A VISIT FROM AUNT SOPHIA AND THE HORTON BOYS.
After a tolerably satisfactory interview with Mrs. Phips and her
granddaughter Becky, Honor at length returns home, where she finds
unusual excitement reigning, all sorts of unexpected things having
happened in her absence.
The moment her hand touches the latch of the gate Molly comes flying
down the garden to meet her, her eyes sparkling, her hair blown
about, her apron all awry.
"Such news!" she cries breathlessly. "That nice clergyman has been
here, and he wants his little girl to have music lessons; so now I've
got a real live pupil, Honor! Isn't that _splendid_? To be sure
they can't give very good pay," she adds, a little ruefully, "but it
will all help, won't it?"
"Of course it will, dear!" says Honor, kissing her. "I am so glad--"
Molly cuts her short:
"But that isn't all," she says. "Aunt's here, sitting with her
bonnet on as usual, though we've all had a try to make her take it
off. And mother seems quite cheered up. Well, then Hugh and Regy
arrived by the same train, Hugh nearly bursting with most important
news. Come along in; you can go and talk to them all while Doris and
I finish getting the tea. Oh, and give me the key of the
store-cupboard; I want to get out some of that lovely jam the Mr.
Talboys sent Daisy. The boys wanted to come and help in the kitchen,
but I shut them out and locked the door. I do hope Doris hasn't let
them in in my absence!"
And being tormented with doubt on this score Molly retires in haste,
and Honor enters the drawing-room, where she finds Daisy, with the
assistance of Miss Celestine Ermyntrude Talboys--as she has persisted
in naming her doll,--gravely doing the honours to Hugh and Regy,
while her mother and aunt are seated close together in earnest
confidential conversation.
In due course tea is announced, and as Mrs. Merivale expresses her
intention of joining them to-day, there is quite a large party when
Dick and Bobby also arrive home from a long ramble they have been
having in the woods.
Lady Woodhouse, it appears, has come down with the intention of
having a good long chat with them all, and to see how things are
going generally.
Hugh's important piece of news is that he, having "worked like a
nigger" for the last few months with a "coach," has sent in his
papers, and is awaiting the result anxiously, but hopefully too, his
"coach" having spoken in the highest praise of his ability when once
he had put his shoulder to the wheel.
They have a very merry tea, and when it is over and the visitors have
returned to the drawing-room, Doris and Honor remain behind to clear
away and wash up the tea-things, while Molly goes to look after the
poultry. She is engrossed in trying to prevent Mr. Pincher and one
or two of the greediest hens from snapping up the entire supply of
maize and other luxuries, which she is scattering amongst them,
before their more modest companions can get a chance, when she hears
a clear tenor voice not far off ringing out the words--
"O, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
All lonely waiting here for you,
While stars above are brightly shining
Because they've nothing else to do!"
Molly listens a moment, and then turning the basket upside down, and
shaking out the last grains, she wheels about and faces Hugh as he
comes round the corner and stands before her.
"It's a pity you have nothing to do but to go about singing such
nonsense," she observes. "It may be all very well for the stars,
perhaps--I don't know their ways and habits--but I should think _you_
might easily find something else to do."
"Well, so I can, and _do_ in fact, at least I have done lately,"
returns poor Hugh confusedly. "Come now, Molly," he pleads, "don't
be hard on a fellow! I thought you would be so pleased with the news
I brought down to-day."
"Well, so I am, of course; but," rather unkindly adds Molly, "you
hav'n't passed yet, you know!"
Hugh looks a trifle hurt for a moment; but then he says quietly
enough:
"No; you are right there, Molly. But if I fail this time I do think
it will be my misfortune rather than my fault; for ever since you
lectured me so on the subject of my work I _have_ worked with a
vengeance, and chiefly, I believe, for your sake."
"Why, what nonsense, Hugh! Why in the world for my sake?"
"Well, it's hardly likely I would want you to think that all your
words were thrown away on me--pearls before swine, you know, and all
that sort of thing. No; but seriously, Molly, I have done my level
best to deserve the little bit--the _very_ little bit, I'm
afraid,--of good opinion you have of me. Though I don't mean to say
that I hav'n't worked for my own sake too, and for mother's. But,
upon my honour, I don't believe I ever saw the matter in a proper
light until you put it so plainly before me, Molly. My mother has
often said a few words to me on the subject, of course, but no one
but you ever had the courage to tell me out to my face that I was
fast drifting into an idle, useless vagabond; and--"
"I never said such a thing!" exclaims Molly, firing up indignantly.
"How dare you say I said what I didn't!"
"Well, really, you know, you implied something of the sort. Now,
didn't you? But you won't let a fellow finish what he is saying. I
was going to add that no one had ever tried to show me what I might
have drifted into but you; and I shall always feel that I owe you a
debt of gratitude for it, whatever you may say to the contrary. And
I tell you what, Molly dear, I have felt happier during these few
months of hard work than I have for a long time past. It has roused
me, and given me a taste for work, and made me feel that there is
something worth living for beyond the little everyday pleasures of
life. Ah! I shall often think of my little mentor and the _d-u-s-t_
she wrote on my books, when I am miles and miles away; that is if I
go," he adds hastily, anticipating any incredulous remark which Molly
may be about to make.
"Of course you will go away, if it depends on your passing your
exam," says the girl quietly, as they go slowly back together by the
laurel hedge, she pulling off a dead leaf here and there. "I always
said that, if you remember; I mean that it rested with yourself, as
it were. You see, too, what your 'coach' told you."
"Oh, hang the 'coach!'" exclaims Hugh disrespectfully. "I care a
hundred times more for your opinion than for old Dobson's; though
he's not a bad sort of fellow, and a perfect rattler at cramming."
"Of course," says Molly demurely, "I know my opinion is of exceeding
great value; but, you see, I haven't been in the habit of _cramming_
a lot of young men for a good many years past, and therefore his
experience may possibly be wider than mine. Now, come in, and talk
to mother and aunt; your train will be going before long."
"Stop a minute," cries Hugh, catching her hand and detaining her
before she opens the door; "will you write to me if I _do_ go away,
Molly?"
"Oh, yes," she replies graciously; "I'll write. And, look here,
Hugh, if you should go _very_ far away, say to China, or New Zealand,
or--or--Kamtchatka--I'll work you a pair of slippers--there!" And
with a grave, emphatic nod, she pushes open the door and runs into
the house.
In the meantime Lady Woodhouse has been hearing all the news from
Doris and Honor, the former of whom is seated on a footstool at her
aunt's feet, her chin resting in her hands, and with a generally
doleful sort of air about her.
"No, it's no use, aunt," she is saying. "I hate domesticating, and
that's all about it. I've tried my hand at everything pretty nearly,
and I think each has failed in an equally successful manner. A
beef-steak pudding is a thing to be spoken of with bated breath in
this house, ever since I made one, not long after we settled here. I
believe the whole family suffered from violent indigestion for a week
and more; and now if it is proposed to have a pudding for dinner,
someone--generally Dick or Molly--inquires in a most pointed manner,
'Who's going to make it?' I tried a treacle pudding one day, when
they had well recovered from the other; but I was so flurried with
thinking how in the world I should prevent the treacle from running
out at the ends that I forgot the lard altogether; so no one suffered
from the richness of the paste that day, because it was simply flour
and water. It doesn't seem to matter _what_ it is," poor Doris goes
on after a pause; "I even failed in boiling some potatoes the other
day, for the water all boiled away (I suppose I didn't put enough),
and I found the potatoes all stuck to the bottom of the pot, and
burnt horribly! And it's just the same in other things. If I feed
the chickens in the evening one of them is sure to be found either
dead or dying the next morning. The very milk goes sour if _I_ by
chance put it away!"
"Hum--that's because you don't put it in the right place, I suspect,"
remarks Aunt Sophia grimly.
"Very likely; but that doesn't alter the fact that it _does_ go sour,
and that everything I have to do with is bound to go wrong in some
way or other. Now, aunt, _do_ take off your bonnet!"
"I tell you I'm not going to, child," says Lady Woodhouse, holding on
to it with both hands. "You know very well that until my trunk is
unpacked I cannot get a cap, and sit bareheaded I will not. But if
you are so very anxious upon the subject you can take my keys and go
and find one."
Molly, who has just entered, volunteers to do this, and after this
little interruption Lady Woodhouse says abruptly:
"Well then, Miss Doris, I take it that you are not of very much use
in this establishment, eh?"
"No, I am afraid not," answers Doris, looking rather crestfallen.
"The only thing I can do decently is needlework, and I _am_ of use in
that sometimes. Am I not, Honor?"
"You are lots of use in all sorts of ways, Doris; only you allow
yourself to be so easily discouraged. But she does do plain
needlework beautifully, aunt; and, oh, there has been _such_ a lot of
mending and darning to do in the house linen since we came here. We
only brought what was very old. The best was all included in the
sale."
"I don't believe it need have been," grumbles Doris in an undertone;
"but you know, aunt, Honor became quite _aggressively_ conscientious
by the time we were actually leaving. I declare I wonder she allowed
us to keep our own hair!"
"_Doris!_" exclaims Honor, in the midst of a general laugh.
"Very well, then," resumes Aunt Sophia, quite regardless of the
interruption, "you would not, I suppose, be missed from home so much
as one of the others. Now, how do you think you would like to go
abroad with your uncle and me for a time? Mind you," she adds
quickly, "it would not be a _short_ time probably; our travels might
possibly extend over a year, or even more. Now, the question is, can
your mother and sisters and these boys spare you--and can you spare
them?"
Doris gasps. Poor girl! to travel is always what she has so greatly
longed to do. And her father had promised her that "he would think
about it one fine day." And now to have the chance after all, when
she had fancied it had gone for ever! No wonder Doris gasps with
delight as she looks eagerly round to read in the others' faces their
ideas on the subject.
"I don't know yet when we shall be going," continues Lady Woodhouse,
without waiting for anyone to speak. "Your uncle has some law
business on hand, and he can't leave till that is settled; and
goodness knows when that will be. However, you'll want a little time
to get ready, won't you? And I think you might decrease your
mourning now, Honor, or certainly in another month. People don't now
wear the heavy crêpe that they used, even for a parent. Oh, my cap?
Thank you, Molly."
"I hope it is the right one, aunt," says the girl as she stands
waiting for the bonnet.
"It can't very well be the wrong one, child, since I only brought one
with me. Did you think I would bring a dozen for a visit of two
days?"
So at length, after a good deal of argument for and against, it is
settled that Doris is to hold herself in readiness to accompany her
uncle and aunt whenever they feel disposed to summon her.
Honor does not disguise the fact that she will miss her sister not a
little.
"Of course it is all nonsense Doris saying she is of no use," she
remarks, stroking Vic's soft drooping ears. "She has for one thing
taken Daisy and Bobby regularly to their lessons lately, and even
Dick has joined them sometimes, but somehow he and Doris don't pull
very well together on the subject of study, and I'm afraid just
lately it has been dropped altogether. Of course, when Doris goes
this will fall to me or Molly, but Molly would be as sorry as I
should to let poor Doris miss such an opportunity; and for aunt's
sake too we shall be glad for her to go. It is the least we can do
after all her goodness to us."
"Tut, child," says Lady Woodhouse, "that is nothing; you are all good
girls, and I am glad to do anything I _can_ for you. But it seems to
me that Doris is the best, taking her altogether, to come with us to
see something of the world; and then, of course, she is the eldest."
"Yes!" cries Doris, jumping up and clapping her hands; "and, who
knows, I may marry a duke yet!"
"Marry a fiddlestick!" snaps Lady Woodhouse; and there the subject
drops for the present.