"You and your aunt, my dear Miss Honor," the kind little gentleman had said, "will have to put things clearly, so to speak, before your mother, since she cannot see me. It will, I fear, be very difficult to make her understand that all—literallyall—she has now to depend upon is £50 a year; and that is only owing to a fortunate chance, the money having been invested in some other concern; of course had it been placed in the bank it would have gone with the rest. To be sure there is your own little bit of money left you by your godmother, but that only amounts to about £20 a year. Dear me, dear me! it is terrible; a paltry sum of £70 a year to bring up a large family upon, and without a stick or a stone to start with!"
And now Honor is standing just where the old lawyer has left her after the foregoing conversation, gazing dreamily into the fire. "You and your aunt must make her understand"—those are the words which keep repeating themselves over and over; but to a girl of Honor's sensitive nature the task of doing so is no light one.
"Ah me!" sighs the girl as she leaves the room and slowly mounts the stairs, "I wish Aunt Sophia were here!"
But Aunt Sophia is not there, so Honor has to open the door and go in alone. Mrs. Merivale is seated at a little writing-table, which is strewn with deep black-edged paper and envelopes. She is not writing, however, but leaning back in her chair looking drearily before her. As Honor enters she rouses herself, and wiping away the tears which stand in her eyes she motions the girl to come and sit beside her.
"I wanted to speak to you, dear," she says, taking Honor's hand in her own, "and I was just going to send Lane for you. Now that I am better you must tell me a little of what has been done. How have you managed about the mourning?"
"Miss Renny has been here, mother, ever since—ever since it happened, and all our dresses are nearly finished now, and I expect yours from Mrs. Carey will be home to-night. We couldn't disturb you the other morning about it, so aunt and I together chose a style we thought you would like. Ours are all alike—cashmere and crêpe made quite plainly; and yours, dear mother, will be of crêpe cloth, and of course heavily trimmed with crêpe."
"Yes, dear; that is all quite right. Only I wish Mrs. Carey had made all your dresses as well. Miss Renny would have made you others for common wear afterwards, you know. But now, dear, this is what I wanted to consult you about, you are so much more clear-headed and sensible than Doris. About my better dresses, dear,—I mean those that Madame Cecile will have the making of. I shall not have any dinner dresses made at present, because I shall not be going out or receiving for some time to come, but I was just going to write to Cecile to ask for patterns."
"Dear mother," says Honor gently, "I am so glad you spoke to me about this first, because it would have been so awkward if you had already sent."
"Why awkward, dear? What do you mean, Honor?"
"Don't you remember, dear mother, the sad news poor, dear father had before this other dreadful trouble came upon us?"
"Well, of course I do," Mrs. Merivale answers rather testily; "but I don't really see why you should take this time to remind me of it, and I must say, Honor, I think it very inconsiderate and unfeeling of you to come and worry me like this, and your poor, dear father not yet laid in his grave. I should think I have gone through grief and trouble enough," continues Mrs. Merivale, weeping, "without my children making things harder for me!"
"Dear mother," cries poor Honor, sobbing in concert, "pray, pray do not think I mean to be unkind; but Mr. Trent has been talking to aunt and to me, and it seems, dear mother, as if we shall hardly have enough to live upon when everything is settled up."
"Hardly enough to live upon!" repeats Mrs. Merivale, sitting up and drying her eyes. "My dear child, don't talk nonsense. As if I did not know more about these things than you do. I know we shall have to cut down our expenses, and diminish our household probably; do with a servant or two less, I mean. But as for beingpoor, Honor, you are talking ridiculous nonsense, child, as I said before. Why, even if your father's money were all lost—which I should say is very unlikely, people do exaggerate so,—but even if that were all gone, there is my fortune, which if necessary we could very well manage with somehow."
Poor Honor sighs at the hopelessness of the situation; but with a feeling of desperation she is just about to speak when the door opens, and to her great relief Lady Woodhouse enters the room.
"O, Sophia!" exclaims Mrs. Merivale with a little hysterical gasp, "Iamso glad you have come in, my dear. Here is Honor talking the most outrageous nonsense; trying to make out that all our property is gone, and—well, in fact that we are as poor as church mice!"
"Well, and so you are," remarks Lady Woodhouse, sitting down and untying her bonnet-strings with a jerk, "the child has said nothing but the truth. I am sorry," she adds, softening a little on seeing the cambric handkerchief drawn from her sister's pocket preparatory to a fresh burst of grief—"I'm sorry to have to speak so plainly; but it seems to me that poor James did his best to make you understand the state of affairs in his conversation with you the night of his death; and considering all he said to you then, I must say it passes my comprehension that you can still be ignorant of your true position. Mr. Trent begged me to speak to you on the subject, and that is why I have come now, because I think it is so much better than putting it off until after the funeral; for I am sure there will be little or no time to arrange anything then. Now, Mary, be sensible, my dear, and let us talk quietly over a comfortable cup of tea."
Mrs. Merivale, however, is not in a humour to do anything quietly, and Lady Woodhouse on her way to ring the bell for tea is suddenly electrified by a sound behind her, partaking of the nature of a scream, a gasp, and a convulsive laugh all at once. In plain words, the trying nature of the past conversation has reduced Mrs. Merivale to a violent fit of hysterics; and Lady Woodhouse, deeming it advisable that she should be left alone with her sister for a time, takes the smelling-salts from Honor's hand, and whispering "Leave her to me, child, and I will bring her round," signs to the girl to leave the room.
On going downstairs Honor sees Hugh Horton standing in a hesitating sort of manner on the door-mat; a wreath of rare white flowers in one hand, and a note in the other.
"I told William I wouldn't see anyone, Honor," he whispers, coming forward and laying the wreath on the hall table, "but he would go off to see if there was anyone about, and as I wanted to leave a message from mother I was obliged to wait till he came back. How are you all, Honor dear? No, I won't come in," he adds, as the girl silently motions him towards the dining-room; "I won't really. I only wanted to give you that (nodding towards the wreath), with love from us all. And I was to tell you, Honor, that mother will come in to-night after dinner to have a talk with Mrs. Merivale and Lady Woodhouse about a suggestion she wants to make."
"It is very kind of her," says Honor simply. "She has been such a comfort to us all;" and with a little stifled sob she buries her face in the wreath which she has taken up. "White violets, how beautiful! and the flower that father loved best. How good of you, Hugh!"
"I remembered that when mother and I were giving orders for it this morning, and I knew you would like them. How is Molly, Honor?"
"She is a little better now, I think; but her grief has been something terrible. Poor girl! She idolized father almost, and the shock has been almost too much for her. She is so highly sensitive, and she feels the loss so much, never having seen him alive again after dinner on that dreadful evening. Doris and I were both with him, you know; and of course it was just chance that Molly was not there too. At first she was nearly wild with grief, then she sank into a sort of dull apathy, taking notice of nothing and of nobody. Miss Denny has been kindness itself to her, as she has to us all, indeed; and to-day Molly seems more like her old self."
"I am so glad," Hugh says feelingly, "Good-bye, Honor, for the present; let me know, mind, if there isanythingI can do for any of you;" and hastily pressing the girl's hand the young man runs down the steps and out of sight.
The day of the funeral has come and gone. The last fond look has been taken, and the last kiss given to the calm, placid face, so soon to be hidden from sight. And now the mortal remains of the fond husband, loving father, and kind master have been carried from the once happy home, and, followed by a large number of sympathetic friends and acquaintances, in addition to the little train of mourners, are laid in their last resting-place.
The blinds are once more drawn up, and the winter sunlight streams into the dining-room, where are assembled Lady Woodhouse, Miss Denison, Doris, and Honor, with Mr. Trent and the old head clerk, Mr. Hobson, who is visibly overcome by the sadness of the occasion.
"It is no use," remarks Mr. Trent, moving some papers about, and seeming chiefly to address himself to the old man seated opposite him. "It will be no use going through my late client's will, although it was properly drawn up and witnessed only a few months back."
"Not the least in the world," asserts Mr. Hobson, taking off his spectacles and carefully polishing them up.
"Therefore," continues Mr. Trent slowly, "we may dispense with the usual forms and give our attention, Mr. Hobson, to settling the future affairs of Mrs. Merivale and these poor young ladies here. I have looked through Mr. Merivale's papers, and I find that there will be absolutely nothing but your own little property, Miss Honor, and the small portion of your mother's fortune, which is safely invested. The two together will amount to £70 per annum, and that, I regret to say, is absolutely all." With that the old gentleman looks kindly, and with eyes not altogether free from dimness, at the two orphan daughters of his late client, and for a few moments there is a dead silence in the room, broken by Honor, who presently asks:
"But, Mr. Trent, ought we to keep this—I mean, ought we not to give upeverythingin such a case as this?"
Lady Woodhouse gasps, and is about to pour forth a torrent of remonstrances, when Mr. Trent, also looking slightly taken aback, replies:
"My dear young lady, just consider a moment. You have a perfect right to this money, and, pardon me if I ask, what would you propose to do without it? You cannot even realize what a paltry sum it is when house-rent, food, and clothing, to say nothing if any other expenses have to come out of it. You are doing as much as it is possible to do; indeed more than some persons would do; and I can assure you, Miss Honor, that there is not one among the unfortunate sufferers in this collapse who will not be satisfied with the course that is being taken."
Honor sighs and brushes away a tear. "I was thinking," she says, "of some of the last words my dear father ever spoke. He said he would give the very coat from off his back if that would be of any use."
"Ifit would be of any use," repeated the old gentleman kindly; "but would it, my dear? would it? You must not allow your proper judgment to be run away with by your feeling—through an exaggerated feeling—of justice."
"Exactly what I was going to observe," says Lady Woodhouse with a jerk of her bonnet-strings. "You are your father's child all over, Honor; and I will say this of you: you are conscientious almost to a fault, and so was he, poor man. You can, I am sure, take the £70 a year with a clear conscience; so for goodness' sake let us hear no more about it. You have yet to learn what a mere drop in the ocean it will be when you come to try living on it—and that at once. Now do, girls, let us be plain and business-like, and give up talking nonsense. I have only an hour before I must return to the Pagets', and I have promised to have a cup of tea with your mother before I go, so that we can make our final arrangements for the journey to-morrow. Now, I understand that there is a certain amount of furniture in the house which belongs to your mother. I'm afraid it's not much; but still it is better than nothing. Where is it?"
"There is some in the school-room," answer the girls together, "and the rest is in the nurseries." And Honor adds despondently:
"I'm afraid there are not more than two beds."
"Well—now this is what I want you to do, Honor. Mr. Trent, I understand, has most kindly invited you and Miss Denison, while she is with you, to go and stay with him and Mrs. Trent for a little while. Now I want you while you are there to make out a list of what else is absolutely necessary in the way of furniture and send it to me. Mr. Hobson, it appears, has very kindly been looking at the advertisements of houses, and he tells me he has brought one or two to show you, which might, perhaps, be worth answering. He will, I feel sure, give you all the advice and help that he can in this matter. I am thankful, too, that good Miss Denison will be with you a little while longer, for I know what a comfort she will be to you; and if you are in any doubt or perplexity on any point you must go to her, Honor; she will give you the best and wisest advice."
"I shall indeed look forward to being of some use to Honor while I am with her," says Miss Denison; "and you may rest assured, dear Lady Woodhouse, that I shall do all in my power to help her and the rest of my young charges in settling and arranging all that has to be done."
"You are a good, kind creature," exclaims Lady Woodhouse impulsively, "and these girls ought to be grateful to you for the way in which you have brought them up. I always told my sister that if any of them turned out well she would have you to thank for it. Now, Honor, I must go. See that your mother and the two girls are ready when I call in the morning. You know Mr. Paget cannot bear to have his horses kept waiting a moment; and I'm sureIdon't want to be the cause of their taking cold. You will have all the rest of the packing to see to with Lane after we have gone."
"O, our packing will not take long," replies Honor, "with Miss Denny and Lane to help us."
"Not take long, child! Why, what can you be thinking about? Your mother's wardrobe will be something to get together and pack."
"O, I didn't think of packing anything of mother's excepting what she will be requiring now. I mean," adds Honor with a little tightening of her lips, "that I do not think it would be right to keep any of mother's handsome dresses, and certainly not her jewels. Doris and I have, of course, very little in that way; but," with a little threatening look at her sister, "I shall expect her to do as I do, and give upeverythingthat is of value."
Doris does not look highly pleased at this proposition, but she says:
"Of course, Honor," meekly enough, though she is immensely relieved at her aunt's next words:
"What you say about the jewels is quite right, Honor,—that is to say, your mother's; in fact we have already talked over the subject together. Little personal gifts, and indeed any jewellery your mother had before she was married, she will, however, keep," adds Aunt Sophia rather decidedly. "And Doris and you must keep the little trinkets you have; which are, I suppose, most of them birthday presents. You say yourself they are not worth speaking of. As to the dresses, you are really quite quixotic, Honor; no one would expect such a sacrifice; and when you all go out of mourning it is more than probable that you will feel very thankful that you have taken my advice. Now I really must go, or I shall be late." And shaking hands with Miss Denison and the two gentlemen, Lady Woodhouse leaves the room.
Those left behind immediately enter on a discussion touching the question of the new house. Mr. Hobson has cut out one or two advertisements which on consideration are not found to be particularlyunsuitable, which, perhaps, is something, in the matter of house-hunting! One of them states that there is a nine-roomed house to let—good drainage, large garden, hen-house, and pig-sty. Low rent to careful tenant.—Apply to Messrs. E. & B. Talboys, care of Messrs. Gilmore, solicitors, High Street, Edendale Village, &c.
Taking it altogether, this sounds hopeful. So Honor sits down, and with Mr. Hobson's assistance answers the advertisement, while Doris and Miss Denison leave the room with Mr. Trent, whom Mrs. Merivale is now equal to seeing "just for a few minutes," prior to her departure with her sister next day for London. For the rest of that day and all the morning of the next Honor and Miss Denison are engaged in packing and directing all that is theirs to take, and with the assistance of Lane and of the school-room maid (who has begged with tears to be allowed to remain with the family, at any rate until they are settled in the new house) they get through a great deal. And when at last they have watched the departure of the carriage containing Mrs. Merivale, Lady Woodhouse, Doris, and Daisy to the station, they enter the house again, to see if all is in order for the sale which is so soon to follow their own departure, with that feeling of blank melancholy attendant on that much-to-be-pitied condition of having "nothing to do." Dick and Bobby are already established next door with their good friends the Hortons—Molly to follow later, according to the kind suggestion made a few days before by Mrs. Horton; and there they are to remain until the family plans shall be more settled.
While Miss Denison and Honor are making a last pilgrimage round the house, Molly stands disconsolately at the dining-room window pressing her littleretroussénose against the pane. Suddenly she sees a telegraph-boy running up the steps, and her nerves being all unstrung by recent grief and sorrow Molly rushes with pale affrighted face to the door, fearful of more trouble to come perhaps, to take the message from the boy. She gives a little sigh of relief, however, as she glances at the direction and sees her governess's name upon it, and her long legs soon carry her upstairs to her mother's boudoir, where Honor and Miss Denison are. As Miss Denison reads the telegram her face changes, and in a voice trembling with agitation she says:
"My poor girls! I shall have to leave you directly after all. This is from Frank's mother saying that he is dangerously ill, and that I must get there without a moment's delay. O, how unfortunate, to be sure! I cannot bear to leave you all alone at such a sad time; and nothing but this would induce me to do so. But you see, Honor—you see—how imperative it is. Indeed I fear even now that I may be too late;" and thinking of her own trouble for the first time Miss Denison breaks utterly down, and with her pupils' arms round her, their tears mingling with hers, she sobs uncontrollably for a few seconds.
Active steps have to be taken, however, and in less than an hour the remaining occupants of the house have left it for ever, and Honor and Molly are standing on the platform at the station by the locked door of the compartment in which Miss Denison is seated, looking down upon them with wet and sorrowful eyes. One last hand-clasp and a half-stifled sob, and the train moving slowly from the platform leaves the two girls standing, hand in hand, desolate and alone.
It is ten o'clock on one of those warm balmy mornings which in this erratic climate of ours sometimes come upon us in the month of February. The bushes and hedges, and even some of the young trees, lacking experience and knowledge, allow themselves to be deluded into the idea that spring is coming, and are making feeble attempts at budding. They are apparently ignorant of the fact that the next frost will cut off the too venturesome little sprouts, and breathing upon them with its chilling breath reduce them all to the little brown lifeless-looking twigs that they were before the week's spell of mild weather had turned their heads. Even the rose trees, in which the garden of "The Rosery" abounds, show signs here and there of succumbing to the seductively balmy air, and it is with real grief that the two little old gentlemen, who are trotting round the garden taking their usual after-breakfast constitutional, shake their heads at these unlooked-for symptoms of frivolity in their much-cherished pets, murmuring plaintively:
"The blossoms will not be half so fine this year; this will weaken them dreadfully."
These two little old gentlemen are none other than the Messrs. E. and B. Talboys alluded to in the advertisement of the nine-roomed house to let, and owners of the same. In appearance and manners they are almost exactly alike, being in point of fact twins; the only noticeable difference being that one, Mr. Edward, is in all points a little more strongly developed than his brother, Mr. Benjamin. Mr. Edward is perhaps a trifle the taller of the two, but as he is at the same time also a trifle stouter the difference in height is hardly if at all perceptible. Both have good, benevolent faces; but here again is the slight, very slight, difference referred to. Both brothers have bright blue eyes; but while Mr. Benjamin's have the mild, limpid expression which tells of the more placid nature beneath, Mr. Edward's have a keenness, amounting at times almost to a glitter, which is entirely absent in those of his brother. Both have the same perfect aquiline nose; and while the mouth and chin in both faces are equally good in a measure, the curves of Mr. Edward's mouth, and the slight extra squareness of his chin, testify to his having the stronger character. The same thing is to be noticed in the matter of dress; for although the brothers are always dressed exactly alike, they appear to wear their clothes differently. Both have high shirt collars, but there is, or appears to be, always less starch in those of Mr. Benjamin; and while his cravat is tied in a modest little bow, which has a trick of being always either a little to the left or the right of the stud which fastens the collar in front, Mr. Edward's is always tied with the greatest precision, the end of one loop protruding exactly the same distance from the middle of the collar as the other. There are also little creases and folds to be sometimes detected in Mr. Benjamin's coat, which never by any chance can be discovered in that of his brother. Mr. Benjamin walks with a slight limp, owing to an accident which had occurred years ago when they were young men. Both the old gentlemen, therefore, carry a stout black walking-stick, with a gold knob at the top. The subject of this accident is a sore one to both brothers, and it is without exception the only one upon which they have ever been known to disagree.
A cricket match in which both brothers were playing was being held on the village cricketing ground. Edward was batting, and his brother was fielding close to the opposite wicket. The rays of the setting sun were streaming down upon the field, right in the very eyes of the batsman; and as the ball came swiftly bounding towards him straight as a dart from the practised hand of the bowler, it seemed to Edward's dazzled sight that there were two balls instead of one to claim his attention. With a feeling of desperation he rushed, so to speak, at the ball; but in the flurry he received it on the edge of his bat, and sent it flying with the strength for which he was envied by the whole field exactly in the opposite direction to that he intended. It was a few seconds before he noticed that the other wicket was deserted, and that nearly all the men were clustered round one who was stretched upon the grass at their feet. With a terrible fear at his heart he strode across to the little throng, to find, to his grief and horror, that it was indeed his brother lying helpless before him. Though nearly fainting with agony Benjamin was in the wildest state of anxiety that the truth should be kept from his brother as to his having been unwittingly the cause of his broken ankle, the pain of which was rendering him half unconscious as he leant back, faint and white, in the arms of the wicket-keeper.
"Don't let him know it!" he gasped, unconscious of the fact that his brother was standing close beside him; "let him think I slipped—and—fell. You see the sun was in my—eyes—or I would have seen it—coming; I ought to have got out of the way. Don't let him know—don't let—" and with these words he fainted, and was carefully carried from the ground by his sympathetic friends, Edward being still too much stunned to take any active part in the proceedings. Ever since that hot early evening in August it had been a subject of discussion between the brothers as to whether the sun could possibly set in two places at once, each one being perfectly convinced that he himself had been standing opposite to its dazzling rays.
Only two days ago the brothers Talboys had met Honor and Molly Merivale by appointment at "The Rookery," as the house they had been advertising was called. Old Mr. Hobson had come down with the girls, rightly thinking that there should be someone older than Honor present on such an important occasion as taking a new house.
"You cannot be expected to understand anything about bad drainage, damp, and such things, my dear," he had said to Honor, "and it will do me good to run down into the country for an hour or two; so let us consider it settled that I go with you and Miss Molly whenever it is convenient for you to fix a day. No—not a word of thanks, my dear; I am only too glad to be of use to the children of my dear old friend, your father."
And so at the appointed time Mr. Ned and Mr. Ben, waiting about for their possible new tenants, passing now in now out of the quaint-looking old house, were not a little surprised to see bearing down upon them from the road, two young ladies, an old gentleman who was walking by their side, and four youths, or more correctly speaking two youths and two boys, who made a sort of straggling procession in single file. For at the last moment, when Honor, Molly, and Hugh Horton were just starting with old Mr. Hobson, Dick, accompanied by Regy and Alick, suddenly arrived upon the scene, determined to look over the new house also.
"Why, bless my soul, Brother Ben!" exclaimed Edward, planting his stick firmly on the ground and looking with undisguised dismay at the troupe now entering the gate, "these boys can never all belong to the family. Why, why—they will make havoc of the garden before they have been a week in the place."
"I do not suppose theyallbelong to the family," mildly responded Brother Ben, "and even if they do they may turn out to be quiet, well-disposed lads enough."
And of that the boys themselves gave ample proof, so polite and respectful were they to the two old gentlemen, whose minds being now relieved on the score of the possible if not probable destruction of the garden, soon found themselves chatting away with them and showing them about (as Mr. Ben said afterwards to his brother) "as if they were our own boys, you know." The house proved to be a thoroughly old-fashioned, rambling place, although small as to the actual number of rooms. There were long passages with deep capacious cupboards, "which would have made delightful store-closets, if we only had anything to store," whispers Honor to Molly with a sigh. Upstairs were the funniest old-fashioned bed-rooms, with two steps leading up to one and three down into another, and so on. Altogether there were five bed-rooms on that floor, and two attics above which had not been included in the advertisement, and which Honor, who, followed by Molly, had crept up the few steep steps which led to them, declared to be "lovely!" partly on account of the odd nooks and corners caused by the roof, which seemed to slope in half a dozen different ways, and partly from the fine and extensive view to be obtained from the window in each attic. But on speaking of these attics to the brothers they shook their heads, and Mr. Ned, who was always spokesman, said:
"My dear young ladies, we did not include them in the number of rooms mentioned, because we consider them to be uninhabitable. If they should prove to be of any use we shall indeed be glad; but I would recommend their not being used as sleeping-rooms, as we fear—nay, we feel sure, of there being not a few mice already in possession, to say nothing of spiders. Is it not so, Brother Ben?"
Mr. Ben nodded, folded his hands over his stick and glancing up at the chimneys of the said attics, murmured, "Surely, surely!" his invariable reply to any of his brother's statements.
The good old men had been much distressed and interested on hearing from Mr. Hobson, who took them aside for the express purpose, some of the sad circumstances of Mr. Merivale's sudden death, and the ruin which had come upon his family as upon so many others. This they had of course heard of, and when, from two or three little remarks that the old clerk let drop respecting his late employer, they found that he was the James Merivale who had been at the same school with them, their delight knew no bounds.
"You see, my dear sir," cried Mr. Ned, excitedly pinning Mr. Hobson by the button-hole, "it places things in such a totally different light. The fact of our having known the father of these young ladies when a boy enables us to render them many little services which we might otherwise perhaps have hesitated to offer. To be sure," he added, looking doubtfully at his brother, "James Merivale was a very little chap when he came to Dr. Gurney's; you remember, Ben, he entered the school much about the time that you and I were leaving—not before I had thrashed the bully of the school in his service though. Ah!" continued the old gentleman, chuckling to himself, "Tom Yates was the boy; don't you recollect, Ben? He rememberedmefor many a long day, I reckon. There was another big lad in our form, too, who detested Yates as much as we did—Arthur Villiers (poor fellow, he's gone too). I remember giving him the tip to keep an eye on the youngster after we left; bless you, Yates daren't lay a finger on anyone when Villiers was by. A cowardly lump of humanity he was, like all bullies. Eh, Ben?"
And so the old men ran on; and the girls and Mr. Hobson were as pleased with them as the brothers were with the unaffected natural manners of Honor and Molly. So now the two brothers are in the garden, as has been said, looking at their plants and watching for the postman; and at length their minds are set at rest by the appearance of that ancient individual, and they eagerly seize the letter (the only one this morning) which he holds towards them. It is, in fact, neither more nor less than the expected letter from the Merivales, which is to decide whether or not they will take "The Rookery."
Hastily tearing it open Mr. Ned proceeds to read it aloud for the benefit of his brother, who is nevertheless looking over his shoulder.
"There!" he says as he folds it up and puts it into his pocket with a little sigh of gratification, "I thought theywouldtake it, Brother Ben; but I am really sorry we asked as much as twenty pounds rent, under all the very sad circumstances, because, you see, Ben, fifteen pounds would be five pounds less! A mere nothing to us one way or the other; but a great deal, I expect, to them, poor things. It wouldn't have done, however, to run the risk of hurting their feelings in the matter, and perhaps fifteen pounds a year is rather a low figure for a house like 'The Rookery.'
"Dear me! dear me! How sad, to be sure, to be thrown in an hour, as one may say, from affluence into poverty; for poverty it is, Brother Ben, you may take my word for it. But now really, brother, we must not stand gossiping here like this when there are a thousand and one little things to see to up at the house before the family takes possession. You really are a terrible old chatterbox, Ben, when you once get a start."
And Brother Ned, who as usual has been keeping the conversation exclusively to himself, shakes his head and his stick at quiet old Ben, as together they pass out of the garden gate and trot down the road towards "The Rookery."
Three weeks have passed, and Honor and Molly have just stepped out of the old station fly at the door of their new abode, possession of which they are to take that very day. There have been not a few expeditions backwards and forwards from town; but now everything is settled, the house ready for their reception, and the furniture actually on its way. The two girls are standing on the steps watching the driver, who, with the assistance of Jane, is bringing their trunks and boxes into the hall. Although the deep, heavy mourning of the sisters tells of their recent bereavement, the sorrowful look which seemed to have settled on their young faces but a few weeks since has now passed away; for at fifteen and seventeen the spirits are elastic, and however sharp and painful the grief may be at first, the buoyancy of youth soon asserts itself, and the trouble melts away into the past, ere long resembling a dream which, though vivid at the time, gradually becomes more shadowy and indistinct as time rolls on.
"I can't think why some of the boys didn't come down with us," remarks Molly rather crossly, as she kneels down and unfastens the cords of a hamper in which her pet cat is packed. "Now they reallywouldhave been of use to-day, whereas, whenever they came with us before, they seemed to do nothing but get in the way."
"O, Molly!" remonstrates Honor, "howcanyou say so? Look how beautifully Hugh trained all the creepers over the front of the house; and I'm sure it must have been a work of patience too, for they were in a fearful tangle. It quite distressed those nice old gentlemen to see how persistently Hugh worked at them; but they were simply delighted when they were done. They told me afterwards that they were most anxious to save him the trouble by sending in their own gardener to do it; but Hugh was determined, so they let him have his own way."
Molly shakes her head as, with Timothy now enthroned upon her shoulder, she gazes out of the open door.
"Boys are always a nuisance, more or less," she observes, "though I don't deny that I like them well enough in their place; and of course I allow that Hugh has fastened up the creepers well, especially the yellow jasmine."
Molly says this quite magnanimously, and is about to descend the steps with a view to receiving an armful of the small packages now being extricated from the interior of the fly, when a loud knocking from inside the house suddenly startles both the girls into a listening attitude.
"Hark!" says Molly with finger on lip, "it's the family ghost coming down to receive us! Notourghost—the late occupant's, you know. Listen! there it is again. Who'll come up with me to see who or what it is? Itsoundsfrom the attics."
"LISTEN!" SAID MOLLY, "THERE IS THE GHOST AGAIN.""LISTEN!" SAID MOLLY, "THERE IS THE GHOST AGAIN."
"O, I durs'n't, miss!" exclaims Jane, dropping a whole bundle of parcels as Molly glances in her direction; "ghost or no ghost, I durs'n't go a-nigh the attics while that knocking is going on. O, my gracious, Miss Honor—there it is again! I shall drop with fright, my legs is that trembling!"
And suiting the action to the word, Jane, regardless of appearances, subsides in a sitting posture on the top of the hamper which the cat has lately vacated.
"Hush—h!" cries Molly theatrically, and secretly enjoying the girl's discomfiture; "he's dragging something about up there! Perhaps it is the old arm-chair of his deceased great-grandmother, or possibly his own coffin—" But here Honor interposes, seeing signs of a further collapse in Jane's frightened face, and frowningly signing to Molly she says:
"Nonsense! how can you both be so silly? It is probably some workmen still attending to something at the top of the house. I'll call out and see." And mounting a few steps she calls loudly: "Is anyone up there?"
"No!" answers a ringing voice from the attic regions. "Half a second, Honor, and I'll be down; I'm just finishing."
"Finishing!" echoes Molly, puckering up her eyebrows; "what in the name of goodness is Hugh finishing here? Let us go and see. Jane can come too if she likes."
But that young person prefers to remain where she is, deeming perhaps that her greater safety lies in proximity to the man who is still unloading the heavily-laden fly.
"I'd rather stay here, if you please, miss," she says with her hand pressed against her side; "the fright has give me such a turn, and the air will do me good perhaps if—" But Honor is off up the stairs after Molly, whom she finds pounding away with her little doubled-up fists at the closed door of the largest and best attic.
"All right, all right!" cries a voice within; and then suddenly the door is thrown wide open by Hugh, and both girls cross the threshold cautiously.
The floor of the room, which had looked so shabby and bare three weeks ago, is now stained and polished from one end to the other. There is a small square of Turkey carpet in front of the fireplace, while several skins are scattered at intervals over the rest of the floor. At both little windows thick oriental curtains are artistically draped, and across a large angular recess is hung another on large brass rings. Just on this side of the curtain stands an easel—Honor's, with a sketch of her own lying upon it; while on a little rough table, half hidden by the curtain, lie all her painting materials. Two or three high-backed oak chairs, which had formerly been part of the furniture of Mr. Merivale's study, are standing about the room; while three little dainty-looking wicker chairs are placed invitingly near the bright crackling fire so merrily burning at the other end of the room. In a recess near the fireplace is a low, pretty book-case containing all the girls' favourite books, while on the top stand several little bronze statuettes. A large basket work-table with "a second floor," as Hugh describes the upper shelf, completely fitted up with materials of all kinds, stands near one of the chairs; and a nice little table, with a reading-lamp upon it, completes the furniture of the room.
Both the girls gasp as, taking courage, they advance further into the room. Their eyes fill with tears as they recognize some of their much-prized belongings which they had never expected to possess again; and they are both so touched at the kind delicacy of thought for them which is so plainly visible in every little detail of the room, that for a second or two they are too much overcome to speak. Hugh, who is leaning with one elbow on the mantel-piece, sees the struggle which both the girls are making for composure, and fearful of the consequences, having already all an Englishman's horror of "a scene," he says rather abruptly, "I hope you will all like it. The working affair is mother's arrangement, and I believe it is well furnished. The easel, the painting things,—and the statuettes were Regy's thought; and everything else is—well, among us all, as it were;" the real fact being that the "everything else" alluded to had been Hugh's own particular care.
"O, Hugh," cry both the girls, darting forward and each seizing one of the young fellow's hands, "how good—howkindof you! and how beautifully you have arranged everything, in this short time too!"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I believe Alick, Regy, and I have each worn out a pair of trousers walking round the room on our knees—doing the staining and polishing, you know; for that was a big job, and we were so afraid we wouldn't get it done in time. We had to press Ted and also Dick (under strict promise of secrecy) into the service the last day or two."
The girls having now quite recovered themselves, they proceed to make a tour of inspection round the room; and Molly, having dived behind the curtain, discovers Honor's old big portfolio filled to overflowing with sketches, good, bad, and indifferent, which the poor girl, thinking sketching and painting days were over, had had no heart to bring away with her. Making this discovery Molly cries with enthusiasm:
"Why, here is Honor's dear old portfolio! Youaregood to have thought of that! I know it was you, because here is the label in your own handwriting. I could hug you for that, Hugh!"
"Well, why don't you?" asks Hugh promptly.
At this moment Honor, who is standing at one of the windows feasting her eyes on the lovely view which is stretching far and wide, exclaims:
"Why, what is this huge thing in the cart turning in at the gate? It isn't the furniture, I'm sure! It must be a mistake. I had better go down and tell them before they begin to unpack it—whatever it is."
But Hugh is before her; and Honor and Molly arrive on the front steps just in time to hear him say "All right!" to the men in charge of the van with so much confidence that Honor stares stupidly at him and says nothing. Then one of the men comes forward and touching his hat presents a letter to her.
"I don't know which of the young ladies it is for, miss," he says, then retires down the steps again to where the others are already unpacking the mysterious contents of the van.
"It is for you, Molly, I suppose; you are the only 'Miss M. Merivale' in the family excepting Daisy." And when her sister has broken the seal Honor looks over her shoulder and reads the following:—
"My dear Miss Molly,
"Please accept the accompanying little present from an old man whom you have often delighted with your playing. My old enemy the gout has necessitated my leaving England again for a time; so young Mr. Horton has promised to attend the sale at Lancaster Terrace and to manage this little business for me. I have written to your mother expressing the great sympathy I feel for you all in your sad bereavement, and to say that I shall take the earliest opportunity of calling to see you on my return, when you will perhaps oblige me with your admirable rendering of the 'Sonata Pathetique.' This will be the pleasantest thanks I can receive.
"Believe me to remain,"Yours very truly,"PETER BERESFORD."
Molly turns to Honor with eyes full of grateful tears at this unexpected kindness from a fresh quarter, but she is unable to say anything, for at the same moment the head man approaches them again and asks which room the instrument is to be taken into. It had been a bitter trial to poor Molly to have to leave her beloved piano to the mercy of strangers, and her unbounded delight may be imagined, therefore, now that she finds herself looking upon it once more with the proud consciousness that it is her own—her very own! Honor calls her into what will be the drawing-room, where she and Hugh are standing consulting with the man as to the best place to put it.
"Nottoonear the window, and certainly not near the door," says practical Molly promptly. "It mustn't be in a draught.Herewould be a good place. Don't you think so, Honor? O, good gracious! here they come with it, staggering under its weight. How nicely it will help to furnish the room, Honor! And oh, what a dear old man Sir Peter is! I hope you'll grow up like him, Hugh!"
"Thanks! I shall want to strike out in a line of my own before I reach Sir Peter's age," laughs Hugh. "Do you wish me to be the same height also, Molly? because I can't accommodate you there, being already about half a foot taller."
At this point all three are driven ignominiously into a corner by the piano, which, being now placed on the little wheeled platform used for such purposes, runs into the room in quite a jaunty manner.
"I suppose itisours," hazards Honor, looking rather dubiously at the back of it.
"Of course it is; can't you recognize it? Besides, look here"—and Molly takes up one of the legs which have been laid down in a corner,—"don't you see where Timothy sharpened his claws one day just before Christmas? Here are the long scratches, down the right leg. What a way mother was in! I remember it quite well. Don't you, Honor?"
"I think I can vouch for its being your own also," says Hugh, "considering that I bought it at the sale; besides, Sir Peter sent the note to me, and asked me to give it to the man to bring with it, and I saw it packed up myself."
The three young people are just leaving the room, all deploring the protracted absence of the furniture vans, which the men had solemnly declared to Honor would be there by ten o'clock, if not sooner (it being now between twelve and one), when they are suddenly startled by a tremendous commotion outside in the garden, and rushing down the steps they hear a series of "chuck-a-chucks" in every key and style, coming from round the other side of the house. Hastening to that part of the garden they rush right into the midst of a panting group of boys, whose heated countenances denote excitement in the highest degree. Alick is leaning, flushed with victory, against the wall of the chicken-house, a pendent hen in each hand, which, notwithstanding the disadvantages of an inverted position, still give utterance now and then to mildly remonstrating "chuck-a-chucks." Ted is at the same moment engaged in gravely dodging a fine duck, which appears anxious to betake itself to the flower-garden; and just as Hugh and the girls are all opening their mouths together to speak, Regy appears from behind the chicken-house also the triumphant captor of two indignant hens. They all look at one another, and then burst out laughing simultaneously, and Regy, not stopping to explain matters, says:
"We've got them all now, I think, Alick, except the second speckled hen—hang her! She's got right out into the road again, with Dick, hatless, in hot pursuit. I can't do anything with that old rooster! He seems to have some extraordinary aversion to the henhouse, and shows a distinct preference for the pig-sty; these hens got in there too, but I routed them all out; but old Pincher, not to be done, flew up to the top of the sty, and there he is now, standing on one leg and crowing with all his might. Here, Ted, out of the road! Let's get these beggars shut up; and then, perhaps, with our united exertions we may capture Mr. Pincher. O, here's Dick! You've caught her then; hold her tight while I open the door again. I declare there are enough feathers flying about to stuff a bed almost."
Then they all set to, and after an animated chase succeed in capturing and housing the "old rooster." Honor and Molly are quick in their efforts to thank the boys for this kindness, but nothing will induce them to listen; and some words that Honor lets drop leading them to infer that she and Molly have come to the house prepared with some temporary refreshment, Alick, Ted, and Dick instantly make for the kitchen, where the others, following, find them busily engaged in emptying a hamper of its contents.
"You'll have to make shift without chairs and tables, ladies and gentlemen," remarks Alick, diving into the hamper again and reappearing with a large, tempting-looking pie in his hands.
"Nonsense!" cries Dick. "Why should we, when there's a comfortably furnished room with a large fire upstairs?"
"Indeed, you boys are not going to have the run ofthatroom," Molly puts in hastily, and Honor adds:
"No, certainly not! And just think, what a litter we would make having our lunch up there. This will do very well; only Iwishwe had something to sit down upon."
Hugh, suddenly appearing to be inspired with some grand idea, darts across the kitchen and begins vigorously pulling at the dresser drawers.
"Stop a bit!" he cries. "I've got an idea; here, Regy, lend a hand!"
And in a trice they have got out two of the drawers and have seated the two girls on them with grave politeness; Molly's being placed sideways, propped against the wall, in consideration of the extra length of her legs; while Honor's is turned upside down, and makes quite a comfortable seat.
"If you don't feel comfortable you can change with us, you know," says Regy, as he and Hugh seat themselves on the wide window-sill. "The rest of you must dispose yourselves on the dresser and the hamper—Ted's the lightest, so he'd better have the hamper."
Then follows an impromptu sort of picnic, which gives complete satisfaction to all, especially as to the fare; for kind Mrs. Trent has not forgotten that boys and girls, especially when working hard, are apt to get hungry, and rightly thinking that it would probably be a long time before anyone had leisure to think about cooking, she has included many useful things, with an eye to future needs.
"O, I say!" cries Alick, suddenly laying down his knife and fork; "isn't there anything to drink?"
"Pump, out there," briefly explains Molly, waving a jam tart in the direction of the garden.
"Oh, yes! so there is. Let's go and get a drink all round; I'm awfully thirsty too." And Dick scrambles down from the dresser to the floor, and then pauses, "We've nothing in the world to drink out of!" he says ruefully. This proves only too true, for though Mrs. Trent and her cook have had the forethought to pack a few small plates and knives and forks, anything in the shape of a drinking vessel has been utterly forgotten.
"Wouldn't a flower-pot do?" mildly inquires Ted, doubtful as to how his brilliant suggestion will be received.
"Why, you muff!" replies Alick scornfully, "what about the hole? But try it yourself by all means if you like, unless you'd rather have a sieve."
But here Honor, who has been roaming about in hopes of finding something to answer their purpose, rushes into their midst triumphantly flourishing a tin can above her head.
"Look!" she cries. "I found this on the copper; it is what old Mrs. Evans brought her beer in, I expect, and I suppose she forgot to take it back when she went to her dinner. Will it do, do you think?"
But to Honor's dismay a chorus of groans greets her.
"Honor!" exclaims Molly indignantly, "a nasty beery thing like that! And most likely the old woman has been drinking out of it!"
"Well, and if she has; there's plenty of hot water. We can wash it, I suppose! At any rate I can't think of anything else," concludes poor Honor, looking rather sat upon, "but the inkstand in our room upstairs. Willthatdo?"
But Regy is already at work washing and rinsing the tin can, and as he has heroically promised to take first drink and report thereon, they all troop out to the pump in a body. While there engaged old Mrs. Evans, who has been hired to scrub the floors and make herself generally useful, arrives simultaneously with the furniture. Hugh, equal to the occasion, gravely hands back the tin can to its owner, and thanks her so politely, and with such a courtly bow, for the service she has rendered them in leaving it behind, that the old woman is thrown into a perfect frenzy of curtsies, accompanied by assurances of being honoured, and proud, &c. &c.
Hard work begins in earnest now for all, it being two o'clock, and everything yet to be done. The men are at first inclined to be independent, thinking doubtless that with only these young people to direct matters they can do pretty much as they like. They soon find out their mistake, however, and are not a little impressed with the quiet persistence with which Honor asserts her will and gets her own way in everything from first to last. The men appear to have a rooted objection to put up the bedsteads until the last thing, but they are soon overruled by Honor, who stands over them, so to speak, until every bed is in its place. By six o'clock everything is brought into the house, and Hugh and Regy, who have packed off the younger boys by an earlier train, are taking a general look round after having seen the men safely off the premises. They have tried all the bolts and bars and put up the shutters outside, and Molly having declared for the twentieth time that if Honor is afraid she is not, the two youths take their departure, promising to come again the next morning to help get things straight before the arrival of Mrs. Merivale with Doris and Daisy, who are expected the day after.
The two days have quickly flown, and the family have all settled down into their places in the new house, which Honor's and Molly's busy fingers have rendered not only habitable, but almost comfortable. Mrs. Merivale plaintively approves of all that has been done, but soon announces her intention of retiring to her room for the rest of the day, her nerves, she declares, being quite unequal to the ordeal of going over the house with the girls. They, poor things! have been looking forward to this pleasure.
"Never mind," whispers Doris to Honor, "we'll settle mother comfortably in her room, and then we will all go round together. What time is tea?"
"O, any time we like to have it! What time is it now, Doris?"
"Four o'clock. Well, let us have it at five; that will give us an hour to look at everything, and to get tea ready. What fun, getting tea for ourselves!"
"Yes, all very well at first," says practical Molly, as with hands clasped behind her she follows her mother and sisters upstairs. "You'll soon get tired of it, though, and other things too, when it comes to having to do them whether you like it or not."
Mrs. Merivale is almost enthusiastic—for her—over the arrangements of her bed-room, which the girls have fitted up with much loving forethought and care. There is a tiny dressing-room leading out of the large airy bed-room, into which all ablutionary arrangements have been banished; while the room itself is fitted up as half sitting-, half bed-room.
The tears came into the poor woman's eyes as, looking round the room, she recognizes certain little nick-nacks, which, though valueless in themselves, are from old associations worth much to their owner. Even Honor thought there could be no possible harm in collecting these little possessions when packing for her mother; and so there are a few favourite books, some pretty photograph-frames, a work-basket, and other little trifles, which give the room a cheery and home-like appearance. Although the furniture is of the plainest description, the room is brightened up and made pretty with dainty muslin draperies; and the really warm carpet and the thick curtains at the windows give an air of comfort at once. Indeed the room presents a marked contrast to those of the girls, with their little strips of carpet and curtainless windows, and only what is absolutely necessary in the way of furniture.
Having left their mother comfortably settled in her easy-chair, the girls and boys all go off on a tour of inspection round the house, both inside and out, Honor and Molly proudly doing the honours.
"These are no vagrant fowls, bought anywhere, allow me to inform you," says Molly as the party approach the hen-house; "they came, every one of them, from the Mortons' own farm at Oakleigh. Don't you recognize Mr. Pincher? A rare lot of trouble he gave the boys the other day; but he has settled down pretty well now, I think."
Daisy especially is delighted with this addition to the establishment, and asks anxiously if she may take the fowls into her own care. She and Doris, indeed, are both enraptured with all the arrangements. So far from feeling any dismay at the prospect of living a totally different life from that to which they have been accustomed from infancy, their spirits rise, and with the hopefulness and love of change which are invariably found in youth, they all seem to look forward to their new life with real pleasure, which is only damped when they think of the kind and dear father, still so sorely missed by all at times.
"After all, I think it will be really jolly living in a small house," remarks Dick, following the girls into the house again. "One won't be able to roam about wondering which room to go into; which will be rather a relief, tomymind. There is the dining-room, and the drawing-room, and if they won't do, why, one can just sit on the stairs!"
Unanimous approval of these sentiments is expressed; but as they come to the end of their peregrinations round the house Doris suddenly becomes grave, and putting her arm within Honor's as they turn into the sitting-room for tea, she says:
"Honor, my girl, we must have a good long talk together very soon. I've no end of messages from aunt, and if I don't deliver them at once I shall forget half. Shall we hold a council of war when the children have gone to bed to-night?"
Here Dick begs to be informed if he is expected to consider himself one of "the children" referred to; but being reassured on this point, renews his attack on the bread-and-butter with unruffled composure, while his sisters continue their conversation.
A few hours later Honor looks into the room where Doris is on her knees before a large trunk, busily unpacking, and says softly, Daisy being asleep:
"Let us go down, Doris, dear, and have our chat. The fire is out in the sitting-room, but there's a splendid one in the kitchen, and Jane won't be there, for mother, feeling a little nervous, said she would like her to sit beside her with her work. I left Dick and Molly roasting apples," she adds, "so if we want to have any we had better look sharp, I expect."
In a few minutes the four young people are comfortably settled round the fire, Honor in state in the only available chair, the second one being occupied by Timothy. Doris, having extracted from Molly a solemn assurance that there is no such thing as a beetle (black) in the house, establishes herself on the corner of the large kitchen-fender, while Molly occupies the opposite one, and Dick perches himself on the table, within easy reach of the plate of apples.
"Well now, to begin," says Doris, "aunt sent her love, and she was very glad indeed that you were able to make her cheque do, because, she says, it shows youmusthave some ideas of management; and you know whatthatmeans with aunt, and she considers it augurs well for the future. She says, too, that she thinks we ought to manage now, with the sum we have yearly, and what we may be able to earn—for of course I told her, girls, that we should all turn to and dosomething,—though goodness knows whatIam fit for!" Doris gloomily adds, "However, that's neither here nor there. What was I saying? Oh yes, about the money! Aunt says—what is, of course, very true—that she has given us a fair start, and that, unless any dire calamity should fall upon us, we must not expect her to do anything more, as she would not like to ask uncle again for a long time. She wants you to write, Honor, and tell her everything—what we decide on trying to do, and all that sort of thing, you know; and she implored me not to forget to ask what wages you are paying Jane; because, she says, we have no business to keep an expensive servant. We ought to have some strong girl from the village to do the rough work, and manage all the rest—cooking and all, mind—among us. Well, now wait a minute"—for here Molly shows signs of breaking into the conversation,—"I haven't half finished yet! Aunt has been talking to me about mother, as well. She has had her own doctor to see her; and he says that this shock and trouble have really brought her into a very low and delicate state of health. You know, Honor, auntusednot to have a spark of patience with mother's nervous attacks, and headaches, and so on; but she quite astonished me the other day by suddenly taking hold of my arm and saying: 'Doris, your mother now is really what she has fancied herself for years past—she is a delicate woman, and if you and the others are not careful she will become a confirmed invalid. You are not a child now, and I can speak openly to both you and Honor, I think." And then aunt went on to say plainly that it is not in mother's power—she is sure—to take the management of affairs now; and thatwemust take all the trouble and worry on our own shoulders, and not bother her about money and so on. 'Let her keep quiet, child,' aunt said, 'and give her little bits of work to do—she likes needle-work, you know; and you girls must learn to do for yourselves; it will be a good lesson for you before you get husbands and homes of your own, if you ever do'" (here Dick laughs softly and derisively), "'and,'" proceeds Doris with dignity, "'your husbands will thank their stars that they have got wives who can do something besides eat and sleep, and dress and make calls!' There—I think I've said everything now; so you can all talk away as much as you please; I am going to eat apples!"
A slight scuffle here ensues between Doris and Dick, both of whom have made a simultaneous dash at the largest apple.
Order being restored, Honor begins to unfold the plans which she and Molly have been making—namely, that she herself means to try and turn her talent for painting to account; while Molly, after many misgivings as to her competency to do so, has made up her mind to try and get pupils for music.
"How do you mean to set about it?" inquires Doris, not without a certain spice of incredulity in her voice.
"Oh, we've settled that—Honor and I!" answers Molly, stirring the fire energetically. "We have the nicest landlords—the dearest old fellows in the world—and they are most anxious to do anything for us that we will let them do. In fact," concludes Molly, "they would jump over the moon, willingly, I am sure, if they thought it would do us the least little bit of good!"
"Molly!" exclaims Honor. "But she is right, to a certain extent; they are thekindestold gentlemen. And they knew father at school, you know, only as quite a small boy; but they make so much of this, and have been, oh, so kind to us! We must take Doris and Daisy to see them, Molly. We promised we would; they are most anxious to make your acquaintance."
"When you have quite finished, Honor, I'll go on with whatIwas saying," says Molly in an aggrieved tone; adding, "We mean, Doris, to consult these old gentlemen. They know every one about the place, of course; and surely there must be some children wanting the very superior musical education thatIcan give them—a-hem! Then they are already tremendous admirers of Honor's drawings; I saw them nodding their old heads over that little village scene of hers the other day, and Mr. Ned said, 'Excellent! admirable! so true to nature—is it not, Brother Ben?' And Brother Ben answered, 'Surely! surely!' as he always does, you know."
"It's all very well for you, girls," suddenly breaks in Dick, who, having finished the last apple, finds leisure now for putting in a word, "but no one seems to considermein any way. I supposeIshould like to do something to help also."
"Well, so you can. There will be heaps of things to do about the house that you could easily manage; and that would be really a help," says Doris.
"I don't mean that sort of thing," answers the boy testily. "If you girls are going to work and make money, I must say I should like to do the same. And I would too—only the worst of it is I haven't half finished my schooling yet;" and Dick breaks off with a sigh.
"Poor Dick'" says Honor, taking his hand in hers, "I have been thinking so much about that, and what is best to be done. Bobby's and Daisy's education we can easily carry on among us, and I shall keep Molly up to her French, and teach her the little German I know; but what we are to do about Dick, I don't know, girls. I do know a good bit of Latin, but I daresay he knows as much as I do. Oh, how I wish Uncle John had offered to keep him at Marlborough—if only for another year! he might have done much in that time."
"Well, don't you worry about me, girls," says the boy, looking up with a flushed face; "I daresay I shall get along somehow."
"Well now," says Doris, "I want to know all about the Horton boys. Were they really of much use in the moving? and is Hugh reading hard now? Oh, and that reminds me!" she cries, without waiting for answers to her questions, "Colonel and Mrs. Danvers called while we were at aunt's to say good-bye; they start for India in a week's time. The colonel told me to tell you both how sorry he is not to see you before leaving; and he begged me to say to you especially, Molly, that if Hugh is ordered to the same part of the country when he goes out he will keep an eye on him."
Molly, with a lingering remembrance of "the maiden-all-forlorn" episode, tosses her head with a slightly heightened colour, but takes no notice of the message otherwise. There is rather a long pause; then Doris, clasping her hands behind her head and leaning back against Honor's knees, says:
"How good every one has been to us in all this trouble! If it were not for the loss of dear father, the rest would have been almost worth going through if only for those proofs of real friendship which have been shown us—by Sir Peter and others—to say nothing of aunt's and Uncle John's kindness in starting us afresh."
"Yes," says Honor musingly, "we have indeed been fortunate. Who would have thought that the dear old piano would ever he ours again! and how glad dear father would be if he could know that some of his favourite pictures were hanging on these walls! That was such a kind thought of Colonel Danvers."
"Yes; it touched mother very much; and so did the Hortons' kindness—I don't know what you girls would have done without them. It's all very well for people to talk about the world being hard and cold; but tomythinking it's a very pleasant world, with lots of kind-hearted people in it."
Molly shakes her head dubiously.
"It has certainly been the case so far," she says, "but we don't know what is in store for us; we are none of us very old yet!"
"Well, youarea Job's comforter!" cries Doris, getting up and shaking herself. "I think after that we had all better shut up and retire to bed—don't you, Honor? We had better get all the sleep and strength we can before we are all hurled into this sea of trouble which Molly apparently descries looming in the distance! Hallo! here's Dick asleep! Wake up, my boy, wake up!—we're all off to bed!" and Doris administers sundry little sisterly pullings and pinchings, which eventually arouse Dick sufficiently to enable him lazily to follow his sisters up the stairs to bed.
"Seventeen pounds ten! seventeen pounds ten!" mutters Honor to herself, as with paper and pencil in hand and with knitted brows she makes little notes, seated the while on a corner of the kitchen table.
"I wish you wouldn't shake so!" says Doris, who, with sleeves rolled up and in a huge white apron, is in all the agonies of making a steak-pudding. "If you keep on chattering too," she goes on, "I know I shall leave out half the things, and then you'll never consider how you harassed me with those pounds, shillings, and pence; but 'blame it all on to me,' as Bobby says. Let me see, now: have I got everything in? Oh, I know! a little pot in the middle to keep the gravy in. Now, I shall have to move some of the meat again. There! Oh, goodness me! I do hope the crust will be eatable; but I don't suppose it will in the least. It seems brick-bat-ified to me. Well, I've done my best, anyway." And with a prodigious sigh of relief Doris ties the cloth. "Now," she says, "you can go on, Honor; what about this horrid money? I really wish we had lived in the time of the ancient Britons, then we shouldn't have wanted money at all. It is no doubt a very nice thing when one has plenty of it; but when one hasn't!—" Words fail to express Doris's horror of such a situation, and her cast-up eyes and elevated floury hands finish the sentence for her.
"We are not quite so badly off as that," Honor says, returning to the attack. "I was just saying, seventeen pounds ten a quarter. Take five pounds from that—for rent, you know—and it leaves twelve pounds ten. That's not much is it, Doris? If we want to live we shallhaveto do something to make both ends meet. Hark, there's the door-bell! Who can it be, I wonder?"
In a few seconds Jane appears with the intelligence that she has just ushered the two Mr. Talboys into the drawing-room, having been quite ignorant of the fact that Molly is there, serenely seated on the floor, working away at the chintz covers which she and the other girls are making for some of the shabby old school-room furniture which now has to do-duty for the drawing-room. Molly is arrayed in one of Jane's large aprons, to keep her black frock from soiling the delicate colours of the stuff; and, as usual, when she is busy, her hair is rumpled up in a fashion which is perhaps more becoming than tidy.
"Don't fuss yourself, Honor," says Doris composedly. "Molly will not mind a bit, and I daresay she will explain the situation in some way of her own which will amuse the old gentlemen immensely. Here she comes; now we shall hear."
"Girls!" cries Molly, dancing into the kitchen, "here are the Mr. Talboys. They found me sitting on the floor amongst all the work; and I couldn't get up at first, because my legs were so cramped. So they came and helped me up, and then we all stood and laughed, till I remembered my manners and asked them to sit down. I only just saved Mr. Ben from seating himself on the broken chair, but I rushed up in time and explained that that was only to be looked at. Then I told them Doris was making a pudding, and that you were busy about something, Honor; but that I would come and see if you had finished. What's the matter? Why do you both look at me as if I had been committing high treason?"
"Well, youhavein a way," says Doris reprovingly, "talking all that nonsense. Weren't the old gentlemen surprised?"
"Not a bit," answers Molly promptly; "they enjoyed the fun, and I left them chattering away to Daisy and Bobby as if they had known them all their lives. Now, don't stand there, you two, as if you were going to preach me a sermon five miles long; come and see the old gentlemen. They are most anxious to make Doris's acquaintance."
"Yes, that's all very well," says that young lady as she and Honor follow Molly; "but you needn't have said anything about the pudding."
"Well, I must say I don't see anything very extraordinary in either the making or the eating of a pudding," argues Molly, leading the way to the drawing-room with her head in the air.
With that she opens the door, and waving her hand towards her sister, says:
"This is Doris, Mr. Talboys. She was dreadfully shocked because I told you she was making a pudding, which I think very silly."
"Molly!" exclaims Honor, whereupon the young lady lapses into silence.
"I am very glad to hear you were so sensibly employed, my dear Miss Doris," says Mr. Ned, taking the girl's hand and warmly greeting her. "I am afraid there are not many young ladies in these days who can boast of such useful knowledge as that of making a pudding; but in our young days it was considered as necessary for the daughters of a family to be taught to cook, to bake, to preserve, and so on, as it was to learn reading and writing and all the rest of it. Was it not, Brother Ben?"