Her Loving Heart

Front matter

HER LOVING HEART A BEAUTIFUL STORY FOR GIRLS. By SAB, AH TYTLER. Crown Svo., Cloth, Gilt Edges. Price 3*. 6d. HER GENTLE DEEDS, By SARAH TYTLER, Author of "Papers for Thoughtful Girls." "The book is excellent. Kirsten Stewart isa noble minded girl, strong and sensible, after the wholesome fashion of Sarah Tytler's heroines." — Literary Churchman. " Miss Sarah Tytler's latest story is just such a book as girls will delight in. Kirsten Stewart is a real heroine in her quiet unselfishness and self reliance." — A cademy. "A. quiet, unsensational and thoroughly artistic story, full of fine touches of that imaginative veracity which the accomplished author has always at her command. ' — Mancliester Examiner. " The story is charmingly fresh and original, the high moral tone and sense of duty that runs through it are most refreshing." — Literary World.

" A charming book for girls of all ages. The heroine of ' Her Gentle Deeds ' is one whose acquaintance it is good to make." — Scotsman. "This is a work of unusual power, most interesting throughout." — Methodist Times. CHARLES BURNET & CO. "How can you pick all those fruit blossoms?" expostulated Mildred. — Page 26. HER LOVING HEART. " Let those Jove now, who never loved before, Let those who always loved, now love the more." —Parn. Per. U. BY HELEN HAYS. LONDON CHARLES BURNET & CO., 9, Buckingham Street, Strand. 1888. AU Rights Reserved. CONTENTS. CHAP. l'AGE I. The Professor gets Married - - - - 3 II. MlLI.Y AND HER BABY SlSTER .... 14 III. The Professor at Home 25 IV. Ugly Whispers 37 V. Mrs. Evans has an Idea 49 VI. Nelly finds Warm Hearts .... 61 VII. A Crotchety Old Lady 72 VIII. Nelly makes a Conquest .... 79 IX.

Thornly en Fete 90 X. A Crushing Blow 101 XL Barbarians at Play m XII. The Professor falls III - -. - - 121 XIII. Milly gets Caught 132 XIV. Nelly's Sacrifice 144 XV. Brother and Sister 153 XVI. Not to be Trusted 164 XVII. The Deepdale Strike 174 XVIII. A Narrow Escape 182 XIX. Milly takes Advice 192 XX. Nelly's Conflict 203 XXI. Nelly sets herself Free 215 XXII. Eric to the Rescue 223 XXIII. A poor Wanderer 233 XXIV. A Mystery cleared ur 242 XXV. Nelly reaps her Reward - - - -251

Chapter I. The Professor Gets Married

There are those who do not care for thronged thoroughfares and the din of cities. A sea of faces wearies them ; the great drama of human life, as seen in jostling crowds, does not move them as does a quiet field-path with the stars overhead, or a wood road in summer beside a brawling brook lined with mosses. To these simple-minded souls I address myself. Readers of this sort will care to hear the story of a few people in the village of Thornly, a place noted only for its picturesque location, and a small struggling college, which, having been founded in a fit of generosity, and left to itself in a fit of forgetfulness, still managed to survive. The people of Thornly called themselves in the Middle States, but it was doubtful if any one would know the difference between this and a New-England town.

There was the same beautiful verdure, the same tranquillity, the similar church architecture — if one may apply the phrase to wooden meeting houses and chapels, with or without square-topped towers ; and there was little difference in the strag- A gling street, which began with private residences, and ended with the butcher's and baker's and candlestick-maker's shops. On the day of which I write, there had been an unusual stir in Thornly. From an early hour, more people than was customary were in the streets ; and there had been an air of expectancy on all sides. The one livery-stable had hardly been equal to the demands made upon it, and several private carriages had been seen coming from and going to the railway station. And yet it was not the month of June, when all country towns wake up to new arrivals ; nor was it Commencement week, when there was always an influx of strangers.

It was autumn, and had been a very bright, beautiful day. The air was keen and still, full of aromatic perfume ; and the dry leaves fell fluttering down in a gentle resignation— for their brilliant colour had long since faded, — and the village children gathered them in heaps for bonfires, which made a ruddy glare in the soft twilight which comes so early in the fall of the year. It was rather a strange time of day for the church doors to be open, as it was a Tuesday, and there was only evening prayer twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays ; and some of the children ceased poking the blazing leaves, to ask each other if there was to be a funeral. " A funeral, — oh, no ! " said one child older than the rest. " It is a wedding ; and my mother says we are not to call Miss Sturgis an old maid any more.

She is going to be Mrs. Pyne." "You don't say so! Then she'll be Milly Pyne's stepmother, won't she ? " "Yes." " I wonder how she will like it." " Oh, I don't believe it will make any difference to her!" " Because she isn't little, you know, like the poor things in story books, who get banged about. Milly Pyne's a big girl. Oh, look ; there is the minister, and here come the carriages ! " The bonfire was deserted, that the eager little eyes might see the bridal finery ; but they were sadly disappointed when a staid, elderly woman, in a dress of plain brown silk, was assisted from her conveyance by an equally elderly and staid gentleman in the plainest of frock-coats ; neither were they better satisfied when the girl they called " Milly " made her appearance, in a gown of some dark-blue stuff, that fitted snugly, and was only ornamented with fine braiding.

To be sure, it was a little compensation that everybody else was in gay attire ; but that could be seen on any pleasant Sunday morning. In truth, it was not a very gay scene, though the principal figurants looked calmly happy and com posed. Perhaps, beneath the folds of plain brown silk, one heart throbbed more quickly than it had ever done ; but its possessor was not in the habit of losing her self-control : so no one saw more than the placid smile of contentment, and the little flush of unusual excitement. The village children were not the only ones commenting. "What do you suppose Miss Sturgis wanted to marry that stupid old man for ? " said Mrs. Blackie, who kept a thread-and-needle shop on Main Street, to Miss Shapely the milliner. " Some women never know when they're well off," returned the other evasively.

"That's true; but I suppose she didn't want 'Miss' on her tombstone. It's the only reason I can think of, when she had that handsome house all to herself, and no one to bother her." " It isn't every one's husband who is a bother, Mrs. Blackie," answered Miss Shapely, somewhat sharply. " No," said the other one meekly. " Some people are more fortunate than others ; but, when a woman has lived alone as long as Miss Sturgis has, it is running a great risk to marry." Miss Shapely was evidently of the opinion that the risk was worth taking, but she did not so express herself. " Did you notice her bonnet ? " she asked, turning the subject of conversation from Miss Sturgis's motives, about which she and Mrs. Blackie were likely not to agree, to one which might interest both. " Yes, it was very pretty.

Did you make it ? " " Not exactly ; I altered it, though. It came from the city, but was a dreadful fit. I had almost to pull it to pieces. I made Milly's." "That was sweet. Miss Milly is a lovely girl. Doesn't look a bit like her father. He is just an old dried-up stick, and they do say he wouldn't have thought of marrying if his salary hadn't been cut down. None of the professors get enough to live on. Well, he'll move into Miss Sturgis's house now, I suppose. It will be a real good thing for Miss Milly. She has had to take care of her father just like any little woman. Maria Jane goes up there to scrub Saturday afternoons ; and she says that child mends and darns and patches, and sews on buttons, and makes desserts, when other girls are flying around town having a good time." Miss Shapely held up a bonnet she was trimming, and eyed it carefully.

" So much the easier for Miss Sturgis — Mrs. Pyne, I mean. If I was going to be a stepmother, I wouldn't want a young colt to break in." "Take my advice, and don't marry at all," said Mrs. Blackie, bidding her friend good-evening, and going out of the shop in sudden haste ; for she knew what a scolding would be waiting for her, if her husband should have come home in her absence, and found no supper ready. "That's the way they all talk," soliloquized Miss Shapely, putting on the new bonnet, and regarding herself in the looking-glass, as she gave a pat here and there to some refractory bows. " Yet every one is glad to have the chance to try. I do wonder a little at the old professor's choice. He might have found a much more practical person than Miss Sturgis, — and not very far away, either.

Heigho ! all the men are after money. There's no such thing as sentiment ; " and again she patted the bows, and pinched up her curls, and turned her head sideways, murmuring, " It is very becoming." Miss Shapely had seen " better days," and had her aspirations. She read " Lalla Rookh," — for this story begins at a period when such a book was not entirely shelved, — and Miss Shapely had other books, which had belonged to her grandmother. " Childe Harold " was one of them ; so was the "Children of the Abbey," and "The Mysteries of Udolpho." It was a great condescension for Miss Shapely to meet Mrs. Blackie on an equal footing, as the latter made no pretence to gentility ; and had they not long been neighbours, Miss Shapely could hardly have allowed Mrs. Blackie to be so familiar ; but her good-nature and kindly spirit enabled her to overcome her prejudices, especially as she knew the poor little woman had a hard lot, with her many children, her small means, and her cross husband.

But these two were not alone, either, in their criticism. In one of the fine, broad, comfortable houses at the upper end of the town, standing far back from the street, and surrounded by maples and elms, was a group of young people of all ages. They had just driven up from the church, paid their respects to the bride and groom, who were receiving their friends in a similar house on the other side of a cedar hedge, and it was evident that each was eager to have some thing to say, for a general hubbub of merry voices was to be heard. " O mamma ! " cried a tall girl of sixteen, with a merry twinkle in her black eyes, rushing up to a dignified lady in black satin, " wasn't it a funny wed ding ? — two such old fogies. I could hardly keep a straight face. And he didn't kiss her. I was wait ing for that, and was so disappointed."

" Hush, Tillie, hush ! Don't be so frivolous. The children may repeat what you say to Milly," said the mother reprovingly. "Jack and Nan and Lizzie are listening to every word, and you know how much I respect Miss — Mrs. Pyne. Oh, dear, how hard it will be to call her any thing but Miss Sturgis ! " " I should think so, when she has been your neigh bour so long. How old is she, mother dear ? Now, just whisper to me, please." " Nonsense, Matilda ! You young people think everybody is old. Miss Sturgis is not more than forty, and is young compared to Mr. Pyne, who cer tainly must be fifty; yes, he was looked upon as an old bachelor when he married the first time, twelve years ago." " And who was Milly 's mother ? Was she at all like Miss Sturgis ? " "She was Mildred Forsyth ; no, not in the least like Miss Sturgis.

She was — well — as much like Milly as you can imagine ; the same sedate little body, with earnest brown eyes, and abundant brown hair, and a nice way towards every one. You know how thoughtful Milly is; well, so was her mother." •' And she died when Milly was a year or two old ? " " Yes ; it was a horrid accident. She was thrown from a carriage." "And why didn't Milly go somewhere else to live ? Hadn't her mother any relations ? " "Not many. She went to boarding-school for a while ; but her father was so lonely and miserable he kept her at home with him, after a season or two. I rather think her childhood has had little sunshine. Mr. Pyne has held himself aloof from us all, living first here, then there, never long anywhere, but tied to the college. The last few weeks that Milly has been staying with Miss Sturgis must have been the happiest she has ever known ; indeed, she said as much to Nan and Lizzie."

" And yet we have always thought it must be so dreadful in that big quiet house of hers, where you can hear a pin drop from attic to cellar! " " Yes." " And even the servants move around like ghosts." "And the flowers in the garden are all in so straight a line." " But we are noisy romps, after all, perhaps. No, I can't imagine it as being any thing but stupid and stiff and slow there." " That is because you are allowed so much liberty. Well, I must go take off my satin and lace. Ask the Denmans to stay and have a cup of tea ; and, Matilda, if Mr. Walpole comes in, tell him your father will not be at the bank to-morrow. He has to meet the college trustees at ten o'clock, and has promised to give me the rest of the morning." Mr. Walpole was the chief clerk and cashier of the Thornly Bank, of which Mr. Evans, Matilda's father, was president.

He came in soon after, and so did the rector, Mr. Chasuble ; for the Evans house was sure to be open to visitors whenever there was any village excitement. All the young people gathered about Mr. Chasuble, as his was no ascetic visage, and kindliness was written on every feature of his thoughtful face. His voice was particularly winning ; and, though levity was never apparent, he had a quiet jest for those who could appreciate it. Of course the uppermost topic was the wedding ; but Mr. Chasuble only smiled, and, rubbing his hands together, spread them out before the fire, remarking that the air was very frosty. "An autumnal marriage, that of our neighbour," said old Mrs. Evans from her easy-chair in the corner. " Yes," he answered, now obliged to do so, "quite apropos to the season ; but it is a very suitable match, Mrs. Evans, — much better than if May and December had wed.

You remember what old Thomas Fuller says, ' They that marry ancient people, merely in expectation to bury them, hang themselves, in hope that one will come and cut the halter.' But Mr. Pyne would be surprised if he knew how the young people regard him. He is not such an antique, after all, — merely a man in the prime of life." " That depends upon the distance we ourselves have gone down hill. / look upon him as quite a youth, for I am twenty years his senior. But Mr. Pyne has always been so grave and silent and reserved, that it is no wonder these giddy youngsters consider him a Methuselah. I hope the new couple may be happy." "A wish I echo, Mrs. Evans." " Miss Sturgis is an admirable woman, — a little peculiar, perhaps, from living so long alone ; but she will be different now. I am a great advocate for marriage, Mr. Chasuble : it rubs off the corners, and makes people more even and round."

" Even so, Mrs. Evans." " O Mr. Chasuble, how can you ? " laughed the old lady, passing him a cup of tea, which she had just poured out, on the tray that a servant had brought to her. " Some things are of that nature as to make 'one's fancy chuckle while his heart doth ache,' " quoted the clergyman. " Why, what do you mean, my dear friend ? " said the old lady anxiously. He glanced about him. The giddy youngsters were drawing off to the piano, and the games which had been started. " There was a look on the bride's face, which, to me, is always ominous of misfortune." " Really ! " " Yes. I do not know that I am superstitious. Sometimes I think I have the gift of second sight." " Is that consistent with a proper orthodox belief ? " asked the old lady gravely. " I do not think it conflicts at all.

There is cer tainly much that we do not understand in these intui tions and movements of our minds independent of our reasoning faculties." " But is it not dangerous to allow them to influence us ? " Certainly, if we follow them blindly." "And you think you saw — what ? " asked the old lady in a whisper. "Oh, just a flitting shadow, a mere expression, — evanescent as light ; a blended joy and sorrow in those eyes uplifted to her husband's face ! It was gone in an instant ; but I shall never forget the pathos of it." "O Mr. Chasuble!" said the old lady softly, "you study too much. No one else saw it." " Perhaps not ; perhaps it was all imagination. Let us hope so." " Oh, yes ! I will not mention it. And you must not write too steadily. Give us old sermons for a while. Have another cup of tea, do." HER LOVLNG HEART. 14

Chapter II. Milly And Her Baby Sister

It is just a year since Thornly village discussed Professor Pyne's marriage, — a year of bright happi ness for young Milly Pyne, who for the first time has known the comfort and peace of a well-ordered home, and the kind care of a mother. All her young life has been till now an uneasy one, full of small depri vations and vexations, which even the thoughtless ness of childhood could not alleviate. And now, — well, here she is just coming in, singing, from the garden.with hands full of late chrysanthemums for the vases in the large sunny parlour, which is hung with crimson curtains, and full of East-Indian ornaments. It is a beautiful room ; for Miss Sturgis's father was an East-Indian merchant, — that is, he partly owned the vessel he commanded, and brought his own car goes, when not employed by others, — and in this way many rare and curious things had drifted to his home.

But he and his wife had not long enjoyed it. Capt. Sturgis had simply not returned from a stormy voyage, and Mrs. Sturgis had fretted and moaned herself into her grave. It was undoubtedly this sad experience which made the daughter so well under stand her step-child's needs. She had put aside her usual habits in every way, when she became Mrs. Pyne, and chiefly for Milly's sake ; for the professor did not alter his ways, when the first happy days of the honeymoon were over. He was too much of a bookworm to do that, and Mrs. Pyne let him enjoy his studies in peace. But, for Milly's sake, she in vited young people to the house, opened her doors to the sewing society and the literary club, hoping to foster every good and wholesome taste in the girl. She had never done this before ; and people hardly knew how cordial and graceful, and even lively, she could be.

So the year had gone rapidly ; and Milly had grown tall, and was getting on well with her studies. As she comes singing into the parlour, she looks in vain for her dear stepmother, who has promised to help her arrange her flowers, and plan some fancy work ; and she calls out in her cheery young voice, — " Mamma, mamma, where are you ? " To her surprise, the study door, which is opposite the parlour, opens, and her father makes his appear ance, looking worried and anxious. It is very un usual for him to be visible at this hour, or to have any thing to say about her affairs ; but now he says, — " Do not call your mother, Milly ; she is not well. You must get on without her to-day." " But she told me at breakfast that she would show me where to put the flowers, and I've only just come home from the errand to Mrs. Wilkes.

There are to be some girls here to-night, and we cannot do without mamma." " You exact too much of her, Mildred. She is not strong ; and to-day she must remain quiet," responded Mr. Pyne firmly. HER LOVING HEART. "Oh, very well!" says Milly, just a little puzzled; and then she goes up-stairs to see if her mamma has a headache, and if she can do any thing for her ; but the new maid, who has recently come, assures her that her mother is sleeping, and she must not disturb her. It is very tiresome to be left to herself; but Milly has not forgotten all her old ways in the days of her loneliness, and she sets about the little tasks which she has to perform, remembering that nothing pleases her stepmother more than to have her useful. But she wishes her father were more companionable, and she finds the morning a long one.

The early dinner comes and goes ; Mr. Pyne eating in silence, and Milly wondering what she will do with herself if her mother cannot come down in the evening. But when evening approaches she is really alarmed, for Mr. Pyne goes for the doctor ; and Mrs. Wilkes, to whom she had been sent with a note in the morn ing, comes to the house prepared to stay, and says to her, — " You had better excuse yourself to the young ladies that are expected this evening, my dear ; the house must be quiet, and your mamma must be very still." "Is she, then, really ill ?" asks Milly, "and is there danger ? " " Oh, yes, my dear, she is very ill, and there is always danger ! " answers the old woman, with an alarming shake of the head, and a grave look over her spectacles. " And am I not to see her, or be with her ?

" says Milly, catching her breath. "No; it is not best." "Will it last long — this suffering?" pleads Milly, for she has her suspicions. " I cannot say ; I hope not. You must be brave, for your father's sake. He is very anxious." Milly steadies herself by catching at the stair-rail, — they are standing in the upper passage to the bedrooms, — but she feels faint and sick. The old woman gets her some camphor, and bids her lie down. It is almost maddening when the young meet, for the first time, with the dreadful mystery of a loved one's suffering. Their hearts so revolt at its appar ent injustice, and wildest questioning of God's mercy overpowers them. Milly went to her room. She could do nothing but gaze out on the fast gathering darkness, and listen to the rising wind. There was a pale line of light on the horizon ; but the sky was overcast, and a storm was approaching.

She sat looking out until there was nothing to be seen but the twinkling village lamps, — her head on her hand, her heart like a lump of ice in her throat, and her feet and hands stiff with cold. After a while one of the maids knocked, and summoned her to tea. She refused at first, but in another moment remembered what her mother would wish her to do, and crept down-stairs. The light and warmth were welcome, and bade her be more hopeful. Surely others had passed through similar danger : why not this dear one, too ? But B HER LOVLNG HEART. 18 her father's troubled face threw her back again upon her doubts. He did not speak. He just glided in, as white as a ghost, drank a cup of scalding tea, and went out again, never even looking at Milly, who was longing for a word of comfort. " Oh, dear," cried Milly out aloud, "I cannot bear this !

I will go to the kitchen ; " and away she hurried, to escape her terror. But the cook, a middle-aged colored woman, had a family of her own, to whom she went home every night ; and only the new maid Nora was there. And Nora was very homesick, which aggravated her naturally desponding temperament. Her tears, however, checked Milly's, and made her resolve to be at least more composed. She took the towel from Nora's hands, and wiped the tea-cups, counted the silver, and set away the glass. There was no use in trying to talk, for words would not come. The long hours dragged themselves away, and bed time came. The doctor had been in and out. He was to have the spare bedroom. Mrs. Wilkes came with a sweet message from the sick woman, that Milly must go to sleep and forget all trouble. She begged just to creep in and kiss her mother, but Mrs. Wilkes refused.

" No, my dear ; you are not used to sickness, and it might do harm." Milly thought this nonsense ; but, when she passed the door, she heard a sound of anguish which made her shudder, and run to her own room in haste. No, she was not used to any thing so dreadful as this ; and with incoherent prayers she went to bed, to stare with open eyes at the ceiling, and at last fall into a troubled doze. It seemed all a painful dream when she awoke, with a start, to hear footsteps, to know that it was snowing hard and storming violently, and in another minute to have her door pushed open. Mrs. Wilkes entered with a bundle in her arms, and put that bundle in the bed beside her, saying, " Here's a little sister for you, Milly." She gave a cry of delight, a very outburst of joy, and seized the mass of soft flannel eagerly.

"Carefully, carefully," whispered the nurse; "you may only give her one kiss, and let me go." "And mamma ? " cries Milly. " We hope for the best," is the sober response. " Oh, is there any doubt ? " says Milly, in quick revulsion from her transport of joy. " She is very, very weak." Poor Milly clasps the baby in her arms. " Let me keep the baby, then." " Will it be a comfort to you ? " " Oh, indeed, yes ! " and Milly strained the little creature to her breast. And there the child staid. For the mother's heart ceased throbbing. A few weary hours, and all was over. Ah, how terrible is Death when he robs an unconscious infant this way ! Their brief happiness was ended. Sorrow had again taken up her residence with Mr. Pyne and Milly. After the first fearful shock, and dreary sense of loss, there came to Milly a quiet comfort in caring for her little sister.

B2 But Mr. Pyne never looked at the child. He shut himself more than ever in his study, and left his two daughters to themselves. Milly had every offer of sympathy and help. Even her father's sister Rachel, a very independent sort of person with means of her own, said that she would take the little one home with her, or would put the child out to be nursed at her own expense. Milly refused every thing. She was as jealous of her little charge as a lioness of her whelp. No one should even look at the child who did not love it. It was all hers. Even its small gowns were too dainty to be touched by common hands. From that moment when it was laid in her arms, a little, helpless, limp, unconscious creature, she was mother and sister in one. She named it after its own dear mother, Eleanor ; for the love flame Mrs. Pyne had lighted in Milly's young heart never was extinguished.

" Mamma, mamma, where are you ? " was a cry often reiterated in the depths of Milly's grief and loneliness. Oh, if she only could have lived long enough to express her wishes about the child! If she only could have told Milly what to do ! She had no help from Mr. Pyne. It is hard to condemn one who suffers bereavement ; but human selfishness is just as apparent, and just as detrimental when so exhibited, as under happier con ditions. No pain justifies self-absorption and indifference to duty. The very love which has been so wounded, one would think, would make one more sen sitive to the wants and needs of others. Mr. Pyne did not think so. He looked upon himself as especially chosen to be injured and blighted, and he would not allow a clergyman to offer consolation or advice. He never went to church after this second affliction, and he spent all the time not employed at the college in the study of curious dialects.