Back to the Old Home...

Auckland Star, Volume XXXII, Issue 54, 5 March 1901, Page 6

Back to the Old Home...

By MARY CECIL HAY,

Author of "A Shadow on the Threshold," " Victor and Vanquished," "The Sorrow of a Secret," "Missing," "A Dark Inheritance," Etc.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS,

CHAPTER I.—John Fearne, an orphan boy, brought up by his farmer uncle, tells of the foundation of his education at the hands of "Miss Mary," the Squire's daughter, and of the marriage of the latter to Major Western.

CHAPTER ll.—Ten years later, deserted by her husband, who proves a gambler and after running through her money commits suicide to avoid the consequences of his swindles, Mrs Western dies in Paris. She entrusts her one child, a delicate girl of seven, to John Fearne (who has come into his uncle's considerable property) to look after.

CHAPTER 111. A CHILD NO MORE. We lived a life of quiet happiness at the old farm, the child and I. Gradually* there died from my mind the haunting fear that she would iret arid pine in the dull house, with no little playfellow, no child friend, no companion save a man who had! been all his life used to solitude and silence. Such fear of mine, though a natural one, could not live in her presence, for though there were times when coming unexpectedly upon her ; in the twilight, I found her eyes full of tears, and though sometimes as we j knelt in church together, I heard a , little catching in her breath, as if a j babyish sob had to be stifled, I knew this was natural to the little motherless child. And she had always' a smile to greet me with and a bright answer for every one of my endless, anxious questions. So, as I said, quite soon there died entirely that great fear that she could never live withouc a child friend or a mother's care. She was never shy with me, even ifrom the very first. Once, when I Bpoke of this long afterward, she said could that have been possible, after she had seen the smile of perfect trust and contentment her mother had given me, when I had taken her first into my care? How proud I was of my fairy child! Was she ever one hour out of my thoughts through all the livelong day? I had some one to care for now; I had some one to work for, some one to share the solitary old home now; and for her sake it must be bright and pretty. I grew a very child myself in seeking a child's amusement. I felt almost young myself in my intense desire to understand the young; and at last I gTew almost wise in choosing what would be the best and brightest and pleasantest for my little one. How I remember with what care I chose the girl who was to attend upon little May (her name was Mary, like her mother's but she told me that she never remembered being called anything but May; and I was very glad, for the mother's name■ seemed sacred tome still), and tow my housekeeper used to smile sometimes at the elaborate, careful orders of the master who used to be bo, utterly indifferent 'to little household matters! But there were times, for all this new-found interest of mine when I used to watch the pretty little figure moving softly in the dark old rooms and sorely and regretfully allow that, however anxious I might he over the task, I had no right to take ■upon myself the guidance of a little creature such as this. Care, of course, I might bestow upon her—care and love untold, but for guidance and teaching Why, she would be a woman some day, and have to go from this quiet farm to act a woman's part in that wide unknown world, whose sunshine only such natures as hers could make. And could she go with only such guidance and teaching as I could give her? At last all the doubts and fears reBolved themselves into one momentous question, which! was before me ever, night and day—how was my little one to be educated ? £ihe seemed to be growing taller every day, and must she not now need wise and womanly teachings? If so, she must have it, even if the jDld farm is left to me desolate again. '1 wonder " •What are you wondwring at? I ' jfclrink yon are always wondering now, John." I had taught her from the first to Ball me so. How could I resist the temptation, when there was no one telse in all the world to call me by my Christian name, and when it was so doubly sweet to me from those small lips which had been the firsts/within Stay memory to cling to mine? She was sitting now in her favourite position on my knee, her tiny fingers stroking away the lines in my face. "I was wondering about your educaSfcion, dear." "You have wondered about that before,'* the child said, folding her hands. "Will you settle it, now, please, John? Then you needn't wonder again." "Then you must help me, dear," I Baid, without a smile for her little leomieal attack of gravity. "Yes, of coarse. How were you pdocaited, John? Who taught you?" This was a little respite—that was All; so I enjoyed it. "Your mother first; then our curlate, then myself." "I see," said May, laying her cheek Boftly against mine, as she almost always did at my mention of her Mier"Then I will have the same teachers fexactly. First my mother (of course it was); then our curate—if you like; "then you. That's all settled, isn't it, John? Will the curate be the same who taught_you?" "Hardly, dear, seeing he is a rector

now and living hundreds of miles away from here, lour teacher must be the new curate, who conies next week, if we decide upon that." "Oh, we have decided it," said May, again folding her hands demurely. "1 must be taught exactly the same as you were, John. Then we shall be just as clever as each other." Original and questionable as the idea was, I still ielt a great relief that my darling had not chosen to go away from me, or even asked for a lady to teach her at home. So it was all settled as she said (everything at the farm now was always as she said), and on the next Sunday, when our new young curate had read himself in, I could plainly see that May was most gravely studying him as her future preceptor. I can remember even now, how the sun rays touched my child's bright hair that morning, while she sat so still in the corner of our big pew, with her hands folded, as she had a trick of folding them, and her questioning, earnest eyes upon the young preacher's face. And yet though it was some one else whose word she followed, some one else who had interested her, I think I had never before felt her quite so near to me, quite so entirely my own. But then that morning she was but a little child, and her world contained so few beside myself. "Cast thy bread upon the waters, 'for thou: shalt find It after many days" ~ I loved that text which the young man had chosen, and every word of his sermon sank into my heart; while the one vague, worldless hope it gave me only my Father in heaven knew. "John," said my child, walking on her homeward way beside me, both her arms locked round my arm, "that verse; was one that mother loved. She would have liked all Mr Leslie said. Did you?" "Yes, dear." "Mother told me often exactly what it means," said May, in her childish gravity, and with that touch of sadness in her voice that "told the story of her infancy, and which I feared she would never lose. "Ever such a crumb would do, she said, if we are poor and haven't more; and still there will come back a great, great deal. You think so, too, don't you, John?" Ah! the wide, vague thoughts which my little one, with all her pondering, could not touch. Patience for the "many days" whether they tell a life time or only a portion of it, and through them all God's will be done! A few days afterwards Mr Leslie began his new duties as May's teacher, and I think that he very often found them rather hard; for in spite of her fitful gravity, lessons seemed to her very unnecessary intermptions to her day's enjoyment, and in spite of this being her own proposal, she soon let it be very evident to him that she declined to recognise any authority save mine.

"What more natural," I said to myself, with a sigh, "than that she should obey her staid, unyouthful guardian?" Yet Leslie enjoyed his task, too. I saw that almost from the firsthand as the years went on, he grew to enjoy it more and more until I left quite sure that above the tasks of all his week days this task of teachingMay was pleasant and delightful to him, and that, from his being teacher, it had come to pass that he himself was being taught.

CHAPTER IV. THE UNDERCURRENT.

It came upon me unawares —one lovely morning when the summer world around me looked just as it did upon that morning when Miss Mary found out the first cravings of my lonely boyhood. The noise of the rooks in the old avenue (mellowed and familiar though it wps) had given May one of her transparent excuses for putting away her Schiller and telling Leslie that, as she could not hear his corrections, it would be safer for her to give up reading for that day. She rarely let any excuse escape her to be outdoors on these summer mornings, even when Mr Fortescue did not come strolling to the farm, to loiter there, as he so often did, for an unwarrantable and unconscionable time. And so, of course, I was not surprised when she came dancing out to me, with a low exultant laugh over Leslie's defeat, and • a glad greeting for the young squire who stood beside me, rather tired of h" aving so long pretended not to be watching for her coming.

It had not come upon me yet, but that morning my eyes were too suddenly open to the consciousness that my little ward was a woman. I had not fully grasped the knowledge yet, but later* on that morning.it was to be given me beyond my power of losing it again. Going about the house and farm with me —always with me just as she did when a tiny child — with the same snatches of old songs, and the same coaxing words upon her lips and smile and sunshine in her eyes, how should I guess that others saw a change in my darling until it was shown to me so plainly?

We bad all been chatting- together on the one old twisted seat upon the lawn, when May ran into the fruit garden to gather us some strawberries, and Mr Fortesque, of course, went with her. I had the "Standard" in my hand and had been reading now and then aloud to them, especially enjoying May's quaint remarks, while in the intervals the three young people talked. But now I put my newspaper down upon the seat, as Leslie was left with me, and began to talk with him, wondering a little, though, in that first moment why he had not as usual followed May.

I soon understood why, and I soon saw I need not trouble myself for subjects to carry on conversation, for with scarcely any hesitation, with only a restless movement of his fingears and a flush upon his face, showing how he felt the words, he asked me for permission to woo my child.

Thus it was that on that summer morning it came upon me unawares that my darling was a womari. Leslie's

was a long story, I think, so I bad time for other thought—beside one mad and seitish one—before i saw him looking at me, waiting eagerly and hopefully for my answer. My child was a woman now, to be wooed and won, to choose another home and to be its mistress in a sweeter, dearei way than she could be mistress here at the old farm, which without her — No, thought would go no further in its sudden weakness. My darling was a woman. That was all I had heard and understood in Leslie's words. Ah, how cruel sounding they had been, in spite of their ringing burden of manly, tender love! My dear was old enough to leave me now. It was natural for her to govern and gladden another home, and she had no further need of me. Her husband would be her guardian now. Surely, the change had all come _ suddenly upon this summer morning, as a storm breaks sometimes in a brilliant sky. Surely it could not be that such a loneliness as this had been gradually and imperceptibly closing round me, ever since that day when with her warm, soft arms so tight round my neck I brought her first into the old farm and made it for the first time feel like home"l'm afraid I seem impatient in repeating the question, Mr Pearne, but your consent would give Eie much hope and courage." Eepeating the question! What question had Leslie repeated unheard by me? Had he told me anything except that my darling was ready to leave me? Was not that enough to tell me on one day? If he had more to say would it not do to tell me presently, when I had grown a little accustomed to this new thought? "If you will only give your consent to my paying my addresses to Miss Western —" I picked up the "Standard" and opened it and folded it on my knee in a deliberate, leisurely way, but all the time my pulses throbbed as even Leslie could never have felt his do through all that history he had given me of his love. Arid my lonely heart beat as if it had not learned years and years before whu^t utter loneliness meant. "I give yon my consent. Why should I withhold it?" "Thank you! Thank you a thousand times! And you wish me success in my suit?" Wish him success, when his success meant a desolate home and future for myself! No, my dry, ■unsteady lipn would not have formed the words, even if my heart could have felt them. "Plead your own cause, Leslie," 1 said, rising in utter weariness and still in the great bewilderment and pain of my new awakening. "Could you ever doubt my earnest wishes for my child's happiness?" "John!" cried my darling, that homent running up to me, while I went towards the house, feeling strangely bent and spiritless as we walked slow ly in the mocking sunshine, "I have left Mr Fortescue to finish gathering the strawberries. He has promised not to give up until the basket is full, and you and I are going to the dairy now for the cream. Mr Leslie," she beckoned to the curate over myi shoulder as we stood together, 'please fetch the sugar and then we shall be all ready." "My dear," I whispered, "hadn't you better go with one of them?" "I think not," May answered, in that pondering way of hers,.which was so quaintly characteristic of her, and so irresistibly pretty on her bright young face. "I think I can trust either of them alone."

"And not me?" I questioned; but I drew my hand back, as it went so naturally around her in its old caress-

ing way. "Trust you alone, John?" she queried, with raised eyebrows and puckered lips, "and in the dairy too? Oh, no!"

"Well," I said, as we walked on, she with her fingers locked about my'arm, just as we had walked together so many hundreds of times before —ah, so exactly like it had been from hei babyhood that now I might have thought the old times unchanged but for the haunting memory of what Leslie had shown me! —"well, and what did the young squire think of your leaving him your work to do, May?" "He won't find it any harder. He was working for both of us before. I only stood by and directed him." "And did he like that?" "He said so." "And he asked you to stay, I suppose?" I was questioning her only because I dreaded my own silence antJ my own thought—just yet. "Yes, he asked me to stay, of course. Indeed, I'm not quite sure whether he hadn't tears in his e*yes. Don't you think it probable, John?" "Very probable." "No wonder you look sceptical on such a subject," my darling said, looking lip into my face with a pretty pout, but, as I knew, with a questioning gravity in her eyes. "You never could appreciate the value Mr Fortescue sets up/>n me. He thinks me far more beautiful than the Queen of Sheba was when she came to dazzle Solomon, and far wiser than she was when she went away with all his les* sons fresh on her mind. He says so, John, indeed, though you look as if I had invented it."

"Disputed authorship," I muttered, just as carelessly as I could, but my eyes were opening more and more, and my heart was sinking in spite of all the efforts I made to be glad—for my child's sake. The squire, too, had found out what I had been so blind to notice! He, too, knew fhat my pet was a woman, to be wooed with flattery. He, too, was weaning her from me, loving her himself and longing for her. He, too, had learned the power of her beauty, the charm of her winning "ways, and the wealth of Her noble woman nature. He, too, felt it was time she left this quiet home of mine, and had another home suited to her youth and beauty and gaiety. And he had wealth and luxuries to give her. Was it not time, indeed, that she left my covetous embrace and this home whose only beauty and only sunshine were of her own giving?

(To be Continued Daily.)