SURPRISES

My governess kissed me very affectionately when we parted, and I felt touched to think that she could love me in spite of the trouble I had given her.

"I have been a great bother to you, Miss Carefull," I said, with a sudden rush of penitence. "I am sorry for it now; though I suppose you will say I am sorry too late."

"It is too late, certainly, for you to do better at school," she said, rather sadly, "but not too late for you to conquer your careless habits and set about ordering your life in a wise and worthy fashion. Oh, my dear Dorothy, do make up your mind to gain stability of character! What I fear for you is that you will constantly act in a heedless, wayward fashion, and be sorry when it is too late. And there is no greater misery for a human soul than to mourn over sins that cannot be wiped out, and the consequences of which nothing can arrest."

Her words made me look grave, and filled me with secret uneasiness. Surely I should never feel such remorse as she described? And yet, already, how often had I had to deplore the consequences of my foolish, hasty actions!

I listened in silence whilst Miss Careful went on to give me such good advice about the way in which I should order my time when I settled down at home for good, the books which I should read, the needlework which I should do, and so on.

"I say this to you, dear, because I know you have no mother to guide you," she said; "and a girl never more needs a mother's advice and care than during the years which follow her leaving school."

Ah! My heart told me that Miss Carefull spoke truly when she said this, and my eyes suddenly grew dim with tears as I thought that Mabel and I must lack a mother's tender training for the duties and responsibilities of womanhood.

My governess's words made such an impression on me that it was in a more thoughtful mood than usual that I took the well-known journey home. Like Mabel, when she left school, I felt as if my life were only now really beginning, and much I wondered how its course would run. Needless to say, my future was wholly different from anything I pictured to myself in the day-dreams into which I fell as the train bore me towards Burford.

Mabel was at the station to meet me. I saw her upright, graceful, well-dressed little figure as soon as the platform came in sight. I knew that Edmund would not be there, for he was at Beechwood, in Hertfordshire, on a visit to his friend, Ralph Dugdale. Mabel looked just the same as ever, and I forgot that I had undergone a change since we parted, till her startled stare reminded me of the fact.

"Good gracious, Dorothy, what have you done to your hair?"

"I've only had it cut off," I answered, colouring hotly; "it was such a bother, and now I have no trouble in keeping it tidy."

This wholesale sacrifice of my hair, however, was an impulsive act, which had caused me regret when it was too late. Having been sent by Miss Carefull to the hairdresser's under the care of the French governess, I had conceived the grand idea of being completely shorn of my long tresses, which had brought me so many reprimands on the score of untidiness; and, in spite of the remonstrances of mademoiselle, and the warnings of my fellow pupils, who thought it a very daring act on my part, I insisted on having my own way, and quitted the shop with my hair reduced to a short black crop giving me the appearance of a schoolboy.

The indignation of Miss Carefull, who had a strong objection to such a style of coiffure for a young lady, and the punishment to which she condemned me, were easier to bear than the amusement I detected in various eyes as they observed my droll look, and my dread of what Mabel and Edmund would say when they saw the change I had undergone. Mabel's words were not pleasant to hear.

"Tidy!" she repeated, almost scornfully. "Do you call it tidy to have your hair sticking out like a broom your ears? You have done for yourself now, Dorothy. You have destroyed your chief beauty. You could have done anything with that rich mass of hair you possessed."

"Then you might have told me so before," I exclaimed, much exasperated. "You never called it a beauty whilst I had it. You were always telling me what a fright my hair looked."

"Because you never would keep it tidy," said Mabel, calmly. "But it looks worse than ever now. I shall be ashamed for Mr. Steinthorpe or anybody to see you."

"I am sure I do not care what Mr. Steinthorpe or anybody else may think of my hair!" I exclaimed, angrily.

"Oh, well," said Mabel, "don't let us quarrel just as you have come home."

Quarrel! Had it come to that? Was I on the point of quarrelling with the sister whom I loved so dearly, and whom I had been longing to see for weeks? How was it that whilst I loved and admired Mabel, I was never with her long without losing my temper and uttering irritable words?

But if I was quickly made cross, Mabel, as everyone acknowledged, was very sweet-tempered. Though she still regarded my unfortunate hair with disapproving eyes, she chatted to me pleasantly enough as we drove home.

As we neared The Towers, Mabel told me that she and father had lately dined there, and been most charmingly entertained by Mr. Steinthorpe.

"He took me over the house," she said, "and some of the rooms are lovely, Dorothy. The house is badly planned, certainly, but he means to make a good many improvements before long. At present most of the rooms are unused, and Mr. Steinthorpe lives almost entirely in the west tower, which he has fitted up for himself in most cosy bachelor fashion."

"I hope he won't ask me to go there," I said, with a scowl; "I can't bear that man."

Mabel looked very grave.

"I wish you would not speak so, Dorothy," she said, after a minute; "it is really very wrong of you to take such dislikes to people. And in this case, it is not only wrong but ungrateful. Mr. Steinthorpe is a very good friend to father. There is hardly a day that he does not spend hours in the office with father."

"Is that being a good friend?" I asked. "I should think father would rather have his room than his company."

"You speak so because you do not understand," said Mabel, with an air of patiently bearing with me. "Mr. Steinthorpe is giving father practical help; I believe he has lent him a large sum of money."

I stared at Mabel in amazement.

"Why should he lend him money?" I said. "Father cannot be in want of money."

"I am afraid he is," said Mabel, in a low tone. "I fancy—indeed, I may say I know—that father has got into difficulties in his business. I don't understand it, but I believe there are new methods of tanning now, and father has not gone in for any improvements; he has not kept up with the times, and so the business has gone down, and he has been losing money over it for years. And Mr. Steinthorpe is anxious to help father if he can."

"Oh, dear me," I said, feeling unable to take in all the ideas that Mabel's words suggested. "I never thought that anything could go wrong with the business."

With a flash of new meaning came back to me the words my father had uttered a year ago, when reproving me for my idleness at school. Was this why he had warned me that it was well to be prepared for reverses of fortune?

I longed to question Mabel further concerning the bewildering information she had given me, but we were now at home. As I sprang down from the dog-cart, I wondered that the sound of wheels had not brought Salome to the door to welcome me. I went into the house, and seeing no one about, walked straight to the kitchen in search of Salome. A strange servant in dainty cap and apron stood there, who curtseyed to me in proper country fashion.

"Where is Salome?" I said.

She curtseyed again, but made no reply, probably because she did not understand the question. I went back to the dining-room, where Mabel stood taking off her gloves, and looking about her with her queen-like air. Certainly she had gained considerably in dignity since she left school.

"Where is Salome, Mabel?" I said.

"Salome is not here," said Mabel, looking at me gravely; "she has left us."

"Left us!" I repeated. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Mabel, speaking with a slight tightening of the lips, "that Salome lives with us no longer. I was very sorry to be obliged to do so, but there was no help for it—I had to dismiss her. It was impossible to have two mistresses in the house, and as Salome refused to conform to my wishes and do as I bade her, she had to go."

I could hardly believe my ears. I had seen when I was at home at Christmas how determined Salome was to adhere to her old established methods, and how equally determined Mabel was to have things done in her way. The two wills were constantly clashing, greatly to the disturbance of domestic harmony. I had often wondered what the ultimate issue of their conflicts would be, but I had never dreamed of such a result as this: that Mabel would dismiss our faithful old Salome, our nurse in childhood, and the mainstay of our home comfort ever since.

"Mabel," I cried, "you do not mean that you have sent Salome away? Oh, how could you have the heart to do it?"

"It was Salome's own fault that she left," said Mabel, quickly. "She would not do as I wished her."

"Oh, but you might have overlooked it," I exclaimed. "Our old nurse, who has been almost like a mother to us. I cannot bear to think of missing Salome. Where is she, Mabel, and when did she leave?"

"Oh, she is not far off; she is living in that little three-cornered cottage at the top of the road. I believe she will be very comfortable there. She went away early in the year; only a month after you returned to school."

"And why did you never tell me that she was going away?" I demanded.

"Oh, I did not like to tell you; I was afraid you would be grieved," said Mabel, her colour deepening somewhat; "and it is so difficult to explain things in letters; I thought it would be better to wait and tell you about it when you came home."

"You knew I should try to prevent it," I said. "I should have written to father. Oh, how could he let you send Salome away? It was not right, Mabel; you should have borne with her for the sake of the past. Oh, I can never forgive you for sending the poor old thing away. It was enough to break her heart."

"It is easy for you to say that," said Mabel, coldly; "you have not had to manage the house. But, happily, I do not need that you should approve of what I have done. I am satisfied that I have not failed in my duty towards Salome. If she had behaved as she should, she might be here now."

So saying, Mabel took up her gloves and, with an air of calm dignity, walked from the room. She went to the kitchen to give some directions to the servant, and I went up the narrow, tortuous staircase, shut off by a door from the stone passage, to my bedroom above.

There was a long landing upstairs corresponding to the passage beneath, and on to it the bedrooms opened. As is often the case in old houses, the rooms were all connected. I had a little room opening out of Mabel's, but having an independent entrance from the landing.

When I entered it now, I at once closed the door of communication with my sister's room. Throwing off my hat, I sat down on the low, delightful window-seat, and leaned far out of my lattice, which was framed by a monthly rose tree which already showed some buds, for the season was mild. I could look right over the far-spreading garden at the back of our house and mark the beauty of my favourite fruit trees, each now a mass of snowy or pale pink blossoms. I could see the brook which divided the garden into two portions, and the little bridge with its white palings and white gate which gave access to the larger garden to those who did not care for the exertion of leaping the brook, a feat in which I often indulged, notwithstanding its unladylike character. But I looked on it now sadly.

It was so strange neither to see Salome's sturdy form in the open space beneath the window nor to hear her voice in the kitchen below. I missed the hearty welcome she had always given me when I came back from school. My home seemed less home-like than usual.

"It was too bad of Mabel," I said to myself; "she ought not to have sent dear old Salome away."

I felt as if I could never forgive Mabel for what she had done, and I was the more vexed because I knew well that no words of mine would ever make Mabel regard her conduct in any other than the light in which she now saw it. Mabel knew nothing of the keen remorse which too often assailed me when I reviewed my past actions. She never appeared to doubt her own wisdom or to wish undone anything that she had done. Whatever others might say, she could always justify her own conduct, and was always sure that she had acted from right motives.

Presently I heard Mabel moving about in her own room, but I did not open the door which separated us. I went down stairs without exchanging more words with her.

As I roamed about the house, I could not help observing how Mabel had improved its appearance. She had clever fingers, and tokens of their handy-work were to be seen in various directions. Prettily worked covers hid the faded damask of the chairs in the summer parlour; a table cloth here, an antimacassar there, softened the effect of the stiff, ugly furniture; whilst ferns and flowers brightened each sitting-room. Mabel had exquisite taste, and loved to have everything about her as elegant as possible. And whatever she did, whether the looping of a curtain, or the folding of a dinner-napkin, or the arrangement of her own dainty dress, she seemed to impart to it a grace peculiarly her own. Mabel apparently was endowed with a special faculty for ordering a house not only well, but beautifully.

I was going across to the office to seek father when I caught sight of Mr. Steinthorpe standing in the doorway talking to him. I retreated into father's room and stood by the window, which commanded the yard, to watch till Mr. Steinthorpe took his departure.

I had left the door open, and across the passage I could see Mabel moving about in the dining-room, placing flowers upon the tea-table and giving her own finish to the arrangements for the meal. She wore a pretty fawn-coloured gown, set off by a cluster of primroses at the throat, which became her admirably. I had come home as usual with my frocks in the shabbiest state, and I knew that my appearance would contrast vividly and by no means favourably with that of Mabel.

Presently, I startled Mabel out of her usual equanimity by rushing across the passage with the announcement—

"Oh, Mab, what do you think? Father is bringing Mr. Steinthorpe in to tea. It is too bad of him; he might think that we should like to be alone on my first evening. That horrid man!"

To my astonishment, Mabel flushed crimson, and for almost the first time in her life she turned upon me with positive anger flashing in her eyes.

"You should not speak so, Dorothy; it is very wrong of you. You pain me very much."

"Pain you!" I repeated, stupidly. "Are you so very fond of Mr. Steinthorpe?"

Mabel turned a little away from me. She had regained self-control; but her face was still aglow with colour as she said, in a constrained manner—

"I had better tell you at once, Dorothy, that I am engaged to marry Mr. Steinthorpe."

No news could have been less expected by me, nor less welcome.

"Mabel!" I said, and stood staring at her, aghast.

I could hardly believe my ears. Mabel was still mechanically arranging the things on the table, though with hands that trembled a little, and I caught the gleam of a splendid diamond ring, the significance of which did not escape me; yet I tried to put the truth from me.

"Oh, Mabel, it cannot be true!" I gasped. "You are never going to marry that horrid man?"

"Dorothy, I will not have it!" cried Mabel, imperiously. "You shall not call him a 'horrid man' to me!"

I was dimly aware that I was behaving very badly, but I could not help it. My first sensations were entirely of dismay.

"How can you like to think of it?" I said, foolishly. "You can't love him, surely, Mabel?"

Mabel flushed again; then she conquered her indignation and gave a little laugh.

"You certainly are the most extraordinary girl, Dorothy. Do you think I should have promised to marry him if I did not love him? I can tell you I am proud and happy to think of being Howard Steinthorpe's wife."

And the air of elation with which she spoke showed that her words were perfectly sincere.

"Shall you have to live at The Towers, Mabel?" I asked, mournfully.

"Of course, I shall live in my husband's house when I am married," said Mabel. "Why, Dorothy, I declare there are tears in your eyes! How odd you are! One would think you might be glad that I am going to be so happy, and that you might say something nice and kind."

"I am sure I hope you will be happy," I faltered. "Forgive me if I seem stupid, but I feel as of I could not believe it. And I can't like the thought of giving you up to Mr. Steinthorpe."

So saying, I put my arms round Mabel and kissed her with mournful tenderness. I could not help regarding her as somewhat of a victim; it was so difficult for me to connect the idea of happiness with her marriage to Mr. Steinthorpe.

Whilst we talked, the voices of the gentlemen were heard in the passage, and now their steps approached the dining-room. I had but time to dash the tears from my eyes and make a desperate attempt to look as usual when my father entered, followed by Mr. Steinthorpe. I felt far from ready to receive the latter as my future brother-in-law.

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