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Title: Averil

Author: Rosa Nouchette Carey

Release date: February 10, 2015 [eBook #48228]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chris Whitehead, Demian Katz and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images
        courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University
        (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))


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Produced by Chris Whitehead, Demian Katz and the Online
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  [Illustration:

  No. 8.       PRICE. TEN CENTS.

  Published Weekly. By Subscription. $5.20 Per Annum. Entered at the
  New York Post Office as Second-Class Matter. February 25, 1896

  THE ARM CHAIR LIBRARY

  EACH NUMBER CONTAINS A COMPLETE NOVEL
  BY A POPULAR AUTHOR.


  AVERIL.

  By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.


  F·M·LUPTON·
  PUBLISHER

  23 25 AND 27 CITY HALL PLACE
  NEW YORK
  ]




Averil.

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.




CHAPTER I.

A WET DAY IN LINCOLN'S INN.


Mr. Harland was one of those enviable persons who invariably take a
cheerful view of everything; in the favorite parlance of the day, he
was an optimist. A good digestion, an easy-going temperament, and a
conscious void of offense toward his fellow-creatures, all contributed
to furnish him with a fine flow of spirits. In this way he was a
philosopher, and would discourse for a good half hour at a time on the
folly of a man who permitted himself to be disturbed by any atmospheric
changes; he thought it derogatory to the dignity of a human being to be
depressed by a trifle more or less of fog. No man delighted more than
he did in the sunshine--a spring day moved him to exuberant animation;
but, on the other hand, no pressure of London smoke, no damp, clinging
fog, no scarifying east wind, no wearisome succession of wet days, ever
evoked an impatient expression or brought him down to the dull level on
which other people find themselves.

This made him a delightful companion, and when Mrs. Harland (who
certainly matched her husband in good humor) once averred herself a
fortunate woman, none of her friends contradicted her.

Mr. Harland had just reached his chambers in Lincoln's Inn one morning,
and as he divested himself of his wet overcoat he hummed a little air
in an undertone.

The surroundings would have looked dreary enough to any other person.
It was difficult to recognize that May had actually arrived; the air
had a February chill in it; and the heavy, leaden sky and ceaseless
downpour of steady rain made the few passers-by shiver; now and then a
lawyer's clerk hurried along, uttering a sort of dumb protest in his
raised shoulders and turned-up collar. In that quiet spot the drip of
the water from the roofs was distinctly audible, alternating with the
splash of the rain on the stone flags of the court. Mr. Harland glanced
at the letters lying on his table, then he walked up to the fire-place,
and spread his white, well-shaped hands over the cheerful blaze.

"My housekeeper is a jewel!" he muttered. "She is worth her weight
in gold, that woman; she seems to know by instinct when to light a
fire. Bless me, how it is raining! Well, people tell me I am an oddly
constituted person, but I believe in my heart that I thoroughly enjoy
a wet day; one is sure of a quiet morning; no fussy clients, to bore
one and take up one's valuable time; not that I object to clients,"
with a chuckle. "Halloo! come in!" as a modest rap sounded at the door.
"Well, Carruthers, what is it? No one can be possibly wanting me this
morning," as a solemn-faced young man stood hesitating on the threshold.

"The young lady said she was in no hurry, sir; would not disturb you
for the world. It is Miss Willmot."

"Miss Willmot!" and Mr. Harland dropped his eye-glasses, and then
picked them up in a hurry. "Show her in, show her in at once,
Carruthers; and mind, I am engaged; I am not to be interrupted on
any account. To think of that delicate little creature venturing out
on such a day! What do you mean by it, what do you mean by it, Miss
Averil?" advancing with outstretched hands and a beaming face, as a
little figure appeared in the doorway.

"Don't scold me," returned the girl, in a sweet, plaintive voice. "I am
not so imprudent as you think. I took a cab, and drove all the way, so
I am not wet at all; no, indeed I am not," as Mr. Harland inspected her
carefully, touching her dress and mantle, as though to convince himself
of the truth of her words; but he only shook his head, and drew an
easy-chair close to the fire.

"Sit down and warm yourself," he said, with a good-humored
peremptoriness. "You are not the sort to brave damp with impunity. You
are a hot-house plant, that is what you are, Averil; but you have no
one to look after you, and so you just go on your willful way."

"You speak as though you were not pleased to see me," with a slight
pout; "but I know better, do I not, Mr. Harland!" laying a thin little
hand on his arm.

The lawyer rubbed up his gray hair with a comical gesture. "I am
always pleased to see you, my dear," he said at last, in a fatherly
sort of way, for he had daughters of his own, and there was a very
real friendship between him and this girl, whom he had known from her
cradle. "But all the same, I am vexed with you for coming. If you
wanted me, why did you not wire, and I would have been with you before
the day was out? You know it was an understood thing between us that
you are to send for me if you are in any perplexity."

"Yes, I know; but if I send for you, one or other of them would be sure
to find it out, and then curiosity would be excited; it is so much
nicer to talk to you here. I do love these quiet rooms, and that gray
old court." And Averil looked dreamily out of the window as she spoke.

No one who had seen Averil Willmot for the first time would have
guessed her age; in reality she was seven-and-twenty, but her
diminutive stature, which scarcely equaled that of a well-grown child
of twelve, often made people think her much younger; and her face,
in spite of the cast of melancholy that was always perceptible,
was singularly youthful. At first sight Averil was certainly not
prepossessing; her stunted growth and small, sallow face had little
to recommend them; without being actually deformed, she had rounded
shoulders and sunken chest, the result of some spinal mischief in
early years. Her features were scarcely redeemed from plainness; only
a sweet, sensitive mouth, and dark, thoughtful eyes prevented positive
ugliness; but those who knew Averil best cared little for her looks,
though it was just possible that a sense of her physical defects had
something to do with the vibrating melancholy that was so often heard
in her voice.

"You might have a quiet place of your own to-morrow if you liked,"
observed Mr. Harland, as Averil uttered her little speech. "I am a
tolerably cheerful person, as you know, and take most things with
equanimity; but it always rubs me up the wrong way when I see people
making martyrs of themselves for insufficient reasons, and spoiling
their own lives. Granted that you owe a certain amount of duty to your
step-mother and her children--and I am the last man in the world to
deny that duty, having step-children of my own--still, is there a ghost
of a necessity for you all living together, like an ill-assorted clan?"

"My dear old friend," laughed Averil, and she had a pretty, child-like
laugh, though it was not often heard, "how often are we to argue on
that point? The ghost of my necessity, as you call it, is Lottie, and
she is substantial enough, poor child. If I were to consent to break up
our mixed household, what would become of poor Lottie?"

"Take her with you, of course. Mrs. Willmot would only be too glad
to get rid of an incumbrance. What does she care about her husband's
niece? Try it, Averil; the burden of all these gay young people is too
heavy for your shoulders."

"I have tried," she replied, sadly. "Mr. Harland, indeed I have not
been so unmindful of your advice as you think. I have made more than
one attempt to put things on a different footing, but all my efforts
have been in vain. Mrs. Willmot refuses to part with Lottie, though I
have offered to provide for her; but the answer is always the same,
that Lottie is her husband's legacy to her, that on no consideration
would she part with such a sacred charge!"

A keen, sarcastic look shot from the lawyer's eyes. He muttered under
his breath, "Humbug!" but he prudently forbore to put his thoughts into
words.

"Miss Lottie never lived with you in your father's lifetime," he
observed, presently; "at least, I never saw her there."

"No; she was at school at Stoke Newington. The people boarded her in
return for her help with the little ones. She was very young then; she
is only eighteen now. I am afraid they taught her very little. I used
to tell father so, but he disliked so much to interfere."

"And now the sacred charge is at Kensington. My dear, that step-mother
of yours is a clever woman--you remember I always told you--a very
clever woman; she knows where she is comfortable."

"I have not come here through the rain to talk about my step-mother,"
returned Averil, in a reproachful tone, "but to show you a letter I
have just received. Mr. Harland, you know all my father's affairs; can
you tell me anything about a cousin of his, Felicia Ramsay?"

"Is that her married name? Willmot once told me, when I was dining with
him, that he had been engaged to his cousin, Felicia Graham. It is so
long ago that I can not recollect what moved him to such confidence.
Stop; I have it. I remember I made the remark that a man seldom
marries his first love (you know, even old fogies will sentimentalize
sometimes), and he replied (you know his dry way)--'I was engaged to my
cousin before I married Averil's mother, but the fates in the shape
of a shrewish old uncle, forbade the bans.' And then he sighed, and
somehow we changed the conversation."

Averil flushed; her dark, sensitive face showed signs of emotion. "Poor
father! but he loved my mother dearly, Mr. Harland. Still, I am glad to
know this; it makes me understand things better. Now, will you read my
letter (you will see it is addressed to my father), and tell me what
you think of the writer?"

The lawyer put on his _pince-nez_ and looked attentively at the
somewhat cramped, girlish handwriting, then he turned to the signature,
Annette Ramsay; after which he carefully perused it, while Averil sat
watching him with her hands folded in her lap.

  "DEAR SIR AND GOOD COUSIN," it began, "will you have patience with
  me while I tell you my sad story? For many years my father has been
  dead, and now the dear mother has followed him; and in all this wide
  world I have no one but old Clotilde to care for me. My cousin, it is
  terrible for a girl to be so so lonely. If I were Catholic I could
  take refuge with the good sisters in the Convent of the Sacred Heart;
  but always I do remember my mother's teaching and our good pastor.
  For my own part I was not aware that my English cousin existed; but
  one day, when my mother was unusually suffering, she called me to her
  bedside--'Annette,' she said, quite seriously, 'thou must write to my
  cousin, Leonard Willmot, when I am gone. If only I had strength to
  write to him myself! Ask him, in the name of Felicia Ramsay, to show
  kindness to her only child. Throw thyself on his protection. Leonard
  was always of a generous nature; his heart is large enough to shelter
  the unfortunate.' My cousin, those were the words of my mother, and
  she wept much as she uttered them. As I was writing this, our good
  pastor entered. I showed him the beginning of my letter. 'Tell your
  cousin more of your life and circumstances,' he urged. 'Represent to
  him exactly your situation.' Well, I will try to obey; but figure to
  yourself my difficulty, in thus writing to a stranger.

  "While my father lived, my life was as joyous as the bees and birds.
  What was there that I lacked? My mother loved me; she taught me
  everything--to read, to sew, to speak English and French. During my
  father's long absences (he was a sea captain) we worked well, we
  sufficed to each other; when my father came home we made holiday,
  and fêted him. One day he did not come. By and by we heard the sad
  news--in a great storm he had perished. My cousin, those were bitter
  days! I was just fourteen; until then I had been a child, but my
  mother's trouble made a woman of me. Alas! never did my mother recover
  the shock; in silence she suffered, but she suffered greatly. 'Look
  you, my child,' she would say, 'we must not repine; it is the will of
  God. Your father was a brave man; he was a Christian. We know that
  he gave his life for others; it was he who saved the ship, and but
  for the fall of the mast he would be living now. Oh! if only he had
  thought of himself and of his wife and child; but they must all go
  first, even the little cabin-boy, and so he stayed too long.'

  "Perhaps it was natural, but she was never weary of telling that story
  as we sat at work. My father's death had left us poor; my mother
  mended lace, she taught me to do the same. We lived on still in the
  old French town where my father had placed us, and where I had been
  born. He had never been rich, and it was easier to live there than in
  England; his mother had settled there, and one or two of his people,
  but they had all dropped away; soon there were none whom we could
  _tutoyer_, only Clotilde, who kept the house.

  "I have always believed that my mother worked too hard; she had too
  few comforts, and my father's death preyed on her spirits. She drooped
  more every day--her eyes grew too dim for the lace-work. By and by she
  had no strength to speak; only when she looked at me the tears rolled
  down her cheeks; then I knew she feared to leave me alone in the great
  world, and it was not easy to comfort her. Our good pastor was with us
  then; it was he who closed her eyes, and read the service over her;
  presently he will leave us, for his new work is in England. It is he
  who has promised to direct this letter when he reaches London.

  "My cousin, what is there that I need to say more? I work hard, that I
  may feed and clothe myself, but Clotilde is old--every one who loves
  me dies: perhaps she will die too, and then what will become of me?

  "My cousin, I recommend myself to you,

    "With affectionate respect,

      "ANNETTE RAMSAY.

  "_Rue St. Joseph, Dinan._"

"Well?" as Mr. Harland laid down the letter--"well, my good friend?"

"You want my opinion, Averil? To my mind it is a good letter; there
is a genuine ring in it; the girl states her case very fairly. It is
a little un-English, perhaps, but what of that? If Willmot had lived
he would have held out a helping hand, no doubt. Yes, the matter is
worthy of investigation; and if you care to assist her--"

But here Averil placed her hand on his arm.

"You have said enough. I see the letter has not displeased you; it
seems to be a beautiful and touching letter. I could not help crying
over it. Mr. Harland, I am going to ask you a very great favor--it is
the greatest I have ever asked of my old friend; but there is no one I
can trust but you. Will you go over to Dinan and see this girl? Will
you tell her that her mother's cousin is dead, and that I am her sole
relative? Tell her also," still more impressively, "that my home is
hers--that I am ready to welcome her as a sister; and bring her to me,
the sooner the better. Mr. Harland, will you do this, or shall I go
myself and fetch my cousin?"

Mr. Harland looked perplexed; he fidgeted on his seat and played with
his eye-glasses.

"My dear, this is very sudden; it is not wise to make up your mind
so quickly. We have only this letter; how can we know what the girl
is like? Let me go first. I can easily make friends with her without
compromising you in the least. You are too impulsive, Averil! Your
generosity runs away with you. You are overburdened already, and yet
you would take more responsibilities on yourself."

Averil smiled, but she was evidently bent on having her own way.

"Mr. Harland, it is your duty to protest, and I expected this
remonstrance; but, on the other hand it is my duty to befriend my
cousin. What does it matter what she is like? It is enough for me
that she is unhappy and desolate. Do you think I do not know what it
is to be lonely?" And here her voice broke a little. "Perhaps I shall
care for her, and she will be a comfort to me. Poor thing! was it not
touching of her to say there were none for her to _tutoyer_? I like her
quaint way of expressing herself. Now, will you be good, and help me in
this?"

"And you have really made up your mind to have the girl?" rather
gruffly.

"Yes, I intend to offer my cousin a home," was Averil's quiet reply;
and after a little more grumbling on the lawyer's part, some definite
arrangements were made, and half an hour later Averil was jolting
homeward through the wet, crowded streets; but, tired as she was, there
was a quiet, peaceful expression on her face, as though some duty were
fulfilled. "I think father would approve of what I am doing," she said
to herself; "he did so like helping people: no man ever had a kinder
heart." But Averil sighed as she uttered this little panegyric. Alas!
Leonard Willmot's daughter knew well that it had been sheer kindness of
heart, unbalanced by wisdom, that had led him to marry the gay widow,
Mrs. Seymour. He had been touched by her seeming desolation, and the
helplessness that had appealed to his chivalrous nature; and, as Averil
knew, this marriage had not added to his happiness.




CHAPTER II.

LA RUE ST. JOSEPH.


One afternoon, about a fortnight after Averil Willmot had paid her
visit to Lincoln's Inn, Mr. Harland stood on the deck of the small
steamer in the gay port of Dinan, looking with amused eyes on the
motley group collected on the quay. It was a lovely June day, and he
had thoroughly enjoyed his little pleasure trip--for such he insisted
on regarding it. He had earned a holiday, he had told Averil, and he
had always longed to explore the Rance--it was such a beautiful river.
It was his habit to combine pleasure with business, and he went to see
Dinan, as well as interview Annette Ramsay.

"How I wish I had brought Louie with me," he thought, regretfully,
as he looked at the bright scene before him; the blue river, the
green-wooded heights, the yellow and brown houses that lined the quay.
Some pigeons were fluttering in the sunshine; a black goat with a
collar round its neck was butting viciously at a yellow mongrel dog; a
knot of _gendarmes_, _ouvriers_ in blue blouses, and soldiers with red
shoulder-knots were drinking in front of a shabby little _auberge_;
some barefooted boys were sailing an old wooden tub in the river; a
small, brown-faced girl, in a borderless cap, scolded them from the
bank--the boys laughed merrily. "Chut! no one minds Babette. Where is
the mast, Pierre?" Mr. Harland heard one of them say.

"Business first, pleasure afterward--is not that the correct thing?"
thought Mr. Harland, as he climbed to the roof of a rickety little
omnibus. "First I will go to the Rue St. Joseph, afterward I will dine,
and reconnoitre the place. Perhaps it would be as well to secure my
bed at the hotel, and deposit my portmanteau; the _cocher_ will direct
me;" and Mr. Harland, who had a tolerable knowledge of French, was soon
engaged in a lively conversation with the black-mustached individual
who occupied the box.

La Rue St. Joseph was only a few hundred yards from the hotel; it
was in a narrow, winding street leading out of one of the principal
thoroughfares. He had no difficulty in finding the house; it was
a high, narrow house, wedged in between two picturesque-looking
buildings, with overhanging gables and broad latticed windows, and
looked dull and sunless; its neighbors' gables seemed to overshadow it.
As Mr. Harland rang the bell, a little, wiry-looking old woman, with
snow-white hair tucked under her coif, and a pair of black, bead-like
eyes, confronted him.

"What did monsieur desire?"

"Monsieur desired to know if Mademoiselle Ramsay were within."

"_Mais oui, certainement_; mademoiselle was always within. Mademoiselle
was forever at her lace-work. Would monsieur intrust her with his name?
Doubtless he was the English cousin to whom mademoiselle had confided
her troubles. Monsieur must pardon the seeming indiscretion, but it was
not curiosity that had prompted such a question."

"Madame, I grieve to tell you that Mr. Willmot is dead," began Mr.
Harland; but Clotilde, uttering a faint shriek, burst into voluble
lamentations which effectually prevented him from finishing his
sentence.

"What disappointment! what chagrin! Mademoiselle would be inconsolable!
She had raised her hopes so high, she had built her faith on this
unknown cousin. How many times had she said to her, 'Clotilde, _ma
bonne amie_, I have a presentiment that something pleasant is going
to happen; in the morning I wake and think, now my cousin has his
letter; he is considering how he can best help me. The English take
long to make up their minds; they do nothing in a hurry.' And now _la
petite_ will hear she has no cousin; it is _triste_ inconceivable: but
doubtless good will come out of evil."

"Madame," interposed Mr. Harland, as soon as he could make himself
heard, "will you permit me to put two or three questions?"

"With all the pleasure in life. Monsieur must follow her within.
Gaston's wife was at the market, buying herbs for the _pot au feu_;
no one would interrupt them." And Clotilde, still talking volubly,
ushered him into a dark little kitchen, with a red-brick floor, and
a few glittering brass utensils on the shelves. A yellow jug of blue
and white flowers stood on the closed stove; there were plants in
the narrow window, some strings of onions dangled from the ceiling.
Clotilde dusted a chair, and then folded her arms, and looked curiously
at her visitor.

"I want you to tell me first how long you have known Mrs. Ramsay and
her daughter."

"How long?"--and here Clotilde's beady eyes traveled to the
ceiling--"six, seven years; _tenez_, it must be seven years since the
English madame took her rooms. Oh, she remembered it well; that day she
was a trifle out of humor, she must confess that. Jean had put her out
of all patience with his grumbling. Men, even the best of them, were
so inconsiderate. I was standing at the door, monsieur, just turning
the heel of my stocking, and I saw Madame with her long crape veil, and
a thin slip of a girl with black ribbons in her hat. 'You have rooms
to let, madame?' she began. _Hélas_, the little black dog was on my
shoulders, and my answer was not as civil as usual, for I was still
thinking of Jean's grumbles. 'Oh, as to that, the rooms were there;
no one could deny the fact; but there were better to be had at Madame
Dubois's, lower down; folks were hard to please nowadays.' But she
interrupted me very gently: 'May we see your rooms? We could not afford
very grand ones.' 'Madame might please herself; I had no objection.' I
fear I was by no means gracious, for it had entered into my head all
of a sudden that I was tired of lodgers; but in the end madame managed
to conciliate me. The rooms did not please them much, for I heard
madame say, in a low voice, 'They are not dear, of course; but then
they are small and dark, almost oppressively so. I fear, Annette, that
you will find them very dull.' 'But it would be better to be dull and
keep out of debt, _chère maman_,' replied the girl; 'we are too poor
to consider trifles.' Ah, mademoiselle was always one to make light of
difficulties; so the rooms were taken, after all. That was seven years
ago, and now madame was in the cemetery."

"Was she ill long?"

"Yes, some months; but mademoiselle ever affirmed that she had changed
for the worse from the hour she had received news of her husband's
death. Grief does not always kill quickly, but all the same it was
heart sorrow, and too much work, that led to her illness. Ah, she
suffered much; but it was the death-bed of a saint--such resignation,
such sweetness, no complaints, no impatience. If she had only been
Catholic! but it was not for me to perplex myself with such questions;
doubtless _le bon Dieu_ took care of all that."

"But she grieved much at leaving her daughter?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur; but such grief in a mother is no sin. Sometimes
she would say to me, poor angel, 'Clotilde, my good friend, be kind
to Annette when I am gone. She will be all alone, my poor child; but I
must try and trust her to her Heavenly Father.' Many times she would
say some such words as these. It was edifying to listen to her; if one
could only assure one's self of such faith!"

"And Miss Ramsay has been with you ever since her mother's death?"

"Truly; where would _la petite_ go? At least she is safe with me. It
is a _triste_ life for so young a creature--always that everlasting
lace-work from morning to evening; no variety--hardly a gleam of
sunshine. 'Oh. I am so tired!' she would say sometimes, when she comes
down to the kitchen of an evening. 'Is it not sad, Clotilde, to be so
young and yet so tired? I thought it was only the old whose limbs ache,
who have such dull, weary feelings.' '_Chut, mon enfant_,' I would
reply; 'it is only the work and the stooping;' and I would coax her to
take a turn in the Promenade des Petits Fosses, or down by the river.
'It is for want of the sunshine,' I would say, in a scolding voice;
'the young need sunshine.' Then she would laugh, and put on her hat,
and when she came back there would be a tinge of color in her face; for
look you, my monsieur, the rooms are dark, and that makes the _petite_
have such pale cheeks."

Mr. Harland listened with much interest to this artless recital. He
had gleaned the few facts that he needed, and now he begged Clotilde
to show him to Mademoiselle's apartment. She complied with his request
willingly. As she opened the door, and preceded him up the steep
staircase, he could hear a sweet, though perfectly untrained voice
singing an old Huguenot hymn that he remembered. The solemn measure,
the soft girlish voice, affected him oddly. The next moment Clotilde's
shrill voice broke on the melody.

"Mademoiselle, an English monsieur desires to speak with thee."

"At last--thank God!" responded a clear voice. "My cousin, you are
welcome!" And a slim, dark-eyed girl glided out of the shadows to meet
him.

The room was so dark that for a moment Mr. Harland could not see her
features plainly, but he took her outstretched hands and pressed them
kindly, half drawing her to the one small window, that the evening
light might fall on her face.

"Oh, you find it dark?" she said, quickly. "Strangers always do; but I
am used to it. If I sit here," pointing to a tall wooden chair beside
her, "I can see perfectly; it is when one is unaccustomed that one
finds it oppressive--only when one goes out the sunshine is sometimes
too dazzling."

"That is why you are so pale, Miss Ramsay," observed Mr. Harland, with
a pitying look at her thin, drooping form and sallow complexion. The
girl was not pretty, certainly, but it was the absence of all coloring
that seemed to mar her good looks. She had well-cut features, a gentle,
mobile mouth, and large dark eyes. As he spoke, she looked at him
reproachfully.

"Why did you call me Miss Ramsay? Is that the English fashion, my
cousin? You know I have never lived in England, and its ways are
foreign to me. To a relative I am Annette--is it not so?"

"Yes, of course; you are perfectly right," replied Mr. Harland,
cheerfully; "you will soon be English enough, Miss Annette. The fact
is, you have made a mistake: I am not your cousin, though I shall hope
to be considered as a friend. Your cousin, Mr. Leonard Willmot, died
two years ago."

"_Il est mort!_" with a sudden relapse into French. "Oh, _mon Dieu, mon
Dieu_!" clasping her hands, with a gesture of despair, "is it my fate
that every one belonging to me must die? Then I am desolate indeed!"

Mr. Harland found it necessary to clear his throat; that young,
despairing face was too much for him.

"My dear Miss Ramsay," he exclaimed, "things are not as bad as you
think. It is true that poor Willmot has gone--a good fellow he was,
too, in spite of one or two mistakes--but his daughter is ready to be
your friend. She is your cousin, too, so you have one relative, and she
has commissioned me, as her oldest friend, to find you out, and offer
you a home."

Annette's eyes filled with tears.

"A home! do you really mean it? Monsieur, will you tell me the name of
this unknown cousin? Is she a girl like myself?"

"How old are you, Miss Ramsay?"

"I am nineteen."

"Well, your cousin Averil is seven-and-twenty; so she is older, you
see, though she is hardly tall enough to reach to your shoulder."

"But I am not big myself--not what you call tall; my cousin must be
a very little person; she is quite old, too--seven-and-twenty." And
Annette looked perplexed.

"You are not as tall as my daughter Louie, but you are a fair height.
Averil has never grown properly, but she is the nicest little person in
the world when you come to know her. You are lucky, Miss Ramsay; you
are, indeed, to have made such a friend; for Averil is true as steel,
and I ought to be a good judge, for I have known her from a baby."

"She must be very good. It is kind, it is more than kind, to offer me
a home. I do not seem to believe it yet. Are you sure--are you quite
sure, monsieur, that this is what my cousin intends?"

"Oh, I am not without proofs," returned Mr. Harland, touched by the
girl's gentle wistfulness and anxiety. "I have brought you a note from
Averil herself; it is written in a great hurry, but I dare say you will
find the invitation all right."

Annette's eyes brightened. She stretched out her hand eagerly for the
letter.

  "MY DEAR COUSIN ANNETTE," it began, "your letter to my father has made
  me feel very sad. When my good friend, Mr. Harland, gives you this,
  you will have heard of my dear father's death. Had he been living, I
  know well how his kind heart would have longed to help you, you poor,
  lonely child! But, Annette, you must allow me to act in his place.
  Remember, I am your cousin, too. While I live you shall not want a
  home. Mr. Harland will explain everything, and make things easy for
  you. Do not hesitate to trust him. He will guard you as he would his
  own daughter. I go to him in all my troubles, and he is so wise and
  helpful. His time is valuable, so if you will please us both you will
  make as much haste as you can in packing up your possessions, and then
  come to your English home. I will do all I can to make you happy, and
  to console you for past troubles. I do so love taking care of people.
  I have no time to add more.

    "Your affectionate cousin,
      "AVERIL WILLMOT."

"How kind! how good!" murmured Annette, as she put down the note; "it
seems to me as though I love her already, this Averil."

"You will love her more by and by," returned Mr. Harland, in his cheery
manner. "I expect you two will get on first rate. Now, Miss Ramsay, I
am a practical sort of a person. How long do you think it would take
you to pack up your things, eh?"

"It is so few that I have," she answered, seriously. "Indeed, monsieur,
I have only one other gown."

"So much the better--so much the better; then we can be off the day
after to-morrow. Well, what is it?" as the girl glanced at him rather
appealingly.

"It is only that there must be one or two things that I must do," she
returned, timidly, "that is, if you will permit me, monsieur. There
is the lace-work to carry back to Madame Grevey; also I must make my
adieus to old Manon Duclos--she is my good friend, although she is only
a peasant; and"--hesitating still more--"there is the cemetery, and it
is the last time, and I must take fresh flowers for my mother's grave."
And here Annette's eyes brimmed over with tears, and one or two rolled
down her cheek. "Monsieur, we were everything to each other, mamma and
I."

"My dear child," replied Mr. Harland, hastily, "you shall have time to
fulfill all your little duties. You are a good girl not to forget your
friends. Would you like me to stay another day?"

"Indeed, no!" in a shocked voice. "How could I be so inconsiderate
after my cousin's letter? Monsieur, you are too good. There is no need
of so much time; by to-morrow afternoon it will be all done."

"If you are sure of that, I might call for you about four, and we would
have a stroll together along the banks of the river. Shall you be
tired? Would you rather that I left you alone?"

"I would rather come with you, monsieur--I ought to say sir; but since
my mamma died I have spoken no English, not a word--always it is the
French."

"Very well, we will have our walk," trying not to smile at her childish
naïveté. "I will call for you at four; and after our walk we will dine
together. Good-bye, Miss Ramsay, or, better still, _au revoir_."

"_Au revoir_--that pleases me best," she said, gently. "Take care of
that step, monsieur; the staircase is so dark."

"Now I must go to my Clotilde," she said to herself, "and tell her this
wonderful thing that has happened."




CHAPTER III.

ON THE BANKS OF THE RANCE.


Punctually at the appointed hour Mr. Harland stood before the dark
little house in the Rue St. Joseph; but he had hardly touched the bell
before the door opened, and Annette confronted him.

"I am quite ready," she said, hurriedly: "I have been looking out for
you for some time, because I did not wish to keep you waiting. Is it
your pleasure to come in and wait a little, monsieur, or shall we take
our walk now?"

"Well, it is a pity to waste even a quarter of an hour in-doors this
lovely evening," returned Mr. Harland, in his quick, cheery manner;
"so, if you are ready, Miss Ramsay, we will begin our stroll at once."

He looked at her rather keenly as he spoke, at the slim, girlish
figure in the black dress. The hat shaded her face; but even at the
first glance he could see she was very pale, and that her eyes were
swollen, as though she had been crying. How young and pathetic she
looked, standing there in the afternoon light, with the little silk
kerchief knotted loosely round her shapely throat, and a tiny rosebud
fastened in her dress! He was just a little silent as they turned down
the street, for he feared to question her too closely; and he was much
relieved when Annette began to talk to him in her frank, naïve way.

"I fear I am a dull companion," she said, gently; "but I am a little
sad at the thought that there will be no one but Clotilde to visit
my mother's grave. I have been saying good-bye to it. That is why my
eyes are so red. Look, monsieur; this rosebud is the first that has
blossomed; was it selfish of me to gather it? The dear mother loved
roses more than any other flowers; they were the offerings she liked
best on her fête day; this little white bud will be a souvenir when I
am far away. Monsieur, perhaps I am foolish; but I feel I shall miss my
mother more when I can not kneel beside her grave."

"Oh, you will get over that feeling," replied Mr. Harland, hastily;
"that is just how my wife feels about Mysie. Mysie was our youngest
but one, and she died when she was six years old. My wife half broke
her heart about her; and when we moved from Norbiton to Chislehurst,
it was her one regret that we were leaving Mysie behind; but I used to
tell her"--and here Mr. Harland's voice had a suspicion of huskiness in
it--"that it was just fancy, that Mysie was as near as ever, and that
it was better to think of her growing up in heaven among all the other
children than to think of the poor perishing little body that lies in
that Norbiton church-yard."

"You are right, monsieur; it is the truth you are telling me," returned
Annette, humbly, and she looked up at him very sweetly; "but I can
understand so well the regret of madame, your wife. That is the worst
of us. We do forget so often that it is not our beloved who lie in the
grave. At one moment we smile to think they are so safe in Paradise,
and the next we are weeping over the grass mound that covers them.
It is we who are inconsistent, faithless; too well do I know this,
monsieur."

"Oh, it is natural; one does not learn everything at once," returned
Mr. Harland, cheerily. Sorry as he was for her, he had not a notion
how he was to talk to her; if only Louie or his wife were here--women
always know what to do in such cases. "No one can blame you for
fretting about your mother; a good mother is not to be replaced; but
you are young, and after a time you will find yourself consoled. Why,
your cousin Averil--no one but Mrs. Harland and myself know how that
girl misses her father. He made an idol of her. I do not believe he
ever crossed a wish of hers, except in his marriage, and she held her
tongue about that, and he never found out the difference it made in her
life. Yes, and she misses him still, though she says so little about
it; only my wife finds her crying sometimes; but Averil is just the
bravest-hearted little woman in the world; she is not one to inflict
her feelings on other people."

Mr. Harland talked on all the faster as he saw Annette wipe away a
furtive tear or two; he wanted to give her time to recover herself.

"It is all so true," she observed, in a broken voice, as he finished.
"No, it is not wrong to weep for the best of mothers; our dear Lord has
taught us that. Still, one must not sorrow too much. Monsieur, you have
interested me greatly about my cousin; if I did not fear to fatigue
you, I should like to hear more. Oh, we have come to the quay; now let
us cross that little bridge lower down, and there we can walk quite
close to the river. It is so green and quiet further on; nothing but
wooded banks, and the blue river flowing on so peacefully."

"It is charming. Look at that young fellow in his boat, Miss Annette;
he is going to take his little sister for a row. I bet you anything he
is English before he opens his mouth. Yes, I thought so," as the lad
shouted out, "Mind what you are about, Minnie. Now, then, look sharp
and jump!"

"There are so many English," remarked Annette, softly. "I think Dinan
is full of them. This boy--I have seen him before. There is no mother;
but he is so good to that little pale sister. Often I have watched
them. His name is Arthur; he is one of my friends; for, do you know,"
with a dreamy smile, "though there are only Clotilde and Gaston's wife,
and the Old Manon Duclos, to whom I can talk, I have many friends,
people whom I meet, and about whom I make up stories, and to whom I say
good-evening under my breath when I meet them; for, when one is young,
one longs for friends. As for this Arthur, I have spoken with him; for
once, when he dropped his hat, I picked it up; and another time, when
he was in some difficulty with his oar, I helped him, and so his little
sister gives me a nod when we meet."

Mr. Harland felt no inclination to smile at this childish recital;
on the contrary, his genial face was rather grave as he realized how
lonely this girl had been. What would Averil say when he told her that?
To think of bidding good-evening under her breath to strangers, and
making up stories about them; he could not have laughed for worlds, in
spite of the quaintness of the notion.

"Now I shall have my cousin," she went on. "Monsieur, there is
something you said which I do not at all understand--something about my
cousin Leonard marrying. Does not my cousin Averil live alone? No?" as
Mr. Harland shook his head in an amused way. "With whom, then, does she
live?"

"Why, with her step-mother, of course. Look here, Miss Annette, I see
I must coach you up in the family history, or you will take all sorts
of notions into your little head. Not that there is much to tell," with
a sudden remembrance that Averil had begged him to say as little as
possible about her affairs; "but you may as well know people's names."

"Are there so many people?" asked Annette, looking a little bewildered.
"Where is it that my cousin lives?"

"At Kensington. It is rather an old house, but it is a very comfortable
one, and there is actually a garden. Gardens do not abound in the
fashionable parts of London; that is why I live at Chislehurst, because
my wife and the girls, Louie especially, wanted a garden. It is
Averil's house. She has her mother's fortune, beside what her father
left her; and her step-mother and her family live with her."

"Step-mother? Ah, I see--the wife that my cousin Leonard married, and
they had children. Yes, of course. That must be so nice for Averil."

"No; nonsense," returned Mr. Harland, still more amused. "You have got
wrong notions altogether. Mr. Willmot never had any other child but
Averil, and a boy who died. His second wife had a grown-up family; her
name was Mrs. Seymour."

"And he married her? But that seems strange," observed Annette, for she
was not without shrewdness.

"Oh, men do strange things sometimes. Mrs. Seymour was a very handsome
woman, and she could make herself fascinating."

"And she was rich?"

"Rich? Oh, no; tolerably well to do; that was all."

"And the grown-up children--how many are there who live with my cousin
Averil?"

"Three, without counting Lottie Jones. There is Maud; she is the
eldest, and a fine, handsome girl she is, too; and Georgina, and
Rodney. Rodney is his mother's darling; a good-looking, idle young
scamp of a fellow."

"And Lottie Jones--and who may that be?"

"Well, Lottie is a sort of hanger-on--a niece of Mrs. Seymour; and it
seems she has no one belonging to her but this aunt. She is a nice
little girl, and Averil is very fond of her."

"Does she like her better than this Maud and Georgina?"

Mr. Harland laughed outright. "Come, come, Miss Annette, you are too
sharp; you ask too many questions. Wait until you get to Redfern House,
and then you will find out things for yourself."

A sensitive flush crossed Annette's face.

"You must pardon me if I seem too inquisitive," she said, timidly.
"I did not know I was asking what was wrong; it was difficult to
understand my cousin's household; but I will remember to wait, and
not to tease you with any more questions. Indeed, you are so good,
monsieur, that I do not wish to tease you at all."

"My dear little girl," returned Mr. Harland, kindly, "you do not tease
me in the least; it is only that silly child Averil who has made me
hold my tongue. 'Do not talk about me much to my cousin; let her find
things out for herself'--that is what she said to me, and that is why I
checked you just now."

"And you were perfectly right, monsieur. I will ask no more questions
about my cousin. Look, there is a kingfisher--_martin-pêcheur_ they
call him here. Is he not pretty? And did you see that water-rat? We
have been sitting so still on this bank that they have forgotten to
mind us."

"That reminds me that it is growing late, and that you and I must be
hungry, and that our dinner at the Trois Frères will be waiting."

"Well, she was a little hungry," Annette confessed. The long walk
had tired her also; she was not used to walking, much as she loved
it. "For, you see, monsieur," she added seriously, "when one has to
feed and clothe one's self, there is no time to be idle. One puts
in another sprig into the lace-work, and then another, and then the
light goes, and it is dreary to walk in the dusk; besides, there are
_les convenances_--what you would call the propriety--one would not
willingly offend against that."

"To be sure; how thoughtless I have been!" ejaculated Mr. Harland; but
when he offered his arm, Annette shook her head with a smile. "She did
not need help; she would do very well, and there was the bridge in
sight, and Monsieur Arthur had returned from his row."

"She is Averil's sort," he said to himself, as he watched her graceful
walk, and saw how bravely she was keeping up, in spite of her fatigue;
and as soon as possible he hailed a fiacre.

"But that is extravagant," she protested, with a little pout. "And it
is for me, I see that well, for you are not a bit tired, monsieur." But
monsieur was not listening to her. He was wondering how long this girl
would have borne her life, and if she could possibly have grown paler
as the time went on.

"She is like a plant that has grown up in a dark cellar," he thought;
and he almost shuddered as he remembered that room in the Rue St.
Joseph; but by and by, as they sat together at the _table d'hôte_,
Annette forgot her fatigue in her astonishment at the magnificence of
the feast.

"How many more courses?" she whispered to her neighbor, who was
enjoying some excellent _ragoût_. "One goes on eating, and still there
is more. At the Rue St. Joseph the dear mother and I were satisfied
with coffee and eggs, and perhaps a salad. Sometimes Clotilde would
bring us a dish of fried potatoes, or some stewed pears; then we
feasted like gourmand. Is it possible, monsieur, that people dine like
this every day?"

Mr. Harland was not too much engrossed with his _déjeûner_ to enjoy the
girl's naïveté; on the contrary, he took a great deal of interest in
the fact that the food, and most likely the pleasant excitement, had
brought a tinge of color to her face. He insisted on her partaking of
some delicious-looking pastry. "All young people like sweets," he said;
and when he had finished, and they had their coffee at the window, he
showed her the photographs that he had bought that morning, and talked,
and asked questions about the places he had seen; and they were very
happy indeed.

"She is a nice little thing, and I am sure Averil will like her," was
his parting thought that night.

As for Annette, she scarcely slept at all, with mingled fatigue and
excitement. Her thoughts traveled back to every event of the past day.
Now she was sitting with old Manon Duclos, and the feeble old creature
was weeping over her. "Must I lose thee, _chérie_? Oh, what news! What
an unhappy fate! Who will read to me when thou art gone, _ma petite_?
Who will be good to old Manon?" And then there had been that good-bye
in the cemetery. How her tears had flowed over that little white
rosebud! Nay, it was true what monsieur had said--it was not the dear
mother who lay there; she must try to remember that. And then there
had been the long walk. How lovely the river had looked in the evening
sunshine. How kind and benignant monsieur had been!

"I hope I shall see him often," she thought. "Perhaps I was wrong to
question him so closely about my cousin's household. But it was all
so confusing; even now I do not seem to understand. How can my cousin
Averil be mistress while her step-mother lives? She is only a girl like
myself. I wonder if she be handsome? I think all English people are
handsome. What a nice face monsieur has--so clear and honest. I think I
love gray hair. But I remember he said she was little. Somehow, I can
not picture her. And this Lottie Jones. Ah, it is all bewildering! How
strange I shall feel among all those people." And Annette sighed, for
she was tired, and her poor little heart was aching for her mother; and
when at last she fell asleep, it was to dream that they were sitting
together in the little room down-stairs.

Annette slept so soundly after all her fatigues, that it was quite late
when she woke, and she had only just time to dress herself, and swallow
the coffee Clotilde brought her, before Mr. Harland drove up to fetch
her.

Perhaps it was just as well that she had only those few moments in
which to take leave of her old life. She bade adieu very quietly to
Clotilde. "I shall never forget thee, my best friend," she said,
gently. "One day, if my cousin permit, I will come and see thee and
Gaston and Toinette."

As for Clotilde, she wept volubly. "_Le bon Dieu_ would watch over
their dear mademoiselle. _Hélas!_ the place would be empty without her.
No; she must not forget them; she would have their prayers," and so on.
A thousand blessings followed her in that shrill voice. The girl smiled
rather sadly as she listened to them.

"Poor old house!" she said, softly, as they drove away. "In spite of
hard work, one had happy hours. Always it is so in life--the good and
the bad mingled, and some have more of God's sunshine than others." And
then she was silent, and Mr. Harland did not disturb her, for he knew
by a certain kindly instinct that the girlish heart was stirred to its
depths.




CHAPTER IV.

COULD THIS BE AVERIL?


It was late in the afternoon of the following day that Mr. Harland and
his young companion drove through Kensington.

"You must be very tired, my dear," he observed, in quite a fatherly
manner, for during the last four-and-twenty hours their friendship had
made great progress.

"But no--why should I be tired?" returned the girl, in her pretty
French accent, which he already found so charming. "Monsieur, what has
there been to fatigue me? I have slept so well, oh, perfectly well, in
my little box of a berth. Did not the captain say himself that we had
a grand passage? I was not seasick, not the least little bit in the
world, and yet I have never found myself on a ship before."

"Well, it was a trifle rough toward three o'clock. But you must have
been fast asleep, Miss Annette."

"Yes; and as the waves only rocked me, I was glad, for I did not
much like the ship; the cabin was not so hot and crowded. But
the train--that was more amusing. I could look out on the flying
hedge-rows, and tell myself that this was England--my mother's country.
Even these streets please me, although I find so much noise a little
confusing. Are all your streets so terribly full, monsieur? There is no
room for those poor horses to pass."

"Oh, you should see some of our city streets--Cheapside, or by the
Mansion House. I wonder what you would say to the traffic there?
England is a busy place; people pride themselves on always being in a
hurry. This is quiet enough compared with some of our thoroughfares.
Look at those fine shops. I suppose, like other girls, you are never
weary of admiring smart things?"

"If one's purse were not always empty, it would be a pleasure," she
said, with a sigh; "but to see things is only to long for them, and
that makes one discontented. I think I like better to walk by the
river, or under the trees in the Promenade des Petits Fosses. You
have been there, monsieur. It is pleasant to sit there and watch the
children with their _bonnes_; in the evening it is so cool and shady.
It is there I so often greet my unknown friends. There is a little
French girl who is lame; I think she is a seamstress. Well, I have
seen her so often, that at last I made up my mind I would speak to her.
To-morrow I will say, 'Good-evening'--that was what I promised myself.
But you see, monsieur, it has all come to nothing, for monsieur has
come, and here I am driving with you through these wonderful English
streets."

"Yes, and in another moment we shall be at our destination. Do you see
that large red-brick corner house? That is Redfern House."

"Is it so? But, monsieur, my cousin must be very rich to live in so big
a house; it is larger than our English consul's;" and Annette looked a
trifle disturbed. Mr. Harland saw how the poor child twitched the ends
of her little silk kerchief, and shook the dust off her black serge
gown, while a frightened expression came into her large, soft eyes.

"I don't think Averil cares much for her large house," replied Mr.
Harland. "She is not a bit grand herself, so you need not look so
alarmed, my dear."

"It is foolish to be nervous," she stammered; "and of course you will
be with me, monsieur, and already you seem like an old friend. Ah, we
have stopped, and the door has opened like magic." But in spite of her
effort to speak bravely, Mr. Harland felt how her hand trembled as he
assisted her out of the cab, and could not forbear giving it a kindly
pressure.

The gray-haired butler who received them glanced at the young stranger
with benevolent interest.

"Where is Miss Willmot, Roberts?" asked Mr. Harland.

"She is in her private sitting-room, sir, and she begged you would go
to her there. Mrs. Willmot and the young ladies are dining out."

"Oh, then we shall be alone. Come along, Miss Annette;" and he took
the girl's arm, and conducted her quickly through the large hall, and
down a passage lined with bookcases, which gave it the appearance of a
narrow room. As Roberts opened the door a tiny figure in black appeared
on the threshold, and met them with outstretched hands.

"Ah, you have come at last! I thought you late. But you are very
welcome, Cousin Annette," accompanying the words with a warm kiss. "Mr.
Harland, thank you so much for bringing my cousin. You have acted like
a true friend. Will you sit in this comfortable chair, Annette? You
must be tired out after your long journey."

Annette left this assertion uncontradicted--she had simply no words at
her command. Could this be Averil? her cousin Averil? the mistress
of this grand house, whom she had so longed and dreaded to see? this
little creature, who was no bigger than a child? Why had not Mr.
Harland prepared her? It was impossible to conceal her astonishment,
and, to tell the truth, her disappointment. Happily, Mr. Harland
came to her relief by engaging Averil in a conversation about their
journey. He wanted to explain why they were late; it was owing to
the blockheadedness, as Mr. Harland termed it, of an official at the
custom-house; a couple of minutes would have been sufficient to have
investigated Miss Ramsay's modest luggage; but no, the idiot must
keep them waiting; and so on, detailing the grievance at full length.
Annette did not listen; she was regarding the slight, bent figure and
small, intent face opposite to her. Her cousin Averil was ill, or did
she always look so grave? But no; as she asked herself the question,
Averil broke into a sweet little laugh, and the next minute her quick,
observant eyes took in her cousin's puzzled scrutiny. She flushed
faintly, but the smile did not leave her lips.

"You are surprised to see such a very small person, are you not,
Annette? I suppose if I stood up, Mr. Harland, you would find that my
cousin is a head taller. People always begin by taking me for a child.
I am quite used to it," with easy frankness. "Confess you were saying
to yourself, Annette, 'Surely, this very little person can not be my
cousin Averil, who wrote me that letter.'"

"Oh, you are a witch," returned Annette, blushing, "or you would not
have read my thoughts. But indeed it is I who have been rude. How could
I know how you would look, my cousin? I am ashamed that I have been so
indiscreet."

"You have been nothing of the kind, dear. Why, what nonsense!"--for
Annette was evidently very much ashamed of herself. "You shall think
what you please about me, and I will promise to forgive you if you will
only tell me you are glad to find yourself at home." And here Averil
gave her one of the rare winning smiles that lighted up the little
dark face wonderfully. But she was almost sorry that she had made this
speech when she saw the tears spring to Annette's eyes.

"Home! is it indeed my home?" she said, wistfully, looking round the
room, which was full of beautiful things, and yet had the indescribably
cosy air that belongs to a well-used apartment. Annette had never seen
such a room; even the English consul had nothing to compare with it.
She knew that well, for she had often mended lace for Mrs. Greville,
the consul's wife, and yet they had a fine drawing-room, with red
velvet chairs and lounges. Annette was too bewildered, too ignorant,
to take in details; she was not aware of the value of those cool,
delicious little bits of landscape that hung on the walls, though they
rested her eyes with their suggestion of breezy moorlands and sunny
meadows. She glanced at the carved cabinets and book-cases, the soft
easy-chairs, the flowers, the birds, even the black poodle that lay
on the rug, with a sort of dreamy surprise. "I never thought any home
could be so beautiful," she finished, softly; "it does not seem true
that I am to live in it."

Averil laughed, and then checked a sigh. "I am so glad you like the
look of it," she said, simply. "Will you take off your hat, Annette?
The room is warm, and we are going to have tea. Ah, that looks much
more comfortable," as Annette obeyed her, and smoothed her dark-brown
hair.

"My cousin looks pale, and a little thin," she continued, turning to
Mr. Harland, who was watching the girls with benevolent anxiety. He was
hoping that his little traveling-companion would soon recover herself.
He had not seen her so timid and tongue-tied before. He wished Averil
could hear how prettily she could talk. When she spoke of anything
that interested her, her eyes got quite large and bright. And then how
fluent she could be!

Averil was evidently a patient person; she had made her little attempt
to put her cousin at her ease, and now she seemed inclined to let
things take their course. "She is tired and strange, poor child," she
said to herself, "and she finds it difficult to unbend; presently she
will talk to me of her own accord, for she looks both intelligent and
gentle." As she addressed Mr. Harland, Roberts entered the room with
the tea-things, which he arranged on a low table beside Averil's chair.

"Where is Miss Lottie?" she asked in an undertone; but Roberts did not
know--she had gone out early in the afternoon, and had not returned.

"Ah, to be sure; little Miss Jones generally has tea with you, does she
not, Averil?" observed Mr. Harland.

"I have not seen her since luncheon," she replied, and a slight
shade crossed her face. "I think her aunt must have given her some
commission, for Roberts tells me only Maud and Georgina were in the
carriage. Poor child! she will be tired. I must ask Milner to give her
some tea when she comes in."

"I never knew any one like you, Averil, for looking after people's
little comforts. I wonder what Miss Lottie would do without you, not to
mention a good many other people?"

Mr. Harland spoke in a joking tone, but Averil reddened as though she
detected a compliment. She was pouring out the tea, but as she rose to
carry a cup to Annette the girl started up impulsively.

"But it is not for you to wait on me, my cousin," she said, in quite
a shocked voice. "No one has ever waited on me, or brought tea to me
before."

"But you are tired, and have had a long journey, Annette; besides, I
love to wait on people."

"But you must not love what is wrong," returned Annette, quaintly.
"See, I will place myself beside you at that little table, and then you
will not jump up every minute; will not that be better, my cousin?"

"Yes, dear," and Averil, with quiet tact, made room for the girl
beside her; she even checked Mr. Harland with a glance when he would
have volunteered his services. "Annette has everything within reach
now," she said, pleasantly, and she took no notice when Annette,
with quick officiousness, insisted on waiting on monsieur; on the
contrary, she admired her graceful movements, and the utter want of
self-consciousness that was Annette's chief charm.

"What a pretty figure she has!" she thought, wistfully; "and perhaps,
if she were not so pale, so utterly colorless, her face might be pretty
too; anyhow, it interests me."

Mr. Harland could not stop long; he had to take an early train to
Chislehurst. Before he left he found an opportunity to give one of his
good-natured hints to Averil as she followed him out into the lobby.

"What do you think of her, eh, Averil? But I suppose it is too soon to
ask your opinion. I forgot, too, what a cautious little person you are."

"It is not always wise to speak. I am very much interested in my
cousin; she looks gentle and lady-like, but I should prefer to answer
your question a week later."

"Ah, to be sure--an Averil-like speech. Well, I only want to give you a
hint. She is a little shy, and the idea of all those people frightens
her. Let her be as quiet as possible this first evening."

"My dear Mr. Harland, she will see no one; I have arranged all that.
Mrs. Willmot and the girls are dining out, and I have ordered an
informal supper in my own room. Annette will like that much better,
will she not?"

"I should think so; that is a first-rate idea of yours, Averil. Do you
know I have quite taken to that little French girl? Pshaw! I always
forget she is English. Louie will be quite jealous when I tell her. By
the bye, you must bring her down to see my wife, Averil; she and the
girls will be delighted to make her acquaintance."

"I grieve that monsieur has gone," were Annette's first words as Averil
re-entered the room. "I look upon him as my first friend. Do you know,
I took him for my cousin? When Clotilde announced an English gentlemen
I thought, of course, that it was he. Forgive me, my cousin, if I make
you sad; people are so different; with some it is always silence--it is
as though speech would desecrate their dead; but for me, I am forever
speaking of my mother to Clotilde, to Manon, even to myself. Why should
the name we love most grow strange to one's lips?"

"You are quite right," returned Averil, softly; "if I have not
talked much about my dear father, it is for other reasons." Here she
stammered, hesitated, and then changed the subject.

"Annette, when I read your letter to him I grew quite sad. 'You must
bring her home to me.' That is what I told my good old friend Mr.
Harland. 'We must make her forget her troubles: she shall be like my
own sister.' Shall it be so between us, dear? Do you think you can care
for a poor crooked little body like me?" and her dark sad eyes rested
for a moment yearningly on her young cousin's face.

"Oh, I shall love you--you will see how well I shall love you,"
returned Annette, throwing her arms impulsively round Averil. "What
does it matter how you look, my cousin? Why is it you make such a
speech to me? You have kind eyes--I can trust them. Monsieur tells me
you have a good heart--is it not proof that you have written me that
letter, that you permit me to call this home? Let us not make any more
speeches to each other; it is all understood between us that we are
friends."

Averil's grave face softened. "I have one faithful little friend
already; how pleased I shall be to have another! As I told you, I do so
like taking care of people."

"Oh, but it is I who must wait on you," returned Annette, seriously.
"There is a look on your face, my cousin, as though you were always
thinking; it is not a frown," as Averil looked amused, "and yet your
forehead contracts itself--so," drawing her brows together; "it gives
one a fatigued sense, as though you were too heavily burdened; and you
are grave, and yet you have never known what it is to be poor."

"No; but I have sometimes forgotten to be grateful for my riches.
Annette, you are a shrewd observer; no one here notices my gravity.
But I must not let you go on talking like this. I want to show you your
room, and then you can make any change you like in your dress; not that
it matters to-night"--as Annette's face fell a little--"for, unless
Lottie join us, you and I will be alone. Will you come with me, dear?"
touching her arm, as Annette appeared lost in thought.

The staircase at Redfern House was wide and handsome, and the spacious
landing was fitted up prettily with cabinets of china and stands of
flowers.

"I have chosen a room near mine," continued Averil, quietly; "it is not
very large, but I think you will find it very comfortable."

"Comfortable! oh, it is far, far too grand for me. You must have
made a mistake my cousin;" and Annette's eyes grew large and round.
Perhaps, if Averil had seen the girl's sleeping-room in the Rue St.
Joseph, she might have understood the situation more perfectly; but to
her luxurious ideas there was nothing out of the common in the fresh
cretonne hangings, the pretty, well-appointed furniture, the couch
and writing-table. To be sure, there was nothing wanting to any young
lady's comfort; she had herself placed all kinds of knickknacks on the
toilet-table.

Annette stood by in puzzled ecstasy as her cousin opened the wardrobe
and drawers and then pointed out to her the tasteful little work-basket
and blotting-case. "You will find everything ready for your use. I
hope I have not forgotten anything. It has been such a pleasure to me
fitting up this room. Now I will leave you for a little while to rest
and refresh yourself, and then we will have some more talk;" and with a
nod and a smile Averil withdrew to her own room.




CHAPTER V.

LOTTIE.


"Oh, my mother, if thou could only see me now!" was Annette's inward
ejaculation when the door closed upon her cousin; and as though this
tender reflection had opened the flood-gates of suppressed emotion, the
tears flowed rapidly, and for a little while they could not be checked.

Poor, tired Annette was struggling against a tide of conflicting
feelings; now a pang crossed her faithful heart at the thought of that
humble grave in the cemetery at Dinan, so far away, and then she chid
herself for the fancy. "It is not the grave, it is the life that we
should remember," she said to herself; "life that is forever. Who can
deprive me of those prayers that my mother prayed on her death-bed?
While memory lasts who can rob me of her example, her precepts, of
the remembrance of her gentle patience? There is no death to love.
Truly, monsieur is right--my darling mother is as near me as ever;" and
Annette dried her eyes.

After this she moved timidly about her beautiful room, looking at one
treasure after another with a sort of admiring awe and reverence.
Annette's innate sense of the beautiful had never before been
gratified. She had grown up to womanhood among the meager surroundings
of poverty; her inherited instincts and a natural love of refinement
had found no vent in that dark, unlovely house in the Rue St.
Joseph, with its dim, smoke-begrimed walls and long, narrow windows,
overshadowed by neighboring gables, when only a few sous expended on
flowers was possible to the young lace-mender, and whose chaplet of
white-roses for her mother's coffin was only procured at the expense of
a meal.

But Annette was less gratified at the thought of becoming the possessor
of all these fine things than touched at the womanly thoughtfulness
that had provided them. "What a fine heart my cousin Averil must have,"
she reflected, "to have expended her money on an unknown stranger! How
sweet to think that while I was imagining myself lonely and forsaken,
this room was being prepared for me! It is the heavenly kindness that
warms me so," she said to herself as she examined one thing after
another.

It was true; Averil had forgotten nothing; her generosity had
anticipated all her cousin's little wants. "All her life the poor child
has been poor," she thought. "I should like her to find everything
ready for use. It will be a sort of sisterly welcome. Lottie will help
me to think of things."

And so it was that silk-lined basket with its dainty work implements
had found its place, and the well-stocked paper-case. There was even a
case of brushes on the toilet-table, and a new Bible and prayer-book on
the little round table, while a few choice photographs in simple frames
adorned the walls.

Annette was so absorbed in her researches, so loath to put down one
treasure and take up another, that she hardly had time to brush her
thick hair and smooth her rumpled collar before Averil reappeared. She
looked at the closed trunk in some surprise. "You have not unpacked!
Shall I help you?" she asked, kindly. "I was afraid I had left you too
long. But perhaps you are not ready to come down?"

"Does it matter about the unpacking?" returned the girl, a little
wearily. "It is not as though I had fine gowns and laces. My one poor
dress will not hurt. Ah," looking at Averil's dress, which, in spite of
its plainness, had all sorts of pretty finishes, "I fear I shall shame
you, my cousin, with my poverty."

"Poverty never shamed any one," replied Averil, quickly. "Do not
trouble about anything to-night, Annette," looking at her a little
anxiously, as she noticed the traces of recent tears. "To-morrow you
shall tell me what you want, and we will get it together. I dare say
you will find shopping very amusing. I know Lottie loves it."

"And you, my cousin?"

"Well, perhaps I do not care for it myself, but it is all in the day's
work," replied Averil, cheerfully. "I could spend half the day in a
book-seller's, or looking over pictures and engravings, but for dresses
and fine things, they are, of course, indifferent to me, unless I buy
them for others;" and Averil shrugged her shoulders with a little
gesture of contempt.

They were passing through the hall as they spoke when a door opened
quickly, and a young lady in gray came out. She was a pretty, dark-eyed
girl. Averil at once accosted her.

"My dear Lottie, where have you been? It is nearly seven o'clock!"

"Yes, I know. Please don't keep me, Averil. Maud wants me to arrange
her flowers. I have been to Whiteley's and the Stores, but I can not
match those things that Georgina wants. It is no use her being vexed
about it, for I have done my best;" and she was hurrying away when
Averil called her back.

"But you have not spoken to my cousin, Lottie. You will surely shake
hands with her?"

Lottie extended her hand at once. "I did not mean to be rude, Averil,"
she said in a flurried, apologetic manner. "How do you do, Miss Ramsay?
I have no time to speak to you now, but when they are all gone I will
come to you;" and she nodded to Averil and ran up-stairs.

"Poor Lottie! How tired she looks! You must excuse her abruptness,
Annette. Lottie is not her own mistress. She will come down to
us by and by, when Mrs. Willmot and the girls have gone to their
dinner-party. I want you and Lottie to be good friends."

"I think she has a nice face, only she looked what you call harassed,
just as I used to feel when there was too much work to be done and
Clotilde wanted me to walk. This young lady is like myself, is she
not?--she has no parents. Oh, yes, monsieur told me something of her
history. She was a poor orphan, and her uncle adopted her, and then
he died, and his wife, who is your step-mother, my cousin, had the
magnificent generosity to keep her still."

A faint smile flitted over Averil's face, but she made no direct
response to this last clause. "Lottie was quite a little girl when Mr.
Seymour adopted her. Her parents died young. Her life has been hard,
like yours, Annette. I hope you and Lottie will take to each other.
I have a large family, and nothing pleases me more than to see the
members of my family happy together."

"But--yes--why not?" returned Annette, regarding her cousin with widely
opened eyes. "In this house that is so large there is surely room for
every one--there will be no need to quarrel."

"Oh, I was not speaking of Redfern House," replied Averil; but she
offered no further explanation. She drew Annette down on the couch
beside her and talked to her in a low voice, so that Roberts, who was
putting the finishing touches to the supper-table, could not have
overheard those quiet tones. When everything was ready Roberts quietly
withdrew, and the two girls seated themselves at the table. Annette
noticed that a place was laid for Lottie, but they were half through
their meal before she joined them. Annette, whose tongue was now
unloosed, was giving Averil a graphic description of her Dinan life
when Lottie came quickly into the room. She looked pale and worried.

"Oh, Averil, I am so sorry to be late," she said, looking half inclined
to cry; "but it was really not my fault. They have only just driven
from the door, and there were a hundred things Georgina wanted me to
do. Something had gone wrong with her dress, and of course she was very
much put out, and--"

"Never mind all that, Lottie, dear," observed Averil, in her quick,
decided way. "'Brush away the worries,' as dear father used to say.
Here is a nice cup of coffee, and I will cut you some of the breast of
that chicken. Nonsense!" as Lottie protested that her head ached, and
that she was too tired to eat: "starving never rested any one. Annette,
will you give Lottie some of that salad you praise so much and then,
while she is a good girl and eats her supper, you shall go on with your
picturesque description. Lottie, you have no idea how well Annette
talks--she makes one see things so plainly. That is what we love--a
storybook of talk, don't we, Lottchen?"

Annette was quite willing to go on talking. Averil's gentle look of
sympathy and her evident interest were sufficient inducement: it was
enough that she pleased her auditors. She even grew a little excited as
Lottie's pale listlessness faded, and the weary contraction of her brow
relaxed. She seemed roused, interested, taken out of herself.

"She has had a hard life too, Averil," Annette heard her whisper; "and
then she has not had you;" and Lottie's eyes grew soft and pathetic
over this little speech.

Roberts came to clear away and to bring the lamps, and then Averil bade
her two young companions join her at the open window. Lottie placed
herself on a stool at her feet and laid her head on Averil's lap. In
the pauses of her talk Annette could see Averil's thin light hand with
its single diamond ring flashing in the lamp-light as it smoothed
Lottie's dark hair tenderly. Presently she said in a half whisper: "Go
on, Annette; do not stop talking. Lottie has fallen asleep, and the
rest will do her good. Perhaps, after all, she will not have one of her
bad headaches."

"But why does she tire herself so much?" asked the girl, in some
surprise. "It is not good to make one's self sick with fatigue. Oh,
I know what it is when one's back aches with stooping, and the light
goes, and there is still work to be done; but to walk and not to stop
when one is tired, it is that that passes my comprehension."

"Lottie is a busy little woman in her way," replied Averil, quietly.
"She works beautifully, and her aunt and cousins give her plenty to do."

"Oh, she is not rich, and that is how she repays her aunt's kindness.
Doubtless she is very happy to do them service. My cousin, I have yet
to learn in what way I shall be able to repay your goodness. But I
shall find out some day, and answer that question for myself."

Averil was not a demonstrative little person or she could have found
a ready response to Annette's question, so touching in its graceful
naïveté: "Love me for myself," she would have answered. "Love me and
you will repay me a hundred-fold;" for hers was a nature that was
never satisfied with loving that spent itself, and yet was forever
giving--full measure, yet without hope of return. Yes, young as she was
in years, Averil had already learned the sorrowful lesson that Life
teaches to her elder scholars--that it is useless to expect too much
of human nature, and that though, thank God, love often begets love,
it is better and wiser to give it freely, as God gives His blessed
sunshine, pouring it alike on the thankful and ungrateful, for "with
what measure ye mete," said the Divine Master, "it shall be measured to
you again." Alas! how niggardly are our human measures, how carefully
we weigh out our small grains of good-will, for which we expect to be
repaid so richly!

Averil was bent on being a listener to-night. She said little; only an
intelligent question, a sympathetic monosyllable or two, drew out fresh
details.

"If I want to know Annette thoroughly," she thought, "I must let
her tell me all about herself. I think our great mistake in making
acquaintance with people is that we never put ourselves sufficiently in
the background, so we contrive to stamp a portion of our individuality
on every fresh person. Annette is very original--she is also frank and
unreserved. It is a relief for her to talk, and it is always easy for
me to listen."

It was growing quite late, when Lottie suddenly started up with a
rather guilty air.

"Have I been asleep, Miss Ramsay? How rude you must have thought me! But
when I am tired, and Averil strokes my hair, she always sends me to
sleep. Why, it is nearly ten o'clock!"--jumping up in a hurry. "Oh,
Averil, you ought to have woke me! The girls' room is in such a state,
and Georgina made me promise to put it tidy."

"Suppose I ask Unwin to do it as a favor--you are half asleep, Lottie.
She looks like a little owl, does she not, Annette?"

"Oh, no; we must not trouble Unwin. And there is aunt's room, too.
It is all my fault for going to sleep and forgetting my duties;" and
Lottie's pretty face wore its harassed look again.

"What is there to do? At least I can help you," observed Annette,
eagerly. "Is it to make things tidy? Surely that is not difficult. My
cousin, I should love to help Miss Jones, if she will have me."

"Very well; we will all go," returned Averil, gratified by Annette's
ready good-nature; and Lottie at once brightened up.

Annette looked a little astonished as they entered the large, handsome
room; the bed, chairs, even the floor, seemed strewn with a profusion
of garments, the toilet table heaped with laces, gloves, and trinkets.
"What gorgeousness! what splendor!" thought Annette; but she did not
utter her wonder aloud; she only shook out the folds of a black lace
dress that was trailing across a couple of chairs, and began folding
it with quick, deft fingers.

Averil was called away at this moment; when she returned all traces
of chaos had been removed. Annette was standing by the toilet table
rolling up some ribbons, and Lottie was locking up the trinkets in the
dressing-case.

"Oh, Averil!" she exclaimed, "Miss Ramsay has been helping me so
nicely. She has folded up all the dresses, and she does it as well
as Unwin. And now she has promised to mend that lace flounce for me
to-morrow, so I shall be able to practice before Herr Ludwig comes.
Maud was so bent on my doing it, though I told her that my piece was
not nearly perfect."

"But to me it is a trifle," replied Annette, quickly. "I can work a
new sprig where the old one has been rent. Miss Jones will not know it
has been mended at all, and to me it will be play. And now, if there
is nothing else that I can do, will you permit me to retire? for, like
Miss Jones, my eyes are heavy, and the hour is later than that to which
I have always accustomed myself."

"My dear child, how thoughtless I have been! Tired! Of course you are
tired after your journey. Lottie, I will take Annette to her room, and
then come back to you."

Averil was not long away, but Lottie had finished her task, and was
awaiting her with some impatience.

"Well, Averil?"

"Well, my dear," in rather a quizzical voice, "have you altered your
opinion at all since the morning? Are you still as sure that the
arrival of my little Frenchified cousin must spoil everything? Have you
found her quite as disagreeable as you expected?"

Lottie pouted.

"Don't be tiresome, Averil. A person must make a mistake sometimes.
Miss Ramsay is not disagreeable at all. On the contrary, I think she is
rather nice."

"Nice!" still in the same teasing voice. "I should have said my cousin
was charming."

"Oh, of course; you are never for half measures, Averil. I should not
wonder if in time you liked her far better than you do me--no, I should
not wonder at all."

Averil broke into her little silvery laugh as Lottie finished her
speech in rather an injured manner.

"Indeed, Lottie, I am not at all sure that I shall not become
excessively fond of Annette. She is amiable, and yet she has plenty of
character. And then she has such winning ways!"

"Yes; and my manners are so abrupt. You are always telling me so,
Averil."

"For your own good, dear. Why, what nonsense!" as Lottie's eyes filled
with tears. "Do you think Annette will make any difference between us?
For shame, Lottie! I can not believe for one moment that you could
seriously entertain such an unworthy thought. What! Can you who know
me so well--can you begrudge me another object of interest, another
friendly being on whom I may bestow a little affection? No; this sort
of petty jealousy does not belong to my Lottie."

"No, not really, Averil"--throwing her arms round her neck and giving
her a penitent kiss. "I am only cross because I am so tired. No one can
take my place, not even this fascinating Miss Ramsay. Do you think I
would begrudge you anything--when I want the whole world to love you as
much as I do?"

"Hush! Good-night! There, there, you foolish child!" as Lottie mutely
pleaded for another kiss, and Averil left her smiling. But the smile
faded as she entered her own room, and a look of utter weariness took
its place.

"Oh, Unwin," she said, as a gray-haired, pleasant-looking woman came
from an inner room, "I did not think it possible that one could ache
so!"

"You are just worn out, Miss Averil," returned the old servant,
tenderly. "You are none of the strongest, and you are young yet, though
folks seem to forget that, and put too much upon you. It goes to my
heart to see you so white and spent of a night, and no one to spare you
anything. You are always looking after other people, and forgetting
yourself."

"You dear old story-teller! Why, I am grumbling about my own aches and
pains at this very minute."

"Yes, my dear, and I hope you will always grumble to me, as you call
it," returned Unwin, as she gently unplaited Averil's hair and brushed
out the dark, shining masses that nearly reached to the ground. Unwin
did not leave her young mistress that night until her weary little head
was laid on her pillow, and more than once she entered the room softly,
to assure herself that Averil had fallen asleep.

"Her mind is too big for her body," she thought, as she crept away,
and nearly stumbled over the poodle. "No one knows the strain there
is on that young creature, and no one ever sees her give way but me;"
and Unwin sighed, for she had known and loved her young mistress from
childhood, and it grieved her to see her darling young lady so weary
and exhausted.




CHAPTER VI.

BREAKFAST AT REDFERN HOUSE.


Annette was an early riser; she had slept soundly in her new, luxurious
bed, and awoke refreshed and full of energy. When she had dressed
herself carefully, and had disposed of her scanty stock of clothing in
the big wardrobe that seemed to swallow it up, she was at a loss what
to do. She had read her chapter in the new Bible--with her mother's
worn old Bible lying all the time on her lap--but there were no other
books, and no work that she could do. She would have liked to have used
her pretty blotting-case, but no one would expect a letter. Perhaps she
could find her way to her cousin Averil's sitting-room--there would be
plenty of books there.

Annette had just reached the hall when the sound of a piano from a room
near excited her curiosity. Perhaps Miss Jones was practicing, and
would tell her what to do. As she opened the door Lottie looked up and
nodded, while she finished her scale.

"Good-morning, Miss Ramsay," she said at last, as Annette stood by the
piano looking with some envy at her brisk little fingers. "I hardly
expected to see you before the breakfast-bell rang. So you have found
your way in here."

"Am I wrong to come here?" asked Annette, looking round the bright,
home-like apartment, with its well-littered work-tables and handsomely
filled book-shelves. "I was about to find my cousin's room, only the
sound of the piano attracted me. How beautifully you play, Miss Jones!
Your fingers seem to fly over the keys. For myself, I have never
learned music"--somewhat mournfully.

"Oh, I was only playing my scales," returned Lottie, carelessly. "Yes,
you were quite right to come here; no one goes to Averil's room without
permission. It is her private sitting-room, you see, and I dare say she
is reading there now. This is the morning-room, where every one sits,
and works, and writes their letters."

"Morning-room! Is there then a room for evening?" asked Annette, in
such a puzzled tone that Lottie could not help laughing.

"Well, there is the drawing-room, you know, and we certainly use that
of an evening--that is, when we entertain visitors. Would you like to
see it?" And Lottie, who was a little weary of her scales, rose with
alacrity. She was beginning to think Annette a very amusing person.
She thoroughly enjoyed the air of wonder with which she regarded
everything.

"But this room is magnificent. I have never seen so grand a room," she
kept repeating at intervals.

"Yes it looks very nice when it is lighted up," replied Lottie
nonchalantly. "Averil has the art of making all her rooms look
comfortable and home-like. There is nothing stiff even in this one.
Some people's drawing-rooms always have an unused look, just as though
no one ever lived in them."

"Two fire-places, and all those big windows, and a floor so long that
one could dance over it. Ah! I thought that was a stranger, that girl
in black, with the pale lace and I see it is myself." And Annette stood
before the glass panel, gravely regarding herself, while Lottie watched
her in some amusement.

"I think you will know yourself again," she said, a little
sarcastically. But the sarcasm was lost on Annette, who was still
contemplating her image with the utmost seriousness.

"Forgive me if I keep you too long," she returned; "but until this
moment I do not think I have ever seen myself clearly; that is why I
interview myself as I would a stranger. It is good, it is wholesome, to
realize that one has no claims to admiration--a pale, long face--Bah!
You shall take my place, Miss Lottie--the big glass will be more
pleased to reflect you."

The little compliment pleased Lottie, though she pretended to laugh it
off. "You are not fair to yourself" she said, blushing. "The glass has
not seen you talk. When people are animated they look better. No one
can judge of themselves. Averil always speaks of herself as an ugly
little thing; it is a sort of craze with her to think she shocks people
at first sight. But there are times, I assure you, when I almost think
she is beautiful. Oh! there is the breakfast-bell. I am so glad, for I
am as hungry as a hunter. Come along, Miss Ramsay; we shall find Averil
at her post."

Averil, who was almost hidden behind the big urn, looked up from her
letters, and gave Annette a kind welcome.

"Have you slept well, dear? I think you look more rested. Mrs. Willmot,
this is my cousin, Annette Ramsay"--addressing a tall, fine-looking
woman in widow's dress, who was reading the paper in the window.

"Oh, indeed!" she returned, rather coolly, holding out her plump white
hand as she spoke, but without advancing a step. "I hope you are very
well, Miss Ramsay."

"I am always well, thank you," returned Annette, shrinking a little
from the keen scrutiny of those handsome hazel eyes. It must be
confessed Mrs. Willmot's reception was somewhat chilling. "To that lady
I am an unwelcome visitor," she thought; for the girl was tolerably
shrewd and clear-sighted.

"Come and sit by me, Annette," observed Averil, quickly. "Lottie, will
you help Annette to some of that omelet? The others are not down--we
generally begin without them. I wonder how you felt when you woke up in
a strange room this morning, and if you wished yourself back in the Rue
St. Joseph?"

Annette was about to disclaim this notion somewhat eagerly, when Mrs.
Willmot's clear, metallic voice struck in:

"I can not think why the girls are not down. We were home last night at
a ridiculously early hour. There is not the slightest excuse for being
so late. Lottie, do go up and hurry them. Georgina is getting into lax
ways. I am always telling her that early rising is the best cosmetic
for the complexion. I do not know if you have noticed it, Averil, but
Georgie is getting positively fat."

"No, I can not say that I have noticed it," returned Averil, rather
curtly. "They are not later than usual. I hope they will not keep
Lottie, or her breakfast will get cold." But Mrs. Willmot interrupted
her; this time she spoke in a decidedly injured voice.

"My dear Averil, it is too bad. The toast is hard again. I can not
possibly eat it. Really, Mrs. Adams is growing more careless every day."

"I am so sorry. Annette, would you mind ringing the bell, and I will
order some fresh toast to be made." Averil spoke with the utmost
good-humor, but as she gave the order Mrs. Willmot's cloudy brow did
not relax, and Roberts had hardly closed the door before she burst out
again:

"It is really shameful, Averil, to see how you are duped by your
servants. Look at the wages you give Mrs. Adams--nearly double what
I used to pay Ransome--and she is growing more neglectful every day.
Why, the lobster cutlets the other day were not fit to eat, and she
had flavored the white soup wrongly. How you can put up with such an
incompetent person, just because she is a respectable woman, passes my
comprehension. In my opinion old servants are mistakes. Of course, you
shake your head. One might as well talk to the wind. It is a little
hard that at my age and with all my experience, you will never consent
to be guided by me in such matters."

Averil elevated her eyebrows slightly. "I am afraid, my dear Mrs.
Willmot, that on these points we must agree to differ, as you well
know, for we have often discussed the matter. Nothing would induce
me to part with Mrs. Adams. She is an invaluable servant; she is
industrious and economical, and my father always praised her cooking.
I think Rodney has infected you with his club notions. He has got it
into his head that it is his prerogative as an Englishman to grumble,
but I mean to give him a strong hint to hold his tongue before Roberts.
By the bye, Mrs. Willmot"--gliding easily from the vexed topic--"I have
two more refusals this morning--from the Farnboroughs and Lathams."

"What are you saying about the Lathams, Averil?" interposed a fresh
voice, and a tall, striking-looking girl, the youthful image of her
mother, entered the room, followed closely by Lottie.

"Good-morning, mother! What are you frowning at?" bestowing a light,
butterfly kiss rather carelessly as she passed. "Oh!" with a sudden
change of tone, and with rather a cool stare at Annette. "This is Miss
Ramsay, I suppose. How do you do? Very well, I hope--pleasant journey,
and all that sort of thing?" And the young lady swept to her chair with
an impertinent insouciance of manner that some people thought charming.

"What has become of your sister, Maud?" asked her mother, in rather a
freezing tone.

"My sister?" with an amused air. "Is it not absurd, Averil, when mother
uses that dignified tone? I would not be Georgie for the world at this
moment. It is all Doctor Rathbone's fault. He took mother in to dinner
last night, and regaled her with all kinds of entertaining speeches.
He told her Georgie was getting fat, and that she ought to ride before
breakfast. Oh, no, I would not be in Georgie's shoes for the next
month." And Maud drew down the corners of her mouth in a ridiculous
manner, that nearly convulsed Lottie with suppressed merriment.

"I have often told Georgina that she ought to walk more," returned
Averil, rather seriously. "She is too fond of an easy chair, she reads
too many novels, and--" but here Mrs. Willmot checked her.

"There now, Maud, you are making Averil severe on Georgina, as usual.
You might know by this time how hard she always is on her, and yet
no girl ever deserved blame less. I told Doctor Rathbone that it was
laughing so much that made her fat. What a disagreeable old man he is!
I never saw her in better looks than she was last night. That blue
dress suited her admirably. I am sure Captain Beverley thought so, for
he was most attentive."

"I can't say I noticed it," replied Maud, coldly. "Have the Lathams
really refused, Averil? What a pity!"

Mrs. Willmot looked a little alarmed at her daughter's heightened color
and evident vexation.

"Oh, the room will be crowded as it is," she said, soothingly. "It
does not matter about the Lathams. Mrs. Mortimer was telling me last
night, Maudie, that she never saw you look to more advantage. 'Georgina
is very much improved,' she said, 'and you have reason to be proud of
them both; but in my opinion Georgina will never hold a candle to her
sister--she has not Maud's beautiful figure, you see.'"

"My dear Mrs. Willmot, is it not a pity--" but here Averil stopped,
while Maud bridled her long neck, and tried not to look pleased at this
foolish flattery.

Just then an interruption occurred. The door opened rather noisily, and
a fine, buxom girl, with a broad, heavy type of face, and a profusion
of light, flaxen hair, made her appearance.

"Good-morning, good people all!" she said, airily, as she subsided
into a vacant chair. "Lottie, will you please cut me some of that
ham? I am literally starving, for Captain Beverley gave me no time to
eat my dinner. Why are you looking so glum, Averil? Oh, I see. I have
forgotten my manners. Miss Ramsay, please excuse me. I completely
overlooked you;" and Georgina, feeling that she had made a graceful
apology, turned her shoulder on Annette, and applied herself to her
breakfast.

"Averil," exclaimed Maud, at this moment, "I suppose we can have the
carriage this afternoon? We want to pay some calls."

"I am very sorry, Maud," began Averil, in a hesitating voice, "but my
cousin has some shopping to do."

"There are excellent shops in High Street," responded the young lady,
in the coolest manner. "Miss Ramsay will find all she wants at Siemans
& Little, or there is Barker," with a supercilious glance at Annette's
neat black dress.

"I am afraid, all the same, that you can not have the carriage this
afternoon, Maud."

"Not have it!" and here Maud looked excessively put out. "Averil, I
did not think you could be so inconsiderate. Mamma has all these calls
owing, and they positively must be paid, and to-morrow we are going to
that garden-party at Richmond, and the next day is Sunday, and Monday
is Lady Morrison's At Home, Tuesday is ours, and--"

Annette, who, had listened to this expostulation in puzzled silence,
suddenly interposed.

"The carriage, my cousin," she said, in some surprise. "What is it that
I want with a carriage? Surely I can walk, and then this young lady
will not be inconvenienced. Oh, yes, that is best, and I can walk."

But here Lottie nudged her impressively, and Averil said, a little
sadly, "But I can not walk, Annette--at least, very little walking
knocks me up."

"But is it absolutely necessary for Miss Ramsay's shopping to be done
to-day?" asked Maud, rather disdainfully.

"Say No, my cousin," whispered Annette, with a pained flush.

But Averil smiled back at her and said, "Hush!"

"I think it is you who are inconsiderate, Maud," she said, very
quietly. "Yes, it is absolutely necessary that Annette should not be
disappointed. But as your heart seems set on paying these visits, you
may have the carriage, and we will manage with a hansom, please say
no more about it," as Maud certainly had the grace to look a little
ashamed of herself. "Annette will not mind, I am sure. Now, will one
of you two girls look after Rodney when he comes down? I want Lottie
to finish her practicing before Herr Ludwig comes. Come, Lottie! come,
Annette!" and Averil beckoned to them.

As soon as the door closed behind them Lottie burst into an indignant
remonstrance. "Oh, Averil, how can you put up with it? It is really too
bad of Maud! and for aunt to encourage her in such impertinence!"

"Please, Lottie, dear, let the subject drop," and Averil's mouth had
a weary curve. "Time is too precious, and you and I have far too much
to do to waste it on such trifles. Annette, do you think you will be
dull in my sitting-room? I have my letters to write, and all sorts of
business."

"I shall not be dull if I can see you," returned Annette, simply.
"Since my mother's death I have worked alone. Alone! Ah, what a bitter
word! One is slow in learning it. Often I have forgotten--I have lost
myself in some dream. 'Is it so, mother?' I would say, and raise my
head. Alas! there were only the dark corners, the empty chair--no
answering smile to greet me. Oh, my cousin, I see I make you sad with
my little retrospect. But it was only to prove to you that I shall be
gay--what you call cheerful--by comparison."

Averil did not answer for a moment--when she next spoke it was to
question Annette about the torn lace flounce she was to mend for Lottie.

Annette was eager to begin her task; she wanted to show these dear
people that there was something she could do. "It is play to me," she
said, with innocent egotism. "You shall see, and Miss Lottie too, that
I can work well. 'One need not starve when one has ten fingers,' as
poor Clotilde says. Ah! poor Clotilde! she is peeling her onions now,
and perhaps saying a prayer for me in her heart. Hold! I am a sad
chatter-box. I will not speak again for an hour"--and for a wonder,
Annette contrived to keep her word. But though Annette's tongue was
silent, her thoughts were busy enough. Again and again she raised her
dark eyes from her embroidery, and fixed them on the quiet figure
before her, on the grave, intent face, on the small, busy hands,
as Averil wrote letters, added up bills, or made entries in her
housekeeping book.




CHAPTER VII.

RODNEY MAKES HIS APPEARANCE.


But the morning was not to pass without interruption. The young
mistress of Redfern House was evidently a woman of business. First, a
stout, comely looking woman demanded admittance, and had a long and
evidently a most important interview. Annette, in her sunny corner,
could only hear a word or two--mayonnaise, apricot tart, and so on.
Evidently Averil was making out the _menu_. Then, when Mrs. Adams was
dismissed, Unwin took her place, and again snatches of conversation
reached Annette's ears; they seemed to be discussing some charitable
case, for soup and linen were mentioned.

"You will go yourself, Unwin," she heard Averil say. "My time is fully
occupied to-day; but if you find out that they are really deserving
people, I will call myself to-morrow. In any case a little soup and a
few comforts will do no harm, for the woman is certainly very ill."

"Very well, ma'am: I will pack a basket, and--" Here her voice dropped,
but there was a great deal more said before Unwin left Averil to resume
her letter-writing.

Again there was silence, only broken by the trills of the bullfinch.
Averil's pen traveled rapidly over the paper; then she stopped
and appeared to listen, and a moment afterward rose with a quick
exclamation of annoyance.

"What can she have heard?" thought Annette. But her curiosity was soon
gratified. Averil had forgotten to close the door behind her, and the
next moment Annette heard her speaking to Lottie.

"Why have you stopped playing, Lottie? It is not eleven o'clock. I
thought you told me that you particularly wanted two hours."

"Yes, I did say so, but aunt wants some letters written, and Maud says
she is too busy to do them. Never mind, Averil; don't trouble about it.
I shall only get a scolding from Herr Ludwig because my piece is not
perfect."

"Go back to your playing, Lottie. I will speak to Mrs. Willmot. Now,
don't argue; it is only a waste of time, and you know you have promised
to be guided by me. Quick--march!" Here the drawing-room door closed in
a summary manner.

A heavy footfall in the passage outside--the talk begins again. Annette
pricks up her ears. Yes, she is behind the scenes; she is beginning to
learn the ways of the household.

"Mrs. Willmot, I want to speak to you"--in Averil's voice. "Why is
Lottie always to be interrupted? I thought it was understood between
us that she was to have time for her practicing. Herr Ludwig is an
expensive master; it is throwing my money away unless she prepares
properly for her lesson. Last week he was very angry because she played
her piece so imperfectly."

"I am sure I do not know why you are telling me all this, Averil. I am
not aware that I am interrupting Lottie."

"Maud has just asked her to write some letters."

"Oh, I forgot. I remember now that both the girls told me that they
were too busy; and really Georgina is so careless, and writes such a
shocking hand, that I never care to ask her."

"But Maud is always writing to some one."

"Yes; and every one says how clever and amusing her letters are. But
really she is quite cross if I beg her to answer a few notes. Girls are
so selfish; they never will take trouble for other people."

"I think you should insist on Maud making herself useful. I suppose
we should all grow selfish if we yielded to the feeling. Indeed,
Lottie must not be disturbed; another scolding from Herr Ludwig would
dishearten her. If no one else will write your letters, I must offer my
services."

"You, Averil! What nonsense! Thank you, I prefer to manage my own
business"--very stiffly. "I suppose the letters can wait." Here there
was a slow sweep of a dress over the floor, and the next moment Averil
re-entered. Annette looked at her wistfully, but said nothing, and
again the soothing stillness prevailed. The black poodle slumbered
peacefully; Annette worked on busily; her task was nearly finished. She
made up her mind, when it was completed, that she would slip through
the open window and explore the green, winding path that looked so
pleasant. A garden was a novelty to her, and the sight of the trimly
shaven lawn and gay flower-beds was wonderfully pleasant to her eyes.

Another tap at the door--a quick, imperative tap--followed by the
entrance of a fair, boyish-looking young man, dressed in the height of
fashion.

"I say, Averil, are you very busy? I want to speak to you"--and then he
checked himself as he caught sight of Annette.

"I beg your pardon. I had no idea you had any one with you," honoring
Annette with rather a cool, supercilious stare as he spoke.

"Good-morning, Rodney. This is my cousin, Miss Ramsay. You knew
yesterday that she was expected. Annette, this is Mr. Seymour, my
step-mother's son."

Annette acknowledged the introduction with rather a haughty bend of her
head--the little lace-mender had her pride. These Seymours were not
gracious in their reception of her. Each one in turn had informed her
by their manner that she was an unwelcome guest. Good; she would keep
herself to herself; they should not be inconvenienced by her. A naughty
little sparkle came into Annette's brown eyes.

"If it please you, my cousin, I will take a turn in that pleasant
garden," she said, rather primly. "I have finished the sprig, and Miss
Jones will not know where it has been mended, and then I shall be in no
one's way."

"Please do not disturb yourself on my account, Miss Ramsay," began
Rodney.

But Annette did not give him time to finish. She had had enough of
these Seymours, she told herself, as she brushed a thread or two from
her black dress. She did not even wait for Averil's permission, but ran
down the steps, followed by the black poodle, who was enchanted at the
prospect of a game. Annette had never found out that she had a temper
till that minute. "One must grow tall to stand on tiptoe with these
English," she said, with a little toss of her head, as she walked down
the shrubbery.

Rodney lolled against the window-frame and watched her rather lazily.
"What a very energetic young person!" he muttered. Then aloud, "It must
be an awful bore for you, Averil, having a poor relative turning up in
this unexpected fashion."

"I am not so sure that Annette will prove a bore," replied Averil,
rather coolly. "I am very pleased with the little I have seen of her.
In spite of poverty and hard work, she seems to have a great deal of
refinement. She is clever and amusing, and I have discovered that she
is an excellent companion."

"Indeed! The girls did not seem much impressed by her at breakfast. It
is a pity she is not better-looking. She has a half-starved sort of
appearance. But if you are pleased, and all that--"

"Rodney!" a little impatiently, "did you come to my room to discuss my
cousin's merits and demerits?"

"No, indeed. How sharp you are, Averil! You are always down on a fellow
before he can get a word in. There is no particular hurry, is there?"
fingering the rosebud in his button-hole in a way that provoked Averil.

"No hurry for you," rather sarcastically; "but if you will excuse me
for mentioning it, I am very much pressed for time myself, so please
let me know what you want as quickly as possible."

"Well, you might be a little more gracious, Ave," in a rather sulky
tone. "I don't often take up your precious time, do I?" Then, as she
made no answer, he went on in the same drawling fashion. "The fact
is, I am a bit hard up, and I dare not let the mater know it. She cut
up rough last time, and if there is anything I hate it is a scene--my
nerves won't stand it."

Averil sat down and folded her hands on her lap in a resigned way. Her
manner said mutely that this was exactly what she expected to hear. She
looked such a little creature--so absurdly childish--beside the tall
lazy figure that was propping itself against the wall; but there was
nothing childish in the small, resolute face. Rodney seemed to find the
silence trying. He shifted from one foot to the other, and pulled his
mustache as he furtively eyed her.

"Can't you speak a word to a fellow?" he said, when the situation
became intolerable.

Averil flashed a look at him. "Oh, dear yes; a thousand words if you
like," she returned, scornfully. "The question is, whether the _fellow_
will like them."

"Come now, Ave, don't be so confoundedly hard on me. You are such a
good-natured little soul, and have so often helped me, that you are not
going to turn rusty now."

"Does it never strike you"--in a keen, incisive voice--"that there are
limits even to good nature, that I may possibly have conscientious
scruples about throwing my money away on a spendthrift? Now, please do
not interrupt me, Rodney; I must speak, even if the truth is not to
your taste. I am not one to prophesy smooth things. You have come to
tell me that you have exceeded your allowance, that you are in debt
again, and that you dare not apply to your mother; and I will tell you
in return that you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Of course I must bear anything that you choose to say, if I put myself
in this position." And here Rodney seemed to gulp down something.

Averil's voice softened unconsciously. "Rodney, it is for your good I
am speaking. I have no wish to be hard on you or any one, but I can not
see you ruining yourself without a word of remonstrance. How long do
you mean to go on like this, living upon"--she was going to say "me,"
but hastily substituted the word "mother?"

Rodney colored as though he understood her.

"If only something would turn up," he muttered. "It is just like my
luck, failing to pass that examination."

"When people do not work, is it a surprising fact that they cannot
pass an examination? Ill luck--something to turn up!" still more
impatiently. "How I hate those phrases! The very cant of the idler. Is
there anything in this world worth having that can be procured without
effort--without downright labor? 'By the sweat of your brow shall you
eat bread.' Why should you be exempt, Rodney, from the common burden of
humanity?"

"Oh, come! don't preach, Ave. Who says that I don't mean to work?"

"Did you work at Oxford? Are you working now?"

"Perhaps not. But I am young; and even the mater says there is plenty
of time. You need not grudge me a little amusement. I'll work fast
enough by and by."

"My dear," replied Averil, with a quaint motherliness that sat oddly
upon her, "'by and by' is a dangerous ally. 'Now' is a stouter fellow,
and a better staff for a young man. You know what Mr. Harland says,
'The longer you wait for work, the less you will feel inclined for it
when it comes. Idleness never improved any one.'"

"'How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour!'" drawled
Rodney, who was getting weary of this lecture.

"Exactly so. And you have not stored a bit of honey yet. Now, Rodney,
in spite of your impatience, I must beg you to listen to me a moment.
I will help you this once."

"Oh, thanks, awfully! I always knew you were a brick, Averil."

"This once"--holding up her finger impressively. "But, Rodney, never
again. I tell you my conscience will not allow me to do it. I cannot
throw away good money that might help worthy people in paying the debts
of an extremely idle young man, and so encourage him to contract more."

"Upon my word, Averil!" in an affronted tone.

"My dear boy, I am stating the sober truth. You are an idle young man;
and you are far too fond of pleasure. All the Seymours are."

"You are vastly complimentary to the family"--relapsing into sulkiness.
"Why don't you turn us out? You are not bound to put up with us. Come
now, Averil, answer that if you can?"

"I could answer it easily," looking at him with an expression of
sadness. "But silence is golden, Rodney. But do not try me too much.
There are times, I do not deny it, when I long to run away from you
all."

"Well, you are awfully good to us"--in a penitent tone. "I often tell
the girls what a little brick you are. I know we are a troublesome lot.
It is our up-bringing, as Aunt Dinah calls it. The mater has spared the
rod and spoiled the child, don't you know? Awful nuisance that."

Averil smiled. In her heart Rodney was her favorite--weak,
self-indulgent, and easily led. He was not without good impulses, and
he was not so hopelessly selfish as the others.

"Now tell me what you want and I will write the check," she observed,
resuming her business-like manner; "or, better still, let me have your
bills."

"Oh, of course, if you do not trust me!" and Rodney looked hurt and
mortified.

"Very well, I will. Now then!" and as Rodney whispered the amount in
her ear she merely elevated her eyebrows, but made no remarks as she
wrote the check and passed it to him. She checked his profuse thanks.

"Never mind about that. I never care much for words. If you want to
please me, if you have the faintest wish to preserve my respect, you
will look out seriously for a berth. You will ask Mr. Harland to help
you. Do, Rodney; do, my dear boy; and I shall still live to be proud of
you."

Rodney tried to laugh at her earnestness, but it was easy to see that
his light facile nature was touched.

"Well, I will see about it. Don't bother yourself Ave. I never was
worth the trouble. You are a good little soul, and I am awfully
obliged to you. I am, indeed. Oh, there is the young woman--the cousin,
I mean. And I may as well take myself off." And Rodney sauntered off.

"Are you alone? Then I need not fear to interrupt you?" began Annette.
Then she stopped, and regarded Averil with close attention. "Ah! you
are tired, my cousin. You have grown quite pale and fatigued during my
absence. I will take a book to that shady garden seat."

"No, no! I will put away my letters. I have had so many interruptions.
Indeed, I must talk to you, Annette. That is part of my business for
this morning. Shall we go up to your room? I want you to tell me
exactly what you require for renovating your wardrobe, just as you
would have told your mother. You are still in mourning, of course. It
is only six months since you lost her."

"Only six months! To me it seems like six years. Yes, I will keep to my
black gown; any color would dazzle me too much. You are in black, too,
my cousin!"

"Yes; but this is not mourning. I think I dislike any color for myself.
Unwin sees to my dresses. When she thinks I want a new one she tells
me so. I should never remember it myself. But, strange to say, it is
always a pleasure to me to see people round me well dressed."

"That is because you have an artistic taste. Miss Jones dresses well. I
was remarking on her gown this morning."

"Oh, yes! Lottie has excellent taste. And then she knows she is pretty."

Averil could have said more on this subject, but she was singularly
uncommunicative on the subject of her own good deeds. Lottie would
have waxed eloquent on the theme. She could have informed Annette of a
time when the little school-girl had shed hot tears of humiliation and
shame over the out-grown shabby gown, with the ink-stain dropped by a
malicious school-mate on one of the breadths; days when faded ribbons
and mended gloves were the order of the day; when Lottie's piteous
petitions for a new frock, even for new boots, were refused on the
score of reckless extravagance.

Lottie's sweet youth had been imbittered by these minor vexations,
these galling restrictions enforced by unloving tyranny and despotism.
In a thousand ways she had been made to suffer for being an
incumbrance. The bright, lively girl, conscious of latent talents, and
yearning for a higher education and self-culture, was literally starved
and repressed in her intellectual faculties--reduced to a dull level
of small, grinding duties. Lottie had good masters in the school at
Stoke Newington, but as she lacked time for preparation, their lessons
yielded scant profit. She had to teach history and geography to the
young ones, to help them with their sums, their mending, to overlook
their practicing. The young pupil teacher was the drudge of the whole
school. And yet even there she won golden opinions. It was Averil who
was her benefactor, whose sympathy and ready affection smoothed her
daily life. It was Averil who watched over her in a hundred ways.

Lottie had still much to bear from her aunt's selfish caprices, but
her life was a far happier one now. The shabby gowns were things of
the past. Averil had taken that matter in hand. Lottie's fresh, dainty
toilets often caused a remonstrance from Mrs. Willmot, and a sneering
remark from Maud or Georgina. Her neglected musical powers were
cultivated by the eminent Herr Ludwig. Lottie was not ungrateful for
all this kindness. Her loving nature blossomed into fresh sweetness,
and she repaid Averil by the devotion of her young girlish heart--"my
sweet Saint Averil," as she often called her.




CHAPTER VIII.

"WILL YOU TAKE BACK THOSE WORDS, MAUD?"


A very few minutes were sufficient for the inspection of Annette's
scanty stock of clothes. Averil's eyes grew misty over the little
pile of coarse, neatly mended linen; the worn shoes, the pitiful
contrivances, gave more than one pang to her warm heart.

"How can she contrive to look so ladylike?" she thought, as she
remarked the frayed edges of her black gown; "none of them seem to have
noticed that indefinable air that stamps her as a true gentlewoman.
I wish Maud and Georgina had half such good manners; but they are
thorough girls of the period."

Annette looked at her wistfully when the brief survey was over.

"I told you the truth, my cousin, did I not, when I said I was poor? In
the Rue St. Joseph it did not seem to matter, but here, among all these
fine people, I do not love to be shabby."

"Oh, we will alter all that," returned Averil, cheerfully. "I shall
give you the same outfit I gave Lottie when she first came to live
here. As I am to enact the part of fairy godmother, I am sorry that
the pumpkin-coach is wanting; but we shall do very well, I dare say."
And then, as she went to her room, she reproached herself for not being
sufficiently grateful for her riches. "How often have I complained
of the burden of my wealth!" she said to herself. "How often have I
longed to shift my responsibilities and to betake myself to a cottage
with Lottie and Unwin! Why am I so impatient, so cowardly? I ought to
rejoice at the richness of the talent intrusted to me. 'Give an account
of thy stewardship.' Yes, those awful words will one day sound in my
ears. So much has been given me, that surely much will be required.
Oh, what a poor creature I am, for I would willingly, thrice willingly
give it all if only I could be like other girls!" Here she caught
sight of herself in the glass, and a flush came into her pale, sad
face. "No one--no one guesses my weakness; even Unwin, dear soul, only
thinks I am tired and far from strong. But One knows," raising her eyes
reverently; "and He who has laid this cross upon me will surely help me
to carry more bravely to the end." And then she whispered, softly:

    "'Multiply our graces,
       Chiefly love and fear;
      And, dear Lord, the chiefest
       Grace to persevere.'"

That afternoon Annette thought she was in fairyland. If Averil had been
a benevolent fairy and had waved her magic wand, she could not have
worked greater wonders, and yet it was all so quietly done. Averil
seemed to know just what she wanted, and her orders were executed in a
marvelous way. They went to a linen warehouse first, and then drove to
a dressmaker.

"Mrs. Stephens will know exactly what to get us," Averil remarked in
the hansom. "As you are in mourning, there will be no need to select
shades. She will take your measure and show us a few stuffs. We shall
not be fatigued with looking over fashion books. Annette, you must not
be afraid of speaking. If any material takes your fancy, please tell me
so without reserve. Lottie always chooses her own gowns, and she has a
very pretty taste."

But, in spite of this kindly permission, Annette could not bring
herself to speak, except at last, when Averil felt a timid touch on her
arm.

"Do not give me so much," she pleaded, in a grave tone of remonstrance.
"My cousin, you are too extravagant. I shall ruin you. How many more
dresses? One for morning, and one for promenade, and a dinner-dress,
and yet another. Why should I have that other, Cousin Averil?"

"Why? Because you will have to look your best on Tuesday, when all my
friends are coming," returned Averil, smiling. "My dear Annette, you
have no idea of the crowds that are invited. The grenadine is for that
occasion. Now you must have a hat and a jacket; and then there are
boots and shoes. Come, we have no time to waste in talking;" and again
they jumped into the hansom.

More purchases--gloves, a sunshade, even an umbrella, then two weary,
jaded beings were driven back through the sweet evening air. Averil
leaned back in the corner of the hansom, with closed eyes, almost too
tired to speak. Her frail form ached with fatigue, her heart felt
peaceful and at rest; she had forgotten herself in giving pleasure to
another, and the reward of unselfishness was hers already. Annette was
silent too: her heart was too full for speech. "For what is it that I
can say?" she thought; "to thank is only to give words. I must wait and
prove my gratitude in other ways;" and Annette's girlish bosom throbbed
with sweet, warm feelings. Already she loved her cousin, already her
orphaned heart seemed to cleave to her. "If thou hadst known her, thou
wouldst have loved her too, my mother," she thought, as her dark eyes
were fixed on the blue, cloud-flecked sky.

As Annette sprung lightly from the hansom and ran up the steps of
Redfern House, she noticed how slowly and stiffly Averil moved after
her. "Oh, you are tired, tired!" she said, remorsefully. "Miss Jones
will tell me I have killed you."

"Lottie knows better than that. I am so often tired, Annette. Why,
Roberts"--interrupting herself--"that is surely not the gong? It is
only just seven."

Roberts looked embarrassed. "The young ladies have ordered dinner half
an hour earlier," he said, in a rather hesitating fashion. "I told
them, ma'am, that half past seven was the hour mentioned, but Miss Maud
said--"

"Do you mean that dinner is actually served?" and a slight frown
crossed Averil's brow. "Annette"--turning to her cousin "there is no
time to dress; will you please take off your hat, and come down into
the dining-room?"

Annette obeyed, but as she took her place at the dinner table beside
Lottie, she looked round her somewhat bewildered. "They must be going
to a party," she thought. Even Lottie was in white, the table was
dressed with flowers; surely it must be a fête day.

Averil came in by and by and took her place. She looked unusually
grave. Mrs. Willmot gave a deprecating cough, and threw back her
voluminous cap-strings.

"I hope my dear Averil, that the little change in the programme has not
inconvenienced you," she said, in a tone intended to be propitiatory;
"but Maud said that she was sure you had forgotten the concert at the
Albert Hall."

"It was Maud's doing, then. At least I need not apologize for my
walking-dress."

But though she said no more, Mrs. Willmot glanced nervously at her
daughters, and Maud tossed her head in a supercilious way. Only Rodney
seemed at his ease. Lottie looked red and uncomfortable until Averil
began talking to her.

"Are you going to the concert too, Lottie?" she asked, in some surprise.

"Not if you want me," returned Lottie, anxiously. "Only, as there was
a vacant seat in the box, aunt said I might as well go. I only knew it
about an hour ago. I had no idea at luncheon."

"My dear, there is no reason why you should not enjoy the treat, and
you have never heard Madame Patey: go, by all means. Annette and I are
both so tired that we should not be good company; indeed, I mean to
give her a book for the rest of the evening."

"Then you do not mind--oh, I am so glad!" and Lottie's brow grew clear
in a moment. She began to chatter to Annette about this wonderful
concert, and about the singer.

"What a fuss you make about it Lottie!" observed Maud, who seemed
somewhat out of temper. "Miss Ramsay will think you have never been to
a concert before."

"I have not been to many, and I think concerts are the most heavenly
things in existence; there is nothing on earth I love better than
music."

"Except a few superlatives," was the sarcastic rejoinder; and somehow
Lottie's innocent enthusiasm seemed quenched in a moment.

"What's up with you girls?" remarked Rodney, lazily, as the
conversation flagged at this point. "Lots of people talk in
superlatives, so you need not be down on Lottie. You and Georgie are
always awfully in love with something or other. It is awfully nice of
you, you know."

Maud gave him a withering glance, but made no answer, and he rattled
on in his good-humored, boyish way. He even addressed Annette once or
twice, as though to make amends for his sister's influence. Neither
Maud nor Georgina seemed disposed to trouble themselves about her.
In their eyes she was only an incumbrance--another applicant for
Averil's bounty. They had not been consulted in the matter. Averil
rarely consulted any one. If they had been asked for their opinion of
this new inmate of Redfern House, they would have termed her "a plain,
uninteresting, shabby little thing;" for the Miss Seymours were never
sparing of their adjectives. Lottie they tolerated. Lottie knew how
to make herself useful. They would have been at a loss without her;
in many ways she was invaluable. They had no maid. Mrs. Willmot's
means could not afford such extravagance, with Rodney's college debts
to pay, and a hundred private expenses. Lottie had excellent taste.
She was clever, and knew how to use her needle. She could turn a
dress and arrange a drapery; she could advise them on the choice of a
trimming. It needed all Averil's skillful management to prevent Lottie
from becoming a perfect drudge. Many a task of mending was privately
performed by Unwin, or one of Averil's protégées, to give Lottie
leisure for her beloved music. When it was possible to secure an hour
from interruption, Averil read French and history with her. The poor
girl felt her imperfect education bitterly, and Averil's strong will
was set on raising her to her own level.

"Is a bright, intelligent creature like Lottie to degenerate into a
mere lady's maid?" she would say to herself. "We must all serve our
apprenticeship. God forbid that I should hinder her from making herself
useful, but there are limits to everything: only Maud and Georgina do
not seem to recognize the fact. Why are some natures so selfish? I
suppose their mother has spoiled them. Some people would say that I was
spoiled, too, for I generally get my own way. Dear father! as though he
ever refused me anything."

As they left the dining-room, Annette lingered for a moment to admire
a fine bronze figure. The hall was somewhat dark, and in the summer
twilight she was unperceived by Averil, who had just joined Maud at the
foot of the staircase.

"Maud, I want to speak to you for a moment. What has happened just now
must never occur again." Averil spoke with a decision that was not to
be mistaken, and Maud looked excessively offended.

"I am sure I do not know why you are making all this fuss, Averil. What
does such a little thing signify? One would think, from your manner,
that I had committed some crime in asking Mrs. Adams to serve dinner
half an hour earlier."

"It was taking a great liberty, Maud; a liberty that must never be
repeated in my house. No one shall contradict the mistress's orders.
Mrs. Adams will be taught that she must only take orders from me. I am
sorry to have to speak like this, but you give me no option. This sort
of thing has occurred too often; I am resolved to put a stop to it."

"It is mamma who ought to be mistress of the house," returned Maud. "I
wonder you are not ashamed to put her in such a position. You treat us
all like children, and you are only a girl yourself."

"I shall not reply to you, Maud--recriminations are useless. You can
ask yourself, and I can safely leave to your conscience to answer,
whether one of you has received anything but kindness at my hands.
And what do you give me in return? Do you ever consult my taste, my
pleasures? Do you care for anything but your own wishes?"

"You have everything," in the same proud, passionate tone. "How can you
expect us not to envy you, Averil? We are dependent on you, and I hate
dependence--just because mamma was cheated out of her rights."

"Maud," in a voice so hard and cold that Annette scarcely recognized
it, "I can bear much, but there are limits to my generosity. Will you
take back that speech, or shall I go to your mother?"

"I declare, you are too bad Averil," bursting into indignant tears.
"You are using your power mercilessly."

"Will you take back those words, Maud?"

"As though I meant them!"--dashing her tears away. "Of course; I know
the money is yours."

"You are wrong; it is not mine; it is no more mine than any other gift
I possess. I do not desire it--it is more a burden than a pleasure. At
times it is almost an unbearable responsibility. Not that I expect you
to believe me," rather sadly.

"Well, you know you are odd enough for anything. I never knew any one
like you, Averil."

"Are you quite sure you know me, Maud? Have you ever tried really to
know me? I am perfectly aware what you and Georgina think of me. Oh,
yes; I am odd, eccentric--none of your friends understand me."

"Oh, don't let us quarrel," returned Maud, impatiently. She had
recovered her temper, at least outwardly, for she thought it would be
more politic to keep the peace. "Of course, we never shall agree in
things. I love society, and you only care to associate with dowdy,
frumpish people. In your place, I should keep open house--I should
never be alone. But, there! one might as well argue with the wind."
And Maud shrugged her shoulders and ran up-stairs, leaving Averil
still standing there. Annette heaved a heavy sigh as she moved slowly
away; there was something indescribably pathetic in the small, slender
figure, the drooping head, the tightly locked hands.

"Oh, they are cruel, these people!" exclaimed Annette, half aloud.
"They care not to understand--they have no kindness in their hearts."
But, in spite of her sympathy and youthful indignation, she did not
venture for a long time to follow her cousin; she moved about uneasily,
taking up a book and laying it down again. She saw the party drive off
to the concert. Lottie kissed her hand to her, with a beaming smile,
as she passed. "She would not look so happy if she had heard that
talk," thought Annette. And then she could bear the solitude of the big
rooms no longer. And though her heart beat a little quickly at her own
temerity, she crossed the dusky hall again, and tapped softly at the
door of her cousin's room. Perhaps that light tap was inaudible, for
there was no answer, and Annette timidly entered. The moon had risen,
and a flood of silvery beams was pouring in at the open window, beside
which Averil sat. For a moment Annette thought she was asleep; she
was lying back in her chair with closed eyes, but as Annette advanced
noiselessly, she was shocked to see a large tear steal down her cheek,
followed by another.

Annette's affectionate heart could not bear the sight. She startled
Averil by stooping over her to kiss it away.

"Annette!" in rather an embarrassed voice. "My dear, why have you
followed me?" But this delicate hint that she would rather be alone was
lost on Annette.

"Don't be vexed with me, my cousin. I came because I overheard, and
because I was sorry for you. Indeed, I did not like you to be alone,
and Miss Jones was not here to comfort you. Oh, you have been shedding
tears! It was cruel--cruel to speak to you like that! You did well to
be angry."

"Oh, Annette, please hush! You must not say such things. It is never
well to be angry. I ought to know Maud by this time. She has a bad
temper when she is put out, she does not always measure her words.
Do you know why I am so unhappy? Not because of what Maud said, but
because I can not forgive myself for being so hard. Oh, I am proud,
terribly proud, and sometimes they make me suffer; but I do not often
forget myself. I think"--with a little sob--"that I was too tired; one
can bear so little when the body is weak."

"My poor dear!"--three little words; but the sympathetic tone was
infinitely soothing to Averil's sore spirit.

"Do not pity me too much; I deserve to suffer. I had no right to be so
angry."

"But, my cousin, surely Miss Seymour was in the wrong to contradict
your orders?"

"Most certainly; but I could have told her so more quietly. I was right
to reprove her, but I ought not to have suffered her to provoke me.
Annette, if only one could be sweet-tempered. One has to fight such a
hard battle sometimes--and, oh! I am so tired of it all."

"You are young, and have much to bear," returned Annette, in her
serious way. "And always goodness is difficult. How well do I remember
my mother speaking to me on this subject. One day, as we sat together
at our work, she surprised me by telling me that her temper was
naturally a bad one. Never shall I forget my astonishment. No, it could
not be possible. 'Seest thou, Annette,' she said--for we talked often
in the language of our adopted country--'I have taught myself, by God's
help, to control it while I was young. When I first married I was very
hasty, and would say bitter things when others displeased me; but one
day I said to myself, 'Felicia'--my mother's name was Felicia--'thou
art growing sharper every day. People will cease soon to love thee.
Thy tongue should be thy servant, not thy master.' My cousin, never
have I heard an irritable word from my mother's lips; her patience and
sweetness were wonderful. Do you care to know how she cured herself?
When her husband, her child, her servant, or perhaps some troublesome
neighbor, provoked her, she would be silent a moment, then she would
reply. And always she repeated the same words in her heart, 'Deliver
us from evil;' that was her charm of charms, as she called it. But it
answered well."




CHAPTER IX.

THE MUTUAL IMPROVEMENT SOCIETY.


"Thank you, dear. You have done me good," returned Averil, gratefully,
when Annette had finished her little story.

"Ah! that is well, my cousin."

"No one has done me so much good before. But, Annette, you must call me
Averil. We are strangers no longer. We must be sisters to each other.
Lottie, too; there is no need to call her Miss Jones."

"I will remember. I will do anything that pleases you. Every day I
shall grow more English. I shall learn your ways."

"I hope you and Lottie will be good friends."

"But why not? Already I feel to love her. She is bright--she has a
sweet temper; and then, how she plays!"

"And you long to play, too?"

"Surely. And to sing; above all things, to sing. Oh, my cousin--I mean,
Averil--what does that look mean? Is it that you will altogether crush
me with kindness? I am to dwell in this fine house, and I am to dress
as grandly as the consul's lady used to dress. And still that is not
enough?"

"No, certainly. We must think of better things than clothes. Annette,
shall you think me hard if I give you books to read?"

"Books? Ah! they will content me much. Never have I had time to read,
except on Sunday."

"Lottie and I read history together. Why should you not join us,
Annette? And then I have begun to teach her French. Poor Lottie's
education has been sadly neglected. And she is so clever, and feels her
deficiencies so deeply."

"Stay, my cousin--I have a notion," and Annette's eyes were sparkling
with eagerness. "Already I have an idea. Why should we not make the
exchange? Miss Jones--Lottie, I mean--shall teach me my notes in music,
and I will read and talk French with her. Ah! that pleases you," as
Averil smiled. "You think it a good idea?"

"Excellent! Lottie is used to teaching. You will not need a master
for at least a year. But there is only one obstacle in this charming
scheme: How is Lottie to find time for all this?"

"I have thought of that, too," returned Annette, gravely. "Listen, my
cousin. Ah! you shake your head. I shall learn to say Averil by and by.
For myself, I love work. I can mend, I can darn--even my mother praised
me, and she was hard to please. I will share Lottie's tasks. When two
work, the labor is sooner ended. We can talk French. Our tongues will
be at liberty, though our hands are busy. Ah! this, too, contents you.
I am happy that I have already found out a way to please you."

"My dear child!" Averil was almost too touched to say more. She felt
a generous delight as this beautiful nature, at once so simple and so
child-like, unfolded itself before her. It was her secret trouble that
so few natures satisfied and responded to her own. All her life she
had hungered and thirsted for sympathy, though she had long ago ceased
to expect it. Her father had loved her, but he had formed other ties,
regardless of his child's best interests. Averil's home life had been
terribly isolated. Her large nature had been compelled to create its
own interests. For Lottie she felt the affection that she would have
bestowed on a young sister. Lottie's gay, healthy nature, with its
robust sweetness, was a singularly youthful one. She leaned on Averil,
and depended on her for all her comforts. But it may be doubted if she
understood Averil's strange, sensitive temperament. With all Lottie's
devotion, her dog-like fidelity, her loyal submission, she failed to
give Averil what she required.

Annette was young too, but she had been early schooled in adversity,
and its bitter lessons had been tempered by the watchful love of an
earthly parent. Until lately, Annette had not suffered alone. "My
mother and I." In spite of privations, that dual existence had been
sweet. Annette's cheek had grown pale and thin, but her heart had
kept young. No unkindness had frozen her young energies; no galling
restrictions, no want of sympathy, had driven her back upon herself.
She was like a closed-up flower; the sunshine would soon open the
blossom.

"She is different from Lottie. She is older, graver, more intense,"
thought Averil. "Last night I thought her interesting; the French word
_spirituelle_ seemed to express her perfectly. To-night I have found
out that there are still depths to be sounded. I must not allow myself
to expect too much. She may disappoint me, as others have done. It is
not wise to demand too much of human nature. But already I feel to love
her."

They did not talk much after this. Averil was obliged to own that she
was weary, and that her head ached, and after a little she retired to
bed.

Annette was almost too excited to sleep. She had found a way to make
herself useful. "Ah! they should see, these dear people, how she could
work." Annette was not a bit dismayed at the thought of the task she
had set herself; the thin, slender fingers were longing to achieve
those marvelous feats of invisible darning, those dainty hem-stitched
borders and delicate embroideries. Annette would not be daunted by any
amount of dilapidated lace and frayed flounces. Like Alexander the
Great, she was longing for new worlds to conquer--those regions that
belonged to her woman's kingdom. "Ah! they shall see! they shall see!"
she said to herself a dozen times before she fell asleep.

When Annette entered the dining-room the next morning she was surprised
to find Maud occupying Averil's place. Her anxious inquiries were
answered carelessly.

"Averil had the headache. She was having breakfast in her own room.
Oh, there was no need to be so concerned," as Annette plied her with
questions. "Averil was often ailing. She had wretched health. Any one
could see at a glance what a sickly little person she was. It was her
own fault. If she would only rest more, and winter abroad, and not
be running out in all weathers to see all sorts of people, she would
do very well;" and here Maud gave her favorite shrug, that was so
expressive, and turned a cold shoulder on Annette.

No one else addressed her. Mrs. Willmot read her letters, and conversed
with her daughters. Lottie scarcely spoke. She ate her breakfast
hurriedly, and left the room as soon as possible. Annette followed her.

"Why is it that you are making such haste?" she asked. "Is it that you
have your music to practice?"

"No, indeed," returned Lottie, stretching her arms a little wearily;
"but I have work to do that will occupy me for the rest of the day.
Ah! how I do hate work--at least, how I long sometimes to do something
better. Oh, that concert, Miss Ramsay, was glorious! I could scarcely
sleep afterward. I think I am crazy about music. I want to try over
something I heard on the grand piano; but Georgina would be so vexed to
hear me. She and Maud want their dresses for to-morrow, and there is
ever so much to do to them."

"Never mind; I will help you. I will fetch my new work-basket, and you
shall show me your room, and you will see how much sooner the work will
be done."

"Will you really?"--and Lottie's face brightened, and her dimples came
into full play. "How good-natured you are, Miss Ramsay!"

"If I call you Lottie, you must say Annette also. Averil, my
cousin, thinks it is not well to be stiff. Oh! is this your room?
It is almost as pretty as mine. You have a writing-table also; and
what a dear little round table for work! Those are the dresses, I
suppose?"--looking at some flimsy white garments on the bed, and she
listened to Lottie's instructions gravely.

How the girls' tongues unloosed as their needles flew through the
soft stuff! Lottie had so much to say about the concert. Her little
pleasure-loving soul had been stirred to the depths by that wonderful
music.

"There is nothing like it--it is the highest of all the arts!" cried
Lottie, with flushing cheeks. "Oh, I know poetry is glorious, and, of
course, one must always love beautiful pictures; but, as Averil says,
music is the most unearthly of all the arts."

"Did my cousin say that?"

"Yes; you should hear her talk about music. As she says, there is so
much about it in the Bible, she thinks it will be one of the chief
pleasures in heaven. Don't you know how one reads of the harpers
harping with their harps, and the new song before the throne? I
remember when we were talking on this subject that Averil showed me a
verse about the predicted fall of Babylon, where it said, 'The voice
of harpers, and minstrels, and flute-players, and trumpeters shall be
heard no more.' Music was a great power even in those days."

"Then you will teach it to me?" asked Annette; and thereupon she
unfolded her scheme: how she was to share Lottie's labors; how they
were to talk French over their work; and how Averil had promised to
read to them when she had time. "We are to form a mutual improvement
society, my cousin says; each is to help the other. You will have time
for your beloved music. I shall listen to you, and now and then you
will give me a lesson. Ah! you do not speak, Lottie, and yet I can see
you are well pleased;" for Lottie's work had dropped to her lap, and
she was regarding Annette with bright, wide-open eyes.

"Oh, I am so ashamed of myself," she returned. "Miss Ramsay--Annette,
you are heaping coals of fire on my head. Do you know"--with an amusing
air of contrition--"that I was dreadfully cross when Averil told me you
were coming to live here? I sulked about it nearly all day. 'What do
you want with changes?' I said. 'This French cousin will spoil all.'
Oh, I was as disagreeable as possible. I was jealous because Averil
took such pains with your room. 'How do you know whether you will like
her?' I said, more than once. But Averil only laughed at my bad humor.
'I can know nothing until I see her,' she returned. 'But, all the same,
her room shall be as pretty as possible.'"

"Oh, she is an angel, my cousin!"

"You would say so if you knew all," was Lottie's reply. "Sometimes I
wonder how she can go on living this life that is so uncongenial to
her; but I know she does it partly for my sake. I was so miserable
until I knew Averil;" and here a shade crossed her bright face. "No one
seemed to care whether I had proper things or not, and the school-girls
at Stoke Newington laughed at my shabby frocks, though in a way they
were kind to me, and would often give me some of their own things. I
pretended not to care, and I would laugh with the rest of them; but I
often had a good cry over it in private. I used to dream sometimes that
I had a new dress, such a pretty one! and then, when I woke, the tears
would come, because I was so disappointed to find it only a dream.
Perhaps it was wrong to fret about it. I wish I could be more like
Averil. I think she would wear sackcloth as happily as silk."

"It seems to me that you and I, Lottie, are more earthly minded. I do
care exceedingly for nice things."

"Yes; and I used to envy the Israelites. Don't you remember, their
clothes never wore out in the wilderness? How I used to sigh over
those patches! And then the darns! I shall never forget my feelings of
supreme content when I found myself the possessor of half a dozen brand
new stockings."

"Is it that your aunt is so poor?" asked Annette, in a puzzled tone.

Lottie colored. "Well, you see, she has many expenses, and is not
exactly what you call rich. Mr. Willmot left most of his money to
Averil. I have heard that there was some mistake. He thought aunt had
plenty of money when he married her. And uncle certainly left her a
good income. But it seems as though it has dwindled somehow. Rodney
costs her a good deal, and Maud and Georgina are extravagant. Perhaps
I ought not to tell you all this, but I do not wish you to be hard on
them." For Lottie was too generous to blame her relatives. In her heart
she knew she owed them little gratitude; that her services fully repaid
them for the scanty maintenance--that was all they had given her. It
was Averil whose roof sheltered her, who was in reality her benefactor.

Annette read the girl's generous reticence aright. She said no more on
that subject; but she recurred regretfully to Lottie's speech about her
cousin's uncongenial life.

"I do not understand you," she said, wistfully. "Is it that monsieur
was right and that my cousin would prefer to live alone? So many people
must be trying, if one loves quiet. But it seems to me as if she could
at all times seclude herself in her own room."

"My dear Annette, you forget that Averil is mistress of the house. It
would never do to shut herself up in her own apartments. Maud would get
the upper hand in a moment. And if Averil were not firm--if she did not
hold the reins--Redfern House would be a very different place from what
it is. The girls are always teasing her to have dinner-parties. They
want to fill the house; but Averil does so dislike a crowd. She is
dreading Tuesday, I know."

"But what is to happen on Tuesday?"

"Oh, only one of those stupid, senseless 'At Homes.' A lot of people
will come and eat ices and strawberries. There will be music that no
one will hear, and a professional is going to sing. Poor, dear Averil,
she will be as miserable as possible; and next day she will be ill,
and have one of her nervous headaches. But they have teased her into
sending out about two hundred invitations, and so she must go through
with it."

"But it is too bad. Monsieur, who is her good friend, should protect
her."

"Monsieur!" and Lottie looked mystified. Then a light broke on her. "Do
you mean Mr. Harland, Annette?"

"Yes. But I think I must always call him monsieur," returned Annette,
softly. "He was so good to me. When I saw his gray hair and pleasant
face I thought it was my cousin Leonard. Picture to yourself my delight
in having a friendly hand held out to me. Oh, he was so kind, so
fatherly! I have called him monsieur always to myself."

"I wonder what these two young workwomen are chattering so busily
about?" asked a quiet voice at this moment, and Averil smiled at them
from the threshold. "So the mutual improvement society has begun, eh,
Lottie?" as the girls greeted her with delight. "Annette, how fast you
work! Why, that dress is nearly done!"

"She is ever so much cleverer than I," returned Lottie, mournfully.
"Oh, dear! how quickly the time has passed. Luncheon will be ready
directly."

"Never mind; lay those dresses on the bed, and Unwin shall add the
finishing touches. You both looked as tired as possible. Annette, we
really must put some color into those pale cheeks."

"You have none to spare yourself, my cousin," she replied, with an
affectionate glance. Averil looked wan and thin, and there were dark
circles round her eyes.

"Come, that is too bad! when my headache is gone, and I expected a
compliment. You are as bad as Unwin, who wanted me to go to bed. Now,
Lottie, I am going to show Annette the parks this afternoon. A drive
will do me good, and if you like you shall go too. I shall tell Mrs.
Willmot that I want you to act as _cicerone_, as I am not equal to any
exertion. We shall not go very early, so you will have time for an
hour's practicing." But she was not allowed to finish her sentence, for
Lottie was kissing her in the most merciless manner.

"You dear, sweet thing! I do so love a drive! And the park will be
so amusing! Perhaps we shall see the Princess of Wales. A concert
yesterday; the park to-day--really, I am getting quite gay."

"Are you sure you feel fit to go?" remonstrated Annette. "Lottie, I
thought you said my cousin disliked crowds."

"Oh, no; unless I have to entertain them. It is a pretty sight, I
assure you; and I too, like Lottie, find it very amusing. It always
reminds me of Britain Row in 'Vanity Fair.' I am sure my Lord
Luxurious, the Lord Desire of Vain-glory, and Sir Having Greedy are
still to be found in the nineteenth century." And Lottie laughed as
though she understood Averil's allusion.




CHAPTER X.

AVERIL AT HOME.


The next two or three days passed quickly and pleasantly to Annette;
"the dear Fairy Order," as Lottie had called her playfully, during
their first morning's work together, was already exercising her
beneficent sway on her companion's behalf--tasks that would have
entailed hours of labor on Lottie were now finished long before the
luncheon-bell rang. After Annette's long, solitary days passed in that
dark room in the Rue St. Joseph, these two or three hours spent with
Lottie, listening to her broken French, and interspersing laughing
corrections, seemed merely playtime to Annette.

"Do you know Averil is fitting up a room for us?" remarked Lottie,
on the morning of the eventful Tuesday when Averil was to hold her
reception, and about a hundred and fifty people had accepted her
invitation to come and be bored. "She does not like the idea of our
sitting in my bedroom. There is a room that is never used at the end
of the corridor, and she is having it repapered, and has chosen such a
pretty carpet for it; it is to be half workroom and half study; and the
piano that is in Rodney's room is to be taken up there for your use.
You see, Averil is so thoughtful, she never forgets anything, and she
says it will never do for you to annoy people with practicing scales
and beginner's exercises down in the morning-room."

"Oh, that is wise, I have thought much of this difficulty, Lottie. You
are very outspoken--ought you to have told me all this? Did not my
cousin mean to give me this little surprise?"

Lottie laughed, but she had the grace to look ashamed of herself.

"My dear Fairy Order," she said, "I never can hold my tongue. Averil
thinks I must talk even in my sleep. Well, it was naughty of me to
betray Averil's nice little scheme. You must just pretend to be
surprised when she shows you the room. You must open your eyes widely,
and say--"

"But that would be deceitful," returned Annette, gravely. "You are a
funny little person, Lottie; you would even recommend me to deceive.
Ah! it is your joke," as Lottie only laughed again. "You are always so
ready with your joke, you will not make me believe you. When Averil
shows me the room, I shall thank her with all my heart, but I will not
be surprised--not one little bit."

"You are very provoking," returned Lottie, pouting. "If you had not
darned Maud's white silk stockings so beautifully, I would not forgive
you so easily. But you are such a dear old fairy. Ah! here comes Averil
with Motley's 'Dutch Republic;' she is going to read to us for half an
hour;" for after this pleasant, desultory fashion Lottie's education
was carried on; but it agreed with her wondrously well--she sipped
knowledge as sweetly as a bee sips honey.

Annette felt unusually gay that morning; she found it a little
difficult to concentrate her attention on the reading. Down-stairs the
rooms were decked with flowers, as though for a fête; her new dress
had come home, and she was longing to try it on. She wondered how
Averil could sit there reading so quietly, as though no hundred and
fifty people were coming. "It must be that she wishes to shut out the
thought of them all," Annette said to herself; and her shrewd surmise
certainly grazed the truth. Averil was nervously dreading the ordeal;
with all her passionate desire for human sympathy, her very real love
of human kind, these vapid interchanges of compliments, that passed
under the name of receptions or At Homes, were singularly distasteful
to her. How could conversation be carried on in a crowd? How could one
enjoy one's friends when civilities had to be exchanged with strangers?
Averil's world was not theirs; her ardent and earnest temperament could
only expand in a higher temperature. She had not the graceful art of
saying nothings; the trifling coinage of society, its passwords, its
gay bandinage, were unknown to her. Without being awkward--Averil was
never awkward--she was at once too grave and too reserved to make a
popular hostess; and though her gatherings were successful, and people
liked to come to Redfern House, they were more at their ease with Mrs.
Willmot and her daughters. "Such a charming, well-bred woman!" was the
universal verdict. "Such a model stepmother!"

Averil could scarcely eat the luncheon that was served, for the sake
of convenience, in Rodney's snug little den. The other rooms, with the
exception of Averil's, were thrown open _en suite_--tea and ices and
strawberries were to be served in the dining-room; the drawing and
morning-rooms were for the reception; there were tent-like awnings from
the windows; the lawn was dotted over with red-cushioned chairs and
Japanese umbrellas; and the grand piano was ready for the professionals.

Annette had put on her pretty black summer dress, and was regarding
herself with a grave, satisfied air when Averil entered. She had a
little case in her hand, and a tiny bouquet of creamy rosebuds and
maiden-hair.

"I have come to put the finishing touches to my _débutante_," she said,
smiling. "You must have a few flowers to light up your black dress, and
I think this will also suit you;" and she clasped a little collar of
sparkling jet round Annette's throat.

"Is this for me? It is beautiful, beautiful! Never have I possessed
an ornament. But you are unadorned, my cousin!" looking at the little
child-like figure. Averil's soft black silk was unrelieved by anything
except the delicate lace at the throat and wrists; she always dressed
very simply, but to-day there was something almost severe in the
absence of anything like ornament.

"Do not look at me," she said, hastily. "Unwin always does her best for
me, but she has a thankless task, Annette. You look very nice. If you
keep near me, I will introduce some people whom I think you will like.
Ah, there goes Lottie!" as a white dress floated down the staircase.
"We must go down, too."

Mrs. Willmot and her daughters were already in the drawing-room, and
Rodney was strumming with one hand on the grand piano. Mrs. Willmot
put up her eyeglass in rather a puzzled manner as Averil entered with
her cousin.

"Who is that distinguished-looking girl in black, Maud?" she asked, in
a whisper.

Her daughter broke into a scornful laugh.

"Distinguished! My dear mother, are you blind! It is only Miss Ramsay.
I suppose Averil has given her a decent frock for the first time in
her life. But I can see no such wonderful transformation; she is very
plain, poor girl! with her sallow skin and big eyes;" and Maud turned
her long neck and regarded herself in the glass that hung near them.
Her dress fitted to perfection, and was really very tasteful and
becoming. True, it was not paid for, and she knew that her mother would
treat her to an angry lecture on extravagance; but Maud was quite used
to these lectures. She hummed a little air, and moved through the room
with that haughty insouciance that was considered her style.

It was Lottie who tripped up to Annette, with her girlish, outspoken
admiration. Lottie was looking exceedingly pretty: her fresh bloom and
bright expression were infinitely more attractive than Maud's cold
perfection of feature.

"Does not she look nice?" she whispered, in Averil's ear; "there is
something very graceful about her. If she were not quite so thin, I
think she would look almost pretty."

But Averil had no time to answer, as two or three guests entered
the room that moment. The rooms filled after this. Annette, who had
disregarded Averil's request, and had withdrawn into a quiet corner,
looked on, well amused. What a gay scene! what a hubbub of voices and
light laughter! She could scarcely see Averil's little figure near the
door, with her stepmother's portly form behind her, as she received one
guest after another.

Lottie was on the lawn in the midst of a bevy of girls; Maud was
standing near her, talking to a white-haired officer, and Georgina was
bandying jests with two young men; neither of them took any notice of
her. Presently a stout man with a sandy mustache pushed his way to the
piano, and drew off his gloves. There was an instant's silence when he
first struck the keys, but after a few minutes the hubbub began again.
Very few people listened; only two or three edged their way nearer to
the piano, and hemmed in the performer.

Annette stood among them; the sweet sounds had beguiled her from her
corner. She stood motionless, entranced, without noticing that Averil
was standing just behind her.

"Thank you so much, Herr Faber," observed Averil, gently, as the last
crashing chord had been played; but Herr Faber only bowed stiffly as
he rose; his small blue eyes looked irritable, and he drew his brows
together.

"It is all in the day's work," Annette heard him mutter to a friend.
"To make music for those who do not listen. Bah! It is thankless work.
Come, my Hermann, we will at least make ourselves scarce until these
Goths require us again:" which was hardly civil of the professor, since
more than one pair of ears had listened patiently to every note.

"Herr Faber is put out, Frank," observed Averil, in a vexed voice: she
was addressing a young man who stood beside her. Annette had looked at
him more than once. She had never seen him before, she did not know his
name, but she seemed to recognize his face. "We must manage better next
time. What shall we do to silence these people? Herr Faber certainly
feels himself insulted."

"Shall I stand on a chair and cry 'Silence!' at intervals? I think it
would have an effect. Do let me, Averil."

"You absurd boy! No; we must try other means before my favorite signora
sings. She has the voice of a lark and the temper of--please find me
a simile." But the young man only laughed and shook his head. He had a
pleasant face, without being strictly good-looking. And again Annette
was tormented by some vague resemblance that seemed to elude her before
she could grasp it.

At this moment Averil turned her head and saw her.

"Why, Annette, you were just the person I wanted! Where have you been
hiding all this time? Frank, I want you to give my cousin, Miss Ramsay,
an ice or some strawberries. Annette, this is Mr. Frank Harland. You
remember our kind old friend, do you not?"

"Do you mean monsieur?" with a quick flush. "How is it possible that I
should ever forget him, my cousin? And you are his son? Ah! that is the
likeness, then," looking up at the young man a little shyly.

"Oh, I remember; you made my father's acquaintance at Dinan. Yes, I am
his son and heir. I only wish I were half as good--eh, Averil?" with a
merry glance. "Now, Miss Ramsay, I am to obey orders. Will you allow
me to pilot you through this crowd?--it is almost as intricate as a
lawyer's brief." And as Annette did not seem quite to understand him,
he took her hand and placed it under his arm, and guided her skillfully
through the various groups.

"But what a crowd!" were her first words, as he found a seat for her,
and ascertained her opinion on the respective merits of vanilla,
coffee, and strawberry ice.

"Ah, yes, I do so love this sort of entertainment--don't you?" he
returned, as he brought her the ice. "People do look so cool and
comfortable, penned up like sheep, on a warm summer afternoon. Just
standing room, don't you know, and not a seat to be had, except for
the dowagers. If I had a wife--but, you see, there is not a Mrs. Frank
Harland at present--I should insist on her seeing her friends in
detachments, and not _en masse_, in this heathenish way. As it is, my
mother's tea-parties are worth a hundred of these."

"Ah! you have a mother"--with a quick sigh, that made the young man
glance first at her and then at her black dress.

"Yes; and I am the happy possessor of four sisters and three young
torments of brothers. So you and my father are old acquaintances, Miss
Ramsay?"

"Monsieur? But, yes, he was my first friend. Never shall I forget his
kindness, his consideration. If I had been a duchess instead of a poor
little lace-mender he could not have treated me with greater courtesy.
He is what you call an English gentleman."

"Dear old boy, so he is!" and Mr. Frank looked as though he had himself
received a compliment.

"Old boy! That is surely not the name for him," she returned, in a
rebuking tone, that greatly amused her hearer. "I do not like monsieur
to be called thus."

"That is because you are a stranger to our English ways," replied the
young man, trying hard to restrain his inward mirth. "Fellows of my age
often use these sort of terms. They mean no disrespect. A man like my
father never gets old. I believe he has the secret of perpetual youth.
He is as young as any of us. It does one good to see his freshness. If
I were only half as good!" finished Mr. Frank, in his cordial, hearty
way.

Annette looked at him with interest. This eulogy entirely mollified
her. "When you are as old as monsieur some one may call you 'dear old
boy,' too," she said, sedately.

There was no help for it. If Frank must have died for it, he could not
have helped laughing. He had never met any one so original as this
grave, dark-eyed girl. Her very freshness and absence of coquetry were
refreshing contrasts to many girls that he knew.

Coquetry was not in Annette's vocabulary. She had no acquaintance with
men, either young or otherwise. A civil word from the English consul
when he saw her in his wife's room; a little friendly conversation with
her kind old chaplain--these were her only opportunities. True, there
was Clotilde's priest--a thin, brown-faced man, who took snuff, and
gave her his blessing. But he was very different from this lively Mr.
Frank, with his droll speeches and his merry laugh, and his "old boy."
The young people grew quite friendly and confidential in their snug
little corner, fenced in by the blossoming plants. Annette was so well
amused that she was almost sorry when her companion suggested that they
should go back to the drawing-room.

"We have lost the signora's song, and there is Herr Faber crashing
among the keys again. There are lots of people I know, and to whom I
must make myself agreeable. One must not be selfish, Miss Ramsay."

But it may be doubted if Annette understood the implied compliment.




CHAPTER XI.

"A PLAIN, HOMELY LITTLE BODY."


At their entrance into the dining-room Frank Harland found himself
surrounded by a group of friends. As one of them addressed him,
Annette, with much tact, slipped away with a softly whispered excuse.
She had caught sight of Averil at the other end of the room.

Averil beckoned her to a chair beside her. "What have you done with
Frank?" she asked, smiling. "I thought I put you in his charge. Ah!
there he is with the Courtlands, surrounded as usual. He is a general
favorite."

"One need not wonder at that," returned Annette, sedately. "I have
never talked to any young man before, but I found him very pleasant. He
has been telling me about monsieur and his mother. He seems to have a
happy home, my cousin."

"Yes, Grey-Mount is a dear old house; and all the Harlands are nice.
They are very dear friends of mine, Annette, and one day I must take
you to see them. A day at Grey-Mount always does me good. And there is
another place--Well, Frank"--as that individual made his way to them
rather hastily.

"I have shaken off that young puppy, Fred Courtland. I hate fellows who
scent themselves. Faugh! You have been talking for the last two hours,
and I dare say no one has thought of getting you a cup of tea."

"No, never mind." returned Averil, smiling. "The signora is going to
sing again, and I must not leave the room just now. No, indeed, Frank,"
as he seemed determined to argue the point. "Let me listen to her
first, and then I will go with you."

"All right. But please understand that I am to have the monopoly of
your conversation. No followers allowed at present." And to Annette's
amusement he coolly took up his position so as to fence Annette
completely from notice, and his monopoly of conversation consisted
of an unbroken silence. Averil seemed perfectly satisfied with this
arrangement. She leaned back in her chair and listened to the song, and
a more rested look came upon her face as the high, pure notes of the
signora's voice floated through the room.

Some degree of attention was paid to the gifted young vocalist; but
just at the last a group outside the window, beside which Frank
Harland was standing, began talking rather too audibly.

"Miss Seymour," observed a languid, drawling voice, "I wish you could
inform me where I can find my hostess. It is awkward, to say the least
of it, when one has no conception of a person."

"I do not see her at present," returned Maud, coldly. "It will not be
easy to find her in this crowd. A very small person in black. That is
the only description I can give you, Captain Faucit. A plain, homely
little body like Miss Willmot is not very easy to describe."

"No, indeed!" and here Mrs. Willmot's smooth voice chimed in. "My
step-daughter is a sad invalid, Captain Faucit. Dear Averil is quite a
recluse. One can not wonder at it"--dropping her voice, although every
word was distinctly audible. "With her affliction, poor girl, her want
of health, and her deformity, the world offers few attractions."

"Now for the tea, Averil!" exclaimed Mr. Frank, briskly. He had set
his teeth hard for a moment, and his hand was clinched, as though it
longed to do injury to some one; but the next moment he was leaning
over Averil's chair with a gentle, brotherly sort of freedom. "Come,"
he said, touching her cold little hand. "A cup of strong tea--that is
my mother's panacea for all ills."

Averil rose and took his arm without a word. There was a dark, pained
flush on her face, a strained look in her eyes, as though the cruel
words had gone home. Annette looked after her pitifully. She could see
that kind Mr. Frank was still talking to her. He was very tall, and had
to stoop a good deal.

"A plain, homely body, indeed!" groaned Annette. "And she looked so
sweet just now. Deformity! Oh, what a wicked, wicked lie!" For once
Annette did not measure her words. "What does it matter, such a little
thing as that? What does it matter that she is not as tall and straight
as Lottie, when every one loves her?"

Annette's pleasure in the fête was over. She could hardly keep her
tears back as she sat there. Where was Lottie? She had not once come
across her. But even as the thought passed through her mind Lottie
waved to her gayly. She was sitting under the awning with a merry
group of girls, and seemed happy and well amused. Annette felt far too
miserable to join them. The room was thinning now. The professionals
had gone. A little later on she saw Averil glide quietly to her
stepmother's side, as the guests made their adieus. The next moment
Mr. Frank came up to her corner. "I must be going too," he said rather
gravely. "I hope every one has had as pleasant an afternoon as I have;"
but he spoke without his old gayety.

"The afternoon is spoiled to me," returned Annette, with more vehemence
than caution. "Mr. Frank Harland, why is it that people are so cruel?
Why do they hurt my cousin, who has the goodness of an angel? This is
all they give her in return for so much generosity."

Frank Harland's lips twitched a little under the brown mustache. "You
must not ask me, Miss Ramsay," he said hurriedly. "I can't help it
if people will be such brutes. I beg your pardon--I believe it was a
lady who spoke. I only know I had to pull myself up pretty tight. That
fellow Faucit spoke to her just. I longed to kick him."

"I do not like these Seymours," returned Annette, with the same
frankness with which she would have talked to Lottie. "They take too
much, and they give nothing back. Every day my cousin has much to
bear--to suffer. If she were not a good Christian, she would not be so
patient."

"Ask my father what he thinks of Averil," was Frank's reply. "Oh, I
know all about it. It pretty nearly sickens me to see the airs they
all give themselves. If they would only treat her decently. Miss Jones
knows my opinion--we have often talked about it. Good-bye, Miss Ramsay.
I dare say we shall meet again soon;" and he shook hands with her
heartily.

"She is not a bad sort, and she is fond of Averil already," he thought;
for the Harlands, from the eldest to the youngest, were stanch to
Averil, and Frank especially had a brotherly affection for the gentle
little creature.

Annette, after all, did not tell Lottie. Lottie was so gay, so excited,
so full of the afternoon's delights, that she had not the heart to
damp her; and when Lottie said, "And you have enjoyed yourself, too,
Annette?" she only answered, rather soberly, "Yes, very much." But she
hardly dared look at Averil that evening, the shade was still so deep
in her eyes, and the grave, measured tones spoke so clearly to her
ears of repressed melancholy. Only when she bade her good-night Averil
detained her.

"Annette, I understand," she said, softly; "but there is no need to
take it so much to heart."

Annette started.

"What is it you mean, my cousin? I have said nothing."

"No; only you have looked so sorry for me all the evening. My
stepmother meant nothing--it was only her way. If only"--here she
caught her breath, as though something stabbed her--"if only Frank
had not heard her! My dear, there are tears in your eyes. Why, what
nonsense! As though I am not used to it by this time. No, I am not
deformed--there was no need to put it quite so strongly--but a little
crooked creature such as I am has long outlived vanity."

"My cousin, you shall not talk so--it hurts me. To me you are
beautiful; and Lottie says so, too."

Averil laughed a little mirthless laugh; she was so tired, so worn out
with all sorts of conflicting feelings, that she felt she must laugh or
cry; but Annette's grieved look seemed to rebuke her.

"I meant it--I meant it truly," she said.

"Thank you, dear. What a blessing love is so blind sometimes. Well, I
hope to be beautiful some day"--and here her eyes softened; "there will
be no little homely bodies in heaven, Annette."

"There will be no cruel words either, my cousin."

"Hush! you are as bad as Frank. They did not mean to be cruel. Mrs.
Willmot thinks so much of good looks. All her children are handsome.
She is a good-looking woman herself. She attaches too much importance
to outward appearance. Personally she means me no unkindness."

Annette was silent; if she had known these words, she would have
quoted them: "Evil is wrought by want of thought, as well as by want
of heart." What utter want of delicacy to speak of the daughter of her
dead husband in such contemptuously pitying terms to a stranger!

Averil seemed battling with some unusual mood, for she continued
quickly, almost impatiently:

"Do not think that I am not grateful to you for your sympathy; but you
must not spoil me; one wants to be strengthened, not weakened. There
was a noted saint once--his name was Francis Xavier--and his prayer
used to be: 'Lord, remove not this cross until it has worked that in
me for which Thou didst send it.' It was a grand prayer, Annette--it
included so much."

"My cousin, we are not saints; few of us could say that prayer."

"No; but we must all try our poor little best; we must not feed our
pride and self-love. Now bid me good-night, and put all speeches,
unkind or otherwise, out of your head;" and Averil kissed her
affectionately.

There was a saying that Averil greatly loved, and which is generally
attributed to Thomas à Kempis: "I have sought rest everywhere, and have
found it nowhere, save in a little corner with a little book."

How often, during the last five years, she had entered her room,
feeling bruised and weary from contact with hard, uncongenial natures,
and had risen from her knees feeling quieted and refreshed. This night,
when Unwin had left her, she opened a favorite book that always lay
beside her Bible; its title had attracted her--"Weariness"--and in
its kindly, consoling pages she had found endless comfort. A passage
she had marked and remarked now met her eye: "Night after night, as
you lie down to rest, the weary day ended, think that a day offered
to God in weariness and quiet endurance may bring you fuller joy than
the brightest, happiest seasons of enjoyment can do; and when morning
brings a fresh beginning, it may be of weariness of body and spirit,
strive to hear the voice of God saying: 'My son, it is thus I will
that thou shouldst serve Me. If I will that thy service be weary and
lifeless, and deficient in all earthly reward, and pleasure, what is
that to thee, so long as it is My will? What I do thou knowest not now,
but thou shalt know hereafter. Follow thou Me without questioning the
love which inflicts this weariness and sadness, and seeming privation
of all thou most delightest in.'"

Averil closed the book and sat motionless for awhile. Outside, the
summer moonlight was steeping everything in its pure white light, the
night-dews were bathing the sleeping flowers.

"I have not been good to-day," she said, presently. "What does it
matter if he heard it? It is better so--it makes no difference. I will
not let this fatal sadness conquer me. To-morrow I will go down to the
Dove-cote, and I will take Annette;" and with this resolution Averil
slept.

The next morning, as Annette was standing by her window watching a pair
of quarrelsome sparrows, who had fallen out over a moldy crust, and who
were pecking at each other's soft feathered bodies with angry, defiant
chirps, there was a tap at her door, and Averil entered fully dressed,
without a trace of last night's cloud on her serene face.

"Good-morning, Annette. Are you nearly ready? for I have ordered an
early breakfast for you and Lottie and myself. I am going a little way
into the country to see some friends of mine, and if you like the idea
you shall go with me."

"Oh, that is good--delightful! What friends are these, my cousin? Is it
monsieur and--"

"My dear child!" and Averil could not forbear a smile, "the Harlands
are not my only friends. I see you are pining for a sight of monsieur,
as you persist in calling him, so I shall have to take you to
Grey-Mount. But to-day I am going to my Dove-cote. No; you shall not
ask me any questions. Wait until you see my friends. Now, you must
hurry, for the gong will sound in less than ten minutes, and the
carriage will be round at half past nine. Put on your new cambric--we
are going to have a hot day."

Annette was not long in finishing her toilet; but Averil and Lottie
were already seated at the breakfast-table. Lottie made a little
grimace when she saw Annette.

"What a charming day you are going to have! I do love the Dove-cote.
Averil is very disagreeable not to invite me too."

"But are you not going Lottie?" and Annette regarded her with some
surprise. But Averil answered for her.

"No, dear; it is your turn to-day, and Lottie is only pretending to
be vexed. She knows she has far too much to do. There are letters to
be written, and Georgina wants her to go with her to Kew, as Maud is
engaged. Lottie will enjoy that, especially as she will meet some of
her own friends."

"Oh, that is all very well," grumbled Lottie who looked as fresh and
bright as the morning. "But I would rather be with you and Annette. I
don't care about the Courtlands, and unless Mr. Frank will be there--"

"He will be there," returned Averil, quickly. "He told me so yesterday.
And his friend, Mr. Chesterton, will be there. Lottie, you are getting
up a grievance for nothing. The party will be as nice as possible."

But Lottie made no answer, and she was remarkably silent the remainder
of the meal.

"Is life to be one fête?" thought Annette, as she put on her new
shady hat, and selected a pair of gloves from the smart little case
on her toilet-table. No more mended finger-tips, no more frayed and
faded ribbons for the young lace-mender. "Tell me, my cousin--are your
friends grand?" she asked, as the carriage bore them swiftly in the
direction of Paddington. But Averil refused to answer.

"You shall judge of my friends when you see them, Annette, dear. They
are very dear friends. I call them my family. Some of the happiest
hours of my life--and, thank God, I have had many happy hours--have
been spent at the Dove-cote."

"It is, then, dearer to you than Grey-Mount?"

Averil hesitated, and was half annoyed, half amused at this curious
pertinacity on her cousin's part. "Comparisons are odious," she said,
lightly. "One does not measure one's friendship. Mr. Harland is my very
good friend; but still"--with a thoughtful look and a sigh that was
quickly repressed--"I am happier at the Dove-cote."

Here the carriage stopped, and in the bustle of taking tickets, and
finding a less crowded compartment, the subject dropped.




CHAPTER XII.

THE DOVE-COTE.


The next hour passed quickly. Averil had her book, and Annette amused
herself with looking out of the window. "How could one read," she
thought, "when the sun was shining, and the foals were frolicking
beside their mothers, and every green field had its picturesque group
of feeding cattle and sheep? It was like turning over the pages of a
picture-book. Now they came to a cluster of cottages with a little
Norman church, half hidden in trees; then a winding road; a clear,
silvery river, with gay little boats floating on it, with fine houses
beside it; then another pastoral scene, and so on. Is not the world
beautiful?" thought Annette, as the train stopped, and Averil beckoned
to her. She was almost sorry that the journey was over.

She heard Averil order a fly, and then followed her into a curious old
inn. They sat for a few minutes in a close, stuffy parlor, with a print
of the battle of Trafalgar over the fire-place.

"We have a mile and a half still to go," Averil said. "If I could only
walk through those delicious lanes! But old Jemmy always has to take
me. Ah! there comes our chariot. Rather a ramshackle affair, is it not,
Annette? But Jemmy and his old mare are both worthy creatures."

Annette had no fault to find with the lumbering wheezy vehicle; she
was looking delightedly at the rich hedge-rows with their wealth of
wild-flowers, at the rustic cottages with their gay little gardens,
at the green fields with browsing cattle. Every moment there was
something to admire. Presently they came to a sort of hamlet; there was
a village inn, with The Duck and Drake swinging on the old sign-board,
a few scattered cottages with heavy thatched roofs, and a small green
with snow-white geese waddling over it. Here Jemmy, a gray-haired,
wizen-faced man drew up of his own accord.

"There be the Dove-cote, surely," he said, pointing down a steep lane.
"I suppose there be no need to come further."

"No; the goose green will do. Come for me at the usual time, Jemmy, and
wait for me here;" and Averil dismissed him with a kindly nod.

Annette was looking round her in some perplexity. There were the inn
and the cottages, but where could the Dove-cote be? She could see no
house of any pretension, only in the distance, half-way down the lane,
there was a low gray roof half hidden in trees.

"Yes, that is the Dove-cote," observed Averil, walking in her usual
slow fashion across the little green, while the geese stretched
their long necks and hissed after her. "Is this not a sweet little
nook, Annette? How the children do love this lane! It is a perfect
play-ground for them. In autumn, when the blackberries are ripe, you
can see them with their little tin pails, scratching themselves with
the brambles, and half smothered with travelers' joy. Ah! there is
Daddy, sunning himself, with Bob asleep beside him. Well, Annette,"
unlatching a little white gate as she spoke, "welcome to the Dove-cote."

Annette was a good deal surprised. It was only a cottage, after all,
or, more correctly speaking, two cottages, for there were two stone
porches and two open doors; a long strip of flower-garden was on one
side, and a still narrower strip of smoothly mown turf on the other.
There was an elm-tree with a circular seat, on which an old man was
sitting, and a black terrier was curled up beside him.

"Well, Daddy, where is the Corporal?" asked Averil, in her clear voice,
as the old man rose up rather stiffly, and, leaning on his stick, gave
her a military salute. He was a very tall old man, with a long gray
beard, and his joints were not so supple as they used to be, for he
seemed to support himself with difficulty. As Averil spoke the terrier
gave a shrill bark of welcome, and came limping over the grass on three
legs, and Annette saw the fourth was missing.

"The Corporal is at work among the cabbages, and Snip is helping him,
ma'am. Snip's a terrible hand at digging. Corporal said to me as we
were smoking our pipes yesterday, 'Snip's a handy fellow. He will be
worth his salt presently. He puts his heart into things, Snip does, if
it is pulling up a weed or hoeing a potato-bed. He don't shirk work
like other boys of his age, don't Snip.'"

"I am glad to hear that," returned Averil. "The Corporal is not one
to bestow praise where it is not due. I was very anxious about poor
Snip. I was rather fearful how he might turn out. It would not do to
expect too much, Daddy. A city arab seldom has his fair chances. If you
had told me that he spent his day in turning somersaults and making
catherine-wheels of himself among the Corporal's cabbages, I should not
have been surprised."

The old soldier smiled grimly.

"Well, he has a refresher sometimes, and stands with his heels
uppermost when his feelings is too many for him--when he has had his
fill of pudding, perhaps. Mother Midge says it is by way of grace.
She finds the boy somewhat aggravating in the house. He is better out
among the pensioners; the pensioners are not so mortal particular as to
manners."

Averil broke into a merry laugh. Daddy was evidently a wag in his way.
There was a twinkle in his eye as he patted Bob, as though he had
enunciated a clever joke.

"We will go to them presently; but we must first pay our respects to
Mother Midge. Ah, Methuselah"--as a crippled jackdaw hobbled across
the grass, and greeted her hoarsely. "Is he not a wise-looking bird,
Annette? He and Bob are such friends. They are like Daddy and the
Corporal."

At that moment a little woman in gray, with a droll, weather-beaten
face and a pair of spectacles perched on the top of an absurdly small
nose, suddenly appeared on one of the porches, and clapped her hands
delightedly at the sight of her visitors.

"Dear me! if it is not Miss Willmot," she exclaimed, "and you are as
welcome as flowers in May. Come in out of the sun, my dear, and you
shall have a glass of Cherry's milk. She is yielding us a grand supply
just now, and, though I say it that should not, I don't believe there
is sweeter milk to be found anywhere."

"Wait a moment, Mother Midge," as the little woman was bustling away;
"I want you to speak to my new cousin first. Annette, this lady's name
is really Bennet--Miss Lydia Bennet--but she is always known among us
as Mother Midge."

"And it is a name I love, ever since dear little Barty gave it to me.
Poor little lamb! But he is better off now."

Mother Midge was no beauty, certainly. There was something comical,
something altogether incongruous, in the lined forehead and gray hair,
and the pert little nose and those bright, kittenish blue eyes. But she
had the sweetest voice in the world.

"But it is so strange a name," objected Annette, in her serious manner.

Averil seemed amused, but Mother Midge gave a little sigh.

"My dear young lady," she said, gently, "the name has never seemed
droll to me, for it was the last word dear little Barty ever spoke.
Shall I tell you about him? Miss Willmot found him--she finds them
all. He was a mere baby, and nearly skin and bone when he came here.
He and a sister a year or two older were turned on the streets to
beg, and the brute who owned them--I believe she called herself their
mother, only the dumb beasts have more compassion on their young--had
turned them out of doors to sleep. Oh! you look shocked; but one sees
such cases in the paper. The little creatures were found on a doorstep
one snowy evening. Deb had taken off her frock to wrap round Barty,
who was ill and coughing. Well, he did not last long--one could not
wonder at that, after all that exposure and ill-usage; but we made
him very happy as long as he lived. Mother Midge was the name he gave
me. No one knew what it meant, but Deb taught it to the others. Well,
I was sitting with him on my lap one afternoon--I knew the end was
near--and I was talking to him and Deb about heaven--for they were just
like heathens--and, baby as he was, Barty was as clever and acute as
possible. Just as I was talking, I felt his little bony hand creep up
to my neck; 'I don't want no 'eavens,' he whispered, hoarsely; 'I'd
like better to stop along of Deb and Mother Midge.' Those were his last
words. But maybe he has changed his mind since then," finished the
little woman, softly.

"And Deb! Where is Deb?" asked Annette, eagerly.

"Oh, you shall see her presently. Deb is my right hand. Now I must go
and fetch you the milk and a slice of home-made cake, for you must be
starving."

Annette looked round the room as Mother Midge trotted off. It was a
small room, and very simply furnished. There was a square of carpet
that did not quite cover the white boards; there were one or two
well-worn easy-chairs, a work-table, a comfortable-looking couch, and
some well-arranged book-shelves.

"This is the Midge's nest," observed Averil, who noticed Annette's
perplexity. "Ah! I see you are dying to question me; but there is
no time now. Mother Midge is a wonderful woman, though I dare say a
certain person, if she knew of her existence, would certainly call her
a plain, homely little body. But she has a great soul. She is one of
God's heroines!"

"My cousin, forgive me if I am pertinacious. Who are these people? I do
not understand."

"Lottie, when she wants to tease me, calls them my waifs and strays.
But they are no such things. This is my family. I lead two lives,
Annette. When things go wrong with me, and I get out of harmony with my
surroundings, I take refuge with Mother Midge and her children. Nothing
does me so much good. Hush! not a word of this at Redfern House. No one
knows of the Dove-cote but Lottie. Ah! here come our refreshments. Mind
you praise the cake, for if there be one thing on which Mother Midge
prides herself it is her seed-cake."

Annette ate and drank in a sort of dream. What new views in life were
opening before her! This, then, was Averil's secret--the little refuge
that the young heiress had provided for a few stricken creatures who
had fallen in the battle of life.

Annette was to hear all about it presently; now she could only look
round her and wonder, with a sort of touched reverence.

"Now we must go and see Jack," observed Averil, as she swept the crumbs
from her lap. "Annette, do you see there are two cottages? We have
added a new wing. There was no room big enough for the children, and no
place for them to sleep. This is the Corporal's room, as we call it,
where the old men sit and smoke their pipes. This"--as they entered a
clean, spacious room, with a long table and some forms, and a few gay
Scripture prints hanging on the walls--"this is where the children
live. They are with the Corporal now, all except Jack"--walking up to
the window, where there was a small couch covered with a red quilt.
"Well, my little man, how does the world go with you?"

"Thank you, ma'am, I'm spry!" returned a small chirping voice, and a
shock head, covered with rough, carroty hair, raised itself from the
pillow. Annette gave a pitying exclamation. Could it be a child's face,
with those hollow, sunken features, those lusterless, staring eyes?
A skeleton hand and arm were thrust out from the quilt. "I'm spry,
ma'am, and the Dodger is spry too. Come out, you varmint, when the
leddy's asking after your 'ealth!"--and Jack, panting, and with infinite
difficulty, extracted a miserable-looking gray creature, evidently a
veteran who had certainly run the tether of its nine lives, and was
much battered in consequence.

"Oh, the Dodger is spry, is he?" observed Averil, with much interest,
as the cat purred feebly, and began licking its lean sides. "But I hope
both you and he mean to get fatter with all your good living."

"Jack was found in a cellar, Annette," she continued, stroking the
shock head tenderly--"in a den of thieves. Some murder had been
committed in a drunken brawl. The gang had been obliged to seek a fresh
hiding-place, and Jack, who was crippled with hip disease, had been
left there, forgotten. The good city missionary who discovered him, and
told me the story, found him lying on a heap of moldy straw under the
grating, with the cat beside him. They were both nearly starved, and
half dead with cold--weren't you, Jack?"

"We was, ma'am, just so," was Jack's response. "The Dodger had brought
me a mouse, but I could not stomach sich food. Dodger hasn't nothing to
say to mice now. He feeds like an alderman, he does. Spry! that ain't
the word for it, ma'am--he is just bursting with enjoyment, is the
Dodger."

Averil smiled faintly; but as they left the room, she said in a low
voice, "How long do you think he will last, Mother Midge?"

Mother Midge only shook her head. "The dear Lord only knows that, Miss
Willmot. But they are making room for him and the Dodger up there,
surely."

Annette opened her eyes rather widely at this remark. But Averil
pressed her arm meaningly. "Don't take any notice," she whispered,
when the little woman had gone on a few steps. "This is only one of
her notions. She will have it that animals are to go to heaven too.
I have never heard her reason it out; but she is very angry if any
one ventures to dispute her theory. 'The whole creation groaneth and
travaileth together in pain,' she says, sometimes. 'But it will all be
set right some day.' I never argue against people's pet theories when
they are as harmless as this."

Mother Midge had preceded them into a small kitchen, where a diminutive
girl, with a sharp precocious face, was scouring some tins. A stolid
looking young woman, with rather a vacant expression, was basting a
joint. "That's Deb," remarked Averil, with a kindly nod to the little
girl, "and this is Molly."

A gleam of pleasure, that seemed to light up the coarse, heavy
features, crossed Molly's face at the sight of her.

"I'm fain to see you, ma'am," she muttered with a courtesy to the
strange lady, and then she turned to her basting again.

"Molly does wonders, and she is a first-rate teacher for Deb," observed
Mother Midge, as they left the kitchen. "I am not going to tell you
Molly's history, Miss Ramsay. I see no use in burdening young minds
with oversorrowful stories. It is grief for her child that has nearly
blunted poor Molly's wits. The little one had a sad end. But she is
getting over it a little--and Jack does her good. I hope for Molly's
sake Jack will be spared, for she just slaves for him. Now we will go
out in the kitchen-garden and see the Corporal."




CHAPTER XIII.

MOTHER MIDGE AND THE CORPORAL.


A long sloping piece of ground behind the two cottages had been laid
out as a kitchen-garden. The trim condition of the beds, the neatly
weeded paths, all bore traces of the Corporal's industry. But neither
he nor his assistants were to be seen. An overturned basket, with a
hoe and a rake lying beside it, and a boy's battered straw hat, alone
bore evidence of the morning's work. The bees were hovering over the
thyme, and a little white rabbit, that had escaped from its hutch, was
feasting on one of the finest cabbages.

"Where can they be?" asked Averil; and Mother Midge, whose sharp ears
had caught the sound of voices, suggested they were in the field with
the pensioners, a surmise which proved to be perfectly correct.

The field lay on the other side of the lane. It was a large field,
and boasted of a cow-house and a couple of sheds. The Corporal was
sitting on the gate, with a small group of boys round him, whom he
seemed haranguing. He had taken his pipe out of his mouth, and was
gesticulating with it. He was a small, wiry man, with gray stubby hair,
and a pair of twinkling black eyes. He had a large nose and a deep
voice, which were the only big things about him.

"It is no good you youngsters argufying with me," the Corporal was
saying, with an appearance of great severity. "What I say I sticks to.
That 'ere boy is a bully"--pointing to a small lad with the innocent
eyes of a cherub.

"Please, Mr. Corporal, I b'ain't that," replied the child, with a
terrified sniff.

"Don't you bandy words with me," continued the Corporal, sternly. "The
boy who shies stones at old Billy ought to be made an example of--that
is what I say."

"Please, sir, it was only fun," stammered the culprit. "Billy knows I
would not hurt him."

"What is the matter, Corporal?" interposed Averil, briskly. "Tim hasn't
got into mischief again, has he?" laying her hand caressingly on the
curly head.

"Servant, ma'am"--and the Corporal saluted her stiffly. "It is all
along of Billy's snorting and scampering, and kicking up his hoofs,
that I knew that mischief was going on. That boy"--pointing to the
still sniffing cherub--"goes without his pudding to-day. Look at Billy,
ma'am, and if ever a horse is injured in his tenderest feelings, that
horse is Billy. He can't stomach the sweetest patch of grass, he is
that wounded--and all along of Tim."

"Oh, fy, Tim!" was all Averil ventured to say--for the Corporal was a
severe disciplinarian, and allowed no infraction of rules. Any want of
kindness to the pensioners was always punished severely.

"Go back to your weeding, sir," continued the Corporal, and Tim slunk
away.

Averil looked after him regretfully. "Is he not a pretty boy?" she
whispered, so that the others could not hear her. "He is the Corporal's
favorite, though you would not think so to hear him. Tim and his
hurdy-gurdy and monkey came here a year ago. He was found sitting
beside a dry ditch one winter evening--his drunken father was lying at
the bottom. It was impossible to say whether Tim or the monkey looked
most miserable. The poor things were half starved, and had been cruelly
used. Topsy--that is the monkey--is in one of the sheds. Now, if there
is a thing in the world Tim loves, it is his monkey. Half Tim's grief
at the loss of his pudding will be that Topsy will forfeit his share.
Topsy is one of our pensioners. That is Billy"--pointing to a lean old
horse at the further end of the field. Two donkeys and an old goat were
feeding near him. A toothless old sheep-dog, and a yellow mongrel with
half a tail, were lying on a mat in front of the shed, basking in the
sunshine.

"The pensioners are all old then, my cousin?"

"Billy is old, and Floss, the sheep-dog, and Nanny also. Anyhow, my
pensioners all have a history. They have been through the furnace of
affliction--even that lame duck. Only Cherry, and the cocks and hens,
have led a happy existence. The Dove-cote has its rules, and one of
these is, kindness toward our four-legged pensioners."

"It is a good rule. Your pensioners seem well content. Who are these
other boys?"

Evidently the Corporal thought Annette's question was addressed to him,
for he struck in briskly:

"This is Snip, ma'am"--pointing to a sturdy-looking lad with a merry
face. "This is the fellow who aggravates our feelings by making a
spread-eagle of himself, and walking down the paths with his feet in
the air, and Bob barking alongside of him. Not but what Snip can do
his fair share of work too. I'd back that boy for hoeing a bed or
training a creeper against any gardener in the land"--this in a loud
aside that was perfectly audible to the grinning Snip. "Then there's
Dick"--singling out the next, a shambling, awkward boy, with a vacant,
gentle face. "Dick is the fellow who minds the pensioners. Who says
Dick isn't bright, when he can milk Cherry and harness Mike and Floss?
Law bless you! If all the boys were as clever as Dick we should do
well. Dick has nothing to say to book-learning"--dropping his voice
mysteriously. "Too many kicks in early life have put a stop to that.
Dick couldn't spell his own name--couldn't answer a question without a
stutter. But he is a rare one among the animals. The worst of it is, he
gets into a rage if he sees any one else misuse them. He had collared
Tim, and would have made an end of him in no time if Billy had not
snorted and kicked up his heels."

Dick seemed perfectly impervious to the Corporal's criticism. He
shambled away in an aimless manner.

"There is only wee Robbie left," interrupted Mother Midge, as the
Corporal laid down his empty pipe and paused for breath. "He is our
baby now, since dear little Barty left us. There are two other graves
besides his. We call them gardens. We can not hinder some of our doves
from flying away. Look at him!" as the little creature rubbed his face
lovingly against her gown. "That is his way of showing affection, for
wee Robbie is deaf and dumb."

Averil sat down and lifted him on to her lap, while the Corporal made
his salute, and hurried after his boys.

"He does not grow much," she said, touching his cheek softly. "Annette,
we have no idea of his age. He is just wee Robbie. He is almost as
small as he was that day when we first saw him;" and Averil gave a
faint shudder at the remembrance.

"Did you find this little one also, my cousin?"

"Yes," returned Averil, rocking him in her arms, while a soft, pitying
look came into her eyes. "I have spoken to you once or twice of a city
missionary who tells me of cases. His name is Stevenson; he is a good
man, and we are great friends. I was with him one day. I had just been
to see Daddy, who was very ill. We were passing a public-house--it was
in Whitechapel, but I forget the name; it is unfamiliar to me. It was
a wretched street, and the public-house was one of the lowest of its
kind. Just as we were passing, a miserable-looking tramp, with a child
in her arms, reeled out of the doorway. A man was following her. There
was some quarrel; she put down the child on the pavement and flew at
the man with the ferocity of a wild-cat. Mr. Stevenson wanted me to
move on, but I had caught sight of the child's face, and it seemed to
rivet me--such a white baby face, with such a dumb, agonized terror
stamped on it. 'The child! we can not leave the child!' I kept saying.
But Mr. Stevenson prevailed on me to take refuge in a shop near. A
crowd was collecting; there was no policeman, and no attempt was being
made to stop the drunken brawl. An hour later Mr. Stevenson entered
with a shocked face. He had the child in his arms; it looked half dead
with fright. 'It is too horrible,' he said. 'The woman is dead. No one
would interfere, and the brute--they say it is her husband--gave her
a push, and she fell and struck her head against the curb. They have
taken the man into custody. He is too drunk to know what has happened.
Here is the child. They tell me he is a deaf-mute. Did ever any one see
such a pitiful sight in a Christian country? Alas! that such things
should be.' I was sitting by Daddy's fireside. The Corporal got me some
water, and we washed the poor little creature (for he was in the most
filthy condition), and wrapped him up in an old shawl, and gave him
some warm bread and milk. His baby breath reeked of gin. But he was
famished, and took the warm food greedily. There was no Mother Midge
then. The Dove-cote was not in existence. I was obliged to leave him
with the Corporal until I could find some one to take care of him. Oh,
there is the dinner-bell! Do you hear the boys scampering to the house?
We must follow them, or the Corporal will have said grace."

It was a curious dinner-party, but Averil looked happier than Annette
had ever seen her, as she sat between wee Robbie and Deb. The Corporal
sat at one end of the table, with Mother Midge opposite to him. Deb
and Snip waited on every one. And several of the pensioners, including
Topsy and the lame jackdaw, were waiting for their portion of the meal.

The boys were on their best behavior before Averil. Even Snip did not
venture on one somersault. Tim's face grew a little sorrowful when he
caught sight of the pudding. A lean, brown arm was already clutching
his coat-sleeve, and the monkey's melancholy eyes were fixed on the
empty plate.

"Topsy shall have some of mine," whispered Averil. And Tim's face
cleared like magic.

When dinner was over, the boys rushed off to play in the field, and
the Corporal and Daddy lighted their pipes and strolled to the gate to
overlook them. Mother Midge was busy, and Averil proposed that she and
Annette should sit under the elm-tree.

"Everything goes on just as usual when I am here," she explained. "By
and by the boys will come to their lessons. The Corporal teaches them
to read and write. I have not shown you my bedroom, Annette. I often
spend a night or two here. The thought of my Dove-cote helps me over my
worst times."

"Will you tell me how you came to think of it first, my cousin?"

"Well, it is not much of a story. There were the two old men, you see.
Oh, I forgot! I never told you about them. Mr. Stevenson had found them
out. One day as we were talking, he told me of an old soldier who was
very ill, and who was living in a miserable garret. 'He has a friend
with him,' he said, 'an old soldier, too--an ingenious fellow, who
supports them both by carving little wooden toys and selling them. They
are not related to each other, only old comrades. And it is wonderful
how neat and ship-shape the place is. The Corporal is as handy as a
woman. I wish you would go and see them, Miss Willmot. They seem to me
fine fellows, the Corporal especially.'

"Fine fellows indeed! Would you believe it, Annette, that the Corporal
was living on tea and bread, and working eighteen hours out of the
twenty-four to keep himself and his old chum from the disgrace of the
work-house? 'It is not the place for her majesty's soldiers, ma'am,'
observed the Corporal to me. 'I think it would break Daddy's heart to
take his medals into that sort of place. No, ma'am, asking your pardon.
The work-house and the jail are not for the likes of us. We don't mind
starving a bit if we can keep a roof over our heads. If only Daddy
could work! But when rheumatics gets into the bones there's no getting
it out again.' Well, I took a fancy to these brave, kindly old men. I
thought it was a noble thing for the Corporal to be starving himself
for his friend. If you want heroism, you will find it among the poor.
I used to go and see them constantly. I sent in a doctor for Daddy,
and nourishing food, and warm blankets, and some fuel for the fireless
grate. But I think some good tobacco from Mr. Harland pleased them
most. It seemed to make a different man of Daddy. Well, I did not see
my way clear at first. I had found wee Robbie, and the Corporal was
minding him. They were still in their miserable garret. Then all at
once the thought came to me, Why should not Mother Midge take care of
them all?"

"Then you knew her also."

"Oh, yes, I knew her. She was one of Mr. Stevenson's friends, and I had
already heard her history. Hers is such a sad story. There are no happy
stories at the Dove-cote. She was the youngest of a large family. Her
father was a lawyer. He was a bad, dishonest man, and very brutal to
his wife and daughters. He had even turned them out-of-doors, when he
was in one of his mad rages. He was taken up at last for disposing of
some trust money. I think he speculated with it. But before the trial
came on he died from some short inflammatory illness. Mother Midge
was hardly grown up then. But she has a keen recollection of all that
miserable time.

"The mother sunk into a chronic invalid. One of her daughters was
crippled; the rest worked at dress-making and millinery. Once they
kept a little school. But the name of Bennet was against them. They
had no friends; people seemed to be shy of them. Years of struggle
followed, during which first one, then another, succumbed. They were
all delicate except Mother Midge. She was the youngest and sturdiest
of them all. When I first knew her she was all alone. Her last sister
was just buried. She was working for a ladies' outfitting shop, and was
very poorly paid. Her eyesight, too, was failing, partly from impure
air and insufficient food. I thought, Why should not Lydia Bennet make
a home for my dear old men? I spoke to Mr. Harland, and he humored my
fancy. Dear father was just dead, and he thought the plan would occupy
my thoughts a little. He bought the cottages for me, and the field, and
I furnished a few rooms. Mother Midge took possession, and then came
the two old men and wee Robbie. Barty and Deb came next. It is only
a family, Annette. We do not pretend to do great things. Three of my
children--little Barty, and Freddy, and Nan, have left us--flown away,
as Mother Midge says. Jack will be the next to go. We have room for two
more. And as the pensioners die off we shall replace them. You have no
idea how wisely Mother Midge and the Corporal rule. These neglected
children learn to obey, and soon discover that their happiness consists
in keeping the rules. We allow no idleness. Every child feels that he
earns his or her daily bread. Even Dick, with his limited intellect,
has work that he can do. Ah! there they go to their lessons," as the
little knot of lads hurried past, with the Corporal at their head.

And then came Mother Midge with her knitting, and wee Robbie. "No one
can teach wee Robbie anything," said Averil; "but in his own way he is
as happy as the day is long."




CHAPTER XIV.

"WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY."


Two or three hours later, as they were crossing the little goose green
in the sunset, Averil said softly to Mother Midge:

"I have had such a nice time. The sweet country air and the sound of
the children's voices have destroyed all the cobwebs."

"I am so glad of that, dearie," was Mother Midge's answer; and
then Jemmy touched his old white hat to them, and again they drove
through the still, dewy lanes. Averil leaned back against the shabby
cushions. Annette thought she was tired, and left her undisturbed;
but it was not fatigue that sealed Averil's lips. A sweet spell of
rest, of thankfulness, of quiet heart-satisfaction, seemed to infold
her. These sort of moods were not rare with Averil; she had her hours
of exaltation, when life seemed very sweet to her, and the discords
of existence, its chilling disappointments, its weary negations, and
never-ending responsibilities, lay less heavily on her, as though
invisible hands had lifted the burden, and had anointed her eyes with
some holy chrism. Then it was that Averil grasped the meaning and
beauty of a life that to those who loved her seemed overfull of care
and anxiety--when the veil seemed lifted; and as she looked round on
the few helpless creatures whom she fed and sheltered, she felt no
personal happiness could be so sweet as this power of giving happiness
to others. "What does it matter," she said softly, to herself--and
a solemn look came into her eyes as she looked over the tranquil
landscape--"what does it matter if one be a little lonely, a little
weary sometimes, if only one can help others--if one can do a little
good work before the Master calls us? To go home and have no sheaves to
take with us, oh, that would be terrible!"

"I wonder if Lottie has had a happy day, too?" observed Annette, as
they came in sight of Redfern House. The moon was shining; through the
open windows came the sound of laughter, of voices.

Averil roused herself with an effort.

"They seem very merry," she said, tranquilly. "Annette, I have ordered
supper to be laid in my sitting-room. I knew they would have finished
dinner by this time. When you have taken off your hat, will you join me
there?"

"May I speak to you a moment, ma'am?" asked Roberts. "Captain Beverley
and Mr. Forbes are dining here, and--"

But Annette did not hear any more. She was tired and hungry; she made a
speedy toilet. As she ran down-stairs she was surprised to find Averil
still in her walking-dress. "Do not wait for me," she said, hastily.
"Roberts, will you see my cousin has all she wants? Annette, I am
sorry, but I shall not be long."

Averil's room looked the picture of comfort. The supper-table was
laid; the pretty shaded candles and flowers had a charming effect;
the glass doors were open, and a flood of moonlight silvered the
lawn and illuminated the garden paths. Maud was singing; the clear,
girlish voice seemed to blend with the scene. A masculine voice--was it
Rodney's?--was accompanying her. "Oh, that we two were maying!"--how
sweetly it sounded.

It was some little time before Averil reappeared. To Annette's
surprise, she was in evening-dress. The old grave look had come to her
face again; but she said nothing--only summoned Annette to the table.

"You should not have waited," she said, reproachfully. "Annette, when
we have finished supper, I shall have to leave you. Roberts tells me
that some of Rodney's friends are dining here, and it will not do for
the mistress to absent herself."

"Is it for that you have changed your dress, my cousin? And you are so
tired. It is a pity--it is a great pity. Ah, the music has stopped!
They have been singing so deliciously. I wish you could have heard
them. There was a man's voice--I think he must be a great singer."

"Captain Beverley has a fine voice. I suppose he and Maud were trying
a duet together. Oh, here comes Lottie!" as a bright face suddenly
appeared in the door-way. "Well, little one, come and give an account
of yourself."

"Oh, how cozy you look!" exclaimed Lottie, pouncing on them both in her
lively way, and giving them a score of airy kisses. Lottie was looking
charming in her pretty pink frock.

"Well, what do you think of Mother Midge and the Corporal? Is he not
an old dear, Annette? No, Averil, I am not going to answer a question
until Annette gives me her opinion of the Dove-cote."

Annette was too happy to be interrogated; she poured forth a stream of
eulogy, of delight, into Lottie's listening ears. Nothing had escaped
her; she retailed the day's proceedings in her own vivid, picturesque
way.

"My cousin is the happiest person in the world," she finished,
seriously. "Most people have to be content with their own happiness.
You and I are those people, Lottie. But Averil creates heart-sunshine.
Ah, you must not tell me to hush! Have I not heard all those wonderful
stories--Mother Midge, and the two old men, and wee Robbie, even the
pensioners? Oh, if we could only go through the world and gather in
the sick and sorrowful ones! My cousin does not need to envy any
one--surely no happiness can be like hers."

"Thank you, dear," returned Averil, in a low voice; but the grave look
was still in her eyes. "Lottie, it is your turn now. Have you had a
happy day?"

"Oh, yes," returned Lottie, carelessly; but her dimples betrayed her.
"Everything was very pleasant. The Courtlands were civil, and the
gardens beautiful, and the ices were excellent."

"And Frank was there?"

"Oh, yes; Mr. Frank was there. His mother had given him a note for
you;" and Lottie fumbled in her pocket. "Mr. Chesterton was there too.
By the bye," with an evident effort to appear unconcerned, "Georgina
wants you to ask the Courtlands and Mr. Chesterton to dinner next week.
She was talking about it all the way home."

"Well, I have no objection," began Averil, with rather an amused look;
but Lottie interposed in a rather shame-faced way:

"No, and, of course, Georgie will speak to you herself. Only she said
this evening to Maud, that there would be no room for me at table.
I think Georgina does not want me to be there; she seemed put out
because--" Here Lottie came to a dead stop.

"Oh, I see," in a meaning tone, as Lottie produced the letter; "well,
you are wise to come to head-quarters. Georgina's little humors can not
be allowed to disarrange my dinner-table."

"If there be no room for Lottie, there can be no room for me, my
cousin," struck in Annette.

"There will be room for both," returned Averil, quietly. "I will ask
Frank and Louie, and will make Georgina understand that it is quite
an informal dinner-party. Don't distress your little head about it,
Lottie. Let me read my letter in peace;" and Lottie's look of radiant
good-humor returned. Her cheeks had grown as pink as her dress during
the last few minutes, but Averil took no notice, only when she had
finished her letter she smiled and handed it to Annette.

It was Annette's turn to look radiant now. "Oh, how kind!" she
exclaimed, breathlessly. "Lottie, this is for you also. Mrs. Harland
(that is monsieur's wife, I suppose) has made the most charming
arrangement. We are to spend the day and sleep--that will be
twenty-four hours of happiness. This is what she says: 'My husband
will be pleased to see his little Dinan friend again. He was highly
complimented when Frank told him how cordially monsieur was remembered.
My girls are most anxious to make Miss Ramsay's acquaintance; and as we
can put up Lottie, there is no need to leave her behind. If you will
come to lunch, we shall have a nice long day, and Lottie can have some
tennis.' My cousin, shall we go? Next Monday--that is a good day, is it
not?"

"Of course we shall go," interposed Lottie. "Do you think Averil could
have the heart to refuse us such a treat? Mrs. Harland is a darling for
thinking of me. Of all places, I do love to go to Grey-Mount."

"You need not tell me that," returned Averil, rising.

Now, what was there in that little speech to make Lottie change color
again? Annette's quickness could make nothing of the situation. Why
should not Lottie love Grey-Mount, when monsieur lived there, and
so many charming people? Why did Averil give that amused little
laugh as Lottie pushed her chair away petulantly, and said rather
impatiently that it was growing late, and that she must go back to the
drawing-room. Lottie was really a very excitable little person; she did
not even wait when Averil said she was coming too; she ran down the
steps and across the lawn, leaving Averil to bid good-night to Annette.

"I shall be late--you must not wait for me," she said, quietly. "Where
has that madcap flown? I dare say you think Lottie is in an odd mood
to-night. How pretty the child grows! Lottie has a sweet face--one can
not wonder if she be admired. Good-night, Annette; pleasant dreams.
To-morrow I will answer Mrs. Harland's kind invitation."

Annette went to bed happily, but she was far too excited to sleep;
the recollections of the day were too vivid. Jack and Snip, and even
woe-begone Molly, with her patient, heavy face, started up one by one
before her--the green field, with the pensioners, the seat under the
elm-tree, Daddy and Bob and the lame jackdaw, wee Robbie with his
wistful blue eyes, passed and repassed before her inward vision. Now
she was walking with Mother Midge across the goose green, now watching
Deb as she fetched the water from the well; the pigeons were fluttering
over the cottage roofs. She seemed sinking into a dream, when a voice
spoke her name.

"Are you asleep, Annette? I thought I heard you cough;" and Lottie,
still in her pink dress, shielded her candle, and glided into the room.

"I was dreaming, but I do not think I was asleep," returned Annette,
drowsily. "Is it not very late, Lottie? And you are still up and
dressed."

"Yes, and I am so tired," she returned, disconsolately, as she
extinguished the light and sat down on the bed. "Annette, I hope I am
not disturbing you, but I felt so wretched I could not go to my own
room."

"Wretched, my Lottie!" and Annette was wide awake now.

"Yes, but not on my account. Oh, no; it is Averil of whom I am
thinking. How can they be so ungrateful?--how can they have the heart
to treat her so? It is not Rodney, it is Maud who puts this affront
on her, who will have that odious man to the house. What can aunt be
thinking about? Why does she not take Averil's part? But no; they are
all against her, and yet they owe everything to her."

"I do not understand," returned Annette, in a bewildered tone. "What
has happened? Lottie, I implore you to speak more plainly. Have they
quarreled with my cousin? And it was only yesterday--yesterday--"

"Yes, I know; Mr. Frank told me. I don't think he will ever forgive
aunt that speech. They are always making those little sneering
innuendoes. I think Mr. Frank would like to fight them all. He is just
like Averil's brother--her great big brother--and I am sure he is
nearly as fond of her as he is of his sister Louie."

"But he has many sisters, has he not? Monsieur told me of his sons and
daughters. There were Nettie, and Fan, and Owen--oh, I forget the rest."

"Yes; but Louie is Mr. Frank's own sister. Don't you see, their mother
died when they were quite young, and Mr. Harland married again. Oh,
yes, Mr. Frank has plenty of half-brothers and sisters, but they are
much younger. Nettie and Fan are still in the school-room, and Owen and
Bob at Rugby; and the twins are only seven years old."

"I like to hear about these people very much; but, Lottie, this is not
the subject. What has gone wrong to-night? Why is our dear Averil so
troubled?"

"Everything is wrong," returned Lottie, dejectedly. "Averil has taken a
very great dislike to Captain Beverley. He is very rich, and a friend
of Rodney, and he is paying Maud great attention. Averil, for some
reason, does not think well of him, and she has begged aunt to keep him
at a distance. She insists that he is only a flirt, and that all his
attentions mean nothing; and he is doing Rodney great harm."

"A flirt! What is that, my Lottie?"

"Oh, he pretends that he admires Maud--and perhaps he does, for every
one knows how handsome she is; but he has no right to single her out as
he does, and make people talk, unless he means to marry her. Averil is
afraid Maud is beginning to like him, and she has spoken very seriously
to aunt. But, you see, they believe in him, and they will have it that
Averil is prejudiced."

"And they invite him here to dinner in her absence?"

"Yes--that is so wrong, because, of course, it is Averil's house, and
she has several times refused to have him. He was at the At Home,
but she could not help herself there. You must have seen him--a
tall, fine-looking man, with a red mustache, and eyes rather close
together--he is generally beside Maud."

"I did not regard him; but what of that? It seems to me that Mr. Rodney
is to blame most."

"Of course he was to blame, but it was Maud who suggested the
invitation. Anyhow, it was putting a very serious affront upon Averil.
You must know that Maud and Georgina too take such liberties that
Averil has been obliged to make it a rule that no one is to be invited
to the house unless she be consulted. Maud has been trying to pass it
off as an impromptu thought, but she planned it herself at breakfast,
and when aunt tried to dissuade her, she talked her and Rodney over.
Mr. Forbes is another of Averil's _bêtes noires_. He is rich and idle,
and she says it will ruin Rodney to associate with such men."

"Does not Mrs. Willmot recognize the danger? She is old--she is a
mother--most mothers are wise."

"I am afraid aunt is not very wise," replied Lottie, sorrowfully; "she
never could manage Maud. I think she is afraid of her. But this is
not all, Annette. Averil is very strict in some things--she has been
brought up differently from other girls. She does not like cards; and
it is one of her rules that no play for money is allowed in this house.
Well, when we went to the drawing-room they were all playing at some
game--I don't know the name--for three-penny points. Captain Beverley
had started it."

"But that was wrong--it was altogether wrong."

"Rodney got very red, and looked uncomfortable when he saw Averil; but
Maud only held up her cards and burst out laughing. 'When the cat is
away, my dear,' she said, in her flippant way. 'Don't look so terribly
shocked, Averil; we shall only lose a few shillings--no one will be
ruined. It is your turn to play, Captain Beverley.'

"'Will you excuse me, Captain Beverley,' returned Averil, in the
quietest voice, 'if I venture to disturb your game? It is a matter of
principle with me: both my father and I have always had a great dislike
to any game that is played for money. In this house it has never been
done until this evening. You will do me the greatest favor if you will
choose some other game.'"




CHAPTER XV.

MME. DELAMOTTE'S LITTLE BILL.


"How could she have the courage?" mused Annette, when Lottie had
finished her recital, and she repeated her thoughts aloud.

"Averil is never wanting in courage, but the worst of it is, her mind
is stronger than her body, and that tells on her. Of course, when she
spoke in that quiet, decided tone, there could be no possible appeal.
Maud threw down her cards and walked to the piano with the air of
an offended queen. 'I believe music was forbidden in some Puritan
households, Captain Beverley,' she said, in a sarcastic voice. 'I am
thankful to inform you that it is not yet placed on the list of tabooed
amusements.' Captain Beverley made some answer in a low voice, and then
they both laughed. Averil tried her best to put them all at their ease.
She praised Maud's singing, she talked to them cheerfully; but both
gentlemen took their leave as soon as possible. Rodney went with them.
I heard Averil beg him as a favor to her to stay at home, but he was
sulky, and refused to listen. He said, 'The other fellows would only
think him a muff, and he was not going to stand any more preaching.'
They went away to their club. I can see how uncomfortable Averil is.
She thinks that she has done more harm than good. I left her talking to
aunt and Maud. Maud was in one of her tempers, and there was a regular
scene. Hush! I hear her voice now; they are coming up to bed. Not a
word more; they must not find out I am here."

Annette lay perfectly still, and Lottie crept to the door. Maud's room
was just across the passage, and both the girls hoped to hear her close
her door; but to their dismay, she stood outside, talking in an angry
voice to her mother.

"It is too bad; she gets worse every day!" they heard her say, in a
tone of passionate insistence.

"I can not help it," returned Mrs. Willmot, fretfully. "You ought to
know Averil by this time. You go too far, Maud; I am always telling you
so. You think of nothing but your own pleasure. It was foolish to put
this affront on Averil. You might know that with her high spirit she
would resent it."

"Nonsense, mamma. You are afraid of her, and Georgie is afraid of
her too. How can you let yourself be ruled by a slip of a girl? Of
course, I know it is her home. Does not everything belong to her?
If we were not so miserably poor, we need not live in this Egyptian
bondage--afraid to invite a friend or to say our soul is our own. I
wonder what Captain Beverley thinks of his evening's amusement? It will
be a fine joke between him and Mr. Forbes. I declare, I don't envy
Rodney. 'My father and I have always had a great dislike to any game
that is played for money.' Did ever any one hear such cant in a modern
drawing-room? I am glad I made her uncomfortable about Rodney. The poor
boy is not playing those penny points now at the club. Ah, she turned
quite white, I assure you."

"You talk as though you had not your brother's interest at heart,"
returned Mrs. Willmot, in the same fretful voice. "I wish Captain
Beverley would not take him to his club; he is far too young. Averil is
right there. Maud, what was he saying to you in the garden just after
dinner?"

But here the voices dropped, and a moment afterward the door of Maud's
room closed, and with a whispered good-night Lottie made her escape.

But there was no rest for Averil. Long after Annette had fallen into a
refreshing sleep a weary little figure paced up and down the deserted
drawing-room. She had sent Roberts to bed when that faithful old
domestic came to extinguish the lights.

"I will wait up for Mr. Rodney," she had said. "I do not expect he will
be very late." But for once she was wrong. Rodney was very late indeed.
The church clock had chimed two before she heard his bell. Averil's
thoughts were not pleasant; the sting of Maud's words was still abiding
with her.

"Is she right? Have I driven him away to worse things?" she asked
herself. "Ought I to have allowed the game to go on, and then have
spoken afterward? Would that not have been been temporizing with wrong
things? 'One can always go down the little crooked lane,' as dear
father used to say. He was so fond of the 'Pilgrim's Progress!' I could
only remember how he hated this sort of amusement, and to see it played
in this house, when in his life-time they never dared propose such a
thing! I know his friends thought him strait-laced--even Mr. Harland;
but what does that matter? If one has principle, there must be no
compromise. Still, if she be right, and Rodney--" Here a look of pain
crossed Averil's face, and she clasped her hands involuntarily. "Oh,
my darling, how can I save you when your own mother and sister will
not help me? Maud is infatuated. That man will never ask her to marry
him; he will look far higher for his wife. A Miss Seymour will not be
good enough for Oliver Beverley. I have told my step-mother so again
and again; but Maud's influence is greater than mine. Oh, how much
happier will be my little Lottie's fate! I know from what Frank says
that Ned Chesterton is in earnest; and what could be better--a good son
and brother, and rising in his profession? Perhaps he will not speak
yet; but they are both young enough to wait. Lottie looks very happy
to-night--God bless her!" And here a low, heavy sigh rose to Averil's
lips.

She started as the sound of the bell reached her, and hurried out to
unbolt the door. Rodney did not at once see her; he thought it was
Roberts. He came in whistling--his face was flushed and excited.

"Sorry to keep you up so late, old fellow," he said, in his
good-humored way. "Why, Averil!"--and then his face clouded--"there was
no need for this attention," he muttered, as he put down his hat.

Averil followed him.

"Don't be vexed, Rodney. I could not go to bed until you came in. You
have given me enough to bear already. Why were you so unkind as to
refuse to stay at home, when I asked you as a favor?"

Rodney's reply was very unsatisfactory. He boasted of his small gains
in a tone that deeply grieved Averil. Seeing his face flushed with
drink and with the excitement of play, she turned away. Could she save
him? Was he not already a long way down that little crooked path upon
which another brisk lad, whose name was Ignorance, and who came out of
the country of Conceit, had already walked?

There were bitter tears shed in Averil's room that night as she prayed
long and earnestly for one whom she called her brother.

Was Rodney conscious of this as he lay tossing feverishly? How many
such prayers are offered up night after night for many a beloved and
erring one! What says the apostle? that "he which converteth the sinner
from the error of his way shall save a soul from death, and shall hide
a multitude of sins."

Unwin had reason to grieve over her mistress's worn looks the next
morning, but she asked no questions and made no comments. Unwin was too
wise a woman to waste regrets over what could not be helped. Roberts
had told her enough, and she could form her own conclusions. The
household were quite aware that another indignity had been on their
idolized mistress, "and by them as are not fit to tie her shoes,"
observed the kitchen-maid, contemptuously; for Maud's imperious manners
and lack of courtesy made her no favorite with the servants.

Averil did not waste words either. She took no further notice of
yesterday's occurrence. When she met her step-mother and the girls at
luncheon, she accosted them pleasantly and in her usual manner; it was
Maud who hardly deigned to answer, who averted her head with studied
coldness every time Averil addressed her. Some hours of brooding and a
naturally haughty temper had only fanned Maud's discontent to a fiercer
flame. It was easy to see that she regarded herself in the light of an
injured person.

Lottie, who had been to the Stores to execute some commissions for her
aunt, did not make her appearance until luncheon was nearly over, and
then she and Rodney came in together. Rodney still looked a little
sulky; he gave Averil a curt nod as he took his place, and snubbed
Georgina when she inquired after his headache. "There is no need to
publish it on the house-tops," he said, irritably. "It is only women
who are fond of talking about their little ailments. I suppose there is
some ice in the house, Ave? This water is quite lukewarm."

"I'll ring and ask Roberts," observed Lottie. "Maud, Madame Delamotte
is waiting to speak to you. She says there has been no answer, and when
Hall told her that you were at luncheon, she only said she would wait,
as her business was very important."

Georgina darted a frightened, imploring glance at her sister, but Maud
only grew very red.

"It is very impertinent," she muttered, angrily, "but these sort of
people have no consideration. I shall tell Madame Delamotte that I
shall withdraw my custom if she pesters me in this way. Lottie, will
you tell her, please--But no, perhaps I had better go myself;" and
Maud swept out of the room in her usual haughty fashion.

Rodney laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but Averil seemed uneasy and
preoccupied.

Mrs. Willmot had taken no notice of this little interruption; her slow,
lymphatic temperament seldom troubled itself over passing things.
Madame Delamotte was the girls' dress-maker. She supposed Maud had been
extravagant enough to order a new dress for Lady Beverley's "small and
early." "I really must lecture her about extravagance;" and here she
adjusted her eyeglass, and looked at some fashion-plates with a serene
absorption that was truly enviable.

Averil's uneasiness seemed to increase, and at last she made an excuse
to leave the table. As she passed through the hall quickly, she came
upon Maud; she was in close conversation with a thin, careworn-looking
woman dressed in the height of fashion. Averil knew Mme. Delamotte
slightly; she had been to her shop on more than one occasion. As she
bade her a civil "good-morning," the French woman accosted her in a
nervous, agitated manner.

"Miss Willmot, may I implore your assistance with this young lady? I
can not persuade her to hear me. The bill is large, and she says I
shall have still to wait for my money; and, alas! business is 'bad.'"

"Averil, I must beg you not to interfere," returned Maud, angrily.
"Madame Delamotte is grossly impertinent. I have every intention of
settling her bill, but just now it is not convenient, and--" here Maud
hesitated.

"Madame Delamotte, will you come into my room a moment?" observed
Averil, quietly. "Maud, you had better come, too. There is no need
to take the whole household into confidence; and the hall is far too
public a place for this sort of conversation."

But Maud refused. "I have said all I have to say," she returned,
contemptuously. "If Madame Delamotte chooses to dun me in this fashion,
I shall have no further dealings with her. If you mix yourself up in my
affairs, you must take the consequences: the bill will be settled all
in good time."

Averil made no answer; she only signed to the dressmaker to follow her,
and as soon as they were alone Mme. Delamotte produced her account. She
was visibly discomposed, and began to apologize.

"Miss Seymour is too hard with me," she said, almost tearfully. "I have
never dunned any one. The young ladies are good customers; I have great
pleasure in working for them; but it is necessary to see one's money.
This account has been running for a year and a half, and now Miss
Seymour says it is exorbitant. Everything is down; I have used the best
of materials--nothing else would satisfy her. What would become of me
if all my customers treated me in this way?"

Averil glanced down the bill, then she folded it up. "You are perfectly
right, Madame Delamotte; your complaint is a just one. Will you leave
the account with me? I can promise you that it shall be settled before
to-morrow evening. I think you know me sufficiently to rely on my word."

"Every one knows Miss Willmot," returned the French woman, politely.
"You have removed a great weight from my mind trusting you with the
fact that I am greatly in need of the money."

"Then in that case I will write you a check in advance, if you will
give me a receipt;" and as Mme. Delamotte seemed overjoyed at this
concession, Averil sat down to her writing-table; but as she wrote out
the check a look of disquiet crossed her face. "How can any one act so
dishonorably?" she thought; but she little knew the seducing and evil
effects of pampered vanity. She checked Mme. Delamotte's profuse thanks
very gently but decidedly, and when she had dismissed her she sat on
for a long time with her head on her hand, revolving the whole matter.

"I have robbed my poor, just to pay for all these fine dresses," she
said, bitterly, "and yet it had to be done. Now I must go and speak
to Mrs. Willmot. Oh! what a sickening world all this is. I feel like
Sisyphus, forever rolling my stony burden uphill. Oh, Mother Midge, if
I could only leave it all and take refuge with you!"

Mrs. Willmot was dozing in the morning-room; her book lay on her lap;
but it had long ago slipped through her fingers. She regarded Averil
drowsily as she sat down opposite to her, and settling her cap-strings
with a yawn, asked what had become of the girls.

"I do not know, Mrs. Willmot. I am sorry to disturb you, but it is
necessary for us to have a serious talk. Madame Delamotte has been here
to beg Maud to settle her bill. Are you aware?" regarding her sternly,
"that neither she nor Georgina has attempted to pay their dress-maker
for the last year and a half?"

Mrs. Willmot's placid face lost a little of its color; she looked
alarmed, and held out her hand for the account, which Averil still held.

"There is no occasion to look at it," she said, coldly. "I can tell you
the exact amount;" and as she named the sum, Mrs. Willmot uttered a
faint exclamation and threw herself back in her chair.

"I don't believe it!" she said, vehemently, and her weak, handsome face
was quite pale. "There is vile imposition. Madame Delamotte ought to be
ashamed of herself; my girls do not owe half that sum. I will ask Maud.
No; Maud is so hot and impetuous she never will let me speak. Georgina
will be better."

"There is no need to send for her either. I have a good memory, and
have verified most of the items. The bill is large, but then it has
been running on for eighteen months. I only want to know how you
propose to settle it."




CHAPTER XVI.

AVERIL'S STEP-MOTHER.


As Averil asked this question in her usual quiet manner, her
step-mother's perturbation increased; she was brought face to face
with an unexpected difficulty--and Mrs. Willmot hated any sort of
complication. To eat, drink, and be merry were important items in her
code. She was indolent, and liked comfort, and, as she said, "Her girls
were too much for her."

"What shall you do?" reiterated Averil, patiently, as Mrs. Willmot only
sighed and looked unhappy.

"I think I am the most miserable woman alive," she returned, stung to
weak exasperation by Averil's quiet persistence. "You have no pity
for me, Averil; and yet I was your father's wife, and a good wife,
too. What is the good of asking me to settle this infamous bill--for
infamous it is, as I mean to tell Madame--when I have not a hundred
pounds left, in the bank, and that boy is always drawing on me?"

"Do you mean Rodney?" interposed Averil, eagerly. "Let us leave this
bill for a moment while I speak to you of him. Has he answered Mr.
Harland's letter?" For two days previously a letter had come to Rodney
from the lawyer, offering him a post in Canada that promised to be very
remunerative in the future. Mr. Harland had spoken very warmly of the
advantages attaching to such a situation, and Averil had indorsed this
opinion. The letter had arrived early on the morning of her reception;
but, in spite of all her business, she had talked for more than half
an hour to both Rodney and her step-mother, begging them to close at
once with the offer. Rodney seemed rather in favor of it: to use his
own phrase, he thought Canadian life would be "awfully jolly," and
he promised to talk his mother over; but until now Averil had heard
nothing.

"Has Rodney written to Mr. Harland?" she asked again, as Mrs. Willmot
hesitated, and seemed unwilling to answer.

"Yes, he has written," she said, at last, when Averil compelled her to
speak. "I declare, you make me so nervous, Averil, sitting opposite me,
and questioning me in that jerky fashion, that I hardly know how to
answer."

"And he has accepted the post?" still more eagerly.

"He has done nothing of the kind," returned her step-mother, pettishly.
"You have no heart, Averil. You do not understand a mother's feelings.
Do you suppose I am going to let my boy go all that distance? As though
there were no other places to be found in England. I should break my
heart without him. I was awake half the night, thinking about it. I
did not have a bit of peace until I got the dear fellow to write and
decline it this morning."

Averil's little hands were pressed tightly together. "Give me
patience," she whispered. Then aloud, "Mrs. Willmot, are you aware of
the advantages you have thrown away? Let me implore you to reconsider
this; it is not too late--a telegram will nullify the letter. I am
very unhappy about Rodney. He seems to be mixed up with a set of most
undesirable friends. They are all richer and older than he. They take
him to their club; they induce him to play for money. It is no use
warning you against Captain Beverley on Maud's account but for Rodney's
sake--"

But here Mrs. Willmot interrupted her.

"Don't say a word against Captain Beverley, Averil. Things will very
soon be settled between him and Maud, I can tell you that," with a
meaning nod. "I know he is not a favorite of yours; but he is one of
the best catches of the season. Every one will tell you that. Look at
Beverley House! And then Oliver, though he is only the second son, has
fifteen hundred a year, and they say he is his uncle's heir. No one
thinks much of his brother's health--he seems a sickly sort of person.
Mark my words--Maud will be Lady Beverley one day."

Averil gave vent to a despairing sigh. What impression could she
make on this weak, worldly nature? She had often argued with her
step-mother, and had encountered the same placid resistance to all
her appeals. Weak people are often obstinate. Mrs. Willmot was no
exception; she would listen to Averil, agree with her, and finally end
by doing exactly as she had intended at first.

On the present occasion Averil did not spare her.

"You are wrong," she said, vehemently. "One day you will know how
wrong you have been. Captain Beverley is only flirting with Maud--he
will never propose to her. The Beverley's will look far higher than our
family. You are encouraging her in this miserable infatuation, and both
you and she are sacrificing Rodney."

"What do you mean by this extraordinary statement, Averil?" And Mrs.
Willmot drew herself up with an affronted air.

"Captain Beverley is using Rodney for his own ends. Do you suppose a
man of his age has any interest in a boy like Rodney? It pleases him
to come here, and he throws a careless invitation to him now and then,
which he is far too pleased to accept. Rodney will be ruined, for
Frank tells me they are a wild, extravagant set. This Canadian scheme
would save him--it would break off his intimacy with those men; it
would remove him from the scene of his temptation. Mrs. Willmot, you
are sacrificing your boy to Maud's fancied interest--it is she who is
keeping him here."

But though Averil went on in this strain until she was exhausted,
she could not induce her step-mother to alter her decision. She was
evidently touched once or twice as Averil pleaded; an uneasy look came
over her face.

"You are prejudiced--Maud thinks very differently from that," she
observed, more than once. It was Maud who was evidently the mother's
adviser.

Averil had to desist at last with a sore heart; but before she broke
off the conversation she returned again to the subject of Mme.
Delamotte. She made far more impression here. Mrs. Willmot burst
into tears when she saw the receipted bill; she even kissed Averil
affectionately, and called her her dear, her dearest girl. There was no
want of gratitude for the timely help that had staved off the evil day
of reckoning. Mrs. Willmot spoke the truth when she said that she would
never forget this generous act.

"My girls have treated me badly," she said, with unusual
bitterness--"Maud especially. I know I am to blame leaving things
so much to Maud; but she is clever, and has a clear head, and never
muddles things as I do. I thought there were only two quarters owing--I
certainly understood that last year's account had been settled. I
remember drawing a check--Stop! was it for Madame Delamotte or Rodney?
My memory is so bad, and the children seem always pestering me for
money."

Mrs. Willmot's explanation was by no means lucid; but Averil, who knew
her perfectly, did not in the least accuse her of insincerity. She
was aware that her stepmother was a bad woman of business; that she
was indolent, and suffered herself to be ruled by her high-spirited
daughter. She had always shifted her responsibilities on to other
people.

To do her justice, she was extremely shocked at the want of rectitude
on Maud's part, and promised readily that such a thing should never
occur again--the quarterly bill should be settled in future. She even
acquiesced very meekly when Averil announced her intention of speaking
to Maud very plainly.

"I shall tell her," she finished--and there was a stern, set look round
Averil's mouth as she spoke, that showed she fully meant what she
said--"that if such a disgraceful occurrence ever takes place again in
this house, I shall consider it my duty to make different arrangements
for the future."

"I am sure she deserves to be frightened," returned Mrs. Willmot,
tearfully. She was plainly awed by Averil's manner, though she did not
in the least believe this threat.

But Averil had not spoken without due reflection. During the long
sleepless night she had tried to look her duty in the face; her
step-mother had claims on her, but was it right that her poor should
be defrauded--that her father's money should be squandered to satisfy
the rapacity of these headstrong young people? Was she not encouraging
them in habits of extravagance and idleness? She could bear her daily
martyrdom, the homely sacrifice; but that it should be in vain, that it
should be productive of evil and not good, this was intolerable to her.

She went to her own room, feeling weary and disquieted. The worst
part--her talk with Maud--was to come. She felt she had need to brace
herself afresh for the stormy discussion. As she sat down by the window
she saw Rodney lounging on the lawn; his brief sulkiness had vanished.
In reality he was a sweet-tempered fellow, and hated to be on bad terms
with any one.

"Halloo, Ave," he said, as he caught sight of her, "what have you
and the mater been talking about all this time? There seems to be a
precious row about something."

Averil was utterly spent--she put out her hand to him with a little sob.

"Why do you all make my life so miserable?" she said. "It is not fair.
I have done nothing to deserve it."

Rodney gave his usual shrug and kicked a loose pebble. He wished he had
not spoken. The least approach to a scene gave him an uncomfortable
sensation. Averil saw his dismay, and recovered herself at once.

"Come and sit down," she said, hastily. "I want to talk to you. Rodney,
why did you write to Mr. Harland without speaking to me again? It
troubles me inexpressibly to think that you have thrown away such a
chance. Do you know, Frank says--"

"Oh, Frank again!" returned Rodney, crossly. "I beg your pardon, Ave,"
as she looked somewhat offended at this; "I do hate to have a fellow
flung at me like that. How could I help writing when the mater and Maud
made such a fuss--"

"But you would have liked it yourself?"

"I don't know. It is rather a bore leaving all one's friends. Beverley
says there are better berths to be picked up here. There is Forbes's
brother, Alick--"

"Please do not tell me what Captain Beverley or Mr. Forbes think;
Mr. Harland is a far wiser adviser. Rodney, dear, I am very unhappy
about you. You are not choosing your friends wisely. I dread Captain
Beverley's influence. He is rich, a man of the world, and intensely
selfish. His habits can not be yours. Your mother's means are not
large; you have no right to live as though you had expectations. You
would be far safer and happier in Canada than staying on here in
idleness."

"It is not my fault," returned Rodney, impatiently. "I was quite
willing to go, only the mater cried about it, and Maud told me that
I was only thinking of my own interests. Don't you see, Ave," in a
coaxing voice, "I am in rather a difficult position--I can't turn a
cold shoulder on Beverley when he is making up to Maud. It is quite
true what she says--that I am the only son, and that it is rather
shabby to leave the mater if she does not want to part with me."

"Rodney, if you would only give up the society of these men. I think I
dislike Mr. Forbes even more than Captain Beverley. I never can trust a
man who does not look you in the face. Frank told me that he belongs to
one of the fastest sets in town."

"Nonsense! Forbes is a capital fellow--I don't know any one more
good-natured or amusing. He has done me a good turn more than once.
But"--interrupting himself--"you are only a girl--you would not
understand."

"I think I know more than most girls," returned Averil, with a sad
smile. "I am very old for my age. Try me, Rodney. I wish you would tell
me everything;" and she looked anxiously at the fair, boyish face,
with its handsome, irresolute mouth. If he would only confide in her!
But even as the thought passed through her mind Rodney threw off some
unwelcome reflection, and shook himself with a light laugh.

"You are a good little soul, Ave," he said, jumping up. "Don't bother
your head about me. Something is sure to turn up, so there is no need
to banish me to Canada;" and Rodney went off whistling.

Averil sat for a little time alone, then Lottie brought her some tea,
and after that she went in search of Maud.

No one knew what passed between them. Mrs. Willmot, in her selfish
policy, thought it wise not to inquire. Averil did not appear again
that evening--she had a headache, and remained in her own room.
Georgina noticed that Maud was in an unusually bad temper; she
snubbed Lottie mercilessly, and was positively rude to Annette. But
Georgina was not a very close observer; she failed to detect a certain
uneasiness and restlessness, that seemed to increase as the evening
wore on. Maud took no one into her confidence; if any expectation she
had formed had met with disappointment, she was strong enough to bear
it in silence.

"It has been a stupid day," said Annette, as she parted from Lottie
that night. "Something has gone wrong--my cousin is miserable."

But Lottie could give her no information. The evening had been a
failure; Maud had been cross and detestable; Rodney had gone out;
no one had ventured to speak. "Never mind; things will be better
to-morrow, and there is Grey-Mount on Monday," she said, with the gay
philosophy that was natural to her.

"Things will be better to-morrow"--a very Lottie-like speech. Lottie's
sanguine temperament never predicted misfortune; if matters were
unsatisfactory to-day, they were sure to mend. It was this bright
joyousness, this faith in an ultimate good, that had made the little
school-girl happy in spite of shabby clothes, hard task-masters, and
uncongenial labors; it was this sweet, unselfish nature, so child-like,
and yet so sound at the core, that was weaving the love that was to be
the blessing of her life.

It was not Lottie's pink cheeks, her bright eyes, and pleasant ways,
that were binding Ned Chesterton's heart to her so surely, for Ned was
an intelligent, shrewd fellow, and knew better than to build his life's
happiness on such shifting materials. It was the girl's frankness, her
honesty, her loyal devotion to those she loved, and her sweet yielding
temper, that had first attracted him. He was not a rich man: the young
lawyer would have to work hard at his profession before he could afford
the luxury of a wife; but he had long ago said to himself that that
wife should be Lottie Jones.




CHAPTER XVII.

ANNETTE DECLINES TO PLAY TENNIS.


Averil was rather quiet and subdued the next day or two, but as usual
she battled bravely with her depression, and tried not to damp the
enjoyment of her two young companions.

The new work-room was finished, and looked very comfortable; and
Fairy Order, as Lottie still called her, was quite in her element.
There was plenty of time now for the music lessons and practicing.
Lottie was learning to chatter in French, and Annette found her a most
intelligent pupil. The girls sat together, walked together, or drove
out with Averil; no one interfered with them. When Lottie had letters
to write, or her aunt or cousins wanted her, Annette went in search of
Averil, or sat in the garden with her book. Maud and Georgina made no
attempt to admit her into their companionship; they still treated her
with coldness, as though they regarded her as an interloper. In the
evenings when Averil read to herself, she and Lottie escaped into the
garden, or whispered together over their work. Georgina once asked them
contemptuously what they could find to talk about; she sneered slightly
as she spoke. When friends were not present there were often lapses of
silence. Rodney would complain of the dullness, and go out in search of
amusement.

"I wish we could go out too," Georgina would say. "I think no family of
old maids could be more deadly dull. Mamma goes to sleep, and Averil
reads, and Maud writes letters."

"I wish you would be quiet and let me finish my notes," Maud would
say, pettishly--she seemed always irritable now; and then Georgina
would subside into moody silence. If any one came in there was an
instantaneous change; for example, if Captain Beverley dropped in for a
moment to fetch Rodney, Maud's eyes would brighten, her prettiest songs
would be sung; Mrs. Willmot would be broad awake and smiling; only
Averil's grave little face did not relax, her greeting never became
warmer.

The day at Grey-Mount was a great success. As Averil looked at the
girls' bright faces as they took their places in the train the cloud
seemed to lift off her own spirits; it was delightful to think that
for twenty-four hours her worries would be in the background. Kind
greetings, approving smiles, hearty sympathy, were all awaiting her;
no dissatisfied looks, no struggling wills would mar her enjoyment.
Averil's brow grew calm and clear as a little child's as the prospect
widened, and when they reached Chislehurst she was talking as merrily
as her companions.

"There is Louie!" exclaimed Lottie, as the train slackened speed, and
a tall, pleasant-looking girl gave her an answering nod and smile. She
had a strong resemblance to her brother Frank, and, like him, had no
claims to beauty; but her frank, open countenance, attracted Annette.

"She is a Harland, so of course she is nice," she said to herself, with
illogical reasoning.

Miss Harland did not seem to require any introduction; she shook hands
cordially with Annette. "Mamma was too busy to come, Averil," she said,
leading the way to the station door, where an open barouche and a pair
of handsome bays were awaiting them. "What have you been doing with
yourself lately, you naughty little person? Lottie, she looks more
shadowy and unsubstantial than ever! Father will be horrified when he
sees her."

"Don't be so absurd, Louie. I am perfectly well," laughed Averil,
who certainly looked very small and slender beside this fine-grown,
vigorous young woman. But Miss Harland chose to argue the point; and as
Lottie took her part, there was a lively discussion that lasted until
they reached Grey-Mount.

Grey-Mount was a substantial gray-stone house standing in its own
grounds. As they drove up to the door, a bevy of young people came out
to greet them. Louie introduced them all in a quick, off-hand fashion
to their new guest as, "Nettie and Fan--and the twins, Fred and Winnie.
And this is my little mamma," she continued, in an affectionate,
patronizing tone, as a quiet, lady-like little woman appeared in the
background. Annette thought her still very pretty; she liked her soft
voice and ways. It was evident that her children doted on her, for a
word from mamma seemed to have a restraining influence on the twins, a
pair of noisy, high-spirited children.

Annette found herself at home at once; there was no stiffness, no
reserve, at Grey-Mount. Nettie and Fan had pounced on Lottie as their
rightful prey, and had carried her off at once. Mrs. Harland had
followed with Averil, and Annette felt a hand pressed through her arm.

"You and I will have to entertain each other until luncheon," observed
Louie, in a comfortable voice. "When mamma and Averil begin to talk
they never leave off. Oh, of course it is Bob and Owen--they generally
begin about the boys. Frank will be home presently, and then we shall
have tennis. Frank is my own, own brother, you know. Not but what Owen
and Fred are brothers too, but Frank is my special--"

"Oh, yes, I understand about that. Lottie has told me he is monsieur's
son, and this lady you call mamma is your step-mother. I have not
talked to her much, but her looks please me. She is altogether
different from Mrs. Willmot."

"My dear Miss Ramsay, there are step-mothers and step-mothers. Frank
and I think mamma perfect; she has not a selfish thought. As to Mrs.
Willmot and the Misses Seymour, I had better hold my tongue on that
subject. Averil is a darling; we are all so fond of her; but she is
just wearing herself out--"

"Do you think my cousin looks so ill?" returned Annette, in such quick
alarm that Miss Harland regretted her speech. She was a warm-hearted,
impulsive girl, and sometimes said more than was prudent. She was
anxious now to explain away her words, for the sad wistfulness that had
come into Annette's dark eyes touched her.

"She has always been delicate," she returned, hastily. "At one time
her health was a great anxiety to us all; but during the last year or
two she has been stronger. Miss Ramsay, are you fond of flowers? Shall
we go and see the green-houses? Yes, Winnie, you may come too"--as the
pretty little girl ran up to them.

Before luncheon was quite over Frank Harland made his appearance. He
was accompanied by a tall, good-looking man, whom they all called Ned,
and who was afterward introduced to Annette by Lottie in the shyest of
voices as "Mr. Chesterton."

If Annette had not been such a recluse, and so totally unacquainted
with the ways of young people--the curé and his snuff-box being her
sole masculine acquaintance in the Rue St. Joseph--she might have read
certain facts from Lottie's shy eagerness and pleased, downcast looks.
She might even have adduced the same conclusion from the young lawyer's
evident absorption and almost exclusive monopoly of the girl.

In tennis he was her partner, and afterward they walked about the
garden together. Every one took it as a matter of course. No one
interfered with their _tête-à-tête_--not even Averil, whose eyes often
rested on her protégée with fond wistfulness. "Lottie is very happy,"
Annette heard her whisper once to Mrs. Harland.

Annette was very pleased to see Mr. Frank again; but she could not be
induced to take her first lesson in tennis, though he employed all his
eloquence to coax her to become his partner.

"You are bent on snubbing me," he said at last, in mock despair.
"You were much more amiable when I met you last, Miss Ramsay, and we
exchanged confidences over our vanilla ices."

"That is too bad," she returned, trying not to laugh. "What is it you
mean by 'snub?' I do not understand all your English words. It is you
who are unkind, Mr. Harland; for you want to make me ridiculous in the
eyes of your sister and friends. Ah, yes; it would amuse them to see
how often I should miss the ball! They would just clap their hands with
the fun. No; I will sit here in the shade and watch you, and that will
be my first lesson in tennis; and if you will come to Redfern House,
you can teach me there, and Lottie can play with us."

"To be sure! that is a good idea," he said, eagerly; and then, as
they called to him, he lifted his cap and ran down the grass slope to
the tennis court. Annette kept her promise, and watched the game with
intelligent interest. Every now and then Frank came to her to explain
things. He was pleased with the girl's naïveté and frankness, and he
always left her a little reluctantly when Louie waved her racket, or
Ned shouted to him that they were waiting.

He was just making his way to her for the fifth time when he saw her
suddenly rise from her seat with a quick exclamation of pleasure at the
sight of a gray-haired man who was crossing the lawn in a leisurely,
middle-aged fashion.

"Monsieur, it is you at last," she said, holding out her hand. "Oh, how
glad I am to see you again!"

Mr. Harland smiled as he cordially responded to her greeting; but the
next moment he held her out at arm's-length and critically surveyed her.

"Do you know," he said, in a pleased voice, "that if you had not spoken
to me I think I should hardly have recognized my young friend of the
Rue St. Joseph? What has she done with herself, Averil?"--in quite a
puzzled tone.

Mr. Harland could not understand it at all. He remembered the girl
as she stood that morning in her shabby gown, with the little lace
kerchief knotted round her throat, and her small, pale face and grave
eyes. The young creature that stood before him was as slim and graceful
as a fawn. She was no longer pale. Her eyes were clear and sparkling,
her black dress was enlivened by a dainty breast-knot of dark crimson
roses. Could these few weeks have effected this transformation? "No, I
should not have known you," he said, dropping her hand; but he looked
very kindly at her.

Frank had been much amused at this little scene; but by and by his mood
changed. He was even guilty of the unfilial wish that his father had
been detained longer at Lincoln's Inn.

Frank found he could no longer secure Miss Ramsay's attention. She
evinced a preference for monsieur's society, and could not be induced
to leave his side, even to see the hot-houses under Frank's guidance.

Frank turned rather sulky at last, to his father's amusement. Mr.
Harland's eyes twinkled mischievously as he watched his discomfiture.

"Miss Ramsay," he said, "you are very good to stop with an old fellow
like me, but I must not monopolize you. Mr. Frank seems a little put
out with us both."

"He is only pretending," she said, in a voice that reached the young
man. "I think it is his way of making fun--it is so long since I have
seen you, monsieur. And I like better to sit and talk to you of Dinan,
and those days when you were kind to me. As for Mr. Frank, I shall see
him often--often." Mr. Harland glanced at her in extreme surprise; he
noticed that Frank turned his head to listen. "He is coming to teach me
tennis," went on Annette, in a composed, matter-of-fact tone. "I would
not play to-day, because I knew I should only make myself ridiculous;
but I understand the game now; and Lottie and I will practice; when Mr.
Frank comes he will be surprised at my progress."

"Father, shall I bring you and Miss Ramsay some tea out there?" asked
Frank suddenly at this moment. Now, what had become of the young
man's brief moodiness? Frank was humming an air as he brought out the
teacups: he had a little joke for Annette when she thanked him for his
trouble; but he shook his head when she would have made room for him.

"Don't disturb yourself," he said, quickly; "I know you and
monsieur"--with a little stress on the word--"are as happy as possible.
I am going to talk to Averil about the tennis, and see which day I may
come."

"Very well," she returned, tranquilly; and she resumed her
conversation. She was telling her friend about her life at Redfern
House, about the new work-room, and her cousin's kindness. As she
talked on in her bright, rapid way, Mr. Harland told himself that she
was not far from being pretty; she was not so thin, and her complexion
had improved, and the _spirituelle_ expression of the dark eyes was
very attractive.

Meanwhile, Averil was listening to Frank's plans with rather a puzzled
look. Frank had announced his intention of coming down to Redfern House
as often as possible to practice tennis with the girls.

"You have a good lawn," he went on, in an off-hand manner, "and I
daresay Seymour will join us. Thursday is my best day, if it will suit
you, Averil."

"Any day will suit me," she returned, with the soft friendliness that
she always showed him. "But, Frank, I want to speak to you. You must
not misunderstand Annette. Perhaps you may think her frankness a little
strange, but she means nothing by it; she has lived so completely out
of the world that she hardly knows its ways. I believe that she has
never spoken to a young man in her life; and she treats you as she
would Louie. You will not mind if I say this to you; but Annette is so
sweet and good I could not bear her to be misunderstood."

"I shall not misunderstand her. How could any one mistake such
child-like frankness?" returned the young man, gravely; but he flushed
a little, as though Averil's words touched him.

"Please come, then, as often as you can," she returned, cheerfully.
"You know how welcome you will be."

Frank did not make any more attempts to speak to Annette that evening;
but he showed her little attentions, and watched her a good deal; it
pleased him to see how friendly she was with them all. As she bid him
good-bye at the station the next morning--for he and Mr. Chesterton had
accompanied them--she said to him:

"I have had such a happy time. Every one is so nice and kind. Monsieur,
and your step-mother, and sister, and--"

"I hope you are going to include me," he returned, mischievously; but
Annette took the question in good part.

"And you too; oh, yes! I think it is very good of you, Mr. Harland, to
teach me tennis. Is it not so, my cousin?"

But Averil was apparently deaf, for she made no response.

"Annette," she said, gently, when she found herself alone with her
cousin that evening, "I want to give you a little hint, because you
have been such a recluse, and do not know the ways of society. Young
girls of your age do not generally invite young men. Now, when you
asked Frank to play tennis--"

But Annette interrupted her in quick alarm. "Have I done wrong? I am so
sorry. It is your house, and I ought to have left it to you."

"Well, another time; but, of course, in this case it does not matter;
the Harlands are like my own brothers and sisters. Frank comes as often
as he likes."

"But I am sorry, all the same," returned Annette, gravely, and a
distressed color came to her face. "It seems I have been bold. My
cousin, will you explain? I do not know the rules, and I would not
willingly offend. Mr. Harland was so kind; he proposed to teach me,
and I thought there could be no harm."

"My dear," replied Averil, kissing her hot cheek remorsefully, "there
is nothing wrong. If Frank came every day he would be welcome; it is
only a hint for your future use."

But Annette was sensitive; her innate sense of propriety had taken
alarm; she had been forward, or her cousin would not have given her
this reproof.

"You shall not have to find fault with me again," she said, humbly.
"I will remember the difference between old men and young men for the
future, my cousin."




CHAPTER XVIII.

"I HEAR THAT WE HAVE TO CONGRATULATE YOU."


A few more weeks passed. The summer days flew merrily by for Annette
and Lottie; and if, as time went on, Averil's hidden anxieties and
secret watchfulness did not relax, and a growing fear pressed more
heavily upon her, she made neither of the girls her confidante. With
that innate unselfishness that belonged to her nature, she refused
to burden their youthful spirits with the shadow of coming trouble.
But on those summer nights, when the moonlight was stealing into each
sleeper's room, its pure white beams would often fall on one small,
kneeling figure; for in those days Averil prayed for Rodney as one
would pray for some unwary traveler hovering on the edge of a perilous
abyss.

Frank Harland had kept his promise loyally, and the Thursdays had
become an institution at Redfern House. Ned Chesterton frequently
accompanied him; and as Rodney often condescended to don his flannels
and join them, his sister's frigidity relaxed, and as one or two
other young people would drop in, there was often a pleasant party
collected on the trim green lawn. Averil would sit at her window with
her work and book and watch them contentedly; it amused her to see the
young men's stratagems to secure their favorite partners. Georgina
was inclined to monopolize Mr. Chesterton, and he often had to have
recourse to some innocent ruse to win Lottie to his side. Averil
noticed, too, that Frank's choice generally fell on Annette. "Outsiders
see most of the game," she thought. Averil was always ready to fulfill
her duties as hostess, and talk to Frank in the pauses of the game, to
listen to Ned's artful praises of Lottie's play, to interest herself
when any defeated combatant talked of his or her ill-luck. There were
always iced drinks and tea to be had in the gay little striped tent
over which Roberts presided. Frank once told Averil that she was a
first-rate hostess, and that his friend Ned never enjoyed himself so
much as at Redfern House.

"I am so glad you are pleased," was Averil's answer; but she blushed
a little at the young man's praise. Yes, it was her part to be Lady
Bountiful--to give pleasure rather than to receive it.

One afternoon she was in her usual seat, when Rodney came up to her;
he had had an engagement with one of his West End friends, and Averil
had not seen him since breakfast. He looked tired and heated as he
flung himself down on the steps by Averil's chair, and with her usual
quickness she detected in a moment that something was wrong.

"Where's Maud?" he asked, after an instant's moody silence. "Oh, I
remember!" before Averil could answer him. "She and the mater were to
lunch at the Egertons'. Ave, it is all over the club. I would not
believe it at first. I told Forbes that he could not be such a cad. But
it is true; I heard it from half a dozen fellows. Beverley is going to
marry his first love, Lady Clementina Fox."

Rodney had expected an exclamation of dismay, but Averil only grew a
little pale.

"Well?" she returned, briefly.

"It's true, I tell you," he repeated, staring at her as though unable
to believe this calm reception of his news.

"Of course it's true. I do not doubt you for a moment. If you think I
am surprised, Rodney, you are very much mistaken. I have expected this
for the last few weeks."

"But it is hard lines for Maud," groaned the lad, who, with all his
faults, was fond of his sisters. "I am glad I called him a cad to
Forbes. Here he has been paying her attention for the last six months.
I call it a confounded shame for any man to get a girl talked about.
Lots of fellows have said to me, 'I suppose Beverley and your sister
mean to hit it off.' I declare, he deserves to be horse-whipped!"

"Instead of that, he has secured a beauty and a fortune," returned
Averil, bitterly. "What does it matter to a man of his caliber if
a woman's heart is damaged more or less? Don't let us talk of him,
Rodney. I might be tempted to say something I should repent. The
question is, How is Maud to be told?"

"That is just what I was going to ask you," he returned, ruefully. "The
mater must not do it--she would drive Maud crazy. She can not help
fussing. And then she cries, and that irritates Maud. You will have to
do it, Ave. You know just how to put things, and you know when to stop
talking. I'll back you against any one for common sense and that sort
of thing."

"I!" returned Averil, recoiling with such a pale look of dismay on her
face that Rodney was startled. "I to inflict a wound like that on any
woman. Oh, no, Rodney!"

"But I tell you, Ave, it must be you," replied the lad, impatiently.
"Do you think I am the sort of fellow to manage a delicate
business like that? I should just blurt it out and then flee like
what's-a-name--the messenger that came to Jehu. I won't have a hand in
it, and you will do it so beautifully, Ave."

"No, no," she returned, almost harshly. "Maud has no love for me, and she
would only grow to hate me. If neither you nor your mother will do it,
Rodney, she must go untold. Tell her! How could I do it?" she went on,
half to herself, "when I know--none better--how it will hurt. Oh, that
women should have to suffer so!"

But Rodney would not give up his point.

"How can you have the heart to refuse?" he said, reproachfully. "Would
you leave her to the tender mercies of outsiders! Do you know she will
meet them to-night at the Powells'? If she does not know before, she
will see it for herself then."

"To-night!" in a shocked voice.

"Yes; don't I tell you so?" still more irritably. "Would you expose
her to such an ordeal unprepared? Ave, you must do it--you must get
her to stop at home. She can have a headache--women can always have
headaches--and Georgina must go in her place."

"Very well, I will tell her," in a weary voice. "Let me go now, Rodney,
or Frank will see I am upset. Don't think I am not sorry, because I do
not say much; but it is all such a terrible mistake, dear. You would
none of you believe me. I told you he meant nothing;" and then she
sighed and left him.

Averil knew that her task was a hard one. She doubted how Maud's proud
nature would receive such a blow. Would it be totally unexpected? had
she already a secret fear--a terrible suspicion--that Captain Beverley
was playing fast and loose with her? Averil could not answer these
questions. Maud had looked worn and jaded for the last week or two, and
the brightness of her beauty had dimmed a little, as though under some
secret pressure; but she had not even made Georgina her confidante.

Averil's opportunity came sooner than she expected. Half an hour later
she heard the carriage-wheels, and a few minutes afterward there was a
tap at her door, and to her surprise Maud entered. She was still in her
walking-dress, and looked extremely handsome.

"Averil," she said, pleasantly, "mamma quite forgot to ask you if we
could have the carriage to-night. Stanton says the horses are not
tired, and it's only a mile and a half to the Powells'."

"Certainly. Stanton is the best judge. He is careful not to overwork
Whitefoot;" and then, as Maud was leaving, she continued, rather
nervously: "Do you mind staying a moment? I wanted to speak to you
alone. There is something you ought to know that Rodney has just told
me about Captain Beverley--it is all over the club."

"Some scandal, I suppose," was the careless response. But Averil was
grieved to see the sudden fading of the bright color. "There are always
plenty of tales going on. I think men are just as much given to gossip
as women. I daresay it is some mare's-nest or other."

"I am afraid not," returned Averil, with marked emphasis. "Mr. Forbes
told Rodney, and you know he is a connection of Captain Beverley.
He said--indeed, indeed, it is true, Maud--that he is engaged to be
married to Lady Clementina Fox."

"I do not believe it," replied Maud. She had not a vestige of color
on her face, but her attitude was superb in its haughtiness. "Oliver
Beverley engaged! Nonsense! You ought to know better than to bring me
such tales."

"My dear," returned Averil, tenderly, "I bring you the news because no
one else would take upon themselves such an unkind office--because I
want to spare you all the pain I can. You will not go to the Powells'
to-night, Maud?"

"And why not, may I ask?" in a freezing tone, that repelled all
proffered sympathy.

"Because he and Lady Clementina will be there"--in a half whisper.

"That is all the more reason for me to go--that I may contradict this
extraordinary statement," was Maud's unflinching response; but a dark
flush crossed her face as she spoke. "Very well; I will tell mamma that
we can use the carriage;" and she swept out of the room.

Evidently Rodney was on the watch, for he slipped in a moment after.

"Have you told her, Ave?"

"Yes; and she does not believe it--at least, she says so."

"Do you think she does?"

"Certainly she believes it."

"Oh, she was always a game one," he returned. "Maud has plenty of
pluck; she will brave it out in her own way. And she will not be
pitied, mind you. Anyhow, you have got her off to-night?"

"I tried my best; but she says she will go. She is determined to find
out the truth for herself."

Rodney's face fell. "Shall I tell my mother? She must not be allowed to
go. No girl should put herself in such a position, with all her pluck;
she could not face them like that."

"I believe she could and will. No; leave her alone. You do not know
Maud; she has pride enough for ten women. Let her go and find out the
truth for herself. If you take my advice you will say nothing to your
mother. Mrs. Willmot will be able to control her feelings best before
strangers."

"Well, perhaps you are right," he replied, reluctantly. "We must just
make the best of a bad business."

"Just so. And if you want to help your sister, take no notice of her.
Maud will bear nothing in the way of sympathy. I know her, Rodney:
she is deeply wounded, but she will bleed inwardly. Captain Beverley
will have to answer for his dastardly behavior, though not to us;" and
Averil's face grew very stern.

"Well, I'll come and tell you about it afterward--that is, if you are
not asleep, Ave."

"Am I likely to be sleeping?" she replied, reproachfully. "Come here to
this room--you will find me up;" and Rodney promised he would do so.

Maud appeared in her usual spirits at dinner-time; she laughed and
talked freely with Frank and Mr. Chesterton; only Averil noticed that
the food was untouched on her plate, while Rodney more than once
replenished her glass with water.

She looked handsomer than ever as she stood in the hall, drawing on her
long gloves. Once Averil, moved to exceeding pity, touched her on the
arm.

"Maud, dear, do not go. Why will you not spare yourself?"

A mirthless laugh answered her. "Do not people generally congratulate
their friends? I have armed myself with all sorts of pretty speeches.
Mamma shall hear me say them. How she will open her dear old eyes!
Mamma, I think you and I are going to enjoy this evening."

"Indeed I hope so, my love. And how well you are looking--isn't she,
Averil? I know somebody who will think so."

Maud winced; then she recovered herself, and gave a low, mocking
courtesy. "Many thanks for the compliment. Good-night, dear people,
all. Rodney, take mamma to the carriage."

How superbly she was acting! Rodney could have clapped his hands and
cried, "Bravo!" but Averil only sighed. How long would such false
strength avail her? When would that proud spirit humble itself under
the chastening Hand?

Averil spent a miserable evening, in spite of all Frank could do to
rouse her. She sent him away at last.

"Go and talk to the others--Lottie and Annette. I am bad company
to-night, Frank."

"You are not yourself," he said, affectionately. "Something is
troubling you, and you will not tell us." And though Averil owned he
was right, he could not induce her to say more.

She was glad when the young men took their departure, and she was free
to seek her own room. Rodney found her there, trying to read, but
looking inexpressibly weary. She took his hand and drew him to a seat
beside her.

"Tell me about it, Rodney."

"There isn't much to tell. Alicia Powell got hold of Maud directly we
entered the room. I heard her say: 'Every one is congratulating them.
Lady Clementina looks charming. She is really a fine-looking woman for
her age, though she is older than Oliver.' You see, Alicia is a sort of
cousin, so she calls the fellow by his Christian name. They are to be
married in October, and go abroad for the winter."

"How did Maud take it?"

"Why, as a matter of course. Oh, I can tell you she behaved splendidly.
'Rodney has told us,' she said, as coolly as possible. 'It is an
excellent match. Mamma, there is a such a crowd here. Shall we move
into the next room?' You should have seen the mater's face--the poor
thing looked ready to drop. I believe Maud did not dare let her stay
there, for fear of the young lady's sharp eyes."

"Well?" for Rodney paused here.

"Well, I took them into the next room, and Forbes joined us there.
And of course he had plenty to say about Beverley's good luck. The
fellow--how I longed to kick him!--was standing talking to a big
red-haired woman. Oh, she was not bad-looking, but I was not exactly
in the mood to admire his choice. Well, he looked rather uncomfortable
when he caught sight of us, but he put a bold face on it. You should
have seen the air with which Maud gave him her hand--she might have
been a queen, and wasn't I proud of her! 'I hear that we have to
congratulate you, Captain Beverley,' she said, in quite a composed
way. 'I hope you will give us the pleasure of an introduction to Lady
Clementina.' Beverley seemed quite taken aback. I never saw a man
look so foolish. He had to bring her. And Maud made one or two pretty
speeches. And then she complained that the room was hot and crowded,
and Stewart--you know Stewart--took her away. I believe she had had
just enough of it."

"And your mother?"

"Oh, I looked after the mater pretty sharply. I got a seat for her
by old Mrs. Sullivan--you know her. She is as deaf as a post, and so
short-sighted that she never sees anything. The mater was turning all
manner of colors. We had quite a scene with her on the way home. But
Maud never spoke a word. She bade us good-night, and went up to her own
room, and locked herself in; and then I coaxed the mater to go to bed
too."

"Poor Rodney! You have had a hard time of it."

"I suppose it was not particularly enjoyable. If I could only have
kicked him, Ave! It is a shame that one is not allowed to horsewhip a
fellow like that."

And Rodney shrugged his shoulders and walked off with a disgusted face.




CHAPTER XIX.

"YOU WILL TRY ME, AVE?"


Averil had a painful interview with her step-mother the next morning;
but she was very patient with the poor, weak woman, who bemoaned
herself so bitterly.

Mrs. Willmot never brooded silently over her wrongs; her feeble
nature needed the relief of words; her outbursts of lamentation, of
indignation, of maternal solicitude, were all poured into Averil's ears.

"To think my girl, my own beautiful Maud, should be set aside by that
red-haired woman! Handsome! She can not hold a candle to Maud. Averil,
you do not know how a mother's heart bleeds for her child. My only
consolation is that she does not suffer as I feared she would. She is
angry with him--her pride is hurt, and no wonder! He has treated her
shamefully. But I am thankful to see that her affections are not deeply
engaged. If she had cared for him, would she have looked at him with a
smile, as she did last night?"

Averil let this assertion pass. Mrs. Willmot was not a person of much
penetration; she loved her children, but they could easily hoodwink
her. Averil herself held a different opinion, and her conviction only
deepened as time went on.

Maud bore herself much as usual. She still fulfilled her numerous
engagements, and seemed as much engrossed by her daily occupations as
ever, though she was perhaps a trifle more haughty, more exacting in
her demands on Georgina and Lottie.

But Averil noticed how heavy her eyes looked when she came down in
the morning, how often they were encircled with black rings. She ate
little, but any remark on her loss of appetite seemed to irritate her.
She was paler, too, and as time went on there were sharpened lines in
her face; the lovely curves seemed to lose their roundness; a sort of
haggardness replaced the youthful freshness. Averil tried once or twice
to break down the girl's reserve, but her gentle hints availed nothing.
Maud would have no sympathy, permit no condolence; and after a time
Averil's thoughts were diverted into another channel.

It was the middle of September now; Georgina had gone to visit
some friends in Ireland, and Mrs. Willmot and Maud were planning
to spend the greater part of October and November in Devonshire.
Averil's expenses had been heavy that year, and she had given up, in
consequence, a much-talked-of trip to Switzerland.

"Next year, if I live, I will take Annette and Lottie," she said to Mr.
Harland; "but Rodney is not leaving town just yet and I do not care
to leave him. Perhaps I will take the girls later on to Brighton for
a week or two; one summer in town will not hurt me;" and though Mr.
Harland grumbled at this resolution, she carried her point.

No, she could not leave Rodney; she was growing daily more anxious
about him. He was often moody and irritable, had fits of gloom,
followed by moods of reckless gayety. He was seldom at home, and when
questioned about his engagements by his mother and sisters always
answered evasively--Townley had asked him to go down to Cricklewood, or
Forbes or Stewart had invited him.

"Who is this Townley?" Maud had once asked. "Is he a new friend of
yours, Rodney?"

"Oh, I have known him for some time," he returned, curtly; "he is a
chum of Forbes--he is one of the clique;" and then he sauntered out of
the room.

Averil looked up from her work.

"Maud, I do not like the idea of this Mr. Townley. Frank knows him; he
says he is the most worthless of the set--a thoroughly bad fellow. I am
getting very anxious about Rodney."

"I think he ought to stay at home more," was Maud's reply. "I must get
mamma to lecture him. He has been borrowing money off her again--he
spends far too much."

"He would have been safer in Canada," returned Averil, quietly. But
to this Maud made no response, only a shade crossed her face; if she
regretted that false step, she did not say so; it is only a generous
nature that owns its mistakes.

That night Averil had a sad shock. She had been very busy all day, and
had sat up later than usual to finish some letters. As usual, Rodney
was out; but a little before one she heard Roberts admit him. She was
just putting away her papers, and as she closed her desk and opened the
door she heard the old butler's voice raised in a serious remonstrance.

"Mr. Rodney, sir, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You will wake
your mother and the young ladies! Do, I beg of you, let me help you to
bed before my mistress sees you; she is writing in her room."

"All right, old fellow! Don't you put yourself out," returned a thick
voice, curiously unlike Rodney's. As they passed, Averil covered her
face with a low cry. She must shut out that sight--her boy, with his
fair hair disheveled, and flushed, meaningless face, as he lurched past
her unsteadily on the butler's arm.

"Oh, Rodney, Rodney!" At that bitter cry the young prodigal seemed for
the moment half sobered.

"Never mind, Ave," he stammered; "I am only a little poorly.
Roberts--he is a good fellow--will take care of me. Good-night!"

Averil made no answer; she followed them up, with a white, stony
face, and went to her room. There was no sleep for her that night. If
vicarious shame could have saved Rodney, that bitter expiation might
have been his. "But no man can save his brother, or make an atonement
for him."

Rodney looked miserable enough the next morning: his conscience was not
yet hardened. Averil took no notice of him; it was Maud who lectured
him in sharp accents for his irregular habits.

"You will get into trouble one day if you go on like this," she said,
in her hardest manner; and yet Maud knew nothing of the disgraceful
scene. "You stop out late every night; you spend mamma's money, and you
are forming idle, useless habits from always mixing with richer men.
Mamma will be ruined if you go on like this."

"What a pity you hindered me from going to Canada!" sneered Rodney; and
somehow that home-thrust silenced Maud, and she shortly left the room.

Averil was finishing her breakfast; she had risen late, after a
sleepless night; but she only read her letters, and took no part in the
conversation. Rodney glanced at her uneasily.

"I wish you would speak to me, Ave," he said at last. "If you only knew
how confoundedly miserable I feel. Yes, I know I made a beast of myself
last night--you need not tell me that. Roberts has been rowing me. It
was those fellows--they would keep taunting me with being a temperance
man."

Averil looked at him in speechless indignation; but the flash of
the gray eyes was not pleasant to meet--they expressed their utter
contempt, such measureless disdain.

"Oh, of course I know you will be down on me; I have done for myself
now."

"Yes, and for me too. You have robbed me of a brother--do you think I
can own you for one now?"

"Do you mean that you are going to kick me out?"--in a tone of dismay.
Certainly, Rodney had never expected this.

"I will answer that question later," she said, sternly. "If you
think such scenes are to be permitted in my house, you are strangely
mistaken. These walls shall shelter no drunkard."

"You have no right to call me such names," retorted Rodney, angrily. "I
am no worse than other fellows. It was Saunders and Townley. They laid
a wager--"

"Stop--I will not hear you. Have you no manliness? Are you a child, to
be led by other men? What do I want to know about Saunders and Townley,
or any other of these worthless companions, who are ruining you? Will
they answer for your sin, Rodney--for your miserable degradation of
last night?"

"You won't let a fellow speak," he said, quite cowed by this burst of
indignation. "I know I made a wretched ass of myself. I am ashamed of
myself, I am indeed, Ave; and if you will only look over it this once,
I will promise you that it shall not occur again."

"How am I to have faith in such a promise?" she returned, sadly; but
her anger was lessening in spite of herself. He looked so wretched, so
utterly woe-begone, and he was only a boy; she must give him another
chance.

Rodney read the softening in her voice. "Only try me," he said,
eagerly; "I am not all bad--I am not, indeed! I will turn over a new
leaf. I will drop Staunton and all those other fellows, and look out
for a berth in earnest. Don't say you'll give me up. You are my best
friend, Ave"--and there were tears in the poor lad's eyes.

Averil's loving heart was not proof against this. He had been a mere
boy when her father had married, and from the first she had taken to
him. Rodney had never made any distinction between her and his own
sisters. He had always been fond of her; he tried to take her hand now,
and she did not draw it away.

"You will try me, Ave?"

"If you will give up the society of those men," she returned, in her
old gentle manner. "Do, my dear boy--do, for my sake--break with them
entirely, and with the club."

"I will--I will, indeed--I promise you! I must go there to-day, because
I have business with Townley."

"Oh, not to-day--never again, Rodney!"

"But I must, I tell you. Ave, I have business that can not be put off.
After to-day I will promise you gladly. I am getting sick of the whole
thing myself."

"And you must go?" And Averil felt a sinking of her heart as she put
the question.

"I give you my word, I must; but I won't be long. There shall be no
staying out to-night. I suppose"--looking at her wistfully--"that you
would not let me kiss you, Ave?"

Averil drew back. She had forgiven him, but she was not quite ready for
that. She had often permitted his brotherly caress, but somehow the
scene of last night was still before her.

"I will shake hands instead, Rodney." But directly he had left the room
she repented of her hardness. "I wish I had let him kiss me," she said
to herself more than once that day.

To distract herself, Averil ordered the carriage after luncheon, and
took Annette and Lottie for a long drive. They had tea at a little
village inn, and put up the horses for a couple of hours. Then they
drove back leisurely in the cool of the evening. The girls had filled
the carriage with festoons of honeysuckle and all kinds of wild-flowers.

It was nearly nine when they returned. The little expedition had
revived Averil, but her careworn look came back when Roberts told her
that Mr. Rodney had not dined at home.

"Miss Seymour was asking about him just now, ma'am. She said her mother
was quite anxious, for he had promised to come early."

Averil turned away without answering. She was sick at heart. Surely he
had not forgotten his promise already? She was too weary to sit up:
she was obliged to leave him to Roberts, who would have undergone any
amount of fatigue to shield his young mistress. She let Unwin help
her undress, and lay down in bed with the most miserable sense--that
her trust was gone. Unwin saw the tears stealing through her closed
eyelids. The faithful creature was relieved when worn-out Nature had
its revenge, and Averil fell into a heavy sleep that lasted until late
in the morning. She woke to find Unwin standing by the bed with a
breakfast-tray, and an anxious expression on her pleasant face.

"You have slept finely, ma'am," she said, as she opened the window a
little wider. "It seemed a pity to disturb you, but Miss Seymour seemed
to think it was late enough."

"Why, it is ten o'clock!" replied Averil in dismay. "My good Unwin, you
ought not to have let me sleep so long." And then, dropping her voice a
little--"When did Mr. Rodney come home?"

"He has not been home, ma'am," returned Unwin, in a distressed voice.
"That is why Miss Seymour begged me to wake you. She and Mrs. Willmot
seem very much worried; they say Mr. Rodney has never done such a thing
in his life as to stop out all night. Mrs. Willmot is fretting herself
about it. She will have it that something must have happened to him."

Averil lay quite still for a moment; then she sprung up.

"I must dress quickly," she said. "Put the tray on the table; I will
drink the coffee presently. Unwin, you were wrong not to wake me. I
must write to Mr. Harland at once; he will know what to do. Tell Mrs.
Willmot that I will be with her soon."

Averil hardly knew how she dressed that morning. Just before she left
the room she opened her Bible for a moment, and her eyes rested on the
words: "Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he will sustain thee," and
the promise seemed to comfort her.

On her way down-stairs she encountered Annette and Lottie. They both
looked very grave, and Annette slipped her hand through Averil's arm.

"I am so sorry, my cousin. It is not good of Mr. Rodney to frighten us
all like this."

"He ought to be ashamed of himself!" added Lottie, indignantly. "Aunt
is making herself quite ill."

"You must not keep me," returned Averil, as she disengaged herself
gently from Annette's detaining touch.

She found her step-mother in a piteous condition. The poor lady had got
it into her head that something terrible had happened to her boy.

"He has been run over, or there has been a railway accident," she said,
hysterically. "Averil, why don't you send Roberts to inquire at all the
hospitals? He has never done such a thing in his life as to stop out
all night. He knows how frightened I should be--"

"Mamma," interrupted Maud, in a hard, resolute voice, "there is not
need to conjure up such horrors. Why should there be an accident?
Rodney is not a child; he is able to take care of himself. How do we
know what may be detaining him?" But her words failed to convince her
mother.

It was some time before Averil could find an opportunity to speak, and
then she had little comfort to give.

"I think he is in some trouble, and that he is ashamed to come home,"
she said, in a low tone. "Some money trouble, I mean. I am going to
write to Mr. Harland; he will know best what to do, and Roberts shall
take my letter."

And then she withdrew to her room, leaving Maud to combat the weary,
endless conjectures, the tearful questions that were so difficult to
answer, mingled with incessant upbraiding; for Mrs. Willmot was selfish
in her grief.

"I wish we had let him go," she moaned. "It is your own fault, Maud,
for he had nearly persuaded me. If anything happens to your brother,
how are we to forgive ourselves?"--and so on through the slow-dragging
hours. No wonder Maud grew paler as the day wore on; her own heart
felt heavy as lead, and she could find few words of comfort for her
distressed mother.




CHAPTER XX.

"HAVE YOU FOUND HIM, FRANK?"


Averil was somewhat surprised when, two hours later, Frank Harland made
his appearance. His father had a touch of the gout, he explained. He
had come in his stead to offer his services. He listened attentively as
Averil put him in possession of the few facts.

"I will go down to the club at once," he said starting up with a
business-like air that seemed to promise efficient masculine aid.
"Don't trouble more than you can help, Averil. I shall be sure to find
out everything from some of the men. I expect the foolish fellow has
got into difficulties, and is keeping himself dark."

Mrs. Willmot cheered up a little when Averil imparted the young
lawyer's view of the case; her imagination ceased to dwell so
exclusively on hospital wards and fractured limbs. She had horrified
Maud and Lottie by mysterious hints of belated folks smuggled into dark
entries. "How do I know he is not made away with by ruffians?" she had
sobbed; and Maud, who had reached the limits of her endurance, and who
was suffering secretly the deadly sickness of remorse, silenced her
with impatient harshness.

"Mother you will drive me crazy," she said at last. "Why will you say
such things? It is cruel to us!" And Mrs. Willmot, who was easily
quelled by her eldest daughter, relapsed into weak tears.

It was Annette who came to Maud's relief at last. "Let her talk to
me," she said, quietly. "The air will do you good; this room is so
close. She can say what she likes to me, and it will not hurt--not as
it hurts you. Oh, I know all about it! She must talk; it is her only
relief;" and, to Maud's surprise, she placed herself beside the poor
lady. "You will talk to me, will you not?" she said, taking her hand
in her pretty, earnest way. "I will listen to you--oh, yes, I will
listen! I think there is a difference in people--some are so silent in
their grief. What is it you fear? Surely the good God will take care
of your son! You have prayed to Him? No!"--as Mrs. Willmot shook her
head--"then no wonder you are miserable! When one can not pray there is
no help."

A swift pang of regret crossed Maud's mind as she heard these simple
words. They had treated Annette badly; they had ignored her existence
as far as possible, and this was the kindly return she was making them.

Maud felt as though she hated herself as she paced restlessly up and
down the garden walks, straining her ears for the sound of Frank's
wheels. "What have I ever done in my life?" she thought, bitterly.
"Have I considered any one but myself? I deserve my punishment; I
deserve all this suspense and misery!" But so wretched was her mood,
that though her repentance was real, and there was nothing she would
not have done to ease her mother's mind, she could find no words for
Averil when she joined her.

"Dear Maud, I think this is worse for you than for any one," whispered
Averil, affectionately, looking into the brilliant, strained eyes, that
seemed as though they could not shed a tear. "I know how trying it has
been; but Annette is managing your mother so nicely."

"Don't Averil; I can't talk," returned Maud, hoarsely, and she turned
away. No, she could not talk. Averil meant kindly, but it was not
for her to understand. "If anything happens to Rodney it will be my
fault--mine," she murmured, as she resumed her restless walk.

It seemed hours before Frank returned. Averil met him in the hall, and
took him into her own room.

"Well," she asked, breathlessly, as she leaned against a table, "have
you found him, Frank?"

He shook his head. "He was not there. No one knows exactly where he
is. Will you sit down?" bringing her a chair, and compelling her with
gentle force to rest. "There is no need to stand for I have much to
tell you."

"Ah! then you have found out all about it?" And Frank nodded.

"He is in money difficulties--I was sure of that from the first. I have
seen Forbes, and he has told me all. That fellow Townley--he seems to
be a precious cad--got him to put his name to a bill some months ago.
It has been renewed. Well, I will spare you all that part. I need only
tell you that Townley behaved like a mean hound about it. He knew all
the time that he was sold up, and that they would come on Rodney."

"Was it for a large amount?"

"It was for three hundred and fifty pounds--a pretty sum for a young
fellow to pay who is living on his mother! He made the poor boy believe
that it was just a matter of form--that he would not be implicated in
the least."

"Frank, I will pay it. It is sad to throw my father's money away, but
we must clear Rodney. He has been duped by this man."

"Stop! There is more to tell. It is a very bad business altogether.
They left the club together last evening--they had been dining with
Forbes--and the vexation and terror, and the wine he had taken, had got
into the poor fellow's head. He was in an awful rage when he left the
club--they all say that--but Townley was only sneering and laughing at
him. Forbes says he heard Rodney mutter that he would have his revenge,
and, not quite liking the look of things, he lighted his cigar and
followed them."

"Wait a moment, Frank;" and Averil caught at his arm a moment. She was
white to her lips. Then, after a minute--"Now go on. I will try to bear
it!" And Frank obeyed her.

"Forbes did not like to follow them too closely, or to act as a spy,
but he could see they were quarreling. They had turned into a quieter
street, as though to carry on their discussion without hinderance, and
after a time they stood still under a lamp-post. Forbes was hesitating
whether he should pass them or not, when he heard Rodney say, 'You have
done for me, but I will be even with you;' and then he raised his hand
and gave him a terrible blow, and the next moment he saw Townley fall."

Averil moved her lips, but no words came.

"Forbes rushed up to them and thrust Rodney away. 'You have killed
him!' he said; and for the minute he thought he was speaking the truth.
Townley had fallen and struck the back of his head against the curb;
he was insensible, but not dead. As he knelt down and tried to support
him in his arms a policeman hurried up to him. 'I saw it done, sir,'
he said, excitedly, 'and I tried to nab the gentleman; but he was too
quick for me. One of my mates is giving him chase. He is not dead, is
he sir?' 'No; I can feel his heart beat,' returned Forbes. 'You must
get me a cab, and I will take him round to his rooms--they are not far
from here.' And then he went on to tell me how they took him home and
sent for the doctor, and how the physician feared concussion of the
brain. Forbes thinks he will not die. Don't look so white, Averil."

"Ah! I did not see you. Miss Seymour," as Maud's rigid face appeared in
the window. Evidently she had heard all.

"Rodney--where is he?" she asked. But her voice was almost inaudible;
and Frank went on addressing Averil.

"No one knows what has become of him. I have inquired at Scotland
Yard, but it appears he eluded the man who chased him. He is in
hiding somewhere. Don't you see, Averil, he is suffering a double
fear. Townley had told him the Jews would be down on him, and Forbes'
statement that he had killed Townley made him feel himself a murderer.
He dare not come home, for fear of being arrested; and our difficulty
is--where are we to look for him?"

"Oh, Frank, this is dreadful! What are we to do?" But Maud said
nothing. She leaned against Averil's chair, with her despairing eyes
fixed on Frank's face.

"We can do little at present, I fear. Until Townley is out of danger we
dare not hazard an advertisement. It would only put them on his track.
I can set a special agent to work, and, if you wish it, we can settle
with Isaacs about the bill."

"Yes, yes: I do wish it!"

"Then it shall be done at once. I am not without hopes, Averil, that he
may find means to communicate with us. I am sure, if Townley recovers,
that we shall hear from him soon."

"And if he dies?"

"Then he will get out of the country. But for that he will need money.
But I have a strong conviction that he will not die. Now I will go and
see after this business, and come back to you when I have settled it."

"But; you must not go without your dinner. I told Roberts that we would
have a cold supper to-night. Go into the dining-room, Frank, and I will
send some one to look after you. I must go to Mrs. Willmot now."

Frank was not unwilling to refresh his inner man. He went off
obediently. He blessed Averil in his heart when, a few minutes later,
Annette came into the room.

"My cousin wishes me to attend to you," she said, in her serious,
sedate way. "Lottie is out, and Miss Seymour is engaged. What is there
I can get you? There is cold lamb and salad, and a mayonnaise of
salmon."

"I will help myself, and you shall sit and talk to me," returned Frank,
who was quite equal to the occasion. There was something restful to him
in the girl's tranquil unconsciousness. Frank's heart beat a little
faster as she took the chair beside him, and talked to him in her soft
voice.

"It is too horrible; there is no English word to express it. You must
find him, Mr. Harland--you and monsieur--or my poor cousin will break
her heart. You have hope, you say? That is well. In every case one must
always have hope."

"I will not leave a stone unturned; you may be sure of that,"
replied the young man, fervently. He was ready to promise anything
to this gentle, dark-eyed girl who seemed to repose such faith in
him. Something of the old chivalrous feeling came into Frank's heart
as he listened to her; a longing to be her true knight--hers and
Averil's--and to hew his way through any obstacles.

"I shall not be here again to-night," he said, as he took a cup of
coffee from her hand. "It is late now, and I must consult my father.
But to-morrow--will you tell Averil that I will be here as early as
possible? I shall see you then?" looking at her inquiringly.

"But, certainly! Why not?" she rejoined, with naïve surprise. "This
rose--it is one of the last--will you give it to monsieur?"

"Monsieur--it is always monsieur," he returned, rather dolefully. "I
wish you thought of me half as much."

"But I think of you always," she replied, simply, "when I remember all
my good friends."

Frank was obliged to content himself with this temperate compliment.
It was this simplicity, this child-like, truthful nature, that had
drawn Frank to her from the first. "I have never seen any girl like
her," he said to his confidante, Louie, that night. "But, with all her
sweetness, I doubt if she cares for me in the least."

"You will have to find that out for yourself, by and by," returned
Louie, in her sensible, matter-of-fact way. In her heart she thought no
one could be good enough for her brother. Louie's ideal sister-in-law
would have been an impossible combination of beauty, intellect, and
amiability--a walking miracle of virtues. She honestly believed that
there was no man living to equal her father and Frank. Annette was very
nice, but she almost wished that Frank had not been so hasty in his
choice.

Mr. Harland quite forgot his pint as he listened to his son. He rubbed
up his grey hair with mingled annoyance and perplexity.

"I always told Averil the lad was as weak as water," he said,
irritably. "I hope that crazy mother of his is content with her work
now. They have brought things to a pretty pass between them. Why, it
seems to me that he has only just missed killing the man."

"I am afraid that Rodney thinks he has done for him. I wish we could
find him, father--the poor fellow must be suffering a martyrdom."

"And serve him right, too," returned Mr. Harland, with unusual
severity; and then he and his son plunged into a long business
discussion.

It was a miserable evening at Redfern House. Averil could not leave her
step-mother, who was in a pitiable condition of mind and body. Maud at
last suggested that Dr. Radnor, who knew her mother's constitution,
should send her a composing draught; and as this took immediate effect,
they were at last set free. Lottie and Annette found it impossible to
settle to their ordinary occupations, and after supper they sat out in
the moonlight, talking in low, subdued tones of the sad events of the
day. Lottie, who was very tender-hearted, and easily moved by other
people's feelings, cried at intervals; she was fond of her cousin,
in spite of his love of teasing, and the thought of him, lonely and
unhappy, oppressed her sadly.

"I was afraid we were too happy," she murmured. "I don't think I have
ever been so happy in my life. It has been such a beautiful summer--it
brought you, my dear Fairy Order, and, oh! lots of nice things."

"It will not be always dark," replied Annette, quietly. "Look at that
sky, my Lottie; how the little stars are shining through the cloud.
Presently it will pass away. Oh, there is my cousin coming in search of
us."

Yes, Averil had come to fetch them. It was late, very late, she said,
and they would be safer in bed. Unwin had offered to watch that night.
Averil could not rid herself of the thought that perhaps in the
darkness of the night their poor boy might steal into his home. "He
will see the light, and then he will know we are expecting him," she
said to herself, as she followed the girls up-stairs.




CHAPTER XXI.

JIM O'REILLY.


Averil had just reached her own room when she remembered that she had
not bidden Maud good-night. It was very late, and just for a moment
she hesitated; then she crossed the passage and tapped softly at her
door. There was no response. She knocked again, and then gently turned
the handle. For the instant she thought the room was empty, until a
sound of a low smothered sob from the bed arrested her. The moon had
retired behind a cloud, and in the dim uncertain light Averil could
just discern a dark form stretched across the bed. A great pang of pity
crossed her as she groped her way to it--it was Maud; she had thrown
herself down, fully dressed, upon the quilt, with her face buried in
the pillow, and was trying to choke down the hysterical sobs that were
shaking her from head to foot. The strain of the last few hours had
been too great, and she had broken down the moment she found herself
alone. The overmastering passion made her deaf to everything; and, as
Averil stood beside her, the words, "Oh, Oliver, Oliver! cruel, cruel!"
reached her ears distinctly.

There were pitying tears in Averil's eyes, and then with a sudden
impulse she stooped over her and drew Maud's head to her bosom, and
soothed her as one would soothe a broken-hearted child.

"Do not try to check it; you must give way at last. All this time you
have borne it so bravely and alone. Why should you fear me, your sister
Averil? Oh, my poor dear, I know how you have suffered. And then this
last cruel blow!" Then, as bitter sobs only answered her, she went
on, tenderly, "You have been so good to-day; you have not thought of
yourself, but only of your poor mother. Do you think I do not know how
terribly bad it has been for you?"

"Don't praise me; don't say anything kind," returned Maud, hoarsely,
as her strong will forced down another quivering sob. "Poor mamma! how
gladly would I change places with her! She is unhappy, but she has not
this weight," putting her hands on her breast. "Averil, if anything
has happened to Rodney, I shall have been my brother's murderer. Mamma
would have let him go, only--" she stopped, and Averil's sisterly arms
only pressed her closer.

"You must not say such things," she returned, gently. "You have been
selfish and thoughtless; you did not think of his good, but only of
your own; but if you had realized all this mischief, you would have
been the first to bid him go."

"You say that to comfort me," she returned, in a broken voice. "But,
Averil, you do not know. I shut my eyes willfully; I sacrificed Rodney
to my own interests; I thought of nothing but Oliver; and now I am
punished, for he has left me. He taught me to love him; he made me
believe that he cared only for me; and now he is going to marry another
woman!" and the poor girl shuddered as she said this.

"Dear Maud, he was not worthy of you."

"Not worthy of me?" with the old scorn in her voice. Then she broke
down again, and buried her face on Averil's shoulder. "What does it
matter if he were not worthy, when I loved him? I loved him! Oh, you
are good to me, but you do not know--how can you know?--all I have
suffered."

"I know more than you think, dear," returned Averil, in a low,
thrilling voice. "I may not have suffered in the same way--for to me
there is no pain like the pain of finding one we love unworthy of our
affection; but if it will comfort you, Maud--if it will make you more
sure of my sympathy with you in this bitter trial--I do not mind owning
that I also have known trouble!"

"You have cared for some one!" starting up in her surprise. "Oh,
Averil, I am so sorry."

"Well, so am I," with quaint simplicity. "It was very foolish, was it
not?--a little crooked body like me. But it was my father's fault. Dear
old father! how his heart was set on it! No, Maud, I am not going to
tell you the story; it is not old enough. In one sense I was happier
than you, for he was good--oh, so good!--though he could never have
cared for me. Well, it is past and over, and I am wiser and happier
now--no one suffered but myself."

"Oh, Averil, how can you speak so calmly?"

"My dear, there was a time when I could not have spoken so; when I
thought life looked just like one long, dull blank, when I did not know
how I was to go on living in such a dreary world. I remember I was in
this heavy mood one day when the words came into my mind; 'In the world
ye shall have tribulation;' and then I said to myself, 'What if this be
my special cross--the one that my Lord meant me to bear? Shall I refuse
it, because it is so painful, when He carried His for me?' I had been
bearing it alone, much as you have done; but it came upon me then that
I must kneel down and tell Him all--the disappointment, and the human
shame, and the misery, and all that was making me feel so faint and
sick with pain. And when I rose the burden was not so heavy, and it has
been growing lighter and lighter ever since. Dear Maud, will you try my
remedy?"

"I can not, Averil. You will be shocked, but I have never prayed in my
life. Of course I have said my prayers--just a collect or two morning
and evening, and at church; but to speak like that, to tell out one's
troubles--"

"There is no comfort like it," returned Averil, in her sweet, clear
voice. "When we talk to others there is so much to explain; we fear
to be misunderstood; we measure our words anxiously; but there is no
need with our Heavenly Friend, 'Lord, Thou knowest'--one can begin
like that, and pour it all out. We are not alone any more; we fear no
longer that our burden will crush us: human sympathy is sweet, but we
dare not lean on it. We fear to exhaust it; there is only one sympathy
that is inexhaustible."

"If I were only like you!" sighed Maud; and then, in broken words, it
all came out--the tardy confession of an ill-spent youth. The barrier
once removed, there were no limits to that long-deferred repentance.
At last Maud saw herself by a clearer light, and owned honestly the
two-fold faults that had been the bane and hinderance of her young
life--pride and selfishness. Yes, she was humbled now; the scorching
finger of affliction had been laid upon her, but she had refused to
recognize the chastening hand. It needed another stroke, another trial,
before her haughty spirit was bowed in the dust.

Maud never knew how dearly she loved her brother, until terror for his
fate awoke her slumbering conscience. "If I could only suffer in his
stead!" she moaned, more than once.

Averil's disciplined nature knew better than to break the bruised
reed. With gentle tact and patience she listened to all Maud's bitter
confession of her shortcomings. In her sturdy truth she did not venture
to contradict her. Only when she had finished she said, tenderly:

"Yes, you have been very selfish; but you will be better now. If you
only knew how I love you for telling me all this, Maud! I have still so
many faults. Life is not easy. We must help each other; we must be real
sisters, not half-hearted ones. And one thing more--we will not lose
courage about our dear boy;" and then, after a few more words, and a
tearful embrace from Maud, they separated.

If Averil's limbs ached and her head felt weary, there was thankfulness
in her heart. At last the barrier was removed between her and Maud; the
patient endurance of years was reaping its fruits of reward. Averil's
generosity had already forgiven everything. Hers was the charity which
"hopeth all things."

Maud was very quiet and subdued the next day. She looked ill, but
nothing would induce her to spare herself.

"My mother likes to have me with her," she said, in answer to an
affectionate remonstrance from Averil. "Why should Annette be
troubled?" And Averil was obliged to let her have her way.

Frank kept his promise, and came early, but he could give little
comfort. There was no news of Rodney, and Mr. Townley still lay in the
same precarious state. He came again in the evening, and stayed to
dinner. It seemed a relief to Averil to have him with them, and his
cheery influence had a brightening effect on the dejected household.

Annette told him frankly that she was glad to see him, only she blushed
a little at his evident delight in learning that fact. "Was I wrong to
say that?" she thought; but she would not confess this doubt to Lottie.

"It is an ill wind that blows no one any good." Frank might have felt
this, if he had been been in the mood for proverbs; but he was too
full of sympathy for his friends, too anxious on Rodney's account, to
consider any personal benefit. His father's touch of gout was certainly
in his favor: still, he condoled with him dutifully on his return from
Redfern House. He sent a line by a messenger the next morning to tell
Averil that Mr. Townley was certainly better. "Doctor Robertson has
hopes of him now," he wrote. "My father is still incapacitated for
business, though he is in less pain, so I am up to my ears in work;
but I will contrive to look in on you at dinner-time. I shall possibly
spend the night in town, as I have an early appointment for to-morrow."

Averil carried these good tidings to Maud, who was obliged to own
herself ill. She had been seized with faintness while dressing, and
Lottie had summoned Averil in alarm. Averil took things into her own
hands very quietly; she made Maud lie down again, and put her under
Unwin's care. When Dr. Radnor came to see Mrs. Willmot she would
just give him a hint to prescribe for Maud, too. Secret trouble and
want of sleep were telling even on her fine constitution. She wanted
care, rest, and, above all, freedom from anxiety. Averil did her best
for her. She prevented Mrs. Willmot invading her daughter's room, by
representing to her that Maud was trying to sleep. She and Annette
mounted guard over the poor, distracted woman, who could not be induced
to employ herself or to do anything but wander about aimlessly,
bemoaning herself to every one who had time to listen to her.

Maud could at least be in the cool, shaded room that Unwin kept so
quiet, and brood over her wretchedness in peace. Now and then Averil
came to her side with a gentle word, or Lottie, in a subdued voice,
asked how she felt. For the first time in her life, Maud felt it was a
luxury to be ill. No one expected her to make efforts. When every one
looked so grave and sad, there was no need for her to try and hide her
misery.

When Frank came that night he was shocked at Averil's wan looks. The
suspense of these three days was telling on her. She shook her head at
his first kind speech.

"It can not be helped," she said, quietly. "I was never one of the
strong ones, Frank;" and she turned the subject. "Maud is ill, too,
and Mrs. Willmot is in the same miserable state, unable to settle to
anything. Dear Annette is so good to her. We have not told Georgina: we
can not bear to do so. It would only make one more to suffer; and she
is so far away. Have you heard of Mr. Townley again to-night."

"Yes, and he is going on well. If we could only let Rodney know that--"
And then Roberts announced dinner, and Frank had no time to say more.

A little later, as he was speaking to Averil in the bay-window, Roberts
came in rather hastily.

"There is a man outside asking to speak to you, ma'am," he said,
addressing his mistress. "He seems a rough sort of body, like a
crossing-sweeper; and he refused to send his message by me. He wasn't
overcivil when I wanted him to state his business. 'I'll speak to Miss
Willmot, the mistress of the house, and no one else;' and that's all I
could get out of him, ma'am."

"Never mind, Roberts: I'll go to him;" for the old butler looked
somewhat aggrieved.

"We will go together," returned Frank. "I dare say it is some begging
petition, as my father says. You play the part of Lady Bountiful far
too often, and of course you are taken in."

Averil smiled, but she was in no mood to refute the accusation.

"You may come if you like," she said, with gentle nonchalance. "But
I am rather apt to form my own conclusions. Where have you put him,
Roberts?"

"Well, ma'am, I just shut the door on him, for he was not over and
above respectable," returned the old servant. But both he and Frank
were surprised to find that she recognized the man as one of her
endless protégés.

"Why, it is Jimmy!" she said, as he pulled off his frowzy cap, and
displayed his grizzled gray locks. "I hope your wife is not worse,
Jimmy?"

"Bless your kind heart, miss, she is doing finely. It is only an errand
the young gentleman asked me to do for him. 'You will put this into her
own hands, Jim O'Reilly,' he says to me; and, the saints be praised!--I
have done it," finished Jim, as he burrowed in the pocket of his ragged
jacket and produced a dirty scrap of paper that smelled strongly of
tobacco.

Averil gave a little cry, for she had recognized the handwriting,
scrawled and blotted as it was.

  "I must see you, Averil. I can endure this suspense no longer. Do not
  be afraid. Trust yourself to Jimmy. He is as honest as the day, though
  a bit soft. He will bring you to me."

No more--not even a signature. But there was no mistaking Rodney's
clear, familiar writing. She held it out to Frank. A gleam of pleasure
crossed his face as he read it.

"Shall we go at once, Averil?" for she was watching him anxiously.

"Yes, yes. I will put on my bonnet. I must just tell Maud where we are
going. What a comfort to have you, Frank!"

But Jim O'Reilly, who had been standing stolidly aside, struck in here.

"I can't be taking the pair of you, surely. It is Miss Willmot the
gentleman wants. Better come along of me alone, miss, and then folks
won't ask so many questions."

"But I could not think of letting Miss Willmot go alone," returned
Frank, decidedly. "Look here, my good fellow: I am an old friend of the
family, and Mr. Seymour will be glad to see me."

But evidently Jimmy held doggedly to his own opinion, until Averil
interposed.

"He is right, Jimmy. You need not be afraid of trusting this gentleman.
He knows about everything. Do not let us waste any more time in
talking. Roberts, we shall want a cab."

"I will fetch one round at half past nine, sharp," interrupted Jimmy.
"Look here, missus," addressing Averil, "I am to bring you along of the
young gentleman, ain't I? Well, begging your pardon, I must be doing it
my own way. It is not dark enough for the job yet. Just keep your mind
easy for another hour, and I'll be round with a four-wheeler, as sure
as my name is Jim O'Reilly. We have a goodish bit to go, and I'll look
out a horse that is fresh enough to take you there and back. Half past
nine--not before, and not after;" and Jimmy shambled toward the door.

"Oh, Frank, don't let him go!" exclaimed Averil, in a distressed voice;
and Frank nodded, and followed him out. He came back after a few
minutes.

"It is all right," he observed. "The man knows what he is about. He is
going to smuggle us into some slum or other. How thankful I am to be
here!"

And Averil indorsed this with all her heart as she ran up-stairs to
share the good tidings with Maud.




CHAPTER XXII.

MOPS IS ADDED TO THE PENSIONERS.


Averil thought that hour the longest she had ever spent in her life;
she was ready nearly half an hour before the time, and was sitting
watching the minute hand of the clock, or starting up at every sound.
But she need not have disquieted herself--Jimmy was faithful to his
appointment. At the exact stroke of the half hour a cab was at the
door, with Jimmy on the box. Frank handed Averil in, and then tried to
question Jimmy; but the old sweeper was invulnerable.

"I'll take you there right enough. Don't trouble your head, sir. Now,
then, cabby;" and Frank had to jump in hastily, for fear he should be
left behind.

If the waiting seemed endless, the drive seemed still more
interminable. A close, sultry day had ended in a wet night; only a few
passers-by were hurrying through the rain. In the better thoroughfares
the shops were closed: only the flaming gas-lamps, or some illuminated
gin-palace, enabled Frank to see the route they were taking. Happily,
they had a good horse, just fresh from his stable, and a steady driver.

By and by, when Averil was tired of straining her eyes in the hope of
recognizing each locality, Frank discovered that they were turning
into Oxford Street, and a few minutes afterward the unsavory precints
of the Seven Dials were revealed to them. Late as it was, the whole
neighborhood seemed swarming out-of-doors--women with ragged shawls
over their heads, and trodden-down, slip-shod heels, were passing
through the swing-doors of a dingy-looking tavern; loafing men,
barefooted children, babies in arms, and toddling infants blocked up
the narrow pavements. Averil looked out on them pitifully, until the
cab suddenly pulled up, and Jimmy appeared at the door.

"We won't go no further, master," he said. "You just take the
lady down that there street," jerking his thumb backward over his
shoulder. "Half-way down on the left-hand side you will see a
bird-fancier's--Daniel Sullivan is the name. Just walk in and say Jim
O'Reilly wants to know the price of that there fancy pigeon, and you'll
find you've hit the mark. Cabby and I will wait here; you will find us
when you want us."

"Come, Averil," interposed Frank, eagerly; but Averil lingered a moment
to slip some money into the hand of a white-faced, weary-looking woman,
with a baby in her arms, and a crying child, hardly able to walk,
clinging to her shawl.

"Take them in out of the rain. God help you, you poor things!" she
whispered, as the woman looked at her in a dazed way, and then at the
coins in her hand. That dumb, wistful look haunted Averil as Frank
hurried her along. Some quarrel was going on--a woman's shrill tones,
then rough oaths and curses in a man's voice, mingled with the rude
laughter of the lookers-on.

"Sure you are in the right of it, Biddy!" exclaimed one slatternly
virago. "Ben ought to be ashamed of himself for calling himself a
man--the sarpent he is, to trample on a poor cratur, and to get her by
the hair of her head, the owld bully!"

"Daniel Sullivan--this is the place," whispered Frank, as he drew
Averil through the narrow door-way into a small, dimly lighted room,
crowded with cages and hutches, wherein were rabbits, pigeons, and
every species of bird. A dwarfish old man, with a gray beard and a fur
cap, was haggling with a rough-looking costermonger over the price of a
yellow puppy. The mother, a mongrel, with a black patch over her eye,
was gazing at them in an agonized manner, and every moment giving the
puppy a furtive lick.

"Get out, Mops," growled her master, angrily. "You aren't going to keep
this 'ere puppy, so you may as well make up your mind to it;" and Mops
feebly whined and shivered.

The poor creature's misery appealed to Averil's soft heart. She
heard the costermonger say, as he took his pipe out of his mouth. "I
will give you a tanner for the pup;" when, to Frank's surprise she
interfered:

"Will you let me have that dog and the puppy? I have taken rather a
liking to them. I would give you five shillings."

"I ain't so sure about parting with Mops," returned the old man,
gruffly. "She ain't much to look at, but she is a knowing one."

Evidently Mops was knowing, for she wagged her tail, and licked her
puppy again, with an imploring glance at Averil that fairly melted her
heart. Daniel was induced to hesitate at the offer of seven shillings
and sixpence, and in another moment Mops and the yellow puppy were
Averil's property, to be added to the list of Mother Midge's pensioners.

Frank waited until the costermonger had gone out grumbling, and then he
asked for Jim O'Reilly's fancy pigeon. The old bird fancier looked up
quickly from under his overhanging eyebrows.

"Oh, that's the ticket, is it? Come along, sir;" and he pushed open a
door, and ushered them into a close little room, lighted somewhat dimly
by a tallow candle, and reeking of tobacco smoke.

As they entered, Rodney, who was sitting by the table as though he had
fallen asleep, with his head on his arms, started up; and at the sight
of his white, haggard face and miserable eyes, Averil's arms were round
his neck in a moment.

"Oh, Rodney, my darling, at last we have found you! Why have you kept
us in such suspense three whole days?--and we have been so wretched."
And all the time she spoke she was fondling his hands, and pushing the
hair off his forehead, and the poor lad was clinging to her as though
she were his only refuge.

"Oh, Ave!" was all he could get out, for the lump to his throat almost
choked him. He did not seem to notice Frank; he was half awake, and
dazed, and paralyzed with misery. Averil was shocked to see the change
in her boy; his eyes were sunken, he looked as though he had not slept
or eaten, and his hand shook like an old man's. "Don't you hate me?" he
murmured, hoarsely, in her ear. "Ave, I'm a murderer--a murderer!"

"My darling, no. You are no such thing," she returned, soothing him,
for his manner terrified her. "Do you know, Frank and I have good
news for you? Mr. Townley is not dead. Dear Rodney, God has been very
merciful. He would not permit you to spoil your life; He has given
you another chance. The poor man was stunned by your violence, but
not killed; he is better, recovering--indeed, he will not die; will
he, Frank?" For it seemed to her as though Rodney could not believe
her--as though he dared not take in the full meaning of her words. He
had pushed her away, and now he stood with his trembling hands on her
shoulders, and his heavy, blood-shot eyes trying to read her face.

"You are deceiving me--he is dead," he muttered. For the moment Averil
thought the shock had turned the poor lad's brain; but Frank knew
better; his common sense came to her aid.

"Nonsense! Don't play the fool, Seymour," he said, with assumed
impatience. "You know as well as I do that Averil is not the girl to
tell you an untruth. Of course, Townley is not dead. I am going to see
him to-morrow, and offer damages. We have taken up the bill for you,
and it is all settled. You have got off far better than you deserve."

Frank was not mincing the matter; but his brusque, matter-of-fact
speech seemed to have the effect of recalling Rodney's scattered
faculties. He drew a long breath, changed color, and finally burst into
tears.

Frank gave Averil a reassuring nod. "It will be all right now. I'll
come back presently, after I have had a look at Mops;" for Frank's
tact was seldom at fault, and his kindly heart, so like his father's,
told him that Averil would like to be alone with her boy. "After all,
there is no cordial like a woman's sympathy" he thought, as he stood
looking into a wooden box, where Mops, relieved in her maternal mind,
was sleeping with her puppy.

Frank had time to indulge in a great many reflections before he thought
it prudent to go back. Rodney looked more like himself now; he rose
from his chair, and put out his hand to Frank somewhat timidly.

"I could not offer it before," he said, in a low voice. "I thought I
should never venture to shake hands with an honest man again. I felt
like Cain, branded for the whole term of my miserable life. Will you
take it, Harland?"

"To be sure I will;" and Frank shook it cordially. "Let bygones be
bygones. We are not any of us ready to throw stones. Averil, don't
you think Jimmy will be tired of waiting? and our cabby will be making
his fortune out of us. Besides, they do shut up shop here, even in the
Seven Dials. Come along, Seymour. I expect you have had about enough of
this place."

"Do you mean I am to go home with you?" for, somehow, such a blessed
idea had never occurred to Rodney. Home--he had never hoped to see it
again, "But it is not safe, is it, Ave?"

"And why not?" returned Frank, in his cheerful, off hand manner. "Of
course, Isaacs had a writ out against you, but Averil has settled that.
As far as that goes, you are a free man. I hear Townley's solicitor
intends to claim damages. I am going to see after that to-morrow. Your
mother means to sell out of the Funds and clear you. I can't help
thinking"--and here Frank eyed him critically--"that a warm bath and
a shave--I strongly recommend a shave--and a good supper will make a
different man of you. We will just settle with your landlord and Jim
O'Reilly, and then we will make the best of our way home." And to this
they both assented.

But Averil did not forget her new pensioners--oh, dear, no! Mops and
her puppy were both put into the cab. The way home did not seem half so
long, for Rodney was telling them all they wanted to know. He described
to them his panic-stricken flight that night, and how he took refuge in
a dark entry, where Jim O'Reilly found him.

"He was a regular pensioner of mine," explained Rodney, "and he
recognized me at once. 'You come along with me,' he said, when I had
implored his assistance. 'There is a pal of mine in the Seven Dials
that will keep you dark for a bit. You will be safe along of Daniel
Sullivan;' and then he brought me here. I believe I have been nearly
out of my mind half the time. And at last I could bear it no longer,
and then Jim said he would take my note. I thought I must see you and
get some money; that you would help me to escape out of the country.
I never had a doubt that Townley was dead. Forbes' words, 'You have
killed him!' rang in my ears day and night. Oh, Ave, if I can forget
what you have done for me to-night!"--and the pressure of his hand
spoke volumes.

"Seymour, there is still that post in Canada. Just at the last moment
Hunsden was unable to go. They cabled to us yesterday for another man."

This was joyful tidings to Averil--a mute thanksgiving for another
mercy crossed her lips. But Rodney only said, in a dispirited voice,
that Mr. Harland never would give him the chance again.

"How can I expect people to trust me after what has happened?"

"We'll talk of that later on," was Frank's answer; and then the cab
stopped, and the door flew open, as though Roberts had been stationed
there some time.

"I am glad to see you, sir," he said, as Rodney sprang up the steps;
for Roberts was a privileged person, and knew all the family secrets.

Mrs. Willmot was in her dressing-room, and Rodney went up at once to
see her and Maud. When he came down he found a comfortable meal ready
for him. How sweet and home-like it looked to the poor prodigal! But
for the sight of Mops, who was making herself quite at home in an
arm-chair, blinking with one eye at the eatables, those three days
might have been some hideous nightmare. Rodney rubbed his eyes, and
then looked again, and met Averil's smile.

"I must see you eat and drink before I go to bed," she said, beckoning
him to a seat beside her. "Frank says he is hungry, and no wonder,
for it is nearly one o'clock. Frank, will you put down a plate for
Mops--the poor thing looks half starved!" And by the way Mops devoured
her meal, Averil was probably right.

       *       *       *       *       *

How peacefully the household at Redfern House slept that night! What a
happy reunion the next morning, when Rodney took his accustomed place
at the breakfast table by his mother's side! It was such a pity, as
Annette observed, that Maud should be missing. Poor Mrs. Willmot could
scarcely take her eyes off her boy; every moment she broke into the
conversation to indulge in some pitying exclamation about his looks.
"Did not dear Averil think he looked ill? He had grown thin; he was
altered somehow." Then it was, "Poor, darling Maud had not slept all
night; her nerves were in a shocking state;" and so on; but no one
attended to her. Frank was talking to Annette in rather a low voice,
and Rodney was listening to Averil. Frank tore himself away with much
reluctance. True, he was coming again that evening. He was to see
Mr. Townley's solicitor, and to offer apologies and ample damages on
Rodney's account; and there was the Canada scheme to be discussed, for
he had already hinted to Averil that there was not a moment to lose.

When Frank had gone off, Averil sent Rodney to sit with his sister, who
was still too weak to leave her bed; and then she went into her own
room and lay down on the couch and looked out on the sunshiny garden.
Much to the black poodle's disgust, Mops had followed her there; Mops's
sense of maternal dignity was evidently strongly developed--she had
certainly a ridiculous fondness for the fat, rollicking, yellow thing.
It amused Averil to see the way Mops looked at her every now and then,
as much as to say, "Did you ever see a finer, handsomer puppy?"

It was utter peace to Averil to lie there and watch the thrushes on
the lawn; the soft ripeness of the September breeze seemed laden with
a thousand vintages; the birds' twitterings, the bees' humming, even
the idle snapping of Ponto at the flies--all seemed to lull her into
drowsiness.

She woke from a delicious doze to find Rodney beside her. He was about
to move quietly away, but she stretched out her hand to stop him.

"I have woke you," he said, penitently. "Ave, I never saw you asleep
before. You have no idea what a child you looked;" and there was a
little touch of awe in the young man's voice. Something in Averil's
aspect, in the frail form, the pure, soft outlines, the child-like
innocence, seemed to appeal to his sense of reverence.

Rodney was not wrong, for was she not a happy child? just then resting
in her Father's love, content to trust herself and her future to Him.

"You look too shadowy and unsubstantial altogether," he went on, half
seriously, half humorously; "as though you only wanted a pair of wings
to fly away. But we could not spare you yet--we could not indeed."

"Not till the time comes," she said, stroking his face as he knelt
beside her. "Oh, Rodney, how nice it is to have you again! Do you think
I should ever forget my boy, wherever I may be--'in this room or the
next?'--as some one has quaintly said."

"Oh, one can't tell about those sort of things," he returned, vaguely.

"No; you are right, and I have never troubled myself with such
questions, as some people do. How can we tell if we shall be permitted
to see our dear ones still militant here on earth? I am content to
leave all such matters; our limited human intelligences are unfit to
argue out these deep things. Of one truth only I am convinced--that God
knows best."

"I always said you were a little saint, Ave."

"Nonsense!" she returned, playfully. "I don't believe you know the
meaning of the term. Do you remember what Dryden said?--

    "'Glossed over only by a saintlike show.'

"It is far too big a word to apply to a poor little sinner like me.
Now, I want to talk to you about something else, Rodney--something
peculiarly earthly--in short, about Canada; for Frank will be here this
evening, and we must make up our minds on the subject."




CHAPTER XXIII.

"GOOD-BYE, AVE!"


Frank had a whole budget of news that evening. He had seen Mr. Townley,
who was recovering fast, and had made him handsome apologies on
Rodney's part.

"They say there is good in every one," observed Frank, sententiously,
looking round a little patronizingly on his listeners. "There is
often a touch of good in what seems most evil. Evidently, Townley's
conscience has been giving him a twinge or two, for he won't ruin us
in the way of damages; in fact, we have come to terms without his
solicitor. You are to pay the doctor's bill, and that is about all,
Seymour. And now let us go into the Canada question. My father wishes
to know if you will take the berth."

There was no hesitation on Rodney's part this time; his grateful
acceptance was annotated very tearfully by his mother. Rodney's
repentance was too real to haggle over terms, to desire delay; if they
wanted him, he would go at once--the sooner the better. His outfit
could be managed in a couple of days. And to all this Averil assented.

She left them still in full conclave, and went up to tell Maud the
news. As she did so she was struck with the melancholy wistfulness in
her beautiful eyes.

"Oh, how I envy him!" she sighed.

Averil looked at her in surprise: "You envy Rodney?"

"Yes; not because he has sinned so deeply, and has been pardoned so
generously--for I might almost say the same of myself--but because he
is going to a new place, to begin afresh, to make another commencement.
It will be like a different world to him; no one will remember his past
follies, or cast a slur on him."

Maud spoke with intense earnestness and passion; and as she paused,
a sudden thought flashed into Averil's mind--one of those quick
intuitions that made Frank now and then call her a woman of genius.

"Should you like to go, too, Maud?" she asked, very slowly.

"I!" with a quick start and flush. "What is the use of putting such a
question?"

"I mean, should you care to go and make a home for Rodney?"

"I should love it of all things. But mamma--you know she could not do
without me. Georgina is not thoughtful, and somehow she has always
depended on me."

"Yes, I know that; but why should you not all go? It would be better
for Rodney, and his mother can not bear to part with him. I would help
you to form a comfortable home, though, perhaps, not an extravagant
one. Rodney will keep himself. After all, it is not a bad idea. I have
often heard you and Georgie long for a Canadian winter. What do you
say, Maud?"

"Oh, Averil, do you really mean it?" And now Maud's eyes were full of
tears, and she could hardly speak.

"Tell me exactly what you think of it, dear," went on Averil, in an
encouraging voice. "I know your mother will agree to anything you
propose. She has never been selfish with regard to her children, except
in that one instance--her refusal to part with Rodney."

"And that was more my fault than hers," returned Maud, remorsefully.
"Do not blame poor mamma--she has her faults. We have none of us
treated you well, but she has always been good to us. I know she is so
fond of Rodney that it will almost break her heart to be separated from
him; and it does seem so lonely for him out there without any of us.
Rodney is so unlike other young men of his age--he never seems to want
to leave us."

"I think he would love to have you."

"I know he would; and a home would be so comfortable--he would come to
us every evening. Averil"--dropping her voice--"if you only knew what
it would be to me to get away, so that I should not be obliged to meet
them everywhere. I am afraid," speaking with great dejection, "that you
will think me very weak, but I feel as though I should never get over
it if I stay here, doing just the same things, and going to just the
same places, and having no heart for anything."

"My poor child"--caressing her--"do you think I do not understand? Do
you imagine that I am sending you away from me for my own good?"

"Ah, that is the only sad part--that I should have to leave you,
Averil, and just as I was beginning to love you so. It is all my
selfishness to plan this, and leave you alone."

"But I shall not be alone," returned Averil, brightly. "I do not mean
you to take Lottie, so you may as well make up your mind to that.
Besides, Ned Chesterton wants her, and I intend him to have her, by and
by, when Lottie is a little older and wiser. Then I shall have Annette,
and Mother Midge, and a host of belongings. Never was a little woman
richer in friends than I am."

"You deserve every one of them," replied Maud; and then a shade passed
over her lovely face "You will be better without us, Averil. Mamma,
Georgina, and I have only spoiled your home and made it wretched. You
will be able to lead your own life, follow your own tastes as you have
never done yet. Do you think I do not see it all plainly now? how
it has been all duty and self-sacrifice on your part, and grasping
selfishness on ours? I wonder you do not hate us by this time, instead
of being our good angel!"

"You shall not talk so," returned Averil, kissing her. "You are my dear
sister, and sisters always bear with one another's faults. Well, it is
settled; and now I shall leave you to talk it over with your mother,
while I give a hint to Rodney and Frank. Then there is Georgina; she
must come home at once; and you must get well, Maud; for your mother
will do nothing without you."

"I feel well already," replied Maud; and indeed she looked like a
different creature; something of her old energy and spirit had returned
at the notion of the change.

Averil knew her suggestion had been a wise one; it was a "splendid
fluke," as Frank observed when he heard it.

If a bomb had exploded at Mrs. Willmot's feet she could not have been
more utterly aghast than when the idea was jointly propounded by Maud
and Rodney. "Preposterous! Impossible!" she repeated over and over
again. "A more impracticable scheme had never been heard. Cross the
sea! Never! She was a wretched sailor. She would rather die than cross
the Atlantic. Live out of England, where her two good husbands were
buried! How could any one ask such a thing of a widow? Averil just
wanted to get rid of them; it was a deep-laid plot to set herself free."

Rodney was too indignant at this charge to utter another word. He
took himself off in a huff, leaving his mother dissolved in tears. He
had been so charmed with the idea; the Canadian home had so warmed
his fancy; but, if his mother chose to feel aggrieved, he would have
nothing more to say to it--and as Maud was too weary to carry on the
discussion, the matter dropped.

But a night's sleep effected wonders, for, lo and behold! the next
morning Mrs. Willmot was in a different mood--the only impossibility
now would be to bid good-bye to Rodney. "Sooner than be separated from
that dear boy, she would cross a dozen Atlantics! Maud had evidently
taken a fancy to the scheme, and the thing should be done."

"Thank you, mother," returned Rodney, gratefully; and Mrs. Willmot
heaved a deep sigh.

"It was a sacrifice," she said, a little pompously; "but she had always
thought more of her children than herself; and the change would be good
for the dear girls. Young people were very gay in Canada, she heard.
They had nice sledging-parties, and there were a good many dances;" and
here she coughed, and looked significant.

In spite of her troubles, Mrs. Willmot would always be true to her own
nature; her pleasure-loving instincts would always crave indulgence.
She was neither stronger nor better for all her trials.

But as Averil looked at Maud she did not fear the mother's influence.
Maud's character was strong, for good or evil. With all her faults,
there was nothing small or mean about her. If she had erred, she had
also repented; and though hers might be a weary, uphill fight, Averil
felt there would be no weak tampering with temptation. Maud would be
a little hard in her judgment of herself and others--a little prone
to hold the reins too tightly. She would discipline herself sternly,
and exact the same scrupulous honesty from others; but Averil knew she
could be safely trusted to do her best for her mother's and Rodney's
comfort. To her strong nature, their very dependence on her would bring
out her best points.

Her present position in the household had never suited Maud. She had
grudged Averil her power; and though this might have been checked in
the future, her life at Redfern House did not afford her sufficient
scope.

"She will be far more her own mistress out there," observed Mr.
Harland, as he joined the family circle the night before Rodney
sailed. It had been arranged that Rodney should start alone, and that
his mother and sisters should follow him in a month's time. Their
preparations were much more extensive than his, and they had to bid
good-bye to their friends. Besides, Averil was not willing to part
with them quite so soon. Strange to say, she felt fonder even of her
step-mother now she knew they were to be separated. There had never
been anything in common between them, and yet Averil discovered, or
thought she had discovered, a dozen new virtues.

"Maud will be very much admired out there," went on Mr. Harland, in the
same aside.

But Averil scarcely answered. She was not thinking of Maud that night,
but only of Rodney. Her eyes seemed to follow him everywhere. Had she
realized how she would miss him? How quiet the house would be without
his boyish laugh, his merry whistle! From the very first he had taken
the place of a young brother to her. Frank had been her great big
brother, but Rodney was a sort of Benjamin. His very faults, his moral
weakness, had kept her closer to him. It is impossible to be anxious
about people and not to grow to love them.

He saw her looking at him at last, and came and sat beside her, with a
very sober face.

"I do hate good-byes; don't you, Ave?" he said, in rather a melancholy
tone.

"Why, no," she said, trying to speak cheerfully. "I think the word the
most beautiful word in our language. 'Good-bye--God be with you.' That
is what it means, Rodney."

"Oh, yes, of course; but I was not meaning the word itself. It is only
that I do hate leaving you, Ave." But she would not let him say that,
either. Though her own heart was aching, she would send him away
brightly.

"It is a grand thing you are doing," she said, in her sweetest and most
serious voice. "You are going out to do a man's work in the world; to
carve out your own career; to make a home for your mother and sisters."

"It is you who are doing that," he returned. "You have been far too
liberal; we could have managed with much less."

"I do not need it," was all her answer; and then she went on with a few
words of sisterly advice--not many words. Averil did not believe in
much speaking; but she knew that Rodney loved her well enough to hear
her patiently.

Of the two he seemed more affected when the time of parting came. There
were no tears in Averil's eyes as there were in his--only something of
solemnity.

"God bless you, my darling!" was all she whispered, as he kissed her
again and again; and his "Good-bye, Ave," was dreadfully husky; but, as
she smiled and waved to him, no one knew how her heart ached. "Shall I
ever see him again?" she said to herself as she turned away. But she
left that, as she left everything else, to the wise and loving will of
her Heavenly Father.

The month that followed Rodney's departure was rather an ordeal for
Averil. Georgina had rushed home at the first news of the flitting,
and her exuberant spirits and abundant energy seemed to turn the house
upside down.

If the Seymour family had contemplated a move into the wilds of
Africa, to a spot most remote from civilization, there could not have
been greater excitement. Friends crowded round them; dress-makers and
milliners held mysterious interviews at all hours; huge traveling-boxes
filled up the passages; and Lottie and Annette had their work cut out
for them. It was "Lottie, will you do this for me?" or "Lottie, you
must really find time to finish this," from morning to night.

Lottie was quite equal to the occasion. Her affectionate mind was
brimming over with good-will to every one. Lottie's magnanimity had
long ago overlooked the past. She had forgotten the minor miseries, the
petty tyrannies, the small denials, that had harassed her youth; she
only remembered gratefully that her aunt and cousins had given her a
home. She must do everything she could for them in return. Lottie even
chided herself secretly for her hardness of heart; she could not be as
sorry as she wished. The thought of being alone with Averil and her
dear Fairy Order was too delicious altogether; and as she found Annette
held a similar opinion, the two girls indulged privately in many a
delightful day-dream.

Averil was thankful when the ordeal was over, and the last parting
words had been said. Her real "Good-bye" to Maud had been said
overnight. Maud had come to her room, and they had had a long, long
talk. Maud had been very much overcome, and Averil had found it
difficult to soothe her; but just at the last she said hurriedly--and
Averil loved to remember her words:

"Don't think I shall ever forget your goodness, Averil. If I ever
become a better woman, it will be all owing to you; because you trusted
me, and I dare not disappoint you. All these years you have set me an
example, though I did not choose to take it; but I shall remember it
when I am away from you. I must not promise--indeed, I dare not trust
myself; but, Averil, you shall see--you shall see how I will try to do
better!" And Maud nobly kept her word.

It was the end of October when the Seymours left Redfern House, and
Averil, who was weary, and had long needed rest and change of scene,
took her two girls the very next day to Brighton, where they spent the
greater part of November.

It was a glorious time for Annette and Lottie; and even Averil, in
spite of her fatigue, enjoyed the long, sunshiny mornings, the pleasant
drives, and the cozy evenings, when they worked and read aloud; and
during the pauses of their conversation they could hear the water
lapping on the stones in the starlight.

It was a little strange settling into Redfern House again. The rooms
looked large and empty, and for a long time a pang crossed Averil each
time she passed the door of Rodney's room. But she would not give way
to these feelings of depression. She devoted herself more than ever to
her girls' interest. She had found a music-master for Annette, and a
drawing-master soon followed; lectures on English literature, concerts
and oratorios, social evenings with a few congenial friends, soon
filled up the busy day.

In the spring, Louie Harland came for a long visit, and remained for
some weeks, joining the girls in all their studies and amusements, and
setting Averil free for a lengthy visit to Mother Midge; and when she
left them it was with the full understanding that the first fortnight
in June was to be spent by the trio at Grey-Mount House.




CHAPTER XXIV.

"YOU ARE MONSIEUR'S SON."


One lovely June afternoon Annette was sitting on the steps that led
down from the veranda at Grey-Mount House. She was alone, and looked
unusually pensive; indeed, there was a slight shade of melancholy
on her expressive face. Annette had just remembered that it was on
this very day last year that she had first seen monsieur. "A year
ago--actually it is a year," she said to herself, "since I left the Rue
St. Joseph! Oh, those days--how dark and narrow they seem beside my
life now!" And Annette shuddered involuntarily as she remembered the
close, dark room, the long, weary hours, the frugal, solitary meals,
when the tired lace mender had finished her work.

But the next moment the old street, with its curiously gabled houses,
vanished from her mental vision, and she took up a different thread of
musing. "What could she have said last night to offend Mr. Frank so
deeply? He had kept away from her all the evening, and this morning he
had gone off with only a hurried good-bye, and without waiting for his
button-hole bouquet, though it was all ready for him--the prettiest she
had ever made."

It was this remembrance that had been tormenting Annette all day, and
had spoiled the sunshine for her. She had left Louie and Nettie to
finish their game with Lottie, because she was playing so badly; and,
of course, that was Mr. Frank's fault, too.

Annette did so hate to hurt people; but, though she did not like to
confess it even to herself (for she was very loyal to her friends), Mr.
Frank had been so very touchy lately. He was always pulling her words
to pieces and grumbling over them, and he never seemed quite satisfied
with her. "I think I disappoint him terribly," she said to herself,
plaintively. "And yet what have I said?" And here Annette tried
painfully to recall her words. They had been talking very happily,
Frank had been giving her an account of a walking-tour, and somehow the
conversation had veered round to Dinan and monsieur. Perhaps he was a
little bored with her praises of monsieur, for he suddenly frowned (and
she had never seen him frown before), and said: "It is no use trying; I
may as well give it up. I don't believe any man has a chance with you;
you think of no one but my father."

"I think there is no man so good and wise as monsieur," she had
replied, very innocently; and then, to her dismay, Mr. Frank had looked
hurt, and became all at once quite silent.

"I do not understand young men," she said, as she laid her head on the
pillow; "they are strange--very strange. Mr. Frank looks as though I
had committed some crime. Friends ought not to quarrel for a word.
To-morrow I will make him ashamed of himself. His bouquet shall be
better than monsieur's."

Annette was quite happy as she prepared her little offering--she even
smiled as she laid it aside. She was sure Frank saw it, though he took
no notice; he always petitioned for one so humbly. But on this unlucky
day he went out of the breakfast-room without a word; he was in the
dog-cart beside his father as Annette crossed the hall, and his cold,
uncompromising "Good-morning, Miss Ramsay!" left her no opening. The
poor flowers were left to wither on the marble slab, and Annette, in
rather a melancholy mood, settled to her practicing; but her scales
were less perfect than usual. "What can it mean?" played the prelude to
every exercise and study.

Annette had laid aside her mourning; she was in white this evening,
and the cluster of dark roses at her throat suited her complexion
admirably. Her pretty little head, with its dark, smooth plaits, was
drooping slightly. Something in her attitude seemed to strike Frank as
he crossed the lawn on his way to the house; he looked, hesitated, then
looked again, and finally sauntered up to the veranda with a fine air
of indifference.

"Do you know where Louie is, Miss Ramsay?"

"She is playing tennis with Lottie. Oh, you are leaving me!" as Frank
nodded and turned away, and a distressed look crossed her face. "All
day I have wanted to speak to you, and now you will not listen! Mr.
Frank, I do not like my friends to be angry with me when I have done no
wrong--no wrong at all. It is not treating me well!" And Annette looked
at him with grave dignity.

Evidently, Frank had not expected this. He had been brooding over his
grievance all day--nursing it, magnifying it, until he believed that
he was greatly to be pitied. But this frankness on Annette's part cut
away the ground from beneath his feet. How could he explain to her the
manner in which she had hurt him? She was so unlike other girls--so
simple and child-like. Frank found himself embarrassed; he stammered
out something about a misunderstanding.

"A misunderstanding, surely, since I have been so unhappy as to offend
you," returned Annette, gently. "Mr. Frank, will you tell me what I
have done, that I may make amends? I have hurt you--well, that gives me
pain. I think there is no one for whom I care so much as--"

"Monsieur," finished Frank, gloomily, and there was quite a scowl on
his pleasant face. "Why don't you finish your speech, Miss Ramsay?
We all know what you think of monsieur!"--which was very rude of
Frank, only the poor fellow was too sore to measure his words. He was
angry with himself, with her, with every one. He could not make her
understand him; all these months he had been trying to win her, and
there had been no response on her part; but this frank kindliness--

Annette looked at him for a moment with wide-open, perplexed eyes. She
wished to comprehend his meaning.

"Well," she said, slowly, "and you are monsieur's son, are you not?"

Now what was there in this very ordinary speech--the mere statement of
an obvious fact--to make Frank suddenly leap to his feet and grasp her
hand?

"Do you mean that?" he exclaimed, eagerly. "Annette, do you really
mean that you can care for me as well as for him? Tell me, quickly,
dear! I have been trying so hard all these months to make you
understand me; but you never seemed to see."

"What is it you wish me to understand?" she said, shyly; for, with all
her simplicity, Annette could hardly mistake him now. "You quarrel with
me for a word, but you tell me nothing plainly. Is it that I am too
slow, or that you have not taken the trouble to instruct me?"

"Trouble! where you are concerned!" he said, tenderly. And then it all
came out--the story of his love, his patient wooing, his doubts if his
affection could be returned.

"You were always so sweet and friendly to me," he went on; "but I could
never be sure that you really cared for me--that you cared for me
enough to become my wife," finished the young man in a moved voice.

"You could not be sure until you asked me," returned Annette naïvely.
"There was no need to make yourself so miserable, or to have given me
this unhappy day."

"Have you been unhappy, too, my dearest?" but Frank looked supremely
happy as he spoke.

"Yes; for I could not bear that anything should come between us. So you
see, my friend, that, I too, have cared a good deal." But when Frank
wanted her to tell him how long she had cared--"Was it only yesterday,
or a week ago, or that day on which they had gone to the Albert Hall,
when I gave you the flowers?" and so on, Annette only blushed and said
she did not know.

"But surely you have some idea, my darling?"

"But why?" she answered, shyly. "Is it necessary to find out the
beginning of affection? Always you have been kind to me. You have made
me glad to see you. I have never separated you from monsieur since the
day we talked of him so much. 'This young man resembles his father--he
has the same kind heart:' that is what I said to myself that day"--and
Frank was too content with this statement to wish to question his
sweetheart more closely.

Mr. Harland was sitting in the study reading his paper, and talking
occasionally to Averil, who was in her hammock-chair beside him, when
a slim white figure glided between him and the sunshine, and Annette
stood before him.

"Well, mademoiselle," he said, playfully--for this was his pet name for
her--"what has become of the promised walk?"

"Oh, I have forgotten!" she said, with a little laugh; "and it is your
fault, Mr. Frank"--but she did not look at the young man as she spoke.
"Monsieur, you must forgive me, for I am not often so careless; and you
must not scold your son, either, because we are both so happy."

"Eh, what!" exclaimed Mr. Harland, dropping his eye-glasses in his
astonishment; for Frank actually, the young rogue, had taken Annette's
hand, and was presenting her to him in the most curiously formal way.

"Father, do you want another daughter?" asked Frank hurriedly. "I have
brought you one. The dearest girl in the world, as you have long known."

"I know nothing of the kind, sir," returned his father, in much anger.
"To think of your saying such a thing with Averil sitting by. The
dearest girl in the world--humph!"

"Monsieur knows that is not the truth," replied Annette, and her dark,
soft eyes were very pathetic. "Perhaps he is not willing to take the
poor little lace-mender for his daughter."

"Is he not?" was the unexpected reply. And Annette, to her delight and
astonishment, found herself folded in his arms. "My dear little girl,
I am more than willing! Monsieur is not such a conceited old humbug.
He knows what is good as well as other people; and he respects his
son"--here he grasped Frank's hand cordially--"for his choice; and he
begs to tell him, and every one else concerned, that he is a sensible
fellow." And here Mr. Harland marched away, using his handkerchief
rather loudly, to tell his wife the news.

"Dear Annette," exclaimed Averil, "will you not come to me and let me
wish you joy?" And as she warmly embraced her, Annette whispered, "Are
you glad, my cousin? Have I done well?"

"Very well indeed," returned Averil. But for a moment her heart was so
full that she could say no more. Evidently Frank understood her, for he
glanced proudly at his young betrothed.

"I am a lucky fellow, am I not, Averil? Ah, here comes Louie. I expect
my father is literally publishing it on the house-tops. Come with me,
Annette; let us go and meet her."

"So you have been and gone and done it, Frank," observed Louie, with
great solemnity; "and I have a new sister. Annette, I warned you before
that Frank was my own special brother; and now you will have to be fond
of me as well as him, for I don't mean to be left out in the cold." And
though Louie laughed, and spoke in her old merry way, the tears were
very near her eyes.

"But I do love you already," protested Annette, earnestly. "And it
makes me so happy to know that I, too, shall have brothers and sisters.
Mr. Frank will not have them all to himself any longer. They will be
mine, too. Is it not so?"--appealing to her lover; and of course Frank
indorsed this with delight.

What a happy evening that was at Grey-Mount House! Frank, who was
idolized by his brothers and sisters, found himself in the position
of a hero. The Harlands were simple, unworldly people. It never
entered their heads that the son and heir was not making a very grand
match in marrying a young orphan without a penny to call her own--a
little, sallow-faced girl who had once earned her living by mending
lace. To them "kind hearts were more than coronets, and simple faith
than Norman blood;" and they were wise enough to know that Annette's
sweet disposition and lowly virtues would keep, as well as gain, her
husband's heart.

It was very pretty to watch her, Averil thought, that evening. She took
her happiness so simply; she seemed so unconscious of herself. Her one
thought was to please her fiancé, and all those dear people who had
taken her into their hearts.

"You are very happy, Annette?" Averil said to her later on that night.
"But I need not ask; for your face is brightness itself."

"I think I am more than happy," returned Annette, with a deep sigh of
utter content. "Ah! if only my mother could know that I am to spend my
life with so good a man. Lottie has been trying to tease me. She will
have it that Mr. Chesterton is nicer--as though he could compare with
my Mr. Frank!" finished Annette, with a gesture of superb disdain.

"God has been very good to me," thought Averil, reverently, when
Annette had left her, and she sat alone in the moonlight. "How
different things were with me this time last year! Then I was troubled
about Rodney; my home-life was miserable; Annette was an unknown
stranger; even Lottie was a care to me. And now I trust, I hope, my boy
is beginning a new life; I am happier about Maud; my burdens are all
lifted, and if the future looks a little lonely, it will not be for
long--not for long--" She stopped and folded her hands, and a sweet,
solemn look came into her eyes. What if her work were nearly done? if
the weary, worn-out frame would soon be at rest? Would that be a matter
of regret? "When Thou wilt, and as Thou wilt," was the language of
her heart. Soon, very soon--yes, she knew that well--the tired child
would go home. And as this thought came to her in all its fullness, a
strange, mysterious joy--a look of unutterable peace--came on the pale
face. "Even so, Father," she whispered--and the dim summer night seemed
to herald the solemn words. "In my Father's house are many mansions:
if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for
you." "And for me--for me, too!" prayed Averil.




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