The strange house or, A moment's mistake
"Have you?" asked her mother, starting. And she was not the only one in
that room who started too.
"Yes, Miss Timely told me of one—"
"I will think of it," said Mrs. Ashlyn quietly.
And then the door closed and the three young people were left alone.
Gertrude looked after her mother with a puzzled look. Then she said to
Phyllis—
"Is mother not well?"
But Phyllis did not answer at once, so Otto said quietly—
"Her eyes have troubled her again to-night, and I think she has gone to
bathe them."
"You speak in a different tone from what you do generally, Otto," she
said, going to his side. "Has anything happened while I have been gone?"
"Nothing but what I said—nothing fresh," he added in a quick undertone.
"But I think it has come over your mother more than ever before—what
I have long foreseen—that the work which she does so beautifully is
injuring her sight, and that she will soon be unable to do it."
"Otto!"
There was a pause. The young man was gathering his books together, as
if he had finished.
"Have you done?" asked Phyllis, surprised.
"For to-night," he answered. "I am going for a walk along the beach."
CHAPTER III.
LOVE DOES NOT FLY OUT OF THE WINDOW.
OTTO let himself out into the darkness, leaving the two girls looking
at each other.
"He said he had heaps to do!" exclaimed Phyllis.
"He has altered his mind. But what is this, about mother's eyes?"
Phyllis explained, and then Gertrude ran up-stairs to find her mother.
The rooms were all dark, but as she peeped into her mother's, across
the strip of moonlight was a kneeling figure.
The figure rose on hearing her step, and her mother came to her side
and drew her to the window. Neither spoke for a moment, then Gertrude
said gently—
"Your eyes may be better again, mother!"
"I hardly expect that my dear, but—"
"You have seen a way?"
"Yes; 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.'"
"That is the best help there can be."
Again they stood in silence, watching the bright rippling sea,
sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight.
"What is this situation you have heard of, my dear?"
"It is near Hampstead; Miss Timely knows the people well, and says I
should be very comfortable. There are four boys and two girls—"
"Boys?" asked Mrs. Ashlyn.
"Oh, not all for me to teach! One little boy, I think, and the two
girls."
"When do they want you?"
"Directly. But, mother, the salary is good, much better than what Miss
Timely gave me. And then you will not have my board, you know!"
"Your board!" said her mother fondly. "But, Gertrude, how shall I part
with you, and how shall you bear to go?"
"That I do not know," she answered, in a tone that had a sort of
huskiness in it. "But sometimes I have wished for a change—"
"Have you, dear?"
"Yes," answered Gertrude slowly, her voice growing clear and calm
again, "yes, I have. I thought it would be good for us all. I shall
come back again, God willing. But—if you do not mind, I should like to
go."
Mrs. Ashlyn was very thoughtful for a few moments, still with her arm
round her daughter's waist, and still looking out on the sea.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the question got no farther than her
lips.
Perhaps Gertrude did not desire to prolong the interview. At any rate
she drew herself away gently, and said in a would-be sprightly tone—
"I must write about this at once, mother, and then set to about some
adornments! What a good thing it is you have made me keep my clothes in
such good order!"
"I never thought it would be for this," said her mother ruefully.
"Ah! We do not know what good things are in store for us, by and by,
mother. Let us trust on; we have been cared for hitherto."
Mrs. Ashlyn followed her down-stairs, and superintended the letter to a
certain Mrs. Shaddock, living in a certain road near Hampstead; which
letter got written and posted before they went to bed.
"I'll run over and put it in the box," said Gertrude, throwing a light
shawl over her head. "Mother, I shall not be able to be so primitive at
Hampstead!"
"No, my dear. You will miss the freedom."
"I shall miss a great many things," she answered soberly.
Meanwhile Otto had made his way from the houses of the little village,
and had found a sheltered nook among the rocks where he could be alone,
and yet could see the sea and the moon.
But though his eyes were fixed upon it, his thoughts were elsewhere.
He felt conscious of having received a blow. He was unwilling to
acknowledge it to himself, and yet he felt it was there.
He had been sure two years ago that he had buried something—a very dear
hope—safely and securely in the depths of his heart, never again to
rise, he had assured himself. And yet—yet the imprisoned hope was not
dead! It had burst its chains, and was there by his side, with more
life than ever!
When he had first come to Lanriffe, the pretty little fishing village
near to the larger town of Camptown, and had settled down in Mrs.
Ashlyn's happy little cottage, he had found out after a few months that
there was one in that cottage who had become worth all the world to him.
Then had come thoughts of prudence and necessity—his unfinished
studies, his uncertain future, his poverty, everything.
He had had a sore struggle, but he had considered he had conquered.
"As sisters henceforth," he had assured himself. And till to-night he
had believed it true.
Now she was going away! Uncertain?—Nonsense, of course she would go!
All his patience and self-control were cast to the winds. He bent his
head to the blast, and felt as if there were nothing in the world of
any use now! Gertrude was going away!
CHAPTER IV.
GONE.
THE answer from Mrs. Shaddock had come. Gertrude was to go as soon as
she could arrange to set off, and Mrs. Ashlyn and the two girls were
very busy during the days which elapsed, stitching and planning and
packing.
When they were together, all tried to face the impending parting with
as much cheerfulness as possible. But the nearer it got, the worse it
seemed.
Otto, after that one lonely walk on the shore, buried himself in his
studies with more diligence than ever, seldom looking up to joke with
Phyllis or fall into one of those talks with Gertrude that had been
such a happiness to him before.
The last day seemed a very long one. In the afternoon, when they were
up-stairs putting the final things into the box, the door opened and a
sweet face peeped in.
"Rose!" exclaimed Phyllis.
Any one could see that the lady whom Phyllis addressed was her own
sister, but the sad eyes and ethereal mournful look did not match
Phyllis's bright face at all.
"My dearest!" said Rose's mother, rising. "Have you come home?"
"Yes, we came last night. To-day I have done nothing but set my house
in order."
She sighed heavily, as she put her bonnet on the bed and turned to
smooth her hair at the glass, which reflected back a singularly lovely
young face set in wavy hair, which at thirty was already almost white.
She smoothed it back with careless grace, and turned to her mother with
a faint smile, saying, "I have come to tea!"
"I am so glad," said Gertrude. "It would have seemed worse to go
without seeing you, Rose."
"I need not ask?" said Mrs. Ashlyn, tenderly. "You have had no tidings?"
"None," answered Rose, sadly. "We spent all our holiday in searching,
and could gain not the slightest clue."
When they went down-stairs, Otto sat in the window still buried in his
books. But on their entrance, he closed them and rose to greet the
new-comer, glancing in her face inquiringly, as the others had done,
knowing that the answer was to be read plainly enough without any words.
Rose and her husband had passed through a terrible sorrow—one so
dreadful that life had seemed a blank to them from the moment, two
years ago, when they had become childless!
No little grave belonged to the sorrowful parents; no last days of love
and tenderness could be remembered; no little clothes in which their
darling had died were left for that broken-hearted mother. Their child
had been snatched from them, and had left no mark behind.
The young mother, when lodging for a few weeks at the seaside, had
suddenly been called away to attend her husband, who was dangerously
ill.
The landlady, who had only one boy, offered in the kindest way to take
charge of their four-year-old darling. And in an agony of doubt, torn
between love for husband and child, Rose left the child in her charge,
and set off on her long journey to Scotland.
While she was there, she received one letter from the landlady to say
all was going well. And then a week elapsed and no further tidings came.
She wrote to inquire, and on receiving no answer, she left her
convalescent husband and hurried south.
When she arrived at the lodgings, all things were as she had left them
a fortnight before, but the house was empty!
No landlady, no boy, no child!
The neighbours said she had hurriedly set out ten days ago, saying the
little visitor was ill and must be taken to his mother. And this was
all any one knew. They had taken tickets to London, and there all trace
of them ceased.
That was Rose's story: no wonder that Otto looked in her face to see if
in their weary search any hope had crept in.
No earthly hope had entered, but in that depth of desolation, when
their hearts had been almost broken, the One who healeth the broken in
heart had drawn near to them to bind up their wounds.
"He belonged to Jesus," Rose had said to her mother; "he loved Jesus,
even though he was so little. By and by we shall meet again, either
here or in heaven, and I can trust Him!"
Oh, the depth which that loving heart had reached before she could say,
"I can trust Him!"
Otto knew all the story. Besides, Rose's husband was Otto's own brother.
So they sat down to tea, and Rose put away her own sorrows while she
entered into all the interests at the cottage.
At last it was time to go, and Otto offered to accompany his
sister-in-law home.
"To-night?" she asked, surprised. "I can easily go back in the omnibus,
Otto, and you would rather not be away this last night?"
"I shall come with you," he answered; "there will be all too much time
for good-byes even then. Goodbyes are wretched things."
His eyes met Gertrude's, and then looked away again. "Shall you be up
when I come home?" he asked.
"That depends on what time that will be," she answered, smiling a very
little.
"Then I will come in time to see you," he said.
CHAPTER V.
MOLLIE'S WELCOME.
THE train was speeding towards London, bearing Gertrude to her new home.
The partings had all been said. Oh, the terrible wrench it was to leave
her mother, to know that henceforth she must be left to Phyllis's care
and thoughtfulness!
Then Phyllis! How her large eyes had filled with tears, and how sober
her sweet face had looked as she realized for the first time her
responsibilities as sole home-daughter!
And then the third parting had perhaps been the worst of all, because
the feeling on both sides had not been able to be expressed.
"Will you think of me and trust me, Gertrude?" was all that Otto's dry
lips had been able to falter.
And Gertrude had put her hand in his, and had answered a very quiet,
"Yes, Otto," as their eyes met.
Now, seated in the train, she felt as if she would like to have been
able to live the last twelve hours over again.
Towards afternoon a cab drove up to that certain road near Hampstead
where the Shaddocks lived, and Gertrude and her two modest boxes were
deposited within the hall of her new home.