‘The Christmas-tree! Oh, mamma, do let it be the Christmas-tree. It is
quite well. We’ve been to look at it.’
‘Christmas-trees have got so stale, Val,’ said Gillian.
‘Rot!’ put in Jasper.
‘Oh, please, please, mamma,’ implored Valetta, ‘please let it be the
dear old Christmas-tree! You said I should choose because it will be my
birthday.’
‘There is no need to whine, Val; you shall have your tree.’
‘I’m so glad!’ cried Mysie. ‘The dear old tree is best of all. I could
never get tired of it if I lived to be a hundred years old.’
‘Such are institutions,’ said their mother. ‘I never heard of a
Christmas-tree till I was twice your age.’
‘Oh, mamma! How dreadful! What did you do?’
‘I suppose it is all very well for you kids,’ said Jasper, loftily,
putting his hands in his pockets.
‘Perhaps something may be found interesting eve: to the high and mighty
elders,’ observed Lady Merrifield.
‘Oh! What, mamma?’
Mamma, of course, only looked mysterious.
‘And,’ added Val, ‘mayn’t we all go on a secret expedition and buy
things for it?’
‘We’ve all been saving up,’ added Mysie; ‘and everybody knows every
single thing in all the shop at Silverton.’
‘Besides,’ added Gillian, ‘the sconces will none of them hold, and
almost all the golden globes got smashed in coming from Dublin, and one
of the birds has its head off, and another has lost its spun-glass tail,
and another its legs.’
‘A bird of Paradise,’ said Lady Merrifield, laughing; ‘but wasn’t there
a tree at Malta decked with no apparatus at all?’
‘Yes, but Alley and Phyl can do anything!’
‘I think we must ask Aunt Jane---’
There was a howl. ‘Oh, please, mamma, don’t let Aunt Jane get all the
things! We do so want to choose.’
‘You impatient monsters! You haven’t heard me out, and you don’t deserve
it.’
‘Oh, mamma, I beg your pardon!’ ‘Oh, mamma, please!’ ‘Oh, mamma, pray!’
cried the most impatient howlers, dancing round her.
‘What I was about to observe, before the interruption by the honourable
members, was, that we might perhaps ask Aunt Jane and Aunt Ada to
receive at luncheon a party of caterers for this same tree.’
‘Oh! oh! oh!’ ‘How delicious!’ ‘Hooray!’ ‘That’s what I call jolly fun!’
‘And, mamma,’ added Gillian, ‘perhaps we might let Miss Hacket join.
I know she wants to get up something for a G.F.S. class; but mamma was
attending to Primrose, and the brothers burst in.
‘There goes Gill, spoiling it all!’ exclaimed Wilfred.
‘That’s always the way,’ said Jasper. ‘Girls must puzzle everything up
with some philanthropic Great Fuss Society dodge.’
‘I am sure, Jasper,’ said Gillian, ‘I don’t see why it should spoil
anything to make other people happy. I thought we were told to make
feasts not only for our own friends--’
‘Gill’s getting just like old Miss Hacket,’ said Wilfred.
‘Or sweet Constance,’ put in Jasper. ‘She’ll be writing poems next.’
‘Hush! hush! boys,’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘I do not mean to interfere
with your pleasure, ‘but I had rather our discussions were not entirely
selfish. Suppose, Gillian, we walked down to Casement Cottages, and
consulted Miss Hacket.’
This was done, in the company of all the little girls, for Miss Hacket’s
cats, doves, and gingerbread were highly popular; moreover, Dolores was
glad of a chance sight of Constance.
‘My dear,’ said Lady Merrifield, as Gillian walked beside her, ‘you must
be satisfied with giving Miss Hacket the reversion of our tree, and
you and Mysie can go and help her. It will not do to make these kind of
works a nuisance to your brothers.’
‘I did not think Jasper would have been so selfish as to object,’ said
Gillian, almost tearfully.
‘Remember that boys have a very short time at home, and cannot be
expected to care for these things like those who work in them,’ said
Lady Merrifield. ‘It will not make them do so, to bore them, and take
away their sense of home and liberty. At the same time, they must not
expect to have everything sacrificed to them, and so I shall make Jasper
understand.’
‘You won’t scold him, mamma?’
‘Can’t you, any of you, trust me, Gill?’
‘Oh! mamma! Only I didn’t want him to think. I wouldn’t do everything
he liked, except that I don’t want him to be unkind about those poor
girls.’
Miss Hacket was perfectly enraptured at the offer of the reversion of
the Christmas-tree and its trapping. Valetta’s birthday was on the 28th
of December and the tree was to be lighted on the ensuing evening
for G.F.S. Moreover, the party would go to Rockstone as soon as an
appointment could be made with Miss Mohun, to make selections at a great
German fancy shop, recently opened there, and in full glory; and the
Hacket sisters were invited to join the party, starting at a quarter
to eight, and returning at a few minutes after seven, the element
of darkness at each end only adding to the charm in the eyes of the
children, and Valetta, with a little leap, repeated that it would be a
real secret expedition.
‘Very secret indeed,’ said her mother, ‘considering how many it is known
to--’
‘Yes, but it is, mamma, for everybody has a secret from everybody.’
The words made Constance and Dolores look round with a start from their
colloquy under the shade of the window-curtains, but no one was thinking
of them. Just as the plans were settled, Constance came forward, saying,
‘Lady Merrifield, may I have dear Dolores to spend the day with me? We
neither of us wish to join your kind party to Rockstone, and we should so
enjoy being together.’
‘I had much rather stay,’ added Dolores.
‘Very well,’ said Lady Merrifield, reflecting that her sisters would be
grateful for the diminution of the party, and that it would be easier to
keep the peace without Dolores.
The defection was hailed with joy by her cousins, though they were
struck dumb at her extraordinary taste in not liking shopping.
Jasper did look rather small when his mother assured him in private
he might have trusted her to see that he was not to be incommoded with
Gillian’s girls, and he only observed, in excuse for his murmurs, that
it made a man mad to see his sisters always off after some charity fad
or other.
“‘Always’ being a few hours once a week,” she said.
‘Just when one wants her.’
‘Look here, my boy,’ she said, ‘you don’t want your sisters to be
selfish, useless, fine ladies--never doing any one any good. If they
take up good works, they can’t drop them entirely to wait on you.
Gillian does give up a great deal, and it would be kinder to forbear a
little, and not treat all she does as an injury to yourself.’
‘I only meant to get a rise out of her.’
‘You are quite welcome to do that, provided it is done in good nature.
Gill is quite sound stuff enough to be laughed at! But, I say, my Japs,
I should prefer your letting Dolores alone; she has not learned to be
laughed at yet, and has not come even to the stage for being taught to
bear it.’
‘She looks fit to turn the cream sour,’ observed Jasper. ‘I say, mamma,
you don’t want me to go on this shopping business, do you?’
‘Not by any means, sir.’
Happily, the chance of a day’s rabbit shooting presented itself at a
warren some miles off, and Harry undertook the care of Wilfred, who gave
his word of honour to obey implicitly and take no liberties with the
guns. Fergus would gladly have gone with them, but he was still young
enough to be sensible of the attractions of toy-shops. Only Primrose had
to be left to the nursery, and there was no need to waste pity on her,
for on such an occasion Mrs. Halfpenny would relax her mood, and lay
herself out to be agreeable, when she had exhausted her forebodings
about her leddyship making herself ill for a week gaun rampaging about
with all the bairns, as if she was no better than one herself.
‘I shall let Miss Mohun do most of the rampaging, nurse; but, if it is
fine, will you take Miss Primrose into the town and let her choose her
own cards. I have given her a florin, and if you make the most of that
for her, she will be as happy as going with us.’
‘That I will, my leddy. Bairns is easy content when ye ken how to sort
‘em.’
‘And, nurse, I believe there will be a box from Sir Jasper at the
station. It may come home in the waggonette that takes us. Will you and
Macrae get it safe into the store-room, for I don’t want the children to
see it too soon?’
There was nothing but satisfaction in the house on the morning of the
expedition. The untimely candle-light breakfast was only a fresh element
of delight, and so was the paling gas at the station, the round, red sun
peeping out through a yellow break between grey sky and greyer woods;
the meeting Miss Hacket in her fur cloak, the taking of the tickets,
the coughing of the train, the tumbling into one of the many empty
carriages, the triumphant start,--all seemed as fresh and delicious as
if the young people had never taken a journey before in all their lives.
The fog in the valleys, the sleepy villages, the half-roused stations,
all gave rise to exclamations, and nothing was regretted but that the
windows would get clouded over.
Even the waiting at the junction had its charms, for it was enlivened by
a supplementary breakfast on rolls and milk! and at a few minutes past
eleven the train was drawing up at Rockstone, and Aunt Jane, sealskins
and all, was beckoning from the platform, hurrying after the carriage as
it swept past, and holding out a hand to jump the party from the door.
There she was, ready to take them to the most charming and cheapest
shops, where the coins burning in those five pockets would go the
furthest. Go in a cab? No, I thank you, it is far more delightful to
walk. So mamma and Miss Hacket were stowed away in the despised vehicle,
to make the purchases that nobody cared about, or which were to be
unseen and unknown till the great day; while Aunt Jane undertook to
guide the young people through the town, for her house was at the other
end of it securing the Christmas-cards on the way, if nothin’ else. For,
though all the cards and gifts to mamma, and a good many besides, were
of domestic manufacture, some had to be purchased, and she knew, this
wonderful woman, where to get cards of former seasons at reduced prices
to suit their youthful finances.
Considerable patience was requisite before all the choices were made,
and the balance cast between cards and presents, and Miss Mohun got her
quartette past all the shop windows, to the seaside villa, shut in by
tamarisks, which Aunt Adeline believed to be the only place that suited
her health. Mamma and Miss Hacket had already arrived, and filled the
little vestibule with parcels and boxes.
Then the early dinner! The aunts had anticipated their Christmas turkey
for that goodly company to help them eat it, but afterwards there
was only time for a mince pie all round; for more than half the work
remained to be done by all except mamma, who would stay and rest with
Aunt Ada, having finished all that could not be deputed.
However, first she had a conference in private with Aunt Jane, who
undertook therein to come to Silverton for Valetta’s birthday, and add
astonishment and mystery sufficient to satisfy such of the public as
were weary of Christmas-trees. She added, however, ‘You will think I
am always at you. Lily, but did you know that Flinders is living at
Darminster?’
‘No; but it is five and twenty miles off, and he has never troubled us.’
‘Don’t be too secure. He is in connection with that low paper--the
Politician--which methinks, is the place where those remarkable poems of
Miss Constance’s have appeared.’
‘Is it not the way of poetry of that calibre to see the light in county
papers?’
‘This seems to me of a lower calibre than is likely to get in without
private interest.’
‘But to my certain knowledge the child has neither written to, nor heard
of the man all this time.’
‘You don’t know what goes on with her bosom friend.’
‘I am certain Miss Hacket would connive at nothing underhand. Besides, I
have never seen any thing sly or deceitful in poor Dolores. She will not
make friends with us, that is all, and that may be our fault.’
‘I only say, look out, you unsuspicious dame!’
‘Now, Jenny, satisfy my curiosity as to how you know all this. I am sure
I never showed you those effusions. We have had trouble enough about
them, for the children cut them up in a way Dolores has never forgiven.’
‘Oh! Miss Hacket sent them to me, to ask if ‘Mollsey to her Babe’
and ‘The Canary’ might not be passed on to Friendly Leaves. And as to
Flinders, when I went to the G.F.S. Conference at Darminster I met the
man full in the street, and, of course, I inquired afterwards how he
came there. So there’s nothing preternatural about it.’
‘It is well you did not live two hundred years ago, or you would
certainly have been burnt for a witch.’
‘See what a witch I shall make on the 28th! But I hear those unfortunate
children dancing and prancing with impatience on the stairs. I must go,
before they have driven Ada distracted.’
What would the two aunts have said, could they have seen Dolores and
Constance, at that moment partaking of the most elaborate meal the
Darminster refreshment-room could supply, at a little round marble
table, in company with Mr. Flinders! They had not been obliged to start
nearly so early as the other party, as the journey was much shorter, and
with no change of line, so they had quietly walked to the station by ten
o’clock, arrived at Darminster at half-past eleven, and have been met by
the personage whom Dolores recognized as Uncle Alfred. Constance was a
little disappointed not to see something more distinguished, and less
flashy in style, but he was so polite and complimentary, and made such
touching allusions to his misfortunes and his dear sister, that she soon
began to think him exceedingly interesting, and pitied him greatly when
he said he could not take them to his lodgings--they were not fit for
his niece or her friend, who had done him a kindness for which he could
never be sufficiently grateful, in affording him a glimpse of his dear
sister’s child. It made Dolores wince, for she never could bear the
mention of her mother, it was like touching a wound, and the old
sensation of discomfort and dislike to her uncle’s company began to grow
over her again, now that she was not struggling against Mohun opposition
to her meeting him. He lionized them about the town, but it was a foggy,
drizzly day, one of those when the fringe of sea-coast often enjoys
finer weather than inland places; the streets were very sloppy, and
Dolores and Constance did not do much beyond purchasing a few cards and
some presents at a fancy shop, as they had agreed to do, to serve as an
excuse for their expedition in case it could not be kept a secret,
and most of the visit was made in the waiting-room at the station, or
walking up and down the platform. As to the grand point, Mr. Flinders
told Constance that her tale was talented and striking, full of great
excellence; she might hope for success equal to Ouida’s--but that he had
found it quite impossible to induce a publisher to accept a work by an
unknown author, unless she advanced something. He could guarantee the
return, but she must entrust him with thirty pounds. Poor Constance! it
was a fatal blow; she had not thirty pounds in the world; she doubted
if she could raise the sum, even by her sister’s help. Then Mr. Flinders
sighed, and thought that if he represented the circumstances, the firm
might be content with twenty--nay, even fifteen. Constance cheered up
a little. She did think she could make up fifteen, after the 21st, when
certain moneys became due, which she shared with her sister. She would
be left very bare all the spring--but what was that to the return
she was promised? Only Mr. Flinders impressed on her the necessity of
secrecy--even from her sister--since, he said, if he were once known
to have obtained such terms for a young authoress, he should be besieged
for ever!
‘But, Uncle Alfred,’ said Dolores, ‘surely my father and mother, and
all the other people I have known, did not pay to get their things
published.’
‘My dear niece, you speak as one who has been with persons of high and
established fame--the literary aristocracy, in fact. The doors once
opened, Miss Hacket will, like them, make her own terms; but such doors,
like many others, are only to be opened by a silver key.’
There were other particulars which he talked over with the authoress in
a promenade on the platform while Dolores was left in the waiting-room;
but afterwards he indulged his niece with a tete-a-tete, asking her
father’s address, and mourning over the length of time it would take to
obtain an answer from Fiji. Mr. Mohun had promised to help him, solemnly
and kindly promised, for the sake of her whom they had both loved so
much, and here he was, cut off and quite in extremity. Unfortunate as
usual, through his determined enemies, a company in which he had shares
had collapsed, he was penniless till his salary from the Politician
became due in March. Meanwhile, he should be expelled from his lodging
and brought to ruin if he could not raise a few pounds--even one.
Dolores had nearly two pounds in her purse. Her father had left her
amply provided, and she had not much opportunity of spending. She knew
he had seen the gold when she was shopping, and when she had paid for
the refreshments, which of course she had found she had to do. With some
hesitation she said, ‘If thirty shillings would be of any good to you--’
‘My dear, generous child, your dear mother’s own daughter! It will be
the saving of me temporarily! But among all your wealthy relatives,
surely, considering your father’s promise, you could obtain some advance
until he can be communicated with!’
‘If he is still in New Zealand, we could telegraph, and hear directly.
He did not know how long he should be there, for the ship had something
to be done to it.’
This did not suit Mr. Flinders. Such telegrams were very expensive, and
it was too uncertain whether Mr. Mohun would be at Auckland. Surely,
Lady Merrifield, whose husband was shaking the pagoda tree, would make
an advance if she knew the circumstances.
‘I don’t think she would,’ said Dolores, ‘I don’t think they are very
rich. There is only one horse and one little pony, and my cousins have
such very tiny allowances.’
‘Haughty and poor! Stuck up and skimping. Yes, I understand. But I am
not asking from her, only an advance, on your father’s promise, which
he would be certain to repay. Yes, quite certain! It is only a matter
of time. It would save me at the present moment from utter ruin and
destruction that would have broken your dear mother’s heart. Oh! Mary,
what I lost in you.’ Then, as perhaps he saw reflection on Dolores’s
face, he added, ‘She is gone, the only person who took an interest in
me, so it matters the less, and when you hear again of your unhappy
uncle you will know what drove him--’
‘If it was only an advance--I have a cheque,’ began Dolores. ‘If seven
pounds would do you any good--’
‘It would be salvation!’ he exclaimed.
‘Father left it with me,’ pursued Dolores, considering, ‘in case
Professor Muhlwasser went on with his great book of coloured plates of
microscopic marine zoophytes, and sent it in. I was to keep this and pay
with it--’
‘Oh! Muhlwasser! you need not trouble about him. I saw his death in the
paper a month ago.’
‘Then I really think I might send you the cheque, and write to my father
why I did so.’
‘Ah! Dolly, I knew that your mother’s daughter could never desert me.’
More followed of the same kind, tending to make Dolores feel that she
was doing a heroically generous thing, and stifling the lurking sense in
her mind that she had no right to dispose of her father’s money without
his consent. The December day began to close in, the gas was lighted,
Constance was seen disconsolately peeping out at the waiting-room door
to see whether the private conference were over. They joined her again,
and Mr. Flinders discoursed about the envy and jealousy of critics, and
success being only attained by getting into a certain clique, till she
began to look rather frightened; but reassured by the voluble list of
names and papers to which he assured her of recommendations. Then he
began to be complimentary, and she, to put on the silly tituppy kind of
face and tone wherewith she had talked to the curates at the festival.
Dolores began to find this very dull, and to feel neglected, perhaps
also cross, and doubts came across her whether she might not get into
a dreadful scrape about the money, which she certainly had no right to
dispose of. She at last broke in with, ‘Uncle Alfred, are you quite sure
Professor Muhlwasser is dead?’
‘Bless your heart, child, he’s as dead as Harry the Eighth,’ said Mr.
Flinders in haste;’ died at Berlin, of fatty degeneration of the heart!
Well, as I was saying, Miss Constance--’
‘But, uncle, I was thinking--’
‘Hush!’ as a couple of ladies and a whole train of nurses and children
invaded the waiting-room, ‘it won’t do to talk of such little matters
in public places, you know. Would you not like a cup of tea, Miss
Constance. Will you allow me to be your cavalier?’
People were beginning to arrive in expectation of the coming train, and
talk was not possible in the throng; at least, Mr. Flinders did not make
it so. At last the train swept up, and he was hurrying to find places
for the ladies, when there was a moment’s glimpse of a handsome
moustached face at a smoking-carriage window. Dolores started, and had
almost exclaimed, ‘Uncle Reginald;’ but before the words were out of her
mouth, Mr. Flinders had drawn her on swiftly, among all the numbers of
people getting out and getting in, hurled her into a distant carriage,
handed Constance in after her, and muttering something about forgetting
an appointment, he vanished, without any of the arrangements about
foot-warmers that he had promised.
‘Uncle Reginald!’ again exclaimed Dolores, ‘I am sure it was he!’
‘Oh dear! What an escape!’ answered Constance, breathless with surprise,
and settling herself with disgust and difficulty next to a fat old
farmer, as three or four more people entered and jammed them close
together.
‘Who is he?’ she presently whispered.
‘Colonel Mohun. His regiment is at Galway. I know he talked of getting
over this winter if he possibly could; but Aunt Lily went away before
the post was come in.’
‘We shall have to take great care when we get out.’
Here the train started, and conversation in undertones became
impossible, more especially as two of the farmers in the carriage were
coming back from the Smithfield Cattle Show, and were discussing the
prize oxen with all their might. It was very stuffy and close. Constance
looked ineffably fastidious and uncomfortable, and Dolores gazed at the
clouded window, and dull little lamp overhead, put in to enliven the
deepening twilight. This avoiding of Uncle Reginald brought more before
her mind a sense of wrong-doing than anything that had gone before.
She was fond of this uncle, who always made her father’s house his
headquarters when in London, and used to play with her when she was a
small child, and always to take her to the Zoological Gardens, till she
declared she was too old to care for such a childish show, and then he
and her father both laughed at her so much that she would never have
forgiven anybody else; and she found he enjoyed it for his own sake far
more than she did. However, he always did take her out for walks and
sights that were sure to be amusing with him. Father, too, was quite
bright and alive when he was in the house, and thus Dolores had nothing
but pleasant associations connected with this uncle, and had heard of
the chances of his coming like a ray of light, though without much hope,
since the state of Ireland had prevented him from being able even to
run over to take leave of her father. And now he was come, she must hide
from him like a guilty thing! There was no spirit of opposition against
him in her mind, and thus she could feel that she was doing something
sad and strange. Moreover, she began to feel that her promise about the
cheque had been a rash one, and the echo of her father’s voice came back
on her, saying, ‘Surely, Mary, you know better than to believe a word
out of Flinders’s mouth.’
But then she thought of her mother’s rare tears glistening in her eyes,
and the answer, ‘Poor Alfred! I cannot give him up. Everything has been
against him.’
It was quite dark before Silverton was reached, at half-past five, with
three quarters of an hour to spare before the other travellers were
expected. Most of their fellow passengers had got out at previous
stations, so that Constance was able to open the door and jump out so
perilously before the train had quite stopped, that a porter caught her
with a sharp word of reproof. She grasped Dolores’s hand and scudded
across the platform, giving the return tickets almost before the
collector was ready. A cautious guard even exclaimed, ‘What’s those two
young women up to?’ but was answered at once, ‘They’re all right! That’s
nought but one of the old parson’s daughters, as have been out with a
return to Darminster.’
‘A sweetheartin’?’ demanded one of the bystanders, and there was a
laugh.
Constance heard the tones and vulgar laugh, though not the words, and
she was in such a panic as she hurried down the steps that she did not
stop to look out for a cab. The place was small, and they were not very
plentiful at any time, and she was mortally afraid, though she hardly
knew why, of being over-taken and questioned by Colonel Mohun, who might
know his niece, though he would not know her; but Dolores was tired, and
had a headache, and did not at all like the walk in the dirt, and fog,
and dark, after turning from the gas lit station.
‘We were to have a cab, Constance.’
‘We can’t,’ was the answer, still hurrying on. ‘He would come out upon
us.’
‘He is much more likely to overtake us this way!’ said Dolores, thinking
of her uncle’s long strides.
‘Well, we can’t turn back now!’ said Constance, getting almost into a
run, which lasted till they were past the paddock gate. Dolores, panting
to keep up with her, had half a mind to turn up there and go straight
home; but there might be any number of oxen in the way, and almost
worse, she might meet Jasper and Wilfred, or if Uncle Reginald overtook
her, what would he think?
The pair slackened their pace a little when they had satisfied
themselves that the break in the dark hedge beside them was the gate.
They heard wheels, and presently saw the lamps of a cab, bearing down,
halt at the gate they had left behind, and turn in.
‘We should have been off first,’ said Dolores.
‘If we could have got a cab in time?’
‘One can always get cabs.’
‘Oh! no, not at all for certain.’
‘This is a nasty, stupid, out-of-the-way place,’ said Dolores, wanting
to say something cross.
‘It isn’t a vulgar place, full of traffic,’ returned Constance, equally
cross.
‘Well, I never meant to walk home in this way! I’m sure my feet are wet.
I wish I had waited and gone with Uncle Regie.’
‘Now, Dolly, what do you mean? You would not have it all betrayed?’
‘I’ve a great mind to tell Uncle Regie all about it.’
‘Now, Dolly! When you said so much about the Mohun pride and scorn of
your poor, dear uncle.’
‘Uncle Regie is not proud. And he would know what to do.’
‘But,’ cried Constance, in a fright, ‘you would never tell him! You
promised that it should be a secret, and I should be in such a dreadful
scrape with Lady Merrifield and Mary.’
‘Well! it was your doing, and you had all the pleasure of it,
flourishing about the platform with him.’
‘How can you be so disagreeable, Dolores, when you know it was all on
business. Though I do think he is the most interesting man I ever did
see.’
‘Just because he flattered you.’
However, there is no need to tell how many cross and quarrelsome things
the two tired friends said to each other. They were sitting on opposite
sides of the fire, one very gloomy, and the other very pettish, when
the waggonette stopped at the gate, to put out Miss Hacket and take
up Dolores. Hands pulled her up the step, and a hubbub of merry voices
received her in the dark.
‘Good girl, not to keep us waiting.’
‘Oh, Dolly, Dolly, Macrae says Uncle Regie’s come!’
‘Oh, Dolly, it has been such fun!’
‘Take care of my parcel!’
‘Ah, ha! you don’t know what is in there.’
‘Here’s something under my feet!’
‘Oh! take care! ‘Tisn’t my--’
‘Hush, hush, Val--’
And so it went on till on the steps was seen in full light among the
boys, Uncle Reginald, ready to lift every one out with a kiss.’
‘Ha! Dolly, is that you?’ he said, as they came into the hall. ‘I saw
such a likeness of you at one station that I was as near as possible
jumping out to speak to her. She had on just that fur tippet!’
‘That comes of living in Ireland, Regie,’ said Aunt Lily. ‘Once in a
shop at Belfast, a lady darted up to me with “And it’s I that am glad
to see you, me dear. And how’s me sweet little god-daughter? Oh! and
it isn’t yourself. And aren’t you Mrs. Phelim O’Shaugnessy?’” And under
cover of this, Dolores retreated to her own room. She took off her
things, and then looked at the cheque.
Professor Muhlwasser was a clever German, always at work on science,
counting, in the most minute and accurate manner, such details as the
rays in a sea anemone’s tentacles, or the eggs in a shrimp’s roe. He
was engaged on a huge book, in numbers, of which Mr. Maurice Mohun had
promised to take two copies--but whereas extravagances upon peculiar
hobbies were apt not to be tolerated in the family, and it was really
uncertain whether the work would ever be completed, Mr. Mohun had
preferred leaving a cheque for the payment in his little daughter’s
hand, rather than entrust it to one of the brothers, who would have
howled and growled at such a waste of good money on such a subject.
Thus he had told Dolores to back the draft, get it changed, and send
the amount by a postal order to Germany, if the books and account should
come, which he thought very doubtful.
And now the professor was dead, Dolores looked at the cheque, and
supposed she could do as she pleased with it. Mother helped Uncle
Alfred. Yes, but mother earned all she sent him herself! Perhaps he
would not ask again. How much more he had talked to Constance than to
herself. Dolly wished she had not seen him to get into this difficulty.
She was tired, cold, and damp. Oh! if she had never gone, and not been
half caught by Uncle Regie!