had been made by a fashionable modiste; Miss Carr's own maid had
arranged her hair. "I may not be pretty, but there's nothing ludicrous
about me that I know of," said the poor child to herself, with catching
breath. In spite of her seventeen years, her new dress, and all her
ecstatic anticipations, a more lonely, uncomfortable, and tearfully-
inclined young woman it would be difficult to find. She looked round in
despair, espied a seat in a retired corner, and was making for it as
quickly as might be, when she came face to face with a mirror, and in it
saw a reflection which made the colour rush to her cheeks in a hot,
crimson tide. A girlish figure, with a dark head set gracefully upon a
slender neck, a dainty dress, all cloudy chiffon, satiny ribbons, and
nodding snowdrops, and beneath--oh, good gracious!--beneath the soft
frilled edgings, a pair of enormous, shapeless, scarlet worsted bed
slippers! It would be difficult to say which was the more scarlet at
that moment--the slippers themselves or Hilary's cheeks. She shuffled
forward and stood in the corner, paralysed with horror. There had been
such a crowd in the cloak-room, and she had been so anxious to get away,
that she had forgotten all about the wretched slippers. So that was why
the ladies were laughing! Oh, to think how she must have looked--
standing by herself in the doorway, with those awful, awful scarlet feet
shown up against the white skirts!
"Sit down and slip them off, and hide them in the corner. No one will
see you!" said a sympathetic voice in her ear, and Hilary turned sharply
to find that one end of the seat was already occupied by a gentleman,
who was regarding her with a very kindly smile of understanding. His
face was thin, and there were signs of suffering in the strained
expression of the eyes, so that Hilary, looking at him, found it
impossible to take his advice otherwise than in a friendly spirit.
"Th-ank you," she stammered, and pulling off the offending slippers, hid
them swiftly behind the folds of the curtains, and seated herself on the
sofa by his side.
"That's better!" cried the stranger, looking down with approving eyes at
the little satin shoes which were now revealed. "Forgot to take them
off, didn't you? Very natural. I did the same with snow-shoes once,
and was in the room for half an hour before I discovered that I still
had them on."
"But snow-shoes are black. They wouldn't look half so bad. I saw those
ladies laughing at me. What _must_ they have thought?"
"Do you think it matters very much what they thought?" The stranger
turned his face towards Hilary, and smiled again in his slow, gentle
manner. "Why trouble yourself about the opinion of people whom you
don't know, and whom you will probably never see again? I suppose it is
a matter of perfect indifference to them, but what _I_ think about them
is, that they were exceedingly ill-bred to behave as they did, and I
should attach no value whatever to their opinions. Have you--er--lost
sight of your friends?"
"No, they have lost sight of me." The stranger was at once so kind, and
so sensible, that Hilary began to feel a delightful sense of restored
equanimity, and even gave a little laugh of amusement as she spoke. "I
came with my father, and he has gone off with some friends and forgotten
all about my existence. He is over there at the end of the room; the
tall man with the brown moustache--Mr Austin Bertrand."
The stranger gave a little jump in his seat, and the colour tinged his
cheek. "Bertrand!" he exclaimed. "You are Bertrand's daughter!" He
stared at Hilary with newly-awakened interest, while she smiled, well
pleased by the sensation which the name caused.
"Yes; Austin Bertrand, the novelist. You know him, then? You are one
of his friends?"
"Hardly that, I am afraid. I know him slightly, and he has been most
kind to me when we have met, but I cannot claim him as a friend. I am
one of his most ardent admirers."
"And do you write yourself?" queried Hilary, looking scrutinisingly at
the sensitive, intellectual face, and anticipating the answer before it
came.
"A little. Yes! It is my great consolation. My name is Herbert
Rayner, Miss Bertrand. I may as well introduce myself as there is no
one to do it for me. I suppose you have come up to town on a visit with
your father. You have lived in the Lake district for the last few
years, have you not? I envy you having such a lovely home."
Hilary elevated her eyebrows in doubtful fashion. "In summer it is
perfectly delightful, but I don't like country places in winter. We are
two miles from a village, and three miles from the nearest station, so
you can imagine how quiet it is, when it gets dark soon after four
o'clock, and the lanes are thick with snow. I was glad to come back to
London for a change. This is the first grown-up party I have been to in
my life."
Mr Rayner smiled a little, repeating her words and lingering with
enjoyment on the childish expression. "The first _party_! Is it
indeed? I only wish it were mine. I don't mean to pretend that I am
bored by visiting, as is the fashionable position nowadays. I am too
fond of seeing and studying my fellow-creatures for that ever to be
possible, but a first experience of any kind has an interest which
cannot be repeated. I am like you, I don't like winter. I feel half
alive in cold weather, and would like to go to bed and stay there until
it was warm again. There is no country in the world more charming than
England for seven months of the year, and none so abominable for the
remaining five. If it were not for my work I would always winter
abroad, but I am obliged to be in the hum of things. How do you manage
to amuse yourself in the Lakes?"
"We don't manage at all," said Hilary frankly. "At least, I mean we are
very happy, of course, because there are so many of us, and we are
always having fun and jokes among ourselves; but we have nothing in the
way of regular entertainments, and it gets awfully dull. My sisters and
I had a big grumbling festival on New Year's Day, and told all our woes
to father. He was very kind, and said he would see what could be done,
and that's why I came up to London--to give me a little change."
"I see!" Mr Rayner looked into the girl's face with a scrutinising
look. "So you are dull and dissatisfied with your surroundings. That's
a pity! You ought to be so happy, with such a father, brothers, and
sisters around you, and youth, and health! It seems to me that you are
very well off."
Hilary put up her chin with an air of offended dignity. For one moment
she felt thoroughly annoyed, but the next, her heart softened, for it
was impossible to be vexed with this interesting stranger, with his
pathetic, pain-marked face. Why had he used that word "consolation" in
reference to his work? And why did his voice take that plaintive note
as he spoke of "youth and health"? "I shall ask father about him," said
Hilary to herself; and just at that moment Mr Bertrand came rushing
across the room with tardy remembrance.
"My dear child, I forgot all about you. Are you all right? Have you
had some coffee? Have you found anyone to--er--" He turned a
questioning glance upon the other occupant of the seat, knitted his
brows for a second, and then held out his hand, with an exclamation of
recognition. "Rayner! How are you? Glad to see you again. I was only
talking of you to Moss the other day. That last thing of yours gave me
great pleasure--very fine indeed. You are striding ahead! Come and
lunch with me some day while I am in town. I should like to have a
chat. Have you been making friends with my daughter? Much obliged to
you for entertaining her, I have so many old friends here that I don't
know which way to turn. Well, what day will you come? Will Tuesday
suit? This is my present address, and my kind hostess allows me to ask
what guests I will. There was something I had specially on my mind to
ask you. Tuesday, then--half-past one! Good-bye till then. Hilary, I
will look you up later on. Glad you are so well entertained." He was
off again, flying across the room, scattering smiles and greetings as he
went, while the two occupants of the corner seat exchanged glances of
amusement.
"That's just like father. He gets so excited that he flies about all
over the house, and hardly knows what he is doing."
"He is delightfully fresh and breezy; just like his books. And now you
would like some refreshments. They are in the little room over there.
I shall be happy to accompany you, if you will accept my somewhat--er--
inefficient escort."
Hilary murmured some words of thanks, a good deal puzzled to understand
the meaning of those last two words. Somewhat to her surprise, her new
friend had not risen to talk to her father, and even now, as she stood
up in response to his invitation, he remained in his seat, bending
forward to grope behind the curtains. A moment later he drew forth
something at the sight of which Hilary gave an involuntary exclamation
of dismay. It was a pair of crutches; and as Mr Rayner placed one
under each arm and rose painfully to his feet, a feeling of overpowering
pity took possession of the girl's heart. Her eyes grew moist, and a
cry of sympathy forced themselves from her trembling lips.
"Oh--I--I'm _sorry_!" she gasped, with something that was almost a sob
of emotion, and Mr Rayner winced at the sound as with sudden pain.
"Thank you," he said shortly. "You are very kind. I'm--I'm used to it,
you know. This way, please." And without another word he led the way
towards the refreshment room, while Hilary followed, abashed and
sorrowful.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
AN "AT HOME."
Hilary asked her father many questions about the new acquaintance, and
took great interest in what he had to tell.
"Clever fellow, clever fellow; one of the most promising of the younger
men. I expect great things of him. Yes, lame, poor fellow! a terrible
pity! Paralysis of the lower limbs, I hear. He can never be better,
though I believe there is no reason why he should get worse. It's a sad
handicap to such a young man, and, of course, it gives a melancholy cast
to his mind. It was kind of him to entertain you so nicely--very kind
indeed."
Hilary gave her head a little tilt of displeasure. Why should it be
"kind" of Mr Rayner to talk to her? Father seemed to think she was a
stupid little girl, on whom no grown-up person would care to waste their
time; but Mr Rayner had not seemed at all bored by her conversation,
and when some friends had tried to take him away, he had excused
himself, and preferred to remain in the quiet corner.
When Tuesday came, and Mr Rayner arrived, Mr Bertrand was busy
writing, and despatched his daughter to amuse his guest until he should
have finished his letters. "Tell him I won't be more than ten minutes;
and he must excuse me, like a good fellow, for I am obliged to catch
this post," he said, and Hilary went into the long drawing-room, to find
her new friend seated on the couch, with his crutches by his side. He
was looking better than when she had seen him last, and had a
mischievous smile on his face.
"Good morning, Miss Two Shoes!" he cried, and Hilary gave a little start
of consternation.
"Oh, h-ush! They don't know--I didn't tell them. Miss Carr would never
stop talking about it, and father would tease me to death. I only said
that I had forgotten to put the slippers on coming home, which was quite
true. It was rather awkward, for they belonged to Miss Carr. She
insisted on lending them to me at the last moment. The servants would
be surprised when they found them behind the curtains the next morning,
wouldn't they?"
"They would!" said Mr Rayner drily, and there was a peculiar smile upon
his face which Hilary could not understand. "So they were not yours,
after all. I thought the size seemed rather--excessive! I promise not
to betray you if you would rather keep the secret, but if the story gave
as much pleasure to your father as it has done to me, it seems rather
selfish to keep it from him. I have had the heartiest laughs I have
known for months past, thinking of the tragic incident of the scarlet
slippers!"
"Please don't!" said Hilary; but she laughed as she spoke, and so far
from being offended, was quite thankful to hear that she had been the
means of giving some amusement to the new friend. "I have been hearing
all about you from father," she continued, nodding her head at him
cheerily. "He has promised to give me one of your books to read when we
get back to Clearwater. Will you please write your name in my autograph
book? I brought it downstairs on purpose. There are pens and ink on
this little table."
Mr Rayner smiled, but made no objections. He took a very long time
over the signature, however, and when Hilary took up the book, she saw
that each leg of the H ended in the shape of a dainty little shoe, so
finely done that it would probably escape the notice of anyone who was
not critically inclined.
"Too bad," she cried laughingly; "I am afraid you are going to be as
persistent as father in keeping up the joke."
"They are the proper slippers, you observe--not the woollen atrocities,"
replied Mr Rayner; and Hilary was still rejoicing in the discovery that
he could be mischievous like other people, when the door opened, and her
father came rushing into the room.
Luncheon was served immediately afterwards, and when it was over, Mr
Bertrand carried off the young man to have a private talk in the
library. They did not make their appearance until the afternoon was
well advanced, and when they did, the drawing-room was full of people,
for it was Miss Carr's "At home" day, and the presence of Austin
Bertrand, the celebrated novelist, brought together even more visitors
than usual.
Hilary had not found the entertainment at all amusing. It seemed absurd
to her innocent mind that people should come to see Miss Carr, and
exchange no further word with her than "How d'you do," and "Good-bye,"
and though the hum of conversation filled the room, most of the visitors
were too old and too grand to take any notice of a girl just out of the
schoolroom. A few young girls accompanied their mothers, but though
they eyed Hilary wistfully, they would not speak without the
introduction which Miss Carr was too busy to give. One girl, however,
stared more persistently than the rest, and Hilary returned her scrutiny
with puzzled curiosity. She was a tall, elegant girl, but there was
something in the wavy line of the eyebrows which seemed strangely
familiar, and she had a peculiar way of drawing in her lips, which
brought back a hundred misty recollections. Where had she seen that
face before? Hilary asked herself, staring fixedly at the stranger.
The stranger began to smile; a flash of recollection passed across each
face, and the next moment they were clasping hands, and exclaiming in
mutual recognition--
"Hilary!"
"Madge!"
"The idea of meeting you here! I haven't seen you since we were tiny
little dots at school. I thought you lived ever so far away--up in the
North of England."
"So we do; but we are here on a visit. Madge! how grown-up you are!
You are only six months older than I, but you look ever so much more
than that. How are you, and what are you doing, and how are all your
brothers and sisters? Lettice will be so interested to know I have seen
you."
"Dear Lettice, yes! She was a nice girl. So affectionate, wasn't she?
I should like to see her again. Perhaps I may, for father has taken a
house at Windermere for next summer, and if you are not far away, we
could often meet and go excursions together."
"Oh, how lovely! We are three miles from Windermere station, but we
have a pony carriage and bicycles, and could drive over to see you. Do
sit down, Madge. I don't know anyone here, and it is so dull sitting by
myself in a corner."
"I am afraid I can't. I am with mother, you see, and she doesn't like
to be left alone. Perhaps I shall see you again before I go!" And
Madge Newcome nodded, and strolled off in a careless, indifferent manner
which brought the blood to Hilary's face. Mrs Newcome was talking to a
group of friends and looked very well satisfied, so much so that Hilary
suspected that the daughter's anxiety had been more for herself than her
mother, and that Miss Madge did not appreciate the attractions of
sitting in a quiet corner.
"It's very unkind, when I told her I knew nobody; but she was a selfish
girl at school. She doesn't want to stay with me, that's the truth. I
wish this horrid afternoon would come to an end!" she told herself
dolefully, and it was with unconcealed delight that at last she heard
the sound of Mr Rayner's crutches, and welcomed that gentleman to a
seat by her side. He looked brighter than she had yet seen him, and had
evidently been enjoying himself upstairs.
"Well," he said cheerily, "here you are in the midst of the merry
throng! Have you had a pleasant time? Not! Why, how's that? I
thought you enjoyed seeing a crowd of people."
"I thought I did, but I find I don't like it so much as I expected,"
said Hilary dejectedly. "When people are talking and laughing all
round, and I am left to keep myself company in a corner, it isn't at all
amusing. I suppose there are a great many celebrated people here, but I
don't know one from the other, so I am no wiser."
"Never mind, I know them all. We will sit here quietly, and when anyone
interesting comes along, I will let you know. Your father has been so
kind to me, and has encouraged me until I feel as strong as a giant, and
greedy for work. He has asked me to come down to the Lakes to visit you
some time in spring, so I may see you again before long. Now then! one
of those ladies over there on the sofa is the Duchess of M---. Guess
which of the three she is!"
"Oh, I know; the pretty one, of course, with the blue dress, and the
bonnet with the cream lace."
"Wrong! Guess again."
"The dark one with the beaded cape!"
"Wrong again! It is the grey-haired lady in the corner."
Hilary gasped, and stared aghast at the stout, shabby lady, who looked
everything that was motherly and pleasant, but as different as possible
from her ideas of what a duchess ought to be. Then Mr Rayner went on
to point out a poet, a painter of celebrated pictures, and half-a-dozen
men and women whose names the girl had known from her youth, but who all
seemed terribly disappointing in reality. She expressed her opinions in
a candid manner, which seemed vastly to amuse her hearer, and they were
so merry together that Hilary saw many envious glances directed towards
their corner, and realised that other people were envying her in their
turn. Madge Newcome came up to say good-bye, before leaving, and
elevated her eyebrows in a meaning manner towards Mr Rayner.
"You seem to be having a pleasant time. I think Mr Rayner has such an
interesting face, but people say he is so stiff and reserved that it is
impossible to know him."
"He is not reserved to me!" said Hilary consequentially. She had not
forgiven Madge Newcome for her desertion an hour earlier, and shook
hands with an air of dignified reserve.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
A PAINFUL AWAKENING.
A fortnight in London passes quickly enough; but the time seems much
longer to the friends who are left at home, and who have no variety in
the quiet course of their lives. Half-a-dozen times a day Lettice and
Norah said to each other, "What will Hilary be doing now?" And when a
letter came, telling the plans of the next few days, they followed her
movements hour by hour, telling each other, "Now she will be driving
into town!" "Now she will be looking at the pictures!" "Now she will
be dressing for the evening!" When the day of the traveller's return
arrived, there was quite a bustle of excitement in the home. Lettice
ordered Hilary's favourite puddings for dinner, Norah gave the drawing-
room a second dusting in the afternoon, while Miss Briggs put on her cap
with the pink ribbons, and dressed Geraldine in her best frock. They
were all in the hall, ready to receive the travellers, as the fly from
the station drove up to the door, and while Mr Bertrand stayed without
to pay the driver, Hilary lost no time in hurrying indoors. Within the
first two minutes the sisters noticed a change in her manner. Her voice
seemed to have a new tone; when Miss Briggs held out a welcoming hand,
she extended her own at an elevation which made the good lady stare, and
even while kissing the girls, her eyes were roving round the hall with
an expression of dissatisfaction.
"Why have you not lighted all the lamps?" she inquired, and when Lettice
replied in amazement that there were as many lamps as usual, she
shrugged her shoulders, and muttered something about "inky darkness."
If Mr Bertrand had not appeared at that moment it would be difficult to
say what would have happened, but he came rushing in like a breeze of
fresh, wintry air, seizing each of the girls in turn, and folding them
in a bear-like hug.
"Well--well--well--here we are again! Glad to be back in the old home.
How are you, dear? How are you, pet? Miss Briggs, I see you are
flourishing! How have all these young people been behaving while I was
away? What about dinner? I'm so hungry that I shall eat the Mouse in
desperation if I am kept waiting. Well, little Mouse, glad to see your
father back again, eh? Come upstairs with me while I change my coat for
dinner."
It was like another house when the cheery, bustling master was at home,
and Lettice and Norah forgot their passing annoyance in rejoicing over
his return. During the evening, however, Hilary managed to give offence
more than once. She kept frowning to herself as she sat at the head of
the table, and looking up and down with a discontented air which was
very exasperating to those who had done their utmost to study her tastes
and to give her a pleasant home-coming. When dinner was over and the
family party adjourned into the drawing-room, she kept jumping up from
her seat to alter the arrangement of plants and ornaments, or to put
some article in its proper place. Norah elevated her eyebrows at
Lettice, who nodded in sympathetic understanding, but both girls
controlled their irritation out of consideration for their father, whose
pleasure in the first evening at home would have been spoiled if his
daughters had taken to quarrelling among themselves.
Mr Bertrand had brought home a perfect treasure-trove of presents for
the stay-at-homes. A beautiful little brooch and bangle for Lettice;
music, books, and a paint-box for Norah: furs for Miss Briggs; and a
small toy-shop for the dear little "youngest of seven."
Such an excitement as there was in the drawing-room while the
presentations were going on! such shrieks of delight! such exclamations
of "Just what I wanted!" such huggings and kissings of gratitude! Mr
Bertrand declared at last that he would be pulled to pieces, and ran
upstairs to the shelter of his beloved study. After he had gone, Hilary
seemed for the time being to forget her grievances, whatever they might
be, and drawing her chair to the fire, settled down to one of the good
old-fashioned gossips which her sisters loved Lettice and Norah had a
dozen extra questions which they were burning to ask about every
incident of the visit to London; and they were not more eager to hear
than Hilary was to tell, for what is the good of going away and having
adventures if we cannot talk about them when we come home?
The meeting with Madge Newcome was a subject of much interest. "Quite
grown-up, you say, and very grand and fashionable! And you went to
lunch with her one day. Are the boys at home? What are they like?
There was Cyril, the little one in the Eton jacket, who used to play
with Raymond; and Phil, the middy; and the big one who was at college--
Arthur, wasn't he? What is he like now?"
"I saw him only once, but it was quite enough. He is in business with
his father--a terribly solemn, proper person, who talks about books, and
says, `Were you not?'--`Would you not?' Miss Carr says he is very
clever, and good, and intellectual, but all the same, I am sure she
doesn't like him. I heard her describe him to father as `that wooden
young man.' It will be nice to see Madge in the summer, though I
haven't forgiven her for leaving me alone that afternoon. Oh, and I
must tell you--" And the conversation branched off in another direction,
while the girls crouched over the fire, laughing and talking in happy
reunion.
Alas! the next day the clouds gathered over the family horizon and
culminated in such a storm as was happily of rare occurrence. The
moment that she left her bedroom Hilary began to grumble, and she
grumbled steadily the whole day long. Everything that Lettice had done
during her absence was wrong; the servants were careless and
inefficient; the drawing-room--Norah's special charge--looked as if no
one had touched it for a fortnight; the house was dingy and badly
lighted, and each arrangement worse than the last. Lettice hated
quarrelling so much that she was prepared to bear a good deal before
getting angry, but quick-tempered Norah exploded into a burst of
irritation before the afternoon was half over.
"The fact is you have been staying for a fortnight in a grand London
house, and you are spoiled for your own home. I think it is mean to
come back, after having such a lovely time, and make everyone miserable
with your grumbling and fault-findings! Lettice did everything she
could while you were away, and the house is the same as when you left
it."
"Perhaps it is, but I didn't know any better then. I know now how
things ought to be done, and I can't be satisfied when they are wrong."