Chapter III

BREAKFAST was over, and Nettie was standing in Mrs. Worsley's bedroom, speechless and overwhelmed at the sight which met her view. Spread around her were the contents of one of those large boxes which she had assisted Sarah Jane to carry up-stairs on the preceding evening. There were braveries of all kinds suited to a girl like herself, and fit for wear in such a home as Broadlands. Nothing very costly, but all beautiful, dainty, and suggestive of refined taste and a sweet, pure-minded girl wearer.

It was not the first time that Mrs. Worsley had supplied deficiencies in Nettie's wardrobe, and the measures taken a year before would, she knew, still be near enough to go by. She shrewdly suspected that her request for the girl's company would be cheerfully acceded to if no demand were made on the mother's purse to furnish the needed outfit. Even that ten-pound note which had called forth such fervent gratitude, though nominally sent by her mother, had first been given to Mrs. Clifford by Mrs. Worsley for the purpose.

"She is rich, and has neither chick nor child. All her own relatives are richer still, so why should not Nettie be the better for having a wealthy sponsor?" said Mrs. Clifford to her eldest daughter. "Besides, by having nothing to buy for Nettie, I shall be able the better to supply your wants."

So Laura, too, had cause to rejoice, for she benefited indirectly by Mrs. Worsley's gifts, in having money spent upon her wardrobe, some of which must otherwise have gone for Nettie's.

Standing amidst a wealth of pretty things, Nettie said—"These are all far too handsome, and you are much too kind, aunty, darling. I cannot thank you as I ought. I feel that I shall be a grand sham myself amongst the dear friends at Broadlands—'a daw with borrowed feathers.'"

"Not borrowed, Nettie; these things are truly your own. Not shams any more than you are, my dear, honest-hearted lassie. They are fashioned by human fingers, not transformed by the touch of a fairy's wand, so you can wear them without fear that they will resume some uncanny shape. And they come from one who loves you dearly, Nettie, and who has too much of this world's gear, and no kindred of her own who need to share it. I settled about these trifles before I even saw your mother. I never dreamed that I might find you too proud to accept at once, and without misgivings, your godmother's little gift."

Nettie burst into tears, and flinging her arms round her friend's neck, begged to be forgiven.

"Of course it is hateful pride and horrid ingratitude," she cried. "But I did not see it in that way before; I only felt overwhelmed with your kindness, and that it was all too much for you to do for my sake. I have had shamefully ungrateful thoughts about being left here, and have felt angry at mamma and Laura, and generally rebellious on account of my lot, instead of just accepting it as from God's hand, and making the best of it. And all the while He was ordering everything for my good, putting it into your heart to be so kind to me, and planning that I should be invited to the place I longed to visit above every other in the world. I am ashamed of myself."

"That is right, darling," replied Mrs. Worsley. "Now you are looking at things in a proper light, and there is nothing to be done but to continue our preparations."

After this the hours seemed to fly, so much had to be done; but further help was obtained to sustain the "reed." Williams returned in due time, the boys set out for Cumberland in the highest of spirits, and a couple of hours later Mrs. Worsley carried off Nettie, and arrived in the early afternoon at the station nearest to Broadlands.

On the platform were three or four of Mrs. Worsley's nephews and nieces, wild with delight at seeing her with Nettie in charge, and at the cry of the first, "Here's Nettie! Hurrah!" The shout was taken up by the others, who each cheered in a different key, and made the station resound with their shrill young voices.

There was another person who met the train, and handed the ladies out, and who, though he did not join in the cheer raised by the juniors, managed to express his pleasure at sight of the travellers in no less eloquent language. Truly if ever eyes spoke of gladness, the fine grey ones of Arthur Boyd told Nettie Clifford that the sight of her bright, blushing face had vastly increased his present feeling of happiness.

What halcyon days followed! Broadlands itself, with just its regular inmates, would have been a paradise to Nettie, nestling, as it did, among glorious woods which sheltered without hiding it, and yet within walking distance of the sea on one side and a lovely undulating country on the other three. There were endless drives and plenty of pleasant neighbours within reach, nearest of all Ferndene, the residence of old Sir Henry Boyd, Arthur's uncle, with whom Nettie was a prime favourite. He and his dear old wife were deeply attached to their nephew and heir, very anxious for him to marry, and yet in great dread lest he should fall a victim to a mere pretty face.

They had a horror of fastness and flirtation. They believed in one true, ever-growing holy love which should become stronger and more self-devoting through each year of wedded life, as theirs had done. Their nephew would be independent of money considerations; they wanted him to have a fortune in the wife herself; and so, when twelve months before they thought their nephew was learning to care for Nettie Clifford, they were ready to give their hearty consent if he would only ask it.

"Just the girl for Arthur," they had said to each other. Well born and educated, with good health, good looks, a pure mind, and habits untainted by fashion and folly, yet as bright as a bird; one in whose society young and old found pleasure. What could they desire better? Yet the girl's visit had come to an end, and Arthur had not spoken. The hopes of the old couple had died away, and twelve months had come and gone in the meanwhile.

Now Nettie was again at Broadlands, and day by day she and Arthur met. Lookers-on began to whisper, and some that had hoped Sir Henry's heir would seek a wife in a different direction lost hope.

At last a day came when the young man opened his heart to the relatives who had been as father and mother to him, and asked their consent and blessing on his union with Nettie Clifford, provided he could win hers.

They answered him together: "May God bless you as we do, and speed your wooing! 'A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband.' We could desire no better fortune for our boy than to win such a wife as Annette Clifford."

With a light heart Arthur set out for Broadlands. There was to be a garden party in the lovely grounds that afternoon, and he had no doubt that he should find an opportunity of telling Nettie all that was in his mind. He did not, however, see her immediately on his arrival. The grounds were extensive, and before Arthur Boyd made one amid the crowd of guests who kept pouring through the wide gateway, Nettie had been pounced upon and carried off to take part in a game at tennis.

The decisive set was just at an end when he caught sight of her, flushed and smiling, after a hard-won victory. But bright as was the colour on the girl's cheek, it deepened at his approach, and it was with a look of frank pleasure that she laid her hand in his and bade him welcome.

But while Nettie's roses deepened, those on Arthur's face died away, and he became deadly pale as he glanced at the girl's extended hand, for there, glittering on her "engaged finger," was a superb diamond, a beautiful single stone of bluish white, a stone of great value, as the merest ignoramus could tell. Surely the presence of such a jewel in such a place could have only one meaning.

Arthur hardly knew what he said. He knew that Nettie looked half frightened, and asked if he were ill, and that he had answered in the negative, and got away out of sight. True, she seemed to look wistfully after him, and her lips moved, as if she were begging him to stay. Probably she was shocked at what she had done, and wished to deprecate the grief and resentment his face must have expressed.

All their happy hours, all her sweet girlish ways, all the tell-tale blushes at his coming, all that he had thought he read in the shy eyes that were wont to droop when he looked too steadily in their direction, all these things were as nothing to him any more than others. Someone—Arthur thought he knew who—had offered, and been promptly accepted by the portionless girl, who was bound to marry well, whether true love were included in the bargain or not.

Arthur could not leave Broadlands at once, as he longed to do, for his aunt and uncle, with other friends, were to come later, and he had promised to wait for and return with them. So he strolled away to a lonely part of the grounds, and having passed a miserable hour there, once more bent towards the entrance-gates, where he met Nettie.

Surely the girl must have been miserable too, for she looked pale and troubled, and there were signs about her usually bright eyes that were suggestive of recent tears. And lo! As he glanced at her hand which hold up a parasol, he saw that it was unadorned. The ring was gone.

"There must have been some stupid mistake," he thought. "I have taken for granted what had probably no reality. Only Nettie's own lips shall convince me that she is other than the pure, true-hearted girl I have ever judged her to be."

To think was to act. There was no one else very near, so Arthur joined Nettie, and a new light came to her sweet face, and new roses sprang into being on her cheeks. He began to tell his tale, strolling the while into a by-path, and had got as far as the ring.

"I came on purpose to speak to you to-day, Nettie, bringing with me the blessing and approval of my dear aunt and uncle, who would welcome you with open arms as my wife," he said. "There was only one person for me amongst all the guests, and when I saw you, darling, sweet, and fair, and true, I longed to clasp you to my heart and tell you that I gave you my whole best love a year ago. And then I looked at something sparkling on your finger, and saw a ring, and feared that someone had been beforehand with me, so went away miserable, without a word. What did the ring mean, dear, for you wear it no longer?"

Nettie glanced at her hand as Arthur alluded to the ring, and gave a cry of horror.

"What shall I do?" she cried. "I did not know it was gone. I would not lose it for anything. Please do not stop me!"

Away fled Nettie towards the house, leaving Arthur with his love story unfinished, and to put what construction he chose upon her precipitate retreat. To pursue the girl would have been to cause remark, and Arthur went more slowly in the direction taken by Nettie, his mind full of half-formed plans for an immediate voyage to the Antipodes.

Mrs. Worsley was sitting on the terrace, and Annette must have passed her on her way to the house. Arthur stood by her for a little while, talking of the party, the lovely weather, and the manifest enjoyment of the guests, but his manner was constrained, and his answers often irrelevant. He was on the point of turning away, when Annette once more appeared, tripping lightly towards them, with a radiant face.

"Aunty, dear aunty, please take this back with my best thanks, and never, if you love me, ask me to wear borrowed feathers again. I have been in dreadful trouble. I missed it from my finger, or rather Mr. Boyd did, and I thought I had lost it in the park. Then I remembered I had been to my room to wash my hands after preparing some fruit for the children, and I left Mr. Boyd very unceremoniously, to see if I had laid it on the dressing-table. It was not there, and I was almost in despair, when where do you think I found it? Exactly fitted into the centre hole of the drainer which covers the sponge bowl. How glad I was! I am not fit to be trusted with valuables, you see, for, being unaccustomed to them, I forget that I have them. Thank you a thousand times for the loan of the ring, aunty, and most of all for freeing me from the awful responsibility of having valuables not my own to take care of. I will never wear borrowed feathers again as long as I live."

As Nettie spoke, she placed the ring which had caused Arthur's misery in Mrs. Worsley's hand, and then gave a sweet, shy, upward glance at the young man, which seemed to say that the story he had begun to tell would now find an attentive listener.

Mrs. Worsley, with a laughing face, told Arthur how she had insisted on Nettie's wearing one of her rings because the girl possessed scarcely any ornaments of her own. "It will be hers some day," she added, "but I must take care of it until she is fit to be trusted with the custody of valuables."

Arthur mentally dissented from Mrs. Worsley's statement that Nettie possessed few ornaments. He thought that truth, modesty, unselfishness, a pure, tender nature, and a warm, faithful heart were better adornments and possessions than all the jewels in the world. But he did not trouble to tell her so, for some friends were approaching, whom Mrs. Worsley joined. And Arthur told his thoughts to Nettie instead, and completed the story begun a little while before.

He must have had faith, too, in Nettie's powers to take care Of a ring, for when the young people met the party from Ferndene, there glittered on the girl's engaged finger a most beautiful specimen of the jeweller's art, the diamonds in which were worthy to follow the borrowed gem.

Thus Arthur Boyd won Nettie for a wife; and the dear old couple at Ferndene rejoiced that their adopted son would soon give them the daughter they coveted above all others. And there was rejoicing at Scarborough, and Mrs. Clifford wrote that her darling Nettie had more than fulfilled her most cherished hopes by making so wise a choice.

That Mrs. Worsley played the true mother's part to her goddaughter need hardly be told, or that it was on her breast that the girl shed the glad tears which came from a heart almost too full of happiness as she said, "How can I be thankful enough for God's great goodness to me? How be ashamed enough of my old want of faith, my repinings, and discontent?"

Mrs. Arthur Boyd has no lack of jewels now, and has long since been accustomed to the charge of articles of value of her very own. But if she had never possessed any, her friends think that those better ornaments which her husband valued most would have been conspicuous in her life and actions. Also that the one lesson would have sufficed to prevent her from ever making a second appearance in "borrowed feathers."

A STORY OF AN ANGLE WINDOW