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Chapter XXIV.

In one of the suburban towns of Bonsby, and standing on a picturesque elevation, is a large dwelling-house. The suburb itself is by no means small or poor. The houses are all neat and well kept, and each home, be it ever so small, has its little flower-garden. It is one of the healthiest localities, and being of modern subdivision, boasted of modern architecture and improvements, and what is still more advantageous, of a thrifty, industrious class of people. It was not aristocratic; oh, no, this little suburban town of Bonsby was not aristocratic—neither blue-blood aristocratic nor millionaire aristocratic—it gloried in no sumptuous abodes, no rambling old buildings with wild, luxuriant wilderness of gardens; but it bespoke more of the habitation of the ordinary man, taking upon itself no airs, no wish to be other than it was—a peaceful home for humble man. The house we have particularized—or rather, it has itself particularized to us—was one of the most conspicuous of that and the surrounding districts; and was always the guiding star to uncertain travellers, being the centre from which all directions diverted. This celebrity was due not so much to its size as to its elevation, and the peculiar structure of its well-built walls, with the old-fashioned mode of laying out the grounds. To add to its significations, the bridge which united the suburban town to the main, span the river not many yards from the side entrance. Consequently it was the first house that would catch your eye as you entered that district. It was page 286also, by reason of its elevation, the mischievous object you would see peeping at you through every conceivable opening of trees and shops as you passed up and down the main street of Bonsby. The grounds were laid out in hexagon-shaped allotments, consisting of flowers, shrubs, and other minor adornments. A strip of beautiful green grass fringed the western border; and around the whole was a well-kept hedge of stunted trees. The main entrance faced the river, which was toward the west; and there being little or no bank to the river, the ground sloped away almost on a level with its waters. At one corner of the garden stood a boat-house, wreathed with ivy and vine; and when the tide was full, you had but to open the door, step into the boat, and you would find yourself floating gently over the shining stream. The house itself was of a hexagon shape, the regularity of its boundary lines being broken only where the two pillars, which stood opposite each other, projected a little beyond the hall door, thus forming a pleasing and picturesque support for the arched-like canopy, that protected the interior of the hall from the rich blaze of the setting sun. Other entrances faced opposite directions, and smiled down upon their own gravelled paths. The house was well furnished—almost luxuriantly. The soft carpets, the polished mahogany tables, and carved back chairs, the shining mirrors, and the numerous assortment of quaint nick-nacks, all spoke of refinement and taste, slightly scumbled with extravagance.

Mr. West was a clerk in a government situation, at that time receiving good pay. By his diligence, and his miserly regard for those precious fragments of time outside his business hours, he had succeeded in making his home, what it was—the diamond of the district. In himself he was a plain homely man of humble, but refined pretensions; yet there was a weary air, half melancholy, half bitter, page 287about him, which made you wonder, as if at one time of his life, he had aimed at something, and missed his mark. Still it was only at times these lines of disappointment appeared; ordinarily, he was a cheerful affable man, genial toward friends, attached to wife and children, rejoicing in his home, and singing night and day the praises of God, and the peace of man.

His indulgent nature, however, did not lead him beyond what was just to himself, and due to his neighbour; and many were the little private bickerings carried on between himself and his wife in the secret seclusion of their bed-chamber; for often the monthly bills could not be made to tally. Nor should Mrs. West be blamed too severely for this womanly weakness, which is common to almost everyone of her sex. She gloated over her ferns and flowers, and nothing gave her so much annoyance as the breaking or damaging of her furniture. After all, a woman's life is spent in her home, and it is natural she should wish to see it arrayed in its best: and, although seldom felt, a woman should be very grateful for having a husband firm enough in principal to deny her full and free access into his purse. Not that I approve of a man being stingy toward his home and his family, but I disapprove, very much, and so does every sensible person, of a wife and family being extravagant upon themselves. In many cases, not in all mind you, a wife's frivolity and heedlessness is the cause of great wrongs, even deaths, which is in such cases but parts of wrongs: and a husband, who would maintain his honour at the sacrifice of his peace, deserves, according to my theory, the highest rank among the brave. It is no easy thing for a man to face, and fight through, a wife's continual peevishness, complaining—or dissatisfied sighs: especially, as is so often the case, when he knows that that wife's peevishness and dissatisfied sighs, are not confined page 288solely to the four walls of their home. But let man not imagine he is wholly excluded from blame, regarding the unhappiness in the home. If he wish for comfort and enjoyment in his home, he must give that which will bring comfort and enjoyment. He must not draw the strings of his government too tightly around his kingdom, else they will snap asunder. And if the purse be tight, there is no need for the heart to be tight also; nay, the heart's looseness should seek to make up for the purse's tightness. Say no, and mean no, but say it kindly; and do not say no, if by any possibility you can say yes. To have a smiling wife, you must surround her with a smiling atmosphere, in most cases it lies in your power to do so, and you will be surprised how soon you will be converted into a smiling husband. For the man, who has a wife that could not become smiling in the warm bright atmosphere of his tender solicitude, and undying affection, I have a profound depth of sympathy, and much he stands in need of it. And for the man who does not grant his wife these tokens of a loving regard, these divinely ordered providences, the whole world of nobility, of inherent chivalry, has an unlimited depth of repulsion and scorn. A man to have a family, and not to provide for it, in so far as the best means God has given him for that purpose, barters his name of man, and exchanges his privileges with the bastard, justly inheriting the bastard's disdain.

On the evening, in which our story seeks an interview with this hexagon-shaped house, the hall door stands open, and from the interior of a large semi-darkened drawing-room, proceeds the low soft strains of an organ. A young man with quick springing footsteps crosses the bridge, opens the gate, walks up the gravelled path, enters, pausing a moment on the threshold to listen to the familiar strains. From his evident familiarity with the surroundings, it may easily be inferred that he is a constant visitant here.

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Perhaps the soft carpet muffled his footsteps, perhaps, something more tender muffled her heart, but the young girl seated at the organ made no signs of perceiving her visitor's presence.

A white shapely hand was laid upon her shoulder. Still no movement. A musical manly voice said, "Alma." The slender fingers continued to wander over the keys, the quiet figure was still, but the half averted face turned slightly in the direction of the sound.

"I thought you were not coming to-night, Percy."

"Do not be vexed, dear. I will not stay long. The evenings that I do not see you, become intolerable to me." The pleading tones of the man, touched, in spite of herself, the tender cords of her heart.

"It is the last night I shall be able to feel I belong to myself, and I think you might have respected my wishes," answered the girl in a slightly petulent tone.

"Is that fair, Alma?" said the young man in a deeply pained voice. "You will always belong to yourself. Am I such a tyrant?"

The girl flushed, and bent her face nearer to the friendly white keys. "Forgive me. I am tired to-night, and out of sorts. I have had such a busy day, Percy." The voice was full of unshed tears.

"My poor darling," murmured the young man, stroking the soft fluffy fair hair, and letting his moustache mingle with her curls, "I know you must be. I do feel for you, drudging here among so many circumstances contrary to your nature. You shall do as you please after to-morrow." Then his voice grew strangely fearful.

"You are not sorry you are going to marry me, Alma, are you?"

"How can you ask, Percy?"

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"I don't know dear, but sometimes I wonder if ever you will learn to care for me, as I care for you. You seem so cold, so distant."

The girl trembled a little, and her hands fell together in her lap.

"Must I remind you of our conversation sometime ago, Percy? I told you then, and I tell you again, my love has been given to another; to you I can give nothing more than my deepest, most earnest gratitude. You have ever been solicitous and kind, and I little deserve such. I would be cold, indeed, if I were not grateful. But the light of love is wanting, and that makes me distant. In after days, should you have cause to repent this step, remember it has been of your own free choice."

"You told me your love was unreturned. That a barrier impassable had risen between you. O Alma, Alma," exclaimed the young man, throwing his arms around her, and pressing her to him. "Were it not for that, I would seek to unite you two, even though I should lose you for myself. By holding you to your vow, I am convinced it is for your, and my happiness; and your constancy to your former love, reveals to me the noble side of your nature. Yet, dearest, do not make a mockery of that which is pure and right, by becoming selfish in your disappointment. It may not always be proper to sacrifice every hope on the altar of an unrequitted love."

A slight shiver ran through the slender frame, and the fair head fell against the broad shoulder, and seemed to nestle against the manly heart in search of protection from its own weakness.

"I do not know. Perhaps you are right. I am too tired to question these hidden feelings. But I shall be your faithful wife, Percy. Nothing shall prevent me from being that."

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"My darling. May God so deal by me, as I deal by you," said the young man fervently, as he kissed the soft cheeks. Then, after a moment's pause, "Am I forgiven for coming, little one?"

"Yes. If there be anything to forgive. Now go, dearest, and leave me alone."

Percival Graham was a young man of deep feelings, feelings he had from boyhood cultivated and trained to run in the right groove. Quiet and unostentatious he had wandered in and out among his labyrinth of friends, no one guessing he was engaged, until suddenly awakened to the fact of the very near approach of his wedding. Then they set themselves to task, and scolded one another for being so blind; many even regretted they had not been more languishing toward him, for then they might now have been standing in Alma West's shoes. (Though for the matter of that, I do not know how they were all going to get in). There is nothing like a wedding to rise oneself to celebrity or distinction. Percival took no notice of what was in the minds of others; he was happy, and he was going to make Alma happy also. It was a hard won prize, and he knew how to value it. His mother had shown him where to look. She had told him to seek one whom she would be pleased to welcome to their permanent abode, he had added his own thoughts to her words, "One like you." After many failures, much doubting, he had found what he sought. And she was all that he wished,—not beautiful, but sweet—externally cold, but internally a raging fire which only needed the match to set it ablaze—like his mother in every sentiment—like her in the tones of her voice—yet fairer and younger, and to him sweeter. And he was ready, if she would only accept of it, to pour out at her feet the whole wealth of his pent up affection.

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Was it to be wondered at then, that his ardour was not checked by a cold word or look? Her very distance made her fairer in his sight, and her pride kindled in his heart a deep reverence. With it all, she was sweet, and good, and patient, and willing to learn from even so foolish a one as himself. He loved her, O! so dearly; she could not help loving him in return. But he did not know what torture the girl was suffering from his every word of endearment, his every caress of affection. He did not know what was passing through the heart of her who lay in his arms, whose head was pillowed on his shoulder, whose bosom rose and fell with the rising and falling of his own.

"I will not stay longer, my darling," he murmured, and then half shyly, added, "Won't you kiss me before I go?"

The shadows deepened in the room, and hid their faces from one another. One strong and manly, and full of pleading; the other strong too, and sweetly womanly, but O so full of pain, and in the soft blue eye a dry tear. The angels, instead of weeping too, rejoiced; for that was the tear of a penitent. There was silence—a deep silence, and the hearts of both beat fiercely. Then two beautiful arms stole round his neck; two soft lips were pressed against his own; two bright eyes smiled. The first kiss Alma West had given to her betrothed. He lifted the drooping form; he clasped her to his heart; he kissed her again and again. All sense of doubt vanished from his mind; one current surged through his being, "Alma was his." He was thrilled to the depth of his great soul, which was a very deep one, indeed. Closer he clasped her, more passionately rained his kisses, until his very vehemence made the girl afraid. At last he turned to leave, but paused to kiss once more the sweet fair face; then as his shadow lengthened in his going, and his tall form was out of sight, the echo of his footsteps returned, and in the young girl's ears, sounded like soft low pleadings.

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Pale and cold and motionless she sat, striving to still the awful beating of her heart. "Why does he love me so? I do not deserve it. Oh, if he knew all." But she was not left long to her silent agony. Soon, through the hall, was heard the rushing of many feet, the clamour of many voices. They broke in upon the sacred precincts of her sorrow; they let her see and feel she was not alone in the world.

"Come sister! Come and play with us. This is your last night here. Mamma says you will have to play with Percy to-morrow. Come, come." And regardless of the young girl's protestations, and entreaties to let go, the young plagues continued to pull and tug at her skirts.

"You are tearing my dress. Let go at once, or I will not come." And she tried to wrench herself from their hold.

"No we won't; you'll just run away to your room and shut yourself in like you always do, You must come with us; you must! you must!" And by cheer force they dragged their now passive victim out of her shadowy nook, through the hall, and into their play-room. There they forced her into a chair, themselves gathering around and recommencing their pranks in true spoilt-children fashion. It may here be remarked that the young Wests were by no means unkind at heart, but their training had been of so loose a character that they had become unruly and thoughtless. Their finer feelings had been allowed to stagnate, consequently they had lost all traces of that quick susceptibility so often found in the young, and required in the sweet office of sympathy. Thinking of nothing but iheir own pleasure, they sought every possible enjoyment, often at the cost of a great deal of pain to others. Then instead of being corrected, they were encouraged in their tantalizing habits by those who should have known better. On this special occasion, with the impending marriage in view, these half-a-dozen little Wests were more unruly, more aggravating than was their wont. page 294They romped about and squabbled with one another, and paid no heed to the tired, weary look, and the entreating pleadings, of their eldest sister. In the midst of the hubbub, Mrs. West appeared at the door, a peculiar smile on her thin lips. She was a little restless woman, with a care-worn, fretful face, every lineament betraying the presence of selfishness. Her dress and bearing spoke of an unlimited amount of pretended humility; and her manner, though affable, was well seasoned with conceit. She was in reality a personification of our "never-smiling woman," although, strange to say, there was always that perpetual, peculiar smile on her thin lips. She was not devoid of good points, however, for beneath that frivolous exterior beat a kind heart—a heart that would often be moved to tears at the sight of injustice done to others. Therein lies our key to her kindly heart, for perhaps, as is often the case with the selfish, she did not see the wrong or injustice she did herself. Such characters remind me of a quiet observation I made some time ago. It was during a friendly conversation friendly people were having. Of course, the subject was the inevitable "Picking to pieces the characters of other people." Perhaps you smile and say, "What are you doing behind their backs?" I answer, "Quietly observing the pickers." They—these friendly people—were conversing about something very important—something that is looked forward to with great delight, welcomed with keen pleasure, and relished the better being accompanied by so much fun and wit—the election of a new member for our district. I do not know if all towns in New Zealand be alike in this respect, but I do know that Bonsby really enjoys an election. Then you may see the political giants of the day; hear their mighty opinions that would weigh down poor little New Zealand if put in balancing scales; encounter ferocious taxation bulls, with lolling tongues, at every street corner; and while you flee from their page 295furious attack, you are pursued by yelping dogs, declaring they "were hungry, have not had work for weeks, and want to feed upon your dry bones." Whatever you do, don't pause under a tree by the way, or a cat will be sure to bristle her fur, curl up her back, hit at you with her paw, spit, and declare in her peculiar snarl, "She must have her rights." The very birds atune their notes to "Bridges" and "Roads" and "Breakwaters," while the soft, smoothe river glides along murmuring, "Borrow money! borrow money." Oh, election times are grand times for the idle observant. Every night, if he choose, he can go to the hall and hear the voluptuous swell of musical abuse mingling with the bright blazes of satirical fireworks; knock his head against the formidable walls of millions of pounds of borrowed money; and came out as wise and as enlightened as when he went in. Then he might right-about-wheel and enter the hall of another candidate, and hear and see and feel a contradiction, yet repetition, of the same scenes; and when he makes his exit, behold the two contradictions shaking hands with one another. By that time he returns home a contradiction himself, inwardly wondering if his bowels were undergoing political government as well. But as I was saying, it was during one of these friendly conversations on a friendly subject that I made a friendly observation.

"Well. I don't care what you say, or what anyone else says, I am going to vote for Mr. so-and-so. He shook hands with father, and I like people who respect my parents." But now comes the joke, the young lady in question did not respect her parents herself; and not many minutes before, I heard her tell her father to "Shut up." I could not help smiling at the splendid practical illustration of two great questions of the day,—temperance and election by majority. However, the thought I wished to arouse, in connection with Mrs. West, was that she was one of those who "liked people page 296who respected her parents," but who did not respect her parents herself.

"Mother, I wish you would make these children be quiet," exclaimed the girl, lifting her tired eyes almost pleadingly to her mother. She had long since abandoned the hope of making a companion of that peevish woman, and had grown to lock within her heart every womanly feeling, but to-night, on the threshold of a new home, and borne down by numb, wearing, motionless, soundless, struggles, she thought to claim a mother's compassion. "My head aches dreadfully," she continued, in her sad quite tone. "And I would like to go to my room." If she expected any response, she was doomed to disappointment.

"Go to your room, by all means, my child. I do not wish you to stay here against your will. Only I do not think you need grudge the children a few minutes' fun on this your last night among them. You will have plenty of time to be quiet after to-morrow." So saying, and with her sinister smile, the mother turned away, musing on the selfishness of her eldest child, and mistaking her own selfishness for motherly solicitude toward her little ones; deeming their pleasure of far more importance than Alma's pain. This is a mistake often practised by mothers of large families. During infancy many mothers neglect the intellectual training of their children. Then, as those children shoot up, and cast off their little baby attractions, they stand out bare, and ungainly having cultivated nothing wherewith to clothe their youth. The mother not recognizing her share in the nakedness, loses taste for her elder children, and centres her affections among her younger; leaving those, who really need her care, to wander whither they please in search of sympathy. This leads to contentions, which generally end in open rebellion. The mother feels no pain, her affections are with her little ones; it is the child girl or girl woman who suffers. But at page 297your afternoon teas it is the mother who makes the most display, and mourns her child's failings; who is the wronged one, and the one to suffer. Can parents expect respect, when they show themselves unworthy? Can children be blamed, when there is so much thrown in their way? To escape the consequences of her own unfaithfulness, the mother spends her afternoons abroad, and the child rejoices over the peaceful seclusion of her own leisure hours. There is no unity between the two; knotty subjects are consulted beyond the precincts of home. Who is to blame? Not the child. Of course, there is the converse to this rule, but the converse rule did not predominate in the West household, one glance at Mr. West's face would tell you that; and Alma's life was lived more often in tears than in smiles. She did her best to appear cheerful, and succeeded very well, but she was often impatient, and many were the times she would have liked to shake her little sisters and brothers.

She sat a few minutes after her mother had left, thinking deeply; but as soon as she got the chance, she slipped away, fled up to her own room, and locked herself in. Flinging herself upon her knees, she buried her face in her hands, and remained, for several hours, silent and motionless in the grey darkness. She felt very desolate indeed, and for the first time for ever so long, great drops hung upon her drooping lashes. But there was another power wrestling with her heart; and in those hours of darkness, like Jacob of old, she was crying, "I will not let thee go, except thou bless me." An hour passed; two hours. She rose and stretched her cramped and stiffened limbs, and lifted her clear blue eyes to the stars. They were bright now—those sweet sad eyes—bright with an ethereal light—and in their liquid depth were stamped the words, "I will leave it all with Jesus." Opening the door, she crept quietly down stairs, and entered her father's study.

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"I came to say good night, father," she said gently. "It is my last night under your roof, you know."

"I hope not, my dear," said the gentleman, drawing the half hesitating figure toward him, and kissing her affectionately. "Remember child, this will ever be your home. You still have a father; and should anything happen, be it ever so direful, a father's love oversteps all."

For the first time the father realized the importance of the step his daughter was about to take. A feeling of regret crept into his heart, as he thought of the many times he had allowed little incidents pass without thinking, or taking any notice of them, So much might have been done to make his daughter's life happy—but he was always so much absorbed in his own reflections. A sigh rose to his lips, as he thought of his own life, and that disappointed expression flitted across his face; but he chased them away as unwelceme visitors, and earnestly prayed for his child's welfare. He could see he had bequeathed to this slender girl his firm affectionate nature, and by his own disappointments, knew what she would suffer, if placed in such a position as he himself occupied. But Percival Graham was not one of those unstable young men, whom to love was a waste of affection, so all shadow of doubt fled from his mind.

He soothed and caressed the fair head, so like his own, and silently let her feel he was her "Father." Oh, Alma. Why do you shed tears of sorrow upon your father's shoulder? Does the ghost of a past sin haunt you? And are you fearful of the future?—the future that should be so bright, so full of scented flowers? It must be so, else otherwise, those would be tears of gladness. Think of your many sisters, who, on the eve of their wedding, stand serene and smiling in the midst of the gay circle of friends, but who in their hearts weep bitter tears; who mourn the absence of a father's bosom; who gaze into the fleshless page 299hollows of a father's face,—who weep, but find no comfort in sympathy, no relief in tears. Heavenly Father fill up, we beseech thee, those vacant thrones in the hearts of such. By the sweetness of thy presence, grant solace to our contradictory natures. Embalm our spirits with the spice and myrrh of thy Fatherly love. Thou hast promised to be a "Father to the fatherless," be especially dear on the eve when thy children need thee most, the eve of their wedding day.

It is not necessary to depict that wedding ceremony. Everyone is familiar with the white dress and flowing veil of a bride; with the proud bridegroom; the gaily-dressed bride's-maids; and the mischevious twinkling-eyed best man; with the flower-decorated church, the carpeted gravel walk, the carriages, the crowd of faces, the congratulations, and the rice. And everyone knows how eagerly they are questioned by those less fortunate than themselves, as to the appearance of the bride. "Did she look happy?" And the bearing of the bridegroom, "Did he kiss her?" No dark omen shadowed that happy day. The wedding was as a wedding should be. But once, when the bride bent before the altar, and the bridegroom turned to look at his new-made wife, he thought he saw in her eyes a look of strange deep dread. It was gone in a moment, and the sweet fair face smiled, but the look and the pathos haunted him. Ah, above they "twa" smiled the All-loving Father. What though the intertwining of their lives made mysteries effective in Eternity, unrivalled in mutability—the reins were in Divine hands, and there are no mysteries to the Divinity. Mistakes and misunderstandings may arise and cause the heart great grief, but in a Divinely ordered life such great steps are superintended by a Superior Wisdom. There is no need to fear their results; no need to say "Oh that I had not done so!" apart and above floats the universal song, "Rejoice for page 300the Lord, he is God, The only faithful. The Providence of a People."

And so for a while our bride will make her adieux, and slipping into her carriage, will drive home in company with her husband. When we see her again, it will be to love her, perhaps better than we do already, for then we shall understand the meaning of that strange cold chill that seems to enshrine her heart.