Fifty-Two Stories For Girls Part 15

I had never felt such a keen sense of grat.i.tude as I did that summer morning: the dangers of the night all past and over, and a beautiful new day given to me, and only seven miles and a half between me and home.

'Tis true that I was very hungry, but I started on my way and soon came to a cottage whose mistress was up giving her husband his breakfast. She very willingly gave me as much bread-and-b.u.t.ter as I could eat, and a cup of tea. I did not quarrel with the thickness of the bread or the quality of the b.u.t.ter, or even with the milkless tea--I had the poor man's sauce to flavour them.

When she heard my story, the woman overwhelmed me with pity and regrets that I had not reached her house overnight and slept there. But I did not regret it. I would not have given up my "night on the road" now it was over for worlds.

She was grateful for the sixpence I gave her--having learnt wisdom, I reserved the threepenny bit--and I went on.

The air was delicious, with a spring and exhilaration in it which belongs to the early morning hours. The sunlight played hide-and-seek in the woods. Patches of purple heath alternated with lilac scabious and pale hare-bells. The brake ferns were yellow-tipped here and there--a forewarning of autumn--and in one little nook I found a bed of luscious wild strawberries. My heart danced with my feet, and I wondered if the tramps ever felt as I did, in the summer mornings, after sleeping out under a hedge.

I reached home by nine o'clock, and then there was a hubbub, and a calling out of, "Here's Muriel!" "Why, Muriel, where have you sprung from?" "What happened last night? We were so frightened, but they told us at the station that it was an awful crowd at Paddington, and you must have missed the train, and of course we thought you would go back to Miss Black's, but you ought to have wired."

It was ever so long before I could make them believe that I had been out all night, and slept in a hayrick; and then mother was almost angry with me, and father told me if ever I found myself in such a predicament again I was to go to a respectable hotel and persuade them to take me in. But he said he would take very good care that no child of his should ever be in such a predicament again. But I could not be sorry, the beginning and the end were so beautiful.

THE MISSING LETTER.

BY JENNIE CHAPPELL.

The Briars was a very old-fas.h.i.+oned house, standing in its own grounds, about ten miles from Smokeytown. It was much dilapidated, for Miss Clare the owner and occupier, had not the necessary means for repairing it, and as she had lived there from her birth--a period of nearly sixty years--did not like to have the old place pulled down. Not more than half the rooms were habitable, and in one of them---the former dining-room--there sat, one January afternoon, Miss Clare, with her young nephew and niece. They were having tea, and the firelight danced cosily on the worn, once handsome furniture, and the portly metal teapot, which replaced the silver one, long since parted with for half its value in current coin. The only modern article in the room, excepting the aforesaid nephew and niece, was a pretty, though inexpensive, pianoforte, which stood under a black-looking portrait of a severe-visaged lady with her waist just under her arms, and a general resemblance, as irreverent Aubrey said, to a yard and a half of pump water.

Just now Miss Clare was consuming toast in silence, and Kate was wondering if there was any way of making bows that had been washed twice and turned three times look like new; while Aubrey's handsome head was bent over a book, for he was addicted to replenis.h.i.+ng mind and body at the same time. Suddenly Miss Clare exclaimed, "Dear me; it is fifty years to-day since Marjorie Westford died!"

Kate glanced up at the pump-water lady, with the laconic remark, "Fancy!"

"It's very likely that on such an interesting anniversary the fair Miss Marjorie may revisit her former haunts," said Aubrey, raising a pair of glorious dark eyes with a mischievous smile; "so if you hear an unearthly b.u.mping and squealing in the small hours, you may know who it is."

"The idea of a ghost 'b.u.mping and squealing,'" laughed Kate. "And Miss Marjorie, too! The orthodox groan and glide would be more like her style." Then her mind wandered to a story connected with that lady, which had given rise to much speculation on the part of the young Clares. Half a century ago there lived at the Briars a family consisting of a brother and two sisters; the former a gay young spendthrift of twenty-five; the girls, Anna, aged twenty, and Lucy, the present Miss Clare, nine years old respectively. With them resided a maiden sister of their mother's, Marjorie Westford, an eccentric person, whose property at her death reverted to a distant relative. A short time before she died she divided her few trinkets and personal possessions between the three young people, bequeathing to Anna, in addition, a sealed letter, to be read on her twenty-first birthday. The girl hid the packet away lest she should be tempted to read it before the appointed time; but ere that arrived she was drowned by the upsetting of a boat, and never since had the concealed letter been found, although every likely place had been searched for it. Lucy never married, and George had but one son, whose wife died soon after the birth of Kate, and in less than a year he married again, this time to a beautiful young heiress, subsequently mother to Aubrey, who was thus rather more than two years Kate's junior.

The younger George Clare, a spendthrift like his father, speedily squandered his wife's fortune, and died, leaving her with barely sufficient to keep herself and little son from want. Yet such was Mrs.

Clare's undying love for the husband who had treated her so badly, that in their greatest straits she refused to part with a locket containing his likeness and hers which was valuable by reason of the diamonds and sapphires with which it was encrusted. This locket was the only thing she had to leave her little Aubrey when she died, and he, a lovely boy of nine summers, went with his half-sister (who had a small sum of money settled on her by her maternal grandfather) to reside with their great-aunt, Miss Clare.

Presently the quietness at the tea-table was disturbed by a loud single knock at the front door, and Aubrey bounced out of the room.

"A note from Mr. Green," he said, returning. "I wonder what's up now? No good, I'm afraid."

This foreboding was only too fully realised. The agent for Miss Clare's little property at Smokeytown wrote to tell her that during a recent gale one of her best houses had been so much injured by the falling of a factory chimney, that the repairs would cost quite 30 before it could again be habitable. This was a dire misfortune. So closely was their income cut, and so carefully apportioned to meet the household expenses, that, after fullest consideration, Miss Clare could only see her way clear for getting together about 15 towards meeting this unexpected demand, and three very anxious faces bent around the table in discussion.

Presently Aubrey slipped away and ran upstairs to his own room. He then lit a candle, and pulling a box from under an old horse-hair chair, unlocked it, taking out a small morocco case, which, when opened, revealed something that sparkled and scintillated even in the feeble rays of the cheap "composite." It was the precious locket, placed in his hands by his dying mother four years before. Inside were two exquisite miniatures on ivory--the one a handsome, careless-looking man, the other, on which the boy's tender gaze was now fixed, was the portrait of a lady, with just such pure, bright features, and sweet, dark-grey eyes as Aubrey himself.

"Mother, my own darling," he murmured, pressing the picture to his lips, "how _can_ I part with you?" And dropping his head on the hard, p.r.i.c.kly cus.h.i.+on, by which he knelt, he cried in a way that would considerably have astonished the youths with whom he had, a few hours earlier, engaged in a vigorous s...o...b..ll fight. They only knew a bright, mirthful Aubrey Clare, the cleverest lad in his cla.s.s, and the "jolliest fellow out;" none but Kate had any idea of the deepest affections of his boyish heart, and she truly sympathised with her half-brother in his love for the only portrait and souvenir remaining of the gentle creature who had so well supplied a mother's place for her. Something in Aubrey's face when he left the room had told her of his thoughts, so presently she followed him and tapped at the half-open door. Obtaining no answer, she entered, and saw the boy kneeling before the old chair with his head bent. The open case lay beside him, and Kate easily guessed what it was held so tightly in his clenched hand. She stooped beside him, and stroked his wavy hair caressingly as she said, "It can't be that, Aubrey."

"It must," replied a m.u.f.fled voice from the chair cus.h.i.+on.

"It _sha'n't_ be," said Kate firmly. "I've thought of a plan----"

But Aubrey sprang to his feet. "See here, Katie," he said excitedly, but with quivering voice; "I've been making an idol of this locket. It ought to have gone before, when aunt lost so much money by those Joneses; but you both humoured my selfishness."

"Being fond of anything, especially anything like that, isn't making an idol of it, I'm sure," said Katie.

"It is if it prevents you doing what you ought, I tell you, Katie; it's downright dishonest of me to keep this," he continued, with burning cheeks, "living as I am upon charity, and aunt so poor. I see it plainly now. Mr. Wallis offered to buy it of me last summer, and if he likes he shall have it now."

"He is gone to Rillford," said Kate, in whose mind an idea was beginning to hatch.

"He'll be back on Sat.u.r.day, and then I'll ask him. It won't be _really_ losing mamma's likeness, you know," he added, with a pathetic attempt at his own bright smile. "Whenever I shut my eyes I can see her face, just as she looked when----" but he was stopped by a queer fit of coughing and rubbed the curl of his hair that always tumbled over his forehead; so Katie couldn't see his face, but she knew what the sacrifice must cost him, and, girl-like, exalted him to a pedestal of heroism immediately; but when she would have bestowed an enthusiastic embrace, he slipped away from her and ran downstairs.

Left alone, Kate stood long at the uncurtained window, gazing at the unearthlike beauty of the moonlit snow. When at last she turned away, the afore mentioned idea was fully fledged and strong.

She found her hero with his nose ungracefully tucked into an uncut magazine, and his chair tilted at a perilous angle with the floor, just like any ordinary boy, and felt a tiny bit disappointed. Presently she turned to the piano, which was to her a companion and never failing delight. She had a taste for music, which Miss Clare had, as far as was practicable, cultivated; and although Kate had not received much instruction, she played with a sweetness and expression that quite made up for any lack of brilliant execution. This evening her touch was very tender, and the tunes she played were sad.

By-and-bye Katie lingered, talking earnestly with her aunt long after Aubrey had gone to bed; and when at last she wished her good-night, she added, anxiously, "Then I really may, auntie; you are sure you don't mind?"

And Miss Clare said, "I give you full permission to do what you like, dear. If you love Aubrey well enough to make so great a sacrifice for him, I hope he will appreciate your generosity as he ought; but whether he does or not, you will surely not lose your reward. I am more grieved than I can tell you to know that it is necessary."

Two days later, Aubrey was just going to tear a piece off the _Smokeytown Standard_ to do up a screw of ultramarine, when his eye was arrested by an advertis.e.m.e.nt which he read two or three times before he could believe the evidence of his senses; it was this,--

"To be sold immediately, a pretty walnut-wood cottage pianoforte, in excellent condition, and with all the latest improvements. Price 15_l._ Apply at 'The Briars,' London Road."

He rushed upstairs to Kate, who, with her head adorned by a check duster, was busy sweeping (for they had no servant), and burst in upon her with, "What on earth are you going to sell it for?"

There was no need to inquire what "it" was, and Kate, without pausing in her occupation, replied, "To help make up the money aunt wants."

"But if Mr. Wallis buys the locket;" then the truth flashed upon him, and he broke off suddenly, "Oh, Katie, you're _never_ going to----"

"Sell the piano because I don't want the locket to go," finished Katie, with a smile, that in spite of the check duster made her look quite angelic.

Aubrey flew at her, and hugging her, broom and all, exclaimed,--

"Oh, how _could_ you! You are too good; I didn't half deserve it. Was there ever such a darling sister before?" and a great deal more in the same strain, as he showered kisses upon her till he took away her breath, one moment declaring that she shouldn't do it and he wouldn't have it, and the next a.s.suring her that he could never thank her enough, and never forget it as long as he lived. And Katie was as happy as he was.

It was rather a damper, however, when that day pa.s.sed, and the next, and no one came to look even at the bargain. Aubrey said that if no purchaser appeared before the following Wednesday, he should certainly go to Mr. Wallis about the locket; and it really seemed as if Katie's sacrifice was not to be made after all.

Tuesday afternoon came, still n.o.body had been in answer to the advertis.e.m.e.nt. It was a pouring wet day, and Aubrey's holiday hung heavily on his hands. He had read every book he could get at, painted two illuminations, constructed several "patent" articles for Kate, which would have been great successes, but for sundry "ifs," and abandoned as hopeless the task of teaching Caesar, Miss Clare's asthmatic old dog, to stand upon his hind legs, and was now gazing drearily out on the soaked garden, almost wis.h.i.+ng the vacation over. Suddenly he turned to his sister, who was holding a skein of worsted for her aunt to wind, exclaiming, "Katie, I've struck a bright!"

"What is it?" she asked, understanding that he had had an inspiration of some sort. "An apparatus for getting at nuts without cracking them; or a chest-protector for Caesar to wear in damp weather?"

"Neither; I'm going to rummage in the old bookcase upstairs, and see if I can come across anything fit to read, or an adventure." And not being in the habit of letting the gra.s.s grow under his feet (if vegetation was ever known to develop in such unfavourable circ.u.mstances), he bounded away; while Miss Clare observed, rather anxiously, "When that boy goes adventure-seeking, it generally ends in a catastrophe; but I don't think he can do much mischief up there."

Ten minutes afterwards, Katie went to see how Aubrey was getting on, and found him doing nothing worse than polis.h.i.+ng the covers of some very dirty old books with one of his best pocket-handkerchiefs. When she remonstrated with him, he recommended her to get a proper, ordained duster, and undertake that part of the programme herself. So presently she was quite busy, for Aubrey tossed the books out much faster than she could dust and examine them. Very discoloured, mouldy-smelling old books they were, of a remarkably uninteresting character generally, which perhaps accounted for their long abandonment to the dust and damp of that unused apartment. When the case was emptied, and the contents piled upon the floor, Aubrey said, "Now lend us a hand to pull the old thing out, and see what's behind."

"Spiders," replied Katie promptly, edging back.

"I'll have the satisfaction of a gentleman of the first spider that looks at you," said Aubrey, rea.s.suringly. "Come, catch hold!"

So Katie "caught hold;" and between them they managed to drag the c.u.mbrous piece of furniture sufficiently far out of the recess in which it stood for the boy to slip behind. The half-high wainscoting had in one place dissolved partners.h.i.+p with the wall; and obeying an impulse for which he could never account, Aubrey dived behind, fis.h.i.+ng out, among several odd leaves and dilapidated covers, a small hymn-book bound in red leather. Kate took it to the window to examine, for the light was fading fast. On the fly-leaf was written in childish, curly-tailed letters, "Anna Clare; July 1815," followed by the exquisite poetical stanza commencing,--

"The gra.s.s is green, the rose is red; Think of me when I am dead,"