Part 5 (1/2)

”And do you write yourself?” queried Hilary, looking scrutinisingly at the sensitive, intellectual face, and antic.i.p.ating the answer before it came.

”A little. Yes! It is my great consolation. My name is Herbert Rayner, Miss Bertrand. I may as well introduce myself as there is no one to do it for me. I suppose you have come up to town on a visit with your father. You have lived in the Lake district for the last few years, have you not? I envy you having such a lovely home.”

Hilary elevated her eyebrows in doubtful fas.h.i.+on. ”In summer it is perfectly delightful, but I don't like country places in winter. We are two miles from a village, and three miles from the nearest station, so you can imagine how quiet it is, when it gets dark soon after four o'clock, and the lanes are thick with snow. I was glad to come back to London for a change. This is the first grown-up party I have been to in my life.”

Mr Rayner smiled a little, repeating her words and lingering with enjoyment on the childish expression. ”The first _party_! Is it indeed? I only wish it were mine. I don't mean to pretend that I am bored by visiting, as is the fas.h.i.+onable position nowadays. I am too fond of seeing and studying my fellow-creatures for that ever to be possible, but a first experience of any kind has an interest which cannot be repeated. I am like you, I don't like winter. I feel half alive in cold weather, and would like to go to bed and stay there until it was warm again. There is no country in the world more charming than England for seven months of the year, and none so abominable for the remaining five. If it were not for my work I would always winter abroad, but I am obliged to be in the hum of things. How do you manage to amuse yourself in the Lakes?”

”We don't manage at all,” said Hilary frankly. ”At least, I mean we are very happy, of course, because there are so many of us, and we are always having fun and jokes among ourselves; but we have nothing in the way of regular entertainments, and it gets awfully dull. My sisters and I had a big grumbling festival on New Year's Day, and told all our woes to father. He was very kind, and said he would see what could be done, and that's why I came up to London--to give me a little change.”

”I see!” Mr Rayner looked into the girl's face with a scrutinising look. ”So you are dull and dissatisfied with your surroundings. That's a pity! You ought to be so happy, with such a father, brothers, and sisters around you, and youth, and health! It seems to me that you are very well off.”

Hilary put up her chin with an air of offended dignity. For one moment she felt thoroughly annoyed, but the next, her heart softened, for it was impossible to be vexed with this interesting stranger, with his pathetic, pain-marked face. Why had he used that word ”consolation” in reference to his work? And why did his voice take that plaintive note as he spoke of ”youth and health”? ”I shall ask father about him,” said Hilary to herself; and just at that moment Mr Bertrand came rus.h.i.+ng across the room with tardy remembrance.

”My dear child, I forgot all about you. Are you all right? Have you had some coffee? Have you found anyone to--er--” He turned a questioning glance upon the other occupant of the seat, knitted his brows for a second, and then held out his hand, with an exclamation of recognition. ”Rayner! How are you? Glad to see you again. I was only talking of you to Moss the other day. That last thing of yours gave me great pleasure--very fine indeed. You are striding ahead! Come and lunch with me some day while I am in town. I should like to have a chat. Have you been making friends with my daughter? Much obliged to you for entertaining her, I have so many old friends here that I don't know which way to turn. Well, what day will you come? Will Tuesday suit? This is my present address, and my kind hostess allows me to ask what guests I will. There was something I had specially on my mind to ask you. Tuesday, then--half-past one! Good-bye till then. Hilary, I will look you up later on. Glad you are so well entertained.” He was off again, flying across the room, scattering smiles and greetings as he went, while the two occupants of the corner seat exchanged glances of amus.e.m.e.nt.

”That's just like father. He gets so excited that he flies about all over the house, and hardly knows what he is doing.”

”He is delightfully fresh and breezy; just like his books. And now you would like some refreshments. They are in the little room over there.

I shall be happy to accompany you, if you will accept my somewhat--er-- inefficient escort.”

Hilary murmured some words of thanks, a good deal puzzled to understand the meaning of those last two words. Somewhat to her surprise, her new friend had not risen to talk to her father, and even now, as she stood up in response to his invitation, he remained in his seat, bending forward to grope behind the curtains. A moment later he drew forth something at the sight of which Hilary gave an involuntary exclamation of dismay. It was a pair of crutches; and as Mr Rayner placed one under each arm and rose painfully to his feet, a feeling of overpowering pity took possession of the girl's heart. Her eyes grew moist, and a cry of sympathy forced themselves from her trembling lips.

”Oh--I--I'm _sorry_!” she gasped, with something that was almost a sob of emotion, and Mr Rayner winced at the sound as with sudden pain.

”Thank you,” he said shortly. ”You are very kind. I'm--I'm used to it, you know. This way, please.” And without another word he led the way towards the refreshment room, while Hilary followed, abashed and sorrowful.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

AN ”AT HOME.”

Hilary asked her father many questions about the new acquaintance, and took great interest in what he had to tell.

”Clever fellow, clever fellow; one of the most promising of the younger men. I expect great things of him. Yes, lame, poor fellow! a terrible pity! Paralysis of the lower limbs, I hear. He can never be better, though I believe there is no reason why he should get worse. It's a sad handicap to such a young man, and, of course, it gives a melancholy cast to his mind. It was kind of him to entertain you so nicely--very kind indeed.”

Hilary gave her head a little tilt of displeasure. Why should it be ”kind” of Mr Rayner to talk to her? Father seemed to think she was a stupid little girl, on whom no grown-up person would care to waste their time; but Mr Rayner had not seemed at all bored by her conversation, and when some friends had tried to take him away, he had excused himself, and preferred to remain in the quiet corner.

When Tuesday came, and Mr Rayner arrived, Mr Bertrand was busy writing, and despatched his daughter to amuse his guest until he should have finished his letters. ”Tell him I won't be more than ten minutes; and he must excuse me, like a good fellow, for I am obliged to catch this post,” he said, and Hilary went into the long drawing-room, to find her new friend seated on the couch, with his crutches by his side. He was looking better than when she had seen him last, and had a mischievous smile on his face.

”Good morning, Miss Two Shoes!” he cried, and Hilary gave a little start of consternation.

”Oh, h-us.h.!.+ They don't know--I didn't tell them. Miss Carr would never stop talking about it, and father would tease me to death. I only said that I had forgotten to put the slippers on coming home, which was quite true. It was rather awkward, for they belonged to Miss Carr. She insisted on lending them to me at the last moment. The servants would be surprised when they found them behind the curtains the next morning, wouldn't they?”

”They would!” said Mr Rayner drily, and there was a peculiar smile upon his face which Hilary could not understand. ”So they were not yours, after all. I thought the size seemed rather--excessive! I promise not to betray you if you would rather keep the secret, but if the story gave as much pleasure to your father as it has done to me, it seems rather selfish to keep it from him. I have had the heartiest laughs I have known for months past, thinking of the tragic incident of the scarlet slippers!”

”Please don't!” said Hilary; but she laughed as she spoke, and so far from being offended, was quite thankful to hear that she had been the means of giving some amus.e.m.e.nt to the new friend. ”I have been hearing all about you from father,” she continued, nodding her head at him cheerily. ”He has promised to give me one of your books to read when we get back to Clearwater. Will you please write your name in my autograph book? I brought it downstairs on purpose. There are pens and ink on this little table.”

Mr Rayner smiled, but made no objections. He took a very long time over the signature, however, and when Hilary took up the book, she saw that each leg of the H ended in the shape of a dainty little shoe, so finely done that it would probably escape the notice of anyone who was not critically inclined.

”Too bad,” she cried laughingly; ”I am afraid you are going to be as persistent as father in keeping up the joke.”

”They are the proper slippers, you observe--not the woollen atrocities,”