Rose Capel's Sacrifice
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Rose and Maurice Capel find themselves living in poverty through no fault of their own, and their daughter Gwen is dangerously ill and in need of a doctor and medicine, which they cannot possibly afford. There seems to be only one option -- to offer their daughter to Maurice Capel's unmarried sister, Dorothy, living in the beautiful Welsh countryside, and be left with nothing more than memories of Gwen. Dorothy has inherited her father's fortune and cut herself off from the family. Although Gwen would be well cared for, if she got better and Rose and Maurice's finances improved, would they be able to ask for Gwen to be returned? Another story from popular Victorian writer Margaret S. Haycraft.
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Rose Capel's Sacrifice - Margaret S. Haycraft
Rose and Maurice Capel find themselves living in poverty through no fault of their own, and their daughter Gwen is dangerously ill and in need of a doctor and medicine, which they cannot possibly afford. There seems to be only one option -- to offer their daughter to Maurice Capel's unmarried sister, Dorothy, living in the beautiful Welsh countryside, and be left with nothing more than memories of Gwen. Dorothy has inherited her father's fortune and cut herself off from the family. Although Gwen would be well cared for, if she got better and Rose and Maurice's finances improved, would they be able to ask for Gwen to be returned? Another story from popular Victorian writer Margaret S. Haycraft.
Rose Capel's Sacrifice
Margaret S. Haycraft
1855-1936
Abridged Edition
Original book first published 1893
This abridged edition ©Chris Wright 2017
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-3-4
Published by
White Tree Publishing
Bristol
UNITED KINGDOM
wtpbristol@gmail.com
Full list of books and updates on
www.whitetreepublishing.com
Rose Capel's Sacrifice is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this abridged edition.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Author Biography
Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About White Tree Publishing
More Books from White Tree Publishing
Christian non-fiction
Christian Fiction
Young Readers
Author Biography
Margaret Scott Haycraft was born Margaret Scott MacRitchie at Newport Pagnell, England in 1855. She married William Parnell Haycraft in 1883 and wrote mostly under her married name. In 1891 she was living in Brighton, on the south coast of England, and died in Bournemouth, also on the south coast, in 1936. She also wrote under her maiden name of Margaret MacRitchie. Margaret Haycraft is by far our most popular author of fiction.
Margaret was a contemporary of the much better-known Christian writer Mrs. O. F. Walton. Both ladies wrote Christian stories for children that were very much for the time in which they lived, with little children often preparing for an early death. Mrs. Walton wrote three romances for adults (with no suffering children, and now published by White Tree in abridged versions). Margaret Haycraft concentrated mainly on books for children. However, she wrote several romances for older readers. Unusually for Victorian writers, the majority of Margaret Haycraft's stories are told in the present tense.
Both Mrs. Walton's and Margaret Haycraft's books for all ages can be over-sentimental, referring throughout, for example, to a mother as the dear, sweet mother, and a child as the darling little child. In our abridged editions overindulgent descriptions of people have been shortened to make a more robust story, but the characters and storyline are always unchanged.
A problem of Victorian writers is the tendency to insert intrusive comments concerning what is going to happen later in the story. Today we call them spoilers. They are usually along the lines of: Little did he/she know that....
I have removed these when appropriate.
Thirty shillings (£1.50) from the pawnbroker in the story may not sound much, but in income value it is worth about £180 pounds today (about US$240). The ten pounds for the pictures would be like £1,200. I mention this in case the sums of money in this book sound insignificant! A sovereign was a gold coin worth one pound at the time.
Chris Wright
Editor
NOTE
There are 17 chapters in this book. At the end of the book are advertisements for our other books, so the story may end earlier than expected! The last chapter is marked as such. We aim to make our eBooks free or for a nominal cost, and cannot invest in other forms of advertising. However, word of mouth by satisfied readers will also help get our books more widely known.
Chapter 1
Mother, Mother! The postman's here. He's got a great, thick letter, all tied with red string. I'll just run down and get it for you.
Perhaps it is for Mrs. Mullins, Gwen,
says the bright eyed, woman bravely as she sits sewing by the table of the little lodging house parlour. Her hands are trembling, and her breath comes and goes in short, nervous gasps as the child's eager feet run down to the floor below.
An answer, perhaps, at last -- an answer that may mean a breath of sea air, physician's advice, all kinds of nourishing things for Maurice, and new boots and a bright summer frock for Gwen whose old serge is patched and darned and shabby now. Oh, thank Heaven, the suspense is going to end at last, and just as she thought she must write and ask Messrs. Canvasse and Co. concerning the fate of her paintings, their letter is here. She has heard they pay well and promptly. What a good thing Maurice happens to be out in the neighbouring park! It will be such delight to see the light shine out upon his pale, tired face as she shows him the help that has come so providentially in their extremity.
It is for you, Mother,
says Gwen caressingly. Please may I have the red tape, and may I go downstairs and play with Dan and Beersheba? They're coming home from school, and Mrs. Mullins has got a cake for tea. When I smell it I feels empty inside of me, Mother.
You may go and play, my darling, but mind you do not ask Mrs. Mullins for any cake.
No, I won't, Mother, but she'll be certain sure to give me some.
And away trips violet-eyed Gwen to play with the landlady's twin boy and girl, while her mother, left alone, begins to unfasten the packet, and her shaking hands drop to her side in helpless trouble for a moment. The contents are only her own sketches -- the best, she knows, she has ever yet produced -- with a brief note, saying, in clear, courteous printing, the return of such does not necessarily imply lack of merit, as the publishers are frequently overstocked with material.
At a neighbouring bazaar Mrs. Capel has been able to sell hand-painted cards, screens and the like from time to time at fairly remunerative prices, and very thankful she has been for the womanly sympathy of the owner of the bazaar. By her encouragement this more ambitious effort -- a set of Welsh views to make a series of cards or an art volume -- has been laid before Messrs. Canvasse and Co., the great firm of artistic publishers in the City; and oh, what hopes and prayers have speeded that little packet upon its way.
Now it lies before her again on the table, as though silently mocking all her bright anticipations. It will have to go to the bazaar in the neighbouring street, and wait long, weary weeks for a purchaser, and they are almost at their last sovereign! Mrs. Capel has plenty of courage -- she has needed it for many a year -- but heart and hope fail within her as she gazes blankly at the printed note.
She thinks of the Welsh, sun-lit honeymoon round Berwyn and Llangollen, when she sketched the fair landscapes of river and mountain, that now she has painted with such tireless care for the series, returned -- rejected! The early morning hours found her at work. Tender touches, born of sweet memories and golden hopes, found place in those pictures regretfully declined
-- and with them it is the darkest hour at last, she feels, as she shuts the packet within the table drawer.
Then evil, bitter thoughts begin to whisper within her: "Is not God able to do everything? Is He not the ruler of men's hearts and minds? If He cared about you and yours, how easily He could have sent you the purchase money for these paintings, and made your heart to sing for gladness, instead of aching with perplexity! Other people succeed, who never lift the voice of prayer, nor try to give the Lord of all the chief place in family and home. You have never ceased to spread your needs before Him who is Almighty, but He hears not, heeds not, cares not!"
The thoughts were not finished yet. High in heaven, how far God is from troubles like yours, that are so low and earthly, all about the empty purse. It is foolish to pray about the needs of food, clothing, and medicine. You must fight life's battle alone. You must sail the ocean of life as best you can. If God were indeed an ever-present Friend, He would have had mercy upon you and helped you to sell these paintings.
Then Rose Capel remembers Gwen's protest only that very morning against the cod-liver oil Rose her daughter needs, and how she swallowed it at last with the dews in her violet eyes, and a tremulous quiver of the lips that seemed to say, "If my own Mother loved me, she would not want me to drink this nasty stuff, and a whole teaspoonful, too, spoiling my nice milk!"
She knows how thin and fragile is her only child, and by what a slender thread that precious little life seems to hang sometimes. She must use every means to build up and strengthen her little one, even though Gwen might think it much kinder were she allowed to forego the dose ordered her by the doctor.
I cannot see why life is so hard and the daily round so perplexing,
thinks Rose, as she stands with clasped hands at the window, watching for her husband's return. I long for an easier life, for a respite from struggling. But since God does not send the respite, and He could and would if it were best, I know the perplexities must be part of His training for Maurice and me, to strengthen us as His children and deepen our faith and patience. Gwen trusts me under all the little frettings and sad looks. Can I not trust my Lord, whose heart is as father's and mother's too, in its unchanging tenderness? Even though everything seems against me, and the money I relied upon too surely has not come, 'He who feeds the ravens will never starve His saints!' I must carry these round to Miss Gigins's bazaar by-and-by. I will just do my very best and leave the rest to the Lord God who in some way or other will certainly provide.
And the dark, doubting thoughts steal away in the music of sweet words that echo back to her now from the service she attended last Sunday -- words which seem like a message from the Shore where storms and struggles and mysteries end:
"Whate'er my God ordains is right,
His will is ever just;
Howe'er He orders now my cause,
I will be still and trust.
He is my God
Though dark my road,
He holds me that I shall not fall;
Wherefore to Him I leave it all."
The landlady, Mrs, Mullins, breaks in upon her thoughts with the tray, remarking, The good gentleman's a-coming round the corner, mum, and he'll be glad of a cup of tea. It's early today, being the night for our meeting, and my Dan sings 'Sign the pledge, brothers,' and Beersheba, bless her heart, in her new blue zephyr and her coral necklace that was her poor grandmother's, is to recite 'I met a little cottage girl!' It's a goodish way off, so Mullins and me wants to start directly he's cleaned himself. And being the twins' birthday, might I make so bold as to offer a slice of pound-cake, plain but wholesome, made after the recipe of my poor dear Aunt Elizabeth that married the French polisher?
Mrs. Capel thanks her gently, grateful for the conversational powers that prevent notice or remark concerning her own look of headache, and the suspicious state of her eyes. But, all the same, Mrs. Mullins knows that her lodger has been crying, and the packet meant bad news, and an extra pinch from her own tea caddy goes into the pot for the parlour. Some radishes are likewise contributed with a spray of watercress, for there's something cheery-like and countrified in a bit of salad -- it brings to mind a German band and tea-gardens and switchback, and seems to liven up one's feelings,
thinks Mrs. Mullins. It is hard enough to get along when one's husband is a cabman with very precarious earnings and there are five little children below Dan and Beersheba. More profitable lodgers than the Capels could easily be found for the parlour floor; but,
say Mullins and his wife to one another, "they're in trouble, and it's home-like for them here, and seeing as we've so many mercies of our own, we'll stand by the poor lady and gentleman and help them and liven them up all