FAMILY CARES.
Lilias did not say much about the adventure in the wood, nothing at all
indeed to Mary or any one in authority; nor did it dwell in her mind as
a thing of much importance. The kind of things that strike a child’s
mind as wonderful are not always those which would most impress an older
person. There were many things at Penninghame very curious and strange
to the little girl. The big chimneys of the old house, for instance, the
sun-dial in the old garden, and on a lower level the way in which Cook’s
cap kept on, which seemed to Lilias miraculous, no means of securing it
being visible. She pondered much on these things, trying to arrive at
feasible theories in respect to them, but there was no theory required
about the other very natural incident. That an old woman should meet her
in the woods, and kiss her, and ask to be called granny, and cry over
her,--there was nothing wonderful in that; and indeed if, as she already
suspected, it was no old woman at all, but a fairy, such as those in the
story-books, who would probably appear again and set her tasks to do,
much more difficult than calling her granny, and end by transforming
herself into a beautiful lady--this would still remain quite
comprehensible, not by any means unparalleled in the experience of one
who had already mastered a great deal of literature treating of such
subjects. She was interested but not surprised, for was it not always to
a child or children by themselves in a wood that fairies did speak? She
told Nello about the meeting, who was not surprised any more than she
was; for though he was not very fond of reading himself, he had shared
all his sister’s, having had true histories of fairies read to him
almost ever since he could recollect anything. He made some cynical
remarks prompted by his manhood, but it was like much manly cynicism,
only from the lips, no deeper. “I thought fairies were all dead,” he
said.
“Oh, Nello; when you know they are spirits and never die! they are
hundreds and hundreds of years older than we are, but they never die;
and it is always children that see them. I thought she would tell us to
do something----”
“I would not do something,” said Nello; “I would say, ‘Old woman, do it
yourself.’”
“And do you know what would happen then?” said Lilias, severely;
“whenever you opened your mouth, a toad or a frog would drop out of it.”
“I should not mind; how funny it would be! how the people would be
surprised.”
“They would be frightened--fancy! every word you said; till all round
there would be things creeping and creeping and crawling all over you;
slimy cold things that would make people shiver and shriek. Oh!” said
Lilias recoiling and putting up her hands, as if to put him away; “the
frogs! squatting and jumping all over the floor.”
At this lively realization of his problematical punishment, Nello
himself grew pale, and nervously looked about him. “I would kill her!”
he cried, furiously; “what right would she have to do that to me?”
“Because you did not obey her, Nello.”
“And why should I obey her?” cried the boy; “she is not papa, or
Martuccia--or Mary.”
“But we must always do what the fairies tell us,” said Lilias, “not
perhaps because they have a right--for certainly it is different with
papa--but because they would hurt us if we didn’t; and then if you are
good and pick up the sticks, or draw the water from the well, then she
gives you such beautiful presents. Oh! I will do whatever she tells
_me_.”
“What kind of presents, Lily? I want a little horse to ride--there are a
great many things that I want. Do fairies give you what you want, or
only what they like?”
This was a puzzling question; and on the spur of the moment Lilias did
not feel able to answer such a difficulty. “If you do it for the
presents, not because they ask you, they will not give you anything,”
she said; “that would be all wrong if you did it for the presents.”
“But you said----”
“Oh, Nello; you are too little, you don’t understand,” cried the elder
sister, like many another perplexed authority; “when you are older you
will know what I mean. I can tell you things, but I can’t make you
understand?”
“What is it he cannot understand?” said Mary, coming suddenly upon their
confidential talk. The two children came apart hastily, and Lilias, who
had two red spots of excitement on her cheeks, looked up startled, with
lips apart. Nello laughed with a sense of mischief. He was fond of his
sister, but to get her into trouble had a certain flavour of fun in it,
not disagreeable to him.
“It is about the fairies,” he cried, volubly. “She says you should do
what they tell you. She says they give you beautiful presents. She says,
she----”
“Oh, about the fairies!” said Mary, calmly, with a smile, going on
without any more notice. Lilias was very angry with her brother, but
what was the use? And she was frightened lest she should be made to look
ridiculous, a danger which is always present to the sensitive mind of a
child. “I will never, never talk to you again,” she said to him under
her breath; but knew she would talk to him again as soon as her mind
wanted disburdening, and was not afraid.
And of how many active thoughts, and wonderful musings, and lively
continued motion of two small minds and bodies, the old hall was witness
in those quiet days! Mary coming and going, and the solid figure of
Martuccia in the sunshine, these two older and more important persons
were as shadows in comparison with that ceaseless flow of existence. The
amount of living in the whole house beside, was not half equal to that
which went on in the motherly calm of the old hall, which held these two
small things like specks in its tranquil embrace, where so much had come
to pass. There was always something going on there. Such lively
counterfeitings of the older life, such deeply-laid plans, dispersed in
a moment by sudden changes of purpose, such profound gravity upset by
the merest chance interruption, such perpetual busyness without thought
of rest. Their days went on thus without hindrance or interruption,
nothing being required of them except to be amused and healthy, and
competent to occupy and please themselves. Had they been dull children,
or subject to the precocious _ennui_ which is sometimes to be seen even
in a nursery, no doubt measures would have been taken to bring about a
better state of affairs; but as they were always busy, always gay, they
were left completely to their own devices, protected, sheltered, and
ignored, enjoying the freedom of a much earlier age, a freedom from all
teaching and interference, such as seldom overpasses the first five
years of human life. Mary had her whole _métier_ to learn in respect to
the children, and there were many agitating circumstances which
pre-occupied her mind and kept her from realizing the more simple
necessities of the matter. It had cost her so much to establish them
there, and the tacit victory over fate, unnatural prejudice, and all the
bondage of family troubles, had been so great, that the trembling
satisfaction of having gained it blunted her perceptions of further
necessity. It was from a humble quarter that enlightenment first came to
her. Her teacher was Miss Brown, her maid, who had early melted to the
children, and who by this time was their devoted vassal, and especially
the admiring slave of Nello, whom, with determined English propriety,
she called Master John. Miss Brown’s affection was not unalloyed by
other sentiments. Her love for the children indeed was intensified by
strenuous disapproval of their other guardians--Martuccia with her
foreign fashions, and Miss Musgrave, who was ignorant as a baby herself,
and knew nothing about “children’s ways.” Between these two incapable
persons her life became a burden to Miss Brown. “I can’t get my night’s
rest for thinking of it,” she said to Cook, who like herself had the
interest of many years’ service in the “the family.” “I would up and
speak,” said Cook. “Speak!” cried Miss Brown, “I’m always speaking; but
what can a body do, when folks won’t understand?” It is the lament of
the superior intelligence over all the world. However, Miss Brown
finally made up her mind to speak, and did so, pointing out that Master
John was eight, though he looked no more than six, and that “schooling”
was indispensable. The suggestion when once made could not be disputed,
and it raised a great perturbation in Mary’s breast. She sent away the
maid with some haste and impatience, but she could not send away the
thought.
And the more Mary thought upon this matter, the more serious it grew;
she brooded over it till her head ached; and she was glad beyond measure
to see Mr. Pennithorne coming slowly along the road. She could see him
almost from the moment his spare figure turned the corner from the
village; the outline and movement of him was so familiar to her, as he
grew upon the quiet distance drawing nearer and nearer. It was seldom
that she anticipated his approach with so much satisfaction. Not that
Mr. Pennithorne, good man, was likely to invent an outlet out of a
difficulty, but he was the only person to whom she could talk with
absolute freedom upon this subject, and to put it forth in audible
words, and set it thus in order to her own ear and mind, was always an
advantage. How like Mr. Pen it was to come on so quietly step after
step, while she was waiting impatient for him! not a step quicker than
usual, no swing of more rapid motion in the droop of his long coat. Why
should he quicken his steps? She laughed to herself at her own childish
impatience. Ought he not to have divined that she wanted him urgently
after all these years? Mary had gone into the hall, the children being
absent on their daily walk. They were so much in her thoughts that she
was glad to get them out of her sight for the moment and thus relieve
the air which rustled and whispered with them. She went out to meet the
slowly approaching counsellor. It was summer by this time, and all was
green and fair, if still somewhat cold in its greenness to a southern
eye. The sunshine was blazing over the lake, just approaching noon, and
the sky was keenly blue, so clear that the pleasure of it was almost a
pain, where the green shoulder of the hill stood against it in high
relief. It was seldom that Mary was at leisure so early, and very seldom
that in the morning when both were busy she should have a visit from Mr.
Pen. As she made a few steps down the slope that led from the hall door,
to meet him, the sunshine caught her full, streaming from behind the
corner of the house. It caught in her hair, and shone in it, showing its
unimpaired gloss and brightness. Mr. Pennithorne was dazzled by it as he
came up, and asked himself if she was superior to time as to most things
else, and, after all those years, was young as well as lovely still?
“I am very glad to see you,” she said, holding out her hand. “I just
wanted you; it is some good fairy that has sent you so early to-day.”
His face brightened up with an answering gleam; or was it only the sun
that had got hold of him too, and woke reflections in his middle-aged
eyes? “I am very happy to have come when you wanted me,” he said, his
eyelids growing moist with pleasure. He went in to the hall, where all
was comparative dusk after that brilliant shining of the noon, and sat
down on the stool which was Martuccia’s usual place. “Whatever you want,
Miss Mary, here I am,” her faithful servant said.
Then she unfolded to him her difficulty: “Their education!” what was she
to do? what could be done? Mr. Pen sat by her very sympathetically and
heard everything. He was not very clever about advising, seeing that it
was generally from her that he took advice, instead of giving it. But he
listened, and did not see his way out of it, which of itself was a
comfort to Mary. If he had been clever, and had struck out a new idea at
once, it is doubtful whether she would have liked it half so well. She
went into the whole question, and eased her mind at least. What was she
to do? Mr. Pen shook his head. He was quite ready to take Nello, and
teach him all he remembered, after a life spent in rural forgetfulness,
of Latin and Greek; but Lilias! and Lilias was the most urgent as being
the eldest. There was no school within reach, and a governess, as Mr.
Pen suggested with a little trembling--a governess! where could Mary put
her,--what could she do with her? It seemed hopeless to think of that.
“I don’t know what you will think of what I am going to say--but there
is Randolph, Miss Mary; he is a family man himself. I suppose--of
course--he knows about the children?”
“Randolph!” said Mary, faltering; “Mr. Pen, you know what Randolph is as
well as I do.”
“People change,” said Mr. Pen, evasively. “It is not for me to say
anything; but perhaps--he ought to know.”
“He has never taken any interest in the house; he has never cared to
be--one of us,” said Mary. “Perhaps because he was brought up away from
us. You know all about it. When he came back--when he was with you and
poor John---- You know him as well as I do,” she concluded abruptly. “I
don’t see what help we could have from him.”
“He is a family man himself,” said the vicar. “When children come they
bring new feelings; they open the heart. He was not like you--or poor
John; but he was like a great many people in this world; he would not be
unkind. You write to him sometimes?”
“Once or twice a year. He writes to ask how my father is--I often wonder
why. He has only been here once since--since it all happened. He would
not have it known that he was one of the family which was so much talked
about--that he was the brother of----” Mary stopped with a flash of
indignation in her eyes. “He has separated himself altogether from us,
as you know; but he asks from time to time how my father is, though I
scarcely know why.”
“And you have told him, I suppose, about the children?”
“No, Mr. Pen; he turned his back upon poor John from the beginning. Why
should I tell him? what has he to do with it? We have left our subject
altogether talking of Randolph, who is quite apart from it. Let us go
back to our sheep--our lambs in this case. What is to be done with
them?”
“I will do what I can for them, as I did for their father,” said the
vicar. “I was thinking that little Johnny must very soon--and Mary might
as well--They can come to me for an hour or two every day; that would be
something. But I think Randolph should be told. I think Randolph ought
to know. He might be thinking, he might be calculating----”
“What, Mr. Pen?” Mary confronted him with head erect and flashing eyes.
“Why should he think or calculate about us? He has separated himself
from the family. John’s children are nothing to him.”
It was not often that Mr. Pen was worldly wise; but he had an
inspiration this time. He shook his head slowly. “It is just that;
John’s children might make all the difference to him,” he said.