Chapter XX: Two Letters

"Oh, righteous doom, that they who make
Pleasure their only end,
Ordering the whole life for its sake,
Miss that whereto they tend;"

"While they who bid stern Duty lead,
Content to follow—they,
Of duty only taking heed
Find pleasure by the way."—Trench.

JEAN always looked back to that spring in after years, as a very happy bit of her life. She saw a good deal of Mrs. Fergusson, and then her son took her home, and Mrs. Gordon and Sunnie followed soon afterwards. Jean did not often meet the doctor. He had a good many engagements in town, and was generally away when she visited Sunnie. But the day before he went back to Scotland, she met him there, and when she left the house, he walked a part of the way home with her. She asked him then a question that had been continually in her thoughts.

"Will Sunnie's complete recovery of health change her nature?"

"Why should it?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Jean. "To me, she has been a child so different to all others, that I should hate to see her lose all her quaint individuality. She may, from constant association with other children, rub off the bloom. I can't express myself properly, but her invalid life has given her what an ordinary child's life could never give. And I don't want her changed."

"I think I know what you mean, but it would be rather selfish of us to want to keep her as she is, for our own gratification. It will be a much healthier life, physically and mentally, and I do not see why her spiritual life should suffer. I am not afraid of it." Then he added—

"I went to see her portrait the other day."

"Did you?" said Jean. "I sometimes wonder if I shall paint any one else with such pleasure, as I did that."

"You had a good subject," said the doctor. Then looking at her a little keenly, he asked: "Has this success of yours wedded you more than ever to your art? You did not appear to me to be entirely enamoured of it in Scotland?"

"No, I went to paint Sunnie's picture rather against my inclination."

"You are happier now?"

"Yes," said Jean, looking straight in front of her, "but it isn't my art that is making me happier."

There was silence; then she added a little hurriedly—

"Long ago, when first I knew him, Colonel Douglas gave me this advice. He said, 'Seek the best thing first.' I sought fame, for I thought then it was the best thing. Now I know better."

Another silence. Dr. Fergusson did not break it, neither did Jean. When she reached her lodgings, she held out her hand.

He took it, and kept it in his for a moment. "Then we are fellow-travellers now," he said, looking down upon her with a smile. Jean could not speak, and rather abruptly, he left her.

It was a warm day in June. Jean came in to tea, feeling tired and dusty. She found two letters on the table, and sitting down by the open window, she read the one that interested her most. It was from Mrs. Fergusson.

"MY DEAR JEAN,—Will you give me the pleasure of a short visit now that summer is here? I am sure you must be longing to get away from London dust and noise, and my old garden is looking very sweet in its young green at present. It was very pleasant to see as much of you as I did when I was in town, but our slight acquaintance has only made me wish to see you more, and I am hoping you may reciprocate this wish."

"My son unites with me in kind remembrances."

"Yours affectionately,"
"JANET FERGUSSON."

"Let me know what date would suit you to come."

Jean drew a long breath of delight and longing. It seemed to her that at last, the wish of her heart was going to be gratified.

Mrs. Fergusson had a marvellous attraction for her, and though her note was not a long or gushing one, it showed her that she was wanted.

She sat looking out in the busy street, with a light in her eyes and joy in her heart. She saw again the sweet old Scotch house, and the graceful, clever woman who presided over it. She pictured the evenings that Chris had described to her so well, and could hardly believe that it was her good fortune now to be the favoured guest. Perhaps with the anticipation of walks and talks with her old friend, the idea of a renewed and closer intimacy with her "fellow-traveller" intermingled.

"Oh!" she sighed at last in deep content, "I can hardly believe it is true!"

After a little, she roused herself from her daydreams and proceeded to pour out for herself a cup of tea. It was then she noticed her other letter, and she smiled as she recognised Charlie Oxton's bold calligraphy.

She opened it.

"MY DEAR COZ,—Your grandpater has had a slight seizure of some sort; we have been at sixes and sevens, and the whole household has gone to pot!"

"John is the only one who keeps his wits and his legs. The young maid who was always fighting Mary has decamped, Mary is ill in bed—influenza and temper have overcome her. Rawlings is down with rheumatics. I'm in and out, up and down, bossing the show, but it's beyond my powers to cook and nurse, and dust and sweep, and the governor is conscious enough to express his determination to have no nurse or strange woman inside his house."

"In our dire extremity, I thought of you, and asked the governor, if he'd like to see you. He cocked his eyebrows, pulled down his mouth, and grunted assent, which shows how very meek and mild and docile he has become! Will you take pity on us? My hay is just being cut, and my farm going to the dogs for want of my personal supervision. Wire reply."

"Yours in a fix,"
"CHARLIE."

Jean's face underwent several changes as she read this.

"It is cruel to come now!" was her first comment. And then raged a conflict in her soul.

"Why should I go to him?" she thought. "He cast me out, he made my life a misery to me, and he expects me to return to my bondage with a thankful, grateful spirit! Charlie seems to think nothing of my wishes and my feelings. Two helpless men they are, and their one desire is to get a woman to put things straight. Any woman could do it! Why should I victimise myself? Why should I give up the greatest pleasure that has come to me since I have been in London? If I don't go to Scotland now, I have a feeling I never shall. I know how many visitors Mrs. Fergusson has coming and going, she will forget all about me, she has so many interests, and I want to—oh, I do want to go! Why should both these letters come at once?"

She got up and paced her room.

The old Jean would have had no difficulty in coming to a decision, but the Jean who had taken service under the Master who never pleased Himself, could not waive aside other people's needs so easily.

"Oh," she cried impulsively, "it is too much to expect of me. I am not an old, matured, self-denying Christian. I cannot give up such a pleasure, to go and look after grandfather when he hates me and has turned me out of the house. I should be too good to live if I did it!"

Then she sat down, and with her elbows on her tea-table and her chin in her hands, she went on wrestling with the subject.

It was a long time before she moved her position, but when she did, it was to get upon her knees.

"Oh, God, it is Thy will I ought to be doing, not my own. Forgive me for thinking about myself so much. Help me to do what I know must be Thy will, and make me content and willing to do it."

The victory was won; and not giving herself time to ponder over her decision, she went straight off to the post-office and despatched a telegram—

"Coming by first train to-morrow."

"JEAN."

It did not take long to make her arrangements, though it kept her busy for the rest of the evening. And very early the next morning, she started with a brave heart and cheerful face for her old home. She had written to Mrs. Fergusson explaining her circumstances. As she was being carried along in the train, she was tempted to begin pitying herself, but she quenched it.

"If Chris or Barbara had been in my place, they would have come as a matter of course, without any struggle or self-commiseration. I wonder whether I shall ever reach their stage—to think of other people, always and naturally, before myself! It must be difficult!"

When she reached the old familiar station and found no Charlie there to greet her, her heart sank.

She got into an open fly and drove along the flat marshes, smelling the salt scent of the sea, and wondering if the past four years had only been an interlude, and as she had lived for so many years in this dreary bit of country, so now she was going to continue to do the same for the rest of her life.

"I feel my independence and liberty fast oozing away!" she said to herself, and then she smiled at the thought. When she at last reached her grandfather's house, she found it unchanged—a little shabbier and drearier, that was all. She paid and dismissed her driver, for the hall door was open, and no one seemed about. Then she carried her small portmanteau into the hall, and met Charlie and the doctor coming downstairs. Charlie looked worried, his immaculate head of hair was ruffled, but as he saw Jean a broad smile of relief came over his face.

"Here she is, Doctor! You're a trump, Jean! Come right in, have a good square meal, and then you'll be able to tackle us all. All right, my good fellow, you go on; we shall weather through now without your nurse."

He dismissed the doctor in an airy fashion, then tucked Jean's arm in his, and marched her off to the kitchen, where Mary was sitting before the fire enveloped in shawls, and groaning audibly.

"Now you'll have to buck up, old lady," he said, taking hold of her by the shoulder. "Here's your mistress. A nice state of things she will find! Give her some food at once. Here! I'll forage in the larder. It's no use waiting for John. He's attending to his master, and heaven only knows when he'll be set at liberty."

He bustled off, and Mary, trying to rise, began to cry weakly.

"Oh, Miss Jean, 'tis terrible to find me like this, but I've just crawled out of bed, and the sink is piled with dirty dishes, and the floor hasn't been swept for a week, and there isn't even a drop o' hot water. Me that never let the kettle get cold from one year's end to another! Ever since Elsie left, there's been trouble on trouble, the master hasn't seemed to care how things go, and I'm that ashamed of your seein' the house so topsy-turvey, that I could sink to the door for shame!"

"Nonsense, Mary; I think you had better go back to bed. You arn't fit to be up. I'll see that things come straight. I shall have a woman from the village to help me."

Before Jean went to bed that night, she had worked wonders. The knowledge she had gained at Kingsford Farm when Chris was away, stood her in good stead now, and Charlie was lost in admiration.

She did not see her grandfather that evening. She went down to the village and engaged a capable woman to come the next day and take Mary's place in the kitchen. She cleaned out the kitchen and made Charlie work with her.

"You must help me to-night, and after to-morrow, we shall be straight. Why have you let things get so bad?"

"Why? Because those old fools, Mary and John, have fought half the village, and told me that there was no one fit to black my shoes for four miles round! They've refused to have outside help, and your grandpater has backed them up. Truth is, Mary is too old for the job; she ought to be in an almshouse."

"She is ill with worry," said Jean. "I believe she has a lot of work in her yet."

"Oh, it will be all right now you're here! As I told the governor, you never ought to have left him!"

"I was the best judge of that," said Jean a little stiffly.

"Don't sit up so! He ought to have given you a studio, and taken a pride in your performances. Take my word for it, my dear girl, it's a bad policy to have no relations at your back. I'm jolly glad you're home again in your rightful place."

"But," said Jean, with a blank look at him, "I am not going to stay here."

He gave her a wink.

"Don't you fret yourself! We'll settle it up in a very satisfactory way for all parties concerned!"

Jean said no more.

Charlie would not see her side, and she was too tired to argue the point with him.

The next morning, she interviewed her grandfather, and was shocked to see his weakness and general feebleness; but he did not seem very amicably disposed towards her.

"It's that boy's doing," he murmured. "He is so masterful. There was no need for you to come back, but if you make yourself useful, you may as well stay till I'm about again!"

Jean smiled, a little sore at heart. But she had no time to think about herself, there was too much to do, and she set to work as cheerfully as she could.

Old Mr. Desmond was astonished at the quick, deft way in which she made him comfortable, and put his room to rights. She proved as good a nurse to him, as she had been to Miss Lorraine. In a few days, the household was again a quiet, orderly one. Two young maids were engaged, and Jean superintended everything herself.

When Mary recovered, she was sent away for a holiday, and she returned with renewed strength and vigour to take up the reins in the kitchen. Then Jean had a little more leisure; she was able to roam out into the garden, to take walks with her cousin, and then it was that he informed her, he was going abroad again.

"I sha'n't be long—about three months—but I've got some land out there that wants looking after. I ought to have gone before, only I really didn't like leaving the old man; he's been very good to me! He's rather rum, isn't he? Told me this morning that as long as you kept in your proper place, he would keep you here. That's a woman's sphere, cooking, dusting, and looking after the house generally! And he thinks you're pretty good at it, do you know! I, of course, agreed with him." He looked at her with such twinkling humour in his eyes that Jean could not be angry.

"Directly he gets better, I shall go," she said promptly. "But sometimes I am anxious, Charlie. What does the doctor think?"

"Oh, he's a fool! The governor is getting old, and he had a pretty heavy stroke, but there's life in him for a good while yet. I told him I was off, and the arrangement is that you stay with him till I come back."

"But," remonstrated Jean in genuine dismay, "I really cannot. Three whole months! He doesn't really want me. I believe he thinks he is doing me a kindness in having me here, and I feel quite the other way. I must get back to my work in London."

"Rot! You can work, as you call it, here. I'll put that straight, and it wouldn't hurt to let your paints hang over for a bit. There's plenty else to occupy you!"

"Between you and grandfather," said Jean, with some spirit, "I feel I have no mind or individuality of my own at all!"

Charlie gave one of his hearty laughs.

"You're one of the best young women going!" he asserted. "But you're mistaking your vocation. You are born to rule a house, and make us poor men comfortable. You've a knack at it that dozens of married women would give their eyes to have! And the governor and I know when we're well off."

Jean felt powerless to plead her own cause with Charlie, and so before she half realised it, he had taken his departure, and she had pledged herself to stay with her grandfather till he came back.