[Illustration:
No. 8. PRICE. TEN CENTS.
Published Weekly. By Subscription. $5.20 Per Annum. Entered at the
New York Post Office as Second-Class Matter. February 25, 1896
THE ARM CHAIR LIBRARY
EACH NUMBER CONTAINS A COMPLETE NOVEL
BY A POPULAR AUTHOR.
AVERIL.
By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.
F·M·LUPTON·
PUBLISHER
23 25 AND 27 CITY HALL PLACE
NEW YORK
]
Averil.
By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.
CHAPTER I.
A WET DAY IN LINCOLN'S INN.
Mr. Harland was one of those enviable persons who invariably take a
cheerful view of everything; in the favorite parlance of the day, he
was an optimist. A good digestion, an easy-going temperament, and a
conscious void of offense toward his fellow-creatures, all contributed
to furnish him with a fine flow of spirits. In this way he was a
philosopher, and would discourse for a good half hour at a time on the
folly of a man who permitted himself to be disturbed by any atmospheric
changes; he thought it derogatory to the dignity of a human being to be
depressed by a trifle more or less of fog. No man delighted more than
he did in the sunshine--a spring day moved him to exuberant animation;
but, on the other hand, no pressure of London smoke, no damp, clinging
fog, no scarifying east wind, no wearisome succession of wet days, ever
evoked an impatient expression or brought him down to the dull level on
which other people find themselves.
This made him a delightful companion, and when Mrs. Harland (who
certainly matched her husband in good humor) once averred herself a
fortunate woman, none of her friends contradicted her.
Mr. Harland had just reached his chambers in Lincoln's Inn one morning,
and as he divested himself of his wet overcoat he hummed a little air
in an undertone.
The surroundings would have looked dreary enough to any other person.
It was difficult to recognize that May had actually arrived; the air
had a February chill in it; and the heavy, leaden sky and ceaseless
downpour of steady rain made the few passers-by shiver; now and then a
lawyer's clerk hurried along, uttering a sort of dumb protest in his
raised shoulders and turned-up collar. In that quiet spot the drip of
the water from the roofs was distinctly audible, alternating with the
splash of the rain on the stone flags of the court. Mr. Harland glanced
at the letters lying on his table, then he walked up to the fire-place,
and spread his white, well-shaped hands over the cheerful blaze.
"My housekeeper is a jewel!" he muttered. "She is worth her weight
in gold, that woman; she seems to know by instinct when to light a
fire. Bless me, how it is raining! Well, people tell me I am an oddly
constituted person, but I believe in my heart that I thoroughly enjoy
a wet day; one is sure of a quiet morning; no fussy clients, to bore
one and take up one's valuable time; not that I object to clients,"
with a chuckle. "Halloo! come in!" as a modest rap sounded at the door.
"Well, Carruthers, what is it? No one can be possibly wanting me this
morning," as a solemn-faced young man stood hesitating on the threshold.
"The young lady said she was in no hurry, sir; would not disturb you
for the world. It is Miss Willmot."
"Miss Willmot!" and Mr. Harland dropped his eye-glasses, and then
picked them up in a hurry. "Show her in, show her in at once,
Carruthers; and mind, I am engaged; I am not to be interrupted on
any account. To think of that delicate little creature venturing out
on such a day! What do you mean by it, what do you mean by it, Miss
Averil?" advancing with outstretched hands and a beaming face, as a
little figure appeared in the doorway.
"Don't scold me," returned the girl, in a sweet, plaintive voice. "I am
not so imprudent as you think. I took a cab, and drove all the way, so
I am not wet at all; no, indeed I am not," as Mr. Harland inspected her
carefully, touching her dress and mantle, as though to convince himself
of the truth of her words; but he only shook his head, and drew an
easy-chair close to the fire.
"Sit down and warm yourself," he said, with a good-humored
peremptoriness. "You are not the sort to brave damp with impunity. You
are a hot-house plant, that is what you are, Averil; but you have no
one to look after you, and so you just go on your willful way."
"You speak as though you were not pleased to see me," with a slight
pout; "but I know better, do I not, Mr. Harland!" laying a thin little
hand on his arm.
The lawyer rubbed up his gray hair with a comical gesture. "I am
always pleased to see you, my dear," he said at last, in a fatherly
sort of way, for he had daughters of his own, and there was a very
real friendship between him and this girl, whom he had known from her
cradle. "But all the same, I am vexed with you for coming. If you
wanted me, why did you not wire, and I would have been with you before
the day was out? You know it was an understood thing between us that
you are to send for me if you are in any perplexity."
"Yes, I know; but if I send for you, one or other of them would be sure
to find it out, and then curiosity would be excited; it is so much
nicer to talk to you here. I do love these quiet rooms, and that gray
old court." And Averil looked dreamily out of the window as she spoke.
No one who had seen Averil Willmot for the first time would have
guessed her age; in reality she was seven-and-twenty, but her
diminutive stature, which scarcely equaled that of a well-grown child
of twelve, often made people think her much younger; and her face,
in spite of the cast of melancholy that was always perceptible,
was singularly youthful. At first sight Averil was certainly not
prepossessing; her stunted growth and small, sallow face had little
to recommend them; without being actually deformed, she had rounded
shoulders and sunken chest, the result of some spinal mischief in
early years. Her features were scarcely redeemed from plainness; only
a sweet, sensitive mouth, and dark, thoughtful eyes prevented positive
ugliness; but those who knew Averil best cared little for her looks,
though it was just possible that a sense of her physical defects had
something to do with the vibrating melancholy that was so often heard
in her voice.
"You might have a quiet place of your own to-morrow if you liked,"
observed Mr. Harland, as Averil uttered her little speech. "I am a
tolerably cheerful person, as you know, and take most things with
equanimity; but it always rubs me up the wrong way when I see people
making martyrs of themselves for insufficient reasons, and spoiling
their own lives. Granted that you owe a certain amount of duty to your
step-mother and her children--and I am the last man in the world to
deny that duty, having step-children of my own--still, is there a ghost
of a necessity for you all living together, like an ill-assorted clan?"
"My dear old friend," laughed Averil, and she had a pretty, child-like
laugh, though it was not often heard, "how often are we to argue on
that point? The ghost of my necessity, as you call it, is Lottie, and
she is substantial enough, poor child. If I were to consent to break up
our mixed household, what would become of poor Lottie?"
"Take her with you, of course. Mrs. Willmot would only be too glad
to get rid of an incumbrance. What does she care about her husband's
niece? Try it, Averil; the burden of all these gay young people is too
heavy for your shoulders."
"I have tried," she replied, sadly. "Mr. Harland, indeed I have not
been so unmindful of your advice as you think. I have made more than
one attempt to put things on a different footing, but all my efforts
have been in vain. Mrs. Willmot refuses to part with Lottie, though I
have offered to provide for her; but the answer is always the same,
that Lottie is her husband's legacy to her, that on no consideration
would she part with such a sacred charge!"
A keen, sarcastic look shot from the lawyer's eyes. He muttered under
his breath, "Humbug!" but he prudently forbore to put his thoughts into
words.
"Miss Lottie never lived with you in your father's lifetime," he
observed, presently; "at least, I never saw her there."
"No; she was at school at Stoke Newington. The people boarded her in
return for her help with the little ones. She was very young then; she
is only eighteen now. I am afraid they taught her very little. I used
to tell father so, but he disliked so much to interfere."
"And now the sacred charge is at Kensington. My dear, that step-mother
of yours is a clever woman--you remember I always told you--a very
clever woman; she knows where she is comfortable."
"I have not come here through the rain to talk about my step-mother,"
returned Averil, in a reproachful tone, "but to show you a letter I
have just received. Mr. Harland, you know all my father's affairs; can
you tell me anything about a cousin of his, Felicia Ramsay?"
"Is that her married name? Willmot once told me, when I was dining with
him, that he had been engaged to his cousin, Felicia Graham. It is so
long ago that I can not recollect what moved him to such confidence.
Stop; I have it. I remember I made the remark that a man seldom
marries his first love (you know, even old fogies will sentimentalize
sometimes), and he replied (you know his dry way)--'I was engaged to my
cousin before I married Averil's mother, but the fates in the shape
of a shrewish old uncle, forbade the bans.' And then he sighed, and
somehow we changed the conversation."
Averil flushed; her dark, sensitive face showed signs of emotion. "Poor
father! but he loved my mother dearly, Mr. Harland. Still, I am glad to
know this; it makes me understand things better. Now, will you read my
letter (you will see it is addressed to my father), and tell me what
you think of the writer?"
The lawyer put on his _pince-nez_ and looked attentively at the
somewhat cramped, girlish handwriting, then he turned to the signature,
Annette Ramsay; after which he carefully perused it, while Averil sat
watching him with her hands folded in her lap.
"DEAR SIR AND GOOD COUSIN," it began, "will you have patience with
me while I tell you my sad story? For many years my father has been
dead, and now the dear mother has followed him; and in all this wide
world I have no one but old Clotilde to care for me. My cousin, it is
terrible for a girl to be so so lonely. If I were Catholic I could
take refuge with the good sisters in the Convent of the Sacred Heart;
but always I do remember my mother's teaching and our good pastor.
For my own part I was not aware that my English cousin existed; but
one day, when my mother was unusually suffering, she called me to her
bedside--'Annette,' she said, quite seriously, 'thou must write to my
cousin, Leonard Willmot, when I am gone. If only I had strength to
write to him myself! Ask him, in the name of Felicia Ramsay, to show
kindness to her only child. Throw thyself on his protection. Leonard
was always of a generous nature; his heart is large enough to shelter
the unfortunate.' My cousin, those were the words of my mother, and
she wept much as she uttered them. As I was writing this, our good
pastor entered. I showed him the beginning of my letter. 'Tell your
cousin more of your life and circumstances,' he urged. 'Represent to
him exactly your situation.' Well, I will try to obey; but figure to
yourself my difficulty, in thus writing to a stranger.
"While my father lived, my life was as joyous as the bees and birds.
What was there that I lacked? My mother loved me; she taught me
everything--to read, to sew, to speak English and French. During my
father's long absences (he was a sea captain) we worked well, we
sufficed to each other; when my father came home we made holiday,
and fêted him. One day he did not come. By and by we heard the sad
news--in a great storm he had perished. My cousin, those were bitter
days! I was just fourteen; until then I had been a child, but my
mother's trouble made a woman of me. Alas! never did my mother recover
the shock; in silence she suffered, but she suffered greatly. 'Look
you, my child,' she would say, 'we must not repine; it is the will of
God. Your father was a brave man; he was a Christian. We know that
he gave his life for others; it was he who saved the ship, and but
for the fall of the mast he would be living now. Oh! if only he had
thought of himself and of his wife and child; but they must all go
first, even the little cabin-boy, and so he stayed too long.'
"Perhaps it was natural, but she was never weary of telling that story
as we sat at work. My father's death had left us poor; my mother
mended lace, she taught me to do the same. We lived on still in the
old French town where my father had placed us, and where I had been
born. He had never been rich, and it was easier to live there than in
England; his mother had settled there, and one or two of his people,
but they had all dropped away; soon there were none whom we could
_tutoyer_, only Clotilde, who kept the house.
"I have always believed that my mother worked too hard; she had too
few comforts, and my father's death preyed on her spirits. She drooped
more every day--her eyes grew too dim for the lace-work. By and by she
had no strength to speak; only when she looked at me the tears rolled
down her cheeks; then I knew she feared to leave me alone in the great
world, and it was not easy to comfort her. Our good pastor was with us
then; it was he who closed her eyes, and read the service over her;
presently he will leave us, for his new work is in England. It is he
who has promised to direct this letter when he reaches London.
"My cousin, what is there that I need to say more? I work hard, that I
may feed and clothe myself, but Clotilde is old--every one who loves
me dies: perhaps she will die too, and then what will become of me?
"My cousin, I recommend myself to you,
"With affectionate respect,
"ANNETTE RAMSAY.
"_Rue St. Joseph, Dinan._"
"Well?" as Mr. Harland laid down the letter--"well, my good friend?"
"You want my opinion, Averil? To my mind it is a good letter; there
is a genuine ring in it; the girl states her case very fairly. It is
a little un-English, perhaps, but what of that? If Willmot had lived
he would have held out a helping hand, no doubt. Yes, the matter is
worthy of investigation; and if you care to assist her--"
But here Averil placed her hand on his arm.
"You have said enough. I see the letter has not displeased you; it
seems to be a beautiful and touching letter. I could not help crying
over it. Mr. Harland, I am going to ask you a very great favor--it is
the greatest I have ever asked of my old friend; but there is no one I
can trust but you. Will you go over to Dinan and see this girl? Will
you tell her that her mother's cousin is dead, and that I am her sole
relative? Tell her also," still more impressively, "that my home is
hers--that I am ready to welcome her as a sister; and bring her to me,
the sooner the better. Mr. Harland, will you do this, or shall I go
myself and fetch my cousin?"
Mr. Harland looked perplexed; he fidgeted on his seat and played with
his eye-glasses.
"My dear, this is very sudden; it is not wise to make up your mind
so quickly. We have only this letter; how can we know what the girl
is like? Let me go first. I can easily make friends with her without
compromising you in the least. You are too impulsive, Averil! Your
generosity runs away with you. You are overburdened already, and yet
you would take more responsibilities on yourself."
Averil smiled, but she was evidently bent on having her own way.
"Mr. Harland, it is your duty to protest, and I expected this
remonstrance; but, on the other hand it is my duty to befriend my
cousin. What does it matter what she is like? It is enough for me
that she is unhappy and desolate. Do you think I do not know what it
is to be lonely?" And here her voice broke a little. "Perhaps I shall
care for her, and she will be a comfort to me. Poor thing! was it not
touching of her to say there were none for her to _tutoyer_? I like her
quaint way of expressing herself. Now, will you be good, and help me in
this?"
"And you have really made up your mind to have the girl?" rather
gruffly.
"Yes, I intend to offer my cousin a home," was Averil's quiet reply;
and after a little more grumbling on the lawyer's part, some definite
arrangements were made, and half an hour later Averil was jolting
homeward through the wet, crowded streets; but, tired as she was, there
was a quiet, peaceful expression on her face, as though some duty were
fulfilled. "I think father would approve of what I am doing," she said
to herself; "he did so like helping people: no man ever had a kinder
heart." But Averil sighed as she uttered this little panegyric. Alas!
Leonard Willmot's daughter knew well that it had been sheer kindness of
heart, unbalanced by wisdom, that had led him to marry the gay widow,
Mrs. Seymour. He had been touched by her seeming desolation, and the
helplessness that had appealed to his chivalrous nature; and, as Averil
knew, this marriage had not added to his happiness.