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Major Darrell was a retired Indian officer, who, having served his country for many years without reaping any more profitable harvest than a scanty crop of laurels, found himself, when a middle aged man, in much the same predicament as the well-known “Old woman who lived in a shoe;” namely, he had so many children he didn't know what to do. Indeed, he was in some respects more unfortunate than that praiseworthy matron, most of his family being too old to be disposed of in the summary manner in which that Spartan dame treated her offspring, and even the younger members clamoured for bread with their broth.
The only child whose future gave him no anxiety, was his second son Dick. That youth was the fortunate possessor of a rich and generous godfather, who did not think that his sponsorial obligations had been admirably fulfilled when he had promised to renounce the world, the flesh, and the devil on his godson's behalf, and had further presented him with a Bible and a silver mug as outward and visible signs of that promise.
When Major Darrell, in India, wrote to his old schoolfellow, Richard Egerton, in England, asking him to stand godfather to his second son, the answer he received was a very characteristic one.
“ Dear Darrell, “I shall be delighted to act as godfather to your boy. Had you asked me on behalf of a daughter, I should have been obliged, on principle, to decline, as I have come to the conclusion that it is mere waste of breath promising to
me, and eventually become my partner in the estate. Don't be afraid of despoiling my daughter, she inherits money from her mother, and besides I expect to save a good deal during the next fifteen years. Let me know what you think of this plan.”
Of course, Mrs. Darrell was delighted at the offer, thinking it would conduce to the success of her own little scheme, and she persuaded her husband, who had some scruples on the subject, to accept it. So when Dick was six years old, he was sent to England, where he lived for a short time with relations and then went to school. He used to write to his godfather, who expressed himself quite satined with his letters and the school reports. He was not a specially clever boy, but very bright and a great favourite.
When he was about fourteen, his father sold out of the army and settled with his family in a village in Devonshire.
The next noteworthy event was the sudden arrival in England of Mr. Egerton and his daughter Dolores. They went, of course, to stay at the Darrells, with whom the little girl was left while her father was away on business; Mrs. Darrell taking a motherly interest in the child, not only for her own sake, but as a possible wife for Dick. Dolores, though by no means plain, was at present too thin and sallow to be a pretty child, her only beauty being her huge dark eyes. She was very delicate, indeed it was chiefly on account of her health that her father had come to England, and she was therefore unable to join in the somewhat rough games favoured by the younger Darrells and their neighbours, Squire Fenton's children. In fact, Dick, who was at home for the holidays, confided to his great ally, Sylvia Fenton, that he thought Dolores was a muff. Lest, however, he should be unjust, he added:
“But, of course, it isn't her fault, poor little creature. You can't expect anything else from half a foreigner”—alluding to Dolores' Spanish blood—for Dick was a sturdy John Bull, and regarded all who were unfortunate enough not to be English with a mixture of pity and contempt.
“Of course, she can't help it,” agreed Sylvia readily, “and it must be dreadful to be foreign and always ill; but do you know, Dick, nurse says she wishes I would take pattern by Dolores and behave like a little lady. She, nurse I mean, says I am to mend my frocks myself now,” glancing ruefully at a long tear in her print dress.
“Never mind what nurse says; you are worth twenty of Dolores. Here, pin up your frock anyhow, and come along. I found such a patch of blackberry bushes yesterday, and I wouldn't tell anybody but you.”
So away they went, leaving Dolores gazing wistfully after them, and wishing from the bottom of her heart that she had golden hair and blue eyes, and that she could run and climb trees like Sylvia: “Because, then, perhaps Dick would like me as much as he does her.”
Soon afterwards, Mr. Egerton took his daughter up to London to see the doctors, and then they returned to their West Indian home. But before they left, it was settled to everyone's satisfaction that in three years' time, when Dick was eighteen, he should go and try life on a sugar plantation.
During the three years, which passed quickly and uneventfully, Dick worked hard, for he meant to get on in the world, and being a sensible fellow, he realised that to do so necessitated more exertion on his part than merely sitting down to wait till the good things of life dropped into his mouth.
At last his eighteenth birthday had come and gone, he had written to Mr. Egerton telling him of his departure from England, he had been to London with his father to select his outfit, and his last day at home had come. It happened to be a Sunday and Dick had spent the afternoon saying good-bye to his friends the Fentons. He contrived to get Sylvia by herself for a moment and whispered to her, “Be at the lower garden gate to-morrow morning about seven o'clock, I want to speak to you.” Sylvia nodded, and Dick turned away to make arrangements as to correspondence, &c., with Jim Fenton, a lad of about his own age.
Next morning Dick was punctual to his appointment. It was a lovely summer morning, and Dick often, when melting beneath a tropical sun, thousands of miles away, recalled the delicious freshness of the air, and the blithe songs of the birds. Presently Sylvia appeared. She was now just sixteen and a very pretty girl, with a delicate complexion, blue eyes and golden hair, which had excited the envy of Dolores Egerton three years before. But that morning she looked pale and had dark circles under her eyes, a fact which Dick observed and commented on.
“You've been crying,” he said bluntly.
“Yes, I know I have, it is so hateful you're going away,” answered Sylvia, simply. “But it wasn't all on your account, Dick. You will think I am very silly, but I had such an awful dream last night. I thought I was sitting in a strange room in front of the looking-glass and I felt there was someone else in the room, and yet I could see nobody. But presently I knocked something off the table and I stooped to pick it up, and when I looked in the glass again, there was the most frightful face looking over my shoulder. I tried to scream but I couldn't, and I tried to move but I couldn't, and then it raised its hand; only just then I woke shaking with fright. It does not sound very bad now,” she added apologetically, “but it was awful at the time.”
“ickled onions,” said Dick, practically: “You know you had cold beef and pickled onions for supper last night, after church, so I don't see what else you could expect but nightmare. But never mind that now, Sylv., I want you to promise to marry me some day when I've made my fortune. I think I have a very good chance of getting on, and I shall work all the harder if I think I am working for you. You don't care about anyone else, do you dear?”
“Why, of course not, Dick. You know I like you better than anyone else, better even than Jim.” Jim being her favourite brother.
“But do you think you are fond enough of me to marry me? You see, Sylv. I must be away five or six years, and
“I'm sure I shall never like anyone more than you, Dick dear. But perhaps you may change your mind and want to marry somebody else. There's Dolores, you know, she must be awfull, pretty, judging by her photograph, and she was always fond of you.”
“Dolores, indeed,” said Dick contemptuously. “Her photograph is pretty, certainly, but nothing like yours. No fear of my falling in love with her, Sylvia. Now that is settled, don't you think you might give me a kiss, and I want a bit of your hair, it is such a lovely colour.”
Sylvia accorded both gifts with a very good grace, and then Dick said he must go home or he would be missed. They agreed to keep their engagement secret for fear of being laughed at as silly children, but they were to correspond through the medium of Sylvia's brother Jim. So the boy and girl lovers parted, strong in their youthful love, and hardly thinking of the years that would pass before they met again, and the changes that must take place in so long a time.
Dick got home without being missed, and after bidding his family farewell, (a work of time), he and his father started for Liverpool, whence Dick was to sail. Here his father took leave of him, and Dick found himself fairly launched in the world, to sink or swim.
His voyage was not remarkable in any way, but he thoroughly enjoyed it; making friends with the whole crew from captain to cabin boy, and with the only other passenger, an elderly man who, having spent the greater part of his life on a plantation, had just made a trip home to see his relations. From him Dick learnt a good deal about life on the West Indian Islands, and found also that he lived not far from the Egertons’. Of course he asked Mr. Dakin if he knew them.
“Yes,” answered that gentleman, “I do, intimately in fact. You have fallen on your feet my lad. Eden is one of the most paying properties on the island and Egerton is
“I'm sure I hope she won't,” said Dick naively.
The old planter roared with laughter.
“Well!” said he, “you are the first young fellow I ever met who hoped the prettiest girl in the country would not favour him. But you will change your mind when you see her.”
“Oh no! I shan't,” answered Dick gravely. “You see, (it's a secret, but I'm sure I can trust you), I am engaged to the dearest girl in the world. Her people don't know it, nor do mine, but when I'm getting on well and have good prospects, I am going home to marry her.”
“How old is she? if it's not an impertinent question,” asked Mr. Dakin.
“Just sixteen, two years younger than I am. But it will probably be about six years before we are married.”
“And do you expect her to wait for you all that time?”
“Certainly I do,” replied Dick indignantly. “She promised she would. I did tell her though, that if she liked anyone better than me she was not to consider herself bound. But I'm not afraid, I know she will be true to me.”
“Poor children!” muttered the planter to himself, then continued aloud, “Well, my boy, I hope you and your little girl will be happy. I suppose I am not to breathe a word of this?”
“No, please don't, we should only be laughed at. And we are rather young perhaps,” said Dick modestly. Then the conversation dropped, nor was the subject renewed for the rest of the voyage, till they parted at the end of it.
“Good-bye, Dick,” said Mr. Dakin. “Go on and prosper my lad, and remember that you have an object in life. Nothing steadies a young man so effectually. Remember me to Egerton and the fair Dolores. I shall come over soon to see you all.”
Dick shook his friend's hand heartily, and set about collecting his various belongings. On landing he had received a note from Mr. Egerton, telling him to stay the night in the little sea-port town and that he would be sent for next day. So he took a room in an hotel, and then walked about the town, thoroughly enjoying the novelties of the scene. After he went indoors, he wrote a couple of letters, one to his mother and one to Jim Fenton, enclosing a tiny note to Sylvia. Next day he was up betimes, but early as he was, he had scarcely finished his breakfast when a light waggonette drawn by a couple of spirited horses and driven by Mr. Egerton, drew up at the door. A hearty greeting passed between Dick and his godfather.
“Now, what luggage have you? Put your portmanteau in here, and show José what else there is and he will see that it comes up to-morrow with the stores. That's right, jump in, we are going to lunch with some neighbours of ours. Dolores has been staying with them, and we'll pick her up there and take her home.”
“How is Dolor— I mean Miss—” stammered Dick, not quite sure if he were to continue on the old familiar terms.
“You need not be so ceremonious,” laughed Mr. Egerton, seeing his dilemma, “Call her Dolores, she always speaks of you as Dick. She is as well as she ever is,” he continued, growing serious. “But I fear she will never be strong, she is too like her—.”
He stopped abruptly, and Dick, who had learnt from Mr. Dakin that Mrs. Egerton had died of consmuption, not knowing quite what to say, wisely remained silent.
Presently Mr. Egerton roused himself, and asked after Major Darrell and his family. Dick told all the home news, and then gave an account of his voyage, delivering Mr. Dakin's message.
“Yes, Dakin is a capital companion and a shrewd man. He is a neighbour of ours. Now, there is the place where we are going to stop for an hour or two;” pointing with his whip to a low white building which had just become visible. “It belongs to a Spanish family called Guzman, connections of my wife. Magdalena, the youngest girl, is a great friend of Dolores.”
Soon they stopped in front of the house and alighted. Dick was presented to a dark, rather stout lady with the remains of great beauty, to a tall, thin gentleman who courteously bade him welcome, and to several pretty dark-eyed girls, amongst whom he looked vainly for Dolores.
“Where is my little girl?” asked Mr. Egerton as soon as the introductions and greetings were over.
“Dolores! she was here a minute or two ago, I think she is shy.” Answered one of the girls, laughing.
Just then the door opened and Dolores appeared. Dick instantly decided that her photograph did not do her justice. In a subsequent letter home, he said so, adding: “she is simply lovely. I had no idea that any girl could have such glorious eyes. Perhaps they look so big because her face is small and rather pale, but they are such a colour! Don't be jealous, dear,” (he was writing to Sylvia) “you know I like blue eyes best, but her's are wonderful.”
In spite of this reassuring statement, Sylvia did feel a jealous pang, which was not soothed by overhearing a remark made to her mother by Mrs. Darrell, to the effect that she should not be at all surprised if Dolores and Dick made a match. “It would be so very appropriate, my husband and Mr. Egerton being such old friends, you know. They used to play together as boy and girl and I do believe in marrying young, don't you? Besides, then the property need not be divided.”
Sylvia might have spared herself her bitter forebodings. Although Dick greatly admired Dolores, and as he learnt to know her grew to love her as a sister, he never for an instant swerved from his love for his blue-eyed maid.
But to return to the Egertons and Dick. After a rest of three or four hours, they took their deparature for Eden,
Mamie smiled, showing a brilliant set of teeth, and murmured, more to herself than in answer to her master, “Could never neglect Miss Dolores.”
They drove on through the most lovely scenery for about an hour, Mr. Egerton pointing out various objects of interest. Then the road took a sharp turn, and they found themselves close to the sea but at some height above it. Half-a-mile further, and they drew up before a low, one storied house built in two sides of a square, and with a deep verandah all round it. No sooner did they stop than what seemed to Dick to be a countless swarm of negroes, appeared to welcome them. Mr. Egerton gave the reins to a grinning youth who rejoiced in the name of Lucifer, and hurried to help his daughter down; then turning to Dick, he exclaimed: “Welcome to Eden, my boy. I hope it will be your home for many a year. Now we will go in and wash our hands, and then you will be glad of some dinner.”
After this important ceremony was over, Mr. Egerton asked Dick if he smoked, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, proposed that they should adjourn to the verandah for coffee and a pipe. Here Dolores joined them for a short time but retired early on the plea of fatigue. Mr. Egerton went away to give some orders, and Dick was left by himself to gaze at the loveliest scene be thought he had ever set eyes on.
The house was built on a natural terrace with just enough room left in front for a lawn, smoothly sloping to the edge of the terrace, the side of which was thickly covered with
Next morning, Mr. Egerton took Dick over the estate, introduced him to the manager, a shrewd, elderly Scotchman named MacPherson, and initiated him into his new duties. He was to be a sort of assistant to MacPherson, and to make himself acquainted with all the details of the work, with a view to being eventually manager himself.
There is no need to enter into any particulars as regards Dick's life for the next six years. He worked hard, doing all he had to do thoroughly and carefully, so that MacPherson took a great liking to him and sang his praises diligently to Mr. Egerton, who grew very fond of the lad, at first for his father's sake, and afterwards for his own. As for Dolores, she used to wonder how life had ever been supportable before Dick came. They were the greatest friends; Dick, truth to say, treating her as a sister or cousin. They often talked about the Darrells and the Fentons; Dolores taking great interest in Dick's home letters which he generally gave her to read. Several times he was on the point of confiding to her his engagement to Sylvia, but an undefined feeling always prevented his doing so. He heard regularly from Jim Fenton and there was always an enclosure from Sylvia. One birthday she sent him a present of a small gold locket with a photograph of herself in it. This he henceforward were on his watch-chain, and though Dolores noticed it directly, she did not like to ask whence it came.
His affection for Dolores won him the affection of Mamie, who regarded him as second only to her young mistress, and her one hope and belief was that the two would marry. Such, indeed, was the general opinion, though it was never spoken of openly. Truly, Master Dick's lines had fallen in pleasant places.
It was the fifteenth of June, six years later, and Dick's twenty-fourth birthday. He had just returned from the port, whither he had gone to get stores and to fetch the English mail.
Amongst his letters was the usual one from young Fenton, enclosing a note from Sylvia. She wrote rather seriously, saying that her father and mother wished her to accept a very good offer she had received. She had refused very decidely but could give no sufficient reason for so doing, as she was obliged to admit that she liked the man; and she begged Dick to allow her to tell of their engagement, if he still wished for it. She finished her letter by saying:
“If you have changed your mind and want to marry
anyone else, write and tell me so, because of course it is a long time since you saw me, and, judging from your account, the Spanish girls must be very lovely. I shall look out for the next mail. Till then I remain,” Your loving Sylvia.
“P.S.—Remember me to Dolores. Is she as pretty as ever?”
Dick laughed when he read this letter.
“What a jealous little thing it is! However, she is quite right about announcing our engagement; besides, there is no reason for keeping silence any longer, I am getting on so well. I will speak to Uncle Dick about it to-night.” Mr. Egerton was no blood relation, but Dick had gradually got into the way of calling him uncle.
Accordingly, that evening after dinner, when the two men were smoking in the verandah, with Dolores softly palying the piano in the dimly lighted drawing-room, Dick was screwing up his courage to broach the subject, when Mr. Egerton suddenly said:
“By the way, Dick, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four to-day, Uncle Dick.”
“Twenty-four, are you Dear me, how time flies! It seems only the other day that you came here, and it must be six years ago. It's about time you took a run home to see your people.”
“How odd that you should say that. I was thinking, only to-day, of speaking to you on that very subject.”
“Well, the fact is, MacPherson was talking to me this morning. He says he has saved some money, and wants (as he expresses it) ‘to go home and die among Christians.’ Not that he looks much like dying at present. He tells me that you are quite capable of taking his place. What do you think, yourself? I have always intended that you should succeed me, but you are a young man and possibly may not like the idea of settling here for life.”
“Uncle Dick, you are too good to me. I can wish for nothing better. I don't know how to thank you.”
“Then don't try, my boy. Yes, I have always meant this property for you, as I told your father. I spoke to Dolores about it, and she quite agrees with me. She will have about £50,000 of her own when I die, and that is quite enough for a girl.”
Dick began to stammer some protestations of gratitude, but Mr. Egerton quickly stopped him. “So that is settled. Now, I propose that you should go home to England, see your people, and have a fling for about six months or a year, and then come back and take MacPherson's place. Who knows, you may bring back a wife with you.”
Mr. Egerton spoke jestingly, and he was considerably surprised when his godson promptly replied:
“Well, if you don't mind, Uncle Dick, I think I will. You see, I have been engaged these six years, and—”
“The deuce you have!” exclaimed Mr. Egerton, fairly taken aback. “And to whom, may I ask?”
“To Sylvia Fenton. I don't suppose you remember her.”
“And do her parents and yours know of this?”
“No, they don't. You see, we were rather young when I left England.”
“I should think so,” interjected Mr. Egerton.
“And we thought perhaps they would not allow it, but now I am sure they will.”
“You certainly deserve a reward for your constancy. So this, then, is the reason you have worked so hard. MacPherson said he never saw a young fellow work as you have done unless he had some object. Well, now you can go home with flying colours and claim your bride. What is her name? Sylvia, a very pretty name too. I've half a mind to go with you and take Dolores. She would enjoy the trip. What do you say, childie?” he added, for just then Dolores stepped through the open French window on to the verandah.
“Say about what, padre dear?” she asked, putting her pretty hands on her father's shoulders.
Six years before. Mr. Dakin had declared that Dolores would be the loveliest girl on the island. His prophecy had come true. Better in health than she had ever been before, though still rather delicate, she might have been taken as a perfect type of refined brunette beauty. Her eyes were her most striking feature. Dick had raved about their loveliness years ago, to Sylvia, and they had become, if possible, softer and more lustrous. It was only when she dropped her eyelids that the fascinated spectator, especially if of the nobler sex, observed the perfection of the beautifully cut features and clear olive skin, the dark hair plaited in a coronet round the shapely head, and the slender, graceful figure. She was dressed that evening in some soft, white material, with a deep red flower in her bosom.
As she stood by her father, he looked up at her with fond pride, and only when she repeated her question, answered.
“Why about going to England, dear.”
“To England!” echoed Dolores in astonishment. “Why should v. e go there?”
She stooped as she spoke, to pick up the flower which had fallen from her dress.
“Well, Dick here, is going by the next ship. He is anxious to get married. Fancy the rascal having been engaged all these years, and never telling us.”
Mr. Egerton was lighting a cigarette, and Dick was gazing straight before him thinking of his good luck, so they neither of them saw how the girl's face flushed and then became paler than before; nor did either notice that her hands shook so, that she could scarcely fasten the flower in her dress. However, she did it at last, and then said:
“He has certainly kept his secret very closely all this time. I think though, that you might have trusted us Dick.”
“I nearly told you several times,” replied young Darrell apologetically, for Dolores' voice was rather reproachful—“only somehow, I don't know why, I never did.”
“But you have not asked the lady's name,” broke in Mr. Egerton, cheerily. “Come, I will give you three guesses.”
“I suppose it is Sylvia Fenton,” answered Dolores, sitting down and looking out over the sea.
“Well guessed!” said her father. “Is she pretty, Dick?”
“I think so. Here is her photograph.” Said Dick, unfastening a locket from his watch-chain, and handing it proudly round for inspection.
“Very pretty,” commented Mr. Egerton, “is she not, dear?” passing the locket to Dolores, who looked at the photograph steadily for some moments, and then returned it to the owner, merely remarking:
“She is very fair, isn't she?”
“Very!” returned Dick, enthusiastically. “She is so pretty, with the most lovely golden hair, (I'll show you a bit if you like), and blue eyes,—but surely you must remember.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Dolores, indifferently, then, as Dick looked hurt at her lukewarmness, she added:
“We will have a long talk to-morrow, but I am so tired now after my ride this afternoon, that I hardly know what I am saying. Besides it was such a sudden announcement
The last six years had altered him very slightly, beyond changing him from an unformed youth to a man. Though he had grown in mind and body, he still remained curiously boyish in many ways. One of his peculiarities was a habit of always saying exactly what he thought, having a great contempt for some of the polite fictions of society; wherefore his enemies, who were few, stigmatized him as an “unmannerly cub;” and his friends, who were many, said he “was a little brusque perhaps, but refreshingly frank and ingenuous.” He loved Sylvia dearly, but in a protecting manner, not by any means worshipping her as a goddess; nor was he troubled with any doubts as to whether he were worthy of her. He was sure that he loved her and that she returned his affection; what more could be wanted? As to her parents' reception of his proposal, he had few misgivings on that subject. Being heir to his godfather's property, he was a good match in a money point of view; and in other ways, he considered that if he were not superior to the average young man, at least he was by no means inferior. Hence it will be seen, that as previously stated, Dick was decidedly practical and had plenty of self-con-fidence. Occasionally, however, he lapsed into a sentimental mood, and this night, he sat smoking and dreaming till Mr. Egerton announced that it was time to go to bed.
When Dolores left the verandah, she went straight to her room where Mamie was waiting, as usual, for her. She was in a silent mood, and as Mamie was of a taciturn disposition, there was very little talking. Only as she was brushing her mistress' long, silky black hair, Mamie remarked:
“It's Master Dick's birthday to-day.”
“I know it is,” said Dolores, “he is going to England next month to get married.”
“Married!” repeated Mamie, blankly.
“Yes. To such a pretty girl. They have been engaged ever since he left England. I used to know her long ago. She has beautiful golden hair, not dark stuff like this,” drawing out a lock of her own silky tresses. Then Dolores fell into a reverie, undisturbed by Mamie, who made no comment on the news and scarcely spoke again, only she was more tender than usual to her pet. But when she had said good-night and left the room, her face, always ugly, grew absolutely repulsive as she walked away shaking her head and muttering to herself.
The idea of Mr. Egerton and his daughter making a trip to England, died a natural death. Mr. Egerton did broach the subject again to Dolores, but she objected very decidedly, and gave so many ingenious reasons, that her father abandoned the plan, though feeling convinced that none of the reasons adduced was the true one.
Therefore he told Dick, who was making plans for all, that he found he should not be able to leave home so soon. Dick was much disappointed, and frankly told Dolores that he had been counting on her presence at his wedding perhaps even, she might have been a bridesmaid.
“You would have enjoyed it so,” he said. “At least I know my sisters think a wedding the best fun going. Couldn't you come with me now, and Uncle Dick can come later and fetch you.”
But Dolores with a little smile, gave him to understand that even the prospect of being bridesmaid was not sufficient to tempt her away.
“Besides,” said she—“you know the padre cannot get away and I couldn't leave him. What would he do without me?”
“Well, as to that, I suppose you will have to leave him some day when you get married.”
“I don't think I shall ever marry.”
“Oh! that is nonsense,” said Dick, with an air of much experience. “All girls say that, but they change their minds afterwards. Wait till you are in love with some fellow, and see what a difference that will make in your ideas. You will marry him fast enough then.”
“But perhaps he won't want to marry me,” objected Dolores.
“My dear girl,” said Dick solemnly, “You are the nicest and prettiest girl I ever saw, except of course Sylvia. I'm not sure though,” looking at her critically, “I am not at all sure that most people would not think you were the best looking; and I'm certain any man would be only too glad to have you for his wife. You need not fret yourself. Perhaps you will be engaged by the time I bring Sylvia here. Why you know,” he continned, grinning, “that the ‘White Elephant’ is dying of love for you. But you mustn't marry him, Dolores. It makes me quite unhappy to think that you may yield to his fascinations while I'm away. I should certainly forbid the banns.”
Dolores laughed outright as she answered;
“I think I can promise you that I won't marry him, Dick.”
The ‘White Elephant’ be it remarked, was a ponderous youth who lived on the next plantation, and whose unwieldy form and pasty complexion had gained for him the above nickname. For the last year he had been heaving heavy sighs at Dolores' feet. He had proposed to her once and been gently, yet firmly, dismissed, but he still cherished a despairing passion, partly because he fancied that it cast a halo of romance round him, and partly because he had always read in novels that a hopeless attachment had a wasting effect upon the figure.
After this conversation, Dick often favoured Dolores with a monologue on the subject of Sylvia; that is, whenever he could spare the time from packing and other preparations for his absence. He was to sail by the next ship, and consequently was very busy.
When the last day came, and he said good-bye to Dolores, she entrusted him with a small packet to be given to Sylvia with her love. She was in high spirits that day, and bade Dick to be sure not to lose his heart on the way home, as she had heard that there were some very pretty girls going in the same ship.
At first Dick took her laughing caution seriously, and replied with much indignation: “What a ridiculous notion. Why, if you didn't make me forget Sylvia, certainly no other girl would. You must have a very bad opinion of me, if you think I fall in love with every girl I meet. Ah! I see you are laughing at me. Now, I must really go, Uncle Dick is shouting for me. I say, won't you give me a kiss, Dolores, for luck?”
They were standing together in the drawing-room. Mr. Egerton, who was going to drive Dick to the port, was bustling about outside, giving last orders, and causing a most unnecessary amount of fuss. Dolores hesitated a moment, then bending forward, she laid her lips lightly on Dick's, and whispered, “Good luck to you, dear.”
Dick squeezed her hand, and then rushed off in answer to another loud summons from Mr. Egerton. He stopped on the way, however, to hold out his hand to Mamie and say cheerily:
“Good-bye, Mamie. By-the-way, you have never wished me good luck.”
The old negress looked at him and then said:
“I wish good luck to you, Master Dick, and to your bride—as much as you deserve.”
“I'm afraid that won't be a great deal,” answered Dick carelessly, without thinking much about the matter; then he jumped up on to the box-seat beside Mr. Egerton, waving his hand to Dolores, who stood on the verandah, watching till the waggonette had rolled swiftly out of sight.
Some weeks later, Miss Sylvia Fenton was playing billiards with her brother Jim. It was just before dinner, the lamps were lighted, and the bright light falling on Sylvia as she moved round the table, showed her to be as pretty a girl as one would wish to see, her fair beauty set off and heightened by the black evening dress she wore.
“Come, Sylvia,” said Jim, lighting a cigarette, “you really must play up, you are a long way behind. What are you going to play for now, child?”
“I was going to put down the red,” answered his sister, preparing to do so.
“I doubt if you'll do it; it's not an easy stroke. By-the-way, I wonder I haven't heard from Dick lately, he must have missed two mails. Ah! I thought so—” as Sylvia's ball, striking the red one on the wrong side, drove it in the opposite direction to that originally intended—“I said you couldn't do it, but you women are so obstinate.”
“I don't think there is any chalk on my cue,” said Sylvia humbly; then, as she rectified the omission, she went on rather timidly: “Has another West Indian mail come in then, Jim? I know you didn't hear by the last one.”
Jim did not reply immediately, his energies were all devoted to the accomplishment of a difficult cannon. Having succeeded, and being thereby put into the best of tempers, he answered in good-natured chaff:
What a fearful little humbug you are, Sylvia. As if you didn't know when the mails are due far better than I do. It's my opinion,” he continued, walking round the table to make a fresh stroke—“that there is something up between you and Dick I notice that the enclosure to you in my letter has increased considerably in size, and the ‘little note’ you send to him is a good deal bigger than it used to be. I shall have to write and ask him his intentions. Hallo! what are you about?” he added, as he looked at the marking board, to which Sylvia had turned in hopes of hiding a vivid blush—“You've been marking yourself instead of me, and you are as red as a turkey-cock. This”—assuming a tragic manner—“must be examined into. If Dick has been trifling with your young affections, he shall answer for it to a justly incensed—What is it?” as a trim maid-servant appeared at the door.
“Please sir, a boy have just brought a note for you, and it's very pertickler.”
“Any answer?”
“No, sir. The boy just give it in at the back door and said it was very important, and then ran away.”
“Very mysterious,” ejaculated Jim, opening the note; “is it from some dark-eyed damsel who is smitten with my charms and appoints a midnight meeting, or is it a dun? By Jove, it's from — Here, Mary, tell Fraser to saddle the grey colt directly. Sylvia, I'm called away on business and shan't be in to dinner so you must make some excuse for me. Say I've gone to the moon, if you like.” With these injunctions, he hastily departed, and shortly afterwards, Sylvia heard the sound of the grey colt's hoofs dying away in the distance.
At the dinner table she announced Jim's sudden departure, and public curiosity was much excited thereby, but was not gratified that evening, as Jim did not re-appear till late.
Sylvia was just falling asleep, when she heard a husky whisper of “Sylvia, are you awake?” and Jim stole into her room.
“What do you want, Jim?” she asked.
His reply seemed somewhat irrelevant.
“I think.” he said, in an injured voice, “that you might have told me about it. You are the closest girl I ever met. However, I will forgive you, and present you with my consent and blessing if you care to have it.”
“What do you mean? Where have you been?”
“I have been,” answered Jim, “enjoying the society of a friend who has just returned from foreign parts, having made his pile. I have here a note for you, that is, if it isn't lost,” he continued mischievously, searching in every pocket but the right one. “Ah! here it is. But don't you want to know who it's from?” holding it just out of her reach.
“Oh, Jim, do give it to me.”
“There, then! it shan't be teased any more. Take it, and bless you, my children. Dear, dear! to think that I should ever figure as a messenger of love, as a—, in short, as a gooseberry.” And sadly shaking his head, Jim softly retired.
Sylvia lit a candle and read her note. It was from Dick, saying that he had only just arrived in England, that he had told Jim everything, and that that young gentleman thought it would be all right with the authorities. He ended by begging Sylvia to meet him next morning before breakfast, at the same garden gate where they had parted six years before.
Sylvia read the note, kissed it, and then putting it under her pillow, tried to go to sleep. For a long time her efforts were vain. She thought of Dick, and wondered if he had changed much, if he would find her altered; speculated as to what her parents would say, then what his relations would think; wondered again if Dolores were really so very lovely as was reported; tossed and turned, and finally, having “just decided, that it was useless trying to sleep, and that the night would never end, she dropped off into an uneasy slumber.
She fancied that she was in a prettily furnished bedroom, sitting in front of a dressing-table with a large looking-glass on it. Her hair was floating on her shoulders and she wore a loose white gown. She felt restless and nervous, afraid of something, though she knew not what. In her agitation, she knocked something off the table, and stooped to pick it up. As she did so, a feeling came over her that she was not alone in the room, and raising her head, she saw in the looking-glass a black, fearful face looking over her shoulder. A skinny arm was raised, and then in her fright she gave a scream and woke.
The dream was terribly vivid, and seemed strangely familiar. She fancied she must have dreamt the same before, but had no distinct recollection of doing so. Puzzling over the matter, she fell asleep again, and this time slept peacefully till morning.
When she woke, she remembered her appointment with her lover, so she dressed herself with particular care, and started to meet him, but as she drew near the garden gate, she hesitated.
“It is six years since Dick has seen me,” she thought. “I must have changed greatly, for I was only a child then.
Accordingly she turned, and was walking slowly away, when she heard a quick step behind her, a strong arm was thrown round her waist, and glancing up, she met Dick's eyes with a look in them which set all her doubts at rest.
Some little time afterwards, they strolled up to the house together, arriving just as the gong summoned the family to breakfast. Dick was warmly welcomed, and in the general bustle and confusion of question and answer, no one noticed Sylvia's silence and unusually rosy cheeks.
After the meal was over, Dick, evidently thinking that there was no time to be lost, asked Mr. Fenton if he might speak to him in his study,“on business.” The Squire agreed directly, though he greatly wondered what manner of business Dick could possibly wish to transact with him. Nor was his Surprise lessened when Dick, carefully shutting the door, quietly said:
“I hope you won't be very angry Squire, but the fact is Sylvia and I have been engaged since before I left England; and now that I am getting on and have good prospects, I have come back to ask your consent to our marriage.”
This perfectly cool and matter-of-fact statement of the case, together with its total unexpectedness, fairly took away Mr. Fenton's presence of mind. For a minute or two he said nothing, and Dick taking courage, went on to plead his cause with so much earnestness that the Squire felt his anger at the long deception, gradually oozing away. Besides, Sylvia was his favourite child, and he had always had a great liking for Dick, who was also, as he had said, thanks to Mr. Egerton, well able to support a wife. He could think of no valid objection to the match, but he justly considered that it was necessary to vindicate outraged paternal authority, so he sternly demanded:
“And how do you justify yourself in leading a mere child like Sylvia into a secret engagement, involving such a long course of deception?”
“I know it was very wrong,” answered Dick, “but I was so fond of her, and I thought if I said anything about it then, you would tell me I was too young to know my own mind. Besides, I left her free to throw me ove if she saw anyone she liked better. As to her being such a child, why I've heard you say that Mrs. Fenton was not seventeen when you got engaged to her.”
The Squire coughed. Of course it was ridiculous to suppose that his conduct formed any precedent for, or palliated the impropriety of Dick's behaviour. Still, he felt that it would be difficult to convince his daughter's suitor of the difference between the two cases. So he said more mildly:
“At all events, I did not ask Mrs. Fenton to deceive her parents, nor to wait for six years.”
“No,” returned Dick, “your path was quite amooth; I have had to make my own way in the world. Of course if it had not been for the kindness of my godfather, I should not have got on so well, but I have worked hard, and it was all for Sylvia's sake.”
Mr. Fenton, always soft-hearted, was touched.
“Well, well,” said he, “we'll see about it.” Then falling back on his last resource: “You know I must see what my wife says, it all rests with her. I suppose she knows nothing about this precious affair?”
“Sylvia was going to tell her while I was speaking to you.”
“Oh! Then you had better go and find Sylvia, and tell her to ask her mother to come here.”
Dick departed on this errand, much relieved that the interview was over, and feeling that being sent to Sylvia was a tacit consent on the part of the Squire. He had not far to go for he found Sylvia waiting in the passage, and delivered his message. She ran away to tell her mother and then returned, exclaiming eagerly:
“Was daddy very angry?”
“He was at first, but I think it will be all right, I'm sure he will consent if your mother isn't against it. What did she say?”
“She was very displeased and hurt at my deceiving her so long, but Jim came in and made her laugh, (you know what a pet he is of her's) by saying that there was no good making any objections as he had given his consent and had looked after us all the time. She sent him away, but she wasn't angry after that. She asked what your parents thought about it, and I said that they were very pleased, so she said that she liked you very much, but she had always understood you were to marry Dolores.”
“I can't think why everyone has got that idea in their heads,” interrupted Dick, irritably. “When I told my mother last night, she said she had hoped I would marry Dolores. I told her that as far as that went, I wasn't in love with Dolores nor she with me. She doesn't care for anyone more than her father. She would not come to England, though I asked her to be your bridesmaid, because she wouldn't leave him. Besides, I always determined you should be my wife.”
Sylvia gave his arm a little squeeze and went on: “Then mother asked me if I were really very fond of you, and when I told her I was . . (don't, Dick!) . . she said she would speak to daddy, it depended on what he said.”
“Then it is as good as settled, Syl., they can't refuse now. The next question is, how soon shall we be married. It doesn't take long to get an outfit, does it?”
“Oh! my dear Dick, we can't get married yet.”
“Why not? We've been engaged six years. There is nothing to wait for now. We will be married in three weeks; that leaves plenty of time to publish the banns and for you to buy your fal-lals. Now, let's go into the garden.”
That morning the Squire rode down to the Darrells', and had an interview with the Major and his wife, which ended in a formal consent being given; and the engagement was duly announced, causing much excitement and rejoicing
So that it was a lovely morning in late autumn when the families of Fenton and Darrell, with their friends, assembled in the little village church; and Sylvia Fenton, looking prettier than ever in her bridal dress, became Mrs. Richard Darrell.
No need to describe the wedding; there is a general similarity about such festivities, from the tears that are shed at the beginning of the ceremony to the champagne that flows at the breakfast afterwards. At last everyone's health had been drunk; the clergyman (a family friend), who tied the knot, had made a solemn speech, the bridegroom an incoherent, and the best man a facetious one; the bride had changed her dress, and taken a tearful farewell of her relations; and amid the orthodox shower of rice and shoes, the young couple had driven away, en route for the Continent, where they intended to travel for two or three months.
Just before his wedding, Dick had written to his godfather, announcing the happy termination of his wooing, and Sylvia had sent a note to Dolores, thanking her for her present and kind wishes.
While the young people were away, Major Darrell got a letter from Mr. Egerton. He said he had received Dick's communication, and he repeated what he had said about leaving his West Indian property to his godson. Then he went on to say that he was in great trouble about his daughter. She had been caught in a storm while out riding, and the wetting and exposure had brought on a severe attack of bronchitis. The doctor, the same who had attended her mother, feared that the lungs were
This letter was forwarded to Dick and Sylvia, who decided that they would curtail their travels and hasten back to the West Indies; Dick remarking: “After all, we have had a two months' honeymoon, and I think, considering how kind Uncle Dick has been, that we ought to settle down if he wants us to.”
So the next few weeks were spent in doing a little shopping, and in paying farewell visits to various relatives, and then they sailed. The voyage was greatly enjoyed by both; Sylvia, indeed, was almost sorry when it was ended, much as she looked forward to having a house of her own. When they arrived at their destination and had landed, they found the waggonette waiting for them, and a note from Mr. Egerton saying that he was sorry he could not come to meet them himself, but he did not like to leave Dolores for so long. They were to drive straight to their own house, and he would come down that evening to see them.
“Is Miss Dolores so ill, then?” asked Dick anxiously of the servant who had given him the note.
The man answered that the doctor had said that she was dying.
This news was a great shock to Dick and Sylvia. Young, healthy, and happy themselves, they had neither of them realised that Dolores' illness might be dangerous; though Major Darrell, on reading his friend's letter, had remarked to his wife that the feared the poor girl would follow in her mother's footsteps.
Dick made arrangements for the heavy luggage to follow next day, and then they started on their long drive. He asked the servant several questions as they went along, and learnt that Dolores never left her bed now, Mamie nursed her night and day, and that Mr. Egerton was nearly broken-hearted.
Dick did as he had been told, and drove straight to the manager's house, which was to be his and Sylvia's for the future. He was warmly welcomed by MacPherson, who succumbed to Sylvia's pretty face on the spot, and mentally forgave Dick for what he had hitherto considered his bad taste, in not falling in love with Dolores. He confirmed all that they had heard about Dolores' illness, saying that it was only a question of time.
According to promise, Mr. Egerton himself came down that evening. Dick was fairly startled to see how his godfather had aged during their brief separation; his hair, which had been only just grizzled, was now almost white, and his face was lined and sad. He did not stay long, evidently wishing not to depress the young couple, but unable to rouse himself to take any real interest in the conversation. He said that Dolores was very anxious to see them both, and to renew her acquaintance with Sylvia; so it was settled that they should go up to the big house next morning. Then he kissed Sylvia, and wishing her every happiness, went away.
Sylvia, saddened by the sight of such deep grief and tired with her journey, went to bed early, but Dick stayed late, talking with MacPherson. That gentleman said that anxious as he was to go home, he should not leave till, as he phrased it, everything was over. “Doctor says it is a galloping consumption she is in, and that she can't live a couple of months longer. It was foolish of Egerton to marry her mother, he knew there was consumption in the family; but there! he never gave it a thought, and she certainly was a lovely girl; Dolores is the very image of her. “T'is a sad home-coming for you young folks; your poor little wife looks scared to death, Dick. Take care of her, man; she's a bonny lass.”
“I mean to take care of her,” said Dick, rather indignantly. Then altering his tone, he went on:
“Poor Dolores! how sad for her to die so young; I think she is just my wife's age. I suppose Mamie takes it dreadfully to heart.” MacPherson could not repress a kindly grin at the unconscious pride with which Dick uttered the words “my wife.”
“Yes!” he said, filling his pipe afresh, “yes, Mamie is almost beside herself, as people say, with grief. Seriously, I believe that old woman is daft. She mutters and talks to herself all day, and the servants say that she speaks mysteriously of avenging someone's wrongs on someone else, but they don't know what she means, and very likely she doesn't know herself. But nobody could be a more devoted nurse.”
“Poor old thing!” said Dick, compassionately; and then the talk passed to other subjects.
Next day, according to the arrangement made with Mr. Egerton, Dick and Sylvia went up to the big house. They were met on the verandah by Mr. Egerton, who in the bright sunlight looked even older and more worn than on the previous night.
“I am glad you've come early,” he said, shaking hands, “Dolores has been asking for you. She seems brighter to-day. Will you come and see her now, Sylvia? Not you, Dick; she is not allowed to see more than one visitor at a time.”
So saying, he led the way to Dolores' room, Sylvia following in silence. Mr. Egerton opened the door.
“Well, dear, I've brought an old friend to see you. You could recognise her from her photograph, couldn't you?”
Dolores raised herself on her elbow, eagerly stretching out a wasted hand.
“Dear Sylvia,” she said, “I am so glad to see you again. Sit down and tell me all the news about everyone in England. Mamie,” to that repulsive individual, “give Mr. Dick's wife a chair.”
The old negress sulkily handed Sylvia a seat, who, as she took it, uttering a word of thanks, was half-frightened at the look of dislike the woman cast on her. Gladly she turned to Dolores, who was asking after mutual friends. Sylvia answered as well as she could, but, in fact, she was so horrified at the difference in Dolores from what she had been led to expect, that she hardly knew what she was
Dolores did not seem to notice her abstraction, and Sylvia at last roused herself to talk and give an account of the voyage. Presently Mr. Egerton came in again, followed by Dick. Sylvia watched her husband intently as he took Dolores' hand, but she could find no cause for uneasiness in the look of great pity that shone out of Dick's blue eyes. He said very little, and indeed Mr. Egerton soon hurried them both away, fearing lest his daughter should suffer from the excitement. Dolores begged Sylvia to come again, which she promised to do, and then she and Dick walked home together. On the way, they spoke of nothing but the sick girl, and as Sylvia listened to Dick's frank comments on the change in Dolores, and heard his outspoken words of affection and pity, she felt all her jealousy fade away, and resolved that Dick, at least, should never know how foolish she had been.
Sylvia went again next day to see Dolores, and it grew to be a settled thing that she should spend part of every morning with the invalid, and that in the evening she and Dick should stroll up after dinner and stay a short time with Mr. Egerton and his daughter.
Thus the time passed tranquilly for more than a month, and by then Sylvia had won the love of Mr. Egerton, and indeed of every soul on the plantation except Mamie. Do what she would, be as winning as she knew how, still the woman remained sulky and uncivil. Dolores spoke to her on the subject, but it was of no use. She only muttered something to herself; and the general impression was the same as MacPherson's, that the old negress was half crazy with grief.
Dolores sank every day, but so gradually that the watchers scarcely knew it. As she and Sylvia grew more intimate, she would speak sometimes of her own approaching death.
The first time she did so, Sylvia, who had grown passionately fond of her, burst into a fit of weeping. Dolores kissed and soothed her.
“Don't cry about it, my dear!” she said, “I have got quite used to the idea, myself. Somehow, I always fancied that I should die young as my mother did. And I don't mind so much now, leaving the padre, for, Sylvia dear, I am sure you will try and take my place. I used at first to think that he would be so lonely; but now, I hope you will be his second daughter. He is very fond of you already, and said the other day, that, good fellow as Dick was, he was in luck to get such a nice little wife. Don't cry so, dear, don't cry.
But Sylvia, thoroughly overcome, sobbed out a piteous confession of her jealousy on Dick's account, and the unjust, bitter thoughts she had entertained towards Dolores.
Dolores listened patiently, stroking Sylvia's hair the while, then she said:
“Poor little girl, how unhappy you must have been. My dear, Dick never cared for me except as a sister. I am sure he never gave a thought to any woman but you, Now, kiss me, dear, and go; he will be wondering what has kept you.”
Sylvia did as she was bid, and the subject was never mentioned again between the two girls.
One morning, Sylvia had paid her customary visit to Dolores, who seemed unusually weak and exhausted. She kissed Sylvia very affectionately when she left, and bade her come early next day.
It happened to be a particularly warm morning, and as Sylvia walked home, she thought she had never felt anything so oppressive as the heavy, sultry heat, and in the afternoon she was glad to lie down and sleep, but she woke with a violent headache. After dinner, she told Dick that she should not go up to the big house that everning but would go early to bed. He thought that she was wise, and said that he himself would just go and see how Dolores was, and then return.
Sylvia stood on the verandah, watching him slowly walk away, and then turned into the drawing room. Everything was intensely still and quiet, with an almost unnatural silence, only broken now and then by the barking of a distant dog, or a burst of laughter from the servants' part of the house. MacPherson had gone away on business, and Sylvia felt very lonely and miserable. Her head was still aching badly, and the heat seemed to increase till she felt as if she could scarcely breathe.
She wandered from room to room, unable to settle to any employment and longing for the sound of Dick's voice and step. Surely she heard a foot-fall outside. She went on to the verandah and listened, her nerves strained to the utmost, but all was silent again, only a bird uttered a plaintive cry.
Again she turned back into the house; the pain in her head seemed almost too bad to bear, and she determined to try if gently brushing her hair would do any good, she had heard that it was an excellent thing for calming the nerves. So she went into her room, and exchanging her dress for a looae white wrapper, sat down before the dressing-table, and began to unfasten and let down her hair.
It happened that, only that very day, the position of the furniture had been slightly altered, and the dressing-table, which had a large glass, had been placed exactly opposite the door of Dick's dressing-room. Curiously enough, this arrangement seemed familiar to Sylvia as she sat down, and for a moment or two she wondered where she had seen a room arranged in a similar manner. She did not puzzle long, however, her thoughts wandered away to Dolores and then to her own far off home in Devonshire.
Presently she noticed that one of the candles had a “thief” in. it, so she raised her hand to remove it. As she did so, the loose sleeve of her dressing-gown caught the handle of her hair-brush and knocked it off the table.
She stooped to pick it up, and the half mechanical action suddenly recalled to her mind, where and how she had seen a room arranged in the same way as the one she was now occupying.
It was in a dream, that she had dreamt the night she heard of Dick's return to England; and again she remembered that she had had a precisely similar dream, years ago, the night before Dick had gone away to the West Indies.
Like a flash, the two dreams, with every detail, came back to her, and involuntarily she raised her head and looked in the glass, sickening with fear as she did so.
At first she saw nothing but the reflection of her own face, pale and drawn with fright, and behind her the half-open door of the dressing-room; but though she was apparently alone, she had a horrible feeling that someone or something was near her.
She gazed steadily at the mirror, indeed she could not turn her eyes away, and as she looked, she saw the door at her back swing open, noiselessly and very slowly, while in the doorway appeared that ghastly face she had seen in her dreams. As the creature crept forward, she dimly recognised that it was in the likeness of Mamie—Dolores' old black nurse; but she was too frightened to wonder what she could be doing there; and indeed, to the girl's excited imagination, the apparition seemed more like a supernatural being than human flesh and blood. She could neither move nor scream, only look steadily into the glass. Nearer and nearer came the repulsive thing, the white teeth gleaming in the dim light, and the black eyes flashing with unutterable hatred. It had now, woman or demon whichever it was, drawn so close to Sylvia that she could feel the hot breath on her neck. Then, as in her dreams, she saw a lean arm raised, with some glittering object grasped tightly in the powerful black hand. There was a second's pause which seemed to the terrified girl a century. The hand moved, and at that instant, as though in obedience to a signal, a vivid streak of blue lightning darted through the room, eclipsing the feeble glimmer of the candles, and lighting up and playing round the hideous, scowling face, an awful peal of thunder crashed over-head deadening the sound of a heavy fall, and Sylvia sank gently forward with her face on the table; whilst out of doors the rain descended in all the pitiless fury of a tropieal storm.
The moments passed, yet still Sylvia lay motionless; while on the spotless white of her wrapper appeared a little crimson stain that grew gradually deeper.
After a while, the violence of the storm abated, it broke out again once or twice, but less furiously each time, and at last died slowly away; the stars appeared once more in a cloudless heaven, and a soft little breeze arose, gently stirring the trees and shaking showers of drops from the branches.
When Dick left his wife, he strolled slowly up the drive to the big house. He had nearly reached the end of his walk, when he saw by the starlight a negro running, who stopped when he met Dick and gasped out a message that Mr. Egerton had sent for him.
“Anything the matter?”
“Miss Dolores dying, sir.”
“Dying!” repeated Dick, horror-struck; and throwing away his cigar, he set off running to the house. Arrived there, he pushed his way through the groups of excited, weeping servants, and asked for Mr. Egerton. Just as he spoke, that gentleman appeared. He grasped Dick's hand, saying huskily:
“Too late, Dick. She's—–she's dead.” Then turning away, went into his study and shut the door.
Dick stood bewildered for a minute or two, not liking to follow his godfather and not knowing quite what to do, but presently he heard the sound of a horse's hoofs, and the doctor, who had been sent for, came hastily in. Dick met him and in a few words told him all he knew, which indeed was but little. The doctor immediately hurried off to Dolores' room, but soon returned.
“Too true,” he said sadly. “Poor dear girl, her troubles are over. One comfort is, she must have gone off very quietly, she looks as though she were asleep. Where's her father? In his study, you say. Ah! then I won't disturb him just now. But where's the nurse?”
Dick did not know, he had not seen Mamie since he entered the house. On enquiry, it appeared that none of the servants had seen her either; she had been in the sickroom as usual, and no one had noticed her leaving it.
“Very odd,” commented the doctor. “I've thought for a long time that she was going mad, poor old woman; she was devoted to Dolores. And no wonder, for a sweeter girl never existed! I was as fond of her as of a child of my own. Poor young thing! I remember when her mother died, she went off in just the same way. I really thought Egerton would never recover from the blow; he only seemed to live for the child, and now she's gone too. I must go and speak to him.”
So the garrulous little man tapped at the study door.
“Come in,” said a muffled voice, and the doctor entered.
He stayed there some little time, and meanwhile Dick went on to the verandah, where he stood, looking out at the sea, and thinking sorrowfully of the dead girl.
Presently the doctor joined him.
“Poor Egerton,” he said, “he is fearfully upset. I am not going to leave him to-night; I have told them to make up a bed for me. Besides, I want to see the nurse, I had not the heart to question Egerton. It is most extraordinary where that woman has disappeared to. By-the-way, how is your wife?”
Dick said that she was not very well, had a bad headache.
“I am not surprised at that,” said the doctor, “she is not used to heat like this. It has been something fearful to-day, it is stifling now. We are going to have a terrible storm.”
“Yes, and soon too,” answered Dick, looking up at the rapidly clouding sky. “I think, if I cannot be of any use here, I shall go home before it breaks. Sylvia seemed rather nervous when I left. By Jove! what a flash!” he added, drawing back involuntarily; then as the thunder
The two men stopped talking; indeed, the rush of the rain drowned their voices, and they paced up and down the verandah in silence, waiting till the storm should exhaust itself. By degrees it grew fainter, and finally ceased, while a cool, fresh air blew in from the sea.
Dick was just about to take his departure, when the study door opened, and Mr. Egerton came out. He seemed pleased to find Dick still there, but in answer to young Darrell's eager enquiry as to whether he could be of any use said no; that he had better go home, or his wife would wonder what had become of him, and that he might come up next morning.
Dick shook hands heartily with his godfather and the doctor, and departed for his own home. When he got there, he saw lights in the servants' quarters, but all the front of the house, which was one-storied, was dark.
“Sylvia has gone to bed,” he thought. “Well, I am very glad of it; I shan't tell her this bad news till to-morrow.”
He stepped on to the verandah, and seeing that the French window of his dressing-room was open, he walked through, closing it after him. In the semi-darkness, he could just see that the door leading into Sylvia's room was open, so he went towards it and called her name softly. There was no answer, so he concluded that she was asleep, and turning back, lit a candle. With this in his hand, he was going gently to the door to close it, when he saw that his wife was sitting in a chair in front of the dressing-table, with her head resting on it, and her fair hair streaming over her shoulders.
“What a curious thing that she should have fallen asleep there,” he thought; and then he perceived a dark form lying on the floor behind her. He went quickly forward, and as he did so, caught sight of the crimson stain on his wife's white robe. Dismayed and horrified, he gently lifted her head. Thank God! she was not dead, but only
Great was Dick's relief to hear the Doctor's pony galloping down the drive, and then his voice in the hall, asking what was the matter. Dick called to him, and the little man bustled in, exclaiming: “They told me your wife was ill. Bless my soul, what's this? Blood—and a knife—and a dead body! Why,” stooping down to examine the corpse, “it's the missing woman, Dolores' nurse!”
“Curse her!” said Dick savagely. “Come here, doctor, and see what that black devil has done to my wife. But I don't think she is dead.”
“Dead! not a bit of it,” answered the doctor cheerfully, examining Sylvia. “It is only a flesh wound, not the least dangerous, though it might have been. She has had a narrow escape.”
So saying, he proceeded to dress the wound, and then endeavoured to rouse Sylvia from the dead faint in which she lay.
Meanwhile Dick, with the help of a servant, lifted Mamie's body into another room.
It was indeed the old negress, struck down by the lightning at the very moment when she was about to avenge the fancied wrongs of Dolores on the innocent Sylvia; whom she considered to be the cause of her darling's death. Her sharp eyes had discovered Dolores' affection for Dick, and she imagined that had it not been for the spell cast over him by Sylvia, he would have fallen in love with and married Dolores, and thereby saved her life. True, the doctor had said that Dolores was dying of consumption, but Mamie did not agree with him; she clung to the belief that her pet had died of a broken heart.
So she had slipped away from the side of the dead girl, determined to wreak a terrible vengeance on the triumphant rival who had caused so much sorrow.
No doubt, her conduct in this respect was highly culpable. Nay, harsh judges might even pronounce it Quixotic; though after all her chief mistake was in not laying sufficiently to heart the great rule—“never distress yourself about the misfortunes of others.”—Stand at a safe distance, if you like, and say “Poor thing,” and you will have done enough to satisfy the most exacting. Perhaps even too much, for have we not been told from our earliest copy books—“Be virtuous and you will be happy?” Which seems to imply that if you are unhappy it is because you are wicked. And we all know that the wicked deserve no pity.
So Mamie's death was but a just punishment for her officiousness in attempting to revenge the foster-child she loved so passionately. Had she been content to show true charity, and magnanimously forgive the sufferings, real or imaginary, inflicted on another, however dear that other might be, she would probably have lived happy and respected to a good old age.
But to return to Sylvia. When, after much trouble, the doctor succeeded in restoring her to consciousness, she looked round with a great shudder, as if she expected to behold some frightful vision. Not seeing anything, however, more alarming than Dick's anxious face, she sank back with a deep sigh of relief. The doctor forbade any questions being asked, and she soon dropped off into a sleep of exhaustion, tightly clasping her husband's hand.
She was ill next day, and weak from loss of blood, and it was some time before she recovered the effects of her fright; but the wound itself proved to be very slight, and speedily healed. Evidently the knife had only grazed her as it fell from Mamie's stricken hand.
After she was well, she narrated to Dick all the events of that night, and they puzzled together over the why and wherefore of the hatred shown by the old negress. For
The only people who had an inkling of the real state of the case were the doctor and MacPherson, who put two and two together, and arrived at much the right conclusion. But they agreed not to talk about it; the business was apparently a mystery, and the solving of it would benefit nobody. Perhaps Mr. Egerton had a glimpse of the truth, but if so, he never volunteered any information on the subject, and after creating much excitement and being a nine days' wonder, the affair was gradually forgotten.
Mr. Egerton could not bear to stay any longer in a place connected with such painful memories, so he made over the property to Dick, and spent the rest of his life in England, settling near his old friend Major Darrell.
Dick and Sylvia are a model couple, and very happy. They are the proud parents of a flourishing young family, and their eldest daughter is named Dolores. Sylvia is a firm believer in dreams, which, however, Dick rather poohpoohs. He asked her once what use did she fancy her two famous dreams had been to her.
“I think,” she answered, “they were sent as a warning to me not to marry you; because, of course, if I had not done so, I should not have come to the West Indies and been nearly killed.”
“That may be,” said Dick, “but then what is the good of being warned by a dream if you don't understand its meaning till afterwards? If you had not married me and been nearly killed, you would never have known what your dreams really meant.”
“I suppose not,” said his wife thoughtfully. Then she added: “Do you know, Dick, I believe that after all, if I had known what my dreams signified, I should not have taken the warning, but should have married you just the same.”
Dick's only comment on this speech was a kiss.
It was a lovely summer morning, and the pretty garden of Fetherston Rectory was a blaze of gay flowers and velvety turf. Helen Graham, the niece of the old rector, was strolling leisurely round the paths, stopping here and there to gather some choice bloom and add it to the dewy bunch already in her hand. Presently she reached the low entrance gate, and stood leaning her arms on the top bar, waiting till the postman should appear. She was a handsome girl, tall and straight, graceful with the grace which always accompanies a well-proportioned figure. Her grey eyes looked fearlessly out from thick black lashes, and her brown hair as it caught the rays of the sun was transformed into ruddy gold.
After waiting five minutes or so, Helen grew impatient, and muttering “Stupid old thing, he gets later every day,” she unlatched the gate and walked to the corner of the lane, whence she could see the length of the village street. Ah! there was the postman, close to her, and blushing at being thus detected, she turned and walked back towards the gate. But before she reached it the asthmatic old man overtook her, and wheezing out “Fine mornin', miss,” gave her a bundle of letters. Helen returned his greeting, and made enquiry after his asthma, but did not, perhaps, pay as much attention to his reply, as she might have done, had not her eyes been fixed eagerly on a letter, addressed in a bold hand to
Miss Graham,
Care of Rev. F. Graham,
Fetherston Rectory,
South Devon.
“I'm very sorry, Thomas. Send your little girl up to the rectory, and I'll give her something for you. Don't
Let us look over her shoulder.
“ My Darling —Nell“Just a line to tell you that I can get away for a month, so hurrah for Fetherston. I have some good news for you, at least I hope you will think so. West and Norton have offered to take me into partnership, and I must see Uncle Frank about the money part of the business. But the best part is, that now, dearest, I think I shall be justified in asking him to give you to me. I know how you have hated all this concealment, but how could I, a poor lawyer, ask for the hand of a millionaire like you. Now, if I get into partnership with these fellows, I hope I shall soon be making a nice little income, and, in less than a year we'll be married, and we can put away your £10,000 in an old stocking for a rainy day. Talking of marriage, has that little flirt, Flossy Whyte, caught Mr. Simpson yet? Give her my love, and tell her to ask me to the wedding. I shall be down on Friday; couldn't you meet me? Till then, take care of yourself, my darling, for the sake of your loving
“ ” Jack.
Helen read the letter through and then again, a loving smile curving her pretty mouth. Perhaps she pressed the paper to her lips, but we will not be too inquisitive. At all events, when she arrived at the open French window of the breakfast room, she looked so bright and happy that her aunt involuntarily exclamed, “Gracious me, child! how well you look this morning.”
“Any letters to-day?” said the rector, pausing with his cup in mid-air.
“Two for Aunt Mary, and one for you from Jack. I got a note from him, too, saying that he is coming down on Friday.”
“Friday!” interrupted Mrs. Graham. “Dear, dear, that's to-morrow; and the blue room must be got ready.
Helen finished her breakfast, and then putting on her hat went to call on her bosom friend, the Miss Florence Whyte, before alluded to, who lived with her widowed mother in a pretty cottage, about a mile from the Rectory. While Helen is walking thither, let us explain a little more fully who she is, and what relation she bears to Mr. Steyne.
Her father was a younger brother of the Rev. Frank Graham's, who married an heiress, all of whose money he spent, except £10,000 settled on the children. His wife died after two years of unhappiness, when Helen was born. Not that she was ill-treated by her husband. Far from it; in his selfish way, Gerald Graham was very fond of his delicate wife, only—he was handsome, gay, and very popular with both men and women, while she was not strong enough to go out with him, but could only fret in loneliness at home. After her death, Mr. Graham sent the baby to the care of his brother, and embarked on a voyage to India, but his ship never arrived at its destination. Helen, however, found the kindest of parents in her uncle and his wife, and grew up with only passing thoughts of regret for the father and mother she had never known.
In the holiday time the rectory was enlivened by the presence of a daring, good-tempered school boy, whom Helen called her cousin, though, as he was the nephew of her uncle's wife, he was in truth no relation. He, also, had lost his parents when young, and divided his holidays between the rectory and Steyne Court, where his uncle, Sir James Steyne, lived. Here there were a great many true cousins, but somehow the boy seemed to find a greater attraction in the little Devonshire village, and, as the years went by and Helen shot up into a graceful girl, the attraction became stronger, till every spare moment the young man could find was spent at Fetherston. So gradual, however, was the growth of the affection between the two, that it
Helen herself had never in her letters mentioned the proposal and rejection of Mr. Dunbar, from a feeling that it would not be fair to him. Besides, the rejected suitor, when begging her to reconsider her decision, had asked if he had been forestalled by anyone. Helen had shaken her head and said “No.” But the vivid blush which had spread over her face from neck to forehead had convinced Mr. Dunbar that his suit was hopeless more effectually than any words could. Mrs. Graham, rather indignant at Helen's decided refusal of such an excellent offer, had questioned her somewhat severely, but had only elicited the unsatisfactory answer that “she didn't kuow, only she did not want to marry yet.” But Helen did not attempt to deny to herself that it was the involuntary and uncomplimentary comparison of Mr. Dunbar with Jack Steyne that had been the cause of the former's dismissal.
Such being the respective states of mind of the two young people, it was no wonder that Jack had shortly paid a visit to the Rectory, and told Helen all his hopes and fears. Her reply (they had been reading “The Tempest” together) was to quote Miranda's speech to Ferdinand,
Which answer, though somewhat lengthy, seemed to give satisfaction.
They decided to keep the engagement secret till Jack should be making a fair income, which he hoped to do in a year or so. They had always corresponded, and the increased frequency of their letters caused but little remark. Matters had been going on in this way for about six months when the letter which we took the liberty of reading arrived, and Helen set out on her walk to Myrtle Cottage.
Mrs. Whyte and her daughter Florence, had been living in the village some seven or eight months. The mother was a little vivacious woman, who must in her youth have been
She and Helen had struck up a great friendship, chiefly due to the fact that Miss Whyte, who was a most observant young lady, had, by a system of ingenious pumping, succeeded in drawing from Helen an acknowledgment of her engagement to Jack Steyne. In return, she had confided to Helen all the particulars of her own love affairs, including a full account of the latest, an engagement between herself and a penniless youth for whom she intended to wait, spite of stony-hearted parents, till he should have made his fortune, or “till death,” as she would impressively end her sentence. Helen believed in, and sympathised with her, and the two girls took many walks together, talking of their respective lovers and their future lives.
It sometimes struck Helen as inconsistent with her friend's professions of undying love for the absent Frederick, that she should receive with apparent complaisance the frequent attentions of a certain Mr. Simpson, a self-made man, with much wealth and little education, who lived about a couple of miles away. Still, Flossie always answered her remonstrances by pleading that her mother was old, and accustomed to luxuries that they could not afford now, and where was the harm of using Mr. Simpson's carriage, eating his grapes and accepting sundry other little attentions. Helen was not quite convinced, but nevertheless defended her friend bravely, when Jack, with the coarseness of the masculine mind, suggested that Miss Whyte was trying to “catch” the H-less millionaire, and should she succeed, would throw over the unfortunate Frederick.
After this digression, let us return to Helen who strolled slowly down the street, stopping every now and then to exchange a cheery word or two with one of the
“Is that you, darling?” said a voice from inside, and Miss Whyte appeared, looking cool and pretty in a pale lilac cambric. “I thought yon were never coming again,” she went on, kissing Helen very effusively. “Come in and rest. I've lots to talk about; I've just got a letter from dear Fred.”
Helen smiled and blushed a little as she answered, “Well, to say the truth, I came to tell you that I had a note from Jack this morning, and he is coming down tomorrow.”
“To-morrow! dear girl, I am so glad for your sake. But alas! I shall never see anything of you now. I know Mr. Steyne can't bear me.”
“Nonsense, Flossie,” said Helen hastily and rather guiltily as she thought of Jack's somewhat outspoken comments on her friend, “how can you be so silly. Besides,” she added naïvely, “he shall like you; I will make him.”
“I wish you could, darling,” sighed Flossie, thinking to herself—“Yes, he shall like me, but I don't think it will be all your doing, Miss Helen.”
“Now,” she continued, we'll take some chairs and a basket of cherries out under the trees and have a real good talk.”
Helen assented, though she knew that the “real good talk” would probably be on one side.
“Where's Mrs. Whyte?” she asked, as she sank into a low wicker chair.
“Mamma,” said Flossie carelessly, picking out a particularly ripe cherry, “Oh! she's got a headache, and isn't up yet. Never mind her, Helen, just listen to this,” pulling out a bulky envelope as she spoke. “Isn't it sweet of Fred, to write such long letters?” And she proceeded to read the same aloud, duly emphasising the endearing expressions, and stopping occasionally to invite Helen's admiration of some specially lover-like sentiment. This was by no means the first letter she had read to Helen, who hated listening, but did not like to refuse, fearing to hurt her friend's feelings. She did not listen very attentively, and was just picturing to herself Jack's arrival on the morrow, when lifting her eyes, she saw her uncle's gardener and general factotum coming hastily up the path.
“Why, there's Jones,” she exclaimed. “Excuse me, Flossie, I must go and see what he wants.” She crossed the lawn as she spoke, and Jones, seeing her, hurried towards her, his honest brown face looking scared and troubled.
“Oh, Miss Helen!” he exclaimed, “you are to go home directly, the master has had a bad accident.”
“An accident; my uncle,” faltered Helen, turning pale—“What has happened? Never mind, don't wait now, you can tell me as we go. Good-bye, Flossie. I can't stop, I'll let you know later,” and she ran down the path, the faithful Jones following.
Flossie stood watching her. Helen's innocent speech about Jack Steyne evidently rankled in her mind, for she repeated to herself, “So he tells you he doesn't like me! Very good, my dear. You said he was coming for a month. When that month is over we shall see.” Then she returned to the sofa and novel whence Helen's visit had roused her.
“Now, Jones,” said Helen, as the steepness of the lane forced her to slacken her pace, “tell me about the accident.”
“Well, you see Miss, Dr. Barton called this morning for the master. He wanted him to go and see Mrs. Munro, who's dying, and said as how he'd drive him there hisself. He had that new 'orse of his in the gig, and just
Helen shuddered as she asked, “Did the doctor say anything?”
“He said as how he feared 'twere discussion of the brain the master had. Everythin's topsy-turvy, and the missus is in a great way. She told me to telegraph for Mr. Jack so soon as I'd fetched you.”
Helen said no more, but, the top of the hill being reached, she sped swiftly on till she came to the rectory where, as Jones had said, she found everything in confusion.
The doctor was just going. “I can do nothing more just now,” he said, drawing on his gloves—“but I'll come again this evening. Ah! Helen, my dear; just the person I wanted. I am going to send a nurse for your uncle, and you must try and soothe your aunt. It is a dreadful shock to her, poor soul, and she will want almost as much care as the rector.” Then the doctor drove away, and Helen went upstairs, feeling as though the day had suddenly turned cold and bleak, and longing with all her heart for Jack's arrival.
Mr. Steyne came by the late train that evening, having received an urgent telegram from the faithful Jones. He found the rector still unconscious, and although he could be of no use in the sick-room where a professional nurse now reigned, still his presence was invaluable to Helen, as he had great influence over his aunt, whom he, at last, persuaded to go to bed. Helen went with her to see that she was comfortable, and half-an-hour afterwards, returned to the drawing-room, where she found Jack eagerly waiting for her.
“My darling, how pale you look,” he exclaimed, drawing her down beside him on the broad sofa.
“Yes, I'm dreadfully tired and upset, but I feel almost happy now you have come, dear”—nestling close to him
The redoubtable Mr. Steyne, who has hitherto reversed the excellent precept given to little children, and has been heard of but not seen, was by no means remarkable in appearance. Helen thought him perfection, but the casual observer saw no more in him than in any other fairly good-looking, well set-up young Englishman of twenty-seven or thereabouts. However, the rector said that he was “a gentleman every inch of him, and a good fellow into the bargain,” so we may conclude that Helen had some grounds for supposing herself the luckiest of girls.
After conversing for a while in that sublimely selfish strain known only to lovers, the young people found time to speak of their neighbours. Amongst others, Flossie Whyte was mentioned, and Helen gave an account of all her sayings and doings, winding up with, “I'm so sorry for her, Jack. I'm sure her Fred. isn't so nice as—–.” Here there was a short pause, then Helen resumed, “By the way, she is very unhappy because she thinks you don't like her. You don't, do you? But I wish you would try to, if it's only to please me.”
“I'll make violent love to her if you like,” Jack answered obligingly, kissing Helen's hand as he spoke.
“Well I'm not sure that I should like that, but you needn't laugh at her and mock at her love affairs. You wouldn't like me to be laughed at for loving you.”
“You! No, indeed, but then you are quite different. My dear girl, Flossie Whyte is a most arrant flirt. You needn't waste your pity on a girl without any real feeling. However, I'll be civil to her if it will please you.”
“That's a good boy. You shall begin to-morrow by going down to the cottage to tell them how Uncle Frank is getting on. I promised to send. And now, good night, dear, I must go and see how he is.” And she hurried away, feeling very guilty that the presence even of her lover could make her forget her uncle's critical condition.
Next morning found the rector in much the same condition as the preceding day. He was conscious to a certain extent, but did not seem to recognise anyone. Helen, herself, was fully occupied in attending on her aunt, who had given way completely, the sudden shock of her husband's accident having made her so nervous and depressed that she could not bear to lose sight of her niece. Mr. Steyne was, therefore, thrown on his own resources, and employed part of his morning in walking down to the cottage, as he had promised Helen, to give the Whytes the latest news of the rector. He found Flossie very sympathetic, and, when, after staying half-anhour or so, he rose to go, she would “not ask him to stay to lunch as dear Helen would be so anxious, but she would walk up to the rectory that evening and try and persuade Helen to go out. It was so bad for her health staying in all day, and perhaps she herself might be allowed to sit with Mrs. Graham, so as to relieve the dear girl.”
Jack found himself wondering, as he walked home, how it was he had never noticed before that Miss Whyte was rather a pretty girl; she had improved immensely in the last few months. “Don't suppose she is as fond of Helen as she pretends to be, and she certainly is a flirt, but after all, I daresay the girl has some good in her.” Then he lit his pipe, and dismissed Miss Whyte from his thoughts for the next few hours.
Helen came down at lunch time for half-an-hour, but was obliged to return to her aunt directly afterwards. However, about five, Miss Whyte made her appearance according to promise, and, Mrs. Graham having consented to a change of attendants, Helen was able to go out for a stroll with Jack. When they returned after a lengthy absence, common politeness demanded that Mr. Steyne should escort Miss Whyte home, and having done so, it was but natural that he should linger a short time in the cool, pretty garden before returning to the rectory. This day might be taken as an example of the ensuing fortnight.
For the first week there was no perceptible improvement in the rector's state, then he gradually began to recognise
One day Helen got a holiday, and the three went out boating, an amusement of which she and Jack were passionately fond, and which Miss Whyte said she adored. But somehow the expedition was a failure. Helen was tired, and not in her usual spirits; and the other two, though they talked and laughed, felt the influence of that undefinable cloud which sometimes mars our pleasure under the most favourable circumstances. When they parted at the cottage gate, some suggestion was made as to repeating the excursion next day, which was eagerly seconded by Miss Whyte. Helen said she should not be able to go, but added, “That's no reason why you two shouldn't go; I daresay you can be trusted to look after each other.”
“Oh yes, indeed!” came simultaneously from the lips of the others; and Helen, looking up, laughing at the coincidence, caught a glance passing between them which made her feel vaguely uneasy, she hardly knew why. So it was arranged that Miss Whyte and Mr. Steyne should go out on the morrow, weather permitting.
That evening, when the lovers were enjoying their usual tÉte-à-tÉte, Helen was very restless, and at last, with an effort, broke a somewhat prolonged silence.
“Jack,” she said, “I want to ask you something.”
“Well, dear, what is it?”
“Don't think I'm silly or jealous, or anything of that sort; but, Jack!” speaking very rapidly, and with her face turned away from him, “are you quite sure you want to marry me still? Do you still care for me?”
Jack was thoroughly startled. Rising, he put his arm round Helen's waist.
“You silly girl,” he said, “what put that idea into your head?”
“Oh! I don't know; but men do change sometimes, and,” in a low whisper, “Flossie is very attractive.”
“Jealous! “Well, Helen, I thought you trusted me more than that. Surely you are not going to fret every time I speak civilly to another girl. Besides, was it not your own wish that I should make friends with Miss Whyte? To please you I cultivate her acquaintance, and then you turn round and say I am fickle and deceitful. I am very much disappointed, Helen. I thought you were above that sort of thing,” turning with dignity.
Poor Helen was quite subdued. She had had no real reasons for the little outburst which had called forth such righteous indignation. She told herself that Jack was quite right, it was she who had thrown him into Miss Whyte's society, and she ought not to be so suspicious. So she went softly across the room to the arm-chair in which the justly offended young gentleman had seated himself, and bending down, whispered in his ear, “I am so very sorry I annoyed
“Of course, my pet, we won't say anything more on the subject. Only don't talk like that again. It is the first time you have shown jealousy, and I hope it will be the last.” Thus Jack, judicially; then softening as he caught sight of her woe-begone face, “Now, give me a kiss, dear, and forget all about it.”
Helen went off to bed, feeling rather as if she had been dismissed with a caution, and repeating to herself, “I do trust him thoroughly, it is so silly to be jealous.”
Left to himself, Mr. Steyne smoked at least three pipes, thinking deeply all the while. As he rose and knocked out the ashes of the last one he muttered, “She certainly would fool any man who wasn't on his guard, but there is no danger with me. Helen is worth ten of her. Don't think I'll go out boating with her to-morrow. However, we'll see.”
Despite his half-formed resolution of the preceding night, Mr. Steyne went out boating next day with Miss Whyte. He did, indeed, announce at breakfast that he thought of giving up the expedition, but Helen, anxious to make up for her unworthy suspicions, begged him so earnestly to go, saying that otherwise she should think he was still angry, that he finally consented not to disappoint Miss Whyte. Helen, left at home, tried to employ herself with her duties, but her fancy was continually flying away to the little boat rocking on the blue sea, or to the shady cove, where a search for ferns was to be prosecuted during the afternoon. However, she greeted Jack cheerily when he came in, and as he was in excellent spirits they spent a very happy evening. The next day Mr. Steyne spent entirely at the rectory, devoting himself as much as possible to Helen, and her peace of mind was entirely restored. Although Mr. Graham was getting better, Helen was still very much occupied, especially as the rector, who was slowly recovering his reason, liked to have her in his room, where she used to sit and work. Thus she felt that
“A telegram, Miss, for Mr. Jack.”
Helen took it, and as her aunt had just fallen asleep, thought she would look for Jack, who was probably in the village, and give it to him.
It was a lovely morning, and delighted to find herself in the open air, she strolled slowly along, her spirits rising at every step.
At the little village shop she stopped to ask if Mr. Steyne had been there. Yes, he had, and on leaving had turned down the lane leading to Myrtle Cottage. Thither Helen bent her way.
Arrived there, she pushed open the little gate and went straight to the drawing-room window. No one was inside. “Out in the garden, I suppose,” she thought, and turned off across the lawn. She remembered a certain favourite seat of Miss Whyte's, which was approached by two paths, one a short cut through the bushes. This she chose mechanically, as it was the one she and her friend always used. As she drew near she caught a glimpse of a white dress, and knew that her search had been successful. A few steps further and she could see the bench and the occupants thereof, who, however, were too much engrossed to hear her soft step.
Truly it was a pretty picture.
The bright sun, glinting through the leaves, shone in ever restless patches on the white dress and upturned face of a lovely girl. Her head was resting on her companion's shoulder, and he was looking down at her with evident admiration.
It is to be doubted, however, if the solitary spectator of the scene appreciated the beauty of it. A girl must have
Helen was stunned. All the vague suspicious and jealousies which had been floating in her mind came back with overwhelming power. She stood motionless, unable to go on, equally unable to turn back, only watching with eager eyes. She had a dim feeling that it was mean thus to play the spy, but it was overcome by a burning curiosity to see the end of the little drama. Presently Miss Whyte's voice was audible.
“Then you do not hate me now, Jack.”
There was a slight triumphant ring in this speech which the enraptured Jack did not notice.
“Hate you, Flossie!” he said, and Helen, with madness raging in her heart, watched him bend down till his lips touched Flossie's. She had heard and seen enough now, and without a word or sign that could betray her presence, she turned and went away, walking like one in a dream. She met nobody on her way back to the rectory, and only when Martha, the parlour-maid, asked if she had found Mr. Jack, did she remember the telegram which had been the cause of her taking the fatal walk. She placed it on the hall table, and telling Martha that Mr. Jack would probably be out to lunch, she went up to her own room and, locking the door, flung herself on the bed, and gave herself up to bitter thoughts.
Late in the afternoon she heard Jack's step in the hall Then her name was called. Jumping up, she seized her hat and ran hastily down the backstairs. She felt she could not face him just at that moment, and took refuge in the garden. She had been there for about half-an-hour, when she heard the sound of wheels, apparently going away. She looked cautiously out through the shrubs, and was greatly surprised to see Jack in the rectory trap, driving very fast. Going back to the house, she interviewed Martha, who told her that Mr. Jack had been in, got his telegram, and looked everywhere for her. Not finding her, he had packed a small bag and gone away,
Under the circumstances, his departure was a great relief to Helen. She was very distrait for the rest of the day, and was glad when she was able to retire for the night, though she was by no means sleepy. Hour after hour she sat in her room thinking. At last she rose, her mind made up. She would not condemn the culprits without a hearing, but she would see Flossie first, and beg her to say if she and Jack really cared for each other. If Flossie said yes, then she would write to Jack and break off her engagement. Then she went to her desk and took out her treasures, a bundle of letters, a couple of photographs, and a tiny lock of hair. As she touched the hair, she remembered in a flash all the circumstances connected with it; how Jack had asked for a piece of her hair and she gave him a long wavy bit, saying she must have a piece of his in exchange; how they had laughed over the difficulty of finding a satisfactory lock, Jack, like most men, shaving his head as though he had just come out of prison; how she had said that it was very unlucky to exchange locks of hair, and Jack's reply that no bad luck should ever come between him and her. “We never thought of Flossie Whyte,” she murmured bitterly, “I suppose he has a lock of her hair, I wonder if it is tied up with mine.” Then altering her tone, she cried, “It can't be true, it is a bad dream; he must care for me still. I am just the same as when he said he loved me, and I love him, ah! I love him more than ever.”
But the scene in the Whytes' garden rose again before her eyes, and she knew it was no dream. “He would not kiss another girl if he loved me,” she reasoned.
You see she was an ignorant young woman, and had no idea that a man could really love and be engaged to one girl and yet have no scruples about administering such delicate little attentions to another.
The letters and photographs she tied up together, meaning to burn them, but she hesitated long over the hair,
Helen was awakened, next morning, by Martha bringing her a cup of tea and a note from Miss Whyte saying she hoped Helen and Mr. Steyne would go down to the cottage that afternoon if Helen could get away. “She seems to have no doubt about Jack's going,” thought Helen, “I suppose she asked me thinking I should be unable to go. I fear she will be disappointed.”
She dressed, and went to see her aunt, then she spent an hour with the rector, who was much better. He asked to see Jack, and on being told that he was away, said: “Indeed, but I fancy he will not stay long, eh, my dear? Do you know, Helen, I have long thought that you and he had a liking for each other. Well, you could not do better; I would trust Jack, even with my little Nell.” Helen shivered, it was like having a wound probed, and she went hastily out of the room, on pretence of having some work to do.
After lunch, she saw her aunt was comfortably settled for the afternoon, and then, telling her where she was going, set out for the cottage. At the gate Miss Whyte met her.
“Dearest Helen, how delightful to see you! I am so glad you were able to leave. But where is J—— Mr. Steyne?”
“He has gone to town for a day or two, and I have come to have a long talk with you.”
“That will be delicious, dear. Don't go into the house; Mamma has an ancient friend who came to lunch, and apparently means to stay to supper. Let us go to the bench in the shrubbery.”
Helen negatived this proposal with much decision, giving as her reason that she did not want to be interrupted. “We will go down to Jackdaw's Cove,” she said.
“Very well,” said Flossie, “and I will take my sketchbook. Just wait while I fetch it, and tell Mamma where we are going.”
Helen assented, and in a few minutes Miss Whyte was fully equipped, and they set off.
It was a most glorious afternoon. The sky, innocent of the tiniest cloud, was only less blue than the sea, which lay calm and sparkling. So smooth was it that the little ripples, too small to be called waves, crept softly up the sand, as though they loved the warmth, and were loth to end their short life and return to their parent ocean. A mile or two out were some fishing boats, their ruddy brown sails idly flapping against the masts, and far on the horizon were the white wings of a homeward-bound vessel, spreading all her canvas to catch what breeze she might.
The two girls stood for a minute on the edge of the cliff, enjoying the beauty of the scene. Then Helen turned and looked behind her at the village nestling in a little valley and bowered in trees. The church stood on a hill, its square gray tower serving as a landmark for the fishermen for many miles round. She gazed long and earnestly, thinking she had never seen the place look so lovely, and then without a word led the way along the break-neck path which wound down the face of the cliff. Miss Whyte followed in silence. During the first part of their walk she had chattered gaily, but had met with so little encouragement from her companion that she had given up the effort to make conversation. Besides, she had a feeling that a storm was impending. She had no idea that her friend had been a witness of the little episode in the garden; she merely imagined that Helen begrudged her lover spending so much time with her (Flossie), and she rather looked forward to the encounter.
When they reached the bottom of the path they found themselves in a small rocky bay or cove, as these tiny indents of the coast are called in Devon. Helen seated
“Please put away those things for a moment,” she said, “I want to speak to you.”
“Can't you talk while I am painting? It must be very important,” rejoined Flossie, airily, still mixing her colours.
“It is important, at least to me,” said Helen, earnestly, and Miss Whyte, looking up into her face, was struck by the sad, grave look it wore. She put down her brush and folded her hands in her lap as a sort of protest against her enforced idleness. There was silence for a minute or so, then Helen said abruptly:
“You knew that I was engaged to Jack Steyne.”
“So you told me, my dear, Mr. Steyne never mentioned the fact.”
“Therefore you thought it wasn't true?”
“Well I fancied perhaps you had taken things more seriously than was intended by Mr. Steyne. For you know, my dear,” continued Flossie, with an air of great candour, “he is a dreadful flirt.”
Helen winced. To hear Jack, whom she had always looked up to as a model of all manly virtues, described by that most unmanly epithet “flirt,” was too much for her. She said hastily:
“But at all events you knew that I loved him, and that he cared for me till—till you took him away from me.”
Miss White was secretly much gratified by this tribute to her powers, but thought proper to appear indignant.
“Took him from you, Helen? What do you mean? Why, it was your own wish we should be friends, and yet you grudge my showing him the commonest civilities.”
Helen smiled rather grimly.
“Your ideas must be remarkably liberal,” she said, “if they include kissing among the ordinary civilities of life.”
Miss Whyte was startled out of her self-possession.
“How do you know anything about that?” she exclaimed. “Who told you?”
“Nobody; I saw you,” answered Helen, curtly.
“But when? where?”
“Yesterday. I brought a telegram for Jack. You were not in the house, so I looked in the garden, but when I found you I did not like to disturb you, you looked so happy.”
“Really, Helen,” (with an air of grieved surprise), “I did not think you would play the spy in that way.”
This was carrying the war into the enemy's country with a vengeance. Helen's self-control vanished, and she sprang up with flashing eyes.
“Play the spy!” she cried indignantly, “How dare you say such a thing! It is you who are dishonourable; you lure my lover away from me, and make him as false as yourself. Tell me the truth. Did he ever kiss you before?”
“Well—yes.”
“Did he ever say he was tired of me, did he make love to you?”
“Well—”
“I guessed as much,” interrupted Helen, “And all this time, while I, like a fool, have trusted you both, you have been deceiving me. I will never marry him, and I will never forgive you.”
So saying, she walked rapidly away across the sand, and disappeared into the cave.
Miss Whyte looked after her: “Really, she is quite tragic,” she murmured. “I had no idea she would take it so much to heart. Of course, it's all nonsense about not
She hunted in her pocket, and drew thence an official-looking document, with a huge crest emblazoned on paper and envelope. This contained a formal proposal from Mr. Simpson. Miss Whyte read it through, then folding it again: “Heigho!” she sighed, “certainly Jack Steyne is the nicer of the two; but then he is poor, and I don't believe in love in a cottage, especially as he doesn't really care a rap about me, only I flatter his vanity. He will go back to Helen, and she will forgive him, and pity me because I'm going to marry Mr. Simpson. I'll tell her about it on our way home. She'll think me dreadfully mercenary, but she'll be glad to get me out of the way.” A long pause; then: “It's very nice here, the sun is so warm. Poor Helen, she was awfully upset. She seems to worship that man. How soothing the sound of the waves is, it makes one quite drowsy. I'll just close my eyes. He really isn't worth all that devotion; no man is. Poor Helen.” Here the fair philosopher fell asleep.
Miss Whyte had a most vivid dream, wherein she fancied herself on board “H.M.S. Pinafore,” while Helen, dressed as Sir Joseph Porter, was ordering her to be “keel-hauled” for “conduct unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman.” So real did it seem that she thought the sentence was being carried out, and that she was already submerged as far as the knees. She woke with a start. What transformation scene was this, and what had happened to the beach. It had all disappeared. She lay for a moment, half dazed, and then in a flash came the solution of the mystery. Neither she nor Helen had thought of the tide. It must have been coming in when they arrived, and the sea being so very calm, the noise of the tiny waves approaching had not disturbed her slumbers till the ripples had reached her feet.
She looked at the point round which they must pass to gain the path that led to safety. The sea was gently heaving against the side of the cliff. But where was Helen all this time? Why had she not foreseen this
“Get up,” she cried. “Get up. Look at the tide!”
“The tide!” repeated Helen, rising. “What do you mean?”
Flossie pointed to the mouth of the cave.
It was answer enough. With an exclamation Helen rushed forward, Flossie following. Outside the cave all was water; even the little strip of sand which was visible when Flossie woke was now covered. The point they had to pass was by this time surrounded by deep water; nevertheless it was thither that Helen turned her eyes.
“I believe we can pass, Flossie,” she said; “I don't think it is out of our depth yet. At all events we must try.”
They started, but before they had got half way the water was up to their shoulders.
“It's no good. Will you stay here while I swim round for help?” asked Helen.
“No, no? you shan't leave me. You brought me here on purpose, and if I drown you shall drown too,” wailed Flossie, who had quite lost her head.
Helen made no reply. The accusation was of course ridiculous, but she did blame herself for not having thought of the tide. She looked round. It was quite hopeless to think of scaling the cliff, which was almost perpendicular. Suddenly she exclaimed—
“The pulpit! It's all right Flossie; we are saved;” and she hastened towards the cliff, dragging the hapless Miss Whyte after her.
The pulpit was a detached, needle-like rock, jutting up through the sand at a short distance from the cliff. Its name had been given to it by Jack and Helen when children, and was due to the fact that at the top the rock ended in two irregular ledges, one above the other, the lowest and biggest being just capable of holding one person standing, and the upper one serving as a means of support to the adventurous wight who should climb so high. How many mock sermons had been preached by Jack Steyne in his youthful days, to an attentive audience of one, sitting on the sand beneath. A sudden remembrance of this came across Helen's mind, but there was no time for reminis-cences as the water round the rock was already waist-deep.
Helen had never been in the cove at high tide, but she was sure that the top of the rock was never covered. She helped Miss Whyte, at no time an expert climber, and now almost helpless with fear, and together they scrambled up till they stood exactly beneath the two ledges already mentioned. Here they were safe for the present, the water only just flowing over their feet. How much higher the tide would rise, Helen did not know, but she was certain that if they could gain the ledge they would be quite safe. Suddenly it struck her that the ledge would only hold one. She was sure of it, having often tried in vain to stand there with Jack. For a moment she hesitated, then—
“Now, Flossie, you must try and scramble up there; you will be quite safe. I know the water won't rise so high.”
But Miss Whyte could only wring her hands and sob out: “No, no; I can't climb up there; I should get so giddy”
“Well,” said Helen, impatiently, “take your choice. You may get giddy up there; you are almost sure to be drowned if you stay here.”
Thus urged, Miss Whyte consented to half clamber, half be hoisted on to the ledge. Arrived there, and holding tightly to the upper projection, she looked down on her companion.
“But, Helen, what are you going to do?” she asked; “it's awfully narrow; do you think we can both stand here.”
“I'm going to try presently, when the water is deeper here,” answered Helen. “Now, let us shout for help.”
They did so, but in vain. The cliff echoed their cries, and the startled sea birds wheeled above their heads, but there was no answer, and the tide was still rising.
“Now,” said Helen, “I'm going to try and get higher up. Can you stoop and give me a hand?”
Miss Whyte did so, and Helen was climbing slowly up, when she gave a little cry and fell back, almost over-balancing her companion.
“What is the matter, Helen?”
“My ankle. I've twisted it! Oh!” And she moaned with pain.
“It's out of the question, my getting up there now,” she said presently. Besides, there isn't room for two, I know. I must wait here till help comes, or—–” She did not finish her sentence. She could not put her fate into words, though now, for the first time, she lost all hope. Miss Whyte began to cry again. Helen watched her with a sort of wonder. Why should Flossie weep? If she could only hold on till the tide turned she was safe, though no doubt her position would not be enviable.
Helen looked out to sea again.
The sails—white and brown—had all disappeared, the sun was setting, and the sea was like molten gold. The silence was intense, broken only by the occasional scream of a gull and the lapping of the water as it crept higher and higher. It was above her waist now. She made an effort, and, in spite of her injured foot, dragged herself an inch or two higher. Then she was obliged to stop—the pain was too great. She was standing on the sound foot, her hands clinging to the ledge whereon Miss Whyte was standing. The attitude was strained, and she felt very exhausted, her heavy serge dress dragging her down.
“Let us shout once more,” she said to Miss Whyte, who had sunk down, a limp, white heap. They shouted, but their voices were weak and hoarse, and there was no reply.
Helen desisted, and returned to her dreamy thoughts. She wondered if her uncle and aunt would miss her much; she thought they would. And Jack, would he miss her? A bitter pang ran through her as she thought, “At any rate, he ought to be thankful to me. I have saved Flossie for him.”
By this time the water was up to her shoulders, and she was very weak.
“Flossie,” she murmured, “I can't hold any longer. Give my love to them all, and —–Jack.”
“Helen! you musn't let go. Try a little longer; I'm sure the tide is turning. Can't you scramble up now?”
Helen shook her head.
“It's no good, but I think you will be safe. Goodbye.”
At that instant a shout resounded from the top of the cliff. Both girls looked up, and Flossie sprang to her feet. It was Jack.
“Hold on!” he shouted. “For Heaven's sake, Flossie, keep up till I come,” and he disappeared.
It was the last drop in Helen's cup. She was physically unable to hold on any longer, and the idea that Flossie should be the first object in Jack's thoughts, took away all desire for life. She gave a long sigh, her weary hands relaxed their grasp, and as the next wave eddied gently away from the rock, it bore on its breast the body of Helen Graham.
* * * * *
Had Jack Steyne been half-an-hour later, it would have been too late to save Miss Whyte. As it was, what with the shock and exposure she was very ill. When she had recovered a little she and her mother went to London, whither they were followed by Mr. Simpson. Some
cavaliere servante dangling after her. She is also remarkable for two peculiarities; she cannot bear the name of “Helen,” and she has a morbid horror of the sea. She and Jack Steyne have never met since that day.
The poor old rector heard of the death of his favourite niece through the carelessness of a servant. The shock was too much for him in his weak state, and he died on the day of Helen's funeral. After his death Mrs. Graham went to live with a sister.
Jack Steyne worked very hard at his profession for six or seven years. At the end of that time he married. His wife, a bright little brunette, adores her grave husband. She knows that he was engaged before to a girl who died, but she is not jealous of the memory for she also knows how fond her husband is of her now. The only secret Jack keeps from her, though not from fear of her anger, is the presence, in a drawer of his desk, of a little packet, which he sometimes looks at. It only contains a long lock of ruddy brown hair.
In a principal city of a far-away corner of the Antipodes, a solemn meeting was being held. A citizen of great wealth, reputed, indeed, to be worth many millions, had lately died. Strange to say, although he was so rich a man, he had no poor relations; at least, no person had put in a plea of kinship. Much excitement was, therefore, felt as to the contents of the dead man's will. This was to be read, by special direction, in the presence of certain persons, whose names were mentioned, and in a public hall, where all who were so disposed might listen.
It was the meeting to hear the will which was now going forward.
The chosen few, specified by the deceased, were accommodated with arm-chairs on a raised daïs; and the body of the hall was filled by a curious crowd, each individual of which it was composed hoping that he or she might be mentioned in this eccentric will.
Conversation was carried on in whispers which gradually died away, and a deep hush fell on the multitude as the lawyer, who was to read the will, advanced slowly and importantly to the edge of the daïs. He lightly touched his lips with a fine cambric handkerchief, coughed impressively twice, and unfolded the will.
Expectation stood on tiptoe.
The document was very short and to the point.
“I, John Bates, being at this present time of a sane mind, do give and bequeath the whole of my fortune to that man who, upon his own showing, shall have wrought the greatest benefit to the human race. The claims must be made in person, and before a certain date, and shall be judged by a council composed of the following six persons. [Here the names were mentioned]. These six judges, however, shall be debarred from lodging a claim themselves, their respective merits being so equal that Solomon himself could not decide between them. In acknowledgment of their services, however, I request that the fortunate candidate, when chosen, shall present to each member of the council a handsome diamond ring.
“ John Bates.
“Sept. 17, 188—.”
The names of two witnesses were appended.
That was all.
The huge assembly dispersed, greatly excited, and agreeing loudly that the will was ridiculous, such a question could never be decided; each individual, meanwhile, deeply pondering as to what action of his life he could found a claim upon.
The council, on the whole, were not dissatisfied. The members were all modest men, and, while appreciating the delicate compliment of their deceased friend as to their merits, felt that it was just possible that none of them might have gained the prize had they competed. As matters stood, each would be presented with a diamond ring, to say nothing of the prestige to be gained by acting as judges in a competition destined, doubtless, to be as famous as the world-renowned contest for the golden apple.
They had many meetings to discuss the best way of setting to work, and, it being found that the discussions were more satisfactory when the members had been refreshed with meat and wine, each meeting was prefaced by a dinner, the cost of which was defrayed out of a sum placed in the lawyer's hands for the incidental expenses incurred in carrying out the will.
At length all was in train. A date three months later was fixed for the closing of the entries. Each candidate was to send in his name in writing. Each entry as it was received was to be dated and put away till the end of the three months, when no more applications would be admitted. Then the council would hold a grand public meeting, which all might attend, and the claim of each competitor would be heard separately, in the order in which the entries had been received.
As the time drew near the excitement became intense. The city was overflowing with strangers, each claiming to be the greatest benefactor of the human race. Everyone thoroughly believed in himself, and as thoroughly discredited his neighbour's pretensions, so that there was a most charming uncertainty as to the winner of the prize.
But at last the three months had expired, the last entry had been received and dated, and all things were in readiness.
So many had at the last moment been seized with an unwonted access of modesty, preferring to assume the more humble rôle of spectators, that no building was capable of holding them, so it was decided that the contest should take place, weather permitting, in the open air. A large enclosure was selected, having on three sides a bank, raised some feet, which would enable a large concourse to witness the interesting spectacle.
The eventful day dawned.
It was glorious summer weather, and the scene was most animated. Thousands of people stood or sat on the grassy bank. In the centre of the enclosure was spread a huge Japanese umbrella, under whose grateful shade sat the august council in easy chairs. At the elbow of each member stood a small table laden with refreshments of a liquid nature, and cigars of the choicest brand. It was hoped that these little comforts would enable the judges to bear up under the great fatigue of their arduous task, and would also tend to produce in their minds that mellow glow of self-satisfaction which is necessary for an impartial judgment. On the fourth side of the field was a row of
All was prepared, and the business of the day began.
Number one was a gentleman who had hit upon the happy idea of inducing the whole human race to wear rose-coloured spectacles. He argued that, seen through this cheerful medium, life would appear so much brighter, that the most bilious misanthrope would be beguiled into happier views on every subject, and, consequently, business would proceed on a far pleasanter footing than at present. He was rejected, and his disappointment was not much mitigated by the suggestion of the council that he should try the effect of the spectacles himself, and see if that would lighten his grief.
Of course, every genius who had ever patented an invention, appeared with a specimen of his skill. Every article that could possibly be of use to mankind was shown, from flying machines to automatic blacking brushes. All were, however, put aside, in spite of the protests of the proud proprietors. The inventor of the flying machine kindly offered any or all of the council a trial of his patent. They thanked him, but unanimously declined his obliging proposal, stating that they were all married men, and they did not think their wives would approve of such experiments.
The automatic blacking brushes were also refused, the President of the council saying that though no doubt they were very useful, still, as a large proportion of humanity dispensed with the luxury of boots and shoes, and had therefore no need of blacking brushes, he was not justified in accepting them.
The next to appear was a gentleman from the Emerald Isle. He had invented an efficacious method of blowing up the reigning sovereigns of the world, for which method
By this time it was growing dark, so the meeting was postponed to the following day.
Punctually at 10 o'clock the next morning, the council re-established themselves under the Japanese umbrella. A yet larger crowd than on the preceding day was present.
Soon after beginning work, the proprietor of a world-renowned unguent presented himself. He brought as witnesses two lovely damsels, in whose faces the roses and lilies of Nature were justly blended, claiming that this most desirable effect was gained by using his soap, which was found to be invaluable for the complexion. The members of the council wavered. They were but men, and might have awarded the prize to him who held such beauty at his command, had it not been for one of their number who had several daughters, and was, besides, colour-blind. He said he “didn't see anything in the girls to make such a fuss about,” so the plea was reluctantly dismissed.
At a later stage of the proceedings a slight hitch occurred.
A zealous advocate of temperance had invented a beverage which combined all the advantages with none of the drawbacks of alcoholic liquor. Being a nervous man, he had fortified himself for the ordeal with so many sips of his own decoction, that his courage had risen to the pitch known as Dutch, and he had fallen foul of the patentee of an oleaginous fluid, warranted to remedy every ill, mental or physical, that flesh is heir to, from a cold in the head to being lost in the bush. He accused him of putting alcohol into his preparation, whence it derived its healing virtues, and bade him “come on.” In vain did the insulted
An aged Arab sheik had been brought by the proprietor of a patent pill, as a witness to the efficacy of his medicine. So great, indeed had been the effects thereof, that the sheik, feeling his youth renewed, had joined in the scuffle with such goodwill, despite his venerable appearance, that when the combatants were separated, it was found necessary to convey them in different cabs to the hospital. Their claims were disallowed.
The next to approach was a mild young man in spectacles, who held in his hand a manuscript. Being interrogated as to his invention, he replied, in a soft bleat, “I hardly know if I may dignify my work by the name of an invention, though it is, in truth, entirely the production of my own brain. It is merely a little story I have written. It contains nothing that can call a blush to the cheek of modesty, but I claim that it will bring sleep to weary eyes when ‘not poppy nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world’ will succeed. I will read it, and you can then judge.” Here he was hastily interrupted by the council, who assured him that though his work no doubt possessed the great qualities he claimed for it, still that other books had been written which were equally beneficial in their effect on mankind, so they must decline to receive it. The young author sighed and retired. Being discovered later fast asleep in a corner of the field, it was supposed he had been reading his work to himself in default of any other audience.
The ranks of the competitors were thinning; the judges had rejected several ordinary inventions, and were looking at one another in dismay, as they realised that, after all their labour, they were no nearer finding the universal benefactor than when they began. Suddenly, in answer to a number, almost the last on the list, a tall, spare man, presented himself. There was a proud confidence in his bearing which struck the council, who felt that here was the man so eagerly looked for.
“Name?” said the President sharply.
“Zachariah P. Green,” was the answer equally sharp.
“American?”
“Wal, I guess the States might claim to have raised me.”
“What is your invention?”
The man paused. He looked round him; his chest heaved with emotion; there was a deathly silence.
“Wal,” he said slowly, “wal, I call it ‘Rough on Rabbits!’”
A hoarse cry came from the multitude.
The judges rose simultaneously to their feet.
“It is he!” they cried, as with one voice.
Then came a revulsion of feeling, and they seemed oppressed by a ghastly fear.
Presently the President, an aged man with snowy hair, leant forward, and in a husky whisper, murmured—
“Has it been tried before? Is it poison?”
The man shook his head disdainfully.
“Poison!” he repeated, with deep scorn.
The President fell back, and another member, with anxiety in his eye, stammered out: “Is it wire-netting?”
Another contemptuous shake of the head was the only answer.
Yet a third man pressed forward, so agitated he could scarcely speak, and gasped forth:
“Cats?”
Zachariah P. Green turned an indignant glare on his questioner.
“Cats!” he repeated. “And do yeou reckon that Zachariah P. Green would come all the way from the States if he had no other ideas in his head than that blamed foolishness? Not much, yeou bet. No, sir!”
A momentary pause; then drawing from his pocket, with a flourish, a neat document, “Read that,” he said, and placing it on the centre table, folded his arms, and calmly awaited the result, while surveying the expectant crowd.
He had not long to wait. The council gathered round the table in most undignified haste, hustling each other regardless of good manners, in their eagerness to read the important paper.
It was very short.
There was a moment's consultation, then the President, disentangling himself from his colleagues, advanced towards Zachariah P. Green, and took him by the hand.
“My friend,” he began—then stopped, overcome by his feelings. Making a violent effort, he choked down his emotion, and proceeded—“My dear friend, you have saved us.”
Then the listening people broke in with shouts and cheers. Women sobbed and fainted. Men who had not wept for years felt the softening influence of the scene, and gentle tears stole down their rugged cheeks.
But he, the hero of the hour, he alone stood immovable. Only his breast heaved, and his eagle eye flashed fire. It was the proudest moment of his life.
Meanwhile, the President, who was fond of the sound of his own voice, and was, besides, of a mathematical turn of mind, continued: “Yes! you have saved this country, which is, or will be, the greatest country in the world; therefore, in benefiting us, you benefit the whole human race.—Q.E.F.,” winding up with a happy reminiscence of his school days.
Renewed applause on the part of the crowd, then a deep silence, for Zachariah P. Green was about to speak. Said he, “Wal, folks, I'm glad to hev' done yeou a good turn. And now, Mr. President, I'll trouble yeou to hand over that fortune, as I'm wishful to catch the next steamer home.”
Great protests from the council, who wished to fěte their deliverer. But he was adamant, refusing to be moved by their entreaties, so the money, which was all ready in £1 notes, stowed in carefully sealed sacks, was handed over to him.
Taking a tender farewell of the council, and bowing to the crowd, he departed in a hansom, caught the steamer, and quitted these shores for ever.
But he left his grand invention behind him, and a grateful nation is only waiting to hear of his death, and to raise the necessary funds to erect a noble statue of the universal benefactor, the man who discovered the way to eradicate the rabbits.
Before I begin my narrative, allow me to state that by “My Ghost” I do not mean the spirit of myself, Adolphus Rawson to wit; but simply that I look upon him, i.e, the ghost, as in some sort my property; partly by virtue of the great interest I take in him, the only apparition with which I have even a bowing acquaintance; and partly because the sceptics to whom I have hitherto narrated my moving tale, have flatly declined to believe that he is a ghost at all, and consequently impugn my honour as well as his. I am writing this in hopes that there may yet be in this world a few faithful minds, who do not scoff at everything outside their own, often very limited, experiences.
Perhaps I may be excused for giving a few particulars about myself, and the circumstances which led to my making friends with that affable spirit.
My name, as I incidentally mentioned before, is Adolphus Rawson, familiarly known as Dolly; indeed, at school I was called Miss Dolly, in tribute, I believe, to my almost girlish refinement of mind and manner. After leaving school, I was sent to one of our great Universities, where, eschewing the light and frivolous amusements of other young men, I passed a quiet and, as I fondly trust, a creditable existence for two years. I then returned to the paternal roof, and it was at this period of my life that two events happened which coloured my whole future: I learnt to believe in ghosts, and I fell in love. As to the ghosts, we Rawsons are a very old country family and have a ghost
It was then, also, that I first saw Anna Maria and felt the smart of the blind god's arrow. Space fails me to tell of the agonies of doubt and uncertainty I suffered, or of the rapture with which I at length heard her coyly bid me “ask Pa.” I did so, and her respected progenitor, whose name, by-the-way, was Pettigrew, gave us his blessing. When, however, I requested the consent of my own parent, I regret to say that his refusal was very decided. Perhaps the moment was inauspicious. It was about the time of year when sportsmen pursue the playful fox, and my father had just returned from hunting, having lamed his favourite horse, and had what is, I believe, called a blank day (I am not quite sure about these technical terms). At dinner, the soup was smoked, the saddle of mutton burnt to a cinder, and the first bottle of wine corked; so, doubtiess, it would have been more judicious had I deferred the discussion of my matrimonial projects. But youthful love is ever ardent, and burning with impatience I plunged into my subject. It is painful to have to record such a thing of the author of one's being, but my father burst into a furious rage, and after storming for about ten minutes, ended by declaring that no son of his should marry a confounded confectioner's daughter. I could not bear to hear my Popsy thus spoken of, so I left the room.
Next day I endeavoured to combat his decision, told him that birth was a mere accident, and quoted the Laureate's beautiful lines, which indeed I had learnt for the purpose, to the effect that “kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.” I wept, I implored. I added that though Mr. Pettigrew certainly was engaged in the toothsome trade of making tarts, yet Anna Maria was,
her image from my heart.
So, a week later, I found myself on the ocean. The other passengers were uncongenial, and I spent most of my time writing to Anna Maria. One letter I placed in a bottle carefully sealed, which was then dropped overboard. There was slight prospect of its ever reaching her for whom it was intended, but I pictured to myself my poppet's delight if my little waif should by chance meet her eye.
It was shortly after Christmas when I landed in New Zealand. Resisting all the gay attractions of the city where I first arrived, I hastened at once to my cousin's station, which was at some distance, situated among high hills. On presenting myself, George, though greatly surprised, gave me a hearty welcome, and as he was a genial fellow, I soon put him in possession of the facts of my case. When I spoke to him of Anna Maria, the tears filled my eyes, and George turned aside to hide his emotion. In his bluff way he endeavoured to console me, saying that he knew what it was like and that I should get over it, he had done so himself. Secretly I did not agree with him; his mind is of a coarser, harder fibre than mine; there are depths in my nature which such as he can never fathom, but he meant well, and I thanked him for his uncouth sympathy. On the whole, we get on very well together. There are one or two points in his conduct that I could wish altered; he will smoke strong tobacco, the fumes of which make me cough; he drinks cold whiskey and water, a loathsome beverage; and he does not believe in ghosts.
The first time we spoke on the subject, I was in a very chatty, confidential mood. I had told George for the twentieth time about my love affairs, and described the charms of my enslaver; nay, I had even shown him her photograph. But he was in an unreceptive state of mind, sighed heavily and seemed so depressed, that, but for the unlikelihood of such a thing, I could almost have fancied he was bored. So gradually a deep silence fell between us, and I was idly watching him fill his glass, when some unaccountable influence forced me to say: “George, do you believe in ghosts?”
“No,” he answered shortly. “Do you?”
I solemnly replied in the affirmative. He stared at me through the clouds of tobacco smoke, and slowly said: “Well, of all the—— Did you ever see one?”
“No,” I said, “unfortunately never. But I've read”—and then I hurled my whole stock of ghostly lore at him. He listened more attentively than he usually did to me, and, when I had finished, remarked; “Some of those stories are certainly curious, but seeing is believing, you know, and I don't think anything less than personal experience will convince me. Now, you firmly believe in ghosts on hearsay, eh?”
“Yes,” I answered enthusiastically, “I do: and I would go to the stake for my belief.”
“Nobody wants you to do that,” said my cousin coldly. “Well, I hope for your sake you will see one some day. For my part, they seem to be rather kittle cattle at the best of times, and I don't care if I never make their acquaintance.”
This conversation took place a day or two after I arrived, and next evening we talked again of ghosts. My cousin seemed interested, and I was quite in hopes of converting him to a belief in spirits. One night, after our late meal of tea, chops, and damper, he announced his intention of spending the evening with a friend who lived about four miles away.
“Very likely I shall not return till late,” he said. “You won't mind keeping house, I suppose. Perhaps you'll have a ghostly visitor; just about Christmas is a great time for them, isn't it?”
I smiled pityingly at his rude banter; but, looked at in the light of after events, his words were almost prophetic. I watched him as he strode in the direction of the stable till he disappeared. Then I went into the house, and leaving the door open, as it was a warm night, sat down and began a letter to Anna Maria. So engrossed was I in this pleasing task that I did not notice the flight of time, till I was roused by a cold blast striking down my neck. I looked up. The clock was pointing to ten minutes to twelve. The night had changed, and through the open door I saw heavy clouds rapidly covering the sky, and gusts of wind moaned fitfully among the fir-trees at the back of the house. Quickly I shut and locked the door. I ought to explain that our domicile consists of four rooms; the sitting-room with three doors, one leading on to the verandah, one into the kitchen, and one into George's bedroom. This last door, when I tried it, proved to be locked, and I could not see the key. I then went into the kitchen, and examined and fastened the doors and windows, and looked in every corner for fear there should be a cat concealed anywhere, as I have a morbid dread of that animal. None was there, however, and I went into my own room, which opened out of the kitchen. I mention this search so particularly, in order that the reader may understand that there was no living being, save myself, on the premises, and all means of egress and ingress were barred.
I stayed in my room some few minutes, and then returned to the sitting-room. As I passed through the dark kitchen, I fancied I smelt tobacco smoke, and as I drew near the door the scent became so strong as nearly to choke me. At the same time, I distinctly heard the ring of glass, and a sound as of the pouring out of liquor. Stealthily I crept to the door, and hardly daring to breathe, peered through the key-hole. What did I behold? Seated comfortably in my cousin's big armchair was a man. He was very tall and thin, quite cadaverous indeed; his hair
At first, I give you my word of honour, I thought he was a human being like myself, and I was wondering how he had managed to get into the sitting-room, when a pungent whiff of smoke came through the key-hole and made me cough loudly. The stranger did not seem disturbed. He merely said, “Come in,” as though a violent fit of coughing were the usual mode of demanding admittance. I by no means wished to intrude upon him, but some mysterious force urged me forward, and in I went. The being looked up as I entered.
“Good evening, Mr. Rawson,” said he. “I am extremely glad to see you. Pray sit down.”
I obeyed him, my head whirling. My new friend continued: “You seem bewildered. Ah, of course! you do not know who I am. I will tell you. You believe in ghosts, do you not?”
I nodded feebly. Putting down his glass, he took the pipe out of his mouth, and leaning forward, said impressively: “I am a ghost!”
I tried to say I was very happy to hear it, but the truth was, I had never read of a ghost who smoked, drank, and wore rather “loud” check clothes of a slightly old-fashioned cut, and I scarcely believed him. I fear I showed my incredulity, for a shadow passed over his face, and he said:
“You evidently do not credit my assertion. Perhaps you have never seen a spirit like me. No doubt, if I had come clad in a shroud and clanking chains, I should appear more orthodox; but that costume is quite out of date, no
Though somewhat startled at the request, I told him that my cousin always kept a loaded one in the room.
“Get it,” said the ghost, “and fire at me.”
I protested at the extreme inhospitality of such a measure, but the spectre scowled so fiercely that I did as I was bid, and fetched the pistol.
“Take a careful aim,” commanded the spirit, with an air of great enjoyment, “and don't smash the whiskey bottle.”
In fear and trembling I raised the weapon, took aim, and fired.
When I opened my eyes again, (I always close them when I let off firearms, as I have a great dislike to seeing any creature suffer), the ghost was leaning back, smiling.
“That was a good shot of yours,” said he, taking a gulp of whiskey and water. “If I had been a living man when you fired, I should certainly be a spirit by this time. Look here!” and unclasping his hand, which had been clenched against his breast, he showed me the bullet from the pistol.
“I simply stopped it,” he added carelessly. “Would you like to keep it as a curiosity?” politely handing it to me.
I was convinced. No mortal being could stop a pistol bullet without serious consequences to himself. My visitor must be a spirit, though certainly a substantial one, as he had said; it would be foolish to doubt any longer, so casting all my preconceived ideas to the winds, I determined to enjoy to the utmost the society of so unusual a guest.
“Now,” said the ghost seriously, “to business. You believe in me after that proof, do you not?”
I assured him of my unwavering faith.
“Then would you mind writing down your experiences of to-night, together with the date, and signing your name?”
I complied with the request, and handed the document to the ghost, who folded it and put it in his waistcoat pocket with much satisfaction.
“Might I ask”—I began timidly—
“Certainly,” interrupted the spectre. “Just let me fill up my glass and get some more baccy. Don't you smoke?”
“Why, no,” I replied. “I consider smoking a most disgusting habit. At least,” I added hastily, “for some people.”
“Doesn't agree with you, p'raps,” said the ghost, with a loud laugh. “Don't you drink either? No. Well, you're young yet, and will learn better some day. Now, I'll tell you why I came here this evening. You must know that when a man dies, he becomes a ghost; but if, during his earthly life, he has doubted the existence of spirits, he is shut out from all the privileges of regular ghostship until he can persuade some living person to believe in him, and to give him a written acknowledgment to that effect. Armed with this, he goes to a certain well-known “Society for the Supervision of Spirits and the Suppression of Pseudo-Spectres,” and exchanges this acknowledgment for a proper certificate; then he is a full-blown ghost. I assure you it is considered a great rise in life, and I am exceedingly grateful to you for your valuable assistance. I shall never forget your kindness, and if at any time I can be of use to you, command me.”
Such was his affability that he absolutely winked, at the same moment replenishing his glass for the third time.
“You see,” he continued, “the vagrant ghosts are only allowed to show themselves at stated times, and they spend the intervals in hunting for a human being credulous enough to take up their cause; and, owing to the fearful scepticism of the age, such people are growing scarcer every day. I have long had my eye on you”—here I could not
“I fear so,” I answered. “But I shall tell him about you, and perhaps that will convince him.”
“It ought to,” said the spectre. “But he's a stubborn fellow. Never mind, one consolation is, he'll have a hard time of it when he's a ghost himself.”
The apparition chuckled with joyful anticipation, and filled his pipe again from George's tobacco jar.
“Ah!” he went on, taking a long pull at his pipe, with an air of placid bliss, “we have an old fellow with us, whose creed is, ‘Wine, Woman, and Song.’ He never knew the charms of the weed, or he would have added that to the list, and maybe struck out ‘Woman.’ That wouldn't suit you though, would it?” he added, looking at the photo of Anna Maria, which was still on the table. “I see you have a fine girl there. Sly dog! Sly dog!”
Here the ghost winked again, and I think was going to poke me in the ribs, but I drew back; I could not bear jesting on that subject, even from a spirit. So I endeavoured to turn the conversation back to ghostly matters. But the spectre, who seemed very full of spirits, (N.B.—This looks like a pun, but it isn't one really; I object to puns on principle), declined to enlighten me any farther.
“No, no!” he said, “I'm sick of ghosts. Let's have a song.” And without more ado, he struck up a lively ditty of a decidedly Bacchanalian character. In the middle of the second verse he stopped and held up his hand. The sharp sound of a horse trotting quickly up the road was distinctly audible.
“I expect it is my cousin returning,” I said.
“Your cousin,” exclaimed the ghost, tossing off what remained of the liquor in his tumbler. “Then I must be off. Well! I haven't had such a pleasant evening for a long time. I'm really quite sorry to leave you, but it would never do for your cousin to find me here. Are you sure it is he?”
“I'll look,” I replied; and unlocking the front door, I stepped on to the verandah and gazed into the darkness. Rain had fallen, but a watery moon was now feebly struggling through the clouds. I could not see my cousin, but I heard him whistling as he approached the house.
“Yes,” I said, without turning, “it is George. I do wish, though, that you would stop and see him.”
But there was no answer, save a faint echo of the word “Farewell.”
Wheeling swiftly round, I looked into the sitting-room. It was empty. I rushed through into the kitchen, thence into my room. All was dark and blank. The spectre had vanished, melted into thin air. I was sorry that he had taken the opportunity of my back being turned, to melt, as I should like to have seen how he did it; but regrets were vain. He had gone, and but for the thick haze of smoke and a perceptible odour of whiskey in the room, I might have fancied I had dreamt him. Just then George appeared, wet through and rather cross, having been caught in the rain.
“Hullo! you up still,” was his salutation. “Been making a night of it apparently,” he added, sniffing suspiciously. “I thought you didn't smoke.”
“It wasn't I,” I hastened to assure him. “It was the spirit.”
“Hm! so I should say,” he rejoined grimly. “Why, that bottle was nearly full when I left.”
“I mean the ghost.” I explained.
“Ghost! what ghost? You're drunk, man.”
“I am not drunk,” I retorted indignantly: “I tell you there's been a ghost sitting in your chair, smoking your tobacco and—”
“Then, where is he now?”
“He melted when he heard you coming.”
“Best thing he could do after drinking all my whiskey. However, ghost or no ghost, I must go and change. Did
He went into his room, whence he presently emerged in a dry suit of clothes, saying, as he rummaged among the things on the mantelpiece:
“Now, I'll just have one smoke before bed, and you can tell me about your ghost. Where's my pipe gone to, I wonder”
“I'm afraid,” I answered humbly, for I was beginning to feel the responsibilities of entertaining spectres, “that the ghost must have forgotten to leave it behind. He was using it, you know.”
“Confound your ghosts,” said George irritably. “This is getting beyond a joke. Just tell me what you mean.”
So I gave him a full account of my adventure, he gazing steadily at me all the time. When I had finished, he remarked:
“Well, Dolly, you are, without exception, the biggest ass I ever met.”
I began to protest against this language, which I considered stronger than the occasion warranted; but George, who appeared to be in a very bad temper, turned abruptly away, saying that we had better go to bed, and discuss the subject in the morning.
Accordingly, next day, we argued the matter coolly, indeed we have often returned to it since, but to no purpose. I maintain, and always shall maintain, that “My Ghost” was a bonâ fide apparition; while my cousin persists in repeating his original unflattering remark.
However, he has introduced to me a friend of his named Maitland—a most superior mind—who fully shares my views on ghostly matters, and considers my experience as the most remarkable one on record. By-the-way, this Mr. Maitland bears a most extraordinary resemblance to my spectral visitor. So strong is the likeness, that I was
One word more. It is chiefly due to Maitland's earnest advice that I am writing out this slight account of my strange adventure. I am further emboldened to do so by feeling quite confident that no one can read this “ower true tale” without being instantly converted, if a sceptic, (I need scarcely say my cousin George is hopelessly prejudiced), or strengthened in his opinions, if already a believer, by the perusal of so marvellous a story.
Dolly has just triumphantly shown me the above manuscript, with which he intends ultimately to favour the public. Did ever anyone hear of such an ass? Of course, the whole affair was a hoax. He bored me to extinction with his ceaseless prattle about his young woman and his ghosts, so I planned this business as a sort of retaliation, meaning to undeceive him afterwards, if he should be taken in, and so have a joke against him. But the muff swallowed it all so greedily, and is so proud of having seen a genuine ghost, that I can't make up my mind to tell him the truth.
Certainly, the whole affair went off most smoothly. The ghost, who was played by a clever fellow called Maitland, was, of course, concealed in my bedroom. Fortune favoured him in making his entrance and exit, but he did the part uncommonly well, and even got from Dolly a signed paper acknowledging him as a spectre. Maitland says he shall keep that paper as a proof of the lengths to which human credulity can go.
It is almost needless to say that I drew the charge of the pistol before I left home, and gave the bullet to the ghost, who had no difficulty in producing it at the proper time, as Dolly invariably shuts his eyes when he fires. I had only to counterfeit a certain amount of surprise and indignation when I got home, and the hoax was complete.
I was afraid the trick would be discovered when Maitland and Dolly met, but though the latter was much struck by the likeness between my fleshly friend and his ghostly one, it never entered into his head to connect the two.
Besides, Maitland, quite unnecessarily, addled the poor fellow's brains still more by the introduction of a new idea, stating it as his belief that everyone has a double, and that probably the ghost was his (Maitland's); hence the remarkable likeness. Dolly jumped at the suggestion, and the theory has almost ousted ghosts from the first place in his speculations. He spends his time now, trying to find his friends' doubles, and lives in the hope of some day meeting the exact counterpart of himself.
In my humble opinion, that would be quite impossible.
The Good ship Waitotara was drawing near the end of her voyage, and in a short time the motley assembly of travellers, who had met for the first time six weeks ago, would separate and become as much utter strangers to each other, as though they had not eaten and drank, quarrelled or made love, during that period.
Amongst the passengers was a certain Miss Minnie Martyn, two-and-twenty years of age, fairly good-looking, bright, and prospective heiress to £50,000. She was an only child; her mother was dead, and her father, immersed in business, had sent her to England a year before, to visit various relations and to see a little of the world. She was now returning home, brimful of life and spirits, and with a decided penchant for flirtation. She had been placed under the chaperonage of a family friend, a Mrs. Ferguson, who was the very type of a certain sort of old lady, exceedingly good-natured and intensely garrulous. Mrs. Ferguson was a very bad sailor, so that the voyage was half over before she made her appearance in public.
Minnie, therefore, had had plenty of time to take stock of the rest of the passengers and to decide that the ladies were uninteresting, and that the flirtable portion of the community was, for various reasons, unavailable.
To be sure, there was one exception to the rule in the person of a Mr. Langley, one of the three bachelors on board; but he went to the other extreme, and instead of confining his polite attentions to one particular lady, to her triumph and the envy of her fair companions, made himself
Such being the case, it was no wonder that Mr. Langley should be voted the life and soul of the ship, and that Minnie should only receive her just share of his petits soins.
The other two unmarried men appeared to be hopelessly wrapped up in themselves. One was a rather exaggerated specimen of that curious creature the masher, and was wholly absorbed in his shirt-collars and dainty boots. The other was a hypochondriacal gentleman, who had been advised to try the sea voyage and New Zealand climate. His thoughts seemed to be entirely occupied with religion and medicine, which he administered to himself in alternate doses. He was of a generous nature, and was always ready to offer a tract or a draught to anyone whom he considered to be in need of such medicaments.
The rest of the passengers were not remarkable. There was a newly-married couple, who were little addition to society in general. There were the elderly husbands of the before-mentioned middle-aged ladies, who spent their days in smoking, arguing, grumbling, and playing cards; there were several young families, ranging from the baby of a tender age, who cried all night, to the overgrown hobbledehoy, who was a general nuisance; and there were various young ladies and spinsters, seeking employment in the Colonies as governesses, lady-helps, or wives.
It may be understood, therefore, that such being her fellow-travellers, Miss Martyn was beginning to get rather
Mr. Birket, the invalid, not only inquired anxiously after her health every day, and recommended Eau-de-Cologne baths as being wholesome, but also undertook the supervision of her spiritual welfare, and presented her with a copy of an address he had once given, called “A Warning to Young Persons,” entreating her to study it carefully.
The popular bachelor, though still kind and attentive to everyone else, became most assiduous in his courtesies to her, and his compliments, uttered or implied, grew more flowery and frequent every day.
The fashionable youth, Mr. St. Clare, had even managed to withdraw from the contemplation of his clothes so much of his mind as was necessary to evolve an occasional brilliant remark, such as: “Vewy warm to-day, Miss Martyn. Makes a fella' want to sit in his bones, as what's-his-name—Shakespeare—says. Funny fella', Shakespeare. Wead any of his books, Miss Martyn?” Or, perhaps of an evening, while leaning over the bulwarks watching the glittering track left by the rudder, he would say: “Pwetty stuff, phosph'rus, isn't it, Miss Martyn? Fella's say it's good for bwains. Don't believe it. Knew fella' once who lived on fish because of the phosph'rus, and he had no more bwains than you or I.”
One day, shortly after Minnie had noticed the difference in her companions' behaviour, she was sitting in the music saloon waiting for Mr. Langley, who had asked her to try an accompaniment to one of his songs. One of the pros-pective
“Oh, dear!” she sighed, “I wonder if that man is coming or not. I wish he wouldn't keep me waiting so long. He is ever so much nicer than he used to be, though. So they all are. Would you believe it,” she added, with a laugh, “yesterday, on deck, I dropped my fan, and Mr. St. Clare, who was standing by, actually bent down to pick it up. He was so long stooping, though, that I got tired of waiting, and picked it up myself, but it was really a miraculous effort on his part, wasn't it?”
“Yes, dear! it certainly was,” answered Miss Bowker, a slightly acidulated damsel of some forty odd summers. “But then of course you are an heiress, and men are so mercenary. Havn't you always found it so, love?”
Minnie started. It had never struck her that the fact of her having money might have become known, and raised her in the public estimation. The middle-aged maiden, noticing the effect of her little sting, smilingly proceeded to plant another.
“I have often thought,” said she, “that, though of course it is extremely pleasant to be wealthy, yet it must be very mortifying to feel that it is only for the sake of the money that people are so attentive.”
“Yes,” agreed Minnie calmly, “it is mortifying; and besides, so much flattery and attention bores one after a time. I am sure, dear Miss Bowker, I have often envied you your freedom from such troubles. I really don't think I have ever seen a man pestering you with his politeness. How do you manage to keep them at such a distance? Oh! Mr. Langley,” turning with her sweetest smile to that individual, who had just entered, “I thought you were never coming;” and she walked to the piano, leaving Miss Bowker rather in doubt as to which had had the best of the encounter.
At the earliest opportunity Minnie taxed Mrs. Ferguson with having spread the report of her being an heiress.
“What does it matter, child,” said she, “you will only make yourself miserable with your romantic notions about being loved for yourself alone. And probably when the right man comes, you won't stop to question whether it is you or your money he wants.”
“Very likely not,” answered Minnie, then as she turned away, she murmured to herself with true feminine justice: “At all events neither of those men is the right one, and I'll just give them all a lesson.”
From that day forward Minnie devoted her energies to riveting the chains of her three adorers. She would stroll on deck in the moonlight with one, would take the spiritual and medicinal advice of another, and pay as much heed to the wit and wisdom of the third, as though she were a second Queen of Sheba, and he a worthy successor of Solomon. In short, as Miss Bowker virtuously said, “the way that young woman went on, was a disgrace to her sex.”
On the last evening of the voyage there was a final dance. The night was clear and bright, and the sea so calm that the motion of the ship was no hindrance to the dancers. Minnie, who was looking her very best, was engaged for innumerable waltzes to Messrs. Langley and St. Clare, and Mr. Birket had obtained her promise to go in to supper with him.
A polka and a square dance had been performed with much vigour, and then came two waltzes. Mr. Langley was Minnie's partner for both, and as the last bars of the second waltz were dying away, he drew her apart from the other dancers under pretext of observing the beauty of the moonlight on the water, and then and there plunged into a violent declaration of love.
“Miss Martyn,” said he, “Minnie! You must have seen how I adore you. By Heaven, I never loved a woman as I do you. I know I am not worthy of such a pearl among girls, but oh, dearest, if you will be my wife it would make me so happy. Look here! We'll get married next week if you'll only say the word, and we'll be as jolly as—as, by Jove, two turtle doves. Only say you'll have me, Minnie darling.”
Minnie's revenge with regard to one of her mercenary lovers was complete; she had now only to upbraid and dismiss him with scorn; but while he had been pleading so eloquently for his own happiness, a sudden thought flashed through her brain. He should not be let off so easily, the lesson should be thoroughly effectual if she could make it so. Without stopping to consider the drawbacks or difficulties of her plan, she proceeded to execute it.
“Oh, Mr. Langley,” she murmured, with an air of shyness which did great credit to her powers of acting, “I am so surprised. I never thought you loved me.”
Mr. Langley renewed his ardent protestations, and at last Minnie uttered a coy assent. Her enraptured suitor was about to burst forth in gratitude, but Minnie stopped him.
“I am going to make a condition,” she said, “and that is, that you are not to breathe a word about this, and you are not to see me for six months after we land. It seems odd, but I am rather romantic, and I should like to have a proof of your devotion. If you break this condition I will never marry you.”
In vain did Mr. Langley try to shake her decision, Minnie remained firm, and he yielded at last with rather a bad grace.
“At least you will give me a kiss,” he begged, “just one little one, darling.”
“No, oh no!” cried Minnie, “I could'nt think of such a thing, besides, there's Miss Bowker, she might see us. And there's Mr. Birket too; I'm sure he is looking for
Mr. Birket was seeking Minnie to ask her if she would not like some refreshment. He conducted her solemnly into the saloon and provided her with something to eat. When she had finished and rose to go, he said in a bland voice:
“Pray wait a moment, dear Miss Martyn; I have somewhat to say to you.”
Minnie sat down again, and he continued—“My sweet young friend, you may perhaps have noticed that I have singled you out from your companions. It is written, that it is not good for man to live alone, and you have seemed to me to be an exceedingly suitable help-mate for a man of my habits. There are, of course, slight defects in your character, but all flesh is liable to err, and I fancy that with patience, I could mould you into a most admirable person. I should not feel justified in marrying on my own income, but, as I have heard from the worthy Mrs. Ferguson, that you are well furnished with this world's goods, I have no scruples on that score. I will not insist on an immediate answer, but I feel sure that if you will consider what I have said, you will see the advantages of the proposed union. I am now about to retire, as this unwonted agitation has slightly disturbed me. Good night, and bless you my fair maid. I await your answer with confidence.”
At the end of this remarkable speech, Mr. Birket cast a benevolent smile on Minnie, and pressing her hand, slowly withdrew.
It is to be feared that Minnie's bump of veneration was not largely developed, for as her uncouth wooer disappeared she indulged in a hearty laugh.
“What an idea!” she said to herself, “fancy being moulded by a creature like that. And he seems to take it for granted that I shall accept him. So I shall, I could'nt bear to disappoint him, but as for marrying him! C'est
toute autre chose. So we are to live on my money, are we; he has no scruples about it. At any rate Mr. Langley had the grace to say nothing about that, whatever he may have thought. I wonder now, how Mr. St. Clare will express his sentiments, as I suppose he will propose to me next. Talk of an angel,—here he comes.”
Sure enough that gentleman had just entered the saloon, evidently in quest of some one or something. Catching sight of Minnie, he came towards her, exclaiming:
“Been looking for you ev'wywhere, Miss Martyn.” Then sinking into a seat at her side he continued: “Doocid hard work dancin', isn't it now, Miss Martyn? Lets stay and rest here for a bit.”—–A slight pause.
“Saw that queer fella' Birket talkin' to you; awful bore isn't he? Don't wonder he likes talkin' to you though. 'Pon my soul, you're the jolliest girl I evah met. You are indeed.”
“Oh, Mr. St. Clare!” murmured Minnie, playing with her fan.
“'Pon honour, I mean it, Miss Martyn. Nevah saw such a jolly gurl as you. Give you my word I feel quite mis'rable away from you, like—like fish out of watah, don't cher know. I say, Miss Martyn, what do you say to marryin' me?” Another pause; then the impassioned youth went on: “You know I am weally extremely fond of you, Miss Martyn, and I think we should pull vewy well together, eh? What do you think?”
“I think.” said Minnie softly, “that it is very kind of you to ask me. But if I say yes, will you promise me one thing?” And she rapidly proposed the same conditions as she had exacted from Mr. Langley. Like that gentleman, her present suitor objected strongly at first, but Minnie finally succeeded in drawing from him a promise not to mention the engagement, nor to try to see her till six months later.
“You may write to me if you like,” said she, “and tell me how you are getting on, etc. Now please take me back to the deck, people will be wondering where I am.”
Next day the Waitotara touched at one of the New Zealand ports. Here Minnie landed, her three fiancés were all going farther. Before leaving the ship she had a fare-well interview with each one separately, reminded him of his promise, and said what indeed was very true, that she looked forward eagerly to meeting him at the end of his probation. She managed to frustrate any intentions as to a more tender leave-taking on the part of any of her betrothed, and at last went away in such good spirits, that no one would have imagined that she was engaged to, and parting from, three men at once.
* * * * * * * * * * *
It was a glorious morning in spring, six months later, and a certain New Zealand city had arrayed itself in its holiday garb, with a view to making the most of the somewhat infrequent dissipations enjoyed by it. It was in fact, the first day of the races, and the greater part of the inhabitants of the city, and many sojourners within its belts, were engaged in active preparations for the festivities. One gentleman, however, whose carefully made toilet suggested a happy combination of the swell and the sport, with perhaps a dash of the lover, as set forth by the choice white flower in his coat, had turned his back on the crowded streets, and was walking rapidly in the direction of the public gardens. Arrived at the gate thereof, he passed through and pursued certain shady paths till he stopped on the bank of the river, close to a picturesque bridge.
He looked at his watch, and saying to himself “rather early yet,” took from his waistcoat pocket a little note directed in a feminine handwriting to “C. Langley, Esq,” and read it through with an air of great satisfaction. Putting it back again, he sat down on the knotted rustic bench that offered a tempting resting-place to the weary wayfarer, and endeavoured to while away the time by drawing diagrams on the gravel with his stick.
Presently he heard a step in the opposite direction from that in which he had come, and starting up, walked quickly
Waitotara, viz., Mr. St. Clare, more elaborately and extensively got up than ever. This very unexpected rencontre did not seem to afford the new comer unmixed pleasure, however, the two men, politely dissembling their feelings, shook hands, and began a friendly, if slightly forced, conversation. Their talk, after a bit, became rather desultory and spasmodic, each gentleman wondering what the other was waiting for, and why he didn't go.
Just then some one was heard walking over the bridge. Both men looked up eagerly, and their faces underwent a ludicrous change when, instead of a graceful female flgure, they beheld the gaunt shambling form of the third of Minnie Martyn's favoured suitors. Slowly did he cross the bridge, and then perceiving his former acquaintances he advanced towards them, and held out his hand with a limp smile. This duty of friendship accomplished, he extracted from an inner pocket a small bottle and a minimglass, and carefully measuring out a few drops, drank them off, and sat down on the rustic bench, smiling benevolently.
The other two had watched has proceedings with a sort of hideous fascination. So very different had the meeting proved from the one anticipated, that neither knew quite what to say, till the silence was broken by Mr. Birket, who bleated forth:
“This is indeed an unexpected joy. It is a most singular coincidence that we three should meet again in this manner. It is quite like old days, is it not? Our little group will be still more complete when Miss Martyn—.”
“Miss Martyn!” exclaimed the other two men, the spell dissolved at last.
“Yes,” went on Mr. Birket, placidly closing his eyes. “No doubt you remember her. A very plump and pleasing
“Minnie made an appointment with you! Why she begged me to come here,” interrupted Mr. Langley.
“And she wrote to ask me the same thing,” gasped Mr. St. Clare, producing a duplicate to the note in the possession of Mr. Langley.
“But she is engaged to me!”
“So she is to me!”
Opening his eyes, Mr. Birket said firmly:
“You are both grievously mistaken. The girl plighted her troth to me,” at the same time bringing out of his pocket, together with a box of pills, a third little note precisely similar to the other two, and handing it round for inspection.
“It is weally vewy confusing,” sighed Mr. St Clare.
“There's some devilry in it,” said Mr. Langley moodily, “When did you propose to her?”
“The last night on board ship; she accepted me, but made me promise not to say anything about it.”
“The little jade, that's the very way she treated me. She's been playing fast and loose with us both, and I suppose that creature”—with a contemptuous gesture towards the peacefully ruminating invalid—“is in the same box. She's fooled us all nicely; never meant to marry any of us.”
“Weally, I think, we've had an extremely lucky escape. She would have been a very fatiguin' wife, you know.”
“I should like to know how she excuses her infamous behaviour. By jingo, there she is!”
“Pwettier than evah, too.”
So it was. Minnie Martyn in a most becoming frock, and followed at a short distance by a good-looking man, tripped gaily up to the group of righteously indignant lovers, both hands outstretched, and her pretty face dimpling with laughter.
“Oh!” she said, shaking hands vigorously, “I am so glad to see you all again. You got my notes? It was really awfully good of you to come; I hope it wasn't a great bother. It reminds one of old times when you were heiress-hunting on board the Waitotara, doesn't it? But I'm forgetting all my manners. Frank!” to the good-looking man, “These are some fellow-passengers of mine. Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my husband.”