When Nellie and Winnie re-entered the parlour they found the table spread, Aunt Debby seated as usual before the urn, and Miss Latimer standing by the window gazing up at the murky sky, where the leaden clouds predicted a gathering snowstorm. Winnie ran up to her. "Aunt Judith," she said humbly, "I am very much ashamed of myself; please forgive me."
Miss Latimer patted the upraised face, and the pained look died out of her eyes. "Never mind, child," she replied pleasantly; "it is all right. I understand" (as the girl still looked anxious); "I know you had no thought of grieving us."
So the subject was dropped, and once more they gathered round the simple board whereon every dainty was displayed with such charming taste. There, tongues loosened and the merry chatting recommenced, while Winnie's spirits rose wonderfully. Putting from her with a strong determined will every sad thought and the burden of grief so new for her to bear, she laughed and talked, the gayest of the gay—speaking in her own quaint style, and laughing her own clear ripple of silvery laughter.
After tea Miss Latimer called her into the cosy study, and bidding her seat herself snugly, she said: "Aunt Debby requires Nellie's assistance for a short time at present, so you will have to endure an old maid's company meanwhile; but before we settle ourselves to enjoy a nice, cosy chat, I wish you to accept a Christmas gift from me. It is my latest work, and I only received the first copies yesterday. I have written your name on the title-page, and I think, dear, you will value the little volume for my sake." As she spoke Aunt Judith handed a small book, beautifully bound in blue and gold, to her young visitor, who received it at first in speechless silence. She looked at the pretty volume—the elegant binding and clear, bold type; then with a great cry flung herself down by Miss Latimer's side and sobbed out, "Oh, I love you so, you are so kind to me; and it is so hard to say good-bye."
Aunt Judith seemed amazed. "I do not understand you, child," she said simply. "What do you mean? Try to calm yourself and explain, dear."
Then between sobs the story of a child's grief was laid before Miss Latimer, and told with such a depth of pathos that the listener's soft womanly heart ached in response to the plaintive tale.
"And your mother does not know you are here to-day, Winnie?" she inquired when the sad little voice had ceased. "You had no permission from her to come?"
The girl shook her head. "I suppose I am very disobedient," was the simple answer; "but, Aunt Judith, the temptation was too hard to resist. I felt I must see you all again, even though it was only to say good-bye."
Miss Latimer sighed. "You must not come any more, dear, never after to-night—at least not until your mother gives her full, free consent. You think all this very hard, little Winnie, but you do not know how deeply I feel about it also. You had stolen into my heart, child, and I was beginning to find your love very sweet and precious—not that I shall love you less or cease to care for you, but all this pleasant social intercourse must end now. Nay, do not grieve so, darling. It is all very dark and perplexing to you at present perhaps; but rest assured God has some beautiful lessons for us to learn—lessons that will give us a glimpse of, and may yet prove as stepping-stones to, that higher life which is the only life worth living."
Winnie sighed despairingly. "Aunt Judith," she said, raising a pair of wet eyes full of a child's agony to the listener's face, "I shall never be good now. You do not know the pleasure it has been to me to come here, or the strange thoughts that fill my heart when I see how happy you all are in this dear little home. Somehow God seems very near here, Aunt Judith, and the Christ-life you talk about so beautiful, I go away determined to try to lead it too—to be good, brave, and true. But that is all over now; for oh! no one in my home speaks of God and heaven, or talks softly of Jesus and his love, and I can't be good if none will stretch out a helping hand and show me the way."
Miss Latimer drew the little quivering figure closer in her embrace as she answered, "Don't say that, child, don't say that. A human friend often leads astray—God never. We must not rest our entire confidence on human guides, or lean altogether on earthly props, but, holding out our hands to the great Father above, with all the simplicity of little children, leave ourselves unreservedly in his keeping. Sometimes the way is dark—so dark, dear" (and the gentle voice faltered for a moment), "sometimes the path proves rugged and steep; but, little Winnie,—
'The easy path in the lowlands hath little of grand or new,But a toilsome ascent leads on to a wide and glorious view;Peopled and warm is the valley, lonely and chill the height,But the peak that is nearer the storm cloud is nearerthe stars of light.'
And so, dear, in the time of shadow rest in the hollow of God's hand, and Christ himself will help you to lead his own perfect life."
The conversation at this point being interrupted by the arrival of Dick, Miss Latimer found no opportunity of renewing it that evening; but while Winnie, who had once more dashed the tears from her eyes with a child's abandonment of grief, was busily engaged with Miss Deborah and Nellie, she drew the boy aside, and with his aid was able to gather together the scattered threads of his sister's disconnected story.
Dick could not very well understand how, but there was something about Aunt Judith which seemed to inspire confidence; and although Miss Latimer with delicate tact retrained from asking more than was absolutely necessary, the boy found himself laying bare his heart quite unintentionally, and ended by confessing his determination to run away to sea. "I must go," he finished doggedly; "I can't stand this kind of life any longer, and—I won't."
Miss Latimer looked very grave.
"I have no right to interfere, Dick," she said quietly, "and perhaps I should scarcely have listened to your story; but from what has been told me and my own eyes have seen, I thought Winnie's brother one who would scorn to do a cowardly, dishonourable action."
The boy looked amazed at the strong, emphatic language; while Aunt Judith, nothing daunted, continued,—
"Yes, it is perfectly true, Dick. You see I do not fear to speak as I think, and such a course as you purpose pursuing seems to me both mean and sinful. Running away—stealing out of your father's house like a thief in the night; try to picture it fully, clearly to yourself, and then let me hear your verdict once again. You talk of always having longed for a sailor's life; you speak about the great attraction of the sea. Well, that in itself is good; but why go forth to it in the way you are contemplating? Have you ever spoken to your father on the subject?"
"Never," replied Dick; "but my step-mother and sisters knew all about it."
"And what was their verdict?"
"Laughter, and the information that I was too great a stupid to be a sailor." The boy's tones were very bitter.
Miss Latimer scanned the honest, open face, and replied,—
"Well, Dick, we hardly know each other yet, and it may be you will denounce me as an interfering old maid; but if I may proffer my advice, I would say, Lay your heart bare before your father, tell him simply what your desire is; and if after that he says 'Go,' then God's blessing follow you, my dear boy."
She rose as she spoke, and crossing the room joined the group chatting so pleasantly together, while Dick remained quietly in his seat. But there sprang up in the boy's heart that night a pure, holy feeling of respect, almost amounting to veneration, for all women who, like Miss Latimer, kept their garments white and unsullied in this evil world, and stood up so bravely in the cause of truth and right. He never forgot the soft, tender voice or the warm pressure of the hand as she reasoned with him; but thinking it all over in the still night-hush, he determined to win her approbation, and carve out for himself a noble life.
The evening passed by very rapidly for both Winnie and Dick, and at length it was time to say good-bye.
Nellie and Miss Deborah, being still in ignorance as to the course events had taken, wondered at the child's low sob when Miss Latimer kissed her, and marvelled even more at her strange conduct in running down the garden path immediately after, without pausing to bid one and all her usual merry good-night. But the explanation was soon made; and then Aunt Debby's indignation blazed forth, while Nellie listened in simple amazement to the strange tale.
"The very idea, Judith!" gasped the good lady, shaking her head with such vehemence that all the little curls in front danced and coquetted with one another; "just as if we would contaminate the child, or were so very much her inferiors. Dear heart! I declare the news has given me quite a turn—it is so absurd."
"I think we had better drop the subject altogether, Debby," replied Miss Latimer. "Nellie, I know, will respect her aunts' wishes, and act as we think best.—Will you not, my child?"
"Of course, auntie," murmured Nellie faintly; "but I don't quite understand. Why could Winnie come here with full permission one day and be forbidden the next? I know," she continued bitterly—"at least it is not Ada Irvine's fault if I do not—that I am very much Winnie's inferior in many ways; but still Mrs. Blake knew all that before." Here Nellie burst into tears, for she was only human, and wounded pride and vanity mingled with genuine grief at the loss of her friend.
"Comfort her yourself, Judith," muttered Aunt Debby, meditating a rapid exit to the kitchen. "If I begin, I shall be sure to be saying something spiteful and wicked, for my temper is at boiling-point just now," and with that the good lady disappeared to the humbler regions, there to vent her indignation in violent washing up of unoffending cups and saucers.
Meanwhile Nellie had her evening talk, but for once it failed to soothe her wounded feelings; and when she lay down on her soft warm bed, she carried with her bitter, angry thoughts which chased the slumber from her eyes and the rest from her heart. She could not understand why Mrs. Blake should put an end so suddenly to her intimacy with Winnie; and Aunt Judith either could not or would not throw one single ray of light on the subject. The whole story would leak out at school, and what a time would follow! Nellie writhed inwardly at the awful prospect, and wept bitterly, till at length, thoroughly worn out, she fell fast asleep, and the silent passing hours ushered in the dawn of another new day.
The Christmas holidays were over now, and once more governesses and pupils were busy giving and receiving instruction in Mrs. Elder's Select Establishment for Young Ladies. A few scholars still remained absent, reluctant perhaps to come back to hard work after three weeks' ease and gaiety; and amongst the list of truants was the name of Winnifred Blake, whose blithe little face had been like a ray of sunlight in the dingy school-room. "Confined to the house through indisposition," Mrs. Elder explained to each anxious inquirer after the tiny favourite. "Nothing serious; only a cold caught during holiday-time." But the days passed by, and still no Winnie appeared.
Nellie had never seen or heard of her since that night at Dingle Cottage when they had laughed so heartily together over poor Aunt Meg and her infirmities; and she felt the separation keenly. At first the other school-mates plied her with questions regarding Winnie's absence, all of which she was unable to answer or parry successfully; and so by degrees, and the help of Ada's sarcastic tongue, the secret oozed out, and Nellie's star paled accordingly. The poisoned shaft of carefully-veiled words struck home with new power: there was no Winnie to whom to turn for sympathy, and so the old cross had to be taken up again and carried day after day. Some of the girls sided sensibly with Nellie, and tried to make school-life pleasant to her; but they were unfortunately in the minority, and often got snubbed and censured by the others for their kindness.
One afternoon, however, as Nellie was wending her way home from school, a hand was laid on her shoulder, while an honest, kindly voice said suddenly in her ear, "Well, it is good to get a peep at you again, Nell. How are you?" and Dick's freckled face shone down on the rosy one by his side.
The girl looked up with a happy smile. "O Dick!" she gasped; and then it seemed as if words failed her, and she stood simply holding his hand, and gazing with such genuine happiness into his eyes that the boy laughed outright.
"What's up, Nell?" he inquired teasingly. "I declare such evident admiration makes me feel quite bashful."
Nellie gave a little soft smile. "Don't be a tease, Dick," she said; "I am only so pleased to see you and hear about Winnie."
Dick placed his hand on his heart and bowed. "The pleasure is mutual," he began; but receiving an energetic shake of the arm he continued, "Oh, Win will soon be all right. She's been croaking like a raven for the last fortnight or so, but is almost well now."
"When did she catch cold?"
Dick lowered his voice. "Coming home that night from Dingle Cottage. We missed the 'bus—walked—and Win caught a chill."
"Was she very ill?"
"Oh no; but the doctor would not allow her to go out or even run from one room to the other, so she has been cooped up in the oak parlour all this time."
"Tell her I am very sorry, and she is to accept my dear love. Will you, Dick?" and Nellie looked pleadingly up in the boy's kindly face.
"That I shall" (with emphasis). "And, here, I may as well give you a piece of information, Nell. This is Wednesday—on Saturday afternoon I sail for Calcutta."
Nellie stared. "What do you mean?" she cried in bewilderment.
"Precisely what I say, my dear girl," replied the wild boy, vastly enjoying her amazement. "Perhaps you'll never see me any more, so do a little weep—no, not here," as Nellie out of mischief slipped her hand into her pocket; "we should have a crowd round us in no time if you did, but in the—ahem!—privacy of your own room;" and Dick's eyes sparkled.
"Calcutta! Does that mean you are going to be a sailor after all? O Dick, have you gained your wish at last? I am so glad for your sake."
Human sympathy is very sweet. Dick's face beamed as he answered, "Yes, Nell; the governor has given his consent. It was not so very difficult to obtain after all" (a trifle sarcastically), "therefore I'm off on Saturday."
"What is Winnie saying to all this?"
The boy's face saddened a little.
"Win's a brick," he replied enthusiastically; "she never says anything about herself, but talks of all the different countries I shall see, and hopes no harm will befall me. Dear little Win!" Dick's voice was very tender as he spoke.
A silence followed, then the boy held out his hand. "Well, Nell, I must say good-bye now. I'm on an errand of importance, and dare not delay. Don't quite forget me, and be good to Winnie. There—ta-ta!" and away sped Dick before Nellie had time to utter a single word.
About two hours afterwards he re-entered his own home, and made straight for the oak parlour, chuckling to himself at the thought of Winnie's delight when he told her his conversation with Nellie. But disappointments sometimes accompany our enjoyments, and Dick's bright anticipations of a quiet hour with his favourite sister received a decided check; for on nearing the door, which was slightly ajar, he heard the murmur of voices, and peering in cautiously saw, to his great dismay, Mrs. Blake and Winnie entertaining no less honourable a visitor than Miss Irvine. Dick smiled derisively at the tones of the carefully-modulated voice, and ground his strong, white teeth on detecting the malicious spite lurking under pretty sentences full of apparent kindliness.
"I must apologize, Winnie, for not calling and inquiring after your health before this," Ada was saying as Dick approached; "but I have been assuming therôleof an invalid myself lately, and Mrs. Elder would not allow me to venture out of doors till I was thoroughly convalescent."
Mrs. Blake looked affectionately at her young visitor. "I did not know you were unwell, my dear. Are you quite recovered now?"
"Yes, thank you; but there was not very much wrong with me, dear Mrs. Blake, only a slight touch of cold in the throat. Mrs. Elder is so careful, however, I am sure I owe her a debt of gratitude I shall never be able to repay." Then turning to Winnie, Ada continued with a pretty show of anxiety, "I was very sorry to hear of your illness, Win. How did you manage to catch such a severe cold?"
"That is what I cannot tell," interrupted Mrs. Blake, feeling inclined to shake her naughty little step-daughter for her sullen behaviour towards this amiable young visitor. "I happened to be from home one day during the Christmas holidays, and on my return found Winnie coughing dreadfully and quite fevered with cold."
Ada meditated a few seconds. "I wonder," she said at length, in slow, deliberate tones, "if your illness dated from that afternoon you spent at Dingle Cottage almost a month ago? I was visiting an old woman, a formernurseof mine, who lives in the house opposite, that same day, and remember perfectly seeing you and Miss Latimer standing together at one of the windows."
"Surely you must have been mistaken, my dear. Winnie never visits at Dingle Cottage now," Mrs. Blake interposed unconsciously.
"Perhaps, but I hardly think so. However" (with a look of the utmost innocence), "Winnie will be able to solve that riddle," and the spiteful girl turned towards her sick friend and awaited the reply.
Winnie's cheeks were burning, and the great eyes full of a withering contempt. Raising them calmly to her visitor's placid face, and without a trembling of the proud young lips, she answered quietly,—"Your surmise was correct, Ada. I did spend an afternoon lately at Dingle Cottage; and I am afraid, as you so kindly hinted before, that my cold dated from that night."
Mrs. Blake was angry, very angry indeed, but too well bred to show her annoyance before her visitor. She changed the subject with ready tact, and made a most fascinating hostess; while Winnie sat in dead silence, with a great scowl disfiguring her pretty face, and Dick danced his displeasure on the door-mat.
After a short time Ada rose to leave, and holding out a daintily-gloved hand to her sullen companion, said sweetly, "Good-bye, Winnie. I trust you will soon be better; and if I can possibly find leisure for another visit, rest assured I shall drop in on you some day soon."
"Pray, don't," replied Winnie, wilfully disregarding her step-mother's look of heavy displeasure. "Your visit has not afforded me such a vast amount of pleasure that I could wish its repetition at an early date. We never were friends, Ada" (with ungoverned passion), "never so long as I can remember. You hate me, and I—I detest you; why, then, will you persist in assuming a friendship that has no foundation?"
Dick's war-dance continued with greater vigour at this point, while Mrs. Blake in haughtiest tones said to Winnie, "How dare you insult Miss Irvine in this manner? Apologize at once, I command you."
Ada's face, as she turned it towards her hostess, wore a sweet, patient look, with just the tiniest flicker of pain about the curves of the perfect lips. "Please, do not blame Winnie too severely, Mrs. Blake," she pleaded mildly; "her words are to some extent true, but I—" and the lids drooped slowly over the lovely eyes, while a faint flush tinged the delicate cheeks—"I was trying to turn over a new leaf and gain Winnie's love."
"My eye, what a cram!" muttered Dick from behind the door. "Oh, but she acts the hypocrite capitally. Now then for Win's happy reply. It will be both sweet and original, I prophesy, for the little monkey is bristling all over like an insulted hedgehog. Here goes!" and the boy's ear was once more applied cautiously to the keyhole.
Winnie had risen by this time, and was confronting her adversary with a look almost capable of annihilating a less daring foe than Ada Irvine. Quite undaunted by the fear of future punishment, and recognizing only the great wrong this girl was doing her, she said, "I think you are a female Judas, Ada, and your true character will come to light some day. I know—" but Winnie got frightened at the awful look in Mrs. Blake's eyes, and stopped short, while Ada took refuge in tears.
"Come away, my dear," said her hostess, leading her gently from the room; "Winnie is not herself today. When the child is in a passion her language is uncontrollable; but I shall see she sends you a proper apology for her rudeness."
Dick heard no more, having to slip away at that moment and hide behind one of the statues in the passage during the exit of his step-mother with the weeping Niobe; but when the sound of their footsteps had died away in the distance, he rushed into the oak parlour, and seizing Winnie round the waist, treated her to several convulsive hugs and various exclamations of supreme delight.
"Well, old girl, you did the thing first-rate," he panted, throwing himself into a chair and rubbing his hands vigorously together. "You deserve to be commended, Win. Dear heart, as Aunt Debby says, what a tongue somebody has!"
"I don't care," pouted Winnie, endeavouring to straighten her sash, which Dick had been using as a handle during the hugging process; "I only said what was true, and would repeat it all over again if she cared to listen."
"Bravo! what a hard heart the girl possesses! Cold as an icicle, too, not to melt under the influence of such dewy tears shed from—ahem!—'sweetest eyes were ever seen.'"
"Crocodile tears!" (with scorn.) "I don't know how she managed to squeeze them up. I never saw Ada Irvine weep before. As for apologizing, I won't, no matter what happens."
"Perhaps your gentle friend had an onion hidden within the folds of her—mouchoir. See how nicely I can speak French. You remember, in the story of Beauty and the Beast, how the wicked sisters rubbed their eyes with onions to 'pretend' they were weeping." Dick's eyes were dancing as he spoke.
Winnie's indignation, however, would admit of no reply, and she sat silently, like a little bird with its plumage all ruffled; while her brother, stretched lazily opposite, gazed on the angry face and soliloquized accordingly.
"Alas for the rarityOf Christian charity,"
quoth the incorrigible boy. "Come, Win, be magnanimous for once and forgive. Think what it would be to bask continually in the sunshine of the lovely Ada's smiles. But there—poor little bird! did I stroke its pretty feathers all the wrong way, and make it very cross?"
How much more Dick would have said remains a mystery, for Mrs. Blake interrupted the interesting conversation by her entrance, and commanded him to leave the room.
"I'll take possession of the door-mat once again," he decided, giving Winnie an encouraging look as he passed out. "Eavesdropping is a low, mean thing, I know; but Win may require my assistance, and altogether it's as well I should be on the spot."
There is no need to describe the conversation that ensued between Mrs. Blake and her troublesome step-daughter. The good lady was justified in her displeasure at Winnie's daring disobedience; but her words were cold, cruel words, little calculated to inspire the love and confidence of a warm, tender-hearted child. She would listen to no expostulations, she refused to reason; her commands must be obeyed; Winnie would never dare to set her laws at defiance again; and at the close of the session she would be transferred to another school. As regarded Ada, she must write a humble apology, and in the future show that sweet, amiable girl every respect.
Winnie stoutly refused (Dick chuckled with delight), and Mrs. Blake's anger waxed stronger at the little rebel. She meditated for a few seconds on the best method of punishment, and then said coldly,—"I shall say nothing further in the meantime, Winnie, concerning your flagrant act of disobedience in connection with Miss Latimer. When you feel truly penitent, and confess your sorrow, I shall be pleased to accept your apology; but I insist on a letter being written to Miss Irvine now. One hour is at your disposal, and if at the end of that period I return and find you still obdurate, then to-morrow's pleasure is cancelled,—you will not be allowed, as promised, to see over Dick's ship." With that Mrs. Blake left the room, and Winnie was left to solitude and reflection.
For a long time she sat firmly determined to suffer anything rather than yield. Her young heart burned with anger and pride—she hated everybody and everything; but in the end love for Dick conquered, and the required note was written.
"I don't mean one single word of all that scribble," she cried, pitching the letter to the other end of the room. "I hate to humble myself, so I do, and I should like to say all sorts of horrid things to Ada Irvine; but I can't give up to-morrow's treat, and I wish to see as much of my dear old Dick as possible. Wait till I get back to school, however, and there will be fun." Winnie's face brightened at the thought, and the old mischievous smile came back to her lips. After all there was a good amount of wicked enjoyment to be derived from having an enemy.
If one had peeped into the oak parlour on Thursday evening, one would naturally have imagined the room to be untenanted, save for the presence of a little white dog curled in peaceful slumber on the rug; but had the heavy folds of curtain been withdrawn, they would have disclosed to view the form of a young lady nestling back in the window embrasure, with two soft white hands folded wearily on her lap. The night was cold, but bright with moonlight; and the stars peeping in at the window, the blind of which was drawn up to the top, whispered together of the fairy picture she made with the moonbeams straying over her quiet, thoughtful face, and playing hide-and-seek amongst the meshes of her dark glossy hair.
"How pretty she looks!" they murmured softly, sparkling down their twinkling lights on the frost-gemmed city below. But the little stars failed to notice the weary look of discontent and dissatisfaction on that fair face, which marred all the beauty of the fairy picture.
She had left the gay drawing-room and fashionable company under plea of a headache, and finding the oak parlour untenanted, had hidden herself snugly behind the curtains. But Edith Blake's headache had evidently merged into a heartache; for it was a weary, weary face that turned from the window as approaching footsteps warned her of some one's intrusion. Drawing aside the ruby folds and peering out cautiously, the girl saw Winnie enter and go straight towards the fire, where she proceeded to ensconce herself snugly on the rug, and lift the little white dog into her lap.
"Poor little doggie!" she said, stroking the affectionate animal, which was licking its mistress's gentle hand; "poor Puck! you'll have to love me very much after Dick goes away. I like to be loved, doggie; but no one in this house believes in love except my dear boy, and it is lonely when not a single creature cares, for you. I should like to enjoy a good cry, Puck; but I must not make Dick sad, and it is a baby-fashion to cry when things go wrong and you can't get what you wish. But, oh dear! whatever shall I do after my dear good boy is gone away?"
"Write long letters and think of him every day," put in a blithe, merry voice at the door; and Winnie sprang up with a cry of delight as Dick strode into the room attired in all the splendour of his new uniform.
"How do I look, Win?" he cried, touching his cap, and standing in all the pride of his young, bright strength, ready to be admired. "Am I respectable?"
But he need hardly have asked that question, for the little sister's face was all aglow, and her rosy lips laughing a glad, proud smile.
"Respectable!" (with scorn); "why, Richard, you're simplysplendid! And oh! you do look every inch a sailor."
"I thought I would let you see me in full uniform before packing up my baggage," said Dick, by way of apology for his childish display. "Look at the brass buttons, Win, and the badge on my cap; they make me feel as if I were a sailor already."
Winnie duly admired.
"I hope you'll have a good voyage, and not find the work too hard," she whispered afterwards, and the boy answered.
"Win," he began impressively, "I intend putting my whole 'shoulder to the wheel.' If I cannot work with the brain, I will strive my very best with hand and heart, and do my duty come what may. I mean to be a true man, and live an honest, upright life, not in order to gain every one's good opinion (though of course I should dearly like that too), but because it is right."
Winnie's eyes were shining. "I told you so," she said, clapping her hands joyously. "You'll be a king amongst men yet. And oh, how proudly our father will some day talk of 'my sailor son!'" The boy's face flushed with pleasure. "But, Dick, you won't care less for me when you become both good and great; will you?" and the pretty voice had a wistful ring in it as Winnie neared the close of her sentence.
"Good! why, you're an angel compared with me, Win," said the boy lovingly; "but we'll both try our best, dear. I'm a great, rough boor of a lad, Win, and you're such a dainty, fairy creature. But think how grand it would be to know that every day you at home and I out on the ocean were striving to do our duty and live as we ought to live. I've been all wrong in the past, I know, and it is little wonder the others don't care much about me; but I mean to strike out afresh and begin all over again. See here, Winnie; this is my farewell gift to you. I thought you would prize it more than anything else," and Dick placed a beautiful pocket Bible in his sister's hands.
Winnie touched the little volume reverently, and the eyes of the listener behind the curtains grew dim as the child's soft voice replied, "I cannot thank you as I would, Dick, for your lovely present; but I love you dearly, dearly. I shall keep it always close beside me, and read a portion every day. Bow down your head, dear boy, and let me kiss you for your goodness."
Dick submitted to the caress, and then invited Winnie up to his room in order to inspect a few presents he had received from some of his school-fellows; and when brother and sister had disappeared, Edith stole softly from her place of concealment, and the dancing fire-flames saw that her eyes were wet with tears.
"I have caught a glimpse of true life to-night," she said, smiling wistfully; "and it has shown me how hollow, hollow is the false one I daily lead. Poor Dick! I am afraid we have misjudged him after all, and may yet find out, as Winnie so confidently prophesies, that he is worthy of all honour and admiration. As for her, she will learn, so far as lies in my power, that love is to be found in the house, although her sailor boy has left the parent nest." Then seating herself in the cosiest-looking chair, she lay back and waited quietly for the return of the owners of the oak parlour.
In the course of half-an-hour they re-appeared, and gazed with wide-open eyes on the fair intruder; but Edith, laughing lazily, bade them come forward and welcome the unexpected guest.
Winnie sprang to her side. "We are both awfully pleased to see you, Edith," she said; "only you surprised us so. Whatever brings you here when there are guests in the drawing-room?"
"I had a headache," replied the elder sister, drawing the little girl close to her side and beginning to toy with the tangled hair; "besides"—looking up at the big, stalwart youth standing near—"I wished to enjoy a little of Dick's society before he goes away."
Dick's face relaxed into a broad grin of unbelief, and Winnie cried out "Oh!" then caught herself and stopped short; but Edith's equanimity remained undisturbed.
"It is quite true," she said with a charming smile. "I see you are in full uniform, Dick. Stand back, and let me admire my sailor brother."
Edith could be very lovable and winning when she liked, and to-night she seemed thoroughly bent on doing her utmost to please. The boy, though mystified at this sudden change in his fashionable sister, obeyed her command, and stood erect before her, feeling perhaps a little bashful, but never flinching under the steady scrutiny.
"You look very well," she said after a little pause. "Sit down, Dick; I wish to speak to you. I know perfectly Winnie is wondering why the cross elder sister is sitting here taking such an interest in you both to-night. But don't ask an explanation for such conduct; only believe that her heart is not so hard as you deem it, and that she has begun to look under the surface for some one's true character."
Winnie gave the speaker's hand a little squeeze of approbation, while a pleased smile lit up Dick's face. As neither spoke, however, Edith continued: "And now, may I crave of you, Dick, a very great favour? Winnie is to be driven down to-morrow afternoon to see through your ship. May I come too? or is she to be the only privileged young lady?"
The boy looked incredulously at his pretty sister. "Are you really in earnest, Edith?" he inquired, "or are you laughing at me?"
"I mean what I say, Dick," was the grave reply; "but if you would rather I remained at home, I shall not trouble you."
"Oh, come! do come!" whispered Winnie delightedly. "Dick will be only too pleased;—will you not, dear old boy?" So it was settled; and Edith rose to leave the cosy room, which seemed to her at that moment like a haven of rest.
"It was very, very good of you to come and spend a wee quiet time with us," said Winnie, as she watched her beautiful sister shaking out her crumpled skirts and pushing back little stray locks of hair from her white forehead. "Do you know we are going to have a great treat to-morrow night? Archie Trollope is coming in; and cook has promised us a delicious supper in honour of Dick's last evening at home."
"I think you ought to give me an invitation," replied Edith, pausing at the doorway. "I should like to enjoy the feast too.—No, no," as Dick and Winnie exchanged doubtful glances; "I was only teasing you both. Accept my best wishes for a happy evening, dears. Good-night;" and then the soft silken figure glided quietly away.
"I'm glad she really did not mean what she said," announced Dick, giving a sigh of relief as he threw himself down on the rug beside Puck and commenced to tease that worthy little animal; "but I think, Win, if we had pressed her she would have come."
"I am sure of it," replied Winnie. "She looked so disappointed when we did not speak. But, Dick, was she not ever so nice to-night? and is she not beautiful?"
"Yes," replied her brother, pulling Puck's tail mischievously; "but we're a good-looking family, Win, with the exception of myself."
The little girl's reply was thoroughly characteristic: "Every house has its ugly duckling, dear boy," she observed quaintly, "and they seldom turn out swans except in story-books. However, it does not matter very much about a man's personal appearance; and you—why, you might have been a great deal worse."
Dick roared at the attempted consolation. "What a Job's comforter you are, Win!" he said with a broad grin; "but as you say, little sister, a man's personal appearance, though it sometimes goes a long way, is not the main thing, and I reckon Dick Blake will manage through the world well enough in spite of freckled skin and fiery hair."
"Of course he will," replied Winnie; "there's no doubt about that."
Then the two began to talk seriously and lovingly their own heart-thoughts, and the minutes passed all too rapidly. Both started when the clock struck the hour for retiring, and there was a little quiver in Winnie's voice as she wished her brother good-night, and thought that only another evening, then the kind face bending over her would be looking out on the wide waste of waters, and she would have to whisper her loving good-nights to the stars instead. "Oh, my dear, my dear," she sobbed to herself in the darkness, "how sorely, sorely I shall miss you! But I am so glad there is a great, good Father in heaven who will guide and keep you wherever you are. Oh! if Aunt Judith were only here to say something comforting to me—something that would ease this ache of sorrow at my heart and help me to feel strong and brave."
Then, as she lay weeping out her loneliness in the quiet night, some words she had read in one of Aunt Judith's books stole softly into her mind, like a ray of golden sunlight penetrating through the chinks of a darkened room: "Whatever is grieving you, however burdensome or trivial the trouble may be, tell it to Jesus."
Winnie's eyes flashed, and springing out of bed with sudden determination she knelt down, a little, fragile figure, by the window ledge, and prayed reverently and trustingly her first heart-prayer. It was a very simple petition, uttered in Winnie's own quaint style, at the language of which some people might have smiled; but I think that in heaven there would be a great hush amongst the white-robed throng as they bent their heads to catch the first breathings of a child's soul upwards. And oh, the bursts of hallelujahs as the trusting words floated to the throne of grace, and told of a young heart groping in the darkness for the strong, firm clasp of a Father's hand!
Next afternoon, when the carriage drove round to the door as appointed, the little girl, running downstairs warmly muffled up, found Edith wrapped in soft velvets and furs, thoroughly equipped for the drive. There was the faintest suspicion of a smile wreathing the corners of her lips as she stood tapping impatiently the tesselated floor of the hall with her tiny high-heeled boot, and running the gauntlet of a few teasing remarks from her two brothers, who were loitering near; but on Winnie's approach she turned round, and waving a careless farewell, accompanied her little sister down the broad stone steps to the carriage, where Mr. Blake was awaiting them.
The drive proved to be a pleasant one, and in a short time they found themselves at the docks, and saw the great ships ranging far and near, with their tapering masts pointing upwards to the cloudy sky. TheMaid of Astolatlay close at hand, and as they went on board Dick appeared, his face black and grimy, but all aglow with a welcoming smile.
"You come along with me," he said, drawing Winnie aside, as the captain, a tall, gentlemanly-looking man, stepped forward and addressed Mr. Blake. "I'll do the honours of the ship tip-top, Win, and show you all round in first-rate style;" and the little sister delivered herself over to his guidance.
How they peered about, to be sure—here, there, everywhere; and how proudly Dick aired the small amount of nautical language he had managed to pick up! Rough men turned and smiled half unconsciously as the two blithe figures flitted past and their merry laughter rang out in the frosty air. They seemed so happy, and the hearts hardened by sin and adversity sighed over their bygone childhood's days, and thought what a blessed thing it was to be young.
Returning from their exploration, brother and sister found Mr. Blake and Edith still talking to the captain, whose grave, stern face was rapidly relaxing under the influence of that young lady's winning manner and bright, sparkling conversation. Dick eyed the group as he drew near, and then a comical thought seemed to strike him, for he was heard to mutter, "Jemima! what a lark!" and he twitched his face into a decided grimace of amusement.
There was scant time in which to make remarks, however, for Mr. Blake required to be back in the city at a certain hour, and Winnie must not be exposed to the night air. So good-byes were courteously exchanged. The Blakes, re-entering their carriage, drove rapidly away, and soon the high, tapering masts appeared like specks in the distance.
Next day theMaid of Astolatsailed from the harbour, bearing on board the strong, stalwart figure and honest, true face of Richard Blake.
One day, towards the close of the school, great excitement prevailed in Mrs. Elder's Select Establishment for Young Ladies, the cause being a communication made through the lady-principal to her pupils from a gentleman and relative of hers lately returned from India. He had visited the school several times within the last few months, and seemed to take an interest in it; but still there was no lack of astonishment when Mrs. Elder announced one morning that her friend, Mr. Corbett, had intimated his intention of awarding a special prize to the pupil who would write the best essay on any of the three following subjects—namely, Christmas joys, a short account of the French Revolution, and a brief review of one of Sir Walter Scott's novels. The babble of tongues that ensued after this intimation was wonderful. Mrs. Elder laughingly beat a hasty retreat, and Miss Smith lay resignedly back in her chair, and waited till peace and order were restored.
"Of course Ada will win the prize," was the general comment, "she is so clever, and Mr. King always praises her essays. Nellie can't come near her in the way of composition; but we must all try to do our best, for the honour of the school."
The elder girls, who were not included in the list of competitors, felt inclined to second these remarks, and Ada smiled triumphantly when she heard them whispered abroad. There was little doubt in her own mind as to who was likely to be the successful candidate, and she only wondered which subject would best show forth her brilliancy of style and composition.
Winnie and Nellie, firm friends still in spite of all restraints, consulted together, and spoke of the utter uselessness of their most strenuous endeavours. "We've no chance against Ada," they said disconsolately, "but like the others we'll have to attempt something."
"What will you try, Winnie?" inquired Nellie. "I think I'll tackle 'the French Revolution.'"
Winnie's brow was wrinkled in perplexity. "Do you know, Nell," she said at length, looking up with a curious gleam in her eyes, "I never tried very hard in all my life to write a really good essay. I just mixed anything together and popped it down higgledy-piggledy style, as Dick would say. Yet sometimes I have beautiful thoughts, and they run together in such beautiful words that I think I may manage to produce a respectable paper after all. I know nothing about the French Revolution, simply nothing. I have never read any of Sir Walter Scott's novels, and could not criticise or review one to save my life. But Christmas joys—ah, yes, I might attempt that;" and Winnie looked hopeful at this point.
"Very well, Win, we've decided," responded Nellie; then, Agnes Drummond coming forward and addressing them, their conversation was interrupted for the present.
Ada Irvine's triumph was by no means so complete as she fancied it would be, though there was still much to cause her satisfaction. Almost every day she had the pleasure of seeing Winnie grow furious and Nellie wince under some cutting sarcasm thrown out with well-directed aim by some of the most fashionable girls in the school, and not even the former's reappearance and championship could allay to any extent the open insults which beset the defenceless girl during school hours.
"Go! you are not my friends," the stanch little ally had said when she found how matters stood on her return after her illness. "I hate and despise every one of you from the bottom of my heart. You call yourselves ladies, but I tell you no true lady would lower herself to utter such words as fall from your lips. I know who your ringleader is, and if the heartiest hatred will do her any good, she has mine. But act as you please; only remember Nellie is now, and ever will be, the one true friend of my life. And as for her aunts, let me tell you you are not worthy to touch the hem of their garments."
"Oh, nonsense, Winnie!" one of the girls had replied, in a half-condescending manner; "I am sure you can't forget your mother's opinion on the subject."
"And who informed you about my mother's opinion? It must have been Ada; and that throws light on what has puzzled me lately. I think I may thank her for all this trouble I have been and am still experiencing. No, do not try to defend her; one day we shall be quits."
"But Ada is never rude or disagreeable to you now, Win," pleaded another girl. "There has been a marked change in her manner lately. She is very gentle and kind to you. As for blaming her about telling tales, that is hardly fair. She really said very little concerning Mrs. Blake and her opinion of Nellie. Where she got her information we do not know, but she told us decidedly it was not from your step-mother."
Winnie looked incredulous. "That is quite sufficient," she replied with dignity; "I would rather hear no more. But you may tell Ada from me that I am not to be deceived by her new tactics, and have no desire to possess such a treasure as a serpent-friend."
The subject had then been dropped, and from that time Winnie would have nothing to do with any girl who uttered a single word against her friend. Ada she treated with supreme indifference, and disdained to accept a proffered friendship vouchsafed to suit that young lady's amiable plans. As regarded Nellie, she never walked with her after school hours, or sought her society so frequently as she had done in the happy bygone days (Miss Latimer had strictly forbidden that); but still the love betwixt the two was warm and true, and Ada felt her hatred deepen as she saw how all her endeavours failed to break the strong bond of friendship binding the one to the other. A certain circumstance, however, caused her immense satisfaction—namely, Mrs. Elder's growing dislike of Nellie Latimer. The lady-principal was, unfortunately, guilty of favouritism, and ever since Ada had been placed under her charge she had shown a marked preference for and indulgence towards her. Such being the case, one can readily imagine how a woman of such a weak, selfish nature would resent the quiet dethronement of her young favourite, and see the honours she had been accustomed to take now won by an insignificant girl of no particular birth or station in society. Ada, not slow to find all this out, viewed it with supreme delight, and was careful to fan the flame by various hints and insinuations thrown out with becoming modesty.
Nellie marked the change, but bore it uncomplainingly, striving to live it down and let the discipline accomplish its own sharp yet beneficial work. "I shall withdraw you from the school should you choose, Nellie," Miss Latimer had said once when the girl broke down and wept over the heavy burden laid upon her. "But I would like you to fight it out, and grow better, braver, and nobler under the conflict." That was sufficient for Nellie, who, meekly relifting the old cross, strove to carry it cheerfully, feeling amply rewarded for her quiet endurance when she daily realized the rare love and tenderness that surrounded her in the peaceful home at Broomhill Road.
The examination day was fast approaching, and the prize essays, which had to be given in a week beforehand, were delivered over to the lady-principal's charge—neat rolls of paper prettily tied up with gaily-coloured knots of ribbon. Then followed more excitement, till the hour arrived when guests and pupils met together in the large school-room, and the usual performance took place before the eyes of smiling mothers and friends. At length it was over, and the clergyman stepping forward to award the prizes, Winnie found some leisure to gaze around and scan the sea of faces in front of her.
There was Mrs. Drummond, calm and placid as usual; her own step-mother and Edith, both looking so fresh and fair in their bright summer attire, and—but here Winnie caught a glimpse of a noble, true face looking at her from under the brim of a quiet Quaker bonnet, and in a moment her little face was all aglow with a great throb of love.
What occurred after that seemed a blank. She never heard Nellie's name called repeatedly, or noted Mrs. Blake's haughty look as the young girl modestly received her prizes and blushed under the words of commendation uttered by the clergyman. Her thoughts were far away in the past, and she was living those two happy days over again at Dingle Cottage, when the world appeared so wondrously fair, and life full of bright laughing sunshine.
But now came a pause in the proceedings. The prizes were all distributed, and pupils and friends wakened to a state of great expectancy as old Mr. Corbett stood up by the minister's side and nervously prepared to make his oration. After a few preliminary remarks customary on the occasion, he spoke of the surprise and pleasure he had experienced in reading over the essays delivered to him by Mrs. Elder, his old and esteemed friend. They displayed much talent and brilliancy of style, and reflected great credit on the school. One especially amazed him (here Ada's head drooped modestly) by the rich, beautiful thoughts, set, as it were, in such quaint, original language. He was almost startled by the amount of genius shining forth from every sentence; and although the essay was written in a crude girlish style, it was worthy of the highest commendation, and he had great pleasure in awarding the prize to—Miss Winnifred Blake.
There was a long silence, followed by murmurs of amazement and congratulation. But Winnie did not seem to hear them; she only sat gazing dreamily, with dim, dazed eyes, as if hardly capable of realizing the good fortune which had befallen her.
"Rise, dear," whispered Elsie Drummond, who was standing close by; "every one is waiting to see you receive the prize. We are all so glad over your success. Now go;" and she gave the child a gentle push in the clergyman's direction. The words wakened Winnie, and then, with a great flash, came the realization that she, and not Nellie, had triumphed over Ada; and as the knowledge came home with full power to her heart, her great eyes sparkled their mischievous joy, and she stepped forward, a glad, triumphant gleam shining in their depths.
Few of the onlookers that day ever forgot the scene before them: the little fairy figure clad in daintiest summer attire; the flushed gipsy face and dark, lustrous eyes peeping from under the mass of curly hair; and the wondrously joyous smile which broke over her lips as she bent her pretty head on receiving the glittering medal from the minister's hand. I think Mrs. Blake was proud of her step-daughter for once in her life.
A short time afterwards, just as she was preparing to start homeward, Winnie remembered that her music was lying in one of the school-rooms, and bidding some of the girls wait her return she bounded up the steep flight of stairs to go in search of it.
On reaching the top step, however, Ada met her, and the pale, angry face and haughty mien roused every malicious feeling in Winnie's nature. Looking up with a face in which wicked triumph and delight were plainly depicted, she said sweetly, "O Ada, would you care to inspect my medal? You have been so kind to me lately I am sure you will rejoice at my wonderful success."
Ada returned her gaze with one of steady, contemptuous disdain, and dropping the mask of friendship which had been so hard for her to wear, she replied haughtily, "Wonderful indeed! so wonderful, in fact, that I may be pardoned for refusing to credit the essay as being your own composition. Do you think it is natural for a dunce (I repeat the word), who has been in the habit of writing the most childish nonsense, to break on the world suddenly as a genius, and startle every one with her wonderful thoughts? It stands to reason that some underhand work has been going on; and such being the case, I prefer to hold myself aloof from one who could be guilty of any mean, despicable action."
Strong language to use. Winnie's anger rose to a white heat as she listened. "Explain yourself!" cried the enraged child; "I fail to understand your words."
Ada's lip curled. "You are an admirable actress," she said calmly; "you would make your fortune on the stage. Unfortunately, however, I am not easily deceived. You know perfectly well the prize essay is no work of yours."
"Whose then?" in a voice of suppressed passion; and the quiet, mocking tones answered,—
"Suspicions are easily roused, and when one can disobey a parent once, one can easily do so again."
Winnie looked bewildered. "You are speaking in riddles," she cried angrily; "I demand a proper explanation."
"Then you shall have it," replied Ada, spitefully enjoying her momentary triumph. "Mrs. Elder, Miss Smith, and ever so many of the girls believe that your wonderful Miss Latimer assisted with your essay. Nay, do not interrupt: we give you credit for the bare outline, but the originality and quaint rich thoughts are decidedly beyond the powers of a dunce."
Winnie listened in amazement, and as the last words fell slowly from the lips of the cold, haughty girl, she cried out in her bitter anger,—
"It is false! false! and you know that too; but, Ada Irvine, I can almost excuse your insulting words. It must be humiliating to see a dunce, and one towards whom you bear so much affection, win a prize of which you deemed yourself secure. I forgive you when I think how hard it must be to feel yourself the laughing-stock of the school; and I would remind you in the future to value your talents at their true worth."
Winnie paused, and it seemed, to use a common-place phrase, as if the tables were turned; for the little girl looked cool and calm now, while her adversary's face was white and set with passion. Springing forward she raised her hand, and Winnie, in order to avert the blow, stepped back, forgetful of her dangerous position. Then rang through the house a wild scream followed by the sound of a heavy fall; and the startled inmates, gathering from various quarters, found lying at the foot of the steep stairs a prostrate figure with white upturned face and firmly-closed eyes.