"Do the others—I mean, Mina and Jo—want to know?" asked Dick, rather nervously.
Gertrude would not say yes, for she could not, so she replied—
"I am sure they would like to be told. It is only natural."
Dick hesitated a moment; then in a half-jesting way he answered—
"For a year to come even you are my ward, and I am the guardian of your property and dear self, Gertrude. The others will be in the same position for longer periods—that is, until they are of age or marry with my consent."
"Do you mean to say I should have to ask it too?"
"I suppose so, Gertrude, since I am your lawfully appointed guardian. It does seem absurd, does it not? But there could hardly be a difference made between you and the rest. You need not mind that, dear; for if the fairy prince should come, we will receive him with all due honour."
The girl could scarcely listen patiently. She felt more angry than ever at the position in which she found herself. She had hoped by concealing her knowledge of her comparative dependence, that possibly she might be allowed to rule as mistress of Mere Side, until she should leave it for a home of her own. Instead of that, she was in double leading-strings, under Dick and Miss Pease, and must endure them for a year to come. She, however, preserved an appearance of calmness, and asked another question.
"Tell me, Richard, what I have to look forward to? I know my father left something to be divided amongst us girls, and surely I am old enough to be informed what?"
"For a year to come you can have—from our father's property, I mean—an allowance of one hundred and twenty-five pounds. That is a settled amount. After that a principal sum will be absolutely yours—how much I cannot tell at present; it will depend on circumstances. Only you may believe me, dear, that your interests are in safe hands, and that whatever you are entitled to will not diminish during the next twelve months. You know," he added, "there is no longer the dear mother to require a share of it."
Gertrude appeared satisfied.
"Thank you, Richard," she said. "I hope you have not thought me very troublesome or needlessly inquisitive. It was natural I should ask, was it not?"
"Quite natural, Gertrude. Never hesitate to speak to me about anything. I am only too glad when you come to me for any information I can give."
The girl left him, and Dick's face assumed a brighter expression.
"That is well over," thought he. "I have been rather dreading this, and I am glad I have been able to satisfy her quite truthfully without telling her too much. In a year's time I shall be better prepared to speak, and in seven I shall only be thirty-three. I can do a great deal by contriving matters in seven years. Besides, I am not tied to keep every acre; I can sell some if I choose."
Gertrude went straight to her room without troubling herself to impart what Richard had told her to Mina and Jo. She threw herself on a couch, and burst into a perfect passion of tears.
"I know," she said, speaking aloud in her anger. "He could not deceive me. The money I am to receive as an allowance is the interest of my fortune—the exact sum to which I am lawfully entitled. All the rest I owe to charity. My fortune, indeed! It is a shame! A cruel shame!"
If only the girl's vision had been clearer, if she could but have judged rightly, she would have seen that the only one on whom the shadow of shame rested was herself, because of her unthankfulness for past and present blessings, and worse than ingratitude to the true heart whose unselfish affection only desired to continue them, without even allowing her to know that she owed them to him.
Three days later a tall, graceful girl, dressed in deep mourning and closely veiled, applied in the proper quarter for a sight of the late Mr. Whitmore's will. It was Gertrude, who, being at Salchester, the county town, with Miss Pease, managed to obtain the wished-for opportunity by asking to be left in the cathedral, whilst her gentle chaperone went on a shopping expedition.
"I cannot bear to be in the streets and business places," she said. "I will wait for you here."
"I can quite understand your feelings, dear Gertrude," replied Miss Pease. "I will come back for you as soon as possible."
The office at which Gertrude wished to call was within the Close, and long before Miss Pease returned the girl had effected the object for which she had really accompanied her to Salchester. The result of the search was exactly what she had expected. The sum total of her father's property would bring in a trifle less than five hundred a year. Richard was dealing generously with her in giving her a full fourth of that amount for her private use, as it was all on which she had any legal claim.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ANGLE WINDOW.
MERE SIDE deserved all the praises bestowed upon it by Pauline Tindall. The house was really almost new, and had replaced one that was old-fashioned and inconvenient. It had been built and partially furnished out of some of the funds which had accumulated during Dick's minority. When people admired it, he was accustomed to say, "The mother and I built it. We were planning it for a couple of years before I came of age, so we were ready to begin at once when I had sufficient command of money. It owes far more to her than it does either to the architect or myself."
Truly there were plenty of more pretentious-looking places round about, for that portion of Saltshire abounded in handsome country residences. Mere Side was so delightfully homely that people scarcely thought of its costliness, but rather of the thought and taste expended upon it. There was nothing of glare or glitter about it, and it would certainly have disappointed a vulgar rich owner, whose great object might have been to secure as much show as possible in return for the expenditure. But every article of furniture was exactly suited, both for the place it occupied and for comfort and use.
Ask Richard to name the style of architecture, and he answered, "It is peculiar to the county. We call it 'Old Saltshire,' because the best really old houses that remain are in this style; only we have had to make some innovations to meet modern requirements. It is a sort of Early English. You see the lower half is in red brick and the upper half timbered, but the ivy has run up so fast that it has nearly covered the red, and already touches the black and white. We shall not allow it to stretch any higher. Now this angle window is genuine Saltshire. You never meet with just the same thing in any other county." And he would pause before one of his favourite corners.
This angle window was in the morning-room, and was perhaps the most delightful nook in the place. It was thrown across the corner of the room to the right of the tiled fireplace, just where two walls formed a right angle. It was, indeed, a square bay, and to sit in it was like being out of doors, as it was glazed to within two feet of the floor and nearly to the ceiling, the upper part in delicately tinted glass, the lower sashes being plain and opening lengthwise. The view from it was picturesque and extensive, owing to its peculiar position, which commanded two sides. Two dainty low chairs and a little writing table furnished this recess. One seat was sacred to Mrs. Whitmore's use whilst she lived. The other was called Brother Dick's, but, like everything else supposed to belong to him, was common property, and very largely appropriated by the rest in turn.
The angle window was entered from the room by an archway, draped in summer with exquisite lace curtains. In winter these were supplemented by others of rich Oriental stuff, lined with pale blue silk. Most of the happy talks between Dick and the mother took place in the angle window, and there she would sit, especially during the last weeks, watching him busy amongst the roses. He was an enthusiast about flowers, and she would smile and sympathise when he brought some dainty bloom to offer her, carrying it tenderly, as became one who loved these fair creations.
Dick was so used to her gentle presence there that, as he told Miss Pease, "I can hardly bear to look up at the angle now, I was so accustomed to see her there and meet her smile, or go to stand on the slope and chat with her from time to time. It was my favourite corner; but the charm has in great part gone, though the girls all like it, and Molly coaxes me into it sometimes. You must take care, now the dark evenings are coming on and the heavy curtains hung up, that you do not talk secrets in the morning-room without first looking to see that no one is hiding behind them. Two persons might be concealed there, and their presence be unsuspected when the curtains are down."
"I am not likely to say anything that others might not hear, and if I began telling secrets, no one in this house would hide for the purpose of listening. I hope, however, the vacant seat will one day be worthily filled by a younger Mrs. Whitmore."
"Thank you. I am sure you mean it, and I hope so too. But I must wait a few years to accomplish a purpose of mine. There will be time enough after that, if I live, and I am keeping no one waiting, for I have not yet seen her whom I should like to place in the dear mother's chair. It is ten months since we lost her, and how much the girls and I owe to you! You have got on wonderfully well with them."
"Yes, they have been very sweet and kind to me. Only Gertrude's manner puzzles me as much as ever. One would think she would wish for the society of other girls of similar age; but I think, if she might have her way, she would not allow any to cross the threshold of Mere Side. Mina and Jo are quite different, and yet for some reason they give in to their eldest sister."
"I sometimes think," said Dick, in a half-musing way, "that Gertrude dislikes the idea of being even nominally under my authority, though I cross her in nothing. In another two months she will be her own mistress. Then we shall see if there is a change."
It was only a few days after this, that the three elder girls were talking together in the morning-room. They entered it in the twilight, the curtains being already drawn, and sat down by the fire to talk.
Mina was evidently annoyed about something.
"I am tired of this, Gertrude," she said. "Of course it was right, and we all felt it as much as yourself, that we should live quietly for a good while after we lost mother. But if it had not been for going abroad, and having a change from home now and then, I could scarcely have endured the sort of isolation to which you would condemn us. Dick does not wish it. Miss Pease urges us to have young friends to stay with us; but you always oppose every suggestion of the kind, until Mere Side is like a nunnery. And you look mysterious, and drop hints about something which, if we knew, would make us feel with you. I hate secrets and mysteries. Tell us why you want to shut the door in the face of every girl friend."
"Because I realise, and you do not, what would be the consequence to us all if Richard were to marry."
Mina and Jo burst into a fit of ringing, girlish laughter.
"If Dick wanted to marry, do you think he would be hindered by you? You may make the house as dull as you please, but you cannot lock him up in it."
"I know that, but I diminish probabilities. Richard studies so much, and seems so contented without the company of dangerous characters, that I do not see why we should bring them into his presence."
"You really are too ridiculous, Gertrude, and, if I must say it, abominably selfish," said Jo. "If Brother Dick had a wife to-morrow, she would till her own lawful place in his heart, and we should keep ours. Why, Gertrude, you are jealous of a shadow."
"Am I?" was the cool response.
"Well, tell us if there is a substance in the case," said Mina. "Don't be mysterious. What would happen to us if Dick took to himself a wife? I say it would be delightful to have a nice sister-in-law—only in that case, I suppose, we could not keep darling Miss Pease."
"Do you suppose we girls should have a home here with Richard and his wife?" asked Gertrude.
"If not, we should have a good one somewhere near, with Miss Pease to take care of us; for perhaps we should be too many to stay with Dick, though I believe nothing would persuade him to part with Molly."
"You simpletons! Richard can afford to be generous now, as an unmarried man; but you would soon find out, were he to take a wife. I may as well tell you what I have known for some years past. We four girls have only a mere pittance of our very own. Mere Side is Richard's, with all the land and money, except about ten thousand pounds. That, divided into four, will be the fortunes of Mr. Whitmore's daughters."
"I always understood that the home was Dick's." said Mina. "Knowing that, I gave myself no trouble. Whilst he has it, we have a home too."
"Not if he marries. I only hope you may not find out the mistake you are making in trusting to Richard's continued generosity. He has been good so far. He could hardly have turned us out; but it will come to that some day, and it is better we should accustom ourselves to the prospect."
Gertrude rose and left the room; the others followed; and when all was still, and the sound of their footsteps could be heard no longer, a scared-looking young face, fringed with sunny hair, peeped from between the curtains which hid the angle window.
It was Molly's. The girl had been sitting watching the sunset, and remained to enjoy the lovely tints after it had disappeared. When her sisters entered, she remained quiet, never dreaming of listening, and then she felt as if she could not move from the spot. Gertrude's hard words about darling Brother Dick roused her indignation, and her heart swelled within her at the thought of her selfishness.
Released by the departure of the speakers, Molly rushed away from her hiding-place and across the hall to the library. Without waiting a moment, the impulsive girl ran towards her brother, and exclaimed—
"Dick, I have done a horridly mean thing; but I did not intend to do it. I must tell you all about it."
With an eagerness that would not be checked, she told him all that had passed.
"It was all Gertrude," she added, "not a bit Mina or Jo. You ought to know why she is so strange, and wants the others to be like her. And, Dick, if you do get married you will not send us all away from Mere Side. Jo said you would never part with me, and you will not, dear Dick. Say you will not. And oh! I want us to be together always. Forgive me for staying to hear. I could not help it."
"Molly, I am sorry, in one sense, that you listened, yet not sorry that I know what you heard. But you and I must keep all this to ourselves. Poor Gertrude! Some day she will be sorry, and will know me better."
"Thank you, Dick. I will not say a word," and Molly ran away with a lightened heart, leaving her brother to finish his letters, but only after she had received his solemn assurance that he would never part with her, until she should give somebody else leave to carry her off, ever so many years hence. He could not lecture her, because he knew Molly too well to think that the listening had been an act of deliberate meanness.
Gertrude's twenty-first birthday came and went.
She refused to have it made an occasion for special festivity, but it was marked by loving gifts from each and all the rest.
To Richard's relief his sister said nothing about her little fortune, and Molly's revelation proved to him that by some means or other she was already well informed about pecuniary matters, and knew that she was receiving the interest of the amount she was entitled to on her coming of age.
"She is becoming more reasonable," thought he. "Poor girl! It does seem hard that one son should have so much, and that the others, who are children of the same father, so little in comparison. I think she is gradually beginning to trust me, and to be content that I should make up the deficiency. It is my privilege to do it for the mother's sake—not an unwelcome burden, to be lightened as much as possible."
As to Gertrude, she was silent from motives of policy, or, to give it a right name, pure selfishness.
"If I appeared to know, I should be miserable. I will go on as I have done and say nothing," was the resolution which marked her twenty-first birthday.
Richard also came to a firm decision with regard to social matters. He was determined that Gertrude's influence should not be allowed to mar the brightness of the home, and he took open counsel with Mina, Jo, and Miss Pease as to inviting friends to Mere Side, and forming plans for their enjoyment.
He gave Gertrude every opportunity for joining in each and all of these, but she listened quietly and simply stood aloof.
She could hardly do this when longer days came round, and the disused tennis-lawn was pronounced to be in perfect condition. So again the lovely grounds were peopled by young forms, and the sound of merry voices and laughter were heard, Dick sometimes joining vigorously in a tennis tournament, or rowing the elder guests on the little lake, the most timid professing to feel safe under his guardianship.
As the days passed, and no harm seemed to be done, but rather good, Gertrude decided that perhaps there was safety in numbers, for Richard appeared to be equally kind to all the girl guests. So she, too, became more genial in her ways, and enjoyed the society of old friends, and was, to Dick's special delight, a girl once more.
One day Gertrude ran towards her brother, with her handsome face flushed with exercise and success, to tell him of a tennis victory she had just won.
He congratulated her, and taking hold of her hands in his, he held her at arm's length for a moment, whilst he surveyed her with a look of frank admiration.
"Gertrude, you have been growing younger and bonnier every day since you arrived at woman's estate," he said. "People say that girls are always in a hurry to reach twenty-one, and afterwards would count backwards if they could. You seem to be counting backwards in looks, dear. Talk about Mere Side roses! There are none amongst them, lovely as they are, that deserve to be named beside my cluster of sisters. I must be the envy of the countryside."
Gertrude felt not a little self-reproached as she looked at that kind, true face, and knew that Richard meant all he said, and that she was unworthy of his unselfish, brotherly affection. A feeling to which she had long been a stranger moved her to lessen the distance between him and herself, and to lift her face to kiss him.
His arms were round her in a moment, and he held her to him in a loving clasp, then releasing her after another kiss, he said, softly, "God bless you, Gertrude, now and always! He knows I am happy in seeing you so."
"You are the best of brothers, Dick," she replied, and then ran away, dashing a suspicious moisture from her eyes as she went.
And Richard said to himself, "Love must conquer in the end. We are brother and sister once again."
If it had but lasted!
CHAPTER V.
MEETING AND PARTING.
THERE was one thing about Miss Pease's conduct which even Miss Sharp could not find fault with. She brought none of her own relatives to stay at Mere Side.
At stated times she visited them, but on one fine morning at the beginning of July the little lady was thrown into a flutter of excitement by the receipt of an Indian letter.
Eager to impart her good news, she said, "My brother, James, is coming home at last. He is on his way now. How delighted I am at the prospect of seeing him, for it is ten years since we met, and he is my only brother living! And I shall see Norah too, my pet and goddaughter, such a dear child she is. You have heard me speak of her."
Everybody rejoiced with Miss Pease, whose life had been a lonely one before she took up her abode at Mere Side, and congratulated her on the happy prospect before her.
"But Norah is not with her father," said Mina.
"Oh dear no. She has been with my brother William's widow, who has two girls and a boy. Norah and her cousins have been educated together. William left his family very well-off, and since his death my sister-in-law has had no settled home, but has travelled from place to place, in order to give her young people every possible educational advantage."
"Then I suppose they will come to London to meet your brother," suggested Richard.
"They cannot at present, and James could scarcely expect it. No. He has arranged for Norah to be sent to England under safe convoy, and he wants me to meet her in London on the 4th of July. Dear me, how sudden! And this is the 2nd. I scarcely know what to do, though it would be very awkward not to go."
"My dear Miss Pease, you must not think of anything else," said Richard. "You must go to-morrow, and I will run up to town with you, for I should have gone this week in any case. Just put the domestic reins into Gertrude's hands in the meanwhile. She is a grown-up young lady now, remember, and will hold them firmly as well as gracefully."
Gertrude's smile was pleasant to behold, and so the matter was settled, Richard having announced that he should only be one night absent.
"Is your niece like any of us?" asked Molly, who felt a special interest in the "dear child," whose name was so often on Miss Pease's lips whilst she was preparing for her journey.
"She is most like you, Molly—very fair and slender, but not skinny, you know. In fact, as a little thing she always reminded me of a kitten, she was so round and graceful, whilst her cousin Nelly, who is the same age, was spoken of as 'all elbows.'"
"Has she red hair, like mine?" asked Molly, desirous of a more particular description.
"Yours is not red, my dear. It is a lovely shade, and Norah's is not unlike it, and just as abundant, or at least it was four years ago. Your hair, Molly, is what, I have heard my German friends call the 'Gretchen' shade, because they associate it with the heroine in 'Faust.'"
"I wish you could bring her back with you."
"I wish I could, but Norah's father will want her to himself for some time to come. They have been so long parted, and she is all he has."
"Where is Norah coming from, Miss Pease?"
"Somewhere in Switzerland. They spent the winter in Italy, then came further north as it grew warmer. Norah will have the one long journey between Geneva and Paris, rest a few hours, and then come on to London."
From all that had been said the Whitmore girls concluded that Norah Pease was about Molly's age, namely, In her sixteenth year, but she was really nineteen.
The little lady thought and talked of the girl as if Time had stood still with her since they last met, and had really forgotten the change that must have taken place.
Richard Whitmore returned without having seen either Colonel Pease or his daughter, so was unable to answer the volley of questions by which he was assailed.
"Miss Pease was comfortably established at the hotel selected by her brother, and had received a telegram announcing his arrival. She hoped to see him almost immediately. I thought it better not to intrude upon such a meeting by staying until he came," he replied.
Miss Pease wrote letters which showed that she was brimming over with gladness; but as the days went on a difficulty arose as to her return to Mere Side.
"My brother has much business to attend to, and will have a great deal of travelling before he can settle down. There is no one but myself to look after Norah. What can I do but stay with the child?"
"Bring her here, I should say," suggested Mina. "By all accounts she knows very little of her native country, for she went to India a tiny child, came back, lost her mother, and since then has wandered to and fro on the earth under her aunt's wing. May she come here, Dick, and enjoy a summer holiday in England?"
"I can have no objection, dear. In fact, it is the best possible solution to the difficulty. Then we shall get our dear little house-mother back again, and as soon as Colonel Pease can spare time for a rest he shall come too, if he will. Mere Side will be a real home for him amongst you girls, until he can fix on one for himself. He means to buy a handsome place somewhere."
Miss Pease was delighted when the cordial invitation came, and actually written in Gertrude's hand. She was longing for the dear niece to meet the girls to whom she was so warmly attached, and she was utterly weary of hotel life after a fortnight's experience, and with but little of her brother's society, owing to unavoidable causes. So she sent a grateful acceptance on North's behalf, and herself carried to Mere Side a message from Colonel Pease, who promised to spend his first spare week there.
The little lady was warmly welcomed by the Whitmore girls on her return, and her niece was also received in a manner that charmed both. They were all, however, surprised to find that the new guest, though a girl, was about Mina's age, instead of Molly's.
The latter expressed what the rest felt when, after embracing Miss Pease with equal vigour and affection, she exclaimed, "Why, your niece is a grown-up young lady. I thought she was a girl like me, and that we should all call her Norah."
"She will be very much distressed if you call her anything else," said the girl herself. "I am very sorry for the misapprehension, but you must please not blame my aunt for it. The mistake she made was not a wilful one."
"The fact is, Molly dear, that I never calculated on Norah being grown-up any more than you did, but kept picturing her as very much the same as when I last saw her, forgetting that Time had not stood still with the child any more than with the rest of us."
They felt that Miss Pease had been herself mistaken, and when she added, "You must not like my Norah any less on account of her aunt's blunder," a chorus of welcoming words came from the girls, after which the young guest was conveyed to her room.
"I think she is one of the most charming young creatures I ever saw," said Jo, and Mina echoed the expression.
"What do you think of Norah, Gertrude?"
"I quite agree with you both," was the answer; and in her heart she added, "I wish she were not so charming."
Richard was absent when the arrival took place, but on his return in the early evening, he glanced towards the doorway, and saw not only his pet Molly on the look-out for his coming, but a sort of glorified Molly near her.
It was a girl with hair of the same shade and a very fair complexion, but taller and slenderer than his robust young sister. He could see the perfect profile, and was sure the eyes were beautiful, though he could not discern their colour. But whilst the features were so fine and delicately cut, there was nothing of the mere statue-like beauty in the face as a whole. On the contrary, those who might be at first attracted by the almost perfect features, would forget these in the greater beauty of expression and the wonderful charm of manner which Norah Pease possessed.
Richard Whitmore did not see all this at once. But he noted the figure of a girl in a simple dress of dainty Dacca muslin, only relieved by pale blue bows, and he thought it exactly suited the place. Norah was not looking in his direction, but towards something which Molly was pointing out in the distance, and he slackened his steps in order to take in the sweet picture more fully.
Miss Pease saw him coming, and met him at the door to exchange greetings, and to be welcomed back by Richard himself. As they crossed the hall together, Molly, who had become aware of her brother's presence, rushed to meet him.
"Come, Dick," she said, "and be introduced to Norah. She is older than I am by more than three years, and not a schoolgirl, but she is just as nice."
Miss Pease was about to introduce Norah to her host in due form, but Molly spared her the trouble by saying, "Norah, this is Brother Dick. He is such a darling, and so is she, Dick. You are sure to like one another. Are they not, Miss Pease?" turning to her elder friend.
"Indeed I hope so," said Richard; and, quite naturally, Norah echoed the wish.
"I can hardly feel strange here," she added, "for my aunt has written so much, and, since we met, talked so much about every one at Mere Side, that I almost thought I was going to meet five more cousins, and had a sense of extra riches in consequence."
"Cousins do not seem such very near relatives after all," said Molly, in a meditative tone. "Sisters are better. I should like you for one, Norah."
Miss Pease was just a little scandalized at Molly's freedom of speech, and said, "My dear, you talk too fast. I am afraid Richard spoils you too much."
But there was no trace of self-consciousness on Norah's face as she thanked Molly for her willingness to adopt her as a relative on such very short acquaintance. Then Richard, Miss Pease, and she talked on quite unrestrainedly, and the girl was enthusiastic about the loveliness around her. Somehow, the aunt and niece drifted into the angle window, while Dick stood just within, his arm round Molly, and told his young guest the names of the hills which bounded the view, and various other particulars about the landscape before them.
"This window is the most charming nook I ever saw," said Nora. "I can scarcely bear to leave it. And what a wealth of roses you have! The varieties seem endless."
"If you are not too tired, will you come and look at them before dinner? You want some flowers to wear, do you not? My sisters always like to have them and to choose for themselves."
"That is the best of all," said Norah. "I would rather have a knot of wild-flowers that I gathered for myself than the finest bouquet that could be bought ready put together by an accomplished gardener."
She turned to leave the recess, but at the instant something struck violently against the glass and startled her. On looking she could see nothing.
"Do not be alarmed," said Richard. "This is a thing which, unfortunately, often happens. A poor bird has flown against the pane, and probably wounded itself so badly that it will die. As the creatures can see through the glass, they cannot understand that it offers a solid obstacle to their flight, and many are killed in this way. It is the only drawback to my enjoyment of this window. Will you not come out this way?" And Richard stepped out through the open sash, and offered his hand to assist Norah in following.
There upon the ground, feebly fluttering, lay a fine thrush, wounded to death. Tears sprang into Norah's eyes as she saw it, but, happily, the pains of the injured bird were not of long duration. A moment after she first saw it the movement ceased.
Richard picked up the dead thrush, and gently stroked its glossy feathers, then laid it down amongst some shrubs, saying, "It shall be buried by and by. You may think me sentimental for a man, but I do not like to cover the poor little body with earth whilst it is warm with the life that has but just fled."
"I think you feel just as I do. Why should a man be less pitiful than a girl?" replied Norah.
Richard smiled in reply, and led the way to the roses, for his guest to make choice amongst them. At first he had felt sorry that Norah should be with only her aunt and Molly, beside himself, for the other girls were engaged at a tennis party, to which they had been invited before they knew when Miss Pease would return. But he never forgot that evening which seemed to bring the girl guest and himself so near together, and that night he dreamed of the slender white-robed figure framed by the angle window.
Day followed day, and each developed some new charm in Norah. She had travelled much, and had a well-stored mind, without the smallest taint of pedantry. She was a born musician, but though her voice was well cultivated, she owed less to her teachers than to her natural gifts, and when she sang, none could help listening with delight.
The Whitmore girls loved her. Even Gertrude felt the spell, for with all Norah was so sweet, frank, tender, and natural, that she won hearts without effort. She had won one that hitherto had never been stirred in like manner, for Richard Whitmore had given to Norah all the love of which his large heart was capable.
Outsiders began to smile as they saw the young master of Mere Side so constant in his attendance on his graceful guest. Miss Sharp found something new to talk about, and whispered to gossips like herself, that any one could see what Miss Pease had brought Norah to Saltshire for. She had fished for an invitation for her niece in order to get her a rich husband. How hard it would be for those four girls to give place to a chit like that!
Gentle Miss Pease had her qualms of conscience lest she might be misjudged in this matter, though she knew her brother's only child would be a rich heiress, and no unsuitable mate in that respect for Richard Whitmore.
And Gertrude! She was not blind. She guessed her brother's secret, but said nothing, though a fierce combat was going on within her. Self was battling against her love for Richard, and that which Norah had wrung from her in spite of her will. She felt how well suited they were to each other, and yet she could not endure the idea of Richard taking to himself a wife.
The other girls had no such feelings, but would have welcomed Norah as a sister with open arms.
Week followed week, and it was near the end of August. Still Norah stayed on at Mere Side, and waited in expectation of her father's coming, and still he was prevented from joining her there. His letters were frequent and full of regrets, though he expressed the hope that present self-denial would lead to satisfactory results, and that when these business matters were settled, a future of rest would be before him.
One morning, however, Norah received a letter which scattered dismay amongst the family at Mere Side.
She could not bear to tell the contents, but passed it for her aunt to read aloud, and Miss Pease began, "My dearest Eleanor."
"I thought your name was just Norah," said Molly. "I am always called so, because—"
Someone entered at the moment, and stopped the girl from telling why her name had been thus abridged, and Miss Pease continued—
"I am really grieved that after all I cannot at present join you at Mere Side, and have the pleasure of personally thanking Mr. Whitmore and his sisters for all their kindness and of making their acquaintance. I must hope for this at some future time."
"You, dear Eleanor, must come to me with as little delay as possible. I should like you to meet me on Thursday, and on Saturday I purpose going on to Paris, where your aunt and cousins now are. A family matter requires that we should meet. Indeed, she wants my help, and, after all her goodness to you, it would ill become me to hesitate, if I can be of use to her. Nelly and Beatrice are in a state of wild delight at the prospect of seeing you."
"Your aunt's maid, Carter, has been visiting her old mother in Lincolnshire, and I have arranged that she shall bring you from Mere Side, or rather from Salchester, where she will meet with you, travel to town with you, and cross with us to the Continent. This plan will prevent your causing any inconvenience to your aunt."
There were further messages of thanks, regards, and regrets, and then the letter ended, amid a chorus of groans from the listeners.
Norah's face had grown pale, and Richard's had on it an expression of pain that was unmistakable.
He had waited, like the honourable man he was, for the coming of Colonel Pease before speaking to Norah. He thought it would not be right to declare his affection for the daughter until the father had seen him, and had an opportunity of judging of his character.
He must not speak now, for this was Wednesday, and on the morrow the girl was to leave. The bustle of preparation had to be got over, and at ten o'clock in the morning Norah must be ready to depart.
So much had to be crowded into so short a time that there was little leisure for uttering vain regrets, though a running fire of these was kept up on all sides through the day and during the gathering together of Norah's belongings.
"Shall you have any spare time?" asked Richard at luncheon. "Or will it be all bustle until you step into the carriage?"
"I shall have the whole evening," replied Norah; "all the time, I mean, from four o'clock. I could not do without a last happy night to look back upon. I can never thank you all for your kindness to me."
"Thank us by coming back and bringing your father as soon as possible. For the present, I, for one owe you much, Norah; so the balance is really on the other side. My home was never so graced before," he added, with a smile and a look which made a flush cover the girl's fair face, "or seemed so bright a place to me."
But she looked bravely up at him in return, and said—
"I will certainly come back to Mere Side, if I may, and bring my father too. You ought to know each other. You only need to meet to be friends."
That afternoon they all had early tea on the terrace, and as they sat there the old swallows circled round and round, feeding their young ones in the air, and exercising them preparatory to the long flight before them. Down they came, skimming the surface of the lake, which was all aglow with the rays of the declining sun, dipping in its waters, and then gathering on the roof to plume themselves after their bath.
"The swallows are getting ready for flight, like you, Norah," said Richard. "A little while and they will all be gone. See, that is a hawk in the distance. I hope he will not carry off any fledgling to-night."
"You know everything," she replied. "Birds, bees, trees, flowers are all familiar. You only need a glance to name them."
"I have lived among them always. A country life has interest enough for me; but I do sometimes wish to see more than these familiar objects, and, but for an outcry among the girls, I should have joined a scientific expedition this last spring. I could not leave the mother awhile back, or my sisters in their sorrow. Perhaps I may give up the idea altogether," he added in a musing fashion, "though there is such an expedition annually in connection with a society to which I belong."
"I hope you will not be away when I—when my father comes to Mere Side," said Norah.
And Dick responded emphatically—
"I certainly shall not."
Later on in the twilight Norah sat at the piano and sang one song after another, and then they stole an hour from sleep, and all talked of the happy days they had spent together, and of their hope of meeting again. At the same time on the following evening the swallows were skimming to and fro, but Norah was gone, and the house seemed empty to its master, though all the rest were left. But as he sat in the library, with his head leaning on his hand, Richard saw neither books nor aught around him.
He was picturing that slender, white-robed figure as he first saw it in the doorway. He heard none of the sounds going on around, though the tennis-players were on the lawn and the bold song of the robins came from every bush. What he heard was a sweet voice flooding the room with a richer song, and one that spoke more to his heart than theirs.
And Richard smiled to himself as he said, "The seat in the angle window, the mother's seat, will be filled again, and I shall hear the dear voice that makes my heart thrill as no other can, in place of the echo which memory gives me now. For I felt her little hand tremble in mine, and though she said 'good-bye' in a brave voice to all the rest, she could not say it to me, though her lips parted and closed. I had her last look, and tears were shining in her eyes as she gave it. They are speaking eyes, and they said to me, 'I am sorry to go, but I will not forget my promise. I will come again.'"
CHAPTER VI.
THE FRAME HAS A PICTURE ONCE MORE.
NORAH wrote as soon as possible to tell of her arrival at Paris, and pour forth on the same sheet her regrets at parting from the Whitmores, and her pleasure in being with all her kith and kin. At first there seemed a prospect of their returning to England; but later on, instead of hearing that a time was fixed for their coming, news arrived of a contrary character. The doctors advised Colonel Pease to winter at Cannes, in order that after so many years spent in India, he might not be too suddenly exposed to the severity of the season in England.
Richard Whitmore heard this, and began to meditate on the possibility of taking Miss Pease and his sisters to spend the winter in the Riviera, but he decided to let January come first, and then to journey South for the three following months.
Once more came a message from the angle window which put an end to his plans and froze to the death the glad hopes that he had been nourishing in his heart.
Gertrude was sitting there with Miss Pease, reading a letter aloud, when he entered the morning-room. She was not very fond of pet names, and often called her sisters by theirs at fall length instead of using the diminutives, Mina and Jo, and roused Molly's wrath by calling her Florence Mary. Since she had been aware that Norah was only short for Eleanor, Gertrude usually spoke of their late guest by her full name also.
As Richard entered the room he heard his sister say, "So Eleanor is actually engaged to Sir Edward Peyton. Is it not rather a sudden affair?"
"Perhaps it may be deemed so in respect to the engagement itself, but they have been long acquainted. While Norah was here she often spoke of his frequent visits and attentions when we were alone, but so long as there was nothing definite it was scarcely likely she would allude to such things before others."
Richard paused a moment to recover himself after the blow. Then he advanced towards Miss Pease, saying, "I was not an intentional eavesdropper, but I heard the news of your niece's engagement, and I suppose I must congratulate you on the event."
"Yes, Eleanor is engaged," said the little lady, all sympathetic smiles and blushes. "Sometimes I think when such events occur, condolences would be more fitting for those they leave behind. When there is but a single parent and few children, or only one, a break brings pain as well as pleasure, even though caused by marriage."
Richard begged Miss Pease to give his congratulatory messages, and then stole away into the library to think over what he had heard, and find comfort as best he might.
There was only one picture that came constantly before him, and that was the angle window without an occupant, and a dying bird on the terrace below.
And Richard whispered to himself, "Just another wounded bird. I could almost wish that I, too, had been injured even unto death. If it were not that I am needed, specially by Molly, I should say it in earnest. As it is, I must run away, lest the rest should see the wound."
Richard's mind was promptly made up. There was to be an expedition for the purpose of observing a total eclipse of the sun, visible in Southern latitudes, but not in England. He announced his intention of joining it, pleaded that he wanted a shake-up, that he was growing old and rusty by dint of over-petting and self-indulgence; and, in short, that he must go.
Before Miss Pease received another letter conveying a message of thanks for his congratulations, Richard had completed his arrangements and was on his way to Mauritius.
Whilst there he saw in the "Times," for February 27, an announcement of the marriage, at Cannes, of Sir Edward Peyton, Bart., and Eleanor Pease. It was simply worded, and as the "Queen" did not fall into his hands, Richard missed many details about dresses, bridesmaids, etc., some of which might have proved interesting.
He wondered a little that almost nothing was said in subsequent home letters about this marriage. Miss Pease did just mention that Eleanor's wedding had taken place, and there were allusions in some of his sisters' epistles to the good match made by her niece, but Norah, as the Norah of Mere Side, was not mentioned, or only in the most cursory way.
"Perhaps they guess," thought Richard, "and are silent for my sake. Thank God, for Norah's! From all I have been able to ascertain she has married a good man, and I pray that she may be happy. I would not grudge her to the husband of her choice, but somehow I cannot believe that any tie existed when she was with us. If I had only spoken, or gone when she did to meet her father—but it is too late."
It was not until the May twelve months after leaving home that Richard Whitmore set foot in England again.
He joined one scientific party after another, and went to and fro, adding much to his store of knowledge, and finding in change of scene and the habit of close observation, which gave him work for every day, the best remedy for the wound which healed but slowly.
Then he had to come home, to open his hands for more wealth. A distant cousin had left him thirty thousand pounds. When the news reached him he said, "This, divided into four and added to the little belonging to the girls, will give each of them ten thousand pounds, for the Maynards do not want it. There will be more for them by and by, from their bachelor brother, for I shall never marry now."
He did not tell them this, or even about the legacy at first. He had to hear of all that had passed during his absence, to note that Molly, now turned seventeen, was more like Norah Pease, slenderer and more thoughtful-looking than of old.
It was Dick's absence that had made her the last. Little Miss Pease's hair was greyer, but it just suited her delicately fresh complexion. Nina and Jo had altered less than Molly, but Gertrude was the most changed of all.
There was a new light in her eyes, a softer flush on her cheek, a gentleness of manner foreign to the old Gertrude. Molly's welcome was not more hearty than hers, or her sisterly embrace more tender or more entirely voluntary than was Gertrude's.
Nobody had told Richard anything, but he looked at his eldest sister and guessed her secret rightly.
The girl had given her heart to a good, but not a rich man, one who at first feared to offer his own to Miss Whitmore, of Mere Side, lest he should be suspected of seeking a rich bride whose wealth would make amends for his own small means.
For once Miss Sharp's tongue did good service without its being intended. Her keen eyes, ever on the watch, detected something in Gertrude's manner favourable to Mr. Kemble, of whose views she decided there could be no doubt.
"He is in the Civil Service, and has an income of three hundred a year," said Miss Sharp. "I dare say he thinks Gertrude Whitmore is an heiress, but I shall open his eyes, and show that proud minx what he is really looking after."
Miss Sharp carried out her resolution, and managed to let Mr. Kemble's sister and niece, visitors in the neighbourhood, know the exact amount to which Miss Whitmore was entitled under her father's will. The result astonished her.
Instead of packing up and departing at once, Mr. Kemble manifested the greatest delight. He would have shrunk from the heiress, but he dared to ask the girl he loved to share his lot, when he found out that there was not much disparity in their means, and none in social standing; and she accepted him with this proviso, that Richard must give his consent, though she was of age.
Gertrude told her brother this, sitting in the angle window, and with the moon shining in thereat.
Dick kissed her, rejoiced with her, and told her there was no need to wait for the advance of salary which Kemble was sure of in another year.
"True hearts should not be parted without a needs-be, my dear, and none exists in your case," he said. Then he told her how he had always put by a considerable portion of his income, in order that his sisters might not be dowerless maidens.
"I counted on this sort of thing coming to one of you at a time, you know, and I was fairly ready for your first turn, my dear, before something else happened, which has given me at a stroke enough for you all."
He told her of the legacy, and the share he had mentally appropriated to herself, then added, "As I am a cut-and-dried old bachelor, there will be more for you in the long run."
He was not prepared for what followed.
Gertrude broke into a flood of passionate tears and sobs, and between these she cried, "Dick, dear brother Dick, can you forgive me? I do not deserve anything from you. I have been hard and selfish and ungrateful. I have tried to make the others so, and cared nothing for your happiness, only how I could keep all good things to myself. It was when I learned to love Bertram that I knew what I had done to you."
The girl sank on her knees and hid her tearful face in her hands as she bowed her head over Dick's lap, and her frame shook with sobs.
Love had conquered at last, as he always believed it would, and Richard's face looked beautiful in the moonlight, as he bent over his sister and insisted on raising her from the ground and drawing her head on his breast.
"You do forgive me, Dick. Your kind touch tells me so without words; but please listen, I want you to know everything—" and the girl went on and laid bare all the envy, ingratitude, and selfishness that had begun during that visit to the Tindalls, and how these things had grown and for a long time influenced her life for evil. "Then," she said, "you were so persistently loving that I began to see the beauty of your life and disposition, and to loathe the ugliness of my own—till Norah came."