An Unruly Member
Hepsie flung back her head, and laughed lightly. "Oh, you artful little mother! That's your gentle way of telling me, what, of course, I know—that I am a horrid girl for impatience and temper, when I get vexed; but you know, mother darling, I shall never be able to manage my tongue. It was born too long, and though on this very Christmas morning I have been making ever so many good resolutions to keep the tiresome thing in order—you mark my words, little mother, if it doesn't run off in some dreadful way directly it gets the chance—and then you'll be grieved—and I shall be sorry—and some one or other will bein a rage!"
Mrs. Erldon drew in her lips. It was hard to keep from laughing at the comical look on the little girl's face, and certainly what she said was true. Some one was very often in a rage with Hepsie's tongue. It was a most outspoken and unruly member, and yet belonged to the best-hearted child in the whole of Sunnycoombe, and the favourite, too, in spite of her temper, which was so quickly over, and her repentance always so sincere and sweet.
She was looking up into Mrs. Erldon's face now with great honest blue eyes in which a faint shadow could be seen.
"I met my grandfather this morning," she said in a quick, rather nervous voice, "and I told him he was a wicked old man!"
Her mother turned so white that Hepsie thought she was going to faint, and hung on to her arm in terror and remorse.
"Don't look like that!" she burst forth desperately. "I know I ought to be shaken, and ought to be ashamed of myself—but it's no use—I'm not either one or the other, only I wish I hadn't done it now, because I've vexed you on Christmas morning!"
Mrs. Erldon walked along, looking straight ahead.
"DO FORGIVE ME, MOTHER DARLING!""DO FORGIVE ME, MOTHER DARLING!"
"I'd rather you did shake me," said Hepsie, in a quivering tone, "only you couldn't do such a thing, I know. You're too kind—and I'm always saying something I shouldn't. Do forgive me, mother darling! You can't think what a relief it was to me to speak like that to my grandfather, who thinks he's all the world, and something more, just because he's the Lord of the Manor and got a hateful heap of money, and it'll do him good (when he's got over his rage) to feel that there's his own little granddaughter who isn't afraid of him and tells him the truth——"
"Hepsie!"
Hepsie paused, and stared. Her gentle mother was gazing so strangely and sternly at her.
"You are speaking of my father, Hepsie," she said quietly, but in a voice new to her child, though it was still gentle and low, "and in treating him with disrespect you have hurt me deeply."
"Oh, but mother—darling, darling mother," cried the child, with tears springing to her beautiful eyes, "I wouldn't hurt you for a million wicked old grandfathers! I'd rather let him do anything he liked that was bad to me, but what I can't stand is his making you sad and unhappy, and making poor daddy go right away again to that far-away place in South Africa, which he never need have done if it hadn't been for being poor, though he must be finding money now, or he couldn't send you those lovely furs, and——"
"Oh, Hepsie, Hepsie, that little tongue, how it gallops along! Be quiet at once, and listen to me! There, dear, I can't bear to see tears in your eyes on Christmas Day, and when you and I are just the two together on this day—your father so many, many milesdistant from us, and poor grandfather nursing his anger all alone in the big old house."
Her tone was full of a deep sorrow, and for once, young as she was, Hepsie understood that here was an emotion upon which she must not remark, though she muttered in her own heart:
"All through his own wicked old temper."
Mrs. Erldon took Hepsie's hand in her own as they walked towards the little home at the end of the long country lane.
Mrs. Erldon Explains
"I will not scold you, my darling," she said; "but in future never forget that God Himself commands that we shall honour our parents, and even if they grieve their children, Hepsie, that does not do away with children's duty, and a parent is a parent as long as life lasts—to be honoured and—loved! You are twelve years old, dear, and big enough now to understand how sad I am that my dear old father will not forgive me for marrying your father, and I think I had better explain things a little to you, Hepsie. There was some one—a rich cousin—whom my father had always hoped and wished that I should marry as soon as I was old enough; but when I was twenty-one, and was travelling with grandfather, you know, that is my own father—we made the acquaintance of a gentleman in South Africa—Alfred Erldon—who was of English parentage, but had lived out there all his life. Well, Hepsie, I need only say that this gentleman and I decided to marry against grandfather's desire. We were married in Johannesburg, to his great displeasure, so he refused to have anything to do with us, and returned to England, declaring he would never speak to me again.
"I never thought that he really meant such a thing, he had always loved me so dearly, and I loved him so much. I wrote again and again, but there was no answer to any of my letters. Then, my darling, you were born, and soon after, the great South African War broke out, and your dear father made me leave Johannesburg and bring you to England. Of course,I came to the old home—Sunnycoombe—but only to find I was still unforgiven, for the letter I sent to say I was in the village was not answered either, humbly as I begged my father to see me. All the same, Hepsie, I have remained here at your father's wish, for he lost money, and had to 'trek north,' as they say, to a wild part of Rhodesia, where white women could not go."
Mrs. Erldon's tears were nearly falling as she added: "Things have gone badly with him, and only once has he been able to come to England to spend a few months with us, as you remember, five years ago, but soon, now you are older, I shall go and face the life, however rough it may be. Now, no more talk, for here we are, darling, and, please God, this may be the last Christmas that we spend without daddy, in England or Africa, as it may be."
"And I won't grieve you again to-day, darling little mother," whispered Hepsie, quite sobered at the thought of mother without either her daddy or Hepsie's on Christmas Day again, and no letter from Africa by the usual mail.
An Afternoon Call
It was a glorious afternoon, and when Mrs. Erldon settled down for a rest, Hepsie asked if she might go out for a run, to which her mother at once agreed. In this quiet little peaceful spot in Somersetshire there was no reason why a girl of Hepsie's age should not run about freely, and so, warmly wrapped up, the child trotted off—but any one watching her small determined face would have seen that this was not an ordinary walk upon her part.
She left the old lane and turned towards a different part of Sunnycoombe. She approached the big Manor House through its wide gates, and along broad paths of well-trimmed trees. As she did so Hepsie breathed a little more quickly than usual, while a brilliant colour stole into her fair young cheeks.
"When one does wrong," she murmured determinedly, "there is only one thing to follow—and that is to put the wrong right, if one can. I spoke rudelyto my darling little mother's own father, and though he's a terrible old man, he's got to have an apology, which is a wretched thing to have to give; and he's got to hear that his daughter never would and never did teach her little girl to be rude, no, not even to a cantankerous old grandfather, who won't speak to a lovely sweet woman like my mother."
She reached the porch, and pulled fiercely at the old-fashioned bell, then fairly jumped at the loud clanging noise that woke the silence of the quiet afternoon.
The door opened so suddenly that Hepsie was quite confused, and for the moment took the stately old butler for her grandfather himself, offered her hand, and then turned crimson.
"Good gracious me!" she said in her brisk voice. "Do you stand behind the door all day? You made me jump so that I don't know what I am saying, but—well—I must see my grandfather at once, please."
Every one in the village knew all about the child and who she was, and the man was more than surprised at seeing her dare to come there, and he also felt very nervous.
"You run away, miss," he said in a confidential whisper, "an' more's the shame I should have to say so, but, bless your heart, the master wouldn't see you, and it's more than I dare to tell him you're wanting."
"You need not trouble," Hepsie said; "if I had not made a big resolution to look after my tongue, I should say more than you would enjoy hearing—talking to a lady (who comes to visit your master on Christmas Day) like you are doing to me; not that you may not mean kindly, now I come to think of it, but meaning goes for nothing, my good man, if you do a wrong thing, and you can't tell me that you are the one to decide whom your master will see or not." She waited to take a breath, while the man rubbed his white hair in great perplexity, and feeling rather breathless himself; but Hepsie calmly walked byhim, and before he could recover from the shock, he saw her disappear into the dining-room!
Hepsie never forgot that moment.
Seated at a long table was a solitary and lonely-looking figure, supporting one thin old cheek on his hand as he rested his elbow on the table and seemed to be gazing far away into space. She did not know that he was rather deaf, and had not heard her enter, and she stood and looked at him, with her heart aching in a funny sort of way, she thought, for the sake of a wicked old man.
She stared and stared, and the more she stared, the bigger a lump in her throat seemed to become. The room was so quiet and he sat so still, and something in his face brought that of her mother to her mind.
At last she walked right up to him, and, feeling if she did not get out the words quickly she never would, Hepsie stretched out her hand and said: "When I stopped you in the lane to-day, I didn't know how much mother still loved you, and I forgot all about honouring parents, however unkind they seem, or I shouldn't have told you what I did, however true it was, for I hurt mother shockingly, as any one could see, and I've promised to look after my tongue much better, and so I just rushed up here to say—what I have said—and—and—please that's all, except——"
She gulped and choked, her small quivering and scarlet face with the pitiful eyes gazing down into his—and the years rolled away in the old man's sight, and his daughter was back at his side again. What was she saying in that pleading voice, as she knelt and clasped his shaking hand?
"Except—except—I'm sorry, I am! Oh—I didn't think how sad you were, and can't you love me just a bit?"
And what were Hepsie's feelings then when the old man rose, and seizing her in his arms, cried brokenly:
"Oh, child, if only your mother had said the same—only just once in the midst of my anger—but shepassed her father by, she passed him by! And never a word in all these years of my loneliness and pain! My heart is breaking, for all its pride!"
"She wrote again and again," declared Hepsie, and he started, and such a frown came then, that she was quite frightened, though she repeated, "Indeed she did, and she loves you still."
"Then," said he, "they never reached me! Some one has come between us. But never mind that now. I must go to your mother. Come," he added, "I must fetch my girl back to her home again, until her husband claims her from me."
A Surprise
But when the two reached the little house in the lane a surprise awaited them. They found Mrs. Erldon in her husband's arms. He had returned unexpectedly, having, as a successful prospector for gold, done well enough to return home at once to fetch his wife and child.
No words could describe the joy in his wife's heart when her father took their hands and asked their forgiveness for years of estrangement, and told the tale of the intercepted letters, which he might never have discovered had it not been for little Hepsie's Christmas visit of peace and goodwill.
Hepsie is learning to control that little tongue of hers now, and she has, framed in her room, a verse that mother wrote for Hepsie especially:
Take heed of the words that hastily fly,Lest sorrow should weep for them by and by,And the lips that have spoken vainly yearn,Sighing for words that can never return!
BY
A glimpse of South African travel, with some of the humours of the road.
"Here comes the wagon to be packed!" called the children, as with a creak and groan of wheels, and shouts from the Kafirs, it was brought lumbering to the door.
"The vor-chiest is ready, Lang-Jan," said Mrs. Gilbert, coming to the door. "Everything that can, had better be put in place to-night."
"Ja, Meeses," agreed Jan. "It's a long trek from this here place to the town in one day, and I will start early, while the stars are still out." Lang-Jan was our driver, so called to distinguish him from the numerous other Jans about the place.
The distinction was appropriate, for he looked very tall and slim, though it might be the contrast with his wife's massive build that gave him a false presentment. He was more proud of her bulk than of his own height, and used to jeer at his Hottentot leader for the scraggy appearance ofhisweaker half, possibly with the kindly intention of reducing the number, or severity, of the poor creature's beatings.
I do not believe Jan ever beat his wife, though I think she was as lazy a woman as could be found.Perhaps he got most of his rations provided from the house, and was not dependent on her for his comfort.
However, he seemed to me to have a Mark Tapley temper; the more unendurable the weather got, the cheerier he grew with his guttural and yet limpid cries to the oxen, and his brisk steps by their side.
There was one thing, however, he could not see in patience—an amateur who had borrowed his whip with the proud intention of "helping to drive" letting the end of four yards of lash draggle over the dewy karoo, thereby making it limp and reducing its power to clack in the approved fashion.
An Early Start
"We had better sleep in the wagon, then we shall not be disturbed so early," cried one of the children; but we older people preferred the idea of half a night's rest indoors to lying awake on the cartels in the wagon listening to the tossings and complaints of others.
We had been staying by the sea, and were now to journey homewards. Long before daylight, the noise of the oxen and clank of trek-chain told that inspanning was begun, and those of us who were to form the wagon party sprang out of bed and made a hurried toilet, while the Kafir women carried off the feather-beds and blankets, to stow in their allotted places in the wagon.
Mr. Gilbert and his wife, with the younger children, were to follow in a four-horse Cape-cart.
"Isn't it too dark to be trekking?" he called from his window.
"The roads is good down here," said Jan. "I can see enough"; and he hurried his leader, and got us under way without more ado.
We had the front curtain of the tent rolled up, and sat about on the boxes in silence for some time, listening to the plash of the sea upon the beach, every minute somebody giving a yawn.
"I cannot think why Lang-Jan is hurrying on so,"said Constance at last, "unless he thinks it will be a very hot day again. The oxen gave out as we were coming down, and we had to outspan about five miles off."
"Iwascross," said a younger sister.
"You need not tell us that. We have not forgotten," laughed another.
"Well, I thought I could hear the sea, and I had been meaning to run down and have a bathe directly we stopped. It was enough to make one cross. And then that stupid old Kafir and Jan over the outspan money, and our none of us being able to find any change. I believe Jan was glad we couldn't pay."
"Jan resents having to pay outspan money: he will wriggle out of it if he can," said Constance.
We had gone the first three or four miles with plenty of noise, clack of whip and shout at team, but this gradually subsided, and with a warning to April, the leader, to have the oxen well in the middle of the road and to keep right on, Jan sank into such silence as was possible.
Constance rose, and began to fumble for her purse.
We heard a stealthy order to April to run, and the whip sounded again about one ox and another, while we were tipped about in all directions as the team suddenly put on a tremendous spurt.
In the dim light we could see the outlines of a hut close by the road, and aKafirsprang out of the doorway towards us shouting for his money. Jan took no notice, but whipped and shouted and trotted along as if his were the only voice upraised.
"Stop, Jan, stop!" called Constance.
But Jan was suddenly deaf. The other man was not, however, and he ran along after us, followed by a string of undressed children, shouting and gesticulating wildly.
"Jan, I insist upon stopping," called Constance. "April, stop the oxen."
In spite of all the noise Jan was making, Aprilcould not fail to hear the indignant cry of his young mistress, and presently the wagon was halted. Jan hastily popped the whip into the wagon and turned back to confront his enemy.
"What do you mean by stopping a wagon in the road like this? Outspan money? We have not outspanned and are not going to on your starved old veldt."
"Jan, Jan, you know very well we are owing him two shillings from the last time we passed," said Constance.
The stranger Kafir tried to get to the wagon, but Jan barred the passage. He changed his tactics. "Come, let's fight for it," he cried, casting his hat and scarlet head-handkerchief into the karoo out of the way.
This offer was declined without thanks. "I shan't fight. The money is mine," protested the other, encouraged by finding his demand was allowed by the ladies.
"April, leave the oxen and come here," called Constance. "Give this money to him."
Jan's Principles
This was done at last, to Jan's grief. "Ah, Mees Constance! Why didn't you let me fight him? he was only a little thieving Fingo dog! I didn't outspan in sight of his old hut, and he must have come sneaking around and seen us, and never said he would have money till it was too late."
"Well, Jan, and why should our oxen eat up the grass and drink out of the dam without our paying?" asked Constance; but Jan only muttered, "Thief! Dog!" and got away from the scene of his defeat with speed.
"That was why we were obliged to start in the middle of the night: Jan wanted to slip by here before the wagon could be recognised," said Constance. Jan had made a stand for his principles, though his mistress's perverted sense of justice had prevented his being able to carry them out. By the time we stopped forbreakfast he had quite recovered his spirits; and when he found he had got his party well away from the place without another hateful demand, he seemed to have forgotten his hard fate in the early morning. When we reached the town we lost sight of Jan and his wagon for a couple of days, and took up our abode at an hotel.
A change had taken place in our party when we collected for the second and longer part of our journey. Mr. Gilbert had gone home with some of the younger ones the day before, while his wife had stayed in town to take the rest of us to a ball.
We were all tired as we reached the wagon, with our minds running on the purchases we had made, and lingering regretfully on some we had not.
Lang-Jan and April hurried off to fetch the oxen as soon as we appeared; and Mrs. Gilbert began to go through the stores.
"Those two Kafirs have eaten up our butter!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I saw what was left when you came, and thought it might not be quite enough. It is lucky I did, and have bought some more, or we should have had none at all. I cannot let such a thing as their taking our provisions pass without notice.—Jan," she said, when he returned, "you have taken my butter."
"Oh, Meeses!" exclaimed Jan, as if such a thing was quite out of the question, "not me. It must ha' bin April."
"No, Meeses—not me, Jan," said April.
"It was both of you, I have no doubt," said Mrs. Gilbert severely.
"Oh, Meeses, April, April!" cried Jan, shaking his head.
"No, it was Jan," protested the leader, again.
Jan burst into a roar of laughter, like a naughty child owning up. "Oh! ja, Meeses! It was me. I looked at that tin of butter and then I said to April,'I must have some of that lovely butter, whatever comes of it,' and then between us, it's all gone."
It seemed impossible to deal with the offence gravely after that. "I shall know I must not leave any in the wagon another time," said the mistress; and we scrambled into our places to be out of the way while the work of inspanning went on.
A Fiery Day
The morning turned into a fiery day. The air shimmered blindingly above the veldt, and the white road, inches deep in dust, trailed ahead like an endless serpent. We panted and gasped under the shelter of the tent; April abandoned his post and climbed up in the back compartment of the wagon, but Jan grew more and more lively.
He tightened his waist-belt and ran by the side of his team, encouraging them by voice and example.
He wore an old soft felt hat, with a perfectly abject brim, above his scarlet handkerchief, and every quarter of a mile he would take it off and put the ostrich feather that adorned one side straight up, and attempt to pinch the limp brim into shape.
In spite of his cheerful snatches of song, and his encouraging cries, the poor beasts showed more and more signs of distress, till at last Jan turned to Mrs. Gilbert and said, "The poor oxen is just done up. We must outspan till it gets cooler."
"What, outspan in this pitiless place, with not a house, or a tree, or water to be got at!" cried one of the girls.
"There is a water-hole down there," said Jan, pointing to a dip in the ground not far off.
"Yes," said Mrs. Gilbert, "I have been down there on horseback."
The wagon was drawn off the road, and the weary oxen let loose, while we stretched ourselves on the cartels, but found the heat too great to let us recover any of our lost sleep.
After a time some of us, thinking any change must be for the better, dragged ourselves out into the glare,and went to look at the pool of water. But though a few prickly pears and mimosa bushes grew around, it was not an inviting spot to rest in, and we laboured back across the scorching ground to the wagon, our only benefit being more thankfulness for its shelter.
April had gone off to see that the oxen did not wander too far. Jan lighted a fire, made coffee for us, and broiled some meat and green mealie cobs.
We felt better after our meal, though we had not been hungry for it. Then, to my surprise, Jan settled down to enjoy his share, as close to the fire as he could. I do not know if the burning scrub made a little motion in the air, or if Jan, by roasting one half of his body, felt the other cooler by contrast.
Presently I saw, coming slowly across the veldt, a white-haired Kafir, carrying a weakly lamb in his arms. He made straight for Jan and sat down beside him.
Constance, who was looking out too, roused herself and gave a little laugh. "Caught," she said, and I knew what she meant.
At first the palaver seemed amiable enough, and we saw Jan even go the length of making a present of grilled mutton—chiefly bone, but not all.
"An attempt at bribery," murmured Constance.
In about half an hour we heard the inevitable demand. One might have thought Jan had never heard of outspan money, instead of its being a familiar and heating subject with him. When at last the claim was made clear to him, he asked the name of the Baas, and expressed the greatest surprise that any man could be so mean as to ask for money, just because poor souls had to wait by the road till it got cool, when it was too hot even for the oxen to eat anything.
The explanation that the place was such a convenient distance from town, that if nothing was charged the Baas would have nothing left for his own flocks and herds, was badly received, as was also the reminder that if it was too hot for the oxen to eat much, they would drink all the same. The two argued for anhour, Jan emphatic and expostulating, the old Kafir calm, feeling both right and law were on his side.
"We shan't Pay"
At length, Jan surprised us by announcing, "We shan't pay. Your Baas won't expect money from me anyhow, if he does from other people."
"Why not?" exclaimed the other in surprise, for Jan spoke with conviction.
"My Baas' wife is cousin to your Baas' wife, so of course we're free on his veldt."
We laughed, but the collector remarked that he would go and inquire. So he marched up to the wagon, followed closely by Lang-Jan, in fear of treachery, and asked Mrs. Gilbert if it was true, and being informed that the ladies were related, he retired at once, and Jan triumphantly accompanied him back to the fire.
I thought Jan would be happy now the wicked had ceased from troubling, but the storm had its after-roll. He now expressed indignation that two shillings had been demanded. If such an iniquitous claim was made at all, one shilling was all that should be asked for.
They harried this point till the stranger asked Jan what odds it was to him—he did not pay the money.
"Don't I pay the money?" cried Jan. "Isn't it taken out of my very hand?"
"Oh, ja! But it comes out of the Baas' pocket."
"It comes out of my very hand," reiterated Jan, springing up; and fetching his whip, he gave three tremendous clacks with it, the signal to April, that could be heard a mile away in the still air, to bring back the oxen; and the baffled enemy picked up his lamb and retired from action.
Jan was jubilant, and cheerfully agreed to Mrs. Gilbert's suggestions as to the best camping-place for the night.
But I think his triumph was demoralising for him. As evening settled down and we were getting towards our resting-place, we passed by a rare thing—a long wooden fence; and we soon saw that Jan and April were freely helping themselves to the dry wood, andstowing it at the sides of the wagon to save themselves the trouble of collecting any later.
"Jan," called his mistress, "you must not steal that wood. The man it belongs to told the Baas he lost so much that he should put somebody to watch, and have any one who was caught taken before Mr. Huntly."
"April," shouted Jan, laughing, "look out for old Huntly. The Meeses says we must stop it."
Later, when we had outspanned for the night, and they had broiled our sausages, and made the coffee with chuckling anticipation of remainders, they made such a fire as scared Mrs. Gilbert, lest they should set the dry karoo around alight.
"Here, April, we must beat it down a bit. The Meeses is feared we shall set the moon afire," laughed Jan, laying about him with a will, as the flames leaped heavenward.
The next morning he had to cross a river, and pay toll at the bridge. Why Lang-Jan never objected to that, I do not know, but he came quite meekly for the money. His mistress had not the exact sum, and Jan was some time inside the toll-house, which was also a store.
On emerging, he shouted and whipped up his oxen, and off we lumbered.
When we came to a hill, and our pace was sufficiently slackened for speech, Mrs. Gilbert called to him, "Jan, where is my change?"
"Oh, Meeses!" exclaimed Jan, quite unabashed; "I took the change in tobacco!"
BY
Many girls long for an opportunity to "do something." That was Claudia's way. And, after all, therewasan opportunity. Where?
"What I feel," said Claudia Haberton, sitting up with a movement of indignation, "is the miserable lack of purpose in one's life."
"Nothing to do?" said Mary Windsor.
"To do! Yes, of a kind; common, insignificant work about which it is impossible to feel any enthusiasm."
"'The trivial round'?"
"Trivial enough. A thousand could do it as well or better than I can. I want more—to feel that I am in my place, and doing the very thing for which I am fitted."
"Sure your liver is all right?"
"There you go; just like the others. One can't express a wish to be of more use in the world without people muttering about discontent, and telling you you are out of sorts."
"Well, I had better go before I say worse." And Mary went.
Perhaps it was as well; for Claudia's aspirations were so often expressed in terms like these that she began to bore her friends. One, in a moment ofexasperation, had advised her to go out as a nursery governess. "You would," she said, "have a wonderful opportunity of showing what is in you, and if you really succeed, you might make at least one mother happy." But Claudia put the idea aside with scorn.
Another said it all came of being surrounded with comfort, and that if Claudia had been poorer, she would have been troubled with no such yearnings; the actual anxieties of life would have filled the vacuum. That, too, brought a cloud over their friendship. And the problem remained unsolved.
Mr. Haberton, immersed in affairs, had little time to consider his daughter's whims. Mrs. Haberton, long an invalid, was too much occupied in battling with her own ailments, and bearing the pain which was her daily lot, to feel acute sympathy with Claudia's woes.
"My dear," she said one day, when her daughter had been more than commonly eloquent upon the want of purpose in her life, "why don't you think of some occupation?"
"But what occupation?" said Claudia. "Here I am at home, with everything around me, and no wants to supply——"
"That is something," put in Mrs. Haberton.
"Oh, yes, people always tell you that; but after all, wouldn't it be better to have life to face, and to——"
"Poor dear!" said Mrs. Haberton, stroking her daughter's cheek with a thin hand.
"Please don't, mamma," said Claudia; "you know how I dislike being petted like a child."
"My dear," said Mrs. Haberton, "I feel my pain again; do give me my medicine."
She had asked for it a quarter of an hour before, but Claudia had forgotten so trivial a matter in the statement of her own woes. Now she looked keenly at her mother to see if this request was but an attempt to create a diversion. But the drawn look was sufficient. She hastily measured out the medicine, and as hastilyleft the room saying, "I will send Pinsett to you at once."
Pinsett was Mrs. Haberton's maid, who was speedily upon the spot to deal with the invalid.
But Claudia had withdrawn to her own room, where she was soon deep in a pamphlet upon the social position of Woman, her true Rights in the World, and the noble opportunities for Serving Mankind outside the home.
Wanted—a Career
"Ah," said Claudia to herself, "if I could only find some occupation which would give a purpose to existence—something which would make me really useful!"
After all, was there any reason why she should not? There was Eroica Baldwin, who had become a hospital nurse, and wore the neatest possible costume with quite inimitable grace. It might be worth while asking her a few questions. It was true she had never much cared for Eroica; she was so tall and strong, so absurdly healthy, and so intolerant of one's aspirations. Still, her experience might be of use.
There was Babette Irving—a foolish name, but it was her parents' fault; they had apparently thought she would always remain an infant in arms. Her father had married again, and Babette was keeping house with another woman of talent.
HER VERY YOUTH PLEADED FOR HER.HER VERY YOUTH PLEADED FOR HER.
Babette had taken to the pen. Her very youth at first pleaded for her with editors, and she got some work. Then more came; but never quite enough. Now she wrote stories for children and for the "young person," conducted a "Children's Column" in a weekly paper, supplied "Answers to Correspondents" upon a startling variety of absurd questions, and just contrived to live thereby.
Babette's friend had been reared in the lap of luxury until a woeful year in the City made her father a bankrupt, and sent her to earn her living as a teacher of singing. They ought to have some advice to give.
Then there was Sarah Griffin—"plain Sarah," as some of the unkind had chosen to call her at school.She was one of nine girls, and when her father died suddenly, and was found to have made but poor provision for his family, she had been thankful to find a place in a shop where an association of ladies endeavoured to get a sale for the work of "distressed gentlewomen."
She also ought to know something of the world. Perhaps, she, too, could offer some suggestion as to how the life of a poor aimless thing like Claudia Haberton might be animated by a purpose.
But they all lived in London, the very place, as Claudia felt, where women of spirit and of "views" should be. If she could but have a few hours of chat with each! And, after all, no doubt, this could be arranged. It was but a little time since Aunt Jane and Aunt Ruth had asked when she was going to cheer them with another visit. Might not their invitation give her just the opportunity she sought?
Claudia reflected. She had not in the past cared much for her aunts' household. The elderly maiden ladies were "the dearest creatures," she told herself; but they were not interesting. Aunt Jane was always engaged in knitting with red wool, any fragments of attention which could be given from that task being devoted to Molossus, the toy terrier, who almost dwelt in her lap. Aunt Ruth was equally devoted in the matter of embroidery, and in the watchful eye she kept upon the movements of Scipio, a Persian cat of lofty lineage and austere mien.
Their other interests were few, and were mainly centred upon their pensioners amongst the poor. Their friends were of their own generation. Thus in the past Claudia had not felt any eager yearning for the house in St. John's Wood, where the sisters dwelt at peace. But it was otherwise now, because Claudia had new designs upon London.
She confided to her mother her readiness to accept the recent invitation.
"Go, my dear, by all means," said the invalid; "Iam sure you must want a change, especially after so many weeks of looking after me."
"Pinsett," said Claudia, salving her own conscience, "is so very careful and efficient."
"And so good," added Mrs. Haberton; "you may be sure I shall be safe in her hands."
For the moment Claudia was sensible of a little pang. Ought she to be so readily dispensed with? Were her services a quantity which could be neglected?
But, after all, this was nothing. She did not neglect her mother; that was out of the question.
Up to Town
So it was agreed that Claudia should go. Aunt Jane wrote a letter expressing her joy at the prospect, and Aunt Ruth added a postscript which was as long as the letter, confirming all that her sister had said.
So Claudia went up to town, and was received with open arms by her aunts.
The placid household at St. John's Wood was all the brighter for Claudia's presence; but she could not suffer herself to remain for more than a day or two in the light of an ordinary visitor.
"I came this time, you know," she early explained to Aunt Jane, "on a voyage of exploration."
"Of what, my dear?" said Aunt Jane, to whom great London was still a fearsome place, full of grievous peril.
"Of exploration, you know. I am going to look up a few old friends, and see how they live. They are working women, who——"
"But," said Aunt Jane, "do you think you ought to go amongst the poor alone?"
"Oh, they aren't poor in that sense, auntie; they are just single women, old acquaintances of mine—schoolfellows indeed—who have to work for their living. I want to see them again, and find out how they get on, whether they have found their place in life, and are happy."
Aunt Jane was not wholly satisfied; but Claudiawas not in her teens, nor was she a stranger to London. So the scheme was passed, and all the more readily because Claudia explained that she did not mean to make her calls at random.
Her first voyage was to the flat in which Babette Irving and her friend lived. It was in Bloomsbury, and not in a pile of new buildings. In old-fashioned phraseology, Miss Irving and her friend would have been said to have taken "unfurnished apartments," into which they had moved their own possessions. It was a dull house in a dull side street.
Babette said that Lord Macaulay in his younger days was a familiar figure in their region, since Zachary Macaulay had lived in a house hard by. That was interesting, but did not compensate for the dinginess of the surroundings.
Babette herself looked older.
"Worry, my dear, worry," was the only explanation she offered of the fact. It seemed ample.
Her room was not decked out with all the prettiness Claudia, with a remembrance of other days, had looked for. Babette seemed to make the floor her waste-paper basket; and there was a shocking contempt for appearance in the way books and papers littered chairs and tables. Nor did Babette talk with enthusiasm of her work.
"Enjoy it?" she said, in answer to a question. "I sometimes wish I might never see pen, ink, and paper again. That is why I am overdone. But I am ashamed to say it; for I magnify my office as a working woman, and am thankful to be independent."
"But I thought literary people had such a pleasure in their gift," said Claudia.
"Very likely—those eminent persons who tell the interviewers they never write more than five hundred words a day. But I am only a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, so to speak."
"But the thought of being useful!"
"Yes, and the thought——but here is Susie."
Susie was the friend who taught singing. Claudiathought she had never seen a woman look more exhausted; but Claudia knew so little of life.
"You have had a long day, my dear," said Babette, as Susie threw herself into a chair; "it is your journey to the poles, isn't it?"
"To the poles?" said Claudia.
"Yes; this is the day she has to be at a Hampstead school from 9.30 till 12.30, and at a Balham school from 2.30 till 4. It's rather a drive to do it, since they are as far as the poles asunder."
"Still," said Claudia, "railway travelling must rest you."
"Not very much," said Susie, "when you travel third class and the trains are crowded."
"But it must be so nice to feel that you are really filling a useful position in the world."
"I don't know that I am," said Susie, rather wearily. "A good many of my pupils have no ear, and had far better be employed at something else."
"But your art!"
"I am afraid few of them think much about that, and what I have to do is to see that the parents are well enough pleased to keep their girls on at singing. I do my best for them; but one gets tired."