The Dean and Mrs Faucit duly presented Mildred with a gold watch to
match those already possessed by their own daughters. It had a monogram
on the back, an inscription inside the cover, and was altogether the
most delightful specimen of its kind that could be imagined.
Mildred developed an absorbing curiosity to know how time was passing
during the next few days, which compelled her to pull out the watch
every two or three minutes, while the intervals were agreeably spent in
playing with the pretty little chain to which it was attached. She
wrote enthusiastic letters to her mother and Miss Margaret, describing
her new possession and giving a dramatic description of the events which
had led to its presentation; but the answers which she received were
distinctly disappointing, for Mrs Moore could only send a verbal
message, while Mardie treated her news in aggravatingly lukewarm manner.
Mildred realised with chagrin that her thrilling description had failed
to arouse anything like the interest which she expected. Even the
congratulations which followed were wanting in fervour, as though the
presentation of a watch and chain were an everyday occurrence.
"_And now, dear, I have something interesting to tell you_," the letter
went on, when the subject of Mildred's own adventures had been dismissed
in a few cursory sentences; and as she read the words, the girl tossed
her head with a gesture of impatience.
"Interesting indeed! What does she call _my_ news?--A robbery,--a
capture,--a quarrel,--a reconciliation,--a watch and chain! She has
nothing half so interesting to tell me, I am sure." Mildred changed her
mind, however, before she finished reading Miss Margaret's letter.
And now, dear, I have something interesting to tell you. You remember
the story about my friend, the planter in Ceylon, whose crop of
cinchona died down so disastrously? I told it to you the night when
you were so distressed about not being able to go home for the
holidays. You said at the time that this disappointment was different
to yours, because it had not affected my own personal happiness; but
you were wrong, Mildred dear, for if that crop had been a success,
instead of a failure, I should have been the planter's wife long ago,
and you would not have had "Mardie" at Milvern House! Years have
passed since then, but now things look brighter, though there is no
prospect of a second fortune, and I am going to live in Ceylon,
Mildred, in the very bungalow of which we spoke together.
I am afraid you will not find me at school when you return after the
holidays, for we are going to be married very soon; but Mr Lytton
will be in England for six months to come, and that wonderful person,
his future wife, will, I feel sure, pay many visits to Milvern House,
to see the dear girls whose affection has been a comfort to her during
the days of her loneliness. Are you very much surprised, Mildred?
You must write and tell me what you think of my great news, and tell
Bertha and Lois to write too. By the way, Mr Lytton brought a friend
to call upon me the other day, a Mr Muir, who is a neighbour in
Ceylon. He told me that he had met you at a picnic the other day, and
intrusted me with a message which I was to give the next time I wrote:
"Give Miss Mildred my love, and tell her that I am quite of her
opinion." What did he mean, dear? I am curious.
Mildred gave a loud shriek of excitement when she came to that thrilling
word "wife", the effect of which was to bring Bertha and Lois flying to
peer over her shoulder. Together the three girls read the letter,
together they gasped, and groaned, and exclaimed, together they burst
into a chorus of lamentation when the end was reached.
"School without Mardie!"
"Lessons without Mardie!"
"Milvern House without Mardie! Oh, oh, oh! how shall we bear it?"
"I hate Mr Lytton!" cried Mildred vindictively, then repenting; "at
least, I don't exactly mean that. It is only natural that he should
want Mardie if he can get her; but I call him selfish. What are _we_ to
do, I should like to know?"
"Perhaps he would think we were selfish to want to keep her to
ourselves," said Bertha pensively. "I am glad that Mardie is going to
be happy, but I can't imagine school without her. Who will welcome the
new girls, and comfort them when they are homesick? Who will take us
out on half-holidays, and read aloud in the evening? Who will nurse us
when we are ill?"
"Who will have her room when she is gone? I can't think how she can
find it in her heart to leave that sweet little room!" cried Lois, in
her turn. "But she must be anxious to go, I suppose, or she would not
have promised to marry him."
"I wouldn't like to live in a country where you met snakes when you went
out for afternoon strolls; but I think Indian people are nice," declared
Mildred. "That Mr Muir had such a nice, sunburnt face, and such kind,
twinkling eyes! If Mardie's husband is like that, I'll forgive him for
taking her away. But I'll work like a slave, so as to be able to leave
school as soon as possible. `Mrs Lytton!' Gracious! We shall have to
give her a present. I wish the wedding were not quite so soon, for I
have only two and twopence in the world. Perhaps we could join
together."
"I think it would be a good thing if the whole school joined, and gave
her something really handsome--a dressing-bag, for instance."
"Oh, not a dressing-bag. She would use that on the voyage, and perhaps
not again for two or three years. We ought to choose something that she
would need every day. A clock would be nice," and Mildred jingled her
watch-chain with an air of proud possession.
"I think a ring would be better than either," said Lois; and the
discussion went on with unabated energy for the next half-hour, when it
was abandoned to allow the disputants to write letters of hearty, though
somewhat lugubrious, congratulation, to the bride-elect.
Mildred had no sooner finished her letter than she ran upstairs to spend
half an hour with Lady Sarah in her bedroom. The compact of friendship
which had been made a few days earlier had been kept all the more
faithfully on the girl's part because the old lady had been suffering
from the effect of shock and excitement, and had been confined to bed
for several days. Mary the housemaid was deputed to act as maid in the
place of the unhappy Cecile, but half a dozen times a day Mildred would
go into the room to rearrange the pillows, and enliven the invalid with
her bright, sunshiny presence. Lady Sarah always welcomed her with a
smile, and never allowed her to depart without the earnest "Come back
soon!" which sounded sweetly in the girl's ear. She was growing really
fond of the old lady, and adopted little airs of authority in the
sick-room which amused and fascinated the onlookers.
On the present occasion she despatched Mary downstairs to tea, and
seated herself on the end of the bed, with her hair falling in showers
over her shoulders, and her hands clasped round her knees. A fortnight
ago Lady Sarah would have exclaimed at the inelegance of the position,
but to-day her gaze rested upon the girlish figure as if the sight were
pleasant in her eyes. She herself looked thin and shaken, but the
kindly expression transformed her face, and the soft, white hair was
much more becoming than the elaborate wig which she was in the habit of
wearing. Mildred felt very strongly on this point, and did not hesitate
to put her thoughts into words.
"If you are going to be _my_ old lady I shall insist upon burning that
ugly, brown wig!" she said this afternoon. "I love old ladies with
white hair, and yours is prettier than any imitation. When you get up I
am going to arrange it for you over a cushion in front, and with a
pretty piece of lace falling over the back. I don't think the brown
hair suits you a bit, and it looks so frizzled up and artificial. You
don't mind my saying so--do you?" she concluded in an artless manner
which made Lady Sarah smile in spite of herself.
"No, my dear, no! Whatever please you. It is a long time since anyone
took an interest in my appearance. But it will be awkward. People will
make remarks--"
"What will that matter, when they will only say that you look twice as
nice? Of course everyone knew quite well that it was a wig," said
Mildred, with an unconscious cruelty at which Lady Sarah winced. When
the latter spoke again, however, it was to make a request which showed
that she cherished no resentment.
"I have been wondering, Mildred, if you would spend the remainder of
your holidays with me in Scotland. The Faucits leave for Switzerland
next week, Miss Chilton will be busy preparing for the wedding of which
you have just told me, and your mother's house will be closed for three
weeks to come. I have taken rooms in an hotel at Pitlochry, and I
should like very much to have you with me. It is a lovely spot, and
there will be other young people in the house. You would not be
dependent upon me for society. Do you think you could make up your mind
to come?"
"I should have to ask Mother first, but if she said yes, I could--quite
easily," returned Mildred. She clasped her fingers more tightly
together and sat pondering over this latest extraordinary development of
affairs--that Lady Sarah should invite her, of all people in the world,
to pay her a visit, and that she should be willing to accept such an
invitation. If anyone had prophesied as much a fortnight before, how
she would have scoffed and jeered, and what sheets of explanation it
would take to convince the dear little mother that Lady Sarah was not
the ogress which she had been represented, and that she might be trusted
to treat her guest with kindness!
"What are you thinking of, Mildred?" asked Lady Sarah, watching the
changes in the girl's expression with curious eyes, and Mildred answered
with her usual frankness.
"I was thinking how strange it was that we should be such good friends,
when we used to dislike each other so much! You were cross to me,--I
was rude to you, and we were always disagreeing! I think I annoyed you
the very first night I arrived. You seemed vexed because I was late."
"I never disliked you, child. If I seemed to do so, it was because I
have grown into the unfortunate habit of fault-finding. On the contrary
there is something about you which has always attracted me. I don't
know what it is--something in your voice, your laugh, your movements,
which brings back memories of my youth. What a long, long way off it
seems!--like another life,--and of all that large family of boys and
girls there is not one left alive but myself! I am a lonely old woman,
Mildred!"
"But there is no need that you should be! There are so many people in
the world who need a friend, and you are rich--you can do kind things
every day in the year! I have often thought how nice it would be to be
a dear old lady with curls, and a beautiful big house, and lots of
money. It is one of my castles in the air. I would be a sort of fairy
godmother to poor people; help struggling young geniuses, pretty girls
who had to work for their living, and old women in dingy lodgings. If I
had no people of my own, I would go outside to find them, for I couldn't
live alone, with no one to love me, and nothing to think of but myself!
I couldn't do it!"
Mildred looked at Lady Sarah with wistful eyes, as if demanding sympathy
for the very thought. She did not know that older people than herself
had long been struggling for courage to impress these views of life upon
her companion, and was guiltless of pointing a moral. Lady Sarah
listened, however, and pondered on her words without being in the least
offended. She was never offended at anything that Mildred said or did
in these latter days; she seemed to have opened her heart to the girl
with an unreserved affection which made Mrs Faucit very hopeful of the
future.
She said as much in the letter to Mrs Moore which accompanied Lady
Sarah's invitation.
I hope very much that you will allow Mildred to accept Lady Sarah's
invitation, _she wrote_, for I believe the friendship which has grown
up between them will be of mutual benefit. Lady Sarah has an
unfortunate manner, but I have always believed in her warmth of heart,
and she has fallen deeply in love with your dear, bright girl. They
were not at all good friends at first, as you will doubtless have
heard, but circumstances have drawn them together, and I can see that
each is already beginning to exercise a beneficial influence over the
character of the other. Mildred's sunshiny influence is smoothing the
wrinkles from the poor old lady's face, and the knowledge that one so
old and frail relies upon her for comfort, will, I am sure, overcome
the temptation to hastiness which she is ever bemoaning. I don't
wonder at Lady Sarah's infatuation, for we are all in love with the
dear child. She has been the life of our quiet house. I hope we may
see much of her in the future.
Mrs Moore received this letter, and the invitation which accompanied
it, one hot afternoon as she sat in the fever room with her patient.
Robbie was an invalid no longer, except in name--he was up and clothed
and in his right mind; able to amuse himself by painting frescoes on the
wall, and to scrub his obstinate little heels with pumice stone, after
the morning and evening baths. Mrs Moore read her letters through
once, twice, and yet again; then she laid them down upon the table, took
her handkerchief from her pocket, and very quietly and deliberately
began to cry.
She was a merry little mother as a rule, in spite of her anxieties, and
had played the mountebank for Robbie's benefit with such success during
the last few weeks, that he was aghast at the sudden change of mood.
He gave a roar like a wounded bull, and rushing forward, burrowed his
head on her knee.
"Don't ky! don't ky!" he cried, "I'll never do it again! never do it
again!" for conscience pricked concerning a dozen mischievous freaks,
and he was convinced that it was his own wickedness which had brought
about this outburst of distress.
His mother seized him by the arm and stared into his face with eager
eyes. She was the prettiest little mother in the world, and Mildred did
well to be proud of her.
"Robbie!" she cried excitedly, "am I a good mother? Have I been kind to
you? Do you love me with all your heart?"
Robbie pranced about in an agony of emotion.
"Boo--hoo--hoo! Yes, I does! Boo--hoo--"
"And supposing a rich old lady came one day--very, very rich, Robbie--
with houses, and gardens, and carriages, and horses, and ponies--
beautiful little, long-tailed ponies, and she said, `Come and live with
me, Robbie, and be my own little boy?' What would you say? Would you
go away and leave poor Mother all alone?"
"No--ow--ow! Don't wants no old ladies! Kick a nasty old pony over the
wall!"
The more his mother wept, the louder Robbie roared. They clung together
sobbing and crying until the sound penetrated to the lower regions, and
the maid-of-all-work crept up the uncarpeted stair and listened, agape
with horror.
Then suddenly Mrs Moore shook Robbie off, bounded out of the room, and
called to the servant to run down the road to summon Mrs Ross to come
at once--at once, and to bring pencil and paper, so that she might write
down the words of a letter to be dictated from an upper window.
It was easy to see from whom Mildred had inherited her impetuosity.
Poor Mrs Ross was bewildered by the torrent of words which were hurled
at her head the moment she arrived. She was obliged to write four
separate letters before Mrs Moore was satisfied that she had said the
right thing in the right way.
The letter seemed fated to cause excitement from beginning to end. When
it arrived at The Deanery, Lady Sarah put up her eye-glasses to read it,
only to drop them a moment later with a cry of astonishment. She
gasped, and panted, and gasped, and panted again, while the other
occupants of the room stared aghast, not knowing what to make of such
behaviour.
"M-M-Mildred!" she cried, and when the girl advanced to her side, she
clasped her in a passionate embrace. "Mildred, Mildred, do you know who
you are? My own little niece--my grand-niece,--Mary's child! I knew
there was something familiar about you--I felt it! I have said so over
and over again, and now Mary writes,--poor Mary! You always spoke of me
as `Lady Sarah', and she never dreamt that it was I. She has been
living in the depths of the country and has never heard of my husband's
honours. She was unmarried when I saw her last--"
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" cried Mildred shrilly, clasping her hands together in
excitement, "It was you! You were the rich aunt! Oh, how dreadfully
romantic! Then you are my aunt, too. `Aunt Sarah!' Goodness me, who
would ever have dreamt of such a thing! And Mother says,--what does
Mother say?"
"She seems afraid, poor thing, that I shall try to take you from her, as
I wished to separate her from her parents long ago; but be satisfied,
Mildred, I have learned a lesson since those days. I shall not try to
take you from your mother!"
"I am glad of that, because it would be such a waste of time," said
Mildred promptly. "Besides, you must come and see Mother yourself, and
get to know the whole family. You can never call yourself lonely again,
Lady Sarah, for you will have a niece, and five grand-nieces, and a
grand-nephew. The grand-nephew is more important than all the rest put
together. Oh-h!" she gazed round the room with big, bewildered eyes, "I
can't believe it. My aunt! Your niece! If someone doesn't pinch me
this moment, I shall believe I am asleep and dreaming. Mrs Faucit,--
Bertha,--Lois,--do you believe it? Do I look at all altered? Lady
Sarah's niece! I--I suppose it doesn't make any difference in my name,
does it? If I have come into a title, break it to me gently, please! I
can't bear much more excitement!"
"Oh, Mildred!" cried the twins in chorus. Mrs Faucit laughed merrily,
and Lady Sarah looked round with an air of triumph.
"Ah, my dear, you may take after your father in appearance, but you are
your grandmother over again in disposition! My sister Edyth--the
brightest, merriest girl! She was my friend and companion; no one knew
what I suffered when she went away and left us. Your mother is like
her, Mildred--small and dark. It was the resemblance which drew me to
her, but she refused to leave home, and I went off to China and we lost
sight of each other. I was too proud to inquire what had become of her
when I came home, but I have often thought of her. Blood is thicker
than water, and I have longed for some of my own kith and kin to be near
me in my old age. She is poor, you say, Mildred? Well, well!" Lady
Sarah nodded her head in a mysterious fashion, which seemed to argue a
hundred delightful possibilities.
So it came to pass that Mildred went to Scotland with Lady Sarah, and
when Robbie was out of quarantine, returned home in company with the old
lady, who was almost as much excited at the meeting with Mrs Moore as
the girl was herself. Aunt and niece had many consultations together,
the result of which was that Mrs Moore and her children bade farewell
to their cottage home, and went to live in a pretty house situated just
outside the gates of Lady Sarah's country seat. Here they were near
enough to be a comfort and cheer to the old lady during her last days,
and not too near to become a burden, or to allow the children to disturb
her rest.
Lady Sarah took a great interest in her grand-nephew, and in every one
of the five grand-nieces, and treated them all with equal generosity,
but Mildred was her darling and chosen companion.
The girl spent the greater part of every day up at the big house, and
though many people shook their heads, and argued ill of such a
friendship, it endured unbroken to the end. By this it is not meant to
imply that their lives flow on evenly, without discord or
misunderstanding. Quite the contrary. Neither aunt nor niece changed
their disposition in a moment; Lady Sarah's fretfulness often proved
very trying to Mildred's temper, just as the old lady in her turn was
overpowered by the girl's impetuous ways. Old age and youth cannot live
together without such trials as these, but they had one grand point in
common which never failed to bring them together--they loved each other,
and love is the sweetest of peacemakers. Lady Sarah would remember her
own youth, and check the hasty words on her lip. Mildred, fretting and
fuming, would suddenly bethink herself how sad it must be to be always
tired and ailing, and struggle hard for patience. A glance on one side,
a word on the other, and the disagreement would be over, while each
peacemaking taught a new lesson, and left more strength for the future.
Mrs Moore and her children had much cause to bless the day when Lady
Sarah became their friend, but when at last death took her away from
their side, none of the good things which she inherited could console
Mildred for the loss of the dear, cross, old lady whom she had grown to
love so truly.
The End.