Chapter Five.
An Invitation.
The old man fell backward on the seat with an exclamation of keenest surprise. His sunken eyes stared into Mollie’s face as she bent over him; at the golden hair curling beneath the dark toque, the grey eyes, the curving lips. Each feature in turn was scrutinised as if he were searching for something familiar which had so far escaped notice. Apparently it was not discovered, for the expression of amazement deepened upon his face, and he asked sharply—
“What did you say? What did you call me? I don’t understand what you can mean!”
Mollie sat down on the bench, and smiled brightly into his face.
“Uncle Bernard! You are Uncle Bernard Farrell! I knew you the moment you said that you were going to Number 7, and asked if I knew the Connors. Of course I know them, because I am—” She hesitated, and Mr Farrell finished the sentence for her.
“You are one of Mr Connor’s daughters. The eldest, I presume. I have not the pleasure of knowing your name.”
“No-o! I am not Trix. She is a child, only fifteen. I was nineteen on my last birthday. I am,”—for once in her life Mollie had the grace to blush, and looked a trifle discomposed—“I’m Mollie Farrell.”
The glance which the old man cast upon her was the reverse of flattering.
“You are Mollie Farrell, are you?” he repeated coldly. “Evidently modesty is not one of your failings, young lady. It might have been wiser if you had allowed me to discover your attractions for myself. Do you consider it quite honest—we will not discuss the question of good taste—to play a double part, and criticise your relations to any stranger whom you may meet in your walks?”
“You asked me; you began it! I should not have mentioned them if you had not asked that question. Then I recognised you, and thought it would be fun. You were not a stranger, you see; you were Uncle Bernard.”
“That may be my name, but as I have never seen you before, I can hardly rank as a friend. May I ask how you came to recognise me at all?”
“Oh yes! We have your portraits at home, and mother often talks of you, and the happy times she had when she used to visit you with father when they were engaged. When we were children it was a favourite game for one of us to be Uncle Bernard, and the other guests staying at the Court, and we used to go through all the adventures which father had as a boy,—fall into the mill-stream and be rescued by the dog, and be chased by the bull in the long meadow, and ride on the top of the waggons at the harvest home. We know all about the house, and the tapestry in the hall, and the funny wooden pictures of the Dutch ancestors, and the long gallery where you used to dance at night. Mother loves talking about it. She has not much fun in her life now, poor dear, and that makes her think all the more of her youth. We envy her, Ruth and Trix and I, because we have a very quiet time at home. We are poor, you see. You can’t have much fun if you are poor.”
“You think that riches are the one thing needful; that if you had enough money your happiness would be assured?”
“Ah!” sighed Mollie rapturously. “How happy I should be! I’ve never had enough money for my wants in all my life, so I can’t even imagine the bliss of it. I should not know how to be happy enough.”
The old man looked at her silently. She saw that he was about to speak, but the words were long in coming. A cloud had drifted across the sun, and the stretch of park looked suddenly grey and bare. Mollie drew her shoulders together with an involuntary shiver. Something had suddenly damped her ardour of enthusiasm; but it was not so much the bleak wind as the sight of the face gazing into her own, with its set lips, and bleached, joyless expression. For years to come Mollie could recall that moment, and feel again the chill in her veins with which she listened to his reply.
“All my life long,” said Bernard Farrell slowly, “all my life everything that I have touched has turned to gold, and everyone I have loved,”—he paused, lingering on the word, and again Mollie shivered in sympathetic understanding—“everyone whom I have loved has died!” The wind seemed to take up the word, and repeat it in melancholy echo. “Died! died! died!” wailed the trees, tossing drearily to and fro. “Died!” shivered the ripple over the cold grey lake. The clouds gathered in a pall overhead.
“I’m sorry!” gasped Mollie faintly—“I’m so sorry!” But Mr Farrell stopped her with a hasty gesture.
“Please spare me protestations of sympathy. They were the last thing I wished to evoke. I merely wished to impress upon you that I am in a unique position for judging the worth of riches.—Is it your pleasure that we continue our journey? The afternoon is growing chill.”
Mollie rose in confusion, but she did not reply, nor make any further offer of support. There was something in the old man’s voice which forbade familiarities. He was no longer merely cross and unamiable; she had caught a glimpse into the secret of a desolate heart, and the sight sobered her youthful spirits.
“First his wife,” she said to herself, as she led the way onward—“pretty Aunt Edna, whom mother loved so much. He adored her, and they were never parted for a day till she took typhoid, and died. The little girl died the year after, and he had no one left but Ned. Mother says he was the handsomest boy she ever met, and the cleverest, and the best. Even now, after all these years, she can’t speak of the day he was drowned without crying... I always hated to hear that story!
“She says the real Uncle Bernard died with Ned. He seemed to disappear from that day, and an entirely different person appeared in his place. He had been kind and hospitable, fond of having people around him and making them happy; but after that he shut himself up and became a regular hermit. Then he went abroad, and since he came back four years ago and reopened the Court, he has written to nobody, and nobody has seen him. But he has come to see us to-day of his own free will. I wonder why? Something has happened to make him break the silence. What can it have been?”
She dared not ask the question; but, as the feeble steps endeavoured to keep pace with her own, a possible explanation darted into Mollie’s mind. The poor old man was ill, very ill; there was an expression on the grey, sunken face which was eloquent even to her inexperience. Death was coming forward to meet him, coming very near; standing upon the very threshold! Strong, happy nineteen shuddered at the thought, and felt an overpowering pity for the waning life.
Mollie longed to comfort the old man with the assurance that there were many still left who could help and minister to his declining days; but her previous overtures had met with so little success that she was afraid of meeting yet another rebuff, and, with unusual prudence, decided to await a better opportunity.
Langton Terrace was reached at last, and Mollie produced a key and opened the door of Number 7. In a household where there are so many children and so few servants, the latchkey was in constant use, and thus it happened that she could bring her guest unnoticed into the house and escort him to her stepfather’s sanctum, which was sure to be unoccupied at this hour of the afternoon. She drew forward an armchair, poked the fire into a blaze, and laid Mr Farrell’s hat and stick on the table, while he lay wearily against the cushions. He looked woefully exhausted, and Mollie’s kind heart had a happy inspiration.
“I shan’t tell anyone that you are here until you have had a rest,” she said assuringly. “This is the pater’s den, and his private property after four o’clock, so you will be quite undisturbed. Just tell me what will refresh you most—tea, coffee, wine? I can bring what you like quite quietly.”
“Tea, please—tea, and ten minutes’ rest. I shall be better then,” Mr Farrell said wearily.
Mollie left the room to prepare a dainty little tray in the pantry, and beg a private pot of tea from the kitchen. The idea of waiting in secret upon Uncle Bernard was delightfully exciting; it was almost as good as running the blockade, to creep past the dining-room door where her mother and sisters were assembled, and listen to the murmur of voices from within.
If they knew—oh, if they knew! She had prepared some crisp slices of toast, skimmed the cream off the milk in defiance of cook’s protests, and made sure that the water in the little covered jug was boiling, and not only moderately warm, as the custom was. It was the simplest of meals, but at least everything was as tempting as hands could make it, and Mollie had the satisfaction of pouring out two cups of tea, and seeing the last slice of toast disappear from the rack. She took nothing herself, and preserved a discreet silence until Mr Farrell replaced cup and plate on the table, and condescended to smile approval.
“Thank you, Miss Mollie; I am obliged to you for securing me this rest. Judging from my first impressions of your character, I should not have expected so much common-sense. I feel quite refreshed, and ready to see your mother when it is convenient.”
Mollie lifted the tray, and stood for a moment looking down with an air of triumph.
“I’m so glad! I talk a lot of nonsense, but I can be quite sensible if I like, and I did want to help you, Uncle Bernard; I’ll send mother in here, where you can have your talk in peace. It’s the only chance of being uninterrupted.”
Mr Farrell made no reply, and Mollie made haste to deposit the tray in the pantry, and rush for the dining-room door. The secret had been kept so long that she felt sore—absolutely sore with the strain. It seemed incredible that her mother and sisters should be sitting munching bread-and-butter as calmly as if it were an ordinary day, when nothing extraordinary had happened to break the monotonous routine. She leant against the lintel of the door and called her mother by name—“Muv! you are wanted at once in the Den. Somebody wants to speak to you!”
Mrs Connor’s brow furrowed into the usual anxious lines as she prepared to hear a story of fresh disaster from her husband’s lips; but at the doorway two magic words were whispered into her ear which brought the blood into the white cheeks, and sent her trotting down the hall on eager feet. Then came the delicious moment to which Mollie had looked forward ever since the meeting at the cross-roads. She walked back into the room, while Ruth looked up with weary curiosity, and Trix with unconcealed wrath.
“You might have let mother finish her tea in peace! She has been slaving all day, and was just enjoying a rest!”
“What is it, Mollie? Why did the pater come home so early? Is he ill?”
“It isn’t pater, my dear. Guess again! A friend of mine, whom I met in the park and brought home to tea. He was rather tired, so I, gave him a private little feed in the study, instead of bringing him straight in here. Considerate of me, wasn’t it? He was quite touched.”
“He?” repeated Ruth breathlessly. “Mollie, what are you talking about? Don’t make a mystery out of nothing! Why can’t you say at once who it is?”
“I’m afraid of your nerves, dear. I want to break it to you by degrees. Sudden shocks are dangerous for the young. My own heart is quite palpitating with all I have undergone to-day. I was walking along,—all innocent and unsuspicious,—gazing upon the fair spring scene, when suddenly, glancing ahead, I beheld a figure standing at the junction of the cross-roads. ’Tis ever thus, my love! Fate stands waiting for us where the paths diverge, to point out the way in which we should go. End of volume one ... Do you feel excited?”
Trix grinned broadly, Ruth looked tired and impatient.
“Oh, thrilled, of course! So many interesting people come to see us that it’s difficult to choose between them. The piano-tuner, perhaps; or the gasman, to look at the meter.”
“I should have walked home with them, shouldn’t I, and given them tea in the study? A little higher in the social scale, please!”
“The curate calling for a subscription?”
“Cold; quite cold! Try again! Someone you have often wished to see, but who has never displayed any great anxiety to make your acquaintance in return.”
“Uncle Bernard, I presume?” said Ruth sarcastically, not for one moment believing the truth of her words, though her mind instantly reverted to the personage of that mythical uncle who had played so large a part in her mental life. She did not even trouble to look at Mollie as she spoke; but Trix did, and bounded to her feet in excitement.
“Is it—is it? Oh, Mollie, not really! He hasn’t really and truly appeared after all these years? You don’t seriously mean it? Look at her, Ruth! I believe it is true!”
Ruth looked, and flushed the loveliest of pinks. It seemed almost incredible that Trix was right, yet something very much out of the usual course of events must have happened to excite Mollie so keenly. Her cheeks were burning as though with a fever, the hand resting on the table was actually trembling. “Tell me, Mollie!” she pleaded; and Mollie nodded her head in triumph.
“Uncle Bernard himself! The real, genuine article sitting in solid flesh and blood in our very own study, and I’m the one who brought him here. What do you think of that for an adventure? I saw an aged, aged man a-leaning on a stick, as the poem says, and I went up and asked him if I could help him in any way. I once read about an old man whose nose suddenly began to bleed in an omnibus. He searched for a pocket-handkerchief, but had evidently forgotten to bring one, and the other passengers began to smile and titter, all except one girl, who opened her bag and presented him with a nice clean one of her own. The old man died soon afterwards, and left her a million pounds as a token of gratitude. I think it’s just as kind to escort a stranger through a lonely park when he has lost his way! If Uncle Bernard adopts me and gives me a million, I’ll treat you both to a nice new hat.—I asked where he was going, and he said to Number 7 Langton Terrace, and I looked at him. And, Ruth, do you know what I thought of? I thought of you! He had black eyebrows like yours, and he scowls, as you do (only when you are cross, dear, not when you’re in a good temper), and his lips droop like yours, too. I thought, ‘I have seen that face before!’ and then I remembered the photographs, and it burst upon me all in a moment. Then he asked me if I knew the Connors, and I said I’d known them for years, and the step-daughters, too, and that they were a charming family, but Mollie was the nicest of all.”
“Mollie, you didn’t!”
“I did! Why not? It’s true, isn’t it? When I revealed myself to him, however, he seemed to think that I was rather vain. I must leave it to time to prove the truth of my assertion.”
“You are in earnest? You really mean it? Mollie, what has he come for? What has made him remember us after all these years? Has something happened that we know nothing about?”
“I can’t tell you. There’s only one thing certain,—he is very old and ill, and if he wants to see us at all there isn’t much time to spare. He is not at all like the Uncle Bernard mother remembers, but very cross and irritable, and his poor old face looks so miserable that it goes to your heart to see him. I wanted to put my arms round his neck and kiss him, but I would as soon have attempted to embrace a tiger. He snubbed me the whole time. Oh, talk of adventures! What an afternoon I have had!”
“If you met him walking across the park he can’t have any luggage, and if he hasn’t any luggage he can’t intend to sleep here to-night,” reasoned Ruth thoughtfully. “Perhaps he will just stay to dinner. Pea-soup, cold beef, and apple-pie—that’s all there is, and he is accustomed to half a dozen courses, and two men-servants to wait upon him. Poor dear mother will be in despair because she didn’t order a fresh joint for to-day. Shall I go to the kitchen and see if there is anything that can be made into a hot dish?”
Mollie pursed up her lips, but, before she had time to reply, the sound of footsteps was heard from without, and Mrs Connor appeared in the doorway, followed by the tall, gaunt figure of Uncle Bernard. The girls rose from their seats as he entered the room, and Ruth and Trix approached him with diffident smiles, while Mrs Connor introduced each by name.
“This is my eldest girl, Ruth; you saw her last when she was a baby in arms. This is Beatrice Connor; she knows you quite well by name, don’t you, Trix dear?”
But Mr Farrell betrayed not the faintest interest in Trix or her memories, and barely touched the hand which she extended towards him. All his attention seemed concentrated on Ruth, as she stood before him with her beautiful, flushed face raised to his own.
“This is Ruth!” he repeated slowly. “She is not at all like her sister. I am glad that one of your girls takes after her father’s family, Mary. This one is an unmistakable Farrell!”
Mollie turned aside with an expressive grimace.
“I’m cut out already,” she told herself. “Ruth’s black brows have walked straight into his affections! I might as well resign myself to play second fiddle forthwith.”
Mr Farrell accepted an invitation to stay for the family dinner, but it cannot truthfully be said that his presence added to the gaiety of the meal. Mrs Connor was nervous and ill at ease, regretting, as her daughter had foretold, that she had not ordered a hot joint for to-day, and allowed the cold meat to be used on the morrow.
She looked gratefully at Ruth when a small dish of curry made its appearance, in addition to the scanty menu; but Uncle Bernard had spent some years of his life in India, and his ideas of curry evidently differed from those of the plain cook downstairs, for after the first taste he laid down his fork and made no further pretence of eating.
Mr Connor made several attempts to introduce interesting subjects of conversation, but receiving only monosyllabic replies, relapsed in his turn into silence. With every moment that passed, the girls felt less able to imagine the reason for the appearance of a visitor who showed so little interest in the affairs of the family; for Mr Farrell asked no questions, paid no attention to the general conversation, and, for the greater part of the time, appeared lost in his own thoughts.
The three little boys alone were unaffected by the general tension, and chattered about their school adventures in their usual noisy fashion. On another occasion Mrs Connor would have checked them, but anything was better than the dead silence which at one time had threatened the whole table; so she left them unreproved, and Uncle Bernard scowled at them beneath his bushy brows in a manner the reverse of approving.
It happened that Betty occupied the seat immediately opposite the visitor, and it was one of Betty’s idiosyncrasies to repeat the grimaces of others with an imitation as faithful as it was unconscious. When, for example, Mollie was speaking, Betty tossed her head, tilted her chin, and arched her brows, to the delight and amusement of the family; and now, there she sat—good, kind, most inoffensive of creatures—drawing her wisps of eyebrows together in a lowering scowl, and twisting her lips into an expression of sour distaste.
The three boys nudged each other and tittered together, and Mr Farrell looked round to discover the reason of their mirth, and beheld Betty’s transformed face peering into his own. His glance of indignation made her flush with what appeared to be conscious guilt, though, in truth, the poor child had no idea of the nature of her offence. Mrs Connor beheld the incident with petrified horror, Ruth registered a determination to lecture Betty out of so dangerous a habit, but warm-hearted Mollie rushed headlong into the breach.
“Uncle Bernard, Betty did not mean to be rude! Please do not think she was intentionally disrespectful. She has a habit of imitating people, without knowing what she is about, and I am afraid we laugh at her for it, because it is so funny to watch; but she would be dreadfully sorry to be rude to anyone, wouldn’t you, Betty dear?”
Betty’s lips opened to emit a hoarse, inarticulate murmur. Uncle Bernard turned his eyes upon Mollie, and said coldly—
“You wish to imply that she was imitating my expressions? Indeed! It is always interesting to know in what light one appears to others. I regret that I failed to catch the likeness.”
“Dear Uncle Bernard, shall we go to the drawing-room now? The children use this room to prepare their lessons. We will have coffee in the drawing-room!” cried Mrs Connor eagerly. And the elders filed across the hall, leaving poor Betty reduced to tears of misery, while the boys comforted her by jibes and jeers in true schoolboy fashion.
In the drawing-room a ghastly silence prevailed, broken by fitful efforts of conversation. Mr Farrell had asked that a cab should be ordered by nine o’clock to take him back to his hotel; but, though the time drew nearer and nearer, he still vouchsafed no explanation of the unexpected visit. Surely—surely, before going away he would say something, and not once more disappear into the mist, and let the veil of silence fall around him? The same thought was in every mind, the same wondering anticipation; but it was only when the cab was announced and Mr Farrell rose to say good-bye that he appeased their curiosity.
“I came here to-day to make the acquaintance of my nephew’s daughters. I should be glad, Mary, if you would allow them to pay me a visit at the Court. I have arranged to have a lady in residence who will look after them and do what chaperonage is needful. If Monday will suit you, I should like them to arrive on that day.”
It sounded more like a command than an invitation, but such as it was it thrilled the listeners with joy. To pay a visit, and above all, to visit the Court, of which they had heard so much, had been the girls’ day-dream for so long that it seemed impossible that it had come at last. Ruth’s mind flew at once to considerations of ways and means, and she suffered a moment of agonising suspense before Mrs Connor’s eager consent put an end to anxiety.
“Oh, I shall be delighted—delighted! The girls will love it, of all things. How kind of you, dear Uncle Bernard! Ruth! Mollie! Are you not delighted to have such a treat in store?”
“Thank you, Uncle Bernard; I should love to come!” cried Ruth warmly. “Mollie and I have often said that there is nothing in the world we should enjoy more than paying a visit to the Court. It is most good of you to ask us!”
“And we will try to behave very nicely, and not bother you at all,” added Mollie, her eyes dancing with happiness. “We are to come on Monday week. And will there be other people, too—other visitors, besides ourselves?”
“Probably,” said Uncle Bernard curtly. “There are several important matters to be discussed, into which I cannot enter in a short interview. I am inviting you—and others—in order that we may talk them over at leisure. A carriage will meet the train arriving at four-twenty. Good-afternoon, Mary. I shall not see you again, as I leave by an early train to-morrow.”
Even as he spoke, Mr Farrell made his way towards the door with an air of finality which forbade further questioning. He had waited until the last possible moment before giving his invitation, and, having obtained an acceptance, was evidently determined to take his departure without further delay. Mrs Connor escorted him to the door, her husband helped him into the cab, offered to accompany him to the hotel, was coldly snubbed for his pains, and came back into the house heaving deep sighs of relief.
“Now for my smoke!” he exclaimed, and hurried off to the study, while Mrs Connor was dragged into the drawing-room and subjected to a breathless cross-questioning.
“Matters of importance to discuss! Mother, what can he mean?”
“Other people besides ourselves! Mother, who can they be?”
“How long does he want us to stay?”
“What are we going to do about clothes?”
“That’s just exactly what I’m asking myself!” cried Mrs Connor, referring with equal truthfulness to all four questions at once. “It is most awkward, not knowing how long you are expected to stay, or what sort of a party you are to meet; but, in any case, I am afraid you must have some new clothes. I will have a talk with pater, and see what can be done, and you must divide my things between you. I have a few pieces of good lace still, and one or two trinkets which will come in usefully. I am afraid we cannot manage anything new for evenings; you must make the black dresses do.”
Mollie groaned dismally.
“They are so old and shabby! The sleeves look as if they had come out of the Ark. I do so long to be white and fluffy for once. Can’t we squeeze out white dresses, mother? I’d do without sugar and jam for a year, if you’ll advance the money. Even muslin would be better than nothing, and it would wash, and come in for summer best, and then cut up into curtains, and after that into dusters. Really, if you look at it in the right light, it would be an economy to buy them! I am sure Uncle Bernard would like to see me in white! Now don’t you think he would?”
“I’ll do what I can, dear—I’ll do what I can! I should like you both to look as well as possible. ‘Matters of importance!’ ... I can’t think what matters of importance Uncle Bernard can wish to discuss with children like you. And who are the other guests? And are they also included in the discussion? I don’t know of any near relations he has left, except ourselves; but he was even more intimate with his wife’s people than his own, and she belonged to a large family. Dear, dear! It is most awkward to be so much in the dark. I do wish he had been a little more explicit while he was about it.”
“Never mind, muv; it makes it all the more exciting. We are going to meet someone, and we don’t know whom; and to discuss something, and we don’t know what; and to stay, we don’t know how long. There’s this comfort—we can easily take all our belongings, and still not be overburdened with luggage! Ten days—only ten days before we start! It sounds almost too good to be true. But how will you manage without us, dear little mother?”
“Oh, don’t trouble about me, dear! I’ll manage beautifully. Old Miss Carter can come in to help me if I get too tired; but, indeed, I shall be so happy to think of you two girls staying at the dear old Court that it will do me as much good as a tonic. Now I will go and talk to pater about money matters. We ought to begin preparations at once.”
Mr Connor joined in the general satisfaction at the invitation which had been given to his step-daughters, and, though mildly surprised to hear that any fresh equipments would be required, took his wife’s word for the need, and produced two five-pound notes from his cash-box, which she was deputed to use as she thought fit.
“If you don’t need it all, you can give me back whatever is over,” said the innocent male, little reckoning that three feminine heads would lie restless on their pillows that night, striving in vain to solve the problem of making ten pounds do duty for fifty.
Next morning, pencils and paper were in requisition to check mental additions, while Ruth drew up a list of usefuls, and Mollie one of fineries which seemed equally essential. At a most modest estimate it seemed possible to purchase the whole for something under thirty pounds. A painful curtailment brought it down to twenty, but by no persuasion could that sum be halved.
“Unless we play Box and Cox!” cried Mollie, in desperation. “One rain cloak, and an understanding that one of us invariably feels chilly, and stays at home on wet days. One white dress, to be worn in turn on special occasions, while the other languishes in bed with a headache. One evening cloak, ditto. Ditto gloves and sundries. It is the only way I can see out of the difficulty.”
“Don’t be absurd, Mollie! We shall both have to stay in bed if anything special takes place, for we can’t afford any extras. I remember once asking Eleanor Drummond’s advice about spending my allowance, and she said, ‘Wear a shabby dress, if you must; wear a shabby hat, if you have not taste and ingenuity to trim one for yourself out of next to nothing; but never, never, never condescend to a shabby petticoat or shoes down at the heel!’ I thought it splendid advice, and have always acted upon it, as far as I could. Let us buy really nice boots and slippers and petticoats before we do anything else!”
“I’ll have a silk one, then, and rustle for once, if I die for it!” cried Mollie recklessly. “And the boots shall be thin, not thick, with a nice, curved sole to show off my patrician instep. If I have to content myself with usefuls, they shall be as ornamental as possible. Don’t you think we might possibly squeeze out net over-skirts to wear with the black silks, sometimes, so as to make them look like two dresses instead of one?”
“Oh, my dear, I like luxuries as much as you do! It’s only grim necessity which makes me prudent. The black net is really an inspiration, and if we make it up ourselves we can manage quite well, and have enough money left for gloves and ribbons, and one fresh blouse a-piece.”
For the next week all was bustle and excitement. The girls paid two long shopping expeditions to town, and returned laden with interesting parcels, the contents of which were displayed to an admiring audience in the drawing-room, and then taken upstairs to Attica, which was transformed into a dressmaker’s work-room, barriers being for once ignored in consideration of the importance of the occasion.
The five-pound notes became wonderfully elastic, and even after they were expended little offerings came in from friends and members of the family to swell the great sum total. One sent a pretty tie, another a belt, a third a lace handkerchief. Trix supplied a most stylish collection of pens, pencils, and indiarubbers, reposing in her very best box; and Betty, not to be outdone, rummaged among her various collections for a suitable offering. Eventually she discovered a half-emptied bottle of eau-de-Cologne, which had been presented to her the Christmas before, filled it up with water, and presented it to her sisters for mutual use, unperturbed by the fact that the transparent hue of the scent had changed to a milky white.
On the morning of the fifth day Ruth had a conviction that she was sickening with a dire disease; on the sixth, she anticipated a disabling accident; on the seventh, she waited hourly for a telegram from Uncle Bernard, retracting his invitation; on the eighth, she wanted to know what would happen if there was a cab strike in the city; and on the ninth, talked vaguely of blizzards and earthquakes. Something it seemed must happen to prevent this long-dreamed-of journey; it did not seem possible that the stars should run placidly in their courses, while Ruth and Mollie Farrell were going a-visiting with a box full of fineries!
Yet the day did break, an ordinary, grey morning, with no sign to distinguish it from another. Looking out of the window, men and women could be seen going calmly about their duties. The postman and newspaper-boy arrived at their accustomed time. No one outside the household seemed to realise that the day was big with fate.
At eleven o’clock a cab drove up to the door; the boxes were piled on the roof; and the heroines of the hour made their appearance in the doorway, immaculately trim and tidy in travelling array. The brothers and sisters were absent at school, so there was only the little mother to say adieu, and stand waving her hand until the cab had disappeared from view.
Once, she too had been young and fair, and life had stretched before her like an empty page, on which the most marvellous happenings might be enrolled. Now, she was old and harassed and poor, and there seemed little ahead but work and worry; yet she could not call life a failure.
“I have had the best thing,” she said to herself, as she shut the door and re-entered the empty house—“plenty of dear ones to love, and to love me in return. God bless my two girls, and give them the same sweet gift.”