THE BEGINNINGS OF LOVE.
"Marjorie, I've met the new man."
"What man?" Marjorie, sitting in the garden, looked up from the polishing of her poem at her visitor, a girl of about her own age, the Dean's only child.
"The man from Blackton. He dined with us last night. I made father ask him in the train. Oh—don't think I did it out of charity," she said, laughing. "He was staying at Oldstead—you know we've been there. Orme, you cherub! what cheeks you've got!" and she caught up the three-year-old and kissed him.
"He'll spoil your grand frock," cautioned Marjorie. "They've been making mud-pies in their hovel."
"Pies," said Orme, wriggling down from Charity's knee, and dragging at her hand; nor desisting, till she got up to accompany him.
Marjorie looked after her brilliant friend, who was adored by all the Bethune children in turn, until they reached the age of nine; after which their admiration congealed. Soon, she turned her thoughts again to her labour. It was difficult making sonnets, in her busy life. She had to snatch moments when she could.
"Of course, 'lone' would rhyme with 'atone,'" she murmured; "but it is so obvious. Love doesn't want a crowd—I gathered that from mother. Have you done your sonnet, Charity?" as the other girl ran back and sat down again, Orme and Ross following in pursuit, as fast as their fat legs would allow.
"My sonnet? Not I! I've been basking in the Duchess's smiles and wearing my new frocks. She asked after you; she didn't know you'd got back. I put on this new one to show you, Marjorie."
"You look very silvery and cloudy," Marjorie said. "It suits you, but it wouldn't stand much work."
"Neither should I. Oh, Marjorie—hateful word! Don't distil Mrs. Lytchett. I was forgetting Mr. Pelham. He sings divinely—a sort of baritony tenor, that floats, and melts—I can't describe it. What stupids we've all been about him!"
"How?"
"Thinking him so deep down in Blackton smoke. He knew all the people at Oldstead. Blackton seems the fashion there, like an East-End. It was too silly having to be introduced, when he lives on the other side of the road. He seemed to know you, Marjorie."
"Yes—I went there."
"You went there? To call?"
"To apologise, as usual," laughing; "the boys had been in mischief."
"Why, he said what jolly boys they were, and that his baby was quite happy with them; and he was so glad she should have some companions. I thought he little knew.'
"Yes—he forgave them."
Her visitor laughed. "Now, Marjorie, don't be so hoity-toity. Why did you go if you didn't want to be forgiven?"
"Why? To save father bother." Unconsciously, the young voice took a pathetic tone. "Do you think we would have demeaned ourselves otherwise?"
There was the sound of the clatter of voices. Marjorie sprang up to try and stop an excursion into the drawing-room. Her friend leant back in her chair, and looked after her.
"If Marjorie were well-dressed," she thought, "she'd be a beauty. That girl they were fussing after isn't in with her—only she's got clothes; clothes mean so much. Why, Sandy, what have you got there?"
Sandy panted to her side, both his arms laden with a baby. She did not appear to mind her uncomfortable position; but when deposited upon Charity's lap, bent her brows in a scowl, as she studied Miss Francklin's dainty finery.
"It's the baby from 'The Ridges'—she's got a name a mile long; we call her Barbe. We found her, so we brought her. We wanted a girl down here."
"You don't mean," said Marjorie, overhearing, and turning to David, "that you've brought her without leave? Oh, David!"
"She was sittin' in her carriage, all silks and satins, and we saw the nurse's petticoats whisk in; so we just ran the pram down the hill, and left it inside the gate. That nurse finks a deal too much of herself," explained Sandy.
"You'll have to go this very minute and say where she is," said Marjorie. "Go, David, both of you—run!" she urged, remembrance coming of the father's face as he looked at his child.
"I'll go with you," Charity exclaimed good-naturedly, springing up. "Come, boys—hadn't we better take her back with us, Marjorie?"
"Perhaps you had," said Marjorie. "But why should you trouble?"
"It's no trouble. I wanted to go to the Green, and I am ready."
The four disappeared, chattering and laughing, and Marjorie once more applied herself to her poem. Her eyes rested vaguely on the flowers before her. Her thoughts would not come. Instead, came others—on dress, and the inequalities of life. Charity looked very fluffy and soft—very different her dress was from Marjorie's green linen. Marjorie looked down on her skirts disparagingly, not exactly envying the soft summer dress of her friend, but seeing the contrast. Charity could have everything she wanted. Money was never lacking, and she had an indulgent father. Marjorie's father—here the girl's face took on a tender look—had no money to spare. The two boys at Winchester cost so much, and there were the others to follow. But not for a moment would Marjorie have parted with one of them—pervasive, noisy, unsettling, costly, too, though they were. Her thoughts ran on, finishing at last with: "You've got to face facts. Charity is Charity, by herself. And I am I, one of seven. I had better brush my frock."
The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie.
The Precincts, as they gradually thawed to the new-comer, reprobated his choice of companions for his little daughter.
"The Bethune boys are the last you should encourage," said Mrs. Lytchett to him, the night he first dined at the Palace. "They've had no bringing up. Their father doesn't look after them, and their mother can't, poor thing. Marjorie is a spitfire, and has only just left off mischief herself—if she has. There's nothing they're not capable of—nothing!"
"Your little girl is a delight to the Bethune boys," the Bishop said in his kind tones, later. "They brought her to see me this morning. Oh! they won't do her any harm, just the contrary," in reply to an anxious question, "if they aren't led away by their adventurous spirits. They are honest, plucky boys, and chivalric in a peculiar manner. And their sister—ah! there she is!"
The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie, without the meed of praise he was on the point of bestowing; but Mr. Pelham, watching them, gathered that Marjorie was a favourite. She was looking well, distinguished, in her youthful, immature way, in a graceful, soft dress, whose clinging folds suited her height and slimness. Charity's pink prettiness, aided by every careful detail of dress and ornament, faded to nothing beside her. Marjorie had not been dining, but had come in through the conservatory, her wrap over her arm. There was a look of grave purity and freshness about her, that sort of expectancy on a young face which gives a beholder a pang, knowing how soon it will be disturbed by the wisdom and cares of the world. But the beholder to-night thought it beautiful. It drew him to her, more than any mere beauty would have done. "Just like that"—the unspoken wish arose in his heart—"may my little one grow up!" Another thought followed, stabbing him for a moment with a pang.
He was roused by Charity's soft blandishments.
"Will you come and sing with me, Mr. Pelham? Mrs. Lytchett wants some music. It is such a comfort to have another good tenor, instead of only Mr. Warde. That is he," she said softly, directing his glance to a man who had just joined the Bishop and Marjorie.
"Who is he?" he asked, something in the manner of the lingering handshake, some air of possession, striking coldly on Mr. Pelham.
"One of the minor canons. He is very well off and, as you see, good-looking, and fancies himself a little." Charity laughed lightly. "Also," lowering her voice, "he is said to fancy Marjorie. I believe it is an understood thing. He wanted her a year ago, but she was only seventeen. She is a year younger than I am, but you wouldn't think it, would you?"
Mr. Pelham, as he turned with Charity to the piano, felt a sudden wrath at the man—a man much older than himself—who had the insolence to pretend to claim that slim girl.
A little later he made his way to the sofa, where Marjorie was sitting with Mrs. Lytchett. That lady, full of kindliness to Marjorie, fully intending to chaperon her during the winter to all the festivities, yet liked to remind her pretty frequently of her, as yet, unintroduced and unimportant condition. The skirmishes between them were hot; and Marjorie had just flashed out, "After all, mother has her wits, even if she has to lie on her sofa," when Mr. Pelham said:
"The Bishop has asked me to persuade Miss Bethune to play to us."
"Yes, Marjorie, go and play one of your little pieces," Mrs. Lytchett said, dismissing Marjorie and her flash of temper as she would have sent off a child.
Marjorie got up immediately.
"No, thank you," she said, sitting down before the piano, and smiling up at Mr. Pelham standing beside her. "My little pieces are here," lifting slightly the slender hands resting on her knee.
Wondering what this girl could have to say in such a language, unwilling to hear anything crude or jarring that should spoil the perfection of simplicity he was beginning to see in her, Mr. Pelham moved aside, his eyes resting disappointedly on her bent head. She raised her hands, and struck the opening notes.
The Bishop sank down into a large chair near, with a soft sigh. The buzz of conversation slowly died away. A delicate melody, in some unaccustomed minor mode, stole through the vaulted room, and Mr. Pelham drew a breath of relief. He need not have feared. There was nothing crude or jarring here.
After a few minutes her hands fell, with the lingering soft repetition of an unfinished phrase, and Marjorie lifted her eyes, liquid and dreamy with the thoughts that filled her mind. They met a look from dark unfamiliar eyes, never again through all her life to seem to her as the eyes of a stranger. They held her own, fascinated, arrested, almost like a voice speaking through the silence.
Her lips parted, as with a soft little sigh, her eyes fell.
Remembering she had stood there with him.
"Is that all?" the Bishop asked, disappointedly.
"Yes, that is all."
Antony Pelham's heart, as he walked up the hill in the moonlight, was full. He was only twenty-eight, and desperately lonely, after the year of brightness and delight he had shared with his young wife. Marjorie reminded him of her in some strangely familiar way—in her simplicity, her immaturity, her withdrawals. He turned to look at the cathedral, shining white in the moonlight, remembering that she had stood there with him, and that their talk had been about a home.
"I will win her," he said, as he turned, and set his face to climb the hill.
END OF CHAPTER THREE.
