Chapter V

WHEN the sisters arrived at home they were doubly thankful that they had lost no time in setting out. They found Mrs. Northcote's illness was of a much more serious character than the letter had led them to anticipate. The filial love and self-devotion of both the girls would be tested to the utmost, and it must be owned that Mr. Northcote and his sons doubted much whether these qualities in Edith's case would stand the strain.

But soon all who were in the house, and none more than the invalid mother, became sensible of the change that had begun in the elder daughter. Perhaps nothing tries the mettle that the young are made of more than sickness in a house. When not actually engaged in attendance on the sufferer, there is the unnatural quiet in the home, the necessity for excluding visitors, abstaining from outdoor social intercourse, and the impossibility of indulging in the usual merry games. The burst of song which springs to the young lips must be hushed, the piano remain closed, for fear of disturbing the invalid. Even the innocent jest, which might provoke a laugh, is suppressed; because laughter has a heartless sound when pain shuts out those we love from sharing in it.

At first Edith found all these things hard to bear with perfect submission. But she loved her mother, and love is all-constraining. Lizzie and she acted in a delightful concert, which none had ever seen to exist between them before, and it astonished all to find how willing the elder was to learn from the younger. When, at length, the crisis had passed, and the minds of the watchers were relieved by the invalid's gradual approach towards convalescence, Edith found how great a blessing to herself had been the needful discipline of those sorrowful weeks. How sweet it was to feel her mother's arm around her neck and to hear her say:

"I can thank God for every day of pain and sickness, my darling; for this illness has shown me that in you I have a treasure of which I never before saw all the value."

"It was not there, dear mamma," was the girl's answer. "I have been dreadfully selfish and careless of other people nearly all my life—even of you—but lately I have been led to see myself in a new light. I do long to be all that you think me, dear mamma; and if I am better, Lizzie has been the instrument, in God's hands, of helping me."

What a precious confession was this! And when the mother knew yet more of her child's inward struggles against evil, and the united daily prayers of the sisters for blessing and strength from above, her cup of happiness was filled to overflowing.

It must not be supposed that the girls had forgotten their promise to keep Nora fully informed of all that passed during their mother's illness. It is hardly needful to say that, through Mrs. Martin, her brother-in-law shared in the correspondence. Generous-hearted Lizzie did not know how to say enough of Edith's devotion to her mother, and Edith let her friend into the secret of the change, and told what her young sister's example had done for herself. The letters between the friends had always been unrestrained, and now the correspondence was not without its influence on the young wife in London, for through it she was led to realise her responsibilities as she had never done before. So true is it that "no man—" that is, no one of the human race—"liveth to himself alone."

Nora often wondered whether, after all, anything would come of the acquaintance between her brother-in-law and Edith; but during all Mrs. Northcote's illness, he made no sign. When the better tidings came, he received them with manifest pleasure, and that same evening he spent an unusual time at his writing table in the library. When he joined Nora, he held a single letter in his hand, and she jokingly told him, if that were the extent of his correspondence, he must have been asleep, or the letter of vast importance.

"It is of vast importance. I have been writing to Edith. A love-letter—my first, Nora, and a very sober one; but I hope it will bring much happiness."

Truly, the letter which, on the morrow, was placed in the hands of Miss Northcote, The Manor House, Haltham, Lincolnshire, was, in one sense, a sober one. Believing that he could do so with the certainty of sympathy, he told Edith of the deep feelings of his heart, his desire to find in the woman he loved one who would share his higher aspirations, and join in his work for God's glory, and the good of those around them. He acknowledged the feeling of admiration which she had from the first inspired, and the reason why he had hesitated to let this be seen. There was much more in the letter than can be related at length.

Enough to say that, as Edith read it, a glad flush spread on her cheeks—paler than usual through much watching—and, as happy tears coursed down them, she murmured, "If I were only good enough to deserve the affection of one like Henry Martin!"

The Northcote family generally were quite satisfied to believe that Edith would now be a treasure to any good man. Henry Martin's character, age, and position were all suitable, and the girl's blushing face told the loving mother that his many excellences had won her daughter's affection and respect. The answer to that "sober letter" was evidently all that its writer desired, for he said to his sister, "Congratulate me, Nora. I hope soon to call Edith my wife."

"And congratulate me," said lively Mrs. Martin, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry, to show her sympathy; "for my brother-in-law is giving me my dearest friend as a sister."

There was, of course, further correspondence between Mr. Northcote and his son-in-law elect, but all of a pleasant character. Henry was to spend Christmas and New Year at the Manor House, for that season was close at hand. Nora and her husband could not join the happy gathering, for on Christmas Eve their first baby opened her blue eyes to the light, and they were rejoicing in their tiny treasure.

No person who looked at Henry and Edith could help saying how well they matched each other. They were naturally almost inseparable during that happy holiday time, for, as Henry said, "their actual love-making was terribly in arrears. In fact, it had all to be done. Did you ever think I cared so much for you when we used to meet last summer, Edith?" he asked.

"You did not show special regard for me, and you were so kind to everybody. Sometimes I thought you liked me better than others, and then, when I felt how little there really was in me for anyone to love, I was just as certain that I was mistaken. Still, seeing you what you were, Henry, made me wish to deserve a higher, better affection than any external attractions could win or keep."

"Ah, dearest, you will find me just as much in need of improvement as you deem yourself! But we will be learners together from the same Divine Teacher. Do you remember the night when you received news of your mother's illness?"

"Can I ever forget it?" said Edith, with deep feeling. "It was a turning-point in my life."

"More than you knew. And in mine also; for, dear Edith, had you then selfishly hesitated, or decided on sending your sister home to undertake alone the work which it was alike your duty and privilege to share, I should never have sought you as my wife. And," he added, "neither should I have sought another; but my sister-in-law's oft-repeated prophecy would have been fulfilled by my remaining a hopeless bachelor."

Time went happily on, and the sisters, accompanied by their mother and brother, were again in London, making preparations for Edith's wedding. By the girl's own wish, the arrangements were to be simple, but tasteful, as all to which she put her hand was sure to be. Still, a great many purchases had to be made; and, above all, a home had to be selected for the young couple within a few miles of London.

House-hunting is a most fatiguing business, and occupies a great deal of time, especially near the great metropolis. Before starting on a tour of inspection, Lizzie was running over the advertisements in the paper.

"Here is one that sounds likely," she said, and she ran through the particulars. "And at Belford Regis, too. How singular! Mamma, do let us go and look at the place."

"Belford Regis," said Henry. "A delightful neighbourhood. Have you been there, Lizzie?"

"No, but I have a particular wish to go." She looked at Edith, and the intelligent glance she received in return showed Mrs. Northcote that there must be some mental association with Belford Regis. Amid a good deal of laughing, the story was told, and as Mrs. Northcote said, she for the first time became aware that one of her daughters had once begged for the gift of a penny at a railway-station.

"Let us go to Belford Regis by all means," echoed Henry and Harold Northcote. "Perhaps we shall have a sequel to Lizzie's adventure, or find out whether Mr. Percival Long was her unknown friend."

The proposition was carried unanimously, and the party set out. Arrived at their journey's end, they first inquired the way to the house they had come to examine. This one of the railway-porters told them, and then Lizzie eagerly asked, "Is there a Mr. Long living in this neighbourhood?"

"Yes, ma'am, and no better-known or better-liked gentleman anywhere," was the reply.

"What age is he, do you suppose? I want to find out if he is an acquaintance of mine."

"About fifty-five, I should think. He has only one child living—a daughter; such a one for age and height as you, miss, I should think, and a sweet young lady. You will pass his place—Elfin Crag, they call it—on your way to the house you have been asking about. You are likely enough to meet him on the way, as he is often out walking with his daughter. You see she has no ma living, and that makes them so much together."

Lizzie popped a gratuity into the hand of her informant, which made the man wonder what he had done to deserve it, and then hurried off at such a speed that her mother was fain to plead her inability to follow within any reasonable distance.

"I beg your pardon, mamma. I felt quite excited. We shall see that dear, kind face, for I am sure this is my Mr. Long."

Harold begged that she would not be in such a hurry to appropriate the elderly widower, and received a hint to be silent in the shape of a little fist shaken threateningly. But, sure enough, they did meet the porter's Mr. Long, who turned out to be also Lizzie's "Percival Long, Esq.," with his daughter hanging on his arm. He opened his eyes very wide as he caught sight of Lizzie, then saying, "Mildred, this is my young friend, Miss Lizzie Northcote, whose acquaintance I made under peculiar circumstances," he extended his hand to Lizzie, and shook hers heartily.

"Can you forgive me, my dear, for not answering your little letter? It came when this child, my Milly, was at death's door, and it got thrown aside somehow, for when, after the danger was past, I sought for it everywhere, it was nowhere to be found."

After this there was a grand introducing, hand-shaking, and laughing. Mr. Long insisted on turning back with the party, and, taking Mrs. Northcote on his arm, went with them to look at the house, which he knew all about, and advised them to take.

They did so, and then they all went to Elin Crag to luncheon, where they were hospitably entertained, Miss Milly presiding, while her father called Lizzie's attention to the fact that his dear child's cheeks were now as rosy as her own.

There is not so very much more to be told, except that Milly officiated as a bridesmaid at Edith's wedding, and that the young couple became the neighbours of Mr. Long, at Belford Regis. Also, that the union proved, as might be expected, a very happy one.

Harold, like a dutiful brother, soon paid a visit to Edith, and did not fail also to pay his respects at Elin Crag, having, he said, "been greatly attracted by the character of Mr. Long." It turned out that there was another attraction under the same roof, for the following spring Lizzie had again to officiate as bridesmaid to Mildred Long, who became the wife of her favourite brother, Harold.

* * * * *

"Well, I declare," shouted Jack, as his mother paused for a moment, "I call this story of yours a sort of swindle. Whoever suspected such a finish? And you have told us all about Lizzie's troubles and Edith's courtship, and crammed Milly and Harold into a few words."

"Well, dear, you could not expect me to give such details twice over in one story. But you shall have a little more."

"About Lizzie. I should like to know whom she married, and all particulars, for she is still my favourite."

"Perhaps I may tell you Lizzie's special story some other time. But I will just say that Mr. Northcote, having other sons, had to spare Harold to his father-in-law, and that when they married, he and Milly took up their abode at Belford Regis, at Elin Crag itself. Also that they lived very happy ever after, that is, to this present time of telling. Also," and here mamma's eyes sparkled with fun, "that I have altered names of persons and places, to make my story a little more mysterious. The truth is, Milly's name was not Milly at all; but Florence, like yours, Flossie, and Harold's was John; and that two of their children are called after them."

Mamma was here interrupted by a perfect shout. "Then you and papa were the Harold and Mildred of the story."

"Yes, darlings; and you can testify to the truth of the statement that they too lived happily ever after. It was most especially of your dear father and myself I was thinking when I spoke of the two lives whose future was influenced by a penny."

And mamma having thus finished her story, vanished by the open door in order to greet her hero, who had just entered, and was rubbing his shoes in the hall, and left her youngsters to digest as best they might her "Tale of a Penny."

BORROWED FEATHERS