Chapter IV: Facing South

"Am I wrong to be always so happy? This world is full of grief;
Yet there is laughter of sunshine, to see the crisp green in the leaf.
Daylight is ringing with song birds, and brooklets are crooning by
night,
And why should I make a shadow where God makes all so bright?
Earth may be wicked and weary, yet cannot I help being glad;
There is sunshine without and within me, and how should I mope
or be sad?
God would not flood me with blessings, meaning me only to pine
Amid all the bounties and beauties He pours upon me and mine;
Therefore will I be grateful, and therefore will I rejoice;
My heart is singing within me! Sing on, O heart and voice!"
WALTER SMITH.

"OH, mother, isn't it delicious to be home again!"

"I am sure, darling, you enjoyed London. You never seemed tired of going about. I envied you your spirits. Towns always tire me."

"And yet I could not drag you away from the shops," said Colonel Osborne, laughing good-humouredly at his wife.

They were sitting out on their lawn under the trees. Amabel presided at the tea-table, and made a pretty picture in her white gown, with her golden curls and radiant face. The Manor Cottage was half-way between the town of Gadsborough and the village of Criscombe.

Colonel Osborne had only his pension to live upon, and suffered a good deal from his eyes, but was always cheery. His wife was a gentle, placid woman whose one thought was how she could add to her husband's and daughter's happiness, and Amabel was the sunshine of the house. Everyone said that it was the happiest household in the neighbourhood.

Naughty Audrey would sometimes impatiently exclaim:

"I believe if they were in an earthquake the colonel would say, 'A pleasant break to our monotony!'"

And certainly, if catastrophes did come, the Osbornes took them very lightly. The visit to London had lengthened from one month into two, and had been a great success.

Amabel had been taken everywhere by her aunt, and had made a great many fresh friends. Amongst them was a Captain Rutland, who had hardly ever left her side, and who had almost invited himself to spend a week-end with them very soon. Her father had assured him he would always be welcome, and perhaps it was the thought of this impending visit that had brought an added softness to Amabel's blue eyes and a deeper flush to her cheeks. As she lay back now in her lounge wicker chair and watched the shadows cross the bright flower-beds and dance across the lawn, as she glanced at the creeper-covered cottage with its casement windows and old-fashioned porch, the thought that rose uppermost in her heart and almost shaped itself into speech by her lips was:

"Oh, I hope he will like it, I hope he will like it!"

"I met Hume in the town to-day; he had driven in to get his hair cut," said Colonel Osborne, who had been into Gadsborough for the same purpose that morning. "What rages that fellow does put himself into! He was fighting old Greene like an angry bull, and only because he had sent him in a bill after it had been paid. A matter of nine shillings and a penny, I believe."

"Well, father," said Amabel, "you wouldn't have wanted to pay that again, would you? I shouldn't."

"No, but I think I should have taken old Greene's abject apology like a gentleman. But Hume wasn't himself to-day. He tried to fight me over this Licence Bill, but I wouldn't rise."

"I think he is nearly always in pain, poor man," said Mrs. Osborne. "You must make allowances. And he never sleeps well. Audrey has told me that she hears him moving about in his room half the night."

"I don't know which I pity most—Audrey or Pauline," said Amabel softly. "Perhaps Pauline, because Mr. Hume's fits of temper are soon over; Mrs. Erskine is always disagreeable. Audrey told me—"

"Talk of the—hum—angel, and here she is!" said Colonel Osborne, turning round in his seat as he heard the click of the gate.

It was Audrey.

"Welcome home!" she called out gaily. "Did you only arrive yesterday?"

"Yesterday morning," said Amabel, jumping up and embracing her friend warmly.

Colonel Osborne got up from his seat and offered it to Audrey, whilst Mrs. Osborne peeped into the teapot.

"Amabel, you must make some fresh tea."

"Yes," said Amabel, seizing hold of the teapot and running into the house; "the kettle is sure to be boiling in the kitchen."

"There!" she said when she returned. "That is one of the charms of home! I couldn't have done that at Aunt Margaret's; we should have had to ring the bell and wait the butler's pleasure."

"And I suppose you want to know the latest fashion in gowns, Miss Audrey?" questioned the colonel with twinkling eyes.

"Of course I do. What else would have brought me to see you so soon?" retorted Audrey. "I think you all have a London air about you. I'm sure that is a Bond Street gown that Amabel is wearing, and Mrs. Osborne is sitting on her chair as they do in the park."

"How?" asked Mrs. Osborne, starting rather self-consciously.

"Oh, a kind of 'I am beyond your criticism myself, so I am going to criticise you.'"

They all laughed.

"And what about me?" said the colonel.

"I am sure you are smoking a London cigar and wearing a London tie."

"I plead guilty to both those charges."

"Well," said Audrey, taking her tea from Amabel's hand, "I'm sure we have all missed you tremendously, and we're awfully glad to see you back. I am on my way home from the town, and when I saw the smoke coming out of your chimneys, I couldn't resist coming in."

"Have you been in town all day?" asked Colonel Osborne. "I saw your father this morning, but you were not with him."

"No, I came in later with Honor Broughton; we have been shopping together. Father drove home two hours ago, so I mustn't stop long, for he will be expecting me. I knew you would give me one of your delicious cups of tea, Mrs. Osborne. I do feel so much better for it. Was it very hot in town? We are having a spell of hot weather here."

"You don't feel the heat much in town," said Amabel, "not when you are in the lap of luxury, and drive everywhere and have ice at every meal, and servants on all sides to fetch and carry for you."

"You make me green with envy!"

Amabel laughed merrily at Audrey's comical grimace. "Ah, well, I like this best," she said.

"You have set the ball rolling," said Audrey. "Do you know who will be the next to go up to town?"

"No; who?"

"Honor."

"Never! How can she be spared? Who is going to take her?"

Amabel looked genuinely astonished at the news.

"She is going away from home for a time—to a Mrs. Montmorency. I believe she is very well off, and has a country house in Scotland."

"How delightful for Honor! Oh, I am so glad her good time is coming! Is this lady a great friend of theirs? I have never heard of her."

"She is a friend of that Mrs. Bulwer who stayed at the Rectory some time ago and took such a fancy to Honor. But Honor is going as a paid companion; she makes no secret of it, so I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. I believe it is entirely her stepmother's doing."

"But what a shame!"

Amabel was righteously indignant.

"Oh, well, I think it is a very good step. They'll find out Honor's worth when she is gone, and Honor will see a little more of life, and get some money into the bargain. I wish myself in her shoes many times a day."

"But you wouldn't leave your father?"

Audrey laughed.

"I suppose I wouldn't, when it came to the point. But I like to think I should, sometimes."

"I really don't know how they can possibly get on without Honor at the Rectory," said Mrs. Osborne, with a perplexed face. "She manages everything in her quiet way—the parish as well as her home."

Audrey made a little grimace.

"She has shifted some of her duties on my shoulders. I have promised to be organist, and that means choir practice and a good deal of practising on my own account, I know. Pauline has been induced to take the club accounts over—"

"And what is going to be my share?" questioned Amabel. "I am the drone amongst you. I haven't even a Sunday class."

"I believe you're going to be asked to take charge of the village library. Will you accept it?"

"I really think I might. What do you say, mother?"

"If it won't take you out in the evening, dear. You know that we always like you home then."

Audrey rose to go, and Amabel, linking her arm affectionately into hers, walked down to the gate with her.

"You don't know how nice it is to be home again. I sometimes longed for you in London, Audrey. I knew you would enjoy it so."

"Oh, shouldn't I! I could shake Honor! Here she is, with a big change in her life, and she seems to have no spirit or hope for the future at all. Why, I tell her anything may happen to her now! She may find a husband, or the old lady may get so fond of her that she may make her her heiress, or she may meet with the most charming of friends, and at all events, she will get her mind enlarged by contact with the world. That is what I want to do."

"One does meet with fresh people," said Amabel softly.

Audrey looked at her and smiled mischievously.

"Have you met your fate?"

The pink flush that rose in Amabel's cheeks, and the haste with which she said good-bye to her friend, sent Audrey home with certain conviction that her stray shot had told.

Meanwhile, Honor was very busy getting ready for her departure. From the time when the letter came saying that her salary would be what her father suggested, Honor knew that her fate was sealed. She had only three weeks before she was to go up to London and enter upon her new duties. And the subject of dress perplexed her not a little. Her father presented her with a £10 note, but told her she must expect no more. And Honor, in company with the little village dressmaker, spent most of her days in the old schoolroom stitching and machining, making new dresses and renovating old ones.

Audrey, being very clever with her ideas as well as her fingers, was called into counsel. Honor told her laughingly one day that she could not understand whence she got all her knowledge of the fashionable world.

"But, my dear Honor, there are some things one knows by instinct. You can't go into society without a proper evening dress, however simple it may be."

"But what I can't make you understand is that paid companions don't go into society. They stay at home."

"Yes, but they may have to appear at dinner any night, or every night," retorted Audrey. "Dress in sober grey or black, if you like, but it must be made properly."

She spent a good deal of time in the schoolroom with Honor, and the two girls learnt to know each other and like each other even better than they had before.

Honor's wardrobe, when finished, was a very simple one. A blue serge skirt and coat for everyday wear, a grey suit for best, a black voile for evening use, and a mauve one for grander occasions. White skirts and three hats—a felt for rainy weather, a dark blue straw for common use, and a grey straw to match her dress for best. With these, Honor felt quite able to satisfy the most critical employer, and she told Audrey that the sense of being properly dressed would give her more confidence in herself.

"Wait till you see the London gowns," said Audrey, with a wise nod of her head. But she added hastily: "There is one thing, Honor: you look what you are—a lady, and nothing can make you anything else! Hold yourself up and step as if you own the whole world, and Mrs. Montmorency will be congratulated upon her 'distinguée' companion!"

The last days were painful ones. The children clung to their stepsister as if they could not bear her out of their sight. Miss Paton came and was initiated by Honor into her future duties. She was a sharp-featured, chatty young woman, who was very demonstrative with Mrs. Broughton, and was quite ready to humour and sympathise with her as the occasion required. The children did not take to her, nor apparently did she to them, and this was the chief anxiety in Honor's mind. But she hoped that when once she was away, things would be better.

Her father drove her to the station, and the poor girl found it difficult to control her tears when the last moment came.

"God bless you, my child. You will be a comfort to Mrs. Montmorency, I know. But if you are not happy, write us word, and we will have you back again."

"And tell me about the children when you write, father. And remember, if you want me badly, I will come."

The train steamed off, leaving a very dismal-hearted father behind, and taking with it a shrinking, fearful girl.

But the last words that Pauline whispered to her brought a smile to her quivering lips:

"Remember,—'They journeyed towards the sun-rising.'"

Mrs. Daventry had been away from home for a couple of months, so knew nothing of Honor's departure till she returned. When Amabel informed her of it, expecting some word of disapproval or regret, she was surprised by the brightness of the old lady's face.

"I am charmed—delighted. It will be a most delightful change in her life. She was becoming too anxious and careworn, too deeply rooted in her narrow groove. And she was the one who said that, whatever change came into other people's lives, none would come into her own. How much better God is to us than either we expect or deserve."

Then Mrs. Daventry added slowly:

"I have sometimes wished to launch you all out in your little boats away from this narrow creek down into the wider river of life, but I always dread a human hand pushing before the Divine one. Disaster so often follows in consequence."

"But Honor has been sent away by her stepmother," said Amabel, with a puzzled face. "Isn't that a human hand?"

"It isn't mine," said Mrs. Daventry, smiling.

And Amabel said no more.

One evening, Pauline sat in her garden alone. She had been in her mother's room all day, and had had rather a trying time. She stretched herself out in a lounge chair with a delicious sense of rest and peace. And soon, her eyelids closed and sleep came to her. She awoke with a start to find Amabel standing in front of her.

"Oh, I am sorry; I have disturbed you. We have all been having tea with the Humes. Mr. Hume invited us himself, to celebrate his seventy-seventh birthday, and he has been quite genial. Father and mother are strolling home, but I felt I wanted to tell you something. May I?"

Pauline stood up and drew her to her with an almost motherly embrace.

"I can guess it, dear. I saw Captain Rutland in church with you on Sunday."

"Then I need not tell you. I'm such a happy girl. He left us yesterday evening. His leave is up, and he goes back to Woolwich. He has a staff appointment there. I don't believe, Pauline, there is another man like him in the world! And father and mother are so pleased. They like him awfully. It all seems like a dream to me. But this makes me know it is real."

She held out her little white finger, on which glistened one solitary diamond in a circle of gold. "It isn't a new ring. It is a family one. His mother gave it to him when she knew he was coming down to see me. He said it looked as if he were presuming too quickly that I would say 'Yes' to him. But you see, Pauline, we knew each other very well in London, and I think it doesn't always want words, does it? Oh, I hope—I hope I shall be worthy of him; he is so true, so straight, so good!"

"My dear little Amabel, I am very glad for you; so thankful that it has all run so smooth and easy for you, and that he has—has not left you long in doubt."

Amabel looked into Pauline's face inquiringly.

And the elder girl, meeting that look, prayed passionately in her heart that this young lover should never disappoint her or play her false.

"I—I didn't say anything to Audrey about it," said Amabel. "I put my ring into my pocket so that she should not see it. I wanted to tell you first, because I knew you would be glad."

"And so will Audrey be glad, dear. She is very warm-hearted."

"Yes, but sometimes she laughs at me. I felt she would say something about my Southern aspect. And when she talks, I feel I have no business to be so much happier than other people."

"How do you know you are?" asked Pauline, laughing.

"I ought to be. I have no disagreeables or difficulties in my life. Everything is delightful, and I love every hour of my days."

"Some people can be happy with difficulties."

"Yes, 'you' are. You don't know how I 'adore' you, Pauline. When you stroke my hair as you do now you send a little thrill through me! And I wonder—I wonder no one has swooped down and carried you off before this. But he would have to be very princely and clever—a king amongst men; and I suppose there isn't anyone good enough for you!"

"Oh, you little duffer! Your head is full of lovers now. But life can be very sweet and good without that kind of love, Amabel. I am sure I find it so."

Something in the proud poise of Pauline's head stopped Amabel from pursuing the subject. She put up her face for a good-bye kiss.

"I must run. There is one thing, I shall soon overtake the parents. They are sauntering home arm-in-arm, like a regular Darby and Joan. Good-bye, Pauline; and will you tell Audrey my news? I would rather she heard it from you."

Amabel's light footsteps died away, but Pauline sat on, looking up at the fast-darkening sky and smiling to herself:

"I am so glad for her, dear child! I wonder if there's any money on his side? Her parents are so unworldly that they would never think of future prospects. But Amabel would make a very good wife for a poor man; she is happy with so little. It would be different with Audrey, who is always stretching out her arms to the unattainable. What a good thing it is that we are not all made alike!"