Chapter II

LITTLE CRAY is one of the quaintest and quietest of English villages, but is only three miles from a large market town. It is made up, with two exceptions, of farmhouses and labourers' cottages. The latter, somewhat rude in construction, with thatched roofs and whitewashed walls, are picturesque to look upon, and exquisitely clean; a little bare-looking in winter, but in summer every cottage garden teems with old-fashioned flowers. Roses, honeysuckle, white-starred jasmine, canary and Virginia creepers, and the humbler nasturtium vie in throwing veils across the little porches, or spreading along the gables, or clambering over the thatch itself. And from amongst the trees that have stood for centuries the massive square tower of Little Cray Church can be seen for many a mile.

The rector, Mr. Worthington, does not reside in the village. Little Cray is the mother parish, but she has a daughter church much larger than herself, and vastly more fashionable. The place is near the coast, and what was once a cluster of fishermen's huts, has of late years developed into quite a fashionable watering-place. A large modern church has been built to meet the requirements thereof, and thither the rector has migrated to minister to a crowded congregation whilst the season lasts—at all times to a much more numerous one than is ever found within the ancient walls at Little Cray.

The new rectory house, with modern surroundings and comforts, is better suited to the needs of his family than the old dwelling in the village.

So this accounts for our curate's possession of a house to himself, and he is master of that ivy-covered domicile which peeps modestly out from among the trees near the old church tower.

I said he was master, but I am not quite sure of this. When he came to Little Cray, he was rather doubtful as to whether he should occupy the rectory or not. Certainly, he could not afford to furnish it, and there would be a difficulty about finding lodgings, as none had been required there within the memory of Little Cray's oldest inhabitant.

But the rector and his curate, though both young men, were old friends. The former was the elder, and he had been ordained and had married early. He was in Arthur's confidence as to the demands on his purse, and he thought he could solve the difficulty.

"There is a lot of furniture in the old house which I do not wish to remove, as we are having new in place of it. I should be grateful if you would allow it to stay. It suits this place and would not suit the new one. The house is just the spot for a brain-weary man to rest in—not good enough for you in any other respect, my dear fellow, and you will not stop here long. I can help you to make an arrangement which will be an immense accommodation to a worthy couple, and will, I think, just meet your views."

Whereupon Mr. Worthington introduced a comely matron, named Esther Morris, whose husband had obtained work in Little Cray, but could not find an empty cottage in which to locate his family. There were husband, wife, and two white-headed, sunburnt urchins, for whom it was guaranteed that they were "very bidable, knew manners, would not disturb the passon, and a look was enough to snub them."

Esther had been a servant at Little Cray Rectory before Mr. Worthington's time. It would be like coming home again if she were to keep house for the curate. Her household goods would furnish the part occupied by her family; those left by the rector, with Arthur's books and many pretty fancy articles made by the nimble fingers of his young sisters, would render the other portion all that he could desire.

The bargain was easily concluded. Mr. Glyn was to give house-room, firing, and lights to the Morris family, and Esther was to keep house and generally "do for" the curate, with occasional help, for which he was to pay. This agreement had been in force for six months, and now Christmas was coming, and with it Arthur Glyn hoped for the society of his younger sister, Gertrude. Hilda was passing the winter at Cannes with a delicate pupil, but Gertrude had sent a number of loving letters to tell him how she was reckoning on spending at least a month with dear old Arthur at Little Cray.

And the solitary young man, who had been living for others ever since he was able to think and act, was counting the hours until that happy one should arrive which would bring the sweet young face of his favourite to cheer his fireside.

But as he paced up and down the study on that dismal morning, on the shortest day, and one of the dreariest in all the year, his heart might well echo what bolder grumblers put into words, "It is not a bit like Christmas."

That open letter upon the study table replied, though mutely, "And I bring a message which will take the taste out of your Christmas dinner."

The letter was from Gertrude, and told a love tale—a very happy one. The lassie had won the affections of a good man, the uncle of her little pupils. He had wealth, position, high character, and must have sought the little damsel for herself alone, since all her dowry consisted in her fair young face, true heart, and well-cultivated mind. Better still, every one was agreeable, and so the girl's letter was full of sunshine and the shy happiness which wants to tell all its tale to the dear absent brother, but can hardly put it into words.

"He is to spend Christmas here, and they all want me to stay," wrote Gertrude. "Of course, I should like it, only I want you too, dear Arthur. I cannot possibly be quite happy until you have seen him, and told me that you, who stand in place of both father and mother, are satisfied with my choice, and can ask God's blessing on it. You will come to us, dear, if only on Christmas Eve. I am sure Mr. Worthington will contrive to set you at liberty, and some time after the New Year has begun I will join you at Little Cray. Only, if you cannot possibly come, I will keep my promise, and spend Christmas at your village parsonage. But do, please, try to join us here."

"The little gipsy!" exclaimed the Reverend Arthur, as he finished his, sister's letter. "To think of the child being engaged! But what nonsense I am talking to myself! She is two-and-twenty—a woman, and more, even, in the stern eye of the law—and can dispose of herself without let or hindrance from me—bless her! Not that I would hinder the bright little bird, or interfere with her choice of a mate. What an old fellow this letter makes me! I have left the girls such a long way behind that I can hardly realize how few years really lie between them and me!"

The curate paced up and down, pausing a moment to see the wet dripping and trickling from the eaves, the Christmas greenery of laurel, ivy, and holly shining like burnished metal under their washing, and to hear the melancholy coo of the pigeons as they crouched under the shelter of the overhanging roofs, and complained in a neighbourly way of there being "so much weather about."

Arthur's thoughts left his immediate surroundings. He knew Leonard Thorold, pretty Gertrude's fiancé, and could picture the little bright thing looking up to her tall lover as she nestled beside him, the dark eyes veiled with moisture, the half-shy yet all-trustful clasp on the strong arm that was to be her support through life. Half to himself, the brother murmured a prayer for her happiness, and then, sitting down, he wrote out his loving wishes, his hearty sympathy, his own unselfish resolution respecting the Christmas visit.

"It is impossible for me to leave Little Cray at this season," he wrote. "It would not be right for me to suggest such a thing to Mr. Worthington so, much as I should like to give my darling sister a brother's kiss, and tell her, instead of writing it, how truly I rejoice with her in this new-born happiness, I must be content to spend my Christmas in old bachelor fashion. As to your coming to me! That is equally impossible. A little cloaked and furred damsel, known to the world as Gertrude Glyn, might be packed off by train, landed at the station nearest to Little Cray, and thence conveyed in a borrowed trap to the rectory. But if she were here in the body she would be absent in spirit. Whilst I was talking to my little sister, she would be hearing again that other voice which has so lately told its love tale, and would answer Leonard whilst brother Arthur was speaking."

"No use, darling! I will not have the shell without the kernel, and I love you far too well to wish for your presence under the circumstances. Perhaps another Christmas we may—but no; I will not try to look beyond your happy present. So good-bye, dear sister, and may the joy which is now only in the bud bring glorious blossom in the future. I believe you love wisely, for Leonard is a good man. May you be to each other all that the great Creator willed when He gave man to be the head of the woman, and the wife to be his true helpmeet!"

There were more messages, news of Hilda—all the little odds and ends of information which Arthur knew his sister would delight to receive from him. He told her how he was fussed, petted, and tyrannized over by Esther Morris, who interfered with his liberty of action in the choice of garments; of her solemn warnings on the subject of going out without a macintosh when there was only a microscopic shower falling, and her own evident sense of responsibility on the score of his health. Any and everything did he tell which could provoke his sister's mirth, and lead her to think how wonderfully well he was looked after, and how independent of other feminine presence.

Not one word about the sinking of heart; not a suggestion about his personal disappointment; no hint of the feeling with which he glanced at the cosy chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, in which he had reckoned on seeing his young sister. Only, when she came, that chair was to have been moved to the same side as his own, in order that hand might clasp hand, and loving pressure tell of mutual sympathy, as they exchanged confidences about the past year.

Let the little chair stand; no need to move it. The glossy head has found another resting-place; the taper fingers will be clasped by another hand than Arthur's!

And he might as well write to countermand that piano, carefully selected at the principal music shop in the market town before alluded to. It—the piano—had been almost recklessly hired for a month, that the little sister might miss no comfort, and that the brother, leaning back in his favourite chair, might listen as she sang hymn or song that the mother had loved in the old days, and taught to her children.

No need for the piano now.

And then, amidst the unspoken feelings of regret, came a reproachful thought. The brother, unselfish hitherto, was himself again, and shutting out the memory of his disappointment, blaming himself even for allowing it to intrude, he resolutely banished it, and kneeling down, thanked God for His goodness to the little sister, and prayed for her continued happiness in future years.

The dim light of that wintry day faded into darkness. The rain continued to patter outside, but the curate's fire, carefully replenished, gave a cheerful glow, and by it he sat dreaming just for once.

Not that he was given to day-dreams when there was work to be done, but just now rest was the truest economy, and as his mind was too busy to be altogether idle, dreaming was the employment which cost the least mental effort.

Gertrude was dispossessed from the little waiting chair, but as Arthur's dream progressed, he saw it occupied by another figure; a girl's also, younger than the sister by fully two years; taller, slighter, fairer than the little gipsy to whom he had been writing. He saw the delicate cheek, resting on a slender hand; the lovely violet eyes, full of feeling and tenderness; the abundant hair, drawn, but not tightly, from the fair forehead, and twisted in soft coils behind, innocent of frizzing-irons or fringes. All about the figure was sweet, feminine, and forming a delightful combination of girlish innocence and womanly goodness.

As Arthur saw the imaginary figure filling that place, the dream was bright enough to bring a little cry of gladness to his lips and a smile to his thoughtful face. He half-stretched out his arms as he rose involuntarily from his seat, but as he did so the vision faded, the chair became empty again.

A real face appeared in the doorway, and Esther Morris inquired if "master" called, for she thought she heard his voice. She brought the lighted lamp in her hand, thus anticipating a want that must shortly be attended to, and—only she did not know it—an extinguisher too, which shut out and put out the light of Arthur's dream.

"Better so," thought the curate, as he returned a civil, pleasant answer to Esther, and his thanks for the lamp, as if he had wished for either the one or the other. "If I have conquered the inclination to grieve after the real which is unattainable, no use for me to indulge in dreams, or fume if the vision is dissipated by the very substantial form of Esther Morris. If! but away with ifs!" And with no further self-indulgence than a single involuntary sigh after what might have been, the curate turned once more to his writing-table, and began to study his Christmas sermon.