There had been no injunctions of secrecy, and though neither Miss Mohun
nor Gillian had publicly mentioned the subject, all Rockquay who cared
for the news knew by Sunday morning that Lady Merrifield’s two elder
daughters were engaged.
Gillian, in the course of writing her letters, had become somewhat
familiarised with the idea, and really looked forward to talking it over
with Kalliope. Though that young person could hardly be termed Alethea’s
best friend, it was certain that Alethea stood foremost with her, and
that her interest in the matter would be very loving.
Accordingly, Kalliope was at the place of meeting even before Gillian,
and anxiously she looked as she said--
‘May I venture--may I ask if it is true?’
‘True? Oh yes, Kally, I knew you would care.’
‘Indeed, I well may. There is no expressing how much I owe to dear Miss
Alethea and Lady Merrifield, and it is such a delight to hear of them.’
Accordingly, Gillian communicated the facts as she knew them, and
offered to give any message.
‘Only my dear love and congratulations,’ said Kalliope, with a little
sigh. ‘I should like to have written, but--’
‘But why don’t you, then?’
‘Oh no; she would be too much engaged to think of us, and it would only
worry her to be asked for her advice.’
‘I think I know what it is about,’ said Gillian.
‘How? Oh, how do you know? Did Mr. Flight say anything?’
‘Mr. Flight?’ exclaimed Gillian. ‘What has he to do with it?’
‘It was foolish, perhaps; but I did hope he might have helped Alexis,
and now he seems only to care for his music.’
‘Helped him! How?’
‘Perhaps it was unreasonable, but Alexis has always been to good
schools. He was getting on beautifully at Leeds, and we thought he would
have gained a scholarship and gone on to be a clergyman. That was what
his mind has always been fixed upon. You cannot think how good and
devoted he is,’ said Kalliope with a low trembling voice; ‘and my father
wished it very much too. But when the break-up came, Mr. White made our
not being too fine, as he said, to work, a sort of condition of doing
anything for us. Mr. Moore did tell him what Alexis is, but I believe he
thought it all nonsense, and there was nothing to be done. Alexis--dear
fellow--took it so nicely, said he was thankful to be able to help
mother, and if it was his duty and God’s will, it was sure to come
right; and he has been plodding away at the marble works ever since,
quite patiently and resolutely, but trying to keep up his studies in the
evening, only now he has worked through all his old school-books.’
‘And does not Mr. Flight know that I will help him?’
‘Well, Mr. Flight means to be kind, and sometimes seems to think much of
him; but it is all for his music, I am afraid. He is always wanting new
things to be learnt and practised, and those take up so much time; and
though he does lend us books, they are of no use for study, though they
only make the dear boy long and long the more to get on.’
‘Does not Mr. Flight know?’
‘I am not sure. I think he does; but in his ardour for music he seems
to forget all about it. It does seem such a pity that all Alexis’s time
should be wasted in this drudgery. If I could only be sure of more extra
work for my designs, I could set him free; and if Sir Jasper were
only at home, I am sure he would put the boy in the way of earning his
education. If it were only as a pupil teacher, he would be glad, but
then he says he ought not to throw all on me.’
‘Oh, he must be very good!’ exclaimed Gillian. ‘I am sure papa will help
him! I wish I could. Oh!’--with a sudden recollection--‘I wonder what
books he wants most. I am going to Silverfold to-morrow, and there are
lots of old school-books there of the boys’, doing nothing, that I know
he might have.’
‘Oh, Miss Gillian, how good of you! How delighted he would be!’
‘Do you know what he wants most?’
‘A Greek grammar and lexicon most of all,’ was the ready answer. ‘He has
been trying to find them at the second-hand shop ever so long, but I am
afraid there is no hope of a lexicon. They are so large and expensive.’
‘I think there is an old one of Jasper’s, if he would not mind its back
being off, and lots of blots.’
‘He would mind nothing. Oh, Miss Gillian, you can’t think how happy he
will be.
‘If there is anything else he wants very much, how could he let me
know?’ mused Gillian. ‘Oh, I see! What time are you at the works?’
‘Alex is there at seven; I don’t go till nine.’
‘I am to be at the station at 8.40. Could you or Maura meet me there and
tell me?’
To this Kalliope agreed, for she said she could be sure of getting to
her post in time afterwards, and she seemed quite overjoyed. No one
could look at her without perceiving that Alexis was the prime thought
of her heart, and Gillian delighted her by repeating Aunt Adeline’s
admiration of his profile, and the general opinion of his singing.
‘I am so sorry you have had to give it up,’ she added.
‘It can’t be helped,’ Kalliope said; ‘and I really have no time.’
‘But that’s not all,’ said Gillian, beginning to blush herself.
‘Oh! I hope there’s no gossip or nonsense about _that_,’ cried Kalliope,
her cheeks flaming.
‘Only--’
‘Not Maura? Naughty little girl, I did not think she knew anything. Not
that there is anything to tell,’ said Kalliope, much distressed; ‘but it
is dreadful that there should be such talk.’
‘I thought it was _that_ you meant when you said you wanted advice.’
‘No one could advise me, I am afraid,’ said the girl. ‘If we could only
go away from this place! But that’s impossible, and I dare say the fancy
will soon go off!’
‘Then you don’t care for him?’
‘My dear Miss Gillian, when I have seen _gentlemen_!’ said Kalliope, in
a tone that might have cured her admirer.
They had, however, talked longer than usual, and the notes of the
warning bell came up, just when Gillian had many more questions to ask,
and she had to run down the garden all in a glow with eagerness and
excitement, so that Aunt Ada asked if she had been standing in the sea
wind. Her affirmative was true enough, and yet she was almost ashamed of
it, as not the whole truth, and there was a consciousness about her all
the afternoon which made her soon regret that conversation was chiefly
absorbed by the younger one’s lamentations that they were not to
accompany her to Silverfold, and by their commissions. Fergus wanted a
formidable amount of precious tools, and inchoate machines, which Mrs.
Halfpenny had regarded as ‘mess,’ and utterly refused to let his aunts
be ‘fashed’ with; while Valetta’s orders were chiefly for the visiting
all the creatures, so as to bring an exact account of the health and
spirits of Rigdum Funnidos, etc., also for some favourite story-books
which she wished to lend to Kitty Varley and Maura White.
‘For do you know, Gill, Maura has never had a new story-book since mamma
gave her Little Alice and her Sister, when she was seven years old! Do
bring her Stories They Tell Me, and On Angel’s Wings.’
‘But is not that Mysie’s?’
‘Oh yes, but I know Mysie would let her have it. Mysie always let Maura
have everything of hers, because the boys teased her.’
‘I will bring it; but I think Mysie ought to be written to before it is
lent.’
‘That is right, Gillian,’ said Miss Mohun; ‘it is always wiser to be
above-board when dealing with other people’s things, even in trifles.’
Why did this sound like a reproach, and as if it implied suspicion that
Gillian was not acting on that principle? She resented the feeling. She
knew she might do as she liked with the boys’ old books, for which they
certainly had no affection, and which indeed her mother had talked of
offering to some of those charities which have a miscellaneous appetite,
and wonderful power of adaptation of the disused. Besides, though no one
could have the least objection to their being bestowed on the Whites,
the very fact of this being her third secret meeting with Kalliope was
beginning to occasion an awkwardness in accounting for her knowledge of
their needs. It was obvious to ask why she had not mentioned the first
meeting, and this her pride would not endure. She had told her parents
by letter. What more could be desired?
Again, when she would not promise to see either Miss Vincent or the Miss
Hackets, because ‘she did not want to have a fuss,’ Aunt Jane said she
thought it a pity, with regard at least to the governess, who might
feel herself hurt at the neglect, ‘and needless secrets are always
unadvisable.’
Gillian could hardly repress a wriggle, but her Aunt Ada laughed,
saying, ‘Especially with you about, Jenny, for you always find them
out.’
At present, however, Miss Mohun certainly had no suspicion. Gillian was
very much afraid she would think proper to come to the station in
the morning; but she was far too busy, and Gillian started off in
the omnibus alone with Mrs. Mount in handsome black silk trim, to be
presented to Mr. Macrae, and much enjoying the trip, having been well
instructed by Fergus and Valetta in air that she was to see.
Kalliope was descried as the omnibus stopped, and in a few seconds
Gillian had shaken hands with her, received the note, and heard the
ardent thanks sent from Alexis, and which the tattered books--even if
they proved to be right--would scarcely deserve. He would come with
his sister to receive the parcel at the station on Gillian’s return--at
5.29, an offer which obviated any further difficulties as to conveyance.
Mrs. Mount was intent upon the right moment to run the gauntlet for the
tickets; and had it been otherwise, would have seen nothing remarkable
in her charge being accosted by a nice-looking ladylike girl. So on they
rushed upon their way, Gillian’s spirits rising in a curious sense of
liberty and holiday-making.
In due time they arrived, and were received by Macrae with the pony
carriage, while the trees of Silverfold looked exquisite in their autumn
red, gold, and brown.
But the dreariness of the deserted house, with no one on the steps but
Quiz, and all the furniture muffled in sheets, struck Gillian more than
she had expected, though the schoolroom had been wakened up for her, a
bright fire on the hearth, and the cockatoo highly conversational,
the cats so affectionate that it was difficult to take a step without
stumbling over one of them.
When the business had all been despatched, the wedding veil disinterred,
and the best Brussels and Honiton safely disposed in a box, when an
extremely dilapidated and much-inked collection of school-books had been
routed out of the backstairs cupboard (commonly called Erebus) and duly
packed, when a selection of lighter literature had been made with a view
both to Valetta and Lilian; when Gillian had shown all she could to
Mrs. Mount, visited all the animals, gone round the garden, and made two
beautiful posies of autumn flowers, one for her little sister and the
other for Kalliope, discovered that Fergus’s precious machine had been
ruthlessly made away with, but secured his tools,--she found eating
partridge in solitary grandeur rather dreary work, though she had all
the bread-sauce to herself, and cream to her apple tart, to say nothing
of Macrae, waiting upon her as if she had been a duchess, and conversing
in high exultation upon the marriages, only regretting that one
gentleman should be a civilian; he had always augured that all his young
ladies would be in the Service, and begging that he might be made aware
of the wedding-day, so as to have the bells rung.
To express her own feelings to the butler was not possible, and his glee
almost infected her. She was quite sorry when, having placed a choice
of pears and October peaches before her, he went off to entertain Mrs.
Mount; and after packing a substratum of the fruit in the basket for the
Whites, she began almost to repent of having insisted on not returning
to Rockstone till the four o’clock train, feeling her solitary liberty
oppressive; and finally she found herself walking down the drive in
search of Miss Vincent.
She had to confess to herself that her aunt was quite right, and that
the omission would have been a real unkindness, when she saw how worn
and tired the governess looked, and the brightness that flashed over the
pale face at sight of her. Mrs. Vincent had been much worse, and though
slightly better for the present was evidently in a critical state, very
exhausting to her daughter.
Good Miss Hacket at that moment came in to sit with her, and send the
daughter out for some air; and it was well that Gillian had had some
practice in telling her story not too disconsolately, for it was
received with all the delight that the mere notion of a marriage
seems to inspire, though Phyllis and Alethea had scarcely been seen at
Silverfold before they had gone to India with their father.
Miss Hacket had to be content with the names before she hastened up
to the patient; but Miss Vincent walked back through the paddock with
Gillian, talking over what was more personally interesting to the
governess, the success of her own pupils, scattered as they were, and
comparing notes upon Mysie’s letters. One of these Miss Vincent had just
received by the second post, having been written to announce the great
news, and it continued in true Mysie fashion:--
‘Cousin Rotherwood knows all about them, and says they will have a
famous set of belongings. He will take me to see some of them if we go
to London before mamma comes home. Bernard Underwood’s sister is married
to Mr. Grinstead, the sculptor who did the statue of Mercy at the
Gate that Harry gave a photograph of to mamma, and she paints pictures
herself. I want to see them; but I do not know whether we shall stay in
London, for they do not think it agrees with Fly. I do more lessons than
she does now, and I have read through all Autour de mon Jardin. I have
a letter from Dolores too, and she thinks that Aunt Phyllis and all
are coming home to make a visit in England for Uncle Harry to see his
father, and she wishes very much that they would bring her; but it is
not to be talked about for fear they should be hindered, and old Dr. May
hear of it and be disappointed; but you won’t see any one to tell.’
‘There, what have I done?’ exclaimed Miss Vincent in dismay. ‘But I had
only just got the letter, and had barely glanced through it.’
‘Besides, who would have thought of Mysie having any secrets?’ said
Gillian.
‘After all, I suppose no harm is done; for you can’t have any other
connection with these Mays.’
‘Oh yes, there will be; for I believe a brother of this man of Phyllis’s
married one of the Miss Mays, and I suppose we shall have to get mixed
up with the whole lot. How I do hate strangers! But I’ll take care, Miss
Vincent, indeed I will. One is not bound to tell one’s aunts everything
like one’s mother.’
‘No,’ said Miss Vincent decidedly, ‘especially when it is another
person’s secret betrayed through inadvertence.’ Perhaps she thought
Gillian looked dangerously gratified, for she added: ‘However, you know
poor Dolores did not find secrecy answer.’
‘Oh, there are secrets and secrets, and aunts and aunts!’ said Gillian.
‘Dolores had no mother.’
‘It makes a difference,’ said Miss Vincent. ‘I should never ask you to
conceal anything from Lady Merrifield. Besides, this is not a matter of
conduct, only a report.’
Gillian would not pursue the subject. Perhaps she was a little
disingenuous with her conscience, for she wanted to carry off the
impression that Miss Vincent had pronounced concealment from her aunts
to be justifiable; and she knew at the bottom of her heart that her
governess would condemn a habit of secret intimacy with any one being
carried on without the knowledge of her hostess and guardian for the
time being,--above all when it was only a matter, of waiting.
It is a fine thing for self-satisfaction to get an opinion without
telling the whole of the facts of the case, and Gillian went home in
high spirits, considerably encumbered with parcels, and surprising Mrs.
Mount by insisting that two separate packages should be made of the
books.
Kalliope and Alexis were both awaiting her at the station, their
gratitude unbounded, and finding useful vent by the latter fetching a
cab and handing in the goods.
It was worth something to see how happy the brother and sister looked,
as they went off in the gaslight, the one with the big brown paper
parcel, the other with the basket of fruit and flowers; and Gillian’s
explanation to Mrs. Mount that they were old friends of her soldiering
days was quite satisfactory.
There was a grand unpacking. Aunt Ada was pleased with the late roses,
and Aunt Jane that there had been a recollection of Lilian Giles, to
whom she had thought her niece far too indifferent. Valetta fondled the
flowers, and was gratified to hear of the ardent affection of the Begum
and the health of Rigdum, though Gillian was forced to confess that she
had not transferred to him the kiss that she had been commissioned
to convey. Nobody was disappointed except Fergus, who could not
but vituperate the housemaids for the destruction of his new patent
guillotine for mice, which was to have been introduced to Clement
Varley. To be sure it would hardly ever act, and had never cut off
the head of anything save a dandelion, but that was a trifling
consideration.
A letter from Mysie was awaiting Gillian, not lengthy, for there was
a long interval between Mysie’s brains and her pen, and saying nothing
about the New Zealand report. The selection of lace was much approved,
and the next day there was to be an expedition to endeavour to get the
veil matched as nearly as possible. The only dangerous moment was at
breakfast the next day, when Miss Mohun said--
‘Fanny was delighted with Silverfold. Macrae seems to have been the pink
of politeness to her.’
‘She must come when the house is alive again,’ said Gillian. ‘What would
she think of it then!’
‘Oh, that would be perfectly delicious,’ cried Valetta. ‘She would see
Begum and Rigdum--’
‘And I could show her how to work the lawn cutter,’ added Fergus.
‘By the bye,’ said Aunt Jane, ‘whom have you been lending books to?’
‘Oh, to the Whites,’ said Gillian, colouring, as she felt more than she
could wish. ‘There were some old school-books that I thought would
be useful to them, and I was sure mamma would like them to have some
flowers and fruit.’
She felt herself very candid, but why would Aunt Jane look at those
tell-tale cheeks.
Sunday was wet, or rather ‘misty moisty,’ with a raw sea-fog overhanging
everything--not bad enough, however, to keep any one except Aunt
Ada from church or school, though she decidedly remonstrated against
Gillian’s going out for her wandering in the garden in such weather;
and, if she had been like the other aunt, might almost have been
convinced that such determination must be for an object. However,
Gillian encountered the fog in vain, though she walked up and down the
path till her clothes were quite limp and flabby with damp. All the view
that rewarded her was the outline of the shrubs looming through the mist
like distant forests as mountains. Moreover, she got a scolding
from Aunt Ada, who met her coming in, and was horrified at the misty
atmosphere which she was said to have brought in, and insisted on her
going at once to change her dress, and staying by the fireside all the
rest of the afternoon.
‘I cannot think what makes her so eager about going out in the
afternoon,’ said the younger aunt to the elder. ‘It is impossible that
she can have any reason for it.’
‘Only Sunday restlessness,’ said Miss Mohun, ‘added to the reckless
folly of the “Bachfisch” about health.’
‘That’s true,’ said Adeline, ‘girls must be either so delicate that they
are quite helpless, or so strong as to be absolutely weather-proof.’
Fortune, however, favoured Gillian when next she went to Lily Giles. She
had never succeeded in taking real interest in the girl, who seemed
to her to be so silly and sentimental that an impulse to answer drily
instantly closed up all inclination to effusions of confidence.
Gillian had not yet learnt breadth of charity enough to understand that
everybody does not feel, or express feeling, after the same pattern;
that gush is not always either folly or insincerity; and that girls of
Lily’s class are about at the same stage of culture as the young ladies
of whom her namesake in the Inheritance is the type. When Lily showed
her in some little magazine the weakest of poetry, and called it so
sweet, just like ‘dear Mr. Grant’s lovely sermon, the last she had
heard. Did he not look so like a saint in his surplice and white stole,
with his holy face and beautiful blue eyes; it was enough to make any
one feel good to look at him,’ Gillian simply replied, ‘Oh, _I_ never
think of the clergyman’s looks,’ and hurried to her book, feeling
infinitely disgusted and contemptuous, never guessing that these poor
verses, and the curate’s sermons and devotional appearance were, to the
young girl’s heart, the symbols of all that was sacred, and all that was
refined, and that the thought of them was the solace of her lonely and
suffering hours. Tolerant sympathy is one of the latest lessons of life,
and perhaps it is well that only
‘The calm temper of our age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree,’
for the character in course of formation needs to be guarded by
prickles.
However, on this day Undine was to be finished, for Gillian was in
haste to begin Katharine Ashton, which would, she thought, be much more
wholesome reality, so she went on later than usual, and came away at
last, leaving her auditor dissolved in tears over poor Undine’s act of
justice.
As Mrs. Giles, full of thanks, opened the little garden-gate just as
twilight was falling, Gillian beheld Kalliope and Alexis White coming up
together from the works, and eagerly met and shook hands with them.
The dark days were making them close earlier, they explained, and as
Kalliope happened to have nothing to finish or purchase, she was able to
come home with her brother.
Therewith Alexis began to express, with the diffidence of extreme
gratitude, his warm thanks for the benefaction of books, which were
exactly what he had wanted and longed for. His foreign birth enabled him
to do this much more prettily and less clumsily than an English boy, and
Gillian was pleased, though she told him that her brother’s old ill-used
books were far from worthy of such thanks.
‘Ah, you cannot guess how precious they are to me!’ said Alexis. ‘They
are the restoration of hope.’
‘And can you get on by yourself?’ asked Gillian. ‘Is it not very
difficult without any teacher?’
‘People have taught themselves before,’ returned the youth, ‘so I hope
to do so myself; but of course there are many questions I long to ask.’
‘Perhaps I could answer some,’ said Gillian; ‘I have done some classics
with a tutor.’
‘Oh, thank you, Miss Merrifield,’ he said eagerly. ‘If you could make me
understand the force of the aorist.
It so happened that Gillian had the explanation at her tongue’s end, and
it was followed by another, and another, till one occurred which could
hardly be comprehended without reference to the passage, upon which
Alexis pulled a Greek Testament out of his pocket, and his sister could
not help exclaiming--
‘Oh, Alexis, you can’t ask Miss Merrifield to do Greek with you out in
the street.’
Certainly it was awkward, the more so as Mrs. Stebbing just then drove
by in her carriage.
‘What a pity!’ exclaimed Gillian. ‘But if you would set down any
difficulties, you could send them to me by Kalliope on Sunday.’
‘Oh, Miss Merrifield, how very good of you!’ exclaimed Alexis, his face
lighting up with joy.
But Kalliope looked doubtful, and began a hesitating ‘But--’
‘I’ll tell you of a better way!’ exclaimed Gillian. ‘I always go once
a week to read to this Lilian Giles, and if I come down afterwards to
Kalliope’s office after you have struck work, I could see to anything
you wanted to ask.’
Alexis broke out into the most eager thanks. Kalliope said hardly
anything, and as they had reached the place where the roads diverged,
they bade one another good-evening.
Gillian looked after the brother and sister just as the gas was being
lighted, and could almost guess what Alexis was saying, by his gestures
of delight. She did not hear, and did not guess how Kalliope answered,
‘Don’t set your heart on it too much, dear fellow, for I should greatly
doubt whether Miss Gillian’s aunts will consent. Oh yes, of course, if
they permit her, it will be all right.
So Gillian went her way feeling that she had found her ‘great thing.’
Training a minister for the Church! Was not that a ‘great thing’?