The Fortunes of the Farrells

by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

Three weeks had passed by. May had begun—an old-fashioned, well-conducted May—which was really like a foretaste of summer, instead of the shivery disappointment which so often condemns us to fire and furs. Jack’s ankle was still troublesome, and though he could limp a few steps with the aid of a stick, his outdoor exercises were for the most part restricted to peregrinations in the old bath-chair. According to his account the period had been one of much tribulation, when patience and forbearance had been tried to their limits by the unnatural conduct of Miss Mollie Farrell. Instead of behaving like the proverbial ministering angel, Mollie proved uncertain, coy, and hard to please, and so full of mischievous pranks that Jack declared that his hair was turning white, though, if the truth be told, he looked remarkably bright and happy.

One morning it happened that a chance remark of Jack’s offended Miss Mollie’s dignity, and she vowed that she would be revenged. It seemed, however, that she had forgotten her displeasure for when Ruth and Victor went off to the village after lunch, she offered herself for the post of chairman, and wheeled the invalid to his favourite position beneath a flowering chestnut in front of the house.

The ankle was comfortable, and Jack, having lunched well, felt at peace with mankind and womankind into the bargain, and quite inclined to enjoy a pleasant talk. No sooner was he settled, however, than Miss Mollie drew a book from her pocket, and sitting down on the grass at a few yards’ distance, deliberately turned her back upon him and began to read.

Jack watched these proceedings in silence, recognising both that he was being punished for having annoyed his companion in the morning, and also that he could not better frustrate her intentions than by preserving an appearance of undisturbed complacency. Accordingly, he sat quietly, studying the pretty figure in the blue linen dress, and noticing with satisfaction that the pages were flicked over more rapidly than was consistent with careful reading.

The book was evidently dull—so much the better! Miss Mollie might find her own punishment even heavier than his. He himself had nothing to read, but that did not distress him. A man is not to be pitied if he cannot make himself happy for an hour or so, even with a sprained ankle, when there is a charming landscape to gaze upon, of which a pretty girl makes the foreground.

Jack smiled lazily to himself as he thrust his hand into the tail-pocket of his coat, but his expression changed tragically as his fingers groped in vain for the bulky pouch which he had refilled just before leaving the house. Now, what in the world had happened to that pouch? Could it have fallen out of his pocket? Impossible! It was too securely weighted down by its own size. It could not have fallen, but it could easily have been stolen by the hands of his mischievous charioteer as she wheeled him across the grass. Jack had no doubt that that was exactly what had happened, and he congratulated himself on having smothered an exclamation of dismay, as he saw Mollie’s head lifted cautiously from the pages as if to listen for the expected explosion.

Jack smiled to himself, knowing full well that her patience would soon be exhausted, and with it the limit of his punishment. It would be a joke to pretend to be asleep when, at last, it pleased her ladyship to turn round! The little witch no doubt was fully aware how pretty she looked, and fondly imagined that he was wrapt in admiration. It would be a useful snub to find that he had forgotten all about her. So Jack rested his head against the cushions of his chair, folded his arms, and kept his eyes rigorously shut for the next few minutes. He felt delightfully at ease, and the rays of the sun shining through the branches were at once so subdued, and so comforting, that it came to pass that what he had plotted in fun came about in earnest, and at the end of a few minutes his lids were tightly closed, and his breath came through his lips in long, regular respirations.

Mollie heard the sound, and smiled derisively.

“As if I should believe for one moment that he had gone to sleep!” said she to herself, with a tilt of the saucy head; but as the moments passed by, the perfection of the imitation began to disturb her equanimity; the last breath, for example, approaching perilously near a snore! She turned cautiously, inch by inch, until a glimpse of the bath-chair could be obtained, with a fair head drooping upon the cushions. Jack was asleep! Actually, and in very truth he had calmly slumbered off in defiance of her displeasure.

Mollie arose in her wrath, and stood over the unconscious figure, meditating upon the next step. If Jack Melland imagined for one moment that she was going to mount guard over his slumbers, he would find himself vastly mistaken; yet she dared not leave him unprotected, for the ground sloped away from the tree, and a violent movement on the part of its occupant would be enough to send the chair racing down the incline. She stood and pondered, then, drawing a handkerchief from her pocket, crept on tip-toe to the back of the chair and tied the handle to a convenient bough. It would be almost impossible for Jack, crippled as he was, to raise himself and turn round sufficiently to undo the knots; so, after testing their firmness a second time, Mollie took a circuitous path to the house, there to amuse herself for an hour or more, until Mr Jack had time to awake and repent himself of his audacity.