Isa did not fail to keep her promise. Finding that Mrs. Holdich was about to visit Wildwaste on the following morning, Isa availed herself of her escort; for the people of the hamlet were so rough, that the young lady disliked crossing the common alone. Rebekah Holdich carried with her a remedy for rheumatism, which she hoped might relieve the sufferings of Bolder. The steward’s wife was the general doctress of the neighbourhood; to her, as to their natural friend, came all who had sorrow or sickness in their homes, just as any labourer in difficulty or distress was sure to seek the advice and help of her husband.
Isa Gritton entered into conversation with Rebekah, who was a woman of education and refinement beyond what might be expected from one in her station of life.
“I find,” observed Isa, “that you were the first friend of my little maid Lottie, that it was you who taught her to read, and first led her to think of her soul, or rather to know that she had such a thing as a soul.”
“I was very sorry for the poor little child; she had a most wretched home,” replied Mrs. Holdich.
“Is it true that her father was of such a very violent temper?”
“So violent when he had been drinking,” said Rebekah, “that I have seen the poor child disfigured for weeks from blows received from her father; and as for her unhappy mother, there is not a doubt that she would have been actually killed by Abner Stone in one of his drunken fits, had not Mr. Madden nobly saved her life at the peril of his own. The ruffian was going to dash out her brains with a poker.”
“And Mr. Lionel came forward——”
“Oh, not Mr. Lionel,” said Mrs. Holdich with a smile; “I am not aware that he ever entered a cottage; it was his younger brother, who is now labouring for God in the Holy Land, he who built the pretty school-house at Wildwaste, who saved poor Deborah’s life. The beautiful carvings from Bethlehem which you saw in our cottage were sent to me by him.”
“What has become of Lottie’s father?” asked Isa, after having walked on for some minutes in silence.
“No one knows,” replied Rebekah. “Abner Stone suddenly disappeared from this part of the country, after a gentleman had been found lying on the road, having been knocked off his horse by a highwayman. It is more than suspected that Stone did the deed, but fled on hearing some one come up to the spot.”
“It is strange,” observed Isa, “that Lottie could speak with tenderness of such a parent; her eyes filled with tears when she expressed her hopes that God would one day bring him back.”
“Her mother will never hear a word spoken against him,” said Rebekah. “Poor Deborah Stone is a true, faithful wife, and I believe prays night and day for the return of a husband whom she has loved through such trials as few but herself could have borne. I cannot help thinking,” pursued the steward’s gentle wife, “that there must have been some good even in Abner when he was sober; it is the fatal habit of drinking which makes a savage even of a kind-hearted man.”
“Lottie was looking sad yesterday evening at the lecture,” observed Isa.
“Maybe the poor child frets after her mother and brother,—they were never separated before; they have clung together through sorrow and hardship, and Lottie may feel lonely at first away from her home, though it is but a poor one.”
“It is not easy to arrange for the family to meet,” said Isa. “Mrs. Stone has to earn her own living, and Axe is at least six miles from Wildwaste.”
“I hope that you will not mind my mentioning it, Miss Gritton,” said Rebekah, in a deferential tone, “but our little open cart is going on Saturday to Axe to bring our Ned to pass the Sunday with us,”—Mrs. Holdich’s eye brightened as she spoke of the expected visit from her son—“and if Lottie could be spared, I am sure that she would be most welcome to a place in it, to go and see her poor mother.”
“A good and kind thought,” replied Isa. “She might stay over Sunday at Axe, and return in the baker’s cart on the following morning.”
“If you could kindly spare her,” repeated Mrs. Holdich, almost as much pleased at the prospect of the lonely Deborah having the comfort of a visit from her child, as in the expectation of welcoming her own.
“Leave of absence will be easily given,” observed Isa, “especially as I am not living at Wildwaste at present; so the services of our little maid are less required, as she was engaged upon my account.”
Mrs. Holdich turned towards the shop of Bolder, after accompanying Miss Gritton to the door of the new brick tenement, which appeared to Isa yet more bare and destitute either of beauty or comfort every time that she returned from the wood-girdled Castle of Lestrange.
Lottie was waiting at the open door to receive her mistress, having been eagerly on the watch for her return.
“Would you like to go home to your mother, Lottie?” said Isa.
Instead of the sparkle of delight which Isa expected to call up in the black eyes of her little maid, an anxious look of inquiry filled them.
“O Miss Isa! I know I bees awkward, I did break another saucer last night—but—but won’t you give me a little longer trial?”
Isa was amused at the confession, made with evident effort, for the blood rushed to the face of the simple girl as she spoke. “I had no thought of sending you away, Lottie,” said the young mistress, kindly; “but if you would like to pass a couple of days with your mother, Mrs. Holdich will give you a seat in her cart which is going on Saturday to Axe.”
It was pleasant to Isa to see the sudden transition to joy on the countenance of her little servant; Lottie clapped her hands like a child to whom a holiday is promised. With a heart warmed by the sight of the innocent happiness which she had given, Isa Gritton opened the door of her brother’s study, and entered the dull apartment with a light step and radiant smile, like one whose presence could make “sunshine in a shady place.” Gaspar was seated by a fireless grate; though shivering with chilliness, he would not indulge in a fire in April. He certainly looked even more sickly than usual, and Isa felt her cheerfulness damped at once as, without rising, her brother held out two cold fingers to her, with the dry observation, “So you can actually leave the delights of the Castle for an hour, to see if your brother be dead or alive!”
“Nay, dear Gaspar,” said Isa, expostulatingly, as she seated herself by his side, “if I thought that you needed my society—that I could be a real comfort to you—” she stopped short, being too candid to make empty professions, and not having made up her mind how far she could truthfully go.
“I don’t care for words, I like deeds,” observed Gaspar, coldly; “women always can talk.”
The fresh, bright colour which Isa had brought in from her walk over the common, deepened a little on her cheek, but she had resolved to be patient and cheerful, and let her visit give nothing but pleasure. Though it might be scarcely necessary to tell Gaspar that she had given a holiday to her young maid, it occurred to Isa that it might be well to show him the deference of asking his consent.
“Lottie would be very glad to see her mother,” observed Isa after a short silence; “she is a poor, shy little bird, that has never before left the nest; Mrs. Holdich has arranged to make all easy for her going on Saturday to Axe, if you’ll kindly give her leave for two days.”
“I shall do no such thing,” replied Gaspar, peevishly; “I don’t give a girl wages for going to see her mother.”
Isa was a little annoyed, but without betraying that she felt so, observed, “I am sure that Hannah would manage nicely without her for so short a time. You know, Gaspar, that you yourself thought a second servant unnecessary here.”
“I do so still,” said Mr. Gritton, taking a pinch of snuff; “but as long as I keep two, I’ll have the services for which I pay.”
“But, Gaspar, I hope that this time—as a personal favour to myself—you will graciously grant leave of absence. I have given Lottie hopes, or rather permission to go to her mother; it would vex me were she to be disappointed.”
Lottie herself had just opened the door, having come to ask Miss Isa if she would not take some refreshment after her walk. She caught Isa’s last sentence, and stood with her hand on the door-handle, quite innocent of any intention of eavesdropping, but too anxious to hear her master’s answer to think of anything else.
“Oh, you’ve given permission, have you! then I don’t see why you should take the trouble of asking mine,” said Gaspar, ungraciously. “Let her go, it is nothing to me; I don’t care if she stay away altogether, an awkward, clumsy gipsy-girl, not worth the salt that she eats.”
Lottie retreated, closing the door behind her, and ran hastily up-stairs to indulge in a good hearty cry. Isa saw the poor girl retiring, and was annoyed at the mortification so needlessly inflicted on a warm young heart.
LOTTIE’S GRIEF.
Gaspar having, though so uncourteously, yielded the point in question, his sister changed the subject of conversation. She drew from her bag a copy of the Times.
“I did not forget your wishes, Gaspar; but my uncle would be glad to have the paper back, as he has the Times bound at the end of the year.”
Gaspar took the periodical without thanks, and prepared himself for the enjoyment of its perusal by a copious pinch of snuff, scattering the brown powder as he did so over the printed sheet. Isa knew that the baronet was very particular about his papers, and mentally resolved never again to ask for a loan of the Times.
Gaspar pushed his chair round towards the light, and settled himself to read, taking no further notice of Isa, who sat undecided whether to remain or to leave him to the occupation which he evidently found more interesting than her society. Isa had stored her memory with little anecdotes and small scraps of news which she thought might amuse the recluse, but Gaspar showed no wish to enter into conversation. His sister thought with regret of the time when they used to meet in London under the roof of a friend, when her brother had appeared to her to be all courtesy and kindness.
“Does he love me less because he knows me better?” was the disheartening thought which crossed her mind.
Mr. Gritton read for some minutes in silence, and Isa was thinking of rising to depart, when, looking over his newspaper, her brother suddenly addressed her.
“Isa, have you ever met that woman?”
“I do not know of whom you are speaking,” answered Isa.
“Cora Madden, of course,” said Gaspar. “I repeat—have you ever met her?”
“Yes; several times, years ago,” replied his sister.
“And did you ever speak to her; did you come upon the subject of—of—what we were speaking about the other morning?”
“Certainly not,” answered Isa; “I have never seen her since my loss; of our dear father’s last words I have spoken to no one but yourself; I was not even aware of the name of the orphan to whom he referred.”
Gaspar fixed on his sister a gaze so keen and suspicious that it aroused in her bosom an emotion of indignation. “Were you intimate with her, or with any of the Maddens?” he inquired, in the tone of a lawyer cross-questioning a witness. Isa shrank as if his rough hand had touched a scarcely healed wound.
“I was never intimate with Cora,” she replied; “it seemed to me that she disliked me, but I never knew till now that she had any cause to do so.”
“She had no cause—none—none,” said Gaspar, almost stuttering in the eagerness of his denial. “I told you and I tell you again, that you utterly mistook the meaning of that message from my father. I could not help the ship going down—I had always dealt fairly by Miss Madden.”
There are occasions when something in the manner of a speaker serves not only to neutralize the force of his words, but actually to impress on the hearer a strong contradiction of the meaning intended. Such was the case with Gaspar’s. Isa had had a suspicion that her brother had wronged Cora in some pecuniary matter, but his manner of denying it changed suspicion into conviction, and it kindled her indignation to believe that he was now adding falsehood to fraud. The very air of the room grew oppressive to Isa, the presence of Gaspar was painful, and when Mr. Gritton, after his stammered-forth declaration, became again absorbed in the Times, making the rustling paper a screen between himself and his sister, Isa rose, unwilling to prolong so unpleasant a visit. The parting between brother and sister was cold and constrained; Gaspar saw that he had not satisfied Isa, and mingled resentment, fear, and shame, struggled together in his breast. Isa gave a long-drawn sigh of relief when she found herself again in the open air, and could turn her back upon Wildwaste Lodge.
“I am certain that wrong has been done,” thought Isa, as she slowly bent her steps towards Bolder’s dwelling, “but it is not for me to repair it. Cora has been sent poverty, doubtless, as a well-merited chastisement; let me banish the subject from my mind. But why is it that my interest in the orphan’s cause has so much cooled since I have learned that orphan’s name? Why is it that even with my distress and shame on account of my unhappy brother there is mingled—dare I own it—something that resembles a feeling of gratified revenge! Here, indeed, is a Midianite in the soul! Cora is the only being upon earth whom I regard with actual aversion, but I knew not till now how such aversion could warp my sense of justice—of right! Oh! what revelations God makes to us of the evil lurking within our own hearts, which the world had not suspected, which we had never suspected ourselves!”
To Isa’s self-reproach was added another emotion as painful,—the fear that duty might call for some effort on her part to set right what was wrong, to work on the conscience of her brother, to try to induce him to retrace his steps if he had wandered from the path of rectitude. Isa trembled at the very thought of what might lie before her; never previously had duty worn to her an aspect so repulsive. Isa knew that she ought to endeavour, by self-denying kindness, to strengthen her influence over Gaspar; that it should be one of the chief objects of her life to win his confidence and his love; instead of doing this, she could not help perceiving with mortification that, since coming to Wildwaste, she had been steadily losing ground in the affections of her brother. He thought her selfish, worldly, indifferent to his comfort. Could it be that she was indeed so? Were her most pure and innocent earthly enjoyments becoming a snare to her soul?
Such distressing reflections kept Isa very silent as she retraced her steps towards Castle Lestrange by the side of Rebekah Holdich. The steward’s wife had too much delicacy to intrude conversation where she saw that it would not be welcome; she perceived that the short visit to the Lodge had had the effect of damping the spirits of Miss Gritton. Rebekah’s own heart, on the contrary, was filled with gladness, on account of the change which she had found in one who had once appeared to her hard and unimpressionable as granite. Tychicus had ever seemed to Rebekah an opinionative, self-righteous man, and though she had pitied his sufferings, and had done what she could to relieve them, her compassion for the invalid had not been strengthened by personal regard. But on this day Rebekah had found Tychicus softened, humbled, subdued. She had heard him for the first time own that it had been good for him to be afflicted, for he had learned more of himself and of his Saviour in trouble than he had ever known in prosperous days. The furnace was doing its work; and while Mrs. Bolder plaintively lamented that her husband must be “down in heart, to do himself such injustice,” her friend was secretly rejoicing that the Pharisee as well as the publican may be led to cry, “God be merciful to me a sinner!”
“I remember,” thought Rebekah, “what Mr. Eardley once said to my boy when he stood watching a caterpillar spinning a very beautiful cocoon. ‘God sets that little creature a task to do, and diligently and skilfully he does it; and so God gives us good works to perform in His name and for His sake. But were the insect to remain satisfied for ever in the silken ball which he is weaving, it would become not his home but his tomb. No; forcing a way through it, and not resting in it, will the winged creature reach sunshine and air. He must leave his own works behind, if he would shine in freedom and joy. And so it is with the Christian. If he rest in his own works, whatever they may be, he is dead to God and lost to glory; he is making of what he may deem virtues a barrier between himself and his Saviour.’ Yes,” mused Rebekah; “God be praised that poor Bolder is making his way through the silken web; he is feeling the need of other righteousness than his own.”
As soon as Isa arrived at the Castle, she tried to put away all remembrance of her painful visit to Wildwaste, but it haunted her during the greater part of the day. In the evening, however, when a circle of friends gathered around Sir Digby’s hospitable board, her efforts were more successful. Isa was naturally formed both to attract in society and to enjoy it; she delighted in “the feast of reason and the flow of soul;” her spirits had the elasticity of youth, and as she sat at the head of her uncle’s table, with everything that could please and gratify around her, Isa felt that life might still become to her a bright and joyous thing. Her soul was as a well-tuned harp, giving out cheerful and harmonious music, till a few sentences overheard of the conversation between two of the guests jarred on her as if a discordant string had been suddenly touched, and brought the shadow of past trial over the brightness of present enjoyment.
“You know Lionel Madden, then?”
“A little; his wife I have known for the last thirty years. I hear that their union is by no means a happy one; but what else could be expected when she married only for the sake of a handsome face, and he for that of a handsome fortune?”
“They say that Miss Madden made the match.”
“She certainly did,” was the reply. “Cora had lost almost all her own money in some unlucky investment, so was resolved that her brother at least should keep a carriage. But in the case of the Maddens the driving fell to the share of the ladies, and the bride found that, as two suns cannot shine in one orbit, so two sisters-in-law cannot yield one whip, and poor Cora was, metaphorically speaking, very speedily left on the road.”
Isa felt her cheeks glow at this incidental mention of those whose fates had been so closely linked with her own, and, perhaps to cover her emotion, said in a very low voice to Mr. Eardley, who was seated beside her, “Do you not count the light gossip which sports with the characters and concerns of the absent, amongst ‘the Midianites in the soul’?”
“I should count as such everything that mars the charity or spirituality of Christians,” replied the clergyman. “Such things are, indeed, like Midian, a great host; not one giant foe to be overcome once and for ever, but a legion that incessantly harass, whether in the circles of society, or in the sacred central point of home.”
The last word recalled to Isa’s mind the image of an invalid brother, left in dull loneliness; and a slight scarcely audible sigh, told of a secret emotion of self-reproach and misgiving.
