A NEW FRIEND
IT was not long after Gentian's return to the Miss Buchans that the
blow fell upon her about St. Anselm's Vicarage. Thorold wrote to her
himself about it, and Mrs. Wharnecliffe had her over for the day to
discuss plans. To her astonishment, Gentian took it very quietly.
"I am not surprised. I have no right to a house. I have no money to
live there. I am alone in this grey old England. Cousin Thor gave it
more to Waddy than to me, and now she is gone I have no right to expect
that Cousin Thor should provide me with a house to keep my possessions
in. He did tell me that I could have it for a time, but now this curate
with his family wants it, and they will take possession of the darling
organ. It has all gone from me. I shall only have memories of it now."
"You must look upon my house as your pied-à-terre, I won't say home,
for you have become such an independent young lady that you resent the
thought of any one taking care of you. But you know, dear, that you
will be always welcome, and that I am ready to help you in every way
possible."
"You are very kind," said Gentian, looking at her with a deep gravity
in her blue starry eyes; "but I am learning to stand alone. I shall
have to do it, and the sooner I begin the better. I shall be very
grateful if you will store a few boxes for me. I haven't very many
worldly goods, have I? Only just some mementoes from my darling Italy,
and a few of my mother's treasures. I will write this evening and tell
Cousin Thor that I will clear out my things to-morrow."
Thorold got her letter, and for some hours after receiving it, felt
distracted and disturbed.
"DEAR CORNISH BENEFACTOR,—
"You have broken your news very softly. But I am ready to quit, as
the Americans would say, and shall march out with my head up, and my
tears locked down into a pool at the bottom of my heart. You have a
right to let your own house to anyone. I was only a charity pauper
whilst there. This isn't bitterness but fact, and never was a poor
orphan more kindly housed than I was. I knew when I turned the key in
the door and went off to the Miss Buchans that I should never go back
again. I felt it in my bones. Mrs. Wharnecliffe impressed upon me that
I could not live there alone. I knew that I had not enough money of my
own to feed myself and a chaperone, to say nothing of paying her to
dance attendance on me. So there we are. I feel I am growing wise and
old. That sunny chapter of my life is over. The clouds began to appear
when you took your departure, and when Waddy left me for good, the sun
disappeared altogether.
"But, and this is a big But. I will print it in large letters, BUT,
I have I believe got my storm-proof and mackintosh on, and I'm assuring
myself over and over, that this fresh storm may beat about my feelings
and passions and hopes and desires, but can't reach my soul. I don't
forget your little sermon, you see. I've discovered one of the Bible's
secrets, that blessedness—that's happiness, is it not?—comes to those
who believe when they can't see. And then after I have thought over
that a good while, I give myself a pat on the shoulder and say, 'Your
future is not in your hands, child.' Only I can't give it quite the
nice kind of pat that you did.
"Anyhow, I want you to be assured that I accept my fate with placidity,
and am still pursuing my daily rounds of duty combined with some small
bits of pleasure. I am getting quite a good rider. Now I know and share
Miss Horatia's feelings about cars. They're good to get to places, but
for enjoying the country they're not in it with a horse. She has taken
me for several long rides through lanes and woods where cars cannot go,
and if ever I become a rich woman, I will buy a horse and keep it till
I die.
"I suppose Jim Paget would give me a horse if I married him. He has
written to-day to say he wants to see me, but I've put him off. I can't
see him here. It would be awkward, and Miss Anne told me to-day that
she's expecting a nephew of theirs from abroad to come and stay with
them. He is arriving to-morrow. Do you know him? His name is Vernon
Buchan. He is a great violinist and gives recitals in London. I am
anxious and excited to meet him. I do love anyone who loves music, don
t you? Miss Horatia rather sniffs when his name is mentioned. I don't
think she approves of him. She said straight out yesterday when Miss
Anne said how long it was since they had seen him:
"'He is in want of something, my dear Anne, or he would not ask us to
have him.'
"Miss Anne shook her head and looked at me. I pretended, of course, to
be engrossed in Miss Anne's knitting.
"This evening Miss Anne asked me if I would like a few days' holiday.
I don't think she wants me to meet her nephew. Why? I have seen too many
men and musicians abroad to be unduly impressed by them. But of course
I said I could go to Mrs. Wharnecliffe. I think she will have me. I did
not know about it this afternoon when I was over there. And I can't
go to her to-morrow, so I shall have a glimpse of the nephew before I
disappear.
"Oh, Cousin Thor, I am scribbling away like this to take my thoughts
off my unfortunate existence. Does anyone in the whole wide world
really want me, I wonder? I don't mean foolish creatures like Jim and
your Godwin who like the outside of me, and have no more ideas of my
real self than a cat has of a polar bear. Miss Anne, you see, can
dispense with my services very easily when she likes.
"How is that darling little fishing village? I should like to own a
boat and turn myself into a fisher girl and sail away into the sunset
sky every evening, drawing my fishing net through the rippling water,
and watch the stars come out one by one and twinkle in a thousand
lights on the moonlit waves! I would be quite happy in one of those
queer little whitewashed houses with my chimney touching my neighbour's
doorstep above.
"Good-bye, Guardian, Mentor, and Granite Tor.
"Your lonely, bewildered, but not utterly beaten—
"BUBBLE."
The Miss Buchans were at tea in the big drawing-room when their nephew
arrived.
Gentian was with them. She wore a simple white gown. The only colour
about her was that of the arresting blue of her eyes. But as Vernon
Buchan came swiftly forward to greet his aunts, his eyes only took in
one picture, that of the slim white girlish figure with the piquant
oval face, the sunny cloud of hair and the wonderful eyes.
She was introduced to him, and for a moment he wondered how she came
there. Miss Anne quietly enlightened him.
"Miss Brendon looks after me, and drives me out in the afternoon. In
these days we have lady chauffeurs. It was some time before I became
accustomed to the idea."
Gentian said to herself with mutinous lips: "And now I am put in my
place and must stay there."
But Vernon was so talkative, and his conversation was so interesting,
that she could not stay mute for long, and when she heard that he had
only just arrived from Italy and had been to Capri three days before
leaving, she clasped her hands in eager delight.
"Oh, tell me! It was my home for so many years. Tell me how it looks.
Where did you stay? I know every one. And is Luigi still the first to
come and offer to take you and your luggage to the Engleesh-speaking
hotel?"
He laughed gaily. Miss Anne could as soon stop the current of a river
towards the sea as the animated talk which followed between the two
young people.
Before dinner time came, Vernon was well acquainted with Gentian's
history, but he did not devote himself entirely to her; he only took
good care to include her in conversation with his two aunts.
It was a lovely summer evening. In the big drawing-room later on,
Gentian went to the piano. It was her custom to play to Miss Anne for
half an hour every night. Vernon sat by the open window, and listened
with his heart in his eyes.
"But your music is divine!" he exclaimed. "You have the soul of a true
artist. I have my violin. I never go anywhere without it. Will you
accompany me?"
"I don't know that I can," said Gentian simply, "but I will try."
Horatia smiled grimly when she saw them settle themselves at the piano
for the rest of the evening.
Gentian was quick at reading at sight. Her touch and her execution
entranced Vernon.
At last Miss Anne intervened.
"Please let us enjoy your society, Vernon. I think you had better
practise in the mornings. Too much music makes my head ache. Oh, don't
apologize, but it is nearly ten o'clock and I want to hear a great deal
from you. How is your sister, and where is she?"
"Oh, she has a flat in town."
Vernon put by his violin with reluctance.
"I'm staying with her. I had to hurry back, for I have one or two
recitals coming off before the season closes."
"Is her husband with her?"
"My dear aunt, is he ever with her? He's hunting big game in Ceylon
at present. Emmie and I are always happy together. But just now I'm a
harassed wretch. I felt I must have a couple of nights with you, and
I've really come down here to look up a certain Miss Lascelles who is
in your neighbourhood. My accompanist is ill, he's had to go off to
Davos—lung trouble—and Miss Lascelles took his place once before. She
lives in Winderball. Isn't that your nearest town?"
"Yes," said Miss Horatia. "I know whom you mean. Miss Lascelles is the
daughter of a doctor there. She makes a living by her music, does she
not, but some one told me only last week that she had gone abroad—to
Austria, I think. She has obtained some musical post over there."
Vernon ran his hand nervously up and down through his hair.
"Disaster stares me in the face! I shall have to pelt back to town
to-morrow to arrange something."
But when the next day came he did not go. Instead, he kept Gentian at
the piano every moment of her spare time, and at five o'clock tea he
sprang his bomb.
"I have been directed down here," he said solemnly; "by my good fairy.
I have found my accompanist. Aunt Anne, will you spare Miss Brendon for
a week or two? Emmie will gladly put her up. With her, my success in
town will be assured. She's a born accompanist."
Miss Anne was simply speechless. Nothing more had been said about
Gentian's proposed holiday. Miss Horatia had told her sister gruffly
that it was too late in the day to save the situation.
"He is bowled over, as I knew he would be, by her pretty grace and her
music. But it will be one of his passing emotions. Vernon is too fond
of his own ease and comfort to mean anything serious."
Now Miss Horatia, if feeling startled, did not show it. She smiled at
her nephew a little provokingly.
"Anything more?" she asked. "Would you like our good cook, and my
hunter? Not that I class Miss Brendon with them, but she is here for a
purpose and cannot be spared."
He waved his hand airily.
"She must be spared. You have got on without her for a good many years,
and a month at the outside will see me through my recitals. Town will
be getting empty very soon. This is my chance, and I am not going to
lose it. It would be a sin and shame to keep her down here, whilst I am
rushing all over the country and tearing my hair to find somebody who
will do for me."
"There are hundreds of people in town who will jump at the job," said
Miss Horatia, "and any Concert Directoire would find one for you."
Vernon got up from his seat.
"I mean to have Miss Brendon," he said emphatically. "I shall run away
with her, abduct her. It's so easy in these days with a car. She may be
going on an errand to the village, a car slows down, a shawl is flung
over her head, and it's done. She's dropped in the bottom of the car a
helpless heap, and away we go—in London before she is even missed!"
"Don't be so ridiculous, Vernon!"
"And improper," murmured Miss Anne.
Gentian began to laugh. Her happy infectious laugh made every one join
in it.
"I am the person to be consulted," she said, "and I could not possibly
leave my present situation, sir." Here she gave a little bow to Vernon.
"Oh, indeed you can. Aunt Anne and Aunt Horatia can come up to town
with you if they like, if they won't trust Emmie to look after you. I
mean you to come—and I'm a bit of a hypnotist; you'll find yourself
doing it before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'"
"I am going upstairs to have a rest in my room before dinner,"
announced Miss Anne quietly. "Gentian, come with me, please."
Gentian offered her her arm at once and they left the room together.
Vernon settled down in his chair again. He meant to have it out with
his Aunt Horatia.
A determined man can get the better of two women if they happen to
be fond of him. Miss Anne and Miss Horatia did not approve of their
nephew's ways. He was too Bohemian, too unconventional, and too
improvident to please them. But they loved him, and had given him a
home when his parents were abroad and he was a small schoolboy.
Before another day had elapsed, Gentian found herself ready to agree to
his proposal. Secretly she was elated at the thought of it. She went
over to Mrs. Wharnecliffe and coaxed her round to give her permission,
but to Thorold she did not write till everything was settled and she
was in the train with Vernon for Town.
The ensuing weeks seemed unreal to her. She was by turn delighted and
wearied with the wild rush of life that was now her lot. Mrs. St.
Lucas, Vernon's sister, was a bright happy-go-lucky little lady, who
was as eager in her protestations of friendship for Gentian, as she was
in getting rid of all responsibility concerning her.
The practices for the Recitals kept Gentian busy, but she was not at
the piano the whole day, and Vernon was only too ready to take her out
to lunch and dinner and then to the theatre afterwards. Mrs. St. Lucas
was generally with them, but not always—and as time went on, Vernon
began to assume airs of proprietorship which Gentian opposed with quiet
dignity. She would laugh and talk with him about a hundred different
things, but let personality be brought into prominence, then she
stiffened immediately.
The first Recital was a great success—Gentian wrote a full account of
it to Thorold.
"You see," she concluded, "that I am now being shown that the talent
which has been given to me must be used. You have no idea of the
flattering things that have been said to me. The Managing Director told
me that if I stayed in London, he could give me continual work, and the
pay he would offer me staggers me. It would be foolish, dear Cousin
Thor, would it not, to go back to the Miss Buchans and wind wool and
read magazine articles and drive a car when I could earn double here,
and have such a lovely time? It is so exquisite, feeling I have a right
and a duty to spend hours at the piano. I have always dreamt of playing
to an audience, and they seem to think that I could manage a solo or
two of my own later on. Mr. Buchan amuses me so much—he thinks he has a
right to choose the dress I am to wear when I play for him. I have to
buy new gowns up here. Mrs. St. Lucas has taken me to her dressmaker,
and it seems to me that my first earnings will be swallowed up with
frocks. He insisted upon my wearing a kind of moonlight blue when I
made my first appearance in public. And then he wanted me to be in
white and gold. But I stuck at that. It was not retiring enough for an
accompanist.
"Oh, Cousin Thor, how he plays! He pours his whole soul out! I think
his violin comes first in the world with him. He makes me thrill and
quiver when he plays, and I could weep from sheer ecstasy.
"I must tell you, that the other day I met Jim in Bond Street.
Mr. Buchan and I were going to the Academy. It was a surprise. Jim came
with us, but it was uncomfortable being three, and they glared at each
other like angry dogs over a bone. I needn't tell you I was the bone.
And the poor bone wished herself miles away from them both.
"Then Jim came to see me yesterday, and Mrs. St. Lucas welcomed him
sweetly, but when we were alone, he trotted out the old story, and
I thought hard, of the home he would give me, and the fun, and the
affection. And the managing. But he told me in the midst of it all,
that the musical world was a rotten environment for any girl, and that
he would never let any one he knew play in public! I thanked him and
dismissed him, and cried when he had gone.
"Why do you all try to manage me? Mr. Buchan does—but I am in his
pay, so he is my master. I think you are better than you used to be.
Perhaps it is that you are rather tired of me and do not feel it worth
while. I thought you might be angry when you heard I was here, but your
letters say so little. They're as mild as toast and water. I don't want
you to object to what I am doing, for I mean to go on doing it, and
I am writing to the Miss Buchans to-day to break with them. Mrs. St.
Lucas wants me to go to Vienna with her next month. What do you think
of that! I mean to study music there, and next autumn I am assured of
plenty of work.
"Sometimes I shut my eyes and see the little valley running down to the
sea. Tell me how the mine is going, and if Miss Muir is still planning
a house for you. And are you living in lodgings or still at the Rectory?
"This is from the Bubble who is beginning to soar once more."
Thorold's answer was as follows:
"MY DEAR LITTLE FLEDGED MUSICIAN,—
"Why should I try to cut your wings? And stamp upon your talent which
is now seeing the light of London Town? I don't like the life for you,
and rather agree with poor unfortunate Jim. It is too hard work for one
of your calibre. The late hours, the strain, and rush, and artificial
atmosphere will all tell on your nervous system, but this, I am sure,
you will have to find out for yourself. The week or two you are
experiencing now will be very different from the perpetual grind of a
professional accompanist. And if you should develop into a professional
soloist, it will be harder work still.
"I have nothing to say, except that if you get tired or disillusioned,
send for me. I am at the end of a wire. And we'll fix up something
else. Never be afraid of owning up to mistakes. Such a lot of trouble
comes from false pride. What can I tell you about myself? I am in
diggings at a farm near the mine, and I eat a lot of Cornish cream,
and enjoy Cornish pasties and Saffron buns. We're very pleased with
the mine—we've opened up a vein of tin, and now the work is going
fast! I feel sorry that your time at the Mount is over. What will Miss
Anne do without you? Vienna is not an attractive town to me. I knew
it in my young days before my father died. To spend one of summer's
best months there is pitiful. But the music, of course, is enchanting.
Only—only—child—don't let the musical world swamp and drown your soul.
"Yours when you want me,
"THOROLD."
Gentian tucked this letter inside her frock after kissing the signature.
"Yours when you want me," she murmured to herself; "how I wish I could
make that into a proposal! Oh, Cousin Thor, I'll send for you, I know I
shall, but not yet! Things are going too well, and I'm enjoying myself.
And my musical soul is being fed and satisfied."