The time soon flies past, every one being in a whirl of excitement which passes Mrs. Merivale's comprehension. But at last the day before that fixed for the party arrives, and the house is in a perfect uproar from attic to basement.
Mrs. Merivale has struck a bargain with the girls that, so long as they undertake to keep everything in connection with the theatricals out of her sight and hearing, she will promise to eschew all aches and pains, and take into her own hands the entire management of the rest of the entertainment. This is more in her line; and from little things the girls overhear from time to time they feel satisfied as to their Christmas party being a success.
On the day in question the general excitement reaches a pitch which defies description. Downstairs the cook has lately been reduced to a pitch of frenzy by the constant demand for paste, glue-pots to be heated, flat-irons, &c. To-day, however, she has struck against this, for has she not the supper of the next night to prepare? So she has shut her kitchen doors, and announced emphatically that under no pretext whatever will she open them to any of the young ladies or gentlemen until the party is over. Mr. Merivale is heard to declare that "there is not a place whereon to rest the sole of my foot," for even his bedroom is not exempt (on this the last day) from litter of various kinds. On one occasion, when sitting down for a few minutes' chat with his wife, Doris, looking in to ask a question, suddenly rushes across the room, and seizing her astonished parent by the lapels of his coat exclaims, "O,father, you're sitting on my Queen of Hearts dress! and youmusthave smashed the crown flat! O, howcouldyou?"
There is to be a dress rehearsal this evening at half-past seven, and Colonel and Mrs. Danvers are coming to dine quietly, so that the former can enter upon his duties as stage-manager as well as practise his part of the "old woman."
It is about five o'clock, and Miss Denison and the young people are seated at tea in the school-room, when Jane enters, and addressing herself to Molly says rather mysteriously, "O, if you please, Miss Molly, Mr. Hugh is down in the hall, and he wants to speak to you most particular for a minute. I asked him to step into the drawing-room, but he said 'no,' nor he wouldn't come up here neither."
"What can he want?" says Molly, rising from her chair; "may I go, Miss Denny?"
Permission granted, down she runs and finds Hugh sitting disconsolately on one of the hall chairs, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes fixed moodily upon the ceiling.
"What are you sitting there for like a hall-porter?" she cries with scant ceremony; "and why couldn't you come upstairs like a reasonable being? Why,whatis the matter? You look as doleful as a crocodile!" And copying the expression of his face to a nicety, she plants herself before the young fellow and thrusts her hands into imaginary pockets. Then she suddenly bursts into irrepressible laughter.
"Well, you needn't laugh at a fellow!Youwould look gloomy if after days and days of work you found yourself in the same quandary as I am. It's the shoe, that's what it is!"
"O, it's theshoethat pinches, is it?" and teasing Molly goes off into fresh fits of laughter.
"Well, you needn't laugh! as I said before. The fact is I don't know how to get it here: it is so large, you see. It's really a beautiful shoe, and will hold a lot of youngsters, but the fact remains that I can't even get it out of the door of my own room! What's to be done?" A pause. Then Hugh goes on, "You see I want to get it in here while it is dark, because if anyone saw it being taken in they would think we were all lunatics, naturally."
Molly rests her chin upon her hand and ponders deeply. "How many pieces is it in?" she asks.
"Only three," mutters Hugh despondently.
"Well, now," says Molly, "why can't you take it to pieces again? I will help you, and it will be such fun lacing it all up again. We ought to have had it madehere, in the house; then there would have been no bother at all. As it is, to take it to pieces is the only thing I can suggest. Shall I run and ask Miss Denny if I may go in now with you, and then we shall get it put together again in time for the rehearsal to-night?"
"Yes, do, and I will wait here. What a clever girl you are, Molly! I knew you would think of a way out of the difficulty."
"Pooh!" says Molly. "That's nothing. It's you boys who are sohelplesswithout us girls to manage for you! I won't be a second;" and away she bounds up the staircase.
In two or three minutes she reappears with a large piece of cake in one hand. Tucking the other through Hugh's arm she remarks (rather unintelligibly, her mouth being full of cake), "Miss Denny said I might, so I drank my tea standing, and—oh, have a bit of cake, do! I have only begun it on this side." Hugh with great gravity accepts the offer, Molly breaking off a good-sized piece of the great slice; and this matter being satisfactorily arranged, they quickly slip out of one door and in at the other. As they pass through the hall a door opens, and a refined, gentle-looking woman of about four or five and forty pauses on the threshold in surprise at the unexpected sight of Molly under the escort of her son at that time of the evening.
"My dear boy," she says, "whatareyou doing with Molly? Why, do you know that the child has no hat on, nor even a wrap of any kind?"
"Ihada wrap, Mrs. Horton, but I have just thrown it off, and it was not worth while to put anything on my head."
"O, if you have only just come from next door that is a different matter," says Mrs. Horton, reassured. "What has Hugh dragged you in here for now?" she continues kindly while she puts one arm affectionately round the girl's shoulders. "It is surely your tea-time now, dear, and it is too bad if he has taken you away from that."
Hugh looks guilty, but Molly comes to the rescue for the second time.
"O, I didn't mind, indeed, Mrs. Horton," she says. "Hugh was so dreadfully put out about the shoe, you know, so I thought it best to come in and see what we could do about it. He didn't ask me to come at all; I offered to myself."
"I shouldn't have bothered Molly about it at all, mother," the young fellow puts in; "but you see it is your 'at home' day, and I didn't know whether every one had gone. And what to do about this blessed shoe I didn't know, with the time running on so fast too; and I hadpromisedto have it ready for to-night's rehearsal. Molly's a dear good-natured girl, and I knew she would find some way of managing."
"Well, Hugh, you know I would gladly have done anything I could for you about it; but of course, as you say, I couldn't very well leave my guests. Now, shall we go up and see what this tyrannical shoe requires?"
On reaching the large room upstairs which is devoted exclusively to the use of the boys, they find all the other four engaged in different occupations, more or less noisy. The babel of tongues ceases, however, at the sight of the trio looking in upon them, and there is a general rush towards the door. While Ted and Joey seize upon their mother, Regy and Alick dart at Molly, and dragging her across the room to where a funereal-looking object is reclining against the wall, they proceed to describe noisily the difficulties of the case.
"I wanted it lowered out of the window!" cries Alick, determined to be heard, "and hauled up again into yours. That would have beenquite easy, you know, and not half the fuss in my opinion."
"Who cares foryouropinion, Alick?" says Regy contemptuously.
"No, but really," goes on the boy, not to be suppressed, "it will be an awful shame to take it all to pieces. Why, I declare I never knew Hugh to work at anything so hard before."
"Nor I," mutters Regy, glancing at his brother, who is leaning up against the mantel-piece staring gloomily at the object of discussion.
"Well, Molly knows best," he remarks decidedly, "so it's no use discussing it any longer. Who's got a pair of sharp scissors or a knife or something? Mother, you will help us take it to pieces, won't you?"
"And you and I and Colonel Danvers will soon have it together again when once we get it in there," says Molly, jerking her head in the direction of the next house. "O, good gracious, what's this?" she exclaims, as she trips up over some hard object sticking out from under the shoe.
"Why, it's one of the supports—wood, you know," explains Ted, nodding solemnly at Molly. "You weren't such a goose as to think cardboard would stand up in that way alone, were you?"
"Where are your manners, Ted?" puts in Hugh. "Molly, did you hurt yourself? Come round, and let me show you the whole concern."
The "whole concern" having been duly admired, and all its points of beauty expatiated on, they all set to work, and in a very short time the shoe is once more in three distinct pieces; and while the boys are busily taking the laces out with elaborate care, Molly, thoroughly at home in the house, as indeed are all the girls, strolls out of the room and down the passage to a little room at the end—Hugh's private sanctum and study.
"Study, indeed!" thinks Molly to herself as she stands looking scornfully round; for the room, it must be confessed, does not suggest the idea of any very violent mental work going on within its four walls. Books there are in plenty, certainly: good, substantial, solid reading too; but there they are, comfortably reposing on their shelves, "looking," as Molly says to herself, "as if they had not been touched for the last six weeks." She has just marched up to the books in question, and is in the act of drawing her finger along their dusty backs, when Hugh puts his head in at the door.
"Now, Miss Molly, what are you doing in my study?" he demands, "and what are you turning up that elegant little nose about? Come, what's wrong, eh?" And crossing over hastily, he reaches the girl's side just in time to see her finish writing with her finger the word "dust" in large capital letters.
"Thatis what is wrong," she says, turning round slowly and facing the young fellow; "d-u-s-t,dust! A fine study indeed!" she continues, glancing round contemptuously. "Look how painfully tidy the rest of the room is! My goodness, you should just see our school-room when we are in the thick of our lessons and really mean business! Doris and I get covered with ink, and our hair gets all rumpled up, and sometimes we stick pens into it without knowing. Honor knits her brows and frowns away like anything, and Miss Denison's voice is several degrees more severe than usual. Oh, I assure you we looktragicwhen we reallyareworking! I should like to know, now, what use it is your going to Sandhurst," she continues severely, "when you never so much as open a book at home? Ah! you are a lazy fellow, Hugh; and I don't believe you will ever pass all your exams. If you ever do get into the army (which I very much doubt) it will be by the backdoor, I verily believe."
"Why, what doyouknow about the backdoor, Molly?" exclaims Hugh, bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
"O, I know all about it," replies Molly, nodding gravely. "I heard father talking about it to Colonel Danvers the other evening. Father was saying he wondered how Cyril Harcourt got into the army. And Colonel Danvers said, 'Oh,hegot in by the backdoor, you know.' So I asked father afterwards what it meant, and he told me by getting into the militia first; and I thought to myself, 'Ah! that's what Hugh will have to do.' And so you will, you know, if you ever do get in, which, as I said before, I very much—"
"No, don't say it again," says the young fellow, putting his hand over Molly's mouth. "I'll do anything in the world to please you, Molly, and I'll work like—like fury, only don't pitch into me any more. Encourage me a bit sometimes, and I shall do wonders yet. I daresay you could even help me sometimes if you only would. I don't mean in the actual way of studying, you know, though I believe you are a hundred times more clever than I am; but I mean as to keeping me up to the mark, and all that sort of thing."
"Yes, that's all very well," says Molly, shaking her head. "I do try to do that, I'm sure; but if you won't help yourself,Ican't help you. And look here, Hugh, it is all very well to say you will do it to pleaseme; but what about your mother, who I know worriesdreadfullyabout you? It's downright wicked of you, when you come to think of it. Upon my word it is."
"So it is, Molly. You are quite right, and I deserve every word you are saying," says Hugh dejectedly.
"Now, will you make me a promise, like a dear, good boy?"
"Yes, that I will!" he cries with energy. "And what is more, I will keep it, my wise little mentor."
"That is right, Hugh. Well, I won't say anything about to-morrow, of course, because until that has come and gone I don't suppose we shall any of us know whether we are on our heads or our heels. But will you promise me that the next day you will really set to work—realhardwork, such as other young men do? Then you will soon make up for lost time, with your talents, which it is perfectlysinfulto throw away. You will very soon get used to it, and after a bit it won't seem such a trouble to you to work. And look here, Hugh," she adds, suddenly growing grave, and speaking in a whisper, "'Help yourself, and God will help you,' you know. Now, will you promise me?" And looking anxiously up into her companion's face, Molly holds out her hand.
"I will, Molly; upon my word I will," replies Hugh earnestly. And taking the girl's hand in both his own, he adds, "What a dear, good girl you are, Molly, and how I wish I had a sister like you! Ah! never fear, I shall fire away now and pass all my exams, in less than no time; and then you shall see what I can do afterwards, Miss Molly!"
"O, yes!" says the girl, moving towards the door, "I have no fear for you when once the studying is over; it isthatwhich is the stumbling-block, eh? But thanks so very, very much for your promise, dear Hugh. I consider your exams, all as good as passed, now that I have that. Hark! there they are calling us. All right—coming!" And away she darts down the passage, all life and fun again.
Hugh follows, in time to see her pounced upon by all the four boys, who, it seems, are in the midst of a violent dispute as to who shall have the honour of carrying in the several portions of the shoe next door. At last the question is settled, and the parts are carried with much caution and solemnity out of the Hortons' house and into the Merivales' by the three elder boys, Molly, escorted by Ted and little Joey bringing up the rear with the laces, &c.
"Good gracious!" exclaims Doris, whom they meet half-way up the staircase, "what atimeyou have been! We are all ready; and Miss Denny, and nurse, and Honor have been dressing up Colonel Danvers, and he looks splendid!"
"Does he? All right! we shall not be two minutes in putting the shoe together again; come along, boys!" And away scampers Molly up to the school-room, closely followed by all the Hortons.
At last it is ready, and Colonel Danvers and Mr. Merivale, assisted by most of the boys, hoist it up satisfactorily into its place.
As the colonel is looking somewhat embarrassed in his petticoats, shawl, and big poke-bonnet, it is decided that the "old woman who lived in a shoe" shall be rehearsed next. It is also settled that this picture shall be placed first in the programme, instead of third as originally intended. This is partly because Colonel Danvers declares he shall be consumed with nervousness until his part is over, and he can once more appear in his own proper attire.
"You see, I am not used to petticoats and long gowns," he remarks plaintively; "sopleaselet us get that tableau over as early as possible!"
It being necessary to have everything in working order, the curtain is let down, and in the first trial rests itself triumphantly at one end on a part of the shoe, leaving a startling array of ankles and feet plainly visible to those looking on.
This being remedied, great consternation is caused by the sudden mysterious disappearance of Bobby. On search being made it is discovered that the curtain in its first descent has knocked him over into the interior of the shoe, from which strange, unearthly sounds are issuing. He is speedily rescued, however, apparently none the worse for his sudden collapse, except that his mouth, eyes, and hair are pretty freely filled with dust. Having, however, been once more set upon his legs, he soon recovers from his sneezing fit and joins in the laugh with the rest.
In the second trial all goes well, and the other pictures are duly rehearsed according to their order on the programme. After a few hours' steady practising they are one and all pronounced to be satisfactory by the audience, which, though limited (consisting only of Mrs. Merivale, Mrs. Danvers, and Mrs. Horton), is decidedly critical; and after a little light refreshment, for which they all betake themselves to the dining-room, the party is dispersed, the colonel in a devout state of thankfulness at feeling himself, as he expresses it, a man once more.
Mr. and Mrs. Merivale are still seated at the breakfast-table on the morning of the 27th, the former deep in his newspaper, the latter taking another glance through her letters. The children have already taken themselves off some time, and with Miss Denison are busy upstairs putting finishing touches to some of the costumes for the evening.
"Here is a letter from Sophia," presently remarks Mrs. Merivale to her husband. "She proposes coming to us for a few days on her way back to town when she leaves the Pagets; would you like— Why, James, what is the matter?" and rising quickly from her chair she hurries round to his side, startled by the ashy paleness which has suddenly overspread his face.
"No—no, it is—nothing!" gasps Mr. Merivale; but at the same moment he drops the paper and presses his hand against his side with a little smothered moan. Mrs. Merivale snatches up her salts (which are always at hand) and holds them under her husband's nostrils, then hastily unscrewing the other end of the pretty toy she deluges her handkerchief witheau de Cologne, and bathes his forehead and temples until there is once more a little colour in his face. "Thanks, dear," he says at last feebly. "I am all right again now—it was only—a stitch—that's all! You need not look so frightened, Mary, my dear. The pain was sharp while it lasted, but I am quite myself now, indeed I am. Give me a little strong coffee, Mary; and perhaps I had better have a spoonful of brandy in it."
"You must call and see Dr. Newton," says Mrs. Merivale as she busies herself with the coffee; "and nowdotry and get home an hour or two earlier to-day. I am sure there is no reason why you should not."
"Oh, but there is!" says Mr. Merivale, sipping his coffee. "That's just it. Waymark has gone away for a few days, and I shall have double work until he comes back, instead of being able to take things easily."
"How very provoking! What could he want to take a holiday for just now? Surely it is an unheard-of time for a holiday."
"Yes, so it would be. But this is no holiday, I fancy, for I believe he said something about an aunt being very ill and being summoned to see her; but really I was so busy at the time I hardly noticed what he did say. I had called him into my private room to show him a letter from Clayton & Co., who have a large account with us, you know. It was merely advising us as a matter of form that they would be withdrawing the bulk of their deposit on the 30th instant, and as Waymark sees to all the books and that sort of thing, I wanted him to have the letter of course; then it was that he told me he must leave for a few days, said he was just coming in to tell me about it."
"Well, and what about the letter? didn't he see that this would give you extra trouble?"
"Well, he didn't seem to concern himself much about that; which after his bad news was natural, I suppose. But he said Mr. Hobson knew as much about the books as himself, and that I need have no trouble about the matter, as I could leave it all to him. He only looked in a moment after that to say good-bye, and that very possibly he would be back himself by the 30th, in time to give a look to the affair. So now you see, Mary, instead of sitting here I ought to be hurrying off. Of course I shall get home as soon as ever I can, for the children's sake as well as my own; but as to seeing the doctor to-day, I can't promise. It will do very well in a day or two when I have more time. It seems quite ridiculous to have made such a fuss about nothing, for I feel as right as a trivet now."
"Nothing!" repeats Mrs. Merivale testily. "If you could have seen your face asIsaw it, James, you would not talk of 'nothing' in that manner. Besides, you have had thesestitches, as you call them, more than once lately, and yououghtto have advice. But there! you won't, of course. I never knew any man so care-less about himself—never; and I might just as well talk to the wind for any notice you take of whatIsay. O, dear me! was ever any woman in this wide world tried and worried as I am?"
"Well, there, there, Mary; don't worry yourself about me," and Mr. Merivale comes up to his wife and kisses her affectionately. "I promise you I will go, only Icannotspare time for the next day or two. But the moment Waymark comes back, we will go together if you like. Now, I can't say more than that, can I?"
His wife looks somewhat consoled, and for her husband's sake she shakes off the anxiety she really feels. With a once-more smiling face she helps him on with his overcoat herself, and stands at the street door until the brougham has driven away. There is not much time for thinking when she gets back into the dining-room, for with a rush like a whirlwind the girls run down the staircase and quickly surround her, each one proffering a different request. Poor Mrs. Merivale! her hands go distractedly to her head at last, and sinking into a chair she cries, "Oh, mydeargirls, do run away and leave me now! Youpromisednot to worry me about the tableaux, and if youwillpersist in doing so I shall be completely prostrated before the evening comes, and then what will you do? You have got poor Miss Denison up there slaving for you, and I am sure she is a host in herself. That's right, run away! Oh,don'tslam the door! Now, cook, what is it?" and with a sigh of resignation the unfortunate lady gives her attention to the final arrangements for the supper.
After a day of rush and bustle for every one in the house alike, the hour of eight, at which the guests have been invited, at length arrives, and whilst Mrs. Merivale receives them herself on the first staircase landing, a man-servant conducts them to the school-room, where they are placed in their seats by two maids dressed in neat black dresses and dainty little lace caps and aprons. These damsels present each guest with the prettiest of programmes, which sets forth a sufficiently attractive list ofTableaux Vivants, finishing up with the information, "At the piano, Miss Denison and Miss Mary Merivale."
These two are already seated at the piano, waiting with exemplary patience for the signal to begin the overture. There have been extensive practisings going on for some time between the two, and now the "ballet music" from Gounod's "Faust" is spread open before them, and Molly is leaning back in her chair gazing abstractedly at the curtain, while Miss Denison is making futile efforts to shield one of the candles which shows a disposition to gutter.
Suddenly the little bell is rung, rousing Molly from her reverie, and the sweet strains of the above-mentioned music soon reduce the audience to a state of quietude and attention.
Molly, thorough musician that she is, plays on with such rapt attention to the music and naught else that a gradually increasing agitation of the curtain at the nearest wing is entirely lost upon her. Quite forgetful of the fact that she is bound to make a precipitate retreat the moment the final chord is struck, in order to swell the number of the children belonging to the lady who resided in the shoe, she plays on until she becomes aware of Miss Denison's voice whispering in her ear "They areready, Molly, and we must hurry the end of this."
Still Molly only half catches the words, till suddenly Dick, reduced to desperation, puts his head out from behind the curtain, and after making frantic signs to cease, says in an audible whisper, "That's enough, Molly, we're all ready and waiting for you."
This peremptory summons recalls the girl to the business of the evening, and giving a quick nod of comprehension to her governess, they both hurry through the few remaining bars, and finishing up with two or three banging, crashing chords, as Molly puts it, she pushes back her chair and promptly disappears.
There is only a delay of a few seconds before the little bell tinkles again, and while Miss Denison plays a soft melody the curtain rises on the first tableau.
Certainly "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe" was a great success.
Colonel Danvers, arrayed in one of the nurse's cotton gowns, with a little shawl pinned over his shoulders and a large poke-bonnet, looks the character of the "old woman" to perfection, as with one hand he grasps Honor's arm with a firm grip, whilst a formidable-looking birch is raised threateningly over her with the other. The rest of the children are all seated round and about the shoe in various attitudes; some half in and half out of it. All are supplied with basins, popularly supposed to contain broth, and Molly, well to the fore, with bare feet and rumpled head, is pausing in the act of carrying her spoon to her mouth, with a distinct expression of "Will it bemyturn next?" in her wide-open blue eyes.
The curtain goes down amidst a storm of applause; and it being arranged that no encores will be accepted, there is instantly a rush of pattering feet across the stage, accompanied by much giggling and whispering, and then a mysterious sound of pushing and dragging, which duly announces the removal of the shoe.
Honor's "Mother Hubbard" comes next, and Molly once more takes her place at the piano, her presence not being required again on the stage until the end of the first part of the programme, where her much-dreaded part of the "Maiden all forlorn" comes on. Molly is anything but happy in her mind about this part of the programme, she having grave misgivings as to Hugh's intentions in the matter.
"Look here, Hugh," she says, when his services not being in request elsewhere he strolls into the room and hangs over the piano, nominally to turn over the music, "I shall ask Colonel Danvers to make our picture awfully short. I don't know, I'm sure, how you mean to manage about that stupid kiss; but it is very certain you can't keep on kissing me all the time; and another thing is, if you have your face so close to mine IknowI shall be tempted to bite you. I shouldn't be able to help it, I am sure."
"Well, I suppose I must risk that," laughs Hugh good-naturedly; "and I don't suppose you would bite very hard either."
"O, wouldn't I though! my teeth are as sharp as anything. You have no idea what they can do when they give their mind to a thing. Hush! here is Doris's 'Mary, Mary.' Doesn't she look pretty?"
And so she does. A chintz with a green ground has carried the day,—green being, Doris had declared, the colour best suited to Mary's contrariness of nature. So green it is, even to the neat little high-heel shoes of which Doris is not a little proud.
A miniature garden has been quickly improvised for this picture; and the girl standing in the middle of it, with finger on pouting lip and a general air of discontent and vexation, looks natural and well. Truth to tell, the pouting expression is not altogether foreign to Doris's face; and while the audience is thinking how well she has assumed the contrariness, Dick whispers to his sister, "I say, Honor, Doris's pouting propensities have come in useful at last, haven't they?"
There is only one more picture now before the end of the first part, so Molly once more disappears, and is in time to help in placing Daisy in position as "Miss Muffit," with her companion the spider, of which she feels rather a wholesome dread. Unfortunately for her feelings, Regy, who has manufactured it, has made one of the creature's legs a shade shorter than the rest. The consequence is that, when the spider is standing, this short leg dangles loosely and suggestively, inspiring poor Daisy with genuine terror. The best side is, of course, turned towards the audience, and when the curtain goes up the little girl is discovered in a very natural attitude of fright, as she shrinks away from the monster, with her cup of curds-and-whey in one hand and her spoon in the other. Molly emerges from the dressing-room just as a storm of vociferous applause informs her that the curtain has descended on the much-appreciated picture of "Little Miss Muffit." As she passes into the school-room behind the huge screen which hides the actors and actresses from view as they enter, she meets Hugh, who is evidently feeling as forlorn as the "maiden" herself in his ragged and tattered garb. He is keeping well in the shadow at present, and only steps forward as Molly comes up.
"You don't look very handsome," she remarks laconically; "and—yes, I verily believe your face is dirty."
"Yes," says Hugh guiltily, "I'm afraid it is. The fact is, I smudged it with a bit of burnt cork. I was going to wash it—I was indeed," he adds hastily, "but we heard the applause beginning for 'Miss Muffit,' and Colonel Danvers said there wasn't time, and declared it was not the least likely that the 'Man all tattered and torn' would have a clean face. I can go and wash it now," he says humbly, "if you think it will do to keep everybody waiting."
"O, no!" says Molly hastily, "we can't do that, of course; but do for goodness' sake give it a rub with your handkerchief. Have you got one?" she adds, looking doubtfully at him; "perhaps you haven't even got a pocket in that tattered old coat. Well, here's mine;" and diving into the depths of the capacious pocket which is hidden away in the folds of the still-room maid's cotton dress which she is wearing, she produces a small dainty cambric affair, which Hugh, with a mixture of amusement and awe, accepts gratefully. At this moment Colonel Danvers hurries up.
"Come, you two," he says, "they will be tired of waiting. Now, you sit here on this stool, Molly. That's right—capital! Show your face alittlemore to the audience; now lean it on your hand—so, and twist up your apron with the other. I'll see to the 'man'—don't you move on any account now, there's a good girl. Now, Hugh, just here. All right! you'll remember the sign, and don't fall over the pail;" and before Molly has time to ascertain his whereabouts the bell tinkles, and up goes the curtain.
It is a pretty picture enough; for a neat little rustic scene has been painted for the back of the stage, in which the refractory cow may be seen grazing, rather peaceably perhaps considering its reputation for bad temper. A sun-bonnet is lying on the green baize in front of Molly, and at her side is a genuine milking-pail borrowed from the dairy. Molly herself is staring straight before her in a truly dejected manner, while Hugh has the appearance of having crept up stealthily till within about half a yard of her. The seconds creep on, and as Hugh has not moved an inch Molly reassures herself with the thought that after all it was only his nonsense about being obliged to give the kiss. She congratulates herself too soon, however, for as the bell rings for the curtain to descend, Hugh suddenly darts forward and kisses her lightly on the cheek just as it is about half-way down.
The peals of laughter which, with the applause, ring through the room testify to the audience's thorough appreciation of the joke; but Molly as she rises expresses extreme indignation at what she called Hugh's "horrid meanness," throwing dark hints over her shoulder as she marches from the room as to all favours being discontinued for the remainder of the evening. Hugh looks so disconsolate that Colonel Danvers slaps him on the shoulder, saying with a hearty laugh, "Come, cheer up, man! the fun of the picture was in the kiss, you know, and Molly doesn't mean what she says. You leave her little ladyship to me and I'll see that it's all right; she is only put out for the moment. Now clear the stage for the first scene of 'The queen was in the parlour.' Where is the queen? Oh, here you are, Doris! Yes, you will do very well; but your crown is all on one side, and the effect is rakish in the extreme. Come here, and let me straighten it."
"O, for goodness' sake mind the honey!" cries Doris excitedly. "It's trickling down the sides now, I do believe!" and she holds up the pot down the side of which a thin stream of the sticky substance is steadily making its way. "I found Teddy and Dick at it, you know," she continues, deliberately drawing one finger up the side of the pot to stay the stream; "and in the scuffle it got knocked over, and before I could rescue it of course some must needs run over. I have stuck to it ever since though!" she adds triumphantly.
"It seems to me that it has stuck toyou," says the colonel dryly. "How in the world can you endure to have such sticky fingers?"
"O, I don't mind," says Doris carelessly. "I shall require to have some of it spread upon bread by and by, you know, and I shall be sure to smear myself then. I always do with honey or jam or anything of that kind. Besides, having once got the pot I don't intend to put it down again. Oh, good gracious, Bobby, you're standing on my train!Dopull him off, Colonel Danvers!" The stage-manager does as he is desired, and Master Bob is led off by the ear mildly protesting at the indignity offered him.
Molly has long ago returned to her duties at the piano, for during the "interval of ten minutes" the audience must, of course, be sufficiently amused.
That over, the three pictures of "The queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey," "The king was in his counting-house, counting out his money," and "The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes," rapidly follow, with Doris as queen, Regy Horton as king, and Honor as the maid, a stuffed magpie having been engaged for the role of the blackbird.
Directly the curtain descends on the last of these three Molly once more leaves Miss Denison at the piano, it being imperative that she shall increase the number of domestics appertaining to the kitchen in which the Queen of Hearts is discovered making tarts.
Honor is the queen on this occasion, and Dick personates the knave in the second scene. Great care and thought have been expended on the dressing of this set of pictures, and in the last, when a goodly crowd, all representing the suit of hearts, is collected on the stage, the effect is really good. Hugh manages to get up the bland, vacant kind of expression in which the kings of a pack of cards generally rejoice, and Honor, after the manner of cardboard queens, looks decidedly cross, presumably at the abduction of her tarts; while Dick has the debonair, impudent manner peculiar to the knaves. If anything mars the effect of this last tableau it is the painful fact that the knave of hearts, as he stands with his arms folded, scornfully glancing down at the dish of tarts, shows distinct signs of having tasted as well as purloined those dainties; for his flushed countenance is embellished here and there with little streaks of jam, which if not becoming are at least highly suggestive.
This last picture brings the dramatic portion of the evening to a close, and the actors and actresses dash madly from the room, regardless of the dire confusion left behind them; for in another moment the audience will be making their exit by the same door on their way to the study, where light refreshments are being served before the next business of the evening, namely the dancing, begins. Honor and Doris are soon ready to join the throng below, for it has been arranged that they shall keep to their last dresses in the tableaux for the remainder of the evening. Molly, however, is to wear the new white silk which is to do duty for the round of Christmas parties which the girls are generally in request for. It is some time, therefore, before she makes her appearance in the drawing-room. The dancing has already commenced, but Doris and Honor are still standing, the centre of a congratulatory group, and it is only when their respective partners come forward to claim them that a truce is given to the compliments which might have turned the heads of any less sensible girls than they.
When Molly at length appears she feels, to use her own expression, rather "out of it," for during her absence engagements have of course been made for the first one or two dances, so she leans rather disconsolately against a doorway from which the door has been removed, and half hidden by a curtain she looks on at the gay scene before her. She is just answering some energetic signs from Alick Horton, and telegraphing back her willingness to finish the dance with him if he can safely pilot himself round to her retreat without being run down by the many couples now whirling round the room, when her shoulder is touched from behind, and Colonel Danvers puts back the curtain, saying as he does so, "Now, Miss Molly, I have brought a penitent sinner with me who is desirous of having the honour of dancing with you."
Molly glances up, and seeing Hugh standing beside the colonel with a crestfallen and guilty appearance, looks down again saying, "I am not going to dance this time, thank you; or if I do," she adds hastily, seeing Alick approaching slowly and surely, "it will be with Alick; I have promised him."
The mention of his brother's name appears to have an irritating effect on Hugh, for he says hastily, and not without some temper, "O, Alick is nobody! he can wait. Come now, Molly, you promised me, you know."
But Molly shakes her head.
"Well, but you know, Molly, that kiss could not be helped," puts in the colonel at this juncture; "and for my part I think Hugh managed it in a highly commendable manner. Besides, poor boy, he is really dreadfully put out at having been compelled, as it were, to annoy you, and I am sure he will never dream of doing such a thing again; will you, Hugh?" and he turns towards the young man with a roguish twinkle in his eye.
Hugh does not respond, but he looks pleadingly towards his little favourite, and holding out his hand says, "Come, Molly, won't you?"
Molly considers a moment, then slowly moving towards Hugh she says, "Just this one dance then, Hugh, as Colonel Danvers wishes it."
"And plenty more when that one's done!" calls the Colonel after them, as he goes off with Alick to find another partner for him.
The evening goes on merrily and fast, and Molly's programme is speedily filled up, the initials H. H. figuring pretty often in it notwithstanding her previous displeasure. Doris and Honor are heard to confess more than once during the evening that they are sorry they were tempted by feelings of vanity to keep on their regal attire, the trains thereof constantly tripping them up and embarrassing them generally, to say nothing of an unfortunate habit, which their respective crowns possess, of tumbling off on the slightest provocation. Thus they are seen to look envyingly from time to time at Molly, who in all the independence of short skirts and crownless head, is enjoying herself thoroughly.
Most of the guests have departed, and only a few familiar friends are still standing about the staircase and hall when Hugh goes up to Molly, who, now completely tired out, is sitting on one of the hall chairs, gazing abstractedly into the dining-room opposite.
"Good-night, Molly," he whispers, "and I wanted to tell you that to-morrow will be the first day of my hard work:real hardwork, you know, that evenyouwould approve of. I haven't very much more time at home now, but I mean to make the most of it, and when once I get back to Sandhurst I shall work like a nigger if I can feel that you are trusting me."
"O, I am so glad, Hugh!" says the girl, looking up brightly at the handsome, earnest face above her; "because I know you will do so well if you only give yourself a fair chance, and do not give way to that wicked laziness. I do so want you to be famous and distinguished and all that sort of thing when you go out to India, if you do go."
"I don't know exactly what I am to distinguish myself in, unless it is pig-sticking or some other pursuit of that character," laughs Hugh; "but seriously, if I do get on well out there, or anywhere else indeed, I know whom I shall have to thank for it. And now good-night again, Molly; sleep well, and if it is still fine and frosty to-morrow, I'll come and take you for a spin on the ice."
It is ten o'clock in the morning, and Mr. Merivale, senior partner of Merivale, Waymark, & Co., bankers, is seated at the table in his own private room, meditating an attack upon the formidable pile of letters which lies before him. He is looking pale and depressed on this, the morning after his children's party, and is saying to himself that if only Waymark were back, he really would take a few days' rest. He is just about to open one of the letters when a tap comes to the door, and the head and confidential clerk, Mr. Hobson, enters the room. He starts back, however, as Mr. Merivale raises his head from the still unopened letter in his hand, and muttering to himself "God bless my soul!" hurries to the mantel-piece, where a glass jug of cold water stands, and quickly pouring out a glassful he takes it to his principal, saying, "You look a little faint and tired this morning, sir; will you drink some water, and then I will ring for the sherry? Dear, dear, how very pale you are, to be sure!" and the kind old man bustles over to the bell, which he pulls vigorously. Then hastening to the door, and at the same time keeping one eye on Mr. Merivale, he opens it, and pouncing on a young clerk who is leisurely strolling down the passage with his hands in his pockets, gives him a sharp peremptory order, which astonishes that young gentleman not a little.
On turning back into the room the old man is immensely relieved to see a little colour once more in the face of Mr. Merivale; but he will not allow him to speak as yet, and the housekeeper at the bank entering at this moment with the sherry, he seizes the decanter from the tray, and pours out a glass. Then Hobson stands by his elbow, waiting patiently until the short gasps of breath become longer and more regular, and the spasm, which had frightened him very considerably, has passed off. Then he quietly insists on Mr. Merivale taking the sherry, and in a few minutes has the satisfaction of seeing him sit upright in his chair, apparently himself again, though with a face still pale and drawn-looking.
"Thanks, Hobson, thanks!" he says, passing his hand over his forehead. "Don't look so anxious, old friend; I have had these little attacks once or twice before, but I assure you it is nothing serious. My wife was telling me only a day or two since that I ought to have advice; but I know just what the doctor would say—'General debility and want of tone,' &c. &c., and then he would suggest rest, and change of air and scene, and all the rest of it, which you know, as well as I do, I cannot get while Waymark is away. Take some sherry, Hobson, and do sit down."
"Ay, that's just where it is," replies the old man slowly. "This is really what I came to speak to you about, sir. Is it your wish that I should attend to this matter of Clayton & Co."
"Yes, by all means, Hobson. I shall be really grateful if you will take it all off my shoulders; and, of course, if there is any little thing you want to talk over, why, you will know where to find me if I am not here."
"Just so, just so," replies the old man, getting up. "And now, sir, if you will take my advice you will go straight home and rest for the remainder of the day. You trust me, sir, to see that all's right, and if anything particular should take place during the day, I might perhaps step round in the evening. Now, shall I send for a cab for you?—the brougham has gone off long ago, of course."
A cab being procured, Mr. Merivale gets into his overcoat, and, accompanied by Mr. Hobson, goes down the steps of the bank. As the cab drives away, the old man, who is still watching it, shakes his head, and says mournfully to himself, "No, no, I don't like it at all. I have never seen such pallor but once before, and then— Oh, a telegram—answer prepaid, eh? All right! I'm coming;" and the old man goes back to his desk with a heavy heart, and opening the yellow envelope returns to the business of the day.
* * * * * * * *
Miss Denison and her pupils are all seated round the school-room fire, in various stages of fatigue and sleepiness. There has been a sociable high-tea at seven o'clock instead of the usual late dinner, at which all the family, from Mr. Merivale down to Bobby, have been present.
Conversation is being carried on in rather a desultory sort of fashion, the only variety being Dick's persistence in asking riddles, which are invariably proved to have no answers.
Discussion waxes warm presently on the subject of that beautiful poem on the letter H, often attributed to Lord Byron, but written by Catherine Fanshawe. Dick protests loudly that it is Shelley's, while Honor and Doris are equally sure it is Byron's.
"What doyousay, Miss Denny?" asked Doris raising herself on to her elbow and looking up from her place on the hearth-rug. "You know everything, so surely you can settle the question."
"I was not aware that I am such a walking encyclopædia as you seem to imagine," replies Miss Denison laughing, and shaking out a skein of wool preparatory to placing it on Molly's hands; "and, to tell you the truth, Doris, my own personal experience is that the more one learns, the more one finds there is to learn. At the present moment I cannot recollect the author of that enigma, but my impression is that you are both wrong, though I could not say so for certain. Now, who can recite it without a mistake? If someone can, very likely I shall call to mind the name of the author. But first ring the bell, Dick; Daisy and Bobby must go to bed."
"A capital idea!" cries Dick, referring to the suggestion about the poem, "and I'll give anyone who says it through without a single hitch a whole packet of butterscotch. There!"
"I don't believe you have got the money to buy it," says Molly crushingly; "for I heard you only this morning bewailing the fact that you had only three halfpence left in the wide world."
"You can get penny packets," mutters Dick; but he is promptly suppressed, for Honor in a clear melodious voice is already beginning—
"'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell,And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed.'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder.'Twas allotted to man in his earliest breath,Attends at his birth, and awaits him at death.It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health,Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth.Without it the soldier and seaman may roam,But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.'Twill not soften the heart, and though deaf to the ear,'Twill make it acutely and instantly hear.But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower—Oh, breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.'"
A burst of applause greets Honor as she steps down from the footstool upon which Molly has previously handed her with much ceremony. No one, however, seems any nearer settling the author than before.
"Most annoying, to be sure," says Miss Denison, tapping the fender impatiently with her foot; "I do dislike to be baffled like this. I'll tell you what, we will send down and ask your father to let us have both Byron and Shelley from the study. After all I think itmustbe one of those two—anyway, we will search until wedofind it. Now, who will be my ambassador?"
All start up at the same moment, each signifying his or her willingness to undertake the commission. But Miss Denison singles out Doris, as being most accustomed to putting in an appearance downstairs at that time of the evening, and Doris accordingly leaves the room with a look of calm superiority at the others. The interval is spent in hot argument as before, and Dick is just offering Molly a bet consisting of a new book of travels against her recently purchased tennis racquet when the door opens, and Doris with a white, scared face re-enters the room.
"Doris!" exclaim all the voices in a breath, "what is the matter?"
The girl comes slowly towards the table, and resting one hand upon it she pushes back her ruffled fair hair with the other.
"I—I hardly know—" she gasps, "but something is wrong. I don't know what—only old Mr. Hobson is shut up with father in the study, and mother said I must not go in. Then father came rushing into the room and asked mother for his keys which he had left on the dining-table, and oh, it was his face that frightened me so—it was so white, and drawn, and old-looking!" and with a smothered sob Doris's head falls on the shoulder of the kind governess, who has risen and is standing with her arm round her pupil's waist.
"Courage, dear!" she whispers, gently stroking the bowed head. "This trouble, whatever it is, may not be so serious after all. Come, dry your eyes and wait here with the others whilst I go down to your mother and see if there is anything I can do;" and Miss Denison leaves the little group, with the exception of Doris, who is still crying quietly, standing staring at each other in blank dismay.
Before many minutes have elapsed Miss Denison returns, and though her face looks grave and anxious, she makes an effort to speak cheerfully.
"Your father has had some bad news in connection with his business, girls; but I do not know yet to what extent. We must all hope for the best, therefore, until we know more; and in the meantime, every one must do his and her best not to increase the trouble by showing grief which, after all, may prove to be quite uncalled for. It is already after nine, so Molly and Dick had better go to bed. I want you, Doris, to go down to your mother. You will find her in the drawing-room; and your father wants you to go to him in the study, Honor. I heard the hall door shut just now, so I expect Mr. Hobson has gone: he was just leaving as I came up. Now, dears, I will run up and say just a word to nurse, and then I will go down again to your mother. Honor, you will know where to find me. Your father may want to send some telegrams, and I may be able to help you."
When Doris enters the drawing-room she looks with a little surprise at her mother, who with closed eyes, handkerchief pressed to her delicate nose, and smelling-salts well within reach, is now gracefully reclining on the sofa.
Advancing further into the room she says softly, "Miss Denny sent me to you, mother, and she is coming down again herself after she has spoken to nurse. Honor is with father in the study."
"Yes, very well," says Mrs. Merivale languidly. "And now lower the lamps, Doris; and oh! do move about quietly. Now bring a chair and come and sit here, close to the sofa. I suppose you have heard the wretched news that old Mr. Hobson has brought to-night? It seems that your father's partner has embezzled immense sums from the bank, and when he heard of the probability of something occurring which would expose the whole thing, he quietly decamped, taking care to get a sufficiently good start to do away with any chance of his capture." Mrs. Merivale pauses a moment to give a vicious little pull to the sofa cushion, then she goes on impatiently, "I don't suppose it would have gone on to such an extent in any other case; but your father is the most unsuspecting man that ever breathed. He would allow himself to be cheated by anyone, under his very nose. I always disliked that man, and I told your father so; but of course I might just as well talk to the chairs and tables for all the attention there is paid to anything I say. Oh, good gracious! here is that dreadful dog!Do, for goodness' sake, take the creature away!"
Doris is just in time to catch up Vic as she bounds on to the sofa with a view to settling herself for a comfortable nap on the end of Mrs. Merivale's dress. Being put on the floor and told to lie down, she does so under protest, and with a "whoofa" of indignation. But presently discrying an attraction in the shape of a misguided fly, that with reckless confidence has emerged from some safe nook and is flying feebly towards one of the lamps, she starts up, and making snap after snap, careers madly after it round the room. Suddenly catching sight of her own stumpy tail, however, which in the excitement of the hunt bids fair to wag its owner's body off its legs, she pulls up suddenly, then whirls round and round, teetotum fashion, in pursuit of the offending object. Mrs. Merivale is in a state of frenzy.
"Doris!" she exclaims angrily, "do catch the dog and put it out of the room. I call it downright cruel of you to encourage it as you do. But there, I must say you are all alike in that respect; no one ever considersme! Even in this tiresome upset (and I am sure I don't clearly understandwhatit is orwhyit is) your father's one thought seems to be 'the children,' and what will be done about this, that, and the other concerning them."
"Omother! I'm sure you do father an injustice in saying that!" cries Doris indignantly. "Youmustknow that you are always his first thought in everything."
"Well, I don't know. And what," continues Mrs. Merivale, giving another little impatient pull to the sofa cushion—"what am I to understand when your father talks of ruin? I suppose we shall have to give up one of the carriages, perhaps; though which I don't know. It will betoodreadful to think of stifling in a brougham during the day, and yet if we kept the victoria, how in the world could I go out at night?"
A brief pause, in which Doris reads for about the twentieth time the advertisement which is staring her in the face from the back of a periodical which lies uncut upon the table.
Then Mrs. Merivale sighs rather than says, "I suppose too we shall have to do with a servant or two less. I do really think"—a bright idea suddenly striking her—"that you could very well do without a maid in the school-room now; and perhaps we could manage with only one housemaid, though I should dread proposing such a thing to Louisa, and of course I could not think of lettinghergo. It is equally impossible too that I could spare Lane, after having her with me such a number of years. I don't really see what else I can do. We need not give so many dinner-parties, perhaps; a light supper costs less than a dinner, and one need not be so particular about the wines. You, Doris, will have to come out at one of the county balls, instead of being presented in London; and Honor will have to take painting lessons from some cheaper master than Signor Visetti. I daresay, after all, we would only have been paying for his name." Another short pause, and then "I suppose if things are really so serious as your father makes them out to be, Dick, poor boy, will have to make up his mind to give up Oxford in the future. Oh, thank goodness, here is Miss Denison! Now, Doris, you can go; and do hurry Lane with that cup of tea she is getting—and, Doris," as the girl, only too glad to escape, nears the door, "prayshut that dog up; and if it cannot be quietinthe house, let it go to the stables. It is what most other dogs have to do."
In the meantime a very different conversation is being carried on in the study, whither Honor has gone to her father. Although Mr. Merivale has had some difficulty in making his wife understand the extent of the trouble which has come upon them, he finds it quite another matter with his daughter. In a very few minutes Honor's clear head has completely taken in the situation; and it is an unspeakable relief to Mr. Merivale to feel that there is one in the family at all events upon whose aid he can rely in that hard and difficult task which now lies before him, that of beginning life over again. The girl's loving sympathy also goes far towards softening the blow which has fallen with such cruel force, and though still haggard and wan-looking it is with a little smile that he at length looks up and says, "So we must all make the best of it, Honor; and after a time, I daresay, we shall manage very well. If only your mother understood a little better; but you see, dear, she has always from her birth upwards lived in affluence and luxury, and it will come very hard upon her, poor thing, to have to live such an utterly different kind of life."
Honor, who with her chin resting upon her hand is staring abstractedly into the fire, merely nods acquiescence to her father's remarks, until after a brief silence she looks up.
"And will there be absolutely nothing left for us, father? Will all mother's fortune have to go too?"
"Yes, all of hers, my dear, except a trifling sum which, thank God, is safely invested in something else. I don't know what she will say, poor thing, when she comes to learn this. No, Honor, we must make up our minds to face the worst; for even with the cursory glance I have taken into the bank affairs to-night with Hobson, I can see that when we have given up every farthing that we possess there will still be a deficiency which is perfectly frightful to contemplate. Ah! Honor, if we were the only sufferers I could begin again with a comparatively light heart; but when I think of the numbers who are ruined by the dishonesty of one scoundrel—of the hardly-earned savings of many an honest, hard-working man, all swamped, all swamped—I feel that to sit here, powerless to alleviate the sufferings of all the victims of this gigantic fraud, is enough to drive me out of my senses. Oh, if only I had known, if only I could have guessed! But for some time past Waymark has taken more and more upon himself, saying always that it was to save me trouble as my health became uncertain; and how could I tell?howcould I tell?" And with a smothered sob poor Mr. Merivale's head falls forward on his arms.
"Don't, father,—don't!" says Honor, putting her arms lovingly round him and drawing his head down upon her shoulder. "The thought that no blame can possibly rest on you should be a comfort to you; and you cannot do more than you are going to do, dear father, in giving up everything you possess."
"No, dear; alas! that is all Icando. But do that I will to the uttermost farthing; and if it would only mend matters I would give the very coat from off my back only too gladly."
"Will they try to overtake Mr. Waymark, father?" presently asks Honor.
"They will try, dear, but with little hope of success, for he has too good a start to be easily found. Now, are you sure you have got those telegrams worded exactly as I dictated? Very well, then, let William take them off to the station at once. I am anxious your aunt should have hers, because I am sure she will come over and see your mother at once, and I think she will very likely be able to explain matters to her better than I can. And now, dear, leave me, and at ten o'clock bring me a cup of strong coffee with your own hands; and don't let me be disturbed by anyone until then, for I have papers to look through and writing to do which may keep me up half the night. Tell your mother this, Honor, and beg her not to be anxious about me, but to go to bed soon. Poor thing! this will be a terrible blow to her. But you must help her to bear it—you and Doris. Ah, poor little Doris!—send her to me for a minute, Honor. I should like to say a few words to her too. Molly and the others have gone to bed, I suppose?"
"Yes, some little time ago. I will bring your coffee punctually, father; and after Doris has left you I will see that no one disturbs you."
As Honor a few minutes later mounts the staircase, lost in thought, she comes suddenly upon a white-robed figure which is standing with rumpled hair and wide-open blue eyes gazing anxiously down into the hall below.
"Hush! don't say anything, Honor!" whispers the figure excitedly; "I can't stay in bed—it's no use, so I have just slipped on my dressing-gown, and here I am. O,don'tsend me back, Honor!" the girl adds imploringly as she sees symptoms of nervousness as to cold, &c., pass over her sister's face. "Let me go into the school-room, do. I'll be as still as a mouse,reallyI will, onlydon'task me to go back to bed!"
"Poor Molly!" says Honor, putting an arm round her sister. Then relenting she turns down the passage towards the school-room, and pushing open the door leads her in and ensconces her in a big arm-chair by the still-smouldering fire.
"Ah! that's better," sighs Molly as Honor seizes the poker and stirs the embers into a cheerful blaze; "and nowdotell me, Honor dear, what this trouble is, and all about it."
"It is soon told, Molly," says the girl, and seating herself in a low chair opposite her sister she tells her of the dishonesty of their father's partner. Then there is a brief pause, during which Honor, poker still in hand, knocks a "stranger" off the second bar, and Molly drops a slipper. "So now, dear," continues Honor, "you will know what father means when he speaks of ruin; for ruined we are, Molly, as to fortune, though, thank God, father still bears an unstained name and can hold his head as high as ever he did."
That Molly at length grasps the situation is evinced by the way she sits staring at her sister with eyes wide open and full of trouble. She does not speak for a few minutes, but at last she leans forward, and taking Honor's face between her two hands she says slowly and with a little painful sort of gasp, "When you speak of father giving up all he possesses you mean his own fortune, I suppose, all hismoney, I mean, and perhaps mother's too—eh, Honor?"
"No, dear," says the elder sister gently, and taking one of Molly's hands between her own. "We shall not only lose that, but everything! The houses will be sold, both this and Sunnymeade; all the furniture, pictures, and plate; the horses and carriages; and, in fact, as I said, Molly,everything. Poor father says he must begin life over again, and that we shall all have to help him."
"Poor mother!" says Molly presently, after another pause.
"Ah, poor mother!" repeats Honor, rising and kissing her young sister. "We shall have to take care of her now, dear, and do all we can to prevent her feeling the great change that is coming into all our lives. And now, dear, youmustgo to bed again; you will feel happier now that you really know the worst, so you must try and not think about it now, but go to sleep."
Having seen Molly comfortably tucked up once more, Honor wanders downstairs, and is just turning into the drawing-room in an aimless sort of way when she meets Miss Denison coming out.
"I was just looking for you, Honor," she says, putting her arm through her pupil's and turning back with her into the room. "Your mother seems so poorly that Doris and Lane have been seeing her to bed; she had one of her hysterical attacks, but she is better now, and I think it will be best to leave her quiet." And Miss Denison sighs as she tries to stir the fire into some little semblance of life. "Your father has sent for Mr. Trent, has he not, dear?"
"Yes, and for Aunt Sophia too," replies Honor, sinking into a chair opposite her governess; "though I don't know exactly what goodshecan do."
"I don't know about that," says Miss Denison quickly. "Your aunt is a very sensible, clear-sighted woman, and I daresay he thought she would be a comfort to your mother, and that she may be able to explain things better to her than he can."
And so governess and pupil sit talking, until the little French clock on the mantel-piece striking ten, Honor jumps up, remembering her promise to take her father's coffee to him at that hour. As she lays her hand upon the bell, the door opens, and Rankin appears with a little tray which Honor takes from him.
"I shall not be many minutes, Miss Denny," she says as she leaves the room. "Father is busy writing, so he is sure not to keep me."
Arrived at the study, Honor opens the door softly and goes into the room. Her father is still seated where she left him, his head a little bent forward over the papers spread open on the table. He appears so engrossed in looking at these that Honor's entrance does not even disturb him, and she carries the cup to the table and places it within reach, quietly waiting by her father's side until he shall speak to her.
The girl's eyes wander to the fireplace. The fire is out, and with the exception of the ticking of the large clock on the mantel-piece, which sounds louder than usual, there is an unnatural stillness in the room which oppresses her.
She glances down at the quiet figure by her side, which still seems unconscious of her presence. Then she notices for the first time that the pen in her father's hand, although resting on the paper, is not moving. She leans forward quickly and lays her warm hand upon the motionless one near her; she shudders and draws back, then moves rapidly to the other side of the chair, and with tender hands raises the drooping head. With one glance at the dearly loved face, now so ashen and white, Honor learns the fearful truth, and with a shriek of anguish which rings from cellar to attic she falls senseless to the ground.
When Honor opens her eyes again it is to find herself on her own bed, with kind Miss Denison leaning over her, bathing her forehead and temples witheau de Cologne. Molly stands on one side of the bed at a little distance looking pale and frightened; and an elderly gentleman is standing by the other side with his finger on Honor's pulse. He nods across the bed to Miss Denison as the girl looks round and then tries to sit up.
"She will do now," he says quietly, "so I will go down to Mrs. Merivale again;" and he quietly slips out of the room, beckoning Molly to follow him.
Honor lies quite still for a few minutes; then, slowly turning her eyes towards her governess, she asks the question which Miss Denison has been so dreading. Then gently and kindly she breaks the sad news to her: tells her how Dr. Newton had said that her poor father had been dead for more than an hour when he was called in; that it was disease of the heart, and the shock of the bank failure had been too much for him.
"And mother? Poor mother!" says Honor at length, when, a long and violent fit of crying over, she leans back against her pillows, calm, though pale and exhausted.
"She is better now, dear. We had great trouble with her at first—or rather Lane and Doris and the doctor had, for I was with you, dear. She went from one fit of hysterics into another; and now, of course, she is utterly worn out. Your Aunt Sophia took her in hand directly she came (it is really most providential that she was so near); and then kind Mrs. Horton has been such a comfort to her. I sent in to her, you know, and she came herself the moment she got my message."
"But how came aunt here to-night?" asks Honor, putting her hand to her head and knitting her straight little brows. "I can't remember clearly, but surely I spoke ofto-morrowmorning in my telegram."
"Yes, dear; so you did. But when this happened I got Doris to write a hasty line which I sent off with the brougham to the Pagets', and your aunt came back in the brougham. She will be a great help to you all till your mother has got a little over the shock; she always had great influence over her, you know. And now, dear Honor, I shall give you the little draught the doctor ordered for you, and then I will leave you to sleep, for that will bring you strength to bear your trouble better than anything else. I shall be within call, for I have promised Doris to sleep with her to-night; so we will put the door ajar between your rooms. Now, dear, God bless you! And you must promise me, Honor, to be brave, and not to fret any more to-night. You know you told me your dear father's last words to you were of thankfulness for the comfort and help he was sure you would be to him. And now, more than ever, you must prove that you are worthy of the trust he placed in you—for a trust it is, dear Honor—and one, I know, that with God's help you will faithfully discharge. Your poor mother will need a long time to recover from so severe a shock. And although Doris is older than you, she is younger in ideas and character, and has not, I fear, so much common sense as my little Honor. But now, dear child, good-night once more. I shall not let anyone else come near you, as I am most anxious you should get to sleep." And kissing the girl most affectionately, Miss Denison softly leaves the room.
A little later and the house which but a short time since was the scene of so much happiness and rejoicing is wrapped in silent gloom; and as nature asserts its rights with the younger members of the family, giving them temporary relief from their sorrow in blessed sleep, older heads are resting on their pillows with wide-open, sleepless eyes, looking vaguely into the future which has changed so quickly from sunshine into shadow.
* * * * * * * *
Three days have passed since Mr. Merivale's death and Honor has already taken most of the cares and responsibilities of the family and household upon her young shoulders with a quiet dignity and gentle patience which amaze her mother completely. The old family solicitor, Mr. Trent, has already called several times and had long and serious talks with Honor—Mrs. Merivale having sent down a message to the effect that she was too completely prostrated to seeanyone, and would he say anything he had to say to Honor, as it would be quite the same thing. It was doubtful whether Mr. Trent entertained the same idea on this subject, for whereas he had before quaked in his shoes at the bare idea of the task which lay before him of trying to make his late client's widow understand certain facts which he felt morally certain she was incapable of grasping, he now found that he had a very different sort of person to deal with—one, in fact, to use his own expression, "with her head screwed on the right way." With a kindness and delicacy which went straight to poor Honor's heart, he took all the arrangements for the funeral upon himself, and proved indeed a most kind and valuable friend in more ways than one.