THE HARPERS' HOME.
Southcliff was a very dull little place, especially so in winter, of
course. In fine weather there is always a charm about the seaside, even
on the barest and least picturesque coast. There are the endless
varieties of sky panorama--the wonderful sunsets, if you are lucky
enough to face seawards to the west; the constantly changing effects of
light and colour reflected in the water itself. And on a wild or rugged
coast, winter and stormy weather bring of course their own grand though
terrible displays.
But Southcliff, despite its promising name, was tame in the extreme. The
'cliff' was so meagre and unimposing as to suggest the suspicion of
being only an artificial or semi-artificial erection; the shore had no
excitement about it, not even that of quicksands. It was the 'safest'
spot all along the coast; even the most suicidally disposed of small
boys could _scarcely_ come to mischief there. The tides went out and
came in with an almost bourgeois regularity and respectability; there
was no possibility of being 'surprised' by the waves; no lifeboat,
because within the memory of man no vessel of any description whatever
had been wrecked there; no lighthouse, no smugglers' caves of ancient
fame, no possibility of adventure of any kind--'no nothing,' Bessie
Harper was once heard to say, when she was very little, ''cept the sea
and the sky.'
A grand exception those, however, as we have said. And dull though it
was, there were some people who loved the little place as their home,
and were most ready to be happy in it.
It had some few distinct advantages. It was _very_ healthy, and for
these days very cheap. There was a good church, venerable and well cared
for; the few, very few residents were all estimable and some
interesting. Such as it was, take it all in all, it had seemed a very
haven of refuge to Captain Harper and his wife when, some eight or ten
years ago, they had pitched their tent there, after the last hopes of
recovering any of Mrs Harper's lost money--hopes which for long had
every now and then buoyed them up only to prove again delusive--had
finally deserted them.
'At anyrate,' the wife, with her irrepressibly sanguine nature, had
said, 'we have the comfort of now knowing the worst. And Colin and
Bertram are started. _What_ a good thing the boys were the eldest! There
is only Fitz to think about, and we'll manage him somehow. For _of
course_ the three girls will turn out well. Look at Camilla already.'
Fitz was then about five--the youngest son, the youngest of the family
excepting delicate little Margaret. He _was_ 'managed,' and not badly,
though a public school was an impossibility; his destination proved to
be the navy, and thither at the proper age he made his way in orthodox
fashion. The girls, helped by their mother, and by their father too, did
their best, and it was far from a bad best. They were naturally
intelligent; intensely anxious to seize all opportunities of learning,
so that a stray chance of half a dozen lessons in music or French did
more for them than as many years will do for most ordinary girls; they
were, the two elder ones at least, wonderfully healthy in mind and
body, bright-tempered, faithful, unselfish, inheriting from their father
the noble characteristics which in some mysterious way had in him so
flourished as to oust all the reckless and contemptible qualities of the
Bernard Harper who had half-broken his sister's heart, and brought down
in sorrow to the grave his gray-haired father.
But alas! they had _not_ known the worst, as the loving, brave-spirited
wife and mother had believed. In some sense, it is true, they had not
known the _best_, for the years had brought many satisfactions, many
unlooked-for, though unimportant, mitigations of the poverty so hard to
bear cheerfully--people had been 'very kind.' But the poverty itself had
increased. There were literally unavoidable expenses for 'the boys,' if
they were not to be stranded in their careers; there was an unexpected
rising of the rent owing to their good landlord's sudden death by
accident; there was, worst of all, the terrible strain of Captain
Harper's ill-health. In itself this was sad enough for the wife and
daughters who adored him: it became almost an agony when, joined to the
knowledge that more money, and not so very much more, might both relieve
his suffering and hold out a reasonable prospect of comparative
restoration.
One operation--now some years ago--had succeeded for the time; but not
being followed by the treatment at home and residence abroad prescribed,
the improvement had not been lasting. Then it was that Mrs Lyle had
written to her aunt, with the result that we know. Her letter was
returned unopened.
Then there came a period of comparative comfort, and for two or three
years the family at Hedge End (such was the not very euphonious name of
the Harpers' house) took heart again, and began to be sure 'father was
going to get well all of himself, after all.' And during this time some
other cheering things came to pass. An old acquaintance of long-ago days
between Mrs Harper and the Misses Scarlett was renewed by the ladies of
Ivy Lodge coming to Southcliff one Midsummer holiday-time for sea-air,
and this resulted in their offering to take Camilla, then almost
grown-up, and later her younger sisters, on exceptionally moderate
terms. The news from and of the far-away 'boys' was regular and good.
The parents began to breathe freely, and to dare to hope that they had
passed the worst of their troubles.
But alas! it was only an interlude. Scarcely had Bessie and Margaret
been settled at Ivy Lodge when there came anxiety about Colin--tidings
of his prostration by a bad attack of fever; then, when he was able to
write of his recovery, little Fitz broke his leg, and had to be brought
home at the cost of much expense as well as distress to be nursed well
again. And worst of all, through these many weeks a terrible suspicion
was dawning on poor Captain Harper--a suspicion all too soon to be
changed into a certainty--that he himself was falling back again, that
the very symptoms he had been warned of were reappearing, and that
unless something were done he might find himself a hopeless and complete
cripple.
He kept it to himself till Fitz was all right again; then it had to be
told. And the painful journey to London, which Frances heard of at
school, followed, with the great doctor's terribly perplexing verdict.
What was to be done? Every conceivable suggestion was made and
discussed, but so far no definite scheme had been hit upon.
It was at this juncture that the mail which brought the letter from her
mother so anxiously looked for by Frances Mildmay, brought also tidings
from Mrs Lyle to her relations at Southcliff.
_This_ letter came at breakfast-time; there was no mid-day post at the
little bathing-place, but it was nearer London than Thetford.
'From Aunt Flora, mother,' said Camilla, the only one besides her young
brother now at home. 'I do hope it is cheerful, otherwise----No, I
suppose it would not do for you to read it first before giving it to
father?'
Mrs Harper shook her head. She was a slight dark-haired woman, at first
sight more like her youngest daughter than the others, but with a much
more hopeful expression in her eyes, and far greater firmness and
determination in all the lines of her face, so that, in spite of
superficial dissimilarity, Bessie Harper really resembled her mother
more nearly than either Camilla, calm, gentle, by nature possibly, a
little indolent, or the nervous, anxious-minded Margaret.
'No,' she replied, 'it is no use keeping anything from your father. He
has got an almost magic power of finding out things. Besides, your Aunt
Flora always tries to cheer him if she can. Put the letter on the tray
beside his breakfast, Camilla. I will take it up myself.'
Camilla and Fitz had almost finished their meal before Mrs Harper
returned.
'I do hope there's nothing wrong,' said Camilla, with the
apprehensiveness which reiterated experience of ill-tidings begets in
even the calmest nature.
'It can't be my having broken my leg again,' said her brother, with a
not very successful attempt at a joke; 'it was horrid, but I wouldn't
mind breaking the other any day if it would save father's getting
worse.'
But at that moment their mother came in. Her face was decidedly brighter
than when she had left the room.
'Mother dear, do eat some breakfast. You'll be quite faint,' said
Camilla, tenderly; 'I was nearly going after you to see if anything were
the matter.'
'No dear, thank you,' replied her mother. 'Your aunt's letter is
unusually interesting. Fancy! is it not a curious coincidence?--rather a
pleasant one, indeed--the Lyles have just made acquaintance at this new
place with Colonel and Mrs Mildmay, the parents of the two girls at Miss
Scarlett's.'
Camilla looked up with a little misgiving.
'Aunt Flora is not very discreet always, mother,' she said; 'I hope she
won't have confided too much to Mrs Mildmay. It might come round in some
disagreeable way to--Robin Redbreast.'
'I think Mrs Mildmay must be particularly nice and sensible,' Mrs Harper
replied. 'Of course your aunt has talked to her about Lady Myrtle and
all the old story; it would scarcely have been in human nature,
certainly not in Flora's nature, not to do so, when she found that her
new friend was the daughter of Lady Jacinth Denison; but I don't see
that it can do any harm. Mrs Mildmay has seen nothing of Lady Myrtle
since she was a little child; it is only quite lately, as we know, that
your great-aunt has come across the Mildmay girls, really by accident.
Mrs Mildmay is pleased at it, for her mother's sake, but I am sure she
is not a person to make any mischief. Indeed,' she added with some
hesitation, 'it is just possible that indirectly it may do good. Not
that your aunt suggests anything of the kind.'
Camilla's face flushed.
'I should hope not, indeed,' she said indignantly; 'when you think of
the insult she exposed herself and us to, that time, mother, it would be
_impossible_ ever to accept any help from Lady Myrtle.'
But Mrs Harper did not at once reply. Her face had grown very grave, and
her eyes seemed to be looking far into things.
'I cannot quite say that,' she answered at last. 'There are times when I
am afraid to say what I would not accept, for your father's sake. I feel
as if I would consent to anything not wrong or sinful that could save
him. And remember, we must be just. As things are, Lady Myrtle knows
nothing of us except that we are poor. And there is every excuse for her
deep-seated prepossessions against her brother Bernard's family. Pride
must not blind our fair judgment, Camilla.'
The girl did not reply. She felt the reasonableness of her mother's
argument.
'But oh,' she thought to herself, 'I should _hate_ to be indebted to
Lady Myrtle for any help. What would I not do--what would we all not do,
rather than that!'
Her feelings might almost have been written on her face, for Fitz, who
had been listening silently, though intently, to the conversation, here
made a remark which might have been a remonstrance with her unspoken
protest.
'There's one thing to be said,' began the boy. 'Even though it's all
Lady Myrtle's by _law_, it came to her from father's own grandfather. If
our grandfather had been good, his share would have been his and then
father's and then ours. There's a sort of right about it. It isn't as if
it was all Lady Myrtle's own in any other way--through her husband, for
instance--and that she did anything for us just out of pity, because we
were relations. That _would_ be horrid.'
Fitz was only fifteen, but he and Margaret seemed older than their
years, as is not unusual with the youngest members of a large family.
Besides, all the Harpers had grown up in full knowledge of and sympathy
with their parents' anxieties. Living as they did, in closest family
union, it would have been all but impossible to prevent its being so,
save by some forced and unnatural reticence, the evil of which would
have been greater than the risk of saddening the children by premature
cares.
So neither Mrs Harper nor her daughter felt the least inclined to 'snub'
the boy for his observation, which contained a strong element of
common-sense.
'Lady Myrtle's wealth comes _in part_ from her husband,' said Mrs
Harper. 'That makes one feel the more strongly that the Harper portion
should to some extent return to where it is so needed. But your father
has told me that the Elvedons are sure to inherit some of it, and that
is quite right.'
'And,' said Camilla, with a little effort, anxious to show her mother
that she did wish to be quite 'fair-judging,' 'you know, Fitz, as we
have often said, if our grandfather, being what he was, had got his
share, it is most improbable that any of it would have come to father.
After all,' she added with an honest smile that lighted up her quiet
face and made it almost as bright as Bessie's--'after all, it was better
for the money to be kept together by Lady Myrtle, than for it to be
thrown away and _nobody_ to have any good of it. She is a generous old
woman, too, in outside ways. I see her name in connection with several
philanthropic institutions.'
'And really good and well-managed things, your father says. She must be
a wise and considerate woman,' said Mrs Harper.
'All the more pity, then, that she and father have never come together,'
said Camilla with a sigh. 'She would be able to appreciate him. I never
could imagine any one wiser and juster than father--though you come
pretty near him sometimes, I must say, mother;' and she smiled again.
'Neither of you is ever the least bit unfair to any one, and it does
take such a lot of self-control and--and--a wonderfully well-balanced
mind, I suppose, to be like that.'
'I have only learned it--if I have learned it--from your father,'
replied Mrs Harper. 'At your age I was dreadfully impetuous and hasty. I
often wonder, dear child, how you can be so thoughtful and helpful as
you are.'
Camilla's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
'Mother,' she said, 'we mustn't degenerate into a mutual admiration
society. I shall tell father how we've been buttering each other up all
breakfast-time. It will amuse him. I'm going to see if he will have some
more tea.'
And she ran off.
By mid-day Captain Harper was established on his sofa in the little
drawing-room, which his wife and daughters still strove so _very_ hard
to keep fresh and pretty. From this sofa, alas! especially now that
winter was in the ascendant even at sheltered Southcliff, the invalid
was but seldom able to move. For walking had become exceedingly painful
and difficult, and so slow that even a little fresh air at the best part
of the day could only be procured at the risk of chill and cold--a risk
great and dangerous. And barely six months ago the tap of his crutch had
been one of the most familiar sounds in the little town; he had been
able to walk two or three miles with perfect ease and the hearty
enjoyment which his happy nature seemed to find under all circumstances.
It had not proved untrue to itself even now. There was a smile on his
somewhat worn face--a smile that was seen in the eyes too, as real
smiles should always be--as his daughter came into the room to see that
he had everything he wanted about him.
'It is really getting colder at last, father,' she said. 'At Thetford,
Bessie writes, they have had some snow. And Margaret was delighted
because it made her think of Christmas, and Christmas means coming
home.'
'Poor old Mag!' said Captain Harper. 'Mag' was his own special name for
his youngest daughter; and no one else was allowed to use it. 'Poor old
Mag! I really think she's very happy at school, though--don't you,
Camilla? Bessie, I knew, would be all right, but I had my misgivings
about Mag. And it is in every way such a splendid chance for them. It
would be'----And he hesitated.
'What, father?'
'Such a pity to break it up,' he said, 'as--we have almost come to think
must be done.'
'They would be perfectly miserable to stay there, if they understood--as
indeed they do now,' Camilla replied, 'that it would be only at the cost
of what you _must_ have, father dear.'
Her voice, though low, was very resolute. Captain Harper glanced at her
half-wistfully.
'I wish you didn't all see things that way,' he said. 'You see it's
this, Camilla. If I go up to London to be under Maclean for three
months, it _may_ set me up again to a certain point, but unless it be
followed by the "kur" at the baths, and then by that other "massage"
business within a year or so, it would be just the old story, just what
it was before, only that I am three or four years older than I was,
and--certainly not stronger. So this is the question--is it _worth
while_? It will be at such a cost--stopping Bessie and Mag's schooling,
wearing out your mother and you--for what will be more trying than
letting this house for the spring, as must be done, and moving you girls
into poky lodgings. That, at least, we have hitherto managed not to do.
And then the strain on your poor mother being up alone with me in
London--so dreary for her too. And at best to think that a partial,
temporary cure is all we can hope for. No, my child, I cannot see that
it is worth it. I am happy at home, and more than content to bear what
must be, after all not so very bad. And I _may_ not get worse. Do,
darling, try to make your mother see it my way.'
It was not often--very, very seldom indeed--that Captain Harper talked
so much or so long of himself. Now he lay back half-exhausted, his face,
which had been somewhat flushed, growing paler than before.
Camilla wound her arms round him and hid her face on his shoulder.
'Father dearest,' she whispered, doing her best to hide any sign of
tears in her voice, 'don't be vexed or disappointed, but I _can't_ see
it that way. It seems presumptuous for me to argue with you, but don't
you see?--the first duty seems so clear, to do what we _can_. Surely
there can be no doubt at all about that? And who knows--_something_ may
happen to make the rest of what is prescribed for you possible. And even
if not, and if the three months in London only do a little good, at
least we should all feel we had tried everything. Father dearest, if we
_didn't_ do it, do you think mother and Bessie and I--and the boys when
they hear of it, and even the two little ones--do you think we should
ever again feel one moment's peace of mind? Every time you looked paler
or feebler, every time we saw you give the least little wince of
pain--why, I think we should go out of our minds. It would be
unendurable.'
Captain Harper stroked her fair soft hair fondly.
'But, dear, suppose it doesn't do any good, or much? Suppose'--and his
voice grew very low and tender--'suppose all this increased suffering
and weakness is only the beginning of the end--and sometimes I cannot
help thinking it would be best so--my darling, it would _have_ to be
endured.'
Camilla raised her tear-stained face and looked at her father bravely.
'I know,' she said quietly. 'It may be. Mother and I don't deceive
ourselves, though it is no use dwelling upon terrible possibilities. But
even then, don't you see the difference? We should feel that we had done
our best, and--and that more was not God's will.'
'Yes,' said her father, 'I see how you mean. I suppose I should feel the
same if it were about your mother or one of you.'
'And father,' Camilla went on more cheerfully, 'don't worry about the
girls leaving school; it won't do them lasting harm. They have got a
good start, and they are still very young. Some time or other they may
have another opportunity, as I had. And Margaret is such a delicate
little creature. Father, I wouldn't have said it if they had been going
to stay at Thetford, but I have had my misgivings about her being fit
to be so far away. I fear she is very homesick sometimes.'
'Do you really think so?' said Captain Harper with a start. 'Poor little
soul! If I thought so--ah dear, my home was not much, but still while my
mother lived it _was_ home, and oh how I remember what I suffered when I
left it! Who is it that speaks of "the fiend homesickness?" The mere
dread of it would reconcile me to having them back again.'
'Then I am very thankful I told you,' said the girl. 'And father, is it
not nice to know that in spite of everything we girls have _not_ come
off badly? Bessie and Margaret took good places at once, and I did too,
you know. Indeed, Miss Scarlett said that if I had thought of being a
governess, she would have been very glad to have me.'
'I know,' said her father. 'Well, there is no necessity for that as yet,
except for governessing the younger ones as you used to do. And if
things go better with me, even if I'm only not worse, when we come home
again I can take you all three for Latin and German and mathematics.'
Camilla's eyes sparkled. She was so delighted to have talked him into
acquiescence and hopefulness.
'We shall work so hard the three months we are by ourselves that you
will be quite astonished,' she said. 'And old Mrs Newing will make us
very comfortable; it's there we're to live, you know. It will really be
great fun.'
So from this time the move to London was decided upon for Captain and
Mrs Harper.
And when Bessie and Margaret bade their companions good-bye at the
beginning of the Christmas holidays, they knew, though it had been
thought best to say little about it, and the good Misses Scarlett
refused to look upon it as anything but a temporary break, that it was
good-bye for much longer than was supposed--good-bye perhaps and not
improbably for always, to Ivy Lodge and Thetford and all their friends.
Bessie felt it sorely. Little Margaret was all absorbed in the delight
of going 'home' again. But both were at one in the real sorrow with
which they parted from their companions, among whom no one had won a
more lasting place in their affection than blunt, warm-hearted, honest
Frances Mildmay.