CHAPTER VI

AN ERRAND OF MERCY

SPRING was on its way. Justin seemed happy and content in his home. There was no talk of going off with his yacht. Occasionally he suggested a trip round the coast of Scotland with all of them on board, but Anstice was very doubtful of Ruffie's being able to stand it, and Justin would not hear of taking the girls without him. He would often take his little son up into the Fells in his basket chair on the pony. And to Ruffie, these expeditions were entrancing.

One lovely sunny morning, they had mounted a considerable height, and stopped on the crest of a Fell to look over the lake and surrounding scenery.

Ruffie's blue eyes blazed with fervour and delight. Then he drew a long breath:

"If I get to heaven before you, Dad, I'll look down at you like this. Do you see our house? Just a teeny bit of the chimneys behind the trees there? I shall always be watching it and seeing you come in and out. I shall have stronger eyes there, you know."

"We don't want to imagine you in heaven," said his father, with a short laugh.

"Oh, but I love to! Fancy! Before Steppie came, I knewed nothing about it, I didn't even know that God loved me, and that Jesus came into the world to show us that He did. Do you love God very much, Dad?"

"I don't think I do, my boy. I don't know much about such things."

"I 'spec's you'd better ask Steppie to talk to you, same as she does to us. You see, God is my other Father, so of course He loves me. And the funny thing is, He's your Father too. Steppie will explain it to you out of the Bible."

Then, as the sun streamed out of some passing clouds which cast blue shadows on the distant hills, Ruffie stretched out his tiny hand:

"Oh, isn't the sky and world glorious! And God made it all for us to live in! Wasn't it kind of Him?"

Justin could make no reply. These kind of conversations with Ruffie very often took place. Sometimes Justin was amused, sometimes embarrassed, sometimes interested. A little child's strong faith and perfect trust in his unseen Father must always touch and soften those who witness it.

One day Justin took Anstice to task about her teaching.

"Don't overdo the youngsters with religion," he said; "I have a horror of pattern prigs and precocious saints! Ruffie sometimes seems away from earth altogether. I want him to grow up a natural boy."

"It is not unnatural to love and serve our Creator," said Anstice warmly. "It is the children's heritage. They compose the Kingdom of Heaven in a large majority, and are safe inside it, when so many of their elders are still outside and far away. And as for your children being prigs, it isn't in them. They would tell you they have a perfect horror of it themselves. If they're anything in the world, they're perfectly sincere and natural."

He said no more. He accompanied Anstice to church, and acknowledged that he enjoyed the Rector's sermons, but he refused steadfastly to be drawn into any religious arguments.

Anstice prayed for him; she felt that at present she could do no more, but she had a strong belief that prayer would accomplish what she could not.

One morning, she was busy in the conservatory. She was fond of her flowers and attended to most of the plants there herself. Suddenly Neale, the butler, came to her.

"There's a lady arrived in a car, asking to see you, ma'am. She won't come in till she knows if it is convenient to see you, as it is in the morning."

"Did she not give her name?" Anstice inquired.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she went out quickly to the hall door, wondering who it possibly could be.

To her surprise she found it was the elder Miss Maybrick. In a few minutes, she was seated in Anstice's morning-room, and pouring out her story.

"I have come to ask you to come back with me at once. My sister Carrie is very, very ill, and she keeps asking for you. You know that we are both at the Hall? I did not mean to take your advice. I gave her a date last week on which I meant to take possession and I warned her that I was going to have painters, carpenters and paperers all over the house. And then to spite me, she went out of doors on that awful day of rain we had about a week ago. She walked through the woods, and I believe sat out, and when she came in she would not change her wet boots. Of course, as she expected, the next day she could not rise from her bed. The doctor came, said she had rheumatic fever, and then rode over to give me the news. I knew she would circumvent me, if she could. We've had to get two nurses in, but she keeps crying for you, until I could stand it no longer, so I've come over to fetch you. The doctor told me this morning that she would not pull through. Her heart is affected. Can you come at once? You've been seeing a good deal of her, I suppose? Anyhow, only your presence will satisfy her."

"Poor dear! I must come, I suppose, but I must just leave a note for my husband. I was going for my first ride with him this afternoon. How can I get back?"

"I'll send my car back with you, of course."

Anstice went to her writing-desk and scribbled a note.

"DEAR JUSTIN,—

"I am so sorry. I hope you will not mind, but Miss Maybrick has called to take me to her sister, who she fears is dying. She wants to see me. I hope I shall be back by tea-time. She will send me back in her car.

"In haste.

"ANSTICE."

Then she went upstairs to put on her outdoor things, and in ten minutes' time was being whirled along towards Harscale Hall.

Miss Maybrick seemed inclined to talk. Her dark, keen eyes looked miserable.

"I can't believe she's dying. She has aged so wonderfully since I saw her last. I think of her as a laughing, merry child, when I used to mother her. I little thought then how we should spend our last years. You did well to talk to me as you did; it made me write her a kinder letter than I had intended to do. I told her of a farm about four miles off, where I would make arrangements for her comfort and pay for her board if she liked to go. I knew we could never live together in the same house. We are both too masterful. But you see she was determined not to go."

"I can't believe she would determinedly try to make herself ill," said Anstice. "Perhaps she was feeling rather desperate and wandered out in the wet to think things out. She told me she was very fond of walking in the woods."

"I know Carrie better than you do. When I arrived at the Hall, she looked at me over the bedclothes. 'You can't turn me out now,' she said, 'Dr. Walters won't allow you to.' And then she turned her face to the wall, and wouldn't speak to me again until to-day. All last night she cried for you. 'Fetch Mrs. Holme, I want her. I'm going to die, fetch her!' And when I went into her this morning, it was the same old cry; so I spoke to her."

"'Cheer up,' I said; 'I'll fetch her. I'll go at once.' And off I came. She looked at me suspiciously, but had the grace to say 'Thank you,' and then the pain seized her, and that's the last I've seen of her. I suppose you think I feel remorseful about it? I don't! I only feel that in the long run people's greed and covetousness find them out. They have to suffer. But I almost feel sorry for her now that she's such a wreck. I'll do my best to ease her last hours on earth."

"I'm sure you will. I'm so very sorry for you both."

Then Miss Maybrick lapsed into silence, and Anstice did not feel inclined to break it.

She went straight up to Miss Carrie's bedroom when she reached the Hall, and found her with fever-flushed cheeks and parched, dry lips, wrapped in cotton-wool, and giving plaintive cries like some child in pain. As Anstice bent over her, she opened her eyes and a look of recognition flashed into them.

"I'm going to die," she gasped; "and you're a good woman. I know you are. Help me."

"May I be alone with her?" Anstice asked Miss Maybrick. "And don't you think Mr. Bolland might be sent for?"

"I'll send, if you think it's any good. She doesn't know him, and the Vicar here has gone away for his health and there are only locum tenens who come over for the Sunday services."

The day nurse rather unwillingly left the room, and then Anstice knelt by the bed.

"Miss Carrie, our Lord is here close to you. Won't you speak to Him yourself?"

"I don't know how," she whimpered. "I'm in too much pain."

"Can you say after me, 'Lord, have mercy on me and receive my soul'?"

She murmured the words. Her breathing was distressing her.

Anstice bent over her.

"'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.' Those are our Lord's words. He will receive you."

She stretched out her hot shaking hand and clutched hold of Anstice.

"All the sins of my sixty years," she murmured. "Lord, have mercy on me. Don't leave me."

But the nurse was back, pushing Anstice aside.

"My patient must have no agitation. Her heart is very weak."

Miss Carrie gave an angry cry.

"She is not to leave me. I won't have it."

Her face was purple. She panted in her excitement.

Anstice reseated herself by the bed in spite of the nurse.

"I'm not going to talk, but I'm here, dear Miss Carrie, and I'm praying for you."

Miss Carrie heaved a sigh of relief.

"I hate these strange women," she murmured. "I want only you."

* * * * *

Anstice arrived home about four o'clock in the afternoon.

Justin met her in the hall with an angry light in his eyes. He said nothing before the servants, but followed her into her morning-room. She sank into a chair with pale cheeks and an exhausted air, but her husband was too wrapped up in his grievance to notice her looks.

"Didn't we arrange to have a ride together this afternoon? Do you think nothing of breaking your engagements with me? Are you aware that Fenton sent a horse over from Penrith for you to try?"

"Oh, I am so sorry, that was to be a surprise for me then, for you never said anything about it. I thought I was going on the old pony. You got my note?"

"The note does not alter the fact of your breaking your engagement with me."

"Oh, Justin, I apologize; but Miss Carrie is dying: they do not think she will last through the night. She sent for me; I had to go. Surely you would not have me refuse her?"

He stood by the window, like a thwarted, angry boy.

Tired as she was, Anstice rose from her seat. Putting her hand on his shoulder, a thing she had never done before, she said in her tenderest tone:

"Forgive me. Don't be angry. But I couldn't have refused a dying woman's call."

"You are not a parson, and you are not called to do a parson's work. Your place is at home with me and my children."

She dropped her hand, and then he wheeled round swiftly upon her.

"My claims come first," he said sharply.

"Your children's claims do," said Anstice very quietly, "but I do not acknowledge that yours do. You mustn't be a tyrant, Justin. Women are not chattels. And I must have my own independent judgment about things. I could not live anywhere stifling my ears to the cries for help from anyone, rich or poor. Imagine yourself struck down suddenly upon a sick-bed, knowing that you will never get up again alive, that you're on the brink of eternity, going into an unknown life with no hope in your heart. Wouldn't you like somebody to help you? To try to throw a ray of light across your darkness?"

Justin stood looking at her with sombre eyes. Then he turned round again and looked out of the window.

"I'm a fool to want you," he muttered.

Anstice smiled, though she did not feel like smiling.

"We mustn't quarrel," she said. "I don't think I have had an angry word from you before. I am truly sorry I disappointed you. Don't tell me I was wrong to do so."

"I wonder if you ever own yourself in the wrong?" Justin's temper was under control again. He spoke in his natural voice, and when she did not answer him, he drew her towards him. "I warn you, Anstice, I shall make claims on you. I am not at all satisfied with our present position, are you?"

He had imprisoned her hands in his, and was looking searchingly into her face. Then suddenly he released her.

"You are tired, poor child, and I'm a selfish brute. I always have lived for self alone. You will have to teach me to be different. We'll have tea in here. Women always feel better after a cup of tea, don't they?"

He left the room, and Anstice, feeling the strain of what she had been through both at Harscale Hall and in her own home, sank back into her chair, and putting her hands up to her face, surprised herself by giving way to some quiet tears. Then, as Neale brought in tea, she made her escape up to her room. When she came down again she was her bright natural self; but Justin, as he took a cup of tea from her, saw the traces of tears in her eyes, and felt ashamed of himself.

He talked of different things for the next twenty minutes, as if nothing had happened between them, and then, as the little girls' voices were heard coming down the stairs, he said quickly:

"Don't go to the children to-night. You're tired. They must do without you."

Anstice shook her head.

"I will never fail them, unless I am ill," she said.

She left him after tea, and he heard music going on in the drawing-room and the children's happy voices. But he sat on over the fire with moody, discontented eyes.

"I shall get jealous of my own children," he muttered. "Who was it told me I was too cold-blooded for jealousy? Why, it was Malcolm Dermot. He was wrong."

He sat there cogitating; an unhappy man, who was just beginning to see chinks of light through the clouds of mistrust and bitterness that were spoiling his life.

When the children's hour was over, Anstice came back to her room and was surprised to see her husband still there.

"Do you want me gone?" he asked her, making a movement in his chair.

"Oh, no," she said gently; "I like to see you there."

He looked up at her.

"Come and put your hand on my shoulder as you did a short while ago and tell me that you forgive me for my selfishness and bad temper. I won't be a tyrant. You must prevent my being so."

She came up to him.

"There is nothing to forgive," she said. "I ought to feel glad that you wanted me with you this afternoon."

She did put her hand on his shoulder again, and Justin was thrilled by her touch. He felt inclined to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he controlled himself.

He was sweetness itself for the rest of the evening. The next morning at breakfast he said to her:

"Well, what are your plans for to-day? Shall I 'phone to Fenton to have the horse brought round again this afternoon?"

Anstice hesitated, then she said in her pleasant, even voice:

"I had better tell you straight out, though I fear it will annoy you, that I promised Miss Maybrick, if I did not hear from her this morning, that I would go over to Miss Carrie again this afternoon. She dreads being left with her, I think, and is afraid she may die whilst she is in the room. It is all very sad. Miss Carrie would hardly let me leave her yesterday. She literally clung on to my hand and would not let it go."

Justin put a great restraint upon his feelings. He responded in as quiet a tone as hers:

"Very well, we must leave our riding for the present."

But they had hardly left the breakfast table before a telegram was brought to Anstice. When she opened it, she drew a long sigh, and handed it to her husband. It was very brief:

"Carrie passed away eight o'clock this morning in her sleep: writing.—H. M."

"I hardly thought she would die so soon, but the doctor said her heart was very feeble, and evidently it has been very weak for a long time. Well, it is a merciful release for her."

"Now what are you going to do?" asked Justin. "Are you still going over?"

"Oh, no, I shall wait till I hear. What a sad homecoming for Miss Maybrick!"

"A peaceful solution of their difficulties."

"I suppose so, and yet I can hardly imagine that Miss Maybrick will have a happy time by herself in that old house. She so very nearly turned her sister out to die."

Anstice looked so sad that Justin said a little impatiently:

"At any rate you are not responsible for either of them. How you were called in at all, I cannot imagine. They were both strangers to you a few weeks ago."

"But they are old friends of yours, Justin. Don't you feel at all interested in them? I think, when people get old and self-centred as those sisters have, it is so tragic when they have to face death and realize what it means. I am comforted about Miss Carrie. She so genuinely repented and cried for mercy. And though it was a death-bed repentance, I believe in the saying:"

"'Betwixt the saddle and the ground He mercy sought and mercy found.'"

"But her sister, who is now realizing the sad fact of her death, must be conscious what a sad, wasted life Miss Carrie's has been, and what a hard, loveless one her own is. For years, she has bent all her energies and will to turning her sister out of her inheritance. Now she has the desire of her heart; but when her call comes, and this will remind her that it will come, how will she be able to meet it?"

"We really need not make ourselves miserable over other people's lives. Now, as you are not going over to them, will you see the horse this afternoon and try him?"

Anstice shook off her grave thoughts. She felt that at present Justin could not sympathize or understand with her in her deep interest and concern in other people's troubles, so she brought light into his eyes again when she agreed to do as he wished.

The horse was brought over in the afternoon. He had a black satin coat, and soft intelligent eyes; his motion was all that was desired. Anstice slipped into an old habit of hers, and was mounted from the front terrace, the children all looking on. Justin and she rode along by the lake, and then went up and had a canter on the soft grassy paths that wound in and out of the Fells. The exercise brought colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes.

"You like him?" her husband asked.

"Yes, what is his name? I love his swift, easy stride."

"Hereward they call him. Then he shall be yours."

"It's really very good of you. I don't know how to thank you."

"No thanks are needed. You have a good seat, and are evidently at home in the saddle. I am sorry you have not ridden before. It is the best way of getting about our Fells."

"It will be a great delight to me. And if you will get the little girls two safe ponies, they and I will have many a pleasant ride together when you are away."

"I'll see about it."

For the rest of that day Justin was his pleasant self. He was proud of his wife's skill in horsemanship, and looked forward to a good many rides with her. She was always good company, and her delight in the lake scenery and in the lonely beauty of the Fells drew an answering chord in his heart.

That evening, he joined the children in the drawing-room, and all of them sang together. Just before they were called away to bed, Josie and Georgie ran out to attend to Joshua, whom they had left in the garden. Ruffie was on his father's knee, and Anstice was putting her music by. Having done that, she was kneeling before the fire stirring it to a blaze, when Ruffie suddenly said:

"Steppie, Brenda says you have a big heart and love everybody—do you?"

"Oh, no, darling, I haven't as big a heart as that, I am afraid."

"Well, do you love Dad?"

Justin gave a slight start, then he looked across at Anstice with a little of his boy's impish mischief in his eyes.

"We must have an answer, mustn't we, Ruffie; but the question isn't at my instigation, I beg to state. It's a discussion we were having yesterday as to who loves who. To Ruffie there is no middle path. You either love or hate."

Anstice laughed to hide her embarrassment.

"But I have a middle path, Ruffie; I always have had one."

"But you do love Dad, don't you?" persisted the child. "He said yesterday he had nobody who loved him but me, and I told him there was you, and he said: 'You mustn't tell tales, sonnie, or our confidential talks will be over.'"

Justin was evidently uneasy as to what might be coming from Ruffie's frank revelations.

And then Anstice, still stirring the fire to hide her hot cheeks, said in her easy, pleasant way:

"We all love each other, Ruffie, I hope. And if anyone is weak or ill or helpless, we must show our love, even to animals. I saw a little boy yesterday clutching hold of a kitten in spite of its cries. It wanted to go to its mother, and he wanted to keep it with him, so as he was the strongest, he used force, instead of showing love for the poor little mite."

Ruffie hung his head.

"I wanted to make it love me best," he said. "If it had loved me proper, it would have wanted to stay with me."

Josie and Georgie appeared, and the conversation ended.

But when Anstice went to give her good night kiss to Ruffie, he said to her, with an old-fashioned shake of his curly head:

"I think Dad would like you to love him like you do me. He said he felt lonely sometimes. And I told him I used to, but you knowed how to kiss loneliness away. He said he wished you'd try it on him!"

"Oh, Ruffie, my precious," said Anstice, laying her cheek against his, with her rippling laugh, "don't you worry over Dad. He and I understand each other. And he won't be lonely when he gets to his yacht again. He will be leaving us soon."

"I'm going to ask God about that," said Ruffie mysteriously. "I think God could get rid of that yacht for us. None of us like it taking Dad away so often, and God can do anything in the way of storms, can't He?"

"Go to sleep, and never pray that anything may be destroyed, darling."

"Not even the wicked Devil?" asked Ruffie, but he was sleepy and tired and did not wait for an answer to that question.

And Anstice said to herself as she left him:

"If he feels lonely, don't I feel so too? I wonder if we shall ever be anything but lonely in this strange life of ours!"