THE OLD LADY.
It was six months now since the arrival at the house in Market Square
Place. Mr Denison had been long with the regiment at----No, it does not
specially matter where it was in India. The sisters got letters from
him, as well as from their mother, by almost every mail, and in each he
repeated the same thing--that he had never in his life found himself a
person of so much consequence as Colonel and Mrs Mildmay considered him,
seeing that he could give them direct news and description of their
three children. And on their side, this seemed to make their parents
more real and to draw them nearer to Jacinth and Frances, increasing
more and more the intense longing for their return.
It is autumn, a pleasant season in this part of the country--really
pleasanter perhaps, though one is reluctant to allow it, than the
lovely, fascinating, capriciously joyous spring--and it is a Friday.
Jacinth and Frances Mildmay are walking home from school, carrying their
little bag of books. For Saturday is a whole holiday--no going to school
that is to say--so, naturally, some lessons must be learnt at home for
Monday.
'Aren't you glad to think to-morrow's Saturday, Jass?' said Frances. 'If
only Aunt Alison would let us stay in bed half-an-hour later on Saturday
mornings, it _would_ be nice.'
'You lazy little thing!' said Jacinth, 'no, I don't think it would be
nice at all. I'd rather get up even earlier than usual on a holiday, and
feel we have the whole long day before us. It's one of the things I
admire Aunt Alison for--that she's so punctual and regular; we'd _never_
have been in time at school every morning, Francie, if our home had
still been at poor granny's.'
'I don't like you to say "poor" granny,' said Frances, rather irritably.
'Say "dear" granny. And Jacinth, whether it's true or not that in some
ways we were rather spoilt and--and--not methodical and all that, at
Stannesley, I wish you'd _never_ say it to Aunt Alison. She's quite
ready enough to be down on all the ways there.'
'If ever I've said anything of the kind,' said Jacinth, 'it's only been
as a sort of excuse for _you_; for you know, Frances, you were
dreadfully unpunctual and careless in little ways when we first came,
though I do think you're getting better.'
'Much obliged,' said Frances, rather snappishly, for she was a
quick-tempered girl. 'It's no thanks to Aunt Alison if I am. It's simply
that I see it is right to try and be more careful, and--partly too for
your sake, Jass. But it isn't for love of Aunt Alison. I don't love her.
I'd have--what wouldn't I have done for granny or Uncle Marmy?--they
loved us and Aunt Alison doesn't. She's good, in one way I daresay she's
very good, but it's all duty. Why, just think how she leaves us to
ourselves, once she's ordered our meals and told us what we are to do.
Evening after evening we're alone. _That_'s not loving us.'
'I think you should be very glad indeed that she trusts us,' said
Jacinth. 'It's much better as it is than to have her fussing after us
out of duty, as you say. It would be very uncomfortable for us to feel
that she was always thinking we interrupted all the things she has to
do. She told me a while ago that it was the greatest possible relief to
her to find she _could_ trust us, and that having us interfered with her
life much less than she expected.'
'Oh, _I_ don't want any more of her,' said Frances hastily. 'Don't think
that. But you must allow it's scarcely like having a home; sometimes I
really think I would rather be boarders at school, do you know, Jass? It
would be a good deal jollier. Don't you think so?'
'No, indeed,' said Jacinth, very decidedly. 'I certainly wouldn't like
it at all. School's all very well for lessons, but I should hate to be
so tied up. I like being independent. Of course Aunt Alison knows we're
to be trusted, but if we were at school we should have to ask leave for
every single thing we wanted to do. And think of poor little Eugene
without us.'
'Oh, it was only an idea,' said Frances. 'I didn't really mean it
seriously. But I like some of the girls very much, especially the
Harpers; don't you like the Harpers exceedingly, Jass? I've liked school
itself ever so much better since the two younger ones came. Of course
Camilla Harper wasn't much good to us, as she was quite one of the
biggest ones. But I think they're all nice. I _love_ Bessie and
Margaret.'
'Yes,' her sister agreed. 'I think they're very nice. But they're rather
babyish; you see they've always lived at home, and never had to depend
on themselves at all. I think they're not at all rich.'
'That makes them all the nicer, _I_ think,' said Frances. 'I don't know
if it's always the way, but it certainly is at school--the richest
girls aren't nearly as nice as some of the others.'
'Oh, that's nonsense,' said Jacinth. 'It may just happen that some of
those we know to be richer are--well, rather commoner--but you can't
make any rule about it.'
'I wish Aunt Alison would let us ask the Harpers to tea, sometimes,'
said Frances. 'I'm almost sure Miss Scarlett would let them come.'
'But I'm _more_ sure that Aunt Alison wouldn't like anything of the
kind,' said Jacinth, and even she sighed a little. 'So it's no use
thinking of it. I hope you're prepared for a good long walk this
afternoon, Francie. It's a lovely day, and we've been so little out
lately. We needn't do our lessons till to-morrow. Ah, there's Eugene!'
as at that moment the boy came flying down the street to meet them. 'How
have you got on to-day, old man?' she said, fondly. 'Would you like to
go a good long walk this afternoon?'
Eugene went to a small boys' school, a few doors only from his aunt's.
He was certainly the least to be pitied in the children's somewhat
lonely life, for his sisters were devoted to him, and their affection
made up to him for the absence of other love. Yet this sounds too severe
on Miss Mildmay, who in her own undemonstrative way _did_ love her
nephew and nieces. But she had mapped out her life on lines independent
of home ties, and she had not the breadth and nobility of nature to
recognise that the charge unexpectedly laid upon her was as much a
heaven-sent mission as the labours among the poor, which she fulfilled
with such devotion and enthusiastic self-denial. Her 'duty,' her dry
duty, she performed to the children, but it never entered her mind or
imagination that more than this could, under the circumstances, be
demanded of her.
'Oh yes,' Eugene replied. 'I'm game for as many miles as you girls, any
way.'
His sisters burst out laughing. Their seven-years' old brother was
developing fast.
'Where shall we go to, then?' said Jacinth, as they rang at their own
door. 'I hope Phebe will be "game" too, Eugene, for we can't go without
her, and she doesn't love very long walks.'
But Phebe proved to be in an unusually enterprising mood. She was a very
good-natured girl, honest and well-principled, her only important fault
being laziness, which her young charges did their best to conceal from
Miss Mildmay.
'Aunt Alison would _certainly_ send her away, if she knew how late Phebe
sometimes calls us in the morning,' Jacinth used to say. 'There's
nothing that would vex her more than laziness, and it is very tiresome.
But then, very likely, she'd get us some prim maid that would be
ill-natured and crabbed, and perhaps not _really_ as good as Phebe.'
So, though they shook the terrors of a probable dismissal over the
delinquent's head, they made no further complaint. And every time Phebe
had been specially in fault, she was so exceedingly penitent that she
almost persuaded her young mistresses as well as herself that it would
never happen again.
She had been very late that Friday morning, and in consequence was now
doubly on the alert. Not only did she profess herself equal to walking
ten miles if the young ladies wished it, but she undertook to carry
Master Eugene pick-a-back, should he feel tired, a proposal which did
not find favour in Master Eugene's eyes, though her next suggestion that
she should escort the party to a lovely wood they had not yet visited,
'round by Aldersmere' was received with acclamations.
'We've always wanted to go along the Aldersmere road,' said Frances.
'You remember, Jass, we went a tiny bit up it that morning--that first
morning with dear old Marmy.'
'Yes,' said Jacinth, with a sigh, 'that first and last day.'
'Is it the way along by Uncle Marmy's gates?' asked Eugene.
Phebe did not understand him, but Jacinth explained.
'He means past that lovely old house, Robin Redbreast, you know,' she
said.
'We could come home by that lane; we can get into it by the other end
and come out at Robin Redbreast corner on to the high-road,' said Phebe;
'it's a very pretty way indeed, though it's a long walk,' her voice
sounding rather doleful.
'Phebe's thinking better of it,' said Frances laughing. 'Ah well, if you
don't want to go a long walk, you'd better tell Aunt Alison that you
can't stand the hard work here--so late in bed, and up so _dreadfully_
early in the morning.'
The maid's face flushed scarlet.
'Miss Frances!' she began reproachfully.
Jacinth looked annoyed. In spite of her defence of her aunt's system and
her own love of independence and self-confidence, she did feel conscious
that the three of them were left in some ways too much to themselves:
her sister's tone was not quite what a young lady's should be in
speaking to a servant.
'Frances,' she said. 'I think it's very bad taste to joke about serious
things, and being too late nearly every morning is a serious thing.'
'I wasn't joking,' Frances replied.
'Well, say no more about it. We'd better start if we're going to. Phebe,
do you think there's any chance of cook's giving us some cake, or even
some bread-and-butter, to take with us?'
Phebe shook her head.
'I'm afraid not, Miss Jacinth,' she replied. 'She'd only complain to
Miss Mildmay; it's best not to ask.'
'And I really can't afford any more pennies for buns,' said Jacinth. 'We
must trust to getting a good tea when we come home.'
'Will Aunt Alison be in for tea?' said Frances. 'Oh no--it's Friday. I
forgot,' with a distinct note of satisfaction in her voice.
'So there'll be nobody to say we're greedy if we do eat a great lot,'
said Eugene, with satisfaction still less disguised.
Friday was one of Miss Alison Mildmay's busiest days, as she went out
immediately after breakfast and did not return till the children were
about going to bed. They had had dinner by themselves, and were now in
the little room, half schoolroom, half nursery, appropriated to their
use, on the same floor as the sisters' bedroom.
'Do let us go,' said Jacinth, impatiently, 'and don't even talk of being
greedy, Eugene; it's not nice.'
Notwithstanding these little elements of discord before they started,
the walk turned out a great success. It was a delicious day, to begin
with, and lovely autumn weather is no doubt more soothing in its effect
on both old and young than that of any other season. The little party
stepped out bravely; the four miles to Aldersmere seemed only half the
real distance, and the place itself, when they reached it, would have
rewarded a much greater amount of exertion.
It was a little lake, lying in a hollow; the trees, from which came its
name, growing almost into the water. There was a curious charm about the
intense loneliness of the place, none the less that it was not actually
very far removed from the haunts of men. The pool was said in the
neighbourhood to be exceedingly deep, and the dark still water looked
mysterious enough to be so; but then this is said of every pond or lake
of romantic appearance in all parts of the country, just as every
tumble-down ruin or gloomy deserted house is sure to have the name of
being haunted.
At one side there was a little clearing and a tempting stretch of
velvety-looking grass, disfigured, however, by blackened patches where
gipsy-fires, amateur or professional, had recently been lighted.
'It would be a jolly place for a picnic,' said Frances. 'I wonder if
it's picnickers who've been here, or gipsies.'
'Real gipsies choose opener places generally,' said Jacinth. 'Still this
would be a very cosy place in hot weather, but I suspect it's only been
picnics. Let's remember it for next summer, Francie, and try to coax
Aunt Alison to let us bring our dinner or at least our tea with us one
nice hot day.'
'It wouldn't be much fun all by ourselves,' said Frances. 'If we could
ask the Harpers to come too some holiday, _that_ would be fun.'
'Oh how you tease about the Harpers!' replied Jacinth impatiently. 'I
daresay you'll have quarrelled with them long before next summer, as you
did with the Beckinghams.'
'Jacinth, it's very unkind of you to say that,' said Frances,
indignantly. 'I _didn't_ quarrel with the Beckinghams, only you wouldn't
have had me stand Priscilla saying that papa and mamma can't care for
us much if they leave us all these years without troubling to come home
to see us.'
'It was very impertinent,' said the elder sister, 'but I think you make
friends too quickly. You told Priscilla Beckingham our whole history
almost the first day we were at school. None of the girls would say such
a thing as that to _me_.'
Frances was on the brink of a still more indignant reply, when
Phebe--one of whose best points was a very sweet temper, which made her
always ready to avert a storm if she could--broke in, just in time.
'Miss Jacinth,' she said, 'I think we should be turning towards home.
We've been here longer than you'd think, and Master Eugene will be
getting tired.'
'I'm not a bit tired,' said the little boy, 'but I'll tell you what I
am, or what I'm going to be, and that's awfully nungry. Talking of
bringing our dinner or tea out with us next summer has put it into my
head. If even I'd a bit of bread, I'd eat it.'
'Come on, then,' said Jacinth, encouragingly, 'the sooner we go, the
sooner we'll be home. And we can have tea the minute we get in, can't
we, Phebe, even if it's not quite five o'clock.'
'Certainly, miss, I don't think there'll be any difficulty about that,'
said Phebe, who was pretty well persuaded in her own mind that it would
be quite the orthodox tea-time before they could reach Market Square
Place.
The first part of the way was pleasant walking, even though they were
beginning to be just a little tired, for it was over level ground; but
the next two miles were stiffer, for they were almost entirely up-hill,
which had naturally made the outstart down-hill, an easy commencement
of the expedition.
Eugene was soon rather done up, though he would not hear of Phebe's
carrying him.
'If it wasn't so climby, I wouldn't mind,' he said, 'but my legs does
get so tired of always shortening themselves up.'
'Never mind, Master Eugene,' said the maid; 'we'll be at the back end of
the Redbreast Lane, directly, and after that, there's no more climbing.'
'And once there we shall be less than a mile from home,' said Jacinth.
'Oh Francie, do you remember how nice it was at Stannesley with the old
donkey, whenever we were going a long walk?'
'And granny watching for us at home with tea in her own sitting-room for
a treat, and those _exquisite_ little scones,' said Frances. 'Oh don't
speak of it.'
'No, please don't,' said Eugene, 'for it makes me nungrier and nungrier.
And--I'm afraid I'm beginning to be _firsty_ too, and that's worser than
being nungry. It always says so in shipwreck stories. They read us one
at school the other day, and it said so.'
'Eugene, how silly you are!' said Frances, 'as if your feeling a little
hungry and a tiny atom thirsty could compare with dreadful sufferings
like sailors have.'
'And really, Eugene, considering you're past seven, you should try to
speak better,' added Jacinth. 'I hope you don't say "nungry and firsty"
at school. How they must laugh at you!'
'They don't then,' said the little boy, 'and they don't need to. I'm
very pertickler at school, and I always say 'ungry and wursty properly.
But it's a great trouble to remember, and I like a rest from being
pertickler at home. You needn't be so cross. Why, there's a boy at
school, older than me, who calls the sun the "fun"--he does really.'
'Well, I know papa and mamma would like you to speak well,' said
Jacinth, 'so you should try for their sake. "Ungry" is worse than
"nungry"; you mustn't get into the way of dropping your "h's," whatever
you do. That matters more than baby talking; it's _vulgar_.'
'It's very unkind of you to call me vulgar,' said Eugene, in a very
plaintive voice, 'and I'll tell you what, Jass, I'm getting _so_
fir--wursty, I mean, that I just can't go all the way back wifout a
drink.'
Jacinth and Frances looked about them in despair; Eugene was a very good
little fellow generally, but he was rather delicate and nervous, and
notwithstanding the dignity of his seven years, they knew by experience
that once he was fairly started on a fit of crying, it was far from easy
to predict when it would be over. They were now in the long lane known
as Robin Redbreast Lane, or the Redbreast Lane; another quarter of a
mile at most would bring them out on to the high-road, where they were
at no great distance from Thetford.
'I'm afraid it's been too long a walk for him,' said Jacinth. 'It's such
a pity, for it's so good for him to have a nice country walk, now that
he goes to school every day.'
'I'm not tired,' said Eugene, 'I'm only firsty now; I can wait for being
nungry till tea-time, quite well, but I must have somefin to drink.'
'Is there any cottage along this lane, that we could ask for a glass of
water at?' Jacinth inquired of Phebe.
But the girl shook her head.
'There's no cottage nor house of any kind between this and the
high-road, except the Robin Redbreast itself,' said she. 'And that's not
a place where one could ask for a glass of water even. The old lady's
very stiff in her ways, and the servants are just the same.'
'Oh no,' said Jacinth, 'of course it wouldn't do to ask for anything at
a _gentleman's_ house. You must just bear it, Eugene dear, and perhaps
we'll pass some cottage when we leave the lane; though I'm not very fond
of drinking water at any cottage--one's never sure of its being good.'
'There's the drinking fountain just outside the town; I daresay Master
Eugene can get along till we come to that,' said Phebe, encouragingly.
And for a few moments nothing more was heard of the little boy's woes.
He plodded along silently, till just as they were approaching 'Uncle
Marmy's gate' as they called it, he burst out again.
'I _must_ have a drink, Jass. I tell you I must. Let me go and ask for
one at this house. It wouldn't be naughty. I _can't_ go any furder.'
The girls hesitated. It went very much against the grain with them--with
Jacinth especially--to let the boy go up to the front door of this
strange house to ask for the boon of even a glass of water. And yet it
wouldn't do to let him go to the back-door, 'as if we were beggars,'
said Frances.
'Would it be better to send Phebe? Well, perhaps that would be best.
Phebe, will you go with Master Eugene--to the front door? But Eugene,
you are really very tiresome,' said the elder girl.
'I _must_ have a drink, Jacinth. It's not my fault. I can't help being
firsty,' said the boy, in his doleful tone. 'If you say I mustn't, I'll
_try_ to bear it, but'----
At this moment an unexpected turn was given to the state of affairs by
the gate, a few feet in front of them, being pushed open, to allow some
one to come out.
The sound interrupted the children's discussion; they all looked towards
the gate.
The 'some one' was an elderly, more correctly speaking, perhaps, an old
lady. She was not _very_ tall, but she was thin, and, considering her
years, wonderfully erect. As she stood there at the gate, her thick
black silk skirt trailing a little, a large fleecy white shawl thrown
round her head and shoulders--her bright dark eyes glancing out all the
darker and brighter from the contrast with her snowy hair and
draperies--she looked both striking and stately. Not a person to take
liberties with, assuredly.
Phebe shook in her shoes. As I have said, there was a considerable
amount of awe felt in Thetford for the somewhat mysterious inhabitant of
Robin Redbreast, and Phebe was a Thetford girl.
As for the young Mildmays, they stood motionless, not overawed, but both
impressed and startled, gazing at the unexpected apparition in a way
which Jacinth afterwards hoped to herself had not seemed like ill-bred
staring.
But the lady was looking at them too. She had a stick in her hand--a
polished black-wood stick, with a gold knob at the top--and for the
first moment or two she stood as if leaning on it. Then she raised it
with a little gesture, as if inviting them to come nearer.
'What was that name I heard you say just now?' she began. 'I heard you
from the other side of my garden-wall. I have quick ears, though I am
old.'
The mention of ears was unfortunate. Somehow it recalled the story of
Red Riding-hood and her grandmother to Eugene; tired and excited
already, he grew perfectly white and caught hold of his elder sister's
dress. And for a moment or two the presence of mind of the whole party
seemed to have deserted them. No one spoke.
The old lady tapped her stick impatiently on the hard gravel.
'Don't you understand me?' she said. 'You were talking fast enough just
now. The little boy was complaining of being thirsty. I think it was he
that said the--the name. What is the matter with him? does he think I am
going to eat him?'
This last was addressed to Frances, now standing a little in front of
the others, partly with an instinct of coming between the terrified
little boy and those keen, searching eyes.
'My brother is very tired--and very thirsty,' she said. 'It was he that
was speaking, and I daresay he said our names. Mine is Frances, but my
sister's is Jacinth. Perhaps you heard that name: it is very uncommon.'
'Jacinth!' repeated the old lady, '_Jacinth!_'
Her voice sounded far away and dreamy. A queer feeling came over the two
girls, as if by a strange chance they had strayed unawares into some
secret chamber, some long-closed deserted house; or as if a vague
momentary glimpse into some long-ago story, some old romance, of the
distant past had been suddenly opened to them.
They could not themselves have put this feeling into words; it came to
them, I think, in the subtle way in which sometimes we are conscious of
the unexpressed emotions and sensations of those near us. Nevertheless
they stood silent, surprised and almost awe-struck. Then the old lady
seemed to rouse herself: with a little effort she came back into the
present, as it were.
'Yes,' she said, 'that was the name I heard. Are you Jacinth?' she went
on, addressing the elder girl, and as she fixed her eyes on Jacinth, a
little tremor passed over her. 'I think,' she whispered to herself, but
the children caught the words, 'I think--I wonder if it is fancy--I
almost think I see a likeness.'
Jacinth was tall and well grown for her age. She was not _pretty_--not
as pretty as fair, fluffy-haired Frances--but there was promise of more
than prettiness in her almost severely regular features, and her
colouring when one examined her carefully, was good too. Her hair a rich
dark brown, of a shade one hardly does justice to at the first careless
glance; her complexion healthily pale, with a tinge of sun-burning,
perhaps a few freckles; her eyes clear, strong, hazel eyes, with long
softening lashes. The whole was spoilt by a want of light--of the
sunshine one loves to see in a young face--the expression was too grave
and impassive; there was the suggestion of future hardness, unless time
should mellow instead of stiffening and accentuating the already
somewhat rigid lines.
It must have been this expression, more than any actual resemblance in
feature, which had made Marmaduke Denison smile to himself at the
curious likeness which had struck him between Jacinth and her Aunt
Alison.
The girl looked up in the old lady's face, and something--the oddity of
the whole situation, some indefinite sympathy which unconsciously sought
for an outlet--made her smile. Jacinth's smile was charming. Already to
her thin young face it gave the roundness and bloom it wanted--every
feature softened and the clear observant eyes grew sweet.
A faint flush--the mere suggestion of colour which in the aged often
denotes intense emotion--rose to Lady Myrtle Goodacre's face, as she met
Jacinth's smile. She scarcely waited for the girl's reply to her
question.
'Yes,' she went on, 'it must be. I cannot be mistaken. My dear,' she
added, 'I want to ask you several things, but this poor little fellow is
tired--and thirsty, didn't you say? Will you come in for a moment or
two? Not farther than the porch, if you prefer; perhaps you are in haste
to get home, and I must see you again.'
She turned and walked quickly back towards the house--the door of which
stood open--along the straight smooth gravel path leading from the gate;
the children following her, without seeming quite to know why, and Phebe
bringing up the rear with a face which looked as if she were doubting
whether they were about to enter an ogre's castle or a white cats'
palace.
'Miss Jacinth, Miss Frances,' she panted in vague remonstrance. But they
took no notice.