LYDIA REARRANGES HER CAP.
Thus, as the days lengthened, and the winter, bitter though it was,
began to give faint promise of sunlight to come, Percival entered
on his new life and felt the gladness of returning spring. At the
beginning of winter our glances are backward: we are like spendthrifts
who have wasted all in days of bygone splendor. We sit, pinched and
poverty-stricken, by our little light of fire and candle, remembering
how the whole land was full of warmth and golden gladness in our
lavish prime. But our feelings change as the days grow clear and keen
and long. This very year has yet to wear its crown of blossom. Its
inheritance is to come, and all is fresh and wonderful. We would not
ask the bygone summer for one day more, for we have the beauty of
promise, instead of that beauty of long triumph which is heavy and
over-ripe, and with March at hand we cannot desire September.
Percival's new life was cold and stern as the February weather, but it
had its flitting gleams of grace and beauty in brief words or passing
looks exchanged with Judith Lisle. He was no lover, to pine for more
than Fate vouchsafed. It seemed to him that the knowledge that he
might see her was almost enough; and it was well it should be so, for
he met her very seldom. She went regularly to Standon Square, and came
home late and tired. She had one half-holiday in the week, but Miss
Crawford had recommended her to a lady whose eldest girl was dull and
backward at her music, and she spent a great part of that afternoon in
teaching Janie Barton. Bertie was indignant: "Why should you, who have
an ear and a soul for music, be tortured by such an incapable as that?
Let them find some one else to teach her."
"And some one else to take the money! Besides, Mrs. Barton is so
kind--"
Bertie, who was lying on three chairs in front of the fire, sat up
directly and looked resigned: "That's it! now for it! No one is so
good as Mrs. Barton, except Miss Crawford; and no one is anything like
Miss Crawford, except Mrs. Barton. Oh, I know! And old Clifton is
the first and best of men. And so you lavish your gratitude on
them--Judith, _why_ are all our benefactors such awful guys?--while
they ought to be thanking their stars they've got us!"
"Nonsense, Bertie!"
"'Tisn't nonsense. Aren't you better than I am? And old Clifton is
very lucky to get such an organist. I think he is thankful, but I wish
he wouldn't show it by asking me to tea again."
"Don't complain of Mr. Clifton," said Judith. "You are very fortunate,
if you only knew it."
"Am I? Then suppose you go to tea with him if you are so fond of him.
I rather think I shall have a severe cold coming on next Tuesday."
Judith said no more, being tolerably sure that when Tuesday came
Bertie would go. But she was not quite happy about him. She lived as
if she idolized the spoilt boy, but the blindness which makes idolatry
joyful was denied to her. So that, though he was her first thought
every day of her life, the thought was an anxious one. She was very
grateful to Miss Crawford for having given him a chance, so young and
untried as he was, but she could only hope that Bertie would not repay
her kindness by some thoughtless neglect. At present all had gone
well: there could be no question about his abilities, Miss Crawford
was satisfied, and the young master got on capitally with his pupils.
Neither was Judith happy when he was with Mr. Clifton. Bertie came
home to mimic the clergyman with boyish recklessness, and she feared
that the same kind of thing went on with some of the choir behind Mr.
Clifton's back. ("Behind his back?" Bertie said one day. "Under his
nose, if you like: it would be all one to Clifton.") He frightened
her with his carelessness in money-matters and his scarcely concealed
contempt for the means by which he lived. "Thank Heaven! this hasn't
got to last for ever," he said once when she remonstrated.
"Don't reckon on anything else," she pleaded. "I know what you are
thinking of. Oh, Bertie, I don't like you to count on that."
He threw back his head, and laughed: "Well, if that fails, wait and
see what I can do for myself."
He looked so bright and daring as he spoke that she could hardly help
sharing his confidence. "Ah! the opera!" she said. "But, Bertie, you
must work."
"The opera--Yes, of course I will work," Bertie answered. "Now you
mention it, it strikes me I may as well have a pipe and think about it
a bit. No time like the present, is there?" So Bertie had his pipe and
a little quiet meditation. There was a lingering smile on his face as
if something had amused him. He always felt particularly virtuous when
he smoked his pipe, because it was so much more economical than the
cigars of his prosperous days. "A penny saved is a penny gained."
Bertie felt as if he must be gradually making his fortune as he leant
back and watched the smoke curl upward.
And yet, with it all, how could Judith complain? He was the very life
of the house as he ran up and down stairs, filling the dingy passages
with melodious singing. He had a bright word for every one. The grimy
little maid-servant would have died for him at a moment's notice.
Bertie was always sweet-tempered: in very truth, there was not a touch
of bitterness in his nature. And he was so fond of Judith, so proud of
her, so thoroughly convinced of her goodness, so sure that he should
do great things for her some day! What could she say against him?
Percival, too, was fascinated. His room smelt of Bertie's tobacco and
was littered with blotted manuscripts. He went so regularly to
hear Bertie play that Mr. Clifton noticed the olive-skinned,
foreign-looking young man, and thought of asking him to join the Guild
of St. Sylvester and take a class in the Sunday-school. Yet Percival
also had doubts about the young organist's future. He knew that
letters came now and then from New York which saddened Judith and
brightened Bertie. If Mr. Lisle prospered in America and summoned his
son to share his success, would he have strength to cling to poverty
and honor in England? There were times when Percival doubted it. There
were times, too, when he doubted whether the boy's musical promise
would ever ripen to worthy fruit, though he was angry with himself
for his doubts. "If he triumphs, it will be _her_ doing," he thought.
Little as he saw of Judith, they were yet becoming friends. You may
meet a man every day, and if you only talk to him about the weather
and the leading articles in the _Times_, you may die of old age before
you reach friendship. But these two talked of more than the weather.
Once, emboldened by her remembrance of old days, he spoke of his
father. He hardly noticed at the time that Judith took keen note of
something he said of the old squire's utter separation from his son.
"I was more Percival than Thorne till I was twenty," said he.
"And are you not more Percival than Thorne still?"
He liked to hear her say "Percival" even thus. "Perhaps," he said.
"But it is strange how I've learned to care about Brackenhill--or,
rather, it wasn't learning, it came by instinct--and now no place on
earth seems like home to me except that old house."
Judith, fair and clear-eyed, leaned against the window and looked out
into the twilight. After a pause she spoke: "You are fortunate, Mr.
Thorne. You can look back happily to your life with your father."
The intention of her speech was evident: so was a weariness which
he had sometimes suspected in her voice. He answered her: "And you
cannot?"
"No," she said. "I was wondering just now how many people had reason
to hate the name of Lisle."
Percival was not unconscious of the humorous side of such a remark
when addressed to himself. But Judith looked at him almost as if she
would surprise his thought.
"Don't dwell on such things," he said. "Men in your father's position
speculate, and perhaps hardly know how deeply they are involved, till
nothing but a lucky chance will save them, and it seems impossible to
do anything but go on. At last the end comes, and it is very terrible.
But you can't mend it."
"No," said Judith, "I can't."
"Then don't take up a useless burden when you need all your strength.
You were not to blame in any way."
"No," she said again, "I hope not. But it is hard to be so helpless. I
do not even know their names. I can only feel as if I ought to be more
gentle and more patient with every one, since any one may be--"
"Ah, Miss Lisle," said Percival, "you will pay some of the debts
unawares in something better than coin."
She shook her head, but when she looked up at him there was a half
smile on her lips. As she moved away Percival thought of Sissy's old
talk about heroic women--"Jael, and Judith, and Charlotte Corday." He
felt that this girl would have gone to her death with quiet dignity
had there been need. Godfrey Hammond had called her a plain likeness
of her brother, but Percival had seen at the first glance that her
face was worth infinitely more than Bertie's, even in his boyish
promise; and an artist would have turned from the brother to the
sister, justifying Percival.
It was well for Percival that Judith's friendly smile and occasional
greeting made bright moments in his life, since he had no more of
Lydia's attentions. Poor grimy little Emma waited on him wearily, and
always neglected him if the Lisles wanted her. She had apparently laid
in an immense stock of goods, for she never went shopping now, but
stayed at home and let his fire go out, and was late and slovenly with
his meals. There was no great dishonesty, but his tea-caddy was no
longer guarded and provisions ceased to be mysteriously preserved.
Miss Bryant seldom met him on the stairs, and when she did she
flounced past him in lofty scorn. Her slighted love had turned to
gall. She was bitter in her very desire to convince herself that she
had never thought of Mr. Thorne. She neglected to send up his letters;
she would not lift a finger to help in getting his dinner ready; and
if Emma happened to be out of the way she would let his bell ring and
take no notice. Yet she would have been very true to him, in her own
fashion, if he would have had it so: she would have taken him for
better, for worse--would have slaved for him and fought for him,
and never suffered any one else to find fault with him in any way
whatever. But he had not chosen that it should be so, and Lydia
had reclaimed her heart and her pocket edition of the _Language of
Flowers_, and now watched Percival and Miss Lisle with spiteful
curiosity.
"I shall be late at Standon Square this evening: Miss Crawford wants
me," said Judith one morning to her brother.
"I'll come and meet you," was his prompt reply. "What time? Don't let
that old woman work you into an early grave."
"There's no fear of that. I'm strong, and it won't hurt me. Suppose
you come at half-past nine: you must have your tea by yourself, I'm
afraid."
"That's all right," he answered cheerfully.
"'That's all right?' What do you mean by that, sir?"
"I mean that I don't at all mind when you don't come back to tea. I
think I rather prefer it. There, Miss Lisle!"
"You rude boy!" She felt herself quite justified in boxing his ears.
"Oh, I say, hold hard! Mind my violets!" he exclaimed.
"Your violets? Oh, how sweet they are!" And bending forward, Judith
smelt them daintily. "Where did you get them, Bertie?"
"Ah! where?" And Bertie stood before the glass and surveyed himself.
The cheap lodging-house mirror cast a greenish shade over his
features, but the little bouquet in his buttonhole came out very well.
"Where did I get them? I didn't buy them, if you mean that. They were
given to me."
"Who gave them to you?"
"And then women say it isn't fair to call them curious!" Bertie put
his head on one side, dropped his eyelids, looked out of the corners
of his eyes, and smiled, fingering an imaginary curl.
"Not that nasty Miss Bryant? She didn't!"
"She did, though."
"The wretch! Then you sha'n't wear them one moment more." Bertie
eluded her attack, and stood laughing on the other side of the table.
"Oh, Bertie!" suddenly growing very plaintive, "why did you let me
smell the nasty things?"
"They are very nice," said Lisle, looking down at the poor little
violets. "Oh, we are great friends, Lydia and I. I shall have buttered
toast for tea to-night."
"Buttered toast? What do you mean?"
"Why, it's a curious thing, but Emma--isn't her name Emma?--always has
to work like a slave when you go out. I don't know why there should
be so much more to do: you don't help her to clean the kettles or the
steps in the general way, do you? It's a mystery. Anyhow, Lydia has
to see after my tea, and then I have buttered toast or muffins and
rashers of bacon. Lydia's attentions are just a trifle greasy perhaps,
now I come to think of it. But she toasts muffins very well, does that
young woman, and makes very good tea too."
"Bertie! I thought you made tea for yourself when I was away."
"Oh! did you? Not I: why should I? I had some of Mrs. Bryant's
raspberry jam one night: that wasn't bad for a change. And once I had
some prawns."
"Oh, Bertie! How _could_ you?"
"Bless you, my child!" said Bertie, "how serious you look! Where's the
harm? Do you think I shall make myself ill? By the way, I wonder if
Lydia ever made buttered toast for Thorne? I suspect she did, and that
he turned up his nose at it: she always holds her head so uncommonly
high if his name is mentioned."
"Do throw those violets on the fire," said Judith.
"Indeed, I shall do nothing of the kind. I'm coming to Standon Square
to give my lessons this morning, with my violets. See if I don't."
The name of Standon Square startled Judith into looking at the time.
"I must be off," she said. "Don't be late for the lessons, and oh,
Bertie, don't be foolish!"
"All right," he answered gayly. Judith ran down stairs. At the door
she encountered Lydia and eyed her with lofty disapproval. It did not
seem to trouble Miss Bryant much. She knew Miss Lisle disliked her,
and took it as an inevitable fact, if not an indirect compliment to
her conquering charms. So she smiled and wished Judith good-morning.
But she had a sweeter smile for Bertie when, a little later, carefully
dressed, radiant, handsome, with her violets in his coat, he too went
on his way to Standon Square.
If Judith had been in Bellevue street when he came back, she might
have noticed that the little bouquet was gone. Had it dropped out
by accident? Or had Bertie merely defended his violets for fun, and
thrown them away as soon as her back was turned? Or what had happened
to them? There was no one to inquire.
Young Lisle strolled into Percival's room, and found him just come in
and waiting for his dinner. "I'm going to practise at St. Sylvester's
this afternoon," said the young fellow. "What do you say to a walk as
soon as you get away?"
Percival assented, and began to move some of the books and papers
which were strewn on the table. Lisle sat on the end of the horsehair
sofa and watched him. "I can't think how you can endure that blue
thing and those awful flowers continually before your eyes," he said
at last.
Percival shrugged his shoulders. He could not explain to Lisle that to
request that Lydia's love-token might be removed would have seemed to
him to be like going down to her level and rejecting what he preferred
to ignore. "What am I to do?" he said. "I believe they think it
very beautiful, and I fancy the flowers are home-made. People have
different ideas of art, but shall I therefore wound Miss Bryant's
feelings?"
"Heaven forbid!" said Bertie. "Did Lydia Bryant make those flowers?
How interesting!" He pulled the vase toward him for a closer
inspection. There was a crash, and light-blue fragments strewed the
floor, Percival, piling his books on the side-table, looked round with
an exclamation.
"Hullo!" said Lisle, "I've done it! Here's a pretty piece of work!
And you so fond of it, too!" He was picking up the flowers as he
spoke.--"Here, Emma," as the girl opened the door, "I've upset Mr.
Thorne's flower-vase. Tell Miss Bryant it was my doing, and I'm afraid
it won't mend. Better take up the pieces carefully, though, on the
chance." This was thoughtful of Bertie, as the bits were remarkably
small. "And here are the flowers--all right, I think. Have you got
everything?" He held the door open while she went out with her load,
and then he came back rubbing his hands: "Well, are you grateful?
You'll never see that again."
Percival surveyed him with a grave smile. "I'm grateful," he said.
"But I'd rather you didn't treat all the things which offend my eye in
the same way."
Bertie glanced round at the furniture, cheap, mean and shabby: "You
think I should have too much smashing to do?"
"I fear it might end in my sitting cross-legged on the floor," said
Thorne. "And my successor might cavil at Mrs. Bryant's idea of
furnished lodgings."
"Well, I know I've done you a good turn to-day," Bertie rejoined: "my
conscience approves of my conduct." And he went off whistling.
Percival, on his way out, met Lydia on the landing. "Miss Bryant, have
you a moment to spare?" he said as she went rustling past.
She stopped ungraciously.
"The flower-vase on my table is broken. If you can tell me what it
cost I will pay for it."
"Mr. Lisle broke it, didn't he? Emma said--"
"No matter," said Thorne: "it was done in my room. It is no concern of
Mr. Lisle's. Can you tell me?"
Lydia hesitated. Should she let him pay for it? Some faint touch of
refinement told her that she should not take money for what she had
meant as a love-gift. She looked up and met the utter indifference of
his eyes as he stood, purse in hand, before her. She was ashamed of
the remembrance that she had tried to attract his attention, and
burned to deny it. "Well, then, it was three-and-six," she said.
Percival put the money in her hand. She eyed it discontentedly.
"That's right, isn't it?" he asked in some surprise.
The touch of the coins recalled to her the pleasure with which she had
spent her own three-and-sixpence to brighten his room, and she half
repented. "Oh, it's right enough," she said. "But I don't know why you
should pay for it. Things will get knocked over--"
"I beg your pardon: of course I ought to pay for it," he replied,
drawing himself up. He spoke the more decidedly that he knew how it
was broken. "But, Miss Bryant, it will not be necessary to replace it.
I don't think anything of the kind would be very safe in the middle of
my table." And with a bow he went on his way.
Lydia stood where he had left her, fingering his half-crown and
shilling with an uneasy sense that there was something very mean about
the transaction. Now that she had taken his money she disliked him
much more, but, as she _had_ taken it, she went away and bought
herself a pair of grass-green gloves. From that time forward she
always openly declared that she despised Mr. Thorne.
That evening, when they came back from their walk, Lisle asked his
companion to lend him a couple of sovereigns. "You shall have them
back to-morrow," he said airily. Percival assented as a matter of
course. He hardly thought about it at all, and if he had he would have
supposed that there was something to be paid in Miss Lisle's absence.
He had still something left of the small fortune with which he
had started. It was very little, but he could manage Bertie's two
sovereigns with that and the money he had laid aside for Mrs. Bryant's
weekly bill.
Percival Thorne, always exact in his accounts, supposed that a time
was fixed for the repayment of the loan. He did not understand that
his debtor was one of those people who when they say "I will pay you
to-morrow," merely mean "I will not pay you to-day."