ON the following afternoon Kitty and her new friend were lounging in the
latter’s sitting-room, one of the four apartments of a little,
old-fashioned, top flat in Long Acre. The situation of Miss Risk’s home
had its drawbacks, but it was a most convenient one for her business, and
she had given the house itself a charm and comfort not to be despised.
“But I can’t go on being your guest indefinitely,” Kitty was saying from
her seat at the open window.
Hilda, stretched on the couch, smiled and then yawned. She had had a
hard morning’s work, and the heat was oppressive.
“You have been here for about thirty hours,” she returned in a lazy
voice. “Don’t say it seems like years.”
“Oh, you know what I mean, Miss Risk—”
“I think you might call me by my pretty name.”
“I’d like to,” said Kitty diffidently, “but—”
“I believe you’re afraid of me, Kitty!”
“I’m not really, but—”
“If you say ‘but’ again, I’ll go to sleep! Now listen, Kitty! You have
told me a good many things about yourself, so you can no longer argue
that I know nothing about you. I know far more about you than you know
about me. Isn’t that so?”
“Perhaps it is, Miss—Hilda.”
“Well, then, if you keep talking about leaving me, the only conclusion I
can draw is that you don’t like staying with me—”
“Oh, no, no!”
“—or that you are absurdly proud.”
Kitty hung her head.
Hilda gave a little nod of understanding.
“Kitty,” she said kindly, “won’t you trust me and let me protect you?
I’ve never had any one to protect except myself. Come and sit beside
me.”
The younger girl came slowly over to the couch, faltered, and fell on her
knees, crying—“And no one has ever protected me, or wanted to do it,
before.”
Hilda took her in her arms—strong shapely arms they were.
“Poor little soul!” she whispered; “can’t you see not only that I want
you to stay here but that for your own safety’s sake you must stay here
until, at least, you know something of London, and have found employment
and made friends? When all that has happened, you shall be free to
choose as you think best, but till then you’re my prisoner, whether you
like it or not!” After a little while Kitty said tremulously, “Don’t be
offended, Hilda, but—but if only you would allow me to—to pay my share.”
“Well,” answered Miss Risk in a most business-like tone, assumed mainly
to satisfy the other, “we may come to terms later on—if you promise now
to be my guest for a month.”
“I never knew there was a girl like you in the world!”
“No more there is!” said Hilda cheerfully.
“I never dreamed I was such a coward till that night—”
“You mislaid your courage—that was all—but you’ll find it again
presently, and look here, Kitty! Until my brother finds something for
you to do—”
“Oh, is he going to try?”
“John never tries—at least he never seems to; he just does. But never
mind about that now. I was going to say that you can help me a bit, if
you feel so disposed.”
“How? Tell me quick!”
“You used to type for your father, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes! I must show you the work I did for him. I believe I was
fairly smart, but after five years, I’m afraid—”
“You’ll knock off the rust in no time. You can work away on my old
machine most mornings, and when you feel it coming easy I’ll give you
plenty of manuscript, my own and other people’s, too, if you want it.
How’s that?”
“All the difference in the world, for it means I shan’t be entirely
useless. Oh, you have made me so happy!”
“Go on!” laughed Hilda. “I like being cuddled!” But there were tears in
her eyes. “Goodness!” she exclaimed next moment, “there’s somebody
coming up Jacob’s Ladder!”—as she designated the steep and narrow wooden
staircase leading to the flat. “A man, I should say, from the tread.
Shall we flee and tidy ourselves, or simply draw down the sun blind?”
She rose and went to the window. “It must be the blind, I’m afraid.
Matilda is unusually alert in answering the door to-day. Don’t be
alarmed, Kitty. I’ve no friends who aren’t nice, and I want you to meet
them all sooner or later. Now let’s arrange ourselves at our ease, and
hope it may be a particularly nice one to begin with.”
Kitty was smiling despite her nervousness when the elderly servant, whom
Hilda’s brother insisted on her retaining, announced “Mr. West.”
It was at once evident to Kitty that he and Hilda were the best of
friends. Next moment he was introduced to her, and there was something
in his handshake as well as in his eyes that took away half her shyness.
“Miss Carstairs has come from Scotland to spend a little time with me,”
Hilda said presently, “so you must give her as good an impression of the
journalistic life as you can.”
“You are not in the trade, I hope, Miss Carstairs?” he said, with a faint
smile; then, suddenly—“But pardon me, perhaps you are a friend of Hugh
Carstairs, of Glasgow, who wrote so brilliantly some years ago. I met
him once in a friend’s house just before I came to London.”
“He was my father,” Kitty said softly, with a flush of pleasure.
“Then you and I shall have at least one big subject in common,” he said
warmly.
“This is splendid!” said Hilda, smiling.
“Mr. Carstairs was my ideal journalist,” Anthony went on. “I’ve often
wondered why he never wrote books. Perhaps he hadn’t the time—”
“Miss Carstairs has just been telling me,” said the hostess, “that she
has in her possession several unfinished works of her father’s—”
“Not here? not in London?” he cried eagerly.
“Yes,” said Kitty timidly, “I have them with me. There are several—one a
play.”
“Would it be too much,” Anthony began and halted.
“Mr. West means that he would like to read them,” Hilda remarked. “I
think you might trust him,” she added, with a glint of amusement.
“Really, Anthony, I never saw you so enthusiastic before!”
“Wait, Hilda, until I give you some cuttings of Hugh Carstairs’ articles
to read. And you, Miss Carstairs, perhaps, when you know me better, you
will allow me to look at the unfinished works.”
At this point Matilda brought in tea, and the conversation became less
personal. Kitty was well content to listen. She was more than
interested. The five years of barren drudgery in Dunford were forgotten.
She was living in a new world, the world of her girlish dreams during the
last year of her father’s life, the world he had promised he would show
her—some day—when his ship came home. . . . And Hilda Risk, guessing
what it meant to the girl, kept West talking of people and things in his
profession, till with a start he noticed the hour, and rose to go.
Hilda went with him to the door. She had a question to ask.
“Anthony,” she said, “it’s not like you to gush. Did you really admire
her father’s work so much?”
“Honestly, Hilda. Why, the man was a genius, though I’m afraid he didn’t
make the most of himself. Possibly your brother has not mentioned that
he knew Carstairs well.”
“John! He never told me!” she exclaimed.
“As a matter of fact,” he added. “John requested me to call on you this
afternoon.”
“Oh!”
“You’re not annoyed, Hilda?”, he asked rather anxiously.
“Of course not!” she smiled. “And I ought not to be surprised at this
time of day at anything John does. I suppose he wanted your impression
of Kitty?”
“I think he wanted to be made absolutely certain that she is the daughter
of Hugh Carstairs. I was not to make any other inquiries of her. But,
as you know, there isn’t much profit in asking John his reasons.”
“I do know—and we’ll leave it at that. And I’ll not ask you what you
think of Kitty—yet. Come soon again and make her better acquaintance.
She is very sweet, and she will be bright, too, once she gets a chance. . . .
Working as hard as ever, I suppose?” she said, as he took her hand
for a moment.
He smiled a little sadly. “Will you allow me to take you and Miss
Carstairs to the theatre one night soon?” he said.
“Thank you; that will be a treat for us both, Anthony.”
“I’d like to introduce a friend of mine who has just turned up in
London—Colin Hayward. Your brother—”
“Why, John mentioned him yesterday!”
“Then may I bring him?”
“Surely.”
“Till then, good-bye.”
Hilda returned to the sitting-room to find a new Kitty, all delight and
eagerness.
“Please tell me what he writes?” she asked, almost sure that Mr. West was
her friend’s lover.
“He writes beautiful things that don’t sell,” Hilda replied a trifle
bitterly, “and he makes a poor but decent living from a wretched
provincial paper. And,” she continued with a change of tone, “there
isn’t a better man on this earth—nor a prouder. I’m telling you this,
Kitty, because you are likely to meet him pretty often. He has refused a
post worth £1,500 a year offered him by my brother.”
“Oh, why?”
“Because at Cromer, four years ago, he saved me from drowning, and he
refuses to be paid for that. There’s pride for you!”
“Isn’t it more than pride?” Kitty softly ventured.
Miss Risk passed to the window and drew up the blind, remarking: “He is
going to take us to the theatre one night soon.”
Kitty clasped her hands in rapture. “I seem to have come into Heaven!”
The other laughed. “By the way, he has a great friend who hails from
your part of the world, Kitty. Mr. Colin Hayward—”
“Oh!” cried Kitty.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Not another villain, I hope!”
“Oh, no.”
“You would not mind if Mr. West brought him here?”
“Indeed, no,” said Kitty, angry with herself for blushing. It was so
silly, especially as she was not in love with Colin.
Hilda did not pursue the subject. Their friendship, she felt, was still
far too new for the taking of liberties, however kindly. After a pause—
“Have you decided,” she inquired, “ about letting your aunt know your
address? I wish I could advise you, but I simply don’t know what to say
about it.”
Kitty sighed. “I think I’ll wait for another day. If I could only let
her know without my uncle learning it.”
“He can’t hurt you now.”
“I wonder,” murmured Kitty, with another sigh.
“Oh, this won’t do! Mustn’t get into the dumps again! Leave it till
to-morrow, as you say. How do you feel about a walk before dinner?”
“I’d love it! And please, Hilda?”
“Go on, Kitty.”
“Will you—will you help me to buy some decent clothes?”
“Hooray!” cried Miss Risk, “that’s the proper spirit!”
Matilda came in with a telegram for her mistress.
“Reply paid, Miss,” she said retiring; “boy’s waiting.”
Hilda read the following:—
“Has your guest any recollection of hearing her father use the word
zenith not in an astronomical sense?—John.”
“My brother asks an extraordinary question,” said Hilda, and handed the
message to Kitty.
Kitty gazed at it, frowned and shook her head. Then—“Oh, wait! The
answer to the question is ‘No,’ but once, quite recently, I heard my
uncle speak of Zeniths—not zenith. But why should Mr. Risk—”
“Don’t ask me! I’ll just reply, ‘Not father but uncle,’” said Hilda,
going to the writing-table.
And just then Matilda came in with another telegram.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Hilda, and with her pencil slit it open. Her gay
expression faded out. She paled slightly, muttering, “Another matter,”
and tore it into little pieces. Then she went on with writing the reply.
The torn telegram, which had been “handed in” at the same hour as its
precursor, was also from her brother. It said—“Take very good care of
your guest. No going out alone. But don’t alarm her.”