Chapter IV

MISS CHATTERTON was duly regaled with five o'clock tea, and having relieved herself of quite a budget of small talk, which she deemed anything but small, went away with the impression that she had never found Mrs. Manning so good a listener. If she had but known how often the mother's mind wandered to the subject uppermost upon it, and how unconscious she was of much that her visitor said, she might not have deemed her comparative silence so complimentary. But most of Miss Chatterton's acquaintances knew that her happiness would be, to a large extent, secured by being permitted to monopolise the greater portion of the conversation; her interest was not confined to young people, but was of an all-embracing character.

Some one lately made the remark in my hearing, "It is a great thing when a person learns to recognise his neighbour's right to an independent existence."

Miss Chatterton had lived to be sixty years old without doing this, but thought her neighbours, each and all, should recognise her right to put her finger into every social pie in Rathbury and its neighbourhood. Her last words on this occasion had struck painfully on Mrs. Manning's ear.

She had been communicating a piece of most interesting intelligence, as she considered it, and was delighted to think that she was the first to do so.

"Mr. Beckett Mitchelson is really coming home to Rathlands. You know all about him, of course. He is the largest landowner hereabouts, and his three years' absence has been greatly felt. It has seemed a shame for a place like Rathlands Park to be shut up, but, all things considered, who could wonder? He had been only six months married, and was out riding with his wife—a lovely creature, not unlike Miss Elsie—when her horse took fright. Mrs. Mitchelson was thrown, pitched on her head, and, though not killed on the spot, she never spoke again. I shall never forget that day. The affair cast a gloom over all Rathbury, and the poor husband was nearly wild with grief. He went away as soon as possible, and has not been near the place since."

"Even the most devoted husband cannot grieve for ever, and three years is a good while. Now Mr. Mitchelson is coming back, and bringing a party of friends with him. Let us hope he may find another fair bride to comfort him. I was just thinking what a chance it would be for one of your charming girls. Only—" and here Miss Chatterton became confidential and particularly distinct—"you must mind that handsome Mr. Gilmour does not steal a march on you. You must wish such charming and accomplished girls to settle well. And really it would be a sad mistake if—"

Mrs. Manning could listen no longer. In her own inmost heart she might be ambitious and build castles for her children to inhabit, but to hear such allusions as these was more than she could endure.

"Excuse me, Miss Chatterton," she said, with heightening colour, "I would rather that you would leave my daughters out of any speculations you may enter into respecting Mr. Mitchelson's future. As to Mr. Gilmour, I can only say that he comes here as my brother-in-law's guest and friend."

"Everybody's friend, I should think, and a most estimable young man. Please do not suppose I wish to underrate Mr. Gilmour. Dear me! I had no idea my call had been such a long one, but time passes so quickly in pleasant society, and between neighbours ceremonious visits are not half so enjoyable as these informal ones, when we do not feel compelled to count minutes."

Then Miss Chatterton bustled away, and Mrs. Manning, self-reproached, because her visitor's talk had touched a jarring chord, and angry that this local gossip should dare to speak about her daughter's chances, hastened to her room to seek relief and comfort in the only sure way.

The "little talk" had been far from satisfactory, and the mother doubted whether it would not have been better to say nothing, and let matters take their course without interference from her.

Yes. There was one good thing connected with that conversation—Elsie's appeal, "Trust me, dear; you shall owe no sorrow to me."

And then the mother went down on her knees, and prayed that her words, if even they had not been wisely spoken, might be overruled for good, and that God would undertake for these, her dear children, in the future as He had done in the past.

Elsie, too, was in her own room, to which she had hurried when she escaped a meeting with Miss Chatterton by means of the convenient window.

Surely no girl's face had ever undergone a greater change in so short a time as had hers. The sweet, shy look, the mischief-loving expression, the one which conveyed a whole wealth of affection as it was turned towards her mother—each and all were gone. Instead of these was one of unnatural thoughtfulness, as if the child were trying to solve some unsatisfactory problem.

"You and Katie." Mrs. Manning had coupled the names, as if they stood in exactly the same position to Mr. Gilmour, and were, as she put it, equally in danger. Could she, Elsie, have made a great mistake? Could she really have done anything unmaidenly? Had she given Douglass Gilmour cause to think she sought him, followed him, or was putting herself more forward than was becoming a pure-minded girl?

Even to imagine the possibility of such a construction made the girl's cheek flush and flame. Yet her mother, her darling, tender, indulgent mother, had thought it necessary to speak to her. She must have done something to call forth words such as had never been addressed to her before. She had laughed at and thought lightly of them at first, but now the memory was a pain.

Elsie looked back over the three happy months of their acquaintance with Douglass Gilmour, and, as she did so, made a severe comparison between his conduct towards herself and Katie. After all, how brotherly he had been to both of them! Each had been enlisted to help in some branch of work; each was accustomed to consult him, and be consulted about it. If he showed a kindness to one, he did the same to the other. And yet it had seemed to Elsie that there was a subtle, indefinable something in Douglass Gilmour's manner towards herself that had never been manifested towards Katie. Or she had thought so. Had she made the terrible mistake of giving what had not been asked for?

Just at this moment, when the girl was catechising herself in the most unsparing fashion, in came Katie, bright and bonny, panting a little with hurrying upstairs to dress for dinner.

"Elsie, you are ready. Give me a little help, like a darling, as you are; for I am late. I met Mr. Gilmour in Rathbury. He had been visiting some poor people in my district this morning, and wanted to give me a hint or two before leaving home for a time. What a good man he is! And how the poor love him! He is quite one of my heroes."

Elsie could have said, "He is my one hero," but she said nothing, only listened, with just a little further sinking of the heart, to the praises which poured from the lips of her sister in no stinted measure. She rendered the little help required by Katie, thinking the while that it was no wonder her sister was enthusiastic; no wonder if she, too, had yielded to the charm of such a noble life, and learned to place him first in her esteem.

They went downstairs together, and Elsie did her best to hide the wounds she had received during the probing process she had gone through.

Begun by her mother, continued by herself, the climax had been reached when she had listened to Katie. Before Elsie reached the dining-room she had made up her mind that these past happy visions were but a baseless fabric after all, and that she had committed a grievous mistake, which she must correct as best she might.

Well, if Douglass Gilmour's affections were given to Katie, and hers to him, she would at least strive to be unselfish. Neither by word nor deed would she betray to others how great a mistake she had made; but she would pray to be made contented and useful too, and, though she was quite sure that the highest happiness was not within her reach, she would strive to be satisfied with what was left her.

At nineteen, if one's happy dreams have been rudely broken in upon, we make up our minds that the future has little left for us, and that we shall never even dream again. There may be comfort in self-sacrifice—a possible life of usefulness; but reconstruct a shattered idol, or place another on the vacant pedestal—never!