Part 6

“Yes, and I’ll wear the pearl necklace. I’ve not been to a dance for a year; it seems too good to be true!”

After all, it was Mrs. Hooper who chaperoned me to the dance (much against the grain), and good-natured Colonel Hooper who introduced me to partners. I spent a delightful evening, my card was filled in five minutes, and I could have danced every dance three times. I gave four waltzes to Mr. Sandars, and, for once, tasted the pleasures of a social success! In fact, I overhead whispers of, “What a pretty girl! Who is she?” and the invariable answer was, “_Mrs. Hooper’s governess_.”

But Mrs. Hooper was not pleased with her governess. Indeed the following morning she informed me that I had made myself too shockingly conspicuous, and was altogether such _bad_ style; and kindly Teesie threw oil upon the flames, for a little later Mrs. Hooper, looking white and austere, came to me, and said in her most impressive manner, and in her deepest tone:

“Miss Harlowe, is it _true_ that you have met Mr. Sandars in the upper Mall, and that he said you did not look happy--and asked you about the pearls?”

“He said I did not look _well_,” I corrected, “and as to the pearls, that was merely an old joke.”

“Bring them to me at once!” she commanded authoritatively. I brought them obediently, and placed them in her hands. “They were remarked on last night,” she announced, “someone said the Viceroy’s wife had no better! Yes,” turning them over as she spoke, “they _are_ real,” and her voice vibrated with indignation, “real; splendid, and worth thousands! How can a governess on forty pounds a year afford such? But that is easily--too easily--explained. Mr. Sandars is the explanation--he gave them to you, of course! He was your partner most of last evening--it’s simply disgraceful! Now look here,” breathing hard, “I give you three days’ notice, a month’s salary, and you get out of my house!”

Mrs. Hooper absolutely refused to listen to _any_ explanation. She would not allow me to speak. Crimson in the face, and hoarse with passion, she reiterated:

“You assured me that they were imitation! I know better now! It is _you_ who are the imitation--the imitation of a decent, respectable young woman. I believe your references were forged!”

Luckily the children were at a party, not listening (as usual) at the other side of the portière, and I had the whole afternoon to myself. I wrote home, and also to Mrs. Mason, and carried my letters down to the post-office, as I intended to dispatch a wire. On the hill I came face to face with Mr. Sandars.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, as he paused and surveyed me, “so you have been crying!”

I informed him that I had just been summarily dismissed, and all because Mrs. Hooper believed that I had not come honestly by the pearls. I also proceeded to tell him how nearly they had been stolen on two occasions, although they were worthless--and that there was certainly something peculiar about them--at any rate, they had brought me bad luck.

“It is extraordinary,” he assented, “and I cannot make it out! The pearls look magnificent. I noticed them last night; and yet you bought them yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and my sister was with me. I know the very shop in Regent Street.”

“Ah well, never mind the pearls _now_!” he exclaimed with an air of almost fierce determination.

“No, and I shall certainly not wear them in my next situation,” I replied.

“Your next situation?” he repeated.

“I think Mrs. Mason knows of one that will suit me.”

“If it comes to that--so do _I_.”

I stared at him in amazement. Then, with a gesture of impatience, he resumed, “Look here, I can’t talk to you here among this buzzing crowd” (we were now close to the landing-stage); “come out on the lake with me for ten minutes. Never mind Mrs. Hooper or Mrs. Grundy.”

When he had rowed some distance in dead silence, he suddenly rested on his oars and confronted me with a serious face.

“Miss Harlowe,” he said, “I’ve brought you out here, where you cannot escape, to ask you to marry me. Yes, no wonder you start--but listen. Ever since I first saw you, from the moment you sat down at table opposite to me looking so timid and white, I’ve been in love with you. My uncle knew all about it; he, too, experienced your charm, but he urged me to go slow--you were so young and so inexperienced. He improved your acquaintance in those long board-ship walks and talks, and made me furiously jealous; and as to that Bilton fellow, who started such running at first, I felt inclined to pick a quarrel and pitch him overboard. Perhaps you don’t know that I am ridiculously rich; I wish I wasn’t; it sounds a funny thing to say, but money is an immense responsibility, and Uncle Tom said I was bound to marry a girl who had a head on her shoulders, who could hold her own in society and be a help--and that you were a mere inexperienced child. However, he soon altered that opinion. He found you modest, accomplished, dignified and sensible. The next objection was far more serious. He declared that you did not care a brass button about _me_.”

It was not for me to enlighten him, and after a pause he gravely continued:

“You never seemed to mind which of us you talked to--indeed, of the two, you were far more confidential and friendly with the General, and never gave _me_ any encouragement. However, I just ran up here to see you. I have had your face before me all the time I’ve been away shooting, and I seem to have arrived at what they call the psychological moment--when your affairs have come to a crisis; and the upshot of this long story is--will you marry me?”

Subsequently we spent an exciting quarter of an hour explaining, arguing, urging, and protesting, for somehow though I felt desperately agitated, and most unspeakably happy, I was frightened by his money and the responsibilities of my future ‘position.’ However, as might be supposed, it ended in my landing at the boat-house the _fiancée_ of Alaric Sandars, and it was promptly arranged by my future lord and master that I was to go straight to the Osbornes as soon as I had put some things together, and there make my preparations for an immediate departure to England.

* * * * *

“Now that we have despatched our wires, letters, secured passages, and done no end of fagging things--including my interview with Mrs. Hooper--let us discuss the great pearl mystery,” said Alaric, as we paced up and down Mrs. Osborne’s long verandah, whilst the monsoon torrents poured and splashed outside. “You say you never had them out of your hands but once--and when was that?”

“The day before I sailed,” I replied, “when I was in London with Linda, I broke the string, and we went out and left the necklace at a shop, a middling sort of jewellers, near our middling sort of hotel, and said we would call back for it that evening, which we did. It was getting dusk, and after a little delay a woman, whom I had not seen before, found the pearls and handed them to me; the charge was three shillings, and we thought it extravagant for just a string of cotton!”

“I see it! I see light!” exclaimed Alaric, coming to a standstill. “By mistake, she gave you another necklace--a necklace of real pearls--and has never been able to trace it! Letty, it must be our first business, when we get home, to find this woman, and restore the treasure-trove.”

* * * * *

Alaric faithfully fulfilled his promise; he and Linda and I, after some difficulty, discovered the jeweller’s shop, but it was closed and “To Let.” We enquired for the late tenant, and were informed that his name was Hobhouse; he had had a lot of trouble, become a bankrupt, and completely disappeared. After long and vexatious delay we eventually traced the man to a small seaside town, where he was endeavouring to earn money as a working jeweller, whilst his wife took in a humble class of summer lodgers. In a little formal row of thin red-brick houses we knocked at number nine, and the door was opened by Mrs. Hobhouse herself. When she beheld us she turned a ghastly colour.

“Tom, it’s _them_!” she screamed to someone in the back of the premises, “the two girls come at last!” Then she staggered into a musty little sitting-room and collapsed on the sofa in floods of hysterical tears. Her husband now joined us, a thin, careworn man, who was evidently trembling with agitation. As soon as Mrs. Hobhouse could speak (she subsequently did all the talking) she informed us that a most valuable heirloom had been entrusted to her husband for some slight repairs. It was a family treasure, but her ladyship knew that Hobhouse was as honest as the sun. In the dusk she herself had given me the treasure by mistake, and next day handed the mock pearls to the countess! Of course there was an awful outcry--terrible work. Hobhouse had done everything he could to trace me; employed detectives, and advertised far and wide--even to America--but all to no purpose. They were sued by the countess, who had been deprived of her ancestral pearls--and implacably sold up.

Ruined alike in money and credit--and that just as they were beginning to make a start--no one would believe them--no, not their own relatives; but all the world wondered what they had done with the Warrenford pearls?

I handed them over to Hobhouse when he entered, and never, never shall I forget his gasp of relief. (Strange to say, my own imitation pearls still remained in their possession, and when I departed I carried them away.) Poor people, their joy, ecstasy, and thankfulness was touching; for my own part, I felt painfully overwhelmed as I listened to the list of extraordinary misfortunes of which _I_ had been the unconscious cause.

That same evening I wrote to Lady Warrenford, the owner of the pearls; and thanks to her good offices, and a substantial cheque from Alaric, Mr. and Mrs. Hobhouse are once more reinstated, and doing a flourishing business.

Linda and I are no longer Miss Harlowe and Miss Letty Harlowe, but Mrs. Fortescue and Mrs. Sandars. It is Miss Pinfold’s proud boast that her prophecy respecting _me_ has been nobly fulfilled; thanks to her urgent entreaties and advice, I was persuaded to adventure to India, and, as a natural consequence, had made a magnificent match!

I have no doubt that my inquisitive maid marvels, when arranging the famous Sandars’ diamonds and other jewels, she finds treasured among these, a string of very ordinary imitation pearls.

But thereby hangs a tale!

V

THE HELPER

“THE POWER BEHIND THE PEN”

When the Reverend Maurice Hay died suddenly of heart failure, his parishioners were full of solicitude and sympathy for his orphan girls, Rose and Josephine, who, in spite of youth and good looks, were very popular in Dullditch and its neighbourhood. As it was understood that they had no fortune beyond their pretty faces, no investments, except certain paltry accomplishments, their affairs naturally furnished a subject of burning interest; the villagers laid their heads together, and wondered what on earth the Hay girls were to do! Lady helps, lady nurses, companions, typists, these attractive and genteel posts were urged upon them, but the Hays decided that they would go together to London, and endeavour to find work as artists. The community disapproved and remonstrated--singly, in couples, and by letter. When these good-natured efforts proved unavailing, it was remembered that the Vicar’s daughters had foreign blood in their veins; their mother’s father was an Italian, and an Italian painter--two facts much to be deplored. His queer, roving, Bohemian ideas were manifesting themselves in his descendants; yet it was admitted that the Hay girls had some taste for drawing. Rose’s clever black-and-white sketches decorated most of her friends’ albums; Josephine painted quite recognisable miniatures--gratis. She had curly brown locks, a merry, round face, a pink-and-white complexion, and resembled one of Cosway’s masterpieces.

Rose, with her dark hair and eyes, and ivory skin, was like her own particular branch of art, a charming study in black and white.

The sisters had no near relatives, no one to advise, help, or control them; with regard to their future plans, they were not merely determined, but sanguine. It was their intention to settle in London, and with a few good introductions, and plenty of hard work, they expected to make their fortune, and by and by fly down to visit dear old Dullditch, in a splendid 45 h.p. motor-car!

Those who had interest through friends--or even friends’ friends--wrote letters, and did their utmost to give the orphans a start; and before very long, armed with introductions and fortified with advice, they departed full of hope and ambition. At first they dispatched glowing descriptions of their “upper part,” the cheapness of London, the numbers and quality of their invitations--and orders; but two years had now passed, correspondence had languished, letters had ceased to arrive at Dullditch, and there was no sign whatever of the 45 h.p. motor-car!

The truth was, the young amateurs had ceased to be a novelty--other more interesting strangers had arrived. London likes a change, the Hays had lost their hold on their little circle; their spirits and good looks were clouded, orders and invitations had become painfully rare, and in the pushing, hustling world the two pretty sisters were thrust aside, and forgotten.

* * * * *

It was a wet November evening, and Josephine Hay sat by a fire of cheap, bad coal, awaiting her sister’s return from an errand in the City. Their home was the upper part of a shabby little house in West Kensington; here they rented two rooms, back and front, as well as a den on the stairs, which served for cooking--when there was anything to cook. The front apartment was dining-, sitting-room, and studio combined; a deal table, covered with drawing materials, stood in either window, a decrepit horsehair sofa and a deformed cane chair were drawn up to the fire, and between them was placed a tray, with tea-things, as well as half a stale loaf and a pot of apple and blackberry jam.

By the capricious gleams of the smouldering coals, Josephine was counting the contents of her lean leather purse; count as she would, including coppers and one stamp, the grand total came to one pound, three shillings, and seven pence.

She hastily snapped the purse, and turned on the light, as the door opened to admit her sister, who was a wet and miserable spectacle.

“Oh, Rosie, you are drowned!” she cried.

“Not quite”--coming forward and putting down a flat parcel; “it is a dreadful night.” As she spoke, she peeled off her damp gloves with tender care, and then proceeded to remove her boots. Meanwhile Josephine prepared to make tea.

“There’s a boot for you!” Rose said, exhibiting a small dilapidated specimen; “it’s like a cullender--they both are; no charwoman would own them!”

“And your stockings are soaking!”

“Oh, they will dry on,” was the courageous answer, and she held her well-darned hose to the fire.

“No luck, I suppose?” said Josephine after a moment’s silence.

“None--I’ll tell you all about it, as soon as I’ve had my tea. I’m so thirsty, and so hungry--and----” Here she reached for the loaf and began to cut it.

“And tired,” said her sister, concluding the sentence; “you walked home, Rose, and it’s five long miles.”

“No, I took a penn’orth of bus--instead of a bun--and now I’ll take it out of the loaf, O housekeeper. Ah!” raising a cup of tea to her lips, “this is delicious. I was thinking of this happy moment, as I paddled along in the rain.--What have you done, Joe?”

“I went to Queen’s Gate with the miniatures, and saw Miss Wiggin. She was _so_ disagreeable, and cross and dissatisfied. She said it was not the least like her--or if it is, she had no idea she was so plain.”

“I could have told her that,” declared Rose.

“And--she supposed, as it was an order--and she muttered something about charity, which I could not afford to hear--that she must take it--when it was altered to her satisfaction. She insists on a better complexion, and a new nose; so I have brought it home instead of the three guineas--and I know I shall never please her. How did you fare?”

“Much the same! It has been a bad day altogether. I took my illustrations of ‘A Drowned Girl’s Diary’ to Puffit & Smack, and the Art Editor, a superior young man, with a pince-nez and a high-pitched nose, received the sketches between two disdainful fingers, and then examined them through his glasses, and said:

“‘Dear me, Miss Hay! These will never do. You have no idea of anatomy; this girl has two elbows in her arm--and the man is a freak! The editor has complained of your work, and--er--I’m really afraid we cannot--er--accept any more of it; you might try the comic papers.’”

“Oh dear!” ejaculated the housekeeper.

“Fancy his attempting to be funny, whilst he took the bread out of my mouth. The _Week End_ is my only employer, since the _Kestrel_ dropped me--and died.”

“And Miss Wiggin assured _me_ that I need not expect any further orders from her friends; she was in earnest, and a temper, so what are we to do?”

“Ask old Mrs. Mote to lend us five pounds--or go out and sell matches?”

“Oh, Joe, I’d rather sell matches. I should hate to borrow, though she is a dear old thing. Our affairs would be all over Dullditch.”

“If we are found in a garret starved to death, and the fact is printed in scare lines in the _Daily Mail_, our affairs will also be the talk of the village; however, never say die! I’ve brought back the sketches, and I’ll have another try--it means twenty-five shillings.”

“And the rent,” said Josephine. “I cannot understand how we do so badly--we got on swimmingly at first; visitors, orders, promises, payment, theatre tickets, invitations--and _now_!”

“People were kind. We were new, unsophisticated, fresh and green from the country; but only a pair of clever, self-confident amateurs. We have done our best; it is not in us to do more--to excel.”

“Unless we could go over to Paris, and work there.”

“Might as well talk of going to heaven.”

“Goodness knows I work hard,” continued Josephine, with a catch in her breath; “I study all the pictures I can, I run into the National Gallery on free days, and stare, and ponder, and wish, and wonder; but it’s all something so far above me--Genius--Genius--Genius!”

Her sister nodded a grave assent.

“I hear girls talking of effect, and atmosphere, and technique, but there is something spiritual in Art, and in the work of great masters; it seems such a waste of a precious gift, when they die, and their marvellous power is lost to the world for ever. Oh, if they could only bequeath their faculties as they bequeath their riches! How grateful I should be for a tiny legacy--even for a crumb.”

“And so should I,” agreed Rose, “the smallest contribution thankfully received; unfortunately there is no use in wishing. We are just a dull, plodding, stupid couple, who have exhausted our resources, and the patience of our--friends. I begin to see myself returning to ‘the Ditch,’ as mother’s help to Mrs. Gull, the baker’s wife; there I shall at least be sure of a roof and bread. Well, there is no use in looking at the worst side of a picture. To-morrow I intend to make a fresh start; I shall copy your figure, and if you like you may borrow my nose, for the miniature. It is nice and straight--my best feature.”

“Really, Rose, you are wonderful!” exclaimed her sister. “What spirits you have!--no matter what happens, they never seem to sink.”

“I hope we shall both _swim_--some day,” she answered, rising as she spoke. “And now that my petticoats and stockings are dry, I am going to bed.”

* * * * *

“’Pon my word--eh--it’s really--er--yes, quite good!” exclaimed the Art Editor. “Comes all right this time, Miss Hay; it only wanted a little pains, you see! You were getting slack. This is one of your best drawings--so much life in it--the anatomy correct--excellent. Did anyone help you?” and he gave her a sharp glance over his glasses.

“Oh no, indeed,” she replied eagerly, “it is entirely my own work.”

“Is that so?” he answered dubiously. “I must confess that people would hardly credit that this lifeless performance,” drawing out a former sketch, “and this,” tapping her latest production, “were the work of the same hand. One is the well-meant attempt of an amateur, the other is the--ah, I will not flatter you to your face--it is capital.”

“I am so glad you are pleased,” said Rose, with a tinge of colour in her pale face--praise and encouragement were indeed rare. “Am I to do the remainder?” she added timidly.

“Oh yes, but in your later style; you may always depend upon commissions if you stick to that. I expect you would like a little cheque,” and he sat down and scribbled one for twenty-five shillings; then, as he handed it to her, he cleared his throat, and said, “To be quite frank, this was intended to have been your last payment--but now that you have shown what you can accomplish, when you _try_, I hope we shall continue to do business together. It,” and he smiled, “was rather a narrow squeak. I cannot think why you have hitherto hid your light under a bushel. This sketch,” once more examining it, “is--er--really quite good.”

Here, as the telephone rang passionately, he offered his hand with an air of graceful dismissal, and bowed her to the door.

“Twenty-five shillings and compliments,” announced Rose, as she handed the little cheque to her sister.

“Three guineas--and gush!” rejoined Josephine, with a delighted laugh. “Miss Wiggin is enchanted with your nose--highly flattered, and said it was so admirably truthful to life! She took the miniature away to the drawing-room, and exhibited it to some friends--then she called me in. A man who was an artist talked of ‘fine technical achievement,’ ‘a subtle interpretation of a personality,’ and other grand terms. The main thing was, he _liked_ it; and I received two orders. Miss Wiggin was so fascinated with her picture, she kept looking, and looking at it, and could not bear to put it down. She has ordered another copy, and she asked me such an odd question.”

“Your age?--your dressmaker’s address?”

“No, you silly, silly girl, but if I had painted it myself?”

“And you replied, ‘Of course--who else?’”

“Yes, but she said, ‘The reason I ask is, that it is so _very_ superior to your general work--such dash--and yet such finish.’

“I can see that myself. When I was working on it I felt as if I were inspired, and influenced; I was in a sort of raging fever--my brush flew here and there, and instead of making a hideous muddle, every stroke told!”

“Imagine drawing inspiration from the face of a Miss Wiggin!” exclaimed Rose.

“Imagine it, indeed! The miniature is to be exhibited. It may make my fortune. It _is_ good--I feel it in my bones.”

“Poor dear Joe--your bones are prominent enough!”

“At any rate, I believe we have turned the corner. We have four pounds five in hand, and the rent--how shall we spend it?”

“A good lunch, and a matinée?” suggested Rose.

“Certainly not. We spend it--but on boots, real boots, not brown paper--and gloves, the signs of gentlefolk. Perhaps hats--I know a very cheap place, and appearances are so important.”

“So is food,” broke in her sister; “let us celebrate our good luck with something for supper--sausages on toast, strawberry jam, and sponge-cakes? A feast for the gods!”

* * * * *