Chapter V

MARY BAXENDELL gave me a delightful welcome. She clung round my neck, kissed me, called me the best of darlings for coming so quickly, and then danced off to tell her mother of my arrival.

Mrs. Baxendell, less demonstrative, was no less kind, and the remainder of my holidays sped very happily, in spite of memories of the kitchen at Roundtree Farm, and those who gathered round its hearth.

Stop! I must be true. Was I quite happy? Did I rejoice in the thought that Mr. Marsden would have no means of tracing me if he wished to do so, and that under the circumstances I should soon be forgotten? Again, I must own that my happiness was not quite without alloy, and I wondered whether, if he cared so much for me, I had a right to risk his as well as my own.

I was half tempted to send a line to Mrs. Jennings, "just to inform her of my arrival," I said to myself, and then I scouted the idea. If I had written, my letter would have been for no such purpose, but from a cowardly regret for having run away, and to give Mr. Marsden a chance of following and finding me. In my own mind I pictured the scene at the farm, when Mrs. Jennings delivered my farewell messages to them. I could imagine Mr. Marsden's dismay and his friend's sympathy, which would be half congratulatory. I seemed to hear inquiries after my destination, and Mrs. Jennings' reply that she did not know it. Then there would be a hunt for the letter I had written when seeking accommodation; but that would be vain, as I had myself twisted it up as a pipe-lighter for Mr. Jennings.

There was little writing done at the farm. I had really answered my own note, for I had sent an addressed envelope, and told them just to write the word Yes' on a slip of paper if they could take me in, and I had been obeyed to the very letter. There would not be a scrap of writing which would guide Mr. Marsden either to High Lea or Hillstowe Vicarage. To the latter, Mary Baxendell and I returned in company.

The girl was a sweet, sympathetic creature, to whom I spoke with much freedom on most subjects, but, it is needless to say, not on that nearest of all to my heart. I kept it to myself, and it was hard work, because human sympathy at such times is very precious. Only at mornings and nights, as I knelt in my quiet room, with no sound but Dot's gentle breathing to reach my ear, did I open my heart and pray, "Father, I do desire to be numbered amongst those that love and serve Thee. Do Thou make all things to work together for my good, and help me, at all cost to self, to do what is right."

We had trouble at the vicarage that autumn. Good Mr. Barr became seriously ill, and Mrs. Barr was almost worn out with anxiety and nursing. I did my utmost to relieve her, but there were so many things in which only a wife or an elder nurse could be of use. I grieved to see her so overwrought. I knew what a terrible difference this illness would make on the wrong side in the income, all too little for the brightest days. Friends were kind, and many helps came from generous hands, but more were needed. I was afraid Mrs. Barr would break down, and then what would become of the vicar and the children?

He began to mend at last, and then the patient wife's strength gave way to some extent. I well remember her making a great effort to get outside Mr. Barr's room door, and then sinking down in a faint on the landing. She had made it to save him the shock of seeing her fall. My heart ached for them all, and for the first time I grieved over my own poverty. Mrs. Barr said rest would put her all right again, but rest seemed as unattainable as many other things for the mother at Hillstowe Vicarage, though she took care that nothing should disturb her husband's quiet. "His life means the children's bread," she said. "It is of far more consequence than mine."

To us who looked on, and mourned that we could do no more or better, it was hard to tell which life was more precious to all concerned.

The vicar was gaining strength and talking of beginning his pastoral work again, though the doctor protested against it, and said Mr. Barr must go away for a time first.

The vicar's doctor was not the only medical man who orders the unattainable for his patients, and knows he is doing it. But at this time, friends came forward and presented a well-lined purse to Mr. Barr, together with loving allusions to his past labours and hearty wishes for his future health.

Then poor Mrs. Barr's face brightened, a temporary curate was engaged, husband and wife went to Devonshire for a month, and returned a fortnight before Christmas, with renewed strength and thankful hearts.

They say that troubles never come-singly, and it happens now and then that the rule holds good with regard to blessings. A couple of years before that, the bishop had held a confirmation at Hillstowe, and, as his custom was, had preferred the simple hospitality of the vicar to that of a wealthy neighbour.

Mr. and Mrs. Barr had not entertained their right reverend guest with stories of difficulties and trials, or complained of their many olive branches and few pounds per annum, or shown him long faces.

On the contrary, they had just been their good, true selves, and had made him as comfortable as possible, without going out of their way.

The bishop had departed with pleasant words of farewell and thanks for Mr. and Mrs. Barr's hospitality; and there, as was thought, the matter ended.

It did not, however. The bishop remembered Hillstowe, made his calculations, and wished, vainly for the time, that he could give Mr. Barr a better living.

Then he heard of his illness and recovery, and then, too, came the bishop's opportunity. Immediately after the vicar's return, a letter arrived in the diocesan's own handwriting, offering him a living, worth eight hundred a year, in another county.

There was joy and sorrow, both in-doors and out, at the news. Joy for the vicar's sake, sorrow that he would be lost as the pastor of Hillstowe. I was nearly wild with delight. I did not know at first that this change would mean separation from the Barrs.

So it proved, however. The beautiful little rectory to which they must remove with the new year had been built by a childless predecessor, and would be too small to hold the troop of juvenile Barrs, to say nothing or Mary Baxendell. Moreover, the Baxendells would not spare Mary to go any distance from High Lea.

Until the rectory could be enlarged, it was settled that the elder girls should go to a boarding-school, and the twin boys should attend a good day-school, which was within an easy distance of their future home.

My occupation was gone. My pupils were about to be scattered, I was to lose the precious little one that called herself Miss Anstey's baby, and whose curly head had so often rested on my breast in sleep, and enriched me by her sweet presence!

I should lose the companionship of Mrs. Barr too, and more. I must begin to look round for some other work to do, some roof beneath which there would be room for Lois Anstey.

I was very down-hearted, not because I had to work for my bread, but for fear I might not find the work to do, and at the thought of going out again into the wide world and all amongst strangers. It was in vain I took myself to task for selfishness. I did rejoice in the good which had come to these dear friends, but how could I wholly forget that the message which brought new life to them was almost like death to me?

It had been previously settled that I was to spend Christmas with the Baxendells. I had half hoped that they might engage me as governess to Mary, but I found that Mr. Baxendell shrank from the idea of having a governess in the house. He seemed to think it would spoil its privacy, and prove a restraint to him and his wife.

Mrs. Baxendell would have liked to engage me. Mary pleaded for this with her father. But though he rarely denied his pet anything, he would not yield in this matter.

"My wife and I are a Darby and Joan couple," said Mr. Baxendell. "We are quiet, too, in our ways, and we would never condemn a young girl to the loneliness of a separate room, because we so often find two to be company enough. Mary, our own child, hardly counts as a third in the same sense."

I could not plead for a corner, or say that I should be contented with solitude at High Lea; and so it was settled that music and other teachers should come from a neighbouring town to give Mary periodical lessons and complete her education at home.

The girl displayed more temper about this matter than I had seen in her before.

"As if I should ever do a morsel of good all by myself!" she said. "It is horrid to think of solitary lessons, and I know my teachers will get no credit out of me. I would rather have you than a whole townful of other people. I know I shall hate the very sight of them."

She broke into a passion of tears, and I was obliged to look stern and say, "You will make your parents feel that I have taught you badly, Mary, if you rebel against their wishes, just because they do not agree with your own. Besides, they will not care to have me as a Christmas guest if my presence is to stir up a spirit of opposition in their only child."

"Oh, dear! Miss Anstey," replied Mary, with a helpless gesture; "then I know not what to do. I must not vex my father and mother, though I so badly want you to stay at High Lea."

Then, after a moment's abstraction, "I do wish my cousin Lawrence would marry you. He is very nice, and just the right age—twenty-five."

What could I do but laugh at this absurd speech?

"You dear, foolish child," I said, "you must have made up your mind to drive me from High Lea. If you wish to keep me for a little while, never allude again to my remaining beyond the holidays; and, above all, never couple my name with that of Mr. Lawrence, or any other gentleman. It would grieve me sadly; and, more than that, I should run away of my own accord."

"I would not grieve you for the world," said the child, covering my face with kisses. Mary Baxendell was now fifteen, and a very child in frankness and innocence, though in some respects older than her age.

I said to her now, "A year ago, when it pleased God that I should be left fatherless, I prayed to Him to direct me, and I did not ask in vain. I have had a great deal of happiness during the year, and I have more friends than I possessed twelve months ago, as well as more money in my pocket. I came to Hillstowe with just half-a-crown left. When I said good-bye to the Barrs I had six months' salary to begin the world with again. I am comparatively rich. If I could leave myself in God's hands immediately after my father's death, surely I may trust Him after an enlarged experience of His faithfulness."

"Dear Miss Anstey, I know you are right," said Mary. "But you need never want for money, you know, because my father would give me anything I might ask in that way, though he will not have a resident governess for me. And, I had nearly forgotten, my cousin Lawrence and my aunt are expected before dinner-time."

This announcement concerned me little, and I went leisurely on with my arrangements, only determining that I would not go to the drawing-room until just before the gong was sounded for dinner.