FAIRY MAGNIFICENT.
"Leave no stone unturned."
EURIPIDES.
"What is useful is beautiful."
SOCRATES.
"Wish me good luck, and do not expect me until you see me," were
Waveney's last words, as Mollie stood at the door with a very woe-begone
face. "Cheer up, Moll. Care killed the cat, you know;" and then she
waved her hand and vanished.
It was still quite early in the afternoon when she reached Berkeley
Square. In spite of her assumed cheerfulness, her courage was at a low
ebb. The imposing appearance of the houses awed her; she knocked
timidly, and the butler who opened the door looked like a dignified and
venerable clergyman.
He received her affably, as though she were an expected guest. Miss
Harford was out driving, but would be back shortly; his mistress, Mrs.
Mainwaring, had desired that Miss Ward should be shown into the
drawing-room.
Waveney never felt so small and insignificant in her life. For the first
time she was conscious of a wish to be tall, as she followed him down
the corridor. Then the thickness of the carpets distracted her, and the
cabinets of china. Then a door was opened, and she heard her name
announced, and a soft little voice said, "Certainly, Druce. Show the
young lady in."
For one moment Waveney hesitated. The owner of the voice seemed
invisible. It was a beautiful room, grander than anything that the girl
had ever seen, and it was full of sunshine and the scent of flowers.
Tall palms were everywhere, and china pots with wonderful Japanese
chrysanthemums, and there were screens and standard lamps, and a
curtained archway leading to an inner room; and here Waveney at last
discovered a tiny old lady, half buried in an immense easy chair. She
was the prettiest old lady in the world, but as diminutive as a fairy;
her cheeks were as pink as Mollie's; and she had beautiful silvery curls
under her lace cap. A mass of white, fleecy knitting lay on her satin
lap, and the small, wrinkled fingers were loaded with costly brilliants.
"Fairy Magnificent," Waveney named her when she was retailing the
account of her visit. She looked up with a pleasant smile, and pointed
to a chair. "You have called to see my niece, Miss Harford--oh yes, she
is expecting you, but she was obliged to pay a business visit; my nieces
are busy women, Miss Ward--perhaps you will find that out for yourself
some day." Waveney began to feel less shy; she looked round the room
that she might describe it properly to Mollie. How Mollie revelled in
that description afterwards; it was like a page in a story book--flowers
and statues and palms, and that beautiful old lady in her satin gown.
Fairy Magnificent was evidently fond of talking, for she rippled on, in
her soft voice, like a little purling brook, knitting all the time.
"Oh, we all have our gifts, my dear, but I am afraid in my day girls
were terribly worldly; it was not the fashion to cultivate philanthropy
or altruism, as they call it. I recollect a young man asking one of my
nieces if they went in for 'slumming.' I wonder what we should have
thought of such a question when I was young."
"Does Miss Harford do that sort of thing?" asked Waveney, with something
of her old animation. She was such a dear little old lady--like a piece
of Dresden china.
"Oh, not slumming exactly--they are too sensible to take up every
passing craze; but they do an immense deal of good. They have a Home for
governesses and broken-down workers very near them at Erpingham, and
they have a room in the garden where they do all sorts of things. They
have Thursday evenings for shop-girls, regular social evenings--tea, and
music, and talk; and the girls are as nicely behaved as possible."
"Oh, what a grand idea!" and Waveney's eyes began to gleam and sparkle.
"I have always been so sorry for shop-girls. I think they have such a
hard, pushing sort of life. The poor things are often so tired, but they
have to look pleasant all the same."
Mrs. Mainwaring looked amused at the girl's energy, but before she could
reply there were quick, decided footsteps in the outer room, and the
next moment a tall, dark woman in walking-dress entered.
When Waveney rose from her chair, the lady looked at her with extreme
surprise.
"Miss Ward, I suppose;" and her manner was a little brusque. "Please sit
down again, and I will speak to you directly. Aunt Sara, may I have the
carriage, please. Morris says the horses are quite fresh. I find the
letter that I expected is at the Red House, so it will be better for me
to talk it all over with Althea."
"Do as you like, Doreen," returned Mrs. Mainwaring, tranquilly; "but you
must attend to this young lady first, you know;" and then Miss Harford
took a seat near Waveney.
The girl was suffering from a sense of painful disillusion. Mrs.
Mainwaring's talk had given her a favourable idea of Miss Harford, but
when she saw her, her first thoughts were "What a grievous pity that
such a good woman should be so plain!" But the next moment she added,
"Plain is too mild a term; she is really quite ugly;" and it could not
be denied that Dame Nature had treated Miss Harford somewhat churlishly.
Her figure was angular, and a little clumsy, and not even her well-cut
tailor-made tweed could set it off to advantage. Her features were
strongly marked, and her complexion sallow, and her low forehead and
heavy eyebrows gave her rather a severe look. She could not be less than
forty, probably a year or two over that, but there was no affectation of
youth, either in dress or manner.
Perhaps the only point in her favour was a certain frankness and
sincerity in her expression that, after a time, appealed to people; and
yet her eyes were a light, cold grey. Strangers seldom took to her at
first--her quick, decided manners were rather too brusque, and then her
voice was so harsh and deep; but they soon found out that she was to be
trusted, and by-and-by they grew to love her.
Doreen Harford always spoke of herself as the "ugly duckling," who would
never change into a swan in this world.
"I never do anything by halves," she would say, laughing, and her laugh
was as fresh and ringing as a child's, though, perhaps, a little hard.
"I am as ugly as they make them, my dear,"--for she was too happy and
busy a woman to fret over her lack of beauty, though she adored it
whenever she found it, and petted all the pretty children and animals.
"There's Aunt Sara," she would go on, "is she not like one of Watteau's
Shepherdesses? Did you ever see anything so fine and pink and
dainty?--and she is seventy-three. She has had lovers by the score, and
she was only a young woman when General Mainwaring died; but she would
never marry again, bless her!"
When Miss Harford sat down she pulled off her gloves in rather a
disturbed manner.
"I was sorry to keep you waiting, but I had to go out on urgent
business. You are very young, Miss Ward--younger than I expected, and
than Miss Warburton led me to suppose."
She spoke in a slightly aggressive voice, as though Miss Ward were
somehow to blame for her youthful aspect.
"That will mend in time, Doreen, my love," observed Mrs. Mainwaring,
kindly. "I think Miss Ward seems a very sensible young lady." And then
Waveney longed to hug her.
"I am nineteen," she said, looking Miss Harford full in the face. "That
is not so very young, after all; and I have acted as secretary to a lady
in Cheyne Walk. It was only a morning engagement, certainly, but Miss
Warburton knows all about me, and she thought this situation would just
suit me. I am fond of reading aloud, and I never get tired, and----"
"Doreen, if you do not engage this young lady, I think I shall." But
Mrs. Mainwaring was only joking, as her niece knew well, for it would
have been more than her life was worth to do such a thing.
For Fairy Magnificent had a faithful maid who simply worshipped her, and
would have fought any woman who offered to do her service. Her mistress
wanted no paid companion as long as she was in the house, she would say;
and as Rachel ruled her mistress--and, indeed, the whole household,
there was little probability of her indulging in this luxury.
Miss Harford's face brightened. She understood the purport of her aunt's
little joke: she liked Miss Ward, and wished her niece to engage her.
"Althea will not mind her being young," she said, significantly; and
then Miss Harford turned to Waveney.
"Miss Warburton will have given you some idea of the duties
required"--and now her manner had decidedly softened. "We are very busy
people, and we lead two lives, the working life and the social life; and
as we are fairly strong, we manage to enjoy both. Unfortunately, my
sister has had a little trouble with her eyes lately--the doctors say it
is on the nerves. Sometimes when she reads or writes she has pain in
them, and has to close her book, or shut up her desk. If she were to
persevere the pain would become excruciating; it is certainly on the
nerves, for sometimes she is not troubled at all."
"I understand," returned Waveney, in a low voice.
"Our doctor is an old friend and a very sensible man," continued Miss
Harford, "and he proposed that my sister should find some young lady
with a good voice and pleasant manner who would read to her, especially
in the evenings, when nothing is going on, and to whom she could dictate
letters."
"Oh, I am sure I could do that," returned Waveney, eagerly; and then
Mrs. Mainwaring chimed in again.
"My dear, I am an old woman, so you may believe me. My nieces are the
best women I know, and they make every one happy at the Red House."
"Now, Aunt Sara," returned Miss Harford, good humouredly, "how are Miss
Ward and I to understand each other if you will keep interrupting us?
You see, Miss Ward, the duties are very light, and you will have plenty
of time to yourself. We want some one young and cheerful who will make
herself at home and be ready for any little service. Are you musical?"
"I can sing a little but my voice has not been well trained."
"That is a pity. Now should you mind reading us a page or two?" And she
handed her a novel that was lying open on the table.
Waveney flushed, but she took the book at once. For the first few
minutes her voice trembled: then she thought of the new gown she wanted
to buy for Mollie at Christmas, and then it grew steady.
"Miss Ward reads very nicely, does she not, Aunt Sara?" was Miss
Harford's approving comment. "I think Althea will be pleased." Then
turning to Waveney with a pleasant smile that lit up her homely features
as sunshine lights up a granite rock, "I really see no reason why we
should not come to terms. I do not know what we ought to offer you, Miss
Ward, but my sister thought fifty pounds a year."
Waveney gave a little start of surprise. The terms seemed magnificent.
"Oh," she said, impulsively, "I shall be able to help father. What
happiness that will be!" And then her face fell a little. "Will you tell
me, please, is it very far to Erpingham?"
"Do you mean from here?"
"No, not exactly. I am thinking of my own home. We live in Cleveland
Terrace, Chelsea." Then Miss Harford seemed somewhat taken aback.
"Is your father's name Everard Ward?" she asked, abruptly.
"Oh, yes,--have you heard of him?" returned Waveney, _naively_. "He is
an artist, but his pictures do not sell, and he has only his drawing
lessons. That is why I want to help him, because he works so hard and
looks so tired; and Mollie--that is my sister--is a little lame, and
cannot do much."
"Is that all your family? You do not speak of your mother."
Miss Harford was looking at the girl a little strangely.
"She is dead," returned Waveney, in a low voice; "she died when Mollie
and I were ten years old, but there is a young brother, Noel."
Then Miss Harford turned to her aunt.
"Aunt Sara, I really think it would be best for Althea to see Miss Ward
herself. You know I have to drive over to Erpingham now. It is quite
early in the afternoon," she continued, looking at Waveney. "Can you not
come with me? We shall be at the Red House in three-quarters of an hour.
I could drop you at Sloane Square station by seven. It will be a
pleasant drive, and the evenings are still light until eight."
Waveney hesitated. What would Mollie say to her long absence? But then,
her father never returned home before eight on his Norwood days. The
drive tempted her, and then, the idea of seeing Erpingham.
"If you are sure that I shall be back by seven," she said; and then Miss
Harford rang the bell and ordered the carriage.
"Althea will give us tea. Come, Miss Ward." And then Mrs. Mainwaring
held out her soft, little hand to the girl.
"Good-bye, my dear. You will be as happy as a bird at the Red House.
Give my love to Althea, Doreen, and tell her to rest her poor eyes."
Waveney thought of Cinderella and the pumpkin coach as she stepped into
the luxurious carriage. The novelty of the position, the enjoyment of
the swift, smooth motion, and the amusement of looking out at the
crowded street, completely absorbed her, and for some time Miss Harford
made no attempt to draw her into conversation.
But presently she began to talk, and then Waveney found herself
answering all sorts of questions about herself and Mollie--how they
amused themselves, and why her father's pictures did not sell; and then
Waveney, who was very girlish and frank, told her all their
disappointment about "King Canute," and Miss Harford listened with such
kindly interest that Waveney felt quite grateful to her.
"Father was so low and cast down about it last night, he said he should
never have the heart to paint a picture again, because the dealers were
so hard on him; and I am afraid he meant it, too. Oh, what a nice grey
church! And actually, we are coming to a river. Oh, how picturesque
those reddish-brown sails look in the sunshine!"
"This is Dereham," returned her companion. "It is not such a very long
drive, is it? In little more than ten minutes we shall have reached our
destination;" and then she began pointing out various objects of
interest--another church, the shops in High Street where they dealt,
then a high, narrow house, very dull and gloomy-looking.
"Some dear old friends of ours live in that house," she said. "It is not
very inviting-looking, is it? Once they lived in such a beautiful place,
until old Mr. Chaytor lost his money. I am always so sorry for them. I
think troubles of this kind fall very heavily on some natures."
Waveney assented to this, but the subject did not much interest her.
They had left Dereham behind now, and before them lay a wide, green
common, with pleasant roads intersecting it. A little clear pool by the
roadside rippled in the sunlight. Near it was a broad, grassy space
shaded by trees. Two or three nurses sat on benches, and some children
were dancing hand in hand, advancing and retreating, and singing in
shrill little voices. "Here we go gathering nuts in May," they were
chanting, and then one child fell down and began to cry. Across the
common there were soft blue distances and a crisp wind, laden with the
perfumes of firs and blackberries, fanned their faces.
Then they drove through some white gates. A lodge and a long, shady lane
were before them, with long, parklike meadows on one side. It was all so
sweet, so still, and peaceful, in the evening light, that Waveney was
half sorry to find that their journey was at an end; for the next moment
the carriage stopped, and the lodge-keeper opened some more gates,
curtsying with a look of pleasure when she saw Miss Harford.
"I have not come home to stay, Mrs. Monkton," observed Miss Harford,
with a friendly nod, and then the horses began frisking down a winding
carriage drive. The shrubbery was thick, but every now and then Waveney
had glimpses of little shut-in lawns, one with a glorious cedar in the
middle, and another with a sundial and peacock. An old red brick
Elizabethan house was at the end of the drive, with a long sunny terrace
round it.
At the sound of the wheels two little Yorkshire terriers flew out to
greet their mistress with shrill barks of joy.
"Oh, what pretty little fellows!" exclaimed Waveney.
"Yes, they are great pets. Fuss and Fury, that is what we call them,"
returned Miss Harford, smiling, "and I think you will allow that the
names suit them."