Chapter Twenty Three.
Rejoicings.
It can be imagined with what eagerness Steve was greeted on his return from the City that evening, how he was hurried through his dinner, and despatched forthwith, in company with the Hermit, to interview “Jim,” otherwise Mr James Matthews. The time of waiting seemed unbearably long, but when the two men returned it was at once evident that they were the bearers of good news. The companion of the newspaper shop had been found at last, while Barney himself was now on his way to the Cape, working for his passage in the capacity of steward!
Briefly, the tale which Mr Matthews had to tell was as follows. He had made the boy’s acquaintance in a luncheon-bar, had been attracted by his breezy, high spirits, and taken some pains to arrange further meetings. The two had attended theatres and concerts together, and finally Barney had visited his new friend in his rooms, and become the confidant of certain betting transactions in which he was in the habit of indulging. The boy had begun to bet on his own account, had been unlucky, and had called at the shipping office one day, declaring himself in trouble at home, and anxious to get out of the country for a time at least Mr Matthews told him that his only chance was to ship as a steward, and Barney, being not only willing but eager, was sent to wait his turn at Southampton, and had been fortunate in finding an opening three days after his arrival. “Jim,” as Miss Caldecott had called him, appeared to be a good-natured, easy-going individual with little sense of responsibility. When sternly questioned by Steve as to whether he considered it right to encourage a boy of seventeen to bet, he smilingly declared that “every one did it—even the little office-boys put their coppers on the races;” and refused altogether to acknowledge that he should have consulted Barney’s friends before sending him abroad.
“But you were the very people he wanted to avoid. There is no need to worry yourself, my good sir. He has signed for the round voyage, and you will see him back in a couple of months, all the better for having to rough it a bit and finding out what hard work means.”
This was his opinion, and, on the whole, Barney’s brother and sisters were inclined to agree. After the suspense of the past weeks it was a blessed relief to hear definite news, and, with a good ship and a good captain, there was little fear of the boy’s safety. There was just a chance that letters written at once might arrive at Capetown before the vessel sailed on her homeward voyage, and Philippa was already rehearsing loving messages, when Madge cried eagerly:
“Can’t we do something to celebrate the occasion? Not to-night, I mean, but to-morrow. We have been in the depths for so long that we need a little festivity. I’m tired of being miserable!”
She felt a passing wonder as to the moaning of Hope’s quick frown, but Theo chimed in with an eager assent, and even the grave Steve stretched himself, as if throwing off a burden, and looked pleased at the suggestion.
“I believe we should all be the better for a change. There has been too much work and too little play lately to be good for any of us. The question is, what can we do that is cheap and exciting!”
Madge’s grimace was the reverse of approving.
“The greatest change we could have would be to be expensive and lazy. It is not my idea of pleasure to stand shivering in a queue for a couple of hours, and hunt for omnibuses after a performance. I want to see how the other people live—the people who toil not, neither wear their last year’s clothes! I should like to dine at the Carlton, and sit in the hall after dinner watching the coming and going—the pretty girls in their fashion-plate cloaks, and the old ladies in sables and diamonds, going out to theatres and evening receptions—and watch the flirtations, and listen to Theo making up stories. It would be so good for us both; we should get lots of ideas.”
“I’m afraid”—began Steve the prudent, but the Hermit did not give him time to finish.
“I will engage a table at the Carlton to-morrow morning,” he cried. “You shall all come and dine with me. It is a capital idea. I’m very much obliged to Miss Madge for suggesting it.”
Polite murmurs of dissent greeted this speech. Steve cried, “No, no, my dear fellow; we couldn’t think of it.” Philippa blushed, and declared, “You mustn’t, Mr Neil; you really mustn’t.” But the Hermit was firm and would brook no refusal.
“It is impossible for me to entertain at home, and it is quite time that you dined with me for a change. I have been your guest for about fifty Sunday-night suppers.”
“Cold roast beef and beetroot in winter; cold lamb and mint-sauce in summer! There is an appalling lack of variety in the menus of an English household,” said Madge, with an expressive grimace. “When I am married I shall make a point of serving my loved one with constant surprises.”
“You will find it more difficult than painting pictures. What is one to do in winter, when poultry is so dear and none of the nice spring things have come in?” queried the dear, literal Martha, looking straight at the Hermit as she spoke, as if asking him to vindicate her housekeeping abilities; the which he proceeded to do with a zeal untempered by knowledge, while Hope studied his face with anxious eyes, and Madge sat silent, a monument of long-chinned solemnity.
No further objections were made to the Hermit’s invitation—which, in truth, was too tempting to be refused—and the next morning was spent in hunting up old fineries, turning ribbons, washing laces, and sewing them on again in as near an imitation of the latest Parisian fashion as could be obtained with insufficient quantities and ’prentice fingers.
“To think that it is eighteen months since I wore an evening-dress!” sighed Madge tragically. “Do you remember how I talked of holding a salon for all the greatest intellects in London! It is rather a come-down to reflect that the Hermit is the only youngish man who has crossed this threshold since we came. And he is no good to me either, for”—She looked round the room to make sure that Philippa was not present. “I’ll tell you a secret, Theo. He is—not falling—he could not do anything so precipitate—but crawling in love with Phil; but he will never find it out unless somebody tells him!”
“I’ll tell you another stale item. Phil is crawling in love with him too; but wild horses wouldn’t make her confess it. If he ever winds himself up to proposing, she will refuse him for the sake of the family and never say a word about it, but only snap off our heads, and grow so cross and cantankerous that there will be no living with her.”
This from Theo. The other ungrateful sister shrugged her shoulders and exclaimed, “What a nuisance it is when people will make martyrs of themselves! Now, it would really be very nice if Phil lived on the next landing, and could run in and out half-a-dozen times a day; and though the Hermit is not my passion, he is a worthy old thing, and would make a devoted husband. It strikes me, my dear, that you and I will have to take this matter in hand. It is no use asking Hope. She has grown so proper lately that I am quite afraid of her.”
“Oh no, we won’t ask Hope!” said Theo quickly. “But really it would be rather fun to see what we could do—as good as a story in real life. The first step is to make them aware of their own feelings. But how is it to be done?”
“We might try jealousy. How would it be if I flirted with him violently under her very eyes?”
“He would be horribly bored, without understanding in the least what you were trying to do, and Phil would forbid him the house in case you were blighted in your youthful affections.”
“Should we take him aside, then, and drop a casual hint of the curate who proposed to her in Leabourne?”
“My dear, he would take fright on the moment and consider it his duty to stand aside in favour of a better man. He is so absurdly quixotic that he would positively enjoy immolating himself.”
“What about pity, then? Snub Phil violently in his presence, and confide to her in secret that his cough sounds consumptive! That would make them sorry for each other, you see, and rouse a desire to help. They would sympathise, and grow sentimental, and—”
“It might do,” said Theo thoughtfully. “Really, Madge, you ought to write instead of me; you are far more inventive. My only idea is propinquity. Impress upon Phil that the Hermit is her best counsellor in all matters concerning Barney, and advise her to talk things over quietly with him when Steve is not present. The Hermit has about as much worldly wisdom as a babe in arms, and consequently would be immensely flattered by being asked to impart it. He will repeat all her suggestions with an air of wisdom, and Phil will dote upon him for helping her to her own way.”
“Propinquity does it! We will be as innocent as cherubs, and have smashing headaches when he comes to call. Also, it might be well to take a more active share in the housekeeping department, in order to show Phil that she is not so indispensable as she imagines. We must be cruel to be kind.”
Theo’s shoulders shook with laughter, and just at that moment in marched Philippa herself, looking round with an air of surprise.
“What is the matter with you two this morning! You are giggling like a couple of schoolgirls.”
“We are so excited at the prospect of this evening! What have you been so busy about in your room? Writing to Barney?”
“N-not just lately,” faltered Phil, and blushed in guilty fashion. As a matter of fact she had been trying experiments in hairdressing, and studying her profile to see which arrangement gave the best effect to—er—to any one who happened to be seated by her side! “How ore you getting on with your work?” she asked, eager to change the subject, when Madge held up the venerable chiffon bodice on which she had been sewing “applications” of lace, and regarded it with critical approval.
“Subdued elegance is to be the keynote of my costume. I shall wear no jewels! I don’t think it is in good taste for a young girl to wear valuable diamonds. What do you think of the arrangement of lace? Exact copy of one of Lady Godiva’s dinner-dresses as drawn in last week’s Queen. Wouldn’t it be thrilling if I were mistaken for her and written about in the papers? The only drop of bitterness in my cup is the want of an evening-cloak. It does give one away so horribly to go in a golf-cape!”
“No one will know you, dear. No one will look at you.”
“Do you mean that for comfort, may I ask? I want to be looked at. ‘’Tis sad to think no eye will watch for us, and grow brighter when we come,’” quoted Madge in sentimental accents, which made Philippa giggle in her turn. Then for some mysterious reason she blushed again, and strolled over towards the window.
“Hot, dear?” queried Madge blandly. “Room rather warm, perhaps—too big fire.”
“So extravagant, too, on a mild day like this! I really must speak to Mary about using so much coal,” said Theo, with a frown. She went on with her sewing, apparently unconscious of the wide-eyed amazement with which Philippa regarded her. The skies were going to fall indeed when Miss Theo troubled herself about an item of domestic economy!
There was something rather pathetic about the glee with which the four sisters made their toilets a few hours later. The night’s entertainment, which would have seemed so tame and ordinary to most girls of their age, appeared a very frenzy of excitement after their year of hard work and privation. They laughed and chattered like so many magpies, ran about from room to room in lace petticoats and pretty low bodices, and sat in turns before the dining-room fire, while Hope—happy possessor of natural curls!—heated irons and waved and crimped with such artistic skill that, as Madge gleefully declared, the three heads were ‘transformations’ indeed—far more like toupées than natural growth.
Philippa wore her mother’s lace, which gave a regal air to the old black silk dress; Hope was lovely, as usual, in her professional white; Madge’s “subdued elegance” proved exceedingly becoming; but Theo was distinctly the most imposing figure of the four. She possessed the Frenchwoman’s talent for putting on her clothes and adding those little touches which go so far towards making an effective whole, and her sisters exclaimed with surprised admiration as she came rustling into the drawing-room, a chaplet of violets crowning the graceful head, and a couple of black feathers fastened jauntily at the side of the low corsage by a paste buckle, which looked exactly like a family heirloom, and not in the least as if it had been unpicked from the side of a felt hat but ten minutes before. Thrown over her shoulders, too, was quite a vision in the way of evening-cloaks, manufactured out of a summer cape, a lace collar, and the beloved feather boa tacked on as an edging. The cape was unlined, and far too thin a covering for a winter evening; but, girl-like, Theo declared that she was “broiled,” and insisted that suffocation would be the result of wearing the nice, warm, ugly shawl which Philippa pressed upon her.
The Hermit came upstairs in his dress-clothes, bearing in his hands four immaculate white camellias, which had seemed to his old-fashioned notions appropriate offerings to present to his girl guests. It was sweet of him to have thought of flowers at all, but—camellias! Theo thanked her stars for the violets which she was already wearing, and dashed from the room to warn Madge, who promptly stole the chrysanthemums from the dinner-table and pinned them in a conspicuous position. Hope, of course, was too gentle to refuse what had been meant so kindly; while as for Philippa, to judge by her ejaculations of delight, it would appear that nothing under the sun could have given her so much pleasure.
They drove away from the door in a couple of four-wheelers, two happy, smiling girls on either back seat, faced by a hungry, dress-coated man. The dinner was everything that fancy had painted it: all sorts of delightful things to eat, disguised under French names, and looking so pretty that it seemed a sin to disturb the dishes. Music, lights, interesting people all around, at whom it was a pleasure to look, and who looked back in their turn, as if equally pleased by what they saw. Steve grew quite frisky in his enjoyment, and Philippa and the Hermit became delightfully and unconsciously absorbed in their own conversation. The little party lingered over dessert, loath to leave so interesting a position, but the settees in the hall were presently discovered to afford an even better vantage-ground for observing their neighbours.
Steve came over and demanded a place beside his three younger sisters. “Neil is submitting the synopsis of his next book to Phil. You seem much jollier over here,” he said innocently, and the girls watched Philippa’s absorbed face in an ecstasy of admiration.
“Doesn’t she do it well? Who would think, to look at her, that the very title is beyond her comprehension?”
They turned aside to hide their smiles, and became once more absorbed in their old occupation. Fascinating groups of people appeared at every moment, and it was no use deciding that you would have your next new dress made exactly like this one, and making surreptitious sketches on the back of the menu card, for it was no sooner lost to sight than another appeared fifty times more distracting.
“I do feel a worm among them all!” grumbled Madge; but when Steve considerately offered to take her home, she said, “Thank you, dear; I’m enjoying it dreadfully. I wouldn’t go for worlds.—Hope, there is a girl over there to the right who is staring at you with all her eyes. Pretend to look after this man and you’ll see her. There—by the lady in blue.”
Hope looked, exclaimed in surprise, and the next moment she and the strange girl had risen and walked forward to meet each other in the middle of the hall.
“Miss Bennett, is it really you?”
“Hope Charrington! The idea of meeting you here! I’ve so often wanted to see you again! Sit down here and talk to me for a minute. Are those your sisters? They are not like you—not so pretty; but the one with the violets looks very smart. You are thin, but you are one of those horrid creatures who always look nice. What do you think of me? Do I look worn? Brides always look wrecks; and I vowed I wouldn’t, but I’m tired to death already. I’ve come up to buy my clothes. It’s to be in February. You heard, of course?”
“Avice told me. I must congratulate you now. I suppose you are very happy?”
“He is!” laughed Truda meaningly. “Quite daft about me! You met him, of course, down at The Shanty, and he liked you awfully much. We have often talked of you, and arranged to have you down when we have a party to entertain.”
Hope smiled with stiff lips. He had liked her “awfully much,” had he? So much that he had wished to have her as a visitor when Truda was his wife! Oh, what a fool, fool, fool she had been to imagine for a moment that he had really cared!
“You will live in the country, I suppose?” she remarked; and again Truda laughed and wagged her head.
“He thinks we will, and I am very meek and submissive note, but I’ll have a town-house before a year is over; you see if I don’t! What is the use of all my lovely clothes in a poky little bit of a village? Would you like to see my dresses? I’ll take you with me to the dressmaker’s some day if you like.”
“Thank you, but I am afraid I could not spare the time. It is very kind of you to ask me.”
“Oh, not a bit! It would have amused me and been a day off for mamma. Still writing songs and giving story-telling entertainments, are you? Oh, I heard all about it. I was bothered to death to find engagements for you.” Truda lay back in her chair and looked curiously into the fair, troubled face. “Seen anything of Ralph Merrilies lately?”
Hope’s embarrassment was swallowed up in surprise at so casual a reference to a future husband. “No,” she said emphatically—“not for nearly six months. I never meet him except at my aunt’s house, and I go there very seldom. He does not call on us in our flat.”
“I wonder why not. He was awfully smitten with you; and wasn’t. I furious about it? He had been quite attentive to me before you came, and then he had eyes for no one else. I believe I was quite jealous of you, dear.”
“You had no reason to be. You feel that now, don’t you?” said Hope gently, and Truda gave a complacent little laugh.
“Oh, I don’t mind now. He may care as much as he likes. Reggie is a good little soul; I’m quite satisfied with him.”
“Reggie!”
“Reggie, of course—Charles Reginald Blake. Who else should it be? Hope Charrington, you don’t mean to tell me that you imagined—”
“Of course I did! It’s your own fault. You told me—don’t you remember?—you told me yourself that you liked him, and warned me—”
For once Truda had the grace to blush and look discomfited.
“Oh well, of course, there was always some one. I was rather smitten, but I could not go on caring for a man who had the bad taste to prefer another girl. And Reggie has been so faithful! He used to send me chocolates when I was at school in Brighton.”
“He is a dear little man—so amiable and cheery. There will be quite a competition between you as to who shall play off a trick first. I hope you will ask me down some day. You will be a merry couple,” cried Hope, with such a heart-whole laugh as had not been heard from her for many a long day.
Miss Bennett regarded her curiously.
“How pleased you seem! Oh yes, I’ll ask you. But perhaps you may be”—her eyes twinkled—“previously engaged.”