*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79156 ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.



[Illustration: THE CROWD OF VILLAGERS WHO ASSEMBLED
 TO SEE THE START ACKNOWLEDGED THAT TOMINA WAS
 SUITABLY EQUIPPED FOR HER POSITION.]



                           TOMINA IN RETREAT


                                  BY

                            AMY LE FEUVRE

      AUTHOR OF "A BIT OF ROUGH ROAD," "A DAUGHTER OF THE SEA,"
                 "HER HUSBAND'S PROPERTY," "THE MENDER,"
                              ETC., ETC.


                                LONDON
                      THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
                       4, BOUVERIE STREET, E.C.4



                         MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN

    Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited, London and Beccles.



                               CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

    I. A DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION

   II. SETTLING DOWN

  III. TOMINA'S SCHEME

   IV. THE CARRIER'S VAN

    V. A STRAY CHILD

   VI. AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER

  VII. TWO VISITORS

 VIII. UP A TREE

   IX. THE FLOWER-SHOW

    X. A STRICKEN WOMAN

   XI. IN A SICK-ROOM

  XII. DAWN

 XIII. THE FIRST EFFORT

  XIV. TOM'S NEWS

   XV. A SAILOR'S BRIDE

  XVI. A QUIET CHRISTMAS

 XVII. AN ENGAGEMENT

XVIII. DOREEN'S HOME

  XIX. TOMINA'S DESPERATION

   XX. HER INSPIRATION

  XXI. CONGRATULATIONS

 XXII. WEDDED



                           TOMINA IN RETREAT

CHAPTER I

A DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION

"YOU want to bury me," Tomina said in a slow sweet-toned voice, "but if
you do, are you certain of my resurrection?"

"I want to bring you back to a normal woman's life. The pace you have
been going would kill a strong man. You have no right to complain of a
worn-out body, of shattered nerves, of sleepless nights, for you have
reaped that which you have sown."

Doctor and patient faced each other in the handsome consulting room in
Harley Street.

Tomina sat back in her chair, looking very fragile and white. She was
a slim young creature, clad in irreproachable London garments. Her
bright brown eyes seemed the most vivid part of her; they were now
twinkling with the irrepressible humour that always bubbled up in her
at the most inopportune moments. She had a small oval high-bred face,
with clear-cut features and a most determined mouth and chin, but she
was too thin to be beautiful. She looked as if a breath of wind would
blow her away; and yet when she opened her mouth to speak, she gave
every one the instant impression of a hidden force and vitality under a
somewhat placid and indifferent surface.

"I don't think I am such a wreck," she said slowly. "I only want to
sleep, and sleep won't come. Now, Dr. Carisbrooke, if I follow your
prescription, where can I bury myself? You don't advise an ordinary
rest cure. I would not go to one if you did; I am dead tired of the
Riviera. I have been to India, Cairo, and Spain; I would not find
Continental cities a rest."

"Why do you butterflies of fashion think you must leave your own island
to have a quiet rest?"

"Because we want to get away from our friends and acquaintances,
and—perhaps from our doctors."

She flashed a mischievous glance at him.

The old doctor who had helped her into the world, and who had at
different intervals prescribed for her and watched over her for many
years, looked at her with grave compassionate eyes.

Tomina went on talking.

"Motors find out every quiet corner in England. I have tried week-ends
in country cottages—you know I have. The mice, the owls, the early
morning birds, especially the fiendish cock, are worse than dear
London's hoots and toots and rumbles."

"I know a few corners unfrequented by motors. If you will really take
my advice, I will find—"

"The necessary grave? Thank you. Well, how long must I stay in it?"

"Six months at least. Possibly a year."

"Have mercy!"

But Tomina surrendered, and a quarter of an hour later was driving home
in her neat little brougham, having promised her doctor to leave town
the end of the ensuing week. He was to find her retreat and arrange
everything for her comfort.

Her stepmother's house in Park Lane was very crowded when she returned
to it. Lady Gavin's "At Homes" were much appreciated. She was a woman
to whom philanthropy and politics appealed very strongly, but she was
also one of Society's favourites, and Tomina in her present mood rather
shrank from joining the gay throng. But she pressed her lips together
and did it, and was the life and spirit of her little circle for the
next hour.

Then she went upstairs to her luxurious room, and as it was early
March, drew up a chair in front of her blazing fire and began to think.
In a flash she reviewed her life.

Up to seven years old, she and her beloved twin brother, Tom, had
revelled in a country home. Then came their father's second marriage;
the country house was shut up and finally sold. London—a boarding
school for Tom, a governess for herself. Occasional visits to Scotland
and the sea, then the death of her father. After that, more schoolroom
life—a year in Germany, another one in Paris. And then Tomina came
home to take part in the tireless nerve-racking life of a "débutante"
in Society. She was highly strung, clever, and thorough in all her
undertakings.

She pursued the goddess of pleasure with a zest that made her
stepmother uneasy. Lady Gavin was kind to her stepdaughter, and no girl
had more opportunities of getting the most out of town life than she
had for several years. Many wondered that she did not marry, but Tomina
kept her own counsel.

She was bright, she was good company, and a general favourite. But her
dearest friends always complained that she would not confide in them.

Now, as she looked into the flames of her fire, Tomina's bright eyes
shadowed. She remembered too well the passage in her life which had
altered her whole outlook, and made her pursue her gaiety with such
reckless "abandon" and such a determined indifference to the needs of
her physical being.

She was twenty-seven now, and she had pretty well exhausted all her
resources for killing time. Motoring, yachting, golfing, travelling—she
had had a surfeit of them all. She dragged her weary feet through
endless receptions and social crushes, listened with an aching head to
operas and concerts, looked out with weary eyes at all the best plays,
and acknowledged to herself as she leant back in her cushioned chair
that she was bored to death.

"I don't care to live, but I don't want to die," she murmured, and her
eyes began to twinkle in spite of herself. "Who or what in the wide
world could satisfy me? I feel I am a superfluity. I think if somebody
or something wanted me, I could continue to exist. As it is, how
delighted some of my acquaintances will be when I disappear from their
society for a time! Shall I ever come back, I wonder?"

A knock at the door interrupted her musing. It was her stepmother.

"Well, Tomina, you have been to the doctor's. My dear child, you do
look worn! What did he say?"

Lady Gavin settled herself down upon a comfortable couch and looked at
her stepdaughter a little critically.

"He has told me to cut and run," Tomina responded in a brisk tone. "You
won't miss me, and if you do want a girl in the house, have Madge—she
will be in the seventh heaven at the very thought."

"Where does he want you to go? To the Riviera?"

"No, to some ungetatable place in England. I am to vegetate and imbibe
unpolluted air, and invoke Nature to be my nurse. You know the jargon.
He is a little crazed over country life."

"My dear, how dreadful! He does not expect me to go with you?"

Tomina smiled, and her smile irradiated her face with sunshine.

"No, dear, he is not quite so cruel. I am to be buried for about a
year."

"Perhaps," said Lady Gavin, slowly, "it is the best thing you can
do. Your nerves seem all gone to pieces, and you will return to us
thoroughly refreshed and rejuvenated. But I think he might have sent
you to the Continent. Will you take your maid?"

"Not Juliette. She would never stand the dullness. I shall take no one.
I am going to try the simple life."

"You have often tried that at our week-end cottages."

"But not alone."

Lady Gavin looked at her in a perplexed fashion.

"You won't be long away, Tomina. I am quite positive that you will
never stand the loneliness of it."

"I don't know. Spring is coming, and spring has still a fascination for
me."

Then Lady Gavin plunged into another subject which was more to her
liking, and Tomina listened with a good-natured indifference to her
stepmother's proposition of a fancy fair for a certain charitable
society which was in dire need of funds.

Her departure from town did not make much stir amongst her relations
and friends. They all knew she was not well, and thought it a wise move.

Dr. Carisbrooke was as good as his word. He came round and told her
that he had found the very place for her—a little old-world village
tucked away in a corner, two miles off any main high-road, and at the
top of such a steep stony lane that no motorist would be able to mount
it.

"It is a furnished cottage, and the tenant has suddenly come into a
property of her own and wants to let it."

"And what about servants?" asked Tomina.

He looked a little blank.

"Won't you take some of your own?"

"My dear doctor, our maids think the country only fit for the most
ignorant and depraved of our fellow-creatures. I suppose there is
somebody in the village who will do for me. I hope I am not surrounded
by other cottages and children?"

"No, I have been down to inspect it myself. It stands alone at the end
of the village, and just touches the rectory gardens."

Tomina made a little grimace.

"I hope I am not to be tucked into the pocket of the Rector?" she said.

"I believe he is a delightful sort of parson—one of the Herberts, a
county family. He won't hurt you."

Tomina looked unconvinced.

"You will be nine miles from a station, and no one owns a motor in the
village. You see, I am preparing you for the worst."

"It all sounds so awful that you cannot let me down any farther. I am
at the very bottom."


But Tomina made her arrangements for her move very quickly, and
started from Paddington Station one morning, not altogether certain
whether dislike or curiosity preponderated in her mind for this fresh
experience.

It was a wild, wet day. Rain lashed against the carriage windows. She
was alone in a first-class carriage. She had papers, flowers, a basket
of early strawberries, and the affectionate farewell of some of her
friends who came to see her off still rang in her ears.

"If I were only a poor woman," she murmured to herself, "I should enjoy
my comforts. I shall really practise the simple life for a time—not
play at it."

She looked out of the misty windows reflectively, then closed her eyes,
and, though sleep was far from her, determinedly refused to meditate
upon her past or future.

It was about four o'clock when she reached her destination. The small
country station looked deserted and depressing. Rain and wind assailed
her as she alighted on the strip of gravel bordered by wall-flowers. A
pleasant-looking station-master came up to her.

"Are you the lady for Little Honeycombe? A fly has been ordered for you
from Westlebury, and is waiting."

Tomina stepped through the tiny booking-office, and climbed into a very
ancient and musty carriage.

The driver was hidden in a big mackintosh. He seemed to take
very little interest in his fare or in her luggage. It was the
station-master who packed everything in for her, and gave her a
cheering nod as she drove off.

"'Tisn't a nice welcome for you, ma'am, but rain is good for us or
'twouldn't be sent."

Tomina's progress was slow. Having been accustomed to motors and
taxi-cabs, she thought at first that the horse never went out of
a walk. But soon the very slowness of the journey began to have
compensations.

"I don't want to hurry," she repeated to herself. "There is nothing to
hurry for—nobody waiting at the other end. If I take a week driving to
this village, it does not matter."

Arriving at the top of a hill, the fly came to a standstill. Tomina
opened the window. The rain was stopping. There was a faint yellow
light stealing across the sky, and standing talking to her driver was a
tall figure in shooting tweeds. He doffed his cap when he caught sight
of her, then strode away whistling to his dogs. Tomina put her head
out. There was a peculiar freshness and sweetness in the air. At the
bottom of another steep hill she made her driver stop.

"I will get out and walk," she said. "I want some air. What is the
matter with your horse? Is he very old?"

"No, 'tis just easy-goin'. He's a bit lazy, but we don't hurry in these
parts."

"I see you don't."

Tomina picked up her skirt. The mud and roughness of the road appalled
her, but she resolved not to be daunted. She was going to live in the
country, and if her town shoes did not suit their atmosphere, the
sooner they were discarded in favour of strong country boots the better.

Her bright eyes roved here and there—from a bush of tender green buds
all glittering with raindrops to some patches of exquisite moss on a
bank. The yellow light grew brighter, birds began to sing, the smell of
the fresh moist earth was almost as good as a tonic. Tomina's aching
head was soothed.

When the top of the hill was reached, she looked down over a stretch
of green valley. Somewhere in a hollow a church clock rang out. She
counted the strokes. Five o'clock. In a flash, she saw her stepmother's
drawing-room with its heavy perfume of spring flowers, its guests in
fashionable garments, their soft voices relating the latest scandal in
town, and outside the hum and roar of the city life going by.

Her driver accosted her.

"Be you goin' to ride agen?"

"I suppose so. How long is this going on?"

"Another five mile or so."

"How awful! Who was that man who spoke to you?"

"'Twill be the new squire at Corring. St. Vincent they call him."

"Where is Corring?"

He pointed with his whip to a clump of trees down at the bottom of the
hill.

"See them 'chimleys?' That be the house—just done up fine. Charlie
Simmonds got the job from Westlebury, but there was a Lunnon chap down
who fussed round. We drives through the village."

Tomina did not feel interested. She got into the fly, and when a little
later they rumbled through a cobbled street with thatched cottages on
either side, she did not even look out.

Her walk uphill had refreshed her, but strangely tired her, and she
actually fell into an uneasy doze which lasted until with a big jolt
the fly stopped.

"Are we there?" she called out, awaking with a start.

"'Tis a steep pull up."

"You want me to walk?"

She sprang out, and found herself looking up a steep lane. Cottages
seemed to rise higher and higher until they clustered round a rugged
old grey tower with a steeple.

"Little Honeycombe Church," announced the driver.

Then he started his horse. Tomina slipped behind the fly, and brought
up the rear.

"Little Honeycombe," she murmured to herself. "I wonder if I shall get
any honey out of you?"

She was conscious as she struggled up the steep street of various heads
peeping out at the cottage doors and windows.

Halfway up she met the white-haired Rector. He lifted his hat, then
held out his hand.

"We don't need an introduction. Welcome to Honeycombe. I have heard
about you, of course, and I have taken the liberty of sending in a few
flowers. We are next-door neighbours, you know."

"I shall not be a very neighbourly person, I am afraid," said Tomina.
Her face was grave, but her eyes smiled.

"You are coming here to regain health, I hope, and the sun is shining
out after a day of storm and wet. It's a good omen."

Tomina felt irritated, why she did not know.

"I'm going to my funeral," she said, humour getting the better of her
annoyance, and she passed on up the street with a little smiling nod.

"I want to be alone," she said to herself. "I will not be befriended so
quickly."

The top of the lane was reached at last. Then they passed a
school-house, the church, the rectory in its grounds with a high stone
wall round it, and finally they came to the cottage.

Seen in that March evening's sun, Tomina was forced to own that she
could find no fault with its outward appearance.

It stood back in a green garden. A grass lawn stretched across from a
yew hedge to an old red brick wall. In the centre was an old-fashioned
mulberry tree. There was a wide porch painted green, a border of
daffodils under the low broad windows. The cottage itself was white
with a thatched roof, and the upstair windows were framed with red
japonica in full bloom. Tomina opened the wooden gate and went slowly
up the path. The front door stood open.

A very small lobby and rather steep stairs at once confronted her. For
a moment she hesitated. And then an oldish woman, upright but very
small, came briskly forward.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. I saw your carriage, so I slipped over, and the
fire is burning brightly. Our Rector, he thought you'd like me to be
here to welcome you. I did for the lady which has left, and not having
a family and being a widow and having lived in good service—"

"You thought you would suit me," said Tomina, looking at her kindly.
"I'm very glad to see you, for I'm tired, and I want somebody to do
everything for me. May I see the rooms?"

She was shown into the biggest sitting-room. A very pleasant,
simply-furnished room it was.

Appallingly simple, Tomina told herself. The walls were whitewashed;
the carpet was a green felt. There was a straight narrow couch, an oak
gate table, two oak armchairs with green cushions, and an oak press in
the corner. No pictures on the walls; no curtains. On the opposite side
of the lobby was a tiny room with table, a glass cupboard of china,
and four rush chairs. But on each table was a big jar daffodils and
narcissus.

"It is austere and pure," murmured Tomina to herself, "but can I live
up to it?"

Without a word she mounted to her bedroom.

Whitewashed walls again, a broad low bed, and the same severe style of
furniture.

"Miss Wadhurst would have no hornyments," said the woman, quickly
reading Tomina's silent disapproval. "She were one for air and health
and cleanliness, and were that tidy it was a pleasure to clean up for
her."

"Yes, it all looks beautifully clean. Will you see to my luggage and
pay for the carriage? Here, take my purse. And then could you bring me
some hot water?"

Susan Jobson walked down the stairs with uplifted head and heart.

This was a true lady, she assured herself, worthy of her service, for
she trusted her on the spot before she really knew her.

The hot water was brought, and then a little later, Tomina descended
the steep stairs to find a fire crackling in the biggish sitting-room
and Susan bustling about preparing a little meal.

"Shall we say a tea dinner, ma'am, for to-night, being now six o'clock?
I've taken the liberty to order a few things from the shop. The Rector
thought I might."

"I'm not hungry," asserted Tomina—"anything will do."

Then she sauntered out into the tiny red-tiled kitchen, peeped into the
still tinier back kitchen and larder, and then found her way out at the
back of the house.

Here was a delightful old garden, originally an apple orchard, with
winding paths between herb beds and herbaceous borders. The most
delicious scent was in the air. She looked about and found it came from
a sweet-briar hedge that ran the whole length of the garden. At the
end of it was a small lawn surrounded by old apple trees, and under
a bit of old brick wall was a seat. Tomina seated herself upon it,
disregarding the dampness of the wood.

She lifted her head. The scent of the wood smoke from the cottage
mingled with that of the wet sweet-briar hedge, and she opened her
lips to inhale it. A blackbird from behind her suddenly burst into his
liquid melody of song. There was a hush and stillness around. She sat
with folded hands; the little creases upon her forehead and between her
eyes smoothed themselves out, and she murmured to herself—

"I believe I am going to like it here."

She sat on unheeding of time. The yellow light in the sky slowly faded
away, the blackbird finished his song, and only the fussy twittering
of the birds getting ready for bed remained. And then up the path came
Susan.

"Oh, ma'am, you'll really catch your death of cold if you sit there
without a wrap on. And your repast is waiting for you."

Tomina laughed outright.

"I feel more ready for my 'repast' than I did when I arrived. Now, tell
me, what did your former lady do all day long?"

"Miss Wadhurst, ma'am, was a lady of great talents. She painted
beautiful pictures, and could darn a tablecloth so as you couldn't see
the darn at all. She was always doing, Miss Wadhurst was. She was out
and in all day long, and when it rained she would say to me: 'Now,
Susan, for a long day at dressmakin'.' And her dresses were that well
cut and finished, and had the style too, that was the envy of the
village."

"I suppose she was too busy to read," said Tomina, stifling a yawn.
"There are no books in the house, I notice."

"I really don't think," said Susan slowly and meditatively, "that she
required to read. She knew such a lot, you see, ma'am. It was all
stored in her head."

"Oh, what a paragon!"

Tomina almost danced into the house. The fresh keen air was already
bracing her. She sat down to a fried chop and potatoes, a baked
apple, and a cup of tea which would have frightened her doctor by its
strength. The country bread and butter pleased her.

After her meal was over, she had some further talk with Susan, and
engaged her definitely as her one and only factotum. Then she retired
to her bedroom, and spent quite half of the ensuing night in sleep—a
thing which she had not done for months past.



CHAPTER II

SETTLING DOWN

WHEN the morning came, Tomina crept to her window and looked out. A
most wonderful stretch of country met her view. She gazed at it in
delight, and then was surprised at herself for enjoying it so much.

"Perhaps, after all, I may have a country soul. I'm certainly thankful
to be away from our ceaseless grind in town: 'The treadmill of
dissipation,' I heard a preacher say once—and he hit the right nail on
the head."

She dressed herself leisurely, then went downstairs to find a simple
breakfast waiting for her.

It was a bright sunny morning; the birds were full of song outside; the
air again struck Tomina as being peculiarly sweet and fresh. She opened
the window and looked across at the little church.

"I suppose you are all very good here, Susan?"

Susan gave a little smile.

"We are much as most folk are," she said.

"And have you no shops near you—no town? Surely the village girls want
to buy little fineries sometimes?"

"We're seven miles from Damerton; they walk in and out. I've done it
myself scores of times."

"I suppose a carrier comes along."

"Ah, miss, I only wish it would! When I was a girl, we had one. John
Thomas his name was, and he died, and we've never had one since. There
seems nobody with a spark of gumption to do it, and the roads are bad,
and we're off the high-road, and they say it wouldn't pay one: Why,
I remember we used to take our eggs and creams and butter to market,
and make quite a lot out of 'em. I'm sure it would pay. It would be a
downright blessing to many of us if we had a carrier."

"Well, the question is, how am I to get into Damerton? I want to buy
a few cushions and an easy-chair or two. I really cannot live like
this. I must have some alleviation from my Spartan rule of life. And
books—oh, Susan, I shall want a lot of books to keep me going!"

"Maybe the Rector is going in; he drives himself in to a rare lot o'
meetings, and 'tis mostly on a Friday, for that be the market day."

"The first step, then, is to get hold of the Rector."

Tomina demolished her breakfast thoughtfully. By the time it was over,
she had changed her mind: her moods were variable. She assured herself
that she was too tired to make the effort. Then she sauntered out into
the sunshine.

"What a blessing to be a stranger in a strange land! I needn't speak a
word to a single soul."

She crossed the road and peeped into the church. The door was open, and
she saw that it was a very simple unpretentious little building.

She was not much interested in churches, so she did not pursue her
investigation. Then she went on up a little narrow road, and suddenly
caught sound of her own name.

Two people were talking the other side of the hedge.

"'Gavin,' did you say, John? I wonder if she is one of the Gavins of
Cheshire? I shall call this afternoon. An elderly woman, I suppose? She
could not come to a better place for quiet. I wonder if she would like
to come to my working party? I must ask her."

Tomina quickened her pace.

"I shan't be in. Now for a horse. Where shall I find one? I won't be
drawn into parish working-parties. That must be the Rectoress."

She caught sight of a snug red-gabled house between some budding lilac
trees, and concluded it was the Rectory. She walked along an empty
road for some distance without meeting a soul, and then she suddenly
came upon a green wooden gate leading up to a very pretty old thatched
farmhouse.

Leaning over the gate, smoking his pipe, was a stalwart-looking man
dressed in rough tweeds and leggings.

"The farmer," Tomina assured herself.

Encountering rather a keen glance from a pair of very blue eyes under
some fiercely shaggy eyebrows, Tomina lifted her head and with sweet
hauteur spoke—

"Good morning. Can you tell me if I can hire a trap in this
neighbourhood?"

The pipe and cap were removed at once.

"Were you wanting to drive yourself?"

"I should prefer to do so."

"Perhaps Crake at the 'Red Bull' would oblige you. It's a little way
farther on, half a mile or so, just on the turnpike road."

"Thank you."

Tomina hesitated for a moment, and glanced over the gate.

"What a sweet old house!" she said, and a note of enthusiasm crept into
her tone.

The farmer smiled.

"It's my own," he said almost boyishly, "and it's good to hear it
admired."

"And you are married, I suppose?"

His face turned scarlet.

"Two months ago, and I'm waiting for the postman. My wife is expecting
to hear from her mother."

His voice was that of a gentleman. Tomina began to feel interested.

"Is this your wife coming down the path? Please forgive a stranger's
inquisitiveness, but I have come to live in this village, and I am
bound to know you sooner or later."

He turned, and seeing the light flash from his eyes Tomina knew the
answer to her question and walked on.

"A bride and bridegroom," she murmured to herself. "How I have disliked
the species amongst my own kind! But here it seems fitting, and it's
spring and the time for youth and love. Now, here is the postman. I
hope he has not anything for me."

He had not, but he looked Tomina up and down with a kindly critical
eye, and she asked him in that sweet calm tone of hers—

"What do you think of me?"

"You 'em woll sott up," was his brief reply.

Tomina shook her head comically.

"I do hope I shall learn to speak like you soon," she said. "Now,
listen to me, postman. Don't you dare to bring me any letters for a
week at least. I am supposed to be buried, and a buried person receives
no communications from her friends."

"But you be a long way from churchyard," said the postman, with a
twinkle in his eye. "We did hear tell you weer in a gallopin' disease
of the nerves, akin to consoomption, Mary Anne said. But you look fair
well and saucy."

"Thank you. We mustn't stop gossipping, for there's somebody waiting
for his letters."

The postman had put down his bag upon the ground, and was now leaning
against the hedge lighting up his pipe.

As Tomina pointed to the farm, he hastily shouldered his burden again.

"Eh, day! That be John Merryweather; he be a terrible one for lickin'
the toime. But he be high stock: his feyther was Parson Merryweather to
Crottesley, an' he be wedded fresh. Makes 'im testy and short in his
temper."

He strode away.

Tomina pursued her road, and eventually found the "Red Bull" and hired
a rather shabby trap. It was to call for her at two o'clock that
afternoon. She returned home very pleased with her morning's work.

Susan shook her head when she noted her white cheeks and her scanty
appetite for her midday meal.

"You be going too fast, ma'am. You haven't got over your journey
yesterday. You 'ad best go upstairs and have a lie down; 'tis a long
drive to Damerton."

Tomina laughed wilfully.

"I have been stagnating all this morning," she said. "My good Susan,
you have no idea of my strenuous life in town. We fill every minute of
every day. I can't drop into my grave with too big a flop. I shall bury
myself gradually."

Susan said no more.


The trap came round. It was indeed a shabby one, and the horse was
huge and bony. Tomina was a good whip, and had more than once driven a
four-in-hand through Hyde Park: but as she started, and the springless
trap bumped and jolted and swung her from side to side and the old
horse ambled and cantered in the most unexpected and ungainly fashion,
she began to wish she had not been so impatient over her shopping.

It was past six o'clock before she returned. And she staggered up the
garden path, to fall into Susan's arms in a dead faint.

The trap was loaded with packages, and a man had been picked up at the
"Red Bull" to deposit them inside the house and take the trap back.

Susan was too concerned with Tomina to think of taking in the parcels.

She got her upon the little couch in the sitting-room, and by trying
different restoratives brought her round to consciousness again. Then
she helped her up the narrow stairs and put her to bed like a baby.

"It's my stupid heart," Tomina explained. "That brute of a horse pulls
your arms out, and I did a lot of shopping. I shall be all right
to-morrow."

But she was not, and another faint occurred when she tried to dress
herself the next morning.

Susan began to get alarmed, for Tomina's face was a grey-blue.

"You must have the doctor, ma'am. We have such a nice one—a real
gentleman he is—and he only lives three miles off. I'll send Jack Gigg;
he'll pass the house on his way to the farm where he works."

"I don't want doctors," murmured Tomina. "I will go to bed again."

"If only you hadn't tried to do so much! And Mrs. Herbert were round to
see you yesterday. She were fair disappointed not to find you in."

Susan was determined to have her way. And before noon, Tomina heard
from her bed a horse canter up to her gate, and a very cheery voice say—

"Well, Susan, and who is your patient now? I thought your good lady had
left us?"

Tomina did not hear Susan's reply. But in a moment or two, her door
opened, and in walked a tall broad-shouldered man with dark eyes that
invariably twinkled and a short square-cut brown beard.

"A country bumpkin," was Tomina's first impression. But when he spoke,
his soft mellow voice had the ring of a gentleman, and his hands were a
true doctor's—slender and strong and delicately made.

Tomina was now sitting up in a pink silk tea-jacket, resting back on
her pillows, with a faint flush on her face.

"I did not send for you," she said; "Susan is responsible."

"Well, she has forestalled my visit. Only I did not put two and two
together, and had no notion I was coming to see Carisbrooke's patient.
He has written to me about you. He and I are both Guy's men, and did
our terms together. But he gave me no address, and I did not expect to
see you in such simple quarters."

"Dr. Carisbrooke might have given me a fair start. He never told me he
had written."

A little wrinkle came between Tomina's eyes, then she laughed.

"You know all my iniquities. I simply overdid it yesterday. This is an
experiment, my coming down here. If you knew what my life has been, you
would feel sorry for me; for I assure you I have some brain left, and
to stagnate like a vegetable will need some determination."

"Oh, we don't stagnate here!" said the doctor, cheerfully, putting his
hand out and feeling her pulse. "Life goes on as strongly and fully
and unexpectedly with us as with you in town. It is not stagnation to
change from one world to another. It's rather interesting. You are
the second patient sent down here to rest; you have both been burning
the two ends of your candles, and yet you are as far asunder in
circumstances as the poles."

"Who is my fellow-sufferer?"

"She is a Miss Merryweather—a very clever and cultured woman, who has
treated her body disgracefully and is now paying for it. She has been
working in London, and has dipped into countless philanthropic business
ventures, has been poor law guardian and a matron of an institution for
convalescent gentle-people, and a board school mistress, and heaven
knows what else! And then the crash came, and she's at present lodging
in a farmhouse. Her brother lives close by, but she's too exhausted to
have speech with him. She's doing a rest cure, and like you, she is
resenting the fate which has overtaken her."

"Oh, I don't know," said Tomina, perversely. "I think I welcome this as
a change. I am a traveller leaving the busy high-road and turning down
a green bye-lane. I don't know what is going to turn up, but am ready
for anything. Why don't you stagnate down here?"

"Too many human beings," said the doctor looking at her with his
twinkling eyes. "I'm very interested in humanity. People are always
surprising and edifying me."

"Have I done either?" asked Tomina.

The doctor looked at her in silence. Then he got up and paced the room.

"Oh, you young creatures!" he said. "Why won't you be temperate and
moderate in all things? Health is the best gift ever given us, and you
murder it and throw it away for mere soap-bubbles."

"Please, go on. You're very like Dr. Carisbrooke. We all have our
worlds. Your clever Miss Merryweather has hers, and considers that
working the brains that have been given to her comes before everything
else. I—well, you consider me a fool, I know. I'll own that I have
blown many bubbles and seen them burst and disperse. But I've had a
full life, and been much too engrossed and busy to let my health stop
me in anything that I wished to do. Now you are a slave to health; you
think of it, you work for it, you worship it—it is your profession.
Perhaps one day you may find that other treasures outweigh it in the
scales."

Tomina was nothing if she was not audacious.

The country doctor only smiled at her.

"You are feeling better," he said. "I'll send you a tonic I should like
you to take. Is it any use telling you to take a week's quiet—very
quiet—living before you attempt another drive to Damerton?"

"I might try it," said Tomina, very meekly.

She felt snubbed, and was too surprised to resent it.

He stayed a short time longer, then got up to go.

"When you are more sociably inclined," he said, "I should like you to
know Miss Merryweather."

"Must I know everybody round?" Tomina protested. "My old doctor has
banished me from people."

The doctor gave a little nod.

"There is plenty of time," he remarked, "What you have to do now is to
sleep and eat and cultivate a serene disposition."

"I have always been considered most even-tempered," Tomina remarked.

He shook hands with her.

"And when I am out of hearing, you will say, 'What rude bears these
country practitioners can be'!"

She gave a little laugh.

When he had gone, she did not know whether she liked him or disliked
him.

But she was tired and exhausted, and slipped down amongst her pillows
and went fast asleep.


It took Tomina four days to pull up after that drive to Damerton. But
when she came downstairs, her usual energy began to assert itself. She
made Susan undo the unwieldy packages which were blocking up the narrow
hall. Two very comfortable easy-chairs, some soft, rich rugs, half a
dozen cushions of different shapes and sizes, a couple of footstools,
and over a dozen books, were all distributed and arranged in the
sitting-rooms.

Then Tomina went out into the spring garden and brought in great bowls
of budding sweet-briar, golden daffodils, and red japonica.

When she rested that afternoon in the most comfortable chair, with two
novels by her side, and inhaled the perfume of the sweet-briar and
listened to the far-away call of the cuckoo, she owned to herself that
life here would be bearable.

When Susan brought her tea, she was in a mood for gossip.

"Susan, who is this gifted Miss Merryweather? Do you know her?"

"Indeed I do, ma'am. The Merryweathers lived in the next parish to
this, four mile by the road, and he was the vicar there. There were a
long family, but four died young of a dreadful outbreak of diphtheria,
and the poor mother wore herself out and was buried with twins within a
twelvemonth. I was brought up in their parish, so I knew them all. Mr.
George went into the Navy, and Mr. Harry went to India as a judge, I
believe. And then there were Miss Alice and Mr. Philip left, and when
the vicar died, she went up to London. But Mr. Phil he has always lived
here; he just dotes on farming. And before the vicar died, he took the
Glebe Farm, and then there was a bit of money, and he bought the Brook
Farm just outside the village."

"Oh yes; I know. I thought the name seemed familiar, I saw him the
other day. Hasn't he just married?"

Susan nodded a little mysteriously.

"'Twas a trial to Miss Alice. She always came back and forwards to the
farm when she got a holiday from her work, and she were powerful fond
of her brother. I went up to take their cook's place when she were home
one Christmas; and my dear life, she talked as clever as a parson. She
were always reading and spouting to Mr. Phil. Her favourite words were:

"'Let us cultivate our intellect, Phil.'

"But he—well, he used to smoke and say nothing. She were learning him
all she could to take to her books, and she is a rare scholar. She had
a room all got up for herself at the farm, and 'twas nothing but books
on every side.

"Well, men are men, ma'am, and Mr. Phil it was his way to live at peace
and say nothing. But he rather wearied, I used to think of his sister's
clever talk. And then, when she went back to London, he used to ride
over Damerton and courted pretty Miss May, a parson's daughter who
lived with her widowed mother who taught a small private school. And
when Miss Alice come home next, 'twas all fixed up, and the weddin' was
talked of. I always said 'twere a heavy blow to her, but she went right
away again, and when the weddin' came off two months ago, she were too
broken in health to come to it.

"Just six weeks ago, Mr. Phil he went up to London and fetched her
back, and said his home were hers, but I haven't heard the full rights
of it. I know she and Miss May only had two weeks together, and then
Dr. Merton he stepped in, and took her over to the Glebe Farm where
Mrs. Tubbs has been nursing her back to health.

"I always do say a bride and bridegroom must be left clear of outsiders
for a full year, and 'tis only two months now since they were wed. Miss
Alice be a dear by herself, but she and Miss May—I ought to say Mrs.
Merryweather—are just the very opposite of dispositions, and with one
man atween them—well, there was a bit of friction, and our dear doctor
just settled it. We all love Dr. Merton; he puts puzzles together and
cures other ills besides that of the body."

"Is he married?"

"He was, ma'am; and the sweetest lady you ever set eyes on to look at,
but a nasty stinging tongue and a jealous temper. God forgive me for
speaking so, and she in her grave. But she did bring bitterness into
his life, only it seemed to make him the sweeter! Then she left him
after givin' birth to a boy which died with her. And he have lived on
quiet and happy with his housekeeper. Only I've seen him look wistful
like at small boys. He be very fond of children."

Susan paused for breath. Tomina gave a little yawn. She was tired of
her neighbours histories, and Susan wisely slipped away.



CHAPTER III

TOMINA'S SCHEME

TOMINA soon became acquainted with her Rector and his wife. She liked
him. He was a simple straightforward courteous gentleman who lived
entirely in his village, and for the good of his parishioners. Out of
the pulpit he was beloved, by sick-beds he was an ideal parson, but
he had no gift for preaching, and his sermons were dry and dull, and
delivered in a monotonous sing-song tone.

Tomina went to church, but did not enjoy it. Mrs. Herbert tried to take
her under her wing and manage her, but her efforts failed. Tomina was
sweetly and determinedly rebellious. She looked at Mrs. Herbert with
humorous eyes when that lady called for the third time, and told her
that if she would not join her working party, she could not object to
working at home for the Mission in India, to which all their work was
sent.

"I never work, Mrs. Herbert. I never put a stitch in my own clothes,
and would not presume to attempt those of others."

"But surely with all your leisure you could give a little of it towards
the needs of our Mission?"

"I want all my leisure for myself," said Tomina, calmly.

"But, my dear Miss Gavin, we do not live for ourselves alone, do we?"

"I do."

Tomina was sweet and smiling, but a naughty twinkle was in her eyes;
and Mrs. Herbert saw and resented it.

"Then no wonder you are a bundle of tired nerves. I pity you from the
bottom of my heart."

Mrs. Herbert left her.

And when she had gone, Tomina heaved a heavy sigh.

"I let her have the last word, but how tiring these good people are!"

Nevertheless, Mrs. Herbert's last word stung her and recurred to her
often.

"A bundle of tired nerves! Yes, I am that, but I'm too tired to mind
it, and if I'm worried by people here, I shall creep back to town and
die there. And yet there are days when life here seems worth living. If
it was always fine, I should feel happy. The country air is better than
all the doctor's tonics."


The wet spring days were certainly a trial to Tomina. But soon the
weather improved, and restless energy began to assert itself.

She altered her furniture; she tried her hand at gardening. She walked
round the village, and visited every single cottage in it on one
afternoon. And when she came back and was too exhausted to eat her
evening meal, Susan remonstrated severely with her—

"It's too foolish of you, ma'am. You never do nothing by halves. Why,
our Rector himself don't make all his visits in one day. It takes him
a month to do the round, leastways unless there's sickness. Each of us
don't expect him more than once to the month!"

"I think I've always been accustomed to go on till I drop," said
Tomina, languidly. "We do in London, you know. We have no time to
rest our bodies, as you country people do. And I wanted to see what
everybody was like."

"Did they all take it well?" asked Susan, with a shade of anxiety in
her tone.

Tomina laughed.

"They were civil; perhaps not quite as sweetly civil as I was. Some of
them pitied me, and seemed to think me a very poor thing! When I get a
little stronger, I shall surprise them and you, Susan. I have a plan in
my head which I am longing to carry out, but I shan't tell you yet."

Susan looked at her and said no more. She could not understand this
London young lady, who had so many moods, and was so unlike her quiet
and conventional Miss Wadhurst. Yet, in spite of her contrary moods,
and her inability to help at all in the work of her small cottage,
Susan confessed to herself that there was a strange charm about her.

"It seems to me," she confided to her great friend Mary Ann Grubb,
"that there be a sort of gentry in the world that no storm or bout of
misfortune can beat down. They hold their heads high through it all.
This young lady of mine is plainly alone in the world, and now her
health be given way, her fine friends have deserted her, and she be
forced to seek for health and quiet in one of our country villages.

"Yet, though she have let out to me the many servants she have had, she
daily goes her way, and expects me to wait on her hand and foot and
count it a favour and honour to do it. My Miss Wadhurst would sooner
do anything than ring the bell for me, and the 'pologies she made if
she made an extra mess of her room or did anything to put me out. Now,
this lady she litters her rooms, and won't so much as keep the fire
in, or make her own tea, or dust her bedroom, or even fasten her own
dresses, she quietly waits for me to do it all. And she has a way with
her—well—there! 'Tis no good talking; I'd lie down and lick her boots
if she asked me to do it! She just charms the will out of one!"


The warm weather came very soon. One afternoon, Tomina was on the top
of a ladder which was placed against the wall of her cottage. Under the
thatch of her roof some swallows had built their nests, and curiosity
had prompted her to pay them a visit.

Suddenly she heard voices below her, and looking down, saw Dr. Merton
and a lady at her gate.

She descended quickly, and though feeling annoyed, welcomed them with
her sweetest smile.

"This is Miss Merryweather," said Dr. Merton. "I want you to become
acquainted. She and you are both town birds. I expect you will have
many interests in common."

Tomina's bright eyes encountered Miss Merryweather's grave soft ones.

Alice Merryweather was tall and dark. She was more interesting-looking
than handsome. She was dressed in grey with a simple shady straw hat
upon her head. When she spoke and smiled, she was a very attractive
woman.

She smiled upon Tomina now.

"I meant to call upon you," she said, "but I have felt unfit for much
walking, and to-day, meeting Dr. Merton, he beguiled me here almost
before I knew it. May we come in? Are we disturbing you?"

Dr. Merton hastily explained that he had visits to make in the village,
and disappeared. Tomina took her visitor indoors.

"When somebody tells me that I must be friendly with a certain person,
I generally feel the reverse," began Tomina, with her gay laugh. "Do
you think we have many tastes in common?"

"Shall we probe each other to see?" said Alice, smiling.

"No, we'll just chatter about our neighbours," said Tomina; "that seems
the only subject of conversation in the country."

A slight frown came over Alice's face.

Tomina rattled on—

"I have heard all about you, but though we both come from town our
poles are asunder. My world is not yours, nor is yours mine."

"How do you know? We are both women, both interested in our
fellow-creatures."

"Oh no, I am not! I am bored to death with them; I have come down here
to get away from them. My world is what the preachers call 'the giddy
round of pleasure.' Your round is one of duty and work, I am sure."

"I suppose I look like a working woman, but may not work be a pleasure?"

"To a bee—not to a butterfly. That is what my doctor calls me—a
'butterfly of fashion.'"

"Well, we are both living in the same environments at present. Are you
fond of the country?"

Tomina looked at her with grave thoughtful eyes.

"I was not. But I really do believe I am getting fond of it. I still
feel a stranger and an outsider to its ways and customs. I have been
investigating a swallow's nest for the first time in my life. You found
me at it."

"I have been brought up in the country," said Alice, "but I do not
think I love it. Life is so full, so strenuous in town; one's mind
starves in the country."

"Does it?" asked Tomina, with interest. "Tell me how."

"Oh, you get so small, so petty-minded, so narrow. Books may be
available, but they are not the same as rubbing up against and
conversing with thoughtful cultured men and women. Country people are
self-centred; town people take broader and bigger views of life."

"I suppose my friends have not been intellectual," said Tomina,
thoughtfully, "at least not many of them. I did not find we were so
broad-minded. We were entirely occupied with our own set. Don't you
think that in town and country every individual can live any life they
like?"

"Perhaps so. I feel a great pity for those who don't cultivate their
brains. They lose so much."

"Do they?"

"Necessarily they must. How can they enjoy pictures if they know
nothing of history or art or mythology or the classics? How can
they enjoy beautiful buildings, unless they have some knowledge of
architecture? Or politics and the progress of our Empire unless they
know something of political economy and constitutional history?"

"Oh!" gasped Tomina. "Please stop! You must be an encyclopædia of
knowledge. I maintain that every one enjoys life differently. There
are circles for us all. I am in the gay frivolous one; you are in the
serious, contemplative one. You educate your mind. I educate my senses
and my body. And we've both overdone it, have we not? And now we're
vegetating together."

She would not be grave. She discussed the village and its people; she
talked of her garden and her novels. And then when Alice rose to go,
Tomina said gaily—

"And now you're going off disgusted with my levity, and you'll tell our
friend the doctor that really you cannot stand such shallow frivolous
gossip as comes from my lips. There can be no point of interest in
common between us."

"No," said Alice, smiling, "I think our brains may be equal in quality,
but you are refusing to use yours at present, and I—well, lately my
brains feel used up and asleep, so I cannot preach. I expect you will
think me prosy and pedantic—."

"At all events, you haven't tried to make me work, as Mrs. Herbert has.
Are you piously inclined, Miss Merryweather?"

Alice hesitated.

"I am a clergyman's daughter, but—but I do not—I have not the faith my
parents had, I am afraid."

"I don't and I won't like good people," said Tomina, rebelliously.

"Then don't have too much to do with Dr. Merton, or with a Mrs. Francis
who lives near."

"Who is she? I have never heard of her."

Alice slightly shrugged her shoulders.

"I prefer to leave others to tell you about her."

She said good-bye and went.

Tomina watched her down the village street; then she made a slight
grimace.

"My dear, I don't think I want to see much of you. You are rather dull."


The very next day, Tomina hired the trap and drove into Damerton.

She came back radiant and in the best of spirits.

"Susan, I am beginning to live! Now, will you guess what I am going to
do? Something that will bring joy to the village; something that will
make my living here worth while after all. Something that will show
what an idler is driven to do when she is being harassed on all sides
for contributing nothing towards the world's good."

Susan shook her head helplessly.

"I know, whatever it is, it will be what nobody else would be likely to
do," she said sagely.

"To-day is Friday. In a fortnight from to-day, a carrier's cart is
going to run from Little Honeycombe to Damerton every Friday, and
on every Tuesday, it is going to run from Little Honeycombe to St.
Martha's Cross. Have you ever been there, Susan? There is a fine market
there and a station on the main line!"

Susan gasped.

"You do beat all, ma'am. However have you managed it, and who's going
to do it?"

"Me myself, Susan. I am going to be the driver. It is my cart and
horse, and I'll sit on the shafts and jog along like a gipsy."

"You are joking?"

"I'm in sober earnest. I happened to see an old carrier's cart lying
idle in a wheelwright's shed. I had a long talk with the wheelwright,
and he promises he will get it rigged up in a fortnight. It's going to
have a brand-new tarpaulin top and will be painted and renovated till
you won't know it from a new one. And my horse is got. A good stout
eight-year-old bay, who won't shy if a cannon is let off in his ear,
and who will make nothing of his two journeys a week."

"And may I ask, ma'am, if you feel indisposed one Friday or Tuesday,
who's to run round to all the villages, and tell 'em as there will be
no carrier that day?"

"I shall never feel indisposed on Tuesday or Friday, if I lie in bed
every other day of the week," said Tomina, valiantly. "I shall never
fail, and if—if—I did, I should get you to be my substitute. You told
me you could drive a cart anywhere!"

Susan retreated from the room with such a face of horror that Tomina
laughed aloud.


The news spread like wildfire over the village; the excitement was
intense.

The very next morning, Mrs. Herbert appeared upon the scene.

"I really must remonstrate with you, my dear girl. It is an impossible
'rôle' for you to play. No woman could do it; you might have tipsy
farmers returning late with you, you don't know who your passengers
would be. All sorts and conditions."

"Yes, I know," said Tomina; "I have thought it all out, but there is
safety in numbers, and I keep to the main roads, and it's going to be
perfectly delightful. I've only to sit still and drive and listen to
the country gossip going on inside; the fresh air and motion will make
me as strong as Hercules! You shall come the first trip with me, if you
like. It will be something like a caravan. I'm tired of motors. I want
to move at a still slow pace and enjoy details."

"And what about the rough weather?"

"I shall sit inside the cart then, instead of outside, and wrap myself
in oilskin, and still enjoy myself."

"It's a mad freak!"

Mrs. Herbert departed with her final shot.

"You are an invalid and under doctor's orders. The strongest woman in
the world ought not to make herself into a carrier!"

Tomina for a moment felt damped, then she pressed her lips firmly
together.

"I am my own mistress, and not 'all the king's horses and all the
king's men' can prevent my doing what I like."


The day after, came Dr. Merton.

"Is this a professional visit?" asked Tomina, with twinkling eyes.

She was looking and feeling remarkably well. Opposition always drew out
all her latent energy.

"Of course, you have come to scold," she went on; "and Mrs. Herbert has
sent you."

"My dear young lady," said Dr. Merton, with much emphasis, "you have my
entire and most hearty approval for this step."

Tomina's eyebrows slightly raised themselves.

"Are you in earnest?"

"Emphatically so! An open-air life is the only cure for you; and two
days a week—it is to be two days, is it not?—will not hurt you in the
very least. If you are fatigued, it will be wholesome fatigue, and you
will sleep the sounder after it; the long day in the air will give you
an appetite, I'll be bound! And the benefit you will bestow upon the
villages round will be your reward."

"Oh, you are a sensible man! I could hug you!"

Then Tomina quieted down.

"It came to me as I was jogging to Damerton in a hired trap, how
fascinating and soothing a country drive is. And then I overtook two
old dames trudging along with baskets of eggs, and I gave them a lift,
and they were such old dears, and called down such blessings on my head
that I began to think if I could not call for them another market day,
and save them their weary four miles in and out. And I had thought of
starting a carrier a short time ago. But now I have determined to be
the carrier myself. And when I undertake a job of any sort, I see it
through, Dr. Merton. You have helped me a good deal by your approval."

"Of course," Dr. Merton said, "there may be difficulties, but if you're
cautious and wise you'll surmount them. And you must have a dog, and
take him with you as your bodyguard. I have two mastiffs, and one is
quite young and as gentle as a lamb, unless you want him to go for any
one. But he guards in splendid fashion. Would you like him? He wants
exercise, and you would grow very fond of him."

"Thank you very much. I don't know whether I should not be frightened
of a big dog. I've been very fond of my stepmother's prize Pekinese.
May I come and see him? Or will you bring him to see me?"

"He is outside the gate now waiting for me," said Dr. Merton, with
alacrity. "I'll bring him in. I don't want two dogs, but I've brought
them up since they were puppies and can vouch for their good behaviour."

The mastiff appeared. He was a huge brown dog with a white patch on his
head and breast.

For one moment Tomina and he eyed each other uncertainly. Then he
stepped up gingerly and sniffed at her feet. Tomina was in a tremor,
but when he sat down in front of her and thumped his tail up and down
upon the ground in approval of her, she took her courage in both hands
and patted his head. Then she took hold of his right paw and stooped,
looking straight into his brown eyes.

"You're a beauty! I won't be afraid of you, but shall I ever have the
courage to give you a licking, I wonder? Perhaps you will never need
it. Are you going to be faithful to me?"

The mastiff blinked and looked a little bored.

Dr. Merton spoke.

"Say 'Yes,' Thor."

The mastiff raised his head and lowered with a nod.

Tomina was enchanted.

"You're a darling! I'll have you. We shall be chums. Ever so many
thanks, Dr. Merton. Is he really a gift? And is Thor his name?"

"If you will accept him, I shall be glad. We called him Thor because
his bark is always heralded by a tremendous growl, and he was born on a
Thursday—Thor's day, you know."

Tomina did not know, but her heart warmed to the mastiff.

"Are you going to leave him here for good?"

"Hardly to-day, I think. You will want a kennel for him, won't you?"

"And you think he'll settle down with me? He won't want to run back to
you?"

"Feed him yourself and be kind to him; and he'll settle down."

Thor had already lain down at Tomina's feet, his nose between his paws.
But beneath his lowered eyelids, his eyes were fixed on his master's
face. And then Dr. Merton went on talking about the carrier's cart.

"I shouldn't have given you my benediction if it had been a motor, for
they're not entirely a health-giving product. But a quiet drive along
the country roads, with your fellow-beings close by, to instruct and
amuse, will be thoroughly beneficial."

"Oh, bother my health!" said Tomina. "I am doing it because I like it,
because I want diversion, and because it is badly needed."

"And what are you going to charge our poor people?"

"Oh, nothing! How could I take any?"

Dr. Merton looked grave.

"It will be a case of mistaken charity, and your cart will be the abode
of any tramp who comes along. You daren't refuse them if you give free
lifts to any one."

It was Tomina's turn to look sober.

"What a tiresome man you are, making such difficulties! I shall have to
charge and put it into the collecting plate on Sunday."

"That you can please yourself about. It is seven miles to Damerton. If
you want to charge them cheaply, make it fourpence single, sixpence
return journey—"

"Can they afford it?"

"Quite well."

Tomina looked dubious.

"I'll consult Susan. She lives in the village and is a discreet woman.
Now, Dr. Merton, who is Mrs. Francis? Where does she live?"

"She's the widow of a naval officer, and she keeps house for her
brother our Squire, Sir Alfred Digby."

"It's strange I have not come across her."

"She and Sir Alfred are both away in town. They will be returning
before long, and then you will meet them."

Tomina looked at him thoughtfully.

"Miss Merryweather coupled her name with yours in a very undesirable
fashion."

Dr. Merton looked rather taken aback.

Tomina began to laugh.

"Oh, don't be frightened! I am rather stupid in the way I put things
sometimes. She said that if I didn't like good people, I mustn't have
anything to do with you or Mrs. Francis—"

"Poor Alice!"

Dr. Merton looked relieved and a little amused.

"Have I proved a bogey?"

"No, and beyond your province, you have not preached to me
objectionably. But I suppose you are feeling your way with me?"

"Perhaps I am," said the doctor, laughing. "Please don't take us at
Miss Merryweather's valuation. Mrs. Francis is sure to call upon you
when she returns, and then you can judge for yourself whether she is a
person to be avoided. I must be off. I'll send Thor over to you in a
couple of days. Keep him fastened up, take him out with a lead, feed
him yourself, and he will be your devoted slave in a week's time."

Dr. Merton shook hands with her and departed.

Tomina was so grateful to him for his unqualified approval of her step
that she bestowed one of her sweetest smiles upon him.

Thor marched away after him with much dignity. When he was at the gate,
he looked back. Was he appraising his future home? Tomina waved her
hand airily to him.

"'Au revoir,' you beauty! When next you come, you come to stay."

Susan heard of Thor with a dismayed face.

"I know them dogs well. They are not vicious, but they are
blood-curdling when they bark, and this cottage is really too small to
hold him, and he'll eat more than both of us together!"

Tomina reassured her.


Before another week was over, Thor had become an inmate of the cottage.
He was a little restless at first, and had a way of shaking himself in
his kennel at night that sounded truly alarming, and was not conducive
to sleep. But Tomina took great pains to conciliate and beguile him,
and in a fortnight, he followed her everywhere.

Thor was sociably inclined; he liked to lie in the sitting-room with
his mistress. He was given a big mat, and was made to understand that
when that was spread inside the door, he could come in and occupy it.
In three days' time, however, he appeared at the door with the mat in
his mouth, and after that, he would bring it in whenever he liked.

Tomina was enchanted with his intelligence, and was always glad of his
companionship.


The carrier's cart was not ready to start in a fortnight. Country
workmen could not hurry; and Tomina had her first lesson in patience.
She spent her time in having some pamphlets printed to say that the
cart would start running in the month of May, and these she distributed
in the villages round.

She found she had a good many arrangements to make as to the horsing
and stabling of her horse and van. At length, she persuaded a small
farmer close by to promise to put them up. He was to be allowed to use
the horse on the intermediate days for light farm work, and he only
charged her for forage.



CHAPTER IV

THE CARRIER'S VAN

AT last, the Friday came when at eight o'clock in the morning, a
brand-new shining covered cart drew up outside Tomina's door, and she
took her seat as driver. It was a lovely spring morning. The crowd of
villagers who assembled to see the start acknowledged that Tomina was
suitably equipped for her position. Her long covert coat and shady
straw hat were simple and unassuming. Town people might have recognised
the Bond Street cut to the coat, and would have known that the Leghorn
hat cost at least three guineas. The tarpaulin of the cart was snowy
white, and the black letters across it showed very plainly its
destination. The brass harness glittered in the sun. Bran, the horse,
reared his head and tossed his great mane, impatient to be off.

At first, Tomina had been afraid that her passengers would be too many.
Every housewife in the village wanted to be in the first trip, but she
craftily held out the advantages of the following Tuesday, when the
rail could be reached, and for sixpence they could visit the county
town.

"I must keep some seats for people on the road," she said.

Susan had quite approved of the charge which the doctor had suggested,
and it was she who made Tomina take plenty of small change with her,
and a big purse from which she could transact her business. She longed
to make the first trip herself, but though Tomina begged her to do so,
she decided to stay at home.

"You be best by yourself and on your own, without me to look on. I
shall hear all about it from Mary Anne!"

Mary Anne was Susan's married sister who lived in the village.

Thor took up his station behind the cart in the orthodox fashion. He
had been well trained from a puppy to follow behind a trap.

There was a great deal of chatter and laughter when the women
climbed in and took their places. Many Anne was first and foremost.
An old woman, Mrs. Crabbe, was going to see her married daughter in
Damerton. Mrs. Tabbs and Mrs. Goss were going to the market. They were
neighbours, and both mothers of "long" families. A little maid-servant
from John Merryweather's farm was spending her "day out." Two young
girls, one from the village shop and the other the blacksmith's
daughter, and a lanky boy of fifteen with a basket of eggs and four
dead fowls in a basket, completed her number.

Tomina cracked her new whip with a flourish. The Rector came out to see
her pass, and some children on their way to school raised a cheer.

Through the village they solemnly went, down rather a steep hill, when
Tomina had to put on her heavy drag, and then along a pleasant sunny
high-road arched by budding trees. Soon the first stop was made. At
the corner of another road, the two women with their egg baskets were
waiting to be taken up. The chatter inside the van waxed fast and
furious.

Tomina sat outside in silence. At times, she studied a pencil list
which Susan had thrust into her hands at starting. There were things
for her own cottage which she had to get, but also there were
commissions from the villagers who had been prevented from coming. The
list of these ran as follows:—

   2 hand half of unblitched corse.
                                   Mrs. White.

   One boiler from Clarks and he ows fourpence to Tom's Bill
   larst Wed weeke for cissor ground.
                                   Mary Tubbs.

   Plese Miss sorsages and a peece of beef buttock from Andrews Market.
                                   Martha Gadd.

   Seven yard of pretty lace for Flories best police.
                                   Jane Hutton.

   Pudding bason, butter jar, pennorth yeste and four pennorth
   Reckitts blue.
                                   Fanny Spoke.

There were several other household utensils Tomina could not decipher.
She puckered her brows in perplexity.

"A carrier's tasks are heavier than I thought. I wish I had brought
Susan. But I'll hand over some of these purchases to one of the women
inside."

She pocketed the list, threw up her head, and inhaled with delight the
cool fresh spring air.

When there was a level bit of road, she put Bran at a trot. When
there was a steep hill, she got out and walked, but dared not ask any
villager to copy her example, for they were determined to have the full
value for their money. Presently, she overtook a man with a heavy pack
on his back. He looked like a pedlar.

And as Tomina passed him, he called out a cheery "Good morning."

She stopped.

"Want a lift? We're going to Damerton."

"Ay, and that's my goal. Shall be thankful, but isn't this a new thing?
Never saw a carrier on this road before."

He was clambering in as he spoke and took his seat beside Tomina.

"I like the air," he said.

He was a little dark wiry man about middle age, but his eyes reminded
Tomina of a robin's; they were so round and bead-like and sparkling.

If he was surprised at the unusual kind of carrier by his side, he did
not show it.

"I have had a small stall in the market for my wares," he continued,
"and I shan't know myself, to be spared these five miles! Though this
may be my last day in these parts. I am moving on to other towns."

"I suppose you're a pedlar?"

"A pedlar of sorts, though they call me a colporteur."

"I don't think I've ever heard of a colporteur," said Tomina, slowly.

He gave her a quick look.

"You're not of these parts, miss. Is it owner of this van you are?"

Tomina smiled at him.

"Yes—my first day. What are your wares?"

"Books, nothing but books; food for the soul and spirit."

"I'm fond of books. Any new novels?"

"There's a book I have which is so interesting, so magnetic, that the
more people read it, the more they want to. And though it was written a
few thousands of years ago, it's as fresh as spring, and keeps its hold
on people's hearts."

"Some of the old classics, I suppose?"

The little man dived into his pack and put a book quietly upon Tomina's
knees.

"Have you ever read that book through, from cover to cover?" he asked.

Tomina looked at it, then handed it to him back, with a little grimace.

"The Bible. Well, we hear it in church, don't we? I had one of my own
once."

"Have you ever read it through, miss?"

"Not that I know of. I used to learn chapters and psalms at school. I
believe I was rather good at Scripture history when I was small."

"Will you take this copy?"

"No, thank you. I'm not at all a good sort of person, and don't want to
be one. I never could see anything in religion myself, and hate people
who are what I call weekday parsons."

"It's funny—" began the colporteur, and then he stopped.

"Well?"

Tomina glanced curiously at him.

He was getting restive. Suddenly, he blazed out—

"People talk of there being no devil! It's sheer proof of his presence
and handiwork, when young gentle things like you scoff at the One Who
made them, and sacrificed Himself for them and loves them now with a
deep undying love!"

Tomina looked startled. She chirruped to her horse and with her whip
flipped some of the early green of the hedges.

"Good people want the young to give up all their pleasures. The God I
have heard about is not a God of love, unless you give yourself up to
good works and say good-bye to all gaiety and fun."

There was silence. Then the colporteur pointed to a meadow full already
of golden shining buttercups.

"That's gay enough," he said, "and good to look at. They've grown up
in the sunshine and are reflections of the sun himself. Not much gloom
about them, eh?"

Tomina followed his gaze.

"I've no patience with the gloomy mood," he said quickly. "God made a
good world and a gay one, and the happy folk are the ones who reflect
His face."

"You look happy."

"I am—I have so much to make me. And you?"

Tomina laughed lightly.

"I have been happy on and off, but I'm tired of trying to be when I'm
not. I've lost the taste for so many things, and feel as old as the
hills. I have been sent into the country to bury myself, but with the
purpose of making me pop out of my grave again quite fresh and new."

"A new birth," said the colporteur, gravely.

"That's very interesting!"

"Something of that sort," said Tomina, lightly.

She could not explain to herself why she talked to this man. But she
felt he was not an aggressive individual, and his round smiling face
amused her.

"'Very' interesting," repeated the colporteur, softly. Then he pointed
upwards to some young green limes arching overhead. "There's new birth
for you! They had their gay time last summer. Then they died; now the
resurrection of spring has got hold of them. Do you know why they're
bursting into bud and blossom?"

"Why?"

"The sap is rising inside them. It begins from below, and rises and
flows into every bare dry branch and twig, till the barest of them is
bound to break and blossom. And you're needing to get the sap, the
source of life, into your empty soul and let the Water of Life flow
through you. You won't be scoffing at the good if you get it, you'll
be bursting with joy and happiness, and blossoming with fruit to come.
'The water that I shall give him, shall be in him a well of water,
springing up into everlasting life.'"

The sun shone through the young limes as Tomina looked up through their
flickering leaves. Then a diversion occurred. Midway across a field to
the right of them stood a low-thatched cottage in the midst of a garden
gay with spring bulbs. There was a little wooden gate in the hedge, and
at it stood two little ladies, one stout, one thin. They waved a packet
of books in the air as Tomina approached them. She pulled up. One of
them rather shyly approached her.

"Is the carrier here? We heard the van would pass us about this time
for Damerton, and we wondered if he would kindly change these books for
us at the library. Saunders the name is."

"I am the carrier," said Tomina, with dignity. "I'll do it with
pleasure, unless you'd like to have a lift into Damerton yourselves."

The ladies looked at each other. There was a longing in their eyes, but
dignity and conventionalism got the better of it.

"Thank you, no. We have never used the carrier's cart as a personal
conveyance. It has not been running for some years. When last it was,
we lived in the Rectory and had our own trap and horse. We have put a
list of books we should like to have. Mrs. Saunders knows us. And what
time will you be coming past here this evening?"

Tomina considered.

"About six o'clock," she said.

Then she drove on. Curiosity compelled her to glance at the books
delivered into her keeping. She was surprised to see that there was
a modern novel amongst them by a popular writer. A book on the late
excavations in Egypt was another, and Maeterlinck's "The Bee" the third.

"They don't rust then," she thought to herself.

There was no more serious conversation between herself and the
colporteur. She kept him at bay. When they eventually reached Damerton,
he jumped down at the entrance of the market and paid his fare.

"Good day to you, miss. I'm leaving this part of the country this week,
but I won't forget you."

He lifted his hat and departed.

Tomina was too busy to give him a thought again. She drove to the
"Golden Bell" and put up her van. Her passengers scattered. She told
them she was going to start home punctually at five o'clock. Then she
got hold of one of the capable women, who good-naturedly offered to get
some of the most difficult things on her list.

All the morning she was busy shopping, then she had a comfortable lunch
at the "Golden Bell," and afterwards sauntered about the market and
town, enjoying herself in a leisurely fashion. She went to the library
and got some new books for herself, as well as for the Miss Seatons.
And as she was coming out of the shop, she met Miss Merryweather, who
shook hands warmly with her.

"May I congratulate you on your venture? It is the talk of the
countryside. Are you taking root here, otherwise, isn't it a pity to
start something that will have to be dropped?"

"Why should it be dropped? I live in the present, and I never look
beyond it. Did you drive in?"

"Yes, with my brother. He comes into Damerton every week, you know."

"I suppose he does. I see you're looking at my books. You won't approve
of them, but I've got to let my mind laze down here, so can read
nothing solid. And I hope you're doing the same."

Alice Merryweather smiled.

"I feel as if I can read nothing at all at present. But I'm going to
order some books for my brother."

"Is he a reader?"

"He used to be."

A shadow fell upon her face; she turned quickly away, and Tomina went
out wondering what her choice of books would be.

At five o'clock she was in the yard. She found her van crammed with
parcels of all sorts and sizes. Two of the women were sitting inside
chattering gaily.

Four extra passengers were waiting to be taken up and dropped on the
way. One old man was loquacious with drink. Tomina eyed him severely
and insisted upon him sitting at the further end of the van.

"'Tis Jack amongst the maidens I'll be!" he laughed, as he took his
seat. "Crowd in, me dears, an' the last maiden, if so be the van is
full up, shall sit on Jack's knee. Don't 'ee all try to be the las' one
now!"

Tomina ignored his pleasantries, but the women tittered and laughed and
thoroughly enjoyed them.

Eleven passengers inside was a tight fit. The lad, Bill Short, sat on
the outside seat with Tomina. She began to talk to him and was quite
interested in what he told her about himself.

His father had died four months ago. He was only fifteen, but he was
running a small poultry farm with his mother.

"I mean to be a farmer, and shan't stop at the bottom of the ladder.
I'm saving and putting by every year, and I look to rent one of our
Squire's farms in another two years."

"Is he a good landlord?"

"Oh yes—not bad! Sir Alfred's a fair man if he be a bit sharp at times.
He's a rare good hand at business. Knows a good deal more than his
agent."

When they reached the Miss Seatons' cottage, he volunteered to jump out
and take their books up to their door, as there was no sign of them.

"We are a little early," Tomina remarked. "It is difficult to tell the
first day how long we take from point to point."

"You ought to have a little chap with you, miss, who can carry parcels
in and out. I reckon your custom will increase, and there'll be a good
bit of parcel-carrying."

"Yes," said Tomina, thoughtfully, "I think I must."

Bill Short got out halfway to Little Honeycombe. He was going to spend
the evening with an uncle of his.

And Tomina found that several of her parcels which had to be delivered
on the way necessitated her getting out of the cart herself and
delivering them at the doors.

"I shall have a whistle next time," she told the people. "I can't leave
my horse to knock at your doors. You must be on the look-out for me."

The last parcel she personally delivered was left at a farm at the top
of a steep hill. It was a hamper with live fowls in, and she had to
call the man out to take it in. He took his time over it, and as Tomina
was giving him some change, she heard a shout and commotion. Looking
round, she saw that the old man had clambered from his back seat in the
van to the front one, and was belabouring the horse with the whip.

Bran started downhill at a clumsy gallop. Tomina held her breath as she
saw the van swaying to and fro, and realised that no brake was on. Then
she raced downhill after it, furiously angry at being treated in such a
manner and greatly alarmed about the safety of all concerned. Suddenly
from a bend in the road, a rider on a big grey horse confronted her.

She stopped with raised hand. Then, as she looked up into his face, the
rich colour left her cheeks and lip.

"Tomina! I-er-mean-Miss Gavin!"

"Colonel Norman!"

Then she recovered herself, and said with reckless haste—

"I believe I would welcome the devil himself at this juncture! Ride
back and stop that runaway van! Did you not meet it? Stop it, and keep
it waiting till I overtake it."

The rider looked at her sternly.

He was a tall broad-shouldered man with clean-cut features, a square
and determined mouth and chin, and very thick and bushy eyebrows which
almost hid his eyes and gave a fierce expression to his face.

"Do you want a ride in a carrier's cart?"

"I do. The cart belongs to me. Don't waste another moment—that drunken
wretch will upset the whole concern."

He wheeled round on his horse with a muttered exclamation and cantered
down the hill.

Tomina heaved a sigh of relief and walked after him.

"I shall not hurry. They will have to wait for me. My cup of
humiliation is full to have to ask a favour from him! But it was
unavoidable. How can he be in this part of the world?"

When she eventually overtook the cart, it was standing still at the
bottom of the long hill. Women's heads were crowded together looking
out, and two figures were standing in the road. One was Colonel Norman.
His left hand was holding his horse by his bridle, the other was
clutching the offender by the coat collar, who was nervously crying—

"Only my joke—a little joke, sir. Us be so dull cooped up like pigs in
a pen! No harm done. Letsh me go, sir!"

"Now, then, what do you want done with this fellow?" the Colonel
demanded, turning to Tomina with a wrathful eye.

Tomina jumped lightly up to her seat and took the reins in her hands.

She ignored the women's gasps and cries, knowing that they were
thoroughly enjoying the situation. Then she spoke shortly and severely.

"Leave him where he is. Thank you for your help."

And she drove off without turning her head.

"Ah, my dear soul!" ejaculated old Mrs. Crabbe. "We have been in a
terrible fright. But poor old man! It do seem a cruel shame to strand
him four miles from home. He lives close to our village."

Tomina said nothing. The women went on talking amongst themselves. One
of them asked her if she was feeling all right.

"'Twas a great shame to treat a young lady so! And Will Carpenter do
deserve to be put down. But he were mischievously inclined. And I do
hope he b'ant offerin' violence to that stranger gent. What a good job
you had him to help you, miss! Whatever should us have done if us had a
galloped home without you!"

"I think six or seven women ought to have been able to restrain a
feeble old man the worse for drink," said Tomina, regally. "But it will
be a lesson to me in the future. I shall deliver no more parcels unless
the owners come to the cart for them."

The rest of the journey home was uneventful. But when Tomina walked
into her small sitting-room, Susan exclaimed at her looks—

"You never can stand such days, ma'am. You look proper fagged out."

"I'll go to bed," said Tomina. "I have nothing else to do but rest when
I'm home, thank goodness!"

Later on, when she was in bed and had had a comfortable little meal
brought up to her, she told Susan about her misadventure.

Susan was horrified.

"And was Thor no good, ma'am?"

"What could Thor do? He was with me when I left the cart. I only tell
you because I know how they talk in the village. It was a mercy they
weren't all upset."

Susan looked much concerned, but she wisely offered no consolation.
Tomina was too proud to accept such from any one.

She went to sleep that night slightly discomfited, and very determined
that she would be stricter with her passengers and parcels in future.



CHAPTER V

A STRAY CHILD

TOMINA rested all the following day. In the afternoon, she was sitting
in her easy-chair in the back garden, when Susan came flying towards
her.

"A gentlemen has called, ma'am, and would like to see you. Here is his
card."

Tomina hardly glanced at it.

"I am not at home, Susan."

Susan looked astonished.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I asked him in and told him you were in the
garden."

"You had no business to do either. I am not going to see him."

Susan stood irresolute.

"Please, ma'am, what can I say?"

"I have told you what to say."

Tomina's tone was calmness itself. She took up her book and went on
reading, but the words danced before her eyes. Susan went back to the
house with slow unwilling steps.

And when she was out of sight, Tomina let her feelings get the better
of her.

"How dare he!"

Thor looked up and began to growl. He had been lying at her feet, but
it seemed as if he scented an unwelcome intruder.

"Quiet, Thor! He will see that I mean what I say. What has possessed
him, of all people, to come into this part of the country?"

Tomina was much perturbed, but nobody but Thor had the clue to her
thoughts.

Susan went about with an offended face. She was angry that she had
"been made a fool of," so she told Mary Anne when talking it over with
her.

"And such a handsome set-up gentleman, quite a stranger, and when I
went back to him with her message, I felt like a dog with my tail
between my legs.

"'Won't she see me?' he says.

"And I says, 'She's not well enough for company this afternoon, sir.'

"'Did you give her my card?' he says.

"And I says, 'Yes.'

"With that, he walks off like a haughty duke, and I do call it a shame
of her!"

Tomina was conscious of Susan's disapproval, but was only amused at it.


The next morning, she had another visitor, and this time it was Mrs.
Judd, who kept the general shop in the village.

"What does she want to see me for?" Tomina asked Susan.

She was having rather a late breakfast, it being ten o'clock, but she
had slept badly, and so did not hurry to get up.

"I think she'll prefer to tell you that herself, ma'am," said Susan, a
little grandly.

"Let her come in; perhaps she wants to be paid. We do owe her for some
sugar, don't we?"

Mrs. Judd was announced. She was a stout woman with very small
features, her eyes were almost hidden by her cheeks, and she now
appeared red and uncomfortable.

"Good morning, Mrs. Judd," said Tomina, graciously.

"Morning, ma'am. You'll excuse me; I'm a person who always acts prompt.
My dear departed father always brought me up so.

"'M'ria, if you knows a step to be right, take it, and take it quick.
If you dilly-dallies you be lost!'

"He used to say that times without number, and if 'tis a bit
disagreeable for you, ma'am, you'll face it and see the right is on my
side."

She paused.

Tomina looked up expectantly.

"Yes, what is the matter?"

"'Tisn't to be expected you gentry knows how the working folk toils
from morn to night, and gathers their pennies with the sweat of their
brow! I've built up my business with a load of care and trouble, and
just when I'm ridin' on the crest of the wave, so to speak, you comes
along and with thoughtlessness and carelessness, and with smiles to
everybody, you knocks it all down in the dust!"

"My dear woman, what do you mean? For goodness' sake don't beat about
so, but say out plainly what your grievance is. How can I knock down
your business?"

Mrs. Judd's portly bosom heaved; she put her apron up to her eyes and
began to cry.

"I see it a-coming. I've sugared Mrs. Tabbs and Mrs. Goss for these
eight years, and I hear tell they've bought seven pound each in
Damerton because they could get it cheaper. And I've teaed Mrs. Crabbe
for longer than they, and she hasn't come near me all yesterday, which
is her day for droppin' in for sixpennorth of tea and chat. And my
niece have told me all the groceries hidden under the seat so as she
shouldn't report it to me, and I do think it's most un-Christian and
unkind to drive my custom away from me in your van to Damerton every
week!"

Tomina looked blankly at her. At first, she nearly laughed, but Mrs.
Judd's tears and tragic face warned her that this was no laughing
matter.

"My dear soul, I'm most awfully sorry. I wouldn't hurt your custom for
the world! Now dry your tears, and sit down and let's talk it over.
Have a cup of coffee? It will pull you together!"

Mrs. Judd accepted the coffee. Tomina knew how to win hearts, and
before long, she had Mrs. Judd in a smiling mood again. She suggested
to her that she or her niece should get supplies from Damerton
themselves, instead of trusting to a traveller to buy for them.

"You will get everything far cheaper, and will see all kinds of
novelties that you may feel inclined to invest in. Then, if you can do
some things a little cheaper, your customers won't leave you. And I
promise to get all my supplies from you. We won't let you suffer. Why,
what would the village do without you! I think your shop is a marvel!
And it does one good to go in and see your smiling happy face. Oh, you
can be quite sure my van will help your trade, not hinder it."

So Tomina talked, and Mrs. Judd finally departed with the conviction
that the carrier's van was going to make her fortune.

Tomina was thoroughly discussed in the shop that same afternoon.

"She has manners," said Mrs. Goss. "'Twas quite parlour manners when us
got in.

"'Will you sit here, Mrs. Goss,' she says to me, 'so as to rest your
back here?'

"And she had a pretty word for every one. But where she lacks is in
strength. Us do want a man to heave of us up and our parcels. And when
all's said and done, 'tis more racy-like to have a man a-drivin,' and
not a bit of a girl!"

"But if us can't get a man, us must be thankful for her!" said Mrs.
Tabbs. "And when she gets hold of a horse, she knows right well how to
manage 'im!"

Then her family history was surmised, and her health and appearance
criticised, and the final verdict was that she "were makin' things a
bit livelier in the village, and liked to spend her money."


When Friday came round, Tomina started out again. This time she had
fewer passengers. Only five from Little Honeycombe. But she took up
four on the way, and Bill Short was amongst them. Tomina suddenly
evolved the idea of engaging him to come with her every time, for she
saw that she ought to have some one to lift the different baskets and
bundles in and out.

Bill responded gladly to her suggestion. She told him she would give
him two-and-sixpence a day and his food, and he said he would be
delighted to come with her for that.

When St. Martha's Cross was reached, Tomina was as interested as her
passengers in seeing the quaint little old-fashioned town. She called
at the railway station late in the afternoon and there found a small
boy sitting on a bundle waiting for her. A woman by his side was
voluble in her explanation.

"'Tis little 'Arry Chuggs. An orphan he be, no father or mother, and I
used to be nex' door neighbour to his granny. He lives with his granny.
She were taken ill and sent him to me, but I be called over to London
to see my darter. Her boy be two days old, and there be complications;
and she be very bad, so back to his granny he must go. And you pass her
house. 'Tis halfway to Little Honeycombe back from the road—Mrs. Chuggs
her be. I'm hopin' she be up and about agen by this time."

Tomina promised to deliver the small boy safely. Something in his tiny
face and mass of dark brown curls appealed to her. And when he insisted
on sitting up by her side and chatted to her in a most quaint and
friendly fashion, Tomina ended by losing her heart to him.

"Have you ever seed God?" he asked her, as they slowly drove up a
long hill. He was gazing up into the blue evening sky with a seraphic
innocence as he spoke.

"No," said Tomina.

"I have," he said, with a pleased nod. "He's always on top of us, you
know, and Satan is under. I seed God las' night when I was in bed and
'twas black with the dark. He was jus' hangin' over me, and He smiled."

"But how could you see Him in the dark?" questioned Tomina.

"Oh, some people see quite well in the dark," replied Harry, quickly.
"God and me sees quite as well as in the day. We look at each other
quite easy."

There was a pause. Tomina was unused to children. She did not know
whether she ought to reprove him or not. He gave her a side look
through his long black eyelashes, and continued—

"Satan is very angry when I see God. He tries to get in the way, and
then I stamp on him hard, and he crackles up like coal does!"

"What will granny say when she sees you? Does she know that you're
coming?" asked Tomina, thinking it best to change the conversation.

Harry snuggled closer to her, and laid his head against her arm.

"I do love you!" he said. "I wis' granny lived with you."

Then his small hand stretched out for the reins, and Tomina weakly gave
them into his hand.

In an instant he was sitting upright, his big eyes blazing with pride
and joy.

"I could drive you to Lunnon," he asserted. "He's my horse, and this is
my cart, and I'm going to sell you all to the market."

"Who would buy us?" asked Tomina, enjoying this child as she hadn't
enjoyed anything for a long time.

"I'll sell you for a shilling each to a farmer to fatten for Chris'mas;
he'll keep you in a sty, but not you. I'll whisper in your ear. Bend
down."

So Tomina bent.

"I'll buy you back and take you home with me, and to-morrow we'll go
and look over the edge of the world."

His talk so fascinated Tomina that she was quite sorry when his
grandmother's was reached.

She got down herself when they arrived at the cottage, and took him up
to the door. A woman opened it immediately, and exclaimed when she saw
Harry—

"Why, his granny died this morning! Poor little chap! 'Tis no use for
him to come here. Me and my darter have been seeing to the poor soul.
She were took sudden at the end. Was quite herself yesterday, and then
when the doctor left yesternight, went unconscious like and died at
five o'clock this morn. Would you like to come in and look at her,
miss? She's beautiful to see!"

But Tomina shrank back in horror.

"I wouldn't come in for worlds!" she said frankly. "But now, what's to
be done with this poor child?"

"He'd best go back where he came from," said the woman, shortly.

She was hurt and offended at Tomina's refusal to see the dead, and
said within herself that she was not going to be bothered with other
people's children.

For an instant, Tomina stood still considering. Then she seized Harry
by the hand, and took him back to the van.

"You shall come home with me, Harry, to-night. I'll find you a bed. You
amuse me."

When the inmates of the van heard of what had happened, they were loud
in talk and lamentation. One of them claimed an acquaintance with
Harry's grandmother.

"She was a good woman, and a favourite with Mrs. Francis, and I've
heard tell that the little lad were often up at Hall. Mrs. Francis took
a likin' to him. Pity she be still away!"

"Well," said Tomina, "if you hear of any one who can offer him a home,
let me know. Till then, he stays with me."


When Tomina finally reached home, and placed Harry in Susan's arms,
that good woman was almost stunned.

"A child, ma'am! Well, you do really beat all! I always did feel you
were never cut out for a carrier!"

"He'll have to stay till we get him a home," said Tomina. "Give him
some supper and make him up a bed somewhere, Susan. He's getting sleepy
now, but he's the most entertaining little creature I've ever met."

Later on, when Tomina was enjoying her own dinner, Susan came to her.

"I foresee, ma'am, we shall have a handful. He's sitting on the floor
crying for you. He's ready for bed, but won't get in."

Tomina went into Susan's room where Harry was to sleep. He looked a
disconsolate little figure in his scanty shirt as he sat cross-legged
on the floor. Seeing Tomina, he held out his arms. And Tomina gathered
him to herself with almost a mother's tenderness.

"What is it, lambkin?"

He pointed his small finger at Susan accusingly, whilst his under lip
still quivered, and big teardrops hung on his eyelashes.

"Her says 'tis no use to say 'God bless granny,' 'cause granny is dead.
I can't go to sleep till I've said my prayers, and my prayers is 'God
bless granny.' Where is granny? Is she where God can't bless her?"

Tomina was ignorant of religious doctrines and orthodoxy.

"Of course you can say 'God bless granny.' Come and say it now."

So Harry dropped on his knees with a smile through his tears.

   "O God, bless granny and make Harry a good boy, and—and love him when
he's naughty, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

Then he got up and stared solemnly at Tomina with his big eyes.

"Aunt Jane said God didn't love naughty boys, but He will if I ask Him,
won't he?"

"I expect there would be very few in the world left to love if He did
not," said Tomina gravely.

Then she lifted him into the little bed made up for him and kissed him.

And when she was in her sitting-room alone, the colporteur's words
suddenly came back to her.

"People talk of there being no devil! It's sheer proof of his presence
and handiwork when young gentle things like you scoff at the One Who
made them, and sacrificed Himself for them, and loves them now with a
deep undying love!"

"I suppose God loves us all," she mused. "I've never thought much about
it. I should like to meet that Bible pedlar again, he seemed so happy
and certain. And I liked that about the sap rising. I suppose if one
could be religious as he was, it mightn't be such a gloomy affair after
all."

She thought about it when she went to bed, and when she at last slept,
she had a strange dream. She dreamed that Harry and she were walking
hand-in-hand through a strange country, and they came to a deep blue
lake. On the other side were lights and people, but darkness seemed
gathering round them, and Tomina heard herself saying anxiously—

"We must get home, Harry! We must get home!"

And then Harry pulled her down to the water.

"Let's come through it quick, and then we'll get home."

But when her feet touched the cold water, she shrank back and shivered.

"I can't, Harry, I can't. We shall be drowned. We must wait for a boat."

But Harry pulled her forwards.

"It isn't cold water, it's full of God's love."

And when she hesitated, he went into the lake, and she watched his
laughing face and curly head bobbing up above the water and calling to
her to follow him.

"It's quite easy—come!" he called.

She looked round for a boat, but there was none, the darkness of a
coming storm was behind her and around her. She tried to move after the
child, but her feet stuck to the ground, and then she called out in
terror, and awoke.

Beads of perspiration were on her brow. It was early morning. Birds
were singing outside her window.

"Oh!" she gasped. "What a comfort it is to wake from a frightful dream!"

Then she turned again on her pillow, and slept till Susan called her.


At breakfast, when Harry sat opposite to her, her dream recurred to her.

"Do you ever have dreams, Harry?" she asked.

Harry was in a very matter of fact mood this morning.

"Some more sugar in my tea, please," he asked, "and may I go in the
garden with the big dog?"

"If you aren't interesting, I shan't keep you," said Tomina, rather
severely.

Harry opened his eyes.

"What's intellessing?"

"I want you to amuse me."

Harry shook his head.

"I want 'you' to 'muse 'me,'" he said.

Tomina gave him up for the time with an impatient sigh.


But after breakfast, when he had had a scamper in the garden with Thor,
he came back to her with a most coaxing face.

"Tell me a story like Mrs. Francis does."

"What kind of stories does she tell you?"

Harry gazed up into the sky with rapturous eyes.

"'Bout the Home for little children in the blue sky."

"I'm afraid I don't know much about it," said Tomina. "You tell me what
you know."

"It's where granny has gone, isn't it? Jesus stands at the door to
shake hands, you know—"

Harry's eyes grew dreamy.

"When I take His hand, I shall cry because of the hole in it. It's a
pity He let them be so cruel to Him, wasn't it? But Mrs. Francis said
it had to be. Can you sing that hymn about a green hill?"

"I think I used to once, but I've forgotten the words."

"The story I like best is David and Goliar. Do you know that? Tell it
to me."

He had twined his small fingers round hers and was leaning against
her knee. Tomina felt almost mesmerised. She began at once, in rather
halting words, to tell the old Bible story, but Harry knew it better
than she did, and prompted her every minute.

She was sitting by the open window, when suddenly a voice interrupted
them.

"Good morning. May I come in?"

It was Dr. Merton.



CHAPTER VI

AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER

TOMINA looked rather relieved than otherwise at the interruption. Harry
dashed to the door with a shout of welcome.

"I'm living with her now. Isn't she a pretty lady?"

"You're in luck's way, young man. Do you think you could make yourself
scarce for a little?"

"Harry, run out into the kitchen and stay with Susan till I call you,"
Tomina said.

The child obeyed her.

Then Dr. Merton took a seat.

"Well, this isn't a professional visit to-day. I heard last night of
your kind deed, and have come to ask what you mean to do?"

Tomina sat back in her chair and looked at him with laughing eyes.

"I really haven't the faintest idea what I mean to do. I live in
the present, as you know. Please don't credit me with being a
philanthropist, for it was just an impulse. He is an adorably pretty
boy! And he began to talk so confidentially and quaintly to me that I
thought he would amuse me for a day or two. What queer things children
are! He seems so deeply, powerfully religious, if you know what I mean.
I hear he is Mrs. Francis's 'protégé.' I suppose that accounts for it."

"I think it does. Eleanor Francis has a wonderful gift of influence,
and a little child is so susceptible."

"He hardly seems like a villager's child. Has he any special history?"

"Yes. His grandmother, Mrs. Chugg, was once Mrs. Francis's nurse. She
married the butler—a most superior man, and for some time kept one of
the lodges on the Digbys' property. Her daughter was a very pretty,
refined girl, and was very often at the Hall playing with the children
there. She married very well, a rising young architect who did a good
bit of business for the old squire. They went to London, and in three
years' time, both died of scarlet fever, a virulent type—he took it
first and she contracted it nursing him. Their little boy came back to
live with his grandmother. That's his history.

"I don't think we shall let him go to the workhouse. If you are tired
of him already, you had better hand him over to me. I am quite ready to
give him a home for the present. Harry and I are old friends."

"I haven't said that I am tired of him. You are too fond of jumping to
conclusions."

"Children want an infinite amount of patience and care," said Dr.
Merton, looking at Tomina gravely; "are you very fond of them?"

"Not as a class, but if they are very pretty and amusing, I lose my
heart to them. And Harry has a way with him. Oh, I dare say I had
better hand him over to you. I fancy I might not be able to satisfy his
requirements. I certainly am behind him in Biblical knowledge. I don't
even possess a Bible of my own. I have one in town, I believe, but I
never used it."

Tomina always had a perverse longing to shock Dr. Merton, but he never
rose to her bait.

"You're improving in looks," he said. "Our country life suits you. How
does the van work?"

Tomina's eyes sparkled. She spoke naturally now.

"I am getting to love it. The slow leisurely motion suits me. I think I
have adapted myself very quickly to my—my banishment! I never thought
that country people of the lower orders, could be so interesting.
They're pathetic, and comic and tragic by turns. I listen to their talk
and am learning a lot."

"I hear the carrier's van is a great success," said Dr. Merton,
heartily.

"Well, we have only had two days of it as yet. I've had some funny
experiences. The first day I took up a book pedlar, who preached me a
sermon. He was rather a dear. I fancy I have tumbled into a nest of
good people down here. When are you going to have your turn with me,
Dr. Merton? I am sure you are longing to begin!"

"I want you to be healthy both in body and soul," responded Dr. Merton,
gravely. "You will tell me your soul is none of my business, but I say
that the soul affects the body, and as you have been trying to kill
both, these few years, I am naturally anxious that you should learn the
laws of health for both."

Tomina's eyes twinkled with mischief. She folded her hands in her lap.

"Please go on," she said.

"Oh, I am not going to preach. But I do think that every civilised
Christian should own and read the Book that contains those laws."

"I suppose you mean the Bible, but I don't think that says much about
our bodies, does it?"

"Doesn't it? You look and see. We have wandered from our point. How
long do you want to keep Harry?"

Tomina did not reply. She was gazing out of the window somewhat
wistfully.

The doctor longed to know her thoughts, but he waited in silence.

At last, she said—

"Do you really want him so much? I believe you are like me, though, of
course, you wouldn't allow it for worlds! You have your lonely moments,
when you get bored to death with yourself and your thoughts, and you
seek distraction!"

Dr. Merton smiled.

"I hope the quiet simple life is not going to fail you."

"If it keeps quiet and simple it won't," said Tomina, emphatically.
"But if fragments of the other world keep flying across my path, I
shall, as the Americans would say, 'quit'!"

Then she smiled, and Tomina's smile made every one feel at once what a
joyous thing life was.

"I came across rather a big fragment the other day," she continued,
"but it went as quickly as it came, and as I'm determined to live in
the present, I oughtn't to give it a thought."

Dr. Merton opened his mouth as if about to speak, then shut his lips
determinedly.

"And Harry?"

"Oh, Harry. Leave him with me a little longer. Are you going to adopt
him?"

"I have not thought of doing so; only I thought I would keep him till
Mrs. Francis returns, and then we can talk over his future together."

"Poor little waif! Has he no relations on his father's side?"

"I am afraid not. But that will require investigation. Mrs. Francis
knows about his belongings better than I do. I must be off. I am
thankful to leave him in such good hands as yours, and if he proves too
much for you, let me know at once."

Just as the doctor was going out at the door, he turned.

"By the way, somebody was asking after you the other day. A Colonel
Norman, whose father has recently died. His mother lives about five
miles off. I believe he is retiring from the service and going to look
after the property."

"I used to know a Major Norman," said Tomina, indifferently, "but he is
not a friend of mine."

The doctor went.

Tomina sat very still. An impertinent robin perched upon the
window-sill and lifting up his head, looked at her saucily. Then there
was a rush of small feet along the passage and he flew away.

"Susan is cooking me a fruit tart. She says I can pick up the snails in
the ivy, and Thor could be made to draw your wheelbarrow, couldn't he?
Oh! There's such lots to do! Do come on and help me."

Harry had got hold of her, and had dragged her out into the garden
before she had time to protest.

For the rest of that day, Tomina gave herself over to childhood and to
childhood's games.

When she was tired, she handed Harry over to Susan, who soon became
his willing slave. He certainly kept them both lively, and however
mischievous and restless by day, he was a little angel when bed-time
came. Tomina was obliged to be always present during his prayers. She
said to Susan one evening, when she came away from him—

"Do all children consider that the Almighty's sole occupation consists
in watching over them and listening to every word that comes from their
lips? Harry thinks that his concerns come first and foremost in the
world to his Creator!"

"Ah well," said Susan, "'tis said, ma'am, 'of such is the Kingdom of
Heaven.' They were very dear to our Lord, and 'twould be better for all
of us if we were more like them!"

"I suppose it would," was Tomina's grave reply.


Carrier's day came round again. But it dawned in lashing showers of
rain, which set in for a steady downpour when the time to start came.

Tomina had thought of taking Harry with her, but that was impossible
now. She arrayed herself in her oilskins, and as she surveyed herself
in her glass, she laughed aloud.

"I'm looking a genuine carrier now," she said to Susan.

"Well, ma'am, you're really very like a man in them things. But 'tis
rough weather for you, all said and done!"

She had only four passengers to start with. Bill Short was, of course,
in attendance, and she made up for the lack of passengers in the
hampers and parcels which were packed in.

Rain and wind beat in their faces as they started. The whole country
was obliterated by a grey driving mist. Tomina sat well back under the
awning and drove. The four women snuggled together in the back of the
van, and talked in low voices over the shortcomings of their families
and the depression of trade. Everybody seemed out of spirits, including
Bran, who plodded doggedly along, occasionally shaking his great mane
when it became water-logged, and Thor, who tucked himself under the
shelter of the van and held his tail well between his legs.

Presently, as they began to ascend a long steep hill, they overtook
a pedestrian in mackintosh and slouch hat, well pulled down over his
eyes. He hailed them as soon as he saw them, and climbed up into the
front seat by the side of Tomina.

"A bad day for you," he said pleasantly.

Tomina turned in her seat and stared at him. There was no mistaking
that voice. It was Colonel Norman again.

For an instant, Tomina wondered if she were recognised, but only for
an instant. Then a swift furious colour rose in her cheeks, as she
encountered his keen steady gaze.

"Why wouldn't you see me the other day? You might have known we should
be bound to meet before long."

"I call this an impertinent intrusion," said Tomina, in icy tones.

"Surely not? Surely a carrier's van is open to any and all who can pay
his fare? I am going to Damerton on business."

"Then you could have driven yourself."

"But I wanted to see you and have a talk with you, and this was my
opportunity."

His tone was very determined.

Tomina was so dumfounded by the blow fate had dealt her that she was
absolutely silent.

He continued after a pause.

"I heard of your disappearance from town, but I little thought I
should find you in my own county. Is there any special reason for
this masquerade? When I remember you in the old days, I can hardly
reconcile—"

Then Tomina turned her head.

"The old days, as you call them, are dead and buried, and so is every
one and everything associated with them."

"Do you really mean that?"

"I do."

"Thank Heaven! That leaves me a fair fresh field! Tomina, I am going
to begin to court you again. I won't even attempt to explain away or
apologise for the past. There is no past. You and I are in a new fresh
world, the only man and woman in it so far as I am concerned. I felt an
hour ago that the very heavens were weeping for our spoiled lives, and
irrevocable mistakes, our pitiful failures of life with its glorious
possibilities.

"Now what is the rain? It is washing and purging and beautifying all
that has become besmirched with the dust of time. You and I are new
creatures. We have evolved a fresh era, our future lies before us, to
be made or marred according to our likings. We are at the beginning of
our friendship."

Tomina received this burst of eloquence with a very slight and
indifferent shrug of her pretty shoulders. Her back was almost
turned upon him. Only Bran was conscious of an unusual and spasmodic
tightening of his reins.

After a moment's silence, she spoke.

"You have twisted my words to suit yourself. If neither of us has a
past, we are absolute strangers one to the other, and I intend that we
remain as such. I never wish to know you, and no amount of effort on
your part will make me do it. As a gentleman, and I believe you are
one, you cannot force your presence upon me!"

"I can and will do anything to break down the barrier between us!"

There was a tense silence, then the Colonel spoke again.

"No, I am not going to play your game any more. Neither of us can
forget the past; you think that you cannot forgive it. How long ago is
it? It is eight years to-day since your head was lying on my shoulder,
and we sealed our compact with our lips. I have never had but one woman
in my life, and I never shall. I was hot-headed and jealous, I own.
I was arbitrary where I ought to have been persuasive. You overheard
something that you misconstrued, and I was too proud to exonerate
myself. We both determined to put each other out of our lives.

"I've worked hard and allowed myself no time for thinking. Now I have
retired, and isn't it a remarkable thing that every day since I have
been home, your personality has haunted me? I never knew until I met
you the other day that we were neighbours. Tomina, my heart still beats
true for you; it has never wandered from you. Why should we pretend to
be strangers? You know that we are not."

Tomina's face was stern and set. It was the woman who showed hardness
and determination; the man's face was softened, and into his eyes had
crept a pitying tenderness.

The top of the hill was reached. Without a word, she whipped up Bran
more severely than was her wont. He broke into a sharp trot. The van
swayed and creaked and groaned, and one could hardly hear oneself
speak. The rain still lashed into their faces. Tomina began to wish for
some fresh passengers. How could she endure six or seven miles more of
Colonel Norman's company?

When they were once more forced to go slowly, she spoke—

"I came down to this part by doctor's orders. I have been very unwell,
and I thought I had found peace and rest, and freedom from all that I
have learnt to dislike. I do not intend that you shall spoil my life
again. You did it once, and a 'burnt child dreads the fire.' I never
will speak to you willingly again. Nothing that you can say or do will
make me change my mind."

Then scorn and anger crept into her voice.

"You acknowledge that all these years you have never given me a
thought! Why should you do so now? Your world always came first with
you. It is only in your idle moments that you consider women to be
useful to you. You forget that women now are not mere playthings for
men."

"You were never a plaything in my eyes."

"No, perhaps I used the wrong word. It was on the subject of play
that we differed so. You considered you had the right to withhold
from me any pleasure that you deemed fit to condemn. Your will was
always to come paramount. I was to be your obedient servant. And your
straight-laced Pharisaical views of life were to be mine, you reminded
me, when I became your wife. Thank Heaven, I escaped from such bondage.
Did you think that my grudge against you was because you told your chum
that the only chance for an undisciplined girl was for her to marry a
man who could always master her?"

"That speech of mine was not in reference to you. I never had a chance
to explain. Davis was working as a curate in the slums; we were talking
about factory girls and their ways."

Tomina laughed scornfully.

"What does it matter now? I say that that was only an indication of
your habit of thought. I was a young joyous-hearted girl in those
days. I felt kindly disposed towards all my fellow-creatures. I could
have been led, but never, never driven! You turned my gladness into
bitterness. You made me hate all goodness and good people and religion
in every shape and form. If I had cared enough, you would have driven
me to the devil. You took my love, but you only wanted it to minister
to your needs. I was to be your bird in a cage to sing to you, but
my wings were to be clipped, and you would have gone on clipping and
clipping till no feather was left!"

Tomina paused for breath. Her voice was low pitched; not one of the
women in the van could hear what she said, but passion vibrated through
every word.

Colonel Norman looked straight in front of him, and again there was a
tense silence between them. Then he drew a long deep breath.

"I never knew a woman's love could turn into such hate!" he said. And
clapping down a shilling on the wooden seat, he said curtly, "My fare,"
and swung himself down upon the muddy road. He raised his hat, and fell
behind the van.

Tomina never looked out or noticed whether he trudged behind them for
long. She only felt when she reached Damerton that she would give all
she possessed to be able to creep into her bed at home and cry herself
to sleep, so tired and weary, so utterly miserable was she!

But business had to be done, and her day had only just commenced. She
had always had plenty of self-control, and it did not fail her now.

In the afternoon, the weather cleared. The return journey was made in
sunshine, and every bush and tree seemed to lift up their heads to
greet it.

"Jus' like our days," said old Mrs. Crabbe, who was somewhat of a
philosopher; "we gets a reg'lar downpour o' trouble and set-backs, and
then it all goes, and the sun comes out beter'n ever."

"Will the sun ever come out for me?" thought Tomina. "I am sure it will
not."

Susan was not surprised when the next day came and found Tomina in bed
with a racking head and high temperature. Even Harry's prattle had to
be hushed.

"I always said she wouldn't be fit to stand rough weather," said Susan
to herself. "She's got a chill and is going to be really ill. I shall
send for the doctor, and he'll have to take away the child."



CHAPTER VII

TWO VISITORS

BUT in a day or two, Tomina was quite herself again, and Harry stayed
on. Everything that was softest and best in her came to the surface
when she had him by her side. Miss Merryweather called one afternoon,
and found her seated on the floor with a pack of cards. Harry and she
were erecting towers, to be demolished with a pop-gun as soon as they
were erected.

Tomina rose from the floor with reluctance.

"I have always enjoyed a game of cards, but I think this is the most
engrossing one I have ever played," she said. "Now, Harry, I am going
to rest for a little. Will you run out into the garden and tell Thor,
with my love, that he must take his turn at amusing you now?"

"And he'll shake his head and say, 'No.' Susan says he likes an
afternoon nap. But I'll tell him what you say, and if he doesn't do it,
I'll—I'll make him!"

He trotted away with flying curls; and Miss Merryweather looked her
astonishment.

"I have heard about your 'protégé.' You are rather a marvel to me!"

"Am I? I think you would have acted in the same way had you been in my
shoes."

Alice Merryweather shook her head.

"No, I should know I could not make him happy. You told me you had come
down here to get away from your fellow-creatures, but on all sides I
hear of the friends you are making. Allow me to congratulate you upon
your enterprise. You are turning into a successful philanthropist."

"You mean my van? My dear Miss Merryweather, that is pure amusement and
delight to me, and so is Harry. I have never done anything yet that I
dislike doing."

"But did I not tell you when you talked about my work that I found work
a pleasure. All people do who throw their hearts into it. You have
turned into the busy bee down here, I into the drone."

Tomina looked at her keenly.

"You are really ill," she said.

"I'm never without a headache," confessed Alice; "and my very limbs
seem powerless. You don't know what a helpless wretched creature I have
become. The only solace to me is my books, and those are a forbidden
indulgence."

"Forbidden by our tyrant the doctor, I suppose? Oh, I would snap my
fingers at him! Doesn't he interfere in everybody's concerns? Even
Harry here may be at any moment snatched away by him. He wants him now,
but I want him too, so our wills are in conflict."

Alice laughed.

"I think your will will come uppermost," she said. "Dr. Merton is very
kind at heart. Tell me about your carrier's cart. I feel inclined to
come with you one day."

"Do; it is most entertaining! Do you know two old ladies called Seaton?
I had such a quaint old-fashioned note from one of them this morning.

   "'The Misses Seaton will be much obliged if Miss Gavin will kindly
reserve two seats together for them in her van next Friday when she
goes to Damerton. They are obliged to go into Damerton on business,
otherwise they would not trouble her, and will she kindly see that the
two seats are under cover, and out of the draught. If very wet, they
will not attempt the journey; but if fine, D.V., * they would like her
to stop at their gate as she passes.'

"They are such old dears! But they told me, with heads in the air, that
they had never used a carrier's cart for their personal convenience."

   * D.V.—Deo Volente ["God willing."]

"Oh, I know them well," said Alice, smiling; "they are awfully afraid
of letting themselves slip down from the station in life to which they
were called, and most of their conversations are sandwiched with, 'Our
late father, the Rector of Twistham,' or, 'When we lived in Twistham
Rectory.' You cannot get them off it.

"I asked them once if they would like the post of librarians in a
country town not far from London. They are fond of books, and are
well-read women. I could have got it for them, and as they're so very
badly off, I thought they would have jumped at it, but they were quite
shocked at the idea. They are very early Victorian, and think women
ought never to work out of their homes."

"I don't like the type of working women I have met in town," said
Tomina, "they're so sure of themselves, and so argumentative and
dictatorial!"

"What class of woman have you met?"

"A lady doctor or two, and some Poor Law Guardians, and an American
barrister; she was the best of the lot, she knew how to dress herself!"

Alice laughed.

And Tomina joined her, adding—

"I don't care; women have no business to make themselves into seedy
caricatures of men. They generally despise them; why should they ape
their dress and manners?"

"You are talking of the aggressive style of woman. The hardest workers
are not that sort."

"Don't let us talk of women," said Tomina. "I'm not very fond of my
own sex. Men are, as a rule, bigger-minded and more interesting. I see
rather a scornful glint in your eye? The person I like best in the
world is a man who is now in Australia."

"I suppose you are engaged to him?"

"Indeed I am not, nor shall I ever be. He is my twin brother, and his
name is Tom. I have to thank him for my ridiculous name. He is the
elder by an hour, and he had to be a Thomas. His godfather insisted on
it. And then they named me Tomina. We grew up together, and I don't
think I could have had a nicer brother. If I could, I would follow him
round the world; but he is in the Navy, and they won't have women on
men-of-war."

"I should think not, indeed," said Alice, laughing. "I am afraid you
won't have much men's society here. You will soon be wanting to go back
to town."

"No, I feel as if I never wish to see it again. You forget that I have
entered another life—or world is it? And I am getting keenly interested
in the villagers. They are quite a new experience to me. You should
hear the conversations in my van! They're as good, and better than a
play. Five women were made to thrill last Friday by the description of
a neighbour who went to church in her weekday clothes! And they're so
good and generous to each other, much more so than we are! Oh, I'm in
love with my burial place. I shall never want to leave it."

"I came to ask you if you would do a commission for me when next you go
to Damerton. Will you bring me back a parcel of books, and let me call
for them here the next day?"

"With pleasure. Oh! Who is this? Not a visitor?"

A carriage was stopping at the gate. Alice Merryweather looked out.

"Why, it is Mrs. Norman! It is not often she comes this way."

"Oh dear! I don't want visitors. I'm not at home! That wretch Susan is
already at the door. Do go out and say I can't see her!"

Alice laughed.

"My dear Miss Gavin, you had better go through it with a good grace.
Mrs. Norman would have forced her way in, for she saw us at the window.
Nothing escapes her eyes. I am sorry for that nice son of hers who
has come home to look after her. She leads him a dreadful life. She
is one of those people who can never keep still; her energy is almost
superhuman."

The next moment, Susan ushered in a very animated little lady dressed
in the height of fashion.

She greeted Tomina almost affectionately.

"We cannot be strangers, though I have not been in town for years. We
were abroad for five years before my husband died, but your stepmother
and I are old friends. I am so pleased that you have come to live in
this part of the world. Why did you not let me know before? You are
down here for health, are you not? Leading the simple life, and so on.

"Well, we have all had our turn at that. Before we went abroad, I
got my husband to rent a small cottage for week-ends, and I tried
my best to adapt myself to it. But mice and earwigs conquered me,
and I fled. As I say, our life at Yockley Court is a simple one, and
for the present I am tied there. Between ourselves, our agent was
a gentlemanly loafer, and has let the whole place go to ruin, and
through mismanagement—I won't hint at any possible want of honesty—a
few thousands of ours have disappeared, and we have to economise. This
is what brought Gerald home. He has come to look after his mother, and
bring order out of chaos. You know my son, Miss Gavin, do you not?"

Tomina's face during this long speech was a study. Alice sat still, and
quite enjoyed it.

Then Tomina spoke, with her head thrown back, her eyes partly closed,
and her voice very sweet, but very remote in tone.

"It is kind of you to come to see me, but I am not to have visitors, my
doctor says. I am to enjoy absolute quiet. You see I am doing a rest
cure. I have shed my fashionable friends with my fashionable clothes,
and hours, like a skin! You will understand that as an invalid, I
cannot return this kind visit. I want to regain my health, and so I am
determined to follow my doctor's orders."

"My dear girl, I am indeed sorry for you! I did not know you were in
such delicate health, but I see Miss Merryweather has discovered you."

"Yes," said Alice, "our doctor introduced us. We are supposed to be
two invalids, and he thought we might like to discuss our respective
symptoms."

"I am so thankful for my superb health," said Mrs. Norman, with pride.
"I never have had a day's illness for years. I am up every morning at
half-past five, and in my garden at seven. I have just started a water
garden at the end of my rock garden, and it is most fascinating. Do you
know any rare water plants, Miss Merryweather? I know you are a very
encyclopædia for knowledge of all kinds."

Alice began telling her of a few plants by name, and it was Tomina's
turn to sit silent and listen. She could not reconcile this youthful
energetic mother with her stern determined son. She wondered how they
got on together, whether the son or mother ruled the house.

And in a very few minutes, Mrs. Norman rose to go.

"Well, I am glad to have found you at home, my dear, and I will send
the carriage over to bring you to lunch with us one day. You must not
mope here. I am glad I have seen you. I heard a most ridiculous story
afloat, about a young lady running a carrier's cart, and somebody said
it was you. Now I have seen you, I can contradict the story. You do not
look as if that 'rôle' would suit you. Do you know of any girl about
here who is doing such a thing? Some farmer's daughter, I suppose.
Girls will do anything nowadays! And the more unfeminine a pursuit may
be, the more it appeals to them."

Tomina, lying back in her chair in a daintily embroidered muslin frock
and looking a picture of fragile porcelain femininity, gazed at Mrs.
Norman languidly through her long eyelashes.

"Is driving not a feminine pursuit? My carrier's cart is the only thing
I really enjoy."

Mrs. Norman gazed at her with horrified eyes.

"Then the report is true? My dear girl, does your stepmother know about
it? You must have far more energy than your appearance credits you
with. Well, good-bye; you have astonished me! I wish I had time to ask
for details, but I am due at the rectory for a committee meeting. Dear
me! What a tangled medley is the composition of a modern girl!"

She bustled out of the room. Alice Merryweather accompanied her to the
gate, then returned to Tomina.

"You are a tangled medley," she said. "Mrs. Norman spoke truly there."

"And I seem to myself so simple!" said Tomina. "Life must be so here.
I am not at all tangled in my mind. I only do the things I want to do,
and leave the rest."

"You have no high ideals," said Alice, musingly. "Those are what
require effort and produce restlessness and discontent."

"What are your ideals?"

"To cultivate to the fullest extent every fraction of my brain. I would
not have an ounce of me lying fallow. To do work in the world that
will last. Not to stagnate, and be a source of danger to others by
stagnation!"

Alice spoke in a low voice, but her tone vibrated with earnest passion.

Tomina looked at her and smiled, then she sighed.

"I don't know whether I am so simple after all," she said. "I am
playing a game, trying to match my environment, but simplicity means
goodness, and I am not good. And I never wished to be good till—Shall I
make you my father confessor? Why am I talking like this, I wonder!"

She stopped abruptly.

But Alice looked interested and sympathetic, so Tomina went on—

"Till I met an absurd little book pedlar, and he gave me a lesson on
limes coming into leaf, and every time I pass those limes, they repeat
his words to me. I sometimes think that unseen forces are surrounding
me, making me think of religion, and compelling me to be religious. I
bought a Bible the other day. Harry forced me to. He wanted some of his
Bible stories. I think if I have an ideal at all, it is to have the
faith of a little child. I told the quaint pedlar that I came down here
to bury myself, and that eventually I meant to emerge a new creature.
He at once began to talk about a new Birth, and the sap rising in the
dead trees of winter. He told me I wanted the sap to rise in me.

"I laughed at his little parable, but this morning I was hunting about
for a fresh Bible story and I came across this verse. Do you know it? I
never remember having heard it before—

   "'If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed
away; behold, all things are become new.'

"You see, a part of that is my experience. Old things are passed away.
I did away with them when I came down here. I don't want them back
again. I'm sick of my town friends and gaieties. And I'm wondering, if
I want to resurrect myself properly, whether I had not better take my
soul into account, and get made a new kind of person altogether!"

Tomina paused. A wistful look was in her eyes.

For a moment Alice was speechless, then she said gently—

"Well, have a try. I'm busy cultivating my intellect; you cultivate
your spiritual part. We are all of us a medley of parts, you know."

"How can I set about it?" asked Tomina.

Alice's early training saved her from making a flippant reply. After
all, she argued to herself, Tomina was not a clever individual, so why
should she not get the comfort of religion if she chose? She would not
be the one to prevent her.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "the Bible will show you. I believe the
study of it feeds the spiritual part of you. I used to be told so, I
remember."

Then she got up to go. And as she shook hands, a smile flashed over her
face.

"You are a tangled medley. Mrs. Norman was quite right."

"I hope something or somebody will untangle me before long," retorted
Tomina. "But one thing I know, and that is that Mrs. Norman is not
going to trot me out to luncheon parties, and I don't mean to return
her call."

"You cannot avoid doing that."

"Oh yes; an invalid can avoid anything."

"But not an invalid who drives a carrier's cart."

Tomina laughed gaily.

"I am the queen of my van. I can sit for hours in silence if I choose.
Conversation at lunch or dinner bores me to distraction. It must
necessarily be so forced and artificial."

"Oh, I don't agree. Think of Dr. Johnson's breakfast table, and—"

Tomina waved her hand.

"Good-bye. Of all things, I hate a literary meal. I believe half the
speeches are made up beforehand. Each one vies with the other in making
the most brilliant sallies. I have been to one or two of those edifying
repasts, so I know what I am talking about."

When Alice had gone, she went out into the garden.

"And now I shall refresh myself with Harry."



CHAPTER VIII

UP A TREE

AND now came a spell of hot weather. Tomina spent most of her time in a
hammock in her garden. Harry was still her chief joy. One morning she
promised to take him fishing.

"We will take our dinner with us, and spend a day on the river. We'll
drive out to it, for I've heard there's good trout-fishing four miles
out."

Harry was enchanted. Susan said rather grimly that she thought a bent
pin and a worm at the end of a piece of string in the nearest brook
would be enough for him. But Tomina said—

"You forget that I'm a fisherwoman, Susan. I've landed small salmon by
myself in Scotland and I'm going to teach him proper fly-fishing. You
won't see us till dusk. Pack a good big basket. I've got leave to fish
where I'm going. Dr. Merton owns that bit of the river."

The hired trap took the two of them, accompanied by Thor, along the
lanes in the early morning. It was an ideal day for fishing. Still and
grey, with not much sun. But it was oppressively warm.

Tomina had meant to put up her trap at a little farm near the river,
but when they came to it, they found the people away for the day. So
she drove on, and tied the horse to some stout oak fencing. Then she
and Harry began their sport; but they had no luck. Harry was a restless
little soul, and he soon got tired of holding his line at a stiff angle
and waiting for a bite which would not come.

"I expect the poor fis' don't want to be killed to-day, Tommie," he
said. "Tommie" had told him he might call her what he liked, and he had
responded at once. "Let's take off our shoes and stockings and get into
the water," he said.

"Tommie" declined, but she let him play about in a shallow part of the
stream, and rather gladly reeled up her line and lay down under the
shadow of an old oak tree. She was an adept at doing nothing in the
open-air.

The coolness of the fresh-running stream refreshed and soothed her.
Presently, she fell asleep, and a little later awoke with a start.

Where was Harry? There was no sound or sight of him. Her old horse was
still munching in the hedge. But Thor had disappeared. She called, but
there was no reply.

"Oh dear!" she said to herself. "Why do I bother myself with a child?
They're always an anxiety."

She walked for some way along the banks of the river. Could he possibly
have fallen in, or been carried down by the current? She wondered, and
a little shudder came over her at the thought. Then she thought of
Thor, and was reassured. Surely he would have returned to her. There
was a slight clearing in the woods which stretched along one side of
the river, and in the distance she suddenly espied Harry's straw hat.

That brought relief to her mind.

"The little imp has run off into the wood."

She walked on, calling him by name as she went. And at last in the
distance she heard his voice and the quick, short bark of Thor.

"Tommie, oh, Tommie, come quick!"

She hastened her step. There was a group of old trees in front of her.
As she came up to them, a small voice cried to her from the topmost
boughs of one—

"Oh, Tommie, I can't come down! I've climbed up too high. I'm
frightened. Fetch me down!"

Looking up through the thick leaves of an oak, she saw a white-faced
child clinging desperately round a bough. Thor was standing below,
looking up in a perplexed fashion.

Tomina's heart sank within her. Then she pulled herself together.

"Harry, you mustn't be a coward! You climbed up—you can climb down. I
can't come up to fetch you. Be a brave boy and come down."

Harry began to sob, and kick feebly with one leg.

"There's nothing to step on, there troofully isn't! I've tried all I
can. I'm going to fall. Do ask God to help me. I've asked Him till I'm
tired. I'm so 'fraid He wants me to be killed this afternoon, and I
don't want to be!"

A vision came back to Tomina of her childhood, when a kitten had
climbed a tree and had been rescued by a fat butler on the top of a
tall ladder. She looked wildly round for help. Harry must be rescued,
but she could not be his rescuer.

"Do come up!" cried the child. "I'm sure you could climb easy, and then
you'd help me down."

"I haven't climbed a tree since I was a child," said Tomina,
helplessly. "Oh, Harry dear, I can't! Do try to come down. There's a
branch below you. Can't you reach it?"

"My legs won't stretch," sobbed Harry, "and I can't hold much longer!"

Then, after another wild and fruitless glance around, Tomina nerved
herself for the effort. She tucked up her skirt and began the ascent.
It was not a difficult tree to climb, otherwise Harry would not have
attempted it. She was surprised at herself for the ease with which
she did it, but happening to glance down when she was fairly high up,
terror seized her.

With great self-control she looked up at Harry, and went on climbing.
She reached a strong bough beneath him, and sitting astride on it
caught hold of him, and the next minute, he was by her side. He clung
hold of her and smiled through a mist of tears.

"I do love you, Tommie! I'm quite safe now. I thought I was going to
fall."

"You are a little wretch, and as to being safe, I don't know about
that. Why is it so much easier to climb up than down, I wonder?"

Tomina looked down through the leafy branches with fearful eyes.

"I broke one branch on my climb up, and I don't believe I shall be any
cleverer than you. There is no foothold for either of us, Harry, unless
you can find the way. Can you climb down now?"

"I can get on your back while you do it," suggested Harry, cheerfully.

And Tomina laughed in spite of herself.

"You've inveigled me up into a tree, and here we shall have to stay.
It's ridiculous! Look here, I'll hold your hand, and you must start
away down."

Harry valiantly did his best, but the branches beneath swayed in an
alarming way with a sudden gust of wind. And in terror, he climbed back
to the safe, strong bough on which Tomina was sitting.

"I can't! I can't!" he said. "You go first, Tommie dear."

Tomina made the attempt, but found it impossible. And the sudden
rushing wind that now was sweeping through the wood filled her with
fresh alarm.

"A storm is coming up," she said. "I knew that sultry feeling in the
air was a sign of it."

Then she looked down at Thor, who was whining uneasily at the foot of
the tree.

"Go home, sir! Fetch help! Fetch it! Fetch any one!"

Thor bounded to his feet, looked round wildly and dashed away.

"He's gone!" cried Harry, in delight. "He'll fetch Susan!"

"Susan!" gasped Tomina. "A lot of good Susan would do! I hope he'll
have sense enough to bring a man. Oh, Harry, you have brought disaster
on us!"

As she spoke, there was a low rumble of thunder in the distance, and
heavy drops of rain fell with a thud upon them.

She took Harry into her arms, got into a more comfortable position, and
then awaited, with all the calmness she could muster, the coming storm.

"In a tree in a thunderstorm," she murmured. "It is sheer madness, but
things are so bad that they can't be worse."

"Do you think God will take care of us? I don't like thunder,"
whimpered Harry. "Do ask God to keep us safe."

It was not the first time that Harry had forced Tomina to pray.

She murmured in a low tone—

   "O God, protect us and send some one to our help. For Christ's sake.
Amen."

"It's such a pity," said Harry, after a moment's silence, "that God
'dosn't' want us to see Him before we go to Heaven, else He could just
step down out of a cloud quite easy and lift us down."

Tomina did not know how to reply to this assertion.

Louder and nearer rolled the thunder clouds, then came a vivid flash of
lightning, and then a crash of thunder overhead. Harry clutched hold of
Tomina in trembling fright.

"It's awful to be up so close," he said. "Don't you wish we could get
into a nest like the birds and hide our heads?"

Tomina's courage was oozing fast. She could but hold the child and keep
silence. Then her sense of humour came uppermost, and she began to
laugh.

When Harry looked up with a shocked face, she excused herself—

"I was only wishing some of my friends in London could see me," she
said.

For some moments after that, the storm was too violent for them to
speak. It seemed as if it were raging on the top of them. Then it
rolled on and away from them, but the rain came on faster than ever. It
shot down upon them in such sheets of water that, in spite of the thick
foliage above them, they were drenched through.

In about a quarter of an hour, it stopped as suddenly as it came.
Tomina lifted her face with a long sigh of relief.

"It's over, Harry sweet! Where do you think Thor can be? He has never
come back. What shall we do? I am getting the cramp, I believe. Let us
give a co-ee!"

So they co-eed, and the birds flew away in fright, and the rabbits
scuttled to their holes, and still there was no sign of any one coming.

"I'm so hungry!" said Harry, plaintively.

Tomina rose desperately from her perilous perch, determined to make one
more effort to descend.

"If only I had not broken that branch, I could do it," she said. "It
seems as if we shall never be discovered here. I wonder if I could let
myself drop, but it looks such an awful height from the ground!"

She had hardly finished speaking before Harry gave a joyful cry.

There was a crashing in the thicket a little way off, and in another
moment Thor came bounding to the foot of the tree, followed by a man in
a mackintosh. Harry gave a delighted yell, but Tomina's face changed as
she recognised the man.

It was Colonel Norman.

Some words she had heard read in church came into her mind—

   "'And hast thou found me, O mine enemy?'"

He looked up and their eyes met.

Tomina felt that her position did not warrant any show of dignity on
her part, so she said slowly—

"I suppose Thor fetched you. I am very sorry you troubled to come. You
see our predicament. Owing to a broken branch our descent has been
impossible. We want a ladder badly."

"Oh, I think we can dispense with a ladder!" said Colonel Norman,
briskly.

There was a little twinkle in his eyes, which happily Tomina did not
see.

He threw off his mackintosh, and said—

"I'm afraid you've been out in all this storm. I was caught in it, and
was swinging along home when Thor bounced up. It was fortunate I was in
this direction. Your dog has all his wit—he brought me straight here.
Now then!"

With a light spring, he commenced to climb, and in a very few minutes
had Harry in his arms and brought him down to the ground.

Tomina began to feel distinctly nervous.

"We aren't very far from the farm where I hoped to put up my horse and
trap. They are out for the day, but I should think you could find a
ladder about."

"That would be a very roundabout way of proceeding. I will have you
down in a minute."

"I will wait for a ladder," Tomina said.

He made no answer, but climbed up beside her.

"Now give me your hand. That is it. Now put your foot there. Don't be
afraid; I have hold of you. That's splendid! Now then, it is fairly
easy."

He had taken possession of her so quickly and thoroughly that she had
no choice but to follow his guidance. But she was angry when, on nearly
completing the descent, he had sprung down in front of her, and had
lifted her bodily down, and held her in his arms for a moment quite
unnecessarily.

"What a little bit of a thing you are!" he said. "You are lighter than
ever. There is nothing substantial about you!"

Tomina released herself very indignantly.

"You are far too officious. But I thank you. Harry and I will find our
way home all right now."

She turned from him, but Colonel Norman could not be so easily
dismissed. He placed his hand on her arm.

"You are wet to the skin," he said. "Now, look here, Tomina, treat me
like a stranger if you like. But a stranger would not go off and leave
you in this plight. I am coming with you to find your trap."

Then Harry spoke—

"I call her 'Tommie,'" he said. "Do you know her? I'm so glad you got
us down. We haven't had our dinner yet. And my socks is sticking with
the rain."

"Run along and see if our trap is where we left it," said Tomina.

Then as he obeyed her, she said to her companion: "It seems to be my
luckless fate to run up against you when I least desire it. I have
thanked you for your help, but if our trap is here, I beg that you
will leave us. I am quite capable of driving home myself. This sounds
ungrateful—"

"Oh, I didn't expect you to feel pleasantly towards me!" said Colonel
Norman, cheerfully. "Only I knew from your dog that you were in a fix,
and so I came along. And I am not going to let you drive home in that
thin, wet dress. You must at least put on my mackintosh."

Tomina made no reply. She quickened her steps towards the spot where
she had left her trap. Harry was scampering about, and now ran back to
her.

"The horse isn't there. He's runned away, and the trap too!"

Tomina gave a little gasp.

It was too true. Frightened by the storm, the horse had broken loose
from the fence, and had evidently found the road and bolted along it;
for the whip was lying on the ground some distance away.

"We must just walk home," said Tomina, bravely. "After all, it is only
five miles. I expect old Jim has made for home. They will think we have
been upset. What a comfort it is to think that it is only Susan who
will be concerned! We have nobody else belonging to us."

But she did not relish a five mile walk back with Colonel Norman. He
said very little, but shouldered their fishing rods and again offered
his coat to Tomina, who refused.

"How could I walk in a thing like that, trailing yards of it on the
ground, and being smothered in it? I wish you would leave us, Colonel
Norman; we have our lunch to eat, and it is fine now. I don't feel
inclined to hurry home."

"Then sit on this fence and eat it, and I will go over to the farm and
see if any one is stirring there yet. Perhaps we might borrow a trap."

He strode away. Tomina felt angry at her own ungraciousness, and still
angrier with the one who caused it.

"How could I ever have been in love with him?" she muttered to herself.
"But I must say he always took good care of me. Nobody has ever done it
since. I hated it then, but—"

She stopped, and resolutely turned her thoughts and attention to Harry,
who was gleefully and eagerly unpacking their basket of food. She and
he had a merry meal together, in spite of all their misfortunes.

Colonel Norman, returning, caught the sound of her happy ringing laugh,
which was checked directly he came in sight.

"Can't get a trap. The house is still locked up, and a young blockhead
in the stable told me the master had gone to town with the only horse
in. We must walk, and trust to meeting some one."

A little later, the three of them tramped along the road. Tomina was
very silent and very cross. Harry and the Colonel carried on most of
the conversation. Once Tomina was asked—

"You saw my mother the other day. Do you think you will be able to come
over and lunch with her one day—when I am out?"

"I don't go out to lunch," said Tomina, shortly. "I have given up
society. I am doing a rest cure. I wrote to your mother and explained."

"I don't believe in these rest cures," Colonel Norman said. "I suppose
they're a necessity of the age, and serve to distract and amuse a few
of our tired-out pleasure-seekers. It only has the effect of making
them fly round the faster when they leave them."

"You ought to have been in the Church," Tomina said.

A little colour deepened the Colonel's suntanned cheek.

"I don't want to gas," he said apologetically.

And then Harry claimed his attention, and however prosily he might talk
to her, Tomina acknowledged in her heart that he talked charmingly to
children.

Presently, as they came to four cross-roads, a trap appeared.

"Shall we hail it?" asked Colonel Norman, a little reluctantly. "It
looks as if it is going our way."

"Of course," said Tomina, eagerly. "I would get up into a tinker's cart
if it would take me home. You can't imagine that I enjoy this walk?"

So the trap was hailed, and it proved to be young Merryweather driving
home. He was delighted to take up Tomina and Harry. She was sweetness
itself to him, and Colonel Norman could not but note the marked
contrast in her manner. He insisted, however, upon her wearing his
mackintosh.

"You are still in your damp clothes, and you may get another heavy
shower. Clouds are blowing up again."

"Yes, we shall have rain before we get home," said Philip Merryweather.

And Tomina very ungraciously allowed herself to be enveloped in it. She
hardly thanked the Colonel for the loan.

"Good-bye," he said cheerily. "I do hope you will be none the worse for
your experience; and I hope your trap and horse will be found at home."

"I will send back your coat to-morrow," said Tomina.

"Oh, don't trouble! I will call round for it."

"I will send it by the postman. He goes by your place."

Tomina spoke quite firmly. She gave him a curt little nod as they drove
off. Harry waved his hand.

"Good-bye! And do come and see us soon. Tommie and me has such lovely
games in the garden, and you could help us to build our bridge over the
stream!"

Tomina talked away with feverish haste to young Merryweather, but in
her heart she was saying to herself—

"I've been simply beastly to him—outrageously rude, but he makes me so."

The rain came on again, fast and furiously, and she thought of Colonel
Norman plodding along the road without his coat. He had come to her
rescue, done all he could to help her, had stripped himself of his
mackintosh for her benefit, and had received from her nothing but
rudeness. She gave herself a little shake as she thought of it.

As they passed the inn from which she had borrowed the trap, Tomina
found that the horse had arrived safely home.

"I suppose you were rather alarmed about it?" she asked the landlord.

"Oh no, mem," was the reply; "we seed the halter round his head, and
knewed he'd broken from where he'd been tied to. We guessed you were
takin' shelter somewhere, and would find your way 'ome."

Tomina drove on indignantly.

"I shall never like that man again!" she declared. "He is callously
selfish. He would never have sent any one to look for me if I had been
pitched out on the road in a dying condition."

"Oh, Crake is rather a character! He says he never troubles about
anything, and I don't think he does. He's a fatalist, and says that
'what happens is bound to happen, and nobody can prevent it.'"

"Is it a comforting creed?" Tomina questioned.

"It seems to comfort him."

Tomina was silent.

Philip Merryweather insisted on driving her home, and Susan wisely put
both her and Harry to bed and gave them hot drinks.

It was surprising that the next day they seemed none the worse for
their misadventure.

Colonel Norman received his mackintosh back by the postman the next
morning.

It was done up neatly in a parcel.


He put it on almost affectionately when he walked out next in it.
And then it was that he found a tiny twist of note-paper tucked away
in the corner of one of the big pockets. He opened it with quickened
heart-beats, but it contained only two words—

   "Forgive me."

Colonel Norman kept that little peace offering locked up in his
writing-desk with other mementoes of wayward Tomina.



CHAPTER IX

THE FLOWER-SHOW

THE next thing that happened was a visit from a school attendance
officer to know why Harry was not at school.

Tomina received him with open-eyed amazement.

"You need not trouble about the little boy at all. He is under my care
now."

"But he must receive an education," insisted the attendance officer.

"There is plenty of time for that later on. He is only seven. I think
children learn too much at these Council schools."

"Then are you going to teach him yourself, miss?"

"I teach Harry! Why, he teaches me. I have learnt a lot from him."

"He must go to school," persisted the official.

"Well, I'll see about it. Good morning."

When Tomina had got rid of her visitor, she turned to Susan indignantly.

"I shall not be 'at home' to that man if he calls again, Susan."

"But, ma'am, you must. An attendance officer is like the police—you
can't shut him out."

Tomina laughed, but she did not feel quite easy in her mind, so she
wrote a note to the Doctor saying she wished to see him. And Dr. Merton
came, and was told of the incident. He laughed at Tomina's dilemma.

"Of course, Master Harry will have to go to school. You must talk it
over with Mrs. Francis. She and the Squire have just returned. I expect
she will come round and call upon you."

"Oh, I don't want any more visitors!" said Tomina, hastily. "She will
only come to see Harry."

"You and she will have to settle his future together."

"I never think about the future," said Tomina with half-shut eyes. "I
hate preparation of any kind."


The first time she met Mrs. Francis was after church on Sunday.

She was a tall, graceful young woman with a sweet sad face. In her
black shady hat, Tomina at first put her down to be a young girl.
But when she saw her closer, she knew that she was in the prime of
womanhood.

She had stayed behind to talk to the Doctor, but Harry had left
Tomina's side and dashed up to her.

"My Mrs. Francis!" he cried.

She stooped and took him in her arms. Then she turned to Tomina, and
the Rector introduced them.

"Miss Gavin is a thorough stay-at-home; we can't move her out of her
pretty cottage," the Rector said genially.

Mrs. Francis looked across at Tomina and smiled, and her smile softened
Tomina at once. She had been feeling a little aggressive towards
Harry's benefactor.

"It is very pleasant and unusual to find any one fond of staying still
nowadays," she said.

"Oh, I'm made to do it by doctor's orders!" said Tomina. "They've
buried me down here for a purpose."

"May I come and see you? Please say if you would rather not."

"When you put it like that, what can I say?" said Tomina, laughing.
"And Dr. Merton says you must interview me about Harry. So please come
any day but Tuesday or Friday. Would Wednesday suit you?"

"Perfectly. I will come then."

Harry interrupted here. Pointing his finger at Tomina, he said—

"And she reads to me every night, but she didn't know about the baby
king, and we haven't been able to find where his chapter is."

"Are you going to desert me now, Harry?" Tomina asked.

He sprang back to her.

"I lives with Tommie," he said, nodding gravely at Mrs. Francis by way
of explanation, "but I'll be very glad to come to tea with you soon."

"That's a very clever way of dividing your favours," said Tomina, and
then she shook hands with Mrs. Francis and walked away.


Susan was full of interest when she heard of the meeting.

"And don't you think her a beautiful lady, ma'am? If only she didn't
dress in such plain black always! I should dearly like to see her in
colours. I can fancy her in crimson silk with a white ostrich feather
curling round her dark head. She would look a reg'lar queen."

"Oh, Susan!" gasped Tomina. "I've never seen a queen dressed like that!
I think she is very sweet-looking, but she's a perfect stranger at
present."


On the following Tuesday, as Tomina was driving her van, she met three
riders coming along the road.

Sir Alfred Digby and Mrs. Francis were two of the riders. Colonel
Norman made the third. Mrs. Francis was a good rider, and she was just
now talking and laughing with much animation to Colonel Norman.

He was the only one who recognised Tomina, and lifted his hat to her.
Mrs. Francis never even glanced at the van.

And when they had passed, Tomina took herself to task for the wave of
annoyance that came over her.

"It's ridiculous of me to object to her making herself so pleasant to
him. Why should she not? He is not my property, and never will be now.
No—we should only disagree again. He has become prosy, and is just as
masterful and obstinate as ever. He would expect me to go his way, and
he would never come mine. But I don't like being left outside. I have
always been accustomed to be almost the centre of everything going on.
And now—I am a carrier, and my world is amongst the poor."

Then she added stoutly to herself—

"And I am very glad of it. The poor are much more interesting than the
rich. I'm sick and bored with people of my own class, and I shall take
good care to keep away from them here."

She drove on wrapped in thought, and then came an interruption in the
shape of a sweet-faced old woman waiting to be taken up.

Tomina's van was full this morning, but she got the old woman in the
corner beside her, and soon they began to talk.

"I'm on a sad errand, miss. My dear son, Peter, be taken mortal bad,
they say. New money, or some sich name as that, they call it. And I'm
going to see him afore he dies, if I can get there in time. He have bin
such a good son to me!"

"Is he married?"

"Yes; and he be quite well-to-do—keeps a small sadler's shop in St.
Martha's Cross. Would you b'lieve it, miss, ever since his father died,
eight year gone now, he have sent me ten shillin' weekly to help me
keep my little home together!"

"Splendid!" said Tomina. "But I suppose you get a pension?"

"No, for he supports me, they say, and he won't give of it up. But now
if he goes, the ten shillin' will go too, and if I get the pension,
'twon't keep me in the old home, and nothin' will indooce me to live
with his wife. She be a hard screw, and a scold by day and night. I'd
rather go to the House, that I would!"

She wiped away a tear, and then a smile came over her sweet old face.
She placed a trembling knotty hand on Tomina's arm.

"But I'm not frettin'. 'Tis human nature to wonder a bit, and the loss
of Peter will be far bigger than his money. He's my only boy, miss, and
such a dear good boy he have bin! But if 'tis God's will, I'll say,—

   "'Thy will be done.'

"And when us comes to think of it, what does it matter, when a body
gets to my age, where one lives? Every day lands me nearer the Home of
Joy above. That be something like a Home, now!"

Her eyes glistened as she spoke.

"Oh," said Tomina, "if you trust in God like that, He won't let
anything bad happen to you!"

"Ah, you know Him, miss? 'Tis good to have a talk together, isn't it?"

Tomina shook her head.

"No, I'm very ignorant. I only go by what Harry tells me. He told me
the other day that God counted our hairs, He was so interested in us."

"Yes," murmured the old woman, "that comes from the Book.

   "'The very hairs of your head are all numbered.'

"I will, I do trust Him. What else did the gentleman say, miss?"

"Who? Harry? Why, he's a baby of seven, but he and you talk alike."

Tomina laughed aloud at the old woman's puzzled face.

"He's at the beginning of life, you near the end. I wish I had the
faith of either of you! The only thing is to begin life over again like
a little child, isn't it? I am going to have a try at it. I wasn't
brought up like Harry. I got off the lines in my babyhood. I was never
taught that we were to walk through the world with our Creator."

"Ah, that's it, miss. We walk with the Almighty, and He'll settle where
I'm to live. Thank the Lord, no house can shut Him out. He's bound by
His promises to abide with His children."

Tomina looked at her thoughtfully.

"You are all very religious about here—I never heard people talk like
this in London."

"I've always heard tell that the Devil be very busy in Lunnon."

Tomina laughed again, and then they relapsed into silence.

When the old woman got out, Tomina shook her by the hand.

"I hope we shall meet again. How long are you going to stay at St.
Martha's Cross?"

"Just as long as my boy needs me, miss. I don't know what I should ha'
done if your van hadn't come along to-day. Thank you kindly for talk
and sympathy."

"I shall keep my eye on her," said Tomina to herself. "I should like
her to live with me. I wonder if she would?"

She wondered sometimes at the interest she felt in her passengers to
and from the market towns. And her gay spirits and simple friendliness
made her a very popular person amongst them.


On Wednesday, Mrs. Francis came to see her. Tomina had tea in her
garden by the sweet-briar hedge and under an apple-tree.

Harry was scampering about, but he sobered down when he saw Mrs.
Francis.

"Tommie says you'll make me go to school," he said. "Will you?"

"We're going to talk about it," said Mrs. Francis, smiling at him.

Tomina and she fought shy of the subject till tea was over, and then
Harry was sent away.

"Now," said Mrs. Francis, "what do you want to do with him, Miss Gavin?"

"I don't know," said Tomina, leaning back in her chair and looking at
her questioner with laughing eyes. "I want to keep him with me till I
get tired of him."

"Will you tire of him quickly?"

"I don't think so. Susan has all the bother of him, and he amuses and
interests me."

Tomina was showing her flippant side to Mrs. Francis this afternoon.

"The question is whether he is to be brought up as a labourer's child
or a gentleman. You might get him a governess. Won't you tell me if you
mean to adopt him?"

"Mean to adopt him!" exclaimed Tomina, almost to vehemence. "I adopt a
child! I shouldn't dream of such a thing! He is only staying with me
for a time. Do you want to adopt him?"

A shadow came into Mrs. Francis's soft brown eyes.

"No, I do not feel it would be wise. But his father was a clever man,
and I think he ought to be educated as his father would have wished.
There is a good Grammar School at Damerton, and I know a doctor's
daughter who has a small boarding-house for the younger boys who attend
the school. Why should he not be sent there? I will defray the cost of
it."

"He is too young yet," said Tomina.

"She has small boys of his age. She looks after them well. I suppose
you feel you cannot part with him?"

"There is no hurry. If he goes to school next autumn, it will be time
enough."

"Perhaps it will. And meanwhile, if you do not care for teaching him,
how would it be if he came up to me for an hour every morning? I love
teaching boys to read."

"I suppose we could do that," said Tomina, with a sigh of relief. "He
will be delighted to go. And Susan will be glad to get rid of him for a
part of the morning."

"Now I am going to beg a favour. Will you come to us this day
fortnight? We are having a village gathering in the afternoon, and a
cottage flower-show. You can be as quiet as you like. There will be
enough people to leave you entirely independent of them. I should like
to have you there, and I am sure the villagers would. And may Susan and
Harry come too?"

"Of course they shall come, but I think I should like to leave it open.
I may not be inclined to appear when the time comes."

Mrs. Francis looked at her and smiled.

Tomina was quick to interpret that smile.

"Oh, I mean it! I am essentially selfish, and never do anything that I
do not want to do. I have cast all duties and social obligations to the
winds. Invalids are not to be coerced, and I am not out of the doctor's
hands yet, you know."

"There is no need to tell me that; you remind me of a thistledown when
I look at you."

And Tomina was looking very frail that afternoon. She had had a
sleepless night and a nervous headache. But the colour ebbed and flowed
in her cheeks as she talked, and it needed a woman's sharp eyes to see
that she was really feeling far from well.

"I suppose you will have all the county at this gathering?" Tomina went
on. "If I come, you must promise not to introduce me to any one, but
just let me wander about your grounds in my own fashion."

"You shall be as free as air, I assure you."

Conversation languished between them. Tomina was afraid of being
"preached" to, and Mrs. Francis knew it and wisely held her peace.

When she had gone, Tomina said to herself—

"If I was quite, quite sure that he would not be there, I would go. But
if there are crowds, I can lose myself amongst them. I know what these
country flower-shows are like."

Then she dismissed the matter from her thoughts.


Harry started his lessons at the Hall the very next day. He trotted off
by himself quite contentedly. His extreme independence was a continual
surprise to Tomina. She spoke to Susan about it.

"If he were in our class of life, he would be in the nursery with
nurses looking after him all day long. He would never be allowed to
cross the road by himself."

"But he's never had a nurse," said Susan. "He is quite accustomed to
run errands and go about by himself. You make too much of a baby of
him, ma'am."

"Oh no!" said Tomina, shaking her head. "It is his mixture of
babyishness and independence that I love. He tries to be so manly, and
his baby soul almost bursts in the trying. I hope Mrs. Francis won't
turn him into a little prig."

"Mrs. Francis never does naught but good to any human being," said
Susan, a little huffily.

Tomina laughed.

"Oh, I know she is a saint! But I am a sinner, Susan, and sinners don't
care for saints."

Susan backed out of the room. Tomina shocked her continually, and yet
she was her devoted slave.


When the flower-show day arrived, Tomina found that the whole village
was in a state of festivity. The flag was on the church tower, the
children in the village had a half-holiday, and the householders were
busy getting their daily routine over early, so as to dress themselves
in good time for the occasion.

Tomina first announced that she should not go, then she said she would.
When the afternoon came, she was irresolute, but finally sallied forth
in the blazing sun about four o'clock. She had on a white "crêpe de
chine" gown and a very ethereal-looking hat, and Susan thought her a
picture of dainty grace and beauty.

Susan held Harry by the hand, for Tomina had delivered him into her
charge.

"He will embarrass me," Tomina explained. "He will persist in being
friends with people whom I want to avoid. Keep him with you as much as
possible."

So Susan and Harry followed Tomina at a respectful distance.

A regimental band was already playing outside the big marquee when
they arrived. Tomina was greeted very warmly by Mrs. Francis, and to
her dismay was at once seized hold of by several town friends who were
staying in the neighbourhood and had been invited to the show.

There was a Captain and Mrs. Norton-Dynevor—the latter was an old
school friend of Tomina's—and a Lady Houghton and her daughters.

They all exclaimed at meeting her.

"So we've run you to earth! And this is your rest cure!" cried May
Houghton, a very outspoken young woman. "Why, you're a perfect fraud!
I'll tell Charlie of you directly I get home. He'll pelt down and make
it lively for you."

Charlie was their brother, and a very devoted admirer of Tomina's.

Tomina inwardly shuddered, and was much annoyed that her friends should
have come here and discovered her. But she responded to them with cool
sweetness, took their bantering in the same calm aloofness, and looked
about for escape.

She seemed hemmed in on all sides by people who wanted to talk to her.
The Rector and his wife, Alice Merryweather, her brother and his wife,
and Mrs. Norman severally claimed her attention. Then, Dr. Merton and
Sir Alfred Digby.

Colonel Norman was the only one who did not approach her. She was
introduced to a Mr. Tracy St. Vincent, the young Squire of Corring,
whom she had met when she was first driving up from the station to
Little Honeycombe, and he interested her, for he told her he had been
born and bred in London and had toiled in a City office for fifteen
years before he came into his property.

"And now I never intend to go near London again. I always did hanker
after the country. My mother died, I believe, of longing for it. She
never could cotton to London, and I take after her: but, oh, what a
lot one has to learn! I couldn't sit a horse when I first came down. I
didn't know the difference between a field of barley and one of oats.
I have been taken in right and left by these country louts. But I'm
learning their ways and customs fast. If you've got the liking for the
country life embedded in you, you'll soon graft yourself into it."

He stopped abruptly. Tomina's sympathetic eyes had drawn him out of his
usual reticence.

"I love the country people," said Tomina—"they are dears! I wouldn't
have come here to-day if I thought I was not going to mix with them."

"Oh, I have heard of your carrier's van!" said young St. Vincent. "I
thought it was the finest thing I've heard for ages! Shall we go over
to the tent and see some of your friends? They're most of them in there
looking at their piles of vegetables."

Before Tomina could reply, an imposing-looking lady swept down upon
them.

"Tracy, I am so sorry, but can you find my car? I must go on to Lady
Phillipa's. She is expecting me. Miss Gavin, surely you remember me?"

"It is Mrs. De Bullon," said Tomina, slowly.

She remembered her well. She was the wife of a Member of Parliament,
and was more admired for her powers as a successful philanthropist and
organiser than as a friend.

"Tracy is my nephew," she explained. "We've taken a house for the
summer to be near him. Poor boy, he was quite unprepared and unfitted
for this property! Three deaths in one year brought it to him. I help
him with his household. He wants it badly."

Tracy St. Vincent had walked off reluctantly. Mrs. De Bullon seated
herself on his vacant chair and commenced to question Tomina about her
health.

"I shall be seeing Lady Gavin next week, have to run up to town about a
children's 'fête' that we are organising together. What report shall I
take to her of you? A reassuring one, I suppose, for she told me most
emphatically you were unable for any social functions. A little bird
told me that you were in this neighbourhood, though I believe you have
tried to keep it dark. You must not play havoc with young men's hearts
down here. I must warn my poor Tracy. He is unused to the ways of young
women, and I should not like him to get bitten, especially as he is
virtually engaged to his cousin. It is our great wish that that match
should come off. Do you remember Connie Laurence? Such a charming girl!
And an uncle has lately died and left her a most handsome legacy."

Tomina mentally squirmed under Mrs. De Bullon's conversation. She
glanced eagerly round for a way of escape, and almost smiled when she
saw Colonel Norman approaching their corner.

"I'm 'so' sorry," she said sweetly to Mrs. De Bullon. "But I'm getting
quite faint. I expect it's the heat. I shall have some tea, and see
whether it will revive me. Colonel Norman, will you take me to the tea
tent?"

She rose as she spoke and greeted Colonel Norman with a bewildering
sweet smile.

He was so astounded that a little flush crept up into his tanned
cheeks, but he responded at once.

Then, as they walked across the lawn together, Tomina's tone was
petulant.

"Take me away anywhere—anywhere except into the society of those men
and women who are looking on and talking each other threadbare. I'm a
villager now and am happiest amongst my own set."

"I'll get you some tea under the trees here," said Colonel Norman,
quietly, but he wondered if his heart-beats could be heard. Here was
Tomina at last ready and willing to be alone with him. He added, "We'll
go and see the prizes given afterwards. You'll find most of your
friends at that."

Something in his cool possessive tone made Tomina say hastily—

"I can't conceive why Fate should continually send you across my path
when I am needing help. But I would make use of any one to save myself
annoyance. You know that, I suppose?"

"I think I do remember it."

"You need remember nothing," said Tomina, angrily, and as she spoke,
she encountered his gaze of tender amusement. It took her back in a
flash to the time when she had sought to draw that expression out of
his stern grey steel eyes.

He placed a chair in the shade for her, and whilst she was meditating
making a second escape from him, he was back with refreshments for her.

She leant back in her chair, and decided that it was cool and restful
and away from the buzz of people's voices. He left her a second time,
and then returned bringing a cup of coffee for himself. He seated
himself near her, but for a moment or two both of them were silent, and
Tomina determined that she would not be the one to break the silence.

"Your small satellite is not with you to-day?"

"He is with my maid," Tomina answered abruptly.

Another silence.

Then Colonel Norman leant forward and began to speak in a very
persuasive voice. When he abandoned his masterful tactics and
condescended to diplomatic measures, he generally won his way.

"Don't you think we might patch up a truce? You don't want me to
remember the past. As I told you the other day, I shall be more than
willing to start afresh. We'll bury our past and work for a new future.
Let us be friends. I won't worry you; I am so busy now that I have
little time for visiting my neighbours. But if we do come across each
other, as we have done to-day, let us be pleasant to one another, as
mere acquaintances are."

Then Tomina looked at him.

"As a 'mere acquaintance,' then, I'll be civil, and
occasionally—'perhaps' pleasant."

Here a smile stole across her face in spite of herself.

"May we shake hands on this agreement?"

He held her hand in his longer than was necessary. Tomina frowned as
she withdrew it, but she said nothing for a moment. Then she rose from
her seat.

"And now we'll go and look at the flowers and vegetables."

If Colonel Norman was disappointed, he did not show it. He was too
pleased at the success of his move to be downhearted.



CHAPTER X

A STRICKEN WOMAN

"HERE'S our carrier!"

This joyful cry came from a little group of women standing at the door
of the big marquee.

Tomina beamed upon them, and they pressed round her eagerly.

"Miss, my George has got second prize for his 'taties.' Them were what
you brought back last market day!"

"And Mrs. Grabbs be carryin' on disgraceful inside, because her husband
who have took first prize for veg'tables four years runnin' has only
got a second this year!"

"Me dear, this is my darter to law—married my Ben last Thursday—him
that you took up on the road when his horse had cast a shoe!"

Colonel Norman saw at once that he was not wanted, so he raised his hat
and strode away and Tomina heaved a sigh of relief when he did so.

She went into the tent and amused herself with her humble friends for
quite a long while. Then Harry found her out.

"Oh, Tommie, let me stay with you, and do come and see some darling
little ducks that are going to be sold. Do you think we had better buy
just a little one? I think Susan would like it."

"I'm going home, dear; will you come with me or stay with Susan a
little longer?"

Harry looked wistfully round, and Tomina shook her head and laughed at
him—

"You know you want to stay, and I think you had better. I don't think
we'll try any ducks at present."

"I wish you'd stay a little longer," the child said.

"I couldn't. I've had enough. I'm longing to get away. Will you take a
message to Mrs. Francis from me?"

Harry was only too delighted.

"Tell her that Miss Gavin did not feel very well, so has gone home.
Don't forget! Run up to the Terrace and tell her now."

Tomina sent him off, then slipped across the lawn, and was making her
way down the drive when she heard rapid steps behind her, and Dr.
Merton overtook her.

She coloured up a little when she saw him.

"I heard you were ill," he said, "so felt it my duty to pursue you."

"'Not very well' was my message," said Tomina; "I suppose Harry gave it
in exaggerated form."

"Are you tired out?"

Tomina looked at him and laughed.

"Your face is convicting me of fraud, but you yourself taught me that
we are made up of parts, and my spirit part is sick and tired of the
chatter and inquisitive inquiries of old acquaintances. I could not
face them again, so I left without wishing my hostess good-bye."

"I'll walk a bit of the way with you. I have to see a patient in
Honeycombe."

"Who? Is any one ill?"

"Old Martha Tubbs. It's a heart case."

"I know her. She came in my van only last Friday, and beguiled a very
warm journey with delightful reminiscences of her youth."

"She's subject to heart attacks. You might go and see her. She would
like a visit from you."

Tomina made a slight grimace.

"I don't like sick people. I'm not a parson or even a parson's wife."

"No, but you have been given the wonderful and yet dangerous gift of
winning hearts. I hear a good deal as I go round of yourself, and your
van. Don't disappoint any poor soul who trusts in your friendship."

"But I assure you it isn't my fault if they place their trust in an
untrustworthy person! Every one who knows me will tell you that I am
absolutely unreliable. My old women amuse me, and I try to amuse them.
I consider them my guests as long as they are in my van, but when they
leave it, I forget all about them!"

"Are you sleeping better?" Dr. Merton asked irrelevantly.

"Is this a professional walk?" Tomina asked, laughing. Then she added:
"Yes, I am. The rest cure is doing me good. My body performs all its
functions as it should do—I sleep, I eat, I walk as any other healthy
person does, but the rest cure hasn't touched my mind—my spirit, shall
I say? And if I treat you as my father confessor, Dr. Merton, I must
admit that I am restless, and discontented, and dissatisfied. I'm
beginning to wonder what my part is in life; why I was born, if the
world wants me. I told you I was self-centred. I go round and round
myself and turn myself inside out, until I get perfectly giddy. But as
yet, I can find no solution to the problem.

"I may be supposed to be living in a grave, to be buried in the
country, but I've never done so much thinking in all my life as I have
done lately. I thought I was ready to stagnate, to live as a vegetable,
to take each day as it came, but my brain gives me no rest. It's at it
morning, noon, and night! Do you think now, truthfully, that I've any
right to go on living? Harry has been making me read the Bible. What an
awful Book it is for making you see what an infinitesimal atom you are
in the Universe!"

"I know quite well what is your vocation," said Dr. Merton, briskly;
"and strangely enough, you have discovered it yourself. Do you know
what you are called about here?"

"Do tell me."

"Tomina the Carrier."

"Well? You don't think a carrier's van fills my horizon in the
Universe?"

"I think to be a carrier fulfils the very highest purpose in life.
Think it out for yourself. And remember Who was our great Example in
that way."

"You are a very extraordinary man!" Tomina exclaimed. "I really don't
see at present what you are driving at!"

She knitted her brows, and walked on in silence for some minutes, then
she said with emphasis: "I believe that I am the object of a deep
and wide-laid conspiracy down in this part of the world. Every one
with whom I come in contact determines to reform me. I've had a Bible
pedlar, and Harry, and an old saint of a woman, and you, and even Alice
Merryweather. And you each have a dig at me in turn. I suppose I am too
unused to such tactics to be prepared beforehand to avoid and resist
them."

"Well," said Dr. Merton, smiling, "did you not come down here to be
made a new creature? I'm sure you were a wreck when I saw you. All eyes
and bones! You are putting on weight, and losing your wrinkles, but
body and soul are so closely united that I want you to be a thorough
cure. You do need reforming. I could wish you no better fate than to be
reformed and transformed, inside and out. Good-bye. I am going in here."

He turned in at a cottage gate, leaving her very abruptly.

Tomina walked on, slowly and thoughtfully, home.


Life went on very quietly with her after this. She had a visit from
Mrs. De Bullon and from Mrs. Norton-Dynevor. But she told them frankly
that she acknowledged no social claims at present, and would not be
able to return their calls.

One call she did make, and that was to see old Mrs. Cayley in her own
home. Her son had died, and had left no money to her. She was in great
trouble at having to leave her cottage, but would not be able to afford
to keep it up. She confided all her trouble to Tomina. And as she
sat in her sweet old kitchen, she made a pathetic picture of patient
resignation. Looking round at all her quaint old bits of crockery and
furniture, she said—

"I've had these for fifty years or so, miss. It do seem sad to say
good-bye to 'em, but my time is gettin' short, and I shan't have no
frettin' about makin' a will, or such like, if I have nothin' to leave.
My daughter-in-law be wild to have my bits in her house, but I'd rather
see them sold right out than see 'em lose all their gloss and shine in
her dusty rooms. She be one who never was taught to use elbow grease,
and a wipe with a greasy cloth be quite enough in her eyes. She be too
grand to work, and her young girl that cleans be just one like herself,
or would be if she could!"

"But, Mrs. Cayley, you mustn't go away from your dear old cottage,"
said Tomina. "I shall see you don't. Just leave it to me. Don't you
give another anxious thought. I can give you ten shillings a week just
as easily as your son did!"

Mrs. Cayley stiffened in her chair, and her old head held itself very
erect.

"My dear miss, I've never taken charity from any gentlefolk yet. My son
was different. It's more than kind of you, and I give you my grateful
thanks for thinking of such a thing. But I couldn't think of taking all
that money from you!"

Tomina looked quite taken aback.

"Oh, well, I'm sorry; I've made a blunder, but nowadays there are
always funds for elderly people. I know heaps of societies—public money
you know; there are lots for poor gentle-people. I have a governess who
thankfully receives enough to pay her rent. You wouldn't mind money
through a fund, would you? I'll work it somehow, and if the neighbours
are curious, don't satisfy their curiosity. Ask them to ask me, and
I'll deal with them."

Tears came into Mrs. Cayley's eyes.

"I've no business to be proud, miss. You'll lift a heavy burden off me,
if you can manage it. 'Tis just an answer from my Heavenly Father!"

"There, that's right. I'll let you know in a day or two about it. I
shan't forget. And perhaps one day you'll ask me to tea. I feel, when
I'm sitting in this sweet old room, that we've gone back a hundred
years. I wish my cottage was like it!"

As Tomina walked home, her heart was aglow.

"I'm so thankful I knew of her difficulty. Why, it will only mean £26
a year. It's a trifle to keep her and her treasures together. I can
easily work it through a society if it will be a sop to her pride.
She's an old dear! I begin to wish I had been born in her class of
life!"

And before a week was over, it was all arranged, and old Mrs. Cayley
was ensured peace and comfort for the remainder of her years.


One afternoon, Tomina was standing at her gate, looking dreamily across
at the rookery opposite. There was a disturbance of some sort going on.
She fancied some jackdaws who built in the old church tower had come
across to pilfer, and had been caught and punished.

She quite started when Mrs. Herbert's voice broke in upon her.

"May I come in?"

Tomina unwillingly moved aside, and held out her hand, but she smiled a
welcome. Tomina would smile at her greatest enemy, she could not help
it, and when once accused by one of her friends of insincerity, she
responded—

"Oh, what is a smile? Just a movement of the lips. It doesn't express
my feelings. I take good care of that."

She took Mrs. Herbert into her sitting-room.

"I have really come to ask you if you would stop at the Rectory gate
on your way to Damerton to-morrow. My parlourmaid is in agonies with
toothache. She wants to go to the dentist's, and our horse is lame, so
I cannot drive her."

"I'll take her with pleasure," said Tomina. She could not resist
adding: "You have become reconciled to my van, have you not?"

"Well, yes, I have," said Mrs. Herbert with a little hesitation. "I see
the boon it is to the village. The idea shocked me, but I suppose it is
all right; my husband thinks so."

"I don't see that it has worked any harm," said Tomina.

Mrs. Herbert began to talk then about the flower-show at the Hall.

"You disappeared so suddenly that we feared you were not well. But
your maid told me the next day when I called that you had gone out for
a walk, so I was relieved. I suppose you have not heard the sad news
about Mrs. Norman. I think you just know her, do you not?"

"I hope nothing has happened to her?"

"Mrs. Francis came in to tell me about it yesterday. She is an old
friend of hers, and we always think between ourselves that she and
Colonel Norman will come together. They have been seeing a good deal of
each other lately. Poor Mrs. Norman has been doing too much, rushing
about from one place to another. She was dining at the Hall with her
son two nights ago, and just after dinner insisted on going home to
water her garden, she said. Mrs. Francis said the Colonel seemed
anxious about her, as she had been complaining of severe headache that
day, and tried to dissuade her from leaving. She insisted on gaining
her point, as she always does. And yesterday, she had a seizure of some
sort. She lies helpless and speechless now; and Dr. Merton is doubtful
whether she will ever properly recover speech."

Tomina was shocked.

"How dreadful! It's a living death. But people always get better after
a time, don't they?"

"Not always. And her extreme restlessness and excitability has worn out
her constitution, I should say."

"Her poor son!" murmured Tomina.

"Yes, we pity him. He has never left her bedside. She knows him, but
can't speak. They have sent for two nurses and are going to have a
London opinion down, but Dr. Merton is clever enough to undertake the
case single-handed. Well, I must be going. I have my club accounts to
do."

Mrs. Herbert bustled off.

Tomina sat still in her chair and thought of the gay vivacious little
mother and the stern sombre son. Her heart ached for them both. She
wondered why such a blow had been dealt them, and wished she had been
to return Mrs. Norman's call.

"I haven't been nice to her. Suppose that it had been me stretched out
helpless and speechless on a bed? What should I do? Oh, it's awful,
awful to think of!"

In almost a panic, Tomina got up from her seat and paced the room.

"Poor old Gerald! I should like to send him my sympathy—I will write
him a note!"

So she sat down to her writing-table, and dashed off the following:—

   "DEAR COLONEL NORMAN,

   "It's horrible for you! And of course, worse for her. I am so sorry
for you. But she'll get over it, I'm sure she will. I should like to know
how she is. Why do such things happen?

                 "Your very sympathetic

                                "TOMINA."

Then she called Susan.

"How can I get this note to Yockley Court?"

"I really don't know, ma'am. 'Tis a long way. Shall I run out in the
village and see if I can get a boy to take it? The milkman told me that
the poor lady was taken ill there."

"See if you can get some one to take it. I will give them half a crown."

The half-crown won its way, and a lad started off with Tomina's note.

She spent a restless and preoccupied day. Harry was spending the day at
the Hall. When he returned, she welcomed him with extra warmth.

"I am feeling so dull, Harry; come and talk to me. What have you been
doing?"

"Finding snails in the ivy with Mr. Drake," Harry answered quickly.
"Mrs. Francis went away to see a poor sick lady, and then the Squire he
came into the garding and scolded me for turning the hose on a tabby
cat. I just had to, when she got on a branch of a tree and looked at me
so proudly. You would have done it, Tommie, I know you would. And I had
tea in the housekeeper's room, and Pratt said to Mrs. Wood that 'twas
a pity the Squire didn't marry, for he'd be left alone soon, and Mrs.
Francis would be at Yockley Court. Where is Yockley Court, Tommie, and
who lives there? They wouldn't tell me—"

"You shouldn't listen to servants' talk, Harry, and if you do, never
repeat it to me," said Tommie, severely.

And then she said to herself—

"I wish I hadn't sent that note. He will have quite enough sympathy
from her. Perhaps he had reason for talking as he did when I last saw
him. He wanted me to see that he was quite indifferent to me now. I am
very glad."


But in a few days, she received a little note from Colonel Norman.

   "MY DEAR TOMINA,

   "Forgive me, but I cannot address you so formally as you do me. Thank
you for your dear little note. My mother is going on well, they say,
but she has not quite recovered her speech yet, and will be helpless
for a long time, I fear. Is it too much to ask you if you would come
and see her one day? She loves visitors even now, and the days are long
and weary to her.

                            "Always yours,

                                       "GERALD."

"I cannot face a sick-room," was her instantaneous thought.

But in a fortnight's time, she went.

She drove over one bright afternoon in the hired trap. She had never
seen Yockley Court, and was surprised to find it such a beautiful old
place. It was a grey-stone manor-house with a stone roof of the Tudor
period. There were stone-flagged walks and terraces, and the cold
grey-stone was brightened by the brilliant display of summer flowers.

The entrance-hall was very handsome with its carved oak panelling, and
tubs of bright begonias stood grouped round a fountain at the farther
end under a glass cupola. She was led upstairs by an old butler, who
told her with a shake of his head, that the mistress was very ill.



CHAPTER XI

IN A SICK-ROOM

WHEN she reached Mrs. Norman's room, the Colonel himself opened the
door. He looked very grave and sad, but his eyes brightened a little at
the sight of Tomina.

"Come in," he said. "It is good of you to come. She will like to see
you. And remember, if she can't answer you, she can hear you."

"Oh dear!" gasped Tomina. "I'm frightened. I shall not be able to talk!"

But she followed him into the big room, which was bright with flowers.
The windows opened down to the ground, and near one of them was a large
and comfortable couch, upon which the sick woman lay.

Tomina had seen her last flitting about at the flower-show. Now she
looked upon her lying flat and helpless, and she gave an involuntary
shiver as she stepped up to the side of the couch.

"Mother dear, this is Miss Gavin; she has come to see you."

He pulled forward an easy-chair, which Tomina took.

Mrs. Norman's bright, restless eyes fixed themselves on Tomina's face.

Tomina began to talk recklessly—

"I meant to come before, Mrs. Norman, but you know I'm never good at
visiting, and the less one has to do, the less one does. I'm so lazy by
nature, and the days seem to fly. You wouldn't believe how busy that
carrier's van keeps me. And I am seriously considering what I shall do
when the cold weather comes. Do you think I could have it heated with
hot water pipes? Or would that be too stuffy?"

Colonel Norman stood leaning against the side of the window.

"How would you heat it?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know—by gas or electricity."

"Then you would have to have a stove or boiler. It would be rather an
expensive idea. You might in that case just as well turn your van into
a motor. I wonder you don't do that!"

"Perish the thought! I've come down here to get away from motors. It
would spoil everything. I should get to Damerton in ten minutes instead
of two hours, and all my road adventures would disappear. Fancy, Mrs.
Norman, on my last journey to market, I took a bride and bridegroom to
church! My whole van was convulsed with excitement. The bridegroom was
sixty, the bride fifty. They were old sweethearts, had outlived all
their near relations, and had been waiting for forty years for 'better
times' to be married. And at last, the bridegroom was lucky enough to
be offered the post of lodge-keeper by Mr. St. Vincent at Corring. I
had a finger in the pie, for the bride had made several trips in my
van, and somebody told me her story, and I thought the long waiting was
so pathetic that I happened to mention it to Mr. St. Vincent when I met
him out one day, and he found a niche for them at once. I'm invited to
tea at the Lodge to-morrow. You should have seen their dear old faces
in my van! They sat hand-in-hand like children. But, oh, it seemed such
a waste of years, all their youth and strength gone!"

"Yes," said Colonel Norman slowly, "waiting is weary work. But a man
feels it is worth it, if he knows that he will obtain his desire in the
end."

The pink colour rose in Tomina's cheeks; she moved in her chair and
addressed herself pointedly to Mrs. Norman.

"And so, you see, my van gets very interesting with such things
happening in it. But last Tuesday a dreadful thing happened. A lad
came in with a sack over his shoulders, and the sack was heaving and
squealing to such a degree that I told him he must put it in the rack
outside. He was trying to do this when it toppled over, came undone,
and three small pigs fled squealing down the road. My dog Thor gave
chase, a motor came by, and in the confusion, two pigs were run over
and killed. The lad got two pounds from the motorist, and he came back
delightedly swinging the dead pigs by the legs, and saying he only gave
fifteen shillings each for them, and now his mother would have bacon
enough to last for a month!"

Tomina laughed as she ended this story.

But Mrs. Norman's eyes never changed their eager, intent expression.

She went on talking about the villagers and her van. Colonel Norman
helped her by his responses. But at last, Mrs. Norman's eyes wandered
to her son's face, her lips moved. Tomina only heard an incoherent
murmur, but her son, bending his head, nodded and smiled and seemed to
understand.

Then she rose to go.

Mrs. Norman's eyes turned pleadingly to her face.

"Miss Gavin will come again, mother, I hope. Perhaps next time you will
be able to talk to her. You're getting on splendidly, you know."

A nurse who had been in the inner room came forward, and Colonel Norman
accompanied Tomina along the broad corridor. He was surprised and
distressed when suddenly Tomina burst into a violent fit of tears.

"Oh, it's awful! I can't help it! She's like an animal fixed in a trap.
I saw a rabbit once. And her eyes! Oh, it's dreadful! Why do such
things happen? I was—beginning—to feel—that God did care for us, and
now how can one feel it?"

Nobody, to hear her chattering away, would have realised the strain it
was to her to do so; now the reaction had come, and she seemed to lose
all self-control. In her abandonment of fright and grief, she caught
hold of the Colonel, and the next moment his arm was round her, and her
head was resting on his shoulder.

It seemed the natural refuge to her. Years ago she had found the
comfort of his quiet strength.

"Poor little girl! It was too much to ask of you! But you have
entertained my mother so well. She said to me that she wanted you to
talk on. I did not realise you were feeling it so. It is hard to see
her so helpless, but the doctors say that she is not in pain, and I am
very hopeful that she will recover her speech."

Then Tomina remembered herself, and drew away from him. Her effort to
regain her lofty dignity was almost comical.

"I don't know what I am doing! I am so upset. I never have been
accustomed to sick people, and she looks as if she is dead except for
her eyes. They haunt me!"

She shuddered and sobbed.

Colonel Norman drew her into his mother's boudoir, placed her in an
easy-chair, and left her.

That moment when she rested in his arms had been precious to him, but
he knew that he must not take advantage of her helplessness now. He
soon returned.

Tomina by this time had become her normal self again, though she looked
white and shaken.

"I am a nice person to visit an invalid!" she said as she stood up, and
declared she was quite well and must be going.

"Are you driving yourself?"

"Oh yes, of course I am. I hate being driven by any one else."

"Then I am afraid you will hate my doing it, but I am not going to let
you drive yourself back. I will speak to the nurse for a moment."

He went back to his mother's room.

"Now he's getting masterful!" said Tomina. "What a poor fool I am, to
behave like this!"

She looked round the pretty dainty room. There was Mrs. Norman's
writing-desk still open and her notes and letters still scattered
as she had left them. A piece of needlework was hanging out of her
work-basket. A novel was lying open where she had left it. Tomina
wondered that maids had not tidied the room; she did not know that
Colonel Norman had given orders that this room was to be untouched till
he had time to put things away.

"It's so awfully, so frightfully sudden," she murmured. "Her whole life
has been shattered and altered in a moment! And yet her son takes it
quite calmly. Can he really feel? I suppose men don't feel like women.
And it's a good thing that they do keep their heads. What must he have
thought of me losing mine so completely!"

She did not look at him as he re-entered the room. She had pulled down
her veil and felt quite composed, though her hands still slightly
trembled, and the Colonel was quick to note it.

"I will drive you back," he said. "You must let me do it, please."

Tomina said not a word. She meekly followed him downstairs. And when
they were driving off, he with the reins in his hand, she said slowly—

"I own I have brought this upon myself; if my nerves weren't all to
pieces, I should never have given way so ridiculously. But I really
ought not to have come."

"Oh, please don't say that! Don't rob my poor mother of the hope that
you will come again. She did enjoy your visit so."

"I can't come again," said Tomina, shortly. "I wonder that you can
expect it after the exhibition I have made of myself!"

"I am afraid we are all selfish," said Colonel Norman. "You are looking
at it from your side. I am looking at it from ours—and—" here a fit of
recklessness took possession of him—"I only wish you would make 'an
exhibition' of yourself, as you call it, a little oftener. I had a
happy five minutes, I can tell you!"

Tomina's eyes glowed.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" she said passionately.

There was a tense silence between them.

Then he said very quietly—

"If tears have to be shed, Tomina, my only wish is that I could have
the drying of them. But we won't quarrel. You have been your sweet
little self to-day, and the memory of you in my mother's room will be
a pleasant one. If it pleases God for her to make a good recovery, I
think we may possibly go abroad. The doctor advises change of air and
atmosphere as soon as she is able to move. It will not fret her so much
if she is away from her surroundings at home. She has always been so
active—my poor little mother!"

"And who will look after your place?"

"I may let it and put an agent in; I have pulled things together a bit,
but it seems hopeless."

Tomina was a strangely contradictory person. After having carefully
kept out of Colonel Norman's way all this time, and refused to have
anything to do with him, the knowledge that she would soon see him no
more brought a forlorn, miserable feeling into her heart.

"I suppose," she mused, by way of explanation to herself, "that in a
quiet monotonous life like mine at present, even disagreeables have a
certain amount of excitement and zest!"

Colonel Norman went on talking.

"Mrs. Francis was telling me yesterday that she has some nieces who are
looking out for a house in this part. Their father has just died and
left them a good deal of money, and they want to take a furnished house
till they can find a place that suits them. She is going to write to
them about it."

"Oh," said Tomina, indifferently, "I dare say she'll be glad to have
them settled near her. I really think that if your mother has Mrs.
Francis to go and see her that will be quite sufficient company for
her. You mustn't expect me again."

"But I do," said Colonel Norman. "My mother and I will both count the
days till you come again."

"That is nonsense. Oh, here we are! Well, I'm much obliged to you. I
won't ask you in, because I know you will want to get back quickly."

Tomina sprang lightly out of the trap before the Colonel could get a
chance of helping her; then a blank look swept over her face.

"How are you going to get back? You'd better take the trap and get the
man at the inn to send for it."

"Oh no. I shall walk. I shall enjoy it. I haven't taken a walk for
three weeks or more. I'll leave the trap at the inn on my way."

Then he held out his hand.

"I can't thank you enough. I'm so sorry it distressed you, but it's
your warm heart that makes you feel it so. If you could come one day
next week, I should be grateful to you."

Tomina's objection died away on her lips.

"I'll try to come," she said, a little unsteadily.

And then she went indoors.

"He has to bear seeing her lying like that all day long, and she is his
mother. It won't hurt me to see her for half an hour; and I shan't have
a chance of going much longer."

"Why, ma'am, whatever have you been doing with yourself?" exclaimed
Susan.

Tomina dropped herself upon her comfortable chintz couch.

"I've been visiting the sick, Susan. It's the most awful thing that
I've ever done in my life. And if I had my way, I'd never do it again!"

"Oh, ma'am!" gasped Susan. "Why, some ladies just adore doin' it! My
Miss Wadhurst, she would be near as good as Mrs. Herbert herself in
goin' to the sick. You'll be meanin' Mrs. Norman, I reckon. Is she so
bad, ma'am?"

"I don't think she could be worse. Don't let us talk of it, Susan. She
haunts me. Has Harry come back yet?"

"Yes, and I've taken the liberty of locking him in his bedroom. He
put out his tongue at me and grabbed hold of two fresh buns I'd taken
straight out of the oven, and he ate them before my eyes when I told
him not to!"

"Very naughty!" said Tomina.

But she felt a longing for the child's merry talk and laughter, and
released him.

A little later, she and he were playing ball in the garden, and when
Susan begged her not to tire herself, she said—

"Anything to keep me from thinking, Susan! I do too much thinking for
my own comfort. Harry is my salvation."

So far Tomina had not been troubled with many visitors; if they came
once they did not come again, but young Tracy St. Vincent took to
calling very often now. He generally had some excuse, and because he
was different from the majority of the country squires, and because he
so humorously described and bewailed his various difficulties, Tomina
did not snub him, and he began to hope that his visits were more than
welcome. He came up to her one afternoon in tearing haste.

"Miss Gavin, take pity on me! My keeper wants me to preserve my
pheasants. My predecessor never did. The villagers have been making a
way through my woods to the church. It's a short cut, and my keeper
says I must close it. Do you know anything about the rights of way? My
gardener says I'll earn the ill-will of all my tenants if I do it. He
and the keeper are at daggers drawn—I don't know whom to please. My
life is becoming one big struggle to please everybody, and I end by
pleasing no one."

"Oh," said Tomina, carelessly, "I shouldn't worry! Please yourself
first; that is what I do. It answers best."

"I begin to find that you are a fraud," said Tracy, taking a seat on
the grass beside her chair.

She was sitting in the garden as usual. An open book was in her lap,
but she had not been reading. She found it even difficult now to bring
back her thoughts to her present company.

"You remind me," went on Tracy, "of a naughty child bent on
shocking her elders. Have you been brought up in a very strict
and priggish atmosphere? And don't you know that your character
in this neighbourhood is that of a very generous and self-denying
philanthropist?"

"It's a pity you believe all you hear," said Tomina. "My atmosphere
from childhood has been that of pleasure seeking and pleasure finding.
Do you mind steering clear of personal subjects? I'm rather sick of
myself to-day, and would like to be taken miles away."

Tracy felt snubbed.

"I want your help."

"But I'm afraid I can't give you it. You will never have any peace
until you decide upon your own course of action, without any reference
to outsiders."

"I believe you're right!" Tracy sat up. "It's hard lines on me! I'm not
at home in my surroundings. There's no getting away from that fact, and
that makes me diffident. Are you going to stay the winter here?"

"Oh yes, I think so," said Tomina. "I'm making an experiment, you know.
I must try a year at least."

"I want you to come over to lunch with me one day."

Tomina looked at him with twinkling eyes.

"A luncheon party?"

"No, of course not. I don't want anybody else."

"But there are conventions to be considered," said Tomina, "and I find
that if Mrs. Grundy has died in London, she's very much alive in the
country. I have learnt that in listening to my passengers' conversation
in the van."

"Oh, dash conventions! I'll ask Mrs. Francis to come, too. I wonder if
she would? I fight shy of her brother. He looks at me out of the corner
of his eye, as if I'm a counter-jumper."

"Do ask Mrs. Francis," said Tomina, sweetly; "she will be able to
advise you about everything. She knows this part. It is her county, but
it is not mine."

"All right, I will. Now, when can you come? Next Wednesday?"

"But I am not coming at all. I don't go out to luncheon parties."

Tracy stared at her. Then he stood up.

"You're annoyed to-day. I wonder who has been vexing you?"

Tomina laughed.

"I am dull, I own. I am not in a talking mood, but I am not annoyed
with any one. I never find it worth while."

"Oh, I wish I had an even temper!" said Tracy, a little viciously.
"But I haven't. I lose my temper fifty times a day. And I shall soon
wish for my town life again. Possessions and property bring a horrible
lot of worry. I'm not cut out for this job, as I've told you before. I
envy you your nest of a place here. I think a man can't run a big house
properly. It needs a woman."

"But you have a housekeeper."

"Yes, she's just arrived, and is a terror. She means to take me in
hand and reduce me to a state of pulp. I was very cross with her this
morning. I think it did her good. She altered my arrangements in my
study, the only room in which I feel at home, and said no gentleman
would live in such a pig-sty. I lost my temper and let her have it. I
do think you might come over one day. I want to alter the gardens. I'd
give anything for your advice."

"I'm not a gardener. Don't be huffy with me. I'm a regular
stay-at-home. Doctor's orders. If you get Mrs. Francis, she will be a
real help, for she's up in all that sort of thing and I'm not. I have
no hobbies. I sometimes wish I had."

"I don't want Mrs. Francis. I want you. I met her, by the way, as I
came along just now. She was walking with that stiff-starched Norman.
You know him, don't you? I somehow can't cotton to the men down here,
they're all such stick-in-the-muds!"

"Colonel Norman used to be a very keen soldier," said Tomina, with
rising colour, "and he is quite a town man. He was always up there a
few years ago."

"Yes, but this country makes us all go to sleep, doesn't it? All my
suggestions as regards innovations are squashed at once. If you live in
the country, you must be a sporting man; anything but sport is ejected
at once—"

Tomina stifled a yawn, and young Tracy saw it. He got up reluctantly.

"You are going to snub me now, like the rest of them," he said, trying
to look pathetic, "you won't come to my place, and you don't want me at
yours."

Tomina laughed.

"I own I am miserable to-day, but I assure you that you are a favoured
visitor. I generally say that I'm not 'at home' to any one, and you've
been to see me twice within the last week."

Tracy took his leave partially comforted by this view.

And when he had gone, Tomina heaved a sigh of relief.

"The only point of interest in his conversation was a disagreeable
one," she murmured to herself. "Why is every one bent on acquainting me
with the fact that 'she' is with 'him?' They are always together!"



CHAPTER XII

DAWN

TOMINA paid Mrs. Norman another visit. Colonel Norman was out, but she
got on better with the invalid when she was quite alone with her. Mrs.
Norman was decidedly better, she could nod or shake her head, and say
"Yes" and "No." It was not quite such a trying experience to Tomina as
her last visit.

And then, as Tomina was getting up to go, Colonel Norman came in, and
begged her to stay a few minutes longer.

"A storm is brewing," he said. "I conclude you have driven over."

"If a storm is coming, I mustn't wait a moment. I hate driving in the
rain."

As she spoke, a low rumbling roll of thunder in the distance was heard.
And then down came the rain. It reminded Tomina of the time when she
and Harry had climbed the old oak tree, and could not get down.

"Now you will have to stay," said Colonel Norman, firmly. "I see you
have had tea; is there a cup for me, I wonder?"

Tomina was still seated at the small tea-table which had been brought
her. She at once peeped into the teapot, and proceeded to give the
Colonel what he needed.

His eyes followed her every moment.

"I suppose," he said, "my mother has not been able to tell you about
our arrangements. We leave this next Tuesday. We shall have an invalid
carriage to town, and then will go straight through to Bordighera by
the 'Train de Luxe.'"

"Isn't it very soon for the Riviera? Surely you will find it very warm
there?"

"We may, but the great thing is to get to a place where we shall not be
obliged to move again. And it will be September next week."

"Yes," said Tomina, "the time has flown. I had no idea that a quiet,
monotonous life went so much quicker than a full one."

"Do you mean to stay the winter here?" asked Colonel Norman. "I can't
fancy you doing it."

"Yes, I am going to try a year of this country life."

"And then?"

Tomina looked at him and laughed.

"By that time, I am to be made into a new creature altogether. That is
my doctor's theory. If he is right, how can I tell you what the new
Tomina will do? Something quite different from what she has ever done
before, I assure you! And if my doctor proves wrong, and I continue to
be my old self, I shall pronounce all doctors and all country to be
frauds, and go back to my old life again."

Colonel Norman's eyes took the tender protective look in them that
Tomina could not bear to see. She turned her head away towards the
invalid.

"I hope you will continue to be your old self," he said.

"Now, aren't men contrary, Mrs. Norman. He couldn't bear me when I was
in town. Everything I did and said rubbed him up the wrong way. I could
never do right in his eyes, and we were both frantically anxious to
remove our paths in life as far from each other as we possibly could.
Fate has shaken us near each other again, and he pretends he likes it.
But Mother Fate knows him better than he knows himself, and is going to
be truly kind to us. Before you come home again, Colonel Norman, the
new or old Tomina will have vanished from this part, I promise you!"

"Don't make rash promises," said Colonel Norman, apparently quite
unperturbed. "'Fate' as you call her, is going to be on my side, I
fancy. Time flies fast, as you say, and the winter will come and go. It
cannot last for ever."

The storm increased in violence. Presently Colonel Norman took Tomina
down to the library. The drawing-room was an unused room since his
mother's illness.

Tomina sat in a big lounge chair, and he in another. She kept reminding
herself that as this would be the last time she would see her old
friend, she must be kind and civil to him now. And there was no lack of
conversation between them.

But when an hour passed, and the storm still raged, Tomina began to get
restive.

"I really must go home. Susan will wonder what has become of me."

"She will know that we have kept you. She knew, I suppose, where you
were coming?"

"I should rather think so. Susan considers that her first duty is
to look after me, and to be aware of all my plans and purposes and
correspondence. I never can be secretive, you know; I am too careless
and forgetful. She did not approve of my coming here at all, for she
knows that I am not a good visitor to sick people."

"Have you minded it? My mother does so enjoy your visits."

"Oh, I haven't minded it at all. I like it when I'm alone with her.
I can talk any nonsense I like, and there is nobody listening with a
critical ear to my poor little jokes and stories!"

"Don't mind me, Tomina, to-day. Let us do nothing—either of us—to spoil
the memory of this time."

Tomina was silent: she walked to the window and looked out. The rain
was coming down in a ceaseless pour.

"You will have to stay to dinner, and if it doesn't clear, we shall
keep you for the night."

Colonel Norman could hardly keep the glad exultancy out of his tone.
Fate was indeed treating him mercifully on this last day. His words
proved partly true.

Tomina did stay to dinner, and she sat opposite Colonel Norman at the
big table in the dining-room, with a queer feeling that it was her
rightful place.

He, poor man, was in the seventh heaven of delight. Tomina with her hat
off, and the little soft curls that he remembered so well half shading
her mischievous eyes, with her slim, graceful young figure in the old
carved oak chair, and her pretty gestures with her delicate little
hands, her gay laugh, her proud poise of head, and bewitching smiles,
it was enough to turn any man's head. What a fool he had been, he
assured himself. How bitterly he had repented of his rash injustice and
masterful intolerance!

But when dinner was over, Fate favoured him no more. The storm had
passed, and it was a still quiet evening. Tomina insisted upon having
the trap round. Colonel Norman eagerly said he must drive her back,
then remembered that this was the hour he always spent with his mother
before she retired for the night. For a moment, his mother and Tomina
were weighed in the balance. But Tomina decided the point herself.

"Your mother's nurse told me you always sat with her now. Do you think
for a moment that I would let you leave her in the lurch?"

Colonel Norman yielded.

"I will get my groom to go back with you, I shouldn't think of letting
you drive alone at this time of night."

They were standing together in the library. Tomina had already put coat
and hat on.

"This is our good-bye for some months, perhaps," said Colonel Norman,
very gravely, "but I shall not be always outside your life, Tomina,
shall I?"

His masterfulness was gone, and such wistfulness was in his voice and
eyes, that Tomina's eyes drooped.

When she raised them to his a moment later, they were misty with tears.
Both her hands were in his; she felt like a prisoner, but her pulses
throbbed and trembled, and Colonel Norman felt them do so.

"I don't know," she wavered. Then her flash of mischief came uppermost.
"You really are a little nicer than you used to be, but I'm in a
metamorphosis stage, as I told you, and I do not know what in the world
I shall be or what I shall be doing this time next year."

"Will you write to me?"

"Oh, how dreadful! I hate letters. You know what a bad correspondent I
always was!"

"Sometimes—once a month—let me hear."

"I couldn't. You are asking too much. Perhaps at Christmas I may send
you a letter. That is all I can promise."

"Thank you."

Colonel Norman raised her hands in an old-fashioned way to his lips.
Then he released her, and with swift, silent steps followed her out
into the hall and saw her comfortably wrapped up for her drive home.

"Good night," Tomina cried, as she started of down the drive; "and I
hope you'll have a pleasant and safe journey."

"I'll send you a line to tell of our arrival," called out the Colonel.

And Tomina's soft voice was carried through the evening air—

"Do!"


The next day, Tomina felt very depressed and irritable. But the day
after that was Friday, and she started to Damerton in her van, feeling
that there was something still left to live for.

When Tuesday came, and she knew that the objectionable Colonel was for
the time removed out of her sphere, she tried to make herself believe
that she was relieved and thankful. But after a time, she gave up the
struggle.

"Why should I keep up pretending lies to myself? I feel awfully sorry
for him. He will be such a devoted son, but it isn't natural for a man
to turn into a sick-nurse. He might just as well have stayed on here. I
think I should have become quite clever in talking to sick people. It
would have done me a lot of good. He was almost pathetic that stormy
evening, but it's just as well he went away. He might have persuaded me
against my will. And I should have lived to rue it. Once bitten, twice
shy! I am not going to place myself in abject subjection to any man on
earth, and that is the only 'rôle' that Gerald's wife would and could
play."


Time slipped quietly by. Summer went, and autumn came.

When the short dark days set in, Tomina decided that Harry would be
best at school. The house was small, and his restless activity began to
get upon her nerves. She and he parted with some tears, and his last
Sunday was quite a memorable day. He would not leave her side, and in
the afternoon cuddled up beside her on her roomy old couch, and talked,
as Susan said, more like an "angel child than a roguish scamp of a boy."

"If I never come back to you, Tommie," he said solemnly, "will you
promise faithfully you'll keep the next-door seat to you in heaven?
Because I can't never forget you, you know."

"But, you silly boy, you're coming to me in the holidays, or for a part
of them, I expect."

"Susan said you'd had enough of me."

"Susan didn't mean it. You've helped me a lot, Harry. If I ever get to
heaven, I'll tell you how much you did towards getting me there."

Harry opened his eyes wide.

"There's only One Person gets us there, as my 'Green Hill' says. Don't
you love the 'Green Hill,' Tommie? I learnt the last verse yesterday
and said it to Mrs. Francis. Shall I sing it to you? It sounds lovely
when it's sung."

Harry had a sweet little voice, and he lifted it up now, and the old
simple words of the child's hymn came home with a new power to Tomina's
heart, and stayed there.

When he came to the verse—

   "There was no other good enough
      To pay the price of sin;
    He only could unlock the gate
      Of heaven, and let us in,"

he paused and shook his curly head reflectively.

"You see," he said, "only Jesus keeps the key of heaven. I suppose,
Tommie, He could never lose it, could He? Wouldn't it be awful if it
couldn't be found when you and me wanted to get in?"

His eyes grew round with fright, as he imagined the terrible tragedy.
Then his brow cleared.

"Of course, Jesus could never lose anything, and if He does, He knows
just where to find it. He's much cleverer than the devil, isn't He,
Tommie? Granny used to say, I re'mber, that the devil himself must hide
her spectacles, for no mortal person could find them. But when I lose
my knife, I go straight to Jesus and ask Him to tell Satan to put it
back at once where he found it. And it always comes, always—"

"That's very wonderful!" said Tomina, smiling into Harry's earnest face.

"Yes, isn't it? But didn't Jesus lose a sheep once, Tommie? I think I
re'mber you reading me about Him finding a lost sheep?"

"Yes, we did read about it. It was a little parable of how people get
lost."

"Yes, but we simply can't get lost from God, for He's always close to
us."

Tomina did not answer; she was conning over in her mind the lines of
the child's hymn.

A dim and far-away light was beginning to dawn into her soul.

She sat still and watched its beams coming nearer. At last she roused
herself.

"I never learnt that hymn when I was a little girl, Harry. I was
brought up like a little heathen. I wonder if I could learn it now?"

"I'll fetch you the book," said Harry, with alacrity. "It's very easy
if you give your mind to it."

Tomina laughed at his old-fashioned air. But she took the hymn-book
from him.

And that night, when Harry was fast asleep, she scanned the verses over
to herself.


Harry left her early the next morning. Mrs. Francis came in her motor
for him, and drove him into Damerton.

And when he had gone, Tomina felt desolate indeed. She hardly touched
her lunch, and when Susan came in and remonstrated with her, she said—

"Eating is such a bore, Susan, and I'm feeling so low and flat that
nothing seems worth while to do."

"You're missing Harry, miss, but in a day or two, you'll get over that.
And if I may suggest it, a walk in the air would do you a power of
good. It's not often now we'll be getting such sun as there is this
afternoon."

Tomina looked out of her window. The sky was a bright blue with flecks
of white cloud chasing each other across it. The elms and beeches round
the church wore their warmest coats of red and yellow. A flock of
starlings was flying past.

"I'll go and see somebody, Susan. I'll go to dear old Mrs. Cayley.
She's the only good person that doesn't scare me."

She ran up the stairs. For a moment, the oppression of her spirit
seemed to lighten. Then, in a very short time, she came down in hat and
coat, and, whistling for Thor, she started off.

It was a mile's walk, but there was a touch of frost in the air and
it braced her. Twice on the way she stopped to speak to some country
people. There were very few of the poor who were strangers now to
Tomina; and she generally had a little joke and a laugh with them all.

She found Mrs. Cayley sweeping up the autumn leaves from the flagged
path outside her cottage.

"Mrs. Cayley, I'm in the blues. Do you think you can get me out of
them?" Tomina asked, as she leant her arms on the little wooden gate
and watched the old woman's quick, deft movements.

Mrs. Cayley had not noticed her approach. She started, then dropped the
old-fashioned curtsey that Tomina so loved to watch.

"Why, ma'am, 'tis nice to see your bright face. Come ye in. Ye be more
than welcome."

Tomina followed her into the bright little kitchen. It was as usual a
picture of neatness and cosiness.

Tomina took an old-fashioned rocking-chair by the fire, with a
wonderful cushion of patchwork upon it, and Mrs. Cayley went to her oak
dresser and began to lay the cloth for tea.

"I'm just going to have a cup, ma'am, and you must join me."

"I shall be delighted."

Tomina leant back in her chair, and watched the old woman with
thoughtful, wistful gaze.

"Oh, Mrs. Cayley, I wish—I wish I were you, with my life nearly
finished and all my troubles over, and my—my faith so untroubled and
sure!"

Mrs. Cayley was taking the kettle off the fire and pouring some water
into her brown teapot. She did not answer for a moment, then she said—

"Are things not going well, ma'am, with you?"

Tomina clasped her hands round her knees.

"I'm tired of everything and everybody, and of myself most of all, and
I'm 'bitterly' disappointed!"

"With what, ma'am?"

"Oh, with this doctor's experiment. I was sick and tired of life in
town, and had come to the end of it all. Then I was brought down here
to be buried for a time in view of beginning afresh—having a new
start. And the peace and the novelty and the quaintness of the country
satisfied me. My body has certainly benefited, but lately my mind has
been tormented with religious misgivings. They wear me out. And now
they're looming so big and so black that the peace of the country is
gone. Instead of feeling fresher, and beginning life anew, I'm feeling
a blot in creation. And I'm alone. I have nobody to help me. Harry has
gone, and—and others, and I've come to the end of everything. I just
felt this afternoon that I must come off to you and get help."

Mrs. Cayley looked at her in a puzzled way: but she never stopped her
occupation. She was now cutting thin slices of bread and butter from a
home-made loaf. And her next words were a request that Tomina should
have some tea before any further talk.

Tomina drew up her chair to the table, some golden honey in the comb
was produced, and she thoroughly enjoyed the repast.

At first, Mrs. Cayley was going to wait upon her, but Tomina insisted
upon her joining her at the table.

Presently, Mrs. Cayley said—

"Didn't you like the Rector's sermon yesterday morning, ma'am?"

"I don't think I did. I don't care much for sermons. In London, I
always used to leave when the sermon began, and yesterday my mind
wandered. I can't even remember the text!"

"I always think the sermon be the best part of church," said Mrs.
Cayley. "'Tis the best half, surely. The first half I always think is
we speakin' to God, and the last half be God speakin' to us."

Tomina paused in conveying her cup to her lips to consider this.

"You think that God speaks through the preacher? It never struck me so."

"He spoke to me. I come home yesterday and sat here thinking it out.
'Twas beautiful, so clear and simple. The text was, 'Ask, and ye shall
receive.' It do seem to take in all we need. And I think you would find
it so, ma'am. I don't rightly understand your feelin's; young ladies
like you have a bigger life and more wants than we. But your askin'
can't be too big for the Almighty."

Tomina faced her old friend with earnest eyes.

"It's like this, Mrs. Cayley. Every one has been hammering away at me
since I came here, and I see that there is quite a different life to be
lived in this world from that which I have been living. So the long and
short is, I'm going to live it, if I can. Harry has been making me read
the New Testament a good deal; I suppose it has a fascination of its
own. I know I've learnt to love the—Chief Character in it. I want to
follow Him as they did in those times. But I don't seem to get at the
way to do it. And I've a wasted good-for-nothing life behind me. Not
worth much, am I?"

"Worth nothing at all," said Mrs. Cayley, sitting with clasped hands in
her lap and with almost an inspired glow in her eyes. "That's why we
come to the dear Lord, and ask Him to take us and make something of us.
'Tis just 'Ask, and ye shall receive,' after all."

Tomina drew in a long breath.

"That sounds simple. Harry's 'Green Hill' hymn explains it all
beautifully. I know that 'He died to save us all,' and that 'He died
that we might be forgiven.' 'That we might go at last to heaven, saved
by His precious blood.' It's all there convincing to one's head, but
I've got no further."

"'Ask, and ye shall receive,'" repeated Mrs. Cayley again, with a
smile. "You've never come near enough to Him, ma'am, perhaps. I minds
years ago, time of my confirmation, when I come to see that I must come
myself to the Throne o' Grace, and ask for all my needs. Just try,
ma'am, ask for what you want, and you'll get it without any waiting. If
'tis anything concernin' our souls, don't you think the Loving Father
be more in a hurry to give it to us than we are to get? Ask and take,
that be our part. He does all the rest."

Tomina sat very silent, drinking in from this poor hard-working old
woman the truths that no clever divine could put more forcibly and
clearly. She did not say much more about her difficulties, but began to
talk of other subjects.

When she wished Mrs. Cayley good-bye, she said—

"You've helped me tremendously this afternoon."

"'Twas only the text our Rector spoke on, ma'am."

"Yes, I missed a lot by not listening. It's a very practical command,
Mrs. Cayley. I see light now."

She walked home, and every step of the way she was repeating to herself
with increasing emphasis—

"'Ask, and ye shall receive.'"



CHAPTER XIII

THE FIRST EFFORT

"IF you please, ma'am, are you at home?"

Tomina was writing a letter to her beloved brother.

"Who is it, Susan?" she asked.

"'Tis Miss Merryweather."

"Oh yes, let her come in."

And Tomina greeted her visitor with unusual warmth.

"I haven't seen you for ages."

"No, I respect your wish for solitude, and I'm that way myself. But as
I'm going back to town next week, I thought I would like to wish you
good-bye."

"Then you're a perfect cure?"

Alice Merryweather laughed.

"Yes, I can say I am. An idle summer ought to have cured me. I sleep
better, and feel able to tackle all my work again."

"And do you like going back?"

"I love it. Sweet stagnation does not suit me. I chafe and get restive.
I am tingling to be up and doing. How are you? You are looking very
well."

"Yes, but I am not ready to go back to town. You see, I have no work
awaiting me there, only pleasure. It makes a difference."

"So you are going on with your carrier work? Won't you find it very
cold in the winter?"

"I dare say. I'm going to begin to court difficulties now, having
evaded them all my life."

There was something so radiant and alert in Tomina's tones, that Alice
looked at her in a puzzled sort of way.

"Do you remember advising me to cultivate my spiritual part?" asked
Tomina, suddenly. "You told me how to do it."

"Oh, surely not!"

Alice looked quite astonished.

"Yes, you told me to read the Bible, and I did—and I have been slowly
learning ever since. I don't seem able to talk about these things yet,
but I'd like you to know that I've never been so happy in my life as
I am now. It seems as if God has reached right down from heaven and
taken me by the hand. I've been in a great worry about myself for a
long time, but dear old Mrs. Cayley gave me a very simple solution to
my worries. I was worrying over my worthlessness and inability to be
unselfish, and she told me just to ask for what I wanted, so I asked
for a few big things—forgiveness for the past, and for my soul to be
given fresh life, and to be helped to be, as the children put it,
'good.' It has all been given me, I do believe. Isn't it wonderful?"

Alice sat silent. Tomina's glowing enthusiasm touched her.

"I'm so glad," she said slowly.

"I knew you would be. I never thought I would ever be enthusiastic
about religion. But it's a new life, and I love, I love our Master."

Tomina's eyes were shining softly through a mist of tears as she spoke.
Then she said more lightly—

"I've confided in you, because you are one of those who have helped me,
and I'm sorry you are going."

"You won't stay here very long," said Alice. "I am sure the winter in
the country will prove too much for you."

"Perhaps it may," said Tomina, quietly; "I don't feel so sure of
myself as I used to do. And I shall want to make up for a good deal of
lost time. But I'm not going to give up my vocation. Dr. Merton told
me I could have no better one. I hope I shall always be 'Tomina the
Carrier.'"

Alice knew there was meaning underlying her words, but she did not
remark upon them, and her visit was very short. She and Tomina parted
with regret, for though they seldom met, they mutually liked each other.

When she had gone, Tomina sat by her bright little fire with rather a
sober face. One by one her friends seemed leaving her—Colonel Norman,
Harry, and now Alice Merryweather.

She was thinking of her 'rôle' as carrier, and wondering in what way
she could widen and deepen that vocation, when her eye fell upon a
picture that hung upon the wall and which belonged to Harry. It had
been given to him by Mrs. Francis, and represented the Christ Child
upon the shoulders of St. Christopher as he waded through the river.

A sudden light flashed into her face.

"Delicious! St. Christoforos, the Carrier, for that is what he was!
Giving up his great strength to the humble service of carrying the
feeble over the stream of life. And in doing it, he found he was
carrying his Master. And I can copy his example, and try to carry some
burdens for the weak and heavy-laden ones, and the children; I haven't
to go away from here to do that. My passengers in my van alone will
give me plenty of scope."

She still sat on by the fire, but there was a happy glow in her heart,
and she longed at once to put her thoughts into practice.


The very next Friday, as she went into Damerton, something occurred
which made her wonder if it possibly might mean an opportunity for her.
About three miles out of Damerton, they overtook a girl plodding along
wearily in front of them.

Tomina called out brightly to her—

"Would you like a lift?"

And then she saw as she turned round that she was not an ordinary
country girl. She had the appearance of a lady, and her voice was as
soft and refined as Tomina's own.

"I should very much," she said.

Tomina made room for her on the front seat by her, and asked her if she
had been walking long.

"Only from Dutterton. We have lately come there, but it is nearly four
miles from Damerton, and I was wondering how I could walk both ways. My
cycle is broken, and I am obliged to come."

She was a nice-looking girl, but was evidently in trouble; her eyes
were red with crying, and she was very unhappy.

"Is your home near here?" Tomina asked idly.

"Oh, I wish it were! I live in the north of Yorkshire. My father was a
clergyman, and he died last year. I am the eldest, and I was engaged to
be a companion to a Mrs. Cuthbert. She has lately taken a house near
here. I have been with her over a year, and I was looking forward to
going home for a month's holiday. Two of my brothers are going out to
New Zealand. I shall not be able to say good-bye to them now."

"Why?"

"Mrs. Cuthbert's maid has gone home ill; and she can't spare me, she
says."

Then Tomina's sympathetic face drew out more of the girl's story. She
had a large family of brothers and sisters, and they had been much
looking forward to being all together before the brothers left home.
Mrs. Cuthbert was a hard and exacting employer, but she paid her a
good salary, and in the absence of her maid expected her to do all her
duties as well as her own.

"I am now going into Damerton to get a library book. I went in
yesterday, but Mrs. Cuthbert did not like my choice and I have to
change it. I sometimes feel that I cannot go on. I never seem able
to please her. Please forgive my grumbling, but I am so bitterly
disappointed that I cannot get home. I am just homesick!"

"I wish I could help you," said Tomina. "Can't you get somebody to take
your place for a month?"

"Oh, I wish I could! But who would do it? And Mrs. Cuthbert might not
allow it."

"I'll see if I can hear of any one," said Tomina, cheerfully. "You
don't know how many people I meet, or know through this van. Let me
have your address, and I'll write if I hear of any one. I don't know
your name yet. Christabel Avenel? What a pretty name!"

When they reached Damerton, Tomina asked her if she could wait till the
return journey. But she could not do that, and they parted the best of
friends.

"Susan," said Tomina that evening just before she went to bed, "if I
went away for a month, could you carry on here, and take care of Thor?"

Susan looked very surprised.

"But what about the van?"

"Ah!" said Tomina. "That's a difficulty, isn't it? But I could trust
Joe to take my place for a few weeks, and you could go in the van
occasionally just to see that everybody was comfortable."

Susan smiled.

"You do be an uncommon carrier, ma'am. I'm sorry you're going back to
London."

"I'm not going near it. I'm—I'm just going to pay a visit in the
neighbourhood—if I'm allowed."

Susan asked no more questions. Tomina continually astonished her by
her rapid movements. But when she carried two letters to the post that
evening in time for the local morning delivery, she could not forbear
glancing at the envelopes. One was addressed to—

   "Mrs. Cuthbert,
        White Gables, Dutterton."

The other to—

   "Miss Christabel Avenel,
        White Gables, Dutterton."

Susan shook her head, for she was none the wiser. And the post-office
woman could not enlighten her.

"New town people, I reckon. There be so many of them taking up houses
nowadays in this part of the country."

In two days' time, Tomina received answers to her letters. Mrs.
Cuthbert was willing to accept her services, provided she gave her a
personal interview, and it proved satisfactory. Christabel wrote in the
seventh heaven of delight.

Then Tomina took Susan into her confidence and told her what she meant
to do, and Susan did not know whether to laugh or to be horrified.

"My dear ma'am, you can't even lace your own boots, or mend your own
stockings. You've always been waited on, hand and foot. How on, you
wait on a lady? It would be so demeaning."

"But I am not going as her servant; I am going as a companion and
friend."

Susan gave a little sniff.

"Those poor young ladies are worked harder than any servant. I've seen
ladies' companions, and I know how they're worked."

"Well," said Tomina, "if work has been strange to me all my life, the
sooner I make acquaintance with it the better. So you must wait upon me
no more, Susan. I must get into training. I shall not be able to take
you with me, so I must learn to do without you now."

"But I love waiting on you, ma'am, and you really can't do things like
my Miss Wadhurst could."

"I can try."

And "try" Tomina did. She laughed at her own clumsiness, and more than
once Susan had to come to her aid. But day by day she grew more apt
in waiting upon herself and in tidying and mending. Then she went off
to Dutterton to interview the old lady. She dressed in her plainest,
neatest attire, and began to enjoy the novel prospect before her.

She was shown into a library by a very important old butler, and
presently Mrs. Cuthbert sailed into the room. At the first glance,
Tomina's spirits quailed, for here was no aristocratic old lady, but
one who had evidently acquired her wealth late in life.

Mrs. Cuthbert was the widow of a City man who had once been Lord Mayor
of London. And she lived still on the past glories of that wonderful
year.

"I understand you're a friend of my young companion. Have you brought
any references?" was her opening inquiry.

"Do you mean a character?" asked Tomina, with a blank look of dismay.

"I mean I can 'ardly take a young person into my household without the
assurance that she is honest and respectable."

"Oh yes—yes, certainly. I have several friends—people who will write to
you to that effect."

"I want a good-tempered, obliging girl, who will do 'everything' she is
told."

"Yes," murmured Tomina, not liking the small black eyes that were fixed
so unwaveringly upon her.

"My maid has left me, so I shall want extra assistance with my toilet.
Do you understand dressing the coiffure?"

Tomina glanced at the coils of black plaits that mounted in pyramid
form upon her head surmounted with a handsome tortoiseshell comb and a
pink ribbon bow.

"I should try my best to suit you," she said meekly.

A few more questions were put to her, and then the old lady rose.

"I 'ope your references will be satisfactory, and then you can commence
your duties with me next Tuesday. It is a great kindness, I consider,
in allowing the young person who is with me to leave at this juncture;
but I always was soft-'earted to my own detriment."

Tomina bowed and withdrew, but she was seized hold of by Christabel on
the way down the drive.

"Oh, how can I thank you! I do hope you will be able to bear with her.
I never, never thought you would be willing to take my place."

"It will do me all the good in the world," said Tomina, brightly. "I
shall be on my mettle to supply your place satisfactorily. But I am
rather frightened of your old lady."

"As long as you never object to anything she says to you, you will get
on," said Christabel, earnestly.

Tomina looked, and felt more than doubtful about her capability in that
way, but she said nothing to damp Christabel's delight.

The next step was to get a reference. Tomina wrote to Dr. Merton that
same night.

   "MY DEAR DOCTOR,

   "Will you just sit down and write me a testimonial for honesty,
sobriety, and respectability? I assure you that you can safely do it,
but I should be glad of it by return of post.

                        "Yours sincerely,

                            "TOMINA GAVIN."


And the next morning, before she had finished breakfast, brought the
doctor in person to her gate.

"I really must have a few more details," said Dr. Merton. "Will you
kindly tell me what you propose doing? For I still consider you as
under my charge."

"I think I'm a cure by this time," said Tomina; "I feel a new creature
at last—through and through."

There was meaning in her last words. Dr. Merton looked keenly at her.

"I congratulate you," he said.

Then she told him quite simply of her plan.

"It's folly!" he exclaimed. "You are the last person in the world to
carry through a thing of that sort satisfactorily. It will be a dead
failure."

"You are very unkind. Did you not advise me to become a carrier and
stick to that vocation through life? I'm only going to try to carry a
burden of another girl's for a month!"

"But it is too big a one for you," said Dr. Merton.

"She is no stronger than I am; she bears it all the year round. Don't
dishearten me. In my heart of hearts I'm so afraid I may prove a
failure, and I do want to be a success."

She spoke so sweetly and wistfully that Dr. Merton surrendered at once.

"Let me have a sheet of paper," he said. And sitting down, he scribbled
off the desired reference.

Then he looked at her with a smile.

"You have found your feet," he said, "but don't try to run before you
can walk."

She laughed, then grew grave.

"I do feel in some ways just born. If it were spring, I should say my
sap was rising. Oh, Dr. Merton, what a lot I have to unlearn, and to
learn! Do you remember your wish for me a short time ago—to be reformed
and transformed inside and out? Rather a big wish, wasn't it? But not
too big for God Who made us. So I asked Him to make a new creature of
me altogether, and—and I really believe He has begun to do it."

Dr. Merton stood up; then he took her hand in his.

"No wonder you look so happy!" he said. "If you've got a new centre in
your life, you'll be all right where you're going, and don't forget to
pass your good things on."

His grip of her hand left it aching, but Tomina's heart glowed afresh
at his words.

She sent off her reference, and heard from Mrs. Cuthbert that she would
be expected in two days' time.

Then Tomina completed her arrangements for leaving her cottage. Joe was
proud to under take the carrier business without her; and then Tomina
tackled Susan.

"Now, Susan, you must please keep your mouth closely shut about my
absence. Just say I have gone away for a visit, for that is strictly
true. I won't have Mrs. Herbert or any one else know the reasons of my
going."

"You may come back at the end of a week, I'm hopin'," said Susan,
cheerfully. "I'm quite certain, ma'am, 'tis an impossible place for
you."


It was a bright cold afternoon when Tomina had herself and her luggage
driven over to the White Gables. She arrived there as it was getting
dusk. The portly butler looked at her a little disapprovingly, but
showed her into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Cuthbert was sitting
dozing over a huge fire. She put out a fat and limp hand.

"Glad to see you. Miss Avenel left me this morning, and I almost wished
I had detained her. She knows where all my things are. I want some
more wool for my knitting now. You must go up to my room and find it
somewhere. In my boudoir it is, I think. Ask the housemaid to tell you
where it is. She'll show you your room, but I'm wanting that wool, so
as soon as you 'ave removed your walking things, come down with it to
me."

Tomina obediently made her way up the soft-carpeted stairs. Everything
on all sides betokened money and luxury, but everything was too new to
obtain favour in her sight. Her bedroom was, thoroughly comfortable,
but its glaring paper and gaudy cheap coloured prints on the walls
offended her eyes, and the furniture was showy and pretentious. The
housemaid who showed her upstairs was rather pert.

"I wish you joy of your job," she said. "I wouldn't be Mrs. Cuthbert's
companion for a hundred pounds. This door behind the curtain here leads
into her room. It's never locked, so as she may come in and catch you
out if she can."

"Where do you think I can find some wool for her?" Tomina asked
quietly, turning round upon the girl with one of her smiles.

Gertrude from that moment became her staunch ally.

"I can make a good guess. Didn't she give you her keys? Then there's
only one drawer unlocked in her room."

She led the way into Mrs. Cuthbert's handsome room. A roaring fire was
in the grate. Half the room was taken up with a massive carved mahogany
four-post bed, draped in crimson satin; a couch upholstered in blue
cretonne covered with large pink roses stood at the foot of it. The
amber-coloured lace curtains to the three windows were tied back with
crimson satin bows. There were two big wardrobes, and in the bottom
drawer of one of these the wool was found.

"Thank you very much," Tomina said to Gertrude, as she pulled open the
drawer. "You have saved me a search."

"All right, and you just give me a call down the back stairs if you
want anything. 'Tis rather awkward for you at first. You have a
dreadful time in front of you, I warn you!"

"Oh, I mean to be very happy and comfortable here, I assure you," said
Tomina, and she laughed gaily as she spoke.

Gertrude stared at her, then muttered as she left the room—

"You'll sing a different song by this time to-morrow."

Tomina ran lightly downstairs to the drawing-room with the wool. Her
bright smiling face, as she came into the room, struck Mrs. Cuthbert
as unusual. She looked at her suspiciously, ready to discover, if she
could, the reason for her smile.

"Sit down in that chair, and wind me off two skeins as quick as you
can. And I'll tell you some of your duties. We have tea at five
o'clock, after which you read aloud to me till the first dressing-gong
sounds. Then you go up and put out my dinner dress. To-night I 'ave the
rector and his wife dining here. I like to give them a good dinner now
and then, poor souls! Not that I feed myself down in the country as I
used to do in town."

She gave a fat sigh.

"If you give me satisfaction, I'll let you look at some of our 'menoos'
the year I was Lady Mayoress in London. I've kept them all. We 'ad
the highest in the land to our dinners, I can tell you, and the gold
plate and the powdered footmen, and all the ceremonial pomp was beyond
description! What was I telling you?—Oh, you go up and get ready for
my toilet. When I have visitors, you have your dinner in the library,
that is where I allow you to sit, and there's generally some mending or
making to be done. Miss Avenel began to embroider my initials on some
sheets, but she is a slow worker. I 'ope you will be quicker."

Tomina was both interested and amused. At present, this was but a game
of play to her. She was awkward at the wool winding, but was quite
ready to talk.

"I'll do my very best to supply Miss Avenel's place satisfactorily,"
she said, "but I am not a very clever needlewoman. And I shall be
very glad to dine alone when you have visitors. I'm not very sociably
inclined. I—"

"Perhaps you'll kindly listen to the list of your duties, instead of
talking."

Mrs. Cuthbert's tone was crushing. Tomina was mute.

"I retire to bed at ten o'clock. I take a cup of Benger's food the last
thing, and my back is rubbed with liniment. I am a great sufferer from
rheumatism."

"Do I rub your back?"

Tomina's dismayed tone brought an extra touch of sternness in her
employer's voice.

"Most certainly you do, and anything and everything that I tell you to
do whilst you are in my service."

There was a moment's silence, then the butler appeared with the
tea. Tomina poured it out and waited upon Mrs. Cuthbert with pretty
deference, but all the time she was saying to herself—

"I draw the line at the liniment. How can I stay here?"



CHAPTER XIV

TOM'S NEWS

TOMINA found, before many days were over, that she had to do many
things that were most distasteful to her. It was a startlingly new
experience to her to have to stand when she was tired, and to have her
night's rest disturbed by having to keep in Mrs. Cuthbert's fire.

To go to the village on an errand when it was pouring with rain, to
wash and get up lace, to mend stockings, to wash hair brushes, to
be on her feet up and down stairs for sometimes an hour at a time,
looking for something that reposed safely in Mrs. Cuthbert's pockets.
And through it all, to meet with real rudeness and despotic tyranny.
She took it at first lightly, treating it all as a huge joke; then she
accepted it as wholesome discipline; and finally found herself praying
hourly for grace to control her tongue.

Mrs. Cuthbert was an adept at keeping her young companion busy. And
it was doubly unfortunate for Tomina that the maid should be away, as
she was obliged to perform the latter's duties as well as her own. She
confessed to herself that she was an awkward substitute to Christabel
Avenel, and often felt that Mrs. Cuthbert was justified in her anger.
But she had never before come in contact with any one who was so openly
rude and abusive as Mrs. Cuthbert, and sometimes even her serene temper
was ruffled.


One wet afternoon, Mrs. Cuthbert called her into the drawing-room.

"You can bring your needlework with you. I sometimes feel I shall get
an imbecile if I live 'ere much longer. I never thought the country
could be so deadly dull, or I would never have listened to my doctor
when he advised me to try the country for my 'ealth. I always fancied
country neighbours dropped in upon each other in a friendly 'omely
way, but leaving out our Rectory folk, and the doctor, I 'aven't
had a single caller this month. When I think of the 'undreds who I
entertained at the Mansion 'Ouse, and 'ow pleased they were to make my
acquaintance, I could have a good cry over myself 'ere. 'Tis only an
experiment; I shall move back to town. I'm at 'ome there."

"It's funny how many people have come down here for their health," said
Tomina. "Miss Merryweather and I were both supposed to be invalids."

Mrs. Cuthbert ignored this remark. She was in a conversational mood,
and went on grumbling at the quiet and dullness of the country.

"Well," said Tomina at last, "I know there's one thing that could make
you happy. And then it wouldn't matter where you lived. If you were on
a desert island, you would be quite cheerful and contented."

"Don't beat round the bush so," said Mrs. Cuthbert. "Say right out what
you mean."

"It's just to take God at His Word," said Tomina, letting her work drop
in her lap and looking at Mrs. Cuthbert with soft dreamy eyes. "I've
done it, and it's like opening dark shutters and letting the sun flood
you with its warmth and brightness. What does it matter where we live,
when we are surrounded by His love!"

Mrs. Cuthbert gazed at her with astonished eyes.

"I consider it's very bad taste to talk religion in a drawing-room, so
don't you do it, Miss Gavin. And most impertinent of a young girl like
you to be setting yourself above those twice your years and experience.
When I was Lady Mayoress, I used to go to numbers of religious
meetings, and some of the 'ighest preachers in the land have dined with
me. Bishops I've 'ad, and they never presumed as you have done."

"I wanted you to be happy," said Tomina, earnestly. "I have been so
discontented and restless myself that I want everybody to know the cure
for it."

"Are you meaning to insinuate that I am discontented and restless?"
said Mrs. Cuthbert, rearing her head haughtily. "I never heard such
insolence in my life! And this is what I get by being a bit sociable
with you! You'll please to hold your tongue in future, Miss Gavin, and
give me no more of your impertinent allusions and opinions!"

Tomina sighed.

"What a hardened old piece of pomposity!" she murmured to herself. "And
what a bully she is!"

Mrs. Cuthbert's rude speeches never touched Tomina, she felt above and
beyond them. But a wave of sympathy and pity for Christabel Avenel came
over her.

"How I wish I could get her some other post! But if she did not come
back, I suppose some other girl would take her place, and I dare say
Christabel wants the money."

Tomina had been with Mrs. Cuthbert three weeks, when one evening a
telegram came to her. It was from her brother Tom, saying he had just
arrived home for three weeks' leave, and asking her if she could meet
him in town. She was beside herself with joy and excitement. Her first
impulse was to rush to Mrs. Cuthbert and say that she must leave her
that very day. Then she thought of Christabel, who would be so bitterly
disappointed if she would have to return and be robbed of her last
week's holiday.

For the first time in her life a battle waged in Tomina's soul between
duty and inclination.

"I must see Tom. I wouldn't waste a day of his leave. We haven't seen
each other for four years. But I mustn't fail Christabel. It's the
first effort I have made to do something unpleasant for the good of my
neighbour. It's my first burden that I am carrying. St. Christoforos
would not have dropped his first passenger in the river because he
wanted to do something else. But oh, my darling Tom, I cannot give up
one of our precious weeks together! What am I to do?"

She sat with the telegram in her hand, and then determined to appeal to
Mrs. Cuthbert. She found her in her conservatory, walking round it and
talking to the gardener there.

"May I speak to you?" Tomina said meekly. "I have had a wire from my
brother."

Mrs. Cuthbert stepped back into the drawing-room.

"What is it?" she asked curtly.

"He has come home from Australia and has three weeks' leave. He wants
me to join him at once in London. Do you think you could manage without
me for just this week? Isn't your maid coming back soon?"

"I cannot possibly let you leave me. I wonder at your asking such a
question. My maid is not returning at all. She has written to tell me
so. I should think your brother can do without you for a week."

"He is my only brother, we haven't seen each other for four years.
Oh, do let me go! Of course, I wouldn't be the cause of bringing Miss
Avenel back for worlds, but I really think you could manage without
either of us for just this week."

It was absolutely useless trying to make Mrs. Cuthbert give way. She
broke into a torrent of angry declamations, and almost drove Tomina out
of her presence.

And so with a few tears, Tomina wrote as following to her brother:—

   "MY OWN DEAREST BOY,

   "When I had your wire I nearly stood on my head for joy, and now I am
in the deepest depths of woe, for I can't come to you, Tom dear, for a
week, and I can't ask you to come to me. I am staying with an irascible
old lady, taking the place of her companion, a friend of mine, and she
won't let me go. My time is up to-morrow week. Till then I must curb my
impatient spirits. I have told you all about my retreat, and I really
think it would be more fun for both of us if you came down to my cot.
I've promised the doctors to stay in the country a year—and you and I
would be very snug together. How I wish I could leave my body with my
old lady, and betake my soul to you, but a week will pass, won't it?
Till then. Your own

                   "TOMINA."

She got another wire after the receipt of this letter:—

   "All serene. Will come down next Wednesday.

                                      "Tom."

Tom was never good at letters. That week was the hardest and longest
that Tomina had ever passed. She performed her duties in a dreamy
mechanical way. Even Mrs. Cuthbert wished she would be more talkative.
Tomina's bright serene temper was valued more than she thought, and
when at last the day for her departure came, Mrs. Cuthbert was almost
gracious. Then, like a bolt from the blue, came Tomina's parting words—

"I've done my best, but I know I have been very awkward in many ways.
You will be glad to have Miss Avenel back again. Now, will you, dear
Mrs. Cuthbert, try to be kinder to her? Remember she is flesh and blood
like yourself, and has feelings. It is not a happy post to be always
trying to please somebody who won't be pleased. You will be happier
yourself if you make her happy. Treat her as a daughter. Why should you
not? Good-bye!"

She was gone before Mrs. Cuthbert could recover her breath from the
shock her audacity had given her.


"Free! Free! Free!"

Tomina almost sang the words to herself as the trap drove her home. It
was a dull, grey afternoon in December, but she cared little for her
outlook. Tom was coming to her that evening and she must be home in
time to welcome him. Susan was waiting at the gate when she arrived,
and though it was already dusk, several doors opened in the village
street, and women's heads nodded cheerfully at one another as the trap
drove past.

"She's back. Our young lady is back!"

Tomina almost danced into the house.

"Oh, what a cosy fire; how delicious to be home! Oh, Susan, what a
lot I have to tell you! And what a useful member of society I have
become! Do you know I can make Benger's Food, and trim caps, and wash
handkerchiefs, and rub rheumatic shoulders, and light fires when they
go out, and darn stockings! Oh, there is no end to my accomplishments.
And now have you got my brother's room ready? Let me see it. He will be
here directly, and, Susan, you will lose your heart to him! There never
was his equal in the world and there never will be!"

So Tomina chatted and laughed. And then she sat down suddenly and
turned so white that Susan thought that she was going to faint.

"I'm only rather tired. I was up at five o'clock this morning trying
to get my packing done. I was given no time to do it, you see, and you
know how stupid I am over packing."

"You look a perfect shadow, ma'am. I knew you'd be just wore out. Sit
down and let me take off your boots."

"Just to-day, then, but I'm going to turn over a new leaf and do
everything for myself. Oh, Susan, I could hug you, for your dear, kind
face! Do you know I haven't had one kind word from anybody for a whole
month? Yes, I have—the little housemaid befriended me."

Susan waited on her hand and foot, and then, when Tomina was
comfortably established in her cheerful sitting-room, she brought her
in tea and insisted upon her having a cup at once.

Tomina felt better after that, and began to tell Susan of some of her
experiences, which, now that they were over, seemed very amusing.

Then the sound of a trap was heard. Tomina rushed to the door, and the
next moment was in the arms of her beloved twin brother. He was not
much like her, except in his eyes, which twinkled as irrepressibly and
mischievously as Tomina's.

"Oh!" she said. "How good you smell! It's your serge! It holds the salt
sea in it! It does seem delicious to have a man in the house again. Now
sit down. Do you still condescend to tea?"

"Tea! Yes. They never know how to make good tea at sea. Well, Tomina,
how goes it? You're rather a fraud. What are you doing in this
ungetatable place? I expected to find you in some kind of rest cure.
The 'mater' said you refused to see her or any one, but she did hear
from somebody that you weren't so bad as you made out. So to-morrow
prepare to see a party descend upon you. They're coming in their car."

"Oh, Tom, how horrible! I want you to myself. I've such oceans to tell
you! Who is it that will be coming?"

"Some one I want you to like. I've got news for you, but it will keep.
I've got a heavy thirst on, so be prepared to give me five cups at
least!"

Tomina poured out his tea with a perturbed look. Then her brother
laughed at her.

"My news will keep. Tell me how your van is going! That was very
sporting of you! I hope I shall be introduced to it."

"Oh, Tom, I have such shoals to tell you! But I must hear your news
first. I must! You have shaken my very foundations. Don't tell me
you're going to marry!"

Tom nodded at her, and his eyes glowed as he said—

"To the most charming girl in the world, and she's coming down
to-morrow to make your acquaintance."

The blow had fallen. Tomina shivered; then she braced herself to bear
it, and smiled one of her sweetest smiles.

"And who is she, Tom? I must know that first before I congratulate you."

"You have never met her. She has been out in Australia for the last
five years. Her brother has a Government billet in Queensland. They
entertained a lot, and were awfully good to me. She's much too good for
me, but that's her look-out, I tell her. And she came home a month ago,
and she's getting a married sister to motor her down here to-morrow."

"They'll never be able to get up here, if they come by the London
Road," said Tomina, slowly.

"I say, Tomina, don't be a squelcher! You've often advised me for my
good."

"Yes—yes," said Tomina, with feverish haste. "I'm so glad for you, but
I always think a naval man's married life must be so disappointing; and
I thought you had the makings of a bachelor!"

"You hoped I had," laughed Tom. Then he stood up, his hands in his
pockets. "Wait till you see her. I was clean bowled over, and you'll
not be surprised. Now prepare for shock number two. We're going to be
spliced next week; and I've applied for a week's further leave."

"Oh, Tom, you wretch! And I've lost one week of you, and I suppose
you'll only give me a few days."

Tears were crowding into Tomina's eyes. She felt as if she were losing
the one she loved best on earth; she knew that nothing would ever be
quite the same again.

Tom looked at her uncomfortably; then he turned and gazed out of the
window.

"You've an awfully pretty view here," he said.

Tomina got up from her seat, and put her arms round her brother's neck.

"Give me time, Tom dear, you know I want you to be happy, but you have
sprung a mine upon me! I shan't say a word till after I have seen her.
I'm sure she must be nice, or you wouldn't have chosen her. I used to
laugh at your fastidiousness as far as girls were concerned, didn't I?
Come and sit down and yarn to me as you always do. And then I'll yarn
back. It is good to have you here."

So brother and sister began to talk. There was much to tell on both
sides, and they talked hard till past twelve o'clock that night.

When Tomina at length got to bed, she was too tired to sleep. And Tom's
news was a greater trouble to her than she would allow even to herself.

"It was bound to come. I only pray she may be good enough for him. I
won't be selfish. I would not have him live and die a bachelor."

But though she comforted herself with this view, she spent a restless
night, and came to the breakfast table the next morning with dark blue
lines under her eyes, and cheeks so colourless that Tom exclaimed—

"What a washed-out rag you are! No wonder you were sent down here to
get a bit of colour!"

"I'm all right!"

"You aren't worrying your little self over my news, are you?"

Tomina forced a laugh.

"There seems nothing to worry about. What time do they hope to get
here?"

"Some time early in the afternoon. I heard from her this morning.
She—they want me to go on with them to Dilchester Burrow. They're going
to put up there for the night."

Tomina said nothing.

Tom looked sharply at her.

"I'll come back to you to-morrow if I do, Tommie. They're going back to
town. If you'll have me till the end of the week, I'll stay. And then
won't you come back to town with me?"

"In time for your wedding? Of course I will," and Tommie's tone was gay.

Tom turned rather earnestly to her whilst they were breakfasting.

"I'm building great things on the meeting to-day. I want you to have
Doreen to stay with you when I'm gone. Just at first—she hates town
so—later she'll pay visits to her own people, but if—if you like each
other, I'm wondering whether you wouldn't like to live with her. She
has had a small house left her. It wants a lot of doing up, but in a
few months' time will be fit for occupation. We're going to spend our
honeymoon at the old Hall near it. It's the dower house; and her old
aunt died and left it to her. Her cousin is a bachelor and is abroad,
so the Hall is virtually shut up. What do you say?"

Tomina gasped.

"Oh, Tom, don't go quite so fast! You're turning my quiet life
topsy-turvy. My dear boy, you can't shake two women together in a
moment of time, and make them into a couple of lovebirds in a cage!"

Tom laughed merrily.

"I'll be mum till you've met. Now, are you going to walk me round to a
few of your favourite haunts?"

"You must give me a little time for my housekeeping. I talk every
morning, and Susan acts. But she won't act unless I talk. I shan't keep
you waiting long."

They had a pleasant walk through the village a little later. Thor was
very suspicious of the new-comer at first. But after inspecting his
boots, and walking round him with a critical eye, he decided that he
must be one of the family, and followed close to heel behind him.

And as they walked along, Tomina began very quietly to tell her brother
of the change in her life. She finished by saying—

"It's all so new to me that I'm very, very full of it. And, of course,
you can't tell what a tremendous difference it has made in my outlook.
I hope it will affect my outside life; it ought to, but it has
revolutionised my inner life, I can tell you."

Tom did not scoff. His twin sister had always been very dear to him,
but he was puzzled.

"You're not the kind to be religious," he said, with a shake of the
head, "and I don't know where you get it from. There's no one else of
that breed in our family."

"But there will be soon," said Tomina eagerly. "Oh yes, I can assure
you that you will be the next. I know you will, for I'm praying hard
for you. And when you begin to feel uncomfortable, you'll know what it
is. I'm quite positive that I shall be answered, for the promise says
so. And the promise has been the means of my salvation!"

"I do hope you will leave poor me alone!" said Tom, with his merry
twinkle. "I don't want to be shaken out of one skin into another, as
you seem to have been."

"And then Doreen must be the next!" said Tomina, looking away with a
dreamy smile. "Perhaps she may be the first!"

Tom's eyebrows worked rather nervously.

"I say, Tommie, don't be—a—fanatic. I shall be hearing of you in a
Salvation Army garb next, beating a drum in a poke bonnet!"

"Don't be a foolish boy! There's nothing fanatical about the real
thing, Tom; and it really is so simple and so easy, and so awfully
restful and inspiring, that I'll never rest till you have it."

"Have what?" said Tom, desperately. "I do hate that 'it'! People who
talk religion always say so much about 'it'!"

"Then I won't mention it again," said Tomina. "There's really no 'it'
about it."

There was silence for a few minutes. Then Tomina burst forth.

"I'm like the pedlar, the one who first spoke to me, you know. I can't
conceive why it's the fashion for us all to scoff and despise the
One Who made us, and Who sacrificed Himself for us, and Who loves us
through thick and thin, and through all our scoffing and despising! I
was awfully afraid of good people. I hated them, and as for wanting to
be good myself—well, I was just like you, I thought it belonged to the
Salvation Army kind of person. It's a funny state of things. We're all
just alike!"

Tom was speechless.

And Tomina wisely said no more just then. She suddenly changed the
subject.



CHAPTER XV

A SAILOR'S BRIDE

THE visitors were late in arriving, and the car did not mount the steep
hill. Tom grew restless and went off down to meet them.

Tomina stayed where she was. Her heart was in a tumult. She dreaded,
yet longed, to see Tom's future wife. She heard voices coming up the
village street, but she sat still by her fire and waited. She was
looking very charming this afternoon. She wore a grey cloth skirt, with
rather an ethereal filmy lace and chiffon blouse to tone with it, and
she had tucked some violets into her belt. Her hair, as usual, curled
round her broad, white brow. If her face looked a trifle white, and her
eyes soft and grave, she had only to speak to bring out all the sparkle
and charm that was her chief characteristic.

In a very few minutes, the door opened and Tom ushered his visitors in.
Mrs. Letterby was first introduced, a smart, plump little woman with
plenty to say for herself, the type of woman that Tomina knew well in
town—good-natured, self-indulgent, and with very moderate brains. It
was the tall stately figure behind her that made Tomina instantly alert
and interested. When she threw up her veil, Tomina saw a very proud,
small head with a wealth of soft dusky hair, deep inscrutable unsmiling
eyes, a pale oval face, delicate nose, rather a prominent chin, and a
sensitively curved mouth, as grave and unsmiling as the eyes. Just a
little glimmer of a smile came to the lips when Tomina stretched out
both her hands, and raised her face to hers with her own fascinating
smile.

"For Tom's sake, you must let me love you!" she said impulsively.

"Or try to," said Doreen Forrester.

There was no doubt about it she was very beautiful, but there was
something strangely aloof and distant in her bearing and tone.

Tom did not seem to perceive it. Worshipful adoration was in his eyes.
As he stood by her, Tomina felt an unreasonable vexation rise within
her that Doreen should make Tom appear a short man. He in reality
topped her by a good inch, but he was broadly made, and she was thin
and willowy. She sat down and handed her long motor veil to Tom, then
she looked into his face and smiled, and Tom's honest face grew crimson.

Tomina watched them both as she talked to Mrs. Letterby. She was rather
relieved than otherwise when Tom took Doreen out into the garden. Then
she felt she could speak freely.

"This is all very sudden, isn't it? Why are they in such a hurry to get
married?"

"My dear Miss Gavin, if you ask me, I should say because your brother
has no patience, and Doreen is tired of being a single woman. She
wasn't very happy out in Queensland, got bored with the perpetual
entertaining. I hope your brother will understand her. I never could.
She is older than he, you know."

"Only a year," said Tomina, quickly.

"A year in age, but quite ten years in experience. She was always very
grave and intense even as a child. I was the pickle, always tumbling
into scrapes, and then out of them. You are not much like your brother.
He told us you were his twin."

"No, I am not much like him," said Tomina, "but tell me more about your
sister. She does not look happy."

"Don't you think so? You really mustn't get out of me all her love
affairs. She has had a good many. Men say she is elusive, and their
curiosity is roused. She is more a man's woman than a woman's. Your
brother is very favoured, for she means to stick to him this time."

"You are rather implying that she has been engaged before."

"I am not going to say. Doreen is old enough to know her own mind now;
and she is not a girl to take the advice of others. What a tiny cottage
you have here! Do you like it?"

"Very much."

"You don't fit it."

Tomina laughed.

"That is rather an unkind speech. I didn't fit it when I first came
down, but I flatter myself that I do now. Is—is Doreen living with you?"

"Till she marries. She doesn't want a crush. It will be quite a simple
affair. I am keeping a spare room for you."

"Oh, thank you, but if I am in town, I must go home. My stepmother
would feel hurt if I did not."

"I forgot you lived in town. I believe I have met Lady Gavin; we don't
stay much in London. We have a house there this winter, but we live in
Hampshire. My husband is a Member, and the House is sitting now, so of
course we must be in town."

Conversation rather languished between them. Mrs. Letterby would not
give Tomina much more information about her sister. She learnt that
their parents had died whilst they were still in the schoolroom, and
they had more or less looked after themselves till Mrs. Letterby
married. Then Doreen had made her home with her until her brother asked
her to go out and keep house for him in Australia.

"I want to see a little of Doreen," said Tomina, presently. "Do you
think they would be vexed if we joined them in the garden?"

Mrs. Letterby rose with alacrity. They found them pacing the little
path by the sweet-briar hedge, she still with that grave brooding
expression of countenance; and Tom with his face aglow, and eyes
sparkling with animation.

Tomina cleverly detached Doreen from him, and took her out of the side
gate under pretence of seeing the old church.

"I want to see something of you," she said. "I suppose we are the two
women that Tom loves most in the world. But it is always a trying
experience when a sister has to take the second place."

"Is it?" questioned Doreen, slowly. "I used to wish my brother married
when I lived with him. But he was a different stamp of man from yours."

"Tom is a dear," said Tomina, warmly. "His only fault is that he is too
unselfish as a man. He always was that. I used to be the selfish one as
children; he generally gave way to me. I do hope you and he will have a
happy time together. I wish he had not to leave you so soon."

"We shall have two weeks together," said Doreen, very quickly. "It is
the life that appeals to me. We shall not be likely to get tired of
each other, and the time he is away will soon pass. As one gets older,
time seems nothing. Everything passes, bad times as well as good."

Tomina looked at her a little inquiringly, but Doreen's face was so
cold and impassive that she dared say no more.

"Tell me about the little old house that has been left you. Tom
mentioned it to me. Do you like it?"

Tomina had kindled the spark at last.

Light and warmth leapt into Doreen's grey eyes.

"Oh, it is exquisite," she said. "It is a dream of a place. It came
so unexpectedly that even now I can hardly believe it is true. I am
longing to go down and take possession. It has a thatched roof with
many gables and irregular corners to it. The windows are genuine leaded
casements. All the rooms are odd and uneven. I mean that you step down
into one and up into another, and you never know where the doors are,
as they and the cupboard doors are often in the wall, and are papered
over so that you do not notice them. The drawing-room runs from east to
west and is upstairs with a balcony outside it, and you look out upon a
deer park with a lake in the distance, and hills beyond."

"Oh, go on!" cried Tomina. "I love the sound of it."

"The downstair hall ends in a conservatory and has a wide old-fashioned
hearth. The dining-room and morning room have quaint glass cupboards
in the wall, and deep window-seats. And then the garden, it's just a
garden out of a book—winding paths and old red brick walls covered with
fruit, and little lawns between lavender hedges and herbaceous borders
of old-fashioned flowers, and a sundial surrounded with roses, and a
terrace walk bordered with roses. My aunt spent all her time in her
garden, and all her money. I never dreamt it would come to me. It is
enough to content a woman without any husband at all!"

"I am glad you say that," said Tomina, inwardly wondering at the
transformation in her, "because it shows that you have no other reason
for becoming engaged to Tom, but because you really love him!"

Doreen's long lashes drooped over her eyes, and the colour faded again
from her cheeks.

"You are quick at deductions," she said.

"Am I? I only see that you could quite well have gone off to this house
and taken possession without burdening yourself with a husband!"

"I don't think I could."

The words left her lips very slowly. Her animation had gone, she was
again the quiet inscrutable girl, and Tomina could not win another
smile from her. Presently Doreen said—

"Why do you live in such a very out-of-the-way place? You do not look
like a country person."

"Ah! You wait till you see me in my oilskins on a wet day driving my
van! You like the country, don't you? Will you come and stay with me
for a little when Tom leaves you?"

"Would you like to have me?"

"Very much. I want to know you. Will it take me a long time?"

Doreen's eyes met Tomina's mischievous ones, but she made no reply.
Then she suddenly laid her hand on her arm.

"Are you sweet all through?" she asked. "If so, I would like to be with
you. But if you question in your heart continually whether I am good
enough for your brother, I would rather have the ocean between us."

It was Tomina's turn to look serious now.

"I shan't be critical, Doreen. I honestly would like you to come.
Somehow or other I feel that we shall be friends."

"Then I will. I do love the country. I am tired of people, I am tired
of talk. When I take possession of my house, the sense of silence and
peace there will be the greatest attraction to me."

Their little talk was over, for the others now overtook them, and they
returned to the cottage for tea. Tomina had no chance for a talk with
her brother. Only as she insisted upon helping him into his overcoat in
her little hall, did he turn to her and say—

"Isn't she adorable?"

And Tomina answered promptly—

"She is charming."

Then he went off with them, and Tomina had to possess her soul in
patience till he returned to her the next day. She felt very mystified
and uneasy over Doreen, and longed to talk to Tom about her.


He came back in the best of spirits and quite ready to talk only of the
one who was at present absorbing his life.

Then Tomina asked him this question—"Is she happy, Tom?"

"Happy! Well, I should think so! Why should you doubt it?"

"She has such a sad face."

"Until she smiles. And I keep her smiling when I am with her," said
Tom, stoutly.

"She must be fond of you," said Tomina, slowly and thoughtfully, more
to convince herself than him of that fact, "for she is not obliged to
marry. A girl who is a possessor of a beautiful old home could have a
very nice life in it without a husband. She is quite independent, isn't
she?"

"Trust a sister to take the shine out of a fellow's self-esteem!"
laughed Tom. "Why should you doubt her affection for me? And as to her
house, in honesty, I must say that apart from me, it would be a white
elephant, for her aunt never left her a penny of money."

"How dreadful for her! Has she no money of her own?"

"Nothing to speak of. A paltry twenty-five pounds a year, or something
of that sort. But I've always said that a man is in a queer corner when
he lives on his wife's money! I wouldn't do it!"

Tomina felt a sudden sinking of heart. Was this possibly a reason for
her accepting Tom? She had a strange feeling that Doreen did not care
for him as he cared for her.

"You got on all right with her, didn't you?" pursued Tom. "I knew you
would—once you saw each other. She isn't very keen after people as a
rule, not after her own sex. I think she likes men better. She's so
different from the ordinary run of girls, not all that chitter-chatter
and rot. She likes sensible talk, she's awfully clever, you know, reads
no end. Says she's never lonely if she has books. But she told me she
was coming to stay with you, and then later on you'll fix it up with
her, and when I come home, I shall find the two of you waiting for me!"

"Oh, Tom, not so fast!"

Tomina laughed as she spoke.

"I really cannot promise to live with Doreen, I don't suppose that she
would care about it, neither should I. But I mean to be her friend if
she will let me. You mustn't ask more than that."

"Doreen will like what I like," said Tom, cheerfully. "If she knows
that I want you to live with her while I am away, she'll have you."

"But please leave us free, dear Tom, to settle that between ourselves."

Then Tom burst into a rhapsody of all Doreen's perfections.

And Tomina listened, and wondered if all men were so simple in their
trust and adoration as this sailor brother of hers. The time flew
whilst he was with her, and then rather reluctantly, she accompanied
him to town.


She was received by her stepmother and friends as if she had been away
in a foreign country. They all congratulated her on her improved looks,
and took it for granted that her rest cure was complete, and that she
had left the country for good. Tomina did not at first undeceive them.
Indeed, she hardly had time, for Tom's wedding was upon them, and
Tomina passed through it as if in a dream. There was a great rush, in
spite of Mrs. Letterby's announcement that it would be very quiet, and
Doreen seemed absorbed and overwhelmed by her own friends and relatives.

But Tomina got one moment with her when she was dressed in her bridal
garments. She had shut every one out of her room saying she wanted to
be alone, and then she had drawn Tomina inside for a second.

"I have hardly seen you; tell me—you know your brother as no one else
does—will he be satisfied—is he satisfied with me?"

It was such a strange question for her to ask that for one moment
Tomina was dumb. Then she took both her hands in hers, and she noted
how cold and trembling they were.

"My dear Doreen, Tom's one idea is that you are perfection. You have
got the whole of his affectionate, honest heart. I pray you may never
fail or disappoint him."

Other words were trembling on her tongue, but she did not say them.

She longed to cry.

"Oh, don't marry him even now if you do not love him!" But she dare not
be the cause of agitating her at this last moment.

Doreen leant forward and kissed her.

"I am glad to have you as a sister," she said.

And then Tomina was obliged to leave her.


She was rather a sad spectator in the fashionable church. A weight
seemed to fall upon her spirits. As bride and bridegroom came down
the aisle, she brightened up. Tom, in his uniform, was handsome and
radiant; and Doreen, though very pale, was smiling and looking her
happiest.

Their eyes met Tomina's and both nodded to her in such a bright,
reassuring way that she took herself to task for her silly fears and
fancies.

And the rest of the ceremony passed off without a hitch.

When Doreen wished Tomina good-bye, she said—

"May I come down to you in a fortnight's time?"

"Oh yes—yes! I shall be waiting for you!"

But Tomina's eyes were misty as she spoke.

Doreen was looking very beautiful. She held herself proudly and her
eyes were bright, and there was a pink colour in her lips. She and
her bridegroom were whirled away in their motor amidst a shower of
confetti, and a little of the old-fashioned rice. And though many of
their friends were saying what a successful wedding it had been, Tomina
knew in her heart that somewhere there was a rift within the lute.

She did not stay in town very long, though pressed to do so.

Lady Gavin was a little uneasy, and had a serious talk with her the day
before she left her.

"You know, my dear girl, that I have never interfered with your
pleasures or plans, but I hardly think you can continue to live alone
in this country cottage of yours. It is so—so peculiar. People will
talk. It was very well as long as you were in delicate health, but you
are stronger now, are you not? You musn't slip out of everything and
get unsociable and cranky. You are too young for that kind of thing. I
hope to see you happily married. Then I shall consider I have done my
duty toward you, and begin to think of settling down to a peaceful old
age."

Tomina's gay laughter rang out. Lady Gavin was the last person on earth
to own to increasing years, nor would she ever be likely to settle down
to a quiet old age.

"You must give me my year. I haven't had it yet. And town life does not
agree with me. You know it never did."

"You look very well. I found out quite by accident that you are near
Colonel Norman's place. Did you see anything of him?"

"A little," said Tomina, carelessly.

"It is dreadfully sad about his mother. I suppose you know they are at
Cannes now. A friend of mine is in the same hotel with them. She says
it is pitiful to see the son tied to his mother's couch; she won't let
him out of her sight. He is just like a nurse attendant. I can't fancy
him in that 'rôle.' He used to be such a smart, keen soldier, and was
always so autocratic and masterful. That was the cause of your quarrel
with him, was it not?"

Tomina winced as if a nerve had been touched.

"You musn't mind my going back," she said. "I am developing a new part
of me in the country—the part that has been lying dormant. And I am
not sufficiently strong in that part to come back to the rush of town
gaiety yet."

Lady Gavin looked at her with a perplexed face, but after a little
further effort to dissuade Tomina from returning, she gave it up,
and they parted the best of friends. She added to her stepdaughter's
uneasiness by saying to her in parting—

"I hope this marriage of Tom's will turn out a success. If you are
going to have his wife to stay with you, you may make something of her.
But she's marrying him for some convenience, and her heart isn't in it.
I dare say it will turn out all right, as Tom will be away so much.
Unless another man appears, and then I wouldn't trust her."

Tomina looked horrified, but her stepmother only laughed.

"I don't want to shock you, but you're old enough to be able to read a
woman's face. Something in her past has spoiled her life; that is very
plain if you watch her."

And as Tomina was in the train whirling through the town into the great
country beyond, her thoughts were centred on Doreen.



CHAPTER XVI

A QUIET CHRISTMAS

THE weather turned very cold when Tomina arrived home. The first day
that she drove out in her van again, she had a surprise for her women
passengers. Susan had worked hard with her kettles, and in the van were
some hot water foot-warmers.

"No cold feet in my van," said Tomina, gaily, as she got upon her seat.
"If our feet are warm, the rest of us will be, our hearts included, in
spite of the old saw."

"Eh, dear soul, 'tis comfort sure enough," said an old woman with a
happy sigh. "It do warm the cockles of yer 'art, as you say, mem."

They were a very happy jovial party to-day. They loved to have Tomina
back, and said one to her—

"Me dear, the van wi'out our carrier is a dumpsey place. You mustn't
never leave off a-drivin' us."

"She'll be carried off herself, I reckon, one day," said another, "but
we'll hope your man will live in these parts, miss, and then you shall
still be our carrier."

"Oh, don't wish me such a fate as yours!" said Tomina. "To be tied up
to a man is such bondage—now, isn't it?"

There was a cackle of laughter at this.

"'Tis Bible orders," said one old woman, solemnly—"that the woman serve
the man; an' as I tell the young folks, if the maids want to turn that
topsy-turvey, the Lord will have it agenst 'em in the judgment."

Tomina got sober at once.

"I wish we all lived our lives according to the Bible, Mrs. Sapper.
What a happy world it would be, wouldn't it?"

"It would be a world of Sundays," said another.

"Oh no—I don't believe that the Bible and religion only belong to
Sunday. We are meant to have our busy weekdays, but every bit of work
is gilded with sunshine if we feel we belong to God."

There was sudden silence in the van. Tomina surprised her audience.
They thought her very good company, but rather a careless, giddy sort
of individual.

"Be you proper religious, miss?" asked a chapel-goer, gravely. "Have
you got your soul saved?"

There was some indignation at this, and the speaker was hushed.

"'Tisn't preachin' and such like we has in this van," said a Mrs.
Hutton. "Look at 'ome, Mrs. Coke; we heard a proper wrangling night
afore last, when your Bill came home a half-hour behind his time!"

"Oh, hush!" said Tomina, looking back over her shoulder at the woman.
"We won't say any more now. But Mrs. Coke is quite right—our religion
is not right unless we can say our souls are safe in God's keeping,
and—and I dare to hope that mine is."

The talkers were silenced.

Their carrier was continually surprising them, and for her to "talk
religion" was the most surprising event of all.

It was a busy day in Damerton, for it was the Christmas market. The
shops were gay with bright evergreens and all kinds of Christmas
novelties. Tomina had a good deal of shopping to do for herself to-day.
She was looking into a toy-shop window wondering what she could buy for
Harry, when he himself rushed into her arms.

"Oh, Tommie darling, is it you? I thought I was never going to see you
again. And you are going to have me for Christmas, aren't you? We break
up the day after to-morrow, and Miss Dale has brought us out to see the
Christmas market."

"Of course, I'm expecting you," said Tomina, putting her arm round the
boy. "I'm getting a dull old woman, now I've nobody to play with."

"Oh, you should play with Thor, he's ripping! Tommie, you aren't going
away to London and leave us altogether? Miss Dale heard you were. I
think if you did, I should turn into a little old man with wrinkles!"

He was dancing round her as he spoke, and then Miss Dale came up with
two other small boys. Instantly Harry's manner altered, and Tomina
laughed at his consequential gravity.

"It's a friend of mine," he said, in a lofty aside to his two
schoolfellows. "I'm going to spend Christmas with her."

Miss Dale and Tomina exchanged a few remarks, and then the former
called Harry to follow her.

For a moment he lingered, and put his mouth up close to Tomina's ear.

"Tommie, if you had to give a present to a—a kind of lady—not a very
old one, what would you get for her?"

"I'd go to the penny stall in the market," said Tomina, promptly, "and
buy her a bundle of tape—a nice, useful thing to have—or a pen, Harry.
They have lovely pens there for a penny."

"But she mustn't know how much it costs," said Harry, with a frown.

"You needn't tell her."

Harry was called again; he was obliged to go.

"If I don't get it at the penny stall, she won't know," he said.
"Good-bye, Tommie!"

He dashed away.

And Tomina went on shopping with a catch in her throat.

"Oh, I wish I was a mother of a family!" she said. "One wants to have
children belonging to one at Christmas-time."

She came home that night very tired. And Susan was aghast at all the
parcels brought into the house.

"Something for each of my old women," said Tomina, laughing, "and for
the young ones too, of course. And I saw Harry, Susan. We shall have
him here in two days' time."

"Mrs. Francis called, ma'am, and seemed to want to see you badly. She
said she'd come again to-morrow morning."

"It's about Harry, I suppose."

Tomina relapsed into silence. Mrs. Francis brought thoughts of Colonel
Norman and his mother. She remembered that she had promised to write to
him at Christmas-time. She had only heard from him once, and that was
a terse few lines telling her of their safe arrival abroad. Tired as
she was, after her evening meal was over, she got out her blotter, and
sitting in her low chair by the fire, sat gazing into the hot coals,
pen in hand.

"I must get it over," she said at last, rousing herself from a reverie
into which she had sunk. And then she wrote as follows:—

   "MY DEAR COLONEL NORMAN,

   "My best wishes for you and your mother at this time! You see I have
remembered my promise to write, but letter-writing is always an effort,
and my pen seems to paralyse my brain. We are having hard frost now,
and I spend most of my time dreaming over the fire. Do you remember my
brother Tom? He has just married. I am selfishly sorry, for the bits
of time he spent with me on leave were always very precious to me, and
they are gone for ever now. I went up to town, but I like it less than
ever, so I am back here jogging away on market days with my van, and
learning a good deal in my studies of nature and humanity.

   "How is your mother? My heart sinks down as I think of the enormous
amount of resignation and patience it must take to bear such a lot as
hers, and yours, cheerfully. Do you ever smile, I wonder? Does she?
Does the Riviera sunshine reach your heart?

   "Well. I must close. We do Christmas in the old style in this village,
and if you think of me at all, you must imagine me wreathing church
pillars with ivy and holly berries and moss, or going round the village
with a big basket of goodies under my arm, and pulling aside my
curtains to listen to the waits and carol singers outside.

   "As a matter of fact, I expect I shall do none of these things because
of my unregulated mind, but I mean to enjoy everything if I can.

                            "Your old friend,

                                         "TOMINA."

   "P.S.—Do you remember I told you I was in a metamorphosis stage? I have
got through into a new life altogether—at least, my inside man has—and
my outlook upon the world is quite, quite different.

   "For the better I hope, but I cannot write about it.

   "I suppose some need no change. Yet one of my old dears said in the van
last market day—

   "'If I think as I thoughted when I were a maid, why, life has taughted
me nothing!'

   "Can you divide the human race into these two classes?—'What can I
give?' and 'What can I get?'

   "Isn't this all very egotistical? Adieu."

This letter went its way, and brought a prompt reply—

   "MY DEAR TOMINA,

   "You 'Colonel' me, but I will not 'Miss' you. We are too old friends
for that. Your letter arrived on Christmas morning, and if the sunshine
had not reached my heart before, it has done so since. My only fault
is that you might have been more egotistical and given me some further
and clearer account of your dear little self and surroundings. You may
be quite sure that I shall imagine you in many Christmas pictures of my
own composition. If you sit dreaming over your fire, I sit on the sunny
verandah outside my mother's room and dream my dreams as I look away
at the distant mountain with peeps, between mimosa bushes, of the blue
Mediterranean.

   "My mother is better in many ways. She can talk, but she will always
be a helpless invalid. She now has a longing for home, and when the
warmer weather comes, I think we shall return to England. But the Court
is going to be sold, so I do not know where we shall settle. We may
go down to Devon. Will you write again and cheer our spirits? Even a
letter is an event to my mother now. She loves all news in any shape or
form. It is her only entertainment. Will you give us this pleasure from
time to time? I do not understand your metamorphosis. You did not need
any change in my eyes.

   "But then I am only an old fogey, and a very dull one now at the best
of times. I saw your brother's marriage in the 'Times.' It surprised
me. I knew her years ago. She was a brilliant beauty, and I quite
thought she had married an old chum of mine, but I suppose they altered
their minds. Adieu, Tomina! May Christmas blessing be yours!

                           "Always your devoted

                                           "GERALD."

Tomina heard about Yockley Court being for sale before she received
this letter. Mrs. Francis told her when she came to see her. She wanted
to know if she should have Harry at the Hall, or whether Tomina meant
to keep him with her for the whole of his holidays. When this matter
was settled, she began to talk about the Normans.

"It is so sad that they should have to give up the Court, but I think
Colonel Norman has known for some time that it must go. He could not
pull things together, though he tried hard. And, of course, this stay
in the Riviera is a great expense. I think it just wonderful, don't
you, that a man of Gerald Norman's sort should be such a patient,
devoted son? I have known him many years, and some of his friends used
to call him 'the Despot.' But we are given many lessons to learn, are
we not? And I am sure his character will be mellowed and softened under
this trial."

Tomina would never discuss Colonel Norman with any one, least of all
with Mrs. Francis.

But she no longer disliked the young widow. She felt that now she had a
great bond in common with her.

"You think that we all have to go through discipline?"

"We are told so, are we not?"

And Mrs. Francis looked at Tomina very sympathetically.

"I know some people who have never had a trouble in their life," said
Tomina. "And I used to think that if you were good, you courted trouble
at once."

"Not necessarily. But we are reminded that a father chastens his
sons—not strangers."

Tomina's face grew very grave and sweet.

"I hope I am not going to be chastened yet. I am only two months old—a
mere baby."

Then Mrs. Francis's face lighted up, and her eyes glowed. Putting her
hand on Tomina's arm, she said caressingly—

"How very sweet of you to tell me what I have been longing to know!"

"Did you guess, then? Why haven't you spoken to me?"

"I have learned to be patient. I have prayed for you every day since we
first met."

"But why?" asked Tomina, touched and a little mystified. "What made you
think of me at all?"

"I fancy most people who have met you think about you. You came down
here a perfect stranger to us all, and now I think I may say that you
live in every one's heart."

"Thank you," said Tomina; "I don't believe you pay empty compliments. I
suppose you have thought me very scatter-brained and frivolous?"

"It seemed to me that you were in a transition stage, like an empty
house waiting for an owner."

"Then why didn't you tell me so?"

"Would you have liked it?"

"No," and Tomina laughed as she spoke; "I don't think I should have
ever spoken to you again."

"That was what I felt. I was ready if any opportunity had come, but I
prayed much."

"Well," said Tomina, softly, "I hope the empty house is tenanted. But
I still require a good deal of sweeping and garnishing. Harry was a
little angel in disguise. You taught Harry, and Harry taught me, so I
do owe you something after all."

Quite simply she told Mrs. Francis of how one thing had led on to
another, until the centre of her life was disturbed and changed.

"It was reading the Bible so much to Harry that showed me my need. And
then, when I was in despair about myself and didn't know what to do,
Mrs. Cayley solved my difficulties with the simple words, 'Ask, and ye
shall receive.' It just flashed through me what a fool I was not to ask
for everything at once. So I did it."

They sat on talking like close friends, and when Mrs. Francis at last
rose to go, she kissed Tomina.

"I do hope that you will break through your unsociable rule, and come
and see me some time."

"I will. I should like to do it."

So they parted, and Susan could not keep the glint of satisfaction out
of her eyes when Tomina said to her—

"I like Mrs. Francis at last, Susan, you will be glad to hear."

"'Tis time indeed, ma'am! I do think for two of our nicest ladies not
to be on close visitin' terms is very strange! And 'tis only for want
of knowin', as I have told you often."


When Harry came home, Tomina found she had her hands full. They had
a very happy Christmas. On Christmas Day they dined at the Hall. On
Boxing Day, the Rector gave a village tea and Christmas tree. And that
same week, Tomina gave a tea to all of her regular passengers in her
van. She heard from her brother and his wife on Christmas Day. They
both seemed happy.

Doreen wrote as follows:—

   "MY DEAR TOMINA,

   "Isn't it strange that we have come into each other's lives in such
a short time? I hope you're having a good Christmas. We are. Tom and
I spend most of our days in choosing papers and chintzes and bits of
antique furniture for my house. We do it from catalogues, and it is
great fun. Our present quarters are very luxurious, but hardly snug.
And I am so glad that my home is not a great rambling place like this.
Tom goes next Friday. Will you have me on Saturday? I am quite looking
forward to it. And then we shall renew and cement our friendship, I
hope. May I send you my love?

   "Your affectionate sister-in-law,

                          "DOREEN GAVIN."

Tomina gave a little sigh.

"I am glad she likes me, but she has taken Tom too quietly. Her letter
is more full of that house of hers than of him."

It was arranged that Harry should go to the Hall the day before Doreen
arrived.

"You are sure, Tommie," he said, "that you don't send me there because
you're tired of me?"

"Quite sure, sweetheart! But we haven't much room, you know, and Susan
couldn't wait upon all of us."

"Susan says," announced Harry, solemnly, "that the way you wait on
yourself now is a marvel! She says those that ain't born to it rarely
take to it late in life."

"Oh, Harry, you and Susan will be the death of me!"

And Tomina laughed so infectiously that Harry joined her, though he did
not know at what she was laughing.


When Saturday came, Tomina awaited Doreen's arrival with a strange
mixture of feelings. She was very low at Tom's departure, and felt
that she had been defrauded of his society. Doreen would always in the
future stand between her and her twin brother. She had had a great
struggle in her heart to think kindly of Doreen, and yet she had a
curious and intense interest in her, and was glad that she would have
the opportunity of getting to know her.

Doreen arrived late on Saturday afternoon after dark. Tomina sent
a close fly for her. And when she came into her little room, her
shoulders were powdered with snow.

They kissed each other warmly. Doreen's cheeks were pink, and she
declared she was warm with the exertion of walking up the steep hill.

"It's an awful place to get to in winter!" she said. "You could never
ask an elderly person here or a delicate one, for the cabman insists
upon turning you out at the bottom of the hill. He said that it would
do me good to walk. And he was right. I was freezing slowly inside his
carriage."

"I sent a foot-warmer and a rug."

"Yes," and Doreen smiled as she spoke. "He said to me, 'Our young
lady be wonderful thoughtful for the feet. Her van be fitted up with
these here hot tins.' By which he meant that you gave your passengers
foot-warmers, I suppose?"

"Of course," said Tomina; "it's the least I can do for them."

"How snug and cosy you are here! It is like a bird's nest."

"I have never suffered from the cold in my life," said Tomina, "and as
this cottage is not so warm as the London houses, I have piled comforts
in every room, and keep fires going in them all. Susan was quite aghast
at first, but I found a small girl in the village who comes in every
morning to help her, so we're all right. Now tell me how Tom is."

"Quite well. He went off at six this morning, before I was up."

"Didn't you go to see him off?"

"To Southampton? Dear no! Why should I? How could I have come down to
you to-day if I had?"

"I pictured you both going down to Southampton yesterday, and dining
and sleeping there," said Tomina.

There was a little reproach in her tone.

"Men don't like to be fussed over by their belongings," said Doreen,
indifferently.

Tomina made no reply. There was a little restraint in their
conversation after that.

Later on in the evening, after they had had a dainty little dinner, and
were sitting in two big easy-chairs before a blazing fire, Doreen began
to talk about her house, and then she grew enthusiastic at once.

Tomina listened and was interested. But at last she said—

"I believe you're one of those women whose home is the dearest thing in
the world—dearer than a husband."

"Perhaps you are right."

Doreen's face grew grave at once, and a sad look came into her eyes.

"I suppose I may be romantic," went on Tomina, "but I feel that I
shouldn't care a bit about my circumstances as long as I were with the
one I liked."

"You are younger than I. As you get on in life, you learn to be content
with the second best."

Tomina's bright brown eyes dwelt reflectively upon Doreen's proud,
clear-cut face.

"I feel as if it is an insult to Tom to call him second best."

Tomina's tone was fiery.

"I did not necessarily allude to your brother. A home has its
attractions to me, and from what I hear of you, I should have thought
you sympathised with me. You became tired of your stepmother's gay
house in town; I became tired of the same thing out in Queensland.
When I went out there, I thought I should get away from society, but I
discovered my mistake."

"Why did you want to get away from society?" Tomina could not refrain
from asking.

"Why did you?" Doreen asked, looking at her steadily.

Tomina laughed in an embarrassed fashion.

"I was sent away by doctor's orders."

"Yes, but why did you wilfully let your health go? Why did you rack
your body and nerves to pieces? There is no need to do it. We both know
that."

Then Tomina smiled her sweet smile.

"My dear Doreen, our lives are our own; we need not pry inquisitively
into each other's motives and way of spending our existence."

Doreen looked sombrely into the fire in front of her. They fought shy
of personal topics after that. Doreen described the place in which she
was going to live, and talk flowed smoothly till bed-time.

When they said good night, Tomina looked up into Doreen's face with a
little of her old gay audacity.

"Sisters-in-law rarely like each other. Do you think we shall be
exceptions to the rule?"

"I don't see why we should not be," answered Doreen, promptly, "if you
will be reasonable, and not expect me to be for ever extolling your
brother's virtues and bemoaning his absence."

"My dear Doreen, I would rather you were sincere than anything else in
the world."

"And," pursued Doreen, gravely, "just as you can be happy when your
brother is at sea in spite of your great love for him, so can I, and
I mean to be. It takes a good deal to make me content and happy, but
when I have once reached that stage, it will take a good deal more to
disenchant me. So do not try to do it."

"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. You ought to be a blissfully
happy woman."

They did not kiss each other as they separated for the night.

"We shall go slowly," said Tomina to herself. "I wonder if she will be
dull company?"

But she was not. She was full of information and interest. Gardening
was her hobby, but she was also a great reader, and could talk well.
She had had many strange experiences in Australia, and Tomina listened
to her stories with a fascination which surprised herself. Doreen was
quite content to saunter about the village and take an occasional walk
with Tomina; the rest of the time she spent over the fire with a book.


On one of the carrier's days, she accompanied Tomina in the van, but
she was not a success in it. The passengers were afraid of her, and the
usual jokes and stories were not forthcoming.

Tomina taxed her with stiffness.

"You don't like my dear country people. You are too sensible; we are
all silly together when we go to market. Everything amuses us, unless a
tragedy has happened, and then you should see our round eyes and open
mouths. Sometimes the tragedies are more amusing than painful. I wish I
could tell you some of them. They are inimitable in their slow country
dialect."

"I don't care for the lower classes," said Doreen, a little
indifferently.

"But if you're going to live in the country, you must. You will be
surrounded by them."

"I shall live my life to myself. I am looking forward to it. I have
been entertaining people that have never appealed to me for years. Now
I shall have a rest."

"That was how I first felt when I came down here. And then I had a
surfeit of myself; and the villagers don't want entertaining—they
entertain me. I wonder—I wonder if you will be led along the same road
as I was?"

Doreen looked questioningly at her and Tomina's eyes glowed as she said—

"When we know each other a little better, I'll tell you what has
happened to me down here."

She said no more, and Doreen asked no questions.



CHAPTER XVII

AN ENGAGEMENT

TOMINA and Doreen lunched at the Hall and dined at the Rectory. But
neither of them cared for visiting. One afternoon, young Tracy St.
Vincent came over to call. In the course of conversation, he asked
Tomina if she could ride.

"I have a spare mount. I wondered if you would like to exercise her.
She is a black mare and a very easy goer."

"I do ride occasionally, but I really have no time at present to
indulge in it."

"Would Mrs. Gavin like to try her? Oh, I say, you might be friendly
with me! I'm awfully down in my luck! The country isn't my style at
all. I haven't a single friend."

"You are a very foolish young man," said Tomina, sitting up very
straight and speaking in a grandmotherly fashion. "Take the people as
they are round here, and don't keep abusing the country. That is what
they dislike in you."

"Do they now? Who told you that? That stiff old Johnny at the Hall
here? Norman is still away, isn't he? Why is he selling his place? I
met the fellow who has bought it yesterday. He came over to my place to
ask me about one of my keepers who is leaving me."

"Who is buying it?" asked Tomina, with interest. She was always glad
when Tracy got off himself.

"He's an old chum of Norman's—Maurice Holme, he calls himself. A major
in the same regiment as Norman used to be in, he told me. He and his
wife are staying at the 'Red Deer' in Damerton. He's rather a decent
chap—not so stiff and starchy as most of our neighbours. He took me for
an old inhabitant; it was quite a change from the way most treat me."

Just by chance, Tomina happened to glance at Doreen. She was struck by
the ashen pallor of her face.

"Aren't you well?" she asked.

"I think your room is very warm," Doreen said, rising as she spoke and
walking towards the door. "I'm all right; don't trouble to follow me."

She closed the door after her. Tracy St. Vincent went on talking, but
Tomina only half heard him.

At last, she asked—

"How long is this Major Holme staying in Damerton? Is he going to take
possession of Yockley Court at once?"

"I believe so. The arrangement is that he should walk straight in and
have the use of the contents of it till Norman can come back to see to
his personal effects."

"Oh, I am sorry—I can't bear old places to lose their owners! Has he a
family?"

"Didn't ask him. His wife is with him."

Tomina was very distrait for the rest of Tracy's visit. She was
relieved when he went. He did not stay to tea, as he was going on to
the Hall.

Doreen sent word by Susan that she had such a bad headache that she was
going to bed, and would rather not be disturbed.

Tomina sent her up a cup of tea, but did not attempt to go near her.
She sat over her fire thinking deeply. Before she went to bed, she
tapped at Doreen's door. It was locked. So she called out good night
and went to bed.

The next morning, Doreen appeared at breakfast with much her usual
manner, and apologised for her abrupt departure the previous afternoon.

"I do get very sudden headaches, and it's no good inflicting other
people with one's misery. Silence and bed generally cure me."

"That is fortunate," said Tomina, quietly.

Doreen looked quickly at her, opened her lips as if about to say
something, and then closed them.

They walked out together after breakfast, and Doreen said suddenly—

"I think I shall have to leave you at the end of this week, Tomina. I
must be up in town to see the decorators about my house."

"But you have only been with me a week."

"Ten days, have I not?"

"And yesterday morning you said you need not be back in town for
another fortnight."

Tomina's tone was quiet dignity itself.

Doreen was dumb.

Then Tomina turned to her, and she linked her arm in hers as she spoke
as if to take away the sting of her words.

"Yockley Court is a long way from here, Doreen, and you need not go
near Damerton."

Not a tremor nor an extra pulse beat from Doreen, but she looked
steadfastly in front of her as she said—

"I did not intend to conceal it from you. Of course, it was palpable
from my want of self-control. I do not wish to run the risk of meeting
Major Holme. It is extraordinary that in a place like this I should
hear of him."

"Not so extraordinary as my meeting Colonel Norman down here, for they
are evidently friends, and it is quite natural that one should take the
property from the other. How strangely we are connected, Doreen, you
and I! Can't we talk freely with each other?"

Doreen drew a deep breath.

"You never told me that you knew Colonel Norman."

"You never asked me."

"I don't know why you should expect me to confide in you when you are
so reticent about yourself. You reminded me the first night that I came
here that our lives were our own, that we need not be inquisitive about
each other's way of living."

"Perhaps I was wrong," said Tomina, in a low voice. "I haven't much to
tell, Doreen. I had a bitter quarrel with Colonel Norman years ago; we
parted, and the savour of my life seemed gone. That made me reckless.
And then I met him down here, and now we're friends—nothing more, and
he is away with his invalid mother, nursing her and keeping her happy."

"But he is not married?"

"No," said Tomina, a startled look coming into her eyes. "Did you ever
meet him?"

"Yes, more than once."

There was a little silence between them.

Then Tomina spoke, and there was almost a touch of tenderness in her
tone.

"You need not tell me anything, Doreen. I guess. Major Holme has been
in your past life, and though you are married to another man who holds
your heart, you don't feel ready yet to meet your old admirer."

"Ah," said Doreen, with a quick-caught breath, "you have only
yourself to thank for your separation, but I did nothing but love too
wholeheartedly. We were within a day of our marriage when—I can't tell
you the sordid story—another woman turned up and threatened him, and I
happily heard of it just in time. He married her two months afterwards,
and to use his own words to a friend of his, he has been in 'hell ever
since.'"

"Do you write to him?"

"Don't insult me."

"Forgive me, and thank you for your confidence. How crooked life is
sometimes!"

"It's not very exhilarating as one lives on."

"I don't know. It depends upon the part of ourselves which we
cultivate. That is what I have been taught since I have been here. And
I have got a new lease of life altogether. I feel as if I could be
ready for all the blows that fate could deal me. I dare say I should
crumple up when they came, but I don't know. All I do know is that I
have a breadth and height of vision that I was in absolute ignorance of
before."

"How do you mean?"

"I have got into touch with the Unseen."

Doreen looked at her with interest.

"Are you a spiritualist?"

"Not as you mean it. But we all belong to the Unseen, you know, and
numbers of us are going into it every day."

"How strangely you talk!"

"Perhaps I'm beating round the bush," said Tomina; "it is a way we
English have when we don't want to open our hearts to each other.
But in simple language I have been brought into touch with God, and
am beginning life again with my hand in His. You've no idea of the
difference it makes in everything. I walked alone for twenty-six years
of my life, and it wasn't a success, though I tried my utmost to make
it so."

Doreen gazed at her gravely and thoughtfully.

"I have walked alone all my life," she said, "and shall continue to do
so till the end."

"That will be a pity," said Tomina, "because I see now what a lot of
happiness and sunshine we miss if we do so. And we do make a mess of
things, don't we?"

"Or rather other people do it for us," said Doreen, bitterly.

They said no more. Doreen abruptly changed the conversation, and Tomina
felt a great pity for her, as she saw that poor Tom had not yet taken
the place of her former lover in her heart, and that the past was
casting a blight over her life.


In two days' time, she left Little Honeycombe, and Tomina did not seek
to detain her.

They drove together to the station, and fate did indeed seem against
them when, pacing up and down the quiet little country platform, they
saw Major Holme with his wife. When he saw Doreen, he lifted his hat
apparently with the greatest composure. But Tomina's quick eyes noted
that his hand trembled like a woman's as he held it out.

"How are you?" he said. "Who would have thought of seeing you in this
part? May I introduce my wife to you?"

Doreen held herself proudly; she shook hands with him, and bowed to
his wife, who was a very smart woman of fashion, but who did not bear
the stamp of a gentlewoman. Then Tomina was introduced, and a few
commonplace remarks were made till the train came in.

Mrs. Holme had evidently no idea who Doreen was; she suggested that
they should travel together. But Doreen promptly said she was going
third class, and Major Holme did not endorse his wife's request.

As he wished Doreen good-bye, a miserable, pleading look shot into his
eyes. Her face was as cold and hard as steel. And when Tomina kissed
her in parting, it did not relax or soften.

Tomina came home in low spirits. Doreen had told her she must come
to her for a visit after she had settled in her new house, and she
had promised to do so. But she still felt vexed with her for not
appreciating her husband more, and she did not look forward to the
visit.


A week or two later, she met Major Holme at the Hall. His wife was
not with him, and he seemed a different man without her. He turned to
Tomina at once.

"You and I must be friends," he said in his cheerful, hearty voice;
"for I believe you know Norman, and he and I have always been pals!"

"You are coming to live at Yockley Court," said Tomina.

"Yes, we are—at least, I'm going to settle my wife in. But I am still
in the Service, and have just been ordered up to Edinburgh."

"Won't your wife be lonely?"

"She says she won't. She has always been wild to possess a country
house—the only thing Norman can't give us with his is a ghost. And
that's a sad lack."

Tomina laughed.

"You can soon conjure up one. Have you heard from Colonel Norman
lately? Do you know how his mother is?"

"About the same, he says. I heard yesterday. Funny chap, isn't he? He
can alter his mode of life so extraordinarily quickly! He was just the
man I should have said who would always stay in the Service and never
be happy anywhere else. But he chucked it, and then came off down here
and settled into a country gentleman. I came down for his shooting
about a year ago, and you'd never have guessed he'd been a soldier.
Never mentioned it. Now he's had to chuck the gentleman 'rôle,' and
he's a sick-nurse and attendant to his mother, and I hear can't be
dragged into anything out there—plays a game of golf occasionally and
drops in at the club, but otherwise leads a woman's life. He and I
write to each other on and off."

"I think he has been having some buffets of fate," said Tomina. "I
expect his heart is still in the Service."

"Do you think so? I say, do tell me—has Miss Forrester married a
relation of yours?"

"My twin brother."

"Really! Do they live in this part?"

"My brother is in the Navy. She was only staying with me; she is
settling into a house somewhere in the Midlands."

Major Holme stroked his moustache thoughtfully. Tomina wondered what
were his thoughts. But Sir Alfred Digby came up at that minute, and
they had no more opportunity for private conversation.

She did not meet him again for some time.


The winter slowly passed. Tomina came out of her shell, joined the
Rectory working party, and undertook to help Mrs. Herbert with the
village clothing club every Saturday.

"I have a lot of lost time to redeem," she said to Mrs. Francis, "and
if there is anything that I am capable of doing, I mean to have a try
at it."

One afternoon, Mrs. Francis came to see Tomina in the dusk after tea.
They were very friendly by this time, but Tomina saw from her manner
that she had called for some special purpose, and she wondered what it
was.

Mrs. Francis seemed a little nervous and restless. Presently she asked
rather abruptly—

"Have you heard from Colonel Norman lately?"

"No," said Tomina, slightly surprised at the question. "We do not
correspond."

"You are old friends, are you not? He told me so."

Tomina did not reply.

Then Mrs. Francis laid her hand softly on her arm.

"I want to tell you something. I wonder if you will give me your
congratulations? We have cared for each other for some little time now,
and we are going to make our engagement known."

Tomina turned to her quickly; a pink flush rose into her cheeks.

"Of course I congratulate you! I hope you will be very happy. I guessed
it a short time ago."

She spoke quickly and feverishly.

Mrs. Francis gazed into the fire with dreamy eyes and a happy smile
about her lips.

"You have always liked him, have you not? I was sure of your sympathy."

Wild rebellion and misery were seething in Tomina's heart. She hardly
knew what she said.

Mrs. Francis's voice seemed to come to her from a great distance off,
and after a few commonplace remarks, the young widow rose to go.

When Tomina had wished her good-bye, she came into her sitting-room and
threw herself impulsively on her couch. Thor, seeing her face buried
in the cushions, crept up to her and licked her hand. When Tomina was
alone, he generally kept her company. Tomina took no notice of him at
first, until he gave a low whine of perplexity and uneasiness. Then she
sat up and clasped her arms round his shaggy head.

"Oh, Thor, dear Thor, you're a safe confidant! My punishment has come
to me at last for my pride and indifference! I might have known my own
heart before it was too late, but, oh, how fickle men are! And Major
Holme was quite right; he knows him well. He has, after all his earnest
protestations to me, suddenly transferred his affections. I suppose he
thought, and quite rightly too, that I ought to know my own mind, and
as I seemed so decided, he took me at my word. And, Thor, there hasn't
been a day when I have not been thinking of him. The future seemed
to hold only him in it! Aren't you sorry for me? Oh, I am sorry for
myself! It is a bitter and sudden blow."

Tears dropped on the dog's head. Thor looked up with tender, speaking
eyes. He knew his mistress was in trouble, and he wagged his tail to
and fro and watched her intently to see if there was anything he could
do to comfort or please her.

And then Susan came into the room, and Tomina sprang up with a gay
laugh on her lips.

"I have heard such interesting news, Susan, but perhaps I had better
not tell you yet."

"Indeed, I can guess, ma'am. 'Tis all over the village, and we're just
delighted. Mrs. Francis is too good to remain a widow all her life.
Now, if only you and Sir Alfred could come together, it would fit in so
well, wouldn't it? And then we shouldn't lose you from amongst us."

"My dear Susan, Sir Alfred is a confirmed bachelor. You mustn't take to
matchmaking. And I am cut out for a spinster's life; you won't lose me
just yet, I can assure you!"

Then with a smile still on her lips and an agonising weight on her
heart, Tomina went out of the room.

She found it beyond her powers to discuss Mrs. Francis's engagement
with Susan.

She went early to bed that evening, but not to sleep.

Tomina had been half conscious for a long time that her feelings were
undergoing a change as regards Gerald Norman. She would never have
suffered so much all those years had her love for him entirely died.

As she had said to Doreen, life had lost its savour since their
quarrel. And yet she had resolutely and determinedly put him, or
sought to put him, out of her life. When he had insisted upon renewing
their acquaintance, she had at first passionately resisted it. When
later she gradually drifted into friendship, she still crushed the
inclination in her heart to forgive him. Now she knew she had nothing
to forgive; the pride and the wilfulness had all been on her side, and
no self-respecting man could have acted otherwise than he had done. Her
heart was still in his keeping. She was counting the days, too, when
she might see him again. She had already pictured him in imagination
once again pressing his claim upon her. This time she would yield, she
assured herself; she must do so—she could not hold out any longer.

And now this blow had fallen. She was no longer enshrined in his heart.
Another had taken her place. Her opportunity for yielding to his
importunity would never come. He did not want her.

The shock of it stunned, bewildered her. She tossed restlessly from
side to side. Sleep would not come. And then suddenly her soul found
repose in prayer.

"God is my Father," she thought, and a little thrill of hope and light
sprang up in her heart. "He loves me. He knows all about it. If I have
lost Gerald in this life, it must be for the best reason in the world.
I am not guiding my own life any longer. God is. I will trust Him. I
will wait and see what comes."

In a very few moments, the tumult in her heart was stilled and she fell
asleep.



CHAPTER XVIII

DOREEN'S HOME

"GOOD morning! I am working my round in this part of the world, and I
have a message for you from old Martha Tubbs. 'Tell her to come along
and hearten me up a bit, for I be terrible lonesome in bed'!"

It was Dr. Merton who stood outside Tomina's window. There was a breath
of spring in the air. Tomina had opened the window and was leaning out
of it, with somewhat wistful eyes, when the doctor had marched in at
her gate, and now was speaking to her.

He glanced at her with his keen professional eye.

"You are not looking well. What have you been doing to yourself?"

"I am not your patient any longer," said Tomina, with a little of her
old gay humour, "so don't ask inquisitive questions. And may I in
return ask you what you have been doing to yourself? You look as if you
had had a fortune left you!"

Dr. Merton certainly was in the best of spirits; there was an alert
spring in his bearing, a joyousness in his eyes that was not usually
there.

"Well, don't you think a fortune has befallen me?" he asked. "I hear
that you have been told, so I await your congratulations."

"I have been told nothing," said Tomina, looking at him in a puzzled
way.

"Surely Mrs. Francis came to see you yesterday?"

"Yes, she did."

But still Tomina remained mystified.

Dr. Merton looked at her, and his eyes began to twinkle.

"You think her wasted upon a country doctor?"

"You don't mean to say that you are the man? That she is engaged to
you?"

"Didn't she tell you so? We have known each other for a long time."

Tomina had been well trained from childhood in self-control. Her gay
life in London had been good discipline in that way. She looked up at
the doctor and smiled.

"I have been very stupid. You need not mention it to her, but I
quite misunderstood her when she was trying to tell me about it. I
am delighted, Dr. Merton. I don't know which of you I feel I ought
to congratulate more. You will make an ideal couple. And, oh, what
an amount of goodness there will be in one house! It will be almost
heaven! Or the courts of it at least."

Dr. Merton laughed.

"I assure you, we are both very human. But I felt you would be glad."

He remained talking some little time.

But when he had left her, Tomina felt almost as stupefied now by the
revulsion of feeling that passed through her, as she had before, when
she had first received the communication from Mrs. Francis which
she had so absurdly misunderstood. She went over in her mind the
conversation of the day before, and could only conclude that Mrs.
Francis's remark about Colonel Norman was quite irrelevant to the
announcement of her engagement.

"She must have thought I knew all about it, and I never had any idea!
How extraordinary that Susan should not have undeceived me! I suppose
she knows."

In she called Susan, who promptly said—

"I knew the doctor would come and tell you himself, ma'am. I saw him
coming up the path. He does deserve her, doesn't he? We've said a long
time ago they ought to make a match of it!"

"It is delightful," said Tomina.

She did not let Susan know of her mistake, but after her anguish of the
evening before, she felt she could hardly bear the relief and happiness
that came to her now.

She put on her hat and coat and, calling Thor, took a long walk. It did
her good, both mentally and physically. She came home with a soft fresh
colour in her cheeks and such light and sparkle in her eyes, that Susan
told a neighbour that Miss Gavin was getting more beautiful every day.


On the following Friday a lively discussion took place in the van upon
the merits of masterfulness in married life. Of course, the doctor's
engagement was the beginning of the discussion.

"I do say," said Mrs. Capper, "that they be a proper suited couple.
Mrs. Francis is just as gentle as the doctor be firm. There'll be no
fallin' out atween 'em!"

"Well, now," said Tomina, looking back over her shoulder at her
passengers, "do you think that the husband or the wife should rule in
the house?"

There was a good deal of laughter.

"Why, miss, the man ought to be master, Bible says."

"But if he drinks like a beast," said one young woman, sharply; "'tis
according to the natures of 'em!"

"There be Tom Lorrimer," said old Mrs. Capper, "who be under his wife's
thumb and afraid to wink his eye unless she gives 'im leave. The only
time he do be able to stand up to her is when he's had a drop too much,
and he told me he took it on purpose so as to master her!"

"I'd master him!" said another woman, vindictively.

"I'd like to see my husband a masterin' of me. The woman should be
missus of her house. She be in it an' keeps it; the man be only there
nights and the evenin's!"

"It's like this, miss," said the oldest woman there; "there be some men
born to be masters, but there be others that be best managed for. If
a man be born and bred to rule, his wife had best give in for sake of
peace, but if he be a poor weak sort o' chap, 'tis for the good of all
that his wife rules for 'im!"

"I believe you are right," said Tomina, thoughtfully. "Circumstances
alter cases. I used to think a man was a tyrant if he insisted upon
having his own way, but if it is a good way, the woman ought to yield."

Then Mrs. Judd, of the general shop spoke. "There be grand talk now of
women rulin' in Parlyment and havin' their votes. Miss Merryweather
believes in that; she gave us a long talkin' to one day, but I says to
'er—

"'Miss Merryweather,' I says, 'you may be very clever-headed, but
when it comes to makin' yourself heard in the Public Halls in that
there Parlyment House, why, my John would roar you down easy! If the
Almighty,' I says, 'wanted you to up and speak in Parlyment, he'd have
given you a voice to do it,' I says.

"Then she says to me, 'Do you know some women's voices carry farther
than men's; what about actresses?'

"'I don't know nothin' about actresses,' I says; 'they be not for
respectable ladies to copy.'

"And, of course, 'tis not only the voice, if men have always made laws
for hundreds of years, doesn't it follow that they be more clever at
it than the women? 'Tis just because 'tis a new thing that these here
women be wantin' to try their hand at it. They've nothin' else to do.
Let 'em get married, and have a dozen children to wash and feed and
clothe and a house to keep clean, an' a husband to cook for, they
wouldn't have the time or thought to be wantin' to be standin' amongst
the men in Parlyment!"

"But all women can't marry, Mrs. Judd," said Tomina, "and some think
that they could make better laws for women than the men can do."

There was a chorus of dissent at this.

"We'd rather the gentlemen ruled us than the ladies," said one. "A
gentleman—well, be he not so sharp-eyed and inquisitive as a lady?"

Here the van stopped to take up Mrs. Cayley.

Tomina greeted her warmly, and made her comfortable in the corner
behind her.

"We've been talking about husbands and wives, Mrs. Cayley, and which of
them ought to be the ruler. What do you think? Some of us don't like
to be ruled and managed by men, and some of us do. It depends upon the
man, don't you think?"

Mrs. Cayley looked round her with her sweet, gentle smile.

"I don't think there'll be any talk of ruling, where there be love for
each other. When love rules, you only see the love, and not the rule."

The women were silent.

"Yes," said Tomina, "of course, you are right. It is love and trust
that is wanted in married life, and then there will be no talk of rule."

Her thoughts went to Colonel Norman.

"My love was not deep enough or we should never have separated," she
said to herself. "I feel now that, if he were to want me, I would never
wish to have any other will but his."

The talk went on in the van, but Tomina did not join in. She gazed
wistfully and dreamily in front of her, and it was only when she
arrived at Damerton that she roused herself to her usual business.


A few days after this, she received a letter from Tom, the first he had
sent her since he sailed.

   "DEAR OLD TOMMIE,"

   "I am not a good fist at yarning with my pen, but I feel I treated you
a bit shabbily. My great happiness made me a selfish brute. Isn't she
wonderful? Are you two real friends? I want you to be. Have you gone to
stay with her yet? Take the first train and go! I want you to tell me
about her. She, like myself, is a bad correspondent; she never tells
what I want to know, and how can she? I charge you to do it, and you'll
earn my everlasting gratitude. Write me twenty pages. Don't stint paper
or ink. Tell me all about her, how she looks, where she is when you're
writing, what she is doing, what gown she is wearing, whether that rare
smile of hers creeps over her face. It comes so slowly and it goes so
quickly, but I learnt to watch for it, and whilst it lasted it warmed
my heart and made me feel I could go through fire and water to get it
again. Oh, Tommie, I can tell you I feel in a desert, stranded and
forlorn. My only comfort is living once again that blessed fortnight
in imagination. I shall hope for continual letters from you when you
get to her. Do go at once. She like's you, and she'll be lonely; she'll
miss me, though she is never one to proclaim it. This postbag is being
closed.

                      "Adieu.

                 "Your devoted Twin,

                                 "Tom."

"Oh dear, oh dear!" sighed Tomina. "How foolish young husbands are! He
little knows, poor boy, how indifferent Doreen is to both of us. And
how can I force myself upon her before she asks me? Is that all the use
I can be to him now, a kind of mirror reflecting for his benefit all
she says and does?"

But she was not surprised to get a letter from Doreen in a week's time
to ask her for a "short visit."

She once again placed Joe in charge of her van, and went to the Dower
House at Walburton.


Doreen met her at the station in a pretty little pony-trap. She told
Tomina it was her cousin's wedding gift to her. She was looking
brighter and happier, and talked away about her house and garden the
whole time. It was a drive of two and a half miles, and they arrived
at the house just before dusk. The last rays of the setting sun were
gilding all the windows as they entered.

"It's a good omen for your visit," said Doreen, pleasantly. "Now you
must not expect perfection, though I have aimed at it, and some of the
rooms are still in rather an unfinished state. But don't you think I
have a sweet house?"

Tomina could quite satisfy her on that point. Indeed, the quaint,
old-fashioned cottage, with its low, long irregular rooms, and
beautiful oak beams and panelling would have satisfied any artist's
heart. Doreen had good taste; and every room was a picture of dainty
freshness and comfort. They had a cosy tea in the drawing-room, and as
it was still early spring, a bright wood fire was very acceptable.

Tomina tried to feel that this was Tom's home, but she could not
picture it.

When Doreen took her into the third sitting-room, she looked at the
rose-covered chintzes, and the fragile Chippendale chairs and tables,
and asked—

"Is this Tom's smoking-room?"

Doreen raised her eyebrows.

"This is the morning room. I write and work here, of course. I dare say
Tom will be able to bring his pipe in when he likes."

"But have you no man's room?" questioned Tomina, persistently. "When he
is home, where is he to sit?"

"With me, I should think," said Doreen, and a cold inflection was in
her tone. "Considering how much he will be away, I have not, I confess,
furnished a room for his sole and absolute use."

Tomina was silent.

"There is a room—the housekeeper's," went on Doreen, in milder tones,
"that I dare say Tom may like to use. My maids will not want it. I only
keep two, and they have such a beautiful kitchen that they do not need
a servants' hall. But there will be plenty of time to furnish that
later."

"Oh yes," said Tomina, quickly, "you will be able to do that, of
course. I know Tom's ways when he is at home, and he would be bound to
have a den of his own."

After dinner they sat over the fire and talked. But Tomina wisely kept
off the subject of her brother as long as she could.

"What will you do with yourself when your house and garden is in
perfect order, and you have no more planning and contriving?" she asked
Doreen.

Doreen sat back in her chair with clasped hands in her lap. She was
always composed and still, her face was a striking contrast to Tomina's
sparkling vivacious one. Her eyes were clear and steady, as she
answered slowly—

"I shall live in my books when I am not gardening."

"What kind of books do you live in?"

"It depends on my mood," said Doreen. "Poetry when I am feeling flat
and dull. Philosophy when I want to think."

"You read to take yourself away from your surroundings?"

"Yes, always."

"I don't. I like to get knowledge for practical purposes. But then
it is only lately that I have tried to do useful things, and I am so
ignorant! You would laugh to see some of my purchases in the Damerton
book shop. Handbooks on cookery, of course, and medicine in the home,
and the first course in nursing and ambulance, and dog diseases, and
scientific dressmaking, and bee keeping, and gardening."

"But why have you so many hobbies?"

"Oh, they're not hobbies exactly, only I don't feel so lamentably
ignorant when I drive my van. My passengers appeal to me on every kind
of topic. Two of them had a dispute on the efficacy of onions for
poultices the other day. I had never heard of the onion cure. They
expect me to be a regular encyclopædia of knowledge. And I don't like
disappointing them."

"I wonder how soon you will tire of that van?"

"Not just yet."

"But you will not want to spend the rest of your life in that part of
the country?"

"I shall never go back to London."

"You will stagnate there."

"That is what Alice Merryweather always says. But I find I am always
making new discoveries and learning new things."

"You ought to marry," Doreen said, looking at her with sombre eyes.
"You have taken up a 'rôle' that does not suit you. A woman carrier
to my mind ought to be a gaunt, big-limbed, hard-featured person. You
don't look as if you could weather a puff of wind!"

"There I am a fraud, for I've weathered many storms, and have never
been in better health all my life. And marriage is not necessarily the
sole aim and object of a woman's life. I could not undertake it without
real love!"

The words slipped out of her lips before she thought. But Doreen looked
at her with a calm smile.

"Love is tempestuous, and uncertain, it never lasts. I do not think I
know a single couple amongst my married friends who keep their love
after ten years of married life. They get accustomed to each other,
indifferent I should say. Love is 'not' necessary, Tomina. It is a
waste of one's heart's blood often."

Tomina shook her head.

"I can't argue with you. A married life without love must be like—well,
like bread without any butter."

"Bread is very wholesome," said Doreen, with the shadow of a smile.
Then she rose from her seat and stood with her back to the fire, and
her hands clasped behind her. Looking at Tomina almost tenderly, she
said: "I feel so many years older than you, Tomina. It is difficult to
kindle a fire when it has burnt out and there are only ashes left. It
will never be kindled again in my heart. It is of no use us uttering
all these platitudes; you are not pleased with my attitude towards your
brother, but you need not be afraid. I mean to be serene, and helpful;
he will never find that I shall fail him."

"But he does love you so intensely," said Tomina; "it is such waste on
his part, is it not?"

"No, I think I like it. It soothes and comforts me."

"But why should he give you so much and you give him so little?"

Tomina's tone vibrated with feeling.

"I am giving him a great deal, and he knows it. As you said just now,
marriage is not the sole aim and object of a woman's life. It was not
mine, and I told him so. I warned him beforehand what I could give him
and what I could not. And if you leave us alone, you will find we shall
be as united a couple as the majority are."

"I shall never mention the subject again," said Tomina, quietly.

And she did not.


The following morning she was shown the quaint old garden, and Tomina
fell in love with it at once. Crocuses and early daffodils were
springing under the old red brick walls, the brown buds on trees and
shrubs were swelling visibly, and birds were singing ecstatically as
they flew here and there collecting for their nests. Doreen pointed out
the wooden seats in sheltered corners, and said she meant to bring her
writing and books out of doors as soon as the weather became warm.

"Do you know where I first got my love for a garden?" she said. "It was
about six years ago before I went out to Australia. I visited a convent
in France, and they took me into the garden, where some of them were
gardening, and some of them walking about and reading their books. It
was summer-time, and the peace and stillness under the shady trees,
and the sweet scent of the lilies and heliotrope and lemon verbena
followed me for years. It made me wish to be a nun. And when I came
into this legacy, my cup of happiness seemed full. I shall wander round
and imbibe all the scents and sounds and sweetness that will be here.
You see it in spring now. You have no idea of the wealth of bloom and
beauty that will come by-and-by!"

"You are making one envy you," said Tomina, with her gay laugh. "I can
see you on a summer's morning. It seems to suit you. You must always
wear a white gown rather long in the skirt, so that you can trail
properly over the green lawns, with a basket of roses hanging on your
arm, and a book in your hand. Then you can pose by a sundial, and
follow with your eyes the flight of rooks or doves from a dovecote. Oh,
it will be charming! But there must be an observer somewhere, or your
dream-garden will never be described in the orthodox fashion."

"You are laughing at me! I shall welcome no intruder. It is the peace
and privacy that I shall value. Can't you understand a little? I have
been at every one's beck and call since I left school, always making
myself agreeable when I did not feel so, always entertaining, always
talking small talk, paying empty compliments, making friends with
people I thoroughly despised, accepting their hospitality, joining in
empty chatter, in gay trivialities, never having a moment to myself,
smiling when my heart was aching, pretending and posing and acting day
after day, till my soul sickened and withered under it all!"

At last Tomina saw something of the fire beneath Doreen's still serene
exterior. She slipped her arm into hers and gave it a little squeeze.

"Of course, I understand, dear," she said. "Haven't I gone through it
myself? Aren't hundreds of women doing it still? And yet half of them
don't realise the pitiful slavery of it, and how they could break away
and call their souls their own if they choose. I broke away, and I
am never going back to it again. You and I are fortunate. We have no
obligations to make us do so. I know that some are nobly doing their
duty towards husbands and parents and children, and could not make a
fresh life for themselves. They must stay in it, and endure. But there
are others who could do as we have done."

Tomina's eyes were misty as she spoke. She went on—

"I seem to feel so much more for people than I used to do. I think it
is my van. I hear and see so much of human life as we go trundling
along. Sometimes I wonder, if I went back to my London life, whether
I could help any girls to escape from it, and see what a much bigger
purpose might be in their lives; and how we were sent into the world
for that purpose. But, of course, I might not succeed in making them
see it, and might only do more harm than good."

"I don't think the modern girl would stand much preaching," said Doreen.

"Perhaps not. And we are all led differently, are we not? I remember
telling my doctor that I felt like a traveller leaving the busy
high-road and turning down a green bye-lane. That was when I first
arrived in the country. Now, as I look back, what a beautiful country
my green lane has led me into, and what vistas and views I have got!"

"Views of what?" Doreen asked, looking down upon her curiously.

"Of the Golden Unseen Land," said Tomina, softly.

And Doreen said no more.


Tomina enjoyed this visit of hers. She and Doreen gardened
industriously every morning.

They drove out in the afternoon, and occasionally had to receive
callers. Long letters went out to Tom, but Tomina was the one who wrote
most, and she described her life in every detail.

Now and then in talking together over the fire in the evening, they
would touch the fringe of deep subjects. Tomina was quite ready to talk
of what she had lately experienced, but she was also ready to wait, and
draw back, if Doreen showed impatience or distaste of such talk.

Time slipped away, and then Tomina said she must return home. As London
was on her way, she determined to stay with her stepmother for a few
days before returning to Little Honeycombe.

Doreen parted from her with sincere regret. She drove her to the
station in her pony-trap.

They had been rather silent for some time, when she suddenly startled
Tomina by saying abruptly—"You spoke the other day of every one having
a high purpose in their lives. What is yours?"

"To be a carrier," said Tomina, slowly and sweetly. "Wasn't it strange
that I tumbled upon my vocation in real carelessness of soul? I mean
with God's help to be a carrier to the end of my life. The legend of
St. Christoforos has helped me so much."

Doreen looked interested.

"I used to be so fond of that story when I was a child," she said. "I
think you would always help people with their burdens, Tomina. You
are so sympathetic, and yet so gay. I am a very grave person, as you
know, and as such appreciate brightness so very much. Sometimes people
crudely imagine that the sober-looking cannot enjoy fun. Why, it is
those that feel cold that enjoy the sunshine most!"

"It's a lovely thought, isn't it?" said Tomina, with glowing eyes.
"Life does seem so hard to so many, it is like struggling through
rushing water; and if one can help each other through, it is glorious.
I have been so awfully selfish. I have sat with folded hands, refusing
to put my little finger out to help anybody. Our Rector's wife is quite
overwhelmed sometimes. I refused to go near her because she was 'good'
and tried to do me good. Oh, how I did dislike her at first, and how
much I like her now!"

"Do you? I should never like any one who 'tried to do me good.' But I
should like some one who shouldered my burden with me and stepped along
a bit of my way. And you have done that, Tomina. Life has been better
and sweeter since you came."

Tomina could not speak. When she kissed her in parting, she said—

"I shall often think of you in your retreat. We are real friends, are
we not? The recluse and the carrier!"

And at Tomina's happy laugh, Doreen gave one of her rare sweet smiles.
Tomina carried that away with her, and thought that, after all, Tom was
a lucky man.



CHAPTER XIX

TOMINA'S DESPERATION

LADY GAVIN welcomed Tomina very affectionately. Her niece, Madge
Dudley, a girl about Tomina's own age, was staying with her. She was
genuinely glad to see Tomina again.

"We have heard such absurd stories about you, that I am glad to see
you much the same as usual. I pictured you in a smock, or is that male
attire in your part of the world? You hardly look like our country
cousins. Tell me what you have been doing with yourself."

They were dining alone, a rather unusual event, and so talk became
personal.

Tomina tried to tell her.

Then Lady Gavin said—

"As you have quite got over that affair with Gerald Norman, I'll tell
you that I have been spending the afternoon with his mother. They came
from the Riviera a week ago and are in some nice rooms overlooking
Kensington Gardens. It's quite painful to see her, and as for him, I
wouldn't know him. He is almost ridiculously devoted to her, and she,
poor thing, cries herself silly whenever he leaves her."

"It's rather touching," said Madge. "I saw him the other day, Tomina;
he was buying flowers for her, but he looks quite careworn and aged.
I couldn't get a laugh out of him. Do you remember the day he marched
into this room in a perfect fury because you had not met him at the
arranged time? Billy Cassel turned up, and he was so amusing that
you forgot the appointment altogether. I can see Gerald now in his
immaculate frock-coat and light spats and hear him say to you:

"'I have been waiting three-quarters of an hour! We are punctual in the
Service!'

"And then you smiled at him perfectly calm. 'But I am not
in—service—yet!' you said.

"And he turned quite white, bowed, and returned you the tickets—for a
'matinée,' wasn't it?—and took his leave promptly. I can remember how
frightened and indignant you looked."

"I am sure I never showed that I was frightened of him."

"I always knew you were!"

"How is Mrs. Norman?" said Lady Gavin.

"She will never be better. She can talk, and she can be lifted into
a carriage or bath-chair and taken out, but she has to be fed like a
child; her limbs are powerless."

"It is like a living death," said Madge. "I don't think people should
be seen when they are like that; it makes one feel so miserable."

"Oh, Madge, surely one's own feelings don't matter!" said Tomina.

"Mine do very much. That doesn't sound like you, Tomina; you used to
say that you never intended to take other people's troubles on your
shoulders, for your own were far too heavy!"

"Did I? I am a selfish creature at the best of times."

Through all the light chatter that ensued, Tomina's thoughts were
far-away. It had been a distinct shock to her to hear that Colonel
Norman was once again in her near neighbourhood. She felt she longed
to see him and yet shrank from doing so. Her last waking thought that
night was—

"I must not leave town without seeing him. I may never meet him again."

She heard the next day that they were going down to Torquay very soon.
She was making up her mind to call upon Mrs. Norman when Lady Gavin
informed her that she had every minute of the day mapped out for her.

"We do not get you up here very often. I am opening a bazaar at
Knightsbridge this morning at twelve o'clock—I want you to come with
me; and we have an 'at home' this afternoon and a few people to dine.
Your friends will want to see you, Tomina."

Tomina sighed, but was very submissive.

Madge laughed at her resigned expression.

"You have been getting lazy in the country."

"Yes, my days there are not so full as yours."

"You have forgotten how we work. I mean to cut the 'at home' to-day.
You can take my place, and I shan't be missed."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to my dressmaker at once. Will you come with me and give
me your advice? It won't take you long. And then I'm going down to
Richmond to lunch with the Fitzpatricks."

Tomina agreed to accompany her to her dressmaker's, promising to meet
her stepmother at the bazaar later on. When she and Madge eventually
separated, Tomina found that she had nearly an hour on her hands, so
she sauntered up Regent Street, and looked in at the shop windows.

Suddenly she met Colonel Norman face to face. As she shook hands with
him, her heart beat violently. He had been so much in her thoughts that
the unexpected sight of him almost unnerved her.

But outwardly Tomina was calm and smiling.

"I have been hearing from my stepmother that you are in town. I hope
your mother is better?"

"I think she is. Lady Gavin very kindly came to see her. They were old
friends, you know. It is good to see you again."

The light was in his tired eyes as he spoke. Tomina noticed for the
first time that he was getting grey.

"I am only in town for a day or two."

Then Colonel Norman spoke in a hesitating tone—

"I wonder if you would befriend me? I'm somewhat in a dilemma, for I'm
very ignorant—but I'm doing a little shopping for my mother. She has
begged me to do it myself. Her maid doesn't please her. It's a—a hat
or a bonnet for her, and she gave me the name of a milliner somewhere
about here."

"I shall be delighted," said Tomina. "What is the name of the milliner?
I expect it is 'Le Brun.'"

"That's it. A French place, she said."

They were close to the shop. Tomina accompanied him in, half amused,
half touched, by his natural bewilderment in his task.

"It must be something bright and cheerful, but which will be
comfortable lying down," said the Colonel, gravely.

"We'll look at some motor bonnets," said Tomina, gaily; "they have
perfect dreams here, and I'm sure we can pick out one which she will
like."

In a few minutes they were deep in the important choice. Grey, blue,
mauve, and rose bonnets of all sorts and shades were shown them. Tomina
insisted upon trying some on herself.

"I declare! I shall get one for my van. It's just what I want on a cold
and windy day, for spring is very stormy at Little Honeycombe. How do
you like this, now? It would do for either your mother or myself?"

She turned to Colonel Norman, looking perfectly bewitching in a black
satin bonnet fitting close to her head with a tiny bunch of cherries on
either side over her ears, and tied with cherry-coloured ribbon under
the chin.

"I think it would suit your lady perfectly, sir," said the milliner.

Tomina blushed and laughed as she turned away.

Colonel Norman's look remained with her, but there seemed to be sadness
as well as tender admiration in it, which rather puzzled her at the
time.

After a little further consultation, a pretty mauve bonnet trimmed with
a tiny wreath of heliotrope, was ordered to be sent on approval for
Mrs. Norman, and Tomina ordered the cherry bonnet for herself.

As she left the shop, she said lightly—

"We have done our shopping very satisfactorily. I don't know what my
old women will say to me! But they ought to like my choice, for they
are exactly like our grandmother's coal-scuttles, are they not? Now I
must leave you! I ought to be in Knightsbridge at twelve. Will you call
a taxi for me?"

"Can you come to see my mother once before you leave?" Colonel Norman
said after he had hailed a taxi. "Could you come to-morrow afternoon—to
see if our choice is approved?"

He tried to smile. But Tomina's quick eyes saw that he was weary in
body and soul; and her heart ached for him.

"Yes, I will," she said promptly; "I will come between three and four."

He wrung her hand, and they parted. Tomina was singularly grave and
sober for the rest of that day. Her friends agreed that her time in the
country had improved her health but not her spirits. And she, hearing
the flow of chatter and laughter around her, wondered that she could
ever have been in it and of it.


The next day, she went round to the house in the quiet terrace
overlooking the gardens. She found Mrs. Norman alone, but she was
supremely delighted to see her. She was lying back on her couch looking
haggard and aged, though her maid had tried to hide the ravages of
sickness and years by a liberal coating of enamel and rouge. The
fretful discontent in her voice was very noticeable.

"Tomina Gavin, is it not? Well, I am glad to see you. My illness seems
to have cut me off entirely from all my friends. You know of the
terrible time that I have had? I can't speak of it. And doctors are
a fraud. They take your money and do you no good. Look at me, still
stretched flat on my back and unable to move a single limb, and I have
been like this for over six months. Don't you think they ought to have
cured me or found me some remedy by this time? Sit down and talk to me.
Gerald is out; he had to go to our lawyer about business, he said. It
is most inconsiderate, I told him. There is no reason why the lawyer
should not come here, and I should have enjoyed listening to their
conversation. But men are so secretive about business matters, and
Gerald is very obstinate. I spoiled him as a boy, and I suppose I am
reaping the result."

She paused for breath.

"How did you like your bonnet?" Tomina asked.

"Oh, you helped to choose it, did you not? I liked it fairly well. Of
course, I have never worn such things, and I do hate novelty in any
shape or form. I said to Gerald, if he liked to walk by the side of an
old crock—made old before her time—she had better be as respectably
clothed as she could be! It's an awful existence; I wonder if you have
any conception how awful it is to me! It seems superfine torture to fix
on me, above all others, as the one to drag on this living death!"

Her voice broke—she began to cry weakly.

Tomina tried to comfort her.

"No one knows how long my days are," the invalid sobbed, "or how weary
the nights. If I had a daughter, it might be easier for me. I suppose
Gerald does his best, but men are no nurses, they are so dense, so
clumsy, so unsympathetic. Sometimes he goes out for half an hour, he
says. I wait and watch the clock till he comes back. It is all I can
do. The half-hour stretches into an hour, and then he tells me he met
somebody, or my errands took him longer than he thought. And last night
I was wakeful, and I wanted to change my position. I won't have the
nurse sleep with me—she worries me to death—and so Gerald sleeps in the
dressing-room. Well, I called and called—so like a man, he was sound
and fast asleep! And when he was roused at last, I was crying from
weakness and weariness. I can't tell you how I suffer!"

Tomina listened and sympathised, and Mrs. Norman talked on, about
herself and her pitiful lot.

At last, Tomina said—

"I feel a little shy about suffering. I have never had it, but there is
special reward and blessing for those who bear it patiently. Doesn't it
comfort you to think of the time when there will be no more of it?"

"You mean when I am dead?" Mrs. Norman cried shrilly. "Oh, how cruel of
you to remind me of such a thing! Do you mean to say that you think I
shall never get back the use of my limbs in this life? I will, I must.
I'll try every specialist in the country. What is the good of spending
money on anything but health? I say to Gerald, when he speaks of taking
a house,—

"'What good does a house and grounds do me? Why six feet square is
enough for my wants at present. My couch is my dwelling-place.'

"I told him I would never, never go back near the Court. I am glad he
has sold it, for we wanted the money. I mean to try every cure in the
world before I rest satisfied that I can't be cured. We are going down
to Torquay. I have heard that there is a very clever doctor there. And
I am strong enough to have massage now, they say. I have had a little
of it, but it worries me, and I generally send away my masseuse after
the third day. Gerald is vexed when I do it, but he is often vexed
now with his poor old mother. Must you be going? Gerald ought to be
in—he knows that I cannot bear to be alone. Men are so thoughtless and
self-absorbed. He never seems to realise the long hours that I have to
lie here doing nothing."

Tomina took her leave in deep depression of spirit. She was
disappointed that she had not seen Colonel Norman again; she had
counted upon it, and it looked as if he had purposely avoided her. Then
her heart was overwhelmed with pity as she thought of his devotion and
selfless life so unappreciated by his mother. She felt, with a shock,
that suffering had not refined or beautified Mrs. Norman's character.
On the contrary, she seemed more selfish, and more peevish than when
she had seen her in the early days of her illness.

"No wonder he looks weary and aged!" she mused. "Why does he not
provide her with a lady companion and go right away from her for the
time? It is spoiling his life."

The following day she received a letter from him.

   "MY DEAR TOMINA,

   "Forgive me for writing instead of seeing you, and a thousand thanks
for your visit of mercy yesterday! My heart sorely wanted to be with
you; my head took me right away from your zone. I feel in justice
to you, Tomina—because I would not have you regard me as fickle or
changeable—I must explain, that after long and earnest thought, I have
come to the conclusion that I must remain an unmarried man. My poor
little mother is my first consideration now. I shall devote the rest
of my life to her. She may live many years, the doctors say, and I
would neither remove myself from her reach when she so pathetically
depends upon me, nor yet bring a young wife into such a depressing and
unwholesome atmosphere.

   "Perhaps you will say I am wasting paper and ink in explaining my
position to you, as you have repeated to me again and again that you
could not be to me what you once were—and what in my heart I try to
imagine that you still are. This may be so. But if I do not throw
myself in your way again, it is not because I have ceased to care for
you. There is an inner shrine in my soul which you will always occupy.
I can never, never change; but I need not and will not ever bring
myself before you again. This is in fact a letter of farewell. I want
you—God knows how much. I want—you—to be happy. I believe you will be.
I like to think of you amongst your devoted villagers in the peaceful
country. And if by-and-by, the man of your choice turns up—ah! well—I
am not such a stoic as I thought myself—we will not mention him. Only
Gerald Norman will always be

                       "YOUR TRUE FRIEND.

   "If you send me no reply, I shall understand that you have accepted
and understood my explanation."

Tomina read this letter in the privacy of her bedroom. She looked dazed
at first, and then she burst into a passion of tears. She wept till she
could weep no more, and brought on a racking headache. Then promptly
she put herself to bed, and stayed there, refusing to see any one at
all that day. The next morning, she appeared at breakfast very white,
with dark circles round her eyes, but with very resolute lips and
shining face.

"What is the matter with you, Tomina?" her stepmother asked. "I have
not seen that look upon your face since that time when, as a child, you
slipped off by yourself to the dentist to have two teeth out!"

Tomina tried to laugh.

"I remember! I desperately wanted a five-shilling kodak—and you always
gave me half a crown for each tooth out. I shall never forget my fury
with the dentist who refused to extract sound teeth out of my head!"

"Are you meditating any such idea of self-sacrifice now?"

"Oh no, indeed! I am struggling with a mental problem, that is all."

She wrote a reply to the letter received.

   "MY DEAR GERALD,

   "My pride, my waywardness, my obstinacy, have all melted into one
intense desire to make up to you for all I have made you suffer in
these past years! I am going, metaphorically, to throw myself into
your arms! Of course, I had a miserable sleepless night after that
letter received from you. It was not sheer contradictoriness, Gerald,
that made me desire what I had previously spurned, when you told me
you could offer it no longer. I felt as though, if I accepted your
resolution, and passed out of your life, I would be the most miserable
and disconsolate creature in the universe. And you gave me no option in
the matter. I lay hour after hour trying to see a way out of it, and
then a delicious ray of early morning sunshine came stealing into my
room and alighted on a small picture which I always carry about with
me. It is a picture that reminds me that I am 'Tomina the Carrier.'

   "And the light flashed through me, and I saw that I should not be
unmaidenly or forward if I persisted in your reconsidering your hasty
decision.

   "You are trying to do what no man ought to do, or is able to do. Your
mother told me she ought to have a daughter to relieve you. I want to
be that daughter. It will be no depressing or unwholesome atmosphere
for me. The two of us together will carry the burden so lightly that
it will prove to be no burden at all. I am in training for carrying,
remember. It is my vocation, and I have hugged it and am delighting
in it, and if I can smooth even a tiny wrinkle out of your careworn
brow, or bring the glimmer of a smile to your face and heart it will be
sufficient reward. For, perhaps, I ought to tell you that the love I
once had for you, and which I thought was crushed out of existence, has
been there all the time. And if we love each other, Gerald, surely it
can be no hardship to help your poor little mother through some of her
weary days? I shall wait in town for your answer.

                   "Your repentant

                                    "TOMINA."

And when her letter was sent, Tomina possessed her soul in patience,
and was sweetness itself to her stepmother, accompanying her
everywhere, and making herself pleasant to all her old acquaintances
and friends. Colonel Norman's reply was brief.

   "MY DEAR TOMINA,

   "Your sweet pity for me and my circumstances came like balm to the
wounded. No, I cannot let you sacrifice yourself. You do not realise
the life I lead. It is not fit for any woman save the very strongest
and most professional of nurses. Do not let us torture each other any
more. I could not and would not allow you to carry the least corner of
my burden. No true man would. And I care for you too much to bring you
into a life that would sap every bit of brightness and spirit out of
you.

   "May God bless you! We leave to-morrow afternoon for Torquay.

                               "Your affectionate friend,

                                                     "GERALD."

Tomina read this in her bedroom and stood looking out of her window
with despair in her eyes and heart. She came downstairs and told her
stepmother that she must return to little Honeycombe the next afternoon.

"I hate London," she said, with quiet emphasis. "I am always tossed
up and down when I am in it, and I am longing for the peace of the
country."

"Dr. Carisbrooke would like to see you before you go," said Lady Gavin.
"I met him to-day, and he asked after you."

"Oh, I am not in the doctor's hands any more!"

"He is more a friend than a doctor. He is coming to lunch to-morrow."

"I can catch the three-o'clock train then from Paddington."

"Tomina is as restless and excitable as ever," Lady Gavin said to her
niece later that day. "She is full of moods. Yesterday she was almost
brilliant in her talk and laughter; to-day she is like stone, utterly
unresponsive and dull. And she is so thin! I shall tell Dr. Carisbrooke
that I think she has been in the country long enough. It is actually
making her religious!"

Madge laughed.

"Is that the climax? Why shouldn't she be religious if she likes? We
are supposed to be a Christian country and nation. I very often wish I
was; it makes people really content, they say. And it has altered her.
She used to be one of the most selfish of persons, and she is certainly
not that now."


Tomina tried to fill up every moment of her time those last days in
town, so that she would not be obliged to think. The next morning she
went out shopping, for she wished to take back some presents to some of
her old women. She was in Oxford Street, when once again she saw Gerald
Norman approaching her.

A panic of fright seized her. She could not and would not meet him
again. Hastily, she turned and crossed the street to avoid him. Then,
in a moment, she missed her footing and fell immediately in front of
a motor. For an instant she thought all was over, then somebody had
caught her and swung her clear of the traffic.

The next moment she was standing safe and sound on the pavement with
somebody's arm round her. She heard as if in a dream a voice saying:
"That was a near shave!"

And then "Tomina!" was breathed into her ear.

She opened her eyes.

"Of course, I might have known it would be you," she said with a
quick-caught sobbing breath; "you always come to my rescue! We can't
escape each other!"

Colonel Norman made no reply. He only held her tight. Then, calling a
taxi, he helped her in.

"Are you hurt, sweetheart? Tell me."

Tomina shook her head. The fall and the fright had unnerved her. She
leant her head against the broad shoulder so close to her and began to
cry.

And Colonel Norman was shaken out of his cold grave demeanour. For one
awful second, he had thought the motor was crushing the life out of his
only love. He gave an involuntary shudder even now.

"You ought not to go about alone," he said. "If I had not seen you! You
were dashing so recklessly across!"

"I was running away from you," murmured Tomina.

Then she shifted her position and sat up.

"I am better now. It gave me such a fright, for I never expected to
be alive. I suppose, if I had been killed, I shouldn't have been
frightened at all."

But Colonel Norman did not move his arm. He was still holding her.

"I wanted to see you," he said, "but I did not like to call. I am
afraid you must have thought my last letter very hard. It really is for
your own sake, dearest."

"You mustn't call me 'dearest.' I am nothing to you now. Yes, I did
think it hard. If you thought more of me, you would know that you are
breaking my heart."

"You could not live the life that I am doing, Tomina."

"I could, and I should enjoy it. I should try to brighten up your
mother and would remove some of your furrows of care. I should manage
you both. I am quite capable of it. Where are we going, Gerald? I must
get home. I am going down to Little Honeycombe this afternoon." Tomina
was rapidly recovering her composure.

"I ordered him to drive on till I told him to stop. I am sure your
stepmother and all who care for you would say it was criminal to tie
you to my mother's bedside. She is very exacting, poor little thing,
and would demand the uttermost from us both."

Then Tomina had an inspiration.

"I believe I have just time to go and see your mother and wish her
good-bye. Shall I? Would you tell the driver where to go?"

"That's most kind of you. She will be so pleased."

Directions were given, and then Tomina said—

"Now we'll be very nice to each other for the rest of our time. I do
feel that I owe my life to you. How quick you were! Even now, I don't
know how you did it. But you always do turn up in the nick of time. Do
you remember when you rescued me from the tree?"

Colonel Norman smiled.

"You were very angry, were you not?"

"Ah! I think I have altered since then."

Then silence fell upon them, but Tomina did not feel embarrassed.
She was only quite content to sit by his side and think over her
inspiration.


A little later, she was greeting Mrs. Norman affectionately.

"It's good to see you again, my dear. Come and sit down and tell me
what you have been doing with yourself."

"I have been falling down in the middle of the street and your son has
been picking me up."

"How horrible!"

"Yes, wasn't it?"

Tomina went on to describe her accident. Colonel Norman stood at the
window listening and occasionally putting in a word.

"We are going to Torquay this afternoon," said Mrs. Norman. "I am
really quite sorry to go. I have no friends there, and I do like to see
people sometimes. Do you ever come down to Torquay?"

"No, I don't think I have ever been there, but perhaps I may come some
day."

"I wish you would."

Then Tomina got up from her seat and knelt down by the side of Mrs.
Norman's couch. Putting her hand softly in hers, she said with great
ease and quietness—

"Mrs. Norman, you said the other day that you would like to have a
daughter. Now, I have come to ask you if you will accept me as one."

For a moment the silence was so intense that you could have heard a pin
drop.

Then great tears rose in Mrs. Norman's eyes. She looked across at her
son.

"I should like it very much. Gerald, why did you not tell me?"

Before he could speak, Tomina said hurriedly—

"He is not quite sure whether we should all be happy together, but we
would, would we not? I could stay at home and take care of you when he
went out. We should be glad to get rid of him sometimes. And I'm sure
I could shop for you better than he does. I would choose you lovely
bonnets!"

"My dear child, I am very, very glad. I sometimes think I shall not be
a burden for very long. If I don't get better, I must get worse. There
is no doubt of that."

Then Colonel Norman came over to the couch, and Tomina rose to her
feet. She had a pink flush on her cheeks, and she dared not look at
him. For one moment she wondered if he were too angry to speak.

Then he took her hand in his, and, in a deeply moved voice, he said—

"You will give us your blessing, mother? We mean to make you happy,
if we can. I feel as if Tomina has been snatched from death to-day,
because you and I need her so badly. She says she will look after us
both."

"So that is all settled very comfortably," said Tomina. There was a
little tremor in her voice as she bent over Mrs. Norman and kissed her.
"And now you will see me down at Torquay before very long, I expect. I
must go now. My doctor is coming to lunch with us, and I promised that
I should be back."

She smiled and nodded to her and then left the room. Colonel Norman
followed her into the hall, and then for an instant they stood and
looked into each other's eyes.

"Don't be angry, Gerald. There was no other way. Tell me you are not
sorry I did it."

"My darling!"

He could get no further than those two words, but he took her into his
arms and kept her there.



CHAPTER XX

HER INSPIRATION

"AND so, you see, Dr. Carisbrooke, I am perfectly cured."

"I really think you are. I am afraid you are not placid enough to grow
much flesh."

Lunch was over. Tomina was her old self again, impetuous and gay, and
very dignified by turn.

As her stepmother said, "One could rarely guess what she was going to
do or say next."

But the old doctor, remembering the nervous, strained expression of
her face when he last saw her, was very pleased at the result of the
country's quiet.

"And now I suppose your year of exile is over, and you will come
back amongst us, and live the same old life until you have another
breakdown?"

"Oh dear, no! You are responsible for having changed my whole life.
You buried me, and now I have come to life again, but with quite a
different outlook, and—if I may say it—with a different soul."

She and the doctor were talking quietly together in the drawing-room.
Lady Gavin had gone to her room to rest, and Madge had gone out.

Dr. Carisbrooke nodded gravely.

"I congratulate you—"

"So you will not see me pursuing pleasure, for all I am worth, any
more. And I have learnt to love the country and hate the town."

"What else?"

"Much that I cannot talk about. You see and study human beings a good
deal, don't you? Do you ever tell them the secret of real peace and
content?"

Then Dr. Carisbrooke's eyes glistened.

"Ah!" he said. "You have indeed been learning things in your retreat."

"Well, now, I'll tell you what I've been doing."

Tomina gave a short account of her van.

"I can't tell you what it has done for me! It has made me determine
to be a carrier for the rest of my life. Not always in a van, but
anywhere, everywhere. For, Dr. Carisbrooke, life is a burden to most
people. Not when we are very young, but as we live on, it gets pretty
heavy for some shoulders. And I'm going to try and help carry for
those who are sinking under the weight of theirs. I can't tell you
what I have learnt merely by listening to the everyday sorrows and
difficulties of village people. It has made me see that those who only
shoulder a light burden like myself are bound to share the heavier ones
of others."

"Is this Tomina Gavin?" said Dr. Carisbrooke, smiling. "You have indeed
changed. And so you're going back to your country life again? God bless
you, child!"

The old doctor was visibly moved.

Then Tomina smiled suddenly and brilliantly upon him.

"I think I must confide in you what I have not told my stepmother yet.
I am going to marry Gerald Norman. You know him?"

"Should think I did. Have been attending his mother since she came to
town. They're leaving for Torquay this afternoon at my recommendation.
I want her to see a friend of mine there. Well, I always felt there was
something wrong in the break between you and him, but I'm bound to say
he has come out in a marvellous light. His life for some months has
been a severe test, physically and mentally."

"I know it, and I mean to go shares."

"Is that why you are marrying him?" asked the old doctor, sharply.

Tomina laughed.

"That's why I am 'insisting' upon marrying him soon. Don't ask any more
questions, Dr. Carisbrooke. I'm the happiest woman alive, and Gerald
and I understand each other."

When the doctor had gone, Tomina ran lightly up to her stepmother's
room. She found her lying on her couch, reading a novel.

"Is your cab here?" she asked, turning to look at her stepdaughter, and
wondering at the brightness of her face. "What does Dr. Carisbrooke say
to you? Doesn't he think it absolutely unnecessary for you to banish
yourself from town any more?"

"He thinks it the best thing I can do. I haven't much time, but I would
rather tell you than write it. I am going to meet Gerald Norman and
his mother at Paddington, and go down for part of the way with them.
I branch off at Bristol. They go on to Torquay. I am really going to
marry him, after all."

Lady Gavin put down her book in amazement.

"Well, you astonish me! I did not know you had had anything to do with
him for years. And what is going to become of his mother? I suppose he
will put her in some nursing home, or get a companion for her."

"Indeed, no—I am going to help Gerald nurse her!"

"It's preposterous, Tomina! You couldn't and wouldn't do it! Why, your
life would be slavery! He has no right to ask you to do such a thing."

"He didn't. I asked myself. Good-bye mother—I must really go. I have
been in one wild rush ever since I got up this morning. Tell Madge my
news. I am so happy that I feel treading on air!"

Then Tomina kissed her stepmother and sped away. The taxi was already
at the door.

A little later, she was greeting Colonel Norman on the platform at
Paddington station. He had engaged a special carriage for his mother.
Tomina looked up at him with a radiant face.

"Isn't this delicious? Yesterday I quite thought I was going to make my
journey alone, travelling away from you for ever. To-day—why, Gerald, I
do believe you have already one wrinkle less across your forehead!"

He smiled upon her—he could not help it.

"I am sadly wanting a long, sensible talk with you, but how are we to
get it? My mother's one desire is to have us both with her."

"We can take one turn along the platform," said Tomina, "before the
train starts. And I suppose we shall see each other again soon, shall
we not?"

"How is it to be managed? I cannot come to you."

"Then I must come to Torquay. I know a Mrs. Darrell there; I will ask
her to invite me for a short visit."

"I hope you will come to us. We shall be in rooms."

"Well, we will see."

"It is all wrong," Colonel Norman said hurriedly. "You must let me
speak out. I have no right to drag you into the shadows. I would
not have you lose your freshness and gaiety for worlds. It would be
impossible for you to keep it, if you were to live with us. I—"

Tomina interrupted him.

"I don't think I want to listen to this long, sensible talk of yours,"
she said, laughing, "if this is to be a sample of it. Just tell me you
are happier than you were yesterday. Don't let me feel I have added
to your cares! Why, you foolish man, nursing an invalid is a woman's
duty—not a man's! A woman makes nothing of it. Look at hospital nurses;
what a cheerful race they are! I am not a young girl. I have something
independent of circumstances to make me happy, and I am just longing
to show you what good times we will have—your mother, you, and I. Let
us thoroughly enjoy our journey to Bristol together. Do remember that
my butterfly days are over; I'm going to be a busy brown bee, which is
much more comfortable and snug than a fragile thing made of gossamer
wings."

Colonel Norman drew in a breath.

"I will save my protestations," he said. "We will enjoy ourselves
to-day, dearest."

And enjoy themselves they did. Mrs. Norman lay on her comfortably
improvised couch and smiled as she listened to Tomina's bright
talk. She was told about the van and all the quaint humours of the
passengers, and the amusing incidents that occurred upon the road.

Colonel Norman's eyes never left Tomina. Never in all the years that
he had known her did she appear more charming than now. There was a
softness and sweetness in her ripple of talk, a sudden touch of pathos
and tenderness in her tone that he never remembered in her before. And
her delicate beauty seemed to have ripened and strengthened into more
of a woman's nature and less of the girl's. She had always bewitched
him with her rapid variety of moods; he had known that she was not all
frivol and froth, but now he was allowed to see something of the deep,
true feeling within her.

And when she turned to him with wistful, gentle appeal in her laughing
eyes, he longed with a hungry longing to have her to himself alone.

Yet nothing made him oblivious of his mother's needs. He and Tomina
vied with one another in arranging her cushions for her comfort and
in beguiling the time away. Tomina gave her an inimitable description
of the morning when Gerald had met her running breathlessly after the
van, and how he had dealt with the mischievous old man who had driven
off without her; then of the day when he had so resolutely climbed up
and taken the seat beside her; and lastly, of the terrible thunderstorm
when she and Harry were fixed up in their tree, unable to move.

"You see, Mrs. Norman, nothing would keep him out of my life, do what I
would. And this morning—surely it was not this morning, it seems years
ago—this morning he really saved my life—"

As she spoke, Tomina looked across at Gerald with soft radiant eyes.

"Of course," Mrs. Norman said with interest, "you belong to each other.
I am not so selfish as to wish to keep my son entirely to myself. I
like to see people and to have them about me, and I am delighted to
have you, dear, as a daughter. What a lot we shall have to arrange!
There will be the wedding, and then—where shall we settle, Gerald? Is
it quite impossible to go back to the Court? With Tomina with us, I do
not think I should mind so much."

"I fear we could not do that, mother, it is sold, you know."

"I never could understand why you sold it so hurriedly. I am sure,
if you had had patience, things would have come right. I can't help
feeling it was your lack of business qualities and want of knowledge
that landed us in such money difficulties. If your dear father had
lived, how different it would have been! You see, you were trained to
be a soldier, and soldiers know nothing of business. It almost seems a
waste for you to have left the Service; you did no good. I dare say you
did your best, but you must have muddled things terribly to necessitate
the place being sold."

"You told me when we were abroad that nothing would induce you to go
back there, mother dear; you wanted it taken off our hands."

"But people may change their minds sometimes." Mrs. Norman's tone was
irritable. "Now I feel quite differently about it."

"Never mind! We won't talk over money matters now."

Tomina was conscious that Gerald was deeply hurt by his mother's words,
though his composure was wonderful. She did not know how much of this
kind of reproach he was continually called upon to endure. Knowing how
masterful and intolerant he had been in the old days, how intensely he
had resented any criticism or blame, she marvelled at his patience and
forbearance now with his poor mother. She dashed into the conversation.

"Let us picture our home," she said. "We have the whole world at our
disposal, Mrs. Norman. I do love seeing new places, don't you?"

"I am tired of moving about," was the rather peevish reply. "I want to
settle down. I want to have my own things about me."

"Gerald and I must go house-hunting, and come back and tell you all
about them. It will be delightful."

"I cannot be left alone."

Mrs. Norman's good temper was forsaking her. She was not a good
traveller, and her son instinctively felt that she was suffering. He
bent over her and shifted her position a little.

"Would you like me to read to you? Perhaps you could get a little
sleep. I have a paper here. I will read you the Court news; I know that
always interests you."

Tomina sat still, gazing out of the window. A sudden fear seized her
that life lived out by Mrs. Norman's bedside might prove too trying for
her patience. And if she failed in good humour and perfect serenity of
temper, she would add to Gerald's burden instead of lessening it. She
remembered her month with Mrs. Cuthbert, and how desperately she had to
struggle against impatience at that lady's selfish garrulous talk.

And then Gerald began to read. He had a very pleasant voice, and in a
few minutes a soothed, rested look came over his mother's fretful face.
In a short time, she slept peacefully, and then very gently Gerald came
across to Tomina. He sat down by her side, and then, putting his arm
round her, drew her to him.

"My darling, you see how it is with my poor mother. I warn you that on
some days nothing pleases her. I am grieved that you should have seen
her like this to-day, but you must make allowance for her. Travelling
always upsets her."

Tomina nestled against his broad shoulder.

"It only makes me think about you," she said. "I don't know this saint.
How did you become one? All at once?"

"She is my mother," he said softly, "and I love her. But trouble has
taught me lessons, and it has drawn me to the One Who chastens as well
as blesses."

"Ah!" said Tomina, with a happy sigh. "Then you and I will love and
serve together. I felt there was something different about you."

They sat silent, quite content that they were with each other. Then he
said—

"Tomina dearest, if you marry me, I shall not be able to give you the
comforts which are natural to you. My little mother cannot understand
it, but for a long time her income has only been half what it was when
my father was living. We shall have to be content with a small house
and simple living. This is one of the reasons that made me feel I had
no right to speak to you now."

"Why, Gerald, what nonsense! Have you seen the size of the cottage I
now live in, and in which I am so supremely happy? And I have my own
money, you know, which is more than ample for my wants. I never have
valued big houses and property as some people do. I would be perfectly
happy in a cottage. Don't you see that my greatest pleasure will be
to make you happy? I believe, I hope I can. Can't we find some sweet
little country house or farm where we could enjoy all the country
people, and things which I have learnt to love?"

Gerald hesitated.

"My mother," he said, "wants a great deal of amusement. She likes to
lie on her couch, watching a busy thoroughfare. It seems to distract
her thoughts."

"Then we must live in town," said Tomina, bravely and cheerfully. "What
does it matter where we live? You and I will be together, and we shall
never, never be anything but supremely happy."

"I'm afraid I shall never be able to have my sensible talk with you,"
said Gerald, as he looked down upon her with fond, smiling eyes. "You
have bewitched me, Tomina. I shall not be able to live without you."

They talked in soft whispers then, as only lovers can. Mrs. Norman
slept on and never woke till they came to Bristol, and Tomina had to
leave them.

The rest of her journey seemed like a dream. She arrived at her
cottage tired in body, but in very good spirits. Susan welcomed her
rapturously, and had plenty of village news to give her.

And then she went early to bed, for she had had a very strenuous and
exhausting day.


It was astonishing how easily she slipped into her simple life again.
The spring weather was delightful to her. When she took the van out,
she wore her motor bonnet with the cherries, and the admiration which
it evoked was tremendous.

"'Tis what Miss Kirk in Damerton allays says," announced Mrs. Tibbs,
"if you can't afford to foller the fashions up to time, put your
old-fashioned gown in a box with camphor and wait a few years, then
bring it out, and you'll be as stylish as you like, and no cost
to nobody! It stands to reason, fashion comes back agen and agen.
Now that there bunnet be just a pattern sure enough made after my
great-grandmother's, for I have her picture taken in it."

"Ah, dear Miss Tomina! You're lookin' bonny! We all do say as we shan't
have you single much longer?"

"I don't believe you will," said Tomina, looking at them seriously.
"You all say a woman ought to marry, so I think I shall take your
advice."

"Hark to her now! Have you seen a gentleman to your likin', miss?"

"Yes. Now guess. He did my van a good turn one day!"

"Why, 'tis the Colonel what used to live over to Yockley. He ketched
hold of Will Carpenter and shook him upside down!"

"Is it, miss? Surely you wouldn't favour such a grave gentleman?"

"Hush! Don't be so sharp, Mrs. Crabbe. A young lady doesn't always like
the free-and-easy sort."

"It is Colonel Norman. Now I'm waiting for your congratulations!"

There was a great buzz and interest in the van. Some groaned, but all,
as they expressed it, "wished her well."

"It do seem very soon to lose you. 'Tis what we all feared, that it
couldn't last long. Young ladies don't turn into carriers for life.
'Twas bound to come to end some time. Eh, dearie me, 'tis a knock-down
blow for us!"

"I'm not going to give up the carrier's business," said Tomina, looking
at them with her bright smile. "I shall be a carrier, or try to be,
wherever I am. But if I have to leave this part of the world, I shall
undertake to see that this van goes on. You have got on very well
without me all these weeks."

Old Mrs. Crabbe shook her head sadly.

"No, me dear, we hain't! There be too much wrangle, and we like a
carrier with plenty o' fun and sperrit. Now, Joe be very well for a
lad, but he have no sperrit!"

Joe happened at this moment to be walking up the hill by the side of
the cart, so he did not hear the discussion.

"But," said Tomina, "I think spirit is not necessary in a carrier.
Faithfulness, honesty, and a good memory are what is needed, and Joe
has all that."

"There be weddings in the air," said Mrs. Tubbs, gloomily. "Mrs.
Francis up at the Hall is marrying our doctor, and that be comin' off
next week."

"So soon!" exclaimed Tomina. "I did not know it."


The very next day Mrs. Francis came to see her and told her the news.

"I do so want to see you about Harry, for you have done so much for
him," she said. "Dr. Merton and I want to adopt him, and have him to
live with us altogether. Do you object?"

"Indeed I don't. I think it will be splendid for the child. Dear little
Harry! He has helped me so much. I feel I owe him a lot!"

"You will still be able to see him."

"Yes," said Tomina, slowly, "as long as I am here, I shall."

"Are you thinking of leaving us?"

Tomina looked up at Mrs. Francis.

"Only of following your example."

"Oh, my dear, I am so glad. You are not fitted to live alone. I always
said so."

For a moment, Tomina was silent; then she said—

"You don't ask me his name."

"Somebody that I know?"

"Yes, and somebody whom you like."

"Not Gerald Norman? Oh, delightful! I always wondered if he—if you
cared!"

"I knew him long before we came here," said Tomina. "We had quarrelled
very bitterly, or we might have married long ago. And he was ready to
forgive before I was. We did not fraternise much, did we, when he was
here? I don't think I should have come here at all, had I known that
Yockley Court was in the neighbourhood."

"I am so interested," said Mrs. Francis, earnestly, "and so very, very
glad for Gerald to be going to have brightness and happiness in his
life at last. How is his mother?"

"Just the same—a permanent invalid. Do you know, I find Gerald so
altered that my heart aches for him. I long to be able to give him some
of his freedom back again. He has been absolutely tied to his mother's
sick-room ever since she was first taken ill. Not one son in a thousand
would have done what he has done!"

"But, my dear, you cannot take his place. Are you going to nurse her
between you? I cannot think that right. You are young, and trained
nurses could spare you. Of course, I know that, as long as Mrs. Norman
lives, Gerald will have her in his home, but I think, for his sake
and yours, you ought to come to some different arrangement about the
nursing."

"Oh, we shall see," said Tomina, brightly. "I don't feel that
it will be a burden to me. I love Gerald so much that I long to
give—give—give—do you understand me? I long to bring the light to his
eyes again, to hear his tread get brisker, and his voice have the old
masterful ring in it. Both he and his mother want a third person badly
who will shake them out of their groove. He is too resigned, it makes
him dull! She thinks it quite impossible in her circumstances to laugh
or even smile."

"I wish you had a happier commencement to your married life."

"It will be heavenly!" said Tomina, with shining eyes. "Nothing you can
say will damp my hopes."

And Mrs. Francis wisely said no more.

Dr. Merton and Mrs. Francis were married very quietly the following
week; only Tomina and some near relations were at the wedding. They
went to the Lakes for their honeymoon.



CHAPTER XXI

CONGRATULATIONS

TOMINA did not stay very long at home, for Gerald Norman wrote to her
on behalf of his mother, begging her to come and pay them a visit.

She went, and brought her own bright atmosphere with her. Gerald and
she went out together every afternoon whilst Mrs. Norman rested. That
was the only time they had together, besides an odd hour or so in the
evening. Mrs. Norman demanded as much time and attention from Tomina as
from her son. But Tomina was able to send Gerald out when she stayed
in. And though very difficult to persuade at first, he eventually gave
way. She was too delighted to see his brisker and brighter ways to be
sorry for herself.

She would not allow anybody to pity her.

"It is very good for us that our time together should be so curtailed,"
she told him when he and she were walking along the sea front together,
"because it makes it doubly sweet and precious."

She had been listening to Gerald's "long and sensible" talk, and had
successfully contested each objection he brought forward against their
speedy marriage.

"I am going to share and share alike with you. Of course I do not wish
to force myself upon you, but I know that you are bent on sacrificing
yourself for the rest of your life, and that I am going to prevent."

And at last, Gerald put his misgivings and objections in the background
and began wholeheartedly to plan out their future.

"One thing I am determined," said he; "that if you marry me, we shall
go right away together for our honeymoon. For a fortnight at least, I
must leave my mother. But how to do it is a puzzle."

"We must get some nice friend to come and stay with her. Have you no
relation who would do it, Gerald?"

"No; we are singularly bereft in that way. I have some girl cousins,
but they are all in Canada."

And then Tomina brightened up.

"I believe I know a girl who might come. I happened to hear from her
only yesterday. She was companion to an old lady living near Damerton,
a Mrs. Cuthbert. I took her place whilst she went home for a holiday.
She has just left Mrs. Cuthbert; the old lady never keeps anybody very
long. She is a nice girl and a thorough lady. Shall I write and ask
her?"

"After we have broken it to my mother. And now let us settle the day.
Why should we wait, Tomina? We have known each other for so long; and
it is weary waiting."

"You need not wait any longer, Gerald. I am ready."

Tomina spoke very softly.

Gerald and she had stopped and were leaning against a bit of old wall
overlooking the blue sea. Nobody was about. He put his hand upon hers
caressingly.

"Sweetheart, I am taking your all and giving nothing. But, God helping
me, I will make you happy. My love is deep enough and strong enough to
do it, I believe, in spite of our sad circumstances."

"I haven't the shadow of a fear for our future," said Tomina, throwing
back her head and gazing with bright glowing eyes over the white surly
billows that were rolling in on the sandy beach. "If we had married
each other a few years ago, Gerald, it would have been different. I
think I should have been intolerant of any sickness or difficulties or
strain. Then I had nothing but gaiety to live for. But now, if waves do
roll over us like the sea is breaking over those rocks, we are part of
the Rock itself, we shan't be moved!"

Then she broke into a laugh.

"I expect I sound an awful prig sometimes, don't I? But I almost
glory in burden carrying now. It makes me feel like my dear Saint
Christoforos, only he was so strong that it would take a good deal to
make him feel. I expect—" here her eyes grew dreamy and wistful—"that
was the reason the Christ Child appeared—to make him feel his weakness,
nobody else in the world could—I want to test my powers of endurance,
Gerald!"

Then she looked up at him in dismay.

"What am I saying? I am making out that your dear mother is going to be
my heavy burden, and she won't be—she won't be! She and I are very gay
and happy together. I let my tongue run away with me."

"I love to hear it," said Gerald, smiling down upon her. "We will have
no pretence between us, Tomina dear. An invalid is bound to test our
patience. I have proved it, though it is and always will be to me a
service of love. And I know there will be many difficult days to get
through. But I will not let the burden press heavily on you; that I can
prevent."

They talked on, and, before they returned to the house, they had
settled their wedding-day. It was to be very quiet, and Tomina said she
would ask her stepmother to refrain from telling any one when it would
be.

"I think I should like to ask Doreen to it. I am getting fond of her,
and I should like you to know her, Gerald."

"But I do know her," said Gerald, rather sternly. "She has spoiled the
life of my best chum. Have you not met Maurice Holme?"

"Yes. Tell me his side of the story, will you? I have heard Doreen's."

"It's a case of a woman's impulse getting the better of her. Holme's
present wife is a shady sort, as you must know. She made a dead set at
him at Gosport, where our regiment was quartered. She and a married
sister made up a plot together, and they brought about a situation,
perfectly innocent in itself, but compromising in the eyes of
convention. The girl thought she would frighten him into marrying her,
but he simply applied for leave and cut her entirely. Then he became
engaged to your sister-in-law, and this girl turned up the day before
the wedding, and wrote a private note to Miss Forrester. She had been
quietly biding her time. What she wrote, I'm sure I don't know, but
she was believed, and Holme was allowed no chance of explanation. The
marriage was broken off."

"But he married his present wife," cried Tomina; "that showed he must
have been guilty."

"Not by any means. He married her because he was reckless and
desperate. He acted on impulse, as Miss Forrester did; I dare say his
present wife threatened him with breach of promise. He had been ass
enough to write her letters. If ever a man's life has been ruined,
his has, and it need not have been. A woman can be desperately cruel
sometimes. There could have been no mercy in her composition."

Tomina looked very grave.

"She is a desperately unhappy woman herself. I pray she may not bring
unhappiness to Tom. If only they had never met!"

Gerald shrugged his shoulders.

"I have no pity for her. Poor Holme is another matter. He has
established his wife at the Court, as you know, but he is seldom there.
She won't follow him in the Service. She loves her comfort too well,
and I believe is filling the house with a lot of her London friends."

"Then you don't want Doreen at our wedding?"

"My darling, have her by all means, if you like."

"You must remember she was told the very worst, and she felt as if he
had been deceiving her all through!"

"A woman has no right to lose all faith in a man at the first
trumped-up story she hears! Would you have done so?"

"If I had heard something unpleasant about you? No, I should not have
believed it. But then we have known each other for years. I am sure of
you. I know your character. You see, Doreen had no time to investigate.
She was going to marry at once. She could not put it off. It either
had to be one thing or the other; and she felt it would be too great a
risk."

Gerald said no more.

But Tomina received the following letter from Doreen in answer to her
news and invitation:—

   "MY DEAREST LITTLE SISTER,

   "I do offer you my heartfelt congratulations. I always felt that you
would not remain single for long. I know Colonel Norman slightly,
and should say he was worthy of a woman's trust. Dear Tomina, don't
be vexed if I do not appear at your wedding. I do hate all marriage
ceremonies. They are so irrevocable, links forged for all time, and
forged so often in such a light-hearted, irresponsible fashion! I have
nothing to say against yours. I do not think you would marry unless
your heart and soul were in it, and I am sure, from what I know of him,
that he would not! You will bring any one happiness, dear, for you
carry about with you such a fund of sunshine. We less fortunate mortals
have to depend much on summer days to keep us content. The summer days
are mine at present. Gardening engrosses me from early dawn to late at
night; but, oh, the exquisiteness of bud and flower, and all the sweet
scents that nature gives us so abundantly!

                       "Your affectionate sister,

                                           "DOREEN.

   "I heard from Tom yesterday. He is very well."


And so a week or two later, Tomina was saying good-bye to all her
friends at Honeycombe. She kept up her van to the very last day.
She had formally given it over to Joe, who was enchanted to be sole
proprietor of it. He gave general satisfaction to the passengers,
though the lamentations were loud at Tomina's coming departure. Their
great distress when she told them her wedding was to be in town, made
Tomina alter all her plans at the last moment.

She wired to her stepmother and to Gerald that she would like to be
married in Little Honeycombe church. Could they manage it for her?

Lady Gavin groaned and wrote a letter of five pages, explaining why it
must be in town. Then, in a P.S., she added,—

   "But, of course, you always get your way, so I will come."

And Gerald wired—

   "As in either place I must have special licence, certainly have it at
Honeycombe."


And now on a lovely June morning Tomina, starting with a heavy van-load
for the last time, was able to tell her passengers the good news. There
was great jubilation when they heard it.

"We hardly never has weddin's nowadays! 'Twill cheer us up wonderful."

"Yes, 'twould be heart-breakin' to see you go off just a single maid by
yoursel' to marry such a way off from us all."

"'Tisn't as if there be folks in town who would give you so hearty a
set-off as we should, as have known you all this time."

"No, if good wishes bring luck, you'll have more luck from Little
Honeycombe than from Lunnon, that be quite positive certain."

"Oh, my dears," said Tomina, laughing merrily, though there were tears
in her eyes, "how good you all are to your carrier! I meant to have
crept quietly into some dim empty church in a quiet old square in
London, where nobody would have seen me, but now, I suppose, I shall
have all your eyes upon me, and one will say that my veil was crooked,
and one that the tip of my nose was red, and one that my voice was
shaky, and you'll all be disappointed with my looks and behaviour! But
you won't be disappointed in the looks of my bridegroom. I dare you to
criticise so much as the heel of his boot!"

There was a regular cackle of laughter at this.

"Hark to her! Isn't that the way with us women? Our men be more than
perfec' when they courts us! My dear, you'll live to sing a different
song after a year or two. Men do disappoint, like a blue cotton gown,
first time in wash!"

"Yes, sure enough; they don't come through wash-tubs satisfactory. Much
rubbin' always does for 'em!"

"Best not rub 'em."

This last remark was from a Mrs. Trent, a very silent woman.

Tomina hastened to turn the subject to other safer topics than that of
husbands. As old Mrs. Crabbe said: "Some of us married women don't know
how to vally our privileges!"


When the return from market came, there was a good deal of mysterious
bustle on the part of Mrs. Judd.

Tomina heard a whispered inquiry—

"Have 'ee got it, Mrs. Judd? Plenty o' it? We will all be wantin' to
buy a bit. Is that bit of a bag all 'ee can get?"

"Hush, now, there be four bags. Mrs. Tubbs, I'll trouble you not to put
your feet on that one. There now!" There was a stifled exclamation:
"Oh! You orkward woman, you!"

Tomina looked back into the corner.

"What is happening?"

"'Tis one of Mrs. Judd's parcels. Nothin' partikler; it be burst!"

"A bag of rice, isn't it? What a pity!"

The van had not started, so Tomina helped to gather up some of the
scattered grain. She could not understand the whispered nods and
mysterious smiles amongst the women.

"We shall go short in rice puddings if we don't save it," said Tomina,
gaily.

And then she caught the murmur and understood—

"Bless her 'art, 'tis she what will be goin' short o' luck!"

But Tomina knew when it was tactful to be silent, and she was now.

She was quite sorry when that last market day came to a close. One of
the passengers suggested that she should drive to church in the van,
but Tomina said that, as it was only across the road, it would be
hardly worth while.

There were great discussions as to who would give her away, and for the
next few days the topic of Tomina's coming wedding was more than meat
and drink to the villagers.

She herself was very busy. She went up to town for the inside of a week
to do her necessary shopping. But a big trousseau was out of place for
her, she said. She would only need the simplest clothes, and not many
of them, as she preferred getting them as she wanted them. Lady Gavin
was scandalised at the whole affair, but was as wax in Tomina's hands.

And at last, the eve of the wedding came. Gerald was put up at the
Hall; his best man, a Mr. Russell, was put up at the Rectory, and
Tomina and her stepmother shared the cottage.

In the afternoon of that day, Tracy St. Vincent rode over. He brought
an exquisite old silver wrought jug, as a wedding present, with
him. "It's one of the antique things that were in the house when I
took it over," he explained. "I've been awfully bowled over by this
engagement of yours, but I won't be such a cad as to refuse you my
congratulations. And I suppose Norman is more your sort than I am. I
don't think I shall ever marry. Shall do the heavy squire to the end
of my life. With you and Mrs. Francis both married women, there'll be
nobody that I care to talk to. Are you going to settle down here?"

"I am afraid not," Tomina said, after thanking him warmly for his
present. "We have decided just to move about as Mrs. Norman likes. She
is a great invalid, and rather restless. For the present we shall live
at Torquay, and then later we think of going up to Edinburgh. Mrs.
Norman has some distant relatives there. Perhaps we may go abroad in
the autumn."

"Then you'll be lost to us. It's just like my luck."

He would not be comforted. But Mrs. Merton told Tomina that he was
gradually taking his place in the country, and his very honesty and
sincerity of purpose would win favour amongst his neighbours.

Harry came to tea that same afternoon. He was enchanted at being chosen
as sole attendant to the bride. He was not too big to fling himself
into Tomina's lap when Lady Gavin had gone out of the room.

"Tommie, I do love you!" he exclaimed. "You won't go away for ever,
will you?"

"I hope not, Harry. But you have a happy home now, haven't you?"

"Yes."

His face assumed a dubious expression.

"I can't never say to the Doctor or Mrs. Merton, 'Let's have some fun!'
I could to you, couldn't I?"

"Yes, indeed you could."

Then Tomina bent her head and kissed his rosy face.

"Oh, my Harry, will you always remember through life what you have
taught me!"

"To play cricket?" questioned Harry, eagerly.

"No, to love God, and to believe in His close presence."

Harry was instantly sobered. He twisted his restless fingers in and out
of a long chain hanging from Tomina's neck.

"Do you know, Tommie, I've been worrying lately—just to myself, you
know, when I'm in bed, because I have always loved God, and loved Jesus
Christ, but I can't truthfully say I love the Holy Ghost. Do you think
it's awfully wicked of me? We've been hearing about the Trinity at
school; our master gives us a talk at prayer-time. I don't seem to know
Him, and when I was small, I used to think a ghost a frightful thing.
It's another name for spirit, our master says. I asked him."

"Dear Harry, don't worry yourself. Ask God in your prayers to show you
how to love Him, and if you love God, you must love Him. They are One."

"Yes, I'm so glad. You don't think it's wicked of me. And, Tommie,
you're quite sure you like Colonel Norman well enough to be your
husband?"

"Quite sure," Tomina responded.

"I only remember when he got us down from the tree you weren't very
pleased with him!"

Tomina laughed.

"I was in fault then, Harry. Colonel Norman is much too good for me!"

"Nobody couldn't be that—not the King himself," asserted Harry, with
all the eagerness and loyalty of his boy's heart. "I shall feel like
a king myself when I carry your nosegay up the church, or is it your
dress, or your gloves, or your Prayer-book, or is it all of them?"

Tomina informed him on this point.

When he had left her, she wandered out herself into the back garden.
She felt she must be alone.

It was a sweet still evening; her spring flowers and sweet-briar hedge
comforted her with their fresh scent. A cloud, slight at first, but
rather depressing, seemed to hover over her. And then suddenly a step
which she had learned to love sounded behind her, and Gerald took her
hands in his, and, stooping, kissed her.

"I felt I must have a moment with you alone to-night. Am I selfish?"

"No. You come when I want you, Gerald. Suppose I am a failure? Suppose
I have overrated my good qualities and underrated my bad ones? I am
wondering if I may not prove an additional burden to you. I am not
perfect. I never shall be. I may get cross and irritable and impatient.
Then your mother will suffer and so will you. I am such a groper—such a
beginner in some things!"

"My darling, I want you to be your impulsive wayward enchanting little
self, not a cold stone statue of virtue and of perfection. I quite
expect you to be often cross, and I shall be even more so, but love
isn't bowled over by human infirmities."

"No," said Tomina, and she put her arms softly round his neck, "love
understands; and we all of us sometimes drop the things we are
carrying. I shall not be a perfect carrier, I know."

Then they sat together on the rustic seat.

The peace of that evening remained for ever stamped upon their souls.
When they parted, Tomina's cloud had disappeared. She awaited her
wedding without a shadow of misgiving for the future.



CHAPTER XXII

WEDDED

"WHY, Mrs. Dodd, why ever didn't 'ee turn up on Wednesday to our young
leddy's weddin'?"

"Ah, me dear soul! I were comin' right enough, and fit to cry I was
when my 'usband's aunt from Damerton, 'er what has a bit of money, took
me by surprise, and come over for the day. And nothin' would do but I
must cook 'er a dinner of pork chops which she brought in her bag! I be
fair longin' to hear all of it!"

"Well!" said Mrs. Judd, settling herself back in the van, and preparing
to be chief spokeswoman. "We've never 'ad such a thorough downright,
enjoyable ceremony. To begin with, the peal o' bells began just after
ten o'clock. My nevvy Frank was chief ringer, and he made the chaps
put their 'arts in it, I can tell you! They was clashin' and boomin'
on an 'off for over an hour. The church were as well filled as 'tis
at 'Arvest Thanksgivin'. An' the children were let out o' school ten
minutes to eleven. I didn't go inside church too soon, for I wanted to
ketch sight of the bride a-walkin' from the 'ouse. But the bridegroom,
he arrived at church soon after the Rector."

"What did he look like?" demanded Mrs. Dodd, with breathless interest.
"I always have feelin' for the man; he do cut such a poor show by the
bride."

"Oh, as grave as a judge, and his lips clapped close and his eye like a
hawk's, dartin' roun' the corner at everybody!"

"Ah, well," put in another woman, "he was a fine set-up gentleman, an'
when he saw 'er comin', he fair ketched his breath like us all did!"

"But I seed her comin' out of her own door," went on Mrs. Judd, in
lofty voice. "She were in the most bee-oo-tiful gown of white satin and
a veil were hangin' over her, but it 'coulnn't' hide her pretty face,
bless her 'art! And the grand leddy from London were walkin' beside
her."

"You don't say so! But surely she had a gentleman to walk with her!"

"Not one, this 'ere leddy—a leddyship I heard tell—is her stepmother
and she giv' her away. She were dressed in plum satin with a feather
boa, and she 'ad a pair o' spectacles fixed on a 'andle which she 'eld
up to her eyes, and looked—well, she looked like a duchess! Miss Tomina
she stepped along very softly and quietly, and there was that boy she
be so taken with—Harry—he comes after her close at 'er 'eels! Well,
just as they comes to church door, she lifts her eyes, catches sight of
me as were prepared to follow 'em in as fast as I could. And she just
give me the sweetest nod, seemin' to say: 'There you are, glad to see
you!'"

"But do tell who were in the church of the gentry."

"'Twas all kept very quiet; the Rector he married 'em, an' Mrs.
Herbert, an' Dr. and Mrs. Merton, an' Sir Alfred, and Miss Merryweather
turned up, she 'as come to see Mrs. Merryweather through her first
baby. It come yesterday; did you hear of it?"

"Yes, that I did. The milkman from farm told me so—"

"Well, she were there, and then there were a strange gent, a friend of
the Colonel's—he looked as if he were lookin' on at a show. His lips
were curled up nasty, and he gave a heave of his shoulders now and agen
in an impatient sort o' way. But there, when I was tucked in tight
along with some others, I 'ad no thought but for our young lady."

"An'," interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, "there were one that thought a mighty
lot of 'erself, and that were Susan! She 'ad her best black silk and
'ad a red rose in her buzzom, and her hat! Well, it must have bin one
of Miss Tomina's cast-offs! We all said that, for we 'ad a partikler
look at it. It were black, but it 'ad some wonderful cream roses, made
almost to smell, they was so perfec'! And a lace veil twined in and out
like a regular creeper! She 'eld her head as high as the leddyship, an'
I were just in the pew behind, so I whispers over:

"'You do be lookin' up!'

"An' she never so much as turns her 'ead, the hussy!"

"Tell on!" said Mrs. Dodd, who was drinking in every detail with great
avidity.

"When they stood together, he were a whole head taller than 'er. Her
voice were clear as a bell when she made responses. I were near cryin'
the whole time. But when they went in the vestry an' the Weddin' March
begun, my 'art began to palpitate. It fair burst the 'ooks and eyes
of my bodice! And then they come down the aisle, and Miss Tomina were
noddin' and smilin' to everybody all round. An' he 'ad lost his stern
face and were quite affable like. Then the chillen awaitin' for them
outside dropped roses in their path, and then every one of the gentry
went back to the Cottage. The Rectory maids 'ad helped, and we heard
tell there was quite a choice meal laid out.

"And 'twasn't long before the fly drove up. Peter Hamblin drove, and
then was our time. We closed in and gave 'em a reg'lar good peltin' o'
rice, and then Miss Tomina afore she gets into the carriage, she looks
at us and laughs. She's always different to other ladies—she calls out
in her pretty way, wavin' her hand to us:

"'Good-bye,' she says, 'but I promise when I get tired of my husband,
I'll run back to Little Honeycombe and drive the van again!'

"And didn't us laugh? And give such cheerin'. Well, it must have been
'eard a mile off!"

"Oh, I do wish I had been there!"

"An' then we all had a big tea in the schoolroom. 'Twas her wish; but,
eh, dearie me, we shall never have a carrier agen like Miss Tomina!"

The sighs that echoed this speech were great. Tomina had gone out of
their life for the time. But she had left behind her many legacies of
goodwill and friendship amongst the simple village folk.


She and her bridegroom went to a quiet little Cornish fishing-village.
They would not be out of reach of Mrs. Norman. Christabel Avenel was
with her, and she proved quite a success. And for a fortnight, Tomina
and Gerald were rapturously happy. They determined to live only in
the present, and enjoy life as they had never enjoyed it before. Then
at the end of their time, they returned to Torquay, and gladdened the
heart of the poor invalid.

Tomina did indeed prove herself to be the sunshine in the house. She
was always gay and sweet-tempered; Mrs. Norman's fretful complaints
only brought out the deeper tenderness in her nature. Gerald would look
at her and marvel.

Their stolen time together was very sweet. And though sometimes they
were met with reproachful tears upon their return to the sick-room,
Mrs. Norman did make an effort now and then to be unselfish.

They went to Edinburgh when Torquay became too warm. And when the end
of summer came, they began to discuss a winter abroad.

But Mrs. Norman managed to contract Influenza, and was so weakened
and pulled down by it, that her doctor advised them not to leave
England. They finally went down to Penzance, and took rooms in the most
comfortable hotel there.


As time went on, Tomina began to find that what she first treated so
lightly was gradually becoming an effort and a struggle. There were
days when the fractiousness and unreasonableness of the sick woman told
upon her nerves, and she felt she longed to get away from it all. One
morning, when by a violent fit of weeping Mrs. Norman had stopped a
little expedition planned by husband and wife, Tomina sat in her room
work in hand, but with a frown upon her brow. She had been silent for
some time, and Mrs. Norman hated silence.

"Where is Gerald?" she asked presently.

"Gone down to the Club, I think, to have a look at the papers."

Tomina's tone was curt. She was still harbouring resentment towards her
mother-in-law for having stopped their expedition.

Mrs. Norman heaved a heavy sigh.

"I hardly ever see him! He used to sit with me in the morning and
read the papers—I couldn't have believed that he would have become so
neglectful."

"But you have me, and he will come in to lunch."

"A daughter-in-law is never the same as a son, and you are irritable
to-day, or sulky, I don't know which. I might have known how things
would turn out. Since you have married Gerald, you try to keep him away
from me. I'm a lonely, unhappy woman. You are both longing for me to
die. I wish I could. My life is one long misery; you have stolen my son
from me. He no longer cares to be with his poor mother, and you mount
guard in my room, and try to keep him away from it."

Mrs. Norman had often spoken in this strain before, but Tomina had
had sufficient self-control and patience to answer her gently. Now it
seemed the last straw.

"You are most unjust and selfish," she said, rising from her chair; "we
are both spoiling our lives for your sake, and this is how you treat
us. If you think I am keeping Gerald out of your room, I had better go.
I will send your maid to you—"

She walked out of the room, with head erect. But when she reached the
sitting-room, she sat down at the table in the window and, resting her
head in her hands, burst into tears.

Gerald came in, and found her sobbing her heart out. She tried to tell
him what had happened.

"I have lost my temper with your mother, and been very rude to her.
I can't go on any longer, Gerald. It's beyond my strength. Nothing
pleases her now. The more we give up to her, the more she demands. She
is wearing us both out, and she is getting to dislike me. She thinks I
turn you against her."

Gerald sat down, with a worried look upon his face.

"Tomina, sweetheart, be brave a little longer. I will not harbour the
thought that we were mistaken in marrying. We have had, and will still
have, happy times together. If your nerves and health are giving way,
would you like to pay a few visits? Then you would come back fresher,
and more able to bear with my poor mother."

"Without you? Oh no. I couldn't. Don't ask me! There! I have done—I
think tears do one good sometimes. I am not going to give up my 'rôle'
as carrier so easily, but I have had a tumble and dropped my load. Now
I am up again. Don't look so grave, Gerald. I wish I was as strong and
serene as you are. Nothing ever moves you!"

"My wife's distress does, especially when it is I and mine who bring it
upon her."

His voice broke for a moment. He drew her to him.

"Sweetheart, if you can bear it a little longer, I think one day you
will look back and be glad. I had a long talk with our doctor this
morning. I met him out. He says my mother is weaker in every way, and
that he does not think she will last through this next winter."

"Oh, Gerald!"

Quick tears sprang into Tomina's eyes.

"I am so ashamed of myself. I told you I would fail you, didn't I? We
must, we 'must' let her have all the sunshine we can in the Valley! I
won't break down again. Will you go to her? I will come in later. I
hope she will have forgotten my rudeness."

She put up her face to his and kissed him, then pushed him from her.

"Go quickly, and I will run out and buy a few flowers as a peace
offering."

The little storm blew over for the time. Tomina was daily learning
that, though weak in herself, there was a Power that could keep her,
and with the sad knowledge in her heart that Mrs. Norman's days were
numbered, she kept back hasty words, and only showed a bright smiling
face.

The time came when Mrs. Norman grew more placid. As weakness increased,
gentleness came with it, and she now listened with interest when Tomina
took up her Bible and read to her from it.

When Christmas Day dawned, it found husband and wife sorrowing over
their loss. Though for her they could rejoice, they missed intensely
the object of their loving ministrations.

Mrs. Norman had not found her Valley shadowed by fears. Like a little
child, she had been led to trust in the One Who could carry her through
it in perfect peace. Her mind was, fortunately for herself, not strong
enough to dwell much in the past. But her last conscious words were to
Tomina—

"You have been so good, so patient with me! I wish I had been more
patient myself."

And Tomina felt thankful that she had been allowed to ease those last
suffering months.


When the spring came, husband and wife began to plan out their future,
and then a very warm invitation came from Dr. and Mrs. Merton to go and
stay with them.

"Let us go, Gerald. I long to see Little Honeycombe again; will you be
sad being so near your old home?"

"I don't think I shall ever be sad, as long as I have my wife with me."

So they went.

The following two letters speak for themselves:—

   "MY DEAREST TOMINA,

   "This is to let you know that I have a baby boy, the image of his
father! When I married, I hardly thought of motherhood. This tiny atom
has brought quite a fresh range of ideas and thought to me. I thought
my life would be spent in nursing and training and watching over plants
and flowers. Now they only form a background to my son. I am now
nursing and training and watching over a human soul. And I am trembling
at the responsibility. I want you to talk to me. I want—I think I want
your bright unwavering faith in God. Will you be his godmother and will
you come to his christening? Do, if you have a little bit of love for
me.

                      "Your loving sister,

                                     "DOREEN.

   "P.S.—Do tell me your news, and where you are going to settle."


   "MY DEAREST DOREEN,

   "Your news enchants me! Of course I will come, if only for a few days.
I cannot leave Gerald for long. You don't know how he has felt the
strain of the last year or so. He still looks worn and thin, but his
energy is coming back, and our plans are made. We are going to take
over an untenanted farm on the Yockley Court estate. Major Holme has
gone out on a shooting expedition to the Himalayas, and he asked Gerald
if he could look after his property for him. He has only a very young
and inexperienced agent. I think with some alterations, we shall make
this farmhouse into a very pretty and cosy home, and I shall get the
desire of my heart—to live in the country! I know you will sympathise
with me.

   "How selfish I am writing about our affairs and leaving your sweet baby
out in the cold! My dear Doreen, I shall love to be his godmother!
Thank you a thousand times for asking me. How pleased and proud Tom
will be! I can't imagine him a father. How well I can understand the
difference he will make in your life, and I am glad and thankful
you will not be limited to your garden children, but will have the
enjoyment of seeing his dear little life unfold and develop. I feel I
know something of small boys now after my experience with Harry. They
are so delicious in their eagerness and freshness and strong faith!
What talks we will have when I come! Meanwhile talk to God about him,
dear. He sent him to you, and He loves him and wants him to grow up in
His family.

   "Doreen, I do feel so thankful I came down to Little Honeycombe. It
will always be the dearest place in the world to me. The place of my
resurrection, when all things became new!

   "I am enjoying every moment of every day. Yesterday I went over to
see Susan, and from her I wandered round the village. They are all
clamouring to have their carrier back, but, do you know, this is just
one thing that Gerald will not allow me to do? And by his rather
peremptory request that I never drive that van again, I think he must
be regaining his health and spirits. We had quite a battle of words
this morning about it. But, of course, I gave way and with as good a
grace as I could. I feel that the old desire to have my will uppermost
has left me. And Gerald is such an adoring husband that when he puts
his foot down, I know it is for my sake he does it. I tell him that he
fears the van would be a rival, and thinks that if I once began driving
it again, it would take possession of me. And so you see, Doreen, here
ends 'Tomina the Carrier'!

   "Much love, dear. How I long to see you with a baby in your arms!

                                "Your loving sister,

                                             "TOMINA."


It was a lovely summer evening.

Tomina was in a blue sunbonnet watering her roses.

The pretty thatched farmhouse behind would have delighted an artist's
eye. Inside and out there was nothing to spoil the quaint old-fashioned
air about it. The broad oak door stood wide open showing a low wide
hall, with the stairs winding up from the centre of it. Two dogs, one
a red setter, the other a lively terrier, were lying in the porch.
Tomina's faithful Thor was standing by her side, looking on with grave
interest as his mistress handled her watering-can with much energy.

Then the garden gate slammed, a quick man's tread made all the dogs
spring up with welcoming barks, and Gerald greeted his wife—

"Well, here I am, and my work done for the day."

"You look warm and tired, Gerald dear. Come and sit down. Shall I fetch
you a drink?"

"No," said Gerald, smiling as he sank into a garden lounge chair under
a shady acacia tree on the lawn. "You are sufficient refreshment for
me."

Tomina rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, then pressed one of her
swift soft kisses on the top of his head.

"Aren't we happy?" she said, her eyes glowing with radiance. "Do you
think we always shall be? I wonder if you will get bored with your
wife, and only come home to her when you are obliged?"

"Do I deserve such a speech? Isn't it more likely that my bright little
wife will get weary of her prosy old husband?"

"Now, Gerald, you are fishing for compliments. You know you are neither
prosy nor old. Do you know that I met Mrs. Judd when I was out this
morning?

"'Well,' she said, '"they say, ma'am," that marriage makes a woman old
afore her time, but you and your Colonel are both years more juvenile
than you was afore matrimony!'"

"I think I feel so!" said Gerald.

"Of course," went on Tomina, perching herself on the arm of his chair,
"we continued to discuss husbands, for Mrs. Judd has had two, you know,
and now is a widow. She says,—

"''Tis a wonderful freedom to be single again, but 'tisn't exactly
comfortable.'"

Gerald's arm went round his wife's slim waist.

"Poor little wife!" he said. "Do you miss your freedom? Am I an ogre?"

"You can be. My carrier days are over, and I did love them so."

"But you told me you meant to be a much more efficient and noble one
than a mere van driver, and a carrier of burdens will last till the
world ends."

"Do you think so? When I was dressing this morning, I was thinking that
I have no scope for such carrying at present. There are no burdens to
carry in our life now, and I am getting lazy and self-indulgent! And
then I came across such a lovely verse in my morning reading,—

   "'How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth
good tidings, that publisheth peace!'

"If I can't always carry burdens for people, I can carry them good
tidings, cannot I? And there are a good many even in this quiet part of
the country who would be glad to get peace. A carrier of good tidings!
Doesn't it sound delightful? So cheery, and comforting and sunshiny!"

Gerald Norman looked at his wife with thoughtful tender eyes.

She was still the same sparkling girl, but the undercurrent of
earnestness in her nature would occasionally come to the surface.

"Thank God," he murmured softly, "for Tomina the Carrier!"



                                THE END



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