Dick's Strange Silence
Dick looked at her very hard, and without speaking went straight upstairs, listened a little, and opened his mother's door. "Heisa tiresome boy!" thought Dorothy; "now mother will think I never told him."
Louisa brought in a poached egg, and some baked apples as he came down again.
"Cook says it's so late, you had better make it your supper, sir," she said.
"Mother wants a hot-water bottle," answered Dick; "she's as cold as ice. I think you or cook had better go up and see about her. Perhaps she'd better have a fire."
"A fire in August! Oh, Dick, howridiculous!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"All right, sir," said Louisa, taking the indiarubber bottle he had brought down; "don't you worry."
Dick took a book, and planting his elbows on the table, seemed to be reading; in reality he was blinking his eyelashes very hard, to keep back tears.
Dorothy thought the whole world was going mad. As far as she knew the only trouble in it was her own.
"Aren't you going to take any supper, Dick?" she said plaintively.
Dick pushed the egg and apples away, and cutting himself a hunch of bread, went out of the room without speaking.
"Every one is very polite to-night," thought Dorothy. However, she sat down, ate Dick's egg and helped herself to apples with plenty of sugar, and felt a little comforted.
At eight o'clock she went up to bed, glad the tiresome, miserable day was at an end. She trod very softly, but her mother heard her and called her in.
Dorothy was glad, for she spoke in her natural voice and not at all as if she were angry.
She was still dressed and lying on the bed, but her hand, which had frightened Dick by being so cold, was now burning.
"I spoke hastily to you, Dollie," she said. "You didn't know how important it was. I am going to tell you now, dear, for it may be a lesson to you."
Dorothy stood awkwardly by the bed; she didn't like her mother to apologise, and she didn't want the lecture which she imagined was coming.
"Father," said Mrs. Graham, "is in a very bad way indeed. I can't explain to you all about it because you would not understand, but a friend he trusted very much has failed him, and another friend has been spreading false rumours about his business. If he doesn't get enough money to pay his creditors by Saturday he must go bankrupt. Miss Addiscombe was a friend of his long ago. She has not been kind to him lately, and she has always been rude to me. I didn't tell father because I knew he would not let me, but I wrote and told her just how it was, and asked her to let bygones be bygones. I was hoping so much she would come, and if she came she would have lent him the money. She has so much it would mean nothing to her. Then I was disappointed in London. I thought Mr. Meredith would have been there—he is rich too—and my cousin, but he is not over at all: just his wife and daughter, and they are rushing through London. They were so busy we had scarcely time to speak. I half wonder they remembered my existence."
"Oh, mother!" protested Dorothy; and then with great effort: "You could go over to-morrow to Miss Addiscombe, or write, mother; she would understand."
"No, dear. It is no use thinking of it. To offend her once is to offend her always. Besides, I am tired out, and there are only two more days. I have told you because I didn't want it to all come quite suddenly, and you are so wrapt up in yourself, Dollie, you don't notice the way Dick does. If you had told me he hadpassed, Dorothy, when I came in, I should not have felt quite so bad."
"But I didn't know, mother," said Dorothy. "Dick didn't tell me.Hashe passed?"
"Whose fault was it, Dollie? He came home to dinner and found you all alone. Did youaskhim how he had got on?"
Dorothy hung her head. Mrs. Graham kissed her. "Well, go to bed and pray for dear father," she said. "It is worse for him than for any of us."
Dorothy felt as if she were choking. When she got to the door she stood hesitating with her hand on the handle.
"I have a hundred pounds in the Bank, mother, that grandma left me. Father can have that if it would be any use." She had made the offer with an effort, for Dorothy liked to have a hundred pounds of her own. What little girl would not? But her mother answered peevishly: "It would be no more use than if you offered him a halfpenny. Don't be foolish."
Dick's door was open and Dorothy went in.
"Isn't it dreadful, Dick!" she said. "What isbankrupt?How much money does father want?"
"About fifteen hundred," said Dick savagely. "It's all that old Pemberton backing out of it. Father wanted to get his patents to Brussels, and he's got medals for them all, but it cost a lot of money and now they are not bought. So the business will go to smash, and he'll lose the patents besides, that's the worst of it!"
"Dick," said Dorothy wistfully, "don't you think it would be better if father attended to his proper business and stopped inventing things when it costs so much?"
Dick sprang up with blazing eyes.
"You little brute!" he said, "go out of my room. No, I don't. Father's the cleverest and best man in the world. He can't help being a genius!"
The Last Straw
This was Dorothy's last straw; she went away and threw herself, dressed, on her bed, sobbing as if herheart would break. And only this morning she thought she was miserable because her new dress had not come.
Dorothy cried till she could cry no longer, and then she got up and slowly undressed. The house was very still. A clock somewhere was striking ten, and it seemed to Dorothy as if it were the middle of the night. She was cold now as her mother had been, but no one was likely to come to her. She felt alone and frightened, and as if a wall had descended between her and Dick, and her mother and father. Among all the other puzzling and dreadful things, nothing seemed so strange to Dorothy as that Dick showed better than herself. He had gone up to mother when he was told not, and yet it wasright(even Dorothy could understand that) for him to disobey her, andshehad just gone to the post, and all this dreadful thing would come of it. Dorothy had always thought Dick was such a bad boy and she was so good, and now it seemed all the other way. She wasfather'sgirl, too, and father was always down on Dick, yet—her eyes filled when she thought of it—Dick was loyal, and had called her a little brute, and mother said it was worst of all for father.
She knelt down by her bed. Until to-night Dorothy had never really felt she needed Jesus as a friend, though she sometimes thought she loved Him. Now it seemed as if shemusttell some one, and she wanted Him very, very badly. So she knelt and prayed, and though she cried nearly all the time she felt much happier when she got up.
"I am so selfish. I am so sorry. Please help me!" was the burden of poor Dollie's prayer, but she got into bed feeling as if Jesus had understood, and fell asleep quite calmly.
In the morning Dorothy awoke early. It was scarcely light. It was the first time in her life she had woke to sorrow, and it seemed very dreadful. Yet Dorothy felt humble this morning, and not helpless as she had done last night. She felt as if Someone,much stronger than herself, was going to stand by her and help her through.
Dorothy's Project
Lying there thinking, many things seemed plain to her that she had not understood before, and a thought came into her head. It washerfault, and she was the one who should suffer; not father, nor mother, nor Dick. It would not be easy, for Dorothy did not like Miss Addiscombe, and she was afraid of her, but she must go to her.
Directly the thought came into her head Dorothy was out of bed and beginning to dress. And that mysterious clock which she had never heard before was just striking five when she stole like a little white ghost downstairs, carrying her shoes in her hand, and unbolting the side door, slipped out into a strange world which was still fast asleep.
Miss Addiscombe lived ten miles away, but Dorothy did not remember anything about that. All her thought was to get there as soon as possible. One thing, she knew the way, for the flower-show was held in her grounds every year, and Dorothy had always been driven there. It was a nearly straight road.
About ten o'clock that morning a gentleman was driving along the high-road when he suddenly pulled up his horse and threw the reins to the groom. It had been quite cool when Dorothy started, but now it was very hot, and there seemed no air at all. A little girl in a white frock was lying by the roadside.
He stooped over her and felt her pulse, and Dorothy opened large, startled blue eyes.
"What is it, my dear?" he said.
"I am dying, I think," said Dorothy. "Tell mother I didtry."
He lifted her into his trap and got in beside her, telling the groom to drive on, and wondering very much. Dorothy gave a great sigh and began to feel better.
"I think it is because I had no breakfast," she said. "Perhaps I am dying ofhunger."
The gentleman smiled, and searched his pockets. After a time he found some milk chocolate. Dorothy would rather have had water, but he made her eat a little. Then he took off her hat and gloves, and with a cool, soft handkerchief pushed back the hair that was clinging about her damp forehead and carefully wiped her face.
"You'll feel better now," he said, fanning her with her hat, and putting it on again, as if he had never done anything but dress little girls in his life.
Dorothy smiled with a great sigh of relief, and the gentleman smiled too. "Now tell us all about it," he said in a friendly way. "Where do you live, and where are you going?"
When Dorothy told him he looked very much surprised, and at the same time interested, and before she knew what she was about, he had drawn from her the whole story, and the more she told him the more surprised and interested he became.
"What was the name of the friend who failed your father?" he said at last, but Dorothy could not remember.
"Was it Pemberton?" he suggested.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Pemberton," said Dorothy. "At least, Dick said so."
"You don't happen to beAddiscombeGraham's little daughter," he said with a queer look, "do you?"
"Father's name is Richard Addiscombe," said Dorothy doubtfully.
"Well, the best thing you can do now is to come home with me and get some breakfast," he said. "It is no use going to the Park, for I have just been to the station, and Miss Addiscombe was there, with all her luggage, going off to the Continent."
Poor Dorothy's heart sank like lead.
"Oh, dear!" she said, "then it's been no use. Poor father!" and her eyes filled with tears.
The gentleman did not speak, and in a few minutes they drove in at the gates of a beautiful country house,and he lifted her down and took her in with him, calling out "Elizabeth!"
A tall girl, about eighteen, came running to him, and after whispering to her for a minute, he left Dorothy in her charge, and went into the room where his wife was sitting.
"I thought you had gone to town?" she said.
Mr. Lawrence's Mistake
"Providentially, no," he said, so gravely that she looked surprised. "Do you remember Addiscombe Graham, dear?"
"Has anything happened to him?" said Mrs. Lawrence. "I have just been reading about him in the paper; all his life-saving appliances have had gold medals at the exhibition. What is it, Edward? Of course, I know you are a friend of his."
"A Judas sort of friend," said Mr. Lawrence. "Do you know what I've done? I've nearly landed him in the Bankruptcy Court. Pemberton told me a few weeks ago he had promised to give him some spare cash that would be loose at the end of the year, and I persuaded him to put it in something else. I said, 'Graham doesn't want it, he's simplycoiningover his inventions,' and I thought it too. Now it appears he wascountingon that money to pull him through the expenses."
The tall girl took Dorothy upstairs to a beautiful bathroom, got her warm water, and asked if she would like a maid to do her hair.
After a little while she came for her again and took her into a very pretty room, where there was a dainty little table laid for breakfast.
"When you have finished," she said, "just lie on the sofa and rest. I am sorry I can't stay with you, but I must go and feed the peacocks."
HER HOSTESS HAD BEEN FEEDING THE PEACOCKS.HER HOSTESS HAD BEEN FEEDING THE PEACOCKS.
Dorothy took a little toast and tea, but she did not feel so very hungry after all, and for a time was quite glad to lie down on the couch. Once or twice she got up and looked out of the window. Her girl hostess was moving across the lawn. She had evidently beenfeeding the peacocks, and was now gathering flowers. How pleasant all this wealth and comfort seemed to Dorothy! And then, by comparison,shewas feeling so miserable!
Everything was quite quiet in the house save for the telephone bell, which kept sounding in the hall. Then she heard Mr. Lawrence calling out: "Are youthere?Look sharp! Yes, to-day. Money down! Do you understand?" Then he would ring off and call up some one else. Last of all his voice changed from a business tone to a very friendly one. "Are you there? What cheer, old chap?That'sall right! I'll see you through. Two o'clock, Holborn Restaurant."
Dorothy could not hear what was said on the other side. How surprised she would have been if she had known the last conversation was with her own father!
Then a very kind-looking lady came in and kissed her. "The motor is round," she said. "I'm so glad to have seen you, dear. We all admire your father very much."
Dorothy felt bewildered but followed her out, and there was a lovely motor, and her friend in it!
"You won't faint by the way this time," he said, "eh? Now, if you can keep your own counsel, little lady, you may hear some good news to-night."
They were tearing along the level road already, and almost in a flash, it seemed to Dorothy, they were passing the church of her own village.
"Oh, please let me get out!" she said to Mr. Lawrence in an agony. "If mother heard the motor she might think it was Miss Addiscombe, and be so disappointed. You have been kind, very, very kind, but I can't help thinking about father."
He let her out, and waving his hand, was soon off and out of sight. Dorothy walked slowly and sadly home. It seemed as if she had been away fordays, and she was half afraid to go in, but to her surprise nothing seemed to have happened at all. Only Dick came rushing out, and, to her surprise, kissed her.
A Heroine
"I say, Dollie!" he began, "wherehaveyou been? You gave me an awful fright. Don't tell any one I called you a brute."
"Is mother frightened?" said Dollie. "I—I meant to help, but I've done nothing."
"How could you help?" said Dick, surprised. "Mother stayed in bed; she is only getting up now."
A boy came up with a telegram. Dick took it and after holding it a moment tore it open.
"Oh, Dick!" expostulated Dorothy, "opening mother's telegram!"
But Dick threw his cap high up in the air, and shouted "Jubilate!" Then he rushed up the stairs, Dorothy timidly following.
This was the wire:
"See daylight. Meeting Lawrence at Holborn Restaurant.—Father."
"Don't shut Dorothy out," said Mrs. Graham, holding the yellow paper, and with tears of joy standing in her eyes. "Why, my little girl, how pale you are! I wish I had not told you. You need never have known. Mr. Lawrence is just the man."
"Oh, mother!" said Dorothy, springing into her arms, and beginning to laugh and cry at once, yet happier than she had ever been in her life before. "But if you hadn't told me it couldn't have happened."
When Mr. Lawrence and father came down together that evening and the whole story was told, Dorothy, to her surprise, found when thinking least about herself she had suddenly become a heroine, even in the eyes of Dick.
BY
A very unusual hunting episode, that nearly ended in a tragedy.
Some years ago, while living in Canada, in a village situated on the bank of a large river, I was a spectator of a moose hunt of a most novel and exciting character.
That you may the better understand what I am going to relate I will first introduce you to our village Nimrod.
As his real name is no concern of ours I will here give him his popular nickname of "Ramrod," a name by which he was well known not only in our village but for a considerable distance around. It was conferred upon him, I suppose, because he walked so upright and stiff, and also perhaps because he at one time had worn the Queen's uniform.
A queer old stick was Ramrod. He knew a little of most mechanical things and was for ever tinkering at something or other, useful or otherwise as the case might be. He could also "doctor" a sick cow or dog, and was even known to have successfully set the broken leg of an old and combative rooster.
His mechanical turn of mind was continually leading him to the construction of the most wonderful arrangements of wood and iron ever seen. In fact, his operations in this direction were only held in check by one want, but that a great one, namely, the want of a sufficiency of cash.
A Mystery
Now for the greater part of one spring Ramrod had shut himself up in his woodshed, and there he was heard busy with hammer and saw all day long, except when called forth by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the door of his shop, where almost anything might have been purchased.
Many were the guesses as to "what can Ramrod be up to now?" And often did we boys try to catch a glimpse of what was going on within that mysterious shed; but in vain. Ramrod seemed to be always on the alert, and the instant an intrusive boy's head appeared above the first dusty pane of the small window by which the shed was lighted, it was greeted with a fierce and harsh gar-r-ar-r-r, often accompanied with a dash of cold water, which the old fellow always seemed to have in readiness.
But one day as a lot of youngsters were down on the river bank preparing for an early swim they were startled by the advent of another lad, who, with scared looks and awful voice, declared that Ramrod was "making his own coffin," and that he, the boy, had seen it with his own eyes.
The rumour spread, and many were the visits paid that afternoon to the little shop by the river.
But Ramrod kept his secret well, and baffled curiosity had to return as wise as it came. Ramrod was determined that his work should not be criticised until completed. He had evidently heard the saying that "women, children, and fools should not be allowed to see a thing until finished."
At last one day the great workwascompleted, and turned out to be, not a coffin, but what the happy builder called a boat. But to call it a boat was a misnomer, for the thing was to be propelled not by oars but by a paddle.
And certainly through all the ages since the construction of the ark of Noah was never such a boat as this. It would be impossible to convey in words a true idea of what the craft was like. Perhaps to take an ordinary boat, give it a square stern, a flat bottom without a keel, and straight sides tapering to a point at the bow, would give an approximate idea of what the thing actually was, and also how difficult to navigate.
The winter had been unusually uneventful. Nothing had happened to break the cold monotony of our village life, so that when one day an excited and panting individual rushed up the river bank screaming out "A moose, a moose in the river!" it was only natural that we should all be thrown into a state of ferment.
Some who possessed firearms rushed off to get them out, while others ran along the bank seeking a boat.
As, however, the ice having only just "run," the boats and punts ordinarily fringing the river were still all up in the various barns and sheds where they had been stowed at the close of navigation, their efforts were in vain, and they could only stand fuming and casting longing eyes at the now retreating moose.
For of course the animal had turned as soon as he perceived the hubbub which his appearance under such unusual circumstances had created. Instead, therefore, of crossing the river, it now made for an island which was about half a mile out in the stream.
It had a good distance to swim, however, before it could accomplish that, and in the meantime preparations were being made a short way up the river which promised serious trouble for Mr. Moose.
Of course, you may be sure that Ramrod had caught the excitement with the rest of us, and was equally desirous of the capture of the moose. But he was a modest man and would let others have a chance first.
After a little while, though, when it became evident that unless something was done pretty soon the moosewould escape, it was noticed that he became graver, and that his face wore a puzzled look of uncertainty.
Ramrod's "Coffin"
All at once, however, the doubt vanished, and Ramrod started off towards his house as fast as his long stiff legs would carry him.
When he emerged he bore in one hand an ordinary rope halter, with a noose at one end, just such a halter as was used by all the farmers for securing their horses to their stalls. In his other hand was a paddle, and with these harmless-looking implements he was about to start in chase of the moose.
Quickly proceeding to the river bank, he drew out from beneath a clump of bushes the "coffin," and, unheeding alike the warnings of the elders and derisive shouts of the youngsters, elicited by the appearance of his curious-looking craft, he knelt down in the stern and set out on his perilous adventure.
But he had not gone far before it was seen that something was wrong.
The boat had a will of its own, and that will was evidently exerted in direct opposition to the will of its owner.
It went, but how? No schoolboy ever drew a truer circle with a bit of string and a slate-pencil than that cranky craft made on the placid surface of the river each time Ramrod put a little extra strength into his stroke.
At last, however, the gallant boatman managed to make headway, and, aided by the current, he now rapidly approached the moose, which was considerably distressed by the great length of its swim.
But the instant the animal became aware that it was being pursued, it redoubled its efforts to gain the island, which was not very distant. And this it would have succeeded in doing had it not been for the almost herculean exertions of Ramrod, by which it was eventually headed up stream again.
And now a stern chase up and down and across the river ensued. It really did not last long, thoughit seemed hours to us who were watching from the bank.
Just as Ramrod thought he had made sure of the moose this time, and dropping his paddle would seize the halter to throwoverthe head of the animal, the latter would make a sudden turn, and before the baffled hunter could regain command of his boat, would be well on his way down stream again.
All this time the crowd collected on the bank were greatly concerned about Ramrod's safety.
They saw, what he did not, that the affair would end in his getting a ducking at the very least. But worse than that was feared, as, once overturned, the miserable conception of a boat would be beyond the power of any one in the water to right it again. And, moreover, the water was still intensely cold, and a very few minutes would have sufficed to give the cramp to a much stronger man than Ramrod.
Perceiving all this, some of the more energetic had from the first bestirred themselves in preparations for launching a boat.
But this occupied some time, for, as I have said, the boats usually to be seen fringing the bank during the summer months had not yet made their appearance. Oars also and tholepins had to be hunted up, and by the time all this was accomplished the need of help out there on the river was very urgent indeed.
Plenty of pluck had Ramrod, or he would have given up the chase when he found himself becoming so exhausted, by the tremendous exertion necessary to keep control of his cranky craft, that he had scarcely sufficient strength left to follow the deer in its many dodges and turnings.
But strong as the moose was, its time had come. Suddenly the animal stopped, gave a scream that made the blood curdle in all our veins, and would have sunk out of sight only that, with a last desperate effort, Ramrod got up with it, and this time succeeded in throwing the halter over its head and drawing the noose tight.
An Upset
Thoroughly exhausted as the moose appeared to be, this act of Ramrod's roused it to make one more effort for life and freedom. Turning quickly about and snorting furiously, it made for its assailant, and before Ramrod could check it had capsized the boat and sent that worthy head over heels into the water.
Presence of mind is a splendid quality, and Ramrod possessed it to the full. Retaining his hold of the halter, he endeavoured to right the boat, but soon perceiving the impossibility of so doing, he relinquished the attempt, and being a good swimmer, boldly struck out for the island, that being the nearest land.
Refreshed by his involuntary bath, and not yet feeling the effects of the cold, Ramrod made no doubt but that he should easily accomplish the task.
As for the moose, it was completely done up, and was now no more trouble than a log of wood. The effort by which it had overturned the boat was the last it made, and its captor was now quietly towing it ashore.
But cold water does not agree with all constitutions, especially if the body has been fatigued and heated before its application.
Cramp seized upon poor Ramrod, and though he made a gallant and desperate struggle to reach land with the aid of his arms alone, he felt that only by a miracle could he do so.
Moment by moment he felt himself growing weaker and less able to withstand the chill which was striking through to his very heart.
At last the supreme moment came. He could go no farther. Brave and collected to the last, he raised his eyes to heaven as in thought he commended his soul to his Maker.
At that instant the sound of oars struck his ear, and the hope it brought him gave him sufficient strength to keep up until a friendly hand grasped him under the arm.
With his last little bit of strength he raised hishand, still grasping the halter, and smiled triumphantly; then he lost consciousness.
The "coffin" was brought ashore afterwards, but no one had the hardihood to navigate it. Even towing it was a trial of temper, for it kept swinging from side to side with a heavy jerking motion with every pull at the oars.
Ramrod, I am glad to say, lived to have many a quiet paddle in his queer boat whenever he went a-fishing; and this, it appears, was all he intended it for when he built it.
Thus ended this famous moose hunt, but the talk of it lasted for many a year; and whenever a pleasure-party were out on the river enjoying a sail by moonlight, this was the one story that was never stale, and mention of "Ramrod's coffin" would cause a smile to appear on the face of even the most grave.
The moose, when brought ashore, proved to be quite young, though full-grown, as its horns were not much more than "buds."
BY
Edith Harley was called upon to play a rather difficult part. But her patience and her obedience to the call of duty brought their own reward.
"A letter from Rachel! Is it possible she can have relented at last?"
Dr. Harley looked across the breakfast-table at his wife as he spoke; and the children, of all ages and sizes, who were busy with their bowls of porridge, stopped the clatter of tongues and spoons to listen.
"Read it, dear," said Mrs. Harley, in her slow, gentle voice. "It must be ten years since Rachel wrote that last dreadful letter. Surely she must have learnt to forgive and forget by this time!"
"Send some of these children away, then. Maude and Jessie can stay; but it is time the others were getting ready for lessons."
There was a hurried, scrambling finish of the simple breakfast; then a little troop of boys and girls filed out of the rather shabby dining-room, and Dr. and Mrs. Harley were alone with their elder daughters.
"'My dear Brother,'" began the doctor,—"'I am growing an old woman now, and in spite of the good reasons I had for ceasing to write, or to communicate with you in any way, I do not feel thatI can keep up the estrangement from my own flesh and blood any longer."'If you like to let bygones be bygones, I, on my side, am quite willing to do the same. I am writing, too, because I have heard a good deal, in one way or another, about your large and expensive family, and the difficulty you have in making both ends meet. It has been more than hinted to me that I ought to render, or at least offer, you some assistance. I have thought perhaps the best thing would be to take one of your girls for a six months' visit; to stay longer, or, indeed, always, if I should, after such a trial, continue to be pleased with her."'I don't want a young child, but one old enough to be companionable. Of course I would provide for education, and everything, so long as she stayed with me. It would surely be a relief to have even one of such a number taken off your hands, and it would be the girl's own fault if the relief were not made permanent. If this should meet your views, write at once, and fix a date for one of your daughters to come to me. Your affectionate sister,"'Rachel Harley.'"
"'My dear Brother,'" began the doctor,—"'I am growing an old woman now, and in spite of the good reasons I had for ceasing to write, or to communicate with you in any way, I do not feel thatI can keep up the estrangement from my own flesh and blood any longer.
"'If you like to let bygones be bygones, I, on my side, am quite willing to do the same. I am writing, too, because I have heard a good deal, in one way or another, about your large and expensive family, and the difficulty you have in making both ends meet. It has been more than hinted to me that I ought to render, or at least offer, you some assistance. I have thought perhaps the best thing would be to take one of your girls for a six months' visit; to stay longer, or, indeed, always, if I should, after such a trial, continue to be pleased with her.
"'I don't want a young child, but one old enough to be companionable. Of course I would provide for education, and everything, so long as she stayed with me. It would surely be a relief to have even one of such a number taken off your hands, and it would be the girl's own fault if the relief were not made permanent. If this should meet your views, write at once, and fix a date for one of your daughters to come to me. Your affectionate sister,
"'Rachel Harley.'"
"Oh, papa!" exclaimed Maude and Jessie in a breath, "how could we ever leave you, and dear mamma too! We should be miserable away from home."
"From Aunt Rachel's letter, I should think she must be a dreadfully stiff sort of person," added audacious Jessie. "Please don't say that we shall have to go."
"Not so fast, my dear," returned her father. "Only one of you all can go, and I do not think either you or Maude could possibly be spared. But what does mamma say?"
"You know my wretched health, Henry," said Mrs. Harley. "I never could do without Maude to look after the housekeeping; and Jessie saves both school and governess for the younger ones. But then there is Edith. Why should not Edith go?"
Edith Harley
"Why, indeed?" repeated the doctor. "Edith does nothing but mischief—at least, so far as the account of her doings reaches my ears. She is quite too big for Jessie to teach, and we cannot afford to send her to a good school at present, which is the thing that ought to be done. It really seems to me a providential opening for Edith."
"Poor Edie!" sighed the mother again. "It would be a hard life for her, I am afraid."
"Oh, nonsense, Maria! You were always unjust to Rachel. You think, because she took such deep offence, that there can be nothing good in her. Surely I ought to know my own sister's character! Rachel would do her duty by any inmate of her home—of that I am quite certain."
"Well, Henry, it would be a help in many ways. Edith is growing such a great girl, nearly fifteen now, and if it would lighten your cares to have her provided for, I ought not to resist. But at least it would be well to let her know what you think of doing, and hear what she says."
"I don't know that what she says need affect the question much. The fact is, Maria, something will have to be done. We are exceeding what we can afford even now, and the children will be growing more expensive instead of less so. For my own part, I can only feel glad of Rachel's offer. I must go now; but you can tell Edith, if you like; and tell her, too, to hold herself in readiness, for the sooner the matter is settled the better."
Edith Harley, called indifferently by her brothers and sisters the Middle One and the Odd One, was the third daughter and the fifth child of this family of nine. She was a rather tall, awkward girl, who grew out of her frocks, and tumbled her hair, and scandalised her elder sisters, in their pretty prim young ladyhood, by playing with the boys and clinging obstinately, in spite of her fifteen years, to her hoop and skipping-rope. An unfortunate child was thischosen one, always getting into scrapes, and being credited with more mischief than she ever really did.
It was Edith who had caught the whooping-cough through playing with some of the village children, and had brought it home, to be the plague of all the nine for a whole winter and spring.
It was Edith who took Johnnie and Francie down to the pondside to play, and let them both tumble in. True, she went bravely in herself and rescued them, but that did not count for very much. They were terribly wet, and if they had been drowned it would have been all her fault.
It was Edith who let Tom's chickens out for a run, and the cat came and killed two of them; that was just before she forgot to shut the paddock-gate, when the donkey got into mamma's flower-garden and spoilt all the best plants.
So poor Edith went on from day to day, thankful if she could only lay her head upon her pillow at night without being blamed for some fresh escapade, yet thoroughly happy in the freedom of her country life, in the enjoyment of long summer-day rambles, and endless games with the little brothers, who thought her "the jolliest girl that ever was," and followed her lead without scruple, sure that whatever mischief she might get them into she would bravely shield them from the consequences.
A country doctor, with a not very lucrative practice, Dr. Harley had, when Edith was about ten years old, sustained a severe pecuniary loss which greatly reduced his income. It was then that the governess had to be given up, and the twin boys who came next to Maude and Jessie were sent to a cheaper school. These boys were leaving now, one to go to the university, through the kindness of a distant relative, the other to pass a few weeks with the London coach who would prepare him for a Civil Service examination.
Jessie, a nice, clever girl, with a decided taste for music, could teach the four younger ones very well—haddone so, indeed, ever since Miss Phipps left; but in this, as in everything, Edith was the family problem. She could not, or would not, learn much from Jessie; she hated the piano and needlework, and even professed not to care for books.
"Would it help Papa?"
Yet she astonished the entire family sometimes by knowing all sorts of odd out-of-the-way facts; she could find an apt quotation from some favourite poet for almost any occasion, and did a kind of queer miscellaneous reading in "a hole-and-corner way," as her brother Tom said, that almost drove the sister-governess to distraction.
And now the choice of a companion for Miss Rachel Harley, the stern, 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 youmindmy 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 fora 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'realways 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.
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 fullof 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 istrue; but I suppose she won't expect you to be quite like an old woman."