Chapter 9

  "Walk boldly and wisely in that light thou hast,
   There is a hand above will help thee on.
  "I deemed thy garments, O my hope, were gray,
   So far I viewed thee. Now the space between
   Is passed at length; and garmented in green
  Even as in days of yore thou stand'st to-day."
  "Bless love and hope. Full many a withered year
   Whirled past us, eddying to its chill doomsday;
  And clasped together where the brown leaves lay,
   We long have knelt and wept full many a tear,
  Yet lo! one hour at last, the spring's compeer,
   Flutes softly to us from some green by-way,
   Those years, those tears are dead; but only they
  Bless love and hope, true souls, for we are here."
The strength that had come to Elizabeth with a complete resignation
to the will of God was sorely needed and tested during the following
week. It had been arranged between herself and Page and Thorley that
they should have the whole income of the Hallam estate, deducting only
from it the regular cost of collection. Whaley Brothers had hitherto
had the collection, and had been accustomed to deposit all proceeds
in the banking-house of their brother-in-law, Josiah Broadbent.
Elizabeth had determined to be her own collector. The fees for the duty
would be of the greatest service to her in her impoverished condition;
and she did not wish the Broadbents and Whaleys to know what
disposition was made of the revenue of Hallam.
But the Whaleys were much offended at the change. They had so long
managed the business of Hallam, that they said the supposition was
unavoidable, that Elizabeth suspected them of wronging her, as soon
as there was no man to overlook matters. They declared that they had
done their duty as faithfully as if she had been able to check them
at every turn, and even said they would prefer to do that duty gratis,
rather than relinquish a charge with which the Whaleys had been
identified for three generations.
But Elizabeth had reasons for her conduct which she could not explain;
and the transfer was finally made in a spirit of anger at a supposed
wrong. It grieved her very much, for she was unused to disputes, and
she could not look at the affair in a merely business light. With some
of the older tenants her interviews were scarcely more pleasant. They
had been accustomed to meeting one of the Whaleys at "The Rose and
Crown Inn," and having a good dinner and a few pints of strong ale
over their own accounts. There was no prospect of "makkin' a day o'
it" with Miss Hallam; and they had, besides, a dim idea that they
rather lowered their dignity in doing business with a woman.
However, Elizabeth succeeded in thoroughly winning Peter Crag, the
tenant of the home farm, and a man of considerable influence with men
of his own class. He would not listen to any complaints on the subject.
"She's a varry sensible lass," he said, striking his fist heavily on
the table; "she's done right, to get out o' t' Whaleys' hands. I've
been under their thumbs mysen; and I know what it is. I'm bound to
do right by Squire Henry's daughter, and I'd like to see them as is
thinking o' doing wrong, or o' giving her any trouble--" and as his
eyes traveled slowly round the company, every man gravely shook his
head in emphatic denial of any such intention. Still, even with Peter
Crag to stand behind her, Elizabeth did not find her self-elected
office an easy one. She was quite sure that many a complaint was
entered, and many a demand made, that would never have been thought
of if Whaley had been the judge of their justice.
She had to look at her position in many lights, and chiefly in that
of at least five years' poverty. At the New-Year she withdrew her
balance from Josiah Broadbent's. It was but little over L600, and this
sum was to be her capital upon which, in cases of extra expenditure,
she must rely. For she had no idea of letting either the house or
grounds fall into decay or disorder. She calculated on many days of
extra hire to look after the condition of the timber in the park, the
carriages and the saddlery, and the roofs and gutterings of the hall
and the outhouses. She had carefully considered all necessary
expenditures, and she had tried in imagination to face every annoyance
in connection with her peculiar position.
But facing annoyances in reality is a different thing, and Elizabeth's
sprang up from causes quite unforeseen, and from people whom she had
never remembered. She had a calm, proud, self-reliant nature, but such
natures are specially wounded by small stings; and Elizabeth brought
home with her from her necessary daily investigations many a sore
heart, and many a throbbing, nervous headache. All the spirit of her
fathers was in her. She met insult and wrong with all their keen sense
of its intolerable nature, and the hand that grasped her riding whip
could have used it to as good purpose as her father would have done,
only, that it was restrained by considerations which would not have
bound him.
In her home she had, however, a shelter of great peace. Her neighbors
and acquaintances dropped her without ceremony. The Whaleys had thought
it necessary in their own defense to say some unkind things, and to
suppose others still more unkind; and it was more convenient for people
to assume the Whaleys' position to be the right one, than to continue
civilities to a woman who had violated the traditionary customs of
her sex, and who was not in a position to return them. But in her home
Martha's influence was in every room, and it always brought rest and
calm. She knew instinctively when she was needed, and when solitude
was needed; when Elizabeth would chose to bear her troubles in silence,
and when she wanted the comfort of a sympathizing listener.
Thus the first nine months of her ordeal passed. She heard during them
several times from Phyllis, but never one line had come from Richard,
or from Antony. Poor Antony! He had dropped as absolutely out of her
ken as a stone dropped in mid-ocean. The silence of both Richard and
her brother hurt her deeply. She thought she could have trusted Richard
if their positions had been reversed. She was sure she would have
helped and strengthened him by constant hopeful letters. For a month
or two she watched anxiously for a word; then, with a keen pang, gave
up the hope entirely. Through Phyllis she learned that he was still
in New Orleans, and that he had gone into partnership with a firm who
did a large Mexican trade. "He is making money fast," said Phyllis,
"but he cares little for it."
It is one good thing in a regular life that habit reconciles us to
what was at first very distasteful. As the months went on Elizabeth's
business difficulties lessened. The tenants got accustomed to her,
and realized that she was neither going to impose upon them, nor yet
suffer herself to be imposed upon. The women found her sympathizing
and helpful in their peculiar troubles, and there began to be days
when she felt some of the pleasures of authority, and of the power
to confer favors. So the summer and autumn passed, and she began to
look toward the end of her first year's management. So far its record
had been favorable; Page and Thorley had had no reason to complain
of the three installments sent them.
She was sitting making up her accounts one evening at the end of
October. It was quite dark, and very cold, and Martha had just built
up a fire, and was setting a little table on the hearth-rug for Miss
Hallam's tea. Suddenly the bell of the great gates rang a peal which
reverberated through the silent house. There was no time for comment.
The peal had been an urgent one, and it was repeated as Martha,
followed by Elizabeth, hastened to the gates. A carriage was standing
there, and a man beside it, who was evidently in anxiety or fright.
"Come away wi' you! Don't let folks die waiting for you. Here's a lady
be varry near it, I do be thinking."
The next moment Martha was helping him to carry into the house a
slight, unconscious form. As they did so, Elizabeth heard a shrill
cry, and saw a little face peering out of the open door of the
carriage. She hastened to it, and a child put out his arms and said,
"Is you my Aunt 'Izzy?"
Then Elizabeth knew who it was. "O my darling!" she cried, and clasped
the little fellow to her breast, and carried him into the house with
his arms around her neck and his cheeks against hers.
Evelyn lay, a shadow of her former self, upon a sofa; but in a short
time she recovered her consciousness and, opening her large, sad eyes,
let them rest upon Elizabeth--who still held the boy to her breast.
"I am come to you, Elizabeth. I am come here to die. Do not send me
away. It will not be long."
"Long or short, Evelyn, this is your home. You are very, very welcome
to it. I am glad to have you near me."
There was no more said at that time, but little by little the poor
lady's sorrowful tale was told. After Antony's failure she had returned
to her father's house. "But I soon found myself in every one's way,"
she said, mournfully. "I had not done well for the family--they were
disappointed. I was interfering with my younger sisters--I had no
money--I was an eye-sore, a disgrace. And little Harry was a trouble.
The younger children mocked and teazed him. The day before I left a
servant struck him, and my mother defended the servant. Then I thought
of you. I thought you loved the child, and would not like him to be
ill-used when I can no longer love him."
"I do love him, Evelyn; and no one shall ill-use him while I live."
"Thank God! Now the bitterness of death is passed. There is nothing
else to leave."
The boy was a lovely boy, inheriting his father's _physique_ with
much of his mother's sensitive refined nature. He was a great joy in
the silent, old house. He came, too, just at the time when Elizabeth,
having conquered the first great pangs of her sorrow, was needing some
fresh interest in life. She adopted him with all her heart. He was
her lost brother's only child, he was the prospective heir of Hallam.
In him were centered all the interests of the struggle she was making.
She loved him fondly, with a wise and provident affection.
It scarcely seemed to pain Evelyn that he clung to Elizabeth more than
to herself. "He cannot reason yet," she said, "and instinct leads him
to you. He feels that you are strong to love and protect him. I am
too weak to do any thing but die." She was, indeed, unable to bear
his presence long at a time; and his short visits to the silent,
darkened chamber were full of awe and mystery to the sensitive child.
In a month it became evident that the end was very near. She suffered
much, and Elizabeth left her as little as possible. She was quite
dependent upon her love, for Elizabeth had notified the dying lady's
family of her dangerous condition, and no action of any kind was taken
upon the information.
One night Evelyn seemed a little easier, and Harry stayed longer with
her. Martha came three times for the child ere she would consent to
let him go. Then she took the pretty face in her hands, gave it one
long gaze and kiss, and shut her eyes with a painful, pitiful gasp.
Elizabeth hastened to her side; but she knew what was passing in the
mother's heart, and presumed not to intermeddle in her sorrow. But
half an hour afterward, when she saw heavy tears steal slowly from
under the closed eyelids, she said, as she wiped them, gently away,
"Dear Evelyn, why do you weep?"
"For my poor little wasted life, love; what a mistake it has been.
I do not remember a single happiness in it."
"Your childhood, Evelyn?"
"I think it was saddest of all. Children miss happiness most. My
childhood was all books and lessons and a gloomy nursery, and servants
who scolded us when we were well, and neglected us when we were sick.
I remember when I had scarlet fever, they used to put a little water
and jelly on a chair beside me at night, but I was too weak to reach
them. What long hours of suffering! What terrors I endured from many
causes!" "Forget that now, dear."
"I cannot. It had its influence on all the rest. Then when I grew to
childhood I heard but one thing: 'You must marry well.' I was ordered
to make myself agreeable, to consider the good of the family, to
remember my little sisters, my brothers who had no money and very few
brains. It was to be my duty to sacrifice myself for them. Antony saw
me; he thought I should be of service to him. My father thought
Antony's business would provide for the younger boys. I was told to
accept him, and I did. That is all about my life, Elizabeth, I had
my dream of love, and of being loved like all other girls, but--"
"But Antony was kind to you?"
"Yes; he was never unkind. He troubled me very little. But I was very
lonely. Poor Antony! I can remember and understand now; he also had
many sorrows. It was in those days I first began to pray, Elizabeth.
I found that God never got tired of hearing me complain; mother
scarcely listened--she had so much to interest her--but God always
listened."
"Poor Evelyn!"
  "So I am watching quietly
    Every day;
  Whenever the sun shines brightly,
    I rise, and say,
  'Surely it is the shining of His face!'
I think he will come to-night, Elizabeth."
"You have no fear now?"
"It has gone. Last night I dreamed of passing through a dreary river,
and as I stumbled, blind and weak in the water, Christ Jesus stretched
out his hand--a gentle, pierced hand, and immediately I was on the
shore, and there was a great light whose glory awoke me. When the river
is to cross, 'the hand' will be there."
She spoke little afterward. About midnight there was a short struggle,
and then a sudden solemn peace. She had touched the hand pierced for
her salvation, and the weary was at rest. Elizabeth had promised her
that she should be laid in the church-yard at Hallam. There was no
opposition made to this disposition of the remains, and the funeral
was very quietly performed.
Unfortunately, during all these changes the rector had been away. About
a week before Antony's flight he was compelled to go to the south of
France. His health had failed in an alarming manner, and his recovery
had been slow and uncertain. Many a time, in her various trials,
Elizabeth had longed for his support. She had even thought that it
might be possible to tell him the full measure of her sorrow. At
Evelyn's funeral she missed him very much. She remembered how tender
and full of grace all his ministrations had been at her father's death.
But the poor little lady's obsequies were as lonely and sad as her
life. She was only the wife of an absconding debtor. She had died under
the roof of a woman who had seriously offended society by not taking
it into her confidence.
It was a cold, rainy day; there was nothing to be gained in any respect
by a wretched stand in the wet sodden grave-yard. Even the curate in
charge hurried over the service. The ceremony was so pitiably desolate
that Elizabeth wept at its remembrance for many a year; and between
her and Martha it was always a subject of sorrowful congratulation,
that little Harry had been too ill with a sore throat to go to the
funeral; and had, therefore, not witnessed it.
The wronged have always a hope that as time passes it will put the
wrong right. But it was getting toward the close of the third year,
and Elizabeth's trial was no lighter. There had been variations in
it. Sometime during the first year an opinion had gained ground, that
she was saving in order to pay her brother's debts. As there were many
in the neighborhood interested in such a project, this report met
with great favor; and while the hope survived Elizabeth was graciously
helped in her task of self-denial by a lifted hat, or a civil
good-morning. But when two years had passed, and no meeting of the
creditors had been called, hope in this direction turned to
unreasonable anger.
"She must hev saved nigh unto L10,000. Why, then, doesn't she do t'
right thing wi' it?"
"She sticks to t' brass like glue; and it's none hers. I'm fair cap't
wi' t' old squire. I did think he were an honest man; but I've given
up that notion long sin'. He knew well enough what were coming, and
so he left Hallam to t' lass. It's a black shame a' through, thet it
is!"--and thus does the shadow of sin stretch backward and forward;
and not only wrong the living, but the dead also.
In the summer after Lady Evelyn's death the rector returned. Elizabeth
did not hear of his arrival for a few days, and in those days the
rector heard many things about Elizabeth. He was pained and astonished;
and, doubtless, his manner was influenced by his feelings, although
he had no intention of allowing simple gossip to prejudice him against
so old a friend as Elizabeth Hallam. But she felt an alien atmosphere,
and it checked and chilled her. If she had had any disposition to make
a confidant of the rector, after that visit it was gone. "His sickness
and the influx of new lives and new elements into his life has changed
him," she thought; "I will not tell him any thing."
On the contrary, he expected her confidence. He called upon her several
times in this expectation; but each time there was more perceptible
an indefinable something which prevented it. In fact, he felt mortified
by Elizabeth's reticence. People had confidently expected that Miss
Hallam would explain her conduct to him; some had even said, they were
ready to resume friendly relations with her if the rector's attitude
in the matter appeared to warrant it. It will easily be seen, then,
that the return of her old friend, instead of dissipating the prejudice
against her, deepened it.
The third year was a very hard and gloomy one. It is true, she had
paid more than half of Page and Thorley's claim, and that the estate
was fully as prosperous as it had ever been in her father's time. But
socially she felt herself to be almost a pariah. The rich and
prosperous ignored her existence; and the poor? Well, there was a
change there that pained her equally. If she visited their cottages,
and was pleasant and generous, they thought little of the grace.
"There must be summat wrong wi' her, or all t' gentlefolks wouldn't
treat her like t' dirt under their feet," said one old crone, after
pocketing a shilling with a courtsey.
"Ay, and she wouldn't come smilin' and talkin' here, if she'd any body
else to speak to. I'm a poor woman, Betty Tibbs, but I'm decent, and
I'm none set up wi' Miss' fair words--not I, indeed!" said another;
and though people may not actually hear the syllables which mouth such
sentiments, it seems really as if a bird of the air, or something still
more subtle, did carry the matter, for the slandered person
instinctively knows the slanderer.
And no word of regret or of love came from Antony to lighten the burden
she was carrying. If she had only known that he was doing well, was
endeavoring to redeem the past, it would have been some consolation.
Phyllis, also, wrote more seldom. She had now two children and a large
number of servants to care for, and her time was filled with many
sweet and engrossing interests. Besides, though she fully believed
in Elizabeth, she did also feel for her brother. She thought Richard,
at any rate, ought to have been treated with full confidence, and
half-feared that pride of her family and position was at the bottom
of Elizabeth's severance of the engagement. Human nature is full of
complexities, and no one probably ever acts from one pure and simple
motive, however much they may believe they do.
Martha Craven, however, was always true and gentle, and if any thing
more respectful than in Elizabeth's brightest days; and for this
blessing she was very grateful. And the boy grew rapidly, and was very
handsome and interesting; and no malignity could darken the sweet,
handsome rooms or the shady flower-garden. However unpleasant her day
among the tenants might have been, she could close her doors, and shut
out the world, and feel sure of love and comfort within her own gates.
Things were in this condition in the spring of 1843. But more than
L16,000 had been paid, and Elizabeth looked with clear eyes toward
this end of her task. Socially, she was as far aloof as ever; perhaps
more so, for during the winter she had found her courage often fail
her regarding the church services. The walk was long on wet or cold
days; the boy was subject to croupy sore throat; and her heart sank
at the prospect of the social ordeal through which she must pass. It
may be doubted whether people are really ever made better by petty
slights and undeserved scorn. Elizabeth had tried the discipline for
three years, and every Sabbath evening her face burned with the same
anger, and her heart was full of the same resentment. So, it had often
come to pass during the winter that she had staid at home upon
inclement days, and read the service to her nephew and herself, and
talked with the child about the boys of the Old and New Testaments.
And it was noticeable, as indicating the thoughtful loving character
of little Harry, that of all the band he envied most the lad who had
given his barley loaves to the Saviour. He would listen to Elizabeth's
description of the green, desert place, and the weary multitudes, and
the calm evening, and then begin to wonder, in his childish words,
"How the Saviour looked" at the boy--what he said to him--to fancy
the smile of Jesus and the touch of the Divine hand, and following
out his thought would say, softly, "How that little boy's heart must
have ached when they crucified him! What would he do, aunt? Does the
Bible say any more about him?"
But sweet as such Sabbaths were to both woman and child, Elizabeth
knew that they deepened the unfavorable opinion about her, and she
was sure that they always grieved her old friend. So, one Monday
morning after an absence from church, she took the path through the
park, determined to call upon him, and explain, as far as she was able,
her reasons. It was a lovely day, and the child walked by her side, or
ran hither and thither after a blue-bell, or a primrose; stopping
sometimes behind, to watch a pair of building robins, or running on in
advance after a rabbit. There was in Elizabeth's heart a certain calm
happiness, which she did not analyze, but was content to feel and
enjoy. At a turn in the avenue she saw the rector approaching her,
and there was something in his appearance, even in the distance, which
annoyed and irritated her. "He is coming to reprove me, of course,"
she thought; and she mentally resolved for once, to defend herself
against all assertions.
"Good-morning, Miss Hallam; I was coming to see you."
"And I was going to the rectory. As the park is so pleasant, will you
return with me?"
"Yes, I will. Have you any idea why I was coming to see you?"
"I have. It was to say something unjust or cruel, I suppose. No one
ever comes to see me for any other purpose."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Not mine. I have done no wrong to any one."
"What has your life been during the last three years?"
"Free from all evil. My worst enemy cannot accuse me."
"Why have you closed the hall? Given up all the kind and hospitable
ways of your ancestors? Shut yourself up with one old woman?"
"Because my conscience and my heart approves what I have done, and
do. Can I not live as I choose? Am I obliged to give an account of
myself, and of my motives, to every man and woman in the parish? O!
I have been cruelly, shamefully used!" she said, standing suddenly
still and lifting her face, "God alone knows how cruelly and how
unjustly!"
"My dear child, people know nothing of your motives."
"Then they are wicked to judge without knowledge."
"Do you not owe society something?"
"It has no right to insist that I wear my heart upon my sleeve."
"I was your father's friend; I have known you from your birth,
Elizabeth Hallam--"
"Yet you listened to what every one said against me, and allowed it
so far to influence you that I was conscious of it, and though I called
on you purposely to seek your help and advice, your manner closed my
lips. You have known me from my birth. You knew and loved my father.
O, sir, could you not have trusted me? If I had been your friend's
son, instead of his daughter, you would have done so! You would have
said to all evil speakers, 'Mr. Hallam has doubtless just reasons for
the economy he is practicing.' But because I was a woman, I was
suspected; and every thing I could not explain was necessarily wicked.
O, how your doubt has wounded me! What wrong it has done me! How sorry
you would be if you knew the injustice you have done the child of your
old friend--the woman you baptized and confirmed, and never knew ill
of!" Standing still with her hand upon his arm she poured out her
complaints with passionate earnestness; her face flushed and lifted,
her eyes misty with unshed tears, her tall erect form quivering with
emotion. And as the rector looked and listened a swift change came
over his face. He laid his hand upon hers. When she ceased, he
answered, promptly:
"Miss Hallam, from this moment I believe in you with all my heart.
I believe in the wisdom and purity of all you have done. Whatever you
may do in the future I shall trust in you. Late as it is, take my
sincere, my warm sympathy. If you choose to make me the sharer of your
cares and sorrows, you will find me a true friend; if you think it
right and best still to preserve silence, I am equally satisfied of
your integrity."
Then he put her arm within his, and talked to her so wisely and gently
that Elizabeth found herself weeping soft, gracious, healing tears.
She brought him once more into the squire's familiar sitting-room.
She spread for him every delicacy she knew he liked. She took him all
over the house and grounds, and made him see that every thing was kept
in its old order. He asked no questions, and she volunteered no
information. But he did not expect it at that time. It would not have
been like Elizabeth Hallam to spill over either her joys or her sorrows
at the first offer of sympathy. Her nature was too self-contained for
such effusiveness. But none the less the rector felt that the cloud
had vanished. And he wondered that he had ever thought her capable
of folly or wrong--that he had ever doubted her.
After this he was every-where her champion. He was seen going to the
hall with his old regularity. He took a great liking for the child,
and had him frequently at the rectory. Very soon people began to say
that "Miss Hallam must hev done about t' right thing, or t' rector
wouldn't iver uphold her;" and no one doubted but that all had been
fully explained to him.
Yet it was not until the close of the year that the subject was again
named between them. The day before Christmas, a cold, snowy day, he
was amazed to see Elizabeth coming through the rectory garden, fighting
her way, with bent head, against the wind and snow. At first he feared
Harry was ill, and he went to open the door himself in his anxiety;
but one glance into her bright face dispelled his fear.
"Why, Elizabeth, whatever has brought you through such a storm as
this?"
"Something pleasant. I meant to have come yesterday, but did not get
what I wanted to bring to you until this morning. My dear, dear, old
friend! Rejoice with me! I am a free woman again. I have paid a great
debt and a just debt; one that, unpaid, would have stained forever
the name we both love and honor. O thank God with me! the Lord God
of my fathers, who has strengthened my heart and my hands for the
battle!"
And though she said not another word, he understood, and he touched
her brow reverently, and knelt down with her, and the thin, tremulous,
aged voice, and the young, joyful one recited together the glad
_benedictus_:
    "Blessed be the Lord God of Israel; for he hath visited and
  redeemed his people,
    "And hath raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of
  his servant David;
    "As he spake by the mouth of his holy prophets, which have been
  since the world began:
    "That we should be saved from our enemies, and from the hand
  of all that hate us;
    "To perform the mercy promised to our fathers, and to remember
  his holy covenant;
    "The oath which he sware to our father Abraham,
    "That be would grant unto us, that we, being delivered out of the
  hand of our enemies, might serve him without fear,
    "In holiness and righteousness before him, all the days of our
  life.
    "And thou, child, shall be called the prophet of the Highest: for
  thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare his ways;
    "To give knowledge of salvation unto his people by the remission
  of their sins,
    "Through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the Dayspring
  from on high hath visited us,
    "To give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of
  death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."
And Elizabeth rose up with a face radiant and peaceful; she laid upon
the table L100, and said, "It is for the poor. It is my thank-offering.
I sold the bracelet my brother gave me at his marriage for it. I give
it gladly with my whole heart. I have much to do yet, but in the rest
of my work I can ask you for advice and sympathy. It will be a great
help and comfort. Will you come to the hall after Christmas and speak
with me, or shall I come here and see you?"
"I will come to the hall; for I have a book for Harry, and I wish to
give it to him myself."
The result of this interview was that the rector called upon the firm
of Whaley Brothers, and that the elder Whaley called upon Elizabeth.
He attempted some apology at first, but she graciously put it aside:
"There has been a mistake, Mr. Whaley. Let it pass. I wish you to
communicate with all the creditors of the late firm of Antony Hallam.
Every shilling is to be paid and the income of the estate will be
devoted to it, with the exception of the home farm, the rental of which
I will reserve for my own necessities, and for keeping Hallam in
order."
And to Martha Elizabeth said: "We are going to live a little more like
the hall now, Martha. You shall have two girls to help you, and Peter
Crag shall bring a pony for Harry, and we'll be as happy as never was
again! We have had a bit of dark, hard road to go over, but the end
of it has come. Thank God!"
"It's varry few as find any road through life an easy one; t' road
to heaven is by Weeping Cross, Miss Hallam."
"I don't know why that should be, Martha. If any have reason to sing,
as they go through life, they should be the children of the King."
"It's t' sons o' t' King that hev t' battles to fight and t' prayers
to offer, and t' sacrifices to mak' for a' t' rest o' t' world, I
think. What made John Wesley, and the men like him, be up early and
late, be stoned by mobs, and perish'd wi' cold and hunger? Not as they
needed to do it for their own profit, but just because they were the
sons o' t' King, they couldn't help it. Christians mustn't complain of
any kind o' a road that tak's 'em home."
"But sometimes, Martha, it seems as if the other road was so smooth
and pleasant."
"Two roads are a bit different--t' road to Babylon and t' road to
Jerusalem aren't t' same. You may go dancin' along t' first; the last
is often varry narrow and steep."
"But one can't help wondering why."
"If it wasn't narrow, and varry narrow, too, Miss Hallam, fenced in,
and watchmen set all along it, we'd be strayin' far and near, and ivery
one o' us going our own way. There isn't a church I knows of--not even
t' people called Methodists--as mak's it narrow enough to prevent lost
sheep. But it isn't all t' Hill o' Difficulty, Miss Hallam. It isn't
fair to say that. There's many an arbor on t' hill-side, and many a
House Beautiful, and whiles we may bide a bit wi' t' shepherds on t'
Delectable Mountains. And no soul need walk alone on it. That's t'
glory and t' comfort! And many a time we're strengthened, and many
a time we're carried a bit by unseen hands."
"Well, Martha, those are pleasant thoughts to sleep on, and to-morrow--
to-morrow will be another day."
"And a good one, Miss Hallam; anyhow, them as bodes good are t'
likeliest to get it. I do think that."
So Elizabeth went to sleep full of pleasant hopes and aims. It had
always been her intention to pay every penny that Antony Hallam owed;
and she felt a strange sense of delight and freedom in the knowledge
that the duty had begun. Fortunately, she had in this sense of
performed duty all the reward she asked or expected, for if it had
not satisfied her, she would have surely been grieved and disappointed
with the way the information was generally received. No one is ever
surprised at a bad action, but a good one makes human nature at once
look for a bad motive for it.
"She's found out that it wont pay her to hold on to other folks' money.
Why-a! nobody notices her, and nivver a sweetheart comes her way."
"I thought we'd bring her to terms, if we nobbut made it hot enough
for her. Bless you, Josiah! women folks can't live without their
cronying and companying."
"It's nobbut right she should pay ivery penny, and I tell'd her so
last time I met her on Hallam Common."
"Did ta? Why, thou hed gumption! Whativer did she say to thee?"
"She reddened up like t' old squire used to, and her eyes snapped like
two pistols; and says she, 'Marmaduke Halcroft, you'll get every
farthing o' your money when I get ready to pay it.'"
"Thank you, miss," says I, "all the same, I'll be bold to mention that
I've waited going on five years for it."
"'And you may wait five years longer, for there are others besides
you,' says she, as peacocky as any thing, 'but you'll get it;' and
wi' that, she laid her whip across her mare in a way as made me feel
it were across my face, and went away so quick I couldn't get another
word in. But women will hev t' last word, if they die for 't."
"If she'll pay t' brass, she can hev as many words as she wants; I'm
none flayed for any woman's tongue--not I, indeed."
And these sentiments, expressed in forms more or less polite, were
the prevailing ones regarding Miss Hallam's tardy acknowledgment of
the debt of Hallam to the neighborhood. Many were the discussions in
fashionable drawing-rooms as to the propriety of rewarding the justice
of Elizabeth's action, by bows, or smiles, or calls. But privately
few people were really inclined, as yet, to renew civilities with her.
They argued, in their own hearts, that during the many years of
retrenchment she could not afford to return hospitalities on a scale
of equivalent splendor; and, in fact, poverty is offensive to wealth,
and they had already treated Miss Hallam badly, and, therefore,
disliked her. It was an irritation to have the disagreeable subject
forced upon their attention at all. If she had assumed her brother's
debts at the time of his failure, they were quite sure they would have
honored her, however poor she had left herself. But humanity has its
statutes of limitation even for good deeds; every one decided that
Elizabeth had become honorable and honest too late.
And for once the men were as hard as their wives. They had resented
the fact of a woman being set among the ranks of great English squires;
but having been put there, they expected from her virtues of far more
illustrious character than they would have demanded from a man. "For
whativer can a woman need wi' so much brass?" asked Squire Horton,
indignantly. "She doesn't hunt, and she can't run for t' county, and
what better could she hev done than clear an old Yorkshire name o'
its dirty trade stain. I'll lay a five-pound note as Squire Henry left
her all for t' varry purpose. He nivver thought much o' his son
Antony's fine schemes."
"There's them as thinks he left her Hallam to prevent Antony wearing
it on his creditors."
"There's them thet thinks evil o' God Almighty himsen, Thomas Baxter.
Henry Hallam was a gentleman to t' bone. He'd hev paid ivery shilling
afore this if he'd been alive. Yorkshire squires like their own, but
they don't want what belongs to other folk; not they. Squire Hallam
was one o' t' best of us. He was that."
And though Elizabeth had expected nothing better from her neighbors,
their continued coldness hurt her. Who of us is there that has not
experienced that painful surprise that the repulsion of others awakens
in our hearts? We feel kindly to them, but they draw back their hand
from us; an antipathy estranges them, they pass us by. What avail is
it to tell them that appearances deceive, that calumny has done us
wrong? What good is it to defend ourself, when no one cares to listen?
when we are condemned before we have spoken? Nothing is so cruel as
prejudice; she is blind and deaf; she shuts her eyes purposely, that
she may stab boldly; for she knows, if she were to look honestly at
her victim, she could not do it.
But O, it is from these desolate places that heart-cry comes which
brings God out of his sanctuary, which calls Jesus to our side to walk
there with us. It is in the deserts we have met angels. A great trial
is almost a necessity for a true Christian life; for faith needs a
soil that has been deeply plowed. The seed cast upon the surface rarely
finds the circumstances that are sufficient for its development. And
blessed also are those souls to whom the "long watches" of sorrow are
given! It is a great, soul that is capable of long-continued suffering,
and that can bring to it day after day a heart at once submissive and
energetic and all vibrating with hope.
Yet it may be fairly said that Elizabeth Hallam was now upon this
plane. Her road was still rough, but she was traveling in the daylight,
strong and cheerful, and very happy in the added pleasure of her life.
Her five years of enforced poverty had taught her simple habits. She
felt rich with the L800 yearly rental of the home farm. And it was
such a delight to have Harry ride by her side; she was so proud of
the fair, bright boy. She loved him so dearly. He had just begun to
study two hours every day with the curate, and to the two women at
the hall it was a great event every morning to watch him away to the
village on his pony, with his books in a leather strap hung at his
saddle-bow. They followed him with their eyes until a turn in the road
hid the white nag and the little figure in a blue velvet suit upon
it from them. For it was Elizabeth's pride to dress the child daintily
and richly as the "young squire of Hallam" ought to dress. She cut
up gladly her own velvets for that purpose, and Martha considered the
clear-starching of his lace collars and ruffles one of her most
important duties.
One morning, at the close of January, Elizabeth had to go to
the village, and she told Harry when his lessons were finished to wait
at the Curate's until she called for him. It was an exquisite day;
cold, but clear and sunny, and there was a particular joy in rapid
riding on such a morning. They took a circuitous route home, a road
which led them through lonely country lanes and across some fields.
The robins were singing a little, and the wrens twittering about the
hawthorn berries on the bare hedges. Elizabeth and Harry rode rapidly,
their horses' feet and their merry laughter making a cheery racket
in the lanes. They reached the hall gates in a glow of spirits. Martha
was standing there, her round rosy face all smiles. She said little
to Elizabeth, but she whispered something to Harry, and took him away
with her.
"Martha! Martha!" cried Elizabeth, "you will spoil the boy, and make
him sick. What dainty have you ready for him? Cannot I share it? I
am hungry enough, I can tell you!"
Martha laughed and shook her head, and Elizabeth, after a word to the
groom, went into the parlor. The angels that loved her must have
followed her there. They would desire to see her joy. For there, with
glowing, tender face, stood Richard. She asked no questions. She
spoke no word at all. She went straight to the arms outstretched to
clasp her. She felt his tears, mingling with her own. She heard her
name break softly in two the kisses that said what last the hour for
which she had hoped and prayed so many years.
And Richard could hardly believe in his joy. This splendid Elizabeth
of twenty-eight, in all the glory and radiance of her calmed and
chastened soul, and her perfected womanhood, was infinitely more
charming and lovable than he had ever seen her before. He told
her so in glad and happy words, and Elizabeth listened, proud and
well-contented with his praise. For an hour he would not suffer her to
leave him; yes, it took him an hour, to tell her how well she looked in
her riding-dress.
Neither of them spoke of the events which had separated or re-united
them. It was enough that they were together. They perfectly trusted
each other without explanations. Those could come afterward, but this
day was too fair for any memory of sorrow. When Elizabeth came down
to dinner she found Harry standing at Richard's knee, explaining to
him the lessons he was studying. Her eyes took in with light the
picture--the thoughtful gentleness of the dark head, the rosy face of
the fair-haired boy.
"I have been showing the gentleman my new book, aunt;" then he bowed
to Richard, and, gently removing himself from his arm, went to his
aunt's side.
"He says he is called Henry Hallam."
"Yes, he is my brother's only child."
And Richard dropped his eyes; and, turning the subject, said, "I called
at the rector's as I came here. He insists upon my staying with him,
Elizabeth. He says the hall is not prepared for visitors."
"I think he is right, Richard."
"I brought him a likeness of Phyllis and her husband. I have a similar
gift for you."
"No one will prize them more. When did you see Phyllis?"
"A month ago. She is well and happy. John is a member of the
Legislature this year. He seems to vibrate between the Senate and the
frontier. He is a fine fellow, and they are doing well."
Then they fell into talking of Texas and of the disastrous Santa Fe
expedition; and Harry listened with blazing eyes to the tale of cruelty
and wrong. Then the rector came and Elizabeth made tea for her guests,
and after a happy evening, she watched them walk away together over
the familiar road, down the terraces, and across the park. And she
went to her room and sat down, silent with joy, yet thinking thoughts
that were thanksgivings, and lifting up her heart in speechless
gratitude and adoration.
By and by Martha came to her. "I couldn't frame mysen to sleep
to-night, Miss Hallam, till I said a word to you. God gave you a glad
surprise this morning; that's his way mostly. Hev you noticed that
great blessings come when we are nivver expecting 'em?"
"No, I don't think I have; and why should they?"
"I hev my own thoughts about it. Mebbe it isnt allays as easy for God's
angels to do _his will_ as we think for. T' devil hes angels too,
princes and powers o' evil; and I shouldn't wonder if they took a deal
o' pleasure in makkin good varry hard to do."
"What, makes you think such a strange thing as that?"
"Why-a! I could tell you what looks uncommon like it out o' my own
life; but you may tak' your Bible and find it plain as t' alphabet
can put it, Miss Hallam. Turn up t' tenth chapter o' t' book o' t'
prophet Daniel, and read t' twelfth and thirteenth verses out to me."
Then, as Martha stood watching and waiting, with a bright expectant
face, Elizabeth lifted the book, and read,
"'Fear not, Daniel: for from the first day that thou didst set thine
heart to understand, and to chasten thyself before thy God, thy words
were heard, and I am come for thy words. But the prince of the kingdom
of Persia withstood me one and twenty days: but, lo, Michael, one of
the chief princes, came to help me.'"
"Yet he was an angel, Miss Hallam, whose face was like lightning, and
his eyes like lamps o' fire, and his arms and feet like polished brass,
and his voice like the voice of a multitude."
"Then you think, Martha, that the Bible teaches us that evil as well
as good angels interfere in human life?"
"Ay, I'm sure it does, Miss Hallam. If God is said to open t' eyes
o' our understanding, t' devil is said to blind 'em. Are Christians
filled wi' t' Spirit o' God? 'Why,' said Peter to Ananias, 'Why hath
Satan filled thy heart?' Does God work in us to will and to do? T'
devil also works in t' children o' disobedience. What do you mak' o'
that now?"
"I think it is a very solemn consideration. I have often thought of
good angels around me; but we may well 'work out our salvation with
fear and trembling,' if evil ones are waiting to hinder us at every
turn."
"And you see, then, how even good angels may hev to be varry prudent
about t' blessings they hev on t' road to us. So they come as
surprises. I don't think it's iver well, even wi' oursel's, to blow
a trumpet before any thing we're going to do. After we hev got t' good
thing, after we hev done t' great thing, it'll be a varry good time
to talk about it. Many a night I've thought o' t' words on my little
Wesley tea-pot, and just said 'em softly, down in my heart, 'In God
we trust.' But tonight I hev put a bit o' holly all around it, and
I hev filled it full o' t' freshest greens and flowers I could get,
and I s'all stand boldly up before it, and say out loud--'In God we
trust!'"