CHAPTER IX

LOUISE'S DEPARTURE

"DEAR ANSTICE,—

"Many thanks for your letter and all your news. I don't doubt that you're working wonders in my household. I shall be duly grateful on my next visit home. Out here, my house and estate, and children all seem vague and shadowy. But I like to hear of you all, so keep me posted with details. You seem pretty experienced with children, so I'll leave you to deal with Ruffie's education. I'm sure the little scamp won't be too industrious. I have had the misfortune to damage my boat rather seriously in a storm we came into two days ago, so we're going on shore for repairs. This will delay me. I am glad you have made Malcolm Dermot's acquaintance. He and I have been pals for many a long year. I really don't understand why any awkward question may crop up. You have married a rover—and you knew it when you did it. I have known other married men who are both travellers and big game hunters. It is not unusual. Perhaps our speedy marriage was unusual—I even acknowledge a good bit of selfishness on my side; but you seem to be getting some degree of comfort and enjoyment out of it, and I hope you'll continue to do so.

"And tell the kind friends who ask inquisitive questions, that you have a selfish brute of a husband who is not over-fond of children's racket, and doesn't take to domesticity, but that you are not pining for his society, and prefer to be without him. Isn't this the plain truth? Let them swallow it, and say no more. Tell the youngsters, I'll bring them back a parrot according to Ruffie's request, but as to whether it will talk or not is at present unknown to me.

"Yours, "JUSTIN H."

Anstice read this first letter from her husband, and drew a little sigh. She had not expected more from him; and yet it left her with the feeling that he was farther away than ever. Then she folded up the letter and put it into her Davenport. Her occupation for the day crowded out all thoughts of an indifferent husband. She had at last got a satisfactory wicker chair made for Ruffie, and this was going to be strapped on to the steady old cob, who was a mountain pony, bred and born amongst the Fells, and consequently surefooted.

Ruffie's delight and astonishment when the cob was brought round to the door for his inspection was very great. Brenda carried him down, and then soft cushions were put into the little chair, and he took his first ride down the drive. He declared it did not shake him at all and wanted to go up the Fells then and there, but Anstice would not allow that.

A week later, when he was found to be no worse for the motion, she and the little girls took him up the lane at the back of the house and up the nearest Fell.

The little boy's joy was unbounded, and when he finally reached the summit of rather a small height, he sat looking out at the views below him with rapturous eyes.

"I've never been above the earth before," he said. "What a lot you can see! I s'pose in Heaven they can see all the world at once. That's why God can see everybody."

"Isn't he ridic'lus!" laughed Georgie.

But Anstice did not think him so, and Ruffie was totally indifferent to his sister's opinion of him.

Two days later, Anstice reminded them that the month was up. She told the little girls this at the luncheon table.

Josie nodded gravely.

"Yes, me and Georgie made a tick in our calendar. Ruffie said we weren't to say anything about it, but we meant to. We aren't going to do what Ruffie says."

"Well, is it necessary to have another pow-wow?"

"Oh yes, that's fun! May we have it to-night?"

"Certainly. At six o'clock."

"I don't mean to paint up so much," Georgie announced. "It hurts scraping it off!"

So that evening the pow-wow was held, and the fire was lighted in the library, and three earnest-faced children sat round it with Anstice.

Josie was the first one to speak.

"We don't want to fight you," she said; "and you've given us a lot of nice things. Ruffie has got his chair, and Georgie and me our sitting-room, and our lessons aren't half bad now. I think we'll go on as we are."

"Yes," nodded Georgie. "You aren't always running after us like the governesses used to do. You let us get away from you sometimes. But we want you to promise us that in the holidays we can do exactly as we like."

"What does Ruffie say?" Anstice asked.

For answer, Ruffie wriggled closer to her and laid his head on her shoulder.

"I love you," he said; "and I don't care if all the world knows it! I don't want you ever to leave us."

Anstice felt tears rising to her eyes.

"My darlings!" she said. "Yes, I call you all darlings, because you are. I don't mean to leave you. I want you to be as happy as children can be. I shan't be hard on you in the holidays, Georgie. If you get into scrapes, you must learn by experience that scrapes mean trouble to you or to others. Tell me if you can what you want to do, and I'll meet you as far as I can. And I'll try and make the holidays a really jolly time."

After the pow-wow was over Josie got Georgie into a corner.

"It's no good," she said, "trying to go against her. And the funny thing is that I don't want to. When did you first begin to like her, Georgie?"

"It was one day when I called out to her, and she said: 'What is it, darling?' Nobody had ever called me 'darling' before. I felt I could hug her when she said it!"

"Yes, I s'pose it's because we feel she really likes us, and loves a bit of fun."

As for Anstice, she was inexpressibly thankful that she had managed to win the liking if not love of these troublesome children. Her Sunday readings and talks she felt was an opportunity for sowing seed in the soft ground of childish hearts, and though she never expected to turn them into perfect children, she did seem to see a softening impression upon their characters.

She found her time fully occupied through these long summer days. Louise was a regular weekly visitor. She had taken a violent, almost schoolgirl adoration for Anstice, and though she was not willing at present to discuss religious matters with her, she was, in other respects, as clay in her hands.

She had started a garden, and it was taking hold of her: she was reading with avidity all the books that Anstice could lend her, and her outlook on life was happier. She had been to see old Tommy Nixon and his sister, and confessed that their cheery content did her good.

"But," she said, "they are old, and I am young. And the woman has outgrown all restlessness."

One day she invited Anstice over to lunch. Her uncle smartened himself up for the occasion, and struck Anstice as being a courteous scholar of the old school. He and she discussed books together, for Anstice had always been a great reader, and Louise said afterwards that her uncle had talked more that day in an hour than he had done for a year when only with her.

Anstice was gradually increasing her circle of acquaintances. Colonel and Mrs. McInnes, who were regular church-goers, were very friendly. Their daughters for a time held aloof; then, when they found Anstice a good tennis player, persuaded her to come over sometimes to play with them. There were a certain amount of summer visitors who were making the neighbourhood quite gay. Anstice went to one or two garden-parties and some local Fêtes and Flower-shows, but she preferred being quiet at home.

When the holidays began, she had a tennis-court marked out on the smooth level lawn, and instituted tennis as a pastime for the little girls. They took to it at once, and it kept them out of mischief. Picnics on the Fells, and on the lake; expeditions with the pony taking Ruffie, ending up with farm-house teas, and occasional children's parties at home—these all filled up the holiday time, and made life enjoyable.

So the summer passed, lessons began again, and then came a wet spell of autumn mists and rain.

Louise did not appear for three weeks, then Anstice heard she was ill, and one day when the rain seemed to have cleared, she tramped over the Fells herself to see how she was.

She found her in bed with bronchitis; she had narrowly escaped pneumonia, and was lying very weak and dispirited. When she saw Anstice come into the room, she looked up with real interest. For days, her uncle said she had lain, saying nothing, and only taking food from the little maid, Mary, who waited upon her.

"Oh," she said in a weak voice; "I have wanted you so much. I thought I was going to die, and I was almost glad, and then I began to get frightened and I prayed that I might be given another chance. But I have been so lonely and miserable, and the rain has beaten against my windows and the wind howled in the chimneys, and I felt as bad as I did before you came!"

"My poor child!"

Anstice laid her hand caressingly against her cheek.

"If you did not live so far off, I would bring our trap over and drive you home with me. I think I must get a car to come over for you. Wrapped up, you would not hurt. That is if your uncle can spare you. But you are not much good to him tucked away up here. I think I must go down and consult with him."

A hot flush came into Louise's pale cheeks. Such a vista opening out before her, as a visit to Butterdale Manor, was enough to fill her with fresh hope and courage. She lay patiently in her small bed, awaiting Anstice's return. She was a good half-hour away, and when she came up, she smiled at the invalid in a very reassuring way.

"You have to be very good now, and take your medicine and food regularly and get up your strength. This is Friday. On Monday, I shall come myself in a car and bring you back to Butterdale with me. I am going to nurse you back to health. And your uncle is quite willing. He and I have had a very nice talk together. I think it is a pity you have not confided in him more. He cares about you much more than you think."

"Will he really let me come to you?"

"Of course he will. I mustn't stay, for it is nearly dusk now. We will meet again if all is well on Monday. I shall come over in the morning for you."

And on Monday, Louise came to the Manor, and was put in a sweet little room near Anstice. It was a haven of rest to her. The little girls were delighted to visit her, and their light-hearted chatter brightened her up. When she was quite convalescent, she walked up and down the terrace outside in the sun, and Anstice and she had many a serious talk together. One day, Anstice went over to Ramdale again to see her uncle about her return. She came back to Louise with smiling face.

"I have wonderful news for you. I don't know whether it will be for your true welfare or not, but the desire of your heart has been granted."

"Oh, tell me quick, quick! Has uncle got another living? Is he going to leave Ramdale?"

"No, but he is perfectly willing for you to go up to London and there carve out your own life—and earn your living if you can."

"Back to London?"

Such light and colour came into Louise's pale face that it made her absolutely beautiful. Then she faltered out:

"But how can I be spared? Who will look after him and the parish? I haven't done much, I know, but I've just managed to keep things together."

"Well, it is rather strange, but I happen to know a woman who would be glad to go to your uncle as housekeeper. She used to be a cook at my old home, but she is a most superior woman, and she loves the country. I have not said anything to you, but I have been corresponding with her about the post for some time. When you were ill and I had that talk with your uncle, he said that he had often thought it was much too lonely a life for a girl of your age, but he would not dream of turning you out to earn your own living. I told him that was what you were longing to do, and he said he wished that you had talked to him about it. So then I set to work. Now when you are quite strong, you can go anywhere you like. He will be able to give you a small allowance to keep you from starving. What will you do, I wonder?"

Louise could hardly believe her ears. That very day, she wrote to her old school friend the art student in London, and before very long, she had arranged to share her small flat with her, and seek for congenial work in that neighbourhood.

Anstice listened to the eager girl's hopes and aspirations. She did not like to quench her ardour, but wrote to her cousins in London and asked them to befriend her, and take her to occasional concerts and entertainments. As to what she was going to do, Louise had very little idea.

"I am not stupid. If other girls can learn shorthand and typewriting, I can, and if I can't get office work, I shall go into some shop or business place. I don't care what I do; I wouldn't mind selling flowers, if only I can be in the middle of life again and in London."

But when the time came for her to leave the Manor, Louise was very tearful. She hugged Anstice in quite a childish way.

"You won't give me up, and forget me? You will write to me and let me write to you?"

"My dear, I don't make friends one day, and give them up the next. Of course, we will write to each other. I am in a way responsible for this London move, but I feel, when we are young, 'oughts' go down under 'wants.' It is of no use eating one's heart out thinking of all the brave things we could do and dare, the best thing is to be given the opportunity of attempting them."

"Yes, I shall be grateful to you all my life for getting me this chance. I hope I shall make good! Though I feel you don't in your heart approve of my going. You think it best for me to buy my experience! I know! But you just wait and see! The hardest thing of all is to go away from you!"

She went back to Ramdale for a week, and then departed to London, and Anstice really missed her, for she had been in and out of the Manor so much.

One day Anstice asked Mrs. Fergusson to stay to lunch when the children's lessons were over.

"This incessant rain is getting upon my nerves," she said to her laughingly. "I did not know I had any till lately. I feel as if I want a good talk with some one to take me out of myself."

So Mrs. Fergusson stayed. Anstice always enjoyed her society. She had read much and been about to many different countries, for she travelled with her Russian pupils a great deal.

Anstice told her about Louise.

"I am so afraid she may fail in London. Can you give any advice about work for a girl of her capabilities?"

"It is difficult. There is such a mad rush of these girls to London now. They are overcrowding each other. If I had a daughter, I would endeavour to keep her away from the offices in town. It is not a healthy life in many ways. I wonder if she would like a secretary's post in a large girls' school at Hampstead? I know the principal of it, and could put in a word for her. She looks a capable girl, but of course there will be about fifty or more trying to get the post, and she wants to have some knowledge of book-keeping."

"That she could soon learn. May I write and suggest it to her?"

"Certainly, and let me know if she would like such a job."

Then Mrs. Fergusson smiled.

"When one chick leaves the shelter of your wing, do you look about for another? Your own small people do not seem enough for your energy."

"Oh, they are, more than enough, but Louise was brought to me. I could not help trying to help her. She seemed so solitary and forlorn away there in the wilds. Even I, in this cheerful house, feel a little bit down with this constant and ceaseless rain. Does it rain all the winter here?"

"Oh no, we have lovely spells. Wait till the snow covers the hills, and we get a rosy sunset! And a cold, bright frosty day with low sunshine lying across the Fells, and the beautiful colouring of the lake, is too exquisite for words! I am never lonely in winter. I have my needlework and books, and sit looking out upon the lake till the moon rises, and then sit on watching that till bedtime."

"Yes, I can fancy you doing it. I am inclined to waste a lot of time gazing out of these windows—so I expect I shall enjoy the winters here."

"You will have your husband home soon?"

"Not till Christmas."

Anstice's tone was a little constrained. She changed the topic, and they plunged into a discussion over a book which had been lent to Anstice by Mrs. Fergusson. It was on "The Coming Race." Mrs. Fergusson was an optimist.

"I think things will right themselves later on. It is the age for the emancipation of the young from parents' rule, from old age principles, from everything sweetly effeminate. You can no more stem the tide of on-rushing youth and high spirits than you could dam Niagara's Falls. And force is never as strong as persuasion—or rather suggestion. We mustn't try to baulk or prevent them from leading the lives they do; we can only stand-by in case of catastrophe, and give them a helping hand when they fall."

"It does seem a strange upheaval to us who look on. The days of tyrannical parents are gone, it is not the young who have their spirits broken, it is their poor parents sitting in desolate homes, and in many cases having no descendants to carry on their name and race. But, in spite of all this, homes and parents will be loved and respected again. Reaction will set in. I heard of a young girl the other day, one of four brothers and sisters, all working and living in town. She came into an unexpected legacy. And how do you think she spent it? She wanted to benefit the others beside herself and she spent it all in establishing herself in a country house, so that the London workers should have one haven of rest and comfort to which they could come. She had the home-making instinct, you say. But what she did, others will do by and by. The restless rush will cease."

"I wish, oh I wish I could think so," said Anstice.

They talked on after lunch in Anstice's pretty morning-room over a blazing log fire, Mrs. Fergusson busily sewing at her pretty needlework, and Anstice embroidering some frocks for the little girls.

"There is one point for which you must be thankful," Mrs. Fergusson said, towards the end of their conversation; "your small stepdaughters have got a deep and adoring love for their home. They will never stay long away from it when they get older. I do not think the lure of town gaiety, and bustle, will have any attraction for them."

"Yes, they are devoted to their home. They consider the lake and Fells as all part of their personal possessions. It's strange; for their mother, I hear, never was happy here; neither is their father."

"But I hear he is very tenacious over his property; he will not let an inch of land go out of his possession. If I may say so, I think the discomforts in his home have driven him out of it. Men are generally selfish as regards their own comfort and ease."

"Perhaps so."

Then, as Mrs. Fergusson rose to go, Anstice said impulsively:

"I am going to try to wean him from his wanderings. Wish me success!"

"I feel positively certain you will have it," said Mrs. Fergusson; "and you certainly will deserve it."

BOOK II

FRIENDS