CHAPTER VII

OFF ONCE MORE

MISS CARRIE'S funeral took place three days later, and Justin and Anstice both attended it. The little churchyard away in the lovely Fells struck Anstice as peculiarly beautiful. There was a great stillness about it, a peace. Miss Maybrick did not attend. They were told that she was not well enough to leave her room, but a week later she sent for Anstice.

"You seemed to be so interested in my sister," she said, "that I thought you might like to hear that we made up our quarrel about an hour after you had left us that day. She asked for my forgiveness, and I asked for hers. The last thing she said to me that night was—"

"'Good night, Hatty—I feel easier now—and thanks to Mrs. Holme, I'm hoping to have made my peace with God.' I tell you this, for I think you ought to know it."

"Thank you, I am so glad to hear it," said Anstice.

"Quarrels are a mistake," said Miss Maybrick slowly, "and even a reconciliation doesn't do away with the stings of them. They remain to haunt one. I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life. She was my last relative left."

Anstice was touched by the pathos in her tone. The stern, indomitable pride of the woman was crushed. She had a long talk with her, and promised to ride over and see her from time to time.

The spring came on slowly but surely. The little girls got their ponies. Their joy was intense, but their father absolutely forbade them to ride about the Fells alone.

"For a year at least, you must have some one always with you," he told them. "There are too many dangerous places for you to wander about at your will."

They were very rebellious over this edict at first, but they were allowed to ride round the lake, and along the lanes, and with this, they learned to be content.

One day, when Justin was hunting, Anstice took the three children over to see the Nixons. They had tea there, and Ruffie was highly delighted with old Tommy's queer carved walking-stick. The old man took a great fancy to him; and before he went, presented him with a carved pipe.

"'Tis for you to smoke when you get to be a man," he said.

Ruffie gazed at it adoringly; then put it into his pocket. "I'll certainly smoke it every day," he said. "You know I shall be able to do most things men do when I grow up—except just the leg part of me."

His happy pluck evoked an exclamation from Tommy as he turned to Anstice.

"Blest if I ever heerd the loike! He's grand, mem, grand! An' he'll be a sweeter nut then his feyther!"

But Anstice, as she looked at the fragile little figure, wondered sadly if he would ever live to come to his heritage of manhood.

She was very happy these spring days. Justin and she rode a good deal together, and in their rides, became closer drawn together. Once or twice, she and the children went out upon the lake in his motor-boat; as the weather improved, they were much out of doors. The budding gorse, the sweet clusters of primroses in the lanes, the blossoming hawthorns, and the young bracken uncurling beneath their feet, all added to the attractions of the lake and the surrounding Fells.

And then one morning at breakfast Justin said suddenly: "My skipper writes that the yacht is ready for a sail. She's been having a fresh coat of paint; but now I need wait no longer."

Anstice looked across the table at him with a queer little smile.

"So you'll be off again! Where are you going this time?"

"I thought I would go to Norway for some fishing. I have not settled anything further. I will wait and see what sort of fishing is going. I may run over to Iceland afterwards."

"Oh, well, you will not be so far away from us this time."

"I haven't decided what I shall do. I could go on to America later."

"And how soon will you go?"

"The day after to-morrow, I think."

Anstice felt startled.

"So soon? But of course, a man's packing is not like a woman's! You must let me help you with it. I am a very good packer."

"Thanks."

Then he fixed her with intense, imperative gaze.

"Will you be sorry for my departure?"

"Why should I be?"

She spoke lightly to hide the disappointment at her heart; and yet afterwards wished that she had answered otherwise.

"This is too quiet a life for a rover like you," she went on. "Ruffie is the one who suffers most for your absence. I hope that he may grow strong enough to accompany you in a few years' time."

Justin's brow clouded. He crumbled a bit of toast in his fingers nervously.

"I thought we were friends, Anstice," he said after a minute's silence.

"So we are," she responded quickly.

"Friends are not entirely indifferent to absence," he said; "at a word from you I would stay at home altogether."

The colour rose in Anstice's cheeks, then she said in her quiet aloof tone:

"I would never be the one to say that word, Justin. You must remember that in our agreement you told me that I was to look upon you as a negligible quantity; that our marriage would not affect you or touch your life. I am content to carry out that agreement, to keep your house and look after your children. More you cannot expect from me."

Justin pushed back his chair from the table, walked out of the room and banged the door violently behind him.

And Anstice surprised herself by a fit of tears.

"He must see," she told herself, "that it is not for me to beg him to stay. If he wants the conditions altered, he must say so. How can I tell him the truth, that I shall miss him beyond words? It may be propinquity, but I never thought I should get to lean upon him, and be so happy with him! And now he is angry and hurt; but how could I answer otherwise!"

Very soon every one in the house knew that the 'Squire' was off again on his travels. Justin was always a rapid packer; he was here, there and everywhere for the next two days, saying very little, quite courteous and pleasant to his wife, but nothing more. Ruffie was the only one who made open lamentation for his departure. All preparations made, Justin went off at ten o'clock in the morning. And upon the spur of the moment, rather fearing the awkwardness of bidding him farewell before the children, Anstice said she would drive to the station with him to see him off.

Her husband seemed pleased with her decision. As they were driving along in the car together, he suddenly laid his hand upon hers.

"You have made my home a very happy one," he said. "When I contrast it now with what it was before you came into it, I feel I cannot thank you enough. I shall see it in my mind's eye when I'm the other side of the ocean."

"Home is a woman's kingdom," said Anstice. "I have only done what scores of others would have done, but I'm glad you appreciate it."

He was about to say more, but the words seemed to stick in his throat, and Anstice began to talk rather nervously about the children.

Then they reached the station, and there was the usual bustle before the train went off. At the last moment, Justin made Anstice get into the first-class compartment with him where he was the only passenger.

"I won't say good-bye in public," he said. Then he put his arm round her and kissed her warmly. "Don't tell me this is not necessary according to our compact," he said; "you are my wife, and I'm inclined to let that agreement of ours go hang! Anstice, tell me, shall we make a fresh start when I come home again?"

Anstice looked at him and smiled, but her eyes were misty and Justin's keen gaze noted it.

"Shall we wait and see?" she said.

And with this, he had to be content.

He was gone, and Anstice, driving home, was conscious that her sun was dimmed, that the future, even amongst her beloved Fells, looked dreary and forlorn.

She went over to see Miss Maybrick a day or two later, and found her rather desolate in her old home. She welcomed her gladly.

"I am having it repaired and restored," she told Anstice as she took her over the newly decorated rooms; "but I am the last of my family, and I ask myself why I am spending so much money upon it! It will only be sold at my death to some Liverpool or Manchester merchant. Nobody will care for our old family treasures. I am beginning to like the Book of Ecclesiastes. It does seem to echo some of my thoughts. What is the good of anything in the world? Nothing will last."

"Love lasts," said Anstice thoughtfully.

"I have had no use for love," said Miss Maybrick sternly. "It is the source of a good deal of misery and crime."

"Not the right sort. The love that comes from God."

Miss Maybrick deliberately turned to other topics.

When Anstice came away, she felt that sometimes the desires of the heart turned to dust and ashes, when they were obtained. She asked the Rector if he would go and see Miss Maybrick as often as he could. He had at last got a rough pony which took him over the Fells to see some of his far away parishioners.

"You will know what to say to her, and she likes you. I have the greatest pity for her."

"She is not my parishioner," he replied, "now she has left her farm, but I will go as a friend. I think perhaps that God is slowly leading her towards Himself. Her goal down here has been reached, and is evidently not satisfying her."

Then one day Anstice was astounded by a visit from Louise. She appeared one morning about twelve o'clock, and Anstice kept her to lunch.

"Are you having your holiday now?" Anstice asked her.

"No," she said; "haven't you heard? Uncle is very ill and I have come home to him. He wrote and asked me to do so. And I came back last week, and do you know, I am giving up my work in town for the time, and am going to look after him and cheer him up? I never knew that he was so fond of me. His housekeeper is very good, and makes him comfortable, but he is funny and old-fashioned and won't make a friend of her, and he is pounds better since I came. He got influenza, and was not getting up his strength. He wasn't able to browse amongst his beloved books, and so got moped and thought he was going to die. His doctor thought he was, he told me so."

Louise looked and spoke like a different creature. She was tastefully dressed, had lost her discontented expression, and was quite a pretty-looking girl. Anstice was unfeignedly glad to see the change in her.

"I am afraid you will find it very dull after town life, but I do think you've done the right thing. I confess that I have not been over to see your uncle as often as I might. It is a long way, and I don't seem to get the time for these long expeditions, though I love them."

"Well," said Louise, settling back into her chair with a very contented look upon her face, "it's simply delicious to be here with you! I have longed to see you. You will be glad to know that, through absence, I have learned to love these lovely Fells of ours. As I drove along the Ramdale, I was having little happy thrills in my heart. The air, the birds, the mossy banks were all so sweet, and the lake! Ah! The ponds on Hampstead Heath and the water in the London parks have given me such a home sickness for the lakes! I never, never thought I could come back to it with such happiness."

"How long are you staying?"

"As long as uncle needs me. Do you know, the farms and the cottages have given me quite a welcome! And I'm going to set a few things going. I shall have a little gathering for the women—a Mothers' Union meeting—they want one badly. They seem out of everything out there, and I want them to be happy."

"Louise, you have soul happiness yourself!"

Anstice spoke eagerly. Louise smiled at her.

"Yes, thanks to you, and to Miss Montmorency, the principal of our school, and to our Vicar there. You three have made me long for, and seek, and find, the one thing needful. And I know that whether I am buried away in Ramdale, or in the bustle of town life, I can work and serve, and do a little to bring happiness to others. But I won't pretend I am coming back here wholly because I think it is my duty. The Fells call me back. I never knew how I loved them till I lost them. We may have bits of water in London to remind me of our lakes, but we have no lovely green sloping Fells, no mountains; and it is these I find I love. The scent and the smell of their moss and bracken, and moist pools in between the crags. Oh, there's nothing like them in the world!"

Anstice laughed at the enthusiastic girl, and marvelled at the change in her.

"And what does your uncle say at your giving up your work?"

"He looks at me with a smile and light in his eyes that I have never seen before. He tells me, he used to watch me out of his study window, and loved to see me flitting about the garden; but his silence had encrusted him so, that it was hard to break through it. He is on the couch now, but very weak and thin. Still, the doctor says he believes he will recover. Do you know Dr. Ogilvy? He has only come lately, and lives at a farm with an invalid sister. He seems very clever, and has got the liking of all our people."

"I have heard of him, but he lives too far away from us. We always have the doctor from Penrith."

They talked on together, Louise pouring out all her London experiences, and when she went, Anstice could only wonder again at the change in her since she had first come across her.

She did not lack for visitors. Since Justin's departure, a great many of her neighbours had come to see her, Mrs. Wykeham foremost amongst them.

"I did think Justin was settling down," she said to Anstice; "he seemed so much brighter and more sociable in every way! What a vagabond he is! I think you are a saint to put up with his wandering habits."

"Oh, we understand each other," Anstice said lightly. "His hobby is yachting: why should he give it up because he married me? I think it is very bad for men who have no special occupation to be continually at home. Of course, he farms and is very interested in his estate, but it isn't much of a life for any man here."

"You're a sensible woman," Mrs. Wykeham said. "I must confess that when you first arrived here, and he went off and left you, I thought it very queer indeed. And then, knowing how selfish men are, I began to put two and two together. His house was a ruin, his children were little fiends, he left you to battle with it all alone and get it straightened out, and then when you had made a thoroughly comfortable and happy home of it, back he comes to enjoy it. Don't contradict me, for you know that it is true! I have known Justin for many years, and he is not one to ride over obstacles, he simply slips round them."

"I won't hear you disparage my husband," said Anstice pleasantly, with great firmness.

And Mrs. Wykeham knew that she had gone far enough. But afterwards, when she was alone, Anstice began to think about her absent husband. She knew that the charge of selfishness was an accurate one; he had always been accustomed to take the easy path through life, and when catastrophe came to him, he could not get over it. It had made him a sour, embittered man. But lately, Anstice could bring to her mind many little actions of his which made her realize that he could be unselfish at times. He had twice given up fishing expeditions which he had planned out for himself: once to take Ruffie up the Fells on his pony, at his urgent request; once to take Anstice over to Penrith in the car for some necessary shopping.

He had gone off one day, and scoured the neighbourhood for a special fern for which Anstice had expressed a wish. She had wanted it for her fernery which she was making. He had often left his smoking-room where he was enjoying a quiet read, and had joined the children for their hour in the drawing-room. This was generally for Ruffie's sake, who had sent one of his sisters to summon him.

"No," she said to herself, "he is not an out-and-out selfish man. And I think he would not shirk disagreeables, if he felt they were necessary. I suppose we all take the easy path if we can."

Then presently she laughed at herself at her effort to defend her husband's character. "What does it matter to me? He goes his way, and I go mine, and we don't wish for anything different. We disagree very seldom, and when we do, he gives in quite as often as I do. We get on very happily together; but if I were to ask him to stay at home altogether, it would be a great mistake. He would get restless and miserable, and then he would be irritable, and we should drift into a captious couple. We have not the foundation for a happy wedded life, there is no love between us, so we have to be doubly careful as to our behaviour towards each other."

All this and more she told herself, but deep down in her heart there was more than a real liking for the handsome, self-willed man. She would not acknowledge that the tone of his voice and laugh, the sound of his quick, active feet about the house, that mischievous twinkle in his eyes which so often appeared in his talks with her and with Ruffie, brought a thrill to her soul.

Sometimes she wondered if he were still indifferent to her. She knew he appreciated her and respected her. He thanked her again and again for what she had done to the house and to his children. But there were times when he would put his hand on her shoulder, and speak to her in almost a tender tone. She always laughed such moments off, but often she felt nearer to tears. When he seemed to soften, she herself would harden, but she did it in self-defence. Never, she assured herself, would she show by word or touch or look that she craved for the love of his heart. He had warned her when they married that she must not have any expectations in that quarter. And she meant to stand by his conditions and not go one iota beyond them.