The Spider and the Fly. Garvice Charles

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      CHAPTER II

      THE WOLF AND THE LAMB

      In the drawing-room at Mildmay Park was seated, in her own particular easy-chair, Mrs. Henry Mildmay.

      Mrs. Henry Mildmay was a lady of that good old sort of whom our modern demoiselles are rather tired of receiving as models for imitation. Herself ladylike and distingué in feature, dress and manner, slight of figure, delicate of hand and more delicate of nerve, she was deeply imbued with a love of good birth, elegant manners and a large income, all of which she possessed in a fair and comfortable degree.

      Mrs. Mildmay was John Mildmay's only sister, and at his death she had undertaken the sole charge of his daughter Violet, whom she loved as a daughter, and by whom she was beloved in return as a mother, with just this difference, that, whereas, the dear old lady was rather afraid of her beautiful, high-spirited ward, the girl was as fearless as a lioness, and gave her love unalloyed and unshadowed.

      Violet Mildmay had inherited the brave, simple nature of the merchant prince, and was a realization of that most glorious ideal – a pure-minded, tender-hearted English girl.

      Mrs. Mildmay was knitting – a favorite amusement, or occupation, as she would have dignified it, for the results of her pastime were distributed among the Penruddie poor – and sinking into a comfortable doze, from which the sharp striking of an ormolu clock aroused her.

      "Dear me!" she murmured, placidly smiling; "dear me, Violet, I was nearly asleep."

      The remark finding no answer, the old lady turned in her chair, and found the handsomely furnished room was empty.

      "Violet, where are you, my dear? What a restless girl it is. She was here five minutes ago, and now she has gone. Just like poor John, never still ten minutes together."

      At that moment the conservatory door was thrown open with a suddenness that made the old lady drop her needle, and a sweet, but full, voice immediately behind her said:

      "Whom am I like, auntie?"

      "No one in particular, my dear," faltered the old lady, with a pleasant smile and a "Thank you" for the needle, which the owner of the voice had sprung forward to recover before the old lady could stoop.

      "Where have you been, my dear? I did not know you had left the room."

      "No? Only on the lawn. It was so hot in here, and you were falling so comfortably asleep that I thought I would creep away before it was too late, for I know I frighten you if I move when you are fast asleep, auntie mine. Am I not careful now? Am I not improving?"

      "You are everything that is good and dear, Violet," said the old lady, stroking the girl's head, as it leaned itself to a level with her white hand. "But don't sit on the floor, my love, you will crease that pretty muslin."

      "Shall I?" said the sweet voice, absently, and Violet sprang to her feet.

      Her aunt, with another little start – she started on the average twice in every ten minutes when her niece was near – looked up with mild nervousness at the tall, graceful figure, her gaze gradually changing to one of affectionate admiration.

      And who could withhold admiration?

      There was beauty in the cleanly cut, oval face, with its clear, brunette skin and deep, brown eyes; there were youth, strength, grace in the undulating charm about the girl, her figure, voice, and gesture, which enthralled young and old of both sexes and demanded admiration rather than won it.

      "My poor dress," she said, with a laughing pout. "He was – is a dress a he or a she, auntie? – I'll say 'it,' was so clean and stately only this morning, and now! Look, that is water. The fish leaped out of the fountain and Tray has pawed me with his wet feet. It's no use my trying to be good, you see, dear, circumstances are too strong for me," and, with a musical, rippling laugh, the light-hearted girl ran to the open piano.

      The old lady sighed, but with a smile.

      "I am almost beginning to think they are, Violet," she said, in her low-pitched voice, so great a contrast to the full, melodious one of the girl.

      "No; you will never make me anything better than an untutored savage, auntie. You've tried so hard, so very hard, to teach me how to enter a room, steal from chair to chair, lower my voice, and smile properly. But all in vain, I can't be a model young lady, and I am always making you jump."

      "Not jump, my dear."

      "Well, start, then? It is all the same, auntie. Fancy you jumping! Now, I can jump. I jumped over the brook. No, not quite," and here the laugh rang out again, "but almost quite. Poor Marie, she has hard times with me. Do you know, I shouldn't like to be lady's-maid to Miss Violet Mildmay; no, not for all the mines of Peru – or is it Patagonia?"

      Without waiting for an answer, she struck a chord, and dashed into a waltz.

      That came to an end, however, as suddenly as it commenced, and the graceful figure was on its feet.

      "It is too hot to play, is it not? How can you knit such weather as this? It makes me boil, yes, actually boil, to watch you!"

      "Don't watch me, then, my dear," suggested the old lady, mildly. "Go and sit in the arbor. It will be cool there in the shade."

      "Well, I will. But I warn you, auntie, I shan't sit long. I never can sit still long. I'll try the arbor, though," and, catching up her rustic hat, which for the nonce had fallen from her lovely young head to a little rest on the floor, the restless girl swept in a wave of muslin and tulle from the room.

      Mrs. Mildmay rose, folded her knitting into a neat little ball, stored it away in a neat little basket, and was about to quit the room, but before she could open the door Violet had run through the conservatory again.

      "Well, my dear?" said the old lady, patiently.

      "Too hot in the arbor, auntie," said the girl, with a charming and decisive shake of her head. "The lawn is absolutely simmering. I shall go on the cliffs."

      "My dear, you will be roasted! Come and sit in the shade here, in my chair."

      "Oh! then I should be suffocated. No, I'll try the cliffs. What is the time? Just time for a quiet stroll. Good-by."

      "Stop, my dear Violet. Pray don't go without your sunshade! You will be burned up!"

      "Right. I'd forgotten that stupid old thing. Where is it? Let me see – where did I throw it?"

      And she stood in the middle of the room, swinging her hat to and fro, and fanning herself.

      "Is that it under the piano?" said Mrs. Mildmay, pointing to the sunshade where it lay, ignominiously entangled with the legs of the instrument.

      "Yes, that is it. What dear, sharp eyes you have, auntie. Come along, sunshade! It's rather hard that you, being so much the weaker, should be burned to save me."

      And with another happy nod and smile away she floated again, her long, diaphanous skirt whisking a current of cool air through the room and just escaping the overturning of a table of bric-a-brac by an inch.

      The cliffs to which Miss Mildmay bent her steps were within five minutes' walk of the lawn, and were one of the young lady's favorite promenades.

      From them, looking seaward, she could feast her eyes upon the СКАЧАТЬ