The Argosy — page 47: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

32 Godinother Dorothy. become accustomed to the great speckled expanse of skirt, the mass of netted hair, and undistinguishable features of the old one, and looked with disfavour on the exquisite artistic finish of its rival, to whom I grudged its place. However, there it stood, while I covered page after page with matter trivial enough to anyone but Godmother Dorothy. I made as amusing a story as I could of my meeting with Mrs. Darsie Pierpoint, and even essayed a word picture of pretty Miss May Leyland, which I guessed would bring me into dire disgrace. My godmother, good soul, oblivious of the years that had rolled over my head since we parted, had let slip in one of her later letters a hint of a certain romantic scheme in petto. My godfather had remembered me handsomely beyond all expec- tation in his will, but the bulk of his property was naturally left to his wife for her lifetime. She in her childless widowhood had adopted a pretty penniless relation, “the sort of child I was myself,” she wrote ; and I knew what her frequent mention of May’s goodness, and pretty ways, and general delightsomeness meant; and gave no sign in return. When I had finished my, letter, I took up the photo- graph and examined it closely. A good, grave face, worn and lined by a long life of care and nursing, hair prematurely grey, rather quaintly dressed, and kind bright eyes, looking out from under heavy dark eyebrows. She wore a cap and a plain black gown, with a lace cape fastened by a big brooch, containing what was presumably god- father’s likeness. ‘* Do 7 look as old as she does?” I found myself asking, with quite a new anxiety. - “She must have given up being young long before there was any need, surely. It is always the result of living with old people. Still, I wonder if in people’s eyes— in a young girl’s, for instance—/ look the same.” I was punctual to the time named at Tamarisk Lodge next day. The drawing-room was empty, and I had time to look about me and’ note the traces of its occupants with approval. I don’t mean that there was that litter of cheap china and rickety photograph stands, tawdry lace and sham bric-a-brac, with which some women deluge the place under the belief that it gives an artistic air to their surroundings ; but the lodging-house furniture was veiled and draped in oriental silks and stuffs, there were fresh flowers about, and a side table with a supply of new books and magazines. A lovely water colour drawing stood on an easel in the proper light ; there was a piano that did of look as if it came from the Rocksedge circulating library and music-seller’s ; and lastly, leaning up against the wall was a violoncello, that grinned me a welcome from its every string. I was gazing amicably at it, thinking of a certain cherished household god of my own, and, I suppose, whistling involuntarily, for ‘ Beethoven, C minor, No. 3,” remarked Mrs. Pierpoint’s voice behind me. ‘You don’t mean to tell me you play the violin ! I thought I saw something like its case when we came down yester- GEomicbooks.com