A Charge to Keep

Preface

. "A Charge to Keep" sets forth no particular creed. It is a story of love and faith. But human love is finite ; the love of Christ, eternal, undying. This is the love that follows us — the love that saves. CONTENTS. CHAPTER page I. Life or Death - - - - 9 II. An Unexpected Claim - - 16 III. Written in Faith - - - 29 IV. Remember You Belong to Us - 34 V. A Sunday Evening - - 45 VI. After Long Years 56 VII. Contrast - - - - 63 VIII. Mrs. Vane Views the Land - - Si IX. Six Happy Months - - - 95 X. The Spell Breaks - 105 XI. The Gulf Widens - - - 118 XII. Arcadia Loses Its Charm • - 129 XIII. Circus Jack .... 137 XIV. Not Alone- -• - - CONTENTS. VIII CHAPTER page XV. Mrs Vane Makes Up Her Mind - 158 XVI. Happy Winged Hours - - 172 XVII. Cloud after Sunshine - 183 XVIII. Avowal - - - 189 XIX. Desertion - - - - 210 XX.

Running Away from Duty - 221 XXI. Poor Tilly- - - -230 XXII. The Westons' Good Fortune • 239 XXIII. This World is Not All - - 257 XXIV. Chimera and Will-o'-the-wisp - 266 XXV. "Carry Me Out of the Host" - 274 XXVI. The Morning Cometh - . 284 XXVII. Changes - - . - 298 XXVIII. "Forgive Me" - - - 306 XXIX. Arcadia Once More- - . -,28

Chapter I. Life

or death. WAS it life or death? Those who stood weeping round her called it death, and as they left her in the silent chamber, into which, through the closely shaded window the brilliant summer sunshine found stray entrances, laying dazzling fingers of light here and there upon the massive substantial-looking furniture, touching gently even the silent form upon the bed, lying so still, with pale roses and white jessamine arranged around her with loving care — surely this was death. But when into that quiet room they brought her child, a little baby child not quite a year old, holding a simple white flower they had placed in its hand, the first and last offering that small hand would ever bring, as they took the flower and laid it close by the fair unconscious face, glancing from her to the child, then they thought of life, as though life and death seemed hand in hand to flow and mingle together, and they could not realize death because of the presence there of that young life just budding into being.

Yet if they could have seen it, it was life, all life, only one had passed from our dim twilight to the perfect day beyond, while the other, with wondering innocent eyes was just looking out upon the vague shadows of this world. Then they carried the child away, and in the still chamber, death, beautiful but inexorable, reigned once more. But in the room directly underneath, young life held sway, for there the heads of the household, the little child in their midst, were gathered together. That lower room was of quaint, old-fashioned appear ance and design ; the house itself was old, dating more than two centuries back, but while other parts of it had been renovated and modernized, this room still retained its primitive appearance. The walls were of wainscot, painted a light grey, while from the mantelpiece to the ceiling was an elaborate display of artistic carving.

This room, called the north parlour from its northerly aspect, was looked upon as the state apartment of the house, and there family conclaves and consultations were generally held. There, only a few years back, the youngest of that little household had stood, dressed in her pretty bridal array. Young and very fair as a bride, was Winifred Bowring ; fair, with that gentle, appealing beauty which makes even strong hearts quail for a possible future with its more than possible trials. Winifred was the youngest, and had always been considered the child, the baby of the family ; even when her father and mother died, the elder brother and two elder sisters had taken the duties and responsibilities of LIFE OR DEATH. 11 family affairs between themselves, and Winifred had been sheltered and guarded.

They stood round her that wedding morning, her brother, John Bowring, a man of about thirty-five years of age, her eldest sister who was then married, and Ellen Bowring, the sister next in age, but she too was some years older than Winifred. More or less, each of them felt the child of the household was leaving them, and there were tears as well as smiles on that bridal morning, for the wedding had been hastily settled, and the husband would take his bride to a distant home far over the seas, and fears and hopes went with her as she took her departure from their midst. And the fears rather than the hopes had seemed fulfilled, as from indirect sources — for Winifred nevercomplained — had come stray rumours from that far-away home, rumours that were neither satisfactory or pleasant, and John Bowring with stern voice declared that had Winifred listened to his advice she would never have taken Reginald Kingston for her husband.

Then only a few years more and Winifred had suddenly returned alone, save for the company of her little baby daughter, her only surviving child ; returned for home and shelter. Not for herself, for well Winifred knew that for herself home and shelter would be but short time needed in this world, but for the little creature who otherwise would have been left alone in a strange land. Having reached this safe destination for her child, Winifred seemed like a bird that having flown over a weary waste of seas, gains some friendly shore only in time to fold its wings and die. Trouble had evidently been her lot — trouble, and of late reverses, ending almost in actual poverty ; these facts could not be hidden, but the cause of these troubles and reverses, upon this Winifred kept guarded silence, silence more emphatic than speech.

In explanation of her return, her utterly failing health had induced her for her child's sake to take that step, her husband promising if it were possible to follow her. More than this Winifred would not tell, and when they pressed her further, she only looked at them with sad, wistful eyes. " He will come one day," she said, " then he can tell you all ; but when that time comes, tell him with my dying love, that I loved him and believed in him." A few short weeks ended all, and now the last scene in that brief, sad history had closed, the same three who had gathered round her in that same room on her bridal morning, met together again in solemn conclave. Winifred's husband had not followed her, but news from a friend of his had just arrived, telling of his death. It was to communicate to them this intelligence of Reginald Kingston's death, John Bowring had called his sisters to gether.

Having done so, he stood a little apart, an abstracted expression on his face. John Bowring was not a man of commonplace type ; the finely-shaped, well turned head, the refined features with their pure Grecian outline, the penetrative blue eyes and the broad white brow, over which hair prematurely grey, fell in low sweep or curve, his whole appearance and bearing bespoke him no ordinary character, while the stern outline of the perfect features suggested a deep silent nature, which from its very depth and silence, was not always under stood. In direct contrast to her brother was his married sister, Mrs. Emerson ; her eyes were dark, her face piquant, her features defying classic outline, her nose LIFE OR DEATH. 13 had that slight upward turn generally considered characteristic of briskness and activity, her whole ex pression denoted quickness and energy.

Ellen was more like her brother, but her eyes were darker, her face sweet and gentle. Upon her knees sat the little child with its wide open grey eyes, its soft fair hair just beginning to lie in curly rings round the baby brow, the little child who unconsciously was the centre of attention, and whose peculiar circumstances seemed to invest it with ideal qualities. Even Mrs. Emerson, who had children of her own, regarded this one as no ordinary child. For a few minutes the two sisters looked at each other in silence, Mrs. Emerson was the first to speak, " Well ? " The one word was a quick interrogative. For reply, Ellen held the child a little closer — " She is all ours now." As she spoke a soft light broke over Ellen's face. Mrs. Emerson smiled outright with undisguised satisfaction as she answered, " Yes, there is no one to take her from us now," and then the practical part of her character coming naturally to the front she added, " Ah, well, there's never a trial without a mercy, and not every little desolate child has three hearts so ready to receive her.

She will never want for love, will she, John?" Mrs. Emerson had turned towards her brother as she spoke, the sound of his own name roused him from his abstraction, he came towards his sisters, then pausing, said solemnly, " If we rejoice at calamity, we shall not go unpunished, especially we must not rejoice even over an enemy's death. But there will be no prior claim, the child is ours." "Of course," said Mrs. Emerson quickly, "and as to rejoicing at calamity, I don't know any one ever thought of such a thing." John Bowring did not reply ; how could he explain that he had been speaking aloud as it were in answer to his own deeply-stirred feelings ? But standing thus close to the child, stooping he touched its cheek lightly with his finger, and the little creature looked up at him smiling brightly and cooing a soft baby trill of pleasure while the small hands and feet danced towards him with responsive movement.

John stooped lower and kissed the little shining face, and as he did so sudden tears suffused his eyes, then turning away he hastily quitted the room. Mrs. Emerson looked after him. " The first tears I've seen in John's eyes since this happened," she said. " Yes," answered Ellen gently, " John in trouble never gives outward sign." Then the two talked together, talked in low, hushed tones, though the baby was their only listener, of the last few sorrowful weeks since Winifred's arrival, and of that half-told story, which like every half-related story had more subtle interest than one complete in detail. A little later, and Mrs. Emerson had gone to her own home about half-a-mile distant from Mount Side, the residence of the Bowrings, when John Bowring came into the dining-room where Ellen was then sitting.

A softened look was on his whole face. Going up to Ellen, " Where is she — the baby ? " he asked. Ellen drew aside a window-curtain that shaded the light and revealed the child sleeping in its bassinette. The picture of perfect innocence brought again that LIFE OR DEATH. 15 unwonted mistiness into John Bowring's eyes. " Ellen," he said solemnly, " while you and I live, the child shall shall never know the loss of either father or mother." " No, never," said Ellen gently, and that simple utterance was with her more binding than emphatic vows. John looked a moment at the child. " I'm glad she named her Muriel, not after any oi his kith or kin. Our grandmother Muriel Bowring, was a woman of whom all her descendants should be proud. I am glad she named her after her, Muriel."

Chapter II An Unexpected Claim

YEARS went by, and Muriel grew from a baby to a fair sweet-looking child. Tender love, untiring watchful care, these had Muriel continually. No mother could have loved and tended her more fondly than her Aunt Ellen ; and her Uncle John, ascetic, reserved as he seemed to the world generally, unbent all his heart and nature to the little child. John Bowring was a man of high scholarly attainments, and had moreover the habits of a recluse, habits that of late years had grown upon him. Rumour said that in his young days a matrimonial disappointment had been his, but whatever his ex periences had been, he made no confession • but disappointed or not, he had remained single, and gave much of his time to deep study, philosophy, and books. " However John can sit poring over those musty old volumes," Mrs. Emerson said one day, " when the sun is shining so brightly and it is wholly heavenly to be out doors.

The sunshine would tempt me out, I am sure." " He would let her sit perched on the table by his side."— p. 17. AN UNEXPECTED CLAIM. 17 "John draws down the blind," said Ellen. Mrs. Emerson made some brief impatient rejoinder, but there was more in Ellen's words than that mere simple statement. Not only against the mere material sunlight, against other light, higher joy, John Bowring might be unconsciously pulling down the blind also. But if the sunlight could not tempt him, the little figure coming into his study so swiftly, with such light airy movement, that John looking up from his book used to say with his grave smile, " Did you walk in or did you fly in ? " — this little being had power to win him from his absorption. Full often the book would be put aside. " Well, I suppose I have read long enough," he would say, and the two would .go out together, she only old enough and high enough to hold just one finger of his hand.

Or if he did not go out with her, he would let her sit perched upon the table by his side, and the hard set look would pass from his face as he continued his studies, the child watching by his side. But Muriel was not altogether without playmates of her own age. At the large water-mill half-a-mile distant, were her Cousins Norah and Kitty Emerson. Norah was a year or two older, but Kitty was about Muriel's age, and a little the senior of them all was the Emersons' adopted son, Richard Thorn. The son of an old friend, the Emersons had been left his guardians when he was quite little, and their own eldest child, a boy, having died, they had come to regard Richard as a son ; he was as a brother to Norah and Kitty, to Muriel a cousin. Then there was Arnold Vane, who lived with his widowed mother and his grandfather at the house called " The Chase."

Arnold and Richard were chosen playmates, and the five young people were all friends and companions together. Still E much of the speech and conversation of older people were conspicuous in Muriel's young life, and their sayings and doings sank as they will sink deeply into the mind of a thoughtful intelligent child. Not that she understood fully their meaning, but their words lodged in her heart and brain like little seeds ; afterwards, when older and she could comprehend, would be the time when the seeds would develop and bear fruit. Once when a child of about eight years of age, Muriel lost by death a favourite little dog. The little creature and Muriel had been inseparable, and she who could not always fathom the meaning of the grown-up language she heard around her, in her turn showered upon her favourite long-spoken confidences, and because his eyes were so bright and he wagged his tail so comprehensively, Muriel had a vague but satisfactory notion that in some way or other they conversed together.

And then Fido died, and Muriel was inconsolable, and when they buried him, the site in the garden having been chosen by herself, after the grave had been closed up and the earth replaced, with uncontrollable anguish the child threw herself upon the spot where her little dead friend lay hidden, refusing either to be comforted or removed. She would lie there, she would die too. Her Uncle John came by and stood and looked at her. The intense grief and the inadequate cause seemed to appeal to his philosophy. " 'Tis ignominy to die and not be mourned," he said slowly, " but this dog has abundant honour." He half smiled as he spoke, but as he turned away from the weeping child, tears were in his eyes. " Try and comfort her," he said to his sister Ellen who was standing near, and then as if half-ashamed of betraying weakness he hurried away into the house.

AN UNEXPECTED CLALM. 19 Her Aunt Ellen tried to raise the sorrowing child. " Don't cry, Muriel," she said, " we will get you another dog, better than Fido." But Muriel, though she suffered herself at length to be raised, would take no consolation. " No, no," she said, " I shall never love another dog, and I won't have another Fido." " Not to-day, dear, but another day when you feel naPPy. then you may like another little companion again." " I shall never be happy again in this world." Muriel said the words with a reality of meaning, but like other expressions she sometimes used, they were copied from older tongues. The cook at Mount Side, when angry or troubled had a habit of declaring some thing very like this, and now in her first great sorrow, Muriel blindly suited the words to her own case.

Some might have smiled at the earnest protest from the small lips, but Miss Bowring did not smile, she silently clasped the child closer to her, and then a minute later while gently stroking Muriel's soft brown hair, she said, " Don't cry so, little Muriel, this world is not all." Muriel did not fully fathom the words any more than she had done her own overgrown statement. The words had nothing to do with Fido, nothing in them directly to check 'her grief, yet for the moment they strangely quieted and calmed her. In coming years she would often hear those lips repeat the saying which was a watchword unto her soul amid the troubles of this life, arid through its shadows and darkness sweet earnest of the coming dawn. But now Muriel was only conscious of a soothing effect, and the words went down into her soul in after life to waken and develop into all their force of meaning and power.

But Muriel, though usually merry with the merriment of early happy childhood, was naturally thoughtful, and when lacking young associates, her own happy thoughts full often kept her sole company, while her vivid imagination painted for her those charmed visions and fancies which young imaginative minds alone enjoy. So time passed by and Muriel was nineteen years old. It was a fair May morning and Muriel was in her garden busy among her flowers. Fresh and bright as the glad morning and as the flowers she tended, was Muriel. But sunlight has its shadows, and over the bright face stole sometimes a thoughtful expression, and in her eyes gleamed the fervour of a deep earnest nature. Muriel was joyous as all young life should be, but neither frivolous nor foolish. But Muriel was still in the enchanted dreamland of happy youth, and the future— her suture, was to her like a scene upon which the curtain kept lifting, ever listing, revealing new pictures and visions, while the mysterious unrevealed was to her a vast though dim arena, in which everything good and noble could be achieved, everything beautiful won.

Standing thus in the sunlight, a glad light in her eyes, a bright smile on her lips, Muriel seemed a happy embodiment ofthe sweet May morning. Then glancing down the meadow which sloped past one end of the house, she saw ascending the grassy hill a little figure clothed in brown dress, black mantle and bonnet. Muriel recognized at once the figure to be that of her Aunt Emerson. Leaving the garden, she ran lightly towards the meadow, meeting Mrs. Emerson half way up the hill. " You are giving us an early visit, Aunt Susan," she said. " Yes, dear, and early visitors sometimes are not welcome." " You are always welcome, Aunt Susan," and Muriel as she spoke linked 'her arm in Mrs. Emerson's. Years had not much altered Mrs. Emerson, time had traced here and there a stray line or curve, but her eyes had lost none of their brightness, her face none of its vivacity.

As she and Muriel walked on together, she stole a quick, furtive glance at her young companion. " How bright and happy you look, Muriel." " I feel very happy, why shouldn't I, Aunt Susan ? " " Why, indeed, a young girl like you. Ah, dear, it is well to be happy as long as we can, trouble comes soon enough to all of us, happiness doesn't last too long in this world." A half-suppressed little sigh accompanied the words and a shadow stole into the bright eyes. Muriel's quick glance detected this, and she made a sudden little halt. " Aunt Susan, you are come to us with trouble of some kind — Uncle Emerson." " Your uncle is all right, child." " And Kitty, and Norah, and Richard ? " " All as right as can be." "Then there is nothing to be mournful about?" Mrs. Emerson did not reply, and after a moment's pause, Muriel said, " I was thinking what Aunt Ellen would have said just now, when you said happiness did not last too long in this world.

She would have said, ' Ah, but this world is not all.' That is such a favourite saying of Aunt Ellen's, I used not fully to understand her words, but I expect the further we get through this life the more we feel and know this world is not all." "Ah, dear, it would be a sorry case for most of us if it were." Then the two walked on in silence. When they reached the house, Muriel stayed a little in the garden with her flowers, and Mrs. Emerson went in alone. Busy with her flowers, some ten minutes or more elapsed before Muriel thought of following Mrs. Emerson, then suspending her employment she glanced towards the window of the dining-room, the room which most probably Mrs. Emerson had entered. The dining room had two windows, one looking towards the front out on to the garden, the other at the back, looking over green fields and sloping meadows.

At one side of the room was an outer door, a door that in winter was kept locked and screened by crimson curtains, but in spring and summer it was another entrance for warmth and sunshine. Muriel stepped towards the front window and looked in. A little group consisting of her two aunts and her Uncle John were seated close together near the window, engaged in serious discussion. Muriel could seethe grave absorbed expression of their faces. Mrs. Emerson had an open letter in her hand which evidently formed the topic of debate. Wondering what could be the subject so important, Muriel stood a moment looking at them, then her Aunt Susan glancing up nodded and smiled, but neither the nod nor the smile took from her face its intent, absorbed expression. Muriel went through a little gate leading to the side of the house, and opening the outer door of the dining-room stepped in.

With her entrance a flood of sunshine streamed into the room, Muriel closed the door and shut the sunshine out, an act significant though she knew it not, of her own life just then. She stood facing the serious little group. A little later and she would have learned their weighty secret, and the hard reality of life, its darker sterner side would lie before her, she would have entered the school where inflexible duty held sway, and the sweet sunshine of her beautiful youth with its happy dreams and glowing visions would lie shut out for ever. They all turned and looked at her, but Muriel failed to read their faces, tears were in Aunt Ellen's eyes, and Aunt Susan's blinked and winked in suspicious fashion, while her uncle's face was set in lines of unmistakable sternness, yet a sternness that revealed rather than hid an un derlying sorrow.

Muriel went up to them. " What is it ? " she asked. Mrs. Emerson touched her sister Ellen gently, " You tell her," she said. Miss Bowring laid a hand on Muriel's arm. "Muriel," she said, "we have always told you — because till now we have always believed so — that your father was dead. Now for the first time all these years we find we have been mistaken, he is not dead but alive, is in England, in London, and is coming here." Muriel stood listening in silence, hearing but not realizing. Of her parents she had received due infor mation, her mother, her sweet young mother, whose likeness hung in the north parlour and another in Muriel's own bedroom, she had been spoken with freely of her, and for that dead mother her heart had even felt deep, tender, loyal love, and her father — they had kept the wife's dying trust, never breath of suspicion had attached to his name, but there had of necessity been less to tell, and to Muriel in many respects his memory had seemed vague, a mere name to her.

But now this was all over, for them, for her. For them— studied speech and careful reserve would no longer avail, the man was alive and coming among them to answer for himself. For Muriel, this father was no longer a mere name, but a living actual person. Yet still she could not quite realize or comprehend. Then Mrs. Emerson was holding out to her a letter. " Here, child, is his own letter, written by his own hand," she said. " It was sent to me thinking I could best break the news." Still Muriel hesitated to take it, till her Aunt Ellen said gently, " Take it and read it, Muriel, it is your father's own letter." Then Muriel stretched out her hand and took it, but as she glanced down at it, an instinctive feeling came over her to read that letter apart, and silently she crossed the room to the opposite window, and standing there her face partly averted from the little group on the other side of the room she attempted to read it.

She did not fully take it all in as she read, though she perused it more than once, but one thing even then forced itself clearly upon her mind— the writer of that letter was not commonplace, an original personality seemed running through it. Then the part most closely-affecting herself fixed her attention. " When," the letter ran, " I received news of the death of my wife, I understood at the time that my child was dead also ; now by mere accident I learn my child, my daughter, her daughter is living still. I am coming therefore, coming to see her, to claim her as my child." The words grew vivid and plain to Muriel's senses, he was coming, this father of hers, to see her, to claim her, whatever that might involve. Strange conflicting feelings stirred in her soul. She had been so happy, so glad, in the home that had always sheltered her, who was this coming to own to claim her, to wrench her away did it mean from all most dear to her heart?

Lifting her eyes from the page she glanced out over the fair sloping meadows shining in the bright sunshine ; endeared to her by many a happy childish memory were these fields and glades. Now it seemed as if voices were ringing in her heart and brain, " Come away, Muriel, come away — away for evermore." And those she loved, who had loved her so much, the three sitting there so silent, waiting, watching her, she felt their eyes upon her in the deep silence — silence broken not even by the rustle of a dress, there was some thing pathetic in that same silent watching, waiting for her word. Almost timidly she glanced round, and the sight of those dear faces, even her Uncle John's was wistful in its glance, unnerved her, and as she looked at them, the deep passionate love of her heart awoke. Swiftly crossing the room she knelt down before them, one arm on her uncle's knee, one on her Aunt Ellen's, and looking into their faces, " Who is this who is coming to claim me?" she said, "you are all the father, mother, I have ever known, all I love and care for in this life."

Unconsciously John Bowring raised his head, and a sudden triumph flashed momentarily from his blue eyes, but Mrs. Emerson put the thought into words, " That's what I say," she said quickly, " after leaving her all these years, what right has he to claim her now ? no right at all, I say." The seeling of triumph had been so momentary with John Bowring, and at this declaration of his own feelings thus boldly put, with the instinct of a noble nature he felt instant recoil. Straightening himself up and looking round with severity of expression, " Fiat justitia, ruat cœlum," he said solemnly. It was his favourite quotation, an over ruling love of justice had been his one predominating principle. But Muriel glancing up saw the love still shining behind the assumed sternness. Rising, she put her arm round his neck.