An Adventure of Cupid.
by Una Hudson.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.3 #14 (May 1906).
The romance of an unwished-for visitor.
There was one letter in Mr. Seymour's post that morning which he read twice. It was from the principal of a young ladies' seminary, informing him that Alice Everton would complete her course of studies the following week, and what were his wishes concerning her?
Mr. Seymour did not know. He had never seen Miss Everton, and had regarded himself as her guardian only so far as her money was concerned.
It had somehow never occurred to him that the day must come when it would be necessary for her to leave the school where she had spent the three years since her father's death.
With a vague idea that it would be well to become personally acquainted with the girl before making any definite arrangements for her future, he wrote that, unless she had planned otherwise, Miss Everton would be made most welcome at his home, and for so long a time as she should see fit.
His boy would be coming home from college soon, he reasoned, and it might be pleasant for him to have another young person in the house. Personally he shrank from the change in his household her coming implied. Since the death of his young wife, when his son was a mere baby, he had lived a life of unbroken quiet.
* * * * *
Alice Everton resolutely fought down the little chill of disappointment which had come over her at finding that only the empty carriage had been sent to meet her. It was foolish, she knew, to have expected Mr. Seymour to come in person. Of course, he must be much too busy for that.
The house, too, strangely chilled and depressed her. Everything was as Mrs. Seymour had left it twenty years before. The very tables and chairs seemed to cry aloud of a joy that had been, and of a grief that yet endured.
She directed the placing of her trunk, and began to unpack listlessly. It was while she was hanging her gowns in the cupboard that there came a knock at the door. The grey-haired butler stood there, and in his hand was a bunch of violets.
"With Mr. Seymour's compliments," he said.
It pleased him to see how the colour raced to the girl's cheeks, and her pensive face brightened.
"Oh, thank you!" she cried. "Thank you! It was so kind of him to remember me."
She put the flowers in water and set them on her toilet table. The simple little gift had made all the difference in the world to the girl's mood. She hummed a little tune as she went on with her unpacking. And she laid out what she considered the prettiest of all her gowns to wear at dinner.
* * * * *
Mr. Seymour turned quickly on hearing a soft footfall behind him. He had expected the entrance of the new member of his household to be heralded by the tap of high heeled shoes and the rustle of silken skirts, But she had come in softly, and this of itself was sufficient to predispose him in her favour.
Her voice, too, was low and unhurried. "Thank you," she said, "for the flowers. It was more than kind of you to remember me."
"The flowers?" Mr. Seymour did not understand.
She touched the violets at her belt.
"Yes, these."
"But I—" Mr. Seymour was beginning. Then over her head he caught sight of his butler, who was going through a lively pantomime. Mr. Seymour understood. He frowned, resenting the double liberty the man had taken. But when again he looked down at the girl the same wistful look in her eyes that had moved his butler stirred him.
"I am glad," he said, "that you liked them."
"I have to thank you for so many kindnesses," Alice went on in her soft voice. "But for you I don't know what I should have done since—since papa died."
Mr. Seymour's heart smote him. He had done so little, and for that little she was so grateful. As they went in to dinner together he was glad that the chance had been given him to atone for past neglect.
It was long since a woman had faced him over the shining glass and silver, and he found the presence of this one very pleasant.
After the meal was ended he went into the library to smoke his cigar. Alice, left to herself, wandered for a little about the big, empty drawing-room. Then she sat down at the piano and began softly to touch the keys.
Mr. Seymour, listening in the library, winced as the first notes broke the stillness. Since his young wife died the piano had stood untouched. No, it was her music that smote upon his ears—the same plaintive melodies, the same softly-crooned songs. His cigar went out, and he forgot to relight it. By-and-by he got up and crossed to the drawing-room. The girl at the piano, all unconscious of her silent listener, kept on playing. At last she rose.
"Oh!" she said, a little startled by the look on Mr. Seymour's face. "You do not mind?"
"No," he said quietly, "I do not mind. They were my wife's songs," he added, after a pause.
Alice Everton thought she understood. She held out her hand. "Good-night!" she said. Her pensive eyes met his kindly ones. "It is so good," she said half shyly, "to have a home to come to."
"To-night," said Mr. Seymour slowly, "it has been more like home than at any time since my wife's death. I thank you for your playing; you must let me hear you again."
* * * * *
In due time Fred Seymour came home from college. The two young people, when introduced, greeted each other politely, but not enthusiastically.
Fred went at once into the office of one of his father's friends—a lawyer. In the evenings he studied in the library or went out with some of his friends.
"Why don't you," his father said one evening, "take Alice somewhere? Aren't there concerts, or theatres, or something of the sort?"
Fred admitted that there were. And he dutifully proffered an invitation. Alice accepted. But when they came back, to Mr. Seymour's great disgust, Fred looked bored, and Alice was yawning openly.
"Well, dad," confessed the younger man, "it wasn't exactly what you might call a howling success."
"So it seems," his father assented grimly. He fidgeted with a paper-cutter he had taken up. "I don't quite see what's the matter," he confessed. "At first I didn't like it because you didn't take her out, now I'm not pleased because you have."
"You might." Fred suggested, with eyes carefully turned in another direction, "try taking her about yourself."
The elder Mr. Seymour seriously considered the matter. "I hadn't thought of that," he said. "Er—I believe I'll try it."
He did. Fred purposely stayed in to see them start. When they came back he was lounging in the library. To his discerning eyes his father looked like a man who, after long waiting, has come suddenly into his own. Alice was flushed and laughing. In her hand she carried a square, ribbon-tied box.
She bade the two men a gay good-night, and went at once to her room. An embarrassed silence fell between them. Mr. Seymour's eyes turned to the portrait of his wife. Beneath it on a little table stood a vase of fresh flowers. Alice had placed them there. It was one of the little daily tasks she had taken upon herself.
"She was so young," she had said, "and so pretty. It must have been so hard to die."
"It was hard to have her die," Mr. Seymour had answered.
To-night his eyes fell from the face in the portrait to the flowers beneath. Then he turned to his son.
"She is just the age," he said, "that your mother was when I married her. And she is very like her."
Fred Seymour's eyes rested on his father's tall, erect figure, his handsome face and hair scarcely touched with grey. He thought of the twenty years of loneliness that lay in the past, and he understood.
"She loved you," he said, his eyes on the portrait, "and she would want to see you happy. Dad, go in and win "