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OUR SHORT -STORY. .

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OUR SHORT STORY. THE WORM THAT TURNED. When we were all girls together in our linage the rest of us looked upon Lydia as too deadly dull for anything. She was the vicar's daughter, and—poor thing—we pitied her, if we did rather despise heraswell. Her father was one of those masterful men who will try to run their families into chosen grooves, and fit round people into square holes, and vice versa. I never could stand Mr. Fen- wick. He \<3 outrageously dictatorial, and never seemed to imagine that anybody's opinion, except his own. was even worth an instant's consideration. Mrs. Fenwick was a crushed worm. There were some other giria in the Yicantge family, but Lydia was the one of my own age, a.nd she used to come to tea at the Hall occa- sionally when we were children. As we grew up she still came to a variety of functions, ^.nd she always looked the same—dull, spirit- leSè. crushed. I remember asking her one day why she wore neutral tints always, why she didn't get some- thing nice and bright and rich-looking, and she only lowered her eyes and said: "'Father thinks clergymen's (laughters ought nut to dress iii bright colonrs." I told my dear old father about it, and asked him if he would venture to interfere with illy clothes, and he laughed and said: "Good gracious, no. my dear. I know my place. Fenwick does not know his, that's Quite evident." which shows what a radical difference there can be in fathers. Lydia's hats were also fearsome enough to make you weep. Dowdiness was not the word for them! They were shocking. But, then, she wore her hair scraped back ffoin her forehead and plaited into a ball at the back of her head, which simpiy gave you the impression that the was permanently prepared for her bath! I asked her once why he did not wear her hair looser in front, all soft about her fore- head, because really she had nice curia in it if she hadn't brushed them back with such violence—and shejusL cast her eyes down and answered: ■■■■Father does not approve of clergymen's dauguters having untidy heads." "Gne of her fanner's idiosyncrasies was never tu allow his lamiiy to go to a dance or a, theatre. "hot," he would say pompously, 'not that I disapprove of dances or of theatres in the abstract, but for a clergyman's family they are most unsmta-ble." I stood beside Lydia as he made that remark once, and 1 saw a curious flash in her eye3—and wondered. But she was invariably dull and uninterest- ing when you met her. Her conversation con- sisted of hopeless platitudes; her occupations were mainly visiting the poor and teaching in the Sunday School; and the rest of her time was mapped out by that awful father of Hers. So many hours' solid reading, so many hours' practising, so much exercise he arranged tor his daughters every day! I occasionally—very occasiouaHy-went to ■ a meal at the Vicarage. It was a hideous ordeal. Mr. Fenwick looked upon me with eyea <1Í7 disapproval. He disapproved of me from the crown of my hat (and I always put on my smartest when I went to the Vicarage, just to tease the vicar) to the tips of my shoes, which were high heeled. and which he, consequently, tabooed. He always sustained the whole con- versation at the meal; his family was merely ria echarhg chorus. I revelled in contradicting him. It never ceased to be a surprise to him to find anyone so daring—but I trust it was for his good in the end! He loathed me, I knew that. Bat, then, I ■aa the squire's daughter, and had to be entiftrcd with civility. The Old woman at one of our lodges spoke "to me of Lydia one day, I remember, and gave hie "rather a shock of surprise. "Miss Lydia," she said thoughtfully, "she's a yohiig lady as will some day break out. You can't hold her in for ever." "What do you mean, Mrs. Thompson?" I said. amazed. •"You'll sea what you'll see, miss," she replied oracularly: "them as is held in so tight in their young days breaks out at last, specially when they've a' got a bit of spirit in 'em." i'rBuS do you really think she has much spirit?" I ssked, doubtfully. "She've a' got it, miss; she've a' got it, but she keeps it quiet now. I ain't watched her a' dancin' in the woods for nothftog." "Dancing in the woods?" I faintly echoed. "Yes, miss. Often do I see her on the gras3, when she thinks as no one don't see her. a' holding up her skirts and dancing that pretty you'd think she was a, fairy. It does .ny old j heart good to see her. Mark my words, miss, her father have a' heid her .n too light." I I was struck dumb with amazement, but. r, ,eomehow. I held my tongue over this revela- tion of old Mrs. Thompson's. JL few days later, when Lydia was at our bouse, my curiosity got sufficiently the better of, me to make me say to her: 'What a pity you don't go to dances, Lydia. You can dance, can't you?" "I?" she said. "What a. curious idea. Bather does not allow us to learn dancing, v^-ycHV know and she looked so surprised that *I was silent, though not convinced. Still, I -said nothing of what Mrs. Thompson had told • met I:<Jid not want to pry into Lydia's secrets. My last vision of Lydia as I saw her in the country village wiil never leave me. I met her in a mnddy lane on a dreary November after- noon.- The general depression of tho surroun- dings seemed emphasised in her person. She wore a tweed dress of exactly the wrong shade of brown. and it waølooped up very high by a g-hastly elastic dress suspender* which the r estimable Mr. Fenwick insisted that his daughters should wear. Her boots were thick- lanced ones—obviously the handiwork of the viHage shoemaker-and her hat was a dingy brown straw of no particular snape, trimmed with ribbon of no particular colour! She carried a gruesomely hideous mackintosh and a bundle of parish magazines. She looked 'I more than ever downcast and chilled. "Why, Lydia," 1 said, "I am glad I met you, because we are quite suddenly ordered abroad for mother's health, and we go down to-morrow. I've been to the Vicarage to say good-bye, and was sorry to miss you there. I wonder when we shall meet again? The doctor says mother is to be kept away till quite the middle of next summer." "1 wonder." she said ter8ely. "Here, I expect," I went on; "you will be as busy as ever, whilst I am frivolling away my time. Don't scorn a butterfly too much." Bather an enigmatic smile crossed her face- but she only said good-bye. and we shook ,hands and par,er1. t watched her go flopping flwii the lane in her distressing garments— and after thnt, for a good many months, Lydia Fenwick went completely out of my head. In fact, it was really more than many months before I thought of her again. It must have be"n two j-pftrs before we even returned to Eng- land and the fuJI. My mother's condition kept! ns on the Continent, and when we did return home we found a new vicar installed at the Vicarage. Mr. Fenwick had been presented with a very good living in a big Midland town, 3.0,1 I pictured Lydia flopping about the streets, as she had flopped about the lanes, in her dingy clothes, and with her dull, impassive face. Thpn I married, and, except for a very pass- ing thought of pity for the probable dulness and monotony of her life as compared with my owl) happy one. I never thought of Lydia Fen- wiêk a.,t all for years'. But not very long ago my husband said to me: "Look here, Kay, let's go to the—(well. I W'ow'-t mention its real name)—Queen's to- night; there are several good turns." The Queen's is a perfectly delightful music- hall, and I don't. mind confessing that I like a variety entBrtainmentif it is a good one. It does we good, especially after seeing the mawkish men and women to whom the modern p I ay. in t rodrices you! \fy husband lets me go to the Queen's. because, he say3. the entertainment is good and funny, and not vulgar. He got a box for lB, and we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. We always do. We are not blase or bored—either u^—and we just love laughing and having good times. Who is Miss Lester?" I asked Jem. pointing as I spoke to a name half-way down the pro- gramme. "Oh, they say she's awfully good," he answered: "she dances and sings. Somebody .told, me she is really very funny." I gathered that she was a favourite, such a ..burst, of applause greeted her-appearance. She was very pretty. We wère near enongh to see her brown eyes, and soft. fluffy hair, and fascinating smile. Something in her face was irritatingly familiar to me. yet I could not remember that I had ever seen or even heard of her before. Her dress was quite simple, but of a most gorgeous colour—a deep rich orange—and it somehow "went" beautifully with her eyes and hair. I forgot, what she sang—but she danced dfiicicusly. There waa something fresh and spontaneous about that dancing. She did it as if she couldn't help it, and it reminded me < somehow of fairies Hl a wcod! "Now, where in the world have I ever heard somebody's dancing compared to fairies—and something about a wood came in?" I said lucidiy to Jem, as Mi as Lester went off. j .J haven't a notion, my dear child. You mist have heard it in the dark ages before you met me!" A. that moment, there wa» a fresh burst of cheering, and I glanced at the .stage. "A Email demure figure .walked slowly towards the foot- llsbip, and, simply bounded out of my seat. I think Jem thought I had gone- mad. "Why," I exclaimed quite out loud, "it's Lydia— it's Lydia Fenwick!" I must have been heard half over the house, but I was too excited to feel-ashamed. Every head turned in my direction, and I saw Miss Lester look at me. As our eyes met a smile went rippling over the demureness of her face, and I sank back into my seat too dumbfounded to speak, too astonished to give more than half a ear to Jem's well-merited words of rebuke. That was Lydia—Lydia Fenwick! I under- stood why her face had been familiar to me— there was no doubt now as to her identity. She had brushed her hair straight back from her forehead and plaited it into a painful knot—just like the one she used to affect! Her face was dull and demure again, her eyes cast down, and her dress?—why, her'Mress was a laced boots. In her hand she held an appall- ing hat, precisely like those I had often seen upon her head, and she flopped down the stage singing in a droning voice, which drew forth roars from the audience. And she danced —laced boots and all-how she danced! The effect of it, combined with that absurd dress and with that demure face. was unique. She gave us another turn after that—when she appeared in a, dress of rich bright blue, that made the very best of her colouring—and convinced me again that Lydia was a very pretty woman. Soon after she had disappeared for the last time, amidst continued rounds of applause, a note was brought to me by one of the atten- dants "Do come round and speak to me. if you will, and if yüu care to renew acquaintance with your old friend.—Lydia." Well, we went. Jem was doubtful at first about letting me go, but I told him I was per- fectly sure that Lydia was "all right." as I gracefully put it. even, though she did dance at a music-hall—and my opinion was correct. "It must have been a great surprise to you," she said simply; "sometimes even now I am a great surprise to myself." "nat." I stammered, "how did it come about —and when? I heard nothing of it." "No.'of course not. My people left your village soon after you went abroad, you know— and even if you met them you would find my name tabooed. My father says that it is not that he has any special objection to the stnge, but that a clergyman's daughter has no busi- ness tlnre." Her eyes twinkled—so did mine. "Did you run away?" I asked. "No. I went to my father, and told him I was going away to study, and then to earn my own living. It was not pleasant doing it—but it got done. I know I seemed a tame idiot in my youth, but I was blazing up underneath all the time. J always loved dancing--it was a, perfect passion with me. I used to go and practise in the woods whera no onø saw me." lIt flashed upon me then whose dancing I had heard compared to fairies!) "I loved all sorts of mimicry, too. I was always practising it in every snare minute. I intended to go away some day and work like this. I could not be G, hYP0crite for ever." A hypocrite?" I asked. "Yes, I call it hypocritici11 to go about doing parish work that, you loathe, and pretending to be odowày and good and dull, when you aren't- anv of them. You know I am not quite such a poor worm of fJ. thing as T was when you knew me before" —and it neevr would have dawned upon me that Lydia's laugh could be so fresh and sweet—"vou know me now in R- new capacity— I—am—the worm that turned!"

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