Chapter XXVII: Summoned to Part

"What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it has sown
And garner up its fruit of tears.

"The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave into the sea.
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me."
JOHN BURROUGHS.

HONOR had not been with Pauline very long before Amabel came over to see them with her baby. She had arrived from India with an ayah, who was the cause of much awe and interest to the villagers. Amabel herself looked white and frail, but was as happy and lighthearted as ever.

Of course, as mothers, she and Honor compared notes about their babies, and Pauline listened to them with much amusement.

"I do love India so," said Amabel, "but I am afraid it does not love me. I seem to get so much fever. You see, I have some shadows, Honor; I know you think I have none."

"Oh, I don't say that," said Honor; "the separation from your husband must be a big one."

"Yes; and he feels it so much that he wants to get an exchange, but I won't have that. I am a soldier's wife, and don't want him or myself to shirk the hardships that come to us. I don't want him ever to be able to say, 'I could have got my promotion quicker if I had been an unmarried man.'"

"I quite agree," said Pauline, with kindling eyes.

"So, you see," went on Amabel in her cheerful voice, "I must be separated from him for a little. When I get quite strong again, I shall go back to him. And meanwhile, baby and ayah and I are turning our house topsy-turvy, but mother and father say they enjoy it, and I am sure I do."

She chatted away, telling them of her first experiences of native servants, and making them laugh at her blunders.

When she had left them, Honor said:

"It isn't only Amabel's circumstances that make her so sunny; it is her nature. She will go through life taking everything the same way."

"Yes, I think she will. Even big sorrows that may come to her will fall upon her softly. She will see the Love behind them."

"She will have no big sorrows—she travels south."

"Oh, well," said Pauline, laughing, "that is only a fancy of ours. And, remember, storms come from every quarter."

It was only the next morning that Pauline came to breakfast and found Honor, who had come down before her, reading a foreign letter, with a stunned, despairing face.

To herself Pauline thought, "That wretched husband again!"

Then she asked if she had had good news. Honor sat down at the table, and, putting her face down into her hands, began to cry.

"What is the matter, dear? Is your husband not well?"

"Oh, I can't believe it! It's the most awful news! Alick has had the most dreadful accident. I can't understand particulars. He was jammed between some logs near a rapid; he was in a canoe, and it was caught between them and crushed to pieces. That's what this man says—it isn't Alick himself. And they've had to amputate one of his legs above the knee. He'll be a cripple for life; he will never be able to ride. And this man says one of his arms is also injured."

"But his life is not in danger?"

"No, he says not. But he says he is coming home."

"Oh, Honor, are you not glad?"

"How can I be glad when I know how he will hate it? He is a restless man, and loves an open air life, and walking or riding is essential to him. Oh, Pauline, it has just come to me! I have been praying that he may be brought to England and settle down here; I have been praying so earnestly, and now my prayer is answered in this terrible way!"

"My dear Honor, do you know that you make out God to be a hard and cruel tyrant?"

"Oh, no; don't say that. But it will be such an awful return! And if he cannot travel any more, how can I hope to make him content and happy? And how shall we be able to live? Oh, Pauline, forgive me! Here comes Fay. Give her her breakfast; I will run upstairs to baby. I feel as if food will choke me."

Honor disappeared. It did seem as if she had one trouble upon the top of another, and for the time, the shock had utterly unnerved her.

Yet later in the day, she was able to break the news to Fay with brave, smiling lips.

To the child the thought of her father's return was more than his hurt.

And Honor began to plan in her own mind how she could make life still bearable to him. This news made her leave Pauline sooner than she would otherwise have done, for Miss Selkirk hastened home and asked her to join her.

"Do you think Miss Selkirk will want your husband to make his home with her?" Pauline asked.

"Why, no! I should think not! Alick would rather be in a hovel, I believe, than go to her! I don't know what we shall do. Perhaps I shall hear his plans next mail, unless he has started for England already?"

And the next mail did bring her a letter from her husband.

"MY DEAREST WIFE,

"You have heard of my smash up! With good luck, for once, only one leg has suffered, and my left arm will be useless for a time. But as I am such a crock, I am coming home to be nursed. What will Fay say to a one-legged father? You must meet me in London, and then we'll settle what we shall do. Meantime, you can be hunting up any small place in the country. I've been jotting up my investments this morning, and find that I can be sure of about £400 a year, so you must get a house in proportion to our means. Shall we buy a caravan and live in it? I'm sure that would suit our requirements. No more for now. It does my heart good to think I have a wife and child ready to welcome me. I'm afraid I've kept you on short commons, but it hasn't hurt Margaret to dispose of some of her hoarded wealth. I forget I have a boy. How is he? Expect me by the Star Line. I'll wire name of boat.

"Your affectionate husband,—

"ALICK."

Honor did not read the whole of this letter to Miss Selkirk, but she did tell her of the income her husband had.

And she was bitterly indignant with him in consequence.

"He has been spending all that upon himself, and keeping you and his children without a penny! How on earth can he do it?"

"He is very generous," faltered Honor; "he helps his friends a lot. Men don't think. It is an immense relief to me, for I was wondering how we should live. We shall be kept from want, and shall be able to live on that in comfort."

Miss Selkirk gave an angry snort.

"Alick will be Alick still to the end of his life. Can't I see your household? He living on the fat of the land, and having the best of everything; you and the children suffering from absence of actual necessaries."

"I see myself happy, if I can make him so," said Honor.

And Miss Selkirk walked away silenced, but marvelling at her.

The next morning to this came a letter from Pauline. And as Honor read, she again took herself to task for her want of trust and faith in God.

"I am going to ask you," Pauline wrote, "if you would like the loan of my farmhouse for a time? It would be a kindness to me if you kept it aired. And if Mr. Selkirk likes to pay me rent for it, I will let it for fifteen shillings a week during the winter-time. The fact is, I want to pay some visits. And I am thinking of doing a little parish work in a small village about twenty miles from here. I find, Honor, that I have too much idle time on my hands. I must do something, as I do not want to rust. Mr. Danby mentioned this village to me long ago. He went there to lecture, and what he told me interested me greatly. The living is only worth about £130 a year. The old clergyman and his wife are real old saints, who stint themselves of their last penny if any of their parishioners need help. But they are getting feeble; their village population is increasing, as a paper mill has been set up about a mile away, and they are not equal to the demands made upon them.

"Mr. Danby told me he would like to have helped them, but there was much that, as a man, he could not do. And it has struck me that I could take rooms in the village and do what little I could to help them. He gave me a most pathetic account of their efforts at hospitality when he stayed a night with them. They seem like an old Darby and Joan—and real old gentle-people. I have written to them, and have had a most kind letter in return, and, if I can let my farmhouse, I will go to them at once. It all seems to fit in, doesn't it? You would be near your home and within touch of your father and little sisters, and it would be a quiet country spot for a convalescent. Write and tell me what you think. I do hope you will take it, if only for a time—and Mary would be a great comfort to you. I would not take her with me, not unless I settled down there eventually and had my furniture with me."

"It's just the place for us," said Honor to Miss Selkirk. "If I had gone all over England, I could not have found any other place I should have liked so well."

She wrote and accepted Pauline's offer gratefully.

Pauline did not let the grass grow beneath her feet. She packed up what she intended to take with her. The rest she had had since her mother's death had given her back much of her former strength and vigour, and she was almost feverishly eager to be at work again.

Mrs. Daventry at first tried to dissuade her from the step she was about to take:

"We can't afford to lose you. You will only be overworking yourself. I can't tell you how I long that someone should take care of you. You have always been taking care of others. Will you not come to me for a long visit?"

But Pauline shook her head.

"I have done so little all my life in the way of helping my outside neighbours that I am longing to begin now. If I want a rest, may I come to you? That would be so delightful!"

Just two days before her departure, she was packing up some books in her sitting-room when Mr. Danby was announced.

She turned round, feeling rather relieved to think that he was perhaps going to be on the old friendly terms with her again. But when she saw his face, she was struck by its extreme gravity.

He shook hands with her in silence, then Pauline said gently:

"I am afraid you are in trouble, are you not?"

"Yes, I am," he said abruptly; "and I have come to drag you into it, too. At least, I am presuming that you will do what I want."

"If I can help you at all, I shall be glad."

He paused. Then as she asked him to sit down, he did so.

"You know I can't beat about the bush. There's someone—a friend of mine—who is ill. He can't get better, and he wants to see you. Will you come?"

"Who is it?"

Pauline's lips whitened as she asked the question.

"He's been murmuring your name—there aren't many Paulines in the world. I never knew he was a friend of yours, though he was always keen on hearing me talk about you, but I expect he is—"

"Is it Mr. Pembroke?"

"Ah, then my surmise is true! You know, I've seen a lot of him lately, and last week in protecting a child, he was knocked down by a motor in town. They took him to the hospital, and thought he was doing well, but there are internal complications. He is in a nursing home now in Harley Street. I've been with him. He seems rather a lonely chap, though he has plenty of acquaintances. I asked him last night if he would like to see you, and his look made me rush down the first thing this morning."

"I will come," said Pauline steadily. "Can we catch a train this afternoon?"

"Yes, if you are quick. I have a cab outside. I would have wired, only I did not know—I wasn't sure whether you would understand."

Pauline had disappeared. In five minutes, she was back again. Her very quietness and absence of fussiness and the tragic look in her sweet blue eyes told Mr. Danby that he had been right in summoning her.

She asked for a few details during the journey to town, but they did not speak much. As Pauline sat back, resting her throbbing head against the hard railway carriage cushions, one sentence was burning itself into her brain:

"He can't get better."

It was late in the evening when they reached Harley Street. A nurse came into the sitting-room and greeted Pauline very kindly.

"I am so glad you could come. He is quite conscious now, though very weak. It will not be very long, the doctor thinks. But you must have a cup of tea or coffee before you go up to him."

"I would rather not."

"Then I will have one ready for you when you leave him. This way. I think, Mr. Danby, it would be best for you not to see him again to-night if this lady does."

Mr. Danby bowed assent meekly, quite willing to relinquish his place to Pauline.

"I will be here the first thing in the morning," he said.

And then Pauline, always ready to consider everyone before herself, turned to him and held out her hand with a sweet smile:

"Good-night, Mr. Danby. I will thank you later for your goodness in fetching me. Please say if you specially want to see him again to-night. I do not want to usurp your place."

"I am glad you can see him," said Mr. Danby gruffly. And then he went, for the sorrow of Pauline and Justin seemed greater than his own.

Every detail of that little house in Harley Street stamped itself upon Pauline's brain: the red felt stair carpets as she trod upon them, the photographs on the staircase of groups of nurses and doctors, the landing with the inevitable table outside the sick-rooms, and the quiet bustle that there seemed everywhere—nurses passing to and fro, a sound of whisking of eggs, the slight rattle of crockery, and a smell of disinfectants throughout the whole.

And as she stood outside the door, she said to herself, with a mixture of joy and pain in her heart:

"He wants me. He has not forgotten me."

Then, a moment after, she stood looking down upon the narrow bed. Suffering had already left its mark on Justin; his face looked wan and pale, his eyes seemed sunken, and there were blue lines about them and his lips.

It was no time to stand on ceremony. Pauline sank on her knees by the bedside and took his hand in hers. The nurse slipped out of the room.

"I am here—Pauline is here," she said softly but distinctly.

Justin opened his eyes, and then a slow, bright smile spread over his face.

"Pauline," he whispered, "how did you know?"

"Mr. Danby has brought me."

"I was hoping—hoping to come down to you. Would you have listened to me?"

He spoke with difficulty.

Pauline choked down a little sob.

"Justin, dear, there is so little time—I should like you to know—I have always loved you. My mother never gave me your letter. I did not know you had called. That is many years ago, and I thought you had forgotten me. Don't look sorrowful, dear. In any case, I could not have left my mother."

"Take off your hat. Put your head down on the pillow beside me. I am a dying man. They say I can't last long."

Quietly, Pauline did as he wished. If her lips were quivering and her heart nearly breaking, she did not let her feelings get the better of her.

Justin took her face between his two hands, then kissed her slowly upon her lips.

"My heart has always held you," he said simply.

They were silent for a moment. With death hovering so near, there seemed no need for any explanations or protestations of love.

Again he spoke.

"I am so glad you always cared. I wish I had known. The years seem wasted."

"No," said Pauline, with a serene light in her eyes; "doing and bearing God's will is never waste of time."

He smiled.

"We shall have eternity together in any case; we have been kept apart for some wise purpose. Will you read to me? Your voice is such music."

It was too dark to read, but from memory Pauline began to repeat:

"'Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God, believe also in
Me.'"

Verse after verse of that beautiful chapter did she say, and her lover lay there smiling, waiting for the messenger who still delayed.

Presently the nurse returned, and Pauline was told she must go.

For a moment her spirit rebelled. And the nurse, after a searching look at the patient, called her out of the room.

"If he is dying," said Pauline to her, "why should not I stay to the end?"

"He seems to have rallied wonderfully," the nurse said thoughtfully. "If we can give him nourishment and get him to sleep, he may linger longer than we thought this morning."

"And you think he has a better chance if I am away from him?"

"There will be less temptation for him to make an effort to speak."

Pauline went back to the bed.

"Justin," she said in her low, clear voice, "I am leaving you now. Rest and sleep, and I will see you, I hope, in the morning."

She bent and kissed him on the forehead. He seemed already to be slipping into unconsciousness.

And then, in a sitting-room below, Pauline spent the night pacing up and down, her lips moving in prayer. The anguish of that night brought silver threads amongst her golden hair. She seemed, like David of old, to say,—

"'Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me?'"

And she had the realisation that death itself was stayed, whilst the ear of God was bent in love to listen to one of His children.

She had acquiesced the day before in patient submission to what she believed was God's will. Now, she was earnestly pleading and wrestling for the life that seemed to be slipping away, and yet through it all she cried:

"Not against Thy will, O God, but let it be Thy will."

When morning dawned, the nurse came to her.

"I hardly dare give you hope, but the doctor has been and is astonished. We thought last night it was the last rally, but the improvement and strength are maintained."

And so it was continued all day. Pauline took a room at the nearest hotel.

Before a week was over, the doctors were able to state that recovery was more than possible, it was probable. And Pauline lived day by day hugging the new-born hope to her heart and thanking God for His mercy.

When she eventually returned home, her life seemed to be a strange confusion.

Justin's recovery would be slow, and the doctors had told him that there would be no more travelling or exploring for him. He would have to lead a very quiet life, though not necessarily that of an invalid. If they married soon, Pauline would be more of a nurse than a wife, and Justin was not a rich man.

The outlook would not have been rosy to any but Pauline.

Yet she confided to Mrs. Daventry that her cup was so full that she could hardly bear it.

"Do you think," she said, "my path has taken a twist and is facing south at last?"

"I think," said Mrs. Daventry slowly, "that your northern journey will be shared by one who, with yourself, has enough sunshine within to compensate for the lack of it without."

"You mean we shall have to contend with small means? But I have never had much of this world's wealth. And I am afraid I am like any romantic girl—with Justin by my side, I fear nothing."

"What about your farmhouse? Will you not want it for yourself?"

"Not at present. Justin and I want to go together to my village and help the old clergyman and his wife. We mean to start in rooms first, and if we can find a small cottage later on, we may take it. Justin will be able to help in many ways, and it will give him interest outside himself. Don't shake your head, dear Mrs. Daventry. I know what is in front of me, and I am glorying in it all."

What could Mrs. Daventry say?

She only kissed Pauline affectionately, and rejoiced in her happiness. She knew that no clouds would ever bow her head, no troubles, however great, would crush her spirit; and this gleam of sunlight upon her path was surely the reward of much patient waiting.

But when others heard her news, they were much more ecstatic than Mrs. Daventry. Audrey and Honor were too delighted for words.

"Oh!" said Audrey, hugging her. "What a wife you will make! Fortunate man! Is he worthy of you? Oh, Pauline, Pauline! To think that you should be like the rest of us! And isn't it extraordinary that we four shall all marry? A year or two ago and we thought we should live and die old maids."

"I knew something good would come to you one day," said Honor. "And you richly deserve the very best man who walks the face of the earth!"

Mrs. Daventry was seated once again upon her lawn with her four young friends around her. It was the last opportunity they had of gathering together, as upon the following day Amabel was returning to her husband in India. Honor and her husband were comfortably settled in Pauline's farmhouse. She had left Fay to entertain her father for this afternoon. Audrey had motored down from her brother's for the occasion. And Pauline was Mrs. Daventry's guest. She had insisted upon having her, and was going to keep her till she married. Justin was fast recovering in the nursing home, and directly he was convalescent, he was also coming to stay with Mrs. Daventry.

The girls had been talking over old times. A little shadow seemed to lie on Honor's face. Perhaps her experience gave her voice a tinge of melancholy as she said:

"Well, it is strange that none of us should remain single women, but I don't think marriage changes one's aspect. It isn't as it is in story-books; and it does not follow that Pauline's path will turn from the north because she is going to marry. I used to believe that a marriage was the beginning of living happily ever after, but it seems to me that it is just the beginning of responsibilities and difficulties, and of experiencing the depths in life, instead of the rippling surface."

Audrey looked sober; but not a shadow came into Pauline's beautiful eyes.

"Life is good at all times," she said simply; "and deep water is better than shallow for swimmers, Honor. We don't want to stagnate."

"Do you remember when you first talked to us about our gates?" said Audrey, turning to Mrs. Daventry. "We said something about meeting in a year's time and comparing notes. We never did. How we have scattered in these few years! It has been a general break-up. And I used to think that nothing would ever change!"

"We always think that when we are young," said Mrs. Daventry, with rather a wistful smile.

"Let us compare notes at once," cried Amabel enthusiastically. "May I begin?"

Assent was upon everyone's lips, but a shadow of gravity stole over the sunshiny face of the girl as she said:

"I suppose I am still treading south. I know I have a happy southern aspect, and life, as yet, has brought me no heavy troubles. But I pray God every day to make me what He wants me to be, and that is where I fail. A gardener expects so much more from a plant that is grown in a sunny, sheltered position. And though one faces south, it isn't always free from breezes—is it Mrs. Daventry? May I tell you all a lovely little thing that I discovered in my Bible quite lately? It is in Joshua, where Caleb's daughter comes to her father, and says, when he asks her what she wants:

"'Give me a blessing; for thou hast given me a south land; give me also
springs of water.'

"That is my prayer every day now. I don't want to get parched by easy circumstances."

Amabel was sitting next to Mrs. Daventry, and the old lady put her withered hand gently over her young one.

"Your south gate will not spoil you," she said softly, and tears were in her eyes as she spoke.

"Now, Honor," said Audrey, "what is your experience?"

Honor was silent for a moment. Then she said:

"I have learnt this:

"'He stayeth His rough wind in the day of the east wind' (Isaiah xxvii.
8).

"It is never too strong for me."

She bore the impress upon her face that her words were true. The old fretful, discontented lines had disappeared. Great quietness and peace had settled upon her; the storm and stress of life which still buffeted and cut her was rounding her corners and shaping her into patient, steadfast womanhood.

"Ah!" said Audrey with a quick-caught sigh. "I am far behind you all. I don't believe these years have taught me anything except to discover how little I know. But—" here her grey eyes kindled and flashed with sudden feeling—"I came across a verse the other day which fits me:

"'The Lord turned a mighty strong west wind, which took away the
locusts' (Exod. x. 19).

"And I need a strong wind to take away all my locusts. So I daren't complain. Storms are good for me—and I have got far more sunshine than I deserve."

"And now, Pauline?"

Mrs. Daventry looked tenderly at the beautiful girl, with her quiet, glad face and shining eyes.

"What can I say?" said Pauline, with a smile. "Audrey has just given us a quaint text. May I give another? It is in Zechariah vi., and is speaking about the chariots and horses driving northwards:

"'Behold, these that go toward the north country have quieted my spirit
in the north country.'

"And I feel that I am not journeying alone, and so my spirit is quieted."

"The horses and chariots of the Lord," murmured Mrs. Daventry. "After all, girls, what does it matter about your aspect, north or south, east or west, so long as your goal is the right one? The beginning and the middle of our journey is not worth consideration in comparison to the end of it. Shall I repeat the promise that always brings a little thrill to my heart as I read it?

"'And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.'" (Isaiah xxxv. 10).