Jean Lindsay, the vicar's daughter

Front matter

" So there they stood, this band of men and women enduring the agony Dnly sailors and their wives can know." Page 19. JEAN LINDSAY, THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER. BY EMILY BRODIE. " Be good, my maid, and let who will be clever." LONDON : JOHN F. SHAW AND CO. 48, PATERNOSTER ROW. All Rights reserved. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. LEAVING HOME I II. THE STORM 12 III. THE DOCTORS VISITS 25 J IV. LINGFORD VICARAGE 34 V. BAD NEWS 44 VI. GOD'S ACRE 54 VII. PERCY STEVENSON 6 1 VIII. THE TWO MARRIAGES 73 IX. DISAPPOINTMENT 89 X. THE NEW YEAR 99 XI. OUTWARD BOUND 105 XII. WON BACK Il6 XIII. JEAN'S NEW HOME 1 26 XIV. LESLIE RAYMOND 1 36 XV. HOMEWARD 147 xvi. Helen's plans 158 XVII. SETTING TO WORK 170 xvm. Helen's visit 177 XIX. RE-UNION JEAN LINDSAY

Chapter I. Leaving Home

' ' Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end ; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forward do contend." IOME, Grace, my child, it is time you were in bed, you have a long journey before you to-morrow." These were the mother's words as she fondly stroked the fair hair of her youngest daughter. Then two loving arms were thrown round the mother's neck and a bright face was raised to hers. But soon big tears were coursing down the young girl's face. She hardly knew why they came, for was she not to-morrow to set off on her long looked for visit — would she not soon breathe the air of Scotland's hills and enjoy their wild rugged beauty ? Was she not leaving home for the first time, on B Y. 2 a long visit to a distant place ? and where is the English girl that has no sore heart, even in the midst of expected pleasure, as she goes away from the loved ones, so tried and true at home ?

And Grace had such a home to leave ! Let us enter this home to-night and see what we find there. It is an old-fashioned, rather squarely built house, in the market-place of a town in one of the Eastern counties. I think as you walked up the street you would say at once, " Surely that is the doctor's house." And so it is, for Dr. Arnold is the master. The house is built of stone, with the door in the centre and two windows on either side. Above are five windows, and above again another story with sloping roof. It is close upon the road, and you would at first say what a dull-looking house it is ! but the inmates would tell you a very different tale. To this house Dr. and Mrs. Arnold had removed when their children were quite young ; indeed Grace, the darling of the family, had been born there shortly after they came.

The furniture was not new nor the carpets bright, and perhaps strangers thought the doctor's house looked shabby ; but the occupants were content, and troubled very little what outsiders thought about it. As we go this evening into the study, which is at the back of the house, we find it lighted up, and a small fire burning in the grate. The doctor is there alone, and we see him as we look in seated in his easy-chair, apparently reading. But as we watch him a little more we see that his eyes are fixed on the fire, and his beautiful face (beautiful not so much from well-formed features as from ex pression) looks a little sad ; he murmurs to himself, " My little Grace, my dear little Grace." Then he glances to something framed over his mantel piece and he reads, "Rest in the Lord." In a minute his face loses the sad look, and one of calm trustfulness comes over the manly features, and soon he is once more absorbed in the medical work he was studying.

It is dark now, so that you cannot see the back of the house, but there is a garden stretching behind ; and though at first it looks very short and narrow, I can tell you there is a door at the bottom which leads to a charming spot on the side of a hill which the doctor has had planted to his own fancy, for his garden is his hobby. It is laid out with great taste, and as the doctor throws his practical good sense into the matter it is also very productive. Down at the end is a vinery, truly not a very large one, but the doctor always seems to have the first and richest grapes, and many a poor patient has been refreshed by a bunch sent by the kind, generous doctor. There are five children belonging to this house, two sons and three daughters. B V. Frank, the eldest, is in London studying, that he may follow his father's profession.

Ralph, the next, sailed a few months since for Melbourne, where an excellent opening has been found for him. Kate, the eldest daughter, is rather stately looking and dignified, taller and darker than Grace, but with a kind, loving heart ever ready and well able to assist her mother. Helen, the second, is altogether more like the father, with an earnest, true face, which to look upon is to trust. And what shall I say of the mother ? Perhaps what she is would be best summed up in this : True woman and true Christian. She has had trials, and many of them, but they have been the fire purifying the gold, bringing out in her, each year with greater clearness, more of the Master's likeness. And is it to be wondered at, when we know that to become like Christ had been Marion Arnold's prayer from the day when she knelt as Ralph Arnold's bride.

They had set forth on their journey together with this determination : " This one thing I do, I press towards the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus." Could it be otherwise then, that with this desire, the atmosphere of this house was felt to be more heavenly than most, and from the servants upwards it was known that the master and mistress desired above all things to glorify God ? But we left Grace with her mother, in the little room, where her trunk stands ready packed, for she is to be off early the next morning. The mother's tears too are almost welling up as she says, " My darling, our Father will watch between us, and you know no height nor depth can separate us from His love." " No, mother, it is precious to know He will go with me, and will keep us both safely in His loving arms."

Then "good-nights" were said, and Grace was left alone. She knelt down by her little bed with a tender feeling towards it, as her resting place from childhood, and committing herself and her loved ones in a few words to her Father in heaven, she rose, undressed, and was soon peace fully asleep. Yes, though Grace Arnold was only seventeen, and in the full tide of youth and health, she had given her young heart to Christ. Her love to Him had seemed to grow up with her and become part of her very self. Her mother was a bright, happy Christian, getting her strength daily afresh from God, and her children had early seen that their father and mother could not do without their God. He was to them, first a Saviour, then a Counsellor, a Friend, a Guide. From their birth these children had been com mitted to God, and when their parents had dedi cated them to Him, they had done it believingly, Y. feeling sure that the promise was to them and to their children.

Would that there were more such parents in our Christian England, so living before their children as to show them that their love to God was something real and true, something to be carried into every transaction of life. But, alas ! too many are seeking first the good things of this world for their children, and forgetting their Saviour's words, " Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness." Should they not rather follow His commands, feeling sure of the promise that follows, "And all these things shall be added unto you." The next morning all were astir early. It was a bright, fresh September morning, and at eight o'clock Dr. Arnold stood in the hall waiting for his daughter. " Come, Grace," he called from the bottom of the stairs, " we must be off." And then downstairs she came, looking so bright and pretty, while a shower of loving kisses were given her with the hasty good-byes.

They were going to drive eight miles to a sea port town, where they were to meet Mrs. Campbell and her little daughter. Mrs. Campbell was the daughter of an old friend of Dr. Arnold's, who had married a clergyman in the far north of Scotland, and was now returning home after a visit to her southern relatives. Grace was to go under her care by sea as far as Aberdeen. At the hotel, they found Mrs. Campbell waiting for them ; and as time was short, and Dr. Arnold's very precious, he quickly bade them farewell, and with a long kiss to his daughter took his departure. We must here leave our travellers for a little time, while we follow Dr. Arnold homewards. As he rode up to his own door, he saw his wife anxiously looking out for him. " Oh, Ralph ! I am so glad you have come, for there is a message from Thornleigh begging you will go at once.

Little Dora is ill, and I am afraid, from Mrs. Stevenson's hurried note, it must be something serious ; but, Ralph dear, how did you leave our Grace ?" " I left her safely in Mrs. Campbell's keeping ; now tell me, where is the note ?" And as he spoke the doctor rang the bell. "Jane, say I want my horse brought round at once," he said as the servant obeyed the summons, " and tell John to be very quick." " When did this note come ?" he asked, turning to his wife. "Almost directly after you had left," was the answer. The doctor's face looked anxious. " Poor little Dora, I wish I could have gone at once. She must have needed me sadly, as her mother says she V. is delirious. Strange the attack should have come on so quickly." " Dear Ralph, you must take something before you go, you have had such a long drive, and now have eight miles to go another way."

With some persuasion the doctor stayed a minute to swallow some soup his thoughtful wife had pre pared for him, and then set off at a sharp trot. It was a beautiful ride to Thornleigh, through a thickly wooded and undulating country ; and had not the doctor been preoccupied he would have intensely enjoyed the scene this clear September day. But he felt depressed, and his thoughts were divided between his absent child and the little one he had been called so hastily to visit. Mrs. Stevenson was one of the Arnolds' choicest friends. They had many, but perhaps none quite took the place that she did. She was a tried, true friend in joy or sorrow, and now the doctor's heart was quite ready to sympathise with her. Mr. Stevenson was a most genial man and kind neighbour. His easy life was a very comfortable one, spent in farming his small estate of Thornleigh ; but his own happy life — and certainly James Steven son seemed to have had fewer trials than most — did not keep him from having warm sympathy and a tender heart towards others.

They had two sons. The eldest had just come of age ; the youngest was fourteen when, to the great joy of the whole family, a little sister was added to the number. This was little Dora ; and now, at four years of age, she was the darling and plaything of the household. She seemed born to love and be loved, though at times she was sadly perverse and wilful, so that her mother feared some times that her two big brothers would spoil her altogether. It was, then, to the idol of Thornleigh that Dr. Arnold had been summoned ; and his kind heart sank at the bare thought that perhaps his friends might be called upon to part with their treasure. As Dr. Arnold passed through the lodge gates, he thought the place had never looked more beautiful. A long drive through an avenue of stately trees led up to the house, which was built of stone, with gable roof and casement windows.

A terrace ran round two sides of the house, from which an extensive view was seen, and the mossy lawn which sloped away from it was still gay with flowers. To-day there was a peculiar quiet about the place, which was most unusual, for generally it was surrounded by those indescribable marks of life, which one sees about a cheerful family home. No one was to be seen, but as the doctor rode up to the door, William (who had been on the look-out all the morning) ran up quickly to take his horse, and touching his hat, said — Y. 10 " I am right glad you've come, sir ; we have wanted you sadly, the little lady's very ill, I fear, sir." William was a faithful groom, who had been in Mr. Stevenson's service long before the little lady was born, and now was as anxious about Dora as he would have been for his own child.

At this moment Mr. Stevenson himself appeared on the doorstep, and ushered Dr. Arnold at once up the broad staircase, hung with pictures, till they came to a landing from which two long corridors branched off. Taking the one to the left, the two walked to the end and entered the usually bright nursery of Dora Stevenson. Here they found the mother anxiously watching her sick child. Then came inquiries about the illness, which seemed to have come so suddenly. Dora, it was true, had not been quite the thing for the last week, but the doctor had seen her only two days before, and thought little was the matter. Mrs. Stevenson said she feared the child was hurt by a fall she had the day before, though at the time, as she scarcely cried, the nurse had thought little of it. Dr. Arnold laid his cool hand upon the little child's forehead, and she opened her eyes and gave a sweet smile of recognition to her old friend, then in a few minutes more was again wandering.

" You must keep up heart, my friends, though I cannot disguise that your child is very ill, but I trust the symptoms will soon yield to the remedies I am going to use. I should like William to go at once to the surgery, and I will send a message to Mrs. Arnold. Nay, stop, I will go and speak to him myself." After giving the necessary directions about the medicine, he said — " William, tell Mrs. Arnold I am sorry I shall not be home till very late this evening, and she must not be surprised even, if I do not return to-night." Going back to the sick child's room he watched by her side for some time, suggesting many little alterations for her ease and comfort ; then promising to return later in the day, he set out once again to see other patients that needed him.

Chapter II. The Storm

" The marble cliffs, tremendous surges roar ; Hoarse through each winding creek the tempest raves, And hollow rocks repeat the groan of waves ; Should once the bottom strike this cruel shore, The parting ship that instant is no more." jgfgllHE wind was moaning this September even- Is |P ing round the Vicarage of Lingford, mak- ! ing the little family inside draw their chairs closer to the fire. The morning and early afternoon had been clear and fine, but at sunset a change had come and the wind rose, reminding every one that the long dreary winter would soon be at hand. Lingford was a straggling village com posed mostly of fishermen's cottages, many of them little more than huts, and two or three small farm houses a little distance inland. The cottages were scattered here and there along the cliff, and half-way up stood the Vicarage ; while nearly at the top was the old church, grey with age, and much covered with ivy.

Close by were ruins fast falling into decay, probably the remains of some old monastery. As usual, the situation chosen by the monks of old was a grand one, and the view from the top was varied and extensive over sea and land. One wondered why such a position had been chosen for the church, for the congregation had a steep hill to mount, which was bitterly cold in winter and hot and sunny in summer. But so it was, generation after generation had worshipped within its walls, and one by one had been laid in the little churchyard on the hill-side. The vicar, old Mr. Lindsay, looked, like his church, both grey and aged, and each winter his parishioners thought would be his last ; but still he kept on, his regular habits of life from youth having insured to him a long life and a healthy one. On this particular evening the usual party, Mr. Lindsay, with his two daughters, Jean and Margaret, were in the Vicarage dining-room.

The ladies would scarcely have been taken for sisters, so unlike were they, and evidently there was a great difference between their ages. Margaret, the eldest, was verging on forty, and looked as if she had never known anything but the prose side of life. There was a hardness in her face, which, while the features were good, made one look in vain for one soft line about it. In childhood and girlhood she had never been known to be joyous, and though she was ever ready to help others, there was such a roughness in the way she offered any little kindness, that people felt they would rather be without it. The scrupulous neatness of her dress betokened what she was in everything, and a better north-country housewife would not have been found anywhere. Margaret, any one could see, was her father over again, only the hardness seemed much harder in the woman than in the man.

Jean was about nineteen, with such a bright fresh face as did one good to look at. She was certainly a sunbeam in the room, though her brightness met with little or no response from her companions. Punctually at nine o'clock, Mr. Lindsay rang the bell, and Jean stood up to reach down the large Family Bible. " How the sea roars to-night, father ! the wind gets higher and higher every minute." " God help our poor sailors !" was Mr. Lindsay's reply. By this time old Sarah had come into the room. She was the only servant at the Vicarage except Gillings, who was chiefly an out-door servant and did not sleep in the house. Slowly Mr. Lindsay opened the Bible, and then gave out the 107th Psalm. He paused a minute that each of his hearers might find their places, and then began. Jean, it is to be feared, thought prayer-time rather wearisome, and seldom listened very much, but let her mind wander far away to other things.

She was almost startled to-night as her father, in his deep tones, read the 25th verse : " For He com manded! and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof." And then, again, the 29th verse : " He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still." Often had storms burst over Lingford Vicarage, but Jean thought she had never heard the wind rage as it did to-night, and it seemed to lend a new meaning to the familiar words of the Psalm. When the prayer was finished, the simple supper was taken, after which the little family parted for the night. Jean, from her own choice, had lately taken possession of a little room on a story above that on which her father and sister slept ; she liked being away from the others, for only Sarah's little room was near it, and she knew that the dear old body would never interfere with her.

To-night Jean had no sleep in her, and when at last she felt satisfied that her father and sister were safe for the night, she blew out her candle and with a jump mounted herself on her favourite window seat. No seat in the house was comparable to this in Jean's eyes. Often had she sat there watching the glittering ocean spread out before her in its grandeur, eagerly following with her eye the passing vessels till they were lost to sight, speculating whither they were bound, and what the living freight they carried. How often she had longed to be in one of them speeding on her way to unknown climes ! From her childhood she had loved to run down and chat with the old sailors, hearing their strange histories of foreign countries, and in this way so feeding her imagination that she was often seized with an almost uncontrollable longing to change her quiet life and set off for other lands.

Poor Jean had never known a mother's love, and her ardent nature longed for sympathy which she could not get in her own home. When quite young she had learned to wander away on the rocks by herself, and enjoy seeking for shells and seaweed and other treasures of the shore. These rambles, however, one day came to an end, greatly to her sorrow. She had walked on, not thinking of time or tide, absorbed in picking up the seaweed which had been thrown up by the storm of the previous night. All at once, on looking round, she found herself on rocks surrounded by water. The tide had been coming in fast, and there seemed no way of escape. Meanwhile, at home, the dinner hour had come, but no Jean ; half an hour had passed, then three quarters, and Mr. Lindsay went out to seek his little daughter. Old Jack Smith, hearing the child was missing, and knowing her love for rambling along the shore seemed to guess the state of the case, and without waiting hardly to answer Mr. Lindsay's inquiries, ran down to the shore, and in a minute was in his boat rowing fast towards the rocks.

There he soon spied Jean's white frightened face, the water just covering her feet. Jean little thought then of the Heavenly Father's care of His child, that Father's care of all His creatures, that even a sparrow falls not to the ground without His knowledge. Many of her sailor friends were anxiously looking for her, for the child was beloved by all the village, and it was with a joyful face that Jack brought her back to her father. Jean had grown up amongst them from her babyhood, and many remembered the sweet young mother who was with them for such a short time, and then was called away, leaving her fair child behind her. How she loved to hear all the}'- could tell about her mother, till she longed and yearned for that mother's love. There was not much to tell. Mr. Lindsay had lost his first wife when Margaret was about twelve years old, and when after some years he brought home a second sweet young wife, the people wondered how it was their grave, cold clergyman had won for himself such a bride.

Her health soon failed, however, and when the little Jean was born she had to leave her, as it were, alone in the cold, weary world, and yet not alone, for she knew the mother's God would never forsake her child. c On this night Jean sat dreaming much longer than she thought. Sometimes the moon would peep out from behind the clouds and light up the cliffs and the sea. Then the fast flying clouds would almost cover it again, and ever and anon far out on the horizon she could see vivid flashes of lightning. She almost jumped as she heard the old clock on the staircase strike, it sounded so loud in the stillness of the house, and she counted, and to her astonishment found it was twelve o'clock. " I must go to bed," she thought to herself, but waiting a second she unfastened the casement window very softly and leant out, intending just to listen for a moment to the roaring of the waves.

As she did so she was startled by a booming sound. " It cannot be," she thought to herself, " it is only the waves beating against the cliff" — and again she listened. One or two waves rolled in, breaking, with majestic grandeur, on the shore, and then again came the booming sound. There was no mistake this time ; again and again it came till Jean, thrilled all over, could stay no longer. Slip ping a warm shawl round her she very quietly un fastened her door, as quietly slipped downstairs, and went out at the front door. Once out she was soon fleetly running down the garden, and as she went out of the gate nearly ran up against old Jack. He could not believe it was really Jean, and with difficulty satisfied himself that it was not her ghost. " Oh, Jack ! it must be a vessel in sore distress ; do let us make haste."

With quickened steps, two or three minutes more brought them to a projecting knoll, where a group of men and women were eagerly watching. A flash of lightning at the moment revealed a moderate sized vessel not far from the shore, rolling fearfully, and strained at every joint. "Jack! can nothing be done ?" Jean cried, in her eagerness forgetting what poor chance a small boat had of living in such a sea. No braver men could have been found in all England than those that were gathered on that cliff, but they knew it was worse than useless to attempt anything at present. When the tide turned, which would be in about an hour, perhaps the wind might go down a little. So there they stood, this band of men and women, enduring the agony only sailors and their wives can know to its fullest, of watching a vessel containing fellow sailors for whom they see but little hope of rescue.

The group was very silent, their hearts were too full for utterance, and every eye was endeavouring to pierce the darkness, to see if the good ship were still holding out. Every now and then a prayer was heard, and Jean, perhaps for the first time, there in the midst of the excitement, thought of what prayer was, even the longing cry to an all-loving, all-powerful God. C The guns still boomed at intervals, but it seemed as if those who fired them were fast losing hope. At last the hour was passed, the tide turned, and with it the wind slightly abated. Some of the brave fellows prepared at once to set off on their hazardous errand of mercy. Soon all was ready, and with a ringing cheer, those on the shore sent them on their way. They thought they heard floating on the wind an echoing cheer, per haps it was fancy, perhaps the poor shipwrecked ones had caught the sound, and it had given them a gleam of hope, and they were answering back again.

Brave men that could thus go forth to save their fellow-men, eh ! and brave women too, that could thus see their dearest go forth to danger for the sake of others. It has been said, " Men must work and women must weep." I would rather say, and women must wait. Only a woman's heart knows how hard the waiting is. Work is exciting work helps to bear, but just to wait, I was going to say, and do nothing. But stop, who would say that the woman waiting and praying is doing nothing ? Oh ! fathers and husbands, lovers and brothers, you little know how much you owe to women's prayers. Some danger passed — some temptation overcome — because somewhere a woman is praying for you. Has the Master said, think you, only to one woman, " O woman, great is thy faith : be it unto thee even as thou wilt." Jean was a girl of intense feeling, and this hour had roused her and made her, no longer the thoughtless girl, but the woman ready to work and act.

As she heard the boats retreat, she thought to herself, " There will soon be some cold and wet that will need all we can do for them." And with a hasty word to Jack's wife she set off swiftly towards the Vicarage. When she reached it she saw lights in the windows, and soon found that her father and Margaret were up, the storm having com pletely prevented any thought of rest for that night. In days gone by, Mr. Lindsay would have been foremost on the shore helping and directing, but now he was unable to risk the exposure, and Margaret staid with him. Jean ran in breathless with her exertion. " Father, there is a wreck — two boats are gone out to the rescue — we think there is some hope still. We must have fires and hot blankets ready — some will be needing them soon." At this Margaret bestirred herself; she was just the person for such an emergency, for she seemed to know what to do and how to do it.