One Maid's Mischief. Fenn George Manville

Rectory.

      Helen was languid and quiet, leaning back with her eyes half closed, while Grey bent forward between them and chatted with Miss Rosebury, the little lady seeming to be at home with her at once.

      Before they had gone a mile, though, the observant charioteer noticed that Grey started and coloured vividly at the sight of a tall, thin youth with a downy moustache, who eagerly raised his hat, as if to show his fair curly hair as they passed.

      “Then she has a lover too,” said Miss Rosebury to herself; for Helen Perowne sat unmoved, and did not appear to see the tall youth as they drove by him, but kept her eyes half closed, the long lashes drooping almost to her cheeks.

      Little Miss Rosebury darted a keen glance at both the girls in turn, to see Grey Stuart colour more deeply still beneath her scrutiny; while Helen Perowne raised her eyes on finding Miss Rosebury looking at her, and smiled, her face wearing an enquiring look the while.

      Dr Bolter had gone to town on business, so it had been decided that the visitors should stay for a couple of nights at the Rectory, where the Reverend Arthur, trowel in one hand, basket in the other, was busy at work filling the beds with geraniums when the pony-carriage drew up.

      He slowly placed basket and trowel upon the grass as the carriage stopped, and forgetful of the state of his hands, helped the ladies to alight, leaving the imprint of his earthy fingers upon Helen’s delicate gloves.

      Grey saw what took place, and expected an angry show of impatience on her companion’s part; but on the contrary, Helen held up her hands and laughed in quite a merry way.

      “Oh, Arthur,” exclaimed Miss Rosebury, “how thoughtless you are!”

      The Reverend Arthur looked in dismay at the mischief he had done, and taking out his pocket-handkerchief – one that had evidently been used for wiping earthy fingers before – he deliberately took first one and then the other of Helen Perowne’s hands to try and remove the marks he had made upon her gloves.

      “I am very sorry, Miss Perowne,” he said, in his quiet, deliberate way. “It was very thoughtless of me; I have been planting geraniums.”

      To the amazement of Grey Stuart, Helen gazed full in the curate’s face, smilingly surrendering her hands to the tender dusting they received.

      Miss Rosebury was evidently annoyed, for she turned from surrendering the reins to the gardener, who was waiting to lead away the pony, and exclaimed:

      “Oh, Arthur, you foolish man, what are you doing? Miss Perowne’s hands are not the leaves of plants.”

      “No, my dear Mary,” said the Reverend Arthur, in the most serious manner; “and I am afraid I have made the mischief worse.”

      “It does not matter, Mr Rosebury. It is only a pair of gloves – I have plenty more,” said Helen, hastily stripping them off regardless of buttons, and tearing them in the effort. They were of the thinnest and finest French kid, and as she hastily rolled them up she looked laughingly round for a place to throw them, ending by dropping them into the large garden basket half full of little geranium pots, while the Reverend Arthur’s eyes rested gravely upon the delicate blue-veined hands with their taper fingers and rosy nails.

      “Come, my dears,” exclaimed Miss Rosebury, in her quick, chirpy way, “I’m sure you would like to come and take off your things after your hot, dusty drive. This way; and pray do go and wash your hands, Arthur.”

      “Certainly, my dear Mary,” he replied, slowly. “If I had thought of it I would have done so before. I am very glad to see you at the Rectory, Miss Perowne. May I – ”

      He held out his earth-soiled hand to shake that of his visitor, but recollecting himself, he let it fall again, as he did the words he was about to speak.

      “I do not mind,” said Helen, quickly, as she extended her own hand, which the curate had no other course than to take, and he did so with a slight colour mounting to his pale cheeks.

      Grey Stuart offered her hand in turn, her darker glove showing no trace of the contact.

      “I don’t like her,” said little Miss Rosebury to herself, and her lips tightened a little as she looked sidewise at Helen. “She’s a dreadfully handsome, wicked girl, I’m sure; and she tries to make every man fall in love with her that she sees. She’ll be trying Dr Bolter next.”

      It was as if the sudden breath of a furnace had touched her cheeks as this thought crossed her mind, and she quite started as she took Grey Stuart’s arm, saying once more, as in an effort to change the current of her thoughts:

      “Come, my dears; and do pray, Arthur, go and take off that dreadful coat!”

      “Yes, my dear Mary, certainly,” he said; and smiling benignly at all in turn, he was moving towards the door, when Helen exclaimed quickly:

      “I am not at all tired. I was going to ask Mr Rosebury to show me round his garden.”

      There was a dead silence, only broken by the dull noise of the wheels of the pony=carriage rasping the gravel drive; there was the chirp of a sparrow too on the mossy roof-tiles, and then a fowl in the stable-yard clapped its wings loudly and uttered a triumphant crow, as, with old-fashioned chivalrous politeness, the Reverend Arthur took off his soft felt hat and offered his arm.

      For it was like a revelation to him – an awakening from a quiet, dreamy, happy state of existence, into one full of excitement and life, as he saw that beautiful young creature standing before him with a sweet, appealing look in her eyes, and one of those soft white hands held appealingly forth, asking of him a favour.

      And what a favour! She asked him to show her his garden – his pride – the place where he spent all his spare moments. His pale cheeks really did flush slightly now, and his soft, dull eyes brightened as if the reflection of Helen’s youth and beauty irradiated the thin face, the white forehead, and sparse grey hairs bared to the soft breeze.

      Miss Mary Rosebury felt a bitter pang shoot through her tender little breast; and once more, as she saw Helen’s hand rest upon her brother’s shabby alpaca coat-sleeve, she compressed her lips, and felt that she hated this girl.

      “She’s a temptress – a wicked coquette,” she thought.

      It was a matter of moments only, and then she recollected herself.

      Her first idea was to go round the garden with Helen; but she shrank from the act as being inquisitorial, and turning to Grey, she took her arm.

      “Let them go and see the garden, my dear. You and I will go and get rid of the dust. There,” she continued, as she led her visitor into the little flower-bedecked drawing-room, “does it not strike nice and cool? Our rooms look very small after yours.”

      “Oh! but so bright and cheerful,” said Grey, quietly.

      “Now I’ll show you your bedroom,” said Miss Rosebury, whose feeling of annoyance was gone. “I’m obliged to put you both in the same room, and you must arrange between you who is to have the little bed. Now, welcome to the Rectory, my dear, and I hope you will enjoy your visit. Let me help you.”

      For Grey had smiled her thanks, and was taking off her bonnet, the wire of which had somehow become entangled with her soft, fair, wavy hair.

      Miss Rosebury’s clever, plump little fingers deftly disentangled the bonnet, and then, not satisfied, began to smooth the slightly dishevelled hair, as if finding pleasure in playing with the fair, sunny strands that only seemed to ask for a dexterous turn or twist to naturally hang in clusters of curls.

      Miss Rosebury’s other hand must have been jealous, for it too rose to Grey’s head and joined in the gentle caress; while far from looking tight, and forming a thin red line, the little middle-aged lady’s lips were in smiling curves, and her eyes beamed very pleasantly at her young visitor, who seemed to be half pleased, half pained at the other’s tender way.

      “I am sure I shall be sorry to go away again,” said Grey, softly. “It is very kind of you to fetch us here.”

      “Not at all, my dear,” said Miss Rosebury, starting from her reverie; “but