IN VIEW OF A HOLIDAY
"WHAT a lot of letters you get, Cousin Becky!"
It was Polly who made this remark, one morning, as on taking her seat
at the breakfast table she noticed several envelopes by Miss Trent's
plate. It was very innocently said, not instigated by curiosity, and
the little girl was quite unprepared for the look of confusion and
the deepening colour with which it was greeted by Cousin Becky, who,
however, merely replied that she had a large circle of correspondents.
"Attend to the business in hand, Polly, and eat your breakfast," said
Mr. Trent, a trifle sharply. "You talk too much, my dear."
"That's what I am always telling her; she's a regular Poll parrot,"
laughed Roger, who, boy-like, was ever ready to tease his sister.
Polly deigned no answer, and during the meal she kept a dignified
silence; but when she and her mother were alone, at lesson time, she
reverted to the subject of Cousin Becky's letters.
"I did not know it was rude to speak of them," she said in a slightly
injured tone. "Do you think it was, mother?"
"Not rude, exactly," Mrs. Trent answered, "but it was scarcely good
manners. You would not like Cousin Becky to consider you inquisitive
about her correspondence, would you?"
"No, indeed; but I am sure she would not think that. Perhaps I had
better apologise to her?"
"No, dear, that would be making a great deal too much of a slight
matter; but, in future, do not be so quick to remark upon another
person's business."
"I am afraid Cousin Becky did not like my mentioning her letters,"
sighed Polly, "but she must know I did not mean to be rude. I think she
is very fond of writing letters, mother, she writes so many in her own
room."
"No doubt she is," Mrs. Trent responded carelessly; but she looked
a trifle puzzled, for, like her little daughter, she had on several
occasions been struck by the number of Miss Trent's correspondents.
It was the second week in July by this time, and the weather was
intensely hot by day. The evenings were delightful, however, and often
Miss Trent, who was a capital walker for a woman of her age, took
her young cousins, after they had learnt their lessons, for pleasant
rambles in the country. On one of these occasions they were passing the
Rookery when they saw Edgar looking disconsolately through the bars of
the big entrance gate, and Cousin Becky asked him to join them in their
walk. His face brightened perceptibly at her invitation, but it clouded
again as he caught sight of Roger's expression, which was anything but
pleased.
"No, thank you," he answered with a little choke in his voice. "Roger
doesn't want me, I see."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cousin Becky. "You would like to come with us,
would you not?" She looked from one boy to the other in bewilderment
as she spoke. "What is amiss?" she questioned in accents of growing
concern. "Have you fallen out?"
"Oh no, it's not that," Polly responded, seeing neither her brother nor
her cousin had an answer ready; "but Edgar's much too high and mighty
for Roger—"
"I'm not, Polly, you know I'm not!' Edgar broke in passionately, amazed
at her words, and stung by the sarcasm of her tone.
"No, you're not," she agreed, "but you think you are! You consider
yourself above us because you're richer than we are—because your
father's richer than our father, I mean. Roger's told me everything—how
you've been keeping him at a distance, hardly ever speaking to him, and
never walking home from school with him as you used to do. Don't think
we want you to come with us, pray." The little girl paused and looked
indignantly at her cousin. To her surprise there were tears in Edgar's
blue eyes, and instead of showing resentment he seemed greatly abashed.
"You're no better than Roger," she added, "and if you think he wants to
have anything to do with you, you're much mistaken."
"Hush, hush, my dear," admonished Cousin Becky, "you give that sharp
tongue of yours too much licence. I did not know you could be such a
little shrew."
"Indeed, Polly, you're wrong; I don't think myself better than Roger,"
Edgar said tremulously, and there was a ring of sincerity in his tone
which his hearers could not fail to note. "You don't understand—I—I
think you're very unkind, and I—oh, dear, you can't imagine how
wretched I am! I'm so lonely."
"Lonely?" exclaimed Cousin Becky. "Then why not come with us?"
"But they don't want me," Edgar demurred, looking dubiously from one
cousin to the other. "I—I don't wish to spoil their walk."
"You won't do that," Cousin Becky assured him. "Come, children," she
continued persuasively, "have done with misunderstandings, and let us
all be friends. Roger, won't you speak to your cousin, my dear?"
Roger hesitated; but, meeting an appealing glance from Edgar, his heart
relented towards him, and he said simply:
"I don't want to be unfriendly with you, Edgar; but, really, you're the
oddest boy I know. I never know how to take you, you're so changeable;
you've been keeping out of my way for weeks, I cannot imagine why."
"And I can't explain," Edgar replied; "if I did you'd understand the
reason quick enough, and you'd hate and despise me."
This sounded very mysterious; but knowing how prone children are to
exaggeration, Cousin Becky was not so impressed as might have been
expected. Polly and Roger exchanged questioning glances, but they
refrained from putting any questions. Edgar was outside the gate by
this time, and he raised no further objections to joining in the walk.
At first he appeared in a very depressed state of mind; but by-and-by
he grew more cheerful, and began to enjoy the company of his cousins.
His manner was so unusually subdued and humble that even Polly relented
towards him after a while, and when, on their way homewards, they said
good-bye to him at the Rookery gate, she remarked in a tone, which
though condescending was not unkind:
"I think it's a great pity you're not always so nice as you've been
to-night."
After that evening Edgar frequently joined his cousins in their walks,
and the cloud which had overshadowed him certainly lifted a little. His
conscience still continued to prick him when he was in Roger's society,
but not so sorely as it had done; for he was growing more and more
hopeful that his cousin would never find out the Calais Noble was lost,
and his fear of being questioned by him about it was passing away.
Meanwhile, it was drawing near the end of the term, and there was
much talk amongst the Grammar School boys about the coming holidays.
Mr. Trent was to get a holiday of three weeks in August, too; but he
had not suggested spending it away from Beaworthy, so that when, one
evening, Cousin Becky asked him if he proposed going to the sea-side,
he glanced at her in surprise as he answered promptly:
"Oh no! It's quite out of the question."
"But, Martin, you want a change badly," his wife reminded him. "Don't
you think it would do him good if he would go away by himself for a
fortnight," she continued, appealing to Cousin Becky, "to some place
where he could get good boating and fishing?"
"No, I do not," Cousin Becky replied with a ring of decision in her
voice. "I don't think he would enjoy a holiday without his wife and
family. You ought all to go."
"I thought you realised the impossibility of such a plan," Mrs. Trent
said, almost reproachfully, astonished that Cousin Becky, who had
proved herself quick-witted on more than one occasion, should be so
uncommonly dense now.
"But is it impossible?" Cousin Becky queried; "I don't think so. I
know a charming village called Lynn on the coast of Norfolk, which
would be the very place for you to go to, for it is most remarkably
healthy and bracing. I stayed there myself with my dear brother on
various occasions, at a house belonging to a lady—a great friend of
ours. She—this lady—wants me to go there again this summer; but I am
determined I will not unless you all accompany me. There is the house,
furnished, and waiting for us to occupy it, and all we have to do is to
pack up here and take possession of it."
"But I don't understand," said Mrs. Trent, her face a picture of
bewilderment. "Does your friend let her house furnished?"
"No, she never lets it, though she rarely occupies it herself; she only
lends it to her friends. What do you say to closing the house here at
the beginning of next month? Should you object?"
"Object?" Mrs. Trent echoed. "No, indeed, on the contrary—"
"Then let us all go together for a few weeks' holiday to the Mill House
at Lynn. You will have no rent to pay there, and it will be a most
pleasant change at very little expense. Shall we say it is decided?"
And the old lady looked from one to the other of her cousins with a
smile which hid the anxiety with which she anticipated an answer.
"Oh, how splendid it would be!" cried Polly, who, with her brother,
had been listening to the conversation in silence hitherto. "Oh, dear,
dear Cousin Becky, I do believe that little bird told you the truth,
and that we are really going to have a summer holiday!" And the child
danced wildly round the room in her excitement.
"And it's near the sea?" questioned Roger eagerly. "Oh, that's grand!
We shall be able to bathe, and father will teach me to swim—won't you,
father?"
"Not so fast, my son," admonished Mr. Trent, "you speak as though
everything was settled. Cousin Becky," he proceeded, turning to the
old lady who was regarding him appealingly, "you have planned a most
alluring programme for us, but it seems to me we ought not to accept
so great a favour as the loan of a house would be from a complete
stranger."
"But I know her very well," Cousin Becky broke in eagerly, "and I am at
liberty to entertain who I like at the Mill House during August; you
will be my guests. You do not suggest, I suppose, that I should go to
the Mill House alone? Oh, Martin, I have set my heart on our all having
a nice holiday together; please do not disappoint me! Think how much
good a thorough change of air will do you all. I want to see some roses
in your wife's white cheeks, and Polly is looking a great deal too
pale. Do not go against me in this matter, pray."
Mr. Trent hesitated, whilst he glanced inquiringly at his wife. "What
do you think about it, my dear?" he asked. "Do you wish to accede to
this plan which Cousin Becky has made for our benefit?"
"So much, Martin," she confessed. "It has taken me by surprise, but it
would be so very nice if we could all have a holiday together. We have
not had one for so long."
There was a ring of unconscious pathos in Mrs. Trent's voice, which
settled the question as far as her husband was concerned, for he turned
immediately to Cousin Becky, and said:
"It shall be as you will, but we shall be under a great obligation to
your friend; I hope you will make her understand how grateful we feel.
Is she at Lynn at present?"
"No, she is very rarely there, and if we do not occupy the Mill House
next month, no one else will, so you need not burden yourself with
any sense of obligation. It is a comfortable house, old, and plainly
furnished; but I am sure you will like it. I think, by the way, it
would be a good plan to take Louisa with us instead of getting help
from the village."
Mrs. Trent agreed. She was only a little less excited than the children
at the prospect of a holiday, and Cousin Becky was plainly delighted
at having gained her own way, and confessed that she had been planning
this treat for them in her mind several weeks, and had been awaiting a
favourable opportunity to broach the subject. Mr. Trent, too, seemed
very pleased; but at the same time he was rather puzzled. He wondered
who Cousin Becky's friend could be and why she had not mentioned her by
name; he had remarked that she had carefully abstained from doing so.
By-and-by Polly rushed off to the kitchen to impart the news of the
impending holiday to Louisa, and was beyond measure gratified by the
sensation she caused.
"Wonders will never cease, Miss Polly!" exclaimed Louisa impressively,
after she had fully grasped the facts that the house in Princess Street
was to be shut up and that she, too, was to go to the Mill House at
Lynn. "Why, I'm so surprised and pleased that I can't find a word to
say." This was a mistake on Louisa's part, however, for she found a
great many words, and asked a great many questions about the Mill
House, which of course the little girl could not answer, and finally
she inquired the name of this friend of Miss Trent's who was not
against lending her house in such a casual way.
"Cousin Becky didn't say, but I'll ask her," Polly replied; and,
forthwith, she returned to the sitting-room to put the inquiry.
But Cousin Becky shook her head when questioned, and replied with a
smile:
"I cannot tell you my friend's name, because—to be plain—she does not
wish it told. It doesn't matter, does it? She is an eccentric person,
who likes to do little kindnesses when it is possible, without being
thanked."
"I see," Polly responded gravely. "Well, I shall call her our good
fairy, for she must be another such person as the one who was so kind
to poor Sarah Glubb. How nice it is to think there are so many good
fairies still left in the world!"