Averilthought that hour the longest she had ever spent in her life; she was ready nearly half an hour before the time, and was sitting watching the minute hand of the clock, or starting up at every sound. But she need not have disquieted herself—Jimmy was faithful to his appointment. At the exact stroke of the half hour a cab was at the door, with Jimmy on the box. Frank handed Averil in, and then tried to question Jimmy; but the old sweeper was invulnerable.
"I'll take you there right enough. Don't trouble your head, sir. Now, then, cabby;" and Frank had to jump in hastily, for fear he should be left behind.
If the waiting seemed endless, the drive seemed still more interminable. A close, sultry day had ended in a wet night; only a few passers-by were hurrying through the rain. In the better thoroughfares the shops were closed: only the flaming gas-lamps, or some illuminated gin-palace, enabled Frank to see the route they were taking. Happily, they had a good horse, just fresh from his stable, and a steady driver.
By and by, when Averil was tired of straining her eyes in the hope of recognizing each locality, Frank discovered that they were turning into Oxford Street, and a few minutes afterward the unsavory precints of the Seven Dials were revealed to them. Late as it was, the whole neighborhood seemed swarming out-of-doors—women with ragged shawls over their heads, and trodden-down, slip-shod heels, were passing through the swing-doors of a dingy-looking tavern; loafing men, barefooted children, babies in arms, and toddling infants blocked up the narrow pavements. Averil looked out on them pitifully, until the cab suddenly pulled up, and Jimmy appeared at the door.
"We won't go no further, master," he said. "You just take the lady down that there street," jerking his thumb backward over his shoulder. "Half-way down on the left-hand side you will see a bird-fancier's—Daniel Sullivan is the name. Just walk in and say Jim O'Reilly wants to know the price of that there fancy pigeon, and you'll find you've hit the mark. Cabby and I will wait here; you will find us when you want us."
"Come, Averil," interposed Frank, eagerly; but Averil lingered a moment to slip some money into the hand of a white-faced, weary-looking woman, with a baby in her arms, and a crying child, hardly able to walk, clinging to her shawl.
"Take them in out of the rain. God help you, you poor things!" she whispered, as the woman looked at her in a dazed way, and then at the coins in her hand. That dumb, wistful look haunted Averil as Frank hurried her along. Some quarrel was going on—a woman's shrill tones, then rough oaths and curses in a man's voice, mingled with the rude laughter of the lookers-on.
"Sure you are in the right of it, Biddy!" exclaimed one slatternly virago. "Ben ought to be ashamed of himself for calling himself a man—the sarpent he is, to trample on a poor cratur, and to get her by the hair of her head, the owld bully!"
"Daniel Sullivan—this is the place," whispered Frank, as he drew Averil through the narrow door-way into a small, dimly lighted room, crowded with cages and hutches, wherein were rabbits, pigeons, and every species of bird. A dwarfish old man, with a gray beard and a fur cap, was haggling with a rough-looking costermonger over the price of a yellow puppy. The mother, a mongrel, with a black patch over her eye, was gazing at them in an agonized manner, and every moment giving the puppy a furtive lick.
"Get out, Mops," growled her master, angrily. "You aren't going to keep this 'ere puppy, so you may as well make up your mind to it;" and Mops feebly whined and shivered.
The poor creature's misery appealed to Averil's soft heart. She heard the costermonger say, as he took his pipe out of his mouth. "I will give you a tanner for the pup;" when, to Frank's surprise she interfered:
"Will you let me have that dog and the puppy? I have taken rather a liking to them. I would give you five shillings."
"I ain't so sure about parting with Mops," returned the old man, gruffly. "She ain't much to look at, but she is a knowing one."
Evidently Mops was knowing, for she wagged her tail, and licked her puppy again, with an imploring glance at Averil that fairly melted her heart. Daniel was induced to hesitate at the offer of seven shillings and sixpence, and in another moment Mops and the yellow puppy were Averil's property, to be added to the list of Mother Midge's pensioners.
Frank waited until the costermonger had gone out grumbling, and then he asked for Jim O'Reilly's fancy pigeon. The old bird fancier looked up quickly from under his overhanging eyebrows.
"Oh, that's the ticket, is it? Come along, sir;" and he pushed open a door, and ushered them into a close little room, lighted somewhat dimly by a tallow candle, and reeking of tobacco smoke.
As they entered, Rodney, who was sitting by the table as though he had fallen asleep, with his head on his arms, started up; and at the sight of his white, haggard face and miserable eyes, Averil's arms were round his neck in a moment.
"Oh, Rodney, my darling, at last we have found you! Why have you kept us in such suspense three whole days?—and we have been so wretched." And all the time she spoke she was fondling his hands, and pushing the hair off his forehead, and the poor lad was clinging to her as though she were his only refuge.
"Oh, Ave!" was all he could get out, for the lump to his throat almost choked him. He did not seem to notice Frank; he was half awake, and dazed, and paralyzed with misery. Averil was shocked to see the change in her boy; his eyes were sunken, he looked as though he had not slept or eaten, and his hand shook like an old man's. "Don't you hate me?" he murmured, hoarsely, in her ear. "Ave, I'm a murderer—a murderer!"
"My darling, no. You are no such thing," she returned, soothing him, for his manner terrified her. "Do you know, Frank and I have good news for you? Mr. Townley is not dead. Dear Rodney, God has been very merciful. He would not permit you to spoil your life; He has given you another chance. The poor man was stunned by your violence, but not killed; he is better, recovering—indeed, he will not die; will he, Frank?" For it seemed to her as though Rodney could not believe her—as though he dared not take in the full meaning of her words. He had pushed her away, and now he stood with his trembling hands on her shoulders, and his heavy, blood-shot eyes trying to read her face.
"You are deceiving me—he is dead," he muttered. For the moment Averil thought the shock had turned the poor lad's brain; but Frank knew better; his common sense came to her aid.
"Nonsense! Don't play the fool, Seymour," he said, with assumed impatience. "You know as well as I do that Averil is not the girl to tell you an untruth. Of course, Townley is not dead. I am going to see him to-morrow, and offer damages. We have taken up the bill for you, and it is all settled. You have got off far better than you deserve."
Frank was not mincing the matter; but his brusque, matter-of-fact speech seemed to have the effect of recalling Rodney's scattered faculties. He drew a long breath, changed color, and finally burst into tears.
Frank gave Averil a reassuring nod. "It will be all right now. I'll come back presently, after I have had a look at Mops;" for Frank's tact was seldom at fault, and his kindly heart, so like his father's, told him that Averil would like to be alone with her boy. "After all, there is no cordial like a woman's sympathy" he thought, as he stood looking into a wooden box, where Mops, relieved in her maternal mind, was sleeping with her puppy.
Frank had time to indulge in a great many reflections before he thought it prudent to go back. Rodney looked more like himself now; he rose from his chair, and put out his hand to Frank somewhat timidly.
"I could not offer it before," he said, in a low voice. "I thought I should never venture to shake hands with an honest man again. I felt like Cain, branded for the whole term of my miserable life. Will you take it, Harland?"
"To be sure I will;" and Frank shook it cordially. "Let bygones be bygones. We are not any of us ready to throw stones. Averil, don't you think Jimmy will be tired of waiting? and our cabby will be making his fortune out of us. Besides, they do shut up shop here, even in the Seven Dials. Come along, Seymour. I expect you have had about enough of this place."
"Do you mean I am to go home with you?" for, somehow, such a blessed idea had never occurred to Rodney. Home—he had never hoped to see it again, "But it is not safe, is it, Ave?"
"And why not?" returned Frank, in his cheerful, off hand manner. "Of course, Isaacs had a writ out against you, but Averil has settled that. As far as that goes, you are a free man. I hear Townley's solicitor intends to claim damages. I am going to see after that to-morrow. Your mother means to sell out of the Funds and clear you. I can't help thinking"—and here Frank eyed him critically—"that a warm bath and a shave—I strongly recommend a shave—and a good supper will make a different man of you. We will just settle with your landlord and Jim O'Reilly, and then we will make the best of our way home." And to this they both assented.
But Averil did not forget her new pensioners—oh, dear, no! Mops and her puppy were both put into the cab. The way home did not seem half so long, for Rodney was telling them all they wanted to know. He described to them his panic-stricken flight that night, and how he took refuge in a dark entry, where Jim O'Reilly found him.
"He was a regular pensioner of mine," explained Rodney, "and he recognized me at once. 'You come along with me,' he said, when I had implored his assistance. 'There is a pal of mine in the Seven Dials that will keep you dark for a bit. You will be safe along of Daniel Sullivan;' and then he brought me here. I believe I have been nearly out of my mind half the time. And at last I could bear it no longer, and then Jim said he would take my note. I thought I must see you and get some money; that you would help me to escape out of the country. I never had a doubt that Townley was dead. Forbes' words, 'You have killed him!' rang in my ears day and night. Oh, Ave, if I can forget what you have done for me to-night!"—and the pressure of his hand spoke volumes.
"Seymour, there is still that post in Canada. Just at the last moment Hunsden was unable to go. They cabled to us yesterday for another man."
This was joyful tidings to Averil—a mute thanksgiving for another mercy crossed her lips. But Rodney only said, in a dispirited voice, that Mr. Harland never would give him the chance again.
"How can I expect people to trust me after what has happened?"
"We'll talk of that later on," was Frank's answer; and then the cab stopped, and the door flew open, as though Roberts had been stationed there some time.
"I am glad to see you, sir," he said, as Rodney sprang up the steps; for Roberts was a privileged person, and knew all the family secrets.
Mrs. Willmot was in her dressing-room, and Rodney went up at once to see her and Maud. When he came down he found a comfortable meal ready for him. How sweet and home-like it looked to the poor prodigal! But for the sight of Mops, who was making herself quite at home in an arm-chair, blinking with one eye at the eatables, those three days might have been some hideous nightmare. Rodney rubbed his eyes, and then looked again, and met Averil's smile.
"I must see you eat and drink before I go to bed," she said, beckoning him to a seat beside her. "Frank says he is hungry, and no wonder, for it is nearly one o'clock. Frank, will you put down a plate for Mops—the poor thing looks half starved!" And by the way Mops devoured her meal, Averil was probably right.
How peacefully the household at Redfern House slept that night! What a happy reunion the next morning, when Rodney took his accustomed place at the breakfast table by his mother's side! It was such a pity, as Annette observed, that Maud should be missing. Poor Mrs. Willmot could scarcely take her eyes off her boy; every moment she broke into the conversation to indulge in some pitying exclamation about his looks. "Did not dear Averil think he looked ill? He had grown thin; he was altered somehow." Then it was, "Poor, darling Maud had not slept all night; her nerves were in a shocking state;" and so on; but no one attended to her. Frank was talking to Annette in rather a low voice, and Rodney was listening to Averil. Frank tore himself away with much reluctance. True, he was coming again that evening. He was to see Mr. Townley's solicitor, and to offer apologies and ample damages on Rodney's account; and there was the Canada scheme to be discussed, for he had already hinted to Averil that there was not a moment to lose.
When Frank had gone off, Averil sent Rodney to sit with his sister, who was still too weak to leave her bed; and then she went into her own room and lay down on the couch and looked out on the sunshiny garden. Much to the black poodle's disgust, Mops had followed her there; Mops's sense of maternal dignity was evidently strongly developed—she had certainly a ridiculous fondness for the fat, rollicking, yellow thing. It amused Averil to see the way Mops looked at her every now and then, as much as to say, "Did you ever see a finer, handsomer puppy?"
It was utter peace to Averil to lie there and watch the thrushes on the lawn; the soft ripeness of the September breeze seemed laden with a thousand vintages; the birds' twitterings, the bees' humming, even the idle snapping of Ponto at the flies—all seemed to lull her into drowsiness.
She woke from a delicious doze to find Rodney beside her. He was about to move quietly away, but she stretched out her hand to stop him.
"I have woke you," he said, penitently. "Ave, I never saw you asleep before. You have no idea what a child you looked;" and there was a little touch of awe in the young man's voice. Something in Averil's aspect, in the frail form, the pure, soft outlines, the child-like innocence, seemed to appeal to his sense of reverence.
Rodney was not wrong, for was she not a happy child? just then resting in her Father's love, content to trust herself and her future to Him.
"You look too shadowy and unsubstantial altogether," he went on, half seriously, half humorously; "as though you only wanted a pair of wings to fly away. But we could not spare you yet—we could not indeed."
"Not till the time comes," she said, stroking his face as he knelt beside her. "Oh, Rodney, how nice it is to have you again! Do you think I should ever forget my boy, wherever I may be—'in this room or the next?'—as some one has quaintly said."
"Oh, one can't tell about those sort of things," he returned, vaguely.
"No; you are right, and I have never troubled myself with such questions, as some people do. How can we tell if we shall be permitted to see our dear ones still militant here on earth? I am content to leave all such matters; our limited human intelligences are unfit to argue out these deep things. Of one truth only I am convinced—that God knows best."
"I always said you were a little saint, Ave."
"Nonsense!" she returned, playfully. "I don't believe you know the meaning of the term. Do you remember what Dryden said?—
"'Glossed over only by a saintlike show.'
"'Glossed over only by a saintlike show.'
"It is far too big a word to apply to a poor little sinner like me. Now, I want to talk to you about something else, Rodney—something peculiarly earthly—in short, about Canada; for Frank will be here this evening, and we must make up our minds on the subject."
Frankhad a whole budget of news that evening. He had seen Mr. Townley, who was recovering fast, and had made him handsome apologies on Rodney's part.
"They say there is good in every one," observed Frank, sententiously, looking round a little patronizingly on his listeners. "There is often a touch of good in what seems most evil. Evidently, Townley's conscience has been giving him a twinge or two, for he won't ruin us in the way of damages; in fact, we have come to terms without his solicitor. You are to pay the doctor's bill, and that is about all, Seymour. And now let us go into the Canada question. My father wishes to know if you will take the berth."
There was no hesitation on Rodney's part this time; his grateful acceptance was annotated very tearfully by his mother. Rodney's repentance was too real to haggle over terms, to desire delay; if they wanted him, he would go at once—the sooner the better. His outfit could be managed in a couple of days. And to all this Averil assented.
She left them still in full conclave, and went up to tell Maud the news. As she did so she was struck with the melancholy wistfulness in her beautiful eyes.
"Oh, how I envy him!" she sighed.
Averil looked at her in surprise: "You envy Rodney?"
"Yes; not because he has sinned so deeply, and has been pardoned so generously—for I might almost say the same of myself—but because he is going to a new place, to begin afresh, to make another commencement. It will be like a different world to him; no one will remember his past follies, or cast a slur on him."
Maud spoke with intense earnestness and passion; and as she paused, a sudden thought flashed into Averil's mind—one of those quick intuitions that made Frank now and then call her a woman of genius.
"Should you like to go, too, Maud?" she asked, very slowly.
"I!" with a quick start and flush. "What is the use of putting such a question?"
"I mean, should you care to go and make a home for Rodney?"
"I should love it of all things. But mamma—you know she could not do without me. Georgina is not thoughtful, and somehow she has always depended on me."
"Yes, I know that; but why should you not all go? It would be better for Rodney, and his mother can not bear to part with him. I would help you to form a comfortable home, though, perhaps, not an extravagant one. Rodney will keep himself. After all, it is not a bad idea. I have often heard you and Georgie long for a Canadian winter. What do you say, Maud?"
"Oh, Averil, do you really mean it?" And now Maud's eyes were full of tears, and she could hardly speak.
"Tell me exactly what you think of it, dear," went on Averil, in an encouraging voice. "I know your mother will agree to anything you propose. She has never been selfish with regard to her children, except in that one instance—her refusal to part with Rodney."
"And that was more my fault than hers," returned Maud, remorsefully. "Do not blame poor mamma—she has her faults. We have none of us treated you well, but she has always been good to us. I know she is so fond of Rodney that it will almost break her heart to be separated from him; and it does seem so lonely for him out there without any of us. Rodney is so unlike other young men of his age—he never seems to want to leave us."
"I think he would love to have you."
"I know he would; and a home would be so comfortable—he would come to us every evening. Averil"—dropping her voice—"if you only knew what it would be to me to get away, so that I should not be obliged to meet them everywhere. I am afraid," speaking with great dejection, "that you will think me very weak, but I feel as though I should never get over it if I stay here, doing just the same things, and going to just the same places, and having no heart for anything."
"My poor child"—caressing her—"do you think I do not understand? Do you imagine that I am sending you away from me for my own good?"
"Ah, that is the only sad part—that I should have to leave you, Averil, and just as I was beginning to love you so. It is all my selfishness to plan this, and leave you alone."
"But I shall not be alone," returned Averil, brightly. "I do not mean you to take Lottie, so you may as well make up your mind to that. Besides, Ned Chesterton wants her, and I intend him to have her, by and by, when Lottie is a little older and wiser. Then I shall have Annette, and Mother Midge, and a host of belongings. Never was a little woman richer in friends than I am."
"You deserve every one of them," replied Maud; and then a shade passed over her lovely face "You will be better without us, Averil. Mamma, Georgina, and I have only spoiled your home and made it wretched. You will be able to lead your own life, follow your own tastes as you have never done yet. Do you think I do not see it all plainly now? how it has been all duty and self-sacrifice on your part, and grasping selfishness on ours? I wonder you do not hate us by this time, instead of being our good angel!"
"You shall not talk so," returned Averil, kissing her. "You are my dear sister, and sisters always bear with one another's faults. Well, it is settled; and now I shall leave you to talk it over with your mother, while I give a hint to Rodney and Frank. Then there is Georgina; she must come home at once; and you must get well, Maud; for your mother will do nothing without you."
"I feel well already," replied Maud; and indeed she looked like a different creature; something of her old energy and spirit had returned at the notion of the change.
Averil knew her suggestion had been a wise one; it was a "splendid fluke," as Frank observed when he heard it.
If a bomb had exploded at Mrs. Willmot's feet she could not have been more utterly aghast than when the idea was jointly propounded by Maud and Rodney. "Preposterous! Impossible!" she repeated over and over again. "A more impracticable scheme had never been heard. Cross the sea! Never! She was a wretched sailor. She would rather die than cross the Atlantic. Live out of England, where her two good husbands were buried! How could any one ask such a thing of a widow? Averil just wanted to get rid of them; it was a deep-laid plot to set herself free."
Rodney was too indignant at this charge to utter another word. He took himself off in a huff, leaving his mother dissolved in tears. He had been so charmed with the idea; the Canadian home had so warmed his fancy; but, if his mother chose to feel aggrieved, he would have nothing more to say to it—and as Maud was too weary to carry on the discussion, the matter dropped.
But a night's sleep effected wonders, for, lo and behold! the next morning Mrs. Willmot was in a different mood—the only impossibility now would be to bid good-bye to Rodney. "Sooner than be separated from that dear boy, she would cross a dozen Atlantics! Maud had evidently taken a fancy to the scheme, and the thing should be done."
"Thank you, mother," returned Rodney, gratefully; and Mrs. Willmot heaved a deep sigh.
"It was a sacrifice," she said, a little pompously; "but she had always thought more of her children than herself; and the change would be good for the dear girls. Young people were very gay in Canada, she heard. They had nice sledging-parties, and there were a good many dances;" and here she coughed, and looked significant.
In spite of her troubles, Mrs. Willmot would always be true to her own nature; her pleasure-loving instincts would always crave indulgence. She was neither stronger nor better for all her trials.
But as Averil looked at Maud she did not fear the mother's influence. Maud's character was strong, for good or evil. With all her faults, there was nothing small or mean about her. If she had erred, she had also repented; and though hers might be a weary, uphill fight, Averil felt there would be no weak tampering with temptation. Maud would be a little hard in her judgment of herself and others—a little prone to hold the reins too tightly. She would discipline herself sternly, and exact the same scrupulous honesty from others; but Averil knew she could be safely trusted to do her best for her mother's and Rodney's comfort. To her strong nature, their very dependence on her would bring out her best points.
Her present position in the household had never suited Maud. She had grudged Averil her power; and though this might have been checked in the future, her life at Redfern House did not afford her sufficient scope.
"She will be far more her own mistress out there," observed Mr. Harland, as he joined the family circle the night before Rodney sailed. It had been arranged that Rodney should start alone, and that his mother and sisters should follow him in a month's time. Their preparations were much more extensive than his, and they had to bid good-bye to their friends. Besides, Averil was not willing to part with them quite so soon. Strange to say, she felt fonder even of her step-mother now she knew they were to be separated. There had never been anything in common between them, and yet Averil discovered, or thought she had discovered, a dozen new virtues.
"Maud will be very much admired out there," went on Mr. Harland, in the same aside.
But Averil scarcely answered. She was not thinking of Maud that night, but only of Rodney. Her eyes seemed to follow him everywhere. Had she realized how she would miss him? How quiet the house would be without his boyish laugh, his merry whistle! From the very first he had taken the place of a young brother to her. Frank had been her great big brother, but Rodney was a sort of Benjamin. His very faults, his moral weakness, had kept her closer to him. It is impossible to be anxious about people and not to grow to love them.
He saw her looking at him at last, and came and sat beside her, with a very sober face.
"I do hate good-byes; don't you, Ave?" he said, in rather a melancholy tone.
"Why, no," she said, trying to speak cheerfully. "I think the word the most beautiful word in our language. 'Good-bye—God be with you.' That is what it means, Rodney."
"Oh, yes, of course; but I was not meaning the word itself. It is only that I do hate leaving you, Ave." But she would not let him say that, either. Though her own heart was aching, she would send him away brightly.
"It is a grand thing you are doing," she said, in her sweetest and most serious voice. "You are going out to do a man's work in the world; to carve out your own career; to make a home for your mother and sisters."
"It is you who are doing that," he returned. "You have been far too liberal; we could have managed with much less."
"I do not need it," was all her answer; and then she went on with a few words of sisterly advice—not many words. Averil did not believe in much speaking; but she knew that Rodney loved her well enough to hear her patiently.
Of the two he seemed more affected when the time of parting came. There were no tears in Averil's eyes as there were in his—only something of solemnity.
"God bless you, my darling!" was all she whispered, as he kissed her again and again; and his "Good-bye, Ave," was dreadfully husky; but, as she smiled and waved to him, no one knew how her heart ached. "Shall I ever see him again?" she said to herself as she turned away. But she left that, as she left everything else, to the wise and loving will of her Heavenly Father.
The month that followed Rodney's departure was rather an ordeal for Averil. Georgina had rushed home at the first news of the flitting, and her exuberant spirits and abundant energy seemed to turn the house upside down.
If the Seymour family had contemplated a move into the wilds of Africa, to a spot most remote from civilization, there could not have been greater excitement. Friends crowded round them; dress-makers and milliners held mysterious interviews at all hours; huge traveling-boxes filled up the passages; and Lottie and Annette had their work cut out for them. It was "Lottie, will you do this for me?" or "Lottie, you must really find time to finish this," from morning to night.
Lottie was quite equal to the occasion. Her affectionate mind was brimming over with good-will to every one. Lottie's magnanimity had long ago overlooked the past. She had forgotten the minor miseries, the petty tyrannies, the small denials, that had harassed her youth; she only remembered gratefully that her aunt and cousins had given her a home. She must do everything she could for them in return. Lottie even chided herself secretly for her hardness of heart; she could not be as sorry as she wished. The thought of being alone with Averil and her dear Fairy Order was too delicious altogether; and as she found Annette held a similar opinion, the two girls indulged privately in many a delightful day-dream.
Averil was thankful when the ordeal was over, and the last parting words had been said. Her real "Good-bye" to Maud had been said overnight. Maud had come to her room, and they had had a long, long talk. Maud had been very much overcome, and Averil had found it difficult to soothe her; but just at the last she said hurriedly—and Averil loved to remember her words:
"Don't think I shall ever forget your goodness, Averil. If I ever become a better woman, it will be all owing to you; because you trusted me, and I dare not disappoint you. All these years you have set me an example, though I did not choose to take it; but I shall remember it when I am away from you. I must not promise—indeed, I dare not trust myself; but, Averil, you shall see—you shall see how I will try to do better!" And Maud nobly kept her word.
It was the end of October when the Seymours left Redfern House, and Averil, who was weary, and had long needed rest and change of scene, took her two girls the very next day to Brighton, where they spent the greater part of November.
It was a glorious time for Annette and Lottie; and even Averil, in spite of her fatigue, enjoyed the long, sunshiny mornings, the pleasant drives, and the cozy evenings, when they worked and read aloud; and during the pauses of their conversation they could hear the water lapping on the stones in the starlight.
It was a little strange settling into Redfern House again. The rooms looked large and empty, and for a long time a pang crossed Averil each time she passed the door of Rodney's room. But she would not give way to these feelings of depression. She devoted herself more than ever to her girls' interest. She had found a music-master for Annette, and a drawing-master soon followed; lectures on English literature, concerts and oratorios, social evenings with a few congenial friends, soon filled up the busy day.
In the spring, Louie Harland came for a long visit, and remained for some weeks, joining the girls in all their studies and amusements, and setting Averil free for a lengthy visit to Mother Midge; and when she left them it was with the full understanding that the first fortnight in June was to be spent by the trio at Grey-Mount House.
Onelovely June afternoon Annette was sitting on the steps that led down from the veranda at Grey-Mount House. She was alone, and looked unusually pensive; indeed, there was a slight shade of melancholy on her expressive face. Annette had just remembered that it was on this very day last year that she had first seen monsieur. "A year ago—actually it is a year," she said to herself, "since I left the Rue St. Joseph! Oh, those days—how dark and narrow they seem beside my life now!" And Annette shuddered involuntarily as she remembered the close, dark room, the long, weary hours, the frugal, solitary meals, when the tired lace mender had finished her work.
But the next moment the old street, with its curiously gabled houses, vanished from her mental vision, and she took up a different thread of musing. "What could she have said last night to offend Mr. Frank so deeply? He had kept away from her all the evening, and this morning he had gone off with only a hurried good-bye, and without waiting for his button-hole bouquet, though it was all ready for him—the prettiest she had ever made."
It was this remembrance that had been tormenting Annette all day, and had spoiled the sunshine for her. She had left Louie and Nettie to finish their game with Lottie, because she was playing so badly; and, of course, that was Mr. Frank's fault, too.
Annette did so hate to hurt people; but, though she did not like to confess it even to herself (for she was very loyal to her friends), Mr. Frank had been so very touchy lately. He was always pulling her words to pieces and grumbling over them, and he never seemed quite satisfied with her. "I think I disappoint him terribly," she said to herself, plaintively. "And yet what have I said?" And here Annette tried painfully to recall her words. They had been talking very happily, Frank had been giving her an account of a walking-tour, and somehow the conversation had veered round to Dinan and monsieur. Perhaps he was a little bored with her praises of monsieur, for he suddenly frowned (and she had never seen him frown before), and said: "It is no use trying; I may as well give it up. I don't believe any man has a chance with you; you think of no one but my father."
"I think there is no man so good and wise as monsieur," she had replied, very innocently; and then, to her dismay, Mr. Frank had looked hurt, and became all at once quite silent.
"I do not understand young men," she said, as she laid her head on the pillow; "they are strange—very strange. Mr. Frank looks as though I had committed some crime. Friends ought not to quarrel for a word. To-morrow I will make him ashamed of himself. His bouquet shall be better than monsieur's."
Annette was quite happy as she prepared her little offering—she even smiled as she laid it aside. She was sure Frank saw it, though he took no notice; he always petitioned for one so humbly. But on this unlucky day he went out of the breakfast-room without a word; he was in the dog-cart beside his father as Annette crossed the hall, and his cold, uncompromising "Good-morning, Miss Ramsay!" left her no opening. The poor flowers were left to wither on the marble slab, and Annette, in rather a melancholy mood, settled to her practicing; but her scales were less perfect than usual. "What can it mean?" played the prelude to every exercise and study.
Annette had laid aside her mourning; she was in white this evening, and the cluster of dark roses at her throat suited her complexion admirably. Her pretty little head, with its dark, smooth plaits, was drooping slightly. Something in her attitude seemed to strike Frank as he crossed the lawn on his way to the house; he looked, hesitated, then looked again, and finally sauntered up to the veranda with a fine air of indifference.
"Do you know where Louie is, Miss Ramsay?"
"She is playing tennis with Lottie. Oh, you are leaving me!" as Frank nodded and turned away, and a distressed look crossed her face. "All day I have wanted to speak to you, and now you will not listen! Mr. Frank, I do not like my friends to be angry with me when I have done no wrong—no wrong at all. It is not treating me well!" And Annette looked at him with grave dignity.
Evidently, Frank had not expected this. He had been brooding over his grievance all day—nursing it, magnifying it, until he believed that he was greatly to be pitied. But this frankness on Annette's part cut away the ground from beneath his feet. How could he explain to her the manner in which she had hurt him? She was so unlike other girls—so simple and child-like. Frank found himself embarrassed; he stammered out something about a misunderstanding.
"A misunderstanding, surely, since I have been so unhappy as to offend you," returned Annette, gently. "Mr. Frank, will you tell me what I have done, that I may make amends? I have hurt you—well, that gives me pain. I think there is no one for whom I care so much as—"
"Monsieur," finished Frank, gloomily, and there was quite a scowl on his pleasant face. "Why don't you finish your speech, Miss Ramsay? We all know what you think of monsieur!"—which was very rude of Frank, only the poor fellow was too sore to measure his words. He was angry with himself, with her, with every one. He could not make her understand him; all these months he had been trying to win her, and there had been no response on her part; but this frank kindliness—
Annette looked at him for a moment with wide-open, perplexed eyes. She wished to comprehend his meaning.
"Well," she said, slowly, "and you are monsieur's son, are you not?"
Now what was there in this very ordinary speech—the mere statement of an obvious fact—to make Frank suddenly leap to his feet and grasp her hand?
"Do you mean that?" he exclaimed, eagerly. "Annette, do you really mean that you can care for me as well as for him? Tell me, quickly, dear! I have been trying so hard all these months to make you understand me; but you never seemed to see."
"What is it you wish me to understand?" she said, shyly; for, with all her simplicity, Annette could hardly mistake him now. "You quarrel with me for a word, but you tell me nothing plainly. Is it that I am too slow, or that you have not taken the trouble to instruct me?"
"Trouble! where you are concerned!" he said, tenderly. And then it all came out—the story of his love, his patient wooing, his doubts if his affection could be returned.
"You were always so sweet and friendly to me," he went on; "but I could never be sure that you really cared for me—that you cared for me enough to become my wife," finished the young man in a moved voice.
"You could not be sure until you asked me," returned Annette naïvely. "There was no need to make yourself so miserable, or to have given me this unhappy day."
"Have you been unhappy, too, my dearest?" but Frank looked supremely happy as he spoke.
"Yes; for I could not bear that anything should come between us. So you see, my friend, that, I too, have cared a good deal." But when Frank wanted her to tell him how long she had cared—"Was it only yesterday, or a week ago, or that day on which they had gone to the Albert Hall, when I gave you the flowers?" and so on, Annette only blushed and said she did not know.
"But surely you have some idea, my darling?"
"But why?" she answered, shyly. "Is it necessary to find out the beginning of affection? Always you have been kind to me. You have made me glad to see you. I have never separated you from monsieur since the day we talked of him so much. 'This young man resembles his father—he has the same kind heart:' that is what I said to myself that day"—and Frank was too content with this statement to wish to question his sweetheart more closely.
Mr. Harland was sitting in the study reading his paper, and talking occasionally to Averil, who was in her hammock-chair beside him, when a slim white figure glided between him and the sunshine, and Annette stood before him.
"Well, mademoiselle," he said, playfully—for this was his pet name for her—"what has become of the promised walk?"
"Oh, I have forgotten!" she said, with a little laugh; "and it is your fault, Mr. Frank"—but she did not look at the young man as she spoke. "Monsieur, you must forgive me, for I am not often so careless; and you must not scold your son, either, because we are both so happy."
"Eh, what!" exclaimed Mr. Harland, dropping his eye-glasses in his astonishment; for Frank actually, the young rogue, had taken Annette's hand, and was presenting her to him in the most curiously formal way.
"Father, do you want another daughter?" asked Frank hurriedly. "I have brought you one. The dearest girl in the world, as you have long known."
"I know nothing of the kind, sir," returned his father, in much anger. "To think of your saying such a thing with Averil sitting by. The dearest girl in the world—humph!"
"Monsieur knows that is not the truth," replied Annette, and her dark, soft eyes were very pathetic. "Perhaps he is not willing to take the poor little lace-mender for his daughter."
"Is he not?" was the unexpected reply. And Annette, to her delight and astonishment, found herself folded in his arms. "My dear little girl, I am more than willing! Monsieur is not such a conceited old humbug. He knows what is good as well as other people; and he respects his son"—here he grasped Frank's hand cordially—"for his choice; and he begs to tell him, and every one else concerned, that he is a sensible fellow." And here Mr. Harland marched away, using his handkerchief rather loudly, to tell his wife the news.
"Dear Annette," exclaimed Averil, "will you not come to me and let me wish you joy?" And as she warmly embraced her, Annette whispered, "Are you glad, my cousin? Have I done well?"
"Very well indeed," returned Averil. But for a moment her heart was so full that she could say no more. Evidently Frank understood her, for he glanced proudly at his young betrothed.
"I am a lucky fellow, am I not, Averil? Ah, here comes Louie. I expect my father is literally publishing it on the house-tops. Come with me, Annette; let us go and meet her."
"So you have been and gone and done it, Frank," observed Louie, with great solemnity; "and I have a new sister. Annette, I warned you before that Frank was my own special brother; and now you will have to be fond of me as well as him, for I don't mean to be left out in the cold." And though Louie laughed, and spoke in her old merry way, the tears were very near her eyes.
"But I do love you already," protested Annette, earnestly. "And it makes me so happy to know that I, too, shall have brothers and sisters. Mr. Frank will not have them all to himself any longer. They will be mine, too. Is it not so?"—appealing to her lover; and of course Frank indorsed this with delight.
What a happy evening that was at Grey-Mount House! Frank, who was idolized by his brothers and sisters, found himself in the position of a hero. The Harlands were simple, unworldly people. It never entered their heads that the son and heir was not making a very grand match in marrying a young orphan without a penny to call her own—a little, sallow-faced girl who had once earned her living by mending lace. To them "kind hearts were more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood;" and they were wise enough to know that Annette's sweet disposition and lowly virtues would keep, as well as gain, her husband's heart.
It was very pretty to watch her, Averil thought, that evening. She took her happiness so simply; she seemed so unconscious of herself. Her one thought was to please her fiancé, and all those dear people who had taken her into their hearts.
"You are very happy, Annette?" Averil said to her later on that night. "But I need not ask; for your face is brightness itself."
"I think I am more than happy," returned Annette, with a deep sigh of utter content. "Ah! if only my mother could know that I am to spend my life with so good a man. Lottie has been trying to tease me. She will have it that Mr. Chesterton is nicer—as though he could compare with my Mr. Frank!" finished Annette, with a gesture of superb disdain.
"God has been very good to me," thought Averil, reverently, when Annette had left her, and she sat alone in the moonlight. "How different things were with me this time last year! Then I was troubled about Rodney; my home-life was miserable; Annette was an unknown stranger; even Lottie was a care to me. And now I trust, I hope, my boy is beginning a new life; I am happier about Maud; my burdens are all lifted, and if the future looks a little lonely, it will not be for long—not for long—" She stopped and folded her hands, and a sweet, solemn look came into her eyes. What if her work were nearly done? if the weary, worn-out frame would soon be at rest? Would that be a matter of regret? "When Thou wilt, and as Thou wilt," was the language of her heart. Soon, very soon—yes, she knew that well—the tired child would go home. And as this thought came to her in all its fullness, a strange, mysterious joy—a look of unutterable peace—came on the pale face. "Even so, Father," she whispered—and the dim summer night seemed to herald the solemn words. "In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you." "And for me—for me, too!" prayed Averil.