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<h3>Chapter Two.</h3> <h4>An Unexpected Visitor.</h4> “Aunt Margaret, can you tell me anything about the people who have come to Number Three? I saw the lady coming in just now while I was sitting up, and I do so want to know her. Have you been to call while I was ill?” Miss Munns crossed her hands on her lap, and looked the image of dignified reproach. “My dear, do you suppose I have had leisure for social engagements? I know nothing about the people, except that their blinds are invariably crooked, and every one drawn up to a different length. Most untidy the house looks! A dear friend of mine used to say—Mary Appleford, whose father was the clergyman in my old home in Leicestershire—charming old man who married Lady Evelyn Bruce—most aristocratic family!—Mary always declared that she could judge a woman’s character by the appearance of her windows. Judged from that standpoint, I should not feel disposed to call on the mistress of Number Three.” “But you haven’t seen her, aunt; if you did, you could not help loving her. She looked so delighted to see me sitting up, and gave me such a delicious smile!” “Smiled at you, do you say? A most unladylike thing to do! The first advances should come from our side, as she would know if she had any experience of society. I hope, my dear, that you were not so foolish as to respond. One cannot be too careful about strangers in this big wicked city. I shall never forget my poor dear cousin telling me how she called on a most superior-looking lady who came to live in the same terrace, and two months later the police raided the house, and it turned out that the husband made false coins in the back kitchen, and the wife circulated them among the tradesfolk. So awkward for Maria!” Sylvia brought her eyebrows together in a frown, and tossed about on her pillow. She felt irritated and disappointed, and that made her head ache, and the headache sent down her spirits again, and eclipsed the brightness of the morning. If Aunt Margaret refused to call, she could not make the acquaintance of the fair unknown, and it would be a tantalising experience to see her every day, and, yet be as far removed from friendship as if they lived a dozen miles apart! During the weeks which followed, nurse and patient kept a close watch on the little house over the road, and were rewarded by witnessing several interesting domestic scenes. On Saturday afternoon, for instance, Edwin came home early to show himself in his turn. He was tall, dark, and handsome; dressed in the height of the fashion, and bore himself with such an air of complacency and benign patronage towards his fellows, that he looked far more like a prince of the blood than an ordinary city man. He carried a little bunch of flowers in his hand, and whistled as he drew near the gate in orthodox, newly-married fashion, and the pretty girl flew to the door, and nodded her head at him in happy welcome. He bent down to kiss her, and she took the flowers and sniffed at them lovingly; then they walked together down the little path to examine the growth of some sooty chrysanthemums and three struggling creepers placed against the house. Edwin shook his head after the inspection, as though it had been far from promising, and then, instead of looking disappointed, they both laughed, turned round and round to look over their twelve-yard domain, and laughed again as if it were the best joke in the world. Then Angelina said something in a low aside, whereupon Edwin strolled to the gate, and in the most casual manner looked up the road and down the road, and then straight across at the window where the invalid lay! “She told him to look!” cried Sylvia breathlessly, and her pale cheeks flushed until they were almost as red as the dressing-jacket itself. “He is very handsome, Whitey. I don’t dislike him as much as I expected. Oh dear, they look disgustingly happy! I am sure they don’t want me a bit, and I want them dreadfully. He doesn’t seem the sort of man to coin false money, does he? Do please casually remark to Aunt Margaret how very nice and distinguished they look! It’s my one object in life at present to make her call upon them.” The next day the situation developed still further, for a form was seen seated at a window, who must, of course, be Edwin; yet he looked strangely younger and fairer in colouring. Nurse and patient debated the point hotly, until presently the door opened and out came one, two, three masculine creatures, all as like as peas in a pod, except for the difference in years which divided Edwin from the handsome striplings on either side. They stood together in the tiny garden, obviously waiting for the mistress of the house, and when she did not appear, the youngest of the three picked up pieces of gravel and threw them up at a bedroom window, while the others whistled and beat upon the gate with their sticks. Angelina strolled to the window in response to these demonstrations, and stood smiling at them while she fastened on her hat, but she did not appear to hurry herself in the least, nor did the brothers show any signs of annoyance at their long waiting. When at long last she made her appearance, there was great manoeuvring to get a place by her side, and away they trotted, four abreast, pushing everyone else off the pavement, but apparently blissfully unconscious of anything unusual in the proceeding. Sylvia and Whitey watched until the last flutter of the black dress disappeared from sight, then fell to work to settle the identity of the new actors in the drama. “They are brothers—there is no doubt about that; but they can’t live there, Whitey! That wouldn’t be at all newly-married. Do you suppose they are here for the day? Perhaps they are in rooms in town, and Angelina lets them come down over Sundays sometimes as a treat. They seem very fond of her, and quite at home. I think that is the most likely explanation, don’t you?” “I really think it is. Or they might live in the country and have come up to pay a visit and see the sights,” said Whitey thoughtfully. She was thankful to find a subject of interest in these long days of convalescence to keep her patient’s mind from dwelling on depressing topics. Truth to tell, Sylvia was not getting well so quickly as had been expected, and besides more serious drawbacks there were minor troubles, trying enough to the girlish mind. She had to learn to walk again, like a baby, her back ached so badly that if she tried to stoop she screamed aloud with pain, and, worse than all, the plaits of hair grew small and beautifully less, until there was hardly anything left to plait. Sylvia had been proud of her hair, so she grew alarmed, and finally sent off in haste for her special barber to give advice and consolation in the difficulty. Consolation was not forthcoming, however, and the advice offered was by no means acceptable. “You can’t do nothing—there’s nothing will be a bit of good,” the man said dolefully. “Whatever you do, it’s bound to come. The wisest thing would be to be shaved at once, and give it a start.” Sylvia fairly screamed with horror and consternation. “Shaved!” she cried. “I? I go about with a bald head—a horrible, bare, shiny scalp! I’d rather die! I’d rather—I’d rather—I’d rather anything in the world! It’s no use talking to me, Whitey; I will—not—be shaved!” “Very well, dear,” assented Whitey easily. “Then you shan’t. We will just have a few inches cut off, and get a lotion to rub in to help the growth. I daresay the old hair will keep on until the new appears, and then you need never have the horrible experience of seeing a bald head.” “I never should see it in any case. I’d buy a wig and wear it night and day. Nothing would induce me to look in the glass when it was off. I should never respect myself again. And oh, Whitey, even at the best the new hair will be ages growing, and it will be impossible to do anything with it!” “Not at all. You can wear it short and curly. It would look very pretty, and suit you so well.” Whitey was aggressively cheerful, but Sylvia refused to be comforted. “It would be hateful. I don’t know anything more dejected-looking than to see the back of a shorn head under a pretty hat. I won’t allow my hair to fall out, and that’s the end of it!” “Well, p’r’aps it won’t, after all, miss! We must ’ope for the best,” said the barber cheerfully. He and Whitey talked incessantly all the time the hair-cutting was proceeding, with the fond hope of distracting the girl’s attention; but in naughty mood she refused to listen, insisted on sitting directly in front of her glass, and was rewarded for her pains by catching a glimpse of a bald spot on the crown of her head, which put the finishing touch of depression. When the doctor arrived for his morning visit, he found a most melancholy patient, and held a serious consultation with nurse on the staircase before departing. “She seems very low and listless this morning. Can’t you do something to cheer her up? I am afraid we are going to have trouble with that foot, and if she has to lie up again it will never do for her to get in a melancholy condition. You do your best, I know, but she needs a change. There is no reason why she should not see visitors. Has she no young friends who could come to have tea with her, and make her laugh?” Whitey sighed, and leant against the banisters with a dejected air. It is exhausting work being cheerful for two, and no one would have welcomed a laughing stranger more heartily than herself. The question was,—where was she to be found? “She was lamenting to me the other day that she had no girl-friends. She went abroad to school, and has had little opportunity of making acquaintances since she came home. Miss Munns is very—conservative. She does not care to associate with her neighbours. There is a charming girl who has come to live opposite. We watch her from the window, and Sylvia has been trying to persuade her aunt to call for the last three weeks; but it is useless. I’m sorry, for she looks just the very person we want.” “Won’t call, won’t she? We’ll see about that. I’m not going to have my patient thrown back, after all the trouble I’ve had with her, for fifty old ladies and their prejudices. You leave it to me!” cried the jovial doctor, and tramped downstairs into the parlour to give his orders forthwith. A little diplomacy, a little coaxing, a few words of warning to revive affectionate anxiety, a good big dose of flattery, and the thing was done; and, what was better still, Aunt Margaret was left under the happy delusion that the projected visit was the outcome of her own inspiration. She said nothing to the invalid, but at half-past three that afternoon she put on her woollen crossover, and a black silk muffler, and her best silk dolman, and dear Aunt Sarah’s sable pelerine, and her Sunday bonnet, and new black kid gloves, two sizes too big, carried her tortoiseshell card-case in one hand, and her umbrella in the other, and sailed across the road to call at Number Three. Sylvia had gone back to bed after lunch by her own request. The hair-cutting ordeal had tired her out, and there was, besides, a deep-seated wearing pain in one foot and ankle which made her long to lie still and rest. She tried to sleep, and after long waiting had just arrived at that happy stage when thoughts grow misty, and a gentle prickling feeling creeps up from the toes to the brain, when a patriotic barrel-organ began to rattle out the strains of “Rule, Britannia” from the end of the road, and the chance was gone. Then Whitey read aloud for an hour, but the book had come to a dull, uneventful stage, and the chapters dragged heavily. Sylvia longed for tea as an oasis in this desert of a day, and despatched nurse to bid Mary bring it up half an hour before the usual time. And then came a charming surprise! Back came Whitey all smiles and dimples, the tired lines wiped out of her face as by a miracle. She stood in the doorway, looking at her patient with dancing eyes. “I’ve brought you something better than tea!” she cried. “Just look what I have brought you!” As she spoke she moved to the side, as if to make room for another visitor, and—was it a dream, or could it really be true?—there stood the bride of Number Three, the sweet-faced Angelina, in her black dress, her grey eyes soft with welcome. “Oh!” cried Sylvia shrilly. “Oh—oh!” She sat up in bed and stretched out two thin little hands, all a-tremble with excitement. “It’s you! Oh, how did you come? What made you come? How did you know I wanted you so badly?” “I wanted you too!” said the girl quickly. She had a delightful voice; soft, and deep, and musical in tone, and she was prettier than ever, seen close at hand. Best of all, she was not a bit shy, but as frank and outspoken as if they had been friends of years’ standing. “Your aunt called on me this afternoon,” she went on, coming nearer the bed, and sitting down on the chair which nurse placed for her. “She invited me to come to see you some day, but I’ve a dislike to waiting, if there’s a good thing in prospect, so I asked if I might come at once, and here I am! I’m so glad you wanted to see me. I have watched you from my window, ever since you first sat up in your pretty red jacket.” “And you looked up and smiled at me! I have watched you too, and wanted to know you so badly. I’ve been ill for months, it seems like years, and was so surprised to see that your house was taken. You can’t think how strange it is to creep back to life, and see how everything has gone on while you have lain still. It’s conceited, of course, to expect a revolution of nature, just because you are out of things yourself, but I didn’t seem able to help it.” “I’m like that myself!” said the pretty girl pleasantly. There was a soft gurgle in her voice as of laughter barely repressed, and she pronounced her i’s with a faint broadening of accent, which was altogether quaint and delightful. Sylvia mentally repeated the phrase as it sounded in her ears, “Oi’m like that meself!” and came to an instant conclusion. “Irish! She’s Irish. I’m glad of that. I like Irish people.” She smiled for pure pleasure, and the visitor stretched out a hand impulsively, and grasped the thin fingers lying on the counterpane. “You poor creature, I’m grieved for you! Tell me, is your name Beatrice? I’m dying to know, for we had a discussion about it at home, and I said I was sure it was Beatrice. I always imagine a Beatrice dark like you, with brown eyes and arched eyebrows.” “I don’t! The only Beatrice I know is quite fair and fluffy. No, I am not Beatrice!” “But you are not Helen! I do hope you are not Helen. The boys guessed that, and they would be so triumphant if they were right.” “No, I’m not Helen either. I’m Sylvia Trevor.” “’Deed, you are, then! It’s an elegant name. I never knew anyone living by it before, and it suits you, too. I like it immensely. Did you,”—the grey eyes twinkled merrily—“did you find a nickname for me?” Sylvia glanced at Whitey and smiled demurely. “We called you Angelina. Oh, we didn’t think that was really your name, but we called you by it because you looked so happy and er—er affectionate, and pleased with everything. And we called your husband Edwin, to match. Those are the proper names for newly-married couples, you know.” The girl stared back with wide grey eyes, her chin dropped, and she sat suddenly bolt upright in her chair. “My what?” she gasped. “My h—” She put her hands against her cheeks, which had grown quite pink, and gurgled into the merriest, most infectious laughter. “But I’m not married at all! It’s my brother. He is not Edwin, he is Jack, and I’m Bridgie—Bridget O’Shaughnessy, just a bit of a girl like yourself, and not even engaged.” Sylvia sank back in the bed with a great sigh of thanksgiving. “What a relief! I was so jealous of that husband, for I wanted you for myself, and if you had been married you would have been too settled-down and domestic to care for me. I do hope we shall be friends. I’m an only child, and my father is abroad, and I pine to know someone of my own age.” “I know; your aunt told me. We talked about you all the time, for I had been so interested and sorry about your illness, that I had no end of questions to ask. What a dear old lady she is! I envy you having her to live with. I always think one misses so much if there is no old person in the house to help with advice and example!” The invalid moved restlessly on her pillows, and cast a curious glance at her companion. The grey eyes were clear and honest, the sweet lips showed not the shadow of a smile; it was transparently apparent that she was in earnest. Sylvia felt a pang of apprehension lest her new friend was about to turn out “proper,” that acme of undesirable qualities to the girlish mind. If that were so, the future would be robbed of much of its charm; but the discussion of Aunt Margaret and her qualities must be deferred until a greater degree of intimacy had shown Bridgie the difficulties, as well as the advantages, of the situation. In the meantime she was longing to hear a little family history, and judiciously led the conversation in the desired direction. “You are four young people living alone, then? for I suppose the two younger boys are brothers also. How fond they seem of you!” “Why, of course. They dote upon me,” said Miss O’Shaughnessy, with an air of calm taking-for-granted which spoke volumes for the character of the family. Then she began to smile, and the corners of her lips twisted with humorous enjoyment. “I wouldn’t be saying that we don’t have a breeze now and again, just to vary the monotony; but we admire one another the more for the spirit in us. And it’s pleasant having an even number, for we can fight two against two, and no unfairness. Maybe they are a bit more attentive than usual just now, for they have been without me most of the winter, poor creatures! We have had a troublous time of it these last two years. My dear father died the spring before last, and we had to leave our home in Ireland. Then one sister was married, and another went to Paris for her education, so there were two trousseaux to prepare, and when all the fuss and excitement was over I was worn-out, and the doctor said I must do nothing but rest for some months to come. The boys went into lodgings, while I junketed about visiting friends, and they are so pleased to get into a place of their own again, that they don’t know how to knock about the furniture enough, or make the most upset!” It seemed to Sylvia an extraordinary manner of appreciating the delights of housekeeping, and she attempted to condole with the young mistress, only to be interrupted with laughing complacency. “’Deed, I don’t mind. Let them enjoy themselves, poor dears. It’s depressing to boy creatures to have to think about carpets and cushions, and have no ease at their writing for fear of a spot of ink. I care far more about seeing them happy, than having the furniture spick and span. What was it made for, if it wasn’t to be used?” Sylvia groaned heavily. “Wait until you have been in our drawing-room!” she said. “The chairs were originally covered in cherry-coloured repp,—over that is a cover of flowered chintz,—over that is a cover of brown holland,—over that is a capacious antimacassar,—over that, each night of the week, is carefully draped a linen dust sheet. The carpet is covered with a drugget, the ornaments are covered with glass shades, the fire-screen is covered with crackly oilskin. Even the footstools have little hoods to draw on over the beadwork. I have lived here for two years, and on one occasion we got down as far as the chintz stratum, when Cousin Mary Robinson and dear Mrs MacDugal from Aberdeen came to stay for the night, but my eyes have never yet been dazzled by the glory of the cherry-coloured repp.” Bridgie lengthened her chin, and shook her head from side to side, with a comical air of humiliation. “Ah, well, tidiness is a gift. It runs in the family like wooden legs. Some have got it, and others haven’t, so they must just be resigned to their fate. I’m going to see these repp covers, though! I’ll wheedle and wheedle until one cover comes off after another, and never feel that I have done credit to Old Ireland until I get down to the foundation.” She rose from her chair, and held out a hand in farewell. “Nurse said I was to stay only a few minutes, as you were tired already, but I may come to tea another day if you would like to have me.” “Oh, do, please! Come often! You can’t think how I should love it. Will you come for a drive with me some day, when it is bright and sunny?” “I will. We could have a nice chat as we went along. I have not told you about my sisters yet. I have the dearest sisters in the world!” said Bridgie O’Shaughnessy. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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