Mr. Bigham can tell by a glance when his wife's face is pale and over-tired, and he frequently comes to her help when over-visited and over-talked. The Rev. Mr. Bigham is a strange contradiction in some respects. He sincerely believes, and openly avows, that woman's feebleness and frequent sufferings are the just fruit and penalty of Eve's transgression, and that it is only right so many women should be broken down and nervous, seeing their first mother erred and sinned in the Garden of Eden.
"The way of transgressors is hard," he says. "It is an inevitable law that wickedness works suffering and ill from generation to generation."
But his sweet, gentle wife is the blessing of his existence. He wonders sometimes what his life would be if he came home to the Rectory and missed the welcoming thin, white hand, the smile of those peaceful eyes. And to her he is so chivalrous, so tender, so restful and protecting, that Mrs. Bigham, thinking of his goodness and the consideration and care of her servants, says her weakness is no curse, but rather like the hand of her Father in heaven, touching her in benediction of peace and comfort untold.
Having bowed Miss Grimwood out, and sat beside his wife till she has fallen asleep, the rector goes in quest of his nephew, who is reading hard -- or apparently reading -- beside the French windows of the breakfast room. The windows are open, and Snowball, the pet white cat of the house, lies stretched outside, mewing plaintively at intervals for notice from Ardyn, but too comfortable to seek the added luxury of his stroking hand.
Ardyn pays little attention today to book or Snowball. He has called again and again at The Bower, but has not once seen Amaranth -- nobody seems to have seen her since the Friday when her father disappeared. His thoughts are with her now, longing to let her know that whatever people may say of her father, there is a heart in which, amid all her tears and trouble, she is enshrined now and ever as first and dearest.
He pictures Amaranth as bowed down, yearning, and lonely, finding relief for her pent-up heart in the tears which are natural to clouded girlhood. Trouble must either soften or harden the human heart. There was a moment when Amaranth could have put down the bitterness of her burden by lifting a heavenward cry, but she has told herself so persistently, so sullenly, that God has wrecked her life and broken her heart, that now she has neither care nor power to pray, and feels doubtful indeed if there be any Ruler but Fate wherewith to plead.
"If there is a God," she is arguing, deep in her young heart, yet shrinking a little from the new, sad doubt, "would He have parted me from Ardyn? I have not been wicked, I have never done Him any harm; I prayed to Him and loved Him, and thanked Him for all my joy. Does He only care to show how soon He can change everything? What good can my heart-break do to Him? If there be a God at all, He is so far away, so high, that Ardyn and I are nothing to Him, or He has no love, no care for me. His thoughts to me are only punishment and judgment. Judgment for being carefree and happy! That is the kind of warning Miss Grimwood has often given me, but I cannot see the justice of it."
The utter, bewildering shock that has just come down upon her has stirred and aroused doubts and questionings which hitherto have never once ruffled the smooth surface of her existence. "I shall never be the same again, I can never feel as I once did," she tells herself, remembering the undoubting enthusiasm with which, as one of the choir, she has joined in hymn and chant.
She turns her thoughts to the outside world, even to quiet, flower-wreathed Bryantwood. She thinks of one and another in trouble and bereavement: of Mrs. Bigham's years of weakness; of her brother Eddie, crippled almost from birth.
"Things go anyhow," she decides, "and for the most part wrong. And as for the Fatherhood of God," she thinks bitterly, looking at a picture of "Our Father" hung up in her bedroom, "there is little comfort in a thought like that. I've trusted my earthly father for eighteen years, and what does he turn out to be after all? A thief! I can trust no one again -- neither in heaven nor on earth."
This morning Amaranth has come up to the rectory, meaning to see Mr. Bigham, and show him the letter received from town that day about the selling of Mrs. Glyn's shares. This is all the wife and mother has waited for -- to put Mr. Bigham in possession of £500; and a transfer paper has been drawn out, that awaits his signature. With the paper in her hand, Amaranth nears the breakfast room window. She is passing to the front door, but stands still, checked by the rector's voice, loudly raised as he speaks her name.
"You are not dependent upon me, Ardyn, but I should hope that my blessing and approbation as your mother's brother -- your guardian -- are at least of some value in your eyes. You are not one of those who mock the counsel of their seniors, and turn their backs on earnest advice. You have been a comfort to me, Ardyn. Your aunt and I love you as a son. Do not disobey or disregard me now. It is my wish and hope to give you the curacy of this parish, but how can you influence the people aright, if you are linked with the child of a thief? You are not yet engaged to Amaranth Glyn, and with my consent you never shall be, Ardyn. Your betrothed must be one of blameless, stainless name."
"Uncle," begins the young man, agitatedly, "Amaranth is to me dearer than myself, far dearer than my career. Why should she suffer for her poor father's sin? Does she not need me in her desolation as never before? I have tried again and again to see her. I cannot promise to separate my heart from Amaranth's because she is left worse than fatherless."
"Do you intend to marry the child of a thief?" cries Mr. Bigham, aghast.
At this moment both men start at a step outside the window, and Amaranth, proud, dignified, determined, stands before them.
"Be at rest, Mr. Bigham," she says. "I and mine are leaving Bryantwood for ever. I would not link my lot with your nephew's for any price that could be offered me. I shall live alone. Past friendships, past thoughts are blotted out. As surely as I stand before you now, Mr. Bigham, Ardyn shall never, never tie himself with the daughter of a thief!"
Chapter 4
A Faithful Heart
"Ardyn, nothing you can say will shake my resolve. Father's act has put me beyond the pale of happiness. Do you think I would allow you to share the disgrace which attaches to me now?"
They are together among the white blossoms of the fruit trees in Amaranth's garden. Ardyn has approached her suddenly as she sits alone in the trellised summerhouse by the river, and fervently, passionately he has pleaded his cause, but she will not grant his entreaty that they may belong to each other.
"When I leave The Bower," she says, "I pass out of your life. You and I are very young, Ardyn. As time goes on, you will meet some girl whose career is un-shadowed, and you will be glad then that I passed from your sight. You will soon get consoled by somebody else. Everybody does," she adds, in the new bitterness that seems born with her trouble.
"I cannot judge for other people," says Ardyn, his voice faltering as he holds her cold hands. "I only know, Amaranth, that while I am the person I am, there can be but one love for me. Do not be so proud, so hasty, my darling. Are you fitted to battle with the world? You who have been shielded all your life by your mother's love? I cannot bear to think of your lonely struggles, Amaranth. Let me at least feel that every step I take is a step nearer the day when I can take care of you and claim you for ever. Uncle will not always be of the same mind concerning you, I am certain. Aunt Lilian is full of love and sorrow towards you. I know she misses your visits and the sight of your face, and she will change uncle's feelings at last. I know I owe some consideration to Uncle Bigham; but Amaranth, what if I come to you one day and tell you he has withdrawn all objections? "
"It would be useless," says Amaranth, trying to withdraw her hands. "I have told you -- and I will keep my word -- that there can be no question of love between you and the child of a thief! Go now, Ardyn," she adds a little hastily. "It is dinnertime, and Eddie will be hungry."
Never while she lives will she forget that moment when the marigolds at their feet seem to her eyes to grow dim and wither away, when the look of doubt and pain in Ardyn
's blue eyes seems to ask if she has ever loved him at all, and when she sees Susan in the distance, ringing the dinner bell in the porch, and the faint odour of warm vegetables seems to float down the garden from afar.
"Then, Amaranth, is this to be goodbye? How am I to get through the long years, Amaranth? You have been my dream, my hope, my all!"
To Ardyn Home, looking into the beautiful eyes that are the dearest of all on earth, it seems just now that life is one long, hopeless blank. He has dreamed of living for God and for Amaranth. His God seems very far off now, and in his heart he is feeling nothing, and none can satisfy him, losing her.
"Yes, Ardyn," she says, quietly, "this is to be goodbye. You must not come here again. Very soon we shall be gone. No, Ardyn -- no," for he is drawing her nearer. Her strength seems failing. How can she sever their lives if his lips have claimed her own?
"Go, Ardyn. Susan is calling. And here is Mr. Gummer, coming in by the door from the woods."
Ardyn Home sees the nearing figure, and understands the interview is over.
"God keep you, Amaranth," he says brokenly, and turns away, crushing the daisies beneath lonely, miserable feet.
A cold, bitter smile comes to Amaranth's face at the thought that henceforth only prayer will be offered for her by Ardyn. A great gulf has opened between them for ever. What is prayer but just a few meaningless or well-meaning words? What if it be only a vain superstition? In either case she feels it cannot bridge over this terrible gulf of separation, and darkness seems to come before her eyes as Ardyn goes away at her bidding for ever.
Matthew Gummer has been in sadly low spirits since last Friday. Now that Mr. Glyn has vanished, the lawyer's office is closed, maybe indefinitely, and he is unemployed. He cannot forget how, at his words, all the bloom died out of Amaranth's face, and the smiles and blushes seemed to pass away from the fair frail girl who stood before him. He cherishes a deep respect for Mrs. Glyn, and was sincerely attached to his employer, who took him into his office when it seemed hard to find work in Bryantwood, and hard to leave his old grandparents alone or remove them from their own home.
Matthew Gummer has sought The Bower today with some vague idea of offering to marry Amaranth, and taking her and Eddie into the little home which he provides for the old people. As he is just now out of work, the idea is more chivalrous than prudent, but any such notions are dispelled at once by the sight of Amaranth's face. She looks to him almost as if she were turned to stone. He turns hot at the very thought of proposing to one so regal-looking in her sadness and despair.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Glyn," he falters. "If that's the dinner bell, I fear I'm intruding. I hope your mamma keeps her health, Miss Glyn?"
"I cannot understand my mother," says Amaranth. "She seems stronger than I have ever remembered her. Her one idea is to find my father. I believe she leaves The Bower this very evening."
"And you, miss?" he asks, timidly.
"I have no plans," she says. "Mother is leaving us a little money, and I suppose she and Father will come back to England together. I'm taking Eddie to London lodgings, and my hope is that I can turn my painting to some account. If I can teach drawing and painting, I may be able to afford some medial help for Eddie. But we have not heard of any place for me to go to yet."
Amaranth, from a very little lassie, has always taken the drawing prizes at school. She has undoubted artistic powers, but very little application. She can dash off a lovely little bit so easily that she seldom sits down to steady work, or tries to do better what she feels is already done well. Now, however, she begins to seriously ask herself if this almost buried talent may not help her in the struggle for life. For once the small amount her mother can give her is spent, nothing but her own efforts can keep the wolf from the door and the touch of need from her own little brother, her "own boy, Eddie," as she has called him ever since she first held him in her arms.
"If you're seeking London lodgings, miss," says young Matthew Gummer, his face brightening with the hope of affording help, "may I mention my married sister in Chelsea? She married a builder's foreman, and she has the charge of a number of artists’ studios there. I know she has lodgings to let in her own house; and dear me, you'd be close to a number of ladies' schools. I should think you'd be just in the right place to get some employment teaching. And my sister is that clean, miss, you might eat off the floors. Her address is Mrs. William Banks, Alexandrina Terrace."
Amaranth thanks him gratefully, remembering Mrs. Banks before marriage as the very picture of staid respectability. It is something to know of a possible haven when one is starting forth, doubtful and sad, from a lifelong home. Matthew Gummer takes his leave, declaring he will catch the afternoon post, and inquire his sister's terms.
"I shall be able," he thinks to himself, compassionately, "still to keep an eye on the poor young lady. And if I should get into work again, and if I should be found worth between one and two pound a week, well, we might get along very comfortable on that, for Susan's often told me Miss Amaranth can make a pie or sew antimacassars and things, quite domesticated-like."
Amaranth goes slowly into the house, and listens to Eddie's chatter as he makes his way through his dinner. No one has breathed the real depth of the trouble to the child. He has a notion they are going away from The Bower, and as the old Bryantwood doctor has often recommended a change for him, he is rather pleased at the prospect of novelty and travel. He secretly pictures an exciting time by the sea, such as he once enjoyed with his mother for a week.
He has been busy all the morning packing his treasures, which include several boxes of silkworms, a pet toad, a jackdaw and white mice. Eddie has a tortoise somewhere about, that he has sought high and low, beguiling it to appear by poetic descriptions of the sea and sands and an account of the numerous beetles in the lodgings they had occupied in Dirlsmere Parade.
The tortoise, however, appears to have buried himself, and declines a disentombment at present. Eddie has a long tale about tortoises, as received from his father. Amaranth sits down beside him, and smoothes his floss-like hair, glad and thankful to know the bitterness has not yet entered into the soul of the disabled child.
After a second helping of gooseberry pie, Eddie limps off to his packing in company with Tim. Amaranth tries to swallow some food, conscious that Susan eyes her reproachfully from the pantry, having made that pie for her benefit, but everything she tastes seems to be dry as dust.
"Mother, must you really go?" she asks tremblingly, clinging to Mrs. Glyn, as for a little while her mother comes and sits beside her.
"I must, my darling. Duty is calling me both ways, and so is love. But your father is alone, and I cannot stay from him. I know how sorely he must be needing me. Eddie will be safe in your care; and I hope, my darling, in a few days we shall all be together again. You have set your heart on going to London, Amaranth. You say nobody knows us there to know our shame, but my heart would break unless I knew you safe. Will you go to Mrs. Banks -- Elizabeth Gummer that was? I have just remembered she once told me she had rooms to let."
"Yes, Mother; her house seems central for teaching," says Amaranth. "I should like to go to her. But, oh, how I shall wait every day for your letters. How strange the world will seem without you, Mother. Come home as soon as you can."
She makes no mention of her father, and Mrs. Glyn notices it. To Amaranth his guilt admits of no doubt, and her young heart is stern and hard towards him.
"Where shall you go first, Mother?" asks Amaranth, looking in the lined face that seems to have acquired new strength and courage.
"Directly all is settled with Mr. Bigham and the trades people here and our landlord," says Mrs. Glyn, "I shall start for Newhaven, and cross to Dieppe. You know that one line of farewell he sent me came from Dieppe, and so I shall travel on through France, making inquiries, and seeking him from place to place."
"But you have so little money, Mother," says Amaranth, shivering at the thought of her mother alone in a strange land. "How w
ill you travel when the money is spent?"
"On foot, my child, if I cannot reach him in any other way. I shall go on, I shall journey till I find your father. Watch over my Eddie, Amaranth, and pray for your parents, as I shall pray for you. God will be my help when all other help fails. He will take care of us all."
Amaranth moves a little impatiently. Surely, if God were caring at all, her mother would not have to wander forth upon this sad and dreary quest!
Susan enters the room to move the things. She wipes her wet hands on her apron, and fixes her eyes on her mistress. "I couldn't help overhearing what you've been saying, missus, that you're a-going to furrin parts to find the master. I've suspected that's what you're after, missus, and I've got my bag packed to start with you, whensoever you intends to be off. Don't say nothing now, missus, about no wages, and don't you raise no objections, for my mind's made up. I've got a matter of two pound ten in a stocking upstairs in my room, and, missus, it's all yours, and so is my service. I can't parlyvoo and cut capers like them furriners; but maybe, missus, a time will come when you'll be tired and lonely and glad to have me at your side. And that's where I means to stick, as I've done this many a year, and ever shall be, missus and Miss Amaranth. Amen."
And Susan drops the gooseberry pie, and comes over to her mistress, and bursts out crying, and Amaranth throws her arms around her, and feels the first gleam of comfort she has known ever since she understood her light-hearted girlhood had vanished away.
Chapter 5
Alexandrina Terrace
TWELVE months have passed away. The Bower has been let by the squire of Bryantwood to the proprietress of a ladies' school, and Czerny's exercises and variations on "The Heavens are Telling" and the "Harmonious Blacksmith" float out from the windows of the Glyns' old home.