A FRIEND IN NEED
Dr. Crossways was at home, and at once set out with the girl for "The
Retreat." He was a surly old man, and, moreover, he had a particularly
annoying habit--of which no amount of gentle correction could break
him--of pronouncing Evarne's name without the final "e," thus
compressing it into two syllables instead of three, as it is in the
musical tongue of ancient Greece, whence the name was taken. As a rule,
the doctor was morose and silent, but on this occasion he had at least
one piece of gossip to enlarge upon.
On the previous day he had indulged himself in a holiday on the
strength of an invitation from the noble lord who had rented the
shooting on a big estate some twenty miles distant. Evidently it had
been a proud and happy occasion for the little doctor, and it was with
ill-concealed gratification that he rattled off the list of those who
had likewise been at this illustrious shooting-party. In it was one
name very familiar to Evarne--Morris Kenyon. She had never seen her
father's early friend, but Leo often dwelt lovingly upon his college
life, and Morris Kenyon had been, apparently, the central figure of
those never-to-be-forgotten days.
Dr. Crossways took his departure from "The Retreat" in a state of high
dudgeon. Accustomed as he was to being called in to cope with every
trivial ailment of the local gentry, his professional pride was outraged
by Mr. Stornway's presuming to approach so very near to Death's portals
without his steps having been carefully guided down the path thereto by
the controlling hand of a disciple of Æsculapius. It was absolutely
insulting--it really bordered on Christian Science!
After parting from the irate doctor, Evarne returned to her father's
room. He raised his weary eyelids as she entered, and looked at her with
a troubled, almost remorseful, expression. He had realised vaguely for
some time past that he was soon to seek the society of his dearly
beloved heroes of antiquity; but not until this solemn medical
visitation had he seriously considered the practical earthly results of
his soul winging its flight to the fields of Asphodel.
When once he should be fairly off upon this interesting journey, his
young daughter would be left quite alone in this world of sin and woe.
What was to become of her? He was singularly devoid of relations. A few
distant cousins and a poverty-stricken and decrepit uncle comprised his
entire stock in that line of goods, while he knew nothing of his wife's
common family beyond the fact that she had a number of half-brothers and
sisters somewhere in Australia. He had but little money to leave his
daughter, and the girl had no training in any means of earning a
livelihood. He sighed despondently, as too late he recognised this
neglected duty.
Evarne sat down by his side, and tenderly stroked his hand. Ere long out
came her little bit of interesting news--Mr. Morris Kenyon was within
twenty miles of Heatherington.
At the mention of this familiar name a sudden light flashed into poor
Leo's worried eyes. Surely for "auld lang syne" this once dear friend
would look after his young daughter until she was able to support
herself? Morris was married to a charming wife--unfortunately now a
confirmed invalid. Leo had met the young lady at the time of her
wedding, and been favourably impressed. Surely she would feel for the
desolate situation of the young orphan. Filled with this idea, he bade
Evarne write, telling of her father's condition, and begging that Morris
would spare time to come over to visit him.
The letter was duly posted that night; the answer arrived by return, the
day after, Morris himself appeared upon the scene. Leo wished to see his
friend alone, so on his arrival he was ushered by Mrs. Jarman direct to
the sick-room.
With engaging readiness Morris undertook to watch over the welfare of
the dying man's daughter when the time came, and lightly brushed aside
the broken thanks. But Leo's gratitude was insistent and touching to
witness. He dwelt much upon the otherwise lonely situation of the girl.
"It is such a weight off my mind," he murmured again and again. "I never
before realised how I have neglected my duty to the child." And he
sighed a deep breath of relief.
"Now, you must see her," he went on, as with a trembling hand he rang a
bell that stood by his side. In almost immediate answer to the summons
Evarne appeared in the doorway.
Leo had made no mention of his daughter's striking personal beauty.
Dutiful, unselfish, intelligent--these, and other eminently desirable
mental and moral attributes had he ascribed to her as recommendations in
Morris's eyes; but upon the subject of that physical quality that counts
for so much more than all the virtues under the sun, the unworldly Leo
had been silent. Kenyon had somehow expected to see a stolid, robust,
and, to him, altogether uninteresting country damsel, and he with
difficulty hid his surprise on beholding the fair vision that answered
the summons.
Evarne's manner was touched with timidity, but she was not at all shy.
She now stood silent and motionless for a moment, surveying her father's
friend with a grave and interested gaze. Then, without waiting for any
introduction, she advanced towards him with outstretched hand and a
little smile of welcome upon her lips. Kenyon rose, and as he clasped
her hand and looked with the eye of a connoisseur more closely into
those charming features, he was half-ashamed at the consciousness of a
distinct sense of satisfaction in the prospect of playing guardian angel
to such a singularly lovely creature.
He left "The Retreat" that evening feeling thoroughly recompensed for
the loss of his half-day's shooting, and that just occasionally the
fulfilling of the duties demanded by friendship might bring their own
reward.
Leo Stornway lingered for more weeks than either he or the doctor had
anticipated, but one morning, just at the beginning of the New Year, he
was found lying calm, pallid, pulseless. His race was run. Silently and
in loneliness the end had come to a silent lonely life.
His desire had been to dispose of his earthly frame in as classical a
manner as possible. The notion he would have really revelled in would
have been a funeral pyre on the common, with the villagers solemnly
running races and engaging in wrestling bouts in honour of his Manes, in
true Greek style. This being obviously out of the question, he had set
his heart upon the nearest thing possible--ordinary cremation. This
urgent desire was found solemnly written on the back of a used envelope.
Hereupon arose trouble for Evarne. The local undertaker, who
respectfully yet promptly put in an appearance, was aghast at her
intention of arranging for the burning of her father's body. He had no
sympathy whatsoever with innovations in his staid and respectable
business.
"It's the last thing you will ever be able to do for your dear, dead
parent, Miss Evarne," said the dour-looking man. "Give him a solid
coffin--it needn't even be oak, we have good lines in elm and ash--but
_do_ give him a decent coffin, and have him put under the earth like he
ought to be!"
Mrs. Jarman was of opinion that such a departure from conventionality
would be absolutely indecent. She also waxed eloquent in another
direction.
"I allus thought you loved your poor dead Pa. I could 'ave sworn you
wouldn't 'ave 'urt a 'air of his 'ead!" she repeated again and again, as
if Evarne's resolve now disposed of that supposition once and for all.
Dr. Crossways was so sure that had he only been consulted in reasonable
time neither cremation nor burial would now be under discussion at all,
that he declined to offer the least suggestion of any sort. As to the
vicar and the curate, they called together on a visit of combined
sympathy and expostulation. Both seemed convinced that a case of
cremation must prove a serious inconvenience to the Almighty on the
Judgment Day--even if it did not place Him in an absolute dilemma.
Into this general confusion and misery, Morris Kenyon--summoned by Mrs.
Jarman--descended with all the _eclat_ of the God in the Machine. He
arrived at the very moment when the two rival dressmakers of
Heatherington, having appeared simultaneously armed with yard measures
and black patterns, were quarrelling in stage whispers in the porch.
This weighty matter settled, he proceeded to take all the arrangements
into his capable hands. Finally, he sat down to a quiet conversation
with the grateful Evarne, the more beautiful for the pallor and
distress, concerning her future.
He learnt that her great ambition was to become an artist. She possessed
decided talent, combined with an ardent appreciation of the beautiful,
but she was absolutely without training, and had evidently no idea of
the long years of steady labour--to say nothing of the "filthy
lucre"--that must be offered at the shrine of Art by would-be disciples.
Looking at Morris, her big eyes filled with a wistful anxiety, she
inquired if the little money her father had left could, by the strictest
economy, be made to last out until she was able to thus keep herself. If
not--and she had evidently come to this conference with her ideas fully
formed--could she not learn shorthand and typewriting? Even then she
hoped that, by rising early and working at her painting after office
hours and on Sundays, she might ultimately earn her living by Art.
Kenyon smiled inwardly at the life she thus proposed for herself. If he
knew aught of the world, the sons of Adam would see to it soon enough
that this particular daughter of Eve did not spend her days simply and
solely divided between banging the keys of a typewriter and daubing
sticky colours on a canvas. It was merely his luck that he happened to
be first in the field.
To Evarne he appeared kindliness itself. Certainly she could and she
should study Art; and this brought him round to a suggestion that he
hoped would give her pleasure. He possessed a delightful villa in balmy
Naples, where Mrs. Kenyon was now staying to escape the rigours of the
English winter. Evarne must come out and stop awhile with his wife. On
the journey through Italy, she should behold all its Art treasures. That
alone, he assured her, would form a splendid foundation for her later
artistic training.
Despite her sorrows, Evarne's face lit up with a sudden brilliant light
of happiness at this altogether delightful prospect, both for the near
and distant future. Her brightened expression thanked her guardian more
ardently than did her softly-spoken words, and so it was settled.