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 aboutthat,’ 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 wasthatyou 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 seengentlemen!’ 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,Inever 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 beLike 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’?
Gillian was not yet seventeen, and had lived a home life totally removed from gossip, so that she had no notion that she was doing a more awkward or remarkable thing than if she had been teaching a drummer-boy. She even deliberated whether she should mention her undertaking to her mother, or produce the grand achievement of Alexis White, prepared for college, on the return from India; but a sense that she had promised to tell everything, and that, while she did so, she could defy any other interference, led her to write the design in a letter to Ceylon, and then she felt ready to defy any censure or obstructions from other Quarters.
Mystery has a certain charm. Infinite knowledge of human nature was shown in the text, ‘Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant’; and it would be hard to define how much Gillian’s satisfaction was owing to the sense of benevolence, or to the pleasure of eluding Aunt Jane, when, after going through her chapter of Katharine Ashton, in a somewhat perfunctory manner, she hastened away to Miss White’s office. This, being connected with the showroom, could be entered without passing through the gate with the inscription—‘No admittance except on business.’ Indeed, the office had a private door, which, at Gillian’s signal, was always opened to her. There, on the drawing-desk, lay a Greek exercise and a translation, with queries upon the difficulties for Gillian to correct, or answer in writing. Kalliope had managed to make that little room a pleasant place, bare as it was, by pinning a few of her designs on the walls, and always keeping a terracotta vase of flowers or coloured leaves upon the table. The lower part of the window she had blocked with transparencies delicately cut and tinted in cardboard—done, as she told Gillian, by her little brother Theodore, who learnt to draw at the National School, and had the same turn for art as herself. Altogether, the perfect neatness and simplicity of the little room gave it an air of refinement, which rendered it by no means an unfit setting for the grave beauty of Kalliope’s countenance and figure.
The enjoyment of the meeting was great on both sides, partly from the savour of old times, and partly because there was really much that was uncommon and remarkable about Kalliope herself. Her father’s promotion had come exactly when she and her next brother were at the time of life when the changes it brought would tell most on their minds and manners. They had both been sent to schools where they had associated with young people of gentle breeding, which perhaps their partly foreign extraction, and southern birth and childhood, made it easier for them to assimilate. Their beauty and brightness had led to a good deal of kindly notice from the officers and ladies of the regiment, and they had thus acquired the habits and ways of the class to which they had been raised. Their father, likewise, had been a man of a chivalrous nature, whose youthful mistakes had been the outcome of high spirit and romance, and who, under discipline, danger, suffering, and responsibility, had become earnestly religious. There had besides been his Colonel’s influence on him, and on his children that of Lady Merrifield and Alethea.
It had then been a piteous change and darkening of life when, after the crushing grief of his death, the young people found themselves in such an entirely different stratum of society. They were ready to work, but they could not help feeling the mortification of being relegated below the mysterious line of gentry, as they found themselves at Rockquay, and viewed as on a level with the clerks and shop-girls of the place. Still more, as time went on, did they miss the companionship and intercourse to which they had been used. Mr. Flight, the only person in a higher rank who took notice of them, and perceived that there was more in them than was usual, was after all only a patron—not a friend, and perhaps was not essentially enough of a gentleman to be free from all airs of condescension even with Alexis, while he might be wise in not making too much of an approach to so beautiful a girl as Kalliope. Besides, after a fit of eagerness, and something very like promises, he had apparently let Alexis drop, only using him for his musical services, and not doing anything to promote the studies for which the young man thirsted, nor proposing anything for the younger boys, who would soon outgrow the National School.
Alexis had made a few semi-friends among the musical youth of the place; but there was no one to sympathise with him in his studious tastes, and there was much in his appearance and manners to cause the accusation of being ‘stuck-up’—music being really the only point of contact with most of his fellows of the lower professional class.
Kalliope had less time, but she had, on principle, cultivated kindly terms with the young women employed under her. Her severe style of beauty removed her from any jealousy of her as a rival, and she was admired—almost worshipped—by them as the glory of the workshop. They felt her superiority, and owned her ability; but nobody there was capable of being a companion to her. Thus the sister and brother had almost wholly depended upon one another; and it was like a breath from what now seemed the golden age of their lives when Gillian Merrifield walked into the office, treating Kalliope with all the freedom of an equal and the affection of an old friend. There was not very much time to spare after Gillian had looked at the exercises, noted and corrected the errors, and explained the difficulties or mistakes in the translation from Testament and Delectus, feeling all the time how much more mastery of the subject her pupil had than Mr. Pollock’s at home had ever attained to.
However, Kalliope always walked home with her as far as the opening of Church Cliff Road, and they talked of the cleverness and goodness of the brothers, except Richard at Leeds, who never seemed to be mentioned; how Theodore kept at the head of the school, and had hopes of the drawing prize, and how little Petros devoured tales of battles, and would hear of nothing but being a soldier. Now and then, too, there was a castle in the air of a home for little Maura at Alexis’s future curacy. Kalliope seemed to look to working for life for poor mother, while Theodore should cultivate his art. Oftener the two recalled old adventures and scenes of their regimental days, and discussed the weddings of the two Indian sisters.
Once, however, Kalliope was obliged to suggest, with a blushing apology, that she feared Gillian must go home alone, she was not ready.
‘Can’t I help you? what have you to do?’
Kalliope attempted some excuse of putting away designs, but presently peeped from the window, and Gillian, with excited curiosity, imitated her, and beheld, lingering about, a young man in the pink of fashion, with a tea-rose in his buttonhole and a cane in his hand.
‘Oh, Kally,’ she cried, ‘does he often hang about like this waiting for you?’
‘Not often, happily. There! old Mr. Stebbing has come out, and they are walking away together. We can go now.’
‘So he besets you, and you have to keep out of his way,’ exclaimed Gillian, much excited. ‘Is that the reason you come to the garden all alone on Sunday?’
‘Yes, though I little guessed what awaited me there,’ returned Kalliope; ‘but we had better make haste, for it is late for you to be returning.’
It was disappointing that Kalliope would not discuss such an interesting affair; but Gillian was sensible of the danger of being so late as to cause questions, and she allowed herself to be hurried on too fast for conversation, and passing the two Stebbings, who, no doubt, took her for a ‘hand.’
‘Does this often happen?’ asked Gillian.
‘No; Alec walks home with me, and the boys often come and meet me. Oh, did I tell you that the master wants Theodore to be a pupil-teacher? I wish I knew what was best for him.’
‘Could not he be an artist?’
‘I should like some one to tell me whether he really has talent worth cultivating, dear boy, or if he would be safer and better in an honourable occupation like a school-master.’
‘Do you call it honourable?’
‘Oh yes, to be sure. I put it next to a clergyman’s or a doctor’s life.’
‘Not a soldier’s?’
‘That depends,’ said Kalliope.
‘On the service he is sent upon, you mean? But that is his sovereign’s look-out. He “only has to obey, to do or die.”’
‘Yes, it is the putting away of self, and possible peril of life, that makes all those grandest,’ said Kalliope, ‘and I think the schoolmaster is next in opportunities of doing good.’
Gillian could not help thinking that none of all these could put away self more entirely than the girl beside her, toiling away her beauty and her youth in this dull round of toil, not able to exercise the instincts of her art to the utmost, and with no change from the monotonous round of mosaics, which were forced to be second rate, to the commonest household works, and the company of the Queen of the White Ants.
Gillian perceived enough of the nobleness of such a life to fill her with a certain enthusiasm, and make her feel a day blank and uninteresting if she could not make her way to the little office.
One evening, towards the end of the first fortnight, Alexis himself came in with a passage that he wanted to have explained. His sister looked uneasy all the time, and hurried to put on her hat, and stand demonstratively waiting, telling Gillian that they must go, the moment the lesson began to tend to discursive talk, and making a most decided sign of prohibition to her brother when he showed a disposition to accompany them.
‘I think you are frightfully particular, Kally,’ said Gillian, when they were on their way up the hill. ‘Such an old friend, and you there, too.’
‘It would never do here! It would be wrong,’ answered Kalliope, with the authority of an older woman. ‘He must not come to the office.’
‘Oh, but how could I ever explain to him? One can’t do everything in writing. I might as well give up the lessons as never speak to him about them.’
There was truth in this, and perhaps Alexis used some such arguments on his side, for at about every third visit of Gillian’s he dropped in with some important inquiry necessary to his progress, which was rapid enough to compel Gillian to devote some time to preparation, in order to keep ahead of him.
Kalliope kept diligent guard, and watched against lengthening the lessons into gossip, and they were always after hours when the hands had gone away. The fear of being detected kept Gillian ready to shorten the time.
‘How late you are!’ were the first words she heard one October evening on entering Beechcroft Cottage; but they were followed by ‘Here’s a pleasure for you!’
‘It’s from papa himself! Open it! Open it quick,’ cried Valetta, dancing round her in full appreciation of the honour and delight.
Sir Jasper said that his daughter must put up with him for a correspondent, since two brides at once were as much as any mother could be supposed to undertake. Indeed, as mamma would not leave him, Phyllis was actually going to Calcutta, chaperoned by one of the matrons of the station, to make purchases for both outfits, since Alethea would not stir from under the maternal wing sooner than she could help.
At the end came, ‘We are much shocked at poor White’s death. He was an excellent officer, and a good and sensible man, though much hampered with his family. I am afraid his wife must be a very helpless being. He used to talk about the good promise of one of his sons—the second, I think. We will see whether anything can be done for the children when we come home. I say we, for I find I shall have to be invalided before I can be entirely patched up, so that mamma and I shall have a sort of postponed silver wedding tour, a new variety for the old folks “from home.”’
‘Oh, is papa coming home?’ cried Valetta.
‘For good! Oh, I hope it will be for good,’ added Gillian.
‘Then we shall live at dear Silverfold all the days of our life,’ added Fergus.
‘And I shall get back to Rigdum.’
‘And I shall make a telephone down to the stables,’ were the cries of the children.
The transcendent news quite swallowed up everything else for some time; but at last Gillian recurred to her father’s testimony as to the White family.
‘Is the second son the musical one?’ she was asked, and on her affirmative, Aunt Jane remarked, ‘Well, though the Rev. Augustine Flight is not on a pinnacle of human wisdom, his choir practices, etc., will keep the lad well out of harm’s way till your father can see about him.’
This would have been an opportunity of explaining the youth’s aims and hopes, and her own share in forwarding them; but it had become difficult to avow the extent of her intercourse with the brother and sister, so entirely without the knowledge of her aunts. Even Miss Mohun, acute as she was, had no suspicions, and only thought with much satisfaction that her niece was growing more attentive to poor Lilian Giles, even to the point of lingering.
‘I really think, she said, in consultation with Miss Adeline, ‘that we might gratify that damsel by having the White girls to drink tea.’
‘Well, we can add them to your winter party of young ladies in business.’
‘Hardly. These stand on different ground, and I don’t want to hurt their feelings or Gillian’s by mixing them up with the shopocracy.’
‘Have you seen the Queen of the White Ants?’
‘Not yet; but I mean to reconnoitre, and if I see no cause to the contrary, I shall invite them for next Tuesday.’
‘The mother? You might as well ask her namesake.’
‘Probably; but I shall be better able to judge when I have seen her.’
So Miss Mohun trotted off, made her visit, and thus reported, ‘Poor woman! she certainly is not lovely now, whatever she may have been; but I should think there was no harm in her, and she is effusive in her gratitude to all the Merrifield family. It is plain that the absent eldest son is the favourite, far more so than the two useful children at the marble works; and Mr. White is spoken of as a sort of tyrant, whereas I should think they owed a good deal to his kindness in giving them employment.’
‘I always thought he was an old hunks.’
‘The town thinks so because he does not come and spend freely here; but I have my doubts whether they are right. He is always ready to do his part in subscriptions; and the employing these young people as he does is true kindness.’
‘Unappreciated.’
‘Yes, by the mother who would expect to be kept like a lady in idleness, but perhaps not so by her daughter. From all I can pick up, I think she must be a very worthy person, so I have asked her and the little schoolgirl for Tuesday evening, and I hope it will not be a great nuisance to you, Ada.’
‘Oh no,’ said Miss Adeline, good humouredly, ‘it will please Gillian, and I shall be interested in seeing the species, or rather the variety.’
‘Var Musa Groeca Hibernica Militaris,’ laughed Aunt Jane.
‘By the bye, I further found out what made the Captain enlist.’
‘Trust you for doing that!’ laughed her sister.
‘Really it was not on purpose, but old Zack Skilly was indulging me with some of his ancient smuggling experiences, in what he evidently views as the heroic age of Rockquay. “Men was men, then,” he says. “Now they be good for nought, but to row out the gentlefolks when the water is as smooth as glass.” You should hear the contempt in his voice. Well, a promising young hero of his was Dick White, what used to work for his uncle, but liked a bit of a lark, and at last hit one of the coastguard men in a fight, and ran away, and folks said he had gone for a soldier. Skilly had heard he was dead, and his wife had come to live in these parts, but there was no knowing what was true and what wasn’t. Folks would talk! Dick was a likely chap, with more life about him than his cousin Jem, as was a great man now, and owned all the marble works, and a goodish bit of the town. There was a talk as how the two lads had both been a courting of the same maid, that was Betsy Polwhele, and had fallen out about her, but how that might be he could not tell. Anyhow, she was not wed to one nor t’other of them, but went into a waste and died.’
‘I wonder if it was for Dick’s sake. So Jem was not constant either.’
‘Except to his second love. That was a piteous little story too.’
‘You mean his young wife’s health failing as soon as he brought her to that house which he was building for her, and then his taking her to Italy, and never enduring to come back here again after she and her child died. But he made a good thing of it with his quarries in the mountains.’
‘You sordid person, do you think that was all he cared for!’
‘Well, I always thought of him as a great, stout, monied man, quite incapable of romance and sensitiveness.’
‘If so, don’t you think he would have let that house instead of keeping it up in empty state! There is a good deal of character in those Whites.’
‘The Captain is certainly the most marked man, except Jasper, in that group of officers in Gillian’s photograph-book.’
‘Partly from the fact that a herd of young officers always look so exactly alike—at least in the eyes of elderly spinsters.’
‘Jane!’
‘Let us hope so, now that it is all over. This same Dick must have had something remarkable about him, to judge by the impression he seems to have left on all who came in his way, and I shall like to see his children.’
‘You always do like queer people.’
‘It is plain that we ought to take notice of them,’ said Miss Mohun, ‘and it is not wholesome for Gillian to think us backward in kindness to friends about whom she plainly has a little romance.’
She refrained from uttering a suspicion inspired by her visit that there had been more ‘kindnesses’ on her niece’s part than she could quite account for. Yet she believed that she knew how all the girl’s days were spent; was certain that the Sunday wanderings never went beyond the garden, and, moreover, she implicitly trusted Lily’s daughter.
Gillian did not manifest as much delight and gratitude at the invitation as her aunts expected. In point of fact, she resented Aunt Jane’s making a visit of investigation without telling her, and she was uneasy lest there should have been or yet should be a disclosure that should make her proceedings appear clandestine. ‘And they are not!’ said she to herself with vehemence. ‘Do I not write them all to my own mother? And did not Miss Vincent allow that one is not bound to treat aunts like parents?’
Even the discovery of Captain White’s antecedents was almost an offence, for if her aunt would not let her inquire, why should she do so herself, save to preserve the choice morceau for her own superior intelligence? Thus all the reply that Gillian deigned was, ‘Of course I knew that Captain White could never have done anything to be ashamed of.’
The weather was too wet for any previous meetings, and it was on a wild stormy evening that the two sisters appeared at seven o’clock at Beechcroft Cottage. While hats and waterproofs were being taken off upstairs, Gillian found opportunity to give a warning against mentioning the Greek lessons. It was received with consternation.
‘Oh, Miss Merrifield, do not your aunts know?’
‘No. Why should they? Mamma does.’
‘Not yet. And she is so far off! I wish Miss Mohun knew! I made sure that she did,’ said Kalliope, much distressed.
‘But why? It would only make a fuss.’
‘I should be much happier about it.’
‘And perhaps have it all upset.’
‘That is the point. I felt that it must be all right as long as Miss Mohun sanctioned it; but I could not bear that we should be the means of bringing you into a scrape, by doing what she might disapprove while you are under her care.’
‘Don’t you think you can trust me to know my own relations?’ said Gillian somewhat haughtily.
‘Indeed, I did not mean that we are not infinitely obliged to you,’ said Kalliope. ‘It has made Alexis another creature to have some hope, and feel himself making progress.’
‘Then why do you want to have a fuss, and a bother, and a chatter? If my father and mother don’t approve, they can telegraph.’
With which argument she appeased or rather silenced Kalliope, who could not but feel the task of objecting alike ungracious and ungrateful towards the instructor, and absolutely cruel and unkind towards her brother, and who spoke only from a sense of the treachery of allowing a younger girl to transgress in ignorance. Still she was conscious of not understanding on what terms the niece and aunts might be, and the St. Kenelm’s estimate of the Beechcroft ladies was naturally somewhat different from that of the St. Andrew’s congregation. Miss Mohun was popularly regarded in those quarters as an intolerable busybody, and Miss Adeline as a hypochondriacal fine lady, so that Gillian might perhaps reasonably object to put herself into absolute subjection; so, though Kalliope might have a presentiment of breakers ahead, she could say no more, and Gillian, feeling that she had been cross, changed the subject by admiring the pretty short curly hair that was being tied back at the glass.
‘I wish it would grow long,’ said Kalliope. ‘But it always was rather short and troublesome, and ever since it was cut short in the fever, I have been obliged to keep it like this.’
‘But it suits you,’ said Gillian. ‘And it is exactly the thing now.’
‘That is the worst of it. It looks as if I wore it so on purpose. However, all our hands know that I cannot help it, and so does Lady Flight.’
The girl looked exceedingly well, though little Alice, the maid, would not have gone out to tea in such an ancient black dress, with no relief save a rim of white at neck and hands, and a tiny silver Maltese cross at the throat. Maura had a comparatively new gray dress, picked out with black. She was a pretty creature, the Irish beauty predominating over the Greek, in her great long-lashed brown eyes, which looked radiant with shy happiness. Miss Adeline was perfectly taken by surprise at the entrance of two such uncommon forms and faces, and the quiet dignity of the elder made her for a moment suppose that her sister must have invited some additional guest of undoubted station.
Valetta, who had grown fond of Maura in their school life, and who dearly loved patronising, pounced upon her guest to show her all manner of treasures and curiosities, at which she looked in great delight; and Fergus was so well satisfied with her comprehension of the principles of the letter balance, that he would have taken her upstairs to be introduced to all his mechanical inventions, if the total darkness and cold of his den had not been prohibitory.
Kalliope looked to perfection, but was more silent than her sister, though, as Miss Mohun’s keen eye noted, it was not the shyness of a conscious inferior in an unaccustomed world, but rather that of a grave, reserved nature, not chattering for the sake of mere talk.
Gillian’s photograph-book was well looked over, with all the brothers and sisters at different stages, and the group of officers. Miss Mohun noted the talk that passed over these, as they were identified one by one, sometimes with little reminiscences, childishly full on Gillian’s part, betraying on Kalliope’s side friendly acquaintance, but all in as entirely ladylike terms as would have befitted Phyllis or Alethea. She could well believe in the words with which Miss White rather hastened the turning of the page, ‘Those were happy days—I dare not dwell on them too much!’
‘Oh, I like to do so!’ cried Gillian. ‘I don’t want the little ones ever to forget them.’
‘Yes—you! But with you it would not be repining.’
This was for Gillian’s ear alone, as at that moment both the aunts were, at the children’s solicitation, engaged on the exhibition of a wonderful musical-box—Aunt Adeline’s share of her mother’s wedding presents—containing a bird that hovered and sung, the mechanical contrivance of which was the chief merit in Fergus’s eyes, and which had fascinated generations of young people for the last sixty years. Aunt Jane, however, could hear through anything—even through the winding-up of what the family called ‘Aunt Ada’s Jackdaw,’ and she drew her conclusions, with increasing respect and pity for the young girl over whose life such a change had come.
But it was not this, but what she called common humanity, which prompted her, on hearing a heavy gust of rain against the windows, to go into the lower regions in quest of a messenger boy to order a brougham to take the guests home at the end of the evening.
The meal went off pleasantly on the whole, though there loomed a storm as to the ritual of St. Kenelm’s; but this chiefly was owing to the younger division of the company, when Valetta broke into an unnecessary inquiry why they did not have as many lights on the altar at St. Andrew’s as at St. Kenelm’s, and Fergus put her down with unceremoniously declaring that Stebbing said Flight was a donkey.
Gillian came down with what she meant for a crushing rebuke, and the indignant colour rose in the cheeks of the guests; but Fergus persisted, ‘But he makes a guy of himself and a mountebank.’
Aunt Jane thought it time to interfere. ‘Fergus,’ she said, ‘you had better not repeat improper sayings, especially about a clergyman.’
Fergus wriggled.
‘And,’ added Aunt Ada, with equal severity, ‘you know Mr. Flight is a very kind friend to little Maura and her sister.’
‘Indeed he is,’ said Kalliope earnestly; and Maura, feeling herself addressed, added, ‘Nobody but he ever called on poor mamma, till Miss Mohun did; no, not Lady Flight.’
‘We are very grateful for his kindness,’ put in Kalliope, in a repressive tone.
‘But,’ said Gillian, ‘I thought you said he had seemed to care less of late.’
‘I do not know,’ said Miss White, blushing; ‘music seems to be his chief interest, and there has not been anything fresh to get up since the concert.’
‘I suppose there will be for the winter,’ said Miss Mohun, and therewith the conversation was safely conducted away to musical subjects, in which some of the sisters’ pride and affection for their brothers peeped out; but Gillian was conscious all the time that Kalliope was speaking with some constraint when she mentioned Alexis, and that she was glad rather to dwell on little Theodore, who had good hopes of the drawing prize, and she seriously consulted Miss Mohun on the pupil-teachership for him, as after he had passed the seventh standard he could not otherwise go on with his education, though she did not think he had much time for teaching.
‘Would not Mr. White help him further?’ asked Miss Mohun.
‘I do not know. I had much rather not ask,’ said Kalliope. ‘We are too many to throw ourselves on a person who is no near relation, and he has not seemed greatly disposed to help.’
‘Your elder brother?’
‘Oh, poor Richard, he is not earning anything yet. I can’t ask him. If I only knew of some school I could be sure was safe and good and not too costly, Alexis and I would try to manage for Theodore after the examination in the spring.’
The Woodward schools were a new light to her, and she was eagerly interested in Miss Mohun’s explanations and in the scale of terms.
Meantime Miss Adeline got on excellently with the younger ones, and when the others were free, proposed for their benefit a spelling game. All sat round the table, made words, and abstracted one another’s with increasing animation, scarcely heeding the roaring of the wind outside, till there was a ring at the bell.
‘My brother has come for us,’ said Kalliope.
‘Oh, but it is not fit for you to walk home,’ said Miss Mohun. ‘The brougham is coming by and by; ask Mr. White to come in,’ she added, as the maid appeared with the message that he was come for his sisters.
There was a confusion of acknowledgments and disclaimers, and word was brought back that Mr. White was too wet to come in. Miss Mohun, who was not playing, but prompting Fergus, jumped up and went out to investigate, when she found a form in an ancient military cloak, trying to keep himself from dripping where wet could do mischief. She had to explain her regret at his having had such a walk in vain; but she had taken alarm on finding that rain was setting in for the night, and had sent word by the muffin-boy that the brougham would be wanted, contriving to convey that it was not to be paid for.
Nothing remained to be said except thanks, and Alexis emerged from the cloak, which looked as if it had gone through all his father’s campaigns, took off his gaiters, did his best for his boots, and, though not in evening costume, looked very gentleman-like and remarkably handsome in the drawing-room, with no token of awkward embarrassment save a becoming blush.
Gillian began to tremble inwardly again, but the game had just ended in her favour, owing to Fergus having lost all his advantages in Aunt Jane’s absence, besides signalising himself by capturing Maura’s ‘bury,’ under the impression that an additional R would combine that and straw into a fruit.
So the coast being cleared, Miss Adeline greatly relieved her niece’s mind by begging, as a personal favour, to hear the song whose renown at the concert had reached her; and thus the time was safely spent in singing till the carriage was announced, and good-nights exchanged.
Maura’s eyes grew round with delight, and she jumped for joy at the preferment.
‘Oh!’ she said, as she fervently kissed Valetta, ‘it is the most delightful evening I ever spent in the whole course of my life, except at Lady Merrifield’s Christmas-tree! And now to go home in a carriage! I never went in one since I can remember!’
And Kalliope’s ‘Thank you, we have enjoyed ourselves very much,’ was very fervent.
‘Those young people are very superior to what I expected,’ said Aunt Adeline. ‘What fine creatures, all so handsome; and that little Maura is a perfect darling.’
‘The Muse herself is very superior,’ said Miss Mohun. ‘One of those home heroines who do the work of Atlas without knowing it. I do not wonder that the marble girls speak of her so enthusiastically.’
How Gillian might have enjoyed all this, and yet she could not, except so far that she told herself that thus there could be no reasonable objection made by her aunts to intercourse with those whom they so much admired.
Yet perhaps even then she would have told all, but that, after having bound over Kalliope to secrecy, it would be awkward to confess that she had told all. It would be like owning herself in the wrong, and for that she was not prepared. Besides, where would be the secrecy of her ‘great thing’?