Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 31, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 December 1901 — NORA'S TEST [ARTICLE]

NORA'S TEST

BY MARY CECIL HAY

Prom Darkness To Light

CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. Foster’s house in Great Cumberland Place was one of those London dwellings whose name is Legion. It was tall and narrow, its ruddy complexion darkened to a seedy brown by age and smoke, and its paint faded and crusty from the wear and tear of too many London seasons. It had five rows of narrow windows, placed there, to all appearance, simply as background for a limited variety of potted shrubs. High up was the chamber of the two Misses Foster; for the dwelling was not a mansion of unlimited space, and this large upper chamber was very capable of containing two beds and two young ladieSriOvenjwffthithe almost.constant addition of a very diminutive French maid. And though a tiny room adjoined it, which Miss Foster called her dressing rbom, it inclosed her graceful form but seldom; for the advantage of a younger sister’s unfailing attention and acute suggestions overbalanced any of those objections which Genevieve Foster would otherwise have urged against sharing any one’s apartment. On this evening Lucette had been dismissed unusually early, and Miss Foster was herself putting the finishing touches to her toilet, while her sister stood thoughtfully weighing the relative merits of pink and blue, before selecting accouterments for her crisp white grenadine. “I should not wonder,” she pondered aloud, ‘‘if mamma does not begin at once to make much of her, just as if she were a guest. Mamma is so uncertain that I can never feel sure of her.” /‘But she listens to reason,” observed the elder sister, as she put in her emerald earrings; ‘‘and we have had a sensible talk together about Miss St. George. She is no relative of ours, and no guest—not even an acquaintance. She is here for a special purpose, and she must be left to pursue that purpose conscientiously. It is, indeed, for her sake that I have urged mamma to let her continue her studies undisturbed.” V “For her sake, of course; and, indeed, for mamma’s, too,” observed Victoria Foster. “Mamma would be the vety last in the world to wish for another grownup daughter.” “An awkward, uneducated "daughter, too,” put in the elder sister, complacently, “who will have no idea of the very commonest usages of good society. Pooh! Mamma has too much regard for her own reputation.” “I don’t at all agree with Will about Miss St. George,’s beauty,” said Victoria, presently. “Certainly I saw her only for a minute, but I think her style will not be taking in London.” “Taking!” echoed Miss Foster, with the calmest contempt. “Who is it to take'/ The girl will be at her lessons. If her beauty smites Miss Archer, all the better; but who else can it smite?” “Will. He is coming this evening, you know; and he seemed so anxious about seeing her that perhaps he will be coming often.”

“Will is wiser than you imagine,” rejoined the elder sister. “He is not one to marry on an income of three hundred pounds a year. You are a goose, Tory. Fasten this bracelet for me.” Thus the two girls stood facing each other before the toilet table when their mother entered the room; and she smiled as she saw the profiles reflected in the glass—both fair and correct, with features unmarred by any eccentricity of character, and pale blue eyes, the fire of which could never hurt the large, white lids. It was quite excusable in Mrs. Foster to be proud of her stylish daughters. That her grandfather should have bequeathed Genevieve a yearly income of two hundred pounds for pocket money, seemed to the mother a most natural proceeding, considering how prettily Genevieve always received the old man; but Mrs. Foster was totally unconscious of Genevieve’s having usurped the foremost place in her kindly, fickle heart. “Well, mother,” Miss Foster said, “I suppose Nora St. George is still lying down. You will leave her to do so, of course.” “She did not lie down at all, my dear,” returned Mrs. Foster. “She has been unpacking, and now she is with Miss Archer in the school room.” “Why did not Miss Archer go home this afternoon, as usual?” “I thought it wiser,” explained Mrs. Foster, “and, indeed, kinder” —with a timid air of deprecation—“to keep her this evening. Miss St. George would have felt so very lonely, as Tory would not consent to dine early and stay with her. I wish, even now, that you would stay with her, Tory.” “Nonsense!” exclaimed Victoria, with quiet contempt. “Am I to be made a school girl just to please this utter stranger, for whom we have done a great deal too much already in allowing her to come here at all?” "But you are a school girl, Tory,” remarked her mother. “If you were not, why should Miss Archer and your masters come every day to teach you? \ hope, my dear, that you will see the kindness of what I propose, and go and take tea with Miss Archer and your new comrade.” “No, indeed, mamma,” said the young lady, hotly; “I will not be put down In this way for an Interloper. I told you I must dine with you to-day; indeed, I shall do it every day now'. What have I in common with this Irish girl?” “Then you refuse to do as I ask you?” Inquired the mother, rising, with a sigh. “Certainly I do. Even you,” added Victoria, diplomatically, “would be sorry yourself afterward, and ashamed, tao, for behaving so to a daughter of seventeen. Gena knows very well that lam as grown-up looking as she is, and that I ought to do exactly as she does.” “You shall do it after to-day, If you will jnat keep Nora company on this occasion. She looks so very strange and lonely. Will your 1 "No, mamma; so do not ask me any more.. I hate to refuse you.” Rather slowly and unwillingly Mrs. Foster entered the school room—a small, dull apartment In the back of the ball—and so Impressed upon Nora that after the fatigue of her long journey it would

be cruel to ask her to dine with them, that Nora felt that a dinner in London must be a long and wearisome ordeal, from which Will’s mother had most kindly released her. “I shall be very glad of tea," she said, when she and the quiet governess, with the tired eyes, were left together again. “I am very hungry; are you, Miss Archer?” “Only rather,” replied Helen Archer, with a smile for the friendly, brightfaced girl who was so fresh after her long journey, and so unsubdued in this subjugating household; “I have not had a journey, as you have had.” “I hope you live here always,” said Nora, in her pretty, coaxing voice. “No,” Miss Archer answered; “I come every morning and go away at 4 o’clock. I never before stayed even so late as this. To-night the footman is to see me home at 10.” ■' ' “Is it far?” questioned Nora, looking earnestly into the worn face, and asking the question in no spirit of curiosity. “May I go home with you some day and see your dogs?” Up to the roots of the hair, already sprinkled with gray, the slow, pained color mounted in the face to which no loving, flattering words had ever made the blush familiar. But Nora, in her innate modesty, understood no cause for this. She had not proposed seeing father, mother, brother or sister, for her own delicate feeling had .grasped at once the possibility of there being a lonely home like her own; but of course Miss Archer had dogs and cats, and perhaps hens and chickens, and—ah, even perhaps a tall, brown horse like Borak himself! Then why had she colored and looked so sad at the mention of her home? “I ought not to have asked that,” confessed Nora, humbly, “until I had tried to make you take me as a friend.” “Presently,” said Helen, laying her hand on the girl’s shoulder, “you will see how little you will be tempted to make me a friend, however I may wish to call you so. My—my home is a good way off, Miss St. George, through many ugly, noisy streets; and I have no dogs, no cat even, and there is no one but myself.” “Then,” observed Nora, speaking very earnestly—“l can only beg that some day you will let me come when you know me better, for I am very lonely, too, and I have had a lonely home.” “Some day!” echoed Helen—and smiled then, for she could never guess what that coming was to mean. “Miss Archer," cried a gay voice at the door, as it was opened a little way and a head was popped in, “how do you like your new pupil? Is not she beauti Nora, I never dreamed of seeing you here! They—l—l thought they told me you were resting.” Willoughby Foster was in the room now, shaking both Nora’s hands at once, and looking into her face with the most eager delight and unfeigned admiration. “I am so glad to see you, so rejoiced to welcome you in my mother’s house. I cannot tell you what a joyful day this seems to me. All the way from Guildford the train seemed crawling like a snail. Poynz said it was delightful, and went to sleep; but I was aggravated to madness, knowing you would come before I was here to welcome you. Nora, you have grown more beautiful even since we parted a week ago.” “And older,” Nora supplemented, standing back against the heavy, colorless curtain, with the easy grace which belonged to her. “Do you and Mr. Poynz live together?” “No; but Poynz is often down at Heaton, and he was coming up to-day. Where are the girls?” “Who are the girls?” inquired Nora, with a laugh in her eyes. “Sisters, of course. They were no\ surely ” He paused, and turned to Miss Archer.

“The Misses Foster are at home,” she announced, in that manner of quiet apathy which grows on solitary natures, as the moss grows on solitary graves. “What are their names’, Mr. Foster?’ 1 asked Nora, still with the smile in hev eyes; “I understood that one was a littlp girl who would learn with me; and now 1 cannot tell them ap.art.” “They are awfully alike,” assented Will, in his cordial w'ay, “only Gena ii calmer and cleverer —Genevieve her is, but we call her Gena. Indeed, I cat, her Jenny sometimes, brit she objects tu that elegant abbreviation. The other-'* your fellow-pupil, dear—is Victoria. I suppose the second bell will ring in a minute or two. I must dress like lightning, Once more, Nora, dear, it is delightful t> see you here. Good-by now for five minutes.” “Mr. Foster thinks,” observed Mi?„s Archer, after he was gone, “that you will dine with them, and he will be disappointed.” And then she looked into tie girl’s face, with a power of scrutiny which grows natural to a skillful teacher; and, almost as easily ns she had read Nora’s simple unconsciousness of anything beyond the old childish friendship. What change would it make in the beautiful, girlish face when it should be known at last? But these thoughts, of which Nora was so unconscious, were not allowed to linger on this evening, for Nora chatted pleasantly to the governess, now quaintly, now with unexpected thoughtfulness, yet always with a charm which made Helen Archer wonder much. “Have you really finished tea, Miss St George? You were so hungry, you said.” “I have really finished. What are we to do now?” “We must go to the drawing room.” Nora followed Miss Archer up the staircase, and into a large, high room, with tiny white chairs and couches sprinkled over a pale green carpet, like mushrooms on a smooth patch of pasture land. Miss Archer sat down near the wall, and resumed the knitting she had brought from the school room, but Nora went at once to one of the windows, and looked between'the closed curtains. “I wonder what It is aril like,” she said, as if speaking to herself. A rustling sound behind never disturbed Nora in that gase which showed her so little; and it Was with a start that she

dropped the curtain when Miss Foster, passing close beside her. pointedly requested her to do so. “One likes one’s drawing room to be private property,” Genevieve said, “not thrown open to the street in this blaze of light.” “Sit down, Miss St. George,” said the lady of the house, in a mixed tone, compounded of the desire to be genial and please her son —whose vexation had been very apparent at dinner through Nora’s non-appearance—and the desire to be frigid and please her daughters. “How long did you say it was since your grandfather died?” “Two weeks,” answered Nora, with an icy stillness in her voice. “Two weeks,” repeated Mrs. Foster, placidly. “Then I think you should have crepe on your dress —indeed, that even* ing dress might have been entirely of crepe. I like consistency.” “Yes,” said Nora. “I thought it would be inconsistent to have crepe when I could not afford it.” “It is inconsistent not to have it,” murmured Mrs. Foster, looking kindly into the girl’s face, though rather pubzled; “I do not go into further particulars. Has Miss Archer discovered how very backward you are?” “Yes,” returned Nora, smiling, as Helen raised her eyes for a moment. “She could not be with me two minutes without discovering that.” “You do not seem to take the fact much to heart,” observed Genevieve, lying back in her easy chair. “Perhaps the things we take most to heart we talk of least,” said Nora, in her quiet, direct way. “Then are we to understand that you do really grieve over your ignorance?” “I—l don’t know,” she answered, still with deep consideration. “Sometimes I’m afraid that, if I were not obliged to learn, I should care to do so; and then sometimes I’m so ashamed that I long to learn all day and night. I——” Victoria Foster had sat down to the piano, and dashed into a brilliant waltz; so Nora stopped, listening in silence from that moment until the last note was struck. Helen Archer, from her distant seat, watched the girl’s face and wondered. “Miss St. George,” said Genevieve, claiming her attention deliberately, just as someone came into the room, and approached her chair, “surely you play yourself? Every girl plays in these days.” “No, they don’t, Miss Foster,” contradicted Nora, simply, “for I cannot.” “Then,” returned Genevieve, clearly and slowly, “you sing of course.” “I—don’t know.”

Nora had been going to say she could sing Irish ballads, and a few airs she had picked up from Celia—and Will, too —in the old times; but somehow, when she had begun her answer, and Mr. Poynz had come up to her and offered her his hahd, the warm, amused greeting in his eyes stopped the explanation; and, though she fancied at that moment that possibly it might not matter whether she could or could not sing as educated girls did, yet the color crept into her face when the explanation failed her. “I’m afraid you will find it very difficult to learn to play now,” observed Victoria, turning on the music stool. “One’s fingers never grow nimble on the keys unless one begins to practice quite early in life.” “And that,” observed Mark, “is the soul of music—for one’s fingers to be nimble on the keys.” “Nora,” said Will, in a lowered tone, as he eagerly appropriated a seat next •to her, “I’ve been so mad with my mother. When, before dinner, I just made the time to rush into her room to ask her how she liked you—l beg your pardon, but, of course, I knew she must like you mmensely—she never said a word about your sneaking out of dining with us. I didn’t enjoy the meal a bit.” “I enjoyed mine,” said Nora. “Miss Archer, didn’t you enjoy your tea?” This was too much for any well-organ-ized family to stand, and the very marked silence and stiffness which were intended to quench the governess’ possible reply proclaimed the fact at once. Miss Archer, without looking up, went on with her knitting in her seat on the borderland; Nora was keenly conscious of having inI voked a chill upon the atmosphere; and Will moved his eyes uncomfortably under his mother’s gaze. “Dr. Armstrong.” The announcement came acceptably now, if never before within Nora’s memory. She greeted him just as the others did, and then she found herself wondering at his courtly manners, never guessing how carefully he had studied them for this night, when, in his own imagination, he was to stand in competition with the man against whom the worst passions in his nature were ready to rise in revolt. She watched him accost, all the ladies in their turn, and then seat himself beside the younger Miss Foster, and entertain her easily, in his bland, fluent way. She saw that Will was pleased to see him, and that Mrs. Foster smiled when he spoke to her; and so she wondered whether she could have known Nuel all her life, and yet have been blind to his excellence.

CHAPTER IX. The dingy school room in Great Cumberland Place was very silent this morning, not only because its two occupants were busy, but because neither the glad April music of the country nor the restless loud pulsation of the town could find its way through the hazy window panes. “I never shall remember,” said Nora, In a tone of perplexity, without raising her eyes from the list of questions over which she was pondering, “who besides George IV. was called ‘the first gentleman in Europe.’ I hope, whoever he was, he had more claim to the compliment. This is the last question but one, and I’ve looked all through my reference books in vain. Tell me, Miss Archer. Ah. dor* “Louis d’Artois,” the governess answered, smiling at the Irish coaxing. Then Nora busied herself again in her book, hurrying to do her task, because she knew a pause would be sure to take her thoughts away beyond the hope of recall. “Even yet,” thought Miss Archer, before beading her eyes again upon the exercUe she was correcting, “it is only by a real effort that she can apply herself. But she makes the effort bravely still, as she has made it all through the year.” In spite of her sturdy application to her tasks, it was always with a very suspicious readiness that Nora welcomed any legitimate interruption of them; and so now, when, after a rap upon the door,

Mr. Poynz entered the school room, riho was not at all unwilling to transfer her attention from Louis d'Artois to Mark himself. And Helen Archer turned from her corrections, and took up her knitting with a flush of pleasure upon her sac for what more welcome break had that school room life than a visit from one who seemed to have taken them both as friends, governess and pupil alike? “Isn't it a pity,” said Nora, gravely, her hands folded on her book, “that they are all out? I mean a pity for you, Mr. Poynz, not for us. And you’ve been away three whole weeks haven’t you? Mrs. Foster will be sorry to miss you.” “I should bo so 'exceedingly sorry to miss Mrs. Foster,” returned Mark, tranquilly, “that I intend to wait for her return.” “I’m afraid they may drive a long way,” Nora went on; “nr.d they’ve been gone about ten minutes.” “Hardly ten minutes yet.” “Did you know, then?” exclaimed Nora, with the liveliest surprise that he should have come in under those circumstances. “Yes.” (To be continued.)