UNCLE MARMY'S GATES.
When people really and thoroughly want to do right, and do not content
themselves by _saying_ they want to do so, I doubt if they are ever for
long left in perplexity. Jacinth Mildmay had found it so. She had
courageously dismissed all the specious arguments about 'troubling Lady
Myrtle,' 'not going out of her way to dictate to her elders,' or
'interfering in their affairs,' and had simply and honestly done what
her innermost conscience dictated. And now, as to how she was to act
about and towards the Harpers, she was content to wait.
But Lady Myrtle did not keep her very long in suspense. She too had put
aside every consideration but the one--what was her duty to the Harper
family?--and she had found solid ground.
'My dear Jacinth,' she said, the second morning after the unexpected
meeting of the former school-fellows, 'I have decided that it would be
unkind and ungracious to keep Captain and Mrs Harper and their children
at arm's length, if--if it would be any satisfaction to them to see me,
as they like to think I have been of help to them. So I intend to drive
out to St Remi to call upon them.'
Jacinth looked up with a bright smile.
'I am so glad, Lady Myrtle,' she added impulsively; 'I do think you are
so very good.'
The old lady shook her head sadly.
'My dear,' she said, 'the bitterest part of approaching the end of life
is the realising how terribly, how overwhelmingly other than "good" one
has been, and how little time remains in which to make amends. As
regards one's self the recognising this is salutary; the more one feels
it, the more thankful one should be. But it is about others: it is
terrible to think of the harm one has done, the good one has left
undone. If I had been more patient--more pitiful--more ready to make
allowance for their strange weakness of character--with--with my poor
brothers'----
Her voice broke; the last words were almost inaudible: it was very
wonderful for her to say so much. And a new ray of light seemed to flash
on Jacinth's path as she listened. If such a thing were possible, if it
could come to pass that Lady Myrtle should reinstate her nephew and his
family in their natural place in her affection and regard, what
happiness, what softening of past sorrows might such a change not bring
to the sorely tried heart of her old friend. And a rush of unselfish
enthusiasm came over the young girl.
'Anything _I_ can do to further it, I shall do,' she determined, and at
that moment died away the last fast-withering remains of jealousy in her
heart that the Harpers might in any way replace her in Lady Myrtle's
regard.
It seemed like an encouragement--an endorsement of this secretly
registered vow--when Lady Myrtle spoke again.
'Does it make you happy, dear child, to hear what I have resolved to do?
I hope so; for your feelings, your self-blame so honestly avowed,
though I think you exaggerate the need of it, have helped to influence
me. I know how bitter such self-blame may grow to be, and my darling
Jacinth, I want to feel, when I come to die, that at least I have
brought nothing but good into _your_ young life.'
'Dear Lady Myrtle,' said Jacinth, 'what you tell me makes me happier
than I can express; far, far happier than I have deserved to be.'
* * * * *
They went the next day. Lady Myrtle's cold was better, and for the
season, the weather was wonderfully mild. Jacinth had hesitated about
accompanying her old friend, but Lady Myrtle insisted upon her doing so.
'It will make it far easier and less constrained for me,' she said, 'and
considering everything it seems to me only natural.'
They had luncheon early, and set off immediately after. Less than half
an hour's drive brought them to the picturesque little village, which
was in fact scarcely more than a suburb of the town of Basse.
'Villa Malmaison' was the direction, and soon the coachman drew up at a
gate opening on to the road, for there was no drive up to the house. The
footman was preparing to enter, but when he came round for his
instructions, Lady Myrtle stopped him.
'No,' she said, 'you can wait here. We will get out at once.--I have a
fancy,' she said to Jacinth, 'for going straight up to the house without
being announced.'
It was a small and simple place; a balcony ran round the ground floor,
and there in a long chair--a deck chair--a gentleman was half lying,
half sitting, for the day was mild, and the house had a south exposure.
At the sound of their slow footsteps--for Lady Myrtle was feebler than
of yore--he looked up, then rose courteously, and came forward to meet
them. He was a tall thin man with gray hair, and with evident traces of
delicate health and suffering upon him, and he walked lame. But his
smile was both bright and sweet; his keen dark eyes not unlike Lady
Myrtle's own.
'Can I'----he began, for the first instant's glance revealed to him that
the new-comers were English, but a sort of exclamation from Lady Myrtle
arrested him.
'Jacinth,' she had just whispered, and for a second she leant so heavily
on the girl's arm that Jacinth feared she was going to faint, 'it must
be he--my nephew--he is so, so _wonderfully_ like my father.'
And before Jacinth could reply, the old lady straightened herself again,
and drawing her arm away from her young guide, seemed to hurry forward
with a little cry.
'Are you Reginald?' she said. 'My nephew? You must be. Oh Reginald, I am
your old Aunt Myrtle.'
And then--all the plans and formalities were set at naught. The two tall
figures enfolded each other in an embrace like that of an aged mother
and a long absent son.
'Aunt Myrtle, my dear aunt!' Jacinth heard the kind, cheery voice
exclaim, though in accents broken by sudden emotion. 'You who have been
so good to us, to whom I owe my life. But this--this coming yourself is
the kindest of all.'
Then Jacinth turned and fled--fled down a path leading somewhere or
nowhere, till she found herself at the other side of the house, and ran
full tilt against Bessie, who was coming out to see what was happening.
For sounds carried far in the clear frosty air, and visitors were an
event at the little St Remi villa.
'Jacinth,' she exclaimed, catching hold of the flying girl, 'what is
it?'
'Oh Bessie, it's everything--everything beautiful and wonderful. But we
mustn't interrupt them. Take me into the house and call Camilla and your
mother, and I'll explain it all.'
* * * * *
That was the beginning, but by no means the end. Far from it indeed. For
even if Jacinth lives to be a very old woman, I think she will always
look back upon the next few weeks at Basse--the weeks before the Harpers
returned to England, which they did before the doctors considered it
quite safe for Lady Myrtle to face the northern spring--as among the
happiest she ever knew. There were several reasons for this. There was
the great and unselfish pleasure of seeing the quiet restful content on
her dear old friend's face, and knowing that in some measure she had
been the means of bringing it there; there was the delight of writing
home with the news of the happy state of things that had come about, and
receiving her full meed of sympathy and appreciation from her father and
mother and faithful little Frances; and lastly, there was the, to
Jacinth, really new pleasure of thoroughly congenial companionship of
her own age. For at school her habit of reserve and self-dependence had
come in the way of her making friends, and she was so accustomed to
taking the lead and being the elder, that she was slow to enter into the
give and take on more or less equal ground that is an essential
condition of pleasant and profitable intercourse between the young.
And her ideal friend--much as she learned to love and esteem hearty
generous Bessie and gentle little Margaret--Jacinth's friend of friends
came to be Camilla, whose two or three years' seniority seemed only to
bring them closer, for Jacinth was in many ways 'old for her age.'
Yes, it was a happy time, even though now and then some twinges of
self-reproach made Jacinth feel how little she had at one time merited
the loving confidence with which her new friends treated her.
'But that you must bear, my dear,' said Lady Myrtle, when on one or two
occasions this feeling grew so acute that she had to express it to some
one. 'Take it as your punishment if you think you deserve it. For it
would be cruel to distress these candid, unselfish girls by confessions
of ill-will or prejudice which no longer exist. For my sake, dear
Jacinth, for my sake too, try now to "let the dead past bury its dead."'
And the girl did so.
* * * * *
Some happy years followed this good beginning. Years not untouched by
trouble and trials, but with an undercurrent of good. Barmettle never
became a congenial home, but Jacinth as she grew older lost her extreme
dislike to it, in the happiness of being all together, and knowing that
not only was her father satisfied with his work, but that many
opportunities for helping others were open to herself and Frances, as
well as to their active unselfish mother.
And bright holidays with Lady Myrtle, when old Robin Redbreast stretched
his wings in some wonderful way so as to take in his kind owner's
grand-nephews and nieces as well as the Mildmay party, went far to
reconcile Jacinth and Frances to the gloom and chill of their home in
the north.
Perhaps Christmas was the most trying time. For a merry family party
would have been something to look forward to at that season. But the
dear old lady, alas! had spent her last Christmas in England that
year--that first year at Thetford--when Jacinth and Frances and Eugene
were her guests. For her health grew more and more fragile, and every
season her time at Robin Redbreast had to be cut shorter and shorter,
till at length barely six months of the twelve could be spent by her in
England.
Most winters Jacinth spent some part of with her at Basse, and sometimes
Camilla or Bessie replaced her. One year the whole Mildmay family joined
her for two months. So there were many pleasant mitigations of her
enforced banishment, though it gradually became impossible for those who
had learned to love her so dearly to blind themselves to the fact that
the gentle old woman was not far from the end of her chequered and at
one time lonely life.
And one day in the early spring-time, when the sunshine was already warm
and the sky already deeply blue in the genial south, when the snowdrops
were raising their pretty timid heads in the garden at Robin Redbreast,
and the birds were beginning to hope that the winter was over and gone,
Lady Myrtle died. There was no one with her at the time. Captain Harper
had left her but the week before, and Jacinth Mildmay was to have joined
her a few days later.
'If I could but have been with her, mamma,' said the girl among her
tears.
But perhaps it was better not. To some natures the sorrow of others is
very hard to see, and I think Lady Myrtle was one of those. Jacinth was
nineteen at the time of her old friend's death. Two years of Colonel
Mildmay's time at Barmettle had yet to expire.
'We shall miss our summers at Robin Redbreast sadly, mamma, shall we
not?' she said one day. 'What is to be done about it? Is it to be sold,
or are the Harpers to have it? I hope so. Does papa know?'
'He has only heard about it recently,' said her mother. 'He and Captain
Harper are Lady Myrtle's executors, but there has been a good deal of
trouble and delay, for owing to her death having taken place abroad,
some difficulties occurred about proving the will. But now I believe all
is right, and your father is going to tell you about it.'
At that moment the door opened and Colonel Mildmay came in. He glanced
at his wife with a half-inquiry in his eyes when he saw that she and his
daughter were talking seriously.
'Yes,' replied Mrs Mildmay to his unspoken question, 'I was just saying
to Jacinth that you were going to explain to her about our dear old
friend's disposal of things.'
'I happened to ask mamma if the Harpers were going to live at Robin
Redbreast,' said Jacinth. 'Somehow I hadn't thought about it before.'
'It must have been a "brain wave,"' said her father, 'for only this
morning I decided to have a talk with you about it.'
Jacinth looked up with a slight feeling of apprehension. Colonel
Mildmay's tone was very grave. But she had no reason for misgiving: she
knew she had never--since her eyes had been awakened to the prejudice
and jealousy she was in danger of yielding to--never felt or expressed
anything but sincere esteem and affection for Lady Myrtle's relations.
'I don't want to hear anything in particular, papa,' she said gently,
'but just as you like, of course. It was only,' and her voice faltered a
little, 'the associations with Robin Redbreast. We have been so happy
there: I shouldn't like strangers to have it.'
'Strangers are not going to have it,' Colonel Mildmay replied. 'But it
is not left to the Harpers. They did not wish it. They have no special
liking for that neighbourhood, and it suits them far better to make
their headquarters farther south. But I know you will be glad to hear,
Jacinth, that their aunt has left them a most fair and equitable
proportion of the property at her disposal. They have no cause for
future anxiety at all. Captain Harper is more than satisfied; he had
expected nothing of the kind, and I perfectly believe that if, as he
says, "just a little token of her restored goodwill" had been all that
was to come to them, he would have been content. I never met with more
truly unworldly and unselfish people.'
He stopped for a moment.
'I am so glad, so very glad,' said Jacinth.
'And the Elvedons too are very grateful,' continued her father, 'for
besides what they knew was to be theirs, she has left them her town
house--a much better one than they have had hitherto. Then her favourite
charities have no reason to complain; she has forgotten nothing and no
one'----
Again he hesitated, and for some undefined reason Jacinth's heart began
to beat faster.
'And Robin Redbreast, my dear child; Robin Redbreast is--is to be
yours.'
'Oh, papa,' exclaimed the girl with a curious choking sensation. 'Oh,
papa; is it right? Do you and mamma think it is?'
'Yes, dear. I think it is right. It is depriving no one of anything they
had a claim upon. For Lady Myrtle had considerable savings: some part of
those she surely had every right to leave as her own feelings prompted.
Some of the land is to be sold; just enough kept to make the little
place complete of its kind and not too expensive to manage. Enough money
will be yours--or ours--Lady Myrtle wished it to be considered our home
in the meantime, anyway, and she has managed all so that, if or when you
marry, a certain separation of income can be easily made--for real
comfort without extravagance or display. And some of her private
charities she has left in your hands, trusting to your good judgment and
unselfishness. All has been excellently thought over and wisely
arranged.'
'Oh, papa; oh, mamma!' was still all that Jacinth could say. But after a
moment or two she asked the question which she had so much at heart,
'Shall we all go to live there?'
'Part of the year certainly. And when my time here is out--you will be
of age by then, Jass--perhaps I may feel that the day for taking it
easier has come, and I may get some less onerous post nearer Thetford.
But there is time enough for these details. Now run and tell Francie. I
know you are longing to do so.'
So the curious prevision of the future which had come over them all at
'Uncle Marmy's gates' was actually fulfilled. And kind Uncle Marmy
himself came home before very long to find it so.
There is talk of his leaving off soldiering--he has seen some active
service in the East of late--and taking up his abode in his own home at
Stannesley. For he has been economical to some purpose. And Jacinth, who
still builds castles in the air in her quiet way, has one under
construction on the completed roof of which a flag _may_ fly some day.
It is that the very nicest and most entirely delightful wife Marmaduke
Denison could possibly find, were he to search all the four quarters of
the globe, would be Camilla Harper.
THE END.
Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.
End of Project Gutenberg's Robin Redbreast, by Mary Louisa Molesworth