After Long Waiting: a story

Front matter

AFTER LONG WAITING The Wednesday afternoon sittings were the only break in the week's monotony.— A 98. A STORY BY ADA; MARY ROWLEY LONDON JARROLD & SONS, 10 & n, WARWICK LANE, E.C [All Rights Reserved] lS97 " I have read your story with much pleasure. Your style is natural and easy, and you have mastered the very difficult art of making people converse naturally." ROBERT P. DOWNES, D.D., Editor of " Great Thoughts" dedication. THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED TO A FRIEND WHO HAS HELPED ME IN MY LITERARY CAREER. A. M. R.

Chapter I

'• The highest compact we can make with our fellow is — Let there bs truth between us two for evermore. It is sublime to feel and say of another I need never meet, or speak, or write to him, we need not reinforce ourselves or send tokens of remembrance, I rely on him as on myself, if he did thus or thus, I know it was right." — Emerson. DURING the past twenty-five years the population of Manchester has increased enormously. Greenheys, Ardwick, and many of the other suburbs are almost like separate towns. Humanity is huddled together, and life seems but an incessant round of business. Everyone is occupied with his or her own particular pursuits, and they have no time to enter into the joys and sorrows of their fellow citizens. One may live in the same street, even in the same house, for a life-time, and yet bz ignorant even of the names of one's next-door neighbours.

In a street off Burlington Street, Greenheys, may be seen a long row of houses, occupied for the most part by hard working, under-paid clerks and respectable artisans. In one of these houses Joyce Merrett had lodged for the past ten years of her life. She had made no friends among her neighbours, her life was too full of work for her to be able to spare much time for social intercourse, and she did not easily make friends. For ten years she had looked out on the same prospect. Her sitting-room and bedroom were both at the back of the house, and from the window she had a view of a square backyard, surrounded by high walls, which might give an outsider the impression that they enclosed something precious, or, perhaps, they had been built to hide the blank ugliness of the little yard. Beyond this might be seen the backs of the houses in the adjoining street, where every day in the week seemed to be " washing day."

It was not a pleasant outlook, even in bright, sunny weather, when the blue sky was overhead ; but in damp, dull weather, nothing could be more dismal. It was May Day, iS — , not one ofthe old-fashioned May Days, when the young people, in summer gar ments, might dance around the May Pole, but a dull, wet, nineteenth century first of May. It was scarcely six o'clock, but already people were beginning to light the lamps, and pull down the blinds to shut out the dreary day. Joyce Merrett sat by the window in the fading light, busily writin"\ She held the book up in order to see the crabbed German letters, and every now and then she opened her big dictionary, and hunted out some word or another. She threw her pen down with a sigh of relief as she came to the end of a chapter. " I think I've done enough translation for this after ternoon," she said, pushing her chair back.

As she rose her eyes fell on a letter. The landlady's daughter had brought it in half-an-hour previously, but she had been too busy to note it. Her face flushed with pleasure as she recognised the handwriting. "From Isabel!" she ejaculated. hurriedly tearing open the envelope. It was only a short note — " My dear Joy, " After all our travels we are returning home, and I think we shall settle at Alderley Edge. Mother is wonderfully well. I shall be in town to-morrow, and will call and see you about five, and will stay all night, if convenient. I'll tell you all the news when I see you. Your loving " Isabel." Joyce sat looking at the letter for a long time after she had read it. What memories it re-called ! Isabel Dain was her old school friend, but she had not seen, or heard from her, for the last eighteen months.

How well she remembered the last time she had seen her ! Isabel had spent her Christmas holidays with Joyce, but life then had been so infinitely happy compared with now. Joyce's father had been alive, she was not then a lonely orphan. Mr. Merrett had been an artist. He taught drawing at the Misses Renshaw's School, where Isabel Dain was a boarder, and in return for her father's services Joyce had received her education. As a rule the boarders did not make friends of the day scholars, and there was much talk amongst the girls about the sudden, but lasting friendship, that had sprung up between the rich and handsome Isabel Dain, and the drawing-master's poor and insignificant-looking daughter. Isabel's parents were travelling abroad for the sake of her mother's health, and, as a rule, Isabel spent her holidays with an aunt at Chester, where she met her brother Frank, who was studying with a tutor at Harrow.

One Christmas, however, Frank, who had gone to Chester a few days before Isabel, was taken ill with scarlet fever, and it was arranged, in consequence, that Isabel should spend her holidays at school. Joyce, however, managed to carry her off for a week. It was then that Isabel learnt her friend's history, and their friendship was more thoroughly cemented than ever. Mr. Merrett was the son of a wealth}- Birmingham manufacturer. Like so many people, Mr. Merrett, senior, was ashamed to own the business out of which he had made his money. Early in life they had impressed on their only son, Clarence, the necessity of his marrying some aristocratic, and, if possible, titled lady. At an)' rate, one who had never been, even remotely, connected with trade. However, at the early age of twenty-two, Clarence fell in love with Joyce Mayfield, a poor, struggling music mistress, whose father had been a clerk in a mercantile office.

In spite of all entreaties and threats on the part of his father and mother and elder sister, Maria, he had insisted on marrying the woman he loved. Mr. Merrett forbade his son ever to enter 'his house after his marriage, and informed him that any letters he sent would be consigned, unopened, to the fire. Undaunted by this treatment, Clarence brought his young bride to Manchester, and took up the work of artist, which before he had employed as a pastime, to gain a living for himself and wife. He soon found out how difficult it was to earn a living in this way ; still he had managed to eke out an existence, and they had been happy in their love. Twelve years after their marriage, when their daughter Joyce was ten years old, Mrs. Merrett had died. Mr. Merrett never recovered from the shock, although he lived on for the sake of his little Joy, and even smiled sometimes at his grave-faced serious little daughter.

Joyce had been, so to speak, a worker from the time of her mother's death, for soon after her father had been ill, and obliged to call in a doctor, who said there was a strong tendency to consumption, and had advised rest and change of air. This it was impossible for Mr. Merrett to get in their circumstances ; but, for his daughter's sake, he had written asking his father for help, getting Joyce to address the envelope, but no notice was taken of the letter. From that time he had impressed on Joyce the necessity for her to learn all she could, feeling sure that some day she would be left to struggle in the world alone. Joyce was altogether inartistic, but she had made good progress in other subjects. The Christmas Isabel spent with Joyce and her father had made her more acquainted with the varied knowledge of her friend, and it had been happiness for her to sit by and listen to their talk, and when Herr Shaeffer, Mr. Merrett's old friend, called in during the evening, the harmony had been complete.

Joyce looked back on this happy time, which had been almost without a cloud. She knew, of course, that her father was not strong, but never for a moment had she suspected the heavy blow that was so soon to fall on her. Isabel returned to school the day after New Year's Day. Mr. Merrett and Joyce went with her to the school gate, and coming home, being overtaken by a storm, were wet through. Mr. Merrett caught a severe cold, and in three days he was dead. Joyce could scarcely realise it, she was as one paralysed, and, had it not been for Herr Shaeffer's care and attention, she would not have known what to do. She received a loving letter from Isabel, who heard of her trouble, but she had not replied to it. A few weeks later she had another letter from her friend saying she was going to her aunt at Chester, and that her parents had decided that her aunt should take her and her brother to the South of France, where they were then staying, in order that Frank might recruit his strength.

From that time Joyce had heard nothing further of her, and it was no wonder that as she once more gazed on the familiar writing, all these old memories should come back. She roused herself from the reverie into which she had fallen with difficult)-. She then made up the fire and got ready her tea, placing Isabel's letter on the table for companionship. She had not too much time to spare for it, for at seven-thirty her German pupils came. Herr Shaeffer had taken care that she should be a good German scholar, and had also secured pupils for her after her father's death. Joyce was not fond of teaching, but she did it conscientiously. She preferred doing translation and other literary work, and, a few months previously, Herr Shaeffer had introduced her to an eminent physician, who often required German books translated.

Joyce found it difficult that evening to keep her thoughts from wandering, and she was heartily glad at nine o'clock to see the retreating figure of her last pupil. She soon settled down to her translation again, for she was determined to have the following evening free to chat with Isabel, and she had promised to go the next day to sit for Herr Shaeffer, who was, with ready pencil, depicting her as " Saint Elizabeth." Joyce had laughingly protested that he would never make a " saint " of her, but Herr Shaeffer had his own ideas on the point. He knew that Joyce was no beauty, but the pale face, and dark hair, brushed back from the low forehead, and the deep, earnest, grey eyes, which in some lights were almost blue, and at times black, seemed to him to come nearer to expressing his idea of Saint Elizabeth, than would one of the most beautiful of women.

Herr Shaeffer was an enthusiastic artist, and when Joyce went to sit for him the next day, he kept her much longer than he intended. Joyce had sat on uncomplainingly, although she was wondering if she would be back in time to finish the translation which she had promised to send to Dr. Croston that night, before Isabel came. As soon as she was set free she hurried home, and began to write. At five o'clock she heard a knock at the door, and, on turning her head, she saw Isabel standing in the doorway. She threw down her pen and ran to her. "How glad I am to see you !" she cried. "You must take your things off, you know my bedroom, and then come and sit by the fire, and in a quarter of an hour I shall have finished my work, and shall be free for the rest of the evening." Isabel did as she was told, and Joyce went back to her desk.

In a quarter of an hour she had finished, and, wrapping up her work, she ran downstairs and gave it to the landlady's daughter to take to the post. When she returned she found Isabel standing admiring three pictures that were hung up over the fireplace. " They are your father's?" Isabel queried. " Yes, they were at the dealer's when you were here last, but I had them returned after " Then she paused. " Yes, I know. How exquisitely they are painted. This to the left is Niobe, I think ; the others I don't quite understand." " That is just why father's pictures would not sell. Everyone owned they were well painted, but the people to whom he might have sold them didn't understand them. The one to the left is Niobe ; you know her history, don't you ? " " No, indeed, I don't ; but I should like to do so Tell me about her."

" Father used to tell me the stories of all his pictures," Joyce began. " Niobe was the wife of the King of Thebes, whose name was Amphion. She had seven sons and seven daughters, of whom she was very proud. Upon one occasion, exulting in the number of her children, she ridiculed the worship of Leto, who had but one son and daughter, and she desired the Thebans, in the future, to give to her the honours and sacrifices which they had hitherto offered to the mother of Apollo and Artemis. The words had scarcely passed her lips before Apollo called upon his sister Artemis to assist him in avenging the insult offered to their mother, and soon their invisible arrows sped through the air. Apollo slew all the sons, and Artemis had already slain all the daughters save one, the youngest and best beloved, whom Niobe clasped in her arms, as the picture shows.

The agonized mother implored the enraged deities to leave her, at least, one out of all her beautiful children ; but even as she prayed, the deadly arrow reached the heart of this child also. Meanwhile, her husband, unable to bear the loss of his children, had destroyed himself, and his dead body lay beside the lifeless corpse of his favourite son. Widowed and childless, the heart broken mother sat among her dead, and the gods, in pity for her unutterable woe, turned her into a stone, which they transferred to Siphylus, where it still continues to shed tears. I must say I think B Amphion was a coward to leave his poor wiie to bear her trouble alone, and those old gods must have been frightful tyrants to rob a defence - woman of her children because she was proud of them." "You quaint child," Isabel said smilingly, "how real you make it all seem.

Poor Niobe. no wonder she wept ! Tell me about the other pictures, dear." " The one on the right is a contrast to Niobe ; it represents Hebe, who was the personification of eternal youth under its most attractive and joyous aspect. But even she got into trouble. She was cup-bearer to the gods, and one day she clumsily .-.lipped, and in consequence was deprived of her office. I like Niobe best, however, and I think it was far away the best picture he ever painted. It was, too, the last big picture he painted. Look how he has depicted the loving, yearning look of entreaty on Niobe's face There are times when I dare hardly look at it, I should cry too in sympathy if I did. The one in the centre, I suppose, is rea worth most as a work of art, but I like it the least [t represents Selene, or the fair Lady Luna, who was supposed to drive her chariot across the sky whilst her brother was reposing after the toils of the day. \\ hen the shades of evening began to Id the earth, tlie two milk-white steeds of Selene rose out of the mysterious depths of Oceanus.

Seated in a silvery chariot, and accompanied by her daughter, Herse, the goddess of the dew, appeared mild and gentle queen of the night, with a crescent on her fair brow, a gauzy veil flowing behind, and a lighted torch in her hand. Selene greatly admired a beautiful young shepherd named Endymion, to whom Zeus had accorded the privi lege of eternal youth, combined with the faculty of sleeping whenever he desired and as long as he wished. Seeing this lovely youth fast asleep on the Mount Latmus Selene was so struck with his beauty that she came down every night from heaven to watch over and protect him." " How clever you are ! " Isabel said. " Where do you get your knowledge from ? " " Father told me those stories, and mythology is one of my favourite studies. I know most of these old stories by heart.

But I really must apologise. Here I am keeping you talking like this and you haven't had tea yet, nor told me a word about yourself, although it is over a year since I heard from you." " You didn't think I had forgotten you, Joy, because of my long silence, did you ? " " No, indeed ; I knew our friendship was forever, and, even if I had never seen you again on earth, one of the joys of heaven would have been the thought of finding you there, and being able to say, ' Isabel, my friend,' for I feel sure that our friendship will be renewed there." "Yes, dear Joy, I feel just as you do. I have often thought about you while I have been away, and should have written to you, but we have moved about so much. Mother was a great deal stronger than when she first went away, and able to enjoy travelling, instead of finding it wearisome, and father was anxious that Frank and I should see places of interest, and complete our education in that way ; so since we left England we have visited most of the principal towns in Europe.

It has been a delightful time. I think I enjoyed Rome and Venice most. I said to Frank many a time, ' If only Joy were here how she would revel in it all ! ' He is quite anxious to make your acquaintance. We only returned to England" six weeks ago, and we have been staying with Aunt Julia at Chester, while our house at Alderley Edge was got ready for us, and we have been there three weeks. Now, dear, I want you to come and stay with us, and see how you like ' Ferndale.' " Joyce's eyes shone with pleasure. " It would be too delightful, but I'm afraid I can't. I'm a very busy person now. But come and have tea, and we'll talk about it," for Joyce had been busy preparing tea while she was talking. " You must come, I've set my heart on it," Isabel said, as she drew up to the little table. " I shall take no denial."

"If it were not for my pupils I think I could manage it, for I daresay I could find an odd hour or so while with you to do my translation, and I've nothing very urgent on just now." " You talk like a staid business woman," Isabel said. " I didn't know you had any pupils, but you must give them a holiday, and let the other work rest awhile." " I wish I could, but I have to work for my living now." "What do you do?" Isabel asked. "Well, my work is rather varied. I translate German books for a Dr. Croston, and anyone else who will give me work. I write short stories and articles for local papers, and I have about a dozen German pupils. Herr Shaeffer recommended them to me." " Do you go to their houses, or do they come here ? " " They come here once a week ; they are all girls they were here last night."

" Then you must give them a holiday, for I intend carrying you off to-morrow for a month. If you are very good I'll let you do your other work." Joyce smiled but shook her head. " I should soon lose my pupils altogether if I gave such long holidays. They are not children forced to learn, but women, and most of them earning their own living, and anxious to learn in order that they may better compete with others in the business world. You don't know how tired I get of it all, Isabel, at times. The life we live here isn't life. Men, and women, too, are machines, and they ruthlessly crush down all who come in their way, and are not as strong as they are, and I am becoming like them." "You must have a rest, child. In the country with your beloved flowers these thoughts will be driven awa)r." " Perhaps so, but the fact will still remain. / may be enjoying the country air and the smell of the fresh May flowers, but all the time there will be men and women slowly grinding their lives away in the dull, heavy round of business."

" Don't talk like that, Joy, it grieves me." " Forgive me, Isabel. It is my old fault, which is constantly cropping up, thinking that I am going to set the world right." " It's well for us all to do our best to leave the world better than we found it ; but I don't think much good is done by crying down an evil. We must set to work to remedy it, and I intend doing my share by taking you, for a time, out of the clutches of this inexorable machinery of business." " I believe it would do me good to have a holiday, for I haven't been outside Manchester since I last saw you." She could not say since my father died, the wound was still too sore to be even lightly touched. " I think I might manage to come for a week," she continued. " If we go to-morrow I should have quite a nice holiday, for I need not return till Monday afternoon, my pupils don't come until half-past seven.

I couldn't possibly stay longer." " I know it is no use trying to persuade you when you speak in that tone. You always had such decided views, and you haven't altered in the least. Well, we will go by an early train to-morrow and make the time as long as possible. And you shall pack up to-night or you will never be read)-." " It won't take me long to pack if I take all my wardrobe with me," Joyce said, with a smile. " Come and we'll do it now." Isabel followed Joyce into the bedroom. Joyce opened her wardrobe door and displayed the con tents. " Now tell me what to take dear," she said. " Indeed, I think I'd better not go," she added seriously. " My clothes do very well for dirty Manchester, but at Alderley I know they would look dowdy." " It's you I want, and not your clothes," Isabel said warmly, though the meagre wardrobe had astonished her, accustomed as she was to a choice of tasteful costumes.

" You have your black net dress I see, the one I chose for you." "Yes, and I've only worn it once or twice, and I have my grey dress, which I bought three months ago, and that's the lot ; for these two old black ones don't count when I'm going on a visit, although I find them very serviceable." " You shall take the black net, and wear the grey to go in, and I'll see that you put them on properly, and my work will be no sinecure, unless you have altered considerably since you left school." " You must put my untidiness down to my Bohemianism," Joyce said merrily. It brought back the old, happy school life to have Isabel scolding her about her dress once more. The grey eyes, which for weeks past had looked blank and dreary, brightened again now Isabel was near. "There is a friend of Frank's staying with us just now," Isabel said.

" I think you will like him. He is much older than we are. Let me see, he is thirtythree — fourteen years older than we are, and Frank's senior by ten years. You and Mr. David Carlton should get on well together." "I don't make new friends easily. I'm already inwardly quaking at the thought of meeting so many strange people. My one comforting thought is that they belong to you, and I am hoping they will be like you." " Frank and I are very much alike, and you are sure to get on with father and mother, everyone does ; and as for Mr. Carlton, I prophesy you and he will be the greatest of friends." " Well, I hope we shall. Men can be true friends. I haven't a truer friend than Herr Shaeffer, but it takes me longer than a week to make one, as a rule." " Well, we shall see. I'm going to send you off to bed early to-night in order that you may be fresh for to-morrow."

" Isa, dear, it's our first night, we must talk," Joyce protested. But Isabel was inexorable. " I know your old propensity, and that you would keep me talking until morning if I would allow you ; but for the next week you must consider yourself under my care and keeping, and you march off to bed at ten exactly, which will give you half an hour longer to talk." Joyce laughingly protested, but she found it very pleasant to be dictated to by Isabel. The girls made the best possible use of the next half-hour, and although Joyce asserted that she wasn't at all sleepy, and hadn't heard half she wanted about Isabel's travels, she was, as she expressed it, " Ignominiously marched off to bed," just as a neighbouring clock struck ten. " And I mean you to sleep, too," Isabel said, as they kissed good-night ; " not another word will you get out of me ' till morning light appears.' "

Chapter II

' Gather the rosebuds while ye may. Old Time is still a-flying, And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying." Herrick. THE next morning both girls were up early, Joyce in a pleasant flutter of excitement, at the thought of her holiday. For the first time since her father's death she laughed merrily, and amused Isabel with her quaint sayings. " Now, ' Little Mother,' let us have breakfast," Joyce said. " Do you remember I used to call you * Little Mother ' at school ? You seemed years and years older than I, and you gave me such grave lectures on the subject of tidiness, etc." " You were a very untidy child, and gave your ' Little Mother' a lot of trouble," Isabel said laughing. " Someone come to disturb us ! " Joyce exclaimed, as a knock was heard at the door. " Come in !

" she cried. The door was opened, and revealed the strangest looking figure. A man of about fifty, with black hair hanging in curls to his shoulders ; soft, silky, black moustache and beard, which would have struck terror into the heart of a child, so long and thick were they, had it not been for the kindly brown eyes above. " Herr Shaeffer ! " Joyce cried, " how glad I am to see you ! You are just in time to have breakfast. Miss Dain and I have only just begun." " Ah ! Miss Dain," he said, with a courtly bow, " I did not know I should have the pleasure of seeing you here." " Why, I told you yesterday Isabel was coming. I don't believe you hear a word I say when you are painting." " I'm afraid I must plead guilty," he replied. " I have come this morning to apologise for keeping you so late yesterday, Joy.

I did not know the time until you had gone." " Please don't apologise. It didn't matter in the least. I saw you were inspired, and would not have disturbed you for anything. Now come and have breakfast." " First say you forgive me, for I feel I was very selfish and unkind." " You are never that," said Joyce, looking straight at the kindly brown eyes ; " but if it makes you happy to hear me say I forgive you, when there is nothing to forgive, I say it." " Now I shall enjoy my breakfast," Herr Shaeffer declared. " I know no one who can make coffee like Joyce, Miss Dain," he said, as she poured some out for him. " You taught me how to make it," Joyce said. " Yes, yes, I know I did ; but then you learnt so quickly. Do you know, Miss Dain," he continued, with a merry twinkle in his brown eyes, " I've tried to teach dozens of English women how to make coffee, and Joyce is the only one who has learned."