A WILFUL MAID.

Auckland Star, Volume XLII, Issue 191, 12 August 1911, Page 18

A WILFUL MAID.

CHARLES GARVICE, AUTHOR OF "Claire," "Elaine," "Her Ransom,'' "My Lady Pride," "A Woman's Soul," ete.

CHAPTER 1. With soft footsteps, hushed lo the anisic of the spheres, spring was drawing mar. You could hear the panting of Ik r sweet breath in the branches of the budding trees; the birds, her loyal heral Is. were piping out notice of her approach: the wild flowers, that had been cowering under the hedges, hiding fro.n the grim tvrant, Winter, heard their q, n—yuecn S;>rin.f-.from afar, and plucked up courage to lift their heads and whisper, "She is near—she is here!" All Nature seemed waiting for her, and preparing to welcome her. There are some persons who sa)* they like -..inter—who declare there is nothing half so jolly as a well-curtained room and .1 roaring fire; but they are few and far between, and are either mad or eccentric, which is worse; but for the majority of people spring comes as an angel of peace and joy, a harbinger of her glorious sister, the summer; and she is welcomed.

costly nnd fashionable apparel, never look well dressed: Oari-le would appear in a cotton frock of the simplest description, and look as if the garment had grown on to her. Some girls never know what to do with their hands and their feet; Carrie had the most perfect, yet unconscious, commana ot those members, and possessed, still unconsciously, the secret of assuming a hundred graceful and natural poses in almost as many minutes.

Then her voice! Philippa said that it was like the lark's; \mt It wasn't; the lark has only one note, or two or three at the most; Carrie had a score or more, and all were musical.

Her laugh drove her admirers to the point of distraction, and the frown of her long, arched eyebrows to despair.

In a word—for what description will convey an idea of her! —she was the type of a beautiful, intelligent English girl, and if there -is anything better or more sweet oi more bewitching I know it not!

On this early spring morning two girls were seated in the porch of what looked like a "cottage ornec," but which was in reality a far.iihouse. It was a deeproofed, broad-caved building, with pretty latticed windows enframed in ivy, and newly-budding Virginia creeper with picturesque gables and fluted chimney slacks. The sort of place the weary Londoner sees in his dreams and longs for.

Phihppa "ran the house," as Carrie called it, kept her father's books, managed the servants, looked after and over everything —including the dairymaids and the poultry; made her own and very often Carrie's dresses, and was in short as useful a personage as you shall find in -a ten days' journey. If the young men had possessed any sense they would hare fought amongst them who should have had the inestimable privilege of making her his wife; but they hadn't. They one and all fell head over heeU in lov« -with Carrie, and to add insult to neglect came and poured the confession of their love inoo her sister's ears, and more often than not implored her to intercede for them.

Xear this house was the farmyard, with cattle standing up to their knees in straw with pigs squeaking blissfully, and cocks and hens crowing and cackling —no, not melodiously, for with all dei rence to the poets, cocks and hen 3 are never anything but hideously discordant. Behind the barn was the dairy, spotlessly white, cool nnd enticing. There was a charming tennis-lawn at the side, and a great walled garden, in which grew the succulent cabbage, the piquant gooseberry, the useful potato, and round the walls the luscious nectarine and queenly peach. In fact it was a model farmhouse, simply because the man who ilved in it understood his business, and was fond of it —owned his house and Was proud of it. His name was Harrington, the farm was railed " Howells," and the two girls outside were his daughters. I think I have said that they were "seated," but in truth one only was seated—she was hard at work sorting seeds; and the other was leaning against the porch, busily helping her—by looking 0:1.

But Philippa did not mind in the very least; it seemed quite right and natural in her eyes that she should he passed 'by and Carrie be the favoured one, and she was quite content. Perfectly content, if Carrie was happy and laughed and sang about the place and made its music and its sunlight. "What a time you have been pottering about those miserable seeds, Fiippa," said Carrie, looking down at her sister contemplatively, and stretching her arms above her head until the rosy finger-tips touched the oaken beams of the porch.

"Fiippa" was Carrie's mode of addressing her sister when she, Carrie, was in a good humour, "Philippa," wnen she was a little out of sorts, and "Miss Harrington!" when indignant or contradictory. "Yes," assented Philippa, without looking up from her occupation. 'lt takes some time; there are a great many bad ones this year; it is the wet, I suppose. If I don't throw the toad ones out, half the flower-beds will be empty." . "Ah!" said Carrie. "So you make yourself a special Providence, and get a pain in the back by taking nature's place. Now I should sow the lot as they are and let nature pick them out." Philippa laughed. .. :l L _,.. "1 dare say you would. By the way,. Carrie, though you decline to assort nasturtiums and German stock, I do wish you would sort your, admirers a little." "My how?" demanded Carrie, with a languid smile and not a touch of embarrassment.

The girl seated and pouring critically over her task was Miss Harrington—Miss Philippa Harrington—and was the elder of the two. Nature, who somehow has a disagreeable knack of doing things by halves, nnd stopping short when she ought to finish her handiwork, had bestowed a loving disposition, an equable temper, and an immense capacity for patience upon Philippa Harrington, and had either forgotten, or wilfully declined, to finish her work and make her beautiful. Philippa was plain, nut disagreeably so, but unmistakably ;■", and she knew it and was not unhappy, which proves beyond question that she was amiable and good-tempered. Nature, on the other hand, had thought fit to bestow upon the younger sister the most exasperating beauty that ever tormented and set a-longing the heart of man. She was of medium height, beautifully formed, with a graceful outline which betokened perfect health; her face was a fair oval—not too faultless, which is faulty!—with brown eyes which had a knack of retiring behind long black lashes, a large but most expressive mouth; and a chin with so maddening a dimple in it that it seemed to cry aloud, "Come, kiss me!" A gleam of wit and fun was always ready to light up flhose dark brown eyes; the colour was quick to mount to the oval cheeks; the smile to wreathe the lips which registered every motion of their owner, and their owner's emotions were frequent and easily excited.

smiled', and threw a handful of dead, seed into a bag before looking up. "I mean, I wish, you would give them a hint as to which of uliem have a chance of winning your good graces, and not allow each one of the whole host to flatter himself that he is the favoured individual. Of course, if it amuses you—and I suppose it does—l shouldn't mind if thev wouldn't bother me so much!"

"Poor Fiippa! Have any of them been making love to you, then?" Philippa laughed good-humouredly.

"No, indeed, that's not likely. Only they come and pour the aspirations of their trusting hearts into my ears—expect me to storm the strong fortress they call your heart, only this morning Willie Fairfold was here just while I was 'busy with the eggs, telling ine how madly he loved you, and insisting that it was my duty as a Christian to act as a go-hetween." "He is a nice boy, is Willie," remarked Carrie, catching a stray wisp of hair, and looking at it with cheerful scrutiny. "A very nice 'boy, 'but he ifi rather a bore. I am sorry he should have bored you, Flippa. Send him to sje next time."

At this moment the beautiful, witching face was in repose, in that delightful condition of absolute enjoyment which llie lazy derive from hanging around unci watching other people work. It was an occupation which suited Carrie Harrington exactly. She was not, emphatically, one of those who delight in labour for labour's sake. If she -worked at all it was by fits and starts, with a tremendous spirit which was furious while it»lasted, but never lasted very long. She liked to be a drone in the hive, to sit in the sunshine with a book or wander about the sweet lanes which surrounded the farm; to lean over the half stable doors and talk to the.horses; to watch the trout leaping in the stream, to be free from care and the irksomeness of petty tasks; in short, to be very much her own mistress, and to do as she liked. And everybody abetted her. As a matter of fact, she and Philippa were only half-sisters. Mr. Harrington, their fa I her, had married twice, the first time early in life, and his wife had died, leaving I'hilippa, a girl of fifteen; then Mr. Harrington had married again, and once again had been unfortunate. His second wife, n delicate woman, had given birth to Carrie, and died a month afterward. She lived just long enough indeed to consign her child to Philippa'a care, and Philippa had carried out the trust confided to her with more than a sister's love.

"For you to drive mad with your a'bominaible coquetry!" retorted' Philippa, with smiling indignation. "He is too nice a boy for that. I wish he were a little more sensible."

"Thanks; you mean more sensible than to admire me, Miss Philippa. Thanks, very much. That's a very nice compliment for vour sister!"

Philippa laughed at this burst of mock indignation. "Really, Carrie, you are too bad! Then there is Mr. Goodleigh; he walked home from church with me last (Sunday and talked of nothing but you " "He ought to be ashamed of himself, then," remarked Carrie, with the same undisturbed smile. "A curate should have something else to talk about."

"So I think," assented Philippa, emphatically. "Curates have no right to fall in love; they have their parish, the whole parish to fall in love with, and that ought to be enough." "Perhaps you'll tell him so the next time he puts in an appearance with the books he is so fond of lending you." "Oh, you can tell him for me," said Carrie, as if she were conferring a favour. "You could do it so much better than I can." * - Philippa laughed. "Thank you. I don't know thai I won't. At any rate, he is too estimable a young man to be played fast and loose with by a wilful, heartless, young flirt." And she looked up with a smile of loving admiration at the graceful figure and debonnaire face. "Quite too utterly sensible. I wonder —seriously, Flippa—T wonder he doesn't fall in love with you. Oh," —clasping her hands enthusiastically;—''what a magnificent, what a superb, and altogether satisfactory curate's wife you would make." £ Philippa smiled. "I think I see you, in my mind's eye, Horatio, trotting around with a basket of tracts and weak beef tea, and carrying a 'bulgy gingham! Philippa/ if you don't take care I shaft feel it my duty to point out the great chance that' Mr. Goodleigh is missing when he wastes his time fetching and carrying boots for «ne and passing you by!" Philippa laughed again. I "What « funny world it is!" said CmrIjis, sitter a cause, during which she had

•She had, to put it bluntly, gone as near to spoiling Carrie as it was possible to go. In Philippa's eyes there was no one ]ik'' Carrie; no one half so beautiful, eo witty, and io clever. She begun to humour her when Carrie was a mite of a few months old, and she humoured her still. And not content ■with that, had insisted that everyone else should humour her. If Carrie had not been a. good, sweethearted' jjirl she must have been spoiled, and then she would not have been my heroine, and you would not have.been trembled with her eventful history. It is impossible to spoil some natures, just as it is impossible to kill some plants. All the indulgence which had been lavished upon Carrie had made her wilful, capricious, a little proud, not a little fond of her own way; but it had not ruined her aweet, loving nuture, which atoned for all her faults. There was a special grace about her which, more oven tha her beauty, bewitched and enthralled: one. rhcre are some girls, for (instance, a K e their hair* properly.. Ciiri-S Rive » careless r t wf, t & brown round bar sha^VE^,££ look, on -the instant, Uk*» HWb^TW.

made several vain attempts to catch an early fly that buzzed confusedly round the porch. "If the pale young curate got his wish and married me I should make him almost intensely; wretched — while you "

"Philippa! Philippa!" called a man's voice from the house.

"There's father," said Philippa. "Here I em, father!" Mr. Harrington's firm step was heard in the hall, and the next moment he stood in the ~oorway. A fine man; one of England's yeomen, 'tall, straight, and young-looking still, th/ugh these two big girls were his daughters. "What are you doing?" he asked, putting his hand <tn Carrie's neck and pulling lightly at her ear. "Seeds, eh? Look here, Philippa, I've just had a note. Is that room ready?" Philippa looked up with her calm, grey, serious eyes.

"The room? Yes, faMer, quite ready. What is it?"

"Here, read it for yourself," said Mr. Harrington, dropping an open letter into her lap. "I wish to Heaven they would made bad handwriting a penal offence. One half the letters 1 get are so badly written that I can't read them. As to this one, excepting the word's 'five o'clock and 'train,' 1 <an't understand a line."

"Give it to me," sard Carrie, bending down and snatching the letter. "What a gorgeous crest, father! It takes up the upper quarter of the'sheet almost. Hem! paper's cheap, and it doesn't- matter. W"?ll, it is not copper-plate. " 'Dear Harrington,—My son hopes to be with you -by the five o'clock train this evening. I trust that you will" not find him too troublesome, and that you will believe me when I again assure you that I am truly grateful for your kindness in this affair. Hoping you and your —your —oh, 'lit'JeV the „ word! —little family are well, I remain, yours very trvlv. Fitz-Harwood.' "Little family! What on earth does he mean, father?" demanded Carrie, swinging the note, with her head on one side like a blackbird.

Mr. Harrington smiled; he had already turned away; minutes were precious to him in the spring time. "Oh, I don't know," he said, with the carelessness of a busy man. "I haven't seen his lordship, or he me, for years, and I suppose he thinks that you are quite little girls. People never realise that other people grow up like themselves. The room's all ready, then, Philippa? I shall send Giles with the pony cart." He strode away, then stopped and called back: "Book three loads of hay to Baxter, Philippa." "Yes, father," she answered back, and he was gone. Carrie leant back against the wall with the letter hanging from her fingers.

"What a strange thing this is, Philippa," she said, thoughtfully. "What is strange!" asked Philippa, throwing the last of her 'bad seeds into the bag and carefully patting the good ones into a jar.

"About this boy," said Carrie. "Why on earth does Lord Fitz-Harwood send him here? And, still more strange, why does father consent to take a lodger—because that's what it is, isn't it? Fancy Harrington of Howells letting furnished apartments with attendants!" and she laughed, but with a puzzled air. Philippa looked up quite serenely. "What a strange way to put it," she said, calmly. "It doesn't seem to me so extraordinary. Father and Lord FitzHarwood were friends when they were boys " "Friends! How could the son of a fanner 'be the friend of a young earl?" asked Carrie, looking at the crest, and then screwing up a corner of the thick vellum notepaper. Philippa thought a moment. "I don't know. I know that they knew, each other. Father never talks of it, ■ and I don't quite know how I became aware of the fact, but it is certain that they were friends, and I am inclined to think that I have a vague notion that father saved the earl's life." Carrie laughed. "Well, you put it vaguely, at any rate. •You're inclined to think!' Of course father doesn't talk about it; he would be afraid that people should think he was bragging about his acquaintance with a lord —as if father wasn't as good as any lord that ever lived! Why should he talk about it?" she repeated, with, a little huff of hauteur and independence. "What's that song, Fiippa? Oh, ah, yes!" and lifting her sweet round voice she sang, with a toss of her head .and a wave of her hand—

"There was a jolly miller once, Lived on the River Dee; He worked and sang from morn to night, No lark more blithe than he; And- this the burden of his song Forever used to be: I care for nobody, no, not I, If nobody care 3 for me.'" n

Philippa, with her two lots of seeds in her hand, stood and listened, mechanically nodding to the tune; then she laughed. "Rather an inappropriate musical quotation, Carrie. Nobody is likely to accuse father of a want of independence; you might have saved your little outburst."

"Independence!" retorted Carrie. "Then why do we suffer this earl, with his inch-and-a-half coat-of-arms"—with a flick at the note-paper—"to send his sick children for us to look after? Mind, not that I object to the poor boy as a sick boy, but as the sick boy of an earl! Because father saved Lord FitzHarwood's life he is to let the Howells as furnished apartments! That seems a poor sort of return for saving a man's life. Flippa, let it be a warning to us never to save any one's life, especially an earl's; because, if we do, it is evident he will take advantage of our heroism!"

Philippa laughed easily; she was used to land amused by her sister's outbursts: the beautiful young face.looked so exceedingly beautiful when the dark eyes were flashing and her cheeks hanging out a Ted ensign. "Well," she said, "I don't see that it matters. The poor boy will not give us much trouble; he is to bring a servant with him, and the rooms I have' given him are those in the south wing, away from the rest "

"And the pleasantest rooms in the house," put in Carrie. "Of course," said Philippa, naturally. "And what is the matter with him—measles, whooping-cough, or a virulent case of scarlet fever?" Philippa smiled.

"How absurd you are! Of course it Is nothing infectious. I think father said he had been working too hard; trying to pass some examination, or something of the sort, and the doctors have ordered him to be sent to some place where he would be absolutely quiet and free.' from excitement;.. .what, he wants, father, said, is rest.* . ,

"And so the earl, his father, sends him here,"' said Carrie, with a little shrug of her shoulders, "and I suppose we shall have to go about without our boots, and sneak in whisasn if we apeak

"I don't know why they didn't. You can ask father; I dare say he knows. It is enough for me to know that I've got to get ready for him—the -viscount 1 mean—and I must go and do it." ■ "The viscount!" echoed Carrie. "Is he a viscount? Why is he a viscount, Flippa'? Pardon my ignorance, it's my misfortune, not my fault."

"He is a viscount because he is the earl's eldest son," said Philippa, shaking the dust from her capacious apron. "They always are."

"Good Heavens! And we shall have to call him 'niv lord!'"

"You wouldn't call him *my lady!'"

'Taney calling a schoolboy 'my lord!'" exclaimed Carrie, with a short "And what may his lordship's other lordly name be, if you please? or doesn't he have one? It must oe nice to sign your letters Titz-Harwood,' as if you were the most important personage on the face of the globe." I Philippa thought a moment. 'Tather did mention his name," she, said. "Yes, I remember now. It is' Neville. That's the family name. His Christian name is Cecil."

at all;' and the piano' will have to be locked, and the cows and the CochinChina cock muzzled! Really, Flippa, the case grows harder to understand than before. It turns out now that the boy is not even an invalid; there would' have been some excuse for taking him in and doing for him—l believe that is the right expression—if he had been seriously .ill; but all that is the matter with him can be cured by 'absolute rest and profound quiet!'" Philippa moved toward the door. She understood her sister too well to be deceived into believing her hard-hearted. "To hear you talk, Carrie, one would think that you begrudged the poor boy the slightest service we can do him." "So I do!" retorted Carrie, with charming defiance. "Bring m° one of your pet paupers and I will feed him with chicken broth from a silver spoon, and give him my Sunday bonnet and tenbutton boots, also my new tennis hat and pink-lined sunshade, —and they are the most precious things I've got—because they can't afford to pay for food and shelter; but this young sprig of nobility, what claim has he on us? I don't suppose the earl will have the impudence to offer to pay us! though I have heard that the impudence of earls is sublime enough for anything." j "No, I suppose not," acquiesced Philip-1 pa, quietly.

"Very good. You don't think I begrudge him the new-laid eggs he will eat for his breakfast, or the mutton chops and chickens which doubtless will constitute his dinners! No, my sister! But what I am riled at is his being sent to us as if we had been his old nurses, or the faithful dependents of the noble family to which he belongs! Haven't they got a farm of their own they could have.'sent him to? I thought that earls generally had two or three dozen farms about them! . They always have in books, you know!" Philippa laughed, and looked at her watch.

"Lord Cecil Neville," repeated Carrie. "Sounds nice. *Will you have jour eggs boiled hard.or soft, my Lord Cecil Neville?"} Flippa, I give you warning I" "Well?" said Philippa, turning her head quickly. '' "i gi V e yo U due warning that I shall have nothing to do with -this child of the nobility. I could not bring myself to call a schoolboy 'my lord!' I should laugh at him on the very first occasion. You, my dear Philippa, will have .to do all the waiting upon him, as I am sure yon will do it nicely. As for me, I shall avoid all intercourse with the infant aristocrat. I always suspected I was a Radical, I know now that I am a red republican! Down with the aristocrats, down with the—oh, here is Willie Fairfold," she broke oft, as a tall, goodlooking.' young fellow came up to the gate, and after a moment of nervous hesitation, raised his hat and pulled down the latch. "Good morning, Willie." said Philippa, with a smile and a nod. "You have just come in time to receive Carrie'B sentiments towards our old nobility. She is in fine form this morning, and will amuse you," <ind she entered the house. The new-comer on the scene was a splendid specimen of English .youth—tall and straight as an arrow, with wellformed limbs and handsome features. He was the son of a neighbouring farmer —was a capital sportsman, fearless and spirited; a man of position and note in the county: and he loved the ground Carrie Harrington trod on. Elsewhere he could hold his head and wag his tongue with any man going; but in 1 "U" presence his confidence forsook him, his eloquence deserted him, and he became shy, awkward, and embarn ssed. The wilful young beauty could play on Eim as a skilled musician plays on an instrument, could make him glow with happiness, or writhe in misery—and, of course, she exercised her power. Not for want of heart, by any means, but for want of thought. Not having made herself acquainted with love, knowing nothing of its manifold pangs and throbbings, she did not appreciate them in others. (Continued daily.)