"'Multiply our graces,Chiefly love and fear;And, dear Lord, the chiefestGrace to persevere.'"
"'Multiply our graces,Chiefly love and fear;And, dear Lord, the chiefestGrace to persevere.'"
That afternoon Annette thought she was in fairyland. If Averil had been a benevolent fairy and had waved her magic wand, she could not have worked greater wonders, and yet it was all so quietly done. Averil seemed to know just what she wanted, and her orders were executed in a marvelous way. They went to a linen warehouse first, and then drove to a dressmaker.
"Mrs. Stephens will know exactly what to get us," Averil remarked in the hansom. "As you are in mourning, there will be no need to select shades. She will take your measure and show us a few stuffs. We shall not be fatigued with looking over fashion books. Annette, you must not be afraid of speaking. If any material takes your fancy, please tell me so without reserve. Lottie always chooses her own gowns, and she has a very pretty taste."
But, in spite of this kindly permission, Annette could not bring herself to speak, except at last, when Averil felt a timid touch on her arm.
"Do not give me so much," she pleaded, in a grave tone of remonstrance. "My cousin, you are too extravagant. I shall ruin you. How many more dresses? One for morning, and one for promenade, and a dinner-dress, and yet another. Why should I have that other, Cousin Averil?"
"Why? Because you will have to look your best on Tuesday, when all my friends are coming," returned Averil, smiling. "My dear Annette, you have no idea of the crowds that are invited. The grenadine is for that occasion. Now you must have a hat and a jacket; and then there are boots and shoes. Come, we have no time to waste in talking;" and again they jumped into the hansom.
More purchases—gloves, a sunshade, even an umbrella, then two weary, jaded beings were driven back through the sweet evening air. Averil leaned back in the corner of the hansom, with closed eyes, almost too tired to speak. Her frail form ached with fatigue, her heart felt peaceful and at rest; she had forgotten herself in giving pleasure to another, and the reward of unselfishness was hers already. Annette was silent too: her heart was too full for speech. "For what is it that I can say?" she thought; "to thank is only to give words. I must wait and prove my gratitude in other ways;" and Annette's girlish bosom throbbed with sweet, warm feelings. Already she loved her cousin, already her orphaned heart seemed to cleave to her. "If thou hadst known her, thou wouldst have loved her too, my mother," she thought, as her dark eyes were fixed on the blue, cloud-flecked sky.
As Annette sprung lightly from the hansom and ran up the steps of Redfern House, she noticed how slowly and stiffly Averil moved after her. "Oh, you are tired, tired!" she said, remorsefully. "Miss Jones will tell me I have killed you."
"Lottie knows better than that. I am so often tired, Annette. Why, Roberts"—interrupting herself—"that is surely not the gong? It is only just seven."
Roberts looked embarrassed. "The young ladies have ordered dinner half an hour earlier," he said, in a rather hesitating fashion. "I told them, ma'am, that half past seven was the hour mentioned, but Miss Maud said—"
"Do you mean that dinner is actually served?" and a slight frown crossed Averil's brow. "Annette"—turning to her cousin "there is no time to dress; will you please take off your hat, and come down into the dining-room?"
Annette obeyed, but as she took her place at the dinner table beside Lottie, she looked round her somewhat bewildered. "They must be going to a party," she thought. Even Lottie was in white, the table was dressed with flowers; surely it must be a fête day.
Averil came in by and by and took her place. She looked unusually grave. Mrs. Willmot gave a deprecating cough, and threw back her voluminous cap-strings.
"I hope my dear Averil, that the little change in the programme has not inconvenienced you," she said, in a tone intended to be propitiatory; "but Maud said that she was sure you had forgotten the concert at the Albert Hall."
"It was Maud's doing, then. At least I need not apologize for my walking-dress."
But though she said no more, Mrs. Willmot glanced nervously at her daughters, and Maud tossed her head in a supercilious way. Only Rodney seemed at his ease. Lottie looked red and uncomfortable until Averil began talking to her.
"Are you going to the concert too, Lottie?" she asked, in some surprise.
"Not if you want me," returned Lottie, anxiously. "Only, as there was a vacant seat in the box, aunt said I might as well go. I only knew it about an hour ago. I had no idea at luncheon."
"My dear, there is no reason why you should not enjoy the treat, and you have never heard Madame Patey: go, by all means. Annette and I are both so tired that we should not be good company; indeed, I mean to give her a book for the rest of the evening."
"Then you do not mind—oh, I am so glad!" and Lottie's brow grew clear in a moment. She began to chatter to Annette about this wonderful concert, and about the singer.
"What a fuss you make about it Lottie!" observed Maud, who seemed somewhat out of temper. "Miss Ramsay will think you have never been to a concert before."
"I have not been to many, and I think concerts are the most heavenly things in existence; there is nothing on earth I love better than music."
"Except a few superlatives," was the sarcastic rejoinder; and somehow Lottie's innocent enthusiasm seemed quenched in a moment.
"What's up with you girls?" remarked Rodney, lazily, as the conversation flagged at this point. "Lots of people talk in superlatives, so you need not be down on Lottie. You and Georgie are always awfully in love with something or other. It is awfully nice of you, you know."
Maud gave him a withering glance, but made no answer, and he rattled on in his good-humored, boyish way. He even addressed Annette once or twice, as though to make amends for his sister's influence. Neither Maud nor Georgina seemed disposed to trouble themselves about her. In their eyes she was only an incumbrance—another applicant for Averil's bounty. They had not been consulted in the matter. Averil rarely consulted any one. If they had been asked for their opinion of this new inmate of Redfern House, they would have termed her "a plain, uninteresting, shabby little thing;" for the Miss Seymours were never sparing of their adjectives. Lottie they tolerated. Lottie knew how to make herself useful. They would have been at a loss without her; in many ways she was invaluable. They had no maid. Mrs. Willmot's means could not afford such extravagance, with Rodney's college debts to pay, and a hundred private expenses. Lottie had excellent taste. She was clever, and knew how to use her needle. She could turn a dress and arrange a drapery; she could advise them on the choice of a trimming. It needed all Averil's skillful management to prevent Lottie from becoming a perfect drudge. Many a task of mending was privately performed by Unwin, or one of Averil's protégées, to give Lottie leisure for her beloved music. When it was possible to secure an hour from interruption, Averil read French and history with her. The poor girl felt her imperfect education bitterly, and Averil's strong will was set on raising her to her own level.
"Is a bright, intelligent creature like Lottie to degenerate into a mere lady's maid?" she would say to herself. "We must all serve our apprenticeship. God forbid that I should hinder her from making herself useful, but there are limits to everything: only Maud and Georgina do not seem to recognize the fact. Why are some natures so selfish? I suppose their mother has spoiled them. Some people would say that I was spoiled, too, for I generally get my own way. Dear father! as though he ever refused me anything."
As they left the dining-room, Annette lingered for a moment to admire a fine bronze figure. The hall was somewhat dark, and in the summer twilight she was unperceived by Averil, who had just joined Maud at the foot of the staircase.
"Maud, I want to speak to you for a moment. What has happened just now must never occur again." Averil spoke with a decision that was not to be mistaken, and Maud looked excessively offended.
"I am sure I do not know why you are making all this fuss, Averil. What does such a little thing signify? One would think, from your manner, that I had committed some crime in asking Mrs. Adams to serve dinner half an hour earlier."
"It was taking a great liberty, Maud; a liberty that must never be repeated in my house. No one shall contradict the mistress's orders. Mrs. Adams will be taught that she must only take orders from me. I am sorry to have to speak like this, but you give me no option. This sort of thing has occurred too often; I am resolved to put a stop to it."
"It is mamma who ought to be mistress of the house," returned Maud. "I wonder you are not ashamed to put her in such a position. You treat us all like children, and you are only a girl yourself."
"I shall not reply to you, Maud—recriminations are useless. You can ask yourself, and I can safely leave to your conscience to answer, whether one of you has received anything but kindness at my hands. And what do you give me in return? Do you ever consult my taste, my pleasures? Do you care for anything but your own wishes?"
"You have everything," in the same proud, passionate tone. "How can you expect us not to envy you, Averil? We are dependent on you, and I hate dependence—just because mamma was cheated out of her rights."
"Maud," in a voice so hard and cold that Annette scarcely recognized it, "I can bear much, but there are limits to my generosity. Will you take back that speech, or shall I go to your mother?"
"I declare, you are too bad Averil," bursting into indignant tears. "You are using your power mercilessly."
"Will you take back those words, Maud?"
"As though I meant them!"—dashing her tears away. "Of course; I know the money is yours."
"You are wrong; it is not mine; it is no more mine than any other gift I possess. I do not desire it—it is more a burden than a pleasure. At times it is almost an unbearable responsibility. Not that I expect you to believe me," rather sadly.
"Well, you know you are odd enough for anything. I never knew any one like you, Averil."
"Are you quite sure you know me, Maud? Have you ever tried really to know me? I am perfectly aware what you and Georgina think of me. Oh, yes; I am odd, eccentric—none of your friends understand me."
"Oh, don't let us quarrel," returned Maud, impatiently. She had recovered her temper, at least outwardly, for she thought it would be more politic to keep the peace. "Of course, we never shall agree in things. I love society, and you only care to associate with dowdy, frumpish people. In your place, I should keep open house—I should never be alone. But, there! one might as well argue with the wind." And Maud shrugged her shoulders and ran up-stairs, leaving Averil still standing there. Annette heaved a heavy sigh as she moved slowly away; there was something indescribably pathetic in the small, slender figure, the drooping head, the tightly locked hands.
"Oh, they are cruel, these people!" exclaimed Annette, half aloud. "They care not to understand—they have no kindness in their hearts." But, in spite of her sympathy and youthful indignation, she did not venture for a long time to follow her cousin; she moved about uneasily, taking up a book and laying it down again. She saw the party drive off to the concert. Lottie kissed her hand to her, with a beaming smile, as she passed. "She would not look so happy if she had heard that talk," thought Annette. And then she could bear the solitude of the big rooms no longer. And though her heart beat a little quickly at her own temerity, she crossed the dusky hall again, and tapped softly at the door of her cousin's room. Perhaps that light tap was inaudible, for there was no answer, and Annette timidly entered. The moon had risen, and a flood of silvery beams was pouring in at the open window, beside which Averil sat. For a moment Annette thought she was asleep; she was lying back in her chair with closed eyes, but as Annette advanced noiselessly, she was shocked to see a large tear steal down her cheek, followed by another.
Annette's affectionate heart could not bear the sight. She startled Averil by stooping over her to kiss it away.
"Annette!" in rather an embarrassed voice. "My dear, why have you followed me?" But this delicate hint that she would rather be alone was lost on Annette.
"Don't be vexed with me, my cousin. I came because I overheard, and because I was sorry for you. Indeed, I did not like you to be alone, and Miss Jones was not here to comfort you. Oh, you have been shedding tears! It was cruel—cruel to speak to you like that! You did well to be angry."
"Oh, Annette, please hush! You must not say such things. It is never well to be angry. I ought to know Maud by this time. She has a bad temper when she is put out, she does not always measure her words. Do you know why I am so unhappy? Not because of what Maud said, but because I can not forgive myself for being so hard. Oh, I am proud, terribly proud, and sometimes they make me suffer; but I do not often forget myself. I think"—with a little sob—"that I was too tired; one can bear so little when the body is weak."
"My poor dear!"—three little words; but the sympathetic tone was infinitely soothing to Averil's sore spirit.
"Do not pity me too much; I deserve to suffer. I had no right to be so angry."
"But, my cousin, surely Miss Seymour was in the wrong to contradict your orders?"
"Most certainly; but I could have told her so more quietly. I was right to reprove her, but I ought not to have suffered her to provoke me. Annette, if only one could be sweet-tempered. One has to fight such a hard battle sometimes—and, oh! I am so tired of it all."
"You are young, and have much to bear," returned Annette, in her serious way. "And always goodness is difficult. How well do I remember my mother speaking to me on this subject. One day, as we sat together at our work, she surprised me by telling me that her temper was naturally a bad one. Never shall I forget my astonishment. No, it could not be possible. 'Seest thou, Annette,' she said—for we talked often in the language of our adopted country—'I have taught myself, by God's help, to control it while I was young. When I first married I was very hasty, and would say bitter things when others displeased me; but one day I said to myself, 'Felicia'—my mother's name was Felicia—'thou art growing sharper every day. People will cease soon to love thee. Thy tongue should be thy servant, not thy master.' My cousin, never have I heard an irritable word from my mother's lips; her patience and sweetness were wonderful. Do you care to know how she cured herself? When her husband, her child, her servant, or perhaps some troublesome neighbor, provoked her, she would be silent a moment, then she would reply. And always she repeated the same words in her heart, 'Deliver us from evil;' that was her charm of charms, as she called it. But it answered well."
"Thankyou, dear. You have done me good," returned Averil, gratefully, when Annette had finished her little story.
"Ah! that is well, my cousin."
"No one has done me so much good before. But, Annette, you must call me Averil. We are strangers no longer. We must be sisters to each other. Lottie, too; there is no need to call her Miss Jones."
"I will remember. I will do anything that pleases you. Every day I shall grow more English. I shall learn your ways."
"I hope you and Lottie will be good friends."
"But why not? Already I feel to love her. She is bright—she has a sweet temper; and then, how she plays!"
"And you long to play, too?"
"Surely. And to sing; above all things, to sing. Oh, my cousin—I mean, Averil—what does that look mean? Is it that you will altogether crush me with kindness? I am to dwell in this fine house, and I am to dress as grandly as the consul's lady used to dress. And still that is not enough?"
"No, certainly. We must think of better things than clothes. Annette, shall you think me hard if I give you books to read?"
"Books? Ah! they will content me much. Never have I had time to read, except on Sunday."
"Lottie and I read history together. Why should you not join us, Annette? And then I have begun to teach her French. Poor Lottie's education has been sadly neglected. And she is so clever, and feels her deficiencies so deeply."
"Stay, my cousin—I have a notion," and Annette's eyes were sparkling with eagerness. "Already I have an idea. Why should we not make the exchange? Miss Jones—Lottie, I mean—shall teach me my notes in music, and I will read and talk French with her. Ah! that pleases you," as Averil smiled. "You think it a good idea?"
"Excellent! Lottie is used to teaching. You will not need a master for at least a year. But there is only one obstacle in this charming scheme: How is Lottie to find time for all this?"
"I have thought of that, too," returned Annette, gravely. "Listen, my cousin. Ah! you shake your head. I shall learn to say Averil by and by. For myself, I love work. I can mend, I can darn—even my mother praised me, and she was hard to please. I will share Lottie's tasks. When two work, the labor is sooner ended. We can talk French. Our tongues will be at liberty, though our hands are busy. Ah! this, too, contents you. I am happy that I have already found out a way to please you."
"My dear child!" Averil was almost too touched to say more. She felt a generous delight as this beautiful nature, at once so simple and so child-like, unfolded itself before her. It was her secret trouble that so few natures satisfied and responded to her own. All her life she had hungered and thirsted for sympathy, though she had long ago ceased to expect it. Her father had loved her, but he had formed other ties, regardless of his child's best interests. Averil's home life had been terribly isolated. Her large nature had been compelled to create its own interests. For Lottie she felt the affection that she would have bestowed on a young sister. Lottie's gay, healthy nature, with its robust sweetness, was a singularly youthful one. She leaned on Averil, and depended on her for all her comforts. But it may be doubted if she understood Averil's strange, sensitive temperament. With all Lottie's devotion, her dog-like fidelity, her loyal submission, she failed to give Averil what she required.
Annette was young too, but she had been early schooled in adversity, and its bitter lessons had been tempered by the watchful love of an earthly parent. Until lately, Annette had not suffered alone. "My mother and I." In spite of privations, that dual existence had been sweet. Annette's cheek had grown pale and thin, but her heart had kept young. No unkindness had frozen her young energies; no galling restrictions, no want of sympathy, had driven her back upon herself. She was like a closed-up flower; the sunshine would soon open the blossom.
"She is different from Lottie. She is older, graver, more intense," thought Averil. "Last night I thought her interesting; the French wordspirituelleseemed to express her perfectly. To-night I have found out that there are still depths to be sounded. I must not allow myself to expect too much. She may disappoint me, as others have done. It is not wise to demand too much of human nature. But already I feel to love her."
They did not talk much after this. Averil was obliged to own that she was weary, and that her head ached, and after a little she retired to bed.
Annette was almost too excited to sleep. She had found a way to make herself useful. "Ah! they should see, these dear people, how she could work." Annette was not a bit dismayed at the thought of the task she had set herself; the thin, slender fingers were longing to achieve those marvelous feats of invisible darning, those dainty hem-stitched borders and delicate embroideries. Annette would not be daunted by any amount of dilapidated lace and frayed flounces. Like Alexander the Great, she was longing for new worlds to conquer—those regions that belonged to her woman's kingdom. "Ah! they shall see! they shall see!" she said to herself a dozen times before she fell asleep.
When Annette entered the dining-room the next morning she was surprised to find Maud occupying Averil's place. Her anxious inquiries were answered carelessly.
"Averil had the headache. She was having breakfast in her own room. Oh, there was no need to be so concerned," as Annette plied her with questions. "Averil was often ailing. She had wretched health. Any one could see at a glance what a sickly little person she was. It was her own fault. If she would only rest more, and winter abroad, and not be running out in all weathers to see all sorts of people, she would do very well;" and here Maud gave her favorite shrug, that was so expressive, and turned a cold shoulder on Annette.
No one else addressed her. Mrs. Willmot read her letters, and conversed with her daughters. Lottie scarcely spoke. She ate her breakfast hurriedly, and left the room as soon as possible. Annette followed her.
"Why is it that you are making such haste?" she asked. "Is it that you have your music to practice?"
"No, indeed," returned Lottie, stretching her arms a little wearily; "but I have work to do that will occupy me for the rest of the day. Ah! how I do hate work—at least, how I long sometimes to do something better. Oh, that concert, Miss Ramsay, was glorious! I could scarcely sleep afterward. I think I am crazy about music. I want to try over something I heard on the grand piano; but Georgina would be so vexed to hear me. She and Maud want their dresses for to-morrow, and there is ever so much to do to them."
"Never mind; I will help you. I will fetch my new work-basket, and you shall show me your room, and you will see how much sooner the work will be done."
"Will you really?"—and Lottie's face brightened, and her dimples came into full play. "How good-natured you are, Miss Ramsay!"
"If I call you Lottie, you must say Annette also. Averil, my cousin, thinks it is not well to be stiff. Oh! is this your room? It is almost as pretty as mine. You have a writing-table also; and what a dear little round table for work! Those are the dresses, I suppose?"—looking at some flimsy white garments on the bed, and she listened to Lottie's instructions gravely.
How the girls' tongues unloosed as their needles flew through the soft stuff! Lottie had so much to say about the concert. Her little pleasure-loving soul had been stirred to the depths by that wonderful music.
"There is nothing like it—it is the highest of all the arts!" cried Lottie, with flushing cheeks. "Oh, I know poetry is glorious, and, of course, one must always love beautiful pictures; but, as Averil says, music is the most unearthly of all the arts."
"Did my cousin say that?"
"Yes; you should hear her talk about music. As she says, there is so much about it in the Bible, she thinks it will be one of the chief pleasures in heaven. Don't you know how one reads of the harpers harping with their harps, and the new song before the throne? I remember when we were talking on this subject that Averil showed me a verse about the predicted fall of Babylon, where it said, 'The voice of harpers, and minstrels, and flute-players, and trumpeters shall be heard no more.' Music was a great power even in those days."
"Then you will teach it to me?" asked Annette; and thereupon she unfolded her scheme: how she was to share Lottie's labors; how they were to talk French over their work; and how Averil had promised to read to them when she had time. "We are to form a mutual improvement society, my cousin says; each is to help the other. You will have time for your beloved music. I shall listen to you, and now and then you will give me a lesson. Ah! you do not speak, Lottie, and yet I can see you are well pleased;" for Lottie's work had dropped to her lap, and she was regarding Annette with bright, wide-open eyes.
"Oh, I am so ashamed of myself," she returned. "Miss Ramsay—Annette, you are heaping coals of fire on my head. Do you know"—with an amusing air of contrition—"that I was dreadfully cross when Averil told me you were coming to live here? I sulked about it nearly all day. 'What do you want with changes?' I said. 'This French cousin will spoil all.' Oh, I was as disagreeable as possible. I was jealous because Averil took such pains with your room. 'How do you know whether you will like her?' I said, more than once. But Averil only laughed at my bad humor. 'I can know nothing until I see her,' she returned. 'But, all the same, her room shall be as pretty as possible.'"
"Oh, she is an angel, my cousin!"
"You would say so if you knew all," was Lottie's reply. "Sometimes I wonder how she can go on living this life that is so uncongenial to her; but I know she does it partly for my sake. I was so miserable until I knew Averil;" and here a shade crossed her bright face. "No one seemed to care whether I had proper things or not, and the school-girls at Stoke Newington laughed at my shabby frocks, though in a way they were kind to me, and would often give me some of their own things. I pretended not to care, and I would laugh with the rest of them; but I often had a good cry over it in private. I used to dream sometimes that I had a new dress, such a pretty one! and then, when I woke, the tears would come, because I was so disappointed to find it only a dream. Perhaps it was wrong to fret about it. I wish I could be more like Averil. I think she would wear sackcloth as happily as silk."
"It seems to me that you and I, Lottie, are more earthly minded. I do care exceedingly for nice things."
"Yes; and I used to envy the Israelites. Don't you remember, their clothes never wore out in the wilderness? How I used to sigh over those patches! And then the darns! I shall never forget my feelings of supreme content when I found myself the possessor of half a dozen brand new stockings."
"Is it that your aunt is so poor?" asked Annette, in a puzzled tone.
Lottie colored. "Well, you see, she has many expenses, and is not exactly what you call rich. Mr. Willmot left most of his money to Averil. I have heard that there was some mistake. He thought aunt had plenty of money when he married her. And uncle certainly left her a good income. But it seems as though it has dwindled somehow. Rodney costs her a good deal, and Maud and Georgina are extravagant. Perhaps I ought not to tell you all this, but I do not wish you to be hard on them." For Lottie was too generous to blame her relatives. In her heart she knew she owed them little gratitude; that her services fully repaid them for the scanty maintenance—that was all they had given her. It was Averil whose roof sheltered her, who was in reality her benefactor.
Annette read the girl's generous reticence aright. She said no more on that subject; but she recurred regretfully to Lottie's speech about her cousin's uncongenial life.
"I do not understand you," she said, wistfully. "Is it that monsieur was right and that my cousin would prefer to live alone? So many people must be trying, if one loves quiet. But it seems to me as if she could at all times seclude herself in her own room."
"My dear Annette, you forget that Averil is mistress of the house. It would never do to shut herself up in her own apartments. Maud would get the upper hand in a moment. And if Averil were not firm—if she did not hold the reins—Redfern House would be a very different place from what it is. The girls are always teasing her to have dinner-parties. They want to fill the house; but Averil does so dislike a crowd. She is dreading Tuesday, I know."
"But what is to happen on Tuesday?"
"Oh, only one of those stupid, senseless 'At Homes.' A lot of people will come and eat ices and strawberries. There will be music that no one will hear, and a professional is going to sing. Poor, dear Averil, she will be as miserable as possible; and next day she will be ill, and have one of her nervous headaches. But they have teased her into sending out about two hundred invitations, and so she must go through with it."
"But it is too bad. Monsieur, who is her good friend, should protect her."
"Monsieur!" and Lottie looked mystified. Then a light broke on her. "Do you mean Mr. Harland, Annette?"
"Yes. But I think I must always call him monsieur," returned Annette, softly. "He was so good to me. When I saw his gray hair and pleasant face I thought it was my cousin Leonard. Picture to yourself my delight in having a friendly hand held out to me. Oh, he was so kind, so fatherly! I have called him monsieur always to myself."
"I wonder what these two young workwomen are chattering so busily about?" asked a quiet voice at this moment, and Averil smiled at them from the threshold. "So the mutual improvement society has begun, eh, Lottie?" as the girls greeted her with delight. "Annette, how fast you work! Why, that dress is nearly done!"
"She is ever so much cleverer than I," returned Lottie, mournfully. "Oh, dear! how quickly the time has passed. Luncheon will be ready directly."
"Never mind; lay those dresses on the bed, and Unwin shall add the finishing touches. You both looked as tired as possible. Annette, we really must put some color into those pale cheeks."
"You have none to spare yourself, my cousin," she replied, with an affectionate glance. Averil looked wan and thin, and there were dark circles round her eyes.
"Come, that is too bad! when my headache is gone, and I expected a compliment. You are as bad as Unwin, who wanted me to go to bed. Now, Lottie, I am going to show Annette the parks this afternoon. A drive will do me good, and if you like you shall go too. I shall tell Mrs. Willmot that I want you to act ascicerone, as I am not equal to any exertion. We shall not go very early, so you will have time for an hour's practicing." But she was not allowed to finish her sentence, for Lottie was kissing her in the most merciless manner.
"You dear, sweet thing! I do so love a drive! And the park will be so amusing! Perhaps we shall see the Princess of Wales. A concert yesterday; the park to-day—really, I am getting quite gay."
"Are you sure you feel fit to go?" remonstrated Annette. "Lottie, I thought you said my cousin disliked crowds."
"Oh, no; unless I have to entertain them. It is a pretty sight, I assure you; and I too, like Lottie, find it very amusing. It always reminds me of Britain Row in 'Vanity Fair.' I am sure my Lord Luxurious, the Lord Desire of Vain-glory, and Sir Having Greedy are still to be found in the nineteenth century." And Lottie laughed as though she understood Averil's allusion.
Thenext two or three days passed quickly and pleasantly to Annette; "the dear Fairy Order," as Lottie had called her playfully, during their first morning's work together, was already exercising her beneficent sway on her companion's behalf—tasks that would have entailed hours of labor on Lottie were now finished long before the luncheon-bell rang. After Annette's long, solitary days passed in that dark room in the Rue St. Joseph, these two or three hours spent with Lottie, listening to her broken French, and interspersing laughing corrections, seemed merely playtime to Annette.
"Do you know Averil is fitting up a room for us?" remarked Lottie, on the morning of the eventful Tuesday when Averil was to hold her reception, and about a hundred and fifty people had accepted her invitation to come and be bored. "She does not like the idea of our sitting in my bedroom. There is a room that is never used at the end of the corridor, and she is having it repapered, and has chosen such a pretty carpet for it; it is to be half workroom and half study; and the piano that is in Rodney's room is to be taken up there for your use. You see, Averil is so thoughtful, she never forgets anything, and she says it will never do for you to annoy people with practicing scales and beginner's exercises down in the morning-room."
"Oh, that is wise, I have thought much of this difficulty, Lottie. You are very outspoken—ought you to have told me all this? Did not my cousin mean to give me this little surprise?"
Lottie laughed, but she had the grace to look ashamed of herself.
"My dear Fairy Order," she said, "I never can hold my tongue. Averil thinks I must talk even in my sleep. Well, it was naughty of me to betray Averil's nice little scheme. You must just pretend to be surprised when she shows you the room. You must open your eyes widely, and say—"
"But that would be deceitful," returned Annette, gravely. "You are a funny little person, Lottie; you would even recommend me to deceive. Ah! it is your joke," as Lottie only laughed again. "You are always so ready with your joke, you will not make me believe you. When Averil shows me the room, I shall thank her with all my heart, but I will not be surprised—not one little bit."
"You are very provoking," returned Lottie, pouting. "If you had not darned Maud's white silk stockings so beautifully, I would not forgive you so easily. But you are such a dear old fairy. Ah! here comes Averil with Motley's 'Dutch Republic;' she is going to read to us for half an hour;" for after this pleasant, desultory fashion Lottie's education was carried on; but it agreed with her wondrously well—she sipped knowledge as sweetly as a bee sips honey.
Annette felt unusually gay that morning; she found it a little difficult to concentrate her attention on the reading. Down-stairs the rooms were decked with flowers, as though for a fête; her new dress had come home, and she was longing to try it on. She wondered how Averil could sit there reading so quietly, as though no hundred and fifty people were coming. "It must be that she wishes to shut out the thought of them all," Annette said to herself; and her shrewd surmise certainly grazed the truth. Averil was nervously dreading the ordeal; with all her passionate desire for human sympathy, her very real love of human kind, these vapid interchanges of compliments, that passed under the name of receptions or At Homes, were singularly distasteful to her. How could conversation be carried on in a crowd? How could one enjoy one's friends when civilities had to be exchanged with strangers? Averil's world was not theirs; her ardent and earnest temperament could only expand in a higher temperature. She had not the graceful art of saying nothings; the trifling coinage of society, its passwords, its gay bandinage, were unknown to her. Without being awkward—Averil was never awkward—she was at once too grave and too reserved to make a popular hostess; and though her gatherings were successful, and people liked to come to Redfern House, they were more at their ease with Mrs. Willmot and her daughters. "Such a charming, well-bred woman!" was the universal verdict. "Such a model stepmother!"
Averil could scarcely eat the luncheon that was served, for the sake of convenience, in Rodney's snug little den. The other rooms, with the exception of Averil's, were thrown openen suite—tea and ices and strawberries were to be served in the dining-room; the drawing and morning-rooms were for the reception; there were tent-like awnings from the windows; the lawn was dotted over with red-cushioned chairs and Japanese umbrellas; and the grand piano was ready for the professionals.
Annette had put on her pretty black summer dress, and was regarding herself with a grave, satisfied air when Averil entered. She had a little case in her hand, and a tiny bouquet of creamy rosebuds and maiden-hair.
"I have come to put the finishing touches to mydébutante," she said, smiling. "You must have a few flowers to light up your black dress, and I think this will also suit you;" and she clasped a little collar of sparkling jet round Annette's throat.
"Is this for me? It is beautiful, beautiful! Never have I possessed an ornament. But you are unadorned, my cousin!" looking at the little child-like figure. Averil's soft black silk was unrelieved by anything except the delicate lace at the throat and wrists; she always dressed very simply, but to-day there was something almost severe in the absence of anything like ornament.
"Do not look at me," she said, hastily. "Unwin always does her best for me, but she has a thankless task, Annette. You look very nice. If you keep near me, I will introduce some people whom I think you will like. Ah, there goes Lottie!" as a white dress floated down the staircase. "We must go down, too."
Mrs. Willmot and her daughters were already in the drawing-room, and Rodney was strumming with one hand on the grand piano. Mrs. Willmot put up her eyeglass in rather a puzzled manner as Averil entered with her cousin.
"Who is that distinguished-looking girl in black, Maud?" she asked, in a whisper.
Her daughter broke into a scornful laugh.
"Distinguished! My dear mother, are you blind! It is only Miss Ramsay. I suppose Averil has given her a decent frock for the first time in her life. But I can see no such wonderful transformation; she is very plain, poor girl! with her sallow skin and big eyes;" and Maud turned her long neck and regarded herself in the glass that hung near them. Her dress fitted to perfection, and was really very tasteful and becoming. True, it was not paid for, and she knew that her mother would treat her to an angry lecture on extravagance; but Maud was quite used to these lectures. She hummed a little air, and moved through the room with that haughty insouciance that was considered her style.
It was Lottie who tripped up to Annette, with her girlish, outspoken admiration. Lottie was looking exceedingly pretty: her fresh bloom and bright expression were infinitely more attractive than Maud's cold perfection of feature.
"Does not she look nice?" she whispered, in Averil's ear; "there is something very graceful about her. If she were not quite so thin, I think she would look almost pretty."
But Averil had no time to answer, as two or three guests entered the room that moment. The rooms filled after this. Annette, who had disregarded Averil's request, and had withdrawn into a quiet corner, looked on, well amused. What a gay scene! what a hubbub of voices and light laughter! She could scarcely see Averil's little figure near the door, with her stepmother's portly form behind her, as she received one guest after another.
Lottie was on the lawn in the midst of a bevy of girls; Maud was standing near her, talking to a white-haired officer, and Georgina was bandying jests with two young men; neither of them took any notice of her. Presently a stout man with a sandy mustache pushed his way to the piano, and drew off his gloves. There was an instant's silence when he first struck the keys, but after a few minutes the hubbub began again. Very few people listened; only two or three edged their way nearer to the piano, and hemmed in the performer.
Annette stood among them; the sweet sounds had beguiled her from her corner. She stood motionless, entranced, without noticing that Averil was standing just behind her.
"Thank you so much, Herr Faber," observed Averil, gently, as the last crashing chord had been played; but Herr Faber only bowed stiffly as he rose; his small blue eyes looked irritable, and he drew his brows together.
"It is all in the day's work," Annette heard him mutter to a friend. "To make music for those who do not listen. Bah! It is thankless work. Come, my Hermann, we will at least make ourselves scarce until these Goths require us again:" which was hardly civil of the professor, since more than one pair of ears had listened patiently to every note.
"Herr Faber is put out, Frank," observed Averil, in a vexed voice: she was addressing a young man who stood beside her. Annette had looked at him more than once. She had never seen him before, she did not know his name, but she seemed to recognize his face. "We must manage better next time. What shall we do to silence these people? Herr Faber certainly feels himself insulted."
"Shall I stand on a chair and cry 'Silence!' at intervals? I think it would have an effect. Do let me, Averil."
"You absurd boy! No; we must try other means before my favorite signora sings. She has the voice of a lark and the temper of—please find me a simile." But the young man only laughed and shook his head. He had a pleasant face, without being strictly good-looking. And again Annette was tormented by some vague resemblance that seemed to elude her before she could grasp it.
At this moment Averil turned her head and saw her.
"Why, Annette, you were just the person I wanted! Where have you been hiding all this time? Frank, I want you to give my cousin, Miss Ramsay, an ice or some strawberries. Annette, this is Mr. Frank Harland. You remember our kind old friend, do you not?"
"Do you mean monsieur?" with a quick flush. "How is it possible that I should ever forget him, my cousin? And you are his son? Ah! that is the likeness, then," looking up at the young man a little shyly.
"Oh, I remember; you made my father's acquaintance at Dinan. Yes, I am his son and heir. I only wish I were half as good—eh, Averil?" with a merry glance. "Now, Miss Ramsay, I am to obey orders. Will you allow me to pilot you through this crowd?—it is almost as intricate as a lawyer's brief." And as Annette did not seem quite to understand him, he took her hand and placed it under his arm, and guided her skillfully through the various groups.
"But what a crowd!" were her first words, as he found a seat for her, and ascertained her opinion on the respective merits of vanilla, coffee, and strawberry ice.
"Ah, yes, I do so love this sort of entertainment—don't you?" he returned, as he brought her the ice. "People do look so cool and comfortable, penned up like sheep, on a warm summer afternoon. Just standing room, don't you know, and not a seat to be had, except for the dowagers. If I had a wife—but, you see, there is not a Mrs. Frank Harland at present—I should insist on her seeing her friends in detachments, and noten masse, in this heathenish way. As it is, my mother's tea-parties are worth a hundred of these."
"Ah! you have a mother"—with a quick sigh, that made the young man glance first at her and then at her black dress.
"Yes; and I am the happy possessor of four sisters and three young torments of brothers. So you and my father are old acquaintances, Miss Ramsay?"
"Monsieur? But, yes, he was my first friend. Never shall I forget his kindness, his consideration. If I had been a duchess instead of a poor little lace-mender he could not have treated me with greater courtesy. He is what you call an English gentleman."
"Dear old boy, so he is!" and Mr. Frank looked as though he had himself received a compliment.
"Old boy! That is surely not the name for him," she returned, in a rebuking tone, that greatly amused her hearer. "I do not like monsieur to be called thus."
"That is because you are a stranger to our English ways," replied the young man, trying hard to restrain his inward mirth. "Fellows of my age often use these sort of terms. They mean no disrespect. A man like my father never gets old. I believe he has the secret of perpetual youth. He is as young as any of us. It does one good to see his freshness. If I were only half as good!" finished Mr. Frank, in his cordial, hearty way.
Annette looked at him with interest. This eulogy entirely mollified her. "When you are as old as monsieur some one may call you 'dear old boy,' too," she said, sedately.
There was no help for it. If Frank must have died for it, he could not have helped laughing. He had never met any one so original as this grave, dark-eyed girl. Her very freshness and absence of coquetry were refreshing contrasts to many girls that he knew.
Coquetry was not in Annette's vocabulary. She had no acquaintance with men, either young or otherwise. A civil word from the English consul when he saw her in his wife's room; a little friendly conversation with her kind old chaplain—these were her only opportunities. True, there was Clotilde's priest—a thin, brown-faced man, who took snuff, and gave her his blessing. But he was very different from this lively Mr. Frank, with his droll speeches and his merry laugh, and his "old boy." The young people grew quite friendly and confidential in their snug little corner, fenced in by the blossoming plants. Annette was so well amused that she was almost sorry when her companion suggested that they should go back to the drawing-room.
"We have lost the signora's song, and there is Herr Faber crashing among the keys again. There are lots of people I know, and to whom I must make myself agreeable. One must not be selfish, Miss Ramsay."
But it may be doubted if Annette understood the implied compliment.
Attheir entrance into the dining-room Frank Harland found himself surrounded by a group of friends. As one of them addressed him, Annette, with much tact, slipped away with a softly whispered excuse. She had caught sight of Averil at the other end of the room.
Averil beckoned her to a chair beside her. "What have you done with Frank?" she asked, smiling. "I thought I put you in his charge. Ah! there he is with the Courtlands, surrounded as usual. He is a general favorite."
"One need not wonder at that," returned Annette, sedately. "I have never talked to any young man before, but I found him very pleasant. He has been telling me about monsieur and his mother. He seems to have a happy home, my cousin."
"Yes, Grey-Mount is a dear old house; and all the Harlands are nice. They are very dear friends of mine, Annette, and one day I must take you to see them. A day at Grey-Mount always does me good. And there is another place—Well, Frank"—as that individual made his way to them rather hastily.
"I have shaken off that young puppy, Fred Courtland. I hate fellows who scent themselves. Faugh! You have been talking for the last two hours, and I dare say no one has thought of getting you a cup of tea."
"No, never mind." returned Averil, smiling. "The signora is going to sing again, and I must not leave the room just now. No, indeed, Frank," as he seemed determined to argue the point. "Let me listen to her first, and then I will go with you."
"All right. But please understand that I am to have the monopoly of your conversation. No followers allowed at present." And to Annette's amusement he coolly took up his position so as to fence Annette completely from notice, and his monopoly of conversation consisted of an unbroken silence. Averil seemed perfectly satisfied with this arrangement. She leaned back in her chair and listened to the song, and a more rested look came upon her face as the high, pure notes of the signora's voice floated through the room.
Some degree of attention was paid to the gifted young vocalist; but just at the last a group outside the window, beside which Frank Harland was standing, began talking rather too audibly.
"Miss Seymour," observed a languid, drawling voice, "I wish you could inform me where I can find my hostess. It is awkward, to say the least of it, when one has no conception of a person."
"I do not see her at present," returned Maud, coldly. "It will not be easy to find her in this crowd. A very small person in black. That is the only description I can give you, Captain Faucit. A plain, homely little body like Miss Willmot is not very easy to describe."
"No, indeed!" and here Mrs. Willmot's smooth voice chimed in. "My step-daughter is a sad invalid, Captain Faucit. Dear Averil is quite a recluse. One can not wonder at it"—dropping her voice, although every word was distinctly audible. "With her affliction, poor girl, her want of health, and her deformity, the world offers few attractions."
"Now for the tea, Averil!" exclaimed Mr. Frank, briskly. He had set his teeth hard for a moment, and his hand was clinched, as though it longed to do injury to some one; but the next moment he was leaning over Averil's chair with a gentle, brotherly sort of freedom. "Come," he said, touching her cold little hand. "A cup of strong tea—that is my mother's panacea for all ills."
Averil rose and took his arm without a word. There was a dark, pained flush on her face, a strained look in her eyes, as though the cruel words had gone home. Annette looked after her pitifully. She could see that kind Mr. Frank was still talking to her. He was very tall, and had to stoop a good deal.
"A plain, homely body, indeed!" groaned Annette. "And she looked so sweet just now. Deformity! Oh, what a wicked, wicked lie!" For once Annette did not measure her words. "What does it matter, such a little thing as that? What does it matter that she is not as tall and straight as Lottie, when every one loves her?"
Annette's pleasure in the fête was over. She could hardly keep her tears back as she sat there. Where was Lottie? She had not once come across her. But even as the thought passed through her mind Lottie waved to her gayly. She was sitting under the awning with a merry group of girls, and seemed happy and well amused. Annette felt far too miserable to join them. The room was thinning now. The professionals had gone. A little later on she saw Averil glide quietly to her stepmother's side, as the guests made their adieus. The next moment Mr. Frank came up to her corner. "I must be going too," he said rather gravely. "I hope every one has had as pleasant an afternoon as I have;" but he spoke without his old gayety.
"The afternoon is spoiled to me," returned Annette, with more vehemence than caution. "Mr. Frank Harland, why is it that people are so cruel? Why do they hurt my cousin, who has the goodness of an angel? This is all they give her in return for so much generosity."
Frank Harland's lips twitched a little under the brown mustache. "You must not ask me, Miss Ramsay," he said hurriedly. "I can't help it if people will be such brutes. I beg your pardon—I believe it was a lady who spoke. I only know I had to pull myself up pretty tight. That fellow Faucit spoke to her just. I longed to kick him."
"I do not like these Seymours," returned Annette, with the same frankness with which she would have talked to Lottie. "They take too much, and they give nothing back. Every day my cousin has much to bear—to suffer. If she were not a good Christian, she would not be so patient."
"Ask my father what he thinks of Averil," was Frank's reply. "Oh, I know all about it. It pretty nearly sickens me to see the airs they all give themselves. If they would only treat her decently. Miss Jones knows my opinion—we have often talked about it. Good-bye, Miss Ramsay. I dare say we shall meet again soon;" and he shook hands with her heartily.
"She is not a bad sort, and she is fond of Averil already," he thought; for the Harlands, from the eldest to the youngest, were stanch to Averil, and Frank especially had a brotherly affection for the gentle little creature.
Annette, after all, did not tell Lottie. Lottie was so gay, so excited, so full of the afternoon's delights, that she had not the heart to damp her; and when Lottie said, "And you have enjoyed yourself, too, Annette?" she only answered, rather soberly, "Yes, very much." But she hardly dared look at Averil that evening, the shade was still so deep in her eyes, and the grave, measured tones spoke so clearly to her ears of repressed melancholy. Only when she bade her good-night Averil detained her.
"Annette, I understand," she said, softly; "but there is no need to take it so much to heart."
Annette started.
"What is it you mean, my cousin? I have said nothing."
"No; only you have looked so sorry for me all the evening. My stepmother meant nothing—it was only her way. If only"—here she caught her breath, as though something stabbed her—"if only Frank had not heard her! My dear, there are tears in your eyes. Why, what nonsense! As though I am not used to it by this time. No, I am not deformed—there was no need to put it quite so strongly—but a little crooked creature such as I am has long outlived vanity."
"My cousin, you shall not talk so—it hurts me. To me you are beautiful; and Lottie says so, too."
Averil laughed a little mirthless laugh; she was so tired, so worn out with all sorts of conflicting feelings, that she felt she must laugh or cry; but Annette's grieved look seemed to rebuke her.
"I meant it—I meant it truly," she said.
"Thank you, dear. What a blessing love is so blind sometimes. Well, I hope to be beautiful some day"—and here her eyes softened; "there will be no little homely bodies in heaven, Annette."
"There will be no cruel words either, my cousin."
"Hush! you are as bad as Frank. They did not mean to be cruel. Mrs. Willmot thinks so much of good looks. All her children are handsome. She is a good-looking woman herself. She attaches too much importance to outward appearance. Personally she means me no unkindness."
Annette was silent; if she had known these words, she would have quoted them: "Evil is wrought by want of thought, as well as by want of heart." What utter want of delicacy to speak of the daughter of her dead husband in such contemptuously pitying terms to a stranger!
Averil seemed battling with some unusual mood, for she continued quickly, almost impatiently:
"Do not think that I am not grateful to you for your sympathy; but you must not spoil me; one wants to be strengthened, not weakened. There was a noted saint once—his name was Francis Xavier—and his prayer used to be: 'Lord, remove not this cross until it has worked that in me for which Thou didst send it.' It was a grand prayer, Annette—it included so much."
"My cousin, we are not saints; few of us could say that prayer."
"No; but we must all try our poor little best; we must not feed our pride and self-love. Now bid me good-night, and put all speeches, unkind or otherwise, out of your head;" and Averil kissed her affectionately.
There was a saying that Averil greatly loved, and which is generally attributed to Thomas à Kempis: "I have sought rest everywhere, and have found it nowhere, save in a little corner with a little book."
How often, during the last five years, she had entered her room, feeling bruised and weary from contact with hard, uncongenial natures, and had risen from her knees feeling quieted and refreshed. This night, when Unwin had left her, she opened a favorite book that always lay beside her Bible; its title had attracted her—"Weariness"—and in its kindly, consoling pages she had found endless comfort. A passage she had marked and remarked now met her eye: "Night after night, as you lie down to rest, the weary day ended, think that a day offered to God in weariness and quiet endurance may bring you fuller joy than the brightest, happiest seasons of enjoyment can do; and when morning brings a fresh beginning, it may be of weariness of body and spirit, strive to hear the voice of God saying: 'My son, it is thus I will that thou shouldst serve Me. If I will that thy service be weary and lifeless, and deficient in all earthly reward, and pleasure, what is that to thee, so long as it is My will? What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter. Follow thou Me without questioning the love which inflicts this weariness and sadness, and seeming privation of all thou most delightest in.'"
Averil closed the book and sat motionless for awhile. Outside, the summer moonlight was steeping everything in its pure white light, the night-dews were bathing the sleeping flowers.
"I have not been good to-day," she said, presently. "What does it matter if he heard it? It is better so—it makes no difference. I will not let this fatal sadness conquer me. To-morrow I will go down to the Dove-cote, and I will take Annette;" and with this resolution Averil slept.
The next morning, as Annette was standing by her window watching a pair of quarrelsome sparrows, who had fallen out over a moldy crust, and who were pecking at each other's soft feathered bodies with angry, defiant chirps, there was a tap at her door, and Averil entered fully dressed, without a trace of last night's cloud on her serene face.
"Good-morning, Annette. Are you nearly ready? for I have ordered an early breakfast for you and Lottie and myself. I am going a little way into the country to see some friends of mine, and if you like the idea you shall go with me."
"Oh, that is good—delightful! What friends are these, my cousin? Is it monsieur and—"
"My dear child!" and Averil could not forbear a smile, "the Harlands are not my only friends. I see you are pining for a sight of monsieur, as you persist in calling him, so I shall have to take you to Grey-Mount. But to-day I am going to my Dove-cote. No; you shall not ask me any questions. Wait until you see my friends. Now, you must hurry, for the gong will sound in less than ten minutes, and the carriage will be round at half past nine. Put on your new cambric—we are going to have a hot day."
Annette was not long in finishing her toilet; but Averil and Lottie were already seated at the breakfast-table. Lottie made a little grimace when she saw Annette.
"What a charming day you are going to have! I do love the Dove-cote. Averil is very disagreeable not to invite me too."
"But are you not going Lottie?" and Annette regarded her with some surprise. But Averil answered for her.
"No, dear; it is your turn to-day, and Lottie is only pretending to be vexed. She knows she has far too much to do. There are letters to be written, and Georgina wants her to go with her to Kew, as Maud is engaged. Lottie will enjoy that, especially as she will meet some of her own friends."
"Oh, that is all very well," grumbled Lottie who looked as fresh and bright as the morning. "But I would rather be with you and Annette. I don't care about the Courtlands, and unless Mr. Frank will be there—"
"He will be there," returned Averil, quickly. "He told me so yesterday. And his friend, Mr. Chesterton, will be there. Lottie, you are getting up a grievance for nothing. The party will be as nice as possible."
But Lottie made no answer, and she was remarkably silent the remainder of the meal.
"Is life to be one fête?" thought Annette, as she put on her new shady hat, and selected a pair of gloves from the smart little case on her toilet-table. No more mended finger-tips, no more frayed and faded ribbons for the young lace-mender. "Tell me, my cousin—are your friends grand?" she asked, as the carriage bore them swiftly in the direction of Paddington. But Averil refused to answer.
"You shall judge of my friends when you see them, Annette, dear. They are very dear friends. I call them my family. Some of the happiest hours of my life—and, thank God, I have had many happy hours—have been spent at the Dove-cote."
"It is, then, dearer to you than Grey-Mount?"
Averil hesitated, and was half annoyed, half amused at this curious pertinacity on her cousin's part. "Comparisons are odious," she said, lightly. "One does not measure one's friendship. Mr. Harland is my very good friend; but still"—with a thoughtful look and a sigh that was quickly repressed—"I am happier at the Dove-cote."
Here the carriage stopped, and in the bustle of taking tickets, and finding a less crowded compartment, the subject dropped.
Thenext hour passed quickly. Averil had her book, and Annette amused herself with looking out of the window. "How could one read," she thought, "when the sun was shining, and the foals were frolicking beside their mothers, and every green field had its picturesque group of feeding cattle and sheep? It was like turning over the pages of a picture-book. Now they came to a cluster of cottages with a little Norman church, half hidden in trees; then a winding road; a clear, silvery river, with gay little boats floating on it, with fine houses beside it; then another pastoral scene, and so on. Is not the world beautiful?" thought Annette, as the train stopped, and Averil beckoned to her. She was almost sorry that the journey was over.
She heard Averil order a fly, and then followed her into a curious old inn. They sat for a few minutes in a close, stuffy parlor, with a print of the battle of Trafalgar over the fire-place.
"We have a mile and a half still to go," Averil said. "If I could only walk through those delicious lanes! But old Jemmy always has to take me. Ah! there comes our chariot. Rather a ramshackle affair, is it not, Annette? But Jemmy and his old mare are both worthy creatures."
Annette had no fault to find with the lumbering wheezy vehicle; she was looking delightedly at the rich hedge-rows with their wealth of wild-flowers, at the rustic cottages with their gay little gardens, at the green fields with browsing cattle. Every moment there was something to admire. Presently they came to a sort of hamlet; there was a village inn, with The Duck and Drake swinging on the old sign-board, a few scattered cottages with heavy thatched roofs, and a small green with snow-white geese waddling over it. Here Jemmy, a gray-haired, wizen-faced man drew up of his own accord.
"There be the Dove-cote, surely," he said, pointing down a steep lane. "I suppose there be no need to come further."
"No; the goose green will do. Come for me at the usual time, Jemmy, and wait for me here;" and Averil dismissed him with a kindly nod.
Annette was looking round her in some perplexity. There were the inn and the cottages, but where could the Dove-cote be? She could see no house of any pretension, only in the distance, half-way down the lane, there was a low gray roof half hidden in trees.
"Yes, that is the Dove-cote," observed Averil, walking in her usual slow fashion across the little green, while the geese stretched their long necks and hissed after her. "Is this not a sweet little nook, Annette? How the children do love this lane! It is a perfect play-ground for them. In autumn, when the blackberries are ripe, you can see them with their little tin pails, scratching themselves with the brambles, and half smothered with travelers' joy. Ah! there is Daddy, sunning himself, with Bob asleep beside him. Well, Annette," unlatching a little white gate as she spoke, "welcome to the Dove-cote."
Annette was a good deal surprised. It was only a cottage, after all, or, more correctly speaking, two cottages, for there were two stone porches and two open doors; a long strip of flower-garden was on one side, and a still narrower strip of smoothly mown turf on the other. There was an elm-tree with a circular seat, on which an old man was sitting, and a black terrier was curled up beside him.
"Well, Daddy, where is the Corporal?" asked Averil, in her clear voice, as the old man rose up rather stiffly, and, leaning on his stick, gave her a military salute. He was a very tall old man, with a long gray beard, and his joints were not so supple as they used to be, for he seemed to support himself with difficulty. As Averil spoke the terrier gave a shrill bark of welcome, and came limping over the grass on three legs, and Annette saw the fourth was missing.
"The Corporal is at work among the cabbages, and Snip is helping him, ma'am. Snip's a terrible hand at digging. Corporal said to me as we were smoking our pipes yesterday, 'Snip's a handy fellow. He will be worth his salt presently. He puts his heart into things, Snip does, if it is pulling up a weed or hoeing a potato-bed. He don't shirk work like other boys of his age, don't Snip.'"
"I am glad to hear that," returned Averil. "The Corporal is not one to bestow praise where it is not due. I was very anxious about poor Snip. I was rather fearful how he might turn out. It would not do to expect too much, Daddy. A city arab seldom has his fair chances. If you had told me that he spent his day in turning somersaults and making catherine-wheels of himself among the Corporal's cabbages, I should not have been surprised."
The old soldier smiled grimly.
"Well, he has a refresher sometimes, and stands with his heels uppermost when his feelings is too many for him—when he has had his fill of pudding, perhaps. Mother Midge says it is by way of grace. She finds the boy somewhat aggravating in the house. He is better out among the pensioners; the pensioners are not so mortal particular as to manners."
Averil broke into a merry laugh. Daddy was evidently a wag in his way. There was a twinkle in his eye as he patted Bob, as though he had enunciated a clever joke.
"We will go to them presently; but we must first pay our respects to Mother Midge. Ah, Methuselah"—as a crippled jackdaw hobbled across the grass, and greeted her hoarsely. "Is he not a wise-looking bird, Annette? He and Bob are such friends. They are like Daddy and the Corporal."
At that moment a little woman in gray, with a droll, weather-beaten face and a pair of spectacles perched on the top of an absurdly small nose, suddenly appeared on one of the porches, and clapped her hands delightedly at the sight of her visitors.
"Dear me! if it is not Miss Willmot," she exclaimed, "and you are as welcome as flowers in May. Come in out of the sun, my dear, and you shall have a glass of Cherry's milk. She is yielding us a grand supply just now, and, though I say it that should not, I don't believe there is sweeter milk to be found anywhere."
"Wait a moment, Mother Midge," as the little woman was bustling away; "I want you to speak to my new cousin first. Annette, this lady's name is really Bennet—Miss Lydia Bennet—but she is always known among us as Mother Midge."
"And it is a name I love, ever since dear little Barty gave it to me. Poor little lamb! But he is better off now."
Mother Midge was no beauty, certainly. There was something comical, something altogether incongruous, in the lined forehead and gray hair, and the pert little nose and those bright, kittenish blue eyes. But she had the sweetest voice in the world.
"But it is so strange a name," objected Annette, in her serious manner.
Averil seemed amused, but Mother Midge gave a little sigh.
"My dear young lady," she said, gently, "the name has never seemed droll to me, for it was the last word dear little Barty ever spoke. Shall I tell you about him? Miss Willmot found him—she finds them all. He was a mere baby, and nearly skin and bone when he came here. He and a sister a year or two older were turned on the streets to beg, and the brute who owned them—I believe she called herself their mother, only the dumb beasts have more compassion on their young—had turned them out of doors to sleep. Oh! you look shocked; but one sees such cases in the paper. The little creatures were found on a doorstep one snowy evening. Deb had taken off her frock to wrap round Barty, who was ill and coughing. Well, he did not last long—one could not wonder at that, after all that exposure and ill-usage; but we made him very happy as long as he lived. Mother Midge was the name he gave me. No one knew what it meant, but Deb taught it to the others. Well, I was sitting with him on my lap one afternoon—I knew the end was near—and I was talking to him and Deb about heaven—for they were just like heathens—and, baby as he was, Barty was as clever and acute as possible. Just as I was talking, I felt his little bony hand creep up to my neck; 'I don't want no 'eavens,' he whispered, hoarsely; 'I'd like better to stop along of Deb and Mother Midge.' Those were his last words. But maybe he has changed his mind since then," finished the little woman, softly.
"And Deb! Where is Deb?" asked Annette, eagerly.
"Oh, you shall see her presently. Deb is my right hand. Now I must go and fetch you the milk and a slice of home-made cake, for you must be starving."
Annette looked round the room as Mother Midge trotted off. It was a small room, and very simply furnished. There was a square of carpet that did not quite cover the white boards; there were one or two well-worn easy-chairs, a work-table, a comfortable-looking couch, and some well-arranged book-shelves.
"This is the Midge's nest," observed Averil, who noticed Annette's perplexity. "Ah! I see you are dying to question me; but there is no time now. Mother Midge is a wonderful woman, though I dare say a certain person, if she knew of her existence, would certainly call her a plain, homely little body. But she has a great soul. She is one of God's heroines!"
"My cousin, forgive me if I am pertinacious. Who are these people? I do not understand."
"Lottie, when she wants to tease me, calls them my waifs and strays. But they are no such things. This is my family. I lead two lives, Annette. When things go wrong with me, and I get out of harmony with my surroundings, I take refuge with Mother Midge and her children. Nothing does me so much good. Hush! not a word of this at Redfern House. No one knows of the Dove-cote but Lottie. Ah! here come our refreshments. Mind you praise the cake, for if there be one thing on which Mother Midge prides herself it is her seed-cake."
Annette ate and drank in a sort of dream. What new views in life were opening before her! This, then, was Averil's secret—the little refuge that the young heiress had provided for a few stricken creatures who had fallen in the battle of life.
Annette was to hear all about it presently; now she could only look round her and wonder, with a sort of touched reverence.
"Now we must go and see Jack," observed Averil, as she swept the crumbs from her lap. "Annette, do you see there are two cottages? We have added a new wing. There was no room big enough for the children, and no place for them to sleep. This is the Corporal's room, as we call it, where the old men sit and smoke their pipes. This"—as they entered a clean, spacious room, with a long table and some forms, and a few gay Scripture prints hanging on the walls—"this is where the children live. They are with the Corporal now, all except Jack"—walking up to the window, where there was a small couch covered with a red quilt. "Well, my little man, how does the world go with you?"