Windyridge Part 31

The world is very drab to-day, as I look out of my bedroom window at the Hall and once more open the book in which I set down the experiences of my pilgrimage. I am living in luxury again, a luxury which has, alas! more of permanency in it than before. The little room in which I am writing is charming in the daintiness of its colouring and the simplicity of its furnis.h.i.+ngs. There is just a suspicion of pink in the creamy wallpaper, and the deeper cream of the woodwork.

The bed, like the dressing table and the chairs, is in satinwood, beautifully inlaid, and the wardrobe is an enormous cavern in the wall, with mirrored doors behind which my few belongings hang suspended like ghostly stalact.i.tes. The floor is nearly covered with a Wilton rug, and the rest of it is polished until it looks like gla.s.s. A few choice etchings and engravings hang upon the walls--Elaine dreaming of Lancelot, Dante bending over the dead body of Beatrice, Helen of Troy, and similar subjects, with two of Leader's landscapes. The counterpane gleams, snowy white, beneath the lovely satin eider-down, which gives a splash of colour to the room; and the room is _mine_!

Mine! Yes, but the world is very drab all the same. The sky is grey to its farthest limits--an unrelieved greyness which presses upon one's spirits. The landscape is grey, with no solitary touch of brightness in it until you come to the lawn in front of my window, where there is a gorgeous display of chrysanthemums. The cawing of the rooks is a shade more mournful than usual, and the grey smoke from the stacks above my head floats languidly on the heavy air.

And for the moment I would have it so, for it harmonises with my mood and gives me the inspiration I need in order to write down the occurrences of these later days. It is not that I am morbid or downcast; I am sad, but not depressed; the outlook is not black--it is just drab.

I suppose if anyone were to read what I have written thus far they would guess the truth--that my dear old Mother Hubbard has been taken from me. We laid her to rest a week ago in the little plot of ground which must ever henceforward be very dear to me, and my heart hungers for the sound of her voice and the sight of her kindly face. But I cannot doubt that for her it is "far better," so I will not stoop to self-pity.

And, after all, there is not a streak of grey in the picture I have to reproduce. As I live over again those few last days of companions.h.i.+p I feel the curtains to be drawn back from the windows of my soul; I experience the freshness of a heaven-born zephyr. I find myself smiling as one only smiles when memory is pleasing and there is deep content, and I say to myself: "Thank G.o.d, it was indeed 'sunset and evening star' and there was no 'moaning of the bar' when the spirit of the gentle motherkin 'put out to sea,' and she went forth to meet her 'Pilot face to face.'"

I think the shock of Sar'-Ann's death upset her, for, like her Master, she was easily touched with the feeling of other people's infirmities, and though outwardly she was unexcited I knew that the deeps within her were stirred.

We always slept together now, for I was uneasy when I was not with her.

For months past my cottage had been rarely used except as a bedroom, but now I abandoned it altogether and had my bed brought into Mother Hubbard's cottage and placed in the living-room, quite near to her own, so that I could hear her breathing. Far into the night I would lie awake and watch the dying embers on the hearth, and the light growing fainter upon the walls, and listen for any sound of change.

Each morning she rose at the same hour, dressed with the same care, and sought to follow the old, familiar routine; but she did not demur when I placed her in her chair and a.s.sumed the air and authority of commander-in-chief.

"I must work while it is day, love," she said, smiling up at me in the way which always provoked a caress.

"Martha, Martha," I always replied, "thou art anxious and troubled about many things: but one thing is needful, and that in your case is rest."

She drew my head on to her breast one day as I said this for the hundredth time--I had knelt down upon the rug, and mockingly held her prisoner--and she said very, very softly:

"Grace love, I am going to give in. The voice within tells me you are right, and I do not fret. 'In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength.' It is because I am so strong in spirit that I do not recognise how weak I am in body; but I think, love, I am beginning to realise it now. And as I have you to look after me I have much to thank G.o.d for. Do you know, Grace love, I am sure the Lord sent you to Windyridge for my sake. It is wonderful how He makes things work together for the good of many. He knew this poor old Martha would soon need somebody to pet her and look after her, so he sent you to be an angel of comfort."

"Well," I said, as cheerfully as I could with my spirit in chains, "He has paid me good wages, and I have a royal reward. Why, my own cup is filled to overflowing, 'good measure, pressed down, running over'--isn't that the correct quotation? I wouldn't have missed these twelve months of Mother-Hubbardism for a king's ransom."

She pressed my head still more closely to her. "Are you very busy this morning, love?" she asked. "I feel that I can talk to you just now if you have time to listen, and it will do me good to speak."

It had come at last, and I braced myself to meet it. "What have you got to say to me, motherkin? Speak on. I am very comfy, and my work will wait."

"Yes, love," she said--and it was so unlike her to acquiesce so readily that my heart grew heavier still--"work can wait, but the tide of life waits for no man, and there is something I want to say before the flood bears me away."

"Are you feeling worse, dear?" I asked; "would you like me to ask Dr.

Trempest to call? I can telephone from the Hall."

"No, love," the gentle voice replied, "I am past his aid. I shall slip away some day without pain; that is borne in upon me, and I am thankful, for your sake as well as for my own. The doctor will just call to see me in the usual way, but you will not have to send fer him.

No; I just want to discuss one or two things with you, love, whilst my mind is clear and my strength sufficient. And you are going to be my own cheerful, business-like Grace, aren't you, love?"'

"Yes," I said, swallowing my lump, and summoning my resources.

"Well, now, love, I want to make my will, and you shall do it for me when we have talked about it. I have neither chick nor child, and if I have relatives I don't know them, and once over I thought of leaving all I have to you, love, for you have been more than a daughter to me; but after thinking it over I am not going to do so."

"It was sweet of you to think of it, dear," I said, "but I really do not need it, and I am glad you have changed your mind. Tell me."

She stroked my face with a slow, patting movement as she continued: "You won't need it, love. You have a little of your own, and you are young and can work; but I would have added my little to yours if that had been all, but I _know_ you will not need it, and I am glad. But you will like to have something which I have valued, and you shall have whatever I hold most dear."

She paused a moment or two, but I knew she would not wish me to speak just then.

"There are three things, love, which are very precious to me," she continued; "one is the ring which Matthew gave me when he asked me to be his wife. I have never worn it since he died, but it is in the little silver box in my cap drawer. I want you to wear it, love, in remembrance of me. Then there is the little box itself. Besides the ring, it contains my cla.s.s tickets--tickets of members.h.i.+p, you know, love; I have them all from the very first, and Matthew bought the little box for me to put them in, and he called it my 'Ark.' I am so pleased to think that you will have it, but I would like the tickets to be buried with me."

She broke off and laughed. "That sounds silly, love, doesn't it? It looks as if I thought the tickets would help me to the next world; but, of course, I didn't mean that. They are just bits of printed paper, but I don't want them to be burned or thrown into the rubbish heap, that's all.

"Last and dearest of all, there's my Bible. It wouldn't fetch a penny anywhere, for it's old and yellow and thumbed, and the back is loose; but its value to me, love, is just priceless, and I should hardly die happy unless someone had it who would love it too. Now that's your share."

I drew her hand to my lips and kissed it; she knew what I was feeling.

"Give Reuben the old grandfather's clock. It is oak and will match his furniture, and he can give his mahogany one to Ben. Reuben has always admired the clock, and he will be pleased I remembered him. Let my clothes go to any of the neighbours who are poor and need them. And the lamp which his scholars gave Matthew when his health failed and he had to give up teaching-----"

She paused, and I held my peace. It was a chaste and artistic production in bra.s.s, which had always seemed to me rather out of place amid its homely surroundings, and I should not have been sorry if it had been amongst the treasures to be bequeathed to me...

"Yes, dear," I said at length, "the lamp?"

"I want you to ask Mr. Derwent, love, to accept the lamp. He admired it very much, and he has been so very nice to me; and give him the china, too.

"You will not live here alone, Grace, when I am gone. Mr. Evans will want you, and you will not have to deny him then as you have done previously for my sake. These old eyes have seen more, love, than you have realised, and I am very grateful. The Lord bless you!

"Both the cottages are mine. I bought this one when Matthew died, and Reuben sold me the other one, just as it stands, whilst you were away, and we arranged to keep it a secret for a while. Then there will be about 1,500 in the bank and Building Society when everything has been paid. I have thought a great deal about what to do with it, and I am going to leave both the cottages, with all the furniture, for the use of poor widows who otherwise might have to go to the workhouse; and the interest on the money will keep them from want.

"I haven't much head for business, but a lawyer will work it out all right. You see, love, I was left comfortably off by Matthew, and I think the Lord would like me to remember that all widows are not so fortunate; and I don't want to forget that it is His money I have to dispose of."

The tears came into my eyes now and I could not speak. The sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly outside, but within that humble room there was a radiance that outshone that of the sun, even the reflected splendour of heaven.

After a while she continued: "I want you and Reuben to decide who are to live in the cottages, but I should like Ginty's mother to have the first offer, love, and I think she will not refuse for my sake; and you must arrange about the other. You will see Lawyer Simpson in Fawks.h.i.+ll, love, and tell him all this. Go this afternoon, for I shall be restless now until all is done. And now let me tell you what no lawyer need know."

Again she rested for a while and then continued:

"They are sure to want a service at the chapel, for I am the oldest member, and a cla.s.s leader. But I do so dislike doleful singing, so I have been thinking it over and I have put down on a paper which you will find in my Bible the hymns which I should like to have sung. Ask them to sing first 'My G.o.d, the spring of all my joys,' to the tune of 'Lydia.' You won't know the tune, love, for it is a very old-fas.h.i.+oned one, but I have always liked it, and it goes with a rare swing. Then I _must_ have 'Jesu, Lover of my soul' to 'Hollingside,' for that is the hymn of my experience; and to conclude with let them sing a child's hymn. I'm afraid you will laugh at me, Grace, but I would like to have 'There is a better world, they say.' I think these will be sufficient, and they are all very cheerful hymns and tunes."

"And the minister?" I asked, for her calmness was infectious.

"Oh, either of them, love," she said; "they are both good men, and they must arrange to suit their own convenience. Now give me a kiss. I am so glad to have got this done, and though I am tired I feel ever so much better."

I saw the lawyer in the afternoon, and he called with the draft on the following day, and by the next it had been signed, witnessed and completed.

Mother Hubbard did not go to chapel on the Sunday, but on the Thursday she expressed her fixed determination to take her cla.s.s. I protested in vain; the motherkin had made up her mind.

"I must, love; it is laid upon me, and I am not at all excited."

"But, dear," I urged, "I shall worry terribly whilst you are out of my care. You are not fit to go--you are not strong enough."

"It is only a step, love," she replied, "and the evening is warm; why need you worry when you can come with me?"

She had never suggested this before--indeed, when I had laughingly suggested it she had been visibly alarmed, and I admit that the idea was not attractive. Somehow or other I distrusted the Methodist cla.s.s meeting. But my love for the cla.s.s leader prevailed.

"Very well," I said; "if you go, I go too."

We went together and found eight or nine women of various ages a.s.sembled in the little vestry. Mother Hubbard took her seat at the table, and I sat next to Widow Smithies, who moved up to make room for me.