Chapter III

"ELSIE, dear, I thought Mr. Gilmour was coming in for a cup of tea, and to say 'Good-bye.' Is he coming?"

"No, mother; he had to do some visiting, and could not stay. He asked me to say Good-bye, and he will endeavour to send you particulars to-morrow about that case he has been inquiring into for you."

"Where did Mr. Gilmour leave you, Elsie?"

"At the gate, mother dear. He asked me to see him safe off the premises."

A little light laugh and a pretty blush followed this reply.

"Elsie, dear, he comes here a great deal."

"Yes, he seems to like us all very much. He is especially fond of—you and Uncle Edward. You ought to be much flattered, for everybody wants to see him often, and everybody cannot, though none of the poor people are ever forgotten in his round."

"But, my dear, do you think you should have gone to the gate with Mr. Gilmour? You are very young, dear child, and very apt to do just what comes into your head."

"Surely that was not wicked. Indeed, if it had been, Mr. Gilmour would never have asked me to do it; he is so good. Even old Miss Chatterton owns that, and is about to send for a niece to pay her a long visit, because she is pre-eminently fitted for a poor clergyman's wife. She can make sixpence go farther than anybody else's shilling, and has had enormous experience in district visiting and the management of a clothing club. Miss Chatterton thinks Mr. Gilmour should have a wife—in case he should be made a bishop, you know, dear."

Elsie's face was brimming over with fun. All the softness had fled, and mischief was now written thereon in prominent characters.

The mother pictured Miss Chatterton's niece as a youthful copy of her aunt, and thought how such a one would mate with Douglass Gilmour. The result was a hearty laugh, and Elsie's triumph.

She liked to appeal to Mrs. Manning's strong sense of humour, and used it for her own ends.

"But, Elsie darling, putting aside Miss Chatterton."

"Most willingly, mother, and her plans for Mr. Gilmour, to which I really believe he would object, if he knew about them."

"Do be serious, Elsie, I want to talk of yourself, not of Miss Chatterton."

Elsie manifested immediate alacrity, and suggested that the change would be an improvement.

"Dear, it is about Mr. Gilmour, also."

"A further improvement, he being so much better than I am and feel I ought to be. He is always trying to influence me for good—I am afraid with but little success so far. You may trust him, mother."

"I do, darling; but I want you to be a wise child, and give no one cause to say a harsh word of you. Remember, the eyes of the parish and congregation are always on a young clergyman. For his Master's sake, as well as for his own, he must give no occasion for fault-finding."

"I know, mother, and so does Mr. Gilmour, and acts upon it."

"Mind you do not let Miss Chatterton have cause to talk about any of your doings, my child. She represents a little world."

"I only wish I could 'let or hinder' Miss Chatterton's tongue from running so fast about everything and everybody. She says it is because she 'feels such an interest in young people.' I wish she would manifest a higher principle instead of so much interest. However, if it will comfort you to know it, Miss Chatterton did not see me at the gate to-day."

"Elsie, Elsie, you are incorrigible. You know what I mean. Dear love, do not allow Mr. Gilmour or any one to think you forward."

"He does not, mother," and the soft pink deepened into an indignant flush on Elsie's cheek and brow.

"It is for the man to seek—"

"He does, mother."

"For the girl to let herself be followed and—"

"I do, dear," interrupted Elsie, and mischief had evidently resumed her reign and mastered the feeling which at first threatened rebellion.

The girl laughed merrily after saying the brief monosyllables in a demure tone, and the mother recognised that the replies were only too true. Mr. Gilmour did seek and follow, and Elsie, alas! Allowed herself to be sought and overtaken, there was no doubt about it.

But in another moment the young arms were round the mother's neck, and Elsie whispered, "Trust me, dear, do trust me, and Mr. Gilmour too. You shall owe no sorrow to me, thoughtless as I may seem sometimes. My mother's heart shall never ache through Elsie's doings. There is nothing you need trouble about, believe me."

The girl's head was hidden on Mrs. Manning's shoulder, and the mother clasped her closely, kissing the soft wavy tresses and then the sweet face which she turned lovingly towards her own.

"Darling child," she whispered, "it is only my true anxiety for your happiness which makes me speak. This young man comes so often, and is made almost like a son in the house. Uncle Edward encourages him, and I—well, I cannot help owning how much there is about him which is calculated to win the affection and respect of a true-hearted, pure-minded girl. But even were he to enter into an engagement, years and years might pass before he could marry. I have been a little ambitious for you two girls, perhaps most for you, and I cannot bear to think of your young life being spent in waiting for a future which may be so distant."

"Uncle Edward loves you girls—indeed, to all of you he has been a second father since he brought us out of comparative poverty to this beautiful home. But though he will no doubt provide for you, so far as to keep you above want, that provision will be yours only when he no longer needs it, and I am sure we should hate ourselves were we to calculate on what may come from such a source."

"I hate to hear it named even," said Elsie.

"True, dear; but fancy what it would be to go through—"

Elsie stopped the rest of the sentence with a kiss.

"Mother, dear, do not try to fancy anything. Let us just be happy and thankful in the present, and not trouble ourselves about possibilities. Where is the good of singing—"

"'Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.'"

"If we go on hesitating and worrying ourselves as to the next?"

"Ah! it is like the young to dance gaily on to the very edge of the precipice, and not concern themselves about what the path leads to, so long as it is strewn with flowers."

"But our path only led to the gate, mother; there was no sign of a precipice beyond, and the path, though bordered with flowers, is by no means strewn with them, but with fine new gravel, extremely trying to Miss Chatterton's favourite corn, she tells me. I am half hoping it may make her visits more angelic—that is, fewer and farther between—than they have been."

Mrs. Manning sighed.

"You know what I mean, Elsie, but the subject is not an easy one for a mother to talk about, especially when a child pretends to misunderstand: I cannot help feeling the danger to you and Katie."

Mrs. Manning had no time to add another word. Very inopportunely, as she thought, the door opened, and a servant announced "Miss Chatterton." Perhaps, for the first time in her life, Elsie was glad of the arrival of that loquacious spinster, though by means of an open French window she escaped into the garden, and did not re-appear until dinner-time.

The girl was not indifferent or heedless as she listened to her mother; on the contrary, every word was engraven on her memory, and she recognised the love and anxious care which had prompted the little talk. Still, out of all that had been said, the sage advice was the least thought about. The very last words of the interrupted sentence were those which really produced a profound impression, and they were, "The danger to you and Katie."