Chapter IV

"I SUPPOSE," said Flossie, when the story was resumed on the third afternoon, "that the two lives influenced through the want of a penny were those of Edith and Lizzie. I did not like Edith in the least when she left her sister in such a way, but I do like her now."

Mamma smiled at her daughter's earnestness, and replied, "Those two lives were lastingly influenced; but there is something more to be told. You must not want to know the end of the story until it comes to you in due course. There is no peeping at the last page or two when you are listening to a tale-teller, as some impatient readers do when they are professing to read a story, just to know how it ends. To continue mine:"

The girls had a few more happy days with their relatives, during which everyone noticed the increased unity between the sisters. Probably the effect produced on Edith would have passed away, but for that closer bond of which I spoke to you. The habit of united prayer and of seeking counsel from God's Word together was not given up by the girls, consequently there was spiritual growth, and each influenced the other for good.

Edith had refined tastes and persevering industry. Lizzie, with all her warm-heartedness and self-devoting disposition, was often too impulsive, besides being far less orderly and methodical than her elder sister. So each benefited the other, and was herself improved by communion of work and interests.

Lizzie showed her sister the envelope which she had found amongst her parcels, and the two after due deliberation decided on addressing a few grateful lines to Percival Long, Esq., nothing doubting that he was the fatherly gentleman who had been so kind. The letter did not come back, and; on the other hand, there was no reply. So the sisters were left in doubt as to whether it had reached the right person or had been received by a stranger, to whom its contents would prove enigmatical.

Two or three days before the girls were to have returned to their country home they received an unexpected summons which caused their immediate departure.

Mrs. Northcote was again laid on a bed of sickness, and needed the presence of her daughters.

Perhaps Edith's filial affection had never before been so severely tested. Her "young groomsman," as Lizzie named Mr. Henry Martin, had accompanied his sister-in-law when she called upon the Northcote girls at "Cousin Helen's." Nothing loth, they had accepted the hearty invitation to stay the evening, and during the remainder of the time that Edith and Lizzie remained in London scarcely a day passed without their seeing each other. Nora, the young wife, had as yet few household cares, and could devote much of her time to the country sisters. She was delighted to have the company of her own school friend, and charmed with her bright, unaffected younger sister. Mr. Henry Martin managed, probably through the sympathetic consideration of his elder brother and partner, to be much less occupied than usual. So pleasant little parties were formed for sight-seeing and little excursions in and about London, which were thoroughly enjoyed by all the individual members thereof.

And in the midst of all this enjoyment came the sorrowful summons to call Edith and Lizzie home. There had been some talk of Lizzie's returning alone before the news arrived telling of Mrs. Northcote's illness. Nora was anxious for both the girls to spend a few days with her at the termination of their visit to Cousin Helen. That Edith wished to accept the invitation there could be no doubt; but Lizzie, while equally anxious for her sister to enjoy a longer stay, had herself decided to return home.

"I do not think we ought both to stay away from mamma," she said; "but if she has one of us, that will suffice for the time, Edie. I will go. You shall stay. The visit to Nora is more to you than it could possibly be to me."

The rising flush on Edith's cheek told that she felt the truth of her sister's words. She made no reply in words; but she bent lovingly towards Lizzie and kissed the bright kind face, the expression of which was one of the most hearty sympathy. The silent caress, the pressure of hands, said more than words. It was in the evening of that day, when Edith had decided, with her mother's consent, to accept Nora's invitation, that the girls received the sorrowful news from home.

There was no doubt that Mr. Henry Martin had been greatly struck with Edith from the time of his brother's marriage, when she officiated as first bridesmaid, and he as groomsman. Her remarkable beauty, her refined manners, her taste, combined with perfect neatness in dress, had all struck him as far beyond what he had ever seen in combination. But while these outside attractions were admirable in their way, he felt they were not all that would be needed to ensure domestic happiness. He feared that Edith prided herself too much on her beauty, and was apt not only to expect homage on account of it, but to undervalue others who did not possess it in the same degree.

"I could not endure a vain, selfish, and self-asserting woman," thought he to himself; "one who would only value a man's honest affection in accordance with the doses of flattery he might administer, or the means which he might place at her disposal for the indulgence of taste in dress or love of display. I want a helpmeet, such as God intended woman to be when He gave her to the man whom He had formed. If only Edith Northcote's inner qualities corresponded to her beautiful person, I would endeavour to win her affections. But, whatever else I have in a partner for life, I must try to choose one who will help and not hinder me on the heavenward road."

Probably few persons knew the depth and earnestness of Henry Martin's character, or guessed that what they did see and admire was only the fruit of lessons learned at the feet of Jesus. In society everyone said of him that he was a finished gentleman; so kind, so unselfish, so modest, thinking for the comfort of all whilst regardless of his own. As a lawyer, the clients who consulted the firm could never speak too highly of the unflinching uprightness of the younger brother, though one plain-spoken old gentleman, with a sad lack of the courtesy which distinguished Henry Martin, told him to his face, "Sir, you are as obstinate as a mule. You are not fit for a lawyer. Your business is to win my case for me by using every weapon the law will allow, whether I am right or wrong, provided I pay the bill."

"Then," replied Henry, "I fear I am not fit to be a lawyer, for I cannot fight feeling that I ought to lose the battle, and that if it were won it would be because your purse is long enough to carry the case from court to court, whilst your antagonist, a poor man, would be ruined at the end of the first stage. I could and did fight on your side once, but then you were in the right."

The irascible old gentleman was won over by these words to reconsider his intended action, and to see its injustice. More than that, his really generous nature was stirred to seek a reconciliation with the opponent, who had once been his friend, and a lasting reunion was the result.

He still told Henry Martin in jest that he was not fit to be a lawyer, but he never failed to throw business in the way of the firm, and in the young man's ear a voice seemed to whisper the sweet words, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God."

"Child of God." Yes, that was the title to which Henry Martin aspired, and the fellow Christian who saw his daily life felt that such fruit could only spring from the good seed which had taken root in an honest and good heart through the influence of the Holy Spirit.

There were poor homes, too, in which Henry was a well-known visitor; whose presence brought sunshine and comfort, both to soul and body. He strove to live, not to himself, but for the good of others, and to the glory of the Master whom he professed to serve. Many wondered that at thirty years of age he was still unmarried, but this peep into his inner life will sufficiently explain the reason. He sought one who would be at least like-minded with himself, and at the same time his habits and tastes were too refined to admit of companionship with a partner who lacked these characteristics, however excellent in other respects.

In Edith Northcote, he found every external charm, and he was now watching closely, to discover if the still more important qualities were also to be found in her. He was also watchful over his own conduct, and, whilst kindness itself towards both the Northcotes, he was most careful to conceal the deeper interest with which Edith had inspired him.

Nora, with feminine quick-sightedness, guessed something of what was in his mind, and joked him about her fair friend.

"You must not be an old bachelor, Henry," she said. "And where would you find a handsomer wife than Edith?"

"If beauty were all," said he, laughing.

"Beauty is not all with Edith," she replied, warming in defence of her friend. "She comes of a good stock; her father has abundant means, if that mattered to you, and the whole family are deservedly respected. And then how tasteful she is! Her appearance would adorn any home, even with a master as fastidious as yourself. She has charming taste, and would be as ornamental as any man could desire, provided his means were sufficiently large to gratify her wishes in the way of dress, and Edith is one of the least extravagant people I know. She combines economy with taste. I only wish I looked half as well-dressed by spending twice the money. Both she and Lizzie are splendid housekeepers, too. They have given me many a hint since they came to London, which I hope to profit by. What else could a man want?"

"There is still one thing needful, Nora, and I hope to find that in the girl I ask to be my wife, or I must be an old bachelor."

"I know what you mean, Henry, and if you had asked me whether Edith possessed it, I should have said, 'She is very dear to me; but I do not think she is all you mean in that respect.' Lately, I have noticed a great difference. Not that her words have told much; but there is a softened manner, an increased thoughtfulness for others. I can hardly express all I mean; but it seems to me that where Edith would once have put herself before others, she now puts others before herself. She used rather to snub Lizzie, too; now she loves to speak of her sister's good qualities, and of all she, 'stately Edith,' owes to her influence and example. Lizzie is a good girl all through; but for all that, Henry, I should love to have Edith in the family."

"Because you like her better; but then you see, to me, it is of consequence that I should like her better."

Henry left his sister-in-law still in the dark about his feelings towards her friend; but he was looking forward to seeing Edith when she should be Nora's guest. The letter from home, however, deranged his plan. He saw the faces of the sisters pale at the news, and heard Lizzie's prompt words, as she rose from her seat:

"I must prepare at once. Would it be possible to travel to-night?"

"We must prepare, dear," said Edith. "I do not think we can go to-night. Indeed, Harold's letter expressly states that there is no danger, and that papa does not wish us to leave London before the 9.15 train, which is express, and will arrive as soon as the one that starts earlier. This is an attack similar to others which have tried mamma so sadly for years, and we must be with her as soon as possible."

"Could I not go, Edie, and leave you to finish your visit to Nora, as we had arranged? If there were the least sign of danger you should be sent for."

"That is like you, Lizzie, to take the watching and anxiety, and wish to leave me the pleasure. Of course, I had reckoned on my visit to Nora; but it must not be thought of now. We must go together, dear; though," she added, "Lizzie is worth twice as much in a sick-room as I am."

The words were simply said, but they touched Henry Martin deeply; and his sister replied to them: "We shall be very sorry to lose you both, and are specially sorry for the cause of your going. But I trust Mrs. Northcote may soon recover her strength, and then we shall look forward to a still longer visit, and from Lizzie as well as yourself, Edith."

Henry himself added, "You are right to go with your sister, Miss Northcote. Now, would you like to send a telegram to your brother?"

"I should indeed."

"Tell me the exact address and the message you wish conveyed, and I will take it myself."

Edith did so, and Henry put it into few words, read it aloud, and then took it to the office.

The girls lost no time in making their preparations, and on the following morning were speeding on their homeward way. Early as it was, Henry Martin was at the Great Northern station to see them start, and to bring another farewell from Nora, and a request for immediate intelligence of their arrival and frequent news of Mrs. Northcote.

It had cost Edith something to give up the visit to Mrs. Martin, on which she had reckoned so much; for old habits, particularly selfish ones, are not to be rooted out all at once. Only a very short time before, she would have hesitated and considered if it were possible for her to send Lizzie home alone, and for herself to follow a little later.

Happily, Lizzie's prompt example and the voice of conscience pointed out the proper course; and the strength to do right for which she had asked on her knees was given her. And now, as the train was carrying her rapidly homeward, Edith felt happy, apart from the anxiety on account of her mother; for conscience spoke approvingly, and the words of one whose approbation she had learned to value, "You are right to go with your sister," still seemed to sound in her ear.

Mamma paused, then added, "I shall finish my story to-morrow, children; but I must leave you now."

"We can guess the ending," interposed Madge; and the others nodded, in a confident fashion, as if they, too, knew all about it.

"And we know what two lives were influenced as regarded their future by that penny."

Mamma only laughed, and saying, "Do not be too sure," retreated without further comment.