Chapter XXVI: An Elopement

"NOW, Milly, my dear," said Mrs. Hayes, when the train stopped at a certain junction, on the return, "I'm getting out here, and you will go on home alone. Take care of my luggage; I've got all I want in my little bag, which stays with me. Tell them I'm coming after you soon, and don't be uneasy. If I don't appear, my will is made, and all straight and right."

"No, indeed, aunt," exclaimed Milly, attempting to jump from the carriage, "it's all crooked and wrong to leave you here. If you stay, so will I."

"Silly child, sit still," cried Mrs. Hayes; "do you think I don't know what I'm doing? It is to be as I say; good-by for a little bit."

"Sit still, please, miss; train's off!" cried the guard, seeing Emily about to step down, notwithstanding her aunt's words.

The whistle sounded, the train started, while Emily sat looking in alarm and astonishment from the carriage window, and the self-reliant old lady stood nodding and smiling on the platform.

"What wilful imprudence!" exclaimed William Taylor, when, amidst the consternation of the family, his daughter told her extraordinary story of dear Aunt Hayes's elopement.

"To think of her rambling about the country alone, and at her age!" said Robert, anxiously. "What can we do?"

"Nothing but wait patiently," said Susan. "Strange as it is, I am bound to say that I never knew Aunt Hayes do a thing that could grieve or trouble anybody without some reason that was to do good, and make all right in the end; we must trust God to take care of her, and wait until she comes or writes to us."

And there seemed nothing else to be done, for no one had the slightest idea of where she could be going, or what she meant to do.

Perhaps the landlord of the "The Crown," at —, felt a little curious and interested when a hearty, brisk old woman, well-dressed, with a great bag on her arm and an umbrella in her hand, stepped in, and asked if she could be accommodated for a night or two.

The landlady came forward, showed a little sitting-room and a bedroom over it, ready in half an hour.

"It will do very well. Now some tea to refresh and rest me, and then your company, if you please, for a little while."

All being complied with, the landlord and his wife were relieved from their stretch of curiosity by the blunt, straightforward old lady, whose plan was laid with the wisdom of the serpent, to get at two sides of her subject, knowing that men and women take somewhat opposite views of the same thing sometimes.

"Do you happen to know a man named Matthew Hill?" said the old lady.

"Matthew Hill? To be sure we do, ma'am."

"Has he any score here against his name?"

"Oh no, ma'am, nor ever had; he always paid for what he got," said the landlord.

"One can't say that much for his wife, though, you know," said the landlady. "There's something down against her to this day."

"Why didn't you send the bill to her husband?" asked the visitor.

"Well, you see, ma'am, it was a sad business, all that about Mr. and Mrs. Hill; a nicer, better-hearted young fellow never walked than he was, but somehow his wife—"

"He didn't ought to have run away from them, though," put in the landlady, strongly.

"Well, no, in course not, but let me tell the lady. Poor fellow, many's the time he's come in here and sat down with a great sigh fit to burst his heart, and though he said nothing, I knew what it was; for his missis, though she were a smart girl enough, had a horrid temper of her own, and used to say ugly things and try to sneer him down like; and who'll stand that, I'd like to know, when there's a comfortable seat in the bar-parlour, without any crabbed tempers to bother a man's mind when he's tired? So poor Hill came and sat here now and then, and he did take a glass or so, and once or twice it was too much for him."

"What sent him to the hospital?" asked the visitor.

"Just nothing but her tempers. He got a drop too much, as the saying is, one wet night. I remember it very well; he came in with a miserable face, and said the missis was all upset with a brick that came down the chimney, and there wasn't a place to stand or sit in, nor no way to please or help her. And two or three fellows were here talking and drinking and singing, and Matthew, he stayed late, and she let him lie soaked in wet clothes on the floor all night, and then she wouldn't tend him nor nothing. But there's a good lady near by who can tell you more about that than we can."

"It was rheumatic fever," said the landlady, "and Mrs. Oakland, she meddled, they did say, and sent him to the infirmary, and he never came home any more, though he did send money to keep them all comfortable. Then, poor thing, she went wrong, and got drink, and at last killed herself with it."

"Ay, and killed two of her children with neglect first, though," interrupted the landlord. "And, wife, don't forget how he came back and nursed her through a long illness, and wouldn't let her go to the asylum, poor fellow. I was right sorry for him, so I was, and I never had the heart to send him any bill of what his wife had run up here. She was a vixen if ever there was such a thing, begging the lady's pardon," concluded the landlord.

Here was general report, but something more of the inner life was needful.

And at breakfast-time the next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Field were surprised by a visit from the same old lady, escorted by the landlady of "The Crown" to their door.

Similar questions were put, but Benjamin and Ellen were not so communicative as the innkeeper had been.

"I am not authorised, madam," said Benjamin, respectfully, "to speak of my friend's private and family affairs to strangers."

"To whose disadvantage would they tell?" asked the visitor.

"Not to Matthew's, according to my thinking," said Mr. Field; "and I believe my wife agrees with me."

Ellen cordially assented.

The old lady placed her hand on the head of their eldest girl.

"Listen," said she; "if you had a daughter whom Matthew desired for his wife, would you, Christian parents as I have heard you are, give her to him without fear for her happiness?"

"Yes, we would," said both. "God has dealt with him heart and soul, and we could trust His work; but nothing else—no pledges, no resolutions, no promises—will bind so as to put away all fear of a relapse. God only can cure that leprosy."

Then good Mrs. Hayes and Mr. Field understood one another, and mutual confidences followed, and the whole sad story from beginning to end was told with feeling by husband and wife.

Still, something of the earlier habits and characters might be learned; and behold Mrs. Hayes and Mrs. Oakland in close confidential talk.

Here the real temper of the wife was but too well-known, and the first fall of the husband was traced out. Mrs. Oakland, too, had visited the family throughout their troubles, and witnessed his true penitence and anguish during Jane's last illness.

"Yes," concluded she, "I would trust Matthew now; his was genuine conversion by the Spirit of God, I do believe. Mrs. Hayes, if I might see the young woman to whom he has become attached, perhaps I could meet all her objections, and show her that one so hardly and so deeply tried is worthy of her love now."

"Did you ever see him intoxicated?" asked Mrs. Hayes.

"No, never. But the first time it ever happened was when went to buy a horse for some friend at a fair. He was young, thoughtless, and perhaps a little self-sufficient, and over the bargain the dealers made him drink. He came home ill, and being in my district, and known to my family from a boy, I felt great interest in him, and he always listened to my advice. He afterwards went on steadily and well, and was highly valued as a most skilful workman, and I own I was grieved and vexed that he fixed his affections on my servant. I feared she would not make him happy, but I did my best to help her, and warn her of her dangers. The state of things became worse than I had feared, and—you know all that followed."

"Lady," said Mrs. Hayes, "if it should ever be wished, do you still feel sufficient interest in Matthew Hill to take a journey in his behalf, and say to a young woman whose affection would be a greater blessing to him than I have power to tell, what you have said to me?"

"Indeed I would do it if you ask me, or even unasked. Few things could give me greater pleasure than to see him once more blessed with a happy home. He is quite a young man still, not more than thirty, and the prospect is dreary for him and his boy without home interests and affections."

"So it is, dear lady; but then, he allowed the faults of another to become causes of his own; and though man takes up with such excuses, our Lord does not. It's the old story from the beginning, and right principle and manly feeling are against it. Yes, Matthew should suffer, only if we can shorten his trial, we will."

At the end of the third day from her disappearance Mrs. Hayes, hale and hearty, walked into her nephew's house to tea.

But not for the younger inquisitors was the history of her adventures, and they had to be content with their curiosity.

But to Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, and Robert and Emily, she told by the fireside that evening how she had been interested in the character and history of a person she had heard of, and had been to visit his friends. Then she began with the horse-dealers at the fair, and traced Matthew Hill through all his troubles and sufferings down to the present time, naming no names, but soon understood by her hearers.

Then Milly stole out of the room, and was seen no more until Mrs. Hayes went to bed, when, her fair face laid upon the old lady's shoulder, she whispered her thanks for all she had done, and entreated very earnestly that the subject might now rest, and be no more mentioned in the family.

"You are not satisfied yet, darling?"

"No, not yet," said Emily.

So the subject was not named again, and Emily became bright and cheerful as usual, and Matthew Hill having fully satisfied himself that he should never again enjoy a home of his own, and might as well bask in the sunshine of his friend's happiness while he could, gradually resumed his visits, seeing no reason to debar himself the society of the only woman who could make home for him anywhere while she was entirely free from preferences for any other. When that time came, he thought would be soon enough to retreat into solitude.

He had too true a sense of his own dignity to become a hanger-on, or a persecutor of the gentle girl, and his attention to her was merely that of a respectful friend. Josy, however, made no scruple of constant demonstration of the most loving devotion, and Emily became his instructress in many useful pleasant ways during her residence at home.

Mrs. Hayes looked on quietly. Her darling Milly was quite herself again in health and spirits, and if really and truly she had cast her lot for that gratifying obituary at the hand of some member of Mr. Dixon's family, why, who should hinder her? Doubtless all would be well; and Milly must be useful and beloved wherever and with whomsoever she walked the pilgrimage of life.

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