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By ALISON.
CHAPTER I.
I AM loitering down my garden walk, drink
ing in long draughts of the delicious summer
morning air. I have been out since breakfast,
in the long strip of orchard “dappled very
close with shade," and in the sunny garden,
where the warm air is redolent of bass-mat
ting and geranium-leaves and ripening fruit. '
Very few of the flowers give out their per
fume in such a blaze of sunshine, though
there are faint sweet exhalations from grow- ]
ing tilings and box-borders and newly-turned
garden mold. But in the dusk of the twilight
my roses and clove carnations and ray great
gray-pink beds of mignonette will fill the air
with their fragrance. !
I am gathering some sprays of heliotrope—
the small delicate lavender-colored blossoms .
which the French call les fleurs des veuvus—
when my fathei’ comes loitering down the ;
walk very much in my own fashion, our great :
Persian cat Hafiz walking sedately at his '
heels. 1
“Susan, I have just had a letter from Lord '
Lorraine.”
“Yes?” I say, interrogatively, yet not as if '
a letter from Lord Lorraine could be of much
moment to me.
“And he wants us to have that girl here— 1
that Miss Dacre you met at your Aunt Pro- '
byn’s. Do you remember her?”
“Chairman Dacre! Os course I remember '
her! But what would Charmian do with
herself here?”
My father laughs, taking his beard in his
hand, as he has a fashion of doing.
“That is just it,” he says, shrugging his
shoulders. “They don’t want her to do any
thing. It seems she is too fond of doing things
—that very respectable lady, your aunt Pro
byn, won’t have anything to say to her.” 1
“But why is she leaving Old Knowe?”
“Lady Louisa Purefoy has been ordered
abroad —to Arcachoe. Os course the girl
could not stay at Old Knowe with no other
lady in the house.”
“Why couldn’t Lady Louisa take her to
Arcachon?”
“Nobody seems to want her,” my father
laughs, stooping to stroke the cat, who is
purring and waving his tail in serene appre
ciation of the sunshine, “or the responsibility
of having her. I have never seen the young
lady myself: but I fancy she must be just a
trifle unmanageable—Lord Lorraine does not
say so in so many words, but he infers it.
Even his aunt, Mrs. Purefoy, declines to take
charge of her, on the plea of being too old to
look after her.”
“How long would she stay?” I ask, dubi
ously. The idea of this wild girl coming to
Tranquilla is unpleasant to me. as I can see
that it is unpleasant to my father, though it
may be still more unpleasant to him to be
obliged to refuse a favor to his friend. But
Lord Lorraine is no friend of mine. I do
not remember ever having seen him in my
life.
“Only till Lady Louisa comes back again.
It may not be very long.”
I consider my great bunch of heliotrope
gravely, touching the rough green leaves and
clusters of almond scented blossoms with the
tips of my fingers while I weigh the question
in my own mind. It is five years since I saw
Charmian Dacre. I met her then at my aunt
Probyn’s house, who is her godmother. She
was a girl of fourteen then, and I was twelve;
and she tyrannized over me, petted me, terri
fied me, and fascinated me by turns. On the
whole she had been kind to me, feeding me
with more chocolat praines than were good
for me, and presenting me at parting with a
little marmoset, which she had been in the
habit of carrying in the pocket of her apron.
The marmoset had soon died, as much to my
grief as to the relief of my old nurse, Pleasant
Owens, who had hated the little creature
ever since the day when she had found
it rolled up asleep in the cavernous depths
of her best bonnet. Ido not remember much
about Charmian Dacre beyond these two facts,
except that I had thought her very ugly. I
think I must have imbibed this idea from my
aunt’s servants, who considered the swarthy
black-browed girl, with her thick, dark hair,
as not to be compared with their own young
lady, as they called me, with her lint locks
anti milk white skin. But remembering
Charmian now, I do not think she could have
been so ugly as I fancied her then.
“Well,” says my father, watching me with
a smile, “what do you say, little woman?”
“If you don’t think she will stay very long,”
I answer, hesitating inhospitably.
“Oh, as for that, we are not bound to keep
her a day longer than we choose, nor she to
stay! And I think it might be good for you,
Susan, to have the companionship of a girl
of your own age, even for a little while. You
live too lonely a life for a girl, shut up in this
secluded old place.”
“Hut I never feel lonely!” I exclaim almost
resentfully. “I don’t want any change; it is
just because I think she will make things
different that I don’t want Charmain to come
here.”
“She need not make things different, ex
cept that you will enjoy them more together.
I don't want my little girl to grow into an
oddity like her father. I want her to be
happy and light-hearted, like every other
young innocent thing.”
“And lam happy. lam as happy here as
the day is long.”
“But I never hear you laugh or sing about
the house like other girls.”
“Oh, that is because I am alone—at least I
don’t laugh out loud because I am alone!”
“You will laugh when this other girl
comes,” he answers, smiling. “You will turn
the house upside down, both of you .together.
There will be such a row going on all the time
that I shouldn't wonder if I couldn’t con
centrate my mind on Saint Cecilia any
more.”
I smile at the absurdity of the idea. A row
in our dreamy old house, where the summer
silence is broken only by the buzzing of a fly
in the pane or by the muffled hum of a bee
who has boomed in through the open window
and cannot find his way out again, where no
footfall but mine echoes down the wide shal
low-stepped staircase all day long, were the
only things that move are the sunbeams,
slanting in through the deep old-fashioned
windows, across the thick Persian carpet,
and a sedate girl’s figure in a quaint strait
gown which my nurse Pleasant has cut out
and made in the fashion which prevailed
when she was young!
“But do you like her to come, father?” I
ask a little wistfully, looking up into his face.
The sunshine shows all the fine small lines
about his deep dreamy eyes, makes a glory of
his white beard, discovers all the dust and
cigar-ashes in the wrinkles of his shabby vel
veteen coat.
“I like her to come for you sake, dear—it
will make no difference to me.”
As I scarcely see him except at meal-times,
/ and when we stroll here together in the twi
light sometimes, I do not suppose it will.
“Then let her come,” I say, with what
THE SAVANNAH DAILY TIMES, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1885.
sounds like a sigh of resignation. “If she
spoils my summer, it cannot be helped.”
“You will be twice as sorry to lose her as
you are to have her come,” my father prophe
sies, smiling down into my disturbed face.
“Then I shall write Lorraine to say that his
ward will be very welcome, and that we shall
be ready to receive her—when?”
“Oh, as soon as she likes! Pleasant can
make the south room ready in an hour.”
say Saturday, then? Lorraine
seems rather in a hurry.”
“This is Tuesday. Yes, she can come on
Saturday—people who come on Saturday
don’t stay long the proverb says. I will tell
Pleasant when I go in to luncheon.”
My father loiters back to the house, Hafiz
at his heels, waving his great bushy tail. I
turn away in the other direction, lay my
bunch of heliotrope on the bench under the
horse-chestnut tree, where the hot sunshine
will not fall upon it, and paca back along the
garden walk, my hands clasped loosely be
hind me, thinking it all over.
Must I give up my Greek and Latin when
this vistor comes, and the German poetry I
have just begun to read with pleasure to my
self? Must I talk to her or listen to her all
day long? As well as I can remember, Char
mian was an inveterate talkpr and insisted
upon pouring long accounts of her school-life
into my unwilling ears. She had been edu
cuted in France and Germany, and spoke
both those languages perfectly—much more
perfectly than English—l had laughed at her
once for calling a stormy sky “cross” instead
of angry, and for saying it was a great “se
cret” how she lost her silver ring instead of a
great mystery. She used to pull my hair
when I laughed at her; but she had never
positively hurt me. Ido not think she had a
bad temper, or any absolute cruel propensi
ties, though my aunt Probyn thought she
had both.
I shall be sorry to give up my studies; but,
if Charmian is to be my guest, 1 suppose
I must exert myself to amuse her,
she will find life at Tranquilla very dull at
the best. I have a little wicked hope in my
heart that she will find it too dull to stay.
Ido not find it dull; but then Charmian is
not like me. As well as I can remember her,
she was full of an exuberant vitality—a joy
ous freedom-loving creature, who, let her
offend how she would, challenged one’s sym
pathies by her very recklessness, daring to
say and do things in aunt Probyn’s house
which I, who had been at home there since I
was a baby, would not have done to save my
life. She must always be amused, always oc
cupied, and she could not amuse or occupy
herself alone. I would rather have the com
pany of books than any other company in
the world, except my father’s—and perhaps
that of one other person. Charmian never
seemed to me to read—l never remember to
have seen her open a book; and not only did
she never read herself, but she could not
bear to see any one else with a book in her
hand.
I sigh, thinking of the days, perhaps weeks,
of self-renunciaticsi before me. I have left
the garden and wandered into the orchard,
where the ground is so “carpet smooth with
moss and grass” that Jack Prentiss is at my
elbow before I am aware.
“What deep problem are you working out?”
he laughed—being next-door neighbors, we
have long since dispensed with the usual
forms of greeting—Jack has been in habit
of walking into and out of our garden twenty
times a day since we were children. “Sir
Isaac Newton could not have looked more
profoundly meditative when he first asked
himself why an apple fell to the ground!”
“Oh, Jack,” I exclaim, clasping my hands
round his arm, “such a wretched thing has
happened! We have been obliged to ask a
visitor here—a girl! And I kuow she will
make everything horrid. I shall be able to
do nothing all day but listen to her and fol
low her round—she can’t do a single thing to
amuse herself!”
“Is she non compos?” Jack inquires open
ing his eyes.
“Oh, no!” I laugh in spite of myself. “She
is clever enough—too clever! But I know she
won’t leave me a moment to myself. I shall
be obliged to give up my Gkeek and German
and astronomy.”
“And a very good thing if you are,” Jack
says unsympathetically. “You study a lot
too much for a girl.”
“But it is the only thing I care about—that
and my garden.”
“And me?’
Jack is very impudent: but then he’s often
impudent; and lam too much occupied with
other things to punish him now.
“I hope she won’t stay long,” I say in a pa
thetic strain which makes Jack laugh. “She
is to come on Saturday; and ‘Saturday's flit
ting makes short sitting’—so Pleasant says. ”
“Whois she?’ Jack inquires, but without
any great show of hit. rest.
“Aunt Probyn’s goddaughter, Charmian
Dacre. ”
“Oh!” Jack says comprehensively, his look
changing in a moment.
“Don’t you know' her, Jack?”
“Never met her in my life. But 1 have
heard Dudley Probyn speak of her hundreds
of times.”
“Dudley don’t remember much about her.
He was only fifteen when we were all at
Aunt Probyn’s together, five years ago.”
“He has met her ever so often since he came
back from China. ”
I ‘l have never, seen Dudley since he came
back from China.’’
“No? He was asking me ib ut you, and
saying he would run down s .me day.”
“And what does he say about Charmian?”
I ask curiously.
“He S'.ys she is as wild as a deer," Jack
laughs—“up to any kind of mischief, you
know— would play a practical joke on an
archbishop, if she got the chance.”
“I am sure I shan’t like her,” I say, sighing.
“Oh, I dare say you will! Dudley Probyn
likes her—says she’s great value, though she
can snub a fellow, too. He seems a little bit
afraid of her, though she’s a sort of cousin of
his own. ”
“A v< yy distant cousin. Dudley is about
as nearly related to her as Lord Lorraine is.
Aunt Probyn was a Dacre, and so was Lord
Lorraine’s mother, and old Mrs. Purefoy. It
is through the Dacres that they are ull re
lated to each other.”
“I know,” Jack answers promptly—though
I doubt very much if he does know —he has
no head for genealogies. “Don’t bother about
them any more, Susan; let’s talk about our
selves.”
We saunter side by side down the garden
walk, I in my quaint calico gown with pink
roses on a drab ground, which was Pleasant’s
fancy this summer—Pleasant chooses all my
dresses and makes them for me —with long
chamos leather gloves to keep my arms from
being sunburnt—Pleasant is very particular
about my complexion, though she rates me
about my ugliness so ojten—and a funny little
apron with pockets in it, wherein 1 cany my
keys and gardening-scissors. The sunshine
glitters among Jack’s golden curls. I never
look at him without thinking of Earl Eric
and blue eyed Einar Tamberskelver, the
archer, and King Olaf,
, “As ho leaned upon the railing
And his ship went sailing, sailing
Northward into Dronthelm flord.”
For Jack is blonde as a Scandinavian viking,
with a pair of bold blue eyes which I think
I the nicest eyes I have seen.
At some far off future time Jack and I in
tend to marry each other. We are not form
ally engaged; but we were fond of each other
as children, and as we grew up seemed to
drift into love quite naturally, and that with
out let or hiuderance, insomuch that I some
times doubt it ora’s can really be true love, it
runs so smooth. But Jack says it is; and he
ought to know’—at least I suppose he ought to
know more about it than I do, who have
gathered all my knowledge from books. Not
that Jack has ever been in love before; but he
has been out in the world, and seen lovers in
real life, and he says he thinks we are fonder
of each other than half the people who marry
each other every day.
We sit on an old marble bench in the
shadow of a horse-chestnut tree at the foot of
the garden, and Jack watches me while I ar
range flowers for tho house—flowers I had
gathered after breakfast and thrown down a
“lovely chaos,” on the old bench in the cool
shadow, where I always arrange them, unless
I carry them up to the study window, w’here
there are two wide shallow stone steps reach
ing to the sill. Pleasant Owens has carried
out the old china dish and the tall frosted
glasses, and set them on the bench, and Jack
snuikes, sitting beyond the Howel's, and talks
about cricket and rowing and a hundred
things, while I think of Charmian Dacre and
how it will be when there are three people on
the bench instead of two.
“Did Dudley say she was good-looking?” I
ask, as I put a thick border of pure white
roses round my dish, with a delicate setting of
maiden-hair fern.
“Good-looking!” Jack ejaculates, taking his
cigar out of his mouth. “Why, she's a beauty,
Susan! Her picture is in the Royal Academy
this year, painted by some celebrity or other.
Probyn says everybody is talking about it.”
“I don’t know how she can be a beauty,” I
say jealously. “She Wasn’t a beauty when I
saw her—most people thought her very
ugly.”
“I can’t think how that can be,” Jack an
swers, with a puzzled look in his honest eyes,
“The fellow has painted her as Pharaoh’s
daughter or something, and they say it suits
her exactly. There is nothing Spanish or
Italian about her. Probyn says she’s Moor
ish—short features, you know, and black as
Egypt. Not the style I admire, but still
striking—especially when she’s dressed up in
that queer square-sided sphinx head-dress,
with great big ear rings, you know, and all
1 that. Probyn says Lord Larraine didn’t half
like it; but that old woman, the Honorable
' Mrs. Purefoy, is mad about art, and always
■ has her house full of poets and painters and
’ sculptors. It was there Probyn met Miss
Dacre, at one of her ‘At homes.’ ”
“Lord Lorraine is her guardian,” I remark,
feeling depressed, though I should have been
' puzzled to account for my depression.
' “Yes; and he doesn’t find the post a sine
-1 cure, by all accounts.” Jack laughs. “Not
that there’s any harm in the girl; but she
seems to be as wild as a hawk. She’s got a lot
' of money, you know; and, being so handsome,
1 1 suppose they’ve spoilt her among thenr
I Probyn says she does just as she likes.”
> “You and Dudley Probyn seem to have
done nothing but talk about her,” I say
’ rather petulantly. Jack laughs.
> “My dear little girl, who is talking about
I her now? Haven’t I tried fifty other subjects
since I came into this garden, and haven’t
s you harked back to Miss Dacre everytime?
> Give me that rose for my button-hole, and
i come round here and fasten it for me.”
I It is a lovely salmon pink Pitou rose —a
> long beautiful bud lying against one bronze
green leaf. I fasten itinto his coat demurely,
i he standing up to be so rarely decorated; and
then he puts one hand on each side of my face
and lifts it up very tenderly.
“Look at me, Susan,’’ he says, bending his
i high head; for Jack is very tall—even on tip-
> toe I do not reach his shoulder. “What,
I tears in your eyes? You little foolish thing,
i are you jealous of a girl I have never seen in
my life?”
But the tears drop down upon my two
; hands, lying one over the other on his breast.
“You silly child!” he laughs, drawing me
: closer to him. “As if this ‘mad Clytie’
could come between you and me! Don’t you
know that I belong to you —that I have never
i loved any other girl in my life? Kiss me and
i dry your eyes, and then go back to your
Howel's. lam quite curious to see what 'har
monies’ you will evolve out of that chaotic
■ mass of color.”
I obey him, as I have always obeyed Jack
since we were children together. But still
; that “brow of Egypt” troubles me, and I wish
I had said “No” before my father wrote to
i Lord Lorraine.
[TO BE CONTINUED.!
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7