"So far it goes sehr gut," he announced. "No one have break down or spoil anything. Remember, mein Kind, not to hurry ze time in ze legato passage, and to wait in ze allegretto till ze 'cello begin."
He tested her Stradivarius himself to see that it was in tune with the other instruments, then handed her between the rows of violin stands to her place in front of the piano, and taking up his baton rapped smartly on the conductor's desk, as a signal for the orchestra to be in readiness. For the first time in her life Mildred found herself face to face with a public audience. She stood there for a moment, such a childish little figure in her white dress, with her golden hair falling over her shoulders, and a frightened look in her dark eyes, that a wave of sympathy seemed to pass through the hall, and a few people began to clap. Shestarted at the sound, and so great a panic of fear seized her that she felt as though she could scarcely draw her breath; but at that instant, looking down in front, she caught her aunt's eyes fixed upon her with a hope and confidence in them which calmed her, notwithstanding the knowledge that hundreds of listeners were waiting for her first notes. Suddenly the remembrance of Mrs. Graham's words came back to her—the Stradivarius had been in public before, and could make her succeed in spite of herself. It was the bird of the "Frühlingslied". She had only to draw the bow, and it would surely sing.
"Are you ready? Now!" whispered the Professor. He waved his baton, and the piece began.
Once the ice was broken, Mildred forgot the hall and the rows of people. There was something inspiring in the subdued accompaniment of the orchestra, her violin was like a living creature that thrilled under her fingers, and so well did it respond to her touch that all the springtime seemed to ring in the full, clear tones. She had got at the heart of the musician's meaning, and those who listened felt that throb of pure delight which comes to us sometimes with the sight of the dawn or the early song of a thrush, that sense of freshness, of oneness with Nature at her gladdest, that can raise our commonplace lives for the moment to the level of the skies above.
It was an astounding performance for a girl of scarcely sixteen. The piece not only demanded extreme facility of execution, but the maturest thought and feeling, and to many it appearedincredible that so young a player could have assimilated so much of the life and the mystery of things as to enable her thus to interpret the mind of a great composer. The audience seemed to hold its breath as the last crisp chord resounded and died away; then it broke into a perfect storm of applause. There was no mistaking the warmth of the reception, for instead of subsiding, the clapping grew louder, and shouts of "Brava!" and "Encore!" echoed through the hall. Suddenly realizing that she was the centre of all eyes, Mildred made a frightened acknowledgment, and fled precipitately to the staircase, to be brought back by her triumphant master, who, taking her hand, led her once again to the front of the platform.
"Courage, mein Kind!" he whispered. "One little effort more! You will not fail now? Ze encore!"
How Mildred played the "Polonaise" she never quite knew. She only afterwards retained a confused remembrance of glaring light, a sea of faces before her, and a sense that the notes came of themselves, urged somehow from her fingers by the knowledge that they gave pleasure to her hearers. It seemed a dream, a strange, bewildering unreality, an exhilaration such as she had never before experienced, but which ended in so great a revulsion of feeling that as she turned from the applauding audience to leave the platform she could control herself no longer, and, breaking down utterly, burst into tears.
"There, there!" said the Professor soothingly, patting the subdued golden head; "it is finished now, and you are my very good pupil. Wait inze anteroom till I come, for I would speak to you after ze performance."
"It was beautiful—beautiful!" cried the piano student, kissing Mildred as she helped her down the staircase. "Don't cry, dear! It was worth the effort. Such music is only granted to a few. Be thankful the talent is yours, and that you are able to give it to the world. We, who are less gifted, can only envy the future that lies before you."
The rest of the programme was soon finished, and the orchestra, returning, crowded round Mildred to congratulate her on her success, while some members of the audience, invited by Herr Hoffmann into the anteroom, added kind words of approval and praise.
"Let us go, Tantie!" said Mildred, clinging to her aunt, who had come to fetch her, and longing unspeakably for the quiet of home again; "I want to get away from all this!"
"The cab's waiting, darling! We're going now," said Mrs. Graham, hastily making Mildred's adieux and her own, and trying to edge her way through the crowded room. A group of people talking together blocked their progress at the door, and as they paused for a moment to find an opportunity of passing, a lady sprang forward and shook Mildred warmly by the hand, a lady whom she recognized at once as the stranger who had spoken to her at Herr Hoffmann's on the day she had first visited his house, and had waited so long for her music lesson.
"My dear, I am charmed! Your master ought indeed to be proud of you! I should have knownyou the minute you came on to the platform, even without your name on the programme. I am going to Westmorland to-morrow, and I shall be sure to tell your uncle what a clever niece he has. Such music would be enchanting in a drawing-room. I hope I may see you again before long."
"Come, Mildred!" said her aunt, hurrying her away from the effusive stranger. "Here is Herr Hoffmann waiting to say good-bye."
"Mein Freundchen!" cried the Professor, holding his pupil's little hand in a bearlike grip, and relapsing into German in his excitement. "Is it not worth while to have taken trouble? Ze exercises, ze scales, you did not like them at ze time, but they are ze all-necessary foundation of true art. To-night you have shown me that you can make progress. Go on! There is much remaining to be done. Do not let one little applause cause you to think that you can yet play. It is try each time a something more difficult till you can master it, and some day you will thank ze old Professor that he has made you work. Auf Wiedersehen!"
Mildred's signal success at the Students' Concert was a subject of much congratulation to St. Cyprian's. Never before had a pupil at the College made so public an appearance and obtained such an ovation. The newspaper critics highly praised her playing, and several of the most prominent musical people in the city, who had been present on the occasion, congratulated Professor Hoffmann on the result of his teaching. Among these was Mr. Steiniger, a German gentleman of great influence in Kirkton, who was president both of the Freiburg Concerts and of the College of Music, and whose opinion therefore was of considerable value. To her schoolfellows Mildred's laurels amply compensated for the low majority with which they had won the Alliance Eisteddfod. Many girls from the other schools had been at the concert, and it was a great satisfaction to feel that they had heard St. Cyprian's musical champion in such favourable circumstances.
Mildred herself was experiencing that strong reaction which often follows great effort. Now that her ordeal was over, she felt how severe had been the strain of those weeks of unaccustomed hardwork. She flagged visibly, and her pale cheeks and listless manner drew comment at home.
"No, I'm not ill really, Tantie," she replied to her aunt's enquiries. "It's only that I'm tired of everything just at present. I think I want a change."
And a change was coming to her—something so utterly unexpected and unthought-of that if anyone could have told her of it beforehand she would scarcely have believed it to be possible. It began with a letter—an innocent, inoffensive-looking letter. She had brought it herself to Dr. Graham, and had noticed the crest on the envelope, and then thought no more about it than she had done of the many others which were received daily at the house, and which did not concern her in the least. That her uncle and aunt seemed to have many earnest conversations together, which they broke off abruptly when she entered the room; that they were even more affectionate to her than usual, and looked at her sometimes with a kind of wistfulness in their eyes, did not strike her particularly at the time, though she remembered it well afterwards; and it was not until Mrs. Graham broached the subject one afternoon that she had any idea of the strange new plans which were being discussed for her future.
"There's something I wish to speak to you about, Mildred. It's a question your uncle and I have been weighing very anxiously. I believe we've looked at it from every side, and I trust and hope that we've come to a right decision. I have told you before that your mother's father, Sir John Lorraine, disowned her at her marriage. He neversaw her again; and although we wrote to tell him of her death and of your birth, he took no notice, and made no enquiries about you afterwards. There was no mention of you in his will, all his property being left to his son Sir Darcy, who is the present owner of The Towers, as you know. Your uncle and I adopted you from the very first, and we have never had any communication with your mother's relations, who for nearly sixteen years have given no sign that they wished to remember you. You can imagine, then, our astonishment at receiving a letter from Sir Darcy Lorraine. It contained what seemed to us a very startling offer, which at first we thought it impossible to accept, until, after talking the matter over, we think it ought at least to be considered. But before you can understand me, I must read you the letter. It is dated from The Towers, Castleford, and addressed to your uncle:
"Dear Sir,"There has recently been brought to my notice a sense of my responsibility in regard to the upbringing of my late sister's child, Mildred Lancaster. I find on enquiry that so far you have undertaken her full guardianship, and have provided for her entirely. As it seems only right that she should both know her other relations and give them the opportunity of performing their fair part in her education and maintenance, I now offer her a home at The Towers, where she could share my daughter's studies, and afterwards take that position in society which she would occupy as my niece. Should you feel disposed to agree to this proposalI should be ready to make arrangements to receive her without further delay."I much regret that unfortunate family misunderstandings should have caused this apparent neglect of one to whom I feel I owe a duty, and I would endeavour to atone for past omissions by affording her every advantage which is within my power."Trusting that our negotiations in this matter may prove of a satisfactory character."I remain, dear sir,"Faithfully yours,"Darcy Lorraine."
"Dear Sir,
"There has recently been brought to my notice a sense of my responsibility in regard to the upbringing of my late sister's child, Mildred Lancaster. I find on enquiry that so far you have undertaken her full guardianship, and have provided for her entirely. As it seems only right that she should both know her other relations and give them the opportunity of performing their fair part in her education and maintenance, I now offer her a home at The Towers, where she could share my daughter's studies, and afterwards take that position in society which she would occupy as my niece. Should you feel disposed to agree to this proposalI should be ready to make arrangements to receive her without further delay.
"I much regret that unfortunate family misunderstandings should have caused this apparent neglect of one to whom I feel I owe a duty, and I would endeavour to atone for past omissions by affording her every advantage which is within my power.
"Trusting that our negotiations in this matter may prove of a satisfactory character.
"I remain, dear sir,"Faithfully yours,"Darcy Lorraine."
"He surely doesn't mean I should leave you and Uncle Colin and go and live with him?" gasped Mildred incredulously.
"That's exactly what he proposes."
"But it's quite impossible!"
"Is it? Well, we'll talk about that later on. You don't want to leave us?"
"Of course not! All the Sir Darcys and Lady Lorraines in the world wouldn't make up! Tantie! How can you even speak of it?" said Mildred reproachfully, getting up and flinging her arms round her aunt. Mrs. Graham held her very close for a moment or two.
"You've been our little daughter for so many years that we could ill spare you, sweetheart. What we think, however, is that you ought to go there for the summer holidays at any rate. We wish you to pay them a seven weeks' visit. Sir Darcy is your relation after all, just as much as we are, and it'sonly fair that you should have an opportunity of getting to know him and your aunt and cousin. Your uncle and I feel that if, for our own selfish love of your company, we were to refuse to part with you, you might some day justly reproach us for having kept you from social advantages which we cannot give you. You are young, Mildred, and have never known any place but Kirkton, and we think you ought to make a trial of this other home before you finally choose between the two. It has always been my dearest wish that you should study music; but if after visiting Westmorland you find the life there is really more congenial to you than our plain workaday existence here, we would not allow the affection you feel for us to interfere in any way with your prospects. You would be perfectly free to cast your lot with whichever relations you believe could make you the happier. Do you quite understand me? It's our very love for you that makes us willing to part with you."
"I understand, but I don't want to go, all the same. I feel the Lorraines have forgotten me so long that it's rather late suddenly to remember my existence. You and Uncle Colin have been caring for me all this time. Can't you say I won't go?"
"We've already arranged to send you. As it happens, it fits in most curiously with an offer which arrived by the same post, inviting your uncle to go out to Canada for the Medical Congress, as representative of the Kirkton Public Health Association. He has not been well for some time, and the voyage would do him good, while very fortunately Dr. Holt would be able tolook after both the practice and his appointments until his return. He is most anxious that I should go with him, and as the opportunity occurs for you to pay this visit while we are away, I feel we might leave with a free mind."
"Tantie, I can't take it in! You and Uncle going to Canada!"
"Only for a six weeks' holiday. It is a great honour for your uncle to be chosen to represent Kirkton at the Congress, and one he can hardly refuse; while it seems such an excellent arrangement for you to spend the time of our absence at The Towers that I feel we can't do better than accept Sir Darcy's offer."
"What will the Professor say? He had decided that I might be allowed three weeks' rest, and after that I was to go to his house for lessons twice a week until school began again. He wouldn't hear of my spending the whole of the holidays just practising by myself. He said I should get into bad habits, and undo all the progress I had made lately. He was most determined about it."
"That's the unfortunate part. I'm sorry beyond words for you to miss your lessons, but, after all, a few weeks is not a very large slice out of your life. You need a change for your health's sake, and if you really decide that you wish to study music, you will be able to make up for lost ground afterwards."
"The time will seem ages to me," declared Mildred. "I shall count every day till I'm home again."
"You mustn't say that, dear. I want you to promise to try to like Sir Darcy and Lady Lorraine.I think they are anxious to make up now for having overlooked you so long, so don't be ungracious, or allow any unforgiving remembrances about the past to creep in and spoil the good feeling they seem willing to show to you. Just let bygones be bygones, and be ready to make friends."
The change which awaited Mildred seemed an earthquake in her hitherto uneventful life. The more she thought about it the less she liked it. Although she was nearly sixteen she had never been away from home alone before, and she shrank from the prospect of spending seven weeks with those unknown relations. Naturally of a nervous and sensitive disposition, she was shy with strangers, so what to many girls would have appeared an attractive invitation, to her meant a species of exile.
"I don't know whether we're wise," said Dr. Graham to his wife. "The child's fretting already. Can't we take her with us to Canada? Is it really right, when we've brought her up so carefully, to be willing to hand her over to those who probably have very different standards from ours? She's just at an age when she will be led most easily. If she sees social success and amusement put as the great aims of existence, will she still hold to what we believe to be the higher ideal in life? I'm a little afraid for her, I confess. One side of her disposition is so ready to take the easier path and shirk difficulties that I feel as if removing our influence were a throwing away of our responsibility."
"I don't think you need have any fears," replied Mrs. Graham. "This will certainly be a great trialof Mildred's character, but I believe she'll stand the test, and will come back to us infinitely more our own, if she has chosen us voluntarily, than if she had never had the chance of a different life. Surely some of the seed we have sown for fifteen years must have taken root, and if we only have the patience to stand by and wait, we shall see the harvest blossoming by and by."
It was decided that Mildred was to start for The Towers directly the holidays commenced. There were many preparations to be made before her departure—new clothes to be bought, and a selection made of articles which she wished to take with her. Among other treasures she did not forget to pack her diary.
"Dear little book, I wonder what I shall find to write in you?" she said. "Tantie, don't you wish we could take a tiny peep into the future, and see beforehand what's going to happen?"
"No, I think it's often better to have it hidden. I hope you will find the next seven weeks pleasant ones, and whatever choice you make at the end of them, you must always remember that your uncle and I have acted for what we believe to be the best."
Mrs. Graham had acquainted Herr Hoffmann with the facts of the case, and when Mildred went to say good-bye to her teacher, she found that he took the parting badly.
"It is what you call 'hard luck'," he declared. "I have taught you all these years, and to no other pupil have I given more attention and trouble. I tell you even in Berlin Conservatoire no professor could have laid you a better foundation in bowing.At one time you were idle. You did not like to work. Then, just when you wake up, and begin to make real progress, you leave me! And all my labour is for nothing! You say you will come back, but that I cannot tell. I hear other relations want to keep you. If you have any true love for your art, any desire to master your instrument and to give your life to music, you will return. Practise by yourself, but do not let anybody give you what they call 'lessons on ze violin'. Lessons! I am the only one who can teach you, out of Germany! All others would spoil what you have already learnt. I understand you go to a very great and rich house. I wish you well; yet do not quite forget ze old Professor, and think too of the music, which is a gift of Almighty God, more to be esteemed and held in honour than gold or high name."
"I won't forget, I won't indeed!" cried Mildred, her eyes moist at the Professor's emotion. "You know I love the music. I did like it all the time, even when I slacked, except the scales and arpeggios. But I'll practise even those to please you, and I'll work just as hard as you want at everything—when I come back."
One morning at the beginning of August found Mildred ensconced in a corner of a ladies' compartment in the northern express, steaming out of Kirkton station on her journey to Westmorland. Her grief at parting from her uncle and aunt had been keen, and at present she felt somewhat like a small boat suddenly cut loose from its moorings, and drifting on a swift current towards an unknownland. It is a great event in our lives when we first leave the safe shelter of home, where constant familiarity has made everything dear to us, and even our faults have been judged by the tolerant standard of those who love us, to be plunged into a world where we know we shall be taken at a different estimate, and where, to a certain extent, that absolute reliance on another's judgment must give way to a sense of duty and responsibility on our own account. Hitherto Mrs. Graham had been Mildred's conscience, the one being in the world to whom she could take each trouble and difficulty, and could lay bare every part of her soul; and there had existed between the two that entire confidence which is only possible with those who have known us from our first years, and who also have that rare gift of absolute sympathy which makes them able to understand our innermost mind.
We seldom question our earliest friends. They have grown dear to us long before we are at an age to criticize them, our love afterwards blurs our sight to what failings they possess, and consciously or unconsciously we are apt to measure all others by their standard. Mildred felt that her new relations, however kind they might prove, would never be the same as those who had stood to her in the place of father and mother. This separation must necessarily cast her on her own self-reliance; it was the break between childhood and womanhood, the parting of the ways, when she must loose the hand that had guided her so carefully, and take her life into her own keeping. That it would be extremely good for her, Mrs. Graham had no doubt. Mildred was so childish for her age, so dependentand lacking in initiative, that it was time indeed she should begin to think for herself, and gain greater confidence. She needed to be shaken out of her dreamy ways, and given a wider knowledge of the world. Seven weeks among entirely fresh surroundings would be a wholesome probation, and at the end of the holiday she would be in a position to decide whether the new or the old régime was the more congenial.
Mildred meantime was speeding northward, and once the wrench of parting from home was over, she could not be altogether unattracted by the novelty of the change in store for her, and the prospect of seeing fresh places and faces. The dingy bricks and mortar of the town had given place to green fields, woods, and streams, and these in their turn yielded to bare moorland slopes, with stone walls instead of hedges, till presently in the distance she could catch her first glimpse of the hills, their grey peaks outlined against a pale-blue sky. The train ran on for fully an hour more, between craggy heights and thickly-wooded glens, the scenery growing in beauty with every mile, till at length the engine plunged with a whistle into a long tunnel, and finally emerged at the little station of Whiterigg.
"Here you are, Miss!" cried the guard, flinging open the carriage door, and helping her out in a hurry. "Your luggage is at the end of the platform. We're a bit late to-day. Right away!"
And waving his flag, he jumped into his van as it passed him, leaving Mildred standing with her violin case in one hand and a bag in the other,almost bewildered at this sudden termination of her journey. As the retreating train rumbled away in the distance she heard the hoot of a motor-horn, and a car came rapidly along the road and drew up at the gate below. A tall, handsome man jumped out, and ran up the station steps on to the platform.
"Why, here you are at last!" he cried, shaking hands heartily with Mildred. "I'm glad you've found your way here safely. Is that your luggage? We're sending a cart for it. These light things can go in with us."
Mildred followed her new uncle shyly. His face was pleasant, and his manner was kind as he helped her into the car. To her great relief, after his first greeting was over, he did not trouble her with much conversation, but left her to enjoy the scenery. The road wound up and down in a gorge between two ranges of hills, sometimes passing through woods, and sometimes crossing a noisy stream, overshadowed by brambles and hazel bushes.
"That's Helvellyn!" said Sir Darcy, pointing to a tall peak so far off that it was difficult to distinguish it from the cloud banks in the sky. "It's not often we can see it from here, there's generally a mist rolling over; but when we do, it foretells fine weather. That stream marks the boundary of the property. As soon as we enter the wood we shall be out of Whiterigg and in Castleford, and in a few minutes you'll get your first peep of the lake."
They had at last reached the end of the valley, and, rounding the spur of the hill, went through a thick pine wood, where the tall red stems of the trees stood upright as the masts of a ship. Then,climbing a short incline, they came into an open road above, from which there suddenly burst upon Mildred's eyes such a view as she had never hitherto even imagined. Below her lay the lake, an outstretched shining mass of shimmering brightness in the afternoon light, enfolded by wooded slopes like a jewel in a setting. Here and there a rocky promontory, jutting out into the water, broke the line with its dark reflections, while at the farther end rose a precipice of wild splintered crags, leading up to the tall rigs and fells beyond.
Nestled in a hollow, where it could receive some shelter from the woods and yet command a full view of the water, rose the ivy-covered turrets of a fine old house, the many windows of which were flashing back the light from the lake. Surrounded by beautiful gardens and pleasure grounds, it was indeed a stately home, man's best handiwork set amongst Nature's grandest surroundings, and it was with a thrill of perhaps pardonable pride in his voice that Sir Darcy turned to Mildred and said: "That is The Towers."
The great wrought-iron gates were open, and they entered the park, where a herd of deer and some Highland cattle, which were grazing under the trees, ran off in a mad stampede at their approach. Through a long avenue of beeches and under a carved stone gateway they passed, then into a paved courtyard, and drew up at last before the broad steps of the front entrance.
Sir Darcy took Mildred into the hall, the panelled walls of which were hung with stags' heads, antlers, armour and weapons, well in keeping with the carved oak of the antique furniture. A splendid white deerhound sprang forward, barking a tempestuous greeting to its master. The sound seemed to announce their arrival, for from a room beyond a tall, graceful lady came hastily, followed by a girl who might perhaps be six months younger than Mildred herself—a very pretty girl, whose slender figure, fair face, and long flaxen hair made a charming picture against the background of old oak.
Lady Lorraine welcomed her niece kindly, and was so gentle and encouraging that Mildred's shyness began slightly to thaw. Violet also made smiling overtures of friendship.
"We hear you are very musical, my dear," said Lady Lorraine. "I'm afraid Violet cares nothing about it, though she practises every day. Perhaps you will be able to spur her on a little."
"I'd never open the piano if I weren't obliged," declared Violet. "I hate lessons of any sort, so it's no use pretending I like them. When I'm grown up, I'm just going to hunt and play tennis. They're the only things worth bothering about."
"She's a true Lorraine!" laughed Sir Darcy, patting his daughter on the shoulder. "We all like outdoor sports better than books. We shall have to see how Mildred takes to the saddle. A good gallop across country would soon bring the roses into her cheeks. Can you ride, Mildred? Well, well, we'll soon teach you. Never too late to learn, is it?—though the younger you begin, the firmer your seat. Violet could manage her little Shetland by the time she was five."
"Mildred must get accustomed to country life by degrees," said her aunt. "We will not frighten her with too many things just at first."
When Sir Darcy and Lady Lorraine discussed their niece afterwards, they both decided that she had made a favourable impression upon them.
"A pretty, lady-like girl, though painfully shy," was her uncle's verdict. "I'm much relieved to notice that she has such nice manners. I was afraid we might find her lacking in many ways. I see a strong look of the Lorraines in her face, and no doubt, now she is separated from her other relations, she'll soon get used to us, and in time will forget even to think about her early surroundings, and will not wish to remember that she has ever known anything different from The Towers. I am glad we sent for her. It was certainly rather a venture, but I think the experiment seems likely to prove a success."
The wheels of life, well oiled by a handsome income, ran very smoothly at The Towers. Sir Darcy Lorraine was a fine specimen of an English country gentleman—a splendid shot, a hard rider, interested in the improvement of his estates, and to a certain degree in the welfare of his tenants. He entertained well, subscribed liberally to local charities, supported the Church, and, as a magistrate and guardian of the poor, took what part he could in the affairs of the district without allowing the ensuing duties to monopolize too much of his time. Neither public school nor college had been able to endow him with any love for learning.
"My fly-book and my cheque-book are all the literature I want," he often declared; and though he occasionally sat in his well-furnished library, he rarely, if ever, took down the handsomely bound volumes from their shelves. With other ways oflife than his own he had scant sympathy, regarding the arts and sciences as harmless diversions for amateurs who might like them, and a means of livelihood for those who were obliged to take up professions to earn their bread. A good landlord and a kind master, he liked to have everybody bright and cheerful around him, but did not care to be distressed by social problems or tales of outside misery. Always in easy circumstances himself, and never having experienced any reverses, he had a vague idea that misfortunes were mostly caused by people's own fault, and that lack of success was due to lack of merit.
Lady Lorraine had been a society beauty in her girlhood, and still retained enough of her former good looks to attract a considerable amount of attention at hunt balls and garden fêtes. In her way she really worked quite hard at local duties, being always ready to open bazaars, attend flower-shows, distribute prizes, and organize charity dances. She was mildly interested in the village school, where the little boys all respectfully touched their forelocks, and the little girls dropped bob-curtsies whenever she looked at them. She occasionally visited at some of the cleanest cottages, and could never resist putting her hand in her pocket; though the Vicar, who did not approve of indiscriminate charity, complained that she pauperized those of his parishioners who knew how to whine, while the deserving went unhelped.
Both Sir Darcy and Lady Lorraine idolized their only child. To dress Violet prettily, to take her to garden parties and flower-shows, to see her admired, and finally to bring her out successfully into society,was her mother's chief ambition; and her father, though he would have preferred a boy who could inherit his title, gloried in his little daughter's fearless riding and her achievements in the hunting field.
To Mildred the beauty and novelty of her surroundings at The Towers were a source of great pleasure. As the weeks went on, and her first shyness and homesickness wore away, she began thoroughly to enjoy herself. The motoring, the riding, the many tennis parties and other festivities made an ideal holiday time, and everything seemed new and entertaining. She had soon formed a friendship with the Somervilles at the Vicarage, an amusing family, consisting of three sons and a girl of her own age. Rhoda was pleasant and companionable; and with Rodney, the second boy, Mildred found a strong bond of sympathy, for he was to go to Kirkton in the autumn to study engineering at a large motor works, and was glad to hear all that she could tell him about the city.
Though Mildred thoroughly appreciated the advantages of her new life at The Towers, she nevertheless missed the Grahams continually. Generous as the Lorraines were to her in many respects, their conduct was sometimes lacking in thoughtfulness. They were people who could only be kind in their own way. They considered they had done her an immense service by taking her away from Kirkton, and they would refer to her past surroundings with a contempt which she found it very difficult to bear. Her cousin treated her with a kindly patronage. Violet was glad to have Mildred as a companion, but made her quite understand that she was tooccupy a second place. Mildred, accustomed to the "give and take" of a big school, found this attitude decidedly trying, and often longed for the congenial society of Kitty Fletcher, Bess Harrison, Maudie Stearne, or other St. Cyprian's chums, whose friendships were conducted on terms of strictest equality.
In the midst of all the pleasant arrangements at The Towers Mildred found it very difficult to get in even the hour's daily work at the violin which she had faithfully promised Professor Hoffmann not to neglect. Practising by herself seemed so different from learning from her enthusiastic teacher. Away from his watchful eye, she felt as if all kinds of faults were creeping into her playing, and she had not sufficient courage to wrestle with hard passages when she knew there was no one to appreciate her exertions. She set herself with grim determination to master certain new studies; but it was only by constant effort, and the remembrance of what the Professor would expect from her, that she could keep up to anything like the mark of his high standard.
Towards the end of August Miss Ward, Violet's governess, returned from her holidays. She was a pleasant, amiable lady, not clever, but with a general smattering of a good many subjects. She was much appreciated by Lady Lorraine, as she did not attempt to work Violet too hard, and was extremely useful at arranging flowers, writing letters and addressing invitations, and keeping the accounts of local charities. As Miss Ward was considered to be musical, Violet one day asked Mildred to bring her violin into the schoolroom.
"Is this your fiddle?" said Miss Ward, catching it up. "It looks rather a nice one. Give me the bow and let me try it."
To hear her beautiful and priceless Stradivarius called a "fiddle" was a shock to Mildred's ears, but it was nothing to the sounds which followed when the governess began to play. Such scraping and rasping notes it had never before been her misfortune to hear, even from the very worst of Herr Hoffmann's pupils, and she could not have believed that her dear violin could give vent to those harsh and discordant tones. It was playing that would have caused the Professor to tear his hair; everything about it was wrong, from the bowing to the way the instrument was held. The Stradivarius seemed to be shrieking in an agonized protest at the indignity of its treatment, and so painful was the effect on Mildred's sensitive nerves that it was all she could do to sit still with a semblance of politeness.
"Really quite a nice one! Where did you get it?" asked Miss Ward, having complacently arrived at the end of her piece, and handing back the violin to its outraged owner.
Mildred took her treasure somewhat as a mother rescues her crying child from strangers, feeling as if she owed it an apology for having entrusted it to such a 'prentice hand.
"It was my father's," she answered quietly. "It's a genuine Stradivarius, and I value it very much. I wouldn't part with it for anything else in the world."
"Can you remember a tune?" asked Miss Ward, to whom the magic name of Stradivarius appearedto imply very little. "I should like to hear how you can play."
"Yes, do, Mildred!" added Violet. "I've only heard sounds from your bedroom before breakfast, when I was much too sleepy to listen to them."
Mildred paused a moment. She longed to plunge into the "Frühlingslied", but knew it was impossible to do it justice when the orchestra was lacking, so she began instead the Polonaise which she had given as an encore at the Students' Concert. Violet listened in amazement to the true, clear notes. She had never before heard such playing, and though she was quite unmusical, she fully recognized the difference between a good performance and a bad one.
"You did score a triumph over Miss Ward!" she remarked to Mildred afterwards, when the two girls were alone. "I dared not laugh, but it was too funny to watch her face while you were fiddling. You took all the spirit out of her. She had been anxious to teach me her scraping, squeaking instrument, but I declined with thanks. I can't bear the sound of it. Gelert always howls dreadfully the moment she begins, and I feel as if I want to howl too! I'm made to strum on the piano for an hour every day, but I hate it. It's all nonsense! What's the use of learning a thing you don't care about? The only music I really like to hear is a view halloo or a good tally-ho!"
As the summer went on, Mildred thought the scenery at Castleford seemed to grow more and more beautiful. The ripened corn gave a golden touch to the fields, the moorlands were ablaze with purple heather, and on the hillside slopes thebracken was beginning to turn to gorgeous shades of ochre and sienna brown. She and Violet took many walks with Sir Darcy round the estate, and she was beginning now to know the neighbourhood quite well. One day Sir Darcy, who was busy talking with a keeper, left the two girls to rest on a stone at the head of the precipice which bounded the lake.
"How lovely it looks!" said Mildred. "I think it is the most exquisite view I've ever seen in my life."
Violet gazed thoughtfully at the purple-grey lake lying below them, the encircling woods in all the glory of their summer green seeming richer in contrast with the peaks of the craggy hills behind. By the water's edge stretched lush meadows, the village and the church could be seen in the blue distance, and close at hand rose the turrets and chimneys of The Towers. Violet did not very often think about such things, but just then a verse came into her head which she had sung in the psalms at church the Sunday before, and which had caught her attention at the time—
"The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground: yea, I have a goodly heritage."
"The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground: yea, I have a goodly heritage."
"Yes," she replied with a long breath; "it's the dearest place on earth to me. There's no other like it anywhere. And it's our own, as far as you can see it—that's the best of it! The Lorraines have held it ever since the Conquest. It's Father's, and some day I suppose it will come to me. I can't take the title, but luckily the land is not entailed now. It's grand to think of possessing all this.Mildred, you shall live here with me as long as you like. I want you to enjoy it too. I'm most dreadfully sorry for you. It's hard luck to have absolutely nothing of your own."
Mildred looked down where her cousin's beautiful inheritance lay stretched before her. Her heart was too full to answer. Perhaps for a moment a shade of envy crossed her mind. It was indeed a fortunate lot to be heiress to such broad acres and so old a name. Some of the best things that life could offer had fallen to Violet's share. And what had she herself? An old violin, and the skill to play it—that was all! A possession utterly valueless in Violet's eyes, yet in those of Dr. and Mrs. Graham and the Professor a rare and special talent such as God gives to but very few in this world—a talent to be taken humbly, and rejoiced in, and treasured zealously, and cultivated carefully, and which might bring more joy and beauty into the lives of others than even these glorious woods and waters; for music can lift the soul to the very summit of earthly ecstasy, and in some of its divinest strains we can almost catch an echo of the chorus of the "choir invisible" above. She could not explain—it was quite impossible to put into words what she only felt deep down in her heart; but as she quietly thanked Violet for her offer, it seemed to her that, in spite of her lack of lands, she was not quite portionless. God's gifts to His children were not all alike. To one the estates handed down by a long line of ancestors from the past; to another the genius that has the power to create for itself. Which was the nobler bequest she could not tell, but she knew that after all she, too, had an inheritance.
Since Miss Ward's return to The Towers Violet had begun lessons again, and was occupied each morning with her governess in the schoolroom. Mildred, who was still enjoying holidays, was therefore left for several hours every day to her own devices. She found it no hardship, for it was easy enough to amuse herself. Sometimes she sat with a book in the garden, sometimes sauntered round the grounds, or explored the beautiful borders of the lake. She had brought her camera from home, and the taking and developing of photographs gave her plenty of occupation. She was making a little collection of views of Castleford, and meant to paste them in an album as a reminiscence of the lovely scenery. One glorious warm morning it occurred to her that she would like to take snapshots of Tiverton Keep, an old border turret which stood on a hill a mile and a half above The Towers. So far, while Violet and Miss Ward were busy, she had kept strictly to the private grounds of the Castle, but to-day she thought there would surely be no harm in venturing farther afield. She would have asked permission, but Sir Darcy was out, Lady Lorraine was in bed with a headache, and Miss Ward was giving Violet a music lesson; soMildred decided that she might very well make the expedition on her own authority. Down the road through the wood she started, therefore, rounding the corner of the lake and turning up through the village. As she passed the Vicarage she met Diccon, the youngest boy, wheeling his motor bicycle out at the gate.
"Hello, Mildred!" he cried. "Where are you off to? You told me you never stirred out of the garden till the thermometer dropped. Whence this thusness?"
"I'm going to take some snapshots of Tiverton Keep. It's such a glorious morning for photographing. The light and shade will be just perfect."
"Wish I could have gone with you! I'm obliged to ride over to Whiterigg to send off a parcel by train to London. By the by, if you're going to Tiverton, keep a look-out for the lunatic!"
"What do you mean?"
"What I say. Someone of unsound mind has been haunting the place lately, and he might, perhaps, give you a fright."
"I haven't heard of anybody."
"He's been there, though. He's quite a young chap, so I'm told (that's the pity of it!), but he's been overworking at classics, and gone clean dotty. His relations have brought him here to recruit, and generally they keep a good eye over his movements, but sometimes he dodges them and scoots off by himself. Then he's apt to play some uncommonly queer pranks. He's taken a tremendous fancy to the Keep, goes poking about, filling his pockets with pebbles and things, and insists thatthe place is still in the mediaeval condition, and inhabited by people who lived in the days of the Plantagenets. He gets violently excited and dangerous if anyone ventures to contradict him. They have to pretend all sorts of nonsense to humour him. The family are staying at Lowood Farm."
"I heard that some people are there for the summer," replied Mildred, "and I certainly saw two girls in the lane with a young man of about twenty. He didn't look insane. What a most fearful affliction!"
"Yes, it's a warning against overworking oneself," said Diccon. "Shall you venture to the Keep?"
"I must go and take those photographs. I don't suppose I shall meet this unfortunate young fellow. If I do, I'll be careful to give him a wide berth. His family ought to have an attendant for him, if they can't look after him properly themselves."
Tiverton Keep was still a mile away—a beautiful walk up a rocky glen, and then over the open fell. It was much cooler on the moorland than in the village; quite a pleasant breeze was stirring, there was a refreshing bubbling sound of small brooklets trickling between clumps of heather and lady fern, while below lay the silver gleam of the lake. The old castle stood on a slight eminence, commanding an excellent view of the surrounding country, and in former days it must have been a useful factor in border warfare. Only a portion of the Keep was still standing, but the ancient guard-room remained intact, and a winding staircase led to the battlements. The day was an ideal one for using the camera. The light was perfect, and Mildredcongratulated herself that she would be able to take a splendid series of snapshots.
"How delightful it is to have the place to oneself, without any tourists about!" she thought.
She did not spare her films, and after photographing the exterior and the ground floor, she toiled up the winding stairs till she reached the broad walk that ran round the top of the tower. Here she took several pictures, and finally climbed a few remaining steps which led to a little turret at the extreme summit of the Keep. From this crow's-nest she had a grand bird's-eye prospect of the whole landscape. How small everything looked! The windmill at the other side of the glen was like a child's toy, and the sheep grazing on the moor seemed white dots. She leaned her arms on the railing, and peered down into the castle courtyard below. Someone was walking about there, for she heard the sound of footsteps, and presently the intruder came in sight. Mildred's heart gave a sudden uncomfortable jump. She recognized in an instant the tall figure of the classical student who was staying at Lowood Farm. He moved slowly, with his eyes fixed on the ground, as if he were searching for something, and every now and then he dived among the piles of loose stones, apparently picking up small objects which he placed in his pockets.
"So Diccon was right!" thought Mildred. "How fearfully sad! He looks such a fine young fellow physically, one wouldn't imagine he'd lost his mental balance. Poor creature! Filling his pockets with rubbish! I hope he's not here all alone. Where are his sisters?"
She looked around anxiously to see if a feminine petticoat were fluttering in the vicinity, but there was no sign of anyone.
"He must have escaped again, and run from them, I suppose," she soliloquized. "I hope he won't notice me on the tower, for I certainly don't want to encounter him."
After a little consideration she decided to stay where she was, to give the intruder time to go away before she ventured from the battlements. He soon disappeared out of the courtyard, but whether to enter the guard-room, or to take his departure, Mildred had no means of ascertaining. She lingered for what seemed an immense while, and heard no sound of further footsteps.
"I've been here for ages; I'm sure it must be nearly half-past twelve," she thought. "I wish I had put on my watch. I can't wait for ever. I expect he's gone, so I'm going to risk it," and she sallied down from the turret.
She had walked half-way round the battlements, and was just gaining confidence, when she suddenly saw a head appearing up the winding staircase, and before she could beat a retreat a tall figure in tennis flannels stepped on to the parapet. He glanced at Mildred with a mixture of confusion and consternation in his face, hesitated, seemed for a moment inclined to retrace his steps, then walked forward with a determined air.
"Good morning! Admiring the view here?" he remarked politely.
Mildred was shivering with alarm, but she had the presence of mind to assent calmly.
"Whatever I do, I mustn't let him see that Inotice anything unusual about him; I believe lunatics are very sensitive on that score. If I behave in an ordinary manner, perhaps he'll go away soon," she thought.
"I'm particularly fond of the battlements, they seem such a great height up," she added aloud, leaning over the wooden railing which guarded the parapet.
He glanced hurriedly down, as if measuring the distance to the courtyard beneath, then turned to her with a marked uneasiness in his gaze.
"It's really nicer below on the grass," he urged. "Won't you come down and try the difference?"
"No, thanks, I prefer remaining here," replied Mildred, hoping that her unwelcome companion would depart by himself to test the superior merits of the courtyard.
To leave her, however, did not seem to enter his calculations. He stared at her again, with a queer look, almost of apprehension, fidgeted a little, coughed, turned rather red, and finally remarked shyly:
"They're waiting for you in the hall."
"Who?" asked Mildred.
"Why, the seneschal and the Baron, and the retainers, and—er—the jester, and all the rest of them."
"There! He's begun on the mediaeval topic!" thought poor Mildred. "He's evidently as mad as a hatter. I mustn't irritate him. Diccon said he grew very violent if contradicted. I must try and humour him."
"The Baron may wait my pleasure," she replied, with an attempt at what she hoped was the hauteurof agrande dameof the Plantagenet period. "As for the rest, they are but vassals and serfs."
"True, lady, but they long for the sunshine of your presence. Will it not please you to show yourself to them on the dais?"
"The dinner is not yet ready," faltered Mildred, trying to conjure up any plausible excuse, though she could not frame it in mediaeval language.
"My lady mistakes. The scullions are even now removing the wild geese from the spits, the boar's head is placed on the trencher, the venison pasties are baked, and the ale is broached."
"He knows far too much about old customs," thought Mildred ruefully. "How shall I get out of it? I must put him on another track." Holding her hand to shade her eyes, she gazed at the distant horizon. "Methinks there is a rumour that the Scots are abroad. Tell me if you see aught that looks like a body of armed men on yonder fell."
Her companion scanned the hillside seriously and earnestly, as if he really expected to find flashing pikes and helmets, though nothing more dangerous than a flock of sheep was to be seen.
"It will perchance be the Black Douglas," he answered in solemn tones. "Lady, your position here is one of danger! You are a mark for every arrow. I pray you descend to the safety of the guard-room."
"They are not near enough yet to shoot," said Mildred quickly. "Indeed, I am not certain whether it is the foe, or merely a band of peaceful pilgrims. If you would mount into yonder watch-tower, you could call to me if you recognize the banner of the Black Douglas."
Mildred hoped by this suggestion to send her companion up into the little turret, and the moment his back was turned she intended to bolt down the winding staircase. Apparently he saw through her design, for he replied at once in the negative. He moved a step nearer to her, and a watchful look came into his eyes.
"How atrociously clever lunatics are!" thought Mildred. "It seems impossible to outwit him. Yet I simply daren't walk down the stairs with him. He might give me a sudden push. What can I possibly say to him next? I'll try flattery."
Looking him over coolly from head to foot, she announced:
"Methinks I like not my lord's attire. 'Tis unworthy of so handsome a knight. I would have you put on fresh bravery, and present yourself to me in your velvet doublet and the trunk-hose which even the Baron envies. They would do justice to your comely person."
Her companion glanced at his tennis flannels and blushed—yes, actually blushed. He gazed at her for a moment almost despairingly, then took a hasty walk up and down the parapet, twisting and untwisting his hands with a nervous action.
"I hope he's not getting excited and violent," thought Mildred.
He returned at last, as if for a final appeal. "If my lady will come and review my poor wardrobe, perchance she may find something to her taste, and I will don it at her command."
He held out his arm, awkwardly enough, and not at all with the grace of a mediaeval courtier, as if to lead her from the battlements. Mildred edged awayfrom him, holding on to the railing. Would no one come to the rescue? She thought she heard a footstep, and glanced down anxiously into the courtyard below, hoping that one of his sisters had arrived in search of him. To her horror he immediately rushed at her and grasped her firmly by the arm.
"You shan't take your life if I can prevent it!" he exclaimed.
To find herself thus in his clutch was more than Mildred's self-command could stand. She shrieked with terror, trying to tear herself away, but the more she pulled the more tightly and determinedly he gripped her.
"There! There! That'll do, Chorlton. Let her go; she's all right," shouted a familiar voice; and loosed as suddenly as she had been seized, Mildred turned and saw the grinning face of Diccon appearing from the doorway of the staircase. He advanced along the parapet in explosions of laughter, which were certainly not shared by either Mildred or the stranger, both of whom stood regarding him with amazement.
"Oh, you simpletons! You credulous pair of infants! I never imagined you'd both swallow it whole. Oh, it's too ripping for anything! It's absolutely killing me! I've been listening to the whole interview. Oh, let me get my breath!"
In a flash Mildred comprehended.
"Diccon! You odious boy! Do you mean it's all a hoax?"
"Of course it is! Poor old Chorlton's as sane as you are! Oh, I say, Chorlton! Don't look so deliciously blank, or I shall have a fit!"
"This wretched boy told me you were mad," faltered Mildred apologetically to her companion.
"And he told me that you were mad, with a suicidal tendency," replied Mr. Chorlton.
"The whole thing worked out so neatly," chuckled naughty Diccon. "Please allow me to recount my own joke. I told Mildred that you were violent unless humoured on the subject of mediaevalism, and I told you that she might fling herself over the battlements if she were contradicted in supposing herself a lady of the Plantagenet period."
"You thoroughly deserve a thrashing, you young imp!" declared Mr. Chorlton.
"No, I don't. I've afforded you each a most exciting adventure. You didn't know Chorlton was a college friend of Eric's, Mildred? We only discovered last night that he's staying at Lowood Farm. I stuffed you about him for a lark, and then when I met him in the village just after you started, I couldn't resist the fun of playing a trick on you both. Chorlton was going to the Keep, too, so I told him a yarn about an unfortunate demented girl who occasionally escaped there and tried to commit suicide. He went up the battlements on purpose to cajole you down to safety. Oh, it was prime to hear you fencing with each other!" and Diccon rubbed his hands in his glee.
"I think you've treated Mr. Chorlton abominably," said Mildred.
"Then you'll consent to descend the staircase with me now?" said Mr. Chorlton, smiling.
"Yes, if you promise not to don trunk-hose and a velvet doublet."
"Trust me! I was racking my brains all the time for mediaeval terms. I must have appeared an awful lunatic!"
"But may I ask why you were picking up pebbles in the courtyard? That did look rather peculiar, I own."
"They weren't pebbles. They're land-snail shells. I'm collecting them. Mad on conchology, if you like!"
"I had to sprint to Whiterigg and back, so as to be able to follow you," chuckled Diccon. "I was so afraid I might be too late for the fun. It was luck to get here just in time."
Mildred had much to tell on her return to lunch at The Towers. Violet, to whom Diccon's practical jokes were well known, was immensely amused, though Sir Darcy and Lady Lorraine were not inclined to treat the episode so humorously.
"Mildred must not take solitary walks again," said her aunt. "I should never have given her permission to go out alone, and she must remember that in future."
"I won't forget," promised Mildred. "I was horribly scared at the time."
"Oh, it was funny!" laughed Violet. "That wretch Diccon deserves to be paid back in his own coin, though. I wonder if we couldn't manage to play a trick upon him? I'm going to cudgel my brains till I think of something."
Violet, who was herself extremely fond of practical jokes, was determined to turn the tables upon Diccon.
"I owe him one or two little things, for he often plays tricks on Rhoda and me at the Vicarage," she said to Mildred. "The difficulty is to hit upon anything really good. It won't be easy to take him in. I shall have to think and think. Oh, I verily believe I've got it! Enid's the very girl! She'd love it! Oh, it fits in capitally!"
"Who's Enid?"
"She's a distant relation from New Zealand—a kind of second cousin, once removed. She and her people are in England for a year, and we met them in town last June. They're staying with the Harcourts at present, only twenty miles away, and I'll persuade Mother to let me invite Enid for the day on Saturday. The car can fetch her and take her back. We'll ask Diccon to come to make up a set at tennis, and then spring a surprise on him. Father and Mother were out in New Zealand five years ago, and they brought home native costumes and all sorts of beads. Yes, I see my way splendidly! I believe he'll really swallow it whole.Mildred, can you keep your face absolutely, in an emergency, and not laugh?"
"I'll do my best," returned Mildred.
Violet laid her plans carefully, and after Enid had accepted the invitation for Saturday she sent a note to the Vicarage asking Diccon to tennis. The members of the Somerville family often came to The Towers to make up sets, and as Diccon was a better player than his brothers, it occasioned no particular surprise that he should be invited alone. He arrived therefore about three o'clock, quite unsuspiciously. Violet and Mildred were waiting for him in the garden.
"I want to introduce you to a friend of ours," began Violet; "a third cousin, in fact. She only came this morning. She's over from New Zealand."
"I'd forgotten you had any colonial relations," observed Diccon.
"Oh, yes! A great-uncle of Mother's went out to Auckland years and years ago, and married a native. I had just a peep at this cousin when we were in London. Of course she's very peculiar-looking, but we like her, don't we, Mildred? I rather admire her dark complexion."
"She's absolutely ripping!" affirmed Mildred cordially.
"I thought I'd better prepare you for the fact that she's a real New Zealander," continued Violet. "Come along and see her. She's sitting in the gun-room. She seems to like it better than anywhere else in the house."
"Queer taste for a girl," commented Diccon.
"She enjoys being amongst weapons," explainedViolet. "I suppose it's a savage instinct. It takes a long time to eradicate the old Adam. Her New Zealand grandfather was a very warlike character."
"Swung a tomahawk, did he?"
"They're not called tomahawks in New Zealand. You're thinking of Fenimore Cooper's American Indians. But never mind, come and be introduced to Rata."
"Is that her name?"
"Yes; don't you think it's pretty?"
"Oh, well enough! Look here, what am I to say? Does she speak English?"
"Quite decently. You'll have no difficulty in understanding her. I shall just introduce you."
"And what then?"
"Why, you must shake hands. She'll expect it. She's given up rubbing noses since she came to England."
"Oh, I say!" murmured Diccon faintly. "I don't think I feel quite well. My head aches."
But Violet ignored his plaintive excuse, and firmly led the way to the gun-room. Squatting on a low stool near the window, reading a New Zealand paper, was a decidedly queer-looking figure—odd, at any rate, to English eyes. The face and hands were very dark, and both cheeks and forehead were tattooed all over with an intricate pattern in red and blue. A magenta silk scarf was tied over the head, completely hiding the hair, and a huge pair of ear-rings drooped over the dusky neck. The girl was dressed in a bright petticoat, with a striped rug flung round her shoulders; her wrists were loaded with native-looking bangles, and she wore slippers of plaited grass. She tookno notice at all when the door opened, but simply went on reading.
"I'm glad you warned me beforehand," whispered Diccon. "Isn't she pleased to see us?"
"Oh, yes! But she's not used yet to our customs. Remember, she has been brought up in New Zealand ways. Rata, here's a visitor to see you," continued Violet aloud. "Won't you speak to him?"
At this direct appeal, the colonial cousin rose from her stool, and bowed with a certain stately dignity. She did not offer to shake hands, and Diccon, fearful that she might relapse into her old habit of rubbing noses, kept cautiously in the background.
"You must be awfully glad to come to England," he stammered, for want of anything else to say.
"It is a great pleasure for me to see my father's country," she replied in a decidedly foreign accent, "and to meet the relations who are so kind to me. Lady Lorraine promises to take me everywhere. To-day I go to tennis and to a dance."
Diccon looked hastily at Violet, who nodded in confirmation.
"The Tracys 'phoned asking us to go to tennis at The Chase this afternoon, and wouldn't take a refusal. They said we must bring you and Rata with us, and that we must all stay to supper, and they would have a little dancing afterwards; just May's and Frank's friends."
"I believe I ought to show up at a Band of Hope meeting at six o'clock," declared Diccon desperately.
"What rubbish! You certainly won't be needed there. We've told the Tracys you're coming with us; they'll be offended if you don't. Father and Mother are getting ready now. We've ordered thecar for half-past three. I wonder how the sets will be arranged this afternoon? You're a good player, Diccon, so you'd better take Rata. She hasn't had much practice in English courts, so you must look after her and teach her."
Diccon's face was a study.
"Wouldn't your cousin have learnt better on the lawn here?" he urged eagerly.
"Oh, no! She'll enjoy going to the Tracys, and I'm sure you'll be able to give her hints. By the by, we want her to have a nice time at the dance afterwards, and plenty of partners. Will you ask her for the first waltz? It's always well to fill up one's programme beforehand."
"I'm—I'm afraid really I shan't be able to stay for the dance," stammered Diccon. "Shan't have any togs with me, you see."
"That's all right," returned the inexorable Violet. "We've sent Fletcher to the Vicarage to ask your mother to pack your bag with anything you'll need. Rata, this is your partner for the first waltz. You won't forget?"
"No, no, I not forget," replied the soft foreign voice.
"Run and get ready now, dear! We mustn't be long. Mildred and I are going to put on our hats and coats. You'll wait here for us, Diccon, won't you?"
The girls walked away with their extraordinary foreign guest, and Diccon remained in the gun-room in a very dejected and disconsolate frame of mind. He would have "done a bolt", but he did not care to risk offending the Lorraines. He was accustomed to Violet's autocratic ways, and knewthat she would not forgive him if he refused to fall in with her wishes. Yet his very hair rose on end at the idea of going out for the afternoon and evening in the company of this New Zealand damsel, to whom he was expected to pay so much attention.
"I don't know how the Lorraines can stand it," he thought. "If I had such a cousin thrust on me, I'd die of shame."
So far from seeming ashamed of her outlandish relation, Violet evidently regarded her with the utmost complacency. Rata herself did not seem to realize that her appearance was singular; perhaps, indeed, she considered it more pleasing than that of her European friends, and was longing to suggest tattooing as an aid to beauty. Nevertheless, that Diccon, a member of his school cricket team and the winner of three silver cups, should be required to play tennis and to dance with this indescribable savage was an outrage on his feelings. Why, he would be a laughing-stock! If anyone else would take the first turn with her, he would not mind quite so much, but to make a start! Oh, it was sickening! He would have shammed illness if there had been the slightest chance of being believed. If he did not look pale, he looked decidedly sulky as Violet came downstairs into the hall.
"Here we are!" she said sweetly. "I'm afraid we've kept you waiting a little. You see, it took rather a long time to change Rata's dress. She decided, after all, that she wouldn't go to the Tracys in Maori costume."
Diccon turned, and could not restrain a gasp of surprise. Instead of the extraordinary native, Violetand Mildred were accompanied by a very pretty and elegantly-dressed girl of their own age, whose brown eyes were gazing at him with politely restrained amusement. Not a trace of tattoo marks upon that white forehead or those rose-leaf cheeks. The ear-rings were gone, also the magenta scarf, and her brown hair was tied at the back with a white ribbon.
"Good night!" exclaimed Diccon, subsiding weakly into a chair.
Then the three girls exploded, and laughed till they grew almost hysterical.
"It serves you right, Diccon!" gurgled Violet. "We've paid you out for the trick you played on Mildred at the Keep. Oh, I never thought we'd take you in so well. You believed every word, and looked so deliciously dumbfounded."
"Well, I'd heard before that Lady Lorraine's uncle had married a New Zealander," retorted Diccon.
"So he did, but she was a settler, not a Maori. Aunt Margaret Fowler was a daughter of General Berkeley, who distinguished himself very much in the native wars, on the British side, please! Our cousins are Colonials, but they're as Anglo-Saxon as we are by birth. By the by, Rata is only a pet name. I must introduce Enid properly—Miss Fowler!"