The Girls of St. Olave's Part 17

Reggie's birthday! It had come and gone weeks ago and she had missed it--she had completely forgotten it! What must Reggie have thought?

She glanced at the clock; there was just time to scribble a note before she dressed for the picnic, and of course, though she had no wish to encourage Reggie's friends.h.i.+p, yet a birthday was a special occasion, and had she remembered it she would certainly have written!

Why, it was on Easter Monday! No wonder she had forgotten it! Mrs.

Henchman had sent all her young party and several other friends off for a lovely expedition to an old castle, and Audrey had been hostess and had felt herself tied to the luncheon basket and the elder guests, while Cecil Greyburne and Gertrude had wandered about together all day and she had never once thought of Reggie.

But she ought to have written on the Friday or Sat.u.r.day. She remembered how they had all come in late from a long walk, and Cecil had discovered that the country post had gone out, and he had not sent off a particular letter and an Easter card. He had fumed and worried to such an extent that she had thought it really unnecessary, and wondered whoever could be of such importance to him. Then Charlie had recollected that there was a later country post in Dennetford and Cecil had sat down at Charlie's desk and written furiously, and enclosed a lovely Easter card--Gertrude had seen enough of it to know that--and then, without waiting for even a cup of tea, he had ridden off to Dennetford as if his very life depended on catching that post!

If she had only thought of Reggie's birthday, Cecil would have posted the letter with his, as he posted one for Charlie.

She went hot all over as she suddenly realised that Charlie's letter must have been a birthday letter for Reggie. She distinctly remembered Charlie's words,

"It will reach Scotland on Monday morning."

Charlie might have reminded her!

Hastily now she gathered her writing materials and wrote Reggie his long delayed birthday letter, and in her haste and regret she forgot all about her casual on-the-top-of-things style, and though the letter was very short it was just such a letter as she had written him before these new ideas came into her head. "I am rus.h.i.+ng off to a picnic with the Stacey people, so cannot write more," she ended up. "We are going to the Roman Hill. Do you remember how we went there last year and what a jolly time we had?"

Simple words--and yet Reggie treasured them like gold-dust.

Gertrude posted her letter on her way to the Stacey's house and she felt vaguely relieved when it slipped from her fingers into the chasm of the red pillar box. She felt that now she could enjoy herself in peace.

She was the most popular, the most sought-after girl at the picnic that afternoon; she was never short of a cavalier to wait on her lightest behest; she was her prettiest, her most charming self.

The American whispered to her that a picnic without her would be a desolation and he had half a mind to stop another week at his aunt's--but Gertrude was not enjoying herself. From behind the gorse bushes, from between the moss-grown boulders, from beneath the dark foliage of the Scotch firs, there peeped at her a ghost.

She saw it everywhere. It was the ghost of Reggie Alston.

The next day was Sunday; always a quiet home day in the St. Olave's household, and in the little interval between tea-time and evening service the whole family were gathered in the cool shaded drawing-room, reading, or listening to Gertrude's description of the yesterday's picnic. Suddenly she broke in upon her own narrative with a question--

"Mother, how did you and father happen to meet and like one another?"

Mrs. Brougham smiled as she glanced over at Mr. Brougham.

"My dear!" she said, "that's a very old story!"

"Mother won't tell it!" said Willie in his slow, drawly way, "so I will; I know all about it. Father made up his mind that there was n.o.body like mother in all the world, but prospects were bad in England and he did not see how he could buy the furniture, so he did not say a word to anybody except to his own mother, and he went to China and saved up, and in four years he came back because the firm shut up shop, and the first thing he heard when he got back, was that mother was going into a big hospital to train as a nurse, and he said to himself, 'One of those doctors will take a fancy to her, as sure as sure,' so he put on his best clothes and rushed off--and--and--"

"Proposed," ended up Gertrude. "Of course I know all that as well as you do. What I want to know is before all that."

"Now it is my turn," said Mr. Brougham looking up from his book, "before that, mother used to give music lessons to my little step-sister and brother--and two more rampageous little mortals I never came across--and they were always in hot water with their masters and mistresses. But whatever they did, she was so patient and gentle--though she made them mind her too--but she never spoke sharply or raised her voice. I used to stand on the stairs outside the drawing-room door, to be sure that they were not very naughty to her, and I made up my mind then. When true love comes to bless us, it is generally through some little everyday thing, some strength or tenderness of character, some simple good quality, some sympathetic tone, or some unselfish act."

"Oh, what fun it would have been if mother had come out and caught you," cried Tony exultantly.

"I wonder what Charlie chose Denys for," murmured Gertrude.

"Really!" said Denys, flus.h.i.+ng and rising, "this conversation is getting altogether too personal. Come, Maudie, it is your bedtime."

She carried the child off, and Conway said a little pointedly--

"I wonder what anybody could choose Gertrude for."

Gertrude coloured angrily and his mother said gently, "Conway, dear!"

"Well!" said Willie's drawly voice again, "I should like to know what a girl looks for in a fellow. What should you expect, for instance, Gertrude?"

One word rose involuntarily to Gertrude's lips, but she choked it back.

"My dear Willie!" she said with her easy laugh.

And that same word had risen to Conway's lips, but with a tremendous effort he too choked it back. Gertrude always aggravated him, and it was a daily fight with him to be civil to her.

He rose abruptly and went into the garden, and in a few minutes the others drifted after him, and Mr. and Mrs. Brougham were left alone.

"It is nice to see them all together like this," said Mrs. Brougham fondly, as she watched the moving figures in the garden.

There was a smile in Mr. Brougham's eyes as he quoted--

"And the ancient arrow maker Turned again unto his labour, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying, That it is our daughters leave us."

"We shan't have to part with little Maud--yet," answered Mrs. Brougham with a low laugh.

There did not rise before her mental vision a picture of a vengeful woman cowering over a handful of red embers, her mind set on one object and one object only--some mode of vengeance.

But even if she could have seen such a picture, how could she have formed a chain of a.s.sociation which should link that woman with the maid in her own kitchen, or with the golden-haired child upstairs, the patter of whose little feet sounded over her head?

How the patter of those childish footsteps came back to her heart's memory on Monday night!

"No," repeated Mr. Brougham thoughtfully, "not yet!"

CHAPTER XVII.

MEETING AND PARTING.

Monday morning brought a letter for Gertrude in a distinctly masculine, but quite unfamiliar handwriting.

Its very unfamiliarity made her let it lie unopened beside her plate while she began her breakfast. If anyone showed curiosity about her correspondent she could truthfully say she did not know who the letter was from, and she liked to amuse herself with wondering about it. Even the postmark was obliterated. She decided then that the rich American, who really was leaving for Switzerland at last, had written to say farewell and to tell her when he was likely to return for the final wind-up picnic he had promised to Old Keston.

She did not guess that the mysterious writing was well known to Denys as that of one of Charlie Henchman's friends, and that she had said to herself as she carried it in from the post-box, "What is Cecil Greyburne writing to Gertrude for?"

At last curiosity overcame Gertrude. All the family were busy with their breakfast and their own concerns. Conway and her father were each buried in a daily paper, Willie and Tony had lesson books propped in front of them, little Maud was engrossed in bread and milk, and Mrs. Brougham and Denys at either end of the table were pouring out tea, and cutting bread, and dispensing porridge and bacon, and generally devoting themselves to the wants of the family. n.o.body was heeding Gertrude, and she opened her letter and glanced first at the signature.

Cecil Greyburne!

She was distinctly conscious of a feeling of disappointment, but in a moment she pushed that aside. It was pleasant to find Cecil had not forgotten her, though the note was but a short one, nothing to compare in length with the one that had accompanied the Easter card which he had ridden fast and far to post.