“WHO’S WHO.”
The contents of the first fly did not seem so alarming, at least not as
to numbers, for it only contained three occupants, human occupants that
is.
On the front seat was a rather demure-looking girl of fourteen, whose
general air of youthful anxiety suggested that she was more or less in
charge of the party. Beside her was a dark-haired boy about a year
younger.
“‘Fat, flabby and fractious,’ that’s what you ought to be labelled,” one
of his boy cousins had declared at starting, and, though it was an
ungracious remark, and not likely to improve Andrew Durand’s temper, yet
even in the excitement of arrival, he still did not look, well--quite
the reverse of his cousin’s description.
Not only had he taken the lion’s share of the front seat of the fly, but
he had almost monopolised the back one too; first, with his feet, which
he had comfortably disposed in a line with his indolent overgrown
person, and secondly, with his innumerable possessions.
Amongst these was a canary in a cage, a guinea-pig in a box, a huge
butterfly net--its extra long handle making it an undesirable addition
to luggage--sundry tin cases, with unpleasantly sharp corners, a
geological hammer and various tools of a kindred nature, a violin, along
with divers other items, which contributed to form the pile of
non-squeezable luggage, beside which poor little Marion, the third
passenger, had to accommodate herself as best she might.
“Nonsense, she has heaps of room for her size,” Andrew had ruled at
starting from the station, when the others had remonstrated with him;
“How much more can an infant like that want?”
Marion, commonly known as Marygold, perched herself very contentedly on
the edge of the seat, and, always ready to make the best of a situation,
announced cheerily:
“I ’spect I’ll manage somehow, for all my hair can sit on the air,” and
certainly the cloud of golden hair that surrounded the sweet-tempered
little face did seem the most important part of her very small person.
Fly No. 2 was more closely packed. It contained Jack and Phil Kenyon,
schoolboy brothers of eleven and ten; their cousin, Diana Durand, who
was ten years old yesterday; Tryphoena Kenyon, always called Phoena, who
was just a year younger than Di; and last of all, six-year old Hubert,
the youngest of the Kenyons.
He was so small that, when the cheering began he jumped up on the seat,
for he felt that otherwise he might be overlooked, and he flung his hat
so frantically into the air that the latter fell into the road and he
himself toppled into Di’s arms.
“Here, hurry up, Miss Annie,” cried Phil, coming to the door of the
first fly; “don’t you see that your old go-cart’s stopping the way? I
say, can’t you give a hand to Faith and help her with all that pile of
rubbish? You don’t mean to tell me that she’s been nursing that bowl of
gold-fish all the way from the station?”
“Oh! it’s all right,” began Faith; but Phil went on:
“What a muff you are, Andrew, to want all these blessed playthings, and
here’s poor little Marygold squeezed to a jelly.” Then, calling Jack to
his aid, Phil began to grapple with Andrew’s manifold possessions in
good earnest, to Mrs. Busson’s great satisfaction. Their cousin,
meanwhile, stood by giving directions which no one heeded, and grumbling
at the way in which his property was handled. Even Hubert was more
helpful, whilst Marygold, in the exuberance of joy at being relieved
from her cramped position, was so eager to render assistance that in her
zeal she tipped nearly all the water and the inmates too out of the
gold-fish bowl.
“I think, Mrs. Busson,” said Faith, her soft voice sounding like a
dove’s note amongst the chattering of many starlings, “if you will show
me Andrew’s room I’ll put away some of his things, and get him to rights
first of all.”
“Oh! yes,” jeered Jack, “take the precious baby to his nursery, and let
him have all his toys. Shall we come and help you, Fay?”
But Faith gave him an imploring look, such as might soften the heart
even of a schoolboy on teazing bent, and, following Mrs. Busson, she
disappeared into the house.
The others were content to remain in the old-fashioned roomy porch. Here
they made friends with Dragon, the watch-dog, and Thief, a very
talkative magpie, who, in his big wicker cage, embowered in purple
flowering clematis, made a perfect picture.
“And now, please,” said Mrs. Busson, reappearing presently, “I’ll have
to be told who’s who, not but what I can see that you two”--looking at
Jack and Phil--“belong to each other, and that you’re Miss Julia’s
boys--Mrs. Kenyon, as I ought to say.”
“Right you are,” cried Phil, whilst Diana of the ready tongue added:
“And Phoena and Hubert are Aunt Julia’s children too.”
“Ah! to be sure, I can see you have your mamma’s eyes,” said Mrs.
Busson, taking Phoena’s pale face between her hands and looking into the
child’s grey thoughtful eyes. “And so your papa and mamma are still in
India, are they? And you go to school, do you, as well as your
brothers?”
“Oh! no,” said Di; “only Jack and Phil go to school. They’d be there now
if scarlet fever hadn’t broken out.”
“Yes, it was awfully slicey for us,” chimed in the brothers, “for, as
we didn’t catch the fever, we got off that and the lessons too.”
“Yes,” said Hubert, “it was jolly fine fun for them.”
Whether their natural protectors considered the arrangement “jolly fine
fun” too, our readers may perhaps gather from the letter which that
week’s Indian mail carried to Mrs. Kenyon, touching the matter:
“My dear Julia, how true it is that troubles never come singly. The
outbreak of fever at your boys’ school was tiresome enough, as it forced
us to begin the holidays for the children at home sooner than was
intended, and upset all our arrangements for the summer; however, we
resigned ourselves very happily to the inevitable, and I had made
arrangements with dear old Pattie for receiving us all at the farm, and
we were actually starting thither this morning, when a wire from
Edinburgh arrived at breakfast, summoning me to my mother-in-law. She is
very ill, and old Mr. Durand begs me to come at once, so I am obliged to
let the children go down to Gaybrook without me.
“There was, moreover, such indignation when I proposed sending Sarah in
charge of the party--your boys resenting the idea of having a nurse
tacked on to them so bitterly--that, after consultation with Faith, who
is as trustworthy as if she were thirty instead of thirteen, I decided
to let the young people take care of themselves; besides, I knew, what
my young rebels did not, that Pattie has already secured a very
efficient nursery-maid in disguise, namely, her niece, Ruth Argue, who
used to be nurse at the Rectory, and who is to be at the farm as long as
our party is there. And so, about an hour ago, they set off, a merry
troop on the whole, though poor Fay looked rather oppressed by the sense
of her responsibility, whilst Andrew, I regret to add, looked decidedly
peevish. If Fay were not there I should feel rather anxious about him.
No doubt your schoolboys will do him good with their wholesome chaff,
but unfortunately his aunt, with whom he has been at the seaside, has so
spoilt him and allowed him to think so much of his health, that I’m
afraid he is not likely to prove an acceptable companion. I hope he will
soon be strong enough to go to school, for then he will lose his
priggishness, but there is no question that he is very clever, and takes
real interest in subjects that most boys don’t care about. I sometimes
think if only the others would try and learn a little from him about
natural history, for instance, instead of always jeering him when he
mentions it, it would be better for all parties. Altogether, if I could
only have kept Andrew with me, I should feel happier about this
expedition. Still, they all started, rich in good intentions of showing
consideration both to Mrs. Busson and each other, so we can only hope
that they will fulfil one tenth of them.
“Always your affectionate sister,
“AGATHA DURAND.
“P.S.--I forgot to mention that the children will find a playfellow at
the farm, the grandson of old Madame Delzant, who, you remember, used to
live at Gaybrook. Both his parents, neither of whom lived in England,
are dead, and when old Madame died, some months ago, not long after the
child had arrived in England, Pattie took possession of him, and is
keeping him till it suits an uncle in Paris to come and fetch him. I am
wondering whether the presence of this small stranger will conduce or
otherwise to the harmony of the party.”