CHAPTER IXAt Miss Grace'sMiss Grace sat crocheting in her white and gold drawing-room and Elma played to her. Then the front door bell rang."Oh please, Miss Grace," said Elma with crimson cheeks, "that is Adelaide Maud.""She isn't coming, I hope, to disturb our afternoons, and your playing," asked Miss Grace anxiously."Oh, Miss Grace, she has eyes like yours and listens most interrogatively," said Elma in the greatest alarm. The fear that Miss Grace might be offended only now assailed her."Intelligently, dear," corrected Miss Grace."I never did truly think she would come," said Elma."Then, dear, it was not very polite to invite her." Miss Grace could not bear that Elma should miss any point in her own gentle code of etiquette."In justice to little Elma, I invited myself." The full-throated tones of Miss Dudgeon's voice came to them from the door. "And what is more, I said to Saunders, 'Let me surprise Miss Grace, I do not want to disturb the music.'""And then of course the music stopped," said Miss Grace.She kissed Adelaide Maud in a very friendly way."Oh, but it will go on again at once, if neither of you are offended," said Elma. She was much relieved."You must not be so afraid of offending people," said Miss Grace. "It is a great fault of yours, dear."As Adelaide Maud bent to kiss her, Elma was struck with the justice of this criticism."I believe I might be as fascinating as Mabel if only I weren't afraid," she thought to herself. The reflection made her play in a minor key."Just let me say a few words to Miss Grace," had said Adelaide Maud. "Play on and don't mind us for a bit."Adelaide Maud spoke to Miss Grace in an undertone. Elma thought they did it to let her feel at ease, and correspondingly played quite happily."I have seen Dr. Merryweather," said Adelaide Maud to Miss Grace. "He says you must go off for a change at once.""Dr. Merryweather!"Miss Grace turned very pale."Exactly. I did it on my own responsibility. He was most concerned about you. He said that what Dr. Smith had ordered you ought to carry out.""He was always very hard on Annie," said Miss Grace, who saw only one side to such a proposal.Adelaide Maud bent her head a trifle."You ought not to think of Miss Annie, at present," said she. "It isn't right. It isn't fair to her either, supposing you turn really ill, what would become of her?"Neither noticed the lagging notes on the piano. Instead, in the earnestness of their conversation, they entirely forgot Elma.Miss Grace shook her head."I can't help it," she said. "Whatever happens to me, I must stay by my bed-ridden sister. Who would look after her if I deserted her? What is my poor well-being compared to hers!"The notes on the piano fell completely away. Elma sat with the tears raining down her face."Oh, Miss Grace," she said brokenly, "are you ill? Don't say you are ill."The sky had fallen indeed, if such a thing could be true, as Miss Grace in a trouble of her own--and such a trouble--ill health--when Miss Annie required her so much.Adelaide Maud looked greatly discouraged."Now, Elma," she exclaimed abruptly, "Miss Grace is only a little bit ill, and it's to keep her from getting worse that I'm talking to her. We didn't intend you to listen. Miss Annie will wonder why the piano has stopped. Be cheerful now and play a bit--something merrier than what you've been at."She pretended not to see that Miss Grace wiped her eyes a trifle."I make you an offer, Miss Grace. I shall come here every day and stay and be sweet to every one. I shall take Miss Annie her flowers and her books and her work, and I shall bark away all nasty intruders like a good sheep dog. I shall keep the servants in a good temper--including Saunders who is a love, and I promise you, you will never regret it--if only you go away for a holiday--now--before you have time to be ill, because you didn't take the thing at the start!"(Could this be Adelaide Maud!)Elma flung herself off the music stool, and rushed to Miss Grace."And oh, please, please, Miss Grace, let me go with you to see that you get better. You never will unless some one makes you. You will just try to get back to Miss Annie." Thus Elma sounded the first note of that great quality she possessed which distinguished the thing other people required and made her anxious to see it given to them.A break in Miss Grace's calm determination occurred."Oh that, my love, my dear little love, that would be very pleasant." She patted Elma's hand with anxious affection.Adelaide Maud looked hopeful."Won't you leave it to us?" she asked, "to Dr. Smith to break it to Miss Annie, as a kind of command, and to me to break it to Mr. Leighton as an abject request? Because I believe this idea of Elma's is about as valuable as any of mine. You must have some one with you who knows how self-denying you are, Miss Grace. You ought to have Dr. Merryweather with you in fact, to keep you in order.""My dear, how can you suggest such a thing," said Miss Grace. She was quite horrified."Dr. Smith," she turned to Elma, "has ordered me off to Buxton, to a nasty crowded hotel where they drink nasty waters all day long.""They don't drink the waters in the hotel, and the hotels are very nice," corrected Miss Dudgeon."It will be very hot and crowded and dull," wailed Miss Grace. It was astonishing how obstinate Miss Grace could be on a point where her own welfare was concerned.Elma clasped and unclasped her hands."A hotel! Oh, Miss Grace, how perfectly lovely!""There, you see," said Miss Dudgeon, wonderfully quick to notice where her advantage came in, "you see what a delightful time you will confer on whoever goes with you. Some of us love hotels."Perhaps nobody ever knew what a golden picture the very suggestion opened out to Elma. Already she was in a gorgeous erection with gilt cornices and red silk curtains, like one she had seen in town. People whom she had never met were coming and going and looking at her as though they would like to speak to her. She would not know who their aunts or cousins or parents were, and she shouldn't have to be introduced. They would simply come to Miss Grace and, noticing how distinguished she looked, they would say, "May I do this or that for you," and the thing was done. She herself would be able to behave to them as she always behaved in her daydreams, very correctly and properly. She would never do the silly blundering thing which one always did when other people were well aware of the reputation one was supposed to bear. Didn't every one at home know, before she sat down to play piano for instance, that she invariably made mistakes. Jean would say, "Oh, Elma gets so rattled, you know," and immediately it seemed as though she ought to get rattled. Nobody in the hotel would know this. She saw herself playing to an immense audience without making a single mistake. Then the applause--it became necessary to remember that Miss Grace was still speaking.Miss Grace sat with her hands folded nervously. She was quite erect in a way, but there was invariably a pathetic little droop to her head and shoulders which gave her a delicate appearance. A very costly piece of creamy lace was introduced into the bodice of her grey gown, and on it the locket which contained Miss Annie's portrait and hair rose and fell in little agitated jerks. Miss Annie wore a corresponding locket containing Miss Grace's portrait and hair, but these always lay languorously on her white throat undisturbed by such palpitation as now excited Miss Grace."Oh, my dear," she said to Miss Dudgeon, "you don't understand. The gaiety of the place is nothing to me. It's like being here--where my friends say to me how nice it is to have windows opening on to the high road, where so many people pass. I tell them that it isn't those who pass, it is those who come in who count. You passed for so long, my dear."She put her hand mutely on that of Adelaide Maud.It was true then. Miss Grace hadn't known her all these years when the Leighton girls talked about the Story Books so much, but only recently! The Dudgeons must really be coming out of their shell.Elma's eyes grew round with conjecture.Why was Adelaide Maud so friendly now?"It was really Dr. Merryweather," said Adelaide Maud.A faint flush invaded Miss Grace's pallor."It is most kind of Dr. Merryweather. Years ago, I am afraid we rather slighted him.""Oh well, he keeps a very friendly eye on you, Miss Grace, and he says you are to go to Buxton."It became the first real trouble of Miss Grace's own life, that she should have to go to Buxton. Adelaide Maud arranged it for her, otherwise the thing would never have occurred. It was she who persuaded Dr. Smith to put it this way to Miss Annie that it would be dangerous for her to have the anxiety of Miss Grace's being ill at home, and most upsetting to the household. It was better that the excursion should be looked upon as a holiday graciously granted by Miss Annie, the donor of it, than an imperative measure ordered by the doctor for the saving of Miss Grace.Miss Grace wondered at the ready acquiescence of Miss Annie. She seemed almost pleased to let her sister go. In a rather sad way, Miss Grace began to wonder whether, after all, she might not have released herself years ago. Would Annie have minded? The progress of this malady which now asserted itself, she had quietly ignored for so long, that only a darting pain, which might attack her in the presence of Miss Annie, had compelled her to consult Dr. Smith. He was astonished at what she had suffered."You do not deserve to have me tell you how fortunate it is that after all we have nothing malignant to discover," he told her. "But you will become really ill, helpless occasionally, if you do not take this in hand now." Just after he had gone, Adelaide Maud called. She came to ask for money in connection with the church, but she stayed to talk over Miss Grace's symptoms. The grey shadow on Miss Grace's face had alarmed her."Aren't you well, Miss Grace?" she asked sympathetically. Then for the first time since Miss Annie had gone to bed, Miss Grace had given way and confessed what the trouble was to Adelaide Maud.It became astonishing to think how rapidly things could happen in so tiny and so slow a place.Here they were now, in a happy confidential trio, the moving inspirator that smart, garden-party person, Adelaide Maud.The Leighton girls could not believe it. They had, with the exception of Elma, reached a hopeless condition with regard to the Story Books. The Dudgeons had so palpably shown themselves, even although graciously polite throughout, to be of so entirely different a set to the Leightons. None of the girls except Adelaide Maud had called. And after what Cuthbert had done! Elma certainly felt the difference that might occur where Miss Grace and Miss Annie were concerned. "Why haven't we a footman and an odd man?" asked Jean viciously. "Then it would be all right."Now came the invitation for Elma to go with Miss Grace.Both Mr. and Mrs. Leighton were greatly touched. Mr. Leighton put his hand on Elma's shoulder."When you can make yourself indispensable to your best friends, that is almost as great a thing as playing the Moonlight Sonata without a mistake," said he.But both Mrs. Leighton and he refused to let Elma go. They called on Miss Grace to explain. The fact that they had left Elma in a state of despair that bordered on rebellion made them more firm."Elma is so young," said Mrs. Leighton, "and so highly strung and sensitive, I can't let her go with an easy mind. She has visited so seldom, and then invariably lain awake at nights with the excitement. It wouldn't be good for you, Miss Grace. I should have you both very much on my mind."Adelaide Maud was there."I see your point, Mrs. Leighton," she said brightly. "But Elma knows Miss Grace so well, wouldn't it be just like going with you or Mr. Leighton."Mr. Leighton interposed."It's more for the sake of Miss Grace. She must have some one regarding whom she does not require to be anxious. Elma is a dreamy little being, and might turn home-sick in an hour, or frightened if Miss Grace were a little ill--anything might occur in that way.""But she is nearly thirteen. Some day she must be cured of home-sickness, and Miss Grace will take her maid," said Adelaide Maud. "Oh, Mr. Leighton, don't hold in your daughters too much! It's so hard on them later."Adelaide Maud looked quite pathetic."It isn't so with all of them," said Mrs. Leighton. "Jean is quite different. Jean can go anywhere."Underneath Mrs. Leighton's kind, loving ways lay a superb respect for the domineering manners of her second daughter."I should never be afraid of Jean's lying awake at night, or turning home-sick. She is much too sensible."Miss Grace became impressed with the virtues of Jean."Then Jean might come," she proposed apologetically.Adelaide Maud could not forgive her. After having awakened that radiant look in Elma's eyes, to weakly propose that she might take the robust Jean!Mrs. Leighton's eyes wandered to her husband."Jean grows so fast. Perhaps a change would do her good," she suggested vaguely."I should feel much more confident of Jean," said he.So it was arranged.Elma never forgot it. She wept silently in her room, and accepted comfort from no one, not even her mother."There is one thing, Jean oughtn't to have said to mother she would go. She put that in her mind before mother went out. I knew it was all up then. Jean will always get what she wants, all her life, and I shall have to back out. Just because I can't play sonatas without mistakes they think I cannot do anything."Elma found Betty's shoulder very comforting.A remark of Adelaide Maud's rankled in Mr. Leighton's mind. He was not altogether happy at having to act the dragon to Elma in any case. Adelaide Maud had got him quietly by herself."Don't let little Elma begin giving up things to those sisters of hers too soon, Mr. Leighton. Unselfishness is all very well. But look at the helpless thing it has made of Miss Grace."Then she relented at sight of his face."I'm almost as disappointed as Elma, you see," she said radiantly.Mr. Leighton tried to put it out of his mind, but Elma, sobbing in her bedroom, had at last reached a stage where she couldn't pretend that nothing had hurt her, a stage where the feelings of other people might be reckoned not to count at all. It was an unusual condition for her to be in. She generally fought out her disappointments in secret. Her father came to her finally, and began smoothing her hair in a sad sort of way."You aren't looking on your own father as your worst enemy?" he asked her kindly.Elma's sobs stopped abruptly."I was," she said abjectly.It was part of the sincerity of her nature that she immediately recognized where the case against herself came in."I'm sorry about Jean," said Mr. Leighton. "It didn't strike me at the time that it would be such a treat to either of you, you see. And we chose the one who seemed most fitted for going with Miss Grace.""Mabel might have gone," wailed Elma.Mabel! Not for a moment had the claims of Mabel been mentioned. Mr. Leighton was completely puzzled.Elma in an honourable manner felt that probably she might be giving away Mabel to an unseeing parent. Mabel wanted, oh very much, to stay at home just then."But of course Jean wanted to go," she said hurriedly. "more than Mabel did.""Some day you will all have your turn," said Mr. Leighton consolingly. "I know it's very dull being at home with your parents! Isn't it?"Elma laughed a little."It isn't that," she said, "but it would be lovely--in a hotel--with a maid, you know--of your own! Such fun--seeing the people. And Miss Grace wanted me."Mr. Leighton stroked her hair."I liked her wanting you. I shall never forget that," said he."Oh!" Elma gave a little gulp of pleasure. This was worth a great deal. There was really nothing on earth like being complimented by one's father. She sidled on Mr. Leighton's knee and put her arms round his neck. He still stroked her hair."You must remember that it isn't only in hotels that you see life," he said, "or on battle-fields that you fight battles. It's here at home, where one apparently is only sheltered and dull. It's always easy to get on for a day or two with new, or outside friends. But it's your own people who count. Don't make it disagreeable for Jean to go with Miss Grace." His voice came in the nature of a swift command. After all, her mother and father had arranged it, and the consciousness came down on her of how she slighted those two, dearer than any, in being so rebellious."I won't," said Elma. Quite a determined little line settled at her quivering lips, "But I never felt so bad in my life.""Oh well, we shall see what can be done about that," said Mr. Leighton. And it pleased him more than a battle-field of victories could have done to see Elma come into her own again."Do you think you could try the Moonlight Sonata now?" he asked abruptly, looking at his watch.It was his hobby that he must keep at least one girl at the piano in the evenings."Not without a lot of mistakes," said Elma.But she played better that night than she had ever done.CHAPTER XCompensationsMiss Grace brought home a delicate silver purse and a silver chain set with torquoise matrix from Buxton for Elma.Mr. Leighton shook his head over the pretty gift."Bribery and corruption," said he.But by that time Elma's soul had soared far above the heights or depths of triumph or pettiness in connection with the sojourn of Miss Grace. Life had been moving swiftly and wonderfully. Jean indeed came home from hotel life, full of stories of its inimitable attractions; and nobody, although longing to be, had really been much impressed. Jean served to mark the milestone of their own development, that was all. She had left at one stage and come back at another. Where she had imagined their standing quite still, they had been travelling new roads, looking back on their childish selves with interest.Mabel and Elma had been thrown much together, and Mabel had grown to depend on the silent loyalty with which Elma invariably supported her in the trying time now experienced in connection with Mr. Meredith. Where Jean, bolt outright, complained that already Mabel had known him for a month or two, and yet no hint of an engagement could be discovered, Elma sympathized with Mabel's horror of any engagement whatever."It would be lovely to have a ring, and all that kind of thing," Mabel had confided. "But fancy having to talk to papa and mamma about it!"It did not impede her friendship with Mr. Meredith however. He had found a flower which he intended to pluck, and he guarded it to all intents and purposes as one from which he would warn off intruders. But the reserve which made Mabel sensitive in regard to anything definite, her extreme youth, above all the constant espionage of her parents and sisters, led him to a tacit understanding of his privileges, a situation appalling to the business-like Jean."If I had had my hair up, I should have had two proposals at Buxton," said she, and the remark became historic.Cuthbert put it in his notebook. Whenever he wanted to overcome the authority of Jean he produced and read it. She found her family a trifle trying on her arrival. She wanted to be able to inform them how they should dress, and had a score of other things ready to retail to them. Yet most of them fell quite flat, just as though she had had no special advantages in being at Buxton.Mr. and Mrs. Leighton talked this over together."It makes me think," said Mrs. Leighton, "that you are not altogether wrong in crowding them up at home here. Jean got variety, but she seems to have lost a little in balance.""Still, that is just where experience teaches its lesson," said Mr. Leighton. "To get balance, one must have the experience. Yet Mabel, in an unaccountable manner, seems to be perfectly balanced before she has received any experience at all.""Ah! I expect she will still have her experiences," said Mrs. Leighton in her pessimistic way. "No girl gets along without some unpleasant surprise. Betty is longing for one. Betty complains that in story books something tragic or something wonderful happens to girls whenever they begin to grow up, but that nothing happens in this place. Nobody loses money--if you please--and nobody gets thrown out on the world in a pathetic manner to work for a living, for instance.""Do they want to work for their living?""They do want to be sensational," said Mrs. Leighton with a sigh, "and as Elma says, 'We are neither rich enough nor poor enough for that.'""Thank providence," said Mr. Leighton.His girls were much more of a problem to him than the direct Cuthbert, who had shown a capacity for going his own way rather magnificently from the moment he had left school. Mr. Leighton was determined to give his girls an object in life, besides the ordinary one of getting married. "There is great solace in the arts," he had often affirmed, making it seem impossible that a girl should look on the arts as ends in themselves, as a man would. "A girl must be trained to interruptions," he used to declare. He made rather a drudge of their music in consequence of these theories in connection with a career, but the hard taskmaster in that direction opened a willing indulgence in almost any other. It alarmed him when Mr. Meredith appeared so conspicuously on the scene, when Mr. Meredith's sister called and invited Mabel to dine, when invitations crossed, until the Merediths and themselves became very very intimate. Elma had the wonderful pleasure of being allowed to accompany Mabel. In the absence of Jean, she fulfilled that sisterly position in a loyal way, loving the exaltation of going out with Mabel, becoming very fond of the Merediths in the process. They had only recently come from town to live near the Gardiners, and the whole place did its duty in calling on them. There were only Mr. Meredith and his sister, and both were of the intensely interesting order rather than of the frank and lively nature of the like of the Leightons. Mr. Meredith sang, and Miss Meredith's first words to Mabel were to the effect that he no longer wanted his sister to play for him after having had the experience of Mabel as an accompanist."Aren't you glad papa made us musical?" asked Betty of Mabel after that compliment.Mabel was glad in more ways than one. But it seemed a little hard that just then Mr. Leighton should insist on her going in for a trying examination in the spring."When she ought to be getting the 'bottom drawer' ready," complained poor Jean.Nothing moved for Jean in the family just as she expected. She began to wonder whether she shouldn't go out as a governess.Jane Eyrehad always enthralled her. It was one way of seeing life, to be very down-trodden, and then marry the magnificent over-bearing hero.As a companion to Miss Grace, she had been a great success. Indeed, even Adelaide Maud was bound to confess that Jean had been just the person to go with Miss Grace. Jean, in spite of her Jane Eyre theories, was so down on self-effacement. Her frank direct ways were the best tonic for a lady who had never at any time been courageous. Miss Grace wrote continually to Elma, "Jean has been very good in doing this--or that," until Elma, swallowing hard lumps of mortification, had at last to believe that she never could have done these determined, cool-hearted things for Miss Grace in the same capable manner. She often wondered besides whether, even to have had the delight of being at Buxton, she could have dropped the glamour of finding a new sister in Mabel, and of being the daily companion of Adelaide Maud. For the time had now come, when, on being shown into Miss Annie's drawing-room, her duke, clean-shaven and of modern manners, had ceased to be really diverting, and in fact often forgot to attend to her in the pause when she awaited the coming of Adelaide Maud.Adelaide Maud kept her word. She reigned as vice-queen over Miss Annie's household, indulging that lady in all her little whims, for Miss Grace's sake, and never omitted a single day for calling and seeing that Miss Annie was comfortable. Adelaide Maud had theories of her own. She said that every one in Ridgetown attended to the poor, but that she believed in attending to the rich."Now who would ever have looked after Miss Grace if we hadn't?" she asked Elma.Mrs. Dudgeon imagined she had other reasons for being so devoted to Miss Annie, and considered that Helen wasted her time in applying so much of it to a bedridden invalid."Whom do you see there?" she asked stonily."Principally Saunders," said Helen, whose good temper was unassailable. "Saunders is a duck."The "duck," however, was a trifle worried with these changes, "not having been accustomed to sich for nigh on twenty-five years, mum," as he explained to Mrs. Leighton.But the great boon lay in the restored health of Miss Grace. She came home shyly as ever, but with a fresh bloom on her face. What withered hopes that trip recalled to life, what memories of sacrificial days gone by, what fears laid past--who knows! She was very gentle with Miss Annie, and boasted of none of her late advantages as Jean did. Indeed, one might have thought that the events of the world had as usual taken place in Miss Annie's bedroom. But, with a courage born of new health and better spirits. Miss Grace called one day on Dr. Merryweather. In a graceful manner, as though the event had only occurred, she apologized to him for the slight offered by Miss Annie."I hope you know that you still have our supreme confidence," she said. "It was your kind interest which persuaded me to go to Buxton."Dr. Merryweather seemed much affected. He shook her hand several times, but his voice remained gruff as she had always remembered and slightly feared it."You must be exceedingly careful of yourself, Miss Grace," he said bluntly, "Miss Annie has had too much of you."Too much of her. Ah, well, she could never reproach herself for having spared an inch of her patience, an atom of her slender strength."Remember," said Dr. Merryweather, "courage does not all lie in self-sacrifice, though"--and he looked long at the kind beautiful eyes of Miss Grace--"a great deal of it is invested there."He held her hand warmly for a second again, and that was the end of it. Miss Grace went home fortified to a second edition of her life with Miss Annie.Adelaide Maud gave up her semi-suzerainty over the masterful Saunders with some real regret. It was fun for her to be engaged in anything which did not entail mere social engagements. Miss Annie liked her thoroughly, liked the swirl of her tweed skirts, the daintiness of her silk blouses, the gleam of her golden hair. Adelaide Maud had straight fine features, pretty mauve eyes ("They are mauve, my dear, no other word describes them," she declared), very clearly arched eyebrows, and "far too determined a chin." "Where did you get your chin?" asked Miss Annie continually."My father had the face of an angel. It wasn't from him," said Adelaide Maud. "I have my mother to thank for my chin.""Well, Heaven help the man who tries to cross you, my dear," said Miss Annie, who had a very capable chin of her own, as it happened. The tired petulant look of the invalid only showed at the droop to the corners of her mouth.Elma could no longer interest Adelaide Maud in Cuthbert. It seemed as though he had no further existence. Until one day when she told her that Cuthbert had an appointment which would last throughout the summer, and keep him tied to town. Then the chin of Adelaide Maud seemed to resolve itself into less chilly lines."Oh, won't you miss him?" she suddenly asked.Adelaide Maud was the most comprehending person. She pulled Elma to her and kissed her when Elma said that it wasn't "missing," it simply wasn't "living" without Cuthbert."I'm so sorry you quarrelled with him," she said to Adelaide Maud.Adelaide Maud grew stonily angry."Quarrel with him?" she asked.It reminded Elma of the Dudgeon's first call"Oh, please don't," she cried in alarm."Then I won't," said Adelaide Maud, "but will you kindly inform me when I quarrelled with your brother Cuthbert."It was exactly in the tone of one who would never think of quarrelling with the Leighton set. Elma grew quite pale, then her courage rose."He thinks such a lot of you, and you don't think anything of him. Just as though we weren't good enough!""Oh, Elma," said Adelaide Maud."And he likes you, and keeps things you drop, and you won't even speak to him.""Keeps things I drop!"The murder was out."Oh, I promised not to tell, how awful."Adelaide Maud grew very dignified."What did I drop? Oh! I think I remember--my handkerchief!"Mrs. Dudgeon had reflected openly on the fact that it had never been returned to Helen."I wanted to keep it till we saw you again, but he said he would give it to you when you were nice to him, or something like that.""Till I was nice to him!" The chin dimpled a trifle."Somehow, I would rather he kept it," said Adelaide Maud dreamily."Shall I tell him that?" asked Elma anxiously."Tell him--what nonsense! You mustn't tell him a syllable. You mustn't say you've told me. It would be so ignominious for him to hear that I knew he had been thieving! Thieving is the word," said Adelaide Maud. Although she talked in a very accusing manner, her voice seemed kind."Mayn't I tell him you didn't mean to quarrel?" asked Elma anxiously. "You don't know what you are to all of us."Here she sighed deeply."No," said Adelaide Maud, "you mustn't tell him anything. I think he must just wait as he suggested, until I am nice to him.""Until you deserved it, he said," cried Elma, triumphantly, remembering properly at last. "I knew it was something like that.""Then he may wait until he is a hundred," said Adelaide Maud with her face in a flame.It was difficult after this ever to talk to Adelaide Maud about Cuthbert with any kind of freedom or pleasure.Elma went home that evening in the bewilderment of an early sunset. Bright rays turned the earth golden, the leaves on the trees laid themselves flat in heavy blobs of green in yellow sunlight, the sky faded to a glimmering blue in the furthermost east. A shower of rain fell from a drifting cloud and the drops hit in large splotches, first on Elma's hat, on her hand, and then in an indefinite manner stopped. As she turned into her own garden, the White House seemed flooded in a golden glow of colour.Then at last they heard thunder in the distance.Elma never forgot that shining picture, nor the thunder in the distance. It seemed the picture of what life might be, beautiful and safe in one's own home, thunder only in the distance. The threatening did not alarm her, but the remembrance of it always remained with her. When thunder really began to peal for the Leighton family, she tried to be thankful for the picture of gold.CHAPTER XIThe Split InfinitiveGuests at the Leightons' were divided into two classes. There were those who were friends of Mr. Leighton, and who therefore were interested in art, or literature, or science, or public enterprise, but were not expected to go further; and there were those who came in a general way and who might be expected to be interested in anything from a game of tennis to a tea party. Of the first might be reckoned the like of Mr. Sturgis, who painted pictures in a magnificent manner, and who, at the end of a large cigar, would breathe the heresies on the teaching of art which for ever paralyzed the artistic abilities of Elma. Mr. Sturgis was quite young enough for an Aunt Katharine public to quote his eligibility on all occasions."You don't understand, Aunt Katharine," Mabel told her once. "Nobody seems to understand that a man, even a young man, may adore papa without having to adore us at the same time. Mr. Sturgis is quite different from your kind of young man.""Different from Robin, I suppose," sighed Aunt Katharine."Yes, quite different from Robin," said Mabel sedately. Robin had certainly from the first put Mr. Leighton into the position of being his daughter's father. Mr. Sturgis, on the other hand, found his first friend in Mr. Leighton because he had such a nice discriminating and most sympathetic enthusiasm for Art. Besides which Mr. Leighton had the attributes of an exceptional man in various respects.The girls put Mr. Sturgis on the same high plane as their father and admired him openly accordingly. But there were others whom they put on this plane by reason of their accomplishments and yet did not admire at all.Amongst these was the "Split Infinitive."The first call on the part of Professor Theo. Clutterbuck was one never to be forgotten. He found a roomful of people who, so far as his own attitude to them was concerned, might have been so many pieces of furniture. Mr. Sturgis had at least the artist's discrimination which made him observe one's appearance, and he also allowed one to converse occasionally; but Dr. Clutterbuck rushed his one subject at Mr. Leighton from the moment of his entrance, and after that no one else existed."What more or less could you expect from the father of the Serpent?" asked Betty.Lance was responsible for the nickname.The Serpent, the elf-like daughter of the Professor, staying next to the Turbervilles, had introduced herself in a violent manner long ago to Betty and Elma. Sitting one day, hidden high in the maple tree, she cajoled her cat silently over the Turberville wall and from a wide branch sent him sprawling on a tea table. From the moment that the black cat drew a white paw from the cream jug, and a withering giggle from the maple tree disclosed the wicked little visage of the Serpent, war had been declared between the Clutterbucks and the Turbervilles. Lance occasionally removed the barrier and met the Professor in company with his own father."An awful crew," his verdict ran. "The Past Participle (Mrs. Clutterbuck) can't open her poor little timid mouth but the Split Infinitive is roaring at her. Consequently she keeps as silent as the grave.""Will you kindly explain?" said Mrs. Leighton patiently. "It's a long time since I studied grammar in that intimate way. What is the Split Infinitive and why the Past Participle?""It's like this, Mrs. Leighton, simple when you know--or when you are married to a brute like Clutterbuck," said Lance mischievously. "I beg your pardon. I know I ought to say that he is a genius and all that sort of thing. But 'brute' seems more explicit.""Go on with your story," said Mrs. Leighton."Well--Clutterbuck married Mrs. Clutterbuck.""That's generally the end of a story, isn't it?" asked Jean.Lance was not to be interrupted."Trust a boy for gossip," exclaimed Betty. "Fire away, Lance.""My aunt knew them," said Lance. "She, Mrs. C., was a little dear, awfully pink and pretty you know, and Clutterbuck, a big raw thin thing with wild sort of hair and dreamy manners. Well, they were awfully proud and pleased with themselves, and started off for their honeymoon like two happy babies.""Will you kindly tell me how you knew this?" asked Mrs. Leighton helplessly."I heard my aunt telling my mother," said Lance."There's a gleam in your eye which I don't quite trust," Elma remarked sedately. "Go on.""Everything went well," exclaimed Lance, "until one morning when Mrs. C., all rosy and chiffony you know, said 'My dear Theo, I don't remember to ever have been so happy.' Clutterbuck rose from the table, as pale as death. She cried, 'Theo, Theo, tell me, what is wrong?' 'Wrong,' cried Professor Clutterbuck, 'you have used the Split Infinitive!' Gospel, Mrs. Leighton," said Lance as a wind-up. "She's been the Past Participle ever since."There was this amount of truth in Lance's story: that Dr. Clutterbuck was distinguished in his own career as Professor of Geology, that his English was irreproachable; and that Mrs. Clutterbuck had practically no English, since she was hardly ever known to speak at all. She shunned society; and the same introspective gaze of the Professor, which had skimmed the Leighton drawing-room and found there only the striking personality of Mr. Leighton, skimmed his own home in a like abstracted manner, and took no notice of the most striking personality in Ridgetown--Elsie, his daughter.It was the black cat episode which precipitated the nickname of "The Serpent." Lance had always declared that this girl had an understanding with animals which was nothing short of uncanny. He happened to readElsie Venner, and the names being alike, and temperament on similar lines, he immediately christened her the Serpent. He caught her out at numberless pranks which were never reported to the diligent ears of Betty and May. One was that she had climbed to his bedroom and purloined a suit of clothes.There was no end to what might be expected of this lonely little person.Years ago, Betty and May had turned their backs on her in the cruel haphazard manner of two friends who might easily dispose of an outsider. Betty and May despised the Serpent because she "had a cheap governess," "couldn't afford to go to school," and "wore her hair in one plait."The lonely little Serpent never properly forgave these insults.Mrs. Leighton did not wholly encourage Lance in his tale."I do not think I approve of your being so down on these people," she said: "and if there is any truth in what you say, it is very tragic about poor Mrs. Clutterbuck, though she does not strike me as being a very capable person.""Capable," asked Lance. "Who could remain capable, Mrs. Leighton, with a cold tap continually running freezing remarks down one's back. Don't you think it's a miracle she's alive?"Mrs. Leighton preferred to remain on her smooth course of counsel."It never does to judge people like that," she exclaimed. "You do not know. To put it in a selfish manner, one day you may find the Clutterbucks being of more service to you than any one on earth."She pulled at her knitting ball."You girls talk a great deal of romance and nonsense about people like the Dudgeons. Why don't you think something nice about that poor little Serpent for a change?"The girls remembered not very long afterwards the prophetic nature of these remarks. That they should cultivate the Clutterbucks for any reason at all, however, seemed at that moment impossible.Dr. Merryweather called the same afternoon.It was one of the coincidences of life that he should immediately talk of the Clutterbucks."Know them?" he asked. "I think your husband does, doesn't he? Do you call on the wife at all?""No," answered Mrs. Leighton. "I never feel that I could get on with her very well either. Mr. Leighton meets the Professor and they talk a lot together, but it's quite away from domestic matters.""It would be a bit of a kindness, I think," said the old Doctor, "your calling, I mean. There's too little public spirit amongst women, don't you think?""Oh, wouldn't it be a little impertinent perhaps to call, in that spirit?" asked Mrs. Leighton."Well, I don't know. The child is running wild. The parents are a pair of babies where healthy education is concerned. Result, the child has no friends, and expends her affection, she has stores of it, on her animals. A dog gets run over and dies. What do you get then? She never squeaks. Not a moan, you observe. But she sits up in that tree of hers with a cat to do any comforting she may want--and her hair begins to come out in patches."Mrs. Leighton's knitting fell to her lap."Her hair is coming out in patches?" she asked in a horrified voice."Yes. What else would you have when a child is allowed to mope. Something is bound to happen. Clergymen are of use when a child's naughty. But when it mopes itself ill, we are called in. Yet it's a clergyman's task after all. This child, on the way to being a woman, has never had one friend. Her mother is too timid to be really friendly with any one, and the husband is wrapped in his dry-as-dust philosophy--and where are you with a tender child like that?""But if Mrs. Clutterbuck can't be friendly with any one, why should I call?" asked Mrs. Leighton hopelessly."Your girls might become friendly with the child," said he. "I'm afraid I don't make a very good clergyman.""They call her the Serpent, you know," said Mrs. Leighton, "very naughty of them. I shall do my best, Doctor. I didn't know her hair was coming out in patches."Dr. Merryweather might be complimented on his new profession after all. It had been a master stroke to refer to the patches. Mrs. Leighton had known of its happening after illness or great worry. That a child should suffer in this quiet moping manner seemed pathetic."Yet, I don't think I'm the person to do a thing of this sort," Mrs. Leighton said hopelessly to Miss Meredith later in the day. "I do so object to intrude on people. I should imagine it indelicate of any one else to do the same to myself, you know.""Very awkward, certainly," replied Miss Meredith primly."Oh, mummy," said Elma, "you know how kind Miss Grace is or Miss Annie. They say 'Isn't Betty a little pale at present?' and you get her a tonic. You think nothing of that. It's just the same with the Clutterbucks. Betty ought to behave herself and go and call with you, and get the Serpent to come. I think she looks a jolly little thing."Elma was quite alone in that opinion."Jolly!" said Jean, "you might as well talk of a toadstool's being jolly. Still, Betty isn't a child. She shouldn't be squabbling. Betty ought to call.""You know Dr. Clutterbuck, wouldn't you call on his wife?" asked Mrs. Leighton of Miss Meredith."Oh, I'm afraid I don't know him well enough. Robin rather dislikes him--and, well, we have no young people, you see."Miss Meredith was lame but definite."Then the sooner the better. Betty and I call to-morrow," said Mrs. Leighton.They did, and to their astonishment found Mrs. Clutterbuck dimly but surely pleased. Nobody remained timid very long in Mrs. Leighton's kind presence, and the mutual subject of days long ago when it was no crime to talk of babies, broke the ice of years of reserve in Ridgetown with Mrs. Clutterbuck. The Serpent, after many pilgrimages on the part of the one maid to the garden, finally appeared. Mrs. Clutterbuck's restraint returned with the evident unwillingness of Elsie's attitude. Both retreated to the dumb condition so trying to onlookers.The Serpent indeed paid Betty out for many months of torture. Her calm, disconcerting gaze never wavered, as she watched every movement of that ready enemy. Mrs. Leighton made her only mistake in showing definitely that she wanted to be kind to Elsie. That little lady's pale visage looked fiercely out at her and chilled the words that were intended to come.It was as Betty described it a most "terrifying interview."In the midst of it came a telegram to Mrs. Clutterbuck."Oh, you will excuse me," said she nervously. "We are expecting a friend."During the interval of opening the envelope Elsie disappeared. It had the effect of warming Mrs. Clutterbuck to confidences once more."It is a great pleasure to me," said she. "My young cousin is coming. He is quite a distinguished, man. All Dr. Clutterbuck's people are distinguished, but my family are different. Except Arthur, whom Dr. Clutterbuck is quite pleased to meet. He is coming to-night."She called the maid."Tell Miss Elsie it is the 5.40 train. Mr. Symington comes then."She had a halting, staccato way of picking her small sentences, as though insecure of their effect."People enjoy coming to Ridgetown," said Mrs. Leighton lamely, in the endeavour to keep the wheels of conversation oiled more securely."Do they," asked the Professor's wife. Then she stammered a trifle. "A--a--that is--I have never had a visitor in Ridgetown till now. Dr. Clutterbuck does not care for visitors. Arthur is different from what others have been, I hope."She seemed full of anxiety."Oh, I gave up long ago trying to please Mr. Leighton with my visitors," said Mrs. Leighton heartily and quite untruthfully. "Husbands must take their chance of that, you know." She rose to go."Please tell Dr. Clutterbuck he is never again to come to see us without you," she said, "and won't Elsie come to tea one day?"On their departure Mrs. Clutterbuck turned to find a blazing little fury in the doorway."Mother," cried Elsie, "Mother! How could you! I shall never go to tea with Betty Leighton."Her mother turned two eyes full of light on her. The light slowly died to dull patience again."We shall go down together to meet cousin Arthur," she said quietly. It seemed as though her bright thoughts must turn to drab colour automatically where either her husband or child was concerned.It was characteristic of Elsie that, although blazing with wild anger and wicked little intentions, she should be unable to give voice to them at that moment. The inevitable obstinacy of her mother where the routine of the house was concerned, the drab colour of the one day which was invariably like the other, the cruel, cruel sameness of it all! It was impossible that Cousin Arthur should not be drab colour also."I'd rather remain here," she said at last. There was even some pleading in her tone."Your father said we had better meet Cousin Arthur," said her mother.That was the remorseless end and beginning to everything. "Your father said" meant days and weeks and years of drab colour."Oh, let us go then," said Elsie. There was a drowning hopelessness in her voice, so great an emptiness that it was hard to believe she had merely used the words--"Let us go then."Her mother accepted the answer without the sigh which burned in her heart because it had no outlet.They proceeded to get ready to go out.Mrs. Leighton and Betty by this time were chatting easily enough at the Merediths'. Mrs. Leighton had the feeling of an inexperienced general after a very indefinite victory."I do not possess the talent of inflicting myself gracefully on people," she said, "and the child is quite extraordinary. However, I liked the mother; she is a dear little woman."Miss Meredith was only partially interested.She arranged to walk home with them, and they set out in rather a slow manner."I can quite believe the child would be different in other surroundings," said Mrs. Leighton. "What a fine-looking man!" The one remark ran into the other automatically. In later days it seemed prophetic that the two people should be mentioned in one breath.Mrs. Leighton was passing the station where arrivals from the train occurred. A cab was drawn up, and into this a sunburned, athletic-looking young man put some traps. Then he handed in Mrs. Clutterbuck and Elsie.Betty was greatly impressed."It must be Mr. Symington," said she."Well, for a timid lady, she has a very man-like cousin," exclaimed Mrs. Leighton. "I don't wonder she was allowed that one visitor at least."Miss Meredith turned her head carefully to a more slanting angle, when she clearly saw the carriage drive past."Do you know, Mrs. Leighton," she said quite nimbly and happily, "it seems very hard that she should not have all the visitors she wants. Dr. Merryweather is quite right. None of us have any public spirit. I think I shall call on her to-morrow."So Miss Meredith also called on Mrs. Clutterbuck.
CHAPTER IX
At Miss Grace's
Miss Grace sat crocheting in her white and gold drawing-room and Elma played to her. Then the front door bell rang.
"Oh please, Miss Grace," said Elma with crimson cheeks, "that is Adelaide Maud."
"She isn't coming, I hope, to disturb our afternoons, and your playing," asked Miss Grace anxiously.
"Oh, Miss Grace, she has eyes like yours and listens most interrogatively," said Elma in the greatest alarm. The fear that Miss Grace might be offended only now assailed her.
"Intelligently, dear," corrected Miss Grace.
"I never did truly think she would come," said Elma.
"Then, dear, it was not very polite to invite her." Miss Grace could not bear that Elma should miss any point in her own gentle code of etiquette.
"In justice to little Elma, I invited myself." The full-throated tones of Miss Dudgeon's voice came to them from the door. "And what is more, I said to Saunders, 'Let me surprise Miss Grace, I do not want to disturb the music.'"
"And then of course the music stopped," said Miss Grace.
She kissed Adelaide Maud in a very friendly way.
"Oh, but it will go on again at once, if neither of you are offended," said Elma. She was much relieved.
"You must not be so afraid of offending people," said Miss Grace. "It is a great fault of yours, dear."
As Adelaide Maud bent to kiss her, Elma was struck with the justice of this criticism.
"I believe I might be as fascinating as Mabel if only I weren't afraid," she thought to herself. The reflection made her play in a minor key.
"Just let me say a few words to Miss Grace," had said Adelaide Maud. "Play on and don't mind us for a bit."
Adelaide Maud spoke to Miss Grace in an undertone. Elma thought they did it to let her feel at ease, and correspondingly played quite happily.
"I have seen Dr. Merryweather," said Adelaide Maud to Miss Grace. "He says you must go off for a change at once."
"Dr. Merryweather!"
Miss Grace turned very pale.
"Exactly. I did it on my own responsibility. He was most concerned about you. He said that what Dr. Smith had ordered you ought to carry out."
"He was always very hard on Annie," said Miss Grace, who saw only one side to such a proposal.
Adelaide Maud bent her head a trifle.
"You ought not to think of Miss Annie, at present," said she. "It isn't right. It isn't fair to her either, supposing you turn really ill, what would become of her?"
Neither noticed the lagging notes on the piano. Instead, in the earnestness of their conversation, they entirely forgot Elma.
Miss Grace shook her head.
"I can't help it," she said. "Whatever happens to me, I must stay by my bed-ridden sister. Who would look after her if I deserted her? What is my poor well-being compared to hers!"
The notes on the piano fell completely away. Elma sat with the tears raining down her face.
"Oh, Miss Grace," she said brokenly, "are you ill? Don't say you are ill."
The sky had fallen indeed, if such a thing could be true, as Miss Grace in a trouble of her own--and such a trouble--ill health--when Miss Annie required her so much.
Adelaide Maud looked greatly discouraged.
"Now, Elma," she exclaimed abruptly, "Miss Grace is only a little bit ill, and it's to keep her from getting worse that I'm talking to her. We didn't intend you to listen. Miss Annie will wonder why the piano has stopped. Be cheerful now and play a bit--something merrier than what you've been at."
She pretended not to see that Miss Grace wiped her eyes a trifle.
"I make you an offer, Miss Grace. I shall come here every day and stay and be sweet to every one. I shall take Miss Annie her flowers and her books and her work, and I shall bark away all nasty intruders like a good sheep dog. I shall keep the servants in a good temper--including Saunders who is a love, and I promise you, you will never regret it--if only you go away for a holiday--now--before you have time to be ill, because you didn't take the thing at the start!"
(Could this be Adelaide Maud!)
Elma flung herself off the music stool, and rushed to Miss Grace.
"And oh, please, please, Miss Grace, let me go with you to see that you get better. You never will unless some one makes you. You will just try to get back to Miss Annie." Thus Elma sounded the first note of that great quality she possessed which distinguished the thing other people required and made her anxious to see it given to them.
A break in Miss Grace's calm determination occurred.
"Oh that, my love, my dear little love, that would be very pleasant." She patted Elma's hand with anxious affection.
Adelaide Maud looked hopeful.
"Won't you leave it to us?" she asked, "to Dr. Smith to break it to Miss Annie, as a kind of command, and to me to break it to Mr. Leighton as an abject request? Because I believe this idea of Elma's is about as valuable as any of mine. You must have some one with you who knows how self-denying you are, Miss Grace. You ought to have Dr. Merryweather with you in fact, to keep you in order."
"My dear, how can you suggest such a thing," said Miss Grace. She was quite horrified.
"Dr. Smith," she turned to Elma, "has ordered me off to Buxton, to a nasty crowded hotel where they drink nasty waters all day long."
"They don't drink the waters in the hotel, and the hotels are very nice," corrected Miss Dudgeon.
"It will be very hot and crowded and dull," wailed Miss Grace. It was astonishing how obstinate Miss Grace could be on a point where her own welfare was concerned.
Elma clasped and unclasped her hands.
"A hotel! Oh, Miss Grace, how perfectly lovely!"
"There, you see," said Miss Dudgeon, wonderfully quick to notice where her advantage came in, "you see what a delightful time you will confer on whoever goes with you. Some of us love hotels."
Perhaps nobody ever knew what a golden picture the very suggestion opened out to Elma. Already she was in a gorgeous erection with gilt cornices and red silk curtains, like one she had seen in town. People whom she had never met were coming and going and looking at her as though they would like to speak to her. She would not know who their aunts or cousins or parents were, and she shouldn't have to be introduced. They would simply come to Miss Grace and, noticing how distinguished she looked, they would say, "May I do this or that for you," and the thing was done. She herself would be able to behave to them as she always behaved in her daydreams, very correctly and properly. She would never do the silly blundering thing which one always did when other people were well aware of the reputation one was supposed to bear. Didn't every one at home know, before she sat down to play piano for instance, that she invariably made mistakes. Jean would say, "Oh, Elma gets so rattled, you know," and immediately it seemed as though she ought to get rattled. Nobody in the hotel would know this. She saw herself playing to an immense audience without making a single mistake. Then the applause--it became necessary to remember that Miss Grace was still speaking.
Miss Grace sat with her hands folded nervously. She was quite erect in a way, but there was invariably a pathetic little droop to her head and shoulders which gave her a delicate appearance. A very costly piece of creamy lace was introduced into the bodice of her grey gown, and on it the locket which contained Miss Annie's portrait and hair rose and fell in little agitated jerks. Miss Annie wore a corresponding locket containing Miss Grace's portrait and hair, but these always lay languorously on her white throat undisturbed by such palpitation as now excited Miss Grace.
"Oh, my dear," she said to Miss Dudgeon, "you don't understand. The gaiety of the place is nothing to me. It's like being here--where my friends say to me how nice it is to have windows opening on to the high road, where so many people pass. I tell them that it isn't those who pass, it is those who come in who count. You passed for so long, my dear."
She put her hand mutely on that of Adelaide Maud.
It was true then. Miss Grace hadn't known her all these years when the Leighton girls talked about the Story Books so much, but only recently! The Dudgeons must really be coming out of their shell.
Elma's eyes grew round with conjecture.
Why was Adelaide Maud so friendly now?
"It was really Dr. Merryweather," said Adelaide Maud.
A faint flush invaded Miss Grace's pallor.
"It is most kind of Dr. Merryweather. Years ago, I am afraid we rather slighted him."
"Oh well, he keeps a very friendly eye on you, Miss Grace, and he says you are to go to Buxton."
It became the first real trouble of Miss Grace's own life, that she should have to go to Buxton. Adelaide Maud arranged it for her, otherwise the thing would never have occurred. It was she who persuaded Dr. Smith to put it this way to Miss Annie that it would be dangerous for her to have the anxiety of Miss Grace's being ill at home, and most upsetting to the household. It was better that the excursion should be looked upon as a holiday graciously granted by Miss Annie, the donor of it, than an imperative measure ordered by the doctor for the saving of Miss Grace.
Miss Grace wondered at the ready acquiescence of Miss Annie. She seemed almost pleased to let her sister go. In a rather sad way, Miss Grace began to wonder whether, after all, she might not have released herself years ago. Would Annie have minded? The progress of this malady which now asserted itself, she had quietly ignored for so long, that only a darting pain, which might attack her in the presence of Miss Annie, had compelled her to consult Dr. Smith. He was astonished at what she had suffered.
"You do not deserve to have me tell you how fortunate it is that after all we have nothing malignant to discover," he told her. "But you will become really ill, helpless occasionally, if you do not take this in hand now." Just after he had gone, Adelaide Maud called. She came to ask for money in connection with the church, but she stayed to talk over Miss Grace's symptoms. The grey shadow on Miss Grace's face had alarmed her.
"Aren't you well, Miss Grace?" she asked sympathetically. Then for the first time since Miss Annie had gone to bed, Miss Grace had given way and confessed what the trouble was to Adelaide Maud.
It became astonishing to think how rapidly things could happen in so tiny and so slow a place.
Here they were now, in a happy confidential trio, the moving inspirator that smart, garden-party person, Adelaide Maud.
The Leighton girls could not believe it. They had, with the exception of Elma, reached a hopeless condition with regard to the Story Books. The Dudgeons had so palpably shown themselves, even although graciously polite throughout, to be of so entirely different a set to the Leightons. None of the girls except Adelaide Maud had called. And after what Cuthbert had done! Elma certainly felt the difference that might occur where Miss Grace and Miss Annie were concerned. "Why haven't we a footman and an odd man?" asked Jean viciously. "Then it would be all right."
Now came the invitation for Elma to go with Miss Grace.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Leighton were greatly touched. Mr. Leighton put his hand on Elma's shoulder.
"When you can make yourself indispensable to your best friends, that is almost as great a thing as playing the Moonlight Sonata without a mistake," said he.
But both Mrs. Leighton and he refused to let Elma go. They called on Miss Grace to explain. The fact that they had left Elma in a state of despair that bordered on rebellion made them more firm.
"Elma is so young," said Mrs. Leighton, "and so highly strung and sensitive, I can't let her go with an easy mind. She has visited so seldom, and then invariably lain awake at nights with the excitement. It wouldn't be good for you, Miss Grace. I should have you both very much on my mind."
Adelaide Maud was there.
"I see your point, Mrs. Leighton," she said brightly. "But Elma knows Miss Grace so well, wouldn't it be just like going with you or Mr. Leighton."
Mr. Leighton interposed.
"It's more for the sake of Miss Grace. She must have some one regarding whom she does not require to be anxious. Elma is a dreamy little being, and might turn home-sick in an hour, or frightened if Miss Grace were a little ill--anything might occur in that way."
"But she is nearly thirteen. Some day she must be cured of home-sickness, and Miss Grace will take her maid," said Adelaide Maud. "Oh, Mr. Leighton, don't hold in your daughters too much! It's so hard on them later."
Adelaide Maud looked quite pathetic.
"It isn't so with all of them," said Mrs. Leighton. "Jean is quite different. Jean can go anywhere."
Underneath Mrs. Leighton's kind, loving ways lay a superb respect for the domineering manners of her second daughter.
"I should never be afraid of Jean's lying awake at night, or turning home-sick. She is much too sensible."
Miss Grace became impressed with the virtues of Jean.
"Then Jean might come," she proposed apologetically.
Adelaide Maud could not forgive her. After having awakened that radiant look in Elma's eyes, to weakly propose that she might take the robust Jean!
Mrs. Leighton's eyes wandered to her husband.
"Jean grows so fast. Perhaps a change would do her good," she suggested vaguely.
"I should feel much more confident of Jean," said he.
So it was arranged.
Elma never forgot it. She wept silently in her room, and accepted comfort from no one, not even her mother.
"There is one thing, Jean oughtn't to have said to mother she would go. She put that in her mind before mother went out. I knew it was all up then. Jean will always get what she wants, all her life, and I shall have to back out. Just because I can't play sonatas without mistakes they think I cannot do anything."
Elma found Betty's shoulder very comforting.
A remark of Adelaide Maud's rankled in Mr. Leighton's mind. He was not altogether happy at having to act the dragon to Elma in any case. Adelaide Maud had got him quietly by herself.
"Don't let little Elma begin giving up things to those sisters of hers too soon, Mr. Leighton. Unselfishness is all very well. But look at the helpless thing it has made of Miss Grace."
Then she relented at sight of his face.
"I'm almost as disappointed as Elma, you see," she said radiantly.
Mr. Leighton tried to put it out of his mind, but Elma, sobbing in her bedroom, had at last reached a stage where she couldn't pretend that nothing had hurt her, a stage where the feelings of other people might be reckoned not to count at all. It was an unusual condition for her to be in. She generally fought out her disappointments in secret. Her father came to her finally, and began smoothing her hair in a sad sort of way.
"You aren't looking on your own father as your worst enemy?" he asked her kindly.
Elma's sobs stopped abruptly.
"I was," she said abjectly.
It was part of the sincerity of her nature that she immediately recognized where the case against herself came in.
"I'm sorry about Jean," said Mr. Leighton. "It didn't strike me at the time that it would be such a treat to either of you, you see. And we chose the one who seemed most fitted for going with Miss Grace."
"Mabel might have gone," wailed Elma.
Mabel! Not for a moment had the claims of Mabel been mentioned. Mr. Leighton was completely puzzled.
Elma in an honourable manner felt that probably she might be giving away Mabel to an unseeing parent. Mabel wanted, oh very much, to stay at home just then.
"But of course Jean wanted to go," she said hurriedly. "more than Mabel did."
"Some day you will all have your turn," said Mr. Leighton consolingly. "I know it's very dull being at home with your parents! Isn't it?"
Elma laughed a little.
"It isn't that," she said, "but it would be lovely--in a hotel--with a maid, you know--of your own! Such fun--seeing the people. And Miss Grace wanted me."
Mr. Leighton stroked her hair.
"I liked her wanting you. I shall never forget that," said he.
"Oh!" Elma gave a little gulp of pleasure. This was worth a great deal. There was really nothing on earth like being complimented by one's father. She sidled on Mr. Leighton's knee and put her arms round his neck. He still stroked her hair.
"You must remember that it isn't only in hotels that you see life," he said, "or on battle-fields that you fight battles. It's here at home, where one apparently is only sheltered and dull. It's always easy to get on for a day or two with new, or outside friends. But it's your own people who count. Don't make it disagreeable for Jean to go with Miss Grace." His voice came in the nature of a swift command. After all, her mother and father had arranged it, and the consciousness came down on her of how she slighted those two, dearer than any, in being so rebellious.
"I won't," said Elma. Quite a determined little line settled at her quivering lips, "But I never felt so bad in my life."
"Oh well, we shall see what can be done about that," said Mr. Leighton. And it pleased him more than a battle-field of victories could have done to see Elma come into her own again.
"Do you think you could try the Moonlight Sonata now?" he asked abruptly, looking at his watch.
It was his hobby that he must keep at least one girl at the piano in the evenings.
"Not without a lot of mistakes," said Elma.
But she played better that night than she had ever done.
CHAPTER X
Compensations
Miss Grace brought home a delicate silver purse and a silver chain set with torquoise matrix from Buxton for Elma.
Mr. Leighton shook his head over the pretty gift.
"Bribery and corruption," said he.
But by that time Elma's soul had soared far above the heights or depths of triumph or pettiness in connection with the sojourn of Miss Grace. Life had been moving swiftly and wonderfully. Jean indeed came home from hotel life, full of stories of its inimitable attractions; and nobody, although longing to be, had really been much impressed. Jean served to mark the milestone of their own development, that was all. She had left at one stage and come back at another. Where she had imagined their standing quite still, they had been travelling new roads, looking back on their childish selves with interest.
Mabel and Elma had been thrown much together, and Mabel had grown to depend on the silent loyalty with which Elma invariably supported her in the trying time now experienced in connection with Mr. Meredith. Where Jean, bolt outright, complained that already Mabel had known him for a month or two, and yet no hint of an engagement could be discovered, Elma sympathized with Mabel's horror of any engagement whatever.
"It would be lovely to have a ring, and all that kind of thing," Mabel had confided. "But fancy having to talk to papa and mamma about it!"
It did not impede her friendship with Mr. Meredith however. He had found a flower which he intended to pluck, and he guarded it to all intents and purposes as one from which he would warn off intruders. But the reserve which made Mabel sensitive in regard to anything definite, her extreme youth, above all the constant espionage of her parents and sisters, led him to a tacit understanding of his privileges, a situation appalling to the business-like Jean.
"If I had had my hair up, I should have had two proposals at Buxton," said she, and the remark became historic.
Cuthbert put it in his notebook. Whenever he wanted to overcome the authority of Jean he produced and read it. She found her family a trifle trying on her arrival. She wanted to be able to inform them how they should dress, and had a score of other things ready to retail to them. Yet most of them fell quite flat, just as though she had had no special advantages in being at Buxton.
Mr. and Mrs. Leighton talked this over together.
"It makes me think," said Mrs. Leighton, "that you are not altogether wrong in crowding them up at home here. Jean got variety, but she seems to have lost a little in balance."
"Still, that is just where experience teaches its lesson," said Mr. Leighton. "To get balance, one must have the experience. Yet Mabel, in an unaccountable manner, seems to be perfectly balanced before she has received any experience at all."
"Ah! I expect she will still have her experiences," said Mrs. Leighton in her pessimistic way. "No girl gets along without some unpleasant surprise. Betty is longing for one. Betty complains that in story books something tragic or something wonderful happens to girls whenever they begin to grow up, but that nothing happens in this place. Nobody loses money--if you please--and nobody gets thrown out on the world in a pathetic manner to work for a living, for instance."
"Do they want to work for their living?"
"They do want to be sensational," said Mrs. Leighton with a sigh, "and as Elma says, 'We are neither rich enough nor poor enough for that.'"
"Thank providence," said Mr. Leighton.
His girls were much more of a problem to him than the direct Cuthbert, who had shown a capacity for going his own way rather magnificently from the moment he had left school. Mr. Leighton was determined to give his girls an object in life, besides the ordinary one of getting married. "There is great solace in the arts," he had often affirmed, making it seem impossible that a girl should look on the arts as ends in themselves, as a man would. "A girl must be trained to interruptions," he used to declare. He made rather a drudge of their music in consequence of these theories in connection with a career, but the hard taskmaster in that direction opened a willing indulgence in almost any other. It alarmed him when Mr. Meredith appeared so conspicuously on the scene, when Mr. Meredith's sister called and invited Mabel to dine, when invitations crossed, until the Merediths and themselves became very very intimate. Elma had the wonderful pleasure of being allowed to accompany Mabel. In the absence of Jean, she fulfilled that sisterly position in a loyal way, loving the exaltation of going out with Mabel, becoming very fond of the Merediths in the process. They had only recently come from town to live near the Gardiners, and the whole place did its duty in calling on them. There were only Mr. Meredith and his sister, and both were of the intensely interesting order rather than of the frank and lively nature of the like of the Leightons. Mr. Meredith sang, and Miss Meredith's first words to Mabel were to the effect that he no longer wanted his sister to play for him after having had the experience of Mabel as an accompanist.
"Aren't you glad papa made us musical?" asked Betty of Mabel after that compliment.
Mabel was glad in more ways than one. But it seemed a little hard that just then Mr. Leighton should insist on her going in for a trying examination in the spring.
"When she ought to be getting the 'bottom drawer' ready," complained poor Jean.
Nothing moved for Jean in the family just as she expected. She began to wonder whether she shouldn't go out as a governess.Jane Eyrehad always enthralled her. It was one way of seeing life, to be very down-trodden, and then marry the magnificent over-bearing hero.
As a companion to Miss Grace, she had been a great success. Indeed, even Adelaide Maud was bound to confess that Jean had been just the person to go with Miss Grace. Jean, in spite of her Jane Eyre theories, was so down on self-effacement. Her frank direct ways were the best tonic for a lady who had never at any time been courageous. Miss Grace wrote continually to Elma, "Jean has been very good in doing this--or that," until Elma, swallowing hard lumps of mortification, had at last to believe that she never could have done these determined, cool-hearted things for Miss Grace in the same capable manner. She often wondered besides whether, even to have had the delight of being at Buxton, she could have dropped the glamour of finding a new sister in Mabel, and of being the daily companion of Adelaide Maud. For the time had now come, when, on being shown into Miss Annie's drawing-room, her duke, clean-shaven and of modern manners, had ceased to be really diverting, and in fact often forgot to attend to her in the pause when she awaited the coming of Adelaide Maud.
Adelaide Maud kept her word. She reigned as vice-queen over Miss Annie's household, indulging that lady in all her little whims, for Miss Grace's sake, and never omitted a single day for calling and seeing that Miss Annie was comfortable. Adelaide Maud had theories of her own. She said that every one in Ridgetown attended to the poor, but that she believed in attending to the rich.
"Now who would ever have looked after Miss Grace if we hadn't?" she asked Elma.
Mrs. Dudgeon imagined she had other reasons for being so devoted to Miss Annie, and considered that Helen wasted her time in applying so much of it to a bedridden invalid.
"Whom do you see there?" she asked stonily.
"Principally Saunders," said Helen, whose good temper was unassailable. "Saunders is a duck."
The "duck," however, was a trifle worried with these changes, "not having been accustomed to sich for nigh on twenty-five years, mum," as he explained to Mrs. Leighton.
But the great boon lay in the restored health of Miss Grace. She came home shyly as ever, but with a fresh bloom on her face. What withered hopes that trip recalled to life, what memories of sacrificial days gone by, what fears laid past--who knows! She was very gentle with Miss Annie, and boasted of none of her late advantages as Jean did. Indeed, one might have thought that the events of the world had as usual taken place in Miss Annie's bedroom. But, with a courage born of new health and better spirits. Miss Grace called one day on Dr. Merryweather. In a graceful manner, as though the event had only occurred, she apologized to him for the slight offered by Miss Annie.
"I hope you know that you still have our supreme confidence," she said. "It was your kind interest which persuaded me to go to Buxton."
Dr. Merryweather seemed much affected. He shook her hand several times, but his voice remained gruff as she had always remembered and slightly feared it.
"You must be exceedingly careful of yourself, Miss Grace," he said bluntly, "Miss Annie has had too much of you."
Too much of her. Ah, well, she could never reproach herself for having spared an inch of her patience, an atom of her slender strength.
"Remember," said Dr. Merryweather, "courage does not all lie in self-sacrifice, though"--and he looked long at the kind beautiful eyes of Miss Grace--"a great deal of it is invested there."
He held her hand warmly for a second again, and that was the end of it. Miss Grace went home fortified to a second edition of her life with Miss Annie.
Adelaide Maud gave up her semi-suzerainty over the masterful Saunders with some real regret. It was fun for her to be engaged in anything which did not entail mere social engagements. Miss Annie liked her thoroughly, liked the swirl of her tweed skirts, the daintiness of her silk blouses, the gleam of her golden hair. Adelaide Maud had straight fine features, pretty mauve eyes ("They are mauve, my dear, no other word describes them," she declared), very clearly arched eyebrows, and "far too determined a chin." "Where did you get your chin?" asked Miss Annie continually.
"My father had the face of an angel. It wasn't from him," said Adelaide Maud. "I have my mother to thank for my chin."
"Well, Heaven help the man who tries to cross you, my dear," said Miss Annie, who had a very capable chin of her own, as it happened. The tired petulant look of the invalid only showed at the droop to the corners of her mouth.
Elma could no longer interest Adelaide Maud in Cuthbert. It seemed as though he had no further existence. Until one day when she told her that Cuthbert had an appointment which would last throughout the summer, and keep him tied to town. Then the chin of Adelaide Maud seemed to resolve itself into less chilly lines.
"Oh, won't you miss him?" she suddenly asked.
Adelaide Maud was the most comprehending person. She pulled Elma to her and kissed her when Elma said that it wasn't "missing," it simply wasn't "living" without Cuthbert.
"I'm so sorry you quarrelled with him," she said to Adelaide Maud.
Adelaide Maud grew stonily angry.
"Quarrel with him?" she asked.
It reminded Elma of the Dudgeon's first call
"Oh, please don't," she cried in alarm.
"Then I won't," said Adelaide Maud, "but will you kindly inform me when I quarrelled with your brother Cuthbert."
It was exactly in the tone of one who would never think of quarrelling with the Leighton set. Elma grew quite pale, then her courage rose.
"He thinks such a lot of you, and you don't think anything of him. Just as though we weren't good enough!"
"Oh, Elma," said Adelaide Maud.
"And he likes you, and keeps things you drop, and you won't even speak to him."
"Keeps things I drop!"
The murder was out.
"Oh, I promised not to tell, how awful."
Adelaide Maud grew very dignified.
"What did I drop? Oh! I think I remember--my handkerchief!"
Mrs. Dudgeon had reflected openly on the fact that it had never been returned to Helen.
"I wanted to keep it till we saw you again, but he said he would give it to you when you were nice to him, or something like that."
"Till I was nice to him!" The chin dimpled a trifle.
"Somehow, I would rather he kept it," said Adelaide Maud dreamily.
"Shall I tell him that?" asked Elma anxiously.
"Tell him--what nonsense! You mustn't tell him a syllable. You mustn't say you've told me. It would be so ignominious for him to hear that I knew he had been thieving! Thieving is the word," said Adelaide Maud. Although she talked in a very accusing manner, her voice seemed kind.
"Mayn't I tell him you didn't mean to quarrel?" asked Elma anxiously. "You don't know what you are to all of us."
Here she sighed deeply.
"No," said Adelaide Maud, "you mustn't tell him anything. I think he must just wait as he suggested, until I am nice to him."
"Until you deserved it, he said," cried Elma, triumphantly, remembering properly at last. "I knew it was something like that."
"Then he may wait until he is a hundred," said Adelaide Maud with her face in a flame.
It was difficult after this ever to talk to Adelaide Maud about Cuthbert with any kind of freedom or pleasure.
Elma went home that evening in the bewilderment of an early sunset. Bright rays turned the earth golden, the leaves on the trees laid themselves flat in heavy blobs of green in yellow sunlight, the sky faded to a glimmering blue in the furthermost east. A shower of rain fell from a drifting cloud and the drops hit in large splotches, first on Elma's hat, on her hand, and then in an indefinite manner stopped. As she turned into her own garden, the White House seemed flooded in a golden glow of colour.
Then at last they heard thunder in the distance.
Elma never forgot that shining picture, nor the thunder in the distance. It seemed the picture of what life might be, beautiful and safe in one's own home, thunder only in the distance. The threatening did not alarm her, but the remembrance of it always remained with her. When thunder really began to peal for the Leighton family, she tried to be thankful for the picture of gold.
CHAPTER XI
The Split Infinitive
Guests at the Leightons' were divided into two classes. There were those who were friends of Mr. Leighton, and who therefore were interested in art, or literature, or science, or public enterprise, but were not expected to go further; and there were those who came in a general way and who might be expected to be interested in anything from a game of tennis to a tea party. Of the first might be reckoned the like of Mr. Sturgis, who painted pictures in a magnificent manner, and who, at the end of a large cigar, would breathe the heresies on the teaching of art which for ever paralyzed the artistic abilities of Elma. Mr. Sturgis was quite young enough for an Aunt Katharine public to quote his eligibility on all occasions.
"You don't understand, Aunt Katharine," Mabel told her once. "Nobody seems to understand that a man, even a young man, may adore papa without having to adore us at the same time. Mr. Sturgis is quite different from your kind of young man."
"Different from Robin, I suppose," sighed Aunt Katharine.
"Yes, quite different from Robin," said Mabel sedately. Robin had certainly from the first put Mr. Leighton into the position of being his daughter's father. Mr. Sturgis, on the other hand, found his first friend in Mr. Leighton because he had such a nice discriminating and most sympathetic enthusiasm for Art. Besides which Mr. Leighton had the attributes of an exceptional man in various respects.
The girls put Mr. Sturgis on the same high plane as their father and admired him openly accordingly. But there were others whom they put on this plane by reason of their accomplishments and yet did not admire at all.
Amongst these was the "Split Infinitive."
The first call on the part of Professor Theo. Clutterbuck was one never to be forgotten. He found a roomful of people who, so far as his own attitude to them was concerned, might have been so many pieces of furniture. Mr. Sturgis had at least the artist's discrimination which made him observe one's appearance, and he also allowed one to converse occasionally; but Dr. Clutterbuck rushed his one subject at Mr. Leighton from the moment of his entrance, and after that no one else existed.
"What more or less could you expect from the father of the Serpent?" asked Betty.
Lance was responsible for the nickname.
The Serpent, the elf-like daughter of the Professor, staying next to the Turbervilles, had introduced herself in a violent manner long ago to Betty and Elma. Sitting one day, hidden high in the maple tree, she cajoled her cat silently over the Turberville wall and from a wide branch sent him sprawling on a tea table. From the moment that the black cat drew a white paw from the cream jug, and a withering giggle from the maple tree disclosed the wicked little visage of the Serpent, war had been declared between the Clutterbucks and the Turbervilles. Lance occasionally removed the barrier and met the Professor in company with his own father.
"An awful crew," his verdict ran. "The Past Participle (Mrs. Clutterbuck) can't open her poor little timid mouth but the Split Infinitive is roaring at her. Consequently she keeps as silent as the grave."
"Will you kindly explain?" said Mrs. Leighton patiently. "It's a long time since I studied grammar in that intimate way. What is the Split Infinitive and why the Past Participle?"
"It's like this, Mrs. Leighton, simple when you know--or when you are married to a brute like Clutterbuck," said Lance mischievously. "I beg your pardon. I know I ought to say that he is a genius and all that sort of thing. But 'brute' seems more explicit."
"Go on with your story," said Mrs. Leighton.
"Well--Clutterbuck married Mrs. Clutterbuck."
"That's generally the end of a story, isn't it?" asked Jean.
Lance was not to be interrupted.
"Trust a boy for gossip," exclaimed Betty. "Fire away, Lance."
"My aunt knew them," said Lance. "She, Mrs. C., was a little dear, awfully pink and pretty you know, and Clutterbuck, a big raw thin thing with wild sort of hair and dreamy manners. Well, they were awfully proud and pleased with themselves, and started off for their honeymoon like two happy babies."
"Will you kindly tell me how you knew this?" asked Mrs. Leighton helplessly.
"I heard my aunt telling my mother," said Lance.
"There's a gleam in your eye which I don't quite trust," Elma remarked sedately. "Go on."
"Everything went well," exclaimed Lance, "until one morning when Mrs. C., all rosy and chiffony you know, said 'My dear Theo, I don't remember to ever have been so happy.' Clutterbuck rose from the table, as pale as death. She cried, 'Theo, Theo, tell me, what is wrong?' 'Wrong,' cried Professor Clutterbuck, 'you have used the Split Infinitive!' Gospel, Mrs. Leighton," said Lance as a wind-up. "She's been the Past Participle ever since."
There was this amount of truth in Lance's story: that Dr. Clutterbuck was distinguished in his own career as Professor of Geology, that his English was irreproachable; and that Mrs. Clutterbuck had practically no English, since she was hardly ever known to speak at all. She shunned society; and the same introspective gaze of the Professor, which had skimmed the Leighton drawing-room and found there only the striking personality of Mr. Leighton, skimmed his own home in a like abstracted manner, and took no notice of the most striking personality in Ridgetown--Elsie, his daughter.
It was the black cat episode which precipitated the nickname of "The Serpent." Lance had always declared that this girl had an understanding with animals which was nothing short of uncanny. He happened to readElsie Venner, and the names being alike, and temperament on similar lines, he immediately christened her the Serpent. He caught her out at numberless pranks which were never reported to the diligent ears of Betty and May. One was that she had climbed to his bedroom and purloined a suit of clothes.
There was no end to what might be expected of this lonely little person.
Years ago, Betty and May had turned their backs on her in the cruel haphazard manner of two friends who might easily dispose of an outsider. Betty and May despised the Serpent because she "had a cheap governess," "couldn't afford to go to school," and "wore her hair in one plait."
The lonely little Serpent never properly forgave these insults.
Mrs. Leighton did not wholly encourage Lance in his tale.
"I do not think I approve of your being so down on these people," she said: "and if there is any truth in what you say, it is very tragic about poor Mrs. Clutterbuck, though she does not strike me as being a very capable person."
"Capable," asked Lance. "Who could remain capable, Mrs. Leighton, with a cold tap continually running freezing remarks down one's back. Don't you think it's a miracle she's alive?"
Mrs. Leighton preferred to remain on her smooth course of counsel.
"It never does to judge people like that," she exclaimed. "You do not know. To put it in a selfish manner, one day you may find the Clutterbucks being of more service to you than any one on earth."
She pulled at her knitting ball.
"You girls talk a great deal of romance and nonsense about people like the Dudgeons. Why don't you think something nice about that poor little Serpent for a change?"
The girls remembered not very long afterwards the prophetic nature of these remarks. That they should cultivate the Clutterbucks for any reason at all, however, seemed at that moment impossible.
Dr. Merryweather called the same afternoon.
It was one of the coincidences of life that he should immediately talk of the Clutterbucks.
"Know them?" he asked. "I think your husband does, doesn't he? Do you call on the wife at all?"
"No," answered Mrs. Leighton. "I never feel that I could get on with her very well either. Mr. Leighton meets the Professor and they talk a lot together, but it's quite away from domestic matters."
"It would be a bit of a kindness, I think," said the old Doctor, "your calling, I mean. There's too little public spirit amongst women, don't you think?"
"Oh, wouldn't it be a little impertinent perhaps to call, in that spirit?" asked Mrs. Leighton.
"Well, I don't know. The child is running wild. The parents are a pair of babies where healthy education is concerned. Result, the child has no friends, and expends her affection, she has stores of it, on her animals. A dog gets run over and dies. What do you get then? She never squeaks. Not a moan, you observe. But she sits up in that tree of hers with a cat to do any comforting she may want--and her hair begins to come out in patches."
Mrs. Leighton's knitting fell to her lap.
"Her hair is coming out in patches?" she asked in a horrified voice.
"Yes. What else would you have when a child is allowed to mope. Something is bound to happen. Clergymen are of use when a child's naughty. But when it mopes itself ill, we are called in. Yet it's a clergyman's task after all. This child, on the way to being a woman, has never had one friend. Her mother is too timid to be really friendly with any one, and the husband is wrapped in his dry-as-dust philosophy--and where are you with a tender child like that?"
"But if Mrs. Clutterbuck can't be friendly with any one, why should I call?" asked Mrs. Leighton hopelessly.
"Your girls might become friendly with the child," said he. "I'm afraid I don't make a very good clergyman."
"They call her the Serpent, you know," said Mrs. Leighton, "very naughty of them. I shall do my best, Doctor. I didn't know her hair was coming out in patches."
Dr. Merryweather might be complimented on his new profession after all. It had been a master stroke to refer to the patches. Mrs. Leighton had known of its happening after illness or great worry. That a child should suffer in this quiet moping manner seemed pathetic.
"Yet, I don't think I'm the person to do a thing of this sort," Mrs. Leighton said hopelessly to Miss Meredith later in the day. "I do so object to intrude on people. I should imagine it indelicate of any one else to do the same to myself, you know."
"Very awkward, certainly," replied Miss Meredith primly.
"Oh, mummy," said Elma, "you know how kind Miss Grace is or Miss Annie. They say 'Isn't Betty a little pale at present?' and you get her a tonic. You think nothing of that. It's just the same with the Clutterbucks. Betty ought to behave herself and go and call with you, and get the Serpent to come. I think she looks a jolly little thing."
Elma was quite alone in that opinion.
"Jolly!" said Jean, "you might as well talk of a toadstool's being jolly. Still, Betty isn't a child. She shouldn't be squabbling. Betty ought to call."
"You know Dr. Clutterbuck, wouldn't you call on his wife?" asked Mrs. Leighton of Miss Meredith.
"Oh, I'm afraid I don't know him well enough. Robin rather dislikes him--and, well, we have no young people, you see."
Miss Meredith was lame but definite.
"Then the sooner the better. Betty and I call to-morrow," said Mrs. Leighton.
They did, and to their astonishment found Mrs. Clutterbuck dimly but surely pleased. Nobody remained timid very long in Mrs. Leighton's kind presence, and the mutual subject of days long ago when it was no crime to talk of babies, broke the ice of years of reserve in Ridgetown with Mrs. Clutterbuck. The Serpent, after many pilgrimages on the part of the one maid to the garden, finally appeared. Mrs. Clutterbuck's restraint returned with the evident unwillingness of Elsie's attitude. Both retreated to the dumb condition so trying to onlookers.
The Serpent indeed paid Betty out for many months of torture. Her calm, disconcerting gaze never wavered, as she watched every movement of that ready enemy. Mrs. Leighton made her only mistake in showing definitely that she wanted to be kind to Elsie. That little lady's pale visage looked fiercely out at her and chilled the words that were intended to come.
It was as Betty described it a most "terrifying interview."
In the midst of it came a telegram to Mrs. Clutterbuck.
"Oh, you will excuse me," said she nervously. "We are expecting a friend."
During the interval of opening the envelope Elsie disappeared. It had the effect of warming Mrs. Clutterbuck to confidences once more.
"It is a great pleasure to me," said she. "My young cousin is coming. He is quite a distinguished, man. All Dr. Clutterbuck's people are distinguished, but my family are different. Except Arthur, whom Dr. Clutterbuck is quite pleased to meet. He is coming to-night."
She called the maid.
"Tell Miss Elsie it is the 5.40 train. Mr. Symington comes then."
She had a halting, staccato way of picking her small sentences, as though insecure of their effect.
"People enjoy coming to Ridgetown," said Mrs. Leighton lamely, in the endeavour to keep the wheels of conversation oiled more securely.
"Do they," asked the Professor's wife. Then she stammered a trifle. "A--a--that is--I have never had a visitor in Ridgetown till now. Dr. Clutterbuck does not care for visitors. Arthur is different from what others have been, I hope."
She seemed full of anxiety.
"Oh, I gave up long ago trying to please Mr. Leighton with my visitors," said Mrs. Leighton heartily and quite untruthfully. "Husbands must take their chance of that, you know." She rose to go.
"Please tell Dr. Clutterbuck he is never again to come to see us without you," she said, "and won't Elsie come to tea one day?"
On their departure Mrs. Clutterbuck turned to find a blazing little fury in the doorway.
"Mother," cried Elsie, "Mother! How could you! I shall never go to tea with Betty Leighton."
Her mother turned two eyes full of light on her. The light slowly died to dull patience again.
"We shall go down together to meet cousin Arthur," she said quietly. It seemed as though her bright thoughts must turn to drab colour automatically where either her husband or child was concerned.
It was characteristic of Elsie that, although blazing with wild anger and wicked little intentions, she should be unable to give voice to them at that moment. The inevitable obstinacy of her mother where the routine of the house was concerned, the drab colour of the one day which was invariably like the other, the cruel, cruel sameness of it all! It was impossible that Cousin Arthur should not be drab colour also.
"I'd rather remain here," she said at last. There was even some pleading in her tone.
"Your father said we had better meet Cousin Arthur," said her mother.
That was the remorseless end and beginning to everything. "Your father said" meant days and weeks and years of drab colour.
"Oh, let us go then," said Elsie. There was a drowning hopelessness in her voice, so great an emptiness that it was hard to believe she had merely used the words--"Let us go then."
Her mother accepted the answer without the sigh which burned in her heart because it had no outlet.
They proceeded to get ready to go out.
Mrs. Leighton and Betty by this time were chatting easily enough at the Merediths'. Mrs. Leighton had the feeling of an inexperienced general after a very indefinite victory.
"I do not possess the talent of inflicting myself gracefully on people," she said, "and the child is quite extraordinary. However, I liked the mother; she is a dear little woman."
Miss Meredith was only partially interested.
She arranged to walk home with them, and they set out in rather a slow manner.
"I can quite believe the child would be different in other surroundings," said Mrs. Leighton. "What a fine-looking man!" The one remark ran into the other automatically. In later days it seemed prophetic that the two people should be mentioned in one breath.
Mrs. Leighton was passing the station where arrivals from the train occurred. A cab was drawn up, and into this a sunburned, athletic-looking young man put some traps. Then he handed in Mrs. Clutterbuck and Elsie.
Betty was greatly impressed.
"It must be Mr. Symington," said she.
"Well, for a timid lady, she has a very man-like cousin," exclaimed Mrs. Leighton. "I don't wonder she was allowed that one visitor at least."
Miss Meredith turned her head carefully to a more slanting angle, when she clearly saw the carriage drive past.
"Do you know, Mrs. Leighton," she said quite nimbly and happily, "it seems very hard that she should not have all the visitors she wants. Dr. Merryweather is quite right. None of us have any public spirit. I think I shall call on her to-morrow."
So Miss Meredith also called on Mrs. Clutterbuck.