Richard started at the mention of that name, and Gertrude felt his heart beat fuller and faster.
"No one, not even I, could help loving Norah," she said, "and often I thought what a perfect mate she would be for you, dear Dick; but I could not endure the idea of her coming here as mistress and turning us all out of Mere Side. I thought you cared for her, and she for you, but nothing came of it, only I was glad when she went away, though I expected you and she would soon meet again. You would have done so if you had not set out for Mauritius, for we were invited to the wedding, only we did not go as you were absent."
"How could I have gone?" asked Dick, with a groan of anguish that went to the listener's heart and told her something of what he had suffered.
"Then you did think it was Norah who married Sir Edward Peyton. I thought you misunderstood, and yet I purposely held my tongue. I know what my silence has done. I felt it when I realised what it would be if I were called on to part with Bertram. You will never forgive me, never."
"For pity's sake tell me what you mean, Gertrude! I am not often so impatient, but suspense will drive me mad. Is Norah married?"
"No, Dick, neither has she ever been engaged. Do you remember that morning when Miss Pease was reading the colonel's letter, in which he called his daughter 'Eleanor'? Nora was going to explain why she was never addressed by it at her aunt's, but someone interrupted. She told me afterwards that Eleanor was her grandmother's name, and that her elder cousin bore it as well as herself. To distinguish between them, one was called Nelly; that was the girl whom Miss Pease described as having been 'all elbows' when she was just in her teens, and the other, our Eleanor, was Norah to everybody. Nelly is Lady Peyton, and Norah is Norah Pease to-day."
An irrepressible thanksgiving broke from Richard's lips, and confirmed Gertrude's conviction, whilst it increased her penitence.
"You must know all," she added. "All the rest believed that you knew which of the girls was engaged to Sir Edward Peyton. I led them to think so, without directly saying it; and though they had thought you cared for Norah, when you went away so suddenly they concluded either that they had made a mistake or that she had refused you. This is why they scarcely named her in letters."
"Are Colonel Pease and Norah in England?" asked Richard, in a voice unlike his own, so moved was he.
"Yes; and they are coming here to-morrow. They were to have come together so long ago, but they have been wintering abroad and travelling about with the other family ever since."
There was a short silence, and again Gertrude faltered out—
"Can you forgive me, now you know all?"
"Thank God, I can, as I hope to be forgiven. He has overruled all for good—even my rashness and blindness."
For a little moment Richard still held the weeping girl to his breast, and then he kissed her once more, and, gently placing her on the seat whence he had risen, left her alone in the moonlight.
The next day brought Norah and her father, and the first sight of the dear fair face told Richard as plainly as words that she had come back unchanged, and was glad to be there.
A few more happy days, and then Richard told the story of his love, and knew that the treasure he desired above all others was his very own, with her father's full consent.
He spoke and she listened, in the fittest place of all—the angle window, which is no longer a frame without a picture. A white-robed figure sits on what was once the mother's seat, and gives her husband an answering smile when he looks in that direction from amongst the roses.
Colonel Pease has bought a fine estate in Saltshire, with a house on it ready to his hand, and his gentle little sister presides over his domestic arrangements.
Gertrude's home is in the outskirts of London; Mina will soon follow her sister's example, and go to a new nest. The other girls will do as they have done since Dick's marriage—flit between Mere Side and Overleigh, the colonel's home; for the old soldier is never happier or Miss Pease more in her element than when they have young faces about them.
It is said that Miss Sharp has greatly affected the society of Miss Pease since she began her rule at Overleigh; but there is no fear for the colonel; he is too old a soldier.
Brother Dick is as truly blessed as his unselfish nature deserves to be, now he has quite recovered from the wound he received through the angle window.
A MERE FLIRTATION
CHAPTER I.
"IT seems strange that Dr. Connor should advise your going away again in such lovely weather, and from a place to which other people come in search of health. He might let you have a little peace."
So spoke Norah Guiness to Jeannie Bellew, an only child, a probable heiress, and the object of enough thought, care, and indulgence to spoil a much finer nature than she was gifted with.
"It is always a doctor's way. He must order something different from what you have, however good that may be. I have everything that money can buy, and instead of being allowed to enjoy it in peace, am sent hither and thither at the doctor's will. Look at me, Norah. Am I like an invalid?"
Thus appealed to, Norah surveyed Jeannie as she lay back in a folding-chair and challenged her scrutiny with a half-defiant air.
Truly there was nothing of an invalid about the girl. There was a rich colour on her fair face, her figure was symmetrical, and the shapely hand on which her curly head partly rested was plump and well-rounded. Norah thought there was no trace of illness, and said so.
"The doctor should know what is best," she replied; "but as an invalid you appear to me an utter fraud."
A ringing, musical laugh greeted these words, then Jeannie started from her seat, kissed Norah, declared she always was a dear, sensible darling, whose judgment was worth that of all the doctors put together, danced round the room, and finally dropped panting into her seat again, with a considerably heightened colour.
Norah noticed that Jeannie's hand was pressed to her side, and looked grave.
"Are you wise to indulge in such violent exercise?" she asked.
"Perhaps not, though it is only the having been pampered and waited on hand and foot that has made me so susceptible. I must really begin to live like other girls now I am so well again," said Jeannie.
"Only do not make such a sudden start. Have you any pain?"
"Not a bit, now. I had a little twinge or two, but it is all gone. The strongest girl would have felt as much if she had been prancing round as I did a minute ago. I am as well as you are, Norah. It is downright wicked of Doctor Connor to say that I must have another change for a month or so, and then he will decide about next winter. As though one lost nothing by leaving a home like mule with all its comforts. I have often thought that the loss of them counterbalanced the good done by the 'entire change' the doctors are so fond of ordering. If I could take Benvora and all belonging to it, Jet included, away with me, I should care less. And I would have you, Norah, if I could."
"That is impossible, dear. I am quite indispensable at home. But there is Jack Corry. You will want him most of all, now your engagement is a settled thing."
"Want Jack with me!" exclaimed Jeannie. "Why, Norah, what can have put such an absurd notion into your head? If you realised my feelings the least little bit, you would know that the sweet drop in my cup of banishment from Ballycorene is the thought that I shall leave Jack Corry behind me. He bores me to death. He follows me like a lapdog, gives me no chance of wishing to see him, for he is here so often that I am at my wits' end to get rid of him half the time. Jack Corry, indeed!" And Jeannie gave her pretty head a toss, as though she and the individual in question had neither thought nor wish in common.
Norah looked utterly bewildered, and heard without understanding her friend's words.
"I thought you cared so much for Jack," she said. "If not, why did you act in such a way as to make him think you did? 'Why did you accept his offer, and allow your engagement to be announced, if—"
Norah hesitated to put her thoughts into words. She was true to the core herself, and infinitely above the petty vanity and cruel selfishness combined which make up the character of a flirt—vanity, which is ever craving for admiration, and never satisfied with what it gets; selfishness, that cares only for gratifying the whim of the moment, without heeding what the amusement may cost some true heart; vanity, that loves to parade the homage that is rendered, yet only values it so far as it can be displayed and utilised to advance its own importance, or to while away time that would otherwise hang heavily; selfishness, that having had its turn served, its little day of triumph, never asks whether the moths that fluttered round had merely sunned themselves in the light and suffered no harm, or whether they had been cruelly scorched whilst suspecting none.
Hard hearts are like diamonds. The flirt's weapons glance harmlessly aside from them and leave no wound, as the best-tempered tool leaves no scratch on the surface of the precious stone. But those same weapons have pierced many a true and tender heart, and virtually killed its faith in womanly truth, and taught it to doubt the possibility of honest girlish affection.
It seemed too dreadful for Norah to associate the idea of vanity and selfishness with her friend Jeannie, a girl just eighteen, and looking even younger, with her fair face and childish head covered with a crop of short curls. Yet as she gave a mental glance at the past she felt that Jeannie's actions and words belied each other.
Jack Corry had long been deemed quite first favourite in the neighbourhood. He was bright, kindly. To young and old alike, he was ever ready to render a service, and people used to look at him and say that this was his one fault. He was the same to all, and no person could detect any sign of preference towards any of his fair neighbours.
Jeannie Bellew had spent two winters in the Riviera. Whether there now existed any cause for anxiety on her behalf, there had been enough to justify the fears of her parents and her own banishment.
A sharp attack of inflammation of the lungs, brought on, if truth must be told, by her own wilfulness, had left the girl without absolute disease, but extremely sensitive to every change of temperature. After her second winter in the South, she had returned home with greatly improved strength and looks, but in other respects rather changed than improved.
Jeannie, the little schoolgirl, with her artless country manners and winsome ways, was gone, and in her stead there returned to Ballycorene one who was a girl in age and looks, but who brought with her more knowledge of the world than all her feminine neighbours put together could boast of.
Mrs. Bellew had accompanied her daughter on both occasions, and a middle-aged, trusty servant waited on the two. But the mother dreaded the loneliness of life in apartments, where everything and every person were strange around them, and so the pair spent the two winters in a large hotel, and gained many experiences which the younger especially would have been much better without.
Before Jeannie's reappearance, Ballycorene gossips had begun to couple the name of Jack Corry with that of Norah Guiness, and to say that at last the way to his heart had been discovered. Also that if he had the luck to gain Norah's, he would win the greatest treasure that could enrich his life and brighten a home, though she would be almost a dowerless maiden.
Perhaps it was because no word or act of Norah's gave Jack Corry cause to think she bestowed a thought upon him, that he began to devote much thought to her. She practised no little coquettish airs, did not pretend to shun him, in order to hire him to seek her. She met him, as she did others, with the bright smile, the honest look devoid of all self-consciousness, the kindly greeting which was natural in one whom he had known all his life, and no more.
No girl looked on Norah as a possible rival. All regarded her as a true-hearted friend, and saw in her a self-devoting daughter, the one comfort of her father's life, and a sister almost worshipped by his three motherless lads. None could accuse her of striving to attract Jack Corry, and so, when it seemed that he was likely to be attracted, all the girls with one consent voted, "Better Norah than anyone else."
Then Jeannie Bellew came back to Benvora, changed as aforesaid, a fashionable young lady instead of a simple country girl, and yet with the power to act the latter character to perfection when it suited the whim of the moment. She was prettier than ever, and had acquired an ease and grace of manner which, together with an almost inexhaustible wardrobe, threw all the country girls into the shade.
Jeannie's father was very rich; sole owner of a vast manufacturing concern, which in his skilful hands was always growing in value.
In what way could wealth be better applied than in surrounding his only child with every luxury that it could purchase? Mr. Bellew was a good master, and paid his hands liberally. No man ever applied to him in vain if help was wanted for any good object, and so, as he was generous to all beside, was he likely to stint where Jeannie was concerned?
The girl had excellent taste in the choice of garments, and did not care for show and glitter. But everything she wore was in exquisite harmony with her youth, and only the initiated would have guessed what a simple morning-robe of muslin and lace had cost her father.
Jack Corry had been in and out at Benvora, Mr. Bellew's place, ever since he could walk. He could remember the day when he, a boy of ten, was first trusted to hold Jeannie, a baby three weeks old, in his arms, and how proud he had felt to kiss her pink cheek, then glad to be rid of so great a responsibility when the nurse reclaimed her charge.
Jack dropped in on the evening of Jeannie's return. He had cheered Mr. Bellew with his sunny presence many a time whilst his wife and daughter were away, and now the older man gave him a hearty welcome.
"Jack is here, Jeannie," he said. "Come to see how you look after your wanderings in foreign lands. He has been my best neighbour during the winter, and has deprived himself of many a pleasure to cheer a lonely man."
Jack deprecated the idea of its being possible for him to have had better or pleasanter evenings than those he had spent at Benvora, and congratulated Jeannie on her restored health, as he took in his, the little plump hand which she promptly extended.
"But you have been good, Jack. Father has told us in nearly every letter about your kindness to him. You don't know how grateful we are, mother and I. Are we not, mother?"
Whilst Jeannie was speaking she was also looking straight into Jack's face and leaving her hand resting in his clasp, as if she had forgotten that it was there.
What wonder that Jack was in no hurry to relinquish it, that he thought Jeannie very charming and winsome, and was conscious of an undercurrent of gladness at the conviction that she had come back unspoiled, the same simple-minded country lassie whom he had always regarded as a dear, loving child-friend of his own?
She positively had tears in her eyes, called thither by the thought of his little attentions to Mr. Bellew. Why, he would have been the most ungrateful monster in existence if he could have neglected the man who had tipped him as a boy, given him his first pony, been his good friend always, and whom, apart from all this, he loved and honoured.
"You'll stay the evening?" said Mr. Bellew to Jack.
"Not to-night. You will want to talk, and Mrs. and Miss—"
"Jeannie," put in the owner of the name, before Jack had time to finish. "How dare you try to make me grown-up and call me 'Miss,' you that nursed me when I was a tiny baby? For shame, Jack!"
There was quite a distressed look on Jeannie's face, and Jack was sure there would be tears directly, and felt and said that he was ashamed of himself.
"Then take off your overcoat this minute. You are going to say that we must be tired and want to talk to each other, too. You forget that father met us, that we spent three days in London, and have made other halts on the road. To-day we have only been travelling two hours. Father has told all the home news; we are not a bit tired, and now you must stay and tell us about everything and everybody else. Do stay, Jack."
The tone was beseeching, the look no less so. Jack was vanquished before Mrs. Bellew had time to add—
"Yes, do stay. We shall all be glad to have you, and I cannot tell you how much I feel all your kind attentions to my husband."
Mrs. Bellew was in earnest in her welcome and in her thanks to Jack. But she was uneasy. Her eyes had for some time past been opened to the fact that there were many sides to Jeannie's nature, and somehow she dreaded, both for the girl herself and for others, the exhibition of the artless childish side, which most people found so charming, but which she knew to be the least real and the most dangerous of all.
How could Jack Corry refuse the triple invitation? He was actually on his way to Mr. Guiness's house, for of late he had dropped in there on two nights in the week, and he knew that he was expected this evening.
Of late, too, he had begun to delight in seeing a soft flush rise on Norah's cheek when she gave him her hand, or when she noted how he followed her movements with looks of interest and approval. The home of which Norah was the mistress was as well ordered and as refined as Benvora, and there was true comfort at comparatively little cost. He had said to himself, "What a home she will some day make of mine!"
He had settled everything in his own mind, and though as yet no direct word of love had been spoken, he knew that he had been wooing Norah Guiness by his frequent visits, his manifested pleasure in her society, and by a thousand looks and nameless attentions that were as eloquent as speech.
Jack meant them to be so. He was thoroughly honest in paying these attentions. But he did not regard Norah as one who could be lightly won, and he wanted to feel sure of his ground before he risked all on a distinct offer.
He was beginning to feel satisfied with the progress of his wooing, for he knew she would never wish to bring him to her feet in order to fling back an honest heart, or make pretence that she had not thought him in earnest.
She, too, was beginning to feel that he was in earnest, and the thought filled her with a great gladness. She would not have given her heart unasked, but was not Jack pleading for it in numberless ways?
He, on his part, argued well for his suit, when he noticed that Norah was a little shyer than of old, though more thoughtfully kind than ever. A little more silent, but so careful to listen to every word of his. And Jack said to himself, "Norah is a pearl amongst girls. What matters her lack of fortune? She is the rose out of the whole 'rosebud garden.'"
From his very heart, he thanked God that he had no need to trouble himself about money, but would have enough and to spare for both. He had been orphaned very early in life, but was abundantly provided for. Yet never till he thought of what his ample means would do for Norah did Jack Corry greatly value them, and then it was for her sake.
"My rose flourishes in a poor soil now; she shall be transplanted into a fair garden. My pearl's surroundings are all unsuited to so rare a jewel. It shall have a brave setting when I become the owner."
Jack planned how he would help Norah to increase her father's home comforts; how he would smooth things for the lads who would be his brothers, and as such the lawful objects of his care; how, in short, he would turn the good things he possessed to account for the benefit of the whole Guiness family, and one in particular, "bless her!"
He had almost made up his mind to tell his tale to Norah on that evening, when, on his way to her home, he felt it right just to look in at Benvora, and ask after Mrs. Bellew and Jeannie. He would be sure not to stay long, and the call was a matter of positive duty to old friends.
CHAPTER II.
JACK CORRY stayed with the Bellews, and Norah Guiness listened in vain that night for the step to which she had become accustomed, and which made her heart beat more quickly when it approached.
Her boy brothers made many a journey to the gate to look for Jack, and grumbled loudly at his nonappearance.
Norah looked and spoke calmly enough. She told the boys they must not be selfish. They had seen a great deal of Jack Corry lately, and must not expect him always to give them so much of his time. But while Norah spoke bravely, she was conscious of a strange foreboding for which she could not account, and against which she battled bravely, but in vain.
The boys accused her of being cross, and then felt ashamed of themselves, and said so, when she proved the contrary by her extra kindness. Her father thought her very silent, and began to tell, what was news to Norah, that Mrs. Bellew and Jeannie were back at Benvora.
The girl's face brightened directly.
"Then, of course, Jack had gone to see them. How could he do anything else? I am so glad, for Jeannie must be a great deal better, or they would not have ventured to return. Mr. Bellew did not expect them until May, and it is only the middle of April. How delighted he will be!"
The weight was gone; the cloud was nowhere to be seen. Norah, in the singleness of her heart, was rejoicing in the joy of others, and feeling that if Jack Corry had not gone straight to Benvora that evening, he would have fallen many degrees in her estimation. He would come to them the next night, no doubt.
But Jack did not come, and a week passed before he at length made his appearance. Then somehow, he was not quite the same Jack who had last parted with Norah, who had lingered over his leave-taking, and by the look from his eyes had caused hers to droop, and her heart to beat more quickly. He was kind, of course; Jack Corry could be nothing else. He had brought things for the boys which enriched them for the time, and called forth the remark, "Jack, you are the biggest brick living." Whereat he had laughed as merrily as usual. He had talked cheerily to Mr. Guiness, and then—well, he had no time to steal to Norah's side and talk to her whilst she worked, or beg for a favourite song. Only just enough for a hurried good-night, and he was gone, almost without waiting for an answer, quite without the lingering farewell or one of the looks which had been silently telling a love story to Norah for months past.
Jack was gone—doubly gone—and Norah, quick to note the change in their pleasant guest, began to ask herself what could have brought it about.
During the last few days she and Jeannie Bellew had exchanged visits, and Norah had been struck with the subtle difference which had taken place in the girl during her absence from home. That daintily-dressed young lady, with her self-possessed manners and knowledge of the outer world, could hardly be Jeannie, her girl friend and junior by a couple of years. Then she was so changeable. At one moment she was almost patronising to Norah, and would give herself little airs which made the elder girl smile. Again, she would throw off all the crust she had gathered during her travels, and seem the most artless, loving, childish creature imaginable.
As Norah reviewed the position, her eyes were opened to many things of which she had hitherto thought little. For instance, the difference between Jeannie Bellew's surroundings and her own had never troubled her in the least. Benvora was the home of wealth, and all the luxuries that money could buy were found in profusion beneath its roof.
In the Guinesses' rambling old house a new article was the exception, and there were few superfluities. Comfort and order prevailed in every part of it; but its contents had a well-worn look, which suggested that money was not too plentiful with its occupants. Yet the Guinesses were rather proud of their home, which, like their name, was no thing of to-day. The house had stood for many a year, and sheltered several generations of a family that was well respected far and near. Socially speaking, the Guinesses stood higher than the Bellews. Jeannie's father had begun the world with no capital, but good business talents combined with industry and perseverance. His wife's little fortune had enabled him to begin in a small way, and at forty-five he was a rich man.
In the old days—that is, two or three years before—Norah Guiness had never noted word or look on Jeannie Bellew's part that indicated a consciousness of the difference in their worldly circumstances. The latter had been rather proud than otherwise to call Norah her friend, and to be welcomed in the picturesque old house in which she was mistress. But when Norah went to see Jeannie as soon as possible after her return, she became conscious of a change in her friend. She could not have said in what it consisted, but there was a self-complacency about the girl, a manner which seemed to bid Nora realise all the advantages of her position when compared with those she possessed, that jarred on the visitor's sensitive nature.
She noticed how Jeannie glanced at her simple dress, and then looked down at the tasteful combination of soft falling silk, lace and ribbons, which was draped so gracefully about her own person; and how her fingers wandered for a moment amongst the folds, as if she found a subtle pleasure in touching the dainty materials, and mentally contrasting them with what met her eye as she looked at Norah.
Then again, when Jeannie returned the visit, Norah could not help seeing a sort of half-pitying expression on her face, as she looked round the drawing-room, and her eyes rested on its so-called ornaments.
"If I were you, I would make a clean sweep of a lot of these things. I know they have 'associations,' but I would pack them—associations and all—into a big box and put them in the garret. They would keep just as well there, and you might make this room one of the most picturesque places imaginable. I would help you, dear. I have seen so much since I left home that one could never get an idea of in this quiet place, you know," said Jeannie.
"I could never love any place so well," replied Norah; and she added, "I am not sure that I should care for the wider experiences you have had, especially if I must purchase them by previous illness. However, I am glad you have no longer that excuse for running away from old friends."
"I am very well now, but I am glad too that illness gives one many advantages. That is, if one's father has plenty of money. If I had never been ill, I should have been mewed up at Benvora, and seen nothing of the world. Now it is delightful to come back too, for a while, and to think over all the fun I have had."
Then Jeannie returned to the charge about the furniture.
"May I help you to remodel this room, Norah?"
"My dear Jeannie, were I to make the clean sweep you name, the room would be horribly bare-looking. I do not agree with making a place ugly because of 'associations,' but without our present 'ornaments,' my reception room would be a wilderness."
"There are the loveliest muslins and cretonnes, ever so cheap," began Jeannie; but Norah stopped her by saying quietly—
"I have no money for such things, dear."
"You cannot mean that, Norah. They would cost so little."
"I do mean it, Jeannie, though perhaps many beside yourself would hardly believe me. I think I must keep on saying it, for if people plead poverty, those who hear generally give them credit for ample means," added Norah, with a light laugh.
Afterwards, it seemed to the girl as if she became conscious of many wants and defects in her surroundings, of which before Jeannie's visit she had been blissfully unaware. It was in those first few days, too, that Jack Corry's defection took place, and after his hurried call, Norah remembered, with acute pain, the glance he had cast at her comparatively countrified dress.
"He will compare Jeannie's surroundings with mine; her dainty silks and laces, her costly furs at hand when needed, with my simple stuffs and cottons; and my plain cloth jacket, which is in its third season, and which I have been taking such care of that it may last another! And Jeannie can be so charming that no one can withstand her. As a child she could do as she liked with me, even. Well, if it should be so, I only hope that she may not play with Jack's heart. I should be sorry for that; after all, I should like them both to be happy and true, if they care for each other."
Dear, unselfish Norah! A little sob followed this mental communing, for Jack Corry was the first who had stirred the depths of her pure, tender heart, and how could she help knowing that he had wooed her with everything but words? At their last meeting before Jeannie's return, these had seemed trembling on his lips; and now!
Norah's prophetic foreboding was speedily fulfilled. Jack Corry, as her young brothers said, was "for ever at Benvora, or riding or walking with Jeannie Bellew."
Her parents were evidently in favour of such companionship, and Mrs. Bellew especially smiled benignly on handsome Jack Corry, as he became daily more marked in his attentions to the girl. She had a talk with her husband on the subject, for, truth to say, Mr. Bellew was not at first altogether satisfied with the turn affairs had taken, and he said so.
"We seldom disagree, James, but I must own I am glad of it. What could be better than for Jeannie and Jack to marry? She is certain to be much run after. Whilst we have been away I have been kept in continual dread lest some mere adventurer should succeed in gaining her affections. It is wonderful how people get to know about you and your concerns, no matter how far you may be from home. Quite unintentionally, I overheard conversations which were never meant for my ears, and I know that your position and Jeannie's probable fortune were freely discussed. One of the speakers had the impertinence to say that the little heiress would be a great catch for somebody. Think of that, James," added Mrs. Bellew, indignantly.
"I have not a word against Jack Corry. He is, as a whole, a steady, right-principled young man, handsome enough to mate with our bonnie Jeannie, and whilst he is very kind, he is by no means weak of will, but—"
"I do not see that there is room for a but in regard to Jack. We have known him all his life; he has ample means, and comes of a good family. If he and Jeannie care for each other, and in due time marry, we shall keep her near us, and have a son to our own liking. Think, James, what a stay it would be if we have to go away again for the winter, for Jeannie to go as an engaged girl. I should not like to spend another season like the two last, and without you."
Mrs. Bellew sighed, and looked troubled at the remembrance. She had gone through a most painful experience, some of the details of which she had kept from her husband, in order to spare him anxiety.
Jeannie's health, though such as to render the change imperative, had not been of a kind to prevent her from mixing in the society she and her mother were placed amongst by reason of their hotel life. Even during the first winter the girl's head had been a little turned by the attentions she received, though she was only in her seventeenth year. She was pretty enough to attract them, though probably she owed a large share of the notice she received to the report of her father's wealth, and the fact of her being an only child and his heiress.
Mrs. Bellew had found her position a most difficult one. Her daughter must not be unduly excited, for fear of ill consequences. She had already become accustomed to following her own sweet will when at home, because of her position and the over fondness of her parents, and her mother was in equal dread of contradicting Jeannie and of giving way to the new whims born of her novel surroundings.
To the girl, accustomed to constant oversight, it seemed a new and delightful amusement to baffle Mrs. Bellew's efforts to continue it, and the residence in a large hotel offered endless opportunities for evading her mother. The practice, begun in a spirit of fun, was continued in a less innocent one, and Mrs. Bellew was pained beyond measure to find that Jeannie had spent many hours in undesirable companionship, and that the gossips were beginning to talk of "the little heiress," and couple her name with that of an idle sojourner under the same roof who was said to be looking out for a young wife with money.
Happily for the girl, the acquaintance was promptly ended. Apart from the gossip alluded to, no harm followed. Jeanie had acted thoughtlessly, and been amused by the talk of one who had seen much, and could talk brilliantly, and who, though a mere butterfly so far as the world's work was concerned, was nothing worse.
The second winter Miss Bellew seemed well able to take care of herself; but her mother could not help feeling that the sweet artlessness of her child was gone, and that at eighteen Jeannie was a very worldly young person, and rapidly becoming a very heartless one, though as a rule she was admired for her charming simplicity and girlishness, the semblance of which she still kept up.
With such memories it was not wonderful that Mrs. Bellew looked forward with glad anticipation to the probability of an engagement between Jeannie and Jack Corry as a happy settlement of all her difficulties, and did not like her husband's "but," when his attentions were alluded to. It came again, however.
"There is no one I should prefer to Jack; but, my dear, I doubt whether he is doing right in paying such court to Jeannie," said Mr. Bellew. "Whilst you were away he went a great deal to the Guinesses, and I for one thought that matters were as good as made up between him and Norah. Other people thought so too, and if Jack Corry meant nothing, he ought never to have acted as if he did. Jeannie's coming has made the difference, and I do not like to think about it."
"Jack's name has always been brought up as looking after one girl or other," said Mrs. Bellew, "and there has been nothing in it, only people are so fond of meddling in what is no business of theirs. Jack is such a favourite, and he is kind all round, you know."
"But Norah's affair has been different, and Norah herself is not like most of the girls. I should be terribly grieved if our Jeannie were to be the cause of pain to her old friend. Our girl is too young yet to know her own mind, and I should be glad to see a few more years pass over her head before she chooses a partner for life."
"She could never choose one more suitable in every way than Jack Corry," persisted Mrs. Bellew. "If he had any little feeling towards Norah Guiness, and it has passed away, we cannot help that. Better he should find out his mistake before it is too late, for both their sakes. She is a good girl, but she is not like Jeannie," added the mother, with conscious pride in her darling.
"No, she is not like Jeannie," echoed Mr. Bellew; and he did not wonder at any man being charmed by his daughter.
All the same, he felt sorry for Norah, very sorry. He hoped she did not think much about Jack Corry. At any rate, he could not interfere, though he sighed and shook his head, as if he were by no means satisfied at the present state of things.
CHAPTER III.
JACK'S attentions gratified Jeannie for several reasons. First, because she would have found home a dull place without the flattery to which she had of late become accustomed. Secondly, because he was in every sense superior to any other young man in the neighbourhood; and lastly, perhaps most of all, because his devotion would render her an object of envy to all her girl acquaintances.
So Jeannie smiled on Jack and encouraged him in the prettiest, most artless fashion, without troubling her head about results, and probably thinking, as she had done of others, that she might amuse herself very pleasantly for a while, and there would be no harm done. She would be going away again, and if Jack should care a little, he would get over it when she was fairly out of sight. There would be plenty ready to console him. He might go back to Norah. Poor Norah!
Jeannie had heard of Jack's attentions in that quarter whilst she was away, and as her thoughts ran over the details, she smiled to herself at the ease with which she had drawn him from his allegiance. A look of triumph and gratified vanity accompanied the smile, as Jeannie stood passing her white fingers through her dainty ribbons, and surveying her face in an opposite mirror.
The look changed to one of half-contemptuous pity as she turned away and said to herself—
"No wonder Norah is such a dowdy in her country-made gowns and her old-fashioned cloth jacket. Jack really has very good taste in dress for a man. He notices every little change that I make, and always admires it. I should be very dull without Jack here."
If, however, Jeannie thought of simply making a convenience of her country admirer, she found herself mistaken. Jack was very much in earnest, fascinated by the pretty face, the sweet manners, the childlike graces, the general refinement that marked every act of hers. He had spoken frankly to Mr. and Mrs. Bellew, and made sure of their approval, though the former did not give it until he had plainly asked Jack if there had been any kind of engagement between him and Norah Guiness.
"I would not utter that dear girl's name in such a connection," he said; "but for my own daughter's sake everything must be plain and above-board. You were a great deal at the Guinesses' last winter, and people were talking."
Jack blushed violently, but declared, with perfect truth, that he had never said a word of love to Norah; that he thought she was one of the best girls in the world, and they were such old acquaintances. Surely he might go in and out without people gossiping, especially as there were not many houses he dare go to in an unrestrained manner.
"The boys are so nice I made them quite chums," said Jack; "and as to dear old Mr. Guiness, I used to delight in those fireside talks with him. We were always all together. I never spent an hour with Norah alone. But it is always the same in these country places. I have been given to every girl within twenty miles, and my own consent never asked. Isn't it a shame? So just to stop everybody's mouth, or to give the people something true to talk about for once, do say that you will consent to our engagement, if Jeannie says 'Yes' when I ask her. I will be contented to wait your time and hers."
Mr. Bellew offered no further opposition. Jack's wooing was continued, and, with Mrs. Bellew as his friend, soon came to what appeared a satisfactory conclusion.
Jeannie strongly objected to uttering the affirmative which would bind her to Jack Corry, and pleaded how short a time she had been at home. To this the answer was easy.
"It would be too short if we had met as strangers, dear; but we have known each other all our lives."
Jeannie reflected a little. She had gained a complete triumph in winning Jack. He was really nicer than anybody she knew. He promised that she should not be teased or hurried into matrimony. So if she did get tired of him, or if she were after all to see somebody who was a great deal nicer still, she could plead her youth and ignorance of her own mind. Everything would come right. Things always did come right for her.
So she let her little hand lie in Jack's manly palm as she gave a sort of consent, enjoying in a fashion the romance of being engaged to such a fine fellow whilst she was barely eighteen.
What a talk there would be! What congratulations from everybody! And lots of them would not be real; but, anyway, for a while, Jeannie knew that she would be the great centre of interest in and around Ballycorene. She wondered how Norah would look when she called.
This engagement took place just two months after Jeannie's return, and about the middle of June. Jack would have been perfectly happy but for certain twinges of conscience concerning Norah Guiness. He could not recall the conversation with Mr. Bellew, and feel comfortable. He had told nothing but the truth in reply to that gentleman's questions, yet he knew that he had not told the whole truth. Hitherto, anything like duplicity had been foreign to Jack's nature, and he had many a bad quarter of an hour when he looked into the past and when absent from Jeannie. With her, he forgot all but herself, and what a happy fellow he was to have won such a charming creature.
A true-hearted girl can picture for herself what Norah Guiness would feel at this time. A small, vain, selfish nature could never realise such a trial, and an attempt to describe it would be lost time.
How the girl schooled herself into outward calmness; how she prayed for the power to repress every angry and envious thought against Jack Corry and Jeannie; how she strove to fill up time and thoughts by caring, if possible, more and better for her father and the boys, may be named but not described.
If there was one ray of comfort for her, surely she had it in the knowledge that during all those past months when Jack had seemed to find his chief happiness in her society, she could recall no word or act of her own that gave her cause for regret, or that was unbecoming a pure-minded girl.
She determined to go to Benvora, see Jeannie, and offer her good wishes.
"Thank God, I can do that in all sincerity!" she said to herself.
On the way she met Jack and Jeannie, and in sight of two of the most arrant gossips Ballycorene could boast, was enabled to lift her honest face to theirs, shake hands with each, and say the kind words she had meant to say in a less public place.
The worst seemed over now they had met. Jeannie was effusively affectionate to Nora, Jack vastly cheered by her calmness and the smile with which she succeeded in meeting his somewhat conscious looks. Then, as Norah declined to go on to Benvora, the others, who were going in her direction, joined her, and they walked together until they reached her home.
On the whole this outdoor meeting was fortunate, and took the sting out of some gossiping tongues. People might have their opinions about Jack Corry's conduct, but as Norah had been seen with him and Jeannie Bellew, and apparently on the old friendly terms, surely they had no right to take up cudgels on her behalf.
There was one, only one, who named Jack to Norah, her eldest brother, Roderick, or Rory, as he was generally called, a lad of fifteen, who almost worshipped his sister.
"Norah," he said, "I am horribly disappointed in Jack Corry. I thought him the finest fellow in the world—one that could not do a mean thing to save his life. But he is a deceitful wretch, and I hate him! If I were a man, he should pay for his conduct to you, my darling."
The boy flung his arms round Norah's neck and held her in a passionate embrace, while he kissed her again and again. She felt her cheek moist with the tears he could not restrain, and was comforted by the thought of the home affections that were so fully hers. She returned the boy's caresses, and passed her hand tenderly over his curly head as she said—
"Rory, dear lad, you must not talk of hating Jack. He was always good to you boys and to all of us, when his time was not so taken up as it is now. You must not expect him to leave Jeannie for you."
"For me, indeed! as if I cared! It is for you, Norah, you, that I am grieved and angry. He was always coming after you, not to see us, we knew that well enough, and everybody said so. They used to joke and smile about Jack having lost his heart at last, and then they would say, 'He will have the sweetest girl in Ballycorene—God bless her!'"
"How sweet it is to think that people think so kindly of me!" said Norah, turning a bright face to Rory. "But they were wrong. They know better now whom Jack wanted."
"He did not care for Jeannie Bellew then. And if he did not care for you, why did he pretend to do so? You have told us boys many a time that truth was a thing of deeds as well as words, and that we could lie without uttering a syllable. Jack Corry lied in action for months and months, and he knows it. If I could only pay him out!"
"Rory, my darling, this is hardest of all. I cannot bear even for you to speak about Jack and me in that way." And Norah covered her face with her hands, and sobbed bitterly.
Rory was full of remorse; he lavished the tenderest expressions on his sister, begged her to forgive him, and declared he would never speak on the subject again. For the boy's sake Norah tried to conquer her emotion, and at length so far succeeded that she could reply calmly:
"Perhaps it is as well, dear, that there is one person in the world I can open my heart to. I should never have had courage to name him as you have done. It is a comfort to know how my boy loves his sister, and feels for and with her. These last two months have been very dreadful, Rory, but I am better, now it is really all over. He could not help it; Jeannie is so pretty and winning, and I am like a country sparrow by the side of—what bird shall I say, Rory?—a bird of paradise, compared with her in all her plumage."
"Fine feathers make fine birds. She is not fit to tie your shoe," growled Rory.
"Never mind. I have a dear friend in you as well as a brother, a friend whom I can trust at all times. And though we will not talk of it, we shall know there is one secret just between us two that will not be breathed to anyone else in the world."
The thought of Norah's confidence in him, above all others, soothed Rory. They sealed the compact with a kiss, and Jack Corry's conduct was named no more between them, though neither forgot it or was likely to do so.
For a month after his engagement to Jeannie was made public, Norah met the two from time to time, and could not help noticing that whilst Jack's devotion increased, his fiancée seemed rather to tolerate than appreciate it. Then came the conversation between the two girls, in which Jeannie alluded to the probability of her having to leave home again by the doctor's orders, and Norah heard the careless words that have been already recorded: the wish to stay at Benvora in peace or to be able to take away with her, father, mother, 'Jet' the pony, Norah herself, any person, anything but Jack Curry.
It was hard to think she could be in earnest when she said, "The one sweet drop in my cup of banishment is the thought that I shall leave Jack Corry behind me. He bores me to death."
Could it be possible that after all the affection was one-sided, that Jeannie had entered upon the engagement without any real love for Jack, and only as a means of amusing herself and occupying her idle hours?
"You ought not to speak of Jack in such a way," said Norah. "If I were a mischief-maker, and were to repeat words which you do not mean, but which would grieve him terribly, what then?"
"I shall say what I like. I mean every word I do say. You are not a mischief-maker, and would not make mischief to save your own life; but if you were to repeat what you consider my naughty speech to Jack, he would not believe me in earnest—more's the pity. I have told him the same thing myself a score of times. He will not be driven away. So you see, dear there is no alternative but for me to leave him."
"You cannot be in earnest, Jeannie. You would never think of treating Jack in such a manner, when you know how he cares for you, and looks on the engagement between you as the most solemn that can be entered into."
"You look solemn enough, Norah," said Jeannie, lightly. "Let me tell you this engagement, into which I was fairly worried by my mother and Jack together, sits lightly on my conscience. I only meant it as a bit of innocent flirtation; it is they who have made a serious affair of it, not I."
"Think what poor Jack would feel if he heard you," said Norah, shocked and grieved at the heartless speech.
"If Jack is made to feel a little, it will do him good, I hope, and teach him to know his own mind. Has he never flirted, I wonder?"
Jeannie gave a meaning look at Norah, then seeing the rising flush on her friend's face, she added, "You can remember that Jack's name has been coupled with that of first one girl, then another, for years and years past."
"Not seriously, Jeannie. A real engagement was never spoken of until you and Jack entered into one."
"Well, I did not want this to be a real one, either. All the same, it has been pleasant enough to have poor Jack at my beck and call, seeing there is really no one else about here that I should care to employ in the same manner, and I have become used to such attentions now. But, Norah, do you remember those balls we used to play with that had a piece of elastic fastened to them? We threw them, but we could always draw them back at will. I have always kept my affections discreetly in check, and, like that old toy, I never let them go so far that I cannot recall them at will."
Norah sat listening like one in a dream. She had schooled herself to suffer in silence; nay, she had by persistent effort put self out of sight, and looking into her own true heart could say that she honestly wished and prayed for the lasting happiness of these two, believing that they loved each other. To think that she had battled, suffered, conquered in vain, and that this girl, so young, so innocent and winsome to all appearance, could have deliberately set herself to gain Jack Corry's heart, only to wound it and fling it back to him!
The girl could not speak at first. She sat for a few moments, then, without allusion to their conversation, she rose, and in a dazed, mechanical way, said she must go home.
Jeannie went forward to kiss her and say good-bye, but Norah did not, could not return the caress. She started, though, as if a serpent had stung her when Jeannie whispered, "Don't be angry, dear. I only borrowed Jack for a little while; you shall have him back for altogether."
The words and careless smile were too much for Norah. She flung Jeannie's hand from her, and, with flashing eyes and righteous indignation at the girl who had so outraged both friendship and affection, said, "How dare you say such words to me!"
There was no sign of shrinking or timidity in Norah then, as she stood at her full height, looking down, both physically and morally, on the fair form which held so small and selfish a nature. At sight of her, Jeannie flushed, paled, trembled, and then stammered out, "Surely you are not angry at my little joke!"
"Joke!" said Norah. "Do you call it a jest to trifle with the purest, holiest feelings that God has given us the power to entertain one towards another? Is it a jest to bring a man to your feet, to induce him to lay bare his heart, to offer you his affection, to devote all that is best in him, and all that he has to your service, and then to mock him? Mock him, did I say? To wound him cruelly, to take the courage, the joy, hope, sunshine, out of his life—and for what? Not because you valued the priceless gift he had to offer, or that you wanted it. But you did want the paltry satisfaction of showing your power over this man, of being the envied of many, because everyone liked him; of using him in order to make your idle hours pass more quickly; of preventing any other girl from possessing the honest love which many would have prized, though you did not know its value. As to your whispered insult to myself, I have no answer for such words; they are too contemptible. We are not likely soon to meet again, but, as my farewell words, let me say: Think, Jeannie, before you decide to spoil Jack Corry's life, or your own may be saddened by bitter memories that you will never be able to banish while it lasts."
Norah waited for no reply, but almost fled from Jeannie's presence, and hurried homeward, to relieve her outraged feelings in the quiet of her own room.
A smaller nature might have rejoiced that Jack was likely to be doubly repaid for the pain he had caused herself. But Norah's was not a small soul, and she could distinguish the difference between Jack's conduct in yielding to temptation, and Jeannie's actual treachery. Like the high souled girl she was, Norah would have saved Jack from suffering, even at the cost of bearing herself a double burden, though she sighed as the thought came, "Poor Jack! Jeannie could not make him truly happy."
As to Jeannie, she was frightened and angry by turns as she recalled Norah's searching words and reproof, but not sorry.
She tossed her pretty head, and said to herself, "What right had she to take me to task? It is just her jealousy, because Jack left her for me. She shall not have a chance of rating at me again. She may think what she likes; I do not care."
The spirit of the spoiled child, the heiress, and the successful flirt, rose to the occasion. Jeannie decided that after all she had the best of it, and she smiled at the idea of a coming triumph.
The doctor had decreed that she must go away for a month. Jeannie resolved that many months should pass before she returned to Benvora, and took means to hasten her departure—a thing she well knew how to manage.
Needless to say, there was no farewell between her and Norah Guiness; but in parting with Jack Corry she made her feelings sufficiently plain.
How it all came about the gossips never knew, but first there was a whisper about a broken engagement, and then the report was boldly spread that Jack Corry had been summarily dismissed by his fickle little fiancée, who was off to foreign parts again.
Mr. Bellew went away for a time with his wife and daughter, so no one could note how he took the changed aspect of affairs; but those who knew his kind heart gave him credit for the best feelings towards Jack, and not a little regret for Jeannie's conduct.
The question that stirred most minds was how Jack would bear it. Would he get over this blow, and find consolation elsewhere? Would he go back to Norah? And if so, would she forgive him? How would it all end?
Some said, "Jack deserved the treatment he had received," but most felt more kindly towards their old favourite, and were sorry for him.
No one had an opportunity of judging for some little time, for Jack Corry was not to be seen or spoken with. Whether he was at home or not, no one seemed to know, but he was denied to all who inquired for him there.
About a fortnight after the departure of the Bellews, Norah Guiness was returning home after a long walk, when she was caught in a heavy shower. She kept on her way, and, as there seemed little prospect that the rain would cease, she decided to take a short cut through a wood.
Her mind was full of sad thoughts, her heart aching at the remembrance of all that had come and gone in a few short months, when a little turn in the path brought her close to Jack Corry. Such a changed Jack! The light seemed to have left his eyes, the gladness to be gone from his face, and he was pale and weary-looking.
Norah was shocked at the alteration in the fine, gallant young fellow, who had so often brought brightness to their fireside by his cheery ways, and she held out her hand in the old kindly fashion.
Jack took it, and clasping it in both his, stood for a moment without speaking. Then he said:
"You know what has happened, Norah?"
"Yes, Jack. I am so sorry!"
Her lips quivered, her kind eyes filled as she noted the tremulous voice, and the poor ghost of a smile as he looked in hers.
"Thank God! I can believe you yet. Sometimes I feel as if there was no truth in the world, when I remember how simple and innocent she seemed. And she was playing with my heart like a worthless toy, and never cared for me, never! I should have been miserable if she had become my wife, but I am miserable without her. I was true to—to—"
He turned away, unable to utter the name of the girl who had deceived him; and for the first time the full sense of his own conduct to Norah came to his mind, though conscience had reproached him before.
The girl stood weeping quietly, heedless of rain, of everything but Jack's misery, and her own longing to comfort him. She was pained to hear the man's sobs, and then a hollow, racking cough which followed them.
"Jack," she said, "you must not stay in this rain. Your clothes are soaked already. You have taken cold and need care."
"Why should I care?" he replied. "I have spent nearly all my time in this wood since she left; one night I fell asleep under a tree, and woke in the morning soaked through with dew."
"Jack, you are killing yourself!" cried Norah. "Come home with me. We can get to the house without being noticed, and my father and the boys will make you welcome."
How she succeeded in persuading him she could not tell; perhaps her firm hold of his arm was comforting; at any rate, he let her guide him where she would.
It was evident to Mr. Guiness that Jack was fearfully ill, and, owing to reckless exposure of himself, already in a condition of great danger, and hardly responsible for his actions. The doctor confirmed his worst fears. Jack was suffering from inflammation of the lungs; he came of delicate parents, who had died young, and it soon became evident that he had gone to Mr. Guiness's home to die also. Well for him that in his last days he had tender nurses, and was surrounded by true and loving hearts, for the boys, seeing their former friend so pitifully changed could think of nothing but their old happy times together, and even Rory was able to forgive him. It seemed terrible for the lads to think of death in connection with him who had been their model of all that was manly.
"You have forgiven me, Norah? May God bless you, and make you very happy!" said Jack, on the day he died. For answer she bent and kissed the dying lips again and again, and her kind hand was the last that Jack clasped in his.
It was only after the grave closed over him that Norah knew all Jack's remorse on her account. But for Jeannie's wiles their two lives might have been united and happy; but he had loved the little flirt in spite of reason and conscience, and he had paid the penalty. He had, however, made a will three days before he and Norah met in the wood, and to her absolute use he had bequeathed his ample means. He had no near relatives, and his wealth was at his own disposal. In Norah's hands, he knew it would prove a blessing not only to her father and the boys, but to all the poor and friendless within her reach.
Many were the tears she shed by Jack's last resting-place, and gladly would she have given up the wealth he had endowed her with, could he have taken it and lived to use it. She has had suitors many since he died, but they have wooed in vain. Most people think that she has no love to give, and that her heart is buried with Jack.
As to Jeannie, she made a little capital out of her late fiancée's death, and told, in confidence, a little sentimental tale about his devotion and the affection she found herself unable to return as it deserved. It was to a new admirer she told it, and as she wiped away a tear or two she added—
"No doubt my parents were wise to part us. Dear Jack came of a delicate family. He could have had no strength of constitution, or a mere cold would not have killed him. He left all his money to a girl who professed to be my friend, but—"
And then Jeannie stopped, as if she could have told another tale of treachery, but would not.
Later on in the day she listened with apparently artless surprise and pleasure whilst the new admirer sang a quaint little song, in which were these words, glancing the while at the Jeannie present—
"'Where's the way to Jeannie's heart?
That I canna answer;
Here about or there about,
Find it if you can, sir.'"
If the singer had known all!
Girl-readers of this story would doubtless be better pleased if Jeannie had been punished a little, than mated with somebody else, or if she had died instead of poor Jack, and Jack had lived to marry Norah, and be happy ever after. But such an ending would have failed to teach a much-needed lesson, and to show what cruel suffering is brought on true hearts by what girls are in the habit of calling "a mere flirtation." Through such conduct many a man has lost faith in the simplicity and innocence of girlhood and in womanly truth, and has become hard and cynical. He has lived perhaps for many a year—for such wounds do not always kill—but only half a life, since it has been embittered and robbed of its best affections.
Does any girl ask, "Is it possible that one ever lived and acted like Jeannie Bellew?"
I answer "Yes." The portrait is drawn from life, and is given in its natural repulsiveness, that it may prove a warning against flirtation.