She caught sight of a tiny figure peering at her from behind the rubbish.
No—I am wrong—there were her magic gifts! She looked at them with delight; they seemed even more dainty and charming than when she had first been given them, and then, remembering the Sunshine fairy's instructions, she climbed up on her stool till she reached the top of the small window and could touch the old nest, still there, and still quite whole. It was a splendid hiding-place. Without any difficulty Merran gently pushed the umbrella and parasol in, through the moss, till she felt they were quite secure, just leaving the handles out enough for her readily to catch hold of them whenever she needed to do so.
Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, she sat down again in her usual corner and thought over her wonderful adventures quietly for some minutes. Suddenly the remembrance struck her of a hint the fairy lady had given her, about a pleasant surprise in store for her on her return, and full of curiosity as to what it could be Merran jumped up and made her way across the garret and down the narrow staircase to the floor below.
"It can't be about Dirk's coming," she said to herself, "for I knew that already. And—that wouldn't be a pleasant thing, for I shall be ashamed for him to see me in this horrid old dress," and she glanced at herself disconsolately.
But just then she heard a voice calling her, a well-known voice, her aunt's.
"Merran, Merran," it said, "where are you, child? Come quick. I want you."
And something in the tone made the child feel that she was not going to be scolded. It sounded much kinder than usual.
"Aunt must be in a good humour," she thought, and indeed so it was. Nothing makes people feel better tempered and pleased with themselves than the consciousness of having done a kindly action.
"I'm coming, auntie," Merran answered brightly, though in her heart she was not without misgiving. "I hope it isn't that Dirk has arrived already," she thought, with again the mortifying remembrance of her ugly dress.
The dame was standing at the foot of the staircase holding up something for the little girl to see. It was the unfortunate frock, already washed and ironed and looking quite pretty, for it really was a nice garment, white with pink sprigs and flowers running over it, and a neat frill at the neck. It was Merran's favourite frock—for everyday wear, of course, that is to say. Her Sunday one was a cornflower blue merino, and she was very proud of it, especially as it and indeed most of her clothes had been made out of those left by her own young mother, so that on the whole it was not often that the orphan child looked like a small Cinderella.
"Well, what do you say to this?" said her aunt with great pride, waving the frock about to show it off the better.
"Auntie!" cried Merran, who for a moment had been struck dumb with delight and astonishment. "Have you really washed it and ironed it and all, already? Oh how good of you! Now I shan't be ashamed for Dirk to see me. Oh, auntie, I don't know how to thank you."
"Mind you don't get it dirtied again, then," said the dame, "and get yourself tidied as quick as you can, for there's no saying how soon the boy may be here. It was pretty tiresome, you know, for you to go and tumble into the mud to-day of all days. But I didn't want Dirk, who's always been so good to you, to find you looking such a little drab."
"Of course not," said Merran. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be very careful. It's getting to be quite a fine day now; the sun's come out, and it's not going to rain again," she added confidently. For I should have mentioned that before hiding away her new treasures she had tried in vain to open the fairy umbrella, whereas the parasol spread itself out like a flower with but the gentlest touch.
"I hope not," said her aunt, "but there's no saying, and the master's in a sad fix about the hay—when to start it. Never was such a place as this for not knowing what the weather's to be. And I would like it to look bright for Dirk when he first sees his home again, after the beautiful countries he's been in, where the sun's always shining, so they say. Though how things can grow without rain passes me!"
"It says in my lesson-books at school that there's places where it rains straight on for a good bit and then it's fine and hot for a good bit," said Merran.
"Maybe that's how it is," said her aunt. "Well, Dirk'll tell us all about it and the other things he's seen. Now run off, child, and change your frock."
Away flew Merran, her spirits higher than for many a long day, for it was not often that the dame talked to her so pleasantly, and as she ran off she repeated her prophecy. "You'll see, auntie," she said. "It's not going to rain at all to-day. It'll be lovely weather."
And so it proved. The few clouds that had still looked somewhat threatening, gradually dispersed; when the farmer came in he too seemed very cheery.
"If this weather holds on for a while, we'll do famously," he said. "A good thing for Dirk to be back. We'll be none the worse for another pair of strong arms, such as I hope his are by now," and almost as he spoke, there was the sound of wheels approaching the farm-house,—for one of the elder brothers had driven in the market-cart to meet Dirk at the village where the coach was to drop him,—and in another minute in came the traveller himself, eager to greet and be greeted.
And a hearty welcome awaited him.
He had grown and improved in every way. In fact he was no longer the ugly duckling of the family, but bid fair in a year or two to rival his stalwart brothers. So, naturally, of course, his parents were delighted.
"Your uncle has done well by you, and that's a fact," said the farmer, giving the boy a hearty slap on the shoulders. "All the same, I hope he's not given you a liking for his way of life."
For the uncle with whom Dirk had been seeing the world for the last year or two, for the benefit of his health, was a sea-faring man—the captain and owner of a small trading vessel.
Dirk laughed, but shook his head.
"No fear of that," he replied. "I like the sea well enough, but I don't want to be a sailor. No, father, I'm a farmer, at least going to be one I hope."
"That's all right," said his father. "And there's no life to compare with the life of the fields, to my mind. There's just one thing to complain of, especially in these parts, and that is the uncertain weather. No telling any day what it may change to—and none of the glasses as I've ever come across is much good, if any. And this year's been one of the changeablest I remember. I wonder why it's so, for we've no hills close about. Maybe it's through being near the sea. I've half a mind to send for a strand of seaweed and hang it in the porch, and see what that'll tell."
"Not much good—it changes when the weather does, but not far ahead," said Dirk. Then a sudden idea struck him. "Mother," he went on, "long ago there used to be an old-fashioned kind of weather-teller, up in the garret, do you remember? And not long ago, in Holland, where uncle had to take a cargo, I came across one just like it, and the goodwife of the house told me it never failed them. Suppose we get out our one?"
The dame shook her head.
"Strange you should speak of it, Dirk," she replied. "It's many a day since I've given it a thought, till this very afternoon—when—" and here she gave a little smile half of apology for her own childishness, "I went up to the garret to look out of the end window, which has such a good view of the road, to see if the cart and you boys were in sight. And glancing up at the shelf, I missed something I was used to see there. It was the old toy hut with the man and the woman. It's all in pieces—just a crumbled heap, and no man nor woman to be seen. Maybe the cat's knocked it down."
"Then it's no good," said Dirk, "for I don't think they make them now—not in England, anyway.—But, mother," he continued, "I've not seen little Merran yet. Where is she, and is she all right?"
The dame started.
"To be sure. I was forgetting about her," she said, "and she was here not five minutes ago. I told her to stay—not that she needed telling when it was to see you again, Dirk. Merran, child," she called, raising her voice, whereupon the little girl came forward shyly from the deep recess of the old-fashioned window where she had been partly hidden.
"I did stay, auntie," she said. "I was only waiting for you and uncle to see Dirk first," and as she spoke, she held out her hand to the new-comer. He took it, but also stooped down to kiss her. "You've grown a bit, quite a tidy bit, little Merran," he said, "and you're looking well too—more colour in her cheeks, and so fresh and smart. Is that a new frock she's on, eh, mother?"
His praise went far to reward the dame for the trouble she had given herself. She smiled, and catching Merran's eye, the smile was returned.
"She's growing a big girl now, you see," said the aunt. "Old enough to be always tidy, and beginning to be handy too, we'll hope."
"Yes," said the farmer, turning from the window where he had been standing looking out. "You can be useful in the hay-field now, child. If I did but know what the weather's like to be to-morrow, so as to begin!"
"Uncle," exclaimed Merran eagerly. "It's going to be fine, very fine all to-day, and I'm almost sure all to-morrow, and I think for a lot of days."
Her uncle glanced at her and gave a little laugh.
"I hope you're right, child," he said. "But how should you know? You can't be a weather prophet at your age!"
"I can't tell you how I know," began Merran, reddening a little, "but I feel——" and just then Dirk broke in, and what he said was very lucky, as, both then and afterwards, it served the good purpose of saving her from cross-questioning about her curious power.
"Don't be too sure of that, father," he said. "There's queer things we can't explain, but true for all that. I've seen a good many of them at sea, and in the far-off places I've been at. There was one old sailor who always dreamt before we put in at any port who'd find letters and who wouldn't, and he never was wrong. And away in the far East, as for prophets!—my! I could tell you stories as'd seem like magic. Over here we're thicker-headed, and maybe it's just as well. But for nature things, there needn't be much doubt but what some are far cuter than others, and maybe Merran's one who has the weather gift."
The little girl glanced at him gratefully, though she did not speak. In her heart she was saying to herself, "I shouldn't wonder if the dear Sunshine fairy hasn't put it into his head to say these things."
As for the farmer and his wife, they were both much impressed, and when an hour or two later the sun set in a glow of crimson and rose, the child's pleasant augury seemed still more trustworthy.
And the next morning proved its correctness.
Little did any one suspect that long before the rest of the household had begun to think of awaking, in the early summer dawn, Merran had crept up to her garret, and there, half trembling with excitement, though much more of hope than fear, had drawn out her magic gifts to test them afresh. Nor was she disappointed. The parasol flew open in her hands, almost before she touched it; the umbrella resisted every effort, though of course she avoided any rough force. It might have been glued or nailed together!
"Fine!" exclaimed Merran joyfully. "Of course it's going to be fine all day—as bright and sunshiny as any one could wish. And after to-day too, and for some time to come I am almost certain. There's something in the feeling of the dear things that I can't describe—I'm getting to understand them. The parasol seems to jump at me in a sort of assuring way that must mean even more than just for to-day, and the umbrella—you are a determined fellow, Mr. Umbrella!"
She laughed merrily in her delight and satisfaction, and the brightness in her face when she went downstairs to breakfast made the others smile at her.
Happily for us all, good spirits are quite as infectious as low ones, if not indeed more so.
"I'm glad I washed her frock for her yesterday," thought the dame, taking credit to herself for the girl's pleasant looks. "Children are easy up and easy down. Maybe I've been a bit too sharp with her now and then."
And Dirk thought to himself that poor little Merran had certainly greatly improved, and even the other brothers refrained, half unconsciously, from teasing or jeering at her, as they had too often done.
The farmer came in after they were all seated at table. He had been having a good look at the sky, and his eyes fell on the small prophetess, with approval.
"You've been right, Merran," he said. "It does look now as if we were in for a spell of real summer weather. And who'd have thought it this time yesterday. If only it lasts till we get the hay in."
"It will, uncle, it will. You'll see," said she. "Just you trust me a bit. I'll know, I'm sure, when it's going to change."
And strange to say, no one laughed at her or her predictions. On the contrary, all of the family seemed impressed. Dirk's remarks the evening before were not forgotten.
And for some time to come Merran had no reason for misgiving. Morning after morning the lovely fairy parasol flew open at her tiniest touch; morning after morning the umbrella refused to yield in even the faintest degree. So the Seaview Farm hay was mown, and dried, and stacked under the most favourable circumstances, and more than one of the neighbouring yeomen wished that they had been as quick about it as Mac and his sons, though at the first start most of the wiseacres had told them they would find it had been better to put off a while.
And once it was all safe, there came a change. One warm bright morning, Merran looked up at the sky silently and then turned to her uncle.
"It's going to rain," she said. "Before night it'll be raining heavily."
The farmer glanced in his turn at the blue, almost cloudless heavens.
"Not a bit of it," he said. "You're out for once, child. No sign whatever of rain. It's market-day, and I'm off. I've got a good bit of business to see to, to-day, at the town. No, no, the weather's all right. You'll see. I may be a trifle late, dame. Don't you be uneasy."
"You'll take your overcoat, anyway, father," said his wife, who was not so unbelieving in Merran's foresight as her husband.
He replied by a hearty laugh.
"Overcoat," he repeated. "Bless me, what are you thinking of? Overcoat in weather like this! Why, it's as settled as can be—warm and fine, like it's been for the last week or two. Couldn't be more settled."
"That's a new word to use for these parts," said Dirk quietly. Merran said nothing. The dame turned to her sons.
"Which of you's going with father?" she said, adding in a whisper to Dirk, who was next her at table, "You'll see to it if you go," she said, "see that he takes his coat. Think of his rheumatism if he gets soaked."
But Dirk shook his head, which was explained by the farmer's next words.
"None of 'em," he said, in reply to the goodwife's enquiry. "There's too much to do at home just now for more than me to be spared. You've all got your work cut out for you—eh, boys?"
Then followed some field and crops talk, and no more was said about the weather, and soon after Farmer Mac set off.
Merran felt sorry and a little anxious. She knew that there would have been no use in her saying anything more, for her uncle was one of the most obstinate of men, but several times that day she made her way up to the garret to test her strange barometers, half in hopes that the bad weather would hold off till the farmer was safe home again. The first time the result was much the same as it had been on her early morning visit. The parasol opened slowly and refused to spread out far. The umbrella responded to her touch as it had never before done—yet it did not spring apart, but gradually allowed itself to stretch a certain amount.
"That means," said Merran, "that the rain's not coming just yet," for she was growing curiously sensitive to the shades of forecast in the magic toys. It was almost as if they spoke to her. But the second trial, later in the day, told of nearer approach of the change, and an hour or two after that, when Merran's anxiety and in a sense, too, her curiosity lured her again to her garret window, the parasol was as if glued together, while the umbrella flew open in her hands, like a bird eager for flight.
Merran felt at the same time satisfied and yet distressed.
"It shows how true they are, and that I can correctly understand them," she said to herself. "Still I do wish poor uncle could get home safely before the rain begins, for evidently it will be very heavy indeed. I wish he had listened to me this morning, but I didn't like to be too certain, for if I had foretold it wrongly they'd have lost faith in me, and I couldn't feel quite sure if it meant that the weather would change so soon."
But even as she reached up to restore her treasures to their hiding-place in the deserted nest, something cold fell on her hand and made her start. The rain had begun!
She made her way downstairs feeling somewhat distressed, for she was by nature affectionate and most ready to sympathise, and of late her aunt had been so much kinder and gentler that the little maid's heart was quite won over.
She was standing by the window, gazing out at the fast increasing downpour, when the dame came in. "Supper-time, Merran," she said briskly, though there was no ill-temper in her tone. "We must be setting the table."
Merran turned with a little start.
"I'm so sorry——" she was beginning, when her aunt interrupted her. "Don't look so scared, child," she said, "I wasn't for scolding you."
"And I wasn't forgetting about supper, auntie," replied the little girl. "It's only that I was wishing poor uncle had got safe back before the rain began——"
"Why," exclaimed the dame, interrupting a second time, as she hurried to the window, "you don't mean to say it's started already? I was so busy in the laundry I hadn't noticed. Deary, deary," she went on, "but it is coming down! And the master without his coat—he'll be soaked through and through. I wish he'd listened to you, child, that I do, though I was hoping it'd hold off till night."
"I wish so too, auntie," said Merran. "I'd rather have been in the wrong than that poor uncle should suffer through me being in the right."
"I'm sure you would," said the dame heartily. Then she stood silent for a moment or two, gazing in distress at the rain, which by this time was indeed a case of "cats and dogs," really waterspouts. The anxious wife sighed deeply.
"He's in for it and no mistake," she said. "Men's that obstinate. Well, well, all we can do is to have hot water ready and make him change his things at once. I'll fetch some of his clothes down to air them—no, I'll do better still, we'll light a small fire upstairs, for, summer though it is, the evening's very chilly. And Merran, child, from now I'll stick to you as my weather-glass. It's a wonderful gift you've got, and we'll do well to believe in it."
"I think so too, auntie," said Merran. "I really can foretell about it," and her quiet tone impressed her hearers still more, for by this time Dirk and one of his brothers had hurried in.
Supper was an uncomfortable meal that evening. They were all anxious, for they all remembered the father's weary weeks of rheumatic fever the year before, and one or other of the "boys" kept running to the door to look out, or to listen for the sound of wheels, not easy to distinguish through the torrents of rain. And Merran was up and downstairs every few minutes to see that the fire was all right, and the clothes safely getting aired. And at last he came, poor man!
He looked very white and shivery, and, to tell the truth, rather ashamed of himself, when he came in. For besides the miserable state of drenchedness he was in, he had to own that the discomfort was all thanks to his obstinacy, and distrust of the little "weather prophet's" warning. Few elderly men of any class, more especially a self-willed old farmer like Mac, would like to allow that they had been outdone in wisdom by a child, but on the whole Merran's uncle was more ready to give in than might have been expected.
"I'll listen to you next time, child," he said. "That I promise you. And to you too, dame," turning to his wife, "for it wouldn't have been so bad if I'd taken my thick coat. Where Merran gets her weather knowledge from beats me," he went on, "but there it is, and that's a fact. I'm not the only one that's been caught in the rain to-day, I can tell you. For at market all the talk was of the fine weather lasting a good bit longer."
"I daresay it'll come back again," said Merran. "But I do wish the storm had held off till you were safe home, poor uncle."
"And so do I," said Dirk, who was busy helping the farmer to throw off his streaming garments. "As it is, father," he added in a lower voice, "you'll do well to keep that promise. I tell you I've seen queerish things in my wanderings—things beyond us to explain, and there's no doubt in my mind that little Merran has got this strange power, and lucky for us that she has."
The farmer looked much impressed, for since his travels Dirk had come to be looked upon as an authority.
"You don't think," said old Mac hesitatingly, "that there's anything uncanny about it. I wouldn't like the maid to get called a witch, though the days of ill-treating such are past and gone, thank Heaven."
Dirk did not reply directly.
"There's things we can't explain," he repeated. "There's good mysteries and bad mysteries. But Merran's all right. I'd trust her to use her extra sense for kindness, so she'll earn no ill-will by it."
By this time the farmer, who was unusually meek, had been put to bed and made to drink hot possets and all the rest of it, in hopes of warding off another bad rheumatic attack. To some extent the treatment was successful, but not entirely. The poor man had to keep his room for over a fortnight, which was very trying, as harvest was by no means over. Still, two weeks' illness is less than two months, and on the whole he bore his troubles patiently, and one thing which made this attack of his less wearisome both to himself and to his family than those that had laid him up before was the great fancy he had taken to Merran—his "weather maiden," as he had dubbed her. She proved to be an excellent little nurse, and the farmer was never as content and patient as when she was sitting by him, chatting cheerfully, as she was now able to do, since she was no longer frightened of being scolded, or reading aloud some of her favourite stories. For she was naturally far from stupid. Every morning and evening the invalid was sure to ask her about the weather, and, as we know, she was always ready with a forecast, which never once proved mistaken. Every day, many times a day indeed, did she say to herself how different her life now was from what it had been before her wonderful visit to the old "rain-house."
The farmer recovered; the harvest proved a good one, time passed and winter came again, and with every season Merran's fame spread. All over that corner of the country she came to be talked of as the "weather maiden," her uncle's name for her, and many a farmer, many a peasant, many a goodwife came to consult her and to hear her predictions. Her fame spread farther indeed than among her own people. The squire's lady never fixed the day for her summer parties or for the school children's feast without looking in to ask little Merran's opinion. For by long practice and delicate care in handling her magic gifts the girl came to foretell for days beforehand which of them—umbrella or parasol, "Rain-man" or "Sunshine fairy"—was to be in the ascendant.
Time passed, weeks became months, months years, as is the appointed way in this round old world of ours. From a plain, unnoticeable little girl Merran grew into a tall sweet-faced maiden. She was not exactly pretty, she was quiet and rather serious, but her dark eyes, though somewhat dreamy in expression, were very charming, and the tones of her voice were very musical. So she was not without admirers, you may be sure. Many a man would have liked to marry her—some among them, no doubt, influenced by the knowledge of her wonderful gift, for of course the possession of it could not be kept a secret if she had wished, and she was far from desiring this. On the contrary, her kind heart rejoiced when she was able to use it for the advantage of her neighbours as well as for the relations whom she now loved as if they were her very own, and who on their side loved her.
But she kept her secret, faithful to the promise she had given to the lovely Sunshine fairy, though there were times when she longed to share it with one in whom she could safely confide. And now and then at intervals she had a strange feeling that Dirk suspected something, for she sometimes caught his eyes fixed on her with a kind of veiled enquiry, and once he said in a low voice, with a curious smile, "Little Merran, you are not like the rest of us."
"Are you, yourself, Dirk?" she replied. "There are things you know and feel that the others don't—the voices in the wind, the burden of the birds' songs, the secrets of the restless waves—oh, Dirk, if one lived a thousand years, there would still be mysteries upon mysteries of beautiful things to learn!"
Then she grew shy again, for she was always quiet and timid and wondered how she had found courage to say so much. But Dirk seemed pleased.
"Yes," he said, nodding his head gently. "Maybe we are a bit different from most of those about us. You, anyway, Merran. I've seen strange lands and beautiful places, but you—you give me the feeling that once upon a time you must have had a glimpse of real fairyland."
Merran grew red at this, but she made no reply.
Only to herself she said, "I wish—I do wish I might tell him," and then she grew still redder when the words of the Sunshine fairy returned to her memory that only to one person might she ever reveal her secret.
"And that one will never be my fate," thought the girl sadly. "Dirk will never care for me in that way, and never could I care for any one but him."
Whereas on his side, Dirk said to himself that he must never hope to win the sweet weather maiden for himself. "Why, half the young fellows in the country-side, and old ones too, are ready to woo her if she'd let them! They think she'd bring good luck to her husband, and so she would. But it's not for that I'd care for her—it's that I love her for her own self, luck or no luck."
And one day—one happy day—had the Sunshine fairy whispered to him to take courage, I wonder?—he determined to risk it, and told the maiden his hopes and fears, and found how little reason for the latter there had been, and the two young things, who had drawn to each other from their first meeting, before long were married, carrying with them to a home of their own the magic gifts, now, to Merran's delight, her husband's as much as her own.
Good fortune was theirs. Whatever Dirk undertook, whatever Merran planned, prospered. And that it should be so, they deserved. For they remained kindly and unselfish, ever ready to help others less happy than themselves, grateful for their blessings, patient under trials, of which, as life cannot be always sunshine, they had their share. They lived, I was told, to a good old age. What became of the fairy treasures, I cannot say. Whether they were handed down to their children, or whether they were whisked back to fairyland, I know not, not any more than I know what has become of all the toy "rain-houses" which in our grand-parents' times were so often to be seen. The world is growing too clever for the fairies, I fear, unless perhaps, unseen and unsuspected, they are still behind the scenes in some of the marvels and inventions all around us. Who can say?
And by the bye, I have heard it whispered that in a certain out-of-the-way corner of this dear old country there lives a family whose sons and daughters have a curious gift of "weather wisdom." Maybe they are the descendants of our Dirk and his Merran?
The Enchanted Trunks
Once upon a time, on a very hot summer's day, a girl stood waiting at the door of a small old-fashioned inn, beside a little heap of luggage. She was quite young, about sixteen, or seventeen at the most. Her face was sweet in expression, and would have been pretty if she had not looked so tired and anxious. She was quite alone and seemed shy and timid, for now and then, when some of the folk belonging to the place, passing in and out, wished her good-day, or made any friendly remark, she started and grew crimson even though she replied politely. And when after a time the landlady herself came to the door and asked the girl if she would not step inside and wait in the parlour, she answered hesitatingly that she thought she had better stay in the porch.
"I'm so afraid of missing the coach, or losing my seat in it," she said.
"No fear of that, Miss," said the comfortable-looking dame. "Your place is engaged, no doubt."
"Oh yes, I suppose so," the stranger replied. "My name is O'Beirne—Clodagh O'Beirne."
"That's all right," said the landlady; "I remember the name. The master—that's my husband—called out to the coachman last night that he must secure a place for you to-day. You'd written for it, no doubt?"
"Yes, the friends I stayed the night with—I only came over from Ireland yesterday—did so. It was their gig that brought me here just now, to catch the coach as it passed."
The landlady's good-humour seemed to cheer the girl a little; she began to look less frightened.
"You've come a long way," the older woman remarked. "Right across the sea, I take it?" The girl nodded, and looked as if she were going to cry. The landlady's curiosity was aroused. "And it's the first time you've left home, I daresay, and all by yourself too. It must feel strange-like."
"I wasn't alone till to-day. A friend came over with me," Clodagh replied. "And I shan't be alone long. I'm to meet a—a lady, a cousin, and we are to travel together."
"Ah indeed, that'll be much pleasanter for you," said her companion.
The young girl murmured something. But to herself she was saying that she was by no means sure of it. And after a little silence she went on, "I don't think I'd mind travelling alone—I don't mind anything very much now that I haven't any home—except," and she glanced at the heap of rather heterogeneous baggage, "except for all these things. I'm so afraid of losing half of them, and yet Biddy and I packed as neatly as ever we could. Biddy was grandmother's maid, and she stayed with me after dear granny died, till it was settled for me to go to live with my cousin and travel about with her."
"It'll be fine and amusing for you," said the landlady.
"I—I don't know," said Clodagh. "I'm not used to travelling, and I've not seen my cousin for a good while, and she may think me stupid."
"But she's a young lady, I suppose?" said her questioner.
"Not very. She's—oh, she's seven or eight years older than I, and she wants to travel all about till she finds a place to suit her. She's like me, except that she's rich. She's got no parents and can do as she likes."
Then suddenly it seemed to strike the young stranger that she was perhaps too communicative, and she grew rather pink. "I shouldn't perhaps——" she began, but the kind-hearted woman understood and interrupted. "It's me, Miss, that's in fault," she said. "I shouldn't make free to ask so many questions. But it went to my heart to see you standing there alone, so young and half-frightened like. I had a little daughter once—she'd have been not so much older than you if she'd lived——" She stopped for a moment, then she went on again: "Wouldn't you like a cup of tea now, Miss?" she said. "It's a time o' day I often has one, for we've no lie-abeds in our house, and it's a good while since we'd breakfast, and if you've come some distance you'll have been up betimes, I'd daresay."
Clodagh's face brightened.
"It's very kind of you," she said. "I would like it uncommonly. I couldn't eat any breakfast, I was so afraid of being too late. But—please tell me how much it will cost. I mustn't spend anything I can help, you see. Once I'm with Cousin Paulina, she will pay things like that for herself and me."
"Don't trouble your pretty head about it," said the goodwife. "We're well-to-do, my man and me, and neither chick nor kin to come after us, more's the pity—and—you do make me think of what my little maid would have been by now, Missy, if you'll pardon the liberty. Now just step inside—to my own parlour—the kettle's on the hob—you'll feel quite a different young lady once you've had a bit of breakfast, better late than never."
"And you promise me I won't miss the coach," said the girl, as she followed the kind woman into the little sitting-room behind the bar.
"No fear, no fear," replied her hostess, and as Clodagh sat down in the comfortable chintz-covered old armchair—the landlady's own, which she drew forward for the unexpected guest—the girl gave a sigh of content. "It is nice and cool in here," she said, "and I am so tired already and so thirsty. I wish I were going to stay here for a bit."
"Indeed and I wish it too, Miss, and it's our best we'd do to make you comfortable," said the dame, as she bustled about to make the tea, which she fetched from the kitchen hard by, and to cut some tempting slices of bread and butter. "But travelling's very pleasant, some folks say. There's an old lady not far from here—that's to say, her own home is—but she's for ever on the go. They do say as she's been all over the world, and old as she is, she seldom rests."
"Is she so very old?" asked Clodagh.
"No one knows," was the mysterious reply. "My husband's mother, and she's no chicken as you can fancy, remembers her as quite aged when she was young. But she never seems to get no older. Some say she was spirited away by the good folk when she was a baby and that she's got a fairy's life—indeed there's some that will have it she's not really one of us at all."
Clodagh, by this time refreshed by the tea, sat up eagerly. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I'm so glad you talk of the good folk. I thought it was only at home—in Ireland, I mean, that people still believed in them."
"Dear me, no," said her hostess, with a smile. "Maybe in the big towns you never hear of them nowadays, and no wonder. They can't abide noise and bustle and dirt. But in these parts, oh dear yes. I've heard tell of them all my life, I know, and of their tricksy ways. They can be the best of friends, but, my word! if they take offence they can worry one's life out."
Clodagh was listening with all her ears. Her eyes had grown brighter, and some colour had come into her cheeks, with the mere mention of fairy folk, so familiar to her since her infancy.
"Oh," she said with a little sigh, "what you say does make me wish still more that I could stay here a few days and get rested, and you would tell me stories, as my dear old nurse used to do."
"That I would," said the landlady, "and indeed I wish you could stay to hear them. Not that I've ever really come across the fairies—brownies and pixies, they call them in some parts—myself, nor even set eyes on one of them—unless indeed——" and here she stopped abruptly, lowering her voice.
"Unless what?" asked Clodagh. "Do tell me."
"Just what I was saying a minute ago," the dame went on. "Unless that strange old lady is one herself, as I'm more than half inclined to think by what I've heard tell of her."
"Then you've seen her?" questioned the girl eagerly.
The landlady nodded.
"Just seen her," she said. "Twice—no, I think three times, she's passed in the coach, and I've just said a word to her at the door. Once she asked for a glass of milk. 'Twas a very hot morning, like as it might be to-day."
"How I wish she might be in the coach this morning!" exclaimed the traveller, her eyes sparkling. "It would be so interesting, and if she knew I was Irish she might take a fancy to me, for the good people do love the Irish!" and at the idea the girl laughed merrily for the first time.
"Yes," agreed the dame, "indeed she might, my pretty young lady. But it's a long time since she's passed this way. One never knows where she is, or how she'll travel. Now and then she'll set off in her own coach and four, like any princess, and I've heard it whispered that she'll sometimes disappear from her home, no one knows how."
"Oh, a broomstick, maybe, or has she a pet gander?" laughed Clodagh.
But the landlady looked a little frightened.
"Hush, Missy, my dear," she whispered, "it doesn't do to——" Then she suddenly started. "I'm afraid that's the coach," she exclaimed, "and sorry I am to part with you, but if you're bound to go, we'd best be at the door ready."
Clodagh jumped up at once.
"And thank you a thousand times," she said, "for all your kindness. Yes, I must go. My cousin will be looking out for me. I've not seen her for five years," she added nervously. "Wish me good luck, my kind friend."
"That I will," said the dame heartily.
"You've cheered me greatly," said the girl, and in her impulsive Irish way she held up her sweet young face for a kiss.
The coach it was, sure enough. There was some trouble about getting Clodagh's rather complicated belongings on to it, it was already so piled up. But with difficulty all was at last disposed, outside and in, and thanks to the landlady nothing was left behind.
There were tears in the kind woman's eyes when at last it rumbled off, her young guest of an hour waving good-bye out of the window.
But it is Clodagh's adventures we have to follow. For a minute or two the bustle of getting her bags and boxes settled prevented her realising that there was already a passenger in the coach, and before looking round she felt obliged to lean out once again in a last farewell to her kind new friend. She was soon, however, recalled to the present.
"Who is there?" said a voice—a rather petulant one—from the corner. "Whatever is the matter? I was fast asleep till there was all this fuss! Oh!—" with an exclamation, "can it be you, Clodagh O'Beirne? I had no idea we were at Crossway Corner already?"
"Yes, indeed," Clodagh replied, "it is I. I didn't know it was you, Cousin Paulina. I wasn't sure, you see, if I would find you here, or if you would only meet me at the next stage. Lady Roseley wasn't certain from your letter which it would be."
"Humph," murmured Mistress Paulina. "Well, after all I decided that to avoid any mistake I'd get up for once by cock-crow, so as to start from Stracey. I hate getting up early, and I was fast asleep as you saw. Did Lady Roseley send some one with you, then, to see you off? You seemed to be nodding good-byes."
"No," said Clodagh. "That's to say only the old coachman who drove me over and left me at the inn. I was all right. No, it was only the landlady I was waving to. She was so kind, helping to carry out my things," and she glanced round at the various encumbrances. The place was certainly inconveniently crowded, and so Paulina, now wide-awake, seemed to think, as she took it all in, and that with evident annoyance.
"I must say, Clodagh," she remarked, "that you have a queer collection of luggage. I hope you will get rid of some of these bags and baskets before we start again. I don't deny that I travel with a fair amount myself," and indeed the coach had seemed well packed inside and out, before the younger girl's belongings had been added, "but a child like you can't need such an amount. You'll have to learn to be a clever traveller, my dear, if we're to get on together."
"I'm very sorry," said Clodagh apologetically. "You see, cousin, I never have left home before, and I didn't know how to manage. I'll do my best, and I hope I'll soon learn, for of course I shall pack for you as well as for myself. That I quite understand."
"Well, yes," said Paulina. "I can't go about with you and a maid. And as things have unfortunately turned out so sadly for you, it seemed to me you'd be better off with me than going among strangers. And on my side, I'm sick of maids with their airs and graces and vulgarities. I prefer to have a companion of my own class."
"Yes, thank you," Clodagh replied. "It was a very kind thought of yours, and I shall soon learn to manage well, I hope. To begin with, I think we might arrange all these things better," and she stood up and pulled about and pushed and lifted, till the narrow space looked more orderly, Paulina from her corner now and then directing and advising. She was a handsome young woman, with a by no means disagreeable expression. Indeed there was often a kindly light in her bright eyes, and gentle curves about her mouth. But she was self-willed and quick-tempered, "spoilt" in short, though generous and well-meaning, entirely unused to contradiction and impatient of any obstacles in the way of her wishes or fancies.
"Thank goodness," she ejaculated, as she settled herself down again in her wraps, "thank goodness, we have no fellow-passengers. Now I mean to go to sleep again, and so may you, child, if you like. We shall stop at Oddingstowe for dinner and fresh horses, and by four o'clock we should be at Felway, where the Marristons' carriage—and, it is to be hoped, a cart for the luggage—is to meet us. They expect us to stay at the Priory for two or three days. They know you will be with me."
"Yes, thank you," replied Clodagh again, feeling mortally shy at the prospect before her, yet not venturing to say so.
Paulina composed herself to sleep once more, and before long, in spite of the thoughts that crowded her mind—anxieties, hopes, and fears, as she realised more clearly her new position as her kinswoman's companion—Clodagh too, though a few minutes ago she would not have believed it possible, Clodagh too dozed off.
And she slept, as did Paulina, for some time. The stopping of the vehicle, the cessation of the monotonous rumbling, aroused them both.
Paulina sat up, rubbing her eyes.
"Dear me," she exclaimed, "Oddingstowe already!"
Clodagh looked out of the window.
"No," she said hesitatingly. "I don't think it can be. There's no village or houses; only a turnpike. Oh, yes," she went on, "I see what it is. We're stopping to take up another passenger."
"What sort of one?" her cousin demanded. "I hope to goodness it's not a first-class one—an inside one—we are stuffed up enough already. There's scarcely air to breathe."
"N-no," Clodagh replied, continuing to look out. "I don't think it can be. It's only a little old woman, quite poor, and she doesn't seem to have any luggage. She's only carrying a hand-bag—just a sort of reticule."
"All right," Paulina responded, lazily settling herself again for another nap. "All the same, I wish they wouldn't pull up in this unnecessary way. I was so comfortably asleep. It's the only thing to do in this tropical heat."
Clodagh too was sitting down again, congratulating herself, more on Paulina's account than her own, that their privacy was not to be disturbed—when, alas, her unspoken relief proved premature. To her astonishment, the guard approached the door, which he opened, and with a "your pardon, ladies," to the two girls, held it civilly by the handle, for the new-comer to enter.
Clodagh instinctively drew back a little for her to pass. There were four places—two and two—facing each other. Hitherto the younger girl had been sitting beside her cousin—the opposite seat covered with their possessions. But now she at once began to clear a space on it for herself, for she saw at a glance that the stranger was old, and looked fragile and delicate, and in spite of the extreme simplicity of her attire—she wore only a clean but faded cotton of an old-fashioned flowery pattern, half covered by a sort of market-woman's cloak, and surmounted by a huge black straw bonnet—in spite of this there was a certain dignity about her as in reply to Clodagh's silent attention she murmured, "I thank you, young lady. But do not disturb yourself. I can occupy the back seat."
"I should think so indeed," exclaimed Paulina angrily. "Indeed, my good woman, I am inclined to believe that your coming in here at all is some mistake. This is for first-class passengers, and moreover our places have been engaged for some days ahead.—What are you thinking of, you silly child?" she went on sharply, turning to her cousin. "Why should you give up your place to this person and her bundles? I won't have it. Sit down beside me at once," for Clodagh with a crimson face was still hesitating and moving about the bags and baggage nervously, though the new-comer had already settled herself quietly with her back to the horses.
"Paulina," said the younger girl in a low voice, "do not be so excited. She has no bundles, or anything, so it cannot really inconvenience us. And she is old, and looks so fragile. It is only right that I should offer her my seat."
Paulina was about to reply in the same irritated tone, when she was interrupted.
"I thank you, my kind young lady," said the stranger in a clear voice, which somehow enforced attention, "I thank you for your courtesy and consideration. But I have no desire to take your place, I assure you. In fact I prefer this side. I am an old traveller. Nor will my presence incommode you for long. I shall leave the coach before we reach Oddingstowe."
Clodagh murmured a gentle "Thank you." She was grateful to the old woman for not resenting her cousin's rudeness. And to Paulina she whispered, "She cannot be a mere peasant. Her voice and words show it"; and to do her justice, the elder girl looked a little ashamed of herself.
"Don't tease me," she said. "It always upsets me to be wakened suddenly. I'm going to sleep again," and so saying she leant back and closed her eyes.
And after a few minutes Clodagh followed her example, though she was no longer sleepy. But something—a vague feeling of slight shyness—made her do so, for she was conscious of her opposite neighbour's scrutiny. Now and then from the depths of the quaint black bonnet she caught the gleam of dark bright eyes, and the sensation caused her cheeks to grow pink again.
"Who and what can she be?" the girl said to herself. "She certainly looks like a peasant, but her voice—her expressions—her dignity belie it," and thus puzzling over the anomaly, Clodagh after all fell asleep.
Now I must mention what may seem strange and most improbable. You will remember the description given to the young traveller only an hour or two before the coach stopped at the turnpike, of the old lady in the neighbourhood, concerning whom such curious and even uncanny things were said?
Yes—well, this is the strange fact. Though Clodagh was at once impressed in an unusual way by the personality of their fellow-traveller, and perplexed to explain her inconsistencies, never once during the day's journey did it occur to her to put "two and two together"; to guess, as no doubt you, children, who are reading this little old story, will already have done, that here in person was the mysterious lady of the landlady's legend—the being who, if not actually of fairy race herself, still had much in common with the "good people," and doubtless dealings with them.
But so it happened with Clodagh, and afterwards—not a long-delayed afterwards either, as you will hear—she felt quite unable to explain her own forgetfulness, or "stupidity" as she called it.
In the meantime what occurred was this. She slept and Paulina slept on uninterruptedly till the coach drew up at Oddingstowe. And when it did so, and the clatter over the cobble-stones of the old inn's courtyard aroused them, lo and behold, they were alone! The strange new-comer had disappeared. The whole episode might have been a dream, only that rarely, if ever, do any two people dream the same and at the same time.
Paulina stared.
"She's gone," she exclaimed.
"Yes," said her cousin, feeling very much inclined to add, "You needn't have been so rude to her."
"I never felt or heard the coach stop to let her get out," added the elder girl.
"Nor did I," said Clodagh, "only——"
"Only what?"
"Nothing. I was dreaming, I suppose. But I have a misty recollection of hearing some one say, almost in a whisper, 'Good-bye for the present, my dear. We shall meet again.'"
"I hope not," said Paulina, with a slight shudder. "Clodagh, you don't think possibly she's a witch?"
Clodagh's spirit of mischief inclined her to frighten her cousin a little, but she refrained.
"No, of course not," she replied. "She's a very polite and harmless old woman, though, no doubt, there did seem something rather odd—mysterious almost—about her. But if I may say it, Paulina, I think, in travelling especially, it is best to be so—polite I mean—to everybody one is thrown into contact with."
Paulina muttered something which sounded like "rubbish" or "nonsense," but aloud she only said snappishly, "You know nothing about travelling, child. One has to keep up one's dignity."
"There is a good way and a bad way of doing so," thought the younger girl, though she said nothing more. She was relieved, however, to see that her cousin was not really vexed with her, for she had spoken impulsively, forgetting that it was scarcely her place to reprove Paulina, all things considered.
"I think she is really gentler and kinder than she sometimes appears," Clodagh's reflections went on. "I fancy I shall be able to get on with her if I am patient, and if I try my best. The only thing I am depressed about is the luggage! I don't know how to get my own things into smaller compass, and when it comes to all her belongings too, I don't see my way at all. I am so afraid of losing any of her beautiful clothes, and no doubt she has valuable jewellery too, and she is very changeable in her plans. Lady Roseley warned me that sometimes I should have to pack and unpack at very short notice indeed!" and she could not help sighing a little. But Paulina did not observe it, for by this time, as I said, they were at Oddingstowe, the small town where they were to stop to change horses and to have some early dinner, of which the elder girl declared that she felt much in need.
An hour later they started again, to Paulina's satisfaction no other inside passenger appearing. A short though heavy thunder shower had somewhat cleared the air, the simple meal had refreshed them, and Paulina seemed quite to have recovered her good-temper. She grew talkative.
"Have you ever heard of the Marristons?" she asked. "My friends at the Priory, you know, where we are to spend a few days."
Clodagh shook her head.
"No," she replied. "You said in your last letter that you had a visit to pay on your way to the place where you intend to drink the waters, but you did not mention any names."
"Didn't I?" said Paulina carelessly. "Oh well, I'm not good at letter-writing. They're very nice people, and very kind. You needn't feel shy about going there," for Clodagh's manner and rising colour had already shown that shy she was. "It won't be a large party, as they are quite alone just now; just the father and mother, elderly people, their married son and his wife and two daughters, older than you and I." Paulina rather liked to make herself out younger than she was, when it suited her, though at other times she treated her cousin as if she were a complete child.
"I am glad of that," Clodagh replied. "Then," she went on, somewhat nervously, "perhaps you won't wear your very best dresses there, or shall I take out everything?" for this terrifying question of packing and unpacking was still uppermost in her mind.
"Oh dear me!" exclaimed Paulina crossly, "perhaps not. How can I say? You'll just have to see. That's what I want you for—to use your intelligence; don't you understand? I hate being asked about every trifle." Then, feeling that she had been speaking irritably, she went on more kindly: "I suppose you've got some tidy gowns of your own—your granny liked you to look nice, I know."
"I haven't got any proper evening gowns," said Clodagh. "I used to wear simple white muslin—not grown-up gowns, you know, but since grandmother died I've only had black."
"Ah yes, of course," Paulina agreed. "Well, just wear your nicest black in the evening. Your being in mourning will explain it's not being full dress. When we get to St. Aidan's"—the place where she intended to drink the waters—"I'll see about some gowns for you. I hear that the shops there are quite modish."
"Thank you," said Clodagh gratefully. But in her heart she was thinking: "Oh dear, if I'm to have more clothes, it will make the packing still worse, and where am I to put them if Cousin Paulina complains already of my luggage?"
But no more was said on the subject just then, and before very long they found themselves at Felway, where they left the coach, to complete the rest of the day's journey in Squire Marriston's chariot, which was awaiting them, as well as, to Paulina's satisfaction, a cart for their voluminous belongings.
The elder girl stepped into the roomy vehicle and glanced round her with approval.
"What a comfort to be less crowded up!" she exclaimed. "Clodagh, tell them to put everything in the cart. Just give me my satin mantle—these hot days sometimes end in chilly evenings—nothing else," and as her cousin obeyed her, "You are sure nothing was left in the coach?"
"Nothing," replied Clodagh confidently. "Still, I'll glance inside again, to make quite sure," and she did so, for the stage-coach was still there, waiting for fresh horses.
She came back to report satisfactorily, and they set off.
It was a longish drive, five or six miles, and the latter part through rough roads and lanes which reminded Clodagh of her native land.
"Thank goodness," said Paulina more than once, "that it is not winter or very wet weather. We should stick fast in the mud in these cart-tracks, to a certainty."
But before long they reached the Priory, safe and sound, and as they drove up the avenue, caught sight of two or three figures waiting to welcome them in front of the picturesque old house.
It was not a very large place, but home-like and attractive. Clodagh, who was accustomed to huge rambling "castles," often in a more or less dilapidated state, felt glad that this, the first English country-house she had seen, was smaller and less imposing, and the kind greetings of the Misses Marriston soon helped her to feel less shy and timid. It was long before these modern days of "five o'clock teas," but then dinner was proportionately early, and when the new-comers had shaken hands with the rest of the family, assembled in the hall to welcome them, Annot Marriston, the younger of the daughters and Paulina's special friend, proposed that the cousins should at once go up to their rooms.
"You will be glad to take off your travelling things," she said, "and dinner will be ready in less than an hour."
At this, Paulina's face fell, and Clodagh looked rather blank. For by this time they were standing in the spacious and comfortable guest-chamber prepared for the former, out of which opened a smaller but pleasant little room for her young cousin companion. But in neither, naturally enough, was there as yet any sign of their belongings.
"Dinner in less than an hour!" exclaimed Paulina; "and how am I to change my dress? I suppose, my dear Annot, the luggage-cart won't be here in time?"
Miss Annot shook her head.
"Not for an hour or nearly that, I fear," she replied. "It comes slowly. But there is room on the chariot for a box or two. I wish I had told the men to mention this, and then you could have brought on with you whatever you needed at once."
Paulina looked extremely annoyed.
"Clodagh," she said sharply, "you really might have thought of it."
Clodagh looked and felt guilty.
"I will do so another time," she murmured.
Annot felt sorry for her.
"I'll run down and enquire about the cart," she said. "Possibly it may not take as long as I said," and she was hastening off when Paulina stopped her, for she had sufficient good sense and feeling not to wish to begin their visit by a scene of ill-temper.
"After all," she said, "it does not very much matter, my dear Annot, if you all will kindly excuse our enforced deshabille, as I understand you are quite alone—just your own family party."
Annot hesitated a little.
"Ye-es," she replied. "Certainly only a family party. But I was just going to tell you that Cousin Felicity has arrived unexpectedly. She had retired to her own apartment before you drove up. That is her way, you know. She swoops down upon us without the slightest warning and off again in the same way."
"How very disagreeable!" ejaculated Paulina, but Miss Marriston hastened to correct her.
"No," she said, "on the contrary, we are always very pleased to see her. She is a most interesting person and has travelled immensely. At the same time, I confess that we are somewhat in awe of her, and always behave to her with the greatest deference and respect. She is a strange mixture. Sometimes she goes about like an old peasant or gipsy—no one knows how old she really is! But on occasions, always at dinner for instance, she dresses magnificently—her diamonds are a sight to see! That was why I hesitated just now, for I should have liked you to be in correct attire. I will just ask about the cart," and off she went, to return in a minute or two with the cheering information that there was every chance of the luggage arriving in about half an hour.
"And in the meantime," she said, "let me lend you brushes and combs, or whatever will help you to begin your toilet."
"Oh pray do so," said Clodagh gratefully. "Cousin Paulina, I am at least sure that I can arrange your hair so as to please you. I have really practised hair-dressing. I have so much of my own."
"Well, then," said Paulina, when kind Annot returned with the promised articles, "you may as well set to at once," and she proceeded to take off her hat and veil and other things. "I don't think I ever heard of this eccentric relative of yours before," she went on, turning to her friend. "She must be quite a character."
"That she is," was the reply. "I wonder I never told you about her. Mother is not sure that she really is a cousin, but she likes us to call her so. The relationship must be very distant, dating back to former generations, for both my parents remember her as an old lady when they were only children."
Here Clodagh gave a little exclamation. Annot stopped politely.
"Did you speak?" she said.
Clodagh blushed, as she often did.
"I beg your pardon," she replied. "I don't know what I meant. It suddenly struck me that I had already heard of some one like your cousin, so very old that no one living could remember the person, whoever it was, as anything but old. It is curious," she went on dreamily, "that I cannot recall where I heard it," for even then no remembrance of the landlady's mysterious description awoke in her mind.
"Well, what does it matter?" said Paulina sharply. "Don't worry about it when you are doing my hair. You gave it such a tug just now when you started so."
"I'm very sorry," said the girl, and she gave her whole attention to the work in hand, as to which she was really skilful.
Then Annot left them, repeating her hopes that the luggage would not be long of coming. "I quite think it may," she said, "for they took a good strong horse in the cart—not one of the ponies only."
But time went on. Paulina's "coiffure" was completed, happily to her satisfaction; the hands of the clock were fast approaching the dinner-hour, and no sign of the longed-for arrival.
"Only twenty minutes now," said Paulina. "Really I have never been so awkwardly placed before. I must say, Clodagh, I do think——" But these thoughts were destined to remain unrevealed, for at that moment there came portentous but most welcome sounds in the corridor outside the room, and in another moment a servant tapped at the door, and entering, requested the ladies kindly to direct the placing of the boxes.
Clodagh hurried out.
"All of yours had better be brought in here, I suppose, cousin?" she asked as she went.
"Of course, but not yet," Paulina exclaimed. "What are you thinking of, child? First of all I must get dressed. My black lace will be the quickest for to-night. It is in the brown leather imperial. Have that brought in, and—and the large despatch-box, and the rest can wait till we go downstairs."
The first-named case was carried to its place, and Paulina was busy selecting the key when Clodagh ran in with a startled face.
"Cousin," she exclaimed, "the despatch-box is not there!"
Paulina gave a shriek.
"Impossible—and with all my jewellery! Clodagh, you vowed that you saw everything off the coach, and I vow that I saw it lifted inside when I started."
"I did, I did see that everything was brought out," exclaimed Clodagh, now on the point of tears, when luckily, oh the relief of it, a highly respectable functionary in irreproachable attire appeared at the end of the passage, carrying with his own majestic hands the missing case.
"I have brought this myself, Madam," he said, addressing Paulina, "to see it delivered into your personal keeping, surmising that it was of importance."
"Oh thank you, thank you a thousand times," cried the younger girl impulsively in her joy, forgetting that she was not the person to reply, till her cousin, with a condescending gesture, answered stiffly: "I am obliged to you. You are quite right. The contents are of great value, and but for carelessness," with a glance at Clodagh, "the case should have come with ourselves in the chariot. It is not the kind of thing to be sent in a cart."
The butler, for such he was, bowed in reply.
"Exactly so," he said. "Another time I should advise——"
"Yes, yes," Clodagh interrupted. "I know it was my fault, but I shall understand better in future. Paulina, do make haste. I have got your dress out. We will be as quick as possible," she added, turning to the butler, who took the hint and with another bow his departure also.
And in an incredibly short time, thanks to Clodagh, whose eagerness seemed to give her two or three pairs of hands instead of one, the elder girl was attired, jewellery and all. She looked very handsome, and her young companion stepped back a step or two to admire her.
"Yes," said Paulina, glancing at the mirror with complacency, "I think I look all right. You're not half a bad maid, child, or let us say——"
"Never mind, if you're pleased, I don't care what I'm called," Clodagh interrupted. "If only," she added, with a little sigh, "if only I can learn about the luggage, the packing and unpacking and not losing things."
She opened the door as she spoke for her cousin to pass out, and for the first time, as she stood there, the colour of excitement in her face and the sparkle in her eyes, it struck Paulina that the "child," as she called her with half-contemptuous affection, was fast becoming a very pretty creature, and with this came a sudden flash of self-reproach, for there was nothing consciously selfish or small-minded about the elder girl, spoilt and self-willed and autocratic as she was.
She stopped short with a gesture of horror.
"What have I been thinking of?" she exclaimed, "and you yourself, Clodagh? You're not dressed—you've not begun to dress, and the dinner-hour already or almost. Why didn't you remind me that you had to get ready too?"
Clodagh smiled.
"I really don't think it matters," she said. "I haven't got a proper grown-up gown to begin with, and really there wasn't time to get out my things too. I'm sure Mrs. Marriston will understand, and I daresay I can have a little dinner sent up to me, if you——"
But she stopped short, for just then Annot came running along the passage towards them. "Can I——?" she was beginning, when, glancing at them and the confusion of boxes and bags lying about, she saw that there was something the matter. Paulina rapidly explained, and "Need I come down?" pleaded Clodagh.
"If she doesn't," persisted her cousin, "it will put everything wrong. It will look as if—as if—you know, Annot, I want her to be considered a sort of younger sister of mine. We are near relations. Clodagh, you don't want me to seem selfish and unkind."
Miss Annot considered.
"After all," she said, "Clodagh—may I call you so?—is scarcely grown-up, and being in mourning too. If you just arrange your hair a little, though really it does not look bad—it is so bright and wavy—and—let me see, I can lend you a pretty simple fichu—over your plain black bodice it will look rather well. Come with me—my room is close at hand."
And in two or three minutes they returned to where Paulina was anxiously awaiting them—Clodagh looking quite fresh and sweet in the half Puritan-like garb, with a bow of black velvet in her hair and a bunch of violets as a breast-knot.
"Yes," thought her cousin, "she's going to be quite a beauty. I must get her some proper clothes, but"—as her eye fell on the confused pile of their possessions beside her—"I don't know how ever she will manage all this, and yet I can't go about with a maid as well! I do hope for her sake as well as my own that I haven't been rash in this plan."
But she smiled pleasantly enough as she thanked Annot for her kind offices, and then the three made their way downstairs together.
The drawing-room, or "long parlour" as the Marristons called it, deserved the latter name, for long it was. In fact it had originally been two if not three rooms, of which the end one was the most important, as it was considerably wider than the other part. It was the "saloon" of the house, where on more formal occasions the family received their guests, though in an ordinary way their manners and customs, as was the case in those days, while by no means "free and easy," were simple and homely enough.
But a visit from Cousin Felicity, however sudden and unexpected, at once necessitated gala gowns; the opening of the "withdrawing-room"; longer and more ceremonious meals, and all things in accordance with what the strange guest considered due to her.
For the time being the upset concerning the luggage and the consequent hurry had caused both the new-comers to forget all about their fellow-visitor, and it was with no preoccupation of mind concerning her that Paulina and Clodagh, escorted by Annot, made their way down the long room, to where at the end the members of the family group, whose greetings they had already received, were awaiting them. As they drew near, their hostess approached.
"You have made good speed, dear Miss Paulina," she said kindly, "dinner is not yet announced. In the meantime allow me to introduce you to our esteemed friend and relative, whose visit has happily coincided with your own," and she took the young lady's hand and led her towards a large chair of state covered with magnificent brocade, on one side of the fireplace, in which sat a small figure—small, but for that very reason perhaps among others—so startling was the contrast with its costly attire and with its extraordinary dignity and stateliness—the very reverse of insignificant or unnoticeable.
Paulina half unconsciously drew back a little, slightly turning away. She was naturally of a haughty disposition, added to which, adulation and flattery had helped to spoil her, and at once she felt annoyed at being led forward like a child, to be presented to a complete stranger, and this disagreeable sensation was increased by the fact that the figure in the great chair remained motionless—motionless and mute. The small lady might have been a statue or a wax doll. But in spite of herself something made Paulina look straight at "Cousin Felicity," and now that she saw her at close quarters, the splendour of her jewels, the priceless lace in which she was draped, almost took away the younger woman's breath. She half gasped—and then, feeling her eyes caught and held as it were by the strange power of the piercing black ones, gleaming in the midst of the colourless little old face, Paulina, mistress of her emotions as she prided herself on being, Paulina, to whom timidity and shyness were unknown, felt her cheeks crimson, and hardly realising what she was doing, she curtseyed low and deferentially.
"Though, after all," as she said to herself a minute or two later, when she had recovered her usual, somewhat arrogant self-possession, "after all, hateful old cat though she is, she is an aged woman—too old to act these ridiculous travesties—and I hope I know what good breeding demands of politeness to our elders."
For, as this mention of her later reflections shows, Paulina was by no means as yet out of the wood.
The ancient lady held out her glittering hand.
"Does she expect me to kiss it?" the girl asked herself, when, to her horror, came a reply to the unspoken query.
"No," said Cousin Felicity, as she touched the tips of Paulina's now extended fingers, "no," and this was the first word she had uttered, "she does not. But what she sets far before curtseys and deference to fine clothes and diamonds is respectful behaviour to the poor and aged. How about the old peasant who presumed to intrude upon you this morning?"
Then Paulina knew, and she shivered. But her courage was good. "It was not only what you think, Madam," she replied, "you do me scarce justice. I desire to show respect to age. This morning I was taken aback. I was so newly roused."
Cousin Felicity bent her head, as if in royal pardon, though she did not speak, and Paulina turning quickly, was glad to catch hold of Annot, who with some of the others had drawn near in curiosity, though this was tempered by their familiarity with the strange old dame's eccentricity.
"You have met before?" Annot whispered. "She often frightens people at first," for she felt that her friend was trembling.
"I am not frightened," returned Paulina in the same tone. "I was only startled and—rather angry. I had forgotten all about what you told us. I will explain afterwards. I don't think people—especially old ladies—should play tricks to catch others."
Annot smiled, but she herself looked nervous.
"Dear Paulina," she pleaded, "for goodness sake, don't be angry. I told you she was not to be counted in any way as an ordinary person. Don't frown so. She may see it—oh no, she is now occupied with Clodagh. Just watch."
For by this time it was the younger girl's turn to be led up to the great armchair.
She had been standing a little in the background, standing there dreamily, as if she were trying to remember something. But she did not seem timid or shy when at a touch on the arm from her hostess she came quietly forward, her sweet Irish blue eyes, looking almost black under their long lashes, lifted with a sort of gentle, half-bewildered enquiry, as she drew near to the formidable little old lady.
And for the first time, as the keen, piercing glance of this redoubtable personage fell upon the young girl, a smile, softening the hard expression and marvellously rejuvenating the small dried-up features, crept over Cousin Felicity's face.
"Welcome, my dear," she said, as she held out her hand in an inviting though yet regal manner, and Clodagh, feeling, she knew not why, impelled to do so, stooped and kissed it gently and respectfully.
