be cheerful. The postman would knock at the door, and my heart would go
head over heels with excitement, and it would be a circular, or a bill
wanting payment. Another time he would not come at all, and that was
worse, for one went on drearily hoping and hoping, and pretending that
the clock was fast. Now I forget mail days on purpose, for it is nearly
eighteen months since he wrote last, and I have given up all hope of
hearing."
Sylvia drew a deep sigh, and knitted her forehead.
"I can't believe that anyone could forget you when he had once cared.
You are so different from other girls. It is most strange and
mysterious. Do you think that perhaps--you won't mind my suggesting
it--the money had some influence with him? Perhaps he thought you were
an heiress--at any rate, that your people were rich and influential, and
when he heard that you were poor he may have changed."
"No!" said Bridgie decisively. "No, I won't think it! I won't let
myself think so badly of anyone for whom I have cared so much. I don't
know what his reasons were, and perhaps I never shall, but I would
rather believe the best. Some people don't find it easy to remember
when they are far-away, and he might have a delicacy in writing to say
that he had forgotten!
"If I had still been Miss O'Shaughnessy of Knock, I should have sent
just one more letter to ask if anything was wrong, but I had too much
pride to obtrude myself as Bridgie of nowhere. I have no reason to
believe that my letter went astray, and even if it had, he would have
written again if he had wished to hear. He is alive and well, I know so
much, and I'm well too, and very happy with my boys. I had a bad time
of it, and the suspense had more to do with making me ill than the hard
work of that summer; but now I have faced the worst, and have far too
much to do to be able to mope. Boys are such cheering creatures! They
give you so much work. The very darning of their socks is a
distraction!"
"It would distract me in a very different way!" said Sylvia, with a
smile.
CHAPTER FIVE.
AN INVITATION.
The operation was successful and unsuccessful--that is to say, the fear
of amputation was removed; but it became abundantly evident that it
would be a very long time before Sylvia recovered the power of walking
about with ease.
A few weeks earlier she would have been heartbroken at the prospect of a
spell of crippledom, but the greater troubles eclipse the less, and
compared with that other paralysing dread, it was a passing
inconvenience at which she could afford to smile.
Poor child! her first impulse on recovering from the chloroform had been
to dive to the bottom of the bed to feel if the foot were still there,
and her elastic spirits went up with a bound as she listened to the
surgeon's reassuring report. She was perfectly willing to lie on the
sofa and give up all idea of Christmas festivities, willing, in fact, in
the relief and joy of the moment, to promise anything and everything if
only she might look forward to unimpaired strength in the future.
As for Miss Munns, she rejoiced with grumbling, as her custom was,
mingling thankful speeches with plaints for her own deprivations, to the
mingled distress and amusement of her hearers. Christmas was drawing
near, and there had been no time to prepare for the proper keeping of
the festival, for cook had been too much occupied with jellies and beef-
teas to have any time to spare. There were no mince-pies in the larder,
no plum-puddings in their fat cloth wrappings, no jars of lemon cheese,
no cakes, no shortbread, not so much as a common bun-loaf, and Aunt
Margaret hung her head, and felt that a blot had fallen upon her
escutcheon.
"I can't fancy Christmas with bought mince-pies!" she said sadly. "I've
kept house for forty years and never failed to make four plum-puddings--
one for Christmas Day, one for New Year, one for company, and one for
Easter. Some people make them without eggs nowadays, but I keep to the
old recipe. My mother's plum-puddings were quite famous among her
friends. Of course, my dear, we have great cause for thankfulness, and
I should have had no appetite if you had lost your foot; but it really
upsets me to look at that larder! How many pounds of mincemeat have
_you_ made, Miss O'Shaughnessy, may I ask?"
Sylvia was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, to which she had been
carried in time for tea, and Bridgie was sitting beside her, looking
with wondering eyes at the muffled splendours which she now beheld for
the first time. She blushed as she heard the question, and adroitly
evaded an answer, for, to tell the truth, she bought her pies from the
pastry-cook, and congratulated herself on the saving of trouble.
"Oh, indeed, we get through a great deal, for the boys think nothing of
three pies at a sitting. I'd be obliged to you, Miss Munns, if you
would lend me your recipe for the pudding, for my cook is not the
cleverest in the world, and, as Jack says, there is no monotony about
her results. If she does a thing well three times, there's all the more
chance that it will be wrong the fourth, when you are encouraged to ask
a friend to dinner."
Aunt Margaret sawed the air with her mittened hands, and shook her cap
in solemn denunciation.
"Method, my dear--method! They won't take the trouble to measure the
ingredients, but just trust to chance, so what can you expect? You
shall have the recipe with pleasure, but if you take my advice you will
look after the weighing yourself. Are you expecting any friends for the
day, or perhaps one of your sisters?"
"No--we shall be quite alone. My married sister wanted us all to go to
Ireland, but the boys cannot spare the time, and I will not leave them."
Bridgie sighed, and a shadow passed over her face. "It won't seem like
Christmas to have no coming nor going, and Esmeralda and Pixie so far-
away. I have been trying to think of a diversion for the boys, but I
might spare myself the trouble, for I've no money to pay for it if I had
the idea."
"Straitness of means is a great curtailer of pleasure," said Miss Munns,
gazing solemnly into space over the edge of her spectacles. "In my own
family we have had sad experiences of the kind. My great-uncle was in
most comfortable circumstances, and kept his own brougham and peach-
houses before the failure of the Glasgow Bank. They removed to Syringa
Villas after that, and did the washing at home. I shall never forget
calling upon Emma the first Tuesday that the clothes were hanging out to
dry in the back garden, and finding her in tears, with the blinds drawn
down. She had a great deal of family pride, had poor Emma, for her
mother belonged to the leading circles in Wolverhampton, and the steam
of clothes in the boiler is most depressing unless you have been brought
up to it from a child. George died soon after. He never held up his
head again, and Emmeline, the daughter, had a very good offer from a
corn-broker. She was a fine-looking girl, with black eyes and her poor
father's nose. She looked very well in the evening, when she was
dressed, and had a colour."
"And did she marry the corn-broker?" queried Bridgie eagerly.
Sylvia was flushed and frowning, more than half ashamed of the old
lady's disclosures, fearful lest they might affect her own importance in
the estimation of a friend who had lived in a Castle, and owned a sister
who went to Court, and profoundly uninterested in Emmeline and her
destiny; but Bridgie was all animation and curiosity, her grey eyes wide
with anxiety as to the success of the corn-broker and his suit. Here,
indeed, was a listener worth having, and Miss Munns warmed to her task
with even more than the usual enjoyment.
"My dear, you would hardly believe the time poor Emma had with that
girl! She took a fancy to a bank clerk on two hundred a year, and
nothing would suit but she must be engaged to him. He gave her a
turquoise ring, I remember--a shabby thing that could not have cost more
than a sovereign, and Emma was quite mortified when people asked to see
it. They were engaged for five years, and she lost all her looks, and
he had a bicycling accident, and hurt his right arm so badly that he
could not write.
"Emma insisted that the engagement should be broken off, but the stupid
girl would not listen to reason. She had a little legacy from her
godmother about that time, and his father allowed him something, so they
were married, and went abroad to try a cure for his arm. He is back at
work again, and they seem happy enough; but it was a poor match for her,
and they can only afford one servant. The corn-broker said he could
never look at a girl again, but he married one of the Miss Twemlows
within the year. Perhaps you know the Twemlows? They are a very well-
known family in their suburb."
No, Bridgie did not know them, but her expression seemed to denote that
she was quite ready to listen to their family history, in addition to
those which she had already heard. But this was more than Sylvia could
bear, and she hastened to interrupt the flow of her aunt's
reminiscences.
"You have not heard from Aunt Emma lately--at least, you have not told
me of her letters. I suppose you have not seen her while I have been
ill?"
Miss Munns pursed up her lips in a manner which seemed to imply that she
was in possession of some weighty secret, but from motives of prudence
was resolved to conceal it from the world.
"I have heard from her, my dear. I have not seen her. As I said in my
reply, everything must give way to illness, though I am very sorry
indeed to think of her alone in the house. Emmeline can't leave the
baby, so it is only natural that her mother should want some
companionship over Christmas. I would have had her here instead, but
the house is so upset that I am not prepared for visitors. It is very
pleasant meeting from time to time, being contemporaries as we are, and
having gone through so many troubles together. There is nothing I enjoy
more than talking them over with your Aunt Emma, and I am grieved to
disappoint her. Of course I made up my mind from the first to say
nothing about it to you."
Now it was Bridgie's turn to look blank, and Sylvia's to question
anxiously.
"Do you mean that she invited you for Christmas, and that you refused
because of me? Oh, Aunt Margaret, you must not do that! You need a
change, and it would be a relief to have all arrangements taken off your
hands. Whitey and I could manage quite well by ourselves. Do please
change your mind and write to say that you will go!"
"My love, I assure you that I considered the matter very carefully
before I decided, and it is impossible for me to leave home. I have
promised nurse that she shall spend two days with her sister, coming
round each morning to attend to your foot, and I should not like to
disappoint her. It is only natural that she should wish to be with her
own friends. I sympathise with her, but I don't complain. It is not
your fault that your illness has upset my plans, and it is my duty to be
resigned and cheerful."
Aunt Margaret testified to her sense of duty by heaving a sigh of
funereal proportions, the while Sylvia's brow became fretted with lines,
and she turned a glance of despair upon her friend.
To be condemned to spend Christmas alone with Aunt Margaret in this mood
of melancholy resignation; to realise that she had deprived her of the
happiness of talking over past troubles with poor dear Emma; to listen
from morning to night to her transparently-veiled repinings--this was
indeed a cheerful prospect for an invalid, who might naturally have
expected to receive the sympathy herself.
"Aren't you sorry for me?" the brown eyes asked Bridgie mutely. But,
lo! Bridgie was radiant, her face one sparkle of animation, her hands
uplifted to hail the advent of a happy thought.
"The Diversion," she cried rapturously--"the Diversion! I see it all,
and it is perfectly charming! Sylvia shall be the diversion! She shall
stay over the New Year with us; Miss Munns shall go to her friend and
talk over old times; nurse shall visit her sister and have a rest after
her hard work; I will look after Sylvia, and Sylvia shall flirt with the
boys, and keep them happy. It's a perfectly charming arrangement all
round!"
"My dear!" cried Aunt Margaret in horrified protest against the last
item on the programme. But Sylvia gave a chuckle of cheerful
complacency, and, so far from being overcome, looked so much revived by
the prospect that there could be no doubt as to the expediency of the
proposed visit, so far as health at least was concerned.
Miss Munns went through the form of protesting, but her objections were
easily waved aside, for to tell the truth she was only too ready to be
persuaded, and her objections had no deeper root than the belief that it
was not polite to seize too eagerly on an invitation.
"I could not think of it, my dear! Such an upset for you. You don't
know how much work an invalid makes in the house! She has to be carried
up and down stairs, and waited on hand and foot!"
"I have three big strong boys, and you have only women in the house.
Pat could put her in his pocket, and not know there was anything there!"
"My dear--how can you! It would take up your spare room, too, and make
so much ringing at the bell with nurse coming in the morning and the
doctor in the afternoon."
"But what a lesson it would be to me to see them attending to her! So
useful for the next time the boys break their legs! I love Whitey, and
feel better for it every time I see her sweet, kind face."
"If you had had to prepare meals at all hours of the night and day, you
would be sick of the sight of a nurse, however sweet she might look! I
don't see why you should be upset, my dear, for the sake of my friend."
"Dear Miss Munns, I am thinking even more of my own friend. It is
selfishness which makes me want to have Sylvia with me. We would enjoy
being together and talking over our troubles just as you do. Please let
her come!"
"Troubles, my dear--troubles? Has your cook given notice?" cried Miss
Munns, her mind flying at once to domestic matters, and dwelling thereon
with accustomed enjoyment. She had so many stories to tell of cooks who
had left their places immediately before Christmas, and of the tragic
consequences which followed, that the original subject of discussion
took a secondary position in her thoughts, and when Bridgie began
placidly to discuss arrangements, she fell into the trap with innocent
alacrity. Sylvia could hardly believe her ears. It seemed quite too
good to be true. The week's holiday held out glorious possibilities of
enjoyment, and she began at once to count the hours which must elapse
before her departure.
CHAPTER SIX.
BRIDGIE'S PUDDING.
It was two days before Christmas, and Bridgie O'Shaughnessy enveloped
herself in a white apron, and pensively regarded the contents of the
larder. In a couple of hours Sylvia was expected to arrive, and
meanwhile Mary the cook had been seized with an irresistible craving to
visit an invalid mother, and had taken herself off for the afternoon,
leaving the arrangements for dinner in the care of the young mistress,
and a still younger parlourmaid.
Mary's excuse for requesting leave of absence at so inconvenient a time
was somewhat contradictory and involved. Her mother was failing fast,
and as it was a custom in the family to die in December, it was a
daughter's duty to visit her as often as possible; the shops were all
dressed-up for Christmas, and it was hard that a body should not get a
bit of pleasure sometimes, and the steak was stewed, and could be
"hotted up" at a moment's notice. The invalid mother sat up for a
couple of hours in the afternoon only, so Mary must get to the house by
three o'clock at the latest, and would it matter if she were after
eleven in returning, as Christmas came but once a year?
Sweet Bridgie assented warmly to each proposition as it was put before
her, urged a speedy departure, and was rather inclined to think it would
be wise to stay at home for the night. She could never find it in her
heart to deny a pleasure which it was in her power to grant, and was
gaily confident of managing "somehow" to prepare a palatable meal for
her guest, indeed, in the ardour of hospitality was rather pleased than
otherwise to have a hand in the preparations.
On the principle of "first catch your hare, then cook it," she looked
critically over the contents of the cupboards to find some ingredients
which commended themselves to her limited knowledge of the culinary art.
Gelatine had endless possibilities, but time was against her, and she
had the dimmest notions as to the quantity required; pastry was always
attainable, but on the one occasion when she had experimented in this
direction, Jack had taken the nutcrackers to divide his tartlet amidst
the cheers of an admiring audience, so that there was plainly no fame to
be won in this direction.
Milk puddings were too painfully ordinary, but a bag of macaroni seemed
to offer at once an easy and a tasty alternative. Bridgie felt herself
quite capable of boiling the sticks into tenderness, and scraping down
cheese to add to the milky concoction, and a further search discovered a
dark yellow lump stowed away in the corner of a cupboard evidently
destined for such an end. It was wonderfully hard; Bridgie's fingers
ached with the strain of cutting it, and she shook her pretty head
solemnly over the wastefulness of servants in not using up materials
before their freshness was lost. She had intended to use the whole of
the piece, but it took so long to prepare that she stopped half-way, and
to judge by the mellow brownness of the pudding when she peeped at it in
the oven, quality had more than made up for quantity.
Sylvia sniffed delicately as she limped over the threshold, for the
pudding had a strangely powerful smell, not exactly savoury perhaps, but
distinctly fresh and wholesome. Bridgie bridled in proud consciousness
of success the while she tucked up her guest on the drawing-room sofa.
"I've been making a pudding for you, dear. Mind you enjoy it! Mary is
out, so you are to excuse everything that goes wrong. There's a pretty
pink cushion to match your dress. I never saw that dress before! You
are wonderfully smart, Miss Sylvia Trevor!"
"It's for the boys," said Sylvia, laughing. "I want to make a good
impression, for I am dreadfully afraid they mayn't like me. I know
nothing about young men. They never penetrate into Number Six, and Aunt
Margaret thinks it is proper to ignore their existence between the ages
of six and sixty. I thought if I put on the bright dress and my pet
chiffon fichu, they might not notice how thin my hair is at the top!"
"I'll tell them not to notice," said Bridgie gravely. She crossed the
room and poked the fire with the best brass poker, a real, live coal
fire and no wretched asbestos imitation, and knelt on the rug holding
out her hands to the blaze and scorching her cheeks with undisturbed
complacency.
The room was mathematically the same in size and shape as the one across
the road, but oh, how different in appearance! The one was a museum for
the preservation of household gods, the other a haven for rest and
amusement, where comfort was the first consideration and appearance the
last. Bridgie's mending-basket stood on the floor, Jack's pipe peered
from behind a chimney-piece ornament, and a bulky blotter and well-
filled ink-bottle showed that the writing-table was really and seriously
meant for use.
There was a writing-table in Miss Munns's drawing-room also, on which
were set out, in formal order, a _papier-mache_ blotter embellished with
a view of York Minster by moonlight, a brass ink-stand, which would have
been insulted by the touch of ink, and a penholder with a cornelian
handle which had never known a nib. Not the most daring of visitors had
ever been known to desecrate that shrine. When the mistress of the
house wished to write a letter, she spread a newspaper over the dining-
room table, and a sheet of blotting-paper over that, and carefully
unlocked the desk which had been a present from Cousin Mary Evans on her
sixteenth birthday!
It is extraordinary what a complete change of air may be obtained
sometimes by merely crossing a road, or going into the house at the
other side of a dividing wall! Sylvia felt that she might have
travelled a hundred miles, so entirely different were the conditions by
which she found herself surrounded.
By and by the three brothers arrived in a body, letting themselves into
the house with a latch-key, and talking together in eager undertones in
the hall. Bridgie sat still with a mischievous smile on her lips, and
presently the drawing-room door was noiselessly opened for half a dozen
inches, and round the corner appeared a brown head, a white forehead,
and a pair of curious brown eyes. Sylvia's cheeks were as pink as her
dress by the time that those eyes met hers, but she was the only person
to show signs of embarrassment.
"Pat" came forward to shake hands with swift cordiality, followed in
succession by Jack and Miles, and the three big brothers stood beside
the sofa, looking down on their guest with kindly scrutiny. Pat's
twinkling smile was an augury for future friendship; Miles's air of
angelic sympathy was as good as a tonic; while the rapt gaze of Jack's
fine eyes seemed to imply that never, no never, had he beheld a girl who
so absolutely fulfilled his ideal of womanhood! It was nothing that the
conversation was most ordinary and impersonal, concerning itself mostly
with such matters as the weather, the trains from the city, and the
Christmas traffic.
The atmosphere was full of subtle flattery, and Sylvia purred with
satisfaction like a sleek little kitten that stretches up its neck to
meet an unaccustomed caress. Nothing is so inspiring as appreciation,
and she was quite startled by the aptness and brilliancy of her own
remarks during the meal which followed.
Jack helped his guest in to dinner, and once again the pungent odour
from the kitchen attracted notice and remark, whereat Bridgie bridled
complacently, and when the macaroni was brought to table it did indeed
look a most attractive dish to be the work of an amateur. So brown was
it, so mellow of tint, with such promise of richness, that the general
choice settled on it in preference to its more modest neighbour.
Sylvia was naturally helped in advance, and the moment of swallowing the
first spoonful was momentous, and never to be forgotten. What had
happened she could not tell; the room swam round her, the tears poured
from her eyes. She recovered from a paralysing shock of surprise just
in time to see Pat's mouth open wide to receive a heaped-up spoonful, to
hear him roar like a wounded bull, and make a dash from the room.
"What is the matter?" cried Bridgie in amaze, and Jack smoothed out the
smoking macaroni on his plate and replied cheerfully--
"Scalded himself as usual! He is so impetuous with his food. Do him
good to have a lesson." Then he in his turn partook of the dainty, and
his eyes grew bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, the Adam's apple
worked violently in his throat. For one moment it seemed as though he
too would fly from the room, but presently the struggle was over, and he
leaned back in his chair, pale and dejected, his glance meeting Sylvia's
with melancholy sympathy.
"What _is_ the matter?" queried Bridgie once more, and this time there
was a touch of testiness in her voice, for it was trying to have her
efforts treated with such want of appreciation, and even if the dish
were not all that could be desired, consideration for her feelings might
have kept her brothers silent before a stranger. "Miles, _you_ taste
it!" she cried, and Miles smacked his lips for a thoughtful moment, and
pronounced sturdily--
"It's very good!"
Sylvia groaned involuntarily; she could not help it, and Jack gasped
with incredulous dismay, staring at his brother as if he could not
believe his senses.
"Well, I always did say that there was nothing in this wide world which
would quell your appetite, but this beats everything! Take another
spoonful--I _dare_ you to do it!"
"All right, here goes! It's a very good mixture," said Miles
complacently, swallowing spoonful after spoonful, while his _vis-a-vis_
looked on with distended eyes, and Pat stood transfixed upon the
threshold. As for Bridgie, her face brightened with relief, and she
smiled upon her younger brother with grateful affection.
"That's right, Miles; never mind what they say! You are the greatest
comfort I have. Some people are so saucy there is no pleasing them.
You and I will enjoy it, if no one else will."