THE GILROYS.
The Gilroys lived in a small house in West Kensington. The house was
full to overflowing. There were a great many children, ranging from
Leslie the eldest girl, aged nineteen, to little Dan, aged two. Mrs.
Gilroy was one of the busiest women in London. She had a small income,
not exceeding three hundred a year, and six children to maintain. When
her husband died, a month before little Dan’s birth, the mother made up
her mind not to skimp the children’s education, not to starve them on a
mere pittance, but to add to her income by her own exertions. She was
very clever and strong both in mind and body. All her children loved her
passionately.
Mr. Gilroy, during his lifetime, had been sub-editor on a large London
daily, and after his death Mrs. Gilroy got a post on the staff. She also
did a good deal of other journalistic work, and occasionally wrote
up-to-date articles in the magazines. Thus she added considerably to her
income, and the children never wanted for anything.
The house was a model of neatness and order, although there was only one
small servant; but then each child had been trained thoroughly, and each
child did his or her appointed task without a murmur. The faces of all
the young Gilroys were bright, all the pairs of eyes were frank and
happy; but the mother had to work very hard. Often and often, when all
the children were in bed, she sat up or went round from one editor’s
office to another supplying the necessary items which would appear the
next morning in the papers. She enjoyed her work and never complained;
and Llewellyn and Leslie, the eldest boy and girl, sympathized heart and
soul with her.
On the very day when Belle Acheson had visited the Chetwynds in their
fashionable house in Belgravia, Mrs. Gilroy, coming in later than usual,
found Llewellyn, a handsome lad of sixteen years of age, crouching over
the fire in the little parlor, with his head in his hands.
“What is wrong, Lew?” said the mother.
“Nothing,” he answered. “I have only been thinking.”
“But what about, my boy?”
Mrs. Gilroy seldom petted her children, she seldom used loving words to
them; but then her touch was a caress. She laid her hand now upon the
lad’s shoulder; he looked up into her kindly firm face; and the shadow
fell from his own.
“It’s just nothing,” he cried. “I ought to be ashamed of myself. Don’t
ask me at the present moment, mother. I have a fit of the blues, that’s
all.”
“Well, and I have a fit of the cheerfuls,” said Mrs. Gilroy.
“What do you mean, mother?” Llewellyn was all life and spirits in a
moment. “Has anything good happened; have you got another post? Are you
to be made sub-editor on one of the great dailies; that, you know, is
your ambition, your great passionate ambition, little mother.”
“Nothing of the kind at present, Lew, dear. I am just where I always
was. I have plenty of work, and I am paid fairly well; but I have good
news all the same. I will tell you afterwards. It has to do with Leslie.
It will be the finest thing in all the world for her, simply the making
of her.”
Llewellyn’s face once more looked downcast. He did not want his mother
to observe it, however, and he went slowly to the door.
“I had better let Kitty and Mabel know that you are in,” he said.
He went into the little hall and shouted his sisters’ names. The next
moment two trim, neatly-dressed little girls, with long hair hanging
down their shoulders, in dark-blue frocks and white pinafores, came
tripping in.
“Mother’s come,” said Llewellyn; “she wants tea. Sound the gong when it
is ready.”
He bounded up the narrow stairs three at a time to his own special den
at the top of the house. There, big, handsome, overgrown boy that he
was, he shed some tears. He was ashamed of his tears; they scalded right
down into his heart.
“I wish I didn’t feel it so much,” he said to himself. “I just had a
wild hope for a moment, when mother spoke about good news, that it had
something to do with me. But it’s only Leslie. Well, dear old girl, why
shouldn’t it be about her? What a brute I am to grudge it to her. She is
mother’s right hand, and about the very best girl in the world. There, I
shall hate myself if I give way another moment. I’ll just tell mother
right out, and put an end to the thing. She’ll be a bit surprised, but I
guess she’ll be only too glad to consent. It’s good-by to daydreams,
that’s all; but a fellow can’t think of them when his mother is in the
question.”
Meanwhile the girls downstairs were quickly preparing the tea. Kitty
went to the kitchen to fetch the tray with the cups and saucers; Mabel
laid the white cloth, which was made of the finest damask, on the center
table. Kitty then knelt down before the fire to make an apparently
unlimited supply of buttered toast; Mabel put the right amount of tea
into the old teapot. There were many relics of bygone respectability,
nay, of bygone wealth, in the Gilroys’ humble house. The silver teapot
was one—it was real silver, not electroplate. It was very thin and of an
antique shape, and the children were often heard to declare that nothing
would induce them to have their tea made in anything else. The cups and
saucers, too, were of rare old china and of a quaint pattern. They were
neither cracked nor broken, because the girls themselves washed them and
looked after them, and put them away in the little pantry.
The small maid of all work, Elfreda, was never allowed to go near the
pantry. She only did the rough work under severe superintendence from
Kitty; but the house was perfectly organized, and no one felt unduly
fatigued.
The tea, when it was ready, consisted of fresh eggs, honey in the comb,
hot cakes which Mabel had been secretly watching for the last half-hour,
a pile of buttered toast, bread both brown and white, delicious country
butter, tea, and even cream.
When everything was in order, Mabel sounded the gong, and Llewellyn came
down.
He had scarcely taken his place at the table before there was the click
of a latchkey in the hall door, and light steps, the steps of a young
girl, were heard in the passage outside.
“There’s Leslie,” said Mrs. Gilroy. She was seated at the head of her
table pouring out tea. She paused now, and a look of considerable
expectancy filled her eyes. Llewellyn watched her; the others, engaged
in their own chatter, took no special notice.
“Leslie, late as usual,” said Mabel. Just at that moment Leslie poked in
her head.
“Oh, do just keep a nice hot cup of tea for me,” she called out. “I am
starving. There has been such a cold wind blowing, and I had to walk
half the way, as every omnibus was full. I’ll just run upstairs to tidy
up. Please keep a right good tea for me; I’ll trust you, Mabel.”
“Yes, you may,” shouted out Mabel. “I am keeping back the crispest of
the hot cakes, and there is buttered toast in a covered dish by the
fire.”
Leslie’s steps were heard running quickly upstairs, and a minute or two
later she entered the room. She was a tall girl, with quantities of
golden-brown hair, large brown eyes, a complexion of cream and roses,
and straight regular features. It needed but a glance to show that she
was a beautiful girl, with beauty above the average; but it was not only
the regularity of her features and the clearness of her complexion which
made Leslie’s face so specially attractive. It was the marked and
wonderful intelligence on her open brow, the speaking, thoughtful
expression in her eyes, the firm, proud outline of her beautiful lips.
Mrs. Gilroy just glanced up when her eldest daughter came into the room.
That one glance showed that the girl was the mother’s special idol; that
she loved her with a worship which was almost idolatry, that she was a
shade more proud of her and dreamt more daydreams about her than about
any of the others.
Llewellyn, who could read his mother like a book, who loved her
passionately, saw all these thoughts now in her eyes. He suppressed a
sigh, and attacked the loaf with vigor.
“Come, Leslie,” said her mother, “here is your place by me as usual.
Now, have a good tea, my darling, for we have much to talk of
afterwards. I want all of you children to be present too; you must all
hear my good news.”
“Good news, mother. That’s cheering,” said Leslie. “I have had such a
cross day.”
“Cross—what do you mean?” said Kitty. “Do tell us, Leslie, what can have
happened. Didn’t you get on with your pupils?”
“No, they were contrary; they would play and would not learn. I didn’t
seem to have any control over them. Mother, dear, I am sick of
teaching!”
“What rot!” cried Llewellyn. “One must go on with a thing whether one is
sick or not.”
“Oh, I know, Lew, dear old boy, and I really don’t mean to grumble; only
I felt cross and I am owning to it. I don’t feel cross now,” added the
girl.
She helped herself to brown bread and butter. Kitty put a quantity of
honey on her plate. Tea came to an end presently, and then the children
in orderly file began to remove the tea-things.
In less than a quarter of an hour the little parlor—they always sat in
the parlor in the evenings—was looking as snug and comfortable as a room
could look. The lamp, beautifully trimmed and burning clearly, stood on
the center table, the red curtains were drawn round the windows; a fire,
blazing merrily, gave a final touch of cheerfulness to the pleasant
room.
“Now, then, mother, get into your own special chair and tell us the
news,” said Leslie.—“Llewellyn, you are not going away, are you?”
“No,” said Llewellyn.
“But before you begin, mother, do wait for us,” cried Mabel. “Kitty and
I must go upstairs to turn down the beds, and then I must see Elfreda in
order to get her to put the fish in soak for to-morrow’s breakfast. She
does forget things so dreadfully.”
“Yes, and I have got to wash the tea-things; it’s my turn, I’m sorry to
say,” remarked Hester, a somewhat heavy-looking girl, the least
attractive of the family.
“Well, dears, I will wait for you three for exactly twenty minutes,”
said Mrs. Gilroy. “Be as quick as possible; bustle away, get the house
into perfect order, and then you shall come down to hear my good news.”
The children ran off.
When the door closed behind them Leslie looked at her mother.
“Must you go out again to-night, mother?” she asked.
“No, my darling, not to-night. To-morrow I shall not be home until very
late. I have to attend two big functions, and must take my copy
afterwards to the _Grapho_ and the _Daily Post_.”
Llewellyn fidgeted; he stood up and then sat down again. He looked at
his mother as if about to speak, and then restrained himself.
“What’s the matter, Lew? What are you worrying about?” said his sister.
“It’s only the thought of mother doing this beastly grind night after
night,” he said. “It drives me half-wild sometimes.”
“My dear boy, I enjoy it,” said the mother; “and you shall take my place
all in good time. There is an excitement about the life which exactly
suits me. I could never be a drone even if I wished it, Lew—not even to
please you, dear old fellow.”
The mother bent forward as she spoke and gave the boy one of her rare
caresses, just a touch on his white forehead. He sat down near her.
Another boy would have held out his hand for his mother to clasp, but
Llewellyn’s long hands hung between his knees. He was bending over the
fire, looking into the blaze. The daydreams which he had so often seen
in those flames were receding farther and farther away. His face was
pale, and the expression of his gray eyes heavy.
But Mrs. Gilroy, too much interested in Leslie at present to notice her
son’s depression, continued to talk cheerfully. By and by she would see
it all and speak of it, but not just now.
Quite within the appointed time the three girls returned. They took up
their work, for never for a moment in this family was idleness allowed,
and sat down near the lamp.
“Now then, we are ready,” said Hester; “but I do wish, before mother
begins, that you would show me, Kitty, how you turn this heel. I know I
am doing it wrong.”
“I should think you are, you old goose,” said Kitty. “Well, I can’t show
you at present. Just take the needles out and unravel a few rows, then
put the needles in again, and I’ll be ready to give you a lesson before
bedtime. But, remember, I am going to charge for it. It’s a farthing a
lesson, and the money to go to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Children. Is not that a good idea, mother?” continued Kitty, looking
up.
But Mrs. Gilroy was not listening. She had something important to say,
and the mere idle chatter of this happy family passed over her ears
unnoticed.
“Leslie,” she said laying her hand on her eldest girl’s arm, “my news
has to do with you; but, as we have no secrets in our family, I will
tell it before the rest of the children.”
Leslie looked eager and excited. Even Llewellyn dropped his despondent
air and stood up, big and manly, five feet ten, on the hearthrug.
His mother glanced at him, noticed, without really noticing it, the
marked look of power on his intellectual face, and then turned to her
favorite child.
“I was in my usual place at the office of the _Grapho_ to-day,” she
began. “I was busily engaged preparing copy for to-morrow’s issue when a
gentleman, an old friend of your father’s, a certain Mr. Parker, came
in.”
“Mr. Parker! A friend of father’s! I never heard of him before,” said
Leslie.
“He has been in Australia for the last twelve years, but has just
returned home. He sent in his card and begged to see me. As soon as ever
I saw him I remembered that your dear father had constantly spoken of
him. Well, he wishes to do something for—for the sake of his old
friend.”
Mrs. Gilroy’s voice faltered.
“He is quite a gentleman,” she continued, “though a little rough; but a
capital good fellow at bottom. He spoke to me most frankly, and finally
ended by making me an offer. The offer has to do with you, Leslie.”
“With me?” said Leslie.
“Yes, darling. He asked me all about our means. He was not at all
prying; he was good and kind and oh! so generous at heart. I hated to
tell him, and yet I felt obliged to. He was shocked; he thought your
father would have left us better off.”
“He had no right to ask about our father’s means,” grumbled Llewellyn.
“No one could have worked harder than our father did.”
“No one, truly,” echoed Leslie.
“And no one ever led a more upright, exemplary, splendid life,” said the
widow. Her voice trembled; she paused for a moment.
Kitty and Mabel laid down their needlework.
“But, all the same,” continued the mother, “you must not blame Mr.
Parker. He and your father had not met for many years, and in Australia
they lead a different life. When a man is lucky there he is very lucky;
and Mr. Parker has been one of the lucky ones. He took shares in some
gold-mines, and explained to me that he is now a man of great wealth.”
“He must have interrupted your work a good bit,” began Llewellyn, then
he checked himself. His mother glanced at him, took no notice of his
speech, and continued with her story.
“The result of our interview is this,” she said, looking round at her
children and laying her hand on Leslie’s arm. “Leslie is to have a
chance, a right good chance in life.”
“Mother, what do you mean?” said Leslie. She opened her pretty eyes
wide, and the color rushed into her face.
“Mr. Parker is a man of peculiar views,” said the mother. “He does not
want to help boys, he says; they must stand or fall on their own merits.
But for girls he has a peculiar feeling, an unbounded pity. The fact is,
poor fellow, he had a wife of his own, and a daughter, and if the
daughter were alive she would be your age, Leslie. I have not the
slightest doubt that accounts for his prejudice in favor of girls. Now,
my darling, he has offered to pay all your expenses either at Newnham or
at that other great college, St. Wode’s, Wingfield. He wants you to give
up your present employment immediately, and to go to either of these
places at the beginning of term. You are to have every advantage that is
possible. When you have completed your university education he will take
further steps to insure your commanding an excellent living. The money
is to be paid direct to me as required, and he has now given me a check
for fifty pounds to buy the necessary outfit which you will require for
your new life. I have taken the check and have accepted the offer. That
is my news. It is a great chance for you, Leslie; it is a great chance.
You go away from us, I know, my darling, and I shall miss you terribly;
but it is a great chance.”
“And you have really accepted it, mother?”
“I have. I could not allow you to throw it away. Mr. Parker is such an
old friend of your father’s that I am willing to put myself under this
supreme obligation. He has even hinted that by and by he will do great
things for Kitty and for Mabel.”
“And what about poor Hester?” said that individual, dropping her
stocking and looking with piteous eyes at her mother.
“You are to be my home-bird, darling.” Then Hester rose and knelt by her
mother, and put her strong young arms round her waist and kissed her.
“Yes; I for one would never leave you, mammy; and I don’t care a pin
about being learned. I want just to be useful, although I am afraid I am
a bit of a failure all round. There always is a failure in every family,
isn’t there, mother; so it’s just as well that I should be the one.”
“We mean to have no failures in this family,” said Mrs. Gilroy. “Now,
then, you young ones, it is time for bed; off you go at once. I have
much to say to Leslie and to Llewellyn by themselves.”