CHAPTER X

LEFT ALONE

IT was a sunny morning towards the end of February. The garden was gay with spring bulbs, and Gentian stood looking out of the window upon the bright scene in front of her with wistful lips and sad eyes. Her bright colour had faded, her face was white and rather strained. She seemed to be years older, and yet it was barely two months since Miss Ward had been first taken ill. For those two months Gentian and a nurse had hardly left the invalid's room.

Mrs. Wharnecliffe had been in and out, and wanted Gentian to come and stay with her for a little rest, but she firmly refused to leave the house even for one evening, and every one was surprised to see the merry, volatile girl, turn into the thoughtful, patient nurse. Gentian made many mistakes at first, and was rather rebellious and impatient when she found her earnest prayers for her dear Waddy were not going to be answered in the way she wished.

For a few weeks it seemed that Miss Ward would recover; then she had another seizure, and gradually became unconscious again.

It was a terrible time for poor Gentian when she was told by the doctor that there was no longer any hope of recovery. But she remained steadfastly at her post, tried not to think of the future, and gave up her whole heart and strength to minister to her friend's needs.

Just before Miss Ward passed away, she seemed to have a phase of consciousness. Gentian bent over her lovingly.

"Waddy, darling, I'm here."

The sick woman smiled, pointed upwards, and said, with a little effort, "Home!" Then her eyes closed, and a few moments after, her spirit had left her tired body and had reached its "Home."

Gentian was at first like one stunned. Mrs. Wharnecliffe swept down upon her again, but she would not leave the little house till her friend was laid to rest in the peaceful churchyard close by, and she insisted upon presiding at the organ and playing the "Dead March" when all was over.

Then Mrs. Wharnecliffe was allowed to have her way, and Gentian accompanied her home and stayed there for a few days. But she seemed as if she could not rest.

"I would rather go home," she told her hostess; "there is a good deal I must do."

"My dear child, you cannot continue to live there alone. I wish Thorold was here; it is most unfortunate that he should be abroad. I have written to him, and I know he will come as soon as his young brother is quite convalescent. He always has been the slave of those boys."

"Godwin has been very ill," said Gentian rebukingly; "when his ship left him at the hospital in Gibraltar, they did not think he would live."

"You know all about it," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe with a smile.

"Of course I do. Cousin Thor and I write to each other continually."

Mrs. Wharnecliffe looked at the girl, but said nothing. She was puzzled herself as to what had better be done with Gentian, now that her natural protector had left her.

"If you really want to live on in your present home," she said presently, "it will be quite easy to find you some nice person as companion—or somebody of that class to live with you."

"Thank you," said Gentian, with a little fire in her eye—"I shall not need anyone to supplant dear Waddy."

She had refused to discuss the subject further. She seemed to Mrs. Wharnecliffe to have suddenly developed into a very remote and self-reliant young woman. But then Mrs. Wharnecliffe had not seen her last letter to Thorold, a letter that was causing him to wrinkle his brows with much perplexity of soul.

"Oh, Cousin Thor, do you know what has happened? The skies have fallen on me, my world has gone to pieces, and I am crushed to atoms. My darling Waddy has left me. I hoped, as you know, that she was going to get well. But she had another seizure, and she left me without a word, excepting that she pointed upwards and murmured 'Home.' What does a girl do when her comforter, and mentor, and prop, and refuge is taken from her? Waddy filled my mother's place, she was my safety valve, she circled me with attentions and ministrations and love. I thought I was independent and self-reliant. Just as much as a limpet is independent of its rock! And I am rebellious, and desolate, and absolutely at the end of everything. What am I to do? How am I to live? I don't promise to do a single thing you say, but you must write to me at once—sheets, please! And inspire me with a desire to live, and imbue me with some fraction of courage—and tell me what I ought to be thinking, and saying, and doing. I am so frightfully unprepared for this awful blow. You are never unprepared for anything. But all the same I don't believe you can say anything that will bring me the least ray of light or comfort.

"I'm trying to be self-controlled. I say to myself—'I'll eat my breakfast, I'll take a walk—I'll order dinner and eat it. I'll darn my stockings and mend the household linen, and do all the things I most dislike, until tea comes, and then I'll take another walk, and then I'll eat my supper; and then I'll go to bed, and I'll go round and round this treadmill till I die, but never shall I feel happy and gay and young again.'

"There's one thing I can't do. I can't go into church and play my beloved organ. I did it for her funeral, but I shudder at the thought of touching it again. And I think my nerves have gone to pieces. I feel if I took 'Mousie' out, I would drive myself into eternity. I daren't trust myself at her wheel. I daren't go over to the Miss Buchans yet. I daren't start driving Miss Anne out. So all my favourite pursuits are gone.

"This is all about myself, but now I have nobody in the world to love, or who loves me, so that I shall grow more selfish and egotistical than ever. Who wouldn't? I'm glad your brother is on the way to recovery.

"I may say that my religion has all gone to pieces as well as everything else. God seems nowhere. He hasn't listened to me. I feel He hasn't cared. He wanted Waddy and He took her, and He doesn't take the slightest notice of me, or cares for me at all—I have agonized my soul in prayer to no purpose at all. This is all I have to say.

"The Bubble at last has burst—

"YOUR POOR BURST BUBBLE.

"Are you going to turn me out of the little Vicarage now that Waddy has gone?"

It was rather a relief than otherwise to Mrs. Wharnecliffe when Gentian had left her and returned to the Vicarage. She was concerned about the girl, but could not comfort her. She marvelled at her still icy composure, but she was a woman of experience and guessed that underneath was a depth of grief which she could hardly fathom.

She had been touched by the faithful love and adoration shown by Miss Ward to her charge, but she had not realized how much it was returned by the merry light-hearted girl.

And now Gentian was home again in the empty house, and was gazing out upon her flower-beds, wishing that winter would return and be more in unison with her feelings.

Kate the little maid had gone to the village on an errand. When the latch of the gate was lifted, Gentian thought it might be her returning.

Then a short quick rap on the door made her start, and flush with sudden excitement. Surely no one but Thorold Holt knocked like that!

In a moment she was out in the hall and at the door.

"Oh, Cousin Thor!" was her only exclamation, but seizing him by both hands she dragged him into the sitting-room.

He smiled at her as he relieved himself of his light overcoat, then he seated himself in the big arm-chair by the fire.

"I wonder if I can do you any good by coming," he said. "I am on my way back to Cornwall. I arrived last night. The Wharnecliffes are putting me up."

Gentian was struggling now for self-control. To her horror, tears were rising to her eyes.

In her impulsive fashion she exclaimed:

"If I cry, take no notice—I feel I would like to lie down on the hearthrug and sob myself to death."

Then she drew her hand lightly across her eyes.

"It is only the sight of you, just the same as ever, sitting there looking at me—that breaks me down. There! I'm better. It's waste of time crying whilst you're here. I suppose you have a flying half-hour to spend with me?"

"No—I am in no hurry. Can you give me lunch?"

Gentian flew out of the room. She returned after a short consultation with Kate in the kitchen. A ray of brightness was in her face.

Then she sobered down. For some minutes she talked of Miss Ward's last hours.

"I wrote to you, but there's nothing like talking," she said, with a long-drawn breath, when she had told him all.

"That's what I thought," said Thorold dryly. "I resolved to answer your letter in person. Shall I begin?"

"Oh, do—what am I to do? Is there any hope? It all seems so dark."

"It is a pity you did not live in the Early Christian times," said Thorold slowly. "What is such a misery to you was such a joy to them! Have you never, in your life abroad, visited the Catacombs in Rome?"

"Yes, I did once, but I thought it gruesome."

"Did you not notice the triumphant joy that was the keynote to all the inscriptions there?"

"I noticed nothing. I came out of it as soon as I could. What have the Catacombs to do with me?"

"Only that those early Christians took the right course as regards death. It was a joyful event to all of them, and so ought it to be to us, and if we love persons very much, we should rejoice in their joy and not think about ourselves."

"Ah, now you're coming down from heaven to earth. I knew you would call me selfish, my letter was a wail of self-misery, but it's just how I felt! Of course, I hope darling Waddy is happy, but that doesn't alter my misery—I thought I could live alone, but I find I can't."

"I quite agree with you."

"Oh, don't be fixing up some starched old woman to live with me who will look upon me as an unpleasant duty. After darling Waddy, who really loved me, anyone, however suitable in your sight, would be a torture to me."

There was silence. Then Gentian said appealingly:

"I know I'm pig-headed and unreasonable. Forgive me, I don't know what I'm saying, or what I want. I really would like—"

She paused, and a little bright mischief came into her eye.

"I would like to come down to Cornwall and keep house for you. You've made yourself into a kind of guardian of mine. Can't a ward live with her guardian? That reminds me, I am exceedingly annoyed about something and I had better have it out with you at once. I have been looking into our business affairs—my business affairs, I shall have to say now, and I find that in the banking account which is held jointly in Waddy's name and mine, there is a certain big quarterly sum which seems to come from you. What is the meaning of it? I just left all money matters to Waddy and the dear thing has left a written paper in which she bequeaths all her hard-earned savings to me. Have you been supplementing our income ever since we came to live here?"

"It was an arrangement I made with Miss Ward," said Thorold, fidgeting in his seat, and looking rather uncomfortable, "we talked it over. I considered that some of your cousin's money rightfully belonged to you, and I hope you will let the arrangement stand as it is."

"I shall do nothing of the sort. I am not going to receive charity from you."

Gentian's eyes flashed as she spoke. She looked really angry, then with her quick silvery moods, she dissolved into a tearful smile.

"Oh, forgive me! It's more than generous and good of you, but don't you see my pride or self-respect won't let me take it from you? Unless—unless—you would let me be your housekeeper in a business capacity and give me a salary. I really have become quite good at cooking and keeping house."

"My dear child," said Thorold hastily, "I don't yet possess a house in Cornwall. I am living at the Rectory, and I have no housekeeper at present."

"But you won't be always at the Rectory?

"No. I am thinking of taking a small house a couple of miles out of the village, but I may not do that. It is all uncertain. I am waiting to see how the mine develops."

"Well, what is to become of me?" said Gentian, the gloom returning to her face again. "I think I shall go back to Italy and try to earn a living there. Nobody wants me, or cares for me in this grey old England, and I have sunshine in Italy. I expect you'll say I must leave this little Vicarage, where I have been so happy. I shall have to earn my living in some way."

"Have you seen or heard anything of the Miss Buchans?"

"They wrote their sympathy and asked me to come over and see them. Miss Horatia called one day, but I was crying my eyes out and I wouldn't see her. I'm not ready to see people yet. I'm not controlled enough; at least, it's a strain to be so. I was at Mrs. Wharnecliffe's for a few days, and was quite glad to get back here again, where I can cry in peace, and go without my meals if I choose!"

"Well, I must tell you that Miss Anne Buchan told Mrs. Wharnecliffe yesterday that she would very much like you to go to her altogether as a companion as well as a chauffeur. She is one person who is fond of you. You like her, do you not? You would have a comfortable home with them."

Gentian looked at him with grave eyes.

"So dull, so commonplace," she murmured. "I know you will fix up some dreary groove for me. And I warn you I shall not stay in it—I suppose I ought not to care. I ought to be grateful for a roof over my head, and food to eat, and fires to warm me. I know what your winters are like, and of course it is good to be sheltered; I suppose it won't matter where I am or what I do, for I shall be too miserable to care. And I've lost my faith in God, that's the worst of all."

"That would be the worst fate of all, if you had," said Thorold gravely. "But you're in a fog at present and don't realize that the sun is the other side and will soon shine through."

"Now, let us leave my fate, and future alone for a bit, and you talk to me about my soul," said Gentian, crossing her hands in her lap like a little child, and looking up at him with wistful expectancy. "I know you're a good man from things you've said to me, but you bottle it all up inside and won't let yourself go. Be like Sir Gilbert. He talks to me like an angel. He is not like a stiff, reserved Englishman."

"Is that what you find me?"

"No, not when you find fault with me, you're quick enough and sharp enough then, but you don't let me know what you feel about Paradise, and God, and the Heavenly Things."

There was a little silence, then Thorold said suddenly:

"When I went down to Cornwall I got a new waterproof coat. I was not sure whether it was as genuine as the shopkeeper stated, I wanted a storm-proof garment, not a shower-proof one, and I told him so. There are wild storms round the Cornish coast, and I was soon out in one. My coat kept me dry, but it needed the storm for me to test it. It wouldn't have been any good to me if it had only kept the showers off."

"Now, what on earth are you driving at?"

"Don't you see that the storms in life ought not to shake our faith in God? They are test times and sent to us for the purpose. Your religion is a very flimsy fabric if it will not stand you when trouble comes. A man learns to know the value of his fireproof safe if a fire takes place, in a way that he would never know otherwise. What do you think has happened to your Heavenly Father? Is not He above, ordering all things still? If He thinks fit to send you trouble and loneliness and the loss of your friend, ought you not to accept it at His hand? Think of Job in the first overwhelming moments of his trouble:

"'What? shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?'

"Surely your faith is robust enough, and your love sincere enough, to trust in the One Who has you in His keeping! I heard some one say once—'A knife does not only cut to wound but to beautify.' He was speaking of the gardener's ruthless pruning at times, but go into any Cathedral and see the effect of the knife and the chisel on the walls and roofs, making it a building of delight and joy to all who are in it. You have been touched by the knife now. Is it not going to beautify your character? Teach you patience and submission, and courage to endure?"

"Oh, you are severe! You make me feel so wicked! But I do believe I am, and it is myself that is all wrong, and God Who is all right!"

Gentian gazed before her with dreamy thoughtful eyes. Then she got up from her seat.

"I don't like long sermons, though I asked you to give me one, but I've had more than enough. Enough to think over and act up to, and perhaps one day thank you for! Isn't it like you, not to give me one little word of pity or of kindness, only stringent, pungent words bracing me to endure?"

Thorold had risen from his seat at the same time she had, now he turned abruptly to the window. His heart was hammering against his side, his whole soul was longing to take the girl into his arms and keep her there. He did not know when or how she had stolen her way to his heart, but she was enshrined there now, and he, in his old-fashioned, self-sacrificing way was daily trying to persuade himself that he was too old and dull a personage to mate with such a fresh young flower of youth.

When he could gain command of his feelings, he turned back and faced Gentian, who was regarding him with wistful, puzzled eyes.

"I do feel for you very much," he said, but his words fell coldly on the ears of the warmhearted girl. "I hurried off to you as soon as I could leave my young brother. I am only so sorry that I could not have been with you sooner."

"Are you going back to him?"

"No; he is coming down to me, as soon as he leaves hospital."

"To the Rectory?"

"No, I have taken rooms near. He asked to be remembered to you."

"Thank you."

"I was to tell you how he sympathizes with you, and that his mind and heart is as it was. He has not changed."

Gentian smiled, then impulsively she laid her hand on Thorold's coat sleeve.

"Do be nice and ask me down to Cornwall before he comes. I want to see your mine, and the Rectory, and—and Miss Frances Muir, your goddaughter, and the house you think of living in."

"I should like you to see it all," said Thorold heartily; "and as Mrs. Wharnecliffe wants to do so too, I'll ask her to bring you with her. If I take the house, I want her advice about the interior decorations. It has been owned by an old man who let it go to pieces, and it needs a lot of repairs."

Kate, the little maid, here interrupted them by saying that lunch was ready, and Gentian was soon presiding over some mutton chops and apple tart. She could eat little herself, but she seemed brighter and more like her old self, and Thorold tried to interest her in Gibraltar, and told her about the friends Godwin had there. He did not stay long. When the meal was over, he got up to go and asked her as he was leaving if she would not go to the Miss Buchans for a time.

"It is not only for your benefit, but for theirs; you could make Miss Anne's life much happier and brighter by being with her. There is nothing like interest in others for easing heart-ache."

"Oh, I'll go. I suppose I must. And is this dear little house to be empty again?"

"Shut it up! Consider it still yours, and leave all your belongings in it. Come to it when you want to rummage about."

"Thank you for that small mercy. And the quarterly cheque to the bank must stop. I only go to Miss Anne on that condition."

"Very well."

Then, as he held out his hand to her in farewell greeting, he said:

"Do you remember saying to me in a letter that you wanted to do something that would call out all the powers of your soul as well as of your body? Don't you think the illness and loss of your friend has done this?"

"Ah no, indeed! It hasn't. I have failed, entirely failed."

Tears came to her eyes with a rush. She let them brim over.

"But I'll try. I'll remember all you've said. The Catacombs, and the knife, and the waterproof. I'll go over and over them till I've impressed my subconscious self with them, and they remain with me for ever. Good-bye, Cousin Thor, and I'm coming down to Cornwall very soon. Tell Mrs. Wharnecliffe to let me know when she goes. And think of me sorting out Miss Anne's wools, and getting her footstools and reading out very goody and improving books; and in the evening, playing backgammon and card games, and hiding my yawns and my weariness behind a very smiling countenance."

"I shall think of you at the piano transporting a weary woman to the realms of light and beauty—and driving her out, with the spring awaking all around you. There is much happiness still in store for you—good-bye."

He was gone, and Gentian turned back into the empty house with a feeling of warmth and comfort in her heart that she had not experienced since Miss Ward had left her.