"Thank you, ma'am, I'm spry!" returned a small chirping voice, and a shock head, covered with rough, carroty hair, raised itself from the pillow. Annette gave a pitying exclamation. Could it be a child's face, with those hollow, sunken features, those lusterless, staring eyes? A skeleton hand and arm were thrust out from the quilt. "I'm spry, ma'am, and the Dodger is spry too. Come out, you varmint, when the leddy's asking after your 'ealth!"—and Jack, panting, and with infinite difficulty, extracted a miserable-looking gray creature, evidently a veteran who had certainly run the tether of its nine lives, and was much battered in consequence.
"Oh, the Dodger is spry, is he?" observed Averil, with much interest, as the cat purred feebly, and began licking its lean sides. "But I hope both you and he mean to get fatter with all your good living."
"Jack was found in a cellar, Annette," she continued, stroking the shock head tenderly—"in a den of thieves. Some murder had been committed in a drunken brawl. The gang had been obliged to seek a fresh hiding-place, and Jack, who was crippled with hip disease, had been left there, forgotten. The good city missionary who discovered him, and told me the story, found him lying on a heap of moldy straw under the grating, with the cat beside him. They were both nearly starved, and half dead with cold—weren't you, Jack?"
"We was, ma'am, just so," was Jack's response. "The Dodger had brought me a mouse, but I could not stomach sich food. Dodger hasn't nothing to say to mice now. He feeds like an alderman, he does. Spry! that ain't the word for it, ma'am—he is just bursting with enjoyment, is the Dodger."
Averil smiled faintly; but as they left the room, she said in a low voice, "How long do you think he will last, Mother Midge?"
Mother Midge only shook her head. "The dear Lord only knows that, Miss Willmot. But they are making room for him and the Dodger up there, surely."
Annette opened her eyes rather widely at this remark. But Averil pressed her arm meaningly. "Don't take any notice," she whispered, when the little woman had gone on a few steps. "This is only one of her notions. She will have it that animals are to go to heaven too. I have never heard her reason it out; but she is very angry if any one ventures to dispute her theory. 'The whole creation groaneth and travaileth together in pain,' she says, sometimes. 'But it will all be set right some day.' I never argue against people's pet theories when they are as harmless as this."
Mother Midge had preceded them into a small kitchen, where a diminutive girl, with a sharp precocious face, was scouring some tins. A stolid looking young woman, with rather a vacant expression, was basting a joint. "That's Deb," remarked Averil, with a kindly nod to the little girl, "and this is Molly."
A gleam of pleasure, that seemed to light up the coarse, heavy features, crossed Molly's face at the sight of her.
"I'm fain to see you, ma'am," she muttered with a courtesy to the strange lady, and then she turned to her basting again.
"Molly does wonders, and she is a first-rate teacher for Deb," observed Mother Midge, as they left the kitchen. "I am not going to tell you Molly's history, Miss Ramsay. I see no use in burdening young minds with oversorrowful stories. It is grief for her child that has nearly blunted poor Molly's wits. The little one had a sad end. But she is getting over it a little—and Jack does her good. I hope for Molly's sake Jack will be spared, for she just slaves for him. Now we will go out in the kitchen-garden and see the Corporal."
A longsloping piece of ground behind the two cottages had been laid out as a kitchen-garden. The trim condition of the beds, the neatly weeded paths, all bore traces of the Corporal's industry. But neither he nor his assistants were to be seen. An overturned basket, with a hoe and a rake lying beside it, and a boy's battered straw hat, alone bore evidence of the morning's work. The bees were hovering over the thyme, and a little white rabbit, that had escaped from its hutch, was feasting on one of the finest cabbages.
"Where can they be?" asked Averil; and Mother Midge, whose sharp ears had caught the sound of voices, suggested they were in the field with the pensioners, a surmise which proved to be perfectly correct.
The field lay on the other side of the lane. It was a large field, and boasted of a cow-house and a couple of sheds. The Corporal was sitting on the gate, with a small group of boys round him, whom he seemed haranguing. He had taken his pipe out of his mouth, and was gesticulating with it. He was a small, wiry man, with gray stubby hair, and a pair of twinkling black eyes. He had a large nose and a deep voice, which were the only big things about him.
"It is no good you youngsters argufying with me," the Corporal was saying, with an appearance of great severity. "What I say I sticks to. That 'ere boy is a bully"—pointing to a small lad with the innocent eyes of a cherub.
"Please, Mr. Corporal, I b'ain't that," replied the child, with a terrified sniff.
"Don't you bandy words with me," continued the Corporal, sternly. "The boy who shies stones at old Billy ought to be made an example of—that is what I say."
"Please, sir, it was only fun," stammered the culprit. "Billy knows I would not hurt him."
"What is the matter, Corporal?" interposed Averil, briskly. "Tim hasn't got into mischief again, has he?" laying her hand caressingly on the curly head.
"Servant, ma'am"—and the Corporal saluted her stiffly. "It is all along of Billy's snorting and scampering, and kicking up his hoofs, that I knew that mischief was going on. That boy"—pointing to the still sniffing cherub—"goes without his pudding to-day. Look at Billy, ma'am, and if ever a horse is injured in his tenderest feelings, that horse is Billy. He can't stomach the sweetest patch of grass, he is that wounded—and all along of Tim."
"Oh, fy, Tim!" was all Averil ventured to say—for the Corporal was a severe disciplinarian, and allowed no infraction of rules. Any want of kindness to the pensioners was always punished severely.
"Go back to your weeding, sir," continued the Corporal, and Tim slunk away.
Averil looked after him regretfully. "Is he not a pretty boy?" she whispered, so that the others could not hear her. "He is the Corporal's favorite, though you would not think so to hear him. Tim and his hurdy-gurdy and monkey came here a year ago. He was found sitting beside a dry ditch one winter evening—his drunken father was lying at the bottom. It was impossible to say whether Tim or the monkey looked most miserable. The poor things were half starved, and had been cruelly used. Topsy—that is the monkey—is in one of the sheds. Now, if there is a thing in the world Tim loves, it is his monkey. Half Tim's grief at the loss of his pudding will be that Topsy will forfeit his share. Topsy is one of our pensioners. That is Billy"—pointing to a lean old horse at the further end of the field. Two donkeys and an old goat were feeding near him. A toothless old sheep-dog, and a yellow mongrel with half a tail, were lying on a mat in front of the shed, basking in the sunshine.
"The pensioners are all old then, my cousin?"
"Billy is old, and Floss, the sheep-dog, and Nanny also. Anyhow, my pensioners all have a history. They have been through the furnace of affliction—even that lame duck. Only Cherry, and the cocks and hens, have led a happy existence. The Dove-cote has its rules, and one of these is, kindness toward our four-legged pensioners."
"It is a good rule. Your pensioners seem well content. Who are these other boys?"
Evidently the Corporal thought Annette's question was addressed to him, for he struck in briskly:
"This is Snip, ma'am"—pointing to a sturdy-looking lad with a merry face. "This is the fellow who aggravates our feelings by making a spread-eagle of himself, and walking down the paths with his feet in the air, and Bob barking alongside of him. Not but what Snip can do his fair share of work too. I'd back that boy for hoeing a bed or training a creeper against any gardener in the land"—this in a loud aside that was perfectly audible to the grinning Snip. "Then there's Dick"—singling out the next, a shambling, awkward boy, with a vacant, gentle face. "Dick is the fellow who minds the pensioners. Who says Dick isn't bright, when he can milk Cherry and harness Mike and Floss? Law bless you! If all the boys were as clever as Dick we should do well. Dick has nothing to say to book-learning"—dropping his voice mysteriously. "Too many kicks in early life have put a stop to that. Dick couldn't spell his own name—couldn't answer a question without a stutter. But he is a rare one among the animals. The worst of it is, he gets into a rage if he sees any one else misuse them. He had collared Tim, and would have made an end of him in no time if Billy had not snorted and kicked up his heels."
Dick seemed perfectly impervious to the Corporal's criticism. He shambled away in an aimless manner.
"There is only wee Robbie left," interrupted Mother Midge, as the Corporal laid down his empty pipe and paused for breath. "He is our baby now, since dear little Barty left us. There are two other graves besides his. We call them gardens. We can not hinder some of our doves from flying away. Look at him!" as the little creature rubbed his face lovingly against her gown. "That is his way of showing affection, for wee Robbie is deaf and dumb."
Averil sat down and lifted him on to her lap, while the Corporal made his salute, and hurried after his boys.
"He does not grow much," she said, touching his cheek softly. "Annette, we have no idea of his age. He is just wee Robbie. He is almost as small as he was that day when we first saw him;" and Averil gave a faint shudder at the remembrance.
"Did you find this little one also, my cousin?"
"Yes," returned Averil, rocking him in her arms, while a soft, pitying look came into her eyes. "I have spoken to you once or twice of a city missionary who tells me of cases. His name is Stevenson; he is a good man, and we are great friends. I was with him one day. I had just been to see Daddy, who was very ill. We were passing a public-house—it was in Whitechapel, but I forget the name; it is unfamiliar to me. It was a wretched street, and the public-house was one of the lowest of its kind. Just as we were passing, a miserable-looking tramp, with a child in her arms, reeled out of the doorway. A man was following her. There was some quarrel; she put down the child on the pavement and flew at the man with the ferocity of a wild-cat. Mr. Stevenson wanted me to move on, but I had caught sight of the child's face, and it seemed to rivet me—such a white baby face, with such a dumb, agonized terror stamped on it. 'The child! we can not leave the child!' I kept saying. But Mr. Stevenson prevailed on me to take refuge in a shop near. A crowd was collecting; there was no policeman, and no attempt was being made to stop the drunken brawl. An hour later Mr. Stevenson entered with a shocked face. He had the child in his arms; it looked half dead with fright. 'It is too horrible,' he said. 'The woman is dead. No one would interfere, and the brute—they say it is her husband—gave her a push, and she fell and struck her head against the curb. They have taken the man into custody. He is too drunk to know what has happened. Here is the child. They tell me he is a deaf-mute. Did ever any one see such a pitiful sight in a Christian country? Alas! that such things should be.' I was sitting by Daddy's fireside. The Corporal got me some water, and we washed the poor little creature (for he was in the most filthy condition), and wrapped him up in an old shawl, and gave him some warm bread and milk. His baby breath reeked of gin. But he was famished, and took the warm food greedily. There was no Mother Midge then. The Dove-cote was not in existence. I was obliged to leave him with the Corporal until I could find some one to take care of him. Oh, there is the dinner-bell! Do you hear the boys scampering to the house? We must follow them, or the Corporal will have said grace."
It was a curious dinner-party, but Averil looked happier than Annette had ever seen her, as she sat between wee Robbie and Deb. The Corporal sat at one end of the table, with Mother Midge opposite to him. Deb and Snip waited on every one. And several of the pensioners, including Topsy and the lame jackdaw, were waiting for their portion of the meal.
The boys were on their best behavior before Averil. Even Snip did not venture on one somersault. Tim's face grew a little sorrowful when he caught sight of the pudding. A lean, brown arm was already clutching his coat-sleeve, and the monkey's melancholy eyes were fixed on the empty plate.
"Topsy shall have some of mine," whispered Averil. And Tim's face cleared like magic.
When dinner was over, the boys rushed off to play in the field, and the Corporal and Daddy lighted their pipes and strolled to the gate to overlook them. Mother Midge was busy, and Averil proposed that she and Annette should sit under the elm-tree.
"Everything goes on just as usual when I am here," she explained. "By and by the boys will come to their lessons. The Corporal teaches them to read and write. I have not shown you my bedroom, Annette. I often spend a night or two here. The thought of my Dove-cote helps me over my worst times."
"Will you tell me how you came to think of it first, my cousin?"
"Well, it is not much of a story. There were the two old men, you see. Oh, I forgot! I never told you about them. Mr. Stevenson had found them out. One day as we were talking, he told me of an old soldier who was very ill, and who was living in a miserable garret. 'He has a friend with him,' he said, 'an old soldier, too—an ingenious fellow, who supports them both by carving little wooden toys and selling them. They are not related to each other, only old comrades. And it is wonderful how neat and ship-shape the place is. The Corporal is as handy as a woman. I wish you would go and see them, Miss Willmot. They seem to me fine fellows, the Corporal especially.'
"Fine fellows indeed! Would you believe it, Annette, that the Corporal was living on tea and bread, and working eighteen hours out of the twenty-four to keep himself and his old chum from the disgrace of the work-house? 'It is not the place for her majesty's soldiers, ma'am,' observed the Corporal to me. 'I think it would break Daddy's heart to take his medals into that sort of place. No, ma'am, asking your pardon. The work-house and the jail are not for the likes of us. We don't mind starving a bit if we can keep a roof over our heads. If only Daddy could work! But when rheumatics gets into the bones there's no getting it out again.' Well, I took a fancy to these brave, kindly old men. I thought it was a noble thing for the Corporal to be starving himself for his friend. If you want heroism, you will find it among the poor. I used to go and see them constantly. I sent in a doctor for Daddy, and nourishing food, and warm blankets, and some fuel for the fireless grate. But I think some good tobacco from Mr. Harland pleased them most. It seemed to make a different man of Daddy. Well, I did not see my way clear at first. I had found wee Robbie, and the Corporal was minding him. They were still in their miserable garret. Then all at once the thought came to me, Why should not Mother Midge take care of them all?"
"Then you knew her also."
"Oh, yes, I knew her. She was one of Mr. Stevenson's friends, and I had already heard her history. Hers is such a sad story. There are no happy stories at the Dove-cote. She was the youngest of a large family. Her father was a lawyer. He was a bad, dishonest man, and very brutal to his wife and daughters. He had even turned them out-of-doors, when he was in one of his mad rages. He was taken up at last for disposing of some trust money. I think he speculated with it. But before the trial came on he died from some short inflammatory illness. Mother Midge was hardly grown up then. But she has a keen recollection of all that miserable time.
"The mother sunk into a chronic invalid. One of her daughters was crippled; the rest worked at dress-making and millinery. Once they kept a little school. But the name of Bennet was against them. They had no friends; people seemed to be shy of them. Years of struggle followed, during which first one, then another, succumbed. They were all delicate except Mother Midge. She was the youngest and sturdiest of them all. When I first knew her she was all alone. Her last sister was just buried. She was working for a ladies' outfitting shop, and was very poorly paid. Her eyesight, too, was failing, partly from impure air and insufficient food. I thought, Why should not Lydia Bennet make a home for my dear old men? I spoke to Mr. Harland, and he humored my fancy. Dear father was just dead, and he thought the plan would occupy my thoughts a little. He bought the cottages for me, and the field, and I furnished a few rooms. Mother Midge took possession, and then came the two old men and wee Robbie. Barty and Deb came next. It is only a family, Annette. We do not pretend to do great things. Three of my children—little Barty, and Freddy, and Nan, have left us—flown away, as Mother Midge says. Jack will be the next to go. We have room for two more. And as the pensioners die off we shall replace them. You have no idea how wisely Mother Midge and the Corporal rule. These neglected children learn to obey, and soon discover that their happiness consists in keeping the rules. We allow no idleness. Every child feels that he earns his or her daily bread. Even Dick, with his limited intellect, has work that he can do. Ah! there they go to their lessons," as the little knot of lads hurried past, with the Corporal at their head.
And then came Mother Midge with her knitting, and wee Robbie. "No one can teach wee Robbie anything," said Averil; "but in his own way he is as happy as the day is long."
Twoor three hours later, as they were crossing the little goose green in the sunset, Averil said softly to Mother Midge:
"I have had such a nice time. The sweet country air and the sound of the children's voices have destroyed all the cobwebs."
"I am so glad of that, dearie," was Mother Midge's answer; and then Jemmy touched his old white hat to them, and again they drove through the still, dewy lanes. Averil leaned back against the shabby cushions. Annette thought she was tired, and left her undisturbed; but it was not fatigue that sealed Averil's lips. A sweet spell of rest, of thankfulness, of quiet heart-satisfaction, seemed to infold her. These sort of moods were not rare with Averil; she had her hours of exaltation, when life seemed very sweet to her, and the discords of existence, its chilling disappointments, its weary negations, and never-ending responsibilities, lay less heavily on her, as though invisible hands had lifted the burden, and had anointed her eyes with some holy chrism. Then it was that Averil grasped the meaning and beauty of a life that to those who loved her seemed overfull of care and anxiety—when the veil seemed lifted; and as she looked round on the few helpless creatures whom she fed and sheltered, she felt no personal happiness could be so sweet as this power of giving happiness to others. "What does it matter," she said softly, to herself—and a solemn look came into her eyes as she looked over the tranquil landscape—"what does it matter if one be a little lonely, a little weary sometimes, if only one can help others—if one can do a little good work before the Master calls us? To go home and have no sheaves to take with us, oh, that would be terrible!"
"I wonder if Lottie has had a happy day, too?" observed Annette, as they came in sight of Redfern House. The moon was shining; through the open windows came the sound of laughter, of voices.
Averil roused herself with an effort.
"They seem very merry," she said, tranquilly. "Annette, I have ordered supper to be laid in my sitting-room. I knew they would have finished dinner by this time. When you have taken off your hat, will you join me there?"
"May I speak to you a moment, ma'am?" asked Roberts. "Captain Beverley and Mr. Forbes are dining here, and—"
But Annette did not hear any more. She was tired and hungry; she made a speedy toilet. As she ran down-stairs she was surprised to find Averil still in her walking-dress. "Do not wait for me," she said, hastily. "Roberts, will you see my cousin has all she wants? Annette, I am sorry, but I shall not be long."
Averil's room looked the picture of comfort. The supper-table was laid; the pretty shaded candles and flowers had a charming effect; the glass doors were open, and a flood of moonlight silvered the lawn and illuminated the garden paths. Maud was singing; the clear, girlish voice seemed to blend with the scene. A masculine voice—was it Rodney's?—was accompanying her. "Oh, that we two were maying!"—how sweetly it sounded.
It was some little time before Averil reappeared. To Annette's surprise, she was in evening-dress. The old grave look had come to her face again; but she said nothing—only summoned Annette to the table.
"You should not have waited," she said, reproachfully. "Annette, when we have finished supper, I shall have to leave you. Roberts tells me that some of Rodney's friends are dining here, and it will not do for the mistress to absent herself."
"Is it for that you have changed your dress, my cousin? And you are so tired. It is a pity—it is a great pity. Ah, the music has stopped! They have been singing so deliciously. I wish you could have heard them. There was a man's voice—I think he must be a great singer."
"Captain Beverley has a fine voice. I suppose he and Maud were trying a duet together. Oh, here comes Lottie!" as a bright face suddenly appeared in the door-way. "Well, little one, come and give an account of yourself."
"Oh, how cozy you look!" exclaimed Lottie, pouncing on them both in her lively way, and giving them a score of airy kisses. Lottie was looking charming in her pretty pink frock.
"Well, what do you think of Mother Midge and the Corporal? Is he not an old dear, Annette? No, Averil, I am not going to answer a question until Annette gives me her opinion of the Dove-cote."
Annette was too happy to be interrogated; she poured forth a stream of eulogy, of delight, into Lottie's listening ears. Nothing had escaped her; she retailed the day's proceedings in her own vivid, picturesque way.
"My cousin is the happiest person in the world," she finished, seriously. "Most people have to be content with their own happiness. You and I are those people, Lottie. But Averil creates heart-sunshine. Ah, you must not tell me to hush! Have I not heard all those wonderful stories—Mother Midge, and the two old men, and wee Robbie, even the pensioners? Oh, if we could only go through the world and gather in the sick and sorrowful ones! My cousin does not need to envy any one—surely no happiness can be like hers."
"Thank you, dear," returned Averil, in a low voice; but the grave look was still in her eyes. "Lottie, it is your turn now. Have you had a happy day?"
"Oh, yes," returned Lottie, carelessly; but her dimples betrayed her. "Everything was very pleasant. The Courtlands were civil, and the gardens beautiful, and the ices were excellent."
"And Frank was there?"
"Oh, yes; Mr. Frank was there. His mother had given him a note for you;" and Lottie fumbled in her pocket. "Mr. Chesterton was there too. By the bye," with an evident effort to appear unconcerned, "Georgina wants you to ask the Courtlands and Mr. Chesterton to dinner next week. She was talking about it all the way home."
"Well, I have no objection," began Averil, with rather an amused look; but Lottie interposed in a rather shame-faced way:
"No, and, of course, Georgie will speak to you herself. Only she said this evening to Maud, that there would be no room for me at table. I think Georgina does not want me to be there; she seemed put out because—" Here Lottie came to a dead stop.
"Oh, I see," in a meaning tone, as Lottie produced the letter; "well, you are wise to come to head-quarters. Georgina's little humors can not be allowed to disarrange my dinner-table."
"If there be no room for Lottie, there can be no room for me, my cousin," struck in Annette.
"There will be room for both," returned Averil, quietly. "I will ask Frank and Louie, and will make Georgina understand that it is quite an informal dinner-party. Don't distress your little head about it, Lottie. Let me read my letter in peace;" and Lottie's look of radiant good-humor returned. Her cheeks had grown as pink as her dress during the last few minutes, but Averil took no notice, only when she had finished her letter she smiled and handed it to Annette.
It was Annette's turn to look radiant now. "Oh, how kind!" she exclaimed, breathlessly. "Lottie, this is for you also. Mrs. Harland (that is monsieur's wife, I suppose) has made the most charming arrangement. We are to spend the day and sleep—that will be twenty-four hours of happiness. This is what she says: 'My husband will be pleased to see his little Dinan friend again. He was highly complimented when Frank told him how cordially monsieur was remembered. My girls are most anxious to make Miss Ramsay's acquaintance; and as we can put up Lottie, there is no need to leave her behind. If you will come to lunch, we shall have a nice long day, and Lottie can have some tennis.' My cousin, shall we go? Next Monday—that is a good day, is it not?"
"Of course we shall go," interposed Lottie. "Do you think Averil could have the heart to refuse us such a treat? Mrs. Harland is a darling for thinking of me. Of all places, I do love to go to Grey-Mount."
"You need not tell me that," returned Averil, rising.
Now, what was there in that little speech to make Lottie change color again? Annette's quickness could make nothing of the situation. Why should not Lottie love Grey-Mount, when monsieur lived there, and so many charming people? Why did Averil give that amused little laugh as Lottie pushed her chair away petulantly, and said rather impatiently that it was growing late, and that she must go back to the drawing-room. Lottie was really a very excitable little person; she did not even wait when Averil said she was coming too; she ran down the steps and across the lawn, leaving Averil to bid good-night to Annette.
"I shall be late—you must not wait for me," she said, quietly. "Where has that madcap flown? I dare say you think Lottie is in an odd mood to-night. How pretty the child grows! Lottie has a sweet face—one can not wonder if she be admired. Good-night, Annette; pleasant dreams. To-morrow I will answer Mrs. Harland's kind invitation."
Annette went to bed happily, but she was far too excited to sleep; the recollections of the day were too vivid. Jack and Snip, and even woe-begone Molly, with her patient, heavy face, started up one by one before her—the green field, with the pensioners, the seat under the elm-tree, Daddy and Bob and the lame jackdaw, wee Robbie with his wistful blue eyes, passed and repassed before her inward vision. Now she was walking with Mother Midge across the goose green, now watching Deb as she fetched the water from the well; the pigeons were fluttering over the cottage roofs. She seemed sinking into a dream, when a voice spoke her name.
"Are you asleep, Annette? I thought I heard you cough;" and Lottie, still in her pink dress, shielded her candle, and glided into the room.
"I was dreaming, but I do not think I was asleep," returned Annette, drowsily. "Is it not very late, Lottie? And you are still up and dressed."
"Yes, and I am so tired," she returned, disconsolately, as she extinguished the light and sat down on the bed. "Annette, I hope I am not disturbing you, but I felt so wretched I could not go to my own room."
"Wretched, my Lottie!" and Annette was wide awake now.
"Yes, but not on my account. Oh, no; it is Averil of whom I am thinking. How can they be so ungrateful?—how can they have the heart to treat her so? It is not Rodney, it is Maud who puts this affront on her, who will have that odious man to the house. What can aunt be thinking about? Why does she not take Averil's part? But no; they are all against her, and yet they owe everything to her."
"I do not understand," returned Annette, in a bewildered tone. "What has happened? Lottie, I implore you to speak more plainly. Have they quarreled with my cousin? And it was only yesterday—yesterday—"
"Yes, I know; Mr. Frank told me. I don't think he will ever forgive aunt that speech. They are always making those little sneering innuendoes. I think Mr. Frank would like to fight them all. He is just like Averil's brother—her great big brother—and I am sure he is nearly as fond of her as he is of his sister Louie."
"But he has many sisters, has he not? Monsieur told me of his sons and daughters. There were Nettie, and Fan, and Owen—oh, I forget the rest."
"Yes; but Louie is Mr. Frank's own sister. Don't you see, their mother died when they were quite young, and Mr. Harland married again. Oh, yes, Mr. Frank has plenty of half-brothers and sisters, but they are much younger. Nettie and Fan are still in the school-room, and Owen and Bob at Rugby; and the twins are only seven years old."
"I like to hear about these people very much; but, Lottie, this is not the subject. What has gone wrong to-night? Why is our dear Averil so troubled?"
"Everything is wrong," returned Lottie, dejectedly. "Averil has taken a very great dislike to Captain Beverley. He is very rich, and a friend of Rodney, and he is paying Maud great attention. Averil, for some reason, does not think well of him, and she has begged aunt to keep him at a distance. She insists that he is only a flirt, and that all his attentions mean nothing; and he is doing Rodney great harm."
"A flirt! What is that, my Lottie?"
"Oh, he pretends that he admires Maud—and perhaps he does, for every one knows how handsome she is; but he has no right to single her out as he does, and make people talk, unless he means to marry her. Averil is afraid Maud is beginning to like him, and she has spoken very seriously to aunt. But, you see, they believe in him, and they will have it that Averil is prejudiced."
"And they invite him here to dinner in her absence?"
"Yes—that is so wrong, because, of course, it is Averil's house, and she has several times refused to have him. He was at the At Home, but she could not help herself there. You must have seen him—a tall, fine-looking man, with a red mustache, and eyes rather close together—he is generally beside Maud."
"I did not regard him; but what of that? It seems to me that Mr. Rodney is to blame most."
"Of course he was to blame, but it was Maud who suggested the invitation. Anyhow, it was putting a very serious affront upon Averil. You must know that Maud and Georgina too take such liberties that Averil has been obliged to make it a rule that no one is to be invited to the house unless she be consulted. Maud has been trying to pass it off as an impromptu thought, but she planned it herself at breakfast, and when aunt tried to dissuade her, she talked her and Rodney over. Mr. Forbes is another of Averil'sbêtes noires. He is rich and idle, and she says it will ruin Rodney to associate with such men."
"Does not Mrs. Willmot recognize the danger? She is old—she is a mother—most mothers are wise."
"I am afraid aunt is not very wise," replied Lottie, sorrowfully; "she never could manage Maud. I think she is afraid of her. But this is not all, Annette. Averil is very strict in some things—she has been brought up differently from other girls. She does not like cards; and it is one of her rules that no play for money is allowed in this house. Well, when we went to the drawing-room they were all playing at some game—I don't know the name—for three-penny points. Captain Beverley had started it."
"But that was wrong—it was altogether wrong."
"Rodney got very red, and looked uncomfortable when he saw Averil; but Maud only held up her cards and burst out laughing. 'When the cat is away, my dear,' she said, in her flippant way. 'Don't look so terribly shocked, Averil; we shall only lose a few shillings—no one will be ruined. It is your turn to play, Captain Beverley.'
"'Will you excuse me, Captain Beverley,' returned Averil, in the quietest voice, 'if I venture to disturb your game? It is a matter of principle with me: both my father and I have always had a great dislike to any game that is played for money. In this house it has never been done until this evening. You will do me the greatest favor if you will choose some other game.'"
"Howcould she have the courage?" mused Annette, when Lottie had finished her recital, and she repeated her thoughts aloud.
"Averil is never wanting in courage, but the worst of it is, her mind is stronger than her body, and that tells on her. Of course, when she spoke in that quiet, decided tone, there could be no possible appeal. Maud threw down her cards and walked to the piano with the air of an offended queen. 'I believe music was forbidden in some Puritan households, Captain Beverley,' she said, in a sarcastic voice. 'I am thankful to inform you that it is not yet placed on the list of tabooed amusements.' Captain Beverley made some answer in a low voice, and then they both laughed. Averil tried her best to put them all at their ease. She praised Maud's singing, she talked to them cheerfully; but both gentlemen took their leave as soon as possible. Rodney went with them. I heard Averil beg him as a favor to her to stay at home, but he was sulky, and refused to listen. He said, 'The other fellows would only think him a muff, and he was not going to stand any more preaching.' They went away to their club. I can see how uncomfortable Averil is. She thinks that she has done more harm than good. I left her talking to aunt and Maud. Maud was in one of her tempers, and there was a regular scene. Hush! I hear her voice now; they are coming up to bed. Not a word more; they must not find out I am here."
Annette lay perfectly still, and Lottie crept to the door. Maud's room was just across the passage, and both the girls hoped to hear her close her door; but to their dismay, she stood outside, talking in an angry voice to her mother.
"It is too bad; she gets worse every day!" they heard her say, in a tone of passionate insistence.
"I can not help it," returned Mrs. Willmot, fretfully. "You ought to know Averil by this time. You go too far, Maud; I am always telling you so. You think of nothing but your own pleasure. It was foolish to put this affront on Averil. You might know that with her high spirit she would resent it."
"Nonsense, mamma. You are afraid of her, and Georgie is afraid of her too. How can you let yourself be ruled by a slip of a girl? Of course, I know it is her home. Does not everything belong to her? If we were not so miserably poor, we need not live in this Egyptian bondage—afraid to invite a friend or to say our soul is our own. I wonder what Captain Beverley thinks of his evening's amusement? It will be a fine joke between him and Mr. Forbes. I declare, I don't envy Rodney. 'My father and I have always had a great dislike to any game that is played for money.' Did ever any one hear such cant in a modern drawing-room? I am glad I made her uncomfortable about Rodney. The poor boy is not playing those penny points now at the club. Ah, she turned quite white, I assure you."
"You talk as though you had not your brother's interest at heart," returned Mrs. Willmot, in the same fretful voice. "I wish Captain Beverley would not take him to his club; he is far too young. Averil is right there. Maud, what was he saying to you in the garden just after dinner?"
But here the voices dropped, and a moment afterward the door of Maud's room closed, and with a whispered good-night Lottie made her escape.
But there was no rest for Averil. Long after Annette had fallen into a refreshing sleep a weary little figure paced up and down the deserted drawing-room. She had sent Roberts to bed when that faithful old domestic came to extinguish the lights.
"I will wait up for Mr. Rodney," she had said. "I do not expect he will be very late." But for once she was wrong. Rodney was very late indeed. The church clock had chimed two before she heard his bell. Averil's thoughts were not pleasant; the sting of Maud's words was still abiding with her.
"Is she right? Have I driven him away to worse things?" she asked herself. "Ought I to have allowed the game to go on, and then have spoken afterward? Would that not have been been temporizing with wrong things? 'One can always go down the little crooked lane,' as dear father used to say. He was so fond of the 'Pilgrim's Progress!' I could only remember how he hated this sort of amusement, and to see it played in this house, when in his life-time they never dared propose such a thing! I know his friends thought him strait-laced—even Mr. Harland; but what does that matter? If one has principle, there must be no compromise. Still, if she be right, and Rodney—" Here a look of pain crossed Averil's face, and she clasped her hands involuntarily. "Oh, my darling, how can I save you when your own mother and sister will not help me? Maud is infatuated. That man will never ask her to marry him; he will look far higher for his wife. A Miss Seymour will not be good enough for Oliver Beverley. I have told my step-mother so again and again; but Maud's influence is greater than mine. Oh, how much happier will be my little Lottie's fate! I know from what Frank says that Ned Chesterton is in earnest; and what could be better—a good son and brother, and rising in his profession? Perhaps he will not speak yet; but they are both young enough to wait. Lottie looks very happy to-night—God bless her!" And here a low, heavy sigh rose to Averil's lips.
She started as the sound of the bell reached her, and hurried out to unbolt the door. Rodney did not at once see her; he thought it was Roberts. He came in whistling—his face was flushed and excited.
"Sorry to keep you up so late, old fellow," he said, in his good-humored way. "Why, Averil!"—and then his face clouded—"there was no need for this attention," he muttered, as he put down his hat.
Averil followed him.
"Don't be vexed, Rodney. I could not go to bed until you came in. You have given me enough to bear already. Why were you so unkind as to refuse to stay at home, when I asked you as a favor?"
Rodney's reply was very unsatisfactory. He boasted of his small gains in a tone that deeply grieved Averil. Seeing his face flushed with drink and with the excitement of play, she turned away. Could she save him? Was he not already a long way down that little crooked path upon which another brisk lad, whose name was Ignorance, and who came out of the country of Conceit, had already walked?
There were bitter tears shed in Averil's room that night as she prayed long and earnestly for one whom she called her brother.
Was Rodney conscious of this as he lay tossing feverishly? How many such prayers are offered up night after night for many a beloved and erring one! What says the apostle? that "he which converteth the sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins."
Unwin had reason to grieve over her mistress's worn looks the next morning, but she asked no questions and made no comments. Unwin was too wise a woman to waste regrets over what could not be helped. Roberts had told her enough, and she could form her own conclusions. The household were quite aware that another indignity had been on their idolized mistress, "and by them as are not fit to tie her shoes," observed the kitchen-maid, contemptuously; for Maud's imperious manners and lack of courtesy made her no favorite with the servants.
Averil did not waste words either. She took no further notice of yesterday's occurrence. When she met her step-mother and the girls at luncheon, she accosted them pleasantly and in her usual manner; it was Maud who hardly deigned to answer, who averted her head with studied coldness every time Averil addressed her. Some hours of brooding and a naturally haughty temper had only fanned Maud's discontent to a fiercer flame. It was easy to see that she regarded herself in the light of an injured person.
Lottie, who had been to the Stores to execute some commissions for her aunt, did not make her appearance until luncheon was nearly over, and then she and Rodney came in together. Rodney still looked a little sulky; he gave Averil a curt nod as he took his place, and snubbed Georgina when she inquired after his headache. "There is no need to publish it on the house-tops," he said, irritably. "It is only women who are fond of talking about their little ailments. I suppose there is some ice in the house, Ave? This water is quite lukewarm."
"I'll ring and ask Roberts," observed Lottie. "Maud, Madame Delamotte is waiting to speak to you. She says there has been no answer, and when Hall told her that you were at luncheon, she only said she would wait, as her business was very important."
Georgina darted a frightened, imploring glance at her sister, but Maud only grew very red.
"It is very impertinent," she muttered, angrily, "but these sort of people have no consideration. I shall tell Madame Delamotte that I shall withdraw my custom if she pesters me in this way. Lottie, will you tell her, please—But no, perhaps I had better go myself;" and Maud swept out of the room in her usual haughty fashion.
Rodney laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but Averil seemed uneasy and preoccupied.
Mrs. Willmot had taken no notice of this little interruption; her slow, lymphatic temperament seldom troubled itself over passing things. Madame Delamotte was the girls' dress-maker. She supposed Maud had been extravagant enough to order a new dress for Lady Beverley's "small and early." "I really must lecture her about extravagance;" and here she adjusted her eyeglass, and looked at some fashion-plates with a serene absorption that was truly enviable.
Averil's uneasiness seemed to increase, and at last she made an excuse to leave the table. As she passed through the hall quickly, she came upon Maud; she was in close conversation with a thin, careworn-looking woman dressed in the height of fashion. Averil knew Mme. Delamotte slightly; she had been to her shop on more than one occasion. As she bade her a civil "good-morning," the French woman accosted her in a nervous, agitated manner.
"Miss Willmot, may I implore your assistance with this young lady? I can not persuade her to hear me. The bill is large, and she says I shall have still to wait for my money; and, alas! business is 'bad.'"
"Averil, I must beg you not to interfere," returned Maud, angrily. "Madame Delamotte is grossly impertinent. I have every intention of settling her bill, but just now it is not convenient, and—" here Maud hesitated.
"Madame Delamotte, will you come into my room a moment?" observed Averil, quietly. "Maud, you had better come, too. There is no need to take the whole household into confidence; and the hall is far too public a place for this sort of conversation."
But Maud refused. "I have said all I have to say," she returned, contemptuously. "If Madame Delamotte chooses to dun me in this fashion, I shall have no further dealings with her. If you mix yourself up in my affairs, you must take the consequences: the bill will be settled all in good time."
Averil made no answer; she only signed to the dressmaker to follow her, and as soon as they were alone Mme. Delamotte produced her account. She was visibly discomposed, and began to apologize.
"Miss Seymour is too hard with me," she said, almost tearfully. "I have never dunned any one. The young ladies are good customers; I have great pleasure in working for them; but it is necessary to see one's money. This account has been running for a year and a half, and now Miss Seymour says it is exorbitant. Everything is down; I have used the best of materials—nothing else would satisfy her. What would become of me if all my customers treated me in this way?"
Averil glanced down the bill, then she folded it up. "You are perfectly right, Madame Delamotte; your complaint is a just one. Will you leave the account with me? I can promise you that it shall be settled before to-morrow evening. I think you know me sufficiently to rely on my word."
"Every one knows Miss Willmot," returned the French woman, politely. "You have removed a great weight from my mind trusting you with the fact that I am greatly in need of the money."
"Then in that case I will write you a check in advance, if you will give me a receipt;" and as Mme. Delamotte seemed overjoyed at this concession, Averil sat down to her writing-table; but as she wrote out the check a look of disquiet crossed her face. "How can any one act so dishonorably?" she thought; but she little knew the seducing and evil effects of pampered vanity. She checked Mme. Delamotte's profuse thanks very gently but decidedly, and when she had dismissed her she sat on for a long time with her head on her hand, revolving the whole matter.
"I have robbed my poor, just to pay for all these fine dresses," she said, bitterly, "and yet it had to be done. Now I must go and speak to Mrs. Willmot. Oh! what a sickening world all this is. I feel like Sisyphus, forever rolling my stony burden uphill. Oh, Mother Midge, if I could only leave it all and take refuge with you!"
Mrs. Willmot was dozing in the morning-room; her book lay on her lap; but it had long ago slipped through her fingers. She regarded Averil drowsily as she sat down opposite to her, and settling her cap-strings with a yawn, asked what had become of the girls.
"I do not know, Mrs. Willmot. I am sorry to disturb you, but it is necessary for us to have a serious talk. Madame Delamotte has been here to beg Maud to settle her bill. Are you aware?" regarding her sternly, "that neither she nor Georgina has attempted to pay their dress-maker for the last year and a half?"
Mrs. Willmot's placid face lost a little of its color; she looked alarmed, and held out her hand for the account, which Averil still held.
"There is no occasion to look at it," she said, coldly. "I can tell you the exact amount;" and as she named the sum, Mrs. Willmot uttered a faint exclamation and threw herself back in her chair.
"I don't believe it!" she said, vehemently, and her weak, handsome face was quite pale. "There is vile imposition. Madame Delamotte ought to be ashamed of herself; my girls do not owe half that sum. I will ask Maud. No; Maud is so hot and impetuous she never will let me speak. Georgina will be better."
"There is no need to send for her either. I have a good memory, and have verified most of the items. The bill is large, but then it has been running on for eighteen months. I only want to know how you propose to settle it."
AsAveril asked this question in her usual quiet manner, her step-mother's perturbation increased; she was brought face to face with an unexpected difficulty—and Mrs. Willmot hated any sort of complication. To eat, drink, and be merry were important items in her code. She was indolent, and liked comfort, and, as she said, "Her girls were too much for her."
"What shall you do?" reiterated Averil, patiently, as Mrs. Willmot only sighed and looked unhappy.
"I think I am the most miserable woman alive," she returned, stung to weak exasperation by Averil's quiet persistence. "You have no pity for me, Averil; and yet I was your father's wife, and a good wife, too. What is the good of asking me to settle this infamous bill—for infamous it is, as I mean to tell Madame—when I have not a hundred pounds left, in the bank, and that boy is always drawing on me?"
"Do you mean Rodney?" interposed Averil, eagerly. "Let us leave this bill for a moment while I speak to you of him. Has he answered Mr. Harland's letter?" For two days previously a letter had come to Rodney from the lawyer, offering him a post in Canada that promised to be very remunerative in the future. Mr. Harland had spoken very warmly of the advantages attaching to such a situation, and Averil had indorsed this opinion. The letter had arrived early on the morning of her reception; but, in spite of all her business, she had talked for more than half an hour to both Rodney and her step-mother, begging them to close at once with the offer. Rodney seemed rather in favor of it: to use his own phrase, he thought Canadian life would be "awfully jolly," and he promised to talk his mother over; but until now Averil had heard nothing.
"Has Rodney written to Mr. Harland?" she asked again, as Mrs. Willmot hesitated, and seemed unwilling to answer.
"Yes, he has written," she said, at last, when Averil compelled her to speak. "I declare, you make me so nervous, Averil, sitting opposite me, and questioning me in that jerky fashion, that I hardly know how to answer."
"And he has accepted the post?" still more eagerly.
"He has done nothing of the kind," returned her step-mother, pettishly. "You have no heart, Averil. You do not understand a mother's feelings. Do you suppose I am going to let my boy go all that distance? As though there were no other places to be found in England. I should break my heart without him. I was awake half the night, thinking about it. I did not have a bit of peace until I got the dear fellow to write and decline it this morning."
Averil's little hands were pressed tightly together. "Give me patience," she whispered. Then aloud, "Mrs. Willmot, are you aware of the advantages you have thrown away? Let me implore you to reconsider this; it is not too late—a telegram will nullify the letter. I am very unhappy about Rodney. He seems to be mixed up with a set of most undesirable friends. They are all richer and older than he. They take him to their club; they induce him to play for money. It is no use warning you against Captain Beverley on Maud's account but for Rodney's sake—"
But here Mrs. Willmot interrupted her.
"Don't say a word against Captain Beverley, Averil. Things will very soon be settled between him and Maud, I can tell you that," with a meaning nod. "I know he is not a favorite of yours; but he is one of the best catches of the season. Every one will tell you that. Look at Beverley House! And then Oliver, though he is only the second son, has fifteen hundred a year, and they say he is his uncle's heir. No one thinks much of his brother's health—he seems a sickly sort of person. Mark my words—Maud will be Lady Beverley one day."
Averil gave vent to a despairing sigh. What impression could she make on this weak, worldly nature? She had often argued with her step-mother, and had encountered the same placid resistance to all her appeals. Weak people are often obstinate. Mrs. Willmot was no exception; she would listen to Averil, agree with her, and finally end by doing exactly as she had intended at first.
On the present occasion Averil did not spare her.
"You are wrong," she said, vehemently. "One day you will know how wrong you have been. Captain Beverley is only flirting with Maud—he will never propose to her. The Beverley's will look far higher than our family. You are encouraging her in this miserable infatuation, and both you and she are sacrificing Rodney."
"What do you mean by this extraordinary statement, Averil?" And Mrs. Willmot drew herself up with an affronted air.
"Captain Beverley is using Rodney for his own ends. Do you suppose a man of his age has any interest in a boy like Rodney? It pleases him to come here, and he throws a careless invitation to him now and then, which he is far too pleased to accept. Rodney will be ruined, for Frank tells me they are a wild, extravagant set. This Canadian scheme would save him—it would break off his intimacy with those men; it would remove him from the scene of his temptation. Mrs. Willmot, you are sacrificing your boy to Maud's fancied interest—it is she who is keeping him here."
But though Averil went on in this strain until she was exhausted, she could not induce her step-mother to alter her decision. She was evidently touched once or twice as Averil pleaded; an uneasy look came over her face.
"You are prejudiced—Maud thinks very differently from that," she observed, more than once. It was Maud who was evidently the mother's adviser.
Averil had to desist at last with a sore heart; but before she broke off the conversation she returned again to the subject of Mme. Delamotte. She made far more impression here. Mrs. Willmot burst into tears when she saw the receipted bill; she even kissed Averil affectionately, and called her her dear, her dearest girl. There was no want of gratitude for the timely help that had staved off the evil day of reckoning. Mrs. Willmot spoke the truth when she said that she would never forget this generous act.
"My girls have treated me badly," she said, with unusual bitterness—"Maud especially. I know I am to blame leaving things so much to Maud; but she is clever, and has a clear head, and never muddles things as I do. I thought there were only two quarters owing—I certainly understood that last year's account had been settled. I remember drawing a check—Stop! was it for Madame Delamotte or Rodney? My memory is so bad, and the children seem always pestering me for money."
Mrs. Willmot's explanation was by no means lucid; but Averil, who knew her perfectly, did not in the least accuse her of insincerity. She was aware that her stepmother was a bad woman of business; that she was indolent, and suffered herself to be ruled by her high-spirited daughter. She had always shifted her responsibilities on to other people.
To do her justice, she was extremely shocked at the want of rectitude on Maud's part, and promised readily that such a thing should never occur again—the quarterly bill should be settled in future. She even acquiesced very meekly when Averil announced her intention of speaking to Maud very plainly.
"I shall tell her," she finished—and there was a stern, set look round Averil's mouth as she spoke, that showed she fully meant what she said—"that if such a disgraceful occurrence ever takes place again in this house, I shall consider it my duty to make different arrangements for the future."
"I am sure she deserves to be frightened," returned Mrs. Willmot, tearfully. She was plainly awed by Averil's manner, though she did not in the least believe this threat.
But Averil had not spoken without due reflection. During the long sleepless night she had tried to look her duty in the face; her step-mother had claims on her, but was it right that her poor should be defrauded—that her father's money should be squandered to satisfy the rapacity of these headstrong young people? Was she not encouraging them in habits of extravagance and idleness? She could bear her daily martyrdom, the homely sacrifice; but that it should be in vain, that it should be productive of evil and not good, this was intolerable to her.
She went to her own room, feeling weary and disquieted. The worst part—her talk with Maud—was to come. She felt she had need to brace herself afresh for the stormy discussion. As she sat down by the window she saw Rodney lounging on the lawn; his brief sulkiness had vanished. In reality he was a sweet-tempered fellow, and hated to be on bad terms with any one.
"Halloo, Ave," he said, as he caught sight of her, "what have you and the mater been talking about all this time? There seems to be a precious row about something."
Averil was utterly spent—she put out her hand to him with a little sob.
"Why do you all make my life so miserable?" she said. "It is not fair. I have done nothing to deserve it."
Rodney gave his usual shrug and kicked a loose pebble. He wished he had not spoken. The least approach to a scene gave him an uncomfortable sensation. Averil saw his dismay, and recovered herself at once.
"Come and sit down," she said, hastily. "I want to talk to you. Rodney, why did you write to Mr. Harland without speaking to me again? It troubles me inexpressibly to think that you have thrown away such a chance. Do you know, Frank says—"
"Oh, Frank again!" returned Rodney, crossly. "I beg your pardon, Ave," as she looked somewhat offended at this; "I do hate to have a fellow flung at me like that. How could I help writing when the mater and Maud made such a fuss—"
"But you would have liked it yourself?"
"I don't know. It is rather a bore leaving all one's friends. Beverley says there are better berths to be picked up here. There is Forbes's brother, Alick—"
"Please do not tell me what Captain Beverley or Mr. Forbes think; Mr. Harland is a far wiser adviser. Rodney, dear, I am very unhappy about you. You are not choosing your friends wisely. I dread Captain Beverley's influence. He is rich, a man of the world, and intensely selfish. His habits can not be yours. Your mother's means are not large; you have no right to live as though you had expectations. You would be far safer and happier in Canada than staying on here in idleness."
"It is not my fault," returned Rodney, impatiently. "I was quite willing to go, only the mater cried about it, and Maud told me that I was only thinking of my own interests. Don't you see, Ave," in a coaxing voice, "I am in rather a difficult position—I can't turn a cold shoulder on Beverley when he is making up to Maud. It is quite true what she says—that I am the only son, and that it is rather shabby to leave the mater if she does not want to part with me."
"Rodney, if you would only give up the society of these men. I think I dislike Mr. Forbes even more than Captain Beverley. I never can trust a man who does not look you in the face. Frank told me that he belongs to one of the fastest sets in town."
"Nonsense! Forbes is a capital fellow—I don't know any one more good-natured or amusing. He has done me a good turn more than once. But"—interrupting himself—"you are only a girl—you would not understand."
"I think I know more than most girls," returned Averil, with a sad smile. "I am very old for my age. Try me, Rodney. I wish you would tell me everything;" and she looked anxiously at the fair, boyish face, with its handsome, irresolute mouth. If he would only confide in her! But even as the thought passed through her mind Rodney threw off some unwelcome reflection, and shook himself with a light laugh.
"You are a good little soul, Ave," he said, jumping up. "Don't bother your head about me. Something is sure to turn up, so there is no need to banish me to Canada;" and Rodney went off whistling.
Averil sat for a little time alone, then Lottie brought her some tea, and after that she went in search of Maud.
No one knew what passed between them. Mrs. Willmot, in her selfish policy, thought it wise not to inquire. Averil did not appear again that evening—she had a headache, and remained in her own room. Georgina noticed that Maud was in an unusually bad temper; she snubbed Lottie mercilessly, and was positively rude to Annette. But Georgina was not a very close observer; she failed to detect a certain uneasiness and restlessness, that seemed to increase as the evening wore on. Maud took no one into her confidence; if any expectation she had formed had met with disappointment, she was strong enough to bear it in silence.
"It has been a stupid day," said Annette, as she parted from Lottie that night. "Something has gone wrong—my cousin is miserable."
But Lottie could give her no information. The evening had been a failure; Maud had been cross and detestable; Rodney had gone out; no one had ventured to speak. "Never mind; things will be better to-morrow, and there is Grey-Mount on Monday," she said, with the gay philosophy that was natural to her.
"Things will be better to-morrow"—a very Lottie-like speech. Lottie's sanguine temperament never predicted misfortune; if matters were unsatisfactory to-day, they were sure to mend. It was this bright joyousness, this faith in an ultimate good, that had made the little school-girl happy in spite of shabby clothes, hard task-masters, and uncongenial labors; it was this sweet, unselfish nature, so child-like, and yet so sound at the core, that was weaving the love that was to be the blessing of her life.
It was not Lottie's pink cheeks, her bright eyes, and pleasant ways, that were binding Ned Chesterton's heart to her so surely, for Ned was an intelligent, shrewd fellow, and knew better than to build his life's happiness on such shifting materials. It was the girl's frankness, her honesty, her loyal devotion to those she loved, and her sweet yielding temper, that had first attracted him. He was not a rich man: the young lawyer would have to work hard at his profession before he could afford the luxury of a wife; but he had long ago said to himself that that wife should be Lottie Jones.
Averilwas rather quiet and subdued the next day or two, but as usual she battled bravely with her depression, and tried not to damp the enjoyment of her two young companions.
The new work-room was finished, and looked very comfortable; and Fairy Order, as Lottie still called her, was quite in her element. There was plenty of time now for the music lessons and practicing. Lottie was learning to chatter in French, and Annette found her a most intelligent pupil. The girls sat together, walked together, or drove out with Averil; no one interfered with them. When Lottie had letters to write, or her aunt or cousins wanted her, Annette went in search of Averil, or sat in the garden with her book. Maud and Georgina made no attempt to admit her into their companionship; they still treated her with coldness, as though they regarded her as an interloper. In the evenings when Averil read to herself, she and Lottie escaped into the garden, or whispered together over their work. Georgina once asked them contemptuously what they could find to talk about; she sneered slightly as she spoke. When friends were not present there were often lapses of silence. Rodney would complain of the dullness, and go out in search of amusement.
"I wish we could go out too," Georgina would say. "I think no family of old maids could be more deadly dull. Mamma goes to sleep, and Averil reads, and Maud writes letters."
"I wish you would be quiet and let me finish my notes," Maud would say, pettishly—she seemed always irritable now; and then Georgina would subside into moody silence. If any one came in there was an instantaneous change; for example, if Captain Beverley dropped in for a moment to fetch Rodney, Maud's eyes would brighten, her prettiest songs would be sung; Mrs. Willmot would be broad awake and smiling; only Averil's grave little face did not relax, her greeting never became warmer.
The day at Grey-Mount was a great success. As Averil looked at the girls' bright faces as they took their places in the train the cloud seemed to lift off her own spirits; it was delightful to think that for twenty-four hours her worries would be in the background. Kind greetings, approving smiles, hearty sympathy, were all awaiting her; no dissatisfied looks, no struggling wills would mar her enjoyment. Averil's brow grew calm and clear as a little child's as the prospect widened, and when they reached Chislehurst she was talking as merrily as her companions.
"There is Louie!" exclaimed Lottie, as the train slackened speed, and a tall, pleasant-looking girl gave her an answering nod and smile. She had a strong resemblance to her brother Frank, and, like him, had no claims to beauty; but her frank, open countenance, attracted Annette.
"She is a Harland, so of course she is nice," she said to herself, with illogical reasoning.
Miss Harland did not seem to require any introduction; she shook hands cordially with Annette. "Mamma was too busy to come, Averil," she said, leading the way to the station door, where an open barouche and a pair of handsome bays were awaiting them. "What have you been doing with yourself lately, you naughty little person? Lottie, she looks more shadowy and unsubstantial than ever! Father will be horrified when he sees her."
"Don't be so absurd, Louie. I am perfectly well," laughed Averil, who certainly looked very small and slender beside this fine-grown, vigorous young woman. But Miss Harland chose to argue the point; and as Lottie took her part, there was a lively discussion that lasted until they reached Grey-Mount.
Grey-Mount was a substantial gray-stone house standing in its own grounds. As they drove up to the door, a bevy of young people came out to greet them. Louie introduced them all in a quick, off-hand fashion to their new guest as, "Nettie and Fan—and the twins, Fred and Winnie. And this is my little mamma," she continued, in an affectionate, patronizing tone, as a quiet, lady-like little woman appeared in the background. Annette thought her still very pretty; she liked her soft voice and ways. It was evident that her children doted on her, for a word from mamma seemed to have a restraining influence on the twins, a pair of noisy, high-spirited children.
Annette found herself at home at once; there was no stiffness, no reserve, at Grey-Mount. Nettie and Fan had pounced on Lottie as their rightful prey, and had carried her off at once. Mrs. Harland had followed with Averil, and Annette felt a hand pressed through her arm.
"You and I will have to entertain each other until luncheon," observed Louie, in a comfortable voice. "When mamma and Averil begin to talk they never leave off. Oh, of course it is Bob and Owen—they generally begin about the boys. Frank will be home presently, and then we shall have tennis. Frank is my own, own brother, you know. Not but what Owen and Fred are brothers too, but Frank is my special—"
"Oh, yes, I understand about that. Lottie has told me he is monsieur's son, and this lady you call mamma is your step-mother. I have not talked to her much, but her looks please me. She is altogether different from Mrs. Willmot."
"My dear Miss Ramsay, there are step-mothers and step-mothers. Frank and I think mamma perfect; she has not a selfish thought. As to Mrs. Willmot and the Misses Seymour, I had better hold my tongue on that subject. Averil is a darling; we are all so fond of her; but she is just wearing herself out—"
"Do you think my cousin looks so ill?" returned Annette, in such quick alarm that Miss Harland regretted her speech. She was a warm-hearted, impulsive girl, and sometimes said more than was prudent. She was anxious now to explain away her words, for the sad wistfulness that had come into Annette's dark eyes touched her.
"She has always been delicate," she returned, hastily. "At one time her health was a great anxiety to us all; but during the last year or two she has been stronger. Miss Ramsay, are you fond of flowers? Shall we go and see the green-houses? Yes, Winnie, you may come too"—as the pretty little girl ran up to them.
Before luncheon was quite over Frank Harland made his appearance. He was accompanied by a tall, good-looking man, whom they all called Ned, and who was afterward introduced to Annette by Lottie in the shyest of voices as "Mr. Chesterton."
If Annette had not been such a recluse, and so totally unacquainted with the ways of young people—the curé and his snuff-box being her sole masculine acquaintance in the Rue St. Joseph—she might have read certain facts from Lottie's shy eagerness and pleased, downcast looks. She might even have adduced the same conclusion from the young lawyer's evident absorption and almost exclusive monopoly of the girl.
In tennis he was her partner, and afterward they walked about the garden together. Every one took it as a matter of course. No one interfered with theirtête-à-tête—not even Averil, whose eyes often rested on her protégée with fond wistfulness. "Lottie is very happy," Annette heard her whisper once to Mrs. Harland.
Annette was very pleased to see Mr. Frank again; but she could not be induced to take her first lesson in tennis, though he employed all his eloquence to coax her to become his partner.
"You are bent on snubbing me," he said at last, in mock despair. "You were much more amiable when I met you last, Miss Ramsay, and we exchanged confidences over our vanilla ices."
"That is too bad," she returned, trying not to laugh. "What is it you mean by 'snub?' I do not understand all your English words. It is you who are unkind, Mr. Harland; for you want to make me ridiculous in the eyes of your sister and friends. Ah, yes; it would amuse them to see how often I should miss the ball! They would just clap their hands with the fun. No; I will sit here in the shade and watch you, and that will be my first lesson in tennis; and if you will come to Redfern House, you can teach me there, and Lottie can play with us."
"To be sure! that is a good idea," he said, eagerly; and then, as they called to him, he lifted his cap and ran down the grass slope to the tennis court. Annette kept her promise, and watched the game with intelligent interest. Every now and then Frank came to her to explain things. He was pleased with the girl's naïveté and frankness, and he always left her a little reluctantly when Louie waved her racket, or Ned shouted to him that they were waiting.
He was just making his way to her for the fifth time when he saw her suddenly rise from her seat with a quick exclamation of pleasure at the sight of a gray-haired man who was crossing the lawn in a leisurely, middle-aged fashion.
"Monsieur, it is you at last," she said, holding out her hand. "Oh, how glad I am to see you again!"
Mr. Harland smiled as he cordially responded to her greeting; but the next moment he held her out at arm's-length and critically surveyed her.
"Do you know," he said, in a pleased voice, "that if you had not spoken to me I think I should hardly have recognized my young friend of the Rue St. Joseph? What has she done with herself, Averil?"—in quite a puzzled tone.
Mr. Harland could not understand it at all. He remembered the girl as she stood that morning in her shabby gown, with the little lace kerchief knotted round her throat, and her small, pale face and grave eyes. The young creature that stood before him was as slim and graceful as a fawn. She was no longer pale. Her eyes were clear and sparkling, her black dress was enlivened by a dainty breast-knot of dark crimson roses. Could these few weeks have effected this transformation? "No, I should not have known you," he said, dropping her hand; but he looked very kindly at her.
Frank had been much amused at this little scene; but by and by his mood changed. He was even guilty of the unfilial wish that his father had been detained longer at Lincoln's Inn.