To whom she said "Yes" - Chapter Two

The Beeches

"Now, which way am I going home?" said Eden to herself, making a pause as the iron gates of Mrs Merstham's grounds clanged behind her. "Along the high road? No, it is too formal, too dull; and the last time I went that way, I forgot myself , and whistled a tune, and the Reverend Jonas was just coming out of a cottage and heard me. I didn't mean to shock him, I'm sure; and though mamma laughed a little when I mimicked his look of horror, she begged me not to offend against the proprieties in that way again. The fields, then? No, the heavy rains have flooded them, and it's too cold to doff boots and hose and wade through the water, as I should dearly like to do. Why shouldn't I take a short cut across the plantations of The Beeches? Everyone does it, though it's trespassing; but while the house is empty and the place a perfect wilderness, what harm can it be?"

So away went Eden. There was a gate to climb, and a broken paie to squeeze through; but she was a country girl, and accustomed to surmount such obstacles. Onward she went, dancing though the fallen leaves, sometimes chasing a rabbit, sometimes stopping to listen to the song of a robin, till she drew near the long-deserted house, when, suddenly remembering that her mother had expressed a wish to have a receipt of Granny Myers, the care-taker, had promised her, Eden thought it would be an excellent opportunity for calling and procuring it.

But, as soon as she emerged from the shrubbery, she stopped, and began to retreat, for a stranger, a male one, was walking to and fro in front of the portico, brandishing a large white umbrella, as if threatening some imaginary foe.

His quick, roving glances lighted on the young girl as she began to move away, and he came striding across the lawn at a tremendouus rate, in order to intercept her.

"Do you know who I am?" he demanded, as soon as he was near enough to make himself heard.

"I am very sorry that I have trespassed!" faltered Eden, alarmed at his gruff voice and belligerent manner. "I did not know that anyone was here but Mrs Myers, who knows me very well, and --"

"But, my good young lady, Mrs Myers is not here; and that's why I'm in a dilemma." he retorted, wiping his forehead and making a dive with the umbrella at the air, as if he were thrusting a lance thorugh a Cossack. "Let me introduce myself, for I can see that you do not know me. I am Robert Stretby, ex-major in Her Majesty's 160th regiment; and I have rented this house because Mrs Stretby thinks the children's education can be carried out better in the country. She'll be here directly - Mrs Stretby, I mean. I've walked on to stretch my legs; and the furniture has not arrived, and the con - beg pardon! - the old woman is out, the shutters are shut, the doors are all locked, and I cannot get in. Pretty state of things, in a strange country, isn't it? How will Mrs Stretby look when she gets here, I should like to know? And I told her she'd find everything in applie-pie order. Only think! Why, she'll colapse, positively!"

As Mr Stretby's imagination pictured his wife's discomfiture, he broke into a little chuckle, which soon beame a roar of laughter, so hearty, so gleeful, that Eden could scarcely help joining in it.

"Well, it is ludicrous, isn't it?" he said, when he had exhausted himself. "Yet, it's aggravating, too; and I'm horribly annoyed, although I've the consolation of being able to laugh at my own misfortunes; but, by Jove! it's going to rain, and there isn't an hotel in Eastham; for I inquired when I was here the other day, and that old woman's not to be found. Have you any idea where she is?"

"Gone into the village, perhaps, for a gossip," said Eden, who knew Mrs Myers had plenty of acquaintances in Eastham. "But there is a window at the back of the house through which I think you might obtain an entrance. Shall I show you which one I mean?"

"If you please; for Mrs Stretby will be here in a minute; and if she finds neither fire nor shelter, food nor furniture, she'll think she has some reason to scold me; though you are witness, my young lady, that the fault is not mine, but that con - beg pardon, I'm sure - tiresome old woman's."

While he talked he was hurrying Eden towards the house; his long legs taking three steps to one of hers.

Mr Stretby was very tall, very thin, and gray, with a huge white moustache ornamenting a face that had been burned a deep brick red with exposure, and overhanging brows, also white, beneath which his eyes gleamed or twinkled, according to his mood, as brightly as in his youth.

Altogether he was a very fierce-looking vieux militaire; and yet he contrived to convey the impression that he was the best-tempered of men.

Eden laughed outright, when, having clambered to the window and pulled up the sash, he suddenly shot through it head-foremost. But he peeped out, to assure her that there was nothing broken, and ask which way he must turn to find the outer door.

She had scarcely finished directing him, when an open carriage was heard rolling up the drive, and she saw three or four feminine faces peeping from it at her, as she stood undecided whether to depart or to stay and ascertain whether she would be of any further service to these newcomers.

The carriage was a roomy waggonette, and a young lady tall, thin, and with prominent features, like Mr Stretby, had taken the reins from the servant, who was an old soldier and was driving.

The seats of the wagonette were occupied by more young ladies, all bearing the same likeness to their father - all wearing the same happy expression of features; and with them there was a stout, rosy, placid matron, who, although she was evidently in excellent health, was propped up with cushions and half smothered in wraps.

"Woa!" cried the driver to her steeds, as she reined up in front of the house. "No shutters opened, no fires alight, and no pa to be seen anywhere. Why ma, can this be our new bungalow?"

"Of course it's not, my dear Venetia," said Mrs Stretby mildly. "I told you I was almost sure we had taken the worng turning. And where poor dear papa can be, goodness only knows."

"Lost himself, most likely." said Miss Venetia Stretby. "It's a chance if we see him again till tomorrow morning. I vote that we drive back to the place where he left us, and wait there till he turns up again. So here goes!"

"Wouldn't it be as well to make some inquiries first?" cried another of the daughters; and, jumping nimbly from the carriage, she ran up to Eden, who, confused by the non-appearance of Mr Stretby, and the loud voices and rapid utterance of the ladies of his household, had not been able to offer any explanation.

"Yes, this is The Beeches," she now contrived to say; "but the person who has the key of the house is absent, and Mr Stretby has been obliged to obtain admission by climbing in at one of the windows."

"Then papa is here!" and a rush was made from the carriage to inspect the narrow casement through which he had squeezed himself. Mrs Streby rose to follow her daughters, and, the man being busy with his horses, she gave such an entreating look at Eden, that, fancying she must be lame, the latter courteously went to her assistance.

Some years since, Mrs Stretby had suffered a long but not dangerous illness, through which she had been most affectionately nursed by her husband and daughters; and, although she had quite regained her health, they continued to cosset and watch over her with the same jealous care, till she had grown so accustomed to it, that she now received these attentions as a matter of course. One of her daughters dutifully ran back as soon as she preceived that Mrs Stretby was alighting; and, leaning on her arm and Eden's, she joined the group beneath the window.

"If papa's here, what's become of him?" inquired some one.

"Gracious me! something's happened to him," cried Mrs Stretby, plaintively. "Something always is happening to him."

"Now, ma, this won't do!" cried Miss Venetia, snatching off her hat to fan her mother. "You must keep up! Pat her back, Flip, there's a dear! Pa will never forgive us if we let you worry yourself into another illness. Lin, run to the trap, and find the brandy flask; and send the twins to look for the smelling salts. Do you hear, ma? You've got to sit down on this green bank, and do your best to keep up."

"But where is he?" asked Mrs Stretby, clinging to Eden, and looking to her for an answer.

"I'm here, my dears!" shouted her spouse, through the keyhole of a door, and tugging desperately at the rusty bolts.

"I'm all right, and very much obliged to that young lady - just ask her name, will you? - for directing me, though I believe I must have misunderstood what she said, for I fell into a cellar, and con - take the bolt, what a plague it is to me!"

The next minute he appeared in their midst, very hot and grimy; and Eden , feeling herself de trop, would have glided away and walked into Eastham, to find and despatch Granny Myers to their assistance, if Mrs Stretby, in her excitement, had not held her so fast that she could not release herself.

In a matter of fact manner, that was highly amusing to a looker-on, Mr Stretby's daughters instantly took possession of him, and while one on either side brushed him down, another removed the cobwebs from his hat, a fourth, with her handkerchief, wiped a streak of dirt off his forehead, and with a pocket-comb, frizzed up his short, stubbly gray hair, while the twins - girls about twelve years of age - who had scampered off for the flask, on finding that their maternal parent no longer requied its contents, proffered it to their paternal one, who evidently appreciated the attention.

"Why aren't the shutter open, Robert?" asked Mrs Stretby, when this little performance was over.

"La, yes," said Miss Venetia, replacing her hat on her head, and gazing about her; "and where is the funiture?"

"Where indeed!" echoed her father, with a groan, and a vicious pull at his long moustache "I never was so near falling into a passion as when I reached this place and found an empty house, and not a creature to explain the reason of it! Have you asked this young lady her name, and thanked her for her courtesy? If it hadn't been for a bright thought of hers, we shouldn't have gained entrance at all."

"But where is the furniture?" Mrs Stretby mildly inquired again.

"That's the question my dear, I keep asking, and can't find any answer. I went to the upholsterer myself - myself, remember - paid for all the artciles you had selected, gave him the address legibley written, and ordered him to pack and despatch them here."

"But did you write and tell him that we were coming to The Beeches a day earlier than we originally proposed?" And then Mrs Stretby gently shook her finger at her husband, "No, Robert, you need not hesitate; I know you did not."

"But, indeed I did, my dear. Ask the children; they saw me upset the ink-bottle in the act."

"But did you post your note? You know how forgetful you are! Now I'm sure by your looks that you didn't! Just examine your papa's pockets, girls! Ah! There it is," she added, triumphantly, as one of them held up a letter.

"What a con- beg pardon - old idiot I am!" cried Mr Stretby, ruefully. "Now wht's to be done? Can anyone tell me what's to be done?"

"My name is Aubrey, and I live in Eastham," said Eden. "Can I be of any use to you?"

"Thank you, love," Mrs Stretby smilingly responded, as she settled herslef comfortably on the green bank, to which her daughters had led her. "You are very kind; but it's not of much consequence. We shall manage somehow."

"Manage somehow!" Eden repeated, looking so perplexed that one of the girls began to titter, her sisters followed suit, and Mr Stretby burst into one of his heartiest roars of laughter.

"'Pon my word, we've had many adventures; but this is one of the queerest! children, bring your mamma in doors out of the rain."

"But what will you do?" Eden inquired, as the whole party turned into the empty hall, carrying her with them.

"Bivouac in the snuggest corner, eh, papa?" cried Venetia. "Ma can have the cushions out of the carriage, and all the cloaks and shawls, and the rest of us will build a great fire - there must be lots of wood about - and we'll sit round it and tell stories till morning!"

"Oh! Jolly!" exclaimed the twins.
"And look here," cried the girl next in age to Venetia. Before Rifles takes the horses out I shall drive into the village; Miss Aubrey says she lives there, so she will go too, and show me th w ay to the butcher's and the baker's, and if we can pounce upon the old woman, we'll arrest her for neglect of duty, and I'll bring home my prisoner along with the provisions."

"Flip, my child, that's a capital idea," said her father, approvingly. "So be off with you, or it will be dark before you start. Don't forget some tobacco for Rifles, and a tea-kettle. We can't make a comfortable night of it without a tea-kettle."

"All right, sir," said Flip, giving her father a military salute. "I'm off at once; but where's the family purse?"

For this article there was a long search. Mamma remembered to have had it to give some halfpence to a beggar, and the twins had borrowed it when solicited to buy some apples by a travelling hawker; but it seemed to be generally understood that all missing articles found their way into one or other of the pockets in Mr Stretby's shooting-jacket; and from the deepest of them it was at last extracted.

Then, a little to her astonishment, as well as amusement, Eden was escorted to the carriage by paterfamilias, hat in hand; Flip scrambled in after her, and, with the latter young lady shouting back an injuction to her sisters to take care of ma, they were driven off to Eastham.

During the rapid journey, Flip was engaged in telling off on her fingers the items she proposed carrying back to the empty house, appealing every now and then to the taciturn servant when she found herself in dager of forgetting some necessary.

"No, thank you; there's not the slightest occasion for it," she tranquilly replied, when Eden good-naturedly proposed procuring from her mother the loan of such comforts as bedding, etc. "Ma don't mind, nor we don't, and pa's an old soldier, and used to roughing it. There's two or three vans of furniture on the road, and they will turn up some time or other. We were worse off than this once in Canada; for the tents were on one side of a wide river, and we on the other; the ferryboat had come to grief, and there wasn't a house within ten miles of us. Papa owns that he should have been a bad general; for he always contrives to get in advance of his baggage and commissariat; but then it's his only fault, so it's no use making a trouble of it."

And in the same comfortable frame of mind, Miss Stretby invaded the general-shop, secured a supply of edibles, and drove off again with her lap full of cups and saucers, nodding and smiling at the amused Eden, who stood by the roadside, waving farewells to her new acquaintance, until the waggonette disappeared in the darkness of the fast-falling night.

To be continued....

To Whom she said "Yes" - Chapter One

by the author of "Wilful Winnie." "The Bride's Jewels" "Holly and Ivy" "Waiting for the May," "Not to be won," "Positively ugly," etc

(taken from The Young Woman, 1877) A story in 30 chapters.

Chapter One

Verna Merstham

One of the prettiest rooms in Mrs. Merstham's house was called her studio: although it cannot be said to have borne much resemblance to the apartment in which painters - with true masculine untidiness - contrive to surround themselves with litter while they work.

It is true that there were a few casts from the antique in Mrs. Merstham's studio, but then they stood on polished marble pedestals; there were half-finished pictures against the walls, but they were placed on neat stands, made for that purpose and there were easels, and colour-boxes, and pallets, and pencils, but all of the daintiest make and finish, and all arranged with an eye to effect as well as to order.

Moreover, when Mrs Merstham - who was a handsome young widow, with the eye of a Juno, and the proud gait of a Diana - took it into her head to play at painting, she did not disguise herself with a shapeless blouse; her black robes were exchanged for a crimson tunic, bordered with gold, that was confined at her waist with a zone, from which it swept in voluminous folds to her feet; and her raven hair, of which she was justly proud, was tied back with a crimson fillet, or looped up with diamond-headed arrows that glittered and flashed in its dark waves most picturesquely.

Verna Merstham was standing before her easel one morning when visitors were announced, and though her deeply-curved lip curled scornfully when she glanced at the card her pretty saucy page presented, she gave orders that they were to be admitted. Any society was better than no society. Though she prided herself on her strength of mind, she was in a morbid mood just then - tired of herself, of her surroundings, fair and costly though they were - of the solitary state in which she had passed the year of her widowhood; and was for the first time half inclined to ask herself if the wealth, for which she had wedded an aged, ill-tempered millionaire, had proved worth the price she had paid for it.

But she had composed her features into the haughty calm that generally characterised them when she laid down her brush and maul-stick to greet her guests; two withered, fluttering elderly ladies, like autumn leaves, all brown and yellow in complexion, as well as dress. The Misses Tibbetts were maiden sisters, whose small income, by great care, enabled them to keep up appearances in one of the prettiest but also smallest of the villas in the High Street of Eastham.

"So glad to see you looking so lovely my dear Mrs Merstham," began Miss Olivia Tibbetts, breathlessly. She always was breathless, especially when she had news to tell. "So kind of you to break through your rule, and admit us."

"Flattered!" added Cornelia Tibbetts, who was not given to wasting her words, and therefore contented herself with acting as a sort of appendix to her sister.

"There is no rule to break," said Verna, languidly. "I gave everyone to understand when I came hre4r three months since, that I should not receive any visitors till the year of my mourning had expired. It ended yesterday, and as I have no desire to be considered eccentric, I shall do as other people do, and be civil to my neighbours."

"How brave of you, after such a bereavement!" ejaculated Miss Olivia, admiringly.

"It shows great - great -"

"Fortitude" said her sister.

"Ah! Yes, fortitude. Dear Cornelia has such a head! Such a memory! Then you will receive callers, my dear Mrs Merstham, and pay visits, and all that?"

Verna Merstham smiled at the little lady's eagerness.

"I suppose so; quietly, of course. I came to this house - which my husband had bought and fitted up just before his death to live in the retirement I considered decorous, under the circumstances - and I shall continue to do so till - well, till the London season commences. But you talk of callers, Miss Tibbetts; who is there living in Eastham with whom I could exchange visits?"

The haughty tone in which she spoke disconcerted Miss Olivia. Eastham, though nestled in one of the loveliest of dells, with shady lanes around it that were beautiful in every season, was a pastoral village, with only two good houses in its vicinity: Mrs Merstham's, and a room, old-fashioned mansion, known as The Beeches, and so terribly out of repair, that no one cared to rent it. There were also half-a-dozen neat little eight-roomed semi-detached dwellings at the best end of the village street, known as The Villas: but with these exceptions Eastham was in the hands of burly farmers and hop-growers.

Miss Olivia meditated, coughed, and glanced at her sister, who breathed the word "Doctor!"

"Ah! yes; an excellent man, Mr Snubbs; but you know him already, don't you, Mrs Merstham?"

Again the full lips parted into a scornful smile.

"Yes; and his wife; but I cannot say that I feel disposed to be intimate with either."

"Well certainly they are not quite the sort of people with whom you would care to associate; and Vineton, the lawyer, is the crustiest old bachelor that ever lived, and the rector being gouty and his wife an invalid, and the Aldenby people – Ah! I had forgotten them; but I suppose you have no military acquaintances, Mrs Merstham?”

A dark red flush slowly mounted to Verna Merstham’s brows, and she glanced sharply at the speaker; but Miss Tibbetts looked so unconscious of any intention of giving offence, that, dropping her eyes again, and resuming her former listless attitude, she answered, slowly:

“Military acquaintances! My dear Miss Tibbetts, how very odd a question!”

“Oh I beg pardon, really! I know that many people have a prejudice against the army. We have ourselves, haven’t we, Cornelia? Ever since a most impertinent –“

“Handsome!” interposed Cornelia.

“Well, he certainly wasn’t bad-looking,” her sister admitted. “A handsome, but most impertinent young officer whom we met during out daily constitutional, not only insisted on helping us over a stile, but – you’ll not mention this, my dear Mrs Merstham? – Kissed his hand to us. But still there are, I daresay, men of good character in the British army, although I have heard that the swearing, and the gambling, and the drinking ---“

“Have mercy, Miss Tibbetts!” said Verna, quietly. “My father was a soldier.”

Miss Tibbetts apologised till she was hoarse; and then, timidly, as if afraid of making more mistakes, observed that she had been about to remark that she didn’t suppose Mrs Merstham had any acquaintances amongst the military men at Aldenby.

Now, Aldenby was a busy and extensive town, some three miles away, with large barracks on the outskirts, in which two or three regiments were generally quartered; and occasionally a party of gay militaries and ladies on horseback disturbed the quiet of Eastham by riding along the principal street; but apparently the widow had no predilection for the scarlet or blue of our army; for in her coldest tones, she made answer that she might have met some of them in society but she did not even know what regiments were quartered at Aldenby, and should not care to inquire.

“But you’ll not find it dull here,” cried Miss Olivia briskly. “Oh! dear No! although there certainly is a dearth of society; for we manage to suffice for ourselves, don’t we, Cornelia? There are reading rooms; they are only meant for the gentlemen , you know; but the librarian is a most obliging man, and never makes any remark if we ladies slip in for an hour in the afternoon just to have a peep at Punch and the papers; and there are the Dorcas meetings in the winter, and the annual concert, and the children’s school treat in the summer; and I’m sure you’ll give us a pic-nic in your own beautiful grounds, Mrs Merstham; and good – gracious! Cornelia, how could you let me forget it? – The Beeches is let!”

Verna, who had been stifling a yawn, glanced towards a window, though which there was a distant view of a clump of the above-mentioned trees, and some curiously twisted chimneys peering betwixt them as she murmured an interrogatory:

“Yes?”

“It’s quite true; for I had it from the auctioneer himself. Let to a Canadian gentleman with a large family; he intends to come into occupation immediately; was down here a day or two since, to decide upon it; and his name’s Stretby. I was so glad to hear it!”

“And I am sorry,” said Verna coldly. “I liked rambling and sketching in the grounds; for they were wilder and more picturesque than my own; and I detest people with large families; they are worse nuisances than – “ Old maids, she was about to add; but checked herself, and made a diversion by pointing to a figure tripping across her own lawn and asking;

“Who is this?”

Miss Olivia glanced at the figure, and stood on tip-toe, in her astonishment.

“Dear, dear me! It’s Eden Aubrey? Do you know her, Mrs Merstham?”

“I think I’ve seen her at church. Who is she?” asked that lady, as she gave orders for the stranger to be admitted.

“Only the daughter of Mrs Aubrey, the poor thing who gives music-lessons.”

“French woman,” asserted Cornelia

“Yes; I am afraid she is,” sighed Miss Olivia; “and although it may be uncharitable, I never have had much opinion of the French; not but what Mrs Aubrey has behaved very well ever since she came to Eastham. Her husband was a young surgeon, who bought Dr MacMurdo’s practice; but he died when the children were babies; and there was so little for the widow, that she had to take to teaching. But what brings Eden here? – uninvited too! – unless it’s with one of her mother’s circulars.”

“Can Mrs Aubrey expect to find a pupil in me?” asked Verna, who had developed into a brilliant player, under the tuition of some of the most eminent masters. “How absurd!”

“Of course it is – quite absurd!” echoed Miss Tibbetts. “If she had consulted me, I should have told her so; but Mrs Aubrey is very odd, very reserved; never takes anyone into her confidence, and has a – a sort of way when you offer suggestions that is really quite repelling.”

“Faults of her nation,” said Cornelia.

“Well perhaps it is” replied her sister, adding benevolently; “And if so, we mustn’t visit it on the poor children. Oh! here’s Eden – ridiculous name to give her, isn’t it?” You may step forward, my dear. Mrs Merstham will grant you an interview.”

Eden Aubrey, who had just been ushered into the room, opened her soft, gray eyes widely, with a comical air of astonishment at hearing herself thus addressed; then, perceiving the speaker, who was half hidden by Mrs Merstham’s easel, she gave her an amused smile and nod of recognition.

She was, young, impulsive and high spirited, and did not understand being patronised by the fussy officious spinster, who sometimes contrived to arouse even her forebearing mother’s indignation by her ill-timed comments on Mrs Aubrey’s arrangements; and, after thus acknowledging Miss Tibbett’s presence, and replying to Cornelia’s “Good morning,” she took no further notice of the spinsters but moved easily and gracefully towards Mrs Merstham.

Eden Aubrey was not more than seventeen, and was an innocent, inexperienced, lovable girl, with a slight, willowy figure that, in the course of a few years, would be perfect; and a face so riante, so expressive, that Mrs Merstham marvelled that she had not noticed it before: in repose it was so sweet and childlike, and yet, as soon as she spoke or smiled, so arch, so intelligent in its prettiness.

The wild rose tints on her cheeks deepened as she perceived how critically Mrs Merstham was surveying her; but she was not troubled with awkward shyness. Why should she be? she would have asked. Mamma had taught her how to deport herself, and to be either rude or stupid would be to disgrace that dear teacher.

Without the slightest embarrassment, and without appearing to perceive that she had not been invited to seat herself, she laid on the little inlaid table, at Verna’s elbow, a roll of music, and told her errand.

Mr Green the stationer, had been in despair (Eden had picked up some of the foreign phrases as well as the piquante intonation of her Parisian mother) at his inability to procure the songs Mrs Merstham had ordered; and, learning that Mamma had them, he had asked her to part with them. As the gift of a friend, they were valuable to Mrs Aubrey; but she would be much gratified if Mrs Merstham would make use of them or any others in her collection, for as long as she wished.

The offer, so politely made, was accepted, and Eden Aubrey would have withdrawn if Verna had not suddenly aroused herself from her languid indifference, and requested her to stay.

“If you have walked from the further end of the village, I am sure you will be glad of some luncheon. I will ring for the tray, and ask Miss Tibbetts to entertain you for me while I change my dress.”

“A charming room this!” said Miss Olivia seeing that the young girl’s eyes were wandering around it after Mrs Merstham had left them.

“I don’t suppose you have ever seen anything to equal it.”

“No – never” answered Eden, frankly. “I shall ask Mrs Merstham to let me have a closer view of the pictures in the hall or ante chamber thought which they led me; for I had a glimpse of two or three lovely ones.”

“My good child, what are you thinking of?” exclaimed Miss Tibbetts, in accents of severe rebuke. “How can you dream of taking such a liberty?”

“A liberty!” repeated Eden, smiling. “How funny you are, Miss Tibbetts! Do you imagine that Mrs Merstham will feel offended with me for admiring the beautiful things with which she has surrounded herself?”

“But you talk and behave as if you were her equal; and in a young person in your position, I really think its – “

But Eden’s uplifted finger made the spinster pause and Cornelia cough, dubiously.

“I would rather not hear what you think of me, Miss Tibbetts. When I go home, I will ask mamma if I have said or done anything wrong. I always guide myself by her opinions.”

And Eden continued her inspection of some paintings till Mrs Merstham returned, and, seeing that she was interested in them, opened portfolio after portfolio of photographs and engravings, displaying her art treasures long after the Misses Tibbetts, having lunched to their satisfaction had grown as tired of saying “How beautiful!” as their hostess was of hearing it, and gone away.

“I am afraid I have stayed too long!” cried Eden, at last, blushing beautifully, as she started up. “But you have been so kind that I forgot the time.”

“Don’t apologise,” said Verna, letting the sketch book she had been holding slip from her lap, as she leaned back in her velvet chair, a picture herself of luxurious repose. “I wanted to ask you to do something for me; and that is why I kept you. Look here, Miss Aubrey!” and, extending her hand, she drew aside the baize that concealed a half-finished drawing. “I am copying a Holy Family that has taken my fancy. But, as you perceive, the faces of the Virgin is that of a coarse, stolid Dutch peasant, and ruins the effect of the group. My cousin Hilda offered to sit for me, but hers are the stereotyped features of a fine lady, and will not represent a village maiden’s ; but it struck me, as you stood in the doorway, when you first entered the room, that yours was the kind of profile that would suit me.”

Eden glanced towards the mirror, colouring, and smiling very prettily.

“I am afraid my face Is not refined enough.”

“Of course, I shall have to idealise it a great deal,” said Verna in the coldest tones; “but I think it will do. When can you sit for me?”

“I do not know. I will consult Mamma. If she has no objection, I have none.”

Verna raised her finely pencilled brows, as if she had not imagined for a moment that either Mrs Aubrey or Eden could hesitate to accede to her request, and then repeated her question:

“When can you sit for me? To-morrow?”

“Oh! no; it is mamma’s only day at home, and I always devote it to her. But, if I can be spared, I will come to you on Thursday. Will that do?”

“I suppose it must,” said Mrs Merstham, rather ungraciously. “And about remuneration for your trouble, Miss Aubrey?”

Eden, who had stooped for the sketch book, looked up with a little air of surprise and reproach.

“I thought you asked me to do this for you, Mrs Merstham – not for payment.”

“I do not like to be under obligations,” was the haughty response.

“And I should not like to sell the use of my face,” cried Eden merrily. “For leave to paint my eyelids, so much; for one hour at my nose ditto! It sounds comical, doesn’t it? And, seriously, the pleasure of looking at your pictures will amply repay me for the trouble of sitting still for an hour or two.”

“You had better consult your mother about this, too,” said Verna, dryly. “and bring me her answer on Thursday. I will be ready for you by eleven.”

“By eleven,” Eden mechanically repeated, for her eyes were fixed on a water-colour drawing, at which the book she picked up had opened. It represented the ball scene in “Romeo and Juliet,” and the moment in which, at the ardent entreaty of the enamoured Romeo, the beautiful daughter of the Capulets removes her mask.

There was no mistaking the identity of the Juliet. A little younger and more animated, perhaps; yet with the same stately pose and haughty lip, it was an admirable likeness of Verna Merstham.

But it was on the Romeo of the picture that Eden’s gaze was lingering, for it was in this figure the limner had displayed most skill. The attitude of passionate eagerness to behold his lady, the half-parted lips, the entranced eye, were all dashed off crudely, but with excellent effect. This Romeo looked at least two years the junior of Mrs Merstham. His frame, though well knit, had scarcely attained its full proportions. His cheek was smooth, and the down upon his lip was scarcely perceptible. Yet it was a winning, as well as a manly, face; and although too Saxon in its hues and contour to be outwardly a good representation of a fiery Italian youth, it was evident that the actor had thoroughly entered into the character, and that it was with no more semblance of stage-love he was wooing the proud beauty who breathed in his ears the tender speeches of Shakespere’s heroine.

“I beg your pardon, but it is so beautiful,” said Eden, relinquishing the book to Mrs Merstham, when, for the second time, that lady asked what was so engrossing her.

Verna glanced at the drawing, sighed deeply, then pushed the book across the table with such force that it fell on the other side.

“Pshaw! A roughly painted recollection of some private theatricals; that is all. The artist did not do me justice; my attitude is positively ungraceful. When you come again I will show you a far better portrait of myself, but I’ll not detain you now.”

And comprehending directly that this was intended as her dismissal, Eden bade the lady farewell, wondering as she went who the gentleman could be, whose share in the picture and the play Mrs Merstham had chosen to wholly ignore. Not the husband for whom she was just throwing off the crape of widowhood; for his portrait, wrinkled, sallow and peevish, frowned down on the beholder from the wall behind Verna’s chair. What, then, could have become of the ardent, handsome youth who had played the Romeo to her Juliet with such a depth of passionate devotion?

A Homely Man's Wit - The Young Ladies Journal, 1877

Abdul Aziz, says Lord Staleybridge, was not impervious to the shaft of wit. Once, in his younger days, as he was hunting in the valley, he met one morning as the day dawned an uncommonly ugly man, at the sight of whom his horse started. Being nearly dismounted, and deeming it a bad omen, he called out in a rage to have his head struck off. The poor peasant, whom they had seized and were on the point of executing, prayed that he might be informed of his crime.

"Your crime," said the Sultan, "is your unlucky countenance, which is the first object I saw this morning, and which had nearly caused me to fall from my horse."

"Alas!" said the man, "by this reckoning what term must I apply to your majesty's countenance, which is the first object my eyes met this morning, and which is to be the cause of my death?"

The Sultan smiled at the wit of the reply, ordered the man to be released, and gave him a present instead of taking off his head.

coming next - Romantic Fiction from the 1870's - a longer story this time so will take me a little while to upload. Bear with me. :-)

Part Three - A Midnight Adventure

Continued from previous post....

"Is Godwyn very ill, Dr Harcourt?" asked Sunny in a low tone, that would tremble in spite of her, and lifting her lovely brown eyes pleadingly as though he could alter the dread fact.

"You cannot hope to keep her long with you, Miss Haverford," answered John Harcourt, in grave sympathetic tones, "She may last for months, or the end may come in a week or two."

There was a long silence. Sunny was battling with her tears, resolutely forcing them back, and Dr Harcourt was well assured that conversation would be distasteful to her just now.

"This is our destination," he said, at last, as he drew up in front of a large handsome house. "Don't be too modest in your terms, Miss Haverford, they can afford to pay handsomely. I must leave you for a few minutes," he continued, as they were shown into the drawing-room. "I have a professional visit to pay to one of your future pupils." He was not long away, and soon returned, accompanied by Lady Stanton.

She greeted Sunny very kindly, and came to terms at once. "I thought of having Signor Mancini for my girls, and should have paid him seventy guineas a year for each. I will give you fifty each, if you decide to take them. I daresay you will think it rather unjust to offer you less, but, you see, Mancini has a name."

"I do not think it at all unjust," answered Sunny, with a pretty laugh. "I know a name is worth a great deal. I hope to have one myself some day."

"I suppose you will not object to let me hear you play," said Lady Stanton, moving across the room, and opening the piano; "you will find something you play here, I daresay."

Sunny chose the Sonata Pathetique, it was in accordance with her thoughts, and unconsciously she gave it wonderful expression that went to the hearts of her auditors. A short silence followed the closing notes.

"You play exquisitely," said Lady Stanton, at last.

They took their leave after a few more words; and John Harcourt divining Sunny's anxiety to be at home, turned his horse's head and drove back - not stopping to call elsewhere - and deemed himself amply repaid by a grateful glance from Sunny's brown eyes, and a low spoken word of thanks.

The two sisters exchanged news.

"I too am in employment now," said Mildred. "I went to the china-painters Miss Harcourt told me of. They were very pleased with my designs, and bought several, and have given an order for a heap more. so Godwyn can have all she requires now. Oh, Sunny, darling!" she broke off abruptly. "Do you know - has Dr Harcourt told you?-"

"That we cannot keep her long? Yes!"
Sunny turned abruptly away.

"Oh, Mildred! Mildred! it does seem hard."

It did seem hard, as days, weeks, even months went on, to see the lovely, gentle girl fading slowly, but only too surely, away. Doubly hard, too, when their fortunes were so steadily increasing.

Sunny found herself a fashionable musician, and had no lack of pupils; whilst Mildred had every spare moment taken up by her drawing.

Dr Harcourt and his sister were unremitting in their attentions.

"Janet," said John Harcourt, rather hesitatingly, one day.

"Well," answered Miss Harcourt, uncompromisingly, though there was a twinkle in her eyes.

"You have often said you wished I would get married," went on the doctor.

"Provided I approved of the bride elect," interrupted Miss Harcourt, sharply.

"Just so. Do you approve of Sunny Haverford?"

"Have you asked her to have you?" demanded Miss Harcourt, breaking her cotton viciously.

"Yes! She has accepted me."

"I do approve of her thoroughly," answered Janet, heartily. "She is a sweet-tempered, sensible, clever, and beautiful girl. I know of no one I should like better."

"Not even Miss Grand?" inquired the doctor mischievously.

"Don't be impertinent," replied Miss Harcourt, declining to discuss the young lady, she being the last of the matrimonial ventures she had propounded to her brother.

Dr Harcourt was crossing over the passage, when there came a hurried ring at the bell. Being near, he opened the door himself. Mrs Brown, flushed and panting stood there, her hand already raised for a second impatient summons.

"Please come at once, sir," she said wiping away a few tears. "They're afraid Miss Godwyn's dying, sir. And, please, she's asked for Miss Harcourt, too, sir, if she'll please come."

"Janet," shouted the doctor, "those poor girls want you."

Without waiting for an answer, he went away at a pace Mrs Brown found it difficult to keep up with.

He entered the dying girl's room, followed by his sister, gently and reverently. Godwyn lay back in Sunny's arms, panting slightly and deathly pale, otherwise she looked much as usual.

"Don't cry so, Milly, please," she said laying her transparent hand on the girl's bowed head.

Mildred with a mighty effort choked back her tears.

"I am afraid the girls will be lonely after I am gone. You will be kind to them, won't you, Janet?"

"My dear, of course I will," replied Miss Harcourt, taking the light burden from Sunny's arms, into her own.

"Can you do nothing?" asked Sunny, in an agonized whisper, turning to Harcourt.

"Nothing. She is out of my hands altogether."
"I wish they had a brother to take care of them," they heard Godwyn's faint voice saying.

John Harcourt came to her side, holding Sunny's hand, "Godwyn, would it make you happier to know they have a protector. Sunny has given herself to me, and I will be a brother to Mildred."

"I am so glad. I hoped it would be so," said Godwyn, smiling, and holding out her hand to Harcourt. he took it, and after a moment's hesitation bent down and kissed her cheek.

They laid her back on her pillows, and for an hour the stillness of the room was broken only by a smothered sob from Mildred.

Sunny, her grief sternly repressed, sat with her eyes fixed on Godwyn, her hands tightly clasped. Miss Harcourt, her face hidden in her hands, sat close to her; whilst John stood near them. All at once he touched his sister. She looked up.

Godwyn had raised herself, an unearthly radiance overspread her face. "Mother!" she gasped, "I am coming." And she sank back lifeless on her pillow.

Eighteen months after there was a quiet wedding, and John Harcourt and Sunny Haverford were made one.

"Won't you change your mind, dear?" asked Sunny after she had taken off her shimmering white robe, and donned her traveling dress.

"No," answered Mildred, with a smile. "Janet and I are going to take a little house by ourselves. We shall give you plenty of company, but we think it better to live by ourselves. Good-bye darling, John is impatient for you. Good-bye."

The End.

Competition winning story written by 'Darkie' - A Midnight Adventure from Sylvia's Home Journal 1886

This story has all the elements of what we would consider a classic Victorian tale (the only thing missing is the ghost!). A poverty stricken beautiful heroine who is also quiet, good, moral, honest, gentle, innocent etc... who is threatened by ruffians (bonus!), forced to show her vulnerability and thereby her bravery, wonderful stuff!

And then there is the death-bed scene, I do wonder, has this author experienced a death-bed scene such as this? So very melodramatic - or perhaps real Victorian death-bed scenes were just too gruesome! The doctor certainly was totally useless!! But I thought his way of putting it... 'you cannot hope to keep her long' was rather sensitive and nice and altogether too well practiced... I guess doctor's in those days lost a lot of their patients. Had Darkie heard a doctor saying this? At any rate, he came good by marrying the girl and therefore rescuing her, but also her sister displays a certain amount of independence and desire to not want to be a 'kept' woman - some women were starting to show their independence at this time, but it might have been controvesrsial to make such an independent woman the heroine of the story. The style of writing aside (which can only be very old fashioned to us - and Darkie whoever she is, is no Jane Austin or Charlotte Bronte) but...What did you think of the story?

Part Two - A Midnight Adventure

...cont'd from previous post.......

Sunny tried to raise her, but in vain. she flew into Mildred's room.

"Mildred! Mildred! come at once. Godwyn is fearfully ill. I don't know what to do. she stood up by herself for a few minutes, and then fell down. She seems in dreadful pain."

"Was she in bed?" asked Mildred, hurrying on her dressing gown.

"No," answered Sunny, as they ran back to Godwyn's room. "I asked her once if she would go, but she said, 'No, she was resting so comfortably on the couch, she would not go yet.'"

The two girls raised the slight, convulsed form, and laid it gently on the bed.

"Sunny, run and ask Mrs. Brown to go, or send for the doctor," said Mildred, as with trembling hands she endeavoured to force a little brandy between Godwyn's white lips and clenched teeth.

Sunny hesitated but a moment, "Mrs Brown and Maria are both out, I must go myself."

It needed no little courage for the delicately-nurtured girl to go out alone after midnight - in London too. But necessity knows no law. Sunny snatched up a fur-lined cloak, and without any covering on her head ran swiftly downstairs, opened the door, and out into the street.

The rain had passed away, and it was a clear, cold, moonlight night. The doctor who had attended Godwyn upon several occasions before, lived only two or three streets away, and Sunny, as she sped swiftly along, devoutly hoped no one would meet her, as with her sunny-brown hair hanging round her, she looked somewhat remarkable. But she reached the door in safety, and giving a hasty pull at the bell stood back in the shadow of the doorway, and twisted her bright hair into a great knot.

She waited a moment, and then rang again. Would they never come, she thought, standing there alone in the night, the minutes seeming hours, and a terrible fear knocking at her heart lest Godwyn should die before she could bring assistance. At that moment a party of half drunken young men turned the corner of the street.

Sunny shrank back as far as she could, and drew the dark cloak closely round her. But in vain - a gleam of moonlight caught her white gown, and one of the party springing forward, seized her roughly by the arm.

"Hallo! my pretty one. I must have a kiss from those ripe lips," he cried, drawing her towards him.

"Let me go, I beseech you," implored the terrified girl. "I am waiting for the doctor. I am on an errand of life or death."

If they had been sober, her words would have carried conviction; but as it was, they were met with a jeering laugh, and again her persecutor nearly touched her blanched cheek with his lips. With a cry for help, Sunny desperately wrenched herself free, and, forgetful of all else, fled away down the street, pursued by one or two of the men. Flying round a corner, Sunny ran against a stalwart policeman.

"Oh, save me! save me!" she gasped, clinging to his arm. The man put her behind him, and without any very great difficulty dispersed her pursuers.

"Why, bless my heart and soul, it's Miss Sunny Haverford!" he exclaimed, in an astonished tone, as the light from a gas lamp fell full on her white face and disordered hair.

"Yes," answered Sunny, when she had somewhat regained her composure, and feeling it incumbent upon her to give some explanation of her appearance at that time of night. "My eldest sister has been taken dreadfully ill, and as our landlady and her servant are both out, I had to come for the doctor myself. I rang and rang, but could make no one hear, and while I was waiting at the door those men came by. Will you come back with me, please, I am afraid to go alone, and - and -" Sunny fairly broke down.

"Of course I'll come, Miss; don't take on so. I'll rouse the Doctor up in no time, I warrant," said the man, quite melted at the sight of Sunny's tears. He pulled at the bell with such a hearty good will that a window was instantly thrown open, and a voice demanded, "What the devil he meant by ringing like that!"

"The doctor's wanted at once. That's what I mean. There's been a young lady ringing here for twenty minutes and more."

"I'm the Doctor. Who wants me?"

"The Miss Haverfords, at Mrs. Brown's, 20, East Crescent, Bulkedy Road," was the concise answer.

"I will be there immediately." The head was withdrawn, and the window slammed down.

"Now I'll see you safely home, Miss. How did I know you? Why, you see I'm a friend of your landlady's, and so, of course, I know all her lodgers."

Sunny parted from her friendly policeman at the door, and again thanking him for his timely aid, hurried upstairs.

The man walked away, muttering to himself, "Well! Well now, to think of that pretty young creetur being out alone at this time of night. If I hadn't happened to know Mrs. Brown as well as I do, I might have taken her for - goodness knows what." So saying, the honest man drew himself up and walked briskly away on his interrupted beat.

"Sunny, what a time you have been, it has seemed hours," said Mildred. "Why, dear, you are as white as a ghost and shaking like a leaf.""I was detained," said Sunny, trying to smile reassuringly. "I'll tell you about it by and bye. How is Godwyn now?"

"I don't know," answered Mildred, in a distressed tone. "she is unconscious still, and I cannot - There's the doctor I suppose. I will open the door, you don't look fit to stand."

Mildred returned immediately, ushering in the doctor, a handsome grave looking man of thirty four or five.

"Will you call your servant to get some hot water ready," he said after a few moments, during which the girls watched him anxiously.

"She is out for a holiday," explained Sunny. "There are only ourselves in the house. I will see about the water."

"If you will show me the way to the kitchen I will light the fire," said the doctor, with a half smile. "It won't be the first time I have done so, I assure you."

Sunny led the way in silence, and then fetched wood and paper, while the doctor quickly raked out dead ashes and re lit the fire, and soon a bright blaze was roaring up the chimney. Sunny filled the kettle and put it on, and then they returned to the room above.

"Do either of you know much of illness?" asked the doctor, abruptly.

"Hardly anything," replied Mildred. "Godwyn has always been an invalid, but never like this before. Is she very ill?"

"I can't tell yet," answered the doctor, with a grave, kindly, sympathy in his tones. "I will return home, and send my sister, who is an experienced nurse, in my place. I can do nothing in this case, at present, that she cannot. I will come again myself in the morning."

"Thank you so very much," said Mildred, with tears in her eyes. "If your sister will come we shall be so much obliged. But I am afraid it is too much to ask her, as we are perfect strangers to her."

"You will not feel strange with her long, and I assure you she will think herself the obliged one; she likes nursing. Good night, Miss Haverford. Good night, Miss Sunny. No! don't trouble to come down. I shall find my way out all right."

In less than ten minutes after his departure, they heard a sharp knock at the door, and Sunny, opening it, ushered in a bright active little woman of sever or eight and thirty.

"Now, my dears, the first thing is to get this poor girl to bed," she said, and between them they tenderly undressed poor Godwyn and laid her in bed. The doctor's sister, Miss Harcourt, seemed at home at once, and gave confidence to the girls, who were terrified at Godwyn's prolonged unconsciousness.

"Have you any flannels handy?" she asked cheerfully. "Get them out then, while Sunny and I go for the hot water. This is Sunny isn't it?" Ah! I thought so." And talking thus the little lady bustled away. It was wonderful to see her quick, quiet, deft ways about the invalid girl.

"So! That's better," she said quietly, when Godwyn opened her dark eyes languidly, at last. "Now, I suppose one of you two girls will want to sit up with me, and the other must go to bed. There is not the slightest reason for both to be up, or even one, as far as that goes. But you would not be happy to leave her entirely with me, I suppose."

"I should like to stay up, if you do not mind," said Mildred pleadingly; "Sunny must go to bed. She sat up with Godwyn the first part of the night, while I was asleep."

So it was settled, and Sunny left the two watchers beside the patient sufferer.

Miss Harcourt poured a little claret and water into a glass, and carefully measured a few drops of a dark coloured liquid into it.

Now my dear, give this to your sister. It is a sleeping draught that John said she was to have when she recovered consciousness. I daresay she will like to take it from you better than from me."

Mildred gently raised Godwyn's head, and put the glass to her lips. She drank the contents obediently, and in less than half an hour her nurses had the satisfaction of seeing her in a quiet sleep. Before morning, kindly Miss Harcourt had gleaned some particulars of the Haverford girls' troubles, and in her own bright way had done not a little towards smoothing them. Her brother knew, she told Mildred, of a lady who wanted a finished musician to improve her three daughters, and that he would gladly introduce Sunny to her. She also gave Mildred some kindly sensible advice about herself, and gave her the name of a large firm of china-painters. "You are more likely to succeed there, my dear, if you can adapt your designs to the style of work. There are so many who could design a mantel border, or curtain, who would be all at sea if you asked them to design a group for a vase."

The bright genial woman spent her time in doing good and petting her brother, spoiling him, he said. Her sympathy was always so delicately expressed that the proudest did not rebel against it. Her heart warmed towards these motherless girls fighting so bravely against fate. True - she did not know the extent of their poverty, but she guessed enough to enlist her warmest sympathy.

When Mrs Brown returned in the morning, great was her consternation at the events of the previous night, and as there was nothing else for her to do, she set about preparing a prodigious breakfast that could not have been eaten by a dozen people. Great also was her disappointment when Miss Harcourt declared she must go home to hers, and to see that her brother had his properly. As for the two girls they hardly ate anything.

"I don't know what we are to do, Sunny," said Mildred, choking back her tears. "Miss Harcourt says Godwyn must have plenty of nourishing food. I could not tell her we have only elevenpence in the world. I think we have sold everything we have that is saleable. Even if you get those pupils, I do not suppose they will pay in advance."

"I must ask for it, that's all," said Sunny, despondingly. To see Sunny lose heart, was dreadful. She pushed away the plate she had been toying with, and rose. She left the room, and for about an hour Mildred saw no more of her. When she came back her face looked a little brighter, although Mildred saw she had been crying.

"I have been having a long talk with nursie," she said, "and she has lent us this. I thought I would rather ask her than a stranger." Sunny opened her hand and displayed five sovereigns.

"She was very kind," said the girl, with a little tremor in her voice.

"And I think she was pleased to lend it. She has got three more lodgers coming, and she hinted delicately that she shouldn't miss the money at all, that in fact she had not known quite what to do with it."

At this juncture Dr. Harcourt and his sister returned.

"Mildred, will you take John up to see your sister. Can you spare time, Sunny, to go out now? for if so, John will take you at once to see about getting Lady Stanton's daughters."

"Oh! thank you so much," cried Sunny brightening. "I hope it will not be putting Dr Harcourt out."

"I don't think he will find it so," said Miss Harcourt smiling, and looking admiringly at the girl's fair sweet face.

Sunny did not keep Dr Harcourt waiting, and by the time he came down from Godwyn's room she was ready.

"That is very good of you, Miss Sunny," he said approvingly. "I thought ladies took about half an hour to get ready."

"I never take so long as that," said Sunny with a faint smile.

Dr Harcourt handed her into his phaeton which was waiting at the door, and they drove away.

to be continued.... check back soon for the next and final part of this story.

Part One - A Midnight Adventure

This story was the winner in a competition for best short story held in 1886. The winner's name is given only as 'Darkie'.

"No luck again," said Mildred Haverford, sinking wearily into a chair, in the shabby, comfortless room, looking doubly cheerless now, as the rain pattered drearily against the begrimed window, and cold gusts of wind shook and rattled the crazy frame. her sigh was echoed by the younger girl, as she drew near her sister, and kissed the cold face, and tenderly smoothed back the wet hair.

"Mildred, darling, you must go and change your dress, you are quite wet and so cold. I will light the fire; it will not be a very great extravagance, and it is such a wretched night!"

"I will go and change my dress. But, Sunny, you must not light the fire, dear. I changed our last shilling tonight to buy Godwyn's flower. I could not bear to disappoint her, and it was only a penny."

"Oh no! of course not," said Sunny, her bright face clouding. "Take it to her, dear, as soon as you have changed your gown. she has been quite anxious about you being out in this terrible rain."

Mildred left the room, and proceeded upstairs to the bedroom these two sisters shared, where she changed her wet dress, then crossing over the landing opened another door.

A girl lay on a couch, drawn in front of a small fire. Some attempts the sisters had made to brighten the patient invalid's room. cheap, pretty chintz curtains had replaced the faded green ones belonging to the landlady. A set of stained wood bookshelves held a selection of handsomely bound books - relics of former days - and one or two pieces of old blue china stood on the mantelpiece. A not of bright ribbon tied back the plain white bed curtains, and upon a little table by the sofa stood a pretty glass vase of flowers, and an empty specimen glass was waiting for to-day's fresh flower.

Mildred came quietly up behind her sister, and held the flower she carried against her colourless, delicate cheek.

Godwyn's face lighted up. "A rose, that's nice! I have been wondering what flower you would bring me, it is quite an excitement, and I never guess right."

"What did you guess today?" asked Mildred, whose eyes, despite her resolve to be cheerful, had filled with tears at Godwyn's pleasure.

"I guessed a dahlia today," answered Godwyn, smiling a little. "come round here, dear, I cannot see you where you are now. did you get very wet, poor child?"

Mildred resolutely forced back her tears, and came round to the other side of the couch, and kneeling down put her arm about her sister.

"No, not very," she answered cheerfully. "You see omnibuses are so plentiful at this time."

She had not come home in an omnibus, for fear of spending another penny of her slender stock, but Godwyn must not know that.

The door opened, and Sunny came in and joined the two at the fire.

They were a pretty group. The pale, lovely girl on the sofa, her chestnut hair rippling back from her patient, suffering face; Mildred with her dark blue eyes fixed on the fire, her dark head resting against the couch; and Sunny, with her bright face and sunny curly locks, and her loving brown eyes, smiling at Godwyn.

Godwyn was the first to speak. "Milly, do you know your hair is quite wet? You ought to dry it, dear. How did you get it so damp if you came home in an omnibus?"

"I had to walk a little way up Oxford Street before I saw one," replied Mildred. This was true enough.

"I am going to unfasten your hair and dry it, Milly," said Sunny, proceeding to let down her sister's beautiful dark hair, that fell in clustering curls about her shoulders. "You ought always to wear your hair down," she said, having at last completed her drying process, and letting the heavy mass of curls fall from her hands; "oughtn't she, Godwyn?"

"Yes I think so," replied Godwyn looking admiringly at her pretty sisters.

A tap at the door, and a quiet, motherly-looking woman came in. "Tea is ready, Miss Mildred," she announced.

"Thanks, Mrs Brown, we will come now," said Sunny, taking Mildred's arm. "I am going to make this sister of mine have her tea without doing her hair up. She has got it quite wet."

"Quite right too," responded Mrs Brown, following the two girls out, and closing the door gently behind her.

Mrs Brown had been an old servant of the Haverfords before the crash came that broke up their pleasant home, and caused Mr Haverford to follow the gentle mother, who was but a dim memory to the two elder girls, and a sacred name only to Sunny.

Mrs Brown had married, and was now a widow; and eked out the small income left her by her husband, by letting lodgings.

When the girls had been thrown on their own resources, two years ago, they had gone to their old nurse, and Mildred and Sunny had devoted themselves to keeping their suffering eldest sister from want. Hitherto, their efforts had been crowned with success, but it now seemed as if Fate itself was against them. The firm that employed Mildred in designing, had failed, and every subsequent effort had proved of no avail. Whilst Sunny, who taught music, and, in consequence of her gift for it had a large number of pupils, lost them all through three having a bad attack of diphtheria.

"I'm dreadfully vexed, Miss Mildred," began Mrs Brown, standing at the door of the girls' sitting room. "But I promised Maria three days' holiday, and said she might go to night. You see she lives in Hampshire, and she wants all the time at home, and mother has sent round to know if I can spend the night with her, as she isn't all well, and...." here Mrs Brown paused perplexedly.

"You need not hesitate on our account, nursie," said Mildred smiling. "No one is likely to run away with us in one night"

"I don't half like it, Miss Mildred. but I clear don't know what to do - and that's the truth. it wouldn't be kind to stop Maria from starting tonight, as she have wrote home to say she's coming and all; and I don't like to disappoint mother either."

Of course you don't" said Sunny briskly. "Neither Milly nor I are afraid. And of course you mustn't stop Maria, and of course yo must go to your mother."

"Thank you very much," replied Mrs Brown, gratefully. "Shan't I light the fire, Miss Mildred, before I go?"

"No thanks," answered Mildred, "it is hardly worth while. We shall go up to Godwyn's room directly after tea."

"I had a hamper from my sister in Devon today, and so I made bold to bring you a few things up. She sent such a lot, I couldn't eat all myself, nohows." Mrs Brown fairly ran out of the room to escape the girls' thanks.

"I am so glad," said Mildred, placing some fine strawberries and delicious clotted cream on a plate, and spreading a thin slice of real home-made bread with fresh golden butter, "I think Godwyn will enjoy these so much."

"I wonder if Mrs Brown knew how nearly our own butter was at an end," said Sunny, with a touch of bitterness, "see". she had unlocked a cupboard, and taken thence a plate holding a bit of butter about the size of a walnut.

"Don't be spiteful, Sunny. Will you take Godwyn's tea, or shall I?"

"You take it!"

Mildred soon reappeared.

"Did she like it?"

"Yes I think so."

After tea the two girls went to their sister's room.

"Oh Godwyn," exclaimed Sunny, reproachfully, "you have eaten nothing."

"I am very sorry, dear," answered Godwyn, penitently. "But I am not hungry at all tonight."

"Hungry? As if anyone need be hungry to eat strawberries and clotted cream!"

"I did eat two strawberries."

"Well I suppose I mustn't scold after such a meal as that," said Sunny, arranging her sister's pillows tenderly.

"Now shall we have some reading?"

Sunny got her book and began reading, and Mildred her porfolio, to make more sketches, in the hope of producing something better still. Thus the evening wore away, Sunny exchanging reading for playing, until at last Mildred announced she was going to bed. Sunny followed her sister from the room. "I shall sit up with Godwyn tonight," she said in a low tone.

"no, not you, you sat up last time, and, besides, you are worn out with your journeyings today, poor old darling. I am rather uneasy about her. But there is not the slightest need for you as well,m so go to bed like a good girl."

The sisters kissed, and separated for the night.

Sunny selected the most comfortable chair, replaced her dress by a pretty dressing gown of white flannel plentifully trimmed with lace, unfastened and shook her hair, then ensconced herself in her chair, and took up a book. She read steadily on for three or four hours, looking up now and then to watch her sleeping sister, or to noiselessly replenish the fire.

"Godwyn! what is the matter?" she cried, in a terrified tone.

Godwyn had risen into a sitting posture, and was gasping for breath.

Sunny flung open the window, and let the cool refreshing night air into the room.

Godwyn sprang from the couch, tottered a few steps across the room, and then sank to the floor, half-insensible, and writhing in agony.


...to be continued...(check back soon for the next instalment).

Apologies

for not having updated for some time... at the moment life seems to be very hectic indeed. I will get my act together at some point... but probably not for another month or two..... if you want to stop following this blog I will not be offended... honest!