THE END OF A FAIRY TALE.
Another year has passed, and on a hot lazy afternoon in August a
group may be seen lounging on the lawn of the Rookery, under the
shade of one or two fine old trees.
Mrs. Merivale and Lady Woodhouse are seated close together in earnest
conversation over some matter which is of importance to themselves
only.
Sir Edward and Lady Ferrars, who have now been settled at the Court
for some long time, have dropped in at the Rookery, as they are fond
of doing, and are seated with Honor a little distance off.
Presently Doris rises and joins her mother and aunt, and after a
little pause, during which Sir Edward rolls up and lights a
cigarette, he turns to his sister-in-law and says:
"Do you know, Honor, I have come here this afternoon with the
deliberate intention of giving you a good talking to. I told Doris I
should this morning, and she quite agreed."
"Why, what have I done?" inquires Honor laughing.
"It is not what you _have_ done, but what you seem determined _not_
to do, young lady," returns Sir Edward. "To speak plainly, I do not
think you are treating Sinclair fairly. That is what I want to tell
you."
Honor is opening her mouth to speak, a little surprise on her face at
this accusation, when Sir Edward continues:
"No, I really don't, Honor. Here is this letter, which came more
than a week ago, telling us of young Horton already being on his way
home, poor fellow! and you know very well what will take place when
once he does come, for Molly certainly returns his affection now. I
am sure of it. And yet you go on, putting off Sinclair still; and
for no reason at all as far as I can see."
Honor looks a little abashed, but Sir Edward goes on again, first
sending a cloud of smoke up into the tree above.
"You know what I intend doing for Bobby and Dick, Honor. Of course
it is high time now in any case that Bob went to a good
boarding-school, and he can divide his holidays amongst us when they
come round. Dick cannot do better than remain where he is for a
little while linger; but I have told the lad that when the right time
comes he shall have his heart's desire, and go to Oxford. Now,
Honor, be reasonable. What is there to prevent your marrying
Sinclair now? There are only your mother and Daisy left, and I am
sure the former would be very happy living with us, taking turns, I
mean, with you and ourselves. And as for Daisy, Sinclair has often
spoken of his great wish to have the child to live entirely with
himself and you in the future. Now, I don't think you can say
another word. I consider I have blown away all your scruples as
completely as I am blowing away this smoke. So now, Miss Honor, we
shall both, Doris and I, expect cards for your wedding shortly;" and
before the girl can say a word in reply Sir Edward gets up and joins
the other group, feeling doubtless that it will do more good if she
is left to digest his remarks at her own leisure.
The Mr. Talboys are coming to tea this afternoon, bringing with them
two guests of their own--Daisy and Bobby. So, after sitting a moment
or two, Honor gets up and goes into the house to give a look to the
preparations for tea, which is to be in the garden on this occasion.
While this conversation is going on, Molly is seated in a swing which
is suspended to a tree near a small arbour, at the back of which is a
little gate in the hedge, much used by the servants, it being a short
way to the back of the house.
Often the girls use this way of entrance too, especially when they
want to get in quickly.
To-day, on her return home from some of her pupils, Molly turns in
this way, and seating herself in the swing throws her hat down on the
grass before her.
It is not because she is tired that Molly stays here instead of going
straight into the house, but because she wants to be quiet for a few
moments, in order to read again for about the twentieth time that
letter spoken of by Sir Edward to Honor, which is from Col. Danvers,
and is in her pocket at the present moment. Gently swinging to and
fro, one hand steadying the rope, the other holding the letter down
in her lap, Molly reads the words which she could now almost say off
by heart.
The first portion of the letter is taken up with inquiries for all at
home, and a brief explanation of his having been ordered to the
Soudan some little time back. There, greatly to his surprise, he had
come across Hugh Horton, the two from that time being thrown much
together. Then comes the description of a small skirmish with the
Arabs one day when they were both out together, in which Hugh was
badly wounded in nobly going to the rescue of one of his own men.
Having been cut off somehow from the rest of the party, this man
suddenly found himself face to face with three Arabs, who, promptly
attacking him, would soon have made short work of the matter, had not
Hugh, seeing the state of affairs from a distance, galloped up to his
assistance. Even then the two had a hard fight for it, and it is
doubtful whether either would have lived to tell the tale had not
others of the party ridden up to their rescue; for while the Arabs at
the sight of them took instant refuge in flight, Hugh at the same
moment rolled forward in his saddle and fell heavily to the ground,
close to where Private Williams had fallen a few seconds previously.
Altogether the letter is a long one, but a little further on--after
describing the dangerous state in which Hugh (now Captain Horton) had
lain for weeks, the surgeon having in fact given up all hope of his
recovery--there are some words which Molly is never tired of reading.
"I nursed him through it all myself," the colonel goes on, "with the
assistance of his own servant, and altogether, when not raving in
delirium, he was as patient as a man with a broken arm, a deep sabre
gash across his forehead, and quite a nice little collection of
bullets in his body altogether, could be expected to be, I think.
Through all his delirium, and even when quietly sleeping sometimes,
the name of 'Molly Bawn' was constantly on his lips. I mention this
in case you should happen to know anything of the young lady in
question! Well, a truce to joking. I am sending poor Horton home to
you all a complete wreck of his former self. Take care of him, and
be kind to him, Molly. He needs it sadly. I think you may expect
him almost any time after you receive this letter, for I want to
start him off the moment I can."
A few more words and the letter ends. Not so the motion of the
swing. For Molly still sits, reading a little bit here and there
over again, until the tears slowly gather in her eyes, and fall one
by one with a little splash on to the paper in her lap.
"Dear Hugh!" she says softly to herself, "I hope he will come soon."
The words are hardly spoken when her heart tightens, and for a second
or two almost ceases to beat. For hark! A tenor voice somewhere in
the neighbourhood of the road is singing, or to speak more correctly,
humming, the first verse of "Molly Bawn."
Molly arrests the motion of the swing and listens; her heart now
beating to suffocation almost, while a flush rises to her fair young
face. It dies away again suddenly, however, for in another instant a
tall figure stands beside her with pale haggard face, on which the
dark and now sweeping moustache looks fiercer than ever.
There is the same soft light in the eyes as of old though, as Hugh,
with a little smothered cry of "Molly, darling!" throws his one
available arm round the startled girl, just in time to prevent her
from falling.
"Hugh!" she cries. And in those three words all is said, all told;
and the next moment Molly is leaning her head upon his shoulder,
shedding tears of thankfulness for his safe return.
A little later on, when (regardless of spiders and other innumerable
creeping things) they are seated in the arbour, Hugh having begged
earnestly for a few minutes' quiet talk before joining the others,
Molly suddenly looks up.
"Poor fellow! you do indeed look as if you need to be taken care of.
Is your poor arm really getting stronger now?" and she gently strokes
the right arm, which he still wears in a sling.
"O, that will soon be all right," he says, capturing the little hand
and holding it fast. "It was the knock on the head which nearly did
for me. Look here, Molly!" and lifting a lock of hair which falls a
little over one side of his forehead, he shows her a wound which
extends pretty far back. Not an ugly-looking scar, but a deep and
dangerous cut at the time.
"Yes," he says, "I did not know much after getting that, Molly; but I
should have known still less if it had not been for _you_."
"For me?" says the girl looking up inquiringly.
"Yes, for you, dear. Here, help me to get into my breast-pocket,
Molly I have something to show you."
With a little struggling Hugh's pocket-book is at length extracted
from his pocket, and after some fumbling among its contents he
presently produces a little flat silver box of oriental-looking
workmanship, which looks a good deal dented and a little bent.
He gives it into Molly's hands.
"Open it," he says, and the girl, wondering a little, does so.
A faded white rose lies within it, a faint, sweet fragrance clinging
to it still.
"My rose!" says Molly softly, her eyes filling with tears.
"_Mine_," returns Hugh gently, and taking it out of her hand he puts
it away again carefully.
"Yes, if it had not been for this rose, Molly, I should not be
sitting here beside you now. The bullet which would have been buried
in my heart struck this (touching the box), and glanced aside. So
you see, Molly, it was _you_ who saved my life!--a worthless one
enough until you took me in hand, dear. Well, now I suppose we must
go and join the others. What a start I shall give them!"
When they reach the lawn they find the Mr. Talboys have arrived with
Daisy and Bobby; and when they have all got over their first
astonishment at the sight of the haggard-looking personage walking by
Molly's side, there is a general rush, and hearty congratulations are
showered on Hugh by every one upon his safe arrival home again.
Although nothing is actually said upon the subject, it is not
difficult to guess at the true state of affairs when they glance from
Hugh's speaking face to Molly, where she stands a little apart, with
downcast eyes and heightened colour; and there is extra warmth thrown
into the welcome to the returned wanderer on this account perhaps.
"But where is Daisy?--not ill, I hope;" and Hugh looks inquiringly
towards Molly.
"O no," says Mrs. Merivale rising. "I am thankful to say that she is
quite a little Samson to what she was formerly. But she and Bobby
have been dining with the Mr. Talboys to-day, and Daisy seems a
little done up with the heat. She complained of headache, so Honor
insisted on her lying on the sofa in the drawing-room for a little
while. I will take you to see her myself, Hugh;" and putting her arm
within his they turn towards the house together.
"The fact is," remarks Honor, shaking her head gravely at the
brothers Talboys, "Mr. Ned and Mr. Ben have been giving the children
too many good things. Bobby already begins to look as if a powder
might be desirable sooner or later."
"_Honor!_" exclaims that young gentleman indignantly, while Mr. Ned,
much concerned at the charge brought against himself and his brother,
says emphatically:
"I _assure_ you, my dear, we have been most judicious in that
respect, and I am sure that Daisy at least had nothing richer than
apricot-tart and cream. To be sure," he adds after a minute, "I have
some slight recollection of my brother Ben and Daisy having finished
up the tart between them, but I _don't_ think it was a very large
one. Master Bob and I preferred something more substantial--didn't
we, young man?"
"Yes," replies Bobby promptly. "We had a roly-poly jam-pudding, Mr.
Ned and I. And we had the jam-pot up as well, because we thought
Mrs. Edwards had not put enough in--didn't we, Mr. Ned?"
"Hush--sh--sh!" says Mr. Edward, shaking his finger at the boy; "you
mustn't tell tales out of school, young Bob, or we shall have Miss
Honor after us with the cane!"
When Mrs. Merivale a little later comes out of the drawing-room,
leaving Hugh still chatting to Daisy, Molly is just descending the
stairs, having been up to her room to take her hat off. She waits
for her, therefore, and tenderly folding her daughter in her arms she
whispers, "I am so glad, dear child! Now go into the drawing-room
and sit with him and Daisy in the cool for a little while. We will
call you out when tea is ready. I will tell the others and make it
all easy for you, dear. See if Hugh would like anything after his
dusty walk. Poor fellow, what a wreck he is indeed!" and opening the
door again Mrs. Merivale gently pushes her daughter into the room.
Sitting there in the welcome shade of the darkened room, with one
hand in Hugh's strong grasp and the other clasped by Daisy's little
sympathetic fingers, Molly listens quietly to all that Hugh is
telling her little sister of his experiences and adventures abroad;
and presently he turns to her and tells her of the devotion and
kindness with which Colonel Danvers tended him while on his bed of
sickness, and indeed up to the time he had left Egypt.
"He told me afterwards," Hugh adds, "that he was determined to pull
me through 'for little Molly's sake.'"
At this moment Becky opens the door, and with a frightened glance at
the "capting" announces that tea is ready and waiting. So they leave
Daisy to herself, promising to send some tea in to her.
There is such a large party on the lawn altogether that Honor and
Molly divide the labour between them and have opposition tables,
Honor with tea, Molly with coffee. Hugh is seated in a comfortable
wicker chair near Molly's table (he preferring coffee to tea), and is
being made much of by everybody. There is a beautiful sapphire and
diamond ring on the third finger of Molly's left hand now, the pearls
playing number two; and as Hugh watches the little hands moving about
the cups, the flashes emitted by the fine stones cause him much
inward satisfaction, as proving some really tangible arrangement _at
last_!
Presently John Sinclair strolls in, and being a tea-drinker,
naturally comes to anchor beside Honor's table. He is very soon, as
usual, plunged in some scientific discussion with Sir Edward Ferrars,
a great liking for each other having sprung up between the two young
men. But notwithstanding the rapt attention he is apparently
bestowing on the subject, Doctor Sinclair reads the "signs of the
times" as quickly as anyone, and the sight of Hugh seated by Molly
and the flashing of the latter's diamonds and sapphires afford him
every bit as much satisfaction as they do Hugh.
"I have come to the end of my cream!" suddenly exclaims Molly. "Who
will fetch me some more?"
"I will," cries Honor, jumping up. "I can lay my hand on it at once.
Don't let Dick eat all the sugar while I am gone."
In another moment John Sinclair rises quickly from his chair.
"I will go and see how Daisy is getting on," he remarks, and, quite
oblivious of the fact that Sir Edward has just asked him some
abstruse question, the answer to which he is eagerly waiting for, off
he starts with rapid strides towards the house. Sir Edward, however,
looks at Doris and laughs, well pleased. After waiting patiently for
some considerable time Molly at length exclaims:
"Good gracious! what a time she is fetching that cream! O, here they
all come together."
"Daisy feels better," remarks Honor with some confusion in her
manner, "so we have brought her out with us."
"Exactly," says Brother Ben, his eyes twinkling meanwhile. Molly
looks at her sister a moment, then with a little smile at Hugh she
says:
"Yes, Honor, but where is my cream?"
There is a general smile, and then Dick offers his services.
"I _may_ perhaps manage to remember what I am going for," he says;
"but it is a long, _long_ walk to the house, and I fear it is
doubtful, as Honor has already shown. However, I'll try."
"And don't drink half of it before you get back!" cries Sinclair
after him.
While Dick is absent there is rather an awkward silence, which Sir
Edward suddenly breaks by bursting into a hearty laugh.
"You must really forgive me," he says to Honor and Sinclair, "but it
is so very absurd to see you two sitting there trying to look as if
nothing at all particular has happened. Of course every one of us
here," and he looks round, "has long known of the tacit understanding
as to Honor's possible marriage in the future (I say 'possible'
because of her noble and generous scruples in the matter), and I am
sure, therefore, that she will forgive me for speaking thus openly
before this family party, and our old and valued friends, the Mr.
Talboys." The brothers bow delightedly.
"So now, Sinclair," and Sir Edward holds out his hand, "may I
congratulate you and Honor on your formal engagement?" Of course
every one flocks round them, and the general excitement is at high
pitch for a few minutes, it being presently increased by Bobby
contriving to upset a milk jug. For this catastrophe Honor is
devoutly thankful, since it takes every one's attention away from
herself for a time. Moreover, it benefits Vic and Timothy, who
generally grace the tea-board with their presence. The former has
been industriously shaking Honor's dress for the last few minutes,
being under the impression that all the handshaking and kissing are
some new kind of game. But they both rush forward now with one
accord to the little pond of milk, which is rapidly sinking into the
thirsty turf, and lap energetically until it is gone.
Presently, when they have all settled down again quietly, Mr. Edward
Talboys plants his stick firmly on the grass in front of him and says:
"Now, there is one thing, my dear friends, that my brother Ben and I
have set our hearts upon, and in case of any little misunderstanding
in the future, we think it is best, perhaps, to mention it at once."
"Just so, just so," says Mr. Ben nodding.
"We wish very much to have the honour of giving away the two brides
when the time for the wedding (which will be a double one, I suppose)
shall come. We had looked forward, you know, to performing this
little ceremony for Doris on the occasion of her becoming Lady
Ferrars, but although we were obliged to make the best of it then, we
much hope there will be no similar disappointment in store for us
_this_ time."
"My dear sirs, I am sure that nothing would please my sisters
better," answers Sir Edward for the two girls. "I had intended
taking that duty on myself, but you have a far superior claim; and so
with your leave we will consider that matter settled. I shall devote
myself exclusively to your mother, Doris, for the whole day, so you
must look out for someone else."
"O, I shall find someone, never fear," retorts Lady Ferrars, tossing
her fair little head at her lord.
"And what is to become of me, pray?" inquires Lady Woodhouse, looking
round at every one in turn.
"O, I am going to be your cavalier, aunt," says Dick with a courtly
bow. "Just you wait until you see me. I mean to get myself up to
the nines, _I_ can tell you, and you will be able to congratulate
yourself on having the best-looking fellow in the church as your
escort, _not_ excepting the two bridegrooms."
"Dick!" cries every one together, and Lady Woodhouse, giving him a
rap with the handle of her sunshade, says:
"Go along with you, do! As if I should consent to having a young
jack-a-napes like you for a cavalier."
Here Daisy, who had run after Dick when he went for the cream, and
has been absent ever since, reappears amongst them all with some
little sketches which she has been doing under Honor's supervision in
Hugh's absence, and which she is anxious to show to him.
After they have been duly examined and admired, Sir Edward calls her
over to him.
"I fancy your friend Dr. John can finish your story for you now,
Daisy," he whispers. "Go and tell him I say so."
Nothing loth, the child goes across to where he is sitting, and
demands his instant and undivided attention.
So John Sinclair, with one arm round the child as she stands close
beside him, begins briefly narrating the old fairy tale in a low
voice, hurrying over it until he comes to the part in which he has
made the required alterations.
"Wait a minute!" cries Daisy excitedly; "you must speak out loud now,
because I don't believe any of the others know the new ending. Now
then."
"So," resumes John, "the woodcutter asked the princess to marry him--"
"He was a prince really, you know," puts in Daisy parenthetically,
for the benefit of the company generally.
"And," continues John, "as all her sisters were married excepting
one--"
"She said she would!" cries the child, clapping her hands and beaming
round upon everybody. Then there is a short pause, during which John
glances at Honor.
"And--" at length queries Daisy, looking up into her favourite's face.
"And--er--" says John. "Let me see. O yes, the princess took the
wood-cutter by the hand and led him up to her little sister, saying:
"'Buttercup, I have brought you a new brother. Will you come and
live with him and me far away in the wood, in a little hut which is
covered with roses?'"
"And what did Buttercup say?" inquires Daisy, who is listening with
breathless interest to this entirely new part of the story.
"I don't know," says John rather lamely; "what would _you_ have said?"
"O, _I_ would have said 'yes,'" she replies promptly.
"Well, I think you had better finish the story, Daisy. You know it
quite as well as I do, if not better."
"Well," says Daisy gravely, "Buttercup said she _would_ like to live
with them in the hut covered with roses. And then the wood-cutter
and the princess were married very soon, and they all lived happily
ever after."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Three Bright Girls, by Annie E. Armstrong