WANTED
"Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,
Shall win my love."
SHAKESPEARE.
MRS. MONTMORENCY went to see Mr. Selkirk, and found him perfectly
courteous, but quite emphatic in his refusal to accept her hospitality.
"I am here 'incog.,'" he said. "Don't give me away to the
neighbourhood. I shall be off to America very soon. I'm going to have a
little duck-shooting with old MacDuff. He recognised me yesterday. If
you would have my small girl up to your house while I am shooting, it
would be a kindness."
Mrs. Montmorency stiffened at once, till she remembered Honor. She very
much disliked children herself, but now she smiled, and graciously
turned to Fay.
"You shall come and spend a long day with us to-morrow."
But Fay shook her curly head.
"I shan't do nuffin' like that," she said. "I spends my days myself.
I'm going to look for Madam Pilgrim, and we'll have some new games I've
just made up."
"Who does she mean?" asked Mrs. Montmorency with a little frown upon
her brow.
"Oh, it's some young lady who brought her home to me the other day when
she had strayed away. A nice sort of girl—lives about here, I believe."
"It must be Miss Broughton, who lives with me. She is my companion."
Her tone was dignity itself.
"Ah, well!" said Mr. Selkirk indifferently. "If you send her over to
fetch my small daughter, she'll go fast enough. Otherwise, nothing will
move her. She is not fond of strangers—seen too many fresh faces, poor
little beggar!"
"I will see if I can spare Miss Broughton," said Mrs. Montmorency, and
then she departed.
When she came home, she was in irritable spirits.
"I can't think what possessed me to say I would have the child," she
said to Honor. "You must just keep her out of my way. I am going to
lunch with Miss Buchanan, so will be out most of the day."
Honor could not hide her delight. She went to fetch Fay directly she
had had her breakfast, and the child—who was trying to climb on a
cart-horse's back outside the inn door—flew into her arms with a scream
of delight.
She dragged her into her sitting-room, where Mr. Selkirk was cleaning
his gun.
"She's come, daddy! She's come!"
Mr. Selkirk shook hands with Honor.
"Hope you'll enjoy her company all day," he said. "It's more than I do
sometimes."
"Daddy is so tarsome," said Fay, clinging hold of Honor's hand and
jumping up and down in sheer exuberance of spirits. "He won't b'lieve
that I saw a fairy walk on my window-ledge when I was in bed last
night. It was a little teeny lady, and she was dressed in green moss
and a little red hat, and she told me if I'd find a hollow tree, she'd
take me through to fairyland."
"We have a lovely hollow tree in our garden," said Honor, "and there's
a walnut tree with lovely seats up in it."
Fay clasped her hands in ecstasy.
"I'll come at once. 'Do' you think we could make a nest up there just
for you and me? I always fought I'd like to live in a nest—it would be
so warm and comfy. And I'd 'love' to make it."
"We'll see," said Honor.
Mr. Selkirk laughed.
"Wise woman! Don't commit yourself. Fay's demands are no light matter.
So you live with Mrs. Montmorency? Why did you not tell me so?"
"Why should I?" said Honor simply. "It would not strike me as
interesting information."
She felt his eyes searching her through and through, and disliked this
trait of his.
"Are you in bondage?" he asked suddenly.
Honor's cheeks grew hot as she replied steadily:
"I am earning my living. That is not bondage." Then something induced
her to add: "I have a home of my own in England."
"That's a pity," he said slowly, withdrawing his gaze from her and
bending over his gun again.
Fay broke in impetuously: "Come on, Madam Pilgrim. I don't like daddy
with his gun. It's wicked to kill the dear ducks, and I shall cry if I
think about it."
So Honor retreated with her, and they spent a blissful day together.
Fay astonished her with the vast and varied information she possessed.
And Honor rightly concluded that it was the constant companionship of
her father that gave her it.
"Daddy and I like pilgriming, and so does you," she asserted in the
course of the day. They had just finished a journey round the garden,
in which by turns they had represented Arabs, brigands, and slaves.
"I think when we go pilgriming again, you must come with us."
"I'm afraid I can't do that. Where are you going?"
"Well, you see, we haven't made up our minds. I say I'd like the jungle
in India, on the back of a effelunt you know, because we shouldn't
be cold there, and I don't like to be cold. My knees was quite blue
yesterday. I tored my stocking, and so the cold came through, and Mrs.
Maciver said she'd no time to mend me. So daddy and me sewed it up, but
it's very lumpy!"
She pulled up her frock, and the mend in the knee was indeed what she
said.
"You poor little soul!" said Honor. "I should like to mend your
clothes."
"So you shall, then," said Fay cheerfully. "I'll take you to my
drawers; they're in a shockin' mess. Daddy will be so glad. He always
says: 'Oh, the burden of children! Why has it been cast upon me?'"
In the days that ensued, Honor saw a great deal of Fay and of her
father. Mrs. Montmorency was very fond of going about, and was
constantly going to Edinburgh, sometimes staying for three or four
days. She made no objection to Honor's taking the child for walks; and
somehow or other, Mr. Selkirk generally met them, and, in his lazy,
humorous fashion, talked a good deal to Honor.
She had been so little accustomed in her busy life at home to receive
attentions from anyone that it did not enter her head that Mr. Selkirk
was not a man to spend so much of his time walking about the lanes and
moor with his child.
Honor had a very humble opinion of herself, and had no idea how bright
her eyes and smile were when with children. Mr. Selkirk saw her at
her best, and strangely enough, Honor never felt shy of him. She was
quiet, but perfectly natural, and was really interested in the things
he talked about. Perhaps her life of constant repression with Mrs.
Montmorency and the realisation that she was never supposed to speak
unless she were spoken to in the society of that lady's friends, made
her appreciate more the perfectly frank and confidential way in which
Mr. Selkirk spoke to her. And, woman-like, she felt sorry for him. He
was a restless wanderer on the face of the earth, and his child was a
heavy clog to his movements. Yet he did not seem in a hurry to part
with her. The affection between father and child was very touching and
real. And Fay herself was perfectly oblivious that her father at times
would rather be without her.
"Have you never been abroad?" Mr. Selkirk asked Honor one day.
"Never. Till this last year, I have never lived outside our village at
home."
"What stagnation!"
"So Audrey Hume used to say."
"Who was she?"
"A friend of mine. She's so clever and bright, too clever to lead that
quiet life for long. Now she has gone away."
"I detest clever women."
"Do you? I wonder why?"
"Women," said Mr. Selkirk, puffing moodily at his pipe, "ought to bring
an atmosphere of rest and peace with them wherever they go. Chattering
women are as bad as monkeys—you long to throw a brick at their heads.
Ah! You've never seen a grove of trees alive with monkeys. You'd
understand how they get on your nerves if you had!"
"But clever people are not necessarily chatterers."
"Woman," said Mr. Selkirk solemnly, taking his pipe out of his mouth
and looking straight at Honor, "ought to be man's companion and
comforter; she ought to have a fount of ready sympathy and patience,
and 'never' lose her temper. That child's mother was a woman of that
sort, and I only had her for four years!"
If Audrey had been there, she would have reminded this antiquated man
that woman had a life and a soul of her own, and was not meant to
have the monopoly of all the virtues. But Honor only turned her soft,
pitying eyes upon the speaker and murmured:
"I am so sorry for you."
"And that is the woman I want Fay to grow up into," Mr. Selkirk
resumed. Then with a little laugh, he added:
"But for the life of me, I can't train her in that direction. I'm
afraid she has more of her father's nature than her mother's. I wish
you'd try your hand at her, Miss Broughton."
"But it is too short a time to influence her. You say you are leaving
in another fortnight."
"I suppose we are."
Shadows gathered upon his face.
"I want to take a trip over to the States. I have a little business
there that I put money into; but I dread the voyage with the child, and
still more so, when I arrive out there."
"I am sure," Honor said earnestly, "that you could leave her with
someone who would be kind to her."
"I should like to leave her with you."
He laughed at Honor's astonished look.
"Oh!" she said breathlessly. "If I could only have her. But it's quite,
quite impossible."
"I suppose so."
Silence fell between them.
Then Honor said, a little timidly:
"Haven't you a sister?"
He turned upon her fiercely.
"Never, so help me God, shall my child be left to her tender mercies!
Her training would be the same as—as was meted out to me; I would
rather see Fay dead in her coffin than live and endure what I endured
as a boy."
Honor knew then how deeply he felt and remembered his own childhood.
Another day he said to her:
"Aren't you pretty tired of your life here? Are you going to be tacked
on to Mrs. Montmorency for the rest of your life?"
"I hope not," said Honor quietly. "I am always hoping they will want me
home again."
"I thought your stepmother didn't make it over-pleasant for you?"
"I have my father and two brothers at school, and three darling little
sisters—children like Fay here."
"Oh, they don't want you," he said impatiently.
"So Mrs. Montmorency says. She is convinced that she wants me more."
He laughed contemptuously.
"She ought to wait upon herself," he said; "and I would like to see her
doing it! What would she say if someone stepped in and married you?"
"Oh, that would never happen," said Honor with a little laugh. "I know
I shall be a single woman to the end of my life. So many girls are
nowadays," she added seriously. "It is only the rich and beautiful or
very attractive ones who marry."
He relapsed into silence, and Fay broke it.
"I'm going to marry a sailor," she said, "and we'll live on ships
always. We'll just go out to dinner one day to little England, and
we'll have tea in Scotland, and then we'll have supper in 'Merica, and
go to bed in India. Our ship will always be rushing round and round the
world. It will be lovely!"
And then one day, when there was talk of their going away, Mr. Selkirk
suddenly turned to Honor and electrified her. She had just brought Fay
back from a ramble over the moor, and Mr. Selkirk came out from the inn
to meet them. He sent Fay into the house, and asked Honor if he might
walk back with her.
She agreed quite simply, for she felt it relieved him of the strain of
bitterness in his heart to talk things over with anyone.
"I don't expect I shall see you again," Honor said. "Fay has promised
to come over and wish me good-bye to-morrow afternoon. Mrs. Montmorency
said I could have her to tea. But you won't come to the house?"
"No; I never was fond of Kate Montmorency. I am hoping to see a great
deal of you."
Honor stared at him.
And then it was that he whirled round upon her and spoke sharply and
abruptly:
"I want you to leave your old woman and come off to the States with Fay
and me."
"As—as governess?" stammered Honor.
"As wife. I hate the whole crew of governesses."
Honor was literally dumbfounded. The suddenness and the abruptness of
the proposal almost seemed to stun her. She had never contemplated such
a result of her acquaintance; and she almost felt inclined to laugh at
the absurdity of the notion. And yet the next moment, the blood rushed
to her cheeks and her heart throbbed quickly, for the idea was not
repugnant to her.
"How can you ask me such a thing?" she ventured to say. "When you have
only known me for the inside of a month?"
"It doesn't take me long to make up my mind," he replied gravely, still
standing in front of her with a kindly light in his dark eyes. "I'm a
pretty keen observer of human nature, and so is Fay. We are agreed upon
this point: we both want you."
"Oh!" said Honor, speaking in a distressed voice. "I don't know; it is
so unexpected, so sudden. I think—I know I could make Fay happy, but I
don't know about you."
It was characteristic of her that there was no question of her own
happiness. She gave much and took little. His voice was very courteous
and tender as he returned:
"I have no doubt about that. You are the kind of woman that makes a
restless man want a quiet home. I haven't much to offer you as far as
worldly wealth goes, but I have enough to keep us all in comfort. I
have little bits of property in various parts of the world, which will
grow more valuable in time. And I'm getting pretty tired of wandering.
I want to settle down."
"Where?" asked Honor dreamily.
"Not here," he said with his short laugh. "But if you want an English
home, you shall have it; only we must take our trip to the States
first."
Silence fell between them.
"Well?" he asked at last.
"I should like time to think about it. I can't—I really can't decide
to-day."
"Why not? I offer you a happier life than that old woman does. You told
me the other day your place was filled up at home. You have a chance of
seeing life with me. You're made for a wife, though you may not think
it. You have all the qualities that a man looks for; and I would—I know
I could—make you happy!"
So he pleaded, without one word of love or sentiment, and, strangely
enough, Honor liked him the better for it.
"I will give you an answer to-morrow."
"Then I will try to be patient. Let Fay bring me the answer I want."
He walked on with her, then came to a standstill at her gate.
"You are not going abroad as soon as you intended?" Honor asked.
"I will postpone it till a week later. But I must leave this place at
the end of this week. I want you to come over the moor with me, and
we'll get ourselves married at a little church I know of. The parson is
a friend of mine. Then we'll go straight off to Liverpool and catch the
first liner sailing for the States."
"But," gasped Honor, "you don't expect me to marry you straight off
like this, without telling my parents or anyone? Oh, I couldn't do it.
It would be so underhand! You take my breath away!"
"Think it out," he said coolly. "It's the only way and the best way.
Do you think I could stand a village wedding with gaping rustics, and
orange flowers and rice and all the rest of it? A man never wants that
twice in his life. I know it is asking a good deal of you. You will
have to take me on trust and put up with the unconventionality of a
quiet marriage. My business won't let me wait beyond a week later than
this. It must be either at once or never with me. But if you have any
liking or pity for me and my child, decide quickly, and we'll have no
trouble or fuss about it."
Honor was white to the lips as she held out her hand to him.
"You are asking a great deal of me," she said. "Good-bye. I will send
an answer to-morrow."
Mr. Selkirk grasped her hand tightly, and for just a moment his voice
was husky with emotion. "If you fail me," he said, "I will never put my
trust in a woman again."
Honor passed through the gate and up the drive without another word.