CHAPTER XIII

NOT CAST DOWN

"HERE, sir, please." Into the study Colin was welcomed—by the Rector with a smiling face, by Mrs. Landor with outstretched hand and look of welcome. In all the years he had known that sweet serene woman, he had never seen her so bright. Calm she had usually been, but seldom bright. Was this forced, unnatural, the result of over-strain?

"Come in, pray come in, Mr. Mackenzie. Come in and sit down. If you don't mind an economical cup of tea. My husband and I are practising at once for the future. No use to put off, is it? You see, we cannot possibly afford any longer the most expensive Souchong, so I picked up a pound of one-and-sixpenny tea as I came along; and we have made it with half the usual quantity. It 'really' isn't bad. Like Dickens' Marchioness, one only has to exercise one's imagination a little. And, after all, the most important ingredient is real boiling water."

Colin received his cup from those slender hands, and had some difficulty in swallowing the first mouthful.

"Some cake, or bread and butter? I did not tell your wife about our affairs because I thought it would take too long, as she had a good deal to say first. So you must explain it all to her, and say that it is nothing for her to fret about. Is it, dear?" lovingly to her husband. "The less one has to carry in life, the more lightly one ought to be able to go!"

Colin might appropriately have delivered his message here, but he was in no state of mind to remember it.

"Most people think the burden of anxiety a great deal heavier than the burden of wealth," he could not help saying.

"If one must be anxious," she said, smiling a little.

"For my part, I am sure of one thing," observed Mr. Landor placidly, "and that is that it is worth a great deal to know what sort of a wife one has. I thought I did know before—pretty well—but it seems I didn't!"

"Why, the whole matter is so simple." Mrs. Landor was too much interested in her view of the question to notice at the moment what he said. "So very simple and plain. All these years God has chosen to give us money in plenty, to use for Him; and I do think we have tried to use it rightly. And now He has chosen to take it away. Hasn't He a perfect right to do as He will? It is His, not ours. I do think it would be so utterly ungrateful of us to grumble."

"I am afraid if I had lost everything—"

"Ah, everything!" she echoed with a quick breath. "But it is not that. Not everything! My husband is left to me still. And our health. It is not like Job."

"If health broke down, or if the call came to me to go, you would say the same still, my dear," interposed the Rector. "I know you would, because it would still be His will."

Mrs. Landor smiled again, though tears were in her eyes.

"Few would feel as you do, in your position," said Colin.

"Perhaps because they have been accustomed to look upon the money as strictly their own. I do not think we have ever done that." She spoke in a thoughtful tone, as if considering the question.

"It is harder for her than for me," the old Rector said softly, looking towards Colin. "I was poor for years before I married, and she does not know what it is to be poor."

"So every one tells me. But is not the unknown sometimes more alarming than what one does know? Well, we are to have a new experience together—you and I! It will be a new kind of life entirely. We shall have to make every single penny go as far as it possibly can, instead of never troubling one's head about the matter. I am bent on proving that, at least, luxury has not spoiled me, Mr. Mackenzie. Don't think I am putting on a cheerfulness which I do not really feel. Perhaps, as my husband says, I don't know what it all means as yet. But what I 'cannot' understand is the sense of doubt and terror in looking forward, which I seem to be expected to feel. Of course there is uncertainty. We have not the least idea how we are to manage. Expenses must be cut down to the utmost; and even then it is a mystery in what way we can get along. Only—we shall get along! We simply have to wait till the 'how' becomes clear."

"I suppose something always turns up somehow," remarked Colin, in a reflection of his wife's favourite tone.

"Is that enough for you? It would not be for me. 'Something turning up somehow' sounds dreary. With me it is the direct and positive care of a Father for His child; not a mere turning up of something, one hardly knows how. Of course, one is left in the dark now and then—if only to give one the opportunity of trusting Him!—and of course we have to do the very utmost that we can do towards helping ourselves. But when we can do no more, and still it is not sufficient, then comes the waiting, because it is just there that God steps in."

"If everybody felt as sure."

"Does 'everybody' know God well enough?" she asked with a curious keen smile. "Even on earth one must know a person before one can repose trust in him; and for the absolute repose of perfect trust, very full knowledge of his character is needful. Not quite everybody knows God so well as that!"

"No, indeed!" Colin spoke in a conscience-stricken voice.

"And yet—one may. It is His wish for us all. And when one does know Him, even a little, all is altered by it. Without any boasting, but just as a matter of common reasonableness, I am absolutely sure that He will take care of us. Absolutely sure! That He should fail us in our need is, I know, a thing impossible. Then what nonsense it would be to fret and worry. Why should we feel anxious, any more than your Flo does? She knows you will provide for her, to the extent of your power—knows it with a perfectly undoubting trust in your love. Your powers are limited, and you might fail in providing for her, not through lack of love, but through poverty of means.

"My Father's powers are without limit; and His love is boundless. Would it not be the height of absurdity for us to keep worrying about the future, when we 'know' that He will supply all our needs? All our real needs. We may have to do without a good many things that we are used to, but what then? It may be something of a trial. Just a little of life's discipline, and no more! Don't you see?"—with a smile which had become positively radiant.

It had a quiet reflection in her husband's face.

Colin listened, like one dumbfoundered. Another manner of trust, this, from any exercised by himself!

* * * * *

Was Euphrasia "not at all an interesting invalid?" Howard Johnston, recalling his mother's words, began to doubt their truth—not so much with respect to himself, as with respect to his cousin, the doctor. Howard still held that Euphrasia was a "sensible" girl, and he liked her for being sensible. That was all. He felt nothing more than a general approval, a general wish to be polite and kind to an unfortunate guest. But apparently that was by no means all, so far as Robert Wells was concerned.

So much the better, thought Howard. Everybody had long said that Mr. Wells ought to marry; and he had shown himself reprehensibly slow in following this wise advice. His position as a medical man was good, and it promised to be better, and his patients liked him: but year after year he remained wifeless. Possibly he had once wanted a wife whom he could not get, and the failure might have left him indisposed to try again.

He could quite well afford to marry. If he chose to fall in love with the penniless daughter of the Manager of a country Branch Bank, there was no reason whatever why he should not ask her to be his wife. He was not entirely dependent upon his profession, and he had no near relatives dependent upon him. This was Howard's view of the matter. And he watched the doctor's growing absorption in Euphrasia Mackenzie with amused interest, saying nothing to anybody. Had he suggested such a notion to his mother, she would doubtless have exerted all her faculties to put a spoke in the wheel.

The dullest period of Euphrasia's imprisonment was now over. Long hours of enforced thought had been good for her, as many things are good for us, not at the time enjoyable; and all her life she would be the better in character for that trying experience. Now, however, she was kept well supplied with books, and she was able to enjoy them. The knee had steadily improved, although she was still forbidden to walk more than a few steps, and the doctor had thus far declined to hear any mention of a journey. Euphrasia saw signs of growing impatience in her "friend," and even Mrs. Johnston's politeness failed to conceal entirely a measure of the same.

One budget of letters had arrived from home, nearly a week old when despatched, as notified by an outside inscription; and further letters failed again to come. But at least she knew that nothing was seriously wrong with her father.

The services of a certain fine gentleman belowstairs were not required for the wheeling of Euphrasia's couch from room to room, since the doctor himself always undertook that office during his morning visit. And in the afternoon, earlier or later, Howard was unusually to the fore.

Euphrasia was not permitted to protest. It was "only a pleasure" with them both.

Were these daily visits from the doctor an absolute necessity? Euphrasia had her doubts on that score. He looked at the knee every day, and asked questions, but little could be done beyond ordering continued rest. He almost invariably stayed for a chat, sometimes as long as twenty minutes or half-an-hour; and Euphrasia would have felt very dull without these cheery visits. She had learnt quite to look forward to them through the twenty-four hours. If only they would not all have to be paid for! There was the rub. Euphrasia's heart sometimes went down to a low level, at the thought of the future "bill" in connection with the state of home finances.

Was it truly needful that he should examine the knee so often? If not, kind though his attentions might be, Euphrasia could not feel that she would be right to let things continue thus. She debated much with herself, and several times resolved to put out a most delicate feeler of one kind or another, to discover whether, perhaps, twice a week might not be sufficient. But Euphrasia was not gifted in the art of putting out delicate feelers, and when it came to the point, she always failed to say anything at all. He was so pleasant, and it would be so "horrid" to hurt his feelings.

So she decided finally that the utmost she could do was to hasten her departure. Now that her month was almost ended, matters might be pressed to a point. It had been a long month, very long—except the last few days. She would be glad to get away—yes, certainly, very glad indeed to feel herself no longer an unwelcome burden on her friend's hospitality. Yes, certainly, very glad, repeated Euphrasia with emphasis, just because she was aware of an opposite sensation below.

One strong regret was asserting itself, and would not be put down; one real pain, in the thought of parting from Mr. Wells. He had not been only the doctor to her: he had been a friend in a season of trouble. Looking back upon the past month, she saw his figure more prominently than any other. The prominence of any figure in one's surroundings depends, after all, mainly upon one's own interest in that figure.

Would she ever see him again? Would she never see him again? The question was unwelcome, and it haunted her. Never again, through all her life! A second visit to the Johnston lay beyond all bounds of probability. She had no other friends in Clifton. West Norton was an unlikely place for anybody to visit; and in their little home, they seldom entertained friends from a distance. Why should he and she ever meet again? He had done his duty as doctor, perhaps a good deal more than his bare duty because he was kind-hearted, and because she had been lonely and uncomfortable. And she was merely his patient, a "case" to be dismissed when done with, and thought about no more.

Still, she had to leave, and her duty was to go so soon as she might. The odd part of the matter was that, after all her earlier impatience, now the time for departure was near, she did not want to go. She had told herself that she would be glad, but in her heart she knew she would not be glad. Notwithstanding all the unpleasantness of giving trouble to comparative strangers, notwithstanding Letitia's coldness, and Mrs. Johnston's hardly-veiled impatience, she would have given much to feel herself compelled to stay another month. Euphrasia's very consciousness of this reluctance made her the more determined to bring about a decision.

"I think I ought to write home now, and tell them about my knee," she said abruptly, after much previous consideration. "And fix the day for going."

To which, Mr. Wells responded by a deliberate—"Ah!"

"This is Thursday. Could not I say Saturday?"

"You are in a great hurry to run away from us all."

"Oh, I should not like to stay a day longer than I must!" The words came back to herself with an ungracious sound in them; and she saw the doctor biting his moustache. "Please don't think I am not grateful; I really am. I have been such a bother all this time, and you have been so kind to me. But it wouldn't be right to put off any longer. I ought to get home as soon as possible. And—" hurriedly, under a sudden impulse to use her opportunity, knowing that Mrs. Johnston would be back immediately—"and, if you don't mind, I think before I go, I ought just to know how much—I mean, if you could tell me, so that I can tell my father—and then he would send to you as soon as—if you don't mind—"

Euphrasia fell into a hopeless bungle, blushing more and more, while Mr. Wells looked so intensely grave that she feared she must have said exactly the wrong thing in her inexperience. "I think you know what I mean," she faltered, but he made no sign of comprehension. "You have been so often, and—and—of course—of course there must be—owing—" the last word being hardly audible.

"Much too often, under the circumstances, if things were as you suppose."

"But you know—but you must—but I could not—it would not be right,—"

"Nothing else could be right, or possible. My cousins ought to have explained. Mrs. Johnston undertook to do so. I am one of the family; and you must please to regard my visits in that light. Nothing else is possible."

"I didn't know,—I mean, I couldn't, of course—" Euphrasia came to another bungle, actually trembling. That he was pained at something she could see; she did not exactly divine what. Why should he care at all? "Please forgive me for asking you, but indeed I do not think it is right."

"It is a matter of course. I am only sorry that you could suppose anything else to be possible," said Mr. Wells coldly.

Mrs. Johnston's step could be heard returning. She always came up with the doctor, and very often used the opportunity of being "up" to attend to certain household matters in a neighbouring room, since nothing would induce her nephew to be as quick about the knee as she desired. But here she came, and no more could be said.

Robert Wells bade an abrupt good-bye this day, not remaining for his usual chat.

Euphrasia felt bewildered. Had she seriously offended him?

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