Chapter XVI: A Farewell

WHEN they left Sunnyside, it was past nine o'clock. But Courtenay knew that it must be an anxious evening for the inmates of the cottage, so they turned their steps in that direction. When however they came to the gates of The Towers, Mrs. Bruce said that she would go home, while they went further.

"Let me come too, dear mother," said Margaret affectionately. "Courtenay can carry our message quite well alone."

But Mrs. Bruce would not hear of this, only allowing them to take her to the door, where Collins, having been watching for their return, stood ready to wait upon her.

The young husband and wife turned back into the cold starlight with a pleasant sense of being together, and walked arm in arm to the cottage.

When they got in, Mr. and Mrs. Chantry were seated in earnest talk with Alick, who sat with both elbows on the table, his head resting on his two clasped hands. He looked up in Courtenay's eyes—such bright, cheerful, hopeful eyes to-night—and he felt a load lifted from his heart.

"We thought we should find you so," said Courtenay, "and as I wanted to ratify what I hinted this morning, Margaret and I have come in."

He sat down close to Alick.

"What is proposed?" he asked him. "What is the difficulty?"

"I have seen it coming for a long time," answered Alick, "and now the difficulty can be put off no longer. What am I to be?"

"You see, Courtenay," said Mr. Chantry, "my means are very limited, and Alick has always known he would have to make his own way."

Courtenay felt with a pang that Lionel had got everything, while Alick—his Alick—had got nothing. But he put the jealous thought away as quickly as he could, and answered:

"That is very true; but if I may go by my own experience, I would not now be without those two years in London when everything seemed so hard; Alick knows. I do not pretend that they were nice at the time (at least, not always), but I am thankful for them now."

Alick had turned his face, and was looking into Courtenay's. He remembered those words which they had both tried to learn—"Thy will be done." He knew he would have to learn that now afresh.

"I thought we must try to get him a situation," said Mr. Chantry. "How can we set about it, Courtenay?"

"That was what I came over about. I have friends in London, as you know, and I thought Alick and I, and Lionel, could go up and see what we could find. Fortescue too has promised an introduction to that old gentleman, Mr. Hallett, who is such a friend of his."

"Indeed, that is truly kind. He is in the city I think."

"Yes; in some large way, I fancy. And then, if any premium or help is needed for a year or two to advance Alick's prospects, Margaret and I shall feel it the greatest pleasure to be allowed to provide the means."

"I'm sure—" began Alick, but Courtenay stopped him.

"Alick, you need never feel it any obligation. Margaret and I both owe you so much in the old days that nothing we can do would ever pay it. But this is not a question of paying, but of love."

Alick could say no more, but Courtenay and Margaret understood.

And then after some further discussion of the details of the plan, they went home.

"Mrs. Bruce has retired to her room, ma'am," said Collins, meeting them. "She begged that you would go in and wish her good-night. She said she was tired."

Margaret ran lightly upstairs, and Courtenay went into his pleasant drawing-room.

When she came down again, she came over to where he stood on the hearthrug and leaned her head on his shoulder in silence.

"'It is more blessed to give than to receive,'" he said, smiling down at her.

But she answered a very sober "Yes."

"I hope, dearest, you have not got chilled?"

"Oh, no, no Courtenay, I am afraid mother will feel this shock."

"I hope not, love. We must not be anxious; it is so nice to know He has it all in His hands, isn't it?"

His words were very tender and they comforted Margaret, and so this eventful day closed.

"Thy saints are in thy hand," thought Courtenay, as he heard the clock strike twelve on the still night air. "Oh, how glad I am of that!"

And so, while Mr. Fortescue went home to his father, Courtenay and the boys, as they were generally called, took their journey to London.

"A week's holiday will do us all good," he had said.

And then he had looked at Margaret and doubted if he had decided rightly.

But she assured him she approved, and so they went.

"This is not good-bye, dear grandma," said Lionel, as she stood in the hall when he was going.

"No, my dear," she answered placidly, "I know that."

The week passed quickly away. Mr. Fortescue's friend was most kind, and proved a great help. Through his recommendation, a situation was found for Alick in a wholesale warehouse, and Courtenay was able to make all arrangements before he left town.

Then came the question of lodgings. Lionel would have to be near the London University where he was to study, and it was desirable that Alick should live with him. Both said they would prefer to be in lodgings together instead of joining a family circle, and to this their fathers had agreed.

"They want to study hard, and not to be playing music and making themselves agreeable," said Mr. Chantry; "and I believe the temptations are as great in one place as in another, unless you meet with an exceptionally nice family."

So lodgings had to be looked for, and in this Mr. Hallett was again their adviser. He knew of a widow who had seen better days, and who had remained in the house where she had once lived in comfort during her husband's lifetime, but was obliged now to let it out in apartments.

To Courtenay's great satisfaction, she only had one other set of lodgers, an aged gentleman and lady, with their servant, who occupied the best portion of the house. Alick and Lionel would have two bedrooms on the second floor, with a pleasant sitting-room adjoining, overlooking the garden of the square in which the house was situated.

"We shall be jolly here," said Alick, stretching himself in the worn arm-chair. "Only I wish mother would come up and put some clean dimity on these old chairs and sofa."

"Cretonne," put in Courtenay, who was looking out of the window.

"Anything you like, so that it is clean," answered Alick, making a face.

Lionel laughed. "I am afraid it will cost Alick more to live in London than it will me."

"Why?" asked Alick, a little hurt.

"Oh, I did not mean 'money!'" said Lionel. "I never thought of money. I mean, what will not affect me in the least will be a real trial to you. I never noticed that these things were black till you said so."

"Did you not? Courtenay, you did?" asked Alick, half ashamed of being so particular.

"Oh, I noticed it, of course! But then I thought things do get smoky in the heart of London, and if you had them ever so bright to-day, next week they would be as bad as ever."

"Next 'week!'" exclaimed Alick, with a rueful face. "And I have to live here all my life!"

"They will get dirty very soon I should have said," answered Courtenay. "But, Mr. Squeamish, we will see what can be done. Some of this is real dirt, and not only smoke."

Alick looked relieved.

"But," continued Courtenay seriously, "if I were you, I would make the best of things. Besides, Alick, this London life which you so dread may not be for always. We never know. If you go on patiently for a few years, and are faithful over your 'few things,' you may find that even here 'many things' will be committed to you."

Alick thought how that had been true in Courtenay's own case. But he only answered, "All right, Mr. Wise, you are quite correct, and I'll mend my ways."

The landlady undertook, at Courtenay's desire, to get the cretonne and re-cover the furniture.

"I am sure your dear 'grandma' would wish you to have what is seemly," he said to Lionel, "and she will be delighted to hear we have done it when we go home."

And so she was. Every detail of their trip was told her over and over again. She was never tired of hearing, nor they of telling. She would have refurnished all their rooms on the spot if Courtenay had not earnestly besought her if she loved the boys to do nothing of the sort.

"If they are comfortable there, mother, in three months you shall give them a carpet," he promised.

With this Mrs. Bruce had to be satisfied. But she talked to Margaret in private of all she should do for them, if Courtenay would let her.

Margaret asked her tenderly if she were not as anxious for the boys' good as Courtenay, and after some troubled thought, she exclaimed, "Oh, yes, my dear, of course you know best! It is so difficult to me to think others know best, but I am sure you do."

After this, she never alluded to her plans for them. But if she found herself slipping into it, she would stop abruptly.

"Margaret says I want them to be 'good' boys, not only happy and comfortable, and she knows best," she would say to herself.

At the end of the week too came Mr. Fortescue.

"I say," exclaimed Charlie, bursting in on the Monday with unusual excitement, "what do you think? I thought I would go up and see if old Fortescue came by the train from the north, and there he was, looking such a swell. I should think he had a new suit from top to toe. That's his father, I suppose; and he was quite pleased to see me, and asked after everyone in particular, and was as jolly as a sandboy."

"Where is he?" asked Mrs. Chantry.

"He's gone into Sunnyside. I suppose he considers Uncle Malden his—his master."

"Nonsense, 'master,'" said Alick. "Charlie, look out what you're saying."

"I don't know what word it is," said Charlie, "but you understand what I mean, anyway."

But before many moments had passed, Mr. Fortescue's step was heard outside, and he came in.

"I have nothing but good news," he exclaimed, clasping Alick's hand warmly, when he had in propriety greeted Mrs. Chantry first, "and I am sure you will all rejoice with me. The only bad news is that my father wants me at home at once—I mean bad because it involves my leaving here very soon—but now he has once got me back, he can hardly bear me out of his sight."

"And is it all right?" asked Alick.

"Everything. It is explained now why he did not want me on Saturday. He was busy with the lawyer making a new will."

"Oh!" said Charlie, in such a tone that everybody laughed.

"And I am to be reinstated in my old place; only everything is better than it ever was before."

"And if I may ask," said Mrs. Chantry, "how long do you think of remaining here this time? You have understood, I know, from my brother-in-law and from us, that you are freely released from our engagement."

"You have been most kind. I have had no time to speak to Mr. Malden on that subject yet, but have only been in to report my arrival. But I am quite ready to do anything that is convenient to you."

"Alick has written to you about their going to London?"

"Yes, indeed; the letter reached me as I was starting home."

"Home?" said Alick, smiling.

"It feels like home to me," he answered, "but by-and-by my father's house will be home again. I am however forgetting that Mr. Malden charged me with a message to you, Mrs. Chantry. Would it be convenient to you and Mr. Chantry to meet at Sunnyside this evening, that we may come to some arrangement that will suit us all?"

To this Mrs. Chantry willingly agreed, and then Alick went off with Mr. Fortescue to call on Courtenay at The Towers.

The end of it all was that Mr. Fortescue decided to stay for a few weeks, not as a tutor, but as a friend.

"I should like to see the last of my boys," he said, "and I have other reasons which Mr. Courtenay knows of, which decide me to remain a little longer."

So the days flew by in preparations. Mrs. Bruce took Alick and Lionel to Norwich, after having obtained permission of her son-in-law to do so, and bought various things which she said they could not do without.

Margaret smiled happily, and let her have her way, and Courtenay only said:

"Mother, you will end in spoiling those boys in spite of me!"

Mrs. Chantry went about with a very pale face, and Alick knew well that her heart was nearly breaking. She worked silently at his things, saying but little to him or anyone.

"Mother," he said one evening, when he caught her alone for an instant, "your face makes me wish that I were not going. Shall I give it all up and stay? What am I to do?"

Mrs. Chantry looked at him for one moment as if questioning if it might be possible. Then she answered, as she put her arms round his neck, "No, Alick, my darling; it is right, only—only it is so hard."

"Mother," he began, but he felt choked.

"Alick, I believe it is want of faith on my part," she said at last. "I feel like I did that time when I had to leave you in England alone. Then it was your youth I could not bear to trust to strangers; now—"

"Well?" he asked, kissing her face tenderly with a grave protection, which she felt even in her misery.

"Now it is your manhood I fear for. The world is full of temptation. Oh, Alick! It says, 'Blessed are the pure in heart.' That is all I want, that you shall please our God in all things, and one day see Him face to face."

"And do you doubt that He, who so carefully guarded me when I was little, and kept me safe, and found Courtenay for me, and led me all along till now, will forsake me at this great crisis of my life? Is it likely, mother? He loves with an 'everlasting' love. Does He not say, 'They may forget, yet will not I.'"

The well-known beloved words broke her down. Still clasped in her son's arms she wept out her sorrow, till after a long time she heard his gentle voice asking:

"Are you not tired of standing, sweet mother? Look, there is a little crescent moon peeping in at us. Let us pluck up our courage, and remember that we have a faithful God. He will not suffer me to be tempted above what I am able to bear. Do trust Him now about me as you did long ago, and you will find He is ever true and faithful."

Mrs. Chantry was inexpressibly comforted by this talk, and she saw him go away the next day with even a smile.

"Trusting?" he whispered, as he kissed her.

"Yes, Alick. And you?"

He nodded, and then the next thing she knew was that he was gone.

Meanwhile, Lionel had run in early to wish the inmates of The Towers farewell.

"I shall see you at the station," Courtenay said; "and 'grandma' is upstairs. She is not very well to-day."

Lionel went up. His bright future was before him, and it was natural he should look forward to it with happy expectation. But he did not forget that what was almost unalloyed joy to him would leave a great blank behind.

"Dear grandma," he said, coming and kneeling down at her side, "have you any last charges to give me?"

She did not at once answer; she put her two hands on his shoulders, and looked into his face yearningly.

He returned her gaze as steadily, with frank, fearless eyes.

"I'll work all I can so as to please you, and realize your hopes for me," he said.

But she still did not reply.

"My dear boy," she said at last, "my dear boy, you have been such a comfort to me. Next to my dear Margaret, my greatest comfort."

"So have you to me, grandma; I could not have got on at all without you."

She bent and kissed his forehead.

"And my last charge to you is this; I want you to remember what I wish I had remembered when I was young, that the only thing worth living for in this world is to prepare to see God."

"I'm sure it is, dear grandma. I shall not forget."

"No, you will not forget," she answered slowly, "and I will not forget. 'The pure in heart.' What was our text for to-day, my dear?"

"'They shall see His face, and His name shall be in their foreheads.'"

"Yes," said Mrs. Bruce, "that is the one. They shall see 'His' face. That is what I have been looking for and thinking of for a long time; only I asked Him to let me help you first, my dear, dear child."

Lionel rose. "Dear grandma," he said cheerfully, "I shall write to you very often, and you will write to me, and I shall think of all you have said—always."

She kissed him once more, answering by nothing but a tender smile, and then he heard Courtenay's voice calling loudly that they would be late, and with one more "Good-bye, dear grandma," he was gone.

The carriage was at the door, and Margaret stood on the step, wrapped up in a shawl, to see them off. When the last wave of their hats had come, and nothing remained but the empty gateway with the leafless hedges shaking in the winter wind, Margaret turned indoors, and went to seek her dear mother, who she feared would be feeling the parting very deeply.

She entered, and came forward to where Mrs. Bruce sat in her usual place in the bay window. She was sitting now with one hand pressed tightly under her heart, while her eyes were closed as if in sleep.

"Darling mother," said Margaret gently, "are you in pain?"

She bent over her, and took her hand in hers, and then with a startled cry she turned round seeking Courtenay, or any help which might be near.

"Collins," she breathed to the maid who had followed her upstairs, "what is it?"

But she had no need to ask. She knew before Collins had time to answer that her beloved mother, no longer afflicted, and suffering, and forgetful, had gone in to see the King's face, and would come out no more for ever.