Chapter I

A LITTLE love story! This is what I am going to tell.

I hope no one who reads this plain statement of my intentions will be shocked thereat, and close the book as though the subject ought to be tabooed in these pages.

Yet there are people, and good women amongst the number, who so little understand that love, if it be worthy of the name, means beauty and purity, and embraces the very holiest and best in our human nature, that they would banish the word from every story that is written for the young. They would bid an old wife and mother like me lay down her pen and refrain from using it on the sweetest theme that creation can furnish.

Such readers as these would link the idea of love rather with the fallen and sinful state of humanity, forgetting that the first pair of lovers were also the first created of mankind, and were such before sin possessed a name, much less a place in Paradise.

Would the silencing of tongues and the laying down of pens keep young hearts from throbbing, or silence the voice which God Himself has placed in every breast and endowed with eloquence? Far, far better for us older folk to treat the subject with tender reverence, and manifest our loving sympathy with our young ones who are just placing girlish feet on the enchanted ground which we trod in the far-away past.

The subject is, perhaps, the only one which has an interest for people of every nation, age, and condition—which has in it the "touch of Nature that makes the whole world kin." It links the queen and her humblest waiting-damsel. It joins in its mysterious bonds the monarch who can bestow a crown, and the peasant who follows the plough and dreams of the day when he can call a tiny thatched cottage his home, and prepare it as a fitting nest for his village playmate who has just passed him, poising a well-filled pail upon her head. The glimpse of her bright young face and the kindly smile of her brown eyes have put new energy into the toiler, and he resumes his work, albeit a moment before he was watching the lengthening shadows, and longing for the moment when he should unyoke the weary horses and take the homeward way.

No use trying to silence Nature's voice in the breast of the young. It may speak little and shyly. The fair cheek may flush and the head be bent, but thought will be the busier for the very reticence of the tongue. And we old folk, what can we do? If we have nothing but sweet memories of pure joys that were ours in the far-away past, let us at least thank God for these, and give our sympathy to the young. Will not those who have walked in love towards God and each other whilst on earth, look forward to a reunion which shall last whilst eternity endures, with the dear one who has gone before for a little while?

Tell us what kind of life is looked upon as the hardest. Not one of poverty, labour, difficulty, or even of affliction. Poverty and labour are lightened, difficulties smoothed, trials more easily borne with love for a companion. Suffering is almost forgotten when the tender voice of sympathy is heard and the pillow smoothed by affection's hands. Unrest is easier to endure when kind eyes watch beside the sleepless, and become moist with tears because the power to aid falls so far short of the will.

The loveless life is the only really hard life. He who is all Love has shown us that with it we feel rich, but having all beside, we are poor without it.

If parents could but see this, they would realise that they are exercising one of the most delightful of their privileges when sympathising with their children. They live again the days of their own pure young love, in the happiness of their girls and boys.

Once an excellent lady, who was neither wife nor mother, said, "If I could have my way, I would keep every word relating to love out of books and stories for girls."

Ah, dear lady! Then you must take many a passage out of the "Book of books," and begin the excision with the very words of the Creator, "It is not good for man to be alone."

But having indulged in this little introductory preach, I will begin my story.

Mrs. Manning was perplexed. A glance at her comely face was sufficient to show this, for it usually wore such a different expression from the half-puzzled, half-troubled look which now overspread it. Surely worldly matters could not cause the perplexity, for everything around her indicated a fair measure of prosperity, from the handsomely furnished room in which she sat and pondered, to the dainty lace which dropped so softly over her well-shaped wrists.

Mrs. Manning was abundantly satisfied with and thankful for her present position, though during her fifty years of life she had experienced many trials.

Early married, and almost perfectly mated, her first great sorrow came when her husband's death left her a widow, and with five children to care for and start in life. No light charge for a woman to whom anxiety had hitherto been a stranger.

Still, she thought that having experienced such a trial and lived through it, no other blow could inflict a wound worth thinking of; but she had to learn a still harder lesson.

Widows who have children must be brave for their sakes. They must dry the tears, or drive them back and weep only at convenient seasons, and indulge in sweet memories when present work and plans for the future do not demand all their powers. And who does not know that there are sorrows, as well as joys, with which none may intermeddle, not even those of our own households, much less the mere acquaintance or the stranger?

At first, no anxious thought about worldly matters entered into Mrs. Manning's mind. Her husband had been deemed a prosperous man, and she had never been required to count the cost of any reasonable indulgence. His illness had been too short to allow of any conversation on business matters, and when, after his death, these were looked into, all was in order. There was an apparently flourishing concern. There were no debts. Why should not all go on as before?

Just because the clear head was not there to plan, the guiding hand to direct. There was no one to step into that place and keep the well-balanced machinery going. And so the business went down, and it became necessary to wind-up the concern in order to secure a pittance which would just keep mother and children above absolute want.

Years of struggling followed. The widow kept a brave heart, cheered on her children, and the two eldest being boys, these soon began to help, instead of to require assistance.

The worst of the fight was over, when an unexpected ally came forward in the shape of Uncle Edward, her late husband's half-brother. He had always been ready to help, both with his counsel and his purse, and perhaps the more so because the widow never sought the latter kind of assistance.

Uncle Edward was the eldest son of a first marriage, and twenty years the senior of the widow's late husband. Having lost those who were nearest to him, he began to look round amongst his relatives for some who should cheer his lonely fireside, and selected his half-brother's widow and family.

Once more, Mrs. Manning found herself the virtual mistress of a lovely home, and surrounded by all the comforts to which she had been accustomed during her happy married days. Her boys were getting on in the world, and had wives and homes of their own. Her eldest daughter was also married, and though she had not made a good match, as the world estimates marriages, she was happy in her country home, and the true helpmeet of her husband.

Mrs. Manning had felt keenly disappointed when the Rev. Charles Peyton made his appearance and asked for her daughter. But what could she do? The look of happy confidence on his good, true face told her that he did not come to the mother without being pretty well assured of what the daughter would say on the subject. When she put him off for a little while, until she had talked with Mary herself, it was with little hope that the consent now deferred could be finally withheld.

"It would be a great change for you, Mary. Now you have everything provided that heart need desire. And I have always counted on you girls doing so well," said the mother, with a sigh.

Mrs. Manning looked regretfully into Mary's face, flushed with the sweet consciousness of being truly loved by the one whom she would have chosen from all the world.

"Shall I not be doing well, mother?" she asked, very softly. "What higher lot need a woman desire than to be the wife of a good man—one whom she can reverence and look up to?"

"But you will be poor, Mary. And lately you have known nothing of poverty, though you can remember those years of trial when every penny had to be counted. Ah! I thought you would all take warning by that season of adversity! I can hardly bear to look back upon it now."

"I can," said Mary, "and thank God for it. But for having gone through some trouble, how should I be fitted to sympathise with others? That precious time—for it was precious, darling mother, though to you it seems sad as you look back on it—was just my training ground. But for it I should be frightened to share Charles's responsibilities. Mother, dear, do not say No. Charles seems sure of Uncle Edward's consent."

"My dear child, just think how you will live on two hundred a year! How will you make ends meet?"

"Did you ever hear a story of Uncle Edward's, about an old bachelor friend of his, who was inclined to marry?"

"I cannot tell, Mary. Uncle Edward's stories are too frequent for me to know which of them you are alluding to. Go on. I see by your face that the moral of it will be an argument for marrying upon next to nothing a year."

Truly, the rippling smile that crossed the young face was suggestive enough, and Mary lost no time in telling her story.

"He was not quite an old bachelor at the time, but verging on it, and had been very careful and saving. I do not know how much the man had a year, but it was enough to set him considering as to whether what was enough for a single man would suffice for a married one. He tested the matter in this wise. He had a large pie made, and when it was placed on the table, he divided it equally, and surveying one half, said, 'Yes; there would be enough.' Then he cut the halves into quarters, having made the calculation that there might in time be more than two to provide for."

"Very prudent, my dear. What was the result of the second calculation?"

"That it would still do very well; but not contented, he divided the pieces again. Ah, mamma. How shall I tell you? He decided that such a division would not do at all. Placing his arms round the dish, he said, 'Come all to myself,' and from that time relinquished every thought of matrimony."

"Do you call that an argument in favour of your marriage, Mary?" asked the mother, with a hearty laugh.

"Yes, mother; because you have not yet heard the sequel. The man lived a lonely, loveless life; ever adding to his means, saving for those who were but far-away kinsfolk at the best, and whose chief thought was, 'How will the old man's money be divided at last? Into whose lap will the largest share fall, when he can hold it no longer?'"

"He is dead now. He had no kind hand to minister to him in his last days; only paid nurses. No son or daughter to bring their little ones to make his home ring with childish laughter; no wife to mourn for him, or look forward to a meeting in the Better Land. But there are plenty to put on the semblance of grief, and first to squabble over, and then to scatter the money amassed in sheer selfishness, by the man who could not bear the prospect of sharing with others the good things that God had already given him, and determine to work and trust Him for more."

Mrs. Manning's heart was that of a true mother, and she could not look on the sweet girl-face without longing to make the path smooth for her child. But she had set her mind on seeing her girls do well and marry well. She could not endure the thought of all the petty calculations and the incessant contrivances that would be needed by the wife of a poor rector in a country parish. She enumerated, one after another, the probable difficulties which would beset her, and bade her think well before coming to a decision.

When did true love fail to discern a rift in the clouds, or to find at least a promise of sunshine, however heavy the sky might look at the time? The mother's prophecy had no terrors for Mary.

"I have thought," she said, "and I have still so much to learn. But I have never cared for finery, and a worldly life has no attractions for me. I would rather pass my days as the wife of a good man, working with him and for him, than marry well according to the world's estimate. And if I make up my mind to a life of quiet usefulness in God's service, even if it should cost some self-denial, in His strength I shall be sure to succeed. We two, Charles and I, will work together and pray together, for we 'are agreed.'"

No need to tell the issue; and seeing the happiness of her daughter, the mother was fain to be content. Still, in her heart she said, "I must be careful that Katie and Elsie do not follow Mary's example."