Chapter IV: Taken by Surprise

GEORGE ADAIR did come to lunch, and took Hope off to golf in the afternoon. She was polite and distant with him, but he would not take the hint, and before the afternoon was over had hastened his fate, and been kindly but decidedly refused.

"I really did think you liked me," he said ruefully.

"So I do as a friend, very much," returned Hope, with troubled eyes; "but we should be unsuited to each other."

"I will not allow that; we are always meeting each other at the same functions. I could give you even a gayer time than you are having! What else do you want?"

"I want quiet," said Hope, turning upon him with passion in her tones. "I am fighting against it, but I believe I really want that peace of heart and mind that preachers talk about. Our lives are all wrong, George, and I'm realising it more and more every day."

George Adair was literally struck dumb by this aspect of things. He departed very quietly, and Hope went home to break the news to her aunt.

Mrs. Daubeney was bitterly disappointed; but she had been prepared the day before for the possibility of such a thing, and Hope was unusually tender and attentive to her in consequence.

"If only marriage was not such an irrevocable thing, I would accept George to please you, aunt; but it wouldn't be to please myself, and disaster would be sure to follow."

"I think we had better return to town," said Mrs. Daubeney. "I feel much better, and it really is very dull here. The Chesneys are going to Norway next week, and the Bacons are going up to town very soon."

"It is barely a month since we came down."

"It is quite long enough."

When once Mrs. Daubeney made up her mind to move, it was soon accomplished.

When Mrs. Dane's call was returned, it was to say goodbye, and she was out when they called.

"Fate is against my knowing her," thought Hope; and though she tried hard to go to the evening service at the cathedral again, she could not manage it. She left Kayminster with keen regret.

"I wish you would leave me Wistaria Lodge in your will," she said laughingly to her aunt. "I don't know when I have taken such a fancy to a house!"

"It is a dull little hole," said Mrs. Daubeney with impatience. "I shall tell my agent to let it without delay." And she never mentioned Kayminster again to her niece.

One afternoon Hope was at a picture gallery in Bond Street. She was suddenly accosted by May Fosberry.

"I did not know you were in town," she said. "Oh, Hope, I want to talk to you so much."

May was looking very bright; there was something in the quiet intensity of her tones that struck Hope.

"I am full up," she answered, "and must meet Aunt Gertrude at Lady Burberry's in half an hour's time."

"Half an hour is better than nothing. Come over here. There is a delicious little picture in a quiet corner that has been delighting my soul. And if you come at once, there is a vacant seat opposite it."

The two girls walked off. May pointed out the picture. It depicted a severe thunderstorm in the Highlands; frightened cattle were stampeding and flying for shelter. A blue blaze of forked lightning was realistically represented. Hope expressed her admiration.

"These French artists are afraid of nothing!" she exclaimed. "That lightning is most vivid; I can almost hear the roll of thunder after it."

"But you have missed the best point," said May.

"What is it? The blast of the wind and rain, the terrified cattle? It is a little masterpiece of its kind."

"Look at the title in the catalogue."

Hope turned it up.

"Security," she read, in a puzzled tone, and then the flash of enlightenment came to her eyes.

In the corner of the picture she perceived a tiny bird on its nest. It was in a cleft of a rock overhanging a slope of the hill, and the little creature was looking on at the storm with quiet, unruffled eyes. As Hope gazed, sudden tears dimmed her sight.

"Oh, May!" she exclaimed, and then she stopped.

May put her hand gently on her arm.

"I have got there, Hope, I believe. I wanted to tell you so, and it was your verse that was the beginning of it."

"What verse? Oh, the one I heard in the cathedral. Do explain!"

It was a strange opportunity. Many passersby, seeing two fair heads so close together, wondered what the confidences might be, but not one of that fashionably-dressed crowd could have guessed the nature of the confidence.

May spoke very directly and simply.

"You know how miserable I was, Hope. I tried so hard to be good, to get peace in my heart, but it all seemed so hopeless. I thought when I got away from Society and went into the slums that I should feel better, but, oh! it was ten times worse. I saw so much sin and misery that it sickened me. I was just soaked with the atmosphere of open sin, and when I left it the sense of sin still remained with me. I got to loathe our Sunday week-ends and bridge parties—one never-ending round of pleasure, and contempt of all serious things. And then you said that verse to me:

"'Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.'

"I got hold of my Bible that night, and I prayed as I had never prayed before for light. It came, Hope. I could not quite see the connection between those two thoughts in that verse, and so I got a concordance and looked up all the passages that spoke of our Lord's death and His blood that He shed. And there are some verses in the epistles that struck me, and one especially made it clear. Are you interested or am I boring you?"

"Very interested," was the quick reply.

"It was about our Lord. First it spoke about us having 'redemption through His blood, even the forgiveness of sins.' And I felt that if I knew I had God's forgiveness, I should indeed have peace, and then it said, 'Having made peace through the blood of His cross'—I forget the exact words, but it said that was how God reconciled us to Himself. And in a flash it came to me how wonderfully simple and yet how wonderfully grand it was. And I knelt down and told God I wanted to be reconciled to Him through the blood of Christ. I can't tell you the joy that came into my heart when I realised that it had all been done. It was like walking through an open gate that had been open all the while I had been struggling to find the way outside it. Am I making it clear to you?"

"I think so," said Hope slowly. "And what difference has it made to you?"

Lady May was silent for a minute.

"It is just another life," she said softly. "I am at peace. I feel I am in God's family, and all my affairs, spiritual and physical, will be managed and arranged by Him."

"Oh!" said Hope, with a long-drawn sigh. "You have got beyond and above me now. I can't follow you."

"'The blood of Jesus whispers peace within—'"

Lady May repeated. "Go to Him and ask Him to give you the peace that, as the verse says, He made through the blood of His cross. Then you will get it."

"But," said Hope, "this isn't the whole of religion. What about works?"

"Oh no, this is only the beginning; but it's a very happy beginning, and I'm going to learn now, and work, but I'm only just finding out how little I know."

The talk was over. Hope's friends had discovered her; but she went home very silently, pondering deeply over her friend's words.

And in the ensuing days, which were full of engagements, though Hope laughed and talked with her friends, and joined in all their pleasures, at heart she felt that the distance was gradually widening between them, and when she retired to her room at night, her Bible, like Lady May's, was generally to be found on her knee.

She did not grasp the truth so quickly as her friend. There were times when she longed for some one's help, but as she read her Bible, she began to see that the centre of the Christian faith was contained in those two lines she had heard sung in Kayminster Cathedral. And at last, very feebly, she put out her hand and claimed the promise—

"'We have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.'"

Mrs. Daubeney saw that something was working in her niece's mind. At first she thought it was regret at having refused George Adair; then, as the girl's face grew more happy and the anxious furrow between her eyebrows entirely disappeared, she came to the conclusion that she was becoming herself again, and gave no further thought to it.

One afternoon, just as aunt and niece had come in from a shopping expedition and were having tea with Jim Horrocks, who had returned with them, there was a sharp ring at the bell, and a few minutes afterwards, Clark, Mrs. Daubeney's butler, ushered into the room a stranger.

"Mr. Brian St. Clair."

Hearing her name, Hope looked up astonished. It was a young fellow of a different stamp from Mrs. Daubeney's usual visitors. He was dressed in a rough flannel suit, and looked weather-beaten and worn. He held himself well, and was tall and broadly built, with a look that an open-air life indelibly stamps upon a man. His hair was dark and a trifle curly, he had Hope's eyes without their softness, and his voice, when he spoke, had rather a quick, curt ring in it.

"I am sure you didn't expect to see me," he said, addressing Mrs. Daubeney; "but we only landed early this morning, and are staying at the Portland Hotel. I came round to see if Hope was here; my father wants to see her."

Hope started forward, her face aglow with excitement and interest.

"Are you my brother? I remember you a small boy in frocks! We never knew that you were coming over? How many of you are there? And how is father?"

"Not very well. He has been a different man since the carriage accident. There are only Jerry and Toby—they were wild to come with me, but I left them in charge. Can you come back with me?"

"And pray," said Mrs. Daubeney, with stiff disapproval, "what is your father going to do with himself in England?"

"Get well, I hope," said Brian, looking his aunt in the face steadily.

"What is the matter with him?"

"That is what we can't make out. He pins his faith to a certain doctor he used to know years ago, and is going to see him."

"I suppose he has made his fortune in Canada and is coming home to spend it?"

Brian's face was imperturbably grave. "Fortunes are not made so easily," he said.

Then Mrs. Daubeney smiled and made Hope pour out some tea for him.

"I suppose you must be the eldest boy," she said. "How is it that you have come home with your father? Are you an idle young man with unlimited time on your hands?"

"Now, Aunt Gertrude," said Hope brightly; "he has only just arrived in England; let all these questions wait. Jim, I am sorry that I cannot go to the Arbuthnots to-night with you, but I must see my father at once."

Jim thoughtfully rose to go, but Mrs. Daubeney stopped him.

"Hope is going to leave me, and Captain Larkins and his sister are coming in to play bridge, so you must stay and make a fourth. Hope, are you going off at once? I want to speak to you. Jim, you can entertain Brian for a few minutes."

Mrs. Daubeney left the room, and Hope followed her, feeling a strange sense of uneasiness and foreboding of evil.

"Now, Hope, listen to me."

Mrs. Daubeney had seated herself in her small boudoir, and looked at her niece with determination in her glance.

"This has taken me very much by surprise. Tell your father that I shall come to see him to-morrow, if he cannot come to see me; he ought to have written more definitely about his plans before coming to England. But remember, I have adopted you, and I am not going to give you up. He has done without you all these years; he has other children besides you, and he must turn to them for the help he needs. I shall not, of course, keep you from seeing your father as often as you like, but he must understand that my claim upon you comes first. I know your father better than you do, and you must take a firm hand with him from the first. Do you understand me?"

Hope's eyes twinkled with amusement.

"I am a novice at managing and controlling a parent, aunt! I may fail in my first attempt."

"It is no laughing matter, as you would find to your cost if you forsook me."

"Oh, don't talk so tragically! Should I be likely to do so after all your goodness to me?"

And Hope stooped down to imprint a light kiss on her aunt's forehead, the only caress that was ever permitted, for Mrs. Daubeney was not a demonstrative woman.

Then Hope departed a few minutes later, with her young step-brother.

"Shall we take a hansom?" she suggested, and when they were in it, she turned to him very gently.

"Tell me all you can," she said, "I seem to know so little."

He drew in his breath a little sharply.

"He is a wreck, and that's the fact," he said. "A nervous breakdown, the ship's doctor called it; but I think some injury was done to his brain when the accident took place. He was unconscious for a week after, and has never been the same since. It was an awful shock. Poor little Carrie was the idol of his heart—the only girl, you know. She was just fourteen, and mother had begged him so hard to leave her behind. He blames himself for it all, and that hasn't made life easier to him. He sold up everything and insisted upon coming home; I have had to come with him, as he wasn't fit to manage himself, and the two kids are a handful. Of course, I am hoping to go back again."

"I have not heard from any of you," said Hope, hesitating—"I don't even know how many of you there are."

"Five of us now. Jerry and Toby are eight and ten. They are with us. Father wants them to have some schooling in England. Ralph and Tom are both doing for themselves in Canada; Ralph is going in for engineering, and Tom is on a farm."

"And what do you like doing?"

"Me? I've been running our farm; but I'm not a good farmer, I prefer horses."

"Is father really ill?"

"You will see for yourself. He suffers a good deal from headache and sleeplessness."

The stern gravity of the young fellow impressed Hope. She felt as he spoke that he knew life as she did not; and she wondered if the Colonies had the effect of ageing boys before their time.

When they reached the quiet unpretentious hotel in which her father was, Hope was again seized with a nervous apprehension of the future.

Brian took her straight upstairs into a small dingy smoking-room. Her father and his two younger sons were the only occupants of it. George St. Clair rose from his chair at his daughter's approach, and Hope looked up at his tall figure and still handsome face with a certain amount of admiration.

He put his hand on her shoulder and surveyed her critically. Hope, in her turn, noted his sunken eyes and the restless light in them, the hollows in his cheeks, and the grizzled hair that lay rather untidily across his forehead. He looked as if he were suffering too much to care for his outward appearance. But he was the one to break the tense silence that prevailed between them.

"And so this is my eldest daughter! A successful product of what money, education, and fashion can turn out! I should think your aunt is very well pleased with you, is she not?"

Hope's heart sank at his tone. She had half-expected some little expression of affection; and though she had not seen her father for nearly eighteen years, she could not meet him without some emotion. She looked up at him rather tenderly, and did not answer his question.

"I wish I could see you looking better, father. Your return has been a great surprise to us; Aunt Gertrude says she will come and see you to-morrow, if you would prefer it to coming round to us yourself."

"She is no good, Brian!"

Mr. St. Clair dropped his hand, and sank back into his chair with a gesture of disappointment. He went on, without heeding Hope's astonished eyes.

"I might have known it! Gertrude would only develop the self-indulgence and love of ease and luxury that have been the curse of the St. Clairs for so many generations. Were she to come to us, she would require a carriage and pair to save her legs, and a maid in attendance to save her hands, and we should be as badly off as we are at present!"

Brian looked at Hope uncomfortably.

"You must not mind father's way of speaking; he is not well. Suffering makes him irritable. Here are our two small scamps. Jerry and Toby, come and speak to Hope."

Two very small, curly-headed boys sprang forward from the corner in which they had been occupying themselves. They were not over-clean, for they had a pot of glue with which they were doctoring a couple of miniature yachts, and their fingers and faces were liberally smeared with the sticky compound. Hope did not know much about boys, but she stooped and kissed them, noting as she did so that while Jerry's face was the essence of sunshine and good-humour, Toby's was solemnity personified.

They did not speak, but stared at her in silence.

Hope turned to Brian somewhat wistfully.

"Tell me what I can do for you. What are your plans?"

Her father answered her quickly.

"Plans are frustrated sometimes. I hoped that you might fill the gap for us, and not let us feel the blank—"

He stopped, then added hurriedly with a short laugh:

"You would not care to rough it, and just at present money is not too plentiful with us."

"It is not that, father," said Hope eagerly. "It is only that Aunt Gertrude is getting old and is in failing health. She has been like a mother to me, remember, and I feel now that she really needs me. But—"

"My dear Hope, there is no need for any excuses. I have not asked you to leave her, nor have I asked you to make your home with us. Brian, I think I shall turn into bed. I'm extraordinarily tired. Give me your shoulder, boy. I shall be losing the use of my legs pretty soon, I fear. What time am I to go to Dr. Pierrepoint to-morrow?"

"Eleven sharp. I'll bring your dinner up to your room."

"I want no more food to-day. Well, Hope child, tell your aunt she must come round here to-morrow, if she wants to see me. Good-night; you're a thorough St. Clair, every inch of you! And you were such a scrap of a thing when you left us!"

He gave a quick sigh, and left the room, leaning heavily on his son's arm.

Hope's eyes were misty. Though she had not come to offer her services, the indifference of her father towards her cut her like a knife. She began to feel the pathos of the situation. Two men and two boys, without a woman to care for them or look after them; and she gazed at her small brothers in deepest perplexity, and then she put her hand on Toby's shoulder.

"Be friends with me," she said, "I belong to you. Tell me about yourselves."

Toby looked at her stolidly through long black eyelashes.

"Brian is too snorky!" he remarked. "Jerry and I can manage ourselves right enough. Always have!"

"What is it to be 'snorky'!" Hope asked, amused.

Jerry gave a little chuckle.

"It's one of our words. We have a lot you wouldn't understand. I say, are you going off? Because do just let Toby and me come with you. We want to see round a bit, and if Brian is going to keep us in a hen-coop all our time, we'll soon let him know it!"

"Why do you call him Toby?" Hope asked.

"Isn't he like him? He's every bit as sober to look at! Oh, here's old Brian again!"

Jerry backed into his corner, and Hope began to think her visit had been long enough.

"You have a lot on your hands, Brian," she said, "so I won't keep you. I shall see you to-morrow, and we can talk over plans better, after we know what the doctor thinks."

Brian accompanied her downstairs, and put her into a hansom. Then he leant across from the pavement and said earnestly:

"Don't think that father doesn't feel, but he's always irritable and depressed now, and his head is one perpetual ache. He had got it into his head that you might come and mother the little chaps a bit. They want it, but he understands how you feel, and we shall get on all right. My idea is to go down to the country as soon as possible, where we can live cheaply and quietly, and I'll get a billet close at hand, so that I can look after things!"

"We'll talk it over together," said Hope brightly.

But when she was left to herself, she felt perplexed and bewildered at the conflicting duties which lay before her.