Chapter VIII: Part 8

"Loneliness is a thing we have all to face," said Parson Ewan sadly; "but there is no need to trouble about it until it comes. Rest assured that when it does, with God's grace you will bear it. The vicarage is not far from Holt Farm, and there is Jessie."

"You are right," said Patience, and a slight colour crept over her face; "besides, we are talking as if Agnes were married and gone, and we do not even know that she thinks of either love or marriage."

"Just so," said the parson; "as I told you, you were taking trouble by the forelock."

Their last halting-place was at Appleby, which was but a short distance from De Lisle Abbey.

"Would you like me to take Agnes over to see the old home?" asked Mr. Ewan the following morning.

"No," said Patience; "she shall not go there until it is her own, and that may never be. I have had no answer from the king."

"All in good time," said Mr. Ewan, and he smiled, for he had had a conversation with Reginald and Delarry the morning before they started, when he had learnt the king's pleasure, "that De Lisle Abbey was to be restored to Agnes, and that Reginald was to go a-courting."

"I don't think he will need to do that long," Delarry had said. "Agnes has always been his sweetheart."

"Ah, but I was a rich man in those days, now I possess nothing! You know this full well, Delarry, seeing you have had no dower with Ann, and I can give you none."

"I am quite content," said Delarry.

"But I, 'a soldier of fortune', shall have to woo an heiress," said Reginald, "so I am not content."

"What matters it; what matters anything," said Mr. Ewan, "if she loves you?"

"True," said Reginald, "if she loves me." And then they parted company, for Reginald and Delarry were much in request at court, and could not even wait to see them off; but, as Reginald bade Agnes farewell, he said:

"As soon as I can get leave of absence, may I come north and visit you?"

"If you will," said Agnes; "but we are poor folk now. We live at Holt Farm, and you are master of Newbolt Abbey."

"I shall not be master there long," he answered; and so he bade her farewell.

At every cottage door in the little hamlet of St. Mary's, women and children, even the men in the fields, stopped now and again, and, shading their eyes with their hands, looked up over the hills in the direction of Appleby. There was an air of expectancy and gladness on every face, for the news had reached them through Rolfe that the parson, Mistress Patience Beaumont, and the two young maidens were coming home that day.

"It's a wonder they're alive," one woman said to another; "to think they've been through the plague and the fire!"

"But it seems that Mistress Patience is terribly ill," answered her companion.

"So I heard," said the first speaker, "but she'll soon get hale and hearty when she is home again. There they be;" and she pointed down the valley to where a coach was just visible, accompanied by horses and riders. A general movement took place among the villagers, as if they would have all gone forward to meet the travellers.

Suddenly there arose a cry of pleasure, for they saw two youthful figures come running on in front.

"Ah, it's the maidens!" said an old man, leaning on his stick. "I thank the Lord my eyes will see them once again!" and then there was no holding back. Children and women and men left their cottages to take care of themselves, and went on their way cheering and waving their kerchiefs until Agnes and Jessie were in their midst, shaking hands with one and all, half-laughing and half-crying.

"Follow us," said Jessie. "Father says we must thank God first of all for His great mercies vouchsafed to us;" and she and Agnes led the way to the little parish church, and the old sexton threw the door open, and they entered. Patience, very pale and very feeble, but with a glint of life and gladness in her eyes, walked between the two girls, leaning on them both, and Mr. Ewan went first, entered the church and stood on the altar steps, whilst the people crowded in. Then he spoke to them and told them something of the danger through which Patience and Agnes had passed, of that terrible plague, of the fire, and the long separation, for which no one could account. Tears poured down his hearers' faces, and the women sobbed.

"But it is over," he said, "and God has been very merciful, for He has brought them home again; therefore, let us kneel and give thanks to Him Who is the Lord of life and death."

They knelt for a time in silence, which spoke more eloquently than words, and then there broke upon the stillness the first words of that great song of triumph:

"We praise Thee, O Lord, we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord.
All the earth doth worship Thee, the Father Everlasting."

It poured forth from every heart and every tongue, the sound rolled out through the open door into the sweet country beyond; and it seemed to Patience, as she listened, as if healing were coming to her, the love of life, the gladness which belongs to the true believer. As the last words, "O Lord, in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded", died out, with one accord they knelt again; every head was bowed, as the pastor raised his hands and blessed them.

Then they went forth. Patience was lifted on to a horse, and it was, "Who should lead it?" And so they trooped up to Holt Farm. Doors and windows were wide open, and the scent of the summer flowers, roses and sweet lavender, filled the air.

Oh, the joy of that home-coming, the sweet peace which crept over them as they crossed the threshold and stood for a second waving their thanks and their good-byes to those who had followed them!

Mr. Ewan stepped into the midst of his flock.

"You will go now," he said, "all of you, because the Mistress must have rest and peace to recover her strength." So they went, and Patience was taken up-stairs and put to bed in the sweet lavender-scented sheets, with open windows looking out over the moors; and as she lay there it seemed to her as if the past were an ugly dream from which she had just awakened. As she listened to the birds singing, and the voices of Agnes and Jessie as they went and came, she buried her face in the pillow and wept tears of gladness and thanksgiving. All the bitterness of her soul for those dark years of mourning passed away. Her youth had departed from her, but it seemed to her almost as if there were a resurrection within her, a new life dawning, a life which did not belong to others, as all her past had done, but to herself. A strange gladness, a sense of peace, crept over her, and she fell asleep.

What would her awakening be? None but God knew. Surely she was one of God's elect; she had possessed her soul in patience.

In a different way Agnes realized the same feeling. It was not likely she would ever forget what she had gone through or what she had seen and heard, but it grew to be almost like a dream from which she had awakened. She had been away from home and she had come back again, and as she linked her arm in Jessie's, and with Mr. Ewan walked back to the vicarage, she said as much.

"I hope I may never go back to London," she said. "I will stay here all my life. Could anything be more lovely?"

"Make no rash promises," said Mr. Ewan, laughing. "You are too young to do that. What if someone fetches you away?"

Agnes coloured. "I cannot leave Aunt Patience," she answered. "Think what she has done and suffered for me. Can I ever repay her?"

"We can never repay love; we can but give it in return," answered Mr. Ewan.

After the first two or three days life resumed its even course for them all.

If the Ewans and Patience and Agnes had been friends before, they were more than friends now. It seemed as if they could not bear to be parted.

"If we could only live all together, Aunt Patience," Agnes said one morning.

Patience laughed, for she did laugh now, with a certain ring of gladness which had never been there before. "That we cannot do," she answered. "I cannot leave the farm, and Mr. Ewan cannot leave the vicarage."

As she said these words Mr. Ewan entered the sitting-room, smiled at Aunt Patience, who coloured deeply, for she knew he must have heard Agnes's last words, but he gave no sign, only laid a voluminous packet of papers in front of her.

"These are for you, Agnes," he said. "I met a king's messenger bringing them, and he entrusted them to me." Both Patience and Mr. Ewan exchanged glances, while Agnes fingered the parchment and slowly broke the seal.

"What is it?" she said. "I cannot read this cramped writing. What have I to do with the king?"

"Give it to me; let me read it to you," said Mr. Ewan.

"Oh no, not all these long pages!" said Agnes, "just tell me what it means. What does the king want with me?"

"Nothing," answered Mr. Ewan, "except to give back to you what by right is yours, the lands and estates of De Lisle Abbey."

"There is no De Lisle Abbey; it is Newbolt Manor," said Agnes sharply, "and I won't have it."

"You cannot help yourself. I think you must," said Patience.

"No, Aunt Patience, you may say what you will, but I will never go there. It would never be to me like home; I would sooner remain with you always. I will write and tell the king as much; I do not want to be Lady of De Lisle Abbey."

"It would be of no use your sending to the king; there are your title-deeds," said Patience.

"Then I will throw them into the fire; I will have none of it," she said, and she caught at them. But Parson Ewan put his hand on hers.

"Let be, Agnes," he said.

She burst into tears.

"I will not; I tell you I will not!" and she stamped her foot.

A step had come up the gravel path which she had not heard, neither had she seen the figure of a man standing in the doorway; but Patience and Mr. Ewan had both heard and seen, and quietly they turned and left the room.

Agnes, her arms crossed on the table, sobbed with childish anger, repeating: "I will not; I will not!"

"What will you not do, you naughty child?" said a man's voice, and a somewhat heavy hand was laid on her shoulder.

She started, looked up, and saw Reginald standing over her. "I will not be Lady De Lisle," she said.

"Very well," answered Reginald seriously; "I am very sorry if that be your last word, Agnes."

"What can it matter to you?" she said passionately. "I will not take your lands; I will not rob you."

She looked so pretty in her anger, with her tear-stained face and ruffled hair, still such a child.

"Nevertheless I am sorry," he said, "for I have come to ask you to be my wife; and the king has promised to knight me Sir Reginald De Lisle if I win you."

"I cannot be your wife," she answered slowly. "I am too young; and then there is Aunt Patience. You must be Sir Reginald something else."

"I will not be Sir anything, unless I am Sir Reginald De Lisle, and you knight me," he answered.

She shook her head. "I tell you, you can't. I will not have the land."

He put his arm round her, turned her face up to his, and looked into her eyes. "Now, tell me you do not love me, my little sweetheart," he said.

Evidently she could not so answer him, for a smile broke over her face.

"Yes or no, Agnes?" he asked softly.

A short gasp and then a timid "Yes", and he would have kissed her, but she slipped away from him and stood at the farther end of the room.

"I cannot; you know I cannot. What will become of Aunt Patience?" she said.

He laughed. "I think that will settle itself, Agnes," he answered. "Don't run away, little one." And he took both her hands in his.

"Have you seen nothing?"

"Seen! What should I have seen?" said Agnes.

"Well, then, wait awhile and you will see," said Reginald. "In the meantime, you love me and I love you; so you must be my wife, and the king will knight me, and we will go and live in the place I love best in the world, De Lisle Abbey."

"Then Aunt Patience must come too," she said. "She cannot stay here alone."

She did not know that Aunt Patience had come back until she felt her arms round her, and heard the voice she loved so well say:

"I shall not hinder you, my darling. Did you not yourself say it would be a good thing if the vicarage and the farm were one dwelling-place?"

"Yes, I did," answered Agnes, "because we are all such good friends."

"Just so," said Patience. "But as the vicarage is too small for us all, Mr. Ewan and myself have settled that he and Jessie shall live up here with me after you are married."

"Oh," answered Agnes, "then you will not want me!" And her face fell.

"We shall always want you, dear. Only, I think someone else wants you more, and someone wants me too, and we shall never be quite happy without our lovers. Am I not right?" She drew Agnes into her arms, and they kissed tenderly, in remembrance of the past, and for joy in the future.

And so it came to pass that a few weeks later Sir Reginald De Lisle and Agnes were married in the little church where her mother lay sleeping; and they rode away together, she on her white palfrey, he on his black charger, and he took her to her old home, the home of her race, now his and hers.

They left no sadness behind, for Mr. Ewan and Patience were also married a few days later in the same village church, and Jessie's heart was glad because she had a mother. And so, for one and all, the evil days were over.