Chapter VII: Making Plans for the Future

THE sad accident that had befallen my father was not an unheard-of thing in the flat, low-lying district in which we lived. Almost every winter we heard of narrow escapes from drowning at Burford, when the river, swollen by rain, flooded the road, and from time to time some child, or animal, or drunken man would be swept away by the waters. But when John Carmichael, one of the oldest and most respected inhabitants of the little place, found his death in this way, everyone was startled and dismayed, and there was some discussion as to what measures could be taken to prevent such catastrophes in future.

How it was that my father had fallen into the river could not easily be explained. Subsequent examination of the road showed that the horse and trap had passed over the bridge. There had been no missing the way in the darkness, and straying into the main current of the stream, a misadventure known to have befallen wayfarers at other times. If the horse had been able to struggle through the water and bring the vehicle home without great injury, why had not its driver kept his place? Had a sudden jar against the parapet of the bridge thrown him from his seat? Or had he, as Dr. Perrow was inclined to believe, been seized by the dizziness which had more than once overpowered him, and, losing consciousness, fallen into the deep swollen river? It was vain to ask. Of the dire fact only could we be sure—suddenly and alone, in the wet, stormy night, my father had met with his death.

I was not stunned by the shock of sudden bereavement. I did not faint, nor cry out, nor sob myself into a stupor of exhaustion. I listened quietly to all Dr. Perrow had to say, asked one or two questions, and then, refusing to allow Salome to accompany me, I went upstairs and locked myself in my own room. There had been tears in Salome's eyes, tears even in Dr. Perrow's, while Martha's sobs were loud and vehement, but I could shed no tear as yet.

I wanted to be alone, that I might realise the calamity that had befallen me, and think out the confusion of thoughts that pressed upon my mind. Shivering with cold and excitement, I sank upon the window-seat, and pressing my icy hands to my burning brow, I tried to force home on my consciousness the bitter truth that never more would father look on me and call me, "Dorothy!" Never more could I give him smile or word, nor render him the least service—never more!

Ah, truly has it been said that when those near to us are called away, it is never our tenderness we repent of. Rather do we mourn that we have not made better use of the opportunities the past offered for tender words and loving devotion.

All my shortcomings as a daughter rose up before me in this hour. How cold and careless had been my demeanour towards my father; how little had I studied his welfare, how seldom denied myself for his sake! How much better I might have served him; how much more I might have been to him! But now it was too late—too late! The words rang in my ears like a knell.

True, I had never wilfully failed in my duty towards my father. I had only been thoughtless. But I could no longer excuse my thoughtlessness, regarding it as a common characteristic of girlhood. I saw now that thoughtlessness is sin. Since God had given me a mind capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, and discerning the duties He would have me fulfil, it was sinful to live careless of all save my own selfish pleasure. And thus, amidst the poignant regrets that stung my heart in this hour of sorrow, it seemed to me that I had lived in the past.

Suddenly the noise of opening doors and tramping feet roused me to painful consciousness of the present. I shuddered, and, throwing myself on my knees, buried my head amidst the cushions of the window-seat as I recognised the meaning of those sounds. They were bringing my father's body into the house. Then at last, my composure gave way. Sob after sob shook my frame, and a hot shower of tears fell from my eyes as I cried to myself—

"Thank God, thank God, he did call me good once. God knows I never deserved it; but he did. He did call me good!"

I do not know how to write about the days that followed. They have left on my mind a confused sense of pain and gloom, and I cannot recall events in the order in which they fell. Edmund came home looking pale and sad, and was very tender in his care for me. There was the inquest and then the funeral, with all the trying preparations these demanded, and through those sad days, I suffered much anxiety on Mabel's account, wondering how she would bear it when they told her that father was dead.

I remember an hour on the day following the funeral, when I sat alone in the dining-room with my hands clasped in the lap of my black frock, doing nothing but gaze about me on familiar objects with that sense of unreality which sudden bereavement gives. Edmund was in the office with Howard Steinthorpe and a solicitor from Halstead. He was being made acquainted with the state of my father's business affairs, and presently he would come and tell me what had passed. But I felt no anxiety as to the information he would bring. I was yet living in the past, careless what of good or evil the coming days might have in store for me.

Presently I heard the tan-yard gate swing on its hinges, and concluded that Howard Steinthorpe and the solicitor were departing. Still some minutes passed ere Edmund came. When at last he entered, his face was flushed, his eyes very bright, and there was an indefinable something in his appearance which told me he had been very much put out. I thought it wisest to keep silence, and waited till he should begin to speak.

He drew a chair in front of the fire and fiercely attacked with the poker a prominent lump of coal ere he said a word. Suddenly he burst out—"For consummate astuteness commend me to that fellow Steinthorpe. He has managed things nicely for himself, upon my word."

"What has he done?" I asked, wondering at the passionate tremulousness with which my brother spoke.

"Oh, nothing," he said, bitterly; "he has merely contrived to possess himself of the tannery and all its belongings; of everything, in short, that we might have thought would have come to us at our father's death."

I looked at him in bewilderment. Seeing how astonished I was, Edmund made an effort to control himself and tell me quietly what he had learned to be the state of our affairs.

It appeared that for many years the tannery had not prospered. Year after year father had lost money by it, till, about the time of Mr. Howard Steinthorpe's coming to The Towers, he found himself on the verge of bankruptcy. My father's pride shrank from an issue involving so much disgrace in the eyes of his neighbours at Burford, and he eagerly sought some means of escaping it. He was led to appeal to Mr. Steinthorpe for help, and that gentleman, after making some inquiries into the condition of the business, consented to advance a large sum of money on security of a mortgage on the tannery and its appurtenances.

According to Howard's account, he had advised my father to effect sundry improvements in his methods of tanning which he believed would render the business more profitable; but father had obstinately refused to make any changes, and had gone on in the old way, to find himself after a time in increased difficulties. At that juncture Howard Steinthorpe pressed for payment of his debt, and urged my father to declare himself a bankrupt. But the idea of this was intolerable to my father, and he implored Steinthorpe to save him from it, and again Howard lent him a large sum of money, receiving as security a bill of sale on our house and furniture. And thus my father's sudden death left in the hands of Howard Steinthorpe everything belonging to the business and all we might have thought would be ours, when our father had passed from earth, since it was utterly out of Edmund's power to redeem the mortgages.

But, as Edmund told me, it was some time ere I could take in these facts.

"Do you mean to say that this house and the furniture are his?" I asked, incredulously.

Edmund nodded.

"Have we, then, nothing?" I asked. "Are we absolutely penniless?"

"Not quite so bad as that," replied Edmund. "There are a few hundred pounds coming to us from the insurance on father's life, that is all."

At that moment, I recalled the day when, seated in the summer parlour, I had overheard part of a business conversation between my father and Howard Steinthorpe. I remembered the hard, almost bullying tone Howard had assumed in speaking to father. I remembered the trouble in my father's voice as he said: "I cannot bear to make things hard for the children."

"Edmund," I said, "I don't know what you think; but I believe that Howard Steinthorpe was very hard upon father. Could he not have helped him in some other way, without grasping everything for himself?"

"Of course, he could," returned my brother. "No one could better afford than Steinthorpe to risk money on a doubtful investment. But although John Carmichael was his father-in-law, he would not venture a brass farthing to save him from failure without the best security. The worst of it is," continued Edmund, clenching his fist, "what maddens me beyond anything is, that I can see he counts upon making a very good thing out of the tannery. The business has begun to look up since the new machinery came into use."

"Did he express no feeling, no desire to help us?" I asked.

"Express feeling? Of course he did. You know how smoothly he always speaks. He deeply regretted our position, and said he was ready to give me all the assistance in his power for my settlement in life; but I told him, once and for all, that I would accept no help from him. I will receive no favours from such a snake in the grass."

As I looked at my brother's flushed, indignant face, I fully sympathised with the spirit in which he spoke.

"Nor will I," I said, proudly.

"Oh, but Dorothy, I forgot to tell you; he said there would always be a home for you at The Towers."

"Did he?" I exclaimed, flushing hotly in my turn. "I am very much obliged to him; but I will never accept a home from him. I could not breathe under his roof after all that has come to pass."

"But what will you do, Dorothy?" my brother asked. "You cannot support yourself."

"I 'must' support myself," I said, firmly, though my courage failed me at the thought; "I must take a situation."

"But what sort of a situation are you fit for, my Dottie?" asked Edmund, tenderly.

It was the very question father had put to me on my return from school two summers ago. Ah, he must have know then, poor father, that it was by no mean improbable that I might one day have to earn my living. I could not find it in at heart to blame my father for anything he had done; but I could see that words of blame not seldom trembled on Edmund's lips, though better feelings withheld him from uttering them. Our circumstance might have been much easier, if father had revealed his difficulties years ago, instead of vainly struggling to retrieve his position.

"I do not know what I am fit for," I said, sadly; "but there is surely something I can do. I would take a servant's place rather than owe anything to that man."

"Let us hope you may find a pleasanter post than that," said my brother. "I know you can't like the idea; but perhaps it would be well for you to go to The Towers for awhile! After all we must not be too hard on Steinthorpe. I suppose he has only acted as many other men would have acted in his place. And you must remember that he is Mabel's husband. You would not wish to effect a breach between you and your sister?"

"Mabel has hardly seemed like a sister since she belonged to Howard Steinthorpe," I said, bitterly.

"Of course, her husband stands first with her," Edmund replied; "but, Dorothy, you must see that at this time, when we mourn our father's loss, we three should draw closer to each other rather than allow anything to loosen the bond between us."

Edmund was right, I knew, but I would not own it. Pride was strong within my heart at that time; stronger far than love. We sat in silence for a while. The furrow on Edmund's forehead told that he was thinking deeply. Was he debating the question of my future or of his own? No one knew better than Edmund the poverty of my mental attainments, and how little they would justify my seeking a post as governess. Presently I ventured to disturb him by a question.

"Edmund," I said, "you will return to Cambridge, will you not?"

"I think so, Dottie, for the present," he said, "till the matter of the scholarship is decided. Oh, if only I could win it; what a help it would be to me now!" Edmund had told me when last he was at home of this scholarship, for which he was working with all his might. The money it would bring him, if he won it, would certainly be most useful now.

"Oh, I hope you will get it!" I exclaimed. "I believe you will, too."

"I am far from sharing your belief," he said, shaking his head; "for I have no mean competitors to contend with. And, you see, I have lost time, and been thrown out of training through the shock of our great loss. But, perhaps, by working ten hours a day when I get back, I may be able to make up for lost time."

"Ten hours a day!" I exclaimed. "How dreadful, Edmund! It is enough to kill you! Surely there is no need for you to work so hard."

He smiled at my outcry. "That is the way we do things at Cambridge. The prizes of university life are only for men who 'can' work hard."

That night I lay long awake, revolving in my mind sundry plans by which I might secure independence. But I saw objections to each. I could resolve on nothing save that on the morrow I would write to my old governess, Miss Carefull, and ask her to advise me.

I had come to this decision when my thoughts were turned into another and gloomier channel, for in the stillness of the night I heard my brother coughing. Alas! That hard, hacking cough, what a chill it sent to my heart, what an awful possibility cast its drear shadow upon the future. Who does not know how when death has once entered the home, we cling the closer to the loved ones who remain, fearing lest the grim enemy should rob us of them also?

Such fear took definite shape for me now. I cried to myself, "Edmund, too, will be taken; I shall lose him who is dearer to me than all beside. I shall be left alone and desolate."

My heart made wild protest against this unendurable idea. Here was a thing I could not bear. God would be cruel if He smote me thus. How could I live without the brother, who was the only being I had to cling to now? Ah, how wildly I prayed under the pressure of that fear! In effect, I cried unto the Lord—

"Cause that this which I dread shall not come to pass, and I will be so good! I will toil at whatever work Thou givest me; I will do and suffer anything—only spare me this!"

Who will say that such a wilful, unworthy prayer as this is unheeded by the God of love?

"Like as a father pitieth his children—"

That scripture rebukes the thought. Yes, verily He hears us even when we pray thus, though He does not always answer us according to our words.

Praying and weeping, I lost myself in sleep at last. With the morning, hope dawned on me again; I took up the cares of the present and forgot all forebodings.

Howard Steinthorpe came in soon after breakfast, and I forced myself to greet him with politeness, though my cold, almost sulky, manner did not, I felt sure, escape his notice. Mabel was as well as could be expected, he said; he had told her of our father's death, and though much distressed, she was maintaining admirable self-control.

Then Howard began to talk to me about my future. He appeared amazed when I quietly but firmly declined his offer of home.

"But what will you do?" he asked. "You cannot live on the interest of those few hundred pounds."

I told him that I did not yet know what I should do; but I was determined to be independent. I could see that he was much annoyed by my refusal. Mabel would be hurt by my conduct, he declared.

As he went away, he said, with a sneer, that he hoped I "should enjoy independence."

After that, I lost no time in writing to Miss Carefull. Two days later I received her reply, and with it there came into my hands another letter, at which hardly glanced until I had satisfied myself as to what Miss Carefull had to say to me.

She wrote very kindly. It was clear that I had her warmest sympathy in my sad loss and the consequent difficulties which beset me; but she was too true a friend not to be quite frank with me.

She reminded me how weak and inaccurate was the knowledge I had gained at school; how short a way I had travelled in the various sciences I professed to study; how imperfect was my acquaintance with foreign languages. She did not wish to pain me, but she felt bound to say that she could not conscientiously recommend me as a teacher, save to very little children, and the position of a nursery governess was one she would not like my father's daughter to hold.

What she would advise, she said, was that for a while I should give up all thought of a situation, and devote myself to earnest study with a view to fitting myself for some good post in the future. She had always maintained that I had good abilities, and she was sure that if I really "worked," I might turn a year's study to such good account that she need have no hesitation in recommending me as a governess. She could not doubt that there was some home open to me, whilst I pursued my studies (she meant Mabel's home, of course, though I had carefully refrained from mentioning to her that I was welcome to reside at The Towers); but should I ever wish to spend a week or two in London, she would be delighted to receive me, if by any possibility she could make room for me.

Dear, kind Miss Careful!! Her advice was sound although it galled me. Her letter did not help me, as I wished, by suggesting some remunerative employment on which I could enter at once. A blank feeling of disappointment came over me as I re-read her words. Live at The Towers for a while, as she half-suggested, I would not, yet in no other way did it seem possible for me to give myself to study.

As I thought thus, my eyes fell on the other letter lying near me, which I had forgotten. I took it up and examined it curiously, having no idea who the writer could be. The address was written in a small, cramped, old-fashioned hand, so fine that the characters looked as if they had been traced with the point of a pin. I had a vague idea that I had seen this writing before, but whose it was I could not remember.

Opening the envelope, I unfolded the note and glanced quickly at the signature.

Mary Lyell. To be sure; this was my father's old friend, Mrs. Lyell, of whom he had often spoken to me. It was at her house that he had first met my mother, and he had ever cherished a peculiar, reverent affection for this noble Christian woman, as he esteemed her, and at rare intervals had paid her a visit. I had never seen Mrs. Lyell's home at Weylea, but Mabel had twice stayed there for a week or two. It was my own fault that I had not been there, for Mrs. Lyell had invited me, and father had wished me to accept her invitation, but I refused to go. For the account Mabel had given me of Mrs. Lyell's piety and strict notions, and the methodical, unvarying routine observed by her household, made me take a prejudice against the old lady. I felt sure that I should never get on with her. I was not like Mabel, who could adapt herself to the ways and thoughts of every one with whom she was thrown.

What had Mrs. Lyell written to me now? Very kind, very soothing seemed the words to me as I read them. I have the letter still; it is one of those I can never destroy.

"My dear Dorothy," she wrote—"To-day's 'Times' has informed me of your sad loss. A heavy sorrow it is that has befallen you; it would be neither wise nor kind to represent it otherwise. I, who have known your father nearly all his life, share your sorrow to some extent. There was no friend I esteemed more highly than John Carmichael, and life is poorer to me now because he is gone. But it is a small matter that I should miss a friend for a little while. The days of my pilgrimage are almost over. I grieve for you, my child, to whom life yet seems long. But remember that though the fathers of our flesh leave us, the Father of our spirits is ever with us. To Him I commend you. He is the Father of the fatherless, and He will be your guardian and friend.

"Will you write to me soon and tell me what are your plans for the future? I am wondering whether you would like to come to me for a while. Your home, I suppose, will now be broken up. Your sister, I know, is married, and your brother much engaged with his studies. If such a quiet change as a visit to an old woman would be acceptable, I should rejoice to welcome you. Come for as long or as short a time as you will. There is a home for you in my house and in my heart if you will have it.—Your affectionate friend, MARY LYELL."

This letter touch me keenly, filling me at once with wonder and gratitude. Here was a home offered to me where I could pursue my studies in peace, and prepare myself for the teacher's vocation. The very quiet and monotony of Mrs. Lyell's life, which had withheld me from visiting her before, would be to my advantage now. In her home I should be free from all outward distractions, all temptations to prefer play to work.

When I showed Edmund the two letters, he heartily approved of the decision to which I had come. I wrote without delay to Mrs. Lyell, telling her of the position in which I was placed, and how glad I should be of the shelter of her home for a time, whilst I endeavoured by diligent study to make up for my idleness at school. Her answer was even warmer and kinder than her previous note had been. She was delighted to hear that I was willing to come to her. She promised me that I should enjoy perfect freedom in her home; I should spend my time as I liked, only she should feel it incumbent upon her to see that I did not work too hard and injure my health!

I smiled as I read the last words. No one who knew me could have imagined that my health would ever be endangered by over-work.

A few days later Edmund went back to Cambridge and I was left alone, save for our faithful old Salome, in the house which was no longer a home. There were final arrangements to be made with respect to the furniture and belongings of the old home, which had to be postponed till Mabel was strong enough to enter into them, so I could not leave Burford immediately as I desired to do. Mabel sent me an invitation, which was almost a command, to go to The Towers; but as I still cherished enmity towards her husband, I declined to take up my abode, even temporarily, under his roof.

When first I saw Mabel after our father's death, she did not hesitate to tell me how wrong she thought me. She looked prettier than ever, invested with the new grace of motherhood, and as I held in my arms the bundle of rich lace and lawn from which peeped out the wee round face of my nephew, I was almost sorry for a moment that I had decided to go away. I could not look without emotion on the little one whose life had begun on the wild, stormy evening that had seen our father's death.

"Is he not a beauty?" cried Mabel, gazing on her infant son with tender pride. "Ah, see, he is smiling! Look at his eyes; are they not the purest violet? But nurse says they will change as he gets older. Is it not a pity?"

"Yes, but it is just the same with kittens' eyes," I remarked irreverently, assuming some 'brusquerie' to hide what I really felt. "Not one of those three I took such trouble with has blue eyes now, though they all seemed to have blue ones at first."

"The idea of likening my baby's eyes to a kitten's!" cried Mabel, indignantly. "Oh, Dorothy, how can you bear to leave that darling!" she said to me when the nurse had carried her precious charge back to his own domain, from which he had been brought for my inspection. "I thought you would have been with me to see him from day to day. It is so silly of you to go to Mrs. Lyell's. You could have studied just as well here, if you must be a governess. There is plenty of room for you in this house. I could give you a sitting-room of your own, if you liked."

"Do not speak of it, please, Mabel," I said; "it is out of the question that I should live here."

"It is very wrong of you to say so, Dorothy. Do you know that poor father always thought that you would live with me if anything happened to him? Howard told him that you should have a home here."

I looked up at her, a little startled by her words, which gave me fresh enlightenment with regard to the past. She saw my change of expression, and exclaimed quickly, "Ah, I thought that you would feel differently if you knew that father wished it."

"I am not yet convinced that father did wish it," I said, coolly. "At least I am sure that he would not wish me to do what is so averse to my feelings."

"Oh, Dorothy, why are you so proud? Why will you accept nothing from Howard?"

"Why?" I repeated, angrily. "I should think you might understand. I do not choose to accept as bounty what should be mine by right."

"By right? But you have no right, Dorothy. Father mortgaged the business and everything belonging to it to Howard."

"I know that well enough," I answered; "but do you think Howard should have let him do it? Something might have been reserved for us—some share in the business, at least."

"But you do not understand," said Mabel, looking much annoyed with me. "You are so headstrong, Dorothy. Do you know that father would have been a bankrupt but for Howard? He had sunk thousands of pounds in the tannery, and was losing money by it every year, and all because he would go on tanning in such a bungling, old-fashioned way, using methods that have been abandoned for ages by most tanners, Howard says."

"You may call father's tanning bungling if you like, Mabel," I said, coldly; "but I know this, for I have heard him say so, that no customer ever found fault with his leather."

"Oh, the leather was good, no doubt; but Howard introduced into the yard a method by which the hides could be tanned in half the time, and bring in a much larger profit. If poor father had lived to share its success, things might have been better for him and for you."

"But as it is," I interrupted her scornfully, "Howard has trumped everything. Well, poor father was always unfortunate, and Howard, I suppose, is just as lucky."

"You ought not to talk so, Dorothy; you have really nothing to complain of. Howard is ready to give Edmund any help he needs, and, so clever as he is, he is sure to make his way in the world. For you there is this beautiful home with every comfort, if you will have it. And if you lived here, where you would meet nice people, instead of going governessing to see nobody, you would have every chance of making a good marriage and being comfortably settled in life."

"Thank you for the suggestion," I exclaimed, hotly. "No doubt you would enjoy making a match for me according to your mind; but as long as I have a head and hands capable of honest work, I will never degrade myself by marrying for the sake of getting a home. Say no more about my living with you, Mabel; it is out of the question."

"So I see," said Mabel, stung in her turn. "After what you have said, Dorothy, I cannot wish that you should live with me."

Thus our talk ended. Mabel was not the woman to allow that her husband could do wrong; nor would she soon forget what I had said about him. In spite of Edmund's warning, I had caused a breach to open between me and my sister.

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