Read Ebook: Three Bright Girls: A Story of Chance and Mischance by Armstrong Annie E Parkinson William Active Illustrator

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Ebook has 166 lines and 16221 words, and 4 pages

the matter.

So then and there a tremendous turn out takes place; and Mrs. Merivale's bed-room, where the foregoing conversation has taken place, is the scene of trying on and taking off for a good hour.

Doris and Molly turn out their own particular hoards also, though the latter's, in the matter of evening apparel, is somewhat scanty. Still it is found that their white silks, which were their winter party dresses, and only new shortly before the death of their father, are in perfectly good condition still, and with judicious management the two together can be made into one very presentable dress for Molly.

Doris's few evening dresses provided by her aunt when abroad, and modest enough in themselves, prove to be a little shabby when seen by daylight, and the girl's spirits begin to sink accordingly.

"That pale pink of mother's is lovely," she says, looking at one which Honor is in the act of shaking out, "but Lancelot insists on my being in white. Such nonsense! I declare I would spend my last few shillings in having a new white net or something; but it would look absurd for Molly to be in silk and me not. What about Honor, too?"

At this critical moment Becky appears staggering under the weight of a large milliner's box, her cap a little more awry than usual.

"For you, miss," she says, planting it on the floor close before Doris. "There ain't nothing to pay;" and looking very much as if she would like to stay, she slowly leaves the room.

"For me? Good gracious! what can it be?" and Doris pounces on the box, and tearing off both paper and string she very soon gets at the contents. A new dead, white silk is then triumphantly displayed, made with artistic simplicity, the only trimming being a little good lace.

Off comes Doris's dress in a trice, and in almost less time than it takes to tell she is in the new one, pulling here and patting there until it is all fastened , and pronounced by one and all to "do" charmingly.

"You ungrateful girl!" suddenly cries Honor, who is engaged in smoothing out the many sheets of crumpled tissue paper strewn about the box and on the floor. "Here is a letter from aunt; how came you not to see it?"

It appears that the present is from Sir John. He wishes Doris to look well at the coming ball, Lady Woodhouse goes on to say, young Ferrars being of the same family as Sir Edward.

"Well, that is kind of uncle, isn't it? Now I shall not care two straws for Lady Anne Trevelyan or anyone else."

On further examination of the hoards another white silk is discovered, which will do nicely for Honor if altered and renovated.

"I want you all to be dressed alike in that respect," says Mrs. Merivale. "You know, girls, I always liked white silk for you in the old days before your poor father died," and she sighs heavily.

And so the weighty subject of the ball dresses is settled, and a young woman in the village, whom the girls have found to be possessed of some ideas as to style and so on, is engaged to come into the house to alter those destined for Honor and Molly.

JOHN SINCLAIR'S FAIRY TALE.

All this time Daisy and Dr. John Sinclair continue to take their almost daily rides, greatly to the delight of the former if not the latter. Not that the young man feels one whit less the pleasure of having his little favourite intrusted to his care, and of watching her slow but steady return to health and spirits.

But of late he has become dull and spiritless, going about his work in a listless sort of way which is quite foreign to him as a rule, and which cannot fail to be noticed by anyone who knows him well.

It will have been gathered from some foregoing hints that ever since the young doctor had been called in to attend Daisy in her illness, he had been gradually becoming attached to her sister Honor.

At first he had been amused, afterwards attracted, by all her quiet little motherly ways when nursing Daisy, and when he came to be a daily visitor at the house he soon learned to appreciate and admire the girl who, for the sake of all around her, was making such brave and heroic efforts against an adverse fate.

It was not difficult for the doctor's keen eyes to see that Honor, young as she was, was the guide and mainstay of the whole household, nothing, not even the merest trifle being ever settled or arranged without consultation with her first.

And all this was done with graceful cheerfulness and sweetness of temper; for it was very seldom, sorely tried though she was at times, that Honor allowed herself to become ruffled or cross, even with poor Becky in her most stupid fits; and no one but the girl herself knew what a weary, tired-out little frame it often was she stretched upon her bed at night with a sigh of thankfulness for her well-earned rest. Then when better times came, and cares and anxieties lessened, the young doctor saw a new side to her character; for whereas she had before been almost unnaturally sober-minded for one so young, she was now like a bright sunbeam in the house.

No wonder Dr. Sinclair began to think how cheerless his house looked on his arrival home, and how different it would all be if there was someone always waiting to receive him. In summer-time he would picture this person sitting in the porch, perhaps, with needlework, and when winter came, in a cozy sitting-room all aglow with firelight, with possibly a pair of slippers warming near the fender. O, yes, it was a charming picture! In truth the young doctor, hitherto so matter of fact and prosaic, had taken to painting many such pictures in his mind's eye, and the centre figure always bore, strange to say, a strong resemblance to Honor Merivale. But John Sinclair had got his way to make in the world, for although he had stepped into his father's practice on the latter's death, the list of well-to-do patients was not a very extensive one, there being but few large houses round about the neighbourhood; and the young fellow being kind-hearted and lenient in such matters, fees came in but slowly from his poorer patients, often not at all.

This had been of no consequence to the old gentleman during his lifetime, for he had money of his own which made him independent of his profession. In later years, however, he had speculated largely and unsuccessfully, and when on his death-bed he was obliged to tell his son that all he had to leave him was his house and just the bare practice. This intelligence had in no way disconcerted John Sinclair, however. He said he had his brains and his hands, and with those useful commodities had no fears for the future.

He had soon worked the practice up into something very much better than it had been formerly, and, what was more encouraging, he was beginning to be looked upon with favour by his brother practitioners, it being now no uncommon thing for him to be sent for to neighbouring towns to hold consultations with men of long standing and experience.

Still his fortune was not made, and in his castle-building moments he now became painfully conscious of many defects in his bachelor home.

The carpets, which a little while back had appeared quite handsome in his eyes, now look threadbare and worn. The curtains are all of them old-fashioned and dingy. The leather of the dining-room furniture has suddenly become shabby and scratched, whilst the coverings of all the drawing-room chairs and sofas, &c., are faded to the last degree.

No, he could not ask Honor to share his home as it is. He must wait until he shall have the means to brighten up the old house with modern furniture, and to make it both pretty and comfortable. He must wait, too, until he has a certain income to depend upon yearly.

"She has slaved and laboured enough, poor child!" he says to himself sighing, "and she shall never have to do it again through any rashness of mine."

So altogether John Sinclair is not in the best of spirits just now, for while he is waiting might not someone else step in and secure the prize.

Mrs. Merivale sees the change, and guesses pretty accurately the reason of it. But while she pities him from her heart she feels rightly that nothing she can do will mend matters.

Daisy does not find her companion nearly so amusing and cheerful now as she used to, and one morning, feeling in extra good spirits herself, and only getting mono-syllabic answers to all her childish flow of chatter, she plainly informs him of that fact without the slightest regard to his feelings.

"Am I not?" says Sinclair, laughing a little and pulling himself together; for he had been leaning forward in his saddle wrapped in gloomy thoughts, until the child's abrupt remark roused him.

"Well, I am very sorry, Daisy. I'll try to be a little more lively in future. Shall I tell you a new story?"

Daisy looks at him, and then shakes her head.

"I like the old one best," she says, "about the princess, you know, and the wood-cutter. But I don't like the way it finishes up. You must make it end differently, Dr. John."

"Why, how did it end?--I almost forget now;" and he passes his hand over his eyes and strives to take his memory back to please his exacting little patient.

"Do you think they really would be?" asks Dr. John anxiously.

"You can arrange it all nicely when you are at home to-night," continues the child, "and mind you make it very long."

"To be sure," says the young man as he lifts his little charge off her pony and stands her by the gate. "Yards long, if you like, Daisy; and we will take an extra long ride so as to get it all in comfortably."

As he stops at the Rosery stables to leave Puck, the old gentlemen at work in the garden catch sight of their young favourite; and nothing will do but he must go in and take a glass of ale and some cake with them, the brothers being devoted to cake themselves, and thinking of necessity that every one else must be likewise. So Jack is taken in company with Puck to the nice cool stable, where he is entertained with a fresh drink and a few oats, while his master goes into the shady, old-fashioned dining-room with his old hosts. It soon becomes apparent that they have lured him in with some special object, for after a humming and hawing from both gentlemen in turn Mr. Edward at length says:

"The fact is, my dear Dr. John, we have been wanting to speak to you for some time past on a little matter of business; and I do not see that we could have a better opportunity than now."

Mr. Benjamin nods approvingly, and saying "exactly," looks at his brother expectantly.

"You see, my dear boy," resumes the elder brother slowly, "if you will pardon us for saying so, we do think it is time you were thinking of getting married. Hush! pray let me finish what I was about to say. Of course Mrs. Mildew, though a truly excellent woman in her way, is, it cannot be denied, advancing in years; and we fear that she does not always make you as comfortable as--as, well, as she might. Now, Brother Ben and I, you must remember, have known you ever since you were a little chap--so high, and have looked upon you as a son almost. Naturally, therefore, we have put you down in our will for a trifle. But we have lately been thinking that the wiser plan would be to let you have the benefit of this little sum during our lifetime--in fact, at once. It will bring you in about a hundred a year, and with your own practice, we think you might make a sufficient income to keep a wife very comfortably.

"You see, my dear boy, it looks so much better for a doctor to be a married man," suddenly puts in Mr. Benjamin; "and should you be so fortunate as to meet with anyone in the future whom you would like to--to make Mrs. John, you know, you would naturally want to furbish up the old place a bit--now, wouldn't you?"

"Another thing," strikes in Mr. Edward, both brothers seeming equally determined that John shall not have an opportunity of getting in a single word edgeways until they have said all their say, "it would be an immense relief to both Brother Ben and myself to feel that we still had you at hand to fly to in any case of emergency. We have always had the fear that you might perhaps be running away to set up in some more prosperous place than this."

Here the old gentleman pauses, and John Sinclair, seizing his opportunity, speaks at last--not that he is allowed to say much, however, for the old fellows have not half finished yet, and they will not listen to a single word of thanks.

When John once brings in the word "obligation" they are both down upon him at once.

"There is no obligation in the matter at all, my dear boy, unless it is on our side. As I said to Brother Ben this morning, 'It is pure selfishness on our part, Ben, nothing more nor less. Because, you see, we like to see with our own eyes that what we intend doing is really done, and without any haggling with lawyers and executors.' Why, bless me, if every one acted on this principle there would be a little more justice and comfort in the world, I'm thinking."

After a little more brisk conversation and some chaffing on the subject of the future "Mrs. John" , the young doctor is allowed to take his departure.

Riding slowly down the cool, green lanes, Jack rather enjoying the unusual pace, Sinclair repeats over and over to himself Daisy's words, "The wood-cutter must ask the princess to marry him," till at last, giving the saddle a sounding smack with the handle of his riding-whip, he exclaims to himself, "He shall ask her, and that this very day! Only," his face falling a little, "will she raise any objections to leaving all her brothers and sisters, I wonder?" He is put to the test sooner than he expects, for as he comes out of the lane at the crossroads, a little way down one of which his own house stands, whom should he see seated on the stile, a small basket by her side, but Honor Merivale!

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