The actual moment of a parting is often softened by the confusion of
departure. That of the Merrifield family took place at the junction,
where Lady Merrifield with her brother remained in the train, to be
carried on to London.
Gillian, Valetta, and Fergus, with their aunt, changed into a train for
Rockstone, and Harry was to return to his theological college, after
seeing Mysie and Primrose off with nurse on their way to the ancestral
Beechcroft, whence Mysie was to be fetched to Rotherwood. The last thing
that met Lady Merrifield’s eyes was Mrs. Halfpenny gesticulating wildly,
under the impression that Mysie’s box was going off to London.
And Gillian’s tears were choked in the scurry to avoid a
smoking-carriage, while Harry could not help thinking--half blaming
himself for so doing--that Mysie expended more feeling in parting with
Sofy, the kitten, than with her sisters, not perceiving that pussy was
the safety-valve for the poor child’s demonstrations of all the sorrow
that was oppressing her.
Gillian, in the corner of a Rockstone carriage, had time for the full
heart-sickness and tumult of fear that causes such acute suffering to
young hearts. It is quite a mistake to say that youth suffers less from
apprehension than does age; indeed, the very inexperience and novelty
add to the alarms, where there is no background of anxieties that have
ended happily, only a crowd of examples of other people’s misfortunes.
The difference is in the greater elasticity and power of being
distracted by outward circumstances; and thus lookers-on never guess
at the terrific possibilities that have scared the imagination, and the
secret ejaculations that have met them. How many times on that brief
journey had not Gillian seen her father dying, her sisters in despair,
her mother crushed in the train, wrecked in the steamer, perishing of
the climate, or arriving to find all over and dying of the shock; yet
all was varied by speculations on the great thing that was to offer
itself to be done, and the delight it would give, and when the train
slackened, anxieties were merged in the care for bags, baskets, and
umbrellas.
Rockstone and Rockquay had once been separate places--a little village
perched on a cliff of a promontory, and a small fishing hamlet within
the bay, but these had become merged in one, since fashion had chosen
them as a winter resort. Speculators blasted away such of the rocks as
they had not covered with lodging-houses and desirable residences. The
inhabitants of the two places had their separate churches, and knew
their own bounds perfectly well; but to the casual observer, the chief
distinction between them was that Rockstone was the more fashionable,
Rockquay the more commercial, although the one had its shops, the other
its handsome crescents and villas. The station was at Rockquay, and
there was an uphill drive to reach Rockstone, where the two Miss Mohuns
had been early inhabitants--had named their cottage Beechcroft after
their native home, and, to justify the title, had flanked the gate with
two copper beeches, which had attained a fair growth, in spite of sea
winds, perhaps because sheltered by the house on the other side.
The garden reached out to the verge of the cliff, or rather to a low
wall, with iron rails and spikes at the top, and a narrow, rather giddy
path beyond. There was a gate in the wall, the key of which Aunt Jane
kept in her own pocket, as it gave near access to certain rocky steps,
about one hundred and thirty in number, by which, when in haste, the
inhabitants of Rockstone could descend to the lower regions of the Quay.
There was a most beautiful sea-view from the house, which compensated
for difficulties in gardening in such a situation, though a very slight
slope inwards from the verge of the cliff gave some protection to the
flower-beds; and there was not only a little conservatory attached to
the drawing-room at the end, but the verandah had glass shutters, which
served the purpose of protecting tender plants, and also the windows,
from the full blast of the winter storms. Miss Mohun was very proud
of these shutters, which made a winter garden of the verandah for Miss
Adeline to take exercise in. The house was their own, and, though it
aimed at no particular beauty, had grown pleasant and pretty looking by
force of being lived in and made comfortable.
It was a contrast to its neighbours on either side of its pink and gray
limestone wall. On one side began the grounds of the Great Rockstone
Hotel; on the other was Cliff House, the big and seldom-inhabited house
of one of the chief partners in the marble works, which went on on the
other side of the promontory, and some people said would one day consume
Rockstone altogether. It was a very fine house, and the gardens were
reported to be beautifully kept up, but the owner was almost always in
Italy, and had so seldom been at Rockstone that it was understood that
all this was the ostentation of a man who did not know what to do with
his money.
Aunt Adeline met the travellers at the door with her charming welcome.
Kunz, all snowy white, wagged his tight-curled tail amid his barks, at
sight of Aunt Jane, but capered wildly about the Sofy’s basket, much
to Valetta’s agony; while growls, as thunderous as a small kitten could
produce, proceeded therefrom.
‘Kunz, be quiet,’ said Aunt Jane, in a solemn, to-be-minded voice, and
he crouched, blinking up with his dark eye.
‘Give me the basket. Now, Kunz, this is our cat. Do you hear? You are
not to meddle with her.’
Did Kunz really wink assent--a very unwilling assent?
‘Oh, Aunt Jane!’ from Val, as her aunt’s fingers undid the cover of the
basket.
‘Once for all!’ said Aunt Jane.
‘M-m-m-m-ps-pss-psss!’ from the Sofy, two screams from Val and Fergus, a
buffeting of paws, a couple of wild bounds, first on a chair-back, then
on the mantelpiece, where, between the bronze candlestick and the vase,
the Persian philosopher stood hissing and swearing, while Kunz danced
about and barked.
‘Take her down, Gillian,’ said Aunt Jane; and Gillian, who had some
presence of mind, accomplished it with soothing words, and, thanks to
her gloves, only one scratch.
Meantime Miss Mohun caught up Kunz, held up her finger to him, stopped
his barks; and then, in spite of the ‘Oh, don’ts,’ and even the tears of
Valetta, the two were held up--black nose to pink nose, with a resolute
‘Now, you are to behave well to each other, from Aunt Jane.
Kunz sniffed, the Sofy hissed; but her claws were captive. The dog was
the elder and more rational, and when set down again took no more
notice of his enemy, whom Valetta was advised to carry into Mrs. Mount’s
quarters to be comforted and made at home there; the united voice of the
household declaring that the honour of the Spitz was as spotless as his
coat!
Such was the first arrival at Rockstone, preceding even Aunt Adeline’s
inquiries after Mysie, and the full explanation of the particulars of
the family dispersion. Aunt Ada’s welcome was not at all like that of
Kunz. She was very tender and caressing, and rejoiced that her sister
could trust her children to her. They should all get on most happily
together, she had no doubt.
True-hearted as Gillian was, there was something hopeful and refreshing
in the sight of that fair, smiling face, and the touch of the soft hand,
in the room that was by no means unfamiliar, though she had never slept
in the house before. It was growing dark, and the little fire lighted
it up in a friendly manner. Wherever Aunt Jane was, everything was neat;
wherever Aunt Adeline was, everything was graceful. Gillian was old
enough to like the general prettiness; but it somewhat awed Val and
Fergus, who stood straight and shy till they were taken upstairs. The
two girls had a very pretty room and dressing-room--the guest chamber,
in fact; and Fergus was not far off, in a small apartment which, as Val
said, ‘stood on legs,’ and formed the shelter of the porch.
‘But, oh dear! oh dear!’ sighed Val, as Gillian unpacked their evening
garments, ‘Isn’t there any nice place at all where one can make a mess?’
‘I don’t know whether the aunts will ever let us make a mess,’ said
Gillian; ‘they don’t look like it.’
At which Valetta’s face puckered up in the way only too familiar to her
friends.
‘Come, don’t be silly, Val. You won’t have much time, you know; you will
go to school, and get some friends to play with, and not want to make
messes here.’
‘I hate friends!’
‘Oh, Val!’
‘All but Fly, and Mysie is gone to her. I want Mysie.’
So in truth did Gillian, almost as much as her mother. Her heart sank
as she thought of having Val and Fergus to save from scrapes without
Mysie’s readiness and good humour. If Mysie were but there she should
be free for her ‘great thing.’ And oh! above all, Val’s hair--the brown
bush that Val had a delusion that she ‘did’ herself, but which her
‘doing’ left looking rather worse than it did before, and which was not
permitted in public to be in the convenient tail. Gillian advanced on
her with the brush, but she tossed it and declared it all right!
However, at that moment there was a knock. Mrs. Mount’s kindly face and
stout form appeared. She had dressed Miss Ada and came to see what she
could do for the young people, being of that delightful class of old
servants who are charmed to have anything young in the house, especially
a boy. She took Valetta’s refractory mane in hand, tied her sash,
inspected Fergus’s hands, which had succeeded in getting dirty in their
inevitable fashion, and undertook all the unpacking and arranging. To
Val’s inquiry whether there was any place for making ‘a dear delightful
mess’ she replied with a curious little friendly smile, and wonder that
a young lady should want such a thing.
‘I’m afraid we are all rather strange specimens of young ladies,’
replied Gillian; ‘very untidy, I mean.’
‘And I’m sure I don’t know what Miss Mohun and Miss Ada will say’ said
good Mrs. Mount.
‘What’s that? What am I to say?’ asked Aunt Jane, coming into the room.
But, after all, Aunt Jane proved to have more sympathy with ‘messes’
than any of the others. She knew very well that the children would be
far less troublesome if they had a place to themselves, and she said,
‘Well, Val, you shall have the boxroom in the attics. And mind, you must
keep all your goods there, both of you. If I find them about the house,
I shall--’
‘Oh, what, Aunt Jane?’
‘Confiscate them,’ was the reply, in a very awful voice, which impressed
Fergus the more because he did not understand the word.
‘You need not look so much alarmed, Fergus,’ said Gillian; ‘you are not
at all the likely one to transgress.’
‘No,’ said Valetta gravely. ‘Fergus is what Lois calls a regular old
battledore.’
‘I won’t be called names,’ exclaimed Fergus.
‘Well, Lois said so--when you were so cross because the poker had got
on the same side as the tongs! She said she never saw such an old
battledore, and you know how all the others took it up.’
‘Shuttlecock yourself then!’ angrily responded Fergus, while both aunt
and sister were laughing too much to interfere.
‘I shall call you a little Uncle Maurice instead,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘How
things come round! Perhaps you would not believe, Gill, that Aunt Ada
was once in a scrape, when she was our Mrs. Malaprop, for applying that
same epithet on hearsay to Maurice.’
This laugh made Gillian feel more at home with her aunt, and they went
up happily together for the introduction to the lumber-room, not a very
spacious place, and with a window leading out to the leads. Aunt Jane
proceeded to put the children on their word of honour not to attempt to
make an exit thereby, which Gillian thought unnecessary, since this pair
were not enterprising.
The evening went off happily. Aunt Jane produced one of the old games
which had been played at the elder Beechcroft, and had a certain
historic character in the eyes of the young people. It was one of those
variations of the Game of the Goose that were once held to be improving,
and their mother had often told them how the family had agreed to prove
whether honesty is really the best policy, and how it had been agreed
that all should cheat as desperately as possible, except ‘honest Phyl,’
who _couldn’t_; and how, by some extraordinary combination, good for
their morals, she actually was the winner. It was immensely interesting
to see the identical much-worn sheet of dilapidated pictures with the
padlock, almost close to the goal, sending the counter back almost
to the beginning in search of the key. Still more interesting was the
imitation, in very wonderful drawing, devised by mamma, of the career
of a true knight--from pagedom upwards--in pale watery Prussian-blue
armour, a crimson scarf, vermilion plume, gamboge spurs, and very
peculiar arms and legs. But, as Valetta observed, it must have been much
more interesting to draw such things as that than stupid freehand lines
and twists with no sense at all in them.
Aunt Ada, being subject to asthmatic nights, never came down to
breakfast, and, indeed, it was at an hour that Gillian thought fearfully
early; but her Aunt Jane was used to making every hour of the day
available, and later rising would have prevented the two children from
being in time for the schools, to which they were to go on the Monday.
Some of Aunt Jane’s many occupations on Saturday consisted in arranging
with the two heads of their respective schools, and likewise for the
mathematical class Gillian was to join at the High School two mornings
in the week, and for her lessons on the organ, which were to be at St.
Andrew’s Church. Somehow Gillian felt as if she were as entirely in her
aunt’s hands as Kunz and the Sofy had been!
After the early dinner, which suited the invalid’s health, Aunt Jane
said she would take Valetta and Fergus to go down to the beach with the
little Varleys, while she went to her district, leaving Gillian to read
to Aunt Ada for half an hour, and then to walk with her for a quiet turn
on the beach.
It was an amusing article in a review that Gillian was set to read, and
she did it so pleasantly that her aunt declared that she looked forward
to many such afternoon pastimes, and then, by an easier way than
the hundred and a half steps, they proceeded down the hill, the aunt
explaining a great deal to the niece in a manner very gratifying to a
girl beginning to be admitted to an equality with grown-up people.
‘There is our old church,’ said Aunt Ada, as they had a glimpse of a
gray tower with a curious dumpy steeple.
‘Do you go to church there!’
‘I do--always. I could not undertake the hill on Sundays; but Jane takes
the school-children to the St. Andrew’s service in the afternoon.’
‘But which is the parish church?’
‘In point of fact, my dear; it is all one parish. Good morning, Mr.
Hablot. My niece, Miss Gillian Merrifield. Yes, my sister is come
home. I think she will be at the High School. He is the vicar of St.
Andrew’s,’ as the clergyman went off in the direction of the steps.
‘I thought you said it was all one parish.’
‘St. Andrew’s is only a district. Ah, it was all before your time, my
dear.’
‘I know dear Uncle Claude was the clergyman here, and got St. Andrew’s
built.’
‘Yes, my dear. It was the great work and thought with him and Lord
Rotherwood in those days that look so bright now,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘Yes,
and with us all.’
‘Do tell me all about it,’ entreated Gillian; and her aunt, nothing
loth, went on.
‘Dear Claude was only five-and-twenty when he had the living. Nobody
would take it, it was such a neglected place. All Rockquay down there
had grown up with only the old church, and nobody going to it. It was
a great deal through Rotherwood. Some property here came to him, and
he was shocked at the state of things. Then we all thought the climate
might be good for dear Claude, and Jane came to live with him and help
him, and look after him. You see there were a great many of us, and
Jane--well, she didn’t quite get on with Alethea, and Claude thought she
wanted a sphere of her own, and that is the way she comes to have more
influence than any one else here. And as I am always better in this
air than anywhere else, I came soon after--even before my dear fathers
death. And oh! what an eager, hopeful time it was, setting everything
going, and making St. Andrew’s all we could wish! We were obliged to
be cautious at the old church, you know, because of not alarming the
old-fashioned people. And so we are still--’
‘Is that St. Andrew’s? Oh, it is beautiful. May I look in?’
‘Not now, my dear. You will see it another time.’
‘I wish it were our church.’
‘You will find the convenience of having one so near. And our services
are very nice with our present rector, Mr. Ellesmere, an excellent
active man, but his wife is such an invalid that all the work falls on
Jane. I am so glad you are here to help her a little. St. Andrew’s has a
separate district, and Mr. Hablot is the vicar; but as it is very poor,
we keep the charities all in one. Rotherwood built splendid schools,
so we only have an infant school for the Rockstone children. On Sunday,
Jane assembles the older children there and takes them to church; but
in the afternoon they all go to the National Schools, and then to
a children’s service at St. Andrew’s. She gets on so well with Mr.
Hablot--he was dear Claude’s curate, you see, and little Mrs. Hablot was
quite a pupil of ours. What do you think little Gerald Hablot said--he
is only five--“Isn’t Miss Mohun the most consultedest woman in
Rockquay?”’
‘I suppose it is true,’ said Gillian, laughing, but rather awestruck.
‘I declare it makes me quite giddy to count up all she has on her
hands. Nobody can do anything without her. There are so few permanent
inhabitants, and when people begin good works, they go away, or marry,
or grow tired, and then we can’t let them drop!’
‘Oh! what’s that pretty spire, on the rise of the other hill?’
‘My dear, that was the Kennel Mission Chapel, a horrid little hideous
iron thing, but Lady Flight mistook and called it St. Kenelm’s, and St.
Kenelm’s it will be to the end of the chapter.’ And as she exchanged
bows with a personage in a carriage, ‘There she is, my dear.’
‘Who? Did she build that church?’
‘It is not consecrated. It really is only a mission chapel, and he is
nothing but a curate of Mr. Hablot’s,’ said Aunt Ada, Gillian thought a
little venomously.
She asked, ‘Who?’
‘The Reverend Augustine Flight, my dear. I ought not to say anything
against them, I am sure, for they mean to be very good; but she is some
City man’s widow, and he is an only son, and they have more money than
their brains can carry. They have made that little place very beautiful,
quite oppressed with ornament--City taste, you know, and they have all
manner of odd doings there, which Mr. Hablot allows, because he says he
does not like to crush zeal, and he thinks interference would do more
harm than good. Jane thinks he ought not to stand so much, but--’
Gillian somehow felt a certain amusement and satisfaction in finding
that Aunt Jane had one disobedient subject, but they were interrupted
by two ladies eagerly asking where to find Miss Mohun, and a few steps
farther on a young clergyman accosted them, and begged that Miss Mohun
might be told the hour of some meeting. Also that ‘the Bellevue Church
people would not co-operate in the coal club.’
Then it was explained that Bellevue Church was within the bounds of
another parish, and had been built by, and for, people who did not like
the doctrine at the services of St. Andrew’s.
By this time aunt and niece had descended to the Marine esplanade, a
broad road, on one side of which there was a low sea wall, and then the
sands and rocks stretched out to the sea, on the other a broad space
of short grass, where there was a cricket ground, and a lawn-tennis
ground, and the volunteers could exercise, and the band played twice a
week round a Russian gun that stood by the flagstaff.
The band was playing now, and the notes seemed to work on Gillian’s
feet, and yet to bring her heart into her throat, for the last time she
had heard that march was from the band of her father’s old regiment,
when they were all together!
Her aunt was very kind, and talked to her affectionately and
encouragingly of the hopes that her mother would find her father
recovering, and that it would turn out after all quite an expedition of
pleasure and refreshment. Then she said how much she rejoiced to have
Gillian with her, as a companion to herself, while her sister was so
busy, and she was necessarily so much left alone.
‘We will read together, and draw, and play duets, and have quite a good
account of our employment to give,’ she said, smiling.
‘I shall like it very much,’ said Gillian heartily.
‘Dear child, the only difficulty will be that you will spoil me, and I
shall never be able to part with you. Besides, you will be such a help
to my dear Jane. She never spares herself, you know, and no one ever
spares her, and I can do so little to help her, except with my head.’
‘Surely here are plenty of people,’ said Gillian, for they were in the
midst of well-dressed folks, and Aunt Ada had more than once exchanged
nods and greetings.
‘Quite true, my dear; but when there is anything to be done, then there
is a sifting! But now we have you, with all our own Lily’s spirit, I
shall be happy about Jane for this winter at least.
They were again interrupted by meeting a gentleman and lady, to whom
Gillian was introduced, and who walked on with her aunt conversing. They
had been often in India, and made so light of the journey that Gillian
was much cheered. Moreover, she presently came in sight of Val and
Fergus supremely happy over a castle on the beach, and evidently
indoctrinating the two little Varleys with some of the dramatic sports
of Silverfold.
Aunt Ada found another acquaintance, a white moustached old gentleman,
who rose from a green bench in a sunny corner, saying, ‘Ah, Miss Mohun,
I have been guarding your seat for you.’
‘Thank you, Major Dennis. My niece, Miss Merrifield.’
He seemed to be a very courteous old gentleman, for he bowed, and made
some polite speech about Sir Jasper, and, as he was military, Gillian
hoped to have heard some more about the journey when they sat down,
and room was made for her; but instead of that he and her aunt began a
discussion of the comings and goings of people she had never heard of,
and the letting or not letting of half the villas in Rockstone; and she
found it so dull that she had a great mind to go and join the siege of
Sandcastle. Only her shoes and her dress were fitter for the esplanade
than the shore with the tide coming in; and when one has just begun to
buy one’s own clothes, that is a consideration.
At last she saw Aunt Jane’s trim little figure come out on the sands
and make as straight for the children as she could, amid greetings and
consultations, so with an exclamation, she jumped up and went over
the shingle to meet them, finding an endeavour going on to make them
tolerably respectable for the walk home, by shaking off the sand, and
advising Val to give up her intention of dragging home a broad brown
ribbon of weed with a frilled edge, all polished and shiny with wet.
She was not likely to regard it as such a curiosity after a few days’
experience of Rockquay, as her new friends told her.
Kitty Varley went to the High School, which greatly modified Valetta’s
disgust to it, for the little girls had already vowed to be the greatest
chums in the world, and would have gone home with arms entwined, if Aunt
Jane had not declared that such things could not be done in the street,
and Clem Varley, with still more effect, threatened that if they were
such a pair of ninnies, he should squirt at them with the dirtiest water
he could find.
Valetta had declared that she infinitely preferred Kitty to Fly, and
Kitty was so flattered at being adopted by the second cousin of a Lady
Phyllis, and the daughter of a knight, that she exalted Val above
all the Popsys and Mopsys of her present acquaintance, and at parting
bestowed on her a chocolate cream, which tasted about equally of salt
water and hot hand--at least if one did not feel it a testimonial of
ardent friendship.
Fergus and Clement had, on the contrary, been so much inclined to punch
and buffet one another, that Miss Mohun had to make them walk before
her to keep the peace, and was by no means sorry when the gate of ‘The
Tamarisks’ was reached, and the Varleys could be disposed of.
However, the battery must have been amicable, for Fergus was crazy to
go in and see Clement’s little pump, which he declared ‘would do
it’--an enigmatical phrase supposed to refer to the great
peg-top-perpetual-motion invention. He was dragged away with difficulty
on the plea of its being too late by Aunt Jane, who could not quite turn
two unexpected children in on Mrs. Varley, and had to effect a cruel
severance of Val and Kitty in the midst of their kisses.
‘Sudden friendships,’ said Gillian, from the superiority of her age.
‘I do not think you are given that way,’ said Aunt Jane.
‘Does the large family suffice for all of you? People are so different,’
added Aunt Ada.
‘Yes,’ said Gillian. ‘We have never been in the way of caring for any
outsider. I don’t reckon Bessie Merrifield so--nor Fly Devereux, nor
Dolores, because they are cousins.’
‘Cousins may be everything or nothing,’ asserted Miss Mohun. ‘You have
been about so much that you have hardly had time to form intimacies. But
had you no friends in the officers’ families?’
‘People always retired before their children grew up to be
companionable, said Gillian. ‘There was nobody except the Whites. And
that wasn’t exactly friendship.’
‘Who were they?’ said Aunt Jane, who always liked to know all about
everybody.
‘He rose from the ranks,’ said Gillian. ‘He was very much respected, and
nobody would have known that he was not a gentleman to begin with. But
his wife was half a Greek. Papa said she had been very pretty; but, oh!
she had grown so awfully fat. We used to call her the Queen of the White
Ants. Then Kally--her name was really Kalliope--was very nice, and mamma
got them to send her to a good day-school at Dublin, and Alethea and
Phyllis used to have her in to try to make a lady of her. There used to
be a great deal of fun about their Muse, I remember; Claude thought her
very pretty, and always stood up for her, and Alethea was very fond of
her. But soon after we went to Belfast, Mr. White was made to retire
with the rank of captain. I think papa tried to get something for him
to do; but I am not sure whether he succeeded, and I don’t know any more
about them.’
‘Not exactly friendship, certainly,’ said Aunt Jane, smiling. ‘After
all, Gillian, in your short life, you have had wider experiences than
have befallen your old aunts!’
‘Wider, perhaps, not deeper, Jane,’ suggested Miss Adeline.
And Gillian thought--though she felt it would be too sentimental to
say--that in her life, persons and scenes outside her own family had
seemed to ‘come like shadows and so depart’; and there was a general
sense of depression at the partings, the anxiety, and the being
unsettled again when she was just beginning to have a home.