Gerald Wyndham was not in the least like his rosy, fresh-looking
sisters. He was tall and slenderly made, with very thick and rather
light-brown hair, which stood up high over his low, white forehead--his
eyes were large, but were deeply set, they were grey, not brown, in
repose were dreaming in expression, but when he spoke, or when any
special thought came to him, they grew intensely earnest, luminous and
beautiful. The changing expression of his eyes was the chief charm of a
highly sensitive and refined face--a face remarkable in many ways, for
the breadth of his forehead alone gave it character, but with some weak
lines about the finely cut lips. This weakness was now, however, hidden
by a long, silken moustache. Lilias and Marjory thought Gerald's face
the most beautiful in the world, and most people acknowledged him to be
handsome, although his shoulders were scarcely broad enough for his
height, and his whole figure was somewhat loosely hung together.
"Here you are at last," exclaimed Lilias, linking her hand in her
brother's arm. "Here, take his other arm. Maggie. Oh, when, and oh,
when, and oh, when shall we have him to ourselves again, I wonder?"
"You little goose," said Gerald. He shook himself as if he were half in
a dream, and looked fondly down into Lilias' pretty dimpled, excitable
face. "Well, girls, are the trunks packed, and have you put in plenty
of finery? I promise you Mr. Paget will give a dinner-party every
night--you'll want heaps of fine clothes while you stay at Queen's
Gate."
Marjory began to count on her fingers.
"We arrive on Wednesday," she said. "On Wednesday evening, dinner
number one, we wear our white Indian muslins, with the Liberty sashes,
and flowers brought up from the dear old garden. Thursday evening,
dinner number two, and evening of wedding day, our bridesmaids' toggery
must suffice; Friday, dinner number three, those blue nun's veiling
dresses will appear and charm the eyes. That's all. Three dresses for
three dinners, for it's home, sweet home again on Saturday--isn't it,
Lilias?"
"Of course," said Lilias, "that is, I suppose so," she added, glancing
at her brother.
"Valentine wanted to know if you would stay in town for a week or ten
days, and try to cheer up her father," said Gerald. "Mr. Paget and
Valentine have scarcely been parted for a single day since she was
born. Valentine is quite in a state at having to leave him for a month,
and she thinks two bright little girls like you may comfort him
somewhat."
"But we have our own father to see to," pouted Marjory; "and Sunday
school, and choir practising, and the library books----"
"And I don't see how Valentine can mind leaving her father--if he were
the very dearest father in the world--when she goes away with you,"
interrupted Lilias.
Gerald sighed, just the faintest shadow of an impatient sigh,
accompanied by the slightest shrug of his shoulders.
"Augusta can give out the library books," he said. "Miss Queen can
manage the choir. I will ask Jones to take your class, Lilias, and Miss
Peters can manage yours with her own, Marjory. As to the rector, what
is the use of having five young daughters, if they cannot be made
available for once in a way? And here they come, and there's the
governor in the midst of them. He doesn't look as if he were likely to
taste the sweets of solitude, eh, Marjory?"
Not at that moment, certainly, for a girl hung on each arm, and a
smaller girl sat aloft on each square shoulder, while a fifth shouted
and raced, now in front, now behind, pelting this moving pyramid of
human beings with flowers, and screaming even more shrilly than her
sisters, with eager exclamation and bubbling laughter.
"There's Gerry," exclaimed Augusta.
She was the tallest of the party, with a great stretch of stockinged
legs, and a decided scarcity of skirts. She flew at her brother, flung
her arms round his neck and kissed him rapturously.
"You darling old Gerry--don't we all just hate and detest that horrible
Valentine Paget."
"Hush, Gussie," responded Gerald, in his quiet voice. "You don't know
Valentine, and you pain me when you talk of her in that senseless
fashion. Here, have a race with your big brother to the other end of
the garden. Girls," turning to his elder sisters--"seriously speaking I
should like you to spend about a fortnight with the Pagets. And had you
not better go and pack, for we must catch the eleven o'clock train
to-morrow morning. Now, Gussie--one, two, three, and away."
Two pairs of long legs, each working hard to come off victorious in the
race, flew past the group--the rector and the little girls cheered and
shouted--Marjory and Lilias, laughing at the sight, turned slowly and
went into the house; Gerald won the race by a foot or two, and Gussie
flung herself panting and laughing on the grass at the other end of the
long walk.
"Well done, Augusta," said her brother. "You study athletics to a
purpose. Now, Gussie, can't you manage to give away the library books
on Sunday?"
"I? You don't mean it?" said Augusta. Her black eyes sparkled; she
recovered her breath, and the full dignity of her five feet five and
a-half of growth on the instant. "Am I to give away the library books,
Gerry?"
"Yes, I want Lilias to stay in London for a few days longer than she
intended."
"And Marjory too?"
"Of course. The girls would not like to be parted."
"Galuptions! Won't I have a time of it all round! Won't I give old
Peters a novel instead of his favorite Sunday magazines? And won't I
smuggle Pailey's 'Evidences of Christianity' into the hand of Alice
Jones, the dressmaker. She says the only books she cares for are Wilkie
Collins 'Woman in White,' and the 'Dead Secret,' so she'll have a
lively time of it with the Evidences. Then there's 'Butler's Analogy,'
it isn't in the parish library, but I'll borrow it for once from
father's study. That will exactly suit Rhoda Fleming. Oh, what fun,
what fun. I won't take a single story-book with me, except the 'Woman
in White,' for Peters. He says novels are 'rank poison,' so he shall
have his dose."
"Now look here, Gussie," said Gerald, taking his sister's two hands in
his, and holding them tight--"you've got to please me about the library
books, and not to play pranks, and make things disagreeable for Lilias
when she comes back. You're thirteen now, and a big girl, and you ought
to act like one. You're to make things comfortable for the dear old
pater while we are all away, and you'll do it if you care for me,
Gussie."
"Care for you!" echoed Augusta. "I love you, Gerry. I love you, and I
hate----"
"No, don't say that," said Gerald, putting his hand on the girl's
mouth.
Gussie looked droll and submissive.
"It is so funny," she exclaimed at length.
"You can explain that as we walk back to the house," responded her
brother.
"Why, Gerry, to see you so frightfully in love! You are, aren't you?
You have all the symptoms--oh, before I----"
"I love Valentine," responded Gerald. "That is a subject I cannot
discuss with you, Augusta. When you know her you will love her too. I
am going to bring her here in the autumn, and then I shall want you all
to be good to her, and to let her feel that she has a great number of
real sisters at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, who will be good to her if she
needs them, by-and-bye."
"As if she ever could need us," responded Gussie. "She'll have you.
Yes, I'll do my best about the books--good-night. Gerald. Good-night,
dear old darling king. That's Miss Queen's voice. Coming, Miss Queen,
coming! Good-night, old Gerry. My love to that Val of yours. Oh, what a
nuisance it is to have ever to go to bed."
Gussie's long legs soon bore her out of sight, and Gerald stepped into
the silent and now empty study. To an initiated eye this room bore one
or two marks of having lately witnessed a mental storm. Close to the
rector's leather armchair lay a pile of carefully torn-up papers--the
family Bible, which usually occupied a place of honor on his desk, had
been pushed ruthlessly on one side, and a valuable work on theology lay
wide open and face downwards on the floor. Otherwise the room was in
perfect order--the only absolutely neat apartment in the large old
house. Not the most daring of all the young Wyndhams would disturb a
volume here, or play any wild pranks in the sacred precincts of the
rector's study. As Gerald now entered the room and saw these signs of
mental disquiet round Mr. Wyndham's chair, the pleasant and somewhat
cheerful look left his face, his eyes grew dark, earnest and full of
trouble, and flinging himself on the sofa, he shaded them with his
white long fingers. There was an oil painting of a lady over the
mantel-piece, and this lady had Gerald's face. From her he inherited
those peculiar and sensitive eyes, those somewhat hollow cheeks, and
that noble and broad white brow. From her, too, came the lips which
were curved and beautiful, and yet a little, a little wanting in
firmness. In Mrs. Wyndham the expressive mouth only added the final
touch of womanliness to a beautiful face. In her son it would have
revealed, could it have been seen, a nature which might be led astray
from the strictest paths of honor.
Wyndham sat motionless for a few moments, then springing to his feet,
he paced restlessly up and down the empty study.
"Everything is fixed and settled now," he said, under his breath. "I'm
not the first fellow who has sold himself for the sake of a year's
happiness. If my mother were alive, though, I couldn't have done it,
no, not even for Valentine. Poor mother! She felt sure I'd have taken
Holy Orders, and worked on here with the governor in this sleepy little
corner of the world. It's a blessing she can't be hurt by anything now,
and as to the governor, he has seven girls to comfort him. No, if I'm
sorry for anyone it's Lilias, but the thing's done now. The day after
to-morrow Val will be mine. A whole year! My God, how short it is. My
God, save and pity me, for afterwards comes hell."