FOUR GATES

THE DIFFERENT OUTLOOK ON LIFE OF FOUR YOUNG WOMEN

BY

AMY LE FEUVRE

Author of "Probable Sons," "Herself and Her Boy," etc.

PICKERING & INGLIS

LONDON GLASGOW EDINBURGH

LONDON • • 14 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.4 GLASGOW • • 229 BOTHWELL STREET, C.2 EDINBURGH • 29 GEORGE IV BRIDGE, 1 NEW YORK • LOIZEAUX BROS., 19 WEST 21ST ST. GOLDEN CROWN LIBRARY OF STORIES BY AUTHORS OF HIGH REPUTE 1 HERSELF AND HER BOY AMY LE FEUVRE 3 HER HUSBAND'S HOME E. EVERETT GREEN 4 PEPPER & CO ESTHER E. ENOCK 5 ELDWYTH'S CHOICE L. A. BARTER SNOW 6 MARTYRLAND ROBERT SIMPSON 7 ANDY MAN AMY LE FEUVRE 9 FOUR GATES AMY LE FEUVRE 11 A MADCAP FAMILY AMY LE FEUVRE 12 NORAH'S VICTORY L. A. BARTER SNOW 13 JOAN'S HANDFUL AMY LE FEUVRE 14 CORAL CHARLOTTE MURRAY 15 SOME BUILDERS AMY LE FEUVRE 16 AGNES DEWSBURY L. A. BARTER SNOW 17 MARGARET'S STORY MARJORIE DOUGLAS 18 'TWIXT ALTAR AND PLOUGH L. A. BARTER SNOW 19 TRUE TO THE LAST E. EVERETT GREEN 20 MY LADY'S GOLDEN FOOTPRINTS E. E. ENOCK 21 NORAH: A GIRL OF GRIT BETH J. C. HARRIS 22 HER LITTLE KINGDOM L. A. BARTER SNOW 23 BRAVE BROTHERS E. M. STOOKE 24 A COUNTRY CORNER AMY LE FEUVRE 25 THE HOME OF THE AYLMERS MARJORIE DOUGLAS 26 O CARRY ME BACK! E. A. BLAND 27 MONICA'S CHOICE FLORA E. BERRY 28 A STUDY IN GOLD GRACE PETTMAN

Made and Printed in Great Britain

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. FOUR LIVES

II. FACING WEST

III. FACING NORTH AND EAST

IV. FACING SOUTH

V. AN UNFORTUNATE INTERVIEW

VI. UNSUCCESSFUL EFFORT

VII. BEATEN

VIII. A FRESH SPHERE

IX. AN INVALID'S WHIM

X. OLDER AND WISER

XI. AN IDEAL TEACHER

XII. AN EMPTY SHRINE

XIII. CONFIDENCES

XIV. BATTLING TOWARDS THE SHORE

XV. A FATHER AND CHILD

XVI. WANTED

XVII. A TURN FROM THE EAST

XVIII. THE HELPER

XIX. NEGLECTED DUTY

XX. THE HOLIDAYS

XXI. HOMELESS

XXII. MOTHERHOOD

XXIII. A BABY'S LIFEWORK

XXIV. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL

XXV. TWO LETTERS

XXVI. COME BACK

XXVII. SUMMONED TO PART

ILLUSTRATIONS

DR. VERNON TURNED FURIOUSLY TO AUDREY. Frontispiece

"I HAVE A FANCY," SAID MRS. DAVENTRY, "THAT EACH ONE OF US MAY BE ENTERING THAT CITY THROUGH DIFFERENT GATES."

PAULINE'S TONE WAS DESPERATE. "WE THINK MOTHER IS GETTING WORSE. IS SHE?"

THE DOCTOR SHOUTED, AND AUDREY AND HE STOPPED TO LISTEN.

"BUT YOU WON'T LIVE ALONE," SAID MR. DANBY. "WHY NOT?" REPLIED PAULINE.

Four Gates

CHAPTER I

FOUR LIVES

"Who would be planted chooseth not the soil, Or here or there, Or loam or peat, Wherein he best may grow, And bring forth guerdon of the planter's toil. "Lord, even so I ask one prayer, The which if it be granted— It skills not where Thou plantest me— Only—I would be planted." T. E. BROWN.

"PAULINE, do you honestly like being in a backwater?"

"Backwaters have their uses."

"That is not an answer."

"I think I regard it as a halting-place—a wayside station on life's railroad."

"But that is just what it isn't. It comes from nowhere, and leads to nowhere. And I stamp and I fume at the stagnation!"

"You are an impetuous spirit! Perhaps, later on, you will look back to these quiet sweet days, and long to experience them again."

"I don't say that I shouldn't enjoy it at the end of my life, when I have been in all the stir and rush; when I have had my good time and can sit in an easy-chair and look back at it all."

"Then you should have sympathy with your father."

"Oh, I have. From his point of view, his lines have fallen to him in pleasant places. But I am at the beginning of my life. I think everyone ought to be in towns when they are young, and retire into the country when they are old. Of course, it is delightful when you have money; then you can have both in your life. But with a small purse, if you live the first half of your life in the country, and only get release from it when you are old, then you are too old to enjoy your liberty. Opportunities are gone; your talents are rusted, your ignorance of the world is ridiculous!"

"Why, Audrey, dear, you are getting quite excited!"

"I am—I feel so. Do say you agree with me. You must if you think it out. Look at us in this village. Here are four young women, not poor enough to earn their living, but not rich enough to satisfy their mental needs. One, Pauline Erskine, devotes herself to an invalid mother, and never leaves home for a single night. Don't interrupt me. She might, as your old Mary would say, 'grace a castle,' with her dignity and beauty. She once had a longing for an artistic life, but it has been stifled. She did go to London for three weeks when she was quite young, and she has lived on the memory of it ever since. She pretends her life satisfies her, but I know it doesn't.

"Then there is Honor Broughton, who is nursery governess to her three small stepsisters. Her whole world is centred in this backwater. She can never talk of anyone but her immediate neighbours, and the iniquities of her mother's servants.

"Amabel Osborne is a most dutiful daughter, of course, and is always the picture of happy content. But she confesses that reading a newspaper to her father is the most uninteresting part of her day's work. She has never worked her brains, and never will. Picking flowers in the garden, and listening to a lark's song, and roaming across buttercup meadows are her highest pleasures."

"And Audrey Hume—"

"Oh, she's just another, with a passion for reading, but can get no books worth the name of books, and a passion for novelty and change, and has never been twelve miles out of this backwater all her life. Talk about the revolt of women, and the era of independent women—what do we understand by such terms? There are no stronger chains than those of affection and blood, and we are all tied to those who are old and weak and helpless, and who are our beloved belongings!"

Quick tears sprang to the young girl's eyes as she turned to her friend for sympathy.

Pauline looked at her, then gazed over the peaceful landscape in front of them with a wistful smile.

They were both leaning over a gate as they talked. It was a buttercup meadow in front of them, and young lambs were at play in it. The soft spring air, with the thrill of youth and expectancy in it, had got into Audrey's veins. She was quivering all over with excitement and feeling, and her dark grey eyes were flashing with a thousand lights and sparkles. Slim and of the average height, with a broad low brow, and soft dusky hair, and a face that owed all its beauty to its variety of expression, she was a marked contrast to the tall fair girl beside her.

Pauline was a woman who attracted all who knew her, and yet was utterly unconscious of her power. Her dignified serenity, the deep earnest vibration in her tone, and her slow, bewildering smile that seemed to caress the one upon whom she smiled—all helped to add to her charms. But her power was in her wide outlook, and deep love and sympathy for everyone who came across her path. Audrey often called her a "Viking's daughter." Her deep blue eyes, fair complexion, and coils of golden hair, with her tall and beautifully proportioned figure, certainly claimed a Northern ancestry.

Audrey glanced at her now, and Pauline met her gaze with the words:

"We must be going on, or we shall be late for tea, and Mrs. Daventry will be disappointed."

"Oh!" exclaimed Audrey, with a quick sigh, which she turned to laughter. "We always have to be doing things we do not like for fear of disappointing people. I can so rarely get you to myself, and I am bubbling over with thoughts that I want to pass on to you."

"We can walk and talk at the same time, can't we?"

"Yes, but the house is already in sight. Walk very slowly, Pauline, there's a dear. I've been thinking out this question about single women, and I find it infinitely pathetic. They are the least considered and the most heroic—now, don't laugh at me! But isn't it true that by devoting themselves to the old people, they lose the chance of ever getting, in their turn, the devotion of the young? In broad plain language, they are prevented from meeting men whom they might marry by attending to their home ties and duties. I'm not thinking of myself at all—it isn't a personal grievance; I am looking out from this small village upon the world at large—the world I hear about, and read about, and think about. Why should the generation of daughters be more self-sacrificing than the parents? The single daughters look forward to a lonely old age, to poverty perhaps, to a time when they will be in the way of their friends, only tolerated as far as they can prove themselves useful, and spoken of with contemptuous pity by the young. And some of them are the noblest and best in creation!"

"They will have their reward," said Pauline gently.

"Oh, you are so good, and I am so wicked!"

Then Audrey laughed, and her laugh was an infectious one.

"I won't moralise any more. I am going to enjoy myself this afternoon. I love Mrs. Daventry. I wish she were my aunt or grandmother."

They had reached a small lodge, and went through some handsome iron gates up the drive that led to Barford Towers.

The park stretched away on either side of them; the chestnut avenue brought a sense of refreshment and peace after their rather hot and dusty walk along the high road.

Just in front of the old Tudor house was a green lawn, and under a cluster of beech trees was a group of people about to enjoy their afternoon tea together. Mrs. Daventry was the centre of the group, and she rose to receive the two girls with her usual smiling welcome. She was a very handsome old lady, with snow-white hair that was rolled back in French fashion under a filmy handkerchief of Mechlin lace. Her figure was still as erect, her eyes still as bright, as when, fifty years before, she had come to her beautiful home a happy bride.

The group around her were only young girls, but they all adored her; she was their queen, and they her court, as they often laughingly told her. And Mrs. Daventry loved every one of them.

The childless widow had taken to her heart the young maidens who lived outside her gates; she had seen the world as they had not. She remembered her own youth, and had boundless sympathy for any of them in a difficulty.

"Come along, Pauline, sit by me," the old lady said, drawing a lounge chair a little nearer her own; "and Audrey, sit where I can see your bright face. Here is Honor declaring you would not be coming. Now, I really think the Tabby's Tea-party has commenced."

Four girls and an old lady can keep the art of conversation up to the mark. There was no shyness amongst any of them. Pauline was perhaps the most silent, and Audrey the most talkative; Amabel laughed most; Honor was the most appreciative, though she had a most melancholy cast of countenance.

When tea was over, Audrey said:

"Now, Mrs. Daventry, let us talk about life—our lives; that's the most interesting thing in the world to us. Make us feel that a good time is coming to us. Inspire us with some of your thoughts. We are all more or less discontented, though I'm the only honest one who owns up."

Mrs. Daventry shook her head at Audrey, with her silvery laugh.

"I see no signs of discontent upon your faces," she said.

"No," said Honor quickly, "but that is because we are so close to our sun that we must reflect her rays!"

"I've never heard that the sun was a female before," said Mrs. Daventry, smiling. "Do you know what I always think when I look upon your young, fresh faces? I thank God that His works are always beautiful to start with. And then I muse upon the bundle of charms that you each possess, and which, if properly used, will make your world fair and beautiful."

"I have no charms," murmured Honor.

And, certainly, as far as outward charm went, she had not, for no one could call her anything but plain to look at. She had a broad mouth, snub nose, and small, short-sighted, blue eyes; yet when she talked, no one could call her uninteresting.

"Tell us our charms," said Audrey. "It's very nice to hear of our graces."

"I won't put beauty first, though it is one of them, and when I speak of beauty, I mean more than faultless features and good complexions. You have youth, health, strength, a boundless hope, enthusiasm, good spirits, and vivacity. You have innocence and freshness, and unembittered views of life."

"And we are all stagnating in a backwater," said Audrey mischievously.

"There is no such thing as stagnation in a human life. We either deteriorate or improve."

The old lady's voice was grave.

"Do you know," she went on cheerfully, "that I had a good deal of thought to-day over my lodges? You know the names of them?"

"Yes," said Amabel. "They are called North, South, East, and West Lodges, because you have one on each of the four sides of the Park."

"And do you know this about the City we all hope to enter one day:

"'On the East three gates; on the North three gates; on the South three gates; and on the West three gates'?"

The four girls looked at her expectantly.

"I have a fancy—" and here Mrs. Daventry's dark eyes became soft and dreamy as she looked away to some distant hills on the horizon—"that each one of us may be entering that City through different gates; we may be journeying out to it with our faces towards the North, South, East, or West. Think it out, will you? It may explain the different winds we face through life. When once we get inside, we shall acknowledge that whatever road led us to our destination was the right one for us, and thank our Guide for having enabled us to face our wind."

"I HAVE A FANCY," SAID MRS. DAVENTRY, "THAT EACH ONE OF US MAY BE ENTERING THAT CITY THROUGH DIFFERENT GATES."

Audrey's eyes sparkled.

"I like that," she said. "I'll find out which is my gate before to-morrow."

"I know which is mine," said Honor. "I have faced East all my life. My wind is always sharp and cutting, and I have to be for ever bracing up myself to meet it without a whimper."

No one answered. Each girl was reflecting, and when Mrs. Daventry rose from her seat and took all of them into the house to see some wonderful needlework of hers, the subject was dropped.

An hour later, the four girls left the house together, and chatted gaily as they walked along.

"Do you know, we are really going up to London for a month soon," said Amabel. "I have an aunt who has lived in Paris most of her life, but since my uncle's death, she has taken a house in town, and she has invited my parents and me. Won't it be delicious? She has a motor and any amount of money, so we shall be in the lap of luxury."

"What a lucky girl you are!" sighed Honor. "It was only a short time ago that you went a lovely driving tour. Things like that never come to me. It's just as I said. I shall face the East always, and hardly ever see the sun."

"Yes," said Audrey, laughing; "and all of us know that Amabel's road faces due South. She will go through life in the blazing sunshine of prosperity."

"Then my soul will get very parched."

Amabel's tone was light, but there was a glimmer of seriousness in her eyes.

Audrey glanced at her reflectively.

She was a pretty, childish little creature, with soft, playful ways and a ringing laugh that could not easily be suppressed.

"I dare say facing South always would be very enervating," Audrey said slowly.

"Yes, of course it will be, and you must make allowances accordingly for a Southerner. Pray, what gate is your destination, Audrey?"

"I think it must be West, because such storms crop up in a moment. Pauline, can your gate be the Northern one? I pity you if it is, for not a gleam of sunshine will you get as you go along. But it will suit you, for you will step along serenely, and in your eyes will be steadfast purpose. I believe your hidden fires will keep your Northern outlook from freezing you."

Pauline looked at her friend with her sweet, grave smile, then her blue eyes kindled with deep feeling as she said:

"Remember, if my face is towards the North, my back will be towards the sun. I may not see it, but I shall feel it, and I shall be kept warm."

Honor linked her arm in Pauline's.

"And what hope do you give me if I am to be perpetually meeting the most cutting and cruel wind of all?"

"There's a rush of thought over facing East, but don't you like this, 'And they journeyed towards the sunrising'? Can you wish for anything better than that?"

"It wants thinking out," said Honor slowly.

"We shall all get some sunshine," said Audrey, with knitted brow. "I really think it will be very interesting making out our different ways and fitting all our circumstances into them. I vote we meet each other in a year's time to mark progress and note past events."

"Perhaps," said Amabel gaily, "we may not all be here. Sometimes a year brings great changes."

"I feel in my bones it will bring no change to me," said Audrey. "'As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be—' don't look shocked, Pauline! I don't mean to be frivolous, but things come into my head so! And now here we part, for this is my turning."

They parted, but each took with them the thought that had been given them by their old friend that day, and shaped it into their lives.

CHAPTER II

FACING WEST

"For the work to God the dearest Is the duty lying nearest."

"WELL, 'I' think summer very depressing—given a small house, a treeless garden, and an incompetent domestic. What is there in it to please? All the morning I have been stripping gooseberry bushes in the blazing sun, scratching and tearing the flesh off my hands; and all the afternoon I've been topping and tailing these same gooseberries and standing over a scorching fire seeing them bubble and squeal and subside into sticky jam. And now you want me to pelt along the high road in the dust and heat, carrying your heavy parcel to the tailor's; and it is a good mile and a half each way. Of course, I'll do it. Fanny says she's feeling the heat too much. I'm sure I am. But as I'm not in service, I can't object. You mustn't mind this grumble. It cools me to discharge my feeling."

"I wish, my dear Audrey, you would curb your tongue a little. It is most unpleasant and disturbing. I think I must have my chair moved into the porch; it will be cooler, and I may be able to have a nap when you are gone, for there will be quiet in the house. You keep it in a perpetual ferment when you are in it."

"Oh," said Audrey, with an impatient laugh, "I must let myself go sometimes, father! It will take years to extricate all the gas inside me. There—now I have arranged your chair in the coolest corner. Here are your specs and your newspaper. Anything else? Oh, your hat! You must have left it in the garden. You had it when you were weeding the gooseberries. I'll fetch it."

With a half-smothered sigh, Audrey sped along the neat gravel path that surrounded their small back garden. Her father's failing memory and aptitude for losing his belongings took up a good deal of her time. Mr. Hume was a tall, fine-looking old man, but was stiff and crippled with rheumatism. He had held a Civil appointment in India for many years, and was now living on his pension. He was a man without a hobby, and was consequently very dependent on his daughter for interest and occupation. He read a little, but beyond his daily newspaper, only the works of the lightest fiction did he care about. He wrote occasional letters, and every now and then, when much stirred by any topical subject, would write a letter to the Press. He gardened, but that was more superintendence than actual work, and the rest of the day he spent dozing and sleeping in his arm-chair, varied by short walks along the high road.