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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
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RGL e-Book Cover
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IT was not so much the narrowness and dinginess of her lodgings in Meckleberg Square to which Eleanor Astley objected. It was—to put it plainly—the smell. And on this particular afternoon of a muggy, dark December day, the curious, undefinable, frosty odor which pervaded the whole house struck her at once as she entered the hall passage, and filled her afresh with a sense of miserable discomfort.
She was tired—but that was nothing new. She was hungry, but there would be nothing except weak tea and bread and butter to stay her appetite. Worst of all, she was discouraged—so discouraged that there seemed nothing left but to go to her room, fling herself face downwards on her bed, and cry.
But Eleanor was not one of your crying sort, and, in spite of everything, her stock of courage was not yet exhausted. When she had toiled up the two long flights of steep narrow stairs which led to her drab little room, she washed her face, brushed her hair changed her wet boots for slippers, and picked up a copy of "The Era," to search its columns once more, in the hope of finding some possible engagement to carry her on a little longer.
There was nothing, and with a sigh she laid the paper upon the table and lay back in her chair.
It was a refined and delicate face on which the light of the gas jet shone—a face which, if it had been a little less thin and careworn, might well have been beautiful. At thirty-one Eleanor Astley had still the fine eyes and delicate profile which young Robert Bourne had so greatly admired nine years earlier.
Poor Bobby! Eleanor's thoughts went back to him as she sat there, and for the thousandth time she contrasted those happy days when she, the parson's daughter at Challacombe, had been engaged to the squire's son, with these latter times when, all alone in the world, she strove to keep body and soul together by her talent as pianist.
The hands of the cheap clock on the chimney-piece over the fireless grate pointed to half-past five. Eleanor shivered slightly, rose, and lighting the gas stove, put on her kettle, and began preparations for her slender evening meal.
A stale loaf, a small pat of butter—nothing else. Even so, with the utmost economy, the few shillings which she still possessed would hardly tide her over the next week. And that—she smiled bitterly as she remembered it—that would be Christmas week.
The kettle boiled. She was just about to take it off the stove when the door opened, and a slatternly maid appeared.
"Letter for you, Miss Astley," she said, curtly and, dropping it on the table, vanished as abruptly as she had come.
Eleanor snatched it up.
"Harmer," she whispered, as she glanced at the address. Her fingers shook as she tore open the envelope. Harmer was the agent who sometimes found her work. So much—so very much depended on it that for the moment she hardly dared read the letter.
She steadied herself, and the lines which at first had danced before her tired eyes, grew clearer.
"Dear Madam," she read,
"Mrs Gilmour, of Starenton Hall, requires a lady to play at a children's party on Christmas Eve and to help generally with the entertainment. The fee is two guineas and expenses. If you think the offer worth your while, be good enough to let me know at once.—
"Yours truly,
"James Harmer."
"Worth my while!" Eleanor laughed outright, and, leaving her kettle angrily spouting steam, hurriedly got out pen and paper, and at once wrote an acceptance.
THREE Christmases had passed since Eleanor had spent one out of London, and although this Christmas Eve was bitterly cold and raw, her spirits rose as the fast train from Waterloo swept her southwards. At Templecombe she had to change and the branch line train was very slow and late. Due at Starenton at five-thirty, it was past six when it arrived, and Eleanor, getting out, found herself on a small, draughty platform, lit by a couple of glimmering oil lamps.
An elderly porter was the only person in sight, and to him she addressed herself.
"The Hall. Yes, miss, there's a trap outside," he answered gruffly. "That there's the way out."
He paid no further attention to her, and, carrying her bag, she found her way outside.
The Gilmours, Harmer had told her, were rich folk, and, if not a car, Eleanor had at least expected a carriage to meet her. She was dismayed to find nothing but a luggage cart, high, hard-seated, and almost springless.
Nor did the driver, who was muffled in a heavy coat, seem to think it worth while to waste courtesy on her. Grumbling about the long wait in the cold, he bade her get in as quickly as possible, and at once drove off.
The wind was bitter and Eleanor's coat thin. Before the two uphill miles were covered she was chilled to the bone.
Turning in at a drive gate, she caught sight of a big house blazing with lights, then the cart swung into a back drive, and Eleanor's heart swelled with indignation as it seemed that she was being brought to the back door.
But it was not so bad as that. The cart pulled up at a side entrance, and Eleanor was so thankful to get inside and out of the bitter cold that she hardly noticed that there was no one but a maid to receive her.
"This way, miss," said the latter, who was a bright-faced girl of twenty. Taking Eleanor's bag, she led the way up several flights of stairs, and at last into a small and rather pecky little bedroom on an upper floor.
"Have you had tea, miss?" asked the maid.
Eleanor shook her head. "I have been in the train all the afternoon," she answered.
"Then I will bring a tray to the schoolroom," said the girl. "I'll be back in a minute."
"The schoolroom!"
Again Eleanor felt that same sense of dismay. So she was not considered good enough for the drawing-room! She realised, as she had already suspected, that these Gilmours were new-rich who considered professionals of any kind as much on the same level with lady's maids or butlers.
The tea confirmed her suspicions. It was plentiful, but rough. Still she was too hungry to be critical. She was just finishing, when the door opened and a girl entered—a fair, fuzzy-haired girl, who would have been quite pretty but for a pert expression which entirely spoilt her face.
"You are Miss Astley?" she remarked unceremoniously.
"I am," replied Eleanor, with a touch of dignity quite lost on her visitor.
"I am Miss Gilmour," said the latter. "Mother sent me to tell you that the party will begin at half-past seven. She wishes you to help in distributing the presents. She wants you to dress up as Santa Claus. The dress will be sent to your room, so please put it on, and be down sharp at half-past seven. Nancy, the maid, will show you the way."
She was gone again before Eleanor could recover her breath.
"Upon my word!" gasped Eleanor. For the moment she was angry enough to walk straight out of the house, but fortunately for herself, she had a saving sense of humor. She leaned back in her chair and laughed outright.
Presently she found her way upstairs again, and a little later Nancy appeared with the dress. It was the traditional Father Christmas outfit, a roughly-made red robe profusely adorned with cotton wool to represent snow. There was a wig, too, with a mask and a long snowy beard.
"You see, Miss," explained Nancy, as she spread the things on the bed, "Mrs Gilmour was expecting that Mr Perrin, the curate, would dress up, and give the presents. But Mr Perrin has sent to say he can't come, and so—"
"And so I am to act as the curate's substitute," ended Eleanor, with a slight smile.
"Well, you see, Miss, no one will know you," said Nancy, with an apologetic air.
"Quite true, Nancy," agreed Eleanor. "And since no one knows me here, and I know nobody, it really does not matter at all. So help me on with these things, will you, and we will see if I cannot act the part as well as the curate."
Being tall, the robe was not too long for Eleanor, and with Nancy's help she was soon arrayed.
"There, Miss," said the maid admiringly, when mask and wig had been fitted on, "I'm sure you make as nice a Father Christmas as anyone."
"Mother Christmas, we ought to say perhaps," replied Eleanor, her voice sounding oddly hollow from under the mask. "And now you must show me the way downstairs, Nancy."
The brilliantly-lit hall was empty.
"They are all in the big dining-room, Miss," explained Nancy. "The tree is in the small dining-room." She opened a door lending into a room which could hardly be described as small. In the centre towered a fifteen foot fir, all lit with tapers and loaded with presents. Bulkier articles tied up and labelled lay on tables around the foot of the tree. From behind heavy curtains which screened all one side of the room came the sound of excited whisperings.
There was only one person in the room, a massive lady with a large, determined face, and pale blue eyes which looked as hard as glass. By her resemblance to the fuzzy-haired girl she was evidently Mrs Gilmour.
She raised a heavy gold lorgnon as Eleanor entered and regarded her fixedly.
"You are Miss Astley?" she observed.
Eleanor could not resist a retort.
"I was," she said. "At present I am Father Christmas."
An offended look crossed the majestic countenance of Mrs Gilmour.
"I trust that you understand your duties," she remarked coldly, and in exactly the same tone as she might have used in engaging a new cook. "The presents are all plainly labelled. You will stand by the tree, the children will file past, and as I mention their names you will hand to each his or her gift. Afterwards you will remove your disguise and go to the piano. I think that is all."
Eleanor's disguise hid the flush of anger and mortification which rose to her cheeks.
"You are sure you quite understand?" added the good lady.
"Thank you. You have made it perfectly plain," replied Eleanor, and to save her life she could not restrain the note of irony which crept into her voice.
But Mrs Gilmour took no notice. It would never have occurred to her that anyone in Eleanor's position could dare to treat her to sarcasm.
Mrs Gilmour struck a hand-bell, the curtains were drawn aside, and cries of delight arose from the children who packed the big room beyond. There were forty or fifty of them, and a number of grown-ups as well.
The children came crowding forward, and Eleanor was at once fully occupied.
Some presents were on the tree, some on the table. It was no easy task to find out exactly which was meant for each child, and Mrs Gilmour, snapping out the names from a written list, gave her little time for selection.
"Dora Wilson, doll," came the sharp voice in Eleanor's ear. Eleanor picked up a large, fluffy haired doll from the table.
"No, not that," glowered Mrs Gilmour. "The one from the tree above you."
Eleanor reached up, but the smaller doll, to which Mrs Gilmour pointed was just above her reach.
"Let me help you, Father Christmas," said a tall man, stepping up.
Eleanor's arms dropped to her sides. She took a step backwards, and stood as though paralysed. It was impossible—madly utterly impossible, and yet—yet that voice was so like Bobby Bourne's that she could have sworn it was the same.
She stared incredulously at the big man who was cutting the gilt cord which fastened the toy to the overhanging branch. He seemed to be about thirty-five, his skin was burnt almost saddle color, and he wore a thick, close-clipped moustache. But his eyes—those clear blue eyes—surely they were Bobby's and no one else's.
"Thank you, Mr Falconer," said Mrs Gilmour, and what a change in her tone! It was all cordiality. "Thank you. That is most kind of you."
Taking the doll from his hands she herself presented it to the girl.
"But I wanted Father Christmas to give it me," objected the child almost in tears.
"Father Christmas will give you a kiss," said the tall man tactfully, and Eleanor recovered herself sufficiently to stoop and kiss the little thing.
The tall man moved away, and Eleanor, in a half dazed state, mechanically continued her duties.
What did it mean? This was Bobby Bourne miraculously returned from the dead. That inner sense which never errs definitely assured her of his identity. Yet Mrs Gilmour had called him Falconer.
She saw him drop into a chair beside Florence Gilmour, and as he leaned over and began to talk to the pretty frizzy-haired daughter of the house, a pang of keenest jealousy seized her.
"No, not that musical box!" came Mrs Gilmour's voice, low but angry.
"The camera, I told you! You are very stupid, Miss Astley."
Desperately, Eleanor pulled herself together, and made a violent effort to keep her attention on her work. But all the time she was distributing the rapidly lessening stock of presents, some part of her was still watching the pair who sat apart, talking and laughing together, and a very anguish of jealousy tore her heart.
The tables at the foot of the tree were empty, but there were still a number of smaller articles among the branches. A footman brought a step-ladder, and Eleanor mounting it began to take these down.
"Be quick, please!" said Mrs Gilmour, in that cold, unpleasant inflexion which she seemed to keep for Eleanor's special benefit. "The dancing is to begin sharp at half-past eight. That Punchinello, next."
Eleanor's nerves were already in rags. She reached quickly for the toy in question, never noticing that a taper was burning on a branch between her and it.
Her sleeve brushed it, and there was a bright flash of flame. The cotton wool trimmings on the sleeve had caught fire.
For the moment Eleanor hardly realised what had happened, then as a pang of scorching agony seized her wrist, she gave a slight scream, and drew back her arm so quickly that she lost her balance. The step ladder tottered, went over, and Eleanor was flung forward into the tree.
With the crash came a fresh burst of flame, then screams rang out, and there was a panic-stricken rush from the room.
Mrs Gilmour who, of them all, might best have been expected to keep her head, fled with the rest.
"Keep still!"
Eleanor, half-stunned and in an agony of pain, suddenly felt something thrown over her. A pair of strong arms lifted her bodily, and rolled her tightly in a rug. Tall woman as she was, she was swung up quite easily, and laid gently on a sofa at the far side of the room.
"Here, Purvis, Johnson, bring water!"
The voice rang out strong and commanding above the crackle of fire. Eleanor opened her eyes and saw Falconer's broad-shouldered, athletic figure standing in his short sleeves on the table by the tree, beating out the flames with his coat. A moment later, in dashed the butler and footman, with a patent fire extinguisher. Falconer seized it, and turned the jet of carbonic acid on the blazing tree,
For a moment or two the issue was doubtful, for the dry, resinous foliage was flaring to the ceiling. But in spite of the terrific heat, he stuck to it, and within a very few minutes the last spark was out, and nothing but black embers remained.
The instant the fire was out, Falconer sprang down and came back to Eleanor.
"Are you much hurt?" he asked, anxiously, as he bent over her.
"My arm," she said faintly. "That is all, I think."
If his voice had startled Eleanor, the effect of hers on him was equally great.
He started back.
"Who are you?" he asked in a low, tense voice.
"I am Eleanor Astley," she answered.
"Great heavens!—is it possible?"
At this moment Mrs Gilmour came hurrying up. Her large face was oddly mottled with red and white.
"Ah, Mr Falconer, I am so sorry! I do hope you are not hurt," she began, in a voice that quivered with excitement or anger, or both. "I would not have had such a thing happen for worlds. Such shocking carelessness. And I got this person through such a good agency. I did think I could depend upon them to send me someone reliable. But there—you can never trust them. They take no trouble. They send anyone they happen to pick up. She shall go at once!—to-night. She shall not stay in the house another minute.
"Get up at once!"—this to Eleanor. Don't lie, pretending, there, if you were able to, I should make you pay for the damage you have done; but—"
Falconer swung round upon her.
"Are you talking to this lady?" he demanded.
The stout mistress of Starenton positively jumped.
"I—I—of course—if you think—" she stammered, and broke down, quivering like a jelly.
"I think that no gentlewoman would possibly permit herself to speak to another in such a tone as you have used," said Falconer, in a voice that would have chilled a charging lion.
The stout lady's jaw dropped. She goggled at him, speechless.
He turned to Eleanor, and, unrolling the rug, lifted her in his arms and carried her out of the room. In the hall the butler was waiting.
"Purvis," said Falconer, curtly, "be good enough to order my car at once."
"No, dearest," as Eleanor made a feeble protest. "You are not to say a word. I am taking you straight to the doctor. You are in my charge now, and nobody else's."
Five minutes later Eleanor packed in rugs, was lying back in the interior of a luxurious, electrically-lit limousine. Falconer, beside her, was holding her uninjured hand.
"Are you in much pain?" he asked her, tenderly.
"Very little," Eleanor answered, bravely. "It is only my wrist and hand."
"But what an accident!" he exclaimed. "To think that I might have lost you—just when I had found you!"
"You would not have found me at all but for the accident, Bobby," replied Eleanor, with a faint smile.
"No; that is true. Then I will call it a lucky accident, after all. But, darling, what have you been doing all these years? Where have you been?"
"It is I who ought to ask that question," smiled Eleanor. "I thought you were dead, Bobby."
"I don't wonder," he said, quickly. "I was a prisoner in the lands of the Bolivian Indians for three years. And when I escaped and got home again, your father was dead and you were gone. I have searched for you ever since, Nell," he added, quietly.
"And now that you have found me, I am old and ugly—nothing but a Mother Christmas," said Eleanor, sadly.
He slipped his arm round her, and drew her to him.
"My Mother Christmas," he answered. softly. "Nell, I am a rich man now, since my uncle, Philip Falconer, left me Cotne Chase. Don't you think Christmas Day would be a good one for us to be married?"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.