The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fortunes of the Farrells, by
Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Fortunes of the Farrells
Author: Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
Release Date: April 17, 2007 [EBook #21120]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORTUNES OF THE FARRELLS ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Fortunes of the Farrells
By Mrs George de Horne Vaizey
________________________________________________________________________
Old Mr Bernard Farrell is known to be immensely rich. No one in his
family has seen him for ages. Suddenly he turns up, and is invited to
stay for a few days, as he isn't very well. His proposition is, that he
would like various of his nephews and nieces to come and stay with him
for quite a long time, so that he might gauge which of them should
receive the greater part of his wealth after he dies.
The house-part duly convenes, and they don't find him a very agreeable
host, but for the most part they persevere. He has made a preliminary
will "in case of accident". He is trying to keep this will secret, and
of course the young people are all agog to know what is in it. One day
he accidentally leaves his desk open, and realises that someone has been
at his desk, and has read the will. He calls all the young people to
his bed, and asks them point-blank who it was. Of course he gets
various kinds of answer, from the offended, to the frightened and cowed.
But by chance he finds out exactly who had peeked into his desk and read
the will. We won't spoil the story for you, but would say this: that
it is as good a Horne Vaizey story as any, even the earlier Pixie books.
NH
________________________________________________________________________
THE FORTUNES OF THE FARRELLS
BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY
CHAPTER ONE.
FROM PRETENCE TO REALITY.
"Berengaria, what do you generally do with your old court trains? How
do you use them up?"
The fire had died down to a dull red glow; only one tiny flame remained,
which, flickering to and fro, showed a wide expanse of floor, and two
easy-chairs drawn up before the fender, on which reclined vague,
feminine figures. The voice which had asked the question was slow and
languid, and breathed a wearied indifference to the world in general,
which was more than equalled in the tone of the reply--
"Really, don't you know, I can't say! I put them away, meaning to use
them for cloaks or evening-dresses; but I forget, or they get mislaid,
or the maid confiscates them for her own purposes. I expect, as a
matter of fact, she makes them up into Sunday blouses."
"You spoil that woman, dear! You are so absurdly easy-going that she
robs you right and left. Do take my advice, and give her notice at
once!"
"I couldn't, darling, even to please you! It bores me so to deal with
strangers, and no one else could do my hair like Elsie. If it pleases
her to use up a few of my garments, why shouldn't the poor soul have her
pleasure like the rest? That reminds me, Lucille--are you going to the
duchess's ball to-night? I suppose it is superfluous to ask, since no
entertainment is complete without you nowadays."
"Oh, I suppose so! If I am not too fagged, that is to say. But I have
a dinner first, and two At-homes, and people make such a fuss if you
don't put in an appearance. One hardly feels up to dancing after
struggling through two of the asphyxiating mobs dignified by the name of
entertainments; still, I promised Arthur the cotillion, and he will be
desolated if I play him false; and I have a new frock for the occasion
which is really rather a dream. Silver tissue over satin, and shoulder-
straps of diamonds. I had them reset on purpose. I spend quite a
fortune on resetting jewels nowadays; but one must be original, or die!"
"My dear, you will be too bewitching! Lord Arthur will be more
desperate than ever. My poor little self will be nowhere beside you!
I'm going to be sweet and simple in chiffon and pearls. Paquin made the
gown. Don't ask what it cost! I tore up the bill and threw it in the
fire. Really, don't you know, it made me quite depressed! So
perishable, too! I expect I shall be in rags before the evening is
over. But it's quite sweet at present--all frilly-willys from top to
toe. I do love to be fluffy and feminine, and my pearls really are
unique! The princess examined them quite carefully when I met her last
winter, and said she had rarely seen finer specimens. I wouldn't wear
them at all unless they were good. I cannot endure inferior jewels!"
The speaker lolled still more luxuriously in her chair, then started
forward, as the door opened with a bang, and a harsh voice accosted her
by name--
"Miss Mollie, your mother wants to know if you have finished darning the
socks? She is putting away the clean clothes, and wants to sort them
with the rest."
The Lady Lucille--otherwise Mollie Farrell, the penniless daughter of an
impoverished house--jumped up from her chair, and clasped her hands in
dismay. In blissful contemplation of imagining chiffons and cotillions,
the prosaic duties of reality had slipped from her mind, and
recollection brought with it a pang of remorse.
"Misery me! I forgot the very existence of the wretched things! Never
mind. Tell mother, Annie, that I'll set to work this minute, and put
them away myself as soon as they are done. Tell her I'm sorry; tell her
I'll be as quick as I possibly can!"
Annie stood for a moment in eloquent silence then shut the door and
descended the stairs; while Mollie groped her way across the room, and
Berengaria lifted herself from her chair with a sigh, and slipped her
hand along the mantelpiece.
"I'll light the gas. How horrid it is, being dragged back to earth by
these sordid interruptions! It's always the way--as soon as I begin to
forget myself, and enjoy a taste of luxury, back I'm dragged to the same
dull old life. I really saw that silver tissue, and felt the coldness
of the diamonds against my shoulder; and then--_socks_! Those wretched,
thick, ugly socks, with the heels all out, and the toes in rags! I
think schoolboys ought to be obliged to darn their own clothes, just to
teach them a little care!"
"Well, be aisy; you haven't to darn them, anyway. It's my work, which
is the best of reasons why it is left undone. Hurry with the gas,
there's a dear. There's no time for conundrums, if I am to finish to-
night!"
Another sigh, the striking of a match, and the light sprang up, and
showed a tall, girlish figure, clad in a blue serge skirt, and a flannel
blouse, faded from repeated washing, and showing signs of a decided
shortage of material.
Considered as a costume, it was a painful contrast to the silver and
diamonds of the fair Berengaria; but the shabby garments looked their
best on Ruth Farrell's slight form, and the face reflected in the strip
of mirror above the mantelpiece had a distinct charm of its own. A low
brow below masses of brown hair; a flush of carmine on the cheeks; soft
lips, drooping pathetically at the corners; and--most striking feature
of all--thickly marked eyebrows of almost jetty black, stretching in
long, straight lines above the grey eyes. A pretty, almost a beautiful
face, full of character, full of thought, full of a restless,
unsatisfied yearning.
She threw the burnt-out match on to the fire, and turned to survey the
room--surely the most motley and curious apartment that could be
imagined! The sloping roof proved at a glance the position under the
leads, and a peep at the outside of the door would have shown the word
"Attica" painted in bold white letters on the top panel.
Attica--or the land of attic--constituted the boudoirs of the Ladies
Berengaria and Lucille, the work-rooms and play-rooms, dens and havens
of refuge, of Ruth and Mollie Farrell, and their young stepsisters, Trix
and Betty Connor; for it was of generous proportions, measuring a square
eight yards or more, and the floor was divided into four equal sections
by lines of white paint against the brown of the original staining.
Each sister held an exclusive right to her own domain, and for another
to enter therein without special invitation was held as an outrage
against decency and good taste.
In the beginning of things, Ruth, as the eldest, had claimed the right
of first choice, and, being a young woman who liked her comforts, had
instantly and unhesitatingly appropriated the fireside.
Mollie, coming next in order, plumped for the window, it being her sunny
habit to look forward to an endless summer; Trix, grumbling vigorously,
appropriated the angle made by the blank walls nearest the fire; and
poor Betty made her lair in the direct draught of the doorway, and
enjoyed a permanent cold in the head from November to March.
A glance at the four corners of the room afforded a very fair idea of
the characters of its inhabitants. Ruth's "Fireland" domain had an air
of luxury of its own, though the draperies were of simple turkey-red,
and the pictures mounted on home-made frames of brown paper. There was
a row of shelves against the wall, holding quite a goodly show of
volumes, ranged neatly side by side, while a curtained recess at one end
contained tea-cups and canister, and a small metal kettle, as
scrupulously bright as on the day when it had left the shop.
An old folding-chair had been painted green, and supplied with frilled
cushions. There was a sensible little table, holding a hand-machine,
and a work-basket--yawning apart, it is true, but neatly strapped to
prevent accident; and on the mantelpiece a crowd of photographs, and a
few oddments of blue china, all carefully dusted by the owner's hand,
and set out with artistic effect.
Last, and crowning luxury of all, a screen stood behind the low chair,
manufactured out of a clothes-horse flounced with turkey-red, which was
at once the comfort and distraction of Ruth's soul; for while, from her
point of view, it was an indispensable comfort, shutting out draughts
from window and door, and giving to her little nook the last blessing of
privacy, Trix denounced the innovation as the incarnation of
selfishness, Betty's teeth chattered with a noise like castanets, and
Mollie peered round the corner with her shoulders huddled in a shawl,
and her face at once so cheerful, so unreproving, and so bleached with
cold, that it was not in human nature to refuse the desired invitation.
Mollie's domain of "Bellevue" comprised the square-shaped window, on the
sill of which she cultivated nasturtiums and mignonette in summer, and
in the embrasure stood a window-seat covered with blue cloth, that was
really the remains of an old winter skirt.
Visitors to "Bellevue" always paused to admire the sprays of flowers
which were embroidered here and there on this blue background; and then
Mollie "dissembled," as she called it, smiling sweet recognition of the
praise, but never once breathing the secret that the whole being and
intent of these flowers was to hide the joins beneath.
She also possessed a table and a work-basket; but the former was
decidedly ancient and insecure as to legs, while the basket made no
pretence of shutting, but looked on unabashed while its contents lay
scattered over the rug.
A dressmaker's stand stood in the corner, on which a blouse, more or
less complete, was invariably pinned, waiting for the moment when Mollie
had time to devote to her favourite occupation. There were no book-
shelves, but a litter of magazines behind a cushion on the window-seat,
and innumerable photographs were secured to the wall by black-headed
pins, to fade slowly but surely into unrecognition in the unbroken glare
of light.
Mollie herself pined for curtains to mitigate the draught during the
winter months, but the three other inmates of Attica loudly declared
that they could not spare a fraction of light, so she gave way smiling,
as her custom was. Mollie never grumbled; it was so dull, as she said,
and she loved to be gay. An invincible cheeriness of heart carried her
gallantly over the quicksands in which Ruth was submerged by reason of
her moodiness, and Trix by her quick temper, and made it a physical
impossibility to repine over the inevitable.
Fifteen-year-old Trix was in that stage when the Oxford examination
seems the end-all and be-all of existence. Her section of Attica was
proudly dubbed "The Study," and had its walls covered with maps, class
lists, and "memos" of great variety. The desk was strewn with papers
and exercise-books, and there lingered in the air that indescribable
scent of sponge, slate, indiarubber, and freshly sharpened pencils which
seem inseparable from youthful study.
Trix confessed to one weakness,--only one!--an overwhelming greed for
pencil-boxes and sharpeners, and the contents of the wooden shelf above
the desk testified to her indulgence in this craving. "The girls gave
them to me!" she used to say when strangers exclaimed at the number of
the piled-up boxes, but she blushed even as she spoke, knowing well that
to keep sixpence in her pocket and pass a pencil-box of a new design,
was a feat of self-denial beyond imagination.
Dear, chubby, placid Betty was only thirteen, and cared for nothing in
the world but her relations, chocolate-creams, and scrambling through
the day's classes with as little exertion as possible. She shivered in
her corner, poor mite, sucking audibly, to the distraction of her
elders, the while she skimmed over her lessons, and looked forward to
the time when she would be free to devote herself to the hobby of the
hour.
Sometimes it was postcards; sometimes it was stamps; sometimes it was
penny toys collected from street vendors. It had once soared as high as
autographs, and a promising beginning of three signatures were already
pasted into the remaining leaves of an exercise-book. Whatever the
collection might be, it lived in heaps on the uncarpeted floor; and when
Betty had a tidy fit, was covered with a crochet antimacassar which had
known better days, and had grown decidedly mellow in tint.
On this particular afternoon, the two younger sisters were taking tea
with school friends, while their elders enjoyed an uninterrupted _tete-
a-tete_, when they could indulge in a favourite game. When life was
unusually flat and prosaic, when the weather was wet, invitations
conspicuous by their absence, and the want of pocket-money particularly
poignant, Mollie would cry ardently: "Let's be Berengaria and Lucille!"
and, presto! the two girls were transplanted to another world--a world
with the magic letter W added to its address, where empty purses and
dyed dresses existed not, and all was joy, jewellery, and junketing.
Lucille had lately become the bride of a millionaire and adoring duke;
the peerless Berengaria wrought havoc with the peace of Lord Arthur, and
had more suitors than she could count on the fingers of both hands. It
was a fascinating make-believe; but, as Ruth plaintively remarked, it
did come with somewhat of a shock to be dragged back to earth by--socks!
She stood leaning against the mantelpiece, looking on with frowning
brows while her sister collected together scattered materials, and
carried them and the yawning basket back to the cosy corner in Fireland,
where, for the hour, she was an invited guest.
"Quick's the word and sharp's the action!" cried Mollie cheerily. "Now
for a grand old cobble; and if there are any heels out to-day, my fine
young gentlemen, don't blame _me_ if you have to tread on knots for the
rest of the week! It's the strangest thing on earth that I can remember
nice things year after year without an effort, and yet forget this
horrid mending every Saturday as regularly as the day comes round."
"Carelessness!" replied Ruth shortly, and with the candour of near
relations. "I couldn't forget if I tried. First thing when I wake in
the morning I think of all the bothersome duties I have to do in the
day, and the last thing at night I am thinking of them still. But you
are so frivolous, Mollie!"
"And you are so morbid, my dear! You don't offer to help me, I observe;
and since you are so conscientious as all that, I should think you might
lend me a hand in my extremity. There! I'll give you Ransome's for a
treat; he breaks out at the toes, but his heels are intact. It's
playwork mending for him compared with the other boys."
She tossed a collection of brown woollen stockings into her sister's
lap, and Ruth took them up, frowning heavily with her black brows, but
never dreaming of refusing the request, though her own share of the
household mending had kept her employed during the earlier part of the
afternoon, while Mollie was amusing herself elsewhere. She took a
darning-egg out of her basket, threaded a needle daintily, and set to
work in the painstaking manner which characterised all her efforts; but
she sighed as she worked, and Mollie sang, and that was the difference
between them.
"Don't make such a noise, Mollie; you make my head ache. Another time,
I wish you would do your mending when I do mine, and then we should get
a chance of a rest. Just to-day, too, when the girls are out! I hate a
large family, where there is never any privacy or repose. I wish the
pater could afford to send the boys to a boarding-school. It would be
the making of them, and such a blessing to us."
Mollie pursed her lips disapprovingly.
"I'd miss them horribly. They are naughty, of course, and noisy and
tiresome, and make no end of work, but that's the nature of boys; on the
other hand, they are full of fun and good-humour, if you take them the
right way. And they are affectionate little ruffians, too; and so good-
looking. I'm proud of them on Sundays, in their Eton suits."
"But there's only one Sunday, and six long days of shabbiness and
patches! Bruce ought to have a new school suit; the one he is wearing
has descended from the other two, and is disgracefully shabby. I spoke
to mother about it to-day, and she said she had intended to buy one this
month, but business was bad, and there was the coal bill to pay. The
old story! Business always _is_ bad, and the coal bill is ever with
us!"
Mollie crinkled her brows, and for a fraction of a second her face
clouded.
"There's no hope for me, then! I was going to plead for an extra
sovereign to carry me to the end of the quarter, for I've spent my last
cent, and there are one or two absolute necessities which I shall have
to get by hook or by crook, or stay in bed until the next allowance is
due. Well; something will turn up, I suppose! It's always the darkest
the hour before the dawn, and, financially speaking, it's pitch black at
the present moment. Let's pretend Uncle Bernard suddenly appeared upon
the scene, and presented us each with a handsome cheque."
"I'm tired of Uncle Bernard! Ever since I was a child I have heard
about him and his eccentricities, and his house, and his wealth, and
that we were his nearest relatives, and that some day he would surely
remember us, and break his silence; but he never has, so now I look upon
him as a sort of mythological figure who has no real existence. If he
cared anything about us he would have written long ago. I expect he has
forgotten our very existence, and left all his money to charities."
"I expect he has, but it's fun to pretend. Suppose he remembered my
birthday and sent me a ten-pound note! Fancy me, my dear, with a whole
ten pounds to spend as I liked. What fun we'd have! Most of it would
have to go in useful things, but we'd take a sovereign or two and have a
reckless burst just to see what it was like. A hansom to town, lunch at
a real swagger restaurant; and, after that, good seats at a _matinee_,
ices between the acts, and another hansom home, instead of shivering at
the corner waiting for omnibuses. Oh, bliss! Oh, rapture! If it could
only come true! If uncle would once come to see us, he couldn't help
liking us; could he?"
"He'd like me best, because I am pretty," said Ruth calmly.
"He'd like me best, because I am so nice!" contradicted Mollie. And
then they looked at each other, and each made a little grimace, supposed
to express scorn and contempt, but in reality there was so complete an
understanding beneath the pretence that it was almost as expressive as a
caress.
After this came a few minutes' silence, while the two needles were woven
diligently to and fro; then--
"Mollie!" said Ruth suddenly, "I've come to a decision. I've been
thinking it over for ages, so don't imagine it's a whim, or that I don't
mean what I say. It's time that one of us turned out and earned some
money on our own account, and, as I'm the eldest, I'm the one to go.
Business gets worse and worse, and expenses increase, and must go on
increasing, as the children grow up. Trix will be sixteen in summer; in
less than two years she will leave school, and three grown-up daughters
are not needed in any house when the mother is well and strong. I once
thought of waiting until then; but I am twenty-two now, and, if I am to
do any good, there is no time to waste. You could get along without me
even now."
The half-darned sock fell on Mollie's knee, and for once the sunny face
looked thoroughly shocked and startled.
"I couldn't--I couldn't! None of us could! What would happen if
everything depended on me? You remind me, and keep me up to the mark,
and help me out of scrapes. I should be at my wit's end without you.
Mother consults you about everything, and the girls obey you, and the
boys pay more attention to you than they do to anyone else. Ruth,
_everybody_ needs you?"
"They love you best," Ruth said quietly. And the dark brows wrinkled in
wistful fashion.
It was the truth that she was speaking, no empty striving for
compliments; but why was it the truth? She worked hard; Mollie idled.
She was conscientious, self-sacrificing, and methodical; Mollie knew not
the meaning of method, and was frankly selfish on occasions. She
worried herself ill about ways and means, and kept sedulously within the
bounds of her small allowance; Mollie took no heed for the morrow, and
was in a chronic condition of penury or debt.
Despite these striking contrasts, the fact remained, however, that if
any member of the household were ill, or had a secret to confide, or a
favour to request, they betook themselves to the heedless Mollie, rather
than to herself. Dearly as she loved her sister, Ruth felt a little
rankling of soreness mingling with her mystification. She did not yet
realise the magic power which cheerfulness wields in this world, or the
charm of a sunny face and a ready rippling laugh. Hearts turn to the
sun as instinctively as plants, and forgive much for the sake of the
warmth and glow.
"They love you best," said Ruth, and honest Mollie did not contradict,
but stretched out her hand, and laid it caressingly on her sister's arm.
"But I love you, and I can't do without you, Ruth! I couldn't live
alone, for you and I belong to each other. The others are dears in
their way; but they are only `steps,' and we two seem so close together.
Imagine Attica without you! Imagine going to bed alone, with no one to
talk to about the events of the day! What does the horrid old money
matter? We always have been poor, and we always shall be. As long as I
can remember mother has been in despair about the bills; but we wriggle
through somehow, and we shall go on wriggling. It's horrid of you to
talk of going away! Think of me!"
"That's selfish, Mollie. You are the last person I ought to think of
just now. Mother comes first, and the poor old pater, and all those
children. It comes to this, that I can't stand the present state of
affairs any longer. I feel ashamed of taking even the pittance we have;
and I'm tired of the pittance, too, and want to make money for myself,
and not have to think a dozen times over before spending a penny!"
Mollie laughed--a pert, derisive little laugh.
"Sounds well, my dear; but, if it comes to that, what _can_ you do? You
can't teach, for you are not accomplished enough for advanced pupils,
nor patient enough for children. Do you remember trying to teach
Drummond to read, and rapping his poor little knuckles till they were
blue? Besides, talking of pittances, you'd get less than nothing if you
did try it. I don't see what you could do to earn a living."
"I could be a hospital nurse!"
"Perhaps you might--a bad one--for you don't like nursing, and would
only do it for the sake of the pay. I should have no respect for you if
you did that, Ruth. It would be too hard on the unfortunate patients?"
"I could be a companion--"
"People who want companions are old, or gouty, or mad; invariably
disagreeable, or why have they to advertise for a friend? I think I see
you shut up with a trying old lady, combing the lap-dog's hair, and
winding wool! You wouldn't be a very agreeable companion, Ruthans dear.
Better make the best of things, and stay where you are."
Ruth made no further protest, but her lips tightened with an expression
of determination. Her mind being made up, she was not easily swayed
from her purpose. She decided to talk to her mother on the subject on
the following morning.
CHAPTER TWO.
AN EVENING AT HOME.
The father of Ruth and Mollie Farrell had died when the latter was two
years old, leaving his wife but a few hundred pounds with which to
support herself and her children. She was a pretty, winsome creature,
the sort of woman who attracts sympathy and love, but a most difficult
person to help.
Friends came forward with suggestions and offers of assistance, and Mrs
Farrell thanked them ardently, and wept, and agreed to all that they
said. In words, she was ready to undertake any exertion, however
arduous; but when it came to deeds, she was so weak, so incapable, so
hopelessly confused, that the school, the boarding-house, and the home
for Indian children ended successively in failure.
At the end of three years her scanty capital was almost exhausted; but
at this critical moment the Fates--which seem to take special care of
the helpless ones of the earth--sent Ernest Connor to play the part of
rescuer. He was a round stone in a square hole, that is to say, a
student by nature, who, by the exigencies of fortune, found himself
doomed to a business life, wherein he was a painstaking but consistent
failure.
Nervous and shy, he shrank from the society of women; but it was
impossible to be shy with the irresponsible little widow, who confided
all her troubles to him on the first day of their acquaintance, and
asked his advice with tears in her pretty eyes. To his amazement, he
found himself confiding his own troubles in return, and the ready
sympathy accorded to them seemed the sweetest thing in the world. A
month after their first meeting he asked her to be his wife, explaining
honestly his financial position, and the uncertainty of improvement in
the future.
"But you will help me!" he said. "The money will go twice as far when
you hold the purse!"
And Mrs Farrell agreed with ardour, unabashed by previous failures.
She went to her new home full of love and gratitude, and, let it be said
at once, never had cause to regret the step in after years.
Ernest Connor was a devoted husband, and a most kindly father to the two
little girls; but life was not easy. It was a constant strain to make
ends meet, and as Trix, and Betty, and Drummond, and Ransome, and Bruce
came in quick succession to fill the nursery, the strain grew even more
and more acute.
The elder girls had been educated at a neighbouring high school, but
left as soon as they were seventeen, and after that there was no money
to spare for music and painting lessons, such as most girls continue as
an interest and occupation long after schooldays are over.
Ruth and Mollie were kept busy teaching the babies and making clothes
for the family--cutting down Trix's dress to do duty for Betty;
laboriously planning little pairs of knickers out of trousers worn at
the knees; patching, darning, covering-up, hiding over, turning and
twisting; making up something out of nothing, with the lordly sum of
fifteen pounds a year each for dress and pocket-money alike. They had
never known the luxury, dear to girlish hearts, of choosing a garment
simply because it was pretty or becoming. Dark, useful remnants were
their lot; sailor-hats in summer, cloth toques in winter; stout, useful
boots, and dogskin gloves which stood a year's hard wear.
Many a time over had Mollie stretched forth hands and feet for her
sister's inspection, quoting derisively--
"`Her thickly--made country shoes could not conceal the slender contour
of her ankles; her rough gloves served only to reveal the patrician
beauty of her hands.' Look at that, my love--there's contour for you!
There's patrician beauty! What rubbish those books do talk, to be
sure!"
Many a time had the girls groaned together over their impecuniosity, and
vaguely vowed to "do something" to remedy their condition, until at last
Ruth's unrest had reached the point of action, and she determined to
seize the first opportunity of a private conference with her mother.
It was not easy to secure a _tete-a-tete_ in the house of Connor. On
this particular evening, Trix was practising scales on the piano in the
drawing-room, while Mollie read a novel, and Betty lolled on the rug;
the three boys were busy at lessons, or, as they eloquently described
it, "stewing," round the dining-room table. Mr Connor was smoking his
pipe and reading the evening papers in his den at the back of the house;
and the little, white-faced mother moved incessantly from room to room,
no sooner settled in one place than she was seized with an anxious
presentiment that she was needed elsewhere.
She was pretty still, in a pathetic, faded manner; and wherever she went
she spoke loving, gentle words, and met loving glances in response: but,
alas, her efforts seemed rather distracting than helpful! She stroked
Drummond's hair, and asked if he was sure his throat was better, just as
he was on the point of completing a difficult addition; she told her
husband the tragic history of the cook's impertinence, and handed him a
heavy bill, when the poor man was enjoying the first quiet rest of the
day; she requested Mollie's advice about spare-room curtains at the
moment when long-separated lovers were united, and it was agony to lift
one's eyes from the page for the fraction of a second.
Husband and children alike answered gently and with courtesy, for, if
there was little else, there was plenty of love in this shabby
household, and the little mother was the central figure round which
everything revolved; nevertheless, her departure was marked by half-
involuntary sighs of relief, as if a disturbing element had been
withdrawn.
Ruth knew that she would have to bide her time until the younger members
of the family had retired to bed; but, too restless to settle down to
any definite occupation, she drifted across the drawing-room to where
Trix sat, her fingers scrambling up and down the notes of the piano.
Trix was tall and lanky; she had grey eyes, set far apart, a _retrousse_
nose, dotted over with quite a surprising number of freckles, and an
untidy shock of light-brown hair.
In years to come it was possible that she might develop into a pretty
girl; at the present moment she despised appearances, and certainly
failed to make the best of her good points. Now, as she sat by the
piano-stool, with shoulders hunched up and head poked forward, she
looked so awkward and ungainly that Ruth's tried nerves suffered afresh
at the sight.
"For pity's sake, sit up, Trix!" she cried sharply. "You look a perfect
object, bent double like that! You might be deformed, to look at your
back! If you go on like this, you will grow so round-shouldered that
you won't be able to get straight again, and how will you like that?"
Trix deliberately finished her scale, then faced her sister, and
retorted pertly--
"Very much indeed, thank you--if you will only realise that I _can't_
help it, and leave me alone! I'd rather be a humpback at once, than be
worried morning, noon, and night about deportment, as I am now. My
back's my own; I can use it as I like!"
"It's wicked to talk like that, Trix, and very impertinent as well! Who
is to tell you of your faults if we don't at home? Other people look
on, and say, `What a fright that girl looks! How shockingly she carries
herself!' But they don't trouble to tell you about it, and it is not
very pleasant for us when you take it like this. If we did not love you
and care for your interests--"
"Oh dear me," sighed naughty Trix, "then I wish you'd love me a little
less! I could bear it quite well if you lost your interest, and left me
in peace. You and Mollie can do the beauty show for the family; I am
content to represent `intellect and common-sense.' If you want
something to do, you might help me with a French exercise instead of
nagging. It's simply awful to-day; and if I lose any more marks, it's
all up with my chance of getting a prize. Now, then--will you, or won't
you?"
Trix's method of asking favours was hardly as ingratiating as might be
desired, and for a moment the chances seemed all in favour of a refusal.
The colour flamed in Ruth's cheeks, and her black brows drew ominously
near together. She was fighting a hard battle against pride and
resentment; but, as was usually the case, the better self won. She
nodded back at Trix, and said--
"I will! ... Run and bring your books. We won't venture into the
dining-room, for the boys make such a noise that one can't hear one's
own voice."
There was something very sweet in the absolute surrender of self-will,
and Trix, who was the most warm-hearted of mortals, promptly bounded up
from her stool and flung her arms round her sister's neck.
"You duck--you angel! You shall nag at me as much as ever you like, and
I'll never be cheeky again. It's brickish of you to worry about me at
all; but I'll always be a fright, so what's the use? You are pretty
enough for the family, Ruth. Ella Bruce's brother watches behind the
curtains every Sunday to see you pass, and he says you are the prettiest
girl he knows, and are always so nicely dressed!"
"Poor, deluded mortal; may he be forgiven for his blindness! I'm the
shabbiest creature in the parish! It's very nice of him to watch; but I
wish he would come out from behind the curtains and let me see him. I
have not so many admirers that I can afford to have them hidden from
view. What is he like, Trix; handsome?"
"Oh, well enough! Ella thinks him a model, but he is too thin and lanky
for my taste. He is not half good enough for you, Ruth, anyway. You
ought to marry a duke, and retrieve the fortunes of the family!"
"I'm willing, my dear. Produce him, and I promise you I will not stand
in the way. I could do quite easily with being a duchess. It would be
so soothing to be called `Your Grace,' and a coronet is peculiarly
suited to my style of beauty. I won't have you for a bridesmaid,
though, if you stoop like that. Get your book, Trix, and let us set to
work. Better take advantage of my good mood while it lasts."
Trix departed obediently, and returned with a pile of books, which she
dropped upon the table with a bang, which made the other occupants of
the room start in their seats, and for the next hour the two girls
wrestled with the difficulties of an advanced Brachet exercise. Truth
to tell, Ruth was not much more expert than Trix herself; but she was
infinitely more exact, and, by dint of hunting up back rules, and making
endless references to the irregular verbs, the result achieved was
fairly correct.
It was ten o'clock. Betty and the three boys had departed to bed;
Mollie still sat gloating over her novel, with a forefinger thrust into
either ear to shut out the sound of the disturbing discussion on moods
and tenses. Trix collected her books with a sigh, and prepared to go
upstairs in her turn. She looked white and tired, and the freckles on
her nose seemed darker and more conspicuous than ever.
"Good-night, old Ruth! Thanks, most awfully! I'll do as much for you
some day."
"Good-night, young Trix! Mind you do. I shall remind you when the time
comes."
The door opened and closed; Ruth rose wearily, and laid her hand on
Mollie's shoulder. Such a charming face was lifted to meet her glance--
so fresh, so bright, full of such dazzling youth and vigour! True,
Mollie had been lazing all the evening while the others worked; but as
Ruth stood looking down at her she wondered for the hundredth time how
it was that so little was made of Mollie's beauty in comparison with her
own.
The golden hair rippled back in a thick, soft wave; the grey eyes were
large, and generously lashed; the laughing lips parted, to show white,
even, little teeth; yet a stranger, looking for the first time at Mollie
Farrell, rarely remarked upon her good looks.
"What a nice girl! What a dear girl! What a delightful creature!" they
cried, according to their different degrees of enthusiasm. They wanted
to know her, to have her for a friend, and forgot to think of mere
outward appearance.
"What a noise you have been making, Ruth!" said Mollie lazily. "I can't
think why you can't be quiet when you get a chance! This book is too
exciting for words. I told you how the lovers quarrelled just after
they were married, and he went abroad, thinking, of course, that she
didn't love him any more; while, of course, she simply adored the ground
he trod on, but thought that he had grown tired of her, while he was
more madly in--"
Ruth gave an exclamation of impatience.
"Oh, what rubbish! I don't believe such things are possible! If they
really loved each other, do you suppose they could keep on pretending
while they lived together every day, and when it came to saying good-bye
into the bargain? Nonsense! She'd break down and howl, and he would
comfort her, and take off his coat. Look here, Mollie--go to bed! I've
waited all the evening to have a talk with mother, and you are the only
impediment left. Take your book with you if you like,--but go!"
Mollie rose, unwillingly enough.
"I know what you want to talk about," she said, looking into Ruth's
face. "I know; and it's not a mite of use. Mother won't let you leave
home; she needs you far too much. I shan't go to sleep, for I shall
want to hear every single word when you come upstairs. I'll snoodle up
to the hot bottle, and read till you come."
The programme sounded very attractive,--to snoodle up to the hot bottle,
and lie at ease reading an interesting book,--much more attractive than
to linger downstairs by the dying fire, and discuss disagreeable
problems with an anxious mother. But Ruth did not waver in her
decision, and a few moments later Mrs Connor was caught paying a round
of visits to the children's bedrooms--"just in time," as Ruth thought
whimsically, "to waken the poor souls from their first sleep!"--and
escorted back to the chair which Mollie had vacated.
"Is anything wrong, dear?" she asked nervously. Poor little woman, if a
surprise were in store, it seemed so much more likely that it should be
disagreeable rather than bright! "You don't feel feverish, or ill,
or--"
"No, no, my dear; I just want to talk to you about my own affairs. I'm
quite well, and so strong and--and grown-up, don't you know, that it is
time I grew independent, and began life on my own account. You have
Mollie at home, and Trix and Betty growing up, and I think, mother dear,
that I ought not to be dependent on the pater any longer. He has been
very good and kind to us all these years; but, still--"
She hesitated, and Mrs Connor looked at her with anxious tenderness.
She had honestly considered the welfare of her two little girls as much
as her own when she decided to marry a second time, and it had been a
constant joy to feel that her expectations had been fulfilled; yet here
was Ruth, her firstborn darling, her right hand in household affairs,
actually talking of leaving home!
"Aren't you happy, Ruth? Have you not been happy all these years? I
thought you were quite content and satisfied."
She sighed; and Ruth gave an echoing sigh, and answered honestly--
"Quite happy, darling, as far as you and the pater are concerned. He
could not have been kinder to us if we had been his very own daughters.
But satisfied? Oh no, mother; never satisfied for a long time back!
How could I be? I don't want to seem ungrateful; but I'm only twenty-
one, and it has been all work and no play, and there are so many, many
things that I want to do, and see, and feel. I've never been to a
proper grown-up dance in my life, for if we have been asked we have not
had decent clothes to go in, and we never invite anyone here, so now
people have given over asking us even to quiet evenings. I hardly ever
speak to a soul outside this house, and I get so tired of it all;--and
only fifteen pounds a year for dress and pocket-money! Remember what
your allowance was when you were a girl, and all the jolly times you
had, and the parties, and the visits, and the trips abroad,--and then
think of our lives. It _is_ dull for us, isn't it, dear?"
Mrs Connor's pale cheeks flushed with a touch of offence. Not having
sufficient insight into girls' natures to understand that there was
nothing either undutiful or unnatural in Ruth's lament, she felt herself
personally injured thereby.
"Mollie is happy--Mollie is content!" she said briefly.
And Ruth assented with a brief "Yes," and said no more.
If the difference between Mollie's nature and her own was not patent to
their own mother, it was useless to enlarge upon it. She waited a
moment or two to regain composure, then continued quietly--
"But that was not exactly the point. I did not mean to speak of my own
troubles. What I feel is that when business is so bad, it is not right
for two grown-up girls to stay at home. You could get on without me,
with a little extra help for sewing, and in time I might earn enough,
not only to keep myself but to help the others. Honestly, now, don't
you think I am right? In my place, would you not feel it your duty to
the pater to be independent, and lighten his responsibility, if even by
a little?"
Mrs Connor sat silent, torn between two thoughts--dread of parting from
Ruth, and a longing to help the overburdened husband, who had come as a
rescuer in her own need. No one but herself guessed how it tore her
heart to present him with fresh bills, or to ask for money for all the
thousand-and-one needs of a growing family. Her very dread and
nervousness made her choose inappropriate moments for her requests, and
Mr Connor's aloofness from the ordinary workaday world made matters
still more difficult. He probably considered fifteen pounds a year a
lordly dress allowance for his two step-daughters; certainly he would
not have noticed if they had worn the same garments every day for years
on end. His own clothes lasted him for an incredible period, and were
always neatly brushed and folded. It did not occur to him that girls
needed more change than himself.
Mrs Connor sat and pondered. It was terrible to think of parting from
Ruth, but the strain of making both ends meet was becoming so acute that
some method of retrenchment must inevitably be found. It is easy for
rich people to cut down expenses--to give up carriage and horses,
dismiss two or three servants, and indulge in fewer pleasures and
excitements; but it is a very different matter when there are no
superfluities with which to part, but only, as it seems, the barest
necessaries of life. Mrs Connor's eyes filled slowly with tears as she
stretched out her hand and laid it over her daughter's. It was the
signal of capitulation, and Ruth recognised it as such, and felt a
sinking of the heart.
"You will let me go, mother?" she asked.
And Mrs Connor answered brokenly--
"If I must, I must! You would come home for the holidays: we should not
lose you altogether. But oh, Ruth, not yet! Wait until the beginning
of the term. Years ago, when things were at their very worst with me,
and I did not know where to turn for help, God sent my dear husband to
take care of me and you two babies. Perhaps--perhaps something may
happen again. Perhaps, after all, it may not be necessary!"
They kissed each other silently, and parted for the night. Half-way
upstairs Ruth remembered that her mother had not once inquired as to the
nature of the work she intended to undertake, and smiled whimsically to
herself. It was so very characteristic of the irresponsible little
mistress of the household!
CHAPTER THREE.
A PROPOSAL AND A REFUSAL.
It was tacitly understood in the household that after Easter Ruth was
going to do "something" to retrieve the family fortunes, but what that
"something" should be remained vague and undefined. Ruth herself
debated the question morning, noon, and night, and, like many another
poor girl in the same position, bitterly regretted an education which
had given her no one marketable qualification. She could play a little,
draw a little, speak French a little, speak German a little less, make
her own clothes in amateur fashion, and--what else? Nothing at all that
any able-bodied woman could not accomplish equally well. If she had
concentrated her energies on one definite thing, and learnt to do it,
not pretty well, nor very well, but just as well as it could possibly be
done, what a different prospect would have stretched before her now!
If she decided to teach, she must be content to accept juvenile pupils
and a poor salary; if she became a companion, she must sacrifice all
spirit of independence, and become a dutiful drudge, while she knew in
her inmost heart that it would be wrong to take up nursing, since she
felt no real vocation for the task.
It was useless to ask advice of anyone at home, so, one afternoon, Ruth
betook herself to almost the only intimate friend she possessed,--a
middle-aged spinster who kept house for an adored doctor brother. The
brother was a friend into the bargain--a tall, thin, clever--looking man
of thirty-eight, engrossed in his practice, which was one of the most
prosperous in the neighbourhood. Brother and sister were seated at tea
together when Ruth was announced, and she looked round the pretty room
with admiring eyes. Pink silk lamp-shades, luxurious cushions, bowls of
spring flowers, a tea equipage, bright and dainty and complete,--oh, how
delightful it all looked after the bare shabbiness of the room at home;
and what fascinating clothes Eleanor was wearing!
Despite her affection, one-and-twenty was inclined to think pretty
things thrown away upon an antediluvian creature of forty, but if Ruth
could have had a glimpse of herself as "others saw her" at that moment,
she might have been more content. The subdued lamp-light dealt kindly
with the old blue serge coat and skirt, the pink scarf at her neck
matched the colour on her cheeks, and the eyes underneath the black
brows were unusually bright and animated. She was always a welcome
guest at this hospitable house, and it was a pleasant variety to be
petted and fussed over, provided with cushions and footstools, and
tempted to eat by a fresh supply of hot buttered scones and a delectable
chocolate cake studded over with walnuts. Ruth laughed, and dimpled
into ever brighter beauty.
"It makes me feel so nice and young," she cried, "as if I were a spoilt
only child, instead of the staid eldest daughter of a family! But I
ought to be staid; I can't afford to frivol any longer, for I am going
to take a most important step, and start life on my own account."
Brother and sister alike looked up with sharp inquiry, and Ruth,
understanding, broke into a merry laugh.
"Oh, not that! Nothing half so interesting! Merely going to earn my
living, and I came to ask your advice as to how I had best set about it.
Nothing is decided so far, except that I am to earn enough money to
keep myself, and contribute largely to home expenses. That's the end,
but the puzzle is to find out the means."
"Poor lassie!" said Miss Maclure gently. She had a soft, Scotch burr in
her voice, and her plain face was full of an almost motherly kindness as
she looked at the pretty girl across the hearth. She had private means
of her own, and her brother was a prosperous man; but she knew enough of
the world to understand the nature of the struggle of which Ruth spoke
so lightly.
"It's easier saying than doing, I'm afraid, dearie. There are so many
women searching for work nowadays, and for many positions it is
necessary to prepare by long and expensive training. We wanted a lady
secretary for one of the societies in which I am interested, and we had
hundreds of applicants who were expert typists and stenographers, and
had all sorts of diplomas to show, but you have nothing of the kind."
"No, nor a penny to spend on training. I must be taken as I am, or not
at all. Don't discourage me, Eleanor, please. Mollie runs the cold tap
persistently at home, and I really need appreciation. There must be
_something_ that I can do, if I set my wits to work. I am not going to
be a nurse, Dr Maclure, so don't think that I am leading up to a
request that you should get me into a hospital. I don't like sick
people unless they are my very own, and it would be almost as dull to be
shut up in a hospital as to remain at home."
Miss Maclure looked a trifle shocked at this candid confession, but her
brother laughed, and said approvingly--
"That's right! I admire your honesty. We have far too many nurses who
take up the work without any real fitness, and I should be sorry to see
you added to the number. Well, let me see! ... After hospital nursing,
the next most popular resort is to turn author and write a novel. Have
you any leaning in that direction?"
He looked across at Ruth with a humorous twitching of his clean-shaven
lips. Once again she felt conscious that the Maclures looked upon her
as a pretty child, to be petted and humoured rather than a serious woman
of the world, and once again the knowledge brought with it a feeling of
rest and comfort.
She crinkled her brows and smiled back at the doctor, answering
frankly--
"Oh yes, plenty of leanings! I should love to write, and Mollie and I
are always `imagining' to make life more lively and exciting; but, when
it comes to sitting down with a pen in my hand, my thoughts seem to take
wing and fly away, and the words won't come. They are all stiff and
formal, and won't express what I want. Mollie gets on better, for she
writes as she talks, so it's natural at least. She wrote quite a long
story once, and read it aloud to me as she went on, but it was never
finished, and I don't think for a moment that any paper would have
looked at it. The people were all lords and dukes and millionaires, and
we don't know even a knight. I expect it was full of mistakes."
Dr Maclure smiled and rose from his seat.
"Well, I have some letters to write, so I will leave you to have your
talk with Eleanor; but I am starting off again on my rounds in half an
hour, and shall be driving past your house. It is a disagreeable
evening. Will you let me give you a lift?"
Ruth consented eagerly. The blue serge coat felt none too warm in the
bleak east wind, and it would be a relief to be spared the chilly walk,
and be bowled along instead in the doctor's luxurious brougham. She
drew her chair nearer to the fire, and proceeded to confide various whys
and wherefores to the sympathetic Eleanor--sympathetic, but hardly
responsive this afternoon for some mysterious reason. The while Ruth
set forward one idea after another, Miss Maclure sat gazing at her with
an intent, questioning gaze, as though too much occupied with her own
thoughts to grasp the meaning of the conversation. Ruth felt chilled
and disappointed, for during the last few days the constant thought in
the background of her mind had been, "Eleanor will advise me! Eleanor
will know what to do!"
Miss Maclure was a busy woman, whose name figured in a dozen committees.
She knew everyone, went everywhere, and her word had weight in guilds,
societies, and associations. What could be more easy than for her to
find a pleasant and lucrative berth for a pet girl friend, and settle
her in it without delay? Ruth had already imagined a touching scene
wherein she had been introduced to her future sphere of work, while
those in authority overpowered Miss Maclure with thanks for helping them
to find the ideal person to fill the vacant post. But Eleanor said
nothing, suggested nothing, only sat staring with those grave,
questioning eyes!
It was almost a relief when the half-hour was over, and the doctor gave
the summons for departure. Then Eleanor came back to the present once
more, and was all that was kind and loving.
"Have you no wraps with you, dear? Is that all you have on?" she asked,
as the girl buttoned her thin coat and pulled the scarf higher round her
throat; and Ruth answered "Yes," in an irresponsive tone, which
effectually put a stop to further remarks. She might speak of her own
poverty, but not even Eleanor Maclure herself could be allowed to pity,
or offer to supply a want. That was Miss Ruth's idea of proper pride,
and she straightened her back, and held her head higher than ever as she
crossed the hall and took her seat in the carriage.
Such a luxurious brougham it was, with its well-cushioned seats, its
electric reading-lamp attached to the wall, its rack for books and
papers, and cosy fur rug! Ruth tucked the rug securely in position,
and, looking up, caught the reflection of her face in the strip of
mirror opposite. The blue serge toque sat so jauntily on her head that
it looked quite smart; the pink tie was undoubtedly becoming. Well, it
was a comfort to be pretty, at least! To have been poor and plain would
have been quite too depressing. She smiled back in approving fashion,
to feel somewhat disconcerted a moment later as the mirror reflected
Donald Maclure's face beside her own. He was staring at her with the
same intent questioning which she had noticed in Eleanor's eyes, and
surely he looked paler, older, more haggard than usual! She turned
towards him, warmed into increased friendship by the presentiment that
he was in trouble like herself.
"It's so good of you to take me home, Dr Maclure! It may seem curious
to you, but it's quite a treat to me to drive about in this comfy
carriage. I so seldom travel in anything but shaky omnibuses. I should
not object to being a lady doctor, if I could have a brougham like this
of my very own. There! We never thought of that when we were
discussing my possible fields of labour!"
Dr Maclure bent forward, and glanced out of the window. His horse was
travelling quickly to-night; in another ten minutes Mr Connor's house
would be reached, and his opportunity over. He turned to face his
companion, and said quietly--
"There is another possibility open to you, Ruth, which you have perhaps
not considered. Have you ever thought of it, I wonder? Can you guess
what I mean?"
The grey eyes stared into his in frankest bewilderment.
"No," cried Ruth--"no! What is it? Something nice? Tell me what it
is."
"You have never guessed that I love you; that I have loved you for
years, since you were a girl at school? You have never once guessed it
all this time?"
He read his answer in the blank face and startled eyes, for Ruth was too
utterly taken aback to feel the usual embarrassment. She sat perfectly
still, gazing not at him but at the reflection of his face in the mirror
opposite. Dr Maclure! Was she dreaming, or was it really his voice
which she heard uttering these extraordinary words? Dr Maclure loved
her--had loved her for years! It was too inconceivable to be grasped!
He asked if she had not guessed his secret, but Ruth had not thought of
him at all; he had not entered into her calculations except as
"Eleanor's brother"--a nonentity who might be agreeable or the reverse,
according as he drove her home on wet evenings, or interrupted a cosy
_tete-a-tete_.
She did not reply to the question in words; but he was answered all the
same, for she heard him sigh, and saw a quiver pass across the thin
face.
"I am too old, Ruth--is that it? You never thought of me as a possible
lover?"
"Oh no, never once! You always seemed so busy and occupied, and you
have Eleanor to look after you. You have always been very kind to me,
but you were kind to Mollie and Trix and Betty as well. I did not feel
that you treated me differently from them. You are so clever; and you
saw yourself, when we talked this afternoon, I can do nothing.--I don't
see how you can possibly like me."
"Don't you?" he asked quietly. "But I do, Ruth; I care more than I can
express. I have not spoken before, for you seemed too young. I should
not have spoken to-day if you had not told us of this new move. You
don't know how hard it is for a girl to go out into the world and earn
her living; but I do, and I should like to save you from it, if it can
be done. I could give you a comfortable home, and enough money to make
life easy and pleasant. It would be my best happiness to see you happy.
We could travel; you would be able to help Mollie and the rest. If you
married me, your people would be my people, and I should be as anxious
as yourself to let them share our good fortune; and I would love you
very dearly, Ruth! I seem old to you, perhaps, but my love would be
more proved and certain than if I were a boy of your own age. I am a
prosperous man, but I want something more from life than I have had so
far--something that you alone can give roe. You hold my key to
happiness, Ruth!"
Ruth drew back into the corner of the carriage and turned her face into
the shadow. She wanted to think. What an extraordinary change in the
outlook at life to have happened in a few brief moments! Dr Maclure's
wife! Here was an answer indeed to the question which had been
occupying her thoughts for the last few weeks!
Suppose--suppose, just for one moment, that she said yes? Suppose that
on getting home she walked into the dining-room and announced her
engagement to a prosperous and charming man, who was already a family
friend and favourite? What fun! What excitement! What pride on the
part of the little mother; what transparent relief to the overtaxed
pater! Mollie and Trix would begin at once to discuss bridesmaids'
dresses, and there would be a trousseau to buy, and all the bustle and
excitement of a first marriage in a family. And afterwards? A big,
handsomely appointed house, pretty clothes, lots of money, the power to
help those whom she loved...
It sounded good--very good indeed! Much more attractive than those
nursery governess and companion schemes which she dreaded, despite all
her resolutions. It would be delightful to be her own mistress, and do
just as she liked...
And then a thought occurred. What of Eleanor? Ruth recalled the intent
gaze which had mystified her so much during the afternoon, and felt
convinced that Miss Maclure had guessed her brother's secret. What was
her feeling in the matter? Was she jealous of a rival in her brother's
affections, or loyally anxious for his happiness, regardless of how her
own future might be affected? A spasm of curiosity found voice in a
sudden question--
"But there is Eleanor. If you married, what would become of her?"
"There would be no difficulty about that. When we took up house
together we made a solemn agreement that if either wished to marry in
the future the other should not hinder in any possible way. Eleanor has
her own income, and many interests in life to keep her happy and
occupied. She would live near us, I hope, but you should be entire
mistress of your home, Ruth."
He evidently thought she had looked upon his sister's presence in the
house as a hindrance to her happiness, but, in truth, Ruth felt a chilly
sinking of heart at his reply. The thought of the big house was not
half so attractive, shorn of the figure of the sympathetic friend. The
library with no Eleanor sitting writing at her desk; the drawing-room
with no Eleanor in the deep-cushioned chair; the dining-room with no
Eleanor at the head of the table--how blank it all seemed! How
dreadfully dull to be alone all day, with only the doctor to break the
monotony! Only the doctor! The blood rushed in a flood to Ruth's
cheeks as she realised the significance of that one word. She turned
impetuously towards her companion, and gripped his arm with nervous
pressure.
"Don't tempt me!" she cried earnestly--"don't tempt me! There are so
many things that I should like, and I keep thinking of them, when I
should think only of you.--I'd love to be rich, and have a nice house,
and play Lady Bountiful at home! I'd love to travel about and see the
world, instead of jogging along in one little rut; and, really and
truly, I dread turning out to work, and am a coward at heart--but,--
that's all! I have always liked you very much as a friend, but I can't
imagine ever feeling any different. When I was thinking over things
just now, I--don't be angry! I don't want to hurt you, only to be
quite, quite honest--I thought more of Eleanor than of you! I hardly
thought of you at all."
The doctor's thin face looked very drawn and pained, but he smiled in
response to her pleading glance.
"I'm not angry, dear. Why should I be? It is not your fault that you
do not care, and it is best for us both to know the truth. I feared it
might be so. I am too old and staid to attract a bright young girl, but
I even now cannot bring myself to regret my love. It has given me the
happiest hours of my life, and I hope you will always let me help you in
any way that is possible. I think you owe me that privilege, don't you,
Ruth?"
"Oh, I do--I do! If it is any pleasure to you, I promise faithfully to
come to you whenever I need a friend, and I should like you to help me.
That means a great deal, for I am horribly proud. There are very few
people from whom I can accept a favour."
He smiled again, but with an evident effort, and Ruth, peeping at his
averted profile, felt a pang of real personal suffering at the sight of
his pain. It seemed dreadful that she should have such power to affect
this strong man; to take the light out of his face and make it old and
worn and grey!
The carriage was nearing home; in a few minutes' time the drive would be
over, and she would have no chance of continuing the conversation. With
a sudden swelling of the heart she realised that she could not part
without another expression of regret.
"I am so sorry, so dreadfully sorry to have grieved you! But you would
not like me to marry you just for what you could give me; you would not
have been satisfied with that, would you, Dr Maclure?"
His eyes met hers with a flash of determination.
"No," he cried--unhesitatingly--"never! I want a wife who loves me, or
no wife at all! One never knows what lies ahead in this world, and if
dark days come I should like to feel that she cared for me more, rather
than less. It would be hard for us both if she valued only my
possessions, and they took to themselves wings and fled. And there is
your own future to consider. Love will come to you some day, and you
must be free to welcome him. Don't distress yourself about me, Ruth; I
have my work for consolation. Before I get home to-night I shall have
seen so much suffering that I shall be ashamed to nurse my own trouble."
"Yes," said Ruth faintly.
His words seemed to place her at an immense distance, as if already he
had accepted his burden and put it resolutely out of sight. She felt
chilled and humiliated, for in the depths of her heart she knew that if
Dr Maclure had been persistent in his request, and had condescended to
"tempt" her, to use her own expressive phrase, she would very probably
have succumbed to the temptation, however much she might have regretted
her decision later on. But Donald would have none of her; he wanted a
wife who cared for himself, and not for his possessions. Ruth felt
almost as if it were she herself who had been refused. It was not an
agreeable sensation to experience after a first proposal.
CHAPTER FOUR.
A MEETING.
One bright spring afternoon about a week after Ruth's visit to Miss
Maclure, Mollie went out to execute some shopping commissions, and on
her way home took a short cut through the park, which was the great
summer resort of the northern town in which her lot was cast.
She was an ardent lover of Nature, and it was a joy to see the tiny
green buds bursting into life on trees and hedges, and to realise that
the long winter was at an end.
"Nasty, shivery, chilblainey thing,--I hate it!" said Mollie to herself,
with a shiver of disgust. "It might be very nice if one had lots of
furs, and skating, and parties, and fires in one's bedroom. People who
can enjoy themselves like that may talk of the `joys of winter,' but,
from my point of view, they don't exist. Give me summer, and flowers at
a penny a bunch! This dear old park and I have had many good times
together. I think I have sampled most of the seats in my time!"
It was, indeed, a favourite summer custom of the Farrell girls to repair
to a shady bench under a tree with such portable sewing as happened to
be on hand, for when the sun shone in its strength the temperature of
Attica was more like that of an oven than a room. The winding paths
were, therefore, familiar to Mollie; but they were apt to be puzzling to
strangers who, like herself, wished to take a short cut from one side of
the park to another.
To-day as she approached the junction of four cross-ways, she saw before
her the figure of an old man, glancing irresolutely from side to side,
then turning round, as though in search of someone whom he could consult
in his perplexity. Besides Mollie herself, there was no one in sight,
so she quickened her pace and approached the stranger with the bright,
frank smile which came so readily to her lips. Mollie was nothing if
not sociable; she never lost a chance of talking if it came in her way;
even to direct wandering old gentlemen was more amusing than nothing,
and this one had such a curious old-world appearance!
"Can I help you?" she asked brightly; and the old man planted his stick
more firmly on the ground, and stared at her with grim disfavour.
"In what way, may I ask, do I appear to be in need of help?"
It was decidedly a snub, but some people are not easily quelled, and
Mollie Farrell was one of the number. Instead of being annoyed, she was
simply amused, and her grey eyes twinkled with mischief. He was a cross
old dear, and proud too! quite amazed that anyone should suppose it
possible that he should need assistance of any kind.
"I'm sorry," she replied; "I thought you had lost your way, and that I
might be able to direct you. Please forgive me for seeming to
interfere."
She took a step forward, but the old man's eyes seemed to hold her back.
He was looking at her fixedly beneath his heavy brows; such bushy,
black eyebrows they were, and she fancied that the grim expression
softened for a moment as he replied--
"You are right. I _have_ lost my way! My cabman brought me to the park
gates, and as he said there was a direct path across, I thought I should
like the walk. As a result, I find myself completely out of my
reckoning. It is a stretch of imagination to call this a direct path."
"Oh, it's direct enough when you know it," said Mollie easily, "ever so
much nicer than going round by the streets. It is a beautiful park, and
we are very proud of it. When the trees are in blossom, it is like
fairyland--you can't imagine how beautiful it is."
"Possibly not," returned the stranger curtly. "In the meantime,
however, there is nothing particularly alluring in the scene, and you
will excuse my reminding you that we are standing in a direct draught.
I should be obliged if you could direct me to Langton Terrace without
further delay."
Mollie laughed merrily.
"That is just what I have been waiting to do, but you would not tell me
where you were bound. I am walking in that direction myself, and if you
will allow me I will show you the shortest cut. I know the park so well
that I can dodge about from one path to another, and cut off some of the
corners. It is cold just here, but the cross-roads are sheltered even
now."
The stranger shrugged his shoulders, and said "Humph" in an incredulous
manner, and that was his sole reply in words. He turned, however, and
walked by Mollie's side, leaning heavily on his stick, and taking such
short, laboured steps, that it was evident that the exercise was almost
too much for his strength. Mollie longed to offer him the support of
her strong arm, but even her audacity failed at the sight of the grim
face. She looked inquiringly at his feet, for the symptoms of temper
all hinted to the explanation of gout. But no! there were no cloth
shoes to be seen, only the trimmest of well-polished boots.
"Perhaps he is just recovering from an attack, or sickening for
another," said Mollie to herself. "Anyway, he is ill, poor old fellow,
for his face looks quite grey, just like that poor Mr Burgess before he
died. I expect he can't help being cross. I should be horrid myself if
I were always in pain. I remember that day I had on those new boots
that hurt my feet, I quarrelled with Ruth all the way home... The
question is, shall I talk, or let him alone? If it were me, I'd like to
be amused, to make the time pass. I'll try anyway, and see how he
responds."
They had entered one of the smaller paths by this time, and to the right
lay the wide, grey surface of a lake dotted over by little islands, the
largest of which was connected with the shore by an ornamental bridge.
Mollie felt a kind of possessive pride in the scene, and pointed out the
beauties thereof as eagerly as though she were the owner of all she
surveyed.
"It's the largest lake in any of the parks in the north; some people say
it is nearly as big as the Serpentine. I don't know, for I have never
been in London. In summer-time hundreds of men come and sail boats--
quite great big boats--from side to side. It looks so pretty to see all
the white sails floating about in the sunshine."
"Indeed!"
("Doesn't care for boats. I'll try something else.") "Do you see that
big island, the biggest of all?" pursued the indefatigable Mollie aloud.
"It is full of peacocks. There are dozens and dozens of peacocks! You
can see them sometimes strutting about with their tails spread out, and
roosting right up in the trees. People say that peacocks are the
laziest birds in existence. They go to rest earlier, and get up later
than anything else."
"Indeed!"
Still grimmer silence; still slower and more halting footsteps.
Presently the stranger stopped short and asked abruptly--
"How far are we still from Langton Terrace? Five minutes' walk--ten
minutes? We are more than half-way, I suppose?"
"Not quite, I am afraid. If you are tired, would you not rest on this
seat for a few minutes? It is really quite sheltered behind the trees.
If you can tell me which end of the terrace you want to reach, it will
make a little difference in the way we ought to take. There are three
blocks of houses, which are all known by the same name. You wanted to
go to--"
"Number 7," said the stranger; and sat down heavily upon the seat. He
leant both hands on his stick and rested his chin upon them, as though
thankful for the support; and Mollie stood before him staring fixedly at
his face.
Aquiline features, sharpened by suffering into yet finer lines, closely-
set lips drooping out into lines of fretful impatience, sunken eyes
beneath overhanging brows. She studied them one by one, until, struck
by her silence, the old man looked up in surprise.
"Number 7, I said. If you live in the neighbourhood, you may know the
house, and possibly its inmates?"
"Yes, I know them all; they are nice people and very kind to me. I've
known them quite a number of years."
"Mr and Mrs Connor have a large family, I believe--a number of young
children."
"Oh, dozens!" replied Mollie easily. She was enjoying herself
intensely, but trying to preserve an appearance of innocent calm. "What
an adventure," she was saying to herself--"oh, what an adventure. What
fun to tell it all to Ruth and the girls! I must remember every word,
so as to repeat it in style!" Aloud, she added carelessly, "There are
two girls, and lots of little boys. It seems as if there were boys,
boys everywhere, wherever you turn all over the house; but they are
ubiquitous creatures, so perhaps there are not quite so many as it
seems. They are handsome little fellows, and I believe clever too.
Mrs Connor is a very pretty woman, and always kind and gentle.
Everybody likes her. Mr Connor is nice too. I don't think he is at
all strong, and he has to work very hard for that big family."
"Indeed!" The strange old man did not display the slightest sign of
sympathy for Mr Connor's anxieties. He relaxed his hold of the stick,
and sank wearily against the back of the seat. "There are two step-
daughters, I believe--the two Miss Farrells?"
"Ah!" exclaimed Mollie deeply. It was quite a tragic note, as who
should say, "Now we are beginning to talk! Now, at last, we reach the
real point of the discussion! Just that deep `Ah,' and no more, until
perforce another question must be asked.
"You know the Miss Farrells also?"
"I do!"
"And find them as attractive as the rest of the family?"
"Oh, more--much more! They are darlings!" cried Mollie, with unction,
"especially the younger. Her name is Mary, but they call her Mollie,
because it suits her better. Don't you always imagine a Mollie very
sweet, and charming, and attractive?"
"I can't say that I have devoted any attention to the subject. So Mary
is the younger of the two, is she? And the elder?"
"Ruth! she's pretty and serious, and very, very nice; but Mollie is
nicer, all the same. When you get to know them, you must promise to
like Mollie best, for my sake! I'm so fond of her, that I want
everybody to be the same. I like her better than anyone I ever knew!"
The old man smiled grimly.
"You appear to be of an enthusiastic temperament; I fancy I shall prefer
to judge for myself when I make the young lady's acquaintance. We had
better be getting on now. I am sorry to hinder your progress, but it is
not possible for me to move more quickly at present. I should not have
attempted the walk if I had known that it was so long; but the cab
jolted insufferably, and the sunshine was tempting. Well,--there is
nothing for it but to make another effort!"
He pressed his hands on the seat to lighten the effort of rising, but
before he had got any further, Mollie stepped forward eagerly, and laid
a hand on his shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed with colour, her eyes
a-sparkle with excitement.
"Unless you will let me help you! ... I'm very strong; I could support
you easily, if you would take my arm and lean on me. I'd love to do it.
Do let me? Won't you,--_Uncle Bernard_?"
CHAPTER FIVE.
AN INVITATION.
The old man fell backward on the seat with an exclamation of keenest
surprise. His sunken eyes stared into Mollie's face as she bent over
him; at the golden hair curling beneath the dark toque, the grey eyes,
the curving lips. Each feature in turn was scrutinised as if he were
searching for something familiar which had so far escaped notice.
Apparently it was not discovered, for the expression of amazement
deepened upon his face, and he asked sharply--
"What did you say? _What_ did you call me? I don't understand what you
can mean!"
Mollie sat down on the bench, and smiled brightly into his face.
"Uncle Bernard! You are Uncle Bernard Farrell! I knew you the moment
you said that you were going to Number 7, and asked if I knew the
Connors. Of course I know them, because I am--" She hesitated, and Mr
Farrell finished the sentence for her.
"You are one of Mr Connor's daughters. The eldest, I presume. I have
not the pleasure of knowing your name."
"No-o! I am not Trix. She is a child, only fifteen. I was nineteen on
my last birthday. I am,"--for once in her life Mollie had the grace to
blush, and looked a trifle discomposed--"I'm Mollie Farrell."
The glance which the old man cast upon her was the reverse of
flattering.
"You are Mollie Farrell, are you?" he repeated coldly. "Evidently
modesty is not one of your failings, young lady. It might have been
wiser if you had allowed me to discover your attractions for myself. Do
you consider it quite honest--we will not discuss the question of good
taste--to play a double part, and criticise your relations to any
stranger whom you may meet in your walks?"
"You asked me; you began it! I should not have mentioned them if you
had not asked that question. Then I recognised you, and thought it
would be fun. You were not a stranger, you see; you were Uncle
Bernard."
"That may be my name, but as I have never seen you before, I can hardly
rank as a friend. May I ask how you came to recognise me at all?"
"Oh yes! We have your portraits at home, and mother often talks of you,
and the happy times she had when she used to visit you with father when
they were engaged. When we were children it was a favourite game for
one of us to be Uncle Bernard, and the other guests staying at the
Court, and we used to go through all the adventures which father had as
a boy,--fall into the mill-stream and be rescued by the dog, and be
chased by the bull in the long meadow, and ride on the top of the
waggons at the harvest home. We know all about the house, and the
tapestry in the hall, and the funny wooden pictures of the Dutch
ancestors, and the long gallery where you used to dance at night.
Mother loves talking about it. She has not much fun in her life now,
poor dear, and that makes her think all the more of her youth. We envy
her, Ruth and Trix and I, because we have a very quiet time at home. We
are poor, you see. You can't have much fun if you are poor."
"You think that riches are the one thing needful; that if you had enough
money your happiness would be assured?"
"Ah!" sighed Mollie rapturously. "_How_ happy I should be! I've never
had enough money for my wants in all my life, so I can't even imagine
the bliss of it. I should not know how to be happy enough."
The old man looked at her silently. She saw that he was about to speak,
but the words were long in coming. A cloud had drifted across the sun,
and the stretch of park looked suddenly grey and bare. Mollie drew her
shoulders together with an involuntary shiver. Something had suddenly
damped her ardour of enthusiasm; but it was not so much the bleak wind
as the sight of the face gazing into her own, with its set lips, and
bleached, joyless expression. For years to come Mollie could recall
that moment, and feel again the chill in her veins with which she
listened to his reply.
"All my life long," said Bernard Farrell slowly, "all my life everything
that I have touched has turned to gold, and everyone I have loved,"--he
paused, lingering on the word, and again Mollie shivered in sympathetic
understanding--"everyone whom I have loved has _died_!" The wind seemed
to take up the word, and repeat it in melancholy echo. "Died! died!
died!" wailed the trees, tossing drearily to and fro. "Died!" shivered
the ripple over the cold grey lake. The clouds gathered in a pall
overhead.
"I'm sorry!" gasped Mollie faintly--"I'm so sorry!" But Mr Farrell
stopped her with a hasty gesture.
"Please spare me protestations of sympathy. They were the last thing I
wished to evoke. I merely wished to impress upon you that I am in a
unique position for judging the worth of riches.--Is it your pleasure
that we continue our journey? The afternoon is growing chill."
Mollie rose in confusion, but she did not reply, nor make any further
offer of support. There was something in the old man's voice which
forbade familiarities. He was no longer merely cross and unamiable; she
had caught a glimpse into the secret of a desolate heart, and the sight
sobered her youthful spirits.
"First his wife," she said to herself, as she led the way
onward--"pretty Aunt Edna, whom mother loved so much. He adored her,
and they were never parted for a day till she took typhoid, and died.
The little girl died the year after, and he had no one left but Ned.
Mother says he was the handsomest boy she ever met, and the cleverest,
and the best. Even now, after all these years, she can't speak of the
day he was drowned without crying... I always hated to hear that story!
"She says the real Uncle Bernard died with Ned. He seemed to disappear
from that day, and an entirely different person appeared in his place.
He had been kind and hospitable, fond of having people around him and
making them happy; but after that he shut himself up and became a
regular hermit. Then he went abroad, and since he came back four years
ago and reopened the Court, he has written to nobody, and nobody has
seen him. But he has come to see us to-day of his own free will. I
wonder why? Something has happened to make him break the silence. What
can it have been?"
She dared not ask the question; but, as the feeble steps endeavoured to
keep pace with her own, a possible explanation darted into Mollie's
mind. The poor old man was ill, very ill; there was an expression on
the grey, sunken face which was eloquent even to her inexperience.
Death was coming forward to meet him, coming very near; standing upon
the very threshold! Strong, happy nineteen shuddered at the thought,
and felt an overpowering pity for the waning life.
Mollie longed to comfort the old man with the assurance that there were
many still left who could help and minister to his declining days; but
her previous overtures had met with so little success that she was
afraid of meeting yet another rebuff, and, with unusual prudence,
decided to await a better opportunity.
Langton Terrace was reached at last, and Mollie produced a key and
opened the door of Number 7. In a household where there are so many
children and so few servants, the latchkey was in constant use, and thus
it happened that she could bring her guest unnoticed into the house and
escort him to her stepfather's sanctum, which was sure to be unoccupied
at this hour of the afternoon. She drew forward an armchair, poked the
fire into a blaze, and laid Mr Farrell's hat and stick on the table,
while he lay wearily against the cushions. He looked woefully
exhausted, and Mollie's kind heart had a happy inspiration.
"I shan't tell anyone that you are here until you have had a rest," she
said assuringly. "This is the pater's den, and his private property
after four o'clock, so you will be quite undisturbed. Just tell me what
will refresh you most--tea, coffee, wine? I can bring what you like
quite quietly."
"Tea, please--tea, and ten minutes' rest. I shall be better then," Mr
Farrell said wearily.
Mollie left the room to prepare a dainty little tray in the pantry, and
beg a private pot of tea from the kitchen. The idea of waiting in
secret upon Uncle Bernard was delightfully exciting; it was almost as
good as running the blockade, to creep past the dining-room door where
her mother and sisters were assembled, and listen to the murmur of
voices from within.
If they knew--oh, if they knew! She had prepared some crisp slices of
toast, skimmed the cream off the milk in defiance of cook's protests,
and made sure that the water in the little covered jug was boiling, and
not only moderately warm, as the custom was. It was the simplest of
meals, but at least everything was as tempting as hands could make it,
and Mollie had the satisfaction of pouring out two cups of tea, and
seeing the last slice of toast disappear from the rack. She took
nothing herself, and preserved a discreet silence until Mr Farrell
replaced cup and plate on the table, and condescended to smile approval.
"Thank you, Miss Mollie; I am obliged to you for securing me this rest.
Judging from my first impressions of your character, I should not have
expected so much common-sense. I feel quite refreshed, and ready to see
your mother when it is convenient."
Mollie lifted the tray, and stood for a moment looking down with an air
of triumph.
"I'm so glad! I talk a lot of nonsense, but I can be quite sensible if
I like, and I _did_ want to help you, Uncle Bernard; I'll send mother in
here, where you can have your talk in peace. It's the only chance of
being uninterrupted."
Mr Farrell made no reply, and Mollie made haste to deposit the tray in
the pantry, and rush for the dining-room door. The secret had been kept
so long that she felt sore--absolutely sore with the strain. It seemed
incredible that her mother and sisters should be sitting munching bread-
and-butter as calmly as if it were an ordinary day, when nothing
extraordinary had happened to break the monotonous routine. She leant
against the lintel of the door and called her mother by name--"Muv! you
are wanted at once in the Den. Somebody wants to speak to you!"
Mrs Connor's brow furrowed into the usual anxious lines as she prepared
to hear a story of fresh disaster from her husband's lips; but at the
doorway two magic words were whispered into her ear which brought the
blood into the white cheeks, and sent her trotting down the hall on
eager feet. Then came the delicious moment to which Mollie had looked
forward ever since the meeting at the cross-roads. She walked back into
the room, while Ruth looked up with weary curiosity, and Trix with
unconcealed wrath.
"You might have let mother finish her tea in peace! She has been
slaving all day, and was just enjoying a rest!"
"What is it, Mollie? Why did the pater come home so early? Is he ill?"
"It isn't pater, my dear. Guess again! A friend of mine, whom I met in
the park and brought home to tea. He was rather tired, so I, gave him a
private little feed in the study, instead of bringing him straight in
here. Considerate of me, wasn't it? He was quite touched."
"He?" repeated Ruth breathlessly. "Mollie, what are you talking about?
Don't make a mystery out of nothing! Why can't you say at once who it
is?"
"I'm afraid of your nerves, dear. I want to break it to you by degrees.
Sudden shocks are dangerous for the young. My own heart is quite
palpitating with all I have undergone to-day. I was walking along,--all
innocent and unsuspicious,--gazing upon the fair spring scene, when
suddenly, glancing ahead, I beheld a figure standing at the junction of
the cross-roads. 'Tis ever thus, my love! Fate stands waiting for us
where the paths diverge, to point out the way in which we should go.
End of volume one ... Do you feel excited?"
Trix grinned broadly, Ruth looked tired and impatient.
"Oh, thrilled, of course! So many interesting people come to see us
that it's difficult to choose between them. The piano-tuner, perhaps;
or the gasman, to look at the meter."
"I should have walked home with them, shouldn't I, and given them tea in
the study? A little higher in the social scale, please!"
"The curate calling for a subscription?"
"Cold; quite cold! Try again! Someone you have often wished to see,
but who has never displayed any great anxiety to make your acquaintance
in return."
"Uncle Bernard, I presume?" said Ruth sarcastically, not for one moment
believing the truth of her words, though her mind instantly reverted to
the personage of that mythical uncle who had played so large a part in
her mental life. She did not even trouble to look at Mollie as she
spoke; but Trix did, and bounded to her feet in excitement.
"Is it--is it? Oh, Mollie, not really! He hasn't really and truly
appeared after all these years? You don't seriously mean it? Look at
her, Ruth! I believe it _is_ true!"
Ruth looked, and flushed the loveliest of pinks. It seemed almost
incredible that Trix was right, yet something very much out of the usual
course of events must have happened to excite Mollie so keenly. Her
cheeks were burning as though with a fever, the hand resting on the
table was actually trembling. "Tell me, Mollie!" she pleaded; and
Mollie nodded her head in triumph.
"Uncle Bernard himself! The real, genuine article sitting in solid
flesh and blood in our very own study, and I'm the one who brought him
here. What do you think of _that_ for an adventure? I saw an aged,
aged man a-leaning on a stick, as the poem says, and I went up and asked
him if I could help him in any way. I once read about an old man whose
nose suddenly began to bleed in an omnibus. He searched for a pocket-
handkerchief, but had evidently forgotten to bring one, and the other
passengers began to smile and titter, all except one girl, who opened
her bag and presented him with a nice clean one of her own. The old man
died soon afterwards, and left her a million pounds as a token of
gratitude. I think it's just as kind to escort a stranger through a
lonely park when he has lost his way! If Uncle Bernard adopts me and
gives me a million, I'll treat you both to a nice new hat.--I asked
where he was going, and he said to Number 7 Langton Terrace, and I
looked at him. And, Ruth, do you know what I thought of? I thought of
_you_! He had black eyebrows like yours, and he scowls, as you do (only
when you are cross, dear, not when you're in a good temper), and his
lips droop like yours, too. I thought, `I have seen that face before!'
and then I remembered the photographs, and it burst upon me all in a
moment. Then he asked me if I knew the Connors, and I said I'd known
them for years, and the step-daughters, too, and that they were a
charming family, but Mollie was the nicest of all."
"Mollie, you didn't!"
"I did! Why not? It's true, isn't it? When I revealed myself to him,
however, he seemed to think that I was rather vain. I must leave it to
time to prove the truth of my assertion."
"You are in earnest? You really mean it? Mollie, what has he come for?
What has made him remember us after all these years? Has something
happened that we know nothing about?"
"I can't tell you. There's only one thing certain,--he is very old and
ill, and if he wants to see us at all there isn't much time to spare.
He is not at all like the Uncle Bernard mother remembers, but very cross
and irritable, and his poor old face looks so miserable that it goes to
your heart to see him. I wanted to put my arms round his neck and kiss
him, but I would as soon have attempted to embrace a tiger. He snubbed
me the whole time. Oh, talk of adventures! _What_ an afternoon I have
had!"
"If you met him walking across the park he can't have any luggage, and
if he hasn't any luggage he can't intend to sleep here to-night,"
reasoned Ruth thoughtfully. "Perhaps he will just stay to dinner. Pea-
soup, cold beef, and apple-pie--that's all there is, and he is
accustomed to half a dozen courses, and two men-servants to wait upon
him. Poor dear mother will be in despair because she didn't order a
fresh joint for to-day. Shall I go to the kitchen and see if there is
anything that can be made into a hot dish?"
Mollie pursed up her lips, but, before she had time to reply, the sound
of footsteps was heard from without, and Mrs Connor appeared in the
doorway, followed by the tall, gaunt figure of Uncle Bernard. The girls
rose from their seats as he entered the room, and Ruth and Trix
approached him with diffident smiles, while Mrs Connor introduced each
by name.
"This is my eldest girl, Ruth; you saw her last when she was a baby in
arms. This is Beatrice Connor; she knows you quite well by name, don't
you, Trix dear?"
But Mr Farrell betrayed not the faintest interest in Trix or her
memories, and barely touched the hand which she extended towards him.
All his attention seemed concentrated on Ruth, as she stood before him
with her beautiful, flushed face raised to his own.
"This is Ruth!" he repeated slowly. "She is not at all like her sister.
I am glad that one of your girls takes after her father's family, Mary.
This one is an unmistakable Farrell!"
Mollie turned aside with an expressive grimace.
"I'm cut out already," she told herself. "Ruth's black brows have
walked straight into his affections! I might as well resign myself to
play second fiddle forthwith."
Mr Farrell accepted an invitation to stay for the family dinner, but it
cannot truthfully be said that his presence added to the gaiety of the
meal. Mrs Connor was nervous and ill at ease, regretting, as her
daughter had foretold, that she had not ordered a hot joint for to-day,
and allowed the cold meat to be used on the morrow.
She looked gratefully at Ruth when a small dish of curry made its
appearance, in addition to the scanty menu; but Uncle Bernard had spent
some years of his life in India, and his ideas of curry evidently
differed from those of the plain cook downstairs, for after the first
taste he laid down his fork and made no further pretence of eating.
Mr Connor made several attempts to introduce interesting subjects of
conversation, but receiving only monosyllabic replies, relapsed in his
turn into silence. With every moment that passed, the girls felt less
able to imagine the reason for the appearance of a visitor who showed so
little interest in the affairs of the family; for Mr Farrell asked no
questions, paid no attention to the general conversation, and, for the
greater part of the time, appeared lost in his own thoughts.
The three little boys alone were unaffected by the general tension, and
chattered about their school adventures in their usual noisy fashion.
On another occasion Mrs Connor would have checked them, but anything
was better than the dead silence which at one time had threatened the
whole table; so she left them unreproved, and Uncle Bernard scowled at
them beneath his bushy brows in a manner the reverse of approving.
It happened that Betty occupied the seat immediately opposite the
visitor, and it was one of Betty's idiosyncrasies to repeat the grimaces
of others with an imitation as faithful as it was unconscious. When,
for example, Mollie was speaking, Betty tossed her head, tilted her
chin, and arched her brows, to the delight and amusement of the family;
and now, there she sat--good, kind, most inoffensive of creatures--
drawing her wisps of eyebrows together in a lowering scowl, and twisting
her lips into an expression of sour distaste.
The three boys nudged each other and tittered together, and Mr Farrell
looked round to discover the reason of their mirth, and beheld Betty's
transformed face peering into his own. His glance of indignation made
her flush with what appeared to be conscious guilt, though, in truth,
the poor child had no idea of the nature of her offence. Mrs Connor
beheld the incident with petrified horror, Ruth registered a
determination to lecture Betty out of so dangerous a habit, but warm-
hearted Mollie rushed headlong into the breach.
"Uncle Bernard, Betty did not mean to be rude! Please do not think she
was intentionally disrespectful. She has a habit of imitating people,
without knowing what she is about, and I am afraid we laugh at her for
it, because it is so funny to watch; but she would be dreadfully sorry
to be rude to anyone, wouldn't you, Betty dear?"
Betty's lips opened to emit a hoarse, inarticulate murmur. Uncle
Bernard turned his eyes upon Mollie, and said coldly--
"You wish to imply that she was imitating my expressions? Indeed! It
is always interesting to know in what light one appears to others. I
regret that I failed to catch the likeness."
"Dear Uncle Bernard, shall we go to the drawing-room now? The children
use this room to prepare their lessons. We will have coffee in the
drawing-room!" cried Mrs Connor eagerly. And the elders filed across
the hall, leaving poor Betty reduced to tears of misery, while the boys
comforted her by jibes and jeers in true schoolboy fashion.
In the drawing-room a ghastly silence prevailed, broken by fitful
efforts of conversation. Mr Farrell had asked that a cab should be
ordered by nine o'clock to take him back to his hotel; but, though the
time drew nearer and nearer, he still vouchsafed no explanation of the
unexpected visit. Surely--surely, before going away he would say
something, and not once more disappear into the mist, and let the veil
of silence fall around him? The same thought was in every mind, the
same wondering anticipation; but it was only when the cab was announced
and Mr Farrell rose to say good-bye that he appeased their curiosity.
"I came here to-day to make the acquaintance of my nephew's daughters.
I should be glad, Mary, if you would allow them to pay me a visit at the
Court. I have arranged to have a lady in residence who will look after
them and do what chaperonage is needful. If Monday will suit you, I
should like them to arrive on that day."
It sounded more like a command than an invitation, but such as it was it
thrilled the listeners with joy. To pay a visit, and above all, to
visit the Court, of which they had heard so much, had been the girls'
day-dream for so long that it seemed impossible that it had come at
last. Ruth's mind flew at once to considerations of ways and means, and
she suffered a moment of agonising suspense before Mrs Connor's eager
consent put an end to anxiety.
"Oh, I shall be delighted--delighted! The girls will love it, of all
things. How kind of you, dear Uncle Bernard! Ruth! Mollie! Are you
not delighted to have such a treat in store?"
"Thank you, Uncle Bernard; I should love to come!" cried Ruth warmly.
"Mollie and I have often said that there is nothing in the world we
should enjoy more than paying a visit to the Court. It is most good of
you to ask us!"
"And we will try to behave very nicely, and not bother you at all,"
added Mollie, her eyes dancing with happiness. "We are to come on
Monday week. And will there be other people, too--other visitors,
besides ourselves?"
"Probably," said Uncle Bernard curtly. "There are several important
matters to be discussed, into which I cannot enter in a short interview.
I am inviting you--and others--in order that we may talk them over at
leisure. A carriage will meet the train arriving at four-twenty. Good-
afternoon, Mary. I shall not see you again, as I leave by an early
train to-morrow."
Even as he spoke, Mr Farrell made his way towards the door with an air
of finality which forbade further questioning. He had waited until the
last possible moment before giving his invitation, and, having obtained
an acceptance, was evidently determined to take his departure without
further delay. Mrs Connor escorted him to the door, her husband helped
him into the cab, offered to accompany him to the hotel, was coldly
snubbed for his pains, and came back into the house heaving deep sighs
of relief.
"Now for my smoke!" he exclaimed, and hurried off to the study, while
Mrs Connor was dragged into the drawing-room and subjected to a
breathless cross-questioning.
"Matters of importance to discuss! Mother, what can he mean?"
"Other people besides ourselves! Mother, who can they be?"
"How long does he want us to stay?"
"What are we going to do about clothes?"
"That's just exactly what I'm asking myself!" cried Mrs Connor,
referring with equal truthfulness to all four questions at once. "It is
most awkward, not knowing how long you are expected to stay, or what
sort of a party you are to meet; but, in any case, I am afraid you must
have some new clothes. I will have a talk with pater, and see what can
be done, and you must divide my things between you. I have a few pieces
of good lace still, and one or two trinkets which will come in usefully.
I am afraid we cannot manage anything new for evenings; you must make
the black dresses do."
Mollie groaned dismally.
"They are so old and shabby! The sleeves look as if they had come out
of the Ark. I do so long to be white and fluffy for once. Can't we
squeeze out white dresses, mother? I'd do without sugar and jam for a
year, if you'll advance the money. Even muslin would be better than
nothing, and it would wash, and come in for summer best, and then cut up
into curtains, and after that into dusters. Really, if you look at it
in the right light, it would be an economy to buy them! I am sure Uncle
Bernard would like to see me in white! Now don't you think he would?"
"I'll do what I can, dear--I'll do what I can! I should like you both
to look as well as possible. `Matters of importance!' ... I can't
think what matters of importance Uncle Bernard can wish to discuss with
children like you. And who are the other guests? And are they also
included in the discussion? I don't know of any near relations he has
left, except ourselves; but he was even more intimate with his wife's
people than his own, and she belonged to a large family. Dear, dear!
It is most awkward to be so much in the dark. I do wish he had been a
little more explicit while he was about it."
"Never mind, muv; it makes it all the more exciting. We are going to
meet someone, and we don't know whom; and to discuss something, and we
don't know what; and to stay, we don't know how long. There's this
comfort--we can easily take all our belongings, and still not be
overburdened with luggage! Ten days--only ten days before we start! It
sounds almost too good to be true. But how will you manage without us,
dear little mother?"
"Oh, don't trouble about me, dear! I'll manage beautifully. Old Miss
Carter can come in to help me if I get too tired; but, indeed, I shall
be so happy to think of you two girls staying at the dear old Court that
it will do me as much good as a tonic. Now I will go and talk to pater
about money matters. We ought to begin preparations at once."
Mr Connor joined in the general satisfaction at the invitation which
had been given to his step-daughters, and, though mildly surprised to
hear that any fresh equipments would be required, took his wife's word
for the need, and produced two five-pound notes from his cash-box, which
she was deputed to use as she thought fit.
"If you don't need it all, you can give me back whatever is over," said
the innocent male, little reckoning that three feminine heads would lie
restless on their pillows that night, striving in vain to solve the
problem of making ten pounds do duty for fifty.
Next morning, pencils and paper were in requisition to check mental
additions, while Ruth drew up a list of usefuls, and Mollie one of
fineries which seemed equally essential. At a most modest estimate it
seemed possible to purchase the whole for something under thirty pounds.
A painful curtailment brought it down to twenty, but by no persuasion
could that sum be halved.
"Unless we play Box and Cox!" cried Mollie, in desperation. "One rain
cloak, and an understanding that one of us invariably feels chilly, and
stays at home on wet days. One white dress, to be worn in turn on
special occasions, while the other languishes in bed with a headache.
One evening cloak, ditto. Ditto gloves and sundries. It is the only
way I can see out of the difficulty."
"Don't be absurd, Mollie! We shall _both_ have to stay in bed if
anything special takes place, for we can't afford any extras. I
remember once asking Eleanor Drummond's advice about spending my
allowance, and she said, `Wear a shabby dress, if you must; wear a
shabby hat, if you have not taste and ingenuity to trim one for yourself
out of next to nothing; but never, never, never condescend to a shabby
petticoat or shoes down at the heel!' I thought it splendid advice, and
have always acted upon it, as far as I could. Let us buy really nice
boots and slippers and petticoats before we do anything else!"
"I'll have a silk one, then, and rustle for once, if I die for it!"
cried Mollie recklessly. "And the boots shall be thin, not thick, with
a nice, curved sole to show off my patrician instep. If I have to
content myself with usefuls, they shall be as ornamental as possible.
Don't you think we might possibly squeeze out net over-skirts to wear
with the black silks, sometimes, so as to make them look like two
dresses instead of one?"
"Oh, my dear, I like luxuries as much as you do! It's only grim
necessity which makes me prudent. The black net is really an
inspiration, and if we make it up ourselves we can manage quite well,
and have enough money left for gloves and ribbons, and one fresh blouse
a-piece."
For the next week all was bustle and excitement. The girls paid two
long shopping expeditions to town, and returned laden with interesting
parcels, the contents of which were displayed to an admiring audience in
the drawing-room, and then taken upstairs to Attica, which was
transformed into a dressmaker's work-room, barriers being for once
ignored in consideration of the importance of the occasion.
The five-pound notes became wonderfully elastic, and even after they
were expended little offerings came in from friends and members of the
family to swell the great sum total. One sent a pretty tie, another a
belt, a third a lace handkerchief. Trix supplied a most stylish
collection of pens, pencils, and indiarubbers, reposing in her very best
box; and Betty, not to be outdone, rummaged among her various
collections for a suitable offering. Eventually she discovered a half-
emptied bottle of eau-de-Cologne, which had been presented to her the
Christmas before, filled it up with water, and presented it to her
sisters for mutual use, unperturbed by the fact that the transparent hue
of the scent had changed to a milky white.
On the morning of the fifth day Ruth had a conviction that she was
sickening with a dire disease; on the sixth, she anticipated a disabling
accident; on the seventh, she waited hourly for a telegram from Uncle
Bernard, retracting his invitation; on the eighth, she wanted to know
what would happen if there was a cab strike in the city; and on the
ninth, talked vaguely of blizzards and earthquakes. Something it seemed
_must_ happen to prevent this long-dreamed-of journey; it did not seem
possible that the stars should run placidly in their courses, while Ruth
and Mollie Farrell were going a-visiting with a box full of fineries!
Yet the day did break, an ordinary, grey morning, with no sign to
distinguish it from another. Looking out of the window, men and women
could be seen going calmly about their duties. The postman and
newspaper-boy arrived at their accustomed time. No one outside the
household seemed to realise that the day was big with fate.
At eleven o'clock a cab drove up to the door; the boxes were piled on
the roof; and the heroines of the hour made their appearance in the
doorway, immaculately trim and tidy in travelling array. The brothers
and sisters were absent at school, so there was only the little mother
to say adieu, and stand waving her hand until the cab had disappeared
from view.
Once, she too had been young and fair, and life had stretched before her
like an empty page, on which the most marvellous happenings might be
enrolled. Now, she was old and harassed and poor, and there seemed
little ahead but work and worry; yet she could not call life a failure.
"I have had the best thing," she said to herself, as she shut the door
and re-entered the empty house--"plenty of dear ones to love, and to
love me in return. God bless my two girls, and give them the same sweet
gift."
CHAPTER SIX.
AT THE COURT.
The girl whose lot has been cast in narrow places, and whose youth has
known few relaxations, should take heart at the thought of the future.
There is a good time coming! However long be the lane, the turning must
eventually be reached; and then--ah, then, what zest of delight, what
whole-hearted, unqualified enjoyment!
If Ruth and Mollie Farrell had been in the habit of paying half a dozen
visits a year,--if, indeed, they had even once before started off
together on pleasure bent, would they have hailed every incident of the
journey with the delight which they experienced to-day? Not a bit of
it!
They would have grumbled at the wait on the platform, at the stoppages
of the train at country stations, at the draught from the window, the
banging of the door, the constant requests for tickets. They would have
yawned and lolled back in their corners, and eventually shut their eyes
and fallen asleep, regardless of the scenes through which they were
passing.
As it was, every fresh stop was a delight. They beamed at the porter
who collected their luggage, paid for return tickets with the
complacence of millionaires, and thought it lucky that there were ten
minutes to spare before the arrival of the train. They tried each
other's weight, to the delight of the onlookers; put a penny in every
available slot, and made a reckless expenditure in penny magazines.
Last, and greatest luxury of all, Ruth actually ordered a tea-basket to
be handed into the carriage at a half-way station; one basket to do duty
for two, but still a deliberate extravagance, when refreshments had been
provided from home; and oh, dear me, how delicious it was to be
extravagant for once!
When the train came in, one porter dashed forward to secure window-seats
in an empty carriage, another hurried up with rugs and handbags; groups
of people standing upon the platform looked after the two girls with
kindly glances; everybody seemed kind and interested, as though
understanding the nature of their expedition, and wishing them good-
speed.
They sat opposite to each other, gazing out of their respective windows,
or making an affectation of reading the magazines which lay littered
about the seat; but the end was always the same, their eyes met in
irrepressible smiles, and they began to talk once more.
Real life was so much more interesting than romance!
"I feel so very Lucille-y!" Mollie declared "Travelling on pleasure,
with a tea-basket coming to meet me! It was an inspiration of yours to
order it, Ruth! I shall be grateful to you to the end of my life!
Let's talk about what we shall do to-night... Let's guess who will be
there, and what they will be like. The lady chaperon, now! Should you
think that the presence of a chaperon implied that there would be young
men in the party? I hope there are."
"So do I," assented Ruth frankly. "But I fancy that they are more
likely to be old. Some nieces and nephews of Aunt Edna's, about
mother's age, perhaps--middle-aged couples, with caps and spectacles.
How will you feel if we are the only young people there?"
"I refuse to imagine anything so ghastly! The couples may have
children, mayn't they? I imagine a charming girl who has no sisters,
and who will adopt us as her dearest friends, and ask us to stay with
her. I rather think she will be dark, and wear eyeglasses, and have a
brother who is musical, and has a tenor voice. Then there will be
another man--Sir Somebody or other, who has a big estate in the county.
He will be very superior at first, and take no notice of us, but in the
end he will be conquered by our modest charms and become a devoted
admirer. Perhaps there may be some couples, but they will be young and
festive, and the chaperon will be a dear old thing with side-ringlets,
who will let us do as we like, and take our part with the old man. That
sounds about the right thing, doesn't it?"
Ruth smiled happily.
"Ah, well! whoever we meet, I am going to enjoy myself. A change, a
change--that's what I wanted. Everything will be different, and there's
a world of refreshment in that alone. How thankful I am that Uncle
Bernard asked us both, Mollie! It's half the fun to talk things over
together."
She lay back in her corner, and gazed out of the window once more,
smiling dreamily as a whirl of thoughts flew through her mind. What
would have happened before she travelled once more past these flying
landmarks? What new friendships would be formed--what experiences
undergone--what matters of importance revealed?
Life seemed all to lie ahead; yet from time to time her thoughts drifted
back unconsciously to Donald Maclure, and lingered on the memory. She
had not seen him since the eventful afternoon, but Eleanor had conveyed
his good wishes for a happy visit, and her manner showed she was in
ignorance of what had occurred.
Ruth was grateful for a silence which left her friendship untouched, and
her thoughts of the doctor were gentle and kindly.
"But I couldn't--I couldn't!" she said to herself excusingly. "I don't
want to marry anyone yet. I just want to be young and happy, and have a
good time!"
At the half-way station the tea-basket made its appearance, and the
girls sat side by side taking turns at the cup, and nibbling at bread-
and-butter and plum-cake like two happy children out for a holiday,
which in good truth they were.
They made a pretty picture, and more than one of the passengers upon the
platform cast admiring glances as they passed by. So far, the carriage
had been empty, except for themselves; but, just as the train was
preparing to leave the junction, a young man turned the handle of the
door, threw a bag on the seat, and leapt in after it. He was on the
point of seating himself in the place which Ruth had just vacated, but,
seeing the scattered papers, checked himself, and took possession of the
further corner, while the sisters studied him furtively from time to
time.
He was tall, he was handsome, he was probably about thirty years of age,
and he looked thoroughly bored and out of temper. After one casual
glance at the pretty sisters, he unfolded a newspaper, and turned from
page to page seeking for some item of interest. His eyes were blue, he
was clean-shaven, his nose was aquiline, and his nostrils were arched,
and had a trick of dilation.
"Like a high-bred horse, who wouldn't like the bridle a single bit," was
Mollie's comment, as she turned back to the window; for, after all, the
unknown landscape through which the train was now passing was more
absorbing than the appearance of a stranger who took so little interest
in herself.
She gazed and whispered, and dreamed afresh, until at last the name of a
familiar station gave warning that the journey was nearing its end. In
another ten minutes the train was due to reach Nosely, and in the
interval there was much to be done. Ruth solemnly lifted down the aged
dressing-bag, which dated from her mother's youth, and, with a furtive
glance at the stranger in the corner, took out a looking-glass and
carefully surveyed her hair, pulling it out here, tucking it in there,
patting it into position with those deft little touches which come
naturally to a girl, but which seem so mysterious to a masculine
observer.
The young man in the corner glanced across the carriage with an
expression of lordly amusement at the foibles of a member of the weaker
sex; and there was even worse to come, for when Mollie, in her turn, had
arranged her hair, a cloth brush was produced to remove the dust of
travel, and two pairs of well-worn dogskin gloves were thrown into the
bag, and replaced by others immaculately new.
Mollie was absolutely without embarrassment in these attentions to her
toilet, but it required a little resolution on Ruth's part to ignore the
stranger's presence. Only the reflection, "We will never see him
again!" supported her through the critical moments during which she
trained a fascinating little curl into position on her temple, conscious
meantime of a steady scrutiny from behind the newspaper.
It was something of a shock to see the stranger rise from his seat a
moment later, and begin making those preparations which showed that he
also was approaching his destination; but, although he alighted at
Nosely Station, he had disappeared from sight while the girls were still
looking after their luggage, and when they took their seats in the
carriage which was waiting to convey them to the Court there was no sign
of him on platform or road.
"That's a comfort!" remarked Mollie thankfully. "I am glad he did not
see where we were going. How superior he looked when we were prinking,
Ruth! I don't like him a bit--do you?"
"Oh, I don't know--I can't think! I'm Berengaria, Mollie! I never
_was_ a poor girl travelling third-class, and changing her gloves at the
last moment! I must have been a duchess in my last incarnation, for I
feel so thoroughly at home in an atmosphere of luxury!" sighed Ruth,
leaning back against the cushions, and glancing languidly from side to
side. "Our luggage is following behind in the cart. I hope it will
arrive soon, for I want to change my blouse. I suppose we shall have
tea in the hall with the rest of the house-party, as they do in books,
but I hope they won't be assembled when we enter. I should feel awful
walking in, and knowing that they were all staring and criticising our
appearance, wouldn't you?"
Mollie laughed gaily.
"Not a bit. I'd criticise, too, and shake hands high up--like this--and
be pleasant and condescending. We are Uncle Bernard's nearest relations
remember, and the guests of honour... Now, we are beginning to go up
the hill! You remember mother said there was a long, winding hill, and
at the top to the left stood the lodge gates. Don't talk! I don't want
to miss a single thing."
So each girl stared steadily out of her window as the horses slowly
mounted the hill path. For the first few hundred yards there were
hedges on either side, and beyond them a wide, uneven landscape; then
came a little village, grouped round a square "green," with all the
picturesque accessories of church, ivy-covered parsonage, thatched
roofs, and duck-pond, which travellers look for in a well-conducted
English village. This passed, there was another climb upwards, a wider
view of the valley beneath, and finally a sharp turn to the left, and a
long drive leading to the greystone Court, whose beauties photographs
had made familiar.
The butler threw open the door as the carriage stopped, and the
travellers thrilled with excitement as they crossed the threshold.
First a square vestibule, then the great hall itself, stretching the
whole length of the wing, and turning to the right by the foot of the
staircase.
The girls' eyes turned in a flash to the tapestry on the walls, and the
wooden portraits of ancestors; but besides these historic relics there
were many articles belonging to a later and more luxurious age. Carved
oak tables, laden with books and magazines; chairs and lounges of every
description; a fireplace brilliant with beaten copper and soft green
tiles; leather screens shielding cosy corners; cabinets of china and
curios.
It was even more imposing than imagination had painted it; but--there
was no one there! No Uncle Bernard to speak a word of greeting; no
flutter of silken skirts belonging to nice girls who had no sisters, and
were dying to adopt other nice girls without delay; no scent of
cigarettes smoked by interesting young men, who might have sisters or
might not, but who would certainly be pleased to welcome Berengaria and
Lucille!
Ruth had knitted her dark brows, and drawn herself stiffly erect; Mollie
was prepared to smile in benign patronage on less important guests. It
was a trifle disconcerting to see no one at all but a little, black-
robed lady, who came hurriedly forward as they approached the staircase
and stammered a nervous greeting.
"Miss Farrell! Miss Mary! I hope you have had a pleasant journey. I
am Mrs Wolff. Mr Farrell was kind enough to ask me--yes! I hope you
are not cold. Your uncle thought you would like to have tea in your own
room. It will be brought up to you at once. Mr Farrell desired me to
say that he wished to see you both in the library at half-past five.
Shall I take you upstairs at once? We have given you one room--a very
large one; but if you prefer to have two separate ones, it can easily be
arranged--yes!"
The girls protested that they wished to be together, and followed their
guide up the broad staircase to a room on the first story, where the
curtains were already drawn, and a cosy tea-table spread before the
fire. Mrs Wolff had called it large, and she might truthfully have
used a more emphatic word, for what had originally been the best bedroom
in the house had been, like the drawing-room beneath, enormously
enlarged by the addition of a curved, mullioned window, the entire width
of the floor.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, _nine_! Nine dear
little windows!" counted Mollie rapturously, as the door closed behind
the figure of the lady chaperon. "What a view we shall have to-morrow
morning, Ruth! Sofas, armchairs, writing-tables, two long mirrors to
show the set of our skirts--this is a room after my own heart! I shall
have one exactly like it when I marry my duke!"
"But I didn't expect to have tea in it, all the same," Ruth objected, as
she took off her hat and jacket. "The house feels very quiet and
deserted. If we hadn't uncle's own word for it, I should think there
was no one here except ourselves. He might have come to meet us
himself! It seems so cold to leave us to strangers!"
"You will be disappointed, my dear, if you expect warmth from Uncle
Bernard. My short interview taught me so much, at least. But he wants
to see us at half-past five, Ruth. I'll prophesy something--he is going
to talk to us about the `important matters'! It would be just like him
to explain his position before we have been an hour in the house, so
that there can be no misunderstanding. I'm right--I know I am! We are
on the eve of solving the mystery!"
Ruth shivered, and drew closer to the fire.
"Don't make me nervous. It will be bad enough when it comes to the
point, without thinking of it beforehand!" she cried.
And it was all the easier to change the conversation, as at that moment
a maid entered with a tea-tray and a plate of hot, buttered scones.
Tea after a journey is always a most enjoyable meal, and when it was
over the girls made as careful a toilet as could be managed with the
materials at hand, the heavier luggage not having yet made its
appearance. Shortly before half-past five a tap came to the door, and a
maid entered with a double request.
"I have come to show you the way to the library, miss; and if you would
kindly give me your keys before you go, I will have your boxes unpacked.
What dresses would you like to wear for dinner?"
The horror of that moment was never to be forgotten. Before Ruth's eyes
there arose, as in a vision, the patches on the under-sleeves of her
morning blouse, the faded dressing-gown, the darns, and make-shifts and
pitiful little contrivances of poverty. Her cheeks flamed before the
sharp eyes of the abigail, and then flamed again with scorn at her own
folly.
"It is all neat and clean and tidy. I _won't_ be ashamed of it!" she
told herself angrily, as she turned to search for her keys.
But the evening-dresses! The next moment with a mingling of relief and
irritation, she heard Mollie's unabashed reply--
"Oh, we have only black dresses! We will wear the net over-skirts,
please!"
Just like Mollie, to wear her best clothes on the first possible
occasion, instead of prudently storing them up for a special need! But
it was too late to protest; already the maid was leading the way onward.
The all-important interview was at hand!
CHAPTER SEVEN.
MR. FARRELL'S PLAN.
"Miss Farrell, sir!" said the maid, throwing open the door of the
library.
And Ruth walked forward, followed closely by Mollie.
It was a long, narrow room, lined with book-shelves, and the solitary
light from a crimson-shaded lamp on the central table gave an air of
gloom after the bright illumination of the hall without. On a lounge-
chair beside the table sat Bernard Farrell, looking more cadaverous than
ever, with a velvet-skull-cap over his whitened locks. He did not rise
as his great-nieces approached, but held out his hand in a greeting
which was courteous enough, if somewhat cold.
"How do you do? I am pleased to see you. Excuse me for not having met
you earlier, but I am not feeling well to-day. I trust you have
received every attention since your arrival at the Court. Mrs Wolff
had my instructions to look after your comfort."
"Thank you, yes; we had tea in our room--a lovely room. We are looking
forward to enjoying the view from that splendid window!"
"Ah, yes; it is very fine in clear weather! Please make yourselves at
home, and ask for anything that you need. The servants are good, but
they are unused to visitors. Have no hesitation in keeping them up to
their duties. Will you be seated? In a few minutes we can, I hope,
begin the business of the hour."
He waved them towards some chairs which were ranged before his table.
Four chairs! In the twinkling of an eye the girls had grasped both the
number and what it implied. Two other guests at least were at present
in the house, and equally interested with themselves in the coming
discussion. Their advent was evidently momentarily expected, for Mr
Farrell turned an impatient glance at the clock, and even as he did so
the door opened once more and two young men entered the room. One was
tall and dark, with an olive skin, and a curious, veiled look about his
eyes, caused by the presence of short but abnormally thick black lashes.
Viewed in profile the lashes entirely hid the eye, but the effect of
the thick black line was, singularly enough, rather attractive than the
reverse. He had a dark moustache, and his chin was square and well-
developed.
His companion was--well! the girls felt that they might have guessed it
before, as one of the awkward things which was bound to happen. He was
the stranger of the railway carriage, the supercilious personage whom
they had flattered themselves they would never see again!
Like the two girls, the new-comers had evidently not seen their host
before, for they were greeted by him with practically the same phrases;
and then came a general introduction.
"I must make you known to your fellow-guests--Mr Jack Melland, Mr
Victor Druce--Miss Farrell, Miss Mary Farrell. Mr Melland and Mr
Druce are great-nephews of my late wife. Miss Farrell and her sister
are my own nephew's only children."
The two young men turned towards the girls with curious glances. Over
Mr Jack Melland's face flitted an amused glance of recognition. His
companion's dark eyes widened with a curious scrutiny; then the lashes
dropped, and hid them from sight. Seen thus, with mouth and eyes alike
veiled, the face was a mask devoid of expression; yet Mollie had a
conviction that she had surprised something closely approaching
disappointment in that fleeting glance. Why the sight of Ruth and
herself had affected the stranger in so unpleasant a fashion it was
difficult to understand; but the impression remained. Her eyes
travelled upward to the face of Jack Melland, and marvelled at the
contrast.
"His face betrays him, in spite of himself. His nostrils alone would
give him away," she told herself, smiling. "He is cross, the other
inscrutable; Ruth is frightened, and I am amused. We look like four
school-children seated in a row, with Uncle Bernard as the teacher...
When is the lesson to begin?"
At once, apparently; for Mr Farrell lost no time in preliminaries, but
began his explanation as soon as the young men were seated.
"I have asked you to meet me here as soon as possible after your
arrival, for it is better that we should understand each other from the
beginning. You have thought it strange, no doubt, that, after having
had no communication with your families for so many years, I should
suddenly develop a desire for your company. Circumstances have,
however, materially altered for me during the last few weeks by the
discovery that it is necessary that my affairs should be settled without
delay.
"I have, as you know, no child left to inherit, and as this place is not
entailed, it is entirely in my hands to bequeath as I think fit. Until
now--for reasons which you may perhaps understand--the idea of making a
will has been so painful that I have continually postponed the ordeal;
but my doctor, who is also my old friend, has convinced me that I must
delay no longer.
"I am suffering from an affection of the heart which makes it impossible
that I can live longer than a couple of years, and probably the time may
be but a few months. He has urged me, therefore, to settle business
affairs, so that I might spend the remainder of my days undisturbed; but
to decide on a suitable heir is not an easy matter. I am, as you may
have heard, a very rich man, and I hold strong, and perhaps somewhat
unusual, ideas as to the qualifications which are necessary for the
owner of great wealth. It is not my intention to divide the inheritance
in any way, therefore it is the more important to make a right choice."
He paused for a moment, and the four young people looked up sharply.
Victor Druce's eyes roved quickly from one to the other of his three
companions. Jack Melland's lips closed more tightly than before.
Ruth's cheeks glowed with a carmine flush. She was the nearest
relation; hers was the first claim! Her heart beat with quick,
sickening thuds; only Mollie looked frankly curious and unperturbed.
"As I said before," continued Mr Farrell, "we are, so far, complete
strangers to each other; but I judge you all to hold equal rights to
anything which I have to leave. Ruth and Mary are my nearest legal
relations; but my wife's people always ranked with me as my own, and,
other things being equal, I should prefer a male heir. I make no point
of the name; the Court is not an estate which has descended to me from
many generations of ancestors. My father bought it from the late owner,
so there is no real reason why a Farrell should necessarily inherit.
"It is from one of your number, then, that I shall adopt my heir; but,
in order to do so, I must have some knowledge of your respective
characters and attainments. As I said before, I hold somewhat unusual
views. What the world in general would probably consider the best
qualification for the owner of a big estate is, in my eyes, an
insuperable objection. What I look to find, others might regard as a
fault. We all have our own ideas, and must act according to our lights.
I wish then, in the first place, to make your acquaintance but do not
be afraid that I shall make the task too unpleasant.
"For the furtherance of my plan, I should wish you to lead as full and
interesting a life as may be. The Court has been shut up for years, but
its doors can now be thrown open for your benefit. You are free to come
and go, to invite whom you will, and no doubt the neighbourhood will be
eager to meet you half-way. My own health will not permit me to arrange
your amusements; but I give you the use of my house, carte blanche as
regards expenses, and Mrs Wolff to play propriety--the rest you must
arrange for yourselves. If each in turn took the management of affairs
for a few weeks at a time, it would meet my views, as helping me to form
the necessary ideas of character and tastes."
There was a simultaneous movement of surprise on the part of the
listeners, and one and the same word was repeated by four pairs of
lips--
"Weeks!"
Mr Farrell smiled grimly.
"You are surprised at the time implied. My invitations were
intentionally vague, for I had not at the time made up my mind as to
various details. I have now decided that for the proper development of
my scheme three months at least will be necessary. I therefore invite
you to be my guests at the Court during that period."
Again came the involuntary, simultaneous start of surprise, and Jack
Melland cried hastily--
"It is impossible! I am obliged to you, sir; but it is quite
impossible, so far as I am concerned. My business--"
"My--my mother!" cried Ruth. "We could not leave her so long; she needs
our help--"
Mr Farrell interrupted with upraised hand.
"We will defer objections, if you please! I am prepared to meet and
answer them, later on. For the present I ask you to think quietly over
the prospect which lies before you, and to consider how far such
obstacles as you have mentioned should be allowed to stand in the way.
Surely the object is worth some temporary inconvenience or loss. This
house, and all that it contains, with various properties bringing in an
income of over ten thousand a year, will in due course become the
property of one of your number--of the one who best fulfils a certain
condition which I consider essential."
"And the condition--the condition?" queried Mollie eagerly.
Mr Farrell looked at her in silence, while a grim smile passed over his
features.
"That," he said slowly--"that, my dear Miss Mary,--will be discovered,
with other things,--when you hear my will read aloud on the day of my
funeral?"
CHAPTER EIGHT.
SPECULATIONS.
"Well!" exclaimed Ruth, sinking back in armchair number one, at the
right of the bedroom fireplace.
"Well!" exclaimed Mollie, sinking back in armchair number two, facing
her sister. "Likewise, good sooth! By my halidom! Gadzooks! Of a
surety these are great happenings, fair sis!"
"Don't be so tiresome, Mollie! You make a joke out of everything. I
want to talk over the position seriously."
"So do I--just dying to. Go on! Where shall we begin?"
"With the time, of course. Three months! I never dreamt of more than a
fortnight, at most. Do you think we can possibly be spared?"
"I don't think at all--I know! If it was three years, with such an
interest at stake, the poor little mother would jump at it. Three
months soon pass, and there will be two people less to feed and wait
upon, and a room less to keep in order. Every little tells when people
are as hard up as we are, and with the savings mother will be able to
pay Miss Carter to help with the mending. It will be good for Trix,
too. The more you depend upon Trix the more she rises to the occasion.
I have a shrewd suspicion that she is going to cut us out, and be the
show daughter of the family. Mother will be blissfully happy building
castles in the air; Trix will be blissfully happy playing eldest
daughter, and bossing the family. We shall be blissfully happy not
pretending, but actually being, Berengaria and Lucille. It's all quite
smooth and easy!"
Ruth heaved a sigh, half convinced, half reluctant.
"That's what you always say! I see such crowds of objections. To begin
with, I hate the position; it's awkward and humiliating. To stay here
on approval, studied like specimens in a case; being on one's good
behaviour, and `acting pretty' to try to get a fortune for oneself, away
from other people--bah! It makes me hot even to think of it. I should
feel a hypocrite!"
"Don't be high-flown, dear; it's quite unnecessary. You couldn't be a
hypocrite if you tried; you are too ridiculously `proud,' I suppose you
would say. I call it quick-tempered! If Uncle Bernard snubs you, you
will flare out, fortune or no fortune, and if you feel mopey, mope you
will, if he disinherits you the next moment. I shall be honest, too,
because I'm too lazy to be anything else; besides, you know, there is
always the pleasing reflection that he may _prefer_ us to be crotchety!
Everything is possible where everything is vague. Imagine how maddening
it would be if we kept our tempers, and smiled sweetly from morning till
night, and in the end he left everything to that cross Mr Melland,
because he considered it necessary for the owner of wealth to have a
will of his own!"
Ruth laughed involuntarily.
"You _are_ a goose! Not much chance of your being the chosen one, I am
afraid. Uncle Bernard is not in the mood for appreciating nonsense; he
is too sad and ill, poor old man! That's another hateful thing. I
should love to nurse and coddle him, and read aloud, and be good to him
generally; but if one does, it will seem-- Oh, you know-- you
understand! It's a loathsome position!"
"If I feel affectionate, I shall act affectionate! He will probably
loathe it, so there's just as much chance of injuring one's chance as of
bettering it. In fact, if we are to get on at all, we had better try to
forget the wretched money, and behave as if it did not exist. If anyone
had told us a month ago that we should be staying in a big house with
two quite good-looking young men as fellow-guests, and carte blanche to
enjoy ourselves as much as we pleased, we would have thought it too
impossibly good to be true; but now that it has come true, we shall be
idiots if we don't make the most of it. I hope Uncle Bernard keeps to
his idea of making us each master of the ceremonies in turn. Won't I
make the money fly when it comes to my turn! Picnics and luncheons by
day, dances and theatricals by night--one giddy whirl of excitement the
whole time long. I'll take the old dear at his word, and give no
thought to expense, and entertain the whole countryside until the name
of Mollie Farrell is immortalised for ever in grateful hearts. I have
always credited myself with a genius for social life; now for the first
time you will behold me in the halls of the great, and gaze with
surprise at your sister reigning as queen over the assembled throngs?"
"In your one black dress?"
"Certainly not! I've thought of that, too. Suitable equipments must,
of course, be part of the carte blanche."
"I am sure nothing was further from Uncle Bernard's thoughts. He looks
to me like a man who would never notice clothes, or care what we looked
like, so long, of course, as we were respectable. He has more important
things on his mind."
"Humph!" Mollie tossed her saucy head. "If he doesn't notice of his
own accord, his eyes must be gently, but firmly opened. We stay at his
special request; at his special request we entertain and are
entertained; it is only reasonable that he should bear the expense of
making our appearance do him credit. I'll tell him so, too, if he
doesn't see it for himself."
"Mollie, you won't! You shan't! You never could!"
"Couldn't I? You wait and see!"
"And if you did I would never touch a farthing. I warn you, once for
all, that it is useless, so far as I am concerned."
Mollie looked at her sister's flushed, defiant face, and laughed her
happy, light-hearted laugh.
"Dear old High-falutin'! We won't argue about it. Half a dozen
invitations will show you the soundness of my position better than a
hundred discussions. Meantime, I'm going to dress. I have a horrible
conviction that that maid will return and offer to do `your hair,
madam,' so I mean to be beforehand with her."
Ruth sat still in her chair, enjoying the unwonted luxury of idling,
with no disturbing spasm of conscience to remind her that she ought to
be mending or patching, or giving Betty a music lesson, or helping Mary
to hang clean curtains in the drawing-room. It was delightful to nestle
back against the cushions and study one by one the dainty appointments
of the room, and revel in the unaccustomed sense of space. Imagine just
for a moment--imagine possessing such a home of one's own! The house,
with its treasures of beautiful and artistic furnishings, which
represented the lifelong gatherings of a man renowned for his taste; the
extensive grounds, with gardens and vineries and forests of glass,
providing an endless summer of blossom; the income, that in itself was a
fortune, and held such inexhaustible possibilities of good. What she
could do with it, if it were only hers! With one stroke of the pen she
would repay the poor old tired pater for all his goodness in the past,
and lift the weight of care for the future from his shoulders. She
would heap luxuries upon the dear little mother, who was still a child
at heart; so pathetically easy to please that it seemed a sin that she
should ever be sad. The girls should be sent to finishing schools, and
the boys given a thorough training to equip them for their fight in
life. Mollie, of course, should live at the Court, and share equally in
all her possessions; and they would travel, and help the poor, and be
kind to everyone, and never forget the day of small things! or grow
arrogant and purse-proud. Ruth dreamed on in a passion of longing till
Mollie, standing before the dressing-table, with her white arms raised
to her head, caught sight of her face in the mirror, and uttered a sharp
exclamation.
"Ruth! What is it, darling?"
Ruth started nervously and glanced upwards with guilty eyes, but there
was nothing alarming in the aspect of the figure which stood over her,
white necked, white armed, with the loosened golden hair falling round
the anxious face. She caught the outstretched hand, and gripped it
tightly between her own.
"Oh, Mollie, I want it! I want it _dreadfully_! When I think of the
possibility I feel half wild. If I am disappointed, I believe I shall
die! I can't be unselfish, even for you. I want it for myself!"
She was on the verge of tears, but Mollie's matter-of-fact cheeriness
had the usual bracing effect. She seemed neither shocked nor surprised,
but only anxious to soothe.
"Of course you do; so do we all!" she replied easily. "It's humbug to
pretend anything else, only I'm not going to die, in any case, but live
and make myself agreeable to the Chosen. If it's you, I shall sponge on
you for life, so don't imagine you will have all the fun to yourself.
Now get dressed, and don't think about it any more. We must look our
best to awe those two superior young men. I am convinced that they look
upon us as country bumpkins, and it's most important to put them in
their proper position at once, so that we may start fair. If you are
going to do your hair in skriggles it will take you an age, so do
begin!"
Ruth rose obediently. "Skriggles" was an inelegant but descriptive
title for her most becoming coiffure, which she had already decided must
be adopted for the first eventful evening at the Court. She set to work
at once, and was half-way through her task when the maid appeared, as
Mollie had prophesied, paused upon the threshold for one horrified
moment, and then hurried forward with an "Allow me, miss!" which could
not be gainsaid.
The girls grimaced at one another furtively, but in the end the value of
the skilled hands was proved by a dainty finish to hair and toilette
which sent them downstairs agreeably conscious of looking their best.
CHAPTER NINE.
MR. JACK MELLAND.
In the drawing-room Mr Farrell and his two nephews were standing with
their backs to the fire, in the position affected by mankind in that
trying wait before dinner. Little Mrs Wolff was stiffly perched upon
an uncomfortable chair, twisting her mittened fingers together and
looking supremely uncomfortable, and there appeared to be no attempt at
conversation. Everyone looked at the two girls as they crossed the wide
room, and once again Mollie surprised that curious gleam of disapproval
in Victor Druce's veiled eyes. Mr Melland was apparently still on his
high horse, a faint flush upon his face, his nostrils curved and
dilated. As for Uncle Bernard himself, his set face showed no sign of
approval or the reverse; he simply bowed to his nieces, and waved them
towards a seat, saying curtly--
"Our party is not complete. I have asked the vicar and his wife to dine
with us, and make your acquaintance. They will probably arrive in a few
minutes."
"Oh yes!" said Ruth vaguely. Even Mollie suffered a moment's eclipse,
during which she sought in vain for an appropriate remark. It was too
absurd, she told herself, to sit round the room like mutes at a funeral.
What was the use of a lady chaperon if she could not fill up the gaps
with harmless inanities? She glanced from one stolid face to another,
then made a desperate plunge.
"What time do the posts go, Uncle Bernard? We ought to let mother know
of our arrival."
"I have already directed a telegram to that effect to be despatched.
May I suggest that you delay any communication on your own part until we
have had a future conversation."
Checkmate! Mollie gave a vague murmur of assent, and cast about for
remark number two.
"It seems so funny to be here and to see all the things we have heard
about so often! I recognise this room quite well from mother's
description. There is an alcove behind me, isn't there, with a harp in
the corner?"
"The harp was removed years ago. I imagine there are a great many
alterations since your mother's last visit. The use of the word `funny'
is somewhat inappropriate, is it not? I see nothing ludicrous in the
position."
Check number two! Mollie's wide-eyed perturbation was almost pathetic
in its intensity. She was not accustomed to being snubbed in this
public fashion, and, after the first shock, a feeling of resentment
brought the colour rushing into her cheeks.
"I meant `curious.' The two words are often used for each other."
"Mistakenly so. Many situations are curious which are not in the least
degree amusing."
"They are indeed!" was Mollie's mental comment. "The present, for
example; anything much less festive I fail to imagine." Her lips
twitched involuntarily as the thought passed through her mind, and,
looking up, she met Jack Melland's eyes fixed full on her, with an
answering twinkle in their blue depths. For one agonising moment she
trembled upon the brink of laughter, when mercifully the door was thrown
open to announce the arrival of the vicar and his wife. Mr Thornton
was tall and thin, with a much-lined face full of shrewd kindness and
sympathy; his wife was a pretty, plump little woman, who looked on
exceedingly good terms with herself and the world at large.
"Thank goodness, they will talk! They look alive, not mere graven
images," Mollie said to herself thankfully, as the necessary
introductions were taking place. Then the squire gave his arm to Mrs
Thornton, Mr Thornton offered his in turn to Mrs Wolff, and Victor
Druce, evidently obeying a previous instruction, paired off with Ruth,
leaving Mollie to his companion.
In silence the little company crossed the hall; in silence they seated
themselves round the dinner-table and prepared for the feast. Ruth's
grey eyes were brilliant with excitement as she turned from side to
side. She did not want to talk; conversation would have been but an
interruption at the moment; she wanted but to look and to think.
The walls were covered with portraits of ancestors--Captain Farrell who
sailed the seas with Nelson's fleet; General Farrell who fought under
Wellington; Lord Edward Farrell, the famous judge; fresh-faced country
squires in quaint, old-world costumes. The dim faces looked down from
their frames with a curious, haunting likeness running through all; and
at the head of the table sat the last of his race, the grim old man to
whom death was coming. Ah, it must be hard to look back on so good a
race, to realise that no son remained alive to carry on the name, and
that one of the strangers now seated round his own table would shortly
reign in his place!
Ruth thrilled with pity; her beautiful eyes grew soft and dreamy; and
the clergyman, looking at her across the table, could scarcely restrain
an exclamation of surprise. He had understood that Mr Farrell
possessed only distant relatives, but this girl was a true chip of the
old block; allowing for difference of age and sex, here was the same
face which was repeated again and again upon the walls--the aquiline
features, the melancholy lips, the straight heavy brows.
Mr Thornton knew that the time had come when his host was to choose his
successor at the Court, and, looking from one to the other of the four
young people, he personally felt no doubt as to the one on whom the
choice would fall. Ruth Farrell bore her credentials in her face, and
with a thrill, half painful, half amused, he realised how great a factor
in his own life this slim young girl might be. As lady of the Court and
his own patron, she would have it in her power to ensure his comfort or
the reverse. Ah, well, well, it was too early to speculate! The child
had a sweet, good face; no doubt all would be well.
While Ruth and the vicar were absorbed in their own thoughts, Mrs Wolff
was also silent, overcome with the weight of responsibility which
pressed heavily on her unaccustomed shoulders. Little Mrs Thornton
prattled of cheery nothings at the other end of the table, and Jack
Melland, turning towards his companion, remarked formally--
"I--ah--I think we have met earlier in the day!"
"In the train, you mean; yes! We saw you get out at the station, but
you disappeared so quickly that I could not think what had happened to
you."
"Nothing mysterious. A dogcart had been sent for me. I jumped into it
with my bag, and was out of sight before you had gathered together your
possessions."
"Ah, yes; we had boxes in the van." Mollie tilted her head to its
characteristic angle and smiled at him with wide grey eyes. "And you
watched our toilette across the carriage, little guessing it was for
your own benefit. We knew that we were to meet other visitors here, but
had no idea who they were or how many there might be. We imagined
walking into the midst of a big house-party; hence the preparations. It
was only natural we should want to look nice."
"Perfectly! I am glad I was fortunate enough to see the result, since I
suppose no one else--"
Mollie shook her head tragically.
"Not a soul! Mrs Wolff met us and sent us straight up to our room. If
it had not been for you, the new gloves would have been wasted on the
desert air; but now we can console ourselves that our trouble was of
some use, after all, since at least half the party had the benefit.
Were you also despatched straight upstairs?"
"I was. Afterwards, Druce and I had tea in the billiard-room, and went
on to join you in the library. It has been a somewhat trying
opportunity; I sympathised with your conversational efforts before
dinner."
Mollie's brows went up at this, and she made a sceptical little grimace.
"That is not my idea of sympathy! You stood by and watched me flounder
without making a effort to help. It's not at all pleasant to be snubbed
before a roomful of strangers. You might easily have remarked that it
was a fine day, or that the train was punctual. Anything is better than
a ghastly silence."
"But, you see, I had had my innings before you arrived. As a matter of
fact I had introduced those very subjects, and added some original
remarks on the beauty of the scenery. I fared no better than you, so my
fellow-feeling made me sympathise with you, though I had no spirit to
try again."
Mollie laughed under her breath, the influence of her surroundings
instinctively subduing the usual merry trill. This Mr Melland was an
unexpectedly pleasant companion, now that his former gloom and
irritability of manner had disappeared. It was as if a dreaded prospect
had been removed, and he was luxuriating in recovered freedom. Mollie
wondered what the change of circumstances could be; time, no doubt,
would show; and, when they had reached a greater degree of intimacy, she
would tease him about his sudden change of front, and treat him to a
pantomimic imitation of his former gloomy frowns. The prospect pleased
her, and she laughed again, showing the pretty dimples in her cheek,
while Jack Melland looked at her inquiringly.
"What's the joke? May I hear it?"
"Oh, nothing--I was just imagining! All sorts of things fly through
one's head, especially to-day, when we really are in an exciting
position. At home my sister and I have a very quiet time, and we get
most of our excitement in dreams. We imagine things until they are
almost real. Don't you know the feeling?"
"No!" cried Mr Melland bluntly. His brows were arched, his nostrils
curved with the old look of scornful superiority. "I have no experience
of the kind, and I don't want to have. It's a dangerous habit. We have
to live among realities, and very commonplace realities, for the most
part; and it unfits one for work to be dreaming of impossibilities."
"No, no, no; it helps one! It is like a tonic which braces one up for
the ordinary routine."
"It is like a sleeping draught--agreeable for the time, but mischievous
and relaxing in its after effects."
Grey eyes met blue with a flash of defiance, then softened into smiles.
"It depends upon disposition," said Mollie firmly. "We find nothing
relaxing about it, but a great deal of innocent amusement. When we are
out shopping and want something badly and can't have it, because it
costs five shillings and we only possess half a crown, Ruth says to me,
`Let's pretend a letter arrived by the afternoon post to say someone had
left us a million pounds! What would you do first of all?' Then we can
talk about it for the rest of the walk, and decide what dresses we would
have, and where we should live, and the papers we should have in the
entertaining room, and the furniture in our bedrooms; and we choose
things out of all the shop-windows as we pass, and decide where they
shall go. I've furnished my house so often that I really know the
rooms, and love them into the bargain."
"And when you go back into the real house you are discontented and
amazed at the contrast."
"Oh dear, no! That would be silly. I am so refreshed by my visit to
the castle that I can laugh over the shabbiness which annoyed me before.
You don't think it wrong to read an interesting book? Very well, then,
why is it wrong to indulge in a little fiction on one's own account?"
"Wrong is rather a strong word, perhaps, but there is a great difference
between the two. In reading a book you forget yourself in your interest
about others; in dreams--excuse me--you think constantly of yourself,
and play the part of hero. It is a habit which is inclined to make one
consider oneself the most interesting person on earth."
"Well, so you are! To yourself, I mean; you know you are!" cried
Mollie, with an innocent _naivete_ which made Mr Melland laugh again.
It was seldom, indeed, that anyone was honest enough to confess to self-
love, and her candour seemed infectious, for, on the verge of
contradicting her assertion with regard to himself, a sudden
recollection rushed through him of his own thoughts, doubts, conflicts,
and final determination of the past twenty-four hours. Did not every
one of these concern himself as a primary, if not an only, motive? Was
he not exercised, first of all, by a sense of his own importance, so
that the wishes of a dying man availed nothing against the preservation
of his own dignity? The laugh gave place to a frown as he replied--
"If it is so it ought certainly to be discouraged. One ought not
deliberately to pamper selfishness."
Mollie's eyes dropped to her plate, and her lips pouted in an
involuntary grimace.
"Rather inclined to preach," she said to herself naughtily, "and so
intensely practical and matter of fact! I must devote myself to the
education of his higher faculties. I shall have something to say to
you, Mr Jack Melland, the first time that will of yours comes into
opposition with my own.--`One ought not deliberately to pamper
selfishness.'--Delightful sentence! I must not forget it."
CHAPTER TEN.
INTRODUCTIONS.
In the drawing-room, after dinner, Mrs Thornton made herself agreeable
to the two girls, and was evidently full of interest and curiosity.
"Having the Court open again will make a great deal of difference to the
village in general, and to ourselves in particular," she said, smiling.
"Mr Farrell has been so invalided of late years that we have seen
nothing of him, and it is quite an excitement to dine here again. Dr
Braithey told us whom we were to meet, and that, of course, added
greatly to the pleasure. I hope you will like the neighbourhood, and
enjoy your visit. You must let me help you in any way that is in my
power. I hope you will, for I love being with young people and making
them happy."
One glance at the kindly face of the speaker proved the truth of her
assertion, and both girls assented gladly. A few hours' acquaintance
had proved Mrs Wolff to be a mere figurehead of a chaperon, and Ruth
shrewdly suspected that her very weakness had been the attraction in Mr
Farrell's eyes, since, in consequence, she would be less likely to
hinder that display of character and self-will which it was his object
to study. Failing Mrs Wolff, then, it was a comfort to meet this
brisk, motherly woman, who might be depended on as a helpful confidante.
Mollie glanced at the heaped-up fire, and, with a sudden impulse of
friendliness, pulled forward an armchair, saying eagerly--
"Do sit down! Let us all sit down and be cosy till the men come; and
will you tell us about the neighbourhood and the people we shall know?
We are to be here for three months, and uncle says we can entertain as
much as we like. He wants us to entertain, but of course we must know
the people first. Do you suppose we shall have many callers?"
Mrs Thornton laughed merrily.
"There's no doubt about that, my dear. Everybody who is anybody within
a radius of a dozen miles will think of nothing, and speak of nothing,
and dream of nothing else but you and your cousins until they have made
your acquaintance. We have not much to excite us in the country, and to
have the Court open again, with four young people to act as hosts, is a
sensation of the first water. There will be a stream of callers after
you have appeared in church on Sunday. You will have a busy time
driving over the country returning their calls, and after these
formalities are over the invitations will begin. I don't think you will
find any lack of hospitality."
The girls looked at each other with tragic glances which said "One black
dress!" so plainly to their own understanding that it seemed as if
everyone else must interpret the meaning. Ruth flushed, and asked
hurriedly--
"Are there many girls like ourselves living pretty near?"
"Oh dear, yes; girls are never at a discount in a country place. Let me
see, now, how shall I describe them! In the village itself there is
Dora Braithey, the doctor's daughter, a very good, useful worker in the
parish; and Lettice Baldwin, who lives with her widowed mother; and the
three Robsons, who are what they call good sportsmen, and go in for
games; and further afield there is Honor Edgecombe of Mount Edgecombe, a
charming girl, and very musical; and Grace and Schilla Trevor; and the
Blounts at the Moat have a London niece, Lady Margot Blount, who pays
them a long visit every year. She is staying there now, and is sure to
call. She is very elegant and distinguished-looking, and we all admire
her immensely. My husband thinks her a model of everything that a girl
should be."
Ruth and Mollie, staring fixedly into the fire, were naughtily conscious
of a dislike towards the immaculate Margot, who had suddenly loomed on
their horizon as a formidable rival in the favour of the neighbourhood,
while Mrs Thornton unconsciously proceeded cheerily with her recital--
"Of course there are many more, but I am mentioning the most attractive.
We have a few young men, too, and most of the big houses have constant
visitors for shooting or fishing, so that you can manage to get partners
if you want a little hop now and then. And then, as you would suppose,
I hope you will find time to take an interest in the parish. I don't
ask you to take up any active work, for, of course, as visitors your
time will not be your own, but I should like to tell you of our various
clubs and enterprises."
"I hope you will not only tell us of them, but show them to us as well.
Uncle Bernard wishes us to do exactly as we choose, so our time is our
own, and I should like to do some work. I should feel so idle doing
nothing but enjoying myself," cried Ruth eagerly.
Mrs Thornton's smile of approval had a somewhat wistful expression.
As her husband had done before her, she looked at these two young girls,
and wondered if the time to come would see one of them acting the role
of the squire and patron, and as such holding almost unlimited power
over the parish. They seemed kindly, natural creatures, who would be
well disposed towards the vicar and his family; and a woman had more
understanding of little things than any mere man.
In the flash of an eye Mrs Thornton's mind reviewed the damp patch on
her drawing-room wall, the ill-fitting windows which let in a constant
draught; the hopeless ruin of the tiny conservatory, wherein she reared
her precious "bedding-outs."
She could not but remember that other squires not only kept their
vicar's house in order, but assisted in sending sons to college,
daughters to finishing schools, and expressed their interest in the
family in a hundred helpful ways; but Mr Farrell had seemed unconscious
of the very existence of her precious olive branches, and had never gone
beyond the bare duties of his position.
Mrs Thornton was no vulgar schemer for her own benefit, but just a
mother of a large family, struggling to make the most of a small income;
and a quick repentance for the selfishness of her dreams prompted the
desire to help these two young things who were suddenly called upon to
fill a difficult position.
"Remember, I am always to be found at home or somewhere about the
village. You will soon get to know my haunts, so that you can run me to
earth if you need my services. Just come in and out as you like; the
oftener you come the better I shall be pleased, for I am so anxious to
help you, if you will allow me."
"We will, we will! it is lovely of you to offer; and do please help us
now!" cried Mollie eagerly, as the sound of an opening door was heard in
the distance, and footsteps crossed the hall towards the drawing-room.
"Talk, talk; do talk! I tried before dinner, and got snubbed for my
pains; and we are such strangers that it is difficult to know what to
say next."
Mrs Thornton laughed.
"I'll do what I can," she promised good-naturedly. "Someone may suggest
to Mr Farrell a game of whist. He used to be a crack player, so I
don't think he can resist the temptation, and that would leave you young
folks free to make each other's acquaintance."
As she spoke the gentlemen entered the room and approached the group by
the fireside. Judging from their appearance, the last half-hour had not
been particularly lively, for the vicar looked tired and worried, and
the young men unmistakably bored. Mr Farrell's set face showed few
changes of expression, but a faint gleam of pleasure manifested itself
at the mention of his favourite game, and presently the four elders of
the party were occupied, while the younger members stood together in a
somewhat embarrassed silence.
Left entirely to their own resources, no one knew what to say or what to
do; each girl looked first at her partner of the dinner-table, and then
shyly across at the other stranger who was to be a daily companion
during the next three months. Ruth met no answering glance, for Jack
Melland was frowningly regarding the carpet; but for the first time
Mollie had a direct view of the eyes which were habitually hidden behind
Victor Druce's thick eyelashes, and was surprised to find how bright and
friendly was their expression.
"Shall we investigate the conservatory?" he said at once, as if
answering an unspoken appeal. "They won't want us to stay here and
interrupt the game. I think we had better make a move."
"But may we? Would Uncle Bernard like it?"
"May we! Are we not told to amuse ourselves in any way we choose? Of
course we may," he replied laughingly, leading the way forward, while
the others followed, nothing loth.
The conservatory opened out of the drawing-room by means of a long glass
door, which, being shut, made it into a separate room. A room it was,
rather than the ordinary glass passage, for it had a wide, open floor,
broken only by spreading palms standing in wooden boxes, and in the
midst an old-fashioned pink camellia-tree. Stands of flowers encircled
three sides, and a lamp stood out from the walls in a bracket. Given a
few rugs and accessories, it would have made an ideal lounge. As it
was, there was no provision for visitors, and it was evident that no one
but the gardener took the trouble to enter. Mr Druce looked round
rapidly, spied a wooden box under one stand, a stool under another, and
brought them forward one after another, flicking off the dust with his
handkerchief.
"You must have something to sit on. Can you manage with these, or shall
I bring chairs from the drawing-room? I don't want to make a noise if I
can help it."
"No, no; please don't! These will do perfectly. But what will you do,
and Mr Melland? You must not stand all the time."
"Oh, don't trouble about us! We can look after ourselves," responded
Jack Melland, pushing the flower-pots nearer together on the staging,
and lightly swinging himself into the vacant space. Victor followed his
example, and thrust his hands into his pockets.
For the next few minutes silence reigned while the young men took in and
quite obviously admired the charming picture made by the two girlish
figures against the background of flowering plants.
Ruth's stool had been placed against the camellia-tree, and the pink
blooms matched the soft flush in her cheeks, and relieved the sombreness
of her black attire. Thus placed she looked charmingly pretty, and held
herself with an air of dignity, which was a new accomplishment.
Ruth was an adaptive creature, tremendously influenced by the
surroundings of the moment. At home her little head was wont to droop
with despondency, and the consciousness that she was poor and unknown
and shabbily dressed. At the Court she was intensely, delightfully
assured of being Miss Farrell--of possessing the family features, and of
being, so far, the recipient of her uncle's greatest favour. And so
Ruth now leant back with an air of languid elegance, smiling sweetly at
her companions.
Mollie's bright head peeped from beneath the shadow of a palm. She held
in her hand a spray of heliotrope, which she had picked in passing, and
from time to time bent to smell the fragrance, with little murmurs of
delight.
But Mollie was obviously longing to say something, and when the time
came that she met Jack Melland's eye she suddenly plucked up courage to
put it into words.
"Don't you think we ought to introduce ourselves properly?" she cried
eagerly. "We have been told each other's names, and talked politely at
dinner, but that's not really being introduced. We ought to know
something about each other, if we are to be companions here. I don't
know if you two know each other; but we did not know of your existence
until to-day. My mother used to stay at the Court when she was a bride,
and she loved Aunt Edna, and has often talked to us about her; but she
knew very little of her relations, and for the last twenty years or more
she has never seen Uncle Bernard until he suddenly descended upon us
last week.
"We live in the North--in Liverpool. People in the South seem to think
it is a dreadful place; but it isn't at all. The river is splendid, and
out in the suburbs, where we live, it's very pretty, near a beautiful
big park. The people are nice, too. We are rather conceited about
ourselves in comparison with the people in the towns round about. You
have heard the saying, `Manchester man, Liverpool gentleman,' and we are
proud of our county, too. `What Lancashire thinks to-day, England
thinks to-morrow.' I really must boast a little bit, because South-
country people are so proud and superior, and seem to think that no one
but themselves knows how to speak or behave. Someone said to me once,
`You live in Liverpool, then why haven't you a Lancashire accent?' I
was so cross. What should she have thought of me if I had said, `You
live in London, why don't you speak like a Cockney?' We are not at all
ashamed, but very proud indeed, of coming from the North-countree."
"`Oh, the oak and the ash,
And the bonnie ivy tree,'"
chanted Victor, in a pleasant baritone voice, at the sound of which
Mollie flushed with delight, and cried eagerly--
"Ah, you are musical! That's nice. We must have some grand singing
matches, but you mustn't sing that ballad. It's Ruth's special
property. She sings it with such feeling!
"`And the lad that marries me,
Must carry me home to my North-coun-tree!'"
"Mollie!" Ruth's tone was eloquent of reproof, but Mollie only laughed,
and said easily--
"Oh well, of course, if you inherit the Court you will have to change
your plans. I wish I could lift it up bodily and put it down among the
dear Westmorland mountains; but I'm afraid that's impossible. I think
that is all the history we have. No two girls could possibly have led a
less eventful life. We have had no money to travel and see the world,
and we are not in the least bit accomplished, but we have had a happy
time all the same, and we mean to be happy, whatever happens; don't we,
Ruth?"
Ruth did not answer, but sat with downcast eyes, staring at the ground.
She more than half disapproved of Mollie's candour, despising herself
the while for so doing, so she preserved a dead silence, until Jack
Melland nobly stepped into the breach.
"Well, if you are North-country, Miss Mollie, I suppose I am Colonial.
I was born in India, where my father's regiment was stationed. He died
when I was a youngster, and my poor little mother had a hard struggle to
keep herself and me. If a fortune had come to us in those days it would
have been a godsend, and she would probably be with me now; but she died
eight years ago, and I am alone in the world, with no one to think of
but myself. I have dingy diggings and a garrulous landlady, but, like
you, I manage to have a very good time. I am interested in my work--I'm
interested in life generally. I mean to make something out of it before
I am done."
He threw back his head with a proud, self-confident gesture. Young,
strong, high-spirited, he felt at that moment that the world lay at his
feet. All things seemed possible to his unaided powers, and the thought
of help was repugnant rather than welcome. The two girls looked at him
with the involuntary admiration which women pay to a strong man, while
Victor Druce smiled his slow, inscrutable smile.
"A good thing for you that you are not in my profession, Melland! A
barrister can't push; he must sit still and wait his turn. I have been
waiting a long time, and I can't say that I seem much nearer the
Woolsack. Still, one can amuse oneself in London, and I have my home in
the country to which I can retire whenever I need a rest. My old
parents are alive, and one sister--an invalid. Altogether, I have
nothing to complain of in the past, and the future looks pleasant just
now. Three months in this charming place--in such society!"
Victor Druce made a graceful little bow, which took in both the girls,
and his glance lingered on Mollie bending forward, the spray of
heliotrope still raised to her face.
"Stealing already, Miss Mollie! You will get into trouble with the
authorities. How do you know that plant was not being specially
preserved for exhibition at a show?"
"I hope it wasn't; but it's no use telling me to do as I like, and then
to object if I pick a flower. I shall pick them every day--several
times a day. I shall always be picking them! I think I shall take the
care of this house altogether, and do the watering and snip off the dead
leaves. I love snipping! And I shall arrange the flowers on the table,
too; they are very badly done--so stiff. Just like a man's taste!"
The two men smiled at each other, while Ruth protested quickly--
"No, you can't, Mollie. I'm the eldest, and I've `barleyed' it already.
You can arrange the vases in the drawing-room, if you like."
"Thank you, ma'am!" said Mollie calmly. "Just as you like."
Judging from the fervour with which she had stated her intentions a
moment earlier, the listeners expected that she would dispute her
sister's mandate and hardly knew how to account for her unruffled
composure. But, in truth, Mollie was already reflecting that flowers
took a long time to arrange satisfactorily, and that it would be a bore
to saddle herself with a regular duty. Much more fun to let Ruth do it,
and criticise the results! She sniffed daintily at the heliotrope,
turning her head from side to side to examine the possibilities of the
conservatory.
"Well, anyway, I shall take this place in hand! It will make a lovely
little snuggery, with rugs on the floor and basket-chairs everywhere
about, and an odd table or two to hold books and work, and tea when we
like to have it here. I'll have a blind to the door, too, so that we
shan't be surprised if visitors are shown into the drawing-room. Is
there a door of escape, by the way? I hate to be penned up where I
can't run away to a place of safety." She peered inquiringly round the
trunk of the palm, whereupon Victor Druce slid down from his perch, and
walked to the further end of the floor.
"Yes, there's a door here. If you see anyone coming for whom you have a
special aversion you can get out, and hide in the shrubbery. I promise
not to tell. Perhaps I may come with you. I am not fond of afternoon
calls."
"Don't encourage her, please, Mr Druce," said Ruth quickly. "Mollie
talks a lot of nonsense which she doesn't mean; but if people are kind
enough to come here to see us, she must not be so rude as to refuse to
see them. I am sure Uncle Bernard would be very angry if we did not
receive them properly."
But Mollie was obstinate this time, and refused to be put down.
"How do you know?" she asked rebelliously. "He might be very pleased
with me for sharing his own retiring tastes! He said himself that he
approved of what other people would consider a fault. Perhaps he likes
unsociability. There's as much chance of that as anything else!"
Victor Druce came back from his tour of investigation, but instead of
taking his former seat, leant up against the stem of a huge palm-tree,
whose topmost leaves touched the glass roof, folded his arms and looked
down at the two girls with an intent, curious scrutiny.
"It's an odd position," he said slowly, "a very odd position for us all
to be plunged in at a moment's notice! None of us have any knowledge of
Mr Farrell's tastes, so any attempts to please him must be entirely
experimental. If we please him we may thank our good fortune; if we
offend, we can, at least, feel innocent of any bad intentions. It's
rather a disagreeable position, but I expect the poor old fellow shirks
being left to himself any longer, though he would die rather than
acknowledge it. It's dull work being left alone when one is ill.
Personally, it is extremely inconvenient for me to be away from home for
three months, but I shall manage it somehow. One can't refuse a request
from a man in his condition, and it would be a pleasure to cheer the
poor old fellow a bit, even at the cost of one's own comfort."
There was silence for a moment after he had ceased speaking. Jack
Melland stared at the ground, and swung his feet gently to and fro.
Ruth knitted her black brows, and Mollie looked puzzled and thoughtful.
It was a kind speech. She would have liked to admire it thoroughly,
but--did it ring quite true? Was there not something unnatural in the
avoidance of any reference by the speaker to his own possible gain?
"I'm afraid I didn't think much of Uncle Bernard; I was too busy
thinking of myself. I want to have a good time!" she said bluntly.
"It's a lovely, lovely house, and the grounds are lovely, and the spring
flowers are coming up, and we can live out of doors, and be as happy as
the day is long. I am not going to worry my head about the money, or
anything else. I'll be nice to Uncle Bernard in my own way, as nice as
he will let me; but he said that we could enjoy ourselves, and I am
going to take him at his word, and do every single thing I like. It's
an opportunity which may never occur again, as the shop people say in
their circulars, and it would be foolish not to make the most of it."
"I want the money!" said Ruth clearly. The pretty flush had faded from
her cheeks, and she looked suddenly wan and white. The hands which were
resting on her knee trembled visibly. She had evidently strung herself
up to what she considered a necessary confession, and her eyes turned to
one after another of her companions in wistful apology.
"I want it dreadfully! I have been poor all my life, and have longed to
be rich, and I would rather live here, in this house, than anywhere else
in the world. If we are going to live together and be friends we ought
to be honest with each other from the beginning. It's selfish, but it's
true! I want the money, and I mean to do every single thing in my power
to get it."
"Bravo!" cried a man's voice suddenly. Mollie was frowning and biting
her lips in obvious discomfort; Victor Druce's drooping lids once more
hid his eyes from sight as he stood with folded arms leaning against the
palm. It was Jack Melland who had spoken--Jack Melland, roused for once
to display unqualified approval and enthusiasm. He bent forward on his
seat, hands in his pockets, his tall, lithe figure swaying gently to and
fro as he faced Ruth with his bright blue eyes.
"Bravo, Miss Farrell! I admire your honesty, and wish you good luck.
You are perfectly justified in doing all you can to gain your point, and
I sincerely hope you may be successful. It is only right that a Farrell
should inherit the Court, and if you were the old man's grand-daughter,
you could not possibly be more like him."
Ruth flushed, but did not reply. Victor Druce's measured voice cut like
a sword across the silence.
"You are unselfish, Melland! Are you quite sure that you share the
honesty which you admire so much in Miss Farrell? Have you forgotten
how the question affects yourself?"
Jack Melland jumped lightly to the ground and straightened his long
back.
"Unselfish or not, it's the truth. The question does not affect me at
all. I am not going to stay!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
AN EARLY DECISION.
"I am not going to stay," said Jack Melland; and whatever his faults
might be, he looked and spoke like a man who knew his own mind, and
would abide thereby.
His three companions stared at him in silence, and one of the three at
least felt a distinct sinking of the heart.
"I was beginning to like him; we got on quite famously at dinner, and I
thought we were going to have ever such a good time together. Now we
shall be a wretched uncomfortable three, and Mr Druce will like Ruth
best, and I shall be out in the cold. How horrid! How perfectly
horrid!" grumbled Mollie to herself.
Just because she was so perturbed, however, she would not allow herself
to speak, but put on an elaborate display of indifference, while Victor
asked curiously--
"You mean that? May one ask your reason?"
"Oh, certainly. I never looked upon myself as having the slightest
claim upon Mr Farrell, and I don't care to ruin my business prospects
for the sake of an off-chance. Besides, the whole position is
unpleasant; I object to being kept `on approval,' with the consciousness
that if I allow myself to be ordinarily agreeable I shall at once be
credited with sponging for the old man's favour. I am quite satisfied
with my own lot, without any outside assistance."
"Don't you care about money, then?" asked Ruth timidly.
Jack Melland threw back his head with an air of masterful complacency.
"I care about making money. That is to say, I love my work, and wish it
to be successful, but I am keen on it more for the sake of the interest
and occupation than for what it brings. A few hundreds a year supply
all that I want, and I should not care to be burdened with a big
fortune. If you come into this place, Miss Farrell, I shall be grateful
to you if you will ask me down for a few days' shooting in the autumn,
but I shall never envy you your responsibility. To kick my heels here
in idleness for three solid months, and know that the business was
suffering for want of my presence--nothing would induce me to do it!"
But at this Mollie found her tongue, indignation spurring her to speech.
"You are not very polite to the rest of us! I should not have thought
it would be such a great hardship to stay in a lovely big house with
three young companions, when summer was coming on, too! I should think
there are one or two people in the world who would like it even a little
better than poking in a stuffy office from morning until night. But
there's no accounting for tastes. When you are grilling with heat in
the City you can think of us sitting under the trees eating
strawberries, and thank Fate you are so much better off. We promise not
to send you any. It might remind you too painfully of the country!"
"Mollie!" cried Ruth in sharp reproof; but Jack laughed with good-
natured amusement.
"Oh, I deserve it, Miss Farrell! My remarks sounded horribly
discourteous. I assure you if I had the time to spare I should
thoroughly enjoy staying on for a time under the present conditions; but
as it is quite impossible to remain for three months, I might as well
depart at once. I don't suppose Mr Farrell will wish to keep me under
the circumstances."
It appeared, however, Jack Melland was wrong in his surmise, for when he
announced his decision to his host before bidding him good-night, the
old man looked at him coldly and replied--
"I thought I had explained that we would discuss objections at a later
date. May I ask what limit you had mentally fixed to your visit when
you did me the honour of accepting my invitation?"
"I hardly know--this is Monday. I thought, perhaps until Saturday, or,
at the longest, a week."
Mr Farrell waved his hand in dismissal.
"We will leave it for a week, then. On Monday morning next I will
discuss the position as fully as you wish. Now, if either of you young
gentlemen cares to smoke, the billiard-room is at your service. Please
ring for anything you require. Meantime, as it is past my usual hour
for retiring, I wish you a very good-night."
"Checkmate, old fellow!" cried Victor Druce, as the door closed behind
the stooping figure; but Jack deigned no reply.
The cloud had returned to his forehead, his nostrils were curved with
annoyance and thwarted self-will.
The cloud was still there when he came down to breakfast next morning,
and did not lighten even at the sight of the well-appointed breakfast-
table, and the two pretty girls who were seated thereat. Some meals may
be more attractive abroad than at home. A French dinner, for example,
has certain points above an English dinner; but we give way to none as
regards our breakfast--that most delightful of meals to the strong and
healthy, especially in springtime, when the sunshine pours in at the
open window, and the scent of flowers mingles with the aroma of freshly
made coffee.
The breakfast-table of the Court had all the attractions which one
instinctively associates with old country houses. The massive, old-
fashioned silver, the revolving stand in the centre, the plentiful
display of covered dishes to supplement the cold viands on the
sideboard; and, as Mr Farrell invariably remained in his own room until
lunch-time, the restraint of his presence was removed.
Little Mrs Wolff busied herself with the duties behind the urn, and
Ruth and Mollie in serge skirts and spick and span white blouses looked
as fresh as paint, and a great many times as pretty. They were laughing
and chatting with Victor Druce, who had donned Norfolk jacket and
knickerbockers, and was quite the country gentleman both in appearance
and in his manner of leisurely good-humour.
The entrance of Jack in what are technically called "Store clothes,"
with a gloomy frown upon his forehead, seemed to strike a jarring note
in this cheerful scene, and both girls were conscious of a distinct
feeling of grievance against the offender. Was it so dreadful a fate to
be doomed to spend a whole week in their society? Need a man look as if
his last hope in life were extinguished because Fate kept him away from
the City for seven days, and placed him instead in the sweet green
country, with three companions of his own age who--to put it mildly--
were not perfect ogres in appearance!
The necessary greetings were observed. Jack helped himself to a bowl of
porridge, and, looking up, asked discontentedly--
"Hasn't the newspaper arrived?"
"Not yet, sir; it will be here by ten o'clock, sir," the butler replied;
and Mollie pulled down her lip with an expression of solemn propriety,
and added--
"But perhaps I can relieve your anxiety in the meantime. Cotton is down
twenty points, very strong and steady, and the Bears are making
fortunes. `Mauds' are fluctuating, but `Louisa Christinas' are in great
demand; everybody is rushing after them. The Bank rate is ten and a
half, and Consols have gone up two per cent. General market firm, with
a tendency to drop."
"My good child, what nonsense are you talking!" cried Ruth aghast, and
the two young men exchanged glances and burst into a laugh; even Jack
laughed, though such a feat had seemed impossible a moment before.
"What a thrilling report! You make me more impatient than ever. It is
just like my luck to be out of the way when there is a chance of a good
thing, though, after all, I don't know if the wisest plan would not be
to sell everything one had, and put the money in the bank--eh, Druce?
Ten and a half per cent! Where do you get your knowledge, Miss Mary?"
"Oh, I see things in the newspapers, and I hear the pater talking to his
friends. Don't call me `Miss Mary' please, it sounds far too quiet and
proper for me. I am never called anything but Mollie, except when I
overspend my allowance, and mother feels it her duty to scold me. Are
you on the Stock Exchange, Mr Melland? What sort of business is it
which you find so attractive?"
"I am afraid you would not be much wiser if I tried to explain. We are
what is called `brokers'; but there are an endless variety of businesses
under the same name. I have nothing, however, to do with `Mauds' and
`Christinas'!"
"Neither have I," volunteered Victor smilingly, "To tell the truth, I
have no money to invest, Briefs don't come my way, and I am at present
occupied listening to more fortunate fellows, and thinking how much
better I could plead myself. It palls at times, but I am fond of the
profession, and have no wish to change it."
"No," said Mollie reflectively. "The wigs _are_ becoming!" and when the
two young men leant back in their chairs and roared with laughter, she
blushed and pouted, and looked so pretty that it did one good to see
her.
The three earlier comers had finished their meal by this time, but they
sat still until Jack had disposed of the toast and marmalade which makes
the last breakfast course of every self-respecting Briton; then they
rose one after the other, strolled over to the open window, and faced
the question of the day--
"What shall we do?"
It was Ruth who spoke, and at the sound of her words the shadow came
back to Jack's brow.
"Yes, what shall we do? Think of it--three months--twelve weeks--
eighty-four separate days to lounge away with the same question on your
lips! I'd rather be sentenced to hard labour at once. Life is not
worth living without work. I'd rather be a clerk on sixty pounds a year
than stagnate as a country squire."
"You would be a very bad squire if you did stagnate!" cried Mollie
spiritedly, throwing back her little head, and looking up at him with a
flash of the grey eyes. "You would have your tenants to look after, and
your property to keep in order, and the whole village looking to you to
lead every scheme of pleasure or improvement, and the vicar looking to
you to be his right hand, and all the growing boys looking to you to
help them to a start in life, and the old people expecting you to make
their last days easy. You would be the hardest-worked man in the
country if you did half the work that was waiting for you, and it would
be unselfish work, too--thinking of others, and not of yourself."
Jack looked at her, and his face softened.
"That's true," he said frankly. "I'm sorry! You are right, and I am
wrong. I'm in a bad temper, and can't see things in their right light
to-day. Of course, if one really settled down to it, there would be
plenty to do; it's when one is only playing with the position that time
drags."
"Well, it ought not to drag to-day, at all events. We must be very dull
if we cannot amuse ourselves in surveying the domain, and seeing all
there is to be seen. I am going to put on my hat this minute and
examine the gardens, and go down to the stables to look at the horses.
If anyone likes to come too, they may, but my plans are fixed," cried
Mollie, nodding her saucy head; and at the magic word "stables," a ray
of interest lit up the two masculine faces.
Ten minutes later the four young people were strolling down the drive,
the girls with serge coats over their white blouses, and sailor-hats on
their heads, the men wearing their cloth caps with an evident air of
enjoyment. They turned the corner of the house, and coming round to the
south side uttered simultaneous exclamations of surprise and delight.
Along the entire length of the house ran an enormously wide terrace
edged with a balustrade, from the centre of which a flight of marble
steps led to an Italian garden, its green sward and stiffly outlined
flower-beds flanked by a quantity of curiously cut shrubs.
Beyond this garden the ground dipped sharply, showing first a glade of
trees whose fresh spring foliage contrasted with the dark colours of the
evergreens; then came a glimpse of a lake, a sweep of park; and beyond
all a glorious, wide-stretching view over the countryside. Perched upon
one of the highest sites for miles around, this terraced walk afforded
such a panorama of beauty as is rarely to be found even in our well-
favoured isles, and withal the beauty was of that peaceful, home-like
nature which irresistibly endears itself to the heart.
The four young people stood in silence gazing from side to side, and
into each mind, even that of the rebellious Jack himself, there crept
the same thought. This was indeed a goodly heritage, whose owner would
be an enviable person! The possibility of possessing it as a home was
worth a far greater sacrifice than anything which had been demanded of
themselves.
In those few minutes of silence dreams ran riot, and finally found vent
in words.
"When the Court belongs to me I shall have an awning put up on this
terrace and sit here all day long," said Mollie; as usual the first to
break the silence.
"I shall have a table brought out, and breakfast here every fine
morning," said Ruth.
"I'll smoke here after dinner!" said Victor.
"I'll do ditto in every case!" said Jack, then caught himself up
sharply--"when I come to visit the Chosen, that is to say! Of course,
I'm out of the running. What are you smiling at, Miss Mollie?" For,
turning towards her, he had seen the grey eyes light up with a merry
twinkle. She shook her head, however, refusing to gratify his
curiosity, and sped rapidly down the broad marble steps.
"He is beginning to have qualms! The very first morning, and for a
moment his resolution wavered. The spell is working," she told herself
triumphantly; for, despite his lack of gallantry, both girls had already
candidly admitted that upon Jack's going or staying depended a great
part of the pleasure of the next three months. "Don't persuade him;
don't mention the subject at all. Let him think we don't care how he
decides. Men are contradictious creatures, and the less he is urged the
more likely he is to give way," argued Ruth the experienced. And Mollie
dutifully agreed.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
A NOVEL EXPERIENCE.
Down the winding path, the visitors, as they walked together, came upon
masses of daffodils, standing up erect and golden from the carpet of
dead leaves which covered the ground. Not the ordinary common or garden
daffodil, charming as it is, but named varieties of every description--
white trumpeted _Horsefieldi_, stately yellow Emperors, _Bari Conspicui_
with its dainty outline of orange; these, and a dozen others were
growing in patches, not in dozens or scores, but in literal hundreds,
beneath the budding trees. There were violets, too; and white and
purple and golden saxifrages peeping out between the stones which
bordered the trickling stream--a scene of enchantment, indeed, for City
eyes accustomed to gaze only on bricks and mortar. The girls were wild
with delight, and flitted about gathering specimens of the different
flowers; while the two young men were content to watch them with an air
of masculine superiority.
"What is the use of burdening yourselves with all those things at the
very beginning of our walk?"
"They aren't a burden, they are a joy. Hold them for me, please, while
I get some more," replied Mollie, laying a stack of long-stemmed
beauties in Jack's arms, regardless of his look of dismay. "Don't crush
them; I want them kept quite fresh."
"What are you going to do with them, if I might ask? There are plenty
in the house. It's a pity to cut them just to waste."
"I wouldn't waste them for the world, the beautiful darlings! I'm going
to send them home to mother. We will pack them in a box, and take them
down to the post-office this afternoon. It will provide honest work for
the afternoon," retorted Mollie.
She was too happy, too supremely happy, to be stiff and formal. As she
darted from one flower-bed to another she looked like an incarnation of
the bright spring morning. There was no room in her mind for doubts and
fears. The future simply did not exist; the present was all-sufficient.
From the gardens the quartette strolled onwards past the lake, and
across the wide park to the further gates; then, returning, paid a visit
to the stables. The groom greeted them with a smile, which showed that
he had anticipated their coming; and, like the other servants, hailed
with delight a return to livelier days.
"The horses will get some work now, I hope, ma'am," he said, touching
his forehead as he addressed himself to Ruth, as the head of the party.
("The Farrell eyebrows again!" said Mollie to herself.)
"They have had it far too easy for a long time back. The master's fond
of horses, and we need a good many for driving up these steep hills, as
everything has to be brought up from the station; but it's regular
gentle exercise as suits 'em best. I've a nice little mare as would
carry you, if you'd care to try her. She's in this box. Fanny, we call
her. Whoa! Fanny, old girl, come and show yourself! Nice gentle
creature, you see, miss: no temper in her."
"But I don't ride," began Ruth, smiling. "I should like to very much;
and I don't think I should be nervous, but--"
"Oh, I'd love to ride! Is there a horse for me, too? And would you
teach us--would you? Could we come down every day and have a lesson?"
interrupted Mollie impetuously.
And the groom wheeled round to face her, and touched his forehead again,
his face one smile of delight.
"Ay, would I, miss! Proud to do it. Many's the one I've taught to ride
in my time. You settle any hour you like, and I'll have the horses
ready for you, and take you a turn across the park. There's some old
side-saddles put away in the loft. I'll have 'em down, and put in order
for ye. And the gentlemen? You'll not be needing any lessons, I'm
thinking."
"Oh no! I think I can manage to sit any horse you have here," replied
Victor in a slightly superior tone.
Jack, however, shook his head, and said--
"No use for me. I can't ride, and it's no use beginning. I'm only here
for a week."
The groom looked the surprise he was too well trained to express.
"Indeed, sir. Well, I can give you a mount if you change your mind. It
wouldn't take long to get your seat; and it's pleasant exercise these
spring days. The carriages are round this way, miss. There's a pretty
little cart you might like to drive yourself."
He led the way forward; but while the others followed, Mollie hung
behind, blocking Jack's way. Something prompted her to speak, an
impulse too strong to be resisted.
"Do learn!" she cried entreatingly. "Learn with us. Why won't you? It
would be such fun. You said you hated to be idle. It wouldn't be
wasted time if you learnt a useful accomplishment."
"Hardly useful to me, I am afraid, Miss Mollie. I have no money for
horses. My only acquaintance with them is from the top of a City
omnibus."
"But you can't tell what might happen. We might go to war again, and
you might want to volunteer. You might grow rich. Besides, you
volunteered to come and stay with the `Chosen,' and then you will
certainly find it useful. So you will join us, won't you?"
Jack laughed and hesitated, looking down at the flushed, eager face. It
seemed a very trifling matter. He could not tell that with the
acceptance or refusal of this light request the whole of his future
destiny was involved. He only thought that Mollie was a charmingly
pretty girl, and that it would be amusing to practise riding by her
side.
"Well! since you put it like that, I can't refuse," he answered
laughingly. "We will learn together, Miss Mollie, and good luck to our
efforts."
"But what about the riding-habits?" asked Ruth.
"We must get them," said Mollie.
"Where?" asked Ruth.
"At a tailor's," said Mollie. "Bond Street, for choice; only it would
be difficult to arrange about fitting. I'm not at all sure that we
shan't have to pay a visit to town on this matter of clothes. For the
present I mean to consult that maid, and see what can be done until we
can get habits well made for us. And--who knows?--there may be some old
things stored away somewhere which will come in handy. Anyway, I'm
going to begin lessons to-morrow, habit or no habit. You can do as you
like."
As there was no time to be lost, the maid was summoned only to proclaim
her inability to manufacture riding attire in the space of twenty-four
hours, or to produce the same from the household treasures.
"There is the mistress's habit, of course, but that was locked away with
her other clothes; and even if I could get at it I wouldn't dare to use
it. Mr Farrell keeps everything she wore, and nobody touches them but
himself. There's a very good tailor at Bexham, miss--only half an
hour's rail from here. Many of the ladies go to him for their things."
"But we want something now--at once! Something to wear to-morrow.
Surely you can think of something? Mr Farrell said we were to ask you
for everything we wanted, and this is the first thing we have asked for.
You must suggest something!" cried Mollie imperiously.
Thus adjured, Emma pursed up her lips, and wrinkled her forehead, leant
her head on one side, and stared at the ceiling for inspiration.
Presently it came, for the frown disappeared, the lips relaxed into a
smile.
"Well, miss," she said, "there's the parson's young ladies; they are
nearly as big as you, though they are still at school. They ride with
the father in the holiday, for the squire let's them have a mount from
the stables whenever they send up. Their habits will be at home, lying
idle. They are not much for style, of course, but for a few days, until
you have time to get fitted yourself--"
"Emma, you are an angel! It's a splendid idea! Mrs Thornton begged us
to let her help in any way she could. We'll call this very afternoon,
when we go down to post off the flowers, and I'm sure she will be
delighted to lend them. Now we can have our first lesson to-morrow.
That's glorious! I do hate to wait when I have planned anything nice."
At luncheon Mr Farrell made his appearance, and listened with polite
indifference to the history of the morning's doings as volunteered by
his guests. He asked no questions, made no suggestions, and retired
into the library the moment the meal was over for his daily perusal of
the _Times_. Here for the first time he discovered the inconvenience of
the novel interruption to his solitude, for the newspaper was missing
from its accustomed place, and, on ringing to make inquiries, he was
informed that Mr Melland had carried it off to the billiard-room.
"Tell Mr Melland, with my compliments, I should be obliged if he would
allow me to have it for the next hour--and order two copies for the
future," he said grimly.
And five minutes later Jack appeared in person the bearer of the
newspaper and frank apologies.
"I'm really awfully sorry! I did not know you had not seen it. Would
you care for me to read aloud any article? I should be glad to be of
use."
"Thank you. My eyes are still quite useful. I prefer to read for
myself."
Jack had the good sense to depart without further protest, and Mr
Farrell stretched himself on his big chair with a sigh of relief. He
took no pleasure in his guests, whose bright young presence depressed
him by reviving memories of happier days. If it had not been for the
necessity of choosing an heir, he would have cherished his solitude as
his dearest possession. He congratulated himself, however, that by
reserving one room for his own use he could be still safe from
interruption, and, turning to a leading article, read the first few
paragraphs with leisurely enjoyment. The writing was excellent, the
views irreproachable, in that they exactly coincided with his own. He
turned with anticipatory pleasure to the article next in order, when the
sound of a light tap-tap came to the door, and Ruth appeared upon the
threshold, blushing shyly.
"Uncle Bernard, Mrs Wolff says that you always read the _Times_ after
luncheon... Would it be any help if I read aloud what you wish to hear?
Sometimes, when pater is tired--"
"I am obliged to you. I require no help of the sort. Is there any
other subject on which you wished to speak to me?"
The tone was so suggestive of concealed wrath that Ruth quailed before
it, and the faltering "No" was hardly audible across the room. Mr
Farrell lifted the paper from his knee so that his face was hidden from
view.
"Then you will forgive my remarking that I prefer to be undisturbed. We
shall meet in the drawing-room for tea."
Ruth shut the door, advanced a few steps into the hall, and stamped her
foot violently upon the floor. The thick Turkey carpet reduced the
noise to the faintest echo, but an answering laugh sounded from behind a
screen, and Jack Melland's eyes looked quizzically into her flushed
face.
"Allow me to sympathise. I was sent about my business a few minutes
ago. Took back the _Times_ by request, and ventured to offer to read
aloud--"
"Oh, so did I! His eyes looked so tired, that I long to do something!
It's like living in an hotel, to take everything and do nothing in
return, but if he is so cross and glares like that I shall never dare to
offer again. Do you suppose it will go on like this all the time? Will
he avoid us entirely except at meal-times? Shall we never get to know
him really? If it is like that, I don't think I can stand it. I shall
run away and go home!"
Jack looked down at her with a kindly sympathy.
"Ah, well, it's early days to judge! I don't think it would be
consistent with Mr Farrell's plans to remain a stranger. Opportunities
are bound to arise as the days pass by. Don't worry about it, but enjoy
yourself while you can.--I am going to sit out on the terrace. Will you
come, too? It will be quite warm so long as the sun lasts."
They strolled away together, to make acquaintance in a quiet _tete-a-
tete_, while once more interruption approached the library in the shape
of Mollie, primed for battle. She rapped at the door, received a low
growl by way of reply, and had no sooner crossed the threshold than an
infuriated voice startled her ears.
"I tell you no! I want no help. I can read without assistance. Am I
stone-blind that I cannot be left in peace to read my paper, as I have
done these forty years? How many times over have I to answer the same
question?"
"But--but--I haven't asked you anything yet!" gasped Mollie blankly.
Eyes and lips alike were wide with amazement, but instead of retiring at
full speed, as the other two visitors had done before her, she shut the
door carefully and advanced towards the fire. "What did you think I was
going to say?"
"I have already had two interruptions in the last half-hour; two offers
to have my news read aloud--a thing I detest. I conclude you have come
on the same mission?"
"No!" Mollie shook her head, half penitent, half amused. "Indeed such
a thing never entered my mind. I was selfish enough to be thinking of
myself--not you. Something is worrying me. May I sit down and talk to
you about it, Uncle Bernard?"
She drew forward a chair even as she spoke, and Mr Farrell made no
objection. The _Times_ lay on his lap, his thin hands crossed above it,
while his sunken eyes were fixed upon the girl's face with a curious
scrutiny.
"If it is any argument about going or staying, I have already
explained--"
"Ah, but it isn't! I am going to stay. I love staying! I don't know
when I have been so happy in my life as I've been to-day, wandering
about this sweet old place. It was the most curious feeling this
morning before you were down--like living in an enchanted castle where
the owner had disappeared! When I gathered the flowers I felt quite
like Beau--" She drew herself up sharply--"They were such lovely
flowers!"
A short laugh proved that the interruption had come too late.
"As I said before, Miss Mary, you are not overburdened with modesty! I
am obliged for my part of the simile!"
But the speaker's eyes were twinkling with quite the most amiable
expression Mollie had yet seen, and she laughed unabashed.
"Ah, well, one description is as exaggerated as the other. I didn't
mean to say it; it just popped out. You know that I didn't mean to be
rude. I wanted to speak to you about something very important--to us,
at least. Ruth will be scandalised, but it's bound to come out sooner
or later, and I want to understand our position... We told you this
morning that we proposed to learn riding."
"You did."
"And you made no objection."
"On the contrary, I quite approved. It is almost essential for your own
comfort and convenience it you wish to enjoy a country life."
"Yes! so we thought. But there is one great objection. We have no
habits."
"Indeed!"
"No; of course, we have never ridden at home."
"I presume not."
"And we cannot ride without habits. Emma, the maid, suggested that Mrs
Thornton might lend us her daughters' just for a few days; but we cannot
keep them long."
"Certainly not!"
Mr Farrell made his remarks with an air of polite indifference, which
was peculiarly baffling. It was evident that no lead was to be expected
from him, and that Mollie would have to put her request in the plainest
possible words. Her lips were pressed together in a momentary
hesitation between embarrassment and laughter; then she thought of the
lecture she would receive from Ruth if her errand ended in failure, and
grew strong again. Her eyes met those of Uncle Bernard still fixed
intently on her face.
"I wanted to ask you what we were to do about them, and about clothes
altogether! You know we are very poor. Ruth and I have fifteen pounds
a year to dress on. You have never been a girl, so you don't understand
what that means; but though we can get along on that at home and could
look respectable for a few days' visit, we can't manage as we are for
three whole months, especially when you wish us to go about, and have
parties here, and meet your friends on their own terms. We have only
those black evening-dresses which you saw last night, and girls can't
always wear the same things, as a man does his dress suit."
"I suppose not."
"No they can't. So--"
"So?"
Mollie's cheek flushed with a dawning impatience.
"Uncle Bernard, don't you think you make it very hard for me? After
all, it was your wish that we should stay, and we cannot put the pater
to more expense. You said we were to have carte blanche. I want to
know if that applies to clothes also?"
"I must say I had not anticipated anything of the sort when I made my
remark."
"Well then, are you content to have us as we are? It won't be easy or
pleasant, but I suppose we _could_ rub along if you don't object.
People would make remarks, and as they are your friends--"
"It is a great many years since I have troubled my head about what
people say. That argument has no weight with me; but, as you say, you
remain here and go into society at my invitation, and it is therefore
only reasonable that I should make it possible for you to do so in
comfort. I am in ignorance as to what is required. What sum, may I
ask, would you consider sufficient to make up deficiencies?"
Mollie's smile of rapture was a sight to behold. The victory was won,
and won so easily that there had been no fight worthy the name. Her
mind flew to Ruth, picturing the scene between them when she retold the
conversation; then turned at a tangent to gloat over the thought of
fineries to come.
"Ah-ah! That's a difficult question to answer. We shall need riding-
habits, and summer things, and evening-dresses, and hosts of etceteras.
I could make myself look respectable for twenty pounds; I could look
smart for fifty; I could be a vision for a hundred!" cried Mollie,
clasping her hands ecstatically, while once again a faint twinkle showed
itself in Mr Farrell's eyes. His words were, however, as a rule,
decidedly damping in tone.
"That is interesting to know, but something less bewildering than
visions might be more in keeping with ordinary life. Very well, then,
Miss Mary, order what you please, and tell your sister to do the same,
and let the bills come in to me. You can run up to town for the day
whenever it is necessary, and no doubt you will enjoy the variety. Is
there anything more you wish to say?"
He took up the newspaper in sign of dismissal, but Mollie sat her
ground, flushing and knitting her brows.
"Uncle Bernard, you are an angel, and I'm ever so much obliged, but
please mightn't we have a fixed sum? It would be so much more
comfortable! If it is left like this, we should not know what you would
think reasonable or extravagant!"
"And in the other case, I should not know it of you! No; it must be
left entirely to your discretion. Get what you please, and as much as
you please. I make no restrictions. As I have said before, money is no
object to me, but it is my great aim at present to understand your
position as to it."
"I understand, but it's very awkward!" sighed Mollie. Her forehead was
puckered with thought; she stroked her soft little chin in thoughtful
fashion. "I should like to please you, but I am so completely in the
dark. A man's ideas are so different from a girl's. If I get all I
think necessary, you may think me extravagant!"
"Very possibly I may."
"And if I get less than the best, you might think me mean."
"Very possibly again."
Mollie made an involuntary gesture of impatience, then laughed and
tossed her head.
"Uncle Bernard, it is hopeless to try to understand you. There is only
one thing to be done; since I don't know how to please you, I must take
extra good care to please myself."
"A most sensible conclusion! I congratulate you upon it. I have,
however, one request to make. It is my wish that you and your sister
should be independent of each other; each acting exactly as she thinks
fit, without reference to the other's wishes. Is there anything more
that you wish to say? If not, may I suggest that I am generally left
free from interruption after lunch?"
"I'll never come again--I promise I won't, but there is a lot I should
like to say if you would let me. I'd like to thank you and tell you how
much fun and happiness we shall get out of your generosity; but, I
suppose, if I did you would hate it, and call it gush. The best thing I
can do is to go away at once; but you can't prevent me thanking you in
my heart."
She looked at him half smiling, half wistful, longing for some sign of
softening which might break down the barrier between them, but Mr
Farrell did not even meet her glance. His eyes had already strayed
towards his newspaper; he was settling himself in his chair and
preparing to resume the interrupted reading. Mollie turned with a sigh
and left the room.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
LEARNING TO RIDE.
The riding-lessons duly began the next day, and, continuing each morning
of the week, proved a veritable godsend to the four young people, in
providing amusement for hours which might otherwise have hung somewhat
heavily on their hands. The season was yet too young for outdoor games,
and in the early stages of their mutual acquaintanceship it was
difficult to keep up a perpetual flow of conversation. Some occupation
of general interest was thus badly needed, and this was supplied by the
delightful canters over the moors--delightful, despite the drawbacks
which were inseparable from inexperience.
On the first morning the girls were kept sternly in hand by the careful
groom, each taken in turn for an amble along a quiet road under his own
supervision; while the other strolled about, feeling very fine and large
as she held up the skirt of her habit, and nonchalantly flicked her whip
to and fro.
From the safe vantage of the ground also it was amusing to watch Jack
Melland's plungings to and fro, and offer him good advice as to the
management of his steed. Jack, needless to say, disdained the groom's
good offices, and set forth confident of being able to master any horse
by the sheer force of his manhood. His seat was not elegant, certainly,
and for once he was at a distinct disadvantage beside Victor, who looked
his best on horseback, and was evidently an experienced rider.
On the third day the horses were led to the broad road, crossing the
well-treed park, and, after half an hour's patient trotting to and fro,
Ruth was started on her first independent canter, which was fated to
have an ignominious end; for the horse, impatient of restraint,
increased its pace to a gallop, which swiftly left the groom behind and
sent its rider's composure to the winds. Her foot slipped from the
stirrup, she dropped her whip, clung wildly to the pommel, and,
regardless of dignity, screamed for help at the pitch of her voice. It
seemed an eternity of time, but in reality it was only a couple of
minutes, before Victor overtook her, and leaning forward, seized the
reins and brought both horses to a halt.
The groom came running up behind, followed by Jack, jogging painfully up
and down on his saddle, while Mollie puffed and panted in the rear.
Their faces were all keen with alarm, but fear changed to amusement at
the sight of Ruth with hat cocked rakishly at one side and a thick coil
of hair hanging snake-like down her back. She looked piteously for
comfort, and, meeting only smiles, drew herself up with what was
intended to be an air of haughty disdain; but it is difficult to look
haughty when with every moment fresh hairpins are falling to the ground,
and with the descent of fresh coils your hat is continually assuming a
still more impudent angle.
"You _do_ look a sight!" cried Mollie with sisterly candour, and Ruth
beckoned imperiously to the groom to help her to dismount.
"Take me down! I've had enough of this for one morning. You must give
me another horse to-morrow, Bates. I'll never trust myself on this
hateful creature again. No, thank you, I prefer to walk on my own
feet." She jumped to the ground and stood twisting up her hair, her
cheeks aflame with mingled fright and annoyance--a sight, indeed, as
Mollie had remarked, though the young men's translation of the term was
not perhaps precisely the same as her own.
"I'll put in a thousand hairpins next time," she said angrily, as she
fastened the coils to the best of her ability, and straightened the
rakish hat. "You had better see that your hair is safe, Mollie, before
you have your turn. I am going to sit down on the grass and jeer at you
for a change. It's so easy to be superior when you are doing nothing
yourself!"
"I shan't hang on to my pommel, anyway, and I won't call, `Help, murder,
thieves!' whatever happens," cried Mollie lightly. "I am going round
this curve, so you can all watch and see how well I do it!"
She flicked her horse's side as she spoke with quite a professional air
of unconcern, and started off at a brisk canter, holding herself
resolutely erect, despite the ever-increasing pain in the small of her
back. Echoes of "Bravo! bravo!" followed her down the path and goaded
her to increased exertion. A second flip on Prince's back sent him
forward at such a surprising increase of speed that, involuntarily, she
gripped the pommel; then, remembering her resolve, let go her hold to
hang on more and more tightly to the reins.
Prince tossed his head and gave an expostulatory amble. Mollie set her
lips and pulled the stronger. She was not conscious that the right hand
pulled more strongly than the left, but that it did so was proved by the
fact that the horse gradually abandoned the path and directed its course
across the grass. The watchers behind gave cries of warning as they saw
what was happening, but in her agitation Mollie mistook their meaning
for more applause and dashed headlong on her way.
She was so much occupied in keeping her seat that she had no eyes to
discover danger ahead, but the groom looked with dismay at the low-
spreading trees on right and left, and raced across the grass to
intercept her progress. He was too late, however. Maddened by the
incessant dragging of the reins Prince galloped ahead, skirting so
closely a clump of trees that it was only by crouching low over the
saddle that Mollie escaped accident. The watchers drew deep breaths of
relief, but renewed their anxiety as once more horse and rider
disappeared from sight behind a giant elm, whose branches hung
threateningly towards the ground.
Ruth gripped her habit in both hands and sped across the grass after the
groom; the two young men galloped ahead; and from one and all came a
second cry of alarm, as a moment later Prince sounded his appearance
careering wildly along riderless and free.
What were they going to see? A helpless form stretched on the ground; a
white unconscious face; a terrible, tell-tale wound? A dozen horrible
pictures suggested themselves one after the other in those breathless
seconds; but when the fatal spot was reached there was no figure upon
the ground, senseless or the reverse; no Mollie was seen to right or
left.
It seemed as if the earth had opened and swallowed her up, until a
feeble squeak made the rescuers lift their eyes suddenly to the heart of
the tree, where a black skirt and two small kicking feet were seen
swinging to and fro in the air. Another step forward showed the whole
picture, gauntleted hands clutching wildly to a bough, and a pink
agonised face turned over one shoulder, while a little pipe of a voice
called out gaspingly--
"Catch me! hold me! take me down! oh, my arms! I'm falling, falling,
I'm falling! oh, oh, oh--I'm falling down!" And fall she did, so
suddenly and violently that the groom, although a stoutly built man,
tottered beneath her weight.
The ordinary heroine of fiction is so frail and ethereal in build that
when she faints away, under a stress of emotion, the hero gathers her
lovely form in his arms and carries her for a couple of miles with
delightful ease; but Mollie Farrell was a healthy, well-grown girl; and
for one agonising moment it appeared as if the sequel to the adventure
was to be an ignominious tumble to the ground of rescuer and rescued.
The moment passed, the groom steadied himself with an involuntary
"Whoa!" and Mollie turned to confront her friends, swaying painfully to
and fro, with crossed hands pressing against each shoulder.
"Oh, my arms! my arms! They are torn out of their sockets! I know they
are! The pain is really hideous!"
"What happened? How did you manage to perform such an acrobatic feat?"
cried Jack, now that anxiety was appeased, unable to resist a smile at
the remembrance of the pretty, comical picture, and the undignified
descent to the ground; but Mollie snapped him up sharply, her sense of
humour absolutely eclipsed by the pain she was suffering.
"It wasn't a feat! I saw the bough before me and I thought I should be
killed, and I put out my hands to save myself and--I don't know how it
happened; but the next moment that horrid, wicked animal slipped from
under me, and my arms were jerked nearly out of my body, and I was left
dangling in mid-air. It's perfectly hateful of you all to stand there
and laugh! I might have been killed outright if it hadn't been for
Bates."
"You were only a yard or so from the ground; you could have dropped down
yourself without making a fuss. I kept my seat at any rate, and I
didn't howl half so loudly!" said Ruth self-righteously. "What made you
do anything so mad as to ride in among all those trees?"
"I didn't! It was the horse; he would go, whatever I did," protested
Mollie feebly: whereupon Bates shook his head with solemn disapproval.
"We've got to be very thankful as matters is no worse," said the alarmed
groom. "I shall have a fine lecturing from the squire when he hears of
this, but you will bear me witness as it was against my wishes. If I'd
had my way you would never have ventured off by yourselves, for another
week at least, but there was no gainsaying you. I'm thinking you'll
have had about enough lesson for to-day, and I must look after those
horses. To-morrow--"
"To-morrow we'll be good and docile, and do as you tell us. My nerves
are too shaken to be disobedient; but don't be afraid; you shan't be
scolded for what isn't your fault," said Ruth with her pretty smile.
Bates touched his cap and walked off, mollified, while the girls turned
sadly homeward. Jack and Victor offered their escort, but, finding it
impossible to disguise all traces of amusement, were promptly snubbed
and bidden to go and be superior by themselves.
"I do hate men! horrid, patronising creatures!" cried Mollie pettishly,
as she limped onwards. "They think themselves so grand because they are
stronger than we are, and have no tiresome skirts to hamper them. I
don't like riding half as much as I expected. I'm so stiff and sore, I
should like to go to bed for a month. I shall lie down this afternoon.
I'll get a nice book, and pull the sofa up to the window, and have tea
brought up to me; and I just hope it will rain and pour, and they will
have nothing to do and be bored to death, and then they will miss me,
and be sorry that they were so rude. Laughing, indeed, when I was in
danger of my life, before their very eyes!"
"You were safe enough before they laughed, and you did look funny
hanging in mid-air! You didn't think it was cruel to laugh at me, and I
was just as much frightened as you were!" retorted Ruth; and thereafter
a frigid silence was maintained until the Court was reached.
At lunch Mr Farrell appeared with a clouded brow, and vouchsafed only
monosyllabic replies when addressed. It was evident that something had
displeased him, and, though no reference was made to the adventures of
the morning, the young people had discovered by now that he possessed a
mysterious power of knowing all about their actions, in sight or out of
sight, and felt correspondingly ill at ease. When the meal was over and
the servants had left the room, the storm burst suddenly. The sunken
eyes gleamed with an angry light, and the tired voice sounded unusually
loud and threatening.
"Has neither of you two young men the sense or the prudence to prevent a
lady from running a foolish risk? I am informed that Ruth was in danger
of having a serious accident this morning. I am not personally able to
look after her safety, and she was possibly ignorant of her own folly in
attempting more than she could accomplish; but I had imagined that in my
absence she had two sufficient protectors--one of whom, at least, I
understand to be an accomplished horseman."
Victor flushed deeply, and the lids fell over his tell-tale eyes.
"No one regrets Miss Ruth's fright more than I do, sir. She had been
such an apt pupil that I did not imagine that there was any danger in
trying a little canter on her own account. Bates disapproved of it, but
I am afraid I sided against him. I can only promise to be more careful
in future."
"It was no one's fault but my own, Uncle Bernard," interrupted Ruth
eagerly. "I was conceited and thought I could do anything I liked, and
I have learnt a lesson--that's all! I was frightened, but I hung on so
tightly to the pommel that I don't think there was any real danger of
falling. I really will be careful not to run any more risks."
"I trust you will. I feel responsible for your safety while you are
under my roof, and it will be a severe strain on my nerves if I cannot
rely on your discretion. Are you feeling any ill effects from your
fright? Can Mrs Wolff help you in any way, or perhaps the doctor--"
Ruth gave an involuntary exclamation of surprise and protest, and the
colour rushed into her cheeks. It was so surprising, so extraordinary
that Uncle Bernard should betray such concern for her safety and
actually suggest sending for a doctor on her behalf. Her heart beat
high with the conviction that she was, indeed, his favourite, his
Chosen, and that therefore her safety was all-important for the success
of his scheme.
She turned her grey eyes upon him with a liquid glance of gratitude, as
she faltered out words of acknowledgment.
"Oh no, indeed, it is quite unnecessary! Thank you so much all the
same. I am vexed with myself for having upset you by being so
headstrong, and didn't hurt myself a bit."
"That is well, then!" Mr Farrell rose from the table and turned slowly
towards the door. As he did so he found himself suddenly confronted by
another face--a bright-eyed, mutinous girl's face, so transparently
charged with speech that he stopped short, uttering an involuntary
inquiry--
"Well! what is it? What have _you_ got to say?"
Mollie's lips parted, her head tilted to the side.
"_I_ was in danger, too! much more than she was. I _did_ tumble off! I
hung on to the branch of a tree. I might have been injured most
dreadfully."
"Ah-ah!" said Mr Farrell slowly. He turned his head aside, and his
lips twitched uncertainly. "You! But you, my dear Mary, can take such
uncommonly good care of yourself!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
MOLLIE DEFENDS HER UNCLE.
Mr Farrell walked to the door, and shut it behind him. Everyone stood
still, staring at Mollie, and Mollie stared ruefully back.
"Oh!" she cried breathlessly, "oh!" and pressed both palms to her now
scorching cheeks. "I've never been snubbed like that in all my life."
Then suddenly she laughed a bright, sweet-hearted laugh, utterly free
from envy. "I'm nowhere, Ruth, when you are concerned; but there's one
comfort, I can do as I like, and no one will interfere! If it is to be
a choice between the two, I prefer freedom to riches."
She left the room to make her way upstairs, and Jack crossed the hall by
her side. He looked intently at her as he walked, and when their eyes
met he said simply--
"You took that well--very well indeed! I congratulate you on your self-
control. I could not have kept my temper as you did."
"Oh, I don't know!" returned Mollie easily. "I brought it on my own
head. It was stupid to speak of myself at all; but just for the moment
I couldn't help feeling aggrieved, because, really and truly, I was in
greater danger than she. Uncle Bernard is old, poor thing, and that
makes him querulous."
"It ought not to. I call that a very poor excuse. When a man gets to
his age he ought surely to have learnt to be patient, even if he
imagines himself provoked."
"But he is ill as well. You say nothing about that. Should that make
him patient too?"
"Certainly it should. Suffering has often a most ennobling effect."
Mollie stood on the first step of the staircase, her arm on the
banister, looking with a challenging smile into the proud self-confident
face on a level with her own.
"Have you ever been ill, Mr Melland?"
"I am thankful to say I have not."
"But you have surely had a pain, or an ache, for a few hours at a time?
Ear-ache, when you were a child, or toothache later on?"
"Oh, certainly! I've had my share of toothache, and the smaller
ailments."
"And when the spasms were on,--were _you_ gentle and patient? Did you
feel your character being ennobled, or did you rage and champ about like
a mad bull?"
Jack laughed. It was impossible to resist it, at the sight of the
mischievous face, and the sound of the exaggerated, school-girl simile.
"Well," he conceded magnanimously, "perhaps the champing was the more in
evidence. I was not citing myself as a model, Miss Mollie. I know
quite well that--that I might be more patient than I am."
"More patient! More! You are not patient at all. You are the most
impatient person I ever met. If anyone dares even to have a different
opinion from you, you can hardly contain yourself. I wish you could see
your face! You look like this."
Mollie drew herself up, making a valiant attempt to draw her eyebrows
together, send out lightning sparks from her eyes, inflate her nostrils,
and tug the ends of an imaginary moustache at one and the same time; and
succeeded in looking at once so pretty and so comical that, instead of
being convicted, Jack laughed more heartily than before.
"As bad as that? Really? I must be ferocious! It's rather unkind of
you to pitch into me like this, Miss Mollie, when I have just been
paying you compliments. It's a good thing I am going away so soon, as I
am such a desperate character. There is no saying to what lengths Mr
Farrell and I might get if we were long together."
"Oh!" Mollie's face sobered, and a little chill came over her spirits.
"You are still determined, then? Nothing has happened to make you
change your mind?"
"What should have happened?" replied Jack the ungallant. "There has
been nothing behind the scenes, Miss Mollie--nothing that you do not
know of. Only I prefer to go back to my work--that's all. I consented
to remain for a week to please Mr Farrell, but I don't see that I am
called upon to make any further sacrifice. I have my life's work before
me, and just now it needs all the attention I can give it. Besides, Mr
Farrell and I would never get on; I should be a disturbing element which
would not improve matters for any of you. Between ourselves, I think
there is little doubt who will be the Chosen, as you express it. Your
sister is evidently first in favour. Witness your experience a few
minutes ago."
Mollie stared before her, thoughtful and absent-minded. One word in
Jack's speech had detached itself from the rest and printed itself on
her brain. Sacrifice! He had stayed at the Court for a week as a
matter of necessity, and did not feel called upon to sacrifice his
inclinations any further. Sacrifice, indeed! The word rankled the more
as she realised how differently she herself had described the past five
days, and how high Jack Melland's presence had ranked among the
pleasures of the new life. When she projected her thoughts into the
future, and imagined living through the same scenes without his
companionship, it was extraordinary how flat and dull they suddenly
became. But he called it a "sacrifice" to stay away from a dingy,
dreary office, and preferred the society of his partner to all the
Mollie Farrells in the world! He liked her, of course--she could not
pretend to doubt that; but just as a grown man might care for an amusing
child who served to while away an idle hour, but who was not worth the
trouble of a serious thought.
"He thinks I am shallow," thought Mollie sorrowfully, and then suddenly
inverted the sentence. "Am I shallow?" she asked herself, with an
uneasy doubt creeping over her self-complacency. "I expect I am, for I
am content with the surface of things, and like to laugh better than to
think. But I'm twenty; I don't want to be treated as a child all my
life. It's horrid of him to talk of sacrifices!"
Thoughts fly quickly, but, even so, the pause was long enough to be
unusual. Jack looked inquiringly at the thoughtful face, and said
smilingly--
"Why, Miss Mollie, you look quite sober! I never saw you so serious
before. Is that because I said that your sister was preferred before
you?"
That aroused Mollie to a flash of indignation.
"No, indeed; I am not so mean. I'd almost sooner Ruth had things than
myself, for I'd have all the fun and none of the trouble. Besides, she
wants it more than I do, and would be a hundred times more disappointed
to do without. And then you must not blame Uncle Bernard too much. He
had a good reason for saying what he did. I deserved it.--You will
never guess what I did."
Jack looked amused and curious.
"Nothing very dreadful, I feel sure. You are too hard on yourself, Miss
Mollie."
"I asked him for heaps of money to buy heaps of new clothes--"
Jack's whistle of amazement was too involuntary to be controlled. He
tried his best to retrieve himself by an expression of unconcern, but
the pretence was so apparent that Mollie laughed at the sight, albeit a
trifle ruefully.
"Do you mean to tell me seriously that you asked Mr Farrell for money?"
"Yes, I did. I asked him on Wednesday. It seemed the only thing to do,
as he wants us to entertain his friends, and go out whenever we are
asked, and we hadn't enough clothes to go in. Ruth wouldn't ask, so I
had to do it. We have no evening-dresses in the world except those
black things that you see every night, and we can't live in them for
three months like a man in his dress suit."
"They are very pretty dresses. I am sure you always look charming."
"Oh, don't feel bound to be flattering, I hate obvious compliments!"
cried Mollie irritably. She was surprised to realise how irritable she
felt. "I only told you because it was mean to let poor Uncle Bernard
get the blame." She paused, and over her face flashed one of those
sudden radiant changes of expression which were so fascinating to
behold. Her eyes shone, her lips curled, a dimple dipped in her cheek.
"But he _did_ give it to me--he gave me more than I asked--carte
blanche, to spend as much as I liked! Next Tuesday morning as ever is,
we are going up to town to shop with Mrs Thornton as assistant. Think
of it! Think of it! Oxford Street, Regent Street, Bond Street--just to
look in at all the windows in turn, and buy what one likes best.
Hats,"--two eager hands went up to her head--"dresses"--they waved
descriptively in the air--"coats; fripperies of all descriptions,
delicious blouses for every occasion, and evening-dresses!--oh, chiffon
and lace and sequins, and everything that is fascinating! I've never
had anything but the most useful and long-suffering garments, though I
have yearned to be fluffy, and now I shall be as fluffy as I can be
made! Think of me, all in tulle and silver gauze, with a train yards
long, all lined with frills and _frills_ of chiffon!" cried Mollie
ecstatically, tilting her head over her shoulder, and pushing out her
short skirt with a little slippered foot as if it were already the train
of which she spoke.
"Indeed, I will think of you! I wish I could do more than think; I
should like to see you into the bargain. It is hard lines that I have
to leave before the exhibition opens."
"Oh, pray don't pose as an object of pity! Whose fault is it that you
are leaving at all?" retorted Mollie quickly. "You have made up your
mind to go, and it's a matter of pride with you that nothing or nobody
shall prevent you. My poor fineries would be a very weak inducement;
but you will have to reckon with Uncle Bernard before you get away, and
I don't think he will be easy to oppose."
Jack Melland straightened himself, and his nostrils dilated in
characteristic, high-spirited fashion.
"When I make up my mind I never give way," he said slowly.
Mollie tossed her head defiantly.
"So you say; but there is something even stronger than will, Mr
Melland."
"And that is--"
"Fate!" cried Mollie dramatically.
The blue eyes and the brown met in a flashing glance; then the girl
dropped a demure curtsey, and ran lightly upstairs.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
IN THE VILLAGE CHURCH.
The shopping expedition was, by common consent, postponed until the
middle of the following week, when Jack Melland would have taken his
departure.
"Let us make hay while the sun shines. Three is an abominable number,
especially when you happen to be the third," said Mollie, sighing. "Mr
Druce admires you very much, Ruth. I often see him staring at you when
you are not looking; but when I appear upon the scene his eyelids droop,
and he does not deign even to glance in my direction. He puzzles me a
good deal, as a rule. I rather fancy myself as a judge of character,
but I can't decide whether he is really a model of virtue, or a villain
in disguise."
Ruth made a movement of impatience.
"How exaggerated you are, Mollie! Why must you rush off to extremes in
that foolish fashion? Mr Druce is probably neither one nor the other,
but just an ordinary combination of faults and virtues. He is kind and
considerate to Uncle Bernard, and very chivalrous to us;--a hundred
times more so than Jack Melland, who certainly does not err on the side
of politeness. Personally, I don't think any the less highly of people
because they are little reserved and uncommunicative at first. It will
be time enough to judge Mr Druce's character when we have known him for
weeks, instead of days."
"Humph! I believe in first impressions," insisted Mollie obstinately;
"and so do you, really, or you would not bristle up when I dare to cast
a doubt on his excellence. You are going to like him, Ruth, I can see
that quite clearly, and he admires you; so, as I said before, I shall be
the poor little pig who stays at home, while you two wander abroad
together. It's not exactly the programme which my fancy painted when we
came down; but if I devote myself to Uncle Bernard, and cut you both
out, I shall have the best of it, after all. Perhaps, too I may make
friends with someone in the neighbourhood,--there is always the chance
of that, and I do love meeting new people. I suppose callers will begin
to arrive after we have made our first public appearance at church to-
morrow. I am quite excited at the prospect of seeing all the people--
aren't you?"
"I am not going," said Ruth.
And when Mollie exclaimed and cross-questioned, she flushed
uncomfortably, but did not refuse to answer.
"I have made up my mind to go to early service, but not again at eleven
o'clock. It's not that I don't want to go; it's because I want to go so
much--for the wrong reasons! Ever so many times during the last few
days I have caught myself thinking about it, and imagining the scene--
everybody staring at us, while we sit in the squire's pew trying to look
unconscious, but really enjoying it all the time, and building castles
in the air about the future, when we may have a right to be there. We
should be thinking most of all of ourselves, and that's not a right
spirit in which to go to church; so I'm not going. I'm disappointed,
but I've made up my mind."
Mollie leant her head on her hand and gazed thoughtfully before her.
The sisters were seated in the great round window of their bedroom, from
which such a glorious view of the surrounding country could be obtained;
and as Mollie's eyes wandered from the blue of the sky to the fresh
green of the trees, and anon to the patches of golden daffodils among
the grass, a wonderful sweetness softened her young face.
"But God understands!" she said gently. "He made girls, so He must know
how they feel. This is a great occasion for us, and it is natural that
we should be excited and a little bit self-engrossed. Mother would
think it natural, and make excuses for us, even if we were carried away
by our new importance; and God is kinder and more forgiving than mother.
Perhaps, when one is quite old and staid, it is easy to sit through a
service and never think of self; but it is difficult when one is young.
I used to be miserable because every time I had a new hat or dress, or
anything that was fresh, I couldn't help remembering it and being
pleased that I looked so nice, and hoping that other people liked it too
but when I thought it over I came to the conclusion that it was only
natural. Look at that lovely view!" She waved her hand expressively
from right to left. "When God made the world so beautiful and so full
of colour, He must mean us to love pretty things without being ashamed
of it; so now I just thank Him for the new things in my prayers, and
remember them as some of the things to be thankful for. I'm sure it's
the best way. It's cowardice to stay at home because we are afraid of a
temptation. Surely it would be far better to go, to thank God for
giving us this good time, and to ask Him to send us nice friends, and,
if it be His will, to let Uncle Bernard leave us the Court, so that we
may help them all at home!"
She broke off, looking round half timidly in Ruth's face, for it was
reversing the usual roles to find herself laying down the law as to
right and wrong to the serious-minded elder sister. Would Ruth be
annoyed--shocked--disapproving? It appeared that she was not, for the
troubled lines had gradually smoothed away from her forehead, and she
cried heartily--
"Yes, you are right. I feel you are! Thank you for putting it so
plainly, dear. I _did_ want to go to church, and now my conscience will
be clear, so I can go comfortably, feeling it is the right thing. But
oh, Mollie, shall we all four be praying, one against the other, each
one wanting to disappoint the others, and keep the Court for himself?"
"Jack Melland won't, for one; and I won't for another. I'm not sure
that I want it and all the responsibility that goes in its train. I'd
honestly rather it were yours, dear; then I could come and sponge upon
you as often as I liked."
"Sponge!" echoed Ruth reproachfully. "As if it would be any pleasure to
me if you were not here! What would become of poor Berengaria without
her Lucille? We are so grand in real life now that we forget the dear
old game; but, when we are back in Attica, we shall be able to play it
better than ever, now that we really know what it feels like to be rich
and have everything one wants!"
Mollie did not answer, and both girls sat silently gazing before them,
while their thoughts wandered northwards to a shabby, crowded house, and
to a sloping-roofed attic under the leads, in which so many hours had
been spent. Mollie smiled, remembering the little make-shifts and
contrivances, seeing the humour of them, and feeling again the glow of
triumph with which each difficulty had been surmounted.
Ruth shuddered with a mingling of fear and repulsion.
Oh, how bare it was--how poor, and small, and unlovely! the few small
rooms, the shabby furniture, the little plot of grass in front of the
door which did duty as a garden. Could it be possible that in a few
short months she might have to return and take up life once more under
the old conditions? The thought of Dr Maclure's handsome house had
been a distinct temptation to her when he had asked her to be his wife;
then how much more the beautiful old Court?
"I would do anything to get it!" thought poor Ruth desperately. "Oh, if
I could only find out what Uncle Bernard wants! It is terrible to be in
the dark like this!"
The next day was Sunday, and the ordeal of church-going proved to be
much less trying than had been expected, for the congregation was mainly
composed of villagers, who looked too stolid and sleepy to trouble
themselves about the appearance of strangers, even when seated in the
squire's pew. The pew, moreover, was situated in the front of the
chancel, so that it was all the easier to pay whole-hearted attention to
the service. Coming out through the churchyard, the girls were
conscious of glances of interest directed towards themselves by various
little parties who plainly composed the gentlefolk of the neighbourhood.
At the gate one or two carriages were waiting in readiness to convey
their owners home, the best appointed of which was presently occupied by
an old lady and gentleman, whom Ruth recognised from Mrs Thornton's
description as being the couple whom the renowned Lady Margot Blount was
about to visit. She said as much to Mollie, when the carriage had
passed by, and the four young people were strolling together in easy
country fashion along the road.
"Did you notice, Mollie? Those must be Mr and Mrs Blount, who live at
the Moat. I should know them anywhere from Mrs Thornton's description.
I wonder whether they will call, and if Lady Margot Blount will come
with them? She was expected this week, I think."
She was interrupted by a sharp exclamation, and turned with her two
companions to stare in amazement into Victor Druce's transformed face.
For once amazement had broken down the veil which gave a tinge of
mystery to his personality; his sallow cheeks showed a streak of colour,
and his eyes were wide open and eager.
"Lady--Margot--Blount!" he repeated incredulously. "Here, in this
village! You say she is expected to meet those people who have just
driven past? Is it possible? Who told you about her?"
Ruth stared at him, amazed in her turn by his energy of manner.
"Mrs Thornton told us so, the night she dined at the Court. We asked
her what girls were in the neighbourhood, and among the number she spoke
of Lady Margot as a constant visitor to her uncle and aunt. Why are you
so surprised? Do you know her in town? Is she a friend of yours?"
Victor hesitated, biting the ends of his moustache.
"I can hardly call her a friend. We are not in the same set; but I saw
a good deal of her last autumn. Some people I know were getting up
tableaux for a charity bazaar, and asked us both to take part. There
were a good many rehearsals, so that we grew for the time pretty
intimate; but she went off to Egypt for the winter, and I have heard
nothing of her since the night of the performance."
"But have thought a good deal all the same!" said Mollie shrewdly to
herself, looking at the dark face, which looked so handsome in its
unaccustomed animation.
If Victor Druce often looked like that, he would be a fascinating
companion. To have the power so to influence him and excite his
interest would be perilously attractive. A few hours before, Mollie had
been almost prepared to declare that she distrusted and disliked this
new acquaintance; now she was conscious of a distinct feeling of envy
towards the unknown Margot.
"How interesting that you have met already! Mrs Thornton was so
enthusiastic in her praise, that she roused our curiosity to fever-
pitch. Do tell us what she is like! We are longing to know."
But Victor did not appear inclined to be communicative. The heavy lids
fell over his eyes, and he murmured a few non-committal sentences. It
was difficult to describe a girl so as to give any real idea of her
appearance. He was not skilled at word-painting. If Lady Margot was so
soon expected, would it not be better to wait and judge for themselves?
Mollie shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and forthwith began her
catechism.
"Tailor short?"
"Er--medium; not small, not too tall."
"The perfect mean? I understand! Dark or fair?"
"Dark eyes, chestnut hair."
"Oh, that's not right. She has no right to monopolise the beauties of
both complexions. And chestnut hair, too, the prettiest shade of all!
Is she a real, true beauty, or only just pretty, like ordinary folk?"
"That must be a matter of personal opinion, mustn't it, Miss Mollie?
Ideas vary so much on these subjects."
"Checkmate!" sighed Mollie to herself. "He won't say what he thinks,
and I can't be so rude as to ask directly, though it's just what I'm
dying to know." Aloud, she said carelessly, "Oh, I've no doubt I shall
think her lovely, and adore her as I do all lovely people; that is, if
she doesn't scare me too much. Is she formidable and _grande dame_, or
lively and easy-going?"
"That again must surely depend upon circumstances," replied Victor
sententiously, whereat Mollie tossed her head, declaring that he was as
aggravating as Uncle Bernard himself, and almost as enigmatical.
As for Ruth, she walked along with compressed lips and frowning brows.
It was not possible for a girl to find herself thrown into close
companionship with two young men, and not wonder in the recesses of her
heart if perchance friendship might not eventually develop into
something warmer. Ruth and Mollie had both thought and dreamed, and to
each it had occurred that possibly some such ending of the great problem
might have occurred to Mr Farrell himself. There was no barrier of
near relationship to prevent two of the young people making a match, if
they were so disposed; and while Uncle Bernard, so far, seemed to favour
his elder niece, he had expressly stated that he would prefer a male
heir. Ruth's favour was not easily won, but as both young men appeared
agreeable, gentlemanly, and good-looking, it had been a distinctly
pleasant experience to look forward and wonder if he,--if I,--if perhaps
some day, long ahead, when we know each other well... All girls have
such dreams, and understand how their existence adds savour to a
situation. It was not a little trying, then, when Jack Melland insisted
on returning to town, and Victor Druce, in his turn, must needs betray
an undoubted interest in another girl.
"Tiresome thing!" murmured Ruth to herself; referring, needless to say,
not to Victor, but to the innocent Margot herself. "I knew I should
dislike her from the moment when Mrs Thornton mentioned her name. Why
couldn't she be happy in town, with all her grand friends, instead of
rushing down here to interfere with us the moment we arrive? She is
sure to hear the reason why we are here--everyone knows it; and if she
is mercenary she will like Victor better now that he has a chance of
inheriting the Court, and, when he knows her connection with the
neighbourhood, she will seem to him more desirable than ever. Uncle
Bernard would be pleased, and think her a suitable mistress for the
Court, and they will get everything, and we'll get nothing, and go home
as failures... Mother will be disappointed, and everything will be
duller and pokier than ever..."
So on and so on, conjuring up one gloomy vision after another, as was
her unhappy custom, until at length she saw herself stricken in years,
broken in health, lonely and unloved, with nothing in prospect but a
pauper's grave. A strange ending, indeed, to that first public
appearance from which so much had been expected!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
KISMET.
When Sunday evening arrived Jack Melland was surprised to feel a
distinct strain of regret in realising that it was the last evening he
should spend at the Court. He was still not only determined but eager
to return to his work at the beginning of the week, and had counted the
hours until his release should arrive; but, as the days passed by, he
had become increasingly alive, not only to the beauty of his
surroundings but to the unusual charm of feminine society. After a
lonely life in London lodgings, it was an agreeable experience to come
downstairs to a perfectly appointed meal, set against a background of
tapestry and oak, to be greeted by bright girlish faces, and kept amused
and interested from morning till night.
Mollie was a fascinating little creature--witty, audacious, and sweet--
hearted, though, as yet, too much of a school-girl to be taken
seriously. As for Ruth, she was a beauty, and might become dangerous to
a man's peace of mind on a longer acquaintance. That was an additional
reason why Jack was set on leaving the Court, for, as she was obviously
first favourite, it would be a distinct stroke of diplomacy for a man to
link his chances with hers. Jack's nostrils inflated in characteristic
manner as he told himself, that this would not be his fashion of going
a-wooing, but he was less scrupulous in prophesying for his neighbour.
"Druce will make love to her! she'll marry Druce!" he told himself
confidently; and his thoughts flew ahead to the time when the young
couple would reign over the Court, and dispense the favours which were
now in Bernard Farrell's hands.
Well, it was a goodly heritage! Even in seven short days several scenes
had printed themselves upon his memory. The drive across the park, with
the great north front of the house lying grey and chill in the distance;
the south terrace flooded with sunshine; the gardens sloping to the
level of the lake; and beyond them the open stretch of country. And in
all probability Druce was to be the master of it all. He seemed a good
enough fellow, but was he worthy of the position, and of the wife who
would go with it? Would he make her happy?--the sweet, beautiful thing!
Happiness did not come easily to her as it did to her sister. If her
husband neglected her, or fell short of her ideal, the wistful
expression, which was one of her charms, would soon develop into a
settled melancholy. Jack conjured up a vision of Ruth's face--emaciated
and woebegone--and felt a pang of regret, allied with something
curiously like remorse. It seemed as if by going away he were
deliberately leaving her to Druce's tender mercies, so certain did he
feel as to the result of the three months' companionship. For the first
time a rankling doubt of the wisdom of his decision disturbed his
complacency. When he was back in his dingy lodgings would he think
longingly of the Court, and reproach himself for having thrown aside the
chance of a lifetime; and if the business failed, despite all his
efforts, and he found himself thrown adrift on the world, how should he
feel then, remembering what might have been?
These reflections brought a frown to Jack's brow, but he was too proud
to show any sign of wavering to his companions; and in the old man's
presence was careful to make no allusion to the coming departure. On
Monday morning the subject was to be officially discussed; but, until
the prescribed hour arrived, it would have been a brave man or woman who
dared open it in Mr Farrell's presence.
As for Mr Farrell himself, so far from looking forward to the interview
with foreboding, he seemed in an unusually amiable frame of mind as he
took the head of the table on Sunday evening, actually deigning to
question his guests as to the day's doings, and the impressions which
they had received. In their replies the young men were, as usual, brief
and practical, Ruth tactfully reserved, and Mollie unflatteringly
honest. But to-night Mr Farrell seemed determined to take no offence,
and even vouchsafed a grim smile at the sound of the quaintly vigorous
language.
"You will have to curb that rebellious tongue of yours, my dear Mary, if
you are to get through the next few weeks without trouble. The good
people about here are not accustomed to such picturesque exaggerations,
and will take everything you say as literal fact, so you had better
beware. You will probably have a number of visitors this week, so it
would be as well to arrange to be at home as much as possible in the
afternoons. Calling is a more serious business in the country than in
town; and when people have taken the trouble to drive eight or nine
miles, it is a disappointment to find nobody at home." He turned
towards Jack, and continued: "Of course, this restriction does not apply
to you, or to Druce. Your presence will not be expected; and if you
agree with me, the further afield you can be, the better you will be
pleased. There are some charming excursions which you could manage in
an afternoon's ride, and, from what I hear, your horsemanship has
improved so rapidly that you could easily manage them. Bates will be
happy to give you any directions you may require; or, still better, to
accompany you as guide."
These remarks were so markedly addressed to Jack, that no one but
himself could venture to reply, and his self-will was so much ruffled by
the deliberate ignoring of his expressed determination that he was
instantly aflame with wrath. His nostrils curved, his brows arched, his
lips opened to pronounce a sharp disclaimer, when suddenly he caught
sight of Mollie's face gazing at him across the table; and if ever a
face cried "Don't!" with all the eloquence of pleading eyes and parted
lips, Mollie's said it at that moment. The message was so unmistakable
and ardent that it demanded obedience, and to his own surprise Jack
found himself murmuring conventional words of thanks, instead of the
heated disclaimer which he had intended.
Later on in the evening he followed Mollie into a corner of the drawing-
room to demand a reason for her unspoken interference.
"It was not honest to seem to agree when I have no intention of being
here for a single afternoon. Why wouldn't you let me speak?" he
demanded; whereupon Mollie pursed her lips, and said thoughtfully--
"I hardly know. You were going to be cross, and it is Sunday--our first
Sunday here. I didn't want it to be spoilt by angry words. If you must
disappoint the old man, do it gently. Don't answer back, even if he is
annoying. You will be glad afterwards--when he is dead, and you have
nothing to regret."
Jack looked down at her in silence. Was this the pert school-girl, whom
he had just deemed unworthy of serious consideration? The face into
which he looked seemed of a sudden that of a woman rather than that of a
child--soft and sweet, grave-eyed, with lovely, serious lips. The very
voice was altered, and had an added richness of tone. It was like
catching a glimpse into the future, and beholding the woman that was to
be, when girlhood's bright span was over. Instinctively Jack's manner
altered to meet the change. The supercilious curve left his lip, his
keen eyes softened.
"Thank you, Miss Mollie," he said gravely. "You are quite right. I'll
remember!"
She thanked him with a luminous glance, and turned away; but he wanted
to see her again, to hear her speak once more in that beautiful new
voice. Before she had taken three steps he called to her eagerly--
"Miss Mollie! One moment! I expect I shall be packed off, bag and
baggage, as soon as I have announced my decision; but Mr Farrell does
not make his appearance until lunch-time, so we have a whole morning
left still. Will you come for a last ride with me after breakfast?"
"Yes," said Mollie simply.
Her heart beat high with pleasure, because Jack had assented so readily
to her request, because he had wished to spend his last hours in her
society. For the moment she forgot the blank which would follow his
departure, and was wholly, unreservedly happy. It was the old,
sparkling, girlish face which was turned upon him--the vision had
disappeared.
The next day neither Ruth nor Victor offered to join the riding-party,
though they had not any settled plans for the forenoon. Mollie had told
her sister of Jack's invitation of the evening before, and Ruth was too
proud to make a third unless she were specially asked to do so. She
strolled into the grounds to interview the gardener about sending in an
extra supply of plants and flowers to beautify the house for the
expected callers, while Victor shut himself in the library to write
letters.
Jack looked well on horseback, as tall, upright men always do, and
Mollie glanced at him admiringly, and thought regretfully of her new
habit, which was even now in the tailor's hands. It did seem hard that
she should have to wear a shabby, ill-fitting coat while he was here,
and that the new one should come home almost as soon as he had departed.
Her sigh of self-commiseration brought his eyes upon her, and he sighed
in echo as he cried--
"Last times are melancholy occasions! I hate them, even when the
experience has not been altogether pleasant. There is a sadness about
turning over the leaf and ending another chapter of life. This chapter
has been a very short one, but uncommonly jolly. Don't think that I
haven't appreciated it, because I am going away. I have enjoyed every
hour of this week, and when I am back on the treadmill I shall think
longingly of you all many times over. I hope we may often meet again."
"It is not very likely, is it? You will go your way, and we will go
ours. Ruth and I have never been in London, nor you in Liverpool. We
may all live until we are old and bald, and never meet again," said
Mollie dismally; whereupon Jack looked at the shining plaits which were
coiled at the back of her head, and laughed reassuringly.
"I can't imagine you bald, nor old either, and I expect to see you many
times over before you have the chance of changing. The Chosen, whoever
he or she may be, must surely have the good manners to invite the rest
of us to visit a house which might have been our own; and I have a
special claim, for by retiring from the lists I increase your chances.
Personally, I have made up my mind to spend many holidays here--shooting
and riding, and enjoying myself generally. I hope you won't object, if
you happen to be the chatelaine?"
"Ah, but I shan't! I have no chance against the other two; but I also
intend to spend my holidays here, and I tell Ruth she must send home
hampers every week. It has always been my ambition to get hampers, and
she could send such splendid ones from the Court--game and poultry and
eggs, and nice out-of-season fruits and vegetables, which would be such
a help in the housekeeping! I am afraid sometimes that we count too
much on Uncle Bernard's fancy for Ruth's eyebrows, for if he changed his
mind and left everything to Mr Druce, it would be a terrible
disappointment. And there are three months before us still. He may
change a dozen times yet."
"I think most probably he will. Better stick to your resolution, to
have a good time, and not bother your head about the future. I shall be
most anxious to know how things go. Druce has promised to send me a
line now and then. Will you jog his memory in case he forgets?"
Mollie promised, all the more readily that Victor's letter would
naturally bring a return, which would serve to bridge over the
separation. It seems curious to remember that little over a week ago
she had not known of Jack Melland's existence. He had made but a brief
appearance upon the scene, but it would not be easy to forget him, or to
fill the vacant place.
Both riders relapsed into silence as they neared home; but, as they
clattered into the stable-yard, Jack turned towards Mollie with rather a
forced air of triumph, and cried--
"Do you remember your warning, Miss Mollie, that Fate was stronger than
will? Ever since we set out this morning the words have been ringing in
my ears, and I have been expecting some accident to happen which would
keep me here in spite of myself. I have looked for it at every turn of
the road as if it were bound to come."
Mollie shivered nervously.
"Oh, how horrid! I am glad you did not tell me. I should have been
nervous, too, for I am superstitious about presentiments. They so often
come true."
"Well, this one at least has not. Here we are safe and sound, and all
risk is over!" cried Jack, dropping his reins, and jumping lightly from
the saddle without waiting for the groom to come to the horse's head.
He was anxious to assist Mollie to dismount before Bates came up; but
even as his feet touched the ground he slipped, staggered uncertainly
for a moment, and sank to the ground with a groan of pain. The groom
rushed forward; Mollie leapt inelegantly but safely to the ground, and
bent over him with anxious questioning. His face was drawn with pain,
and he bent forward to grip his foot with both hands.
"My--ankle! I slipped on something, or came down on the side of my
foot. I don't know how it was done; but I've given it a bad wrench, if
nothing worse. You'll have to cart me up to the house, Bates. I'm
afraid it's hopeless to try to walk."
"No, indeed, sir! Don't you trouble. I've got an old bath-chair stored
away in the stables. We'll lift you into that in no time, and take you
up as easy as possible."
He turned off as he spoke, and Jack and Mollie were left alone. For a
moment she stood silently by his side; then their eyes met, and he said
wearily--
"Kismet! Fate is too much for me. For better or worse, Miss Mollie, it
is evidently ordained that I must stay on at the Court!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
NEW EXPERIENCES.
The village doctor came to doctor Jack Melland's damaged ankle, and the
patient fumed and fretted beneath his old-fashioned treatment.
"Bandaging me and laying me up by the heels for weeks at a time; it's
folly!" he declared angrily. "The man is twenty years behind the times.
If I were in town I should have had one of those Swedish fellows to
massage it, and be about in half the time. Just my luck to go in for an
accident in a place where one can't get proper attention!"
"But you groan if anyone comes near your foot; wouldn't it hurt
dreadfully much to have it massaged?" Mollie asked.
Whereupon the invalid growled impatiently--
"Hurt? Of course it would hurt! What has that to do with it, pray?"
"Lots," returned Mollie, unabashed. "I should think so, at least, if it
were my ankle. I can't endure pain."
"I'm not a girl," growled Jack the ungracious, between his teeth.
There was no denying the fact that he did not make an agreeable invalid.
In the first realisation of his accident he had meekly bowed his head
to Fate; but ever since he had, figuratively speaking, kicked against
the pricks, and repaid the kindness of his companions by incessant
grumblings and complaints. He hated having to give up his own way; he
hated being tied to a sofa and a bath-chair; he resented offers of help
as if they had been actual insults, and hindered his recovery by
foolhardy attempts at independence.
"How would you like to be an invalid for life?" Mollie asked him
severely after one of these outbursts. "There was a young man in
mother's district, every bit as strong and big as you, and a sack of
something fell on his back while they were trying to haul it up into a
warehouse. He was taken to the hospital, and they told him that he
would never walk again, never even sit up again. As long as he lived he
would be a helpless cripple. And he was just going to be married, too!"
"Well, I'm not, thank goodness!" cried Jack bluntly. "Why do you tell
me such gruesome stories? My own troubles are quite enough just now. I
don't want to hear any more horrors."
"It was just to distract your mind from yourself that I did tell you.
Once upon a time I met a man who read me a beautiful lecture upon the
dangers of being selfish and self-engrossed. I'll tell you his very
words, if you like. They made a deep impression upon me at the time,"
said Mollie naughtily. But instead of being amused, Jack was only
irritated afresh.
In these first days of invalidism Mollie's influence was the reverse of
soothing, for Jack was not in the mood to be teased, and if his inner
determination could have been put into words it would have been that he
objected to be cheered up, refused to be cheered up, and insisted upon
posing as a martyr; therefore, it followed that Ruth's gentle
ministrations were more acceptable than her sister's vigorous sallies.
If he could have seen again the Mollie of whom he had caught a glimpse
on Sunday evening, Jack would have chosen her before any other
companion; but, as she had made place for a mischievous tease, he
preferred to look into Ruth's lovely anxious eyes, and to dilate at
length upon his symptoms to her sympathetic ear.
Mr Farrell's behaviour at this critical juncture did not throw oil upon
the troubled waters. He took care that Jack should have every
attention, and inquired as to his progress with punctilious regularity;
but he plainly considered a sprained ankle a very trivial affair, which,
needless to say, did not coincide with the invalid's views of the case;
moreover, he absolutely refused to believe that the accident was
responsible for keeping Jack at the Court.
"It is only right to tell you, sir, that I had finally made up my mind
that I must return home to-day, as I could not agree with your
conditions," Jack informed him on their first interview after the doctor
had paid his visit; whereupon the old man elevated his eyebrows with
that air of ineffable superiority which was so exasperating, and said--
"And I, on the contrary, had made up my mind that you should stay. It
is satisfactory to me that the question is decided in my favour."
"By an accident, sir. By an accident only. If I'd been able to move--"
Mr Farrell held up his hand with a deprecatory gesture.
"In that case I should have called your attention to certain arguments
which would have brought about the same result. Believe me, my dear
Jack, it would have made no difference."
Jack's face flushed angrily. He forgot Mollie's entreaty, forgot his
own promise, and answered hotly--
"I cannot imagine any arguments that could keep me here against my will.
As soon as I can get about again I must return to my work. This
accident is only delaying my departure for a few weeks longer."
"So!" Could anything be more aggravating than that little bow and smile
which accompanied the word. "In a few weeks, my dear Jack, many things
may happen; therefore, it is superfluous to discuss the subject at
present. When the time arrives I shall be ready to meet it."
He turned and left the room, while Jack raged in helpless fury upon the
sofa. It was insufferable to be treated as if he were a boy who could
be ordered about against his will. When John Allen Ferguson Melland
said a thing, he _meant_ it, and not all the old men in the world should
move him from it, as Bernard Farrell would find out to his cost before
many weeks were past.
For three whole days Jack's ill-temper continued, and, like most angry
people, he punished himself even more than his companions, refusing to
sit in the drawing-room to see callers, and insisting on remaining all
day long in a dull little room at the back of the house. He grew tired
of reading. His head ached with the unusual confinement; just because
he was unable to move he felt an overpowering desire for half a dozen
things just out of reach, and the day stretched to an interminable
length. On the fourth morning depression had taken the place of ill-
temper, and he was prepared to allow himself to be petted and waited
upon, when, to his dismay, Victor came to his bedroom with the news that
the girls had gone up to town, accompanied by Mrs Thornton.
"They said, as you preferred to be alone it would be best to keep to
their plans," said Victor cruelly. "I am off for a ride, and shall
probably make a day of it, and lunch _en route_. I was thinking of
going to Barnsley. It is quite a decent-sized place. Would you like me
to try if I could find a masseuse for your foot?"
Jack looked up sharply; but Victor looked as he usually did. His face
was set and expressionless, as it always was when his eyes were hidden.
It was natural enough that he should make such a suggestion, seeing that
he had heard many lamentations on the subject, natural and kindly into
the bargain, yet Jack felt an instinctive unwillingness to accept the
offer.
"He wants me out of the way," came the leaping thought, while he bit his
lip, and appeared to ponder the question.
A few days before he himself had heartily echoed the sentiment; but now
that Fate--or was it something else?--had interfered to keep him at the
Court, Jack's views had slowly altered. It might be that there was a
duty waiting for him here, some duty which was even more important than
his work in town; and, if he shirked it, the consequences might fall
upon others besides himself. The two girls' faces rose before him,--
Ruth's shy and anxious, Mollie audaciously reckless,--children both of
them in the ways of the world, though innocently confident of their own
wisdom. If by staying on at the Court he could safeguard their
interests, it would be well-spent time which he should never regret.
To Victor's astonishment his offer was quietly but firmly refused, and
he set out on his ride marvelling what had happened to bring about such
a sudden change of front.
Meantime, Ruth and Mollie were enjoying their first experience of that
most delightful feminine amusement--shopping in London. They drove to
the doors of world-famed establishments, entered with smiling self-
confidence, and gave their orders, unperturbed even by the immaculate
visions in black satin who hastened forward to receive them; so
marvellous and inspiring are the effects of a purse and a cheque-book
behind it!
Mrs Thornton was purse-bearer, and, to do her justice, enjoyed the
occasion as much as the girls themselves. She had been personally
interviewed by Mr Farrell and coached for her part, which was to
chaperon the girls, take them to the best places in which to procure
their various requirements, but on no account whatever to direct the
purchases, or limit their extent.
"It is a good test; I wish to study it," said the old man, which speech
being repeated, Ruth looked grave, and Mollie laughed, and cried--
"There is only one question I shall ask you, `Do I look nice?' and one
piece of advice, `Which suits me best?' and you are free to answer them
both. In the present instance these hats are all so fascinating that it
would be a sin to choose between them. I shall take them all!"
"Mollie, don't be absurd. You shall do nothing of the kind. Four hats,
and you have two already! It would be wicked extravagance!" protested
Ruth vigorously.
But Mollie persisted, and the attendant volubly declared that indeed
"madam" was wrong. Six hats was a very moderate allowance. Madam would
need different hats for different occasions,--for morning and afternoon,
for fine and wet weather, for ordinary and dress occasions. Would she
herself not be persuaded to try on this charming model, the latest
French fashion, "ridiculously cheap at three guineas?"
"Thank you, I'll take the white hat, and the black chiffon. They will
answer all my purposes," declared Ruth frigidly.
She was shocked at Mollie's wanton extravagance, and all the more
disapproving that she herself badly wanted to be extravagant too, and
wear dainty colours for a change, instead of the useful black and white,
if only her sensitive conscience could have submitted to the outlay.
If hats had been a pitfall, dresses were even worse, for here the prices
were largely increased. It was a new experience to be ushered into what
looked more like a luxurious house than a shop, and to find oneself
confronted by a row of tall, willowy young women dressed in tightly
fitting black satin garments, so marvellously representing dress-stands
that they might have been mistaken for them had it not been for the
elaborately dressed heads.
"This is a very expensive place--just for your very best dresses," Mrs
Thornton ventured to explain; and the order, "Summer gowns for these
young ladies," having been given, presto! the animated dress-stands
disappeared through a doorway, to return a few minutes later to
promenade slowly up and down the floor before the dazzled eyes of the
beholders, each one attired in a different costume. Blue, green, white,
lavender, and yellow--perfect of cut, distracting of make--it was,
indeed, a problem to choose between them! And while they hesitated, lo!
another disappearance, and another triumphal entrance even more gorgeous
than the first.
"If I thought I should look as nice as they do, I'd have four at least,
but I shan't; my waist is twice as big, and I never learnt to glide,"
sighed Mollie humbly. "How much is the blue, please? I think that
would suit me best."
The price of that simple--looking frock gave Ruth an electric shock. It
was actually more than the whole of her yearly allowance. She looked it
over, making a rapid estimate of the cost of material and trimming, and
felt convinced she could have bought them all out of a five-pound note.
And then it could be made at home. Ah, no, that was just the
difficulty! The material was a detail, in the making-up thereof lay all
the charm and effect. She came out of her calculations to hear Mollie
say calmly--
"And I shall want them both home by the end of a week! Now my sister
will choose, and after that we will see some evening gowns."
Ruth took her courage in both hands, ordered one dress, and took
advantage of the first moment of solitude to rebuke Mollie in irritable
undertones.
"Do think what you are about! I'm the eldest, and it's most unsuitable
for you to be better dressed. You ought to let me decide, and follow my
example."
"But I promised Uncle Bernard that that was just what I would not do."
"Even if you did, he never intended you to order a whole trousseau. How
will he feel when he sees the bills?"
"I don't know; I think he will feel nice when he sees my clothes. Oh,
Ruth, do enjoy yourself when you have the chance! He gave you carte
blanche--why on earth can't you take it?"
But that was just exactly what Ruth could not do. The fear of the
bill--the fear of Uncle Bernard's displeasure, loomed so largely before
her eyes, that she dared not indulge her longing for needless fineries.
In every shop the same story was repeated, Mollie giving a lavish order
with beams of satisfaction, Ruth reducing hers by half, and feeling sore
and aggrieved. Each appealed in turn to Mrs Thornton for support and
approval, until that good lady became quite dazed and bewildered, and
was thankful to find herself once more in her quiet home.
Arrived at the Court, Mollie danced up to Mr Farrell, who sat reading
by the library fire.
"I'm back again, Uncle Bernard," she cried; "I've had a beautiful time!
I don't think I ever enjoyed myself so much! I'm bubbling over with
gratitude. I've spent heaps of money! You said I might, and I've taken
you at your word; and oh, I have got such lovely things in exchange!"
Mr Farrell looked at her grimly, but made no reply. His eyes turned
towards his other niece, who stood silently in the background.
"And you," he queried, "have you been equally fortunate?"
Ruth's face clouded.
"I got what I needed," she said; "I have a headache. I'm going upstairs
to rest."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
MOLLIE'S REVENGE.
Three weeks had passed by. May had begun--an old-fashioned, well-
conducted May--which was really like a foretaste of summer, instead of
the shivery disappointment which so often condemns us to fire and furs.
Jack's ankle was still troublesome, and though he could limp a few steps
with the aid of a stick, his outdoor exercises were for the most part
restricted to peregrinations in the old bath-chair. According to his
account the period had been one of much tribulation, when patience and
forbearance had been tried to their limits by the unnatural conduct of
Miss Mollie Farrell. Instead of behaving like the proverbial
ministering angel, Mollie proved uncertain, coy, and hard to please, and
so full of mischievous pranks that Jack declared that his hair was
turning white, though, if the truth be told, he looked remarkably bright
and happy.
One morning it happened that a chance remark of Jack's offended Miss
Mollie's dignity, and she vowed that she would be revenged. It seemed,
however, that she had forgotten her displeasure for when Ruth and Victor
went off to the village after lunch, she offered herself for the post of
chairman, and wheeled the invalid to his favourite position beneath a
flowering chestnut in front of the house.
The ankle was comfortable, and Jack, having lunched well, felt at peace
with mankind and womankind into the bargain, and quite inclined to enjoy
a pleasant talk. No sooner was he settled, however, than Miss Mollie
drew a book from her pocket, and sitting down on the grass at a few
yards' distance, deliberately turned her back upon him and began to
read.
Jack watched these proceedings in silence, recognising both that he was
being punished for having annoyed his companion in the morning, and also
that he could not better frustrate her intentions than by preserving an
appearance of undisturbed complacency. Accordingly, he sat quietly,
studying the pretty figure in the blue linen dress, and noticing with
satisfaction that the pages were flicked over more rapidly than was
consistent with careful reading.
The book was evidently dull--so much the better! Miss Mollie might find
her own punishment even heavier than his. He himself had nothing to
read, but that did not distress him. A man is not to be pitied if he
cannot make himself happy for an hour or so, even with a sprained ankle,
when there is a charming landscape to gaze upon, of which a pretty girl
makes the foreground.
Jack smiled lazily to himself as he thrust his hand into the tail-pocket
of his coat, but his expression changed tragically as his fingers groped
in vain for the bulky pouch which he had refilled just before leaving
the house. Now, what in the world had happened to that pouch? Could it
have fallen out of his pocket? Impossible! It was too securely
weighted down by its own size. It could not have fallen, but it could
easily have been stolen by the hands of his mischievous charioteer as
she wheeled him across the grass. Jack had no doubt that that was
exactly what had happened, and he congratulated himself on having
smothered an exclamation of dismay, as he saw Mollie's head lifted
cautiously from the pages as if to listen for the expected explosion.
Jack smiled to himself, knowing full well that her patience would soon
be exhausted, and with it the limit of his punishment. It would be a
joke to pretend to be asleep when, at last, it pleased her ladyship to
turn round! The little witch no doubt was fully aware how pretty she
looked, and fondly imagined that he was wrapt in admiration. It would
be a useful snub to find that he had forgotten all about her. So Jack
rested his head against the cushions of his chair, folded his arms, and
kept his eyes rigorously shut for the next few minutes. He felt
delightfully at ease, and the rays of the sun shining through the
branches were at once so subdued, and so comforting, that it came to
pass that what he had plotted in fun came about in earnest, and at the
end of a few minutes his lids were tightly closed, and his breath came
through his lips in long, regular respirations.
Mollie heard the sound, and smiled derisively.
"As if I should believe for one moment that he had gone to sleep!" said
she to herself, with a tilt of the saucy head; but as the moments passed
by, the perfection of the imitation began to disturb her equanimity; the
last breath, for example, approaching perilously near a snore! She
turned cautiously, inch by inch, until a glimpse of the bath-chair could
be obtained, with a fair head drooping upon the cushions. Jack was
asleep! Actually, and in very truth he had calmly slumbered off in
defiance of her displeasure.
Mollie arose in her wrath, and stood over the unconscious figure,
meditating upon the next step. If Jack Melland imagined for one moment
that she was going to mount guard over his slumbers, he would find
himself vastly mistaken; yet she dared not leave him unprotected, for
the ground sloped away from the tree, and a violent movement on the part
of its occupant would be enough to send the chair racing down the
incline. She stood and pondered, then, drawing a handkerchief from her
pocket, crept on tip-toe to the back of the chair and tied the handle to
a convenient bough. It would be almost impossible for Jack, crippled as
he was, to raise himself and turn round sufficiently to undo the knots;
so, after testing their firmness a second time, Mollie took a circuitous
path to the house, there to amuse herself for an hour or more, until Mr
Jack had time to awake and repent himself of his audacity.
The awaking came unexpectedly quickly. Perhaps Jack's slumbers had been
disturbed by Mollie's movements, quiet though they had been; certain it
is that she was hardly out of sight before he stirred uneasily, blinked
once or twice, and finally sat erect in a spasm of remembrance. He had
fallen asleep, not in pretence but in actual fact; for how long he had
slept he had no idea, but meantime the bird had flown, no doubt with
feathers much ruffled by wounded pride.
Jack did not believe that Mollie had gone out of sight; he pictured her
standing a few feet away, squeezed up against the branches of a tree,
with blue skirts held tightly together lest a fold should betray her
presence. Anxiety for his safety would soon bring her rushing to his
side; so he threw himself back in the chair to set it a-going; failed to
make it move, jolted forward, and again found it immovable. Then he
grew suspicious, and craning over his shoulder beheld the tell-tale
handkerchief with the tight little knots twisted purposely well out of
reach.
So this was Mollie's revenge, to leave him stranded in the middle of the
park until such time as it might please her to set him at liberty! Jack
hardly knew whether to be more amused or indignant at the sense of his
helplessness. It seemed so preposterous that a chit of a girl should be
able to keep him prisoner, that for a moment he seriously contemplated
getting out of the chair and limping back to the house. How contrite
she would be when she returned to find the chair empty; how full of
contrition, and anxiety about his welfare!
The prospect was not unpleasant; but after nearly a fortnight's
invalidism, he dreaded doing anything to retard convalescence, and the
more he measured with his eye the distance to the house the more
convinced he became that it was beyond his power to accomplish. It
would be ignominious, indeed, to have to give in half-way, and be
discovered by his tormentor sitting prone upon the ground waiting her
arrival.
Jack determined to be wise in his generation and remain where he was;
but it was dull work sitting alone, without paper or book to while away
the time, and as his chair was turned away from the drive he had not
even the distraction of watching for the return of Ruth and Victor. He
took out his pocket-book, searched through its contents for anything of
interest, made a few calculations on an empty page, and thrust it
impatiently into his pocket. Then he studied his strong white hands,
trying to imagine that they looked thin and delicate, carried out a
systematic search through every one of his pockets, lest, perchance,
anything at all interesting might have wandered into one of them by
mistake; looked at his watch and groaned to find that it was still a
full half-hour to tea-time. At last when patience was well-nigh
exhausted, the crunch of footsteps on the path delighted his ears, and
he called out a vociferous greeting--
"Hallo! are you back? Thank goodness for that. I was just looking out
for you."
No answer. The footsteps came to a momentary pause, then crunched on
again quicker than before. Jack cleared his throat and roared still
louder--
"I say, I'm here! Don't go without me; I'm alone; I want to go up to
the house."
Silence still; another pause and then a deliberate walk onwards, which
roused Jack to veritable anger. This was evidently not Ruth but Mollie,
and Mollie must be taught that there was a point when a joke ceased to
be a joke, and that, bound or free, Jack Melland must be obeyed. When
he spoke again his voice was not loud any longer, but cuttingly cold and
severe.
"Will you kindly come here and unloose my chair; I refuse to be kept a
prisoner any longer."
The footsteps paused abruptly; the swish of a silken skirt came across
the grass, and a woman's clear, high-bred voice cried abruptly--
"A prisoner! Oh, what is the matter? Please tell me what I can do. I
would have stopped at once, but I did not think you could possibly be
talking to me."
Jack looked up in amaze, and beheld a tall girl clad in grey, a little
head beautifully poised on an unusually long neck, and a pale, oval
face, out of which looked a pair of deep, violet eyes. The stranger was
not beautiful, not even pretty, but in the way she spoke, in the way she
moved, in the way she stood looking at him, with the folds of her dress
held together in one slender hand, there was an air of distinction which
marked her out from the ordinary run of womankind.
Jack felt overcome with embarrassment as he remembered his imperious
summons, and so much at a loss to explain his predicament that for a few
moments he could not find words, but just lay back in his chair staring
at her with horrified eyes.
The stranger evidently perceived his embarrassment, for she came a step
forwards and said tactfully--
"I think you must be Mr Melland. May I introduce myself? My name is
Margot Blount I have been lunching at the vicarage, and took the
opportunity of calling upon Miss Farrell before the carriage comes back
for me at five o'clock. I shall be so glad if I can be of any service
to you _en route_."
"Thank you; you are very kind. I am awfully sorry that I should have
shouted at you in that threatening way," said Jack, smiling in his most
fascinating manner, and he could be remarkably fascinating upon
occasion. "The truth is I am a cripple at present with a sprained
ankle, and my--er--attendant has chosen to run away, and leave me tied
up to this tree. I was getting tired and impatient, hence the summons."
"Ah," exclaimed Lady Margot, smiling, "I can guess who the attendant
was! Miss Mollie Farrell, was it not? I have heard so much of her from
Mrs Thornton that I am quite longing to see her. Is she at home this
afternoon--and her sister?"
"I am not sure about Miss Farrell; she went out for a walk after lunch;
but in any case she is sure to return very soon. Miss Mollie is--
somewhere! It is impossible to be more explicit. Probably some of the
servants will be able to find her for you."
"I hope so, but first what can I do for you? Shall I untie this noose
and set you free?"
"Thank you; I should be much obliged. Then, perhaps, you would kindly
ask the butler to send someone to bring me in. I shall hope to see you
later on."
Lady Margot rustled to the back of the chair, and bent over the knotted
handkerchief. It was tied as if the knots were never intended to be
undone, and presently she paused to take off her gloves before attacking
it again, while Jack expostulated and apologised for the trouble he was
giving. Finally, regardless of her light draperies, Lady Margot knelt
down on the ground so as to work more conveniently, and in the midst of
her efforts a saucy face peered suddenly round the corner of a tree a
few yards distant, and Mollie hove into sight, with head thrown back and
arms a-kimbo in would-be threatening attitude. From her position Jack's
broad shoulders hid from view the grey figure behind the chair, and he
guessed as much, and took a wicked delight in the thought.
"Well, Mr Melland, I hope you feel refreshed by your slumbers, and have
awakened in a better frame of mind," cried Mollie loftily. "Will you
say you are sorry, and be taken to have tea on the terrace, or be
obstinate and stay here by your lonesome little self?"
"Neither, thank you; I have been fortunate enough to find a friend in
need, so am no longer dependent on your good offices. Allow me to
introduce you--Miss Mary Farrell--Lady Margot Blount!" said Jack
dramatically.
Tableau!
Mollie's arms dropped to her sides and her face grew scarlet under the
garden-hat. So far from rising to her position as hostess, it was the
visitor who came forward to shake hands and speak the conventional words
of greeting. It was, indeed, a cruel Fate which sent just this visitor
at just this very time! Half a dozen times over during the last
fortnight had Mollie donned one of her grand London dresses and sat
primly in the drawing-room, with intent to receive Lady Margot in style,
and impress her with a sense of her own dignity and importance! And
then to be discovered behaving like a mischievous school-girl, and be
taken at such a disadvantage that she could not even find her voice! It
was too annoying!
"Good-afternoon, Miss Farrell! I was coming up to the house to call
upon you and your sister. I am so happy to have found you at home; and,
do you know, I believe Mr Melland will have to fall back upon your
help, after all. My efforts have not been at all successful. You tie
such good knots!" cried Lady Margot, in a tone of enthusiasm which
seemed to imply that the tying of knots was one of the rarest and most
valuable of accomplishments. Looking into her face, Mollie's
embarrassment died a sudden death, and she found herself smiling back
with a delicious sense of comradeship and understanding.
"Oh, I know the trick. I can undo them in a moment, and then won't you
come and have tea with us on the terrace? It is all ready, and it seems
a sin to be indoors on this lovely day. My sister will be there waiting
for us; she was just coming up the path by the lake as I turned the
corner."
"Oh, that is nice!" said Lady Margot. She looked as if she were about
to ask another question, but checked herself, and strolled along beside
the bath-chair, chatting alternately to Jack and Mollie with an ease and
grace which might have come from long years' acquaintanceship. As they
turned the corner of the terrace she was a step in advance, and Mollie
saw her stop short for the fraction of a moment while the colour rushed
into her pale cheeks. She had surprised a pretty little tableau--a
tableau to which the inhabitants of the Court had grown accustomed
during the last few days--Ruth seated on her chair, her lovely head
drooped shyly forward, Victor leaning impressively towards her, his dark
eyes bent on her face. They were too much engrossed to hear the
approaching footsteps, but the sound of the chair crunching over the
gravel at last aroused their attention, when Victor turned round, and
leapt to his feet, white and breathless.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
"THE OGRE."
It was not a successful tea-party; for the fact of Victor's previous
acquaintance with Lady Margot, so far from acting as a bond of union,
seemed to cast a constraint over all. The meeting between the two had
been cool and unnatural. They persistently avoided speaking to or
looking at each other, and it seemed to Mollie's critical ear as if even
Lady Margot's voice had altered in tone since she had turned the corner
of the terrace. She chatted away as easily as before, but the friendly
manner was replaced by something colder and more formal. As she sat
with veil turned back, the full rays of the sun shining upon her face,
it became more obvious than ever that, in spite of chestnut hair and
violet eyes, Lady Margot fell far short of beauty; but, none the less,
the eye dwelt upon her in fascinated attention, so graceful was the pose
of the small, stag-like head, so finely cut the curve of chin and cheek;
while the smallest action, as of lifting a cup to her lips, became a
veritable joy to behold.
She was the incarnation of grace, and, looking at her, Mollie became
uncomfortably aware of roughened hair, sunburnt hands, and a dozen
little deficiencies of toilette. Even Ruth suffered from the
comparison, and, despite an obvious effort to sustain her role as
hostess, there was a strained, unhappy expression upon her face which
went to Mollie's heart.
It was a relief to all when Lady Margot rose to take leave; but when she
offered her hand to Victor in his turn, he said eagerly--
"Mayn't I walk down with you to the vicarage? It is so long since we
met! Please let me take you so far!"
"Oh, certainly, if you can spare the time!" replied Lady Margot with a
careless indifference of manner which made her consent almost more
blighting than a refusal.
Victor winced beneath it, but made no comment, and the two tall figures
walked slowly down the terrace. Immediately they had disappeared, Jack
summoned a servant to wheel him into the house, and the girls were left
alone.
They sat silently for a long time, as true friends can do without
offence, Ruth gazing ahead with grey eyes which saw nothing of the
beauty of the scene; Mollie glancing from time to time at her troubled
face, then turning quickly aside, lest her scrutiny might be observed
and resented.
At length Ruth spoke, letting her figure drop back in her chair with a
gesture of weariness--
"I wonder how it is that nothing is ever as nice as one expects? If we
could have looked forward two months ago, and seen ourselves as we are
now, we should have imagined ourselves the happiest creatures on earth;
but I am not. Sometimes it seems quite perfect for a few moments, but
something always happens to rub off the bloom. Uncle Bernard is cross,
or Mrs Wolff stupid, or--or something else! I believe we are not meant
to be happy in this world!"
Mollie looked up with a quick flush of dissent.
"Oh, I think that is such a grudging idea! I hate to hear people say
it, and I can't think how they can, when they look round, and see how
bright and beautiful everything has been made! If God had meant us to
be dull and sad, would He have made all the flowers different colours,
and every season different from the last, and the sunsets and the dawn,
and the wonderful changing clouds? It is just a gorgeous feast to
delight our eyes of colour; and all the animals are so cheerful, while
they are young, at least--they skip and dance by instinct, so surely we
must be meant to be happy too!"
"I don't know," Ruth objected slowly. "Animals have not souls and
responsibilities, but we have, and that keeps us serious. The average
man and woman is not happy, if you can judge by appearances. I remember
reading about a man who walked about the streets of London all day long
to see how many people he should meet with a smile on their faces. I
forget how many there were--half a dozen, perhaps--terribly few!"
"Well, there would have been thousands, if people were half as grateful
as they should be. Do you know, I sometimes think that what must grieve
God more than almost anything else is that so many people refuse to be
happy, in spite of all He can do, and go on forgetting their blessings,
and making themselves miserable about little bits of silly worries and
bothers day after day. Imagine if you had a child who was always
grizzling, in spite of all your love and care! How would you feel?"
"But a child is a child. We may be meant to be serious."
"You can be serious without being glum. You can be happy without being
thoughtless."
"Ah, Mollie dear," cried Ruth, turning to her sister and holding out her
hand with a rush of tenderness--"ah, Mollie dear, happiness is a gift,
which you possess and I do not! I am sad even on this lovely day, in
this lovely place. It may be wrong, but I can't help it, yet I don't
think I am ungrateful."
"You are happy enough as a rule; but you do `sup sorrow with a spoon'
when you get the chance, old dear! An hour ago, for instance, the sky
seemed remarkably bright, and I could make a shrewd guess at the reason
of this cloud; but, if I did, I expect you would snap off my head for my
pains!"
"Yes, I should--I certainly should; so be careful what you say!" cried
Ruth hastily. Then, as if eager to change the subject--"Here is James
coming out with the afternoon letters. I hope there is one from home.
It seems ages since we heard!"
"Trix! For me. How lovely! I'll read it aloud!" cried Mollie, tearing
open the envelope, and unfolding several odd sheets torn out of an
exercise-book and covered with large, untidy handwriting. Trix's
characteristic epistles were always welcome, and this afternoon's
specimen had arrived in the very nick of time to stop an embarrassing
discussion, and cheer Ruth's drooping spirits.
Mollie lay back in her chair, and began reading in her clear fresh
tones--
"Darling Moll,--While you are basking in the lap of luxury, this poor
critter is snatching a few precious moments from `prep' to answer your
last epistle, and give what news there is. First and foremost, mother
is as well as possible, and goes about with an `open your mouth and
shut your eyes, and in your mouth you'll find a prize' expression,
which puzzles her friends into fits. Poor mum simply dies to tell
them that one of her daughters will shortly become a millionaire! But
she shuts her lips up tight, and looks more mysterious than ever,
because, of course, there is a chance that it may not come off. Don't
let me ever see your faces again if it doesn't, that's all!
"Fancy you having all those fine clothes! I can't imagine how you
would look respectably attired. Kindly remember Beatrice Olivia for
any cast-off fineries. Hair-ribbons especially desired. I've nothing
left but an old Navy-blue, twisted up like a tape.
"We had a general intelligence examination at school this week.
Stupid old things! One question was, `What is the complementary
colour to red?' I had never heard of a complementary colour in my
life, and I was just racking my brains to think what to say, when my
eyes happened to light on Miss Smith's carrots. `Ah, ha,' thinks I,
`I have it!' So I put down `auburn,' and was jolly well pleased with
myself until lunch-time came, when I was telling Gladys my answers,
and Miss Bateson heard me, and went into perfect fits! It seems
complementary means something idiotic about two colours making a white
light--as if they ever could! Anyway, I think my answer was very
pretty and tactful--don't you? and I hope it will soften Smithy's hard
heart.
"Another silly question was, `Order a dinner for a class of twelve
Board-school children, and state what quantities of each article are
required.' One girl ordered a pound of roast beef and a pound of
potatoes for each child, and ten and a half yards of Swiss-roll for
the whole class! I ordered the `scrag-end of the neck.' Haven't the
least idea what it means, but I thought it sounded cheap. I likewise
gave them suet dumplings for pudding. Hope they liked them!
"Is Mr Melland's ankle getting better? Have you had any more
callers, invitations, rides, excursions, or excitements generally?
Please answer my questions next time, and don't ignore them, as you
generally do. Drummond had a fine adventure yesterday. Another small
boy dared him to stick his head between our railings, and he did, but
it wouldn't come out! He pushed, and the small boy pulled, and a
crowd collected right across the pavement, making kind suggestions,
and commenting on the size of his ears. Whenever he tried to get
back, the railings caught them, and they stuck out like sails.
Finally his pride gave way, and he howled, and a friendly policeman
coming along, poked the rails apart with a stick, or did something or
other, and out he came with a rush. He looked very crushed in every
sense all the evening, so we hope it may be a lesson to him.
"The next-door girls have new hats--mustard straw, draped with green,
and roses under the brim. It seems so sad to reflect that the poor
dears probably imagine they look quite nice!
"How is the Ogre? Does he still live in his den, and growl when you
appear? I should be very glad he did shut himself up, when he is so
cross and disagreeable!
"Well, ta-ta, my darlings! I miss you at home, but I can't say I pine
for your return, for it's quite pleasant to be Number One for a
change, and boss Attica and the Muz. Take care of yourselves, behave
prettily, and don't forget the hair-ribbons.--Your loving Trix."
"Wild child!" said Ruth, smiling. "She does write the most absurd
letters! Better tear that up at once, Mollie, or burn it when you get
into the house. You have such a trick of leaving things about, and it
isn't safe. Uncle Bernard might--"
She started violently, and Mollie jumped to her feet as a harsh voice
interrupted the sentence--
"Uncle Bernard has already had the pleasure of hearing the way in which
a member of your family writes of him to a visitor in his own house.
Ideas of loyalty seem to have altered since my young days, when it was
considered a breach of decent feeling to eat a man's salt and speak
slightingly of him behind his back!"
Ruth sat silent, crimson to the roots of her hair; Mollie shuffled
miserably from one foot to another, but did not shrink from the old
man's angry gaze.
"But how did you hear, Uncle Bernard? Have you been sitting behind this
open window, listening to us all the while we have been talking? I
don't think it is quite fair to do that."
"Don't you, indeed! I happened to be reading in my armchair, when you
came and planted your chairs immediately outside. I was the first-
comer, you observe, not yourselves, and I cannot say I was interested
enough to listen to your conversation until my attention was attracted
by the description of myself. I presume the very descriptive title was
originally your invention?"
He planted his stick on the ground, and stared fixedly in Mollie's face.
The grey eyes fell before his, and she answered hesitatingly--
"I'm--I'm afraid it was."
"And do you think it was good manners to write in such a way of your
host?"
"No, I don't; I think it was hateful. But--"
"But?"
Mollie took a step forward, and laid a timid hand on his arm.
"But, in a sort of way, it is true. You shut yourself up, and you do
growl, and even when you are kind, you pretend to be cross. We have
tried and tried to be friends with you, but you won't let us. We have
said over and over again that we felt as if we were living in an hotel,
and it has been a trouble to us all. I don't wonder you feel angry; but
don't you think you are a wee bit in the wrong yourself?"
Mr Farrell stared down at the eager face, the wide grey eyes, the
little hand upon his arm, then deliberately drew himself away, saying
coldly--
"You would make a good lawyer, my dear. You have a clever trick of
evading an awkward question, and shifting the blame from your own
shoulders. You will excuse me if I say that I can scarcely consent to
discuss my own conduct with a girl of your years. The point I mentioned
was your own conduct in writing disrespectfully of your host."
"I know, and I've said already that it was horrid; but it was not so
horrid as you think. Trix is my sister, and we all have a habit of
exaggerating and using stronger terms than we really mean. We have a
habit of giving nicknames, too. They are not complimentary as a rule,
but we don't mean to be unkind. If you read some of Trix's other
letters, you would see that we have not been altogether ungrateful.
Will you read them? I have them all upstairs, and could bring them down
in a moment."
"You are very good. Judging from the specimen I have heard, I think I
would rather decline the honour."
"Yes; but you ought not to decline! It isn't a question of enjoyment;
it's a question of justice to Ruth and to me. You accuse us of being
disloyal and ungrateful, so it's only fair you should hear our defence.
I will bring down the letters, and you can read them at your leisure.
They may bore you a little, but you will see that we are not so bad as
you think, and that we have not always been uncomplimentary."
She walked hastily towards the house, leaving Ruth and the old man
alone. He stood leaning on his stick, staring fixedly at her with his
sunken eyes; but her head remained persistently drooped, the dark lashes
lying on the flushed cheeks.
In the tension of that silence she could hear the beating of her own
heart, and her ears strained nervously for the sound of returning
footsteps. She had not long to wait. With a clatter, Mollie came
scrambling out of the library window, the letters in her hand.
"There's our defence! Please read them before you scold us any more."
Mr Farrell took the letters, thrust them into his pocket, then stood
silently, as if waiting for something more.
Mollie stared at him curiously, but he paid no attention to her; his
gaze was fixed on Ruth's bent figure and downcast face. At length,
surprised at the prolonged silence, she lifted her eyes with a
frightened glance, and immediately Uncle Bernard broke into speech.
"Yes, I was waiting for you! Have you nothing to say on your own
account?" he demanded sternly. "You seem content to sit silently and
let your sister fight your battles. Is it because you are innocent of
having offended in the same way yourself?"
Ruth's cheeks flushed to an even deeper rose.
"I," she stammered--"I--I'm sorry! I didn't mean--"
Mr Farrell turned to re-enter the house.
"Ah," he said coldly," so it was cowardice, after all! I understand.
It is an interesting discovery!"
CHAPTER TWENTY.
RECEIVING AND PAYING CALLS.
Two days later Mr Farrell returned Trix's letters with a brief "Thank
you!" which Mollie had enough tact to receive without remark. She was
not conscious of having gained in the old man's graces, though Ruth was
sadly conscious of having fallen from favour. Victor was evidently for
the time being the _persona grata_, his remarks being received with
attention, and his wishes carefully carried out.
Mollie confessed to herself that Victor's manners were perfect where his
host was concerned, and wondered why it was that she found herself
constantly suspecting his motives. What if he were playing a part to
win the old man's favour? Was it not the unhappy feature of the
situation that they were all, more or less, doing the same thing?
Meantime, callers arrived daily. Stout, middle-aged matrons, with
pompous manners; thin matrons, precise and formal of speech; tall
elegants, with flowing robes and Parisian millinery; sporting-looking
women, with short skirts and motor-caps. One after another they drove
up to the door and sat for a few moments in the drawing-room, going
through the same stereotyped conversation: "How pleasant to have the
Court opened once more! How do you like Raby? How delightful to have
such delightful summer-like weather!" Then they drank a cup of tea,
nibbled a piece of cake, and said: "_Good_-afternoon! _So_ pleased to
have met you! We shall hope to see you again _very_ soon!"
Occasionally the matron brought a daughter in her train, and still more
occasionally a shy, depressed-looking husband; but at the best of times
the calls were not cheerful occasions, and Ruth and Mollie looked
forward with little pleasure to paying their return visits.
"Though it must at least be more interesting than receiving at home, for
we shall see other people's houses, and the way they arrange their
drawing-rooms. I do love studying strange drawing-rooms!" said Ruth
meditatively. "In country houses they ought to be charming--all chintzy
and smelling of pot-pourri! All the same, Mollie, I'm disappointed in
the neighbours. They aren't a bit thrilling, as we expected."
"People generally seem uninteresting at first. They may turn out to be
perfect darlings, when we know them better. I dare say they drove away
saying the same thing of us, for we behaved like a couple of
marionettes, sitting dressed up in our best, saying, `Yes, indeed!'
`No, indeed!' `Very much, indeed!' `Thank you so much!' as if we were
wound up by machinery. We must really launch out, and say something a
trifle more original!"
It was quite an exciting occasion when the girls set out on their first
calling expedition. It was an ideal May afternoon, and the prospect of
driving over the countryside in an open carriage, behind two prancing
horses, was in itself a delight.
Victor was to make one of the party, but Jack refused contemptuously to
accompany them if only for the drive, declaring that even a sprained
ankle had its silver lining if it let him off so boring a function. He
was sitting in the hall, waiting to cheer--or more strictly speaking, to
jeer--the departure, when Ruth came downstairs buttoning her gloves,
and, to her surprise, Mr Farrell was also present.
Both men looked up critically as she appeared, but neither glance was
altogether approving. Her new dress looked too old and staid for so
young a girl; moreover, her expression was fretful and worried. As she
reached the spot where the two men were seated, Victor came into the
hall from the doorway and looked round impatiently.
"Are you ready, Miss Ruth? The carriage has been waiting for some time
now."
"Oh, I have been ready for ages! It's Mollie who is the laggard. She
has been dressing ever since lunch, and is dressing still. I don't know
when she will be finished."
Mr Farrell turned imperiously to the butler.
"Be kind enough to send a message to Miss Mary that I object to having
the horses kept waiting. Three o'clock was the hour arranged, and it is
already a quarter past. Ask how soon she will be ready!"
The man departed, and there was an uncomfortable silence for several
minutes, broken at last by the banging of a door and the sound of racing
footsteps. A white-and-blue vision came flying down the staircase, with
filmy skirts floating behind, white feathers drooping over the golden
hair, a cobweb parasol unfurled, and held triumphantly aloft.
"I'm sorry! It took such ages to fasten, and I had to take my hair down
and do it up again to get the hat at the right angle. I wanted to
fasten my gloves, to give you the whole effect, parasol and all.
There!" Mollie strutted to and fro, turning her head from side to side
like a sleek, self-satisfied pigeon. "How do you like it? Don't you
think I look rather--nice?"
The two young men laughed aloud, and Mr Farrell said drily--
"Fine feathers make fine birds! I am glad to see that you have honoured
my friends by wearing your fineries for their benefit. Ruth, I presume,
prefers to keep hers for another occasion?"
Ruth dropped her eyelids and vouchsafed no reply. There was a little
lump in her throat at that moment which would have made it difficult to
speak in her usual voice. It was hard to have denied herself for
naught, and less than naught, for Mollie's extravagance seemed more to
the old man's taste than her own prudence. It was not the first time
that the difference in their attire had been the subject of little edged
remarks, which had made her bitterly regret the lost opportunity.
Seated in the carriage opposite Victor, she was still further depressed
by the fear that he was also comparing her with Mollie, to her own
disadvantage; but there was no hint of such a thought in his look or
manner. The dark eyes met hers with sympathetic understanding. At
every point he deferred to her opinion with a subtle flattery which was
inexpressibly soothing to her wounded feelings.
The occupants of the first house on the list were not at home, so a
sheaf of cards were left, and the carriage sped on another mile to
Number 2, where the family were discovered superintending the
arrangements of bedding-out plants round the front lawn. They greeted
the visitors with easy cordiality, consulted them on the knotty question
of geraniums _versus_ begonias, escorted them round the gardens, and
were vociferously reproachful when they refused to stay another half-
hour to partake of tea.
As the carriage drove up the drive leading to the third house, a
masculine figure was seen rushing to conceal itself behind the bushes,
and the visitors had hard work to conceal their smiles when their
hostess sent an urgent message to summon her husband from the grounds,
and, on hearing that he could not be found, expressed her conviction
that he would be woefully disappointed to have missed the pleasure of
making their acquaintance.
"A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind! I don't feel a bit of a
grudge against that fellow," Victor said laughingly, as they drove off
once more. "With your permission, I am going to follow his example and
make a bolt of it when we get back to the high-road. I shall enjoy the
walk home, after being cramped up all afternoon. You will excuse me,
won't you?"
"But we are going to the Moat. That's the next house on the list.
Don't you want to see Lady Margot?" cried Mollie, outspoken as usual.
Both girls stared at him in amazement, but there was no sign of
embarrassment on the handsome, smiling face.
"Very much, of course, but not enough to face another drawing-room
catechism, accompanied by draughts of strong tea. There will be no
escape this time, so you must be generous, and let me run for it, like
poor Mr Granger! I have been very good and docile, but if you only
knew how I am longing for freedom!"
There was no gainsaying such a request, nor, indeed, did either of the
girls particularly wish to do so.
They made no objections, therefore, but, putting Victor down at the
cross-roads, drove on their way in great good-humour.
The Moat was a picturesque old house, though by no means so imposing as
the Court. The man-servant reported that Mrs Blount was not well
enough to receive visitors, but that Lady Margot was at home and
disengaged; and the visitors were shown into a pleasant, sunny
apartment, where Margot herself was seated reading. She looked up
apprehensively at the sound of the opening door; but at the sight of the
two girls her expression changed, and she came forward to greet them
with an eagerness which could not be mistaken.
"This is good of you to come so soon! And I am alone, so we can have a
delightful chat all to ourselves. Bring tea, Wilson, please. Do come
and sit down, and let me make you comfortable! My aunt is not
downstairs to-day, and I was getting so bored with my own society that I
am doubly pleased to see you! There are so few girls of my own age in
this neighbourhood that I find it rather dull after the rush and bustle
of town. It is so good of you to be here at the same time as me!"
"It is very nice for us," responded Mollie brightly; while truthful Ruth
hesitated to find some reply which would be at once polite and non-
committal. "But isn't it a strange time for you to come to this quiet
place, when London is at its brightest and gayest?"
"Ah, thereby hang many tales!" cried Lady Margot, laughing. "The most
important is, perhaps, that I am not strong enough to go through a
season just now; but I have no intention of being dull even in Raby. We
must amuse each other and do all kinds of nice things together. The
great lack on my visits, so far, has been to find any other girls with
whom I could be intimate; but now that you are here it will be quite
different."
"But we are only country-cousins, Lady Margot. You will find that we
are very ignorant of the things that have made up your life. We are
very poor at home, and have had to do most of our gaieties in
imagination," said Ruth; while Mollie gave a little gurgle of laughter,
and cried--
"Let's tell her about Berengaria and Lucille!"
Lady Margot looked her curiosity, and, when the nature of the game was
explained in detail in Mollie's breezy language, went into peals of
delighted laughter, and rocked to and fro in her chair.
"How lovely--oh, how lovely! I do think it is too funny! I must call
you Berengaria and Lucille. Do you mind? Such wonderful names! How
did you manage to hit on them? I used to imagine, too; and what do you
think was my dream? Instead of being a lonely only girl, I was a large
family of grown-up sisters, and schoolboys coming home for the holidays,
and little dots in the nursery--all in my own little self. You can't
imagine how dull it is to be an only girl!"
"No," asserted Ruth doubtfully. "But rather nice to get all the petting
and consideration! When you are the eldest of seven children, you are
always expected to set an example, and it is very wearing at times. How
delightful that you amused yourself `pretending,' just as we did! That
makes quite a bond of union between us!"
"Yes, indeed! But lucky creatures, your dream seems about to come true,
while I am as lonely as ever. Your position at the Court is so
romantic! You don't mind my speaking about it, do you, because everyone
knows, and is so interested in the result? Of course, one of you must
be the lucky heir; and then we shall be neighbours, and see each other
constantly. Which is it to be--Berengaria, or Lucille?"
"Mollie!" said Ruth.
"Ruth!" said Mollie. "Don't believe her, Lady Margot. She is a wee bit
out of favour the last few days, but I haven't a chance beside her. She
has the Farrell eyebrows, you see, and the Farrell frown, and poise of
the head. When she is sitting in the dining-room, you could tell at
once that she was a descendant of the oil-paintings. I often see Uncle
Bernard looking from her to them, and he is far more amiable to her than
to any of us, as a rule. We all agree that she is far and away the
chief favourite."
"Really! You discuss it among yourselves, and come to the same
conclusions. How interesting!" said Lady Margot. "And the two men--
your cousins--do they have no chance at all, poor things?" she asked
lightly.
"They are not our cousins. They belong to different sides of the house,
and we had never met till we came down here. Mr Melland refuses to be
considered as a `candidate,' and is staying only till his ankle is
better. Mr Druce,"--Ruth hesitated uncertainly--"he is very nice to
Uncle Bernard. They talk together a good deal. Sometimes I think his
chance is very good."
"He is certainly second favourite, so far; but we have more than two
months still before us. I intend to cut them both out long before then.
May I have one of those dear little scones? I am quite hungry after my
drive!" Mollie said, as she in turn was presented with a dainty
Worcester cup.
She watched Lady Margot with intent eyes, as she flitted about the room,
placing little tables beside her guests for their greater convenience.
"Such a plain dress, and almost no jewellery, and her hair so simply
done; but she looks a Lucille through and through, as I should never do,
however fine I might be!" she said admiringly to herself.
"We must think what we shall do to amuse ourselves, mustn't we? You
have begun your round of dinners already, I hear; but in Raby they are
apt to be a trifle too agricultural. All the men talk about their crops
at this time of the year, and, as the prospects are generally bad, they
get gloomier and gloomier as each course comes on. Mr Druce told me
that Mr Early has paid you a visitation, so, if you take his
conversation as a sample, you can judge of the combined effect. I don't
ask what he talked about, because I know!"
"Yes," murmured Ruth vaguely, while her eye met Mollie's in an
involuntary appeal. "Mr Druce told me!"--But Mr Early's call had
taken place only three days before, nearly a week after Lady Margot's
visit to the Court. "Mr Druce told me!" That meant that Margot had
met Victor yesterday or the day before, and had talked with him some
time, for the prosy Mr Early would not be an early subject of
conversation. Victor often went out riding alone, and there was no
reason in the world why he should not call on an old acquaintance. But
why make a mystery of it, and avoid the call to-day by an obvious
subterfuge? Ruth was very quiet for the rest of the visit, and Lady
Margot glanced at her more than once as she chatted with Mollie. When
tea was over she came out to the porch to watch their departure.
"_Au revoir_, Berengaria--_au revoir_, Lucille!" she cried gaily, as the
carriage drove away; but as she turned from the door, the smile faded
from her face, and was replaced by a very thoughtful expression.
"I see--I see it all! Poor pretty thing!" she said tenderly to herself.
"I am sorry for her and for poor Margot, too! Which of us, I wonder,
is the more to be pitied?"
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
PREPARING FOR THE GARDEN-PARTY.
Mrs Thornton took counsel with her husband as to the best form of
hospitality she could show to the squire's visitors.
"I want to be one of the first to entertain them formally. It is a duty
in our position," she explained. "The girls have been to tea several
times, and that dear Mollie runs up to the nursery as naturally as if
she were at home; but I think we ought to do more. The squire will
expect it; and then the question is, dear--what can we do?"
"Just so." The vicar smiled, half amused, half quizzical. "The means
at our disposal are distinctly limited. We can't ask them to dinner,
because the staff is incapable of cooking and serving an extensive
meal."
"And there are only three sherry-glasses left, and Mary broke the round
glass dish last week--the one I always used for the trifle. And the
dinner-service... We really must buy a new dinner-service, Stanford!"
"We really must, Agnes--some time! I think all the objections taken
together put the dinner-party out of the question. Would not a somewhat
more formal tea--"
"No." Mrs Thornton shook her head decidedly. "A formal tea is the
most depressing function imaginable. If it was a little later on, I
would suggest a hay-party. As it is, I am afraid it must be a garden-
party, pure and simple."
The vicar laughed.
"Simple, it certainly would be. Our poor little lawn, one tennis-court,
and the flower-garden a mass of weeds! We can't afford a band of
minstrels, or even the ordinary ices and hothouse fruits. I am afraid
it might be rather a failure, Agnes."
But Mrs Thornton refused to be discouraged.
"Nonsense, dear! People don't expect extravagant entertainments at a
vicarage! The children and I can undertake the weeding, and when that
is done the dear old herbaceous borders will look charming! The lawn is
not big, but there is delightful shade beneath the beech-trees, and we
can draw the piano up to the drawing-room window, and get a few people
to sing for us--Maud Bailey and Mrs Reed; and I believe Mr Druce has a
fine voice. I'll ask him to be very kind, and give us a song. As for
refreshments, I can give good tea and coffee, and the best cream for
miles around, and people can exist without ices for once in a way.
Given a bright, fine day, I could manage beautifully!"
"I have no doubt you could. But why go through the ceremony of asking
my advice, Mistress Thornton, when your mind has been made up from the
beginning? Go your ways--go your ways! I wash my hands of all
responsibility!" cried the vicar, laughing, as he walked back to his
study, leaving his wife to sit down to her desk and make out a lengthy
list of guests, which included everyone of note for miles round.
During the days to come Mr Thornton often sympathised with his wife on
the amount of work she had undertaken in order to entertain the squire's
guests; but, even to his unobservant eyes, it was apparent that, so far
from being exhausted, she throve beneath it, and appeared brighter and
younger than for years past. All work and no play has an even more
depressing effect upon Jill than on Jack, and Mrs Thornton was by
instinct a hospitable creature, who would have loved nothing better than
a houseful of guests and a constant succession of entertainments. With
small means, a large family, and a straggling parish, her time and
energy were for the most part engrossed in sheer hard work, so that the
prospect of a little "jollification," as she laughingly expressed it,
came as a welcome variety.
The invitations to the Court were sent out first, to make sure of the
most important guests, and down came the girls with notes of acceptance,
and a hundred curious questions.
"Who is coming? What are you going to do? What dresses shall we wear?
Can we help?" they asked eagerly; whereupon Mrs Thornton laughed, and
replied hesitatingly--
"It is most incorrect; you ought to know nothing of the make-shifts, but
just drive down to enjoy the completed effect; but, yes,--I cannot
resist the pleasure of your company. Come, if you like, and I'll
promise you some real hard work."
"That's right; and you'll find us so useful! We have been born and
brought up on make-shifts, and can make anything out of nothing, and a
box of tacks--can't we, Ruth?" cried Mollie, in the brutally outspoken
manner which always brought a flush into her sister's face.
It was not so much foolish shame at the fact of poverty, but the stab of
painful repugnance which came with the remembrance of the bareness and
lack of beauty which characterised the old life. After a month's
sojourn at the Court the day of small things seemed far away, and she
shrank at the possibility of returning to it as a permanency.
When Mrs Thornton began to enumerate her difficulties, and escorted the
girls from one room to another to ask their advice upon various knotty
points, it was like the probing of a wound to Ruth's sensitive nerves.
The house itself was roomy and well built, but in a hopeless state of
disrepair. The paint was worn and dingy; the wallpapers so old-
fashioned and discoloured that all Mrs Thornton's painstaking efforts
after cheerfulness and beauty were foiled by the inartistic background.
"I shed tears over the drawing-room paper when I was first married,"
said Mrs Thornton, with a laugh and a shrug. "But, as one gets older,
there are so many more serious things to cry over that one learns to be
philosophical. I thought I might put some big, spreading branches in
these old pots to cover the walls as much as possible, for we must have
some rooms available in case of a shower. A wet day is too terrible a
catastrophe to contemplate, so we won't even imagine it. Given sunshine
and unlimited borrowing, we can struggle through. Think of it, my
dears--I have invited over a hundred people, and we possess twelve
teaspoons!"
Mollie gurgled with laughter in her hearty, infectious manner.
"I'd give up sugar for the day, and do without. That's one off the
list. Shall we ask the butler to send down a supply? I'm sure he has
hundreds stowed away in those great plate-chests."
"My dear, no! I should not think of it!" cried Mrs Thornton, aghast.
"I can manage quite well without troubling the squire. Pray don't
repeat any of my thoughtless remarks to him. My husband says that my
tongue runs away with me far too often."
Ruth protested politely, but Mollie preserved an unusual silence for the
rest of the visit. She was evidently thinking hard, and the result of
her cogitations was, that when she returned to the Court she paid a
surprise visit to Mr Farrell in his sanctum.
The old man was sitting reading in his favourite chair, and as he looked
up it struck Mollie that he looked more alert than she had seen him
since her arrival. The voice in which he answered her greeting was
certainly less wearied and fretful than usual. He looked, if such a
miracle could be believed, almost pleased to see her.
"Well,--so you have returned from your wanderings!"
"Yes, here I am, come to bother you again. There's a whole half-hour
before you need begin to dress, and I've something very important to
talk to you about."
"What does that mean, pray? More new dresses? I should have thought
you could hardly have come to the end of the last supply by this time."
"Goodness, no! They will last for years. It is something far more
important."
Mollie seated herself on a low chair directly opposite the old man,
leant her elbows on her knees, her chin on her hands, and said
hesitatingly--
"Uncle Bernard!"
"Mary!"
"Do you remember the first evening we were here, when you spoke to us
about our visit? You said that you might possibly allow each of us in
turn to act as master or mistress of the ceremonies for a short time?"
"I believe I did say something of the kind. It occurred to me that it
might be an interesting experiment."
"And did you mean that we could really do what we liked, about money and
everything else, just as if we were really and truly the real owner in
your place?"
Mr Farrell smiled somewhat grimly.
"If your sister asked me that question, I should say `Yes.' Knowing as
I do your capacity for extravagance, I am a little more cautious.
Within reasonable limits that is, however, what I meant to imply."
"Ah!" sighed Mollie deeply. "But it all depends on what you call
reasonable. At any rate, you can only refuse, and things can be no
worse than they are at present. Please, Uncle Bernard, may I begin my
reign from to-day?"
"Your reign! You put it forcibly, my dear--more so than is perhaps
quite pleasant in my ears. And you are the youngest of the four; your
turn should come last, not first. When the others have had their
trial--"
"But they have never asked for it; they don't want it, and I do; and you
said nothing about taking turns when you made the suggestion. If you
let me begin, they could take warning from my mistakes. I don't think
you would find they disliked the arrangement. Do, please, be kind and
say `Yes.'"
Mr Farrell reflected for a moment, bringing the tips of his fingers
together.
"As you say, you are the first to express any desire to take me at my
word. If it pleases you to assume the reins of government for a short
time, I have no objection."
"You mean it really? I can begin at once, and give what orders I like?"
"Subject, as I have said, to some possible restrictions if your
enthusiasm carries you too far. There is evidently some big scheme
looming behind this request. You had better let me know the worst at
once. What is to be your first extravagance?"
Mollie's head still rested in the cup of her hands. She looked at him
steadily, with a little flame of determination in her grey eyes.
"I am going to have the vicarage painted and papered from top to bottom.
It's disgracefully shabby! The paper is hanging off the walls in some
places, and where it isn't, it would be almost better if it were, it is
so ugly and worn. It is too bad to expect Mr and Mrs Thornton to do
all the hard, depressing work of the parish and keep bright and cheerful
themselves, when their home is enough to give the blues to a clown! It
looks as if it hadn't been touched for a century!"
Mr Farrell lowered his eyelids and sat in a grim silence, while the
clock ticked a full two minutes. Mollie, watching his face, saw the
thin lips grow thinner and thinner, as they were pressed the more firmly
together; the horizontal lines in his forehead deepened into furrows.
There was no mistaking the fact that he was displeased, and deeply
displeased, even before the cold eyes met hers once more.
"I had no intention now, or at any other time, of allowing you to assume
control over the whole parish! My proposition referred simply to this
house and your own entertainment. I am still capable of looking after
my own property."
"But--" began Mollie, and stopped short.
Even her courage failed before the obvious retort that the property was
not looked after, but allowed to fall into dilapidation; but Mr Farrell
understood without the need of words, and his eyes flashed with anger.
"You must permit me to judge for myself! When my day is over, whoever
comes into possession can squander my money as he or she sees fit, but I
cannot hurry the time forward, however much you may desire it. You must
be patient and wait. It may come sooner than you think."
Mollie sprang to her feet with an exclamation of mingled pain and anger.
"Oh, Uncle Bernard, how cruel! How can you say anything so horrid and
unjust! It isn't true, and you know it isn't true, and I don't deserve
it! I only asked for what you yourself suggested."
"I never suggested that you should interfere with my property, and
criticise what I had chosen to do or left undone. As for not deserving
reproach, you must have made very sure of stepping into my shoes since
you wish to wear them while I am still here. No doubt I appear to you a
mere cumberer of the ground; but it is my ground, I would have you
remember. You cannot take liberties with it yet awhile."
"I don't want it! I never want it! I'll go home to-morrow! You have
no right to taunt me like this!" cried Mollie, trembling with such a
storm of indignation and wounded feeling as she had rarely known in her
bright, easy-going existence.
A rush of ugly words came to her lips, and struggled for utterance,
while Mr Farrell sank back in his chair, and lay crouched against the
cushions, one thin hand pressed heavily over his heart. The look, the
action, brought Mollie to herself with a stab of recollection.
Whatever he had said to wound her pride, she had no right to forget his
weakness, his danger, his lonely, piteous age. Anger died a rapid
death, and gave place to an even keener sympathy. When Mr Farrell
looked up again, it was to find the grey eyes wet with tears, and the
lips trembling with emotion.
"Oh, you poor old man--you poor old man! Why will you make it so
difficult? Why won't you let us love you and be a comfort, instead of a
trouble? We would, if you would allow us. We want to, but you keep us
at arm's length, and scold and sneer. I am not thinking of myself. I
am young and strong, and I have my home and my dear little mother. I
shall be happy, whatever happens. It's _you_ I am sorry for! I hate to
see you ill and lonely. You have given a great deal to me; can't you be
generous enough to take something in return? There are only two months
left. The time is nearly half over. Can't we be friends--real
friends--until the end?"
She drew nearer as she spoke, and saw no rebuff in the watching face,
until at last she sank on her knees before him, and timidly touched his
hand.
"Uncle Bernard, speak! Say something to me!"
Still the old man hesitated; but his hand lay quietly in hers, and did
not try to escape.
"What can I say?" he asked slowly at last. "I believe you are a good
child; I believe you are honest; but my days are past for making
friendships. I have felt deeply in my time, but the power of loving
died away with everything else which made life worth living. I cannot
promise what is impossible."
"But you can at least give me a chance of loving you. I won't ask any
more favours if you will just talk to me a little sometimes, without
sneering at me, and let me walk with you about the grounds and be a
little bit of a companion. Will you? You might get to like me a little
bit in time, and it would not be quite so lonely."
"I can imagine things less impossible. You are a good child; but
remember, Mollie, my liking or not liking has nothing to do with my
choice of an heir. The condition to which I referred might easily apply
to one who appealed to me in no other way. It is only right to warn
you."
But the listener took no heed of the warning. Her face was one radiant
beam of delight.
"You called me `Mollie'!" she cried. "It was the very first time! That
really does sound as if we were going to be friends?"
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
MR. FARRELL MAKES HIS WILL.
It was not in human nature--not in Mollie's nature, at least--to resist
"showing off" a little after that momentous interview, and her sudden
familiarity with their host filled her companions with amazed curiosity.
Ruth had naturally heard all that had passed, and loyally stifled the
dawning of envy, but the young men were at a loss to account for what
seemed to them a mysterious change of favourites.
"Miss Mollie is outstripping us all! She has stepped into the position
of first favourite this last fortnight," Victor Druce said, as the four
young people sat on the terrace steps waiting for tea, a few days after
the visit to the vicarage.
He laughed as he spoke, but in a half-hearted manner, and tugged heavily
at the ends of his moustache, while he scrutinised Mollie's face through
half-closed lids. She beamed at him gaily in response, scorning mock-
modest protestations.
"Oh yes; we understand each other ever so much better! I have been
impressing upon him ever since our first meeting that I am really very
nice, and at last he is beginning to realise it for himself. He likes
me very much. He told me so with his very own lips; but he told me
something else, too."
"Yes! May we inquire--"
"Oh, certainly! It is quite as interesting to you as to me. Liking has
nothing whatever to do with the mysterious condition; he may quite
probably choose the one of us he cares for least, as his heir.
`Curiouser and curiouser,' as Alice said; isn't it?"
"Humph! There may be a chance for me, after all," said Jack lightly.
Victor knitted his brows, and tugged once more at his moustache.
"He said so definitely--you are sure you are not mistaken? Then how can
one possibly judge? That upsets all our theories at a blow."
"That's what I thought myself. I felt sure that it would be Ruth, but
now I am all at sea; but, for my own part, I'm glad. It is easier to be
good friends when there is nothing mercenary involved."
Mollie smiled her sunny, candid smile, and lay back in her deck-chair,
her hands clasped easily behind her head. It was delightful to laze in
the sunshine, to feel at peace with all the world. The present was so
all-absorbing that she had no time to worry her head about the future;
but Ruth sat by her side, with unseeing eyes bent upon her book, while
the swift thoughts surged through her brain.
She also had felt inwardly convinced that Uncle Bernard's choice would
fall upon herself, who was so truly a daughter of his race, and it had
been a shock to learn that there was nothing to be deduced from his
signs of preference; but of late days there was another problem which
was becoming of even more vital interest than the heirship of the Court.
Even as she sat there, with averted head, she was acutely conscious of
Victor's presence. She seemed to know, without looking in his
direction, the absorbed, contented expression of the dark face. She
knew it so well by this time--knew it in an aspect which no one saw but
herself; for when they were alone together, it was as if a mask fell
away, and revealed the true man. Then he looked at her with open
admiration, spoke unreservedly of himself, and drew her out to tell of
her own life, and hopes, and ambitions. And there were even more
thrilling moments, when the talk ceased, and they sat side by side,
silent, yet absorbed, acutely conscious of each other's presence;
delightfully, inexplicably confused.
At such moments Ruth confessed to herself that this man, whose very
existence she had been unaware of a few weeks before, was fast becoming
to her the most important person in the world, and it seemed as certain
that he reciprocated her feelings. At such moments, yes! but certainty
died away into uneasy doubt, as upon the approach of a third person--
even the insignificant Mrs Wolff herself--Victor fell back into his
carefully conventional manner.
It was not that she expected or desired any demonstration in public.
Ruth was by nature far too reserved to welcome such an exhibition; but
the two attitudes were so widely divided, Victor's care in keeping them
apart so sedulous, that she could not but be perturbed. Ruth's heart
had never before been touched; but love needs no apprenticeship, and she
felt by instinct that such self-control was unnatural. Surely, surely,
if he really "cared," there would be moments when his eyes would
involuntarily meet hers, when his voice would soften in tone.
Then there was Lady Margot Blount! What was the real history of that
acquaintanceship? Why did Victor affect to avoid her, while really
meeting her in secret?
While Ruth sat dreaming, tea was brought out, and Mr Farrell came
limping down the terrace to join the party. It was not often that he
favoured them with his presence at the afternoon meal, but the day was
so fine and sunny that it was really warmer out of doors than in the
house, and as he sat he spread out his wrinkled hands, evidently
enjoying the newly-found heat.
Ruth waited upon him with a pretty deference, while Mollie chattered on
in her usual unabashed fashion. The old man appeared to pay no
attention, but he evidently listened more closely than he cared to
admit, for a casual mention of Margot Blount's name evoked a quick
glance and question--
"You all seem to speak of Lady Margot in a very familiar fashion; I have
not the pleasure of her acquaintance, but from all I have heard I should
not imagine she was inclined to make friendships lightly. You have met
her--how often? Once or twice?"
He looked at Mollie as he spoke, but Mollie deliberately avoided his
eyes, turning towards Victor in a marked manner, which left him no
choice but to reply. It was a mischievous impulse to avenge herself and
Ruth for his desertion of a few days before, and to discover the truth
about that secret meeting of which Margot herself had spoken. Her face
seemed solemnity itself to the casual observer, but as he looked at her
Jack choked suddenly over his tea, and hitched his chair in an opposite
direction. He would have laughed outright if he had looked one moment
longer. As for Victor, his dark eyes shot out a spark of annoyance,
just one; then he answered with smiling unconcern--
"Lady Margot and I are not quite strangers, sir; I met her in town a
good deal last year. We have some friends in common. It was only
renewing an acquaintance when we met again the other day."
"Indeed--indeed!" Mr Farrell looked unusually interested and alert.
"I am glad to hear that. The Blounts are some of the most important
people in the neighbourhood. In the old days there was a strong
friendship between the two families, which I should be pleased to see
renewed. You were introduced to the old people when you called at the
Moat, I presume?"
Here was a direct question which could not be avoided. Jack and Mollie
turned towards Victor with glances of elaborately veiled curiosity.
Ruth clattered the tea-cups together, carefully averting her eyes.
Anxious as she was to hear the reply, she hated the knowledge that
Victor was being placed in an awkward position,--hated the consciousness
that the others were enjoying the embarrassment.
The pause lasted but a moment; then Victor spoke in his most casual
tones--
"No; I have not seen them yet. I have run across Lady Margot once or
twice in my morning rides, and had the opportunity of a talk with her,
so I thought it better to defer a more formal call. Miss Farrell was
kind enough to leave my card, but I did not wish to put myself too much
_en evidence_!"
Mr Farrell frowned.
"You had better go soon, then--the sooner the better. As you know the
niece, there is all the more reason for paying due respect to the uncle
and aunt. You will no doubt receive an invitation after this exchange
of visits, and it must be returned as soon as possible. I knew the
girl's father in his youth. He was a fine fellow. If she is like him,
she must be worth knowing. She cannot be very young,--nearer thirty
than twenty, I should say. It is a wonder that she is not married, or
engaged. Is she engaged, do you happen to know?"
Again the others waited, leaving Victor to reply, and for the first time
a faint flush showed itself on his cheek.
"I believe not. There was no talk of it last autumn. I have heard no
rumours--"
"I am surprised at that. It is a poor family, and she will have little
or no money; but the name and position ought to count for something.
They would be almost more valuable than money to a young man beginning
life."
"I am thankful that I have no name or position! I should like my
husband to value me for myself, not for what I possessed!" cried Mollie
quickly.
It gave her an uncomfortable feeling, amounting almost to an augury of
ill, to hear Uncle Bernard talking of Margot Blount with such unusual
interest. The first definite wish which he had expressed was in
connection with her name; his last remarks virtually sanctioned with his
approval any aspirations which Victor might secretly treasure. Lady
Margot Blount could hardly be expected to marry a struggling barrister;
but if that barrister were the possible heir of the Court, his
importance became at once largely increased.
Victor was unfailing in his efforts to please his host, and the result
of this conversation would inevitably be a closer intimacy with the
Blount family, which, even if it led to nothing more serious, would of a
certainty cloud Ruth's happiness. Mollie was by no means sure that she
approved of Victor as a suitor for her beloved sister, but, with
delightful inconsistency, she hated the idea of his daring to care for
anyone else, and the thought lent an unwonted edge to her voice--
"It's horrid to talk about marriage in that mercenary fashion, as if it
were a pure business arrangement. When I hear such remarks, I'm
thankful that I haven't a penny piece in the world!"
"If that is your feeling, you would be in a most unfortunate position as
the owner of the Court. It would be a pity to disturb your equanimity,
my dear."
Mr Farrell stretched out his thin hands on his knees, looking at her
with quizzical eyes, whereupon Mollie forgot her anger, and gave one of
her gay, infectious laughs, nodding her head towards him in mischievous,
new-found familiarity.
"Ah, you had me there! But I might be like Queen Bess, you know, and
prize my kingdom above any man; or, if one came along whom I really
wanted to marry, I'd send him to slay dragons and carry off golden
apples, to prove his devotion and disinterestedness. Don't cut me off
through any mistaken scruples, Uncle Bernard. I'd really make a
delightful chatelaine, and I should enjoy it so! No one appreciates the
real object of money more than I do!"
"And what is your idea of the `real value,' if one may ask?"
"To spend, of course!" she answered audaciously. "It is the only thing
to do, for if you keep it, it's just a dull collection of coins. I love
spending! Now, if I became a big heiress to-morrow, would you like to
know what I should do?"
"Extremely; it would be most interesting!" said Mr Farrell.
"Yes, Miss Mollie, do tell us!" urged Victor.
Jack looked up with a puckered brow, half amused, half anxious, and Ruth
murmured a gentle "Mollie dear!" Mollie was not to be deterred by
encouragement or warning. She lay back in her chair, tapping off each
item on her fingers as she spoke, her face one beam of mischievous
enjoyment.
"I'd settle annuities on all my relations and friends. I'd buy the most
exquisite presents, and send them round to everyone who had been kind to
me in my poor estate. I'd give huge donations to governess's Homes, and
funds for poor gentlewomen, and send them flowers, and fruit, and game.
I'd go to Liberty's, and buy artistic furniture, and hire experts to
superintend decorations, and, while the house was being put in order,
I'd go a voyage round the world, and buy stacks of lovely things at
every port, and see all the sights, and come home laden with spoils!
Then I'd settle down, and,"--she chuckled complacently--"I _would_ have
a good time! I'd have every single thing I wanted, and never think of
what it cost!"
"Until the bailiffs arrived; which would be surprisingly soon, I should
imagine!" said Uncle Bernard drily. "You have not much idea of the
responsibility of wealth, my dear. I prefer not to discuss the point,
however. My own views, which are peculiar, are set forth in the Will
which is lying in the desk in my room."
The four young people looked up sharply. The same question was on the
lips of each; but it was Victor's eagerness which first found words--
"The Will?--Now! But surely--?"
Mr Farrell's lips twisted into a grim smile, as if he had of deliberate
purpose provoked their curiosity.
"You are surprised that I have already come to a conclusion. It is by
no means unchangeable; but, in the extremely precarious condition of my
health, I do not think it safe to delay matters indefinitely. This Will
was drawn up last week, and is based upon my impressions up to the
present time. If I live it is extremely likely that I may alter my mind
once and again; but it should be a comfort to you all to feel that, at
the worst, I am not unprepared."
He looked from one to the other with the same faint, mocking smile, his
gaze lingering on Ruth's troubled face. Her eyes expressed a
questioning so intense as to be almost wild; then slowly they fell
before his, and a crimson tide rushed over her cheeks.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
HARD AT WORK.
Preparations for Mrs Thornton's garden-party went on uninterruptedly
during the next week, and grew in fervour as the great day approached.
Everybody had accepted, as the hostess announced with a groan and a
laugh; and the vicar threatened to be called abroad on urgent business,
so alarmed was he at the prospect of the fashionable throng which was to
invade his shabby precincts. When, however, Mrs Thornton made up her
mind to carry out a plan, she was not easily damped; and aided by Mollie
and the younger members of her brood, she weeded, and forked, and
clipped at the over-grown garden, until it really began to assume quite
a presentable appearance.
"I daren't weed," Mollie explained, "for I'm a poor town thing, who
would probably pull up your most cherished seedlings; but my arms are so
strong that I can mow with the best, so I'll take the grass in hand, if
someone else will trim the borders."
"But your face, my dear--your face!" cried Mrs Thornton, staring with
dismay at the crimsoned countenance beneath the straw hat. "I'm ashamed
to let you work so hard! What would your uncle say if he saw you now?"
"Something uncomplimentary, no doubt. I know I am magenta, but
fortunately it isn't lasting. I asked Mr Druce if he would help me
this morning, and do a little rolling into the bargain, but he would not
give up his ride."
Mrs Thornton pursed up her lips, stared first at the ground, then at
the sky, then across into Mollie's face.
"He is very fond of riding!" she said mysteriously. "I see him pass
every morning, going in the same direction, and always alone. How is it
that none of you ever go with him?"
"Jack Melland is still lame, and Ruth and I are only beginners. We have
little canters together in the afternoons sometimes, but in the mornings
he prefers to be free to go longer distances. He goes ever so far--
miles and miles. One morning last week he met Lady Margot Blount
somewhere near the Moat."
"And one morning this week also, for my husband saw them together, and
if I were inclined to gossip, I should say it was oftener than once. My
dear Mollie, how charming! Are we going to have a love-story to enliven
the summer? Nobody ever gets engaged or married in this sleepy place,
and this would be truly exciting! But I thought at one time--excuse my
saying so, won't you, dear?--I quite thought he admired your sister, and
that there might be a match there!"
"Of course, he admired her--no one could help it; but please never hint
at anything of the sort to Ruth. She is very reserved, and would hate
to be talked about!" cried Mollie hastily.
Across the lawn Ruth's graceful figure could be seen kneeling in front
of a bed of flowers which she was fastening to supporting sticks in her
usual neat, methodical fashion. No one could have recognised that bed
as the same confused broken-down mass of blossom which it had been an
hour earlier.
"There! now they do look as if someone loved them," said Ruth to
herself, straightening her weary back, and brushing the soil off her
fingers.
After the Thorntons' more casual work was over, she had made a careful
round of the beds, giving those dainty finishing touches which add so
largely to the effect. Now her work was finished, and, seeing Mrs
Thornton and Mollie standing together, she rose stiffly, and walked
across the lawn to meet them.
"Have you finished? I think I have really come to the end of the beds,
and everything looks delightfully `cared for'! I shall bring my camera
down on Thursday, Mrs Thornton, and take some snapshots of your guests
in pretty corners of the garden. Did you know I had taken the
photographic fever? I bought myself a really, really nice camera, and I
want to take mother a collection of views of the Court when we go home.
She will value it more than anything else, for I shall snap all her
favourite bits in the grounds, and take the interiors with time-
exposures. They will be nice to look at when we are away, and someone
else reigns in our stead!"
She shrugged her shoulders as she spoke, and Mrs Thornton patted her
arm with kindly encouragement.
"Nonsense--nonsense! You are tired, dear, and that makes you look at
things through blue spectacles. Come into the house, and we will have
tea, and discuss the great question of where my guests are to sit, if
anything so dreadful as a shower should happen! Two armchairs, you see,
half a dozen small ones, more or less unstable (if anyone over seven
stone attempts the green plush there'll be a catastrophe!), and one
sofa. Now, put your inventive brains together, and tell me what I can
do. There is plenty of room for more furniture, but no money to buy it,
alas!"
"Let them sit on the floor in rows; it would be ever so sociable!" said
naughty Mollie.
Ruth knitted her brows thoughtfully.
"Have you any chair-beds? We could make quite elegant lounges of them,
pushed up against the wall, covered with rugs and banked up with
cushions; or even out of two boards propped up at the sides, if the
worst came to the worst!"
"Oh-oh! Chair-beds! What an inspiration! I have two stored away in
the attic. They are old and decrepit, but that doesn't matter a bit.
They will look quite luxurious when the mattresses are covered with
sofa-blankets; but I don't know where the cushions are to come from. I
only possess these three, and they must stay where they are to hide the
patches in the chintz. I might perhaps borrow--"
"No, don't do anything of the kind. Use your pillows, and Ruth and I
will make frilled covers out of art-muslin, at threepence a yard. They
will look charming, and lighten up the dark corners. We are used to
that sort of work at home. We made a cosy corner for the drawing-room
out of old packing-cases and a Liberty curtain, and it is easier and
more comfortable than any professional one I ever saw. The silly
upholsterers always make the seats too high and narrow. We made a music
ottoman of the inside, and broke our backs lining it, and our nails
hammering in the tacks; but, dear me, how we did enjoy it, and how proud
we were when it was accomplished for seventeen-and-six!
"I'm beginning to doubt," repeated Mollie solemnly, "whether it is half
so amusing to be rich as it is to be poor. When you can get everything
you want the moment you want it, you don't appreciate it half so much as
when you have pined for it, and saved up your pennies for it, for months
beforehand. When we get a new thing at home, the whole family pay
visits to it like a shrine, and we open the door and go into the room
where it is, one after the other, to study the effect, and gloat over
it. It _is_ fun; isn't it, now? Confess that it is!"
"Ye-es," agreed Mrs Thornton doubtfully. "But where you have to wait
too long, the sense of humour gets a little bit blunted, especially as
one grows older, Mollie dear!"
She sighed as she spoke, and her eyes roved pensively round the
discoloured walls, those same walls whose condition had fired Mollie to
make her unsuccessful appeal. The girl's thoughts went back to that
embarrassing interview, not altogether regretfully, since it had ended
in bringing about a better understanding between her uncle and herself.
Perhaps, though he had refused her request, it would linger in his mind,
and lead to good results. Nothing but the unexpected was certain about
Uncle Bernard.
The next afternoon the vicarage drawing-room presented a rather chaotic
appearance, as Mrs Thornton and her assistants prepared the important
couches. Ruth sat in the middle of the floor running up lengths of
brightly coloured muslins on a sewing-machine, while the other two
wrestled with the difficulties which attend all make-shifts. With the
greatest regard for ease and luxury, the beds were pronounced decidedly
too low to look genuine, and the rickety legs had to be propped up with
foundations manufactured out of old bound volumes of magazines, bricks
from the garden, and an odd weight or two from the kitchen scales. The
sofa-blankets also turned out to be too narrow, and persisted in
disclosing the iron legs, until, in desperation, one end was sewn to the
mattress, allowing the full width to hang down in front.
At last the work was finished, and the hot and dishevelled workers
retired to the hall, and, re-entering the room to study the effect, in
true Farrell manner, pronounced the "divans" to look professional beyond
all fear of detection.
The next achievement was to place a tapering bank of plants against a
discoloured patch of wallpaper, and many and varied were the struggles
before the necessary stand was arranged. Eventually an old desk formed
the bottom tier, a stool the second, and the baby's high chair the third
and last. Draped with an old piece of green baize, with small pots of
trailing _Tradescantia_ fitted into the crossbars of the chair, and the
good old family _Aspidistras_ ("as old as Mabel!" explained Mrs
Thornton, stroking one of the long green leaves affectionately) taking
the place of honour, the effect was so superior and luxurious that the
vicar had to be dragged from his study to exclaim and admire.
"There, just look at our divans! Did you ever see anything look more
luxurious? Who could ever suspect they were only a make-up? Sit down
and see how comfortable this is!" cried Mrs Thornton volubly; whereupon
the vicar sat down heavily in the centre of the seat, and promptly
descended to the floor amidst a heaped-up pile of bedding, pillows,
_Sunday at Homes_, and broken bricks.
He gasped and groped wildly with his hands, and the sight of him sitting
prone among the ruins was so comical that both girls went off into peals
of laughter. The humorous side of the accident was not, however, quite
so apparent to the mistress of the ceremonies.
"That tiresome, tiresome bed! I might have known as much! It used to
collapse with me regularly when I was nursing Mabel with scarlet-fever!"
she cried impatiently. "Now we shall have to begin from the beginning,
and make it up again. How tiresome of you, Arthur, to be so heavy!"
"I will spare you the obvious retort, dear. Let us be thankful that I
was the victim, and not Lady Elstree, whom you would certainly have
escorted to the seat of honour to-morrow. If you will allow me to help,
I think I could manage to make things fast."
At this critical moment a loud rat-tat sounded at the door, and Mrs
Thornton rushed to peep out of the window.
"Horrors, a visitor! Mary will show her into the room, I know she will!
That girl has no more sense than a doll! Ruth--Mollie--Wallace! pick
up the things on the floor; throw them behind the sofa! Pull the
sewing-machine to the wall! There's no room for anyone to tread! Of
all the tiresome, aggravating--"
"Nonsense, dear--nonsense!" cried the vicar, laughing. "Leave things as
they are. You have quite sufficient excuse in the fact of expecting a
hundred people to-morrow. There will be no room to tread then, if you
like!"
He turned towards the door as he spoke, and Mrs Thornton hastily
smoothed her hair as it opened wide, and Mary's eager voice announced--
"If you please, mum, a 'amper!"
"A _what_?"
The vicar and his wife pressed forward eagerly, and, lo! on the well-
worn oilcloth of the passage lay a large wicker hamper, addressed to
"Mrs Thornton, The Vicarage, Raby," and bearing on the label the name
of a well-known London fruiterer. To cut the string and tear it open
was the work of a moment, when inside was revealed such treasures of
hothouse fruits as left the beholders dumb and gasping with admiration.
There in profusion were grapes, peaches, giant strawberries of the
deepest red, pineapples,--each one more perfect and tempting than the
last, in their dainty, padded cases.
The vicar stood looking on, stroking his chin, and smiling with
enjoyment at his wife's delight, as she bent over her treasures,
exclaiming and rapturising like a girl in her teens.
"How lovely! How charming! How delightful! My fruit-table will be a
triumph! This is exactly what I needed to give the finishing touch to
my preparations! I've never seen finer fruit--never! Wallace, Wallace,
won't we be grand?"
"So grand that I am afraid the churchwardens will have serious doubts as
to the school funds," said the vicar, laughing. "I have twenty pounds
in hand at the present moment, and really--"
"Oh, don't be a goose! Of course, everyone will guess that it is a
present. I shall say so myself on every opportunity. But who from?
Who can have thought of such a thing?" Her eyes turned with sudden
questioning to the two girls. "Ruth, Mollie--did you?"
"Indeed, no! I didn't think of it, I am sorry to say!" said Ruth; and
added honestly, "I am too hard up to pay for all those lovely things!"
"And you know nothing about it, really?"
"Really and truly, not a thing!"
"You don't think that perhaps the squire--"
Mollie recalled the snubbing which she had received on suggesting the
improvements to the vicarage, coupled with the various cynical remarks
to which Mr Farrell had given utterance on the subject of this very
garden-party, and felt convinced that he was not the anonymous donor;
but these things were not to be repeated, so she remained silent, while
Ruth and Mrs Thornton wondered and speculated.
No one could be thought of more likely than the squire, for the
parishioners, as a rule, were not overburdened with money, nor the few
who were, with generosity.
"I have never had such a thing done for me all the years I have been
here--never once!" cried Mrs Thornton, waxing almost tearful in her
excess of gratitude. "And to send it anonymously, too--so modest and
unassuming! The dear, kind, thoughtful creature. I shall never rest
until I know who it is?"
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
THE DAY OF THE PARTY.
The morning of the garden-party was bright, almost perilously bright
even for June; but there was exhilaration in the sight of the blue sky,
dappled with fleecy white clouds, which formed such an exquisite
contrast to the velvety green of the landscape, and a delicious sense of
luxury in strolling about in the sun, and feeling rid at last of the
treacherous wind.
The squire's guests breakfasted upon the terrace, to the mild
disapproval of Mrs Wolff, who could not understand why people could not
be content to remain comfortably indoors, instead of picknicking in
gipsy-like fashion on every possible occasion. Her small, pinched face
expressed the annoyance which she had not the courage to put into words,
and as soon as her duties were over she hurried back to the shelter of
the house. Immediately she had disappeared Jack boldly demanded another
cup of coffee, and set to work on toast and marmalade with a fresh
access of appetite.
The opportunity was too good to be resisted. Ruth flew indoors for her
camera, and stood a few yards off focusing the table and its occupants,
and waiting for a picturesque moment in which to snap. It came at last,
just as Jack was forgetfully indulging in an enormous bite, a bachelor
habit which had become a standing joke among his companions. Mollie had
stolen a half-eaten piece of toast from his plate one morning, and
measured the gap with an inch tape, to his everlasting embarrassment, so
that the pictured memorial was hailed with delight.
Needless to say, Jack wished to have his revenge, and immortalise Mollie
scraping the sugar out of the bottom of the cup in school-girl fashion,
and finally Bates was pressed into the service and instructed how to
snap, so that a complete group might be taken.
By this time it was ten o'clock, and Mollie announced her intention of
going down to the vicarage to help in the final preparations for the
afternoon's entertainment. She took for granted that Ruth would
accompany her; but Miss Ruth had her own ideas as to the employment of
the next few hours, and they had nothing to do with Mrs Thornton's
garden-party.
On her way downstairs to breakfast she had overheard Victor telling a
servant that he had no orders for the stables this morning. The
inference was, therefore, that he intended to stop at home, and the
thought had instantly darted into her mind that if Mollie went off to
the vicarage there would be an hour or two before lunch, when--when--
Ruth blushed guiltily to herself when she got so far in her
calculations; but it was such a delight to enjoy a quiet _tete-a-tete_
talk sometimes, instead of the general impersonal conversation. So it
came to pass that when Mollie announced her intention of going down to
the vicarage to help in the final preparations, Ruth absolutely refused
to accompany her.
"I've done my share," she said. "To-day I am going to be a visitor pure
and simple, and drive down when everything is ready for my reception."
Mollie shrugged her shoulders resignedly.
"Well, somebody has got to do it, and, thank goodness, I'm not poor-
spirited enough to leave a friend in the lurch at the last moment! I
shan't be satisfied until I see the last chair in order; but I don't see
any reason why I should walk. There is a pony-carriage in the stables,
and if anyone had any nice feeling they would drive me there and back!"
Jack laughed, and limped across the terrace.
"Anyone, singular; they, plural! Your grammar is deficient, Miss
Mollie; but I suppose your modesty forbade you to be more explicit. I
have lots of good-feeling, and nothing to do, so I shall be charmed to
escort you, if you will give the order. It would take me too long to
get down to the stables."
It was evident that Jack's offer was pleasing to Mollie, for she thanked
him with a smile as bright as her words, and a quarter of an hour later
on they were driving together across the park behind the sleek little
pony, Mollie chatting gaily as usual, Jack listening with an air half
amused, half bored. Despite his accident, he was looking strong and
well, his skin bronzed by the outdoor life of the last few weeks; but
the old haughty, intolerant expression, which had seemed his chief
characteristic at first meeting, was still noticeable in curving lip and
nostril. Not an easy man to convince against his will, nor one to be
easily affected by the presence of a pretty girl.
"How cross Uncle Bernard was when I told him about the mysterious
hamper! One would think he grudged poor Mrs Thornton having anything
nice!" said Mollie severely. "He nearly snapped my head off when I
asked if he had sent it. I should not have thought much of that, if he
had not denied it in so many words, for he might have been trying to put
me off; but after what he said there can be no more doubt on the
subject. I wonder who could have sent it? Mrs Thornton says she will
never rest till she finds out."
Jack flicked the pony impatiently.
"Why can't she be content to take it quietly, and not worry any more?
That's the worst of women--they must make a fuss! If the man who sent
it wanted to be thanked, he would have put in a card. If he didn't, it
shows that he prefers to be anonymous, and it's bad taste to go
ferreting round trying to find out what she is not intended to know. I
should tell her so straight, if I were you."
"No, you wouldn't, because, being a woman, you would be consumed with
curiosity, as I am. Now, I wonder why you said the `man'?" queried
Mollie, tilting her head on one side, and staring at him with
mischievous eyes. "What makes you think it was a man? Couldn't it as
easily have been a woman?"
"Oh, quite; but I prefer to use one pronoun and stick to it, instead of
muddling them up as you do. Why are you always in such a hurry to snap
a fellow up?" cried Jack irritably.
Mollie made a naughty little _moue_.
"I thought it was the other way about! I was most mild and lamb-like,
when you snubbed me for my grammar, abused my sex, and accused me of bad
temper. It shows how little you know of my beautiful disposition!"
Jack flicked the pony again, his face darkened by a frown.
"No, I don't know you--how should I? You never give me a chance. You
show me only the frivolous side of your character. You are always
laughing, joking, frivolling. In all these weeks I have only once had a
glimpse of your real self. You evidently do not wish me to know you in
any real or intimate sense; but that is your own fault, not mine."
"If you have seen it only once, it cannot be my real self," said Mollie
quietly. She had grown, not red but white, as she listened to Jack's
words, and her heart had begun to beat in an agitating fashion hitherto
unknown. She felt as if somebody had suddenly dealt her an unexpected
blow, for until this moment she had fondly imagined herself to be good
friends with Jack Melland. "You do not know me, because, perhaps, there
is nothing to know, beyond the frivolous, silly creature you dislike so
much!"
"There you go again, exaggerating and catching up my words! Who said I
disliked you? We were not talking of likes or dislikes. We were
talking of knowing each other properly. I wouldn't trouble my head if
you were an ordinary, empty-headed girl, but I know you are not. There
is another side to your character, and I want to see and know you in it,
but you evade me, and refuse to show yourself. I suppose I am not worth
the trouble of talking to seriously?"
Mollie shook her head dejectedly.
"I am not evading, I am not hiding anything. I'm nineteen, and out for
a holiday. It's the first taste of luxury I've ever known. I enjoyed
it so much,"--unconsciously to herself she used the past, not the
present, tense--"that surely it was natural for me to be light-hearted.
I am not highly educated, and I've lived a very quiet life. It's only
natural that I seem stupid in comparison with other girls you have met.
I suppose they are very clever and well read?"
Jack kept his eyes on the road, mentally classifying the girls with whom
he had been most closely brought in contact in his town life. Yes! they
were for the most part accomplished and clever; but were they not also
apt to be discontented with their lot, given to grumbling at the
restrictions of home life, and to imagine themselves ill-used and
unappreciated? Mollie's radiant good-humour and unconsciousness of self
were qualities unknown among them. What poor, anaemic images they
appeared beside her! Yet he was continually provoked by the very
cheerfulness which he mentally approved. Jack frowned, puzzled and
disquieted. As a rule, he was at no loss to account for his prejudices,
but for once he found himself completely mystified. What exactly was it
that he wanted of Mollie Farrell, the lack of which rankled in his
veins? He could not tell, and annoyance with self gave an added touch
of irritation to his tone.
"Oh, if you cannot distinguish between becoming a bookworm and talking
seriously once in a way, there is no more to be said! I'm sorry I
spoke. Now I suppose you will be offended with me, and the day will be
spoiled?"
It was not a gracious speech, but Jack did not feel gracious, and he had
not much control over his temper. An inner voice informed him that he
was behaving like a cad, and he acknowledged the truth of the
indictment, while in the same moment he was prepared to reply more
irritably than before.
He had not the chance, however, for Mollie's eyes met his without the
faintest shadow of reproach. There was a subtle change in her
expression, but it spoke neither of offence nor anger.
"No, I am not vexed; that would be stupid, for it would only make things
worse. It is my nature to look on the bright side of things. I know I
am thoughtless, but it won't last. I shall be serious enough some day--
perhaps sooner than we think. Don't grudge me my little hour!"
The face raised to his looked so young and wistful that Jack felt a pang
of the same remorse which one feels who has wounded a little child. He
averted his eyes and drove on in silence, thinking, thinking.--The
clever town girl would have been mortally insulted if he had dared to
criticise her manners or attainments, and would have justified herself
by a dozen plausible arguments. Mollie was ready to admit everything
against herself, and only anxious to save him from any feeling of
embarrassment.
She talked on impersonal topics all the rest of the way to the vicarage,
and her smile when she bade him good-bye was resolutely cheerful, but he
hated himself as he realised that for the first time there was an effort
involved. As he turned the pony round the corner of the little lane
which bordered the lawn he heard Mrs Thornton's surprised exclamation,
"Why, Mollie!" and the half-laughing exclamation, "It's nothing! The
sun is so strong, it made my eyes--smart!"
Jack Melland set his teeth and drove on in a tumult of feeling such as
he had never known before in the course of his self-satisfied existence.
Blundering, presumptuous wretch that he was! If any trouble came to
Mollie Farrell, he would feel as guilty as if he himself had
deliberately brought it to pass!
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
CONFIDENCES.
While Mollie was busy at the vicarage, Ruth took her book to her
favourite seat, and prepared to spend a quiet morning; but to her
delight, Victor joined her, and took his place by her side, before she
had been seated more than a few minutes.
"He will see Lady Margot this afternoon. He need not ride ahead in the
hope of meeting her," came the involuntary bitter thought; but it was
impossible to harbour jealousy for more than a minute when alone in
Victor's company. Every word, every look, every tone, was filled with a
subtle flattery which was not only soothing but inspiring into the
bargain, for we are always at our best in the society of those who
appreciate us.
Ruth gazed, with the old delightful sense of well-being, across the
beautiful grounds, in which the long slopes of green and wide-spreading
trees had already grown dear and familiar as old friends. Surely every
day it became more certain that this would be her home of the future,
since Jack was still determined to return to town the moment he was
sufficiently recovered from his accident, and Mollie's extravagance was
plainly distasteful to Uncle Bernard. As for Victor, if he really--
really meant... Ruth did not finish the sentence even to herself, but
at the bottom of her mind lurked the inevitable reflection that she
stood a double chance.
Evidently Victor's thoughts had, to a certain extent, followed her own,
for he broke the silence by saying suddenly--
"That was an extraordinary statement of Mr Farrell's the other day,--
that he had already made a will. I suppose it is a wise precaution
under the circumstances, but it gave one rather a shock to know that
things were already settled."
"Yes, poor old man! one hates to realise how ill he must be. He does
not seem to have grown any worse since we came, so far as an outsider
can judge, but he must feel his weakness increasing."
Ruth puckered her brows in a distressed fashion, too much occupied with
her own thoughts to notice Victor's quick glance of inquiry.
His concern had not been for Mr Farrell or his sufferings, but he was
quick to change his tone in response to hers.
"I expect he does," said Victor, "though he is too well-plucked to
complain. The doctor told me the other day that these fluctuations are
part of the disease, and mean no real improvement. He does not give him
long, though he thinks it will probably be six months or more. It must
be more or less of an effort to him having us here, and if his mind is
already made up, I wonder he does not prefer to go back to his
solitude."
"He said he might still change, you remember. The will is only made in
case of accidents. It does seem strange to think of it lying there all
the time, and that one peep at it would end all our wonderings. I
_should_ like to see it!" cried Ruth with an outspoken honesty which
apparently shocked her companion.
"Be careful what you say, Miss Ruth! Farrell is just the sort of cross-
grained old fellow to take all sorts of ideas into his head if he heard
you. And, besides, you can surely guess for yourself what name you
would find!"
Ruth lifted her face to his in quick inquiry. The brown eyes were for
once fully open and looking down at her with an expression half smiling,
half melancholy. "You know it would be your own!" he said softly, and
she flushed in quick denial.
"No, no; it's impossible to be certain. I hope, of course, but-- At
first I thought Uncle Bernard liked me best, but lately Mollie seems to
have cut me out."
"But we are told that liking has nothing to do with the great decision."
"I know, and that does away at once with so many qualities with one fell
swoop, that one can hardly tell what is left. It puts amiability out of
the question, and unselfishness and cheerfulness, and--and tact, and
everything which makes us care for a person or not. When they are gone,
what is left?"
"A great many things, just as Mr Farrell's knowledge of our characters
and actions is far more extensive than you suspect. We meet at meals,
and in the evening, and for the rest of the day one would imagine that
we are beyond his ken, but I have discovered that to be a mistake. In
some mysterious fashion he knows all that we do, and guesses fairly
accurately what we think! ... Would you imagine, for instance, that he
knew that this seat was our favourite resort, and that we have enjoyed
some very pleasant _tete-a-tetes_ here during the last few weeks? Would
you imagine that he knew who gave me that white rosebud which I wore as
a button-hole last night?"
Ruth's face was a rose itself at that moment, a red, red rose, as the
colour flew from her cheeks up to the roots of her hair. Her eyes
wavered, and fell.
"How can he know? How do you know he knows?" she queried confusedly;
and Victor shrugged his shoulders.
"How, I can't tell you, but I suspect his man James is a useful source
of information. I know that he knows, because of several caustic
remarks which he has let fall from time to time, to which my legal
experience easily gives me the clue. I have come to the conclusion that
he knows pretty well what we are about every hour of the day!"
"Even when you go out riding by yourself, and meet Lady Margot in the
lanes?" questioned Ruth, stung by a sudden rising of jealousy, which she
was unable to control. The words were no sooner spoken than regretted,
and regret deepened into shame as Victor turned his calmly surprised
eyes upon her.
"Certainly! as I told him myself in the first instance. Since then I
have been fortunate enough to meet her again once or twice. The good
vicar saw us together on one occasion; I presume he hurried home
forthwith to spread the news over the parish. In these dead-alive
places the most casual acquaintance is magnified into a scandal, but
fortunately Lady Margot is a woman of the world who is unaffected by
silly chatter. She has a dull time at the Moat, and is glad to meet a
fellow-creature with whom she can have a few minutes' conversation.
Personally, I don't care what the whole parish pleases to say. There is
only one person whose opinion matters. ... Ruth! what are you trying to
imply?" He moved nearer to her as he spoke, until the arm which rested
on the back of the seat almost touched her shoulder. "Lady Margot is
pleased to be friendly and gracious, but she does not belong to my
world. She is a star far above the head of a poor struggling barrister,
even if he were fool enough to aspire to her, which he certainly would
not do so long as there are inhabitants of his own sphere a hundred
times more beautiful and more attractive."
Ruth shook her head, her eyes fixed shyly on the ground.
"If the barrister were the heir to the Court, it would make all the
difference in the world. Uncle Bernard spoke very warmly of the Blount
family. It might increase your chance," she urged, compelled by some
impulse which she could not understand to argue against her own wishes.
"Perhaps the condition has something to do with ambition, and pride of
race."
"In that case, again you score the advantage, for you are his direct
descendant. I think myself, however, that it refers entirely to money.
He has warned us that he has peculiar ideas on the subject. Probably he
is on the look-out for a similar peculiarity. He has consulted me, and
Melland also, I believe, on several matters in connection with the
estate; but my ideas are purely businesslike, and Melland is hopelessly
happy-go-lucky, so there was nothing original in either his advice or
mine. No! from whichever point of view I consider the question, I
always come to the same conclusion. You are the nearest heir; you are a
Farrell in name as well as appearance. You are not extravagant nor
thoughtless like your sister. To Melland, as well as to myself, the
result is a foregone conclusion. I would congratulate you on the spot
if I could do so honestly.--I wonder if you will in the least understand
what I mean, when I say that I wish it had been any one of the four
rather than yourself?"
The face that was raised to his was for a moment simply shocked and
surprised, but under his steady gaze comprehension dawned, and Ruth
turned hastily aside, saying, in a tremulous voice which vainly
struggled to be defiant--
"I shall remind you of that unkind speech when you are living in state,
and I am toiling for my daily bread. I could not have believed you
would be so unkind."
"I am not afraid, for that day will never dawn. Remember it, rather,
when you are reigning here, and a poor fellow stifling up in town
refuses the invitations because he longs to accept, and dare not,
remembering the difference between us!"
It was pretty plain speaking, and Ruth did not pretend to misunderstand
its meaning. At that moment all doubts died away. She believed herself
to be loved, and as her lover considered himself in an inferior position
to her own, she was generous enough to show him her own feelings in
return. The dark lashes rested upon her cheeks, her lips quivered like
a child's, as she said softly--
"If I did own the Court, if Uncle Bernard left me everything he
possessed, it would be worthless to me if--if I were separated from the
friends I cared for most."
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
A SHATTERED IDEAL.
By four o'clock that afternoon the vicarage grounds presented a festive
appearance, as the hundred guests strolled to and fro, arrayed in light,
summer-like garments. The tennis-lawn was occupied by a succession of
players, a ping-pong table stood in a quiet corner and attracted a
certain number of devotees, and the grass-plot in front of the study
window had been marked out for golf croquet. For those less actively
disposed there were seats in the prettiest corners, and an endless
supply of refreshments served on little tables under the trees.
Ruth was looking lovely and radiant, blissfully conscious of Victor's
presence, even if he were at the further end of the garden; of a dress
and hat which suited her to perfection, and of her own importance in the
eyes of the assembly--Miss Farrell, the squire's nearest living
relation, his image in appearance, and reputed to be his favourite.
Surely this must be the future mistress of the Court! The intoxicating
whisper followed her wherever she went, and heightened the flush in her
cheek.
"Berengaria!" cried a laughing voice; and she turned to see Lady Margot
Blount standing by her side, holding out a slim, gloved hand. While
most of the girls present were arrayed in chiffons and laces, she wore a
perfectly simple lawn dress, with a coarse straw hat shading her face;
but the accessories of shoes, gloves, belt, parasol, and dainty jewelled
fastenings were all of an immaculate perfection, and with her tall,
graceful carriage she was by far the most striking figure present.
The two girls had met several times at different houses in the
neighbourhood since the formal exchange of calls, and it was not
Margot's fault that the friendship had not progressed still further.
She was always cordial, almost demonstrative in manner, eager to plan
fresh meetings and mutual occupations. It was Ruth who persistently put
obstacles in the way. In spite of Victor's protestations, she
instinctively recognised in Lady Margot a formidable rival, and the
knowledge gave her courage to disregard her uncle's expressed wishes,
and neither give nor accept informal invitations.
To-day, however, in the flush of her success she was full of good-will
to the whole world, and the former jealousy was replaced by
commiseration. Poor Lady Margot, poor everybody whom Victor did not
love as he loved herself!
"Oh, Lady Margot, I am so glad to see you," she cried frankly. "Do come
for a stroll with me! I am so tired of being asked how I like Raby, and
talking commonplaces to curious strangers. Doesn't it all look bright
and pretty? If only it will keep fine to the end."
"Oh, we may have a shower, but I don't think it will be anything more
serious Yes; Mrs Thornton has done wonders. Shall we take this path?
It is the narrowest and quietest, so there is the less fear of
interruption."
Ruth turned in the direction indicated with a somewhat doubtful look. A
narrow path, bordered on one side by prickly gooseberry-bushes, was
hardly the promenade for her perishable fineries; but while she
hesitated Margot led the way forward, and she followed, drawing her
skirts tightly together. Even so, disaster awaited her, for in the
interest of an animated discussion some of the filmy folds slipped from
the hand which held the parasol, dragged along the ground, and finally
caught with a rip and a jerk, leaving a long jagged tear at the hem.
Of the two exclamations, Margot's was far the most distressed.
"Oh, my poor Berengaria! How thoughtless of me to bring you here! It's
all my fault. I am such a plain-hemmed creature myself that I forgot
your frills. You must fasten it up at once or you may trip. I can give
you some pins, and there is a little summer-house at the end of the
path, where you can sit down and fasten it properly. I'll stand before
the door and screen you from the public gaze."
"Oh, thanks, it will be all right; I am thankful it was not further up.
The hem can always be shortened," said Ruth practically. She sat down
in a corner of the summer-house, the windows of which were screened by
thickly growing tendrils of hop, and, spreading out the tear, began to
pin it daintily together, while Lady Margot mounted guard outside.
A minute passed--two minutes--then came the sound of a man's quick
tread, and a voice spoke, a voice broken by a quiver of emotion which
could tell only one tale.
"Lady Margot! You here? I have been looking for you all afternoon.
Why did you hide yourself in this out-of-the-way place? You knew I
should be waiting."
The pin fell from Ruth's hand, she sat motionless as a statue behind the
leafy screen. It could not, could not be Victor's voice!
"I have not been here many minutes," Lady Margot replied quietly. "I
knew we should meet sooner or later; but you are a public character to-
day, and I must not monopolise your attention."
"Monopolise!" cried the voice again, the familiar voice with the
strange, unfamiliar thrill. Ruth's head dropped forward and her hands
clasped the seat on either side. "You talk of monopolising, while I
starve all week with just a chance five minutes now and then to keep me
alive! I rode for about three hours yesterday morning without even a
glimpse of you in the distance. I have been counting the hours until
this afternoon."
"Count them just a little bit longer, then; I have not spoken to half my
friends, and we would certainly be interrupted. Do me a favour and go
back to the lawn now, and later on--say in half an hour--come to me
again, and you shall have your reward."
"I'd wait a hundred years if I could have what I wanted at the end!"
said the voice passionately.
Footsteps crunched down the path, then came silence, and the falling of
a shadow across the doorway. Ruth lifted an ashen face, and saw Lady
Margot looking down upon her with tender, liquid eyes.
"Dear," she said gently, "you heard! I _meant_ you to hear. Don't
think me cruel; it was the truest kindness. You and I have something to
say to each other. I know a quiet nook where we can be alone. Come,
Ruth--come with me!"
Ruth rose mechanically and followed her guide through a door in the
wall, which led to a square piece of ground, bare and ugly,--a cabbage-
patch in name and in deed. There against the unromantic background the
two girls stood looking at each other, face to face with the great
question of their lives.
"Ruth," said Margot gently, "let us be honest with each other. It is
the only way. This man--Victor Druce--has come into both our lives; let
us find out where we stand! Shall I tell you my story first? I met him
last summer, when we were thrown constantly together for six weeks, and
he attracted me. I came nearer loving him than any man whom I had met.
Why, I don't know. I saw he admired me; but others had done that, and
when I was alone and could think about him quietly there were many
things about him I did not like. Still, he fascinated me. I thought of
him a great deal during the winter. I looked forward to seeing him
again. He was not of my world, and it seemed impossible that anything
serious could come of it; but I dreamt dreams... Then I came here, and
found, to my amazement, that he was staying at the Court. He met me one
morning going out for my ride, and since then it has often happened.
From the first his manner was different; more assured. He told me of
Mr Farrell's proposition, and insisted that the chances were in his
favour. He wished me to look upon him as the future owner of the Court;
a man who would be in my own position. He has been making love to me
all these weeks, Ruth, but he has not definitely asked me to marry him.
That's my story! Will you tell me yours in exchange?"
Ruth looked drearily round the bare, ugly patch. A moment before she
had been living mentally and physically in a land of roses; now, in an
instant, the scene had changed and the beauty had disappeared.
"I think," she said slowly, "that he has been making love to me too...
He has insisted from the first that I am Uncle Bernard's favourite, the
others think so too, and he has made me believe--only this morning he
made me believe--that he was afraid to speak plainly because of the
difference in our position. He said I should be a great lady, and he
would be working for his bread far away, and thinking of me." Ruth's
voice broke pitifully, but the red flamed in Margot's cheek, and she
reared her proud head with a disdainful gesture.
"So! It is as I thought; he has been playing a waiting game, making
love to us both, but keeping himself free until he saw how the land lay.
If he inherited, Lady Margot Blount would be useful in society; if he
were cut off, he would reserve the chance of marrying the heiress. And
we have both been deceived, and have imagined that he was in earnest! I
have seen him on the stage, and congratulated him on his success, but I
was not prepared for such finished acting in real life."
"No!" said Ruth drearily, "you have not been deceived; he was not acting
with you. I heard him speak just now, and I felt the difference. Oh,
Margot, he is playing with me, but he is in earnest with you; he does
really love you!"
Margot's lip curled scornfully.
"It is hardly my idea of love. If I am ever married, it shall be to a
man who will risk something for my sake, not to a mercenary who thinks
first of himself. I suspected something of this from the first
afternoon I called at the Court. You were sitting together on the
terrace, and something in his attitude... Oh, well, why dwell on it any
more?--it is none too pleasant. Ruth dear, you have avoided me, and I
have seemed to force myself upon you, but I was determined to find out
the truth, for both our sakes. It is better so, is it not?"
Ruth's dull glance of misery was pathetic to behold.
"I suppose it is," she said slowly, "but just now I cannot feel glad.
Everything seems over. I was so happy, and it will be so difficult to
go on living in the same house, meeting at every hour of the day. It is
easier for you, for you need not see him unless you wish, and you do not
care as I did."
"Don't I?" queried Margot gently. "He has been first in my thoughts for
nearly a year, Ruth, and you have known him for a few weeks. It is not
easy for me, either; but we must both realise that the Victor Druce of
our imagination never existed, but was a creation of our own brains.
This man--this adventurer--who has used us as his tool, must never
suspect that he has caused us pain; we must play our parts without
flinching, and let him see more and more clearly that we desire nothing
from him. It will be difficult, but there is nothing else for it, if we
are to keep our dignity. Ruth, you have plenty of will-power;--one can
see it in your face; you will not let this man deceive you again with
his plausible words?"
Ruth shook her head. The grey eyes shone hard and bright, then suddenly
brimmed with tears.
"Perhaps, after all, he is not worse than I am myself. Perhaps I
deserve this lesson. Another man asked me to marry him before we left
home. I did not love him, but he was well-off and had a nice house, and
for a few minutes I was tempted. I told him so, and he said he did not
want me if I could not care for himself alone... Perhaps if he had
begged very hard I might have said `yes.'"
Margot smiled--a very kindly smile.
"The cases are not precisely similar, are they? Instead of playing a
double game you were absolutely honest; much more honest than is usual
on such occasions. And he was a wise man. I think I should have liked
that man! Compare him with Victor Druce sometimes, Ruth; it may help
you to be brave... Now I am going back to the garden to act my part.
We will meet and talk again, but we can't stay away any longer just now
without attracting attention... Just tell me one thing before I go--Can
you forgive me for shattering your dream?" She held out her hand, and
Ruth took it in both hers.
"I have nothing to forgive. It is only wakening a little sooner; that's
all!" she said tremulously.
Margot bent down lightly, and touched her forehead with her lips, then
turned swiftly away, and Ruth was left alone. Poor, disenchanted Ruth,
wideawake at last, in the midst of the deserted cabbage-patch!
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
JACK MELLAND'S SECRET.
When Mr Farrell's guests assembled for dinner, on their return from the
garden-party, it was at once evident that the old gentleman was in one
of his difficult moods. From the beginning he had affected to
disapprove of Mrs Thornton's extravagance in attempting to entertain on
so large a scale, while sedulously keeping himself informed as to every
detail of the preparations. The anonymous present of fruit had
furnished him with a subject for much satirical comment, as had also the
girls' endeavours to beautify the house and grounds.
Now he found a fresh grievance in the fact that dinner was delayed a few
minutes past its usual hour, and that the young people appeared
depressed, rather than elated by their experiences. Ruth's plea of a
headache was justified by her wan looks; Jack was moody, and even Victor
was for once silent and distrait. It was left to Mollie to stem the
tide, and she raised herself nobly to the effort, albeit her own heart
was none too light.
"It went off beautifully, Uncle Bernard! Shall I tell you all about it
from the beginning?" she cried, smiling at his grim visage across the
dinner-table; and when he declared his lack of interest in the whole
concern, she smiled again, and refused to be convinced. "Oh, but you
must hear, because in a kind of way it was your party, as you are the
patron, and give them all that they have... There were such crowds of
people, and they looked so gay. Old Lady Everett wore a magenta satin,
quite the most awful garment I ever beheld, and she got hot, poor dear,
and it matched her face. And such an awkward thing happened; she
brought a little basket with a few under-sized grapes, about a pound,
perhaps, and presented them to Mrs Thornton with such an air of
munificence, and then turned round and saw the table spread with all
that exquisite fruit! She was quite angry even when Mrs Thornton
explained that it also was a gift."
"Why need she have explained at all? No other woman would have thought
of doing so. Why should a clergyman's wife be expected to explain her
private affairs to any inquisitive stranger? Surely it is her own
business what she puts on her own table?" This from Jack, in a burst of
querulous impatience which brought his host's eyes upon him with an
answering flash.
"If a woman in a public position provides what is obviously unsuited to
her means, the least she can do is to offer an explanation. A
clergyman's means do not run to expensive entertainments."
"Exactly; yet he is expected to entertain, and to humble his pride to do
it in an inferior style to his neighbours. And his wife is expected to
accept paltry gifts from her neighbours which another woman in her
position would look upon as an insult, and to be thankful for the
chance. I suppose she often is thankful, poor creature, as she has not
the means of providing properly for herself."
Mr Farrell put down his knife and fork, and, leaning back in his seat,
stared fixedly in Jack's face. His thin lips worked, and his eyes
gleamed ominously.
"May I ask if you are speaking in general terms, or individually of the
clergyman's wife in my own parish?"
Jack shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, I suppose she would be included, since her husband's income is
insufficient for her needs."
"You are aware, of course, that I am responsible for that income?"
"I suppose so--in a way, since the living is in your gift."
"And what grounds may you have for considering it insufficient?"
Jack burst into a short laugh, undeterred by the appealing glances cast
upon him by three frightened feminine listeners.
"What grounds? Why, the house is an advertisement of shabbiness; the
vicar's coat is green with age, and the poor little kiddies look as if
they had come out of the ark! Mrs Thornton has pluck enough for a
dozen, or she would never keep things going as she does; but she looks
an old woman before her time."
"Then it is your deliberate conclusion that I ought to increase the
Vicar's stipend?"
Under cover of the tablecloth a little hand stole along and laid a
gentle pressure on Jack's arm. He turned and met Mollie's eyes, grave
and appealing, with no trace of the frivolity of which he had complained
earlier in the day, and, at the sight, his irritation died a sudden
death. Mollie must indeed have forgiven him when she condescended to so
sweet an intimacy. The rush of joy which accompanied the thought put
him at once at peace with all men.
"The labourer is worthy of his hire, sir," he answered quietly. "I call
Thornton a rattling good fellow, and I should like to see him relieved
of monetary troubles. It's hard lines to expect a man to be an example
of all the virtues when he is constantly wondering how to make both ends
meet. I don't set much store on money, as you know, but I should enjoy
being in the position to do a good turn to a man like that."
Mr Farrell's sunken eyes gave forth a malicious gleam.
"You speak with feeling. Perhaps you have been enjoying a foretaste of
the experience. Surely you must be the generous Unknown who contributed
the hamper of fruit of which we have heard so much during the last few
days!"
There was a simultaneous gasp of surprise round the table, and everyone
turned to stare with curious eyes at Jack's scarlet face. Scarlet, with
an embarrassment which plainly proved the truth of the accusation; with
anger, too, and thwarted self-will. His nostrils inflated in the old
haughty manner, as he replied coldly--
"I thought we were discussing Mr Thornton's income! I fail to see what
the hamper has to do with the case."
Mr Farrell gave the short, staccato sound which did service for a
laugh.
"Your pardon! It is to me a very interesting sidelight. I am indebted
to you for stepping in to make up for my deficiencies."
"It was very kind of you, Mr Melland--very, very kind! You don't know
how much pleasure it gave. I envy you for having had such a nice
thought," said Ruth earnestly. For a wonder Mollie was silent, while
Victor shrugged his shoulders, and cried, between a sneer and a laugh--
"You are a sly dog, Melland. I had no idea that you were such a devoted
admirer of the redoubtable Mrs Thornton."
The sneer brought Jack to his bearings in a moment. Every trace of
embarrassment disappeared as he faced Victor across the table, wide-eyed
and defiant.
"It is the truth, none the less. I admire Mrs Thornton immensely. She
is a capital little woman, and fights the odds like a Spartan. This
garden-party business was a great event in her life, and she prepared
for it by a series of make-shifts. I got sick of hearing about them.
Poor little soul, why shouldn't she be able to do the thing decently
once in a while? She's been very kind to us; it was little enough to do
in return."
"Oh, well, everything is comparative. You must be pretty flush to send
about hampers of that description. I have never tasted finer fruit. I
am sorry that such generosity is beyond my means," said Victor, whereat
Jack scowled all the more.
"You would have spent as much on your lunches and teas if you had been
in town these last weeks. What is the use of money if you can't be
reckless once in a way? I am sorry that this subject has come up; but,
as it has, I must ask you all to be good enough not to speak of it to
Mrs Thornton. She would gush, and I loathe gush. The secret is my
own, not yours, so you must please respect my wishes."
Once more Ruth came to the rescue.
"Of course, we will keep your secret. We have no right to tell without
your consent," she said decisively.
Her grey eyes smiled at him across the table with a wistful sweetness.
This man, at least, was true and honest. Quick-tempered he might be,
self-willed and impatient, but one could never imagine Jack Melland
playing a double part, nor selling his soul for greed. And yet--and
yet, one glance from Victor's eyes had power to affect her as Jack
Melland's most earnest effort could never do; and Uncle Bernard, sharp-
sighted as he was, treated Jack with far less confidence and favour.
"But I was never sure of him all the time, except for those few hours
yesterday," she thought. "I _felt_ there was something behind. When
Dr Maclure spoke to me that afternoon I knew that he meant all, and
more than all, that he said; but it is not easy to make the imitation
like the real thing. The moment I heard him speak to Margot I knew the
difference--oh, such a difference! I shall never be deceived again."
She sat trifling with her fruit, unheeding the conversation around her,
yet dimly conscious that a passage-at-arms was still being carried on
between Mr Farrell and Jack; the former indulging in caustic remarks at
the young man's expense, Jack replying with more or less irritation.
A sudden gleam of excitement on Victor's face recalled her wandering
thoughts, in time to hear Jack reply quickly--
"You are quite right, I am an invalid no longer. I walked about most of
the afternoon and feel none the worse. I can manage even the stairs
with a little help. In another few days I shall be ready for work.
There will then be no need for me any longer to trespass--"
Suddenly he stopped; and though Mr Farrell sat waiting in silence for
several moments, he did not attempt to finish the sentence; for another
gentle pressure on the elbow had reminded him of the wisdom of self-
control. He sat with downcast eyes and firmly shut lips until Mr
Farrell's mocking voice broke the silence.
"Since Mr Melland has nothing more to say, it would perhaps be as well
if we made a move. I will ask you to excuse me for the rest of the
evening, as I am feeling fatigued."
He rose as he spoke and turned towards the door, but even as he did so
he staggered, and uttered an exclamation of pain. Mrs Wolff echoed the
cry and sank back in her chair helpless and unnerved; but in an instant
Victor was at his side, supporting him with a strong, steady arm.
"Send for James," he said, addressing the butler in the quiet tones of
one who knows how to keep his head in an emergency. "Let me help you
into the hall, sir; you will have more air there. Lean upon me!"
They moved slowly forward together, the bowed figure seeming momentarily
to shrink in stature, while the glimpse of cheek, as he turned towards
the door, was so ashen in colour that the girls clasped each other's
hands in dismay. Then James appeared, alert, composed, capable, a
carrying-chair was brought forward from some secret hiding-place, and
the invalid was borne upstairs to his room.
"It's one of his `turns,' miss," the butler explained to Ruth. "He used
to have them constantly, but it's the first since you came. We'll send
down for the doctor, and he'll probably stay all night. You can never
tell how things may go!"
Jack Melland limped off towards the deserted smoking-room. Five minutes
before, as he sat resolutely silent, he had determined to go to Mr
Farrell as he sat in the library that evening, and, in the quiet of a
_tete-a-tete_, announce his determination to leave the Court before the
week was out; but now, once again, circumstances conspired against him.
There was a greater question at stake than his own miserable comings or
goings, for the shadow of death hovered over the Court, and none could
tell what the morning might bring forth.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
MRS. WOLFF.
The next morning Mr Farrell was reported better, though unable to leave
his bed. His old friend, the doctor, had stayed with him for the
greater part of the night, and had now taken his departure, pronouncing
all immediate danger to be over. A few days' rest would no doubt make
the patient much as he had been before, to outward seeming, though to
the professional eye, a little weaker, a little nearer the end.
At breakfast Mrs Wolff fussed in a feeble, self-injured manner because
she was not admitted to the sick-room.
"It is so dreadful for him to be left without a woman! I can't think
how he will be nursed without a woman!" she repeated monotonously, while
her hearers breathed an earnest wish that, when their turn came to be
nursed, it might not be by a woman of her calibre. Mr Farrell was a
hundred times better off with his quiet, capable James.
A shadow of depression rested upon all the young people, though Ruth
could not help feeling thankful for a reasonable excuse for a sadness
which had nothing to do with Uncle Bernard or his health. Now, no one
would wonder if she were sad or silent, and she would escape the
questioning she had so much dreaded. Immediately breakfast was over she
announced her intention of devoting the morning to photography, and
disappeared indoors, while Victor took his accustomed path to the
stables.
Mollie would have followed her sister, but Jack detained her with an
appeal which could not be denied.
"Stay and talk to me a little while; do! or I shall think you are
offended by my stupidity yesterday. I have to thank you for your
reminder last night. If you had not stopped me I should have spoken
even more strongly than I did, and have been filled with remorse. As it
is, I don't think anything I said could have been responsible for this
attack. Considering all things I kept pretty cool, didn't I now?"
"I think you did," conceded Mollie, smiling. "No; I expect it has been
coming on for some days, and that was why he was so cross. You
generally find people are ill if they are more than usually snappy.
Poor Uncle Bernard! I wish one could help; but I am glad he has not
Mrs Wolff to fidget him. Do you know," said Mollie, fixing her candid
eyes upon Jack's face, and inwardly rejoicing at having hit on an
impersonal topic of conversation,--"do you know Mrs Wolff is an
unending problem to one! I think about her for hours at a time, and try
to puzzle her out, but I never get one step further."
"Really!" Jack searched in his pockets for materials, and began rolling
up one of the everlasting cigarettes. "I'm surprised to hear that. I
should not have thought she could have occupied more than two minutes.
For my own part I find it impossible to think of her at all. She was
born; she exists; she will probably die! Having said so much, you have
exhausted the subject."
"Not at all," contradicted Mollie frankly. "There's lots more to
consider. What is she really, and what is the real life that she lives
inside that funny little shell? And was she ever a child who laughed
and danced, and raced about, and was good and naughty, and played with
toys, and lived among giants and fairies? We _lived_ fairy tales, Ruth
and I, and had giants to tea in a nursery four yards square. And we
hunted ferocious lions and tigers, who either turned out kind and
harmless, or were slain by imaginary swords. Did Mrs Wolff always know
exactly that two and two make four, and never by any chance made a
delicious pretence that it was five? And when she went to school had
she a chum whom she adored, and wrote letters to every other day filled
with `dears' and `darlings,' and did she ever shirk `prep,' or play
tricks on the teachers, or sit up to a dormitory supper?"
"Certainly not! She was a good little girl who never soiled her
pinafore, nor dreamt of anything she could not see, and she worked hard
at school and remained persistently in the middle of the class, and
gained high marks for neatness and decorum. She never had a chum
because she is incapable of caring for one person more than another."
"But what about `poor Mr Wolff'? Surely she must have had, at least, a
preference for him! That's another problem--how did anyone come to fall
in love with her, and what did he fall in love with, and why, and when,
and where? I long to know all about it, for it seems so
incomprehensible."
Jack laughed with masculine amusement at her curiosity.
"Not incomprehensible at all. I can give a very good guess how it
happened. She was a timid, shrinking, little thing, rather pretty--her
features are not at all bad--and `poor Mr Wolff' was a big burly fellow
who took a fancy to her because she was a contrast to himself. She
didn't say much, so he credited her with thinking the more. She agreed
with everything he said, so he considered her the cleverest woman he
knew. He discovered his error, no doubt, in sackcloth and ashes, poor
fellow; but mercifully he had not to endure many years of
disenchantment. I can't imagine a worse fate than being tied for life
to an automaton!"
"Humph!" Mollie pondered, pinching her soft chin between thumb and
finger. "He might not be so particular as you... Did you ever... Have
you ever,--I mean, did you ever meet..."
Jack blew a cloud of smoke from between his lips with a half-embarrassed
smile.
"Did I ever meet a girl whom I imagined might be my Mrs Wolff! Is that
what you want to ask? Yes--once!--for a passing moment. We met, and I
caught a glimpse of her face, and recognised it as the fulfilment of a
dream. Then she disappeared. Romantic, isn't it, and disappointing
into the bargain? I am not a sentimental fellow, I suppose, for I have
never even imagined myself in love, though I have known scores of
charming girls; but at that moment I realised possibilities!"
"But, oh, how disappointing! Did she really disappear? Couldn't you
find her? Is there no chance that you may meet again?"
"Sometimes I think there is; at other times it seems impossible. In any
case, I am powerless to help, or to hinder."
"I should not say that if I were a man! I would search the world over
till I found her!" Mollie sat silently, with bent head and thoughtful
air, then suddenly lifted her eyes to his with a sweet, grave glance.
"I hope you _will_ meet! I hope you will be very happy together some
day,--you, and your Lady of Dreams!"
Jack looked at her, and his face changed strangely. He said nothing,
not even a word of thanks for her good wishes, and presently got up from
his seat, and limped into the house, leaving Mollie depressed and self-
reproachful.
"I suppose I should not have said it. He thinks it `gush,' and won't
condescend to answer. I wonder what she was like? Dark, I suppose, and
stately, and serious; the very opposite from me. She will appear again
some day, and they will be married and look so handsome together. I'm
awfully, awfully glad; at least, I should be if Uncle Bernard were not
ill. That makes one feel so dull and wretched that one can't be glad
about anything," said poor Mollie to herself.
Jack did not appear again; and she was not in the mood to take any
interest in Ruth's photographic efforts, so she strolled through the
grounds and gathered an armful of flowers to send home to the little
mother. This was always a pleasant undertaking, and just now there was
a special reason for choosing the freshest and most fragrant blossoms,
for the last few letters had hinted at a recurrence of the old money
troubles.
"Something is up!" wrote Trix, in school-girl parlance. "Father and
mother are talking in his den all the evening, and she comes down to
breakfast with her eyes swollen with crying, and he looks like a sheet,
and doesn't eat a bite. Horrid old business again, of course. How I
hate it! We shall have to scrape a little more, I suppose; and where we
are to scrape from, I'm blest if I know! My blue serge is green, and
the boys' Etons shine like the rising sun. It was a fine day on Sunday,
and they fairly glittered going to church. I don't want to give you the
blues, but thought I'd better tell you, so that you could write to cheer
them up, and also be more assiduous in your attentions to the old man.
You must and shall get that fortune between you, or we shall be
bivouacking in the workhouse before you can say Jack Robinson! My heart
too truly knows the signs full well!"
Mollie recalled these expressive sentences, and sighed in sympathy.
"Poor old Trix! too bad that she should be left at home to bear the
brunt, while we are living in the lap of luxury. I expect it is just
one of the old crises, and we shall worry through as usual, but it is
depressing while it lasts. I can't endure to see mother with red eyes.
She will smile when she sees these roses, bless her! I defy anyone not
to enjoy opening a box of flowers; and when we go home we will cheer
them up again,--fortune or no fortune. Dear old Trix shall have some of
my fineries made down, as a change from the green serge."
Mollie's spirits lightened perceptibly as she loitered about the garden,
for to a town-bred girl it was luxury indeed, not only to look upon a
wealth of roses, but to be able to gather them lavishly as she pleased.
When the basket was full of half-opened beauties, ranging in every
shade, from white to the bloomy crimson of "Prince Camille," she turned
to more shady corners for the sprays of ferns and foliage, which are
even more prized than flowers themselves by the unhappy dwellers in
cities, then returned to the house to find a box and pack it for the
post. The terrace was empty, but Mrs Wolff was sitting knitting just
inside the drawing-room window.
"Your uncle is better," she announced, as Mollie approached. "He has
had a quiet sleep since breakfast, and James thinks he will be able to
sit up for an hour or two to-morrow. I haven't seen anything of Ruth or
Mr Melland. Mr Druce came back from the stables to say that he was
not going to ride to-day, but take a long walk, and he would be sure to
be home in time for lunch. He is always so kind and considerate!"
The poor little woman looked wan and dispirited, and Mollie reflected
with a pang of remorse that she herself had shown little consideration
for her feelings. Even a nonentity, it appeared, could feel dull when
left by herself in a big, empty house, and also could appreciate a
little act of thoughtfulness. Victor disappeared so regularly for the
morning hours, that it seemed strange that he should have especially
explained his intentions this morning of all others; but perhaps he had
done so, just because to-day was distinguished by a special load of
anxiety which he was anxious not to increase. Mrs Wolff lived in a
constant state of fidget, and even so little a thing as the uncertainty
whether the household would assemble punctually to partake of the
luncheon which she had ordered, might easily add to her distress.
"He is awfully considerate at times; much more than the rest of us,"
Mollie admitted to herself. "He never forgets the least little thing
that Uncle Bernard says or does, or likes or dislikes, while I--silly,
blundering thing!--always try to help him out of his chair at the wrong
side, or stumble over his sticks."
She stood looking down at Mrs Wolff with a new impulse of sympathy.
Hitherto, they had seemed divided by an impassable gulf, but this
morning the girl's usual radiant sense of well-being had died away, and
left a little rankling ache in its place. "Uncle Bernard's illness, and
this new bother at home," was Mollie's explanation even to her own
heart, but the result thereof was to fill her with pity for the life of
a woman whom nobody loved, and who was homeless in a land of homes.
She sat down beside Mrs Wolff, determined to make the hour before
luncheon pass more cheerfully than its predecessor, and a few judicious
questions soon set the good lady's tongue prattling over past and
future. She said that as a girl she had always had a partiality for
blue merino, and had owned a Dunstable bonnet, trimmed with roses, which
was said to be particularly becoming. It was a pity that roses faded so
in the sun; ribbons were more economical wear. Did Mrs Connor buy her
fish wholesale from Whitby, or retail from a fishmonger? They did say
there was a great saving in the former way, only you got tired of cod,
if it were a very big fish...
The worst of a large house was having to keep so many servants! A
friend of hers, who was "reduced," said she had never known what comfort
meant till she came down to two. That James really took too much upon
himself! Talking of black-currant jelly--how beautiful the peaches were
on the south wall! Her cousin's little boy--Eddie, not Tom--fell over a
garden barrow the other day, and it might have been most serious, for
the shears were only a few yards away. Children were more trouble than
pleasure. Poor Mr Wolff always regretted having none, and she used to
remind him of the school bills, and the breakages, and the dirt in the
house...
Had Mollie ever knitted comforters for deep-sea fishermen? They said
their ears did get so cold. There was nothing like an onion boiled
really soft, and made into a poultice for ear-ache. Her cousin's little
boy--Tom, not Eddie--had it very badly. Dear, dear, to hear his
shrieks! They found onion much better than camphorated oil. When Mr
Farrell died, she supposed whoever came into possession would re-cover
the drawing-room furniture. It needed it, and you got lovely patterns
from London...
On and on the stream flowed, until Mollie felt dazed and bewildered.
Mrs Wolff evidently felt it such a treat to have a listener that she
was capable of continuing for hours at a time, and it was only the
sounding of the gong for lunch which brought an end to the monologue.
In its passing it had seemed a quiet, uneventful morning; no one guessed
what importance its coming and going would assume in the near future.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.
AN UNPLEASANT INTERVIEW.
Mr Farrell kept to his determination to see none of his visitors until
he was able to come downstairs, but he sent a message by James, to the
effect that he would be annoyed if his indisposition were allowed to
interfere in any way with social engagements. Therefore, dinner-parties
being the order of the day, the four young people feasted abroad every
evening, and spent the afternoons at various tennis and croquet parties
instituted in their honour.
The rush of gaiety was in full swing, and the list of invitations which
ought to be accepted stretched so far ahead that it seemed as if there
would be little time left in which to entertain in return. In earlier
days the girls had delighted to discuss gorgeous and bizarre ideas,
smacking more of the Arabian Nights than of an English country house, by
the execution of which they hoped to electrify the county and prove
their own skill as hostesses; but of late these schemes had been
unmentioned. Ruth was too much crushed by her disappointment to have
spirit for frivolities, and the shadow of the universal depression at
home, as well as at the Court, cast its shadow over Mollie also.
In a half-hearted way both girls were glad of the engagements which
prevented _tete-a-tetes_, which had grown difficult and embarrassing,
yet with the unreasonableness of her sex Ruth felt doubly hurt to
realise that Victor shared in her relief. She had expected to have
difficulty in avoiding him, and to hear reproaches for her coldness, but
neither expectation was fulfilled.
"I suppose he thinks that he has made things safe with me by that last
conversation, and can afford to take a little holiday and enjoy himself.
He does not want to compromise himself too far!" Ruth told herself,
with a touch of bitterness which had developed during the last few days.
She knew that Victor's long absences in the morning were spent in trying
to waylay Lady Margot in her walks and drives, and had the best
authority for knowing him to have been successful more than once, for
Margot had been present at one of the dinner-parties and had seized an
opportunity to have a quiet word.
"I have met Mr Druce twice this week. I could have avoided him by
staying in the grounds, but I do not wish to rouse his suspicions. He
won't risk anything definite until matters are decided between you and
Mr Farrell, and then he shall learn his lesson. From which of us he
learns it, it does not matter. In the meantime, I shall make no change,
and he can come and go as he sees fit."
"You must be very--very sure of yourself!" said Ruth wistfully; at which
Margot reared her little head with a haughty gesture.
"Absolutely sure! If he had dared to ask me six months ago, I might
have given up everything to be the wife of the imaginary Victor, but now
I will not alter the slightest plan out of consideration for the real
Mr Druce. I can trust myself; but,"--she turned a grave, direct gaze
on the other's face--"can _you_ trust me, Ruth? I don't concern myself
about appearances, so it is possible you may hear rumours which may not
seem in keeping with our agreement. Can you trust me enough to believe
that, however strange things may seem, I am really considering your
interests even more than my own?"
"I think I can--oh yes, I am sure I can!" replied Ruth hesitatingly.
But even as she spoke a doubt crept up in her mind. If Victor did,
indeed, become the owner of the Court, and remained persistent in his
wooing, could Margot withstand him? She had loved him once. Would not
the old feeling revive, and prove too strong for argument? It was
Ruth's nature to distract herself with doubts and fears, and the little
conversation did not help to raise her spirits.
On the fifth morning after Mr Farrell's seizure he came downstairs to
his study, and was reported by the doctor to be in fairly good health.
He did not appear at luncheon, however, and there was something darkly
mysterious about James's manner when he came into the dining-room when
the meal was nearly over to announce that his master wished to see the
young ladies, with Mr Druce and Mr Melland, in the library at five
o'clock.
"And me--surely he wishes to see me also!" Mrs Wolff cried, in an
injured tone.
But James only bowed, and repeated inflexibly--
"Only the young ladies and gentlemen, ma'am. I understand that he
wishes to see them on business."
Business! That word was enough to keep five minds working busily during
the hours between luncheon and the time appointed for the interview.
Had Uncle Bernard come to some definite conclusion during those quiet
days upstairs? Was the period of probation over, or did the summons
simply imply some new and eccentric phase of the old routine?
Conjecture ran riot; but at the first sight of the old man's face all
pleasant expectations died a sudden death, for it was fixed in a stern,
unbending anger, such as his guests had never seen before. Hardly
replying to their congratulations and inquiries, he motioned them
impatiently to the seats ranged in readiness facing his chair, exactly
as they had been on that first important interview five weeks before.
Only five weeks, thirty-five short days, yet each of the squire's guests
felt as if a lifetime of experience yawned between that day and this!
"I have sent for you, as it is necessary to speak on an unpleasant
topic, which, however, cannot be avoided," Mr Farrell began. "It is
painful for me to open it, especially as I am urged to avoid excitement;
but I have no alternative. You may remember that shortly before I was
taken ill, I referred to the draft of my will which was lying in this
desk." He stretched out his hand, and laid it on the polished surface.
"It was kept here with other important papers, arranged in a special
manner, which I have adopted for years, partly for the sake of neatness,
partly to ensure them against interference, for it is impossible that
they should be touched without my knowledge. This morning, on coming
downstairs, my first task was to add some memoranda to one of these
papers. I opened the desk, and discovered at once that my will had been
opened and read--"
He stared grimly across the room, and four flushed, bewildered faces
stared back at him. The silence lasted for several moments; then Jack
spoke in his haughtiest and most intolerant tone--
"You do not, of course, wish to imply, sir, that you suspect us of
having any hand in the matter? I presume you want our help in
unravelling the mystery? My own detective powers are not of a high
order; but if you will explain your system--"
Mr Farrell interrupted him with a raised hand.
"Thank you, I prefer to make my own inquiries. As I said before, it is
a disagreeable duty; but when a duty is forced upon one, the best course
is to perform it in the most strict and business--like manner possible.
You are the people most concerned in my will, the people who would
naturally feel most interest and curiosity in seeing it; therefore,
apart from sentimental considerations, on you the first suspicion must
fall, and it is right that I should question you before outsiders."
Jack's eyes flashed. He rose from his chair and limped across the
floor, as if unable to keep still.
"I am afraid it will be of little use. If a fellow is sweep enough to
pry into another man's secrets, he is equal to lying about it into the
bargain, and in that case you have no chance in finding out the truth.
You have been upstairs for five days. It is impossible to account for
all that may have happened during that time."
"I have been upstairs five days, as you say, but it happens that I can
reduce the time to a much narrower limit. On the evening after I was
taken ill, it occurred to me that I had not locked my desk the night
before, as I expected to return to the library as usual after dinner. I
sent James downstairs to make sure. He found it open, locked it, and
brought me back the key. The lock is a patent one, and has not been
tampered with, therefore whoever examined the will must have done so on
Wednesday morning or afternoon."
Victor looked up quickly.
"You allowed your man to lock it, you trusted him with the key?"
"Certainly. He has been twenty years in my service, and knows exactly
what provision I have made for his future. He will not need to work
after my death, and has no personal interest in my will. Moreover, I
trust him as I would myself."
Mr Farrell spoke sharply, evidently annoyed that any doubt should be
cast upon his favourite. As he finished his eyes met Mollie's fixed
upon him with an angry challenge, to which he was not slow to respond--
"Well, what have you to say, young lady? Can you throw any light on
this mystery?"
"I have not opened your desk and pried among your papers, if you really
mean to ask me such a question. I have lots of faults, but I've never
been suspected of anything so mean as that, and I don't care to stay in
a house where anyone can believe it possible! I don't want to see the
horrid old will! We should all have been content and happy if it had
not been for the thought of it; and I never want to hear it mentioned
again. I don't know how you dare insult us so, Uncle Bernard!"
"That will do, Mollie; you have given me your answer. There is no need
to get excited. You had better go back to the drawing-room while I
speak to your companions."
The squire leant back in his chair, waiting for her to go; and, willing
or unwilling, there was no defying that grim silence. Mollie marched
across the floor with defiant tread, opened the door, and closed it
behind her with a bang, so expressive of temper that Jack could not
resist a smile. It vanished quickly enough, however, as he listened to
Mr Farrell's next words--
"I must ask you to tell me in so many words whether you know anything of
this matter. If a sudden access of curiosity should have proved too
strong for resistance, a candid confession would be the best means of
obtaining forgiveness. I could overlook anything better than deceit."
He looked at the three young faces before him with a scrutiny that had
something pathetic in its earnestness; but, as it met with no response,
his expression hardened. "Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me,
in the first place, whether any of you were in the library on
Wednesday?"
He looked at Victor as he spoke, and the dark eyes met his without a
moment's hesitation.
"I went out for a long walk immediately after breakfast, and returned
when luncheon was on the table. Afterwards Melland and I smoked on the
terrace until it was time to drive over to a tennis-tea. I forget which
house it was held at, but I remember we heard that the carriage was at
the door, and had to rush for it. That was so, wasn't it, Melland? I
think I should have little difficulty in proving an alibi for the whole
day."
Mr Farrell hesitated for a minute, then turned towards Jack.
"And you, Melland?"
"Oh, I was about the house! I don't remember going into the library,
but I might have done so half a dozen times, and forgotten all about it.
You gave me permission to borrow books as I chose, and I have been
constantly in and out. I could not undertake to say positively what I
did on any particular day."
"Ruth?"
Ruth lifted a miserable face, and shot a glance across the room. There
was none of Mollie's righteous indignation in that glance, only a
nervous shrinking which amounted almost to fear.
"I--I was in the library, Uncle Bernard! I photographed it several
times that morning. It seemed a good opportunity, as you were upstairs,
and I wanted the room for my collection."
"You were photographing. That means that you would be some little time
alone in the room?"
"Yes--no; I came and went. Not so very long," stammered Ruth
hesitatingly. It was terrible to be cross-examined like this, with the
eyes of the three men fixed upon her, grave and questioning. She looked
wistfully at the door, and half rose from her seat. "I know nothing--I
did nothing! I can tell you nothing more! May I go now? There is no
use staying any longer."
"One moment, please! You all deny having touched the will, and I shall,
of course, accept your word; but you must help to find the real culprit
by giving me every clue in your power. Was any reference made to the
will in your presence? Has anyone, for instance, expressed curiosity
respecting it and its contents?"
Victor's eyes turned to Ruth with a glance which brought the colour
rushing into her cheek. He did not speak, but his expression was too
eloquent to be misread. The old man looked keenly from one to the
other, and his voice took an added sharpness as he spoke--
"Well, Druce, out with it--out with it! What is it that you have to
say?"
"Nothing, sir--nothing worth repeating. Your question reminded me of a
chance remark; but I would rather say no more about it."
"You have said too much already. Pray go on, since you have begun!"
cried Ruth, with a sudden blaze of anger. Her small head was thrown
back with a defiant gesture, and the Farrell eyebrows met in a straight
black line across her brow. "_I_ spoke of your will, Uncle Bernard--I
said I wished that I could see it. I _did_ want to see it! It was
impossible to know that it was lying there, and not feel curious."
"Of course it was. We were all curious, but some of us had not the
honesty to confess it," Jack cried quickly. "Surely it is not necessary
to keep Miss Ruth any longer, sir? She has told you that she can give
you no more information. It is cruel to the girl--" He broke off as if
afraid of speaking too strongly; and Mr Farrell lay back in his chair
with a sudden weary slackening of muscle.
"Yes, yes, she may go; you may all go! We can prove nothing at present;
but time will show--time will show!" And he raised his hand with a
gesture of dismissal.
Ruth and Victor rose and hurriedly left the room only Jack stood his
ground, nervously tugging at his moustache. He had something to say,
and was determined to say it, but the sight of the old man's figure in
its physical and mental depression turned his anger into commiseration.
It was in almost an apologetic voice that he broke the silence.
"I stayed because I wanted to have five minutes' quiet talk with you,
sir. My ankle is now practically well, and I am anxious to return to
town. Please don't think I am unappreciative of your kindness in
wishing me to stay, but as I said before I have no wish to be considered
as a candidate for your fortune. It is owing to my accident that I have
remained so long, and not to any change of mind. I hear from my partner
that the business is suffering from my absence, and we have had such a
struggle to work it up to its present condition, that you can understand
I am in a fever to get back."
Contrary to his expectation Mr Farrell showed no sign either of
surprise or anger. Perhaps he had been expecting the announcement as a
result of convalescence, perhaps he was simply too weary to feel any
strong interest in passing events. In any case, his face scarcely
changed in expression, as he replied--
"After five weeks' visit to the Court you still keep to your original
opinion, that the chance of possessing it is not worth a little
inconvenience, or even monetary loss?"
Jack pursed his lips with an impatient dissent.
"Oh, the Court is beautiful--an ideal place in every respect. I would
go through a good deal to earn it--in a straightforward fashion. What I
object to is the mystery, and the idleness, and the feeling of
competition. You have every right to manage your own affairs in your
own way, sir, but you must allow me the same privilege. You must have
found out by this time that I have a large amount of obstinacy in my
composition. I have made up my mind that for every reason it is my duty
to return to town."
"You have calculated, of course, that even if your business succeeds to
an extraordinary extent, you are never likely to make anything like as
much money as will come to my heir?"
"I have always heard that you are enormously wealthy. You are probably
quite right; but,"--Jack paused in front of the lounge-chair and looked
down at the shrunken figure from the height of six-foot-one,--"looking
back on your own life, sir, has your greatest happiness come from the
amount of your possessions? Has it increased as they increased? Can
you honestly advise me as a young man to sacrifice everything for
money?"
There was silence for several minutes, while Mr Farrell winced and
shrank within himself, as if the words had touched a hidden sore. He
never referred to his own domestic life; but it was well-known that for
years it had been one of ideal happiness, and that with the loss of wife
and son, his real life had closed for ever. He avoided a direct reply
to Jack's question by asking another in return.
"There are other things which many men consider more important. I have
sometimes imagined that you would agree with them. Have you reflected
that in returning to town you may be leaving behind even more than land
or fortune, and thereby losing a dearer chance of happiness!"
The blood rushed into Jack's face. He could not affect to misunderstand
the drift of the old man's words, but to acknowledge their truth was
impossible, and the orthodox protests seemed to come of their own
accord.
"What do you mean? What am I leaving? I hardly understand..."
Mr Farrell laughed shortly.
"Young people seem to imagine that their elders cannot see what is
happening under their eyes. I have watched you and Mollie, and thought
that there might possibly be an interesting _denouement_ to your
friendship. She has faults, but she has a kind heart and would make a
good wife."
Jack's face stiffened.
"Hadn't we better keep her name out of the discussion, sir? I have the
greatest respect and admiration for both your nieces, but, as far as
anything further is concerned, I am not in a position to think of
marriage. It may be years before I can keep a house, and I would never
tie down a girl indefinitely."
"In this instance it might happen that the girl had a house of her own!
Did it never strike you that you would be doubling your chances if you
linked them together?"
"I am not a fool, sir! Of course I realised as much from the first, and
have wondered if it was part of your scheme. My idea of marriage,
however, is to be able to keep my wife, not to accept support. It may
be a weakness in my nature, which makes me wish to be head of my own
household; but weakness or not, there it is, and I can't get rid of it.
It would be detestable to me to marry an heiress, and if I were a girl I
should despise a man who was content to live on his wife's money."
"Just so--just so! Very praiseworthy sentiments, no doubt; but I should
have been glad to know that the child had a protector. The stepfather
is a broken reed, and the mother is a child herself; however, you place
your pride and your prejudice first, and that's the end of the business.
You will go back to town, she to the North--a very effectual
separation!"
He shrugged his shoulders expressively; but Jack's eyes gave out a
sudden flash, he straightened himself, and cried eagerly--
"There are trains, there are boats--if it comes to that, it is only two
hundred miles. If she were in trouble, one could _walk_! It would make
no difference if the woman one wanted were at the end of the world--one
would get to her _somehow_ when the hour arrived! Difficulty is an
inspiration, sir, when one is young!"
"Yes, yes; when one is young--when one is young!" The smile which had
lightened the old man's face died away at the sound of those last words.
He raised his hand and pushed the thin locks from his brow. "Well, it
is your own life--you must live it in your own way! I cannot benefit
you against your will. If your mind is made up I have no strength to
argue the point. You had better arrange to leave to-morrow afternoon,
and give instructions to that effect to the servants."
Jack's start of surprise was entirely disagreeable. He had not expected
to be dismissed in this summary fashion, and the thought of so speedy a
break with the new life came upon him with a positive shock. To-morrow!
To-morrow, then, at this very hour he would be back in the dingy
lodgings which did duty for home, preparing to sit down to a solitary
meal, to spend a solitary evening, to sleep and wake up to a day's work
in the stifling City, where the thought of green fields and rose-
gardens, and wide, stretching lawns would seem as unreal as a dream. A
weight of depression settled on him, as he exclaimed--
"To-morrow! But--unless you wish it, there is no hurry--I could wait
until the end of the week. If I left on Saturday, I could still begin
work on Monday."
"For what object? Since you have decided not to remain, it is better
for all reasons that you should return at once. You have put your work
before everything else--then why delay in getting back to it? For my
own part, since you refuse to consent to my conditions, it would
simplify matters if you returned at once. The position is difficult,
and my strength is rapidly failing. I should have been glad if you had
consented to grant me these few weeks out of your life, but, since it is
not to be, I prefer to finish the matter once for all." He held out his
hand as he spoke. "Good-bye, Melland--my best wishes! I shall not see
you in the morning!"
Jack took the proffered hand, and held it in silence, his face a study
of perplexity and remorse. An Englishman hates to express his emotions,
but to a generous nature the sting of ungratefulness is even more
abhorrent. At that moment it seemed a little thing to spare a few
months of strong, young life to gratify the whim of a dying man. Jack's
heart reproached him, and he spoke in eager accents.
"If I could be a help to you, sir--if I felt that my presence gave you
pleasure or comfort, I would stay willingly as long as you wished; but
you have kept so much apart, that there has been no opportunity--"
Mr Farrell disengaged his hand, and turned aside with a wearied air.
"Good-bye, Melland!" he repeated. "I wish you a pleasant journey!"
So far as any change of voice or manner was concerned, he might not have
heard the young man's protest. Jack turned away, miserable and abashed.
It was the last time he ever saw Bernard Farrell alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY.
FRESH TRIALS FOR RUTH AND MOLLIE.
Meanwhile, Ruth and Mollie were crying in each other's arms in the
privacy of their bedroom--that is to say, Ruth was crying and Mollie was
storming and shedding an occasional tear more of anger than distress.
"I've never been so insulted in my life, and I won't stand it from fifty
thousand Uncle Bernards! I'll tell him so, and make him beg my pardon
and yours too, darling! Don't cry! It makes your nose so red, and you
hate to look a fright!"
"Oh, Mollie, we were far happier at home when we thought we were so
badly off! What was the use of coming here to have our hearts broken?
I loved that man, I thought he loved me, and now I can only despise him.
He deliberately tried to fasten suspicion upon me this afternoon, and I
can never prove my innocence, for I _was_ in the library, and alone for
quite a long time, on and off. What can I do, or say, if they won't
take my word?"
"Everybody will, whose opinion is worth having Victor Druce thinks of
nothing but his own advantage; and I won't allow you to say you cared
for him."
"It's easier said than done! Can you practise what you preach? You
don't say anything, but I know,--I can see! When Jack goes away, will
you find it easy to forget all about him?"
Mollie's face changed. Excitement disappeared, to be replaced by a
sweet and serious dignity.
"I shall never forget him," she said quietly; "but he is in love with
another girl--he told me about her the other day--so our lives must be
spent apart. I shall never be as happy as I might have been, but I'm
going to be as happy as I can. I _won't_ mope! We were happy enough
just to be together a few weeks ago; let's go back to where we were, and
forget all about the tiresome men!"
"It's easier said than done," sighed Ruth once more. She sank down in a
chair by the window, and, leaning her head on her hand, gazed drearily
across the park, beautiful in the changing light of late afternoon.
With what joy and confidence had she regarded the same scene a few weeks
ago, her heart expanding in the happy certainty that some day it would
be her own, and with it unlimited powers of helping those she loved.
Now, between Victor's faithlessness and her own fall from favour, hope
had gradually died away, and the future seemed to hold nothing but
bitterness and regret.
Ruth's heart turned homewards with yearning affection. The love of the
little mother was a certainty which could be depended upon through good
report and ill; nothing that could be said against her child would shake
her trust and faith, she would be even more tender in failure than
success.
The dear old pater, too--how good he had been all these years, making no
distinction between his step-daughters and his own children, except
perhaps to show a more anxious care for their needs! He worked so hard,
and was so absolutely self-denying and uncomplaining; it was not his
fault if he did not possess the power of money-making. When she was at
home again she would be more thoughtful of his comfort, more
affectionate and sympathetic. She recalled all the step-brothers and
sisters whose very existence she had grudged at times, each name
bringing with it some kindly, humorous recollection. How truly lovable
they were, despite their faults!
Then Ruth's thoughts roamed a little further afield to the few intimate
friends of the family, foremost among whom came Eleanor Maclure and her
brother. What would Eleanor say if the grand expedition ended in
ignominious failure? A good many words of sympathy, of cheer, and a few
simple heart-to-heart truths, pointing out the spiritual side of the
puzzle, spoken in that soft Scotch voice which was so good to hear. Ah
yes, it would be a help to meet Eleanor again. And the--the doctor!
During the first weeks of her stay at the Court, Ruth had been so much
absorbed in the present that she had had no leisure to think of old
friends; but during the last few days the vision of Dr Maclure's face
had risen before her not once but many times--strong, earnest, resolute,
with steady glance and square-built chin, such a contrast from that
other face with the veiled eyes, which seemed to hide rather than reveal
the soul within.
In the midst of soreness and humiliation it had been a comfort to
remember that such a man had loved her enough to wish to make her his
wife. She recalled the conversation in the brougham with new sympathy
and understanding. Had he suffered as she was suffering now? Did his
life also stretch ahead blank and grey because of that little word from
her lips? Her heart yearned over him, yet felt mysteriously lightened
at the thought.
"There's the postman's collie!" cried Mollie's voice, interrupting her
reverie. "That means that the evening post is in. I'll run down and
see what there is for us."
She disappeared for a few minutes, then reappeared carrying one letter
in her hand.
"From mother, to you. Open it quickly, dear! It is an age since she
has written. I only hope and pray it is good news!" But, alas! that
aspiration was shattered at the sight of the first few sentences.
"My darling girls,--I have delayed writing as I could not bear to cloud
your pleasure, but I can keep back the truth no longer. You must be
brave, dears, and help me to be brave, for it is no half and half
trouble this time. We are quite, quite ruined, and Heaven only knows
what is to become of us!
"It is not the pater's fault in any one way. For the last two years he
has been doing a good deal of business for a man who appeared to be in
very good circumstances. At first he paid up his accounts most
regularly, but lately they have sometimes been allowed to run on from
month to month. I don't understand business, but it seems that this is
often allowed, and as he had been such a good client, and had met his
payments regularly before, the pater felt safe in trusting him, and paid
out all his own little capital to finance the business of the last few
months, which was unusually large.
"He expected to make such a handsome commission as would set us on our
feet again; but it was all a deliberate fraud. Other poor men have been
taken in in the same way, and that scoundrel has disappeared, leaving us
to bear the brunt. I hope I may be able to forgive him some day; just
now, when I see the pater's broken heart and think of you, and all those
children, it's too difficult.
"Everything that we have or can raise in any way will not pay what we
owe, and the pater cannot carry on his business without some capital.
The future is very dark; but God has helped me through many dark days,
and He will help us still. Trix is splendid! She went of her own
accord to the headmistress and offered to teach one of the junior
classes in exchange for Betty's education, and a few finishing classes
for herself. Miss Bean came to see me, and it is all arranged, for she
says Trix has a genius for managing children, and will be a valuable
help. She is a good woman, and is glad of the opportunity of helping
us, so that difficulty is overcome; but there are oh, so many others to
be faced!
"What is to be done about the house--the boys--yourselves? Pater and I
have talked until we are too tired and puzzled to talk any more, but, so
far, no light has dawned.
"Write to the pater as well as to me, for he has been good to you, and
will value your sympathy. Oh, my darlings, it is hard that this should
have happened just now to spoil your happy visit! My heart aches for
your trouble, for these things are so hard when one is young. I hope, I
trust, I pray that the future may be so bright for you as to make up for
all the anxieties you have had to bear. Tell Uncle Bernard our trouble;
you and he must decide what you had better do.
"I long for your help and comfort, but leave the decision entirely in
your hands. Every one is good and sympathetic, and the pater has had
most kind letters from his friends in town. We have this great comfort
that his good name is untarnished, and that there is no shadow of
disgrace in our misfortune. God bless you, my darlings! If we are rich
in nothing else, we are rich in our love for one another.--Your devoted
Mother."
The girls looked at each other in a long, breathless silence. Ruth laid
her hand across her heart with a little gasp of pain.
"Oh, mother! Poor little mother! And we are away, we who should be her
best comforters! There is only one thing to do,--we must go home at
once!"
"Yes," assented Mollie firmly, "we must go home to-morrow."
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
A FATEFUL DECISION.
It was all decided. The interview with Uncle Bernard was over, the last
farewells spoken, and the boxes packed in readiness to go to the
station. In less than an hour the Court and its inhabitants would be a
thing of the past.
Out of consideration for Mr Farrell's health, the girls had decided not
to tell him of their bad news until the morning.
"He has had enough excitement for one day," Mollie said; "let him be
quiet to-night. To-morrow morning we will send up mother's letter for
him to read, and ask to see him as soon as possible after breakfast.
That will give him time to think over the situation and decide what to
do. He must guess that we will want to return home, but if he wishes to
keep us he can easily do so. Oh, to think that with a few strokes of
the pen he could make us all happy again! I don't know how much money
the pater needs, but it would probably be the tiniest sum out of Uncle
Bernard's great fortune. Suppose he offered to send a cheque--suppose
he gave us a cheque to send, and all was peace and joy again! He
could--he might--oh, surely he _will_! What is the use of being rich if
one can't help people in trouble?"
But Ruth sighed and shook her head.
"Rich people have not much patience with failures, and the poor old
pater has not the gift of success. I am afraid Uncle Bernard will be
more inclined to blame than to help." And as events proved she was
right.
Mr Farrell sent word that he would be at liberty at ten o'clock in the
sitting-room adjoining his bedroom, and the first few minutes of the
interview proved that his attitude towards the family trouble was one of
scornful impatience rather than sympathy. He was apparently quite
unprepared for the girls, determination, and would not at first believe
in its sincerity.
"You are surely joking," he said scathingly. "If your parents are in
such straits as you describe, how do you propose to help them by giving
them two more people to keep and feed? It appears to me that your room
would be more valuable than your company."
Ruth flushed painfully.
"We hope to be able to help, not to hinder. When a child like Trix has
already found work, we ought not to lag behind. It would be impossible
to go on living in the lap of luxury, wearing fine clothes, eating fine
meals, being waited upon hand and foot, while our own people are in
actual need."
"Unless--" interrupted Mollie, and then stopped short, while Mr Farrell
turned sharply towards her.
"Unless what? Finish your sentence, if you please."
"Unless you will help them for us!" gasped Mollie, crimson, but daring.
"It would be so easy for you to lend the pater what he needs, and he
would promise to pay you back--we would all promise! We would work
night and day until it was made up."
Mr Farrell smiled sardonically.
"At last! I knew it must come. It would not be Mollie if she had any
scruples about asking for what she wanted. No, my dear, I never lend.
It is against my principles to throw good money after bad. At the risk
of appearing a monster of cruelty, I must refuse to interfere in your
stepfather's affairs. There are still six weeks of your visit here to
run, and I shall be pleased to relieve him of your support for that
time; otherwise--"
"We are much obliged, but we have decided to go home. You wished to be
able to judge our characters, and you have had enough time to do so,
with very unsatisfactory results, if we are to judge from yesterday's
conversation!" cried Ruth, with a sudden burst of indignation. "If you
can believe us capable of prying into your desk, you will surely not be
sorry to get rid of us altogether!"
The old man looked at her long and thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said quietly, "it's a pity--a very great pity--that the two
things should have happened together. It is as unsatisfactory to me as
to you that you should leave before the culprit has been discovered.
But it is useless now to argue the point if your minds are already made
up. Taking everything into consideration--the peculiar circumstances
with regard to my will, your original acceptance of my invitation--do I
still understand that you wish to leave me to-day?"
"It is our duty to go home. Yes, we have quite decided," said Ruth.
The old man's eyes turned towards the younger girl.
"And you, Mollie?"
"Yes, uncle; I'm sorry, but we can't leave mother alone just now."
Mr Farrell sat silent, his eyebrows lowered, his head hanging forward
on his chest, so that it was difficult to see the expression of his
face; but the pose of the figure suggested weariness and disappointment.
Suddenly he stretched out his hand and touched an electric bell. A
servant appeared almost immediately, and was asked a hasty question--
"Is Mr Druce still in the house?"
"I believe so, sir. He was in the morning-room a few minutes ago."
"Go down and tell him that I should be obliged if he would come up here
at once."
The girls exchanged puzzled glances as the servant departed on his
errand; but they did not dare to speak, and, as Mr Farrell relapsed
into his former downcast attitude, the silence was broken only by the
sound of Victor's approaching footsteps. He entered the room confident
and smiling, but drew up with a start of surprise at seeing the two
girls. He was evidently disappointed at their presence, and vaguely
uneasy; but after the first involuntary movement his features quickly
resumed their mask-like calm.
"You sent for me, sir. Is there anything I can do?"
Mr Farrell raised his head and looked at him thoughtfully. It was
seldom indeed that he allowed himself to show any sign of interest in
his young companions, so that this steady scrutiny was the more
remarkable. Even Victor's composure suffered beneath it, for a tinge of
colour crept into his pale cheeks, and he moved uneasily to and fro.
"What is it, sir?" he repeated. "I hope nothing fresh has happened to
distress you."
"Thank you, Druce. My plans have been still further upset this morning,
as, owing to news received from home, my nieces have decided to leave
the Court at once. That means that three out of the four whom I
selected for my experiment have, of their own accord, refused to carry
out the conditions. Under these circumstances, I think it is only right
to offer to release you from your promise, if you prefer to return home
at the same time. Everything will be changed, and you may not care to
stay on with only myself as a companion."
Victor's eyelids dropped, and a quiver of emotion passed over his face.
Ruth saw it, and, with a sinking heart, realised that it resembled
exultation rather than grief. He was silent for a moment, but when he
spoke nothing could well have been more dignified and natural than words
and manner--
"If it will inconvenience you in any way to entertain me alone, I am, of
course, perfectly ready to leave; but if you give me the choice--if it
is left to me to decide, sir--I should prefer to keep my promise, and
stay for the remainder of the time. I might perhaps be of some help to
you when you are alone."
The strained expression on Mr Farrell's face gave place to one of
unmistakable satisfaction.
"That is good!" he replied heartily. "I am glad to find that you at
least have some appreciation of the nature of a bargain. It will be
lonely for you, but I am the more obliged for your decision. I won't
keep you any longer just now, as we shall have other opportunities of
conversation, and I have my adieux to make."
The door closed behind Victor, and Mr Farrell turned immediately
towards his eldest grand-niece, as if anxious to get through an ordeal.
"Well, Ruth, I must bid you good-bye. I trust you will have a pleasant
journey, and find matters at home less serious than you anticipate."
"Thank you, Uncle Bernard." Ruth extended a cold little hand, and stood
hesitating by his side, while his sunken eyes dwelt upon the face which
in feature was so like his own. "I've enjoyed the time--part of the
time--more than anything else in my life! I'm sorry if I have done
wrong in any way; I wanted only to please you!"
"For my own sake, or for what I could give?"
The question came sharp and abrupt, and Ruth's cheeks flamed beneath it.
She hesitated painfully, gathering courage to speak the truth.
"Oh, I know I have been mercenary! I'm sick of being poor, and I love
the Court and the easy, luxurious life. I wanted the money more than
anything in the world; but it's all over now, and it's partly your own
fault, for you _did_ tempt me! Please forgive me before I go!"
"I forgive you, Ruth. It is quite true that I tempted you, and you are
not fitted to bear temptation. But there is no need to bear enmity.
Good-bye!"
He held out his hand again--held it at a distance, and with a formality
which forbade a warmer farewell; and Ruth turned away, downcast and
miserable. Those words, "You are not fitted to bear temptation," seemed
to denote that in his mind there still dwelt a lingering suspicion lest
she might have yielded to her anxiety to look at the will, and had then
lacked the courage for confession. Well, it was all over, and it was
useless to protest. So perish earthly hopes!
Mr Farrell turned towards his remaining niece.
"Well, Mollie, and so you also are resolved to leave me?"
"There was only one alternative, Uncle Bernard, and you refused it. If
you won't help mother, we must lose no time in getting to work. We are
breaking no promise, remember. We said we would stay if she could spare
us, and now the time has come when she needs to have us back."
"You believe you can find work--work which will pay--a child like you,
with the plainest of educations?"
"I am sure of it. I am not going to teach, but I shall be able to do
something. I should be ashamed of myself if I couldn't--a big, strong
creature like me! I am sorry to go--much more sorry than you will
believe! I've been very happy these few weeks."
"I know you have. I have known more than you are aware of, perhaps.
But you will not regret your departure so much, as Jack Melland is
leaving at the same time. He has been your special companion, I think."
The blood flew to Mollie's cheeks under the scrutiny of the sunken eyes,
and, to her consternation, spread even higher and higher, until she was
crimson to the roots of her hair. She tried in vain to answer with
composure, but could only stammer confusedly--
"He has been very nice. I like him the best--better than Mr Druce.
But he decided--we decided,--our reasons for leaving are absolutely
independent of each other, Uncle Bernard."
"I know--I know!"
He turned aside, and remained silent for a few minutes, as if to allow
her time to recover composure, then once more held out his hand in
farewell.
"Well, good-bye, Mollie. We also must agree to forgive and forget!"
Mollie bent over his chair, one hand resting on each arm, the
embarrassment of a moment before dying a sudden death in the face of a
parting which, in the nature of things, must be for ever.
"Uncle Bernard," she said softly, "if your Ned were alive, and you were
in trouble, you would like him to hurry home to you, whatever it might
cost! And if She were alive, and poor and distraught, you would rather
he worked for her, than left her that he might fill the greatest post on
earth. Judge us by that thought when you feel inclined to be hard! I
know you don't like kissing people, so I am going to kiss you instead.
There! Good-bye; and God bless you!"
She turned away with tears in her eyes, but half-way to the door the
sound of her own name made her pause.
"Mollie!" he cried, in a sharp, resolute voice, which sent her heart
beating with sudden hope.
But, even as her eyes met his, his expression changed once more.
"No, no; it is better as it is! I have nothing to say!"
Mollie turned away sadly and walked out of the room.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.
LEAVING THE COURT.
The news of the girls' sudden flight spread to the vicarage, and brought
Mrs Thornton rushing up to the Court, hot and panting, and almost
incoherent with curiosity and dismay. When she heard of the trouble
which was the cause of their departure, her best side came out, and she
helped the girls in both word and deed through the last difficult hours.
It was a comfort to find someone who agreed with their decision, and
was convinced that they were acting aright in returning home, even in
defiance of Uncle Bernard's wishes.
"The maid cries, and Bates looks as if he would like to murder us, Mr
Druce keeps out of the way and says nothing, and Jack Melland, who is so
keen on taking his own way, has half a dozen compromises to suggest.
Actually he offered to go to Liverpool himself and find out if we could
be of any use if we returned! It was sweet of him, but we must be of
use. There is no option in the matter, and it is not reasonable to
expect mother to discuss private affairs with a stranger."
"Of course not; but I love him for having suggested it. Of course, no
one wants you to go, dear Ruth. It is a terrible collapse to all our
bright schemes, but with such trouble at home you have no choice, and
there is nothing gained by staying on for a few odd days. Better hurry
back and bend all your energies to see what can be done to retrieve
matters, and look forward to the day when you will return for good."
Ruth shook her head hopelessly, and for once Mollie followed her
example.
"Ah, that will never be! There is no more hope. We are leaving against
Uncle Bernard's wishes, and at the very worst possible time, for he is
angry and upset because there is no way of finding out who opened the
desk and read the draft of the will. We are all indignant at being
suspected; yet it seems strange that an outsider should be so
interested. It is terribly unfortunate, especially for Uncle Bernard,
for he can't help feeling his confidence shaken; and yet, so far as we
can see, nothing will ever be found out."
"Yes, it will all be explained some day," said Mrs Thornton solemnly.
"Don't ask me how, for I can't tell. I only know that evil deeds are
the most difficult things in the world to hide, and that in the most
wonderful and unexpected ways they are discovered long after hope of
detection has been abandoned. It will be so in this case also. Whoever
is mean and wicked enough to allow you, dear children, to bear an unjust
suspicion in addition to your own trouble, will be put to the shame he
deserves. As for your coming back again, I will not give up hope if you
do. I can't afford to lose all my castles in the air. It is decided
that one of you is to be Lady of the Manor, and put our societies out of
debt, and pay for a parish nurse, and take my dear girls about when they
come home, and make life a fairy tale for us all. You have raised my
expectations, and I intend to go on expecting! Seriously, dears,
whatever Mr Farrell may say to you just now, in the first heat of
disappointment, I cannot believe he will really think less of you for
giving up your own pleasure to hurry back to your mother. Mr Melland
has only himself to thank if his name is struck off the list; but you
were willing and anxious to stay, and are the victims of circumstances.
If I were in the squire's place I should think all the more highly of
you for your unselfish devotion, and I believe he will, though he will
never confess as much in words. But time will show! Meantime, my poor
dears, we will think of you every day, and pray for you that you may be
shown what to do, and have strength to do it. I have had my own share
of money troubles, and would never try to belittle them in my own case
or in the case of others. They are very hard and sordid, and far-
reaching. There was a time in my life when money seemed in the
background of every thought, and I could not get away from it; but I
have learnt to trust instead of worrying, and that's the great lesson of
life. It isn't mastered in a day; it took me years to learn, and many
bitter experiences, which I hope you may be spared; but try, dears, to
do your best, and leave the rest with God! Then comes the `quiet mind'
which will keep you calm and restful through all outward troubles."
The two young, wistful faces gazed into hers, and her eyes filled with
tears of pity.
"Now tell me honestly--shall I help you best by staying, or by going
away at once? I have arranged to do whichever suits you best. If you
need any help."
"Oh, thank you! The best help of all would be to stay and drive down to
the station with us. The packing is all done--in a way! But I expect
that in our haste we have left lots of things behind, for we worked
together, and in such a hurry and confusion that we hardly knew what we
were about. Poor Elsie has packed our new garments in the new trunks,
and watered them with tears. I expect it will be months before they are
opened. We shall have no use for such fineries now."
"You can never tell what may happen, but if you don't, there is no cause
to grieve. They have served their day, and have given you pleasure.
Never mind if you have left some oddments behind; Elsie can send them
on. I never have a visitor at the vicarage that I have not to expend my
substance posting toothbrushes or sponge-bags or stray garments after
their departure."
Truth to tell, Mrs Thornton was much relieved at being allowed to
accompany the girls to the station.
The Vicar's wife possessed even more than her share of feminine
curiosity, and was longing to discover in what fashion Victor Druce said
good-bye to Ruth.
He was already waiting in the dining-room when she went down with the
girls a few minutes later to partake of some light refreshment before
starting on their long journey, and nothing could have been more
unobtrusively sympathetic or attentive than the manner in which he
waited upon them, anticipating every want, and ministering to it with
eager hands. The room itself was so spacious that unconsciously the
little party split into groups; and Mrs Thornton found herself _tete-a-
tete_ with Jack Melland, obviously in the worst of humours.
"Can you do nothing? Is there nothing you can say to knock a little
common-sense into those girls' heads? It's the maddest trick, rushing
off like this in defiance of the old man's wishes. What can they do at
home--a couple of children like that? They are better out of the way.
At any rate, one of them might have stayed--Mollie, for instance--and
kept things going here till she saw how things worked out. They have no
right to rush off together at a moment's notice!" he cried irritably;
whereat Mrs Thornton smiled involuntarily.
"Isn't it rather a case of people in glass houses, Mr Melland? You
have set a bad example without half the excuse of these dear girls. It
seems to me their plain duty to return to their parents when they are in
trouble, so I have not attempted to dissuade them in any way."
"But--" Jack made a slight but eloquent gesture of the head in Victor's
direction. "It's such a walk over for somebody else! I can't bear the
thought of it. This place ought to belong to one of those girls--it is
theirs by rights. It maddens me to see them throwing away their chance,
for I'm afraid Mr Farrell will never forgive them for going against his
wishes."
"Don't be too sure!" returned Mrs Thornton, nodding her head sagely.
"Mr Farrell is not half so obstinate as he pretends, and however
annoyed he may be to-day he can't help softening when he remembers that
they have put all their own pleasures and self-interests on one side to
return to work and worry for their mother's sake. If he wanted a test
of character, surely nothing could be better than this! I don't think
it will be by any means a `walk over' for Mr Druce. My firm belief is,
that Ruth and Mollie have as good or even a better chance than they had
before."
"I say," cried Jack cordially, "you _are_ a brick!" He turned towards
her with a bright, boyish smile, which took years off his age. "You
don't know how you have cheered me by saying that! I hated to think of
them as being out of the running; but you will rub it in, won't you?
Don't let Druce have it all his own way! Impress upon the old fellow
what you said just now--unselfishness and hard work, and all that sort
of thing. You will know how to do it, so as to make him see that he
ought to admire the girls more for going than staying."
Mrs Thornton smiled indulgently.
"I can try, at least. I'm only sorry that I can't do the same for you.
You have not the excuse of home troubles, and I'm afraid Mr Farrell--"
"Oh, never mind me; I don't count! I have been out of the running from
the first, and it is only through an accident that I have stayed so
long. I don't want anything from Mr Farrell but good-feeling and a
fair judgment. It cut me up to say good-bye when I saw how feeble he
looked. I don't want you to plead my cause, because I relinquished my
claim long ago; but if you get a chance, you might just let him know
that I was genuinely sorry to leave him for his own sake."
Jack's manly, straightforward speech was just what Mrs Thornton
expected from him, and she gladly consented to convey his message to Mr
Farrell.
"I will, with pleasure," she said, "and I shall have the chance before
many days are over. Wonders will never cease! When I said just now
that the squire was not so hard as he pretended, I spoke out of a full
heart. What do you think of his suggesting--actually suggesting to my
husband that the vicarage might need renovations, and asking him to send
me up to give him my ideas! I nearly fainted when my husband told me.
Now, do you think he thought of it himself, or did one of you kind
creatures suggest it to him?"
"I didn't, I know. It would have been as much as my life was worth; but
I suspect Miss Mollie may have had something to do with it. She spoke
pretty strongly on the subject to me, and she has the courage of her
convictions."
"Oh, that Mollie!" murmured Mrs Thornton under her breath. "I have
never met her equal. The dearest, the simplest, the most affectionate
of girls!" Her eyes moistened suddenly, and Jack's face softened in
sympathy as he looked across the room to where Mollie stood by her
sister's side. She met the two glances bent upon her, and walked
forward in response, leaving Ruth and Victor by themselves.
Poor Ruth! Her heart beat fast with agitation and a last desperate hope
born of Victor's soft tones and regretful eyes. For the moment it
seemed that the last few days must have been a nightmare, and that he
really did "care"; in which case she was prepared to forgive
everything--nay, more, to believe that there was nothing to forgive.
If, in this moment of trouble and humiliation, he would place himself by
her side, nothing that she could do in the future would be enough to
prove her gratitude and devotion. But, alas! even as Mollie turned
away, Victor's manner altered, and he became nervous and ill at ease.
The long, eloquent glances which had been safe enough in the presence of
a third person could not be risked in a _tete-a-tete_, and Ruth's hopes
died a final death. She sat trying to eat her sandwiches, and feeling
as if every bite would choke her, while Victor feebly struggled with
commonplaces.
The sound of carriage-wheels could be heard drawing near to the door;
the last, the very last moment had arrived! Ruth raised her beautiful,
sad face and gazed steadily at Victor, and he stopped short in the
middle of a sentence, and turned guiltily aside. He could not meet her
eyes.
After that all was bustle and confusion--servants crowding to say good-
bye, villagers bobbing farewell curtseys at their doors, elaborate
regrets and hopes for a speedy return from acquaintances at the little
station, tears from Mrs Thornton, and a last glimpse of Victor's tall
figure standing motionless on the platform; then they were off, and Jack
tactfully busied himself behind his newspaper until the first painful
moments were past.
When he ventured to lower the screen, both girls were perfectly composed
and dry-eyed, gazing out of their respective windows. His eyes turned
from Ruth to dwell upon Mollie at the further end of the carriage. The
fashionable young woman had disappeared, and he saw again the simple
girl in shabby serge coat and close-fitting hat with whom he had
travelled weeks before, yet there was a difference which his fastidious
eyes were quick to note, a dainty precision in the way the clothes were
worn, a perfection of detail, a neatness of coiffure.
Mollie was too clever and adaptive to have missed the lessons of the
last few weeks, and the change of expression was even more marked. The
audacious school-girl had disappeared, and in her place sat a woman,
with a grave, set face, and eyes that stared into space, seeing things
that were far away.
Jack's heart contracted with a stab of pain. He dropped his paper, and
with one long step crossed the carriage and seated himself by her side.
Ruth turned in her seat to stare more persistently out of her window,
and the clattering of the train made it impossible to overhear a
conversation.
"Mollie!" said Jack softly.
She turned her head and looked at him, neither startled nor smiling, but
with a patient sadness, the sight of which brought with it yet another
stab.
"For Heaven's sake, Mollie, don't look like that! Things will right
themselves again, or you may find that they are not so bad as you
expect. In any case, there's a pleasure in helping to pull them
straight. It may be a tug just at first, but that only means more
satisfaction in the end. Don't look so sad! I can't bear to leave you
looking like that."
Mollie gave a flickering smile. She had not been thinking of business
troubles, but naturally Jack could not guess that.
"Once on a time--do you remember?--you wished that I could be serious.
You should not complain because your wish is fulfilled," she said
slowly; and Jack put up a protesting hand.
"Don't! don't! I was a fool! I didn't know what I was saying. You
were made to be happy; you should always be happy if I could arrange it
for you."
Mollie smiled again, but with the same obvious effort.
"I hope you will be happy," she said; "I hope some day we may hear good
news from you. I don't mean about money; you can guess what I mean."
"Yes," said Jack gravely; and there was silence for another five
minutes, while the train approached nearer and nearer to the junction at
which he was to alight, to catch the express for town.
"I hope I shall hear good news of you, too," he said at last. "You will
be busy at first, and there may not be much to tell, but later on--in a
few weeks' time, when you see how things are going--will you let me
know? I shall be so interested to hear; and at any time if I can do
anything, if you need anything done in town, or if I could help by
coming North, you would be doing me a good turn by letting me know. I
mean it, Mollie; it is not a polite form of speech."
"I know; thank you; I will promise," said Mollie, with, for the first
time, a little break in her composure. Her lip trembled in a pathetic,
childlike fashion, and, as if afraid of herself, she bent forward and
addressed a pointed question to Ruth.
Ten minutes later the junction was reached, and Jack stood outside the
carriage saying his last farewells. Ruth talked persistently in a high,
cheerful voice, and Jack bit his moustache and cast furtive glances at
Mollie's white face. She smiled at him bravely as the train steamed
away, and waved her hand, calling out, "Good luck! good luck!" Then
they turned, the two poor girls, and clasped each other tightly.
"Oh, Lucille, my poor Lucille!"
"Berengaria, Berengaria, how horribly it hurts!"
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.
BACK TO POVERTY.
Trix was at the station to meet them--a greatly developed Trix, as
became a young woman who not only provided for her own education but
also that of her sister. The door-knocker had disappeared, and her
lanky locks were screwed into a knot about as big as a good-sized
walnut; she wore a discarded black skirt of Ruth's, which reached down
to her ankles, a blue blouse, white sailor-hat, and brown shoes. Ruth's
heart contracted with pain when she saw her, and even Mollie felt a pang
of dismay. So shabby, so unkempt, so obviously poverty-stricken! Was
it really possible that Trix had looked like this six weeks before, and
that the sight had caused no consternation?
Plainly Miss Trix was rather pleased than otherwise with her appearance,
and was decidedly patronising to her half-sisters, ordering them about,
and treating them with the lenient forbearance which a busy worker might
be expected to show to two elderly, incapable drones. She interviewed
the porter as to sending home the luggage, and only consented to the
hire of a cab when it was proved to her own satisfaction that the cost
would be about equal. She took Ruth's purse from her hand to tip the
porter, looking at him the while with such a severe and determined air
that his grumbles died upon his lips; finally, she gave the cabman
instructions to stop at a certain shop, where--as she informed her
sisters triumphantly--potatoes could be bought three-halfpence a peck
cheaper than in more fashionable neighbourhoods.
"Good gracious, Trix, you don't mean to take home potatoes in the cab!"
gasped Ruth, fresh from the delightful luxury of the Court, where no one
thought what anything cost, and every luxury of the season appeared of
its own accord upon the table; but Trix smiled at her benignly, and
replied--
"Certainly; two pecks! And any other vegetables I can pick up cheap.
It will help to pay for the cab-fare. Not that you will get any of them
to-night, for we have knocked off late dinner and afternoon-tea, and
have one late tea instead. Cold tongue for you to-night, as you have
had a journey. Mother wanted to have a chicken. The idea! `No,
indeed,' I said; `let them begin as they must go on. Our chicken days
are over!'"
"I think yours are, any way. You seem to have grown into a very old
hen," cried Mollie disconsolately. She looked across the cab at the
businesslike young woman, and wondered if a few weeks of home under the
new conditions would work a similar transformation in herself and Ruth.
It was a comfort to remember that Trix's vocation kept her out of the
house for the greater part of the day, for it would be distinctly trying
to be "bossed" as a permanent thing.
Perhaps Trix's thoughts had wandered to the same subject, for her
welcome was the reverse of encouraging.
"Can't think what you've come back for!" she declared candidly. "Mother
thought of sending for you last week, but I told her it was absurd. It
will make more work, and both the servants are going. We gave Mary
notice, and Kate said she couldn't abase herself to be a `general' after
her bringings up. Goodness knows who we shall get! I sat for two hours
in a registry-office yesterday afternoon, when we had a half-holiday,
and didn't see a single creature who could be bribed to come. `Nine in
family; one servant, cellar kitchens; washing done at home.' Sounds so
attractive, doesn't it? And yet I suppose we ought not to afford even
one. If we lived in the country we could do the work alone, but
cockroaches! No really refined mind can cope with cockroaches, and they
simply swarm in the back kitchen... Mother's terribly cut up that you
have left the Court. If I had been in your place I'd have stayed on,
and persuaded the old man to help father out of his difficulties."
"Oh, Trix, as if we hadn't tried! You talk as if no one had any sense
but yourself! You are very clever and important, no doubt, but even
your earnings will not keep the family. There is a little work left for
Mollie and myself!" cried Ruth hotly.
Whereupon Trix elevated the red marks which should have been her
eyebrows, and exclaimed coolly--
"Hallo, still snapping! I thought you would be quite good-tempered
after such a holiday!"
It was indeed like being at home again to hear a squabble between Ruth
and Trix within the first ten minutes.
When the house was reached, there was the little mother standing in the
doorway, smiling and waving her hands in welcome; but at the first sight
of her both girls felt a sudden choking sensation in the throat, so wan
did she appear, so bleached in colour, such a tiny, frail little
creature to be burdened with the care of an impecunious household! She
clung to her girls, and her girls clung to her, and presently they were
seated together round the dining-room table, on which, in spite of
Trix's dismal prophecy, appeared a tray of the ever-welcome afternoon-
tea.
"After their journey, Trix dear! I thought just this once," murmured
Mrs Connor apologetically. "Dear Ruth, how sweet you look! Is that a
new coat? No, I see it is not; but it looks new, with that charming
collar and vest. And your hair, dear; and Mollie's, too! So
beautifully done! I suppose the maid taught you? Oh, darlings, I'm
thankful to have you back, but I should never have sent for you! You
were on the spot, and could judge best what to do. Did you--did you let
Uncle Bernard know of our trouble?"
The strained eagerness of the small face, the involuntary tremor in the
voice, smote the girls to the heart. Ruth turned her head aside,
herself on the verge of tears, while Mollie said brokenly--
"We sent him your letter to read, and when he said nothing I asked him
point-blank if he would lend father enough money to put things right
just now, and promised that we would all work to pay him back."
"Yes, dear--yes! And then?"
"He wouldn't. He jeered at me, and said he made it a rule never to
throw good money after bad. He would keep us for the remaining six
weeks, if we agreed to stay, but more than that he must refuse to do.
So there seemed no alternative, mother dear, but to come straight away
and try to help you ourselves."
"Yes, dear--yes. Bless you! You were quite right!"
Mrs Connor tried to speak bravely; but it was as if the last gleam of
hope had died out of her tired eyes, and her hands trembled as she
clasped them in her lap. She herself had not realised until this moment
how much she had counted upon Uncle Bernard's intervention, and now the
last hope seemed gone. She shivered, and put her hand to her head; then
forced herself to smile, as she met the girls' anxious gaze.
"It's always the darkest the hour before the dawn. You must talk things
over with pater, dears; my head is so confused. I shall be thankful for
your help in the house, and no doubt something will turn up for you, as
it has done for Trix."
"Mother," cried Ruth, with an outburst of irritation, which was the
result of tired-out nerves and body, "Trix is insupportable! She
behaves as if she were the head of the house! How can you let her give
herself such airs and domineer over you so? I shan't stand it for one,
and the sooner she understands it the better. I am not going to be
ordered about by a bit of a chit of seventeen, and apologise to her if I
dare to have as much as a cup of tea!"
"Hu-ush, dear!" Mrs Connor cast an apprehensive glance towards the
half-opened door, through which Trix's voice could be heard
superintending the carrying of the luggage. "She is such a child!
Young things are always inclined to go to extremes; and she has been so
good! I don't know what I should have done without her! We must not
let her feel slighted because you have returned!"
That was true enough; Trix had borne the heat and burden of the day,
while her stepsisters were amusing themselves, in blissful ignorance of
the gathering troubles. Ruth's irritation was silenced by the reminder,
and she listened quietly while Mollie pressed her mother for details of
the present situation. Alas, it was even worse than had been expected!
It was so bad that it could not well be worse, and it seemed ridiculous
to talk of what they could afford, since, as a matter of fact, they
could afford nothing at all. It was a matter of speculation whence the
next twenty pounds was to come.
"`Man's extremity is God's opportunity!' Some friend will be raised up
to help us through this strait. It is not often that we are brought to
a point when we realise our own helplessness so plainly. Let us look
upon it as an opportunity, and watch to see what He will do. `Be not
dismayed, neither be afraid, for the Lord thy God is with thee
whithersoever thou goest.'"
Mrs Connor's voice sank to a rapt whisper, her face shone with that
wonderful grace and exaltation which the Christian knows in the midst of
his trial; but her daughters looked at her pinched cheeks and haggard
eyes, and felt their hearts sink within them.
It was a dreary evening--how different from the triumphant home-coming
which fancy had painted so often during the weeks of absence! The house
felt unbearably cramped and airless. It was dreadful to have no garden,
after having practically lived out of doors; and oh, what a contrast the
evening meal presented from the repast served nightly in the old oak
dining-hall!
When people are in the extremity of anxiety and poverty, they have no
heart to attend to the little superfluities which add so much to the
beauty of daily life; there was not a single flower on the table, nor in
the half-lit drawing-room, where Trix sternly forbade the lighting of a
second lamp. Mr Connor sat silent and haggard, and his wife poured out
tea and smiled a pathetic, patient little smile, as the children
catechised the travellers.
Was the Court a jolly big house? Were there strawberries in the garden?
Did the footmen wear white stockings, like the Lord Mayor's Show? What
was the name of the horse that bolted? What did they have for dinner
every night? On and on went the endless catechism, which the sisters
tolerated only as an improvement on silence. They had no wish to visit
Attica, but retired upstairs to their bedroom at the earliest possible
moment to mingle tears of misery.
"I--I feel as if I should burst!" cried Ruth expressively. "My heart is
so full that I can't bear another thing! Everything seems to have
happened at once, and I feel crushed!"
"It's so bad that it must get better! it can't possibly get worse!" said
Mollie, persistently hopeful in the midst of her misery.
But alas, her prophecy was not justified by events! Mrs Connor crawled
about the house for another week, looking every day smaller and more
fragile; and then a morning came when she could not rise from bed, and
all other anxieties seemed to dwindle in significance when the illness
took a serious turn, and her precious life itself seemed in danger.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.
THE SILVER LINING.
Ruth and Mollie constituted themselves nurses, Mollie, as the more
robust of the two, insisting upon taking as her share the arduous night
duties. Trix found time to attend to the housekeeping between school
hours, the younger children were housed by sympathetic friends, and on
the once noisy house settled down that painful silence which prevails
when a fight is being waged between life and death.
At the beginning of the illness Ruth was dismayed to see a stranger in
Dr Maclure's place, but on the third day he appeared, bringing with him
an atmosphere of comfort and security. One felt now that all that was
possible from human skill and care would be done for the dear invalid,
and, busy man as he was, Dr Maclure found time for several visits a
day, until the first acute anxiety was passed. Until then his
intercourse with Ruth had been solely that of physician and nurse, but
one morning, when the invalid's temperature and pulse both showed a
satisfactory decline, he walked into the dining-room on the way to the
door, and motioned Ruth to a seat.
"Sit down for a moment. I want to have a little talk with you. It is a
doctor's duty to see that a nurse does not overtax her strength, and you
are looking very ill these last few days. I am going to prescribe a
tonic which I want you to take regularly, and you must contrive to have
a walk each day, and, if possible, a rest in the afternoon. You might
lie down on the sofa while your mother is dozing."
Ruth flushed, and shook her head in pretty disclaimer.
"Oh, I am all right! Don't trouble about me. I have not half such a
hard time of it as Mollie. The nursing doesn't tire me a bit; it is
other things which make one feel rather ill at times."
"Just so. And it is about those other things that I want to speak.
Eleanor and I have been abroad for a month, and have heard little or no
home news. I was ill--that is to say, feeling rather worn out,"
corrected the doctor, with a sudden flush of colour to his thin cheeks,
"so we decided to treat ourselves to a holiday. I found on my return
that Mrs Connor was ill, and heard rumours which strengthened my own
conviction that her trouble was more mental than physical. It is not
giving a doctor a fair chance to keep back anything from him in a case
of this sort. I want you to tell me honestly, as a friend and
physician, if anything can be done to set her mind at rest."
"We are ruined, that's the trouble! The pater has lost every penny--not
by his own fault, but through some wretched man who has deliberately
cheated him for months back. He can't even go on with what business is
left, for want of capital, so we have arrived at the point when we don't
know what to do next. We look pretty much as usual, I suppose, but we
are just as much paupers as if we lived in the big workhouse over in
Smithdown Lane!"
Dr Maclure paced slowly up and down the room, stopping immediately in
front of Ruth's chair.
"But, excuse me--your uncle? Surely he will help at a crisis of this
sort. Before I went abroad I heard great stories of your life at the
Court, and of the very marked preference which he showed to yourself.
It seemed a foregone conclusion that his choice had fallen upon you,
and, if so--"
"Ah, that was a month ago! Many things have happened since then. Uncle
Bernard doesn't like me as much as he did. He discovered my weaknesses,
and accused me of being a coward. I am not a coward, as a rule, but I
wanted so badly to please him that I was afraid to be natural, as Mollie
was. Before we came away someone went to his desk and read the draft of
a will which he had mentioned a few days before. It was not altered or
tampered with in any way, but, of course, it was a mean thing to pry
into his private papers, when he had put us on our honour by speaking of
it. We all denied it, but just because I had been afraid before, I know
he suspects that I did it, and dare not confess.--Then we came away
against his wishes. Jack Melland left, too, so only one out of the four
remains, and he is certain to be the heir."
"You mean Mr Victor Druce?"
Ruth started, raising a flushed, bewildered face.
"Yes; but how,--what do you know about him?"
"Trix brought some of your letters to show us. His name was mentioned
very often, Ruth. I had a presentiment that you two would be more than
friends. You must forgive me, but one's perceptions grow keen when
one's interests are strong. I thought that very probably Mr Farrell
had some such hope in inviting you and Mollie to meet these two men."
"Perhaps he had. I have thought so, too, but, in any case, it has come
to nothing. Jack Melland cares for nothing but his work, and Mr
Druce--"
Ruth hesitated, possessed by a sudden impulse to confide her own
troubles to this man, who loved her, and would understand. Her lids
dropped till the dark lashes lay on her flushed cheek; she clasped her
hands nervously together. "He made love to me as long as I was in
favour, but it was only pretence. He really cares for another girl, but
he thought I should be a better bargain if I were Uncle Bernard's
heiress. He has taken no notice of me lately, but we found him out
before that,--I and the other girl. She is good and charming, and in
every way better than I am, and she had cared for him, too. I expect he
will try to marry her now that I am in disgrace, but she will never
accept him."
"And you, Ruth? Has it gone very hardly with you, poor child?"
There was silence for several moments before Ruth lifted a thoughtful
face.
"I--don't--know!" she said slowly. "It was a shock to me at first, and
I felt as if I could never believe in a man again, but since I came home
I have hardly thought about him, and if I had cared as much as I
imagined that would have been the worst trouble of all. I think it was
just part of the experience. Can you understand? Summer-time, and the
lovely country, and the holiday feeling, and nothing to do but laze
about, and amuse ourselves together. It seemed--don't laugh!--so
natural to fall in love."
Dr Maclure did not laugh, but a smile flashed over his face, full of
immeasurable relief and pleasure.
"I do understand," he said heartily. "You have had so few chances of
enjoying yourself with young people of your own age. It was, as you
say, quite natural, but I hope you will have no more to do with the
fellow. He is a pretty contemptible specimen, by all accounts."
"Oh no!" Ruth reared her little head with a haughty gesture. "I could
forgive a great deal to a man who really loved me, but nothing to an
adventurer who cares only for his own gains; I am sorry the dear old
Court will fall into such hands, for he cannot make a good master, and,
as far as we are concerned, it will cease to exist. That dream has come
to an end, Dr Maclure!"
"Well, one must hope it will be replaced by something more lasting.
Don't trouble too much about Mr Connor's difficulties. I feel quite
convinced that some arrangement can be made to tide him over the present
crisis. You may not live at the Court, but it is equally certain that
you are not going to the workhouse."
He held out his hand, and Ruth said good-bye with a little tremor of
relief and thankfulness in her voice. Dr Maclure was a man of few
words, but what he said he meant, and his quiet, assured manner made him
seem a veritable rock of refuge in the midst of the storm.
Ruth felt happier and more hopeful than she had done for many a long
day, despite the uneasiness caused by the doctor's appearance. His skin
was bronzed by his tour abroad, otherwise he must have looked shockingly
ill, for he was thin and worn to a marked extent. Remembering the date
of his illness, it was impossible not to connect it with her own
refusal, and Ruth's heart softened at the thought. "He has suffered for
me, as I have suffered for Victor! He is a real man; true and strong
and honest. Everywhere people run after him and admire him, but he
cares only for me. How much he cares! His poor, thin face! All this
time while I have been forgetting, he has been thinking of me, and
grieving himself ill."
Sad though the reflection might be, there was comfort mingled with it.
The sore, slighted feeling of the last few weeks could not survive while
a man of Donald Maclure's calibre placed her first among women.
That very evening, after his second visit to the invalid, the doctor was
closeted with Mr Connor for an hour, and after his departure the latter
joined his step-daughters in the dining-room, where Mollie was eating
her deferred dinner in preparation for the night's watch, and the first
glance at his face proved that a light had arisen in the darkness.
"The worst is over!" he said tremblingly. "Maclure has come to the
rescue. He is a good fellow--a noble fellow! God will reward him; I am
to draw upon him for necessary expenses for the next few months; and I
have no doubt the business will go well--so many men have come forward
and offered to support me if I could keep going. This will be the best
possible medicine for your mother, and for us all. It will give us
heart to work, and we shall have to work hard to pay off the loan."
Ruth set her lips in a determined fashion, which gave a new expression
to her face. She was thankful beyond words for help in this time of
need, but the fact that it had come from Donald Maclure, of all people,
made the debt difficult to bear. He had already offered much, and had
been rejected. She felt oppressed by his very generosity.
That night when she went to bed, Ruth unfolded the little bundle of
letters which she had received from Raby since her return home, and read
them over with lingering attention. No word from Uncle Bernard, though
both girls had written to him more than once, telling him of their
mother's illness and progress towards recovery. Not a line from Victor,
though he must have known of the added trouble. A short, manly letter
of sympathy from Jack Melland, who had heard of the bad news through
Mrs Thornton--a letter addressed to Ruth, with "kindest regards to her
sister"; three long, underlined epistles from that lady herself, and one
sheet covered with a beautiful, distinctive handwriting, and signed
"Margot Blount." Ruth opened this last letter first of all, and passed
hurriedly over expressions of condolence to the more practical part of
the message.
"And now, Ruth, you must not think because Fate has separated us in this
hurried manner that you have seen the last of me. I want to be your
friend now and always, and hope to see a great deal of you in the
future. Mrs Thornton says that you wish to find some work. I am
neither rich nor clever, but I know a great many people, and I have some
little influence, so I can certainly help you there. Write, dear, and
tell me if you have any special vocation in view, or if you are willing
to take the best chance that offers. I have a rich and gouty relation
whose companion is shortly to be married. I could recommend you for the
post, when you would be well paid, and live in luxury; but I know you
would feel prisoned, and long to throw cushions at her occasionally. I
should! There are numerous societies and guilds also to which I belong,
and to one of which you might be appointed as secretary or treasurer.
Then you would be your own mistress, and free; but is freedom worth much
in London lodgings? I can't fancy you roughing it by yourself, and I
keep hoping against hope for some sudden turn of the tide which may
still make it unnecessary. Don't settle to anything before telling me
first. I know I can find something really good if you give me time.
"Mr Druce is very much in evidence, acting host at the Court, and
visiting far and near. He tells me that Mr Farrell consults him on
every point, and gives him carte blanche to do as he likes; and I hear
as much from other sources, more reliable. As his position becomes more
assured, his attentions increase; but he will not make the fatal mistake
of burdening himself with a poor wife until there is no possibility of
mistake. Therefore, it may some day be my painful duty to refuse to
become mistress of the Court; but the refusing itself I shall enjoy.
You would not, for you have a gentle nature; but Mr Druce shall find
that he cannot play with Margot Blount for naught!"
Ruth could see in imagination the haughty tilt of Margot's graceful
head, and the flash in her eyes, as she wrote those words, and did not
envy Victor his hour of awakening. Evidently the whole countryside now
looked upon him as the accepted heir, and even hopeful Mrs Thornton
ceased to prophesy for the future.
"I have seen Mr Farrell twice this last week, but have not succeeded in
making him mention your names," she wrote in her last letter. "I talk
continuously of you--in what vein you can imagine!--and read extracts
from your letters; and he listens intently, but makes no remarks. I can
see him mentally pounce on anything which gives him fresh insight into
your life here, as if he were still interested in the study of your
characters; but the moment I stop speaking he turns the conversation to
impersonal topics. Only one thing he has done which I thought really
thoughtful. Ruth's camera was found lying about, and he gave
instructions that it was to be taken down to the photographers the same
day, and copies printed from all the films, so that your mother might
receive them as soon as possible. I believe they were sent up
yesterday, so that you may expect them soon, and perhaps a letter at the
same time. Mr Druce is kind and amiable, and very much the man in
possession. I don't take to him, but my husband believes he will make a
good squire."
"Will," not "would"! This from Mrs Thornton was conclusive indeed!
Ruth dropped a salt tear on the back of the sheet as she folded it up.
It was good news to hear of the trouble Uncle Bernard had taken on her
behalf. Surely, surely he would not forward the photographs without
enclosing some sort of an answer to her many notes!
For the next few days Ruth's heart leapt every time the postman's knock
sounded at the door; but, when the longed-for packet arrived, the words,
"Photographs only," written on the back, killed her hopes at a glance.
The pictures themselves were fairly successful, and gave a happy half-
hour to the invalid, who bent lovingly over each familiar scene.
"It takes me back to my youth to see the dear old rooms again! How
successful you are with interiors, Ruth; but you have no photograph of
the library, one of my favourite haunts. How did you come to leave that
out?"
"I didn't. I took it twice over. I'm sorry, dear, but I expect they
were failures," said Ruth wearily.
She could not guess that on these missing pictures hung the fate of many
lives.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.
LOVE'S CONQUEST.
Six months had passed by, taking with them the keen edge of anxiety, but
leaving behind the dull, monotonous routine which is almost as hard to
bear. It is not enlivening, to be obliged to work instead of play, to
look ten times at a sixpence before you dare spend it, to consider what
you can do without, rather than what you can have, and to see no
prospect ahead but continual cheese-paring and self-denial; and when you
happen to be young and full of life, it is harder than ever.
With Dr Maclure's help, Mr Connor was able to continue his business,
and his City friends rallied round him, doing their best to put work in
his way; but, even so, there were pressing debts to be settled besides
the loan which one and all were anxious to repay, so that housekeeping
expenses had to be reduced to a minimum. It was decided that one of the
elder girls must stay at home, while the other tried for work abroad,
and it was at once a relief and a blow for Ruth when Mollie was chosen
as mother's help. She had dreaded the irksome duties of mending,
cooking, dusting, and everlasting putting to rights, which would have
fallen to her share, but it would have been a comfort to have been
chosen!
"Don't feel hurt, darling; it's a pure question of suitability," Mrs
Connor had explained anxiously. "Mollie is stronger than you are, and
has a more adaptable temperament. She won't feel the little jars as you
would, and will get on better with the maid. It is the art of a good
general to place his forces in the best position."
"Yes, of course, dear. It's quite--quite right! Arrange everything as
you think best," replied Ruth sweetly, kissing the little, wistful face
as she spoke; for Mrs Connor was still very fragile, and by Dr
Maclure's orders had to be spared all possible worry.
The same orders were extended to forbid Ruth from taking advantage of
Lady Margot's offer to procure work at a distance.
"Unless it proves absolutely impossible to find a suitable post here, I
don't think it would be wise to subject your mother to any further
anxiety. She would be constantly worrying about your welfare, and that
is the very thing we wish to avoid. Would it be a great disappointment
to you to give up going to London?" he inquired, with a quick, grave
look at Ruth's face.
"It would be a blessed relief. I'd a million times rather be at home;
but what can I find to do? I am ashamed to think how incompetent I am!
Here we are back again where we were three months ago, Dr Maclure, when
I worried you and Eleanor about a vocation!"
Ruth smiled, then flushed crimson at a sudden remembrance of how that
conversation had ended. She was immeasurably thankful to the doctor for
looking in an opposite direction and continuing to talk in the most
matter-of-fact manner.
"It occurred to me last night that I knew of a post which might suit you
for the next few months. The secretary of our Home for Nurses is on the
point of breaking down, and needs a good rest. The work needs no
special knowledge; it consists mainly in answering endless notes of
inquiries, and in keeping some very simple accounts. I could soon coach
you up in what is necessary. You would have to be there from ten to
six--not heavy hours, as things go. I think I could secure the post for
you for, say, the next three months, if you cared to accept it."
"And how much should I get?"
"Miss Edgar's salary is forty pounds; you would get a fourth of that--"
"Ten pounds!" Ruth stared at him with dilated eyes. "Ten pounds!
Every day from ten to six for three whole months, and only ten pounds!
Dr Maclure, do you know it is a real, true, honest fact that I paid
twenty pounds for a ball-dress only a few weeks ago? I've got it now in
a box upstairs!"
The doctor smiled.
"I should like to see you in it! I hope I may some day. It certainly
seems a good deal of money, but I suppose it is very fine, and will last
a long time."
"But it won't! It's a mere wisp of gauze, that will only be fit to burn
after being worn two or three times. And I should have to work for six
months to earn enough to pay for it! How shocking! What a terrible
difference there is between the lives of the rich and the poor!"
"Ah, there you have touched on a great problem! After you have had some
experience of being a working woman, you may not care to buy any more
twenty-pound dresses, even if the opportunity offers. I know that the
payment is small, but I am afraid you would find it difficult to get
more without any special knowledge or training. It is hard for you,
especially coming so soon after your taste of luxury; but if you can
face it--"
"Oh yes, indeed! I'll take it, and be thankful; and perhaps, if I do
very well and keep the books nicely, I may be worth fifty pounds next
time!" said Ruth, with a charming courage, which might well have aroused
any man's admiration.
Dr Maclure made no remark, and turned his head aside. He had a habit
nowadays of looking at other things when he was speaking to Ruth. So it
happened that while Mollie worked at home, Ruth went forth every day to
her monotonous task, trudging along the same well-known path, in sun and
rain, heat and cold--for the secretary's leave of absence had to be
prolonged--until Christmas was close at hand, and the ten pounds' salary
had doubled in value.
"I shall be able to buy myself a new mackintosh and a pair of good stout
boots," Ruth said to herself, as she trudged home one dismal December
evening, and felt a suspicious dampness in the soles of her tired little
feet.
She had no idea what a charming figure she made in her long, dark coat,
with her hair curling in wet rings about her face; for she carried no
umbrella, as her cloth toque defied the weather, and she preferred to
keep her hands free to hold her skirts from contact with the muddy
roads. The pink-and-white face, with its delicately cut features, and
straight black brows, shone out like a flower among the tired,
colourless-looking throng of workers who wended their way homeward; and
her expression was bright and alert, despite the dismal surroundings.
Ruth was surprised at her own happiness of late. Her work was dull and
monotonous, and she had few pleasures to relieve it; yet, for some
mysterious reason, she was more truly content at heart than in those
days of ease and luxury, which seemed like a dream of the past. Six
months had passed since that memorable day when she and Mollie had
bidden adieu to the Court; and Uncle Bernard still lived, and was
apparently in the same condition.
Mrs Thornton kept her friends well informed of the news of the
neighbourhood, so that they knew that, though Victor Druce had
ostensibly returned to town at the expiration of his three months'
visit, he was constantly running down and bringing friends with him for
a few days' shooting, with the privilege of a son of the house. For the
rest, Margot Blount had returned to town, and Jack Melland's
communications were limited to an occasional picture-postcard bearing
half a dozen words of greeting. Mollie made no comment on the briefness
of these missives, and was always cheery and busy, but sometimes on her
return from her day's work Ruth would look at her anxiously, and wonder
if it were only imagination that Mollie looked different, thinner and
older--a woman rather than a girl. Perhaps after all she had the harder
path--shut up in the house, without the daily variety of seeing fresh
rooms and fresh faces. The regular constitutional, too, was in itself
health-giving, and though Ruth received much pity at home on the score
of her long, wet walks, it was astonishing what pleasant surprises
loomed out of the fog at times. She smiled to herself, and a dimple
dipped in her cheek.
The good old fairy days were not yet over, when a tired Cinderella,
trudging through the mire, was suddenly provided with a comfortable
carriage, springing as it were out of the earth to carry her to her
destination. It was extraordinary how often Dr Maclure's brougham
"happened" to be travelling in the same direction as herself on wet
evenings; and although the doctor himself was conspicuous by his
absence, the coachman was wonderfully quick to recognise one figure out
of many, and to draw up with a "Just driving past your house, miss. Can
I give you a lift?"
Ruth had no doubt that it was the master, not the man, who was
responsible for these meetings, and the conviction brought with it a
glow of content, of which as yet she failed to realise the meaning.
Nevertheless, her heart beat with a pleasurable excitement as she
threaded her way through the crowded streets, wondering if once again
the fairy equipage would be sent to the rescue, if it would appear at
this corner or the next. At last, through the driving sleet, she
recognised the familiar outline of the brougham drawn up beside the
pavement, but for once the coachman sat stiffly on his box, while the
master stepped forward to meet her.
"Miss Ruth, it is a shocking evening! I have a call to pay in this
neighbourhood. Do let George drive you home before you are wet
through."
Ruth stood still and looked at him. The drops of moisture were thick
upon hat and coat, her soft cheeks were damp with rain, but her eyes
danced with a spice of mischief which was more like Mollie than the
grave, elder sister of the family.
"I'll drive with pleasure on one condition--that you will first allow
yourself to be taken to your patient's house," she replied demurely,
adding when the doctor hesitated in embarrassment: "It is such a very
odd neighbourhood for a patient to live in, in the midst of these great
blocks of offices! I think we may perhaps have to drive you a long,
long way."
For a moment Dr Maclure did not reply; he merely held open the door of
the carriage, waiting until Ruth should have taken her seat; then he
leant towards her, the light from the lamps showing the nervous tremor
of his lips.
"I will come in too, on one condition--that you are willing to drive
beside me all the way, Ruth!"
What did he mean? Ruth started and flushed, for the tone of voice was
even more eloquent than the words themselves. The moment which she had
vaguely expected, dreaded, and hoped for, had come suddenly upon her,
provoked by her own jesting words. She did not know what to say, or how
to say it, only one definite thought stood out distinctly in the
confusion of her mind, namely, that Dr Maclure was standing unprotected
in the damp and cold. She held out her hand towards him, and cried
tremulously--
"Don't stand out in the rain! Oh, please come in! We will go where you
like?"
Dr Maclure leapt lightly to his seat, and the coachman whipped up his
horses without waiting for instructions. A coachman is only an ordinary
man after all, and George had seen how the wind blew for many a long
day. He took care not to drive too quickly, nor to choose the shortest
routes, satisfied that for once his master was not in a hurry.
Inside the brougham Dr Maclure held Ruth's shabbily gloved little hand
in his, and asked earnestly--
"Can you give me a different answer this time, Ruth? It has been a
weary waiting, and I seem to have grown worse instead of better. I fear
it is an incurable complaint! Can you give me a glimmer of hope, dear,
or is it still quite impossible?"
Ruth shook her head and nodded and smiled, and sighed, and shed a few
bright tears, in a whirl of delightful confusion.
"It's--it's not impossible at all! I think I am quite sure. I have
been growing surer and surer all this time. But am I good enough? You
remember that six months ago I fancied myself in love with someone
else?"
"I can afford to forget that episode, and even to be thankful for it, if
it has shown you your own mind, so that now you are `quite sure'! Oh,
Ruth, it is too good to be true! Can you really be happy with a dull,
old fellow like me? No country seat, you know; no life of ease and
luxury, just a comfortable, commonplace house, with a husband who is too
hard-worked to have much time for play. I have no fortune to offer you,
dear, except love--there's no end to that wealth!"
Ruth turned her beautiful eyes upon him with a smile of perfect content.
"But that's everything!" she cried. "I shall be the richest woman in
the world!"
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.
MARGOT'S ANSWER.
A week later Victor Druce was sitting _tete-a-tete_ with Margot Blount
in the drawing-room of her aunt's London house, a cramped little house
in a fashionable neighbourhood. The house was generally let furnished
during the season, and inhabited by the impecunious owner at those odd
seasons of the year when she had no invitations which made it possible
to saddle other people with the cost of food and maintenance. Just now
there was a gap of a few weeks between the last shooting-party and a
Christmas gathering in the country, so the house had been reopened, and
friends flocked to call and leave cards, foremost among them Mr Victor
Druce, a young man of importance, nowadays, as the accredited heir to
one of the finest properties in the kingdom.
"I am not at home to anyone else this afternoon," Margot announced to
the servant, as Victor took his seat beside her. She smiled to herself
as she spoke, an odd little smile, whose meaning her visitor was puzzled
to decipher. It was a great compliment to be allowed a private
interview, but there was a mysterious something in Margot's manner which
detracted from his satisfaction. He watched her as she poured out tea
at the inlaid Turkish table, with eyes in which admiration and anxiety
were equally mingled. He had known many women more beautiful, but never
one with such an air of grace and distinction; every movement of the
slim body and white tapering fingers was a poem in itself, and the coils
of chestnut hair shone like burnished gold. Even in the poorest of
surroundings Margot would look an aristocrat, and reflect credit on her
husband's good taste.
While he was drinking his tea and listening to the pretty flow of
conversation about everything in general and nothing in particular,
which seems to come so naturally to women of the world, Victor was busy
painting a mental picture of a wonderful, rose-coloured future where he
would reign as master of Raby Court, with Margot acting chatelaine by
his side. The exclusive county families might have hesitated to welcome
a stranger, who was moreover a "City man," but, with Margot Blount as
his wife, he would have the entree into any society.
Victor congratulated himself on his usual good luck, inasmuch as this
desirable partner was the girl of all others whom he would have selected
for her own sake. A year ago he had looked upon her as a star entirely
out of his own sphere, for he had the poorest of prospects for the
future, but now, as by the stroke of a magician's wand, a fine position
was almost assured, and he could approach Margot if not as an equal,
still as a match whom nobody need disdain. Almost, but not quite!
There lay the rub.
The old squire still lingered on, dying by inches as it were, and
preserving to the last his grim enigmatical silence. Victor had not
heard one word from his lips to substantiate his hopes; but actions--
which, as the proverb says, speak louder than words--all seemed to range
themselves in his favour. His three rivals had retired in disfavour,
and, receiving no replies to their first letters, had gradually ceased
writing, so that there was at present no correspondence between them and
the squire, while he himself was a constant visitor, and was even
allowed carte blanche in inviting and entertaining his friends. The
very servants about the place spoke of him as "the young master," and
the local tradesfolk lost no opportunity of begging his patronage in the
future. Surely, surely he might be done with doubts, and allow himself
the joy of speaking out all that was in his heart!
"A penny for your thoughts, Mr Druce," cried Margot gaily. "You have
not been listening to me for the last ten minutes. It must have been a
very pleasant day-dream to engross you so completely."
"It was," said Victor simply. For once he was thoroughly sincere, and
voice and manner both testified to the change. "I was thinking of you,"
he added, looking at her with the dark eyes which could be so eloquent
upon occasions. "My daydreams have always been of you for the last
year!"
"Always?" echoed Margot sceptically. She selected a little cake from
the basket by her side, and nibbled it daintily with her small white
teeth. "Really? I am surprised to hear that. I fancied that you were
more catholic in your tastes. It is very flattering of you to include
me in your dreams, but I am not presumptuous enough to expect to occupy
the entire stage!"
"Presumptuous!" echoed Victor reproachfully. The vague uneasiness which
had possessed him since the beginning of the interview was deepened by
the unconcealed irony of her tone; and he realised suddenly that he must
speak plainly, since it was dangerous to play fast and loose any longer.
"What a word for you to use of yourself! It is I who am presumptuous
to dream of you as I do; but a man is not always master of his thoughts.
I think you must know what my feelings have been ever since we met. I
fell hopelessly in love with you at first sight--hopelessly in every
way, as it seemed at that time; but, all the same, my fate was sealed,
and the world held no other woman."
"Really?" queried Margot again, in the same voice of scepticism. "But,
then, how wonderfully you act, Mr Druce! I have seen you only
occasionally during the year, but I cannot say that you impressed me as
a man who had lost his interest in my sex! At one time I made sure--a
good many people made sure--that you had a very definite preference.
That was at the beginning of your stay at the Court, when Mr Farrell
seemed so devoted to his charming grand-niece. Do you remember the
afternoon when I came to call, and found you two sitting together upon
the terrace? What a charming picture you made! The old house makes an
ideal background for a _tete-a-tete_!"
Victor's eyes lit up with a flash of relief and triumph. Margot was
jealous--that was the reason of the change of manner which had puzzled
him all the afternoon. She was jealous of his attention to Ruth
Farrell, which she evidently looked upon as disloyal to herself. As he
could not deny the evidence of her own eyesight, the wisest plan was to
throw himself upon her generosity and forgiveness.
"Ah, you must not be hard on me! You were out of reach, and the time
and the opportunity were there. She was a pretty girl, and not
disinclined for an innocent flirtation. You would not confound so
trivial an incident with my feeling for you? Ruth Farrell is a charming
girl in her own way; but--"
"But not so charming as she was! She has fallen from favour all round,
poor little Ruth, since Mr Farrell transferred his favour to another!"
Victor leapt from his seat, and strode across the room to her side.
"Margot, what is the matter? Why do you speak to me in that voice?
Leave Ruth Farrell alone--she is nothing to you or to me. I have been
waiting to ask you a question, but I can wait no longer. If the Court
is mine, if Mr Farrell makes me his heir, as we all expect, will you
share my good fortune? Will you be my wife, and make me the happiest
man on earth? I could give you a home which would be worthy even of
you!"
He bent over her as he spoke; but Margot pushed back her chair, and rose
to confront him, her head almost on a level with his own.
"Really, Mr Druce, you are too original in your methods! A conditional
proposal is quite a novelty in my experience. _If_ you inherit? And
what if by chance you are disappointed? It is still possible, you know!
There are some people who believe that the squire is deliberately
misleading us all, and that the property will go to Ruth Farrell,
despite all appearances. I should like to know exactly how I stand
before I commit myself to a reply. Does your offer still hold good if
Ruth inherits in your place?"
Victor's eyelids sank, and a dull red flush showed on his cheeks.
"It is impossible!" he protested. "Why will you conjure up such a
position? Mr Farrell has never mentioned his niece's name since she
left the Court. He treats me like a son; I come and go as I choose. It
is preposterous to believe there can be any doubt on the subject!"
"But suppose there were? Suppose the impossible happened, if you like
to put it in that way?"
"If I were back in my old position--worse than my old position, for
these months of idleness have not helped me on--I--I should be no match
for you, Margot. You would not care to marry a pauper!"
"Nor you an equally impecunious bride! My title would be of service to
you as master of the Court, but a commoner with a substantial fortune to
her back would be a better bargain for a budding barrister. Such a
commoner as--shall we say Ruth Farrell, for example? Mr Druce, you
ought to succeed in your profession, for you have shown wonderful
forethought in the management of your own affairs. It was an admirable
idea to provide for both emergencies, while leaving yourself free. The
only drawback to success is that Ruth and myself happened to be friends,
and were mutually anxious that the other should not be deceived. Under
the circumstances, you will not be surprised that I must decline to
consider the problematical offer of the Court and its master. I will
live unmarried all my days, or I will marry an honest man and a
gentleman!"
Victor stood gazing at her, a figure cut in stone. For a few moments
stupefaction held him dumb; then his face worked convulsively in the
effort of speech.
"You have known all along--you have deliberately waited, intending to
deal me this blow?"
Margot bent her head gravely.
"Yes, I have waited! I am able to take care of myself, but I wished to
make quite sure that Ruth was safe. To-day I was glad to feel that it
was unnecessary to wait any longer. You will be interested to hear that
Miss Farrell is happily engaged to an old friend of the family. It
sometimes happens that the cleverest of schemers falls between two
stools. The position is undignified, but you have only yourself to
thank. I think we have nothing more to say to each other, Mr Druce. I
have the pleasure to wish you--Good-bye!"
She had touched the electric bell a moment before, and now the door
opened and a servant stood awaiting her bidding. In his presence it was
impossible for Victor to reply. For one moment he stood glaring at her,
a picture of impotent fury, then slowly turned and left the room. As
the house door closed behind him, the electric bell pealed once more,
and the servant turned back to the drawing-room.
"I am not at home in future to Mr Druce! Please remember!" said Lady
Margot.
Then her eye fell on the envelope of a telegram which the man was
carrying towards her. She tore it open, saw at a glance that it came
from Mrs Thornton at Raby, and read the following message:--
"Squire died suddenly last night. Husband, Druce, Melland, summoned to
funeral on Thursday. Will write details."
It was a duplicate of a message which was even then speeding on its way
to the two grand-nieces in Liverpool.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.
BERNARD FARRELL'S HEIR.
"I'm not sorry; I'm _glad_!" cried Mollie, while a rain of tears rolled
down her cheeks. "He was old and was tired, and everyone he loved had
gone before him. It will be like going home to meet them again. He was
grim and cross and suspicious, but I loved him all the same, and in his
queer way I am sure that he liked me too. I'm thankful he is at rest!
... `Will write details.' Thursday!--that means that she will write on
Thursday evening. Mrs Thornton is nothing if not businesslike. We
shall hear from her by the second post on Friday. By Friday at ten
o'clock we shall know our fate. To be, or not to be--that is the
question. Oh, I hope--I hope he has remembered us a little! There is
no chance of inheriting the Court, as we once dreamt of doing; but
still, there is a hope, and it will be a shock to bury it for ever. I
used to feel comparatively indifferent; but the strain of these last six
months has made me greedy; while you, you dear goose, who used to be all
ambition, are in such a ludicrous condition of bliss that you can hardly
rouse yourself to take any interest in the question! What it is to be
engaged!"
Ruth tried to look contrite, but succeeded only in smiling seraphically.
"When you are perfectly happy it is impossible to be happier, and I
honestly don't care very much. I should like Uncle Bernard to leave me
a nice message, and I shouldn't at all object to a legacy, which would
provide my trousseau; but the Court itself would be a white elephant to
me now. Donald adores his work, and would not give it up for any
consideration, so we could never live there ourselves."
"You might lend it to a poor but deserving family! Astonishing as it
may appear, there are a few other people in the world beside yourself
and Donald, and they are not all going to be married and live happily
ever after!"
This time Ruth did, indeed, look contrite, and that without an effort.
"Oh, Mollie, I am horribly selfish! Forgive me, darling! I honestly do
forget everybody but ourselves sometimes; and it is hateful of me, for
when I am so happy I ought to be more sympathetic, instead of less. I
am, when I remember! I am so bubbling over with happiness and good-will
that I feel inclined to kiss everyone I meet. But there is so much to
be thought about, and every time we meet there seems to be more, and I
get lost in dreams."
"Bless your heart, don't apologise to me. I like it!" cried Mollie
heartily. "I know your heart is right; and it's a poor thing if lovers
can't live in a world of their own for a few weeks of their life. I'm
thankful beyond words that your future is settled. But oh, what a help
a few hundreds would be to the rest of us just now! I feel as if I
could hardly live until Friday morning, I am so anxious to hear the
news! And the mysterious condition, Ruth! Do you realise that we shall
know all about it in three more days?"
"I wonder!" sighed Ruth dreamily. Then, with sudden animation, "If it
is good news,--if either of us came in for something really big, Mrs
Thornton would wire! She simply could not wait. She is far too
impulsive!"
It was an unfortunate suggestion, as it added tenfold to the strain of
waiting. The minutes seemed to drag on Thursday afternoon and evening;
but no telegram appeared, and Mollie's heart sank heavily. She knew
better than her sister how difficult it was to make both ends meet, and
what a long and arduous task it would be to pay off the loans which had
tided the family through their time of need, and she was tired--as any
natural, high-spirited young thing would be--of all work and no play,
and eagerly longing for a respite. Mr Farrell had expressly stated
that he would not divide his property; but that did not prohibit small
legacies, and when he knew that his nearest relations were in straits,
surely--surely...
Mollie was up and dressed even before her usual early hour the next
morning, for sleep was impossible in such a whirl of nervous anxiety.
Ruth kissed her before departing to her work, and said--
"Rush down to me, dear, if there is anything good to tell. I shall look
out for you about eleven."
Mollie set about her household duties with great fervour, so as to make
the long hour pass by more quickly. At last ten o'clock struck, and
almost at the same time came the sound of the postman's rat-tat. She
flew to the door, arriving at the very moment that three letters fell
into the box.
One was of that long, narrow shape, which inevitably foretells a bill; a
second was unmistakably a circular; the third-- Mollie stared at it,
turned it over, looked at the postmark, stared at the writing again, in
a whirl of bewildered dismay. It could not be an ordinary, unimportant
letter from the children's aunt at Brighton! It could not! The thing
was impossible! Yet why, then, the address to Trix, the well-known
writing--most of all, the horrible postmark?
She put her hand to her head, wondering if it were true, or only a
horrible nightmare that Mrs Thornton had not written, after all!
The little mother came creeping out of the dining-room, and, seeing her
child's blanched face, was persistently optimistic. Absurd to give up
hope because a letter did not come by the first possible post! A
hundred things might have happened to cause a delay; and, even if it had
been posted in time, the post-office was not always infallible.
Mrs Farrell recalled stories of belated letters from her own
experience, and related them at length, while Mollie went numbly about
her work. The disappointment was severe, and seemed like a foretaste of
worse to come. Nevertheless, as time went on, her naturally buoyant
nature asserted itself, and, as each delivery drew near, excitement grew
to fever-pitch.
One o'clock, and a letter for the maid; three o'clock, and the postman
walked past the door. Poor Mollie! The sound of his departing
footsteps rang like a knell in her ears, and two hot rebellious tears
rose to her eyes. It did not seem possible that anything would have
prevented the kindly Mrs Thornton from keeping her promise except sheer
inability to communicate bad news; and bad news meant that her own name
and Ruth's were not mentioned in the will, and that everything went to
Victor Druce. Oh, it was hard to give up so much to so unworthy a
supplanter!
The children came home from school and settled down to their "prep."
Mrs Connor retired to her room for a rest, and Mollie took her way to
her stepfather's little den to set a match to the fire, and hold a
newspaper before it to make it blaze cheerily in preparation for his
return. It was one of the pleasures of the day to make the sanctum look
cheery and home-like for the tired man, and to-day there was an
additional impetus in the knowledge that he would share in her own
disappointment.
Mollie knelt by the grate, holding the newspaper in place--a tired,
disheartened little Cinderella, who would have liked to lay her head on
the table and indulge in a good cry. But such luxuries are not for the
brave-hearted; so she resolutely blinked away the rising tears, and,
rising to her feet, lighted the crimson-shaded lamp on the writing-
table. Its rosy light had a wonderfully beautifying effect on the
little room, giving an air of luxury to the commonplace furnishings; and
when the curtains were drawn, and the easy-chair drawn up to the fire,
it was as bright and cheerful a little interior as one need wish to see.
Mollie looked round with a glance of satisfaction, then suddenly rushed
into the hall at the sound of a loud knock at the door. So soon! She
had not expected the next delivery for another half-hour at least. No
letter appeared in the box; so, with wild visions of a legal missive,
registered for greater safety, she threw open the door and peered out
into the night.
A man's tall figure stood on the step; but it was not the figure of a
postman. Mollie leant forward--the light from above shining on cheeks
flushed from contact with the fire, and ruffled golden head--leant
forward, and stared into his face with incredulous eyes.
"Mollie!" cried a well-remembered voice, which broke into an eloquent
tremor over the name.
"You!" cried Mollie! "Mr Melland! It can't be! What does it mean?
You can't really be here!"
He laughed at that, and took a step forward, like the masterful Jack of
old.
"I am here; it is myself, and nobody else! I'll tell you all about it
if you will let me in. It's rather cold to-night, you know."
She held the door wide open at that, and hurried him across the hall
into the little, pink-lighted room, which she had just prepared for
another's reception. There they stood face to face, staring at each
other for a breathless moment.
"I thought you were in Raby--"
"So I was yesterday. I left this morning, and came down by the first
train."
"Mrs Thornton promised to write. I thought you were the postman just
now; and, of course, one cannot help being curious.--Have you come to
tell us anything nice? Did Uncle Bernard remember us at all?"
"He has left your sister his wife's rubies. They are very beautiful, I
am told, and of considerable value."
"Oh, I am glad! Ruth will be pleased; and she will be able to wear them
when she is married. How beautiful she will look! And--and me?"
Jack shook his head.
"Nothing? Not even a word to say he forgave me for coming away?"
"There is a letter. You will see it later on. What I meant was that
your name was not mentioned in the will. He left you no legacy."
Mollie sat down in the easy-chair, and leant her head against the
cushions. In spite of all that had passed, in spite of every
determination to be prepared for the worst, the blow fell with crushing
weight. She was conscious of a feeling of physical weakness, as if the
body shared with the mind in grieving over the vanished dream; but she
tried bravely to smile and look unconcerned.
"Then I suppose he--Victor Druce--inherits all?"
Jack looked at her with anxious eyes.
"You expected it, didn't you? You are not surprised? It seems to have
been generally taken for granted for the last six months."
"Yes; so Mrs Thornton said. If it had been anyone else I should not
grudge it so much. And you are left out too! I wish--oh, I wish it had
been different!"
Jack Melland took a step forward, and bent over her chair.
"Mollie," he said softly, "shall we console each other? I have been
waiting until this question was settled before coming to see you. It
seemed an endless time to wait, but I couldn't come till I knew the
truth. How could a poor fellow, with a few beggarly hundreds a year,
approach a girl who might be one of the biggest heiresses in the
kingdom? But I didn't forget you--I couldn't forget. I have been
thinking of you night and day. It was all the harder to be silent when
you were in trouble; but it was the straight thing to do. You can't
tell what it means to me to see you again! When you opened the door
just now, and the lamp-light showed me your little golden head--"
He broke off, with the same strange quiver in his voice which had marked
his first utterance of her name; but Mollie shrank back still further in
her chair, staring at him with troubled eyes.
"What do you mean? I don't understand!"
"It's simple enough--only that I love you, and want you to love me in
return!"
"But--don't you remember?--you told me about her--the girl you met, and
loved at first sight. Suppose you met her again, and felt the same;
then you would be sorry if I--"
"Oh, Mollie, do you mean to say you have remembered all this time, and
never guessed! It was yourself, darling; there never was anyone else!
I think I must have cared for you from the first, though I did not
realise it, for I was irritated that I could never get you to be
serious. You were like a child out for a holiday--full of fun and
mischief--and I wanted to talk of deeper things. Then one day for a
moment you showed me a glimpse of your real self--the sweet, womanly
heart that lay beneath the gaiety; and as I looked at your face I
recognised it, Mollie. It was something I had dreamed of when I did not
know I was dreaming, and wanted, without knowing what I wanted! I saw
that look again five minutes after I had told you of my lost love, as
you looked at me and wished me happiness. Why did you look sad, Mollie?
Were you--were you sorry at all?"
Mollie put her hand to her side with a gesture as natural as it was
charming.
"It hurt," she said simply. "I never, never dreamt that you meant me,
and I have tried hard not to think of you ever since; but I didn't
succeed very well... Why did you always write to Ruth instead of to
me?"
Jack laughed happily, and with a lover's privilege seated himself on the
arm of the easy-chair, and took Mollie's hands in his.
"Because, as I told you before, you darling, I was waiting. And do you
really think you could make up your mind to marry me on next to nothing,
and live in a tiny house, and wrestle with the household bills? Do you
think I am worth the sacrifice?"
Mollie smiled at him, shyly confident.
"I'm so improvident that I'm afraid I'd marry you on nothing. I haven't
a copper of my own, remember. You will have a penniless bride. Oh, I
wish more than ever that Uncle Bernard had left me something, so that I
might help you! It does seem hard, doesn't it, that Victor Druce should
get it all?"
Jack hesitated a moment, tugging at his moustache with his unoccupied
hand.
"I didn't say that, you know. I never told you that he did."
"Jack!"
The name slipped out so naturally on the surprise of the moment that
there was a prolonged interval in the conversation, while Jack
acknowledged the compliment. Then Mollie returned to the attack,
laughing and rosy.
"You asked if I were surprised. You said everyone had taken it for
granted!"
"Exactly; so I did. But for once everyone was mistaken. Druce has not
come in for the property."
"Then, who--who--"
"Someone equally unworthy--an ungracious rascal of a fellow called
Melland. It is all mine, Mollie--all that there is to leave!"
And then Jack did a pretty thing--a thing that he would have sneered at
as high-flown and sentimental a few months before; but no man really
knows himself or his capabilities till he loves and is beloved. He
slipped off his seat, and knelt on the floor at Mollie's feet.
"And I have come to you," he said gravely, "to ask you to share it with
me, for it's worth nothing, and worse than nothing, if I have not you by
my side!"
He held out his hand as he spoke, and Mollie laid hers in it, while her
face confronted him, white and tense with excitement.
"I can't--I can't believe it!" she gasped. "It is too wonderful! You
and me! That lovely, lovely place; and we the masters of it, able to do
as we like--just as we like, all the summer days, and the winter days,
and the beautiful spring, and no more anxiety and trouble! Jack--Jack!"
Her head went down on his shoulder, and he held her fast while she shed
a few natural tears of joy and thankfulness.
"My poor girl--my dear girl! Yes, it is all over, and the money is as
much yours as mine. I feel sure Mr Farrell meant it to be so, and that
you will find something to that effect in this letter he has left you.
He discovered my secret before I left Raby, and said plainly how much he
wished it success. There, darling, read your letter! I hope you may
find some kind words to comfort your heart."
Mollie broke open the envelope, which he handed to her. It was a solemn
business, reading a message from the dead, and her big eyes looked quite
awestruck as they scanned the page. There were only a few words,
written in a small, tremulous hand:--
"My dear Mollie,--I leave you nothing, hoping that you may share all.
That is my strong wish, and I believe I am helping on your happiness
by an apparent neglect. Try to forgive me for refusing your last
request. It would have been easier to consent, but I considered that
a short period of anxiety would be a blessing in disguise, if it
showed you who were your true friends. If a man comes forward and
offers you his love in the days of obscurity and poverty, that man's
love is worth having. I hope and believe it will come to you. I
thank you for your kindness to an old man. Forgive him for all his
offences, foremost among them an unfounded suspicion.--Your friend and
kinsman, Bernard Farrell."
"There! You see how right I was?" cried Jack in triumph. "In effect,
we are joint heirs, and have equally free hands in the disposal of the
money. You must settle an income on your mother which will ensure her
against anxiety, and then you can come away with an easy mind, and help
me to turn into a country squire and learn my duties to the tenants.
You told me once that he would be hard-worked if he were conscientious,
and I want to do the thing well while I am about it. This is December.
I mean to be married in January, at latest!"
Mollie laughed, but with a somewhat tremulous sound. The change of
scene which had taken place within the last quarter of an hour was so
complete, so extraordinary, that she felt dazed by the shock. Not only
had undreamed-of happiness come to herself, but with it such relief and
ease for all belonging to her, that they would rejoice equally with
herself. It did indeed seem more like a dream than a reality, as, with
Jack's arm round her waist and her head resting contentedly upon Jack's
shoulder, they drifted off into one of those delightful conversations
which follow all happy betrothals.
"Do you remember?" queried Jack. "Do you remember?" echoed Mollie.
"What did you mean when you said?"
"How did you feel when you heard?"
"When did you first begin?"
"And are you quite sure you will never, never--" It is all as old as the
hills, and as new as to-morrow morning, though each separate pair of
lovers imagine in their innocence that they own the exclusive monopoly.
"Jack!" cried Mollie at last, sitting suddenly upright and clasping her
hands in amaze. "Jack, imagine it! All this time I have forgotten the
most thrilling part of all. The condition--the mysterious condition!
What was it? What did you do, or leave undone, which made you different
from the rest of us?"
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.
CONCLUSION.
"Aha!" cried Jack. "I wondered when you were coming to that! It was
indeed something of which we could never have thought! Mr Farrell had
learnt by sad experience that real happiness cannot be purchased by
money, so had determined to leave his fortune to the one who cared for
it least--that is to say, to the one who put other things first--love--
whole-hearted, disinterested love, such as he himself had felt for his
beautiful wife; and honest work, enjoyed for its own sake more than for
what it will bring! Ruth was out of the running from the start, for she
showed so plainly that, to her, money meant happiness. There must have
been a time when he wavered in favour of Druce, who played his part
remarkably well; but on the whole, it was my obstinate, ungracious self
which approached nearest to his ideal. He knew that I loved you, but
that I should never venture to ask you to be my wife if you were a great
heiress; so as he himself writes, he left you nothing, hoping that you
would share all. I want you literally to realise that, darling--and to
feel that the money belongs as much to you as to me!"
Mollie smiled at him in her sunny, candid fashion.
"Oh, I shall!" she said simply. "I mean to. There are so many things
that I want to do for the dear people here, and they would like them
better if they came from me. Uncle Bernard was a dear, sweet old thing
to scheme for our happiness, and I adore him for it. I certainly put
love before money, for I would marry you if we had to play an organ in
the streets or sing sentimental ditties out of tune, but it will be like
a fairy tale to live in the Court--with you!"
"It will, indeed! I don't feel indifferent to fortune any longer now
that it has brought us together. When the Will was read aloud
yesterday, I did not know whether I was standing on my head or my heels.
I rushed down to the vicarage, and good little Mrs Thornton cried upon
my neck, literally she did, Mollie!"
Mollie smiled at him with love-lit eyes.
"But oh, Jack, there's something else--Victor? What about him? Was he
terribly disappointed? Did he get nothing?"
"No! not a cent!"
"Did Uncle Bernard leave no word of explanation or good-bye?"
"There was no note, but there was an envelope and an--an enclosure,"
said Jack gravely.
He put his hand in his waistcoat-pocket and drew from his pocket-book an
unmounted photograph.
"Druce opened this in the library after the Will was read, stared at it
for a moment, then threw it in the fire, and dashed out of the room. It
fell on the grate and the lawyer picked it up and gave it to me."
He held out the photograph as he spoke, and Mollie bent eagerly over it.
It was Ruth's missing picture of the library at the Court--one of the
longtime exposures which she had taken on the eventful morning when the
desk had been opened in the squire's absence. The nearer part of the
interior was clear and distinct, but the further half was blurred as if
something had moved while the plate was still exposed, while leaning
over the open desk was a man's figure, dim and blurred indeed, but
recognisable in a flash as that of Victor Druce!
Mollie's face was white to the lips as she raised it to meet Jack's
glance, and he put his arm round her protectingly.
"Yes; I knew you would be shocked! It is easy to see what happened.
After Druce went out, ostensibly for the day, he slunk back unseen, and
entered the library by the window. The blur across the picture shows in
which direction he crossed to the desk. Meantime, Ruth had put her
camera in position, and as the exposure would be a long one in such a
dark room, she had gone away and left it there. Druce would never
notice the little camera perched on a side-table, and when he heard Ruth
returning he, no doubt, hid himself hastily behind the curtains; but he
had remained sufficiently long at the desk to give a definite impression
of his figure. The camera was discovered after you left, and the squire
had the plates developed in the village. He must have had the curiosity
to examine them before sending them on, and one can imagine his feelings
upon finding the solution of the mystery which had troubled him so much.
I have no sympathy for Mr Victor Druce; I am only profoundly thankful
that Ruth escaped his clutches. Don't let us talk of him any more. We
want only pleasant subjects on this great night, sweetheart!"
"And there are so many pleasant subjects to think of. It will be such a
lovely experience to play fairy godmother to people who have had a bad
time; the first of all comes the dear pater. There's his key in the
latch! Be nice to him, Jack; he has been so good to us!"
"Come, then!" said Jack, rising, and holding out his hand towards her.
"Let us go to meet him together, and you shall tell him that he has a
new son, and that all his troubles are at an end?"
THE END.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fortunes of the Farrells, by
Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORTUNES OF THE FARRELLS ***
***** This file should be named 21120.txt or 21120.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/1/2/21120/
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
[email protected]. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
[email protected]
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
http://www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
