Robin Redbreast: A Story for Girls

'Well, yes,' said Miss Mildmay. 'Still, one cannot make a hard and fast rule about such matters. It calls for a little tact.'

She was very inconsistent; who is not? Something in Jacinth's premature wisdom – almost savouring of 'worldly' wisdom – rather repelled her, careful and unimpulsive though she herself was. Then she felt annoyed with her own annoyance: it was unjust to blame the girl, when she herself had been inculcating caution.

'In this case,' she added, 'I am sure it is best to keep off family affairs, you being so young and Lady Myrtle Goodacre so old; and as I know, there have been sore spots in her history.'

Then she rose from the table.

'Francie, dear, I think you had better go to bed early. You are looking tired,' she said kindly, and as she kissed the little girl she almost fancied – was it fancy? – that she felt a touch of dew on her cheek.

'I'm afraid I don't understand children at all,' she thought to herself, though with a little sigh. 'What in the world can Frances be crying about?'

Jacinth, once they were alone, did not spare her sister.

'I do think you are too silly,' she said. 'If you go on so oddly after having an afternoon's play, I am sure Aunt Alison won't let you go again. First you seemed half asleep, then you jumped and looked terrified for nothing at all, and now you are actually crying. What is the matter?'

'I didn't mean' – began Frances.

'I believe it's those girls,' continued Jacinth, working herself up to rare irritation, for as a rule she was gentle to her sister. 'They really seem to bewitch you. Are you crying because you're not a boarder at school, so that you could be always beside them?' she added ironically.

'No, of course not. I wouldn't be so silly,' said Frances, with a touch of her usual spirit.

'Then what are you crying about?'

Frances murmured something about 'thinking Jacinth was vexed with her.'

'Nonsense,' said Jacinth. 'You know I wasn't in the least till you got so silly. I don't understand you to-night one bit, but I will say I think it has something to do with the Harpers, and if they begin coming between you and me, Frances, I shall end by really disliking them.'

'I think you dislike them already,' retorted Frances, 'and I'm sure I don't know why.'

To this Jacinth vouchsafed no reply. She would have said the accusation was not worth noticing. But yet at the bottom of her heart she knew there was something in it. A vague, ridiculous, unfounded sort of jealousy of the Harpers had begun to insinuate itself.

'I wish their name had been anything else,' she said to herself. 'I don't believe they are really any relation to Lady Myrtle – at least not anything countable. But it is so disagreeable to have the feeling of knowing anything of people who may be – well, rather objectionable relations of hers. Well, no; perhaps that's putting it too strong. I mean relations she doesn't want to have to do with, and I don't see why she should want to have to do with them. I shall take care, I know, not to speak of them to her, for it would only annoy her, and it's no business of mine. I do wish Frances hadn't taken them up so, she is so silly sometimes.'

Frances on her side began to think she had gone too far. She glanced up at Jacinth, and saw that her face was very grave.

'Jass,' she said, stealing up to her and speaking in a soft apologetic tone, 'I'm very sorry for being cross. I think I am rather tired, though I did so enjoy myself this afternoon. Perhaps I'd better go to bed, for I want to write most of my letter to mamma to-morrow. I want to write her a good long one this time.'

'Very well,' said Jacinth as graciously as she could. 'I'm sure I haven't meant to be cross either, Francie; but – I don't like the idea of any one coming between you and me.'

'Of course not; nobody could, never,' said Frances eagerly. 'Kiss me, Jass. I really don't know what made me begin to cry; it was a mixture.'

Her voice trembled a little again. In terror of incurring Jacinth's displeasure, Frances tugged at her pocket-handkerchief. Out came, for the second time that day, the old Christmas card.

'What's that?' said Jacinth.

Frances smoothed it out and showed it her, reminding her of its history.

'I think it was that that made me feel rather – queer – this afternoon, first,' she said. 'It brought things back so.'

'Well, dear, go to bed and have a good night. And to-morrow you'll be fresh for a nice long letter to mamma in the afternoon, when we come back from the children's service; there's always plenty of time. I want to write her a long letter too.'

The letters were written, neither sister reading the other's. This was a recognised rule, and a wise one, as it kept each child more directly in touch with the absent mother, and also enabled her to judge of her children's gradually developing characters. The very way in which the same occurrence was related by each threw many an unsuspected light on the 'Jacinth' and 'Frances' she had personally so sadly little knowledge of.

And then for some days life at Number 9 Market Square Place, which had been to a certain extent enlivened or disturbed, seemed to revert again to its usual monotony. It was almost like a dream to Jacinth to recall the strange visit to the quaint old house and the unexpected confidences of Lady Myrtle Goodacre; the more so that she had at first allowed her imagination to run wild on all the possibilities thus opened up. And to Frances it was even more bewildering to remember the glimpse vouchsafed to her by her young friends into their past family history. For though they were both as affectionate and friendly as before – more so, indeed, it seemed to her – neither by word nor allusion was the Saturday's conversation referred to. Margaret had evidently promised Bessie to keep off the subject, and Frances of course could but do the same.

'Perhaps,' she thought to herself, 'they will never speak of it again to me; perhaps that is what their mother has told them she wished. But after all, it doesn't look as if this would much matter, for there is no sign that Lady Myrtle means to take any more notice of us, not even of poor Jass. I'm not surprised; any one that can be so unkind about her own relations can't be very nice.'

Frances was sorry for Jacinth, and a little disappointed for herself, and there had still lingered in her some dim hopes that possibly somehow their own acquaintance with the old lady might have been of use to her friends. Jacinth, though she said nothing, was feeling very chagrined indeed, and not a little bitter.

What could have happened to change Lady Myrtle so? Could it be that she was really very fanciful and whimsical? It scarcely seemed so, considering that she had written so promptly to Miss Mildmay, not losing even one post! And this thought suggested another explanation. Could their aunt's letter in reply have contained something to annoy the old lady? Jacinth began to be very much afraid it must be so, and it made her very vexed with Miss Mildmay, though she did not in the least suppose it had been done intentionally.

'Aunt Alison is perfectly straightforward,' thought the girl. 'If she meant to stop our going to Robin Redbreast, she would have said so right out. But she may have written in a stiff, stuck-up way, as if it would be a great favour to let us go, which would very likely offend Lady Myrtle. I do think she might have told me what she said.'

And but for Miss Mildmay's being particularly busy that week, and very engrossed by some unexpected difficulties which had arisen in connection with one of her benevolent works, she could scarcely have failed to notice Jacinth's extremely icy manner and unusual silence.

But on Friday morning came a thaw.

Miss Mildmay looked up with a smile – her smiles were somewhat rare, but not without a certain charm – as the girls entered the dining-room, even though they were too late for prayers.

'We are so sorry, Aunt Alison,' said Frances eagerly. 'We just got to the door in time to be too late.'

'Well, I must forgive you, for I cannot say that it often happens. And – I have something to tell you, Jacinth,' was the gracious reply.

Two things had pleased Miss Mildmay that morning: a letter with the welcome news that, thanks to her judicious management, the difficulty alluded to had been got over, and another letter from Lady Myrtle Goodacre, with a cordial invitation to her elder niece. For Miss Mildmay herself, though it was not her way to express such things, had felt a little annoyed and considerably surprised at no further communication from the owner of Robin Redbreast.

Now, however, all was cleared up. The old lady had been ill, 'otherwise,' she wrote with studied courtesy, 'she had hoped before this to have had the pleasure of calling.' But under the circumstances she felt sure that Miss Mildmay would excuse her, and in proof of this, would she allow her niece Jacinth to spend Sunday at Robin Redbreast? by which she explained that she meant from Saturday to Monday morning.

'My carriage shall call for her about noon,' wrote Lady Myrtle, 'and she shall be sent home, or straight to school, at any hour she names on Monday.'

Jacinth's eyes sparkled. This was just the sort of thing she had been hoping for, but with the self-restraint peculiar to her, unusual in one so young, she said nothing till her aunt directly addressed her, after reading aloud Lady Myrtle's note.

'Well, what do you say to it? Would you like to go?' asked Miss Mildmay.

'Very much indeed,' Jacinth replied, 'except' – And as her eyes fell on her sister she hesitated. 'I wish Frances had been invited too,' she was on the point of saying, but she changed the words into, 'I hope Frances won't be dull without me.'

'Oh no, don't think about that,' said the younger girl. 'I really and truly would not like to go; I shouldn't care about it in the least, and I am very glad I'm not asked.'

And Jacinth saw that Frances thoroughly meant what she said.

Before the day was over, Frances felt still more glad that she had not been included in the invitation, for as soon as morning lessons were finished, and the day-scholars were getting ready to go, Bessie Harper came running to her with a letter in her hand.

'This is for you, Frances,' she said. 'It is from my sister Camilla, who was here, you know, when you first came, for a little.'

Frances was staring at the letter in surprise.

'I scarcely knew your sister at all,' she said. 'She was so big compared with me – even with Jacinth.'

'Ah well, you will understand when you've read it. It came inside one to me,' said Bessie. 'It'll be all right when you've read it. But I must go.' And off she ran.

Frances looked again at the envelope and then deposited the letter in her pocket. She had a feeling that she would read it when she was alone, for she began to have some idea what it was about. She read it at home that afternoon. It ran as follows:

Southcliff, October 7th.

My dear Frances – I am writing to you instead of my mother, for as you and I were, though only for a short time, school-fellows, we think perhaps I can explain better what Bessie's letter makes us think necessary to say. Mother is not vexed with Margaret for what she told you, for there is nothing secret about us or our history, though there have been sad things in father's family long ago, as you know. Bessie told us of your kind feelings about us, and though I saw so little of you, I can well believe them. But with regard to our great-aunt, both my father and mother hope she will hear nothing about us. Father has long left off any thought of friendly relations with her. Of course there is no reason why our name should not be mentioned to her by yourself, or your sister, if it happened to come up in conversation; but we should be sorry for her to think we murmured about being poor, or that any of us ever thought of her as a rich relation who might help us. So we shall all be very glad indeed if you will try to forget that you know anything of us Harpers except as school-fellows who will always be pleased to count you a true friend. Mother wishes you to do just what you think best about showing this letter to your sister or not. And of course you will tell your mother anything or everything about the matter. Yours affectionately,

Camilla Harper.

Frances gave a sigh.

'I won't show it to Jacinth,' she thought. 'Aunt Alison said it was better for her not to speak about the Harpers to Lady Myrtle, so there's no use in saying anything about them. And it's more comfortable not to have something in your head you're not to tell. I suppose I must try to put it all out of my head, but it would have been nice to help to make that old aunt of theirs like them. I'll put the letter in an envelope ready addressed to mamma – that'll keep any one from touching it – and I'll send it to her in my next letter.'

But it called for some self-control not to tell it all to her sister, even at the risk of her displeasure. And Frances was conscious of a very slight feeling of relief when Jacinth, evidently in high spirits, though quiet as she always was, set off in state the next day for her visit to Robin Redbreast.

She had made up her mind to enjoy herself and to be pleased with everything, and it was not difficult to carry out this programme. Everything Lady Myrtle could think of to make her young guest feel at home had been done, and Jacinth was both quick to see this and most ready to appreciate it.

She drew a deep breath of satisfaction when she found herself seated in Lady Myrtle's comfortable brougham, which, though a trifle old-fashioned, was, like everything belonging to the Robin Redbreast establishment, thoroughly good of its kind.

'It is like being at Stannesley again,' thought Jacinth, 'only poor granny's carriage and horses, and old Simpson the coachman, weren't half so nice as all this is.'

And, to confess the truth, I think a passing regret went through her that the road to her destination lay straight out from the town on the Market Square Place side, so that there was no chance of her meeting any of her school-fellows and giving them a smiling nod of recognition.

The door was opened by the neat parlour-maid, but behind her appeared – to do special honour to the young lady, no doubt – a functionary whom Jacinth had not seen before – no less a personage than Mr Thornley, Lady Myrtle's old, not to say aged butler. He came forward gently rubbing his hands, and bending with a decorous mixture of paternal solicitude and deference which Jacinth by no means objected to, though it made her inclined to smile a little.

'Miss Mildmay, I presume?'

'Miss Mildmay' was quite equal to the occasion. She bent her head graciously.

'Her ladyship is awaiting you in her boudoir, if you will have the goodness to follow me,' the old man proceeded.

They were standing in the hall. It was large – at least it seemed so in comparison with the impression given by the outside of the house, which Jacinth knew so well, and which was really cottage-like. The hall was wainscoted in oak half-way up, where the panels met a bluish-green Japanese-looking paper. A really old oriental paper it was, such as is not even nowadays to be procured in England, so thickly covered with tracery of leaves and flowers and birds and butterflies in a delightful tangle, that the underlying colour was more felt than seen. A short staircase of wide shallow steps ran up one side, disappearing apparently into the wall, and up this staircase, rather to Jacinth's surprise – for there were several doors in the hall leading, no doubt, to the principal ground-floor rooms – stepped Thornley in a gingerly manner till he reached the little landing at the top. There he threw open a door, papered like the walls so cleverly as to be invisible when closed, though it was a good-sized door – wide and high. And as soon as the girl, following behind, caught sight of the vista now revealed, she wondered no more, as she had been doing, at Lady Myrtle's choosing an up-stairs room for her boudoir.

'In a town it would be different,' Jacinth had been saying to herself, 'but in the country it's so much nicer to be able to get out into the garden at once.'

But she did not understand the peculiar architecture of Robin Redbreast. A glow of colour met her eyes, for the door in the wall opened on to a gallery, three sides of which ran round an inner hall on the ground-floor, while the fourth – that facing her – was all conservatory, and conservatory of the most perfect kind. The girl started, half-dazzled by the unexpected radiance, and drew a quick breath of satisfaction, as the butler passed along the side of the gallery and threw open a door leading in among the flowers – she, following closely, lingered a moment while the old servant passed on, partly to give him time to announce her, partly to enjoy for half an instant the fragrance and beauty around her.

Then came a voice, and a figure in the inner doorway – the figure that already seemed so familiar to her, though she had seen it but once.

'My dear child – my dear Jacinth,' and she felt two kind arms thrown round her, and the soft withered cheek of the old lady pressed against her own. 'This is delightful – to have you all to myself – my own child for the time.'

Jacinth's usually cold unimpulsive nature was strongly moved; there is always something impressive and touching in the emotion of the aged. And Lady Myrtle, one felt by instinct, was rarely demonstrative.

The girl looked up in her face, and there came a slight mistiness over the hazel eyes, which her new old friend seemed to know so well – oh so well! – the sight of them carried her back half a century; and, above all, when Jacinth began to speak, she felt as if all the intervening years were a dream, and that she was again a girl herself, listening to the voice of Jacinth Moreland.

'I am so very pleased to come. I have been longing to see you again,' said her young guest. Thornley had discreetly withdrawn. 'And how lovely it is here! You don't know how I enjoy seeing flowers again like these.'

'It is pretty, isn't it?' said Lady Myrtle, pleased by the frank admiration. 'In cold weather I am sometimes shut up a good deal, and my garden is my great delight. So I tried to make myself a little winter garden, you see. I have had to stay up here the last few days, but I hope to go about again as usual to-morrow. And of course I shall go down to luncheon and dinner to-day. I waited to ask you to come, my dear, till I was better. I could not have let you be all by yourself in the dining-room.'

'Oh,' exclaimed Jacinth, with sudden compunction, 'I should have asked if you were better. How could I forget?'

'Why, you have not been two minutes here, my dear child. And I wrote that I was better. It was only a cold. But at my age, "only a cold" may come to be a great deal, and I have got into the way of taking care of myself, I scarcely know why; it is natural, I suppose, and after all, however alone one is, life is a gift. We must not throw it away. I am not quite well yet' – she had coughed more than once while speaking – 'but the weather is milder again.'

'Yes,' said Jacinth, 'a sort of St Martin's summer. I hope,' she added gently, 'you will let me wait upon you a little while I am here. Wouldn't you like the door shut?'

Lady Myrtle smiled. She liked the allusion to St Martin's summer; it seemed like a good omen. Was this bright young life, so strangely associated with her own youth, to bring back some spring-time to her winter? – was Jacinth to be a St Martin's summer to her?

'Thank you,' she said. 'Yes, please shut the outer door. Poor old Thornley often thinks he has closed it when he hasn't; his hands are so rheumatic. I like the door into the conservatory left open. Yes, that's right. And now come and talk to me for a few minutes before you take off your things. There is still half an hour to luncheon. Tell me what you have been doing these last few days – busy at lessons? That fair-haired little sister of yours doesn't look as if she overworked.'

Jacinth smiled.

'No,' she said, 'I don't think Francie overworks, but she does very well. The being at school has really been a good thing for her, for she feels herself that she is the better for emulation.'

'And the Scarletts are gentlewomen, thorough gentlewomen,' said Lady Myrtle, musingly. 'That makes a difference. And I suppose a good many of the pupils are really nice – lady-like and refined?'

'Yes,' said Jacinth, readily. 'The boarders are all nice – some of them really as nice in every way as they can be, clever, too, and anxious to learn. I don't seem to know them quite as well as Frances does, for, somehow, I am not very quick at making friends,' and she looked up at Lady Myrtle with a slight questioning in her eyes. The confession did not sound very amiable. But the old lady nodded reassuringly.

'Just as well or better that it should be so,' she said. 'Few friends and faithful has been my motto. Indeed, as for great friends I never had but one, and you know who that was, and I verily believe she never had any one as much to her as I was.' She sighed a little. 'Your sister is quite a child – a very nice child, I am sure, but she is not a Moreland at all. I have heard of some girls at Miss Scarlett's – let me see, who were they? What are the names of the ones you like best?'

Jacinth hesitated.

'There are the – the Eves,' she said, 'two sisters, and the Beckinghams, and Miss Falmouth. She is almost too old for us.'

But the Harpers she did not name, saying to herself that her aunt had advised her not to do so. In this she deceived herself. Miss Mildmay would never have counselled her direct avoidance of mention of the two girls whom Frances – and she herself in her heart – thought the most highly of among their companions.

Lady Myrtle caught at the last name.

'Falmouth,' she repeated. 'Yes, it must have been of her I heard. I know her aunt. Very nice people.'

Then she went on to talk a little of Jacinth's own special tastes and studies, to ask what news the girls had last had from India, how often they wrote, and so on, to all of which Jacinth replied with her usual simple directness, for she felt perfectly at ease with her hostess. And the little reminiscences and allusions to the long-ago days when all the young interests of Jacinth Moreland and Myrtle Harper were shared together, with which the old lady's talk was so interspersed, in no way bored or wearied this girl of to-day, as it might have done some of her contemporaries. On the contrary, such allusions made Jacinth feel more on a level with her companion, and flattered her by showing her the confidence with which she was regarded.

'I don't suppose she would speak of those past times to any one but me,' thought Jacinth proudly. 'Except, of course, perhaps to mamma.'

CHAPTER VIII.

DELICATE GROUND

The two days at Robin Redbreast passed most satisfactorily, and long before they came to an end Jacinth felt completely at home. It would have been almost impossible for her or for any girl not to feel grateful for Lady Myrtle's extreme kindness, but besides this, everything in the life suited Jacinth's peculiar character. She liked the perfect order, the completeness of the arrangements, just as – in very different surroundings – she liked and appreciated the same qualities in her aunt's sphere. Mere luxury or display would not have pleased her in the same way, and except in the one matter of flowers and all expenses connected with her garden, Lady Myrtle lived simply. The house itself, though in perfectly good taste, was decidedly plain; the furniture belonged to a severe and unluxurious date. The colouring was harmonious, but unobtrusive.

But Jacinth thought it perfection. Her own room – the one which the old lady had specially chosen for her, and which she impressed upon her she must think of as appropriated to her – was exactly what she liked. The chintz hangings – pale pink rosebuds on a white ground – the quaint spindle-legged dressing-tables and chairs, the comfortably spacious but undecorated wardrobe of dark old mahogany, the three-cornered bookcases fitted in to the angles of the walls with their lozenge-paned glass doors – all was just as she liked.