Chapter XVII: About True Service

"I SHOULD like to get hold of that child. There is something out of time in her life."

The Rev. Osborne Miles, Vicar of Burwood, stood on a side-path in his garden, surveying with deep interest a group of seedlings, pushing their way upward. After weeks of severe cold, a mild spell had set in—quite time it should, people said, near the end of April—and the Vegetable World was responding with vigour.

He had been presented to the living scarcely a year before this date, and was therefore still "a new man" in Burwood. Thirty years of strenuous toil in a murky manufacturing town, with a parish of twenty thousand, had broken his health by the time he arrived at sixty; and after much hesitation, and many regrets, he accepted a country cure. Burwood, though called a "town," was to him absolute country. Sleepy country too!

He did not look ill, as he stood with squared shoulders and vigorous mien—being a man of natural energy, and one who would never, at his physical worst, carry himself with limp dejection. Strong in build, deliberate and capable in movement, with abundant grey hair and searching eyes beneath overhanging brows, he was not one to be easily overcome; but two years earlier he had been brought by long strain to the lowest possible ebb of vitality. Yet he rallied; and though sternly prohibited by doctors from returning to his old and beloved sphere, he never dreamt of leading an idle existence. So the Burwood offer was accepted.

One thing he found here which, through all his strenuous existence, he had thirsted for—a garden. The old Vicarage, built of the same dull-hued local stone as the ancient Church, stood in an acre of ground well laid out. He could at last freely indulge his passion for flowers.

Of course, even in quiet Burwood, his time was much taken up; but after the life he had lived, this by comparison was ease. He found time for everything, and for his garden besides—especially on Monday, always counted as far as possible an "off-day;" and this was Monday.

After working among thousands of men, it was a change to find himself chiefly concerned with elderly ladies, spinsters or otherwise. Not all elderly. There were many girls in the place; and he studied them with interest. They belonged to such a different type from the young business-women and rough mill-girls, among whom he had worked hitherto. The mild futility of existence among many of them aroused his wonder. It seemed so inadequate a use of life!

"What do they do with themselves?" he one day asked his wife.

"A good many things, dear. They go to tennis-parties—and play hockey—and bicycle and skate. A few of them hunt."

"You are talking of amusements. What work do they do?"

"Some don't do any work. Some are busy at home. Some have classes in the Sunday-school—or help in other ways with parish doings. Some make their own blouses."

The Vicar heard this in silence and went on studying the problem. He was gradually individualising Burwood folks; and lately he had individualised Magda Royston. The church was free-seated; but the Roystons had their own position, just in front of the pulpit, and he had early noted a fresh girlish face, with its rather unusual mass of reddish hair, and with a bright brisk bearing. Then he observed a change. The bright face grew dull; the spirited pose spiritless. Something was wrong with her, he decided; and he went to call, but failed to find the object of his solicitude.

Two Sundays back his attention had been awakened anew. Talking to his people of life, its claims, its duties, its abuses, he saw that listless face lifted, and a look of interest dawn.

"The child wants a helping hand," he thought. "I must get hold of her." But he had not yet succeeded.

"Osborne," called a cheery voice; and his wife came across the wet lawn—a charming little woman, fresh as a daisy, despite years in a manufacturing town; supremely neat in dress, and supremely happy in look, with smiling eyes and ready laugh. They had been married ten years, and were lovers still, though she was a good twenty-five years his junior.

"You are wanted, dear."

"Generally the case on Monday."

"I know. You ought to be left in peace. But I did not like to suggest another time. Girls are cranky beings."

"You speak of them from personal experience."

"Yes, I do. I was cranky at her age—always ready to be rubbed up the wrong way."

Mr. Miles did not count this conclusive as to girls in general, though he forbore to say so. He seldom argued with a woman.

"And if ever I had screwed up my courage to the point of wanting an interview with a clergyman, and had been turned away, I should never have gone again."

"I see. Who is it?"

"One of the Royston girls. The red-haired one."

"She has asked for me?"

"She brings a packet from her father; and she said—might she give it herself?"

"All right. Send her here."

A very clear sense came over the Vicar that he had had this girl not only in his thoughts but in his prayers.

"My dear—the grass is wet."

"Nothing but dew. It's delicious."

She tripped lightly off; and the Vicar waited till Magda approached—shy at coming, and half disposed to bolt at the last moment. He saw so much. Also, from long experience, he at once recognised that she had something in her mind, which she wanted to bring out.

"How do you do? All well at home?" Though the words were commonplace, his strong hand closed round hers with a fatherly grip which won her confidence on the spot. "I'm glad you have found your way to us. It is time that I should know you better."

She said only "Yes," but there was evident pleasure.

"Fond of flowers?" He drew her attention to a fine bloom. "Is not that a marvel of colouring? Something in the arrangement of those petals speaks of a Mind behind—controlling. A garden has much to say to us, if we will but listen. We don't always."

"I suppose we don't always understand the garden-language," she suggested.

He stooped to gather a daisy from the lawn. "Did you ever come across those lines?—"

"'Small service is true service while it lasts;
The daisy by the shadow that it casts
Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.'"

"And here is the dewdrop—see! Able to last till now, because of the daisy-shelter. I have taken the daisy away for another and a higher purpose. But it did its little work first."

"Why higher?"

"It has sheltered a drop of water. Now it serves to illustrate a great truth. That is the more important."

"I see-yes. Was the other worth doing?"

"Certainly—if that was its appointed task."

"Things like that seem so small—as if it were all the same, whether they are done or not done."

"Ah, that is the mistake often made. Nothing in life is so small, that its doing or not doing does not matter. Everything is part of one grand whole. That gives dignity to the smallest duty."

"I suppose—" and she broke off. "Oh, it doesn't matter."

"Perhaps it does matter. What is your trouble, my child?" And the kind penetrating eyes studied her.

"I can't see what work there is for me. I couldn't take a district. Father says I'm too young—and, besides, I shouldn't know how to manage it. I did think of a class in the Sunday-school. But I hate teaching. And mother is so afraid of infection for Merryl and Frip."

"What about home duties?"

"Pen sees to all that."

"Leaving nothing for you?"

Magda did not at once reply. A recollection came up of sharp complaints from her father.

"I can't see that there is anything for me to do—worth doing!" she said at length. "Nor anything worth living for."

"Child!"—and he spoke in a moved tone. "Life is always worth living—in God! Everything is worth doing—in Christ our Lord."

"But if there really is nothing?" she insisted.

"If you have absolutely no direct work now, you must wait in patience, and train yourself for the future. You must educate your powers—make yourself ready for what may come by-and-by. Preparation for work is, in its way, as important as the work itself. The preparation in some cases lasts for years; the work itself lasts but a short time. That does not matter. All that matters is that we should be doing whatever God gives us to do, in simple obedience and love."

"And suppose one worked hard for years and years—trying to make ready—and nothing ever came of it?"

"Something will certainly come of it—in this life or in the next. No true work for God is ever thrown away."

"I don't see what I'm to do. It all seems so difficult." She sighed despondently.

"Don't be in too much of a hurry to see your way. Only make the best possible use of your days meanwhile. There is always something to be done for somebody. The smallest service may be 'true service while it lasts.'" Mr. Miles pulled out his watch. He knew that he had said enough. "Ah—I must be on the move. But come again soon. You will find my wife indoors."

He went with her; and as they met Mrs. Miles, she said—

"A letter from Lance. He wants to pay us a visit."

"He is always welcome. How soon?"

"In a week or ten days. I'm afraid he'll find it dull."

"Ivor's not given to dulness." The Vicar vanished, and Magda asked in an interested tone—

"Is that the Mr. Ivor who fell into the crevasse? Do you know him? His name is Lancelot, I'm sure."

"We are first cousins; and he has always been like a younger brother to me. He is a dear fellow."

"I've never seen him, but he is Rob's friend."

"Yes, he has spoken of your brother. Come and see his likeness."

She went into the dining-room, and produced a framed photograph, which the girl studied.

"What a fine face!" she said. Then putting it down, she took up a second, asking—"And who is this?"

"Another cousin of mine; on my mother's side. Lance is on my father's."

"He isn't so handsome. I seem to know the face."

"Ned never had much to boast of in the way of looks. He is a dear, kind-hearted fellow; always ready to do anything he can for any human being. So Is Lance, for the matter of that!"

"I wonder if I ever saw him," murmured Magda. "Perhaps he is like somebody I know." She turned away, remarking—"I once had a friend called Ned; but I haven't seen him for years. Not since I was eleven and he was seventeen. He never wrote."

"I'm afraid your friend was rather fickle."

Magda took up the photograph anew, and after a fresh scrutiny she glanced at the back.

"Why!" she cried. "It is! It's the same. It is Ned Fairfax!"

"Certainly; that is Ned Fairfax."

"But he used to be my friend. The only friend I ever made before I went to school. He and I were immense chums. How funny! Oh, how funny! I didn't even know where he was. We were always getting together, and I was a sort of pet of his for more than three years. I told him everything."

"How amusing! Now I think of it, his mother lived here for three or four years, when she first became a widow. He used to go to a school two miles off. I was sorry she did not send him to a public school. Still, he has turned out a good fellow; not so brilliant as Lance."

"We used to write just at first; and then he left off. People said he would, of course, because he was a boy. But it made me miserable. I dare say he has forgotten all about me now. I should like to see him again."

"You are pretty sure to do that. He visits us at least once a year."

"Oh, how droll to come across him like this!" Magda said again.