AN INVITATION.

The old man fell backward on the seat with an exclamation of keenest surprise. His sunken eyes stared into Mollie's face as she bent over him; at the golden hair curling beneath the dark toque, the grey eyes, the curving lips. Each feature in turn was scrutinised as if he were searching for something familiar which had so far escaped notice.

Apparently it was not discovered, for the expression of amazement deepened upon his face, and he asked sharply--

"What did you say? _What_ did you call me? I don't understand what you can mean!"

Mollie sat down on the bench, and smiled brightly into his face.

"Uncle Bernard! You are Uncle Bernard Farrell! I knew you the moment you said that you were going to Number 7, and asked if I knew the Connors. Of course I know them, because I am--" She hesitated, and Mr Farrell finished the sentence for her.

"You are one of Mr Connor's daughters. The eldest, I presume. I have not the pleasure of knowing your name."

"No-o! I am not Trix. She is a child, only fifteen. I was nineteen on my last birthday. I am,"--for once in her life Mollie had the grace to blush, and looked a trifle discomposed--"I'm Mollie Farrell."

The glance which the old man cast upon her was the reverse of flattering.

"You are Mollie Farrell, are you?" he repeated coldly. "Evidently modesty is not one of your failings, young lady. It might have been wiser if you had allowed me to discover your attractions for myself. Do you consider it quite honest--we will not discuss the question of good taste--to play a double part, and criticise your relations to any stranger whom you may meet in your walks?"

"You asked me; you began it! I should not have mentioned them if you had not asked that question. Then I recognised you, and thought it would be fun. You were not a stranger, you see; you were Uncle Bernard."

"That may be my name, but as I have never seen you before, I can hardly rank as a friend. May I ask how you came to recognise me at all?"

"Oh yes! We have your portraits at home, and mother often talks of you, and the happy times she had when she used to visit you with father when they were engaged. When we were children it was a favourite game for one of us to be Uncle Bernard, and the other guests staying at the Court, and we used to go through all the adventures which father had as a boy,--fall into the mill-stream and be rescued by the dog, and be chased by the bull in the long meadow, and ride on the top of the waggons at the harvest home. We know all about the house, and the tapestry in the hall, and the funny wooden pictures of the Dutch ancestors, and the long gallery where you used to dance at night.

Mother loves talking about it. She has not much fun in her life now, poor dear, and that makes her think all the more of her youth. We envy her, Ruth and Trix and I, because we have a very quiet time at home. We are poor, you see. You can't have much fun if you are poor."

"You think that riches are the one thing needful; that if you had enough money your happiness would be a.s.sured?"

"Ah!" sighed Mollie rapturously. "_How_ happy I should be! I've never had enough money for my wants in all my life, so I can't even imagine the bliss of it. I should not know how to be happy enough."

The old man looked at her silently. She saw that he was about to speak, but the words were long in coming. A cloud had drifted across the sun, and the stretch of park looked suddenly grey and bare. Mollie drew her shoulders together with an involuntary shiver. Something had suddenly damped her ardour of enthusiasm; but it was not so much the bleak wind as the sight of the face gazing into her own, with its set lips, and bleached, joyless expression. For years to come Mollie could recall that moment, and feel again the chill in her veins with which she listened to his reply.

"All my life long," said Bernard Farrell slowly, "all my life everything that I have touched has turned to gold, and everyone I have loved,"--he paused, lingering on the word, and again Mollie shivered in sympathetic understanding--"everyone whom I have loved has _died_!" The wind seemed to take up the word, and repeat it in melancholy echo. "Died! died!

died!" wailed the trees, tossing drearily to and fro. "Died!" shivered the ripple over the cold grey lake. The clouds gathered in a pall overhead.

"I'm sorry!" gasped Mollie faintly--"I'm so sorry!" But Mr Farrell stopped her with a hasty gesture.

"Please spare me protestations of sympathy. They were the last thing I wished to evoke. I merely wished to impress upon you that I am in a unique position for judging the worth of riches.--Is it your pleasure that we continue our journey? The afternoon is growing chill."

Mollie rose in confusion, but she did not reply, nor make any further offer of support. There was something in the old man's voice which forbade familiarities. He was no longer merely cross and unamiable; she had caught a glimpse into the secret of a desolate heart, and the sight sobered her youthful spirits.

"First his wife," she said to herself, as she led the way onward--"pretty Aunt Edna, whom mother loved so much. He adored her, and they were never parted for a day till she took typhoid, and died.

The little girl died the year after, and he had no one left but Ned.

Mother says he was the handsomest boy she ever met, and the cleverest, and the best. Even now, after all these years, she can't speak of the day he was drowned without crying... I always hated to hear that story!

"She says the real Uncle Bernard died with Ned. He seemed to disappear from that day, and an entirely different person appeared in his place.

He had been kind and hospitable, fond of having people around him and making them happy; but after that he shut himself up and became a regular hermit. Then he went abroad, and since he came back four years ago and reopened the Court, he has written to n.o.body, and n.o.body has seen him. But he has come to see us to-day of his own free will. I wonder why? Something has happened to make him break the silence. What can it have been?"

She dared not ask the question; but, as the feeble steps endeavoured to keep pace with her own, a possible explanation darted into Mollie's mind. The poor old man was ill, very ill; there was an expression on the grey, sunken face which was eloquent even to her inexperience.

Death was coming forward to meet him, coming very near; standing upon the very threshold! Strong, happy nineteen shuddered at the thought, and felt an overpowering pity for the waning life.

Mollie longed to comfort the old man with the a.s.surance that there were many still left who could help and minister to his declining days; but her previous overtures had met with so little success that she was afraid of meeting yet another rebuff, and, with unusual prudence, decided to await a better opportunity.

Langton Terrace was reached at last, and Mollie produced a key and opened the door of Number 7. In a household where there are so many children and so few servants, the latchkey was in constant use, and thus it happened that she could bring her guest unnoticed into the house and escort him to her stepfather's sanctum, which was sure to be unoccupied at this hour of the afternoon. She drew forward an armchair, poked the fire into a blaze, and laid Mr Farrell's hat and stick on the table, while he lay wearily against the cushions. He looked woefully exhausted, and Mollie's kind heart had a happy inspiration.

"I shan't tell anyone that you are here until you have had a rest," she said a.s.suringly. "This is the pater's den, and his private property after four o'clock, so you will be quite undisturbed. Just tell me what will refresh you most--tea, coffee, wine? I can bring what you like quite quietly."

"Tea, please--tea, and ten minutes' rest. I shall be better then," Mr Farrell said wearily.

Mollie left the room to prepare a dainty little tray in the pantry, and beg a private pot of tea from the kitchen. The idea of waiting in secret upon Uncle Bernard was delightfully exciting; it was almost as good as running the blockade, to creep past the dining-room door where her mother and sisters were a.s.sembled, and listen to the murmur of voices from within.

If they knew--oh, if they knew! She had prepared some crisp slices of toast, skimmed the cream off the milk in defiance of cook's protests, and made sure that the water in the little covered jug was boiling, and not only moderately warm, as the custom was. It was the simplest of meals, but at least everything was as tempting as hands could make it, and Mollie had the satisfaction of pouring out two cups of tea, and seeing the last slice of toast disappear from the rack. She took nothing herself, and preserved a discreet silence until Mr Farrell replaced cup and plate on the table, and condescended to smile approval.

"Thank you, Miss Mollie; I am obliged to you for securing me this rest.

Judging from my first impressions of your character, I should not have expected so much common-sense. I feel quite refreshed, and ready to see your mother when it is convenient."

Mollie lifted the tray, and stood for a moment looking down with an air of triumph.

"I'm so glad! I talk a lot of nonsense, but I can be quite sensible if I like, and I _did_ want to help you, Uncle Bernard; I'll send mother in here, where you can have your talk in peace. It's the only chance of being uninterrupted."

Mr Farrell made no reply, and Mollie made haste to deposit the tray in the pantry, and rush for the dining-room door. The secret had been kept so long that she felt sore--absolutely sore with the strain. It seemed incredible that her mother and sisters should be sitting munching bread- and-b.u.t.ter as calmly as if it were an ordinary day, when nothing extraordinary had happened to break the monotonous routine. She leant against the lintel of the door and called her mother by name--"Muv! you are wanted at once in the Den. Somebody wants to speak to you!"

Mrs Connor's brow furrowed into the usual anxious lines as she prepared to hear a story of fresh disaster from her husband's lips; but at the doorway two magic words were whispered into her ear which brought the blood into the white cheeks, and sent her trotting down the hall on eager feet. Then came the delicious moment to which Mollie had looked forward ever since the meeting at the cross-roads. She walked back into the room, while Ruth looked up with weary curiosity, and Trix with unconcealed wrath.

"You might have let mother finish her tea in peace! She has been slaving all day, and was just enjoying a rest!"

"What is it, Mollie? Why did the pater come home so early? Is he ill?"

"It isn't pater, my dear. Guess again! A friend of mine, whom I met in the park and brought home to tea. He was rather tired, so I, gave him a private little feed in the study, instead of bringing him straight in here. Considerate of me, wasn't it? He was quite touched."

"He?" repeated Ruth breathlessly. "Mollie, what are you talking about?

Don't make a mystery out of nothing! Why can't you say at once who it is?"

"I'm afraid of your nerves, dear. I want to break it to you by degrees.

Sudden shocks are dangerous for the young. My own heart is quite palpitating with all I have undergone to-day. I was walking along,--all innocent and unsuspicious,--gazing upon the fair spring scene, when suddenly, glancing ahead, I beheld a figure standing at the junction of the cross-roads. 'Tis ever thus, my love! Fate stands waiting for us where the paths diverge, to point out the way in which we should go.

End of volume one ... Do you feel excited?"

Trix grinned broadly, Ruth looked tired and impatient.

"Oh, thrilled, of course! So many interesting people come to see us that it's difficult to choose between them. The piano-tuner, perhaps; or the gasman, to look at the meter."

"I should have walked home with them, shouldn't I, and given them tea in the study? A little higher in the social scale, please!"

"The curate calling for a subscription?"

"Cold; quite cold! Try again! Someone you have often wished to see, but who has never displayed any great anxiety to make your acquaintance in return."

"Uncle Bernard, I presume?" said Ruth sarcastically, not for one moment believing the truth of her words, though her mind instantly reverted to the personage of that mythical uncle who had played so large a part in her mental life. She did not even trouble to look at Mollie as she spoke; but Trix did, and bounded to her feet in excitement.

"Is it--is it? Oh, Mollie, not really! He hasn't really and truly appeared after all these years? You don't seriously mean it? Look at her, Ruth! I believe it _is_ true!"