AFTER THE SNOWSTORM
"Oh, I say, Roger, do wait for me a moment! What a tremendous hurry
you're in! I want to speak to you."
Roger Trent paused to allow the speaker—Edgar Marsh—to come up to
him. It was nearly five o'clock on the afternoon subsequent to the
night of Cousin Becky's arrival at Beaworthy, and the cousins were
later than usual in returning from school, as they had lingered in the
playground—a large yard surrounded by high walls at the back of the
Grammar School building, which was situated in one of the principal
streets of the town—to enjoy a good game of snowballing. Several inches
of snow had fallen during the night, but the morning had dawned clear
and fine; there had been only a very slight thaw, and now the air was
keen and betokened frost.
"I'm in rather a hurry, because we have tea at five o'clock and mother
will wonder what's become of me if I'm not home by then," Roger
explained, as his cousin joined him and they walked on side by side.
"What a splendid game we've had, haven't we? I believe it's going
to freeze, and if it does the streets will be as slippery as glass
to-morrow."
"So much the better, then we shall be able to make some slides. I don't
mind the cold, do you? But why don't you do up your coat."
"Because it's so uncomfortable if I do; it's too tight for me, I've
grown out of it."
"You ought to have a new one; it's awfully shabby."
Roger laughed at the critical way in which Edgar was surveying him, but
his colour deepened as he said:
"I shan't have a new one till another winter, that's certain, and
perhaps not then; it will all depend—"
"Depend upon what?" asked Edgar inquisitively.
"Upon whether father can afford to buy me one or not," was the frank
response.
Edgar was silent for a few moments. Accustomed to possess everything
that money could buy, it seemed very dreadful to him that his cousin
should not be well clothed. He reflected that Roger and he were
much the same height and size, and determined to ask his mother for
permission to present him with one of his own overcoats.
"It must be horrid to be poor like that," he remarked; "but, never
mind, Roger, I'll see you have another overcoat soon." This was said
with a slightly patronising air, though it was kindly meant.
"What do you mean?" Roger demanded quickly.
"I'll give you one of mine."
"I won't have it. I don't want it. I'd rather wear my old one." Roger's
tone was distinctly ungrateful, and he appeared vexed. "You'd better
mind your own business, Edgar, and let me mind mine."
Edgar looked considerably taken aback. He saw he had annoyed his
companion, but he had not the faintest idea how he had done so.
However, he was wise enough to let the matter drop.
"Did Cousin Becky come last night?" he inquired. "Mother'll be sure to
ask me when I get home."
"She arrived by the ten minutes past seven train," Roger replied.
"Father and I met her at the station—the train was more than half an
hour late—and we drove home in a cab. I enjoyed it."
"Enjoyed what?"
"The drive."
"Oh!" Edgar exclaimed rather contemptuously. "Tell me what Cousin
Becky's like."
"She's very small, and her hair is quite white, and she has very dark
eyes. Polly and I think we shall like her."
"Will she stay long?"
"I don't know. Mother asked her for a few weeks."
The boys had reached the corner of Princess Street now, and were about
to separate when Edgar impulsively caught up a handful of snow and
flung it in his companion's face. Roger had not expected this, but
he laughed and promptly returned the compliment, and soon they were
engaged in a smart game of snowballing, in which a couple of errand
boys who happened to be passing, joined. By-and-by Roger unfortunately
slipped and fell full length on the sloppy ground; but he picked
himself up, unhurt, though very wet and dirty, and returned to the
battle. The game would have lasted much longer than it did, had not
a policeman come round the corner upon the combatants and promptly
dispersed them.
Of course, Roger was late for tea, for, upon reaching home, he found it
was absolutely necessary to change his clothes. It was little wonder
that Louisa grumbled when he marched into the kitchen, after having
put on a dry suit, bearing his wet garments, which he begged her to
dry and clean for him in time for him to wear next day. "Of all the
thoughtless boys I ever knew, I do believe you are the worst, Master
Roger," she said emphatically as she stuffed paper into his dripping
boots to prevent their shrinking. "You'll soon have no clothes to wear,
and what will you do then?" As the little boy offered no solution to
this problem, she continued in the same scolding tone, "I don't know
what the mistress will say when she sees your second-best suit in this
terrible state. Well, leave the things here, I'll try to get them dry
and do my best with them, for it's certain you can't go to school
to-morrow looking such a sight as that!" And a smile broke upon her
countenance as her eyes travelled over his figure. He had been obliged
to don a much-worn suit, darned at the knees and elbows, and too small
for him every way.
"It's very kind of you, Louisa," he said gratefully, "I'll do you a
good turn some day."
"Will you, Master Roger? Well, I believe you would if you could, so
I'll take the will for the deed. Boys will be boys, I suppose, and I
daresay your clothes are not really much damaged after all."
After that Roger left the kitchen and went into the sitting-room. He
apologised to his mother for being late, and drank his luke-warm tea
and ate several slices of thick bread and butter with relish. Cousin
Becky occupied the seat at his mother's right hand, and Polly sat
opposite. Mr. Trent was not present, for he did not, as a rule, leave
the office till six o'clock.
"I have not been outside the door all day," Polly remarked in a
slightly desponding tone, after she had listened to her brother's
account of the fun he and his schoolmates had enjoyed in the playground
that afternoon, "and I do love walking in snow."
"You know you have a slight cold, my dear," Mrs. Trent said, "and I did
not want you to run the risk of making it worse."
"Besides, my boots leak," Polly muttered under her breath, "so I could
not have gone out anyway."
Mrs. Trent glanced quickly at Cousin Becky, but apparently she had not
heard the little girl's complaint, for she was giving her attention
to Roger, who was answering a question she had put to him about his
school. A look of relief crossed Mrs. Trent's face, seeing which Polly
grew suddenly ashamed of her discontentment, and would have given
anything to have been able to recall the words which she realised must
have grieved her mother to hear; she well knew she would not have had
leaky boots if such a state of things could have been remedied.
After tea the children sat at one end of the table preparing their
lessons for the following day. Up to the present Polly had been
educated by her mother, but it was hoped she would be able to be sent
to school later on—to which day she was looking forward with much
pleasure, for she had but a dull time of it at home, poor little
girl, and she was far more inclined than her brother to chafe against
the circumstances of her life. On one occasion she had overheard it
remarked to her mother that it was a shame Mr. Marsh did not give his
brother-in-law a larger salary for his services, and she had secretly
felt a deep sense of resentment against her uncle ever since. Then,
too, she disliked her aunt, because that lady did not own sufficient
tact to confer her favours in a different manner; and she despised
Edgar because his mother petted and spoilt him. So, it must be
confessed that poor Polly had but little affection for those relations
outside her own household. But the little girl forgot her grievances
when, later on, and lessons finished, she and her brother drew their
chairs near the fire and Cousin Becky entered into conversation with
them, encouraging them to talk of themselves. Before the evening was
over the visitor had gained a clear insight into the character of her
young cousins, and had learnt a great deal about the family at the
Rookery.
Seeing the children were entertaining her guest, Mrs. Trent by-and-by
left the room in search of Louisa, whom she found in the kitchen
carefully drying Roger's second-best suit of clothes before the fire.
"I'm drying the things slowly so that they shan't shrink," Louisa
explained. "Isn't master come yet, ma'am?" she inquired as she glanced
at her mistress' face.
"No, and I cannot imagine what's keeping him; he generally comes
straight home from the office. I cannot help being nervous, for I know
something unusual must have happened to have detained him. It is past
eight o'clock. Supposing he should have met with an accident? I expect
the streets are like glass to-night."
"I wouldn't go to meet trouble if I were you, ma'am," advised Louisa.
She had been in Mrs. Trent's service for several years, and had
insisted on accompanying the family to Princess Street, having declared
nothing should induce her to leave the mistress to whom she was deeply
attached. "You're too anxious, ma'am, that comes of having had so many
troubles, I expect; but if anything had happened to the master you
would have been the first to have been informed of it. There! Surely
that's his step in the hall."
It was, and Mrs. Trent's face brightened immediately. She hastened into
the hall, where she found her husband divesting himself of his overcoat.
"I'm late, for we're a hand short at the office," he explained, "and
I've had extra work to do. I hope you haven't been anxious, Mary? Yes?
That was foolish of you, my dear. How have you been getting on with
Cousin Becky?"
"Very well indeed. I have taken a great liking to her, Martin, for she
seems so simple-hearted and sincere. She has been doing some mending
for me, she begged me to find her some work."
"John mentioned her to me this afternoon," Mr. Trent said, lowering his
voice. "He said he considered we'd acted unwisely in inviting her here
and that we should probably see we had made a mistake. However, Janie's
coming to call on her, and I believe she's to be invited to the Rookery
to spend a day. It made my blood boil to hear the tone John adopted in
speaking of her—as though she was of no account because she's a poor
relation. If Fortune had smiled on us, Mary—" Mr. Trent paused, then
added a trifle huskily, "God's will be done. If Fortune had smiled on
us, perhaps we might have been unsympathetic too."