CHAPTER X. AT LAST GOD BRINGS THE TARDY BLESSING. "Who know themselves and know the way before them, With clear foresight, not a blindfold courage; "God hath brought the tardy blessing ANCELOT did not find it as easy to escape from L his sorrowful dilemma as he expected. The death of his father and his own serious resolve to take nothing from an estate fallen too early into his power made the carrying out of his cotton plan difficult, and, to himself, undesirable. He had not either the cash or credit to personally back the scheme. And he had resolved to remain away from England some years. Indeed, as soon as commercial circumstances made such a sale possible, he intended to sell his own mill at Atherton, and with the proceeds pursue fortune in some other land. The resignation of his cotton scheme also left the world. open to him. Mexico had then no special claim on his fancy or interest. On the contrary, India, Canada, Australia presented far more natural opportunities. He did not, however, speak of any such change of determination. The world around him had already accepted the necessity for cotton as an excuse sufficient for desert ing his home and apparent interests, and it seemed best to allow it this resolution of whatever was strange in his conduct. He had never before supposed it would be difficult to obtain two thousand pounds, but it was several weeks ere his lawyer managed to effect this loan upon his Atherton mill. During these weeks he kept himself in great seclusion. To his mother he spoke very little. She had accepted without dispute the charge Lancelot threw upon her respecting the property, and her first step was to send for the overlooker, and in Lancelot's and her own name close the Garsby Mill. Then she immediately hired more servants, and began a systematic and thorough cultivation of every inch of Leigh Farm. "Wheat and fodder will be wanted as long as the world lasts," she said; "and if folks stick to the land, the land will feed them, and happen make money for them." Lancelot opposed nothing and indorsed nothing, and when she found all efforts at conciliation and co-operation unresponded to, she hid herself entirely behind a countenance cold, impassive, and expressionless. Lancelot sat at meat with her; they had nothing else in common. The youth wandered alone among the thickly shaded walks in the garden, or he sat musing in his dismantled rooms. He could not read; every subject but Francesca slipped away from his consciousness; and the sound of his piano would have shocked and offended him. Francesca supplied all the springs of his mind; her sweetness; her beauty; her confiding love; her piteous loss; he went over and over this ground, and only varied it by still sadder reflections on his father's death, his mother's painful condition, the national distress, their loss of money, the closing of both mills, and the absolute necessity for his own expatriation. He was thinking somberly of the latter circumstance one morning, when his mother entered his room. She had an air of business about her, the alert manner of a person on whom there are great and grave charges. Advancing to Lancelot, she cast a letter down upon the table, and said: "There, then! Some That came half an hour since. woman scribbling to thee, I see. If I was thee, I would try and find something else to do with life, than to sit still and dream it away." He took the letter with a Thank you, mother." "Nay, thou needn't thank me. It hes the Atherton postmark on it, and-" then he looked anxiously at the letter and saw it was Miss Loida's writing. Immediately he was sure that Francesca was ill. A swoon of fearful thoughts turned him sick and faint. 66 Mother," he said, "will you leave me now? I—I want to read my letter. I am terrified." "About Miss Atherton? To be sure. Thy mother is to go away that thou may read about her and hev thy love-feast all to thysen. Does ta think I'll stay where I am not wanted? Not I. Mebbe it will come into thy mind, either to live like a Christian in thy home, or to get out of a place not good enough for thee, as soon as iver ta can." "I will, mother.” Then she left the room with an air of indifference, but her heart was burning within her. She was truly angry at Lancelot, but far more angry at herself. Her blame of him was from the lips only; she accused herself continually with her very soul, in words she durst not utter, in tears she would not shed. When the door was closed, Lancelot opened his letter. He was sure it contained ill news, and it was after all only a friendly note of advice. And yet, it was the determining note of his future: "I hear that you are going "Dear Sir:" Miss Loida wrote. to Mexico. It is sad to be in a strange country without a friend. I have a dear friend who has been at the San Lepato mines for ten years. I think he may be there yet. If not, he is at some Mexican seaport in the blockade business. His name is Richard Alderson; and if you show him this letter, he will, for my sake, be a friend to you. And he will soon love you for your own sake. I have written this out of my own wish and desire to do you good. Francesca loves you continually with all her heart, and I am your sincere friend, LOIDA VYNER." In the wavering condition of his mind, this letter was like an anchor to Lancelot. He took it for a sign, and accepted at once the destiny it should lead him to. For it appeared strange that two circumstances so different as the need of cotton and Miss Loida's desire to help him should both point out this same country to him. Surely there was some higher indication than mere chance in such a double leading. Miss Loida's letter was followed by one announcing the success of his lawyer regarding the two thousand pounds he wanted; and now the gate was opened, and the road cleared for his journey. His preparations were otherwise perfect; he had only to bid "farewell" to his mother, and write his last letter to Francesca. Martha Leigh knew well that this point had been reached; but, suffer as she might, she would die ere she would show the knowledge affected her. Though not a word had been said on the subject, she was aware, on the morning of Lancelot's departure, that they were to eat their last breakfast together. A tenderness she neither admitted nor denied led her to set the table with unusual care, and to make the dishes her son liked best. She was drawing her eyelids tight together, and setting her lips firm, the whole time her hands and feet were busy. It was bitter hard work to keep back the tears, bitter hard work to keep back the long, moaning cries that burst from her heart, and almost choked her in their impetuous rush to her lips. But she made no sign-the woman in her would have escaped into the outer space rather than do so-no sign, unless her specially neat attire and the rigid bordering of the gray-white muslin of her widow's cap might be so taken. And perhaps Martha Leigh had a distinct though dim intention of this kind in her dress; perhaps she did wish Lancelot's last mental picture of his mother to be one he could remember with respect. At any rate, something of this result was obtained; for Lancelot carried with him wherever he went this memory of a tall, grave, handsome woman in a black gown, her bosom crossed by white lawn, her gray hair covered with that formal, desolate-looking head-gear. When they rose from the breakfast-table, Lancelot glanced at the doors. They were shut. He then looked steadily into his mother's face, and her lips quivered, and she forced herself to look away from him. lifted both her hands and held them a moment. still gazed outward and remained speechless. He She He |