That Girl in Black; and, Bronzie. Molesworth Mrs.

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      That Girl in Black

      Chapter One

      He was spoilt – deplorably, absurdly spoilt. But, so far, that was perhaps the worst that could fairly be said against him. There was genuine manliness still, some chivalry even, yet struggling spasmodically to make itself felt, and – what was practically, perhaps, of more account as a preservative – some small amount of originality in his character. He had still a good deal to learn, and something too to unlearn before he could take rank as past-master in the stupid worldliness of his class and time. For he was neither so blasé nor so cynical as he flattered himself, but young enough to affect being both to the extent of believing his own affectations real.

      He was popular; his position and income were fair enough to have secured this to a considerable extent in these, socially speaking, easy-going days, even had he been without the further advantages of good looks and a certain arrogance, not to say insolence of bearing, which, though nothing can be acquired with greater facility and at less expenditure of brain tissue, appears to be the one not-to-be-disputed hall-mark of the period.

      Why he went to Mrs Englewood’s reception that evening he could scarcely have told, or perhaps he would have vaguely shrunk from owning even to himself the real motives – of sincere though feeble loyalty to old associations, of faintly stirring gratitude for much kindness in the past – which had prompted the effort. For Mrs Englewood was neither very rich, nor very beautiful, nor – worst of “nors” – very fashionable; scarcely, indeed, to be reckoned as of notre monde in any very exclusive sense of the words, though kindly, and fairly refined, irreproachable as wife and mother, and so satisfied with her lot as to be uninterestingly free from social ambition.

      But her house was commonplace, she herself not specially amusing.

      “If she’d be content to ask me there when they’re alone – I like talking to her herself well enough,” thought Despard, as he dressed. In his heart, however, he knew that would not do. He was more or less of a lion from Mrs Englewood’s point of view; she was not above a certain pride in knowing that for “old sake’s sake” she could count upon him for her one party of the season. And for this, as she retained a real affection for the man she had known as that delightful thing – a bright, intelligent, and unspoilt boy, and as she thought of him still far more highly than he deserved to be thought of, her conscience left her unrebuked.

      Year after year, it is true, her husband wet-blanketed her innocent pleasure in seeing the young man’s name on her invitation list.

      “That fellow! In your place, my dear Gertrude!” and an expressive raising of the eyebrows said the rest.

      “But, Harry,” she would mildly expostulate, “you forget. I knew him when he was – ”

      “So high – at Whipmore. Oh, yes; I know all about it. Well, well, take your way of it; it doesn’t hurt me if you invite people who don’t want to come.”

      “But who always do come, you must allow,” she would reply triumphantly.

      “And think themselves mighty condescending for doing so,” Mr Englewood put in.

      “You don’t do Despard justice. It’s always the way with men, I suppose.”

      “Come now, don’t be down upon me about it,” he would say good-naturedly. “I don’t stop your asking him. It isn’t as if we had daughters. In that case – ” but the rest was left to the imagination.

      And this particular year Mrs Englewood had smiled to herself at this point of the discussion.

      “One can make plans even though one hasn’t daughters,” she reflected. “If Harry would let me ask him to dinner now – but I know there’s no chance of that. And, after all, a good deal may be done at an evening party. I should like to do Despard a good turn, and give him a start before any other. If I could give him a hint! But then there’s my promise to her father, – and Despard is sure to be sensitive on those points. I might spoil it all. No; I shall appeal to his kindheartedness; that is the best. How tender he used to be to poor Lily when she was a tiny child! How he used to mount her up on his shoulders when she couldn’t see the fireworks! I will tell Maisie that story! It is the sort of thing she will appreciate.”

      It was a hot, close evening. Though only May, there was thunder in the air, people said. Despard’s inward dissatisfaction increased.

      “Upon my soul it’s too bad,” he ejaculated while examining the flowers in his button-hole. “Why, when one’s made up one’s mind to do a disagreeable thing, should everything conspire to make it more odious than it need be, I wonder? I have really – more than half a mind – not to – ”

      Poor Gertrude Englewood, at that moment smilingly receiving her guests! She little knew how her great interest in the evening was trembling in the balance!

      It was late when he arrived. Not that he had specially intended this. He cared too little about it to have considered whether he should be late or early, and, as he slowly made his way through the crowd at the doorway, he was conscious of but one wish – to get himself at once seen by his hostess, and then to make his escape as soon as possible. As to the first part of this little programme there was no difficulty. Scarcely did the first syllables of his name, “Mr Despard Norreys,” fall on the ear, before Mrs Englewood’s outstretched hand was in his, her pleasant face smiling up at him, her pleasant voice bidding him welcome. Yes, there was something difficult to resist about her; it was refreshing, somehow, and – there lay the secret – it brought back other days, when poor Jack’s big sister, Gertrude, had welcomed the orphan schoolboy just as heartily, and when he had glowed with pride and gratification at her notice of him.

      Despard’s resigned, not to say sulky, expression cleared; it was no wonder Mrs Englewood’s old liking for him had suffered no diminution; he did show at his best with her.

      “So pleased you’ve come, so good of you,” she was saying simply.

      Her words made the young man feel vaguely ashamed of himself.

      “Good of me!” he repeated, flushing a little, though the same or a much more fervent greeting from infinitely more exalted personages than Gertrude had often failed to disturb his composure. “No, indeed, very much the reverse. I’m sorry,” with a glance round, “to be so late, especially as – ”

      “No, no, you’re not to begin saying you can’t stay long, the very moment you’ve come. Listen, Despard,” and she drew him aside a little; “I want you to do something to please me to-night. I have a little friend here – a Miss Fforde – that I want you to be very good to. Poor little thing, she’s quite a stranger, knows nobody, never been out. But she’s a nice little thing. Will you ask her to dance? or – ” for the shadow of a frown on her favourite’s forehead became evident even to Mrs Englewood’s partial eyes – “if you don’t care to dance, will you talk to her a little? Anything, you know, just to please her.”

      Despard bowed. What else could he do? Gertrude slid her hand through his arm.

      “There she is,” she said. “That girl in black over there by the fireplace. Maisie, my dear,” for a step or two had brought them to the indicated spot, “I want to introduce my old friend, Mr Despard Norreys, to you. Mr Norreys – Miss Fforde;” and as she pronounced the names she drew her hand quietly away, and turned back towards her post at the door.

      Despard bowed and, with the very slightest possible instinct of curiosity, glanced at the girl before him. She was of middle height, rather indeed under than above it; she was neither very fair nor very dark; there was nothing very special or striking in her appearance. She was dressed in black; there was nothing remarkable about her attire, rather, as Despard saw in an instant, an absence of style, of finish, which found its epithet at once in his thoughts – “countrified, of course,” he said to himself. But before he had time to decide on his next movement she raised her eyes, and for half an instant his attention deepened. The eyes were strikingly fine; they were very blue, but redeemed from the shallowness of very blue eyes by the depth of the eyelashes, both upper and lower. And just now there was a brightness, an expectancy in the eyes which was by no means their constant expression. For, lashes notwithstanding, Miss Fforde’s blue eyes could look cold enough when she chose.

      “Good eyes,” thought Despard. But just as