CHAPTER VI.

A WONDERFUL STORY.

That night everybody stayed up but Milly and myself. Father had given Milly a sleeping-powder early in the evening, so she knew nothing of what went on in the house. Miss Cole stayed all night. Father wouldn't let her go in to see Maud. She came into my room and stayed for a long time, as I could not sleep; I had not wanted to go to bed, but father had told me I must. Hardly a sound disturbed the deep hush. Once I heard Maud crying softly, and mother soothing her. A night-light was burning in my room; I was sitting up in bed, when Martha came in quietly. "How is she now, Martha?"

"Hush, dearie; lie still, and try and go to sleep. She's just the same. Your mother's lying down in there, now; she's looking fit to drop;" and she went out again.

Slowly the time dragged on. The clock struck twelve, and Maud's door opened and father came out. I suppose he heard me move, for he came into my room. He said there was no change yet; he was now going down to get something to give her. He brought me a powder, like the one he had given Milly, and made me take it. I did not want to, but I had to do as father said. Though I tried to keep awake, I couldn't--my eyes were so heavy, and I was so sleepy.

When I awoke, it was quite light and so hot. I opened my door and listened. What a hush was over the house! Strain my ears as much as I would, I couldn't hear the least sound. I felt as though my heart had turned right over and was coming up into my mouth. I dressed as quickly as I could for my trembling hands. Just as I had finished, Miss Cole came in. I couldn't ask her anything, but she understood, and came close to me, and putting her arm round me, said--

"Addie, we must thank God this morning for His wonderful goodness. Dear little Maud is sleeping so peacefully; we hope now that the worst is over. Your mother is resting. I am going home for a little while. I shall be back again soon after dinner. You will do what you can to help everybody; won't you, dear?"

"Yes, I will," I answered, gulping down that horrid lump in my throat.

I soon found there was plenty to do. Martha and Jane were very busy. "That there woman," as Martha called her, hadn't come. I had a few dusting jobs given to me to keep me occupied, and I went about them in a quiet and subdued manner, yet feeling so very, very thankful in my heart, though perhaps I didn't show it.

Mother came down to dinner, looking so pale and tired, but trying to smile and be cheerful. It was so delightful to have her again, if only for an hour; so I made the most of it. After dinner she wrote a few lines to Percy, and then went up to Milly for a short time before going back to Maud. I was standing outside Milly's door talking to her, when Miss Cole came in.

"How are you this afternoon, dear?" she said, bending down and kissing Milly. "I've come to stay with you."

"You ought not to have kissed me, you know. Have you put a lot of 'Sanitas' on you?" said Milly.

"I shan't get the fever, dear; I'll take care of myself. Addie, Dr. Dixon said he wanted you to come down to him, if you are not busy."

"Oh, I'm not doing anything particular; I'll go now." Father was in the surgery; he gave me a duster, telling me to dust a lot of bottles standing on one of the shelves. For some time we did not speak to each other, as father was turning out and examining drugs, and he could not talk. At last he said--

"Would you like to go up and see Eleanor, Addie?"

"Yes, father, I should very much. Do you think I may?"

"I hardly know. It's running a risk; still, if you-- Come here and let me look at you."

I went over, and father looked at my tongue and throat, felt my pulse, and then said--

"I think perhaps you may, for a few minutes. I shouldn't let you in an ordinary way, but she has asked for you so often, and she is so very weak that we don't want to cross her any more than we can possibly help."

Silence for some time, and then father began again. "Addie, mother and I were talking of you just now. When Mrs. Emson was here, she puzzled you one day by saying she had been to see your aunt. We have come to the conclusion you might as well know; so I thought I would tell you now."

"What about, father? Have I really got an aunt in Neesby?"

"Yes; now listen."

I can't remember the story just as I heard it, so I will tell it in my own way.

Many years ago, when mother was a lovely girl of nineteen, she went away from home to pay a long visit to a cousin, who lived in Scotland. There she met father, a young doctor just starting in his first practice. They became very fond of each other; and when mother, at the end of six months, left for her own home, she had promised to be father's wife.

Mother's family was a very proud one--proud and old. Her father and mother wanted her to marry a very grand gentleman who lived on the estate next to theirs, and when she told them she was engaged to a poor, obscure, young country doctor, they were horrified. They wanted her to break off her engagement and marry the other gentleman at once, but mother loved father too much for that; but she promised to wait until she was twenty-one.

After her twenty-first birthday her father never spoke to her again; she saw very little of her mother. She had one brother, Perceval. He was several years older than herself, and was her only friend during the last week she spent in her old home; her only sister, a girl of sixteen, was away at the time.

On the morning mother went down to the old church to be married, her brother was the only friend present except Uncle Dick, and those who came out of curiosity. After her wedding morning mother never saw him again; he was a soldier, and shortly after was ordered abroad, where, as she afterwards heard, he was married. Twice mother wrote to grandmother, but each time her letter was returned unopened.

One day, when mother was in London on business (it was when Percy was a baby), she met her sister, now grown to a young lady. She was cold and distant in manner; mother inquired for everybody, and heard from her of the death, in India, of her brother's wife, who had left one little girl just a year old. For some years after that, mother heard very little of them: then the news of grandmother's death, followed nine weeks after by grandfather's, reached her. Then Uncle Perceval died too, leaving his little daughter to the care of her aunt. The grand old family house and estate, of which grandfather had been so proud, passed into the hands of another branch of the family, and--now father came to the most wonderful part, at which I had been beginning to guess.

Mother's only sister, with her little niece, had spent two or three years in France after her parents' death, and then returned to England, looking about for a suitable country house. This she had but lately found, and--Miss Townley was mother's sister, and Eleanor her only brother's only daughter. It nearly took my breath away. Miss Townley, beautiful, grand, stately Miss Townley--was my aunt.

"Why!" I gasped at length, "mother's life has been like a story-book. How unkind! how cruel grandfather was to her!"

"Hush, Addie!" said father gravely. "Mother would be very grieved if she heard you say that. Now, you've got something to think of. I've to go to the hospital. Good-bye."

Father had truly said I had got something to think of. Who would ever have thought that mother, our mother, had--well, almost run away from home? I wondered if she had ever been sorry; I didn't think so, but I would ask her one day when Maud was better; and then, back came my thoughts with a rush. Eleanor was ill! I was going to see her! did she know? and then a wave of excitement swept over me, and I longed for to-morrow.

That evening, as I was preparing for bed, mother came into my room, and we had a nice long talk together about her early life. She said she had never regretted her rash _act_, but she had regretted the _rashness_. She wished that she had waited and coaxed and begged for her father's forgiveness. It was a great grief to her that she had not seen her parents again after she married.

"Did you know Miss Townley--I mean, Aunt Esther--was coming here to live?"

"No, dear, and I am sure Esther didn't know we were living here. If she had she would not have come, for she is very proud, and thinks I have committed almost a sin in marrying father."

"But why, mother dear? Father is a gentleman, and we are not very poor."

"I can hardly explain to you, darling. You will understand when you get older; but now, father says your aunt has been taking notice of you, and if you are the means of restoring happiness between us, why, Addie dear"--and mother broke off, unable to say any more; but I understood, and knew they were hoping that I should do much when I went to see Eleanor.

Milly and Maud were both going on nicely, so I slept peacefully all night without the help of a sleeping-powder. Early, about ten o'clock, the next morning father took me to see Eleanor. I was not to stay longer than a few minutes, nor to talk much. Eleanor was so altered. Her hair was cut off, and her cheeks were white and thin, and her eyes so large. She seemed so glad to see me, saying in a weak voice as soon as I went in--

"Addie, do you know we are cousins?"

"Yes," I said; "and when you are well, won't we have some jolly times!"

"I'm not going to get better at all," she whispered.

"Oh, Eleanor! No! you mustn't say that. You will, if you take your medicine and all that."

"I don't think I shall. I want Aunt Esther and Aunt Nelly to be quite friends. I wish I could see Aunt Nelly. I haven't known about her very long. I pray they may be quite friends every"--but her strength gave out, and she said no more. The nurse sent me away. Miss Townley was standing in the great, dark hall; she took me into a pretty room on the right.

"How do you think Eleanor is looking, Addie?" she asked.

"I think she looks very ill, but I hope she will soon get better," I answered, lifting my eyes to her beautiful face. If Mrs. Emson could have seen her now, she wouldn't have thought she had no feeling. There were tears in her eyes, and her lips were trembling. I felt my heart fill with love for her, and I went over to her and whispered, putting my arms round her neck--

"Dear auntie! we are praying she may get better soon."

She burst into tears, clasped me in her arms, and kissed me. Having gone so far, I thought I might go further; so with a fluttering heart I said--

"Auntie, Eleanor would like to see mother."

She rose from her seat.

"Yes, dear," she said. "I will go and ask her to come at once."

How glad, how thankful I was! Truly God had put the right words into my mouth. In a very short time we were on our way home in Aunt Esther's carriage. Mother was upstairs with Milly. I went up as quietly as I could. "Mother dear, there's somebody downstairs wanting to speak to you," I said.

"Is it anyone particular, dear? I'm rather busy just now."

"You'd better go down, mother. You needn't stay very long, you know," I said. Mother went. What they said to each other, I do not know; I don't suppose I ever shall. In about half an hour mother came out and told me she was going back to the Court then. I mustn't go into Milly's room. The nurses would take care of her and Maud.

It was tea-time when mother returned. She stayed with Maud most of the evening, and about nine o'clock went back to the Court again. Eleanor was very ill; there was very little hope of her recovery. Father, mother, and Aunt Esther did not leave her all night. About half-past eleven she looked up and tried to say something. Aunt Esther bent down and listened to her weak voice.

"You will always love Aunt Nelly now, won't you? Tell Addie to--love Jesus. If I hadn't, I should have been--afraid to die, but--I'm not. I know--" but what she knew she did not say. She did not speak again, but lay so quietly that they hardly knew the exact time she went to heaven.

Mother came to me before I was up, telling me the sad news. Somehow, in spite of all they had said, I had not thought she would really die. Again that dreadful feeling came over me, and I felt myself falling and the room spinning round like a top. When I recovered my senses, father and mother both said bed was the best place for me, and there I must stay all day.

I was alone the greater part of the time, mother spending a good deal of time at the Court. Everybody else was busy: Maud was ever so much better, but she wanted a good deal of amusing. I did not want much company, having plenty to think about.

Mother had told me that dear Eleanor's last words were a message to me. "Tell Addie to love Jesus." Why, I did love Him; I always had. What did she mean? Everybody loved Jesus--of course they did. I felt so uncomfortable, for, try to reason as I would, I knew I did not love Him as Eleanor meant.

She loved Him so much, and had trusted Him so entirely, that when she knew she was dying she had not been in the least afraid. I knew if I had been ill, and had known I was dying, I should not have felt as she had. I had never even thought of death. I knew I must die, some time or other, but it would be when I was an old woman; but now Eleanor had been taken, and it might have been me.

My mind was far from easy then; but how do you suppose I felt when mother came home in the evening and told me a few things she had heard of Eleanor's short life. She had been a Christian, mother said--a Christian in the truest and best sense of the word; she had served Christ very faithfully in her own way. Many a poor creature in Neesby had been up to the Court since the morning, and, with tears, had told of little deeds of kindness she had done, or kind words she had spoken.

Bessie, the maid who used to wait on her, said she had often gone into Miss Eleanor's room and found her crying over some coldness, or unkind words, of Aunt Esther's (for though Aunt Esther loved her dearly she seldom showed her love); and had heard her praying that she might be good and patient, and that her aunt might get to love her soon. Mother said when Aunt Esther heard Bessie telling that, she seemed nearly heart-broken.

The feeling among the poor people when they heard the sad news was one of great grief. Everyone with whom Eleanor had had anything to do had loved her, and, now that she was dead, mourned her loss.

When mother again left me to myself, I went over my past life, as well as I could remember it. I hadn't been very wicked; I hadn't been cross or disagreeable very much; I had been pretty good, I thought; but I knew if I had died, there would have been nobody who would have grieved very much, except just father and mother and the rest of them. I remembered once hearing Mr. Stapley, our clergyman, say that our lives had been given us to do some good in. What had I done? Nothing at all that would be worth telling the great Master. So far my life had been wasted.

Then, some mixed and confused ideas crossed my brain, about the Parable of the Talents; and of the wicked husbandmen; and of something Mr. Stapley said about the stones the husbandmen threw at the young heir when he came to his vineyard. He said that one stone which we threw at Jesus Christ in these days was neglect; and though we might think them very small and, perhaps, harmless, yet we should find that they would build such a big wall between us and heaven, that we should never be able to climb it or get through it.

This, it seemed to me, was my worst sin, and, getting out of bed, I made a solemn resolve, there and then, to do differently in future; and I have honestly tried ever since to do, at least, something for Jesus. He has always been with me, and has helped me in times of temptation; and I know now, that whenever the gentle white-robed angels come for me I shall be quite ready to go.

The next few days I spent with Aunt Esther; in the dreary days which came before Eleanor was buried, auntie told me how much she would have given to have her back again, if only for a short time, to tell her how much she had loved her. Then, too, she spoke of her pride and bad feeling towards mother, saying how different she would be if only she could live her life over again; as that was impossible, she would do all she could to make up for it in the future.

The day before the funeral I went with mother to take my last look at dear Eleanor. She was lying with such a peaceful, smiling look on her lovely face, that we felt we ought not to grieve, when we remembered she had gone to heaven to her father and mother, where she would never be unhappy again, or suffer any pain, or, as mother said, grow up to know the deceitfulness of this world's riches; but for our own sakes we couldn't help sorrowing for her, and wishing her back.

* * * * * * * * *

Aunt Esther had taken a great fancy to me, and I stayed on at the Court with her. It was a sad time: every place and thing reminded us of Eleanor; so I was not at all surprised when auntie said she must go away for a few weeks, but I was surprised when she wanted to take me with her. I thought it might be better for Milly to go, after her illness: but no; mother said she was taking Milly and Maud (who were themselves again in all but strength) to the seaside, and I must go with Aunt Esther.

We went to France. While there, Aunt Esther told me a little of the story of her life. When she was young she had been engaged to be married to someone, but just before their wedding-day he went away and married another girl. Poor auntie! After all, was it any wonder that she was so cold and proud? Nobody knew that her heart had been broken so many years before, and that she hid her pain under a haughty manner. Since the evening I heard this, auntie has never been Aunt Esther to me: she is always auntie.

When we came back from France we stayed in London for a week, to buy a few Christmas presents. The day after we arrived, auntie had a letter from a lawyer, saying Sir Guy Neesby was about to be married, and was going to bring his bride home to the Court; so would Miss Townley please take a quarter's notice and go away. Auntie said she would not wait for the quarter to come to an end, but paid her rent, gave up her tenancy, and came and spent Christmas with us. We were so glad, and happy too, though of course we did not forget dear Eleanor. Her grave is always covered with white flowers: auntie sends a lot from London, and we always keep them fresh and lovely.

Auntie's home is in London now. I spend a great deal of my time with her. Milly and Maud pay her long visits sometimes, but, as she says, I am her girl. Percy will be going to college next month; I think, most likely, he will be a lawyer. Milly is growing prettier every day; people say she will make a beautiful woman. Maud is everybody's pet. Miss Cole has been married for three years; she lives in America.

Martha is as quaint and kind as ever. Masters still drives the "kerridge," and "aks like a donkey," as Martha says, towards her. We, however, have a different opinion, and think that some day not very far distant, in spite of the donkey-like actions, Martha will become Mrs. Masters.

Father and mother are--well, just father and mother now. They are not to be compared to anyone else. Jim seems to be inclined to be braver now than when he was a boy, or, if he isn't, he ought to be, for he is now going into training for a soldier. Jerry is with her father and mother, who prefer India to England, and have a beautiful home there. Jerry, or Geraldine as she is being called now, visited us last year. She is greatly improved, and mother thinks will make a good woman, if she is not spoilt; but she is pretty, and will have plenty of money, and her mother isn't very wise in all things. Mother would like to have kept her for a year or more, but Mrs. Emson couldn't spare her.

The present Lady Neesby is very nice; we like her so much. She has plenty of money, and is doing such a lot of good with it. She and Sir Guy are very much beloved by all around. They are exceedingly kind to the poor.

We still live at Neesby, in the same old house. In a quiet spot in the garden there is a little grave, with a square piece of wood at the top, on which is painted (by Percy in what he calls "glowing colours," that is, crimson and blue) the following words:--

In Loving Memory of T U T S,

A good and faithful dog, who died from exhaustion and wounds received in a fight with the butcher's dog, who had run away with Maud's doll.

ETHEL.

[Illustration: Chapter VI tailpiece]

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