A poor relation

Front matter

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Chapter I. Plans For The Future

Tis not in inorta^ to coniniand success,

Hut 'veil do mote. Sempronius, we’ll deserve it.”

—Addison. Cato.

‘‘Well, here we are, my dears; and we must make tlie best of it.” But Mrs. Hartley sighed as she spoke.

“It’s not at all a bad little drawing-room, mother,” said her elder daugJiter, Grace, putting a few finishing touclies to the room with deft fingers.

“It's a nasty little poky room !” said Maude, who was eigliteen, and two years younger than Grace. “I wonder who will call upon us here?”

“Well,” said Grace, “we may be sure no one will call ui>on us because they think we are rich; and they won’t come because they think we’ve a good position in societ}'. How can they, when we live in such an insignificant little house? So, if they come at all, it will be because they want to know us for ourselves.”

‘‘Nobody’ll come,” said Maude, disconsolately, spoiling lier pretty face by pouting.

‘‘I’m not at all afraid,” said Grace, arranging her mother’s sofa-blanket carefully. ‘‘There is always some one, even in the most remote place. There’ll be a clerg3'man, at all events.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hartley, with another sigh, this time

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of satisfaction. There wouhi. at any -te ^

:: :r: Z coma nnhnmen her nrind of the anxieties which her reduced circumstances had broug upo

I fox-hunting —y parson,” said Maude, reheh

liously, “or a man^e nrind has become torpid with livine: iu such a dull plabe !

../or shame, Maude I’^laimed Grace; “you forget lapa was a country cler^j^man.

A Maude, lauding; “isn’t that what

♦ they call clergymen who taT^e to famiing?” ’

<‘My dear Maude, you are incorrigible/, ^ said her 'mother, reprovingly.

“Forgive me, mother darling,” said Maude, throwing ^'o’ue arm caressingly round her mother’s neck, “but I can just remember grandpapa showing me his pigs!” and, her ill humor all vanishing in a moment, she laughed merrily.

“There’s some one coming now, at all events,” said Grace, as a firm, light step was to be heard on the gravel outside. “Oh ! it’s only Jack.”

“And isn’t that enough?” demanded a slight but tall youth of seventeen, who entered one of the glass doors as he spoke. “Mother, I’ve been out reconnoitering. There’s a squire’s house— the Hall, I suppose. And, a little way out of the village, a gentleman-farmer’s Idrge house, and some smaller farmhouses. One a delightful old grange in which Job lives.”

“Job?” asked Maude.

“Yes; not he of patience unparalleled, but the most grumbling, cafttankerous old fellow I’ve come across for’ some time. As I held the door open while I was talking

• to' them he did nothing but complain that I let in a draught of cold air on his rheumatics.”

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“Of course you would,” said Grace. ‘‘Poor old man! Why didn’t you shut the door?”

“Daren't!” said Jack, laughing and dropping into an easy-chair with a gesture of feigned terror, which made them all laugh. •

“And isn't there a church, and a vicarage?” asked ]\Iaude.

“Yes; old and gray and worn, both of them,” said Jack, “and they’re rather in a hollow. I couldn’t find them at first. They want restoring dreadfully. But I don’t suppose the clergyman cares much about that. They say he’s an old antiquarian, and does not visit much, or preach very lively sermons. But he’s a scholar and a gentleman.”

“There, Maude,'’ said Grace, “you see you were quite wrong about what he would be like. ’ ’

“Well,” she retorted, “if he's one of that sort he won’t be much good to us. I expect I shall go to sleep while he’s preaching: I never can stand dry sermons.”

“I’ll keep you awake, Maude, you may be sure,” said' Jack, “for I won’t have any disrespect shown to him, I can tell you. The jolliest girl I’ve seen for a long time says he’s the dearest old man.”

“Jack,” cried Maude, “tell us about that jolliest girl instantly.”

“Well, you must know,” said her brother, “that, while I was trying to find out where the church was from a deaf old stone-breaker by the roadside, she rode by and graciously came to the rescue and told me what I wanted to know,”

“And then you got talking?”

“And then we got talking. And she asked if I was one of the new people who had come to Ivy Cottage, and

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I said ‘Yes, and wasn’t it a little hole?’ and she laughed and said I was to speak more respectfully of her father’s property.”

‘‘Then she was Miss Ingham?” said Mrs. Hartley.

“I wonder if they are rich people?”

“No; she said they were not rich enough to restore the church properly.”

“She must have been a very frank, outspoken girl,” said Grace.

“Not a bit like what T thought she would be,” said Maude. “I heard they were poor — tlie charwoman told me — and sol thought they’d be very stuck up and proud. Poor gentlefolks are always twice as proud as rich people. They are so frightened that, unless they are, people will not see what they are.”

“Real gentlefolk don’t feel in that way,” said Grace; “they know what they are, and so don’t care to be always asserting it; ' Their position is secure, whatever people think.”

“I’ve heard father say the same thing,” said Jack; “only he put it better than you do, Gracie.”

“Of course he did,” said Grace, emphatically.

“But, seriously, girls,” said their mother, “we must consider what we shall do, now that we have to live upon our sadly reduced income.” And again she sighed deeply. • ' -

An officer’s widow, brought up in a comfortable rec* tory, and married, in due time, to a military man of good family, who was anything but poor, Mrs. Hartley was, late in life, ill fitted to cope with the poverty which had unexpectedly come upon her. Speculations which her husband embarked in' proved unfortunate';’ -Gerald, the

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n

i eldest son’s, expenses at Oxford were very great; a bank in which the Hartleys had much money failed, and all this ill news came just in time to shorten Mr. Hartley's already enfeebled life. He died, and his widow left the beautiful home in which much of their married life had been passed and came with her children to the small village of Marburn, near Rushton — that is, only a mile and a half off — in Kent, thinking that there, in retirement, they might hide their poverty from their old friends, and, with frugal management, at least contrive to live. That was her idea ; but the young people, as was natural, wished to see whatever society the neighborhood afforded.

“I should think it will not cost much living here, mother, with just one young servant,” said Grace.

“I’m afraid she will require a great deal of help,” said her mother, anxiously.

“Never mind. I’ll help her,” said Grace. “I know how to cook.” She was a very sweet-looking girl, with an oval face, great brown eyes and a quantity of darkbrown hair. She was rather tall, too, and her name had not been inappropriately given, for she was graceful. Maude, on the other hand, was rather small and a little inclined to stoutness, but her face was a very pretty one, her complexion was charming, and she had great blue eyes and golden hair.

“Gerald and I must work,” said Jack, “and increase the family income.”

“What can you do. Jack?” asked his mother, dismally. ''You are too young to do anything. Gerald might get a clerkship.”

“Oh, yes. mother !” said Grace, eagerly. “Mr. Lancaster has already written to offer him one. I was going

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to tell you, only—” She stopped short, having just remembered that she had concluded from the way in which Gerald mentioned it in his letter that he did not mean to accept it, and so had hesitated about letting their mother know lest she should be afterward disappointed.

“That is good news,” said Mrs. Hartley, more cheerfully than she had yet spoken. “Mr. Lancaster is a true friend.”

“He is,” said Jack, with emphasis.

“It’s a pity we have not some rich relations to help us just now,” said Maude. “We could do with a rich uncle, or aunt. To be sure there is papa’s cousin. Lord Granton. But he does nothing for us.”

Mrs. Hartley sighed. “He is a selfish man,” she said. “We must not count upon hishel|3; and besides him we have no near relations.” And then, looking a little troubled at some recollections, she added: “At least, you have only your poor Uncle Jack, in America.”

“We have hardly ever heard anything about him,” said Grace, thoughtfully. “He is papa’s brother, is he not, mother?”

“Yes, a younger brother. I don’t know much about him. But he could not get on in England some way. Whatever he did he failed in, and so his friends persuaded him to go abroad. Your father was always very fond of him, and made excuses for his failures, and always declared that though he lacked experience, there was the making of a fine character in him. However, we will not talk about this any more. If your Uncle Jack is living I trust he will stay in America, for I’m afraid he will be no credit to us.”

She looked so disturbed that Jack hastened to speak of something else.

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“If Gerald gets that clerkship,” he said, “and I get some sort of work as well, we shall be able to live more comfortably, shall we not, mother?”

“Yes,” she replied, in a tone of relief.

“I might get some pupils,” said Grace; “I shall try, anyway. What shall you do, Maude?”

“Idl take care of mother,” said Maude, airily; “we must not all leave her.”

“Maude always chooses the hardest work,” said Jack, laughing.

Maude pretended to box his ears. and. just then, the door-window was darkened by the tall figure of a young man of twenty-two.

“Maude, you tomboy ! ' exclaimed the newco ner, entering.

“Why, Gerald!” cried Mrs. Hartley, “what a long time you have been in following us here ! But I’m so glad you have come at last, dear. ’ ’ And she looked with delight and pride at her eldest son’s handsome face and manly figure. ^ •

He stooped to kiss her brow. “How do you do, mother? Thought I’d wait until you were quite settled before I troubled you with my presence,” and he sat down beside her and held her hand, as if the most tender consideration for her had alone kept him from her side.

“Troubled!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Gerald, home is not home without you, my boy,” and then she added: “But how thoughtful of you !”

“Very,” said Grace, dryly. ''Jack helped us a great deal. I don’t know what we should have done without him.”

“But, Grace,” cried Maude, “we couldn't expect Gerald to do such things-!”

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“Didn’t it occur to you, Gerald, that you might help us, too?” persisted Grace, ignoring Maude’s speech altogether. “You know,” she continued, “it isn’t as if you only did this once, but several times lately when there has been any work to be done you have got out of the way of it. Is that right, Gerald?”

He looked at his white hands and smiled. “I don’t think the sort of help Jack gives you is much in my line,” he said. “Good heavens ! child, when I help you, it will be in a very different way. Wait until I get on, and then I’ll take you all to something — well, in a very different style from this,” and he looked "with contempt at the poor, inexpensive furniture the little room contained and shrugged his shoulders.

• “That’s it,” cried Maude, triumphantly, “I knew he was thinking of doing great things for us all. You’ll make us all rich some day, won’t you, Gerald?”

“Of course,” he returned, complacently.

“Some day may be a long way off,” said Grace, coldly, “and meanwhile, meanwhile", *Gerald?”

“Meanwhile, my dear Grace,” he said, a slight frown ruffling the serenity of his smooth brow, “I would ad-' vise you when you make observations to make pleasant ones.”

“Yes, Grace,” said her mother, meaningly.

The tears came into the girl’s eyes, but she said nothing. That was always the way with Gerald. If any one ever insinuated that his conduct was not perfect, instead of amending his ways, he hastened to assure them that they, or their observations, were not pleasant. Gerald, like many another, would fain have made away with ail prophets who did not prophesy smooth things.

“I am sure,'’ said his mother, tearfully— she had all

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his life spoiled this, her first born — "no one wants to help us more than Gerald does. He is now going to take his father's place as head of the family, and I know, Grace, you mean well, but we must all give him the 7’especf that is due to his position.”

Grace did not answer. She was kneeling down, arranging some trifles on a little "what-not” in a corner of the room, and her thoughts were far away, with a new grave in a distant cemetery, where rested the remains of one who never misunderstood her. From her father she had learned many wise lessons, and among others to be silent when people would not see things as she did. ‘‘Abbot Sampson,” he would say, quoting from a book he knew almost off by heart — ‘‘Abbot Sampson was not nobody because nobody thought anything about liim. A truth is true, whatever people say to tlie contrary, and there is not the slightest use in making a fuss about it.”

‘‘You got my letter, Grace?” said Gerald, by way of showing her that he bore her no ill will.

‘‘Yes,” .she answered, looking at him pleadingly, ‘‘and I have just been telling motli-'r about Mr. Lancaster’s kind offer.”

"And, oh, Gerald, I am so pleased,” said Mrs. Hartley. "Yes. I know it is not what a University man looks for, but just now it will at least keep the wolf from the door until you liave time to hear of something else.”

"And a University man, who has not yet got his degree — ” Jack was beginning, when a glance at his brother’s face made him stop short.

"We’ll talk about this another time,” Gerald said to his mother, in a tone of much displeasure.

Jack rose. "Well, I’m off,” he said, "so you needn’t

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■wait for another time.” j^d he left the room, shutting the door rather sharply after him.

‘ ‘ How rude the boy is ! ” said Gerald*, still in a tone of great displeasure. “I don’t know what I*shall do with him, shut up here together in this little place.”

“But you won’t be here, dear,” said his mother. ^‘If you accept the clerkship you will have to be in town. ’ ’

‘‘The clerkship?” he said, and knit his brows again. ‘‘Oh, I didn’t accept it. What’s a hundred and twenty pounds a year? And to slave away at a desk !”

“Surely you haven’t refused it?” cried his mother.

“My dear mother,” he said, in a tone of horror, “it’s so caddish to sit on a high stool in an office all day, copying, forever copying ! Would you doom your son to that?”

“But — but there is nothing else at present,” she said. “Oh, Gerald ! say you have not refused it.”

“I have. Lancaster ought to have known better than to have made the offer. I asked him how he would like a son of his own to have such a post. ’ ’

“And what did he say?” asked Grace, quietly.

“That, Grace, I prefer not to repeat. Lancaster is low — decidedly low.”

“He was your father’s friend,” said his mother, with something in her tone as near reproach as she could make it when the wrongdoer was Gerald.

“My dear mother,” he returned, twirling his mustache, “you know father’s good nature. He was a friend to all the world. Fellows put upon him awfully.”

“But, Gerald, what shall you do instead?” asked his mother.

“Oh, I shall wait here until something turns up— that is, if you will have me,” and he smiled into her troubled face.

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She began to cry, and hid her face against his shoulder. Grace stole away and left them. Poor mother ! And still poorer son ! What could the future do for them? for him?

As Grace passed Jack’s tiny room, on her way to her own, he called her in. He was sitting on the little mattress he had appropriated for himself, because he considered it too hard for any one else ; and his room looked more like a workshop than a sleeping apartment, so very crowded was it with tools and canvases, a big easel and one or two half-finished pictures.

“Look here, Grace,” he said, “I’m going to give up my dreams of being an artist, just for a bit, and I’m going to do something more practical instead. I know shorthand and I can typewrite, and, what’s better still, I’ve got my own machine yet” — looking at a Barlock typewriter’s case which stood strapped up on the floor just as it had arrived. “And I found Rush ton is quite a big place, has its own newspaper, the Rushton and Packlinton Advertiser, so I’m going off to the office there to see if I can get work — a reporter’s place, or something.”

“That would be capital, ” said Grace ; “but perhaps they will have no vacancy.”

“Well, I may not succeed, but I’m going off to try now. Wish me good luck. Grade,” and he rose and seized his cap.

“Jack,” she whispered, as she kissed him and gave him a playful little push toward the door, “I can only say, whether you get success or not, you will deserve it.”

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CHAPTER TI.

THE TURNERS.

“Tlie world is happy, the world is wide,

Kind hearts are beating on every side ;

Ah ! v.'hy should we lie so coldly curled Alone in the shell of this great world?”

— J. R. Lowell.

It was a fine bright day in the beginning of October. Sunshine lighted up and beautified every object out of doors. It enhanced the splendors of the changing colors of the foliage eveiy where — on trees, hedges and hillsides, and stole into the hearts of mankind, bringing witli it the light of hope and health and beauty.

Only in the large, low-roofed kitchen of Marburn Old Grange a cloud of darkness and depression seemed to gather about the presence of an old man greatly bent with the ravages of rheumatism, who cowered beside a glowing fire as if it were the depths of winter and he had only just come in out of the biting cold.

“It’s these rheumatics,” he groaned. “I'm not the man I was, Mary; I’m not that.”

A tall, straight, elderly woman, with a handsome, refined face, was ironing fine starched linen at the square table which stood in the middle of the spotlessly clean kitchen. She set down her iron on its stand and turned to look at her husband with tender pity in her eyes.

“You’ve had a bad night, Job.” she said, “and a worse morning. But, please God, youTl get on all right again, with a little care. You didn’t ought to liave gone across them Avet turnip-fields yesterday. I knew how it would be when I seed you coming in all dripping.”

“It would never have mattered at one time. I’m get* tin’ old, that’s it,’’ he grumbled.

“And if old, so much nearer rest,’’ she said, gently, as she went on ironing.

“Ay, but will it be rest?’’ he muttered,- but in so low a tone that she could only just hear him.

“Surely, surely,” she replied, soothingly. “You’ve been a good man. Job; a good husband to me, a good master to your men and a good father to George, and when a man’s been all tliat he’s not left wi’out hope o’ rising higher.”

“Have I been a good father to t’ lad, Mary?” asked the old man, despondently. “I did think once that I should have a good farm to leave him, and a nice bit o’ brass, same as my father left me. But you know I’ve had to part wi’ the best land, bit by bit, and a man can scarcely make a living out of ^ne rest. ’ ’

“But you’ve given George a grand education, Job, and he’s a clever lad; he’ll never look behind him,” said Mrs. Turner, with a smile of motherly pride.

“But he ought to have as good a farm as my father left me,” went on the old man, querulously. “How is it that we’ve not got on and prospered like some o’ them as haven’t done half so rightly as we have? Look at that Crossland, now. Old Crossland were a right wicked man, drinkin’ and swearin’ awful, and his son’s not been so good as he out to ha’ been, neither. He’s a spendthrift an’ a lazy-bones ; you never see him doin’ a turn o’ work hisself. Too proud ’appen ! And yet them two’s prospered, and we haven’t.”

His wife once more set down her iron, and came and' knelt on the’ thick rug beside him^ and laid her folded hands upon liis knee. “Job,” sha said, in a low, tender'

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tone, “don’t you remember it says in the Bible that some such thoiiglits as them came into the mind of the Psalmist when he said : ‘I have seen the wicked in great power, and spreading himself like a green bay-tree’? ”

“Ay, ay,’’ he interrupted, “spreading hisself like a green bay-tree — that’s it — that’s Crossland.”

“Whoever it is,” returned his wife, “so long as he’s wicked there’ll be punishment cornin’ to him. The next verse says : ' He passed awky, and lo, he was not ; yea I sought him, but he could not be found.’ ”

“Could not be found,,” repeated her husband; “that’s him — that’s Crossland!”

His wife began to- have misgivings as to hi^ state of mind. “I’d leave names out. Job,” she said, gently. “Meybee- the Almighty doesn’t like us to judge folk. That’s His'work. Now,” she hurried on, for Job did not like even such a mild remonstrance as this, and was opening his mouth to repeat his denunciation of his more prosperous but less upright neighbor, “let’s think of what folloM-s ; ye see, I know the. Psalm by heart, and the next verse is a favorite of mine. ‘Mark the perfect man’— Job, dear, we’ll try and be as perfect as we can— ‘mark the perfect man, for the end of that man is peace.’ ”

“There’s some one cornin’ to the^door,” said the old man, petulantly. •

His wife arose ; she, too, had caught sight of a lady passing die window on her way to the door. “Job,” shesaid, “it’s Miss Hartley, You know I took the liberty of sending a few fresh eggs for her poor, delicate mother. She’ll have, come to thank me. Molly upstairs. I must go to the door,” and she hastened* from the kitchen.

In a few moments she returned with Grace Hartley,

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who was thanking her very prettily for her kind present. The old man tried to rise, but she stopped him.

“Oh, don’t, Mr. Turner,” she exclaimed; “don’t get up. I’m so sorry you are such a sufferer.”

“You must excuse me, miss,” he said, giving up the attempt to rise. “Yes, I do suffer. I’m getting old, and I’m obliged to work sometimes. Times is bad for farmers, very bad ; gets worse and worse. ’ ’

Then Grace knew she stood before the “Job’ her brother Jack had described as not being of unparalleled patience. She tried to think of something comforting to say, but the puckered, discontented face seemed to chill all such thoughts as they rose, so she turned to Mrs. Turner, and was struck with the sweet, patient expression of her face.

■ “All! but you have a good nurse in your wife^ Mr. Turner,” she said, with a bright smile. “Why, it must almost charm the pain away to see her ironing those dainty frills so beautifully.”

The old man’s face changed; he gave a little chuckle which was not unlike a laugh.

“Ay, but you’ve hit it,” he said, “that’s the best comfort I have, miss.”

“A very good one,” she said; “but you know there is even better comfort than that.”

“Nay, nay,” he returned, shaking his head, and beginning to grumble again about the rheumatics and the hard times.

“Fon know what I mean, Mrs. Turner,” said Grace.

“Yes, thank God, I do. And he will, too, some day,’ she said, with happy confidence.

“Have you any daughters?” asked Gra6e.' - •

IS

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'‘No, only one son; only George,” answered Mrs. Turner. “You’ve perhaps heard of our George, miss?

Grace had heard of him. He was said to be very clever, and altogether a most superior young man.

“He’s invented more than one thing which the farmers about here find very useful,” said Mrs. Turner, “and he s taken out patents for them ; but no money s come of it yet.”

“Money’s hard to come by,’’ grumbled the old man.

“Yes, it is.” said Grace, frankly, “but I don't see why we should break our hearts for that. There are many other good things — health, for instance — ”

“Which I ’aven’t got,” he interrupted.

“And love,” and she smiled at him, as much as to say. “You have that, at an rate,” and again her smile drew from him the nearest approach to a laugh that his wife had heard for a long time.

“Ay, miss,” he said, “how you do get over me.”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t think we ought to be always looking on the dark side of things. I read these lines years ago in a magazine, and thought them so good that they stayed in my memory —

“ ‘This life is all too sad for tears,

I would not weep, not I,

But smile along life’s onward path Until I smiling die. ’

Surely that is a braver way of bearing troubles than sighing over them all along. ’ ’

“Well, well, ’appen it is,” said the old man, “and I must be patient. But here’s George,” and again the window was darkened for a moment by a passing figure.

“Well, father.” said a rich and not uncultured voice, as a pleasaiit-looking young man of rather under middle

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height entered the kitchen, and then stopped short at sight of the visitor.

“Well, my boy, here’s Miss Hartley.”

George Turner bowed and took the girl’s offered hand with evident pleasure. He had seen her many times in church from his place in the choir : he had a good baritone voice, and whenever he was at home he helped with the singing.

“She has been cheering your father up a little, ” said Mrs. Turner.

“That was very kind of you,” he said to Grace. “Poor father has a hard time of it just now. He used to be so active, and now, just when he needs his activity the most, he is forced to sit still and leave the work to others.”

Grace was astonished at his ease of manner and his refined speech. This was no ordinary young farmer ; and he did not in the least resemble his rough old father. But there was some likeness, more of expression than of feature, to his mother, and, like her, he held himself very erect. She glanced round the room. The floor was sanded, with a thick mat here and there, and before the fire a large home-made rag hearthrug, soft and clean and bright. Between the fireplace and the door there was a long, low lattice window, and in the broad window-seat lay two or three books and magazines, while a wide oak writing-table stood before it, and a bookcase, well filled with books, stood between the windo w and the door. Mrs. Turner’s dresser, with its shining crockery and the polished dishcovers above it, stood against another wall, while before the window at the other side of the room there was another kitchen table, above which hung a cage containing a bullfinch. In one corner near '^this window stood a small American organ.

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“Do you play?” asked the girl, on seeing this,

“A little,” he answered, modestly.

“Do you like reading?” she asked again, as her eyes rested on the books.

“Very much,” was the instant reply. “What could we in the country do without books?”

“Ay, he’s a rare lad for his books,” replied the old farmer. “I should think he’s read all t’ books there is.”

George hoped Grace had not heard this. But she laughed merrily, and exclaimed: “Why, Mr. Turner, how could he?”

“Well, I never seed such a reader. The pai'son said once he’d read more about some things — poetry or something — than he had hisself Glued to a book, that’s what he often is, and even when he was ever such a little lad it were the same. I never thrashed him but once, did I, mother? And that was ’cause he was so set on his book that he let the crows eat seed afore his very eyes when he was tenting in the field. ’ ’