ring the bell and hurry Mary up," said Raymond coolly. It was
absolutely impossible to get that dreadful boy to realise his own
enormities!
CHAPTER FIVE.
A VISIT TO LONDON.
On Saturday afternoon Mrs Freer drove up to the door in an old-
fashioned carriage. She was a thin, little woman, not at all like her
big son, whom she evidently adored as the most wonderful specimen of his
sex, and full of gratitude for the kindness which had been shown to him.
Rex's letter had evidently been of a descriptive nature, for his mother
recognised each of the three girls, addressed them by name, and referred
to their special interests.
"How do you do, Miss Hilary? I hope my son's illness has not interfered
with the arrangements for your journey. How do you do, Miss Lettice?
How do you do, Norah? Rex has told me of your wonderful playing. I
hope you will let me hear something before I go."
Norah was never loath to play, and on this occasion was anxious to make
a good impression, so that Mrs Freer might gain her father's consent to
the proposed music lessons. At the earliest opportunity, therefore, she
produced her violin, played her favourite selections, and had the
satisfaction of seeing that Mrs Freer was unmistakably impressed.
The little head in the large black bonnet approached Mr Bertrand's in
confidential fashion. Norah watched the smile of pleasure on her
father's face, followed by the usual pucker of the brows with which he
was wont to receive a difficult question. Mrs Freer was evidently
approaching the subject of the professor from Lancaster, and presently,
oh, joy! the frown passed away, he was leaning forward, clasping his
hands round his knees, and listening with an air of pleased attention.
"Mr Freer is quite willing to allow Edna to take lessons, even if they
should be rather expensive, for the poor child frets at being separated
from her friends, and she is not strong enough to remain at school. She
could not come here to have her lesson, I am afraid, for she is only
allowed to go out when the weather is mild and sunny; but if you would
allow Norah to come to us for the day, once a fortnight (fortnightly
lessons would be quite enough, don't you think?), it would be a real
pleasure to have her. She would have to stay for the night, of course,
for it is too far to come and go in one day, but Edna would be all the
more charmed! It would be a charity to the poor child!"
"You are very good. It sounds feasible. If you will be kind enough to
make inquiries, I shall be happy to fall in with your arrangements. And
now let me give you some tea."
Half an hour later the carriage was brought round again, for the nights
grew dark so soon that it was necessary to make an early start on the
ten-mile drive. Rex hobbled down the hall on his sticks, escorted by
the entire Bertrand family, for the week of his visit had seemed to
place him on the standing of a familiar friend, and the Mouse shed tears
when he kissed her in the porch, while Lettice looked the picture of
woe. Norah was the most cheerful of all, for Rex whispered in her
ear--"I'll keep them up to the mark about the lessons. We will have
some good times together when you come over, and--I say!--I impressed
upon your father that you were awfully clever; you'll have to do as much
for me, and convince mine that I am too stupid to do any good at
college--!"
"Oh, I will!" said Norah emphatically. "I will! Good-bye. I'm most
fearfully obliged!" She stood on the path waving her hand and nodding
farewells so long as the carriage remained in sight. It seemed as if
her wish were to be fulfilled indeed, and the thought of the new friends
and the fortnightly visits to Brantmere filled her with delighted
expectation.
For the next few days Hilary was as busy as a bee preparing for her
visit to London. She gathered together all her nicest things, and, not
content with her own, cast a covetous eye on the possessions of her
sisters. Half a dozen times in the course of the morning the door of
the room in which the two youngest sisters sat would burst open, and
Hilary's sleek little head appear round the corner to make some new
request.
"Lettice! you might lend me your new muff!"
"Oh, Hilary! I only got it at Christmas, and I need it myself in this
cold weather."
"Don't be so selfish. I'll leave you my old one. It doesn't matter
what sort of a muff you wear here, and you know quite well mine is too
shabby for London. It's only for a fortnight!"
"Oh, well, I suppose you must have it. It's very hard, though, for I do
like nice things, even if I am in the country."
"Oh, thanks awfully. I'll take mine to your room." Then the door would
bang and Hilary's footsteps be heard flying up the staircase, but in
less than ten minutes she would be down again with another request.
"You don't mind, I suppose, if I take your silver brushes?"
"My silver brushes! I should think I _do_ mind, indeed. What next?"
"But you never use them. You might just as well lend them to me as
leave them lying in their case upstairs."
"I am keeping them until I go away visiting. If I don't even use them
myself, it's not likely I am going to lend them to anyone else."
"Lettice, how mean! What harm could I do to the brushes in a fortnight?
You know what a grand house Miss Carr's is, and it would be too horrid
for me to go with a common wooden brush. I do think you might lend them
to me!"
"Oh, well, you can have them if you like, but you are not afraid of
asking, I must say! Is there anything else--?"
"Not from you; at least, I don't think so just now. But, Norah, I want
your bangle--the gold one, you know! Lend it to me, like a dear, won't
you?"
"If you lose it, will you buy me a new one?"
"I won't lose it. I'll only wear it in the evening, and I'll be most
awfully careful."
"You have a bangle of your own. Why can't you be content with that?"
"I want two--one for each arm; they look so nice with short sleeves.
I'll put it in my jewel-box, and lock it up safely--"
"I haven't said I would lend it to you yet."
But Hilary ran away laughing, and gathered brushes and bangles together
in triumph.
It was on the evening preceding the journey to London that Mr Bertrand
came upon his second daughter standing alone in the upstairs corridor,
which ran the whole length of the house, pressing her forehead against
the panes of the windows. Lettice had been unusually quiet during the
last few days, and her father was glad to have the opportunity of a
quiet talk.
"All alone, dear?" he asked, putting his arm round her waist and drawing
her towards him. "I was thinking about you only a few minutes ago. I
said on New Year's Day, you remember, that I wanted to give each of you
three girls some special little present. Well, Hilary is having this
trip with me, and Norah seems in a fair way of getting her wish in the
matter of lessons; but what about you? I'll take you with me next time
I go away; but in the meantime, is there any little thing you fancy that
I could bring back from London town?"
"No, thank you, father. I don't want anything."
"Quite sure? Or--or--anything I can do for you here, before I go?"
"No, thank you, father. Nothing at all."
The tone was dull and listless, and Mr Bertrand looked down at the fair
face nestled against his shoulder with anxious eyes.
"What is it, dear? What is the matter, my pretty one?"
He was almost startled by the transformation which passed over the
girl's face as he spoke the last few words. The colour rushed into the
cheeks, the lips trembled, and the beautiful eyes gazed meltingly into
his. Lettice put up her arm and flung it impetuously round his neck.
"Do you love me, father? Do you really love me?"
"Love you! My precious child! I love every one of you--dearly--dearly!
But you--" Mr Bertrand's voice broke off with an uncontrollable
tremble--"you know there are special reasons why you are dear to me,
Lettice. When I look at you I seem to see your mother again as I met
her first. Why do you ask such a question? You surely know that I love
you, without being told?"
"But I like being told," said Lettice plaintively. "I like people to
say nice things, and to be loving and demonstrative. Hilary laughs at
me if I am affectionate, and the boys tease. Sometimes I feel so
lonely!"
Mr Bertrand drew his breath in a short, stabbing sigh. He was
realising more keenly every day how difficult it was to bring up young
girls without a mother's tender care. Hilary, with the strain of
hardness and self-seeking which would ruin her disposition unless it
were checked in time; beautiful Lettice, longing for love and
admiration, and so fatally susceptible to a few flattering words; Norah,
with her exceptional talents, and daring, fearless spirit--how was he to
manage them all during the most critical years of their lives? "I must
speak to Helen Carr. Helen Carr will help me," he said to himself, and
sighed with relief at the thought of sharing his burden with the kind-
hearted friend of his youth.
It was nearly six o'clock when the travellers drove up to the door of
the white house in Kensington, and Miss Carr came into the hall to meet
them, looking far less altered by the lapse of years than did her young
visitor, who had developed from a delicate schoolgirl into a self-
possessed young lady of seventeen.
"And this is Hilary. Tut, tut! what do you mean by growing up in this
ridiculous manner, child?" Miss Carr pecked the girl's cheek with a
formal kiss, and turned to hold out both hands to Mr Bertrand.
"Austin! how good to see you again. This is a pleasure--a real
pleasure." There was no doubting the sincerity of the tone, which was
one of most affectionate welcome, and the plain old face beneath the
white cap was beaming with smiles. Miss Carr had been Austin Bertrand's
devoted friend from his youth onwards, one of the earliest believers in
his literary powers, and the most gratified by the fame which he had
gained. Hilary was left out in the cold for the next ten minutes, while
the old lady fussed round her father, inquiring anxiously if he were
cold, if he were tired, and pressing all manner of refreshments upon
him. Even over dinner itself she received scanty attention. She had
put on a pretty blue dress, with a drapery of lace over the shoulders,
arranged her hair in a style copied from the latest fashion book, and
snapped the gold bangles on her arms, with a result which seemed highly
satisfactory upstairs, but not quite so much so when she entered the
drawing-room, for Miss Carr put up her eye-glasses, stared at her
fixedly for several moments, and then delivered herself of an expressive
grunt. "Deary me! seventeen, are we! Don't be in too great a hurry to
grow up, my dear. The time will come when you will be only too thankful
to be young!"
At this rate Hilary began to feel that it was not uninterrupted bliss to
be in London, and this suspicion was deepened when at nine o'clock her
hostess looked at her stolidly, and remarked--
"You are tired, my dear. Go to bed, and have a good night's rest."
Hilary bridled, and held her little head at the angle of injured dignity
which her sisters knew so well. Nine o'clock indeed! As if she were a
baby!
"Oh, thank you, Miss Carr, but I am not tired. It was such an easy
journey. I am not sleepy at all."
"My dear, all young girls ought to get to bed and have their beauty
sleep before twelve o'clock. Don't mind me. Your father will manage to
entertain me. He and I have always plenty to say to each other."
After such plain speaking as this, it was impossible to object any
further. Hilary rose with a flush on her cheeks, kissed her father, and
held out a stiff little hand towards Miss Carr. The old lady looked at
her, and her face softened. She was beginning to repent, in the
characteristic manner to which Norah had referred. Hilary felt herself
pulled forward, kissed lovingly on the lips, and heard a kindly tone
take the place of the mocking accents, "Good-night, dearie, good-night!
We must have some good times while you are here. Sleep well, and to-
morrow we will talk things over, and make our plans."
The door shut behind the girl, and the two occupants of the room looked
at one another in silence. Miss Carr's expression was self-conscious
and apologetic; Mr Bertrand's twitching with humorous enjoyment.
"Too bad, Helen, too bad! I can't have my poor little lass snubbed like
that!"
"My dear Austin, it will do her all the good in the world. What a
little Miss Consequence! What have you been about to let the child
think so much of herself?"
"Put a woman's responsibilities on her shoulders before she was ready to
bear them. My dear Helen, that's the very thing about which I am
anxious to consult you. These girls of mine are getting on my nerves.
I don't know what to do with them. Hilary has the audacity to be
seventeen, and for the last eighteen months she has practically done all
the housekeeping. Miss Briggs looks after the Mouse--Geraldine, you
know--gives lessons to Lettice and Norah, but beyond that she does
little else. She is a good, reliable soul and a great comfort in many
ways, but I fear the girls are getting beyond her. We had a conference
on New Year's Day, and I find that they are tired of present
arrangements, and pining for a change. I promised to think things over,
and see what could be done, and I want your advice. Hilary is a
conscientious, hard-working little soul. She has been thrust into a
responsible position too soon, and it is not her fault if she is a
trifle overbearing, poor child. At the same time, it will be a terrible
misfortune if she grows up hard and unsympathetic. Norah is a vivacious
young person, and they tell me she is developing a genius for music.
She is afire to go abroad and study, but I think I have settled her for
the time being with the promise of the best lessons that the
neighbourhood can produce. Lettice--"
"Yes--Lettice?"
"She is a beautiful girl, Helen! You remember what Elma was at her age.
Lettice is going to be quite as lovely; but I am more anxious about her
than any of the others. She is demonstrative herself, and loves
demonstration, and flattery, and appreciation. It's natural, of
course--quite natural--but I don't want her to grow up into a woman who
lives only for admiration, and whose head can be turned by the first
flattering tongue that comes along. What would be the best thing for a
girl with exceptional beauty, and such a disposition as this--?"
Miss Carr gave one of her comical grunts, "Small-pox, I should say!" she
replied brusquely, then softened into a laugh at the sight of her
friend's horrified face. "I see you are like most parents, Austin; all
your geese are swans! Norah a genius, Lettice a beauty, and Hilary a
model housewife! You seem to be in a nest of troubles, poor man; but I
can't undertake to advise you until I know more of the situation. We
will have a pleasant time while you are here--take Miss Consequence
about, and let her see a little life; and then, as you're an old friend,
I'll sacrifice myself on your behalf, and as soon as the weather is
anything like warm, pay you a visit, and see how things are for myself."
"My dear Helen, this is really noble of you. I know your dread of the
`North Countrie,' and I assure you I appreciate your self-sacrifice.
There is no one else in the world who can help me so much as you."
"Well, well, I have an idea; but I won't say anything about it until I
know the girls better. Would you be willing to--"
"Yes, what?"
"Nothing at all. What a silly old woman I am to be sure, when I had
just said that I wouldn't speak of it! It's something for the good of
your girls, Austin, but that's all you will hear about it until I come
to Cloudsdale, and see them for myself."
CHAPTER SIX.
SCARLET SLIPPERS.
So soon as Mr Bertrand's arrival in town became known, he was inundated
with invitations of every description. To most of these it was
impossible to take Hilary, but Miss Carr was indefatigable in escorting
the girl to concerts and entertainments, and insisted that she should
accompany her father when it was possible.
"If the child is old enough to have the responsibility of a household,
she is old enough to have a little enjoyment, and to make her entrance
into society. She is eighteen next May, she tells me, and she is old
for her age. You must certainly take her to Lady Mary's `At Home.'
There will be music, and recitations, and a crowd of people--just the
sort of thing to please a young girl!"
Mr Bertrand shrugged his shoulders and affected to be horrified at the
idea of having to take out a grown-up daughter. "It makes a man feel so
old," he said, "and I know quite well I shall forget all about her when
I begin talking to my old friends! However, I'll do my best. See that
the child has something decent to wear, like a good soul. I'm not so
short of money now as in the days when you used to send hampers to my
rooms in Oxford, and I should like her to look well. She is not a
beauty like Lettice, but she is a nice-looking little girl in her way,
isn't she, Helen?"
"Oh, I think we may give her credit for more than that. She has an
exquisite complexion, and holds up her little head as if she were quite
conscious of being the eldest child of a famous man. You won't be
ashamed of your daughter, I promise you."
Hilary was delighted at the thought of accompanying her father to the
"At Home," but though she gushed over the prospect in her letters to her
sisters, she did her utmost to hide her excitement from Miss Carr. The
old lady had a habit of making sly little hits at her expense, the cause
of which the girl totally misunderstood. She imagined that it was her
youth and want of experience which annoyed her hostess, whereas, in
reality, it was her affectation of age and worldly knowledge. When the
night arrived, however, it was impossible to keep as calm as she would
have liked, as she arrayed herself in her dainty new frock before
dinner. Miss Carr's choice had been eminently successful. A plain
white satin dress with an overskirt of chiffon, which gave an effect of
misty lightness, a wreath of snowdrops among the puffings at the neck,
and long ends of ribbon hanging from the waist. Hilary looked very
sweet and fresh as she walked into the drawing-room, with a flush of
self-conscious pleasure on her cheeks, and her father gave a start of
surprise as he saw her.
"So! My little girl!" Miss Carr was not yet in the room, and he took
Hilary by the hands, holding her out at arm's length, and looking down
at her with grave, tender eyes. "It's very nice, dear. I'm proud of
you!" Then drawing her to him, and kissing her on the forehead, "We
must be great friends, you and I, my big daughter. This is the
beginning of a new life for you, but you will not grow to think less of
the old home and the old friends?"
"No, no, father! no, never!" Hilary spoke in a quick, breathless
whisper, and there was an unusual moisture in her eyes. Her father saw
that she was nervous and excited, and hastened to change the subject
before there was any danger of a breakdown. The door opened at this
moment to admit Miss Carr, and he advanced to meet her holding Hilary's
hand in his, in the high, stately fashion in which a knight of old led
out his partner in the gavotte.
"Miss Hilary Maud Everette Bertrand--at your service. And many thanks
to the good fairy who has worked the transformation!"
"Humph!" said Mrs Carr, shortly. "Fine feathers make fine birds.
There's the gong for dinner, and if you two are not hungry, I am, so let
us get the serious business over first, and then I'll have a look at the
fineries." Then, after her usual fashion, she slipped her hand through
the girl's arm and led her affectionately across the hall. "Sweet
seventeen! Ah, dear me, I wonder how many years ago it is since I went
out in my first white dress? I was a pretty girl then, my dear, though
you may not think it to look at me now, and I remember my excitement as
if it were yesterday."
When the carriage came to the door two hours later on, Hilary wrapped
herself up in fleecy shawls and went into the drawing-room to bid her
hostess good-night, but she was not allowed to take her departure so
easily. Miss Carr protested that she was not wrapped up sufficiently,
and sent upstairs for a hood and a pair of hideous scarlet worsted
bedroom slippers, which she insisted upon drawing over the dainty white
satin shoes. Hilary protested, but she was not allowed to have a say in
the matter.
"Nonsense, my dear; it's a bitterly cold night, and you have half an
hour's drive. We can't have you catching cold, just to have your feet
looking pretty in a dark carriage. Go along now, and `Good-night,' for
I shall be in bed when you come back. I'll hear all your adventures in
the morning," and she waved the girl away in the imperious fashion which
no one dare resist.
Hilary was annoyed, but she soon forgot the ugly slippers in the
fascination of a drive through the brightly-lighted streets, and when
the carriage drew up beneath an awning, and she had a peep at a
beautiful hall, decorated with palms and flowering plants, and saw the
crowd flocking up the staircase, her breath came fast with excitement.
Her father led her into the house and disappeared through a doorway on
the left, while she herself was shown into a room on the right, wherein
a throng of fashionable ladies were divesting themselves of their wraps,
and giving finishing touches to their toilets before the mirrors. Those
who were nearest to Hilary turned curious glances at her as she took off
her shawls, and the girl felt a sudden and painful consciousness of
insignificant youth. They were so very grand, these fine ladies. They
wore such masses of diamonds, and such marvellous frocks, and mantles,
and wrappings, that she was over-awed, and hurried out of the room as
quickly as possible, without daring to step forward to a mirror. Such a
crowd of guests were making their way up the staircase, that Hilary and
her father could only move forward a step at the time, but after they
had shaken hands with a stout lady and a thin gentleman at the head of
the stairs, there was a sudden thinning off, for a suite of reception
rooms opened out of the hall, and the guests floated away in different
directions.
Mr Bertrand led the way into the nearer of the rooms, and no sooner had
he appeared in the doorway, than there came a simultaneous exclamation
of delight from a group of gentlemen who stood in the centre of the
floor, and he was seized by the arm, patted on the shoulder, and
surrounded by a bevy of admiring friends. Poor Hilary stood in the
background, abashed and deserted. Her father had forgotten all about
her existence. The group of friends were gradually drawing him further
and further away. Not a soul did she know among all the brilliant
throng. Several fashionably dressed ladies put up their eye-glasses to
stare at her as she stood, a solitary figure at the end of the room,
then turned to whisper to each other, while the youngest and liveliest
of the party put her fan up to her face and tittered audibly. They were
laughing at her, the rude, unkind, unfeeling creatures.