After the close of the service, Isa, as before, spoke to her little black-eyed maid, and inquired after the health of Gaspar.
“Master has caught cold in his eyes, and he says it’s east wind, and shuts himself up. He can’t read, nor write, and he seems very dull-like,” said Lottie, whose own sunburnt face was bright with the anticipated holiday before her.
Isa sent a message to Mr. Gritton, and after exchanging a few words with Henry Eardley, left the cottage with Edith Lestrange. The little heiress thought her cousin unusually silent as they walked back to the Castle.
“Edith, dear,” said Isa at last, “I am going to return to Wildwaste to-morrow.”
“Not to stay there, I hope,” cried Edith.
“Yes, to stay there,” replied Isa, suppressing a sigh. “I feel that poor Gaspar needs me; I think that my right place is home.”
“Perhaps it is,” said Edith, reluctantly. Unwilling as she was to part with her cousin, Edith’s own views were clear on the subject; the nearest relation had the nearest claim—nothing would have induced her to leave her own father when he needed the comfort of her presence. Edith thought it wrong to try to prevent Isa from doing what she would have thought it right to do in her place.
The baronet was not, however, so forbearing. When his niece announced to him her intention of leaving the Castle on the following day, he playfully but strongly opposed her resolution. Sir Digby justly considered that Isa’s companionship was both a pleasure and an advantage to his child, while her lively conversation and intelligence made it also agreeable to himself. Sir Digby felt that his graceful niece was an ornament to his Castle, and would fain have ignored altogether her connection with “a low man retired from business, who had disfigured the neighbourhood by sticking up on the heath a cockney villa, which only wanted a swinging sign to be mistaken for a newly built public-house.”
“Having you safe here in ward in this our Castle, we shall certainly not let our prisoner go, save on parole to return within two hours,” said the baronet; “Edith, I commit the charge of our captive to you.”
“But what if I am a warder not to be trusted?” asked Edith, with a smile; “what if I connive at the captive’s escape?”
“Seriously, Isa,” said Sir Digby, “you cannot think of going back so soon to that—that damp and not very cheerful locality;” the baronet did not know how to designate the dwelling itself by any term combining courtesy with truth.
“Indeed, I must return to my brother,” said Isa.
“You will stay over Sunday, at least. I have an idea—I believe that you like attending the service at Axe.”
How greatly Isa enjoyed the Sundays spent with the Lestranges the baronet knew not. The devotional spirit which breathed through the church service was refreshing and reviving to her soul. To Mr. Eardley Isa looked up as the most faithful of pastors and the holiest of men; she met him not unfrequently at the Castle, and the deeper the knowledge that the young maiden gained of the sterling qualities of his character, the more she wondered that her eyes had ever been dazzled by unsubstantial tinsel, and the more grateful she felt to God for having preserved her from the effects of her own folly. Isa would probably have yielded to the temptation to “stay over Sunday,” but for the reflections which the story of Gideon had suggested to her mind. The grove, emblem of things in themselves lawful and desirable, which become snares when they stand in the way of duty, might not Isa find its counterpart in the pleasures of Castle Lestrange? Isa thought of the throwing down of self-will, the sacrifice of inclination, and so resisted the kind pressing of her uncle, and the more powerful pleading of her own wishes.
Edith ordered the carriage on the following morning to take her cousin to Wildwaste; she would herself accompany her thither. Isa would have liked to have asked her young companion to stay and spend the day at the Lodge, to brighten its dulness with her society; but in Gaspar’s nervous and irritable state, Isa feared that a visitor might annoy him, especially on a Saturday morning, which was always given to accounts. Edith, with instinctive delicacy, removed any difficulty on the part of her cousin, by saying that she would not this time remain to pay her visit, but drive on beyond Wild waste to return the call of some neighbouring family.
“While I am at Wildwaste, however, I should like just to look into the little school,” said Edith, as she and her cousin were driving from Castle Lestrange.
“I have been into it two or three times,” observed Isa,—“I mean into the room in which Mrs. Collins teaches the girls; I have never yet ventured amongst the boys—the young savages who look so ragged and wild.”
“Oh! they are polished gentlemen compared to what they were when Mr. Arthur first took them in hand; so Mrs. Holdich has told me,” laughed Edith. “They were like a pack of wild dogs, delighting to torment and worry every creature unfortunate enough to come within their reach, from poor little unfledged sparrows to Mrs. Stone’s son, whom they actually hunted into fits!”
“And Mr. Arthur found some one to bring them into a little better order.”
“Nay, he set about taming them himself; he used to go every morning to play schoolmaster; the ragged little urchins thought it a grand thing to be taught by a gentleman like him. How good does constantly come out of what we call evil!” cried Edith. “Papa did so much dislike letting the dear old Castle to strangers; but if he had not done so, Wildwaste would never have had the blessing of an Arthur Madden.”
“He must have had a kind, generous spirit,” observed Isa rather dreamily, for every reference to the Madden family sent her thoughts back strangely to the past.
“A brave, noble spirit,” cried Edith; “for I have heard that he stood so alone in his labours; instead of his family encouraging and helping him, he was laughed at and opposed—at least by his elder brother and sister. They would, I fancy, as soon have thought of going steadily to work as ‘hands’ in that great soap-manufactory, amongst all the smoke and horrible scent, as of teaching dirty, ragged little ‘roughs’ their A B C in a shed! I cannot imagine Cora Madden touching one of the Wildwaste children with the point of her parasol; and from what one hears of her brother Lionel—but I am getting into evil-speaking,” said Edith interrupting herself. “There is the pretty little school-house, which it must have been such a pleasure to design and build. Papa says that when Arthur Madden returns to England he will certainly ask him to pay a visit to the Castle, for such public spirit ought to be countenanced. But I dare say that Mr. Madden wants no praise—no honour from man—that he serves his heavenly Master in the spirit expressed in my favourite verses;” and in her soft, almost childish accents, Edith repeated Bonar’s beautiful lines,—
“Up and away like the dew of the morning,
Soaring from earth to its home in the sun;
So let me steal away gently and lovingly,
Only remembered by what I have done.
“My name, and my place, and my tomb all forgotten,
The brief race of life well and patiently run;
So let me pass away peacefully, silently,
Only remembered by what I have done.”
Before Edith had concluded the verses, the carriage had stopped at the entrance to the little school-house, on the side appropriated to the girls.
“The hive seems to be empty,” observed Isa, as she alighted. “I thought that work was always going on at this hour, but I hear no hum of voices from within.”
A feeble wail was the only audible sound. After tapping gently at the door, Isa entered, followed by her cousin, into the neat little school-room, which usually presented a scene of cheerful industry. Its only occupants were, however, the schoolmistress and the babe which she rocked in her arms. The poor woman looked haggard and pale from a sleepless night, her face bore the stamp of anxious care, and vainly she attempted to soothe the little sufferer, that seemed from its wasted appearance not to have many more days to live. Mrs. Collins rose on the entrance of the ladies, still continuing to rock her sick babe.
“Pray do not rise, Mrs. Collins; I fear that your dear child is very poorly,” said Isa, looking with gentle sympathy on the suffering infant.
The schoolmistress sank down again on her seat, and drew a heavy sigh as she answered, “The doctor thinks I shall lose her: I did not close an eye all last night: I really could not hold the school this morning: it is the first time that ever I sent the children away, but Mrs. Bolder has taken charge of even my own little boys—I could not bear the noise for poor baby.” Mrs. Collins spoke apologetically, as one who fears that she is neglecting a duty. Isa’s expression of sympathy encouraged her to proceed: “I am afraid that I shall have to tell the girls not to come to-morrow: my husband cannot undertake them as well as the boys, for neither of the rooms would hold all together.”
THE VISIT TO WILDWASTE SCHOOL.
“Have you to teach on Sundays as well as on week-days?” asked Edith.
“Only for an hour before morning service, and another in the afternoon, Miss Lestrange. I’m sorry to give it up even for one Sunday, for few of the children ever see the inside of a church; and but for the school, as Mr. Bolder used to say, they would grow up like heathen.” Mrs. Collins was still rocking the baby, that, to her great relief, was at length dropping asleep in her arms.
“Shall I come to-morrow and take your class?” asked Isa. “I have had little experience in tuition, but I could read to the girls, teach them hymns, and question them out of the Bible, while you sit quietly upstairs nursing your poor little child.”
The look of gratitude in the eyes of the anxious mother said more than her words, as she eagerly accepted the young lady’s offer.
“And I will see if there is not something that I can send to do the dear baby good,” said Edith, resolved to drive back and consult Mrs. Holdich on the subject.
The cousins left the school-room with a pleasant consciousness that they had lightened a heavy burden. To Isa, especially, the feeling was sweet. What she had heard of the labours of Arthur Madden had raised the thought in her mind, “Oh, that I could go and do likewise; that I too could leave a blessing behind, and be ‘remembered by what I had done!’” At once a door of usefulness was opened before her. Why should she not every Sunday relieve the hard-worked schoolmistress, and let the weary mother enjoy amidst her children what would then be a Sabbath indeed? Isa had for a few weeks taught a Bible-class in London; she liked the work, it gave interest to life, it took away the sense of weariness and emptiness which will sometimes creep over the spirit even of the lovely and young. Isa knew the task of tuition would be far lighter to her than it had been to the young man whose example was before her: she would go where she would be welcomed, amongst children already trained to some degree of order: she would have no opposition or ridicule to fear; for Gaspar, so long as she made no demands on her purse, was contented to let his sister do very much as she pleased. That brief visit to the school-room had to Isa changed greatly the aspect of life at Wildwaste. Her Sundays at least would not be joyless; she was permitted to do the Lord’s work, she might hope for His presence and blessing. She had made a sacrifice of inclination by returning to Wildwaste, and she was beginning to see that even in that dreary place God might give her rich cause for rejoicing.
“Yes; I shall be happier even here, trying to please my heavenly Master, than at Castle Lestrange, with the feeling ever arising that I am seeking to please self alone.”
It was this thought that made Isa Gritton bear patiently the dull monotony of the home to which she had returned, and the wayward fretfulness of him whose society now replaced that in which she had found such delight. Though Gaspar’s temper was more than usually trying, not once did a peevish tone betray irritation, not once did a frown furrow Isa’s fair brow. For hours, on the evening after her return, Isa sat reading aloud to her brother a work upon commercial statistics, in which she herself took not a shadow of interest. Certainly her mind wandered much from the book, and when at length she wearily closed it, Isa could not have recalled a single sentence which it contained. But she had been serving an invalid brother and not pleasing herself; and if this duty was less attractive than that of feeding the Saviour’s lambs, it was equally that which He had assigned her, and it was fulfilled for His sake.
Mankind applaud great acts of munificence, costly offerings presented like those of Solomon in open day, in the sight of all; but by far the greater number of the sacrifices which God accepts are made, as it were, like Gideon’s, in the night-time, in the obscurity of domestic life, where no praise is looked for from man. There is deep truth in the well-known lines of Keble,—
“The trivial round, the common task,
Afford us all we ought to ask—
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To lead us daily nearer God.”
