And now-here is Gillian finishing her piece. How far is it a secret, my dear.'
'It need not be so here, Aunt Lilias. Only my people are rather old-fashioned, you know, and are inclined to think it rather shocking of me, so it ought not to go beyond the family, and especially don't 'let her,' indicating her grandmother, 'hear about it. She knows I do such things-it would not be honest not to tell her-but it goes against the grain, and she has never heard one word of it all.'
It appeared that Bessie daily read the psalms and lessons to grandmamma, followed up by a sermon. Then, with her wonderful eyes, Mrs. Merrifield read the newspaper from end to end, which lasted her till luncheon, then came a drive in the brougham, followed by a rest in her own room, dinner, and then Bessie read her to sleep with a book of travels or biography, of the old book-club class of her youth. Her principles were against novels, and the tale she viewed as only fit for children.
Lady Merrifield could not help thinking what a dull life it must be for Bessie, a woman full of natural gifts and of great powers of enjoyment, accustomed to a country home and a large family, and she said something of the kind. 'I did not like it at first,' said Bessie, 'but I have plenty of occupations now, besides all these companions that I've made for myself, or that came to me, for I think they come of themselves.'
'But what time have you to yourself?'
'Grandmamma does not want me till half-past ten in the morning, except for a little visit. And she does not mind my writing letters while she is reading the paper, provided I am ready to answer anything remarkable. I am quite the family newsmonger! Then there's always from four to half-past six when I can go out if I like. There's a dear old governess of ours living not far off, and we have nice little expeditions together. And you know it is nice to be at the family headquarters in London, and have every one dropping in.'
'Oh dear! how good you are to like going on like that,' said Gillian, who had come up while this was passing; 'I should eat my heart out; you must be made up of contentment.'
Elizabeth held up her hand in warning lest her grandmother should be wakened, but she laughed and said, 'My brothers would tell you I used to be Pipy Bet. But that dear old governess. Miss Fosbrook, was the making of me, and taught me how to be jolly like Mark Tapley among the rattlesnakes,' she finished, looking drolly up to Gillian.
'And, Gill, you don't know what Bessie has made her companions instead of the rattlesnakes,' said Lady Merrifield. 'What do you think of 'Kate's Jewel?''
Gillian's astonishment and rapture actually woke grandmamma; not that she made much noise, but there was a disturbing force about her excitement; and the subject had to be abandoned.
As the great secret might be shared with Dolores, though not with the younger ones, whose discretion could not be depended upon, Gillian could enter upon it the more freely, though she was rather disappointed that an author was not such an extraordinary sight to Dolly as to herself. But it was charming to both that Bessie let them look at the proofs of the story she was publishing in a magazine; and allowed them as well as mamma, to read the manuscript of the tale, romance, or novel, whichever it was to be called, on which she wished for her aunt's opinion.
Bessie took care, when complying with the girls' entreaty, that she would tell them all she had written; to observe that, she thought 'Clare' a very foolish book indeed, and that she wished heartily she had never written it. Gillian asked why she had done it?
'Oh,' said Dolores, 'things aren't interesting unless something horrid happens, or some one is frightened, or very miserable.'
'I like things best just and exactly as they really are-or were,' said Gillian.
'The question between sensation and character,' said Bessie to her aunt. 'I suppose that, on the whole, it is the few who are palpably affected by the mass of fiction in the world; but that it is needful to take good care that those few gather at least no harm from one's work-to be faithful in it, in fact, like other things.'
And there was no doubt that Bessie had been faithful in her work ever since she had realized her vocation. Her lending library books, written with a purpose, were excellent, and were already so much valued by Miss Hacket, that Gillian thought how once she should have felt it a privation not to be allowed to tell her whence they came; but to her surprise on the Sunday, instead of the constraint with which of late she had been treated at tea-time, the eager inquiry was made whether this was really the authoress, Miss Merrifield?
Secrets are not kept as well as people think. The Hackets' married sister was a neighbour of Bessie's married sister, and through these ladies it had just come round, not only who was the author of 'Charlie's Whistle,' etc., but that she wrote in the -- Magazine, and was in the neighbourhood.
All offences seemed to be forgotten in the burning desire for an introduction to this marvel of success. Constance had made the most of her opportunities in gazing at church; but if she called, would she be introduced?
'Of course,' said Gillian, 'if my cousin is in the room.' She spoke rather coldly and gravely, and Miss Hacket exclaimed-
'I know we have been a little remiss, my dear, I hope Lady Merrifield was not offended.'
'Mamma is never offended,' said Gillian-'but, I do think, and so would she and all of us, that if Constance comes, she ought to treat Dolores Mohun-as-as usual.'
The two sisters were silent, perhaps from sheer amazement at this outbreak of Gillian's, who had never seemed particularly fond of her cousin. Gillian was quite as much surprised at herself, but something seemed to drive her on, with flaming cheeks. 'Dolores is half broken-hearted about it all. She did not thoroughly know how wrong it was; and it does make her miserable that the one who went along with her in it should turn against her, and cut her and all.'
'Connie never meant to keep it up, I'm sure,' said Miss Hacket; 'but she was very much hurt.'
'So was Dolly,' said Gillian.
'Is she so fond of me?' said Constance, in a softened tone.
'She was,' replied Gillian.
'I'm sure,' said Miss Hacket, 'our only wish is to forget and forgive as Christians. Lady Merrifield has behaved most handsomely, and it is our most earnest wish that this unfortunate transaction should be forgotten.'
'And I'm sure I'm willing to overlook it all,' said Constance. 'One must have scrapes, you know; but friendship will triumph over all.'
Gillian did not exactly wish to unravel this fine sentiment, and was glad that the little G.F.S. maid came in with the tea.
Lady Merrifield was a good deal diverted with Gillian's report, and invited the two sisters to luncheon on the plea of their slight acquaintance with Anne-otherwise Mrs. Daventry-with a hint in the note not to compliment Mrs. Merrifield on Elizabeth's production.
Then Dolores had to be prepared to receive any advance from Constance. She looked disgusted at first, and then, when she heard that Gillian had spoken her mind, said, 'I can't think why you should care.'
'Of course I care, to have Constance behaving so ill to one of us.'
'Do you think me one of you, Gillian?'
'Who, what else are you?'
And Dolores held up her face for a kiss, a heartier one than had ever passed between the cousins. There was no kiss between the quondam friends, but they shook hands with perfect civility, and no stranger would have guessed their former or their present terms from their manner. In fact, Constance was perfectly absorbed in the contemplation of the successful authoress, the object of her envy and veneration, and only wanted to forget all the unpleasantness connected with the dark head on the opposite side of the table.
'Oh Miss Merrifield,' she asked, in an interval afterwards, when hats were being put on, 'bow do you make them take your things?'
'I don't know,' said Bessie, smiling. 'I take all the pains I can, and try to make them useful.'
'Useful, but that's so dull-and the critics always laugh at things with a purpose.'
'But I don't think that is a reason for not trying to do good, even in this very small and uncertain way. Indeed,' she added, earnestly. 'I have no right to speak, for I have made great mistakes; but I wanted to tell you that the one thing I did get published, which was not written conscientiously-as I may say-but only to work out a silly, sentimental fancy, has brought me pain and punishment by the harm I know I did.'
This was a very new idea to Constance, and she actually carried it away with her. The visit had restored the usual terms of intercourse with the Hackets, though there was no resumption of intimacy such as there had been,
