It was, of course, very provoking; but in spite of all hints to the contrary, when they were in the drawing-room, Harry would linger by Patty’s chair.
“Would she play?” Yes, she would play. “And sing?” Yes, and sing too. The first skilfully; the latter in a sweet, little, silvery, gushing voice, that was bird-like in its purity and freedom from affectation. For Patty was Jared’s own child, with her father’s zest for music, the art which he had loved to teach her, at times too when often and often called away to perform some simple domestic duty.
Richard Pellet seemed surprised, and listened in silence. Mrs Richard forgot herself so for as to clap her hands and call Patty “a dear little darling.” But, gazing upon the group at the piano with the eyes of her lord, she felt that this sort of thing would not do. Apparently, too, acting upon a hint from Richard, she kept framing blundering excuses for getting the young man to her side—excuses, though, so trivial, that Harry only laughed good-humouredly, and then made his way back to their young visitor.
It was nearly time for tea, and Harry had coaxed the artless girl into the little drawing-room to show her some sketches, and the photographs of the elders. Jared and his brother had their backs to them, hard and fast in a discussion upon money,—Richard telling his brother what a deal a sovereign would make,—Jared the while in a state of doubt, from old experience how short a road it went, whether there really were as many as twenty shillings in a pound. As for Mrs Jared, she was seated in a low chair by the fire, and being beamed upon by Mrs Richard, who had exhausted the weather, finished the dinner, and was now at a loss for a fresh subject.
The sketches were very interesting, so much so that Harry was obliged to explain them in a low, subdued tone, when, taking advantage of their position, he with a heightened colour took from the wall a sprig of mistletoe, and held it before Patty’s eyes.
“No, no,” she whispered in a low tone—so low that he probably did not hear it. “No, no; that is only for children.”
“The licence of the season,” Harry whispered, as with one hand he held up the sprig, and then drew towards him the yielding girl.
Well, Patty was very young, very natural, and quite unused to worldly ways; and Harry was somewhat rough and wilful. Patty had listened that night to words new to her, and where her parents had seen but pride and ostentation, she had had her eyes blinded by a couleur de rose veil, drinking deeply the while of the honied draught the young fellow in all earnestness pressed upon her.
All was so sweet, and new, and delightful. He must mean all he said; while being Christmas-time, with a scrap of the pearl-hung parasite to hallow the salute, how could she scream or struggle, as was, of course, needful under the circumstances? Patty did not resist, for being ignorant and natural, she thought that she would like it, and so allowed her soft cheek to rest for a moment where it was drawn, while the little red half-parted lips hardly shrank from the kiss they received.
“Harry!” roared Richard Pellet, leaping from his chair, for he had been seated opposite to a glass which betrayed every movement of the young people. “Harry!” he roared, and the young man with eyes cast down, but raised head, stood erect and defiant before him; “come here!” he exclaimed, striding towards the door, while as the delinquent followed him from the room, Jared and his wife distinctly heard the words, “That beggar’s brat!”