The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sisters Three, by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Sisters Three Author: Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey Illustrator: Stanley Lloyd Release Date: April 16, 2007 [EBook #21103] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SISTERS THREE *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Mrs George de Horne Vaizey "Sisters Three" Chapter One. New Year’s Day. “I wish something would happen!” sighed Norah. “If it were something nice,” corrected Lettice. “Lots of things happen every day, but they are mostly disagreeable. Getting up, for instance, in the cold, dark mornings—and practising—and housework, and getting ready for stupid old classes—I don’t complain of having too little to do. I want to do less, and to be able to amuse myself more.” “We want a change, that is the truth,” said Hilary, bending forward on her seat, and sending the poker into the heart of the fire with a vigorous shove. “Our lives jog-trot along in the same way year after year, and it grows monotonous. I declare, when I think that this is the first day of another January it makes me ill! Fifty-two more Mondays to sit in the morning-room and darn stockings. Fifty- two Saturdays to give out stores. Three hundred and sixty-five days to dust ornaments, interview the cook, and say, ‘Well, let me see! The cold mutton had better be used up for lunch’—Oh, dear me!” “I’ll tell you what—let’s have a nice long grumble,” said Lettice, giving her chair a hitch nearer the fire, and bending forward with a smile of enjoyment. “Let’s hold an Indignation Meeting on our own account, and discuss our grievances. Women always have grievances nowadays—it’s the fashionable thing, and I like to be in the fashion. Three charming and beauteous maidens shut up in the depths of the country in the very flower of their youth, with nothing to do—I mean with far too much to do, but with no amusement, no friends, no variety! We are like the princesses in the fairy tales, shut up in the moated tower; only then there were always fairy godmothers to come to the rescue, and beautiful princes in golden chariots. We shall have to wait a long time before any such visitors come tramping along the Kendal high-road. I am sure it sounds melancholy enough to make anyone sorry for us!” “Father is the dearest man in the world, but he doesn’t understand how a girl of seventeen feels. I was seventeen on my last birthday, so it’s worse for me than for you, for I am really grown-up.” Hilary sighed, and rested her sleek little head upon her hand in a pensive, elderly fashion. “I believe he thinks that if we have a comfortable home and enough to eat, and moderately decent clothes, we ought to be content; but I want ever so much more than that. If mother had lived—” There was a short silence, and then Norah took up the strain in her crisp, decided accents. “I am fifteen and a half, and I look very nearly as old as you do, Hilary, and I’m an inch taller. I don’t see why I need go on with these stupid old classes. If I could go to a good school, it would be another thing, for I simply adore music and painting, and should love to work hard, and become celebrated; but I don’t believe Miss Briggs can teach me any more than I know myself, and there is no better teacher for miles around. If father would only let me go abroad for a year; but he is afraid of trusting me out of his sight. If I had seven children, I’d be glad to get rid of some of them, if only to get a little peace and quietness at home.” “Mother liked the idea of girls being educated at home, that is the reason why father objects to sending us away. The boys must go to boarding-schools, of course, because there is no one here who can take them in hand. As for peace and quietness, father enjoys having the house full. He grumbles at the noise sometimes, but I believe he likes it at the bottom of his heart. If we do happen to be quiet for a change in the evening, he peers over his book and says, ‘W hat is the matter; has something gone wrong? Why are you all so quiet?’ He loves to see us frisking about.” “Yes, but I can’t frisk any longer—I’m too dull—I want something to happen,” repeated Norah, obstinately. “Other people have parties on New Year’s Day, or a Christmas-tree, or crowds of visitors coming to call. We have been sitting here sewing from ten o’clock this morning—nasty, uninteresting mending—which isn’t half done yet, though it is nearly four o’clock. And you never think of me! I’m fifteen, and I feel it more than either of you. You see it is like this. Sometimes I feel quite young, like a child, and then you two are too proper to run about and play with me, so I am all alone; and then I feel quite old and grown-up, and am just as badly off as you, and worse, because I’m the youngest, and have to take third turn of everything, and wear your washed-out ribbons! If only something would happen that was really startling and exciting—!” “I sink it’s very naughty to wish like that!” A tiny, reed-like voice burst into the conversation with an unexpectedness which made the three sisters start in their seats; a small figure in a white pinafore crept forward into the firelight, and raised a pair of reproachful eyes to Norah’s face. “I sink it’s very naughty to wish like that, ’cause it’s discontented, and you don’t know what it might be like. Pr’aps the house might be burned, or the walls fall down, or you might all be ill and dead yourselves, and then you wouldn’t like it!” The three girls looked at each other, undecided between laughter and remorse. “Mouse!” said Hilary, severely, “what are you doing here? Little girls have no business to listen to what big people are saying. You must never sit here again without letting us know, or that will be naughty too. We don’t mean to be discontented, Mouse. We felt rather low in our spirits, and were relieving ourselves by a little grumble, that’s all. Of course, we know that we have really many, many things to be thankful for—a nice house, and—ah—garden, and such beautiful country all round, and— ah—good health, and—” “And the bunnies, and the pigeons, and the new carpet in the dining-room, and because the puppy didn’t die—and—and—Me!” said the Mouse, severely; and when her sisters burst into a roar of laughter she proceeded to justify herself with indignant protest. “Well, it’s the trufh! The bunnies are pretty, and you said, ‘Thank goodness! we’ve got a respectable carpet at last!’ And Lettice cried when the little pup rolled its eyes and squealed, and you said to Miss Briggs that I was only five, and if I was spoiled she couldn’t wonder, ’cause I was the littlest of seven, and no one could help it! And it’s ‘Happy New Year’ and plum pudding for dinner, so I don’t sink you ought to be discontented!” “You are quite right, dear, it’s very naughty of us. Just run upstairs to the schoolroom, and get tidy for tea, there’s a good little Mouse. Shut the door behind you, for there’s a fearful draught.” Hilary nodded to the child over her shoulder, and then turned to her sisters with an expressive shrug. “W hat a funny little mite she is! We really must be careful how we speak before her. She understands far too well, and she has such stern ideas of her own. Well, perhaps after all we are wrong to be discontented. I hated coming to live in this quiet place, but I have been ever so much stronger; I never have that wretched, breathless feeling now that I had in town, and I can run upstairs to the very top without stopping. You can’t enjoy anything without health, so I ought to be—I am!—very thankful that I am so much better.” “I am thankful that I have my two dear hobbies, and can forget everything in playing and drawing. The hours fly when I can sit out of doors and sketch, and my precious old violin knows all my secrets. It cries with me, and sings with me, and shrieks aloud just as I would do if I dared to make all the noise I want, when I am in a temper. I do believe I could be one of the best players in the world if I had the chance. I feel it in me! It is aggravating to know that I make mistakes from want of proper lessons, but it is glorious to feel such power over an instrument as I do when I am properly worked up! I would not change places with any girl who is not musical!” Lettice said nothing, but she lifted her eyes to the oval mirror which hung above the mantelpiece, and in her heart she thought, “And I am glad that I am so pretty. If one is pretty, everyone is polite and attentive; and I do like people to be kind, and make a fuss! W hen we were at the station the other day the people nudged each other and bent out of the windows of the train as I passed. I saw them, though I pretended I didn’t. And I should look far nicer if I had proper clothes. If I could only have had that fur boa, and the feather for my hat! But what does it matter what I wear in this wretched place? There is no one to see me.” The firelight played on three thoughtful faces as the girls sat in silence, each occupied with her special train of thought. The room looked grey and colourless in the waning light, and the glimpse of wintry landscape seen through the window did not add to the general cheeriness. Hilary shivered, and picking up a log from the corner of the grate dropped it into the fire. “Well, there is no use repining! We have had our grumble, and we might as well make the best of circumstances. It’s New Year’s Day, so I shall make a resolution to try to like my work. I know I do it well, because I am naturally a good housekeeper; but I ought to take more interest in it. That’s the way the good people do in books, and in the end they dote upon the very things they used to hate. There’s no saying—I may come to adore darning stockings and wending linen before the year is out! At any rate I shall have the satisfaction of having done my best.” “Well, if you try to like your work, I’ll try to remember mine—that’s a bargain,” said Lettice solemnly. “There always seems to be something I want particularly to do for myself, just when I ought to be at my ‘avocations,’ as Miss Briggs has it. It’s a bad plan, because I have to exert myself to finish in time, and get a scolding into the bargain. So here’s for punctuality and reform!” Norah held her left hand high in the air, and began checking off the fingers with ostentatious emphasis. “I resolve always to get up in the morning as soon as I am called, and without a single grumble; always to be amiable when annoyed; always to do what other people like, and what I dislike myself; always to be good-tempered with the boys, and smile upon them when they pull my hair and play tricks with my things; always be cheerful, contented, ladylike in deportment, and agreeable in manner. W hat do you say? Silly! I am not silly at all. If you are going to make resolutions at all, you ought to do it properly. Aim at the sky, and you may reach the top of the tree; aim at the top of the tree, and you will grovel on the ground. You are too modest in your aspirations, and they won’t come to any good; but as for me—with a standard before me of absolute perfection—” “W ho is talking of perfection? And where is the tea, and why are you still in darkness, with none of the lamps lighted? It is five o’clock, and I have been in my study waiting for the bell to ring for the last half-hour. W hat are you all doing over there by the fire?” cried a masculine voice, and a man’s tall figure stood outlined in the doorway. Chapter Two. Hilary in Luck. There was a simultaneous exclamation of dismay as the three girls leapt from their seats, and flew round the room in different directions. Hilary lighted the lamps, Norah drew the curtains across the windows, while Lettice first gave a peal to the bell, and then ran forward to escort her father to a chair by the fire. “Tea will be here in a moment, father; come and sit down. It’s New Year’s Day, you know, and we have been so busy making good resolutions that we have had no time for anything practical. W hy didn’t you come down before? You are a regular old woman about afternoon tea; I believe you would miss it more than any other meal.” “I believe I should. I never get on well with my writing in the first part of the afternoon, and tea seems to give me a fresh start. So you girls have been making good resolutions? That’s good hearing. Tell me about them.” And Mr Bertrand leant back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, and looking up at his young daughters with a quizzical smile. A photographer would have been happy if he could have taken a portrait at this moment, for Mr Bertrand was a well-known author, and the books which were written in the study in Westmoreland went far and wide over the world, and made his name a household word. He had forgotten his beloved work at this moment, however, at the sight of something dearer still—his three young daughters standing grouped together facing him at the other side of the old-fashioned grate, their faces flushed from the heat of the fire, their eyes dazzled by the sudden light. How tall and womanlike they looked in their dark serge dresses! Lettice’s hair framed her face in a halo of mist-like curls; Hilary held up her head in her dignified little fashion; mischievous Norah smiled in the background. They were dearer to him than all his heroines; but, alas, far less easy to manage, for the heroines did as they were bid, while the three girls were developing strong wills of their own. “I believe you have been plotting mischief, and that is the beginning and the end of your good resolutions!” “Indeed, no, father; we were in earnest. But it was a reaction, for before that we had been grumbling about— Wait a moment, here comes tea. We’ll tell you later on. Miss Briggs says we should never talk about disagreeable topics at a meal, and tea is the nicest meal of the day, so we can’t afford to spoil it. Well, and how is Mr Robert getting on this afternoon?” Mr Bertrand’s face twitched in a comical manner. He lived so entirely in the book which he was writing at the time that he found it impossible to keep silent on the subject; but he could never rid himself of a comical feeling of embarrassment in discussing his novels in the presence of his daughters. “Robert, eh? What do you know about Robert?” “We know all about him, of course. He was in trouble on Wednesday, and you came down to tea with your hair ruffled, and as miserable as you could be. He must be happy again to-day, for your hair is quite smooth. When is he going to marry Lady Mary?” “He is not going to marry Lady Mary at all. W hat nonsense! Lady Mary, indeed! You don’t know anything about it! Give me another cup of tea, and tell me what you have been grumbling about. It doesn’t sound a cheerful topic for New Year’s Day, but I would rather have even that than hear such ridiculous remarks! Grumbling! What can you have to grumble about, I should like to know?” “Oh, father!” The three young faces raised themselves to his in wide-eyed protest. The exclamation was unanimous; but when it was over there was a moment’s silence before Hilary took up the strain. “We are dull, father! We are tired of ourselves. You are all day long in your study, the boys spend their time out of doors, and we have no friends. In summer time we don’t feel it, for we live in the garden, and it is bright and sunny; but in winter it is dark and cold. No one comes to see us, the days are so long, and every day is like the last.” “My dear, you have the housework, and the other two have their lessons. You are only children as yet, and your school days are not over. Most children are sent to boarding-schools, and have to work all day long. You have liberty and time to yourselves. I don’t see why you should complain.” “Father, I should like to go to school—I long to go—I want to get on with my music, and Miss Briggs can’t teach me any more.” “Father, when girls are at boarding-schools they have parties and theatricals, and go to concerts, and have all sorts of fun. We never have anything like that.” “Father, I am not a child; I am nearly eighteen. Chrystabel Maynard was only seventeen at the beginning of the book?” Mr Bertrand stirred uneasily, and brushed the hair from his forehead. Chrystabel Maynard was one of his own heroines, and the allusion brought home the reality of his daughter’s age as nothing else could have done. His glance passed by Norah and Lettice and lingered musingly on Hilary’s face. “Ha, what’s this? The revolt of the daughters!” he cried. “Well, dears, you are quite right to be honest. If you have any grievances on your little minds, speak out for goodness’ sake, and let me hear all about them. I am not an ogre of a father, who does not care what happens to his children so long as he gets his own way. I want to see you happy.—So you are seventeen, Hilary! I never realised it before. You are old enough to hear my reason for keeping you down here, and to judge if I am right. W hen your mother died, three years ago, I was left in London with seven children on my hands. You were fourteen then, a miserable, anaemic creature, with a face like a tallow candle, and lips as white as paper. The boys came home from school and ran wild about the streets. I could not get on with my work for worrying about you all, and a man must work to keep seven children. I saw an advertisement of this house in the papers one day, and took it on the impulse of the moment. It seemed to me that you would all grow strong in this fine, mountain air, and that I could work in peace, knowing that you were out of the way of mischief. So far as the boys and myself are concerned, the plan has worked well. I get on with my work, and they enjoy running wild in their holidays; but the little lasses have pined, have they? Poor little lasses! I am sorry to hear that. Now come—the post brought me some cheques this morning, and I am inclined to be generous. Next week, or the week after, I must run up to London on business, and I will bring you each a nice present on my return. Choose what it shall be, and I will get it for you if it is to be found in the length and breadth of the city. Now then, wish in turns. What will you have?” “It’s exactly like the father in Beauty and the Beast, before he starts on his travels! I am sure Lettice would like a white moss rose!” cried Norah roguishly. “As for me, I am afraid it’s no use. There is only one thing I want—lessons from the very best violin master in London!” “Three servants who could work by electricity, and not keep me running after them all day long!” “Half a dozen big country houses near to us, with sons and daughters in each, who would be our friends.” They were all breathless with eagerness, and Mr Bertrand listened with wrinkled brow. He had expected to be asked for articles of jewellery or finery, and the replies distressed him, as showing that the discontent was more deepseated than he had imagined. For several moments he sat in silence, as though puzzling out a difficult problem. Then his brow cleared, and he smiled, his own, cheery smile. “Hilary, pack your boxes, and get ready to go up to London with me on Monday week. If you are seventeen, you are old enough to pay visits, and we will stay for a fortnight with my old friend Miss Carr, in Kensington. She is a clever woman, and I will talk to her and see what can be done. I can’t work miracles, but I will do what I can to please you. May I be allowed to have another cup of tea, Miss Seventeen?” “Poor, dear, old father! Don’t look so subdued. You may have a dozen if you like. Monday next! How lovely! You are the dearest father in all the world!” Mr Bertrand shrugged his shoulders. “W hen I give you your own way,” he said drily. “Pass the cake, Lettice. If I have three grown-up daughters on my hands, I must make every effort to keep up my strength.” Lettice and Norah had a little conversation on the stairs as they went upstairs to change their dresses for dinner. “It’s very nice for Hilary, this going up to London; but it doesn’t do us any good. W hen is something going to happen for us?” “I suppose we shall have to wait for our turn,” sighed Lettice dolefully; but that very same evening an unexpected excitement took place in the quiet household, and though the Mouse’s prophecy was fulfilled, inasmuch as it could hardly be called an incident of a cheerful nature, it was yet fated to lead to great and far-reaching results. Chapter Three. An Unexpected Guest. The old grandfather’s clock was just striking six o’clock when Raymond and Bob, the two public schoolboys, came home from their afternoon excursion. They walked slowly up the drive, supporting between them the figure of a young fellow a few years older than themselves, who hopped painfully on one foot, and was no sooner seated on the oak bench in the hall, than he rested his head against the rails, and went off into a dead faint. The boys shouted at the pitch of their voices, whereupon Mr Bertrand rushed out of his sanctum, followed by every other member of his household. “Good gracious! W ho is it? W hat is the matter? W here did he come from? Has he had an accident?” cried the girls in chorus, while Miss Briggs ran off for sal volatile and other remedies. The stranger was a tall, lanky youth, about eighteen years of age, with curly brown hair and well-cut features, and he made a pathetic figure leaning back in the big oak seat. “He’s the son of old Freer, the Squire of Brantmere,” explained Raymond, as he busied himself unloosing the lad’s collar and tie. “We have met him several times when we have been walking. Decent fellow—Harrow—reading at home for college, and hates it like poison. We were coming a short cut over the mountains, when he slipped on a bit of ice, and twisted his ankle trying to keep up. We had an awful time getting him back. He meant to stay at the inn to-night, as his people are away, and it was too dark to go on, but he looks precious bad. Couldn’t we put him up here?” “Yes, yes, of course. Better carry him straight to bed and get off that boot,” said Mr Bertrand cordially. “It will be a painful job, and if we can get it done before he comes round, so much the better. Here, you boys, we’ll carry him upstairs between us, and be careful not to trip as you go. Someone bring up hot water, and bandages from the medicine chest. I will doctor him myself. I have had a fair experience of sprained ankles in my day, and don’t need anyone to show me what to do.” The procession wended its way up the staircase, and for the greater part of the evening father and brothers were alike invisible. Fomentations and douches were carried on with gusto by Mr Bertrand, who was never more happy than when he was playing the part of amateur surgeon; then Miss Briggs had her innings, and carried a tray upstairs laden with all the dainties the house could supply, after partaking of which the invalid was so far recovered that he was glad of his friends’ company, and kept them laughing and chatting in his room until it was time to go to bed. The next morning the ankle was much better, but, at his host’s instigation, the young fellow despatched a note to his mother, telling her not to expect him home for a few days, as Mr Bertrand wished him to stay until he was better able to bear the long, hilly drive. The girls discussed the situation as they settled down to finish the much disliked mending in the afternoon. “It’s very annoying,” Hilary said. “I do hope he won’t be long in getting better. We were going to London on Monday week, but if he is still here we shall have to wait, and I hate having things postponed.” “I wish he had been a girl,” said Norah, who came in for so much teasing from her two brothers during the holidays that she did not welcome the idea of having another boy in the house. “We could have had such fun together, and perhaps she might have asked us to stay with her some day. I should love to pay visits! I wonder if father will take us up to London in turns, now that he has begun. I do hope he will, for it would be great fun staying in Kensington. I remember Miss Carr when we were in London; she was a funny old thing, but I liked her awfully. She was often cross, but after she had scolded for about five minutes, she used to repent, and give us apples. She will give you apples, Hilary, if you are very good!” Hilary screwed up her little nose with an expression of disdain. Apples were not much of a treat to people who had an orchard at home, and she had outgrown the age of childish joy at the gift of such trifles. Before she could speak, however, the door burst open, and Raymond precipitated himself into the room. He was a big, broad fellow of sixteen, for he and Lettice were twins, though widely differing in appearance. Raymond had a flat face, thickly speckled over with freckles, reddish brown hair, and a pair of brown eyes which fairly danced with mischief. It was safe to prophesy that in less than two minutes from the time that he entered the room where his sisters were sitting, they would all three be shrieking aloud in consternation, and the present instance was no exception to the rule. It was very simply managed. He passed one hand over the table where lay the socks and stockings which had been paired by Hilary’s industrious fingers, and swept them, helter-skelter, on the floor. He nudged Norah’s elbow, so that the needle which she was threading went deep into her fingers, and chucked Lettice under the chin, so that she bit her tongue with a violence which was really painful. This done, he plunged both hands into his pockets and danced a hornpipe on the hearthrug, while the girls abused him at the pitch of their voices. “Raymond Bertrand, you are the most horrid, ungentlemanly, nasty, rude boy I ever knew!” “If you were older you’d be ashamed of yourself. It is only because you are a stupid, ignorant little schoolboy that you think it funny to be unkind to girls.” “Very well, then! You have given me all my work to do over again; now I won’t make toffee this afternoon, as I promised!” “I don’t want your old toffee. I can buy toffee in the village if I want it,” retorted Raymond cheerfully. “Besides, I’m going out to toboggan with Bob, and I shan’t be home until dark. You girls will have to go and amuse Freer. He is up, and wants something to do. I’m not going to stay indoors on a jolly afternoon to talk to the fellow, so you’ll have to do it instead.” “Indeed, we’ll do nothing of the kind; we have our work to do, and it is bad enough to have two tiresome boys on our hands without looking after a third. He is your friend, and if you won’t amuse him, he will have to stay by himself.” “All right! Nice, hospitable people you are! Leave him alone to be as dull as he likes—it’s no matter to me. I told him that you would look after him, so the responsibility is off my shoulders.” Raymond paused, pointed in a meaning manner towards a curtained doorway at the end of the room, tiptoed up to the table, and finished his reply in a tragic whisper. “And I’ve settled him on the couch in the drawing-room, so you had better not speak so loudly, because he can hear every word you say!” W ith this parting shot, Mr Raymond took his departure, banging the door after him, while his sisters sat paralysed, staring at each other with distended eyes. “How awful! W hat must he think? We can’t leave him alone after this. Hilary, you are the eldest, go and talk to him.” “I won’t—I don’t know what to say. Norah, you go! Perhaps he is musical. You can play to him on your violin!” “Thank you, very much. I’ll do nothing of the kind. Lettice, you go; you are not shy. Talk to him prettily, and show him the photographs.” “I daren’t; I am horribly shy. I wouldn’t go into that room now, after what he has heard, for fifty thousand pounds!” “Norah, look here, if you will go and sit with him until four o’clock, Lettice and I will finish your work between us, and we will all come and have tea in the drawing-room, and help you out for the rest of the afternoon!” “Yes, Norah, we will; and I’ll give you that pink ribbon for your hair. Do, Norah! there’s a good girl. You won’t mind a bit after the first moment.” “It’s all very well,” grumbled Norah; but she was plainly softening, and after a moment’s hesitation, she pushed back her chair and said slowly, “All right, I’ll go; but mind you are punctual with tea, for I don’t bargain to stay a moment after four o’clock.” She brushed the ends of cotton from her dress, walked across to the door, and disappeared through the doorway with a pantomimic gesture of distaste. At the other side she paused and stood facing the invalid in silent embarrassment, for his cheeks were flushed, and he looked so supremely uncomfortable that it was evident he had overheard the loud-toned conversation which had been carried on between the brother and sisters. Norah looked at him and saw a young fellow who looked much older and more formidable than he had done in his unconsciousness the night before, for his grey eyes had curious, dilating pupils, and a faint mark on the upper lip showed where the moustache of the future was to be. The stranger looked at Norah, and saw a tall, slim girl, with masses of dark hair falling down her back, heavily marked eyebrows, and a bright, sharply cut little face, which was very attractive, if it could not strictly be called pretty. “How do you do?” said Norah desperately. “I hope you are quite—I mean, I hope your foot is better. I am glad you are able to get up.” “Thank you very much. It’s all right so long as I lie still. It’s very good of you to let me stay here. I hope I’m not a great nuisance.” “Oh, not at all. I’m sure you are not. I’m not the eldest, you know, I’m only the third, so I have nothing to do with the housekeeping, but there are so many of us that one more doesn’t make any difference. My name is Norah.” “And mine is Reginald, but I am always called Rex. Please don’t trouble about me if you have anything else to do. If you would give me a book, I’d amuse myself.” “Are you fond of reading?” “No, I hate it—that is to say, I like it very much, of course, but I have had so much of it for the last two years that I sometimes feel that I hate the sight of a book. But it’s different here, for a few hours.” “I think I’ll stay and talk to you, if you don’t mind,” said Norah, seating herself on an oak stool by the fire, and holding out a thin, brown hand to shade her face from the blaze. “I’m very fond of talking when I get to know people a little bit. Raymond told us that you were reading at home to prepare for college, and that you didn’t like it. I suppose that is why you are tired of books. I wish I were in your place! I’d give anything to go to a town, and get on with my studies, but I have to stay at home and learn from a governess. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could change places? Then we should both be pleased, and get what we liked.” The young fellow gave a laugh of amusement. “I don’t think I should care for the governess,” he said, “though she seems awfully kind and jolly, if she is the lady who looked after me last night. I’ve had enough lessons to last me for the rest of my life, and I want to get to work, but my father is bent on having a clever son, and can’t make up his mind to be disappointed.” “And aren’t you clever? I don’t think you look exactly stupid!” said Norah, so innocently, that Rex burst into a hearty laugh. “Oh, I hope I’m not so bad as that. I am what is called ‘intelligent,’ don’t you know, but I shall never make a scholar, and it is waste of time and money to send me to college. It is not in me. I am not fond of staying in the house and poring over books and papers. I couldn’t be a doctor and spend my life in sick-rooms; the law would drive me crazy, and I could as soon jump over a mountain as write two new sermons a week. I want to go abroad—to India or Ceylon, or one of those places—and get into a berth where I can be all day walking about in the open air, and looking after the natives.” “Oh, I see. You don’t like to work yourself, but you feel that it is ‘in you’ to make other people exert themselves! You would like to have a lot of poor coolies under you, and order them about from morning till night—that’s what you mean. I think you must be very lazy to talk like that!” said Norah, nodding her head in such a meaning fashion that the young fellow flushed in embarrassment. “Indeed, I’m nothing of the kind. I am very energetic—in my own way. There are all sorts of gifts, and everyone knows which one has fallen to his share. It’s stupid to pretend that you don’t, I know I am not intellectual, but I also know that I have a natural gift of management. At school I had the arrangement of all the games and sports, and the fellows would obey me when no one else could do anything with them. I should like to have a crowd of workmen under me—and I’ll tell you this! they would do more work, and do it better, and be more contented over it, than any other workmen in the district!” “Gracious!” cried Norah, “you are conceited! But I believe you are right. It’s something in your eyes—I noticed it as soon as I saw you—a sort of commanding look, and a flash every now and then when you aren’t quite pleased. They flashed like anything just now, when I said you were lazy! The poor coolies would be frightened out of their senses. But you needn’t go abroad unless you like. You could stay at home and keep a school.” “No, thank you. I know too much about it. I don’t want the life worried out of me by a lot of boys. I could manage them quite well though, if I chose.” “You couldn’t manage me!” Norah brought her black brows together in defiant fashion, but the challenge was not taken up, for Master Rex simply ejaculated, “Oh, girls! I wasn’t talking about girls,” and laid his head against the cushions in such an indifferent fashion that Norah felt snubbed; and the next question came in a very subdued little voice—“Don’t you—er—like girls?” “Ye–es—pretty well—the ones I know. I like my sister, of course, but we have only seen each other in the holidays for the last six years. She is sixteen now, and has to leave school because her chest is delicate, and she has come home to be coddled. She don’t like it a bit—leaving school, I mean—so it seems that none of us are contented. She’s clever, in music especially; plays both violin and piano uncommonly well for a girl of her age.” “Oh, does she? That’s my gift. I play the violin beautifully,” cried Norah modestly, and when Rex laughed aloud she grew angry, and protested in snappish manner, “Well, you said yourself that we could not help knowing our own talents. It’s quite true, I do play well. Everyone says so. If you don’t believe it, I’ll get my violin and let you hear.” “I wish you would! Please forgive me for laughing, I didn’t mean to be rude, but it sounded so curious that I forgot what I was doing. Do play! I should love to hear you.” Norah walked across the room and lifted the beloved violin from its case. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was tingling with the remembrance of that incredulous laugh, but her anger only made her the more resolved to prove the truth of her words. She stood before Rex in the firelight, her slim figure drawn up to its full height, and the first sweep of the bow brought forth a sound so sweet and full, that he started in amazement. The two sisters in the adjoining room stopped their work to listen, and whispered to one another that they had never heard Norah play so well; and when at last she dropped her arms, and stood waiting for Rex to give his verdict, he could only gasp in astonishment. “I say, it’s wonderful! You can play, and no mistake! W hat is the piece? I never heard it before. It’s beautiful. I like it awfully.” “Oh, nothing. It isn’t a piece. I made it up as I went along. It is too dark to see the music, and I love wandering along just as I like. I’ll play you some pieces later on when the lamps are lit.” “I say, you know, you are most awfully clever! If you play like that now, you could do as well as any of those professional fellows if you had a chance. And to be able to compose as well! You are a genius—it isn’t talent—it’s real, true, genuine genius!” “Oh, do you think so? Do you really, truly think so?” cried Norah pitifully. “Oh, I wish you would say so to father! He won’t let us go away to school, and I do so long and pine to have more lessons. I learnt in London ever since I was a tiny little girl, and from a very good master, but the last three years I have had to struggle on by myself. Father is not musical himself, and so he doesn’t notice my playing, but if you would tell him what you think—” “I’ll tell him with pleasure; but if he won’t allow you to leave home, I don’t see what is to be done— unless—look here! I’ve got an idea. My sister may want to take lessons, and if there were two pupils it might be worth while getting a man down from Preston or Lancaster. Ella couldn’t come here, because she can only go out on fine days, but you could come to us, you know. It would make it so much more difficult if the fellow had to drive six miles over the mountains, and we are nearer a station than you are here. I should think it could be managed easily enough. I’ll write to the mater about it if you like.” “W ill you, really? How lovely of you! Oh, it would be quite too delightful if it could be managed. I’d bless you for ever. Oh, isn’t it a good thing you sprained your ankle?” cried Norah in a glow of enthusiasm, and the burst of laughter which followed startled the occupants of the next room by its ring of good fellowship. “Really,” said Hilary, “the strange boy must be nicer than we thought. Norah and he seem to be getting quite good friends. Let us hurry up, and go and join them.” Chapter Four. Round the Fire. Mrs Freer wrote a grateful letter to Mr Bertrand, thanking him for his hospitality to her son, and arranging to drive over for Rex on the following Saturday afternoon, so that Hilary’s anxiety was at an end, and she could enjoy the strange boy’s society with an easy mind. After Norah had broken the ice, there was no further feeling of shyness. W hen Rex hobbled downstairs at ten o’clock in the morning, he ensconced himself on the old-fashioned sofa in the sewing-room, and remained there until he adjourned into the drawing-room for the evening. The boys came in and out as they pleased, Miss Briggs coddled him and brought him cups of beef-tea, but it was upon the girls that he chiefly depended for amusement. In the morning they were busy with their household duties; but, as regular lessons had not begun, afternoon was a free time, and while Norah drew, Lettice carved, and Hilary occupied herself manufacturing fineries for the London visit, a brisk clatter of tongues was kept up, in which the invalid took his full part. The sound of five-finger exercises would come from the schoolroom overhead, but so soon as four o’clock struck, the Mouse would steal in, in her little white pinafore, and creep on to the corner of the sofa. She and the “strange boy” had made friends at once, and were on the best of terms. “I wish you lived with us for ever!” she said one afternoon, looking lovingly in his face, as he stroked her wavy locks. “And I wish you lived with me, Mouse,” he answered. “I should like a little sister like you, with a tiny pointed chin, and a tiny little nose, and big dark eyes. You are a real little mouse. It is exactly the right name for you.” “No, it’s my wrong name. My true name is Geraldine Audrey. It’s written that way in the Bible.” “Dear me! that’s a big name for a small person. And who gave you that name?” asked Rex, laughing. But the child’s face did not relax from its characteristic gravity as she replied— “My godfathers and my godmothers, and a silver mug, and a knife and fork in a case, with ‘GAB’ written on the handles. Only I mayn’t use them till I’m seven, in case I cut my fingers.” Dear little Geraldine Audrey! Everyone loved her. She was always so desperately in earnest, so unsuspicious of fraud, that her little life was made a burden to her in the holidays by reason of the pranks of her big brothers. They sent her into village shops to demand “a halfpenny-worth of pennies,” they kept her shivering in the drive staring at the lions on the top of the gate-posts, to see them wag their tails when they heard the clock strike twelve; they despatched her into the garden with neat little packets of salt to put on the birds’ tails, and watched the poor mite’s efforts in contortions of laughter from behind the window curtains. The Mouse was more sorrowful than angry when the nature of these tricks was explained to her. “I fought you told the trufh,” she would say quietly, and then Raymond and Bob would pick her up in their arms, and try to make amends for their wickedness by petting her for the rest of the day. On the third day of Rex’s visit, the weather was so tempestuous that even Raymond and Bob did not stir from the house. They spent the morning over chemical experiments in the schoolroom, but when afternoon came they wearied of the unusual confinement and were glad to join the cosy party downstairs. Norah had a brilliant inspiration, and suggested “Chestnuts,” and Master Raymond sat in comfort, directing the efforts of poor red-faced Bob, as he bent over the fire and roasted his fingers as well as the nuts. W hen half a dozen young people are gathered round a fire, catching hot nuts in outstretched hands, and promptly dropping them with shrieks of dismay, the last remnants of shyness must needs disappear; and Rex was soon as uproarious as any other member of the family, complaining loudly when his “turn” was forgotten, and abusing the unfortunate Bob for presenting him with a cinder instead of the expected dainty. The clatter of tongues was kept up without a moment’s intermission, and, as is usual under such circumstances, the conversation was chiefly concerned with the past exploits of the family. “You can’t have half as many jokes in the country as you can in town,” Raymond declared. “W hen we were in London, two old ladies lived in the house opposite ours, who used to sit sewing in the window by the hour together. One day, when the sun was shining, Bob and I got hold of a mirror and flashed it at them from our window so that the light dazzled their eyes and made them jump. They couldn’t see us, because we were hiding behind the curtains, but it was as good as a play to watch first one, then the other, drop her work and put up her hand to her eye? Then they began shaking their fists across the road, for they knew it was us, because we had played some fine tricks on them before. On wet days we used to make up a sham parcel, tie a thread to the end, and put it on the side of the pavement. Everyone who came along stooped down to pick it up, we gave a jerk to the string and moved it on a little further, then they gave another grab, and once or twice a man overbalanced himself and fell down, but it didn’t always come off so well as that—oh, it was capital sport!” “You got into trouble yourselves sometimes. You didn’t always get the best of it,” Norah reminded him. “Do you remember the day when you found a ladder leaning against the area railings of a house in the white terrace? Father had forbidden you to climb ladders, but you were a naughty boy, as usual, and began to do it, and when you got to the top, the ladder overbalanced, and you fell head over heels into the area. It is a wonder you were not killed that time!” Raymond chuckled softly, as if at a pleasant remembrance. “But I was not, you see, and the cook got a jolly fright. She was making pastry at a table by the window, and down we came, ladder and I, the finest smash in the world. There was more glass than flour in the pies that day!” “But father had to pay for new windows, and you were all over bruises from head to foot—” “That didn’t matter. It was jolly. I could have exhibited myself in a show as a ‘boy leopard,’ and made no end of money. And I wasn’t the only one who made father pay for new windows. W hen Bob was a little fellow, he broke the nursery window by mistake, and a glazier came to mend it. Bob sat on a stool watching him do it, and snored all the time—Bob always snores when he is interested—and as soon as the man had picked up his tools and left the room, what did he do but jump up and send a toy horse smashing through the pane again. He wanted to watch the glazier put in another, but he hadn’t the pleasure of seeing it mended that time. He was whipped and sent to bed.” “We–w–w–well,” cried Bob, who was afflicted with a stammer when he was excited, “I didn’t c–c–ut off my eyelashes, anyway! Norah went up to her room one day and p–played barber’s shop. She cut lumps off her hair wherever she could get at it, till she looked like an Indian squaw, and then she s– s–snipped off her eyelashes till there wasn’t a hair left. She was sent to bed as w–well as me.” “They have grown again since then,” said Norah, shutting one eye, and screwing up her face in a vain effort to prove the truth of her words. “I had been to see Lettice have her hair cut that day, and I was longing to try what it felt like. I knew it was naughty, but I couldn’t stop, it was too fascinating. ... Oh, Lettice, do you remember when you sucked your thumb?” Lettice threw up her hands with a little shriek of laughter. “Oh, how funny it was! I used to suck my thumb, Rex, until I was quite a big girl, six years old, I think, and one day mother spoke to me seriously, and said I really must give it up. If I didn’t I was to be punished; if I did, I was to get a prize. I said, ‘Well, may I suck my thumb as long as ever I like to-day, for the very last time?’ Mother said I might, so I sat on the stairs outside the nursery door and sucked my thumb all day long— hours, hours, and hours, and after that I was never seen to suck it again. I had had enough!” “It must be awfully nice to belong to a large family,” said Rex wistfully. “You can have such fun together. Edna and I were very quiet at home, but I had splendid times at school, and sometimes I used to bring some of the fellows down to stay with me in the holidays. One night I remember—hallo, here’s the Mouse! I thought you were having a nice little sleep on the schoolroom sofa, Mouse. Come here and sit by me.” Geraldine advanced to the fireplace in her usual deliberate fashion. She was quite calm and unruffled, and found time to smile at each member of the party before she spoke. “So I was asleep, only they’s a fire burning on the carpet of the schoolroom, and it waked me up.” “Wh–at?” “They’s a fire burning in the miggle of the carpet—a blue fire, jest like a plum pudding!” There was a simultaneous shriek of dismay, as work, scissors, and chestnuts were thrown wildly on the floor, and the Bertrand family rushed upstairs in a stampede of excitement. The schoolroom door stood open, the rug thrown back from the couch on which the Mouse had been lying, and in the centre of the well-worn carpet, little blue flames were dancing up and down, exactly as they do on a Christmas pudding which has been previously baptised with spirit. Bob cast a guilty look at his brother, who stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at the conflagration with smiling patronage. “Phosphorus pentoxide P2O5,” he remarked coolly. “What a lark!” “It wouldn’t have been a lark if the Mouse had been stifled by the nasty, horrid fumes,” said Lettice angrily. “Get some water at once and help us put it out, before the whole house is on fire.” “Water, indeed! Don’t do anything so foolish. You mustn’t touch it with water. Here, it’s only a square, pull the thing up and throw it through the window into the garden. That’s the best thing we can do,” said Raymond, dropping on his knees and setting himself to pull and tear with all his strength. Bob and the girls did their best to assist him, for the Bertrands were accustomed to help themselves, and in a very few minutes the carpet was lifted, folded hurriedly in two, and sent flying through the window to the garden beneath. After which the tired and begrimed labourers sank down on chairs, and panted for breath. “This is what comes of chemical experiments,” said Hilary severely. “I shall ask father to forbid you to play with such dangerous things in the house. I wonder what on earth you will do next.” “Have some tea! This sort of work is tiring. I’m going downstairs to ring the bell and hurry Mary up,” said Raymond coolly. It was absolutely impossible to get that dreadful boy to realise his own enormities! Chapter Five. A Visit to London. On Saturday afternoon Mrs Freer drove up to the door in an old-fashioned carriage. She was a thin, little woman, not at all like her big son, whom she evidently adored as the most wonderful specimen of his sex, and full of gratitude for the kindness which had been shown to him. Rex’s letter had evidently been of a descriptive nature, for his mother recognised each of the three girls, addressed them by name, and referred to their special interests. “How do you do, Miss Hilary? I hope my son’s illness has not interfered with the arrangements for your journey. How do you do, Miss Lettice? How do you do, Norah? Rex has told me of your wonderful playing. I hope you will let me hear something before I go.” Norah was never loath to play, and on this occasion was anxious to make a good impression, so that Mrs Freer might g...