Modern Broods; Or, Developments Unlooked For

“One thing more,” added Magdalen, with a little hesitation; “is your nephew, Wilfred, likely to be one of the party?”

“None at all.  His father wants to keep him under his own eye, and his mother is anxious about his health; nor do I think Mr. White wants him, having his own two nephews, who are useful, so he will remain under Captain Henderson here.”

“Thank you!  That settles it in my mind.  I am sure the change to a fresh home will be an excellent thing for my poor Vera, and that the training of imitation of one to whom she looks up is what she most needs.”

“Very true,” said Miss Mohun.

And as she afterwards said to Lady Merrifield, “It was in all sincerity and honesty that I gave the advice to Magdalen, who is very sensible in the matter.  In plain English, Ada can’t do without a lady in waiting, and Vera probably fancies that Lords, young or old, start from every wave like the spirits of our fathers, at Rocca Marina, in which she will probably be disappointed; but Ada will be a very dragon as to her manners and discretion, and not being his own niece, old Tom White will not be deluded by his ambition and any blandishments of hers.  As people go, they are very safe guardians, and Vera—Flapsy as they call her—is just of the composition to be improved, and not disimproved, by living with Ada.”

“Probably, though I do not like the foolish little puss to be rewarded for throwing over young Delrio.”

“He was so much too good for her that I am more inclined to reward her for doing so!”

Agatha, however, came home somewhat annoyed by the whole arrangement.  She supposed the rupture with Hubert might have been inevitable; but she was very sorry for it, thinking that Vera might have grown up to him, and regretting the losing him as a brother.  Nor did she like the atmosphere of the Whites and Rocca Marina for her feather-brained young sister.  “Dolores had no great opinion of her Aunt Adeline,” she said.

“My dear,” said Magdalen, as they sat over their early fire, “I have talked it over with Lady Merrifield and Miss Mohun, and they both tell me that Mrs. White is very sensible, and sure to be discreet for any girl in her charge—probably better for Flapsy than a more intellectual woman.”

“But—!  Such a marriage as this one!” said Agatha.

“It was Mr. White’s own niece, and taken out of Mrs. White’s hands,” said Magdalen.  “Besides,” as Agatha still looked unconvinced, “one thing that made me think the invitation desirable was that it would break off any foolishness with Wilfred Merrifield—I think it was in their minds too.”

“Wilfred!  Oh, there was a little nonsense.”

“Less on his side, since Felicia Vanderkist has been here; but I think Vera has been all the more disposed to—to—”

“Run after him,” said Agatha.  “I could fancy it in Flapsy; but he is such a boy, and not half so nice-looking as the rest of them either.”

“My dear Agatha, I must tell you he reminds me strangely of a young Mr. Merrifield whom I knew at Filsted when I was younger than you.”

“A brother of Bessie?”

“Even so.  He got into some kind of trouble at Filsted, his father came and broke it off, and sent him out to Canada, where I fear he did not do well, and nothing has been heard of him since, except—”

She spoke with a catch in her voice which made Agatha look up at her, and detect a rising colour.

“Nothing!” she repeated.

“Except an anonymous parcel, returning to the brothers in Canada the sum he had taken with him.  Strangely, the clue was not followed up, and he is lost sight of!  But Wilfred’s air, and still more his manner, is always recalling his cousin to me, and, Nag, dear, I could not bear to see Vera go through the same trial by my exposing her to the intercourse.  Not that I know any harm of Wilfred, but his parents could not like anything of the kind.”

“Certainly not!  Yes, I suppose you are right, dear old Maidie.”  But Agatha pondered over those words that had slipped out, “the same trial.”

CHAPTER XXI—THE ELECTRICIANS

“Thou shalt have the airOf freedom.  Follow and do me service.”—“The Tempest.”

“Is Agatha in?” asked Dolores Mohun, jumping off her bicycle as she saw Magdalen, on a frosty day the next Christmas vacation, in her garden.

“She is doing scientific arithmetic with Thekla; giving me a holiday, in fact!  You University maidens quite take the shine out of us poor old teachers.”

“Ah! if we can give shine we can’t give substance.  But I want to borrow Nag, if you have no objection.”

“Borrow her! I am sure it is something she will like.”

“It is in the way of business, but she will like it all the same.  They want me to give a course of lectures on electricity at Bexley to the Institute and the two High Schools, and I particularly want a skilled assistant, whom I can depend upon; not masters, nor boys!  Now Nag is just what I should like.  We should stay at Lancelot Underwood’s, a very charming place to be at.”

“Isn’t he some connection?”

“Connection all round.  Phyllis Merrifield married his brother, banking in Ceylon, and may come home any day on a visit; and Ivinghoe’s pretty wife is Lancelot’s niece.  He edits what is really the crack newspaper of the county, in spite of its being true blue Conservative, Church and all.”

“The Pursuivant?  It has such good literary articles.”

“Oh, yes!  Mrs. Grinstead and Canon Harewood write them.  His wife is a daughter of old Dr. May—rather a peculiar person, but very jolly in her way.”

“But would they like to have Agatha imposed upon them?”

“Certainly; they are just the people to like nothing better, and it will only be for a fortnight.  I have settled it all with them.”

At which Magdalen looked a little doubtful, but Dolores reiterated that there need be no scruple, she might ask Aunt Lily if she liked; but Lance Underwood was Mayor, and member of all the committees, and the most open-hearted man in the world besides, and it was all right.

To the further demur as to safety, Dolores answered that to light a candle or sit by the fire might be dangerous, but as long as people were careful, it was all right, and Agatha had already assisted in some experiments at Rock Quay, which had shown her to be thoroughly understanding and trustworthy, and capable of keeping off the amateur—the great bugbear.

So Magdalen consented, after rapturous desires on the part of Agatha, and assurances from General Mohun that Dolores had it in her by inheritance and by training to meddle with the lightning as safely as human being might; and Lady Merrifield owned with a sigh that she must accept as a fact that what even the heathens owned as a Divine mystery and awful attribute, had come to be treated as a commonplace business messenger and scientific toy, though (as Mrs. Gatty puts it) the mystery had only gone deeper.  So much for the peril; and for the other scruple, it was set at rest by a hospitable letter from Mrs. Underwood, heartily inviting Miss Agatha Prescott, as an Oxford friend of Gillian.

So off the two electricians set, and after two days of business and sight-seeing in London, went down to Bexley.  In the third-class carriage in which they travelled they were struck by the sight of a tall lady in mourning—a sort of compromise between a conventual and a secular bonnet over short fair hair, and holding on her lap a tiny little girl of about six years old, with a small, pinched, delicate face and slightly red hair, to whom she pointed out by name each spot they passed, herself wearing an earnest absorbed look of recognition as she pointed out familiar landmark after landmark till the darkness came down.  Also there were two cages—one with a small pink cockatoo, and another with two budgerigars.

As the train began slackening Dolores exclaimed:

“There he is!  Lance—!”

“Lance!  Oh, Lance!” was echoed; and setting the child down, her companion almost fell across Agatha, and was at the window as the train stopped.

What happened in the next moment no one could quite tell; but as the door was torn open there was a mingled cry of “Angel!” and of “Lance!” and the traveller was in his arms, turning the next moment to lift out the frightened little girl, who clung tight round her neck; while Lance held out his hand with, “Dolores!  Yes.  This is Dolores, Angel, whom you have never seen.”

Each knew who the other was in a moment, and clasped hands in greeting, as well as they could with the one, and the other receiving bird-cages, handbags, umbrellas, and rugs from Agatha, whom, however, Lance relieved of them with a courteous, “Miss Prescott!  You have come in for the arrival of my Australian sister!  What luggage have you?”  Wherewith all was absorbed in the recognition of boxes, and therewith a word or two to an old railway official, “My sister Angela.”

“Miss Angela! this is an unexpected pleasure!”

“Tom Lightfoot! is it you?  You are not much altered.  Mr. Dane, I should have known you anywhere!” with corresponding shakes of the hand.

“Yes, that’s ours.  Oh, the birds!  There they are!  All right!  Oh! not the omnibus, Lance!  Let the traps go in that!  Then Lena will like to stretch her legs, and I must revel in the old street.”

Dolores and Agatha felt it advisable to squeeze themselves with the bird-cages into the omnibus, and leave the brother and sister to walk down together, though the little girl still adhered closely to her protector’s hand.

“Poor Field’s little one?  Yes, of course.”

“But tell me! tell me of them all!”

“All well! all right!  But how—”

“The Mozambique was out of coal and had to put in at Falmouth.  You know, I came by her because they said the long sea voyage would be best for this child, and it was so long since I had heard of any one that I durst not send anywhere till I knew—and I knew Froggatt’s would be in its own place.  Oh! there’s the new hotel! the gas looks just the same!  There’s the tower of St. Oswald’s, all shadowy against the sky.  Look, Lena!  Oh! this is home!  I know the lamps.  I’ve dreamt of them!  Tired, Lena, dear? cold?  Shall I carry you?”

“No, no; let me!” and he lifted her up, not unwillingly on her part, though she did not speak.  “You are a light weight,” he said.

“I am afraid so,” answered Angel.  “Oh! there’s the bus stopping at Mr. Pratt’s door.”

“Mine, now.  We have annexed it.”

“But let me go in by the dear old shop.  The window is as of old, I see.  Ernest Lamb! don’t you know me?” as a respectable tradesman came forward.  “And Achille, is it?  You are as much changed as this old shop is transmogrified!  And they are all well?  Do you mean Bernard?”

“Bernard and Phyllis may come home any day to deposit a child.  They lost their boy, and hope to save the elder one.  But come, Angel! if you have taken in enough we must go up to those electrical girls.  Dolores is come to give a lecture, with the other girl to assist, Miss Prescott.”

“Dolores!  Yes, poor Gerald’s love!  They are almost myths to me.  Ah!” as Lancelot opened his office-door, “now I know where I am!  And there’s the old staircase!  This is the real thing, and no mistake.”

“Angel, Angel, come to tea!”  And Gertrude, comfortable and substantial, in loving greeting threw arms round the new comers, Lance still carrying the child, who clung round his neck as he brought her into the room, full of his late fellow travellers, and also of a group of children.

“It is as if we had gone back thirty years or more,” was Angela’s cry, as she looked forth on what had been as little altered as possible from the old family centre; and Lance, setting down the child, spoke as the pretty little blue-eyed girls advanced to exchange kisses with their new aunt.

“Margaret, or Pearl, whom you knew as a baby; Etheldred, or Awdrey, and Dickie!  Fely is at Marlborough.  There, take little Lena—is that her name—to your table, and give her some tea.”

“Her name is Magdalen,” said Angela, removing the little black hat and smoothing the hair; but Lena backed against her, and let her hand hang limp in Pearl’s patronising clasp.  Nor would she amalgamate with the children, nor even eat or drink except still beside “Sister,” as she called Angela.  In fact, she was so thoroughly worn out and tired, as well as shy and frightened, that Angela’s attention was wholly given to her and she could only be put to bed, but not in the nursery, which, as Angel said, seemed to her like a den of little wild beasts.  So she was deposited in the chamber and bed hastily prepared for the unexpected guest; and even there, being wakeful and feverish from over-fatigue, there was no leaving her alone, and Gertrude, after seeing her safely installed, could only go down with the hope that she would be able to spare her slave or nurse, which was it? by dinner-time.

“Who is that child so like?” said Dolores, in their own room.

“Very like somebody, but I can’t tell whom,” said Agatha.  “Who did you say she is?”

“I cannot say I exactly know,” said Dolores.  “I believe she is the daughter of Fulbert Underwood’s mate, on a sheep-farm in Queensland, and that as her mother died when she was born, she has been always under the care of this Angela, living in the Sisterhood there.”

“Not a Sister?”

“Not under vows, certainly.  I never saw her before, but I believe she is rather a funny flighty person, and that Fulbert was afraid at one time that she would marry this child’s father.”

“Is he alive?”

“Which?  Fulbert died four or five years ago, and I think the little girl’s father must be dead, for she is in mourning.”

“There’s something very charming about her—Miss Underwood.”

“Yes there is.  They all seem to be very fond of her, and yet to laugh about her, and never to be quite sure what she will do next.”

“Did I not hear of her being so useful among the Australian black women?”

“No one has ever managed those very queer gins so well; and she is an admirable nurse too, they say.  I am very glad to have come in her way.”

They did not, however, see much of her that evening.  The head master of the Grammar School and his wife, the head mistress of the High School, and a few others had been invited to meet them; and Angela could only just appear at dinner, trusting to a slumber of her charge, but, on coming out of the dining-room, a wail summoned her upstairs at once, and she was seen no more that night.

However, with morning freshness, Lena showed herself much less farouche, and willing to accept the attentions of Mr. Underwood first, and, later, of his little daughter Pearl—a gentle, elder sisterly person, who knew how to avert the too rough advances of Dick—and made warm friends over the pink cockatoo; while Awdrey was entranced by the beauties of the budgerigars.

Robina had been informed by telegram, and came up from Minsterham with her husband, looking just like his own father, and grown very broad.  He was greatly interested in the lecture, and went off to it, to consider whether it would be desirable for the Choristers’ School.  Lancelot had, of course, to go, and Angela declared that she must be brought up to date, and rejoiced that Lena was able to submit to be left with the other children under the protection of Mrs. Underwood, who averred that she abhorred electricity in all its forms, and that if Lance were induced to light the town, or even the shop by that means, he must begin by disposing of her by a shock.

It was an excellent lecture, only the two sisters hardly heard it.  They could think of nothing but that they were once more sitting side by side in the old hall, where they had heard and shared in so many concerts, on the gala days of their home life.

The two lecturers, as well as the rest of the party, were urgently entreated to stay to tea at the High School; but when the interest of the new arrival was explained, the sisters and brother were released to go home, Canon Harewood remaining to content their hostesses.

CHAPTER XXII—ANGEL AND BEAR

“Enough of science and of art!Close up those barren leaves,Come forth, and bring with you a heartThat watches and receives.”—Wordsworth.

A telegram had been handed to Mr. Mayor, which he kept to himself, smiling over it, and he—at least—was not taken utterly by surprise at the sight of a tall handsome man, who stepped forward with something like a shout.

“Angel!  Lance!  Why, is it Robin, too?”

“Bear, Bear, old Bear, how did you come?”

“I couldn’t stop when I heard at Clipstone that Angel was here, so I left Phyllis and the kid with her mother.  Oh, Angel, Angel, to meet at Bexley after all!”

They clung together almost as they had done when they were the riotous elements of the household, while Lance opened the front door, and Robina, mindful of appearances, impelled them into the hall, Bernard exclaiming, “Pratt’s room!  Whose teeth is it?”

“Don’t you want Wilmet to hold your hands and make you open your mouth?” said Lance, laughing.

Gertrude, who had already received the Indian arrival, met Angela, who was bounding up to see to her charge, with, “Not come in yet!  She is gone out with the children quite happily, with Awdrey’s doll in her arms.  Come and enjoy each other in peace.”

“In the office, please,” said Angela.  “That is home.  We shall be our four old selves.”

Lance opened the office door, and gave a hint to Mr. Lamb, while they looked at each other by the fire.

Bernard was by far the most altered.  The others were slightly changed, but still their “old selves,” while he was a grave responsible man, looking older than Lancelot, partly from the effects of climate; but Angela saw enough to make her exclaim, “Here we are!  Don’t you feel as if we were had down to Felix to be blown up?”

“Not a bit altered,” said Bernard, looking at the desks and shelves of ledgers, with the photographs over the mantelpiece—Felix, Mr. Froggatt, the old foreman, and a print of Garofalo’s Vision of St. Augustine, hung up long ago by Felix, as Lance explained, as a token of the faith to which all human science and learning should be subordinated.

“A declaration of the Pursuivant,” said Angela.  “How Fulbert did look out for Pur!  I believe it was his only literature.”

“Phyllis declares,” said Bernard, “that nothing so upsets me as a failure in Pur’s arrival.”

“And this is Pur’s heart and centre!” said Robina.

“Only,” added Angela, “I miss the smell of burnt clay that used to pervade the place, and that Alda so hated.”

“Happily the clay is used up,” said Lance.  “I could not have brought Gertrude and the children here if the ceramic art, as they call it, had not departed.  Cherry was so delighted at our coming to live here.  She loved the old struggling days.”

“Fulbert said he never felt as if he had been at home till he came here.  He never took to Vale Leston.”

“Clement and Cherry have settled in very happily,” said Robina, “with convalescent clergy in the Vicarage.”

“I say, Angel, let us have a run over there,” cried Bernard, “you and I together, for a bit of mischief.”

“Do, do let us!  Though this is real home, our first waking to perception and naughtiness, it is more than Vale Leston.  We seem to have been up in a balloon all those five happy years.”

“A balloon?” said Bernard.  “Nay, it seems to me that till they were over, I never thought at all except how to get the most rollicking and the finest rowing out of life.  It seems to me that I had about as much sense as a green monkey.”

“Something sank in, though,” said Lance; “you did not drift off like poor Edgar.”

“Some one must have done so,” said Angela.  “I wanted to ask you, Lancey, about advertising for my little Lena’s people; the Bishop said I ought.”

“I say,” exclaimed Bernard, “was it her father that was Fulbert’s mate?  I thought he was afraid of your taking up with him.  You didn’t?”

“No, no.  Let me tell you, I want you to know.  Field and a little wife came over from Melbourne prospecting for a place to sit down in.  They had capital, but the poor wife was worn out and ill, and after taking them in for a night, Fulbert liked them.  Field was an educated man and a gentleman, and Ful offered them to stay there in partnership.  So they stayed, and by and by this child was born, and the poor mother died.  The two great bearded men came galloping over to Albertstown from Carrigaboola, with this new born baby, smaller than even Theodore was, and I had the care of her from the very first, and Field used to ride over and see the little thing.”

“And—?” said Bernard, in a rather teasing voice, as his eyes actually looked at Angela’s left hand.

“I’ll own it did tempt me.  I had had some great disappointments with my native women, running wild again, and I could not bear my child having a horrid stepmother; and there was the glorious free bush life, and the horses and the sheep!  But then I thought of you all saying Angel had broken out again; and by and by Fulbert came and told me that he was sure there was some ugly mystery, and spoke to Mother Constance, and they made me promise not to take him unless it was cleared up.  Then, as you know, dear Ful’s horse fell with him; Field came and fetched me to their hut, and I was there to the last.  Ful told each of us again that all must be plain and explained before we thought of anything in the future.  He, Henry Field, said he had great hopes that he should be able to set it right.  Then, as you know, there was no saving dear Fulbert, and after that Mother Constance’s illness began.  Oh! Bear, do you recollect her coming in and mothering us in the little sitting-room?  I could not stir from her, of course, while she was with us.  And after that, Harry Field came and said he had written a letter to England, and when the answer came, he would tell me all, and I should judge!  But I don’t think the answer ever did come, and he went to Brisbane to see if it was at the bank; and there he caught a delirious fever, and there was an end of it!”

At that moment something between a whine or a call of “sister” was heard.  Up leapt Angela and hurried away, while Lance observed, “Well!  That’s averted, but I am sorry for her.”

“It was not love,” said Robina.

“Or only for the child,” said Bernard; “and that would have been a dangerous speculation.”

“The child or something else has been very good for her,” said Lance; “I never saw her so gentle and quiet.”

“And with the same charm about her as ever,” said Bernard.  “I don’t wonder that all the fellows fall in love with her.  I hope she won’t make havoc among Clement’s sick clergy.”

“I suppose we ought to go up and fulfil the duties of society,” said Robina, rising.  “But first, Bear, tell me how is Phyllis?”

“Pretty fair,” he answered.  “Resting with her mother, but she has never been quite the thing of late.  I almost hope Sir Ferdinand will see his way to keeping us at home, or we shall have to leave our little Lily.”

Interruption occurred as a necessary summons to “Mr. Mayor,” and the paternal conclave was broken up, and had to adjourn to Gertrude’s tea in the old sitting-room.

“I see!” exclaimed Agatha, as she looked at the party of children at their supplementary table.  “I see what the likeness is in that child.  Don’t you, Dolores?  Is it not to Wilfred Merrifield?”

“There is very apt to be a likeness between sandy people, begging your pardon, Angel,” said Gertrude.

“Yes, the carroty strain is apt to crop up in families,” said Lance, “like golden tabbies, as you ladies call your stable cats.”

“All the Mohuns are dark,” said Dolores, “and all Aunt Lily’s children, except Wilfred; and is not your Phyllis of that colour?”

“Phyllis’s hair is not red, but dark auburn,” said Bernard, in a tone like offence.

“I never saw Phyllis,” said dark-browed Dolores, “but I have heard the aunts talk over the source of the—the fair variety, and trace it to the Merrifields.  Uncle Jasper is brown, and so is Bessie; but Susan is, to put it politely, just a golden tabby, and David’s baby promises to be, to her great delight, as she says he will be a real Merrifield.  So much for family feeling!”

“Sister, Sister!” came in a bright tone, “may I go with Pearl and get a stick for Ben?  He wants something to play with!  He is eating his perch.”

Ben, it appeared, was the pink cockatoo, who was biting his perch with his hooked beak.  The children had finished their meal, and consent was given.  “Only, Lena, come here,” said Angela, fastening a silk handkerchief round her neck, and adding, “Don’t let Lena go on the dew, Pearl; she is not used to early English autumn, I must get her a pair of thicker boots.”