TWO DEPARTURES.
The month of June goes on auspiciously both out-of-doors and in at
the Rookery. Besides having brought the rose-trees to a state of
perfection, which charms and delights the Mr. Talboys beyond measure,
Molly has secured not only one, but two of the retired baker's
daughters for music pupils. Indeed, Mrs. Hallam is so charmed with
the progress that Violet and Lilian (who are really musical by
nature) are making in the hands of their clever little instructress,
that she, Molly, is promised the whole family (which is numerous) in
succession so soon as each one becomes old enough.
To be sure, Violet and Lilian Hallam give poor Molly a good deal of
trouble between them, their tempers being anything but sweet; but she
is not a girl to brook the slightest disrespect or impertinence from
anyone, much less from a child who is under her own control for the
time being. The consequence is, that having found this out for
themselves in their very first lesson, and discovered that their
usual method of treating their governess is not practicable in Miss
Merivale's case, they take it out of each other. On duet days
especially they often actually come to blows, and on these occasions
the music, it is to be feared, sometimes obtains scant attention;
Molly's whole time being taken up in preventing the sisters from
doing one another an injury.
Their mother they rule with a rod of iron. The head nurse, who has
been with Mrs. Hallam since the birth of her first child, is in a
chronic state of giving notice, though she is generally persuaded
into staying on by her master and mistress, and yet the young rebels,
though such termagants in a general way, have at heart warm and
affectionate natures. Not one governess has ever been known to stay
beyond the first quarter, so that Mrs. Hallam, coming suddenly into
the room one day and seeing her daughters hanging round Molly, to
whom they have taken an immense fancy, throws up her hands in
amazement.
"I cannot think how you manage them so well, Miss Merivale! You
never give way to them, and yet they always seem as docile as lambs
with you, and they are so fond of you too! I never can get them to
attend to a word _I_ say. Their father is the only one in the house
that can manage them."
Molly smiles, and while pinning on her hat mutters something about
their mother being "too indulgent perhaps." She does not say what is
really in her mind, however, that the very fact of her not giving way
to her obstreperous pupils is probably the reason that they are
better behaved with her than anyone else.
Besides the Hallams, Molly has one or two other pupils in prospect,
so that before long she hopes to help very considerably with the
household expenses. As it is, indeed, she contributes a nice little
sum from time to time, her pride and delight being unbounded when,
having completed her first course of lessons to Dolly Bolton, she
brings home her first earnings and pours the little pile of money
into Honor's lap.
Honor also is now making a steady little income every week by her
painting on tin, which has become most popular, especially in the
immediate neighbourhood. Besides the stipulated number of landscapes
for Mr. Spaull, which are taken up at stated intervals by Mr. Edward
Talboys with most elaborate care, Honor has a good many odd orders;
for the old gentlemen were so charmed and delighted with the effect
of the pretty little scenes that they immediately made a round of
calls, with a view to showing their specimen to all their friends and
perhaps getting some pupils for their _protégé_.
The time is now rapidly drawing near when Doris is to join her aunt
in town, previous to their departure for the Continent.
The weather having taken a capricious fancy to be extremely hot, in
fact more like late July or August than June, the girls sit
out-of-doors a great deal with their work and their books.
Although no one speaks openly of it, there is a feeling with them all
that Doris cannot be made too much of in these last few days before
her long separation from them. Doris's pillow is often wet with the
tears which she quietly sheds at night, when she thinks Honor is
asleep, at the thought that to-morrow will bring her one day nearer
to the parting she so much dreads.
Time marches on, however, in his inexorable fashion, and the last day
having really come, all go about their work with an elaborately
indifferent air, each one making heroic efforts to keep up for the
others' sake. The whole family (with the exception of Mrs. Merivale,
who has taken leave of her daughter at home quietly) is now standing
by the door of a third-class compartment in the London train, in
which Doris, surrounded by small packages, is standing up, with
tear-bestreamed face, a large smut on her forehead, and a general
limpness which extends itself to the handkerchief in her hand, which
just now is doing double duty as it were, as are those of all the
others.
Doris has been kissed by each one in turn several times, and the
usual last questions have been asked and answered, and now the guard
comes along with his key, and having locked the door quietly moves
them all back a little; with no lasting result, however, for they are
all crowding round again the moment he is gone.
"Are you _sure_," says Honor with a trembling voice, "that you have
got everything?"
"O yes, _everything_!" answers Doris with a gasp of despair.
Honor looks round incredulously, for each one has been carrying to
the station a bag, basket, or something belonging to her sister, and
as her careful eye travels round she suddenly pounces on Molly, who
is discovered still clinging desperately to Doris's umbrella, her
thoughts being entirely taken up with the direful fact that the
dreaded moment has indeed arrived at last! The umbrella is handed in
through the window, and kissing being now rather a daring thing to
attempt after the stentorian "Stand away there!" of the guard, Honor
and Molly are reaching up their hands for a final squeeze, when
Doris, first feeling wildly in the little pocket of her jacket, then
diving after her purse, exclaims:
"Good gracious! my ticket; who's got it? I haven't!"
In the excitement of the search Doris overturns her little luncheon
basket, and, oblivious of the fact that the cork of her travelling
flask has come out, and the milk it contains is quietly spreading
itself out on the cushion until it comes to a little ridge in the
leather, where it collects in a nice little pool, she leans
distractedly out of the window to see the result of the hurried
search which they are all making in all sorts of impossible places.
But at this critical moment, and just as the guard is about to blow
his whistle, Dick, who has strolled off to look at the
advertisements, appears on the scene, and Honor, suddenly remembering
that she had intrusted him with the money for the ticket when first
they arrived at the station, rushes at him and grasps his arm wildly.
"The ticket!" she gasps; "you've forgotten to take the ticket!"
"I haven't," returns Dick, much injured. "I thought I gave it to
you. Oh, here it is; better late than never!" and with supreme
indifference at the anxiety depicted on every face he hands it up to
Doris, and at the same moment the train moves.
They all run along beside it for a second or two, but its pace soon
gets beyond theirs, and they are left disconsolately on the platform,
waving their hands to a white handkerchief which is fluttering from
one of the windows, and is literally all of Doris that is now to be
seen.
* * * * * * * * *
That same afternoon Hugh Horton runs down to bid them all farewell
before leaving for Ireland the next day. He is naturally not in the
best of spirits, and looks so gloomy and melancholy while reminding
Molly of her promise regarding the slippers, that that young lady
tells him plainly that if he cannot look a little more cheerful over
it he shall not have them at all.
"Don't be unkind, Molly," remonstrates Honor.
"I'm not," replies the girl, reddening; "besides he is not going to
Kamtchatka. I said I would make them if he went there, or to some
other outlandish place."
"It does not matter, Molly, _where_ one goes particularly, when
leaving all one loves behind;" and Hugh sighs heavily. "It would be
just as painful to me to take up my quarters in the next village
merely, if I knew for certain that I should not see my mother or--or
any of you for some long time to come."
Molly looks a little abashed.
"But you will have leave," she says.
"O yes, of course I shall have leave; but not very often, I suppose."
"You must write to us as often as you can," says Mrs. Merivale
kindly. "You know I take just as much interest in all you boys as if
you were my own."
Molly strolls down to the gate with Hugh when he has taken leave of
all the others; but he is very silent, and she, thinking that perhaps
she has hurt his sensitive feelings with some of her random talk, is
silent also.
In a minute or two Hugh rouses himself, however, and says:
"Molly, I have never told you how awfully glad I am that you are all
getting on so much better now, as to funds and all that sort of
thing, you know. I do think you have all shown yourselves such good
girls in having met your misfortunes so bravely; and I cannot tell
you how glad I feel that you have all had your reward, and have a
little more peace and comfort now than you had. Mother is always
talking about you all, and saying how much she admires the spirit and
unselfishness with which you turned to and made the best of
everything."
"_I'm_ not unselfish!" cries Molly, looking surprised. "Why, I'd
take a footstool or an easy-chair from anybody! It's no use saying I
don't care about being comfortable, because I _do_!"
Hugh takes no notice of this interruption, but goes on as if nothing
had been said.
"Yes, we were talking about you last night, mother and I, and what do
you think she said about you, Molly, particularly?"
Molly shakes her head.
"I don't know," she says.
"She told me she considered that you had had quite as much to do with
influencing me for good as she had. I told her of some of your
lectures too, and she says you are a right-minded, good girl, and she
admires you for what she calls your 'spirit' in taking me to task as
you did."
Molly blushes up to the roots of her chestnut curls at this praise
from one whose opinion is to be valued.
"Did you tell her about the _dust_?" she inquires.
"Of course I did!" replies Hugh, laughing, "and she enjoyed the story
immensely. And now, Molly, you will write to me while I'm away,
won't you? You can lecture and blow me up as much as you like, only
let me go away thinking that my little mentor will still take the
same interest in scapegrace Hugh that she has hitherto."
"Yes, I will, Hugh; here's my hand upon it. Of course it is all
nonsense," she adds suddenly; "but if--if I have really been of any
use in--in urging you on, you know, I am _very_ glad. And now, would
you like me to tell you a secret? Well, the slippers are more than
half done already! Good-bye; be a good boy!" and without waiting for
another word she runs back to the house, never stopping till she has
reached the steps, when she turns round and waves her hand with
rather a feeble smile.
She is not _quite_ sure whether it is Hugh still standing where she
left him, or whether it is only the gate-post, for there are two
large tears trickling down the now saddened and softened face of
plain-speaking little Molly, which seriously obstruct her vision.
There is quite a feeling of desolation all through the house after
this second departure, for although not actually one of themselves,
Hugh and his brothers have so often been down to see them that he is
missed as much as if he were almost.
In a few days Doris's first letter arrives, and they are all relieved
to find that she is less home-sick than might have been expected.
Their own spirits rise in proportion therefore.
Part of Doris's letter runs thus:--
"We had a bad passage across, at least so aunt says. I didn't feel
it a bit though. Uncle disappeared mysteriously, and as he looked
rather pale when he reappeared on our reaching Calais, I strongly
suspected he was not very flourishing either. I have made a grand
discovery, however, through this bad weather. Nothing more nor less
than the reason why aunt will never take off her bonnet unless she
has a cap at hand to put on immediately. Aunt, I must tell you, very
soon expressed her intention of going down into the cabin, so I went
with her and made her as comfortable as circumstances would permit.
It was such a dreadfully close, stuffy atmosphere that I was thankful
to get up into the air again. After a time I thought I ought to go
down and see how poor aunty was getting on; so after a good deal of
stumbling and floundering (for the boat was rolling very much) I at
last managed to get down, and there I found her in a truly pitiable
state. She had been dreadfully ill, but so it seems had been nearly
all the other people, and I suppose the stewardess could not pay much
attention to so many, for I found aunt in a miserable state, half on
and half off the sofa, and looking as pale as death. 'O, Doris
child!' she gasped faintly, 'if ever I get out of this boat alive I
will never go into another, if I have to live all my life in France!'
Well, I raised her up and placed her a little more comfortably, and
in doing this her bonnet fell off, and--you girls won't believe me,
perhaps, but I daresay mother knows--there, as plain to see as
anything, was a little bald patch, about as big as half-a-crown, on
the top of her head! Poor aunt! she was in far too great misery to
think about such trifles then, and only told me to put her feet a
little higher and to bring her smelling-bottle. But I shall _always_
think of it whenever anyone asks her to take her bonnet off! By the
by, aunt says she knows Mr. Ferrars quite well. She calls him 'A
very estimable young man!' How _dreadful_! She says, too, we may
meet him somewhere or other abroad. He told her he was going to
'knock about a little' on the Continent. The expression did not come
spontaneously from aunt; I dragged it out of her, under protest! I
wonder if we _shall_ see him!"
Mrs. Merivale folds up the letter. "I wonder if they will!" she says.