SWEET PRIMROSE JUSTIFIES HER REPUTATION.
Two days after this conversation, Sweet Primrose was kicking her long
legs in Rookwood verandah, as she lay flat on the matting, absorbed
in a picture-book. A picture-book, no matter how quaint, novel, or
voluminous, never lasted this young lady for more than five minutes--as
Mrs. Brande well knew. She would toss it scornfully aside, and once
more begin to wander to and fro with her wearisome little parrot cry of
“Amuse me, amuse me!”
At present she was on her good behaviour. She had taken an immense
fancy to Mark, and she was surprisingly polite to Honor; and as she was
undoubtedly a most lovely little creature, with delicate features,
wistful violet eyes, and hair like spun silk, the young people were
inclined to make much of her, and to believe that Mr. and Mrs. Brande
were a prejudiced elderly pair, who did not know how to take the right
way with children; and this particular child was disposed to favour
them with a great deal of her society--and they enjoyed it.
She accompanied them about the garden,--generally walking between
them, tightly holding their hands. She spent a considerable time every
morning in Honor’s room, fingering all her knickknacks, unfolding her
handkerchiefs, upsetting pin-boxes, and watching with undisguised
interest how Honor did her hair.
The result of the inspection being, that at breakfast she was in a
position to announce to the company the following gratifying statement--
“_I_ saw Honor doing her hair; it’s long and real, like mine,” with a
conceited toss of her blonde locks--“down to here,” indicating the
length on her own small person. “She does not put on bits, like mamma.
Mamma’s fringe is all pinned on, with long pieces that fasten it at the
side, like this,” demonstrating their situation with tiny tell-tale
fingers; “or like you,” turning to Mrs. Brande. “_I_ saw your plait!”
“Well, I hope you admired it!” rejoined the lady, with somewhat
staggering _sang froid_. “It grew on my own head once.”
And Sweet, finding that the topic was _not_ a painful one, ceased to
pursue it.
She was fond of sitting on Mark’s knee, with her arm closely locked
round his neck, her cheek pressed against his, looking at pictures
or listening to stories. Indeed, he seemed (as Mrs. Brande remarked)
to have hypnotized her. Ben still distrusted the child, so did Ben’s
grandpapa and grandmamma; but every one else appeared to think that
Sweet Primrose was now quite a pattern--a reformed character. She went
down to the band, exquisitely dressed, in fluffed out petticoats and
fine silk stockings, in charge of her fat, jewelled ayah; there she
secretly administered pinches right and left to other children, and
rudely criticized their clothes. She strolled into the ladies’ room,
ostensibly to look at the picture papers; and she was, among her
elders, so quiet, so piano, such a dainty, flounced-out little mortal,
that old acquaintances could hardly realize that _this_ was their own
original and most disagreeable “Sweet.”
It was Mrs. Brande’s birthday, and Mrs. Brande’s birthday had not
been forgotten by her friends. There were cards, letters, and little
presents from some of the “boys,” a lovely sachel from Honor (secretly
manufactured as a surprise), bouquets, an exquisite silver lamp from
Mark Jervis, which she remarked to Honor “must have cost the poor boy
a frightful sum!”--last, not least, a silver photograph-frame, with
“Ben’s respects.”
Mrs. Brande’s face was radiant. She went straight up to Mark with her
presents in her hands.
“It was too bad of you to buy me such a grand present, and just what I
was longing for--and Ben. _That_ was your idea too! Do you know that I
have a great mind to give you a kiss,” she said threateningly.
Sweet, who was playing with her porridge, stiffened with expectation,
and awaited further developments with a pair of enormous eyes.
But Mrs. Brande did not carry out her menace--no; she merely said--
“You are only a boy, and I’m an old lady. How old are you, by the way,
eh? I must make a note of your birthday.”
“I was twenty-six last April.”
“Twenty-six! Why, you don’t look it by five years,” sitting down before
the teapot and a pile of letters and little parcels which lay beside
her plate.
“Pelham always gives me diamonds,” she went on, “but I have plenty;
and, in case you might suppose he had forgotten me this time, he
has given me a large cheque for the new Orphanage; so I have done
splendidly.”
“Did you get any chocolates?” asked Sweet, anxiously.
“No, my dear; but I’ll buy a box for you after breakfast.”
“And is this really your birthday?”
“Yes. Why? Doesn’t it look like it?” triumphantly.
“I thought it was only ladies who had birthdays,” remarked this
charming little guest, with a severe air; “and Mrs. Dashwood says _you_
are not a lady.”
“Well, not by birth, my dear, though I dare say I am as well-born as
she is; and, anyway, I take the _pas_ of her in all society.”
“Whose pa?” was the sternly put question.
As Mark and Honor greeted this query with a burst of laughter, the mite
looked excessively pleased with herself.
“You will soon find her quite in her best form,” muttered Mr. Brande
from behind the _Pioneer_. Then added, in French, “She has been pretty
good for a week, and that’s her very longest interval. I saw her down
at the fowl-house before breakfast, Honor, with your smart white-silk
parasol.”
“Mamma always talks just as you do when she is talking about _me_, or
about anything she does not want me to know,” cried Sweet, vivaciously.
“I’ve done my breakfast,” slipping off her chair, “and I’m going down
to see the syce’s children. Oh, won’t I pull their hair;” and she
darted away.
Sweet was possessed of a demon of unrest that morning--nothing pleased
her for more than two minutes, and her indolent ayah calmly left the
task of entertaining her to others. Little Miss Primrose never played
games, or dressed dolls, or made shops--indeed, Sweet’s tastes were far
too advanced for these tame juvenile delights; they had palled years
previously. It afforded her far keener pleasure to harry her elders,
and to rule her fellow-housemates with a scourge.
She wandered aimlessly about, with her piteous shrill cry of, “Amuse
me, amuse me! Oh, will _no one_ amuse me!” She had tired of Honor’s
hats and new dresses, of chocolates, of Mark’s stories; and her
irritating and monotonous appeal had become as maddening as the
constant slamming of a door.
“Look here, Sweet. I have a grand idea,” said Mark at last. “Would you
like me to draw your picture?”
“And colour it?” she asked judicially.
“Yes; and put in your blue sash, and all.”
“And my necklace?”
“Certainly--your necklace too, if you please.”
“Then do--do--do it this instant minute!”
“You must wait till I get my drawing things and paints; and you will
have to sit quite, quite still for a whole hour. If you cannot do
that, there will only be an _ugly_ picture! Do you understand? My easel
and things are at Haddon Hall. I must send for them; so if you like to
go and smarten yourself up, you can.”
He had scarcely ceased to speak, ere the vain little creature strutted
straight off to her own room, loudly calling for her ayah in imperious
Hindostani.
Mrs. Brande could hardly believe her eyes when an hour later she came
into the verandah, in some trepidation, to see what made Sweet so
quiet, and discovered the “little blister,” as she mentally called her,
seated demurely on a chair, as rigid and motionless as a statue.
“See, I’m having my picture took,” she chirped out. “But I must not
move. Please look how far he has got,” nodding towards Mark, who was
painting away steadily, though rather embarrassed by the loss of the
use of his left arm.
Mrs. Brande and Honor went over to examine the portrait, expecting to
see a feeble little outline, something done just for good nature, and
to keep the child quiet. But they almost started, as their eyes fell
on a roughly sketched-in head--the living, breathing face of Sweet,
looking at them from the canvas, with her best--in short, her “angel”
expression.
“Well, I never! Why--you are a regular artist!” gasped Mrs. Brande at
last.
“A very irregular one,” he answered with a laugh. “I have not painted
a portrait for more than a year. Of course I have, like every one who
comes up, and can hold a brush or pencil, attempted the snows! But
my snows are simply like a row of blobs of cotton wool. I cannot do
landscapes, though I am pretty good at faces and animals.”
“I should rather think you _were_,” said Mrs. Brande, emphatically.
“Is it pretty?” called out the model imperiously. “Is it pretty, like
me?”
“Who said you were pretty?” demanded Mrs. Brande.
“Every one says, ‘Oh, what a pretty little girl!’”
“It is much too nice for you, I can tell you that.” To Mark, “It is
wonderful. Why, you could make your fortune as a portrait painter!”
“So I have been told, perhaps because there is no chance of my ever
putting the advice into practice. I can catch the likeness, and make
the picture resemble my sitter, but I cannot finish. After a certain
point, if I go on, I spoil the whole thing.”
“Oh, please,” whined a small voice in acute agony, “don’t spoil _me_!”
“No need, you are quite spoiled enough,” rejoined the artist with
unusual emphasis.
“Why did you never let us know of this talent, Mark? What a pleasure to
your friends,” said Mrs. Brande, leaning heavily on his chair. “I wish
you would make a little tiny sketch--of--Ben?”
“No sooner said than done. I must leave this to dry for to-day, so call
up the next victim; I have another block ready. Ben, old man, I am
going to hand you down to posterity.”
Ben did not make half as good a model as Sweet, probably because he
had not one atom of personal vanity. Every now and then he disturbed
his “pose” by dashing at some mocking little devil of a squirrel, who
peeped through the trellis-work, and dared him to do his worst! He
dared, and it invariably came to nothing.
How the morning had flown! When “P.” appeared at two o’clock, his
wife rushed at him with two pictures--a sketch of Sweet, and a
half-worked-in outline of Ben, to the life.
“Ben is splendid!” he exclaimed, “the twinkle in his eye,
the white spot on his lip, and his Sunday-go-to-meeting
expression. Ah! and let me see--my ‘Sweet,’ her most angelic
and butter-would-not-melt-in-my-mouth look! Beautiful child!”
apostrophizing her. “I think I can manage to remember _you_ without the
assistance of a speaking likeness!”
“Uncle Pelham, how can you be so horrid!” remonstrated Honor, taking
him in to lunch.
Luncheon (tiffin) was an exceedingly merry meal. It is well that we
cannot see into the future, for dinner was the most dismal repast that
the present tenants had ever discussed under the red-tiled roof of
Rookwood.
Mark Jervis had been ten days with the Brandes, and had never found an
opportunity yet of opening his heart, or telling his secret to Miss
Gordon. Now that he was under the same roof, his hopes fell low, and
his courage ebbed. He believed that she would be extremely indignant
when she heard the truth from his own lips, viz. that _he_ was the
millionaire! Moreover, “that diabolical child,” as, alas! he had now
begun to call her, never left them alone, or out of her sight for
one second. He had become an ardent convert to Mr. and Mrs. Brande’s
views--though he kept his conversion strictly to himself!
That same afternoon he found that his opportunity was approaching.
Sweet was engaged to a children’s party, Mrs. Brande was pledged to
attend a mothers’ meeting. Mr. Brande, who was busy over some returns,
said--
“Honor, you and Jervis go up the forest road and I will be after you
in a quarter of an hour. No ponies, we will walk, and give ourselves a
colour, and an appetite. You may as well take Ben, and give him a run
among the monkeys.”
Honor and her escort set out, he with his arm still in a sling, and
they walked briskly along the wide sandy carriage-road that wound up
and up, at a very gentle slope among the pines. It was a delicious,
still afternoon; the aromatic smell of the woods had impregnated the
thin hill air, and acted on their spirits like champagne.
“Our nephew,” alluding to Ben, who was cantering gaily ahead, “seems to
be enjoying himself,” remarked Jervis.
“He does; this is his favourite road. That was a happy thought about
_his_ present!”
“Yes,” with a smile, “I’m glad Mrs. Brande was so pleased. Mrs. Sladen
helped me with suggestions.”
“Poor Mrs. Sladen. She says that only for you she would have been
killed the day that Toby Joy sent you both down the khud--that you put
out your arm and saved her, and you won’t even allow her to say so.”
“No, indeed; I certainly will not.”
“Colonel Sladen has been winning, and I have great hopes that he may
allow her to go home this season.”
“I hope he will, with all my heart; if I were her, I would remain at
home, for good.”
“She has not seen her children for five years, and little things forget
so soon.”
“Not always,” significantly. “Our little friend has a wonderful memory!”
“No, no; but ordinary children. Sweet is extraordinary. Colonel Sladen
has won ever so much money from Captain Waring, and if it pays her
passage, for once gambling will have done _some_ good. All the same, I
wish he would do something better with his money. Uncle Pelham says it
is such a frightful example to other young men.”
“Yes; and he has no luck. He might just as well draw a cheque, and send
it to the secretary to distribute among the members, for it is only a
loss of time, and would amount to precisely the same thing in the end.”
“Minus the delightful excitement of gambling, you forgot _that_! It
seems too bad to squander money in that way--when there is such poverty
and misery everywhere. Even a few pounds can do wonders, and change
people’s lives altogether. Sometimes it appears to me that money is in
wrong hands--and its owners don’t recognize their responsibilities.”
“A great fortune _is_ a great responsibility,” remarked her companion
gravely. “It is so hard to know when to give, and when not to give. I
think people with moderate incomes have much the best of it.”
“It is a capital joke, if any one could but hear us--deploring the
drawbacks of wealth, you and I--the two poor relations. At least I
speak for myself,” with a merry smile.
“And I must speak for _myself_. I have long wished to tell you
something, Miss Gordon. I have rather shirked doing it, because I’m
afraid you will be vexed; but----”
The sudden snapping of a twig on the edge of the bank overhanging the
road caused him to glance up. There stood a large leopard, in the act
of springing; like a flash it alighted just a yard behind them, and
then bounded back with poor Ben in its mouth! It all was the work of
two seconds.
“Oh, Ben--poor Ben!” shrieked Honor, frantically. “Let us save him; we
must save him.”
Jervis snatched the alpenstock from her hand, and ran up the bank.
Leopards are notorious cowards; the brute halted one instant, dropped
his prey, and sprang lightly away among the undergrowth.
But, alas! poor Ben was stone dead; three minutes ago he had been full
of life, now a bite in his throat had ended his happy existence; there
he lay, with his eyes wide open, fixed in an expression of frozen
horror. His death was on him almost ere he knew it; he was dead as he
was carried off the road.
As he lay limp across Honor’s lap, her tears trickled slowly, and
dropped on his still warm body.
Aunt Sara--who was to tell her? Oh, what an ending to her birthday!
And she had often dreaded this end for Ben--almost as if it was a
presentiment, and had always been so urgent to have him home by
sundown. There was scarcely a house in Shirani that had not paid toll
to the “lugger buggas,” as the natives call them, who were specially
keen about dogs--short-haired dogs, and who hung about paths and
cookhouses in their vicinity after dark. But this murder had been done
in broad daylight, long ere it was even dusk.
“Come, Miss Gordon,” said her escort, “you really must not take on like
this; you have only known him three months, and----”
“Don’t say he was only a dog!” she interrupted indignantly.
“Well then, I won’t, and I feel most awfully cut up myself. Yes,” in
answer to her upward glance, “I am indeed. It is something to know that
his end was instantaneous--he scarcely suffered at all.”
“And how is this to be broken to them?”
“Mr. Brande is coming after us. I will go and tell him, if you will
wait here. No, on second thoughts, that would never do to leave you
alone, and that brute in the wood--not that I believe he would face a
human being. Ah, here comes your uncle.”
The tragedy was gradually broken to Mrs. Brande, and deep was her
grief when her little dead dog was brought in, and laid at her feet.
All the native household mourned (whether sincerely, or from their
servile instincts, who shall say?). The only one who did not mourn was
Sweet, who candidly exclaimed, as she cut a happy caper--
“Nasty ugly dog! I am _so_ glad he is dead!”
Fortunately Mrs. Brande did not hear her, or she would probably have
sent her straight out of the house, to test the comforts of the dâk
bungalow.
Poor Mrs. Brande had cried so much that she was not fit to be seen; she
did not appear at dinner. Next morning Ben’s unfinished sketch called
forth another flood of tears, and she was not presentable all the
forenoon.
Meanwhile Sweet posed for her portrait, and chattered incessantly.
She had been to a large party, and no other little girl had worn gold
bangles, or pink garters with satin rosettes. So she had frankly
assured her audience, Mark and Honor--the latter was surrounded by
quite a stack of books, and intent on solving an acrostic in the
_World_.
“The tea was pretty good,” continued Sweet, affably. “I got nine
crackers and a fan, and a little china doll quite naked; but the sweets
were not Pelitis’s, only bazaar-made, I am sure. Percy Holmes tried to
kiss me, and I scratched his face, and he cried. Such a Molly! I shall
always call him Baby Holmes!”
Thus she babbled on garrulously, with her infantile gossip. Suddenly
she seemed struck by an important thought, and gravely asked, with a
widening of her big violet eyes--
“What does detrimental mean--de-tri-men-tal?” pronouncing the word as
if she had got it by heart.
“You had better ask Miss Gordon,” replied Mark. “Miss Gordon, there is
a dictionary at your hand.”
“Oh, what _does_ it matter?” exclaimed Honor, who was beginning to be
rather distrustful of Sweet’s seemingly artless questions.
“Find out, find out!” cried the imp, swinging her legs impatiently to
and fro. “I want to know, and I am sitting very nicely--am I not?”
Mark made a sign to Miss Gordon to humour her, adding--
“I never saw such a small person for picking up big words.”
“Here it is,” said Honor, at length, “and much good may it do you!”
reading out--“Detrimental--injurious, hurtful, prejudiced.”
“That’s what Mrs. Kane said _he_ was,” pointing a gleeful finger at the
young man. “A shocking detrimental, and that Mrs. Brande was a fool to
have him here.”
“Sweet! How dare you repeat such things?” cried Honor, with blazing
cheeks. “You know it is very wrong. What a naughty little girl you
are!”
“But she _said_ it,” boldly persisted Sweet; “and she is grown up.”
“She was joking, of course; grown people often joke.”
“She said a great deal. She said that----”
“Hus-s-sh! We don’t want to hear tales,” breathlessly interrupted Honor.
“She said,” screamed a piping triumphant voice, high above the
hus-s-sh, “he was in love with _you_!”
“Now,” cried Honor, her passion having risen beyond all control, as she
surveyed the pert, self-complacent little model--she dared not look
at Mark Jervis--“I told you not to repeat stories. I have told you
that over and over again, and yet you delight in doing it because it
annoys people--and you do it with impunity. No one has ever punished
you--but--_I_ shall punish you.”
And before Mark guessed at what was about to happen, Miss
Gordon--actively precipitate in her resentment--had snatched the
picture from the easel before him, and torn it into four pieces!
“There!” she cried breathlessly, “you can get off that chair at once,
Sweet. Mr. Jervis has done with you.”
Sweet opened her great violet eyes, and gazed in incredulous
amazement. Never had she been so served. She had always hitherto made
people angry, uncomfortable, or shocked, and gone scathless, and had
invariably enjoyed what is known in sporting circles as “a walk over.”
Never had she seen such an angry young lady. How red her cheeks
were--how brightly her eyes glittered. Then Sweet’s gaze fastened
on her own picture, her mouth opened wide, and gave vent to an
ear-splitting yell, as she tumbled off her chair, like a canary off its
perch, and lay on the verandah, kicking and screaming.
“After all,” said Jervis, with an air of humble deprecation, “you need
not have been so angry with the poor little beggar; she only spoke
the truth.” (That he was a detrimental, or that he was in love with
her--which?)
Attracted by vociferous shrieks, Mr. and Mrs. Brande rushed upon the
scene from opposite doors. The languid ayah also appeared, and raised
up her sobbing charge, who now and then varied her sobs by a shrill
squeal of fury.
“What is it?” cried Mr. Brande, eagerly appealing to Honor and Mark. “I
thought you were putting her to torture--at _last_!”
“What is it, dearie? What is it? tell me!” pleaded Mrs. Brande. “Come
to me, lovey, and tell me all about it, doatie. There now--there now,”
making dabs with her handkerchief at the child’s eyes.
“That,” suddenly stiffening herself in the ayah’s arms, and pointing
a trembling finger at the guilty party, “that pig girl, tore up my
pretty, pretty picture, because--I told her Mrs. Kane said that Mark
was in love with her--she _did_ say it, at the tea to Mrs. King, and
that beast of a girl has torn my picture--and I’ll tell my mamma, I
will--I will--and Mrs. Kane did say it--and Mrs. King said----”
“For Heaven’s sake, take her away!” shouted Mr. Brande, excitedly.
Thereupon Sweet was promptly carried off, kicking desperately, and
still shrieking out, “She did say it. She did--she did--she did!”