It was with the exultation of a child on a holiday that Hope prepared to
start for the picnic lunch the next day. Hitherto she had watched the
departure of the other ladies with a spasm of not unnatural envy, but
now she was going herself. The day was bright and mild, and it was so
pleasant to drive in the open behind Pipeclay, the little white pony
which was Avice's special favourite. Truda had driven on ahead with the
luncheon-baskets, accompanied by a young married lady who was the latest
addition to the house-party, so the two cousins were alone, and could
talk together without fear of interruption. Hope was all brightness and
animation, for she was experiencing at that moment a mysterious
lightness of heart which made her see everything through rose-coloured
spectacles. She admired everything--the grey stretches of the
landscape, the outline of the trees against the skies, the tumble-down
cottages by the roadside--while Avice listened to her animated talk with
a wistful smile on her face.
"You enjoy everything, Hope. How do you manage it? I wish I knew your
secret, for to me it all seems so stale and uninteresting. I do not
believe there is anything in the world which would make me so bright and
happy as you seem this morning."
"Nothing?"
"No--nothing. I enjoy some things more than others, of course; but,
honestly, for me the happiest moment of the day is when I lie down in
bed and feel that for eight hours at least I need do nothing but rest."
"Poor darling!" cried Hope sympathetically--"poor darling! That is a
matter of health, of course. But, Avice, don't you think that perhaps
if you--"
"Yes; if I what?"
Hope knitted her brows and looked distressed and nervous.
"Oh, I don't want to preach, but perhaps if you had something to do--if
you did not think quite so much of--I mean to say that if one is feeling
weak and listless, and has nothing to do, one goes on feeling worse and
worse. But if one gets interested--"
"Yes, I know what you mean; but how is one to get interested? That is
the question. I am not clever like you, and have no hobbies to occupy
my mind, and I get so bored with myself. Mother won't let me help her.
She thinks I am too delicate; and, apart from that, she is quick and I
am slow, and it would fidget her to see me droning through what she
could do in half the time. It is all very well to say, `Have an
interest.' Everything that seems new and exciting to you here is stale
to me. I am sick to death of living in public as we do, entertaining
one set of visitors after another, who all say the same things and amuse
themselves in the same way. I am not strong enough to go out `slumming'
or visiting hospitals, as some girls do. Where would _you_ find your
interest if you were in my place, Hope?"
"I'd find it somewhere," said Hope sturdily. "You have plenty of money
and plenty of time, and there must be a hundred ways of putting them to
account. I--I think I would try to help girls who are alone in the
world and struggling to make their living. We are all together, and
have enough money to keep us from actual want, but I can imagine how
_awful_ it must be for girls who are all alone, with no one to help them
if they fall ill; whose lives are one long, colourless struggle, with
never a ray of brightness or pleasure from Monday morning until Saturday
night. Could you not think of some way of helping them? What could you
do? I know; I have it! There is that sweet little lodge with no one
living in it but old George and his wife, and she was lamenting to me
only yesterday that her daughters were married, and there were no young
folks left in the house. Why should you not furnish two rooms upstairs,
and invite poor shop assistants and girl-clerks to come down for their
holidays, two at a time, so that they would be companions for each
other? It would be so easy to manage, for you need not think of
expense; and Mrs Moss would wait upon them, while you provided their
amusements. You could go round with Pipeclay and take them out for
drives; you could lend them books and papers, and have them up to the
house to tea. They would confide their joys and troubles to you, and
tell you about their `friends,' and write letters to you when they went
home. When they married, you could help to provide the trousseaux. And
when the first little girls were born they would be called after you,
and you would knit their socks. They would be brought up to love you
because you had been kind to their mothers, and it would be the dream of
their lives to be asked down to see all the places of which they had
heard so much. In a dozen homes all over the country people would be
blessing you, and looking upon you as the good fairy who had brought
them health and happiness. Oh Avice, you lucky girl! What would I give
to have such a chance? I would begin to-morrow--to-day--this very
afternoon!"
"Well," said Avice reflectively--"well!" It was not in her nature to be
enthusiastic like her cousin, but she smiled as if the idea found favour
in her sight, and her dull eyes brightened. "It _does_ sound nice. I
suppose I could do it if I liked. Mother wouldn't mind, and Mrs Moss
would be delighted. She is one of those women who are never so happy as
when they are nursing some one; and she would coddle the girls from
morning till night, and give them beaten-up eggs and black-currant Jelly
for their throats, and her celebrated cough mixture made out of nine
`ingrediencies'! I really will think about it, Hope. I believe it
would be interesting. Would you help me to furnish the rooms and make
them pretty and artistic?"
"Rather! I adore buying things--when some one else has to pay. We
would have one room blue, and one pink, with white paint and dear little
white beds, and bookcases full of nice books, and comfy wicker chairs by
the window, where the girls could sit and read, and rest their poor,
tired backs. And I would be your town agent, and look out for likely
subjects. If I were in a shop and saw a poor, anaemic-looking girl, I
could find out her circumstances from the manager or head of the
department; and if she had no one to look after her, and was living in
the shop, or in poky little lodgings, I could send on her name to you,
and you would invite her to come here for the holidays. Oh, you are
going to do it, my dear! You'll _have_ to do it! I'll give you no
peace till you do."
"I'll think about it. I can't decide things in a moment; but I would
like to work with you, Hope, and it doesn't sound too formidable. I
really think I could arrange a pleasant holiday for the girls."
"I really think you might," agreed Hope, laughing; and then suddenly
came a halloa of welcome, and over the fence appeared one head after
another as the shooting party rose to receive the new-comers.
Truda and Mrs Inglis had arrived some ten minutes earlier, and luncheon
was laid on a cloth under the shelter of the hedge, mackintosh sheets
being spread upon the ground, on which the guests could sit without fear
of rheumatic consequences. A few yards away the beaters were already
refreshing themselves with Irish stew and copious draughts of beer,
while from the hampers had come forth all manner of tempting viands, to
which the sportsmen did ample justice, the while they protested at such
dainties.
"Mrs Loftus spoils us altogether. I don't approve of luxuries at a
shooting lunch. We are getting too soft as a nation; that is what is
the matter with us. It would be a lot better if we went back to simpler
ways.--Cut me a chunk more of that galantine, that's a good fellow. A
_chunk_, I said; cut it thicker, can't you?" and Reggie Blake bent
forward to superintend the carver's movements with an anxiety of
expression which evoked a hearty laugh from his companions.
Mrs Nash, the new-comer, was offering "a handsome wife and ten thousand
a year," in the shape of the lost roll upon a plate, to an old bachelor
of sixty, who appeared much delighted at the prospect. Truda was
playing tunes on the rim of her tumbler; Avice had actually a tinge of
colour in her checks; and Hope sat perched on a cushion, looking down on
them all like a queen on her throne. Before the meal had begun she had
found herself seated uncomfortably between two of the least interesting
of the sportsmen; but she had hardly time to realise her disappointment
before--presto! the scene was changed. Mr Merrilies had strolled
towards the pony-cart, and returned with an armful of cushions, which he
placed on the ground close to where he himself had been sitting.
"There!" he said; "those are for you, Miss Charrington. You have
evidently not mastered the art of lunching comfortably on the ground,
and we shall have to break you in by degrees. Let me take your plate."
Thus in the most open and natural fashion the change was effected which
was fraught with so much satisfaction to the two people most concerned.
It was so much pleasanter than the old position, thought innocent Hope--
the view was more extended, more beautiful, more sunny and cheerful; and
to judge from his unusual animation, Ralph Merrilies was of the same
mind as herself. There was no chance of private conversation; but there
are occasions when the most commonplace phrases become interesting and
the very passing of the mustard is a thrilling incident!
When lunch was over the ladies agreed to walk a little way with the men,
leaving the carts to pick them up at another point. Once again Hope
found herself carried off by Ralph Merrilies, and guided by such a
circuitous path that the other members of the party were soon ahead and
safely out of hearing. For a time they talked of matters connected with
the day's sport, but gradually the conversation took a more personal
tone, and Hope found Mr Merrilies confiding details of his life to her
attentive ears. It appeared that his parents were dead, and that he
owned an estate in Hampshire, where he lived in much luxury, and greater
boredom, during such portions of the year as he was not visiting or
risking his life abroad in search of adventure; that he was, in short,
one of those wealthy, idle men of whom she had often read, but whom she
had never met. As for him, he was charmed by her naive interest and
curiosity concerning himself and his doings. She asked for a
description of the house, of his housekeeper-aunt's appearance,
character, and attainments; she wondered how he employed himself all
day, suggested improvements in his grounds, and was much concerned to
hear of a fire among the stacks at the home farm. Then he adroitly led
the conversation to herself, beginning with a reference to the subject
in which she appeared most deeply interested.
"I suppose you amuse yourself with music. As you sing and play and
compose, you have plenty of variety to keep you going. The worst of
possessing so many talents is, that they are so much appreciated by
other people that they want to work you to death for their amusement.
Last night, for instance! It was too bad to keep you at the piano all
evening, and treat you as though you were a professional accompanist."
"I wish I was," sighed Hope wistfully; and when her companion looked at
her with a start of surprise, "That is what I want to be," she added
simply. "I have to earn my living in some way, and neither my voice nor
my playing is good enough for public performances; but I _can_
accompany. I should be thankful if any one _would_ hire me for the
purpose."
Ralph Merrilies looked at her in silent astonishment. He had taken for
granted that, as the niece of the wealthy Mr Loftus, Hope Charrington
occupied the same position in society. Man-like, he had noticed none of
the signs of poverty in her attire which were plain as print to feminine
eyes. What if her attire was always of the simplest description? She
invariably looked better than any other girl in the room. If one
solitary dress did duty every evening, a new arrangement of laces
transformed it in his eyes; and if she wore no jewels, the round white
throat and arms looked all the better for their lack of adornment. It
gave him a shock of surprise to hear her speak of making her own
livelihood.
"Do you really mean that?" he asked gravely; and in reply Hope gave him
a short biographical sketch, which explained the present position of the
family. "So you see I am responsible for a share of our expenses," she
said in conclusion, "and it is not so easy to earn as I expected. I
thought I should have little difficulty in getting songs published, but
I find it is very difficult indeed; and even if I sold one or two in the
year, they would bring in very little, so I must find something that is
more certain. I should make a good accompanist, for I can read at sight
and transpose as I go, and know when to humour a singer and when to pull
him up. But the difficulty is to find an opening. I do hope that I may
not be reduced to giving lessons! That would be a real trial of
patience, and the prospect is so hopelessly limited."
"Oh, you must not give lessons! That would never do," said Ralph,
drawing his brows together in a disapproving frown. That she should
need to work at all was an idea still disagreeably new. "You speak of
becoming an accompanist. What does that mean exactly! Is there an
opening for accompaniment playing, apart from taking a more prominent
place in a programme?"
"Oh yes. Professionals often insist upon having their own accompanists,
for it is so easy for a stranger to spoil their effects. Even among
amateurs they are occasionally required. Suppose a lady gets up a
concert for charity, or gives a musical `At Home,' or has private
theatricals, it is an immense help to have some one who can play for all
the performers alike, improvise a few bars if things go wrong, and fill
up awkward gaps by appropriate `selections.' That is the work which
would suit me best, if I could make a start and become fairly
well-known."
"I see. Yes, as you explain it, there certainly is an opening in that
direction; but forgive me for saying that the position seems too
subordinate for your talent. Why should you not sing yourself? You
would be better paid, and it seems to me that you are very well fitted
to do so."
Hope shook her head with pathetic candour.
"No. My voice is not strong enough. I am a fair amateur, but most
people can find friends to sing for them quite as well as I could do;
and if they hire professionals at all, they want something better--a
beautiful voice like Minnie Caldecott's, for instance. As you said
yourself the day I arrived, it is a fastidious age, and mediocrity
cannot hope for success."
"Did I say that? What a singularly unhappy remark! You must forgive
it, please, because of course I had no idea what was in your mind. I
don't think, however, that you ought to use the word `mediocre.' It is
more a question of appropriateness. Your voice may not be suited for
big entertainments--and, to speak quite frankly, I can hardly imagine
your facing such an ordeal--but surely there are quieter ways of setting
to work. What about children, now--children's parties? My little
nieces have a party every year, and it is a serious business to find a
change from the everlasting conjurer and magic-lantern. Could you not
find some songs which they would like to hear?"
He looked at her inquiringly, and Hope stood still in the middle of the
lane and stared at him with kindling eyes. "_Children_!" she whispered
beneath her breath--"_children_!"
It was the prettiest thing in the world to see the different emotions
chase each other over the sweet face: surprise first, and puzzled
questioning; then the gradual dawning of an idea, the flush of radiant
triumph.
"Children's parties! Oh, what an idea! What a brilliant, brilliant
ideal Mr Merrilies, how can I ever thank you? I don't know why I did
not think of it myself, for it is the very thing I should love above all
others; and I believe I could make it a success."
She turned and began to walk rapidly forward, waving her hands and
unfolding her programme with characteristic Charrington enthusiasm.
"I know what I will do--I know exactly. I will tell them a story, and
sing descriptive little songs at intervals. Theo shall write the words
and share in the profits; and the songs shall be set to well-known airs,
for children love what they know, and would enjoy joining in the
choruses. Oh, it will be charming!--a new fairy tale introducing all
the dear old characters--the Giant who lives alone in his Castle, and
eats up every one who comes in his way. `Fe-fo-fum!' that shall be his
song--`Fe-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!' Can't you hear
the deep chords in the bass? Then there must be the Prince, of course,
and the most beautiful Princess that ever was seen--"
"With golden hair and dark-blue eyes," put in the listener, with a look
in his eyes that passed unnoticed by his excited companion.
"Yes, yes; and--and a wicked fairy who was not asked to the christening,
and a good fairy who undid all her spells. Theo will bring them all in.
I will write to her this very night, for there is not a minute to be
lost. I shall have no difficulty in setting the songs to music, and
should not feel a scrap nervous singing to children. Deal little souls!
What fun it will be watching their faces and hearing them join in the
choruses! Oh, what a charming ideal! Do you really think any one would
allow me to try?"
"I will give you your first engagement now, at this moment! My sister
will be only too eager to secure you; and she will tell her friends of
the new idea. I shall say that your fee is rather high, but that at all
costs you must be engaged if she wishes the party to be a success. You
must charge a good deal, you know, or people won't think half so much of
you."
Hope looked at him with shy delight.
"Must I? I should like that. Mr Merrilies, I am so grateful to you
that I don't know what to say. You have made me feel so happy. If I
get on at all, it will be all your doing."
"It will be nothing of the kind. I simply mentioned the word children,
and you pounced upon it and evolved the whole scheme. There is no
gratitude due to me," declared Ralph Merrilies sturdily.
At that moment voices broke upon the ear, and turning a corner, they saw
the three remaining ladies of the party walking back to meet them.
Avice came forward to ask Mr Merrilies some question about the carriage,
while Truda turned to Hope and studied her face with gloomy eyes.
"You look very jubilant. What is the matter with you to-day?"
"I've got an idea!"
"Goodness! Is that all? I've got hundreds." She fell a few steps
behind the others, and added resentfully, "You have managed to keep him
pretty well to yourself, at any rate. He hasn't spoken a word to me all
day. I don't call that keeping your promise."