Chapter VIII: Hope's Choice

"FATHER, do you remember the buffalo at the Red River?"

Hope was walking the next day with her father through the meadows by the river's bank when she asked this question.

Mr. St. Clair looked at her in astonishment; then gave a short laugh.

"Yes, I shall not forget it. Who has been talking to you about it?"

"Mr. Dane. He was secretary to the Premier of Canada some years ago, and said he met you out there."

"Lance Dane! I'd no idea he was in these parts. A fine fellow. I owe him my life."

"Do tell me about it. He gave me no particulars."

"I was camping out by myself by the river; there was only one bit of beach just where I was. On the opposite side were straight cliffs over a hundred feet in height. And one day a hunted buffalo came right down upon me, crashing through my tent and awakening me from a midday nap. I could not get at my rifle in time, and had to fly. He chased me down to the water's edge. I felt his hot breath on my back, and without a thought plunged into the river to escape him. He did not attempt to follow me, but stood on the bank, stamping and bellowing with fury. And I found pretty soon that I was trapped. I could not swim across, for I could get no foothold the other side; lower down the river were rapids, and there was no landing for miles the upper end. So there I was swimming about, and saw no chance of being released!"

"How dreadful! I wonder you did not get the cramp!"

"I was in the water a pretty long time, and then, as I was at the end of my tether, your friend came on the scene. He had been tracking the buffalo, and put a bullet into him which finished him. I saw the brute drop, but I was so exhausted by my long wait that I couldn't get to shore, so young Dane swam out and towed me in. I should like to see him again. We camped together for a week after that."

"He will be glad to come and see you," said Hope confidently.

She often wished that her father had friends of his own. A few people had called upon them, but had never been asked inside. Mr. St. Clair always said he was not well enough to see visitors.

Then she introduced the topic that was so much in her thoughts.

"Father, would you miss Brian much if he went back to Canada?"

Mr. St. Clair looked genuinely surprised.

"Has he told you he wants to return?" he asked quickly.

"He thinks he would get on better out there, and I expect he would, if we can make up our minds to spare him."

"The question is," said her father slowly, "are you prepared to look after the small boys and stay with me, or will you be wanting to return to your aunt?"

Hope was silent for a moment. In the quietness of her own room the night before, she had seen that Brian's emancipation meant her complete absorption into her father's family. The conflicting claims of aunt and father clashed together, and she seemed unable to decide which claim was to come uppermost. She glanced at her father now; she noted the weary stoop in his shoulders, the nervous, restless hands, and the worn, faded eyes; his hand was leaning heavily on her arm, and his steps as faltering and unsteady as a man ten years his senior. Then she said softly and decidedly:

"I will stay with you, father, as long as you want me."

And she realised, as she said it, that she was renouncing a life of luxury and ease for that of constant anxiety, hard work, and struggle to make both ends meet.

"I must write to Aunt Gertrude and explain it to her," was her inward resolve.

"If that is the case," said Mr. St. Clair, "we can let Brian go. I will have a talk with him to-night. He is a good lad, but a trifle too sedate for his years. When I think of myself at his age, I wonder at him; but he will be better than his father, who is nothing but a failure."

"I won't have you say that," said Hope cheerily. "It is your health that cripples you now, and we are hoping that that will improve."

When they returned home, Hope saw a motor standing outside the gate. Anne met her with a beaming face.

"A gentleman friend of yours, miss," she said, already scenting out romance. "He's in the draw'n'-room, please, and his name is Horrocks."

"It's only Jim, father," said Hope, relief in her tone. "You won't mind him, I am sure; he's a very nice young fellow, and knows Brian and likes him."

"I'll go to my room," her father said irritably; "I don't want your London visitors here, and won't see them. You can send my supper up to me. What does he want here?"

"He has only just called to see me, I expect," said Hope.

And then she went into the drawing-room, feeling her natural pleasure at seeing one of her old friends damped by her father's tone.

Jim Horrocks was seated in her father's easy chair; Jerry and Toby, home from school, were entertaining him.

He sprang up as Hope entered.

"Ah!" he said, as he shook hands with her. "I have been hearing astonishing histories of your ambitious efforts in the domestic line. I'm surprised to see you so like yourself. I expected to find you a Cinderella amongst the cinders."

Hope looked down at her spotlessly clean linen gown, and then up at him with a laugh.

"I'm so glad to see you. You're a bit of such a different life. I hope you have given me a good character, boys!"

Toby grinned.

"We told him what your first cake was like!" he said.

"He's been asking a million questions about you," asserted Jerry eagerly, "and some of them we've answered quite truthfully."

"I wasn't born yesterday, you young ruffian!" said Jim easily. "And I knew Hope long before you did, so have got the advantage of you."

"Go and wash your hands and make yourselves tidy for tea," said Hope.

And as the boys rushed noisily from the room, she turned to meet Jim's gaze fixed critically upon her.

"I'm going to be quite frank," he said. "I am a spy, and a willing one. Your aunt has begged me to look you up and let her know how things are going with you. And I should say, from my informers' remarks, that you have been having a pretty rough time."

"No, not exactly that," replied Hope.

"Aren't you tired of poverty?" said Jim. "You see I'm pretty outspoken. Your aunt is soon returning to town, and she wants to find you there to welcome her."

"Ah!" said Hope, with a quick-drawn breath. "That will never be, I am afraid."

"Your father is not exerting his parental authority to keep you here?"

"No, oh no! I am a free agent, but my place is here, Jim; and for many reasons, though I'm sorry to leave Aunt Gertrude, I'm not sorry to leave society."

"I hate that word 'society,'" said Jim. "What does it mean? You haven't left society, for you can have that here."

"My father will see no one; he refuses to see you, Jim."

"May I say, 'all the better'?"

The door opened, and Anne appeared.

"Please, miss, is the gentleman stoppin' to supper?"

"Of course I am," said Jim promptly, and Anne withdrew giggling.

Hope laughed out her merry laugh of old.

"There!" she said. "Now you see our one treasured domestic. Let us come into the dining-room; you must be longing to have some food if you have motored from town."

Jim Horrocks made the evening meal a very bright one. But busy as his tongue was, his eyes were busier. He saw Hope in a new light, and contrasting her present homely sphere with the brilliant one in town, he came to the conclusion—man-like—that this was where she shone.

Hope looked after her small brothers, ran up and down stairs to her father, then settled the boys to their lessons, and paced round the garden with Jim.

"Brian will be late home to-night," she said to him. "I should like you to wait and see him. He gets so few chances here of talking to any men."

"Hope, you are changed."

Jim said this suddenly.

"Yes," Hope said quietly; "I am, in my interests and aims."

"What has changed you?"

"Religion—God, I will rather say. I see life quite differently now from what I did."

"Is it a passing phase of sentiment?"

"I hope not—I know it is not."

Jim gave a little sigh.

Hope looked at him.

"Oh, Jim, I wish you would read your Bible!"

He gave a little start, then laughed.

"Are you going to preach?"

"Yes, if you will listen for five minutes."

Jim took out his watch and held it in his hand.

"I'm all attention."

Hope plunged into the subject which was now so absorbing to her.

"Canon FitzRoy made me begin to think. Have you begun, Jim? Life is not given to us to fritter away. We shall be held responsible if we do. We believe in God, but we don't believe that we belong to Him, not only because He created us, but because we have been redeemed from the devil's power by Christ's death on the cross. And when we understand this, when we give up ourselves to God's service, and look to Him for guidance and help and strength through our daily life, it makes everything so different. And it gives one peace. Peace about our past sins which are forgiven, and our present life, and our future in the other world. There, Jim, it doesn't take long to tell, but I mean every word of it, and I'm longing that every one I know should have my experience."

Jim Horrocks shook his head slowly at her as she finished speaking.

"I'm sorry, but your words are perfectly meaningless to me. I've heard them before, a thousand times, but they convey nothing to my mind."

Hope's face fell, then she said slowly:

"You'll never understand till you get a craving for peace. And then when it comes, it is just like a new life."

"I never thought," said Jim irrelevantly, "that you would adapt yourself to this kind of life so easily. Why did you always say that you could never face poverty?"

Hope smiled.

"It isn't half bad," she said. "I'm happy enough, except when I think about Aunt Gertrude. She has still a big bit of my heart."

"She is bringing your substitute to town with her."

"Oh, I'm so glad. I hope she is a nice girl. That will interest Aunt Gertrude, I know!"

Jim did not stay to meet Brian; he said he had to start back for town early. His visit did Hope good. She wondered after he had gone why she felt it so much easier to talk to Jim than to Brian, and she wished the latter was a little less reserved and silent. But this evening, when she told him of the conversation she had had with her father, Brian became quite eager and talkative.

"I have a chance of going back the beginning of next month," he said. "I know the captain of an emigrant ship, and he said he would give me a cabin to myself for half-fare. He's an awfully decent chap. You'll be all right with father, won't you? You see, he's ever so much better now. Not half so cranky and queer as he was when we first arrived in England."

"Yes, I think he is taking more interest in things; he talks of fishing. I wish he would take up something like that."

Hope did not let Brian see that her heart sank at the prospect before her. She felt convinced in her own mind that he was best out in Canada, and perhaps his present employment furthered his cause. It was only natural that Hope should feel a great distaste for the position in which he had put himself. Though she honoured him for being willing to take service in a place near his father, so that he should not be an expense to him and at the same time be able to look after him, yet, girl-like, she dreaded her friends meeting her brother in his guise as groom.

Mr. St. Clair talked over everything with his son that night, and Brian went to bed for the first time with a hopeful heart. His spirits rose at once, and for the next few days he seemed like a different being.

Hope got the following note from Jim Horrocks soon after he had left her:

"MY DEAR HOPE,—The spy has reported the land to your good aunt, and I told her my certain conviction that cart-horses would not drag you away at present from your 'sphere of usefulness.' Have you not heard that expression from the lips of 'good' people? You see how apt I am at catching it from them! Well, if I were your father and brothers rolled into one, I would stick to you like a burr! And I have told your aunt so. I also told her I was quite willing to motor down every now and then and report to her your progress. So expect me to arrive any day!

"Yours,

"JIM."

Hope sat down on the strength of this epistle and wrote a long letter to her aunt.

Mrs. Daubeney was not a good correspondent, so Hope was not disappointed at hearing very seldom from her, but this time her letter was answered by return of post.

"MY DEAREST HOPE,—I am returning to town next week. I quite believe all you say, but Brian has no business to transfer his responsibility to you, and tell him from me I shall be extremely angry if he goes back to Canada and leaves you alone. You are not fit to have charge of that household. We shall be having you ill next. I am glad you have the consolation of religion to cheer you, but I do not think that I need it at present. Eva is being much admired, and I am going to take her on a round of visits in the autumn. We go to the Campbells in Scotland about the first week in September, and we are going to be in the hands of the dressmaker whilst we are in town. Give your father my love, and much to yourself. I am glad he is better in health. Your affectionate aunt,—

"GERTRUDE."

Hope mused over this letter with a little sadness in her eyes. She had poured out her heart to her aunt in her last letter, telling her of the change in her inmost soul, and this was the reply.

"Aunt Gertrude does not really miss me, and I ought to feel glad that she does not. It makes it easier for me."

She repeated this assertion over and over to herself, and went about her household tasks with her usual serenity.