does he come? Eleven o'clock! No time to waste. We must put on our new
frocks. You had better tell Grannie at once that we are going. I shall
keep out of her way. You'll manage her best."
"But if she doesn't like to be left?"
"Then she'll have to do without the liking! Yes, I know what you mean,
Joan. You want me to stay here, and set you free. And I'm not going to
do it. I simply won't--won't--won't! It's no earthly use your trying to
make me. I'm asked too, and I mean to go."
"Mittie, you've not seen the note yet. I think you ought to read it. She
asks me first--and then she just says, would I like to bring----?"
"It doesn't matter, and I don't want to see! It's enough that I'm
invited." Mittie had a quick temper, apt to flare out suddenly. She
jumped up, and flounced towards the door. "I shall get ready; and you'd
better make haste, or you'll be late."
"And if I find that I can't be spared as well as you?"
Joan's eyes went to Mittie, with a look of grieved appeal. That look
went home; and for a moment--only one moment--Mittie wavered. She knew
how much more this meant to Joan than it could mean to herself. She knew
that she had no right to put herself first, to snatch the joy from Joan.
But the habit of self-indulgence was too strong.
[Sidenote: "It is all Nonsense!"]
"If you choose to stay at home, I shall go without you. It is all
nonsense about 'can't'! You can go if you like."
* * * * *
Joan remained alone, thinking.
What could she say? Mittie, the spoilt younger sister, always had had
her own way, and always insisted on having it. She would insist now, and
would have it, as usual.
That Mittie would go was indeed a foregone conclusion, and Joan had
known it from the first. The question was--could she go too? Would it be
right to leave the old lady, depressed and suffering, all those
hours--just for her own pleasure, even though it meant much more than
mere pleasure?
The girls owed a great deal to Mrs. Wills. She was not rich, though she
had a comfortable little home; and when she took in the two
granddaughters, it meant a heavy pull on her purse. It meant, also,
parting with a valued companion--a paid companion--whom she had had for
years, and on whom she very much depended. This necessary step was
taken, with the understanding that the two girls would do all in their
power to supply her place. And Joan had done her best. Mittie seldom
gave any thought to the matter.
In a general way, Joan would at once have agreed that Mittie should be
the one to go, that she herself would be the one to stay behind.
But this was no ordinary case. In the summer before she had seen a good
deal of Fred Ferris. He had been at home for three months after an
accident, which, for the time, disabled him from work; and he had been
unmistakably attracted by Joan. Not only had he made many an opportunity
to see her, but his mother had taken pains to bring the two together.
She liked Joan, and made no secret of the fact. Mittie had often been
left out of these arrangements, and had resented it.
For a good while Fred Ferris had been away from home; but Joan knew that
he was likely to come soon, and she built upon the hope. She had given
her heart to Fred, and she indulged in many a secret dream for the
future while pursuing her little round of daily duties, and bearing
patiently with the spoilt and wayward Mittie.
And now--this had come!--this intimation of Fred's arrival, and the
chance of a long delightful day with him--a day on which so much might
hang!
And yet, if Mittie insisted on going, it would probably mean that she
would have to give it up. That would be hard to bear--all the harder
because Mittie knew at least something of the true state of affairs. She
knew how persistently Fred Ferris had come after her sister, and she
must at least conjecture a little of what her sister felt for Fred.
Nobody knew all that Joan felt, except Joan herself; but Mittie had seen
quite enough to have made her act kindly and unselfishly.
Joan's hopes had grown faint when she left the breakfast-table and went
upstairs.
Mrs. Wills spent most of her time in her bedroom, sometimes hobbling
across to a small sitting-room on the same floor. She was too infirm to
come downstairs.
"Eh? What is it? I don't understand!"
The old lady was growing deaf, and when she objected to what was being
said, she would become doubly deaf. Like her younger granddaughter, she
had always been accustomed to getting her own way.
[Sidenote: "Your Turn now!"]
"You want to do--what?" as Joan tried to explain. "I wish you would
speak more clearly, my dear, and not put your lips together when you
talk. Mrs. Ferris! Yes, of course I know Mrs. Ferris. I knew her long
before _you_ came here. She wants you for the day? Well, one of you can
go, and the other must stay with me. You've got to take turns. That is
only reasonable. Mittie went last time, so it is your turn now."
But Mittie never cared about turns.
"I suppose you couldn't for once--just once, Grannie, dear--spare us
both together?"
Joan said this with such a sinking of heart that, had the old lady known
it, she would surely have yielded. A sick fear had come over the girl
lest Fred might think that she was staying away on purpose--because she
did not want to see him. But she only looked rather white, and smiled as
usual.
"Spare you both! What!--leave me alone the whole day, both of you!" The
old lady was scandalised. "I didn't think before that you were a selfish
girl, Joan. Well, well, never mind!--you're not generally, I know. But
of course it is out of the question, so lame as I am--not able to get
anything that I want. That wasn't in the bargain at all, when we settled
that you should live with me."
Joan knew that it was not. But it was very hard to bear!
She went to Mittie, and made one more attempt in that direction, ending,
as she expected, unsuccessfully.
"It really is my turn, you know, Mittie, dear."
"Your turn? What! because I went to that silly tea last week? As if the
two things could be compared!"
Mittie ran to the glass to inspect herself.
"Why didn't you just tell Grannie that you meant to do it, instead of
asking whether she could spare you? So absurd! She would have given in
then."
Joan might have answered, "Because I have some sense of duty!" But she
said nothing--it was so useless.
She debated whether to write a note for Mittie to take, and then decided
that she would run down to the river-edge and would explain to Fred
Ferris himself why she might not go, not implying any blame to her
sister, but just saying that she could not leave her grandmother.
The thought of this cheered her up, for surely he would understand.
But a few minutes before the time fixed for his arrival a message
summoned her to the old lady, and she found that for a good half-hour
she would be unable to get away. All she could do was to rush to Mittie
and to give a hurried message--which she felt far from certain would be
correctly delivered.
Then for a moment she stood outside Mrs. Wills's room, choking back the
sobs which swelled in her throat, and feeling very sad and hopeless at
the thought of all she would miss, still more at the thought that her
absence might be misunderstood.
From the window, as she attended to her grandmother's wants, she had a
glimpse of Mittie, running gaily down the garden, in her pretty white
frock, carrying an open Japanese parasol in one hand, while from the
other dangled her hat and a small basket of flowers.
"Oh, Mittie, I wouldn't have done it to you--if you had cared as I do!"
she breathed.
When Mittie reached the stream, Ferris had that moment arrived.
He had made fast the painter, intending to run up to the house, and had
stepped back into the boat to put the cushions right.
A straight well-built young fellow, he looked eagerly up at the sound of
steps; and when Mittie appeared alone, a momentary look of surprise
came. But, of course Joan would follow!
Mittie wore her prettiest expression. She dropped her hat into the boat,
and he took her parasol, holding out a hand to help, as she evidently
meant to occupy her seat without delay.
[Illustration: "YOUR SISTER IS COMING?" HE SAID.]
[Sidenote: "Your Sister is Coming?"]
"Your sister is coming?" he said.
"She doesn't like to leave Grannie. So you'll have to do with me alone,"
smiled Mittie. "Such a pity, this splendid day! I did my best to
persuade her--but she wouldn't be persuaded."
There was an abrupt pause. Even Mittie's self-complacency could not veil
from her his changed face, his blank disappointment.
In that moment she very fully realised the truth that Joan, and not
herself, was the one really wanted. But she smiled on resolutely,
careless of what Fred might think about Joan's motives, and bent on
making a good impression.
"It's the first time I've been to your house--oh, for months and months!
I'm _so_ looking forward to a whole day there. And being rowed down the
river is so awfully delightful. I did try my hardest to get Joan to
come, too; but she simply wouldn't, and she asked me to explain."
This only made matters worse. Fred could hardly avoid believing that
Joan's absence was due to a wish to avoid him. In Mittie's mind lay a
scarcely acknowledged fear that, if she were more explicit, Fred might
insist on seeing Joan; and, in that event, that she might herself be in
the end the one left behind. She was determined to have her day of fun.
Ferris had grown suddenly grave. He made Mittie comfortable in her seat,
cast loose, and took the oars; but he seemed to have little to say.
Almost in complete silence they went to The Laurels. Mittie's repeated
attempts at conversation died, each in succession, a natural death.
When Mary Ferris appeared, surprise was again shown at the sight of
Mittie alone. Mary Ferris did not take it so quietly as her brother had
done. She was naturally blunt, and she put one or two awkward questions
which Mittie found it not easy to evade.
The hour on that lovely river, to which she had looked forward as
delightful, proved dull.
Fred Ferris had nothing to say; he could not get over this seeming snub
from Joan. He attended silently to his oars, and somehow Mittie had not
courage to suggest that she would very much like to handle one of them.
Mary was politely kind, and talked in an intermittent fashion; but the
"fun" on which Mittie had counted was non-existent.
When they reached the landing-place and stepped out Mrs. Ferris stood on
the bank, awaiting them. And Mrs. Ferris, though able, when she chose,
to make herself extremely charming, was a very outspoken lady.
There was no mistake about her astonishment. Her eyebrows went up, and
her eyes ran questioningly over the white-frocked figure.
"What, only Mittie! How is this? Where is Joan?"
Mittie felt rather small, but she was not going to admit that she had
been in the wrong.
"Joan wouldn't come," she said, smiling.
"Is she not well?"
"Oh yes; quite well. I did try to persuade her--but she wouldn't."
The mother and daughter exchanged glances. Fred was already walking
away, and Mary remarked:
"Joan always thinks first of other people. I dare say she felt that she
could not leave Mrs. Wills."
Mittie, conscious of implied blame, grew pink and eager to defend
herself.
"She could have come--perfectly well! There wasn't the _least_ reason
why she shouldn't. Grannie was all right. Joan simply--simply wouldn't!"
Mittie stopped, knowing that she had conveyed a false impression, but
pride withheld her from modifying the words. "I told her she might--just
as well."
Mrs. Ferris began to move towards the house. "It is a great pity," she
said. "We all counted on having Joan. However, it cannot be helped now.
I hope you will enjoy yourself, my dear. Mary will show you over the
garden and the house."
To Mary she added: "The old castle must wait for another time, I
think--when Joan is here."
Mittie cast a questioning look, and Mary said, in explanation: "Only an
old ruin a few miles off. We meant to have an excursion there this
afternoon."
Mittie loved excursions, and could not resist saying so. No notice was
taken of this appeal; but somewhat later she overheard a murmured remark
from Mrs. Ferris to Mary.
[Sidenote: "Certainly not--now!"]
"No, certainly not--now. Fred will not care to go. He is very much
disappointed, poor boy! If only one could be sure that it means
nothing!" But Mittie was not meant to hear this.
They were very kind to her, and she really had nothing to complain of on
the score of inattention. Mary, who happened to be the only daughter at
home, took her in charge and put her through a steady course of gardens,
glasshouses, family pets, and old furniture--for none of which Mittie
cared a rap. What she had wanted was a gay young party, plenty of fun
and merriment, and for herself abundance of admiration.
But Fred made himself scarce, only appearing at luncheon and vanishing
afterwards; and Mrs. Ferris was occupied elsewhere most of the time;
while between Mary and herself there was absolutely nothing in common.
Mary, though only the senior by two or three years, was not only
clever, but very intelligent and well read, and she had plenty of
conversation. But the subjects for which she cared, though they would
have delighted Joan, were utter tedium to Mittie's empty little head.
Before an hour had passed, Mary's boredom was only less pronounced than
Mittie's own.
It was so tiresome, so stupid of Joan not to come! Mittie complained
bitterly to herself of this. If Joan had come too, all would have gone
well. She could not help seeing that she had not been meant to come
without Joan, still less instead of Joan.
With all her assurance, this realisation that she was not wanted and
that everybody was regretting Joan's absence made her horribly
uncomfortable.
When left alone for a few minutes, early in the afternoon, she tugged
angrily at her gloves, and muttered: "I wish I wasn't here. I wish I had
left it to Joan. I think they are all most awfully frumpish and stupid,
and I can't imagine what makes Joan so fond of them!"
But she did not yet blame herself.
* * * * *
Five o'clock was the time fixed for return. Had Joan come it would have
been much later.
At tea-time Fred turned up, and it appeared that he meant to get off the
return-row up the river. He had engaged a boatman to do it in his stead.
Mary would still go, and though Mittie proudly said it did not matter,
she wouldn't in the least mind being alone, Mary only smiled and held to
her intention.
But long before this stage of proceedings everybody was tired--Mary and
Mittie especially, the one of entertaining, the other of being
entertained.
Mary had tried every imaginable thing she could think of to amuse the
young guest, and every possible subject for talk. They seemed to have
arrived at the end of everything, and it took all Mittie's energies to
keep down, in a measure, her recurring yawns. Mary did her best, but
she found Mittie far from interesting.
When at length they started for the riverside, Fred went with the two
girls to see them off; and Mittie felt like a prisoner about to be
released.
She was so eager to escape that she ran ahead of her companions towards
the landing-place, and Mary dryly remarked in an undertone: "Mittie has
had about enough of us, I think. How different she is from Joan! One
would hardly take them for sisters."
Fred was too downhearted to answer. He had felt all day terribly
hopeless.
Suddenly he started forward. "I say!--wait a moment!" he called.
A slight turn had brought them in full view of the small boat floating
close under the bank, roped loosely to the shore, and of Mittie standing
above, poised as for a spring. She was light and active, and fond of
jumping. At the moment of Fred's shout she was in the very act. No
boatman was within sight.
Perhaps the abrupt call startled her; perhaps in any case she would have
miscalculated her distance. She was very self-confident, and had had
little to do with boating.
[Sidenote: An Upset]
One way or another, instead of alighting neatly in the boat, as she
meant to do, she came with both feet upon the gunwale and capsized the
craft.
There was a loud terrified shriek, a great splash, and Mittie had
disappeared.
"Fred! Fred!" screamed Mary.
Fred cleared the space in a few leaps, and was down the bank by the time
that Mittie rose, some yards off, floating down the stream, with hands
flung wildly out. Another leap carried him into the water.
He had thrown off his coat as he rushed to the rescue; and soon he had
her in his grip, holding her off as she frantically clutched at him, and
paddling back with one hand.
He was obliged to land lower down, and Mary was there before him.
Between them they pulled Mittie out, a wet, frightened, miserable
object, her breath in helpless gasps and sobs, and one cheek bleeding
freely from striking the rowlock.
"Oh, Mittie! why did you do it?" Mary asked in distress--a rather
inopportune question in the circumstances. "We must get her home at
once, Fred, and put her to bed."
They had almost to carry her up the bank, for all the starch and
confidence were gone out of her; and she was supremely ashamed, besides
being overwhelmed with the fright and the shock.
On reaching the house Fred went off to change his own soaking garments,
and Mittie was promptly put to bed, with a hot bottle at her feet and a
hot drink to counteract the effects of the chill.
She submitted with unwonted meekness; but her one cry was for her
sister.
"I want Joan! Oh, do fetch Joan!" she entreated. "My face hurts so
awfully; and I feel so bad all over. I know I'm going to die! Oh, please
send for Joan!"
"I don't think there is the smallest probability of that, my dear," Mrs.
Ferris said, with rather dry composure, as she sat by the bed. "If Fred
had not been at hand you would have been in danger, certainly. But, as
things are, it is simply a matter of keeping you warm for a few hours.
Your face will be painful, I am afraid, for some days; but happily it is
only a bad bruise."
"I thought I could manage the jump so nicely," sighed Mittie.
"It was a pity you tried. Now, Mittie, I am going to ask you a question,
and I want a clear answer. Will you tell me frankly--did Joan _wish_ to
stay at home to-day, and to send you in her stead?"
Mittie was so subdued that she had no spirit for a fight. "No," came in
a whisper. "I--she--she wanted awfully to come. And I--wouldn't stay at
home. And Grannie didn't like to spare us both."
"Ah, I see!" Mrs. Ferris laid a kind hand on Mittie. "I am glad you have
told me; and you are sorry now, of course. That will make all the
difference. Now I am going to send Fred to tell your sister what has
happened, and to say that you will be here till to-morrow."
"Couldn't he bring Joan? I do want her so!"
"I'm not sure that that will be possible."
But to Fred, when retailing what had passed, she added: "You had better
motor over. And if you can persuade Joan to come, so much the better--to
sleep, if possible; if not, we can send her home later."
Fred was off like a shot. The motor run was a very short affair compared
with going by boat. On arrival, he found the front door of Mrs. Wills's
house open; and he caught a glimpse of a brown head within the
bow-window of the breakfast-room.
If he could only find Joan alone! He ventured to walk in without
ringing.
Alone, indeed, Joan was, trying to darn a pair of stockings, and finding
the task difficult. It had been such a long, long day--longer even for
her than for Mittie.
[Sidenote: "Fred!"]
"Come in," she said, in answer to a light tap. And the last face that
she expected to see appeared. "_Fred!_" broke from her. "Mr. Ferris!"
"No, please--I like 'Fred' best!" He came close, noting with joy how her
face had in an instant parted with its gravity. "Why did you not come to
us to-day?" he asked earnestly.
"I couldn't."
"Not--because you wanted to stay away?"
"Oh no!"
"Could not your sister have been the one at home?"
Joan spoke gently. "You see, Mittie has never before spent a day at your
house. She wanted it so much."
"And you--did you want it, too--ever so little? Would you have cared to
come, Joan?"
Joan only smiled. She felt happy beyond words.
"I've got to take you there now, if you'll come. For the night,
perhaps--or at least for the evening. Mittie has had a wetting"--he
called the younger girl by her name half-unconsciously--"and they have
put her to bed for fear of a chill. And she wants you."
Naturally Joan was a good deal concerned, though Fred made little of the
accident. He explained more fully, and an appeal to the old lady brought
permission.
"Not for the night, child--I can't spare you for that, but for the
evening. Silly little goose Mittie is!"
And Fred, with delight, carried Joan off.
"So Mrs. Wills can't do without you, even for one night," he said, when
they were spinning along the high road, he and she behind and the
chauffeur in front. He laughed, and bent to look into her eyes. "Joan,
what is to happen when she _has_ to do without you altogether?"
"Oh, I suppose--she might manage as she used to do before we came." Joan
said this involuntarily; and then she understood. Her colour went up.
"I don't think _I_ can manage very much longer without you--my Joan!"
murmured Fred. "If you'll have me, darling."
And she only said, "Oh, Fred!"
But he understood.
[Sidenote: Here is a story of an out-of-the-way Christmas entertainment
got up for a girl's pleasure.]
A Christmas with Australian Blacks
BY
J. S. PONDER
"I say, Dora, can't we get up some special excitement for sister Maggie,
seeing she is to be here for Christmas? I fancy she will, in her home
inexperience, expect a rather jolly time spending Christmas in this
forsaken spot. I am afraid that my letters home, in which I coloured
things up a bit, are to blame for that," my husband added ruefully.
"What can we do, Jack?" I asked. "I can invite the Dunbars, the Connors
and the Sutherlands over for a dance, and you can arrange for a
kangaroo-hunt the following day. That is the usual thing when special
visitors come, isn't it?"
"Yes," he moodily replied, "that about exhausts our programme. Nothing
very exciting in that. I say, how would it do to take the fangs out of a
couple of black snakes and put them in her bedroom, so as to give her
the material of a thrilling adventure to narrate when she goes back to
England?"
"That would never do," I protested, "you might frighten her out of her
wits. Remember she is not strong, and spare her everything except very
innocent adventures. Besides, snakes are such loathsome beasts."
"How would it do, then, to give a big Christmas feast to the blacks?" he
hazarded.
"Do you think she would like that?" I asked doubtfully. "Remember how
awfully dirty and savage-looking they are."
"Oh, we would try and get them to clean up a bit, and come somewhat
presentable," he cheerfully replied. "And, Dora," he continued, "I think
the idea is a good one. Sister Maggie is the Hon. Secretary or something
of the Missionary Society connected with her Church, and in the thick of
all the 'soup and blanket clubs' of the district. She will just revel at
the chance of administering to the needs of genuine savages."
"If you think so, you had better try and get the feast up," I resignedly
replied; "but I do wish our savages were a little less filthy."
Such was the origin of our Christmas feast to the blacks last year, of
which I am about to tell you.
My husband, John MacKenzie, was the manager and part proprietor of a
large sheep-station in the Murchison district of Western Australia, and
sister Maggie was his favourite sister. A severe attack of pneumonia had
left her so weak that the doctors advised a sea voyage to Australia, to
recuperate her strength--a proposition which she hailed with delight, as
it would give her the opportunity of seeing her brother in his West
Australian home. My husband, of course, was delighted at the prospect of
seeing her again, while I too welcomed the idea of meeting my Scottish
sister-in-law, with whom I had much charming correspondence, but had
never met face to face.