The Daughters of a Genius Part 12

There was a note in his voice which gave Hope actual pain to hear, and the remembrance of his set white face was not a pleasant one for her to carry away on her journey.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

HOME AGAIN.

The little flat looked bright and cheery when the traveller reached home. A new lampshade had replaced the one which Mary had burned, sixpence-worth of flowers were displayed to the utmost advantage against a background of dried fern, and the three sisters were beaming with joy at the return of their peacemaker. They asked questions steadily for an hour on end, and even then were far from being satisfied; for, though Hope smiled and declared that she had had "a lovely time," they were vaguely conscious of the difference which she herself felt only too surely. Hitherto home had meant the centre of interest, and its walls had practically bounded the world; now her heart was a wanderer, and at every pause in the conversation roved away to that distant spot where it had found fresh anchorage. Fortunately for the keeping of her secret, the girls were enthusiastic on the subject of the children's entertainment, and encouragingly sanguine of success. Theo had finished writing the story, and read it aloud after dinner to an appreciative audience, who unanimously decided that she must give her attention to children's stories forthwith, since nothing more poetically graceful, and at the same time interesting and exciting, could be wished to while away the children's hour. Hope was humming over the refrain of a chorus, and trying to decide which of two well-known airs would be more suitable, when Madge drew a sheet of paper from a portfolio and held it towards her with conscious pride.

"My share in the Amalgamated Sisters' Enterprise, Limited! I never like to be out of a good thing, so, though I was not asked, I determined to have a finger in the pie. You will want some sort of advertis.e.m.e.nt to take round to entertainment agencies, and to distribute among friends.

There you are!"

There Hope was indeed, for Madge was never more happy than when she could give full play to her fancy. For years past she had amused herself by designing artistic programmes for the small bazaars and concerts that had taken place at her country home, so that she had experience as well as interest to help her on this occasion. Hope grew quite pink with pleasure and embarra.s.sment as she looked down the sheet and tried to realise that she herself was the performer of whom it spoke.

"_Tell me a story_!" ran the heading, in quaint, uneven lettering; while immediately underneath came a sketch of two children, a boy and a girl, with hands outstretched as though they were offering the pet.i.tion.

Madge had copied the figures from an old sketch, altering only the dress to suit the occasion; and a dainty little pair they made, most eloquent in their dumb entreaty. Beneath came more lettering, setting forth that Miss Hope Charrington, the children's entertainer, was prepared to give her charming recitals at Christmas parties, bazaars, or charity gatherings for the sum of two guineas an hour. A waving, ribbon-like border edged the sheet, held up at the corners by four characters dear to the childish heart--the Prince, the Princess, the Fairy, and the Giant.

"Madge, you darling! How perfectly lo-ovely!" gasped Hope, in delight.

"So clever, so dainty, so--so beautifully professional! But oh, _dare_ I? 'Charming recital'! Suppose it is a terrible failure. 'Children's entertainer'! I have never entertained any one in my life. Suppose I were to break down."

"Practice makes perfect. Of course, you will have to try your hand.

The vicar of Saint Giles's called on us yesterday, and asked if we would help in the parish. I asked--just as a feeler--if he would like a treat for the school children, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed at the idea. You are to let him know what you can do; and if you run the blockade of his street-arabs you need fear no longer. _They_ won't pretend to be amused if they are not, that is certain."

"It will be pleasant for me if they hoot in the middle! But I'll put my feelings in my pocket and do my very best. I must do _something_ with my life, and I am determined that nervousness sha'n't stand in my way;"

and Hope sighed once more--the short, stabbing little sigh that had come so often since her return.

When the sisters retired to bed that evening Theo chatted pleasantly about ordinary matters until the gas was put out; then she stretched out an arm, and asked in a tenderer tone than was often heard from her lips:

"What is it, deary! What is the trouble? Can you tell me?"

"Oh Theo, how did you know?" cried poor Hope guiltily. "I thought I had hidden it so well."

And then out it came--the poor little love-story, that was hardly a love-story at all, but only a "might have been;" the happiness of those few days, the awakening, the bitter wrench of parting. The soft voice trembled as it came to the end of the story, and a little sob was swallowed with the last words: "He was hurt! I could see he was hurt.

There was a sort of strained look on his face as he stood looking after the train. Oh Theo, do you think I did right? Do you think I have made a mistake?"

Theo's arm pressed tenderly against the heaving shoulder. "I think,"

she said quietly--"I think you did what seemed to you best at the time, and what was very hard to do; and that, having done it, you must not regret. When you have chosen the narrow way, dear, you must not look back."

"No," said Hope faintly; "but still--I can't--help--regretting. It is cowardly, Theo, but he was so--I liked him so very much. Do you think it is all over--that I shall never see him again?"

"He can see you at his sister's next month if he wishes to. Try to put him out of your mind until then. Work hard, and let off steam to me when you feel particularly blue. This new plan is going to be a success; I feel convinced of it."

Theo was too prudent to give more definite comfort, but when by herself she laughed scornfully at the idea that a solitary refusal could discourage a true lover. If this Mr Merrilies had been simply attracted by a pretty face, and was likely to forget the fancy as quickly as it was formed, why, then, the less Hope thought of him the better. But the artless narrative had given Theo a different impression of his feelings.

Dear, modest Hope had no idea of her own winsome charm, but her sister felt it impossible that a man of taste could live in the same house, learn the unselfish sweetness of her disposition, share in her light-hearted gaiety, and watch the different emotions flit over her face as she sang, and still call his heart his own. "If he is a thousand times all she thinks him, he is not good enough for Hope," she told herself proudly. "But oh, what a comfort it would be if she married happily, and had no need to fight for her bread! She is too sensitive to bear the 'heart-breaking' that is my apprenticeship."

The slow tears rose in Theo's eyes and trickled on to the pillow. The "worrying story" had been returned for the third time. It was looking quite dog-eared and shabby!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

ENTER THE HERMIT.

The next morning Hope and Theo seated themselves at the piano, and tried over the songs which were to be included in the musical recital. The words had been written to fit certain tunes, but on singing them over little hitches and awkwardnesses were discovered, which made it necessary to reconstruct certain lines or introduce a new word for an old. As Philippa sat darning stockings in the dining-room, she smiled to herself at the sound of the disconnected s.n.a.t.c.hes of song and the monotonous repet.i.tion of airs which were in such strange contrast to the cla.s.sical music in which Hope delighted. All the same, the refrains were very catching; and when the "Giant's Song" was practised in its turn, Philippa found herself instinctively swelling the chorus, and emphasising the last words of the lines in merry, schoolgirl fashion:

"Whether he be alive, or whether he be _dead_, I'll have his _bones_ to make my _bread_!"

At lunch-time author and composer made their appearance, rather blue as to complexion and red as to fingertips--for the luxury of a fire in the drawing-room could not be indulged in before three o'clock at the earliest--but jubilantly pleased with themselves, and with the improvements which they had accomplished.

The next thing on the programme was to have a number of circulars lithographed for distribution, and for these Hope proposed to arrange that very afternoon, Madge accompanying her, the better to give instructions. "I can pay for them out of uncle's present," she explained smilingly. "He drove down to the lodge with me, and slipped a note in my bag in his usual fussy, disconnected fashion. 'Something to pay your fare, my dear--just to pay your fare! Serious thing to live upon capital! Mustn't allow you to be out of pocket by visiting us.' I thought it would be a couple of sovereigns just to cover expenses, and forgot to open the envelope until just now when I was getting ready for lunch and wanted something out of the bag. Then I came across it, and what do you think I found? A ten-pound note! Wasn't it sweet of the little mannikin?"

"Very decent. Fancy your forgetting about it! I should have torn it open the moment his back was turned," cried Madge in amazement, while Hope sighed at the remembrance of how her thoughts had been occupied.

It was a relief to be up and doing, and she started on the important expedition directly after lunch. Theo turned out also in search of adventure, while the busy housekeeper toiled away at her basket of mending, building castles in the air about that happy time when her fledglings would be full-grown geniuses, and poverty and anxiety known no more.

Three o'clock struck, and almost at the same moment came the sound of the electric bell to startle Philippa in the midst of her dreams. In response to the summons the little maid went to the door, and a man's voice was heard inquiring if Miss Charrington was at home. Philippa gasped in dismay, and offered up a mental prayer that Mary would remember to show the visitor into the drawing-room. But Mary had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Of experience she had none, but her sense of fitness told her that when a gentleman wished to see the missus he should be shown into her presence as speedily as possible.

She opened the door of the dining-room for about the s.p.a.ce of six inches, peered round the corner, announced, "Here's a gentleman," and promptly retired to her lair, leaving the stranger standing on the mat.

Philippa groaned in spirit over her own negligence, vowed that not another day should elapse before Mary was instructed in the art of introducing visitors, and walked forward to discover the ident.i.ty of the stranger.

Alas! the first glance brought a prevision of trouble; she saw before her the stooping form, the thin, cadaverous face of the "Hermit,"

occupant of Number 9. He bowed, she bowed, invited him into the room by a wave of the hand, and stood before him in questioning silence. Seen close at hand, the Hermit was younger and less austere than he had appeared from a distance; his features, though emaciated, were delicately moulded, and the eyes that looked out of the hollow caverns were bright and alert with life. It was the face of a man whose body was the slave of his brain--a man who forgot his meals in the interest of work; who turned day into night, and persistently ignored physical ills--a striking contrast to the girl beside him, with her glowing cheeks and tall, well-developed figure.

"You wished to see me?" asked Philippa, to end the silence. The Hermit coughed nervously, and turning his hat to and fro, nicked the dust from the brim.

"I--er--yes. I came to the conclusion that a personal interview was necessary. I have tried--er--other means of protest, but, as you are aware, without success. The case in point is--er--briefly this, that I cannot any longer submit to the annoyance which I have suffered since you have taken possession of this flat, and by which my work is seriously interrupted. The ordinary noise of a household I must of course, endure, but that is a different thing from wilful, intentional disturbance."

"Wilful! Intentional!" Philippa's cheeks grew rosy red, and she squared her shoulders in her old determined fashion. All the danger-signals were flying, and if any members of the family had been present they would have given little indeed for the chances of the stranger in the battle which loomed ahead. "I think you can hardly mean to insult me by insinuating that we have deliberately tried to annoy a neighbour, however wanting in courtesy we may have found him. I presume the immediate reason of this complaint was the music this morning; but I may remind you that for the last ten days the piano has not been opened, as my sister was from home. Does it not strike you as somewhat unreasonable to complain if a neighbour plays the piano once in a fortnight?"

"I was not aware that the interval had been so long; but even so, there ought to be moderation in all things. People who live in these establishments ought to remember that, however gratifying to their own tastes it may be to sing comic songs for hours at a stretch"--the thin lips curved into a barely concealed sneer--"it may be a most painful penance for their neighbours."

"Even so, I am afraid it was necessary in this case. My sisters were not practising for their own amus.e.m.e.nt; strange to say, they also were at work. It is not necessary to go into details, but I can a.s.sure you that what they were doing was as important to them as your studies are to yourself. You misjudged them altogether if you supposed they wore performing for your edification."

"I am sorry if I have made a mistake; though, of course, this was only one occasion out of many. As a matter of fact I did not intend to speak of music primarily, but of the other noises, which are more difficult to explain: a constant tapping outside my study window, for instance, which has a most trying effect on the nerves, and has made connected thought impossible every evening during the last week; and an extraordinary jarring sound which wakes me out of sleep before it is light, so that not only is my day's work marred, but my nights are disturbed into the bargain."

Philippa rested her hands on the table and stared at him with distended eyes. Was the man mad? Was he one of those morbid creatures who develop hallucinations in their lonely hours, and who, having once become possessed of an idea, proceed to nurse and coddle it into a full-grown mania? She tried to keep calm and cool, but her voice vibrated with indignation.

"And do you seriously mean to tell me that you believe _us_ to be responsible! Do you blame _us_ because something has gone wrong with your window-frame, or because the noises in the street disturb you in the morning? They disturb me too. I can rarely sleep after five o'clock, but I have certainly never dreamt of blaming you for the fact.

You cannot possibly mean that you think--"

"I do more than think: I am as sure as it is possible to be. It is no ordinary street noise which wakens me, but something much nearer, and more jarring. It appears to be immediately outside my window, and it happens once each morning--and only once--sometimes at five, sometimes later, sometimes earlier still. With regard to the tapping, it has never happened before; and so far as I am aware, nothing is wrong with my window. I believe, as I said before, that both these noises are the result of intention, not accident."

Philippa looked at him steadily with her bright, dark eyes. "And suppose," she said quietly--"suppose I tell you in return that you are entirely mistaken, and that we have nothing to do with either one or the other. What then? Will you refuse to believe me?"

The two stared at one another in silence, like combatants measuring strength for a fight. It was the man whose eyes were the first to fall, the man who first showed signs of relenting.

"Of course, if you give me your word, Miss Charrington, I am bound to take it."

"Then I give you my word, Mr Neil, that we are absolutely innocent of annoying you in the way you describe."

The Hermit bowed, laid his hat on the table, and fumbled nervously with his coat.