_PLANS FOR THE FUTURE._
"I AM desirous of a little conversation with you, my dear, on the
subject of your future."
"Don't you want Pearl too?" asked Beryl, looking straight up into the
clergyman's gentle and venerable face.
"I—I—think not," hesitated Mr. Bishop, an elderly and shy man, who,
having had no children of his own, was somewhat at a loss in dealing
with them. "Pearl is very young. You are old enough to comprehend me, I
hope. Sit down, my dear—Miss Fordyce."
"Oh, I'm not that," said Beryl, with a gasp of dismay. "I'm only Miss
Beryl—and I don't see that you need call me 'Miss,' because you aren't
a greengrocer."
Mr. Bishop looked at her dubiously for two or three seconds, and then
recommenced, with his soft and deliberate utterance,—
"Beryl, then—since you wish it, by all means so let it be. I desired
Mrs. Dixon to send you to me, that I might have a little conversation
with you on the subject of your future life. You are, of course, aware
that this can no longer be your home."
"Yes, I know that," said Beryl promptly. "I heard Dixon talking about
it last night to Mrs. Medhurst, and they said Aunt Anne hadn't left me
and Pearl any money, and we have no friends, and nobody to take care
of us. And I've been thinking a great deal this morning—a great deal,"
repeated the child earnestly. "I woke up ever so early, and I thought
and thought. I don't want to live with Dixon, please, because she isn't
kind. She always says she can't bear me. I would so much rather have
a little room alone with Pearl, all to ourselves. We'll keep it quite
clean and nice. And I suppose I should have to sell something, like the
children in story-books—only I'd rather it should be match-boxes, and
not oranges, because I don't like the smell of oranges.
"And the only thing that puzzles me is about Pearl, because I think she
would be afraid to be left quite alone—she is so little—and yet she
couldn't go out if it rained. She always gets a cold if she does; and
'I' should have to go out every day, of course. But I dare say there's
sure to be a nice woman in the house who will take care of her for me.
And I shouldn't mind selling matches one bit. I do like running about
out of doors."
Mr. Bishop listened to this outpouring in absolute silence, his face
growing longer each moment, as he more fully realised the fact of
Beryl's utter childishness. Her eyes flashed, and her cheeks grew hot
with eagerness while she talked.
"My dear," he said at length deprecatingly.
"I should 'like' it," pursued Beryl, intent on her own line of thought.
"And I don't see what else we can do; because you see I'm not old
enough to be a governess. And I don't like lessons either."
"But young ladies do not sell matches," said Mr. Bishop, with an
indulgent attempt to come down to her level.
"No, I know that," said Beryl. "But father used to tell me I was never
to be afraid of honest work. He said Pearl and I would be left alone,
and I was the strong one, and I must always take care of Pearl, and I
mustn't mind what I had to do. And I don't mean to mind, because I have
to take care of Pearl."
"You are a good child to remember what your father said," Mr. Bishop
observed, half in admiration, half in amusement, for he found Beryl
quite a curious study. "But I am thankful to be able to tell you
that you are not entirely friendless. A very kind lady, connected by
marriage with your parents, offers you a home."
Beryl did not look delighted. The picture, conjured up by her
imagination, evidently had its charms.
"Dixon said there was nobody," she remarked, in a somewhat combative
tone. "And I don't see who there can be. Because mamma had only one
sister, and she died; and papa had only one sister, and she is dead
now; and I'm quite sure there isn't any one else. Pearl and I often do
wish there was just one cousin, and then we could have letters from
her."
"Your mother's sister married a Mr. Fenwick," explained Mr. Bishop.
"Try to understand me, my child. Mr. Fenwick was your uncle by
marriage. Your aunt died, and he lived a lonely life for a great many
years. But at last, he married again—a young lady—"
"I wonder what her name was?" put in Beryl.
"Her name was Diana Crosbie, and she became Mrs. Fenwick. After a few
months, he died—about two years ago, I believe—and she was left a
widow."
"Why, they all seem to die," was Beryl's comment. "How funny! And is
that Mrs. Fenwick another aunt? I never heard of her."
"She is not your aunt, strictly speaking, but you will of course
designate her by that title."
"I shan't call her so, if she isn't my aunt really," said Beryl. "It
would not be true."
"She will be in the position of aunt to you, and you will pay her due
respect," said Mr. Bishop, slightly dismayed at the independent tone.
"Mrs. Fenwick most kindly writes to propose doing what she can for you
both."
"Shall we live with her?" asked Beryl.
"I cannot yet speak definitely as to arrangements. She will, I hope, in
some manner provide for you. But much must depend upon yourself—upon
yourselves. If you are good and tractable children, I imagine it to
be most probable that you will find a home in her house. My child, I
do not hear a very cheerful report of you from Mrs. Dixon. She speaks
well of your little sister, but your ways have evidently given her much
trouble at times. I sadly fear that if you yield to the same spirit in
the future, it may seriously affect your happiness, and alienate your
friends."
Beryl twisted her fingers together, and gazed fixedly on the ground.
She did not like to be found fault with, and she was angry with Dixon
for speaking against her. Moreover, Mr. Bishop, good and kind as he
was, had not learnt the secret of reaching a child's heart. He talked
on for some time rather monotonously, using many words which scarcely
lay within Beryl's understanding. And presently her thoughts wandered
away, so that she did not take in even the general sense of what he was
saying.
A few more remarks about Mrs. Fenwick closed the interview. Mr. Bishop
went away, somewhat saddened; and Beryl rushed, like a small tornado,
to the nursery.
"Pearl! Pearl!" she cried breathlessly. "Dixon said all wrong. There
is somebody, and you and I won't have to live in a top garret or to
sell oranges. There's a lady who isn't really our aunt, only we are to
make believe that she is, and she married the man that married mother's
sister, and she lives in a nice place that is called Hurst, and she
means to take care of us somehow, and perhaps we'll live with her. And
Dixon won't be there!"
With which culminating fact, Beryl glowed.
"A time 'll come to you yet, Miss Beryl, and maybe not so far distant,
when you won't be so ready for to throw over old friends and to take up
with new ones," Dixon said resentfully.
"I don't think I have any friends," responded Beryl, assuming a
meditative air. "Because friends are people that love one another, and
you don't love me. I know you don't, for you always say so. But Pearl
loves me—don't you, darling?"
A change came over the low-browed square face of the elder girl as she
dropped down on the ground beside Pearl, who had coiled herself in the
deep window-seat. Beryl's cheeks flushed, and her eyes shone with a
kind of devouring affection. She lifted Pearl's pretty little hand, and
squeezed it passionately to her own pouting red lips.
"'You' love me, don't you?" she repeated. "I don't mind if nobody in
all the world cares for me, so long as 'you' love me, darling Pearl."
Pearl's ivory complexion, with its delicate tinting, remained
unchanged. A sharp word would at any moment bring flushes and tears,
but Beryl's utterances did not seem to stir her deeply. There was even
a touch of perplexity in her blue eyes, as if she could not quite make
out why Beryl was so moved, and she answered placidly,—
"Yes, of course I do, Beryl."
"More than all the world, Pearl; more than everybody? I couldn't bear
to have you like any one more than me."
"Yes, of course I do," repeated Pearl, with a gentle little yawn. "I
love you, and Dixon, and everybody."
"I hate people to love everybody," said Beryl passionately. Then
changing again to a caressing manner, "But you do care for me most,
Pearl?"
"Why, of course I do," said Pearl. "I haven't anybody else."
And Beryl was, for the moment, satisfied.
Mrs. Fenwick was an impulsive little person, who greatly disliked
uncertainties in her plans. She had already committed herself to the
care of the children, further than her friends thought prudent. And
it was the wish of both Millicent and Marian that she should take no
further steps until she had well considered the matter. Mr. Bishop had
written word that the children could remain in their present quarters
for two or three weeks if necessary, himself undertaking to arrange for
them. Diana seemed convinced of the wisdom of brief delay.
But on the morning of the day following that on which Mr. Bishop
had conversed with Beryl, Diana's mood changed. She could stand the
uncertainty no longer. It was absolutely necessary that she should
see the children and judge for herself. What if they should be vulgar
little frights, whom she could not endure to have in her drawing-room?
Four hours there by rail and four back were a mere nothing, compared
with the importance of a personal interview. She would start at once
and return before night, leaving Marian to explain her proceedings.
Diana only wondered that everybody had not counselled this step at the
first. Marian held her peace, and abstained from reminding Diana that
she really had suggested it.
So it came to pass that, in the afternoon, when the children's early
dinner had been some time finished, a railway cab stopped at the door,
and Dixon was summoned downstairs. A long waiting-time followed. Voices
could be heard faintly issuing through the cracks of the fast-shut
dining-room door. Beryl fidgeted restlessly about the nursery, unable
to settle to any employment, while Pearl serenely hemmed a doll's
skirt, for she was a tidy little needlewoman.
"I wonder what they are talking about," Beryl said. "I'm quite sure it
is Mrs. Fenwick, and she is asking Dixon all about us, Pearl. And Dixon
will say everything nice about you, and everything nasty about me, and
then Mrs. Fenwick will never like me. I know quite well beforehand."
"Oh, perhaps she won't. Dixon isn't always cross with you," was the
best comfort Pearl could offer to the troubled Beryl.
Steps presently drew near. Dixon opened the door and stood with her
hand upon it, smiling in face and respectful in manner, after her wont
with strangers. Beside her was a very handsomely-dressed young lady in
moderate mourning, petite in figure and light in movement, with a pair
of sparkling blue eyes.
"So these are the children," she said. "They do you credit, Mrs. Dixon.
That is Beryl, of course; and this is little Pearl."
She passed Beryl over with a glance, and laid her hand caressingly
against the cheek of Pearl, as the elder child hung back, and the
younger came prettily forward.
"Only a year and a half between them! Hardly credible. I should have
guessed that there were three years. I can't bear great awkward
overgrown children, but this little creature is deliciously small.
Pearl!—The very name for her. Quite a pearly complexion, and just the
least rose-tint in her cheeks. And such abundant hair! You must have
taken great pains with it, Mrs. Dixon. Let me see,—oh, yes, there is
quite a little gold tint in the brown, when it is held up against the
light; just as should be with these blue eyes. Beryl has the brown
without the gold. I never saw a stronger contrast in two sisters. Sweet
little Pearl, do you think you can love me?"
The lady's own undoubtedly charming face was brought down to a level
with Pearl's. Pearl immediately put out her lips for a kiss, and was
thereupon enveloped, in demonstrative fashion, with black silk and
gleaming jet bugles.
"We shall just suit, you tiny delightful fairy. People would positively
take us for mother and daughter, if I could manage to look a little
older. I really do think there is a likeness between us. What do you
say, Mrs. Dixon?"
"Uncommon, ma'am," Dixon responded complacently.
"I had no idea I should find such a little gem. You sweet child, I
cannot tell you how delighted I am. The only thing I wanted in my
life." Then she looked at Beryl, her countenance falling. "But—the
contrast!"
Beryl certainly was not prepossessing at that moment. She gazed fixedly
at her own shoes, with a thunder-clouded brow.
"Wonderfully different," Mrs. Fenwick said, moving a step nearer and
carelessly tapping the elder child's cheek with one finger.
Beryl drew back, and rubbed the spot indignantly.
The movement made Mrs. Fenwick laugh. "Sensitive, I see! Well, I must
consider what can be done!"