"LITTLE MAY."
On the evening of the third day after this interview, a fly from the
railway drove up the long, winding avenue leading to the great front
entrance of the Thetford mansion. A bronzed military gentleman, a nurse
and a little girl, occupied the fly, and the gentleman's keen, dark eyes
wandered searchingly around. Swelling meadows, velvety lawns, sloping
terraces, waving trees, bright flower-gardens, quaint old fish-ponds,
sparkling fountains, and a wooded park, with sprightly deer--that was
what he saw, all bathed in the golden halo of the summer sunset. Massive
and grand, the old house reared its gray head, half overgrown with ivy
and climbing roses. Gaudy peacocks strutted on the terraces; a graceful
gazelle flitted out for an instant amongst the trees to look at them and
then fled in afright; and the barking of half a dozen mastiffs greeted
their approach noisily.
"A fine old place," thought Captain Everard. "My pretty Ada might have
done worse. A grand old place for that puny child to inherit. The
staunch old warrior-blood of the Thetfords is sadly adulterated in his
pale veins, I fancy. Well, my little May, and how are you going to like
all this?"
The child, a bright-faced little creature, with great sparkling eyes and
rose-bloom cheeks, was looking in delight at a distant terrace.
"See, papa! See all the pretty peacocks! Look, Ellen," to the nurse,
"three, four, five! Oh, how pretty!"
"Then little May will like to live here, where she can see the pretty
peacocks every day?"
"And all the pretty flowers, and the water, and the little boy--where's
the little boy, papa?"
"In the house--you'll see him presently; but you must be very good,
little May, and not pull his hair, and scratch his face, and poke your
fingers in his eyes, like you used to do with Willie Brandon. Little May
must learn to be good."
Little May put one rosy finger in her mouth, and set her head on one
side like a defiant canary. She was one of the prettiest little fairies
imaginable, with her pale, flaxen curls, and sparkling light-gray eyes,
and apple-blossom complexion; but she was evidently as much spoiled as
little Sir Rupert Thetford himself.
Lady Thetford sat in the long drawing-room, after her solitary dinner,
and little Sir Rupert played with his rocking-horse and a pile of
picture-books in a remote corner. The young widow lay back in the
violet-velvet depths of a carved and gilded _fauteuil_, very simply
dressed in black and crimson, but looking very fair and stately withal.
She was watching her boy with a half smile on her face, when a footman
entered with Captain Everard's card. Lady Thetford looked up eagerly.
"Show Captain Everard up at once."
The footman bowed and disappeared. Five minutes later, and the tall
captain and his little daughter stood before her.
"At last!" said Lady Thetford, rising and holding out her hand to her
old lover, with a smile that reminded him of other days--"at last, when
I was growing tired waiting. And this is your little girl--my little
girl from henceforth? Come here, my pet, and kiss your new mamma."
She bent over the little one, kissing the pink cheeks and rosy lips.
"She is fair and tiny--a very fairy; but she resembles you,
nevertheless, Capt. Everard."
"In temper--yes," said the captain. "You will find her spoiled, and
willful, and cross, and capricious and no end of trouble. Won't she,
May?"
"She will be the better match for Rupert on that account," Lady Thetford
said, smiling, and unfastening little Miss Everard's wraps with her own
fair fingers. "Come here, Rupert, and welcome your new sister."
The young baronet approached, and dutifully kissed little May, who put
up her rose-bud mouth right willingly. Sir Rupert Thetford wasn't tall,
rather undersized, and delicate for his seven years; but he was head and
shoulders over the flaxen-haired fairy, with the bright gray eyes.
"I want a ride on your rocking-horse," cried little May, fraternizing
with him at once; "and oh! what nice picture books and what a lot!"
The children ran off together to their distant corner, and Captain
Everard sat down for the first time.
"You have not dined?" said Lady Thetford. "Allow me to----" her hand was
on the bell, but the captain interposed.
"Many thanks--nothing. We dined at the village; and I leave again by the
seven-fifty train. It is past seven now, so I have but little time to
spare. I fear I am putting you to a great deal of trouble; but May's
nurse insists on being taken back to London to-night."
"It will be of no consequence," replied Lady Thetford, "Rupert's nurse
will take charge of her. I intend to advertise for a nursery governess
in a few days. Rupert's health has always been so extremely delicate,
that he has not even began a pretext of learning yet, and it is quite
time. He grows stronger, I fancy; but Dr. Gale tells me frankly his
constitution is dangerously weak."
She sighed as she spoke, and looked over to where he stood beside little
May, who had mounted the rocking-horse boy-fashion. Sir Rupert was
expostulating.
"You oughtn't to sit that way--ask mamma. You ought to sit side-saddle.
Only boys sit like that."
"I don't care!" retorted Miss Everard, rocking more violently than ever.
"I'll sit whatever way I like! Let me alone!"
Lady Thetford looked at the captain with a smile.
"Her father's daughter, surely! bent on having her own way. What a fairy
it is! and yet such a perfect picture of health."
"Mabel was never ill an hour in her life, I believe," said her father;
"she is not at all too good for this world. I only hope she may not grow
up the torment of your life--she is thoroughly spoiled."
"And I fear if she were not, I should do it. Ah! I expect she will be a
great comfort to me, and a world of good to Rupert. He has never had a
playmate of his own years, and children need children as much as they
need sunshine."
They sat for ten minutes conversing gravely, chiefly on business matters
connected with little May's annuity--not at all as they had conversed
three days before by the seaside. Then, as half-past seven drew near,
the captain arose.
"I must go; I will hardly be in time as it is. Come here, little May,
and bid papa good-bye."
"Let papa come to May," responded his daughter, still rocking. "I can't
get off."
Captain Everard laughed, went over, bent down and kissed her.
"Good-bye, May; don't forget papa, and learn to be a good girl. Good
bye, baronet; try and grow strong and tall. Farewell, Lady Thetford,
with my best thanks."
She held his hand, looking up in his sun-burned face with tears in her
dark eyes.
"We may never meet again, Captain Everard," she said hurriedly. "Tell me
before we part that you forgive me the past."
"Truly, Ada, and for the first time. The service you have rendered me
fully atones. You should have been my child's mother--be a mother to her
now. Good-bye, and God bless you and your boy!"
He stooped over, touched her cheek with his lips reverentially, and then
was gone. Gone forever--never to meet those he left behind this side of
eternity.
Little May bore the loss of papa and nurse with philosophical
indifference--her new playmate sufficed for both. The children took to
one another with the readiness of childhood--Rupert all the more readily
that he had never before had a playmate of his own years. He was
naturally a quiet child, caring more for his picture-books and his
nurse's stories than for tops, or balls, or marbles. But little May
Everard seemed from the first to inspire him with some of her own
superabundant vitality and life. The child was never, for a single
instant, quiet; she was the most restless, the most impetuous, the most
vigorous little creature that can be conceived. Feet and tongue and
hands never were still from morning till night; and the life of Sir
Rupert's nurse, hitherto one of idle ease, became all at once a misery
to her. The little girl was everywhere--everywhere; especially where she
had no business to be; and nurse never knew an easy moment for trotting
after her, and rescuing her from all sorts of perils. She could climb
like a cat, or a goat, and risked her neck about twenty times per diem;
she sailed her shoes in the soup when let in as a treat to dinner, and
washed her hands in her milk-and-water. She became the intimate friend
of the pretty peacocks and the big, good-tempered dogs, with whom, in
utter fearlessness, she rolled about in the grass half the day. She
broke young Rupert's toys, and tore his picture-books and slapped his
face, and pulled his hair, and made herself master of the situation
before she had been twenty-four hours in the house. She was thoroughly
and completely spoiled. What India nurses had left undone, injudicious
petting and flattery on the homeward passage had completed--and her
temper was something appalling. Her shrieks of passion at the slightest
contradiction of her imperial will rang through the house, and rent the
tortured tympanums of all who heard. The little Xantippe would fling
herself flat on the carpet, and literally scream herself black in the
face, until, in dread of apoplexy and sudden death, her frightened
hearers hastened to yield. Of course, one such victory insured all the
rest. As for Sir Rupert, before she had been a week at Thetford Towers,
he dared not call his soul his own. She had partly scalped him on
several occasions, and left the mark of her cat-like nails in his tender
visage: but her venomous power of screeching for hours at will had more
to do with the little baronet's dread of her than anything else. He fled
ingloriously in every battle--running in tears to mamma, and leaving the
field and the trophies of victory triumphantly to Miss Everard. With all
this, when not thwarted--when allowed to smash toys, and dirty her
clothes, and smear her infantile face, and tear pictures, and torment
inoffensive lapdogs; when allowed, in short, to follow "her own sweet
will," little May was as charming a fairy as ever the sun shone on. Her
gleeful laugh made music in the dreary old rooms, such as had never been
heard there for many a day, and her mischievous antics were the delight
of all who did not suffer thereby. The servants petted and indulged her,
and fed her on unwholesome cakes and sweetmeats, and made her worse and
worse every day of her life.
Lady Thetford saw all this with inward apprehension. If her ward was
completely beyond her power of control at four, what would she be a
dozen years hence?
"Her father was right," thought the lady. "I am afraid she _will_ give
me a great deal of trouble. I never saw so headstrong, so utterly
unmanageable a child."
But Lady Thetford was very fond of the fairy despot withal. When her son
came running to her for succor, drowned in tears, his mother took him in
her arms and kissed him and soothed him--but she never punished the
offender. As for Sir Rupert, he might fly ignominiously, but he never
fought back. Little May had all the hair-pulling and face-scratching to
herself.
"I must get a governess," mused Lady Thetford. "I may find one who can
control this little vixen; and it is really time Rupert began his
studies. I shall speak to Mr. Knight about it."
Lady Thetford sent that very day to the rectory her ladyship's
compliments, the servant said, and would Mr. Knight call at his earliest
convenience. Mr. Knight sent in answer to expect him that same evening;
and on his way he fell in with Dr. Gale, going to the manor-house on a
professional visit.
"Little Sir Rupert keeps weakly," he said; "no constitution to speak of.
Not at all like the Thetfords--splendid old stock, the Thetfords, but
run out--run out. Sir Rupert is a Vandeleur, inherits his mother's
constitution--delicate child, very."
"Have you seen Lady Thetford's ward!" inquired the clergyman, smiling;
"no hereditary weakness there, I fancy. I'll answer for the strength of
her lungs, at any rate. The other day she wanted Lady Thetford's watch
for a plaything; she couldn't have it, and down she fell flat on the
floor in what her nurse calls 'one of her tantrums.' You should have
heard her, her shrieks were appalling."
"I have," said the doctor, with emphasis; "she has the temper of the old
demon. If I had anything to do with that child, I should whip her within
an inch of her life--that's all she wants, lots of whipping! The Lord
only knows the future, but I pity her prospective husband!"
"The taming of the shrew," laughed Mr. Knight. "Katherine and Petruchio
over again. For my part, I think Lady Thetford was unwise to undertake
such a charge. With her delicate health it is altogether too much for
her."
The two gentlemen were shown into the library, whilst the servant went
to inform his lady of their arrival. The library had a French window
opening on a sloping lawn, and here chasing butterflies in high glee,
were the two children--the pale, dark-eyed baronet, and the
flaxen-tressed little East Indian.
"Look," said Dr. Gale. "Is Sir Rupert going to be your Petruchio? Who
knows what the future may bring forth--who knows that we do not behold a
future Lady Thetford?"
"She is very pretty," said the rector thoughtfully, "and she may change
with years. Your prophecy may be fulfilled."
The present Lady Thetford entered as he spoke. She had heard the remarks
of both, and there was an unusual pallor and gravity in her face as she
advanced to receive them.
Little Sir Rupert was called in, and May followed, with a butterfly
crushed to death in each fat little hand.
"She kills them as fast as she catches them," said Sir Rupert, ruefully.
"It's cruel, isn't it, mamma?"
Little May, quite unabashed, displayed her dead prizes, and cut short
the doctor's conference by impatiently pulling her play-fellow away.
"Come, Rupert, come," she cried. "I want to catch the black one with the
yellow wings. Stick your tongue out and come."
Sir Rupert displayed his tongue, and submitted his pulse to the doctor,
and let himself be pulled away by May.
"The gray mare in that span is decidedly the better horse," laughed the
doctor. "What a little despot in pinafores it is."
When her visitors had left, Lady Thetford walked to the window and stood
watching the two children racing in the sunshine. It was a pretty sight,
but the lady's face was contracted with pain.
"No, no," she thought. "I hope not--I pray not. Strange! but I never
thought of the possibility before. She will be poor, and Rupert must
marry a rich wife, so that if----"
She paused, with a sort of shudder, then added:
"What will he think, my darling boy, of his father and mother if that
day ever comes?"