Chapter XX: The Recompence of the Reward

"HERE is a telegram, Courtenay," said Marian one day, soon after the foregoing conversation, entering Margaret's sitting-room about eleven o'clock.

Margaret looked up. What ill news could come now?—was her first thought. And then her second was, that He who loved her ruled.

Courtenay took it calmly. A telegram comes so often nowadays, that if Margaret's nerves had not been weak, she would not have feared the contents of this one.

"From Fortescue," said Courtenay, reading out:

"Will you ask Alick and Lionel's parents if they may come to Leesworth
for Easter at my expense?"

This was Thursday. To-morrow would be Good Friday. It fell this year as early as it possibly could fall.

"Then I suppose Fortescue is coming with them. Margaret, love, you will have a large party."

"But 'I' can go home," said Marian.

"Indeed, you shall not! Why, Marian, you are my greatest help and comfort," answered Margaret earnestly, "Do not go and forsake me."

"Forsake you?" said Marian, kissing her affectionately. "But I have been here nearly a fortnight already, and you will be getting tired of me."

"That is likely," answered Margaret, "but it shall be as you wish, dearest. Only, if I am asked, I shall say, 'Stay.'"

"How nice it would be for them to come home," said Marian; "the Cliff is not the same without them."

Just at this moment, Lilian entered and caught the last words.

"Without your boys? Is there some project for them to come? I should like to see them before I go."

"You are not going yet, Miss Lilian?" answered Courtenay. "Not if you are happy to remain with us a little longer."

Lilian put her arm round Marian. "I have so much to thank you all for," she said gently, "and especially this brave little woman."

Marian looked up with a smile, and then said to Courtenay, "Shall I run over and ask father about Lionel?"

"But I do not understand it all," said Courtenay. "I thought Fortescue was in Scotland."

"I suppose he is passing through London, on his way back."

"Perhaps so. Poor boys! If I had thought they wished to come home, I would have provided the means. But I thought they were too busy—"

"Yes," said Marian, "father did talk about it, Courtenay. But he said, 'Much as he wanted to see them, it would be better not to unsettle them, as they had not mentioned it.'"

"Oh, well, here it is put into their heads, and so now what is to be done? Is the telegraph messenger waiting, Marian?"

"I believe so."

"Then let us go over together, and ask the momentous question at each house. Marian, I declare my heart feels lighter. I do long to see them again. Two months! Have they been gone two months?"

In less than half an hour a telegram was on its way back, giving permission from Mr. Malden and Mr. Chantry. And in a very short time after that, came another from Mr. Fortescue, announcing that they would all arrive at seven o'clock.

"Now, Courtenay," said Margaret, "how are we going to dispose of them? Are they to come here or to be at their homes?"

"I thought of that. But do you know, Margaret, I am afraid it would be very selfish to ask them here? The two other houses need cheering quite as much as we do. And my father and mother would prefer for Marian to come home now, they say."

Margaret looked disappointed. "You do not know how good she has been to me, Courtenay. When you and Lilian have been out, she has kept me company, and I am sure it is not because she does not like riding as much as anyone, but it is her unselfishness. She has chatted away as pleasantly, or read to me as cheerfully, as if—"

Margaret's words quite failed her.

"You are not a very unpleasant person to do things for," smiled her husband.

"Ah, but I am not as interesting as if I were well," said Margaret, sighing.

So before night, Marian's few belongings had been carried home, and Lilian had poutingly told her she should never forgive her.

"Why I am coming back this evening," said Marian. "When Lionel has told father all his news, we are both coming in here."

Lilian was not half satisfied, but Marian had assured her it was what she herself liked best. And so she saw her go, and turned back into The Towers, feeling as if a bit of sunshine had been shut out.

And then Courtenay's carriage had gone to meet them. And in due time, the wheels were heard returning, and Alick and Lionel got out before it turned in at The Towers' gates, while Mr. Fortescue drove up to the steps in solitary state.

His sister and Courtenay were in the hall to meet him. And when he entered the drawing-room, one glance showed him that Marian was not there. This was a shock to him, as he knew from Lilian's letters that she had been staying at The Towers. And he glanced in their faces to see if he might guess whether there was bad news in store for him. But they all looked very happy, and much the same as when he left them, so he took courage again.

Meanwhile, at Sunnyside, Lionel was seated close to his father's side, holding his mother's hand in his, and talking as fast as his tongue would go.

"How you have grown!" said his mother for the sixth time at least. "And how much older you look! Why, Lionel, you cannot be called a boy any longer!"

"Of course not, mother. We were past that before we left home, only you would call us so. In London we stand on our merits as gentlemen."

Marian laughed. "Lionel, your old stilts are out in the shed. Have you grown too tall for them?"

"Why?" asked Lionel.

"Because I thought you had brought a new pair down with you."

"Oh, that's it, Miss Marian! So you have grown saucy. But seriously, mother, this is a jolly dodge of Fortescue's. I call it very kind of him."

"Very," said Mr. Malden; "I could not have had a greater pleasure given me. I was quite wearying for a sight of you, Lionel; and as to mother—"

Mr. Malden's eyes turned to the beautiful, patient face, but hers were riveted on her son's.

"What had London done for him?" she thought.

"But we shall have to go back on Monday night. I cannot miss any of my lectures, and as to Alick, I can tell you, he has to work like a slave."

"No; has he?" asked Marian.

"And if he were one minute late, the whole lot of fellows would make it a case against him. They hate him, that's the truth."

"Hate him?" asked Mrs. Malden, too astonished to say another word.

"Perfectly hate him. I'll tell you about it, for Alick never will. Oh, here's tea, hurrah! But I'll tell you at tea."

He proceeded to wheel his father's chair into the dining-room. But as they crossed the hall, the glass door opened, and Mr. Fortescue came in.

He waited a moment till the chair had gone through the dining-room door, and was put into its place, and then he came forward.

"I could not sit down to dinner till I had seen you," he said, addressing himself generally, but taking Marian's hand. "But I hear you are coming in presently."

"Yes," answered Marian, "though I do not think mother is coming. I wish you would, mother."

Mrs. Malden shook her head happily. "I would rather stay with dear father, but if Margaret were well enough to come over here—"

"I fear she is not," said Mr. Fortescue. "She did propose it, but Mr. Courtenay would not hear of it. He said the risk was too great, as she is not strong."

"No, he is quite right; Marian and Lionel shall come for a little while presently."

"I will come and fetch them after dinner." With that, he went off, looking as if he would rather stay there.

When they had seated themselves, and had fairly begun their meal, Lionel said:

"Now, Leslie and Muriel, you must hold your tongues about what I'm going to tell father, because Alick will not have it talked about, and I did not know you youngsters were coming down to tea."

"We always do now, and we shall not repeat anything," said Muriel.

"All right then. And as to that, I should like you to hear it if you don't go and make a fuss and talk about it.

"Well, father, you must know that Alick got very quiet after a week or two at his warehouse; and for the matter of that, so did I. We both had found out things that were not 'couleur de rose,' and it upset us a good deal. But we had come to a tacit understanding that we could not go over every little worry to each other, so we said nothing, and bore it. I'll confess to you that that was the darkest bit of our London life as yet.

"After awhile, Alick looked so pale and downcast that I thought the time had come to speak out, and I asked him if things were not going on satisfactorily at his place.

"'Pretty well,' he said wearily.

"'I wish you'd tell me,' said I, feeling downright anxious about him, and having visions of Aunt Greta, and Salome, and everybody, coming up to receive his last messages."

"Lionel!" said his mother.

"I did indeed, mother. Trust the first two months in London for taking the pluck out of you. But it's better now.

"'There is nothing to tell,' said Alick; 'nothing but what everybody new has to bear. They want to mould me into one of themselves, and I'd rather die first.'

"'Hurrah,' said I, clapping him on the back, 'then I don't mind. Now, Alick, out with it; for I began to fear from your way that they had made you into one of themselves. Go ahead.'

"Alick seemed very pleased with my warmth, and presently said (as near as I can remember):

"'There is very little to "go ahead" about as you call it, Lionel. I suppose in many warehouses the young men are taught and expected to deceive. The manager of our department is responsible for making it pay, and we are quietly made to understand that no nonsense is allowed. By that they mean that conscientious scruples are not to be thought of. We are instructed (or hardly instructed, but expected) to pass off goods which are not of the quality asked for; we have to ignore any questions customers may ask, or to tell downright lies to get out of them; we have to assure people that this cloth will wear longer than that one, in order to pass off an unsaleable piece to an inexperienced buyer. Should we any of us be caught doing anything else than this—and there are countless variations in the untruths that are expected of us—the manager comes down upon us and expends his most sarcastic wrath upon us. He intimates sneeringly that he supposes we have well-to-do friends, as we take so little care to keep our situations; at least that was what he said to me this afternoon.'

"'Do you suppose he means it, Alick?' said I.

"'Oh, dear, yes! Not that he will give me notice on any occasion such as this, but he will take an early opportunity of doing me a bad turn. There is a fellow there who has seen him do it; he warned me to be careful.'

"'That means, that he also wanted you to put your conscience in your pocket?'

"'No; for he seems not to do so himself. He is a very quiet, useful man, who seldom speaks, but keeps on his way in spite of them. That is why I liked him.'

"'I'm glad you have one friend,' said I.

"'He cannot be called a friend exactly,' said Alick thoughtfully, 'but I do believe he is a help to me, now I come to think of it.'

"'But, Alick,' said I, 'if you are doing "right," why do you mind?'

"'It is easy to say that, but almost impossible to explain it,' he answered, getting despondent again. 'The right is not always apparent. I wonder sometimes if I am making myself unpleasant for nothing—whether I may, after all, be "straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel."'

"'"Are" you swallowing a camel?' I asked.

"'No—not that I know of—no, Lionel. But I find myself slipping into a hope that Mr. Axleford will not come round; and even into wishing to meet his views as far as I can without stepping over the line.'

"'That is the hardest of all, I am sure,' said I.

"Alick looked up. 'Yes it is, Lionel, yet what can I do?'

"'You will not think me irreverent if I say that it might be a help if you could remember the Lord Jesus is standing by. All things would grow clear in that light.'

"'So they would,' said Alick with a sigh of relief. 'I'll think of that next time.'

"'And then,' said I, 'perhaps it would help you too, Alick, to remember that you are not to be sad under this affliction, but to know that you are "blessed," because you are being "persecuted for righteousness' sake."'

"Then the clouds seemed to roll from Alick's face, and he took out his books to study with quite a different look from what he had borne lately.

"When we wished good-night, he told me I had been a great comfort to him.

"'Then let us tell each other of our difficulties, Alick; for I am sure it would be better,' I said.

"So we promised, and since then such a strange thing has happened. There was a difficulty about the accounts, and some money was missing; and what do you think the owner of the concern did? Though Alick has only been there two months, he had him up with the other man, whom he likes you know, and the charge of the books and things was given to them, and they were taken into Mr. Winter's confidence in every way. I assure you, father, Alick looked as if he had got a fortune when he came home that night."

"Of course he did," said Marian.

"Now don't you love Alick more than ever?" asked Lionel. "Because 'I' do. He has been persecuted for righteousness' sake; and he will be again before he has done."

"And was the money found out about?" asked Leslie.

"Oh dear, yes! Two of the most uppish of the lot, who had been ringleaders in despising Alick. They got the sack though."

"And that manager?"

"Oh, he has Mr. Winter's confidence apparently."

"How came they to choose Alick?"

"Oh, I think Mr. Axleford thought that, though he was too conscientious for 'him,' he might be just right for accounts. And I expect he was only too glad to get him out of his department."

Then, tea being over, Lionel proposed that they should go to The Towers.

"Do not be in a hurry," answered his mother; "Mr. Fortescue is coming to fetch you."

"He is not coming to fetch 'me,'" he said, laughing. "So if you don't want me any longer, I'll be off to find Alick."

Hardly waiting for permission, he was gone.

And Marian sat down with her work in her hand to wait.

Was it a very long half-hour or a very short half-hour before she heard his step coming across the hall? She could never decide which it had been.

Mr. Fortescue sat down by Mr. Malden, and talked to him quietly for a few minutes, and then he asked Marian if she were ready.

"I will get my shawl," she answered, rising and leaving the room.

When she came downstairs again, Evan stood in the hall waiting to open the door.

"Moonlight again," he said as they went out; "and I have so longed to see this moon with you."

"Have you?"

"Do you not think it likely, Marian? I wanted to write to you, and intended to do so, but afterwards, I thought I had better not. It has seemed such a long fortnight to me. Did you think I should write to you?"

"I did not know," faltered Marian; "you had not said anything about it."

"I thought when I was gone that perhaps I had pressed you too much—had put my wishes too forward. So I decided I would leave you quite free of me for a little while. My dear, I would not have you say 'Yes' for my sake for the world. Marian, I am afraid I have been selfish."

"You need not fear that," she said gently.

There was a long pause, and they had almost reached The Towers' door.

Marian's tongue seemed tied, and Evan thought he had said all he could. Had it not been for a certain tone in her last words, he had intended to wait indefinitely. Now he felt something more must be said.

"Shall we walk up and down the terrace?" he asked. "The moon is so sweet there."

Marian turned her steps in that direction. She would have given anything to be able to speak.

"I shall go home to-morrow I think, dear, and come back again another time. Would it not be best, Marian?"

She did not answer, because she could not.

"Eh, dear Marian? I have only worried you for nothing. I had better go."

"But I do not want you to go," she said at last, "not if you want to stay."

"Marian, you do not doubt that?"

"Then please be happy. I wanted to tell you before you went, but then I could not. I wanted to tell you—"

He bent lower, but he could not hear.

"That you do care for me really, dearest?"

"Yes, that was what I wished to tell you; and that making you happy makes me happy."

Evan took her hands in his, and looked down on her face for a moment.

"Thank God," he said reverently. "Oh, Marian, how good He has been to me!"

And when they went in five minutes afterwards, those in the secret guessed in a moment that all was right. Evan was as joyful as on that day when he had heard from his father. And Marian, though as quiet as a little mouse, looked perfectly content, and sat holding Margaret's hand, as if that were the only thing she could do.

Lilian came behind her and leaned over her chair.

"I may call you 'little sister' now?" she whispered mischievously.

And Marian answered shyly, "Yes, but it was very wrong of you before, Lilian."

"Alick," said Lionel that night as they walked over to their respective homes, "did you ever guess that there was anything up between those two?"

"Not till lately."

"I always thought that he was not likely to marry."

"Yes, so did I. But one day, when Marian and you were chasing each other about the garden, he was standing at the window watching you with such a sad look on his face, and he said to me,—

"'Alick, we sing that hymn sometimes, "Thy will be done," without thinking quite what it involves. I sometimes find it hard to wait for that will.'"

"And what did you answer?" asked Lionel.

"I said I thought feeling it hard to wait meant a want of confidence in our Father's 'love,' a fear that if we were not in a hurry, we should never get what we wanted. He looked up earnestly, and put his hand on my shoulder.

"'Thank you, Alick,' he answered. Then turning again to watch you both, he added with a smile—such a smile, Lionel, as I never saw on his face before—'God loves her better than I.'

"I think he had forgotten my presence, and I slipped out, and did not remind him of it. I should never have told you, only that it has all ended so happily, and he would not mind it now."

The moonlight had all passed away from the front windows, though the sea in sight of them still glittered like a sheet of silver.

Marian, finding that Evan wished to speak to her father and mother, had escaped to her room. She knelt down by her window, and leaned her arms on the sill. Was it possible that she could be the same girl who knelt there last night? she thought. How was it that she was at once so intensely happy and yet almost sorrowful?

At last, she heard her mother's soft step behind her. Two arms were put about her shoulders, and a voice said, "So you have decided, my child?"

"Yes, mother."

"And it has made you happy, dearest?"

"Only how can I leave you and dear father? Somehow I never thought of that properly before," she whispered.

Mrs. Malden could have sighed, but she only said cheerfully, "I trust it will be for your happiness, my darling. But, Marian—I should blame myself if I did not ask you once for all—you are 'sure' that you are not accepting him because you would be so sorry for him to be disappointed?"

Marian hung her head, and Mrs. Malden grew alarmed.

"Because, dearest, if that were so, you could not do him a greater wrong than to accept him now to save him sadness, and afterwards find out your mistake."

"Is he afraid of that?" she asked sorrowfully.

"No, no, but tell me, dearest. Do trust your mother with all your heart."

"I could not bear for him to think so," she answered softly, "because it would not be true. Mother, I did not understand myself at first, and it was all so strange and surprising that I was foolish. But when he spoke this evening of going away, I thought my heart would break. And now, if it were not for leaving you, I should be so happy that I should be afraid."

Her mother clasped her closely, but did not speak. She asked no more questions after that; she knew Marian too well to doubt her.

By-and-by Marian raised her head, and said simply:

"He told me that though his father was very anxious for his marriage, and though he could hardly bear to think of leaving me any more (I did not know he had thought about it for so long, mother), yet that he would not take me away from you till I am twenty. That will be two years, you know. He says it will be enough for him to be sure—" She paused, and her mother listened for the rest, but it did not come.

"To be sure of what, dearest?" she asked at last.

"That I love him," she whispered. "When I told him that I thought it was God had given us to each other, he seemed so happy, mother."

* * * * * *

And so Easter passed away, and the boys went back to London, and set-to once more at the stern duties of life.

One evening Lionel, going to fetch a match out of Alick's room, saw something fresh there, which made him call out:

"Hullo, Alick! When did you do this?"

It was a beautiful text, framed in oak, hanging over his mantelpiece.

Alick laughed. "I wondered how long you would be before you discovered that."

"Who did it?"

"'My boy,'" said Alick, smiling, in remembrance of a name he had given Courtenay years ago.

"Ah, I see. Well, Alick, it's a beauty. I suppose you told him about all this that you've had to go through?"

"Yes, I wanted his advice."

"And what was it?"

"Just what 'you' said, dear old Lionel." Alick pointed to the text, and repeated with emphasis:

"'"Blessed" are they that are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'

"Lionel, the sowing-time may be tedious, but what a harvest of blessing is promised to all those who learn to do His will."