by L. T. Meade
sitting-room. We had breadwith our chops, and some very rare wine, which was poured into tallVenetian glasses of great beauty.
"I don't open this wine for my distant relatives," he said, with achuckle. "But you, Rosamund--your courage deserves the best I can dofor you."
After lunch he took me all over his large house. It was full of themost valuable and costly furniture, but all worm-eaten and going todecay from dirt and neglect.
He had some paintings of immense value in his drawing-rooms, and in hislibrary were several rare editions of costly books.
"I refused three thousand pounds for that Paul Veronese," he said,pointing to a picture which I was too ignorant to appreciate.
"Then you, too, love art," I said. "Of course you will help me."
"I love the great in art," he answered. "But I despise the little. Andof all things, what I most despise is the wild talk of the aspirant.Rosamund, you are a good girl, a plucky honest girl, but you will neverbe an artist. Tut, tut! There have not been more than a dozen realartists in the world, and is it likely that you will be the thirteenth?Go and darn your stockings quietly at home, Rosamund, and forget thissilly little dream."
I stamped my foot.
"If there have hitherto been only twelve artists I will make thethirteenth," I said. "There! I am not afraid. _I_ go and darnstockings! No, I won't, not while you are alive, Cousin Geoffrey."
I was angry, and I knew my eyes flashed angrily. I had often been toldthat my eyes could flash in a very brilliant and even alarming manner,and I was well aware that they had now bestowed a lightning glance ofscorn on Cousin Geoffrey.
He was not displeased.
"Oh, what utter nonsense you talk!" he said. "But you are a brave girl,very brave. Why, you are not a bit afraid of me!"
"Afraid?" I said. "What do you mean?"
"Most of my relatives are afraid of me, child. They choose their wordscarefully; they always call me `dear Geoffrey,' or `dear CousinGeoffrey,' and they agree with every word I say. It's awfullymonotonous being agreed with, I can tell you. A daring chit like you isa wonderful change for the better. Now, come down-stairs with me. Youand I will have tea together. Rosamund, I wish you had a contentedsoul."
By this time we had returned to the ugly sitting-room with thesky-light. Cousin Geoffrey had lit a fire with his own hands. He wasnow on his knees toasting some bread. He would not allow me to help himin the smallest particular.
"Rosamund," he repeated, "I wish you were contented. Your ambition willundo you; your pride will have a fall."
"Very well, Cousin Geoffrey, let it. I would rather ride my high-horsefor a day, and have a fall in the evening, than never mount it at all."
"Oh, folly, child, stuff and folly! There, the kettle boils. No, youneed not help me, I don't want young misses with grand ideas like you totouch my china. Rosamund, do you know--that I am looking out for anheir, or an heiress, to inherit my riches?"
"All right, Cousin Geoffrey, only pray don't choose me!"
"You, you saucy chit! I want some one who's contented, who won'tsquander my gold. _You_!--really, Rosamund, your words are a little toobold to be always agreeable."
"Please forgive me, Cousin Geoffrey. I just came here to-day to ask youfor a little help--just a trifle out of all your wealth, and I don'twant you to think to think."
"That you have come prying round like the other relatives? Why, child,your eyes have got tears in them. They look soft now--they were fierceenough a few moments ago. I don't think anything bad of you, Rosamund;you are a brave girl. You shall come and see me again."
"I will, with pleasure, when I come to London, to study art."
"Oh--pooh!--Now drink your tea."
After the meal was over, Cousin Geoffrey rose, and held out his hand.
"Good-bye, Rosamund," he said. "I am glad you came to see me. You areyour mother's daughter, although you have not got her face. You maytell her so if you like, and and--But no; I won't send any othermessage. Good-bye, Rosamund."
"Cousin Geoffrey, you have not told me--Cousin Geoffrey--you won't, oh,you won't disappoint me?"
"Child, if I grant your request it will be against my will. As a rule,I never do anything against my will. I disapprove of your scheme. Youare just a nice girl, but you are no artist, Rosamund."
"Cousin Geoffrey, let me prove to you that I am."
"I don't want you to prove it to me. There, if I think twice of thismatter you shall hear from me in a week."
"And if I don't hear?"
"Take my silence for what it means. I respect art--only true votariesmust approach her shrine."
CHAPTER TWO.
COUSIN GEOFFREY.
I went home and waited for the week. I was excited, I even feltnervous. I was not a particularly pleasant companion for my motherduring these days of waiting. I felt irritable, and the merest triflemade me speak crossly. The boys (we always called my big grown-upbrothers "the boys") twitted me on my London visit. They said my newhat had not improved my temper, and, by the way, where was my new hat?
I said, if it came home it would be in a week. I threw great mysteryinto my voice when I made this remark, but the boys were essentiallymatter-of-fact, and did not pursue the inquiry.
During this week my mother talked a great deal about Cousin Geoffrey.
At first she seemed almost afraid to ask me what had taken place duringthe time I spent with him, but soon she got over her reluctance, andthen she was only too desirous to learn even the most remote particularsthat I could give her.
She both laughed and cried over my account of my interview.
"Just like Geoffrey!" she exclaimed, when I quoted his remarks about artand artists. "Just like Geoffrey," she said again, when I told herabout the mutton-chop cooked by his own hands, and the delicate and rarewine served in the tall Venetian glasses.
My mother seemed to know his home well; she asked about the position ofcertain pieces of furniture, and in particular she spoke about the PaulVeronese. _She_ knew its value well enough--she was no artist, but shecould appreciate its merits. Her cheeks glowed, and her eyes grewbright as she spoke of it.
"Ah, Rosamund," she said, "I helped him to unpack it--long ago--long,long ago."
When I told my mother how Cousin Geoffrey said she was the only relativewho was not kind, she turned her head away.
I knew why she did this--she did not want me to see the tears in hereyes.
The week passed.
I got up early on the morning which saw its completion, and wentdown-stairs myself to answer the postman's ring.
There was no letter for me. I did not cry, nor show disappointment inany way. On the contrary I was particularly cheerful, only that day Iwould not talk at all about Cousin Geoffrey.
In the evening my father returned by an earlier train than usual; mybrothers had not come back with him. He came straight into our littledrawing-room without removing his muddy boots, as his usual custom was.My mother and I had just lighted the lamp; the curtains were drawn. Mymother was bending over her eternal mending and darning.
When my father entered the room my mother scarcely raised her head. Idid--I was about to remark that he was home in specially good time, whenI noticed something strange in his face. He raised his eyebrows, andglanced significantly towards the door.
I knew he wanted me to leave the room; he had something to say to mymother.
I went away. My father and mother remained alone together for about aquarter of an hour. Then he came out of the drawing-room, called to meto get supper ready at once, and went up to his own room.
I helped our one maid to put the dishes on the table, and then rushedinto the drawing-room to my mother.
She was sitting gazing into the fire. A stocking she had been darninglay on her lap. Her face was very pale, and when she turned round at mystep, I saw by her eyes that she had just wiped tears away from them.
"Rosamund," she said, in her gentle, somewhat monotonous voi
ce, "mychild, you will be disappointed--disappointed of your hope. CousinGeoffrey is dead."
I uttered a loud exclamation.
"Hush," said my mother. "We must not talk about it before your father.Hush, Rosamund. Why, Rosamund, my dear, why should _you_ cry?"
"No, I won't cry," I said, "only I am stunned, and--shocked."
"Come in to supper," said my mother. "We will talk of this presently.Your father must not notice anything unusual. Keep all your feelings toyourself, my darling."
Then she got up and kissed me. She was not a woman to kiss any one,even her own child, often. She was the sweetest woman in the world, butshe found it difficult to give expression to her feelings. Her tendercaress now
