A Handful of Silver, etc

Front matter

A HANDFUL OF SILVER Frontispiece. I will go and lool- Page 127. A HANDFUL OF SILVER BY L. T. MEADE tjf, JL,-? AUTHOR OF "A GIRL IN TEN THOUSAND " etc. etc. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY IDA LOVERING EDINBURGH & LONDON OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERR1ER BY THE SAME AUTHOR Post Svo, antique paper, art canvas, price 2S. 6d. A GIRL IN TEN THOUSAND "This is one of Mrs. Meade's most entertaining and best-written tales." — Liverpool Mercury OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER EDINBURGH & LONDON PRINTBD BV MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH I A HANDFUL OF SILVER

Chapter I

A tall girl, unmistakably English in her appearance and dress, was standing before an easel in the far - famed Museum of Old Masters at Brussels. She was doing some ambitious work, and stood back for a moment to regard her efforts with a pleased expression on her pretty face. She was a slenderly-made girl with delicately-arched eye brows, bright blue eyes, and a quantity of that fussy, curling hair which is so fashionable just now, and so becoming as long as the face which it surrounds is young and full of those tender curves which belong, alas ! only to early youth. This girl's face was young enough and soft enough to satisfy the most fastidious. All the features were pretty, the mouth was dimpled and very red; the cheeks wore a beautiful rose bloom ; the rest of the complexion was dazzlingly white.

AVhen she smiled, and she smiled to herself with pleasure as she regarded her work, a gleam of white teeth completed the charm of her cherry lips. It was the sort of face which does not often accompany the highest order of intelligence, but the girl's forehead was good and well-formed, and her ambitious attempt at copying Jordaens' celebrated masterpiece " Le Satyre et le Paysan " deserved the success which such courage ought to earn. " I beg your pardon," said a voice in her ear. She started back, and a wave of colour came into her face. A young Englishman who was copying an exquisite little painting of Teniers' had spoken to her. His easel was near hers. He had been in her vicinity all day, and now, without the least intending it, she had knocked her easel against his, shaking his hand, and causing him to blot his work.

" I beg your pardon a thousand times," she replied. " How dreadfully awkward of me ! I hope your beautiful picture is not spoiled." " I am glad you think it like," he said, looking at her out of a pair of keen dark eyes. " It is lovely," she answered, with enthusiasm. " I have been watching it at intervals all day. I hope you did not think me awfully rude. I did not mean to stare, of course, but it was impossible not to envy your power." "AVell, we are quits," he replied, "for I envy you your courage." He gave a curious, half-whimsical glance at the grotesque figure on her easel. "Oh, don't," she answered, dimpling and colouring, — "don't laugh at me, I beg of you. I have not a genius for painting. I have not a genius for anything. Some girls whom I know here taunted me the other day with being unable to reproduce these colours."

Here she pointed to the reds and browns and flaming lights in her copy. "And I thought I would show them what I really can do under strain and stress. But I have failed," she added, clasping her hands and looking wobegone, — " I have utterly failed." " Why apologise ? " answered her companion. " There is not a living painter who can catch the magnificent glowing colours of the Old Masters ; and as to Jordaens, his secret died with him." " Did it really ? " said the girl. " Do you know, I am glad. It is not failure to struggle after the impossible, is it ? " "No, it is courage," he answered, with a smile in the eyes which he fixed on her fair face. They said a few more words to each other, then she packed up her easel, buttoned a waterproof case over her canvas, slipped her brushes and paints into her paint-box, and prepared to go.

The young man's eyes followed her as she was leaving the room ; they seemed to say, " I should like to see you here to-morrow." The girl's eyes replied audaciously to the thought in his. They said as plainly as dancing blue eyes could speak, " I should love to come, but I dare not." Aloud she said in a formal voice, " Good afternoon." He bowed in response, and they parted. AVhen the painter found himself alone, he turned again to look at the copy of Teniers with which he had been busy all the morning. A moment before he had felt filled with a sense of power as he handled his brush. Now all of a sudden the canvas looked dull, the colours no longer glowed. He stared hard at the picture, trying to see what could possibly be wrong with the beautiful landscape which he had tried to reproduce, but that seemed also to have lost its fascination.

" It is quite plain that I have done enough of this sort of thing for to-day," he murmured under his breath. "I must follow the example of that English girl, and get out as fast as I can." A moment later he was walking briskly in the direction of the Place Royale. He had nearly reached the open square when a voice called out to him — "Hullo ! is that you, Greville?" " Yes. I have had enough of the fine arts for to-day," replied Greville. "I'll just convey my traps over to the hotel, and then we might go for a stroll, eh, Tennant ? " The man addressed as Tennant signified his willingness to comply. Greville walked quickly across the square to the hotel where they were staying, laid aside his artistic properties, and joined his companion. They started off in the direction of the Bois de la Cambre.

The road was straight and level, not particularly interesting ; the short October light was beginning to fade. " How did you get on ? " said Tennant, looking at Greville. Tennant was a little wiry man : his head scarcely reached to his companion's shoulder ; he had keen dark eyes deeply set ; there wasn't a scrap of superfluous flesh about him anywhere, he was all muscle. His voice was keen and somewhat high ; his manner terse and self-repressed. Greville also was thin, but built on a large scale ; he was a model young Englishman, truly Saxon in his physique. His hair curled tightly over his head j it was of a rich dark chestnut. The barbers had cut it to the required length of the reigning fashion, but nothing could take the wave and ring out of it. The young man's eyes were wide open, set rather far apart, and ofa bright, clear brown.

His expression was pleasant, gracious, and dcbon naire; a constant smile hovered round his lips, which were well cut and classical in outline. He was evidently a man on whom fortune had showered plenty of favours. He was accustomed to the sunny side of life, and knew nothing what ever as yet of her darker aspects. " Well," said Tennant abruptly, " and how did that copy proceed ? " "Capitally; that is, until I met with an interruption." "An interruption? Of what sort? You seem pleased about something." " The interruption was not a very remarkable one, Tennant — just an uncommonly pretty girl. You know the rest." " I'm sure I don't. You went to the Museum of Ancient Masters here, because you vowed and declared you would not leave this hole of a place until you had made a copy of a certain Teniers.

You became possessed of a passion to have a fair representative of Teniers facing you in the breakfast-room at the Abbey. AA7hat can a girl, even a pretty girl, have to do with destroying that sacred fire ? " Greville laughed — his laugh was very heartwhole — and showed his strong white teeth. " I'm afraid I shall always be an enigma to you," he said. " The fact is, I fell in love witb that pretty girl— pro tern., of course. She was dainty, unmistakably English. The moment I saw her, her appearance attracted me, but it was really her audacity which bowled me over." " She belongs to the new school, of course ? " said Tennant, with something which approached a sneer ; " made advances herself, and all that sort of thing ? I confess I did not think that would take you, Greville ; but the fact is, you never come across a really modest girl in these unregenerate days."

"Your imagination is running away with you," answered Greville. " I don't think the girl once looked at me until " — " Oh, you needn't explain." " But I will — I must. I tell you she was a lady — an English girl and a lady. Surely that is enough." " If you say so, yes." Tennant yawned slightly. " Hadn't we better take one of those trams ? AVe shan't reach the Bois to-night," he said. "AVho cares for the Bois? I only walk for the sake of exercise. Let me tell you about the English girl." " I'll have a smoke." " All right, but now, then, let me proceed. AVhat do you think this brave daughter of Britain was trying to do ? " " AVhat ? " " She was absolutely struggling to reproduce on her poor little canvas, with her undisciplined fingers, guided by her untrained brain, a copy of old Jordaens. You know Jordaens, don't you, Tennant ?

" " Of course," replied Tennant. " Jordaens is the muscular painter of the Middle Ages. He seems a likely subject, doesn't he, for an ignorant girl to try her hand on ? " "That's just it — that's where her courage came in— that's why she so completely bowled me over. Poor child, she absolutely tried her 'prentice hand on 'The Satyr and the Peasant.' You can imagine the result : it was too shocking even to raise a smile." " And you tell me to my face that it was that which bowled you over." " Yes, that ; and, I ought to add, her little face, which was all glowing with colour, and her lips, which she pursed up with the pride of conscious success. Then our easels jarred. I begged her pardon and she begged mine. And we talked a little, and she confessed that her ' Satyr ' was not quite fair on Jordaens.

Then she went away. After that Teniers became slow." " You don't mean to finish your sketch, then ? " said Tennant. " Can't say. Perhaps the girl will be there again to-morrow." " Nonsense, Greville ! You don't mean to tell me you are seriously impressed by the sort of girl you find sketching at the Musee?" " She is a very pretty creature," said Greville ; " and, as I said just now, quite a lady. Perhaps, after all, I had better flee the Museum, and give up the idea of having a representative of Teniers to look at me while I am eating my matutinal meal at the Abbey." " I tell you what it is," said Tennant suddenly : " you want something more interesting than a picture to be opposite to you when you take your morning meal. Seriously speaking, why don't you marry? I thought the affair between you and Miss Le Breton would be settled some time ago.

You are nearly twenty-six — time to be settled in life, as the old song says." Greville laughed. " I practically consider myself engaged to Miss Le Breton," he said, after a pause, during which his face had grown grave, "but we need not discuss this subject at present. Do you know, Tennant, whom that girl reminded me of?" " Oh, bother that girl ! Haven't we had enough of her ? " "You seem to be hipped about something. Now pray return to your usual good nature, and let me have my say." "Well?" Tennant spoke in a voice of concealed impatience. "When I looked at her," continued Greville, "and she looked at me, I was reminded of that child whom I saved from drowning six years ago. Do you remember the incident ? " "To be sure I do, and what a fuss you made about it. After all, there was nothing in it ; merely the ordinary act which any brave man would perform.

The child had tumbled out of the boat and was sinking, and you saved her. You scarcely wetted your own skin in the act." " Mine was the simplest performance in the world," said Greville, colouring with some vexation. " I pulled the child into the boat, and the mother received her back with effusive gratitude. I never heard the name of either mother or child. But the child had blue eyes like the girl's I met at the Musee just now, and the mother had a wonderfully attractive face. I have often thought of the little incident since. I wonder if by any possibility that girl could be really the child grown up." " Oh, for goodness sake, don't let us think of that girl any more ! " said Tennant, who was almost cross by this time. "As matters stand, you have no right to think of any girl but Miss Le Breton. Now let us turn back. We can't possibly reach the Bois and be in time for table d'hote."

Chapter II

Meanwhile, the girl with the dancing blue eyes had gone home. She had walked rapidly, thinking quick thoughts as she hurried along. She lived in the far-famed Louisa Laan, and she had but to walk in a continuous straight line — in fact, to follow her nose — to reach her destination. " How dull things are ! " she said to herself, although her dancing steps denied the fact. " Now that I have satisfied my whim, and proved beyond doubt tbat I can't possibly catch either the spirit or colours of the old master, I don't intend to go to the Muse'e again. I should like to go, of course, but I won't. That was a nice boy — Boy ! oh, I daresay he is five-and-twenty, but somehow he has a young look about him. How well set up he is ! Above all things, how English ! I adore Englishmen ! they are delightful after these under bred foreigners.

AVhat a good, manly sort of voice my Englishman at the Museum had ! Yes, I shall certainly call him my Englishman. It is delightful to take a sort of possession of him in that fashion, and delightful things don't often happen to me. He paid me delicious compliments with his eyes, too. Of course I should love to see him again, but I won't go. The proprieties, or something which I don't understand, forbid it, and there's an end of the matter." The girl quickened her steps. Night had settled down over Brussels — a calm, clear, beautiful night, with many stars in the firmament, and a great stillness in the frosty air. "That Englishman thought me very pretty," began the young art student again, resuming her reflections with great content and pleasure ; " his eyes said so. He really had very nice eyes.

His eyes said, ' What a pretty girl you are ! I wonder what your name is ; I wonder where you live ; I wonder if we shall meet again.' AVell, I suppose I am pretty — if I were rich I could lay claim to being a beauty. To lay claim to being a beauty is half-way to being one, but, being only insignificant and poor Audrey Church, I cannot lay claim to anything of the sort. I am just a little drudge, a little slave, a little insignificant nobody. Heigh-ho ! How I wish we were rich, and that we didn't keep a boarding-house, and that mother hadn't to go out to teach English, and that I hadn't to give lessons to dull, intolerable little Flemish boys every morning ! I hate the little narrow life I lead ! I pine, I pant for a change ! " Audrey's quick steps hurried faster and faster ; presently she reached her destination, entered the house, and ran quickly up the many stairs to the flat where her mother lived.

Mrs. Church came to meet her in the entrance hall. " Dear me, Audrey, you are late ! " she exclaimed. " How dreadfully thoughtless you are growing ! You know I must be at my class at eight o'clock, and I want to get dinner well out of the way first. Did I not ask you this morning to be home before dusk ? You really might be a little considerate ; you know as well as I do how necessary it is for me to earn every penny I can. Surely you are old enough to help me in small matters." Audrey yawned in quite a provoking way. " I am eighteen," she said ; " at eighteen girls are expected to be like butterflies. At eighteen they dance and skip and revel in the sunshine. Mother, I am a butterfly of eighteen." " It would be much better for me," said Mrs. Church, in a voice of irritation, "if you were a working bee of eighteen.

I do not see of what use butterflies are when it comes to practical matters." " AVhat use they are ? " said Audrey, with a flash of triumph out of her blue eyes. " I grant it they don't work, but they add to the beauty of the world." She looked so lovely at the moment, with the brilliant colour from her rapid walk still mantling her cheeks, and her big eyes so intensely blue and full of light, that her mother could not help bestowing upon her an admiring smile. " Do make the best of things now that you have come in," she said. " Run and take off your things ; it is close on dinner-time, and you know that Madame Antoine, Jean, and Cecil are coming to talk English with you this evening." " Horrid slow creatures ! I do to my cost," muttered Audrey. She turned suddenly to go to her own room. Just as she reached the door, her mother called her back.

"You look dispirited," she said, "and yet I never saw you so bright as you were a moment ago. Is anything the matter ? " " Only I am sick for want of change," replied the girl. " Change ? " echoed Mrs. Church. " By the way, that reminds me, I have news for you. The news is scarcely pleasing, so you need not get excited over it, but still it is news, and after a fashion it may mean change. I will tell it to you some time this evening." Mrs. Church re-entered her dining-room, and Audrey went to change her dress. There was no doubt that she and her mother were poor — dreadfully poor. They eked out a very small income with all kinds of tiresome economies. They kept two or three boarders, and gave lessons in different branches of English at several schools. Mrs. Church earned a small income in this way, and Audrey added a trifle to the family purse.

Audrey hated teaching, as she also hated anything that interfered with the pleasure of the moment. She was the sort of girl who could be popular, pleasing, bright, genteel, and agreeable, but would never work really hard at anything. She described herself very truly when she said she was a butterfly. The boarders, consisting of three old ladies, were by no means cheerful ; they were inclined to be obstinate and to grumble. They always looked to Audrey to cheer them up, and that evening Audrey had nothing pleasant to say. As a rule, she brought in little scraps of news, little tale-ends of gossip; a waft of the outside world as a rule accompanied her bright face when they sat down at the dinner-table, and she exerted herself to help her mother and to make the time pass well. The three old ladies had gone through a very dull day; the wind was too keen to allow them to go out, and they expected Audrey to exert herself more than usual on their behalf.

But, notwithstanding her mother's imploring glances, and notwithstanding several discontented speeches on the part of the boarders, she would scarcely speak at all. Her thoughts were in the Museum with the Englishman who had said polite things with his lips, and told her with his eyes that she was a very pretty girl. She earnestly wished she could devise some reasonable pretext for seeing him again. After dinner the ladies came with whom she had to talk English. Even with them she failed to exert herself as much as usual. They departed by and by, and her mother came back from her class. The boarders went to bed, darkly hinting at finding a more congenial home, and the mother and daughter were alone. " Now, mother, at last ! " said Audrey, pushing her parent down into a deep arm-chair, and establishing herself on a foot stool, with one arm flung over her mother's knee.

" Now at last, tell me the news. Those odious old ladies have gone to bed, and our horrid duties are at an end. Do let us enjoy ourselves ! What piece of excitement have you for me ? I remember you said it was disagreeable, but even if it is dis agreeable, provided it is bond fide news, it is worth listen ing to." " The news is bad, my love," said Mrs. Church. "You said that before. Well, tell it to me as quickly as possible." Audrey's charming, piquant face was raised to her mother's. Notwithstanding her many cares, the mother could not help smiling as she looked at the girl. After all, this charming creature, this one treasure, made life endurable and worth struggling for. "This is the news," she said slowh/. "It is about your cousin Dorothy. You remember that you have a cousin Dorothy, don't you, Audrey ?

" " Yes," said Audrey, looking disappointed. " It must be awfully stupid news if it relates to her. I cannot be in terested in a cousin whom I have never seen. She travels all over the world with her father, old Sir Julius, does she not?" "No, my love, she does not — not now. Sir Julius Le Breton is dead, and Dorothy is quite unprovided for. Dorothy is coming to live with us, Audrey." " Mother ! " Audrey sprang to her feet. " What in the world do you mean ? " " Exactly what I say. Sir Julius Le Breton, notwithstanding the fine fortune he once had, managed to run through all his money. He has left his only child to the mercy of strangers." "AVell, she is our cousin after all," said Audrey. "Poor thing, how awfully humiliating for her ! " " You seem to think nothing of me, my dear, — nothing of the added burden which this brings into my life."

" Oh yes, I think of you, mother ; I think both of you and of Dorothy. Dorothy is rather a pretty name, you can shorten it so well. But do tell me how you heard of this." "You shall read the letters. I have received two. They came by this afternoon's post. One was from Sir Julius's solicitors, people in Chancery Lane of the name of Field & Field. They wrote to me, and sent me an enclosure. Here is the solicitors' letter, and here is the enclosure. You had better read them both. They will tell you all I know myself." Mrs. Church flung a thick envelope into Audrey's lap. Audrey seized it eagerly, took out the contents, and began to read. The first letter, evidently from the solicitors, ran as follows : — " no Chancery Lane, W.C. " Dear Madam, — AVe are anxious to know if you will be at liberty to receive your husband's niece and our client, Miss Dorothy Le Breton.

The letter which we enclose from the late Sir Julius Le Breton fully explains the painful position of affairs. We shall anxiously wait for your immediate reply in order to inform us what is to be done with the young lady. — Yours faithfully, " Field & Field." The letter which was enclosed with this was much longer, and was written on thin foreign paper.

Chapter III

"Dear Caroline," — the second letter ran, — "You must pardon a dying man for troubling you. I only do so because I am in terrible despair and great perplexity, and you are my cousin, although we have seen nothing of each other for many years. I have just heard from the doctors that I am a victim of an incurable disease, which must end my life. They give me two months at the most to live, but my death may really happen at any moment. Under these circumstances you will quite perceive that I can scarcely stand on ceremony. You know that I have one child — a daughter — her name is Dorothy. She is, I think, the age of your Audrey. You see, I know the name of your child, although unfortunate circumstances have prevented me from seeing her. I had hoped to leave my girl well provided for ; but, alas ! this is not the case.

I feel that I have sinned deeply in this matter, and my punishment comes to me in the agony of mind with which I now write to you. I deeply regret to have to say that when my funeral expenses are met, I do not think Dorothy will have twenty pounds in the world. I have put her in the charge of my lawyers, and have begged of them to communicate with you, and to enclose this letter when all is over with me. I earnestly request of you to receive the child for a month or two. She has been highly educated, and is one of the noblest creatures in the world. I cannot conceive that one so bright and helpful, so full of ingenuity and resource, could be a burden to anybody ; but if she is, and your means make it impossible for you to keep her, I entreat of you to act as a mother to her, to give her advice and motherly counsel, and to take steps to enable her to fight her own way in the world.

For the sake of the old happy days when we were boy and girl together, I beg of you to be kind to my girl. As you act to her, may the Almighty act to you. If you are good to her, I am sure you will be abundantly rewarded. — Your affectionate cousin, "Julius Le Breton." Audrey read both letters slowly and thoroughly. She then laid them back on her mother's lap. "AVhat do you mean to do, mother?" she asked, " AVell, my love, what do you advise ? " "Oh, what can I advise? Of course, I have longed for change, but I scarcely think I want it to come in this guise. I don't particularly care to have a girl like Dorothy here ; more especially if she is beautiful and capable and clever. It is quite bad enough to have only a poor little rushlight to hold up before the world, without having it extinguished by a great brilliant star like Dorothy."

"This is no time to be flippant, Audrey. Of course we must receive the girl — she is your cousin." " I suppose we must, but I hate the thought of it. She will be so superior. I wouldn't mind so much if she were less perfect. AVhat room do you mean to give her ? " " She can share your room, I suppose." " No, that she can't. I must have the enclosure made by those four walls all to myself. I cannot and will not be generous in the matter of my own room." " My dear Audrey, what is the use of making difficulties ? And I have a violent headache, too. These letters are enough to distract any woman as hard up as I am. What right have men to live such improvident lives ? The fact is, my child, we are terribly in debt, and " — "Oh, don't, mother," interrupted Audrey. "Life is too fearful when you begin to talk of money."

"We cannot live without money," said Mrs. Church, heaving a sigh, which she quickly suppressed. "Well, pray don't talk of it to-night. You cannot imagine how it irritates me. Let us think over this Dorothy problem. Where is she to sleep ? " "You see, dear, the boarders make the flat very full, and we cannot by any possible means do without them." " Could not one of them go away, mother ? Cannot we do with two ? Mrs. and Miss Caxton are not so bad. It is Miss Pembroke who irritates me so fearfully. Cannot Miss Pembroke go away, and cannot Dorothy have her room ? " " Really, Audrey, you talk like a baby ; just when an additional mouth is coming into the house, you suggest that a lady who pays six francs a day should leave us ' It is too unreasonable to hear you. Certainly none of the boarders can be sent away — as it is, I am always in terror of their leaving us of their own will.