard he went back the very next day; Rhona 
 told us so when she called. I thought she did not look 
 quite happy, though she added that they were probably 
 returning themselves the following week. 
 
 Rhona had an engagement and would not stay for 
 268
 
 A CHEQUE FROM DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 tea; but directly she left we had another visitor, Miss 
 Redford. 
 
 " I am so glad to find you and Mrs. Bevan alone," 
 she said quickly as she greeted us ; and then it struck 
 me that her manner was less collected than usual, and 
 that her eyes were unusually bright. 
 
 " You look well, Claudia," observed Aunt Cosie, " and 
 you have quite a colour." 
 
 " Yes, I walked fast, and it is rather warm. Helen 
 and I have been to see the house, and Hamlyn met us 
 there. They have quite decided to take it. We all lunched 
 with Cicely, so we were quite a family party." 
 
 " That must have been delightful. 
 
 " I am so glad dear Helen will have such a charming 
 home," went on Aunt Cosie in her comfortable way. 
 " You will have your work cut out, Claudia, for she will 
 need your help." 
 
 " I am afraid I have other work to do," returned Miss 
 Redford, with a heightened colour. " Dear Mrs. Bevan, 
 you have always been such a good friend to us that I 
 am very pleased to have the opportunity of telling my 
 good news to you and Githa together. Elmer has had 
 a good post offered to him — it is likely to be lucrative — 
 and " — here her lips quivered with emotion — " we are 
 to be married at the end of June." 
 
 I think Reddy must have been satisfied with the way 
 we received her news — I never saw Aunt Cosie so pleased 
 about anything. To my amazement she told us that it was 
 my father's interest and exertion that had brought them 
 this piece of good luck. 
 
 " I am more grateful to Mr. Darnell that I can 
 express," she went on, and there were actually tears in 
 her eyes. " I know how much he has always thought 
 of Elmer, and when he heard of this vacancy he lost no 
 
 269
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 time in recommending him. You have no idea of the 
 trouble he has taken about it, Githa." 
 
 " You will be able to have a nice house too, Claudia," 
 observed Aunt Cosie in a delightfully sympathetic tone. 
 
 " We have no time to think about that now," returned 
 Miss Redford, with quite a youthful blush. " Elmer 
 thinks we had better take some comfortable rooms for 
 the present, and look for a house at our leisure. Cicely 
 insists on the wedding being from her house, and both 
 she and Dr. Burford have advised me to leave the Nut- 
 shell and stay with them." 
 
 " And a very good idea too," exclaimed Aunt Cosie. 
 " Cicely will help you with your shopping, and it will 
 be far more comfortable for you and Mr. Pelham " ; and 
 Reddy assented to this. 
 
 " We have stipulated for a quiet wedding," she con- 
 tinued. " Elmer has very strong opinions on this point, 
 and I agree with him — that when middle-aged people 
 marry, the less fuss they make about it the better. I 
 intend to have no bridesmaids, not even the children ; 
 but I hope you will be with me, Githa, and if Mrs. Bevan 
 and Mr. Darnell will honour us — " but at that moment 
 father came in to answer for himself. No one could 
 accuse Miss Redford of want of feeling or coldness of 
 manner at that moment; she turned quite pale when 
 father took her hand and congratulated her in his kind 
 way — she really seemed hardly able to speak. " It is all 
 owing to you — to your goodness," she said in a low 
 
 voice; " if you had not spoken for Elmer " but father 
 
 would not let her go on. 
 
 " Tut, nonsense. Do you suppose that I would allow 
 a clever fellow like Pelham to be shunted in that fashion. 
 ' I have got a square man for a square hole,' I said to 
 them, ' who will do you credit, and his name is Elmer 
 
 270
 
 A CHEQUE FROM DARNELL AND CO. 
 
 Pelham,' and that about settled the business. You must 
 bring him to dinner, and then we will have a talk. Come, 
 little housekeeper, name some evening before our Cousin 
 Constance leaves us " ; but to our regret Aunt Cosie 
 could not be persuaded to stay. Claudia could come and 
 lunch with her any day, she said, and a quartette was 
 always better than an uneven number. 
 
 As soon as we had settled on the evening. Miss Red- 
 ford took her leave. She had done a hard day's work, and 
 certainly looked a little tired. 
 
 That evening Aunt Cosie and I found plenty of occu- 
 pation in discussing wedding presents. She told me that 
 she thought of giving Claudia the same gift that she had 
 selected for Helen — a nice little stock of house linen. 
 Aunt Cosie was always very generous. 
 
 I did not know father was listening to us, but he sud- 
 denly flung down his paper. 
 
 " Gipsy," he said seriously, " I consider that we owe 
 a good deal to Miss Redford, and I should like to do 
 something handsome for her. Shall we furnish her house, 
 Gip — you and I together ? I can well afford it ; and I 
 don't believe they have a hundred pounds between them." 
 
 "Oh, father, will you really? What a lovely idea!" 
 
 " I said we, not I," he returned quickly ; " we go 
 shares, Gip. I will tell you how we will do it. I will 
 write a cheque to-morrow, and you shall take it to her ; 
 it is from Darnell and Co. You must tell her that — a 
 wedding present from Darnell and Co." 
 
 371
 
 XXVIII 
 
 A TWILIGHT HOUR 
 
 All, all shall count; the mingled joy and sorrow 
 To force of finer being rise at last; 
 From the crude ores in trial's furnace smelted, 
 The image of the perfect life is cast. 
 
 Frederick L. Hosmer. 
 
 He may see what he maketh. Our dreams are the sequel of 
 our waking knowledge. — Emerson. 
 
 I NEVER shall forget the expression on Reddy's face when 
 she read the little slip of paper in father's handwriting 
 with the good wishes of Darnell and Co. inscribed on it, 
 and then opened the cheque. Her incredulous joy made 
 her incapable of speech. I forbear to state the amount — 
 that was a secret of mine and father's, — but I shall not 
 be wrong in saying that it was certainly a princely gift. 
 But I knew how grateful he was to our dear Miss Red- 
 ford for her devoted services on my behalf all these years. 
 
 Reddy was not an emotional person, and her feelings 
 were always well under her control. Nevertheless, some- 
 thing very like a sob reached my ears. She said, huskily, 
 that she had a catch in her throat, and would take a sip 
 of cold water. I had sufficient tact not to offer to fetch it, 
 and she withdrew for a few minutes. When she returned 
 her throat was quite clear, and she looked radiant. 
 
 " I shall write to your father, my dear Githa," she 
 said, when she had thanked me to the best of her ability ; 
 and she kept her word. It was certainly a beautiful 
 
 272
 
 A TWILIGHT HOUR 
 
 letter, and when father handed it to me to read he said 
 I had better put it away in a safe place, for it was too 
 good to be destroyed. 
 
 When Miss Redford had regained calmness, she 
 explained to me that the money would be a perfect god- 
 send to her and Mr. Pelham. 
 
 " If it had not been for this magnificent gift," she 
 went on, touching the cheque almost caressingly, " we 
 should have had to spend the first year or two of our 
 married life in rooms, until we had saved up a sufficient 
 sum for furniture, but now there will be no occasion for 
 waiting." I felt very glad to know this ; and she went 
 on in her bright, crisp way : " Now I shall be able to get 
 some nice things for myself, for dear Mrs. Bevan has 
 promised to provide house linen, and Cicely and Dr. 
 Burford will give us spoons and forks. Helen has set 
 her heart on a grandfather's clock." 
 
 " And your sister Agneta? " 
 
 " Well, you see, Aggie and Ernest are not very well 
 off at present, though he will be all right when his Uncle 
 Luxmore dies — he is his heir ; but I daresay they will 
 send me some oriental stuffs for decoration. I feel a 
 perfect Croesus, Githa, I assure you." 
 
 We had quite a long talk after that. I remember 
 wondering a little as I listened whether it were better to 
 marry young, when all one's feelings were fresh and life 
 seemed to stretch out invitingly before one, or whether 
 it were safer to wait for the tried experience of maturer 
 years. Miss Redford must have been five or six and 
 thirty at least, and she and Mr. Pelham had cared for 
 each other for the last nine or ten years, though they had 
 not been definitely engaged. The long waiting for their 
 good things had certainly tried them. Mr. Pelham had 
 got into bachelor ways, and looked older than his actual 
 i8 273
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 age. Nevertheless, when they dined with us the following 
 evening no two people could have looked happier. Reddy 
 was quite handsome that night, and I am sure Mr. Pelham 
 thought so. 
 
 I think it was a good thing for us that we had this 
 new source of interest to occupy us. I saw Miss Redford 
 nearly every day, and at meal-time I had always plenty 
 to tell father. My letters to my mother were full of 
 feminine details, which I knew would interest her and 
 Sydney, for mother always felt a great respect for Miss 
 Redford ; indeed, she announced her intention of sending 
 her a wedding present. She asked my opinion, and we 
 finally decided on a silver tea-pot and cream- jug. 
 
 I was thankful to have this fresh distraction for my 
 thoughts, for I was not quite happy about father. He 
 did not seem in his usual spirits, and though he denied 
 that anything was wrong, something was evidently 
 depressing him. We had both fallen into the habit of 
 watching each other, and as the days went on I felt more 
 and more convinced that I was the secret cause of his 
 uneasiness. It was impossible for me to verify this vague 
 impression, as he never said a word that offered me a clue, 
 until one Sunday evening, when, as we were sitting out 
 on the balcony, he asked me suddenly if I had made my 
 summer plans. 
 
 I was rather taken aback by this question, for it 
 seemed such a strange transmission of thought. I had 
 been worrying myself all the afternoon, thinking that 
 June had come, and that I should have to make arrange- 
 ments for August. I hesitated so long with my answer 
 that he looked at me a little suspiciously. 
 
 " I was only wondering if you would like to go abroad 
 with me in September," he continued. 
 
 " I thought Colonel Lindsay had taken the shooting 
 274
 
 A TWILIGHT HOUR 
 
 lodge again at Braemar, and expected you to join him," 
 I answered. 
 
 " Yes, but I did not definitely accept his invitation ; 
 besides, that is for August, and if you go down to Bay- 
 field, I might possibly get him to put me up for a fort- 
 night or three weeks." 
 
 " I think mother will expect me as usual," I returned. 
 " She has not said a word in her letters about places. 
 She may be intending to go to the seaside with Sydney, 
 or to Wales, or the Westmorland Lakes, but I know she 
 would like me to accompany her — that is, if you do not 
 mind, father; and I might go abroad with you later." 
 But I sighed in rather an oppressed way as I concluded. 
 Father echoed the sigh. 
 
 " It is no use my minding," he said rather shortly. 
 " You must do your duty by your mother, and as I have 
 the lion's share of your society I ought not to grumble. 
 Well, I will close with Lindsay's offer. I suppose you 
 will be away for a month or six weeks ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," I returned dejectedly. " Oh, father, 
 I think I hate leaving you more every year." 
 
 He stroked my hair without speaking. I knew from 
 his manner that he hated it too. " Poor little Gip," he 
 murmured caressingly. 
 
 " It does seem all so unnecessary and wrong," I con- 
 tinued earnestly. " Father dear, will you mind very much 
 if I ask you a question? You need not answer it if you 
 do not wish to do so. Have — have you ever asked mother 
 to come home ? " But he never hesitated a moment. 
 
 " I have asked her many times, darling." And this 
 gave me courage for another question. 
 
 " There is one thing I want to know, dear," I went on. 
 " Have you — I mean, do you and mother ever meet ? " 
 
 " We have not met for years," he returned very 
 27s
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 gravely, and I saw at once that the question pained him. 
 " Our last meeting was not a pleasant memory ; it gave 
 me no encouragement to repeat my visit." His tone was 
 so hurt and proud that I could not bear to hear it. It 
 was then that I noticed that his face was getting a little 
 worn and tired. " It is hopeless, Githa, quite hopeless," 
 he went on in the same dull, weary voice ; " but," rousing 
 himself with such a sad smile, " at least I have you, my 
 darling." 
 
 " Yes, we have each other." Then I took his dear 
 head between my hands and kissed it passionately, and 
 as I did so I noticed how grey it was getting. " Nothing 
 is really hopeless in God's world, dearest ; Mardie has 
 often said that " ; and then all at once it came into my 
 head that I must tell him my beautiful dream about the 
 Angel for Forgiveness. I had been so afraid of for- 
 getting it that I had written it down. He seemed to 
 listen with intense interest, and though he only remarked 
 that it was a wonderful dream, I could see he was much 
 moved, and by and by he told me it had done him good. 
 " I have been in a hard, desponding mood lately," he 
 continued. " I could have said with Cain, ' My punish- 
 ment is greater than I can bear ' " ; and then he said a 
 strange thing — at least it seemed so to me until I under- 
 stood what he meant, — " Even my love for you adds to 
 my punishment." 
 
 Now it has struck me more than once, that when two 
 people love each other very dearly, and spend a good 
 many years together, they grow so close that they can 
 often read each other's thoughts without the medium of 
 words ; the spiritual insight seems to deepen and enlarge 
 its boundaries ; and so a very little reflection made me com- 
 prehend father's meaning, and though I was glad when 
 he explained himself more fully, I hardly needed such 
 
 276
 
 A TWILIGHT HOUR 
 
 interpretation by word of mouth. It was a warm June 
 evening, and we were sitting out on the balcony later than 
 usual. The rosy flushes of sunset had long faded away, 
 and the sweet subtle twilight of a summer night was 
 stealing over everything. The river, which had been 
 scarcely greyer than a dove's wing, now looked dark and 
 steely; in a little while the moon would rise. The lamps 
 had been left unlighted in the drawing-room, and only the 
 lights from the embankment enabled us to see the outline 
 of each other's faces. I think this gave father courage 
 to speak. 
 
 " You do not misunderstand me, Gipsy ? " 
 " No dear ; there is never any fear of my doing that." 
 " Still my last speech must have sounded a little 
 strange; and yet how am I to make my meaning clear? " 
 He got up from his seat and paced slowly up and down, 
 as though movement were a relief; and then he leant 
 upon the railing and spoke without turning his face to me. 
 "You know I still love your mother, Githa?" 
 Then I went quickly to his side and held his arm. 
 " Dear father, I know it, you need not tell me ; and," 
 in a low voice, " mother knows it too. Do you not remem- 
 ber that I told her that we both wanted her? " 
 Then he shivered slightly. 
 
 " I am not alluding to that. I only wished you to 
 know that such thoughts are never out of my mind. 
 Sometimes I should be glad to forget; but you are so 
 like her in little ways that this is impossible." 
 " But I do not really resemble her, father? " 
 " Not as she is at present, but when she was young 
 and happy. You have the quick turn of the head ; and 
 sometimes when you arc pleased and excited about any- 
 thing you speak with her voice." 
 
 "Oh, father, do you really mean it?" and I hardly 
 277
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 knew whether to be glad or sorry until he assured me 
 that the resemblance gave him pleasure as well as pain. 
 
 " You see," he continued, " I feel as though I have 
 defrauded your mother of her life happiness, and amongst 
 other things that I am robbing her of her child's affec- 
 tions. You do not love your mother as you do me. 
 Githa ? " But my only answer was to clasp his arm more 
 tightly. 
 
 " Of course it is natural under the circumstances," he 
 went on. " If you had known her to be your mother, all 
 these years, the affection would have grown and devel- 
 oped ; but even now it is not too late." 
 
 " Oh no, indeed. I hope not, father. But I do not 
 understand her as I do you." And then he sighed again. 
 
 " If she only knew how I long sometimes for her to 
 see you. That evening, Gipsy, when you came to show 
 me your dress, you looked such a darling; but I could 
 not tell you so, because I was thinking of her and what 
 she was missing." 
 
 " I understand, dear. Do not pain yourself by telling 
 me all this, though, all the same, I love to hear it." 
 
 " It is a relief to-night. You have been a comfort 
 to me, little girl, since the hour you were born." Then 
 so low that I only just caught the words, " Oh, Yvonne, 
 Yvonne, if you only knew how to forgive ! " 
 
 But after this he told me that it was getting chilly, 
 and that we must both go in. 
 
 I cried myself to sleep that night, and yet I was 
 thankful that we had had that talk. I felt that I had 
 got nearer to father, that I had had wonderful glimpses 
 into a loving and generous soul. He had passed through 
 the furnace of pain, and it had refined and purified his 
 nature. Whatever had been his sins or infirmities in the 
 past, I felt instinctively that he was good now, sound and 
 
 37,8
 
 A TWILIGHT HOUR 
 
 true to the very core of his being. My faith in him was 
 so strong that I could stake my Hfe on it. "Aunt Cosie 
 believes in him, too," I would say to myself triumphantly. 
 
 I am afraid that the very intensity of my sympathy 
 with father helped to heighten the barrier that seemed 
 slowly rising between myself and my mother — so loving 
 to me, so hard to him, so merciless to herself ! What 
 strange flaw of nature had marred the perfection of her 
 womanhood? I could have wrung my hands with impo- 
 tent pain and longing, but that night brought me no 
 vision of comfort. 
 
 When I went down to the dining-room the next 
 morning I was rather surprised to see a letter in my 
 mother's handwriting lying beside my plate. I had had 
 a long letter from her only two days before ; but this 
 second seemed shorter. 
 
 I was hastily mastering the contents when father came 
 in and wished me good-morning. I saw him glance at 
 the envelope, then at my face. I suppose I had rather 
 a worried expression. 
 
 "What is wrong, Gipsy?" he asked anxiously, and 
 I put the letter in his hand. I thought it would be better 
 for him to read it for himself. 
 
 My mother wrote that she was very much harassed 
 and perplexed. Thurston had acted very foolishly : he 
 had waylaid Sydney when she was going to the School- 
 house on Thursday, and had proposed to her. Poor 
 Sydney had been dreadfully distressed, but had refused 
 him. She told him that he was behaving very badly to 
 Rhona ; but he denied that he had ever paid her the least 
 attention, and declared that nothing would induce him 
 to marry her. 
 
 " ' If you do not become my wife, Sydney, I will 
 never have one ' — those were his words, Githa. She 
 
 279
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 got rid of him at last, and came to me at once and told 
 me everything. Poor child, I never saw her in such a 
 state. She did not attempt to deny that she cared for 
 him. She was perfectly honest with me. ' I know we 
 love each other far too well ever to marry any one else,' 
 she said quite frankly, ' but I will not consent to ruin his 
 prospects.' I had sad work with Sydney, and I had just 
 talked her into calmness when a note from St. Helen's 
 Towers reached me. Lady Wilde begged me to go to her 
 that afternoon, and, as I expected, a most unpleasant 
 scene ensued. Thurston had announced his intention 
 of marrying Sydney, and his grandmother was in a tower- 
 ing rage. I cannot write particulars, but I am most 
 anxious to talk things over with you as soon as possible. 
 Could you come down for a day or two, Githa? I shall 
 have to make arrangements for Sydney, and it would 
 be the greatest possible relief to have you. — Your devoted 
 Mother." 
 
 My father looked at me gravely. " Of course you 
 must go, Gipsy. Would it not be well to wire that you 
 are going down this afternoon ? " 
 
 " But we have promised to dine with Aunt Cosie." 
 
 " Send her a note and tell her I will go alone ; and, 
 Gip, I may as well drive you to the station and put you 
 under the care of the guard " ; and I reluctantly acqui- 
 esced in this. I should have preferred waiting until the 
 next day ; but of course he was right, and it was better 
 for me to go at once. 
 
 Before breakfast was over father had another idea. 
 
 " Why should you not bring Miss Herbert back with 
 you? — we could keep her safe enough. Wilde will not 
 venture to follow her here, and we should be glad to 
 have her as long as your mother likes." And this seemed 
 such a charming arrangement that I determined to bring 
 it about if possible. 
 
 28b
 
 XXIX 
 
 LAD'S LOVE 
 
 It is easy to smile when the sun smiles too, 
 
 And the sky is a field of blue ; 
 But give me a smile when the sun has gone 
 
 And the sky is of leaden hue. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Constancy and faithfulness mean something else besides doing 
 what is easiest and pleasantest to ourselves. They mean renounc- 
 ing whatever is opposed to the reliance others have in us. — Anon. 
 
 I HAD hardly expected to find Sydney waiting for me on 
 the platform when I reached Bayfield, but I was very 
 glad to see her, and told her so. 
 
 " Of course, I always meet you, Githa," she said, 
 rather hurriedly ; and I saw at once she was a little shy 
 and nervous with me, otherwise she looked much as 
 usual. 
 
 Sydney was thoroughly healthy in mind and body. 
 She would always take a sane view on all subjects, even 
 when she felt most deeply ; there were no morbid com- 
 plications in her nature. She was so perfectly natural 
 that she would treat even a love trouble simply. At the 
 end of our drive I told her she was an object lesson for 
 other girls ; but she only shook her head a little sadly. 
 
 As I had hardly any luggage, Sydney had driven over 
 in the pony carriage, so we could talk without any 
 restraint. She began at once about this trouble, though 
 
 281
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 she seemed unwilling to look at anything but the grey 
 pony's head. 
 
 " It is very good of you to come so quickly, Githa 
 dear. Aunt Yvonne is very much worried." 
 
 " I expect she is fretting on your account, Sydney." 
 
 " Yes ; and she is so sorry for Thurston " — and here 
 a deep flush came to Sydney's cheek. " He is acting in 
 such a reckless fashion, and Lady Wilde is so angry and 
 mortified that she will not listen to reason. Aunt Yvonne 
 will tell you all about it, for, of course, I have not been 
 to St. Helen's Towers." 
 
 " I don't quite see why you refused him, Sydney. 
 Thurston knows very well that you care for him." 
 
 " Perhaps that is the reason," in a low voice. " When 
 one cares very much about a person, and wishes to be 
 a help not a hindrance, how could one ruin all his pros- 
 pects? That would be a poor return for his generous 
 aflFection." 
 
 " And so you told him to marry Rhona — poor little 
 insipid Rhona ? " 
 
 " I did nothing of the kind, Githa," turning to me 
 indignantly. " Why should I tell him to do a thing so 
 absolutely wrong? No; I only pointed out to him that 
 he had treated Rhona badly — and so he has. Why did 
 he go there morning, noon, and night, until the poor little 
 thing really believed that he cared for her? He was 
 merely using her as a tool — and it was unfair and cruel." 
 
 " Is that why you refused him, Sydney ? " 
 
 " Yes ; that and the other reason I gave you just 
 now. He has quarrelled with his grandmother — the poor 
 old woman who has brought him up — and you know what 
 an obstinate temper she has." 
 
 I nodded, and Sydney went on. 
 
 " She was white with rage when Aunt Yvonne went 
 282
 
 LAD'S LOVE 
 
 in, and she said such insulting things about me that Aunt 
 Yvonne told her that if she were not more careful of her 
 words she would leave the house, and this brought her 
 to her senses, and she half apologised ; but nothing could 
 shake her resolve — that Thurston should marry Rhona. 
 She declared that he had jilted the girl in the most shame- 
 ful fashion ; that Rhona was in love with him ; and that 
 Colonel Etheridge would be ready to horsewhip him for 
 his treatment of his daughter. Aunt Yvonne could do 
 nothing at all. Lady Wilde said that her son had given 
 her enough to bear, but that she would not put up with 
 it from her grandson." 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear, how dreadfully mediaeval it all 
 sounds ! Do you really think she will disinherit him ? " 
 
 " I am afraid so, Githa," and here Sydney seemed on 
 the verge of tears. " She says that if Thurston persists 
 in this dishonourable conduct she will have nothing more 
 to do with him ; she will stop his allowance, and he can 
 work for his bread. Aunt Yvonne says she is determined 
 to force him to do as she wishes; and what will he do, 
 poor fellow ? " and now the tears ran down Sydney's 
 face. " Both Aunt Yvonne and I know that he will never 
 yield to her about Rhona." 
 
 We were in sight of Prior's Cot by this time, and at 
 the sound of our wheels my mother came out into the 
 porch — the climbing roses seemed to frame her in crimson 
 glory, and one lovely spray encircled her soft, silvery 
 hair. I think I never saw a sweeter smile on any human 
 face than the one that greeted me. 
 
 Strange to say, she said the very same words as 
 Sydney — " It is good of you to come so quickly, Githa " ; 
 and then in a lower voice, " It was kind of your father 
 to spare you." It was this latter part of her speech which 
 made my kiss warmer than usual. 
 
 283
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Sydney did not follow us into the drawing-room. 
 She went upstairs to take off her hat, and for a few 
 minutes we were alone. 
 
 My mother was looking at me somewhat critically. 
 I was evidently her first thought. " I expected to see you 
 looking much better," she observed, in rather a disap- 
 pointed voice. 
 
 " Indeed ! I am quite well, mother " ; but she shook 
 her head. 
 
 " People in good health do not lose flesh, my dear ; 
 and you are certainly thinner " ; and then, with a touch- 
 ing little smile, " My daughters are giving me a good 
 deal of anxiety just now." 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry for Sydney, mother ! " 
 
 " Yes ; and she is so good and patient, and tries to 
 hide her trouble. I expect she has told you that things 
 are at a deadlock at present. Lady Wilde is behaving in 
 a very early Victorian manner." 
 
 " I should rather call it mediaeval, mother. Father 
 thinks her a regular old heathen ; he seem.s to take Thurs- 
 ton's part." Alother frowned slightly, and made no 
 answer. Perhaps I had been wanting in tact to mention 
 father's opinion ; but just then Sydney came in, and the 
 subject dropped for the present. 
 
 It was Sydney's evening at the Recreation Room — 
 for the vicar had organised a series of " Pleasant Even- 
 ings " for the elder girls and boys of the village, and this 
 was the last evening until October. 
 
 I heard mother tell her that she should send Rebecca 
 to fetch her, and I quite understood why Sydney flushed 
 in rather a distressed manner, even if she had not replied 
 quickly, " I do not think there will be any need for that, 
 Aunt Yvonne. He will not be there to-night." 
 
 " We had better be on the safe side," was mother's 
 284
 
 LAD'S LOVE 
 
 answer," and then Sydney said no more ; she was always 
 very docile and submissive — far more than I should have 
 been in her position. " Now we can take counsel together, 
 Githa dear," observed my mother, as Sydney disappeared 
 from view. " Come and sit down beside me," and mother 
 placed me cosily on the big Chesterfield couch, which 
 could have held four of us comfortably. " Now, what 
 am I to do about Sydney?" she began; "it is quite 
 impossible for her to remain at Bayfield under the present 
 circumstances. It is true that she has rejected Thurston, 
 and that she is behaving as well as a girl can, but Thurs- 
 ton absolutely refused to take his answer: he told her 
 that unless she could look him in the face and tell him that 
 she did not care for him, that he would go on asking her 
 to marry him ; and of course poor Sydney could not do 
 that." 
 
 " How could she, mother, when she knows how dearly 
 she loves him, and Thurston knows it too ? " 
 
 "Yes, that is just the difficulty, my dear; but what 
 is to be done? Lady Wilde is impossible. I have done 
 all I can to soften her and bring her to reason, but she 
 is an obstinate, bigoted old woman — and I nearly told 
 her so to her face. She made me so angry by her unjust 
 remarks on poor Sydney, that I nearly quarrelled with 
 her — only she muttered an apology ; and then one cannot 
 help feeling sorry for her. You see Thurston's father 
 gave her so much trouble, and his marriage was such a 
 blow to her, and now this second disappointment seems 
 too hard to bear. I think in her own way that she is very 
 fond of Thurston ; she has certainly indulged him a good 
 deal." 
 
 " She has given him the worst possible education for 
 a young man who has to make his way in the world," 
 I returned severely ; " and if she deprives him of his 
 
 285
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 allowance as well as his home, she will be doing a brutal 
 and shameful thing." But though mother smiled at my 
 vehemence, I knew she agreed with me ; indeed she told 
 me a moment later that she had expressed her opinion to 
 Lady Wilde with the utmost frankness. 
 
 You have no right to treat your grandson as though 
 he were committing a crime; he has fallen in love with 
 one of the sweetest and best girls in the world. Sydney's 
 mother was a gentlewoman by birth as well as nature.' 
 
 " ' I do not intend Thurston to marry a penniless 
 girl, Mrs. Darnell,' she returned angrily ; ' besides, he 
 is bound in honour to Rhona Etheridge ; they have been 
 brought up together almost from children with the 
 knowledge that her father and I had set our hearts on 
 this marriage. If Thurston had objected earlier to the 
 arrangement and told us so — if he had not paid attention 
 to that poor child for years there might be some excuse 
 for him.' But I interrupted her. 
 
 " ' Thurston denies that he has ever paid attention 
 to Rhona ; he declares that at times he has been barely 
 civil to her, and that though he could not dislike any one 
 so amiable and inoffensive, that he would rather remain 
 single all his life than marry her.' But I was speaking 
 to deaf ears ; she only reiterated her final decision — 
 Thurston must give way ; if he refused to marry Rhona, 
 and persisted in his mad infatuation for Sydney, she 
 would have nothing more to do with him ; he might draw 
 his next quarter's allowance, but that was the last penny 
 of her money that he would ever spend." 
 
 " Dear mother, what is to be done ? " 
 
 " That is what I have been asking myself ever since 
 I left St. Helen's Towers. Sydney is my adopted daugh- 
 ter, and I am anxious and willing to do all I can for 
 her, but I have only a moderate income, Githa — just 
 
 336
 
 LAD'S LOVE 
 
 sufficient for my comfort ; the few hundreds that I have 
 been able to put away for her would be of little use in 
 facilitating such a marriage. Sydney was wise to refuse 
 him unconditionally, for I could not countenance an 
 engagement between them." 
 
 I felt that my mother was right and told her so with- 
 out hesitation, and she brightened up in a wonderful 
 manner. 
 
 " My heart is on their side, Githa. I am very fond 
 of Thurston ; he is a dear fellow, though somewhat reck- 
 less and even hasty. Well, while things are in this state 
 I certainly do not think Sydney ought to remain at Bay- 
 field. I cannot myself leave home." 
 
 " Then you do not intend going away in August ? " 
 I observed. 
 
 She hesitated and looked at me a little wistfully. 
 " Not this year. The fact is, dear, I cannot well afford 
 it ; one of my investments has gone wrong, and this rather 
 adds to the complication ; but for that I could have taken 
 Sydney to the Lakes." 
 
 " Yes, and I could have Joined you there." 
 
 "Do you really mean that, darling?" and mother's 
 eyes were wonderfully soft ; " how delightful that would 
 have been ! Do not tempt me, dear one ; I ought not to 
 afford it." 
 
 I hardly knew how to answer this. I was quite aware 
 — for Aunt Cosie had told me so — that my mother had 
 refused to accept the handsome maintenance offered to 
 her by father, and lived entirely on her own income, which 
 was not a large one ; but she was an excellent manager. 
 Prior's Cot was her own freehold property — a handsome 
 legacy from an uncle had enabled her to purchase it — 
 and with care and economy she had sufficient to live com- 
 fortably — even luxuriously, and I had never to my
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 knowledge heard her hint that she could not afford 
 anything. 
 
 " Mr. Symonds says things will right themselves after 
 a time," she continued, putting a good face on the matter, 
 but all the same I saw it troubled her. I knew father 
 would have paid my expenses gladly, but I had not the 
 courage to say so. I was too much afraid of the way in 
 which she would draw herself up ; such a proposal would 
 only displease her. 
 
 " I am very sorry," I murmured ; " but of course I 
 shall come to you as usual in August ; and, mother dear, 
 I think I can help you out of your difficulty, but it was 
 father's thought not mine. Let Sydney come back with 
 me, and we will keep her as long as you like. Father 
 says she will be quite safe with us." 
 
 Mother looked at me almost gratefully. 
 
 " Thank you, Githa. After all, I believe that will be 
 the best plan, and perhaps something else can be arranged 
 later " ; then in rather a constrained tone, " Will you 
 thank your father for his kind thought?" And so the 
 matter was settled. I was to stay until Thursday, and 
 Sydney was to return with me and stay at St. Olave's 
 Lodge at all events until the end of July; it would all 
 depend upon circumstances whether she was to be 
 allowed to accompany me to Bayfield at the beginning 
 of August. Mother really was extremely grateful. 
 
 " You have lifted a load off me," she said ; " it will 
 be a comfort to know that Sydney will be with you, for 
 it is so trying for the poor child to have to keep Thurston 
 at bay. Now I hear the gate unlatched, and I expect 
 Sydney has come back, so we may as well ring for lights." 
 
 I thought Sydney looked tired and out of spirits ; but 
 she seemed indisposed for talk, and wished me good- 
 night at the door of my room, which was quite contrary 
 
 . 288
 
 LAD'S LOVE 
 
 to her usual habit. But when my mother came in for 
 another look at me, she told me that poor Sydney had had 
 a verj' trying evening. 
 
 Thurston had been there, and had kept close to her 
 all the time ; and though he had found no opportunity 
 of saying what he wanted, the consciousness of his pres- 
 ence made her nervous. When she left, he had followed 
 her and begged her to send Rebecca back, but she had 
 refused to do this. He looked hurt and disconcerted by 
 her unexpected firmness, and they had walked back to 
 Prior's Cot almost in silence. 
 
 " Poor Sydney had a good cry over it," went on my 
 mother ; " she does so hate to give him pain, and she is 
 sure he was much hurt with her. I am only too thankful 
 that she is going away on Thursday, for Thurston has 
 no right to persecute her in this way ; he is behaving 
 like an undisciplined boy." But though mother said this 
 in rather a severe tone, I knew that her heart was very 
 soft and full of sympathy for the unfortunate young 
 lover. 
 
 19 289
 
 XXX 
 
 THEN I WILL COME" 
 
 Every to-morrow has two handles : we can take hold of the 
 handle of anxiety or the handle of faith. — Anon. 
 
 Peace in this life springs from acquiescence even in disagree- 
 able things, not in an exemption from bearing them. — Fenelon. 
 
 Sydney had to go to the school the next morning, and 
 she asked me to walk across the green with her. I saw 
 mother look at me in rather a significant way, but I 
 scarcely needed the hint. I had the presence of mind, too, 
 to restrain a surprised exclamation when Sydney re- 
 quested me to be ready half an hour earlier than usual. 
 Her reason was soon made plain to me, when on my 
 return I saw Thurston hanging about the lane with his 
 dogs. He looked decidedly crestfallen at seeing me 
 alone ; indeed he did not attempt to disguise his errand. 
 
 "Surely Sydney has gone to the school much earlier 
 than usual ? " he asked rather abruptly as he shook hands. 
 " As I came down the road the children were running 
 across the green, and the bell was still ringing." 
 
 Thurston's question rather confused me, but he did 
 not seem to expect any answer. He asked me the next 
 minute to walk on a little with him — " that is, if you could 
 spare a quarter of an hour, Githa " ; for we had resumed 
 our old friendly ways, and called each other by our 
 Christian names — " Miss Darnell " and " Mr. Wilde " 
 never came quite naturally to us. 
 
 290
 
 THEN I WILL COME 
 
 I was sorry to see the lines of worry on my old play- 
 mate's face ; it looked haggard and a little drawn. 
 
 " You know all about things/' he began at once, as 
 we strolled in the direction of the Feltham Road, where 
 I had encountered Mr. Carlyon, and as I nodded, he con- 
 tinued : " I am in a regular fix at the present moment. 
 Gran can't open her lips to me without flying into a rage, 
 and Colonel Etheridge cut me in the church porch on 
 Sunday. I know Rhona was going to speak to me, but 
 he pulled her away, poor little thing." 
 
 " I am afraid from what mother told me that the 
 Etheridges think that you have treated Rhona rather 
 badly." 
 
 I expected Thurston to contradict me quite fiercely, 
 but to my surprise he only looked at me in rather a 
 dejected manner. 
 
 " I begin to think that I have acted rather shabbily," 
 he returned gloomily ; " but I meant no harm. They say 
 all is fair in love and war; but if I went to the Mount 
 in the hope of seeing Sydney, I certainly never made love 
 to Rhona ; and yet Gran and Colonel Etheridge declare 
 that I have jilted her." 
 
 " I am quite sure Rhona would not say so." 
 
 " No, and that is why they will not allow her to 
 speak to me ; she is so unselfish and forgiving that I know 
 she would take our parts. Poor girl, I should like to 
 explain things to her, but they won't give me a chance." 
 
 I could not help thinking that perhaps the Etheridges 
 were wise in breaking ofif all communication for the 
 present. Rhona was certainly in love with Thurston, 
 and he was undoubtedly to blame for this. 
 
 Evil is wrought by want of thought, 
 As well as want of heart. 
 291
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 And though Thurston was a good, kind-hearted fellow, 
 he had certainly done much to wreck poor Rhona's happi- 
 ness. 
 
 I was rather relieved to know that they were not 
 likely to meet just now. Rhona had so little dignity, 
 and was so lacking in backbone, that it was probable that 
 she would have betrayed herself — with all her gentleness 
 and goodness her character was anaemic. Her parents 
 knew this, and would watch over her like dragons. I 
 could see that Thurston's conscience was very uneasy on 
 the subject of Rhona, but his other troubles loomed larger 
 still in the horizon, and then he commenced pouring out 
 his griefs to me. 
 
 Sydney had confessed that she cared for him, and 
 yet she had refused him, and declined to enter into any 
 engagement. " She is avoiding me, and treating me as 
 though I were committing a crime in loving her," went 
 on the poor fellow, " but she will soon find out whose 
 will is the strongest." 
 
 " I do not think Sydney can well do otherwise," I 
 returned ; " if she cares for you, she will certainly refuse 
 to injure your prospects." 
 
 " I have no prospects," he replied gloomily ; " if I do 
 not accept Gran's conditions, I shall be practically a 
 beggar." 
 
 " Oh, Thurston ! " I exclaimed at this ; " it does sound 
 so terrible. What will you do ? " 
 
 " Trust in Providence and do my level best," was 
 his answer ; but I liked his manly air as he said it. " Gran 
 thinks she will frighten and starve me into accepting her 
 terms. If I consent to marry Rhona I shall be a rich 
 man, and have an easy life ; but " — lifting his handsome 
 head with the gesture of a young prince — " I prefer to 
 marry the girl I love and to work for her." 
 
 292
 
 THEN I WILL COME 
 
 " But what work can you do, Thurston? " And at this 
 practical question his face fell again. 
 
 " Ah, that is just the difficulty. I am willing to work, 
 if 1 can only find some suitable employment. This is 
 just the point on which I think you can advise me." 
 
 " I ! What can you mean, Thurston ? I have no expe- 
 rience at all." 
 
 " No, but you have plenty of common sense, and 
 you are so good-natured that you would be glad to help 
 * a lame dog over a stile.' I wanted to ask you if you 
 thought I might consult your father on this point. I have 
 always found him so kind and friendly, that I am sure 
 he would give me sound advice." 
 
 I was charmed with this idea, and told Thurston so 
 without a moment's hesitation, and he seemed quite 
 relieved. 
 
 " It is the best thing you could possibly do," I went 
 on. " Father is so clear-headed and practical, and he is 
 always so ready to help people ; he never minds how 
 much trouble he takes." 
 
 " Then I should not be taking a liberty or presuming 
 on a short acquaintance?" he asked anxiously; but I 
 cut him short. 
 
 " What nonsense, Thurston ! but then you don't know 
 father as well as I do. If you take my advice, you will 
 lose no time — why not go to-morrow? and I will write 
 and say you are coming. Wednesday is rather a good 
 day, for father is often home quite early in the afternoon." 
 Thurston seemed pleased with my suggestion. He said 
 he would sleep in town, and call at St. Olave's Lodge 
 about four, and if father had not returned, he would waif 
 for him. I was quite sure in my own mind that father 
 would keep him to dinner, and very probably offer him a 
 bed. I knew how interested he was in him and Sydney, 
 
 293
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 and he would do his very best for them both. I would 
 give father a hint that Thurston must not come to St. 
 Olave's Lodge while Sydney was with us. 
 
 Thurston looked at his watch when he had settled 
 this arrangement to our satisfaction, and then he excused 
 himself rather hurriedly. " You have been awfully good 
 to me, Githa, and I am very grateful, but I must not talk 
 any more. I must take the dogs back and make my way 
 to the station, for I am to have luncheon with two fellows 
 at Henley " ; and then he shook hands and rushed off like 
 a whirlwind. I felt very sorry for Sydney as I followed 
 Thurston more slowly down the road. How could she 
 help loving such a fine-hearted, chivalrous young fellow ! 
 Somehow with all his faults I never thought so highly 
 of my old playmate as I did that morning. Thurston had 
 hardly disappeared from sight before I encountered 
 another friend, for not far from the place where I had 
 seen him last, was Mr. Carlyon, talking to an old shepherd 
 beside a gate. He saw me coming, and broke off his 
 talk a little abruptly. He seemed much surprised at see- 
 ing me. 
 
 "I had no idea you were in Bayfield," he observed; 
 but I thought he looked pleased. " You appear to haunt 
 the Feltham Road, Miss Darnell. Young Wilde passed 
 me just now with his dogs ; he seemed in a tremendous 
 hurry, for he would not stop to speak." 
 
 " He has to catch the train for Henley," was my 
 reply ; " he is lunching with some friends there." 
 
 I thought Mr. Carlyon gave me rather a searching 
 look, but he only said : " I hope j'ou have come to stay 
 for some little time ; your last visit was very brief." 
 
 " No, indeed ; I am going back on Thursday, and 
 Miss Herbert will accompany me." And then I said a 
 little awkwardly : " I was sorry not to see you before I 
 left, but I hope Stella gave you my message." 
 
 204
 
 THEN I WILL COME 
 
 " Oh yes, I had it all right " ; but I fancied Mr. 
 Carlyon bit his lip to conceal a smile. 
 
 " Stella is a shrewd little person, only her imagination 
 sometimes runs away with her " ; and I wondered vaguely 
 what he meant by that. 
 
 " I hope she and Cyril are quite well." 
 
 " Perfectly so, thank you ; to judge from their appe- 
 tites at breakfast. I understand from Peace they beat 
 the record ; perhaps that was the reason why they insisted 
 on saying their grace three times over. ' We always 
 does it when we has sausages,' Stella informed me, ' and 
 we always have sausages on Peace's birthday. Peace is 
 such a great age — she is nearly an old woman.' To the 
 best of my knowledge I believe that Peace is thirty-five." 
 
 I could not help laughing at his droll manner. He 
 always revelled in Stella's queer speeches ; but to my 
 surprise he grew suddenly grave again. 
 
 " Do you know poor old Peggy Knowles went Home 
 last night ? " he observed. " That was her brother Patrick 
 to whom I was talking. He is shepherd at the Upland 
 Farm." 
 
 " Were you with her when she died, A/Ir. Carlyon ? " 
 
 " Yes, a neighbour of hers fetched me. It was a very 
 peaceful passing. I think " — very quietly — " our Lord 
 is especially tender to his old tired-out children, and that 
 the angels are charged to take them very gently through 
 the dark valley." 
 
 " I hope so," was my answer ; but to my surprise an 
 unusual smile came to his lips. 
 
 " Peggy's thoughts were full of her cottage. Not 
 long before the end when she was fairly sensible, and I 
 had been saying a prayer or two, she laid her wrinkled 
 old hand on mine. 
 
 " ' It will be fine to see Steeve sitting in the chimney- 
 295
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 corner, warming his hands in the old way, and maybe 
 as we sit there together, so peaceful like, we shall hear 
 the Master lift the latch, and then — oh, the dear beautiful 
 Face ! ' These were her last words. A little later she 
 fell asleep, and no one knew the moment of passing." 
 
 I was glad to hear this — it seemed to me so touching ; 
 and I was glad to think also that Mr. Carlyon was with 
 her to the last. When I knew him better he told me that 
 he always liked to be with his dying people, and that he 
 had more than once given out publicly that he would 
 willingly go to them night or day. In many respects 
 he was an ideal parson, and the people very soon found 
 this out for themselves. 
 
 As we passed the bench where we had sat that day 
 Mr. Carlyon paused, and then asked if I would not like 
 to rest for a few minutes ; " for," he continued frankly, 
 " you have no idea how tired you look." And I accepted 
 the suggestion gratefully. 
 
 I was a little startled, however, when the next moment 
 he began talking about Thurston, and then he told me 
 that he had called at St. Helen's Towers, and had heard 
 Lady Wilde's version of the trouble. She had begged 
 him to use his influence with her grandson, and he had 
 sent Thurston a note asking him to dine with him that 
 evening. " We had a long talk, and as I know from 
 Mrs. Darnell that you are fully aware of the state of 
 things, I see no harm in telling you that my opinions 
 veered round to quite another point of the compass, and 
 I shall be obliged to tell Lady Wilde that I must decline 
 to use my influence in the way she suggests." 
 
 " Do you mean that you are on Thurston's side ? " 
 
 " Most certainly, although, as I told him with perfect 
 frankness, his conduct to Miss Etheridge had not been 
 generous ; but with that exception I sympathise with him 
 
 296
 
 THEN I WILL COME 
 
 very strongly. My next visit to St. Helen's Towers vi^ill 
 not be a pleasant one, but I shall certainly speak my mind 
 to Lady Wilde." 
 
 " Then she will quarrel with you as she has with 
 mother, and I am afraid she and the Etheridges will make 
 things very uncomfortable for you." 
 
 " I should not be surprised if you are right," he 
 returned coolly, " but all the same I must do my duty. 
 The whole thing is monstrous ; every man has a right 
 to choose a wife for himself. In my opinion, Thurston 
 Wilde has made an excellent choice. Miss Herbert is one 
 of my best workers. I think most highly of her, and he 
 is a lucky fellow who gets her. When Wilde told me 
 that he meant to take his grandmother at her word and 
 to look out for work without delay, I clapped him on the 
 shoulder and called him a brave fellow ; for, let me tell 
 you, Miss Darnell," he continued seriously, " it is no 
 slight sacrifice that he is making. He is giving up wealth, 
 position, and the life congenial to his tastes for the sake 
 of the girl he loves." 
 
 I was so pleased to hear him speak of Thurston in 
 this appreciative way that I could not forbear telling him 
 about our conversation. He was extremely interested, 
 and said at once that it seemed an excellent suggestion. 
 
 " I do not know Mr. Darnell personally," he observed, 
 " but from what you tell me, he will probably be of the 
 greatest assistance to Wilde. It is my private opinion 
 that if he has plenty of backbone and shows his deter- 
 mination to set to work at once, that Lady Wilde may in 
 time be brought to reason ; but of course that remains to 
 be proved." 
 
 We talked a little more on this subject. Mr. Carlyon 
 told me that he was very pleased that Miss Herbert was 
 to pay us a long visit. " You will do each other good," 
 
 297
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 he observed, in such a kind way, and then he asked me a 
 Httle abruptly when I intended to come down for a longer 
 visit. It struck me that he waited rather anxiously for 
 my answer, for when I announced my intention of coming 
 down for August he looked quite sorry. 
 
 " There ! " he observed in a regretful tone ; " I had an 
 inward conviction that you would tell me that." 
 
 "Are you going away?" I stammered; and I hope I 
 did not look as disappointed as I felt. 
 
 " Yes," he returned rather gravely. " I am sorry to 
 say that I shall be away the whole of August. The old 
 college friend who generally acts as my locum tenens can 
 only come then, besides which I am pledged to another 
 friend to go with him to the Austrian Tyrol." 
 
 "And the children?" 
 
 " Oh, Peace will take them to Binstead. She has a 
 mother and brother living there ; they have a small farm, 
 and are very decent, respectable people, and they have 
 two rooms to let. The children fairly revel in all the 
 animal life on the farm — chickens, ducks, and young pigs. 
 Peace envelops the children in blue overalls, and they 
 run wild from morning to night." 
 
 I had to say that this was an excellent arrangement, 
 but I am afraid my remarks sounded a little flat. I could 
 hardly conceal my intense disappointment. The Vicarage 
 tenanted by strangers ; no heavenly-minded twins playing 
 funerals and angels in the churchyard ; no grinning Golli- 
 wog in a red tie hanging limply over a tombstone. 
 
 It seemed to me that Bayfield would be almost de- 
 serted. The Etheridges and Lady Wilde were generally 
 away in August ; there would be no Thurston to take us 
 on the river, and probably Sydney would be absent. I 
 should be alone with mother. 
 
 298
 
 THEN I WILL COME 
 
 " Things will go crookedly in this world," went on 
 Mr. Carlyon, but his cheerful tone seemed a little forced. 
 " I am really very sorry to miss your summer visit, but 
 probably you and Mrs. Darnell will go away too." 
 
 " I do not think so. I believe mother means to stay 
 at Prior's Cot this year." Something in my tone seemed 
 to strike him, for he turned and looked at me in a singu- 
 larly penetrating manner. 
 
 " Perhaps good may come out of this," he observed 
 quietly. " Your very dependence on each other for 
 society may draw you and your mother more closely 
 together " ; but I made no answer to this. 
 
 " You must not lose heart," he continued very gently. 
 " Things will not come right in a hurry, and, my dear 
 Miss Darnell, your work is rather a difficult one. Let 
 me give you a bit of advice ; it is not original, but there 
 is much wisdom in it : ' Never bear more than one trouble 
 at a time. Some people bear three kinds — all they ever 
 had, all they have now, and all they expect to have.' 
 Things may straighten out better than you think." 
 
 " I wish I could feel more hopeful, Mr. Carlyon." 
 
 Then he smiled and took my hand, for we were at the 
 entrance of the lane, and I could see Sydney crossing 
 the little Goose Green. " Now, as I have a child's funeral 
 at twelve, I must bid you good-bye." 
 
 " It will be good-bye for a long time," I returned, 
 trying to smile. 
 
 " Oh no, I hope not. Perhaps, if you give me leave, 
 I will do myself the pleasure of calling at St. Olave's 
 Lodge. I should like to make Mr. Darnell's acquaint- 
 ance." 
 
 " I am sure father will be very pleased to see you," 
 I returned a little shyly, for he was looking at me so 
 
 299
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 intently that I felt rather confused ; " and," fearing I had 
 been a little ungracious, " I shall be very pleased, too." 
 
 " Then I will come," was all he said, and after that 
 we shook hands, and he went quickly in the direction of 
 the church, while I waited in a shady corner for Sydney 
 to join me. 
 
 300
 
 XXXI 
 
 THURSTON OBTAINS A BERTH 
 
 We ask for heroic duties, but the duties that lie to our hand 
 are heroic. The so-called heroic occurrences are, after all, often 
 easier, and therefore less heroic than the common-place trials 
 that daily test the stuff of which we are made. — Hugh Blank. 
 
 There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 'twill make a 
 thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break 
 the heart. — Wordsworth. 
 
 I THOUGHT it better to have no reserves with Sydney, 
 so I told her about my talk with Thurston. She made 
 no remark until I mentioned his intention to consult 
 father about work ; then she grew very pale. 
 
 " That looks as though he means to give up every- 
 thing," she observed sorrowfully. 
 
 " Of course he means to give up everything," I 
 returned indignantly. " Did you think he was only play- 
 ing with you, Sydney, when he asked you to marry him? " 
 
 " Oh no ; I never thought that." 
 
 " You could hardly make such a mistake as that," 
 was my reply ; " no man could be more in earnest than 
 Thurston ! He is not only giving up home and wealth, 
 and most of the things a young man prizes, but he actually 
 glories in his self-sacrifice. He is like one of the knights 
 of old, Sydney : he is going into the lists to wage war 
 for his liege lady." 
 
 This little rhapsody seemed to touch her. 
 301
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " But he will be so absolutely poor," she observed, 
 after a moment's consideration ; " he has not been brought 
 up with the idea of working for his living, and he will 
 have so much to learn, and beginners earn so very little " ; 
 for Sydney was none the less practical for being in love. 
 She looked so cast down and unhappy on Thurston's- 
 account, that I had to cheer her up. 
 
 " Thurston is really clever — he will not always be a 
 beginner — and I expect father will be able to help him ; he 
 took a fancy to Thurston from the very first, and he 
 knows so many people, and can give him such valuable 
 introductions " ; and Sydney seemed a little comforted. 
 But it struck me then, as it did afterwards, how little 
 she thought of herself and her own trouble, in comparison 
 with his ; it was no mere figure of speech to say that she 
 was perfectly ready to efface herself if it would be for 
 his advantage and happiness. 
 
 " I believe you would not lift a finger to prevent his 
 marrying Rhona," I said, rather reproachfully, to her one 
 day ; but she did not try to defend herself. 
 
 " If marrying Rhona would ensure his happiness, you 
 are undoubtedly right, Githa," she replied. " Thurston's 
 well-being and peace of mind must always come first 
 with me, but I cannot bring myself to believe that she 
 would ever satisfy him." 
 
 " That shows your good sense," was my answer ; but 
 she only sighed and looked at me thoughtfully. " If 
 only I could be sure that he will not miss the old life too 
 much, and that he could be content with a little — no, do 
 not smile, Githa ; if ever you care for any one as I care 
 for Thurston, you will know what I mean — and how his 
 happiness is a thousand times dearer to me than my own." 
 
 I wish Thurston could have heard her. Sydney looked 
 quite beautiful at that moment, and there was such an 
 
 302
 
 THURSTON OBTAINS A BERTH 
 
 earnest ring in her voice, I felt rather ashamed of my 
 petulance and impatience. 
 
 " If I cared for any one as you care for Thurston," I 
 said slowly, "' I think I should feel as you do, Sydney " ; 
 but here a sudden catching in my throat checked me — 
 "^ if I cared for somebody ! " How strange that Sydney 
 should say that. 
 
 I think mother was pleased to know that Thurston 
 wished to consult father; not that she said so, but her 
 manner gave me that impression. 
 
 " Your father is a very good business man," she said 
 quietly, " and he has much experience and a great many 
 friends " ; and then she begged me not to encourage 
 Thurston's visits while Sydney was at St. Olave's Lodge. 
 " I think it would be far better for them to see as little 
 as possible of each other for the present," she continued. 
 " Thurston must test his feelings, and Sydney must have 
 time to make up her mind whether Thurston is necessary 
 to her happiness." And as I knew father would agree 
 with her, I did not dispute this ; but I asked mother to 
 tell me all she could find out about Rhona. 
 
 " That will be very little, I expect, Githa " ; and I 
 found to my regret that she was right. 
 
 Mother drove to the station with us the next day. 
 I could see that Sydney was much depressed, though she 
 tried hard to hide it. She did not like leaving home 
 again so soon ; her attachment to her adopted mother 
 was very real and deep; she not only loved her, but she 
 believed in her implicitly. 
 
 She told me once quite seriously — for Sydney never 
 gushed — that she thought her Aunt Yvonne as near per- 
 fection as a woman could be. " She is beautiful in person 
 and mind and character," she went on ; " her ideals are 
 higher than other people's, and this often makes her 
 
 303
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 unhappy, I think even you, Githa, hardly know how 
 good she is." This speech rather wounded me, but I let 
 it pass. I knew Sydney could see no fault in her second 
 mother, and that in her honest heart she believed every 
 word she said, and I almost envied her. 
 
 We had taken an earlier train than usual, and father 
 was not at home when we arrived, so I took Sydney to 
 her room and left her to unpack and settle in, while I 
 had a chat with Mardie. I found out from her that 
 Thurston had slept there, and that he and father had 
 gone out together directly after breakfast. 
 
 " And they sat up late, too," she went on. " It chimed 
 the half hour after one before they were in their rooms, 
 so they must have found a deal to say to each other : but 
 the master's voice sounded quite cheerful when he wished 
 Mr. Wilde good-night." 
 
 We heard father drive up at this moment, and I ran 
 down to see him. He greeted me in his loving way, 
 asked after Sydney, and then drew me into the library, 
 saying he would be glad to have a talk with me alone ; 
 and then he recapitulated all that Mardie had just told 
 me — Thurston had dined and slept there, and they had 
 sat up late talking over things. 
 
 " I think Thurston Wilde is a fine, manly young 
 fellow," he continued. " He has plenty of pluck and 
 determination, and is ready to put his shoulder to the 
 wheel, and I mean to help him to the best of my power. 
 As he seems to be a fair accountant, and is rather fond 
 of figures, I propose to take him into the Bank. There 
 is a vacancy just now, since young Tillotson had to give 
 up, I need not say that he accepted my offer." 
 
 " Oh, father, how good of you ! and Thurston knows 
 nothing about business." 
 
 " I daresay not, but he has a head on his shoulders 
 304
 
 THURSTON OBTAINS A BERTH 
 
 and can learn, and I am quite sure that he will do his best. 
 I daresay he will not earn his salary at first. I had a talk 
 with our manager, and he has promised to keep an eye 
 on him ; and Jem Beresford — you remember him, Gipsy 
 — that good-looking young fellow who used to come 
 down when I was laid up with a sprained ankle " ; and 
 as I nodded, " Well, Jem is going to coach him a bit." 
 
 "What salary shall you give him, father?" Then I 
 noticed father hesitated. 
 
 " Well, I am not doing quite the usual thing, but he 
 is to start with a hundred a year. I don't suppose his 
 work will be worth much for the first few months until 
 he has mastered some of the details ; but, as I told Mac- 
 donald, I will put up with that." 
 
 "Wasn't Thurston very grateful, father?" 
 
 " I never saw any one more so ; and he expressed 
 himself very properly. Oh, there is another thing, Gipsy. 
 As he means to begin work next week, I was anxious to 
 find him decent lodgings, and Beresford helped me there. 
 You know Jem's father was a country vicar, but since 
 his death his mother and sister have had hard work to 
 make ends meet. They have a house in Gresham Terrace, 
 and Jem says they could let Wilde have two fairly com- 
 fortable rooms. Don't you think that a good plan?" 
 
 " It is perfectly splendid ; but, father, Gresham Ter- 
 race is close to Chelsea Hospital ; that will be rather near 
 when Sydney is with us ! " 
 
 Father gave a low whistle of dismay. " Then we 
 shall have to send her back to Bayfield, for Thurston 
 Wilde has quite decided to take the rooms. I invited 
 Jem to join us at luncheon, and then we went round to 
 Gresham Terrace, and were introduced to Mrs. Beresford 
 and her daughter. She is ([uite a gentlewoman, Gipsy — 
 
 20 305
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 a nice, quiet little woman, very gentle in manner ; and 
 Miss Caroline is a pleasant, good-natured looking person. 
 I should say that she is half a dozen years older than 
 Jem ; she is a daily governess, I believe. I thought it 
 would be nice for you to have an old friend settled near 
 us, and then we can show him little attentions — ask him 
 to dinner, or offer him a seat at the theatre — for I am 
 afraid he will be a bit dull at first." 
 
 I gave father a grateful and appreciative hug. I 
 knew how generous he had been, and how he had planned 
 for Thurston's comfort. It would be far better for 
 Thurston to be near us — we could cheer him up in a 
 hundred ways — and when Sydney had gone back to Bay- 
 field, St. Olave's Lodge could be a second home to him. 
 
 I asked father presently what Thurston would do 
 with his dogs. Ben, the bull-terrier, was absolutely 
 devoted to his master, and so was Laddie, the beautiful 
 red-brown setter. To my surprise he told me that the 
 Beresfords had no objection to dogs, and that Ben would 
 be allowed to take up his quarters there ; and that Mr. 
 Carlyon, who was a great admirer of Laddie, had offered 
 him a home at the Vicarage. He was a gentle, affec- 
 tionate creature, and all children loved him, and he would 
 have his freedom at Bayfield. London was clearly im- 
 possible for Laddie under the present circumstances. 
 Father went on to say that Thurston intended to make 
 the break at once, and to come up to town the following 
 week. 
 
 " St. Helen's Towers is not a very bright abode just 
 now, Gipsy. Wilde tells me that his grandmother has 
 sent him to Coventry, and never speaks except to quarrel 
 with him. He is going to leave some of his things at 
 the Vicarage, but he will bring his books and bicycle. 
 Poor fellow, it is not a pleasant bit of business, and I 
 
 306
 
 THURSTON OBTAINS A BERTH 
 
 can see that he feels it much. I think in his way he is 
 rather attached to the old woman " ; and I knew this was 
 the truth. Up to the present time his grandmother had 
 indulged and petted him ; she had encouraged him in his 
 love of comfort and luxury, and had brought him up to 
 believe that at her death he would be a rich man. " Gran 
 has been awfully good to me." How often I have heard 
 Thurston say that. 
 
 Hallett brought in tea, and then Sydney came down. 
 Father was very kind to her. I think he noticed that she 
 was rather depressed. He told her that he must get a safe 
 animal for her to ride, and Sydney brightened up at this, 
 for she dearly loved riding. 
 
 I had no opportunity of talking to her about Thurston 
 until father had left the house the next morning, and then 
 we sat on the balcony and I told her everything. 
 
 She seemed profoundly grateful to father, and said 
 such nice things about him ; but I could see the idea of the 
 Bank made her miserable. 
 
 " Oh, poor Thurston ! " she said, in such a distressed 
 voice ; " and to think it is all my fault, Githa — not that 
 I could help his falling in love with me. But if Aunt 
 Yvonne had not given me a home, all this would not have 
 happened." 
 
 This was so unlike Sydney, that I stared at her aghast. 
 " I don't see that it is any fault of yours," I remarked 
 presently. 
 
 " No ; but one is so ready to blame oneself when 
 things go crookedly, and it does make me so unhappy, 
 Githa, to see how I am spoiling Thurston's life " ; and 
 here she quite broke down. 
 
 " How will he bear the confinement and drudgery 
 after all those years of freedom — adding up figures 
 instead of shooting and boating, and wandering through 
 
 307
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 the woods with his dogs? He used to enjoy every 
 moment of the day, though people did say he had a dull 
 life for a young man ; but though he often grumbled, 
 and said he hated being tied so closely to his grand- 
 mother's apron-strings, he could not deny that she was 
 good to him ; but now, oh, Githa " ; and Sydney's eyes 
 filled again with tears. 
 
 Of course I tried to cheer her up as much as pos- 
 sible. I told her how lucky Thurston was to find such 
 comfortable quarters. 
 
 " The Beresfords are gentle-people though they are 
 poor," I observed ; " and Jem Beresford will be such a 
 nice companion for Thurston, and then he will have 
 Ben with him — it would have broken his heart to part 
 with Ben — and Mr. Carlyon has promised to give Laddie 
 a home." 
 
 " Every one is very kind " ; but she still spoke in a 
 dejected voice. 
 
 " When you are gone, Sydney," I went on cheerfully, 
 " Thurston can come here as often as he likes, and we 
 mean to be good to him." 
 
 " That is very sweet of you, Githa." 
 
 " You need not think he is going to lead such a dull 
 life after all," I went on. " We shall take him to the 
 theatre or opera, and invite him when we have nice people 
 coming. As for drudgery and confinement : if Thurston 
 had no motive for his work, you might pity him as much 
 as you please ; but you forget for whom he is working 
 and of whom he will be thinking as he sits at his desk." 
 And then I saw by her blush that I had touched the right 
 chord at last. " ' To make an end of Selfishness is Hap- 
 piness,' " I quoted presently. " ' This is the greatest hap- 
 piness — to subdue the selfish thoughts of " L" ' This is 
 the teaching of Buddha." And then as Sydney seemed 
 
 308
 
 THURSTON OBTAINS A BERTH 
 
 properly impressed with the sentiment, the conversation 
 became more cheerful. 
 
 She confessed that things might have been far worse 
 for Thurston. He would be settled comfortably near 
 friends, and would have sufficient for his maintenance, 
 and if they could not meet, they could at least have the 
 happiness of hearing of each other. " I know how good 
 you will be to poor Thurston," she went on, " and how 
 you will tell me about him in your letters " ; and of course 
 I promised to do this. 
 
 Sydney seemed more cheerful after this conversation, 
 though she was still a little thoughtful and abstracted 
 at times. 
 
 Father lost no time in procuring a horse for her use, 
 and we either rode with him before breakfast or in the 
 late afternoon ; and these rides gave Sydney much enjoy- 
 ment. I noticed that she wrote to mother almost daily, 
 and as I was now in the habit of writing twice a week, 
 she was kept well informed of our movements. 
 
 Her letters in reply were full of interest to us. 
 Thurston had called at Prior's Cot to bid good-bye; he 
 was in better spirits and seemed determined to put a 
 good face on things, though he evidently realised his 
 position keenly. He told her that his grandmother was 
 fretting herself ill, that she scarcely ever spoke to him, 
 and that meals were taken in gloomy silence, and that 
 he spent a good deal of his time at the Vicarage. 
 
 " He is exceedingly grateful to your father, Githa," 
 she wrote, " and thinks most highly of his opinion. Mr. 
 Carlyon came in directly Thurston had left, and we had 
 a long talk ; he agreed with me that nothing can be better 
 than the arrangement with the Bercsfords, and his being 
 so near St, Olave's Lodge will be a great resource to 
 him. 
 
 309
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " Of course, there will be nothing to prevent Sydney 
 coming back with you in August. I know for certain 
 that the Etheridges are going to Cornwall, and in all 
 probability Lady Wilde will be away ; indeed, I am afraid 
 you will have a dull visit " ; but I refused to endorse this. 
 
 310
 
 XXXII 
 
 AT THE SCHOOL OF ART NEEDLEWORK 
 
 Comfort one another with the hand-clasp close and tender, 
 
 With the sweetness love can render, 
 
 And the looks of friendly eyes. 
 
 Do not wait with grace unspoken, 
 
 While life's daily bread is broken, 
 
 Gentle speech is oft like manna from the skies. 
 
 M. E. Sangster. 
 
 The next event was Miss Redford's wedding. Father 
 had received an invitation, but had excused himself, on 
 the plea of business, from going to the church, though 
 he promised to look in at the reception and take me home. 
 I thought this was very good of him, for I knew he hated 
 weddings, but he was anxious to show his respect to Miss 
 Redford. The Burfords had arranged everything very 
 nicely and in good taste, and I never saw Reddy look so 
 handsome; her grey dress and hat just suited her, and 
 she wore some fine old lace, at her throat and wrists, 
 which had belonged to her mother ; she really looked quite 
 distinguished as she walked up the aisle on Dr. Burford's 
 arm. 
 
 Everything went off well ; and as father and I drove 
 home, we agreed that we had never seen a happier 
 couple. 
 
 " Happiness is a great beautifier, Gipsy," he observed ; 
 " Mrs. Pelham will be a younger woman than Miss Red- 
 ford ever was " ; and then he patted my hand in his kind 
 way. " You looked like a bride yourself in your white 
 
 3"
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 chiffon ; it is a very pretty frock, little girl, and quite 
 worthy of the wearer." I blushed with pleasure at his 
 evident admiration. I did so love father to notice things. 
 I had taken a great deal of pains with my appearance, for 
 I wanted Reddy and Helen to be pleased. Sydney had 
 been greatly impressed — " you are really quite like a 
 dream, Githa; your frock is perfectly sweet, and so are 
 those Malmaison pinks," with an admiring glance at my 
 shower bouquet. But for all their loving praise my heart 
 was sad as I listened to the solemn words of the marriage 
 service. 
 
 " For better, for worse," — no wonder father hated 
 weddings ; how could he have borne to listen to those 
 words ! It was at such moments I envied Sydney for her 
 absolute loyalty to my mother: I who was her own child 
 doubted and criticised, but Sydney's warm heart had 
 nothing but love and tenderness for her adopted mother. 
 
 I knew from father that Thurston had taken up his 
 residence in Gresham Terrace and had begun work at 
 the Bank ; it was therefore not surprising when one morn- 
 ing as we were riding home to a late breakfast we over- 
 took him strolling along the Embankment with Ben at 
 his heels. His eyes were fixed on St. Olave's Lodge, but 
 at the sound of our horses' hoofs he turned, and Sydney, 
 who was nearest him, reined in her horse. 
 
 Thurston looked rather pale, but there was a flash of 
 joy in his eyes as Sydney held out her hand to him. As 
 usual, she was perfectly natural and simple. 
 
 " We have had such a lovely ride, Thurston, and such 
 a canter in Rotten Row ! Is not Mamzelle a pretty 
 creature ! and she goes so beautifully too, almost as well 
 as Bab. Oh, there is dear old Ben — see he recognises 
 us, Githa," 
 
 I did not hear Thurston's reply, for at that moment 
 312
 
 SCHOOL OF ART NEEDLEWORK 
 
 Bab began dancing in an absurd way. We were only a 
 few yards from St. Olave's Lodge, and she was impatient 
 for her sugar. Father was absorbed in watching us. And 
 so Thurston got his innings ; for when at last Bab con- 
 sented to leave her four feet on the ground again, I saw 
 Thurston still leaning against Mamzelle's glossy brown 
 flank, and talking in a low, intent voice to Sydney. 
 
 " Come, young ladies," observed father in a loud, 
 peremptory voice, " if I am to have any breakfast at all 
 we must go in at once. I am sorry I can't ask you to 
 join us, Wilde ; but I expect you have had yours long 
 ago," and Thurston flushed a little as he assented to 
 this. Of course, he knew why father would not invite 
 him to St. Olave's Lodge. 
 
 Sydney was very silent during breakfast, but when 
 we were alone together she confessed that the unex- 
 pected meeting had made them both very happy. 
 
 " Thurston said so more than once," she observed, 
 with a pretty blush. " He was just walking past the house, 
 but he never expected to see any one. Do you know, 
 Githa, he and Ben were walking up and down the 
 Embankment for such a time last night, until all the 
 windows were dark. He seemed quite disappointed when 
 he heard I slept at the back of the house." 
 
 I would not have smiled for the world as she said 
 this ; her young lover's devotion was evidently a wonder- 
 ful and beautiful thing in Sydney's eyes. The remem- 
 brance of that meeting made her happy for days. And 
 I quite understood the reason why she always stood so 
 long on the balcony before we retired to bed ; I knew 
 she was straining her eyes in the darkness to catch sight 
 of a tall, slim figure, and a small white body revolving 
 round it. Of course, I never asked any questions, but I 
 certainly saw her wave her handkerchief one evening, 
 
 313
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 and there was a little satisfied smile on her lips when she 
 came back to us. I never could find out if father was 
 aware of these little episodes, but he certainly took no 
 notice. 
 
 It was shortly after this that I had an unexpected 
 encounter. Mother had asked Sydney to do a little 
 commission for her at the Kensington School of Art 
 Needlework, so we drove there one afternoon. The 
 young lady who waited on us found some difficulty in 
 matching the silks, so I left them and wandered into an 
 inner room where there were some fine old cabinets and 
 carved cupboards. I was just examining one when I 
 heard my name pronounced, and turning hastily I found 
 myself face to face with Rhona. 
 
 " Oh, Githa," she said in an agitated voice, " I saw 
 you and Sydney pass just now, but I was behind the 
 screen and you neither of you noticed me." 
 
 " Are you alone, Rhona ? " 
 
 " Hush, don't speak so loudly — no, of course not. 
 Aunt Laura is in the room next to this. She is buying 
 a fire-screen ; but she never can make up her mind quickly, 
 so I said I was tired and would sit down. There is 
 plenty of room for you on this bench, Githa, and I do so 
 want to speak to you." 
 
 I looked at her pityingly as I sat down. No one 
 would say that Rhona looked almost pretty now : her 
 face seemed smaller and more insignificant, and her col- 
 ouring more washed out ; her blue eyes had lost their 
 soft brightness ; she looked languid and fatigued and 
 far from strong. 
 
 " I thought you were all going to Cornwall, Rhona? " 
 
 " Not for another three weeks," she returned listlessly. 
 " I have only come up with Aunt Laura for a day or two's 
 
 314
 
 SCHOOL OF ART NEEDLEWORK 
 
 shopping. I tried to get out of it, but mother said it 
 would do me good " ; and Rhona sighed in an oppressed 
 way. As usual, she had to submit to the will of others ; 
 even her mother, who loved her devotedly, treated her 
 like a child. 
 
 " I am going down to Bayfield for August, Rhona." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so ; that will be nice for Sydney " ; 
 then her voice changing to earnestness, " Githa, dear, I 
 have been so longing to see one of you ; I wanted to 
 speak to you, but I never could find an opportunity. I 
 tried once to say something to Thurston," and here a faint 
 colour suffused her face ; " but father came between us 
 and I had to give it up." 
 
 I nodded, for I had heard this before, 
 
 " Oh, they are so unjust to him," she went on. 
 " Father storms and rages if any one mentions his name ; 
 he says such cruel things about him sometimes, and once 
 he sent me out of the room because I cried and said he 
 was too hard on him." 
 
 " Poor Rhona," I observed pityingly, for I knew that 
 she was not exaggerating matters. I was too well aware 
 of the Colonel's choleric and imperious temper ; he would 
 resent fiercely the slight to his daughter. Rhona's home 
 life would certainly be far from comfortable under the 
 present circumstances. 
 
 " I cannot bear them to say such things," she con- 
 tinued, clasping and unclasping her hands in a helpless 
 sort of way. " If he made mistakes, I know he never 
 meant to be unkind." 
 
 " But, Rhona dear, we all, even Sydney, think that 
 Thurston has acted very wrongly. I am sure that he 
 thinks so himself and is very, very sorry. He had no 
 right to make you think that he was in love with you, 
 when all the time it was Sydney." 
 
 315
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " He did not mean to be unkind," she reiterated in a 
 distressed voice ; " and after all I was more to blame 
 than he. I wanted to believe it, and I tried to shut 
 my eyes and not notice things," and here the poor child 
 drooped her head. " I ought not to have imagined for a 
 moment that he could care for me when Sydney was so 
 sweet and engaging — how could he help loving her ! — 
 and yet they all treat him as though he had committed a 
 crime." 
 
 " But, Rhona, if he has made you unhappy " — then 
 the tears started to her eyes. 
 
 " It is my own fault," she whispered. " I ought not 
 to have let myself care for him until I was sure, and I 
 deserve to suffer for my foolishness. Mother says a 
 girl ought not to give herself away until a man tells her 
 that he loves her, but," with a heartbreaking little smile, 
 " I don't see how one is to help it." 
 
 Neither did I, but I would not say so to Rhona. 
 
 " He was so kind to me," she went on, " kinder than 
 any one I ever knew ; but I have been thinking things 
 over, and I see now that he only meant to be brotherly, 
 and that his manner was quite different to Sydney. I 
 think he liked me in a way, as though I were a little 
 sister ; he used to tell me things and try to help me." 
 
 " I am quite sure he was fond of you, Rhona." 
 
 " Yes, and I did so long to say a comforting word 
 to him, and to tell him how sorry I was for all this 
 trouble. Githa, dear, would you give him a message — 
 •would you tell him how grieved I am that his grand- 
 mother should treat him so unkindly, and that I never 
 have and never shall blame him, and that I shall pray 
 for his happiness with all my heart, — will you tell him 
 this ? " Then I assured her very gravely that Thurston 
 should have her message. 
 
 316
 
 SCHOOL OF ART NEEDLEWORK 
 
 She gave me a grateful kiss and hurried on. " And 
 dear Sydney, give her my love, and tell her that she 
 must be good to him and not keep him long waiting for 
 his answer. Something tells me that she has refused 
 him. I can hear nothing, but if she has done this, it is 
 very wrong, for Thurston has given up everything for 
 her sake." 
 
 I told Rhona quietly that her surmise had been correct, 
 that Sydney had refused him, as she was unwilling to 
 accept such a sacrifice, but that no one had a doubt that 
 Thurston would in time induce her to give him a different 
 answer. She listened to me in silence, and then I went 
 on to tell her of Thurston's new employment and his 
 residence in Gresham Terrace. I knew she was hungry 
 for news, and that it was cruel to leave her in ignorance ; 
 and again she thanked me in the most touching way. 
 
 " You have done me good, Githa," she said, squeezing 
 my hand. " How thankful I am that I have met you. 
 I shall not be quite so unhappy now. Perhaps when 
 father sees me a little brighter he may be less angry 
 with poor Thurston ; but whatever he says, I shall never 
 marry any one now — never — never. Hush ! I hear Aunt 
 Laura's voice. I will go and meet her, and perhaps, 
 after all, she will not see you." 
 
 I had no desire to encounter Miss Etheridge, so I 
 slipped out just in time, for Sydney, who had finished her 
 business, was come in search of me. She looked rather 
 mystified when I hurried her away. The carriage was 
 at some distance, and Fenwick did not see us, but as 
 we stood with our backs to the entrance I heard Miss 
 Etheridge's rather high-pitched voice behind us. " Don't 
 look round," T whispered in Sydney's ear, and then she 
 understood. 
 
 " Your mother will be delighted with the screen, 
 317
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Rhona," she was saying; "it is a perfect beauty, and 
 not dear, in my opinion. But I was sorry to keep you 
 so long waiting. We will have some tea now, for you 
 are looking dreadfully pale, my love," and here Miss 
 Etheridge signalled a hansom. 
 
 Sydney looked at me pleadingly. " That was Rhona. 
 Do let us run back and speak to her." 
 
 But I took firm hold of her arm. " Not for worlds. 
 We should only get Rhona into trouble. Wait until we 
 are in the carriage and I will tell you about her " ; and 
 Sydney listened to my long story with breathless atten- 
 tion, and I could see that she was much touched by 
 Rhona's message. 
 
 " How unselfish she is," she returned. " I think she 
 puts us all to shame. Poor dear Rhona ! If I were half 
 as good," and there were tears in Sydney's eyes. 
 
 It was some little time before I found an opportunity 
 of giving Thurston her message ; but one evening when 
 I was returning from Aunt Cosie's I met him. Sydney 
 had not accompanied me. She had a headache, and 
 thought it better to remain at home. 
 
 Thurston turned back with me, and I told him at 
 once about my interview with Rhona, and I could see 
 how interested he was. " I was quite sure that she wanted 
 to speak to me that Sunday in the church porch," he 
 observed, " only the old fellow pushed himself between 
 us." But when I had delivered the message, he was so 
 silent, and there was such a pained look on his face, that 
 I did not like to speak. But presently he said in a low 
 voice, " If you ever have the opportunity, Githa, I should 
 like you to thank Rhona for that message. It was gen- 
 erous and dear of her to send it. Tell her that though she 
 has forgiven me, I shall never forgive myself," and he 
 seemed so upset that I thought it better to say no more. 
 
 318
 
 SCHOOL OF ART NEEDLEWORK 
 
 I often wondered if Mr. Carlyon would keep his 
 promise of calling at St, Olave's Lodge, and it was not 
 until the middle of July that we saw him. 
 
 He came one afternoon as we were sitting with father 
 in the drawing-room. It was an intensely hot afternoon, 
 but there was a little breeze from the river, so I had told 
 Hallett to bring tea there. With the zeal of a young 
 housekeeper I had ordered iced coffee as well as tea, and 
 father was just lecturing me playfully on my extrava- 
 gance when Mr. Carylon was announced. 
 
 To this moment I am ashamed to remember how 
 exceedingly shy I felt. I only hoped that no one else 
 noticed it. I could see at once that father was strongly 
 attracted by our visitor, and somehow I never saw Mr. 
 Carlyon to greater advantage. He was always very dis- 
 tinguished-looking, he carried himself so well, and there 
 was such ease of manner and such an air of good-breed- 
 ing about him, that he seldom failed to impress strangers. 
 Father received him most cordially, when Mr. Carlyon 
 observed pleasantly that he had been anxious to make his 
 acquaintance. Father returned in quite a nice way that 
 he had heard so much of him from his daughter that he 
 could reciprocate that wish. Mr. Carlyon looked across 
 at me with his kind smile. 
 
 " Miss Darnell and I are good friends." Then, " By 
 the bye, my little people have entrusted me with all sorts 
 of messages," and then he drew forth from his breast 
 pocket a small parcel tied with red worsted. It proved 
 to be a pen-wiper, in the shape of an attenuated and 
 deformed butterfly, with " Girlie," worked in green floss- 
 silk on pink flannel, and speckled all over with curious 
 green dots. " I hope you admire my little girl's design," 
 he observed. " I believe Stella expended hours of toil 
 over that pen-wiper. I was to explain to you that the 
 
 319
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 dots are kisses, and that they are from Cyril as well as 
 Stella." 
 
 " Oh, the darling ! " I exclaimed, as I raised the 
 grotesque object to my lips. 
 
 "They begged me to tell you that they intend to 
 find you some lovely shells when they go over to Bognor. 
 I believe Peace has promised that they are to spend a 
 day there. There was a good deal more which has 
 escaped my memory. They are wild with delight at the 
 idea of going to Binstead. As Peace says in her quaint 
 way, ' They are neither to hold nor to bind until she 
 tucks them up in bed.' " 
 
 I do not know why all this talk about the twins made 
 me feel rather dull, but I could not help owning to Mr. 
 Carlyon how much I should miss them when I went 
 down to Bayfield. He seemed to like to hear me say it, 
 and then he turned to father. 
 
 " My little ones are much attached to Miss Darnell. 
 Stella informed me yesterday that ' Girlie ' was the 
 nicest big playfellow they had ever had, with the excep- 
 tion of your humble servant. But it was not quite kind 
 of Stella to ignore you, Miss Herbert." 
 
 " Oh, the children care much more for Githa," she 
 returned, smiling, "but I am not jealous, Mr. Carlyon, 
 and I have plenty of attention when Githa is absent." 
 
 Mr. Carlyon seemed to enjoy his iced coffee, which 
 he said was an admirable idea in hot weather ; and then 
 he and father began to talk about the Austrian Tyrol 
 and the Passion Play that Mr. Carlyon had seen the 
 previous year, and their talk was so interesting that 
 Sydney and I listened with rapt attention. They had not 
 half exhausted the subject when the dressing-bell rang, 
 and Mr. Carlyon rose, with an exclamation at the lateness 
 of the hour. To my surprise, and also to my great 
 
 320
 
 SCHOOL OF ART NEEDLEWORK 
 
 pleasure, father asked him to dine with us the following 
 evening, that they might finish their conversation, and he 
 accepted this invitation without the slightest hesitation. 
 
 " It is au revoir, then," he said in quite a pleased 
 voice as he shook hands with me, and I said rather shyly 
 that I was very glad. Father went downstairs with 
 him ; but when he came up a few minutes later and found 
 me alone, he told me that Mr. Carlyon had asked Thurston 
 to dine with him at his hotel. 
 
 " He says he shall be glad to have a talk with me 
 about him, so I am glad — aren't you, Gipsy? — that I 
 asked him to dinner." And then, pinching my cheek 
 gently, " I think your vicar a cut above the average. He 
 is a gentlemanly and most agreeable man ; but it is easy 
 to see he has had trouble " ; and then father begged me 
 to hurry up or the second gong would sound. 
 
 21 321
 
 XXXIII 
 
 "TITANIA" 
 
 Shall I forget on this side of the grave? 
 I promise nothing: yon must wait and see, 
 
 Patient and brave. 
 (O my soul, watch with him and he with me.) 
 
 Christina Rossetti. 
 
 There is a homely old saying that new brooms sweep 
 clean. I was very particular about the menu for the 
 next day, and Mrs. Kennedy found it somewhat difficult 
 to satisfy me. Indeed, she hinted that my ideas were 
 rather extravagant. " I would not have an ice-pudding 
 if I were you, Miss Githa," she observed with the 
 familiarity of an old servant ; " there is only one gentle- 
 man coming, and it has such a company look." But I 
 remembered Mr. Carlyon's appreciation of the iced coffee, 
 and carried my point. 
 
 I had rather an argument, too, with Hallett about 
 the table decorations. He was, as usual, a little opinion- 
 ative in these matters, and evidently disapproved of my 
 scheme ; but I put on what Sydney called my princess 
 air; and was exceedingly firm, so he was obliged to give 
 way. 
 
 Father grumbled a little because we could not ask 
 Thurston to join us. " There would be no harm in inviting 
 the lad," he said quite testily, " and I don't see why we 
 are to act as Miss Herbert's jailers. When two well- 
 conducted, sensible young people are in love with each 
 
 322
 
 TITANIA 
 
 other, there is not the sHghtest use in trying to keep 
 them apart. Doesn't Shakespeare say, ' Fire that is 
 closest kept burns most of all ' ? " And then a wicked 
 twinkle came into his eyes — " Oh, Gip, my dear, ' More 
 water glideth by the mill than wots the miller of.' If 
 we gave Romeo a seat at the dinner-table we should not 
 have Juliet so often on the balcony " ; and then I knew 
 that father was not as blind as we supposed. 
 
 I ventured to hint something of this in my next letter 
 to mother, but I found it was no use ; she only reiterated 
 her wish that there should be as little intercourse as pos- 
 sible. " Of course, we cannot always avoid accidental 
 meetings," she went on, " but for the present I would 
 much rather that Thurston keeps away from St. Olave's 
 Lodge ; he is on his probation, and I want to be quite sure 
 that he is in earnest before he has the opportunity of 
 renewing his offer." 
 
 Father shrugged his shoulders when I read this para- 
 graph to him, and then he said rather a bitter thing, — 
 
 " So you tried to make your mother change her mind. 
 You are very young, Gipsy, or you would know better." 
 
 Of course, I took father's side in the matter ; but, all 
 the same, I knew mother was not unreasonable in the 
 view she held, though her discipline was a little too brac- 
 ing for my taste. She wanted two young creatures to 
 be perfectly sure of themselves and of each other, and she 
 desired their happiness and ultimate well-being so ear- 
 nestly that she could not brook the idea of any present 
 enjoyment marring it. In her stern, puritan creed happi- 
 ness was often perfected through a certain degree of 
 suffering and endurance. " If they cannot bear a short 
 period of waiting, they are acting like undisciplined chil- 
 dren," she said once. " But I can trust Sydney ; she has 
 never disappointed me yet." 
 
 323
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 I am quite sure that Sydney tried to carry out 
 mother's wishes most loyally, and that it never struck her 
 that a pass'ng wave of her handkerchief in the darkness 
 or a whispered good-night to some one standing under 
 the balcony would be infringing them in the faintest 
 degree. But as time went on she once or twice expressed 
 surprise that we so often came upon Thurston. 
 
 " It is so very odd," she said innocently; "it is just 
 as though he knew all we meant to do every day — but, 
 of course, that is impossible." But though I agreed 
 with her that it was odd, I kept my suspicions to myself. 
 Gresham Terrace was not very far off. If Thurston 
 wished to take an early stroll on the Embankment or in 
 Battersea Park he would certainly pass our stables, and 
 could easily find out anything he wished to know ; and 
 so it was that if we rode out early we were sure to have 
 a fleeting glimpse of Thurston and his faithful satellite 
 Ben ; and once when father had to ride a little farther, 
 on some errand, he crossed the road and helped us both to 
 alight from our saddles. 
 
 And even when father decided on a later ride, more 
 than once Sydney's knight was leaning over the park 
 palings, evidently watching for our cavalcade. Some- 
 times father stopped and spoke to him, and of course 
 we had to stop too. I thought Thurston looked wonder- 
 fully handsome, only a little pale, as though July heat 
 and confinement were trying him. 
 
 Of course, he found out the church we attended, and 
 was always in his place when we arrived. Sometimes 
 he was so near that we could hear his voice in the 
 responses — Thurston had rather a nice voice, — and at 
 the close of the service there was generally an opportunity 
 for a look and word in the porch ; but father would walk 
 on quite calmly, leaving us to follow him. 
 
 324
 
 TITANIA 
 
 But to return to our little dinner. If I had disturbed 
 Mrs. Kennedy's mind with my extravagant menu, I cer- 
 tainly shocked Sydney by wearing the white chiffon dress 
 which had been ordered for the wedding ; and even 
 Mardie seemed to disapprove. 
 
 " Oh, Githa ! " exclaimed Sydney, when she came into 
 my room with some flowers she had been arranging, 
 " your lovely dress, — why, it is far too good to wear 
 to-night. I have put on my blue muslin, because I knew 
 only Mr. Carlyon was coming." 
 
 " But you look very nice," I returned hastily. " and 
 your frock is quite new. I don't want flowers to-night," 
 I continued; "those white rose-buds will just suit your 
 dress, Syd, and Mardie will pin them on for you." 
 
 " Are you quite sure you don't want them, dear? " she 
 asked, surprised ; but Mardie answered for me. 
 
 " Miss Githa looks fit for a ball-room now. Miss 
 Herbert, and it would be a thousand pities for her new 
 bodice to be spoiled with flower stains " ; and then I knew 
 that Mardie too disapproved of my extravagance. But 
 I did not repent one bit when father called me Titania and 
 held me out at arm's length to admire me ; and I am 
 afraid I repented still less when, during dinner, I saw 
 Mr. Carlyon look at me in rather an intent way, and in 
 my foolish vanity I hoped that he thought I looked nice ; 
 but I felt rather perplexed when a sad expression crossed 
 his face, and for a few minutes he seemed quite abstracted. 
 
 But it was a delightful evening, and to my satisfaction 
 every one praised the ice-pudding. Mr. Carlyon and 
 father talked as though they were old friends. It was 
 really astonishing how much they seemed to have in 
 common ; they had both been abroad a great deal. 
 
 Mr. Carlyon took a deep interest in ecclesiastical 
 architecture, and had seen all the most noted cathedrals 
 
 325
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 in Europe. Father had seen less, hnt had read a good 
 deal on the subject, and as he delighted in pictures and 
 works of art, they found a common ground of interest. 
 
 I could have listened to them for hours, but I knew 
 too well my duties as a hostess ; but I told Sydney, as we 
 sipped our coffee on the balcony, that I intended to study 
 architecture. " Father has the loveliest books and pic- 
 tures in the library," I went on, " and I know he would 
 be charmed to direct my studies. There is some talk 
 of our going to Rome next winter ; it is a dream of ours, 
 and I should like to fit myself to be his companion." 
 But though this was quite true as far as it went, I was 
 not perfectly honest, for why did my desire to study 
 architecture only date from this evening? 
 
 Father stayed downstairs longer than usual, but I 
 knew they were talking about Thurston. They came up 
 presently, and we had some music, and Sydney and I both 
 sang. 
 
 It was rather a warm night, and when I had finished 
 my duet with Sydney I went out again on the balcony 
 to get cool. Mr. Carlyon followed me, and as we stood 
 looking at the river and the lights on the Embankment, 
 I caught sight of a dark figure moving slowly away. 
 Of course it was Thurston ; the poor boy had been listen- 
 ing to the songs. Mr. Carlyon had not noticed him. He 
 seemed rapt in thought as he stood beside me. Then he 
 turned to me a little abruptly, and there was still the same 
 sad expression in his eyes. 
 
 " Do you know you have been reminding me of some 
 one all the evening, Miss Darnell " ; he spoke in a low 
 tone, full of repressed emotion. 
 
 " I! Oh, do you mean that I am like my mother? " 
 But he shook his head. 
 
 " No, not to-night. I was alluding to my wife — my 
 326
 
 TITANIA 
 
 dear Doreen. She was very young when we married, 
 
 and as a girl " then he stopped, as though unable to 
 
 go on for the moment. 
 
 Lady Doreen ! I reminded him of her ! A curious 
 thrill seemed to pass through me when Mr. Carlyon 
 said this. 
 
 " I saw her picture once," I returned in a low voice. 
 " Stella took me to see it. I thought she looked so lovely, 
 and her expression was so sweet." 
 
 " She was very beautiful when she was young," he 
 replied in the same subdued tone. " When I said just 
 now that you reminded me of her, I did not mean that 
 there was a close resemblance ; it was something in voice 
 and manner. One cannot exactly define these fleeting 
 and vague impressions, but they have come to me before 
 when I have been with you. But to-night — to-night — 
 it might have been Doreen herself who walked into the 
 room." 
 
 " How strange ! " I almost whispered, and indeed I 
 hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that he had 
 told me this, for it pained me to think that I had brought 
 that sad look to his eyes. 
 
 " There was a party at the Castle," he went on, " and 
 she wore a dress like that — all white and flufify, and a 
 row of pearls round her throat. We were just engaged, 
 and it was her seventeenth birthday, and I had taken her 
 some flowers. I heard your father call you Titania this 
 evening. That was the name I gave her that night," 
 
 I put my hand on his for a moment — it was so close, 
 and I was so sorry for him ; but I was somewhat discon- 
 certed when he detained it. But I was sure he understood 
 what I meant. 
 
 " Thank you," he said gently. " I know I have your 
 sympathy, and indeed T have needed it. Last Sunday 
 
 327
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 was the anniversary of her death. It is just three years 
 — three long years ; but what is time in such circum- 
 stances ? ' We should count time by heart-throbs,' as 
 Bailey says." 
 
 He still kept my hand, but I did not like to draw it 
 away. Probably he had forgotten he was holding it. 
 
 " She was young when she died," he went on in the 
 same even voice, " and at first she could not reconcile 
 herself to the thought. It seemed hard that she should 
 leave her little children and me. I thought my heart 
 would have broken when I saw how unhappy she was, 
 and then the evening before her death, thank God, the 
 cloud lifted, and she looked at me with her old sunny 
 smile. 
 
 " ' I am not afraid now, Paul. I know my Heavenly 
 Father will take care of you and the children, and though 
 He is parting us now, we shall be together for eternity.' " 
 
 I could not speak ; I was so profoundly touched by 
 this sacred confidence. I was trying to keep back the 
 tears. Sydney was singing a pathetic little German song, 
 about a peasant girl who had lost her lover on the wed- 
 ding eve. Sydney's clear, sweet tones were thrilling 
 with emotion. The same dark figure was pacing up and 
 down — a small white body with short legs followed it 
 closely. 
 
 " It is getting late," observed Mr. Carlyon, rousing 
 himself. " Forgive me for saddening you, but the impulse 
 to speak was so strong. Sometimes one needs sympathy, 
 and you have given it without stint or measure." What 
 could he mean, when I had scarcely spoken a word? 
 " God bless you ! " And then before I knew what he 
 was going to do. he lifted my hand to his lips and turned 
 slowly away, and I heard him tell father that he must 
 hurry, as it was far later than he had guessed. 
 
 328
 
 TITANIA 
 
 I stayed out for a few minutes to cool my burning 
 cheeks, and as the front door opened, I saw Thurston 
 retrace his steps and join Mr. Carlyon. 
 
 I thought father looked at me a little curiously when 
 I went back to the drawing-room. Sydney was putting 
 away her songs in the portfolio. 
 
 " You and Carlyon found plenty to talk about, Gipsy ; 
 but then Titania always haunts the moonlight. You made 
 a charming little hostess to-night, darling. Carlyon is 
 a man after my own heart," he continued. " He is unus- 
 ually broad-minded and wide in his sympathies for a 
 parson. I hope he will soon repeat his visit " ; and then 
 father bade me good-night. 
 
 Sydney did not go out on the balcony as usual — I 
 am afraid we gave her no opportunity ; so I made amends 
 by telling her that Thurston had been listening to her 
 singing, and she blushed and dimpled with pleasure. 
 
 " I thought he would, and I sang all his favourite 
 songs," she whispered ; and then she ran out of the room. 
 
 But it was long before I could compose myself to 
 sleep that night. Mr, Carlyon's unexpected confidence, 
 his tone, his manner, had moved me strangely. Why 
 had he been so sure of my sympathy when I had said so 
 little? Could that impulsive touch of his hand have 
 spoken for me? I felt a little distressed. Would he think 
 me forward or unmaidenly, or only young and childish? 
 But something told me he had not been displeased. " If 
 it had been any one else," I said to myself, " but with 
 him it does not matter. He is so wise ; he always under- 
 stands. But I wonder, I wonder, why he did that? " 
 
 Mr. Carlyon went back to Bayfield the next day, but 
 though he called at St. Olave's Lodge a fortnight later, 
 when he came up to town en route for the Tyrol, we were 
 all out, so he only left his card and inquired very kindly 
 
 329
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 after every one. I thought father seemed sorry to miss 
 him. 
 
 I was feeling very disappointed about Sydney just 
 then. After all, she was not going back to Bayfield with 
 me. Aunt Cosie had invited her to accompany her to 
 Cromer. " Of course I knew there was no chance of 
 getting you, Githa," she observed, when she talked the 
 plan over with me. " You are in far too much request, 
 my dear ; but as I need a young companion, and Miss 
 Herbert has taken my fancy, I intend to ask her. I 
 shall probably not return for six or seven weeks, as there 
 is a great deal to be done in the house." 
 
 My heart sank a little when Aunt Cosie said this, but 
 I was ashamed to let her guess my feelings, so I promised 
 to do my best with Sydney. To my surprise she seemed 
 reluctant to accept the invitation. 
 
 " It is most kind of Mrs. Bevan," she returned, " and 
 of course I should enjoy being with her — and Cromer is 
 such a nice place — but I would much rather be at Prior's 
 Cot with you and Aunt Yvonne." 
 
 " But you are so fond of the sea, Sydney." 
 
 " Yes, and I should be sorry to disappoint Mrs. 
 Bevan," but Sydney's tone was exceedingly dubious. 
 " I think we had better talk to Mr. Darnell, Githa, and 
 be guided by what he says. If he advises me to write 
 to Aunt Yvonne I will do so," and she kept her word ; 
 and as father took Aunt Cosie's view, and seemed anxious 
 that she should have a pleasant companion, the letter was 
 written without delay. 
 
 Mother's answer came by return of post. 
 
 Sydney laid it down beside me without a word; but 
 I was sure from her manner that the letter disappointed 
 her, and yet nothing could have been kinder. 
 
 Mother wished her to accept Aunt Cosie's invitation. 
 330
 
 TITANIA 
 
 She said it was far too advantageous an offer to refuse ; 
 besides, it was evident that Mrs. Bevan really needed 
 her. 
 
 " I know how you love the sea, and the change will 
 do you a world of good," she wrote. " You have always 
 wanted to take swimming lessons ; well, now is your 
 opportunity. Seriously, dear child, there is not a single 
 obstacle to prevent your going to Cromer with a clear 
 conscience. I shall have Githa for a month, at least, so 
 there is no fear of my feeling dull " ; and so on. I won- 
 dered if Sydney read between the lines as clearly as I 
 did. Aunt Cosie's invitation evidently came at the right 
 moment. Mother would be glad to have me to herself. 
 I never knew if Sydney guessed this ; but she went off 
 that very morning to tell Aunt Cosie, and on her return 
 she informed me that everything was settled, and that 
 she was going to order her new bathing dress, as mother 
 had promised her a course of swimming lessons. 
 
 I saw Sydney was trying to make the best of it, and 
 though I knew she would much rather have been at home 
 just now, I was quite sure that she would be happy with 
 Aunt Cosie. They were to start for Cromer tw^o days 
 before I was to leave for Bayfield, and that very evening 
 father brought Thurston home with him, and kept him 
 to dinner. 
 
 Father had an important letter to write in the evening, 
 so Thurston and I sat on the balcony, talking about his 
 plans and Sydney. He seemed quite bright and hopeful, 
 only he confessed to a longing for the woods and Laddie. 
 " But I must dree my weird," he finished, lifting his 
 head a little proudly. " * Rome was not built in a day,' 
 and I have not made my fortune yet ; but she shall see." 
 And there was a brave resolute expression in Thurston's 
 eyes, 
 
 331
 
 XXXIV 
 
 NOAH'S ARK 
 
 There conies a day with you and me 
 When all things with us disagree. 
 We hate ourselves, our friends we hate, 
 And doubt all good and rail at fate. . . . 
 The tide that ebbs will flow again ; 
 From rest to-day you wisely borrow 
 A double strength to bless to-morrow. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 I THOUGHT of Thurston's words as I travelled down to 
 Bayfield two days later. " I must dree my weird." Oh, 
 that sad little sentence ! How often one hears it, and in 
 what varying tones — proud, submissive, hopeless, re- 
 signed ; and yet at certain periods of our lives we must 
 all say it. 
 
 I had awakened with a heavy heart that morning. 
 If it had not seemed fanciful I could have said that a 
 presentiment of some impending trial seemed to oppress 
 me — a vague, nameless anxiety, for which there appeared 
 no reason. I was so low that I shed tears when I bade 
 father good-bye ; and though he pretended to laugh at 
 me, and assured me that, to the best of his knowledge, 
 we were not parting for life, I could see he was a little 
 uneasy; for he begged me to take care of myself and to 
 write as often as possible. " For you are far too thin 
 and unsubstantial, Gip, for my taste," he added; but he 
 had no time to say more, as the train began to move. 
 
 I knew father was right. I was certainly thinner. 
 332
 
 NOAH'S ARK 
 
 Mardie had told me the day before with quite a grieved 
 look on her dear old face ; but with all my surface bright- 
 ness there was always the same deep, inward sadness 
 underneath, as though something had gone wrong with 
 my young life, and there could be no rest for me until 
 it was set right. I am quite sure that no one guessed how 
 I brooded over things. When father tried to amuse me, 
 and was always planning little pleasures and surprises, 
 I knew that he was cheating himself with the belief that 
 Gipsy was so young that she would soon forget, and 
 become accustomed to the situation ; and though my 
 mother was less sanguine now, she too comforted herself 
 with the recuperative powers of youth ; but they neither of 
 them knew how it was with me, or how the thought of 
 my visit oppressed me like a waking nightmare. 
 
 If I could only have had Sydney's bright, healthy 
 companionship ; if the Vicarage were not empty ; but there 
 was no one with whom I could exchange a word except 
 mother. Morning, noon, and night we should be together, 
 and always with this barrier between us ; and much as 
 I loved her, the thought suffocated me. 
 
 Mr. Carlyon had told me about his old college friend, 
 Mr. Grenville. He was a bachelor, and in some respects 
 a woman-hater; at least he was always shy with ladies. 
 
 " Grenville is a good fellow, and does his work well," 
 Mr. Carlyon had said to me that evening; "and he is 
 a delightful companion when he is in touch with people; 
 but his health is not good, and he is a bit of a recluse." 
 And this description made me think that we were not 
 likely to have much intercourse with Mr. Grenville. 
 
 When I reached Prior's Cot mother received me as 
 affectionately as ever. She had been doing up my room, 
 and she took me up at once to see the new paper and 
 some improvements she had made. I should have been 
 
 333
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 hard to please, if I had not been satisfied, for it was 
 the daintiest little nest of a room, with its pink paper and 
 new muslin hangings. Of course I thanked her, and 
 praised all the arrangements; but she shook her head. 
 
 " The corner room at St. Olave's Lodge must be far 
 nicer," she observed ; " but I have done my poor best ; 
 and I daresay it will do well enough for summer quarters. 
 If I could only have afforded a new carpet, Githa; but 
 we must wait until next year for that." 
 
 As we sat over our tea, mother told me that Lady 
 Wilde had only left the previous day. Dr. Neale had 
 gone away too for his holiday, and had left quite a young 
 locum tenens. " Dr. Ramsay is his name," she went on ; 
 " he is rather an angular-looking Scotchman, with high 
 cheek bones ; but Dr. Neale says he is clever, though I 
 do not much like the look of him. Dr. Neale called to 
 say good-bye, Githa, and then he told me that Lady Wilde 
 had been ill." 
 
 "Oh, not very ill, I hope?" 
 
 " No ; but sufficiently so to make him a little bit 
 anxious about her ; for she is an old woman, you know. 
 But he told me that she was decidedly better, and that 
 she was going to Scarborough for two months." 
 
 " And she has actually gone ? " 
 
 " Yes. I was driving yesterday morning, and the 
 carriage passed me, and we both bowed. She certainly 
 looked ill and rather altered. I am quite sure that she 
 had not expected Thurston to take her at her word, and 
 that she never meant things to come to this pass." 
 
 " Dear mother, she has only to send Thurston a mes- 
 sage, and he would go to her at once." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it. But you see, Githa, Lady 
 Wilde would think that weak and undignified on her part. 
 She considers that her grandson is wholly in the wrong, 
 
 334
 
 NOAH'S ARK 
 
 and that he has behaved most ungratefully to her, and 
 that any advances must be made by him." 
 
 " Do you think we ought to tell him that ? " 
 
 " Not at present. It would be useless, for he could not 
 follow her to Scarborough." 
 
 " But he could write." 
 
 " I am not sure that she would answer his letter. She 
 is a very obstinate old woman, Githa ; and all this oppo- 
 sition has certainly not sweetened her temper, though 
 it has made her ill. If Thurston would take my advice, 
 he will do nothing until Lady Wilde returns to St, Helen's 
 Towers ; and then, if he has sufficient pluck, he might 
 pay her a surprise visit. Of course one cannot tell what 
 sort of reception will be given him, but at least he will 
 have done his best to heal the breach." 
 
 " I shall certainly tell him all this," I returned, for 
 I was much struck by the soundness of this advice; and 
 then mother began to question me a little closely about 
 Thurston and Sydney. I knew it was useless to evade 
 her penetration ; besides, Sydney was always so frank 
 and unreserved in her letters ; so I did not attempt to hide 
 anything. I told her that we seemed always coming 
 across Thurston, that he evidently made himself ac- 
 quainted with our movements, but that neither Sydney 
 nor I were to blame. 
 
 I saw from mother's face that she was not pleased ; 
 her lips tightened a little. 
 
 " It was not Sydney's fault," I repeated ; " she seemed 
 always so surprised to see him, though she was pleased 
 too ; and Thurston always had some plausible excuse for 
 being just there." 
 
 " I never thought of blaming Sydney." Rut mother 
 spoke in rather a cold, inflexible voice. " But when I 
 had stated my wishes so clearly, I think your father might 
 
 335
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 have carried them out more carefully. He could not 
 forbid Thurston to take an evening walk in the Park; 
 but there was no need to stop and speak to him, and I 
 wish now I had never sent Sydney to St. Olave's." 
 
 I flushed up indignantly. It was the first time that 
 she had ever blamed father in my hearing, either directly 
 or indirectly, and I had hard work to restrain myself from 
 a hot defence. I bit my lip to keep silence, and my for- 
 bearance was rewarded, for mother's manner changed 
 immediately. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Githa. I did not mean to hurt 
 you ; but I felt a little strongly about it. I did not certainly 
 write to your father about Sydney ; but he knew, did he 
 not, the conditions under which I was sending her? " 
 
 " Yes, of course, mother ; and I know that he tried 
 his best to fulfil them. He did so want Thurston to dine 
 with us that evening when Mr. Carlyon came ; but he 
 would not have invited him for the world. I think," hesi- 
 tating a little, " that father is so soft-hearted that he hates 
 seeing people uncomfortable, and so he cannot help being 
 kind to them ; and perhaps this makes him rather lax." 
 
 An odd little smile came to mother's lips as I said 
 this. 
 
 " I daresay you are right, my dear. I have seen your 
 father take a world of trouble to restore a frozen bee to 
 life, and to help a lame dog that had been run over. It 
 made him uncomfortable to see anything in pain — it is 
 his temperament, and you have it too, Githa ; but you 
 must watch yourself carefully : even pity and compassion 
 can deteriorate into self-indulgence and mere luxury of 
 emotion." 
 
 I sighed. Mother's ideal of duty always seemed so 
 far beyond mine. I was certainly more father's child 
 
 336
 
 NOAH'S ARK 
 
 than hers. Like him, I was impulsive, and loved to give 
 pleasure when help was needed. I could not sit down 
 and calmly investigate the merits of the case. If a tramp 
 were hungry, he must be fed, even if he refused to work ; 
 and father was even more injudicious, for I had known 
 him give money to a wretched-looking old man, shivering 
 and shaking near a cofifee-tavern, 
 
 "But he will not have hot coffee, Gip," he observed 
 with a rueful smile ; " it will be gin — you may take my 
 word for that. There is a public-house round the corner, 
 and as soon as we turn our backs he will slip round." 
 And father was right. I remember I took him to task 
 rather severely, but he would not be convinced. 
 
 " Poor old chap ! why should I not help him to get 
 the one thing he wants to make him happy and to bring 
 warmth to his bones ? There is no accounting for tastes. 
 I should prefer the hot coffee, but our friend yonder has 
 a preference for gin. Perhaps we should feel the same 
 in his case." 
 
 We talked a little more about Thurston and Sydney; 
 but I could see mother was very careful in what she said, 
 and as I met her half way, we finished the conversation 
 most harmoniously. Somehow these talks produced in me 
 a sense of mental fatigue. Without being exactly con- 
 scious of the fact, my nerves were in a state of tension. 
 In looking back at these August days, I know now that 
 I was not in a normal condition. I was sensitive and 
 nervous, and always on the watch ; for in spite of my 
 mother's stern self-repression and guarded manner, she 
 could not always restrain a querulous word of disapproval 
 at my impulsiveness. At a sudden allusion to some home 
 interest, a shade would cross her face, or her lips would 
 stiffen, and I knew by her silence that I had somehow 
 hurt her, though I could not always guess the reason. 
 22 327
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 It was a difficult position for us both, and if we had loved 
 each other less things would have been easier. 
 
 I tried to settle down to my quiet life and to find 
 some enjoyment in it, but I was nervously languid and 
 restless, and the days seemed endless. The weather was 
 unusually hot, and the country needed rain ; the pastures 
 and gardens began to look dried up, and the wells were 
 getting low. Mother used to look quite unhappy when 
 she saw her flowers all drooping and wilted with the heat. 
 " How thirsty they look, poor things," she would say ; 
 " and Sam tells me that we must not use the water. That 
 is the worst of Bayfield — the water supply is so limited 
 unless we have it up from the river more than a mile 
 away ; in very dry seasons things get rather serious." 
 
 I had often heard mother say this before, but as she 
 was generally away in August, she was spared a good 
 deal of anxiety about her garden. The heavy dews at 
 night comforted her a little, and several times a day she 
 consulted the barometer in the hall in the hope that rain 
 might be expected ; and I am sure that the geese on the 
 village green shared this hope. 
 
 The little ponds were nearly dried up, and there was 
 much discontented hissing from yellow bills — even the 
 ducks dibbling between the stones could find little 
 moisture, and quacked their griefs noisily. Even the 
 tinker's old grey donkey had her say, and her voice 
 though discontented was so suggestive of misery that I 
 went back to Prior's Cot and gave such a feeling descrip- 
 tion to mother that she made Sam carry a pail of water 
 and a feed of corn to the green, and poor old Jenny had 
 a royal feed. Jenny had a grateful disposition, and she 
 never forgot a kindness : after that day when I passed 
 her on the green she always lifted her head and softly 
 brayed a welcome. I often carried her a few carrots, or 
 
 338
 
 NOAH'S ARK 
 
 a fresh lettuce or two or an apple, and she would feed 
 from my hand in the most confiding way. But I never 
 could make friends with the geese. I disliked the way 
 they came towards me with their long necks outstretched 
 and their dusty wings flapping, and hissing out their 
 grievances as though they thought the dried-up pond was 
 my doing; but after all, geese have not a large amount 
 of sense, and perhaps the poor things meant no harm. 
 
 As I always woke early I used to write my daily letter 
 to father before breakfast, and considering that I had 
 no news, it was wonderful how I contrived to fill the 
 sheet; but he always said that he enjoyed my morning 
 chats. 
 
 After breakfast, as mother was generally busy for an 
 hour or two, I used to stroll out with Roy ; even at that 
 early hour it was rather hot for walking, but I was too 
 restless to remain in the house or garden. I liked to 
 revisit my old haunts, the churchyard, and especially the 
 long lane that led to Feltham Road. 
 
 Often I crossed the stile and the sloping meadow to 
 a narrow, shut-in lane where there were two old thatched 
 cottages standing side by side. They were very pictur- 
 esque, with yellow lichen growing in the low eaves, and 
 their tiny window and porch smothered in traveller's 
 joy. They were so close together that 'but for the two 
 porches one would have taken them for one cottage, and 
 they were always called Noah's Ark. I never could dis- 
 cover the reason of this name, unless it arose from the 
 fact that a certain Jonas Noah had built the cottages. 
 I remember Mr. Carlyon shaking his head when I praised 
 Noah's Ark somewhat enthusiastically. 
 
 " I grant you that they arc picturesque," he said rather 
 gravely; "but they are tumble-down, ruinous, old places, 
 and in my opinion are quite unfit for human habitation. 
 
 339
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Some of the thatch is torn down, and the birds build 
 their nests and make such havoc that the rain comes 
 through, and there is not a whole board in the place. I 
 have spoken several times to the owner, but he is a close- 
 fisted old beggar, and very averse to putting his hand in 
 his pocket; but, as I tell him, those cottages are a dis- 
 grace to Bayfield." 
 
 Old Peggy Knowles had lived in one of those cot- 
 tages, and the other was inhabited by a widow and her 
 daughter. They were very respectable people and had 
 known better days, but misfortune and poverty had driven 
 them to the shelter of Noah's Ark. Ada Martin had 
 been lame from her birth, and could only move with 
 difficulty on her crutches; for years she had never left 
 the lane, and her only change was to sit in her big arm- 
 chair in the little front garden. 
 
 Mrs. Martin suffered from chronic asthma, which 
 prevented her from carrying on her work as a laundress. 
 But both mother and daughter took in a little fine needle- 
 work. Mother was very good to them, and so was Mr. 
 Carlyon, and even their poorer neighbours would bring 
 them little presents of eggs or vegetables, or do a turn 
 in the garden for them. 
 
 I had rather a liking for Ada; she was a patient 
 creature, and bore her limitations without complaint. " It 
 was worse for mother," she would say ; " it was dreadful 
 to hear her breathing sometimes at night." 
 
 " But it must keep you awake too, Ada," I once said 
 to her. 
 
 " Yes, I know, Miss Darnell, but I haven't got the 
 pain and the suffocation. I could almost wish I had it 
 sometimes, if I could have taken it from her "; for mother 
 and daughter were devoted to each other. 
 
 I knew how much Ada enjoyed my reading to her 
 340
 
 NOAH'S ARK 
 
 while she worked, and I got into the habit of going two 
 or three times a week. I read Bede's Charity to her and 
 Laddie. The walk across the meadow was rather trying 
 in the heat, but the kitchen was cool, and before I went 
 home I generally had a glass of water. Mrs. Martin 
 always brought it to me in a curious old goblet of either 
 Dutch or Flemish work. Her father, who had been a 
 sailor, brought it home from Holland, and it was quite a 
 household treasure. 
 
 I am not sure that mother approved of these morning 
 walks ; she said they tired and took it out of me. " It 
 would be much better for you to take your book into the 
 Wilderness," she observed ; " those cottages are so airless 
 and shut in. I am quite sure they must be terribly insani- 
 tary." But I was deaf to that good advice. I could not 
 stay in the Wilderness, and I much preferred Feltham 
 Road and Noah's Ark. 
 
 341
 
 XXXV 
 
 A DREAMER OF DREAMS 
 
 True, I talk of dreams, 
 Which are the children of an idle brain. 
 Begot of nothing but vain fantasy. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 For this relief much thanks. — Hamlet. 
 
 When my early walk was over I always spent the rest 
 of the day in mother's society. As the heat became more 
 intense we generally betook ourselves to the hall, as it 
 was the coolest place. Mother had a cane lounge and 
 some chairs placed there for our use, and in the after- 
 noon we dozed over our books. In the evening we sat 
 in the garden or strolled about the lanes. Unfortunately 
 the mare had lamed herself and we could not drive, and 
 this prevented us from going on the river. I wondered if 
 Bayfield were hotter than other places ; there was so 
 little air, and even the nights were not cool. I used to 
 envy Sydney watching the waves rolling in, or splashing 
 in the sun-warmed water ; and then I thought of father, 
 striding over the moors purple with heather. " The 
 weather is perfect," he wrote ; " such glorious days ; but 
 the evenings are a bit chilly sometimes : we actually had 
 a fire the other night, and quite enjoyed it." 
 
 I am sure I tried my hardest to make myself a pleasant 
 companion. I used to ransack my brain for interesting 
 subjects. We discussed our favourite books and argued 
 
 342
 
 A DREAMER OF DREAMS 
 
 over them, and I sang all mother's favourite songs with- 
 out being asked, and yet something seemed wanting to 
 our enjoyment. With all my efforts there were breaks, 
 pauses, long silences. Now and then my mother would 
 get up and leave the room, and remain away quite a long 
 time. I used to watch anxiously for her return ; but 
 she never offered any explanation. Her manner would 
 be even kinder than usual when she next addressed me. 
 
 One evening v/hen we had come in from our stroll, 
 she led the way into the drawing-room, and I followed 
 her rather listlessly. The day had been unusually sultry, 
 and there was a breathlessness in the atmosphere which 
 seemed to indicate an approaching thunderstorm. Mother 
 had more than once alluded to the luridness of the sky. 
 " A thunder-shower would be a godsend," she observed. 
 " If only I could hear the swash of the rain on those dry 
 leaves I think I should sleep better " ; and I could not help 
 sighing as I re-echoed her wish. We had both slept badly 
 the previous night, and all day I had been conscious of 
 malaise and languor. I had felt a little faint while read- 
 ing to Ada Martin that morning, and had been obliged 
 to close the book. Mother looked at me a little keenly as 
 I sighed. " You have tired yourself again, Githa," she 
 said, in rather a repressive tone. " You have looked far 
 from well all day. Why not wait until the evening for 
 your walk, and then I could accompany you ? It would be 
 far pleasanter." 
 
 " Of course, if you wish it," I returned reluctantly ; 
 but my tone was not cheerful. How could I explain to 
 her that it was the solitude and the companionship of my 
 own thoughts that I craved ; but as usual she guessed all 
 I had left unsaid. 
 
 " It is not what I like, Githa," rather impatiently. " I 
 was only speaking for your good. You come back tired 
 
 343
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 and over-heated and unable to enjoy your luncheon, and 
 you do not recover yourself all day. I wonder how 
 long we are to go on like this ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " I faltered. 
 
 " What do I mean ! " — in a voice that alarmed me, 
 it was so full of suppressed emotion. " Have you so little 
 love for your mother that you cannot realise the pain 
 you are inflicting, Githa? I have tried to be patient; I 
 have said nothing — not one word ; but I feel that I cannot 
 bear it any longer. You are not yourself. You are not 
 happy with me. God help me ! but I believe you never 
 will be." 
 
 " Mother ! " I was too startled and shocked to say 
 more. 
 
 " No, I would not lose hope," she went on, " I said 
 to myself: Githa is so loving and gentle that if I give 
 her time things will surely come right between us. But 
 I am getting hopeless. We shall never understand each 
 other " ; and there was something so despairing in the 
 beautiful, flexible voice that tears rushed to my eyes. It 
 was the truth that she was telling me, and I could not 
 contradict it. 
 
 Perhaps the electric condition of the atmosphere added 
 to her excitement, for she seemed suddenly moved from 
 her usual self-control. 
 
 " Githa, have I not suffered enough ? All my life — 
 all my life since my marriage I have had dust and ashes 
 for my daily food. Oh, this loneliness, it is killing me, 
 and yet one is not allowed to die ; but at least I might 
 have peace. Child, why do you look at me so strangely, 
 as though you thought I were distraught? I am not 
 angry, only I feel as though my heart were breaking." 
 
 I knelt down beside her — speechless in my misery — 
 but she made no attempt to draw me closer. 
 
 344
 
 A DREAMER OF DREAMS 
 
 " There is no need for both of us to be unhappy, Githa ; 
 if you wish it you shall go home. If you write, your 
 father will come back to you, and then you will be 
 content." 
 
 " Content ! when you tell me that I am making you 
 so miserable that you are forced to send me away from 
 you! Mother, is this kind or just? What have I done 
 or left undone that you should treat me so?" Then she 
 turned and looked at me, and there was the old mother- 
 love in her eyes. 
 
 " You have done nothing, Githa ; it is not your fault. 
 Poor child, you have tried so hard to do your duty." 
 
 Her tone gave me courage. I laid my cheek against 
 her arm. " Mother, you know I love you — indeed I do," 
 as she shook her head. " But somehow — oh, I cannot 
 express it — we seem to be talking to each other at a 
 distance, through prison bars. We are always trying to 
 understand each other " 
 
 " And failing, Githa," quietly finishing my sentence. 
 
 " Yes, and failing, if you will have it so ; but all the 
 same you shall not send me from you, neither would I 
 consent to go." 
 
 She pressed my hand. "It is no use, darling; we 
 shall be better apart, and I am not sending you away in 
 anger." 
 
 " You are not sending me away at all. Mother, will 
 you listen to me patiently? There is something I always 
 wanted to tell you — a strange, beautiful dream that came 
 to me one night when I was unhappy." And then wrap- 
 ping my arms round her, I told her about the Angel of 
 Forgiveness. Long before I ended the darkness envel- 
 oped us, and then the blue flash of lightning and the peal- 
 ing of thunder drove Roy trembling and cowering at our 
 feet ; but I doubt if either of us heeded it, for the angel's 
 
 345
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 closing words were on my lips : " The secret of everlasting 
 peace is theirs, for in their earthly days they loved much 
 and showed mercy on the unmerciful." 
 
 Another blinding flash, another crash of thunder over 
 our heads ; a long, pregnant moment of silence ; then she 
 tried gently to free herself. 
 
 " I must close the windows, Githa ; the rain is 
 beginning." 
 
 "Yes, in a moment," still holding her fast; "but I 
 have not quite finished. Mother, if you really love me, 
 if you want me to be happy, let my dear angel speak to 
 your heart. Forgive father the wrong he has done you 
 — if not for his sake, for mine ; forgive him, and come 
 back to us, and you will see for yourself that no mother 
 was ever more honoured and loved." 
 
 " Hush, darling ! no more " ; but before she left me 
 she stooped and kissed my forehead. How cold her 
 lips were, and was it my fancy that her face was wet? 
 But in that darkness it was impossible to see. 
 
 I got up from the ground and groped my way to the 
 couch, for I felt giddy and stupefied, and Roy crept into 
 my lap, quaking in every limb. I could hear mother 
 closing the windows ; then her voice telling me not to be 
 frightened, and she would send lights. The storm seemed 
 increasing in intensity, peal after peal reverberated over- 
 head, and the flashes seemed continuous. A heavy torrent 
 of rain added to the tumult, and every moment I grew 
 more giddy. When Rebecca brought the lamp in she 
 asked if she should stay with me, but I assured her that 
 though it made me feel ill I was not afraid. 
 
 " You take after my mistress in that. Miss Githa," 
 she returned, roused by the storm out of her usual taci- 
 turnity ; " for she is standing in the porch this very 
 moment, though I tell her it is tempting Providence." 
 
 346
 
 A DREAMER OF DREAMS 
 
 I knew Rebecca wanted me to go and induce mother to 
 come back into the drawing-room, but even if I had not 
 been too dizzy to move, I knew any such errand would 
 be fruitless. 
 
 Mother always gloried in a storm ; she would sit and 
 watch it from beginning to end with never-ceasing enjoy- 
 ment; and to-night I knew her troubled spirit would be 
 in harmony with the wild forces of nature. I thought 
 Rebecca had left the room, but I heard her voice again 
 close to me. 
 
 " The thunder is making your head bad, Miss Githa ; 
 you are looking poorly, and it is getting late, too ; so 
 you had better let me help you to bed." 
 
 I felt that Rebecca was only carrying out mother's 
 wishes, and as there was no getting rid of her, I allowed 
 myself to be guided. Rebecca gave me her arm in her 
 stifif and unsympathetic way. I believe no one but mother 
 understood Rebecca. As we passed the porch mother 
 turned round for a moment and waved her hand. Her 
 face was quite white, and her eyes were strangely bright 
 with that dark background and the cloudy grey of her 
 gown. She looked — as Sydney had once described her — 
 " as beautiful as an angel, if any of those fair minister- 
 ing spirits could have worn such a sorrowful expression." 
 
 " That is right ; Rebecca will take care of you. Good- 
 night, dearest " ; and then she turned again to watch the 
 solemn pageantry of the skies. I was thankful, after all, 
 for Rebecca's help; she did not leave me until I was 
 safely in bed. The storm showed signs of lulling by that 
 time, and the phcnacetin she had given me had quieted 
 me and relieved my head, and I fell into an uneasy doze ; 
 but it did not last long. After that I slept fitfully, and 
 my dreams were a terror to me : they held me with the 
 
 347
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 force of a nightmare. And if I succeeded in waking 
 myself, it was only to fall asleep again from sheer exhaus- 
 tion, and to find myself still beset by visionary horrors. 
 I was always in grey, desolate places, with a red, lower- 
 ing sky, and darkness creeping up behind us ; for in spite 
 of the silence and the awful dreariness I was not alone 
 — my mother was beside me. 
 
 We seemed trying to overtake a figure walking swiftly 
 down a rocky defile. I knew it was father, and strove 
 to call to him ; but my voice was inarticulate and he did 
 not seem to hear. 
 
 Then I wanted to hurry after him, but my mother 
 was tired, and leant heavily on my arm. I could feel her 
 weight impeding me, and the swish of her grey dress 
 as we stumbled among the boulders was quite audible 
 to me. "Faster, faster!" I seemed to say to her; then 
 a sort of fog suddenly blotted out everything. 
 
 I woke panting and in a vague terror, but Roy licked 
 my hand and that gave me a sense of comfort. The little 
 creature had curled himself up on my bed, in spite of 
 Rebecca's strong disapproval, and refused to leave me ; 
 and the touch of his warm little body and the sound of 
 his breathing soothed me. 
 
 The rain had ceased, but my room was very dark. 
 I wanted to open the window, and get some water, for 
 my throat was parched and dry ; but mother was a light 
 sleeper and I feared to awaken her. After a time, how- 
 ever, I slept again, only to find myself in a still more 
 evil plight. 
 
 This time I was on a cliff. My mother was not with 
 me, though I had a vague notion that she was behind ; 
 but father was still ahead. I was nearer to him, and could 
 see him distinctly, but I was again in the grip of night- 
 mare, and my voice was inaudible. 
 
 348
 
 A DREAMER OF DREAMS 
 
 The wind was blowing, and the sea boiled below us 
 like a cauldron. I could see huge waves hurling them- 
 selves against the cliff, and could feel the cold, salt spray 
 on my face. The sombre light, the greyness of sea and 
 sky, the hideous tumult and noise, filled me with alarm. 
 Then a new terror beset me. The cliff was unguarded, 
 except by the tossing spray, and the wind was strong; 
 surely father was walking carelessly and too near the 
 edge. Again I tried to call — to run — but my feet were 
 weighted with lead. I saw him stumble, reel, and put 
 out his hands to save himself. Then a mountainous wave 
 washed over him — and he was gone. 
 
 My scream of terror aroused mother, and she came 
 hurrying in, to find me sitting up trembling, with poor 
 little Roy whining beside me. 
 
 "What is it, darling? You must have been dream- 
 ing." But her hands shook as she lighted the lamp and 
 then sat down on the bed beside me. But I was only half 
 awake, and the thing seemed so horribly real ! 
 
 " But he fell over the cliff, mother — a big wave washed 
 over him and carried him out to sea. I saw it, and felt 
 the salt water on my face." 
 
 " You are a dreamer of dreams, my dear one," she 
 returned soothingly. " Why, what nonsense ! It was 
 only a nightmare. Very likely the storm excited you, and 
 then your head was bad. There — I will turn your pillow. 
 Lie down again, dearest, and I will sponge your hot 
 face with eau-de-Cologne and water, and give you some 
 lemonade " ; and all the time she busied herself in these 
 kindly ministrations she talked to me in a quiet, reassur- 
 ing way. But the nameless terrors that beset me were 
 not to be so easily conjured away. A new thought 
 harassed me — a sudden, unbearable anxiety. I caught 
 mother by the arm as she was straightening the sheet. 
 
 349
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " Mother, if I should be ill — very ill — you will send 
 for father. I could not be without him then." 
 
 My feverish imaginations made me callous to her 
 feelings. I never guessed that she sat down so quickly 
 on the edge of my bed because she could not stand ; but 
 her voice was steady in its gentleness. 
 
 " Do not be afraid, my child. You can surely trust 
 me." But I was not pacified. 
 
 " But I want your promise, mother. You are so true 
 — so true — and I know you never break your word." 
 Then she stooped over me so closely that her face nearly 
 touched my hair. 
 
 " Be at rest, my poor child, for I will certainly give 
 you that promise. If you are ill your father shall come 
 to you " ; and then with a sob of gratitude I clung to her 
 in silence. 
 
 350
 
 XXXVI 
 
 PHANTASMAGORIA 
 
 Who is the Angel that cometh? 
 
 Pain ! 
 Let us arise and go forth to greet him; 
 
 Not in vain 
 Is the summons come for us to meet him; 
 He will stay, 
 And darken our sun ; 
 He will stay 
 A desolate night, a weary day. 
 Since in that shadow our work is done, 
 And in that shadow our crowns are won. 
 Let us say still while his bitter chalice 
 Slowly into our hearts is poured, 
 " Blessed is he that cometh 
 
 In the name of the Lord ! " A. Procter. 
 
 The faint dawn was stealing through the room before 
 my mother left me. I had fallen asleep holding her hand, 
 and her light movements hardly roused me. This time 
 my rest was untroubled by my terrifying dream. 
 
 Rebecca brought me my breakfast, and a little later 
 mother came in. She was fully dressed, but looked worn 
 and weary ; but as usual she made light of her own 
 fatigue, and seemed only concerned on my account. 
 
 " The storm has upset you, and no wonder," she 
 observed. " It was more violent than any we have had 
 for years. Rebecca tells me that the maids were much 
 alarmed. I thought it glorious, but I am afraid my poor 
 roses are spoiled, Githa." 
 
 " I am so sorry for that, mother." 
 351
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " Never mind," with an effort after cheerfulness, 
 " there was abundance of rain. The trees and shrubs 
 were drinking thirstily for hours, and they do look so 
 refreshed. If you would only follow their example." 
 
 Mother wanted me to remain quietly in bed, but I 
 was far too restless ; and though my back and head still 
 ached, and I felt strangely tired, I preferred to dress 
 myself and lie on the drawing-room couch. Later in the 
 day mother wished to send for Dr. Ramsay, but I would 
 not hear of it. If Dr. Neale had been at home I would 
 not have refused to see him, for we were good friends ; 
 but the idea of a stranger was repugnant to me. I got 
 so excited, that she gave up the idea for the present. 
 " Very well, then, we will wait and see how you are 
 to-morrow," she returned ; but she did not seem quite 
 satisfied. I do not remember how the day passed, but it 
 seemed unusually long. I managed with a good deal of 
 difficulty to write a short letter to father, but though I 
 told him about the storm I said nothing of my languor 
 and depression. When this task was accomplished mother 
 shaded the room, and I lay with closed eyes ; but I could 
 not sleep. I had spoken more than once during the day 
 of Ada Martin — thunder always affected her — and after 
 tea mother proposed walking over to Noah's Ark. She 
 did not bring me back a good report, Ada had been so 
 ill the previous night that Mrs. Martin had sent for Dr. 
 Ramsay. " He came when I was there," she went on, 
 " and we walked back together. I thought he seemed a 
 little uneasy about the girl, though he said it was too 
 early to diagnose the case, and that he would be able to 
 judge better when he saw her again. But he told Mrs. 
 Martin that Ada's bed must be moved downstairs, as the 
 
 room was stifling under that thatched Are you cold, 
 
 Githa ? " for I was shivering a little. 
 
 352
 
 PHANTASMAGORIA 
 
 " No ; I was only anxious about poor Ada." 
 
 " I don't think there is cause for anxiety, my dear. 
 Ada is often ailing. Dr. Ramsay thought I had better 
 not go up, as he wished her to be quiet." 
 
 " Then you did not see her? " in a disappointed tone. 
 
 " No, dear. I could hardly disregard his orders ; but 
 I am going to send Rebecca across after dinner with some 
 toilet vinegar and jelly, and a few little comforts. Githa, 
 do you know Dr. Ramsay shares Dr. Neale's opinion? 
 He says those cottages are terribly insanitary. He means 
 to have them thoroughly investigated — he is going to 
 write to the Inspector to-night — and he is not satisfied 
 about the water. Something has come to his notice 
 which has made him suspicious about one or two of the 
 cottages. I really think he is a very clever man, though 
 one cannot call him exactly prepossessing." 
 
 I suppose I looked just a little queer when mother 
 said this, for she knitted her brows in rather an anxious 
 manner. 
 
 " I hope you did not drink any of the water, Githa ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I did, mother. I used to get so hot 
 and thirsty with reading, and it really tasted quite nice 
 except once, and then I did not drink much." I saw 
 mother press her lips very firmly together, as though she 
 feared to speak, and then she drew back, and I could not 
 see her eyes. The mischief had been done, and she would 
 not waste words. Probably she was unwilling that I 
 should dwell on it ; for a few minutes later, when T alluded 
 to it of my own accord, she said rather hastily that though 
 it was a foolish thing to do, and that I must never do it 
 again, there was probably no great harm done, and, after 
 all. Dr. Ramsay might be an alarmist. But I wondered 
 if she was trying to cheat herself as well as me, and if 
 she really believed her own words ; but I was too weary 
 23 353
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 to pursue the thought. She went away to prepare for 
 dinner, but I was unable to partake of the tempting httle 
 meal provided for me ; the sight of food gave me positive 
 nausea, and I was quite grateful when mother proposed 
 that I should go to bed. I found Rebecca in my room 
 when I went upstairs, and she waited on me in her silent, 
 efficient way. It was a relief to lay my head on my pillow, 
 and I was so exhausted that I dozed a little ; then I woke 
 with a start, and thought mother was in the room, but 
 when I spoke to her Rebecca answered me. 
 
 " Were you wanting anything, Miss Githa ? The 
 mistress has just stepped out to take the air, but she will 
 not be long." 
 
 I felt a vague surprise when she said this. Mother 
 must be restless too, I thought, to go out again after her 
 long walk. There was something I wanted to ask her, 
 but I could not recollect what it was ; perhaps it was 
 the ringing in my head which made me so confused. 
 
 "Were you wanting the mistress, Miss Githa?" 
 Rebecca asked again in her smooth, expressionless voice. 
 
 " I do not know — I forget — oh, it does not matter," 
 rather fretfully. " I wish you would open the window 
 wider, Rebecca. I am so hot, and my head aches so." 
 
 " Perhaps you would like me to bathe it with some 
 toilet vinegar " ; but I turned restlessly away. " No thank 
 you — nothing seems to do any good; if you could only 
 stop the bells ringing in my head." And then a sudden 
 thought came to me. 
 
 " Rebecca, I thought you were going across to Noah's 
 Ark this evening with things for Ada Martin." 
 
 " Parkins is taking them. Miss Githa ; don't you worry 
 about it, there's a dear young lady." How strange of 
 her to say that. Rebecca, worthy creature as she was, 
 was seldom affectionate — not even to her mistress, to 
 
 354
 
 PHANTASMAGORIA 
 
 whom she was absolutely devoted. " Parkins always 
 enjoys an evening walk." Parkins was the cook, a stout, 
 good-natured woman. 
 
 " Do you think she can manage the stile with the 
 jelly and things ? " I asked anxiously. It was such an 
 odd, trivial thought to come into my head, but Rebecca 
 took it quite seriously. I had no idea that she was 
 humouring me. 
 
 " Parkins is an active body in spite of her size, Miss 
 Githa, and being born and bred in these parts she is 
 used to stiles, and there's a gate on the Feltham Road 
 that is seldom padlocked " ; and I was so satisfied with 
 this explanation that I consented to lie down again. 
 What absurd trivialities harassed me, for now an old 
 trashy nursery rhyme was haunting me. Mardie used to 
 sing it to me. I could not remember the words, but 
 Rebecca was again equal to the occasion. 
 
 " What is troubling you now. Miss Githa? " she asked 
 composedly. 
 
 " There was something my old nurse used to sing to 
 me, and the noises in my head brought it to my mind," 
 I returned, in quite a vexed voice. " It was about bells 
 — bells — oh, I can't tell how it went — and it worries 
 me. 
 
 " I think I know the old rhyme you mean, Miss 
 Githa. My mother used to sing it to us children when 
 father tossed us on his foot. 
 
 ' Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross, 
 See an old woman ride on a cock horse, 
 With bells on her fingers and bells on her toes, 
 She shall have music wherever she goes.' " 
 
 " Oh, thank you, Becky, that is what I meant ; but 
 the bells were not ringing in her head, you know." 
 
 355
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " It would not have rhymed, Miss Githa," she returned, 
 shaking up my pillow. " Now, you had better try to 
 go to sleep again. I shall be within call if you want me." 
 
 I suppose I must have dozed again, for it seemed to 
 me that I was lying on a bank of heather on a sunshiny 
 moor, and that the bees were humming round me, such 
 a noisy, continuous hum, which grew faster and faster. 
 The busy winged things seemed everywhere — on my dress 
 and brushing my face ; then they rose in a cloud, and I 
 was awake again. 
 
 Surely some one was speaking outside the door. 
 Rebecca — of course it was Rebecca's voice. " She is a 
 little light-headed, ma'am, and perhaps it is as well " — 
 here the voice became inaudible, and then mother came 
 into the room. She was rather breathless, and her hair 
 was disordered, as though she had removed her hat very 
 hurriedly. 
 
 " Rebecca tells me that you were wanting me, dearest. 
 I am so sorry ; but it was such a lovely evening after 
 the rain, and I was a little restless and worried." But 
 all the time she was speaking her hand was on my wrist. 
 
 " Your poor head is bad, my darling? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, but it does not matter ; we must dree our 
 weird. Thurston said so, and he is a truthful person." 
 Then the old worry and confusion seized me again. 
 " Mother," I said, half crying, " there is something I 
 want to say to you — something very important — but I 
 cannot recollect what it is, and it does trouble me so." 
 
 " Shall I help you, dearest? I think I can. You just 
 wanted to remind me of my promise." 
 
 I clasped my hands round her arm, and laid my 
 burning face against them. 
 
 " That was it," I whispered. " Mother, you will have 
 to send for him soon, for I am going to be very ill." 
 
 356
 
 PHANTASMAGORIA 
 
 It is quite impossible for me to write connectedly of 
 all that followed. The semi-delirious state lasted through- 
 out the night, and for many, many nights and days after- 
 wards, with only slight intervals of consciousness. They 
 told me the delirium was never violent, but that I always 
 seemed much distressed and troubled by uneasy dreams, 
 and that I appeared to suffer greatly from confusion 
 of thought, and sometimes a lack of power to express 
 myself intelligibly ; it was not easy to rouse me from my 
 comatose condition, or to recall my wandering thoughts ; 
 that for many nights I had no natural sleep, and talked 
 much and incoherently, but that there were times when I 
 seemed more like myself, and spoke rationally. My own 
 impressions were as vague as they were fugitive. That 
 first night I was fully aware that the tall man who was 
 feeling my pulse was Dr. Ramsay. " I am ill," I told him, 
 " not only because I drank so much of the water, but 
 because — because " — looking into his ugly, clever face — 
 " I was so dreadfully unhappy." 
 
 " Will you tell me why you were so unhappy, Miss 
 Darnell ? " He had rather a nice voice, and it roused 
 me as I seemed dozing again ; then my mother leant for- 
 ward and touched me. 
 
 "You forget; you are not unhappy now, darling; you 
 have my promise." 
 
 " Mother knows all about it and the angel too," I 
 murmured drowsily, as my eyes closed. 
 
 It was after this I saw a kind woman's face bending 
 over me, and quiet hands that seemed very busy about 
 me. I have a vague idea that I asked her her name, and 
 that she said : " I am your nurse, my dear — Nurse Esther ; 
 and I am going to take care of you, and some one of 
 whom you are very fond will help me." 
 
 I liked Nurse Esther's face — and I think I told her 
 357
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 so ; and then soon afterwards I had such a pleasant dream 
 that I was half afraid of waking, for I thought my dear 
 Mardie was beside me, and that she was crying and hold- 
 ing my hand. " I want to go on dreaming," I said to 
 myself; but I suppose I spoke aloud, for some one in the 
 room actually sobbed. 
 
 " I can't help it, my precious, to see you lying there 
 so ill, and talking about angels, and all sorts of queer 
 things " ; and then the mist cleared, and I knew it was 
 Mardie's kind old face, and that she had come to help 
 nurse me. 
 
 " I am so glad," I murmured, as I flew off into space 
 again. 
 
 For always it seemed to me as though I were climbing 
 a steep hill, sometimes with a heavy burden in my arms. 
 I never knew why I was so bent on reaching the summit, 
 but however high I climbed, I never got nearer. At 
 another time I seemed to be floating amongst the stars, 
 through vast spaces of cloudy ether ; there were shining 
 worlds above and below me, and this dream was exceed- 
 ingly painful to me. I wondered if I were a disembodied 
 spirit, I had so completely lost all power of gravitation. 
 The idea that I was drifting farther and farther from 
 the earth amongst millions of worlds was awful to me, but 
 more than once Mardie's comfortable, homely voice 
 recalled me. 
 
 Things always seemed blurred and indistinct to me. 
 My own fevered imaginations so confused me, that I was 
 never sure whether it was morning or evening, and even 
 the night was not dark. 
 
 Quiet footsteps glided about the room, tender hands 
 were laid on my throbbing temples ; sometimes I was 
 conscious of my mother's presence. One evening I was 
 unusually restless — I had been wandering a good deal. 
 
 358
 
 PHANTASIVIAGORIA 
 
 This time I imagined that I was in a dry, sandy place, 
 and that a river lay between me and some sunny meadows 
 where lambs were feeding. There was no bridge, and 
 the water looked deep. " Father must carry me across," 
 I muttered. Was it part of my dream that some one near 
 me whispered : " Speak to her, Philip ; she will know 
 your voice, and it will rouse her." 
 
 " Of course I will carry you, Gipsy — anywhere, 
 everywhere, my darling." A strong, warm hand touched 
 me. Something — was it a moustache? — brushed my 
 cheek. " I am here, my pet ; open your dear eyes and 
 look at me." 
 
 The meadows and the river receded into the distance 
 at the sound of that beloved voice. " Father, my own 
 father," I murmured blissfully, as I nestled closer to him 
 and strove to lay my weary head upon his breast. Then 
 a man's deep sob answered me. 
 
 " Hush, Philip ! She is very weak ; we must be care- 
 ful. Hold her in your arms — she will be at rest there." 
 And after this I knew no more. 
 
 359
 
 XXXVII 
 
 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE 
 
 Forgive, O God ! 
 The blindness of our passionate desires ! 
 The fainting of our hearts ! the lingering thoughts, 
 Which cleave to dust ! Forgive the strife ! accept 
 The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears. 
 
 F. Hemans. 
 
 Peace, the central feeling of all happiness. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 It is useless and painful to dwell on that weary time, 
 which seemed to me so indistinct and shadowy. 
 
 The fever ran its course ; the hours passed into days 
 and days into weeks. Everything that love and skill 
 could devise was done for me. Dr. Neale returned, and 
 Dr. Tressiter — our kind doctor from Cheyne Walk — 
 came backwards and forwards to watch over my progress. 
 More than once he brought with him a white-haired, 
 fatherly old man, who was, I heard later, a noted special- 
 ist. Alas, as the fever lessened, my weakness seemed to 
 increase, and I know now that for many days my condi- 
 tion was extremely critical. 
 
 They have told me since that my father's presence had 
 a wonderfully soothing effect upon me, and that I never 
 seemed easy unless he were beside me ; that even if I 
 were too weak to speak, I would move my hand towards 
 him that he might take it. Certainly from that time my 
 dreams were less distressing, and even in my wanderings 
 he could recall me to consciousness by speaking my name. 
 
 360
 
 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE 
 
 Mardie has told me since that my mother never left me 
 except to take needful food and rest. My poor, dear 
 mother, what she must have suffered in those days ! 
 
 One night when I was unusually weak and restless, 
 and father was fanning me softly, I motioned to him to 
 stoop a little, that my feeble voice might reach his ear. 
 
 " Father, dear, I do not think I am dreaming, but 
 surely the angel is in the room." I could feel him start. 
 
 " Good heavens, my darling, what angel ! " 
 
 And for the moment I could not find strength to 
 answer him. For it seemed to me as though the dear, 
 beautiful angel of my dream was standing at the foot of 
 my bed, and that there was a grieved, reproachful look 
 upon his face. 
 
 " It is not my fault," I seemed to say to him ; but I 
 must have spoken aloud. " I have done all I could, and 
 it has made me ill, and mother will not forgive." Then 
 some one beside me rose hastily and left the room. 
 
 " Hush, Gipsy ! hush, my little girl ! there is no one 
 here but father. You are dreaming, dearest." But I 
 shook my head ; to me it was no hallucination. 
 
 The crisis had passed, but my convalescence was very 
 slow. My weakness was so great, and I made so little 
 progress from day to day, that my doctors seemed per- 
 plexed and anxious. Once when Dr. Tressiter was 
 alone with me — he had sent Nurse Esther away on some 
 errand — he asked me in his kind, friendly way if any- 
 thing were troubling me ; but I could not bring myself to 
 answer him. 
 
 For a weary sense of dejection and hopelessness 
 seemed sapping at the roots of my vitality, and I cared 
 for nothing but to lie with my hand in father's while he 
 read me some simple poem or story. It was his voice 
 that soothed me, for I remembered little what he read. 
 
 361
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 I cared less for the flowers mother brought me. They 
 seemed to make me sad, and yet I loved to look at them. 
 I hardly knew myself what ailed me, but I felt as though 
 I never wished to get well and strong again. If any 
 one spoke kindly to me the tears flowed ; it seemed so 
 ungrateful not to care, after all their love and devotion. 
 I could scarcely bear to see mother's wan, changed look. 
 I knew she had worn herself out during these weeks of 
 watching and suspense. They had removed me into my 
 mother's room because it was large and airy. There was 
 a smaller room opening into it where she always slept. 
 Nurse Esther was still with us — mother was unwilling 
 to part with her — but she only came to me once or twice 
 in the night, to give me nourishment and see if I were 
 comfortable. 
 
 One evening I had retired to bed early ; the day had 
 been unusually sultry for September, and I had been 
 much oppressed and very languid. Mardie was sitting in 
 the inner room. I had begged her to leave me alone, 
 but she was unwilling to go far away. 
 
 " I shall be within call if you feel lonesome. Miss 
 Githa," she had observed. " You have had a bad day, my 
 dearie ; but the cool air and the twilight may soothe you 
 to sleep." 
 
 I thought this not improbable, and the stillness was 
 so restful that after a time I was just dropping into a 
 dose when the hushed sound of voices under my window 
 roused me to wakefulness. 
 
 I had always a very keen sense of hearing — 
 Mardie had often commented on it — but to-night it seemed 
 abnormal ; though the voices were purposely lowered, I 
 could hear every word. I forgot in my intense interest 
 that it was not meant for my ear, or I would have covered 
 up my head. It was my father speaking. 
 
 362
 
 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE 
 
 " Dr. Tressiter is sure that there is something on the 
 child's mind that is retarding her progress. He confesses 
 that both he and Dr. Neale are much disappointed ; there 
 seems now no adequate cause for such extreme prostra- 
 tion." 
 
 " He said as much to me," returned my mother 
 dejectedly. 
 
 "Yvonne, how long is this to go on ? " Father's 
 voice was raised a little. " Are you not content with 
 wrecking my life's happiness, but will you also kill your 
 own child? Do we not both know what is troubling her? 
 She is too weak to bear it, and I will not answer for the 
 consequences." 
 
 " Hush, Philip ! you are speaking too loud ; she will 
 hear us " ; and then they seemed to move farther away. 
 
 My heart was beating so that I could scarcely breathe. 
 Did father really mean that I was going to die? And 
 then as I thought of the lonely drifting among the stars, 
 I shuddered and grew cold. I was young — so young — 
 and until this year life had been so strangely sweet. A 
 passion of self-pity and sorrow seemed to shake my weak 
 frame. I longed to call to mother, to tell her that, after 
 all, I did not want to die — that she must save me. 
 
 I do not know how long I lay in this state of agitation, 
 but I was growing cold with exhaustion, and in another 
 moment I should have summoned Mardie, only at that 
 instant I heard mother's voice in the inner room. She 
 was asking if I were asleep. I heard Mardie say that she 
 thought so, but was not sure ; then mother came herself 
 to look. She carried her little shaded lamp; the next 
 moment she set it down hastily by the bed. 
 
 " What is it, my child," in an anxious voice ; " do you 
 feel ill?" 
 
 " I don't know," in a trembling voice ; " I think I am 
 363
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 frightened. No, don't call Mardie, please; I heard what 
 you and father said under my window. I do not want 
 to die, and yet how is one to go on living like this ? " 
 She looked at me — shall I ever forget the anguish in her 
 eyes ? We were torturing her beyond her endurance, but 
 her voice was still firm. 
 
 " Githa, He still a minute, and drink this, and I will 
 speak to you directly." She gently closed the door of 
 communication between the rooms ; then taking my hands 
 she knelt beside me and waited patiently until the restora- 
 tive had brought back the colour to my lips. 
 
 " I am better, mother. Will you talk to me now ? " 
 
 " Very well. I will ask you a question, darling, and 
 you must answer it frankly. Is it true what he — your 
 father — said just now, that this trouble between us is 
 fretting you so that you cannot get strong?" 
 
 " I think it is true," I whispered. " Oh, mother dear, 
 it is all so miserable that I hardly care to get well. And 
 yet to-night the idea of dying frightens me," finishing 
 with a weak sob. 
 
 " You shall not die, my sweet," and her arms almost 
 crushed me in their strong pressure. " Be comforted, 
 Githa ; your mother loves you better than herself, God 
 help me, for I cannot help myself; it shall be as you and 
 your father wish." 
 
 " Mother — oh, my dear, my dear — do you mean that 
 you have forgiven him ? " And as she moved her lips in 
 assent, it appeared to me as though the silvery masses of 
 her glorious hair seemed in the lamplight to shine like 
 a nimbus round her head. 
 
 In the unspeakable agitation of that moment neither 
 of us heard the door open gently, or saw a dark figure 
 standing motionless on the threshold; then it moved 
 towards us and I saw it was father. 
 
 364
 
 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE 
 
 "Yvonne, is this true? Oh, my God, can this be 
 true ! " laying his hand on her shoulder as she still knelt 
 beside me. Then she looked up at him and said in a low, 
 thrilling voice : " Philip, I have been wrong. I know it 
 now. I will try to forgive as I hope to be forgiven ; only 
 be patient with me for our child's sake." 
 
 They have told me since that the shock of joy was too 
 much for me in my weakened state ; that I passed from 
 one fainting fit into another, and that for some hours 
 I was so ill that my life seemed to hang on a thread. 
 But, thank God, I was brought back from the valley of 
 the shadow of death. " As one whom his mother com- 
 forteth," those were the first words that came to me in 
 my returning consciousness. 
 
 Dr. Neale remained in the house all night ; for days 
 my parents were not allowed to see me unless I were 
 sleeping; and even Mardie, my faithful old nurse, was 
 banished from the room. The least excitement or agita- 
 tion would be dangerous. Dr. Neale warned them, and 
 Sister Esther was to have sole charge of me. 
 
 I was too weak to rebel, and Nurse Esther was so 
 good to me. She called me her baby, and treated me so 
 wisely and tenderly, that I could not help loving her. 
 She was a sweet woman, who had known many sorrows, 
 and whose vocation was nursing; even Mardie, who was 
 always jealous of any one who interfered with her special 
 prerogative, declared that Nurse Esther was a treasure. 
 
 It was only natural that I should long for my dear 
 ones ; but in spite of everything those days of enforced 
 seclusion were strangely peaceful. There was joy deep 
 down in my heart — a secret gladness which I was too 
 weak to investigate properly. 
 
 365
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 As I sank into quiet sleep at night , I would smile 
 to think of those two standing beside me hand-in-hand, 
 and perhaps laying a light kiss on my brow. " If only 
 I could wake and see them," I would say to myself; but 
 I never could do this. 
 
 I used to hear Nurse Esther telling Dr. Neale how 
 brave and good I was, and then he always spoke a few 
 approving words, but neither of them guessed that it was 
 my strong wish to live that made me so docile; for the 
 thought of returning health was sweet to me and the 
 sunshine of a new hope seemed to gild the future. Then 
 came a day when- patience had its reward ; when, as I lay 
 pillowed upon the couch beside the open window, Nurse 
 Esther told me that she had the doctor's permission to 
 admit visitors, and that my mother was going to have 
 tea with me. 
 
 For the moment I wondered why father let her come 
 first; but he told me himself, later on, that he could not 
 be sure of himself, and that he was so afraid of hurting 
 me, that they had arranged this between them. 
 
 When mother came into the room in her quiet way 
 and kissed me, I was so shocked at the change in her 
 appearance that I could hardly help crying. They had 
 not told me that she had been ill, that she had broken 
 down under the suspense and misery of that night. Only 
 once she ever spoke of it to me, and then it was years 
 later. " It was the last straw, Githa," she said ; " I 
 had suffered so much, and I felt I could bear no more, and 
 I thought you were dead, and I flung myself upon you, 
 and Dr. Neale made your father take me away. I think 
 I was not myself " ; and she put her hand to her head in 
 a weary way, as though even the recollection was too 
 much for her. "If you had died that night, I think it 
 would have killed me too." 
 
 2ISS
 
 THROUGH PAIN TO PEACE 
 
 Mother would not let me talk sadly that afternoon. 
 When I stroked her cheek and told her how thin it was, 
 she only smiled and said she would soon grow fat again, 
 and then she gave me a message from father. He had 
 walked over to the Vicarage, and would come in presently, 
 but not until we had finished our tea. 
 
 Nurse Esther, who was arranging the tea-table, looked 
 on approvingly: mother's tact and self-control evidently 
 inspired her with confidence, and she felt she might safely 
 trust me to her care. I was very happy, and yet I was 
 still so weak that my hands shook when I tried to hold 
 my cup properly, and mother pretended to laugh at my 
 awkwardness, but she helped me all the time so nicely. 
 It struck me more than once that she looked older. But 
 what a dear, beautiful face it was — there seemed a new 
 expression in her eyes — it was still sad, but softer and far 
 more gentle. 
 
 Once as she was stooping over me to straighten my 
 pillows, I drew her face down to mine. " If you only 
 knew how dearly I love you, mother," I whispered ; but 
 she only smiled at me in reply. I knew then that she had 
 promised Nurse Esther to be very careful, and not to 
 encourage any emotion. The next moment she disen- 
 gaged herself quietly, and sitting down by me she talked 
 about the garden and her flowers, and how they seemed 
 to miss me downstairs. " But we shall soon have you 
 there again," she continued brightly. It was lovely to 
 lie there in the warm sunshine and watch her, but my 
 cup of bliss was full to the brim when father joined us. 
 Mother gave up her place to him at once. 
 
 " Well, Gipsy," he said, trying to speak cheerfully, 
 "how is my darling this evening?" But his voice was 
 not clear; and though I whispered that I should soon 
 be well, and that I was so happy — so happy, he only 
 
 367
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 kissed me very tenderly, and then sat down beside me, 
 shading his face with his hand as though the Hght were 
 too strong for him. Poor father, they had coached him 
 so carefully in his part ; but he was a poor actor, and 
 he was already breaking down a little. Perhaps at that 
 moment he realised how nearly he had lost his Gipsy ! 
 
 It was mother who noticed first I was growing weary, 
 " Philip," she said very gently, " I think Githa is tired ; 
 if we leave her now, she will rest a little, and Nurse 
 Esther will let us stay longer to-morrow. I am going 
 to fetch her now." 
 
 Father rose to open the door for her, but when he 
 came back to me, I looked up in his face with a smile. 
 " Father, dear, it is not Darnell and Co. now, for we have 
 got mother, and I have been telling her that I love her 
 so dearly." Then I saw a quick flash in his eyes, and 
 he said something under his breath. Was it, " And 
 so do I, Gip " ? But I could not be quite sure. Only I 
 think, I really think, he said it. 
 
 368
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 AUTUMN VINTAGE 
 
 Oh, what is the pathway white, with parapets of light, 
 Whose slender links go up, go up and meet in heaven high? 
 'Tis the Road of the Loving Heart from earth to sky. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Put love into the world, and heaven with all its beatitudes 
 and glories becomes a reality. . . . Love is everything, it is the 
 key to life and its influences are those that move the world. — 
 R. Waldo Trine. 
 
 From that day I made steady progress, and there were 
 no more serious drawbacks. Every afternoon when I 
 had taken the rest Nurse Esther still so rigidly enforced, 
 mother spent an hour or two with me, and father gen- 
 erally came too. I loved to have them together, and when 
 father read to me it was always a pleasure to see mother 
 working at her embroidery, and then raising her eyes 
 every now and then to look at us. She was always very 
 silent when father was in the room, but I think she 
 enjoyed listening to our talk. I noticed sometimes how 
 seldom she addressed him — never unless it were neces- 
 sary, and that when she did so, there was a new, gentle 
 chord in her voice ; and now and then when his footstep 
 sounded unexpectedly in the inner room, I saw her change 
 colour. It might be my fancy perhaps, but it seemed 
 to me that she was not quite at her ease with him ; and 
 yet to me who loved him so, there was something inde- 
 scribably touching in the way she tried to meet his wishes 
 24 369
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 — as though she strove to make amends for some wrong 
 that she had done him. 
 
 Her health had suffered terribly, and I could see by 
 the way father watched her that he was anxious about 
 her. He would say sometimes in his kind, whimsical way 
 that his womenkind gave him a great deal of trouble ; 
 but I am sure that he was happier than he had been for 
 many a long year. Mother was always very patient, and 
 she never complained of her want of strength ; indeed, 
 she tried to hide it as much as possible. Only she once 
 said a little sadly that she wished she could do more for 
 me. When I grew stronger father used to carry me down 
 to the drawing-room, and then mother was always with 
 me. I never liked any one else to perform this office, and 
 as father knew this, he often put himself to great incon- 
 venience that he might be there at the proper hour ; and 
 even if he went up to town, he would take an early train 
 back, that he might be in time. My first drive was quite 
 an event in the household, but after that I went out daily. 
 Mother always accompanied me, and very often father 
 drove us. How I enjoyed those drives and the mellow 
 sweetness of the September air ! 
 
 It was after this Sydney came home. Aunt Cosie 
 brought her, but she only stayed a few hours. The 
 dear old thing fairly wept over me when she took me in 
 her arms, but we soon succeeded in cheering her up. 
 Mother was unusually quiet that day — I think the meet- 
 ing with Aunt Cosie tried her ; but Aunt Cosie behaved 
 beautifully. She went straight up to mother and kissed 
 her, and said something nice and kind, though I could 
 not hear what it was ; but such a lovely colour came to 
 mother's face, and then she kissed Aunt Cosie again 
 of her own accord. 
 
 I thought Sydney looked sweeter than ever, and she 
 370
 
 AUTUMN VINTAGE 
 
 was so overjoyed at seeing us all again. I could hear 
 her singing " Home, sweet Home " as she moved about 
 her room ; and she was so dear and affectionate to me. 
 " For you have had such a bad time, you poor thing," 
 she said pityingly, " and even now you look only half 
 your size " ; and then Sydney winked away a bright tear- 
 drop or two. 
 
 " I am not going to cry when you are getting well," 
 she went on, quite indignant at her own weakness ; " and 
 I believe it is true what Mr. Darnell said, that I am so 
 sunburnt and robust, that I make you look quite pale 
 and washed out." 
 
 Sydney owned frankly that she had had a pleasant 
 time, and that but for her anxiety on my account, she 
 would have been very happy. She and Aunt Cosie had 
 got on splendidly together; indeed, they seemed quite 
 sorry to part. 
 
 Mother drove alone with Aunt Cosie to the station. 
 Aunt Cosie asked her to do so, and mother willingly con- 
 sented ; it would give them both an opportunity to talk 
 more freely. And I was sure from mother's face when 
 she returned that evening that Aunt Cosie had done her 
 good. 
 
 I had asked mother more than once about Mr. 
 Carlyon. To my surprise I heard that he had not yet 
 returned, or the children either ; and later on she told 
 me that the friend with whom he had been travelling 
 in the Austrian Tyrol was ill, and he found it impossible 
 to leave him, and that Mr. Grenville was still at the Vicar- 
 age. Mr. Carlyon had written to her, and she had 
 answered his letter. " He seemed very grieved to hear 
 of your illness, Githa," she went on, " and he begged 
 that I would let him have a card. He is afraid that he 
 will not be home until quite the end of this month, so 
 Mr. Grenville had kindly offered to stay on, though he 
 
 371
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 feared it put him to much inconvenience. There, I 
 think I have given you the gist of the letter " ; and after 
 that I was ashamed to ask mother to let me read it. 
 
 I had thought a great deal about Mr. Carlyon during 
 my illness, and I could not forget our last talk ; and the 
 remembrance of that poor young Lady Doreen, who did 
 not wish to die, quite haunted me ! I seemed to under- 
 stand what she felt, and to be so sorry for her. I longed 
 to hear more about her, and I wondered, too, if Mr. 
 Carlyon was really anxious about me. It was nice of 
 him to ask mother to send him a card ; it looked as though 
 he thought of me a little. 
 
 It was Sydney who brought me the next news. She 
 had seen Mr. Grenville driving away from the Vicarage, 
 and she had noticed the luggage. " There was a cart 
 with two heavy cases of books," she went on ; " they say 
 he always takes a good part of his library about with him. 
 I spoke to Dickinson, who was at the gate; he told me 
 that the children were coming back to-morrow, and that 
 the Vicar was expected Thursday." 
 
 "On Thursday! Are you quite sure, Sydney?" and 
 my voice was a little breathless. And Sydney, who was 
 sorting her music, answered in rather an abstracted 
 manner, that Dickinson had certainly said Thursday. 
 
 " And we shall be glad to get him back, shall we 
 not, Githa?" she observed cheerfully; "for somehow 
 Bayfield never seems the same without Mr. Carlyon, ' the 
 ideal parson,' as Thurston used to call him when he 
 wanted to tease us." For Sydney took every opportunity 
 of repeating Thurston's speeches when we were alone ; 
 she said it made her miss him a little less to talk about 
 him. Poor Sydney ! as though she did not think about 
 him morning, noon, and night. But she was very good 
 and brave, and was always as cheerful as possible. 
 
 372
 
 Autumn vintage 
 
 I was very glad to know that Mr. Carlyon was com- 
 ing back, for it had troubled me a little to think that we 
 might miss him ; and I was anxious not to leave Bayfield 
 without seeing him. Dr. Tressiter wished me to go to 
 the sea ; and, as mother's health also needed change, 
 father had taken a large furnished house at St. Leonard's 
 for three months, and we were to go there in about ten 
 days' time. Of course Sydney would accompany us, and 
 Mardie and Rebecca and Mrs. Parkins, and some of the 
 servants from St. Olave's Lodge. Mrs. Kennedy and 
 Hallett were left in charge. Father would have to sleep 
 two or three nights in town each week. He was intending 
 to make some alteration in the house that required his per- 
 sonal supervision ; besides which, one of the Bank direc- 
 tors was ill, and a good deal of business had devolved 
 on him. Dear father, how he planned for our comfort. 
 He certainly spared no expense or trouble. The horses 
 were to be brought down for our use — even Bab ; for 
 he hoped that after a few weeks I should be strong 
 enough to ride with him. 
 
 We were not to go back to Chcyne Walk for three 
 whole months. I was rather sorry to hear this, for I 
 wanted to spend Christmas at home. But father said that 
 Aunt Cosie had promised to come to us, and that we 
 could make ourselves very happy at St. Leonard's ; and 
 then I felt more content. 
 
 I was surprised to find how unwilling I was to leave 
 Bayfield ; but when Sydney came home we were certainly 
 rather cramped for space. Prior's Cot was not a large 
 house, and but for mother's excellent management we 
 should hardly have been so comfortable. I think father 
 found it small after the lofty, spacious rooms at St. 
 Olave's Lodge ; but we knew how mother loved it. 
 
 As I grew stronger, father used to talk to me about 
 372
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 the alterations he was planning at St. Olave's Lodge. 
 I wanted to give up my dear corner room to mother, but 
 he would not hear of it. He said that the room which 
 we had always kept for visitors was equally large and 
 cheerful; and then he told me that he intended to turn 
 the old schoolroom into a boudoir or morning-room for 
 her use. 
 
 These talks were delightful to me ; but we always 
 stopped when mother came into the room. I think she 
 guessed the purport of our conversation, for she never 
 questioned us ; she seemed to leave everything to father. 
 I never heard her express a wish about anything, or 
 object to any arrangement he proposed. I used to wonder 
 if she would mind leaving Prior's Cot, for she never 
 even mentioned the subject. But one Sunday evening 
 as we three were sitting together in the twilight, father 
 suddenly mooted the point. 
 
 " There will be no need for you to give up Prior's 
 Cot, Yvonne," he said. " It has struck me more than 
 once that as you are so attached to the place, you and the 
 girls might like to come down for a week or two now and 
 then." 
 
 " Are you sure you will not mind ? " And something 
 in mother's voice thrilled me. " Thank you, Philip, for 
 thinking of it. I should be very sorry to part with it " ; 
 and then she laid her hand on his for a moment. It was 
 the first approach to a caress I had yet noticed. It was 
 too dark to see father's face, but there was quite a long 
 silence before any one spoke again. 
 
 I was still far from strong, and perhaps Sydney's 
 piece of news rather excited me, for I slept a little rest- 
 lessly that night, and mother found fault with my looks 
 the next morning. But I soon convinced her that there 
 was nothing wrong ; and then father drove us out as 
 usual, and the fresh, sweet air soon restored me. 
 
 374
 
 AUTUMN VINTAGE 
 
 As we passed the Vicarage, I was glad to think that 
 the twins would be sleeping in their cots that night ; and 
 by some transmission of thought mother turned to me 
 and said : " Has Sydney told you, Githa, that Mr. Carlyon 
 is expected home to-morrow ? " And as I nodded, she 
 continued, " We shall have him in church on Sunday. 
 I shall be very glad of that." But I forget what answer 
 I made. 
 
 I had certainly not expected to see Mr. Carlyon the 
 very day after his return, but he came. As it happened, 
 I was quite alone. Father had gone up to town for the 
 day, and had taken Sydney with him, as she wanted to 
 spend a few hours with Aunt Cosie. 
 
 Mother and I had had a lovely drive that morning, 
 and at luncheon she had announced her intention of call- 
 ing at St. Helen's Towers. Lady Wilde had returned 
 from Scarborough a few days previously, and Dr. Neale 
 had told mother that she was still far from well. 
 
 " I think it will be only kind and neighbourly to call," 
 mother had observed ; " and though it is not a pleasant 
 duty, I may as well get it over. But I shall not be long, 
 and you may expect me back to tea " ; and then she 
 established me cosily on the couch, and bade me read 
 myself to sleep ; but I did nothing of the kind. 
 
 It was one of those delicious October days, when the 
 air is as mellow as old wine. The room was full of 
 sunshine and flowers, and through the open window there 
 was a faint, aromatic perfume of burning wood. The 
 stillness was so soothing that I fell into a sort of day- 
 dream, and my thoughts had wandered so far that it was 
 a little difficult to recall them when Mardie announced 
 a visitor. I had not heard the name, and then to my 
 surprise I saw it was Mr. Carlyon. 
 
 He came across the room so quickly that I had no time 
 to rouse myself. 
 
 375
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " Was I wrong to come in ? " he asked, taking my 
 hand and looking at me rather anxiously. " Your maid 
 told me that Mrs. Darnell was out, but that she was 
 coming back shortly ; and I could not deny myself the 
 pleasure of seeing you." 
 
 " Oh no, and she will be so glad to see you," I 
 stammered ; " she has only gone to St. Helen's Towers." 
 Why was it I felt so suddenly shy and stupid? I was 
 so glad to see him, only I could not tell him so. 
 
 " I am afraid I have startled you," he said a little 
 gravely. " I can see you are far from strong yet " ; and 
 then I knew that he too was shocked at the change in 
 me — that he had not realised before how ill I had been. 
 He looked so troubled that my courage returned. 
 
 " Please sit down," I said shyly ; " no, you will not 
 tire me." as he hesitated. *' I was not asleep, and I would 
 far rather talk " ; and then I asked after his friend, and 
 after that I felt more comfortable. 
 
 He answered my questions briefly. His friend was 
 better, and he had brought him home ; and then he asked 
 me very kindly about myself. 
 
 " I was not quite happy about you when I went away, 
 and your mother's letters made me rather anxious." 
 She had written to him more than once then. " Gren- 
 ville's account was a bit hazy, and he always said you 
 were better." 
 
 " Oh, I shall soon be quite well now," I returned, and 
 then I added a little breathlessly : " You know that things 
 have come right, and, oh, I am so happy ! " 
 
 " Yes," he returned in a low voice, " I gathered as 
 much from your mother's letters. I think I need not 
 tell you how glad I am for all your sakes; good has 
 come out of evil and you have not suffered in vain " ; 
 and after this we had quite a long talk. 
 
 376
 
 AUTUMN VINTAGE 
 
 He was so afraid of tiring me that he wished to 
 break off more than once, but I assured him that it did 
 me good. Somehow his presence seemed to rest me — 
 he was so quiet and so kind and sympathetic ; he was 
 very wise, too, for he would not let me dwell on my 
 illness. 
 
 " You must forget past troubles, and only remember 
 that God has been very good to you " ; and then he said 
 some very beautiful and helpful things, but I will not 
 write them down. And through it all I knew that he 
 understood, and that he had been very sorry for me. 
 
 " I have not forgotten you in my prayers," he said, 
 " and I shall certainly not fail to remember you in my 
 thanksgiving " ; and something in his look seemed to calm 
 me. " Now, as your mother is unexpectedly detained, I 
 must go, and you must promise me to rest." 
 
 " Oh yes, I can rest now." Did my face say more 
 than my words? for he regarded me very earnestly for 
 a moment, as though he would say something. Then he 
 checked himself, and with a low '" God bless you," left 
 the room ; but, after all, I could not rest for wondering 
 what that look had meant. 
 
 377
 
 XXXIX 
 
 A GOLDEN HOUR 
 
 " I have sinned," she said, 
 " And not merited 
 The gift He gives, by the grace He sees ! 
 
 The mine-cave praiseth the jewel! the hillside praiseth the star! 
 I am viler than these." 
 
 E. B. Browning. 
 
 The fineness which a hymn or psalm affords 
 Is, when the soul unto the lines accords. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 When mother returned half an hour later she seemed 
 much disappointed at missing Mr. Carlyon. She had 
 stayed at St. Helen's Towers longer than she had 
 intended, as she had found Lady Wilde so low and 
 depressed that she had not liked to hurry away. 
 
 " She seemed quite glad to see me, Githa," she went 
 on, *' and thanked me more than once for coming. She 
 is certainly very changed and broken, and when she said 
 her troubles had made an old woman of her, she undoubt- 
 edly spoke the truth." 
 
 " Then you talked of Thurston ! " in some surprise. 
 
 " Not exactly ! I certainly mentioned his name once. 
 I said that your father seemed quite satisfied with his 
 steady application to business ; but I do not remember 
 that she made any response — only a few minutes later 
 she said rather bitterly that her troubles had added ten 
 years to her age. ' I am an old woman, my dear Mrs. 
 
 .378
 
 A GOLDEN HOUR 
 
 Darnell, and the sooner I have done with life the better ' ; 
 but something in her manner warned me not to pursue 
 the subject. She asked after you very kindly, Githa, and 
 she talked a good deal about the Etheridges. Mrs. 
 Etheridge had been very ill again, and it was probable 
 that they would winter in Bath. They were coming up 
 to London shortly for a week or two." 
 
 " I suppose she mentioned Rhona ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ; most affectionately. She seems really much 
 attached to the girl. She said that she would like to 
 have her to stay at St. Helen's, only she thought it kinder 
 not to ask her; and I could not help agreeing with her. 
 I should think St. Helen's Towers the worst possible 
 environment for the poor girl." 
 
 Mother asked a few questions about Mr. Carlyon 
 after this. " Your talk does not seem to have tired you, 
 Githa, for you have quite a nice colour; we shall soon 
 have you looking like your old self " ; and there was a 
 satisfied expression on mother's face as she moved to the 
 tea-table. 
 
 I had been so absorbed in my own experience that I 
 "had hardly talked at all about the children to Mr. Carlyon. 
 I had merely asked after them and sent my love to Stella, 
 and my conscience rather pricked me for my selfishness. 
 
 I was speaking of my remissness to Sydney the next 
 morning as we sat at our work. Mother had only just 
 left the room when she reappeared smiling. 
 
 " I have brought some visitors to see you, Githa," 
 she said, with greater animation than usual. To my 
 surprise Mr. Carlyon followed her, leading the twins. 
 
 I shall never forget the strange contrast between the 
 tall grey-haired man, with his stately bearing, and those 
 two small, sunburnt creatures clinging so closely to him. 
 For once in her life Stella seemed shy. Instead of spring- 
 
 379
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 ing into my arms with a shout of glee, she rested her 
 winsome httle face against her father's coat-sleeve, and 
 peeped at me under her eyelashes. I put down my work 
 and held out my arms to her. 
 
 " Why, Stella darling, surely you have not forgotten 
 me in this short time ! " I said reproachfully ; but she 
 only advanced a few paces and shook her curls. 
 
 " Boy said we was to be very good, and not touch 
 you ; 'cos if we hugged you too much you might break 
 into little pieces." 
 
 " Girlie broke up into little pieces," murmured Cyril 
 in his cherubic way. 
 
 It was impossible not to laugh at this droll speech. 
 As usual, Stella was embellishing her father's injunction 
 after her own fancy. As he explained afterwards, his 
 actual words had been : " Now, children, you must be 
 very good if I take you to see Miss Darnell. She has 
 been very ill. and you must not climb upon her lap and 
 tire her." 
 
 Our laugh seemed to encourage Stella, and a roguish 
 twinkle came into her eyes. " If I don't kiss you hard, 
 you won't crumble up into nasty little bits, will you. 
 Girlie dear?" she asked sweetly; but I suppose my look 
 was reassuring, for the next moment both the children 
 were beside me, with their little arms round my neck, 
 half strangling me, " because we do love our Girlie so 
 much, don't we, Cyril?" added Stella. 
 
 Mother said afterwards that it was one of the prettiest 
 sights she had ever seen. " The children were such 
 darlings, with their pretty loving little ways ; and you 
 looked such a child yourself, Githa. I thought Mr. 
 Carlyon seemed quite touched, though he was a little 
 grave, too. I expect he was thinking of poor Lady 
 Doreen." 
 
 380
 
 A GOLDEN HOUR 
 
 After this the children came every day to see me, 
 though they were never allowed to stay long. Sometimes 
 Cyril brought his beloved Golliwog to cheer me up, and 
 on another occasion a wee rabbit. This was rather an 
 exciting visit, as Bunny escaped into the garden and made 
 his way into mother's pet fernery, and from thence into 
 the Wilderness, where he had nearly disappeared for 
 good and all, had not Sydney succeeded in capturing 
 him. Both the children were in tears by that time, and 
 their joy at recovering Bunny was so great and over- 
 powering that mother dismissed them rather hurriedly, 
 and Sydney took them home. When she returned she 
 told us with much amusement that they had met Mr. 
 Carlyon at the Vicarage gate, and that Stella had pro- 
 posed to him that they should all go to church and say 
 some nice prayers, because dear Bunny was safe. " And 
 we might say ' All things bright and beautiful ' ; that 
 is quite our best and nicest hymn, Boy. Cyril and me 
 are so dreadfully happy that we must shout something." 
 
 " I wonder what Mr. Carlyon said to that." 
 
 " Oh, you know his way," returned Sydney. " He 
 never lets them see how their queer speeches amuse him. 
 He told Stella that it was a very good idea, but that he 
 was too busy for a service just then, and he thought they 
 had better sing their hymn in the nursery after they had 
 restored the rabbit to its hutch. ' And we will have out 
 our flags,' went on Stella, ' and wave them all the time 
 we sing, and put on our nighties, and then we shall be 
 ch^r boys, Cyril.' But I could not wait to hear more." 
 
 I saw Mr. Carlyon frequently during those ten days, 
 but I was never alone with him. More than once he 
 had tea with us, and another time he came later in the 
 evening to see father. He and mother became great 
 friends. She always appeared so much more like her 
 
 381
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 old self when he talked to her, and father seemed to enjoy 
 his society. I do not remember that he said much to me 
 during the visits, but he was always quietly observant of 
 my comfort. Once he brought me some flowers, and 
 another day a book from his library, which he recom- 
 mended me to read, and he would say some little word 
 to me which showed he thought of me. Sydney said 
 more than once how kind he was. " He always speaks to 
 you so gently, Githa, as though he knew how much you 
 had suffered ; and then he is so nice to Aunt Yvonne." 
 
 I was very sorry to bid him good-bye, and I thought 
 it no harm to tell him so ; but his smile in return was a 
 little grave. " It will not be for long, I hope," he said 
 quietly. " If it were not selfish, I would say I am sorry 
 too ; but if you will only get well and strong, you will 
 make us all very happy." I thought it so kind of him 
 to say that, and something in his look told me he meant 
 it. I felt a little dull that evening, but I hoped no one 
 noticed it. 
 
 We speedily settled down to our seaside life, and as 
 soon as I had recovered from the fatigue of the journey 
 there was no question of my rapid progress. I gained 
 flesh and colour, left off my invalid ways, and was in 
 the air as much as possible. The sense of returning 
 health and strength was delicious, and life again became 
 joyous to me. After a week or two I was well enough 
 to resume my rides with father ; a horse was hired for 
 Sydney's use, and we all three rode constantly together. 
 When father went up to town we took long drives with 
 mother; it was a source of great happiness to us all to 
 see how her health improved. She resumed her old 
 active habits one by one. We heard frequently from Mr. 
 Carlyon : he always wrote to mother. He used to tell 
 her about her pensioners and sick people. As soon as 
 
 382
 
 A GOLDEN HOUR 
 
 Ada Martin was well enough to be moved he had estab- 
 lished her and her mother in a cottage quite close to 
 the village green. Noah's Ark was to be pulled down, 
 he wrote, and two other cottages had been condemned. 
 He generally added a few words about the children, and 
 sent me a kind message. I think mother and I always 
 enjoyed those letters. 
 
 I used to wonder sometimes if mother were really 
 happy, for at times she was strangely absent, and seemed 
 buried in thought ; and she had never yet lost the sad look 
 in her eyes. 
 
 One afternoon we were alone together — father and 
 Sydney had gone for a long walk, and it was dark before 
 they returned. We were sitting in the firelight, each 
 busy with our own thoughts, when, happening to glance 
 in her direction, I was struck by this look of sadness on 
 her face ; the next moment our eyes met ; I thought she 
 started slightly. 
 
 " What is it, Githa ? Why do you look at me so 
 intently, my child ? " 
 
 " I was only wondering if you were quite content 
 and happy," I returned wistfully ; " sometimes you look 
 so sad, mother, and then I get troubled and fancy things." 
 Then mother turned in her quick way. 
 
 " You must not watch me so closely, Githa. My 
 darling," as I drew back a little hurt by her tone, '"' I do 
 not mean to repel you — I know it is only your loving 
 anxiety on my account ; you and I must not shut our 
 hearts to each other again, but there are things one 
 cannot well explain. I am not unhappy, dearest — in the 
 sense you mean — and yet there are times when I am 
 very sad." 
 
 " But why, dear mother, when we all love you so ? " 
 Then she sighed deeply. 
 
 383
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " Perhaps that is the reason,'' she returned in a low 
 voice ; " if I were more worthy of my present happiness, 
 I should be less sad at heart, and the shadows of the 
 past would not close so thickly round me. Githa, my 
 child, in this life we must reap the harvest of our own 
 sowing, and only the Divine Hand can ' restore to us the 
 years that the locust hath eaten ' " ; and there was the 
 old bitterness in her voice. 
 
 I slipped my hand into hers. I wanted her to realise, 
 without words, how entirely I understood and felt for 
 her. 
 
 My mother's complex nature had ceased to be a sealed 
 book that I could neither open nor read ; since that day 
 when her indomitable will yielded to her maternal love 
 and fear, she was no longer an enigma or a mystery to 
 me. Every day I seemed to grow nearer to her; and 
 as my awe lessened, my love increased. 
 
 My intuition gave me the right clue now. 
 
 " Mother," I whispered presently, " I think I under- 
 stand. You have forgiven father, and that is why you 
 are happy; but you are sad too, because you have not 
 forgiven yourself." 
 
 She looked at me in some surprise. 
 
 " How could you guess that, Githa ? You are young 
 to have such thoughts ; but it is true, dear child — God 
 knows it is true. If I live to old age — if the years of 
 my life were to be many and full of blessing — I should 
 still carry about with me the shadow of a grievous mis- 
 take, for which I could never, never forgive myself " ; 
 and she sighed heavily. 
 
 " Dear mother — dearest mother ! " and at my tone 
 her arms closed round me. 
 
 " Do not fret, darling ; it is better so. Some of us 
 must ' work out our own salvation with fear and trem- 
 
 384
 
 A GOLDEN HOUR 
 
 bling.' If we break the law of love, and fail in charity 
 to our brethren, we deserve to suffer; but God has been 
 so merciful, Githa, and He has given you back to me, 
 my blessing " ; and then for a little while we held each 
 other silently. But that night and ever afterwards I 
 added a new petition to my prayers — that my mother's 
 noble but suffering heart might find rest. 
 
 It seemed to me that the weeks passed rapidly, and 
 that very little happened to break their pleasant routine; 
 but I must recall one little episode which might have 
 ended sadly. 
 
 We were going to ride that morning, and father and 
 I were standing on the steps waiting for the horses to 
 be brought round, when we saw a motor-car coming 
 round the corner, and at the same instant a small child, 
 leading another still smaller, was crossing the road ; 
 there was a dog with them. It was all so instantaneous 
 that I scarcely knew what happened. Father rushed into 
 the road ; some one screamed — I think it was Sydney ; 
 a bicycle had come from somewhere and had collided 
 with the motor ; the dog was yelping — the children cry- 
 ing — father was nowhere. As I flew down the steps, he 
 rose from the ground; he had a child tucked under his 
 arm. 
 
 " It is all right, Gipsy ! " he exclaimed, as he saw my 
 scared face. " Don't be frightened ; no one is killed or 
 even hurt ; only this gentleman's bicycle is damaged, I 
 am afraid." 
 
 " It was a near shave, sir," observed the young man 
 civilly; " the motor prevented my seeing you, or I would 
 have stopped sooner. I believe the dog was run over, 
 but he is more frightened than hurt." 
 
 Father nodded and laughed. He waited to give the 
 children pennies and to pat the dog; then he went back 
 25 38s
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 with me to the house to brush the dust from his clothes. 
 
 " Father," I panted, " you might have been killed 
 when that bicycle knocked you and the child down. I 
 don't know how you escaped." 
 
 Father made a wry face. *' Well, neither do I, Gip ; 
 but the little brats are safe, and I am glad I risked it. 
 As my friend the cyclist remarked, ' it was a near 
 shave.' " 
 
 We went up the steps arm in arm. Father was trying 
 to laugh it off ; but when he saw mother's face he grew 
 suddenly grave. She was white as death, and seemed 
 hardly able to support herself. 
 
 " I am not hurt, Yvonne," he said, putting his arm 
 round her. " I only had a roll in the dust, and tore my 
 coat. Shut the door, some one ; there seems quite a little 
 crowd collecting, and I don't feel exactly presentable." 
 
 I don't know what mother said to him, she spoke 
 so low ; but I saw her put her hand on his shoulder, and 
 then he kissed her. 
 
 We had a lovely ride, which we all enjoyed ; but I 
 thought father was a little quiet and thoughtful. Later 
 in the afternoon, mother asked me if I would like to go 
 with her to Evensong, or if I would be too tired; but 
 of course I denied this — I always loved to accompany 
 her. We were both a little surprised when father said 
 he would come too; but I saw mother flush as though 
 she were pleased. I always enjoyed Evensong at St. 
 Matthias, but never more than I did that afternoon when 
 father was with us. 
 
 I had made him pass into the seat before me, and 
 he sat between us. I am sure we all felt it was a thanks- 
 giving service. 
 
 There were only a few worshippers that evening. 
 The partially-lighted nave and the long, shadowy aisles 
 
 386
 
 A GOLDEN HOUR 
 
 served to deepen the sense of devotion and awe ; a vague 
 consciousness of silent presences seemed to thrill me; 
 the boys' sweet voices chanting the Magnificat were quite 
 seraphic. 
 
 When the service was over we lingered awhile. The 
 choristers were going to practise their anthem for the 
 following Sunday, and we generally stayed to listen to 
 them. 
 
 To my surprise it was father's favourite, which I had 
 often sung to him on Sunday evenings at St. Olave's 
 Lodge. " Oh, rest in the Lord, wait patiently for Him 
 and He will give thee thy heart's desire." I glanced at 
 father, but he was looking at mother. Was it my fancy 
 that in the dim light her hand moved slowly to meet his? 
 Oh, that Evensong at St. Matthias was always a sweet 
 memory to me ; it was one of those golden hours which 
 come to us in life and seem to link earth with heaven. 
 
 3?7
 
 XL 
 
 "I HAVE BROUGHT YOUR MISTRESS HOME" 
 
 Never had man more joyful day than this, 
 Who heaven would hepe with bliss. 
 Make feast therefore now all this livelong day; 
 This day for ever to me holy is. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Some days after this mother told us a very pleasant 
 piece of news — Thurston was to spend Christmas with us, 
 and to stay until after the New Year. 
 
 " Your father wishes it," she continued, addressing 
 me ; " he says Thurston needs a change ; that he is look- 
 ing thin and peaky, and that a little sea air will do him 
 good." 
 
 " And when does he come ? " I asked, for Sydney 
 remained silent. She was sketching some little fishing- 
 boats which had taken her fancy, but I saw that her 
 pencil was idle — the unexpected news had evidently 
 deprived her of the power of speech ; but I saw her 
 shield her face with her hand to hide her telltale flush, 
 
 " Your father has arranged that he is to bring Mrs. 
 Bevan down with him. I believe they are to arrive the 
 day before Christmas Eve, and you will be glad to hear 
 that Ben is to come too." Sydney made some excuse to 
 leave the room after this — I think she wanted bread- 
 crumbs or some such trifle. I took advantage of her 
 brief absence to ask mother if she were pleased that 
 Thurston was coming. 
 
 " Oh yes, I shall be very glad to see him," she returned 
 388
 
 I BROUGHT YOUR MISTRESS HOME 
 
 cordially ; " and the poor boy certainly deserves a holiday, 
 for he has been working well all these months. I feel 
 I can trust them both, Githa. Thurston knows that there 
 can be no question of an engagement for six months at 
 least, so he is bound to honour not to speak to Sydney 
 until we give him leave. They are both on their proba- 
 tion at present; but Thurston has behaved so well that 
 I do not think either your father or I would wish to 
 put him to too severe a test." 
 
 I was delighted to hear her say this, and I rejoiced 
 that Sydney should have this unexpected happiness. I 
 knew how she had missed Thurston, and how she had 
 longed to see him ; and that with all her brave efforts 
 it was not always easy for her to be cheerful. 
 
 " Are you glad, Sydney dear," I asked rather mis- 
 chievously, when I found myself alone with her that day 
 — " are you glad that Thurston is coming to stay with 
 us ? " But she answered with her usual sweet composure. 
 
 " Of course I am, Githa, and I think it was so dear 
 and kind of Uncle Philip to ask him " ; for Sydney always 
 called father by that name now. He had suggested it 
 as less formal than Mr. Darnell — " besides, I consider 
 myself your adopted uncle now," he had once said ; for 
 he and Sydney were the best of friends. 
 
 We were all delighted to see Aunt Cosie and 
 Thurston ; and as father had prophesied, we spent a 
 very happy Christmas. 
 
 I thought Thurston greatly improved : he had gained 
 in manliness and looked older ; he was handsomer than 
 ever, though certainly rather thin and worn, and it was 
 a little sad to see a line or two on his forehead — he was 
 young to have such traces of care and anxiety. 
 
 It was touching to see him and Sydney together, 
 their delight in each other's society was so great. They 
 
 389
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 were always together. If Sydney were absent from the 
 room for more than a few minutes, Thurston was rest- 
 less until she returned, and with the freemasonry of love 
 they seemed to understand each other without the medium 
 of words. 
 
 Mother left them perfectly free. She never did things 
 by halves. When she trusted any one she did so abso- 
 lutely and entirely. So she never expressed surprise or 
 disapproval when she saw Thurston and Sydney walking 
 up and down on the sea front with only Ben to chaperone 
 them, or noticed, as she probably did, that during our 
 rides they were generally some little distance in the rear. 
 Father would have his joke sometimes, but mother never 
 made any comment. They were both so natural and 
 simple, so frankly absorbed in each other, and so unfeign- 
 edly happy, that I have seen mother look at them until 
 the tears came into her eyes. 
 
 It was during this visit that Thurston took heart of 
 grace and went down to Bayfield to see his grandmother ; 
 but his mission was not successful. 
 
 I was not in the room when he returned, but Sydney 
 told me all about it. 
 
 Thurston had confessed to her and mother that he 
 had been much struck by the change in his grandmother's 
 appearance. She seemed to him to have aged consid- 
 erably during these few months. For the first moments 
 he thought that she was pleased to see him. He had 
 entered unannounced, so as to take her by surprise, and 
 she had turned suddenly pale and put out her hand to 
 him, and had let him kiss her on the cheek, but after a 
 little she relapsed into the old hard, dry manner. The 
 first remark was certainly not reassuring. She hoped 
 he had come to his senses, and that this unlooked-for 
 visit was to tell her so. But he had evaded this. 
 
 390
 
 I BROUGHT YOUR MISTRESS HOME 
 
 " ' I trust I am welcome, Gran,' Thurston had said, 
 in his most conciliatory manner. * We have not met for 
 so long that I hoped you would be a little kind to me.' 
 But she had answered him with the old imperiousness. 
 
 " * I shall be always glad to see my grandson when 
 he has learnt to behave himself, and to apologise for 
 past misconduct ' ; and then his grandmother went on to 
 tell him that his rooms were always kept in readiness for 
 him, and that his horses were in the stable. 
 
 " ' I am a weak old woman, Thurston,' she went on, 
 and her voice was less harsh, ' but you are all the kith and 
 kin that remains to me. If you will only accept my con- 
 ditions and make peace with that poor, injured girl, 
 things shall be as they always have been between us, and 
 I will never reproach you for leaving my roof.' " 
 
 " Of course I could not tell her that," Thurston said 
 afterwards to Sydney ; " but it cut me to the heart to 
 hear her speak so kindly. I felt then that she really 
 cared for me, and wanted me back, but that her will was 
 too obstmate to yield. 
 
 " I tried to be patient and make her see things in 
 their true light," he continued, " but it was no use, and 
 when Gran saw that nothing would induce me to change 
 my mind about Rhona, she got every moment more angry 
 and bitter. It was no use staying ; she would only have 
 excited and made herself ill. So I went away. I just 
 went round to the stables to see old Rufus and the Major, 
 and, of course, the dogs were so wild with joy that we 
 could scarcely bring them to order. 
 
 " I had luncheon at the Vicarage. I went to see 
 Laddie and to have a talk with Mr. Carlyon, and he was 
 very kind, and went with me to the station." 
 
 " Do you know what Mr. Carlyon said to Thurston ? " 
 I asked Sydney. 
 
 391
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 " No, he only said that Mr. Carlyon was very sym- 
 pathetic, and sorry for his disappointment, and had 
 begged him not to lose hope." 
 
 " ' Your grandmother was pleased to see you that 
 first moment,' Mr. Carlyon had added ; ' you may depend 
 upon it that her heart secretly yearns after you. You 
 must give her time, my dear fellow. She has an obstinate 
 nature, and it is not easy for her to yield, but one of these 
 days her loneliness will be too much for her ' ; and then, 
 to Thurston's surprise, he advised him to wait a few 
 months and go again." 
 
 Thurston seemed so cast down and out of spirits that 
 evening that we were all very sorry for him, and tried 
 our best to comfort him. 
 
 Mother was the most successful. She talked to him 
 for a long time the next morning. He looked so much 
 more cheerful when he rejoined me in the drawing-room 
 that I could not help asking him if she had done him 
 any good, and I was relieved when he replied in the 
 affirmative. 
 
 Of course he asked where Sydney was — this was 
 always his first question. And when I told him she was 
 writing a letter for Aunt Cosie, he condescended to tell 
 me a little about his talk with mother. 
 
 " Mrs. Darnell was awfully kind," he observed. " She 
 gave me a lot of good advice, and then she told me that 
 they would always expect me to spend my Sundays at 
 St. Olave's Lodge, unless I had some other engagement ; 
 that Mr. Darnell wished it ; and that she wished it too. 
 Oh, she could not have been kinder, Githa. I shall not 
 mind the week's work half so much, now that I shall 
 be able to look forward to those Sundays." Poor, dear 
 Thurston, he certainly looked happier after that. 
 
 We were all very sorry to lose Thurston when his 
 392
 
 I BROUGHT YOUR MISTRESS HOME 
 
 visit came to an end, but as we were to leave St. Leonard's 
 in another three weeks, we should soon see him again. 
 Aunt Cosie stayed for another week, and then she went 
 back and took Sydney with her, to stay at Fairlawn until 
 we were all settled in at St. Olave's. It was just like 
 Aunt Cosie to think of the right thing; her wise head 
 and kind heart told her that it was better for Sydney to 
 be away just then, and that I should be alone with my 
 parents. 
 
 I had had a very pleasant time at St. Leonard's, but 
 I was glad to be going home. I used to wake up in the 
 morning with such a happy beating at my heart to think 
 of mother being there too. It must have been nearly 
 sixteen years since she left St. Olave's, and I wondered 
 how she would feel when she saw it again. But she 
 never spoke of it, or alluded in any way to the home- 
 coming; only, as the time grew nearer, she became more 
 silent and abstracted. 
 
 We were all very busy the last few days. There were 
 no more rides, for the horses had gone back to London. 
 We went to St. Matthias the last evening, but that time 
 mother and I were alone. 
 
 I think we were all a little nervous the next morning, 
 and rather avoided each other's society. Mother shut 
 herself in her own room with the pretence of finishing 
 her packing ; father had some business letters to write ; 
 and Roy and I wandered up and down the Parade. 
 
 We were to start after an early luncheon, and I 
 remember that none of us ate much. 
 
 When we reached the station father, as usual, bought 
 papers and magazines to beguile the journey, and, of 
 course, we each took one; but I do not think mother 
 turned a single page of her magazine. Father buried 
 himself in his Times, but when I glanced at him now 
 
 393
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 and then he did not seem to be reading; there was a 
 puckered line on his forehead, as though he were deep 
 in thought. 
 
 I felt thankful when the journey was at an end and 
 we were driving from the station. Father spoke to 
 mother once or twice in a low voice, but she scarcely 
 answered him. She had grown very pale, and when we 
 came in sight of St. Olave's Lodge her lips were so white 
 that I thought she was going to faint. She must have 
 noticed how concerned I looked, for she slightly shook 
 her head. 
 
 When the carriage stopped I saw the door was open, 
 and Hallett and Mrs. Kennedy were awaiting us. Father 
 offered his arm to mother, but as she took it she paused 
 a moment and held out her hand to me. My intuition told 
 me what she wished : she would enter her old home 
 between her husband and child. 
 
 I have only a vague recollection of the next few 
 minutes. I heard father say rather quickly : " I have 
 brought your mistress home, Hallett " ; then mother shook 
 hands with him and Mrs. Kennedy ; and after that father 
 took mother into the drawing-room, but I did not at 
 once follow them. When I did so, I saw her sitting in 
 an easy chair by the fire, with her bonnet and furs laid 
 aside. I went up and kissed her, and then I saw there 
 were tears in her eyes. But before I had time to whisper 
 how glad — how very glad — I was, father asked me to 
 pour out the tea ; but he would not let me wait on mother : 
 he took the cup from my hand and carried it to her 
 himself. 
 
 Mother recovered herself after a time, and a little 
 colour came back to her face. Then father told her 
 
 394
 
 I BROUGHT YOUR MISTRESS HOME 
 
 that he should take her to her room, and that she must 
 rest and be quiet until dinner. 
 
 " Gipsy must come too," he added, in his kind way. 
 And then I knew he wanted me to see what he had done. 
 
 The rooms were so changed by their new decorations 
 and furniture that I hardly knew where I was. The old 
 schoolroom had been transformed into a charming 
 boudoir. 
 
 Everything was so beautiful — there was such evidence 
 of loving thought in every arrangement — that I could 
 not help crying a little, and I went outside for a moment 
 to compose myself. 
 
 It was then that I heard mother say : " The rooms 
 are perfect, Philip ; but why have you been so good to 
 me? I do not deserve it." 
 
 And then I heard his answer: " Because I wanted you 
 to be sure of your husband's welcome, Yvonne, my love." 
 But the next moment I stole softly away. 
 
 I think we were all very happy that evening, although 
 we were so quiet and talked little. After dinner I played 
 to them, and they sat hand in hand and listened to me. 
 I played mother's favourite pieces from Chopin, and then 
 I strayed into an anthem or two. Was it some subtle 
 instinct that made me finish with the anthem that we 
 had heard at St. Matthias : " Oh, rest in the Lord, wait 
 patiently for Him, and He will give thee thy heart's 
 desire"? As I played the last chord, father came softly 
 behind me and kissed my hair. 
 
 " My little blessing," he whispered, " you must often 
 play that to me." And then I saw he was alone: mother 
 had left the room. 
 
 When Sydney came to us a week later she seemed 
 395
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 quite surprised to find how comfortably we had settled 
 down into the new life. 
 
 " Aunt Yvonne seems as much at home as though 
 she had been here for years," she observed to me in a tone 
 that expressed her amazement. Mother's quiet serenity 
 seemed to perplex Sydney ; but I only smiled and left the 
 remark unanswered. 
 
 It was no mystery to me. I knew mother had braced 
 herself to perform a difficult task with the whole force 
 of her strong will, and that she was not likely to fail. 
 
 The very next morning she had spoken to me of her 
 intention to take the reins of household management in 
 her own hands ; she knew how willing I was to give them 
 up. She was a born ruler, and before many days were 
 over Mrs. Kennedy and Hallett had succumbed to her 
 influence. 
 
 There was something queenly in the way she moved 
 and spoke that seemed to fascinate them. She had such 
 a clear, concise manner of giving her orders that no one 
 could misunderstand her meaning for a moment, and 
 she was so tolerant of their opinions and so thoughtful 
 for their comfort that the old servants soon lost their 
 hearts to her. 
 
 Mardie told me once in an amused voice that Hallett 
 had remarked to her, that his new mistress was the 
 grandest lady that he had ever seen : " She is what I call 
 a noble figure of a woman, though she is none so young- 
 looking with her white hair." And then Mrs. Kennedy 
 had chimed in, that she was a clever lady, and that it 
 was a pleasure to work under a person who knew how 
 to appreciate good cooking. 
 
 " You see. Miss Githa," persisted Mardie, " Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy was a bit set-up that day because the mistress had 
 praised her savouries." 
 
 396
 
 I BROUGHT YOUR MISTRESS HOME 
 
 Mother smiled when I repeated this to her, but I 
 think she was pleased too. " I want them to like me," 
 she said quite seriously ; " they are such faithful, good 
 creatures, and have done their duty all these years," 
 But I knew why the old sadness came into her eyes that 
 moment. She was thinking of " the years the locust 
 hath eaten " ; when her place had been vacant, and the 
 shadow of that long misunderstanding had darkened her 
 husband's home. 
 
 397
 
 XLI 
 
 MY WOMAN'S HERITAGE 
 
 Take heed thou bless the day on which Love took possession 
 of thee, for thou oughtest so to do. — Dante. 
 
 While we were at St. Leonard's father told me that my 
 mother had expressed a great wish that my portrait 
 should be painted, and that on our return to town he 
 intended to have it done. 
 
 He had given the commission to a young artist in 
 whom he was much interested. " Barton is a clever 
 fellow," he explained to me ; " he has plenty of talent, 
 and will make his mark yet ; but at the present moment 
 he is rather in low water. He was foolish enough to get 
 married six months ago, and they have not a penny 
 between them. Dorothy Barton is one of the prettiest 
 girls I ever saw ; but they are just a pair of infatuated 
 infants, and their knowledge of the world is nil. He 
 paints pot-boilers and charming little sketchy things ; 
 but he is very anxious to get a picture into the Royal 
 Academy. He says if he could only paint a good portrait 
 he might get other orders ; so we will give him a helping 
 hand, Gipsy." 
 
 I was very much interested in this description of 
 father's protege, and a few days after we had returned 
 to St. Olave's he took me to Mr. Barton's studio to 
 arrange about the sittings. We spent a very pleasant 
 afternoon. The little bride made tea for us in the studio 
 
 398
 
 MY WOMAN'S HERITAGE 
 
 — such a bare, ugly place it was — and I took quite a fancy 
 to the pretty, childish little creature and the tall young 
 artist with his clever, eager face. 
 
 We soon settled matters, and after that I went nearly 
 every day to the studio. Either mother or Sydney accom- 
 panied me. We soon grew friendly with the Bartons, 
 and Dorothy would often bring her work and keep us 
 company. I quite enjoyed those sittings. Mr. Barton 
 knew how to interest me, and as he was a rapid worker 
 it was pleasant to watch his progress. 
 
 The picture would be a success — even father, who 
 was rather a severe critic, allowed that. " It is lifelike, 
 Gipsy," he would say, standing before it. But when it 
 was finished, and I had the opportunity of studying it 
 at my leisure, I thought it far too flattering. 
 
 Father had insisted on his painting me in my white 
 chiffon dress, and Mr. Barton had filled my hands with 
 loose, golden daffodils, which looked like yellow sunshine. 
 
 All the accessories of the picture were perfect ; but 
 could that girl with the deep, thoughtful eyes and those 
 masses of golden brown hair be really Githa Darnell ? 
 
 Something whispered to me that it was beautiful, but 
 that it could not be true. " It is far, far too good," I 
 said to mother afterwards. " It may be like me, as you 
 and father say — and I am very glad you are pleased and 
 satisfied — in my opinion it is idealised." But mother only 
 smiled and shook her head. 
 
 " I don't want to make you vain, Githa, but we all 
 think it a good likeness, and certainly not flattered." And 
 after that I thought it was best to say no more. 
 
 Mr. Barton always declared that that picture made 
 his fortune. It certainly brought him plenty of orders 
 for portraits. It was in the Royal Academy that May, 
 and was well hung, and all our friends and acquaintances 
 
 399
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 admired it greatly. One afternoon when the picture was 
 near completion, I had gone to the studio that Mr, Barton 
 might put some finishing touches — he was not satisfied 
 with the hands, and wished to paint them again. It was 
 not a long sitting, and when it was over Sydney proposed 
 that we should have tea with Aunt Cosie, and so it was 
 that we missed an unexpected visitor to St. Olave's Lodge, 
 who had been waiting long for our return. 
 
 " Who do you think has been here, girls ? " asked my 
 mother, as we entered the drawing-room. But I did 
 not need to be told ; I knew very well. 
 
 " Actually Mr. Carlyon," she went on. " He was 
 here for two hours ; indeed he only left about half an hour 
 ago. We were hoping every minute that you would 
 come in, and so he stayed on. He seemed quite disap- 
 pointed to miss you both." 
 
 I wondered if he were half as disappointed as I was. 
 I could not trust myself to reply. Sydney was protesting 
 that it was all her fault ; that she had asked me to go to 
 Aunt Cosie's, and that if we had only gone straight home 
 w^e should certainly have seen him ; and then she asked 
 the very question I was about to ask — how long he would 
 be in town. 
 
 " He is only staying one night," returned mother ; 
 " he goes back to Bayfield to-morrow afternoon. Your 
 father came in before he left, and he wanted him to stay 
 to dinner, but Mr. Carlyon had an engagement for the 
 evening. They went off together. Your father said he 
 would like a walk. They were going across the Park." 
 
 " I wish we had come straight home, Githa," repeated 
 Sydney. 
 
 " He left kind messages for you both, and the twins 
 had sent lots of love. Your father told him about the 
 picture, Githa, and he said that he should certainly see it, 
 
 400
 
 MY WOMAN'S HERITAGE 
 
 as he hoped to come tip in the middle of May for a week 
 or fortnight. I thought he was looking extremely well — 
 more so than I have ever seen him." 
 
 The dressing-bell sounded just then, and Sydney and 
 I hurried away. I had a dull, aching sense of disap- 
 pointment all the evening. True, he would be here again 
 in May ; but that would be five or six weeks hence. 
 
 Mother petted me because she said I was tired, and 
 that she would be glad when the sittings were at an end ; 
 and I was obliged to let her believe that they were the 
 cause of my fatigue. Once or twice that evening I won- 
 dered if father were tired too ; he was so quiet, and seemed 
 plunged in a brown study, and I almost fancied there was 
 an unusual shade on his face. I saw mother looking at 
 him as though she noticed it too ; but he would not allow 
 that anything was wrong, and as I saw he did not care to 
 be questioned, I asked Sydney to sing her prettiest songs 
 to cheer him, for I could not sing that night. So I took a 
 book and sat close to father, and slipped my hand under 
 his arm ; but though I turned the pages the story did not 
 interest me : it was a stupid, improbable tale, I thought. 
 
 Of course Thurston came to us every Sunday — he 
 always joined us in the church porch after service, and 
 walked back with us. How he and Sydney enjoyed those 
 Sundays ! In the afternoons we generally took the dogs 
 for a walk, and we always went round to the stables with 
 some delicacy, in the shape of carrots or sugar, for the 
 horses. After tea we had sacred music until church 
 time. Sometimes when mother was tired, father or I 
 would stay with her ; but Sydney and Thurston never 
 missed. Now and then we saw him in the course of the 
 week, when we went to a theatre or concert — father 
 always took a seat for him ; so, on the whole, he and 
 
 A 
 26 401
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Sydney had a good time. They were so very happy that 
 I am afraid I sometimes envied them a little ; it seemed 
 to me such a wonderful thing for two people to be all the 
 world to each other. I could see that Thurston's ideas, his 
 opinions and tastes, completely dominated Sydney. They 
 seemed to think alike on most subjects. I wondered 
 
 how I should feel if any one but I never would pursue 
 
 this thought. 
 
 When the Royal Academy was open, of course we 
 took Thurston to see the portrait, and he highly approved 
 of it. Father always called it Titania. He had given it 
 the name. He was immensely proud of it, and always 
 enjoyed hearing our friends' opinions. I remember one 
 of them, a very clever woman, commenting on the strange, 
 far-away look in the eyes. " I have never seen that 
 expression on your face, Githa," she said ; " it is as 
 though you had seen some vision. It is not exactly sad, 
 and yet some people might say so ; but there is something 
 indefinable and mysterious." But I confess I hardly 
 understood this. 
 
 I was thinking of Mrs. Brabazon's odd speech one 
 May afternoon as I sat at my embroidery by the open 
 window. It was an ideal May day. The air was sweet 
 with the pink and white hawthorn, and the river was 
 sparkling in the sunshine — a day when it was good to 
 be alive, and to thank God for youth and health and all 
 the bounties of nature, I had had an early ride with 
 father that morning, so when mother proposed going to 
 Fairlawn, I told Sydney that I felt lazy, and wanted to 
 get on with my work, and she good-naturedly offered 
 herself in my stead. 
 
 Mother had been planning something very pleasant 
 that morning. She had asked me if I should like to go 
 down with her to Bayfield early in June, to spend a week 
 
 402
 
 MY WOMAN'S HERITAGE 
 
 or ten days at Prior's Cot. " I thought it would be nice 
 if you and I went by ourselves, Githa," she went on, " and 
 then your father could come down for the week end." 
 
 I had been charmed with this idea, and had given a 
 very willing assent, and then I asked a little anxiously 
 about Sydney and Thurston ; but mother had already 
 thought of that. " I can give Mrs. Bevan a hint," she 
 returned. " She will only be too glad to have Sydney, 
 and I am quite sure she will invite Thurston for Sunday. 
 I think we could spend a very happy week at dear little 
 Prior's Cot, eh, Githa ? " and mother looked at me wist- 
 fully, but my answer seemed to content her. 
 
 I dismissed Mrs. Brabazon's absurd speech, and after 
 a time began to feast my mind on this delightful plan of 
 mother's ; and then the door-bell rang. But it was not 
 father ; it was far too early for him. " Some tiresome 
 visitor," I said to myself quite peevishly, and the next 
 moment Hallett announced Mr. Carlyon. 
 
 I was so startled that I could not at once collect my 
 thoughts. I heard myself telling him a little incoherently 
 that I was very glad not to miss him this time, but that 
 he would be sorry to hear that mother and Sydney had 
 gone to Fairlawn ; but he let this pass. I thought he 
 seemed very pleased to see me. His manner gave me that 
 impression, for he certainly did not say so in words. But 
 it also struck me that he was a little nervous, though it 
 might have been my fancy. 
 
 " I have been to the Royal Academy this morning," 
 he said, a little abruptly, as he drew a chair nearer to 
 me. " Of course I saw the picture." He spoke so mean- 
 ingly that I knew he was alluding to the portrait ; but I 
 did not like to ask what he thought of it. Pie smiled 
 as though he read my face. 
 
 " It is very lifelike. I have seen that expression more 
 403
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 than once," in a low voice. " It is not given to all of us 
 to see visions, but as I stood opposite that picture 1 
 seemed to understand much that would be a mystery to 
 some people." How very strange for Mr. Carlyon to 
 say that ! " For instance," he went on, " I heard some 
 one behind me say that you looked rather sad, but I cer- 
 tainly did not share that opinion. I think," rather slowly 
 and hesitatingly, " the dreamy look in the eyes recalled to 
 me your father's name for you — do you remember — 
 Titania ? " 
 
 He looked at me so intently as he said this that I 
 could not answer. A sudden, overpowering sense of shy- 
 ness took possession of me. I was fully aware that he 
 had taken my hand, and that he was speaking to me in a 
 voice which thrilled me with its gentleness and intense 
 earnestness. It seemed to me that I heard every word, 
 but that I could not grasp the meaning. I was in a dream, 
 and it was all so wonderful and beautiful that I could 
 not believe that it was true. He was telling me that he 
 cared for me too much for his peace of mind; that from 
 the first he had been drawn to me in a singular manner, 
 as though there were some affinity between us ; that in 
 some indefinable way I had reminded him of his lost 
 Doreen. He went on to say that he had battled against 
 this feeling, believing himself too old and too much 
 saddled with responsibilities to be a fit mate for my youth, 
 but that the struggle had been unavailing ; that in spite of 
 his efiforts he had grown to love me so dearly that his 
 only chance of earthly happiness lay in winning my affec- 
 tion ; and here he paused a moment. 
 
 " I have talked to your father, Githa," he went on. 
 It was the first time he had called me by my name, and 
 yet how naturally he said it. " He has permitted me to 
 speak to you, but I will tell you later on what he said. 
 
 404
 
 MY WOMAN'S HERITAGE 
 
 Just now I can only think of one thing — my dear one, 
 have you any hope for me? I would not hurry you for 
 worlds, and if you would like a little time to consider 
 your answer you shall have it, only do not keep me longer 
 waiting than you can help." 
 
 I found it very difficult to speak, but his anxiety was 
 so evident that I contrived somehow to let him know 
 that there was no need to wait, and that I was ready with 
 my answer; and then I broke down again. I had not 
 thought that I could have been so shy with him. I think 
 he saw how it was with me. 
 
 " You need not speak," he said quietly. " If you will 
 look at me, I shall be able to read your answer for 
 myself." 
 
 I did so ; our eyes met, and then he kissed me. 
 
 We had a long, long talk after that — at least Mr, 
 Carlyon talked and I listened. I never knew that he 
 could have said such things — and to think that he really 
 meant them. It made me so proud and happy to hear 
 what he thought of me, and yet it humbled me, too. I 
 remember I told him that he must not think of me too 
 highly ; that I was very young and inexperienced, and 
 made many mistakes ; that I feared when he knew me 
 better that I should often disappoint him. But he only 
 smiled. 
 
 " I think I know you well now," he returned gently ; 
 " and as for mistakes — do we not all make them, daily, 
 even hourly? My darling, you need not try to depreciate 
 yourself, for I love you, faults and all ; but I never loved 
 and reverenced you more than when I saw you battling 
 so bravely with your trouble. Your unselfishness and 
 filial devotion must have won my heart then if it had 
 
 40s
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 not been yours already " ; and then he went on to tell me 
 of his suspense and anxiety during my illness. 
 
 " Grenville did not minimise the danger, dear. You 
 see he had no idea how the land lay, or he would have 
 softened things a bit. His letters used to make me so 
 wretched, Githa. There were days when I was almost 
 beside myself, thinking that I should lose you, and that 
 for a second time my heart's desire would be taken from 
 me." 
 
 It was after this that I asked him a little anxiously 
 what father had said. He replied that he had been very 
 kind, but had owned frankly that though there was no 
 man whom he more respected and liked, and to whom he 
 could trust his child with greater confidence, he thought 
 I was too young to incur such responsibilities. 
 
 " ' If Githa returns your affection and consents to 
 marry you, she will be a stepmother before she is out 
 of her teens.' You see he did not want you to marry a 
 widower, dearest ; and then, though I am not really old — 
 only eight and thirty — there are twenty years between 
 us." 
 
 I saw Mr. Carlyon was a little sensitive about his age 
 and grey hair and the children ; I think father had made 
 him so. But I told him that none of these things troubled 
 me ; that I never had thought him old, and that I did not 
 want him to be a year younger ; and that I loved the chil- 
 dren so dearly, that I had no fear of responsibilities if 
 he would only help me. When I had whispered this, he 
 put his hand on my head and said in an earnest voice that 
 it would be one of the chief objects of his life to help me 
 and make me happy. He spoke a little of Lady Doreen 
 after this. It was I who mentioned her first. I felt a 
 little more at my ease with him, and I wanted him to 
 know that he need never be afraid of talking about her ; 
 
 406
 
 MY WOMAN'S HERITAGE 
 
 that I felt almost that she was a dear friend whose 
 memory was sacred to me ; that I could never hear too 
 much about her, and that he need not fear that I should 
 ever have any unworthy and jealous feelings. 
 
 He seemed very much touched at this, and was just 
 thanking me in such a nice way when father came into 
 the room. He stopped abruptly when he saw us, and 
 then turned very pale. 
 
 " You have made short work of it, Carlyon, I see," 
 he said in rather a quick, pained tone. " So you have 
 stolen my Gipsy." 
 
 Then I went up to him and put my arms round his 
 neck. " Father, you have not really lost me," I whis- 
 pered. " Nothing except death could ever really part 
 us. If you had been alone, but now you have mother." 
 But there were tears in his dear eyes, and it did not 
 seem easy for him to speak. He held out his hand to 
 Mr. Carlyon, and then he kissed me very tenderly. My 
 poor, dear father, the idea of losing his Gipsy nearly 
 broke his heart ! 
 
 407
 
 XLII 
 
 MENTOR CLOSES THE CHAPTER 
 
 The shadow of his presence made my world 
 A Paradise. All familiar things he touched — 
 All common words he spoke — became to me 
 Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 I SHALL never forget how dear and good my mother was 
 to me that evening. I think that, hke father, she was 
 rather taken by surprise when she saw Mr. Carlyon ; 
 they had neither of them expected him so soon. But in 
 spite of her evident emotion, the look that passed between 
 them told me how absolute was her trust in him. As 
 for Sydney, she positively beamed with delight, though 
 she wisely reserved her ecstasies until we were alone 
 together. 
 
 I was very much surprised to hear her say that she 
 had for months expected this to happen, though she never 
 hinted her surmise to any one. 
 
 " I was sure that he cared for you," she went on. 
 " I have seen him look at you in such a grave, intent 
 way, and when you were speaking he would listen as 
 though he feared to lose a word. He seemed to be utterly 
 absorbed in you, but you never noticed. I knew then 
 how it would end." 
 
 Mr. Carlyon could not stay long with us that evening, 
 but he promised to come early the next morning and 
 take me out ; and he was also to dine with us. As soon 
 as we had settled this he took his leave, and I went out 
 
 408
 
 MENTOR CLOSES THE CHAPTER 
 
 on the balcony to see the last of him. I wanted to escape 
 to my own room to think over things ; but mother fol- 
 lowed me upstairs. " You will let me talk to you a little, 
 will you not darling ? " she said so tenderly, and she was 
 so loving and gentle. She understood so thoroughly all 
 I was feeling that she gave me a great deal of comfort. 
 Father's depression had damped me a little ; it seemed 
 to wake me from my blissful dream ! Had I been selfish 
 in my intense happiness? Even at that moment the con- 
 sciousness of Mr. Carlyon's love was filling me with 
 indescribable pride and joy. That he should think me 
 worthy of his affection ; that he should choose me to 
 share his life-work, and to comfort him for the loss of 
 that sweet Lady Doreen ! It was this that seemed to me 
 such a miracle. 
 
 " I know all about it, Githa," observed mother softly, 
 as I hid my flushed face against her shoulder. " You 
 cannot realise your happiness — everything is new and 
 strange ; it is as though you were re-born into a new 
 world." Dear mother! had she felt that too? 
 
 " If only father would not be unhappy," I whispered. 
 
 " He will not be long sad," she returned in such a 
 comforting way. " You must give him time, darling, 
 to get used to the idea of losing you. He was troubled 
 at first when Mr. Carlyon spoke to him ; he thought you 
 too young to marry. I had to remind him, Githa, that 
 I was your age — indeed a month or two younger — when 
 I became his wife. I was a mother before I was nineteen ; 
 but he had not remembered that. I think he hoped to 
 have kept you for some years longer," she went on ; 
 " indeed he said as much to me. You have been so much 
 to him, Githa ; but I know him well enough to hope that 
 when he sees your happiness his kind heart will be com- 
 forted. Now you must dry your eyes, my darling, for 
 
 409
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 we must all be very happy to-night." Dear, sweet mother, 
 how unselfish she was ! Not one word had she said of 
 her own loss. 
 
 I found it impossible to talk much that evening, so 
 mother asked Sydney to play to us, and I sat down on 
 the couch by father. Mother was at the other end of the 
 room, and we were virtually alone, and this gave me 
 courage to ask him a question — did he think me unkind 
 ever to wish to leave him? He moved quickly when I 
 said this, and drew me closer to him. 
 
 " Unkind, Gip ! why, of course not. I am only a 
 selfish old fellow, who wants to keep his treasure to 
 himself ; but I was a fool to imagine that I should be able 
 to have you safe for some years yet. I might have known 
 that your mother's daughter would turn out a beauty, 
 and that I was not likely to have much peace." 
 
 " Dear father, what nonsense ! but," nestling closer 
 to him, "you do really like Mr. Carlyon?" I whispered 
 the name.' 
 
 " Yes, I like him tremendously, Gipsy ; but, somehow, 
 I never thought that my little girl would marry a grey- 
 haired widower. Not that Carlyon is old — and he is a 
 fine-looking fellow, too — but, hang it all, Gip, there are 
 the twins ! " And father's tone was so comical that I 
 could not help laughing. Sydney was playing rather 
 loudly, and no one heard me. But by and by I tried to 
 make father understand that the thought of the children 
 only added to my happiness — " I do love them so." And 
 after this father said some very nice things about Mr. 
 Carlyon. 
 
 " I tell you what, Gip," he finished, " I expect your 
 mother spoke the truth when she said we should probably 
 spend half our time at Prior's Cot when you are at the 
 Vicarage." But I would not let him enter on that; the 
 
 410
 
 MENTOR CLOSES THE CHAPTER 
 
 very idea of the Vicarage being my home made me dizzy. 
 
 I was obliged to tell Mardie the news that night, 
 though I was almost too tired to do so. The dear old 
 thing was so pleased and proud that she could not help 
 crying. 
 
 " But it is only with joy, Githa," she explained, " to 
 think that my dear young lady is to be married and to 
 have a home of her own " ; and then she cried again at 
 the thought of how she would miss me. But I told her 
 quite seriously that if I went to the Vicarage she must 
 come too ; and when she saw I really meant it, she said 
 that she was as happy as a queen. 
 
 I did not sleep very well that night ; I was overexcited 
 and weary with happiness ; but it was pleasant to lie awake 
 in the quiet, restful darkness, and to whisper my thanks- 
 giving for the great and priceless gift of a good man's 
 love. I hardly dared to acknowledge to myself how I 
 loved him. I had been so shy with him that day — so 
 stupidly tongue-tied and embarrassed — but I knew he had 
 understood ; and how patient, how very patient, he had 
 been with my childishness. 
 
 " I will try to be more like my old self when I see 
 him again," was my last waking thought when the grey 
 light heralded the dawn of a new day. Mr. Carlyon came 
 quite early ; he seemed glad to find me alone. He asked 
 me at once if I had slept well, and shook his head rather 
 gravely when I evaded the question. " Those pale cheeks 
 are sufficient answer," he remarked ; but they were not 
 pale after that. He asked me if I should like to go out 
 with him, and I said Yes, and we spent the greater part 
 of the morning in Battersea Park. It was very quiet 
 there and we found a retired nook, and then we had the 
 loveliest talk, and I soon forgot my shyness, and we were 
 very, very happy together. 
 
 411
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 That evening Aunt Cosie and Thurston dined with 
 us, and I wore my white chiffon dress. I saw a quick 
 flash in Mr. Carlyon's eyes as I approached him. He had 
 brought me some flowers, and as he put them in my 
 hand he whispered " Titania," and then added under his 
 breath, " Have you put on that dress for me, darhng? " 
 But he knew I had. 
 
 It was after this, as we stood together on the balcony 
 to admire the moonHght on the water, that he told me 
 that I must call him Paul. He seemed pleased when I 
 confessed that it was a favourite name with me, and he 
 would not be satisfied until he had heard it from my lips. 
 It was a little hard to say it at first, but I soon got more 
 used to it. 
 
 I saw him daily after this ; he always came and took 
 me out somewhere. We went to the Royal Academy 
 together, and to Westminster Abbey and other places, 
 and he generally came in the evening. One night mother 
 asked the Pelhams to dinner. I had written to Reddy, 
 and she had come to me at once and had brought me kind 
 messages from Helen. She seemed very much struck 
 with Paul, and told me seriously that she considered me a 
 very fortunate girl. " He is a head and shoulders taller 
 than other men," she observed, and- of course I knew 
 what she meant. It was a very Claudian speech, but it 
 conveyed a high compliment. Before Paul went back to 
 Bayfield he induced father to consent that we should 
 be married at the beginning of October. Father wanted 
 us to wait until the spring, but Paul was a little master- 
 ful, and as he had first won mother over to his side he 
 carried his point. I left them to settle matters. Even in 
 those early days his word was a law to me, and he was 
 so reasonable and unselfish that I knew I could rely 
 implicitly on his judgment. Oh, how I grew to love him, 
 
 412
 
 MENTOR CLOSES THE CHAPTER 
 
 my noble Paul ! But I will not speak of that. After all, 
 mother carried out her plan ; but instead of a fortnight 
 we spent a whole month at Prior's Cot, and father came 
 down for the week end, from Friday until Monday. 
 Sydney kept him company at St. Olave's, and she and 
 Thurston spent their Sundays with Aunt Cosie. 
 
 We had a lovely time, mother and I, and every hour 
 that Paul could snatch from his parish work was spent 
 with us. As for the children, they ran in and out at all 
 hours. They grew very much attached to mother, and 
 always called her the Lady — a name that greatly amused 
 us. 
 
 Paul was exceedingly busy ; he was planning all sorts 
 of changes at the Vicarage. One or two of the rooms 
 were to be refurnished, and he was very anxious for 
 mother's opinion. He would have liked if possible to 
 have built a new wing, but mother dissuaded him from 
 this idea. " It can always be done later," she said very 
 wisely ; " and you can stay at Prior's Cot while the altera- 
 tions are going on." And Paul acted on this advice. 
 
 The stables had to be enlarged, and horse-boxes pre- 
 pared for my dear Bab, and the new horses which were 
 to be father's wedding present to Paul. 
 
 Paul was a richer man than I knew. He had a good 
 private income, but since Lady Doreen's death he had 
 lived very quietly. The money that father would give 
 me was, as Paul insisted, to be entirely for my use. I 
 am afraid I took very slight interest in these matters ; 
 even my trousseau would have been of little importance 
 if I had not known that Paul would take pleasure in all 
 my pretty things. Of course I loved his presents, not 
 because they were so costly and beautiful, but because 
 they were the tokens of his love. 
 
 Tt was while we were at Bayfield that we heard a 
 very sad piece of news which shocked us greatly. 
 
 413
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 When Paul came over to the cottage one morning 
 I thought he looked unusually grave. Mother v^^as in the 
 room, and as soon as he had greeted us, he said that he 
 had something very sad to tell us, and that he knew 
 how grieved Sydney and I would be ; and then he told us 
 that poor, dear Rhona was dead. 
 
 I shall never forget how shocked we were. Lady 
 Wilde had only heard from her a few days previously. 
 She had written quite cheerfully. They were just going 
 to stay with her uncle. Sir William Etheridge, at Over- 
 dean Grange, a beautiful place on the borders of Hamp- 
 shire. 
 
 I knew how Rhona loved staying at the Grange. Sir 
 William had married twice, and there was a young family 
 — girls and boys of all ages. Rhona had often talked to 
 us about them ; and the youngest boy, Billy, was a special 
 favourite of hers. 
 
 Paul had just been to St. Helen's Towers, and had 
 found Lady Wilde much upset by the news. He gave 
 us full particulars. Rhona's death was the result of an 
 accident. There was a piece of water not far from the 
 house, which was called the lake. It was in rather a 
 secluded spot, and was in reality a deep, large pond, 
 closed in rather prettily with a bosky thicket. Billy, who 
 had a new sailing-boat, had asked Rhona to accompany 
 him to the pond, as his nurse was busy, and he was never 
 allowed to go near the pond alone. 
 
 There was a little bit of woodwork projecting into 
 the water, from which Billy always launched his boat. 
 No one exactly knew how it happened, for Billy's account 
 was somewhat vague — " that he felled in and caught his 
 leg in the string," was all Billy could tell them. It could 
 only be supposed that in her frantic efforts to catch hold 
 of the child, Rhona must have overbalanced herself and 
 
 414
 
 MENTOR CLOSES THE CHAPTER 
 
 fallen into the water. The pond was deep and her clothes 
 were heavy. A keeper and his dog, passing a few minutes 
 later, saw what he supposed to be poor Billy's corpse 
 drifting towards the creek ; but happily the child had 
 only lost consciousness. Poor Rhona was dead before 
 she was brought out of the water. 
 
 " I am sure they must be right in thinking that the 
 poor girl overbalanced herself," continued Paul. " She 
 must have known how deep the water was by the little 
 pier, and they say she could not swim. She would hardly 
 have been reckless enough to jump in at the risk of her 
 life." And mother endorsed this opinion. 
 
 But I could not be sure of this. I knew that Rhona 
 was constitutionally timid, that she was hardly the sort 
 of person to do a heroic action ; but at a sudden crisis 
 even timid natures can rise to an emergency. Rhona 
 was very fond of Billy ; she could hardly see the child 
 drowning before her eyes without trying to save him. It 
 was quite possible that she waded into the water a little 
 lower down, and then got out of her depth, and was 
 unable to save herself. Poor, gentle, loving Rhona, with 
 her colourless life and disappointed hopes, how I wept 
 for her that day ! And yet for her, was it not as well 
 that the fairer life had dawned, and that her sweet spirit 
 was at rest? 
 
 " This will make a great difference to Thurston," 
 mother said to me later in the day. " Now that poor 
 child is no longer the bone of contention, there may be 
 some hope of reconciliation between him and his grand- 
 mother." And, as usual, mother was right. 
 
 On our return from Bayfield, Thurston and Sydney 
 were definitely engaged ; but it was not until after our 
 marriage that Lady Wilde could be induced to forgive 
 her grandson. But she was old and broken, and Paul 
 
 415
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 was very eloquent. By the middle of November every^ 
 thing was settled. Lady Wilde had promised to recognise 
 the engagement, and Thurston had acceded to her wish 
 to give up his work at the Bank and to go back to St. 
 Helen's Towers. In the late spring it was to be Sydney's 
 home, too. Lady Wilde had implored Thurston not to 
 leave her again. 
 
 " You shall have your own apartments, and I will be 
 good to your wife," she said to him ; " and after my death 
 it will all be yours." And Thurston had reluctantly con- 
 sented to this ; there was nothing else for him to do, as 
 he observed to us rather ruefully. 
 
 After all, things turned out much better than we had 
 dared to expect. Lady Wilde grew very fond of Sydney ; 
 as time went on she became more and more of an invalid, 
 and they rarely saw her except in the evening. Sydney 
 was the ruling mistress, and she and Thurston were 
 together the livelong day. " They are the happiest 
 couple in the world," Paul would say to me sometimes, 
 as we walked home from St. Helen's Towers. But he 
 only said it that I might contradict. 
 
 " Not the happiest, Paul ! Oh, my dear, my dear, 
 not the happiest as long as you and I are together ! " 
 
 We have been together, Paul and I, seven happy years, 
 and during that time there have been wonderful changes 
 in the old Vicarage. The new wing has been added ; for 
 there are three little ones in the nursery, over which 
 Peace still presides. 
 
 Alas ! the twins have been parted ; for Cyril is now 
 at Winchester, where his dear father had been educated ; 
 and though Stella was at first inconsolable, she soon 
 found consolation in the society of her small brother and 
 sister. Stella is my right hand; my dear, bright-faced, 
 
 416
 
 MENTOR CLOSES THE CHAPTER 
 
 winsome little companion — " Mother Girlie " as she still 
 calls me. She is perfectly devoted to my Philip, who is 
 his father's image; but she fairly idolises our sweet 
 Yvonne. The child can do no wrong in her eyes ; but, 
 indeed, she has the loveliest nature, and I am afraid we 
 all spoil her dreadfully. 
 
 And then there is my baby, my bonnie Maurice — a 
 splendid fellow, who nearly cost his mother her life. But 
 neither Paul nor I ever care to dwell on that painful 
 occurrence. 
 
 There was an accident. One of our horses was 
 restive, and our coachman had lost control ; a motor was 
 passing. I do not know what happened. I believe I 
 was thrown out, and that but for Paul's presence of mind 
 I must have been killed ; for the rear horse nearly kicked 
 me — only Paul caught the bridle. 
 
 I was very ill after that, and at one time they despaired 
 of my life; but God was good to us, and I was given 
 back to them. What Paul must have suffered ! But he 
 never even spoke to me of those days ; I think he could 
 not. 
 
 All those months father and mother never left Bay- 
 field. Mother almost lived at the Vicarage. For some 
 weeks I was not allowed to see my baby, and when at 
 last the doctor gave permission, it was mother who laid 
 him beside me. My Maurice ! my precious boy ! the tears 
 that I shed on your innocent face that day were all from 
 pure joy. 
 
 But here comes Mentor with his usual question: 
 " What ! writing still, Githa ? I thought the autobio- 
 graphy of your girlhood was to be finished to-day." 
 
 " Yes, but I have only to add the closing words, Paul. 
 27 417
 
 THE ANGEL OF FORGIVENESS 
 
 Do you remember that to-morrow will be our wedding- 
 day, and that dear father and mother are to dine with 
 us?" 
 
 "Do I ever forget it, love?" stroking my head. 
 " Little wife, I have some good news for you to-night. 
 Dr. Neale tells me that you have made such progress 
 during the last fortnight that he quite hopes that in a 
 few weeks you will be as well as ever." 
 
 " Oh, Paul, it is really true? and I was afraid I might 
 be an invalid for years." 
 
 " I think we all feared that, dearest, but our merciful 
 Father has decreed otherwise. Now Stella wants to 
 know if the children are to come down as usual." 
 
 " Yes, of course ; but wait one moment. Have I been 
 very impatient, Paul ? " 
 
 " Impatient, darling? " He was very close to me now, 
 and I had my arms round his neck. 
 
 " I tried not to be ; but there were times when it was 
 very hard, and I could not face the music. I did not want 
 you to have an invalid wife, dear." 
 
 " Neither did I ; but I should have loved her all the 
 same. You would have been a spoiled woman, Githa, 
 with all these hands and feet to wait on you." 
 
 The happy tears dimmed my eyes. I had been afraid, 
 and there was no cause for fear. I had been nerving 
 myself to carry a cross which had not been laid upon me. 
 
 " Will you take me into the church to-morrow, Paul ? " 
 And then as our eyes met he understood. " Hark ! I hear 
 the little feet on the stairs ; after all they have not waited 
 to be summoned." 
 
 " You had better write Finis, soon," he said, smiling 
 at me. 
 
 " There — I have written it ! Now, children " \ ^nd 
 then they all trooped into the room. 
 
 THE END
 
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