Kitabı oku: «One Maid's Mischief», sayfa 3
Volume One – Chapter Six.
Visitors at the Rectory
The fact of its being the wish of the appointed guardian of the young ladies was sufficient to make the Misses Twettenham readily acquiesce to an invitation being accepted; and before many days had passed little Miss Rosebury drove over in the pony-carriage, into the front seat of which Helen Perowne, in the richest dress she possessed, glided with a grace and dignity that seemed to say she was conferring a favour.
“I wish you could drive, my dear,” said little Miss Rosebury, smiling in Grey Stuart’s face, for there was something in the fair young countenance which attracted her.
“May I ask why?” replied Grey.
“Because it seems so rude to make you take the back seat.”
For answer Grey nimbly took her place behind; while, as Helen Perowne settled herself in a graceful, reclining attitude, Miss Rosebury took her seat, the round fat pony tossed its head, hands were waved, and away the little carriage spun along the ten miles’ drive between Mayleyfield and the Rectory.
Helen was languid and quiet, leaning back with her eyes half closed, while Grey bent forward between them and chatted with Miss Rosebury, the little lady seeming to be at home with her at once.
Before they had gone a mile, though, the observant charioteer noticed that Grey started and coloured vividly at the sight of a tall, thin youth with a downy moustache, who eagerly raised his hat, as if to show his fair curly hair as they passed.
“Then she has a lover too,” said Miss Rosebury to herself; for Helen Perowne sat unmoved, and did not appear to see the tall youth as they drove by him, but kept her eyes half closed, the long lashes drooping almost to her cheeks.
Little Miss Rosebury darted a keen glance at both the girls in turn, to see Grey Stuart colour more deeply still beneath her scrutiny; while Helen Perowne raised her eyes on finding Miss Rosebury looking at her, and smiled, her face wearing an enquiring look the while.
Dr Bolter had gone to town on business, so it had been decided that the visitors should stay for a couple of nights at the Rectory, where the Reverend Arthur, trowel in one hand, basket in the other, was busy at work filling the beds with geraniums when the pony-carriage drew up.
He slowly placed basket and trowel upon the grass as the carriage stopped, and forgetful of the state of his hands, helped the ladies to alight, leaving the imprint of his earthy fingers upon Helen’s delicate gloves.
Grey saw what took place, and expected an angry show of impatience on her companion’s part; but on the contrary, Helen held up her hands and laughed in quite a merry way.
“Oh, Arthur,” exclaimed Miss Rosebury, “how thoughtless you are!”
The Reverend Arthur looked in dismay at the mischief he had done, and taking out his pocket-handkerchief – one that had evidently been used for wiping earthy fingers before – he deliberately took first one and then the other of Helen Perowne’s hands to try and remove the marks he had made upon her gloves.
“I am very sorry, Miss Perowne,” he said, in his quiet, deliberate way. “It was very thoughtless of me; I have been planting geraniums.”
To the amazement of Grey Stuart, Helen gazed full in the curate’s face, smilingly surrendering her hands to the tender dusting they received.
Miss Rosebury was evidently annoyed, for she turned from surrendering the reins to the gardener, who was waiting to lead away the pony, and exclaimed:
“Oh, Arthur, you foolish man, what are you doing? Miss Perowne’s hands are not the leaves of plants.”
“No, my dear Mary,” said the Reverend Arthur, in the most serious manner; “and I am afraid I have made the mischief worse.”
“It does not matter, Mr Rosebury. It is only a pair of gloves – I have plenty more,” said Helen, hastily stripping them off regardless of buttons, and tearing them in the effort. They were of the thinnest and finest French kid, and as she hastily rolled them up she looked laughingly round for a place to throw them, ending by dropping them into the large garden basket half full of little geranium pots, while the Reverend Arthur’s eyes rested gravely upon the delicate blue-veined hands with their taper fingers and rosy nails.
“Come, my dears,” exclaimed Miss Rosebury, in her quick, chirpy way, “I’m sure you would like to come and take off your things after your hot, dusty drive. This way; and pray do go and wash your hands, Arthur.”
“Certainly, my dear Mary,” he replied, slowly. “If I had thought of it I would have done so before. I am very glad to see you at the Rectory, Miss Perowne. May I – ”
He held out his earth-soiled hand to shake that of his visitor, but recollecting himself, he let it fall again, as he did the words he was about to speak.
“I do not mind,” said Helen, quickly, as she extended her own hand, which the curate had no other course than to take, and he did so with a slight colour mounting to his pale cheeks.
Grey Stuart offered her hand in turn, her darker glove showing no trace of the contact.
“I don’t like her,” said little Miss Rosebury to herself, and her lips tightened a little as she looked sidewise at Helen. “She’s a dreadfully handsome, wicked girl, I’m sure; and she tries to make every man fall in love with her that she sees. She’ll be trying Dr Bolter next.”
It was as if the sudden breath of a furnace had touched her cheeks as this thought crossed her mind, and she quite started as she took Grey Stuart’s arm, saying once more, as in an effort to change the current of her thoughts:
“Come, my dears; and do pray, Arthur, go and take off that dreadful coat!”
“Yes, my dear Mary, certainly,” he said; and smiling benignly at all in turn, he was moving towards the door, when Helen exclaimed quickly:
“I am not at all tired. I was going to ask Mr Rosebury to show me round his garden.”
There was a dead silence, only broken by the dull noise of the wheels of the pony=carriage rasping the gravel drive; there was the chirp of a sparrow too on the mossy roof-tiles, and then a fowl in the stable-yard clapped its wings loudly and uttered a triumphant crow, as, with old-fashioned chivalrous politeness, the Reverend Arthur took off his soft felt hat and offered his arm.
For it was like a revelation to him – an awakening from a quiet, dreamy, happy state of existence, into one full of excitement and life, as he saw that beautiful young creature standing before him with a sweet, appealing look in her eyes, and one of those soft white hands held appealingly forth, asking of him a favour.
And what a favour! She asked him to show her his garden – his pride – the place where he spent all his spare moments. His pale cheeks really did flush slightly now, and his soft, dull eyes brightened as if the reflection of Helen’s youth and beauty irradiated the thin face, the white forehead, and sparse grey hairs bared to the soft breeze.
Miss Mary Rosebury felt a bitter pang shoot through her tender little breast; and once more, as she saw Helen’s hand rest upon her brother’s shabby alpaca coat-sleeve, she compressed her lips, and felt that she hated this girl.
“She’s a temptress – a wicked coquette,” she thought.
It was a matter of moments only, and then she recollected herself.
Her first idea was to go round the garden with Helen; but she shrank from the act as being inquisitorial, and turning to Grey, she took her arm.
“Let them go and see the garden, my dear. You and I will go and get rid of the dust. There,” she continued, as she led her visitor into the little flower-bedecked drawing-room, “does it not strike nice and cool? Our rooms look very small after yours.”
“Oh! but so bright and cheerful,” said Grey, quietly.
“Now I’ll show you your bedroom,” said Miss Rosebury, whose feeling of annoyance was gone. “I’m obliged to put you both in the same room, and you must arrange between you who is to have the little bed. Now, welcome to the Rectory, my dear, and I hope you will enjoy your visit. Let me help you.”
For Grey had smiled her thanks, and was taking off her bonnet, the wire of which had somehow become entangled with her soft, fair, wavy hair.
Miss Rosebury’s clever, plump little fingers deftly disentangled the bonnet, and then, not satisfied, began to smooth the slightly dishevelled hair, as if finding pleasure in playing with the fair, sunny strands that only seemed to ask for a dexterous turn or twist to naturally hang in clusters of curls.
Miss Rosebury’s other hand must have been jealous, for it too rose to Grey’s head and joined in the gentle caress; while far from looking tight, and forming a thin red line, the little middle-aged lady’s lips were in smiling curves, and her eyes beamed very pleasantly at her young visitor, who seemed to be half pleased, half pained at the other’s tender way.
“I am sure I shall be sorry to go away again,” said Grey, softly. “It is very kind of you to fetch us here.”
“Not at all, my dear,” said Miss Rosebury, starting from her reverie; “but – but I’m afraid I must be very strict with you,” she continued, in a half-merry, half-reproving tone. “The Misses Twettenham have confided you to my care, and I said – I said – ”
“You said, Miss Rosebury?” exclaimed Grey, in wondering tones, and her large, soft eyes looked their surprise.
“Yes, I said, as we came away, I’m a very peculiar, particular old lady, my dear; and I can’t have tall gentlemen making bows to you when you are in my charge.”
“Oh, Miss Rosebury!” cried Grey, catching her hand and blushing scarlet, “please – pray don’t think that! It was not to me!”
“Ah!” exclaimed the little lady, softly. “Hum! I see;” and she looked searchingly in the fair young face so near to hers. “It was my mistake, my dear; I beg your pardon.”
Grey’s face was all smiles, though her eyes were full of tears, and the next moment she was clasped tightly to Miss Rosebury’s breast, responding to her motherly kisses, and saying eagerly:
“I could not bear for you to think that.”
“And I ought never to have thought it, my dear,” said the little lady, softly patting and smoothing Grey’s hair. “Why, I ought to have known you a long time ago; and now I do know you, I hear you are going away?”
“Yes,” said Grey, “and so very soon. My father wishes me to join him at the station.”
“Yes, I know, my dear. It is quite right, for he is alone.”
“And he says it is dull without me; but he wished me to thoroughly finish my education first.”
“You don’t recollect mamma, my dear, the doctor tells me?”
“No,” said Grey, shaking her head. “She died when I was a very little child – the same year as Mrs Perowne.”
“A sad position for two young girls,” said Miss Rosebury.
“But the Misses Twettenham have always been so kind,” said Grey, eagerly. “I shall be very, very sorry to go away?”
“And will Helen Perowne be very, very sorry to go away?”
Grey Stuart’s face assumed a troubled expression, and she looked appealingly in her questioner’s face, which immediately became all smiles.
“There, there, I fetched you both over to enjoy yourselves, and I’m pestering you with questions. Come into my room, my dear, while I wash my hands, and then we’ll go and join the truants in the garden. I want you to like my brother very much, and I am sure he will like you.”
“I know I shall,” said Grey, quietly, but with a good deal of bright girlish ingenuousness in her tones. “Dr Bolter told me a great deal about him; how clever he is as a naturalist. I do like Dr Bolter.”
Miss Rosebury glanced at her sharply. It was an involuntary glance, which changed directly into a beaming look of satisfaction, as they crossed the landing into Miss Rosebury’s own room, where their conversation lengthened so that the “truants,” as the little lady called them, were forgotten.
Volume One – Chapter Seven.
A Lesson in Botany
Meanwhile the Reverend Arthur, with growing solicitude, was walking his garden as in a dream, explaining to his companion the progress of his flowers, his vegetables, and his fruit.
The beds were searched for strawberries that were not ready; the wall trees were looked at reproachfully for not bearing ripe fruit months before their time; and the roses, that should have been in perfection, were grieved over for their fall during the week-past storm.
It was wonderful to him what sweet and earnest interest this fair young creature took in his pursuits, and how eagerly she listened to his discourse when, down by the beehives, he explained the habits of his bees, and removed screens to let her see the working insects within.
Miss Mary Rosebury took an interest in his garden and in his botanical pursuits, but nothing like this. She did not keep picking weeds and wild flowers from beneath the hedge, and listen with rapt attention while he pointed out the class, the qualities, and peculiarities of the plant.
Helen Perowne did, and it was quite a privilege to a weed to be picked, as was that stitchwort that had run its long trailing growth right up in the hedge, so as to give its pale green leaves and regular white cut-edged blossoms a good long bathe in the sunshine where the insects played.
“I have often seen these little white flowers in the hedges,” she said softly. “I suppose they are too insignificant to have a name?”
She stooped and picked the flower as she spoke, looking in her companion’s eyes for an answer.
“Insignificant? No!” he cried, warming to his task. “No flower is insignificant. The very smallest have beauties that perhaps we cannot see.”
“Indeed,” she said; and he looked at the blue veins beneath the transparent skin, as Helen held up the flower. “Then has this a name?”
“Yes,” he said, rousing himself from a strange reverie, “a very simple, homely name – the stitchwort. Later on in the season you will find myriads of its smaller relative, the lesser stitchwort. They belong to the chickweed tribe.”
“Not the chickweed with which I used to feed my dear little bird that died?”
“The very same,” he replied, smiling. “Next time you pluck a bunch you will see that, though tiny, the flowers strangely resemble these.”
“And the lesser stitchwort?”
“Yes?” he said, inquiringly. “Is it like this?”
“Nearly the same, only the flowers are half the size.”
“And it grows where?”
“In similar places – by hedges and ditches.”
“But you said something about time.”
“Yes,” replied the Reverend Arthur, who was thinking how wondrous pleasant it would be to go on teaching botany to such a pupil for evermore. “Yes, it is a couple of months, say, later than the great stitchwort.”
“Ah!” said Helen, with a sigh. “By that time I shall be far away.”
The stitchwort fell to the ground, and they walked on together, with Helen, Circe-like, transforming the meek, studious, elderly man by her side, so that he was ready to obey her slightest whim, eagerly trying the while to explain each object upon which her eye seemed to rest; while she, glorying in her new power, led him on and on, with soft word, and glance, and sigh.
They had been at least an hour in the garden when they reached the vinery, through whose open door came the sweet, inviting scent of the luxuriant tender growth.
“What place is this?” she cried.
“My vinery. May I show you in?”
“It would give you so much trouble.”
“Trouble?” he said; and taking off his hat he drew back for her to enter.
“And will all those running things bear grapes?” she asked, as, throwing back her head and displaying the soft contour of her beautifully moulded throat, she gazed up at the tendril-handed vines.
“Yes,” he said, dreamily, “these are the young bunches with berries scarcely set. You see they grow too fast. I have to break off large pieces to keep them back, and tie them to those wires overhead.”
“Oh, do show me, Mr Rosebury?” she cried, with childlike eagerness.
“Yes,” he said, smiling; “but I must climb up there.”
“What, on to that board?”
“Yes, and tie them with this strong foreign grass.”
“Oh, how interesting! How beautiful!” she cried, her red lips parted, and showing the little regular white teeth within. “I never thought that grapes would grow like this. Please show me more.”
He climbed and sprawled awkwardly on to the great plank that reached from tie to tie, seating himself astride with the consequence that his trousers were dragged half way up his long, thin legs, revealing his clumsily-made garden shoes. In his eagerness to show his visitor the growing of his vines he heeded it not; but after snapping off a luxuriant shoot, he was about to tie the residue to a stout wire, when a cry of fear from Helen arrested him.
“Oh, Mr Rosebury, pray, pray get down!” she cried. “It is not safe. I’m sure you’ll fall!”
“It is quite safe,” he said, mildly; and he looked down with a bland smile at the anxious face below him.
“Oh, no,” she cried; “it cannot be.”
“I have tested it so many times,” he said. “Pray do not be alarmed.”
“But I am alarmed,” she cried, looking up at him with an agitated air that made him hasten to descend, going through a series of evolutions that did not tend to set off his ungainly figure to advantage, and ended in landing him at her feet minus the bottom button of his vest.
“Thank you,” she cried. “I am afraid I am very timid, but I could not bear to see you there.”
“Then I must leave my vines for the present,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, if you please,” she cried; and then, as they left the vinery, she relapsed into so staid and dignified a mood, that the Reverend Arthur felt troubled and as if he had been guilty of some grave want of courtesy to his sister’s guest, a state of inquietude that was ended by the coming of Miss Rosebury and Grey.
Volume One – Chapter Eight.
Helen’s Discovery
The nearness of the date for the long voyage to the East came like a surprise to the occupants of the Rectory and the Misses Twettenham’s establishment. Dr Bolter had come down to stay at the Rectory for a few days, and somehow – no one could tell the manner of its happening – the few days, with occasional lapses for business matters, had grown into a few weeks, and still there seemed no likelihood of his leaving.
What was more, no one seemed to wish him to leave. He and the Reverend Arthur went out on botanical rambles, and came back loaded with specimens about which they discoursed all the evenings, while Miss Rosebury sat and worked.
Upon sundry occasions the young ladies from Miss Twettenham’s came over to spend the day, when Grey would be treated by Miss Rosebury with affectionate solicitude, and Helen with a grave courtesy that never seemed to alter unless for the parties concerned to grow more distant.
With the Reverend Arthur, though, it was different. Upon the days of these visits he was changed. His outward appearance was the same, but there was a rapt, dreaminess pervading his actions and speech, and for the greater portion of the time he would be silent.
Not that this was observed, for the doctor chatted and said enough for all – telling stories, relating the experiences of himself and the curate in the woods, while Helen sat back in her chair proud and listless, her eyes half closed, and a languid look of hauteur in her handsome face. When addressed she would rouse herself for the moment, but sank back into her proud listlessness directly, looking bored, and as if she tolerated, because she could not help it, the jokes and sallies of the doctor.
The incident of the tall, fair young man was dead and buried. Whatever encouraging looks he may have had before, however his young love may have begun to sprout, it had been cut off by the untimely frost of Helen Perowne’s indifference; for no matter how often he might waylay the school during walks, he never now received a glance from the dark beauty’s eyes.
The unfortunate youth, after these meetings, would console himself with the thought that he could place himself opposite in church, and there dart appeal into her eyes; but the very first Sunday he went it was to find that Helen had changed her seat, so that it was her back and not her face at which he gazed.
A half-crown bestowed upon the pew-opener – young men at such times are generous – remedied this difficulty, and in the afternoon he had secured a seat opposite to Helen once again; but the next Sunday she had again changed her place, and no matter how he tried, Helen always avoided his gaze.
A month killed the tender passion, and the young gentleman disappeared from Mayleyfield for good – at least so it is to be hoped, for no ill was heard of the hapless youth, the first smitten down by Helen Perowne’s dark eyes.
“And I am very glad we never see him now,” said Helen one day when they were staying at the Rectory, and incidentally the troubles at Miss Twettenham’s were named.
“So am I,” said Grey, quietly. “It was such a pity that you should have noticed him at all.”
“Nonsense! He was only a silly overgrown boy; but oh, Grey, child,” cried Helen, in a burst of confidence, “isn’t the Reverend Arthur delicious?”
“Delicious?” replied Grey, gazing at her wonderingly. “I don’t understand you.”
“Oh, nonsense! He is so droll-looking, so tall and thin, and so attentive. I declare I feel sometimes as if I could make everyone my slave.”
“Oh! Helen, pray don’t talk like that!” cried Grey, in alarm.
“Why not? Is a woman to be always wearing a pinafore and eating bread and butter? I’m not a child now. Look, there comes Dr Bolter along the lane. Stand back from the window, or he’ll be blowing kisses at us, or some nonsense. I declare I hate that man!”
“I like Dr Bolter,” said Grey, quietly.
“Yes, you like everyone who is weak and stupid. Dr Bolter always treats me as if I were a child. A silly, fat, dumpy little stupid; feeling my pulse and making me put out my tongue. He makes my fingers tingle to box his ears.”
“I think Dr Bolter takes great interest in us,” said Grey, slowly, and she stood gazing through the open window of their bedroom at the figure of the little doctor, as he came slowly down the lane, his eyes intent upon the weeds, and every now and then making a dart at some plant beneath the hedge, and evidently quite forgetful of his proximity to the Rectory gate.
“Interest, yes!” cried Helen, who, in the retirement of their bedroom threw off her languid ways, and seemed full of eagerness and animation. “A nice prospect for us, cooped up on board ship with a man like that! I declare I feel quite ashamed of him. I wonder what sort of people we shall have as cabin passengers.”
“They are sure to be nice,” said Grey.
“There will be some officers,” continued Helen; “and some of them are sure to be young. I’ve heard of girls going out to India being engaged to be married directly. I say, Miss Demure, what fun it would be if we were to be engaged directly.”
Grey Stuart looked at her old schoolfellow, half wondering at her flippancy, half in pain, but Helen went on, as if getting rid of so much vitality before having to resume her stiff, distant ways.
“Did you notice how silly the Reverend Arthur was last night?”
“No,” replied Grey. “I thought he was very kind.”
“I thought he was going down upon his knees to kiss my feet!” cried Helen, with a mocking laugh; and her eyes sparkled and the colour came brightly in her cheeks. “Oh, Grey, you little fair, soft, weak kitten of a thing, why don’t you wake up and try to show your power.”
“Nelly, you surprise me!” cried Grey. “How can you talk so giddily, so foolishly about such things.”
“Because I am no longer a child,” cried the girl, proudly, and she drew herself up and walked backwards and forwards across the room. “Do you suppose I do not know how handsome I am, and how people admire me? Well, I’m not going to be always kept down. Look at the long, weary years of misery we have had at that wretched school.”
“Helen, you hurt me,” said Grey. “Your words are cruel. No one could have been kinder to us than the Miss Twettenhams.”
“Kinder – nonsense! Treated us like infants; but it is over now, and I mean to be free. Who is that on the gravel path? Oh! it’s poor Miss Rosebury. What a funny, sharp little body she is!”
“Always so kind and genial to us,” said Grey.
“To you. She likes you as much as she detests me.”
“Oh, Nelly!”
“She does; but not more than I detest her. She would not have me here at all if she could help it.”
“Oh! why do you say such things as that, Helen?”
“Because they are true. She does not like me because her brother is so attentive; and she seemed quite annoyed yesterday when the doctor spent so long feeling my pulse and talking his physic jargon to me. And – oh, Grey, hush! Come gently – here, beside this curtain! Don’t let them see you! What a discovery! Let’s go and fetch the Reverend Arthur to see as well.”
“Oh, Helen, how wild you are! What do you mean?”
“That!” whispered Helen, catching her schoolfellow tightly by the arm as she wrenched her into position, so that she could look out of the little flower-decked window. “What do I mean? Why that! See there!”
