AN OLD STORY.
That Saturday afternoon passed very pleasantly for both the sisters.
Jacinth earned her aunt's commendation by her quick neat-handedness and
accuracy, and a modicum of praise from Miss Mildmay meant a good deal.
The little misunderstanding of the morning, ending as it had done in
making the aunt, an essentially just woman, blame herself for hasty
judgment, had drawn her and her elder niece closer together than had yet
been the case. And no doubt there was a substratum of resemblance in
their natures, deeper and more real than the curious capricious likeness
which had struck Marmaduke so oddly--which was indeed perhaps but a
casual coming to the surface of a real underlying similarity.
Things were turning out quite other than the young uncle in his anxiety
had anticipated.
'If fate had sent me Jacinth alone,' thought Miss Mildmay, 'I rather
think we should have got on very well, and have fitted into each other's
ways. There is so much more in her than in Frances. I strongly suspect,
in spite of her looks, that Jacinth takes after our side of the
house--she almost seems older than Eugenia in some ways--whereas
Frances, I suppose, is her mother over again.'
But here she checked herself. Any implied disparagement of her
sister-in-law she did not, even in her secret thoughts, intend or
encourage, for Alison Mildmay was truly and firmly attached to her
brother's wife, widely different though their characters were.
'Frances is really only a baby,' she went on thinking. 'There's no
telling as yet what she will turn out.'
Jacinth on her side was conscious of a good deal of congeniality between
herself and her aunt. It was not the congeniality of affection, often
all the stronger for a certain amount of intellectual dissimilarity, or
differences of temperament, thus leaving scope for complementary
qualities which love welds together and cements; it was scarcely even
that of friendliness. It consisted in a certain satisfaction and
approval of Miss Mildmay's ways of seeing and doing things. The girl
felt positive pleasure in her aunt's perfect 'method;' in the clear and
well-considered manner in which her time was mapped out; in the quick
discrimination with which she divined what would be the right place and
treatment for each girl in her club; even in the beautiful order of the
book-shelves and the neat clerk-like writing of the savings-bank
entries. It was all so complete and accurate, with no loose ends left
about--all so perfect in its way, thought Jacinth, as she cut and folded
and manipulated the brown paper entrusted to her charge for the books'
new coats, rewarded by her aunt's 'Very nice--very nice indeed, my
dear,' when it was time to go home, and she pointed out the neat little
pile of clean tidy volumes.
Frances on her side had enjoyed herself greatly. She was the only
outsider, otherwise day-scholar, at the garden tea, which fact in no way
lessened her satisfaction while it increased her importance.
'I wish you were a boarder, Frances,' said Margaret Harper, the younger
of her two friends, as they were walking up and down a shady path in
the intervals of the games all the girls had joined in. 'Don't you? It
would be so nice, and I am sure we should be great, _great_ friends--you
and Bessie and I.'
'And not Jass?' said Frances. 'I shouldn't like to be a boarder unless
Jass was too. Then, I daresay, I wouldn't mind.'
'We'd like to be friends with Jacinth too,' said Margaret, 'but Bessie
and I don't think she cares very much about being great friends. She
seems so much older, though she's only a year more than Bessie, isn't
she?'
'She's fifteen,' said Frances. 'She is old in some ways, but still she
and I do everything nearly together. She's very good to me. She's very
nice about you, and I'm quite happy about having you and Bessie for my
best friends, for Jacinth and Aunt Alison think you're the nicest girls
here.'
Margaret coloured with pleasure, but with some shyness too.
'I'm glad they think we're nice,' she said; 'and I'm sure, if your aunt
knew father and mother, they'd think we _should_ be far, far better than
we are, at least than I am. I don't think Bessie _could_ be much better
than she is. But a good many others of the girls are very nice indeed;
they are none of them not nice, except that Prissy Beckingham talks too
much and says rather rude things without meaning it, and Laura French
certainly has a very bad temper. But she's always sorry for it
afterwards. And who could be nicer than the Eves or Honor Falmouth.'
'I don't know them much; they're too big for me, you see,' said Frances.
'Of course I'd know them better if we were boarders. Do you like my gray
frock, Margaret? It's the first day I've had on anything but black for
such a time; it does feel so funny.'
'I think it's very pretty, and you've got such a beautiful sash!' said
Margaret admiringly. 'But I always think you and Jacinth are so nicely
dressed, even though you've been in black all the time. Bessie and I
can't have anything but very plain frocks, you know. Mother couldn't
afford it, for we're not _at all_ rich.'
'I don't fancy we are, either,' said Frances; 'I shouldn't think papa
would stay out in India if we were. But at Stannesley, where we lived
before, granny always got us very nice dresses: she used often to send
to London for them. I don't believe Aunt Alison will care so much how we
are dressed. Do you have an allowance for your gloves, Margaret? We do.
I got a new pair yesterday, but I'm afraid they're not very good; where
are they, I wonder? Oh yes, here in my pocket; there are little whity
marks in the black kid already, as if they were going to split.'
She drew the gloves out, as she spoke, but with them came something
else--a doubled-up, rather soiled white card.
'What's this?' said Frances, as she unfolded it. 'Oh, I declare! Just
look, Margaret--it's an old Christmas card of last year. I remember one
of the children gave it me at the Sunday school, and I've never had this
frock on since. Isn't it strange?'
She stood looking at the card--an ordinary enough little picture of a
robin on a bough, with 'Merry Christmas' in one corner--a mixture of
sadness and almost reverence in her young face. 'Last Christmas' seemed
so very long ago to Frances. And indeed, so much had happened since then
to change things for herself and her brother and sister, that it did
naturally seem like looking back to the other side of a lifetime to
recall the circumstances which then surrounded them. How well she
remembered that very Sunday, the last of the old year; how they had
chattered and laughed as they ran home over the frosty ground, and Uncle
Marmaduke, who had just joined them, had predicted skating before the
week was out! How tenderly granny had kissed them that night when they
went to bed, with some little remark about the ending of the year, and
how the next morning she was not well enough to get up, anxious though
she was in no way to cloud or damp their enjoyment; and how the doctor
had begun to come every day, and then--and then----The tears started to
Frances's eyes as she seemed to live through it all again, and for a
moment or two she did not speak; she forgot that Margaret was standing
beside her with sympathising face.
'Dear Frances,' she said, 'does it remind you of something sad? Has it
to do with when you went into mourning?'
'Yes,' said Frances, 'it was soon after last Christmas that granny--our
grandmother that we lived with--got ill and died, you know, Margaret.
It's for her we are still in mourning.'
'And you were very fond of her, of course?' said Margaret.
'Very, _very_,' said Frances.
Then she almost seemed anxious to change the subject: she was afraid of
beginning to cry, which 'before all the girls' would have certainly been
ill-timed. And her glance fell on the card in her hand.
'Robin Redbreast,' she said consideringly. 'Margaret, have you ever
passed that lovely old house, down the lane on the Crickthorne Road,
that's called "Robin Redbreast?" The bird on the card reminded me of it
just now.'
'Oh yes,' said Margaret rather eagerly. 'I know it quite well. Once or
twice Bessie and I have stood at the gate and looked in. Isn't it a
delicious quaint old place?'
'It's perfectly beautiful,' said Frances. 'You can't think what it looks
like from the inside.'
'Have you ever been inside?' questioned Margaret, evidently intensely
interested. 'Do tell me about it.'
Frances glanced round, as if to make sure that no one was within
hearing, partly perhaps from a feeling that Jacinth would not have liked
her to go 'chattering' about their yesterday's adventure, partly from a
childish love of importance and mystery.
'Is it anything you shouldn't tell me, perhaps?' said Margaret, with
quick delicacy. 'Don't mind my having asked you; it wasn't--it wasn't
exactly curiosity, Frances.'
And Frances, glancing at her friend, saw that her face had reddened all
over. Margaret was not a pretty child, but she was very sweet-looking,
with honest gray eyes and smooth brown hair. Her features were good, but
the cheeks were less round than one likes to see at her age; there was a
rather wistful expression about the whole face, almost suggesting
premature cares and anxiety.
'Oh no, dear,' said Frances reassuringly. 'It's not that. It _was_
rather queer, and you see we weren't quite sure at first how Aunt Alison
was going to take it. And Jacinth is always rather down upon me for
talking too much. But I know I may tell _you_, for it's quite fixed that
you and Bessie are to be my best friends: it's the day-scholars that
Aunt Alison doesn't want me to talk much to.'
'Yes,' agreed Margaret, 'I quite understand.'
[Illustration: And then Frances related the whole, Margaret listening
intently till almost the end.]
She was in a fever, poor child, and from no selfish motive assuredly, to
hear more about the mysterious house. But she restrained herself,
scrupulously careful in no way to force the other's confidence.
'When I said what Robin Redbreast looked like from the inside, I meant
from inside the gates,' began Frances, after a moment or two's
reflection. For she was scrupulously truthful. 'I've not been inside the
house--not farther than the porch. But the porch is like a little room,
it _is_ so pretty. I'll tell you how it all was; you may tell Bessie,
but not any one else, because, you see, there's quite a story about it.'
And then Frances related the whole, Margaret listening intently till
almost the end, when the little narrator, stopping for a moment to take
breath, after 'So you see our grandmother was her very dearest friend,
and she really seemed as if she could scarcely bear to let Jacinth go,
and--_isn't_ it like a real story?' saw, to her surprise, that her
hearer's face, instead of being rosier than usual, had now grown quite
pale.
'Why, Margaret, what's the matter? You look as if I had been telling you
a ghost-story, you're so white,' she exclaimed.
Margaret gave a little gasp.
'It is so strange,' she said. 'I'll tell you why it has made me feel so
queer. Mine is a sort of a secret, Frances; at least when we came here
to school mother told us not to talk about it. But I know I can trust
you, and what you've told me makes it seem as if somehow--I don't know
how to say what I mean--as if we must be a sort of relation to each
other, from our people long ago having been such friends. For, do you
know, Frances, Lady Myrtle Goodacre is our aunt--our great-aunt, that is
to say--father's own aunt?'
Frances stopped short and _almost_ clapped her hands.
'There now,' she said, 'I had a feeling there was something like that. I
_wish_ Jacinth hadn't stopped my speaking of you, when Lady Myrtle told
us her name used to be Harper.'
'Were you going to speak of us?' asked Margaret.
'Yes, it was on the very tip of my tongue. Indeed I believe I did get as
far as "There are some," when Jacinth stopped me. She said afterwards
that it is "common," when any one mentions a name, to say immediately,
"Oh, _I_ know somebody called that." I don't quite see why it should be
common; it's rather interesting, I think. Still I daresay it's true that
common people often do speak like that, when you come to think of it.
They've always got an aunt, or a cousin, or a friend's friend called
so-and-so, or living somewhere, if you mention a place.'
'I daresay they do,' said Margaret; but she seemed to be giving only
half her attention. 'Frances,' she went on, 'I wonder what would have
happened if you _had_ spoken of us? I wonder if Lady Myrtle would have
taken any notice?'
Frances stared.
'Of course she would!' she exclaimed. 'Do you mean to say she wouldn't
have taken any notice of hearing that her own grand-nieces were so near
her? Why, she'----But suddenly the actual state of the case struck her.
'Do you--does she _not_ know you're here?' she went on, raising her blue
eyes in bewilderment to Margaret's face. 'No, I suppose she doesn't, or
of course you would be asked to Robin Redbreast on holidays and all that
sort of thing.'
'No,' Margaret replied, 'she doesn't know anything about us. I'm not
even sure that she knows of our existence; anyway she has never heard
our names, or how many of us there are, and I can't believe she really
understands how--how very poor we are. For she is very, very rich, you
know, Frances, though she lives in that quiet way.'
'_Is_ she?' said Frances. 'I do wish I had spoken of you, whether it was
"common" or not.'
'She mightn't have thought that we were any relation,' said Margaret,
simply. 'Harper isn't a very particular name. And you see we're not very
near to the head of the family now. Lord Elvedon is only father's
cousin, and they never stay near here. Father and mother see them
sometimes in London, but they've got a very large family, and they're
not rich--not _extra_ rich themselves; for the one before this Lord
Elvedon, the one who was father's uncle, you see, was very extravagant,
though it was mostly his brother's fault--that was our grandfather. His
name was Bernard Harper, and'----
'It's awfully interesting,' said Frances, 'but I'm afraid I'm getting
rather muddled. Your _grandfather_--what was he, then, to Lady Myrtle?'
'I'll begin at the other end,' said Margaret; 'that will make it
plainer. There was a Lord Elvedon who had two sons and a daughter; the
daughter was Lady Myrtle. The sons were younger than the daughter, and
they were both extravagant. The elder one was a weaker character than
his brother, and quite led by him, and before their father died they had
already wasted a lot of money, and given him a great deal of trouble,
especially Bernard, the second one. So old Lord Elvedon left all he
_could_ to his daughter, Lady Myrtle; of course the estates and a good
deal had to go with the title, but still the new Lord Elvedon was much
less rich than he should have been, you see, and our grandfather--that
was the son called Bernard--was really poor, and his children, our
father and his sisters, have always been poor. Father says a good deal
will go back to the title when Lady Myrtle dies, and she is quite
friends with the present Lord Elvedon, her nephew. But she couldn't bear
her brother Bernard--I believe he behaved very badly to her and to all
his people--and she has never taken the least notice of father, though
father is really a sort of an angel;' and Margaret's eyes glistened.
'You know it is like that sometimes,' she went on; 'a bad father--and I
am afraid our grandfather was a bad man, though I don't quite like
saying it--sometimes has very good children.'
'But Lady Myrtle _can't_ know about you all--about your father
especially,' said Frances. 'I think he should write to her, or do
something. Very likely she's got quite wrong ideas about him.'
'No,' said Margaret, 'she must know he is a very good man. He was in the
army, you know, like your father, and he was very brave and did lots of
things, but he had to leave because of a wound, when he was only a
captain. When he and mother married he hoped to stay on till he became a
general, and at first they weren't so badly off, for mother had some
money. But a good deal of it was lost somehow.'
'I do think Lady Myrtle should be told--I really do,' said Frances,
stopping short and speaking with great energy.
But Margaret only shook her head.
'She does know a good deal,' she said. 'We are sure she does, for some
years ago my aunt--that's father's only sister--the other died quite
young--wrote to her about us. Aunt Flora isn't badly off in a way, for
she has no children, and her husband is a judge in India. But she can't
do much for us, and--you see it's her husband's money; it isn't as if it
was a relation of _ours_.'
Frances had never thought of things in this way; she was years and years
younger in mind, or rather in experience and knowledge of life, than
Margaret Harper, her junior by nearly twelve months. For Margaret with
her older brothers and sisters had early had to face practical
difficulties and troubles, the very existence of which was unknown to
her young companion.
'It's a shame--a regular shame; that's what it is!' said Frances
vehemently, her face flushing with indignation, 'and something should be
done.'
Just at that moment a figure came running towards them. It was Bessie,
the elder of the Harper girls.
'Margaret, Frances, where have you been? what have you been doing all
this time?' she exclaimed. 'We've had ever so many games, and now tea
will be ready directly. What are you looking so mournful about,
Margaret, and you so excited, Frances? You haven't--oh no, you couldn't
have been quarrelling.'
The smile on both faces was sufficient answer--no, certainly they had
not been quarrelling!
'What have you been talking about, then?' said Bessie again, and she
looked at them with considerable curiosity.
Bessie was two years older than her sister. She was handsomer too, and
much stronger. There was a bright, fearless, resolute look about her,
very attractive and prepossessing. But she was less intellectual, less
thoughtful, more joyous and confident, though tenderly and devotedly
unselfish to those she loved, especially to all weak and dependent
creatures.
'Margaret has been telling me _such_ interesting things,' began Frances
eagerly.
'And Frances has been telling _me_ about--about Lady Myrtle and Robin
Redbreast. Just fancy, Bessie, they know her! She was a very, very old
friend of their grandmother's.'
And between them the two girls soon put the elder one in possession of
all they had been discussing.
Bessie Harper's bright face grew grave; she could not blame her sister
and Frances, but still, on the whole, she almost wished the discovery
had not been made, though 'it was bound to come some time or other, I
suppose,' she reflected.
'I call it a perfect shame!' said Frances, her cheeks flaming up again.
'To think of that horrid old woman having more money than she knows what
to do with, and keeping it all to herself, when it _really_ belongs--a
good part of it, at least--to your father.'
'No, no,' said Bessie, 'we can't say that. Our great-grandfather had a
right to do what he did with his money. And if he _had_ left it to our
grandfather, it would all have been wasted, most likely.'
'If he had known how good _father_ was going to be, he'd have left it to
him, I daresay,' said Margaret.
'He couldn't have known that,' said Bessie with a merry laugh. 'Father
wasn't born when he died.'
'No, but just because of that, Lady Myrtle should make up for it now,'
said Frances. 'I daresay I shouldn't call her "horrid," and of course
she's your aunt, and I can scarcely believe she _does_ know all about
you. Perhaps she never got your other aunt's letter.'
'Oh yes, she did,' said Bessie. 'She answered it by sending it back
with a note saying that none of the descendants of the late Bernard
Harper were kith or kin of hers.'
'How wicked!' exclaimed Frances.
'No, no, it's not right to say that, Frances dear,' said both sisters.
'Father says,' Bessie went on, 'that no one knows what her brothers made
her suffer, and how good she was to them, standing between them and her
father, and devoting herself to them, and hoping against hope, even
about our grandfather, till I suppose she _had_ to give him up. It is
awfully sad, and for her sake as well as ours, mother and I have often
said how we wished she knew father. He would make up to her for the
disappointment in her brothers.'
'Isn't Lord Elvedon nice?' asked Frances; 'that's her other nephew,
isn't he?'
'Oh yes, I think he's a good sort of a man, but not clever,' said
Bessie. 'Not like _father_.'
'And then our boys,' added Margaret. 'They are so good and so clever.'
Her pale little face flushed with rosy pleasure.
'How nice!' said Frances, with ready sympathy. 'How many brothers have
you?'
'Two big--older than we are, and one little one of eleven. There are six
of us,' Margaret replied.