Chapter XXVI: Sarah's Confession

JOHN had other and more satisfactory passages at this time at the Manor House than that jotted down in the foregoing chapter. And he had time for a good many conversations, private and confidential, or otherwise, as the case might be, seeing that his visit was prolonged day after day while waiting Walter's pleasure to return.

The truth is, old Matthew Wilson had gone away from his conference with Tincroft very considerably puzzled. Like all crafty and designing people, he suspected everybody with whom he had to do of being crafty and designing; and that John was disinterested in his kindness to Walter never entered his thoughts.

"He knows more than he chooses to tell," the close-fisted, money-loving man argued. "He has found out that Walter has got money, and he means to have as much of it as he can get; and 'tis my duty to take care that he doesn't get it. At all events, if it is worth his while to keep Walter and his girl at free quarters, it would be worth my while."

Saying this to himself at first, and afterwards to his dame, increased kindness was, for a little while, shown to the invalid, who, in the first flush of the above evanescent conclusions, was so strongly urged to prolong his stay at Low Beech, that he consented, the more readily, perhaps, that the air of his native place seemed to infuse a little fresh strength into him.

John, all this while, was pleasantly enough occupied at the Manor House, contenting himself with occasionally looking in at the farm, to keep up the friendly intercourse which had been asked for. Tom and he were often together now; and in the fulness of his heart-gladness, John spoke of the new-found joy of his home.

"I always knew I was better off than I ever deserved to be, Tom; but I didn't know till of late what a treasure I had always had in my possession." It was in this way John put it. "You know, my dear fellow," said he, "I was never like other young men—you, for instance. I had never known anything of the pleasures of home and domestic life, so no wonder I went blundering on. At least, that's the only excuse I can make for myself. And then, you see, without intending it, what mischief I got into! And I can't help feeling every day, that if I had been made to smart ever so much for my folly, it would have been no more than deserved. And instead of that, Tom, only think what a blessing I have had all along, and without knowing, too—that is, without knowing its full value. If it hadn't been for my stupidity, I should have found it out years and years ago, I am sure. But if it hadn't been for dear Sarah herself, I shouldn't have known it even now."

"And think!" exclaimed John, as his admiring and amused former college chum listened with praiseworthy gravity, thinking within himself that some people's simplicity is greatly to be set above all the maxims of worldly wit and wisdom ever enunciated. "Think, dear Tom, what a happiness it is to me now to see that everything has turned out for the best, not to me only; I hope I am not quite so selfish as to think only of myself, but to others as well; and how things have been so brought about as that Walter and Sarah and I are such friends."

"It puts me in mind," John went on enthusiastically, "of one of the hymns in good old Mrs. Barry's hymn-book, 'Dr. Rippon's Selection,' you remember, that you sometimes laugh at me about."

"Do I, John? I am very sorry I ever did; but I never will laugh at you again," said Tom, who was moved by John's earnestness, so as almost to reverence him for his humble piety.

"Oh, that's nothing, Tom. I never minded your laughing, dear friend. I do many things that are fit only to be laughed at, I know. But that hymn, I often think of it, Tom. It begins—"

"Through all the various shifting scene
Of life's mistaken ill or good,
Thy hand, O God, conducts unseen
The beautiful vicissitude."

"And then there's another—"

"Thy ways, O Lord, with wise design,
Are framed upon Thy throne above,
And every dark and bending line.
Meets in the centre of Thy love."

"So beautiful because so true," added John.

"You seem to have got them by heart, dear John," said Tom.

"Yes," said John, quietly, "a good many of the hymns I have. The fact is, I have got good old Mrs. Barry's hymn-book. She left it me as a legacy when she died, about six years ago. She thought of me as poor little Josiah Tincroft's only child, the last of the Tincrofts, she said, and told her son (the college scout, you remember) to send it to me, with her love, which he did."

In her father's absence, the young Helen was passing away the time pleasantly enough at Tincroft House; the only drawback she experienced was her anxiety on account of his health, and this was partly modified and allayed by the encouraging hopes that had been held out to her by her very kind host and hostess.

There were times, indeed, when the memory of her recent loss cast an additional shade over her young life at this time; but it was not an entirely dark shade; for dearly as she had loved, and still loved her mother, the cloud had a silver lining—there was hope, nay, even certainty and glory behind it. Her darling, departed mother was "not lost," no, not lost, only "gone before."

"I don't know how those who have no hope sorrow when they mourn for the dead," said Helen one day to her friend Mrs. Tincroft. "But I know what a blessed thing it is to feel sure that those who 'sleep in Jesus' are safe and happy; and we have only to be followers of them to meet with them again—in another and better world, dear."

The two ladies were in Helen's pretty room when the serious and confidential talk occurred of which this formed a part. The room was quite fit to be called a lady's bower now; for by Sarah's undiminished attentions, with an occasional unloosing of John's purse-strings, all manner of pretty feminine ornaments—useful and useless—had found their way into it. As I have said, it was a pleasant room, with a southern aspect, and by day the sun shone into it cheerily, sufficiently screened by the Venetian verandah without, while the pretty flower garden below had begun to put on a very lovely aspect, with promise of other and more gorgeous hues as the summer advanced.

I do not know what led Sarah and Helen to the strain of conversation just noted. It might be the revival of vegetation after the winter sleep of nature; or perhaps Helen's reminiscences had wandered back to the far-off land where her mother lay buried. But I know that her simple observation was to be like the little mustard seed, "the smallest of all seeds," which when cast into the ground grows, and "when it is grown is the greatest among herbs."

And I may remark that Sarah and Helen, notwithstanding the difference in their ages, were extremely well suited to each other in pleasant companionship. At first, strange as it may seem, the woman of forty had felt as though she must stand a little in awe of the girl of fifteen; but she soon discovered that this fear was groundless.

In this respect Helen's unacquaintance with what are called the accomplishments of modern education was an advantage to her; for she could not, even accidentally and unintentionally, place herself, or seem to be placed, in this respect, on higher ground than her hostess.

And then her charming simplicity, combined with natural good breeding, was perfectly enrapturing to Mrs. Tincroft, who, I am afraid, had not met with much of either of these desirable commodities in the few female acquaintances she had ever known or made.

On the other hand, Helen was equally pleased with Sarah. It is no reflection on the present condition Of society in Australian towns to say that a good many years ago there was little in the female portion of it, any more than in the male, to give an idea of high polish. Perhaps what was missing in this kind of varnish was gained in sincerity. But of this, I am not at all sure; and let this be as it may, the young Helen had had so little experience of anything above the rough and homely manners of life in the bush, that she was unconscious of the little defects in her hostess which I have rather hinted at than described. All this would have gone for but little, however, if the overflowings of Sarah's kindly maternal, or otherwise better, instincts had not positively overwhelmed the motherless girl with a sense of grateful obligation. No wonder, therefore, that the two were, almost from the first, mutually pleased with each other, and that, before long, strong affection sprang up between them.

What added to this hidden sympathy between the matron and the maiden was the fact that both of them were nice quiet listeners. For instance, Mrs. Tincroft could sit for hours—if Helen had chosen to have all the talk to herself for so long—hearing of the child-woman's life in the bush, and of the strange adventures connected with bush life in general.

And especially poor dear Sarah was never tired of being told, again and again, of that passage of arms (traditionally as far as the narratress was concerned) in which her father came to the rescue of her mother, and which led, to their after acquaintance. It was with thrilling interest—(if such a hackneyed expression may be used here, but in this case, it being an appropriate expression, it may, I hope, be used)—it was with thrilling interest, then, that Sarah listened, with all her ears, as we sometimes say, to the account given by Helen of her mother's bravery and presence of mind.

"I never could have done such a thing as that—never," said she, half laughing and half crying, when she first heard the story. "To think of firing off a pistol—and at a man, too! Oh, tell it me again, dear."

So, as I have said, Sarah heard the story over and over again, much as I have told it, and about poor Styles; and then her own father came in for a full share of eulogy, of course. And here again Sarah's feelings almost overpowered her, as she cried out—

"I am prouder of my cousin than ever I was—dear Walter! And I am so glad—so glad—oh, so glad that he found such a dear precious wife as your mother was to him, darling Helen. And, oh, if you could but know how I do love you!"

And then came mutual embracings, and a little tear-shedding, before they could settle down quietly again.

I have briefly described what happened at one particular time. But the same feelings were stirred, and almost to the same excess, whenever the story was retold. And I think it requires a subtler psychologist than the present writer to analyse the state of Sarah's mind at those times.

Helen's talk was often of her mother, of course. And here her heart went with all she said when she described her home piety, her loving disposition, her gentle manners, and the general happiness she diffused around her. It might be on one of these occasions that the weeping child gave utterance to her faith and hope in the Gospel, and spoke of the comfort she derived from it.

And so the time passed away pleasantly, as I have said, during the absence of the master of Tincroft House and his friend Walter—the more so that the two ladies received letters, by every other day's post, from the absentees, giving tolerably good accounts of themselves. They were not alarmed, nor greatly concerned, therefore, when the proposed few days of absence were extended to considerably more than a month.

Of course, in all this time, Helen's bower did not monopolise all the attention of either herself or her hostess. The commonplaces of everyday life had to receive their share of attention, and, to the extreme delight of Sarah, she found an able coadjutor (or trix) in the young Helen. Wonderful was the maiden's skill in concocting rich soups and stews, though (to Jane's horror) she laughingly regretted that the best possible foundation for these dishes, namely, a kangaroo's tail, could not be obtained in England for love or money, she supposed.

And then the two loving companions took many a quiet walk into the country around Tincroft House, which was now putting on its early summer beauty. To Helen this was all new; for nothing can be much more distinctly different than the appearances of nature in the two hemispheres. And the enthusiastic delight of the young Australian in her first acquaintance with English country scenery was so contagious, that I question if Sarah had ever before understood or appreciated how much beauty can be discovered in a blade of grass, a wayside flower, or a budding twig of hazel.

On one of these pleasant excursions, in an outburst of confidence, Sarah broke the ice of reserve under which was concealed one of the few secrets which she had kept back from Helen. It cost her some confusion of face, perhaps, if not of mind, to make the confession, which, indeed, sprang out of an innocent question put by Helen.

"Did you and my father know much of one another before he left England?" the simple-hearted girl asked, as she and Mrs. Tincroft sat under the fresh green foliage of a widespreading beech tree, which, like themselves, was rejoicing in the midday sunshine.

"Yes, my dear; we were cousins, you know, then, just as we are now. And we lived near one another, as I have told you. Didn't he ever say anything about—about old times—and me, to your mother, do you think?"

"Not that I ever heard of, dear; only about your being his cousin. But he didn't often talk about England, I think; for I remember my mother telling me, not very long ago—for it was just before my little baby brother was born—that she knew very little about father's relations."

"Ah, I daresay he was so happy then, dear Helen, that he did not care to remember that he hadn't always been happy. And, dear me! I can't think how it ever turned out that he could ever have thought of coming back, and of living in the same house and home with his naughty cousin."

"What do you mean, dear? You are not sorry we came back, and are living with you and Mr. Tincroft, are you?" asked Helen, in some consternation.

"Oh no, no; I am so glad, so very glad. It is so good of him, and of you too, my dear. I never was so happy in all my life as I am now," said Sarah.

And then there was a renewal of embracing, and more kisses, and a few tears, all of which, though very pleasant to the young girl, at least as far as the embraces and kisses went, slightly puzzled her; and the tears—what did they mean? And what did her dear friend mean by calling herself her father's "naughty cousin"?

"I made your father very unhappy once," continued Sarah, presently, in a whisper, when they had settled themselves down again quietly on the grassy bank under the beech tree. "It was I that drove him away from his home, I am afraid, dear Helen."

"Dear! Dear! So good and kind as you are! How could you?"

"I am afraid I used him badly, my dear, without intending; but I was young and thoughtless, and liked to have my games, as silly children do. You know, or you don't know, but I may tell you now, we were engaged to be married, my cousin Walter and I, and should have been, no doubt, only I was so foolish as to make-believe that I was pleased to have another—another lover coming after me. I did not think what I was doing, and I didn't mean anything wrong, dear; and perhaps that's why it all turned out for the best, as it did."

"For my cousin went away, after treating me as I deserved, and we learned to forget one another, and then I got married to that other whom I had made game of, and who was too good for such a silly thing as I was, and he is my dear John Tincroft now, and I love him so much; he is so good, and I never knew how much he deserved to be loved, till it came to me by degrees; and I do love him, my dear."

"And then, you know, dear, when my cousin went abroad, and got over his unhappiness because of the way I had used him, he found out, I haven't any doubt, that he had had a happy escape from such a bad bargain as I should have been to him; and he got a better wife than ever I should have made him; and I don't wonder he never cared to say anything about what had gone before. All I wonder is that he could ever bear the thought or sight of me. But it must be all because of his goodness and John's."

"And I am so glad it has come round so, and we can look upon one another as cousins again; and with you, darling, to make us all so happy! And when Walter—my cousin Walter and your father—gets better, and finds a home for himself—which I am sure he needn't think of so long as there's Tincroft House—but whatever is to come next, I hope we shall never be parted, dear. And now I think we had better be going homewards, for we mustn't forget we have got to have our dinner, you know."

To say that Helen listened to this rather tangled string of confessions with extreme wonderment is very mildly stating confusion into which she was thrown. Perhaps this confusion was betrayed by her looks; for, as they walked slowly towards the house, her companion remarked,—

"You don't understand such things now, my darling, but you will come to know more about them some day. And would you mind my giving you a little good advice now?"

Helen would be very glad of it, and would thankfully receive it, she said, looking trustfully into the matron's face.

"It isn't much that I shall say, dear," said Sarah, "so you needn't be afraid of my preachment. It is only this, Helen if you ever fancy that any person—of course I mean a gentleman, and a young one—loves you, or wants you to love him, or if you believe you do love him, in a certain sort of way, you know, so as that you think he wants you to be his wife, or you seem to feel you would like him to be your husband, don't make fun of him, dear; and don't think it clever to tease him and plague him out of his life almost. For this isn't the way to get love, or to keep it, and nobody knows what harm may be done without intending it. Love-making and marrying are serious things, dear, though young people don't always think so."

Helen promised, of course, that she would bear her friend's advice in mind whenever there should be occasion. But she none the less continued to wonder at all she had heard.

If it had been twice as strange and curious as it was, however, it would for the time have been driven out of her mind by a letter which awaited her on the dressing-table in her pretty bower, and which Austin, the postman, had delivered during her absence. It was from her father, announcing that on a certain day near at hand, he and Mr. Tincroft would be reaching home, and adding the cheering intelligence that he felt stronger and better than when he said good-bye to her so many weeks ago.