ONE PARTICULAR EVENING.
“O world, as God has made it! All is beauty,
And knowing this is love, and love is duty.”
It was Peter who first noticed Meg’s face one particular evening. He
and Poppet were doing, or making a pretence of doing, preparation for
the next day, and Nellie was reading a novel in the only armchair the
nursery held.
Meg came in at nine o’clock—nearly an hour past the usual time to send
the little ones to bed. “Thust look at Meg’th fathe!” Peter said, and
rounded his eyes at her. Of course every one looked instantly.
It was like a blush rose. A delicate, exquisite flush had crept over
it, her eyes were soft and dewy, her lips unsteady.
“Peter dear, come to bed; now, Poppet,” she said; and even in her voice
there was a new note.
Nellie laid down her book and looked at her sister in surprise. She had
only just discovered she was beautiful. Hitherto it had seemed to be
tacitly allowed that she herself had monopolised the good looks of the
family; so to discover this sudden beauty in Meg rather amazed her.
She looked to see if it had anything to do with her dress; no, she had
worn it scores of times before. It was a muslin, pale blue, rather
old-fashioned in make, for the body fitted plainly with the exception
of a slight gathering at the neck. The skirt was very long, and ended
in a crossway frill at the hem,—how graceful it made her look! In her
waistband she had stuck some cornflowers vividly blue.
And her hair! Nellie devoted a surprisingly long time daily to the
erection of an elaborate coiffeur on her own beautiful head; but surely
Meg’s had a grace of its own, from its very simplicity. It was drawn
back loosely that it might wave and curl as it pleased, and then was
twisted into a shining knot halfway down her head.
And that exquisite pink in her cheeks!
“Oh, Meg!” Nellie said, half guessing, half shy.
“Dear Peter—oh, Poppet, do come!” Meg entreated. The pink had deepened,
her eyes had grown distressful. Both children rose and followed her
without a word; they had the native delicacy that every unspoiled child
possesses.
But Nellie had lost interest in her book,—what was a fictitious tale of
love, when she might hear of one in real life within these very walls?
She went downstairs and into the drawing-room. “Who’s in the study,
Esther? I can hear voices,” she said sharply.
Esther was reading, lying on the sofa, her dark, beautiful head against
the yellow, frilled cushions. She turned a leaf before she replied.
“Oh, only father and Alan Courtney,” she said, with a studiously
matter-of-fact air.
“I _thought_ so!” Nell exclaimed, with a deep breath; then she sat down
at the foot of the sofa and looked at Esther.
“Well?” Esther said, feeling the gaze before she reached the end of the
next page; then she smiled.
“Is he really asking father?” Nell asked breathlessly.
“I’m not at the keyhole,” Esther replied.
“And I wish I was,” Nell said with fervour.
Then they looked at each other again, and again Esther smiled. “How
pretty she looked to-night!” she said meditatively.
“Very, very,” Nell answered eagerly; “why, I couldn’t help staring at
her.”
“I’m very fond of Alan myself; he’s a thoroughly good fellow. I think
they are excellently suited,” the young stepmother said.
Nellie was silent a minute. “I wish he looked older,” she said; “thirty
is the proper age for a man, _I_ think. And I’d rather he had a long,
fair moustache; his eyes are not bad; but I wish he wouldn’t rumple his
hair up straight when he gets excited.”
Esther smiled indulgently at Nellie’s idea of a hero.
“As long as he makes her happy,” she said, “I’ll forgive him for being
clean-shaved. Why are you looking at me like that, Nell?”
“I was thinking how very pretty you are yet, Esther,” was the girl’s
answer, spoken thoughtfully. Esther’s beauty did strike her on
occasion, and to-night, with the dark, bright face and rich, crinkly
hair in relief against the cushions, it was especially noticeable.
“Yet,” repeated Esther, “I’m not very old, Nell, am I? Twenty-five is
not very old.” Her eyes looked wistfully at the very young lovely face
of her second step-daughter.
“Oh no, dear—oh no, Esther,” said Nell, quick to notice the
wistfulness; “why, of course it is _very_ young; only—oh, _Essie_!”
“What?” said Esther in surprise.
“How _could_ you marry father?” She crept up closer, and put her
shining head down beside the dark one. “Of course I don’t want to hurt
your feelings, but really he is so very middle-aged and ordinary; were
you really in _love_, Essie?”
But Esther was spared the embarrassing answer by the entrance of the
Captain and Alan.
You all saw Alan last five years ago, when he used to go on the river
boat every morning to his lectures at the university. His face is even
more earnest and grave than before; life is a serious business to this
young doctor, and the only relaxations he allows himself are football
and Meg.
His eyes are grey, deeply set; his patients and Meg think them
beautiful. His dark hair has a wave in it, and is on end, for of course
he has been somewhat excited.
The Captain does not look unamiable.
Alan has only just begun to practise, certainly; but then he has
three hundred a year of his own, and his prospects are spoken of as
brilliant. Still, he has the air of having grudgingly conferred a
favour, and he goes out to smoke his cigar and think it over.
“All well?” ask Esther’s arched eyebrows. And “All is well” Alan
answers with a grave, pleasant smile.
“Dear boy, I _am_ so glad,” she says. There is a moisture in her dark
eyes as she gives him her hand, for Meg is very dear to her.
[Illustration: “HE BENDS HIS TALL, BOYISH-LOOKING HEAD SUDDENLY, AND
KISSES THE HAND HE HOLDS.”]
He looks at her in silence for a minute; then he bends his tall,
boyish-looking head suddenly, and kisses the hand he holds.
“I am glad too,” Nellie whispers, with something like a sob in her
throat; she too holds out her hand.
“Dear little Nell!” he says; and such a happy light is in the eyes
that look down at her that she quite forgives his lack of good looks.
“Dear little Nell!”
He does not kiss _her_ hand—it is too little and childish, he
considers; but he stoops and takes a first brotherly kiss from the soft
cheek nearest to him, and though she blushes a little, she is impressed
with the dignity that attaches to a future brother-in-law.
Then he goes. Meg has refused to be visible again to-night to him, and
Nellie flies up the staircase.
“_Dear_ Meg,” she pleads at the door—it is locked, and doesn’t open for
a minute.
But the tone turns the key, and the sisters are in each other’s arms.
Just the room you might expect Meg to have. It is fresh, simple, and
daintily pretty. The floor is covered with white China matting; the
bed hangings have loose pink roses on a white ground; the pillows have
hem-stitched frills. There is a bookcase on one wall, in which the
poets preponderate; the dressing-table is strewn with the pretty odds
and ends girls delight in; there is a writing-table that looks as if
it is used often; and in the window stands a deep wicker chair with
rose-pink cushions double frilled.
On the walls there are some water-colours of Meg’s own, pretty in
colouring, but shaky as to perspective. Two lines she has illuminated
herself,—
“Lord, help us this and every day
To live more nearly as we pray.”
The gold letters are a little uneven, perhaps; but she wears them in
her heart besides, so it does not matter. There is an engraving in an
oak and gold frame—“Songs of Love”; Meg loves the exquisite face of
the singer, and the back of the sweet little child. There is a long
photo-frame with a balcony rail: here is Essie all dimpled with her
sauciest smile; Poppet and Peter’s heads close together like two little
bright-eyed birds; Nell, a little self-conscious with the camera so
close; Esther looking absurdly girlish; Pip in his cap and gown when
they were delightfully new. Bunty always refused to put on an engaging
smile and submit himself to the photographer, so he is not represented.
And over the mantelpiece, in an ivory frame, is an old, fading likeness
of a little thin girl with a bright face and mischievous eyes, and
rough, curly hair—Judy at ten.
It had taken all the time you have been looking at the room for the
girls to kiss each other and say little half-laughing, half-crying
words. Then Nellie forced Meg into the wicker chair, and knelt down
herself, with her arms round her sister’s waist.
“You darling,” she said. “Oh, Meg, how glad I am! Dear, dear Meg, I do
hope you’ll be happy—impossibly happy.”
It was the first connected sentence either of them had spoken.
“I couldn’t be happier,” was Meg’s whisper.
“But always, always, dear—even when your hair is white, and there are
wrinkles here and here and here.” She touched the smooth cheeks and
brow with tender fingers.
There was a little silence fraught with love, the two bright heads
leaning together; then Meg spoke, shyly, hesitatingly:
“Alan—Nell dear—you do—like him?”
“Oh, he’s well enough—oh yes, I’m very fond of Alan,” said Nell. “Of
course I don’t consider him half good enough, though, for you.”
“Oh, Nellie!” Meg looked quite distressed. “Why, it is the other way,
of course. He is so clever—oh! you don’t know how clever; and I am such
a stupid thing.”
“Very stupid,” assented Nellie; but her smile differed.
“And he is always thinking of plans to do good to the lower classes.
Nell, you cannot think how miserable some of them are; though they
don’t half realise it, they get so dulled and weary. Oh, Nellie dear,
I _do_ think he is the very best man in the world.” The young, sweet
face was half hidden behind the deep cushion frill.
“Well, you are the very best woman,” Nell said very tenderly, and meant
it indeed.
Pretty giddy little butterfly, that she was just now, she often paused
in her flights to wish she could grow just as sweet and good and true
and unselfish as Meg without any trouble.
“The _very_ best woman,” she repeated; but Meg’s soft hand closed her
lips and stayed there.
“If you _knew_ how I’m always failing,” she said, with a deep sigh.
“But the trying is everything,” Nell said.
Then there were more tender words and wishes, and Nellie went to bed,
stealing on tip-toe down the passage, for time had flown on noiseless
wings and the household was asleep. And Meg took down the ivory frame,
and put her lips to the laughing child-face.
“Oh, Judy,” she said, “I wish you knew. Dear little Judy, I _wonder_ if
you know?”