The Everlasting Arms Part 38

Closer and closer he strained her to his heart, while words of love and of thankfulness struggled for expression. For as she laid her head on his shoulder, and he felt the beating of her heart, his mind swept like lightning over the past years, and he knew that angels of G.o.d had ministered to him, that they had shielded him from danger, and helped him in temptation. And this he knew also: while he had been on the brink of ruin through a woman, it was also by a woman that he had been saved. The thought of Beatrice Stanmore had been a power which had defied the powers of evil, and enabled him to keep his manhood clean.

Even yet the wonder of it all was beyond words, for he had come there that morning believing that Beatrice was the promised wife of Sir George Weston, and now, as if by the wave of some magician's wand, his beliefs had been dispelled, and he had found her free.

An hour before, he dared not imagine that this unspoilt child of nature could ever think of him with love, and yet her face was pressed against his, and she was telling him the simple story of her love--a love unsullied by the world, a love unselfish as that of a mother, and as strong as death.

"But I am so poor," he stammered at length; "just a voting machine at four hundred a year."

"As though you could ever be that," she laughed. "You are going to do great things, my love. You are going to live and work for the betterment of the world. And I--I shall be with you all the time."

He had much to tell her--a story so wonderful that it was difficult to believe. But Beatrice believed it. The thought of an angel who had come to him, warned him, guided him, and strengthened him, was not strange to her. For her pure young eyes had pierced the barriers of materialism, just as the light of the stars pierces the darkness of night. Because her soul was pure, she knew that the angels of G.o.d were never far away, and that the Eternal Goodness used them to minister to those who would listen to their voices.

d.i.c.k did not go to the great house that day. There seemed no reason why he should. By lunch time old Hugh Stanmore returned and was met by the two lovers.

Of all they said to each other, and of the explanations that were made, there is no need that I should write. Suffice to say that Hugh Stanmore was satisfied. It is true he liked Sir George Weston, while the thought that Beatrice might be mistress of his house was pleasant to him; true, too, that d.i.c.k Faversham was poor. But he had no fears. He knew that this young man's love was pure and strong, that he would never rest until he had provided a home worthy of her, and that his grandchild's future would be safe in his hands.

When d.i.c.k left the cottage that night, it was on the understanding that he would come back as soon as possible. Beatrice pleaded hard with him not to go to London, but to stay at the cottage and be nursed back to health and strength. But d.i.c.k had to make arrangements for a lengthened stay away from his work, and to see some of his confreres, so, while his heart yearned to remain near her, he looked joyfully forward to his return.

"And you go away happy, my love?"

"The happiest man on earth. And you, my little maid?"

"Oh, d.i.c.k, everything is as I hoped and prayed for."

"And you loved me all the time?"

"All the time; but I did not know it until----"

"Until when?"

"Until another man told me he wanted me."

d.i.c.k was in dreamland as he returned to London. No sooner had he boarded the train at Wendover than, as it seemed to him, he had arrived at Victoria. As for the journey between that station and his flat he has no remembrance to this day.

"Oh, the wonder of it, the glad wonder of it!" he repeated again and again. "Thank G.o.d--thank G.o.d!"

Then, as if in fulfilment of an old adage, no sooner had he entered his flat than another surprise awaited him. On his writing-table lay a long blue envelope, which had been brought by hand that afternoon. d.i.c.k broke the seal almost indifferently. What did he care about letters? Then he saw the name of Bidlake, and his attention was riveted.

This is what he read: "MY DEAR FAVERSHAM,--Forgive this unceremonious manner of writing, but I fancy I am a little excited. Riggleton is dead, and thus it comes about that the Faversham estates--or what is left of them--revert to you. How it was possible for a man to squander so much money and leave things in such a terrible mess in such a short time it is difficult to say. But there it is. Still, a good deal is left. Wendover Park, and all the lands attached remain untouched, and a good deal of money can be sc.r.a.ped up. Will you call as soon as possible on receipt of this, and I'll explain everything to you, as far as I can.--With heartiest congratulations, yours faithfully, "JOHN BIDLAKE."

Again and again d.i.c.k read this letter. He felt something like the lad of the Eastern Story must have felt as he read. He would not have been surprised if the Slave of the Lamp appeared, asking what his desires were, so that they might be performed without delay. December had changed into June in a single day.

His joy can be better imagined than described. To know that this old homestead was his again, to realise that he was no longer homeless and poor was a gladness beyond words. But he no longer felt as he had felt when he first saw Wendover. Then his thought had been of his own aggrandis.e.m.e.nt, and the satisfaction of his ambitions. Now he rejoiced because he could offer a home to the maiden he loved, and because he could do for the world what for years he had dreamt of doing.

But he was early at Mr. Bidlake's office the following morning.

"No, no, there's no mistake this time," Mr. Bidlake a.s.sured him. "You can enter into possession with a confident mind. Money! Yes, the fellow wasted it like water, but you need not fear. You'll have more than you need, in spite of increased income-tax and super-tax. Talk about romance though, if ever there was a romance this is one."

After spending two hours with the lawyer d.i.c.k went to the House of Commons, where he made the necessary arrangements for a couple of weeks' further absence.

"Yes, we can manage all right," a.s.sented the Labour Member with whom he spoke. "Not but what we shall be glad to have you back. There are big things brewing. The working people must no longer be hewers of wood and drawers of water. We must see to that."

"Yes, we will see to that," cried d.i.c.k. "But we must be careful."

"Careful of what?"

"Careful that we don't drift to Bolshevism, careful that we don't abuse our power. We must show that we who represent the Democracy understand our work. We must not think of one cla.s.s only, but all the cla.s.ses. We must think of the Empire, the good of humanity."

The other shook his head, "No mercy on capitalists," he cried.

"On the other hand we must make capitalists do their duty," d.i.c.k replied. "We must see to it that Capital and Labour work together for the good of the whole community. There lies the secret of stable government and a prosperous nation."

It was late in the evening when d.i.c.k arrived at Hugh Stanmore's cottage, so late indeed that the old man had given up hope of his coming; but Beatrice rushed to him with a glad laugh.

"I knew you would come," she said. "And now I am going to begin my work as nurse right away. You must have a light supper and go to bed at once, and to-morrow you must stay in bed all day."

d.i.c.k shook his head. "And I am going to rebel," was his reply. "I am going to sit up for at least two hours, while first thing to-morrow morning I am going to take you to a house I have in my mind."

"What house?"

"A house I've settled on for our future home."

"d.i.c.k, don't be foolish. You know we must not think of that for months--years."

"Mustn't we?" laughed d.i.c.k. "There, read that," and he handed her Mr. Bidlake's letter.

"But, d.i.c.k!" she cried as she read, "this, this is----"

"Beautiful, isn't it?" d.i.c.k replied joyously. "Will you read it, sir?" and he placed it in old Hugh Stanmore's hands.

After that Beatrice no longer insisted that her lover must be treated as an invalid. Hour after hour they sat talking, while the wonder of it all never left them.

The next morning broke bright and clear. Spring had indeed come, gladsome joyous spring, heralded by the song of birds, by the resurrection of a new life everywhere.

"Will you go with us, Granddad?" asked Beatrice, as they prepared for their visit.

"No," said Hugh Stanmore; "I'll come across alone in a couple of hours." He was a wise man.

Neither of them spoke a word as they walked up the avenue towards the great house. Perhaps their minds were both filled by the same thoughts--thoughts too great for utterance. Above them the sun shone in a great dome of cloudless blue, while around them all nature was putting on her beautiful garments.

Presently the old house burst upon their view. There it stood on a slight eminence, while behind it great trees rose. Away from the front of the building stretched gra.s.sy lawns and flower gardens, while beyond was parkland, studded by giant trees.

And still neither spoke. Hand in hand they walked towards the entrance door, d.i.c.k gazing at it earnestly, as if looking for something. When they had come within a dozen yards of it both, as if by mutual consent, stood still.

Was it fancy or was it real? Was it because expectancy was in both their hearts, and their imagination on fire, or did they really see?

This is what both of them told me they saw.

Standing in the doorway, with hands outstretched as if in the att.i.tude of welcoming them, was the luminous figure of a woman. Her face was lit up with holy joy, while in her eyes was no sorrow, no doubt, but a look of ineffable happiness.

For a few seconds she stood gazing on them, and d.i.c.k saw the look of love in her eyes, saw the rapture that seemed to pervade her being. It was the same face he had seen there before, the same love-lit eyes.

She lifted her hands as if in benediction, and then slowly the figure faded away.

"It is my mother," whispered d.i.c.k. He had no remembrance of his mother, but he knew it was she. He felt no fear, there was nothing to be fearful about, rather a great joy filled his life. G.o.d had sent his angel to tell him that all was well.

The door stood open, and they entered the great silent hall together. No one was in sight. He opened his arms, and she came to him.

"Welcome home, my wife," he said.

THE END.