Chapter III: Chasing Shadows

"Heart buried in the rubbish of the world—
The world—that gulf of Souls—immortal Souls."
Young.

IT was a strange life into which Rowena had slipped. Anyone else who held the same views that she did would have found it impossible. But Rowena had always a wonderful adaptability to her circumstances. And she had a supreme faith and hope in the best of people, which is often hidden from those who only look on the surface. Those in her company were strangely conscious of this. They knew that if she did not agree with them, she would not harshly judge them, and that she always believed in the best of them, not the worst. Vi and Di in their reckless youth were inclined to look upon her with hostility at first. Before long she was in their full confidence. Vi confided in her continual and varied love affairs, Di, confessed her many debts and her subterfuges for escaping payment. They turned to her when Mrs. Burke did not please them. More than once she had to act as peacemaker, for she soon discovered that there were certain days and occasions when Mrs. Burke's spirits collapsed, and she was irritable and captious with all around her.

Rowena tackled her sheaves of unanswered letters, and all her business with indomitable patience. As a rule she never left the library from breakfast to luncheon. In the afternoons she was at Mrs. Burke's disposal, and that lady had generally need of her, but her Sundays were her own. Rowena appeared at meal times, but often in the afternoons would take some biscuits in her pocket, and her small tea kettle, and would go out into the woods with her books, have her tea there, and not come in till evening service. She rarely missed the morning and evening services in the little country church. In the morning, she took a class at the Sunday School. Her Sundays refreshed and strengthened her for the week. Minley Court had not a restful atmosphere.

There was a continual stream of visitors, and perpetual entertainments for them.

There were a certain number of steady Bridge players, but Mrs. Burke herself would not play much.

"I hate sitting still," she said. "I like to be on the move."

There were moonlight picnics on the river, and at the sea; there were tournaments of croquet, tennis, bowls, and archery, and any other game that was in vogue. There were impromptu plays and charades, and any amount of childish games and romps in which the elders took part quite as enthusiastically as the younger ones. Rowena played accompaniments, organized the games, looked after the comfort of all, and was her easy humorous self amongst a set of people whom she might have condemned and despised. She was soon a general favourite. One poor lady's maid departed suddenly owing to the death of her mother. Rowena met the tearful lady in the corridor bewailing her fate, and went straight into her room, and helped her dress for dinner, even dressing her hair. It was little acts like this that made her popular, and somehow or other Rowena got many an opportunity, which she was eager to seize, of a word upon the human world, and upon the high destiny of each soul that is born.

She never preached; she simply dropped a seed here, and a seed there; and prayed that it might be nurtured and brought to fruitfulness. And as she never spoke of these things in public, the guests were willing to talk to her in the privacy of their bedrooms, or when taking a solitary walk with her. They told her frankly of their troubles and difficulties, and she told them frankly of an infallible remedy for all.

One girl who was thinking of taking up the stage as a profession said to Rowena after they had had a long serious talk together in her bedroom one evening: "You know I've never heard of these things. I've never come across good people. They always keep away from us, and I get my ideas of religion through the Churches which I hardly ever attend. And it never entered my head that I, as an individual unit, shall be held responsible for my influence and life. I don't like the idea at all; but somehow you have made me believe in it. It's most upsetting."

She left after a week's visit, but persisted in starting a correspondence with Rowena, and some time later, told her she was giving up the idea of the stage, as she did not think it would be satisfying.

One day Mrs. Burke and Rowena were driving out when they met the rector and his daughter Maude. He wanted to speak to Mrs. Burke about some parochial matter, and whilst he was speaking to her, Rowena and Maude chatted together. The girl was devoted to Rowena, and carried on a very animated conversation with her. Mrs. Burke glanced at her in surprise, and suddenly turned to her and asked her to come to tennis the following afternoon.

After a little hesitation on the part of her father the invitation was accepted, and they drove on.

"Why that girl is quite pretty," Mrs. Burke said. "I thought she was a little stiff prig. I have only seen her in church, and hurrying in and out of the cottages. I wonder if I should be allowed to give her a good time? Remembering my own poverty-stricken youth, I always pity these parsons' daughters."

"Maude is a very happy girl," said Rowena; "and you can't look upon her father as a tyrant. He gives her all the pleasures he can."

Mrs. Burke nodded her head knowingly:

"We'll see. I shall cultivate her acquaintance."

"Don't bewitch her," Rowena said, laughing: "don't try to make her discontented with her lot."

"Leave me alone, and don't spoil sport."

Rowena had reason to fear Mrs. Burke's influence. She had a way with her of captivating all young girls, and Maude fell an easy prey to her. When she went home from the tennis party, she told her father that Mrs. Burke had been adorable to her, and wanted her to come to dine the following Saturday, when she would have a house-party. "Do let me go, Dad. You like Miss Arbuthnot and she will be there."

"No, my child, not on Saturday. I know the style of Mrs. Burke's week-end parties, and don't want a daughter of mine mixed up in them."

"Oh, I shall be so disappointed. You might let me this once."

The Rector was immovable, and for the first time his bright little daughter left his study with a cloud upon her face, and a feeling of resentment in her heart against her father's will.

Rowena watched with anxiety Mrs. Burke's efforts to capture the girl's affection. She saw how much she loved her popularity, and how she tried to attract the young. Always fearless, Rowena spoke to her one day about it: "Do you really think you will put fresh happiness into Maude's life by making her discontented with her home, and giving her a taste for things out of her sphere?"

"I love to see the young thoughtless. They ought to be."

"It's the crackling of the thorns under the pot," said Rowena. "I often wonder how you can keep it up; you are worthy of higher things!"

"Stuff! Don't lecture me! My life is my own. If I fritter it away, I have only myself to blame."

She continued to waylay Maude. She sent her presents, she took her drives, and the girl's head was becoming turned. Then Rowena determined to interfere. She met Maude in the village one day, on her way to visit a sick woman at a distant farm, and she volunteered to accompany her.

Maude was delighted, but her conversation was entirely upon Minley Court. She asked Rowena who the next guests were going to be, what entertainments were going to be given to them, and said in her enthusiastic way:

"I do think Mrs. Burke so delightful, she's so unselfish, always trying to make people happy! I don't know why Dad does not like her. I suppose it is because she comes to church so seldom. I envy you living with her, the whole house is so jolly, every one seems so happy!"

"My dear child, if you were to ask my opinion, I should say the atmosphere at the Rectory was far happier. Clowns laugh, you know, with breaking hearts. Laughter and noise are no true test of happiness. Don't barter away your substance for a shadow, Maude. Minley Court is a place of shadows and unrealities of paint and camouflage, and Mrs. Burke, for all her jolly gaiety, would give a good deal I believe to have your father's outlook instead of her own. You see I am taking you into my confidence when I talk like this. I am very fond of Mrs. Burke and I'm deeply sorry for her. For she is chasing shadows, and trying to persuade herself that they are the substance."

"She had an unhappy girlhood," said Maude, unconvinced. "She told me all about it."

"Well, you haven't had that, have you?"

"No—no—but sometimes—lately—I feel as if Father is rather strict about some things."

"Of course you would think so, and being much at Minley Court will make you think so—"

"Now, Miss Arbuthnot, you speak as if you disapprove of Minley Court, and yet you are there yourself in the middle of it all, and you seem almost the centre of it. You laugh and talk with every one and seem quite fond of them. Why should it be good for you to be there and bad for me?"

Maude ended her speech by blushing hotly, afraid that she had been too outspoken, but Rowena smiled upon her reassuringly.

"I dare say I may seem inconsistent to you, but I am there for a purpose—and I want to help Mrs. Burke all I can. I know her better than you do, and know that her empty forlorn time will come, when she will see that this time has been all froth and bubble. I want to be with her then, for she will need help. And I do want you not to make the mistake she did when she was a young girl. She threw away her confidence—she knew she did it—she threw away all her hopes and ideals, for the kind of life she is leading now. You can't have both, Maude dear, and what you throw away is sometimes very difficult to get back again. Don't you do as she did, for those who are with her most, know she isn't a happy woman. And I shall never rest till I see her with her discarded treasures once again."

Maude was visibly impressed. She slipped her hand into Rowena's, and squeezed it.

"You are so good. I oughtn't to have spoken so. I see that people like you, and of course you do them good, just as you do me. I always want to be good after leaving you."

"My dear Maude, don't set me up on a pedestal. Do you know that two years ago I was a godless heathen? and then gradually I began to see beauty in things I had scorned before. I don't know how I did it, but I was gently and surely drawn into quite another environment. It sounds mystical, doesn't it? I came to see what a wonderful creed we have as Christians, and I came to know the Founder of our creed. You have grown up in that atmosphere. Don't try to leave it, I beseech you. Now I'm not going to preach any more, tell me about this sick woman."

After this little talk, Maude's wave of discontent vanished. She did not very often come up to the Court, and when she did, she saw things at a truer value.

The summer wore away. Mrs. Burke's liking for Rowena did not lessen, and she more than once had serious talks with her. If Rowena expressed disapproval of certain things, she was not angry with her, only pursued her way, laughing at her "squeamishness." But occasionally she modified her schemes to Rowena's requirements.

One afternoon in late September, she and Rowena were enjoying their tea together over a good fire in the big drawing-room. The last of her guests had left the house about an hour before, and Mrs. Burke leant back in her comfortable easy-chair with a sense of relief.

"The last of my visitors," she said. "I shall have a quiet week or two, before we move up to town. I hate a winter in the country, but I always come down here for Christmas. It seems the thing to do."

"I am sure that reason does not weigh with you," said Rowena laughing.

"No, perhaps it does not. I hate conventions."

"Will you want me to come up to town with you?"

"Why, of course I do. How should I get on without you?"

"I could stay down here and caretake for you, and do most of your correspondence without you. You leave me such a free and independent hand in your affairs, that I believe I could carry on, with an occasional inquiry by post."

"You are my companion as well as my secretary. Of course I shall want you in town. Don't tell me you would rather vegetate down here, instead of being in the middle of it all."

"Oh, I would much rather stay here," said Rowena frankly; "but of course I shall be ready to accompany you."

"You are an extraordinary creature—a regular hermit; you seem to care for nothing. And as to money! well, it is a good thing you are not wealthy. It would be wasted upon you."

"Oh would it? I don't think so."

Rowena's expressive eyes glowed as she gazed into the fire.

"Wealth can do so much—I have your command laid upon me that I am not to relieve any of the appeals that come to you by post. I know you have your charity list and it is a big one, but you don't know how I ache sometimes to slip a pound note into an envelope and send it off. There are so many private cases of want and misery that never come before the public at all, and therefore never get relieved."

"It's the worst class that begs through the post," said Mrs. Burke indifferently.

"Some are humbugs, of course; but I would have a shot or two. I often think of your early days. They have a strange fascination for me. If I were you, I think I would go round to the country villages and ferret out for myself some of the real deserving cases amongst the poor clergy."

Mrs. Burke looked at her meditatively.

"There might be some sense in that," she said, then added hurriedly, "but you would want a millionaire's income to give away in that style."

"No," said Rowena, still gazing dreamily before her, "you would only have to set apart a few hundreds for the purpose. You could do a lot, say, if you were to spare £500 out of your income for the poor clergy every year; you would never miss it. Think what it would do for them."

"It would be but a drop in the ocean," said Mrs. Burke. "Take up Crockford's, and see the incomes of the married clergy. I always do say it is iniquitous! I know my father was heavily in debt all his life, and though he could not clothe and feed his family in a decent manner, he was supposed to relieve all the bad cases of poverty in his parish, and keep a rotten old dilapidated church in perfect repair. If you have no rich people in your parish, and the Squire is close fisted, all the expenses fall on the poor parson's shoulders. But don't let us talk of such dismal subjects. I did not tell you that I heard from my sister yesterday. I think we have not written to each other for five years. Her husband is ill, and of course wants to be nursed and nourished and sent to a warmer clime the doctors say. It's one of his lungs. She must be pretty low down to turn to me. There was a time when she refused to touch a farthing of my money."

"Poor thing! How awful not to be able to do what is best for him."

"She shouldn't have married a poor curate. I suppose I shall have to send her a cheque. You must see to it for me. I am wondering what she will do, whether she will take him away herself. There is one blessing, all her children are grown-up and doing for themselves I believe. But she seems to have some of her grandchildren dependent on her. Talks of her darling Nester's boy and girls, who are such a comfort to her. I believe Nester was the girl who married a very hard-worked doctor, and he and she both succumbed to some epidemic raging round them. I did hear about it. Send a cheque for a hundred pounds. That will help."

"I will do it to-morrow morning."

"You look as pleased as if you are going to have it for yourself. Don't you think all my charity cheques will go on the credit side of my life's history? I may be frivolous, but I do feed the hungry and clothe the naked—sometimes."

"Yes, you do," said Rowena gravely.

"I know you size me up in your own mind and judge me. Not in the same pharisaical manner as my sister judges me! My heart prompts me to tell her to send along these grandchildren of hers, and I'll look after them whilst she goes away with her husband. But she would only snub me, and say she wouldn't have them contaminated by my society. Do you think I would do them harm? I know you thought I was spoiling little Maude Waring."

"I wish you would let me go and pay them a visit," said Rowena suddenly. "A hundred pounds will not help them much at a time like this. I could find out just how things were, and then we would talk it over together. If your sister will let you help her, you would like to do it I expect."

"She must be quite elderly by this time," said Mrs. Burke musingly; "she is five years older than I am. Oh, I can't spare you at present. Not till we are thoroughly settled down in town."

Rowena said no more. She felt a strange interest in this sister of Mrs. Burke's, and longed that the two sisters should come closer together.

They went up to town, and some very busy crowded weeks followed. From the first Rowena kept out of the incessant round of gaiety. Mrs. Burke turned night into day, and thought nothing of attending three or four reception and supper parties the same night, sometimes cramming in a theatre as well. To these Rowena did not go. She helped Mrs. Burke when she entertained at home; beyond that she begged to be excused. There were charity entertainments, and bazaars in the afternoon, to which she was dragged. People used Mrs. Burke's house like an hotel, but she never complained; and the younger and giddier the company was, the better she enjoyed herself.

The cheque was sent off to her sister, and Mrs. Burke received a letter of grateful thanks; but it was not till a month later that she allowed Rowena to go up north, and see what further help was required.

She came back and gave Mrs. Burke her report. "I was only just in time to see your sister. What a sweet woman she is!"

"She used to be pretty. I suppose she slanged me pretty thoroughly."

"May I be quite frank and tell you her attitude towards you?"

"Oh yes—don't spare my feelings. I have a thick skin and can bear it."

"She said she realized that she had been hard towards you in those early days; but now that you were getting on in years, she felt sure you must be becoming tired of a life of pleasure, and she would like to be friends with you."

"Afraid of losing my money should I die!" snapped Mrs. Burke. "I am much obliged to her. I hope you stood up for me."

Rowena laughed. "I told her how good you were to me and everybody, and then we talked about the grandchildren. She is taking her husband to Bournemouth. It is too late to save his life I am afraid. He has not the strength for a journey abroad even if the means were forthcoming. She has a daughter living at home now. She is a governess, but is out of a situation and has been helping her mother since her father has been so ill. The grandchildren consist of two girls and a boy. The boy is a handsome little fellow of fifteen, the girls are sixteen and twelve. They ought to be all at school. The elder girl teaches the younger one, and the boy goes to the Grammar School. She is leaving them for the present at home with her daughter. I think you would lose your heart to the trio, they are so bright and so good-looking, but are delicate—want of good food I should say."

"Did you suggest they should come to me?"

"No. How could you have them here in London? I said something about the holidays, but you must write to your sister about it."

"We'll have them down for Christmas, and give them a good time. I'll write at once, and if the boy is worth placing at a good school, I'll do it."

"That will be splendid. Oh dear, I do envy you your opportunities!"

"It is you pegging away at me, that makes me seize them." And it was true. Slowly, but surely Mrs. Burke was finding out the delights of sharing some of her wealth with those in need. Before Rowena had come, she made her banker her almoner; now she began to take interest in many individual cases, whom Rowena discovered. Sometimes when her spirits flagged, she would say: "I dare say I shall end my days in some secluded country cottage; I am sure you will gradually get all my wealth from me for your 'deserving poor'!"

And Rowena would reply with a glow in her eyes, "You might do many worse things than that."