Beryl's triumph

"DO make haste, Lucy; how slow you are!" exclaimed Beryl Hollys, as she impatiently shook the long, silken tresses, which her maid was carefully brushing. "Papa will be here before you have done my hair, I do believe."

"You need not be afraid of that, Miss Beryl," answered the maid quietly; "for Andrew has only just driven out of the yard, and it's a good three miles to the station. Master can't possibly be here yet awhile."

"Well, do make haste, anyhow!" returned Beryl, giving her head another toss; "there are ever so many things I want to do before papa comes."

"I am as quick as I can be," replied Lucy, in an aggrieved tone; "but your hair is in such a tangle with tossing in the wind, that there is no doing anything with it."

"My hair is a bother," said Beryl. "I wish I could wear it quite short like a boy. It kept blowing in my eyes and teasing me so when I was on the beach. I should have enjoyed the wind but for that. I think it is good fun when the wind blows as it has been blowing this afternoon."

"The wind still seems to be rising," said Lucy, as an angry gust beat against the house; "I am afraid there will be a storm to-night."

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Beryl gleefully. "I love to hear the wind roaring after I am in bed. It seems to make the bed feel so much more cosy and comfortable."

"Oh, Miss Beryl, how can you say you are glad!" said Lucy reproachfully; for, being a fisherman's daughter, she knew the perils of the deep, and to her a storm was an event to be dreaded. "Think of the poor sailors who may be drowned whilst you are enjoying your warm bed."

"Oh, well, Lucy, you know I did not mean that I was glad that sailors should be drowned," replied Beryl, in a tone of annoyance; "I'm sure I don't wish any one to come to harm; but I do like to hear the wind roar."

By this time Beryl's hair was in order, and Lucy proceeded to array her in a white dress, with blue sash and ribbons. As soon as she was released from her maid's hands, Beryl, regardless of Lucy's warning that she would tumble her dress, scrambled up into the high window-seat, and took a good look at the prospect it commanded. The nursery window was at the side of Egloshayle House, and looked over the garden wall into the narrow, hilly street which led from the village to the shore.

A corner of the beach, too, was visible, with a row of fishermen's boats drawn up high and dry on the stones, and some nets spread over them. Several men were moving about on the beach, gathering up the nets, and making the boats more secure, in expectation of a stormy night. The gloomy sky, the angry roll of the waves, and the increasing bluster of the March wind, seemed to show that their prognostications would soon be verified.

"How the wind does blow, to be sure!" said Beryl; "and now it is beginning to rain. I hope papa will not get wet."

"The rain is not enough to hurt any one at present," said Lucy, looking out; "and I dare say Andrew took wraps. Oh, Miss Beryl, do look at your dress. It will not be fit to be seen if you kneel on it like that."

Beryl disdained to reply to Lucy's words, but, springing lightly from the window-seat, hastened out of the room.

A delicious smell of cooking came to her nostrils as she ran down the wide staircase. Beryl observed it with satisfaction, for she would have dinner with her father to-night in honour of his return, and she had a keen appetite for the dainties which cook was sure to send up on this occasion.

Beryl was the only child in that large, old house, and as such she had many indulgences; but she had never known a mother's love and care. Nearly twelve years had passed since the summer day when Mr. Hollys brought his pretty young bride to her Cornish home. Egloshayle House looked a bright and pleasant abode then, when newly painted and adorned in honour of her coming, and the quiet life of the little seaside village seemed sweet and peaceful to the hearts which clung together so fondly, and made the happiness of each other's life.

The joy had lasted but a short time. Only one year of happy wedded life, and then came death and change.

At Beryl's birth her mother passed from earth, and to the desolate husband the young helpless life seemed a poor exchange for that of which it robbed him.

He went abroad for some years, leaving his babe in the care of servants, who were faithful to their charge, and lovingly tended the child. When at length he returned home, Guy Hollys was very pleased with his tiny daughter, and learned to love her tenderly, though, perhaps, his love was not the wisest, most unselfish form of parental affection. He liked to pet and fondle his little Beryl, showering upon her gifts and indulgences; but his kindness was of a sort that gave him little trouble, and his fondness for her did not incline him to settle down and make his home at Egloshayle again. Since his wife's death, he had returned to the habits of his former bachelor life, and usually lived in London, contenting himself with paying brief visits to his Cornish property, to see that all was going on as it should there, and that the child was well and happy.

In order that Beryl might not be entirely left to servants, he persuaded his sister, an unmarried lady of but small property, to live at Egloshayle House, and take the oversight of the household. Having made this arrangement, he felt fully persuaded that he had done all that could be required of him as a father.

Beryl was very fond of the parent of whom she saw so little, and always hailed his visits with delight. The child's life was not dull, though she had no companion of her own age.

She thoroughly enjoyed her free, wild, seaside life, and found a variety of delights and amusements in rambling along the shore, and exploring the rocks and caves with which it abounded, or in making acquaintance with the honest fisher-folk of the place, who had always a smile and a pleasant word for the little lady of "the House." Her father had given her a pony, on which she used to ride for many a mile along the coast, with Andrew in attendance to see that she came to no harm.

It would have been pleasanter, no doubt, as Beryl sometimes acknowledged, if she had had a child-friend to share her walks and rides; but on the whole she was pretty content with her lot, and did not complain of what could not be helped. These long hours passed in the open air gave her health and strength, and she grew a tall, strong girl, of graceful, well-made figure, and as hardy, agile, and swift-footed as any child in Egloshayle.

Beryl's mental culture was far behind her physical, and she was little less ignorant than the fishermen's children who played on the beach. Her aunt was supposed to be responsible for Beryl's education; but Miss Cecilia Hollys was far too indolent to impose upon herself the trouble of teaching Beryl. Beyond an occasional music lesson, and frequent reprimands on the score of her ignorance, with tiresome injunctions as to ladylike behaviour, she left the culture of Beryl's mind to her nurse, who, having taught her to read after a fashion, to write an ugly scrawling hand, and to do sums of the simplest description, could give no further instruction to her charge.

Beryl was in no wise distressed by the poverty of her mental requirements. She was blissfully unconscious of the fact that for a gentleman's daughter she was disgracefully ignorant. She could read the pretty, gaily-illustrated story books with which her father kept her well supplied, and she felt no need of any further learning. Beryl was disposed to be well satisfied with herself. She had an agreeable sense of superiority and dignity as she went about amongst the fisher-folk of Egloshayle, who regarded her with as much admiration and deference as if she had been a little princess. Sometimes, when the young lady was more than usually perverse and wilful, her aunt would threaten to send her to school, but this threat never disturbed Beryl's equanimity, since she felt certain that her father would not consent to an arrangement to which she herself felt so strong an objection.

Beryl was on her way to her Aunt Cecilia as she flitted down the staircase, sniffing, with pleasant anticipations, the savoury odours which escaped from the kitchen regions. She was not particularly fond of her aunt's company, for the affection existing between them was of the coolest description; but in her present mood of excitement Beryl felt restless and impatient, and a little talk with her aunt might help to pass away the time.

Beryl entered the drawing-room, a long, low room with a painted ceiling, and a bow-window, which commanded a fine sea-view. The room felt warm, even to closeness, for a large fire of logs burned in the grate, and suffused through the apartment the fragrance of burning wood. Beryl could not see the fire as she came in, for a large black and gold screen completely hid the hearthrug. Going round to the other side of the screen, Beryl saw her aunt, comfortably stretched on a sofa, with a novel in her hand, in which she seemed greatly interested. A fat little dog was lying on the rug at Miss Cecilia's feet, and it moved languidly and gave a feeble whine as Beryl approached. Beryl took no notice of the little animal, for, though fond of most dogs, she could feel nothing but contempt for this stupid, useless poodle. Lion, the great mastiff chained in the yard, from whose approach Aunt Cecilia would have shrunk away in terror, was, in Beryl's opinion, far more suitable for a pet and plaything.

Miss Hollys had long ceased to be young, but she was dressed with as much care and attention to fashion as in the days of her early youth, though the youthful style of her apparel only heightened in cruel contrast the worn and faded look of her face. Her thin, pinched features had an expression of peevish discontent, and she appeared as unsympathetic a companion as a child could have. She started and shivered as Beryl bounded across the room.

"Oh, Beryl, if only you could learn to enter a room quietly!" she said, in a weak, fretful tone. "And you have left the door open; I know you have by the dreadful draught."

"Really, Aunt Cecilia, I should think a little draught would do you good," observed Beryl coolly; "this room feels like an oven."

"You forget that I am not like you, child, as strong as a horse. The least current of air gives me cold. Do, for goodness' sake, shut that door."

Beryl did as she was told, and then came back to the fireplace. Tea-things were standing on a little table beside her aunt's couch, for Miss Hollys had just been fortifying herself with her afternoon cup of tea.

"May I have a cup of tea, aunt?" asked Beryl, as she laid hands upon the teapot.

"You had better not," said Aunt Cecilia languidly; "tea is not good for little girls."

But Beryl had already filled a cup for herself, and proceeded to enjoy the tea without further debate.

It was clear that asking her aunt's permission was a mere formality. Miss Hollys never expected that her injunctions would be regarded, and Beryl had long known that she could disobey her aunt with impunity. Filling her lap with sweet biscuits, Beryl sat down on the hearthrug to enjoy a little repast.