Far Above Rubies

by George MacDonald

howsome they do not know need their help, they would be a little more eagerto feather their wings ere they fly aloft by making friends with theMammon of unrighteousness. Don't you think it may be sometimes that theyare afraid of doing harm with their money?"

  "I'm afraid it is more that they never think what our Lord meant when hesaid the words. But oh, Annie! is it a bad sign of me that the verypossibility of this money could make me so happy?"

  They were admitted at length, and kindly received by a gray-haired oldman, who warned them not to fancy so much money would last them verylong.

  "Indeed, sir," answered Annie, "the best thing we expect from it is thatit will put my husband in good heart to begin another book."

  "Oh! your husband writes books, does he? Then I begin to understand mylate client's will. It is just like her," said the old gentleman. "Hadyou known her long?"

  "I never once saw her," said Hector.

  "But I did," said Annie, "and I heard her say how delighted she was withhis first book. Please, sir," she added, "will it be long before you canlet us have the money?"

  "You shall have it by-and-by," answered the lawyer; "all in good time."

  And now first they learned that not a penny of the money would theyreceive before the end of a twelvemonth.

  "Well, that will give us plenty of time to die first," thought Hector,"which I am sure the kind lady did not intend when she left us themoney."

  Another thing they learned was that, even then, they would not receivethe whole of the money left them, for seeing they could claim norelation to the legator, ten per cent must be deducted from theirlegacy. If they came to him in a year from the date of her death, hetold them he would have much pleasure in handing them the sum of fourhundred and fifty pounds.

  So they left the office--not very exultant, for they were both ratherhungry, and had to go at once in search of work--with but a poor chanceof borrowing upon it.

  Nevertheless, Hector broke the silence by saying:

  "I declare, Annie, I feel so light and free already that I could inventanything, even a fairy tale, and I feel as if it would be a lovely one.I hope you have a penny left to buy a new bottle of ink. The ink at homeis so thick it takes three strokes to one mark."

  "Yes, dear, I have a penny; I have two, indeed--just twopence left. Weshall buy a bottle of ink with one, and--shall it be a bun with theother? I think one penny bun will divide better than two halfpennyones."

  "Very well. Only, mind, _I'm_ to divide it. But, do you know, I'vebeen thinking," said Hector, "whether we might not take a holiday on thestrength of our expectations, for we shall have so long to wait for themoney that I think we may truly say we have _great_ expectations."

  "I think we should do better," answered Annie, "to go back to your oldfriend, Mr. Gillespie, and tell him of our good-fortune, and see whetherhe can suggest anything for us to do in the meantime."

  Hector agreed, and together they sought the terrace where Mr. and Mrs.Gillespie lived, who were much interested in their story; and then firstthey learned that the lady was at least well enough off to be able tohelp them, and, when they left, she would have Annie take with her adozen of her handkerchiefs, to embroider with her initials and crest;but Annie begged to be allowed to take only one, that Mrs. Gillespiemight first see how she liked her work.

  "For, then, you see," she said to her husband, as they went home, "Ishall be able to take it back to her this very evening and ask her forthe half-crown she offered me for doing it, which I should not have hadthe face to do with eleven more of them still in my possession. I haveno doubt of her being satisfied with my work; and in a week I shall havefinished the half of them, and we shall be getting on swimmingly."

  Throughout the winter Hector wrote steadily every night, and every nightAnnie sat by his side and embroidered--though her embroidery was not_all_ for other people. Many a time in after years did theirthoughts go back to that period as the type of the happy life they werehaving together.

  The next time Hector went to see Mr. Gillespie, that gentleman suggestedthat he should give a course of lectures to ladies upon English Poetry,beginning with the Anglo-Saxon poets, of whom Gillespie said he knewnothing, but would be glad to learn a great deal. He knew also, he said,some ladies in the neighborhood willing to pay a guinea each for acourse of, say, half-a-dozen such lectures. They would not cost Hectormuch time to prepare, and would at once bring in a little money.Coleridge himself, he suggested, had done that kind of thing.

  "Yes," said Hector, "but he was Coleridge. I have nothing to say worthsaying."

  "Leave your hearers to judge of that," returned Gillespie. "Do yourbest, and take your chance. I promise you two pupils at least notover-critical--my wife and myself. It is amazing how little those evenwho imagine they love it know about English poetry."

  "But where should I find a room?" Hector still objected.

  "Would not this drawing room do?" asked his friend.

  "Splendidly!" answered Hector. "But what will Mrs. Gillespie say to it?"

  "She and I are generally of one mind--about people, at least."

  "Then I will go home at once and set about finding what to say."

  "And I will go out at once and begin hunting you up an audience."

  Gillespie succeeded even better than he had anticipated; and there wasat the first lecture a very fair gathering indeed. When it was over, theone that knew most of the subject was the young lecturer's wife. Thefirst course was followed by two more, the third at the request ofalmost all his hearers. And the result; was that, before the legacy felldue, Annie had paid all their debts and had not contracted a single newone.

  But when the happy day dawned Annie was not able to go with her husbandto receive the money; neither did Hector wish that she had been able,for he was glad to go alone. By her side lay a lovely woman-childpeacefully asleep. Hector declared her the very image of the child therainbow left behind as it vanished.

  One day, when the mother was a little stronger, she called Hector to herbedside, and playfully claimed the right to be the child's godmother,and to give it her name.

  "And who else can have so good a right?" answered Hector. Yet hewondered just a little that Annie should want the child named afterherself, and not after her mother.

  But when the time for the child's baptism came, Annie, who would holdthe little one herself, whispered in the ear of the clergyman:

  "The child's name is Iris."

  I have told my little story. But perhaps my readers will have patiencewith me while I add just one little inch to the tail of the mouse mymountain has borne.

  Hector's next book, although never so popular as in any outward sense tobe called a success, yet was not quite a failure even in regard to themoney it brought him, and even at the present day has not ceased tobring in something. Doubtless it has faults not a few, but, happily, theman who knows them best is he who wrote it, and he has never had torepent that he did write it. And now he has an audience on which he candepend to welcome whatever he writes. That he has enemies as well goeswithout saying, but they are rather scorners than revilers, and theyhave not yet caused him to retaliate once by criticising any work oftheirs. Neither, I believe, has he ever failed to recognize what ofgenuine and good work most of them have produced. One of the bestresults to himself of his constant endeavor to avoid jealousy is that heis still able to write verse, and continues to take more pleasure in itthan in telling his tales. And still his own test of the success of anyof his books is the degree to which he enjoyed it himself while writingit.

  His legacy has long been spent, and he has often been in straits since;but he has always gathered good from those straits, and has never againfelt as if slow walls were closing in upon him to crush him. And he hashopes by God's help, and with Annie's, of getting through at last,without ever having dishonored his high calling.

  The last time I saw him, he introduced his wife to me--having just beentelling me his and her story--with the rather enigmatical words:

  "This is my
wife. You cannot see her very well, for, like Hamlet, I wearher 'in my heart's core, aye, in my heart of hearts!'"