Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

Gentian.
A Girl and Her Ways                   Frontispiece

A GIRL AND HER
WAYS

BY

AMY LE FEUVRE

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

LONDON AND MELBOURNE

MADE IN ENGLAND

Printed In Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I AN INVASION

II THE YOUNG GUEST

III THE HOUSE THAT WAS WAITING

IV JIM PAGET

V AN UNPLEASANT EXPERIENCE

VI A FRESH PROPOSITION

VII A PRIVATE CHAUFFEUR

VIII THE DAY IN THE NEW FOREST

IX DARK CLOUDS

X LEFT ALONE

XI A VISIT TO CORNWALL

XII THOROLD'S SECRET

XIII A NEW FRIEND

XIV "I WANT YOU"

XV THEIR GOLDEN TIME

A GIRL AND HER WAYS

CHAPTER I

AN INVASION

HE sat back in his easy chair, pipe in mouth, and newspaper on his knee. The lashing wind and rain outside added to his sense of comfort. He was unassailable, he knew, from all unpleasant elements. A bright wood fire burned on the open hearth. His room was lined with books, for he was a book lover. Everything around him was for use and not for ornament. Some oil portraits hung on the walls, members of the Holt family; but there was no china, no flowers, and no signs of a woman's hand and taste in his room.

Thorold Holt was now nearer forty than thirty. He had a lean, sinewy frame, his close-cropped dark head was already streaked with grey, and at times there was a weary look about his grey eyes which belied his habitual cheeriness. People who knew him best said that his sense of humour was natural, but his cheeriness a manufactured article. He had had a hard life, and found it difficult to believe that at last his hard times were over.

An interruption came now to his solitude.

The door opened, and his one manservant appeared.

"Two ladies to see you, sir. I have shown them into the drawing-room."

"Oh these females!" muttered Thorold with real annoyance. "Even rain doesn't keep them indoors. A begging appeal, I suppose."

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and rose discontentedly from his seat. He went out into a square hall, tiled in black and white stone underfoot, and crossed it, entering into a very stiff and stately-looking drawing-room, with early Victorian relics, besides some really good bits of antique furniture. Two women sat awaiting him. One he recognized as his rector's wife. He wondered she had not given her name, but he had only met her once before. She addressed him promptly.

"I must apologize for troubling you, but I think you will have to see this good woman, Miss Ward by name. She arrived yesterday evening from London, and as she came to the Rectory for advice, we gave her a bed, and after hearing her story and sifting it well, my husband and I think it only right to bring her straight to you."

Thorold stared at the two women in complete bewilderment.

"But who in the world is it?" he asked. "It isn't a long lost wife, for I have never married, and I am morally certain that I have never set eyes on Miss Ward before!"

"Miss Ward was not aware of your late cousin's death, or that you were in possession of his property," said Mrs. Gould, the rector's wife.

"Oh, then her business was with him?" queried Thorold.

Miss Ward for the first time looked up and spoke. She was a plain-featured woman dressed in black, and spoke with a slight American accent.

"The death of Mr. Charles Holt has floored me," she said; "I was counting on his help. God knows, it's badly needed."

"Well, if it is his private affair, I would rather discuss it with you privately. Come this way. Thank you, Mrs. Gould, for bringing her up. We will not keep you."

He knew he was treating his rector's wife badly; but he had already suffered from her insatiable thirst for managing every person she came across. And he did not intend that she should point out to him now wherein his duty lay.

Mrs. Gould rose from her seat with great annoyance.

"I shall be glad to know in good time if you are going to put her up here to-night; and perhaps you will be able to send down to the Rectory for her luggage. We only took her in out of kindness last night. The village inn is not a desirable place for a single woman."

"It is all such a mystery to me that I can make no promises or plans at present," said Thorold.

And then he marched the stranger into his comfortable smoking-room, and drew up a chair to the fire for her.

"Now," he said, "tell me in as few words as you can, who you are, and what your business is."

"I was a maid of Mrs. Brendon's about eleven years ago, and then I became her companion and nursed her when she died, and I loved her. She was my best friend on earth, and I promised her to stick to her child, and so I have, but all along since I came across the letter, Mr. Charles Holt has been my goal and mainstay. And it has fairly knocked me over to know he is dead and buried!"

"Will you tell me, please, who Mrs. Brendon was and what connection she was of my cousin?"

"I reckon she was a cousin like yourself; and a little more too, judging from this letter, which I'd best show you."

She produced a letter from her pocket which she handed to Thorold, and he stood leaning his back against the mantelpiece, whilst he read it.

   "MY DEAR LENA,—

   "I have heard that you and your little one have made your home in Capri. Well, I am glad to think of you in that sweet setting and perhaps after the stormy turbulence of your young life, you may find your widowhood a period of peace and rest. I should not think you were troubled with superfluous cash, so will you let me defray the cost of my god-daughter's education? I should like to see her one day. I am a lonely man with few kith or kin, as you know, and I want to make her acquaintance. Send her over to me if you ever want to get rid of her. If she is anything like the wild slip of girl her mother was, she will enliven my solitude, and at my death she will benefit.

   "Your never-forgetting cousin,

"CHARLES HOLT."

Thorold read this through more than once. Then he looked up.

"Did Mrs. Brendon answer this letter?"

"No, she told me she was not going to part with her child; and if she responded to Mr. Holt's advances, he would expect her to marry him, and that she could never do."

"Then, having made her choice, and keeping her child, why do you come to me and produce this letter? Mr. Holt left his money elsewhere. The child has lost her chance."

The woman looked at him miserably.

"What can I do?" she asked. "I haven't the money to keep her. She's too young to keep herself. She's just a child. And I came to see Mr. Charles Holt. I did not know he was dead."

"Surely Mrs. Brendon left some money?"

"She had a pension only, which stopped at her death. Colonel Brendon saved nothing. Mrs. Brendon and I used to help out with fine sewing. The nuns at the convent used to give us some to do."

Thorold shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not a rich man. I can't spare a separate income for this young girl. Why should I? She is no relation of mine."

"A cousin's cousin," the stranger murmured. "If she had come over in Mr. Holt's lifetime, she would have been his heiress."

"Where is she now?" asked Thorold abruptly.

"Goodness only knows," was the unexpected answer. "Most likely rowing down the Thames, or going over to Paris in an airship, or wandering round Stonehenge in the dark—anywhere but where I left her, and where she ought to be—in quiet lodgings in the Euston Road. She's out to see England, she says, and she means to do it, though she's penniless."

"Then the sooner you get back to her the better. Don't look so desperate. I'll think things over, and run up to town in a few days, and see you. Give me your address. If the girl is old enough to earn her own living, we may perhaps find a job for her. Girls find it easier to work now, than in the old days."

"Thank you. If you don't help us, I don't know who will. I think I'll be getting back to the Rectory, and leave by the first train in the morning."

He let her go, but his peace of mind was gone. He paced his room restlessly, and sleep forsook him that night. The next morning he rode over to a country house about ten miles away, and walked in unannounced.

But two ladies had seen his approach from a window, and discussed him pretty freely before he arrived.

"Who is this riding up the drive, Lallie?"

"I don't know. Yes I do! It is Thorold Holt. What on earth does he want so early in the morning! You remember the Holts? Charles died six months ago. We were boys and girls together. Thorold was a great chum of mine when I was small. He used to stay over at the Manor a good deal. His father was a judge and widower. He married again, and was killed with his second wife in a railway smash in Italy. She was an extravagant girl, and left three small boys. There were so many debts that the children were in a bad way.

"Thorold was a trump. He took charge of his small stepbrothers from the time he left school. Gave up the Army as a calling on which he had set his heart, and got a post in the city in some business firm where he toiled early and late to make money for the boys' schooling. They were young scamps, and the scrapes he pulled them out of, would make your hair stand on end! He put one in the Navy, the other in the Army, and the third went out to a tea plantation in India. He only got the last of them off his hands a year ago, and they cost him a pretty penny between them I can tell you! Couldn't marry because of them—so he always says, and now he's given up the idea. I believe he was smitten once by a girl who waited two years and then married some one else. Thorold has never had a life of his own. He was three years at the War and got badly wounded, but is nearly well now. He's a cheerful philosopher, and does me good when I'm in the blues. Don't go. I want you to know him."

Mrs. Wharnecliffe, the mistress of the house, a bright, smiling young woman, turned to greet Thorold as he entered the room.

"Vera, this is Mr. Thorold Holt. He's at the Manor now, over at Crowhurst. You haven't met Vera before, Thorold. She's an old school friend of mine, and is taking pity on my loneliness while Frank is away."

Thorold made his greetings, then took up his position on the hearthrug, and looked at Mrs. Wharnecliffe with a whimsical smile.

"Whenever disaster comes my way I always say to myself, 'It is not good that man should be alone,' and haste away to you."

"What is it now? One of those boys again?"

Vera Harrington had discreetly slipped out of the room.

"A strange female was brought to me yesterday afternoon by Mrs. Gould. She's got a child—a girl who's a connection of Charles. You remember Lena Foster? a cousin on his mother's side whom he was wildly in love with all his life. It's her daughter. Lena is dead, and this good woman considers the girl should be enjoying the Manor, with its income, instead of me."

"How preposterous and absurd! Lena treated Charles shamefully. She spoilt his life. And I was glad when her husband treated her as she had treated others."

"Oh, how hard you women are!"

He proceeded to give her further details. Told her of the contents of the letter, and then with raised eyebrows, said:

"And now having fitted out three young men for life, am I to begin over again, and take in hand a young woman?"

"It's ridiculous! She has no possible claim upon you, of course."

"Not legally."

"But morally, I suppose you are going to say! Thorold, I should like to shake you. Your conscience is swelled out like a big balloon! It's too big for your body altogether. Why will you take such delight in sacrificing yourself! Wasn't it last week you were telling me you hardly know how to live at the Manor? You've put down half the staff and economized in every way. How can you afford to adopt a penniless girl? Besides it wouldn't be proper. What's her age?"

"Haven't an idea—something between fifteen and twenty, I suppose. She would have to go to school."

"Not if she's over twenty. What a Don Quixote you are! Hadn't her father any relations?"

"This female says she's penniless and friendless."

Mrs. Wharnecliffe looked at him perplexedly and he laughed.

"We are sent into the world to help each other, aren't we?" he said. "I'm going to inspect her to-morrow. Shall run up to town for a couple of days. But I'm scared of young women. Wouldn't you like to come with me?"

"Now, Thorold, what on earth can you do with her? You go straight home and smoke your pipe. I will go up, and inspect her and report to you."

He shook his head.

"Can't trust you. I assure you I won't fall in love with her, or marry her."

"But don't you see that you can't provide for her? That sort of thing isn't done. She's either a designing minx or an innocent babe. Either way, she's dangerous to a simple—"

"Fool," put in Thorold.

"Well, I think you are a bit of one sometimes."

"We'll go up together by the ten express," said Thorold firmly, "and if she's old enough and strong enough to earn her own living, we'll find something for her."

Mrs. Wharnecliffe laughed at him.

"You sound so wise; but it's not so easy, my dear Thorold, to find work for young women nowadays. Remember the thousands of unemployed men. And I hold with giving them the first chance."

"Will you meet me at the station to-morrow?"

"I suppose I shall. You mustn't go up to town alone."

And so it came to pass that the following day found them both in the Paddington express. They reached the dingy lodging-house in the Euston Road, and were told by a good-natured, stout landlady, that Miss Ward was out, and the young lady in.

They were shown upstairs into a shabby sitting-room with folding doors. Nobody was there, but upon the round table was an exquisite bunch of white narcissus and pink hyacinths, the fragrance of which scented the room. A moment later, and the folding doors opened.

A young girl stood gravely regarding them, one hand resting on the door handle, the other half extended to greet them. Mrs. Wharnecliffe caught her breath as she looked at her. She understood at once Miss Ward's anxiety concerning her. A slender slip of a girl she was, dressed in a rich blue woollen gown, which matched her eyes in intensity of colour. A string of turquoise beads hung round her neck nearly reaching her waist. She had a pale oval face with rather a pointed chin, and delicate features. Soft, reddish-brown hair fell softly over her broad low brow, and was gathered in a loose knot behind. Her blue eyes were fringed with very dark curling lashes, her mouth had sad curves at the corners. She was a picture of pathetic appealing youth, and Mrs. Wharnecliffe whispered under her breath:

"What a darling child!"

For an instant no one spoke, then the girl broke the silence.

"How kind of you to come. I guess you are relations of Mr. Holt's. Miss Ward has told me of her fruitless journey to his house. Please sit down."

Nothing could have exceeded the gravity of her manner. She seated herself lightly on the arm of an old horsehair couch opposite them, and slightly swung one slender foot to and fro. Mrs. Wharnecliffe began to feel less at ease than the girl herself.

"I have come up to talk things over with you," said Thorold, clearing his throat.

"What kind of things?" asked the girl softly.

Mrs. Wharnecliffe looked sharply across at her.

The grave intense blue eyes were now quivering with mirth. The woman of the world intervened quickly. She was not going to sit silent, and see her quixotic friend baited for a girl's amusement.

"Mr. Holt has very kindly come up to see if he can help you in any way to make plans for the future. We hear you are very badly off, and your friend was bitterly disappointed to find that the one she relied upon to help you is dead. Both Mr. Holt and I knew your mother long ago, and we want to befriend her daughter."

A faint rose colour came to the pale cheeks of the girl. She drew up her small head in a very haughty fashion, and all mirth died away.

"Miss Ward brought the disappointment upon herself alone. It was against my wish she went to beg. I am making my own plans for the future and require no help from strangers, however kind."

Thorold was about to speak, when Mrs. Wharnecliffe forestalled him.

"That is good from your point of view. I wonder what you intend to do?"

The girl did not appear to resent this question; she stopped swinging her foot, and clasping her hands lightly in front of her looked dreamily out of the window opposite her, across the chimney tops into the grey murky sky.

"It is a choice between two investments," she said in her still grave tone. "I should prefer to live my life above the world. But an aeroplane might not be so paying as a car. And I know less about it. I have driven a car in Italy. Yesterday I had a lesson in driving through the city, but my instructor practically told me that I had little to learn. You see, my nerves are strong and steady, and I have no fear in me. I never had. I should think a livelihood could be got easily in any big town by motoring passengers to and from stations, and taking them on any tour round. Miss Ward does not want me to sink all the capital I have in a venture. But I am perfectly certain in my own mind as to the success of it."

"It's a ridiculous, preposterous idea!" spluttered out Thorold impulsively. "No wonder Miss Ward does not approve of it."

The sparkle came back to the girl's eyes, and her lips smiled.

"I was told I would find English men and women working shoulder to shoulder and doing the same jobs everywhere. Is it not so? Are there still some of the old-fashioned sort left? Are you one of them? Why is it so preposterous and ridiculous?"

And then Thorold gave one of his hearty laughs, and for an instant the girl looked at him with quickened interest.

"Because you know nothing of life, my dear child, and very little of men and women, I should say. How old are you? You do not look more than sixteen."

"I am two-and-twenty, and Italy is not a cannibal island. I have met English people out there by scores, as well as Americans and every nationality under the sun. I left school nearly five years ago. In five years one grows fast and learns much."

"Have you any friends in England?" asked Mrs. Wharnecliffe.

"Ask Miss Ward. Here she is to speak for herself."

The door opened and Miss Ward appeared.

Thorold rose to his feet and introduced her to Mrs. Wharnecliffe, who said at once:

"We came up to town to see if we could befriend Miss Brendon; but she will have none of us!"

"Oh Gentian!"

"Oh Waddy!" mimicked the girl pulling down her lips, and bringing a piteous look into her blue eyes. "Now sit down and declare on whose side you are! Mine, or theirs."

Miss Ward seated herself irresolutely upon the edge of the old couch.

"I am afraid we have come on a fruitless errand," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe. "It seems that your young charge here has mapped out her future to her own satisfaction, and wants no interference."

"Her future!" exclaimed Miss Ward miserably. "It will be the workhouse."

"Oh no," retorted Gentian quickly; "there is unemployment pay, you know; but that will be unnecessary as long as my hands and feet and nerve are sound."

"Oh, I beseech you," said Miss Ward, turning suddenly to Thorold, who was sitting back looking on with amused eyes, "don't forsake us. If you will be a friend to us, I will be everlastingly grateful."

"Well, how can I serve you best?" he asked gravely and earnestly.

"By having a long talk with me," she said promptly.

And then Gentian rose to her feet, and put one slim hand on Mrs. Wharnecliffe's arm.

"Let us leave them," she said; "will you come this way?"

CHAPTER II

THE YOUNG GUEST

SHE led her into the back room which, to Mrs. Wharnecliffe's surprise, was as dainty and pretty a room as the other was dingy. The bed in the corner was covered with a striped silk rug, and great blue satin cushions were piled upon it. A piano was in a corner of the room, and open music was on it. Pretty watercolour sketches were pinned upon the walls, a Persian rug was underfoot, and flowers seemed to be everywhere.

"Yes, this is my room, where I live," said Gentian.

Her tones were soft now; she placed Mrs. Wharnecliffe in an easy chair; then took a stool near her, and looked up at her with a pathetic smile.

"Now I can talk. That grim-faced man with his critical eyes is away. You are a stranger, but you have a heart. I see it in your eyes. What is it you want me to do? I cannot and will not accept charity from strangers. Anything but that I will do my best to comply with. You see, do you not, that I must earn money, and earn it quickly before we come to starvation?"

Mrs. Wharnecliffe's eyes strayed to the piano.

"You love music?" she asked.

Gentian's blue eyes almost flashed fire.

"I adore it! I have wept cauldrons because I cannot sing; but at the convent school I played the big organ in the chapel, and was at peace."

"And what else can you do?"

"Drive cars."

Mischief lurked in the blue eyes again.

"Yes, dear, but that would be a perilous and uncertain occupation, whereas music has many delightful possibilities. Will you play to me?"

"Oh, I don't know that I'm in the mood for music now."

But she moved across to the piano, for a moment gazing into space, then dropping her fingers upon the keys, began playing. Her music was so soft, so weird, so unutterably sad, that after listening for nearly ten minutes, Mrs. Wharnecliffe begged her to stop.

"You will make me so depressed that you will soon reduce me to tears. What a strange child you are."

Gentian twisted herself round on the music-stool, and faced her visitor with grave, earnest eyes.

"Well, I ought to be sad," she said; "I am alone in a strange country without a relation in the world—and my only friend goes to beg from strangers for me, and they come to try to darken the only gleam of light in my horizon. Not a cheerful outlook is it?"

"But what is your gleam of light?" asked Mrs. Wharnecliffe, puzzled at this girl's quick change of mood.

"Raking in pound notes by the score from driving my taxi!" replied Gentian with a laugh so sunny and infectious that Mrs. Wharnecliffe smiled.

"You have a wonderful gift for music," she said; "you show it in your touch."

"But music is too sacred a subject with me to be bartered for sordid money," said Gentian growing grave once more. "Oh, I know I must have money to live. Waddy has saved, and can keep herself. I must learn to do the same. There was £500 in the bank after mother left me—her savings—the only thing she could leave me. I am getting through the first hundred now. You see, it is necessary for me to start working at once."

"And where do you mean to live?" asked Mrs. Wharnecliffe, humouring her.

"Not in London; I want to live away from houses and people—and yet I must be in touch with them. And I want to see and know England from end to end, as I know Italy."

"Will you come and stay with me till your plans are settled? I live in the country—in such a pretty part, and we are only an hour from town—very little more."

Gentian did not answer for a moment, then she said, "Do you live with Mr. Holt? Are you a relation of his?"

"Oh dear no, we are like brother and sister, we have known each other all our lives; but I live with my husband, who is a busy Member of Parliament. And we are hardly ever in town; we both prefer the country."

"Thank you very much. I will talk to Waddy about it. I think I should like to stay with you, if you will promise not to try to manage me—I think we had better go back to the others. I do not know what plots they may be hatching."

She stepped lightly across the room and opened the door. Mrs. Wharnecliffe followed her, wondering at the impulse that had made her offer this strange girl a temporary home.

Miss Ward and Thorold were still talking. The latter got up from his chair with rather a satisfied smile upon his face. Mrs. Wharnecliffe at once repeated her invitation, including Miss Ward, but that good lady shook her head.

"I should like to see a married sister of mine in Wiltshire. If you could have Gentian for a week or so, I should be very glad."

Gentian laughed gleefully, and her laughter was that of a happy irresponsible child.

"And that means, Waddy, that you hope a week or so in a grave, well-ordered, conventional English house, with some kind and sound common-sense drilled into me every day, will send me back to you in an amenable frame of mind. But you are very rash in resigning your precious charge into the hands of utter strangers. Why do you believe in them more than you believe in me?"

"I suppose," said Thorold dryly, "it is our grey hairs. I have a good many. It's an extraordinary thing, but when you get a few years older, you will actually place more reliance in the wisdom of the experienced than in the very young."

Gentian looked at him for the first time with interest.

"I should like to have a talk with you," she said; "I have had one with your friend, and Waddy has had her innings with you. It is my turn now."

Thorold turned to Mrs. Wharnecliffe.

"Don't you think we might go out to lunch somewhere? then we could become further acquainted with Miss Brendon."

There was some discussion. Finally Miss Ward elected to remain at home and Gentian accompanied her new friends to a quiet and comfortable little restaurant not very far away. She slipped into a fur coat, with a smart little blue velvet toque, and Mrs. Wharnecliffe again assured herself that she was dangerously attractive.

"I am a kind of cousin," said Thorold as he walked by her side. "I think it would be better and easier for us all if you were to consider me as such."

"And what do cousins do?" she asked mischievously. "I suppose they call each other by their Christian names. You can call me Gentian, what shall I call you?"

"Cousin Thorold," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe quietly.

Gentian's blue eyes turned to her.

"You are afraid that Thorold will be too familiar? I must put the cousin before it to show my respect and veneration."

"Oh, that is all immaterial," said Thorold, a slight impatience in his tone. "But being cousins, I am a relation, and so bound to look after you a little. And as I understand from Miss Ward the peculiarity of your circumstances, I shall do as she wants me to do, and regard you as a trust handed on by your godfather with all his other earthly goods and chattels."

Gentian's blue eyes opened their widest.

"So I'm a chattel, like his tables and chairs and books? Oh, thank you so very much. I should like to know what you intend to do with me."

Mrs. Wharnecliffe left Gentian's other side, to administer a quiet pinch to Thorold. As they were crossing a wide thoroughfare it was not noticed, though Thorold rubbed his arm a little ruefully. He understood the signal, and knew he was not to proceed quite so quickly.

"Oh," he responded carelessly, "I mean to take a fatherly interest in you. I can spread out certain plans for your future, for your refusal or acceptance. And you can use me as a buffer when occasion requires. A cousin in the background of a certain standing and respectability, is an important asset sometimes."

Gentian was silent, then as they came to the restaurant, and Mrs. Wharnecliffe led the way, she turned back towards Thorold.

"I might use you," she said slowly and thoughtfully, "till Mr. Paget—comes to England."

"And who is he?"

"The man who wants to marry me."

Then she followed Mrs. Wharnecliffe in without another word.

And Thorold did not know whether he felt relieved by her announcement or not. Relieved, he decided after a few minutes' reflection, for his guardianship might prove to be of very short duration.

Gentian now turned her attention to other things. She was full of interest in her surroundings; commented on the people around her, and asked Mrs. Wharnecliffe a hundred questions about London and its pleasures.

"I am tired of people and cities myself," she said; "but if you have to earn your livelihood as I mean to earn mine, you are dependent on them to support you. If I come to stay with you for a week or two, may I bring my car down? Have you one of your own?"

"We have, but you do not mean to say that you have bought one already?"

She nodded.

"I did it yesterday. At least I made up my mind which one I would have, and I am taking a few trial trips with it. They send an experienced man with you, so there is no fear. It is not a Ford, but one of these new American ones. The Americans are more up-to-date and less expensive than the British. I want Waddy to come with me to-morrow. I am going to run down to Richmond and back. I have never seen Richmond Park."

Mrs. Wharnecliffe looked at Thorold in a helpless fashion.

"Has Miss Ward seen this purchase of yours?" he asked.

"No. She's not much good in choosing cars."

"And may we ask the cost of it?" Mrs. Wharnecliffe asked.

"It will clear me out," she replied frankly; "but then, you see, it's like purchasing a business. I shall make the price of it over and over again. It's an investment. I know a lot about investments. I have heard men talk and I've made them explain it to me. I reckon this will return me 10 per cent. for my money. That's all right, isn't it?"

She looked so childish as she talked, that Mrs. Wharnecliffe could only smile at her. But Thorold seemed bent on asserting his authority.

"I should like to have a look at it," he said. "I know something about cars. Shall we go and see it now after lunch? We shall have time."

For a moment a frown settled over Gentian's bright face. Then she said with dignity:

"You may come and see it, if you say nothing. I don't want you to be countermanding my order, but you would not be so discourteous as that."

So after lunch, they took a taxi to the city, and when Thorold saw the contemplated purchase, he found to his surprise that he could find no fault with it. He had a talk with the head of the firm, and then they all returned to the Gower Street lodgings. But on the way there, he said gravely to Gentian:

"This is a very risky venture of yours. We don't want to throw water on your hopes, or prevent you from earning your livelihood, but will you let the final decision about it be postponed for a month from this date? Come down into the country and see what English country is like—Mrs. Wharnecliffe has invited you to be her guest."

"If my car doesn't come with me, I don't come," said Gentian with great determination.

"Then have it on trial. It may not prove a good one."

"I might do that."

And so a compromise was made, and an hour later Mrs. Wharnecliffe and Thorold were in the train for home, almost too bewildered by Gentian's personality to discuss her.

They felt that they and any others would be only ciphers in her life.

And Thorold said with a little laugh when he parted from Mrs. Wharnecliffe:

"She seems to have come into our life like a whirlwind and taken root at once. You know that neither of us need have anything to do with her."

"I foresee trouble ahead for you," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe with a smile and a little sigh; "because you will make other people's business your own. You always have."

"The prospective husband will come along."

"Oh, I don't believe in him—Miss Ward would have mentioned him had there been anything in it."

"Miss Ward is kept in the dark a good deal."

"Yes—well—the girl is coming to me next week, and I'll see what I can do with her. I'm really enjoying the prospect. She's so ridiculously young and fresh, and so world-old in her own opinion."

Gentian arrived at Oakberry Hall towards the end of a bright April afternoon. The gardens in front of the house were a blaze of colour. Daffodils, hyacinths, narcissus, and tulips were all in their prime. Mrs. Wharnecliffe had had a wire in the middle of the day to say that Gentian was coming down by road. And about five o'clock, a light, fawn-coloured car rolled up the drive. Gentian was driving it, and was absolutely alone. Two neat suitcases and a hat-box were in the tonneau behind. She wore a close-fitting little brown-leather cap, and a leather coat, which she shed in the hall, and she stepped into the drawing-room looking as fresh and dainty as if she had only just dressed for her journey.

"She's a little beauty. We've had no hitch, and I only went a couple of miles out of my way. You've very good roads from town. I've christened her 'Mousie.' I chose that colour because she doesn't show the dust. Have you a chauffeur? Will he look after her?"

"Yes, he will do all that's necessary. Come and have some tea. I'm alone to-day. My husband will be very late home from town. So we'll have a tête-à-tête dinner."

"And Cousin Thorold—I don't forget the 'cousin' you see—will not be here. I'm so glad. He's a little too interfering—means well, I dare say. I passed Winderball coming here, your nearest town, isn't it? I liked the look of it. It's quite big. I wonder if I could find an opening there. I should not mind settling near you, if you would leave me alone—I like you—no one could help liking you—you're so—so motherly."

She was sitting on a low chair close to Mrs. Wharnecliffe, and just for a moment she laid a slender hand on that lady's arm.

Mrs. Wharnecliffe's eyes grew misty. She thought of two small graves in the country churchyard close by. She had only had five years of motherliness, and then boy and girl had both left her in a virulent attack of scarlet fever.

Gentian went on talking:

"Waddy has gone off to her sister. Isn't it strange how perfectly she trusts you? Before we came home, I had five or six different invitations in Italy, and she would let me accept none of them. There was the old Contessa De Nienti, she wanted me to stay with her, but Waddy said her only friends were men of doubtful reputation, and her house was not a fit one for a young girl. And one or two of my men friends wanted me to go and stay with their people, and there was a Mother Superior in the convent near. She wanted me as a guest, but Waddy would have none of them. I suppose it is because you're so English, and your home is an English one, like the story-books! Oh, it is sweet to-day! I think I shall be very happy here."

She paused, then added with twinkling eyes:

"I and Mousie—we shall enjoy ourselves. But you will not spoil me. I mean to be a working woman, a hard-working woman, and I must train for it. Out in all weathers—they say you have torrents of rain perpetually—and up early and many hours without food. I have thought it all out."

"You are not fit to rough it," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe, glancing at the slim, delicate-looking girl with perplexed eyes. "If you had an accident to your car, on a lonely road, what could you do?"

"A good deal. If it was a burst tyre, I could replace it; if the engine was too hot, I would cool it. If there were any strain or breakage of any part of the engine or valves, I would make for the nearest garage. I understand the making of the car. And I'm wiry and strong as iron—ask Waddy. I love machinery. If I had been a boy, I should have been a civil engineer."

Mrs. Wharnecliffe let her talk on all about herself. She wanted to get at the girl's mind. Every now and then she astonished her.

After tea she went out to the garage to speak to the chauffeur about her car, then she was taken to her room by her hostess, and she stayed there enjoying the dainty comfort of her surroundings till the dinner gong sounded.

There was no lack of conversation during the meal. Gentian talked amusingly about her first arrival in England and Mrs. Wharnecliffe proved herself a sympathetic listener. When it was over they went back to the drawing-room and at her hostess' request the girl went to the piano and began playing so softly and sweetly in the dusky twilight, that Mrs. Wharnecliffe was charmed.

"Oh," she said, "you ought to do something with your music. I should like you to come over one day to a blind friend of mine. He is a great musician and has an organ in his hall which he plays himself. I should like you to know him. Anyone can drive a car, but it is not every one who can play as you do."

"The Mother Superior wanted me to be their organist. They had such a lovely organ in their chapel, but though I went to a convent school, I never became a Roman Catholic. It does not appeal to me. Waddy says I have too modern a mind. I don't like anybody between me and God."

She spoke in a hushed voice.

"My little mother was not religious," she went on in that low voice; "not till she grew ill, and then she became frightened, and thought she had better turn, and have a priest. But I said 'No,' there was comfort and direction to be got out of the Bible, Waddy had always told me so, so I got it, and hunted about, and found out the most beautiful passages! They made me long to be on my sick-bed getting near the Gates of Paradise. And I read and read, and then I went to church to pray for her, and then I came back and found I could pray in her room, and we read and prayed, and prayed and read, till she was quite happy. She asked me to put over her grave:

   "'Unto Him Who loved us and washed us from our sins in His Own Blood.'

"That was how she went to Paradise with those words upon her lips. I think no Roman Catholic could have died more happily."

Mrs. Wharnecliffe looked at her with soft sympathetic eyes.

"You'll be a happy girl, if you have a happy religion. I believe Christianity is meant to be so."

Then Gentian gave her soft little laugh.

"Waddy says it is not good to be always happy; there is a side of us which remains uncultivated—a waste bit of ground, but when one loses one's mother, one goes through enough anguish to last a lifetime. I think if I may, I will go to bed now. I am rather tired."

Mrs. Wharnecliffe accompanied her upstairs, saw that she had every comfort for the night, then came down and sat in deep thought before the blazing fire awaiting her husband's return.

He rallied her a little upon her extreme quietness.

"Your new charge's responsibility has a depressing effect perhaps?" he queried after he had come in and told her all his news.

"No—not depressing," was the quick reply; "but I'm wondering if trouble has been to my advantage or otherwise. I've lived very carelessly, Frank. Gentian has a deeper nature than I imagined. I'm intensely interested in her."

Then she relapsed into her usual gay tone, and did not mention Gentian again that night.

CHAPTER III

THE HOUSE THAT WAS WAITING

GENTIAN came to the breakfast table the next morning looking the embodiment of spring. She showed her enjoyment of her surroundings in a very fresh and unconventional fashion.

"English people are so sociable," she said; "my mother often told me so. They do not eat their breakfast alone in their rooms, and think over their mistakes, and sins of yesterday, but they come together and plan their day out as we are doing now. Oh, it is all delicious. This is how I should like to live, but it takes money to do it, does it not? These lovely flowers and the garden of flowers up to the windows, and the glass and the silver, and the well-laid table. Waddy and I could never have this, never, never!"

"I thought you were going to make your fortune," said Mr. Wharnecliffe with a good-natured smile.

"Yes, I hope I am. Will you let me drive you to the station this morning in my car? You will see then that I am an experienced driver. And I want you to test my car, and tell me if you think it is a comfortable one."

For an instant husband's and wife's eyes met across the table, then Mrs. Wharnecliffe said:

"Let her do it, Frank. We'll tell Munn he will not be needed."

Gentian was delighted. She drove her host to the station an hour later, and he found no fault with her driving, or with her car. Yet he, as well as his wife, expressed disapproval of her taking it up as a profession.

"I would not let a daughter of my own do it on any consideration," he told her.

"But if you and your wife were taken to the other world, and your daughter left alone with no money and no home, would not that alter the case?"

"No, I should never rest in my grave if I knew that a young girl was being exposed to such a difficult and dangerous life."

Gentian was silent. She did not come straight home after she had left the station. She picked up two old women trudging along the dusty road with heavy baskets of eggs which they were carrying to market in Winderball, and she drove them to their destination; then she explored the country on the farther side of the town, and coming back, bought a motor map of the county.

When she arrived at the Hall, she found Mrs. Wharnecliffe in the garden giving directions to her gardener. They walked through the garden together, Gentian giving an account of her drive.

"I am going to take you to have tea with Thorold this afternoon," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe presently. "He has invited us."

Gentian looked at her with laughing eyes but with screwed-up lips.

"He must leave me alone whilst I am your guest," she said; "I feel he will try to manage me, if I get to know him well. I suppose men can't help that assertive manner in dealing with women."

"Thorold is a dear," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe quickly; "you must not abuse him to me. He is one of the most unselfish men on the face of the earth, and it is only lately that he has had any leisure or comfort. He has toiled early and late to support three young stepbrothers, and he was very badly off before his cousin died."

"Then if he has known poverty, he ought to sympathize with me."

"Does he not?"

Gentian turned aside to pick up a fallen rose, for Mrs. Wharnecliffe was gathering some roses as she talked.

"He looks a good man," the girl said after a short silence. "I won't discuss him any more."

She was full of interest when they motored over to Crowhurst Manor, comparing the English country with Italy and telling Mrs. Wharnecliffe many of her experiences there.

When they drove up the chestnut avenue that led to the Manor, and stopped before the old grey house with its ancient tiled roof and mullioned windows, Gentian expressed her admiration. She looked curiously about her as they entered the old square hall, and were ushered into the smoking-room and library where Thorold usually sat. Tea was spread on an oval table by the fire, which was an open one, and the blazing logs shed a bright glow on the silver tea service. Thorold came forward to greet them.

"And this was my cousin's home," were Gentian's first words. Her face was grave as she spoke. Thorold looked at her.

"Are you sorry you did not come here in his life time?" he asked her.

"Certainly not. He was a stranger to me. Why should I leave my mother to go to a stranger?"

"Now, Gentian," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe lightly: "we are here to enjoy ourselves, so we won't rake up the past. Shall I pour out tea for you, Thorold? I generally do, don't I?"

She sat down to the table and made light conversation; for she did not want any sparring matches just now. Gentian relapsed into rather a pensive mood, but after tea she wandered up to the bookshelves.

"Would you like to borrow a book?" asked Thorold. "I have all sorts and conditions as you see. Some of them are the best friends I have."

Gentian's eyes glistened as she took one and another out of their shelves to look at. With a little nod of approval she said:

"Ah yes, when I am very miserable, very lonely; when I have made Waddy weep, and feel it's an empty world I live in, I creep inside a book, and stay there till I'm happy again. I would like this life of a hunter in the Himalayas; may I take it?"

"Yes, do, only don't wait till you are miserable to read it. And now I want to show you my garden, and then I'm going to take you into the small church close by. It's a little gem of the fifteenth century and has a most wonderful screen."

They wandered out into an old-fashioned sunk garden laid out in rather the Dutch style. Gentian did not like it, and frankly said so.

"Poor little bulbs, what freedom and individuality have they? All in rows and circles, the red together and then the yellows and then the blues! How sick they must get of each other! How they must long to get away alone and grow their own lives as they like. When I get rich—and I mean to one day—I shall have a garden where each flower will feel it is an individual personality. I won't have masses of the same sort all together—so monotonous and tame it must be for them! Ah! This is better."

She was standing in the rock garden, and in every cleft of the rocks different plants were blooming.

"You're a rebel by nature," said Thorold pleasantly; "that's the way with a good many nowadays. Every one wants to grow as he likes."

"No, no. But we can have a corner to ourselves and not have every idea quenched."

They walked across the old lawn under some ancient cedars, and then went down a path in a shrubbery until they reached the road by a private gate. Only a few steps down the road brought them to the little church. It lay in the midst of trees, the churchyard was beautifully kept and borders of spring flowers were on each side of the path, which led up to the church door. The door was not locked, and they went in quietly.

Gentian caught her breath as she looked about her, and Mrs. Wharnecliffe saw her blue eyes get soft and dreamy. All her quick independent bearing seemed to forsake her; and she listened to Thorold's account of the old carved screen, and the beautiful mellow coloured windows, with quiet, pensive face.

"Would you like to try the organ?" he asked her. "I will blow for you."

For a moment she hesitated.

"It's a very beautiful one, though small," he said; "your cousin Charles had a great affection for this little church; he spent a good bit of money on it. Everything is of the best in it, as you see."

She moved towards the organ without another word. Mrs. Wharnecliffe sat down just inside the porch and waited. She knew she was going to have a treat, and when once Gentian's hands were upon the keys, she was not in a hurry to take them off. Her music absorbed her; she played without notes, and Thorold heard in wonder; he did not know she was such a musician. She played from memory; a medley; bits of Mozart, Chopin, and Bach. Then very softly and sweetly she began to improvise, and time and surroundings faded right away from her. She started when at last Mrs. Wharnecliffe touched her elbow.

"Your blower will be getting tired. You have been playing for over half an hour."

"Oh, it has been heavenly."

Her cheeks were flushed and eyes bright, but she slipped off the organ stool at once, and thanked Thorold very prettily when he joined them again.

"It's a good instrument," he said.

"Yes, almost as good as the convent one."

"And now I want you to come along the road a little farther," Thorold said.

He and Mrs. Wharnecliffe walked out of the church together, but Gentian lingered behind, and when he turned he saw her kneeling in the aisle, her head buried in her hands.

She caught them up a few minutes later. Her face was perfectly radiant.

"I like your organ and your church better than your house and your books," she said.

He smiled at her.

"It's safer," he said.

She hardly heard him.

"What a darling sweet little house," she said, stopping suddenly before a small green wooden gate, and looking up a tiled path edged by box borders, to a quaint low grey stone house with broad windows, red japonica and yellow jasmine climbing up its walls.

"This used to be the Vicarage," he said, "and was in your cousin's gift; but since his death, Crowhurst has been joined to the next parish where our rector lives, and I let this furnished. We lost our tenants a couple of months ago. Would you like to come inside? I have the key."

"I think it's one of the cosiest houses I've ever seen," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe enthusiastically; "and it has an oak staircase nearly two hundred years old, Gentian. Come along in. I always envy the inmates of this house."

They walked up the path, and Gentian was like a child in her ecstatic admiration over the low, quaint, old-fashioned room, with roomy cupboards in the thick walls, and oak beams across the ceilings. There were two sitting-rooms and a large kitchen downstairs and four sunny bedrooms above with a long attic in the roof.

The furniture was in keeping with the house, the walls were all coloured a pale apple green, the doors and wainscotting dark oak.

Gentian stood at one window overlooking a small garden and an apple orchard at the back.

"There are English cottages and houses left like one reads of in books," she said; "how pretty I could make this!"

"Would you like to try?" Thorold asked. He was sitting on the edge of an oak table, and looking at Mrs. Wharnecliffe, and not at Gentian as he spoke.

"What do you mean?" the girl asked quickly.

"Well, it seems waiting for some one, and Miss Ward thought it might suit you and her for a short time, until your plans were settled, or for longer if it suited you!"

"And what may be the rent?" demanded Gentian, looking at him with surprise, pleasure, but also with a little defiance in her gaze.

"We are in need of an organist," Thorold said slowly; "the present one has to ride over here every Sunday from the next parish, and he's an old man and he wants to give it up. If we could get hold of an organist, who would take the house in lieu of a salary, it would suit us down to the ground."

"I hope you'll get one," was Gentian's cheerful response; "Waddy and I would not care to take a house and make it pretty, only to be turned out for some one else shortly."

"But why shouldn't you be the organist?" said Mrs. Wharnecliffe, who had been keeping silent with some difficulty up to now.

Gentian turned to her with laughing eyes.

"And this is the plot which Cousin Thorold began to hatch with Waddy in London, and which put her in such a good temper. Do tell me the whole of it. Of course I was brought to see my gilded cage to-day. It really is a darling little cage, but I'm afraid it's too out of the way for my car. And it's—it's too near my thoughtful cousin."

"Oh, don't think about me," said Thorold dryly, "I like to live my life alone I should not expect you to be running in and out. You might borrow a book occasionally, perhaps."

"How kind!" said Gentian. "But you see I must earn money to buy clothes and food. This house won't provide that—and who would want to employ my car out here? I might drive into Winderball every day, certainly. I must think about it and let you know."

A shadow of sadness came into her eyes.

"It's strange how kindness brings one a sense of loneliness. I have to settle my life apart from you two, for your one idea is to give, and I am a bad taker; Waddy tells me I am. I will not take from you, Cousin Thorold."

"But this is not a gift. It is an exchange for your services. And remember it belonged to your cousin Charles, and do you know I am a little afraid of ghosts?"

"Are you? How interesting! I think I'm rather fond of them. At least I should be if I saw any. It would be so uplifting and mystical. Whose ghost do you fear?"

"Your cousin Charles. He might be very angry if I did not act towards you as he would have done."

"Oh, he's an unknown person to me."

Gentian was standing in the doorway as she talked.

"Hush!" she said suddenly, putting her finger on her lip.

A pert little robin hopping about the tiled path flew past her into the house. He perched himself on an oak chest in the tiny hall and lifting up his voice burst into ecstatic song.

Gentian's pathetic face was instantly illumined with sunshine.

"The darling! That settles it. I'll be your organist, Cousin Thorold, and come here to-morrow, if you like. Waddy will have to find the money to live here. I shan't want much in the way of food if I have music and robins and flowers to feed me, and I shall try to earn money at once. I shall have my car, and I'll take it to the station at Winderball every morning on the chance of picking up passengers."

"That's settled then. St. Anselm's Vicarage is to be your new home."

There was relief in Thorold's tone, and Mrs. Wharnecliffe smiled.

"You will be near enough, dear, for me to see you very often," she said affectionately.

"And I shall be still nearer Cousin Thorold," said Gentian with a doubtful look at him, "but he has assured me he never wants to see me."

"I shall be close at hand if you get into difficulties," said Thorold quickly.

They were out in the garden now. Gentian was on her knees in a moment, picking some daffodils from a bed under the window, and sticking them in her belt.

"It's a darling little sunny home," she said.

And then she relapsed into silence until they had walked up the road and reached the Manor. Here Mrs. Wharnecliffe's car was waiting for them.

"Well," said Thorold, smiling at Gentian, "you must write to Miss Ward and tell her that you like the idea of living in the Vicarage. And you can settle in as soon as you like."

"Yes," said Gentian, putting a hand on his coat sleeve and speaking very earnestly, "Waddy and I will be very happy here, if you will promise to leave us alone. It sounds rude, but I dread being managed by a man, and being pestered by his ideas of propriety and convention. I must live my life apart from your protection and care. I thank you with all my heart for giving Waddy and me this home. But your kindness and generosity must stop here. Let me feel that I am free in that house. Do not make it into a cage. Good-bye."

She stepped lightly into the car with a wave of the hand. Thorold went into his house shaking his head.

"All very well, my young lady. But you have dropped into my life like a thunderbolt, and I believe you have come to stay. Boys are a serious charge, but a girl is a stupendous one!"

Driving home, Gentian chattered away to Mrs. Wharnecliffe as gaily as a bird.

"I like the little house, and the organ almost next door will make life a perfect joy. But I shall have to earn my living, and the question is, will this county produce enough customers—fares—for me? I imagine most people who have big houses like you, have their own cars, and the country people in their sweet little cottages have no money to hire cars—they walk along the roads carrying their baskets like those dear old dames I took up in my car the other day. The class I want are city men going to town, and sightseers—Americans, who want to see the English country. I have a thought! Thomas Cook, who runs cars in town himself, might help me. I will tell him I am only forty minutes from town, and will take parties to do the English country."

"My dear child," interrupted Mrs. Wharnecliffe, "you are not running a char-à-banc! Your car only holds four besides the driver."

"Five. No, I will only take private parties."

She relapsed into silence, looking very pensive, for a few minutes, then her face cleared, and seemed flooded with sunshine.

"I will just live day by day, and I am going to fill myself with joy and peace, getting into that anchorage of bliss, that darling nest of a vicarage. May I give it another name, do you think?"

"No, I should not alter it, for the country round know it by that name. St. Anselm's Vicarage, Crowhurst, is a pretty address, I think."

When they arrived home, Gentian found a packet of letters awaiting her. She went off to her room with them, and Mrs. Wharnecliffe did not see her till dinner time.

She was rather silent through the meal. Afterwards, when Mr. Wharnecliffe had retired to his smoking-room for a perusal of the evening papers, she said to her hostess as they sat over the drawing-room fire:

"I heard from Mr. Paget to-day."

"Is he your English friend?"

"Yes, the only Englishman I have ever liked. Many of them came out to Italy with arrogant voices, and found fault with everything, and others seemed to be always busy making or losing money at the Casino. Jim Paget loved Italy, he does not like his country. He is in London now."

"But you are not really engaged to him, Gentian, are you?"

She gazed into the fire dreamily without speaking for a few minutes; then her blue eyes looked at Mrs. Wharnecliffe very quietly and directly.

"I am still thinking about it."

"Tell me a little more about him, dear. Describe him to me."

"He is tall and fair, but his eyes are quick and restless, not like Cousin Thorold's. His are still and steadfast, but they break up sometimes into pools of laughter. I like him then, even when I know he is quietly laughing at me—Jim would never laugh at me, never! But he is magnetic and he pulls me after him sometimes against my will. He is very quick and enthusiastic, and lives his life breathlessly, and he would drag me after him anywhere and everywhere if I married him; and mind and body are so strong, I cannot keep pace with him! I should never have repose, and though I love doing and seeing everything, I like when I have done it all to sit down and rest and think about it. Jim never rests; he can think as he's rushing on. But oh, he is so full of life, that he keeps me full too!"

"Has he any parents living?"

"Yes, in Northumberland. That is the far north of England, is it not?"

A grave look came into her eyes, then she shook her head in a pretty careless way.

"We have discussed him enough. He is in England, so you may meet him and see what he is like. Now tell me, shall we go over to-morrow to the Vicarage and open its cupboards, and get out all the curtains, and see how pretty we can make it?"

"Yes, I think we can; we will go in the morning. In the afternoon I want to take you to see my blind friend, Sir Gilbert Winnington."

"I am going to have a charming time here," said Gentian, smiling up at her hostess like a pleased child. "I feel it was a happy day when we made each other's acquaintance."

"Indeed it was," responded Mrs. Wharnecliffe warmly.

And when Gentian had gone to bed, she said to her husband: "I feel increasing responsibility over this child. She is the last sort of girl to be out in the world alone, and I don't think Miss Ward is strong enough in character to deal with her. I wish she would give up this motor business."

"Perhaps it will give her up," responded her husband cheerfully.

Mrs. Wharnecliffe shook her head doubtfully.