GREAT NEWS.
The first Christmas at a strange place or in a new home is always full
of mingled feelings. Even when the change has been a happy one, not
brought about by sorrows of any kind, the old associations give a sort
of melancholy to the thankfulness and joy we all wish to feel at this
time. And for the young Mildmays it was more than natural that the
sadness should predominate.
'Only a year ago _how_ different it was!' sighed Frances, the first
morning of the holidays, when there was no school to hurry off
to--nothing particular to do or look forward to. 'I shall be very glad
when it's time to begin lessons again.'
'I don't see why you should feel so particularly gloomy just now,' said
Jacinth, not unkindly. 'Things might have been a good deal worse than
they are.'
'People can always say that,' replied Frances. 'If you've got to have a
leg cut off, you can say to yourself it might have been both legs. I
daresay having Robin Redbreast to go to makes it much nicer for you; I
suppose you'll go there a good deal during the holidays. But it doesn't
make much difference to me. Lady Myrtle doesn't ask me often, and I
don't want her to. I'm quite glad for you to go there, but it's not the
same for me.'
And again she sighed.
'What _would_ make you happier, then?' asked Jacinth.
'Oh, I don't know. Nothing that could be, I suppose. Nothing will make
very much difference till papa and mamma come home. There are one or two
things that are making me particularly unhappy, besides the thinking
it's Christmas and how changed everything is, but--I daresay it's no
good speaking of them.'
'I know what one of them is,' said Jacinth. 'I can guess it: shall I
tell you what it is?'
'If you like,' Frances replied.
'It's about the Harpers--Bessie and Margaret--not coming back again to
school,' said her sister.
'How did you know about it?' inquired Frances. 'They didn't tell even
me--not really. But I know they were very sad about their father being
so much worse, and once, a few days ago, Bessie said it was almost
settled they were going to let their house at that place where they
live, and that their father and mother were going to be a long time in
London, and of course that will cost a lot of money--the going to
London, I mean. And--I could tell,' and Frances's voice sounded rather
suspicious--'I could tell--by the way, they kissed me--when--when they
said good-bye--I could _tell_ they weren't coming back,' and here the
choking down of a sob was very audible.
For a wonder Jacinth did not seem at all irritated. Truth to tell, she,
too, had felt very sorry for the Harper girls--Bessie especially--and as
we know, though she did not allow it to herself, her conscience was not
entirely at ease about them. Something had touched her, too, in Bessie's
manner when they bade each other good-bye.
'Will you kiss me, Jacinth?' Bessie had said. 'I have been so glad to
know you.'
'I have not felt sorry enough for them perhaps,' Jacinth had allowed to
herself. 'But really, there are so many sad things in the world, one
would wear one's self out with being sorry for everybody.'
'How did you know about it?' Frances repeated.
'I heard something a good while ago from Honor Falmouth; don't you
remember?' said Jacinth. 'And last week she told me more, only she said
they didn't want any fuss made about it. She heard it from friends. But
Frances, do try and cheer up. You've been as kind--at least as
affectionate--as you could be to the Harpers. We hadn't it in our power
to ask them here or anything like that. I'm sure you tried to get Aunt
Alison to ask them, over and over again. And you won't do them any good
by crying about their troubles, you know, dear. Perhaps they may come
back to school some time or other, even if they're away next term.'
'Thank you, dear Jass,' said Frances, wiping her eyes. 'You're very
kind. I'll try and not be dull.'
She would perhaps have been less grateful for Jacinth's sympathy had she
understood the relief it was to her sister, notwithstanding her genuine
pity for them, to know that the Harpers were not likely to be associated
with them any more. Their presence at Ivy Lodge, ever since the
acquaintance with Lady Myrtle--more especially since Jacinth herself had
become fully informed as to the whole history--had been a perpetual
irritation and almost a reproach to her. And the pertinacity with which
she repeated to herself that it was not her business to take up the
cudgels in the Harpers' behalf, of itself suggested a weak point
somewhere--a touch of the self-excusing which tries to whiten over the
unacknowledged self-blame.
_Now_, Jacinth could afford to let herself feel sorry for Bessie and
Margaret and their family--could even picture to herself ways in which
some day, in some vague future, she and Frances might show kindness to
their former school-fellows.
'If I were rich,' thought Jacinth, 'they're just the sort of people I'd
love to be good to; of course one would have to do it very carefully, so
as not to offend them.'
Frances was still looking somewhat lugubrious when the door opened and
Miss Mildmay senior came in. It was not very often that their aunt paid
the girls a visit in their own little sitting-room, and they both looked
up with some curiosity.
'I had a letter from Lady Myrtle this morning,' she said. 'I did not
want to speak about it before Eugene'--for Eugene had lately been
promoted to breakfast down-stairs--'as I was not sure what you and
Frances would wish about it. It is an invitation for you all--Eugene
too--to spend Christmas at Robin Redbreast. Christmas _time_, I should
say. Lady Myrtle invites you all three for a week, and Jacinth for a
fortnight. What do you say?'
Frances said nothing, but Jacinth looked up quickly.
'I think it would be unnatural for us all to go away from you for
Christmas, Aunt Alison,' she said.
Miss Mildmay smiled.
'A lonely Christmas would be nothing new to me, my dear child,' she
said; but she spoke without any bitterness.
'_I'll_ stay with you, Aunt Alison,' said Frances, eagerly. 'I really
don't care about going to Robin Redbreast, and it's Jacinth Lady Myrtle
wants. Do let me and Eugene stay here; Eugene needn't be told about it
at all.'
'Thank you, my dear,' said their aunt. 'Thank you both. But--do not
think me ungracious--when I spoke of a lonely Christmas, I only meant
that I have not been used to a family party. I am always very happy and
very busy on Christmas--and I think I should be missed if I were not
here. I should have told you that Lady Myrtle very kindly invites me
too--for Christmas Day--but that would not suit me at all. I _must_ be
here in the evening, and indeed I am wanted all day; but I was trying to
arrange to do less, so as to be with you three in the afternoon at
least.'
'Then--to put it plainly--it would be rather a relief to you for us all
to be away?' asked Jacinth.
'Well, yes--in a sense it would. That is to say, if I knew you were
happy and well looked after,' said Miss Mildmay, smiling again.
'There, Francie,' said Jacinth, 'you see it is much the best thing that
could have happened. And of course you and Eugene must come. I suppose
we shall take Phebe, Aunt Alison?'
'Certainly, my dear.'
The mention of Phebe seemed to cheer Frances. 'I shouldn't mind so much,
if Eugene and I could go walks,' she said. 'But you know, Aunt Alison,
Jass _must_ be a great deal with Lady Myrtle, and I shouldn't know what
to do all day, and Eugene wouldn't either.'
'It'll be all right, you'll see,' said Jacinth, who, now that she was
satisfied as to her aunt, felt in high spirits. 'You can go about just
as you like with Phebe, and it's only for a week. I don't think I should
stay more than a week, Aunt Alison?'
'I cannot say,' her aunt replied. 'I almost think you should, if Lady
Myrtle wishes it. That week--the week after Christmas week--I think I
could help to amuse Frances and Eugene. We shall be having our
children's feasts, and they could be very useful.'
'I _should_ like that!' said Frances eagerly.
So all seemed satisfactory, and Miss Mildmay left them, to write her
answer to Lady Myrtle. Human nature is very inconsistent. The maiden
lady of a certain age could not repress a sigh as she sat down at her
desk: she had not realised till now that all was changed; how she had
been looking forward to something like an orthodox Christmas for once,
in her prim old house--how she had been planning about the plum-puddings
and cakes, even while groaning a little over the reversal of her usual
habits!
'But it is much better as it is,' she decided. 'They will be quite
happy, and poor old Lady Myrtle will be less lonely than for many years.
She may be a good friend to Eugenia and the children in the future. And
as for me, I don't know how they would have managed without me at St
Blaise's, after all.'
And the young Mildmays--Frances included--_were_ very happy at Robin
Redbreast.
Things settled themselves very much as Jacinth had foreseen. Under
Phebe's care the two younger ones were left free to run about as they
chose during such parts of the day as Jacinth found that their hostess
liked to have her with herself. And the children were much more
accustomed to this sort of life than if they had ever known thorough
home care. For even at Stannesley Mrs Denison's age and fragile health
had often made it impossible for them to be with her as much as she
would have liked: they had early learned to be 'very good at amusing
themselves.'
On Christmas Day the large landau, quite roomy enough for half a dozen
instead of four, took them all to Elvedon church, where they sat with
Lady Myrtle in the square, be-curtained pew--one of those appropriated
to the Court, which was kept for the lady from Robin Redbreast.
'It felt very like Stannesley,' was the verdict of the two younger ones,
who had not been at Elvedon before, which seemed to please Lady Myrtle.
'Yes,' she said. 'I think you will feel more at home than if you spent
the day at Thetford.'
And the prettily decorated rooms, and the old folk who came in for
dinner in the servants' hall, and the roast turkey and flaming
plum-pudding and snapdragon afterwards--yes, though they were only such
a very small party, just they three and the old lady instead of their
own granny, and no Uncle Marmy to make his jokes--still it _was_ much
more homelike than No. 9 Market Square Place could possibly have been.
And when Frances went to bed that night, glancing with pleasure at the
pretty presents so thoughtfully provided for her--a dear little gold
pencil-case in a bracelet from Lady Myrtle, a pair of gloves from Aunt
Alison, and a handkerchief with a red embroidered border from Jacinth
and Eugene--the child felt that she had indeed a great many 'good
things' to be thankful for.
'If only'----she thought. 'Oh, how I would like to think that Bessie and
Margaret are happy too! I am so afraid that they are very, very sad
about their father.'
Christmas Day was a Thursday. It was always considered a lucky
coincidence by the young Mildmays when letters from their far-off
parents reached them on the very day of any anniversary. But this year
the Christmas budget only arrived the morning before Frances and Eugene
were returning to Thetford. Miss Mildmay sent it on by a special
messenger, knowing how anxious her nieces would be to get their letters.
And a mysterious allusion in the little note from her which accompanied
them made Jacinth start and call out to Frances.
'Look at what Aunt Alison says, before you read your letter, Francie.
What can she mean?'
This was what Jacinth pointed to: 'I have heard from your father and
mother also,' wrote Miss Mildmay. 'The great piece of news will surprise
you as much as it has surprised me. I shall be glad to have you back
again to talk it all over.' The sisters stared at each other, their lips
parted and their breath coming quickly.
Then said Jacinth at last: 'It can't be anything _wrong_, Francie. Aunt
Alison never would have written of it like that, if it had been.'
'No,' said Frances, though her voice was rather tremulous; 'of course it
can't be.'
'And,' continued Jacinth, 'how silly we are to sit here wondering about
it, when we've only to look at our letters to know! Here goes, Francie!'
and she tore open her own envelope; 'let's see which of us will get at
it first.'
Frances unfastened her letter more deliberately. It was a much shorter
one than Jacinth's, and she had scarcely glanced at the first few lines
when she sprang from her seat with a sort of shriek.
'They're coming home, Jass! that's the secret. Oh Jass, Jass, listen:
"As I may hope to see you before long, my darling, I won't attempt to
write very much." That's it. Oh Jassie, sweet, they're coming home!'
Jacinth's face had grown pink, then white again, whiter than usual, as
she rapidly ran through her own letter.
'Yes,' she said at last, 'it's--no, it's not _quite_ so good as that.
Mamma's coming first: she'll be here in the spring; but papa's not
coming for some months later. He's got to go somewhere for some kind of
inspection, where mamma couldn't go with him, and after that, he's got
six months' leave, which may or may not--I don't quite understand.
Listen, Francie: "During this leave your father will have time to decide
as to the future. It is possible he may have the offer of an appointment
in England, which would obviate the necessity of our returning to India.
But even if he has this chance, there are fors and againsts to consider:
the appointment is not in some ways a very desirable one; it would
oblige us to live for some, perhaps for several years in a large
manufacturing town in the north of England, and it would be very hard
work for your father. Still, we might--we _should_ be all together."'
Frances heaved a deep sigh of intense longing.
'Oh yes,' she said, 'that would be _everything_.'
'No, I don't see that it would be,' said Jacinth. 'I should _hate_
living in a place like that; and then think of the hard work for papa.
When he does come home I want him to be quite his own master, and,
and--to be rather grand, you know. I should not mind his having an
appointment in London, or some county thing that wouldn't give him much
to do, about here perhaps. But to go and slave in some horrid dirty
place where there would be no one we could speak to; that would be a
come-down after the position he has had in India.'
'Oh Jass,' said Frances, 'don't let us spoil this beautiful news by
thinking of anything disagreeable. Papa must know best, far better than
we can. Do go on reading the letter. Mamma says I'm to ask you
everything.'
Jacinth's eyes returned to the sheets in her hand. Her face cleared a
little.
'There's something else,' she said. 'Oh, I should like that _far_
better. Listen, Frances: "Your father has also the certainty of a
good--as to position and agreeableness--appointment in London; but the
pay would be much, much less, so he is not taking this into
consideration. So the chances are that we may have to return to India
after his leave is over, and be joined by you, dear Jass, a year later;
though at worst I hope we shall be settled in England before my little
Francie would be ready to come out. But I don't mean to think of
anything at present but the unexpected joy of seeing you all three again
so soon. I am writing to your aunt, to know if she can find a little
house at Thetford where we can be together. You will just have been one
year with her, and I do thank her for her care of you. It all seems to
have fitted in so well. When you see Lady Myrtle Goodacre, thank her
again from me for her kindness to you, and tell her what a pleasure it
has been to me to think of it. Tell her, too, how much I am looking
forward to meeting again my mother's dearest friend."'
'You will tell Lady Myrtle at once,' said Frances.
'Yes, of course,' said Jacinth, but she spoke half absently. Her eyes
were still fixed on her mother's letter.
'_I_ don't see why he shouldn't even "take it into consideration,"' she
repeated to herself. 'We can't be so desperately poor as all that. _I_
shall take it into consideration, any way, my dear mother;' and she
smiled a little. 'Yes, Frances,' she went on, looking up, and speaking
more decidedly; 'of course I'll tell Lady Myrtle. I think I'll go and
tell her now. I know she is alone in the boudoir. And, Francie, you may
tell Eugene.'
'May I?' exclaimed Frances, jumping up. 'Oh, thank you, Jass. I'm not
sure,' she went on, 'I'm not sure that Eugene can feel quite so--so
_wild_ with happiness as I do. Oh Jass, it is almost too much. It takes
my breath away.' She was running out of the room, when she looked back
for a moment.
'Jass,' she began with a little hesitation, 'does mamma say anything
more about Mrs Lyle, _their_ aunt, you know? I wonder if she has seen
her again?'
'She is sure to have seen her again. They are living close together,'
said Jacinth. 'But she doesn't say anything about her in this letter.
Why should she?' Jacinth's tone was growing a little acrid. 'May she not
for once be taken up with our own affairs? what can be more important
than all she has to tell us? I do wish, Frances, you wouldn't drag these
Harpers into everything; it is really bad taste.'
Frances was not very clear as to what 'bad taste' meant, but she was
very sorry to have vexed Jacinth.
'It was only,' she said, 'only that it seems as if all the happiness
were coming to us, and all the troubles to them. And I was so glad mamma
was sorry for them.'
'You speak as if they were our nearest relations,' said Jacinth,
'instead of being, as they are, actual strangers.'
But she was not sure if Frances heard her. She had already run off.
Jacinth followed her down-stairs more slowly. They had been sitting in
the elder girl's bedroom, which, with its cheerful outlook and pleasant
arrangements of writing-table and bookcases and sofa, and fire burning
brightly, was rather a favourite resort of theirs in the morning, before
Lady Myrtle was free from her various occupations. For she was a busy
and methodical old lady.
The staircase was one of the pretty features of Robin Redbreast: though
a spiral one, the steps were pleasantly shallow, and every here and
there it was lighted by quaintly shaped windows.
'How I love this house!' said Jacinth to herself, as she passed out
round the gallery, already described, on into the conservatory, even at
that mid-winter season a blaze of lovely brilliant colour. 'If--oh, if
it were going to be our home some time or other, how beautiful it would
be to look forward to! how delightful it would make mamma's coming back!
I can't bear to think of papa's having that horrid appointment up in the
north. I'd rather keep on as we are, and go out to India when I'm old
enough.'
She had loitered a moment among the flowers; the door of Lady Myrtle's
boudoir was slightly ajar; the old lady's ears were quick; she heard
even the slight rustle of Jacinth's skirts, and called out to her.
'Is that you, dear Jacinth? Come in--I have finished my letters and
accounts, and was just going to send for you.'
And as the girl hastened in, Lady Myrtle looked up with a bright smile
of welcome. It was pleasant to be thus greeted: a change from Aunt
Alison's calm unimpassioned placidity.
'Dear Lady Myrtle,' said Jacinth, 'I don't know how to tell you our
news. We have got our Christmas letters from papa and mamma; Aunt Alison
sent out a messenger on purpose with them. And Francie and I have just
read them. And--what do you think?'
She sat down on a stool at Lady Myrtle's feet and looked up in her face.
The old lady laid her hand fondly on the girl's soft hair.
'Nothing wrong, dear; I can see by your face. What can it be? Not--it
can't be that they are coming home?'
Jacinth's eyes sparkled.
'Yes, indeed,' she said; 'that's just what it is. At least it's not
quite that they're coming home for good; I wish it were. But if you
like, if it won't bother you, I'll read you mamma's letter.'
'Yes, do, dear,' said the old lady.
And Jacinth did so, congratulating herself on what had disappointed
Frances, that there was no mention at all in this letter of the Harper
family or Mrs Lyle.
Lady Myrtle listened with evidently extreme interest. When Jacinth had
finished, there was a moment or two's silence. Then Lady Myrtle said
quietly but decidedly: 'She must come straight here--your mother, I
mean. I shall write to her myself. Don't you think that will be best? It
will be the greatest satisfaction to me to see her--little Eugenia--how
proud your dear grandmother was of her! A fair-haired, brown-eyed little
creature. Not so like my Jacinth as you are, child. But that, one could
not expect. It is not often that one sees such a likeness as yours to
your grandmother. But I am so thankful to know I may hope to see your
mother. Sometimes I have feared'----But here Lady Myrtle broke off
without finishing her sentence. 'Jacinth, I want you to talk about it.
What can I say to ensure her coming to me? I want to make her feel that
it will be really like coming home?'
'Say _that_ to her, dear Lady Myrtle,' Jacinth replied. 'Nothing could
touch her more. And I am sure she will love to come here, at any rate
for a while, at first. You see she speaks of living at Thetford till
papa comes--of having a little house there and us with her. There would
not be room in Aunt Alison's house, and besides, I think mamma would
like to feel more independent with us three.'
[Illustration: Jacinth sat down on a stool at Lady Myrtle's feet and
looked up in her face.]
'Of course. I would not at all advise her living in Market Square Place,
even if there were room,' said Lady Myrtle. 'In a small house, and with
your aunt being accustomed to be the authority--no, it would not do. But
there would be no such difficulties here. Your mother must come to me
first, and you three must be here, too, to meet her. And then, later on,
if she thinks it better to take a little house--well, I shall not oppose
her. I am not an unreasonable old woman, am I, my child?'
'No, indeed,' said Jacinth warmly. 'And'--with a little smile--'I know
mamma is very _sensible_. I can tell it by her letters, and even by what
I remember of her. She is eager and hearty--sometimes Francie reminds me
of her--but she is never fanciful or obstinate. It sounds impertinent of
me talking like that of her, but I think you will understand. And I am
sure you and mamma will suit each other.'
'I am sure we shall, dear, though, in a sense, _you_ will always seem
the _most_ of your grandmother to me, Jacinth. You see my most vivid
memory of her is about your age; it is really as if she had come back to
me, sometimes.'
'I do so love you to say that,' said Jacinth.
'But I want to speak of all your mother writes,' the old lady went on.
'I--there can be no harm in my talking to you quite frankly, for I see
your mother confides in you, and she is quite right to do so. Jacinth--I
don't like the idea of that post, whatever it is, at Barmettle.'
Jacinth drew a deep breath of relief.
'Oh, I am so glad you think so,' she said. 'I scarcely liked to say
it--it seems selfish--if it would save papa's going out again, and he
has had so much of India; but it _would_ be rather horrid, wouldn't it?
And almost a come-down, it seems to me. The other appointment in London
would be so much nicer, only living at all _nicely_ in London is so
dear, and the pay is smaller. Perhaps it will end after all in papa and
mamma going back to India, and my joining them in two or three years.'
Lady Myrtle put out her hand, and clasped Jacinth's firmly in hers.
'No, my child,' she said. 'That must not be. I think when one gets as
old as I am, one may be a little selfish; that is to say, if one's
selfishness does no one any harm. And your parents have had enough of
India; there can be no necessity for their return there, nor for your
joining them. No, I could not consent to lose you again--the one thing
that has been sent to cheer me! Put all such possibilities out of your
mind, my Jacinth. I will write to your mother.'
'And what shall I say to her?' asked Jacinth. 'About all you have said,
I mean.'
'Refer her to me. But tell her how you are all--_we_ are all--counting
on her coming first to Robin Redbreast, and that then we shall be able
to talk over everything. Tell her I cannot consent to giving you up;
tell her, as I hope you can, that this place is beginning to feel like
home to you.'
'You know I feel it so, dear Lady Myrtle,' said Jacinth simply. 'I think
I have been happier here already than I have ever been anywhere else.
And I am so glad this news has come while we were here. It makes it
doubly delightful. And we shall remember that it came to us here--this
Christmas week.'