SHE stopped reading for
a minute, to listen.
"It is a child
crying," she said, "or it sounds very much like one." And then
she listened again.
Very few girls of her
age would have given attention to such a trivial thing as the fancied sound of
a child's cry in a distant room; but, as her sister said, "Brenda was
always peculiar." So Brenda listened until she had made sure she was not
mistaken, and then closed her book and went out of her room to follow the sound
and inquire into the cause of it.
She did not know the
house well, as it was an old-fashioned country-seat, full of winding galleries
and corridors, and, moreover, she was only a lately-arrived visitor; but the
pitiful little far-away wail was too much for her to bear quietly; it flushed
her cheeks and quickened her breath and excited her just sufficiently to make
her forget that it was rather a singular thing for a young lady who was only a
visitor to be wandering about the establishment without a guide.
"It is up-stairs,
somewhere," she said, when she had stood in the corridor for a minute;
"but it seems to be very high up--on the next flight, I should
think."
Accordingly, she made
her way up the big rambling staircase, letting the sobs guide her, and winding
about until at last a sudden bend revealed to her the object of her search, all
at once.
"I thought
so," she said, stopping and looking upward with perfect gravity; "it
is a child."
And so it was. On the
very top step of the flight sat a chubby little mortal, about four years old,
sobbing and shivering, in a remarkably tight white night-dress.
Brenda went to her at
once.
"What is the
matter?" she asked, as seriously as if she had been speaking to a grown-up
man or woman.
"Told an'
'f'aid," sobbed the child, with chattering teeth.
Brenda knelt down on
the steps, and looked at her with a sudden softening of her whole expression.
"Cold and
afraid," she said. "I don't wonder at your being cold; but what are
you afraid of bairnie?"
"Dosts," was
the answer, with another shuddering little burst of sobs.
"Mercy on
us!" ejaculated the peculiar one. "Who has been talking to the child?
What is your name?"
"Yosie."
"Yosie,"
repeated her interlocutor--"that is infantine Sanskrit for Rosie, I
suppose. Well, whose are you, Yosie?"
"Nobody's."
The girl stooped down
and kissed her, with a queer, impulsive swiftness.
"Dear, dear!"
she said, almost nervously. "Who has been talking to her? I shall be
obliged to find out where she came from, and carry her back, or she will catch
cold. I say, Miss Yosie, will you come to me?"
And she held out her
hands, as she had seen people do to children, though it must be confessed she
hesitated a little, in some fear as to whether she might not be presuming too
much upon so slight an acquaintance. Perhaps she was "peculiar." At
any rate, she had a peculiar respect for people's fancies, and it even extended
to this shivering little mite in the scant night-dress.
"Will you come to
me?"
The child looked at her
for an instant, as children have a fashion of doing at people who talk to
them--silently, solemnly, questioningly--and then she held out her arms, too.
Brenda took her up, and
folded her close and warm--even folded the cold, small feet in her dress before
she resumed her investigations. The child was nothing remarkable--only a
pretty, chubby little morsel, with light, crumpled hair and round eyes; but
somehow or other, the girl felt a subtle chord in her heart touched by the mere
sight of her childish forlornness.
With the help of some
brisk cross-examination, she found out that she was an inmate of the house, and
that, having been put to bed by her nurse, she had been frightened, and so had
made her way to the lighted staircase, in hope of making somebody or other hear
her.
"Well," said
Brenda, when she had learned this much, "we will go back to the nursery
and have a light there, and I will stay with you, so that you won't be
frightened again."
Yosie was consoled at
once. She clasped two short arms around her friend's neck, and nestled down on
to her shoulder, as they journeyed down the long gallery, in search of the
nursery. When it was found, Brenda re-lighted the gas and stirred the fire, and
then sat down with her charge on her knee.
She had only been in
the house two days, but her mother and sisters had known its master, Sir
Michael Thorwald, ever since he had become a widower, four years before; and it
was because they knew him so well as an eligible parti, that they had been kind
enough to accept his invitation to spend Christmas at his country-seat, with a
dozen other visitors, in the good old- fashioned way.
Cecilia and Lucy, being
beauties, were supposed to have an interest in eligible individuals, whether
widowers or bachelors. They had a right to such an interest; but Brenda, who
was the youngest, and not a beauty at all--simply a "peculiar," quiet
girl or nineteen or twenty--was only one of the unavoidable accompaniments of
the party. She was not needed particularly, and had never spoken to Sir Michael
a dozen times in her life; but, as the discreet Mrs. Burnie said to her two
charming eldest, "It would not look well to leave Brenda at home."
So Brenda had been
packed up with the rest of the baggage, and carried down to Thorwald Holm; and
here she had been for two days, reading and crocheting in quiet corners,
unnoticed and uncared-for, and not enjoying herself very outrageously, it must
be admitted. At first, the sight of the small apparition on the staircase had
been a great puzzle to her; but after she was settled in the nursery, she began
to recollect dimly that she had once heard her mother mention the fact of Sir
Michael's wife having left a baby only a few days old at the time of her death.
"And this must be
the one," she said, aloud, looking down at the plump figure making itself
comfortable on her lap.
"And it says it
belongs to nobody. Poor little bairnie!" And she sighed over it as
honestly and deeply as if she had been a soft-hearted matron of forty, instead
of a very ordinary young lady of scarce twenty years. She was very much
inclined to think that Sir Michael might have taken better care of his little
daughter, if he were a man. He was old enough. Sir Michael was nearly forty
himself, be it known.
Still, she saw, on
looking round, that the nursery was complete enough--even elegant enough, as
far as nursery appointments go. It was spacious and handsomely furnished, and
there were plenty of toys strewn on the carpet. But it had a lonely look. Her
small waif was not very communicative, but she was at least affectionate. She
lay in her friend's arms, quiet but observant, and regarding her admiringly as
she talked.
It was not the easiest
thing in the world, at first, for Brenda to talk to her. She was not used to
children--not used to talking to any one much, the fact was, but some quiet
latent instinct ripened her conversational powers on this occasion, and she
managed to make herself quite interesting and intelligible. She told one or two
little stories about impossible fairies, and sang two or three pretty little
gurgling baby-songs--all rhyme and no time--but suited exactly to the
comprehension of her listener; and finally, finding that Yosie was warm enough,
she persuaded her to permit herself to be tucked up in bed again.
"I will come to
see you in the morning," she said, after she had made her comfortable.
"My name is Brenda Burnie, and I am one of your papa's visitors; so, while
I stay here, you shall belong to me--if you will. Will you?"
"Yes,"
answered Yosie, with a gravity as sincere as Brenda's own.
"Very well, then.
Before I go away, suppose you tell me whose you are now?"
"Benda
Burnie's," said Yosie. "You's her."
And, for the first time
in their acquaintance, Brenda was suddenly awakened to recognition of her
babyhood, and laughed at it for sheer pleasure.
"I found Sir
Michael's little daughter last night," she said to her mother, the next
day. "She was out in the cold on the top flight of stairs, crying, because
she was afraid of ghosts; so I carried her back to the nursery and warmed her,
and put her to bed again."
The estimable Mrs.
Burnie settled her sharp-looking spectacles on her aquiline nose, and stared aghast.
"What was that,
may I ask?" she inquired.
Brenda repeated her
speech, with an addition.
"I think Sir
Michael ought to see that her nurses attend to her more closely," she
said, practically. "Her feet were as cold as ice, mamma."
"Her feet!"
gasped Mrs. Burnie. "I should really like, Brenda, to hear you explain
what your object is in making yourself conspicuous in a strange establishment
after such a Quixotic fashion. I should really like to know what the servants
would think if they saw you. I should really like to know what Sir Michael
would say to such a piece of interference. I should really like to know--"
But Brenda stopped her
there--without looking up from her sewing, however.
"I don't believe
it would matter much what they thought, mamma," she said. "I should
certainly do it again under the same circumstances. It was right, whether it
was conspicuous or not; and as to Sir Michael--well, if it had been Lucy or
Cecilia it might be different, but I am only Brenda, you know."
"And being only
Brenda," said Mrs. Burnie, with brisk acidity, "you are going to
disgrace us all."
"Oh, dear,
no," returned that young lady, quietly. "I shall do nothing so bad as
that, I hope."
She was by no means as
devoid of spirit as the family Cinderella ought to be, and generally is, when
she plays the part of the heroine of a story; on the contrary, "the plain
Miss Burnie," as people called her, was pretty well calculated to hold her
own in a placid, practical way. She was never crushed by sarcasms, nor subdued
by snubbings; when she was neglected she amused herself, and when she was by
chance noticed (which was not often), she really managed to make herself
reasonably agreeable. Very few people ever discovered her attractions (thanks
to her elder sisters), but when any one did discover them, it was sometimes
observed that the impression she made was a lasting one, and there had been
daring individuals who had actually remarked that the "plain Miss
Burnie" was not so plain, after all. Something of her disadvantages might
perhaps be adduced to the fact of her being not only the "plain one"
but also the young one.
Lucy and Cecilia must
be married now, but Brenda had
plenty of time before
her; consequently, Lucy and Cecilia were brought forward with all the power of
the estimable Mrs. Burnie's excessively Scotch shrewdness, but Brenda was held
in the background. And it did not hurt Brenda very much, on the whole. She was
a reticent, large-brained, self-contained girl, observant and quick-witted.
Books, and human nature--as she obtained a looker's-on impression of it--amused
her, and not being of a meek temperament, she was healthful-minded enough to
parry the family slights without receiving any very deep wounds. There were
scratches now and then, of course, but they never rankled, and always healed in
the end without a scar.
She kept her promise to
her protégée the next morning, and, going to the nursery, found the nurse
there.
"I have just found
out from Miss Rosie here what happened last night," said that person,
obsequiously. "I hadn't any idea but what she was safe in bed, mum. Bless
my life! I wouldn't have Sir Michael hear of it for the world. It would be more
than my place is worth to me."
Brenda decided to give
her a hint, and gave her one accordingly.
"Then you had
better be more careful, or he will find out for himself without being
told," she cried. "I heard her crying from my room at the other end
of the house, and came to see what was the matter."
"Goodness
alive!"--nervously. "Whoever heard the like! I hope you won't mention
it, miss. I'll take care it doesn't happen again. He'd be powerful put out, Sir
Michael would, if he doesn't take much notice of her."
"Doesn't he take
much notice of her?" Brenda asked, betrayed for a moment into excusable
curiosity.
"Well, no,
Miss," was the answer. "Not as some men do of their children, though
he's very particular about her being well attended to. But it's no wonder, you
know, considering, for they do say as he never was over fond of her mother, and
only married her to please his father--though he treated her well enough, for
that matter."
Brenda made no comment
upon this. It was no affair of hers, she thought, and she never interfered with
other people's concerns, so she turned her attention to the child, to the
complete ignoring of her host's domestic history. Still, slight as was the
notice she gave it, the idea conveyed to her aroused in her mind some latent
pity for the man, simply because he had not been as happy as she had hitherto fancied.
In this manner it came
about that Sir Michael Thorwald's little daughter became the chief amusement of
the plain Miss Burnie. She fell into the habit of spending a great deal of time
with the child, and in trying to render her happy. She gained a great influence
over her before long, and, almost unconsciously to herself, this influence had
its own almost maternal quality. She learned how to pet the little creature,
and proved herself an adept in
nursery ways. She could
talk to her and tell her stories, and sing lullabies--though it must be owned
that at first she did such things with a grave reticence.
Nobody missed her where
Lucy and Cecilia were, so she could run up to the nursery half-a-dozen times a
day, and rejoice her small protégée's heart. It was about this time that Mrs.
Burnie was somewhat nonplussed. She was beginning to feel dubious about the
success of her maternal plans. The fact was that Sir Michael was not acting as
it was clearly his duty to do. He was amiably following her rather sharp lead
in the
game of hearts, but he
was not showing his hand. His attentions were not "particular"
enough. He chatted with Lucy, the brown-eyed, and delicately flattered Cecilia,
the blonde; he sang duets with the one, and openly admired the playing of the
other. He was too open, in fact, Mrs. Burnie thought. If he had been a trifle
less open, it would have made the case look better than it did; but as it was,
he was making himself equally agreeable to both, and committing himself to neither.
Of course, this was trying, after having carried them away from town right in
the middle of the season. Mrs. Burnie was reasonably irate, after the manner of
old soldiers. Mrs. Burnie was a very old soldier. The girls themselves were not
in the best of humors, either, if the truth must be told, though, of course,
they were discreet enough to hide their slight discomfiture. They had come to
Thorwald Holm ostensibly to celebrate Christmas with the rest in the good old
style, but though they were not more calculating than the generality of girls,
and were modest enough in their way, there is something more than a possibility
that both of them had secretly cherished a decorously faint hope that the
festivities might not end without some record of a comfortable triumph. And
yet, here they had been for more than a week conducting themselves with all the
discretion in the world, and still without even the shadow of a decided result.
Really, they were not even as well content as Brenda, who had cherished no hopes
at all, and merely regarded her host as a handsome, middle-aged man, who could
make himself very agreeable, but with whom she herself had as yet nothing in
common. But the time came at last when the state of affairs was materially
altered.
Among two or three
other solitary and half-melancholy habits Sir Michael had contracted, was the
one of strolling about the terraces in the evening, with a cigar as his sole
companion; and it so happened that on one occasion, about a fortnight after the
Burnies had arrived, he was promenading up and down a walk near the house, when
his attention was suddenly drawn to the fact that some one was singing in a
room high above him, and the some one in question, whoever she might be, had a
remarkably full, sweet and flexible voice.
It was a woman, of
course. No man had ever sung such a pretty, lilting air, in such a pretty
style; but, then, who could it be? None of the servants, surely, or he would
have heard her sing before; and he knew it was none of the guests. He stood listening
for a minute or so, holding his cigar between his fingers, and letting its
fragrance die out upon the chill air, and then he turned toward the hall-door
again.
"It is in the
nursery, most certainly," he said, pausing for another instant. "Yes,
it is in the nursery. I will go and see who it is."
In consequence of which
resolution, he made his way up the staircase rapidly and lightly, until he had
reached the upper flight, and stood upon the landing, looking in--positively
staring in, at the picture the dancing firelight revealed to him.
There was a queer,
old-fashioned, deep-seated rocking-chair drawn up to the hearth, and in this
chair a young lady was seated-- a young lady whose cheeks were flushed prettily
by the warmth of the fire, and whose abundant reddish-brown hair was tumbling
loose over her throat and shoulders, evidently disordered by childish fingers;
for this young lady held his little daughter in her arms, and as she rocked to
and fro, looking down at the child's face, and singing her nursery song, he
recognized in her, to his great astonishment, no less--or rather no greater--a
person than the "plain Miss Burnie." A moment more, and the child's
quick ear caught the sound of some slight stirring, and she looked up.
"Brenda," she
said, a trifle timidly, "dere's my papa!"
Then Sir Michael came
forward, not having quite overcome his feeling of surprise, however.
"Don't rise, I beg
of you," he said. "I--the fact is, I was smoking on the walk beneath
the window here, and I heard you singing, and came to see who it was. Why did I
never hear you sing before?"
Brenda gave him a quiet
little smile. If she had been other than the "plain Miss Burnie," she
might have been unpleasantly conscious of her disordered hair and rumpled
collar; but as it was, she really did not care much.
"I don't think
anybody has asked me to sing since I came here," she answered. "Lucy
and Cecilia make a science of music, you know--I do not."
"But,"
stammered Sir Michael, in a half-bewildered fashion-- "but you sing as the
birds sing. Your voice is perfect."
"Oh, dear,
no," she said; "but you are very kind to say so, nevertheless."
Then, while he stared
at her, and wondered at himself for being such an insane simpleton, she set
Yosie down out of her arms upon the hearthrug.
"Yosie," she
said, in a pretty, matter-of-fact way, "go and kiss your papa."
The child did as she
was told, without any hesitation--it seemed as if she was accustomed to obeying
the girl--but there was something deeper than ordinary shyness in her manner,
something that made it very evident that the new-comer was a stranger, and
represented to her childish mind nothing more than the merest acquaintance,
before whom she was bound to be nothing more than tractable and well-behaved. The
recognition of this, it may be, emboldened the "plain Miss Burnie."
"She does not see
you very often," she said, quietly--"does she?"
He hesitated slightly,
under his consciousness of the girl's frankly speaking face. Brenda Burnie's
face was a very frank one.
"No," he
answered--"not often." And for the first time in his life he wished
he could have answered differently.
Brenda held out her
arms again, and Yosie came back to her favorite resting-place. She was not a
remarkable child, as I have said before, but she was wonderfully loving, and
almost pathetically quiet, in a babyish way.
Brenda took one of the
small, fat hands, and began to pat it softly against her own, with an almost
ungirlish reflectiveness in her eyes.
"She told me, when
I first found her, that she belonged to nobody," she said, "and I
suppose that was why we fraternized so warmly. We are very good friends now, of
nearly two weeks' standing."
Sir Michael forgot to
smile. The fact was, he was just making a discovery. He was finding out all at
once--as if a flash of lightning had revealed it to him--that there was
something indescribable and oddly charming just at this moment about the
"plain Miss Burnie." She had a small, light, round figure; she had
great, honest hazel eyes, and her hair was real, at least. He had felt some
slight doubts concerning Lucy's elaborate coiffure and Cecilia's blonde puffs
and braids, but there could be no mistake about this profusion. She was not a
beauty, of course, but there was something quite attractive in her self-reliant
voice and those honest eyes. How was it that he had not found it out before?
And, after a
conversation of half an hour's length, he discovered something more--namely,
that she was even more inviting than she looked. No platitudes from her, no
young-ladylike speeches, no nonsense, or lassoing for flirtation. She talked to
him in a bright, straightforward fashion, spiritedly and girlishly, yet as
sensibly as if she had been his mother or his aunt, or any other essentially
sensible female relation. What a mistake he had made hitherto in flirting
languidly, and letting himself be angled for by the other two, while this
charming, piquant little woman was left in the corner to her crocheting!
And before they
separated she gave him a brave little hint.
"Are you fond of
children?" he had asked of her.
"I never knew
until I came here," she answered him. "I never had anything to do
with children before. But I think I must be. I am sorry for this one."
And her great, honest
eyes met his squarely. She knew he would understand her.
He received the
womanlike rebuke almost humbly. He would have resented it as an interference
from any one else, but coming from such a girl as this--so young, so frank, so
womanly--it touched his heart.
"I have not taken
care of her, you mean," he returned. "Perhaps you are right. We men
do not understand these things."
"If her mother had
lived," Brenda answered, "she would not have let people frighten her
with ghosts, and tell her she belonged to nobody. I do not think she ought to
be left alone so much. Children need friends," staidly.
He thanked her gravely
and courteously, and went down-stairs, thinking the matter over; but by the
time he reached the bottom step he had wandered unconsciously far away from the
original subject, and was lingering with a curious sense of pleasure over the
little homely picture he had seen through the opened nursery door--the picture
of the light, round figure in the rocking-chair, holding his motherless child
in its arms, and rocking to and fro to the sound of a nursery song.
That night the
"plain Miss Burnie" was rescued from her corner and her crocheting.
To Mrs. Burnie's great bewilderment, Sir Michael brought her forth to sing for
him, and stood near her as she sung, turning the leaves of her music, and
looking at her as he had never in his life looked at Lucy or Cecilia. He looked
fairly like a man who had fallen upon a novel pleasure, and was enjoying it in
no half-way measure.
And as the days went by
the veil fell from the business-like matron's eyes, and she awakened suddenly
to a new consciousness. She had diplomatized and struggled sharply, after a
soldierly fashion, for her elder daughters, and her struggles had availed nothing;
but she had left Brenda alone, even thrusting her into the shade, and here it
appeared that in spite of all this Brenda had made an impression, and Sir
Michael's usually erratic attentions were becoming "particular." It
was brisk discipline, but it held its own consolation. She had not made a
favorite of her youngest daughter, but it is likely that if Cecilia and Lucy
were off her hands, she would have been almost as sharp in her maternal
solicitude for "the plain one" as she was now for them. So, though her
patience was somewhat tried, she was not sorry to see some shadow of a prospect
in store for Brenda. Beauties are always marketable, and she had anticipated
trouble in "selling" Brenda, which she had known would arise just as
much from her spirit and self-reliance as from her lack of beauty.
This was what passed
through the maternal Burnie's mind when she first began to note the growth of
Sir Michael's totally unexpected fancy; but Brenda herself had few thoughts
upon the subject, if any. Not being a beauty, attentions did not mean much to
her, and consequently when Sir Michael began to single her out from the rest,
and exert himself to please her, she merely enjoyed the change in a quiet,
unromantic fashion, and felt a little happier for feeling herself of some
slight importance to somebody.
So the days passed
pleasantly enough, until they had achieved the object for the furtherance of
which so many of them had flocked down to Thorwald Holm--namely, the keeping of
Christmas in the good old style; and at last people were beginning to drop
away, one by one, and among the rest the Burnies were going.
It was the very last
hour of their stay, and while the rest were bustling about here and there among
baggage and toilets, Brenda Burnie had run up-stairs to the nursery to take her
last farewell of her favorite.
She was kneeling on the
hearth, in her had and sacque, with her arms around the child, when she heard
some one enter the room through the door behind her, and she looked up to face
Sir Michael. She gave him a smile--only a faint one, however, for she found it
rather a hard thing to bear this farewell she was taking of Yosie.
"We are bidding
each other good-by, Sir Michael," she said--"Yosie and I."
He came to the fire,
and stood looking down at her upturned face, speaking hurriedly.
"Brenda," he
said, "don't say good-by to her at all--why should you?"
She started slightly at
his eagerness and rapidity of speech, but her honest eyes met his so gently
that he went on.
"Listen to me for
a moment," he said. "I followed you here to say something to you. The
past few weeks have been a revelation to me--I have found a woman I love. Nay,
Brenda, do not look startled, or it will seem like a reproach. I do not ask
anything of you yet; I know you can have nothing yet to give me. I am not
young; I am years your senior, and I have a sad enough heart-history in my
past; but that you are my first love, and the only woman on earth to me, you
may rest assured. Just now I only ask you to say 'yes' or 'no' to two
questions: May I come to town this Winter? and will you promise that you will
not say good-by to the child here before I am sure that my efforts must be in
vain?"
The "plain Miss
Burnie" hesitated a moment, with the ungirlish reflectiveness peculiar to
herself. Then she loosened her hold upon her protégée, and spoke to her in a
soft, quiet tone:
"Yosie," she
said, "go to your papa, and tell him that my answer to both of his
questions is--'Yes.'"
* * * * * * *
It is easy enough to
guess at the end. Sir Michael Thorwald went to town from Westmoreland with a
purpose, and, being a man of taste and strength of will and spirit, he was not
unsuccessful. He sued with a will, and did not sue in vain.
Discovering that their
Chateau en Espagne had crumbled to the dust, Lucy and Cecilia discreetly
applied themselves to industry more likely to be rewarded. And so it came to
pass that a year later the beauties of the family officiated when the
"plain Miss Burnie" was married.