Chapter XVIII: An Uncertain Future

HOPE'S Indian letter came to her the next morning, but the contents filled her with dismay.

Lancelot told her that he had just been appointed to another district. It was only a temporary appointment, to take the place of a man who had been granted a year's sick-leave, but he had no choice in the matter.

"It is very trying," he said, "for the climate is an unhealthy one, and there are only three months out of the year that my mother can be with me. She has fortunately fallen in with very old friends of hers, who have invited her to stay with them for the present. They are delighted to have her, but she and I are disappointed at our necessary separation."

Hope sat with the letter before her in absolute despair.

"Every one is failing me. Of course he does not know how I am situated, and I will not let him know how I was depending upon soon going out to him. What can I do? I must rouse myself and settle something. I must, when writing, be able to tell him that I am comfortably settled somewhere!"

She felt at present she could not read this to Brian. Her nerves were on edge; she dreaded lest he should think she would be a burden on his hands.

"I have indeed fallen between two stools," she thought. "No money from my aunt; no money from my father. I suppose there are other women in my plight. And I am young and strong. There must be some way of earning my living. It is evident that Lancelot will not think of marriage for at least a year, and I would do anything rather than force his hand. How I wish I had some friend to advise me!"

She ran over in her mind's eye her different friends.

May Fosberry was abroad with her parents. Jim Horrocks was not the person to take into her confidence. The Chesneys, with the exception of Hester, had rather cooled off in their friendship since she had been at King's Dell. Kitty Parr was very dear and nice, but a thorough child; and poor Hope came to the conclusion that her pride would not let her ask any one's help and advice. When she was in society with her aunt, she had had many friends; now she was in seclusion and poverty they had most of them disappeared.

She roused herself at last.

"I will go and see Mr. Spencer. I promised Brian that I would."

It was a bright sunny morning, with a touch of frost in the air. After the long, wet and relaxing, humid atmosphere, it was delicious to feel the keen bracing wind that met her as she walked along. She had never been to Mr. Spencer's house before. He had, in his eccentric fashion, altered the name of it from "The Hall" to "The Retreat." He told Brian that the very name of "The Hall" made people consider him richer than he was, and much less would be expected from him if he did away with the name. As she walked in at the rusty iron gates and noted the empty half-ruined lodge, the moss-grown drive, and the unkempt shrubberies, a sudden chill foreboding seemed to overshadow her.

Then she looked up to the blue sky, and into her eyes crept an indescribable peace.

"'Jesus I know, and He is on the throne,'" she repeated softly to herself; "He rules me and my future. I will trust myself to Him."

"The Retreat" was an ugly, square, ivy-covered building. Half the windows were shuttered. When she rang the bell, it seemed to echo through empty passages, and for a long time she stood on the doorstep waiting to be admitted. At last, an old woman appeared, who regarded her curiously.

"Yes, we knows the master wants to see you. This way, mum!"

She led her along a dark and dusty oak-panelled hall. At the extreme end was a curtained door, and the next minute she was ushered into the old Squire's study and living-room.

It presented a very comfortless and untidy aspect. The square table in the middle of the room was covered with books and papers; a tray of whisky-and-water and some medicine-bottles were also upon it.

Guns, a few sporting prints, and foxes' brushes hung upon the walls. In an easy chair by the fire, with his bandaged leg upon a bench, sat Mr. Spencer. He had a red silk handkerchief round his throat instead of a collar. An old corduroy shooting-coat, patched tweed breeches, and coarse blue woollen stockings, with carpet slippers on his feet, completed his attire.

Hope's dainty taste felt repulsion at the sight of him and his surroundings.

He looked at her with kindliness dawning in his eyes.

"The farmer's daughter!" he said, with a smile. "Ay, you humoured me that day, but I've learnt more about you since. You seem to have been in a peck of troubles, and I dare say you feel they couldn't be much worse. The young always think they're at the end of everything when trouble comes. The old look upon it as a necessary routine through which to pass. I've as much to put up with as you, at present. For a broken leg at my time of life means a long period of incapacity. You, at least, have health and strength left to you."

Hope's feelings underwent a change, and her smile was bright as she replied:

"Yes, and I'm thankful for my mercies."

"That brother of yours did me a good turn," the old man went on, "so I'm anxious to do you one. If it hadn't been for him, I should be in my grave at present. Perhaps I was meant to be. I may have cheated Death of his rights, and many would say I would be as well out of the world as in it. It's astonishing how one clings to life, though it has treated one shabbily."

Hope looked sympathetic, but she did not speak.

He regarded her earnestly.

"Would you like to hear my experience of life?"

"Indeed I should."

"Some folk envy me my wealth. Wealth, God pity them! But there was a time when I thought a bit of property a fine thing. I was very young then, the youngest of four brothers and three sisters. My father was a country parson with a family too big for his stipend. My mother stinted and screwed and kept us out of debt, but died from the exertion of it, and then we all went to pot, as the boys would say—you know the style. Living as we liked, and having a reckoning-day occasionally, when things would be sold to pay the pressing creditors. My father died before I was out of my teens, and then we scattered; I went up to a bank in London. I was a bit of a prig, but I never could forget my mother's deathbed.

"'Alan,' she said to me—I was her Benjamin—'never live beyond your income. Debt is to be feared worse than death!'

"And I acted up to my light accordingly. I did not make friends in consequence. A young fellow who has no money to spend, and is careful, is always rated low. I had a favourite sister, an invalid. I saved enough out of my second year's salary to send her to the South of France. Then I got engaged to a girl—a doctor's daughter, and as sweet a creature as they're made. I saved up for our marriage, and I worked hard for four years; then she grew tired of waiting and threw me over for a wine-merchant's son—married him at once.

"Even then my mother's words were my salvation. I didn't go to the dogs, but I chucked up my berth and went out to America. I worked on a ranch, and when all my brothers died, this old house came to me. I took possession of it, and I hadn't a soul who cared enough for me to live with me."

"Are all your relations dead?"

"There's one of my sisters somewhere, but I've lost sight of her, and don't know her whereabouts. Why am I telling you this? Simply to show you that a careful abstemious life is second nature to me. I've saved all my life, and I try to save now. I'm not a rich man, and won't fling my money about. So folks hate me."

"Oh no!"

Hope's tone was soft and pitiful.

"I'm a miserable, lonely, old man," he went on; "I sit here all day long without a soul to speak to. Hadley and his wife talk me over in the kitchen together in the evening. I've heard them. They think that by sticking to me they'll come in for a legacy. The liking that any one professes to have for me is due to their expectations. Can any one be in a worse plight than that? To be thought an encumbrance whilst one lives, and one's death the greatest blessing of all! I tell you, I'm a miserable old man, and I sit here all day and think about it!"

Hope did not speak for a moment; then she said gently:

"I suppose money itself can never be a blessing; it is only in the spending of it!"

Mr. Spencer's brows contracted, and he glared at her.

"Are you a spendthrift?" he said. "I thought you otherwise!"

"I haven't had much to spend," said Hope, smiling. "At least, I have not—lately. A year ago, I spent carelessly. You see I have looked at life from both ends, and I know that you can be happy in any circumstances."

"You could not be happy in mine."

"I don't know that I could not."

"I suppose you're like all the rest, you think you'd love to have the handling of my poor income."

"No," said Hope, decidedly. "My happiness is independent of that. I dare say you can guess—my brother has told you—that we are not exactly in an enviable position at present. We have no home, and no means to provide one, and yet—may I say the little verse that keeps ringing in my head:

"'Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown?
Jesus we know, and He is on the throne.'"

"Oh, religion!"

His tone was scoffing. "I want none of that."

"Then you'll live and die miserable," said Hope.

There was silence.

Then he spoke in a different tone.

"Look here. You say you could be happy in my circumstances. I've sent for you to-day to come and teach me how to be. I told your brother that I would treat you like a daughter. You've no home. I offer you one. I only want you to talk to me; to brighten up the house; to see that Mrs. Hadley does her duty. And I'll give you a little pocket-money. All girls need that. Will you come?"

Hope's first inclination was to laugh, then vexation took the place of amusement. So this was what Brian meant when he seemed so eager for her visit. How could she best decline his proposal without offending him? she wondered. The very idea of living with him was repellent to her, much as she pitied him.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Spencer. It is kind of you to make me such an offer. But I could not accept it; for if I go anywhere, it must be where I can earn my living."

He glanced at her quickly and sharply, with eyes of suspicion.

"You are mercenary! My offer is not good enough. I said I would give you pocket-money. I will give you fifteen pounds a year. I consider that a handsome allowance, for you will have no expenses, and I remember when I was a young bank clerk in London I dressed on that myself."

Hope rose from her seat. She was but human, and the old man's tone was offensive.

"No," she said, a little haughtily. "I am afraid I must decline your handsome offer. Good morning."

She made her exit swiftly, and as she went down the mossy drive, her heart was in a tumult and tears were in her eyes.

"It is dreadful to be poor, to be in such a position that a man of that sort can patronise one! Oh, I would rather beg in the streets than accept his bounty! Fifteen pounds a year! Doled out in shillings, perhaps. Why, I used to give fifteen pounds for a single dress in town! What shall I do? I must have another talk to Brian."

On the way back to Mrs. Goddles' cottage, she thought she would like to look in at what had been her home. She fancied she might, perhaps, find Brian there, and she was not disappointed.

Going up the garden path she saw him talking to a stranger in the porch. He looked relieved when he saw her.

"Here you are!" he called out to her. "You're just the person to give some information. This gentleman wants to know how long it is since Miss Rill departed, and where she is now."

Hope looked at the stranger.

He was a tall thin man, with stooping shoulders and grey hair. Spectacles hid his eyes, but he seemed nervous and ill at ease. He was clad in a shabby frock-coat and a tall hat. For a moment Hope wondered if she could classify him. He was something between a scholar and a chapel dignitary, she decided.

He turned towards her and lifted his hat politely.

"I read an account in the papers of the flood in this part," he said. "I used to live here, and I came down to have a look at the old neighbourhood again. It seemed to bring a good deal back to me. I was afraid the lady who lived here might be incommoded, possibly turned out by the water, but I find my fears were groundless. She no longer resides here."

"No," said Hope, the quick colour coming to her checks as she instantly guessed the stranger's identity.

"Miss Rill sold the place to us. She did not seem able to settle down; she was restless. I fancy she was very lonely here. She went up to London."

The stranger looked about him, and patted the red-brick path nervously with his foot.

"It is a peaceful little spot," he said. "I hear you are giving it up. Would you let me buy it from you? I am looking about for a cottage to settle down in. I should like this for—for I have associations with it!"

"We should be very glad to sell," said Brian, in his most business-like tone. "You will see what damage the water has done; but I think a very little expenditure would put it all right again. Would you like to go over the house?"

"Yes—yes, I should."

He followed Brian indoors. Hope stood where she was, wondering if he were the maker of the path, and if the end of a romance was being unfolded before her eyes.

The stranger gave Brian his name as Robert Manners, and Hope instantly remembered it.

She watched him walk round the orchard afterwards with her brother, and when eventually they came back to her, she spoke.

"I expect you knew Miss Rill, Mr. Manners?"

"Yes," he replied quietly, "I did."

"I suppose you have not come across her in London? It seemed such a strange step for her to take at her time of life, and I am not sure whether it will prove a wise one. I should not like to think of her as being cheated by sharp landladies, and perhaps neglected. She has no knowledge of town life and its ways, and has no friends to help her."

"Where is she staying?"

He asked it a little indifferently. Hope began to think he had forgotten his old love, and was vexed with him in consequence. But she gave him Miss Rill's address, and felt she could do no more. Then, when he had left them, she turned to her brother eagerly.

"Have you sold it to him?"

"I fancy so, though he hasn't actually clinched the bargain. He has offered me two hundred for it."

"Has he really? I suppose we must not refuse his offer. It will pay your passage-money, Brian."

"It belongs to you. Your pearls bought the place."

"Ah, but I cannot take it back. You said this morning that you did not know what to do, as the capital of father's money is all tied up, and you can't get the interest of it at present."

"No, worse luck! Hope, have you seen old Spencer?"

"Yes, but I really cannot do what he wants?"

"Why not? I thought it would be the very thing—just till you go out to India."

"But I heard this morning that I cannot go out for a year."

"Good gracious!"

Brian's tone was full of genuine dismay.

"You need not trouble about me," she said reassuringly. "I had thought of asking you to let me live on in the cottage. I believe by this time I could manage the poultry. Kitty has taught me a lot. But I suppose we ought not to refuse such a good offer for it."

"No, the money will be more useful to you than the cottage."

"I cannot take it."

"You must."

"Let us halve it."

And at last it was settled that they should do so.

"One hundred pounds," said Hope to herself. "Well, that will surely keep me from want for a twelvemonth."