Edgar and I.: the story of a home. A novel

Chapter I

" Come, fellow creature, Love an_ work with me." E. B. Browning. __v^» t^le Scottish city of Know- !^j£J burgh stands a large roomy house. Its lawn is shaded by two or three spreading elm-trees, and beyond is a garden full of dear old-fashioned flowers, honeysuckle, mignonette, and quantities of roses. From the lawn there is a view of some pleasant meadows, and a range of hills ; but behind the house are plenty of suburban villas, and the town itself is within an easy walk. This B house, Elm Lodge by name, became my home soon after I was seventeen. My father then inherited a fortune independent of his profession ; and as my mother's heart still lovingly turned to her Scotch birth place, where some of her family still lived, he decided on leaving London, and settling there. Shortly before our change of home, my mother's sister, who lived with us, married, and accompanied her husband to India.

Aunt Eleanor was then not more than sixand-twenty ; but for years she had been the one person whom I reverenced with all my heart. Hers was the first influence that made me desire goodness for its own sake. She was my confidant and adviser in my girlish troubles and perplexities ; and her leaving us made everything so dreary, I was truly thankful to leave my London home, and begin afresh in a place not associated with her. My father was an architect, and being devoted to his profession, continued its practise, though no longer dependent on it for support. Thus, even after our removal to Knowburgh, we did not come much into contact with him ; and besides, his theory was, that daughters should be left to their mothers' training. Our mother well deserved such confidence. I always looked upon her as the embodiment of the German Hausfrau in its widest, most tender sense.

She was made to be the centre of a home ; and though by no means my father's equal in talent, he rested on her with full trust and affection ; and we three girls loved her quite as well as if she could have given us the fullest intellectual sympathy. My sisters, Mary and Wilhelmina, or Minnie, as the latter was always called, were bright girls, a little younger than myself. Mary was the more talented of the two, and, on the other hand, Minnie was generally con sidered the beauty of the family. Anything prettier than she was, with her bright blue eyes, wavy fair hair, and clear rosy complexion, I have seldom seen. Mary was darker, and her face was chiefly remarkable for its change ful intelligence. She kept us all lively with her quick, bright fun, and sometimes a little touch of kindly satire.

And I myself? Some people called me peculiar; some strong-minded ; some over-religious. Such ideas originated a good deal from my passing a year in one of the London hospitals, with the intention of taking up nursing as my life work. At the end of that time, my health failed, and after a severe illness, I was pro nounced too delicate for a hospital nurse. I returned home, and became rather an un satisfactory and perplexing member of our home circle. I dreamed over beautiful ideals of goodness, but did not at all carry them out in every-day life. I was quieter than my sisters, shrank from society from con scientious motives, and spent a good deal of time in visiting the poor. Outsiders seldom noticed me, save by a passing remark of the kind I have mentioned ; for I had neither Mary's wit nor Minnie's beauty.

My own family gave me affection, if not comprehension, and estimated me altogether much more highly than I deserved. I had some talents, but that fact often made me self conceited and uncharitable. I really cared for the poor, I really longed after holiness, but I had a very self-indulgent nature, and, in everything, was too much given to fits and starts. I knew my own faults, but weakly failed in correcting them. The re mains of my delicate health made my mother and sisters lavish care and tenderness upon me, but, though possessing every earthly blessing, I was far from happy. I was inconsistent, and I knew it. It is not very easy to describe one's own appearance. Never having been a beauty, I may make the attempt, though in any case an outside eye will probably see something different from the image in a mirror.

I had brown eyes and light-brown hair, a skin clear but not brilliant, and rather a pretty mouth. My impression of myself is, that I was rather insignificant-looking, though those who loved me learned to like my face. Eighteen months after I gave up my work in London, the great joy of my life came to me. I was chosen by one who had seemed so far above me, that to this day I can only marvel how he ever learned to love me. I knew Edgar Seymour well before I thought of him as anything but a friend. He did not seem likely to marry, having his whole heart in the wretched East London district, where he was incumbent. Naturally, wonderful as it seemed, instinct told me, as soon as he began to care for me, though my friends never saw it, and his manner was most unlike love-making. He talked to me of matters of real interest, church questions, or East London and its needs ; but he never once paid me a compliment ; indeed, often some action or speech of mine brought a very grave look to his face.

I knew he thought I had many faults, though he never said so in words, till after our engagement. When he asked me to be his wife, he set before me very plainly the sort of life I should have to live, the trials and self-denial it would involve. He told me he loved me, but in words which to many would have seemed cold. They were enough, and more than enough, for me. I gave myself to Edgar Seymour then, as fully as I did at our marriage. Once my sisters brought to me an album containing various questions to be answered. Of these, the most noteworthy was, "What is your greatest desire ?" I answered instantly, though refusing to write my answer in the book, " Some one to obey." I got my wish when I became engaged to Edgar. He knew I required guidance and training, and he took his proper place with me, from the very first.

I was thankful ; how different Agnes Sey mour would be from Agnes Granton ! Edgar was, I thought, perfection ; not, however, sinless perfection, by any means. Harriet, his sister, once tried to tease me by saying he was the naughtiest boy she ever knew. I could quite fancy that. His was throughout a strong nature, which had been turned against its own faults. He had almost won the victory, as to outward things ; and few, indeed, now saw any signs of the violent temper and unsubdued will which had been so visible a few years before. In appearance, Edgar was tall, pale, grave, and often stern-looking. He had very dark clear grey eyes, which seemed to read you through and through. My dear friend, Dorothea Clifford, herself lately engaged to a clergyman, the Rev. Peter Dale, told me confidentially that she was dreadfully afraid of Edgar.

When I answered, " So am I," she opened her blue eyes in surprise, and inwardly, no doubt, rejoiced she was not afraid of Peter. The business that had brought Edgar frequently to Knowburgh came to an end just before our engagement ; and so, the day after it took place, he was obliged to return to London. He promised us a visit about three weeks later. During his absence he wrote me twice. Dorothea Clifford came, shortly before Edgar's return, to spend some time with us, partly because Peter had, for the summer, exchanged his charge for one in Knowburgh. Before he arrived, Dolly received a daily letter, of which she was very proud, insisting on my admiring her lover's handwriting, and when I was unfeeling enough to smile, taking refuge in saying, " Surely you will get a letter to-day, Agnes," in a pitying tone.

Edgar's letters were both long, and made me know him better. They began, " My dear Agnes," and were signed, " Yours faithfully." They dealt a good deal with matters of interest outside ourselves ; but the last, which was written in answer to an impulsive self accusing one of mine, was more personal, and told me something of Edgar's own struggles, ending with, "we will help each other." Within was enclosed my betrothal ring, originally his mother's— plain gold with one very fine diamond, and inside engraved the monogram and motto of the Labarum. Edgar and Peter arrived the same day. Peter was tall and fair, with a bright winning expression, and a constant gladness in his eyes, even when gravest. Edgar knew him in London, and greatly liked and respected him, though the two were most unlike- Papa had asked Peter to stay a few days with us, before going to his lodgings.

So we had two love affairs going on at once, as my sister Mary said, laughing. Had we ? One, most assuredly, went on vigorously. Dolly and Peter were much too sensible to be, in slang parlance, at all "spoony," but they were very thoroughly in love, and showed it. When his clerical duties permitted, Mr. Dale would come into our drawing-room with a look of evident delight, and carry Dolly off for a long walk. If he were prevented joining her on entering the room, his eyes met hers simply and naturally, in a way which I liked in him ; while Dolly, always un demonstrative, was the picture of pretty shyness when, no one being present but myself, she ventured to put her hand on his shoulder to attract his attention. I liked Peter very much — he was so thoroughly true, so entirely unconscious of self.

Then he worked almost as hard as Edgar, though at less cost, not being so highly strung. Though using many prac tices it is the fashion to call so, he was much less ascetic than my betrothed, but this might be accounted for by the simpler nature which did not need so much keeping under. It was the custom at home to laugh at Edgar's manner to me. I happened to be in the drawing-room when he arrived, and curious eyes turned on us to see the meeting. They did not see much. Edgar went straight to my mother, and greeted her, introducing Mr. Dale, who, however, unaccountably disappeared the next moment, and Dolly also. Edgar next greeted Mary and Minnie, who were nearest, and then, while I was foolishly shrinking and blushing, took my hand with the grasp of possession, which I liked, saying in a perfectly audible tone, the common place words, " Well, Agnes, I am glad to see you."

His manner to me was always equally undemonstrative, and, by degrees, people gave up making arrangements for our sitting together, or the like. Indeed, one of our acquaintances, when told of my engagement, vehemently declared it was impossible, as she had "seen us together." I had sufficient pride to object greatly to any public display of feeling, and quite liked this coolness before strangers ; but Edgar's conduct in this, as in all things, was founded on principle, and he objected to almost any out ward demonstration of affection at any time. My feelings were then as little under control as my faults, and it seemed to me hard not to be allowed to give them expression. " And surely, Edgar," I said to him, when talking over the matter, " it is my duty to love you now." " Yes, but you can love me, we can love each other, without self-indulgence as to mere feeling.

I am afraid for us both. We are, by our own choice, given up to God's direct service, and this love enables us to work together. Now, I have seen priests who, marrying, became useless. Their wives cherished the weak part of love, and as people say, loved them too well to be willing that they should go into the deep places of poverty. They, on the other hand, could not bear to yield themselves up to martyr dom, if need be, while weak woman hearts must share it." " Surely, Edgar," interrupted I, reproach fully, " you don't think / would hold you back from your duty, even if I could?" with a half-smile at the impossibility. " No, Agnes, I hope not, I think not ; but safety in temptation is generally found in some self-denial. It is easier to say you would not keep me from danger while no danger is at hand, than to abstain from the indulgence of demonstrative affection.

If you cannot control your feelings so far now, how can you expect to do so when you are exposed to greater trials ? You and I both need a curb, even on what is innocent in us, if we are to be strong, as we must be.. Words must be tested by actions." " Yes, Edgar," I said, feeling the truth of his last remark ; and as I really wished to improve, I decided to follow his advice. I did not like it, I allow ; but I was learning from Edgar's example to think what I dis liked often rather wholesome. So I tried to keep my feelings under control, and not to long for such loving words from Edgar as Dolly had from Peter. It was a trial, and once I remember shedding some weak minded tears in the retirement of my own room. Such things seldom troubled me, when Edgar and I were alone together. This did not often happen, as people gave up looking on us as needing special lovers' " privileges," and every one agreed in liking Edgar and enjoying his company.

Even my criticising sisters allowed he was delightful, and papa and mamma perpetually engrossed him. My only certain times of getting him to myself, were in our walks to and from daily service, when our only other companions, Dolly and Peter, had too much to say to each other to want our company. These were very happy hours to me, though I knew if Edgar had seen anything amiss in me, he would not fail to tell me then, a proof of his love I understood and valued. Dolly was, really, much more humble minded than I was, and she looked up to her lover quite as much as I did to mine, but c their relation was a different one; and, indeed, my sweet gentle Dolly was so good that I should have quite understood it had Peter considered her faultless. I do not know whether he did or not, but certainly she never gave him cause to reprove her.

I know she thought Edgar harsh, for when, girl-like, we confided in each other, she once said she did think he might spend one week with me without reproving me. I could not help answering, being accustomed to speak openly to Dolly, that, on the other hand, I might spend a week with him without giving him cause. Dolly remarked she did not see I was so bad as I seemed to think myself, but added mischievously, it was well Edgar and 1 should hold the same opinion. I had always wished that Dolly should see my faults, but I was often afraid she did not very plainly. She always made me want to be better, in spite of her few words ; but I frequently wished she would answer the confes sions I made to her by some expression of strong disapproval. I used to think it would do me good. Now I had Edgar, I was con tent to let Dolly's affection blind her, but I should have been very sorry if he had been like her in that particular.

The next Sunday was a very happy day, and, I hope, not without its fruits, though they did not appear the day following. Some girls in our neighbourhood were mentioned whom I did not altogether like. Dolly had never seen them, and I began to describe them to her in terms not according to that charity which is the " bond of perfectness." They were " shallow, correct, common-place, stupid." I went on in this way, my sisters agreeing with me, till I caught Edgar's eye. He looked only sad, not the least angry, and I felt more penitent than if he had lost patience with me. Edgar saw I was sorry ; and, when we were alone, he said very little to me. He suggested gently — " Don't you think we might ask the Miss Daltons to go with us to Korlin ? " Now this Korlin expedition was rather a favourite scheme of mine, as I wished to show Edgar the beautiful chapel ; and I hoped to get a good long talk with him during the day.

Strangers would completely spoil the plan to me, but I knew well enough I de served to lose the pleasure ; and I agreed with Edgar, theoretically at least, in thinking a repentance of words only, not a safe one. So things were settled as he wished, and I had a dull day, though it was less dreary than I expected. Edgar, when talking to Lily and Carry Dalton, drew out all that was best in them. I knew they were really sensible, good girls, though not clever, but I never saw it so plainly as that day. As we went home together, Edgar said to me — " Agnes, I was wondering if you spent as much energy and perseverance on your duties — works of charity, and so on — as these girls on what seems right to them — accom plishments, embroidery, or home ministry." I was really feeling humbled, and could say truly — " Yes, Edgar, you are right, I might learn a great deal from them both."

Just then Dolly and Peter joined us. Peter had been very good to me all day — indeed, it was by his management Edgar had been my companion on the way home. He and Edgar now fell into Church talk, very interesting to us girls. Peter had a more hopeful view of things than Edgar, and I think contact with his friend's brightness did the latter good. I remember the bright, pure moonlight that gleamed upon us as we neared our home. How sure I felt I could never vex my betrothed again ! I forgot how unstable my resolutions had been before ; I forgot the one hope of the weak, fervent prayer. I fear I almost forgot the One I had displeased, Wholoved me better than my futurehusband, and to Whose glory Edgar and I desired to live. While I was thus self-confident, Edgar, I know, was praying for me, and I cannot doubt he was heard ; for, sometimes the utter humiliation of a great fall is the only way by which a proud nature learns to come helpless to the Great Helper.

Chapter II

u 1 have sinned, she said. Words bowing her head, As the wind bows the wet acacia trees." E. B. Browning. URING Edgar's visit, an old uncle of mine came to stay with us, to make acquaintance with his future nephew. He was a kind old man, and brought me a hand some, though most unsuitable wedding gift, namely, a diamond pendant and earrings. He had, however, a great want of tact, and this led to trouble that evening. I was feeling over-excited, which should have made me doubly watchful ; but unfortunately, the reverse was the case, and I lost control over myself when it was wanted. Some rather silly girls began a light discussion of Church questions, in which my uncle joined, anxious, I fancy, to tease me a little. I knew Edgar and Peter agreed that silence, in such a case, was the only safety, and when Dolly, under the pretext of showing a shy child some photographs, left the group, I was quite aware I ought to follow her example.

I did nothing half so wise ; irritation led me to rush into the discussion — exactly what the girls desired, by the by. Forgetting alike my youth and my courtesy, I spoke sarcas tically and impatiently to my uncle and my guests ; worst of all, I at last touched on some topics which none should approach, save in love and reverence. My uncle thought it all a capital joke, and when I was hottest, suggested that Edgar did not seem to take my view of the subjects in ques tion. I now noticed him standing silently near us. " Of course, *Edgar agrees with me," I cried, " as any Churchman would." " Eh, Mr. Seymour ? Does this lady interpret your sentiments correctly ?" said my uncle. Edgar thus appealed to, came nearer us, and said, quietly — " I trust Mr. Granton will excuse me for not embarking in a discussion, for which this seems neither the time nor place."

" Ah, Agnes !" said my uncle, " what do you think of that ?" " I think," said I, stung into anger, " I may choose my own times and places for discussions." "No, no, my dear," he rejoined, smiling ; " wives must obey, you know." " I have not put on my fetters yet," said I haughtily, knowing Edgar would be more grieved at such irreverent talking of marriage, than at the rudeness to himself. " A pretty little lover's quarrel," laughed Uncle Granton, still treating the matter as a joke. I looked round, and to my horror observed the girls who had taken part in the discus sion, looking on in delighted amusement. I looked at Edgar. His face was stiller than usual. What should I do? Certainly not go and speak to him. I was far too angry for that. I looked the girls in the face, re marking — "Don't you think Uncle Granton and I have had a long-enough war of words ?

Pray come and give us some music." I must have somewhat spoiled the effect of this speech by sweeping past Edgar in dignantly, with cheeks that burned like red hot coals. Next morning I awoke without any diminution of perversity. I said to myself that Edgar had no business to scold me in public, forgetting what an exaggeration it was to call his quiet words scolding. It being a Wednesday, service was not till eleven ; so it was some time before I found myself alone with him. On our way to church, Dolly and Peter, as usual, walked on together, and Edgar and I followed. I waited for him to speak at first, but as he remained silent, I began defiantly — " Well, Edgar, I am ready for a lecture." " Are you ?" asked Edgar, in a quiet, questioning tone. " As much so as I am likely to be," said I, growing angry.

" Agnes," he said, with perfect gentleness, "let us talk of this matter after service." I never was what is called passionate, but when I did lose my temper, it was not slightly. I do not remember half the bitter words I said to Edgar that morning. I know I accused him of not really loving me, and of having no proper respect for me. I went farther and farther, Edgar remaining per fectly silent, a grave sadness on his face. At last we came in sight of the church porch, and then he said, quietly as ever — " Agnes, see !" I was silenced, of course, and half-sobered also. We went into church, and by degrees my anger subsided, but so slowly that much of the service seemed like mockery to me. At last repentance came — more like remorse, at first. When Edgar joined me after ser vice, I could only walk by him in silence, my cheeks burning as deeply with shame as last night with pride and temper.

Edgar possessed intuition. Though I did not speak — I could not for a while — he knew I was sorry. His first words surprised me. " Agnes, I am afraid I made a mistake last night, in speaking as I did to your uncle of what you had been saying." " No, indeed, Edgar," cried I, "you were perfectly right. Can you ever forgive me ?" " My dear Agnes," he said, " do not think of what I have to forgive." Then, after a short pause, he went on, "Don't think of me in the matter at all, save as one who deeply grieves to have in any way led you to do wrong." Edgar lead me wrong ! I felt as if I should like to fall at his feet in utter humiliation. I kept back my tears with difficulty, and yet tears seemed miserably inadequate to express what I felt. We had reached home, and I followed Edgar into the library, which, during my father's absence on business, was sacred to the two clergymen.

Then I poured out to him the whole history, not now seeking to excuse myself in any way. " Yes, Agnes," said he, " you have sinned greatly." There was silence for a little. At last Edgar said — "Agnes, I cannot feel blameless in this matter. I should have tried to speak to you last night out of the hearing of others. Now, I have something to propose. I have my place supplied, you know, next Sunday, and meant to stay with you till Tuesday or Wednesday. I have here a request from a friend in Newcastle for help in a Mission there. He wants me immediately. Sup pose I go this afternoon." " Oh, Edgar," cried I, " to lose our happy Sunday together !" " Yes," said he, " we want something really painful ; and I think we should both feel that." " Would you ?" I asked Edgar looked at me. " My darling," said he, " do you not know how I love you ?

May God help you, that I may never put the gift in the giver's place !" He stooped and kissed my forehead ; and for a moment I felt far too happy, consider ing what had taken place. " Well, Agnes," he said, resuming his usual manner, " shall I leave you this afternoon ?" I faltered " Yes," feeling how entirely right it was. " And, Agnes," continued Edgar, " you know Miss Stewart was to take your Bible class during my visit. Let her do so next Sunday." " Why ?" " I don't want you to forget the reason I am not with you. Leave yourself time to think of it. And think also Whose Suffering was necessary to win your pardon for this 1> sin. We parted now, Edgar going to tell my father of his change of plan, I to my room to cry bitterly. A knock ; I rise and admit Dolly. " Why, Agnes," said she, " what is the matter?"

" Edgar is going away to-day," I said. " Edgar ! why ?" "Because I have behaved so badly." Whereupon I go into another fit of crying. " Agnes, what do you mean ?" I tell her, and she remarks, since I am sorry, she thinks Edgar might forgive me altogether. On this I immediately say — "Edgar is perfectly right ; and it is just be cause he does forgive me he takes the trouble to help me to remember my fault." Then I sit at Dolly's feet and cry again, and she touches my hair in a hesitating way, she being as undemonstrative as I am the reverse. I feel consoled a little by her sympathy. A little quiet time was a blessing to me just then, helping me to realise how deeply I had sinned against God. But only too soon I had to go and take leave of Edgar, one of the saddest moments of my life, though, outwardly, I was calm as I knew he would desire.

My quiet leave-taking, and Edgar's abrupt departure, both gave rise to remarks in my family. Mary and Minnie congratulated me on my " very affectionate lover," adding we seemed well matched in taking things coolly. Their merriment could not hurt me then. After all, they were kind in leaving me to myself that evening, and all I wanted was to be alone. D

Chapter III

" Thou stiff-necked art, and hard to rule, Thou must stay longer in affliction's school." C Noel. UNDAY was, of course, a very sad day to me ; but it brought with it the thought of God's infinite pardon ; and, in the evening, I joined the rest at tea, feeling calmed. I was at once greeted by Mary and Minnie, who seemed greatly excited. "Agnes," cried Mary, "do you know it is all over the town that you have been obliged to break off your engagement in consequence of Edgar's violent temper ?" " Not quite that," explained Minnie, but people are talking dreadfully. "They say you are very unhappy, that Edgar is most un kind to you, and that he left you in a passion. So much for platonic lovers !" " Really, my dear," adds mamma, " I wish you and Edgar acted a little more like other people. It is not pleasant you should be considered the victim of a tyrannical, bad tempered man."