"He seems just sickening for Bryantwood, miss," says Susan. "Tell you what, Miss Amaranth, I was wishing to spend the day with my married sister as lives near the Gummers. Let me take the boy down, and I'll get permission from the lady there for him to get about The Bower a bit. He seems heart-sore for the old place, Miss Amaranth."
"I want to go home. I want Mother," says Eddie, looking at them wistfully. "Sis, darling, shall I never see Mother again?"
"You shall -- you shall, my own," says Amaranth, putting back his waves of hair with a lingering, sorrowful touch.
That day she writes to her mother, uttering for the first time the word "decline," at which the doctor, to whom Eddie is now taken as a private patient, has hinted more than once. Tim looks from one to the other, and puts his paw upon the boy, and licks the little wasted hand as if he understood the fear.
"Oh, Mother, come soon," writes Amaranth. "I see a change in our boy. His chest is so thin and sunken, his eyes are so large, so bright. If it is possible at all, come back to him, Mother, for the boy seems fading away."
Unwilling to add to her mother's anxieties, she had never before hinted at Eddie's increasing weakness, always hoping some change of weather may improve his state. And Eddie has written such bright letters abroad that Mrs. Glyn has been sure her boy has grown better and stronger since she kissed his little face goodbye.
Amaranth feels now as if she could scarcely bear her brother out of her sight. She puts aside her work for a day, and nerves herself to go with him to Bryantwood. Fortunately, Susan's sister lives some little distance from the Rectory, for she dreads to see Mr. Bigham or Ardyn, and it is a relief to hear that the latter is away from home, taking the duty of a former college friend.
Amaranth cannot trust her feelings if she approaches the old home, so Susan hires a pony-chaise and drives Eddie up after dinner, resolved that the boy's heart shall be satisfied by looking again upon the scenes he loves.
Amaranth goes out sketching, and meets nobody she knows, save Dickey, who seeing her standing still and sad on the wooden bridge believes he looks upon a ghost, and takes to flight in the consciousness of absence two Sunday afternoons from Sunday school. Coming back to Brook Cottage for an early tea, Amaranth passes Matthew Gummer's little residence, and is interested to notice that a wing has been built out, and Bluebell Cottage looks quite a genteel little villa.
"He must be prospering," she thinks, "and he well deserves it. How charmingly the curtains are arranged, and I see he's done up the front. It wanted a coat of paint so badly for many years. Why, there are the old couple in the porch. Time does seem to stand still with those dear old people."
Amaranth has a weakness for old folks, and has always been accustomed to exchange a nod and smile with Matthew Gummer's grandparents. Somebody has evidently stationed them under the roses to watch for their grandson's return. Amaranth is used to their rambling style of conversation, but is somewhat startled when the old man greets her with the remark, "There's a baby!"
"Grandfather's hearty for his age," says the old lady confidentially to Amaranth. She is a little his senior, but is convinced that she is twenty years younger, and has much tolerance for his white hairs and infirmity.
"The baby's got a tooth," continues grandfather, beckoning the visitor nearer. "Here he comes, here he comes, grandmother. I know his hat. Didn't I see him first?"
Amaranth turns round bewildered, and sees Matthew Gummer waving a handkerchief in the distance. At the same time she becomes conscious through the window of a baby as like Matthew Gummer as can be expected at so tender an age, and her perplexity is increased when the infant is borne to the porch in the arms of Miss Rebecca Grimwood -- Miss Grimwood that was, but her matronly blushes and smiles make her young face quite attractive.
"Well now, Amaranth, this is a surprise! Yes, grandmother, you shall hold him -- isn't he a regular Gummer? Bless him! And the notice he takes is wonderful. Here comes Matthew down the lane. Will little Grimwood sit up and see dada then? Yes, Amaranth, we've been married about a year. This place sadly wanted somebody to look after it, and Matthew and I have seen a good bit of each other at Sunday school, and in the Clothing Club and the Temperance Society, and I'd long had a respect for him. Aunt Grimwood took to her bed when we broke it to her but she has paid me handsome my little property, and we've made quite a genteel place of it. Don't you think so, Amaranth?
"Aunt Grimwood said a lawyer's clerk was such a dreadful comedown for one of our family; but what's that, if only you're fond of each other? And aunt's been to see us lots of times, and she's quite forgiven us since we've named the boy Grimwood. Matthew says we can call him Rummie for short, which sounds a deal more homely. But, dear me, how I do run on, and haven't asked about yon, my dear, and you such a famous painter! Matthew was saying when baby gets a bit bigger he might sit to you for a picture. He's quite a Cupid, the darling! Now, Amaranth, come right in and have some tea."
Susan and Eddie drive up just then, and Matthew Gummer stands proud and happy at his gate. He invites them all to inspect little Grimwood, in whose facial contortions Eddie is profoundly interested. Congratulations are profuse and sincere. Amaranth has always liked Rebecca Grimwood a good deal better than her aunt, and she is glad to see the young couple so fond and happy. It is a pretty sight to watch them among the roses bending over the baby, with the old folks sitting by and nodding at the little calm eyed, wondering one, with beaming faces of encouragement.
Eddie falls asleep at Brook Cottage during tea, and sleeps all the way home in the train. The visit to The Bower was not such a delight to him as Susan anticipated. "It's all different, somehow," he says. "The lady there was kind, but she wasn't like Mother. And in my nursery they were teaching fizz – something, and my tortoise hasn't ever come to light. And father's study didn't look a bit messy, like it used. And I couldn't see Dickey anywhere. It wasn't like home, Amaranth. I'd rather be in London with you."
"Ah," says Susan, "'taint the place, but the folks as makes our homes. And that's why I think, Miss Amaranth, as heaven'll seem so homelike, 'cause our friends and relations is gone before. And best of all, there's God our Heavenly Father as we loves the best."
Amaranth makes no answer. The mention of God's name awakes no music in her heart. Life is a void, she often says, and death is the end of all things. How can she surrender the child of her love to the silent, hopeless tomb? She looks out of the railway carriage window with trembling lips, pretending to admire the gorse commons past which they move, but seeing only their outside beauty, hearing no whisper of their testimony to the grace, the power of the Ruler of the seasons and the ages. "Earth's crammed with heaven," says Mrs. Browning, "And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees takes off his shoes."
Could Amaranth but behold Him, she would no more call life a void; for every place to her loving, fearing heart would be as holy ground.
Next day the doctor sees Eddie, and orders him away to the sea. "Not too bracing a place," he says, "but somewhere among the pines, such a place as Dirlsmere, now."
Dirlsmere has been visited before by Eddie in company with his mother. It is hilly, but he talks of taking long airings in a Bath chair, of sitting among the pines, and of making his way somehow to the top of a high cliff where a seat is placed for the traveller to admire the blue waves far below, and the many-hued rocks and clustering trees, and a grand extent of coast.
"Our landlady's son carried me up there before," says Eddie; "but I was lighter then. I'm too heavy now, I think, to be carried up the hills."
"The holiday will do you good, Amaranth," says May Burr, seeing them off at Waterloo station. "You do not look really well, despite all your successes. How shall I thank you for the work you have put in my way? I am doing some watercolour river scenes for Mr. Acworthy now. Oh, Amaranth, how kind he is, and how clever. He is really a very good man."
Amaranth smiles at her friend's enthusiasm, but responds warmly as to Mr. Acworthy's kindness. In the train she
weaves a charming little romance concerning May, which, could May know it, would surprise and somewhat displease that matter-of-fact, hard-working young lady!
They reach Dirlsmere on Saturday evening, and the peaceful, deep blue waters of the bay give them both a sense of rest and joy. "I'm sure I shall get well here," says Eddie. "See what a tea I've eaten! I'll be able to go out in the morning. You know there's a church just round the corner."
Susan carries him to the church on Sunday morning, and lays him comfortably on a roomy seat in an old-fashioned pew. Amaranth would prefer to be on the beach, but Eddie has begged her to sit by him today, and she can refuse no wish of her brother's. How strange it seems after so many months to hear the familiar prayers and responses again, and the hymn so well known once that trembles up to the ancient roof, "Rock of Ages, cleft for me."
If all this be a delusion, there is something wonderfully sweet and calm and holy about it. Amaranth goes back in thought to the days when she sat beside her mother in Bryantwood Church, and when Ardyn sat opposite in the Rectory pew, and his voice floated clear and high in psalm and hymn. It does not startle her at first when his accents ring on her ear. It is not till she sees Eddie's glad, excited face that she understands the first part of the service is over, and Ardyn Home, standing up in the old pulpit, is in very truth preaching to the people.
Amaranth has no ears at first for his words, though his text echoes in her heart, "Lead me in Thy truth." She has never seen him robed before, nor watched the serious, pleading look of the young face that has grown so much deeper and more earnest in expression. Amaranth feels far, far removed from him as he preaches, although she understands he speaks the things he believes and knows. Well, maybe Ardyn is one of Heaven's elected favourites, and she is one of those doomed to grope and wander in the outer darkness for ever.
But, presently, as she listens to his voice, she finds that he, too, has known the darkness, the valley of thick, gloomy shadow. He tells of spirit conflict, of foundations that seemed to tremble, of evil whisperings that would fain have rushed in like a flood but for the Father's hand, the Father's face, the rod and staff of the redeeming Lord. "To Him I clung," said Ardyn, "to Him I cried, certain that my Maker and my Redeemer must be Love, whatever else was doubtful, crooked, or wrong. Even when Satan would fain have made me think myself forsaken, to Him I faltered whom I could not reach, the words of this hymn. 'O Jesus! though Thou wilt not yet come in, Knock at my window as Thou passest by!'
"And to you, my hearers, who are seeking Him today in prayers and trembling, I declare, as His disciple, His ambassador, His child, they that come unto Him shall in no wise be cast out. You shall yet kneel at His feet, and be satisfied in Him; and find in the God of Love, the Life, the Truth, the Way."
Ardyn has no knowledge of Amaranth among his audience, she and her companions slip quietly out of the church. Susan goes down to the shore to find seaweed for Eddie, while he lies by the lodging house window, watching the hills and the sapphire sky, and listening (to the ever-sounding anthem of the waves.
Amaranth fetches, by Eddie's desire, an old Bible picture book that Ardyn gave him long ago, and which he rummaged out of his cupboard yesterday while they were packing. He asks her to find his favourite picture wherein the "gentle Jesus" calls the children and takes them up in His arms. And as she turns the pages a paper slips out. It has some of the verses which, all his life, Ardyn has been wont to write, and which the Glyns were always coming upon in different books and drawers. His writing brings a quiver to her lips and she reads the young man's lines with a yearning, softening heart, beginning to hunger and faint for the rest which the friend she loves has reached.
And dost Thou ask me, where is He,
Life of my life, Sun of my way?
Where is my God? His face I see
Around me, near me, all the day,
His power I know in every breath,
In every answered prayer and sigh;
In joy, in tears, in life, in death,
O Christ, for ever Thou art nigh,
O Saviour Christ! in Thee for aye
Am I not at the Father's side?
'Where is thy God?' some, doubting, say --
Thy name I whisper, Crucified! "
Chapter 12
"Home, Sweet Home!"
Eddie is too tired to go out again on the Sunday, and his sister stays indoors with him, half dreading, half hoping to see Ardyn pass the windows. But he is busy in the Sunday school, and the evening service is held at a chapel-of-ease away over the hills. She sees no trace of him, and on Monday the landlady's son tells Eddie he has been "carting away the parson's luggage for the early train, 'cause the proper curate's a-coming back to Dirlsmere today."
Ardyn has been taking his friend's duty in his absence. How strange that, all unconscious of her vicinity, he should thus have appealed to a soul that walks in darkness to do Christ's will, and pray on for His revealing.
"The child looks better today," say Susan and Amaranth every morning, and for a time Eddie is well enough to lie on the beach and toss pebbles for Tim to chase with barks of joy. But the third week of the stay at Dirlsmere there comes again the patient whisper that he is "tired," and he shakes his curly head when the landlady's sturdy son offers to carry him up the hill again.
"I can't ever go so high again, Joe," he says, nestling close to Amaranth. "Sis, isn't it nearly time for Mother to get home?"
He is constantly talking of The Bower. Longing to rouse him to new interest and energy, Amaranth, who has lately sold some pictures very advantageously, puts herself in communication with Mr. Acworthy and asks if he would be disposed to sell her their old home, and let her pay him by instalments. She would be able to pay him a fair share of the purchase money at once.
Eddie is enraptured at Amaranth's notion of buying The Bower, and hands her all his savings, to the amount of four shillings and ninepence, towards the completion of the bargain.
Mr. Acworthy answers the letter by calling in person. His suggestion is most friendly and generous. He tells Amaranth that the house is empty now, and she can have possession when she will. But he insists on the first instalment being a much smaller one than she suggested.
"You will need to buy furniture," he reminds her, "for I believe all you had was sold when you left. You must keep some of your money for the furniture, you know."
Amaranth feels quite conscious-stricken to think she could not bring herself to love one so warm-hearted and generous, but Mr. Acworthy does not look very miserable in his character of rejected lover. Towards the close of the interview, he scans the pattern of the carpet, and remarks, "I have a message for you, Miss Glyn, from your friend Miss Burr. She... she... will shortly change her name."
"Oh, Mr. Acworthy, what a dear, sweet wife you have won." Amaranth flushes up in her delight, picturing May as the mistress of the pretty Kensington home, and the benefactress still of the olive branches down in the country.
"Yes," says Mr. Acworthy, "she is one in a thousand. As regards unity and tone in a landscape, I consider her perfection. And I think it is really time I settled in life, Miss Glyn. I feel convinced the married state must be the happiest."
"Oh, I am sure of it!" says Amaranth, eagerly, enchanted on May's account. "At least," she adds, as an afterthought, "for other people. For myself, I prefer to be single. My art suffices me."
The Gummers and Susan's married sister work hard to get Amaranth's furniture placed in The Bower. Amaranth has tried to get the same style of things as filled the rooms before, and Susan goes to Bryantwood to place the furniture as it was placed of old. The Bower seems to Amaranth almost painfully homelike when at last she and Eddie are under the old roof again. But her little brother does not share in the pangs that throb within his sister's heart. Every nook, every corner reminds Amaranth of Ardyn, and she wanders about as one who longs for a vanished presence, while Eddie is transported with joy at discovering the long-buried tortoise, and at revisiting the pond where the fa
miliar frogs disport themselves.
Dickey is re-employed, and carries Eddie pick-aback about the forest and garden. Susan returns with delight to her long lost scullery and washhouse. But the very recommencement of old ways and customs seems to show Amaranth more and more how much she has lost. Not only is she heart-hungry for Ardyn; not only does she miss her mother unspeakably; but here, in the old home, softer thoughts come to her of her poor father, and she often fancies wistfully she sees his white hair, his gentle face, and hears his kindly, loving voice.
What to her are these improved fortunes, if those she loves no longer tread the old paths by her side? Her earnings seem only valuable to her now as they provide comforts for Eddie, who, in the new pleasure of filling his father's old study with specimens, has bidden goodbye at last to medical attendance.
"Well, my dear child, I am glad to see your face in Bryantwood again," says Mr. Bigham, coming to call one day, and speaking with genuine heartiness. "The church and school have missed you, Amaranth; and we at the Rectory have missed you too. You will come and see Mrs. Bigham? You have had a true friend in Mrs. Bigham all along."
"I am very much occupied just now," says Amaranth, haughtily, convinced that the rector, now she has made her name, is willing to overlook the disgrace of the past. In this she is mistaken. He is glad to see the Glyns back at The Bower, but even as a famous artist he would rather the daughter of so grave a delinquent as Stephen Glyn had nothing to do with his nephew and curate.
The deceit of Stephen Glyn's theft and cowardly flight have made a very disagreeable impression upon his mind. He thinks it is a good thing the father remains away, but long ago he promised Mrs. Glyn to assist in furthering her husband's great book if possible, and as the opportunity has now come in his way he will keep his word.
"Have you the manuscript by you of A Scientists Dream?" he asks. "I have a notion that a friend of mine who has started a scientific magazine might be able to use it in instalments. Your father once met him at the Rectory, and they got on very well together. At any rate, I know he would look at it."