THE PICNIC.
The Gilroy children were all in the wildest state of excitement. It was
a lovely day in July, and they were going off for a picnic on the river.
Leslie was standing by the center table in the dining room, busily
packing a basket. Kitty was buttering bread and making sandwiches, Mabel
was cutting cake into thick slices, Hester was darning a rent in the
back of her dress, and Llewellyn was here, there, and everywhere.
“We must start soon,” he said. “When will the baskets be ready? I wonder
mother has not come in.”
“Is not she in?” asked Leslie, standing up to her full height, and
pressing her hand to her forehead.
“Have you got one of your headaches back again, Leslie?” asked
Llewellyn.
“Oh, just a little, very little; but the air will do me good. It will be
lovely to-day on the river.”
“Yes, splendid,” said Llewellyn. “We will have tea at Twickenham, and go
home in the cool of the evening. You cannot think how nice old Forrest
has been about this. He gave me a holiday at once when I asked him this
morning. He said that he only wished he kept a provision shop instead of
a drapery shop, so that he might send us pies and things for our
picnic.”
“But even though he does keep a linen-draper’s shop,” said Hester, “he
could still help us. I, for instance, should not at all object to
materials for a new gown. This old serge is so thick and hot.”
“But if you put on a white shirt, dear, you will look as neat and nice
as possible,” said Leslie; “and won’t be at all too warm.”
“Oh, I can’t be bothered,” said Hester, shrugging her shoulders. “I
forgot to send my shirts to the wash on Monday, and I have not one fit
to be seen.”
“Then it serves you right if you are hot and uncomfortable,” cried
Kitty.
Kitty herself was always the pink of neatness. Hester was evidently the
troublesome one of the family.
Leslie went on packing her basket. She wedged in the hard-boiled eggs,
raised pies, roast chickens, sandwiches, and the sweets. At last the big
basket was quite full.
“Doesn’t it look tempting?” said Mabel, smacking her lips. “How
frightfully hungry I’ll be. Oh, don’t forget, whatever happens, the
other basket with the ginger beer and lemonade. I only trust we have got
enough.”
“And the cold tea for mother,” said Llewellyn; “be sure you put that
in.”
The boys and girls chatted eagerly one to the other.
“I say,” cried Kitty, “isn’t it nice to have old Leslie back again?
We’ll hate it when you have to return to your grand college in the
autumn, Leslie; but I wish,” she added, “you would talk more about it. I
thought you’d have no end of rattling good stories to tell us; but you
are as mum and quiet as if you had not had a good time at all, whereas,
of course, you have had the very best time a girl could have. I suppose
it is the weight of all the learning that bothers you. And what about
those Chetwynds? You wrote to mother about them, and about that
extraordinary girl, Belle Acheson; but since you have come back, you
have hardly said a word about any of your fellow-students.”
“I am sorry,” said Leslie. “I will try to tell you something amusing
to-day, Kitty. I don’t want to make myself mum and disagreeable.”
“Oh, you are never that, you dear old darling; only, we were hoping for
so much—weren’t we, Hetty?”
“Yes,” said Hester, who was still darning the rent in her dress. “I do
wish this cotton wouldn’t break so.”
“Give it to me,” said Leslie; “I’ll have it darned in a trice. Ah!
there’s mother’s step at last. Dear old mammy, I hope she is not too
tired.”
“There is someone coming back with her,” said Kitty. “Don’t you hear two
footsteps? Who can it possibly be?”
The next moment the room-door was opened, and Mrs. Gilroy, accompanied
by Mr. Parker, came in.
Leslie had not seen Mr. Parker since her interview with him at
Wingfield. She now felt herself turning pale; her pallor was suddenly
succeeded by a quick flush of color. She hoped no one noticed her
agitation; but, raising her eyes, she met those of Llewellyn. His wore a
perturbed expression.
Mr. Parker, after greeting the other children, came up to her and
offered his hand.
“Glad to see you back again, Miss Leslie,” he said. There was an
indescribable, restrained note in his voice.
“Well, children, what do you say to my joining you to-day?” He turned
and faced Kitty and Hester. “Your mother was good enough to invite me,
and I am as up to a bit of frolic as if I were as young as you. Where is
little Dan? He must be my special charge to-day.”
“Kitty, give me those sandwiches. I can finish packing them,” said
Leslie in a low voice which she hardly recognized as her own.
After Mr. Parker’s one hand-clasp, which was firm and cordial enough, he
had turned his back on her. He still did so, and kept on talking to
Llewellyn and the younger children.
Mrs. Gilroy sat down on the sofa.
“It is very hot,” she said.
“And you are very tired,” said Mr. Parker. “Now listen; I am going to
have my own way, and nobody shall interfere. What is the good of money
if you cannot spend it now and then? You want to go to Richmond?”
turning to Mrs. Gilroy, “Go to Richmond you shall, but you are not going
by train. No, we will have a carriage, and I will drive you down. A
carriage will hold you and myself and a couple of the children. Not
another word, my dear friend. What is the good of money if you cannot
have a treat?”
“But you do far too much for us, Mr. Parker,” replied Mrs. Gilroy.
“Far too much!” he answered; “tut, tut! not a bit of it. I am a lonely
man, madam. My one interest in life is you and your family.”
Here he glanced at Leslie, but the next moment looked away. There was
disapproval in his face.
Leslie started up impulsively. All the provisions were packed.
“Yes, mother,” she cried, “do let Mr. Parker drive you; it will do you
no end of good.”
“All right, darling. I have not the least objection if you will come
with us. I need not ask you, Mr. Parker, if you will object to Leslie
being one of the party in the carriage?”
“Dan shall sit on my knee,” said Mr. Parker, “and two of the children
can be crowded in. Just as Miss Leslie likes, of course.”
But Leslie had left the room. She called Llewellyn to follow her.
He hurried out.
“What is the matter with you. Leslie?” he said.
“My head is very bad. I cannot go to the picnic.”
“Leslie! you will upset us all, and as to mother——”
“Listen, Lew, I cannot give you any reason; but neither can I go, and I
want you to help me.”
“But I fail to understand. You were full of going a moment ago.”
“I know, but with a headache like mine there is nothing for it but rest
and quiet. Do help me, please. I am most anxious that mother should have
this one delightful, happy day. Let Kitty and Mabel go in the carriage,
and Dan too, if there is room, and will you take Hester by train? Let
mother think that I am coming with you. Then, when you meet by the
river, you must just tell her that I had a bad headache, and was obliged
to stay at home. I cannot go, Lew; there is no use in coaxing me; and I
do not wish mother to know until she gets to Richmond.”
“Well, of course, I’ll manage it if it must be managed,” said Llewellyn;
“but I cannot imagine what is up. I am certain it is more than a mere
headache; but of course, Leslie, I have no intention of forcing your
confidence.”
“Don’t, like a darling,” said Leslie. She touched him on the arm, and
looked into his face.
“Then, you are in trouble, dear old girl?”
Tears rose to her eyes.
“Yes; but you cannot help me to bear it. It is something which I must
not tell to anyone. I must just bear my burden alone. Do not ask me any
more.”
“I won’t, and I’ll manage things for you. Run upstairs now, and keep
quiet. I’ll tell mother when we get to Richmond that you were a bit
seedy; but that a few hours of rest will put you right.”
He hurried off, and a few moments later Leslie from her window saw the
carriage party get under way. Soon afterwards, Llewellyn and Hester
started off for the railway station. Leslie found herself alone. She sat
down by her window, and tried to face the position. It had not been the
first time she had made a gallant effort to do so.
“What am I to do?” she said now to herself. But the answer came quickly.
“Live it down,” was the reply of her heart. “Be true to your sense of
honor. Save your friend if you can. Bear the terrible and cruel position
in which you are placed. Trust to God putting things right.”
“But the dreadful part of it is,” thought poor Leslie, “that He is
making me so hard. I almost hate Annie Colchester. I did not know it was
in me to feel so bad about anything. There is one thing certain: I shall
never be able to endure Mr. Parker’s eyes. I shall have to leave the
room or the house when he comes to see us. There, I must not sit still
any longer. Poor darling Lew; he little knows what I am really
suffering.”
Early in the afternoon there came a ring at the front door, and who
should be seen standing on the threshold but the well-known figure of
Belle Acheson!
Leslie ran to let her in.
“How lucky that I was in,” she said. “Please come into the dining room,
Belle.”
“So this is your domicile,” said Belle. She raised her eyes, and looked
up at the windows; then glancing round the walls, finally settled them
on the much-worn carpet at her feet.
“Neat, but not gaudy,” she said; “not much to complain of when all is
said and done. How do you do?”
She held out her hand to her friend. Leslie grasped it.
“I am delighted to see you,” said Leslie. “I am all alone, for mother
and all the children are on the river.”
“And you, you dear, faithful soul, have stayed at home to go on with
your literary studies?” exclaimed Belle, her eyes gleaming.
“Not a bit of it, Belle; you must not think me better than I deserve. I
stayed at home to mope.”
“To mope? Surely you are not regretting? Having put your hand to the
plow, you are not looking back? Leslie, I could never have thought it of
you!”
“I am not looking back, Belle. I am still as fond as ever of my studies;
but at the present moment I am not thinking of literature nor of college
life at all. Sit down; how hot you look! The day is such a sultry one.”
“Hot,” said Belle, “is it? Perhaps I am hot; I don’t know. Does heat
matter? that is the question.”
She flung off her hat, and let it tumble on the floor. Her brow was wet
with perspiration.
“No physical discomforts seem to matter as far as you are concerned,”
said Leslie with a smile.
“I do not feel physical suffering,” said Belle: “that is the truth. My
mind is wrapped in meditation and thoughts of the future. I long for
this tiresome holiday to be at an end. I have one comfort, however; my
money is continuing to heap up. When I finish my collegiate career, I
shall have quite enough to open my hostel. I shall call it a hostel for
the lovers of pure literature. I am sure it will do well; it will supply
a long-felt need.”
But Leslie was not in the humor to talk about the hostel just then.
“I have a great deal to worry me just now,” continued Belle. “Mother has
so little sympathy; I have no consolation but one or two books—the best
of friends. By the way, Leslie, you don’t look too bright yourself; your
brow has quite a haggard look. I am certain, although you will not
acknowledge it, that you are missing St. Wode’s.”
“In many ways I am, dear.”
“Oh, this is delicious,” said Belle. She hopped up from her seat, and
drew a chair close to Leslie.
“Does your mother object to your studies?” she said. “Does she——”
“No, Belle; you don’t understand my mother. I only wish you could meet
her. My trouble has nothing to do with my studies. I have a care that I
cannot confide to anyone.”
“Pray, don’t; at least never confide in me. It is the last thing I wish
to be—the recipient of another person’s secrets. I either forget what I
am told, or I blurt it out to the next person I come across. You had
better let your worry go; that’s my advice.”
“Let it go? I wish I could.”
“You can if you will do what I ask. Absorb yourself in work; cease to
fret about mere externals. What do they matter? Heat, cold, worry, pain
even, nothing matters if one can but grasp the riches of the past.”
“But what about the riches of the future, Belle? You are so fond of
looking back: do you never look forward?”
“Forward,” said Belle; “yes, I sometimes do. I look forward to the time
when frivols will be exterminated forever, when the drones in the
ordinary course of things must die out. Leslie, dear, would you feel
inclined to hear me recite some verses of my own this morning? I have
been in the poetic mood for the last few days, and last night the poet’s
frenzy really seized me. My lines begin with ‘Delve, delve, deeply
delve.’”
“I don’t think I quite follow,” said Leslie.
“Quite follow! but it is so simple. The metaphor refers to a miner, the
gold is beneath. He delves, he obtains, his joy is unutterable.”
“But I am not in the humor for poetry to-day. The fact is, I am not in
the humor to be anything but disobliging.”
“Now, that I do not believe; but I will keep my verses until they are
quite finished, each stanza correct, the swing, the meter perfect. By
the way, have you seen the Chetwynds since they came down?”
“No.”
“I hear that Eileen has taken some dreadful disease exploring in back
slums. Her mother is in a terrible state.”
“But is Eileen really ill?” asked Leslie, starting up.
“So I have heard; they say she is rather bad. Oh, my dear, it is only
the body; pray don’t worry!”
“But, Belle, this is intolerable. We cannot do without our bodies while
we live. Poor Eileen ill! What did you say? Fever?”
“I do not know that I did; but it is fever—typhoid or typhus, or
something of that sort. I didn’t quite catch the name. It may be
smallpox, but I don’t think so.”
“Belle, you are intolerable; you have no sympathy.”
“Intolerable?” said Belle. “Now, my dear Leslie, for goodness’ sake,
don’t get commonplace. You may be quite certain that Eileen has the best
doctors and the best nurses which London can afford. Does it help her
that you should have that flush on your cheeks and that frown between
your brows? Does it help her that you should abuse me? All this emotion
is waste—waste of sympathy.”
“I am sorry, but I must give it,” said Leslie. “Dear Marjorie, how she
will feel it. I must go and inquire after Eileen immediately.”
“I thought you were not well yourself.”
“I have a headache, but what does that matter? I must go to see Marjorie
immediately, and to hear about Eileen.”
“If you want to make your inquiries properly,” said Belle, “go by the
underground. It is so hot that you will feel yourself a real martyr. Put
on your thickest coat and your heaviest hat, and then you will really
enjoy yourself. Good-by: I am going away, as I see it is your wish. I
will come another day when you feel more like the Leslie Gilroy whom I
used to admire at St. Wode’s.”
“I will never be the Leslie that you admired if you wish me not to give
sympathy to those in trouble,” replied Leslie.
She ran upstairs, put on her hat, took up her gloves, and went out.