Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: IN HER PLAIN, BLUE SERGE SKIRT AND WHITE BLOUSE,
SHE MADE A VERY ATTRACTIVE PICTURE.]
PROSPERITY'S CHILD
By
ELEANORA H. STOOKE
Author of
"The Bottom of the Bread Pan," "Little Maid Marigold,"
"Angel's Brother," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BY
J. MACFARLANE
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.4
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE WYNDHAM FAMILY
II. THEIR FATHER'S FRIEND
III. DR. REED AT HOME
IV. DR. REED'S OFFER
V. TRAVELLING COMPANIONS
VI. NEWS FROM VIOLET
VII. A MORNING WALK
VIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
IX. ONLY A SERVANT
X. CONCERNING LOTTIE MEDLAND
XI. A CALL ON DR. ELIZABETH
XII. A SOLICITED INVITATION
XIII. THE TORTOISE-SHELL PURSE
XIV. THE EASTER HOLIDAYS
XV. THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SUMMER TERM
XVI. NOT WORTH BOTHERING ABOUT
XVII. EXPLANATIONS
XVIII. AGNES HOSKING APOLOGISES
XIX. ANN'S PROMISE
XX. VIOLET AT HOME AGAIN
XXI. AT TEYMOUTH
XXII. AT STREATHAM
XXIII. UNHAPPY LOTTIE
XXIV. WHAT VIOLET SAW IN A SHOP WINDOW
XXV. LOTTIE'S CONFESSION
XXVI. "NO SENSE OF HONOUR WHATEVER"
XXVII. AGNES HOSKING IN TROUBLE
XXVIII. CONCLUSION
PROSPERITY'S CHILD
CHAPTER I
THE WYNDHAM FAMILY
THE November day, which had been dull and chilly, was closing in, and
a thick mist was settling over the metropolis, making the traffic in
the streets slow and difficult, and causing those whose business lay
in the city no small anxiety as to how they would reach their various
suburban homes that night; for, as was patent to everybody, in a very
short while all London would be enveloped in a dense fog.
In the sitting-room of a certain small villa at Streatham, a family
group was assembled around the fire, talking and laughing. It
comprised, Mrs. Wyndham and her five children—Ruth and Violet,
aged fifteen and fourteen respectively; Madge, who was twelve; and
Frank and Billy, who were twins of not quite ten years old. The gas
had not been lit, but the fire fitfully illuminated the room, which
was certainly anything but neat or well kept, for the furniture was
dull if not actually dusty, the lace curtains on either side of the
window were soiled and limp, and the tea-cloth on the table was
crumpled and not over clean. Even in the kindly firelight the room
looked poor and neglected, and yet it was evident that its general
appearance might have been improved at very little cost.
"I hope your father will come home soon for it's getting very foggy,
I see," Mrs. Wyndham remarked by-and-by when there was a pause in the
children's chatter. Her voice was soft and musical, with a plaintive
note in it. "He coughed continually during the night, he quite alarmed
me," she added, with a deep-drawn sigh.
"I heard him," the eldest girl said, turning a pair of serious, dark
eyes from the fire to her mother's face; "I spoke to him about it
after breakfast, and he said he would get some cough mixture from a
chemist: I hope he won't forget."
"I hope not," Mrs. Wyndham replied. "I am sure it is no wonder that
he ails so often," she proceeded, "always rushing here, there, and
everywhere as he does, getting his meals so irregularly, and wearing
clothes which do not properly protect him from the cold and damp. He
ought to have both a new overcoat and a new waterproof this winter,
but how he is to get either I really do not know. Dear me, it's nearly
five o'clock. I hope Barbara has the kettle on the boil: I wish one of
you would go and see—not you, Billy, you're always quarrelling with
Barbara, you tease her and make her cross. Let Madge go. And Violet,
you light the gas and pull down the blind."
Madge left the room to do her mother's bidding, whilst Violet, before
lighting the gas, went to the window and peered out into the mist,
remarking that it was so thick that she could hardly see the street
lamps. Ruth kept her seat by the fire; she was listening for her
father's footsteps—or his cough, which had haunted her ears all day.
The Wyndhams were all nice-looking children, tall for their ages and
well-grown; they greatly resembled their mother in appearance.
Mrs. Wyndham was a pretty woman, having a clear complexion, small
regular features, and brown eyes and hair. At the time of her marriage
she had been a lovely girl; but now she was somewhat faded and
careworn, and she always seemed weighed down with domestic worries.
Mr. Wyndham held a post on a popular daily paper; but, unfortunately,
his wife was no manager, and he was generally exercised in mind how
to make his income cover his expenses, which he was not always
successful in doing. If his wife was not the helpmeet to him he had
hoped she would be, he never admitted the fact; and if his home was
not as comfortable as those of other men who earned less than he did,
he never complained but made the best of things, telling himself that
he had much to be thankful for in that his family was both a happy and
a healthy one.
He was deeply attached to his children, and they were very fond of
him; but Ruth, without doubt, was more to him than the others. Young
as she was, she was in his confidence; she was interested in his work
as work, not only as a means of providing the necessaries of life, and
he realised, as her mother did not, that he loved his profession and
was ambitious to succeed in it. In short, she understood him; and her
love for him was so deep and unselfish that she would have been
capable of making any sacrifice for his sake.
By-and-by Ruth rose from her seat by the fire, and slipped quietly
out of the room. There was no light in the passage, so she lit the
gas there, and, as soon as she had done so, the front door opened
and her father entered. She sprang to meet him, and, after having
given him a hearty kiss, proceeded to assist him in taking off his
overcoat. Mr. Wyndham was a tall, thin man with stooping shoulders
and near-sighted dark eyes. As a rule his expression was thoughtful
and pre-occupied; but to-night, as his daughter observed at once,
he looked particularly alert.
"Well, Ruthie," he began, "is tea ready? I'm longing for 'the cup
which cheers,' for the fog is enough to choke one. I'm glad to be
at home and to know that I shall not have to go out again to-night."
He followed Ruth into the sitting-room as he spoke, and glanced around
with smiling eyes. His wife's face brightened as she saw his look,
and she greeted him with an answering smile, whilst Madge and the boys
began to question him about the fog. Was it much worse in the City
than at Streatham? Did he think it would last long? Had he any
difficulty in finding his way from the station?
"I should think it is worse in the City," was the reply; "everything
will be at a standstill soon if the fog continues, and it does not
appear likely to lift yet. I had to stop every now and again as I came
from the station to make sure I was in the right road, and that
delayed me. Ah, here's tea! That's good."
Violet now entered the room followed by Barbara, the maid-of-all-work,
who was a rather untidy-looking specimen of her class. She had been
with the Wyndhams for more than two years, and had fallen into the
ways of the family; she was always a little late with everything,
always "in a rush" as she expressed it, but she suited her employers
and was good-natured to a fault. Before the advent of Barbara the
Wyndhams had never been able to keep a servant for long; but Barbara
had settled down comfortably at once, and seemed likely to remain
a fixture. She was a little body, with a freckled countenance and the
roundest of green eyes, and her cap was generally askew on her sandy
hair; but there was a vast amount of energy and strength in her slight
frame, and she worked with a will.
Having placed the tea on the table, Barbara retired, and the meal
commenced. The children had most of the conversation at first, and
gave their father various items of information about their doings
during the day. The twins attended a preparatory school for boys, not
five minutes walk from their own home, and the girls had not much
farther to go. Ruth was not to return to the same school as her
sisters after Christmas; for it was only a school for young girls,
kept by a lady named Minter, and Ruth was the eldest pupil.
Mr. Wyndham talked of sending her to a boarding-school for a couple
of years, but how that was to be managed he did not quite know, and it
was Ruth's private opinion that her education, as far as schooling
went, would be finished when she left Miss Minter's. That she would
not mind, she told herself, if only she could have lessons in drawing
and painting—she was devoted to the pencil and the brush, and she
would have time to help her mother and Barbara and to try to get
things in better order; for, of late, the general untidiness of her
home had vaguely troubled her.
By-and-by Mr. Wyndham coughed, and his wife asked him if he had
remembered his promise to Ruth and procured some cough mixture.
"Yes," he replied, "the bottle's in the pocket of my overcoat.
My cough has not been so troublesome to-day as it was during the
night, but I remembered I had said I would get something for it, so I
went into a chemist's in the city, and there I met some one whom I had
not seen for more than twenty years; you have heard me mention
him—Andrew Reed."
"Andrew Reed?" echoed Mrs. Wyndham. "Oh yes, I have often heard you
mention him. You went to school with him, and afterwards you saw a
good bit of him when he was a medical student. Quite a poor lad, was
he not?"
"Yes. He was always one of the best fellows in the world, though, and
the straightest. He was of humble birth; his father was only a small
renting farmer in Devonshire, who had saved a few hundreds and had the
sense to see that by educating his son and letting him follow his
natural bent he was doing the best for him that he could. Reed's
practising as a doctor in Yorkshire now, and his is the first practice
in the place—I heard that some time ago. He has prospered in life and
made money."
"Did he recognise you, father?" Ruth asked eagerly.
"Yes. He was in the chemist's shop having a prescription made up when
my voice attracted his attention, and he spoke to me. I knew him the
minute our eyes met. He seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him,
and we went and had lunch together and a long talk about old times."
"What is he doing in London?" Mrs. Wyndham inquired.
"He is merely stopping here a few days, with relations of his wife's,
on his way home from Devonshire. His mother still lives, and he has
been to see her. I did not know he had a wife until to-day, but it
appears he has been married sixteen years and has an only child,
a girl, of whom he spoke very affectionately. I told him that, in one
way, I am richer than he," Mr. Wyndham concluded with a smile.
"In what way, Clement?" asked his wife wonderingly.
"I have three daughters and two sons, my dear, and he has only that
one girl."
The children laughed, whilst their mother smiled and looked pleased.
"Not but that he seemed very satisfied with his single chick,"
Mr. Wyndham proceeded; "one could tell that she is as the apple of his
eye. You cannot imagine what a pleasure it was to me to renew my
acquaintance with my old friend; he regrets, as I do, that we failed
to keep in touch with each other after he left town, and he expressed
a desire to see you, my dear Mary—" Mr. Wyndham smiled at his wife—
"and our little flock."
"You did not suggest his coming here, I suppose?" Mrs. Wyndham said
quickly.
"Yes, I did," Mr. Wyndham admitted; "I invited him to spend Sunday
with us. It won't matter, will it? You needn't make any difference
for Andrew Reed."
"But, Clement, we always have cold dinners on Sundays, and I expect
your friend is accustomed to have everything very nice," expostulated
Mrs. Wyndham, glancing expressively around the room.
"I daresay he is, nowadays," Mr. Wyndham answered, "but you must
remember he was not born with the proverbial silver spoon in his
mouth. He is a thorough man of the world, in the best sense of the
term, and I should like you all to know him. I couldn't well ask such
an old friend as he is to dine with me at an hotel or a restaurant
when I've a home in London to invite him to."
"No, no," Mrs. Wyndham agreed, "only I thought, as he has got on
in the world—but, there, he must just take us as he finds us!"
"Tell us some more about him, father," said Madge; "how old is his
little girl?"
"Nearly fifteen, so she must be quite a big girl, my dear." And Mr.
Wyndham, who was in excellent spirits, continued to talk of his old
school friend at length, whilst his wife and children evinced great
interest in listening to him.
"And he was only a poor, common boy once," Violet remarked wonderingly
by-and-by; "and now I suppose he has become very rich, father?"
"I don't know that he is very rich, Vi," Mr. Wyndham answered gravely;
"but he is certainly a prosperous man. Yes, he used to be poor, but
never common. A common man could never have made the position in life
which my old friend has done. I should say he is decidedly uncommon."
Violet flushed and hung her head, for there was reproof in her
father's voice.
"He was always a true gentleman at heart," Mr. Wyndham proceeded;
"he deserves success, and I am glad it has come to him. I am sure you
will all like him, for he is one of the most kindly and genial
of men."
"I am glad you met him, Clement, since you are so pleased at having
done so," Mrs. Wyndham said, speaking more cordially; "we will
certainly make him welcome when he comes."
Having finished tea, Mr. Wyndham went to his study, a small apartment
intended for a breakfast room, simply furnished with a writing-desk
and a few chairs; and the children prepared their lessons for the
following day. Ruth found some difficulty in concentrating her
thoughts; for her mind was full of her father's friend, and occupied
with one of the puzzles of life—why success should be given to some
and denied to others. No man could work harder or more conscientiously
than her own father; and yet, so far, success had not come to him.
Why did God keep it from him? she wondered. It was very difficult
to believe that He knew best.