"Oh! Well, we mustn"t be always talking of chiffons together, that"s very frivolous. You"re fond of poetry, aren"t you?"
"Not so very," said Daphne truthfully.
"But you would like to hear mine; I know you would, dear," said Mrs.
Foster, nodding, and patting her hand. "Dear girl, you shall. I"ve got a tiny little volume, all in ma.n.u.script. It"s quite a secret, darling.
Hardly any one--now--knows that I was poetical. But I can tell you anything--you"re so sympathetic. I had at one time a great wish to be a sort of--not exactly Elizabeth Barrett Browning, or Christina Rossetti--you know who I mean, don"t you?"
"Oh yes."
"But a singer of songs--songs of feeling. Well, let us go into the garden. I will show it to you later."
They sprinkled a few dead flowers, picked a few weeds, and then Mrs.
Foster became thoughtful, took off her gloves, and went to her room and remained there for some time. She came down with a ma.n.u.script book in her hand. It had a shiny cover, and in the right-hand corner a piece of the cover was cut out. On the paper, showing through, was written in Mrs. Foster"s delicate handwriting, "Fireflies of Fancy."
"This," she said, patting it, "is my little book, and after lunch I"ll read you some of the poems, dear Daphne, though I"m not at all sure that all of them are quite suitable for you to hear."
"Oh, Mrs. Foster!" Daphne found difficulty in believing it.
"You see," continued the delicate-looking old lady, in her sweet, refined voice, "I was very much under the influence of the Pa.s.sionate School--Swinburne, Rossetti, Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x, and so on--at the time that I wrote. My husband never wished me to publish them. He didn"t like them--he didn"t understand them. I don"t mind admitting to you, dear, that since I lost him I have sent one or two of the less--well--shall we say strongly coloured?--poems to the magazines at times, of course under a _nom de plume_. But they were all returned. I think they were considered too--well, too----However, I"ve given up the idea of making a name as a poetess now, and very rarely show them to anybody; _very_ rarely."
Daphne answered, with absolute sincerity, that she was dying to see them.
After lunch, when they retired to the little drawing-room, Mrs. Foster sat down with her back to the light, and a slight flush on her cheek, and took up the book.
Daphne sat in a low little crimson arm-chair exactly opposite her, clasping her knees, her brown eyes fixed with the greatest interest as Mrs. Foster turned and turned the pages as if unable to select a suitable verse.
Then she began to read, in her soft, yet rather high voice, which seemed suited only to gentle greetings and adieux, or quavering orders to Henry.
"NIGHT TIME
_He glanced as he pa.s.sed, And I hope, and I quiver, I howl and I shudder with pains; And like a she-tiger Or overcharged river, My blood rushes on through my veins._"
She stopped suddenly.
"No, no, dear. I won"t read this. Wait a minute. I remember now that was the one that was returned because it was too--er----I"ll find you another one."
"Oh, do finish that one," said Daphne, "please! Isn"t the light too much for your eyes?"
She jumped up quickly and pulled down the blind an inch or two, and then came back, having controlled herself.
Mrs. Foster looked at her rather sharply, and took no notice of what she supposed was emotion.
"Ah, here is something more suited to you, darling."
SPRING
A QUESTION, AND AN ANSWER
_Will all the year be summer-time, And each night have a moon?
Ah no, the Spring will quickly go, And winter cometh soon._
_And will your clasp warm mine like wine?
And will you love me true?
Ah no, the autumn leaves arrive, And we must bid adieu._
"That"s a rather pretty thing, in its way, isn"t it?" she said.
"Very."
"Here"s one more.
A REMEMBRANCE
_Seems it well to see A wild honey bee Gold in the sun, Ere day is done, Sitting on a rose, As the summer time grows._
_Ah, the bold, brave days, Ere the gla.s.s of Time "Neath the sun"s rays, Like a flame of fire,-- And the_ ..."
She stopped again.
"No, I don"t think this is quite----"
"Do, do go on!"
Mrs. Foster looked at her.
"You have a great deal of sensibility, Daphne. I believe you have tears in your eyes."
"No, I haven"t really." She turned away her head, nearly choking.
A loud knock was heard at the front door.
Mrs. Foster looked out of the window.
"It"s Cyril!" she exclaimed. "He"s got away after all. Quick! Quick!"
She threw the book under a cushion and sat on it. With trembling fingers she took up some needlework out of a basket.
"Not a word--not a word! Go and meet him in the hall, dear. He"s come to give us a surprise. I"ll wait."
Blushing and laughing Daphne ran downstairs.
CHAPTER XVII
ENGAGED