Chapter Twelve.
A Shooting Luncheon.
It was with the exultation of a child on a holiday that Hope prepared to start for the picnic lunch the next day. Hitherto she had watched the departure of the other ladies with a spasm of not unnatural envy, but now she was going herself. The day was bright and mild, and it was so pleasant to drive in the open behind Pipeclay, the little white pony which was Avice’s special favourite. Truda had driven on ahead with the luncheon-baskets, accompanied by a young married lady who was the latest addition to the house-party, so the two cousins were alone, and could talk together without fear of interruption. Hope was all brightness and animation, for she was experiencing at that moment a mysterious lightness of heart which made her see everything through rose-coloured spectacles. She admired everything—the grey stretches of the landscape, the outline of the trees against the skies, the tumble-down cottages by the roadside—while Avice listened to her animated talk with a wistful smile on her face.
“You enjoy everything, Hope. How do you manage it? I wish I knew your secret, for to me it all seems so stale and uninteresting. I do not believe there is anything in the world which would make me so bright and happy as you seem this morning.”
“Nothing?”
“No—nothing. I enjoy some things more than others, of course; but, honestly, for me the happiest moment of the day is when I lie down in bed and feel that for eight hours at least I need do nothing but rest.”
“Poor darling!” cried Hope sympathetically—“poor darling! That is a matter of health, of course. But, Avice, don’t you think that perhaps if you—”
“Yes; if I what?”
Hope knitted her brows and looked distressed and nervous.
“Oh, I don’t want to preach, but perhaps if you had something to do—if you did not think quite so much of—I mean to say that if one is feeling weak and listless, and has nothing to do, one goes on feeling worse and worse. But if one gets interested—”
“Yes, I know what you mean; but how is one to get interested? That is the question. I am not clever like you, and have no hobbies to occupy my mind, and I get so bored with myself. Mother won’t let me help her. She thinks I am too delicate; and, apart from that, she is quick and I am slow, and it would fidget her to see me droning through what she could do in half the time. It is all very well to say, ‘Have an interest.’ Everything that seems new and exciting to you here is stale to me. I am sick to death of living in public as we do, entertaining one set of visitors after another, who all say the same things and amuse themselves in the same way. I am not strong enough to go out ‘slumming’ or visiting hospitals, as some girls do. Where would you find your interest if you were in my place, Hope?”
“I’d find it somewhere,” said Hope sturdily. “You have plenty of money and plenty of time, and there must be a hundred ways of putting them to account. I—I think I would try to help girls who are alone in the world and struggling to make their living. We are all together, and have enough money to keep us from actual want, but I can imagine how awful it must be for girls who are all alone, with no one to help them if they fall ill; whose lives are one long, colourless struggle, with never a ray of brightness or pleasure from Monday morning until Saturday night. Could you not think of some way of helping them? What could you do? I know; I have it! There is that sweet little lodge with no one living in it but old George and his wife, and she was lamenting to me only yesterday that her daughters were married, and there were no young folks left in the house. Why should you not furnish two rooms upstairs, and invite poor shop assistants and girl-clerks to come down for their holidays, two at a time, so that they would be companions for each other? It would be so easy to manage, for you need not think of expense; and Mrs Moss would wait upon them, while you provided their amusements. You could go round with Pipeclay and take them out for drives; you could lend them books and papers, and have them up to the house to tea. They would confide their joys and troubles to you, and tell you about their ‘friends,’ and write letters to you when they went home. When they married, you could help to provide the trousseaux. And when the first little girls were born they would be called after you, and you would knit their socks. They would be brought up to love you because you had been kind to their mothers, and it would be the dream of their lives to be asked down to see all the places of which they had heard so much. In a dozen homes all over the country people would be blessing you, and looking upon you as the good fairy who had brought them health and happiness. Oh Avice, you lucky girl! What would I give to have such a chance? I would begin to-morrow—to-day—this very afternoon!”
“Well,” said Avice reflectively—“well!” It was not in her nature to be enthusiastic like her cousin, but she smiled as if the idea found favour in her sight, and her dull eyes brightened. “It does sound nice. I suppose I could do it if I liked. Mother wouldn’t mind, and Mrs Moss would be delighted. She is one of those women who are never so happy as when they are nursing some one; and she would coddle the girls from morning till night, and give them beaten-up eggs and black-currant Jelly for their throats, and her celebrated cough mixture made out of nine ‘ingrediencies’! I really will think about it, Hope. I believe it would be interesting. Would you help me to furnish the rooms and make them pretty and artistic?”
“Rather! I adore buying things—when some one else has to pay. We would have one room blue, and one pink, with white paint and dear little white beds, and bookcases full of nice books, and comfy wicker chairs by the window, where the girls could sit and read, and rest their poor, tired backs. And I would be your town agent, and look out for likely subjects. If I were in a shop and saw a poor, anaemic-looking girl, I could find out her circumstances from the manager or head of the department; and if she had no one to look after her, and was living in the shop, or in poky little lodgings, I could send on her name to you, and you would invite her to come here for the holidays. Oh, you are going to do it, my dear! You’ll have to do it! I’ll give you no peace till you do.”
“I’ll think about it. I can’t decide things in a moment; but I would like to work with you, Hope, and it doesn’t sound too formidable. I really think I could arrange a pleasant holiday for the girls.”
“I really think you might,” agreed Hope, laughing; and then suddenly came a halloa of welcome, and over the fence appeared one head after another as the shooting party rose to receive the new-comers.
Truda and Mrs Inglis had arrived some ten minutes earlier, and luncheon was laid on a cloth under the shelter of the hedge, mackintosh sheets being spread upon the ground, on which the guests could sit without fear of rheumatic consequences. A few yards away the beaters were already refreshing themselves with Irish stew and copious draughts of beer, while from the hampers had come forth all manner of tempting viands, to which the sportsmen did ample justice, the while they protested at such dainties.
“Mrs Loftus spoils us altogether. I don’t approve of luxuries at a shooting lunch. We are getting too soft as a nation; that is what is the matter with us. It would be a lot better if we went back to simpler ways.—Cut me a chunk more of that galantine, that’s a good fellow. A chunk, I said; cut it thicker, can’t you?” and Reggie Blake bent forward to superintend the carver’s movements with an anxiety of expression which evoked a hearty laugh from his companions.
Mrs Nash, the new-comer, was offering “a handsome wife and ten thousand a year,” in the shape of the lost roll upon a plate, to an old bachelor of sixty, who appeared much delighted at the prospect. Truda was playing tunes on the rim of her tumbler; Avice had actually a tinge of colour in her checks; and Hope sat perched on a cushion, looking down on them all like a queen on her throne. Before the meal had begun she had found herself seated uncomfortably between two of the least interesting of the sportsmen; but she had hardly time to realise her disappointment before—presto! the scene was changed. Mr Merrilies had strolled towards the pony-cart, and returned with an armful of cushions, which he placed on the ground close to where he himself had been sitting.
“There!” he said; “those are for you, Miss Charrington. You have evidently not mastered the art of lunching comfortably on the ground, and we shall have to break you in by degrees. Let me take your plate.”
Thus in the most open and natural fashion the change was effected which was fraught with so much satisfaction to the two people most concerned. It was so much pleasanter than the old position, thought innocent Hope—the view was more extended, more beautiful, more sunny and cheerful; and to judge from his unusual animation, Ralph Merrilies was of the same mind as herself. There was no chance of private conversation; but there are occasions when the most commonplace phrases become interesting and the very passing of the mustard is a thrilling incident!
When lunch was over the ladies agreed to walk a little way with the men, leaving the carts to pick them up at another point. Once again Hope found herself carried off by Ralph Merrilies, and guided by such a circuitous path that the other members of the party were soon ahead and safely out of hearing. For a time they talked of matters connected with the day’s sport, but gradually the conversation took a more personal tone, and Hope found Mr Merrilies confiding details of his life to her attentive ears. It appeared that his parents were dead, and that he owned an estate in Hampshire, where he lived in much luxury, and greater boredom, during such portions of the year as he was not visiting or risking his life abroad in search of adventure; that he was, in short, one of those wealthy, idle men of whom she had often read, but whom she had never met. As for him, he was charmed by her naïve interest and curiosity concerning himself and his doings. She asked for a description of the house, of his housekeeper-aunt’s appearance, character, and attainments; she wondered how he employed himself all day, suggested improvements in his grounds, and was much concerned to hear of a fire among the stacks at the home farm. Then he adroitly led the conversation to herself, beginning with a reference to the subject in which she appeared most deeply interested.
“I suppose you amuse yourself with music. As you sing and play and compose, you have plenty of variety to keep you going. The worst of possessing so many talents is, that they are so much appreciated by other people that they want to work you to death for their amusement. Last night, for instance! It was too bad to keep you at the piano all evening, and treat you as though you were a professional accompanist.”
“I wish I was,” sighed Hope wistfully; and when her companion looked at her with a start of surprise, “That is what I want to be,” she added simply. “I have to earn my living in some way, and neither my voice nor my playing is good enough for public performances; but I can accompany. I should be thankful if any one would hire me for the purpose.”
Ralph Merrilies looked at her in silent astonishment. He had taken for granted that, as the niece of the wealthy Mr Loftus, Hope Charrington occupied the same position in society. Man-like, he had noticed none of the signs of poverty in her attire which were plain as print to feminine eyes. What if her attire was always of the simplest description? She invariably looked better than any other girl in the room. If one solitary dress did duty every evening, a new arrangement of laces transformed it in his eyes; and if she wore no jewels, the round white throat and arms looked all the better for their lack of adornment. It gave him a shock of surprise to hear her speak of making her own livelihood.
“Do you really mean that?” he asked gravely; and in reply Hope gave him a short biographical sketch, which explained the present position of the family. “So you see I am responsible for a share of our expenses,” she said in conclusion, “and it is not so easy to earn as I expected. I thought I should have little difficulty in getting songs published, but I find it is very difficult indeed; and even if I sold one or two in the year, they would bring in very little, so I must find something that is more certain. I should make a good accompanist, for I can read at sight and transpose as I go, and know when to humour a singer and when to pull him up. But the difficulty is to find an opening. I do hope that I may not be reduced to giving lessons! That would be a real trial of patience, and the prospect is so hopelessly limited.”
“Oh, you must not give lessons! That would never do,” said Ralph, drawing his brows together in a disapproving frown. That she should need to work at all was an idea still disagreeably new. “You speak of becoming an accompanist. What does that mean exactly! Is there an opening for accompaniment playing, apart from taking a more prominent place in a programme?”
“Oh yes. Professionals often insist upon having their own accompanists, for it is so easy for a stranger to spoil their effects. Even among amateurs they are occasionally required. Suppose a lady gets up a concert for charity, or gives a musical ‘At Home,’ or has private theatricals, it is an immense help to have some one who can play for all the performers alike, improvise a few bars if things go wrong, and fill up awkward gaps by appropriate ‘selections.’ That is the work which would suit me best, if I could make a start and become fairly well-known.”
“I see. Yes, as you explain it, there certainly is an opening in that direction; but forgive me for saying that the position seems too subordinate for your talent. Why should you not sing yourself? You would be better paid, and it seems to me that you are very well fitted to do so.”
Hope shook her head with pathetic candour.
“No. My voice is not strong enough. I am a fair amateur, but most people can find friends to sing for them quite as well as I could do; and if they hire professionals at all, they want something better—a beautiful voice like Minnie Caldecott’s, for instance. As you said yourself the day I arrived, it is a fastidious age, and mediocrity cannot hope for success.”
“Did I say that? What a singularly unhappy remark! You must forgive it, please, because of course I had no idea what was in your mind. I don’t think, however, that you ought to use the word ‘mediocre.’ It is more a question of appropriateness. Your voice may not be suited for big entertainments—and, to speak quite frankly, I can hardly imagine your facing such an ordeal—but surely there are quieter ways of setting to work. What about children, now—children’s parties? My little nieces have a party every year, and it is a serious business to find a change from the everlasting conjurer and magic-lantern. Could you not find some songs which they would like to hear?”
He looked at her inquiringly, and Hope stood still in the middle of the lane and stared at him with kindling eyes. “Children!” she whispered beneath her breath—“children!”
It was the prettiest thing in the world to see the different emotions chase each other over the sweet face: surprise first, and puzzled questioning; then the gradual dawning of an idea, the flush of radiant triumph.
“Children’s parties! Oh, what an idea! What a brilliant, brilliant ideal Mr Merrilies, how can I ever thank you? I don’t know why I did not think of it myself, for it is the very thing I should love above all others; and I believe I could make it a success.”
She turned and began to walk rapidly forward, waving her hands and unfolding her programme with characteristic Charrington enthusiasm.
“I know what I will do—I know exactly. I will tell them a story, and sing descriptive little songs at intervals. Theo shall write the words and share in the profits; and the songs shall be set to well-known airs, for children love what they know, and would enjoy joining in the choruses. Oh, it will be charming!—a new fairy tale introducing all the dear old characters—the Giant who lives alone in his Castle, and eats up every one who comes in his way. ‘Fe-fo-fum!’ that shall be his song—‘Fe-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!’ Can’t you hear the deep chords in the bass? Then there must be the Prince, of course, and the most beautiful Princess that ever was seen—”
“With golden hair and dark-blue eyes,” put in the listener, with a look in his eyes that passed unnoticed by his excited companion.
“Yes, yes; and—and a wicked fairy who was not asked to the christening, and a good fairy who undid all her spells. Theo will bring them all in. I will write to her this very night, for there is not a minute to be lost. I shall have no difficulty in setting the songs to music, and should not feel a scrap nervous singing to children. Deal little souls! What fun it will be watching their faces and hearing them join in the choruses! Oh, what a charming ideal! Do you really think any one would allow me to try?”
“I will give you your first engagement now, at this moment! My sister will be only too eager to secure you; and she will tell her friends of the new idea. I shall say that your fee is rather high, but that at all costs you must be engaged if she wishes the party to be a success. You must charge a good deal, you know, or people won’t think half so much of you.”
Hope looked at him with shy delight.
“Must I? I should like that. Mr Merrilies, I am so grateful to you that I don’t know what to say. You have made me feel so happy. If I get on at all, it will be all your doing.”
“It will be nothing of the kind. I simply mentioned the word children, and you pounced upon it and evolved the whole scheme. There is no gratitude due to me,” declared Ralph Merrilies sturdily.
At that moment voices broke upon the ear, and turning a corner, they saw the three remaining ladies of the party walking back to meet them. Avice came forward to ask Mr Merrilies some question about the carriage, while Truda turned to Hope and studied her face with gloomy eyes.
“You look very jubilant. What is the matter with you to-day?”
“I’ve got an idea!”
“Goodness! Is that all? I’ve got hundreds.” She fell a few steps behind the others, and added resentfully, “You have managed to keep him pretty well to yourself, at any rate. He hasn’t spoken a word to me all day. I don’t call that keeping your promise.”