Chapter III: Facing North and East

"God help us through the common days,
The level stretches white with dust,
When thought is tired, and hands upraise
Their burden feebly, since they must.
In days of overwhelming care
Then most we need the strength of prayer."

"OH, miss, I'm glad to see you back! I could do nothing with the mistress. She insisted on getting up, and is now turning out her writing-table. She's looking like death, and hasn't touched her beef-tea!"

It was the usual formula that greeted Pauline when she returned from any errand or outing.

She smiled into her old servant's anxious face.

"I will go up at once. She must have taken a turn for the better."

Pauline stepped lightly up the narrow stairs, and opened the door of her mother's room.

Mrs. Erskine turned round from her davenport at the sound of her footsteps, and hastily pushed some papers into it and locked it.

"Oh, mother dear, ought you to be up? You had such a bad night."

Mrs. Erskine sat down rather heavily in a chair, and spoke irritably:

"I told you that it was that soup last night which disagreed with me. If you will go out when I am wanting you to write my letters, you need not be surprised to see me making the effort to do it myself."

Mrs. Erskine was a tall, imposing-looking woman; and though illness had brought a stoop to her shoulders and hollows under her eyes, she was still a very striking personality. She had always ruled her household with a firm and masterful hand. People said she had ruled her husband with the same rigid hand as she now exercised over her daughter.

Pauline was not her mother's confidante. Mrs. Erskine still kept all their money affairs in her own hands, and her daughter had little idea of the amount of their income. She was never allowed to draw a cheque or see her mother's bank-book. For over two years, Mrs. Erskine had been confined to her room, and it was against her doctor's orders that she ever left her bed. Pauline noted the trembling of her hands and the shortness of her breath. She wasted no time in remonstrance, but gently helped her back to bed, and then persuaded her to take the discarded beef-tea which Mary again presented.

"I will write for you at once, mother, if you like," she said, when Mrs. Erskine seemed composed again.

"I do not want you to. I have done what I wished myself. The letter is there. See that it goes by this afternoon's post. It is to tell Doctor Mann that I do not require his services any longer."

"Oh, mother! Why?"

"It is not my habit to give you my reasons for doing things. He does not suit me. His medicines do me no good."

"But whom can we have instead of him? You have left Dr. Arbuthnot, and Mr. Thorne—"

"I will have no doctor. They all tell me I shall never get any better. I dislike these country practitioners extremely."

Pauline stood by the bedside with a perplexed look in her eyes, then she spoke very gently:

"Won't you let this letter wait till to-morrow? You may have one of your sharp attacks of pain again, and then you must have something to relieve it. I was going to send to the surgery this evening for some more of your medicine. The bottle is nearly empty."

"I will have no more of it. Leave me now; I want to try to sleep. And see that my letter goes this afternoon."

Pauline withdrew, but downstairs she held counsel with Mary.

"She has tried every doctor in the neighbourhood, Mary, and now she will not have Dr. Mann any more. I do not know what to do."

"Let it be, miss, till the pain comes on, and then she'll be tractable again. Can't you explain to the doctor. He'll understand an invalid's whims and fancies."

"Yes, Mary, I think he will. I will send a little note to him myself and enclose my mother's in it."

Pauline's face was serene again.

That afternoon, she was seated with some needlework in her mother's room. Mrs. Erskine had dropped off into a troubled sleep. Pauline's thoughts, as her needle flew backwards and forwards, were soon far away. The scent of some mignonette that came in through the open window from the little flower-bed below, took her back to a summer morning ten years previously. It was in London. She had left her father and mother to attend the School of Art in Kensington. They had just settled down in this quiet cottage, and her father, who had always believed in her talent, had persuaded his wife to let her go up to town and lodge with an old cousin of his.

Pauline had gone; her future to her was full of golden promise and sunshine. She plunged into her work with enthusiasm. And then in London at her cousin's house, she met a clever, cultured man—Justin Pembroke. He was a relation of her cousin, and had just returned from some researches in Egypt in connection with the Royal Geographical Society, of which he was a member. Both of them were busy during the day, but not an evening passed without their being together. He took her to places of amusement and interest, or talked to her in her cousin's drawing-room as no man had ever talked to her before.

The last morning before the summons home had come was now as fresh as ever in her memory. He brought her a bunch of mignonette, and paid her the first compliment that had passed his lips.

"It is as cool and sweet and refreshing as your presence has been," he said. "Mignonette to me is associated with country gardens and Nature in all its purity and freshness. It is my favourite flower. Will you wear some when you come to the R.G.S.'s soirée this evening?"

And with a smile, she had assented.

Alas! She did wear it on her breast—in an express train, answering the urgent summons of her mother:

"Come at once. Your father died this morning from heart failure."

A dark time ensued then for Pauline. Her mother's health suddenly failed; she became a querulous, self-centred invalid, and required her daughter's services night and day. With the loss of her father, Pauline lost the only one who had shown her love and sympathy. But from a little child, her faith and trust in God had influenced her life; and she took her place by her mother's bedside with calm and cheerful courage. Sometimes she would wonder why Justin Pembroke had passed so suddenly out of her life. Her heart had told her that he was not one to trifle with women. And though in those three weeks he had said nothing definite, she knew that he had cared for her.

It was a long time before she could think calmly of him. But ten years softens memories, and it was only, as now, when the sudden scent of the mignonette was wafted in the air that she felt again the pain of that broken time of happiness.

"It is a good thing it came to nothing," she said resolutely to herself. "I could never have left my mother."

Then she, too, like Audrey, began to dwell on her old friend's words.

"I am quite content to journey North, even though my path is to be a sunless one. Thank God for the sunshine that He gives within. I pray that I may always reflect a little of it on others."

She was startled by someone calling her from the garden below. Looking out, she saw Honor Broughton.

"Pauline, do come down to me."

"Hush! I will come if you wait."

She gave a glance towards her mother's sleeping form, then softly slipped down the narrow cottage stairs and greeted her friend in the porch.

"I want you to advise me," began Honor breathlessly. "Oh, dear! I have been so worried to-day! I've brought the children out, and they're picking bluebells in the copse close by. Can you leave your mother for a little?"

"I think so—if I tell Mary. Wait a moment."

She disappeared, then returned with a chair and some cushions.

"You look so warm, Honor dear. Let us sit in this shady nook under the medlar tree. Now we can tall, without being disturbed. I have told Mary to ring for me if I am wanted. Would you like a glass of lemonade or milk?"

"Oh, no! It is merely temper, my stepmother would tell you. Oh, Pauline, I feel as if I cannot stand my life! I must break away from it, and my chance has come at last."

Honor's sallow cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had lost their usual rather melancholy look.

"Tell me about it," said Pauline.

"Father had a letter this morning from an old friend of his. Do you remember her? A widow? Mrs. Bulwer, her name is. She stayed with us for a week about four years ago. She wrote asking father if he knew of any nice, useful girl who would act as a companion to a friend of hers. She would have a good salary and a comfortable home, and then Mrs. Bulwer said she wrote because she had thought of me. She said her friend didn't want any of these pretty, flighty girls whose heads were only filled with dress and lovers!"

"But, Honor dear, you could never be spared from home?"

"Couldn't I? Can't you see my stepmother?

"Her eyes glistened at once. 'My dear Edward, if Honor's salary would be sufficient to pay a resident governess for the children, the change would be advantageous for us all!'

"Then I boiled over. Why should I be her goods and chattel? I said, 'Perhaps I might not find it convenient to spare any of my salary!'

"And then—well, we said some biting things to each other, and father slipped away to his study, and I felt ashamed of myself, and the subject was dropped. What shall I do, Pauline? Tell me."

"It does not sound attractive," said Pauline musingly. "Your home duties are, after all, a labour of love. I don't see the advantage of looking after a stranger when your own people need you so much."

"Do they? I think my stepmother is right when she says a governess for the children would suit her better if I could provide the money for it. She and I will never get on together, Pauline; we are too near each other in age. You know how sharp and stinging her tongue is! Well, mine is getting quite as bad. I jog along every day feeling so hopeless over it all! I am not like Audrey. I should never have the energy to get out of my groove unless I was poked out of it. But this has seemed to come at a time when my patience is almost at an end. Everything I do is wrong, and this hot weather makes me very slack. The boys will be coming home from school soon, and I haven't the energy for all that falls upon me."

Pauline was silent for a moment. Honor Broughton was the daughter of the Rector. She had lost her own mother when her two young brothers were still in the nursery and she was a girl of sixteen. She came home from school at once, and for two years managed the household and helped her father in the parish in a thoroughly happy and capable manner. Then a widow and her daughter came to reside in the village. The daughter was delicate; she attended every church service, and was continually appealing to the Rector for help and counsel. Mr. Broughton was a gentle and kindly disposed man, not very strong-minded, and susceptible to a woman's influence.

But it was a tremendous shock to Honor when her father announced to her his intention of marrying Emily Fenton. And when Emily came as a bride to the Rectory, she revealed herself as a very irritable and selfish young woman with a great many fancied ailments. She spent her time in reading novels and in dressing herself in the latest fashion. From the very first, Honor and she had mutually disliked each other. But for the sake of her father, and from a certain pride of her own, Honor had quietly taken the second place, and supplied the deficiencies of her stepmother's rule.

Emily was no housekeeper; she soon handed over that province to Honor. She did not love parish work; she never sewed. And when little ones began to appear, she adopted a semi-invalid life.

Honor was nurse, lady's maid, and housekeeper in one. But she loved the babies, and they learnt to love her. As time went on, Emily's irritability increased. She vented it entirely on the quiet girl who was the drudge of the family. Nothing that she did was right, and when the countless little difficulties of a poor clergyman's household occurred, Honor was made responsible for them all. It brought wrinkles to her brow and a hopeless look into her blue eyes. She was always tired in body and in soul, and lately had felt that her patience and forbearance were waning. Only her friends realised what her life was, and Pauline's heart ached for her.

"Don't take a fresh step in life rashly, dear. Do you know at all what kind of person this lady is who wants you? A companion is very often a mere drudge. No governess would be to the children what you are, and then there is your father. He said to me the other day when I met him:

"'Ah! I am not getting younger. I wish I could afford a curate, but with a daughter like Honor, I ought not to want one.'"

"Did he say that? Dear old father! I should hate leaving home; and, after all, as you say, I might be quite as miserable away. But Emily has set her heart on my going. And she expects that every penny of my salary will come to her. What does she expect me to dress upon, or how are my thousand and one little expenses to be paid if I am away from home? It is this that has annoyed me so. I only exist to ease her circumstances. If it were not for father, I would leave home to-morrow and keep every penny I receive for myself."

A defiant light shot into her eyes as she spoke. Then her shoulders drooped a little, and she sighed.

"But I haven't the spirit. It is only to you that I talk like this. East wind is meant to be invigorating and bracing, is it not? It depresses me to death. I have been thinking over my Eastern outlook, and I'm tired, quite tired, of meeting nothing but bitter blasts."

"'They journeyed towards the sunrising,'" quoted Pauline softly, whilst a bright smile came to her lips. "Oh, Honor dear, your path leads to the sun. Look on and up, and you will see it rise—"

"Well," said Honor, rising from her seat, "I must be off, for I have to take the choir practice at four. I shall let Emily settle my fate. It is the only thing to be done. You have done me good, Pauline. I will look up. Good-bye."

She hastened away, calling to her three little sisters.

And Pauline once again mounted the stairs to her mother's room.

"I don't know that the complete change would not be good for her," she mused. "Honor has never left home for a day for the last three or four years. When her father and stepmother go for a holiday, she has always to stay at home. It is an unnatural life for a girl; she is too old for her age—too careworn."

Honor did not look very careworn as she joined her small sisters. They were three flaxen-headed mites of five, six, and seven years respectively—too small to require much teaching at present, though for two hours every morning Honor sat in the old schoolroom with them, and mingled reading and writing with the joys of various kindergarten studies. Daisy, the eldest, could read; Minnie was still struggling with words of one syllable; and the baby, Chatty, as she was called, barely knew her alphabet.

Now they were running and dancing through the field path to the Rectory, Honor apparently as lighthearted and gay as the little ones.

"Quick!" she cried. "It is nearly four o'clock, and I must be in the church sharp at four."

"Let's purtend it isn't four," suggested Minnie with guile.

But her suggestion was set aside with scorn by Daisy.

"You can't purtend anything about father's church. It's wicked."

As they reached the Rectory door, they were met by the young housemaid, who looked rather perturbed.

"Oh, Miss Honor, we've a lot of company. Lady Marion, with some ladies from London. And me and cook has to hurry in tea as fast as ever we can. And missis says will you send the children into the drawin'-room in their best frocks, as Lady Marion has asked to see them."

Honor looked at the hot, dirty little hands and faces and untidy heads with dismay.

"Oh, dear! I shall be late. We ought not to have stayed out so long. Come along, chicks!"

She flew upstairs, and the next ten minutes was a wild fight with time. As she was ushering the three white-frocked little damsels downstairs, Mr. Broughton came out into the hall. He was on his way to the drawing-room.

"Why, Honor, I thought you were at the practice! It is late."

"Yes. I am sorry. I stayed out too long. Take the children in, father, will you? I hope they will be good."

She ran out along the path that led to the church, feeling tired and heated. The choir boys were chasing each other round the churchyard, and the two or three young women who also helped with their voices were gossiping together in the porch.

"I am so sorry I am late," Honor said, producing her key and unlocking the church door. "Now, boys, quietly, please!"

The church was cool and still. Honor loved music, and the singing of the psalms and hymns for the following Sunday brought peace and comfort to her heart. When she returned to the house an hour later, her mind was rested—if her body was not.

She went into the drawing-room, which was now a scene of confusion. The visitors had gone, but the children were still there with their mother. Chatty was crying; she had overturned some milk upon the carpet, and Mrs. Broughton was scolding her sharply as she tried to wipe up the spilt milk with her handkerchief. Minnie was jumping up and down on the sofa, and Daisy was helping herself to some cake on the table. The untidy tea-table, chairs pulled about in all directions, and the fretful tones of her stepmother did much to dispel Honor's peace of mind.

"Oh, there you are! What a time you have been! Do, for goodness' sake, take these children away. They have had their tea with us, but I will never let them do it again. Get off that sofa at once, Minnie, you naughty child! And here's a mess on our new carpet! I have rung the bell three times for Ellen to come."

"I expect she is at her tea. I will get a cloth from the pantry."

By the time Honor had effaced the milk-stains and tidied the room, the children had sobered down. Mrs. Broughton lay down upon the sofa as if quite exhausted.

"I am completely worn out," she said. "Lady Marion paid such a long visit, and I thought Ellen would never bring the tea in! She is so dreadfully slow! Do take the children away at once, and let me have a little peace."

"I want some tea myself, if there is any," said Honor, going to the tea-tray.

The tea was cold and bitter, but she poured herself out a cup and drank it standing. No one would ever think of keeping hot tea for her, she said to herself a little bitterly. She was never supposed to be tired or thirsty. She collected the cups and saucers, which were scattered all over the room, put them upon the tea-tray ready for Ellen to take away, and then mounted the stairs again, the children keeping up a vociferous chatter as they accompanied her. She did not leave them again till they were all in bed. Then she changed her dress and went down to supper with her father and mother.

"Well," Mr. Broughton said a little nervously, as he looked at his wife, "I—we have written to Mrs. Bulwer in answer to her letter this morning, and I have told her that if this lady can give you £100 a year, we will do our best to spare you, but not otherwise."

"My dear father," said Honor, opening her eyes, "what an extraordinary way to write! I should never expect such a salary as that; I—I am not worth it. You write as if we are doing her a favour; she will look at it in quite another light. I did not know you were going to answer so quickly. We have not had time to talk it over."

"Your father and I have had plenty of time," said Mrs. Broughton sharply. "I could get a friend of mine to come and look after the children if we could give her a small salary. And the extra amount would be a godsend to us, when every penny has to be thought of."

"If anyone would give me that handsome salary," said Honor thoughtfully, "they would expect me to dress accordingly. You couldn't expect to receive much from my first quarter's pay. At present, I have not a dress fit to wear, and there are a thousand difficulties in the way. Would your friend, Emily, be able and willing to do the things that I do? It is not only the children to be thought about. There are the Sunday-school, the club accounts, the choir practices, the visiting in the village, the housekeeping. Most nursery governesses would not be willing to do all this—and it must be done."

"You have a wonderful faculty for extolling all your good deeds," said Emily with a little sneer, "but I fail to discover them. You are proverbially slow and stupid over everything you undertake, and take twice the time in doing it that anyone else would do. If I were stronger, I would make nothing of what you are always making such a hue and cry about. I assure you, though you may not believe it, we should get on just as well without you as with you—not to say better!"

"We need not say any more now," her father said gently. "I dare say, as Emily says, the change would be good for you, Honor. Of course, we should miss you, but if it is for your good, I shall not try to keep you. We will wait and hear what this lady says."

Honor said no more. After supper, she went into her father's study, and with him conned over some parish accounts.

Then they went back to the drawing-room, and for the rest of the evening she was busy with her mending-basket. Her thoughts were in a tumult. Was her life going to be shaped differently so soon? She evidently was to have no choice in it herself. She was a shy, diffident girl, and had not Audrey's longing to see fresh scenes and be in a wider sphere of action. Her life was full of her home duties and interests, and her little sisters were her heart's joy and delight. Though she had sometimes murmured and bewailed her lot, now that there seemed a chance of altering it, she shrank from the unknown possibilities before her.

When she put her tired head down upon her pillow that night, she murmured to herself:

"I must not worry. No one would think of giving me £100 a year. I am not worth it."