Averil E-Book

Rosa Nouchette Carey

• Herausgeber: Rosa Nouchette Carey
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

MR. HARLAND was one of those enviable persons who invariably take a cheerful view of everything; in the favorite parlance of the day, he was an optimist. A good digestion, an easy-going temperament, and a conscious void of offense toward his fellow-creatures, all contributed to furnish him with a fine flow of spirits. In this way he was a philosopher, and would discourse for a good half hour at a time on the folly of a man who permitted himself to be disturbed by any atmospheric changes; he thought it derogatory to the dignity of a human being to be depressed by a trifle more or less of fog. No man delighted more than he did in the sunshine—a spring day moved him to exuberant animation; but, on the other hand, no pressure of London smoke, no damp, clinging fog, no scarifying east wind, no wearisome succession of wet days, ever evoked an impatient expression or brought him down to the dull level on which other people find themselves.

Leseprobe

Averil

By

Rosa Nouchette Carey

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I. A WET DAY IN LINCOLN'SINN.

CHAPTER II. LA RUE ST. JOSEPH.

CHAPTER III. ON THE BANKS OF THE RANCE.

CHAPTER IV. COULD THIS BE AVERIL?

CHAPTER V. LOTTIE.

CHAPTER VI. BREAKFAST AT REDFERN HOUSE.

CHAPTER VII. RODNEY MAKES HIS APPEARANCE.

CHAPTER VIII. "WILL YOU TAKE BACK THOSE WORDS, MAUD?"

CHAPTER IX. THE MUTUAL IMPROVEMENT SOCIETY.

CHAPTER X. AVERIL AT HOME.

CHAPTER XI. "A PLAIN, HOMELY LITTLE BODY."

CHAPTER XII. THE DOVE-COTE.

CHAPTER XIII. MOTHER MIDGE AND THE CORPORAL.

CHAPTER XIV. "WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY."

CHAPTER XV. MME. DELAMOTTE'S LITTLEBILL.

CHAPTER XVI. AVERIL'S STEP-MOTHER.

CHAPTER XVII. ANNETTE DECLINES TO PLAY TENNIS.

CHAPTER XVIII. "I HEAR THAT WE HAVE TO CONGRATULATE YOU."

CHAPTER XIX. "YOU WILL TRY ME, AVE?"

CHAPTER XX. "HAVE YOU FOUND HIM, FRANK?"

CHAPTER XXI. JIM O'REILLY.

CHAPTER XXII. MOPS IS ADDED TO THE PENSIONERS.

CHAPTER XXIII. "GOOD-BYE, AVE!"

CHAPTER XXIV. "YOU ARE MONSIEUR'S SON."

CHAPTER I.A WET DAY IN LINCOLN'S INN.

Mr. Harland was one of those enviable persons who invariably take a cheerful view of everything; in the favorite parlance of the day, he was an optimist. A good digestion, an easy-going temperament, and a conscious void of offense toward his fellow-creatures, all contributed to furnish him with a fine flow of spirits. In this way he was a philosopher, and would discourse for a good half hour at a time on the folly of a man who permitted himself to be disturbed by any atmospheric changes; he thought it derogatory to the dignity of a human being to be depressed by a trifle more or less of fog. No man delighted more than he did in the sunshine—a spring day moved him to exuberant animation; but, on the other hand, no pressure of London smoke, no damp, clinging fog, no scarifying east wind, no wearisome succession of wet days, ever evoked an impatient expression or brought him down to the dull level on which other people find themselves.

This made him a delightful companion, and when Mrs. Harland (who certainly matched her husband in good humor) once averred herself a fortunate woman, none of her friends contradicted her.

Mr. Harland had just reached his chambers in Lincoln's Inn one morning, and as he divested himself of his wet overcoat he hummed a little air in an undertone.

The surroundings would have looked dreary enough to any other person. It was difficult to recognize that May had actually arrived; the air had a February chill in it; and the heavy, leaden sky and ceaseless downpour of steady rain made the few passers-by shiver; now and then a lawyer's clerk hurried along, uttering a sort of dumb protest in his raised shoulders and turned-up collar. In that quiet spot the drip of the water from the roofs was distinctly audible, alternating with the splash of the rain on the stone flags of the court. Mr. Harland glanced at the letters lying on his table, then he walked up to the fire-place, and spread his white, well-shaped hands over the cheerful blaze.

"My housekeeper is a jewel!" he muttered. "She is worth her weight in gold, that woman; she seems to know by instinct when to light a fire. Bless me, how it is raining! Well, people tell me I am an oddly constituted person, but I believe in my heart that I thoroughly enjoy a wet day; one is sure of a quiet morning; no fussy clients, to bore one and take up one's valuable time; not that I object to clients," with a chuckle. "Halloo! Come in!" as a modest rap sounded at the door. "Well, Carruthers, what is it? No one can be possibly wanting me this morning," as a solemn-faced young man stood hesitating on the threshold.

"The young lady said she was in no hurry, sir; would not disturb you for the world. It is Miss Willmot."

"Miss Willmot!" and Mr. Harland dropped his eye-glasses, and then picked them up in a hurry. "Show her in, show her in at once, Carruthers; and mind, I am engaged; I am not to be interrupted on any account. To think of that delicate little creature venturing out on such a day! What do you mean by it, what do you mean by it, Miss Averil?" advancing with outstretched hands and a beaming face, as a little figure appeared in the doorway.

"Don't scold me," returned the girl, in a sweet, plaintive voice. "I am not so imprudent as you think. I took a cab, and drove all the way, so I am not wet at all; no, indeed I am not," as Mr. Harland inspected her carefully, touching her dress and mantle, as though to convince himself of the truth of her words; but he only shook his head, and drew an easy-chair close to the fire.

"Sit down and warm yourself," he said, with a good-humored peremptoriness. "You are not the sort to brave damp with impunity. You are a hot-house plant, that is what you are, Averil; but you have no one to look after you, and so you just go on your willful way."

"You speak as though you were not pleased to see me," with a slight pout; "but I know better, do I not, Mr. Harland!" laying a thin little hand on his arm.

The lawyer rubbed up his gray hair with a comical gesture. "I am always pleased to see you, my dear," he said at last, in a fatherly sort of way, for he had daughters of his own, and there was a very real friendship between him and this girl, whom he had known from her cradle. "But all the same, I am vexed with you for coming. If you wanted me, why did you not wire, and I would have been with you before the day was out? You know it was an understood thing between us that you are to send for me if you are in any perplexity."

"Yes, I know; but if I send for you, one or other of them would be sure to find it out, and then curiosity would be excited; it is so much nicer to talk to you here. I do love these quiet rooms, and that gray old court." And Averil looked dreamily out of the window as she spoke.

No one who had seen Averil Willmot for the first time would have guessed her age; in reality she was seven-and-twenty, but her diminutive stature, which scarcely equaled that of a well-grown child of twelve, often made people think her much younger; and her face, in spite of the cast of melancholy that was always perceptible, was singularly youthful. At first sight Averil was certainly not prepossessing; her stunted growth and small, sallow face had little to recommend them; without being actually deformed, she had rounded shoulders and sunken chest, the result of some spinal mischief in early years. Her features were scarcely redeemed from plainness; only a sweet, sensitive mouth, and dark, thoughtful eyes prevented positive ugliness; but those who knew Averil best cared little for her looks, though it was just possible that a sense of her physical defects had something to do with the vibrating melancholy that was so often heard in her voice.

"You might have a quiet place of your own to-morrow if you liked," observed Mr. Harland, as Averil uttered her little speech. "I am a tolerably cheerful person, as you know, and take most things with equanimity; but it always rubs me up the wrong way when I see people making martyrs of themselves for insufficient reasons, and spoiling their own lives. Granted that you owe a certain amount of duty to your step-mother and her children—and I am the last man in the world to deny that duty, having step-children of my own—still, is there a ghost of a necessity for you all living together, like an ill-assorted clan?"

"My dear old friend," laughed Averil, and she had a pretty, child-like laugh, though it was not often heard, "how often are we to argue on that point? The ghost of my necessity, as you call it, is Lottie, and she is substantial enough, poor child. If I were to consent to break up our mixed household, what would become of poor Lottie?"

"Take her with you, of course. Mrs. Willmot would only be too glad to get rid of an incumbrance. What does she care about her husband's niece? Try it, Averil; the burden of all these gay young people is too heavy for your shoulders."

"I have tried," she replied, sadly. "Mr. Harland, indeed I have not been so unmindful of your advice as you think. I have made more than one attempt to put things on a different footing, but all my efforts have been in vain. Mrs. Willmot refuses to part with Lottie, though I have offered to provide for her; but the answer is always the same, that Lottie is her husband's legacy to her, that on no consideration would she part with such a sacred charge!"

A keen, sarcastic look shot from the lawyer's eyes. He muttered under his breath, "Humbug!" but he prudently forbore to put his thoughts into words.

"Miss Lottie never lived with you in your father's lifetime," he observed, presently; "at least, I never saw her there."

"No; she was at school at Stoke Newington. The people boarded her in return for her help with the little ones. She was very young then; she is only eighteen now. I am afraid they taught her very little. I used to tell father so, but he disliked so much to interfere."

"And now the sacred charge is at Kensington. My dear, that step-mother of yours is a clever woman—you remember I always told you—a very clever woman; she knows where she is comfortable."

"I have not come here through the rain to talk about my step-mother," returned Averil, in a reproachful tone, "but to show you a letter I have just received. Mr. Harland, you know all my father's affairs; can you tell me anything about a cousin of his, Felicia Ramsay?"

"Is that her married name? Willmot once told me, when I was dining with him, that he had been engaged to his cousin, Felicia Graham. It is so long ago that I can not recollect what moved him to such confidence. Stop; I have it. I remember I made the remark that a man seldom marries his first love (you know, even old fogies will sentimentalize sometimes), and he replied (you know his dry way)—'I was engaged to my cousin before I married Averil's mother, but the fates in the shape of a shrewish old uncle, forbade the bans.' And then he sighed, and somehow we changed the conversation."

Averil flushed; her dark, sensitive face showed signs of emotion. "Poor father! but he loved my mother dearly, Mr. Harland. Still, I am glad to know this; it makes me understand things better. Now, will you read my letter (you will see it is addressed to my father), and tell me what you think of the writer?"

The lawyer put on his pince-nez and looked attentively at the somewhat cramped, girlish handwriting, then he turned to the signature, Annette Ramsay; after which he carefully perused it, while Averil sat watching him with her hands folded in her lap.

"Dear Sir and good Cousin," it began, "will you have patience with me while I tell you my sad story? For many years my father has been dead, and now the dear mother has followed him; and in all this wide world I have no one but old Clotilde to care for me. My cousin, it is terrible for a girl to be so so lonely. If I were Catholic I could take refuge with the good sisters in the Convent of the Sacred Heart; but always I do remember my mother's teaching and our good pastor. For my own part I was not aware that my English cousin existed; but one day, when my mother was unusually suffering, she called me to her bedside—'Annette,' she said, quite seriously, 'thou must write to my cousin, Leonard Willmot, when I am gone. If only I had strength to write to him myself! Ask him, in the name of Felicia Ramsay, to show kindness to her only child. Throw thyself on his protection. Leonard was always of a generous nature; his heart is large enough to shelter the unfortunate.' My cousin, those were the words of my mother, and she wept much as she uttered them. As I was writing this, our good pastor entered. I showed him the beginning of my letter. 'Tell your cousin more of your life and circumstances,' he urged. 'Represent to him exactly your situation.' Well, I will try to obey; but figure to yourself my difficulty, in thus writing to a stranger.

While my father lived, my life was as joyous as the bees and birds. What was there that I lacked? My mother loved me; she taught me everything—to read, to sew, to speak English and French. During my father's long absences (he was a sea captain) we worked well, we sufficed to each other; when my father came home we made holiday, and fêted him. One day he did not come. By and by we heard the sad news—in a great storm he had perished. My cousin, those were bitter days! I was just fourteen; until then I had been a child, but my mother's trouble made a woman of me. Alas! Never did my mother recover the shock; in silence she suffered, but she suffered greatly. 'Look you, my child,' she would say, 'we must not repine; it is the will of God. Your father was a brave man; he was a Christian. We know that he gave his life for others; it was he who saved the ship, and but for the fall of the mast he would be living now. Oh! if only he had thought of himself and of his wife and child; but they must all go first, even the little cabin-boy, and so he stayed too long.'

Perhaps it was natural, but she was never weary of telling that story as we sat at work. My father's death had left us poor; my mother mended lace, she taught me to do the same. We lived on still in the old French town where my father had placed us, and where I had been born. He had never been rich, and it was easier to live there than in England; his mother had settled there, and one or two of his people, but they had all dropped away; soon there were none whom we could tutoyer, only Clotilde, who kept the house.

I have always believed that my mother worked too hard; she had too few comforts, and my father's death preyed on her spirits. She drooped more every day—her eyes grew too dim for the lace-work. By and by she had no strength to speak; only when she looked at me the tears rolled down her cheeks; then I knew she feared to leave me alone in the great world, and it was not easy to comfort her. Our good pastor was with us then; it was he who closed her eyes, and read the service over her; presently he will leave us, for his new work is in England. It is he who has promised to direct this letter when he reaches London.

My cousin, what is there that I need to say more? I work hard, that I may feed and clothe myself, but Clotilde is old—every one who loves me dies: perhaps she will die too, and then what will become of me?

My cousin, I recommend myself to you,

With affectionate respect,

Annette Ramsay.

"Rue St. Joseph, Dinan."

"Well?" as Mr. Harland laid down the letter—"well, my good friend?"

"You want my opinion, Averil? To my mind it is a good letter; there is a genuine ring in it; the girl states her case very fairly. It is a little un-English, perhaps, but what of that? If Willmot had lived he would have held out a helping hand, no doubt. Yes, the matter is worthy of investigation; and if you care to assist her—"

But here Averil placed her hand on his arm.

"You have said enough. I see the letter has not displeased you; it seems to be a beautiful and touching letter. I could not help crying over it. Mr. Harland, I am going to ask you a very great favor—it is the greatest I have ever asked of my old friend; but there is no one I can trust but you. Will you go over to Dinan and see this girl? Will you tell her that her mother's cousin is dead, and that I am her sole relative? Tell her also," still more impressively, "that my home is hers—that I am ready to welcome her as a sister; and bring her to me, the sooner the better. Mr. Harland, will you do this, or shall I go myself and fetch my cousin?"

Mr. Harland looked perplexed; he fidgeted on his seat and played with his eye-glasses.

"My dear, this is very sudden; it is not wise to make up your mind so quickly. We have only this letter; how can we know what the girl is like? Let me go first. I can easily make friends with her without compromising you in the least. You are too impulsive, Averil! Your generosity runs away with you. You are overburdened already, and yet you would take more responsibilities on yourself."

Averil smiled, but she was evidently bent on having her own way.

"Mr. Harland, it is your duty to protest, and I expected this remonstrance; but, on the other hand it is my duty to befriend my cousin. What does it matter what she is like? It is enough for me that she is unhappy and desolate. Do you think I do not know what it is to be lonely?" And here her voice broke a little. "Perhaps I shall care for her, and she will be a comfort to me. Poor thing! Was it not touching of her to say there were none for her to tutoyer? I like her quaint way of expressing herself. Now, will you be good, and help me in this?"

"And you have really made up your mind to have the girl?" rather gruffly.

"Yes, I intend to offer my cousin a home," was Averil's quiet reply; and after a little more grumbling on the lawyer's part, some definite arrangements were made, and half an hour later Averil was jolting homeward through the wet, crowded streets; but, tired as she was, there was a quiet, peaceful expression on her face, as though some duty were fulfilled. "I think father would approve of what I am doing," she said to herself; "he did so like helping people: no man ever had a kinder heart." But Averil sighed as she uttered this little panegyric. Alas! Leonard Willmot's daughter knew well that it had been sheer kindness of heart, unbalanced by wisdom, that had led him to marry the gay widow, Mrs. Seymour. He had been touched by her seeming desolation, and the helplessness that had appealed to his chivalrous nature; and, as Averil knew, this marriage had not added to his happiness.

CHAPTER II.LA RUE ST. JOSEPH.

One afternoon, about a fortnight after Averil Willmot had paid her visit to Lincoln's Inn, Mr. Harland stood on the deck of the small steamer in the gay port of Dinan, looking with amused eyes on the motley group collected on the quay. It was a lovely June day, and he had thoroughly enjoyed his little pleasure trip—for such he insisted on regarding it. He had earned a holiday, he had told Averil, and he had always longed to explore the Rance—it was such a beautiful river. It was his habit to combine pleasure with business, and he went to see Dinan, as well as interview Annette Ramsay.

"How I wish I had brought Louie with me," he thought, regretfully, as he looked at the bright scene before him; the blue river, the green-wooded heights, the yellow and brown houses that lined the quay. Some pigeons were fluttering in the sunshine; a black goat with a collar round its neck was butting viciously at a yellow mongrel dog; a knot of gendarmes, ouvriers in blue blouses, and soldiers with red shoulder-knots were drinking in front of a shabby little auberge; some barefooted boys were sailing an old wooden tub in the river; a small, brown-faced girl, in a borderless cap, scolded them from the bank—the boys laughed merrily. "Chut! No one minds Babette. Where is the mast, Pierre?" Mr. Harland heard one of them say.

"Business first, pleasure afterward—is not that the correct thing?" thought Mr. Harland, as he climbed to the roof of a rickety little omnibus. "First I will go to the Rue St. Joseph, afterward I will dine, and reconnoitre the place. Perhaps it would be as well to secure my bed at the hotel, and deposit my portmanteau; the cocher will direct me;" and Mr. Harland, who had a tolerable knowledge of French, was soon engaged in a lively conversation with the black-mustached individual who occupied the box.

La Rue St. Joseph was only a few hundred yards from the hotel; it was in a narrow, winding street leading out of one of the principal thoroughfares. He had no difficulty in finding the house; it was a high, narrow house, wedged in between two picturesque-looking buildings, with overhanging gables and broad latticed windows, and looked dull and sunless; its neighbors' gables seemed to overshadow it. As Mr. Harland rang the bell, a little, wiry-looking old woman, with snow-white hair tucked under her coif, and a pair of black, bead-like eyes, confronted him.

"What did monsieur desire?"

"Monsieur desired to know if Mademoiselle Ramsay were within."

"Mais oui, certainement; mademoiselle was always within. Mademoiselle was forever at her lace-work. Would monsieur intrust her with his name? Doubtless he was the English cousin to whom mademoiselle had confided her troubles. Monsieur must pardon the seeming indiscretion, but it was not curiosity that had prompted such a question."

"Madame, I grieve to tell you that Mr. Willmot is dead," began Mr. Harland; but Clotilde, uttering a faint shriek, burst into voluble lamentations which effectually prevented him from finishing his sentence.

"What disappointment! What chagrin! Mademoiselle would be inconsolable! She had raised her hopes so high, she had built her faith on this unknown cousin. How many times had she said to her, 'Clotilde, ma bonne amie, I have a presentiment that something pleasant is going to happen; in the morning I wake and think, now my cousin has his letter; he is considering how he can best help me. The English take long to make up their minds; they do nothing in a hurry.' And now la petite will hear she has no cousin; it is triste inconceivable: but doubtless good will come out of evil."

"Madame," interposed Mr. Harland, as soon as he could make himself heard, "will you permit me to put two or three questions?"

"With all the pleasure in life. Monsieur must follow her within. Gaston's wife was at the market, buying herbs for the pot au feu; no one would interrupt them." And Clotilde, still talking volubly, ushered him into a dark little kitchen, with a red-brick floor, and a few glittering brass utensils on the shelves. A yellow jug of blue and white flowers stood on the closed stove; there were plants in the narrow window, some strings of onions dangled from the ceiling. Clotilde dusted a chair, and then folded her arms, and looked curiously at her visitor.

"I want you to tell me first how long you have known Mrs. Ramsay and her daughter."

"How long?"—and here Clotilde's beady eyes traveled to the ceiling—"six, seven years; tenez, it must be seven years since the English madame took her rooms. Oh, she remembered it well; that day she was a trifle out of humor, she must confess that. Jean had put her out of all patience with his grumbling. Men, even the best of them, were so inconsiderate. I was standing at the door, monsieur, just turning the heel of my stocking, and I saw Madame with her long crape veil, and a thin slip of a girl with black ribbons in her hat. 'You have rooms to let, madame?' she began. Hélas, the little black dog was on my shoulders, and my answer was not as civil as usual, for I was still thinking of Jean's grumbles. 'Oh, as to that, the rooms were there; no one could deny the fact; but there were better to be had at Madame Dubois's, lower down; folks were hard to please nowadays.' But she interrupted me very gently: 'May we see your rooms? We could not afford very grand ones.' 'Madame might please herself; I had no objection.' I fear I was by no means gracious, for it had entered into my head all of a sudden that I was tired of lodgers; but in the end madame managed to conciliate me. The rooms did not please them much, for I heard madame say, in a low voice, 'they are not dear, of course; but then they are small and dark, almost oppressively so. I fear, Annette, that you will find them very dull.' 'But it would be better to be dull and keep out of debt, chère maman,' replied the girl; 'we are too poor to consider trifles.' Ah, mademoiselle was always one to make light of difficulties; so the rooms were taken, after all. That was seven years ago, and now madame was in the cemetery."

"Was she ill long?"

"Yes, some months; but mademoiselle ever affirmed that she had changed for the worse from the hour she had received news of her husband's death. Grief does not always kill quickly, but all the same it was heart sorrow, and too much work, that led to her illness. Ah, she suffered much; but it was the death-bed of a saint—such resignation, such sweetness, no complaints, no impatience. If she had only been Catholic! But it was not for me to perplex myself with such questions; doubtless le bon Dieu took care of all that."

"But she grieved much at leaving her daughter?"

"Oh, yes, monsieur; but such grief in a mother is no sin. Sometimes she would say to me, poor angel, 'Clotilde, my good friend, be kind to Annette when I am gone. She will be all alone, my poor child; but I must try and trust her to her Heavenly Father.' Many times she would say some such words as these. It was edifying to listen to her; if one could only assure one's self of such faith!"

"And Miss Ramsay has been with you ever since her mother's death?"

"Truly; where would la petite go? At least she is safe with me. It is a triste life for so young a creature—always that everlasting lace-work from morning to evening; no variety—hardly a gleam of sunshine. 'Oh. I am so tired!' she would say sometimes, when she comes down to the kitchen of an evening. 'Is it not sad, Clotilde, to be so young and yet so tired? I thought it was only the old whose limbs ache, who have such dull, weary feelings.' 'Chut, mon enfant,' I would reply; 'it is only the work and the stooping;' and I would coax her to take a turn in the Promenade des Petits Fosses, or down by the river. 'It is for want of the sunshine,' I would say, in a scolding voice; 'the young need sunshine.' Then she would laugh, and put on her hat, and when she came back there would be a tinge of color in her face; for look you, my monsieur, the rooms are dark, and that makes the petite have such pale cheeks."

Mr. Harland listened with much interest to this artless recital. He had gleaned the few facts that he needed, and now he begged Clotilde to show him to Mademoiselle's apartment. She complied with his request willingly. As she opened the door, and preceded him up the steep staircase, he could hear a sweet, though perfectly untrained voice singing an old Huguenot hymn that he remembered. The solemn measure, the soft girlish voice, affected him oddly. The next moment Clotilde's shrill voice broke on the melody.

"Mademoiselle, an English monsieur desires to speak with thee."

"At last—thank God!" responded a clear voice. "My cousin, you are welcome!" And a slim, dark-eyed girl glided out of the shadows to meet him.

The room was so dark that for a moment Mr. Harland could not see her features plainly, but he took her outstretched hands and pressed them kindly, half drawing her to the one small window, that the evening light might fall on her face.

"Oh, you find it dark?" she said, quickly. "Strangers always do; but I am used to it. If I sit here," pointing to a tall wooden chair beside her, "I can see perfectly; it is when one is unaccustomed that one finds it oppressive—only when one goes out the sunshine is sometimes too dazzling."

"That is why you are so pale, Miss Ramsay," observed Mr. Harland, with a pitying look at her thin, drooping form and sallow complexion. The girl was not pretty, certainly, but it was the absence of all coloring that seemed to mar her good looks. She had well-cut features, a gentle, mobile mouth, and large dark eyes. As he spoke, she looked at him reproachfully.

"Why did you call me Miss Ramsay? Is that the English fashion, my cousin? You know I have never lived in England, and its ways are foreign to me. To a relative I am Annette—is it not so?"

"Yes, of course; you are perfectly right," replied Mr. Harland, cheerfully; "you will soon be English enough, Miss Annette. The fact is, you have made a mistake: I am not your cousin, though I shall hope to be considered as a friend. Your cousin, Mr. Leonard Willmot, died two years ago."

"Il est mort!" with a sudden relapse into French. "Oh, Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu!" clasping her hands, with a gesture of despair, "is it my fate that every one belonging to me must die? Then I am desolate indeed!"

Mr. Harland found it necessary to clear his throat; that young, despairing face was too much for him.

"My dear Miss Ramsay," he exclaimed, "things are not as bad as you think. It is true that poor Willmot has gone—a good fellow he was, too, in spite of one or two mistakes—but his daughter is ready to be your friend. She is your cousin, too, so you have one relative, and she has commissioned me, as her oldest friend, to find you out, and offer you a home."

Annette's eyes filled with tears.

"A home! Do you really mean it? Monsieur, will you tell me the name of this unknown cousin? Is she a girl like myself?"

"How old are you, Miss Ramsay?"

"I am nineteen."

"Well, your cousin Averil is seven-and-twenty; so she is older, you see, though she is hardly tall enough to reach to your shoulder."

"But I am not big myself—not what you call tall; my cousin must be a very little person; she is quite old, too—seven-and-twenty." And Annette looked perplexed.

"You are not as tall as my daughter Louie, but you are a fair height. Averil has never grown properly, but she is the nicest little person in the world when you come to know her. You are lucky, Miss Ramsay; you are, indeed, to have made such a friend; for Averil is true as steel, and I ought to be a good judge, for I have known her from a baby."

"She must be very good. It is kind, it is more than kind, to offer me a home. I do not seem to believe it yet. Are you sure—are you quite sure, monsieur, that this is what my cousin intends?"

"Oh, I am not without proofs," returned Mr. Harland, touched by the girl's gentle wistfulness and anxiety. "I have brought you a note from Averil herself; it is written in a great hurry, but I dare say you will find the invitation all right."

Annette's eyes brightened. She stretched out her hand eagerly for the letter.

"My dear Cousin Annette," it began, "your letter to my father has made me feel very sad. When my good friend, Mr. Harland, gives you this, you will have heard of my dear father's death. Had he been living, I know well how his kind heart would have longed to help you, you poor, lonely child! But, Annette, you must allow me to act in his place. Remember, I am your cousin, too. While I live you shall not want a home. Mr. Harland will explain everything, and make things easy for you. Do not hesitate to trust him. He will guard you as he would his own daughter. I go to him in all my troubles, and he is so wise and helpful. His time is valuable, so if you will please us both you will make as much haste as you can in packing up your possessions, and then come to your English home. I will do all I can to make you happy, and to console you for past troubles. I do so love taking care of people. I have no time to add more.

Your affectionate cousin,

"Averil Willmot."

"How kind! how good!" murmured Annette, as she put down the note; "it seems to me as though I love her already, this Averil."

"You will love her more by and by," returned Mr. Harland, in his cheery manner. "I expect you two will get on first rate. Now, Miss Ramsay, I am a practical sort of a person. How long do you think it would take you to pack up your things, eh?"

"It is so few that I have," she answered, seriously. "Indeed, monsieur, I have only one other gown."

"So much the better—so much the better; then we can be off the day after to-morrow. Well, what is it?" as the girl glanced at him rather appealingly.

"It is only that there must be one or two things that I must do," she returned, timidly, "that is, if you will permit me, monsieur. There is the lace-work to carry back to Madame Grevey; also I must make my adieus to old Manon Duclos—she is my good friend, although she is only a peasant; and"—hesitating still more—"there is the cemetery, and it is the last time, and I must take fresh flowers for my mother's grave." And here Annette's eyes brimmed over with tears, and one or two rolled down her cheek. "Monsieur, we were everything to each other, mamma and I."

"My dear child," replied Mr. Harland, hastily, "you shall have time to fulfill all your little duties. You are a good girl not to forget your friends. Would you like me to stay another day?"

"Indeed, no!" in a shocked voice. "How could I be so inconsiderate after my cousin's letter? Monsieur, you are too good. There is no need of so much time; by to-morrow afternoon it will be all done."

"If you are sure of that, I might call for you about four, and we would have a stroll together along the banks of the river. Shall you be tired? Would you rather that I left you alone?"

"I would rather come with you, monsieur—I ought to say sir; but since my mamma died I have spoken no English, not a word—always it is the French."

"Very well, we will have our walk," trying not to smile at her childish naïveté. "I will call for you at four; and after our walk we will dine together. Good-bye, Miss Ramsay, or, better still, au revoir."

"Au revoir—that pleases me best," she said, gently. "Take care of that step, monsieur; the staircase is so dark."

"Now I must go to my Clotilde," she said to herself, "and tell her this wonderful thing that has happened."

CHAPTER III.ON THE BANKS OF THE RANCE.

Punctually at the appointed hour Mr. Harland stood before the dark little house in the Rue St. Joseph; but he had hardly touched the bell before the door opened, and Annette confronted him.

"I am quite ready," she said, hurriedly: "I have been looking out for you for some time, because I did not wish to keep you waiting. Is it your pleasure to come in and wait a little, monsieur, or shall we take our walk now?"

"Well, it is a pity to waste even a quarter of an hour in-doors this lovely evening," returned Mr. Harland, in his quick, cheery manner; "so, if you are ready, Miss Ramsay, we will begin our stroll at once."

He looked at her rather keenly as he spoke, at the slim, girlish figure in the black dress. The hat shaded her face; but even at the first glance he could see she was very pale, and that her eyes were swollen, as though she had been crying. How young and pathetic she looked, standing there in the afternoon light, with the little silk kerchief knotted loosely round her shapely throat, and a tiny rosebud fastened in her dress! He was just a little silent as they turned down the street, for he feared to question her too closely; and he was much relieved when Annette began to talk to him in her frank, naïve way.