A HAPPY HOLIDAY
MR. MOUNTFORD had expressed a wish that Kathleen should lead a quiet,
and for the most part a country life, until she was of age.
"I do not want my girl to be the prey of some fortune-hunter, or to be
drawn into an engagement at an age when she cannot know what will make
her true happiness," he had said to his sister and the Mathesons. Hence
Kathleen, as yet, had small acquaintance with so-called "Society."
In summer there had been tours abroad, visits to attractive seaside
resorts, and the two last seasons had been partly spent in town,
where the Ellicotts and Aylmer had many friends. These, as may well
be imagined, were of a class to whom a girl like Kathleen might be
introduced with benefit and pleasure to herself. After each stay she
had, however, seemed only the more charmed with her home surroundings,
and delighted that town friends should, as guests, share them with her
at Hollingsby. This year Mrs. Ellicott had been ailing, and needed a
change of a different kind, but could not leave Hollingsby until the
season was more advanced. She wanted to arrange for Kathleen and Ger
to spend some weeks in town with her sister-in-law, but neither would
consent to leave her.
"Let us go to St. Leonards in June," said Kathleen. "We can spend a
month there pleasantly enough."
Ralph was present when this proposal was made, and Aylmer noticed that
his face turned pitifully white and tears gathered in his eyes.
Before any one else spoke he replied, "That will be delightful. I will
go too, if I may, and I will take Ralph, if we can get leave for him to
go with us."
"Oh, Mr. Matheson, you are good!" cried Ralph. "I was thinking
how dreadful it would be to stay here without Miss Mountford and
everybody," he added, looking from one to the other.
"I shall like to take Polly," said Kathleen, "but I am sure she would
be quite lost without the Kelpie."
"Then I must invite the Kelpie too," said Aylmer, solemnly. "Polly must
on no account be distressed by a parting that can be avoided. I will
go to St. Leonards and arrange everything for the party, four-footed
visitors included."
Ralph's delight was indescribable, and Kathleen warmly appreciated
Aylmer's unselfishness.
Since that night when she had refused him, she had been very gentle
to him, and watchful over herself. She had pained him sorely, and she
felt what it must be to him to meet her constantly, care for her in all
things, and so hide the pain that only she knew of its existence.
Often Kathleen would wish that she could have given him a different
answer, but seeing this to be impossible, she said to herself, "At
least I will give him no needless trouble by my wilfulness. He shall
have from me all that a sister can give." To Aylmer her very sweetness
and manifest self-conquest made an added trial, whilst from his heart
he thanked God for both.
"Every day makes it harder for me to bear the loss of Kathleen," he
thought, "for every day shows her in a more endearing light."
When after the St. Leonards plan had been adopted, Kathleen said to
him, "You are the dearest, kindest of friends, Aylmer, and to me the
best of brothers," the man trembled at the sound of her voice, and for
the moment could not answer.
"You have anticipated my wish about little Ralph, and made all so easy
for aunty too."
"I hope it will not disappoint you to give up town this season,
Kathleen," he replied.
"Indeed no. I would a thousand times rather have the time at the
seaside and with those who are dear to me for companions, than share in
all the gaiety a really gay season in town could give. Not that I have
known such a one," she added. "We shall be very happy amid simpler and
more health-giving enjoyments. How well you have fulfilled the promise
you made me about Ralph! You have influenced him for good in a thousand
ways. We will try to give the child a happy month at St. Leonards."
"We will indeed," said Aylmer. "There is little doubt that his father
will consent to his going with you, Kathleen."
"With us, if you please, Aylmer. Remember you were the first to invite
the boy, but I know you thought of me as well as of him!"
"If you had been out of the question, I think the memory of Ralph's
pitiful face would have haunted me, had we left him behind."
"But I was not out of the question. You meant to please me too by
your prompt invitation. I want you to realise how much I feel your
thoughtful goodness, and to thank you for it."
Carried away for the moment, the girl caught Aylmer's hand, raised it
to her lips, then left him abruptly, as if ashamed of her impulsive
action.
Some men might have derived hope from this and the words which preceded
it. Aylmer sighed, and said to himself, "If Kathleen were moved by any
warmer affection than the sisterly one to which she confesses, she
would not manifest it in such a way."
There is no need to tell anything about the arrangements, the
journey, or even the stay at St. Leonards. To Mrs. Ellicott it proved
health-giving, to her younger companions a season of unalloyed
enjoyment.
Aylmer planned excursions, hunted up information about places of
interest, and made himself essential to the happiness of each and all.
They rode, drove, boated, or sometimes spent lazy days, contented to
enjoy the beauty of sea and sky, to drink in the health-giving air, and
to feel that life alone was bliss amidst such fair surroundings.
The months passed all too quickly, and the party returned much better
for the change, and bringing home pleasant memories. Ralph had endless
tales to tell Sarah, and she delighted to listen, and still more to
repeat them with variations—mostly as to names of places, in which she
was apt to get sadly mixed. She was intensely grateful for the kindness
shown to Ralph, and commented on his improved behaviour.
"I do say that Master Ralph is no trouble to speak of now, to what he
used to be. No bad words, or playing tricks, or tearing his things
for mischief, so as I might have to mend 'em, if I'd vexed him about
anything. I used to be frightened of him breaking out at the Hall, and
making the ladies so as they wouldn't have him any more; and it's just
wonderful he never did. They've made a little gentleman of him amongst
them, and Mr. Matheson has had more than a finger in that."
"The master always stood out that his boy was a real little gentleman
before, but that was when he had his company manners on. He wears them
regular now, and it's to be hoped he'll forget most of what he learned
from that set that used to come here, and the servants they brought
with them. I'm fond of the master, and I'm sorry for him in a way, now
he's fixed as he is. But I'm not sure but what it's worth while for
him to be short of money now and again, if it keeps the old set out of
Hollingsby or Monk's How, any way."
Sarah guessed how matters stood to a certain extent, but did not know
all.
If John Torrance had not been grateful to Aylmer Matheson, as well as
to Miss Mountford, he would have been heartless indeed. He could not
help knowing, through Ralph's letters, of the part he had taken in
caring for the boy; but he always came to the conclusion—"For Ralph's
sake I must win Kathleen. She would be a model mother to the lad, for
she loves him, and he almost worships her. And afterwards I hope that
Matheson and Miss Ellicott will make a match of it; and we shall be the
best of neighbours, and form a sort of happy family."
Little has been told about Geraldine Ellicott. Hers was no sensational
life or character, but one of quiet good-doing. At home and abroad
alike she was ever on the look-out for an opportunity of making some
one the happier even for a temporary sojourn near them.
At St. Leonards Geraldine had conferred a permanent benefit on a poor
but gifted girl, whom she first saw on a concert platform, and whose
dress, in the worst possible taste, had drawn forth most unflattering
comments from the audience.
We all know how shimmering satins, costly lace, and the glitter of
diamonds, together with a self-confident manner, bespeak the favour of
an audience, especially when accompanied by good looks, even though the
latter would ill bear a close inspection, because owing more to art
than nature.
The young singer had none of these. Her dress was of some cheap yellow
material, ill-fitting, and manifestly home-made. The wearer was
miserably conscious of the contrast between her own appearance and that
of another singer, though, doubtless, she had been proud enough of the
work of her hands before it was tested by comparison with the town-made
dress.
The girl's colourless cheeks, Innocent of artificial application,
looked the more pallid because her dark hair was drawn too far off her
face, though its rich profusion tastefully arranged would have given it
a certain beauty. But the expression of that face might have appealed
to any tender heart, it was so wistful, and told of fear and anxiety as
to the result of this first essay to win the favour of an audience.
"Where have they picked up this guy of a girl?" drawled a young dandy,
as he surveyed her through his glass.
"From the gipsy camp, probably. There is one in the neighbourhood,"
replied a companion. "Anything for a new sensation, and we shall have
one of a sort."
As Geraldine looked at the girl she was filled with a great womanly
pity, but this changed in part to admiration when she sang, for the
voice was wonderful.
Ill-trained she was, if the teaching she had had could be called
training, but capable of much, and the singer was herself carried away
by the music. She forgot herself, her dowdy garment, the rich silk
and lace of that other singer, who had drawn her skirts aside as she
passed, as if these would be contaminated by touching the paltry yellow
stuff. Yet the wearer of the rich robe had sung out of tune and with a
worn voice, and had been applauded for the glitter that surrounded her,
although, even in her palmy days, she had never owned a voice like that
which rang through the lips of that dowdy débutante in yellow.
The girl forgot all her self-consciousness, and even her audience.
Her pale cheeks flushed, her dark eyes shone, and she compelled the
applause of her hearers by the intuitive musical inspiration which
accompanied her effort, and which was manifest despite its faults.
"Poor little beggar!" exclaimed the dandy who had called her a guy of
a girl. "She's got a voice, and no mistake, but she wants everything
else. I should think she'll hardly come on a second time. If she
appears, I shall disappear."
Geraldine guessed the girl's story, and verified her convictions by
after-inquiry. She found that she had been carefully brought up by a
good mother, who had seen better days, but was widowed and poor. The
girl herself was modest and retiring, but her speech and manners were
refined, and her love of music and taste for it were undoubted. No fear
that if a chance were given her she would fail to take advantage of it.
Having, however, passed the charmed circle, and found a certain amount
of favour awaiting her, the girl was a little unwilling to withdraw
from it.
Geraldine counted the cost, and decided to help this girl to become a
mistress of the art she herself loved. It would entail somewhat severe
self-denial, but it should be done. And it was.
The young singer was withdrawn from the platform, and arrangements
made for the complete and careful training of her voice, and Geraldine
carried home with her the happy knowledge that her protégé's lovely
gift would be turned to the best advantage after due probation.
It is not as a part of the story that this little interlude is given.
It is only an illustration of the beautiful and unselfish character
of one whose great desire at all times was to show her love to God by
making the life of her neighbour brighter and more useful. In after
years her protégé's success and gratitude more than repaid Geraldine
for the self-denial by which the former had been purchased.
It is not wonderful that Aylmer Matheson should have been moved by a
similar desire to benefit the young singer, seeing that his life was
ruled by the same law as that which actuated Geraldine. Being a man,
and anxious that his motives should not be misunderstood, he went about
his inquiries more slowly than Geraldine had done. When at length he
was brought into communication with the young singer's mother, he found
that he had been anticipated. Some benefactress, whose identity was not
to be revealed, had undertaken all cost and responsibility, and the
grateful thanks of those whom he would have benefited could only be
given for good intentions.
"Could the benefactress be Kathleen?" he asked himself. "It would be
like her impulsive generosity;" but he decided that she would hardly
undertake such an expenditure until she was of age, without previous
consultation with himself. He remembered, too, that she had been more
inclined to ridicule the pretensions of the young vocalist, and to
criticize her appearance than to sympathize.
"Could it be Geraldine who had anticipated him?"
It was likely enough; but if so, it would be useless for him to try to
penetrate the secret, much as he would have liked to be her partner in
such a work.
Aylmer was deeply sensible of the beauty of Geraldine's character, and
perhaps at times his thoughts ran in a similar direction to Kathleen's.
She wished that she could give Aylmer more than a sister's affection,
or that he could feel more than a brother's regard for Geraldine.
"It is just the contrariness of human nature," he said to himself.
"Geraldine and I have so much in common. If I could love her as I do
Kathleen, I should have a wife who would enter into every plan and hope
of mine, always supposing that she cared for me in like manner. We must
be too much alike, for Kathleen's very wilfulness charms me more than
all Geraldine's excellences put together."