A FAIRY GODMOTHER
Old Dr. Devine had seen Pierce soon after his return, very much
against our invalid's wishes. He had not enlightened us much, nor
given us much comfort.
"Go on as you are doing," he had said to Aline in his fat,
comfortable way. "Plenty of port wine and fresh eggs, and keep him
from taking cold."
But so much we had known before, and at Pierce's earnest request we
had troubled Dr. Devine no further.
"Hilda," said Esther to me one day, "do you remember that when your
foot was so bad Aline sold her collet to get you the best doctor that
could be procured for money?"
"Could I forget it?" said I.
"Well, don't you think that something ought to be done for Pierce in
the same way?"
"Yes," said I, "but how are we to raise the money? I do think Freda
ought to help us."
"I believe Aline thought the same thing when she wrote to her all
about Pierce's illness, but Freda evidently thinks differently. Do
you remember how generous Freda once was?"
"Yes," said I wisely, "but then she was a girl. I believe she has
grown selfish for that child. There, I have said it, and it is the
first time any of us have. What is the use of our going about
wondering at Freda in our secret hearts and shutting our lips upon
it?"
"It is strange about her. However, Hilda, if she will not help, we
must. We must sell our sapphires."
"Would they bring much? They are heavy and old-fashioned."
"I daresay they are rather ugly, but they will sell for the stones.
We won't ask Aline. She would sell her own things, but she would
feel our parting with ours. Once it is irrevocable, she will be
glad."
We went upstairs and took out our parures, and looked at them with a
little melancholy. They were our only jewels of value, and though we
never had any occasion for wearing them, we had always felt that some
day the occasion might come. Now that we were going to give them up
they seemed beautiful, glowing deeply against the white velvet of
their cases. We had each a necklet and pendant, a brooch and
ear-rings, and a bracelet. Esther, in addition, had a little tiara
of the stones set round with small diamonds.
"But how are we to sell them?" I asked.
"I have thought of that," said Esther. "If we ask Mr. Benson he will
sell them for us to the Dublin goldsmith from whom he bought his new
altar-plate. There, shut them up, Hilda dear. We have not needed
them all the years, and we are not going to miss them now."
She went off to see Mr. Benson that afternoon, with the cases in
brown paper under her arm. We felt like a pair of conspirators; but
Pierce must have his doctor and all the things he needed, and I think
the sacrifice made us both happy, once it was over and done with.
Mr. Benson accepted the commission when it had been explained to him
that the things were really and truly our own, and that there was
such sore need for money at Brandon.
A few days later Esther went over to the Rectory for the goldsmith's
answer. It was nearly dinner-time when she came back, and I was
washing my hands upstairs in my own room when she came in, still
wearing her hat, and laid down something on the table. My heart
sank, for it looked uncommonly like our jewel-cases, only not quite
so thick.
"Ah!" said I to myself, "so the old things were worthless after all;
and Pierce must go without his doctor, and his port wine, and game,
and all the things that may save his life!"
But Esther, who had not spoken, had locked the door and returned to
the table. She had bright spots of excitement in each cheek, and as
I dried my hands on the towel and came towards her she put down a
heavy, lumpish parcel on the table, and, reaching for my scissors
with a hand that trembled, she cut the cord, opened a little bag that
was inside, and spilt the contents on the table. I was so near
screaming out at the sight that. I had to clap both hands on my
mouth. There, on the table, glittering before me, was a substantial
heap of sovereigns--a great heap, it seemed to me at the first glance.
"One hundred pounds!" said Esther in an exultant voice. "Actually a
hundred pounds for the old sapphires! That dear Mr. Benson went to
the bank and cashed the cheque, and got it all in gold, knowing it
would delight us so."
"And to think they've been lying there so uselessly all those years!"
said I.
"They could never have served us as they will now," said Esther
again; and we both stood gloating over that heap of sovereigns as
though we were a pair of misers.
Then Esther began putting back the gold again in the little bag which
had held it. When she had drawn the strings and wrapped it in its
outer covering of brown paper my eye fell on the other square-shaped
parcel.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Oh, Hilda," said Esther, rather guiltily, "Mr. Benson thought we
would not sell both _parures_ till we saw what one would fetch! He
guessed the stones were valuable. So I have brought back yours."
Well, for the moment I felt nothing but vexation, which quite put out
of my mind the fact that it had been rather a wrench to give up the
sapphires.
"You wretched, mean girl!" said I. "You know it was my place to give
the sapphires, seeing what Aline had done for me. You should have
kept yours. What use are jewels to me, seeing that even if we were
asked to balls and such things I would have no place there?"
"Hush, hush, Hilda!" said Esther in her gentle way. "Your jewels may
be wanted later; and in any case mine were the more valuable, and
brought in the bigger sum."
Now I'm afraid this makes us seem rather unnatural, for girls, by
nature, love their pretty things; only, you see, as we were both well
on in the twenties, and had never had an opportunity of wearing
jewels, and never seemed likely to have, the things were not of so
much account in our happiness. Besides, money was wanted so sorely
that the old jewels counted for very little by comparison.
"I shall never need mine, never!" said Esther, with conviction.
"And in any case mine are yours," added I.
Then we went down to Aline and spilled the money in her lap. We were
a little nervous about acting on our own responsibility, so we
blurted the story out in a great hurry; and then, when Aline would
have held up horror-stricken hands at the loss of the sapphires, we
simply cried out, "It is for Pierce, you know, for Pierce," and so
silenced her.
We kept from Pierce the secret of how the Dublin doctor's fee was
paid, but all the same he was vexed and disturbed when he heard that
we had sent for him. The great man came and went, and left us sadder
than before. Whatever hopes we had had from his visit were
dissipated in thin air after he had gone.
"I can give you no hope of your brother's ultimate recovery," he had
said to Aline. "Constant and tender care may keep him with you a
little while, but the mischief is too deep-rooted for our skill to
reach."
He had looked at her compassionately out of his stern gray eyes and
pressed her hand in silence. After all, we had known it all the
time, had known we were only buoying ourselves up with faint hopes.
"How long?" said Aline.
"Perhaps a twelvemonth," said the doctor, "perhaps not so long."
After he had gone we left Aline alone, as she asked us. She wanted
to gain composure before she went back to Pierce. In her little
octagon room, holy with the atmosphere of her prayers and long
patience, we left her to gain courage and comfort from the Source.
Our hearts were heavy for her, but we knew her Comforter would not
fail. Meanwhile I went back to Pierce with a foot that lagged and a
face that vainly strove for a show of cheerfulness.
It was June then, and Pierce was out every day, sitting in a
comfortable wicker-chair under the shade of limes. He certainly
looked less ill than when he had come home, but that might be because
he was rested and refreshed now, and his mind at ease to be among his
own people.
I sat down on the rug at his feet, being glad not to meet his eyes,
but he leant forward and pulled my face round towards him. As he did
so I lost my hard-won composure.
"What, tears!" he said, and smiled. He was the only one of us had
heart to smile that day.
"The doctor's been telling you that I've got my marching orders?" he
said.
I bowed my head silently.
"I wish you could come over here and stand beside me"--he spoke as if
an immense gulf divided us,--"and see from my side how death looks.
There would be nothing to cry about, little Hilda."
I answered by a half-stifled sob.
"My only trouble is," he said, "that I cause you all sorrow. I meant
to have done so much for this old place and all of you once, and I
have done nothing but drag myself home to be a burden on you all, and
then to grieve you by my death. And yet if you could know, little
Hilda, how impossible it was for me to take up life again in the old
way, you would understand how glad I am to go."
Still I could not answer him.
He spoke again with a curious strength and will that for the moment
made his voice like the voice of one in health.
"There must be no more doctors, Hilda. Even if it comforts Aline I
cannot have it. You must let me go quietly. God knows that in being
here I have more happiness than I deserve."
I followed his eyes as they gazed around. The great lime was
flinging wavering shadows on the grass. The sun was very hot, but
under the shelter of the tree a cool wind had strayed in, and flapped
about with half-folded wings. And facing Pierce as he sat was
Brandon, blue as forget-me-nots.
A day or two later we had accepted with what resignation we might the
knowledge that Pierce's time with us was to be but short. It is
wonderful how one grows used to such things. Troubles that,
imagined, we would have said we could not endure, we accept in a few
hours, and go about, not only living, but carrying out the usual
routine of life, as if the thing had always been so.
About a week after the Dublin doctor's visit there dropped a new
friend out of the clouds. I was with Aline one day, and she was
snipping off withering roses into a basket from the bushes close to
where Pierce was sitting. To us came the newest of our small
handmaidens--for Oona keeps up an incessant change--in much
trepidation, and holding a card between her finger and thumb. Aline
took it, and looked at it in surprise. Then she walked up to Pierce.
"Why, Pierce," she said, "here is old Lady O'Brien come home to
Annagower, and come to make a call. I thought she was dead long ago."
"So did I," said Pierce. "We used to call her the Fairy Godmother
when we were small. I thought she was enormously old then."
"She has been out of these parts a long time," said Aline. "But I
must not keep her waiting. However, I shall have to wash my hands.
Hilda dear, would you mind going in to the old lady till I can come?
I wish Esther were not out, for Lady O'Brien is her godmother."
"She has only gone to see Oona's cousin, Mary," said I, "and may come
in at any minute."
I found a very tiny old lady sitting in the biggest chair in the
drawing-room. She had a foreign-looking big black hood pulled over
her face, out of which twinkled her bright eyes, set in a delicate
little old white face.
"Well, my dear," she said, "which of the girls are you? and why
didn't you come at once, instead of keeping me waiting?"
"I am Hilda, Lady O'Brien, and I came as quickly as I could. But we
were at the far end of the rose-garden with Pierce when your card
came, and I can't walk very quickly. Aline will be here in a moment.
She was gardening, and had to wash her hands."
"Why can't you walk quickly?" snapped the old lady.
"I am a little lame," I explained.
"Now, how do you come to be that? Mary Brandon's children were born
without blot or blemish. What mischief were you up to to lame
yourself, child?"
"We went to the races without leave, and fell into a ditch on the way
home."
"Indeed, then, you've been too much punished, for I've been doing
things without leave all my life, and here I am with all my teeth and
my eyesight, and my hair and complexion, at seventy years of age.
But never mind," she added consolingly, "'tis only a pretty bit of a
limp after all. Not so long ago it was fashionable to be a bit lame,
because one sweet woman was so."
At that moment Aline came in, and was called over to kiss the old
ivory face in its black hood.
"You're the image of your grandmother, my dear," said the old lady
graciously; "and when we were both brides together we divided the
county into factions about our beauty, though you wouldn't think it
now to look at me. Eh, what?"
"This exclamation was addressed to me. I had just said in a low
voice that I could well believe the old lady's statement. I repeated
the speech, to her delight.
"Well done!" she cried. "You've a pair of eyes in your head, madam."
Then she turned to Aline in her quick way, which reminded me of a
bird pecking.
"I suppose you wonder where I've come from after all those years?"
"I hope you've come back to Annagower to stay."
"To make my exit, my dear. I've been racketing all those years up
and down the world, and now I've come back to 'make my soul'.
Ireland's a pleasant place to die in."
"You don't look like dying," said Aline with truth.
"Nor feel like it, my dear; but I am an old woman--seventy years of
age. I thought I'd like to lie beside poor Sir Peter at the last,
though it's so long since he went he must have given up expecting me,
poor man. But where's my girl?" she asked with startling suddenness;
"I don't see her yet."
"Esther?" said Aline. "She is out, Lady O'Brien, but I hope she will
be in before you go. Now, you'll have some tea," for at this moment
little Annie appeared with the tea-tray, casting at the same time
alarmed glances at the old lady, who indeed looked exactly like a
witch.
"If it's fresh and well-made, my dear, and you can give me cream with
it. My doctor-man at Monte Carlo has absolutely forbidden me tea, so
that if I am to ruin my stomach it must be for something worth
having."
"You could have milk if you preferred it," suggested Aline.
"I haven't cut my second milk-teeth yet, my dear. Thank you, that
looks very nice. Gebhardt, the doctor-man, was rather a fool. I
often told him so. But, bless you, doctors must be saying something."
Lady O'Brien was graciously pleased to approve of the tea and the
thin brown bread-and-butter, for which she displayed a most youthful
appetite. When she had finished she dusted off the crumbs from her
silk lap.
"Well, I suppose I must be going," she said, "for there are Daisy and
Dobson both fast asleep in the sun, though I always tell them they'll
get sunstroke one day."
We followed her gaze out to the space before the window, where a
little basket phaeton stood, with an old pony, evidently asleep, and
a fat coachman, also slumbering, as she had said.
"By the way," she said as she stood up, "where are all the others?
Where is the boy who was next to you? A very handsome boy he
promised to be. I should like to see him. I adore handsome boys."
"He is in the garden, Lady O'Brien," answered Aline, sadly, "and I am
sure he would like to see you. But he is not strong." Her face
quivered suddenly. "Indeed his lungs are affected, and we fear he
will never be very well again."
The old lady's manner changed quite suddenly to one of the utmost
kindness and sympathy.
"Indeed, my dear," she said earnestly, "I am very sorry for that.
The young should be well and happy. You think I might see him, hey?"
"I am sure you might," said Aline, smiling. "A visit from you could
do nothing but good."
So the old lady took her silver-headed cane, and pouring out a flood
of memories as she went, accompanied us to the shady seat where
Pierce was sitting, with my little gray-headed Paudeen comfortably
curled up at his feet.