ONE MORE.
"They are all gone, John," said Alice. "Oh, what a visit! I am
ashamed! I never thought my people could have gone on so! As for
Cousin Charles, he's just dreadful!"
One was left. The unfortunate bankrupt, overcome by the champagne, was
asleep in his chair. John Haveril dragged him up by the collar.
"Now then, you, sir! What do you mean by going to sleep here?"
The unfortunate rubbed his eyes and pulled himself together. Presently
he remembered where he was.
"Cousin Alice," he said, "are we alone?" He whispered confidentially.
"They all want your money--particularly Charles. He's the most
grasping, greedy, cheeseparing, avaricious, unscrupulous, bully of a
cousin that ever had a place of business. Don't give him anything.
Give it to me. I'm starving, Alice. I haven't eaten anything all day.
It's true. I've got no work and no money."
"John, give him something."
"It's no good," said John. "He'll only eat it, and then ask for more."
"But give him something. Let him eat it."
John plunged his hand into his pocket. After the manner of the
eighteenth century, it was full of gold.
"Well, take it." He transferred a handful to the clutch of the poor
wretch. "Take it. Go and eat it up. And don't come back for more."
The man took it, bowed low, and shambled off. It made Alice ashamed
only to see the attitude of the poor hungry creature, and the
abasement of poverty.
"Well, Alice," said John, "we've seen the last of the family, until
their letters begin to come in. Halloa! Who's this?"
For John became aware of the girl who had been standing beside the
door, unnoticed. When all were gone, she stepped in lightly.
"Mrs. Haveril," she said--"I ought to call you Cousin Alice, but I
am afraid you have had cousins enough. My name is Pennefather--Molly
Pennefather."
"Why, I was a Pennefather--same as Charles, who's just gone out, and
the ragged wretch who was Cousin Alfred."
"Yes; and others of the truly dreadful people who have just gone out.
I don't know any of them. Fortunately, they wouldn't have anything to
do with my poor old dad, because he disgraced the family and went on
the stage. If they hadn't been so haughty, I might have had to know
them now."
"Your father? Is he Willy Pennefather?"
"He was. But he died five years ago."
"He died? Poor Willy! Oh, John, if you'd known my cousin Will! How
clever he was! And how bright! Dead, is he?"
"He was never a great success, you know, because he couldn't settle
down. And at last he died. And I---- Well, I'm studying for the stage
myself."
"Oh, you are Willy's daughter! My dear, you look straight. But there's
been such a self-seeking----"
"I don't want your money, indeed!"
"Oh, but have you got money, my dear?"
"No; but some day I suppose I shall have--by my Art. That's the way
to talk about the profession nowadays. Well, I mean that I don't want
your money, Cousin Alice."
"If you haven't got any money and don't want any----" John began.
"You see, we are not all built like Mr. John Haveril," she
interrupted, with a sweet smile. "Art, I am told, makes one despise
money. When I am furnished with my Art, I dare say I shall despise
money."
"Oh, coom now, lass!" From time to time, but rarely, John Haveril
became Yorkshire again. "Despise the brass?"
"Not the people who have the brass. That is an accident."
"I don't know about accidents."
"Well, you've got money; once you hadn't. You're John Haveril all the
same--see? Besides, it's quite right that some people should have
money. They can take stalls at theatres. If you will let me be friends
with you, Mr. Haveril, and won't look so dreadfully suspicious----"
"Well, I don't care," he said. "You look as if----"
"As if I was telling the truth. Shake hands, then."
Mrs. Haveril gave her a hand, and then, looking in her face, threw her
arms round her neck.
"My dear child," she said, "you're the very picture of your
father--Cousin Will. I thought there must be some one in the family
fit to love." She hugged and kissed the girl with a sudden wave of
affection. "Oh, Molly, my dear, I am sure I shall love you!"
"I'm so glad. Well, may I call you Alice? I will tell you what
theatres to go to. Oh, I shall make myself very useful to you!"
She clasped her hands, laughing--a picture of youth and truth and
innocence. "Some time or other you shall see _me_ on the stage."
"We get lots of actors out in the West--and actresses too. Some of
them are real lovely," said John Haveril.
She laughed. "Oh! There are actresses and actresses. And some elevate
their Art, and some degrade it. Now, let me see. Oh, father is dead,
poor dear! I told you. And the rest of the family---- Well, you saw
for yourself, cousin, they are not exactly the kind of people for a
person of your consideration. You should lend them all some money--not
much--and make them promise to pay it back on a certain day--next
Monday week, at ten o'clock. It's a certain plan. Then you'll have no
further trouble with them. Otherwise, they'll crowd round you like
leeches."
"I can't let my own flesh and blood starve."
"Starve! Rubbish! They won't starve! What have they been doing while
you've been away? Unless you encourage them not to work." And now she
sank gracefully upon a footstool, and took her cousin's hands. "Oh,"
she said, "it is so nice to have a relative of whom one may be proud,
after all those cousins. Oh, it must be a dreadful thing to have such
lots of money! Why, I've got nothing!"
"You've had no champagne," said Cousin John, lifting his Jeroboam.
"Thank you, Cousin John, I don't drink champagne. Well, now, what can
I do for you this afternoon?"
"I don't know, my dear. We neither of us know much about London, and
we just wander about, for the most part, or drive about, and wonder
where we are."
The girl jumped up. "Order a carriage and pair instantly. I shall
drive you round and show you the best shops. You are sure to want
something. As for me, remember that I want nothing. An actress appears
in costume which the management finds. You, however, Alice, are
different. You must dress as becomes your position."
* * * * *
"My dear child," said Alice, in the very first shop, "you _must_ let
me give you a dress--you really must."
"I don't want it, I assure you," she laughed. "But if it pains you not
to give me one, why, I will take it."
She _did_ take it. That evening there arrived at the boarding-house,
addressed to Miss Pennefather, first a bonnet, for which five guineas
would be cheap; a dress, the price of which the male observer could
not even guess; a box of kid gloves, a mantle, and two or three pairs
of boots.
"And, oh," said the girl, when she left the hotel that night, "what a
_lovely_ thing it is to feel that there will be no horrid mercenary
considerations between us! You will admire my Art, but I shall not
envy your money. Cousin John, admit that I am better off than you--one
would rather be admired than envied."
She reached home. In her room lay the parcels and the packages. She
opened them all. She put on the bonnet, she stroked the soft stuff
with a caressing palm, she gazed upon the gloves, she held up the
boots to the light.
"Am I a dreadful humbug?" she said. "I must be--I must be. What would
Dick say? But one cannot---- No, one cannot refuse. I am not a stick
or a stone. And Cousin Alice actually enjoyed the giving! But no
money. Molly, you must not take their money."