Chapter II: "silence Is Golden."

GERTRUDE went early to bed that evening. She wanted to think over her conversation with Pauline, and felt that for such a purpose there could be nothing like the quiet of her own room. She was, beside, of an eminently practical turn of mind, and had no desire to look weary and hollow-eyed on the morrow, when there was to be a picnic specially got up in her honour, as the guest of the Tindalls.

"I am just a little tired," she said to Mrs. Tindall, "and as I want to look my best and be ready for any amount of rambling, I will say good-night now."

"This is very early, my dear, but I am sure you are wise, and Pauline will do well to follow your example. If only young people would believe it, there is no better preserver of good looks than early hours," replied Mrs. Tindall.

Gertrude assented, and managed to get her thinking done soon enough to allow of some "beauty sleep." She came down in the morning in a charming but simple dress, looking as gay and bright as though nothing had occurred to disturb her on the preceding day.

She was especially affectionate to Pauline, and answered her friend's inquiring look with a frank smile. A little later, amid the bustle of preparation for starting, she whispered in her friend's ear, "Pauline, I was very cross and stupid yesterday. I took an altogether wrong view of things. Forgive my ill-tempers, darling, and, if you can, forget them, as I want to forget what caused them."

Pauline's face brightened. "I am so glad," she replied. "I felt quite distressed last night, because I had been the cause of the trouble. I never meant it. I could not have guessed that you—"

"Hush, darling!" and Gertrude placed her hand playfully on Pauline's lips. "Do not let us go over the ground again. The only thing I ask is that you will not say another word about it. You could only suppose I knew all as well as yourself. I understand the kindness which kept my position and that of the girls at home a secret from ourselves. I was a very naughty child, and you the sweet, sympathetic little friend you always are."

"And shall you not say a word at home—I mean to your mother, or Mr. Richard?"

"Not a word. I decided last night, before I went to sleep even, that since my mother and stepbrother had not chosen to speak about money matters, neither would I. Do you not think I may be well content to go on as I have hitherto done, enjoying the good things of this world without troubling to ask myself who paid for them?"

"I think so, Gertrude, dear—that is, in one sense. When the good things are given by such a kind hand as that of your brother, there can be no painful feeling of obligation in taking. I do believe he is just one of those whose 'heart grows rich in giving,' and that he delights in making everybody happy—most of all his mother and sisters."

"My mother, not his, really," replied Gertrude.

"That makes it all the nicer, does it not? Who could tell that they were not really mother and son? Why think about the fact at all, when he so willingly forgets it, and Mrs. Whitmore loves him as her own? Do you know, Gertrude, you called him your 'stepbrother' to-day. I never heard you use the term before, and to me it sounded horribly harsh, seeing you are all children of one father."

"Did I?" replied Gertrude. "Ah, well, only one heard it; and, if you please, we will now have done with this matter, once and for all. Mrs. Tindall is wanting our help. It is shocking to desert her, even for a few moments."

Gertrude hastened to offer her assistance in packing some sweets which required careful handling, and soon she and the rest of the party were on their way to the place selected for the picnic.

Never had Pauline seen her friend more apparently gay and light-hearted, and the girl rejoiced that the impression produced by her unfortunate allusions had already passed away. She was, however, mistaken.

Gertrude did not, and could not, forget. Through that day and after came again and again the haunting thought, "I am only a pensioner on Richard's bounty. Only one of the second wife's children—the portionless wife of a man who had little to leave for her and his daughters. It is plain what people think. How grateful we ought to be that we are allowed to live as if we were rich, when we have next to nothing! I wish, how I wish, that I, at any rate, had been justly dealt with, and brought up with a full knowledge that I am a poor girl, who may at any time, be sent out into the world to battle for my daily bread."

In spite of these bitter thoughts, Gertrude was quite in earnest when she told Pauline that she should say nothing of what she had learned through her words. The girl liked her life of luxury, her beautiful surroundings, her freedom from present care. She was not prepared to give up these, even while she inwardly rebelled against receiving as her brother's gift what she had always deemed her own by right of being her father's daughter, as Richard was his son. So she shut up all these thoughts in her own mind, and returned home to live the old life and enjoy as best she might the sweets of it, though sometimes the one bitter drop would partly spoil the flavour of the rest.

Much, however, as Gertrude might strive to conceal what she felt, everyone noticed a change in her manner towards her brother, though none could account for it. "Brother Dick" was the term hitherto used by all the girls in speaking of him, but the bare "Richard" became Gertrude's substitute for the more endearing expression, ever after her return home.

Once, to Mrs. Whitmore's intense surprise, she called him her stepbrother to some visitors at Mere Side.

"Gertrude, why did you speak of Dick by that name?" asked her mother, with a pained look on her face.

"It is right, is it not? Surely there was no harm in using the correct term for once!" she replied in half-jesting, half-defiant tone. "Richard is my stepbrother."

"Undoubtedly he is. But, dear child, consider what he has been to me, to us all. I could not bear to call him my stepson. I rejoice, I am proud, thankful that I have had one like him to stand by me and give to me a mother's name and a son's love. I would not have him hear you speak of him as you did to-day for the world."

"I did not mean to trouble you, mother; you may be sure of that. I will always call him Richard; and I am sure I wish he were my real brother, instead of being only half and half."

The words jarred on Mrs. Whitmore's ear, though she echoed Gertrude's wish without realising its double meaning. But the sarcastic laugh which the girl gave, and a certain hardness of manner when Richard was spoken of, alike grieved and puzzled her mother. She hardly knew how to speak on the subject, but kept hoping that if during Gertrude's absence from home she had received some undesirable impression, it would be best removed by time and the absence of any allusion to it.

But three years passed, and still an unseen barrier stood between Richard and his eldest sister; yet though everyone felt its existence, and dated it from Gertrude's visit to the Tindalls, she had adhered to her resolve, and never named the cause of her changed manner. Indeed, she would have felt ashamed to lay bare her thoughts, even to her mother. She could not help being conscious of her unreasonableness in feeling indignant at Richard, simply because he had alike the power and the will to shower good things upon them all, and did it with a large-hearted affection which never allowed the thought to intrude itself, that they had no legal claim to share equally with him.

Selfishness would not permit Gertrude to relinquish what she so thoroughly enjoyed, but her appreciation did not stir her to thankfulness to God or gratitude to her brother. Often, instead of these, she would shed bitter tears at the thought of her dependence on Richard's pleasure, and call herself a mere pauper in the sight of the world.

If ever there was a time when the nobility of Richard Whitmore's character shone out with greater lustre than at others, it was in his dealings with his sister Gertrude. He could not be unconscious that she regarded him with less affection than of old; and if he guessed the cause of the change, he said nothing. He simply met it with unvarying kindness, snaking no difference between one and another of the girls, except that she, as the eldest, had in some respects more and handsomer dresses than the younger ones, as became a lady after her introduction to society.

So three years passed, and brought about little change in the relations between the two, but at the end of the time came the day when Richard stood beside Mrs. Whitmore, and soothed her last hours by the promise, "As you have been a true mother to me, so will I be to the girls all that you say—God helping me." Then he had driven away her anxieties about the future by brave and trustful words, and Mrs. Whitmore put from her mind the last anxious thought by repeating to herself what he had bidden her remember, "Dick does not stand alone. His father's God is his God also, and trusting in Him for strength, according to his day, he can never be desolate, or in doubt as to the course which is right."

Yet it was a solemn responsibility for so young a man to take upon himself. Dick was just twenty-six and Gertrude twenty, the others following at intervals of two years each, so that Molly, his special darling, was fourteen when left without father and mother.

She was a warm-hearted, impulsive creature, to whom Dick had been from her earliest days playfellow, friend, confidant, and protector, as well as brother. To Molly there was no one in the world like Richard. As a child she would have left any person or thing only to be by his side, to wait his leisure, or to trot patiently up and down after or for him.

It was to him she fled for comfort in trouble at all times, and especially when this crowning sorrow of her young life came upon her. The three elder girls wept together. Molly stole into the library, where Dick sat alone after he had given the needful orders and spoken a few loving words to the rest. She did not trouble him with passionate tears or outbreaks of wailing and sobbing, but in truly unselfish fashion tried to repress these for his sake.

Dick drew the child on his knee, and, clasping her in his arms, the two sat in silence in a great low chair in the library. Many a time had she coiled herself up in it, and fallen asleep by his side, when he was busy or deep in study, and could not give her immediate attention; for, while nominally of no profession, and leading the life of a country gentleman, his time was fully and usefully employed.

In the depths of Molly's favourite chair and encircled by Dick's loving arms, the child found the best of earthly comfort. As her head rested on his breast, he could note the effort she made to suppress her sobs, while little guessing that Dick was also exercising equal self-control for her sake. He could feel the heaving of her breast as they thus sat in silence, and from time to time, as she clung more closely to him, he would smooth back the shining curls and kiss her tenderly.

At last Molly could no longer restrain her tears.

"We did so love her, Dick, didn't we?" she said, as if in excuse for breaking down.

"We did, darling Molly, and we do, for the end of life here is not the end of all things for us. We shall meet our dear mother again. But it is natural to weep, because we are left outside, whilst mother has passed through the golden gates before us."

And then he spoke to his favourite of the Father's home above, and happy meetings there, and the absence of sorrow and tears for all those who had been taught by the Holy Spirit to trust in Jesus as a precious Saviour. He pictured their joy in meeting Him who had loved them and given Himself for them, until at last Molly was carried away from the sad realities of present bereavement to picture in her mind also what Dick was telling her about. At last, wearied with all she had gone through, the child fell asleep, and sooner than disturb her, Richard sat on until the room was dark, and his limbs cramped with keeping them in the same position for so long a time.

The others found them at last, and even Gertrude's heart was touched as she looked at the pair of true friends—one watching, the other sleeping profoundly.

"Oh, Richard, we have wondered where you could be!" she said. "There was no light, or we should have looked for you here, but we knew wherever you were we should find Molly. How tired you must be holding that great girl in your arms asleep."

"I could not bear to wake her," said Dick, simply. "Whilst the dear child sleeps, she forgets."