A passage was offered to Mr. Mohun in a Queen’s ship, and this hurried
the preparations so much that to Dolores it appeared that there was
nothing but bustle and confusion, from the day of her conversation with
Maude, until she found herself in the railway carriage returning from
Plymouth with her eldest uncle. Her father had intended to take her
himself to Silverfold; but detentions at the office in London, and then
a telegram from Plymouth, had disconcerted his plans, and when he found
that his eldest brother would come and meet him at the last, he was glad
to yield to his little daughter’s earnest desire to be with him as long
as possible.
Shy and reserved as both were, and almost incapable of finding
expression for their feelings, they still clung closely together, though
the only tears the girl was seen to shed came in church on the last
Sunday evening, blinding and choking, and she could barely restrain her
sobs. Her father would have taken her out, but she resisted, and leant
against him, while he put his arm round her. After this, whenever it was
possible, she crept up to him, and he held her close.
There had been no further discussion on her home. Lady Merrifield had
written kindly to her, as well as to her father, but that was small
consolation to one so well instructed by story books in the hypocrisy of
aunts until fathers were at a distance. And her father was so manifestly
gratified by the letter, that it would be of no use to say a word to him
now. Her fate was determined, and, as she heroically told Maude in their
last interview, she was determined to make the best of it. She would
endure the unjust aunt, and jealous, silly cousins, and be so clever,
and wise, and superior, that she would force them to admire and respect
her, and by-and-by follow her example, and be good and sensible, so that
when father came home, he would find them acknowledging that they owed
everything to her; she had saved two or three of their lives,
nursed half of them when the other half were helpless, fainting, and
hysterical, and, in short, been the Providence of the household. Then
father would look at her, and say, ‘My Mary again!’ and he would take
her home, and talk to her with the free confidence he had shown her
mother, and would be comforted.
This was the hope that had carried her through the last parting, when
she went on board with her uncle and saw her father’s cabin, and looked
with a dull kind of entertainment at all the curious arrangements of the
big ship. It seemed more like sight-seeing than good-bye, when at last
they were sent on shore, and hurried up to the station just in time for
the train.
Uncle William was a very unapproachable person. He did not profess to
understand little girls. He looked at Dolores rather anxiously, afraid,
perhaps, that she was crying, and put her into the carriage, then rushed
out and brought back a handful of newspapers, giving her the Graphic,
and hiding himself in the Times.
She felt too dull and stunned to read, or to look at the pictures,
though she held the paper in her hands, and she gazed out dreamily at
the Ton’s and rocks and woody ravines of Dartmoor as they flew past her,
the leaves and ferns all golden brown with autumn colouring. She had
had little sleep that night; her little legs had all the morning been
keeping up with the two men’s hasty steps, and though an excellent meal
had been set before her in the ship, she had not been able to swallow
much, and she was a good deal worn out. So when at last they reached
Exeter, and finding there would be two hours to wait, her uncle
asked whether she would come down into the town with him and see the
Cathedral, she much preferred to stay where she was. He put her under
the care of the woman in the waiting-room, who gave her some tea, took
off her hat, and made her lie down on a couch, where she slept quite
sound for more than an hour, until she was roused by some ladies coming
in with a crying baby.
It was, she thought, nearly time to go on, for the gas was being
lighted. She put on her hat, and went out to look for her uncle on
the platform, so as to get into a better light to see the face of her
mother’s little Swiss watch, which her father had just made over to her.
She had just made out that there was not more than a quarter of an hour
to spare, when she heard an exclamation.
‘By Jove! if that ain’t Mary’s little girl!’ and, looking up she saw Mr.
Flinders’ huge, bushy, light-coloured beard. ‘Is your father here?’ he
asked.
‘No; he sailed this afternoon.’
‘Always my luck! Ticket wasted! Sailed--really?’
‘Oh yes. We did not come back till the ship was out of harbour.’
He muttered some exclamation, and asked--
‘Whom are you with?’
‘Uncle William. Mr. Mohun--my eldest uncle. He will be back directly.’
Mr. Flinders whistled a note of discontent.
‘Going to rusticate with him, poor little mite?’ he asked.
‘No. I’m to live with my Aunt Lilias--Lady Merrifield.’
‘Where?’
‘At Silverfold Grange, near Silverfold.’
‘Well, you’ll get among the swells. They’ll make you cut all your
poor mother’s connections. So there’s an end of it. She was a good
creature--she was!’
‘I’ll never forget any one that belongs to her,’ said Dolores. ‘Oh,
there’s Uncle William!’ as on the top of the stairs she spied the
welcome sight of his grey locks and burly figure. Before he had
descended, her other uncle had vanished, and she fancied she had heard
something about, ‘Mum about our meeting. Ta ta!’
Uncle William’s eyes being less sharp than hers, he was on his way
to the waiting-room before she joined him, and as he had not seen her
encounter, she would not tell him. They were settled in the carriage
again, and she was tolerably refreshed. Mr. Mohun fell asleep, and she,
after reading by the lamp-light as long as she could find anything to
read, gazed at the odd reflections in the windows till she, too, nodded
and dozed, half waking at every station.
At last, she was aware of a stop in earnest, voices, and being called.
There was her uncle saying, ‘Well, Hal, here we are!’ and she was lifted
out and set on the platform, with gas all round. Her uncle was saying,
‘We didn’t get away in time for the express,’ and a young man was
answering, ‘We’d better put Dolly into the waggonette at once. Then I’ll
see to the luggage.’
Very like a parcel, so stiff were her legs, she was bundled into the
dark cavern of a closed waggonette, and, after a little lumbering, her
uncle and the young man got in after her, saying something about eleven
o’clock.
She was more awake now, and knew that they were driving through lighted
streets, and then, after an interval, turned into darkness, upon gravel,
and stopped at last before a door full of light, with figures standing
up dark in it. She heard a ‘Well, William!’ ‘Well Lily, here we are at
last!’ Then there were arms embracing her, and a kiss on each cheek, as
a soft voice said, ‘My poor little girl! They wanted to sit up for you,
but it was too late, and I dare say you had rather be quiet.’
She was led into a lamp-lit room, which dazzled her. It was spread with
food, but she was too much tired to eat, and her aunt saw how it was,
and telling Harry to take care of his uncle, she took the hand--though
it did not close on hers--and, climbing up what seemed to Dolores an
endless number of stairs, she said--
‘You are up high, my dear; but I thought you would like a room to
yourself.’
‘Poked away in an attic,’ was Dolores’s dreamy thought; while her aunt
added, to a tall, thin woman, who came out with a lamp in her hand--
‘She is so tired that she had better go to bed directly, Mrs. Halfpenny.
You will make her comfortable, and don’t let her be disturbed in the
morning till she has had her sleep out.’
Dolly found herself undressed, without many words, till it came
to--‘Your prayers, Miss Dora. I am sure you’ve need not to miss them.’
She did not like to be told, besides, poor child, prayers were not much
more than a form to her. She did not contest the point, but knelt down
and muttered something, then laid her weary head on the pillow, was
tucked up by Mrs. Halfpenny, and left in the dark. It was a dreary half
sleep into which she fell. The noise of the train seemed to be still in
her ears, and at the same time she was always being driven up--up--up
endless stairs, by tall, cruel aunts; or they were shutting her up to do
all their children’s work, and keeping away father’s letters from her.
Then she awoke and told herself it was a dream, but she missed the
noises of the street, and the patch of light on the wall from the gas
lamps, and recollected that father was gone, and she was really in the
power of one of these cruel aunts; and she felt like screaming, only
then she might have been heard; and a great horrid clock went on making
a noise like a church bell, and striking so many odd quarters that there
was no guessing when morning was coming. And after all, why should she
wish it to come? Oh, if she could but sleep the three years while father
was away!
At last, however, she fell into a really calm sleep, and when she awoke,
the room was full of light, but her watch had stopped; she had been too
much tired to remember to wind it; and she lay a little while hearing
sounds that made it clear that the world was astir, and she could see
that preparations had been made for her getting up.
‘They shan’t begin by scolding me for being late,’ she thought, and she
began her toilette.
Just as she came to her hair, the old nurse knocked and asked whether
she wanted help.
‘Thank you, I’ve been used to dress myself,’ said Dolores, rather
proudly.
‘I’ll help you now, missy, for prayers are over, and they are all gone
to breakfast, only my lady said you were not to be disturbed, and Miss
Mysie will be up presently again to bring you down.’
She spoke low, and in an accent that Dolores afterwards learnt was
Scotch; and she was a tall, thin, bony woman, with sandy hair, who
looked as if she had never been young. She brushed and plaited the dark
hair in a manner that seemed to the owner more wearisome and less tender
than Caroline’s fashion; and did not talk more than to inquire into the
fashion of wearing it, and to say that Miss Mohun’s boxes had been sent
from London, demanding the keys that they might be unpacked.
‘I can do that myself,’ said Dolores, who did not like any stranger to
meddle with her things.
‘Ye could tak them oot, nae doubt, but I must sort them. It’s my
lady’s orders,’ said Mrs. Halfpenny, with all the determination of the
sergeant, her husband, and Dolores, with a sense of despair, and a sort
of expectation that she should be deprived of all her treasures on one
plea or another, gave up the keys.
Mrs. Halfpenny then observed that the frock which had been worn for the
last two days on the railway, and evening and morning, needed a better
brushing and setting to rights than she had had time to give it. She had
better take out another. Which box were her frocks in?
Dolores expected her heartless relations to insist on her leaving off
her mourning, and she knew she ought to struggle and shed tears over it;
but, to tell the truth, she was a good deal tired of her hot and fusty
black; and when she had followed Mrs. Halfpenny into a passage where
the boxes stood uncorded; and the first dress that came to light was
a pretty fresh-looking holland that had been sent home just before the
accident, she exclaimed--
‘Oh, let me put that on.’
‘Bless me, miss, it has blue braid, and you in mourning for your poor
mamma!’
Dolores stood abashed, but a grey alpaca, which she had always much
disliked, came out next, and Mrs. Halfpenny decided that with her black
ribbons that would do, though it turned out to be rather shockingly
short, and to show a great display of black legs; but as the box
containing the clothes in present wear had not come to hand, this must
stand for the present--and besides, a voice was heard, saying, ‘Is Dora
ready?’ and a young person darted up, put her arms round her neck, and
kissed her before she knew what she was about. ‘Mamma said I should come
because I am just your age, thirteen and a half,’ she said. ‘I’m Mysie,
though my proper name is Maria Millicent.’
Dolores looked her over. She was a good deal taller than herself, and
had rich-looking shining brown hair, dark brown eyes full of merriment,
and a bright rosy colour, and she danced on her active feet as if
she were full of perpetual life. ‘All happy and not caring,’ thought
Dolores.
‘Now don’t fash Miss Mohun with your tricks. She has stood like a lamb,’
said Mrs. Halfpenny reprovingly. ‘There, we’ll not keep her to find an
apron.’
‘I don’t wear pinafores,’ said Mysie, ‘but I don’t mind pretty aprons
like this. ‘Why, my sisters had them for tennis, before they went out to
India. Come along, Dora,’ grasping her hand.
‘My name isn’t Dora,’ said the new-comer, as they went down the passage.
‘No,’ said Mysie, in a low voice; ‘but mamma told Gill--that’s Gillian,
and me, that we had better not tell anybody, because if the boys heard
they might tease you so about it; for Wilfred is a tease, and there’s
no stopping him when mamma isn’t there. So she said she would call
you Dora, or Dolly, whichever you liked, and you are not a bit like a
Dolly.’
‘They always called me Dolly,’ said Dolores; ‘and if I am not to have my
name, I like that best; but I had rather have my proper name.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said Mysie; ‘it is more out of the way, only it is very
long.’
By this time they had descended a long narrow flight of uncarpeted
stairs, ‘the back ones,’ as Mysie explained, and had reached a slippery
oak hall with high-backed chairs, and all the odds and ends of a
family-garden hats, waterproofs, galoshes, bats, rackets, umbrellas,
etc., ranged round, and a great white cockatoo upon a stand, who
observed--‘Mysie, Cockie wants his breakfast,’ as they went by towards
the door, whence proceeded a hubbub of voices and a clatter of knives
and jingle of teaspoons and cups, a room that as Mysie threw open the
door seemed a blaze of sunshine, pouring in at the large window, and
reflected in the glass and silver. Yes, and in the bright eyes and
glossy hair of the party who sat round the breakfast-table, further
brightened by the fire, pleasant in the early autumn.
Eyes, as it seemed to Dolores, eyes without number were levelled on her,
as Mysie led her in, saying--
‘Here’s a place by mamma; she kept it for you, between her and Uncle
William.’
‘No, don’t all jump up at once and rush at her,’ said Lady Merrifield.
‘Give her a little time. Here, my dear;’ and she held out her hand and
drew in the stranger to her, kissing her kindly, and placing her in a
chair close to herself, as she presided over the teacups--not at the
end, but at the middle of the table--while all that could be desired to
eat and drink found its way at once to Dolores, who had arrived at being
hungry now, and was glad to have the employment for hands and eyes,
instead of feeling herself gazed at. She was not so much occupied,
however, as not to perceive that Uncle William’s voice had a free, merry
ring in it, such as she had never heard in his visits to her father, and
that there was a great deal of fun and laughter going on over the thin
sheets of an Indian letter, which Aunt Lily was reading aloud.
No one seemed to be attending to anything else, when Dolores ventured to
cast a glance around and endeavour to count heads as she sat between her
uncle and aunt. Two boys and a girl were opposite. Harry, who had come
to meet them last night, was at one end of the table, a tall girl,
but still a schoolroom girl, was at the other, and Mysie had been lost
sights of on her own side of the table; also there was a very tiny girl
on a high chair on the other side of her mamma. ‘Seven,’ thought Dolores
with sinking heart. ‘Eight oppressors!’
They were mostly brown-eyed, well-grown creatures. One boy, at the
further corner, had a cast in his eye, and was thin and wizen-looking,
and when he saw her eyes on him, he made up an ugly face, which he got
rid of like a flash of lightning before any one else could see it, but
her heart sank all the more for it. He must be Wilfred, the teaser.
Aunt Lilias was a tall, slender woman, dressed in some kind of soft
grey, with a little carnation colour at her throat, and a pretty lace
cap on her still rich, abundant, dark brown hair, where diligent search
could only detect a very few white threads. Her complexion was always of
a soft, paly, brunette tint, and though her cheeks showed signs that she
was not young, her dark, soft, long-lashed eyes and sweet-looking
lips made her face full of life and freshness; and the figure and long
slender hands had the kind of grace that some people call willowy, but
which is perhaps more like the general air of a young birch tree, or,
as Hal had once said, ‘Early pointed architecture reminded him of his
mother.’
The little one was getting restless, and two of the boys began filliping
crumbs at one another.
‘Wilfred! Fergus!’ said the mother quite low and gently; but they
stopped directly. ‘We will say grace,’ she said, lifting the little one
down. ‘Now, Primrose.’
Every one stood up, to Dolores’ surprise, a pair of little fat hands
were put together, a little clear voice said a few words of thanksgiving
perfectly pronounced.
‘You may go, if you like,’ she said. ‘Hal, take care of Prim.’
Up jumped the two boys and a sprite of a girl, who took the hand of
little Primrose, a beautiful little maiden with rich chestnut wavy
curls. They all paused at the door, the boys making a salute, the girls
a little curtsey. Primrose’s was as pretty a little ‘bob’ as ever was
seen.
‘I am glad you keep that custom up,’ said Mr. Mohun.
‘Jasper had been brought up to it, and wished it to be the habit among
us; and I find it a great protection against bouncing and rudeness.’
But Dolly’s blood boiled at such stupid, antiquated, military nonsense.
She would never give in to it, if they made her live on bread and water!
The uncle and aunt, who perhaps had lengthened out their breakfast from
politeness to her, had finished when she had, and the pony-chaise came
to the door, in which Hal was to drive Uncle William to the station.
Everybody flocked to the door to bid him good-bye, and then Aunt Lilias
stooped down to ask Dolores if she were quite rested and felt quite
well, Mysie standing anxiously by as if she felt her a great charge.
‘Quite well, quite rested, thank you,’ the girl answered in her stiff,
shy way.
‘There is half an hour to spare before Miss Vincent comes. The children
generally spend it in feeding the creatures. I am not going to give
a holiday, because I think people get more pleasantly acquainted over
something, than over nothing, to do, but you need not begin lessons
to-day if you had rather settle your thoughts and write your letters.’
‘I had rather begin at once,’ said Dolores, who thought she would now
establish her pre-eminence at the cost of any amount of jealousy.
‘Very well, then, when you hear the gong--’
‘Mamma,’ said Mysie solemnly, after long waiting, ‘she says she had
rather not be called out of her name.’
‘I thought you had been called Dolly, my dear.’
‘Yes, at home,’ with a strong emphasis.
‘Well, my dear, I dare say it may be better to keep to your proper name
at once. We won’t take liberties with it, till you feel as if you could
call this home,’ said Lady Merrifield, looking as if she would have
kissed her niece on the slightest encouragement, but no one ever looked
less kissable than Dolores Mohun at that moment. Was it not cruel and
hypocritical to talk of this tiresome multitude as ever making home?