Chapter Seventeen.
New Experiences.
The village doctor came to doctor Jack Melland’s damaged ankle, and the patient fumed and fretted beneath his old-fashioned treatment.
“Bandaging me and laying me up by the heels for weeks at a time; it’s folly!” he declared angrily. “The man is twenty years behind the times. If I were in town I should have had one of those Swedish fellows to massage it, and be about in half the time. Just my luck to go in for an accident in a place where one can’t get proper attention!”
“But you groan if anyone comes near your foot; wouldn’t it hurt dreadfully much to have it massaged?” Mollie asked.
Whereupon the invalid growled impatiently—
“Hurt? Of course it would hurt! What has that to do with it, pray?”
“Lots,” returned Mollie, unabashed. “I should think so, at least, if it were my ankle. I can’t endure pain.”
“I’m not a girl,” growled Jack the ungracious, between his teeth.
There was no denying the fact that he did not make an agreeable invalid. In the first realisation of his accident he had meekly bowed his head to Fate; but ever since he had, figuratively speaking, kicked against the pricks, and repaid the kindness of his companions by incessant grumblings and complaints. He hated having to give up his own way; he hated being tied to a sofa and a bath-chair; he resented offers of help as if they had been actual insults, and hindered his recovery by foolhardy attempts at independence.
“How would you like to be an invalid for life?” Mollie asked him severely after one of these outbursts. “There was a young man in mother’s district, every bit as strong and big as you, and a sack of something fell on his back while they were trying to haul it up into a warehouse. He was taken to the hospital, and they told him that he would never walk again, never even sit up again. As long as he lived he would be a helpless cripple. And he was just going to be married, too!”
“Well, I’m not, thank goodness!” cried Jack bluntly. “Why do you tell me such gruesome stories? My own troubles are quite enough just now. I don’t want to hear any more horrors.”
“It was just to distract your mind from yourself that I did tell you. Once upon a time I met a man who read me a beautiful lecture upon the dangers of being selfish and self-engrossed. I’ll tell you his very words, if you like. They made a deep impression upon me at the time,” said Mollie naughtily. But instead of being amused, Jack was only irritated afresh.
In these first days of invalidism Mollie’s influence was the reverse of soothing, for Jack was not in the mood to be teased, and if his inner determination could have been put into words it would have been that he objected to be cheered up, refused to be cheered up, and insisted upon posing as a martyr; therefore, it followed that Ruth’s gentle ministrations were more acceptable than her sister’s vigorous sallies. If he could have seen again the Mollie of whom he had caught a glimpse on Sunday evening, Jack would have chosen her before any other companion; but, as she had made place for a mischievous tease, he preferred to look into Ruth’s lovely anxious eyes, and to dilate at length upon his symptoms to her sympathetic ear.
Mr Farrell’s behaviour at this critical juncture did not throw oil upon the troubled waters. He took care that Jack should have every attention, and inquired as to his progress with punctilious regularity; but he plainly considered a sprained ankle a very trivial affair, which, needless to say, did not coincide with the invalid’s views of the case; moreover, he absolutely refused to believe that the accident was responsible for keeping Jack at the Court.
“It is only right to tell you, sir, that I had finally made up my mind that I must return home to-day, as I could not agree with your conditions,” Jack informed him on their first interview after the doctor had paid his visit; whereupon the old man elevated his eyebrows with that air of ineffable superiority which was so exasperating, and said—
“And I, on the contrary, had made up my mind that you should stay. It is satisfactory to me that the question is decided in my favour.”
“By an accident, sir. By an accident only. If I’d been able to move—”
Mr Farrell held up his hand with a deprecatory gesture.
“In that case I should have called your attention to certain arguments which would have brought about the same result. Believe me, my dear Jack, it would have made no difference.”
Jack’s face flushed angrily. He forgot Mollie’s entreaty, forgot his own promise, and answered hotly—
“I cannot imagine any arguments that could keep me here against my will. As soon as I can get about again I must return to my work. This accident is only delaying my departure for a few weeks longer.”
“So!” Could anything be more aggravating than that little bow and smile which accompanied the word. “In a few weeks, my dear Jack, many things may happen; therefore, it is superfluous to discuss the subject at present. When the time arrives I shall be ready to meet it.”
He turned and left the room, while Jack raged in helpless fury upon the sofa. It was insufferable to be treated as if he were a boy who could be ordered about against his will. When John Allen Ferguson Melland said a thing, he meant it, and not all the old men in the world should move him from it, as Bernard Farrell would find out to his cost before many weeks were past.
For three whole days Jack’s ill-temper continued, and, like most angry people, he punished himself even more than his companions, refusing to sit in the drawing-room to see callers, and insisting on remaining all day long in a dull little room at the back of the house. He grew tired of reading. His head ached with the unusual confinement; just because he was unable to move he felt an overpowering desire for half a dozen things just out of reach, and the day stretched to an interminable length. On the fourth morning depression had taken the place of ill-temper, and he was prepared to allow himself to be petted and waited upon, when, to his dismay, Victor came to his bedroom with the news that the girls had gone up to town, accompanied by Mrs Thornton.
“They said, as you preferred to be alone it would be best to keep to their plans,” said Victor cruelly. “I am off for a ride, and shall probably make a day of it, and lunch en route. I was thinking of going to Barnsley. It is quite a decent-sized place. Would you like me to try if I could find a masseuse for your foot?”
Jack looked up sharply; but Victor looked as he usually did. His face was set and expressionless, as it always was when his eyes were hidden. It was natural enough that he should make such a suggestion, seeing that he had heard many lamentations on the subject, natural and kindly into the bargain, yet Jack felt an instinctive unwillingness to accept the offer.
“He wants me out of the way,” came the leaping thought, while he bit his lip, and appeared to ponder the question.
A few days before he himself had heartily echoed the sentiment; but now that Fate—or was it something else?—had interfered to keep him at the Court, Jack’s views had slowly altered. It might be that there was a duty waiting for him here, some duty which was even more important than his work in town; and, if he shirked it, the consequences might fall upon others besides himself. The two girls’ faces rose before him,—Ruth’s shy and anxious, Mollie audaciously reckless,—children both of them in the ways of the world, though innocently confident of their own wisdom. If by staying on at the Court he could safeguard their interests, it would be well-spent time which he should never regret.
To Victor’s astonishment his offer was quietly but firmly refused, and he set out on his ride marvelling what had happened to bring about such a sudden change of front.
Meantime, Ruth and Mollie were enjoying their first experience of that most delightful feminine amusement—shopping in London. They drove to the doors of world-famed establishments, entered with smiling self-confidence, and gave their orders, unperturbed even by the immaculate visions in black satin who hastened forward to receive them; so marvellous and inspiring are the effects of a purse and a cheque-book behind it!
Mrs Thornton was purse-bearer, and, to do her justice, enjoyed the occasion as much as the girls themselves. She had been personally interviewed by Mr Farrell and coached for her part, which was to chaperon the girls, take them to the best places in which to procure their various requirements, but on no account whatever to direct the purchases, or limit their extent.
“It is a good test; I wish to study it,” said the old man, which speech being repeated, Ruth looked grave, and Mollie laughed, and cried—
“There is only one question I shall ask you, ‘Do I look nice?’ and one piece of advice, ‘Which suits me best?’ and you are free to answer them both. In the present instance these hats are all so fascinating that it would be a sin to choose between them. I shall take them all!”
“Mollie, don’t be absurd. You shall do nothing of the kind. Four hats, and you have two already! It would be wicked extravagance!” protested Ruth vigorously.
But Mollie persisted, and the attendant volubly declared that indeed “madam” was wrong. Six hats was a very moderate allowance. Madam would need different hats for different occasions,—for morning and afternoon, for fine and wet weather, for ordinary and dress occasions. Would she herself not be persuaded to try on this charming model, the latest French fashion, “ridiculously cheap at three guineas?”
“Thank you, I’ll take the white hat, and the black chiffon. They will answer all my purposes,” declared Ruth frigidly.
She was shocked at Mollie’s wanton extravagance, and all the more disapproving that she herself badly wanted to be extravagant too, and wear dainty colours for a change, instead of the useful black and white, if only her sensitive conscience could have submitted to the outlay.
If hats had been a pitfall, dresses were even worse, for here the prices were largely increased. It was a new experience to be ushered into what looked more like a luxurious house than a shop, and to find oneself confronted by a row of tall, willowy young women dressed in tightly fitting black satin garments, so marvellously representing dress-stands that they might have been mistaken for them had it not been for the elaborately dressed heads.
“This is a very expensive place—just for your very best dresses,” Mrs Thornton ventured to explain; and the order, “Summer gowns for these young ladies,” having been given, presto! the animated dress-stands disappeared through a doorway, to return a few minutes later to promenade slowly up and down the floor before the dazzled eyes of the beholders, each one attired in a different costume. Blue, green, white, lavender, and yellow—perfect of cut, distracting of make—it was, indeed, a problem to choose between them! And while they hesitated, lo! another disappearance, and another triumphal entrance even more gorgeous than the first.
“If I thought I should look as nice as they do, I’d have four at least, but I shan’t; my waist is twice as big, and I never learnt to glide,” sighed Mollie humbly. “How much is the blue, please? I think that would suit me best.”
The price of that simple—looking frock gave Ruth an electric shock. It was actually more than the whole of her yearly allowance. She looked it over, making a rapid estimate of the cost of material and trimming, and felt convinced she could have bought them all out of a five-pound note. And then it could be made at home. Ah, no, that was just the difficulty! The material was a detail, in the making-up thereof lay all the charm and effect. She came out of her calculations to hear Mollie say calmly—
“And I shall want them both home by the end of a week! Now my sister will choose, and after that we will see some evening gowns.”
Ruth took her courage in both hands, ordered one dress, and took advantage of the first moment of solitude to rebuke Mollie in irritable undertones.
“Do think what you are about! I’m the eldest, and it’s most unsuitable for you to be better dressed. You ought to let me decide, and follow my example.”
“But I promised Uncle Bernard that that was just what I would not do.”
“Even if you did, he never intended you to order a whole trousseau. How will he feel when he sees the bills?”
“I don’t know; I think he will feel nice when he sees my clothes. Oh, Ruth, do enjoy yourself when you have the chance! He gave you carte blanche—why on earth can’t you take it?”
But that was just exactly what Ruth could not do. The fear of the bill—the fear of Uncle Bernard’s displeasure, loomed so largely before her eyes, that she dared not indulge her longing for needless fineries. In every shop the same story was repeated, Mollie giving a lavish order with beams of satisfaction, Ruth reducing hers by half, and feeling sore and aggrieved. Each appealed in turn to Mrs Thornton for support and approval, until that good lady became quite dazed and bewildered, and was thankful to find herself once more in her quiet home.
Arrived at the Court, Mollie danced up to Mr Farrell, who sat reading by the library fire.
“I’m back again, Uncle Bernard,” she cried; “I’ve had a beautiful time! I don’t think I ever enjoyed myself so much! I’m bubbling over with gratitude. I’ve spent heaps of money! You said I might, and I’ve taken you at your word; and oh, I have got such lovely things in exchange!”
Mr Farrell looked at her grimly, but made no reply. His eyes turned towards his other niece, who stood silently in the background.
“And you,” he queried, “have you been equally fortunate?”
Ruth’s face clouded.
“I got what I needed,” she said; “I have a headache. I’m going upstairs to rest.”