Left to Ourselves Part 25

"Well, no," answered Hugh; "I told Tom we couldn't come."

"He said," answered Miss Radnor, "that he was sure his sister would not approve."

"It would have been better for Hugh to have asked me," answered Agnes; "but now will you kindly tell me what it is you wish?"

Miss Radnor looked as if it were all a great bore, but answered politely:

"Tom has set his heart on having Hugh and his two younger sisters to his party next week. Will you allow them to come? I believe they are to refer to you, as their parents are away."

"Thank you very much," said Agnes, hesitating a little, "you are very kind, but I believe my father would prefer our declining."

"But why?" asked the girl; "I really cannot take no for an answer."

"I should not feel at liberty to make any fresh acquaintances while our parents are away."

"How ridiculous! How can a schoolfellow be a fresh acquaintance?"

"I am sorry to seem discourteous," said Agnes gently; "but I know my parents' feelings on these subjects, and must beg you to excuse us till their return."

"Oh, just as you like, _of course_," said the girl, rising; "I don't think we should have done your charge any harm."

"I am sure you would not mean to," answered Agnes gravely--so gravely that Miss Radnor flushed angrily.

"Are we such undesirable acquaintances?"

"I did not mean that," answered Agnes, raising her eyes steadily, "but it is so difficult in these days to keep in the path----"

"What path?" she asked impatiently.

"The narrow path that leadeth to Life," Agnes answered very low. "Do not be vexed with me, we are strangers, and may never meet again; but we do want to keep in that, cost what it may."

Miss Radnor laughed haughtily. "I had no idea you were so religious!"

she exclaimed. "I beg your pardon for coming; good-day."

With that she swept out of the room, followed by Tom, who only gave Hugh a pa.s.sing grimace, which Hugh was at a loss to interpret. Did it mean sympathy with him, or with his sister?

"Hugh," said Agnes, "you should have told me."

"I never thought there would be another word. What a hateful girl, Agnes."

"I do not suppose she is; though I can't say I admired her."

"She looked round on all our things as though they were dirt!"

"Nonsense. But I daresay she is richer than we are."

"Oceans! They have twice as big a house."

"And half as big hearts perhaps," laughed Agnes. "Oh, Hugh, I pity that poor Tom."

"So do I, now I see what sort of a sister he's got. But he doesn't think her bad; he told me she was 'a stunner.'"

"I daresay. Well dear, are you satisfied with what I said? I wish I had said it better."

Hugh kissed her. "I couldn't have had half the courage you had," he answered; "and they'll be all the better for it some day, depend upon it. Don't look downhearted, you're a dear old girl."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XVII.

_THE LAST PUDDING._

Agnes and her brothers and sisters ran down the steps of their London home, one frosty morning towards the end of the holidays, and turned their steps toward Regent's Park. While the roar of omnibuses was for ever in their ears there could be little talking, but when they began to find quieter streets they gathered close to Agnes, begging for "a story." This was a usual custom with them, and Agnes quickly responded by beginning cheerfully:

"Oh, yes, you have never had the account of our other visit on Christmas-eve; so I must begin where I left off last time."

"When Minnie and I reached home, with the bells ringing the refrain of peace and contentment, we just came in to warm our fingers, and then started forth again on our last errand. This time our parcel was even heavier than before, and we were very glad when we reached the house to which our steps were bound.

"House it was not, being just a large room over a stable, where, as you know, Martha, our former housemaid, lives, since she married Jim, the cabman.

"We picked our way as well as we could over the stones, slippery and wet with mud, and at last came to the door leading to the staircase which runs up by the side of the coach-house. We found it ajar, and as the bell was broken we made our way up in the darkness. All was pitchy black, but a baby wailing above told us there must be somebody within.

We found the door of the room at the top, and knocked. A voice, sharp and quick, which I should hardly have known for Martha's soft one, answered, 'What do you want?' and on this invitation we entered.

"No light was in the room, but the gas-lamp of the yard shed flickering and uncertain gleams through the window into the barest and untidiest of chambers.

"We could see, as our eyes became used to the dim light, that Martha was seated near the empty grate, holding the baby in her lap, while three little mites were huddled up against her knees on the floor.

"Desolate indeed everything seemed.

"'Why, Martha,' said I, 'are you all in the dark? Shall I find a light for you?'

"'Is it you, Miss Agnes?' said Martha, in somewhat of her old tone of respect. 'I beg your pardon, miss, but I'm that hara.s.sed with all my troubles, that I don't rightly know what I'm doing.'

"'What is it?' asked I, advancing. 'What has come to you?'

"'Everything bad,' she moaned, in the saddest of tones. 'You know I would marry Jim, though Mrs. Headley told me he was not a steady man, and too soon I've found her words true; we've been going on from bad to worse, till one by one all my nice clothes went, then our bits of furniture, and now we haven't a morsel to eat, nor a sc.r.a.p of fire, nor an end of candle!'

"Too utterly miserable to hide her woe under her usual mask of reserve, and encouraged by the darkness, she continued in a voice husky and dry with suppressed grief:

"'And it's all through drink! He used to be kind to me; but that's long past. Then, when he missed the things in the house, he used to ask angrily for them, and when I told him we couldn't starve, and if he spent the money on drink we couldn't have food, then he'd up and beat me.'