The Daughters of a Genius Part 1

The Daughters of a Genius.

by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey.

CHAPTER ONE.

UNKNOWN COUSINS.

"What is your letter, my dear? You seem annoyed. _No_ bad news, I hope," said the master of Chedworth Manor, looking across the table to where his wife eat behind the urn, frowning over the sheet which she held in her hand. She was a handsome, well-preserved woman, with aquiline features, thin lips, and eyes of a pale, indefinite blue. She looked up as he spoke, then threw down the letter with a sigh of impatience.

"Oh, bad news, of course! When did we ever return from a holiday without finding something of the sort awaiting us? It's from Stephen Charrington. He says he would have written before, but heard that we were abroad, and did not know where to direct. Edgar is dead. He died a fortnight ago, and the funeral was on Friday week. I never knew a man who married improvidently and had a huge family who did _not_ die before he reached middle age. It seems a judgment on them; and here is another instance. Forty-nine his last birthday! He ought to have lived for another twenty years at least."

Mrs Loftus spoke with an air of injury which seemed to imply that the deceased gentleman had died out of pure perversity, and her husband knitted his brows in disapproving fashion. Even after twenty-five years of married life his wife's heartless selfishness could give him a twinge of shocked surprise when, as now, it was obtrusively displayed. He himself made no claims to philanthropy, but one expected some natural feeling from a woman; and with all his faults, Edgar Charrington had had close claim on her sympathy.

"He was your brother, my dear," he said dryly. "I suppose the poor fellow would not have died if he could have helped it. We have not seen anything of him for a long time, but he used to be a most attractive fellow. I thought he would have made his mark. Never met a man with so many gifts--painting, music, writing; he used to take them up in turn, and do equally well in each."

"But excel in nothing! That was the undoing of Edgar; he had not the application to keep to one thing at a time, but must always be flying off to something new. That disastrous marriage was like a millstone round his neck, and practically doomed him to failure. Oh, I know what you are going to say. There was nothing against Elma; and you admired her, of course, because she was pretty and helpless; but I shall always maintain that it was practically suicide for Edgar, with his Bohemian nature, to many a penniless girl, with no influence to help him on in the world. How they have managed to live at all I can't imagine. He never confided in me, and I made a point of not inquiring. To tell the truth, I lived in dread of his wanting to borrow money, and one has enough to do with one's own claims. I think he was offended because we never invited the children, for I have scarcely heard from him for the last five years. Really, it was too great an experiment I can't imagine what they must be like, brought up in that little village, with next to no education. Social savages, I should say."

"How many children were there? I've forgotten how they come after the first two. Stephen and Philippa visited us once long ago, and I remember thinking her an uncommonly handsome child, with a spirit of her own, which will probably stand her in good stead now. The boy was not so interesting. How many are there besides these two?"

"Oh, I don't know. Dozens! There was always a baby, I remember,"

returned Mrs Loftus impatiently. "Goodness knows what is to become of them now that they are left orphans, with practically no means of support. Stephen seems quite bewildered with the responsibility. He says he is anxious to see us, as his father's nearest relations, and to consult with us as to the future. I think we had better decline all responsibility. It is a thankless task to interfere with other people's business, and young folks are so opinionated. I shall write a letter of sympathy, and say that, as I know so little of their circ.u.mstances and surroundings, I do not feel myself competent to advise."

"Just as you please, my dear; but you must speak for yourself alone. I shall certainly have a chat with the poor young fellow. It is the least we can do, and I am only sorry I was not back in time to attend the funeral I am afraid we behaved shabbily to poor Edgar while he was alive, and I should have liked to pay him some respect in death. This is Monday. I must attend to one or two affairs here, but I'll run down to Leabourne towards the end of the week, and put up at the inn. Tell Stephen I'll write later on and say when he may expect me."

Mr Loftus pushed his chair back from the table, and tossed his serviette on a chair. He looked decidedly ruffled in temper, and injured and sorry for himself into the bargain. If there was one thing he disliked more than another, it was to have anything approaching a dissension with the members of his household. "Peace at all price" had been the motto of a character kindly enough, yet lacking the necessary strength to make a stand for the right, and already he was beginning to doubt his own wisdom, and to reflect sorrowfully how much less trouble it would have involved to have taken Gertrude's advice. Half-way down the table he stopped short, with a sudden softening of the face, and laid his hands caressingly on the shoulders of a pale, languid-looking girl who had been a pa.s.sive listener to the late conversation.

"You had better write too, and sympathise with your poor cousins, Avice.

You wouldn't like it, would you, if _you_ were to lose your poor old father?"

The girl smiled at him affectionately enough, but made no response until the door had closed, when she turned to her mother with an expression of real anxiety upon her face.

"Shall I have to wear mourning, mother! Will it be necessary?"

"Cer-tainly not! I should not dream of such a thing. It is quite out of fashion nowadays for any but the nearest relations, and it would be a sin to put aside all those lovely French frocks until they were out-of-date. It would be different if we lived in the same place; but you are not in the least likely to come in contact with your cousins. I can't think what has made your father take up this att.i.tude all of a sudden; but if he insists upon going to Leabourne I shall certainly go too. He is so carried away by the impulse of the moment that there is no knowing to what mad plan he might commit himself. The best thing your cousins can do will be to stay quietly where they are and take in paying guests to make ends meet. Quite good people do that nowadays; and with so many girls they would not need much extra service in the house. From what Stephen says, I fear they have some notion of coming up to town, but that I shall strongly denounce. Most rash and improvident for them, and uncomfortable for us. They would, no doubt, expect us to take them up and introduce them to our friends, and would be offended when they discovered that we had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Much better stay where they are and work among their old friends."

"I should like to see Philippa again. It's an age since she was here, but I remember her quite well. She was so lively and amusing! And there is another girl just my age, with a pretty, uncommon name. Faith, is it? No; Hope. Uncle Edgar sent me a little sketch of her on my birthday years ago, and it was so pretty! I'd rather like to know my cousins, mother, if they were presentable. It's so lonely being an only child."

Mrs Loftus looked at her daughter, and something like a quiver pa.s.sed across the hardness of her face. Avice was her darling, her idol, the only creature on earth whom she really loved; and every now and again a spasm of alarm gripped her heart as she noted the languid speech and movement, the fragile form, and pallid complexion which distinguished the girl from her companions. Everything within the power of love and money had been done to make her strong and happy, yet she continued listless and ailing, seeming to regard the very amus.e.m.e.nts provided for her as so many penalties to be endured with resignation. Something must be wrong--and very wrong--to make a girl of twenty-one a.s.sume so unnatural an att.i.tude. The mother checked a sigh half-way, and said caressingly:

"There is no reason for you to be dull, dearest. I am always ready to invite any one you may fancy. Surely, with all your friends, you need not be alone. What about Truda Bennett! If you like liveliness you could hardly improve upon her; and The Knoll is a nice house for you to visit in return. Shall I write and ask her to come next week!"

"No, thank you, dear, I'd rather not Truda is very nice, but she tires me out. She dislikes being quiet, and cares only for rushing about all day long. She doesn't amuse _me_; I have to amuse _her_. The nice thing about relations would be that one would not have to be on ceremony with them all the time. Couldn't I go down with you to Leabourne next week, mother, and see what the girls were like, and if I should care to invite one of them here."

"You could, of course; but I strongly advise you to do nothing of the sort. Your uncle Edgar has been dead only a fortnight, remember, and though I don't think he was an especially devoted father, the children will naturally be upset and distressed. It would be very dull for you with the girls weeping, and your father and Stephen discussing money matters, and ten to one a dreary, uncomfortable inn. Better stay at home, and let me bring back a report. In any case you won't care to invite one of them here until the first few months are over and she is able to go about and make herself agreeable. It would be depressing to have her about in her first deep black."

"Oh dear, yes! I couldn't stand that. I'd rather be alone than have any one in low spirits," agreed Avice fervently, the idea that she herself might possibly help to cheer and console never dawning on her self-engrossed brain. "You say that the girls must be savages, mother, but I should think they can hardly help being interesting. Aunt Elma was a beauty, and Uncle Edgar was a genius--and some of them, at least, must have inherited his gifts. Why do you say he was not a devoted father? From my vague recollection he seemed very proud of the children."

"Oh yes, he was proud enough; but they worried him when they were young, and as they grew older I think he felt that they criticised him and realised how he had wasted his opportunities. He was devoted to Elma, for she worshipped him meekly all her life, and was convinced that no such genius had ever existed. Your father is right. I never knew a more brilliant young man than Edgar was at twenty-one; but what is there to show for it now? A few songs, two or three novels and volumes of poetry, and a number of pictures and sketches which he was ashamed even to sign! He was always growing discouraged, turning from one thing to another, and lowering his standard to meet the taste of the market. His songs became more and more clap-trap and commonplace, his stories more sensational, his pictures of the cheaply-pretty order which sell at provincial exhibitions. I believe at the bottom of his heart he realised his downfall, and when Elma died, and he had not her adoring admiration to keep up his faith in himself, he fretted himself ill. The last time I saw him he was a wreck--mentally and physically--and I fancy those girls must have had a trying time of it before the end."

CHAPTER TWO.

STEPHEN'S CONFESSION.

Stephen Charrington had expressed a wish to consult with his aunt and uncle less from any preconceived intention than from a feeling of helplessness which took possession of him as he penned the news of his father's death. It had seemed to him at the moment that the advice of any one older and wiser than himself would be of value in deciding plans for the future, but no sooner was the letter irretrievably on its way than he began to tremble at the prospect of telling Philippa of what he had done. Philippa had been left co-trustee with himself, and she was not a young woman who would meekly be put on one side. What she thought, she said; what she willed, she accomplished; and anything like interference was to her as the brandishing of a red rag in the face of a bull. Stephen resolved to wait for a favourable opportunity before breaking the news of the intended visit, and to introduce it casually in the midst of a general conversation, when there would be less chance of a "scene." On Tuesday he decided to speak on Wednesday; on Wednesday there seemed abundant reason why he should postpone the disclosure until Thursday; on Thursday his uncle's note arrived announcing his arrival on the following day, and there could be no longer delay. Stephen betook himself to the morning-room, where his sisters sat in conclave, and hid himself behind a newspaper, awaiting his opportunity.

Despite the gloominess of the autumn day and the mournful nature of the work on hand, the scene was far from being doleful. To begin with, the background was pretty--a long, low apartment, half studio, half workroom, its walls washed a rich crimson hue, and covered with unmounted sketches, plaster casts on brackets, and a hundred quaint, artistic odds and ends. Against this background the four sisters made an interesting group as they busied themselves with the sewing on hand.

There was no money forthcoming to pay dressmaking bills, and little enough to buy material, so it was necessary to use up what was in the house--to turn and twist and remake, and cover over, and patch together--an occupation which involved no little ingenuity in addition to the mere manual labour.

Philippa stood by the table, the big cutting-out scissors in her hands; a handsome girl with clearly cut aquiline features, and dark hair which rippled back in a soft, smoke-like ma.s.s, and was coiled gracefully together on the nape of her neck. Her shoulders were broad and square, and had a trick of broadening still further in dignified, self-a.s.sertive fashion when their owner was annoyed or wished to exercise her authority. Madge always declared that she looked at Philippa's shoulders when she wished to see how the wind blew; but then Madge was so daring and inconsequent in her remarks that no one paid much attention to what _she_ said! Behold her now, running seams on the old-fashioned treadle machine, with bent back and long, pointed chin poked forward over the needle. As often as not a jerk of the hands or an erratic movement of the feet would be followed by a jar, a knot, a breaking of the thread; and when this occurred Madge would clench both fists together and mouth dumb anathemas, the while she rolled tragic eyes to the ceiling. If there was one thing on earth which she detested more than another, it was plain sewing; but this morning she had gallantly volunteered to do the machining, and machine she would, no matter what tortures it might cost her! She was a little sc.r.a.p of a thin, starved-looking creature, with a long, narrow face, plain features, and just the prettiest, happiest, most lovable pair of hazel eyes you can possibly imagine. Even to-day they looked happy, for there was a certain transparency and twinkling light in the iris which seemed independent of varying moods. Madge was eighteen, and was going to be an artist and have pictures hung on the line in the Academy or know the reason why, and in her opinion her time would have been much more profitably employed daubing in the attic than doing dull, useful work downstairs; but, as has been said, there are occasions when personal inclinations have to be laid in the dust.

Theo sat by herself, unpicking a coloured lining from a black grenadine dress, with an expression of tragic despair. It was not that she sorrowed for her father more deeply than her sisters, but it was Theo's nature to revel in emotion and deliberately to work herself up to the height of rejoicing or down to the depths of despair. She was a tall, graceful girl, with a face which was decidedly interesting if not regularly pretty, and her broad forehead and deep-set eyes seemed to portray a greater brain-power than that possessed by the rest of the family. Theo had written stories for her own amus.e.m.e.nt since the age of ten, and was even now engaged upon a full-fledged novel with which she hoped to burst upon an astonished world. It seemed a horrible, ghoul-like proceeding to examine her own feelings in order to be able to depict what Veronica, her heroine, should feel in the hour of her desolation; and she was disgusted with herself because, despite all resolutions, she had been mentally taking notes during the whole of the past week. Now, as she sat unpicking the pretty pink lining and casting it ruthlessly on one side, her busy brain was weaving a simile by which it appeared that all the brightness of life was left behind and nothing remained but blackness and desolation.

By Philippa's side--adviser, a.s.sistant, and architect-in-chief--stood golden-haired Hope, sweet as her name, and all unselfish anxiety for the good of others. Her white forehead was wrinkled with the strain of trying to induce two yards of silk to do duty for three, and she stood at attention, staring down at the pattern spread over the black folds, and rubbing her chin in solemn calculation as she discussed the knotty point.

"If I were to make the yoke of something else, and let the silk come from the arm-holes only, do you think we could manage it then? There is some of that old black velvet that could be used for the yoke, and it could be made to look very nice. I am afraid we couldn't match this silk even if we tried."

"Don't want to try," said Philippa shortly. "Spent quite enough as it is. Well, we shall either have to do it that way or make the sleeves of another material to match the skirt.--Theo, it's for you. Which would you rather have?"

"Don't care at all. Make it as you please; I take no interest in the matter," replied Theo, turning her head elaborately in an opposite direction and speaking in a tone of implied rebuke, which brought a flash into Philippa's eyes.

"Then you _ought_ to take an interest! How are we to get on if no one will say what she wants? We want to do our best for you, and it's not much trouble just to say what you like, and help us to decide."

Theo looked round at that, and lo! her eyes were full of tears.

"I think it's hateful to think of clothes at all," she cried pa.s.sionately. "What does it matter _how_ they are made? Make me a sack if you like; it will make no difference to me."

"Yes, dear, it will; you are mistaken there. We shall have to wear these things for a long time, and the day will come when it would worry you very much to wear what you did not like. I know you feel no interest just now, but it would be really unselfish to rouse yourself enough to consider the question and help us with our work," said Hope, the peacemaker, speaking just in time to stop Philippa's sharp retort and so avert the threatened storm. Theo, the emotional, was always ready to be swayed by a soft word; besides, she adored Hope, and was especially sensitive to her wishes. So the black skirt was dropped to the floor, and she came forward obediently to discuss the important question of sleeves _versus_ yokes. It was wonderful how particular she became when once her attention was aroused, and what precise instructions she had to give concerning shape and size. Madge dropped her chin until it looked longer than ever, and exchanged a sly glance with Philippa; for if the two middle girls paired together, the eldest and youngest had a wonderful sympathy of feeling, and rarely failed to understand an unspoken message.

"Very well, then; _that's_ settled," said Theo, in conclusion. "And when it is done you needn't trouble to make anything more for me, for if there is any chance of going to London before winter I would rather wait and get what I want when we can shop in comfort. Did you see Mr Matthews to-day, Stephen, and tell him that this house might be to let at Michaelmas?"

Poor Stephen! He quaked behind his newspaper, knowing that his hour had come. "No-o, not to-day," he said feebly; and then Madge must needs fall upon him in her turn, and cry:

"Oh Steve, how foolish! We told you he was looking at the Masons' house last week, and if you put off seeing him he may take it before he knows there is a chance of getting this one. You really must go to-morrow.

If we let him slip, goodness knows when we may find another tenant."

Stephen put down the newspaper and braced himself for the fray. After all, he was the eldest of the family, the man and master, and it was cowardice to shrink from what a girl might say! "I can't see him to-morrow, for I shall be otherwise engaged. I have had a letter from Uncle Loftus to say that he and Aunt Gertrude are coming down to-morrow to talk over arrangements with us and give us their advice as to the future. When I wrote to them last week I said I should be grateful if they would help us in this way, and it is good of them to come so far on our account. Uncle writes most kindly. He seems really interested. I think we have misjudged him in the past. At any rate, his wife was father's nearest relative, and it seemed right that they should be consulted."

Silence. The three girls looked fearfully at Philippa, and Philippa studied _her_ pattern with an air of elaborate carelessness, making dainty snicks at the silk with the cutting-out scissors.

"And for how long, may I ask, have you invited them to stay? It may be necessary to make a few preparations, and as the house is hardly in a state to receive visitors, we had better begin at once."

"They are not coming here; they are to put up at the inn. Now, Phil, come! don't take it like that. Honestly, I never intended to do anything behind your back. I was so worried and puzzled when I wrote that I said on the impulse of the moment that I wished they would give us their help. I did not tell you about it, for, to tell the truth, I never expected that they would come. Surely you feel, as I do, that we are ignorant and inexperienced, and would be the better for advice from people who know the world. You are a sensible girl; I am sure you agree."

"I don't think it is a question of understanding the world so much as understanding _us_ and our circ.u.mstances," said Philippa, standing up suddenly and facing him with kindling eyes. She seemed about to add something sharp and stinging, but controlled herself with a visible effort, and said quietly, "You should not have done this without consulting me, Steve. If we have to work together there must be confidence between us. But let that pa.s.s. I don't want to make unnecessary difficulties. We have enough as it is, goodness knows! I should welcome any advice that came from a reliable source, but the Loftus connection have shown so plainly of late years that they wished to have nothing to do with us, that I can't say their opinion will have any weight with me. They are selfish, worldly creatures, who only think of their own convenience."