Chapter 12

The feeling of loneliness had vanished; there was some one who loved her, to whom she was dearer than all others, and the world looked different in consequence. It was a happy Christmas Day to her after all, in spite of her depressing surroundings; and Miss Clayton noticed the change in her young nurse, and in the evening, when thanking her for all she had done for her, hoped she had not found it "so very dull."

That night Selina Martyn, foolish in her new-found happiness, placed the envelope, around which the damp still hung, beneath her pillow, and dreamed of the bright future she deemed in store for her.

He would write to her, or perhaps come and see her; yes, he would come and see her, and let her hear from his own lips what his missive had so plainly hinted at. And in her happiness she waited. She waited, and waited till her heart grew sick with disappointed longing.

The days passed, but never a word came from the one who had grown so dear to her, and as they passed the gladness faded from her face, and the light went out from her eyes.

At last she could but feel that she had been mistaken. It was only a foolish joke that had meant nothing, and her heart grew hot within her. How could she have been so weak and silly as to have imagined such a thing? She put the envelope and its contents away, and, saddened and subdued, fought bravely to return to her former self.

Miss Clayton made a slow recovery, and when convalescent went for a change to the sea, carrying off Selina with her, for she had noticed the change in the girl, and put it down to her labours in the sick-room.

School-time commenced again, but without Maude Elliott as a pupil; she had gone to be "finished" to a school in Lausanne, and it was months before Selina received a letter from her, and then she only casually mentioned that her cousin Edgar had left them directly after Christmas for a good appointment in Brazil, where he expected to remain for some years.

With that letter the last traces of Selina Martyn's romance ended. It had crossed her life like a shooting star, and had only left a remembrance behind.

But that remembrance never entirely died; its sharp edge was dulled, and as the years went on--and in time she took Miss Clayton's place as the head of Seaton Lodge--she came to regard the unrequited bestowal of her young affections as an incident to be smiled over, without any vindictive feelings.

And now, when the silver hairs were beginning to make their appearance among the ruddy gold, she would each Christmas take out from its hiding-place in the old-fashioned, brass-bound writing-desk the time-stained envelope, and compare the old-world design within with the modern and more florid cards, and in her heart of hearts she found more beauty in the simple wreath of holly with the couple of robins perched above and the bunch of mistletoe hanging below than in its more ornate followers of the present time.

[Sidenote: Christmas Morning]

It was Christmas morning--an ideal Christmas morning. The frost had been keen the previous night, and the branches of the trees had donned a sparkling white livery. The sun shone brightly, but there was little warmth in its rays, and the snow had crunched and chittered as "sunny Miss Martyn" had made her way over it to the church, smiling and sending bright glances to right and left of her, for there were few in Stourton with whom she was not acquainted. And now, her lunch over--she was going out to dinner that evening--she sat by the fire with a big pile of envelopes and parcels beside her. Her pupils never forgot her, and the day would have seemed incomplete to each one of them without a card despatched to Miss Martyn.

Her bundle was a large one, and took some time to get through; and then the cards had all to be arranged on the mantelpiece. But at length her task was done, and as her custom was, she went to the brass-bound desk standing on a table in the corner, and, taking out the now worn envelope, resumed her seat by the fire.

She had gazed on its contents on many a Christmas day before, but on this particular day--she never knew why--the memory of the sorrow it had caused her seemed keener, and she found the tears were gathering in her eyes, and that one of them had fallen on the edge of the satin medallion bearing the verses.

With her handkerchief she wiped it away, but in doing so a fold of the cambric caught the filagree, and she learnt what she had never known before--that the medallion opened like a little door, and that below it a folded scrap of paper lay concealed.

What could it mean?

With fingers that trembled so much that they almost refused their task she took it out, unfolded it, and, spreading it flat, read the words that long years ago would have meant all the world to her.

How cruel had Fate been to her to have hidden them for so long! But the thought only remained in her mind a moment, being blotted out by the remembrance that he was not heartless, as she had grown to believe.

The faded lines before her laid a strong man's heart at her feet, and begged for her love in return, stating that he had been suddenly called to a distant post, and asking for an answer before he sailed. The writer felt he was presumptuous, but the exigencies of the case must be his excuse. If he had no reply he should know his pleading was in vain, and would trouble her no more; but if, on the other hand, she was not entirely indifferent to him, a line from her would bring him to her side to plead his cause in person. There was more in the letter, but this was its main purpose.

And this was the end of if: two loving hearts divided and kept apart by a damp day and an accidental drop of gum.

No wonder the tears flowed afresh, and "sunny Miss Martyn" belied her character.

She was still bending over the sheet of paper spread out on her knee when, with a knock at the door, the servant entered, saying:

"A gentleman to see you, Miss."

Hastily brushing away the traces from her cheeks, Miss Martyn rose, to see a tall, grey-haired man standing in the doorway, regarding her with a bright smile on his face.

She did not recognise him; he was a stranger to her, and yet----

The next moment he strode forward with outstretched hand.

"Selina Martyn, don't you know me? And you have altered so little!"

A moment longer she stood in doubt, and then with a little gasp exclaimed:

[Sidenote: "Edgar!"]

"Edgar! Mr. Freeman--I--I didn't know you. You--you see, it is so long since--since I had that pleasure."

And while she was speaking she was endeavouring with her foot to draw out of sight the paper that had fallen from her lap when she had risen.

He noticed her apron, and with an "Excuse me" bent down, and, picking it up, laid it on the table. As he did so his eyes fell for a moment on the writing, and he started slightly, but did not refer to it.

"Thank you," she said, and her cheeks had suddenly lost their colour, and her hand trembled as she indicated an armchair on the other side of the fireplace, saying, "Won't you sit down?"

He did so, easily and naturally, as though paying an ordinary afternoon call.

"Selina Martyn, you're looking remarkably well, and nearly as young as ever," he continued.

She raised her eyes shyly, and smiled as she replied, "Do you really think so, Mr. Freeman?"

"Call me Edgar, I like it better; and we've known each other long enough to account for your doing so." He did not give her a chance of objecting, but continued, "I only landed in England yesterday, and you are the first person I've called on. I got your address from my cousin, Mrs. Perry--Maud Elliott that was; she's living in Monte Video, you know; I saw her for a few hours as I passed through. Really, Selina, you're looking prettier than ever, I declare!"

"You mustn't flatter an old woman, Mr. Freeman--well--Edgar, if you wish it. I don't think perhaps there is anything unmaidenly in my using your Christian name. We've known each other a great many years now, as you say."

"We have indeed, my dear lady. And we might have known each other a great deal better if--if--well, if you had only seen your way to it. But there--that's all passed now. And yet----"

"Yes, that's all passed now." And Selina gave a little sigh, yet loud enough for her visitor to hear it, and he moved his chair from the side to the front of the fire as she continued, "Do you know--Edgar--just before you came in I made a discovery--I found something that reached me a day or two before you sailed, and that I had never seen till half an hour ago," and she looked down at her fingers that were playing with the end of the delicate lace fichu she was wearing.

A smile came over her visitor's face, but he only said:

"'Pon my word, Selina, you're a very beautiful woman! I've carried your face in my memory all these years, but I see now how half-blind I must have been."

"You mustn't talk nonsense to an old woman like me. I want to tell you something, and I don't know how to do it."

"Don't try. Let me guess, and you tell me if I'm right."

Miss Martyn did not answer in words, only bowed her head, and he continued, with a glance at the paper lying on the table:

"You once received what you considered a very impertinent letter from me?"

"I don't think impertinent is the right term," replied Selina, not raising her eyes.

"Then, my dear lady, why did you not let me have an answer?"

"Oh, Edgar, I only discovered it a few minutes before you came," and casting aside all reserve, she told him of the unfortunate combination of the damp Christmas morning and the drop of gum that had so disastrously separated them.

Long before the recital was complete her visitor had shifted his chair again and again until it was close beside her own.

"You poor, dear woman!" he exclaimed, as his arm stole quietly round her waist, and Miss Martyn suffered it to remain there.

"Why did you hide your letter inside, Edgar?" she asked quietly.

"I suppose because I didn't want to startle you, and thought you should see the verses first. May I see it now?" he continued. "It's so long since I wrote it, you see."

"Yes, you may see it," replied Selina, without raising her eyes; "but it's all passed now," with another little sigh.

His disengaged hand had secured the letter, and hastily glancing over the writing, he exclaimed with sudden fervour:

[Sidenote: "I'm Waiting!"]

"No, Selina! Every word I wrote then I mean to-day. When I left England years ago it was with your image in my heart, and with the determination that when I was rich I would come back and try my luck again. And in my heart you, and you alone, have reigned ever since. And when after long years I heard from my cousin that you might still be found at Seaton Lodge, you don't know what that meant to me. It made a boy of me again. It blotted out all the years that have divided us, and here I am waiting for my answer."

"Oh, Edgar, we mustn't be silly. Remember, we're no longer boy and girl."

"I remember nothing of the kind. All I remember is that it's Christmas Day, that I've asked you a question, and that I am waiting for the answer you would have given me years ago but for the damp and a drop of gum. You know what it would have been then; give me it now. Dearest, I'm waiting."

And Selina Martyn gave her answer, an all-sufficient one to both.

[Sidenote: Young people, read and take warning by this awful example.]

Whilst Waiting for the Motor

BY

MADELINE OYLER

Her name was Isabel, and she really was a very nice, good little girl--when she remembered. But you can't always remember, you know; you wouldn't be a little girl if you could, and this happened on one of those days when she didn't remember.

Of course Peter forgot too; but then you would expect him to, for he was only a boy, and boys, as I suppose you know, cannot use their brains in the way that girls can.

The two had spent their morning in the usual way, had breakfast, fed the rabbits, said "Good-morning" to the horses, got mother a bunch of flowers from their own gardens (Isabel's turn this morning), seen daddy off, and then had lessons.

You wouldn't have guessed for a moment that it was going to be a bad day; everything had gone well. Peter had actually remembered that Madrid was the capital of Spain, always a rather doubtful question with him; and Isabel had said her eight times with only two mistakes, and they were slight ones.

So you may imagine they were feeling very happy and good, because it was a half-holiday, and, best of all, because Auntie May was coming over with her big motor at three o'clock, to take them back to tea with grandpapa.

I should like you to understand that it was not just an ordinary tea, but a special one; for it was grandpapa's birthday, and, as perhaps you know, grandpapas don't often have birthday parties, so it was a great occasion.

[Sidenote: Presents]

It had taken a long time to choose his presents, but at last they were decided.

Isabel had made him a blue silk shaving tidy, with "Shaving" worked in pink across it. The "h-a-v" of "Shaving" were rather smaller than the other letters, because, after she had drawn a large "S," she was afraid there would not be room for such big letters. Afterwards she found there was plenty of room, so she did "i-n-g" bigger to make up for it.

After all, it really didn't matter unless you were _very_ particular; and of course you wouldn't see that the stitches showed rather badly on the inside unless you opened it. Besides, as grandpapa grew a beard, and didn't shave at all, he wouldn't want to look inside.

Peter had bought a knife for him; being a boy, and therefore rather helpless, he was not able to make him anything. He did begin to carve grandpapa a wooden ship, although Isabel pointed out to him that grandpapa would never sail it; but Peter thought he might like to have it just to look at.

However, just at an important part the wood split; so after all it had to be a knife, which of course is always useful.

These presents were kept very secret; not even mother was allowed to know what they were.

Three o'clock seemed such a long time coming--you know how slow it _can_ be. But at half-past two nurse took them up to dress. Peter had a nice white serge suit, and nurse had put out a clean starched muslin for Isabel, but she (being rather a vain little girl) begged for her white silk.

I ought to explain about this frock. One of her aunties sent it to her on her last birthday. It was quite the most beautiful little dress you ever saw--thick white silk embroidered with daisies. Isabel loved it dearly, but was only allowed to wear it on very great occasions.

Well, when she asked if she might put it on, nurse said she thought it would be wiser not to. "You won't be able to run about and climb trees at your grandpapa's if you do, Miss Isabel."

"But I shan't want to," replied Isabel, "for it is a grown-up party, and we shall only sit and talk."

So after all she was allowed to wear it, and with that on and a beautiful new sash her Uncle Dick had just sent her from India, she felt a very smart little girl indeed.

The shaving tidy she had done up in a parcel, and Peter had the knife in his pocket, so they were quite ready, and as they went down to the hall the clock struck three.

Alas! there was no motor waiting; instead there was mother with a telegram in her hand saying that Auntie May couldn't come for them till four o'clock.

What a disappointment! A whole hour longer to wait! What were they to do with themselves?

Mother suggested that they should sit down quietly and read, but who can possibly sit and read when a big motor is coming soon to fetch them?

So mother very kindly said they might go out in the garden.

"Only remember," she said, "you are not to run about and get hot and untidy; and keep on the paths, don't go on the grass."

So out they went, Isabel hugging her precious parcel. She was afraid to leave it in the hall lest mother should see it and guess by the shape what it was, which of course would spoil it all.

They strolled round the garden, peeped at the rabbits and a brood of baby chickens just hatched, then wandered on down the drive.

"Can't we play something?" suggested Isabel--"something quite clean and quiet with no running in it."

Peter thought for some time, then he said: "I don't believe there are any games like that." Being a boy, you see, he couldn't think of one, so he said he didn't think there were any.

[Sidenote: Follow-my-leader]

"Yes, there are," said Isabel, "heaps of them, only I can't think of one. Oh, I know, follow my leader, walking, not running, and of course not on the grass. I'll be leader."

So off they started, and great fun it was. Isabel led into such queer places--the potting-house, tool-shed, laundry, and even into the dairy once. Then it was Peter's turn, and he went through the chicken-run, stable-yard, and kitchen-garden, and then down the drive.

When he got to the gate he hesitated, then started off down the road.

"Ought we to go down here, do you think?" asked Isabel, plodding along behind him.

"Oh, yes, it's all right," Peter said; "we're keeping off the grass and not running, and that's all mother told us," and on they went.

After walking for a little way, Peter turned off down a side lane, a favourite walk of theirs in summer, and Isabel followed obediently.

Unfortunately, for the last three days it had rained heavily, and the deep cart-ruts on both sides of the road were full of thick, muddy water.

In trying to walk along the top of one of them, Peter's foot slipped, and, before he could prevent it, in it went, right over the top of his nice patent-leather shoe.

Isabel, who was following close behind, intently copying her leader in all his movements, plopped hers in too.

"Goodness, what a mess!" said Peter, surveying his muddy foot. "How awful it looks! I think I shall make the other one dirty too, then it won't look so bad."

So in went each clean foot.

And then it was, I am sorry to say, that Isabel forgot to be good. You remember I told you that she did sometimes?

She said: "Now that our feet are dirty, let's paddle, they can't look worse, and it's such fun!" And as Peter thought so too, paddle they did, up and down the dirty, muddy cart-ruts.

Presently Peter's white suit and even his clean tie were spotted with mud, and Isabel's beautiful little dress was soaked with muddy water all round the bottom, and, saddest of all, her new sash was dragging behind her in the water, quite spoilt; but they were so excited that they neither of them noticed how they were spoiling their clothes, or that the parcel with the shaving-tidy in it had been dropped and stamped down into the mud.

They were in the middle of the fun when suddenly they heard in the distance the "toot-toot" of a motor-horn, and, looking at each other in dismay, they realised it must be Auntie May come to fetch them.

"We shall have to change first," gasped Isabel, as they hurried along the road. "I'm afraid we look rather messy!"

Peter said nothing; he was feeling too miserable.

It was a sad sight that met nurse's horrified eyes as she hurried anxiously out through the gates in search of them, having hunted the garden in vain; and it was a very shamefaced little pair that hastened by the big motor at the front door and into the hall, where they found mother and Auntie May waiting.

Isabel and Peter really did feel more sorry and ashamed than I can tell you, and, grievous though it be, mother and Auntie May went to tea with grandpapa, but Peter and Isabel went to bed!

[Sidenote: The story of a hard heart, a little child, and a kind friend.]

The Grumpy Man

BY

MRS. HARTLEY PERKS

It was past nine on a winter's evening. Through the misty gloom a tenor voice rang clear and resonant. The singer stood on the edge of the pavement, guitar in hand, with upturned coat-collar, a wide-brimmed soft hat sheltering his face.

"I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem: Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?"

The well-placed voice and accent were those of an educated man. The words of the old song, delivered clearly with true musical feeling, were touched with a thrill of passion.

The thread of the melody was abruptly cut off by a sudden mad clatter of hoofs. A carriage dashed wildly along and swerved round the corner. The singer dropped his instrument and sprang at the horse's bridle. A moment's struggle, and he fell by the curb-stone dazed and shaken, but the runaway was checked and the footman was down at his head, while the coachman tightened his rein.

The singer struggled to his feet. The brougham window was lowered, and a clear-cut feminine face leaned forward.

"Thank you very much," said a cool, level voice, in a tone suitable to the recovery of some fallen trifle.

"Williamson"--to the coachman--"give this man half a crown, and drive on."

While Williamson fumbled in his pocket for the money, the singer gave one glance at the proud, cold face framed by the carriage window, then turned hurriedly away.

"Hey, David!" called the coachman to the groom. "Give her her head and jump up. She'll be all right now. Whoa--whoa, old girl. That chap's gone--half-crowns ain't seemingly in his line. Steady, old girl!" And the carriage disappeared into the night.

The singer picked up his guitar and leant on the railings. He was shaken and faint. Something seemed amiss with his left hand. He laid his forehead against the cool iron and drew a deep breath, muttering--

"It was she! When I heard her cold, cruel voice I thanked God I am as I am. Thank God for my child and a sacred memory----"

"Are you hurt?" asked a friendly voice.

The singer looked up to see a man standing hatless above him on the steps of the house. He strove to reply, but his tongue refused to act; he swayed while rolling waves of blackness encompassed him. He staggered blindly forward, then sank into darkness--and for him time was not.

When consciousness returned his eyes opened upon a glint of firelight, a shaded lamp on a table by which sat a man with bent head writing. It was a fine head, large and massive, the hair full and crisp. A rugged hand grasped the pen with decision, and there was no hesitation in its rapid movement.

The singer lay for a moment watching the bent head, when it suddenly turned, and a pair of remarkably keen grey eyes met his own.

"Ah, you are better! That's right!" Rising, the writer went to a cupboard against the wall, whence he brought a decanter and glass.

"I am a doctor," he said kindly. "Luckily I was handy, or you might have had a bad fall."

The singer tried to rise.

"Don't move for a few moments," continued the doctor, holding a glass to his lips. "Drink this, and you will soon be all right again."

The singer drank, and after a pause glanced inquiringly at his left hand, which lay bound up at his side.

"Only a sprain," said the doctor, answering his glance. "I saw how it happened. Scant thanks, eh?"

The singer sat up and his eyes flashed.

[Sidenote: "I want no Thanks!"]

"I wanted no thanks from her," he muttered bitterly.

"How is that?" questioned the doctor. "You knew the lady?"

"Yes, I knew her. The evil she has brought me can never be blotted out by rivers of thanks!"

The doctor's look questioned his sanity.

"I fail to understand," he remarked simply.