Chapter IV: Part I: We spend our years as a tale that is told (3)

After that I was astonished at the silence that came over him as we walked up the High Street of Morechester. The freshness of early morning still rested on the town, the shadows from the east reached right across the street, and few passengers were stirring except people coming in from the country, carrying fragrant baskets of vegetables and fruit.

'We shall soon know now,' I said. 'See, there is Mistress Dorothy.'

She was coming out into the sunshine through the great door of the Minster, among a little knot of people that scattered in different directions. We came up with her as she stood on her own doorstep.

'Willie,' Master Caleb whispered hurriedly, as we crossed the market-place, 'do not say a word about our being sorry. We must not trouble her. It would grieve her good heart to think it gave us pain.'

'But she will stay--you said so?'

He shook his head.

Dorothy turned and came to meet us. 'It is kind of you to come over,' she said, trying for her usual cheerful tone, as she went before us into the little parlour. 'You wished to hear our fate. Yes, it is settled, the letter will be sent to-day.'

'And it says----'

'That he will go.'

Master Caleb bowed his head. 'Of course,' he said in a low voice.

He went to the window, and stood looking out for a moment or two, while Mistress Dorothy spoke to me; but how he managed the smile with which he turned back directly, I cannot think.

'Then I wish you and the Professor all happiness and success, and--you will not quite forget old Morechester.'

'Never,' she said earnestly. 'Master Caleb, indeed this is not my doing. It frightens me for my father. I don't think he is looking well. But he has so set his heart on going, and if I say a word against it, he only says, "Let me go home, Dolly, let me go home." I thought he had forgotten Scotland, but the old love for it seems to have come back. I cannot keep him from what he calls his home, or try to make him stay here.'

'No, no. To be sure not. Why should you?'

'I should have been so glad. But that does not matter, if only it is good for him. He is tiring himself already, making preparations.'

'Then it will be soon----'

'I suppose so. And since it has to come, the saying good-bye, the leaving here, and all the rest of it, it had better be soon over.'

'Yes,' answered Master Caleb, breaking out into one of those unlucky speeches that said one thing and meant another, 'it'll be a blessing when you are gone.'

She smiled a little. 'I think it will. And for you too. I know you will be sorry.'

'Oh, never mind that. It doesn't matter much for me,--I mean, don't think--It doesn't matter, I mean----'

'I am afraid you will miss my father very much.'

'Oh yes, your father. Of course I shall miss _him_. Everything will be gone that I care for in the world,--the chemistry, you know, and all.'

'And my father will miss you. Won't you come and see him?'

She went across and opened the study door. The room was all in disorder, drawers open, book-cases half empty, and their contents scattered about all over the tables and floor.

The Professor, with more colour than usual in his face, was moving about, adding something every minute to the confusion. He stopped with a whole shelf-full of books in his arms, as Dorothy said cheerily, 'Father, here is Master Caleb Morton, come to wish us joy. Why, dear father,' she added, half laughing, 'what are you doing to the room?'

'There's no time to lose, my dear, and a great deal to be done. You are welcome, Caleb Morton, I am obleeged to you,' as Master Caleb offered his help. 'Yes. I shall be very grateful for any help that will enable us to get away more quickly to my future post.'

'Dorothy cannot comprehend,' he went on, as Dorothy was called away, and he gave up the books he held to Master Caleb, and sat down in his arm-chair. 'She does not see any occasion for haste. But there is no time to spare; I am called upon to fill an important chair.'

'I was not surprised, though very proud to hear of the honour tendered to your acceptance, Professor,' said Master Caleb.

'Ah, well, it is gratifying; yes, doubtless. You were a true prophet about the book, it appears, Master Caleb, eh? But I do not dwell so much on that. It is poor Dolly's good that is actuating me now. I think of Dolly's future and of the time when I must leave her. I should like her to be comfortable then. I have laid by but little for her at present, and I shall be glad to be getting more.'

'If the exertion be not too much,' said Master Caleb, doubtfully.

'I do not fear it; my mind is made up.' He was looking tired already, and passed his hand once or twice across his forehead. 'It is only the hurry and trouble of this move that worries me, and the having to think myself of every single thing. Dorothy has no experience. But you must not keep me talking,' and he got up restlessly; 'I have no leisure for that. Where is Dolly?'

She was coming back.

'Just look about for the list of the books, child. I had it but a moment ago; things get mislaid, and I have got to go over it.'

'Here it is; but father, you need not tire yourself with that, dear.'

'Dolly, leave me to manage my own concerns. You have no experience. You had better pack up your clothes, my dear. That is your business. Well here, if you want something to do, just go over the books on the lower shelves. I cannot stoop any longer.'

There was no chance of farewell words from Mistress Dorothy that morning.

* * * * *

It was but a few days after this, Master Caleb sat at his high desk in school, the evening sun was creeping slowly across the benches towards him. Already it shone in two gold square patches on the white-washed wall. The hum of voices was growing a little louder as the moment of release drew near, when a man in a smock frock, with a long whip over his shoulder, looked in at the open door. Every head was raised to look at him and everybody knew him--the carrier from Morechester.

'It's just a message as I promised I'd give Master Caleb,' he began; 'old Mr. Bruce's young lady, in Minster yard, you know----'

'Yes, I know.'

'Ah! She sent her kind respects, and thought you'd like to know as how her father's dying. Yes, its some kind of a stroke or a fit,' the man went on, untying a knot in the lash of his whip, and answering the questions Mrs. Janet put to him from the window. Master Caleb had got to the door and stood leaning against it saying nothing. 'He was took last night, they told me, close upon nine o'clock.'

The rows of faces along the room were some of them indifferent, some looking on carelessly, others were bent down again over their books, but each one lighted up with unmixed pleasure when Master Caleb said in a hoarse voice, 'The school is dismissed, children.'

And the schoolmaster was gone. For many days afterwards, Mrs. Janet sat in her brother's place. The school was quieter than usual. The boldest hearts quailed a little before the upright figure at Master Caleb's desk. No one looked up or whispered, without feeling the quick eyes upon them, or saw with entire composure the hand that often strayed towards the tawse, that lay at her right hand. Many were the low-spoken lamentations over Master Caleb's absence; hearty the wishes for his speedy return among us.

But I believe he had forgotten all about the school, forgotten everything outside the quiet house in which his old friend lay dying. Very quiet it was, and silent. The rooms had fallen back into their old order. All token of preparation for a journey had vanished; none such was needed for the solemn journey on which the master of the house was bound.

He had been busy and earnest about the arrangements to the last. Dorothy told how constantly his thoughts dwelt on the future, and how he would spare himself no exertion in his restless longing to be gone, and at work in the new sphere. He was always hopeful and eager, and could not bear her to notice how tired and over-taxed he looked at times.

On the last evening, as he sat alone in his easy chair, he seemed to be trying to put words and sentences together, and repeating them half aloud. Dorothy did not dare to vex him by interrupting him. As she stood out of sight behind him, she heard, with a vague feeling of fear and sadness, that he was preparing the first lecture he meant to give when he got to Scotland.

The words did not come easily. He sighed and appeared perplexed, pressing his hand wearily upon his forehead, and once after a pause she heard him say, 'for Dolly's sake,' and patiently begin the broken sentence over again.

Then she could not keep silence any longer, but came round and leant over his chair to speak to him. He looked up at her wistfully for a moment or two, and held her hand. 'Dolly,' he said at last, in a whisper, 'What is it? am I too old?'

She only said 'Father.' She gathered him in her arms, and held him nearer and nearer to her; she drew his head down upon her shoulder. What they thought of, those two, as they rested there heart to heart, while the twilight sank down over them, will never be known to any but themselves and God.

Later in the evening, when it was quite dark, she left him to get lights and to make him a cup of tea. She was away but very few minutes. When she came into the room again he had sunk back in his chair, and his head had fallen on one side.

There was never any hope, though after a day or two he seemed to be getting better. His mind was quite clear, he knew everybody, but was too weak for many words.

Only one thing, they said, was strange. He had entirely forgotten all that happened just before his illness. The hopes that were so keen, the cares that weighed so heavily, he never referred to again. Not a single fear for Dorothy ruffled the serenity of his thoughts.

He smiled at her, smoothed her hair feebly as she knelt beside his bed, and sometimes kissed the little hand that ministered to his wants. But the untroubled look was very strange to those who had watched of late the gallant struggle with his failing powers that he had fought through for her sake. Now he was leaving her alone, and he did not even remember it.

'It is such a blessing, such a mercy,' Dorothy said, twisting her hands tightly together, her only sign of emotion. She looked calm, but there was no room for any thought beyond the moment itself--her father's hourly need of her, his sleep, his waking, the words of peace with which she tried to drive away the cloud that sometimes darkened over him, like a shadow thrown back from the days of his long life. 'So many years,' he used to say sadly, 'so many, many years.'

Once only I was allowed to go into his room. Dorothy had been called away, and she bade me stand by the door ready to go for her the instant she was wanted.

Like a picture I can recall the scene now. The darkened room--orderly and quiet--the narrow bed against the wall, on which the Professor lay--beside it the figure of Master Caleb bending forwards with a heavy book open upon his knees, the only book that was near at hand now--all the others had been taken away.

He said the world's learning was over for him, its learning and its wisdom, and so by degrees Dorothy had moved all the books quietly away, and left the Bible.

Master Caleb was reading to him now. The Professor had asked for some words that, half-remembered, kept sounding in his ears, and Master Caleb finding them, read them aloud. Sad words they seemed to be, whose burden was vanity and vexation of spirit--weary words, that told how all things are full of labour, and he who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow--strange words to read beside one who had learned so much, but who was going now to his long home, for the silver cord was loosened, and the pitcher was broken at the fountain.

'And further, my son, by these be admonished,' read Master Caleb slowly; 'of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness to the flesh.'

The reader's voice sank lower and lower; the mournful words sounded like autumn winds sighing through leafless trees. He ceased, and the book sank upon his knees; still the sad echo, 'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,' went floating through the room.

The dying man sighed heavily. 'All true,' he murmured; 'the dust shall return to the earth as it was,----'

Then his look changed. Some one had come into the room softly as Master Caleb read, and was standing behind his chair. It was Dorothy, and there was a smile on her face that made her beautiful.

She took the Book out of the hands that had dropped it, turned over the pages quickly, and began to read. If you have ever heard music change from long chords of wailing sadness into a burst of triumphant harmony, if you have seen the sun break from behind a cloud, you have known what we felt then.

'Behold, I show you a mystery,' she began.

Yes, a greater mystery than any that their earthly labour could bring to light, even the mystery of immortality.

She did not raise her voice as she went on, but all through it there thrilled the glorious faith and triumph of the thought that 'death is swallowed up in victory.'

And as she uttered the solemn thanksgiving to Him who giveth us the victory her father spoke again.

'Thanks be to God,' he repeated after her, raising his hand feebly, and in the silence it seemed as if the Conqueror Himself drew nigh, and stood by the dying bed.

* * * * *

The great bell of Morechester Minster was tolling heavily, each slow stroke falling upon the ear like a blow, and the blinds were all drawn down in the little house under the shadow of the Minster tower when Caleb Morton came home.

He left Dorothy, as she wished to be left, alone. The faithful old woman, who had been for years their only servant, was taking care of her. For the rest she was better by herself, now that the watching was ended, and the life-long blank and sorrow begun.

After he knew that it was her wish to be undisturbed during those first bitter days, Master Caleb was hardly willing even to enter Morechester, lest she should hear of it by some means and think that he had been unmindful of a wish of hers. But his heart yearned over her, and either late at night or in the very early morning he ventured secretly now and then to the back door of the house to ask for tidings of her.

The great question that was for ever in his thoughts was this: What would Dorothy do in the life that lay before her? Her father had said truly that it was but very little he had to leave her. His one brother, the hard-worked doctor of a poor Highland parish, was scarcely likely to be better off than he had been.

To him, however, her only near relation, Dorothy had written, and till the answer to this letter came, she would fain let the future rest.

That answer was very slow in coming. The posts to the north of Scotland were tardy and uncertain at that time. Days had grown into weeks since the Professor's funeral, and still we waited. One evening, however, old Susan answered Master Caleb's low knock at the kitchen door with unwonted quickness, scarcely waiting for him to speak before she thrust a letter into his hand. 'Just you read it for yourself, Master Morton; I brought it away without Mistress Dolly's knowing of it, on purpose for you to see it. Some one ought to know how they treat the poor lamb.'

Master Caleb tore it open, without stopping, in his eagerness, to consider whether he had a right to read it or not. The letter was not long. A formal condolence on the severe bereavement she had sustained; a regret that he and his only brother had never been enabled to meet again after their long separation,--a hope that she found herself as well as could be anticipated under the melancholy circumstances, and at the end, a half-expressed chilling invitation to make his house her home until, as no doubt would be the case, she could enter into some permanent arrangement better suited to her.

'What did she do?' asked Master Caleb, looking up with blazing eyes.

'She just fetched a long sigh,' said the old woman, 'a long, long sigh!' and she put the letter into my hands, and said, 'See, Susan; he does not want us.'

Master Caleb had meant to stay in Morechester that night, and had left me, as he sometimes did when he was away, to sleep at the schoolhouse.

Mrs. Janet and I sat up rather late that evening. She was sewing, and I, on my best behaviour, was reading 'Baxter's Saint's Rest' aloud. We were both thunderstruck when the door opened suddenly, and Master Caleb appeared, dripping wet, for it was raining heavily, and looking as pale as death.

'Caleb! you here!' exclaimed his sister, getting up in astonishment to meet him. 'What brings you home on such a night as this? why, how wet you are!'

'I am come,' Master Caleb said, disregarding the hand she laid on his drenched coat-sleeve, 'because I cannot bear it any longer--because I want your counsel--because she is left all alone, and has no friend--no friend in all the world but us!'

'You speak of Dorothy Bruce,' said Mrs. Janet, slowly.

'She is so lonely,' he went on unheeding, 'and I want to comfort her, but I do not know how, and I cannot tell how to help her. Janet, you must tell me what I can do for her--not because she is alone, and that I pity her, but, Janet, because I love her.'

There was an instant's pause, and then his sister threw her arms round his neck. 'I know it, Caleb,' she said, with a great sob, 'I know it; oh, my boy, did you think I did not know it all the time?'

And as she held him in her arms, and kissed his forehead as if he were indeed still 'her boy,' I stole away and closed the door upon them.

Master Caleb came to me early the next morning, and bade me get ready to go back with him to Morechester. 'I am going there again,' he said, 'and if anything occurs, which is far from likely, to detain me, I shall be glad to send you back with a message to my sister.'

He was very quiet. All the hurry and excitement of last night were gone, and in their stead there had come over him a look and manner of grave calmness and resolution.

'Last night, Willie, I told my sister Janet what my feelings have long been; Janet said she knew already,' and Master Caleb paused for a moment in renewed wonder. 'I really am at a loss to conceive how, but so it was. And she has counselled me to go to Mistress Dorothy, and just to tell her all my story.'

'Oh, I am so glad!' I said, jumping up, 'so very glad.'

'Hush, hush, Willie; do not fancy that I have any hope. I know quite well how it must be. But perhaps Janet is right, and that the time has come when it is better that she should hear it. It may be, too, that in her loneliness the knowledge of a love as true, as strong, and faithful as I know mine is for her, will be a comfort to her.'

We went to Morechester, my master saying, when we started, 'Willie, we will not talk, if you please.'

Perhaps all that long silent journey he was getting ready the speech he meant to make to Mistress Dorothy. My thoughts, I know, had time to wander very far afield.

They say that distance makes things look more beautiful. Alas! it also makes them seem far easier. Before we got near Morechester Master Caleb's composure was all gone. His resolution, doggedly held to, he had kept safe, but the morning's calmness, eloquence and steadiness were all lost by the way.

We had settled that I was to wait in the poor Professor's study while he spoke to Mistress Dorothy in the parlour.

I had scarcely been in the room since that day, that seemed so long ago, when Professor Bruce was beginning to pack up his books, and Mistress Dorothy laughed at him for making the room untidy. It was not untidy now. All was in dreary order, speaking sadly in its cold lifelessness of the master that would never return to it.

No one was in the parlour, and Master Caleb came back to the study, walking on tiptoe and speaking almost in a whisper.

'I have sent to ask if she will see me,' he said; 'I expect that she will send for me immediately. You wait here, Willy: that's all you have to do. Just stay quietly where you are.'

He was pushing me backwards all the time, without very well knowing what he was about. At last he got me into the window, and told me again to wait there for him.

'It won't take long,' he said, turning a shade greyer than before, 'and then'----

The door opened, and Mistress Dorothy herself came into the room. She moved so quietly that Master Caleb, staring out of window at the blank wall, clasping and unclasping his hands nervously, did not hear or see her until she spoke his name.

He turned round with a great start and went to meet her.

'Mistress Dorothy, I hope you will forgive me for coming so soon. I just happened to be passing, and so'----

Happened to be passing! In my corner I could not help wondering at Master Caleb. But it was very uncomfortable not to be able to get out--I was hidden by the window-curtain, Mistress Dorothy had not seen me, and my master, I was quite sure, had forgotten all about me. They stood just in the way of the door, and I knew that if I disturbed Master Caleb now, he would never be able to begin speaking to Mistress Dorothy again. There was nothing for it but to read a book, and try not to listen, but my heart was beating fast. I could not help hearing.

Dorothy held out her hand with her frank smile. 'I have been wishing to see you, to thank you for your great goodness to my father and to me,' she said. 'It was kind of you to come.'

'It was Janet--my sister--sent me. She said I ought to come now. I should never have thought of such a thing if it had not been for her.'

'I am glad you came,' she answered. She looked very white and small in her black gown, and her face was grave and sad. The steady straightforward look and smile, however, were not the least changed.

She pushed a chair towards Master Caleb, but he did not seem to see it, and she remained standing too.

'Mistress Dorothy,' he began again, clearing his throat vehemently, 'dear Mistress Dorothy, forgive me for asking you--what are you going to do?'

She hesitated a little, and then said quietly, 'I do not quite know yet. I have been thinking about it, but as yet I have not made up my mind.'

'I thought perhaps I might ask,' went on Master Caleb, 'because'--he made a short stop here, and I heard my own heart beating--'because you know you are your father's daughter.'

She smiled then--smiled and sighed too.

'You are always very kind to me,' she said. 'When I have thought of what I had better do, I shall like to tell you, and I know that you will help me.'

'There's but little I can do,' he said bluntly, and then came another silence. He was gathering together all his strength, and she stood waiting for him to speak.

I scarcely think she caught his meaning directly when he did.

'I could never have said this, if things had been different,' were his words. 'I should never have thought of it. You must forgive me now. It is only because you have no better home. Oh, Mistress Dorothy, I know it is not good enough to ask you to; but would you--could you come to my home?'

The colour rushed into her face. I saw her put out her hand quickly, as if she wanted something to hold by. She made some exclamation, too low for me to hear.

'If I could serve you,' he went on, 'without asking such a great thing as this, believe me I would not trouble you, but I could see no other way. I could not help naming it to you. If there were some brighter life before you, and I could be sure that you were happy, I think I should be satisfied; but now you are alone, and I cannot bear to think of it.'

The tears were in her eyes. Once more she held out her hand towards him, and, grasping his, she spoke very softly. 'Dear friend, it is so good of you--so very good, but----'

'Hush,' he answered quickly, drawing back. 'Yes, I know, I understand. I always knew it must be so, forgive me.'

'Forgive you! the truest, the only friend I have.'

'It was just that. If some one, with a better right than mine, had claimed the great happiness of taking care of you, I would have said no word; but I thought--that is, Janet thought--we might venture just to say how welcome--how proud--how glad----'

'I know how faithful you are. I know you are sorry for me, but you must not----'

'I will not. I never will again. Let me be your friend, Dorothy, still. Another day I will come back,' he said, trying to smile; 'and you will tell your father's old friend your plans. Let me go now.'

He was gone. She called his name. Surely if he had heard her voice then, he would have come back. I think too, that those last half-choking words of his, first made her understand that he did not come to her because he had been her father's friend, but because he loved her.

I heard the door slammed after Master Caleb. As soon as I could get out without being seen, I ran after him. It was difficult to catch him up, at the pace he walked.

When I reached him, out of breath, he put his hand heavily on my shoulder.

'Master Caleb,' I said, looking up into his face, 'may I speak to you?'

'Not now,' he answered, very gently. 'Not now, my boy. It has all ended, Willie, as I knew it must.'

'I am sorry,' I said boldly; 'but I heard all you and Mistress Dorothy said. I was in the study window, where you put me, sir, and I could not help it.'

He did not heed me much.

'We will not speak of it again, Willie. She was quite right to say no.'

'But, Master Caleb, I thought she was going to say "yes."'

He stopped in the road and stared at me.

'Going to say yes!' he repeated slowly.

'Only you would not let her, sir. You gave her no time, and then you went away.'

He still looked hard at me, and shook his head slowly. 'You know very little about it, Willie.'

We walked on a long way in silence. At last he said again, 'You thought she would have said yes?'

'I thought so, sir.'

'You know nothing at all about it.'

When we reached home there was Mrs. Janet watching eagerly for us. I guessed how much Master Caleb dreaded having to meet and tell her all.

But she only just looked once at him. She asked no questions, she did not even pity him. Only her sudden change of face--the look of concern--the quick sigh of disappointment that she checked instantly--the grave silence that so respected his great sorrow, went to Master Caleb's heart.

I saw him go up to her, kneel down beside her, look up at her, and then--no, I must have been mistaken--grown-up men like Master Caleb never cry.

School had scarcely begun the next morning when I was mysteriously called out by Mrs. Janet, and found her arrayed in the best bonnet and gown, that usually never saw the light except on Sundays.

'William Lisle,' she began sternly, 'I have been thinking over things. They cannot go on as they are now. They must not be suffered to go on.'

I said, 'No, ma'am,' and waited wondering.

'Something must be done,' pursued Mrs. Janet, in the same severe tone. 'It must be seen to, and that immediately. It passes my understanding how the girl can have behaved to Caleb Morton as she did.'

I was so confounded at hearing Mistress Dorothy--our Mistress Dorothy--Master Caleb's star, spoken of as 'the girl,' that I stared at Mrs. Janet and could say nothing.

'She must have been out of her senses, I verily believe; I can make no other excuse for her. She must have been out of her senses when she said no to such a one as Caleb.'

'I don't think she meant to say it,' I said, in a low voice, feeling as if I myself had been found guilty of refusing to marry Master Caleb.

'You don't think that she meant it? Very well. Then why did she say it? Answer me that, William Lisle. Why did she say what she did not mean? It's that question I mean to have an answer to, though I go to Morechester myself to get it.'

'To Morechester! you?' I said. 'Does Master Caleb know?'

'Do as you are bid, Willie, and don't put foolish questions. I don't ask you to give me your advice, but to run across to Furzy Nook and borrow Farmer Foster's gig directly. Bring it up to where the four roads meet, and I will get in there. One would say you were Lord Mayor of London, Willie, you are so ready to put in your word.'

An hour afterwards I received her parting instructions not to leave Master Caleb till she came home again, and only to tell him that she had gone out on some business of her own.

'And I am sure that's the truth. It is my business to reason with the girl,' murmured Mrs. Janet to herself, as she clambered up to her high seat with a struggle; 'she's got neither father nor mother, and a good bit of plain speaking does nobody any harm.'

'Gee up, Dobbin,' said Farmer Foster, shaking the horse's reins, and the next moment I stood at the cross roads, looking with wondering eyes after Mrs. Janet, who, driven by Farmer Foster himself, was disappearing in the high-backed gig round the well-known corner of the road to Morechester.

All the day I felt guilty whenever I met Master Caleb's eye, thinking that he would insist on knowing whither his sister had betaken herself in so unwonted a way. But he was quite satisfied with my first confused sentence about business, and Farmer Foster, and in truth seemed to have little heart for inquiring after anybody.

Afternoon came, but without bringing Mrs. Janet. Evening drew on, school broke up, and Master Caleb, who had kept hard at work all day, sat down with his head leaning on his hands, and gave himself up unresistingly to his sad thoughts.

At last, after I had stood for full an hour leaning over the garden gate, listening eagerly, but in vain, for the sound of wheels, one of the farm boys from Farmer Foster's came sauntering--taking his time about it too--over the stile and along the lane from Furzy Nook.

Mrs. Janet was there, and had sent for me. Conscious of being mixed up in a plot, and standing in wholesome awe of Mrs. Janet, I was dismayed when Master Caleb got up wearily, saying that if Janet was at the Farm he supposed he might as well go and fetch her home. Would not the secret of Mrs. Janet's journey come out somehow, if Master Caleb went with me? and then whatever was to become of me? Much troubled in mind, but quite unable to stop him, I followed his footsteps across the fields.

The sun was setting over Furzy Nook, reddening the old house and making its many lattice windows shine like gold.

Dame Foster met us at her garden gate, her apron, as of old, quite full of flowers. 'You are kindly welcome, Master Caleb,' she said; 'yes, your good sister is here; will you go in and speak to her?'

I ran on in front. 'Mrs. Janet,' I began, pushing open the parlour door in a great hurry, 'Master Caleb is come too, and----'

I stopped short, for there stood Dorothy.

Master Caleb was close behind me, and at this moment, just when it was most needed, Mrs. Janet completely lost all presence of mind.

She tried to put herself before Dorothy, to hide her, but Master Caleb had already seen her, and stood at the door as if he were turned into stone.

There was a dreadful long minute, and then Dorothy came slowly forward. She had a colour in her cheeks that I had never seen before, but she spoke almost as quietly as ever--

'Master Caleb, Mrs. Janet brought me here.'

'Janet! and you let her--you came?'

'I came,' she said, the red flush deepening in her cheeks, 'because you asked me yesterday.'

'Did Janet say I was unhappy?'

'She said,'--he bent down, for he could scarcely catch the words--'she said you really wanted me.'

Master Caleb grasped both her hands.

'Dorothy, did you come to me because you pitied me?'

'No, Master Caleb,' she said simply, 'because I was glad to come.'

It was not the words only, but something in her voice, that made him say suddenly, 'Oh Dorothy! oh Dorothy!'

Until that moment we had quite forgotten, Mrs. Janet and I, that we ought not to be there. But now, as he bent his head down lower and lower over the clasped hands he held, Mrs. Janet with a sudden pull drew me out into the passage, and shut the door upon them.

'Bless their foolish hearts, poor dears,' she ejaculated drying her eyes vehemently in the passage.

'Oh Mrs. Janet,' I could not help saying, in the fulness of my heart, 'how glad I am that it has come right.'

'Come right!' she echoed, turning round on me.

'Come right! of course it has, Willie Lisle. Who ever thought it wouldn't? There were no two ways about it.'

* * * * *

Master Caleb and Dorothy were married from Furzy Nook.

A wedding was of all things in the world the most delightful to Farmer Foster and his wife. A few hours only were needed to make them take Mistress Dorothy home to their hearts as if she had been a grandchild of their own. The sweet quiet face, the black gown, and the little touch of romance in the story of her presence there, won their own welcome.

Every one was soon persuaded, very willingly, that it would be simple madness for Dorothy to go back alone to the sad house at Morechester.

'We couldn't think for an instant of suffering such a thing, Mrs. Janet, neither I, nor yet my master; and then, Furzy Nook will be so handy, "somebody" can get to see her every day!' and the old dame nodded slyly to Master Caleb, who did not see her, and then looked across kindly at the farmer, remembering how he used to come a-courting in the summer evenings, so many, many years ago.

The troth plight had scarcely been given and received--the engaged pair had but half begun to realise that they were to belong to each other some day, before Dame Foster had mentally frosted over the huge wedding-cake, and doomed to death the fat capons that were to grace the marriage feast.

It was a proud day on which Master Caleb brought his betrothed to see the Castle. He whispered to me that he had waited for a fine day. Truly he had chosen happily. The ruins were all a-glow with burning sunlight. Our grey towers looked set in warmth and colour. Orange wall-flower, tufts of scarlet poppies, feathery silver grasses, golden dandelions, had forced their way through crevices in the old walls; downy thistles shone with their purple blossoms, crimson woodbine went climbing where it would. Covering all grew the many-hued mosses and lichens, russet and grey, golden, red and brown.

Glittering light here and there; violet shadows; brilliant butterflies hovering over the clover tufts; the warm fragrance of wild thyme; a few sheep cropping the short grass, one of them carrying a bell that tinkled lazily and pleasantly as he moved.

Yes, it was a good day for Mistress Dorothy, to see it all. Master Caleb took her round very slowly, stopping often. We saw him pointing and explaining, drawing lines in the air with a stick, to show where broken fragments of stone told of fallen buildings and grass-grown banquetting halls.

'Poor thing!' said Cuthbert, as we stood watching them from the mound.

'Why poor thing?' I asked indignantly.

'He's teaching her,' Cuthbert said, in a melancholy voice; 'I suppose he's always at it.'

'I tell you she likes it.'

Cuthbert looked at me, and began to whistle--that clear birdlike whistle of his, that no one could help listening to. I saw Mistress Dorothy turn round and look up towards him with a smile.

'Over the hills and far away,' he whistled gaily, and the birds sang the chorus, and the sun shone. Master Caleb and Dorothy went rambling in and out through shade and sunshine. I could not help thinking what a pleasant thing life was.

And next came the wedding day.

It was to be a very quiet one, because the little bride was still grieving for the kind old father who was not there to give her his blessing. So everybody kept on repeating that it must be quite quiet. That is to say, no one was to go to the church who could by any possibility be persuaded to stay away. But unluckily nobody could be so persuaded. Master Caleb belonged to all of us. No one--certainly not Dorothy--would have wished that the scholars, who had suddenly found out how fond they were of him, should not go to his wedding. They forgave him on that day all his strange love for three-syllabled words, and sums in Long Division. They forgot how hardly he had often used them in respect to learning things by heart, and only strove who could shout himself the most hoarse in his honour.

All the village was waiting round the porch long before the wedding party came out of church. How the sun shone that morning! What merry peals the bells sent out upon the golden air! How cheer after cheer rang forth, as Master Caleb, in such a coat, such black silk stockings, such shoe-buckles as Wyncliffe had never before dreamt of, came out bareheaded into the sunshine, from the deep shade of the porch, and led his bride by the hand all through the shouting crowd! The village girls, with Hildred at their head, showered baskets-full of red roses before Mistress Dorothy as she walked!

Master Caleb could get out nothing but 'I thank you, friends, I thank you;' and Dorothy held out both hands, right and left, to meet the eager ones stretched out to greet her.

Then we young ones climbed up trees and stood on the top of walls to give them one cheer more, as they drove off to Furzy Nook, and the old folk called down blessings on the sweet face that was bright with smiles and tears.

Another cheer when the bride, God bless her, waved her handkerchief to us just before they turned the corner. Another, when Farmer Foster bade all there come down to Furzy Nook to drink her health. Yet one more, a hearty one, for Mrs. Janet, arm-in-arm with the farmer; and then, again and again, for the old schoolhouse and its master. Thus we welcomed Mistress Morton home to Wyncliffe.

_O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears--
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn,
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary thinking of your road!_

LONGFELLOW.

Wandering Willie paused. The clock struck. The outer door of the farm-house kitchen opened. A gust of snowy wind rushed in, and the farmer followed, after stopping to shake the snow from his hat, and to stamp it off his long boots in the porch.

Another door opened too. In came 'mother,' proclaiming bed-time.

There was a general petition to be allowed to stay up a little longer.

'Only till the end of the story,' the children begged.

'For it's just done, mother,' said little Cecily, who had been fast asleep on the old man's shoulder for nearly an hour past. 'It's just done;' and her blue eyes tried in vain to keep wide open.

'Oh Cecily,' called the rest of the children indignantly, 'it isn't nearly done. And you've been asleep all the time. We big ones may stay, mother?'

But mother shook her head.

Then one of the little sisters said she did not so much mind going to bed, because nearly everybody in the story was grown up now, and stories about grown-up people were very dull. So she took Cecily's hand, and the two little maidens ran off together, laughing.

'It's as wild a night as ever I saw,' said the farmer, standing before the blazing fire. 'There'll be no getting across the moor to-morrow, Willie. You'll just have to be content and bide here.'

'And we shall hear the end of the story to-morrow evening,' said Lois.

When to-morrow evening came, the same group had gathered round the hearth. Again bed-time came round, and the little ones dropped off one by one, until only Lois and Roger were left to listen. But whenever the old man paused they said 'Go on, go on.' And he went on, drawn by their listening faces. By-and-by the mother came and joined them when she had seen that the children were warm and safe in bed,--all the merry eyes closed and the restless limbs at rest.

She came and listened too, to hear what it was that had so moved her pretty Lois, that the tears were in her eyes; both she and Roger were holding Willie's hands and looking with kindly pity into the old man's face.

But the busy wife and mother, full of life's joys and cares, could see nothing to cry about in a story of what had come and gone so many years ago.

Only she listened patiently to the end, because she too loved Wandering Willie.