Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and
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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1006.] APRIL 8, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters
Three,” etc.
[Illustration: AT THE CROSS ROADS.]
_All rights reserved._]
CHAPTER XXVII.
Arthur kept his word, and tried manfully not to let his own
disappointment interfere with the enjoyment of Christmas Day. The party
at the vicarage was smaller than usual, for Rob and Oswald had both
gone home for the festive season, and he knew well that the knowledge
that “Arthur was coming” had seemed the best guarantee of a merry day
to those who were left behind. Peggy too—poor little Peg, with her
bandaged hands and tiny white face—it would never do to grieve her by
being depressed and gloomy!
“Begone, dull care!” cried Arthur to himself then, when he awoke on
Christmas morning, and promptly wrapping himself in his dressing-gown,
he sallied out on to the landing, where he burst into the strains of
“Christians, awake!” with such vigorous brush-and-comb accompaniment on
the panels of the doors as startled the household out of their dreams.
“Miserable boy! I was having such a lovely nap! I’ll never forgive
you!” cried Mrs. Asplin’s voice in sleepy wrath.
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” shouted the girls, and Peggy’s
clear pipe joined in last of all. “And many of them! Come in! Come in!
I was lying awake and longing to see you!”
Arthur put his ruffled head round the door and beamed at the little
figure in the bed, as if he had never known a trouble in his life.
“What a wicked story! I heard you snore. Merry Christmas, Peg, and a
Happy New Year! And don’t you go for to do it again never no more! It’s
a jolly morning. I’ll take you out for a toddle in the garden when
we come home from church, if you are a good girl. Will you have your
present now, or wait till you get it? It begins with a B. I love my
love with a B., because she’s a——”
“Oh, Arthur!” interrupted Peggy regretfully. “I haven’t half such a
nice present for you as I expected. You see I couldn’t work anything,
and I couldn’t get out to the shops, and I hadn’t nearly as much money
as I expected either. If Bob and I had won that prize, I should have
had ten pounds; but the stupid editors have put off announcing the
result week after week. They say there were so many competitors; but
that’s no consolation, for it makes our chance less. I do hope it may
be out next week. But, at any rate, I didn’t get my ten pounds in time,
and there I was, you see, with little money and practically no hands,
a—er—a most painful contingency, which I hope it may never be your lot
to experience. You must take the will for the deed.”
“Oh, I will!” agreed Arthur promptly. “I’ll take the will now, and you
can follow up with the deed as soon as you get the cash. But no more
journeys up to London, my dear, if you love me, and don’t use such big
words before seven o’clock in the morning, or you’ll choke. It’s bad
for little girls to exert themselves so much. Now I’m going to skate
about in the bath for a bit, and tumble into my clothes, and then I’ll
come back and give you a lift downstairs. You are coming down for
breakfast, I suppose?”
“Rather! On Christmas morning! I should just think I was!” cried Peggy
emphatically, and Arthur went off to the bath-room, calling in at Max’s
room _en route_ to squeeze a sponge full of water over that young
gentleman’s head and pull the clothes off the bed by way of giving
emphasis to his “Get up, you lazy beggar! It’s the day after to-morrow,
and the plum pudding is waiting!”
Peggy was the only one of the young folks who did not go to church
that morning; but she was left in charge of the decoration for the
dinner-table, and when this was finished, there was so much to think
about that the time passed all too quickly.
Last year she and Arthur had spent Christmas with their mother; now
both parents were away in India, and everything was strange and
altered. As Peggy sat gazing into the heart of the big gloomy fire, it
seemed to her that the year that was passing away would end a complete
epoch in her brother’s experiences and her own, and that from this hour
a new chapter would begin. She herself had come back from the door of
death, and had life given, as it were, afresh into her hands. Arthur’s
longed-for career had been checked at its commencement, and all his
plans laid waste. Even the life in the vicarage would henceforth
take new conditions, for Rob and Oswald would go up to Oxford at the
beginning of the term, and their place be filled by new pupils. There
was something solemnising in the consciousness of change which filled
the air. One could never tell what might be the next development.
Nothing was too unexpected to happen—since Arthur’s success had ended
in failure, and she herself had received Rosalind’s vows of love and
friendship.
“Good things have happened as well as bad,” acknowledged Peggy
honestly, “but how I do hate changes! The new pupils may be the nicest
boys that were ever born, but no one will ever be like Rob to me, and
I’d rather Arthur had been a soldier than anything in the wide world.
I wish one could go on being young for ever and ever. It’s when you
grow old that all these troubles and changes come upon you.” And Peggy
sighed and wagged her head, oppressed with the weight of fifteen years.
It was a relief to hear the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and the sound of
voices in the hall, which proved that the church-goers had returned
home. Mr. and Mrs. Asplin had been driven home from church by Lord and
Lady Darcy, and the next moment they were in the room, greeting Peggy
with demonstrative affection.
“We couldn’t go home without coming to see you, dear,” said Lady Darcy
fondly. “Rosalind is walking with the rest, and will be here in a few
minutes. A merry Christmas to you, darling, and many, many of them.
I’ve brought you a little present which I hope you will like. It’s a
bangle bracelet—quite a simple one that you can wear every day—and you
must think of me sometimes when you put it on.”
She touched the spring of a morocco case as she spoke, and there on the
satin lining lay a band of gold, dependent from which hung the sweetest
little locket in the world—heart-shaped, studded with pearls, and
guarding a ring of hair beneath the glass shield.
Lady Darcy pointed to it in silence—her eyes filling with tears, as
they invariably did at any reference to Rosalind’s accident, and
Peggy’s cheeks flushed with pleasure.
“I can’t thank you! I really can’t,” she said. “It is too lovely.
You couldn’t possibly have given me anything I liked better. I have
a predilection for jewellery, and the little locket is _too_ sweet,
dangling on that chain! I do love to have something that waggles!”
She held up her arm as she spoke, shaking the locket to and fro with
a childlike enjoyment, while the two ladies watched her with tender
amusement. Lord Darcy had not spoken since his first greeting, but now
he came forward, and linking his arm in Peggy’s led her to the further
end of the room.
“I have no present for you, my dear—I could not think of one that was
good enough—but yesterday I really think I hit on something that would
please you. Robert told us how keenly you were feeling your brother’s
disappointment, and that he was undecided what to try next. Now, I
believe I can help him there. I have influence in the Foreign Office,
and can insure him an opening when he is ready for it, if your father
agrees that it is desirable. Would that please you, Peggy? If I can
help your brother, will it go some little way towards paying the debt I
owe you?”
“Oh—h!” cried Peggy rapturously. “Oh!” She clasped Lord Darcy’s hands
in her own and gazed at him with dilated eyes. “Can you do it? Will you
do it? There is nothing in all the world I should like so much. Help
Arthur—give him a good chance—and I shall bless you for ever and ever!
I could never thank you enough——”
“Well, well, I will write to your father and see what he has to say. I
can promise the lad a start at least, and after that his future will be
in his own hands, where I think we may safely leave it. Master Arthur
is one of the fortunate beings who has an ‘open sesame’ to all hearts.
Mr. Asplin assures me that he is as good at work as at play; I have not
seen that side of his character, but he has always left a most pleasing
impression on my mind, most pleasing.” The old lord smiled to himself,
and his eyes took a dreamy expression as if he were recalling to memory
the handsome face and strong manly presence of the young fellow of whom
he was speaking. “He has been a favourite at our house for some years
now, and I shall be glad to do him a service, but remember, Peggy, that
when I propose this help, it is in the first instance at least, for
your sake, not his. I tell you this because I think it will give you
pleasure to feel that you have been the means of helping your brother.
Talk it over with him some time when you are alone together, and then
he can come up and see me. To-day we must leave business alone. Here
they come! I thought they would not be long after us——”
Even as he spoke voices sounded from the hall, there was a clatter of
feet over the tiled flooring, and Mellicent dashed into the room.
“P—P—P—Postman!” she stammered breathlessly. “He is coming! Round the
corner! Heaps of letters! Piles of parcels! A hand-cart, and a boy to
help him! Here in five minutes! Oh! oh! oh!” She went rushing back to
the door, and Rosalind came forward, looking almost her old beautiful
self, with her cheeks flushed by the cold air, and the fur collar of
her jacket turned up so as to hide the scarred cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Rosalind! How—how nice you look!” cried Peggy,
looking up and down the dainty figure with more pleasure in the sight
than she could have believed possible a few weeks before. After being
accustomed for four long weeks to gaze at those perfectly cut features,
Esther’s long chin and Mellicent’s retroussé nose had been quite a
trial to her artistic sensibilities on her return to the vicarage. It
was like having a masterpiece taken down from the walls and replaced by
an inferior engraving. She gave a sigh of satisfaction as she looked
once more at Rosalind’s face.
“Mewwy Chwistmas, Peggy! I’ve missed you fwightfully. I’ve not been to
church, but I dwove down to meet the others, and come to see you. I had
to see you on Chwistmas Day. I’ve had lovely pwesents and there are
more to come. Mother has given you the bwacelet, I see. Is it what you
like?”
“My dear, I _love_ it! I’m fearfully addicted to jewellery. I had to
put it on at once, and it looks quite elegant on top of the bandages!
I’m inexpressibly obliged. I’ve got heaps of things—books, scent,
glove-box, writing-case, a big box coming from India, and—don’t tell
her—an apron from Mellicent! The most awful thing. I can’t think where
she found it. Yellow cloth with dog roses worked in filoselle! Imagine
me in a yellow apron with spotty roses around the brim!”
“He! He! I can’t! I weally can’t. It’s too widiculous!” protested
Rosalind. “She sent me a twine bag made of netted cotton. It’s awfully
useful if you use twine, but I never do. Don’t say I said so. Who got
the night-dwess bag with the two shades of blue that didn’t match?”
“Esther! You should have seen her face!” whispered Peggy roguishly, and
the girls went into peals of laughter which brought Robert hurrying
across the room to join them.
“Now then, Rosalind; when you have quite done, I should like to speak
to Peggy. The compliments of the season to you, Mariquita; I hope I see
you well.”
Peggy pursed up her lips and looked him up and down with her dancing
hazel eyes.
“Most noble sir, the heavens rain blessings on you—oh, my goodness,
there’s the postman!” she cried all in one breath, and the partners
darted forward side by side towards the front door, where the old
postman was already standing, beaming all over his weatherbeaten face,
as he began turning out the letters and calling out the names on the
envelopes.
“Asplin, Asplin, Saville, Asplin, Saville, Saville, Miss Peggy Saville,
Miss Mellercent Asplin, Miss Saville, Miss M. Saville, Miss Peggy
Saville.”
So the list ran on with such a constant repetition of the same name
that Max exclaimed in disgust, “Who _is_ this Miss Peggy Saville that
we hear so much about? She’s a greedy thing whoever she may be,” and
Mellicent whined out, “I wish I had been at a boarding school! I wish
my relatives lived abroad. There will be none left for me by the time
she has finished.” Then Arthur thrust forward his mischievous face and
put in a stern inquiry—
“Forbes! I say, where’s that registered letter? That letter with the
hundred pound note. Don’t say you haven’t got it, for I know better.
Hand it over now, without any more bother.”
The old postman gave a chuckle of amusement, for this was a standing
joke renewed every Christmas that Arthur had spent at the Vicarage.
“’Tasn’t come ter-day, Muster Saville. Missed the post. ’Twill be
coming ter-morrer morning certain!”
“Forbes!” croaked Arthur solemnly. “Reflect! You have a wife and
children. This is a serious business. It’s ruin, Forbes, that’s what it
is. R—u—i—n, my friend! Be advised by me, and give it up. The hundred
pounds is not worth it, and besides I need it badly. Don’t deprive a
man of his inheritance!”
“Bless yer rart, I’d bring it yer with pleasure rif I could! Nobody’d
bring it quicker ran I would,” cried Forbes, for like everyone else he
adored the handsome young fellow who was always ready with a joke and
a kindly word. “It’s comin’ for the Noo Year, sir. You mark my words.
There’s a deal of luck waitin’ for yer in the Noo Year!”
Arthur’s laugh ended in a sigh, but he thanked the old man for his good
wishes, tipped him even more lavishly than usual, and followed his
companions to the drawing-room to examine their treasures.
Parcels were put on one side to await more leisurely inspection, but
cards and letters were opened at once, and Rob seated himself by
Peggy’s side as she placed the pile of envelopes on a table in the
corner.
“We are partners, you know,” he reminded her, “so I think I am entitled
to a share in these. What a lot of cards! Who on earth are the senders?”
“My godfathers, and my godmothers, and all my relations and friends.
The girls at school, and some of the teachers. This fat one is from
‘Buns’—Miss Baker, the one whose Sunday hat I squashed. She used to say
that I was sent to her as wholesome discipline to prevent her being too
happy as a hard-worked teacher in a lady’s school, but she wept buckets
full when I came away. I liked Buns! This is from Marjorie Riggs, my
chum. She had a squint, but a most engaging disposition. This is from
Kate Strong. Now if there is a girl in the world for whom I cherish
an aversion, it is Katie Strong! She is what I call a specious pig,
and why she wanted to send me a Christmas card I simply can’t imagine.
We were on terms of undying hatred. This is from Miss Moss, the pupil
teacher. She had chilblains, poor dear, and spoke through her dose.
‘You busn’t do it, Peggy, you really busn’t. It’s bost adoying!’ Then I
did it again, you know, and she sniggered and tried to look cross. This
is—I don’t know who this is from! It’s a man’s writing. It looks like a
business letter—London postmark—and something printed in white on the
seal. What is it? ‘The Pic-Pic-Piccadilly’—Robert!” Peggy’s voice grew
shrill with excitement. “‘_The Piccadilly Magazine._’”
“Wh—at!” Robert grabbed at the envelope, read the words himself and
stared at her with sparkling eyes. “It is! It’s the prize, Mariquita!
It must be. What else would they write about? Open it and see. Quick!
Shall I do it for you?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Peggy breathlessly. She craned her head forward
as Rob tore open the envelope and grasped his arm with both hands.
Together they read the typewritten words, together they gasped and
panted, and shrieked aloud in joy! “We’ve done it! We have! We’ve
won the prize! Thirty pounds! Bravo Rob! Now you can buy your
microscope!”—“Good old Mariquita, it’s all your doing. Don’t speak to
us; we are literary people, far above ordinary commonplace creatures
like you. Thir—ty pounds! made by our own honest toil. What do you
think of that, I’d like to know?”
Each member of the audience thought something different, and said it
amid a scene of wild excitement. The elders were pleased and proud,
though not above improving the occasion by warnings against secret
work, over anxiety, midnight journeys, etc. Mellicent exclaimed, “How
jolly! Now you will be able to give presents for the New Year as well
as Christmas,” and Arthur said, “Dear Peggums! I always loved you!
I took the ‘will,’ you know, without any grumbling, and now you can
follow up with the deed as quickly as ever you like!” Each one wanted
to hold the precious document in his own hands, to read it with his
own eyes, and it was handed round and round to be exclaimed over in
accents of wonder and admiration, while Rob beamed, and Peggy tossed
her pigtail over her shoulder, holding her little head at an angle of
complacent satisfaction.
The moment of triumph was very sweet, all the sweeter because of the
sorrows of the last few weeks. The partners forgot all the hard work,
worry, and exhaustion, and remembered only the joy of success and hope
fulfilled. Robert said little, in the way of thanks, preferring to wait
until he could tell Peggy of his gratitude, without an audience to
criticise his words, and when his mother began to speak of returning
home, it was he who reminded Mrs. Asplin of the promise that the
invalid should have her first walk on Christmas Day.
“Let us go on ahead and take her with us, until the carriage overtakes
us. It will do her no harm. It’s bright and dry——”
“Oh, mater, yes! I told Peg I would take her out,” chimed in Arthur,
starting from his seat by Rosalind’s side, and looking quite distressed
because he had momentarily forgotten his promise. “Wrap her up well,
and we’ll take care of her. The air will do her good.”
“I think it will, but you must not go far—not an inch beyond the cross
roads. Come, Peggy, and I’ll dress you myself. I can’t trust you to
put on enough wraps.” Mrs. Asplin whisked the girl out of the room,
and wrapped her up to such an extent, that when she came downstairs
again, she could only puff and gasp above her muffler, declare that she
was choking, and fan herself with her muff. Choking or not, the eyes
of the companions brightened as they looked at her, for the scarlet
tam-o’-shanter was set at a rakish angle on the dark little head, and
Peggy the invalid seemed to have made way for the Peggy of old, with
dimpling cheeks and the light of mischief in her eyes.
The moment that Mrs. Asplin stopped fumbling with her wraps, she was at
the door, opening her mouth wide to drink in the fresh chill air, and
Robert was at her side before anyone had a chance of superseding him.
“Umph! Isn’t it good! I’m stifling for a blow. My lungs are sore for
want of exercise. I was longing—longing to get out. Robert, do you
realise it? We have won the prize! Can you believe it? It is almost too
good to be true. It’s the best present of all. Now you can buy your
microscope, and get on with your work as you never could before!”
“Yes, and it’s all your doing, Mariquita. I could not have pulled it
off without your help. If I make anything out of my studies it will be
your doing too. I’ll put it down to you, and thank you for it all my
life.”
“H—m! I don’t think I deserve so much praise, but I like it all the
same. It’s very soothing,” said Peggy reflectively. “I’m very happy,
and I needed something to cheer me up, for I felt as blue as indigo
this morning. We seem to have come to the end of so many things, and
I hate ends. There is this disappointment about Arthur which spoils
all the old plans, and the break-up of our good times here together. I
shall miss Oswald. He was a dear old dandy, and his ties were quite an
excitement in life, but I simply can’t imagine what the house will be
like without you, Rob!”
“I shall be here for some weeks every year, and I’ll run down for a day
or two whenever I can. It won’t be good-bye altogether.”
“I know—I know! but you will never be one of us again, living in the
house, joining in all our jokes. It will be quite a different thing.
And you will grow up so quickly at Oxford, and be a man before we know
where we are.”
“So will you—a woman at least. You are fifteen in January. At seventeen
girls put their hair up, and wear long dresses. You will look older
than I do, and give yourself as many airs as if you were fifty. I know
what girls of seventeen are like. I’ve met lots of them, and they say
‘That boy!’ and toss their heads as if they were a dozen years older
than fellows of their own age. I expect you will be as bad as the rest,
but you needn’t try to snub me. I won’t stand it.”
“You won’t have a chance, for I sha’n’t be here. As soon as my
education is finished I am going out to India to stay until father
retires and we come home to settle. So after to-day——”
“After to-day—the deluge! Peggy, I didn’t tell you before, but I’m off
to-morrow to stay in town until I go up to Oxford on the fourteenth.
The pater wants to have me with him, so I sha’n’t see you again for
some months. Of course I am glad to be in town for most things, but——”
“Yes, but!” repeated Peggy and turned a wan little face upon him. “Oh,
Rob, it _is_ changing quickly. I never thought it would be so soon as
this. So it is good-bye! No wonder I felt so blue this morning. It is
good-bye for ever to the old life. We shall meet again, oh yes! but it
will be different. Some day when I’m old and grown up I will see in a
newspaper the name of a distinguished naturalist and discoverer, and
say, ‘I used to know him once. He was not at all proud. He used to pull
my hair like any ordinary mortal. But he doesn’t recognise me now——’”
“Some day I shall enter a ball-room and see a little lady sitting by
the door waving her hands in the air, and using words a mile long, and
shall say to myself, ‘Do my eyes deceive me? Is it indeed the Peggy
Pickle of the Past?’ and my host will say, ‘My good sir, that is the
world-famous authoress Mariquita de Ponsonby Plantagenet Saville!
Stevenson, I assure you, is not in it for flow of language, and she
is so proud of herself that she won’t speak to anyone under a belted
earl.’”
“That sounds nice!” said Peggy approvingly, “I should like that, but
it wouldn’t be a ball, you silly boy, it would be a conversazione
where all the clever and celebrated people of London were gathered
together, ‘To have the honour of meeting Miss Saville.’ There would
be quite a number of people whom we knew among the Lions. A very
grand Lady Somebody or other, the beauty of the season—Rosalind of
course—all sparkling with diamonds, and leaning on the arm of a
distinguished-looking gentleman with orders on his breast. That’s
Arthur. I’m determined that he shall have orders. It’s the only thing
that could reconcile me to the loss of the Victoria Cross, and a
dress coat is so uninteresting without trimmings! A fat lady would be
sitting in a corner prattling about half-a-dozen subjects all in one
moment—that’s Mellicent, and a tall, lean lady in spectacles would be
imparting useful information to a dandy with an eyeglass stuck in one
eye—that’s Esther and Oswald! Oh dear, I wonder—I wonder—I wonder! It’s
like a story book, Rob, and we are at the end of the first volume. How
much shall we have to do with each other in the second and third, and
what is going to happen next—and how—and when?”
“We—we have to part, that’s the next thing,” said Rob sadly. “Here
comes the carriage, and Arthur is shouting to us to stop. It’s
good-bye, for the present, Mariquita; there’s no help for it!”
“At the cross roads!” said Peggy slowly, and her eye wandered to the
signboard which marked the paths branching north, south, east, and
west. She stopped short and stood gazing into the boy’s face, her
eyes big and solemn, the wind blowing her hair into loose little
curls beneath her scarlet cap, while her mind seized eagerly on the
significance of the position. “At the cross roads, Rob, to go our
different ways! Good-bye, good-bye! I hate to say it. You—you won’t
forget, and like the horrid boys at college better than me, will you,
Rob?”
Robert gave a short, strangled little laugh.
“I think—not! Cheer up, partner! We will meet again and have a better
time together than we have had yet. The third volume is always more
exciting than the first. I say we shall, and you know when I make up my
mind to a thing, it has to be done!”
“Ah, but how?” sighed Peggy faintly. “But how?” Vague prophecies of
the future were not much comfort to her in this moment of farewell.
She wanted something more definite, but Rob had no time to enter into
details. Even as she spoke the carriage drew up beside them, and while
the occupants congratulated Peggy on having walked so far and so well,
he could only grip her hand, and take his place in silence beside his
sister.
Lady Darcy bent forward to smile farewell; Rosalind waved her hand, and
there they were off again, driving swiftly homewards, while Peggy stood
watching, a solitary figure upon the roadside.
Arthur and his companions hurried forward to join her, afraid lest she
should be tired and overcome with grief by the parting with her friend
and partner.
“Poor little Peg! She won’t like it a bit,” said Arthur. “She’s crying!
I’m sure she is.”
“She is putting her handkerchief to her eyes,” said Mellicent. “Of
course, she is crying!”
“We will give her an arm apiece, and take her straight back,” said Max
anxiously, “It’s a shame to have left the poor little soul alone!”
They stared with troubled eyes at the little figure which stood with
its back turned towards them, in an attitude of rigid stillness. There
was something pathetic about that stillness, with just the flutter
of the tell-tale handkerchief to hint at the quivering face that was
hidden from view. The hearts of Peggy’s companions were very tender
over her at that moment, but even as they planned words of comfort and
cheer, she wheeled round suddenly and walked back to meet them.
It was an unusually mild morning for the season of the year, and the
sun was shining from a cloudless sky. Its rays fell full upon Peggy’s
face as she advanced; upon reddened eyes, trembling lips, and two
large tears trickling down her cheeks. It was undeniable that she was
crying, but she carried her head well back upon her shoulders, rather
courting than avoiding observation, and as she drew nearer it became
abundantly evident that Peggy had retired in honour of Mariquita, and
that consolations had better be deferred to a more promising occasion.
“A most lacerating wind!” she said coolly. “It draws the moisture to my
eyes. Quite piercingly cold I call it!” and even Mellicent had not the
courage to contradict.
* * * * *
And here, dear readers, we leave Peggy Saville at a milestone of
her life. In what direction the cross roads led the little company
of friends, and what windings of the path brought them once more
together, remains still to be told. It was a strange journey, and in
their travelling they met many friends with whom all young people are
acquainted. The giant barred the way, and had to be overcome before the
palace could be reached; the Good Spirit intervened at the right moment
to prevent calamity, the prince and princess stepped forward and made
life beautiful; for life is the most wonderful fairy tale that was ever
written, and full of magic to those who have eyes to see it.
Farewell then to Peggy Pickle, but if it be the wish of those readers
who have followed her varying fortunes so far, we may meet again with
Mariquita Saville, in the glory of sweet and twenty, and learn from her
the secret of the years.
[Illustration: _END._]
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object
in Life,” etc.
CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST OF THE “SLAINS CASTLE.”
“I am all curiosity to hear your secret, Charlie,” pleaded his wife.
“Well, as I tell you, it is your secret which has given any meaning to
mine,” he said. “It is as if I picked up an odd-shaped bit of wood,
which seemed a mere chip, but presently you came in with a puzzle, all
fitted, save for one vacant place, and lo, my chip exactly fills it!”
He had taken up the bulky pocket-book which lay on the sofa beside him.
He searched through its contents, selected one letter, and handed it to
Lucy.
“Read it,” he said, “and tell me what you think.”
Lucy instinctively looked first at the envelope. The post-mark was
“Peterhead”; the handwriting was strong and manly.
“Why, it is from your old acquaintance Captain Grant!” she said.
Charlie nodded.
“Read what he says,” he repeated.
It was not a long letter. The Captain, who was an old schoolfellow of
Charlie’s, had heard of his illness and wrote to inquire how he was.
“It is my belief, my boy,” he said, “that all the medicine you want
is a good draught of salt air taken straight off the top of the ocean
waves. You can’t get it quite right on the best of shores. What a pity
you can’t come with me in my fine ship the _Slains Castle_. We are
going straight to New Zealand, and then perhaps we shall trade a little
among some of the smaller islands; but the _Slains Castle_ is a fast
goer, and unless the winds are very dead against us, we shall be home
well within a year. That’s the sort of thing that would really do you
good, and not a petty little voyage on a passenger steamer, where you
smell more of the engines and the cook-room than of the briny. Can’t
you make up your mind and come with me? Health before income, old man!
If you were by yourself, I’d press the idea; but, as there is the
little wife, I suppose I mustn’t. For there is no room to offer to her
on the ship.”
“I shall write and tell him that just because there is a little wife,
he must press the idea!” cried Lucy, with shining eyes. “Why, a whole
year on the open sea—you, who love it so much and are never sea-sick—it
would make a new man of you!” And then her brave heart quailed secretly
at the thought of the long absence, and the long silences which lay
within it, and she added kindly, “But might you not find it a rough
life, Charlie, and lonesome?”
Charlie laughed kindly.
“I can trust Grant’s ideas of comfort,” he said; “they are quite up
to wholesome point, and I want nothing more. He is good company too,
and so are sailors generally. I could not bear the thought of any very
long journey in a big passenger steamer with strange men, possibly
gamblers or drunkards, sharing one’s cabin, the social tone set by the
smoking-room and the bar, and possibility of the truly awful solitude
of living among two or three hundred people with not one of whom I
might have a single idea in common! No, dear little Lucy, if I am to
have a really long voyage, give me a sailing vessel, when I can secure
such advantage as sailing with Alick Grant.”
“But suppose you should be ill?” suggested Lucy in a low voice. “There
would be no doctor.”
“Suppose I should be ill!” answered Charlie cheerfully. “Grant would
see that I was properly taken care of. All that could be done in my
case, he knows how to do.”
Mr. Challoner paused.
“Even so,” he went on; “it would be better for you to think of me as
lying quietly in my berth, looked after by an old friend, and an object
of genuine interest to all his men, than as I should be on a passenger
steamer, with an over-driven steward and stewardess running in and out,
dancing going on overhead, and sounds of comic songs coming from the
saloon. No, I should not like to run risks of serious illness on a big
passenger steamer,” he decided.
He did not remind Lucy—but she remembered, though she kept silence—that
in the one lengthy ocean voyage he had ever enjoyed—a business trip to
and from New York—a passenger had met a frightful death by accident in
the steamer’s saloon, and two days afterwards a flippant “charade” had
been enacted, with every circumstance of levity, on the very spot.
“What did you think, Charlie, when you first got that letter?” asked
his wife. “Did you wish you could go?”
Her husband shook his head.
“We do not wish for what we believe to be absolutely impossible,” he
said. “As I say, I never gave it another thought till you brought out
your plans this afternoon. I did not tell you a word about it, because
I thought the suggestion would only worry you, when it could not be
carried out.”
“But you see now that it could be done,” said Lucy bravely.
“There is another thing too,” Charlie went on; “to go in this way will
cost far less than to go in any other. From what Grant has told me
about other voyages, I know he takes a passenger in this way at about
what one may call boarding rates, say a hundred pounds for the whole
year. Now, on a steamer one could only be away about three months at
most for that sum, and unless one took the return journey at once, one
would also have hotel and travelling expenses. If I go with Grant,
Lucy, I need not take more than one hundred and a few odd pounds with
me, and I can leave you all the rest of our little hoard. So thriftily
as you will manage, I believe you need not trouble about earning, and
yet we sha’n’t be penniless when I get home.”
Lucy answered in nervous haste.
“Oh, but I must do all I can. It will help to pass the time; it will
help me to bear your being away.”
Charlie put out his hand towards her.
“Little woman,” he said, “is this going to cost you too much in this
way? What is the good of making any effort to save me which is to kill
you? And perhaps I don’t need any such saving after all. Why should I
go?”
Lucy rallied herself.
“Of course it will be very terrible to miss you,” she said, feeling
instinctively that if the part she was playing was to be accepted, she
must not overdo it. “The days will be very long without you to wait for
and to talk with. I shall need all I can get to occupy me. But as for
not being able to bear it, Charlie, I suppose I am made of the same
stuff as other women. Plenty of them have to bear the same—and worse.
Captain Grant’s wife herself has to bear it, and from her photographs
she does not look as if it wore her to fiddlestrings.”
“She is used to it,” said Charlie, with a man’s easy way of “seeing a
difference.”
“Certainly. I daresay she felt it worse the first time,” assented
Lucy. “On the other hand, it is always going on. Almost as soon as one
absence ends another begins. Now, I shall know that mine is one supreme
effort, and then—reunion!”
“I wish Captain Grant’s wife were nearer at hand—in London instead of
in Peterhead,” said Charlie. “It would seem cheery for you wives to be
together at home, while we husbands were together on the ocean.”
“Well, perhaps she will come up and spend a month with me,” remarked
Lucy. “If she comes in the Institute’s holidays, I should be at leisure
to show her the sights, if she has not seen them all already. It would
be great fun to have her here.” (Long afterwards Lucy remembered that
little speech.)
“One thing is, if I go, I am not leaving you lonely, Luce,” mused
Charlie. “There’s Florence and Brand not very far off.”
Lucy said nothing. Her husband looked up with the brightness born of a
sudden thought.
“How would you like it if they invited you to stay with them while I
was away?” he asked. “Hugh could play with his little cousin, and I’m
sure Pollie could make herself useful, seeing what hot water they’re
always in with their servants. This house would cost little shut up,
and you could keep an eye on it, or even get it let as it stands for a
few months out of the twelve.”
“No, Charlie,” said Lucy. There was an almost fierce decision in her
voice. “No, I can bear to miss you, if I am in my own place, our
place, and can be by myself when I choose, and am doing all I can to
serve our future. I could not bear to sit down at dinner-parties,
and to have to dress of an evening, and to talk small talk in the
drawing-room. The Brands mean to be kind of course,” she added hastily;
“but they like to have crowds of people about, and I don’t. Florence
had thirty-five callers at her last weekly ‘afternoon’; while I’m one
of those who think that ‘a world in purchase of one friend to gain.’
No, Charlie, don’t try to take care of me in these ways. Trust me with
myself. I know what is good for me. There are some matters men never
quite understand.”
“Well, if you are to take your own ways, you must be careful that they
succeed,” said her husband. “One comfort is, you have Pollie, and can
trust and depend on her. Those cheeks of yours are thin and pale. I
must find round roses on them when I come back—if I go! Oh, Lucy, why
did you make these plans, and why did Alick Grant write that letter? We
should have gone on so happily as we are, and I should have picked up
strength gradually. Why has this come into our heads?”
“I think because it is the will of God that you should go,” answered
Lucy with sweet reverence. “I thought so all the while when it was only
my own plans, which were working out so well. I think so more than
ever now, Charlie, when I find that all the time you, as it were, were
holding the other end of the same stick.”
“Shall we put the matter to one more test?” said Charlie. “Shall I
write to Grant asking when he sails and if he will take me for the year
at one hundred pounds, telling him that if he can, and if I can be
ready by his date, I will entertain the idea.”
“You can be ready by any date if Dr. Ivery thinks you are strong
enough,” said Lucy, “and we could afford more than one hundred. If this
is the path of Providence, Charlie, ought we to be turned aside by
these things?”
“Such a letter will not bind me either way,” returned her husband, “it
is purely tentative; and yet if the date and the terms prove suitable,
the leading will seem the clearer. I will write at once, and until we
get Grant’s answer, we will not say a word on the matter to anybody.”
The epistle was soon written, and Lucy herself hurried on her bonnet
and ran with it to the post, lest Pollie should not be quick enough to
catch the night mail for the north.
“I feel sure you are to go,” said Lucy. And as two or three days
passed by without an answer, she hung upon her husband’s presence as
those do who count the running down sands of a dear joy. She could
soothe herself only by doing something for Charlie, though it was
only pathetic little preparations for the possible departure. Of
course there was no use thinking of “outfit” until that departure was
definitely decided. But there were “thin places” to be darned in the
fine, carefully-kept underclothing, and all the three guineas she had
got for her sketch, went to procure little supplementary comforts and
conveniences which would be certainly useful whether Charlie went away
or remained at home.
It was indeed a waiting time, and waiting times invariably try
nerves and spirits, even though so strong a self-control be set upon
these, that they may not tamper with temper or will. Lucy Challoner
never dared to be idle for a moment. She felt that she must hold
herself with a strong hand. When it seemed to her that Pollie was
rather self-absorbed, less interested in her work, and indeed almost
negligent, Lucy set it all down to her own imagination, fevered by
restrained excitement.
In the course of that waiting time, Florence Brand put in an appearance
at the little verandahed house. She came in the afternoon, and Charlie
was asleep. For this Lucy was secretly thankful, being always unable to
realise that Florence did not irritate Charlie—who was a woman and not
his own sister—as she often did herself—a woman and a sister! Pollie
was so slow to admit the visitor, or the visitor was so impatient, that
the door-bell was rung twice, the second time with such vigour that
Lucy feared her husband would be startled from his slumbers, and flew
to open the door herself.
“What! You have to do this yourself, now, do you?” cried Mrs. Brand
before she had crossed the threshold. “How’s Charlie? Getting all
right, I suppose, or we should have heard. I had a fine time at
the seaside, it would have done me worlds of good to have stayed
there another week. But I saw so many high-class autumn sales being
advertised, and I’ve so many things to buy, that I thought I’d best
come straight back. If you’re busy, I sha’n’t interrupt you. I can only
stay five minutes. I did not mean to call when I left home, but since
I’ve been out, I’ve heard something that I’m determined you shall hear
at once. Prepare for a shock!”
Lucy’s face grew so white that it startled even Mrs. Brand.
“Dear me, child,” she said, “it is not really anything; nineteen people
out of twenty would not mind a bit, though they might be angry. But I
know it will startle your confiding trustfulness. Your treasure Pollie
is on the eve of giving you notice because she is going to be married!”
Lucy Challoner sat down. She felt her strength gone from her. In
another moment she rallied, remembering that she had to hold the fort
of domestic serenity for Charlie’s sake, and that she must not yet
reveal to Florence the full force of the blow she had given her.
“How did you hear this?” she asked.
“I heard it at your Italian warehouse,” Florence answered. “You know
Jem has an idea that they keep better curry powder than anybody else.
So this afternoon I looked in there with an order, and to pay a little
account. That took me to the desk, where the girl-clerk sits. She
has often seen you and me together, and of course she had heard of
Charlie’s illness. So says she, ‘I hope Mr. Challoner is better,
ma’am?’ ‘Oh, dear, yes,’ I replied, ‘I daresay he is nearly as well as
he will ever be. He will always be delicate.’ ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am,’
she said. ‘It’s so sad for Mrs. Challoner and the dear little boy, and
what a pity it is she should be troubled about a new servant at such
a time.’ ‘A new servant!’ I cried in amaze. ‘Oh, perhaps I should not
have spoken,’ said she. ‘Hasn’t her maid given notice yet? I know she
has arranged to be married at Christmas.’”
“There may be some mistake,” observed Lucy. “But thank you for telling
me. I only wish Pollie had told me herself. I did not know even that
she had a sweetheart.”
Mrs. Brand laughed.
“She may not have known that herself very long,” she said. “These girls
are generally of an opinion that ‘happy’s the wooing that’s not long
undoing.’ When do her wages fall due?”
“The day after to-morrow,” said Lucy drearily.
“This is only the first of October,” commented Mrs. Brand. “If she
gives you notice now, she will be away by the first of November. I
should not wonder if she doesn’t give you notice for another month.
Well, you’ve had her more than seven years, so you may think yourself
lucky. The worst of it is that a change comes harder in such a case
than when one is always changing as I am. I must be going now, Lucy.
And don’t you fret. I’ll help you to look for another girl. I rather
enjoy the fun. But I sympathise with you, my dear, for I didn’t like
the task once, but practice makes perfect, and now I expect nothing and
am never disappointed.”
She was gone, Lucy closing the hall door softly behind her that Charlie
might not be roused. She wanted to make herself more accustomed to this
new aspect of life, ere the tinkle of his little handbell should summon
her to his side.
The first thing was to question Pollie. “There may be some mistake,”
Lucy repeated to herself. Yet she felt a secret conviction that there
was none.
She did not ring the bell and “summon Pollie to her presence.” She
had the thoughtful woman’s habit of seldom ringing the bell to claim
the attendance of the solitary servant. She went towards the head of
the kitchen stairs and lingered there a moment. She heard Pollie walk
across the kitchen, and then the rattle of some tin vessels. She made
up her mind to go down and face the worst at once.
Somehow the kitchen did not look quite so pleasant as usual. It was
clean and fairly tidy, but the things last used were not cleared away,
and the dresser lacked the glass with a few flowers which generally
adorned it. Pollie was busy at the fire-place. She looked over her
shoulder at her mistress, but did not turn round, and went on with what
she was doing.
She was a comely personable girl with a good head and a trim figure.
Perhaps there was a little hardness about her mouth, or it might be
that she was setting her teeth in face of what was coming.
“Pollie,” said the mistress very gently, “I have just been told that
you are thinking of leaving us and getting married?”
Pollie did not answer quickly. She went on doing something with great
energy.
“Well, ma’am, yes,” she said; “it is so.”
“And when is it to be, Pollie?” asked Mrs. Challoner.
“I’m to be married at Christmas,” Pollie answered with great firmness.
“Then I am to take your notice at once?” said Mrs. Challoner.
“Well, ma’am, yes. I’d like to leave on the 1st of November. I’ve
things to do. But if you would like me to stay a week or two longer,
I’d be willing to oblige you.”
Mrs. Challoner reflected for a moment. It is well-nigh impossible to
accept a favour from one who has suddenly cut us down to the bare legal
rights of our position.
“No, Pollie, thank you,” she said; “you can go at the time that suits
you best.”
“Thank you, m’m,” said Pollie, still rubbing vigorously.
Mrs. Challoner did not feel as if she could drop the matter right off
here. It did not seem even fair to this girl, who had been with her
and had worked faithfully for her for seven years, not to let her know
exactly what feelings her present course had evoked.
“Pollie,” she began very gently, “is not all this rather sudden?”
“Well, ma’am, you’ve got your proper notice, and I’ve said I’d not
stand on giving you a week or two extra. What more can I do?” said
Pollie.
“That is quite true, Pollie. But look at it in this light—if you had
only been with me for two or three months, you would be obliged to do
as much as you are doing now. Don’t you think something else comes into
the matter when people have been together for years and have grown to
rely on each other and to feel as if each other would be always there,
unless they knew that something was coming to part them?”
“I was not to know that you mightn’t get rid of me any day, ma’am,”
said Pollie. “It seems like as if there might be changes.”
“Pollie, do you really think I would not at once have told you of any
possible change which, if it occurred, might interfere with you?”
asked Mrs. Challoner. “Legal notices are necessary between everybody,
strangers or friends; but full and timely warning beforehand is surely
due from those who have been long associated. Don’t you feel you would
have had this if change had threatened from my side?”
“I don’t know, m’m,” said Pollie rather sullenly. “Ladies don’t always
think of those things. Girls have to look after themselves.”
“But I am certain you would have felt hurt,” said Mrs. Challoner. “If
not, you can have never had much regard for me or confidence in me.”
Pollie began to cry.
“I ain’t leaving you to go to another place, m’m,” she said. “I’d never
have done that. I’ve been tempted, though you’ve never heard of it.
‘Wages isn’t everything,’ I’ve always answered. But this is different.”
“Of course it is, Pollie,” Mrs. Challoner responded patiently. “But I
am the more taken by surprise because I never dreamed you had a lover.
I hope you are not doing anything rashly, Pollie.”
“Oh, he hasn’t been any lover; but I’ve known him long enough!” gasped
Pollie. “I didn’t know as he thought anything about me. Only when I
said to him I thought there would be changes an’ I’d never take another
London service, he ups and speaks out, thinking, I suppose, that I’d
go away and he’d lose me altogether. And at Christmas he gets a week’s
holiday, and that’s why we’ll be married then and go down to Leeds to
see his mother. ‘We’ll get it over,’ says he, ‘and do the courtin’
afterwards.’ I’m sure there’s been none yet,” Pollie added with a dash
of feminine scorn.
“Well, Pollie, you know I am sorry to part from you, and it is sadder
still when we have just been through so much anxiety together. But I
hope you’ll be happy. I wish you had told me about it yourself. It is
hard to hear such things from other people.”
“Other people might mind their own business, m’m,” said Pollie, with
some spirit. “There’s some people who are a deal too busy with their
tongues.”
“But they only told the truth,” Mrs. Challoner suggested.
“If they hadn’t had no truth to tell, they’d have had a say about
something or ’nother, I guess!” cried Pollie, heaping up negatives in
her flurry.
“Well, Pollie,” said her mistress, “all I have now to ask is that you
will not mention your leaving to your master—at least, at present.
You can understand that we must keep all worry from him while he is
regaining strength. In a day or two I will tell you my special reason
for asking this silence.”
“‘He’ ought to be very good to me to be taking me from a place where
I’ve been treated like as I’ve been here,” reflected Pollie when Mrs.
Challoner had left the kitchen. “And here I’d have been for years,
maybe—and maybe for ever—and certain never in no such hurry would
I have jumped at any journeyman tailor, if it hadn’t been for that
Mrs. Brand a-shaking of her head and saying I must be prepared for
changes—and them soon too—she feared the master wasn’t for long, and it
was a good thing the mistress had their house to turn to. And when a
woman’s getting nigh thirty and changes begins to—to be talked about,
it comes as a sort of Godsend when she’s asked to change her name! But
how I’ll get along without Master Hugh, it beats me to know!”
That night Lucy Challoner never closed her eyes.
(_To be continued._)
HER KINGDOM OF DREAMS.
BY EDITH RUTLAR.
She saw the storm sweep down the length of the street,
And the year, growing old, dash his tears on the pane;
She heard the dull patter of wet little feet
’Midst the pitiless gusts of the wind and the rain.
An opaline light lit the clouds in the west,
And a cruel grip tightened the teeth of the blast;
The watcher’s stiff limbs sought a posture of rest
As she slipped into dreams of the days of the past.
Her toil-hardened fingers lay still on her knee,
And the light of the moon at the full lit her face;
The poor stricken seamstress of worthless degree
In the Kingdom of Dreams had a home and a place.
One hand raised itself, then fell weakly away;
So the night came apace, and the clock ticked its round:
Whilst the words the white withered lips would betray
Died into the Silence no mortal can sound.
A voice said, “She sleeps, and the work not begun”;
But a kind hand had banished “the rule and the rod”:
And another voice answered, “The work is done,
For her Kingdom of Dreams is the Kingdom of God.”
SHEILA.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.
CHAPTER I.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
“I call it cruel of them to separate us! They might at least have let
us be together!” cried Sheila, with tears in her voice, if not in her
eyes.
“Well, but we shall not be very far apart. We can see each other most
days, and you will have a nice home with Uncle and Aunt Cossart—more
what you have been used to—a big country house. Uncle Tom lives in the
town to be near the works; but he says it is an easy walk to get out to
Cossart Place.”
Sheila gave a rather scornful toss to her handsome head.
“Cossart Place! I hate that pretentious way of calling one’s house by
one’s own name! Oscar, aren’t these relations of ours rather vulgar,
purse-proud people? Papa must have had some reason for keeping us away
from them all these years.”
Oscar was silent for a few moments, and then he said slowly—
“You know, Sheila, our father was rather a proud man. He thought a good
deal of birth and family, and of being one of the Cholmondeleys of
Warwickshire. He married our beautiful mother for love; but he took her
right away from her family—he told me so himself as he lay dying—and
she never saw any of them again. She had only quite a small fortune
then. The Cossarts have got rich since her marriage. But our father’s
property has been dwindling and dwindling, and he has dipped again and
again into capital, and everything is mortgaged up to the hilt, as Mr.
Dart calls it. Sheila, I am afraid there will be very little left for
us except the little fortune of our mother’s, which was settled upon
her and her children.”
Sheila understood very little of business, and Oscar not much more;
but he had received confidences from their dying father, and had had
interviews with the family lawyer, so that he was better acquainted
with the prospect before them than the sister.
“Father thought at the last that he had made a mistake in holding aloof
from the Cossarts. He wrote both to Uncle Cossart and Uncle Tom, and
they are our guardians. I think they mean to be kind to us, though they
could not at once get away to be here for the funeral. But Uncle Tom
will come almost at once to look into things; and he is going to give
me a berth at the works. He says that in his letter.”
“I call that the horridest thing of all!” flashed out Sheila. “You
to be stuck down at a desk or something, in some chemical works, or
whatever it is! Why can’t they let you finish your course at Oxford?
Mother’s money would be lots for that!”
“Oh, yes; but then what would be the good?” asked Oscar gravely. “No,
Sheila, I have seen too much of what Oxford does for poor men, to want
to finish my three years there. I’ve no great gifts. I should only take
an ordinary degree. I should have no chance of fellowship or tutorship
there, and I’ve no gift for teaching. It’s much better really to go
into business young, where one has a chance of pushing one’s way. Lots
of fellows would give their ears for my chances at our uncles’ works.
As I can’t be a country gentleman like our father, and be master of the
dear old place, I’d sooner go right away and start fair at something
altogether different.”
Sheila heaved a deep sigh as her eyes travelled from her brother’s
grave face, out through the open window and across the familiar
landscape of wood and water.
It was a lovely February day—one of those days which come as a
foretaste of summer, when the sun shines with power, and all the air is
full of scents of spring, and one forgets that winter is not yet gone,
and begins to welcome the promise of the year.
“I never thought we should have to leave the dear old home. Is it
certain that it must go, Oscar? Surely father could not have meant to
leave things so bad for us?”
“Father was not fond of business,” said Oscar slowly. “He did not go
into things carefully enough. The property was burdened when he came
into it, and, you know, land has been going down ever since. We will
not blame him, Sheila; other people have had losses too. Mr. Dart
says that hundreds and thousands of people have been placed just as
we are these last years. Indeed, we are better off than many; for
there is that little fortune of our mother’s—five thousand pounds well
invested—which brings us in a little income, and there may be something
left from the estate when things are wound up, though it won’t be much,
I can see. And we have the Cossarts, who will give us a home each. I
think it is rather fine of them to come forward to help us, seeing how
their sister was kept quite away from them after her marriage.”
Sheila looked up with a little quick, eager glance in her big grey
eyes—those Irish eyes, which, like her name, she had inherited from
her grandmother—her father’s mother—who had been a notable beauty in
her day. Sheila was not a beauty; but she had an attractive face, and
a winning and appealing manner. She had always been the pet and the
darling of the house, and she seemed to claim affection and notice as a
natural right.
“Couldn’t we live together, Oscar, just you and I together, in some
dear little cottage, on our mother’s money? I would keep the house
nice, and grow flowers in the garden; and you could find something to
do; and we would be so happy in our little home.”
She put her hand upon his, and he stroked it and smiled; but he shook
his head too.
“It sounds nice, Sheila; but it wouldn’t really be practicable. You
don’t know anything about the worries of small means, and I should get
no opening if I refused Uncle Tom’s offer. Besides, you see, we have no
choice at present. We are both minors; I sha’n’t be of age for a year,
and you are only eighteen. Our uncles are our guardians, and we have to
do what they settle for us. Mr. Dart says that what they have suggested
is the kindest thing possible. Some day, I hope, if you don’t marry,
we shall be able to have a home of our own together. But for the next
few years we must make up our minds to let other people settle things
for us, and be grateful to them for taking the burden and worry off our
shoulders.”
Oscar could be thankful for this. He had seen just enough of life
in his year at Oxford, and in the examination, under the lawyer’s
direction, into his father’s involved affairs, to be aware that its
battle could be a very hard and strenuous matter, and that his father
had been carried away by the tide of misfortune instead of seeking to
stem it. He could almost feel thankful that he was not called upon
to fight any arduous up-hill battle—that things had gone so far that
nothing would avail but a clean sweep. Oscar loved his home—loved it
almost as well as Sheila did. If he could have lived peacefully and
prosperously there, as his fathers had apparently done before him,
he would have asked nothing better, and would have sought to do his
duty to those about and beneath him. But he had an elastic and hopeful
temperament, and he did not dislike the prospect of a complete change
in his manner of life. He had a turn for electrical engineering,
and his uncle had said something about an electrical branch in the
works of Cossart & Sons. Congenial employment might be found for
him, he thought. He had been through much sorrow of heart and worry
of mind during the past weeks since his father’s death; but now he
was beginning to see his way out of the tangle, and to look forward
hopefully to what lay beyond.
[Illustration: BROTHER AND SISTER.]
Sheila’s thoughts had also gone off on a private expedition. But, after
a short pause, she spoke with great decision.
“I shall never marry, Oscar. Marrying makes people stupid. I know
that, because all the girls who go and get married are quite spoiled
directly. It begins as soon as they are engaged. Besides, most of them
go away, and one forgets about them. I shall be an old maid, and keep
your house for you. It will be something to look forward to whilst I am
living with Uncle Cossart. Why can’t I go to Uncle Tom’s with you? It
would be so much more amusing.”
“Well, they seem to have it all arranged for us, and we can’t exactly
ask them to alter. But we’ll see all about it when Uncle Tom comes.
He’ll tell us everything.”
Mr. Thomas Cossart was the younger of the brothers who now were the
heads of a thriving business in one of the eastern counties. Their
father had begun from small means; but prudence, upright dealing,
and industry, combined with shrewdness and skill, had worked up the
business to something very considerable. He had died a wealthy man, but
his daughter had not succeeded to any farther portion of his wealth.
The old Cossart had been hurt and offended at the way in which his
child had been separated from her own people through Mr. Cholmondeley’s
pride. He had made no complaint, but he had felt it keenly. The sons
took it more quietly. They were busy men, and possibly the knowledge
that what would have been their sister’s portion had fallen to their
share, disposed them to take the matter with equanimity. They used
to write and send presents at Christmas, just to show there was no
ill-feeling, and as long as Mrs. Cholmondeley lived she had always
done the same. When it was told to the Cossart brothers that Mr.
Cholmondeley had died rather suddenly, leaving his affairs in a very
involved state, and asking their help and guardianship for his two
children, the response had been prompt and kindly.
“I shall come as soon as I can possibly arrange to be away from the
works,” Mr. Tom Cossart had written. “My brother is laid up with the
gout and is unable to move, and I cannot be present at the funeral
as I have too many important engagements to fulfil. But I shall come
immediately afterwards and do my best to assist in the winding up of
affairs.”
He had written also to his nephew, stating briefly that there would be
a home for them with their relatives and a place for him in the works.
Now they were waiting with some excitement of mind for the arrival of
the unknown uncle, in whose hands their future seemed to lie.
“I hope he will be nice and kind!” cried Sheila, as she paced the big
hall with excited steps. “I want to like him if I can; but what shall
we do if he is harsh and unkind, or”—here she lowered her voice and
added, as if half afraid of her own imaginings—“if he is dreadfully
common and vulgar?”
“He is our mother’s brother,” said Oscar gravely. “We must try always
to remember that.”
“Yes, but mother had been sent away to a good school, and father saw
her and fell in love with her when she was on a visit just after she
left. She had scarcely lived at home at all. I don’t think that is any
proof. Oscar, shall I have to kiss him when he comes?”
“I think you had better, Sheila. He is our uncle. I think he will
expect it.”
Sheila made a little grimace; but she had been petted all her life, and
kissing came easily to her.
“I wonder why girls are expected to kiss everybody and be kissed? Boys
get off. It isn’t quite fair. But I’ll try to be as good as I can.”
Sheila was trying to keep a brave face, though her heart was heavy
to-night. The coming of Uncle Tom seemed to emphasise the fact that the
father’s place was for ever empty; that it was a stranger who must in
future rule their lives for them—at any rate, for the next year or two.
The blank in the house was keenly felt at all times, although perhaps
a little less keenly than it would have been had Mr. Cholmondeley not
been much of a recluse during the latter years of his life. It seemed
so strange that a visitor should be arriving, and that there should be
only the son and daughter to welcome him.
Sheila choked back a sob more than once, as she stood listening for the
crunch of wheels upon the gravel, which would herald the approach of
the carriage.
It was like the beginning of the end. When once Uncle Tom had arrived,
the old home would not seem like their own any longer. The guardian
would be there to look after and arrange everything; and before very
long they would have to leave—never to return.
As that thought come into Sheila’s mind, she ceased her excited pacing
and came and stood beside the glowing hearth, her eyes full of unshed
tears as she gazed into the heart of the fire.
Oscar saw the tears and came and put his arm about her. He knew very
well the nature of the thoughts within her.
“Sheila,” he said softly, “we must try to be brave and good. We know
that God will take care of us as much in one place as another.”
She nodded her head, and a great drop fell glistening down. She pulled
Oscar’s hand more closely round her.
“I don’t think things are as real to me as they are to you, Oscar. I
like to be taken care of by somebody I can see. Papa always did, and
now he is gone, and they are going to take you away from me too.”
“I shall be quite near, Sheila; we shall always be meeting.”
“It isn’t like being in the same house.”
“You will have Uncle and Aunt Cossart, and I think there will be some
cousins too. I know Uncle Tom has children; I’m not quite so sure
about Uncle Cossart.”
“Perhaps I sha’n’t like them. I don’t like everybody,” began Sheila;
but then she caught herself up quickly and added, “But I am going to
try and be good, Oscar, I really am. Perhaps I’ve been too happy all
this time—made too much of. It may be good for me to have some snubbing
now. I’ll try not to mind very much—to take it patiently—like the early
Christians, you know. When I was little I used to think it might be
rather nice to be persecuted.”
Oscar smiled a little, and over Sheila’s face there glimmered a
flickering smile, as though she were half amused at her own fancies.
The firelight played over her face and form as she stood in its rosy
glow. She was a little over the average height, and was growing
graceful and maidenly, though a year or two back she had been rather
a hoyden in appearance, with long limbs and a good many angles, and
a mane of wavy brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Now the long
plain black dress, a little open at neck and wrists—for it was close
upon dinner-time—seemed to give grace and dignity to the figure, and
to heighten the clearness of the girl’s complexion. The plentiful
brown hair was coiled about the head. The big grey eyes were arched
over by brows of the same dusky tint, and the features of the face
were well cut, though not quite regular, and very mobile in their play
of expression. It was the constantly varying expression which gave to
Sheila’s face its chief charm. It was like an April morning—always
changing from gay to grave and from grave to gay. Gaiety certainly
predominated in the play of lips and eyes; but there were many stormy
or appealing or wistful expressions flitting constantly over the face.
Sheila was accustomed to get her own way with everybody about her; and
her big appealing eyes were answerable for a good deal of the spoiling
she received.
Oscar was slight and tall, well-featured and very gentlemanly in
appearance, with a quiet, attractive face and a very bright smile,
which was, however, much more rare than Sheila’s. They were not much
alike; but that seemed only to strengthen the bond between them.
“Hark!” cried Oscar quickly. “I hear the carriage!”
Sheila turned a little pale, and took a step or two forward.
“It is Uncle Tom!” she said; and the next minute the butler had thrown
open the door and a figure well wrapped up for the wintry journey was
seen entering the hall.
Mr. Thomas Cossart had come!
(_To be continued._)
FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.