Beauty and the Beast

Otago Witness, Issue 3327, 19 December 1917, Page 60

Beauty and the Beast

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Dorothea had been three dajs at Sen don. The whole Brave family had come to spend Christmas with the hitherto unknown friend. There was Francis Brave, who was always going to make his fortune by an invention. There was his wife, who believed jn him fondly, and never thought of blaming him because he had waited her fortune as well as his own in the unlucky inventions. There was Dorothea, earning what money she could by teaching music and singing; and there were all the Brave children—a long family, healthy and happy despite the poverty. What a chance, sighed Mrs Braye, when old Anthony Seddon had remembered a slight casual service rendered to him by a' pretty girl in a London street, who had turned out to be Dorothea Brave. They had corresponded a little, and he had sent her a gold watch and a pearl necklace. And in his will he had left Dorothea a hundred pounds, which would come in very useful for one of Mr Braye's inventions, which required just that sum at just that moment—so Mr Braye said. More, Mr Seddon had expressed a wish that, if 'possible, there might be a marriage between Dorothea and his nephew Guy, who had inherited all his property. " Of course, I should not think of constraining the affection, of two young people, both dear to me," he had written, "but I feel tliat Dorothea would make Guy happy—her letters to me have revealed the riches of' a sweet heart and a noble character; antl, on the . other hand, Guy would make any woman happy.'' Guy Seddon had written a charming letter. He had made it clear that Miss Braye was not to feel herself bound in any way by his uncle's curious desire. There need be no such cause of embarrassment between "them. Only, if Miss Braye would put that difficulty aside as if it did not exist, it would afford him much happiness to meet the lady, the correspondence with whom had cheered his uncle's later years, since Miss Braye, by her bravery and quickness, had saved him from being run down by a London bus. He hoped to see all the Braye family at Seddon for Christmas. He was a lonely man necessarily, being delicate, but he would do his best"to make their stay a pleasant one.

Dorothea rescued the hundred pounds from her father's clutching fingers to make the'family respectable enough to appear at Seddoii. The hundred pounds had to be handled with infinite care to make it go as far as possible; but Dorothea was a great manager. When the family emerged from the small house at Tooting, which held them all as by some miracle, one afternoon just a week before Christmas, to pack themselves away into two cabs, all the neighbours were at their doors and windows, round-eyed, to see the fineness of the Brayes. The whole of the hundred pounds had not gone either, for Dorothea had managed to save nearly ' twenty pounds of it.

Ernest Wilcox was at the station to see them depart. He was rather gloomy, and so were Mr and Mrs Braye at seeing him there, for Ernest wa# the great obstacle between Dorothea and the realisation of old Mr Seddon's wish. He was a fair-haired, blue-eyed youth, who had been at the Academv of Music with Dorothea. They fancied themselves in love with each other. At least, that was how Mrs Braye put it. But there was not the remotest chance of their ■ being married, since Ernest made but a small sum out of the songs he composed and his acting as accompanist at an occasional concert. ' His music was poor, and Dorothea knew it; and he was as vain as a peacock, and would not listen to any suggestion for earning his bread otherwise than as a musician.

He sent poor Dorothea off very unhappily. "I hope you'll have a good time with your toff," he said. The word in itself ' annoyed Dorothea. Why need Ernest be vulgar? "I'm going to have as good a time as I can with my young woman."

The " young -woman " was ironic. It referred to a certain Madame Magda, for whom Ernest had played accompaniments a few times. She was a Frenchwoman, somewhere in fhe forties, and very stout; but she had a really glorious voice, and it had bsen a great chance her taking up Ernest as her accompanist. She was rich and generous, and she was very good to Ernest.

Dorothea said good-bye in a jarred mood. She had hardly got over it when the train arrived at Oakhurst, the station for Seddon, where a station bus and a motor brougham awaited the large party, together with a cart for the luggage. Dorothea went with the elder children in the bus. The two younger girls, who were twins and verv quiet, accompanied their father and mother in the brougham, a 3 they were not likely to get on their father's nerves. All her life, since Dorothea could remember, there had always' been a fuss about Mr Braye's nerves.

Dorothea had the boys, and'they were in great spirits, anticipating fine times at Seddon. Entering into their fun, as she always did, she nearly forgot the annoyance Ernest had cause her.

I The omnibus drew up in front of a ijil hired portico. A footman came out and proceeded to gather their parcels. There Hvas a double hall door with glass , panels. Through the glass showed a lit hall beyond. Mr and Mrs Braye had already arrived, and the twins were sitting side by side demurely on a red sofa. j They.were visible through the inner glass screen beyond the hr.ll door. Someone came out and took Dorothea's hand, helping her to alight from the bus—- ' a young man, slender, dark, and disi tinguished-looking. He limped, and his j face had lines of -pain. Mrs Braye ex- | plained to Dorothea later on that Guy : Seddon had a >club-foot. It sounded j rather dreadful at first to her ear, but ; presently she forgot all about " it beyond j the pity she felt when he looked weary. ! Seddon was a fairy palace to the young i Brayes. Their father and mother had i once known houses as fine; but the chil- | dren had grown up with little experience beyond that of poverty. The rooms were so beautiful and spacious, the servants moved so soft-footed, there Avas such '•jolly good food," said the children; there were horses in the stable 3 and motors; there were birds to be shot and beautiful guns; there were all the things boys loved. • There. Avas a fine library and a stately music-room. In the music-room Dorothea quite forgot that Guy Seddon was club-footed. In their love of music, they "were kindred spirits. After & day or two the boys adored Guy Seddon; he was so ready to enter into all pursuits and make them happy. There was an athletic vicar, fyx>, with a charming young wife and little girls the age of the Braye children, so that there was plenty of society and amusement for them, and everybody was is happy as possible. Somehow, since Mr and Mrs Braye desired each other's company beyond all others, and the children trooped together, the Squire, as they had soon learnt to -all Guy Seddon, and Dorothea were thrown much into each other's society. In three days intimacy seemed to have grown between them. Dorothea was very sympathetic, as the old Squire had discovered. In the pauses of the music Guy Seddon talked to her like someone who had long arrears of confidences to give away. She knew the tragedy of his life, how he longed for an active career, how his spirit fought against his weak body and had often Avon the victory, for he ivas a great sportsman and had travelled much, often in Avild and inaccessible places. The music had an extraordinary effect. It seemed to draw them closer and closer. On the third day Dorothea Avas telling him of her music-lessons and the oddities of some of her pupils. Her clientele was not always a select one; she could not afford to choose. Some of the parents had even paid in kind and not in coin. Dorothea, who Avas a very pretty girl, with grey eyes, a delightfully short nose, and \-ery ivhite skin, laughed o\ r er the tales she told. She had a sense of humour which had outlived her father's inventions and many other things. She had her hands on the piano, and now and again she struck a note Avhile she laughed back at him over her shoulder. Her hair Avas red gold Avhere it curled in little tendrils on the Avhito of her pretty neck. She had forgotten to feel any aiA'kwardness about that queer Avish of the old Squire that she and his nephew should marry. Suddenly she Avas reminded of it. " Need • you go back to that life, Dorothea?" Guy asked. "Could you put up ivith me, the poor. Beast, and you Beauty? Don't ans Aver me yet; think about it. I should give my life to making you happy." "Oh!" said Dorothea in a scared voice. " I am sorry. I avLsli I could. But—■ but " Her lip began to tremble. " Of course you couldn't," he said, hastily. "Why should you, my dear? There" is someone else, isn't there? Of course, there was bound to be. We shan't talk about it any more. Play this tocatta of Goluppi for me." He did not talk about it, but he got Mrs Braye into a quiet corner, and discovered ail about Ernest Wilcox. The poor woman nearly AA'ept over the tale. She kneAV Ernest Avas not good enough for Dorothea, and she thought Dorothea knew it, too, but, like a foolish, generous girl, stuck all the more closely to Ernest because other people disapproved of him. " Of course, he's- a splendid-looking boy," said Mrs Braye, planting thorns in the poor Squire's heart, "so tall and graceful and Avith. such beautiful colour. Women spoil him rather; he knoAvs his good looks, and is selfish and vain." She looked sadly round the beautiful library in Avhich thoy Avere. What it Avould mean for them all if only Dorothea Avere sensible! But she supposed it Avas not in a child of hers to be sensible in that Avay. Even in those few days she had conie to have an affection for the Squire, irith his lined, sensitive face. She thought if she Avas a girl she would have chosen him before Ernest Wilcox, eA'en though he had a club-foot. Lord Byron had a club-foot, and the Avomen adored him. She would have loved making up to the poor fellow for all he had suffered by her loA r e and deA-otion; and Dorothea

was like her mother. If it had not been for that wretched Ernest Wilcox!

The Squire went oh precisely as though he had not spoken. But on Christinas Eye, when he had played the Adeste Fideles on the organ, and had had ■ all the children and their parents in to sing carols, he kept Dorothea back in the music-room when the others trooped off to a tea which was a perfect banquet. " Dorothea, my dear," he said, " I have a Christmas present for you. I wanted to tell you what I have chosen for you. All the others will have their gifts' tomorrow morning. I hope I have chosen wisely for them. I want to tell you what I am giving you, for it is something that cannot be made up in a parcel. I've decided that as you cannot do what my dear uncle wished, I shall be pleasing him best by settling ten thousand pounds on you. This will enable yon to marry without any weary waiting." I hope I shall be able to help the others in various ways. I must have a talk with your mother about that." Dorothea stared at him incredulously, went red and white, and suddenly covered her face with her hands. " Oh, I couldn't, I couldn't!" she said. 'How- could I take it from you when I can't make you happy?" "You must take it," he said. "Perhaps some time—much later on—you will come back and see the Beast when he is very sad and sick, and play to him and make him forget. Your husband will allow you to do that." Christmas morning Dorothea was at church early. She came in. to find that no one else had arrived downstairs. The children's parcels had been delivered by Santa Claus in the night. There were a heap of letters and one or two parcels in her place at the table* She selected one letter, which bore Ernest Wilcox's fine clerkly handwriting, and took it away upstairs. She was feeling very sad because she had hurt the Squire. She ought not to have come—as, an engaged girl. It struck her for the first time as she sat down in her delightful room that Ernest wrote a heartless, characterless hand. He was an exacting lover and a selfish one. How was it she had not discovered these things before? She seemed in no great hurry to open the letter. She took off her hat and fluffed up her hair with her fingers before doing it. The gong sounded through the house for breakfast, and hastily she opened the letter. This was her Christmas love-letter: My dear Dolly,—l'm afraid I shall give you a shock. But it is for your sake I am doing it. A fellow has no right to keep a girl hanging on with no prospect of marriage. I waiit you to set me free. I am going to ma'rry Madame Magda. She is very fond of me, and she is a good sort. It isn't so very nice for me; I never felt fonder of you than I do now. I saw it coming. That was why I was so cross the- other day. I suppose you will marry your club-footed Squire. I envy him. —Ever your unlucky Ernest. The breakfast was haif-way through for everyone else when Dorothea arrived. She was looking like a rose, so brilliant was her colour, and her eyes were shining while she laughed at the children, who were dragging her this way and that to see their lovely gifts. During the day she and the Squire were not alone; but when she came down dressed for dinner in the evening found him already in the drawing room. She was wearing her one evening dress, which she had got for the prize concert at the Academy, a very simple/ billowing thing of muslin and lace. Eound her neck was a string of seed-pearls belonging to her mother, one of-the few things which had not been sold to tide over some pinching time or other. On her hair was a wreath of small roses and green leaves. She was charming in her soft simplicity. All day long she had been wondering how she would let him know she was free. She had thought she would go away without telling him, and let the knowledge come later. But as she caught sight of him he looked a curiously lonely and depressed figure. He had not seen her. He was sitting with his head bowed, gazing into the fire. Her heart swelled, overflowed with pity for him, and with pride as well. In the light of Ernest Wilcoxjs letter she seemed to realise the other's gentleness sharply. He became aware of her presence, and stood up. He never omitted any courtesies because of his physical infirmity. Suddenly, she held out her two hands to him, and between laughing and crying she said: "The other thing is—all over. If you really wanted me—but it is for yourself—not for any gifts—but just because " ,„

He caught her into his arms. "Because you can, love me. Is it possible? Beauty made the poor Beast a man " "Oh, hush !" she said. "Never say that again ! Perhaps you don't really ~want - me. How could you care—after a week?" "How could you care?" he asked. "You see, I used to read your dear letters to my uncle. And I.have the photographs you sent him. But you?" "Some people might says," she answered, "that it was too sudden with me._ But I have had a revelation —a shock, if you like—and—I have turned to you. Oh, my dear "

"And so Beauty came to the poor Beast," he quoted. [The End.]