middle-aged aunt, whom even the elder girls could scarcely remember to
have seen, had fallen upon Edith.
The news came to her first as a great blow. There could not be very much
sympathy between the gentle, ailing, slightly querulous mother and the
vigorous, active girl; yet Edith had very strong, if half-concealed,
home affections, and it hurt her more than she cared to show that even
her mother seemed to feel a sort of relief in the prospect of her going
away for so long.
"Don't you _mind_ my going, mamma?" she said at last, with a little
accent of surprise.
"Well, Edith dear, papa and I think it will be such a good thing for you
and for us all. You have been too young, of course, to be told about
money matters, but perhaps I may tell you now, for I am sure you are old
enough to understand, that papa has a great many expenses, and is often
very much worried. There are so many of you," added the poor mother,
thinking with a sigh of her own powerlessness to do much towards lifting
the burden which pressed so heavily upon her husband's shoulders.
"Do you think it would help papa, then, if I went?" asked the girl
slowly.
"Indeed I do. You would have a good home for a time, at all events; and
if your Aunt Rachel should take to you, as we may hope she will if you
earnestly try to please her, she may be a friend to you always."
"Very well, then; I shall try my best to do as you and papa wish."
That was all Edith said, and Mrs. Harley was quite surprised. She had
expected tears and protests, stormy and passionate remonstrances--not
this quiet submission so unlike Edith.
Perhaps no one understood the girl less than her own mother. It might
have helped Mrs. Harley to know something of her daughter's inner nature
if she could have seen her, after their talk together, steal quietly up
to the nursery, where there were only the little ones at play, and,
throwing her arms round little Francie, burst into a fit of quiet
sobbing that fairly frightened the child.
"What is it, Edie? Don't cry, Edie! Francie'll give you a kiss, twenty
kisses, if you won't cry," said the pretty baby voice.
"Your poor Edie's going away, and it will break her heart to leave you,
my pet," said the girl through her tears, straining the child in a
passionate embrace. Presently she grew calmer, and put the wondering
little one down.
"There, Francie, I've done crying now, and you needn't mind. You'll
always love Edie, won't you, if she does go away?"
"Yes, always, always love Edie," said the child; and Johnnie chimed in
too, "And me--me always love Edie."
But there were the boys to be told after that--Alfred and Claude, the
two bright boys of ten and eight years, who had been her own especial
playmates; and loud was their outcry when they heard that Edith was
going.
"We might as well have no sisters," said the ungrateful young rascals.
"Maude and Jessie don't care for us. They only think we're in the way.
They're always telling us to wipe our feet, and not make such a noise;
and Francie's too little for anything. We'd only got Edith, and now
she's to go. It's too bad, that it is!"
But their protest availed nothing. The very same night Dr. Harley wrote
to his sister, thanking her for her kind offer, and adding that, if
convenient, he would bring his daughter Edith, fifteen years of age, to
her aunt's home at Silchester in a week's time.
There was much to do in that short week in getting Edith's wardrobe into
something like order. Each of the elder sisters sacrificed one of their
limited number of dresses to be cut down and altered for the younger
one.
The May sunshine of a rather late spring was beginning to grow warm and
genial at last, and the girl really must have a new hat and gloves and
shoes, and one or two print frocks, before she could possibly put in an
appearance at Aunt Rachel's.
Almost anything had done for running about the lanes at Winchcomb, where
every one knew the Harleys, and respected them far more for not going
beyond their means, than they would have done for any quantity of fine
apparel.
[Sidenote: Goodbye!]
But the preparations were finished at last, the goodbyes were said, and
Edith, leaving home for the first time in her life, sat gravely by her
father's side in the train that was timed to reach Silchester by six in
the evening.
She had been up very early that morning, before any of the others were
astir; and when she was dressed, went out into the garden, where she
could be alone, to think her last thoughts of the wonderful change in
her life.
She had gone on always so carelessly and happily, that the new turn of
affairs sobered and startled her. She seemed to herself to say goodbye,
not only to her home, but to the long, bright, happy childhood that had
been spent there. And her thoughts were full of the few words Mrs.
Harley had spoken about her papa's expenses and worries.
"If I had only known," she said to herself; "if I had only thought about
things, I would have tried to learn more, and be some help while I was
here. But it is no use grieving about that now; it seems to me I am come
to what our rector calls a 'turning point.' I can begin from to-day to
act in a different way, and I will. I will just think in everything how
I can help them all at home. I will try to please Aunt Rachel, and get
her to like me, and then perhaps I shall grow in time to bear the
thought of staying with her for a long, long while. Only, my poor boys
and my dear little Johnnie and Francie--I did think I should have had
you always. But it will be good for you, too, if I get on well at
Silchester."
When she had gone so far, Nancy, the housemaid, came out with broom and
bucket, and the mingled sounds of laughing and crying, and babel of many
voices that floated out through the opened windows, told Edith that the
family were rising for the last breakfast together.
It was a good thing when all the farewells were over, and for the first
few miles of the journey she was thankful to sit in silence in the
stuffy second-class carriage, and use all her strength of will to keep
back the tears that would try to come.
"Papa," she said shyly, as her father laid down his newspaper, and woke
up to the fact that the two ladies who had begun the journey with them
had got out at the last station--"papa, I want you to promise me
something, please."
"Well, Edith, what is it?"
"I want you to promise not to tell Aunt Rachel about all the things that
I have done--while I was at home, I mean."
"You have never done anything very dreadful, child," said the doctor
with a smile. "Your Aunt Rachel has not been accustomed to little girls,
it is true; but I suppose she won't expect you to be quite like an old
woman."
[Sidenote: "I will do my very best"]
"No; but if she knew about Johnnie and Francie falling into the water,
and about the chickens, and how Alfred and I let Farmer Smith's cow into
the potato-field, and the other things, she might not understand that I
am going to be different; and I shall be different--I shall indeed,
papa."
"Yes, Edith, it is time you began to be more thoughtful, and to remember
that there are things in the world, even for boys and girls, far more
important than play. If it will be any comfort to you, I will readily
promise not to mention the cow, or the chickens, or even that famous
water escapade. But I shall trust to your own good sense and knowledge
of what is right, and shall expect you to make for yourself a good
character with your aunt. You may be sure she will, from the first, be
influenced much more by your behaviour than by anything I can say."
"Yes, I know," murmured Edith. "I will do my very best."
She would have liked to say something about helping her father in his
difficulties, but the shyness that generally overcame her when she
talked to him prevented any further words on the subject; and Dr. Harley
began to draw her attention to the objects of interest they were
passing, and to remark that in another twenty minutes they would be
half-way to Silchester.
It seemed a long while to Edith before the train drew up in the large,
glass-roofed station, so different from the little platform at
Winchcomb, with the station-master's white cottage and fragrant
flower-borders. Silchester is not a very large town, but to the
country-bred girl the noise and bustle of the station, and of the first
two or three streets through which they were driven in the cab Dr.
Harley had called, seemed almost bewildering.
Very soon, however, they began to leave shops and busy pavements behind,
and to pass pretty, fancifully-built villas, with very high-sounding
names, and trim flower-gardens in front. Even these ceased after a
while, and there were first some extensive nursery grounds, and then
green open fields on each hand.
"It will be quite the country after all, papa!" exclaimed Edith,
surprised.
"Not quite, Edith. You will only be two or three miles out of
Silchester, instead of twenty miles from everywhere, as we are at
Winchcomb. Look! that is Aunt Rachel's house, just where the old Milford
Lane turns out of the road--that house at the corner, I mean."
"Where?" said Edith, half-bewildered. Her unaccustomed eyes could see
nothing but greenery and flowers at first, for Miss Harley's long, low,
two-storey cottage was entirely overgrown with dense masses of ivy and
other creeping plants. It stood well back from the road, in a grassy,
old-fashioned garden, shaded by some fine elms; and one magnificent
pear-tree, just now glorious in a robe of white blossoms, grew beside
the entrance-gate.
"Oh, papa, what a lovely old house!" cried the girl involuntarily. "Did
you know it was like this?"
Dr. Harley smiled.
"I suppose you think it lovely, Edith. I have often wondered, for my own
part, why your aunt should bury herself here. But come--jump out; there
she is at the door. The King's Majesty would not draw her to the garden
gate, I think."
Edith got out of the cab, feeling like a girl in a dream, and followed
her father up the gravel walk, noting mechanically the gorgeous
colouring of tulips and hyacinths that filled the flower-beds on either
hand.
A tall, grey-haired lady, well advanced in life, came slowly forward,
holding out a thin, cold hand, and saying in a frigid tone, "Well,
brother, so we meet again after these ten years. I hope you are well,
and have left your wife and family well also."
[Sidenote: A Doubtful Welcome]
"Quite well, thank you, Rachel, excepting Maria, who is never very well,
you know," said the doctor heartily, taking the half-proffered hand in
both his. "And how are you, after all this long time? You don't look a
day older than when we parted."
"I am sorry I cannot return the compliment," remarked the lady, with a
grim smile. "I suppose it is all the care and worry of your great family
of children that have aged you so. And Maria was always such a poor,
shiftless creature. I daresay, now, with all that your boys and girls
cost you, you have two or three servants to keep, instead of making the
girls work, and saving the wages and the endless waste that the best of
servants make."
"We have but two," said the doctor, in a slightly irritated tone of
voice. "My girls and their mother are ladies, Rachel, if they are poor.
I can't let them do the rough work. For the rest, they have their hands
pretty full, I can assure you. You have little idea, living here as you
do, how much there is to be done for a family of nine children."
"No, I am thankful to say I have not. But you had better come in, and
bring the girl with you."
With these ungracious words Aunt Rachel cast her eyes for the first time
upon Edith, who had stood a silent and uncomfortable listener while her
father and aunt were talking.
"Humph!" ejaculated Miss Harley, after looking her niece over from top
to toe with a piercing, scrutinising gaze, that seemed to take in every
detail of figure, face, and toilette, and to disapprove of all; "humph!
The child looks healthy, and that is all I can say for her. But bring
her in, Henry--Stimson and the boy can see to her box. I suppose you
will stay yourself for to-night?"
"I should not be able to go home to-night, as you know," replied Dr.
Harley. "But if my staying would be at all inconvenient, I can go to one
of the Silchester hotels."
His sister Rachel proved to be the same irritating, cross-grained woman
he had quarrelled with and parted from so long before, and he was a
little disappointed, for it is wonderful how time softens our thoughts
of one another, and how true it is that--
"No distance breaks the tie of blood,
Brothers are brothers evermore."
Although Miss Rachel ruffled and annoyed him at every second
word--"rubbed him up the wrong way," as her maid Stimson would have
said--the doctor had a real regard for her in his heart, and respected
her as a woman of sterling principle, and one whose worst faults were
all upon the surface.
"There is no need to talk about hotels," and Miss Harley drew herself
up, half-offended in her turn. "It's a pity if I can't find houseroom
for my own brother, let him stay as long as he will. Now, Edith, if that
is your name, go along with Stimson, and she will show you your room,
where you can take off your hat and things. And be sure, mind you brush
your hair, child, and tie it up, or something. Don't come down with it
hanging all wild about your shoulders like that."
Poor Edith's heart sank. She was rather proud of her luxuriant brown
tresses, which her mother had always allowed her to wear in all their
length and beauty, and she did not even know how to tie them up herself.
"This way, miss," said the prim, elderly servant. "I knew as soon as I
saw you that your hair would never do for Miss Harley. I'll fix it
neatly for you."
"Oh, thank you!" said Edith, much relieved; and in a few minutes all the
flowing locks were gathered into one stiff braid, and tied at the end
with a piece of black ribbon.
"There, now you look more like a young lady should!" cried Stimson,
surveying her handiwork with pleasure. "You'll always find me ready to
oblige you, miss, if you'll only try to please Miss Harley; and you
won't mind my saying that I hope you'll be comfortable here, and manage
to stay, for it's frightful lonely in the house sometimes, and some one
young about the place would do the mistress and me good, I'm sure."
[Sidenote: A Great Improvement]
"Oh, thank you!" said Edith again. She could not trust herself to say
more, for the words, that she felt were kindly meant, almost made her
cry.
"Now you had better go down to the parlour," Stimson went on. "Miss
Harley and your papa won't expect you to be long, and the tea is ready,
I know."
With a beating heart Edith stepped down the wide, old-fashioned
staircase, and went shyly in at the door which Stimson opened for her.
She found herself in a large, handsomely-furnished room, where the table
was laid for tea; and Miss Harley sat before the tray, already busy with
cups and saucers.
"Come here, Edith, and sit where I can see you. Yes, that is a great
improvement. Your hair looks tidy and respectable now."
After this greeting, to Edith's great relief, she was left to take her
tea in peace and silence, the doctor and his sister being occupied in
conversation about their early days, and continually mentioning the
names of persons and places of whom she knew little or nothing.
Only once the girl started to hear her aunt say, "I always told you,
Henry, that it was a great mistake. With your talents you might have
done almost anything; and here you are, a man still in middle life,
saddled and encumbered with a helpless invalid wife and half a score of
children, to take all you earn faster than you can get it. It is a mere
wasted existence, and if you had listened to me it might all have been
different."
"How cruel!" exclaimed Edith to herself indignantly. "Does Aunt Rachel
think I am a stock or a stone, to sit and hear my mother--all of
us--spoken about like that? I shall never, never be able to bear it!"
Even the doctor was roused. "Once for all, Rachel," he said in a
peremptory tone, "you must understand that I cannot allow my wife and
children to be spoken of in this manner. No doubt I have had to make
sacrifices, but my family have been a source of much happiness to me;
and Maria, who cannot help her health, poor thing! has done her best
under circumstances that would have crushed a great many women. As for
the children, of course they have their faults, but altogether they are
good children, and I often feel proud of them. You have been kind enough
to ask Edith to stay here, but if I thought you would make her life
unhappy with such speeches as you made just now, I would take her back
with me to-morrow."
"Well, well," said Miss Harley, a little frightened at the indignation
she had raised. "You need not take me up so, Henry. Of course I shall
not be so foolish as to talk to the child just as I would to you. I have
her interest and yours truly at heart; and since I don't want to quarrel
with you again, we will say no more of your wife and family. If you have
quite finished, perhaps we might take a turn in the garden."
The rest of the evening passed quietly away. Edith was glad when the
time came to go to her room, only she so dreaded the morrow, that would
have to be passed in Aunt Rachel's company, without her father's
protecting presence.
Soon after breakfast in the morning the doctor had to say goodbye. It
was a hard parting for both father and daughter. Edith had never known
how dearly she loved that busy and often-anxious father till she was
called to let him go. As for the doctor, he was scarcely less moved, and
Miss Rachel had to hurry him away at last, or he would have lost the
train it was so important he should catch.
Somehow the doctor never could be spared from Winchcomb. There was no
other medical man for miles round, and people seemed to expect Dr.
Harley to work on from year's end to year's end, without ever needing
rest or recreation himself.
[Sidenote: A Close Examination]
As soon as they were left alone, Miss Rachel called Edith into the
parlour, and bidding her sit down, began a rigorous inquiry as to her
capabilities and accomplishments--whether she had been to school, or had
had a governess; whether she was well grounded in music, and had studied
drawing and languages; what she knew of plain and fancy needlework; if
her mother had made her begin to learn cookery--"as all young women
should," added Miss Rachel, sensibly enough.
Poor Edith's answers were very far from satisfying Miss Harley.
"You say you have had no teacher but your sister since Miss Phelps, or
Phipps, or whatever her name was, left. And how old is your sister, may
I ask?"
"Jessie is eighteen," answered Edith. "And she is very clever--every one
says so, especially at music."
"Why didn't she teach you, then, and make you practise regularly? You
tell me you have had no regular practice, and cannot play more than two
or three pieces."
"It is not Jessie's fault," said Edith, colouring up. "Papa and mamma
liked us all to learn, but I am afraid, aunt, I have no natural talent
for music. I get on better with some other things."
Aunt Rachel opened a French book that lay on the table.
"Read that," she said shortly, pointing to the open page.
Edith was at home here; her pronunciation was rather original, it is
true, but she read with ease and fluency, and translated the page
afterwards without any awkward pauses.
"That is better," said her aunt, more graciously. "You shall have some
lessons. As for the music, I don't believe in making girls, who can't
tell the National Anthem from the Old Hundredth, strum on the piano
whether they like it or not. You may learn drawing instead. And then I
shall expect you to read with me--good solid authors, you know, not
poetry and romances, which are all the girls of the present day seem to
care for."
"Thank you, aunt," said Edith. "I should like to learn drawing very
much."
"Wait a while," continued Miss Harley. "Perhaps you won't thank me when
you have heard all. I shall insist upon your learning plain needlework
in all its branches, and getting a thorough insight into cookery and
housekeeping. With your mother's delicate health there ought to be at
least one of the daughters able to take her place whenever it is
needful. Your sisters don't know much about the house, I daresay."
"Maude does," answered Edith, proud of her sister's ability. "Maude can
keep house well--even papa says so."
"And Jessie?"
"Jessie says her tastes are not domestic, and she has always had enough
to do teaching us, and looking after the little ones."
"And what did you do?" demanded Aunt Rachel. "You can't play; you can't
sew. By your own confession, you don't know the least thing about
household matters. It couldn't have taken you all your time to learn a
little French and read a few books. What _did_ you do?"
Edith blushed again.
"I--I went out, Aunt Rachel," she said at last.
"Went out, child?"
"Yes. Winchcomb is a beautiful country place, you know, and Alfred and
Claude and I were nearly always out when it was fine. We did learn
something, even in that way, about the flowers and plants and birds and
live creatures. Papa always said plenty of fresh air would make us
strong and healthy, and, indeed, we _are_ well. As for me, I have never
been ill that I remember since I was quite a little thing."
[Sidenote: We will Change all that!]
"My patience, child! And did Maria--did your mother allow you to run
about with two boys from morning till night?"
"It is such a quiet place, aunt, no one thought it strange. We knew all
the people, and they were always glad to see us--nearly always," added
truthful Edith, with a sudden remembrance of Mr. Smith's anger when he
found his cow in the potato field, and one or two other little matters
of a like nature.
"Well, I can only say that you have been most strangely brought up. But
we will change all that. You will now find every day full of regular
employments, and when I cannot walk out with you I shall send Stimson.
You must not expect to run wild any more, but give yourself to the
improvement of your mind, and to fitting yourself for the duties of
life. Now I have letters to write, and you may leave me till I send for
you again. For this one day you will have to be idle, I suppose."
Edith escaped into the garden, thankful that the interview was over, and
that, for the time at least, she was free.
The very next day she was introduced to Monsieur Delorme, who undertook
to come from Silchester three times a week to give her lessons in
French, and to Mr. Sumner, who was to do the same on the three alternate
days, for drawing. It seemed a terrible thing to Edith at first to have
to learn from strangers; but Monsieur Delorme was a charming old
gentleman, with all the politeness of his nation; and, as Edith proved a
very apt pupil, they soon got on together beautifully.
Mr. Sumner was not so easy to please. A disappointed artist, who hated
teaching, and only gave lessons from absolute necessity, this gentleman
had but little patience with the natural inexperience of an untrained
girl.
But Edith had made up her mind to overcome all difficulties, and it was
not very long before she began to make progress with the pencil too, and
to enjoy the drawing-lesson almost as well as the pleasant hours with
Monsieur Delorme.
These were almost the only things she did enjoy, however. It was hard
work to read for two hours every morning with Miss Rachel, who made her
plod wearily through dreary histories and works of science that are
reduced to compendiums and abridgements for the favoured students of the
present day.
But even that was better than the needlework, the hemming and stitching
and darning, over which Stimson presided, and which, good and useful as
it is, is apt to become terribly irksome when it is compulsory, and a
poor girl must get through her allotted task before she can turn to any
other pursuit.
Every day, too, Edith went into the kitchen and learned pastry-making
and other mysteries from the good-natured cook, who, with Stimson, and
the boy who came daily to look after the garden and pony made up Aunt
Rachel's household.
What with these occupations, and the daily walk or drive, the girl found
her time pretty well taken up, and had little to spare for the rambles
in the garden she loved so much, and for writing letters home.
To write and to receive letters from home were her greatest pleasures,
for the separation tried her terribly.