mother!' she said, 'I quite thought that house would have broken her
heart--oh, I'm not saying a word against it, Ella, I know _you_ like it,
and I'm sure it looks very comfortable--everything so sensible and
useful, and the kitchen really charming; mother and I liked it best of
all the rooms. Such a horrid man let us in; he was at work there, and he
would follow us all about, and tell mother his entire history. I don't
think he _could_ have been quite sober, he would insist on turning all
the taps on everywhere. I suppose, Ella, it's ever so much _cheaper_ to
furnish as you and George have done; that's the worst of pretty things,
they do cost such a lot! I'd no idea you were so practical, though,' and
so on.
On Sunday George came to luncheon. He was delighted to hear from Flossie
that they had been to the house, and gave a boisterously high-spirited
account of his labours. 'It _was_ a grind,' he informed them, 'and, as
for those painter-fellows, I began to think they'd stay out the entire
lease.'
'Art is long, George,' observed Flossie, wickedly.
'Oh yes, I know; but they promised faithfully to be out in ten days, and
they were over three weeks!'
'But look at the result! George, how _did_ you find out that Ella liked
grained doors?'
'Well, to tell you the truth, Flossie, that was a bit of a fluke. The
man told me that graining was coming in again, and I said, "Grain 'em,
then"--_I_ didn't know!'
In short, he was more provokingly dense than ever to-day, and Ella found
herself growing more and more captious and irritable that afternoon; he
could not understand why she was so disinclined to talk; even the dear
little house of which she was so soon to be the mistress failed to
interest her.
'You have told me twice already that you got the drawing-room carpet a
great bargain, and only paid four pounds ten for the table in the
dining-room,' she broke out. 'Can't we take that for granted in future?'
'I forgot I'd told you; I thought it was the mater,' he said; 'and I
say, Ella, how about pictures? Jessie's promised to do us some
water-colours--she's been taking lessons lately, you know--but we shall
want one or two prints for the dining-room, shan't we? You can pick them
up second-hand very cheap.'
'Oh yes, yes; anything you please, George!... No, no; I'm not cross, I'm
only tired, especially of talking about the house. It is quite finished,
you know, so what _is_ there to discuss?'
During the days that followed, Flossie devised an ingenious method of
tormenting Ella; she laid out her pocket-money, of which she had a good
deal, on the most preposterous ornaments--a pair of dangling cut-glass
lustres, bead mats, a trophy of wax fruit under a glass shade, gaudy
fire-screens and flowerpots, all of which she solemnly presented to her
suffering sister. This was not pure mischief or unkindness on Flossie's
side, but part of a treatment she had hit upon for curing Ella of her
folly. And at last the worm turned. Flossie came in one day with a cheap
plush and terra-cotta panel of appalling ugliness.
'For the drawing-room, dear,' she observed blandly, and Ella suddenly
burst into a flood of tears.
'You are very, very unkind to me, Flossie!' she sobbed.
'I!' exclaimed Flossie, in a tone of the most innocent surprise. 'Why,
Ella, I thought you would be charmed with it. I'm sure _George_ will.
And, you know, it will go beautifully with the rest of your things!'
'You might understand ... you might see----'
'I might see what?'
'How _frightfully_ miserable I am!' said Ella, which was the very
admission Miss Flossie had been seeking to provoke.
'Suppose I _do_ see,' she said; 'suppose I've been trying to get you to
act sensibly, Ella?'
'Then it's cruel of you!'
'No it's not. It's kind. How am I to help you unless you speak out? I'm
younger than you, Ella, but I know this--_I_ would never mope and make
myself miserable when a word would put everything right!'
'But it wouldn't, Flossie; it is too late to speak now. I can't tell
him how I really feel--I can't!'
'Ah, then you own there is something to tell?'
'What have I said? Flossie, forget what I said; it slipped out. I meant
nothing.'
'And you are perfectly happy and satisfied, are you? _Now_, I know how
people look when they are perfectly happy and satisfied.'
'It's no use!' cried Ella, suddenly. 'I've tried, and tried, and tried
to bear it, but I can't. I _must_ tell somebody ... it is making me ill.
I am getting cross and wicked, and unlike what I used to be. Flossie, I
can't go and live there--I dread the thought of it; I shrink from it
more and more every day! It is all odious, impossible--and yet I must, I
must!'
'No, you mustn't; and, what's more, you shan't!'
'Flossie, you mean you will tell mother! You must not, do you hear? If
you do, it will only make matters worse. Oh, why did I tell you?' cried
Ella, in shame at this lapse from all her heroism. 'Promise me you will
say nothing to mother--it is too late now--promise!'
'Very well,' said Flossie reluctantly; 'then I promise. But, all the
same, Ella, I think you're a great goose!'
'I didn't promise I wouldn't say anything to _George_, though,' she
reflected; and so, on the very next occasion that she caught him alone,
she availed herself of an innocent allusion of his to Ella's low
spirits to give him the benefit of her candid opinion, which was not
tempered by any marked consideration for his feelings.
Ella was in the morning-room alone--she had taken to sitting alone
lately, brooding over her trials. She was no heroine, after all; her
mind, it is to be feared, was far from superior. She was finding out
that she had undertaken too heavy a task; she could not console herself
for her lost dream of a charmingly appointed house. She might endure to
live in such a home as George had made for her; but to be expected to
admire it, to let it be understood that it was her handiwork, that she
had chosen or approved of it--this was the burden that was crushing her.
Suddenly the door opened and George stood before her. His expression was
so altered that she scarcely recognised him; all the cheery buoyancy had
vanished, and his stern, set face had a dignity and character in it now
that were wanting before.
'I have just had a talk with Flossie,' he began; 'she has shown me what
a--what a mistake I've been making.'
Ella could not help feeling a certain relief, though she said, 'It was
very wrong of Flossie--she had no right to speak.'
'She had every right,' he said. 'She might have done it more kindly,
perhaps, but that's nothing. Why didn't you tell me yourself, Ella? You
might have trusted me!'
'I couldn't--it seemed so cruel, so ungrateful, after all you had done.
I hoped you would never know.'
'It's well for you, and for me too, that I know this while there's still
time. Ella, I've been a blind, blundering fool. I never had a suspicion
of this till--till just now, or you don't think I should have gone on
with it a single minute. I came to tell you that you need not make
yourself miserable any longer. I will put an end to this--whatever it
costs me.'
'Oh, George, I am so ashamed. I know it is weak and cowardly of me, but
I can't help it. And--and will it cost you so very much?'
'Quite as much as I can bear.'
'No; but tell me--about _how_ much? More than a hundred pounds?'
'I haven't worked it out in pounds, shillings, and pence,' he said
grimly; 'but I should put it higher myself.'
'Won't they take back some of the things? They ought to,' she suggested
timidly.
'The things? Oh, the furniture! Good Heavens, Ella! do you suppose I
care a straw about that? All I can think of is how I could have gone on
deceiving myself like this, believing I knew your every thought; and all
the time--pah, what a fool I've been!'
'I thought I should get used to it,' she pleaded. 'And oh, you don't
know how hard I have tried to bear it, not to let anyone see what I
felt--you don't know!'
'And I would rather not know,' he replied, 'for it's not exactly
flattering, you see, Ella. And at all events, it's over now. This is the
last time I shall trouble you; you will see no more of me after to-day.'
Ella could only stare at him incredulously. Had he really taken the
matter so seriously to heart as this? Could he not forgive the wound to
his vanity? How hard, how utterly unworthy of him!
'Yes,' he continued, 'I see now we were quite unsuited to one another. I
should never have made you happy, Ella; it's best to find it out before
it's too late. So let us shake hands and say good-bye, my dear.'
She felt powerless to appeal to him, and yet it was not wholly pride
that tied her tongue; she was too shaken and stunned to make the least
effort at remonstrance.
'Then, if it must be,' she said at last, very low--'good-bye, George.'
He crushed her hand in his strong grasp. 'Don't mind about me,' he said
roughly. 'You've nothing to blame yourself for. I daresay I shall get
over it all right. It's rather sudden at first--that's all!' And with
that he was gone.
Flossie, coming in a little later, found her sister sitting by the
window, smiling in a strange, vacant way. '_Well?_' said Flossie
eagerly, for she had been anxiously waiting to hear the result of the
interview.
'It's all over, Flossie; he has broken it off.'
'Oh, Ella, I'm so glad! I _hoped_ he would, but I wasn't sure. Well,
you may thank me for delivering you, darling. If I hadn't spoken
plainly----'
'Tell me what you said.'
'Oh, let me see. Well, I told him anybody else would have seen long ago
that your feelings were altered. I said you were perfectly miserable at
having to marry him, only you thought it was too late to say so. I told
him he didn't understand you in the least, and you hadn't a single
thought or taste in common. I said if he cared about you at all, the
best way he could prove it was by setting you free, and not spoiling
your life and his own too. I put it as pleasantly as I could,' said
Flossie naively, 'but he is very trying!'
'You told him all that! What made you invent such wicked, cruel lies?
Flossie, it is you that have spoilt our lives, and I will never forgive
you--never, as long as I live!'
'Ella!' cried the younger sister, utterly astonished at this outburst.
'Why, didn't you tell me the other day how miserable you were, and how
you dared not speak about it? And now, when I----'
'Go away, Flossie; you have done mischief enough!'
'Oh, very well, I'm going--if this is all I get for helping you. Is it
_my_ fault if you don't know your own mind, and say what you don't mean?
And if you really want your dearly beloved George back again, there's
time yet; he hasn't gone--he's in the drawing-room with mother.'
How infinitely petty her past misery seemed now! for what trifles she
had thrown away George's honest heart! If only there was a chance still!
at least false pride should not come between them any longer: so thought
Ella on her way to the drawing-room. George was still there; as she
turned the door-handle she heard her mother's clear resonant tones. 'Not
that that is any excuse for Ella,' she was saying.
Ella burst precipitately into the room. She was only just in time, for
George had risen and was evidently on the point of leaving. 'George,'
she exclaimed, panting after her rapid flight, 'I--I came to tell
you----'
'My dear Ella,' interrupted Mrs. Hylton, 'the kindest thing you can do
for George now is to let him go without any more explanations.'
Ella stopped; again her mind became a blank. What had she come for; what
was it she felt she must say? While she hesitated, George was already at
the other door; he seemed anxious to avoid hearing her; in another
second he would be gone.
She cried to him piteously. 'George, dear George, don't leave me!... I
can't bear it!'
'This is too ridiculous!' exclaimed her mother angrily. 'What is it that
you _do_ want, Ella?'
'I want George,' she said simply. 'It was all a mistake, George. Flossie
mistook---- Oh, you don't really think that I have left off caring for
you? I haven't, dear, indeed I haven't--won't you believe me?'
'I had better leave you to come to an understanding together,' said Mrs.
Hylton, not in the best of tempers, for she had been more sorry for
George than for the rupture he came to announce, and she swept out of
the room with very perceptible annoyance.
* * * * *
'I thought it was all up with me, Ella; I did indeed,' said George, a
minute or two later, his face still pale after all this emotion. 'But
tell me--what's wrong with the furniture I ordered?'
'Nothing, dear, nothing,' she answered, blushing. 'Don't think about it
any more.'
'No? But your mother was talking about it too,' he insisted. 'Come,
Ella, dear, for heaven's sake let us have no more misunderstandings! I
see now what an ass I was not to wait and let you choose for yourself;
these aesthetic things are not in my line. But I'd no idea you'd care so
much!'
'But I don't now--a bit.'
'Well, I do, then. And the house must be done all over again, and
exactly as you would like it; so there's no more to be said about it,'
said George, without a trace of pique or wounded vanity.
'George, you are too good to me; I don't deserve it. And indeed you must
not--think of the expense!'
His face lengthened slightly; he knew well enough that the change would
cost him dear.
'I'll manage it somehow,' he declared stoutly.
Would her mother help them now? thought Ella, and felt more than
doubtful. No, in spite of her own wishes, she must not allow George to
carry out his intentions.
'But you forget Carrie and Jessie,' she said; 'we shall hurt their
feelings so if we change now.'
'By Jove! I forgot that,' he said. 'Yes, they won't like it--they meant
well, poor girls, and took a lot of trouble. Still, you're the first
person to be considered, Ella. I'll try and smooth it over with them,
and if they choose to be offended, why, they must--that's all. And I
tell you what. Suppose we go and see the house now, and you shall tell
me just what wants doing to make it right?'
She would have liked to decline this rather invidious office, especially
as she felt no compromise to be possible; but he was so urgent that she
finally agreed to go with him.
As they gained Campden Hill and the road in which their house stood,
George stopped. 'Hullo!' he said, 'that can't be the house--what's the
matter with it?'
Very soon it was pretty evident what had been the matter--the walls were
scorched and streaming, the window sashes were empty, charred and wasted
by fire, the door was blistered and blackened, a stalwart fireman in
his undress cap, with his helmet slung at his back, was just opening the
gate as they came up.
'Can't come in, sir,' he said, civilly enough. 'No one admitted.'
'Hang it!' exclaimed George, 'it's my own fire--I'm the tenant.'
'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir--it's been got under some hours now. I was
just going off duty.'
'Much damage done?' inquired George laconically.
'Well, you see, sir,' said the man, evidently considering how to prepare
George for the worst, 'we didn't get the call till the house was well
alight, and there was three steamers and a manual a-playing on it,
so--well, you must expect things to be a bit untidy-like inside. But the
walls and the roof ain't much damaged.'
'And how did it happen?--the house isn't even occupied.'
'Workmen,' said the man. 'Someone was in there early this morning and
left the gas escaping somewheres, and as likely as not a light burning
near--and here you are. Well, I'll be off, sir; there's nothing more to
be done 'ere. Good-day, sir, and thank ye, I'm sure.'
'Oh, George!' said Ella, half crying, 'our poor, poor little house! It
seems like a judgment on me. How _can_ you laugh! Who will build it up
for us now?'
'Who? Why, the insurance people, to be sure! You see, the firm are
agents for the "Curfew," and as soon as I got all the furniture in I
insured the whole concern and got a protection note, so we're all right.
Don't worry, little girl. Why, don't you see this gets us out of our
difficulty? We can start afresh now without offending anybody. Look
there; there's that idiot of a plumber who's done all the mischief--a
nice funk he'll be in when he sees us!'
But Mr. Peagrum was quite unperturbed; if anything, his smudgy features
wore a look of sombre complacency as he came towards them. 'I'm sorry
this should have occurred,' he said,'but you'll bear me out that I
warned yer as something was bound to 'appen. In course I couldn't tell
what form it might take, and fire I must say I did _not_ expect. I
'adn't on'y been in the place not a quarter of a hour, watering the
gaselier in the libery--the libery as _was_, I _should_ say--when it
struck me I'd forgot my screw-driver, so, fortunately, as things turned
out, I went 'ome to my place to get it, and I come back to see the place
all in a blaze. It's fate, that's what it is--fate's at the bottom o'
this 'ere job!'
'Much more likely to be a lighted candle,' said George.
'I was not on the premises at the time, so I can't say; but, be that 'ow
it may, there's no denying it's a singler thing the way my words have
been fulfilled almost literal.'
'Confound you!' said George. 'You take good care your prophecies come
off. Why, man, you're not going to pretend you don't know that it's your
own carelessness that's brought this about! This isn't the only house
you've brought bad luck into, Mr. What's-your-name, since you've started
in business!'
'You can't make me lose my temper,' replied the plumber with dignity. 'I
put it down to ignirance.'
'So do I,' said George. 'And if I know anyone who's anxious for a little
typhoid, or wants his house burnt down at a moderate charge, why, I
shall know whom to recommend. Good-day.'
He turned on his heel and walked off, but Ella lingered behind. 'I only
just wanted to tell you,' she said, addressing the astonished plumber,
'that you have done us a very great service, and I, at least, am very
much obliged to you.' And she fluttered away after her _fiance_.
The plumber--that instrument of Destiny--looked after the retreating
couple, and indulged in a mystified whistle.
'_'E_ comes a bullyragging of me,' he observed to a lamp-post, 'and
she's "very much obliged"! And I'm blowed if I know what for, either
way! Cracked, poor young things, cracked, the pair on 'em--and no
wonder, with such a calamity so recent. Ah, well, I do 'ope as this is
the end on it. I 'ope I shan't be the means of bringing no more trouble
into that little 'ouse--that I kin truly say!'
And--human gratitude having its limits--it is highly probable that this
pious aspiration will not be disappointed, so long, at least, as Mr. and
Mrs. Chapman's tenancy continues.
_DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG_
A TALE FOR CHILDREN
'Daisy, dearest,' said Miss Millikin anxiously to her niece one
afternoon, 'do you think poor Don is quite the thing? He has seemed so
very languid these last few days, and he is certainly losing his
figure!'
Daisy was absorbed in a rather ambitious attempt to sketch the lake from
the open windows of Applethwaite Cottage, and did not look up from her
drawing immediately. When she did speak her reply might perhaps have
been more sympathetic. 'He _eats_ such a lot, auntie!' she said. 'Yes,
Don, we _are_ talking about you. You know you eat too much, and that's
the reason you're so disgracefully fat!'
Don, who was lying on a rug under the verandah, wagged his tail with an
uneasy protest, as if he disapproved (as indeed he did) of the very
personal turn Daisy had given to the conversation. He had noticed
himself that he was not as active as he used to be; he grew tired so
very soon now when he chased birds (he was always possessed by a fixed
idea that, if he only gave his whole mind to it, he could catch any
swallow that flew at all fairly); he felt the heat considerably.
Still, it was Don's opinion that, so long as he did not mind being fat
himself, it was no business of any other person's--certainly not of
Daisy's.
'But, Daisy,' cried Miss Millikin plaintively, 'you don't really mean
that I overfeed him?'
'Well,' Daisy admitted, 'I think you give way to him rather, Aunt Sophy,
I really do. I know that at home we never let Fop have anything between
his meals. Jack says that unless a small dog is kept on very simple diet
he'll soon get fat, and getting fat,' added Daisy portentously, 'means
having fits sooner or later.'
'Oh, my _dear_!' exclaimed her aunt, now seriously alarmed. 'What do you
think I ought to do about it?'
'I know what I would do if he was _my_ dog,' said Daisy, with great
decision--'diet him, and take no notice when he begs at table; I would.
I'd begin this very afternoon.'
'_After_ tea, Daisy?' stipulated Miss Millikin.
'No,' was the inflexible answer, '_at_ tea. It's all for his own good.'
'Yes, dear, I'm sure you're right--but he has such pretty ways--I'm so
afraid I shall forget.'
'I'll remind you, Aunt Sophy. He shan't take advantage of you while
_I'm_ here.'
'You're just a tiny bit hard on him, Daisy, aren't you?'
'Hard on Don!' cried Daisy, catching him up and holding him out at
arm's length. 'Don, I'm _not_ hard on you, am I? I love you, only I see
your faults, and you know it. You're full of deceitfulness' (here she
kissed him between the eyes and set him down). 'Aunt Sophy, you would
never have found out his trick about the milk if it hadn't been for
me--_would_ you now?'
'Perhaps not, my love,' agreed Miss Millikin mildly.
The trick in question was a certain ingenious device of Don's for
obtaining a double allowance of afternoon tea--a refreshment for which
he had acquired a strong taste. The tea had once been too hot and burnt
his tongue, and, as he howled with the pain, milk had been added. Ever
since that occasion he had been in the habit of lapping up all but a
spoonful or two of the tea in his saucer, and _then_ uttering a pathetic
little yelp; whereupon innocent Miss Millikin would as regularly fill up
the saucer with milk again.
But, unfortunately for Don, his mistress had invited her niece Daisy to
spend part of her summer holidays at her pretty cottage in the Lake
District, and Daisy's sharper eyes had detected this little stratagem
about the milk on the very first evening!
Daisy was fourteen, and I fancy I have noticed that when a girl is about
this age, she not unfrequently has a tendency to be rather a severe
disciplinarian when others than herself are concerned. At all events
Daisy had very decided notions on the proper method of bringing up
dogs, and children too; only there did not happen to be any children at
Applethwaite Cottage to try experiments upon; and she was quite sure
that Aunt Sophy allowed herself to be shamefully imposed upon by Don.
There was perhaps some excuse for Miss Millikin, for Don was a
particularly charming specimen of the Yorkshire terrier, with a silken
coat of silver-blue, set off by a head and paws of the ruddiest gold.
His manners were most insinuating, and his great eyes glowed at times
under his long hair, as if a wistful, loving little soul were trying to
speak through them. But, though it seems an unkind thing to say, it must
be confessed that this same soul in Don's eyes was never quite so
apparent as when he was begging for some peculiarly appetising morsel.
He was really fond of his mistress, but at meal times I am afraid he
'put it on' a little bit. Of course this was not quite straightforward;
but then I am not holding him up as a model animal.
How far he understood the conversation that has been given above is more
than I can pretend to say, but from that afternoon he began to be aware
of a very unsatisfactory alteration in his treatment.
Don had sometimes felt a little out of temper with his mistress for
being slow to understand exactly what he _did_ want, and he had barked,
almost sharply, to intimate to the best of his powers--'Not bread and
butter, stoopid--_cake_!' So you may conceive his disgust when she did
not even give him bread and butter; nothing but judicious
advice--_without_ jam. She was most apologetic, it is true, and
explained amply why she could not indulge him as heretofore, but Don
wanted sugar, and not sermons. Sometimes she nearly gave way, and then
cruel Daisy would intercept the dainty under his very nose, which he
thought most unfeeling.