Chapter Four.Dread.The foot refused to heal, and one morning a well-known surgeon followed Dr Horton into the sick-room. The very sound of his name was as a death-knell to the girl in the bed, but she controlled herself by a mighty effort, and strained every nerve to watch the faces of her attendants during the examination which followed. She knew that they would keep up appearances in her presence, and so long as possible hide the worst from her knowledge; but if she appeared unsuspicious they would perhaps be less careful, and a stray word, an interchange of glances, might show the direction of their thoughts. She lay perfectly still, not even flinching with pain when the diseased bone was touched, for the tension of mind was so great as to eclipse bodily suffering; but the cool, business-like manner of the great surgeon gave no hint of his decision, while Dr Horton was as cheerful, Whitey as serenely composed, as on ordinary occasions.The cage was replaced over the foot, the bedclothes put in order, a few pleasant commonplaces exchanged, and the trio adjourned for consultation. Trained to their work of self-repression, not one of them had given the slightest hint of what was feared, but their precautions were undone by the thoughtless haste of the watcher outside.Miss Munns was hovering about the landing awaiting the verdict, and trembling at the thought of the news which she might have to send to her brother, when the door opened and the surgeon came towards her. Dr Horton and the nurse followed, and before the door was closed behind them an eager whisper burst from her lips—“Can you save it? Must you ampu—”Before the word was completed the surgeon’s hand was over her lips, Whitey brought to the door with a bang, and three pale faces stared at each other in consternation. Had Sylvia heard? Could she have overheard? That was the question which was agitating every mind. They strained their ears for a cry from the sick-room, but no cry came. Whitey looked at the doctor and made a movement towards the door, and he bent his head in assent.“Yes! Go in as if you had forgotten something. She may have fainted. Poor child, it was enough to make her!”Tears of remorse were standing in Aunt Margaret’s eyes, but she waited silently enough now while Whitey re-entered the room and strolled across to the window to pick up the book in which she wrote the daily report. She smiled at Sylvia as she passed, and Sylvia looked at her quietly, quite quietly, and the dark eyes showed no signs of tears. Whitey went back to the doctors with lightened face, and eased their minds by a definite assurance.“She heard nothing. She is lying quite still and composed. She cannot possibly have heard.”They turned and went downstairs to the dining-room. Sylvia heard their footsteps die away in the distance, the opening and shutting of the door. The brown eyes shone with unnatural brilliancy, the hot hands were clasped tightly together beneath the sheet.“God,” she was crying deep down in her soul, “do You really mean it? I’ve been very wicked often, I’ve forgotten You and taken my own way, but I’m so young—only twenty-one—don’t make me lame! I’ll be good, I’ll think of other people, I’ll be grateful all my life. Don’t make me lame! Think what it means to a girl like me to lose her foot! I have no mother, nor brothers, nor sisters, and father is far-away. It would be so dreadful to be shut up here and never, never run about any more. Have pity on me.Don’t make me lame!”It was a cry from the depths of her heart, very different from the formal prayers which she was accustomed to offer morning and evening—a plea for help such as she would have addressed to her dear earthly father in any of the minor difficulties of life, but in this great crisis of her fate she must needs go straight to the fountain of comfort—the Great Physician who was able to save the soul as well as the body.All the rest of the day, as she lay so quietly on her pillows, she was talking to Him, pleading for deliverance, setting forth pathetic girlish arguments why she should be spared the coming trial. When the thought arose of many others younger than herself who were leading maimed lives, she thrust the memory aside as something which could not be faced, and her lips refused to utter the words which she had been taught to affix to her petitions. “‘Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done.’ I can’t say it, Lord. I can’t mean it!” she cried tremblingly. “Not yet! Forgive me, and be patient with me. I’m so frightened!” and even as the prayer went up, the assurance came into her soul that the Heavenly Father would understand, and show towards her the divinest of sympathy and patience.For some reason which she would have found difficult to explain to herself Sylvia felt an intense disinclination to let her attendants know what she had overheard. She perceived that they were more than usually tender towards herself, and they on their part were puzzled by the quiet of the once restless patient. She grumbled no more about small unpleasantnesses—oh, how small they seemed! She was content to lie still and think her own thoughts, and seemed to have lost all interest in the ordinary events of the day.Only once in the twenty-four hours did a smile light up the set face, and that was when Bridgie O’Shaughnessy appeared for her afternoon visit, and seated herself by the bedside. On one of these occasions, a week after the surgeon’s first visit, Whitey went out for, her daily walk, and Sylvia watched her go and peered anxiously round the screen to make sure that the door was really shut. Then she stretched out her hand, and gripped Bridgie by the wrist. It was a very thin, feeble-looking hand, but the grip had nothing feeble about it—it was almost painful in its strength, and the brown eyes had a glazed misery of expression which made Bridgie tremble at the thought of what was to come.“Bridget O’Shaughnessy, you call yourself my friend. Will you tell me the truth?”“I’ll not promise that, me dear. I’ll not deceive you about anything if I can help it, but you are an invalid, and there are some questions which you should not ask me. Only the doctor should answer them.”But Sylvia went on with her story as if she had not heard the protest.“The other morning Sir Alfred Heap came to see my foot. He said very little about it to me, and after examining it, went out of the room to consult with Dr Horton. Aunt Margaret was waiting for them on the landing, and they were not quick enough in shutting the door. I heard what she said. To-morrow morning Sir Alfred is coming again. Bridgie,—is he going to cut off my foot?”“He is not, darling. He is going to give you chloroform and do something to the bone to try to make it sound and healthy again.”“And if that fails, will he cut it off then?”“He will operate again, and go on trying as long as he dare.”“And if everything else fails, then—”“Yes, Sylvia,” said Bridgie gently.Downstairs in the dining-room Miss Munns had been consulting with Whitey as to how the patient was to be prepared for the ordeal of to-morrow, and by whom the news should be broken. Whitey had taken the task upon herself with the unselfish heroism of her profession, but her pretty face was worn with the strain of this long anxious case, and Bridgie’s heart had ached for her in her painful task. Now, in the midst of her own agitation, she felt a thrill of unselfish joy that she had been able to take one burden at least from those heavily-laden shoulders.Sylvia knew not only of the ordeal of the morrow, but also of that nightmare dread of what might have to follow. She had known it for a week past, and had lain quietly on her bed with all the horror and misery of it locked up in her own heart. Such restraint seemed almost incredible to the outspoken Irish nature, but Bridgie’s words of admiration brought an added shade over the invalid’s face.“No, it was not bravery, it was cowardice! I was like an ostrich hiding my head in the ground for fear of what I might see. I literally dare not ask until it came to the last moment. Oh, Bridgie, what a week it has been! Going to sleep with the weight on my heart; waking up and thinking, ‘What is it? What is it?’ and the shock of remembering afresh! I lay and thought it all out; never to be able to run, nor bicycle, nor skate, nor dance, nor even walk without crutches, to dread going upstairs, to be cut off from girls of my own age because I could not take part in their amusements, to hear people say ‘Poor thing!’ and look pitifully at me as I hobbled by. I’ve tried to be resigned and take it like invalids in books, but—I can’t! I feel desperate. Bridgie, suppose it was you! How would you feel?”“I should cry myself ill for two or three days, and then brisk up and be thankful that if it was one foot, it wasn’t two!” said Bridgie quaintly. “That is, if I were quite certain about it, but I never believe in disagreeable things until they have really happened. Hope for the best as long as you can. You have clever doctors and nurses, and you will have a better chance if you keep up your spirits.”Sylvia shook her head hopelessly.“It’s easy to be philosophic for someone else. I could preach beautifully to you, Bridgie, if you were lying here instead of me, but the suspense is so hard to bear! I feel as if I could not live through another week like the last. Have you ever known what it was to drag through the days with a nightmare of dread growing bigger and bigger, nearer and nearer, to look ahead and see your life robbed of the things you care for most, to hope against hope, while all the time your heart is sinking down—down—”“Down—until it is just one great big ache clouding out the whole world? Yes, I know!” said Bridgie quietly. “I have never had a bad illness, but my trouble came to me in a different way, Sylvia, and my time of suspense was not days, but weeks and months, I might almost say years, except that even my hopes died out before that time arrived!”The two girls looked at each other intently, and the blank depression on the invalid’s face gave place to one of anxious sympathy.“You mean, of course, that it was a mental trouble. Could you tell me about it, Bridgie, do you think? I don’t want to force your confidence, but I am so interested in you, and it would do me good to be sorry for someone beside myself. Was it a—love affair?”“I cared for him, but I am afraid he could not have liked me very much,” said Bridgie sadly. “I have never spoken of him except to Esmeralda and one other person, but I don’t mind telling you, dear, if it will be the least bit of help to you now. We seem to know each other so well that it seems absurd to think we had not met, two months ago.“It was just someone I met one time when I was visiting, and when he was ordered abroad he asked if he might write while he was away. I was very happy about it, for I had never seen anyone I liked so much, and we wrote to each other regularly for over a year. They were not love-letters; just quite ordinary, sensible, telling-the-news, but there was always one little sentence in his which seemed to say more than the words, and to tell me that he cared a great deal. If a stranger had read it, he would not have understood, but I knew what he meant, and I used to skim over the pages until I came to those few words, and they were the whole letter to me.“Looking back now I can see how I lived in expectation of mail day, but suddenly his letters stopped. When father was pronounced hopelessly ill, I sent him a hurried note, saying that we should have to leave the Castle, for all the money was gone, and from that day to this I have heard no more. It was very hard coming just then, Sylvia!“For the first few months I was not really uneasy, though very disappointed. I knew that a soldier’s life is not always his own, and that he might have been ordered to a part of the country where it was impossible to send off letters, but then I read his name as taking part in some function in Bombay, and I knew that could be the case no longer. I would not tell Esmeralda to depress her in the midst of her happiness, so I just sat tight and waited, and the time was very long.“When it came near mail day my hopes would go up, for it’s my nature to be cheerful. The postman would knock at the door, and my heart would go head over heels with excitement, and it would be a circular, or a bill wanting payment. Another time he would not come at all, and that was worse, for one went on drearily hoping and hoping, and pretending that the clock was fast. Now I forget mail days on purpose, for it is nearly eighteen months since he wrote last, and I have given up all hope of hearing.”Sylvia drew a deep sigh, and knitted her forehead.“I can’t believe that anyone could forget you when he had once cared. You are so different from other girls. It is most strange and mysterious. Do you think that perhaps—you won’t mind my suggesting it—the money had some influence with him? Perhaps he thought you were an heiress—at any rate, that your people were rich and influential, and when he heard that you were poor he may have changed.”“No!” said Bridgie decisively. “No, I won’t think it! I won’t let myself think so badly of anyone for whom I have cared so much. I don’t know what his reasons were, and perhaps I never shall, but I would rather believe the best. Some people don’t find it easy to remember when they are far-away, and he might have a delicacy in writing to say that he had forgotten!“If I had still been Miss O’Shaughnessy of Knock, I should have sent just one more letter to ask if anything was wrong, but I had too much pride to obtrude myself as Bridgie of nowhere. I have no reason to believe that my letter went astray, and even if it had, he would have written again if he had wished to hear. He is alive and well, I know so much, and I’m well too, and very happy with my boys. I had a bad time of it, and the suspense had more to do with making me ill than the hard work of that summer; but now I have faced the worst, and have far too much to do to be able to mope. Boys are such cheering creatures! They give you so much work. The very darning of their socks is a distraction!”“It would distract me in a very different way!” said Sylvia, with a smile.
The foot refused to heal, and one morning a well-known surgeon followed Dr Horton into the sick-room. The very sound of his name was as a death-knell to the girl in the bed, but she controlled herself by a mighty effort, and strained every nerve to watch the faces of her attendants during the examination which followed. She knew that they would keep up appearances in her presence, and so long as possible hide the worst from her knowledge; but if she appeared unsuspicious they would perhaps be less careful, and a stray word, an interchange of glances, might show the direction of their thoughts. She lay perfectly still, not even flinching with pain when the diseased bone was touched, for the tension of mind was so great as to eclipse bodily suffering; but the cool, business-like manner of the great surgeon gave no hint of his decision, while Dr Horton was as cheerful, Whitey as serenely composed, as on ordinary occasions.
The cage was replaced over the foot, the bedclothes put in order, a few pleasant commonplaces exchanged, and the trio adjourned for consultation. Trained to their work of self-repression, not one of them had given the slightest hint of what was feared, but their precautions were undone by the thoughtless haste of the watcher outside.
Miss Munns was hovering about the landing awaiting the verdict, and trembling at the thought of the news which she might have to send to her brother, when the door opened and the surgeon came towards her. Dr Horton and the nurse followed, and before the door was closed behind them an eager whisper burst from her lips—
“Can you save it? Must you ampu—”
Before the word was completed the surgeon’s hand was over her lips, Whitey brought to the door with a bang, and three pale faces stared at each other in consternation. Had Sylvia heard? Could she have overheard? That was the question which was agitating every mind. They strained their ears for a cry from the sick-room, but no cry came. Whitey looked at the doctor and made a movement towards the door, and he bent his head in assent.
“Yes! Go in as if you had forgotten something. She may have fainted. Poor child, it was enough to make her!”
Tears of remorse were standing in Aunt Margaret’s eyes, but she waited silently enough now while Whitey re-entered the room and strolled across to the window to pick up the book in which she wrote the daily report. She smiled at Sylvia as she passed, and Sylvia looked at her quietly, quite quietly, and the dark eyes showed no signs of tears. Whitey went back to the doctors with lightened face, and eased their minds by a definite assurance.
“She heard nothing. She is lying quite still and composed. She cannot possibly have heard.”
They turned and went downstairs to the dining-room. Sylvia heard their footsteps die away in the distance, the opening and shutting of the door. The brown eyes shone with unnatural brilliancy, the hot hands were clasped tightly together beneath the sheet.
“God,” she was crying deep down in her soul, “do You really mean it? I’ve been very wicked often, I’ve forgotten You and taken my own way, but I’m so young—only twenty-one—don’t make me lame! I’ll be good, I’ll think of other people, I’ll be grateful all my life. Don’t make me lame! Think what it means to a girl like me to lose her foot! I have no mother, nor brothers, nor sisters, and father is far-away. It would be so dreadful to be shut up here and never, never run about any more. Have pity on me.Don’t make me lame!”
It was a cry from the depths of her heart, very different from the formal prayers which she was accustomed to offer morning and evening—a plea for help such as she would have addressed to her dear earthly father in any of the minor difficulties of life, but in this great crisis of her fate she must needs go straight to the fountain of comfort—the Great Physician who was able to save the soul as well as the body.
All the rest of the day, as she lay so quietly on her pillows, she was talking to Him, pleading for deliverance, setting forth pathetic girlish arguments why she should be spared the coming trial. When the thought arose of many others younger than herself who were leading maimed lives, she thrust the memory aside as something which could not be faced, and her lips refused to utter the words which she had been taught to affix to her petitions. “‘Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done.’ I can’t say it, Lord. I can’t mean it!” she cried tremblingly. “Not yet! Forgive me, and be patient with me. I’m so frightened!” and even as the prayer went up, the assurance came into her soul that the Heavenly Father would understand, and show towards her the divinest of sympathy and patience.
For some reason which she would have found difficult to explain to herself Sylvia felt an intense disinclination to let her attendants know what she had overheard. She perceived that they were more than usually tender towards herself, and they on their part were puzzled by the quiet of the once restless patient. She grumbled no more about small unpleasantnesses—oh, how small they seemed! She was content to lie still and think her own thoughts, and seemed to have lost all interest in the ordinary events of the day.
Only once in the twenty-four hours did a smile light up the set face, and that was when Bridgie O’Shaughnessy appeared for her afternoon visit, and seated herself by the bedside. On one of these occasions, a week after the surgeon’s first visit, Whitey went out for, her daily walk, and Sylvia watched her go and peered anxiously round the screen to make sure that the door was really shut. Then she stretched out her hand, and gripped Bridgie by the wrist. It was a very thin, feeble-looking hand, but the grip had nothing feeble about it—it was almost painful in its strength, and the brown eyes had a glazed misery of expression which made Bridgie tremble at the thought of what was to come.
“Bridget O’Shaughnessy, you call yourself my friend. Will you tell me the truth?”
“I’ll not promise that, me dear. I’ll not deceive you about anything if I can help it, but you are an invalid, and there are some questions which you should not ask me. Only the doctor should answer them.”
But Sylvia went on with her story as if she had not heard the protest.
“The other morning Sir Alfred Heap came to see my foot. He said very little about it to me, and after examining it, went out of the room to consult with Dr Horton. Aunt Margaret was waiting for them on the landing, and they were not quick enough in shutting the door. I heard what she said. To-morrow morning Sir Alfred is coming again. Bridgie,—is he going to cut off my foot?”
“He is not, darling. He is going to give you chloroform and do something to the bone to try to make it sound and healthy again.”
“And if that fails, will he cut it off then?”
“He will operate again, and go on trying as long as he dare.”
“And if everything else fails, then—”
“Yes, Sylvia,” said Bridgie gently.
Downstairs in the dining-room Miss Munns had been consulting with Whitey as to how the patient was to be prepared for the ordeal of to-morrow, and by whom the news should be broken. Whitey had taken the task upon herself with the unselfish heroism of her profession, but her pretty face was worn with the strain of this long anxious case, and Bridgie’s heart had ached for her in her painful task. Now, in the midst of her own agitation, she felt a thrill of unselfish joy that she had been able to take one burden at least from those heavily-laden shoulders.
Sylvia knew not only of the ordeal of the morrow, but also of that nightmare dread of what might have to follow. She had known it for a week past, and had lain quietly on her bed with all the horror and misery of it locked up in her own heart. Such restraint seemed almost incredible to the outspoken Irish nature, but Bridgie’s words of admiration brought an added shade over the invalid’s face.
“No, it was not bravery, it was cowardice! I was like an ostrich hiding my head in the ground for fear of what I might see. I literally dare not ask until it came to the last moment. Oh, Bridgie, what a week it has been! Going to sleep with the weight on my heart; waking up and thinking, ‘What is it? What is it?’ and the shock of remembering afresh! I lay and thought it all out; never to be able to run, nor bicycle, nor skate, nor dance, nor even walk without crutches, to dread going upstairs, to be cut off from girls of my own age because I could not take part in their amusements, to hear people say ‘Poor thing!’ and look pitifully at me as I hobbled by. I’ve tried to be resigned and take it like invalids in books, but—I can’t! I feel desperate. Bridgie, suppose it was you! How would you feel?”
“I should cry myself ill for two or three days, and then brisk up and be thankful that if it was one foot, it wasn’t two!” said Bridgie quaintly. “That is, if I were quite certain about it, but I never believe in disagreeable things until they have really happened. Hope for the best as long as you can. You have clever doctors and nurses, and you will have a better chance if you keep up your spirits.”
Sylvia shook her head hopelessly.
“It’s easy to be philosophic for someone else. I could preach beautifully to you, Bridgie, if you were lying here instead of me, but the suspense is so hard to bear! I feel as if I could not live through another week like the last. Have you ever known what it was to drag through the days with a nightmare of dread growing bigger and bigger, nearer and nearer, to look ahead and see your life robbed of the things you care for most, to hope against hope, while all the time your heart is sinking down—down—”
“Down—until it is just one great big ache clouding out the whole world? Yes, I know!” said Bridgie quietly. “I have never had a bad illness, but my trouble came to me in a different way, Sylvia, and my time of suspense was not days, but weeks and months, I might almost say years, except that even my hopes died out before that time arrived!”
The two girls looked at each other intently, and the blank depression on the invalid’s face gave place to one of anxious sympathy.
“You mean, of course, that it was a mental trouble. Could you tell me about it, Bridgie, do you think? I don’t want to force your confidence, but I am so interested in you, and it would do me good to be sorry for someone beside myself. Was it a—love affair?”
“I cared for him, but I am afraid he could not have liked me very much,” said Bridgie sadly. “I have never spoken of him except to Esmeralda and one other person, but I don’t mind telling you, dear, if it will be the least bit of help to you now. We seem to know each other so well that it seems absurd to think we had not met, two months ago.
“It was just someone I met one time when I was visiting, and when he was ordered abroad he asked if he might write while he was away. I was very happy about it, for I had never seen anyone I liked so much, and we wrote to each other regularly for over a year. They were not love-letters; just quite ordinary, sensible, telling-the-news, but there was always one little sentence in his which seemed to say more than the words, and to tell me that he cared a great deal. If a stranger had read it, he would not have understood, but I knew what he meant, and I used to skim over the pages until I came to those few words, and they were the whole letter to me.
“Looking back now I can see how I lived in expectation of mail day, but suddenly his letters stopped. When father was pronounced hopelessly ill, I sent him a hurried note, saying that we should have to leave the Castle, for all the money was gone, and from that day to this I have heard no more. It was very hard coming just then, Sylvia!
“For the first few months I was not really uneasy, though very disappointed. I knew that a soldier’s life is not always his own, and that he might have been ordered to a part of the country where it was impossible to send off letters, but then I read his name as taking part in some function in Bombay, and I knew that could be the case no longer. I would not tell Esmeralda to depress her in the midst of her happiness, so I just sat tight and waited, and the time was very long.
“When it came near mail day my hopes would go up, for it’s my nature to be cheerful. The postman would knock at the door, and my heart would go head over heels with excitement, and it would be a circular, or a bill wanting payment. Another time he would not come at all, and that was worse, for one went on drearily hoping and hoping, and pretending that the clock was fast. Now I forget mail days on purpose, for it is nearly eighteen months since he wrote last, and I have given up all hope of hearing.”
Sylvia drew a deep sigh, and knitted her forehead.
“I can’t believe that anyone could forget you when he had once cared. You are so different from other girls. It is most strange and mysterious. Do you think that perhaps—you won’t mind my suggesting it—the money had some influence with him? Perhaps he thought you were an heiress—at any rate, that your people were rich and influential, and when he heard that you were poor he may have changed.”
“No!” said Bridgie decisively. “No, I won’t think it! I won’t let myself think so badly of anyone for whom I have cared so much. I don’t know what his reasons were, and perhaps I never shall, but I would rather believe the best. Some people don’t find it easy to remember when they are far-away, and he might have a delicacy in writing to say that he had forgotten!
“If I had still been Miss O’Shaughnessy of Knock, I should have sent just one more letter to ask if anything was wrong, but I had too much pride to obtrude myself as Bridgie of nowhere. I have no reason to believe that my letter went astray, and even if it had, he would have written again if he had wished to hear. He is alive and well, I know so much, and I’m well too, and very happy with my boys. I had a bad time of it, and the suspense had more to do with making me ill than the hard work of that summer; but now I have faced the worst, and have far too much to do to be able to mope. Boys are such cheering creatures! They give you so much work. The very darning of their socks is a distraction!”
“It would distract me in a very different way!” said Sylvia, with a smile.
Chapter Five.An Invitation.The operation was successful and unsuccessful—that is to say, the fear of amputation was removed; but it became abundantly evident that it would be a very long time before Sylvia recovered the power of walking about with ease.A few weeks earlier she would have been heartbroken at the prospect of a spell of crippledom, but the greater troubles eclipse the less, and compared with that other paralysing dread, it was a passing inconvenience at which she could afford to smile.Poor child! her first impulse on recovering from the chloroform had been to dive to the bottom of the bed to feel if the foot were still there, and her elastic spirits went up with a bound as she listened to the surgeon’s reassuring report. She was perfectly willing to lie on the sofa and give up all idea of Christmas festivities, willing, in fact, in the relief and joy of the moment, to promise anything and everything if only she might look forward to unimpaired strength in the future.As for Miss Munns, she rejoiced with grumbling, as her custom was, mingling thankful speeches with plaints for her own deprivations, to the mingled distress and amusement of her hearers. Christmas was drawing near, and there had been no time to prepare for the proper keeping of the festival, for cook had been too much occupied with jellies and beef-teas to have any time to spare. There were no mince-pies in the larder, no plum-puddings in their fat cloth wrappings, no jars of lemon cheese, no cakes, no shortbread, not so much as a common bun-loaf, and Aunt Margaret hung her head, and felt that a blot had fallen upon her escutcheon.“I can’t fancy Christmas with bought mince-pies!” she said sadly. “I’ve kept house for forty years and never failed to make four plum-puddings—one for Christmas Day, one for New Year, one for company, and one for Easter. Some people make them without eggs nowadays, but I keep to the old recipe. My mother’s plum-puddings were quite famous among her friends. Of course, my dear, we have great cause for thankfulness, and I should have had no appetite if you had lost your foot; but it really upsets me to look at that larder! How many pounds of mincemeat haveyoumade, Miss O’Shaughnessy, may I ask?”Sylvia was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, to which she had been carried in time for tea, and Bridgie was sitting beside her, looking with wondering eyes at the muffled splendours which she now beheld for the first time. She blushed as she heard the question, and adroitly evaded an answer, for, to tell the truth, she bought her pies from the pastry-cook, and congratulated herself on the saving of trouble.“Oh, indeed, we get through a great deal, for the boys think nothing of three pies at a sitting. I’d be obliged to you, Miss Munns, if you would lend me your recipe for the pudding, for my cook is not the cleverest in the world, and, as Jack says, there is no monotony about her results. If she does a thing well three times, there’s all the more chance that it will be wrong the fourth, when you are encouraged to ask a friend to dinner.”Aunt Margaret sawed the air with her mittened hands, and shook her cap in solemn denunciation.“Method, my dear—method! They won’t take the trouble to measure the ingredients, but just trust to chance, so what can you expect? You shall have the recipe with pleasure, but if you take my advice you will look after the weighing yourself. Are you expecting any friends for the day, or perhaps one of your sisters?”“No—we shall be quite alone. My married sister wanted us all to go to Ireland, but the boys cannot spare the time, and I will not leave them.” Bridgie sighed, and a shadow passed over her face. “It won’t seem like Christmas to have no coming nor going, and Esmeralda and Pixie so far-away. I have been trying to think of a diversion for the boys, but I might spare myself the trouble, for I’ve no money to pay for it if I had the idea.”“Straitness of means is a great curtailer of pleasure,” said Miss Munns, gazing solemnly into space over the edge of her spectacles. “In my own family we have had sad experiences of the kind. My great-uncle was in most comfortable circumstances, and kept his own brougham and peach-houses before the failure of the Glasgow Bank. They removed to Syringa Villas after that, and did the washing at home. I shall never forget calling upon Emma the first Tuesday that the clothes were hanging out to dry in the back garden, and finding her in tears, with the blinds drawn down. She had a great deal of family pride, had poor Emma, for her mother belonged to the leading circles in Wolverhampton, and the steam of clothes in the boiler is most depressing unless you have been brought up to it from a child. George died soon after. He never held up his head again, and Emmeline, the daughter, had a very good offer from a corn-broker. She was a fine-looking girl, with black eyes and her poor father’s nose. She looked very well in the evening, when she was dressed, and had a colour.”“And did she marry the corn-broker?” queried Bridgie eagerly.Sylvia was flushed and frowning, more than half ashamed of the old lady’s disclosures, fearful lest they might affect her own importance in the estimation of a friend who had lived in a Castle, and owned a sister who went to Court, and profoundly uninterested in Emmeline and her destiny; but Bridgie was all animation and curiosity, her grey eyes wide with anxiety as to the success of the corn-broker and his suit. Here, indeed, was a listener worth having, and Miss Munns warmed to her task with even more than the usual enjoyment.“My dear, you would hardly believe the time poor Emma had with that girl! She took a fancy to a bank clerk on two hundred a year, and nothing would suit but she must be engaged to him. He gave her a turquoise ring, I remember—a shabby thing that could not have cost more than a sovereign, and Emma was quite mortified when people asked to see it. They were engaged for five years, and she lost all her looks, and he had a bicycling accident, and hurt his right arm so badly that he could not write.“Emma insisted that the engagement should be broken off, but the stupid girl would not listen to reason. She had a little legacy from her godmother about that time, and his father allowed him something, so they were married, and went abroad to try a cure for his arm. He is back at work again, and they seem happy enough; but it was a poor match for her, and they can only afford one servant. The corn-broker said he could never look at a girl again, but he married one of the Miss Twemlows within the year. Perhaps you know the Twemlows? They are a very well-known family in their suburb.”No, Bridgie did not know them, but her expression seemed to denote that she was quite ready to listen to their family history, in addition to those which she had already heard. But this was more than Sylvia could bear, and she hastened to interrupt the flow of her aunt’s reminiscences.“You have not heard from Aunt Emma lately—at least, you have not told me of her letters. I suppose you have not seen her while I have been ill?”Miss Munns pursed up her lips in a manner which seemed to imply that she was in possession of some weighty secret, but from motives of prudence was resolved to conceal it from the world.“I have heard from her, my dear. I have not seen her. As I said in my reply, everything must give way to illness, though I am very sorry indeed to think of her alone in the house. Emmeline can’t leave the baby, so it is only natural that her mother should want some companionship over Christmas. I would have had her here instead, but the house is so upset that I am not prepared for visitors. It is very pleasant meeting from time to time, being contemporaries as we are, and having gone through so many troubles together. There is nothing I enjoy more than talking them over with your Aunt Emma, and I am grieved to disappoint her. Of course I made up my mind from the first to say nothing about it to you.”Now it was Bridgie’s turn to look blank, and Sylvia’s to question anxiously.“Do you mean that she invited you for Christmas, and that you refused because of me? Oh, Aunt Margaret, you must not do that! You need a change, and it would be a relief to have all arrangements taken off your hands. Whitey and I could manage quite well by ourselves. Do please change your mind and write to say that you will go!”“My love, I assure you that I considered the matter very carefully before I decided, and it is impossible for me to leave home. I have promised nurse that she shall spend two days with her sister, coming round each morning to attend to your foot, and I should not like to disappoint her. It is only natural that she should wish to be with her own friends. I sympathise with her, but I don’t complain. It is not your fault that your illness has upset my plans, and it is my duty to be resigned and cheerful.”Aunt Margaret testified to her sense of duty by heaving a sigh of funereal proportions, the while Sylvia’s brow became fretted with lines, and she turned a glance of despair upon her friend.To be condemned to spend Christmas alone with Aunt Margaret in this mood of melancholy resignation; to realise that she had deprived her of the happiness of talking over past troubles with poor dear Emma; to listen from morning to night to her transparently-veiled repinings—this was indeed a cheerful prospect for an invalid, who might naturally have expected to receive the sympathy herself.“Aren’t you sorry for me?” the brown eyes asked Bridgie mutely. But, lo! Bridgie was radiant, her face one sparkle of animation, her hands uplifted to hail the advent of a happy thought.“The Diversion,” she cried rapturously—“the Diversion! I see it all, and it is perfectly charming! Sylvia shall be the diversion! She shall stay over the New Year with us; Miss Munns shall go to her friend and talk over old times; nurse shall visit her sister and have a rest after her hard work; I will look after Sylvia, and Sylvia shall flirt with the boys, and keep them happy. It’s a perfectly charming arrangement all round!”“My dear!” cried Aunt Margaret in horrified protest against the last item on the programme. But Sylvia gave a chuckle of cheerful complacency, and, so far from being overcome, looked so much revived by the prospect that there could be no doubt as to the expediency of the proposed visit, so far as health at least was concerned.Miss Munns went through the form of protesting, but her objections were easily waved aside, for to tell the truth she was only too ready to be persuaded, and her objections had no deeper root than the belief that it was not polite to seize too eagerly on an invitation.“I could not think of it, my dear! Such an upset for you. You don’t know how much work an invalid makes in the house! She has to be carried up and down stairs, and waited on hand and foot!”“I have three big strong boys, and you have only women in the house. Pat could put her in his pocket, and not know there was anything there!”“My dear—how can you! It would take up your spare room, too, and make so much ringing at the bell with nurse coming in the morning and the doctor in the afternoon.”“But what a lesson it would be to me to see them attending to her! So useful for the next time the boys break their legs! I love Whitey, and feel better for it every time I see her sweet, kind face.”“If you had had to prepare meals at all hours of the night and day, you would be sick of the sight of a nurse, however sweet she might look! I don’t see why you should be upset, my dear, for the sake of my friend.”“Dear Miss Munns, I am thinking even more of my own friend. It is selfishness which makes me want to have Sylvia with me. We would enjoy being together and talking over our troubles just as you do. Please let her come!”“Troubles, my dear—troubles? Has your cook given notice?” cried Miss Munns, her mind flying at once to domestic matters, and dwelling thereon with accustomed enjoyment. She had so many stories to tell of cooks who had left their places immediately before Christmas, and of the tragic consequences which followed, that the original subject of discussion took a secondary position in her thoughts, and when Bridgie began placidly to discuss arrangements, she fell into the trap with innocent alacrity. Sylvia could hardly believe her ears. It seemed quite too good to be true. The week’s holiday held out glorious possibilities of enjoyment, and she began at once to count the hours which must elapse before her departure.
The operation was successful and unsuccessful—that is to say, the fear of amputation was removed; but it became abundantly evident that it would be a very long time before Sylvia recovered the power of walking about with ease.
A few weeks earlier she would have been heartbroken at the prospect of a spell of crippledom, but the greater troubles eclipse the less, and compared with that other paralysing dread, it was a passing inconvenience at which she could afford to smile.
Poor child! her first impulse on recovering from the chloroform had been to dive to the bottom of the bed to feel if the foot were still there, and her elastic spirits went up with a bound as she listened to the surgeon’s reassuring report. She was perfectly willing to lie on the sofa and give up all idea of Christmas festivities, willing, in fact, in the relief and joy of the moment, to promise anything and everything if only she might look forward to unimpaired strength in the future.
As for Miss Munns, she rejoiced with grumbling, as her custom was, mingling thankful speeches with plaints for her own deprivations, to the mingled distress and amusement of her hearers. Christmas was drawing near, and there had been no time to prepare for the proper keeping of the festival, for cook had been too much occupied with jellies and beef-teas to have any time to spare. There were no mince-pies in the larder, no plum-puddings in their fat cloth wrappings, no jars of lemon cheese, no cakes, no shortbread, not so much as a common bun-loaf, and Aunt Margaret hung her head, and felt that a blot had fallen upon her escutcheon.
“I can’t fancy Christmas with bought mince-pies!” she said sadly. “I’ve kept house for forty years and never failed to make four plum-puddings—one for Christmas Day, one for New Year, one for company, and one for Easter. Some people make them without eggs nowadays, but I keep to the old recipe. My mother’s plum-puddings were quite famous among her friends. Of course, my dear, we have great cause for thankfulness, and I should have had no appetite if you had lost your foot; but it really upsets me to look at that larder! How many pounds of mincemeat haveyoumade, Miss O’Shaughnessy, may I ask?”
Sylvia was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, to which she had been carried in time for tea, and Bridgie was sitting beside her, looking with wondering eyes at the muffled splendours which she now beheld for the first time. She blushed as she heard the question, and adroitly evaded an answer, for, to tell the truth, she bought her pies from the pastry-cook, and congratulated herself on the saving of trouble.
“Oh, indeed, we get through a great deal, for the boys think nothing of three pies at a sitting. I’d be obliged to you, Miss Munns, if you would lend me your recipe for the pudding, for my cook is not the cleverest in the world, and, as Jack says, there is no monotony about her results. If she does a thing well three times, there’s all the more chance that it will be wrong the fourth, when you are encouraged to ask a friend to dinner.”
Aunt Margaret sawed the air with her mittened hands, and shook her cap in solemn denunciation.
“Method, my dear—method! They won’t take the trouble to measure the ingredients, but just trust to chance, so what can you expect? You shall have the recipe with pleasure, but if you take my advice you will look after the weighing yourself. Are you expecting any friends for the day, or perhaps one of your sisters?”
“No—we shall be quite alone. My married sister wanted us all to go to Ireland, but the boys cannot spare the time, and I will not leave them.” Bridgie sighed, and a shadow passed over her face. “It won’t seem like Christmas to have no coming nor going, and Esmeralda and Pixie so far-away. I have been trying to think of a diversion for the boys, but I might spare myself the trouble, for I’ve no money to pay for it if I had the idea.”
“Straitness of means is a great curtailer of pleasure,” said Miss Munns, gazing solemnly into space over the edge of her spectacles. “In my own family we have had sad experiences of the kind. My great-uncle was in most comfortable circumstances, and kept his own brougham and peach-houses before the failure of the Glasgow Bank. They removed to Syringa Villas after that, and did the washing at home. I shall never forget calling upon Emma the first Tuesday that the clothes were hanging out to dry in the back garden, and finding her in tears, with the blinds drawn down. She had a great deal of family pride, had poor Emma, for her mother belonged to the leading circles in Wolverhampton, and the steam of clothes in the boiler is most depressing unless you have been brought up to it from a child. George died soon after. He never held up his head again, and Emmeline, the daughter, had a very good offer from a corn-broker. She was a fine-looking girl, with black eyes and her poor father’s nose. She looked very well in the evening, when she was dressed, and had a colour.”
“And did she marry the corn-broker?” queried Bridgie eagerly.
Sylvia was flushed and frowning, more than half ashamed of the old lady’s disclosures, fearful lest they might affect her own importance in the estimation of a friend who had lived in a Castle, and owned a sister who went to Court, and profoundly uninterested in Emmeline and her destiny; but Bridgie was all animation and curiosity, her grey eyes wide with anxiety as to the success of the corn-broker and his suit. Here, indeed, was a listener worth having, and Miss Munns warmed to her task with even more than the usual enjoyment.
“My dear, you would hardly believe the time poor Emma had with that girl! She took a fancy to a bank clerk on two hundred a year, and nothing would suit but she must be engaged to him. He gave her a turquoise ring, I remember—a shabby thing that could not have cost more than a sovereign, and Emma was quite mortified when people asked to see it. They were engaged for five years, and she lost all her looks, and he had a bicycling accident, and hurt his right arm so badly that he could not write.
“Emma insisted that the engagement should be broken off, but the stupid girl would not listen to reason. She had a little legacy from her godmother about that time, and his father allowed him something, so they were married, and went abroad to try a cure for his arm. He is back at work again, and they seem happy enough; but it was a poor match for her, and they can only afford one servant. The corn-broker said he could never look at a girl again, but he married one of the Miss Twemlows within the year. Perhaps you know the Twemlows? They are a very well-known family in their suburb.”
No, Bridgie did not know them, but her expression seemed to denote that she was quite ready to listen to their family history, in addition to those which she had already heard. But this was more than Sylvia could bear, and she hastened to interrupt the flow of her aunt’s reminiscences.
“You have not heard from Aunt Emma lately—at least, you have not told me of her letters. I suppose you have not seen her while I have been ill?”
Miss Munns pursed up her lips in a manner which seemed to imply that she was in possession of some weighty secret, but from motives of prudence was resolved to conceal it from the world.
“I have heard from her, my dear. I have not seen her. As I said in my reply, everything must give way to illness, though I am very sorry indeed to think of her alone in the house. Emmeline can’t leave the baby, so it is only natural that her mother should want some companionship over Christmas. I would have had her here instead, but the house is so upset that I am not prepared for visitors. It is very pleasant meeting from time to time, being contemporaries as we are, and having gone through so many troubles together. There is nothing I enjoy more than talking them over with your Aunt Emma, and I am grieved to disappoint her. Of course I made up my mind from the first to say nothing about it to you.”
Now it was Bridgie’s turn to look blank, and Sylvia’s to question anxiously.
“Do you mean that she invited you for Christmas, and that you refused because of me? Oh, Aunt Margaret, you must not do that! You need a change, and it would be a relief to have all arrangements taken off your hands. Whitey and I could manage quite well by ourselves. Do please change your mind and write to say that you will go!”
“My love, I assure you that I considered the matter very carefully before I decided, and it is impossible for me to leave home. I have promised nurse that she shall spend two days with her sister, coming round each morning to attend to your foot, and I should not like to disappoint her. It is only natural that she should wish to be with her own friends. I sympathise with her, but I don’t complain. It is not your fault that your illness has upset my plans, and it is my duty to be resigned and cheerful.”
Aunt Margaret testified to her sense of duty by heaving a sigh of funereal proportions, the while Sylvia’s brow became fretted with lines, and she turned a glance of despair upon her friend.
To be condemned to spend Christmas alone with Aunt Margaret in this mood of melancholy resignation; to realise that she had deprived her of the happiness of talking over past troubles with poor dear Emma; to listen from morning to night to her transparently-veiled repinings—this was indeed a cheerful prospect for an invalid, who might naturally have expected to receive the sympathy herself.
“Aren’t you sorry for me?” the brown eyes asked Bridgie mutely. But, lo! Bridgie was radiant, her face one sparkle of animation, her hands uplifted to hail the advent of a happy thought.
“The Diversion,” she cried rapturously—“the Diversion! I see it all, and it is perfectly charming! Sylvia shall be the diversion! She shall stay over the New Year with us; Miss Munns shall go to her friend and talk over old times; nurse shall visit her sister and have a rest after her hard work; I will look after Sylvia, and Sylvia shall flirt with the boys, and keep them happy. It’s a perfectly charming arrangement all round!”
“My dear!” cried Aunt Margaret in horrified protest against the last item on the programme. But Sylvia gave a chuckle of cheerful complacency, and, so far from being overcome, looked so much revived by the prospect that there could be no doubt as to the expediency of the proposed visit, so far as health at least was concerned.
Miss Munns went through the form of protesting, but her objections were easily waved aside, for to tell the truth she was only too ready to be persuaded, and her objections had no deeper root than the belief that it was not polite to seize too eagerly on an invitation.
“I could not think of it, my dear! Such an upset for you. You don’t know how much work an invalid makes in the house! She has to be carried up and down stairs, and waited on hand and foot!”
“I have three big strong boys, and you have only women in the house. Pat could put her in his pocket, and not know there was anything there!”
“My dear—how can you! It would take up your spare room, too, and make so much ringing at the bell with nurse coming in the morning and the doctor in the afternoon.”
“But what a lesson it would be to me to see them attending to her! So useful for the next time the boys break their legs! I love Whitey, and feel better for it every time I see her sweet, kind face.”
“If you had had to prepare meals at all hours of the night and day, you would be sick of the sight of a nurse, however sweet she might look! I don’t see why you should be upset, my dear, for the sake of my friend.”
“Dear Miss Munns, I am thinking even more of my own friend. It is selfishness which makes me want to have Sylvia with me. We would enjoy being together and talking over our troubles just as you do. Please let her come!”
“Troubles, my dear—troubles? Has your cook given notice?” cried Miss Munns, her mind flying at once to domestic matters, and dwelling thereon with accustomed enjoyment. She had so many stories to tell of cooks who had left their places immediately before Christmas, and of the tragic consequences which followed, that the original subject of discussion took a secondary position in her thoughts, and when Bridgie began placidly to discuss arrangements, she fell into the trap with innocent alacrity. Sylvia could hardly believe her ears. It seemed quite too good to be true. The week’s holiday held out glorious possibilities of enjoyment, and she began at once to count the hours which must elapse before her departure.
Chapter Six.Bridgie’s Pudding.It was two days before Christmas, and Bridgie O’Shaughnessy enveloped herself in a white apron, and pensively regarded the contents of the larder. In a couple of hours Sylvia was expected to arrive, and meanwhile Mary the cook had been seized with an irresistible craving to visit an invalid mother, and had taken herself off for the afternoon, leaving the arrangements for dinner in the care of the young mistress, and a still younger parlourmaid.Mary’s excuse for requesting leave of absence at so inconvenient a time was somewhat contradictory and involved. Her mother was failing fast, and as it was a custom in the family to die in December, it was a daughter’s duty to visit her as often as possible; the shops were all dressed-up for Christmas, and it was hard that a body should not get a bit of pleasure sometimes, and the steak was stewed, and could be “hotted up” at a moment’s notice. The invalid mother sat up for a couple of hours in the afternoon only, so Mary must get to the house by three o’clock at the latest, and would it matter if she were after eleven in returning, as Christmas came but once a year?Sweet Bridgie assented warmly to each proposition as it was put before her, urged a speedy departure, and was rather inclined to think it would be wise to stay at home for the night. She could never find it in her heart to deny a pleasure which it was in her power to grant, and was gaily confident of managing “somehow” to prepare a palatable meal for her guest, indeed, in the ardour of hospitality was rather pleased than otherwise to have a hand in the preparations.On the principle of “first catch your hare, then cook it,” she looked critically over the contents of the cupboards to find some ingredients which commended themselves to her limited knowledge of the culinary art. Gelatine had endless possibilities, but time was against her, and she had the dimmest notions as to the quantity required; pastry was always attainable, but on the one occasion when she had experimented in this direction, Jack had taken the nutcrackers to divide his tartlet amidst the cheers of an admiring audience, so that there was plainly no fame to be won in this direction.Milk puddings were too painfully ordinary, but a bag of macaroni seemed to offer at once an easy and a tasty alternative. Bridgie felt herself quite capable of boiling the sticks into tenderness, and scraping down cheese to add to the milky concoction, and a further search discovered a dark yellow lump stowed away in the corner of a cupboard evidently destined for such an end. It was wonderfully hard; Bridgie’s fingers ached with the strain of cutting it, and she shook her pretty head solemnly over the wastefulness of servants in not using up materials before their freshness was lost. She had intended to use the whole of the piece, but it took so long to prepare that she stopped half-way, and to judge by the mellow brownness of the pudding when she peeped at it in the oven, quality had more than made up for quantity.Sylvia sniffed delicately as she limped over the threshold, for the pudding had a strangely powerful smell, not exactly savoury perhaps, but distinctly fresh and wholesome. Bridgie bridled in proud consciousness of success the while she tucked up her guest on the drawing-room sofa.“I’ve been making a pudding for you, dear. Mind you enjoy it! Mary is out, so you are to excuse everything that goes wrong. There’s a pretty pink cushion to match your dress. I never saw that dress before! You are wonderfully smart, Miss Sylvia Trevor!”“It’s for the boys,” said Sylvia, laughing. “I want to make a good impression, for I am dreadfully afraid they mayn’t like me. I know nothing about young men. They never penetrate into Number Six, and Aunt Margaret thinks it is proper to ignore their existence between the ages of six and sixty. I thought if I put on the bright dress and my pet chiffon fichu, they might not notice how thin my hair is at the top!”“I’ll tell them not to notice,” said Bridgie gravely. She crossed the room and poked the fire with the best brass poker, a real, live coal fire and no wretched asbestos imitation, and knelt on the rug holding out her hands to the blaze and scorching her cheeks with undisturbed complacency.The room was mathematically the same in size and shape as the one across the road, but oh, how different in appearance! The one was a museum for the preservation of household gods, the other a haven for rest and amusement, where comfort was the first consideration and appearance the last. Bridgie’s mending-basket stood on the floor, Jack’s pipe peered from behind a chimney-piece ornament, and a bulky blotter and well-filled ink-bottle showed that the writing-table was really and seriously meant for use.There was a writing-table in Miss Munns’s drawing-room also, on which were set out, in formal order, apapier-machéblotter embellished with a view of York Minster by moonlight, a brass ink-stand, which would have been insulted by the touch of ink, and a penholder with a cornelian handle which had never known a nib. Not the most daring of visitors had ever been known to desecrate that shrine. When the mistress of the house wished to write a letter, she spread a newspaper over the dining-room table, and a sheet of blotting-paper over that, and carefully unlocked the desk which had been a present from Cousin Mary Evans on her sixteenth birthday!It is extraordinary what a complete change of air may be obtained sometimes by merely crossing a road, or going into the house at the other side of a dividing wall! Sylvia felt that she might have travelled a hundred miles, so entirely different were the conditions by which she found herself surrounded.By and by the three brothers arrived in a body, letting themselves into the house with a latch-key, and talking together in eager undertones in the hall. Bridgie sat still with a mischievous smile on her lips, and presently the drawing-room door was noiselessly opened for half a dozen inches, and round the corner appeared a brown head, a white forehead, and a pair of curious brown eyes. Sylvia’s cheeks were as pink as her dress by the time that those eyes met hers, but she was the only person to show signs of embarrassment.“Pat” came forward to shake hands with swift cordiality, followed in succession by Jack and Miles, and the three big brothers stood beside the sofa, looking down on their guest with kindly scrutiny. Pat’s twinkling smile was an augury for future friendship; Miles’s air of angelic sympathy was as good as a tonic; while the rapt gaze of Jack’s fine eyes seemed to imply that never, no never, had he beheld a girl who so absolutely fulfilled his ideal of womanhood! It was nothing that the conversation was most ordinary and impersonal, concerning itself mostly with such matters as the weather, the trains from the city, and the Christmas traffic.The atmosphere was full of subtle flattery, and Sylvia purred with satisfaction like a sleek little kitten that stretches up its neck to meet an unaccustomed caress. Nothing is so inspiring as appreciation, and she was quite startled by the aptness and brilliancy of her own remarks during the meal which followed.Jack helped his guest in to dinner, and once again the pungent odour from the kitchen attracted notice and remark, whereat Bridgie bridled complacently, and when the macaroni was brought to table it did indeed look a most attractive dish to be the work of an amateur. So brown was it, so mellow of tint, with such promise of richness, that the general choice settled on it in preference to its more modest neighbour.Sylvia was naturally helped in advance, and the moment of swallowing the first spoonful was momentous, and never to be forgotten. What had happened she could not tell; the room swam round her, the tears poured from her eyes. She recovered from a paralysing shock of surprise just in time to see Pat’s mouth open wide to receive a heaped-up spoonful, to hear him roar like a wounded bull, and make a dash from the room.“What is the matter?” cried Bridgie in amaze, and Jack smoothed out the smoking macaroni on his plate and replied cheerfully—“Scalded himself as usual! He is so impetuous with his food. Do him good to have a lesson.” Then he in his turn partook of the dainty, and his eyes grew bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, the Adam’s apple worked violently in his throat. For one moment it seemed as though he too would fly from the room, but presently the struggle was over, and he leaned back in his chair, pale and dejected, his glance meeting Sylvia’s with melancholy sympathy.“Whatisthe matter?” queried Bridgie once more, and this time there was a touch of testiness in her voice, for it was trying to have her efforts treated with such want of appreciation, and even if the dish were not all that could be desired, consideration for her feelings might have kept her brothers silent before a stranger. “Miles,youtaste it!” she cried, and Miles smacked his lips for a thoughtful moment, and pronounced sturdily—“It’s very good!”Sylvia groaned involuntarily; she could not help it, and Jack gasped with incredulous dismay, staring at his brother as if he could not believe his senses.“Well, I always did say that there was nothing in this wide world which would quell your appetite, but this beats everything! Take another spoonful—Idareyou to do it!”“All right, here goes! It’s a very good mixture,” said Miles complacently, swallowing spoonful after spoonful, while hisvis-à-vislooked on with distended eyes, and Pat stood transfixed upon the threshold. As for Bridgie, her face brightened with relief, and she smiled upon her younger brother with grateful affection.“That’s right, Miles; never mind what they say! You are the greatest comfort I have. Some people are so saucy there is no pleasing them. You and I will enjoy it, if no one else will.”So far she had prudently refrained from experimenting on her own account, but now she took up her spoon, and there was a breathless silence in the room while she lifted it to her lips. It fell back on the plate with a rattle and clang, and an agonised glance roamed round the table from one face to another.“Oh—oh—oh! How p–p–p–perfectly awful! What can have happened? It was so nice when I left it! Has anyone”—the voice took a tone of indignation—“have any of you boys been playing tricks on me?”“How could we, now, if you think of it? We have been upstairs or in the drawing-room ever since we came back. It’s not the will that’s wanting, but the opportunity!” cried the boys in chorus; but it was not a time for joking, and Bridgie smote upon the table-gong with a determined hand.“Then it must be Sarah’s fault. She has done something to it. It is too bad—I took such pains!” She looked pathetically at the red marks which still lingered on her fingers from that painful cutting and scraping, and there was a distinct air of resentment in the voice in which she questioned her assistant a moment later.Sarah was a round-faced, vacant-looking damsel of sixteen summers, who had come straight from an industrial home to serve in the O’Shaughnessy family. She was scrupulously clean, admirably willing, and so blindly obedient that in the bosom of the family she was known by the title of “Casabianca.” She understood to a nicety how to dust and sweep, make beds and turn out a room, but the manners and customs of gentlefolk had been an unknown science to her before entering her present situation, and anything that Bridgie chose to do was, in her eyes, a demonstration of what was right and proper. She adored her young mistress, and trembled at the new tone of severity in which she was addressed.“Please, ma’am, I did nothing at it!”“But something has happened to it, Sarah—that’s quite certain. Think now—think carefully what you have done since I left the kitchen. I am not angry, only anxious to find out what has gone wrong.”It was really most embarrassing. The three young gentlemen were watching her with laughing eyes, the pretty young lady in the pink dress was staring at her plate and twisting her lips to keep from smiling, the Missis sat up straight in her chair and looked so grave and masterful. Like Topsy of old, Sarah tried hard to find something to confess, but failed to recall any delinquencies.“I took it out of the oven when you said, and put it on a plate. I brought it into the room—”“You are quite sure you didn’t let anything fall into it by mistake?”“Please, ma’am, there was nothing to fall. I had tidied the things away before I touched it. I put the macaroni sticks back in the bag and the beeswax along of the turpentine for to-morrow’s cleaning—all that you didn’t use for the pudding.”“The—the—what?” gasped Bridgie breathlessly.But the next moment a great burst of laughter all round the table greeted the solution of the mystery. Pat capered about the floor, Jack put his elbows on the table and peered at Sylvia with dancing eyes, Miles undauntedly helped himself to another spoonful, and wagged his head as who should say that, beeswax or no beeswax, he stuck to his favourable verdict on the “mixture.” Bridgie’s soft, gurgling laugh was full of unaffected enjoyment.“Did ever I hear the like of that? It was a lump of beeswax, and I mistook it for cheese! It looked just like it—so smooth, and yellow, and hard—too hard, maybe—but I was blaming Mary for that, not the cheese, and thinking myself so good and economical to use it up! Beeswax and macaroni! Oh—oh—I’ll never forget it while I live!”“It’s a very pretty nose you’ve got, dear, but it’s not much use to you, I’m afraid,” said Jack teasingly. “Did it never occur to you one moment that it was rather highly scented, and the scent a little different from the ordinary common or garden cheese?” and Bridgie shook her head in solemn denial.“Never the ghost of a suspicion! It shows how easily our senses are deceived when we get a fixed idea in our heads; but indeed you were not much cleverer yourselves. Every man of you had something to say about the smell, but not a hint of what it was!”“I thought it was rather spring-cleaningey,” Sylvia said mischievously. “Never mind, Bridgie dear—it has been a great success. I do feel so much at home—more so than I should have done after a dozen formal dinners where everything went right. I shall always remember it too, and how Mr Miles declared it was nice!”“Don’t call him ‘Mr,’ please! He is only seventeen, though heisthe champion eater of the world. I wonder what exactly is the effect of beeswax taken internally! You must tell us all about it, Miles, if you live to the morning!”“How pleased Pixie will be!” murmured Bridgie reflectively, leaving her hearers to decide whether she referred to Miles’s problematical disease or the latest culinary disaster, and once again Sylvia admired the happy faculty of seizing on the humorous side of a misfortune which seemed to be possessed so universally by the O’Shaughnessy family.
It was two days before Christmas, and Bridgie O’Shaughnessy enveloped herself in a white apron, and pensively regarded the contents of the larder. In a couple of hours Sylvia was expected to arrive, and meanwhile Mary the cook had been seized with an irresistible craving to visit an invalid mother, and had taken herself off for the afternoon, leaving the arrangements for dinner in the care of the young mistress, and a still younger parlourmaid.
Mary’s excuse for requesting leave of absence at so inconvenient a time was somewhat contradictory and involved. Her mother was failing fast, and as it was a custom in the family to die in December, it was a daughter’s duty to visit her as often as possible; the shops were all dressed-up for Christmas, and it was hard that a body should not get a bit of pleasure sometimes, and the steak was stewed, and could be “hotted up” at a moment’s notice. The invalid mother sat up for a couple of hours in the afternoon only, so Mary must get to the house by three o’clock at the latest, and would it matter if she were after eleven in returning, as Christmas came but once a year?
Sweet Bridgie assented warmly to each proposition as it was put before her, urged a speedy departure, and was rather inclined to think it would be wise to stay at home for the night. She could never find it in her heart to deny a pleasure which it was in her power to grant, and was gaily confident of managing “somehow” to prepare a palatable meal for her guest, indeed, in the ardour of hospitality was rather pleased than otherwise to have a hand in the preparations.
On the principle of “first catch your hare, then cook it,” she looked critically over the contents of the cupboards to find some ingredients which commended themselves to her limited knowledge of the culinary art. Gelatine had endless possibilities, but time was against her, and she had the dimmest notions as to the quantity required; pastry was always attainable, but on the one occasion when she had experimented in this direction, Jack had taken the nutcrackers to divide his tartlet amidst the cheers of an admiring audience, so that there was plainly no fame to be won in this direction.
Milk puddings were too painfully ordinary, but a bag of macaroni seemed to offer at once an easy and a tasty alternative. Bridgie felt herself quite capable of boiling the sticks into tenderness, and scraping down cheese to add to the milky concoction, and a further search discovered a dark yellow lump stowed away in the corner of a cupboard evidently destined for such an end. It was wonderfully hard; Bridgie’s fingers ached with the strain of cutting it, and she shook her pretty head solemnly over the wastefulness of servants in not using up materials before their freshness was lost. She had intended to use the whole of the piece, but it took so long to prepare that she stopped half-way, and to judge by the mellow brownness of the pudding when she peeped at it in the oven, quality had more than made up for quantity.
Sylvia sniffed delicately as she limped over the threshold, for the pudding had a strangely powerful smell, not exactly savoury perhaps, but distinctly fresh and wholesome. Bridgie bridled in proud consciousness of success the while she tucked up her guest on the drawing-room sofa.
“I’ve been making a pudding for you, dear. Mind you enjoy it! Mary is out, so you are to excuse everything that goes wrong. There’s a pretty pink cushion to match your dress. I never saw that dress before! You are wonderfully smart, Miss Sylvia Trevor!”
“It’s for the boys,” said Sylvia, laughing. “I want to make a good impression, for I am dreadfully afraid they mayn’t like me. I know nothing about young men. They never penetrate into Number Six, and Aunt Margaret thinks it is proper to ignore their existence between the ages of six and sixty. I thought if I put on the bright dress and my pet chiffon fichu, they might not notice how thin my hair is at the top!”
“I’ll tell them not to notice,” said Bridgie gravely. She crossed the room and poked the fire with the best brass poker, a real, live coal fire and no wretched asbestos imitation, and knelt on the rug holding out her hands to the blaze and scorching her cheeks with undisturbed complacency.
The room was mathematically the same in size and shape as the one across the road, but oh, how different in appearance! The one was a museum for the preservation of household gods, the other a haven for rest and amusement, where comfort was the first consideration and appearance the last. Bridgie’s mending-basket stood on the floor, Jack’s pipe peered from behind a chimney-piece ornament, and a bulky blotter and well-filled ink-bottle showed that the writing-table was really and seriously meant for use.
There was a writing-table in Miss Munns’s drawing-room also, on which were set out, in formal order, apapier-machéblotter embellished with a view of York Minster by moonlight, a brass ink-stand, which would have been insulted by the touch of ink, and a penholder with a cornelian handle which had never known a nib. Not the most daring of visitors had ever been known to desecrate that shrine. When the mistress of the house wished to write a letter, she spread a newspaper over the dining-room table, and a sheet of blotting-paper over that, and carefully unlocked the desk which had been a present from Cousin Mary Evans on her sixteenth birthday!
It is extraordinary what a complete change of air may be obtained sometimes by merely crossing a road, or going into the house at the other side of a dividing wall! Sylvia felt that she might have travelled a hundred miles, so entirely different were the conditions by which she found herself surrounded.
By and by the three brothers arrived in a body, letting themselves into the house with a latch-key, and talking together in eager undertones in the hall. Bridgie sat still with a mischievous smile on her lips, and presently the drawing-room door was noiselessly opened for half a dozen inches, and round the corner appeared a brown head, a white forehead, and a pair of curious brown eyes. Sylvia’s cheeks were as pink as her dress by the time that those eyes met hers, but she was the only person to show signs of embarrassment.
“Pat” came forward to shake hands with swift cordiality, followed in succession by Jack and Miles, and the three big brothers stood beside the sofa, looking down on their guest with kindly scrutiny. Pat’s twinkling smile was an augury for future friendship; Miles’s air of angelic sympathy was as good as a tonic; while the rapt gaze of Jack’s fine eyes seemed to imply that never, no never, had he beheld a girl who so absolutely fulfilled his ideal of womanhood! It was nothing that the conversation was most ordinary and impersonal, concerning itself mostly with such matters as the weather, the trains from the city, and the Christmas traffic.
The atmosphere was full of subtle flattery, and Sylvia purred with satisfaction like a sleek little kitten that stretches up its neck to meet an unaccustomed caress. Nothing is so inspiring as appreciation, and she was quite startled by the aptness and brilliancy of her own remarks during the meal which followed.
Jack helped his guest in to dinner, and once again the pungent odour from the kitchen attracted notice and remark, whereat Bridgie bridled complacently, and when the macaroni was brought to table it did indeed look a most attractive dish to be the work of an amateur. So brown was it, so mellow of tint, with such promise of richness, that the general choice settled on it in preference to its more modest neighbour.
Sylvia was naturally helped in advance, and the moment of swallowing the first spoonful was momentous, and never to be forgotten. What had happened she could not tell; the room swam round her, the tears poured from her eyes. She recovered from a paralysing shock of surprise just in time to see Pat’s mouth open wide to receive a heaped-up spoonful, to hear him roar like a wounded bull, and make a dash from the room.
“What is the matter?” cried Bridgie in amaze, and Jack smoothed out the smoking macaroni on his plate and replied cheerfully—
“Scalded himself as usual! He is so impetuous with his food. Do him good to have a lesson.” Then he in his turn partook of the dainty, and his eyes grew bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, the Adam’s apple worked violently in his throat. For one moment it seemed as though he too would fly from the room, but presently the struggle was over, and he leaned back in his chair, pale and dejected, his glance meeting Sylvia’s with melancholy sympathy.
“Whatisthe matter?” queried Bridgie once more, and this time there was a touch of testiness in her voice, for it was trying to have her efforts treated with such want of appreciation, and even if the dish were not all that could be desired, consideration for her feelings might have kept her brothers silent before a stranger. “Miles,youtaste it!” she cried, and Miles smacked his lips for a thoughtful moment, and pronounced sturdily—
“It’s very good!”
Sylvia groaned involuntarily; she could not help it, and Jack gasped with incredulous dismay, staring at his brother as if he could not believe his senses.
“Well, I always did say that there was nothing in this wide world which would quell your appetite, but this beats everything! Take another spoonful—Idareyou to do it!”
“All right, here goes! It’s a very good mixture,” said Miles complacently, swallowing spoonful after spoonful, while hisvis-à-vislooked on with distended eyes, and Pat stood transfixed upon the threshold. As for Bridgie, her face brightened with relief, and she smiled upon her younger brother with grateful affection.
“That’s right, Miles; never mind what they say! You are the greatest comfort I have. Some people are so saucy there is no pleasing them. You and I will enjoy it, if no one else will.”
So far she had prudently refrained from experimenting on her own account, but now she took up her spoon, and there was a breathless silence in the room while she lifted it to her lips. It fell back on the plate with a rattle and clang, and an agonised glance roamed round the table from one face to another.
“Oh—oh—oh! How p–p–p–perfectly awful! What can have happened? It was so nice when I left it! Has anyone”—the voice took a tone of indignation—“have any of you boys been playing tricks on me?”
“How could we, now, if you think of it? We have been upstairs or in the drawing-room ever since we came back. It’s not the will that’s wanting, but the opportunity!” cried the boys in chorus; but it was not a time for joking, and Bridgie smote upon the table-gong with a determined hand.
“Then it must be Sarah’s fault. She has done something to it. It is too bad—I took such pains!” She looked pathetically at the red marks which still lingered on her fingers from that painful cutting and scraping, and there was a distinct air of resentment in the voice in which she questioned her assistant a moment later.
Sarah was a round-faced, vacant-looking damsel of sixteen summers, who had come straight from an industrial home to serve in the O’Shaughnessy family. She was scrupulously clean, admirably willing, and so blindly obedient that in the bosom of the family she was known by the title of “Casabianca.” She understood to a nicety how to dust and sweep, make beds and turn out a room, but the manners and customs of gentlefolk had been an unknown science to her before entering her present situation, and anything that Bridgie chose to do was, in her eyes, a demonstration of what was right and proper. She adored her young mistress, and trembled at the new tone of severity in which she was addressed.
“Please, ma’am, I did nothing at it!”
“But something has happened to it, Sarah—that’s quite certain. Think now—think carefully what you have done since I left the kitchen. I am not angry, only anxious to find out what has gone wrong.”
It was really most embarrassing. The three young gentlemen were watching her with laughing eyes, the pretty young lady in the pink dress was staring at her plate and twisting her lips to keep from smiling, the Missis sat up straight in her chair and looked so grave and masterful. Like Topsy of old, Sarah tried hard to find something to confess, but failed to recall any delinquencies.
“I took it out of the oven when you said, and put it on a plate. I brought it into the room—”
“You are quite sure you didn’t let anything fall into it by mistake?”
“Please, ma’am, there was nothing to fall. I had tidied the things away before I touched it. I put the macaroni sticks back in the bag and the beeswax along of the turpentine for to-morrow’s cleaning—all that you didn’t use for the pudding.”
“The—the—what?” gasped Bridgie breathlessly.
But the next moment a great burst of laughter all round the table greeted the solution of the mystery. Pat capered about the floor, Jack put his elbows on the table and peered at Sylvia with dancing eyes, Miles undauntedly helped himself to another spoonful, and wagged his head as who should say that, beeswax or no beeswax, he stuck to his favourable verdict on the “mixture.” Bridgie’s soft, gurgling laugh was full of unaffected enjoyment.
“Did ever I hear the like of that? It was a lump of beeswax, and I mistook it for cheese! It looked just like it—so smooth, and yellow, and hard—too hard, maybe—but I was blaming Mary for that, not the cheese, and thinking myself so good and economical to use it up! Beeswax and macaroni! Oh—oh—I’ll never forget it while I live!”
“It’s a very pretty nose you’ve got, dear, but it’s not much use to you, I’m afraid,” said Jack teasingly. “Did it never occur to you one moment that it was rather highly scented, and the scent a little different from the ordinary common or garden cheese?” and Bridgie shook her head in solemn denial.
“Never the ghost of a suspicion! It shows how easily our senses are deceived when we get a fixed idea in our heads; but indeed you were not much cleverer yourselves. Every man of you had something to say about the smell, but not a hint of what it was!”
“I thought it was rather spring-cleaningey,” Sylvia said mischievously. “Never mind, Bridgie dear—it has been a great success. I do feel so much at home—more so than I should have done after a dozen formal dinners where everything went right. I shall always remember it too, and how Mr Miles declared it was nice!”
“Don’t call him ‘Mr,’ please! He is only seventeen, though heisthe champion eater of the world. I wonder what exactly is the effect of beeswax taken internally! You must tell us all about it, Miles, if you live to the morning!”
“How pleased Pixie will be!” murmured Bridgie reflectively, leaving her hearers to decide whether she referred to Miles’s problematical disease or the latest culinary disaster, and once again Sylvia admired the happy faculty of seizing on the humorous side of a misfortune which seemed to be possessed so universally by the O’Shaughnessy family.
Chapter Seven.A Happy Inspiration.Mrs Geoffrey Hilliard stood in the long gallery of Knock Castle and drummed wearily on the window-pane with a white, heavily-ringed hand. It had rained for a whole week without stopping, and for the happiest girl in the world, as she proclaimed herself to be at least three times a day, she came perilously near feeling shedding tears of depression.Geoffrey was out shooting, and the old Castle seemed full of ghosts—ghosts of the living, not of the dead—of those dear, gay, loving, teasing, happy-go-lucky brothers and sisters who had filled the rooms with echoes of song and laughter. Geoffrey was the dearest of husbands, but he had one great, insuperable failing—he was not Irish, and one phase of his wife’s character was even yet an inexplicable riddle in his eyes. Why should she consider it monotonous to have her meals served regularly at a stated hour; why should she find infinite enjoyment in arranging a festivity in a rush and scramble, instead of making her plans with due leisure and decorum; why should she wear the latest Paris fashions on a day when the thermometer pointed to rain, and walk about in the sunshine in an ulster and deerstalker?—these, and many similar questions, were as puzzling to him as the fact that she found it absolutely impossible to do a thing twice over in the same way, or to master the very rudiments of method.Geoffrey inherited the business instincts which had made his fathers successful above their competitors, and when he had become temporary owner of Knock, he had striven hard to introduce order and punctuality into the establishment, with more success in the servants’ hall than in those regions where the mistress reigned supreme.Esmeralda was a devoted wife, who would have gone through fire and water to ensure his happiness; she would have shared his poverty with a smiling face, and have worked her fingers to the bone on his behalf, but she seemed quite incapable of replacing the match-box on his dressing-room mantelpiece when she had borrowed it for her own use, or of refraining from taking his nail-scissors downstairs and then forgetting where she had put them.Geoffrey on his part adored his beautiful wife, and would have fought a dozen dragons on her behalf, but when he groped in the dark for his matches, and knocked his pet ornaments off the chimney-piece, and barked his knee against a chair, and tried vainly to get out of the room through a blank wall—well, he was only a man after all, and he was not precisely lamb-like in temper.Some such incident had happened this afternoon when the husband had made a complaining remark, and the wife had poured oil on the troubled waters by murmured allusions to people who were not really men, but “finnicky old maids.” Geoffrey had stalked majestically from the room, leaving Esmeralda to reflect sadly how very unsatisfactory it was to quarrel when your adversary was dignified and English. With either of her three brothers such an introduction would have meant an enjoyable and lengthy wrangle; even “Saint Bridget” could snap on occasion, while Pixie was capable of screaming, “It is not—it is not!” until her breath failed, for pure love of contradiction.Esmeralda yawned, and wondered what in the world she could do to while away the long afternoon. As the wife of a millionaire, with a professional cook in the kitchen who tolerated her mistress’s incursions at stated hours only; with a wardrobe full of new clothes, and a French maid to sew up every hole almost before it made an appearance; with a gardener who did not like interference, and a patriarchal butler who said, “Allow me, madam!” if she dared to lift a hand for herself, life was not really half so amusing as in the dear old days, when she could make potato cakes for tea, re-trim old dresses, with Bridgie as model, and sit perched on one of the empty stages in the conservatory, while Dennis confided his latest love experiences and the gossip of the countryside.Esmeralda had longed for riches all her life, and for the most part found the experience to her taste, but there were occasions when she felt fettered by the golden chains. When Bridgie wrote of her experiences in that funny, cramped little house, of her various devices for making sixpence do duty for a shilling, of excursions about London, when she rode with the boys on the tops of omnibuses and dined luxuriously at an ABC, it was not pity, but envy, which filled Esmeralda’s bosom as she drove in state behind coachman and footman to pay dull, proper calls on the county magnates.It was cold and dark in the gallery this December afternoon, so she went downstairs into the room which had been dedicated to lessons, when Miss Minnitt the governess tried to instil knowledge into half a dozen ignorant heads. It was now metamorphosed into a luxuriant little boudoir, with pots of hothouse plants banked on the table, a couch piled with silken cushions taking the place of the old horsehair sofa, a charming grate, all glowing copper and soft green tiles, and beside it a deep arm-chair and a pile of books to while away an idle hour. Esmeralda yawned and flicked over the pages of the topmost of the pile, looked at the beginning to see if it promised excitement, peeped at the last sentence of all to make sure there was no heart-breaking separation, finally sank down into the chair, and settled herself to read.There was something wanting for perfect enjoyment, however, for in the old days she and Bridgie had agreed that the charms of an interesting book could only be thoroughly appreciated to an accompaniment of crisp sweet apples. Esmeralda O’Shaughnessy had been wont to climb up into the loft and bring down as many rosy baldwins as she could carry in the crown of her cap; but Mrs Geoffrey Hilliard crept down her own passages like a thief, listened breathlessly at the pantry door to make sure that Montgomery was absent, then abstracted an apple from each of the two pyramids of fruit already prepared for dinner, and flew back to her room, aghast at her own temerity.The presence of the apples seemed to bring back other schoolgirl impulses, for instead of seating herself in dignified, grown-up fashion, she stretched herself on the rug before the fire, her back supported against the chair, her head drooping ever nearer and nearer the cushions, as warmth and quiet wrought their usual work. She slept and dreamt, and awoke with a start to hear a voice observing, “Tea is served, madam!” and to see Montgomery the immaculate standing over her with an unmoved expression, as if, in the many noble families in which he had served, it was an invariable custom to find his mistress fast asleep on the floor, with a half-gnawed apple in her hand!Esmeralda crawled to her feet, trying vainly to look dignified, but she had no appetite for muffins. She felt like a child who has been found out, and blushed at the thoughts of her embarrassment that evening when the fruit pyramid was handed for her selection. Tea did not taste half so nice out of the Queen Anne silver as when it had been poured from the old brown pot, which had to be refilled so many times to satisfy clamorous appetites, and the longing for companionship made her hurry through the meal, and run upstairs to a wide room overlooking the park.With the opening of the door came that sweet, flannely, soapy, violet-powdery smell which is associated with a well-kept nursery, and there on the rocking-chair sat Mistress Nurse with a bundle of embroidery on her knee, which purported to be O’Shaughnessy Geoffrey, the heir of the Hilliards.“Oh, I’m so glad you have come, ma’am! I did so want you to see him. He has been so pert this afternoon. I don’t know what to do with him, he is so pert! I never saw such a forward child for his age!”Esmeralda’s face softened to a beautiful tenderness as she turned down the Shetland shawl and looked at her little son. The pert child had a fat white face, with vacant eyes, a button of a nose, and an expression of preternatural solemnity. His head waggled helplessly from side to side as his nurse held him out at arm’s length, and stared fixedly into space, regardless of his mother’s blandishments.“There now,isn’the pert?” repeated the triumphant nurse. “You know your mammie, my precious—yes, you do! The cleverest little sing that was ever seen! He will begin to talk, ma’am, before he is many months old, I’m sure he will! I was speaking to him just now, and he tried so hard to copy me. I said ‘Goo-oo!’ and he said ‘Coo-oo!’ Oh, you would have loved to hear him! He is a prince of babies, he is! A beautiful darling pet!”Esmeralda beamed with maternal pride.“Heisclever!” she cried. “Fancy talking at three months old! I must write and tell Bridgie. And he looks so intelligent, too—doesn’t he, nurse? So wise and serious! He stares at the fire as if he knew all about it. I believe his hair has grown since yesterday! I do, indeed!”“He has beautiful hair—so fine! It’s going to curl, too,” declared the optimistic nurse, holding the child’s head against the light, when the faintest of downs could be dimly discerned across the line of the horizon. “He will smile in a moment if you go on talking to him, ma’am. Perhaps you would like to sit down and take him for a bit?”Yes, Esmeralda was only too willing, for it was only by act of grace and when Mistress Nurse felt inclined for a gossip in the servants’ hall that she was allowed to nurse her own baby. She took the dear little soft bundle in her arms and rocked gently to and fro, studying the little face and dreaming mother dreams of the days to come.If God spared him, the tiny form would grow strong, the vacant face would become bright and alert with life, the mite of a hand would be bigger than her own—a man’s hand with a man’s work as its inheritance. There was something awful in the thought, and in her own responsibility towards his future. Esmeralda never felt so serious, so prayerful, so little satisfied with herself, as when she sat alone with her baby in her arms. She knew nothing about children—very little, poor girl, of the wise training of father and mother, but the very consciousness of her own defects added earnestness to the resolve to bring up this child to be wise, and strong, and noble—a power for good in the world.That was her resolve, renewed afresh from day to day, and after the resolve followed the relentless conviction that the change must be wrought in herself before she would have power to teach another. It would need a noble mother to train a noble son, a mother who was mistress over her own tongue to teach the lessons of self-control; a mother who had fought her own giants of vanity and self-seeking before she could hand on the sword. Esmeralda trembled and shrank weakly from the conflict, but the baby turned its wondering eyes upon her and straightway she was strong again.“My son!” she murmured tenderly. “My little son! We shall love one another. Oh, how we shall love one another—you and I!”The beautiful dark head bent low over the shapeless little bundle, and the croon of a cradle song accompanied the regular rocking of the chair. It was the most peaceful and charming of pictures, and the husband and father stood noiselessly on the threshold, almost unwilling to speak and destroy the effect.All the afternoon he had been regretting his hasty words, and reproaching himself for want of forbearance towards his impetuous girl-wife. It was unreasonable to expect the habit of a lifetime to be outlived in a few short months, and at this season there were especial reasons for judging her tenderly. Poor darling! She had suffered a bitter disappointment!Bridgie and the boys had found it impossible to spend Christmas at Knock, and although Joan had not confessed as much in words, the slackness of her preparations showed that she had lost all zest in the season. She had had a dull time of it since the birth of the boy, and it was only natural that she should long for her own people, especially those two dear sisters whose names were so constantly on her lips. If it were only possible to indulge her—to hit upon some plan by which Christmas could be made all she could desire!Geoffrey knitted his brows in thought, then suddenly came the inspiration, and with it an exclamation of satisfaction which brought Esmeralda’s eyes upon him. She smiled softly, and held up her face to receive his kiss—such a different face from the one which he had seen two hours before, with its curling lips and flushed, contemptuous smile! In its sweetness and subdued tenderness it was a type of the youthful Madonna, and Geoffrey’s own expression softened in sympathy.“Well, my dearie! Nursing your boy?”Esmeralda turned back the shawl once more and held up the child for his father’s inspection.“There! Isn’t he splendid? Nurse is quite excited about him this afternoon. She says it is wonderful how he gets on. He has been so ‘pert,’ as she calls it, that she hardly knew how to manage him.”“H’m!” The young father regarded the little face with amused, speculative eyes. “‘Pert’ does not commend itself to me as precisely the best word which could be found. Solemn little beggar, I call him! He seems quite oppressed by the wickedness of the world. I say, that’s rather a peculiar mouth, isn’t it? Something funny about the upper lip!”“It’s exactly like yours—the image of it!” said Esmeralda firmly. “You can’t judge because naturally you can’t see yourself. But it really is. Look at that old picture when you were two years old.”Geoffrey stroked his moustache to one side, and regarded himself critically in the mirror.“Oh, well, there’s hope for him yet!” he pronounced complacently. “I suppose babies are all ugly in the beginning, but considering his parentage he ought to come out all right by and by. How long do you suppose it will be before he gets his hair, and begins to be intelligible?”“He has hair now, and he is beginning to speak. He said ‘Coo-oo!’ this afternoon quite distinctly. It’s horrid of you, Geoff, to call him ugly! Everyone says he is a beautiful boy and the image of you!”“Much more chance of being beautiful if he were like you, darling! Spoke, did he? Well, I take your word for it, but it’s rather a stretch of imagination. He is a jolly little chap, anyway, and I’m very proud of him. Here is nurse coming totake possession. Hand him over and come along with me. I have something to tell you.”“Something nice, I hope! I want a distraction,” said Esmeralda wistfully. She slid her hand through her husband’s arm as they walked down the corridor and peered up in his face. “Somebody was rather vicious this afternoon! I’m sorry you put me in a temper. It’s stupid to quarrel when we are so fond of one another. You’ll never do it again, will you?”“Never, never! It was all my fault, and I apologise abjectly to your temper for taking liberties with it. I ought to know by this time that it’s in delicate health. Never mind, I’ve planned a delightful programme for you! What would you like best for a Christmas present if you had the choice?”He was all radiant with smiles, but Esmeralda sighed, and a far-away expression came into her beautiful grey eyes.“I’d like—Oh, what’s the use of speaking of it, Geoff? They can’t come, and that’s all about it! I haven’t thought of any present. I don’t seem to care about anything else.”“Whisper!” cried Geoffrey triumphantly. “Whisper!” He bent his head, and Esmeralda put her ear to his lips, her face alight with expectation.“Oh!” she cried rapturously, and again, “Oh!” and “Oh” in ever-ascending tones of delight. “Do you mean it, Geoff—really—really? It’s like a fairy-tale—so perfectly lovely and charming! I shan’t sleep a wink—I know I shan’t! Geoffrey, you darling, I do love you for thinking of it!” and in an ecstasy of delight she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him rapturously.“Any letters for the post, madam?” asked an even voice from the end of the corridor, and the husband wrenched himself free, while the wife stared after the departing figure with gloomy eyes.“He saw me kiss you! The only marvel is he didn’t offer to do it for me. The strain of behaving properly before that man will be the death of me, Geoffrey Hilliard!”
Mrs Geoffrey Hilliard stood in the long gallery of Knock Castle and drummed wearily on the window-pane with a white, heavily-ringed hand. It had rained for a whole week without stopping, and for the happiest girl in the world, as she proclaimed herself to be at least three times a day, she came perilously near feeling shedding tears of depression.
Geoffrey was out shooting, and the old Castle seemed full of ghosts—ghosts of the living, not of the dead—of those dear, gay, loving, teasing, happy-go-lucky brothers and sisters who had filled the rooms with echoes of song and laughter. Geoffrey was the dearest of husbands, but he had one great, insuperable failing—he was not Irish, and one phase of his wife’s character was even yet an inexplicable riddle in his eyes. Why should she consider it monotonous to have her meals served regularly at a stated hour; why should she find infinite enjoyment in arranging a festivity in a rush and scramble, instead of making her plans with due leisure and decorum; why should she wear the latest Paris fashions on a day when the thermometer pointed to rain, and walk about in the sunshine in an ulster and deerstalker?—these, and many similar questions, were as puzzling to him as the fact that she found it absolutely impossible to do a thing twice over in the same way, or to master the very rudiments of method.
Geoffrey inherited the business instincts which had made his fathers successful above their competitors, and when he had become temporary owner of Knock, he had striven hard to introduce order and punctuality into the establishment, with more success in the servants’ hall than in those regions where the mistress reigned supreme.
Esmeralda was a devoted wife, who would have gone through fire and water to ensure his happiness; she would have shared his poverty with a smiling face, and have worked her fingers to the bone on his behalf, but she seemed quite incapable of replacing the match-box on his dressing-room mantelpiece when she had borrowed it for her own use, or of refraining from taking his nail-scissors downstairs and then forgetting where she had put them.
Geoffrey on his part adored his beautiful wife, and would have fought a dozen dragons on her behalf, but when he groped in the dark for his matches, and knocked his pet ornaments off the chimney-piece, and barked his knee against a chair, and tried vainly to get out of the room through a blank wall—well, he was only a man after all, and he was not precisely lamb-like in temper.
Some such incident had happened this afternoon when the husband had made a complaining remark, and the wife had poured oil on the troubled waters by murmured allusions to people who were not really men, but “finnicky old maids.” Geoffrey had stalked majestically from the room, leaving Esmeralda to reflect sadly how very unsatisfactory it was to quarrel when your adversary was dignified and English. With either of her three brothers such an introduction would have meant an enjoyable and lengthy wrangle; even “Saint Bridget” could snap on occasion, while Pixie was capable of screaming, “It is not—it is not!” until her breath failed, for pure love of contradiction.
Esmeralda yawned, and wondered what in the world she could do to while away the long afternoon. As the wife of a millionaire, with a professional cook in the kitchen who tolerated her mistress’s incursions at stated hours only; with a wardrobe full of new clothes, and a French maid to sew up every hole almost before it made an appearance; with a gardener who did not like interference, and a patriarchal butler who said, “Allow me, madam!” if she dared to lift a hand for herself, life was not really half so amusing as in the dear old days, when she could make potato cakes for tea, re-trim old dresses, with Bridgie as model, and sit perched on one of the empty stages in the conservatory, while Dennis confided his latest love experiences and the gossip of the countryside.
Esmeralda had longed for riches all her life, and for the most part found the experience to her taste, but there were occasions when she felt fettered by the golden chains. When Bridgie wrote of her experiences in that funny, cramped little house, of her various devices for making sixpence do duty for a shilling, of excursions about London, when she rode with the boys on the tops of omnibuses and dined luxuriously at an ABC, it was not pity, but envy, which filled Esmeralda’s bosom as she drove in state behind coachman and footman to pay dull, proper calls on the county magnates.
It was cold and dark in the gallery this December afternoon, so she went downstairs into the room which had been dedicated to lessons, when Miss Minnitt the governess tried to instil knowledge into half a dozen ignorant heads. It was now metamorphosed into a luxuriant little boudoir, with pots of hothouse plants banked on the table, a couch piled with silken cushions taking the place of the old horsehair sofa, a charming grate, all glowing copper and soft green tiles, and beside it a deep arm-chair and a pile of books to while away an idle hour. Esmeralda yawned and flicked over the pages of the topmost of the pile, looked at the beginning to see if it promised excitement, peeped at the last sentence of all to make sure there was no heart-breaking separation, finally sank down into the chair, and settled herself to read.
There was something wanting for perfect enjoyment, however, for in the old days she and Bridgie had agreed that the charms of an interesting book could only be thoroughly appreciated to an accompaniment of crisp sweet apples. Esmeralda O’Shaughnessy had been wont to climb up into the loft and bring down as many rosy baldwins as she could carry in the crown of her cap; but Mrs Geoffrey Hilliard crept down her own passages like a thief, listened breathlessly at the pantry door to make sure that Montgomery was absent, then abstracted an apple from each of the two pyramids of fruit already prepared for dinner, and flew back to her room, aghast at her own temerity.
The presence of the apples seemed to bring back other schoolgirl impulses, for instead of seating herself in dignified, grown-up fashion, she stretched herself on the rug before the fire, her back supported against the chair, her head drooping ever nearer and nearer the cushions, as warmth and quiet wrought their usual work. She slept and dreamt, and awoke with a start to hear a voice observing, “Tea is served, madam!” and to see Montgomery the immaculate standing over her with an unmoved expression, as if, in the many noble families in which he had served, it was an invariable custom to find his mistress fast asleep on the floor, with a half-gnawed apple in her hand!
Esmeralda crawled to her feet, trying vainly to look dignified, but she had no appetite for muffins. She felt like a child who has been found out, and blushed at the thoughts of her embarrassment that evening when the fruit pyramid was handed for her selection. Tea did not taste half so nice out of the Queen Anne silver as when it had been poured from the old brown pot, which had to be refilled so many times to satisfy clamorous appetites, and the longing for companionship made her hurry through the meal, and run upstairs to a wide room overlooking the park.
With the opening of the door came that sweet, flannely, soapy, violet-powdery smell which is associated with a well-kept nursery, and there on the rocking-chair sat Mistress Nurse with a bundle of embroidery on her knee, which purported to be O’Shaughnessy Geoffrey, the heir of the Hilliards.
“Oh, I’m so glad you have come, ma’am! I did so want you to see him. He has been so pert this afternoon. I don’t know what to do with him, he is so pert! I never saw such a forward child for his age!”
Esmeralda’s face softened to a beautiful tenderness as she turned down the Shetland shawl and looked at her little son. The pert child had a fat white face, with vacant eyes, a button of a nose, and an expression of preternatural solemnity. His head waggled helplessly from side to side as his nurse held him out at arm’s length, and stared fixedly into space, regardless of his mother’s blandishments.
“There now,isn’the pert?” repeated the triumphant nurse. “You know your mammie, my precious—yes, you do! The cleverest little sing that was ever seen! He will begin to talk, ma’am, before he is many months old, I’m sure he will! I was speaking to him just now, and he tried so hard to copy me. I said ‘Goo-oo!’ and he said ‘Coo-oo!’ Oh, you would have loved to hear him! He is a prince of babies, he is! A beautiful darling pet!”
Esmeralda beamed with maternal pride.
“Heisclever!” she cried. “Fancy talking at three months old! I must write and tell Bridgie. And he looks so intelligent, too—doesn’t he, nurse? So wise and serious! He stares at the fire as if he knew all about it. I believe his hair has grown since yesterday! I do, indeed!”
“He has beautiful hair—so fine! It’s going to curl, too,” declared the optimistic nurse, holding the child’s head against the light, when the faintest of downs could be dimly discerned across the line of the horizon. “He will smile in a moment if you go on talking to him, ma’am. Perhaps you would like to sit down and take him for a bit?”
Yes, Esmeralda was only too willing, for it was only by act of grace and when Mistress Nurse felt inclined for a gossip in the servants’ hall that she was allowed to nurse her own baby. She took the dear little soft bundle in her arms and rocked gently to and fro, studying the little face and dreaming mother dreams of the days to come.
If God spared him, the tiny form would grow strong, the vacant face would become bright and alert with life, the mite of a hand would be bigger than her own—a man’s hand with a man’s work as its inheritance. There was something awful in the thought, and in her own responsibility towards his future. Esmeralda never felt so serious, so prayerful, so little satisfied with herself, as when she sat alone with her baby in her arms. She knew nothing about children—very little, poor girl, of the wise training of father and mother, but the very consciousness of her own defects added earnestness to the resolve to bring up this child to be wise, and strong, and noble—a power for good in the world.
That was her resolve, renewed afresh from day to day, and after the resolve followed the relentless conviction that the change must be wrought in herself before she would have power to teach another. It would need a noble mother to train a noble son, a mother who was mistress over her own tongue to teach the lessons of self-control; a mother who had fought her own giants of vanity and self-seeking before she could hand on the sword. Esmeralda trembled and shrank weakly from the conflict, but the baby turned its wondering eyes upon her and straightway she was strong again.
“My son!” she murmured tenderly. “My little son! We shall love one another. Oh, how we shall love one another—you and I!”
The beautiful dark head bent low over the shapeless little bundle, and the croon of a cradle song accompanied the regular rocking of the chair. It was the most peaceful and charming of pictures, and the husband and father stood noiselessly on the threshold, almost unwilling to speak and destroy the effect.
All the afternoon he had been regretting his hasty words, and reproaching himself for want of forbearance towards his impetuous girl-wife. It was unreasonable to expect the habit of a lifetime to be outlived in a few short months, and at this season there were especial reasons for judging her tenderly. Poor darling! She had suffered a bitter disappointment!
Bridgie and the boys had found it impossible to spend Christmas at Knock, and although Joan had not confessed as much in words, the slackness of her preparations showed that she had lost all zest in the season. She had had a dull time of it since the birth of the boy, and it was only natural that she should long for her own people, especially those two dear sisters whose names were so constantly on her lips. If it were only possible to indulge her—to hit upon some plan by which Christmas could be made all she could desire!
Geoffrey knitted his brows in thought, then suddenly came the inspiration, and with it an exclamation of satisfaction which brought Esmeralda’s eyes upon him. She smiled softly, and held up her face to receive his kiss—such a different face from the one which he had seen two hours before, with its curling lips and flushed, contemptuous smile! In its sweetness and subdued tenderness it was a type of the youthful Madonna, and Geoffrey’s own expression softened in sympathy.
“Well, my dearie! Nursing your boy?”
Esmeralda turned back the shawl once more and held up the child for his father’s inspection.
“There! Isn’t he splendid? Nurse is quite excited about him this afternoon. She says it is wonderful how he gets on. He has been so ‘pert,’ as she calls it, that she hardly knew how to manage him.”
“H’m!” The young father regarded the little face with amused, speculative eyes. “‘Pert’ does not commend itself to me as precisely the best word which could be found. Solemn little beggar, I call him! He seems quite oppressed by the wickedness of the world. I say, that’s rather a peculiar mouth, isn’t it? Something funny about the upper lip!”
“It’s exactly like yours—the image of it!” said Esmeralda firmly. “You can’t judge because naturally you can’t see yourself. But it really is. Look at that old picture when you were two years old.”
Geoffrey stroked his moustache to one side, and regarded himself critically in the mirror.
“Oh, well, there’s hope for him yet!” he pronounced complacently. “I suppose babies are all ugly in the beginning, but considering his parentage he ought to come out all right by and by. How long do you suppose it will be before he gets his hair, and begins to be intelligible?”
“He has hair now, and he is beginning to speak. He said ‘Coo-oo!’ this afternoon quite distinctly. It’s horrid of you, Geoff, to call him ugly! Everyone says he is a beautiful boy and the image of you!”
“Much more chance of being beautiful if he were like you, darling! Spoke, did he? Well, I take your word for it, but it’s rather a stretch of imagination. He is a jolly little chap, anyway, and I’m very proud of him. Here is nurse coming totake possession. Hand him over and come along with me. I have something to tell you.”
“Something nice, I hope! I want a distraction,” said Esmeralda wistfully. She slid her hand through her husband’s arm as they walked down the corridor and peered up in his face. “Somebody was rather vicious this afternoon! I’m sorry you put me in a temper. It’s stupid to quarrel when we are so fond of one another. You’ll never do it again, will you?”
“Never, never! It was all my fault, and I apologise abjectly to your temper for taking liberties with it. I ought to know by this time that it’s in delicate health. Never mind, I’ve planned a delightful programme for you! What would you like best for a Christmas present if you had the choice?”
He was all radiant with smiles, but Esmeralda sighed, and a far-away expression came into her beautiful grey eyes.
“I’d like—Oh, what’s the use of speaking of it, Geoff? They can’t come, and that’s all about it! I haven’t thought of any present. I don’t seem to care about anything else.”
“Whisper!” cried Geoffrey triumphantly. “Whisper!” He bent his head, and Esmeralda put her ear to his lips, her face alight with expectation.
“Oh!” she cried rapturously, and again, “Oh!” and “Oh” in ever-ascending tones of delight. “Do you mean it, Geoff—really—really? It’s like a fairy-tale—so perfectly lovely and charming! I shan’t sleep a wink—I know I shan’t! Geoffrey, you darling, I do love you for thinking of it!” and in an ecstasy of delight she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him rapturously.
“Any letters for the post, madam?” asked an even voice from the end of the corridor, and the husband wrenched himself free, while the wife stared after the departing figure with gloomy eyes.
“He saw me kiss you! The only marvel is he didn’t offer to do it for me. The strain of behaving properly before that man will be the death of me, Geoffrey Hilliard!”