Chapter XXV: Trying Consequences

MRS. TAYLOR and her son kindly interested themselves in choosing suitable lodgings for Matthew Hill and his little boy, when, all arrangements being made, the house given up, the furniture sold, his services permanently engaged by his new employers, Mr. Hill wished to settle in their neighbourhood.

A respectable widow with one little grand-daughter formed the household, and cheerfully undertook the charge of the boy in his father's absence. Then a school was fixed upon, and between school duties, visits to Mrs. Taylor, and games of play with the little pet grandchild, poor Josy found plenty to do and to enjoy. The sadness soon left his bright little face, good cheer and exercise soon strengthened his body, and Josy became as much admired and courted as any father's heart could wish.

But it was by very slow degrees that Matthew himself was recovering either in body or mind from the effects of the deep sorrows he had passed through. His happiest times were spent with Robert and his family at their peaceful fireside, where sympathy, and kindness, and cheerful conversation were sure to be had, and he and Josy as regularly shared it on a Sunday as the happy day came round.

Matthew felt the sweetness and healthfulness of the atmosphere, and his child profited by the teachings of the young members of the family as they read and talked with him over their books and pictures.

Mrs. Hayes had returned to her country home, but this time she seemed to have left a larger piece of her heart than usual behind her, and if spared, she promised to visit William and Susan again after a shorter interval.

She did not leave, however, before an event occurred which interested all the party very warmly, and she was prevailed on to wait for it.

There was a crowded church, and pathways strewed with flowers and hedged with garlanded school children, bands of workmen with white favours, dinners and teas and wedding-cakes, and other significant doings. It was the marriage of Mr. Archibald Dixon and Miss Eaton.

When the young couple came out from the church, Mr. Archy looked round for Robert Taylor. He stood by his father, at the head of the whole body of the men engaged in their extensive and flourishing works. A tremendous cheer burst forth as the young couple appeared, every hat was raised, and the white favours flourished in the air, while the foreman and his son stepped forward, the one bearing a beautiful little address, and the other an elegant Bible, in their hands.

"From your workmen, sir," said William Taylor, briefly.

The young pair were deeply touched, and could not speak their thanks. Mr. Dixon, senior, advanced to the rescue, though scarcely less overcome.

"We will all come and thank you in the tent," said he. "Pardon us now; you have overpowered us with this beautiful surprise. God bless you all, my men."

The bride recovered her voice by a great effort, sufficiently to say to Robert as she put out her hand, "We must be friends, Mr. Taylor, for my own sake as well as Archy's."

And then bride and bridegroom, Bible and address, drove away together to the hall, where all sorts of hospitalities and rejoicings were prepared for guests of all ranks and ages.

After this, people and things seemed to subside quietly into their places, and nearly two years passed peacefully away. Even two years will leave marks, and some left by these were noteworthy.

Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, senior, feeling that working days should be over for them, so far as the cares and exertions of business were concerned, left home with their daughter for a long foreign tour, and the services of Emily Taylor not being required for the young people, she was to spend a long holiday among her friends, doing only some needlework at her own convenience and pleasure.

It was joy to them all to have her at home, and when her young brother and sister clung fondly to her, little Josy would stand before them, and wish dear Milly had three arms instead of only two, that he might get a place like theirs.

"Come, Josy, put your arms round my neck and hold fast till these saucy rogues choose to give way," cried Milly, laughing and shaking the big ones off.

Josy did as he was bid, and held on pretty firmly, while all made a romp of it, and amidst shouts of laughter and fun, Milly was near being carried round the room as their queen.

"There, that's enough," said she, merrily; "mother will think we are all run wild. We'll have another game some other day."

"She's the very nicest playfellow in the world," shouted Josy; "and I love her more than anybody, except my father."

Robert Taylor and Matthew stood behind; they had just come in and heard the speech. Milly coloured very much, sprang up, and hurried away to smoothe her ruffled hair.

On no one more visibly than on Matthew Hill had those two years left their mark. He was now beginning to look like his former self, ere sin and sickness had robbed his cheek of its bloom and his form of its strength. The traces of both had vanished, the sadness was now departing also, and a peaceful heart and conscience, quiet living, kind friends, intelligent study, and regular industry, had combined to do wonders for the homeless man—for homeless he still was, according to his own notions of home. But he forgot even that in Robert's home.

On this special evening, every one remarked the immense improvement, and everybody enjoyed his society almost as much as his affectionate little son seemed to do.

This lasted for two or three weeks after Milly's return, and Matthew had certainly become quite a different person from the dejected, crushed being who came among them in, mourning and woe.

But he was restless and anxious too, and to his own surprise an opportunity hurried him on to risk a whole life's happiness on a little passing moment.

Robert, Matthew, and Emily were coming out of church, and as Milly usually walked home with her brother, the rest of her family were some distance off.

Mr. Archibald called Robert back to speak to him about the Sunday school. Robert disappeared, merely saying he should soon overtake them, so Matthew and Emily walked side by side.

It was vain to try and talk about indifferent things, and so with a beating heart, Matthew ventured to remind his companion of little Josy's expression of his love for her, which he had overheard, and asked permission to offer her an affection which could have no exception in all the world.

Emily was startled and distressed.

"Do not answer me now," said Matthew; "say only you will think of it."

"No, no, Mr. Hill," said Milly, much agitated; "I must answer you now. It is impossible; please think no more of it, of me. Oh, why did you ever do it? Indeed, I am so sorry, so grieved to—to—distress you."

"Oh, it is right. I know it is right. I was very foolish to think of it, but I could not help it. Say you excuse and forgive me; and oh, do not cast off my child, who loves you so dearly."

"No, never," said Milly, firmly.

"God bless you," said Matthew, and he left her as soon as they reached her father's door.

And so ended his dream, so crumbled his castle, which he had been lighting up with the love and blessedness of home. And the sadness again crept over his face, and he felt that he had been undeserving of the blessing he sought.

Poor Emily, in a state of troubled agitation, went to her room, knelt down at her bedside, and shed abundance of tears.

When it was found that Matthew came no more to the house, Robert took alarm, and found him sitting with his Bible alone in his lodging. Matthew was too transparent and honest to keep back the truth, and he told Robert what he had done, and the result.

"I know it was weak and presumptuous," said he; "I have no right to expect ever to be trusted again; and now I shall never ask it of another. You won't ask me to come at present, but by-and-by God will help me, and I shall be myself again—a better self, I hope, for the great humbling and bitter disappointment."

Robert was strongly moved. But for one thing, he had never known any man he would so gladly see united to his sister; and that one thing had doubtless influenced Milly also.

"Well, Susan," said Mr. Taylor, merrily, one evening, "Mr. Archibald has taken it into his head that I must have a holiday. We are a little slack just now for a while, and so, as it would be no holiday to me without you, what do you say to a trip to see Aunt Hayes? Suppose we surprise her?"

"With all my heart," said his wife; "and I propose that we double our welcome by taking Milly." The mother had watched her child, and she saw that something had touched the brightness and beauty of life to her; she thought it must be more than the rejection of even a good man's regard.

"Would you like to go, Milly?"

"Oh, yes, mother," she eagerly replied, "so very much; of all things it is just what I wished." And she thought how Mr. Hill could come and spend his evenings with Robert again, and it would be so pleasant for them both.

So leaving the younger ones to manage Robert and the house, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor and Milly set off on their journey.

Aunt Hayes's sharp eyes soon detected a change in her darling, and she could not rest until she got to the cause of it.

Susan told her what had occurred, and at the end of her visit agreed to leave Milly on condition that she would bring her home and stay a long time with them.

"Come here, darling," said Aunt Hayes, "and tell me something I want to know." And putting her arm round her niece, and resting her head on her shoulder, she went on, "We two love each other, and if something is wrong with one the other feels it too, even though she doesn't know what it is. Isn't it so?"

"Yes, dear aunt; but indeed there's nothing wrong with me?"

"Are you quite sure you have done right before God, dear Milly?"

"I think—I hope so," said Milly, in surprise.

"Tell me what you expect and wish for in a husband, Milly?"

"Nothing at all," said Milly, quickly. "I shall stay in service, aunty, and some day, years hence, you know, there will be a little notice in the paper, 'Died, after thirty or forty years of faithful service, Emily Taylor, the valued friend and servant of the family of A. Dixon, Esq.' Won't that be nice? One likes to see such things now and then."

"Very nice, if nothing better can be had," said Aunt Hayes, dryly.

"What can be better?" said Milly. "I honour such servants."

"So do I, always granting that wise, good reasons have made them decline higher responsibilities and more important duties."

A dead silence. Then Mrs. Hayes began again, "Milly, my darling, when an honourable man, a true Christian man, offers the treasure of an honest, loving heart, should not the woman who rejects it be able to give a reason for so doing?"

"Yes, of course, aunt."

"Suppose, added to the Christian character, there are sufficient means to justify the offer, very pleasant manners, a manly, handsome person, an intelligent mind; in short, just such a person as—Who, Milly?"

"As Mr. Hill," said Emily. "I grant it all, aunt."

"And you cannot love such an one, Milly?"

"I did not say that," murmured Emily, in her aunt's ear. "I could love him, but I dare not, and I will not," and she pressed the kind arm that held her in token of a strong resolve.

"We are getting at it," thought the old lady; "I suspected how it was."

"You dare not, you will not, my child; and why?"

"Because—oh, aunt, must I say it?" And Emily raised her head from her aunt's bosom, her eyes bright, her cheek flushed, her lips quivering with strong feeling—"because I must thoroughly and entirely respect my husband, and no one must have reason to do otherwise. I cannot feel this of Mr. Hill. There are those who have seen him disgraced by—by—oh, how dreadful to think of such a thing about 'him'—by drink! He told Robert all about it, and Robert told us, because when he first came and was ill, he desired that no one should think better of him than he deserved. And he said he had forsaken his wife and children, and had been very ill in some hospital through drunkenness. Aunt, if he were as good as an angel now, I could not marry a man who has so debased himself."

Aunt Hayes clasped the dear speaker closer, with a fonder love than ever. But she said nothing. What could she say?

When Mrs. Hayes had nothing to say to any human ear on a point of interest and importance, she always spoke to God. So there was another long silence, and poor Milly gathered strength and confidence in those kind arms.

"One question, Milly, and we will speak no more of this. Does your father, does Robert, know anything of the circumstances of Mr. Hill's past life from any one but himself?"

"No, I believe not, aunt, though he gave Robert the names of some people who knew him, in case Robert chose to inquire about him. Some lady named Oakland, and a Mr. Benjamin Field—a reformed drunkard too. What an associate!" And Milly felt a little shudder pass over her.

"Child, learn charity," said Mrs. Hayes. "The grace of God can change a drunkard into a prince with God, a 'joint heir with Christ.' Nothing else can, and what are we that dare to speak unforgivingly of those He has taken to His bosom and throne?"