"Tell
me, Miss Walker! You know how
things should be. What would
you say was a good profession
for a young man of twenty-six
who has had no education worth
speaking about, and who is not
very quick by nature?" The speaker
was Charles Westmacott, and the
time this same summer evening
in the tennis ground, though
the shadows had fallen now and
the game been abandoned.
The girl glanced up at him,
amused and surprised.
"Do
you mean yourself?"
"Precisely."
"But
how could I
tell?"
"I
have no one
to advise me.
I believe that you could do it
better than any one. I feel confidence
in your opinion."
"It is very flattering." She
glanced up again at his earnest,
questioning face, with its Saxon
eyes and drooping flaxen mustache,
in some doubt as to whether he
might be joking. On the contrary,
all his attention seemed to be
concentrated upon her answer.
"It depends so much upon what
you can do, you know. I do not
know you sufficiently to be able
to say what natural gifts you
have." They were walking slowly
across the lawn in the direction
of the house.
"I
have none.
That is to
say none worth
mentioning.
I have
no memory and I am very slow."
"But
you are very
strong."
"Oh,
if that goes
for anything.
I can put up a hundred-pound
bar till further orders; but
what sort of a calling is that?"
Some little joke about being
called to the bar flickered up
in Miss Walker's mind, but her
companion was in such obvious
earnest that she stifled down
her inclination to laugh.
"I
can do a mile
on the cinder-track
in 4:50 and across-country in
5:20, but how is that to help
me? I might be a cricket professional,
but it is not a very dignified
position. Not that I care a straw
about dignity, you know, but
I should not like to hurt the
old lady's feelings.
"Your
aunt's?"
"Yes,
my aunt's.
My parents
were killed
in the Mutiny,
you
know, when I was a baby, and
she has looked after me ever
since. She has been very good
to me. I'm sorry to leave her."
"But why should you leave her?" They
had reached the garden gate,
and the girl leaned her racket
upon the top of it, looking up
with grave interest at her big
white-flanneled companion.
"It's, Browning," said
he.
"What!"
"Don't tell my aunt that I
said it"--he sank his voice to
a whisper--"I hate Browning."
Clara Walker rippled off into
such a merry peal of laughter
that he forgot the evil things
which he had suffered from the
poet, and burst out laughing
too.
"I can't make him out," said
he. "I try, but he is one too
many. No doubt it is very stupid
of me; I don't deny it. But as
long as I cannot there is no
use pretending that I can. And
then of course she feels hurt,
for she is very fond of him,
and likes to read him aloud in
the evenings. She is reading
a piece now `Pippa Passes,' and
I assure you, Miss Walker, that
I don't even know what the title
means. You must think me a dreadful
fool."
"But surely he is not so incomprehensible
as all that?" she said, as an
attempt at encouragement.
"He
is very bad.
There are some
things, you
know, which
are fine. That ride of the three
Dutchmen, and Herve Riel and
others, they are all right. But
there was a piece we read last
week. The first line stumped
my aunt, and it takes a good
deal to do that, for she rides
very straight. `Setebos and Setebos
and Setebos.' That was the line."
"It
sounds like
a charm."
"No,
it is a gentleman's
name. Three
gentlemen,
I thought,
at
first, but my aunt says one.
Then he goes on, `Thinketh he
dwelleth in the light of the
moon.' It was a very trying piece."
Clara Walker laughed again.
"You must not think of leaving
your aunt," she said. "Think
how lonely she would be without
you."
"Well,
yes, I have
thought of
that. But you
must remember
that my aunt is to all intents
hardly middle-aged, and a very
eligible person. I don't think
that her dislike to mankind extends
to individuals. She might form
new ties, and then I should be
a third wheel in the coach. It
was all very well as long as
I was only a boy, when her first
husband was alive."
"But, good gracious, you don't
mean that Mrs. Westmacott is
going to marry again?" gasped
Clara.
The
young man glanced
down at her
with a question
in his
eyes "Oh, it is only a remote,
possibility, you know," said
he. "Still, of course, it might
happen, and I should like to
know what I ought to turn my
hand to."
"I wish I could help you," said
Clara. "But I really know very
little about such things. However,
I could talk to my father, who
knows a very great deal of the
world."
"I
wish you would.
I should be
so glad if
you would."
"Then
I certainly
will. And now
I must say
good-night,
Mr.
Westmacott, for papa will be
wondering where I am."
"Good night, Miss Walker." He
pulled off his flannel cap, and
stalked away through the gathering
darkness.
Clara
had imagined
that they had
been the last
on the lawn,
but, looking back from the steps
which led up to the French windows,
she saw two dark figures moving
across towards the house. As
they came nearer she could distinguish
that they were Harold Denver
and her sister Ida. The murmur
of their voices rose up to her
ears, and then the musical little
child-like laugh which she knew
so well. "I am so delighted," she
heard her sister say. "So pleased
and proud. I had no idea of it.
Your words were such a surprise
and a joy to me. Oh, I am so
glad."
"Is
that you, Ida?"
"Oh,
there is Clara.
I must go in,
Mr. Denver.
Good-night!"
There
were a few
whispered words,
a laugh from
Ida, and
a "Good-night, Miss Walker," out
of the darkness. Clara took her
sister's hand, and they passed
together through the long folding
window. The Doctor had gone into
his study, and the dining-room
was empty. A single small red
lamp upon the sideboard was reflected
tenfold by the plate about it
and the mahogany beneath it,
though its single wick cast but
a feeble light into the large,
dimly shadowed room. Ida danced
off to the big central lamp,
but Clara put her hand upon her
arm. "I rather like this quiet
light," said she. "Why should
we not have a chat?" She sat
in the Doctor's large red plush
chair, and her sister cuddled
down upon the footstool at her
feet, glancing up at her elder
with a smile upon her lips and
a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
There was a shade of anxiety
in Clara's face, which cleared
away as she gazed into her sister's
frank blue eyes.
"Have you anything to tell
me, dear?" she asked.
Ida
gave a little
pout and shrug
to her shoulder. "The Solicitor-General
then opened the case for the
prosecution," said she. "You
are going to cross-examine me,
Clara, so don't deny it. I do
wish you would have that grey
satin foulard of yours done up.
With a little trimming and a
new white vest it would look
as good as new, and it is really
very dowdy."
"You were quite late upon the
lawn," said the inexorable Clara.
"Yes, I was rather. So were
you. Have you anything to tell
me?" She broke away into her
merry musical laugh.
"I
was chatting
with Mr. Westmacott."
"And
I was chatting
with Mr. Denver.
By the way,
Clara, now
tell me truly, what do you think
of Mr. Denver? Do you like him?
Honestly now!"
"I like him very much indeed.
I think that he is one of the
most gentlemanly, modest, manly
young men that I have ever known.
So now, dear, have you nothing
to tell me?" Clara smoothed down
her sister's golden hair with
a motherly gesture, and stooped
her face to catch the expected
confidence. She could wish nothing
better than that Ida should be
the wife of Harold Denver, and
from the words which she had
overheard as they left the lawn
that evening, she could not doubt
that there was some understanding
between them.
But there came no confession
from Ida. Only the same mischievous
smile and amused gleam in her
deep blue eyes.
"That grey foulard dress----" she
began.
"Oh,
you little
tease! Come
now, I will ask you what you
have just asked me. Do you like
Harold Denver?"
"Oh,
he's a darling!"
"Ida!"
"Well, you asked me. That's
what I think of him. And now,
you dear old inquisitive, you
will get nothing more out of
me; so you must wait and not
be too curious. I'm going off
to see what papa is doing." She
sprang to her feet, threw her
arms round her sister's neck,
gave her a final squeeze, and
was gone. A chorus from Olivette,
sung in her clear contralto,
grew fainter and fainter until
it ended in the slam of a distant
door.
But Clara Walker still sat
in the dim-lit room with her
chin upon her hands, and her
dreamy eyes looking out into
the gathering gloom. It was the
duty of her, a maiden, to play
the part of a mother--to guide
another in paths which her own
steps had not yet trodden. Since
her mother died not a thought
had been given to herself, all
was for her father and her sister.
In her own eyes she was herself
very plain, and she knew that
her manner was often ungracious
when she would most wish to be
gracious. She saw her face as
the glass reflected it, but she
did not see the changing play
of expression which gave it its
charm--the infinite pity, the
sympathy, the sweet womanliness
which drew towards her all who
were in doubt and in trouble,
even as poor slow-moving Charles
Westmacott had been drawn to
her that night. She was herself,
she thought, outside the pale
of love. But it was very different
with Ida, merry, little, quick-witted,
bright-faced Ida. She was born
for love. It was her inheritance.
But she was young and innocent.
She must not be allowed to venture
too far without help in those
dangerous waters. Some understanding
there was between her and Harold
Denver. In her heart of hearts
Clara, like every good woman,
was a match-maker, and already
she had chosen Denver of all
men as the one to whom she could
most safely confide Ida. He had
talked to her more than once
on the serious topics of life,
on his aspirations, on what a
man could do to leave the world
better for his presence. She
knew that he was a man of a noble
nature, high-minded and earnest.
And yet she did not like this
secrecy, this disinclination
upon the part of one so frank
and honest as Ida to tell her
what was passing. She would wait,
and if she got the opportunity
next day she would lead Harold
Denver himself on to this topic.
It was possible that she might
learn from him what her sister
had refused to tell her. |