NO ROYAL ROAD;

OR,

THE THING THAT LIES THE NEAREST. A Story for Girls.

BY

FLORENCE E. BURCH

THIRTEENTH THOUSAND.

LONDON:

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION

57 AND 59 LUDGATE HILL, E.C.

PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH

CONTENTS. —————

CHAP.

I. LILLA

II. MARGIE

III. LIVES OF GREAT WOMEN

IV. A GOOD BEGINNING

V. LILLA MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

VI. LILLA AWAKENS MARGIE'S AMBITION

VII. THE REWARD OF DILIGENCE

VIII. WASTED MINUTES

IX. WHICH WAS THE GREATEST?

X. A FRIEND IN NEED

XI. MARGIE THROWS NEW LIGHT ON THE QUESTION

XII. THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE

ILLUSTRATIONS. —————

LILLA AND HER GRANDMOTHER. (Frontispiece.)

"SHE LOOKED UP AS LILLA ENTERED."

MISS ST. IVES.

NO ROYAL ROAD.

CHAPTER I.

LILLA.

"Standing with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet." LONGFELLOW.

IN a shady nook, hidden away from the road by an overgrown hedge and a row of tall lime trees, stood a quaint-looking little cottage.

It was concealed from view as you came along the lane, for it had formerly been the lodge of a larger house, and in order to enter the swinging gate in the sweet-briar hedge which separated its little garden from the carriage drive, you had to pass through a broad iron gateway standing back in a deep bay in the plantation.

It was no longer required as a porter's lodge at the time of our story, the house having been long untenanted. And though the rooms were small and the thatched gables old-fashioned, it formed a very comfortable dwelling for the old lady who had now been its inmate for more than ten years.

It was a wonderfully pretty little house, too. It had a rustic porch, covered with jessamine and honeysuckle, and latticed windows that opened wide to admit the summer breezes. Upstairs were the snuggest bedrooms, with sloping ceiling and snowy curtained dormer windows, and handy cupboards to fill up spare corners.

Then, too, the garden, full of the old-fashioned flowers dear to those whose bright memories of far distant childhood are so closely wound up with them. Sweet peas and lupins, wallflowers—or warriors, as the children call them—stocks and clove pinks, and Aaron's rod and sweetwilliam—

"With his homely cottage smell."

And the roses! Not the trim heads of bloom on straight, stiff stems, which you see in gardens of the present day, but luxuriant bushes, rich with blossoms, that seemed grateful for the sunlight, so sweet was their perfume. All sorts were there: tea roses, cabbage roses—worthy of a prettier name—delicate buds in moss wrappings, and at every turn of the paths, arches laden with the snowy wreaths of the cluster.

At the bottom of the garden ran a brook, silent and peaceful in summer, when the overhanging fringe of foliage hid its pebbly bed from view; gurgling and rushing with wild vehemence in spring when the snows had melted, and the dark firs of the plantation beyond were rocking and swaying in the wind.

But enough of the place, that we may pass on to its inmates.

It would have been a dull spot for an old lady to spend her last days in alone. But Mrs. Eden had a companion.

Fourteen years ago, when her hair was still brown, her only daughter had faded and died, leaving to her care the dimpled baby girl who was just beginning to lisp her name. For three years the fond grandmother made her home with her son-in-law, devoting herself entirely to the little darling whose ways reminded her so much of the babyhood of her own child. But sickness laid its hand upon that home again.

There came a time when the little one asked, with wonder in her blue eyes, why father was always tired now. And, later on, why father never romped with her as he used; why he never got up, and why the doctor came so often. Until at last, one evening they did not even take her to him for her good-night kiss.

Next morning they showed him to her, cold and still in the long sleep of death, telling her that he had gone to be with Jesus in God's bright heaven, where everybody had a golden harp. And Lilla Claridge was an orphan.

Then it was that bereft of all, save that tender little life, which seemed to cling to her as the young ivy to the old tree trunk, the old lady came to live at The Lodge, where, by various little economics, such as substituting her own needlework for that of a seamstress, and doing her own housework, with occasional help, she could not only make her slender means sufficient for them both, but even add something yearly to the little capital which was accumulating at the bank in Lilla's name.

So the ten years had passed, bringing snowy locks and failing strength to the old lady, whilst for Lilla, each return of the season had some fresh gift of growth and intellect.

Lilla was turned fourteen, and a sensible girl for her years, quite a companion for any grown woman. Having been so much in the society of an old lady, she had perhaps learnt to think older thoughts than most young people of her age. She was amiable and gentle, too. For in training her, Mrs. Eden had not forgotten that some day she must mix with those who would not have a grandmother's indulgence. So, instead of spoiling her, as it would have been so easy to do, with no one close to lavish her tenderness upon, she had tried her best to lay the foundation of all those qualities most calculated to make of any girl—a happy, useful woman.

Lilla had grown up with no companion of her own age. Their economical style of housekeeping had rendered it impossible that she should mix with those really in her own station. And as Mrs. Eden had undertaken her education, intending to procure lessons in French and music for her so soon as she should be far enough advanced, she had formed no school friendships.

At the time when our story commences, Easter was just past, and the larches were hanging out their green tassels in pretty contrast against the sombre green of the firs. A keen wind was still blowing, and the distant hills looked dark and well defined in the clear air as the sun sank to his western couch. But leaf-buds were swelling on the hedges, and thrushes were piping merrily on the tree-tops. In the woods, primroses were peeping out from their hiding places under the dead leaves, and anemones were shaking their delicate bells by the watercourses. Spring was advancing rapidly, in spite of winter's attempts to keep his hold, and even an occasional snowfall could not long hinder the young monarch from ascending his rightful throne, so many upon all hands were his subjects.

Lilla and her grandmother had just returned from their afternoon's walk. They formed a strong contrast. The young girl, with her lithesome elastic figure, and the old lady, with her silver locks and feeble steps. But they always went out together when Lilla's tasks were done, and it was astonishing the long distances the old lady made round the country lanes beyond their little home.

Lilla's hands were full of anemones and trailing ivy, for she loved plants and flowers. Unlike many girls of her age who let the spring pass over them unheeded, its many voices had an undefinable charm for her. She could not have told you why she listened so eagerly for the first thrush's note, or watched the opening buds on tree and plant, but it was not simply that winter disagreeables were retreating before a milder reign. The reason was rooted in the poetic part of her nature which loved the life and beauty all around.

Here again you might trace her grandmother's teaching:

"God's world is so beautiful," she would say, "and Jesus loved the flowers. He has given them to us that we may learn from them. Every spring ought to remind us that we must open our hearts to the sunbeams of His love, if we would grow daily in beauty and fragrance."

Mrs. Eden was unusually tired with her walk that day.

"I am not so young as I was, Lilla," she said, with a sigh, as she took the door-key from her pocket.

"But you are wonderful, grandmother," returned Lilla fondly, as she followed her in. "I wonder how many old ladies of sixty-eight could walk the miles you do!"

The kitchen fire was out, for Mrs. Eden could not afford to keep two fires burning when the morning's work was done. But the kettle was singing contentedly on the trivet in the sitting-room.

Lilla saw at a glance that all was right, and in less than a minute she had fetched the tea-tray, so that her grandmother might make the tea at once.

Whilst it was brewing, she slipped out into the garden to plant a primrose root which she had brought in with her. This need not have occupied many minutes, but the stars were coming out, and Lilla could not resist watching them as their tiny orbs glittered and twinkled in the clear, pale sky. When she looked down to earth again, everything seemed so dark that it was some time before she could find a place for her primrose. By degrees, however, her eyes became accustomed to the change of light, and the plant was soon disposed of, its native soil snugly patted down round its roots.

"There!" exclaimed Lilla, as she raised herself up and turned to go in.

But somehow her eyes went back to the stars. She was surprised to see how much brighter they appeared to have grown during the few moments occupied by planting the flower. They no longer seemed struggling to make their feeble rays penetrate the twilight. They were shining down with a clear, steady light. And one after another added itself to their number as Lilla's eyes wandered over the heavens.

"It must be the contrast," she said to herself, resting on her spade, "for I have not been long. It is no darker than when I came out, and yet they were hardly visible then. But the sky is always brighter than the earth."

Lilla stood thinking for several minutes. But she suddenly remembered her grandmother and the tea, so she moved on towards the house. She had just put the spade in the tool shed when a noise of shouts and cries up the lane caught her ear, and, unable to repress her natural curiosity, she ran down the path, slipped through the gate, and went out into the road to see what it meant.

A pony was coming full tear that way, and two boys, one of whom had a rope bridle in his hand, were running after him at their utmost speed, at the same time doing their best by their halloos and yells to make him gallop the faster.

Lilla hurried back into the bay, and just got into shelter behind the gate as the pony dashed past. She was not used to animals, and was rather frightened of them.

But there is something exciting that few young people can resist in the sight of a runaway horse.

Lilla almost wished herself one of the pursuers, instead of a demure little maiden just about to wash her hands and sit down to tea with her grandmother.

However, it was of no use wishing. And certainly it would have been undesirable to change places with the two uncouth, mud-begrimed figures that hurried by next minute.

Lilla waited until the sound of hoofs was out of hearing, then hastened indoors, and ran upstairs to lay aside her outdoor things. In a few minutes she was seated opposite Mrs. Eden at the tea-table.

CHAPTER II.

MARGIE.

"The crown must be won for Heaven, In the battlefield of life." ADELAIDE PROCTER.

MEANWHILE, the fugitive and his pursuers were far away, and a desperate race they had. Until at last, the unwary animal, scenting a freshly cut stack of hay, turned in at the gate of a farm-yard, and being taken in the trap, was ridden back by the panting youths, both of whom mounted on his back—one clasping his arms round the waist of the other who held the bridle in his right hand, whilst with his left, he kept a firm grip of the animal's mane.

In this fashion they reached his master's dwelling, turned him in for the night, and trudged homewards.

They were evidently behind time, for their sister had been out more than once to look for them. She was standing in the doorway when they appeared, a strongly-built girl, with unusually sturdy arms for her age, and a look as if she was accustomed to work hard.

A glance round the room revealed the secret. Half a dozen little brothers and sisters, beside a lad older than herself, and the two boys who now pushed their way passed her and began clamouring for something to eat. No wonder she could not be spared to service, whilst her mother had so many "to do for."

"You don't deserve anything to eat, if you can't come in at the proper time," said the mother sharply. "Tea has been cleared away this long while."

"Jack ran away," said the elder of the two boys.

"And we had a job to catch him," added the other. "My word! What a run we had!"

"And what a pretty lot of dirt you've brought in," exclaimed the mother. "Go and pull your boots off."

But the boys knew their tea was safe, for their mother never kept them without food as a punishment.

Margie followed them into the outer kitchen.

"You 'are' in a mess," she exclaimed, as they kicked off the dirty boots. "Why can't you be more careful? You're up to your necks with mud. See what you've brought in for me to clear up."

"Well! Who's to help it?" said the biggest. "I say, Margie! Ain't there any tea for us?"

"Of course there is," replied Margery, getting down a loaf, from which she cut two thick slices. "And I saved you this bit off father's bacon. So now you must be good boys, and get me some wood first thing on Monday, for we've hardly got a bit. And this wind has brought down a lot."

When the boys came back, munching their last mouthful, they tumbled over two of the smaller children playing on the floor, and the latter set up such a dismal howl that it was all over with the peace of the family. After several vain attempts to restore quiet, Margery had to march them off to bed by two's, beginning at the youngest, whilst her mother remained downstairs patching some clothes for the eldest boy, who worked on a farm close by.

This was the way in which Margery's day usually ended. It always commenced by getting them up, and from early morn until they were safe asleep, she was slaving to keep them out of mischief. Poor child! Sometimes she got very tired, but she never seemed to regard it as anything to complain of. She had been accustomed ever since she could remember to do her utmost. And if she had more to get through every day, it was only because she was capable of more, so the balance still kept even.

There was only one thing she regretted, that she could not go to service. To get a good place and keep it, as one of her cousins was doing, earning money to buy her own clothes, and even laying by a little so that she might be able to help her parents in their old age. That was Margery's dream. But her mother wanted her at home, and that was quite sufficient reason why she should stay.

The best day of the week was Sunday, because after Margery had helped get breakfast and wash the children ready for Sunday school, there was not much else to do, except tidy herself and go to church.

It seemed such a rest to get away and walk through the sweet, quiet air to the little church on the hill side, where she could sit still in the high-backed pew and listen to the minister's voice and the solemn tones of the organ. There was something in the light from the coloured windows, with their quaint Bible pictures, and in the dim arches of the vaulted roof overhead, that made her forget how she had been working and hurrying all the week.

Her brothers called her a silly for going to sit still there all the morning, when she might have had a ramble in the fields with them.

And if she asked her father to go, he always replied, "Not to-day, Margie. I must rest my legs a bit, against to-morrow." Then he went and lounged about the garden and cleaned the pig-stye, or even did a bit of hoeing among his potatoes, but he never went to church except on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday.

It was a source of perplexity to Margery, what difference there could be between attending to the garden and walking to church. But if she was unable to explain why the former rested his legs more than the latter, she was just as unable to tell why the church had such a quieting effect upon "her," so she was content to let the matter rest.

As it happened, the day following that on which we made her acquaintance, was Sunday. A bright beautiful day it was, one of God's own Sabbaths, when all the earth seems full of joy and gratitude to its Maker. The wind, too, had lulled, so the trees were no longer buffeted and shaken, and their budding branches glittered against the blue sky, as the sun poured down upon them. Margery usually gave a little sigh of relief as she closed the door after her, but this morning everything was so bright that there was no room for a sigh. She only looked away across the fields to the green hills, over which came the sound of the bells already ringing for service, and exclaimed—"Oh if it were only 'always' Sunday!"

"What then, little maid?" asked a voice just behind her.

Margery started and turned quickly, and coloured to the roots of her hair, for it was the clergyman who had overheard her.

"What would you do with all Sundays?" he asked, as she looked down and did not reply.

"I was thinking there would be no work to do, sir," she answered.

"Ah! That is bad reason," returned the old gentleman. "None but lazy people want to escape their fair share of work."

"But I was thinking, sir, that if it was always Sunday, 'no one' would have any work to do."

"I do not fancy they would be any happier for that," said the clergyman. "It is God who gives us our work to do, you know; and He never sends us anything that is not good for us."

"But some people have to work so hard, sir," said Margery, "and then they get tired."

"Do 'you' often get very tired?"

The old gentleman looked down so kindly at her as he asked this question, that Margery could not feel afraid of him. She glanced up trustfully in his face and answered—

"Not very, sir; only—I like Sunday."

"And you can't quite tell why? Do you think you would like it so well if you hadn't been busy all the week? You know the Bible speaks of heaven as a beautiful land of rest, where we shall never grow weary. But Jesus said, 'I must work the works of Him that sent Me while it is day, for the night cometh when no man can work.' And death will be like a long winter night to those who have not used their daylight well. But to those who have never been 'weary in well-doing' it will be like this beautiful Sabbath day, a time to rest and worship God."

Margery did not answer. Probably she did not understand his words, for she had never troubled her head much about such things as yet. She was only just beginning to think about them a little. But just then the clergyman stopped to speak to a lady and gentleman who were coming along that way, so Margery went on alone.

It was very early when she arrived at the church, only the beadle and pew-opener were there. The children had not even come in from the school-room, so Margery sat down on the stone seat in the porch to wait and watch the faint shadows from the clouds moving across the fields beyond the graveyard. The wind had risen a little, and the fleecy white masses kept chasing each other sportively across the sun, until at last, one denser than the rest came, throwing a shadow which seemed as if it would never pass. But it was the last. Behind it the sky stretched clear and blue to the horizon, and as the landscape flashed into light again, a lark rose out of the grass carolling blithely as he soared, and mounting in ever-lessening circles, until he became a faint black speck of song.

"Oh! If I were only a lark," exclaimed Margery to herself. "It wouldn't matter about Sunday then." But this time she did not express her thoughts aloud, and there would have been no one to hear them if she had.

CHAPTER III.

LIVES OF GREAT WOMEN.

"Lives of great men all remind us We may snake our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints in the sands of time." LONGFELLOW.