"You can leave me now, and tell Mr. Mountford I am ready for him to come," she added.
"I am here, darling," replied her husband.
"I might have known," she whispered, as he bent over her, and drawing his head down, she kissed him tenderly again and again.
He seated himself so as to be on a level with her, but again she drew his head to her breast and held him in a close embrace. Hitherto, neither of them had spoken to the other of that terrible day, but now Mrs. Mountford whispered—
"Can you ever forgive me, Kenneth? I have been longing to ask you, ever since I knew what my wickedness had brought on you. I say you, darling husband, for though I know you will place my loss of sight and helplessness as worst of all, because I have to bear them through all my life, I am sure you have suffered even more than I have. Besides, bodily pain is not the worst part, though you have borne that along with me. I understand something about what sympathy means, when such love goes with it; for whenever our little one was ill, every pain she had was a double stab to me. And once when you were ill, my husband, it was the same or worse. To see those we love suffer is so hard. It would be bliss to bear the pain, if by doing this one could spare them. If such a poor, weak, wilful creature as I am can feel in this way, what must you have endured for my sake?"
Mrs. Mountford spoke softly and slowly, still holding her husband clasped closely to her.
He could not answer, and she knew why. She passed her slender fingers over his face, and felt the tears that he could not keep back, and knew, by the heaving of his breast, that he was too much overcome by emotion to utter a word in reply.
She waited patiently for a while, dried the tears as they fell, and kissed his hair, even, as his; head lay close to her. She could not, and never would, see how it had changed of late. Where only a few silver threads had been, it was now all grey.
"Kenneth," she whispered at length, "you must not grieve. I am not worth such love and tears, but I want you to tell me I am forgiven first, and then—"
"My darling, do not speak of forgiveness. I forgave you long, long ago," said Mr. Mountford.
"That is what I wanted. I should not have liked you to say that there was nothing to forgive, because even when I was planning to deceive you on that awful day, conscience was showing me my wickedness, and striving with me, only I would not listen. Do you know, Kenneth, I was worse than wilful, defiant, and disobedient? I was untruthful. I who had always been proud to say, that whatever were my faults, falsehood in any shape had never been one of them. It was so mean, Kenneth, to deceive James, by saying that I had told you I should ride Prince that morning, and not saying that you had forbidden me to mount him until you had made sure that he was fit for me to use with safety."
"I ought to have stayed with you and made sure," said Mr. Mountford. "I have reproached myself ever since for having left you alone. It would have been no privation for me to give up the meet."
"Do not reproach yourself, Kenneth. If I had been such a wife as you had a right to expect, there would have been no need for you to stay. Looking back, it seems horrible that my wilfulness should have made it necessary for me to have a keeper as well as a husband in you, and that if I were out of your sight you were made miserable, lest I should bring harm upon myself. I shall need no watcher now," added Mrs. Mountford, with a pitiful realization of her helplessness.
"But you will have my companionship, dearest. All that I can do I will. I will be eyes to you, and tell all that is passing. Thank God, you have seen, and as I describe the changes that are going on around us, memory will enable you to picture them, though you cannot now see them. My feet shall turn whither you will, and be your messengers. My hands shall be such willing hands in your service. Every day our child will grow more able to join me in loving ministry, and her prattle will cheer you."
"I know, Kenneth dearest, what you will be. My sorest trial is that I cannot see your face and our child's. Perhaps, after all, it matters less about seeing yours, for I can never forget it, and you will grow no older to me, though I may live to be a white-haired grandmother."
Mrs. Mountford laughed at the thought, for Kathleen was but three and a half years old. But the laugh died almost as it was born, as she added with a sigh—"They say that all the other senses become more acute when sight is gone. I shall have to pass my hand over Kitty's face and hair, and measure her height from time to time, and you will tell me about everything, will you not?"
"I will, dearest."
"And when I am a little stronger you will bring poor James to see me, and I will ask his pardon for having deceived him. I shall not be quite happy till I have done that."
Mr. Mountford promised, and in due time James was taken to see his mistress and hear her confession. He came away blubbering, poor fellow, like a school-boy, and declaring that if by taking her helplessness on himself he could restore her strength, he would do it; and those who heard believed him.
But neither love nor skill could greatly prolong Mrs. Mountford's life, and four years after the accident she died.
In spite of the elements of suffering and sadness, which of necessity were always present, those four years were not unhappy ones. The outer vision of the invalid might be gone for ever, but the spiritual vision became clearer and brighter day by day, in the case of both husband and wife.
"It needed a terrible lesson to show me myself first, for I had never been conscious either of my ignorance of all that is best worth knowing, or of what I was in God's sight: I was always sorry when I grieved you, Kenneth, for I did love you, and I knew something of your love for me. But I never felt any sorrow for the real sin, or penitence towards God. I have never known or wanted to know much of Him, though I suppose I should have been shocked and angry if any one had accused me of not believing in God; but they would have told the truth. I just took it for granted there was one, and never troubled myself any more about the matter. Not knowing, how could I love Him who never came into my thoughts as a great reality? But now—oh, the blessed difference! It is true happiness to be allowed in ever so little a way to love Him who is love. The pity of it is, that now I can never show my love by service. I cannot go about amongst the poor and tell them the sweet lesson I have learned, or do them good for Christ's sake."
"My darling, you think of and care for many whom you cannot visit or cheer with your presence and kind words."
Mrs. Mountford shook her head. "The only thing I can do is to bear my blindness and helplessness with patient submission, and to thank God that I did not die without having time for repentance. If I have been patient, He has made me so in answer to prayer."
"You are patience itself, dearest. Every one feels it a privilege to wait upon and learn sweet lessons of endurance from you," replied her husband.
"Every one is good and kind. You, my husband, most of all. I see now what a precious gift God gave me in you. We have been happy, in spite of everything. We are of one mind now, and as each day brings us nearer to the parting hour we are drawn closer in love. When my place on earth is empty, you will always remember that God sees us both, though we cannot see each other."
"I shall not forget, but I hope to keep you and minister to you for years to come."
"Better say 'wish;' for you can hardly hope now. I remember how I used to say so glibly, 'I believe in the communion of saints,' when I repeated the creed in church, along with others. But now I know what the words mean. When you praise God on earth, Kenneth, and I, by His grace, in the home above, there will still be communion."
"True, but communion which will be perfected when we meet again, dear wife."
"Yes, to us; but I suppose it will be always perfect to Him who sees and hears us both."
Such conversations were frequent between the husband and wife, and gave them great comfort. Both were deeply anxious about little Kathleen. It cheered the dying mother to think that, as her child was nearly eight years old, she was not likely to forget her altogether.
"Keep my memory green with Kitty," she would say. "The child is so constantly with you, and will be more so, if possible, when I am gone. Do not let her forget her mother, though she will only picture me as blind and helpless."
"No fear of her forgetting you whilst I live," replied Mr. Mountford, and he ever took the greatest pains to carry out his wife's wish. One thing was, however, carefully kept from Kathleen, not only when she was a child, but afterwards. She knew that her mother had been injured by being thrown from her horse, but the story of her wilfulness and disobedience was never repeated in Kathleen's presence.
Mrs. Ellicott, the widowed sister of Mr. Mountford, had been invited to remain with him after his wife's death. The sisters-in-law had always been great friends, and it had comforted Mrs. Mountford to think that Kathleen would have sweet motherly influences around her as she grew up to girlhood and womanhood.
So long as her father lived, the girl was fairly amenable to these, but she was only fifteen when she lost him, and before that time he had noted with some anxiety the great resemblance between her and her mother, as he had first known her. In one sense the likeness gave him pleasure, in another pain.
Kathleen had almost equal beauty and the same high spirits and winsome ways. But sometimes Mr. Mountford caught glimpses of wilfulness and an ungovernable temper, such as had cost her mother so dear. She would be a great heiress, for though a generous man, Mr. Mountford was a prudent one. From the date of his wife's accident he had lived very quietly, and he continued to do so after her death. His property was not entailed, and he never contemplated leaving any portion of it to a male relative. It was all for Kathleen, and would be hers absolutely when she was twenty-one, or married with the consent of her guardians. These were Mrs. Ellicott, who with her daughter, Geraldine, would, he hoped, live at Hollingsby Hall with Kathleen, at least, until she attained her majority.
Her other guardian was a young man of only twenty-two at the time of his appointment to this somewhat onerous position. His father, Mr. Mountford's oldest friend, had been originally selected, but whilst willing to accede to the request made, he pleaded unsuitability on account of age.
"When people appoint guardians and executors, they need not only to consider the character and business qualities of the individuals chosen, but whether they will be likely to see the trust to an end. I am ten years older than you, and much less vigorous in many ways. Humanly speaking, you are far more likely to outlive me than I you, and I trust you will see your bright girl developed into a noble woman. I will, however, consent to be named as your executor and Kathleen's guardian, if my son may be associated with me in the trust. Then you will have an old head and a pair of young shoulders, but not united in the same individual."
The speaker, Mr. Matheson, of Westhill, noticed a peculiar look on his friend's face as he made this suggestion, and without waiting for a reply he continued: "I see that amused look, Mountford, and I know what it means. You think that to appoint a young fellow of two-and-twenty to be co-guardian with his father of a beautiful girl only eight years younger than himself, and an heiress to boot, is suggestive of match-making in the future."
"I do not deny it," replied Mr. Mountford, "but I will add more than the smile expressed. Knowing what Aylmer is, I could wish nothing better for Kathleen than to be the wife of such a man. But all the same, I would not by word or act influence the choice of my child or your son."
"And by appointing Aylmer as one of her trustees, you raise a very effectual barrier to any nearer union between him and Kathleen. Though I say it, and he is my only son, Aylmer Matheson will put every thought of self aside in his fulfilment of the trust reposed in him, if he should have to act as Kathleen's guardian. But I fervently hope that no one will have to take a father's place to her."
This wish was not fulfilled, and though Mr. Mountford died before his old friend, Mr. Matheson only survived him about two years.
From the age of seventeen, Kathleen had been under the joint guardianship of Mrs. Ellicott and Aylmer Matheson, the latter combining the double qualifications of young shoulders and the wise head which is not generally supposed to accompany them. In appearance he was tall and well-proportioned, rather fair than dark, with rebellious brown hair which no amount of cutting and brushing would deprive of its natural wave and tendency to curl. It was, however, carried well back from a broad and high forehead, and a pair of dark grey eyes, whose expression betokened courage and honesty. A brown moustache and otherwise clean-shaven, rather pale face, and the description is fairly complete. Perhaps, however, the paleness was rather comparative, as it was only noticeable in contrast with the colour which was never lacking on the face of Captain Torrance, between whom and Aylmer Matheson, it was commonly said, there was no love lost.
Those who knew these two men were not surprised at the saying, and would have deemed anything like friendship between them as equally impossible and absurd. Unlikeness is often a help to friendship rather than otherwise. Weakness, whether of character or person, generally looks for strength in its chief friend. Beauty often honestly admires ugliness, or while admiring the other qualities of a plain-visaged friend, is secretly glad that in her she has a foil which enhances her own charms by contrast, instead of a rival.
The waverer is thankful to be taken possession of and managed by the friend who can promptly decide whether to say "Yes" or "No," and who is equally able to give a reason for her answer.
And so on ad infinitum; but in friendship as in marriage, it is only when opposite qualities in the individuals concerned tend to mutual well-being, and the formation of a harmonious whole, that satisfactory results can be hoped for.
Candour cannot be friends with cunning, honesty with fraud, truth with falsehood. The nature which delights in good-doing, even when it demands self-sacrifice, can never join hands with one whose sole aim is self-indulgence and self-aggrandisement. The merciful and the cruel, the liberal and the churlish, the brave and the cowardly, are in each case separated by barriers none the less real because they are invisible to the eye.
