"And you shall know, my dear boy," said Mrs. Worsley. "Nettie's holiday will begin on Saturday next. When she and I have seen you two safe off these premises, we shall prepare for our own departure. If there had been no other reason for her staying here until then, you boys would have furnished two substantial ones. You are to blame for the fact that one sister is gone to the seaside, the other left to take care of you."
The speaker's face expressed no little amusement as she observed the effect of her words.
"Aunty, what do you mean?" asked Annette. "It cannot be true that I am to go somewhere with you. What would mamma say?"
"She has said you may go, dear."
"But when? How did you hear from her? I do not understand," replied Nettie, more bewildered than ever.
"I had a letter from your mother about a week ago, in which she told me that she and Laura were at Scarborough, and you here with the boys. She suggested my joining them on my way home, for I was then in Scotland. I did spend a single night under the same roof, for I wanted to run away with you, Nettie, and I thought I could negotiate for that purpose more successfully in person than by letter. After a little talk it was arranged that as soon as the boys were off I might have you. The method of taking possession was left to myself. I might write for you and enclose this, or do as I chose about communicating your mother's consent to my plan."
Mrs. Worsley handed a note to Nettie, and the girl exclaimed, "How kind of you, aunty! To think of you travelling so far out of your way on my account, first to Scarborough, then to this place! How can I thank you?"
"Do not try, dear. Read your mother's note," said Mrs. Worsley. "But please do not put me down as another sham, because I asked you so many questions when I already knew the answer to some of them. I wanted to have a peep into your mind. As to Bolton, I inquired after her in all good faith, for neither your mother nor Laura told me that she was with them, or how very much you had been left to yourself."
Nettie gave her godmother a girlish hug and a shower of kisses, then applied herself to the letter, whilst the boys expressed their delight at her improved prospects, after the manner of their kind.
They repeatedly embraced their sister, showered thanks on Mrs. Worsley in rather slangy English, and finally gave relief to their exuberant spirits by dancing round the den in a sort of wild Indian style, which was not calculated to render the reading of the letter an easy task to Nettie. The purport of it was, however, soon mastered. Mrs. Clifford wrote warmly of Mrs. Worsley's kindness, and told her daughter that she must consider herself at liberty to leave Hoyden Hill as soon as Williams returned and the boys were gone. There were loving messages and a promise of another letter to follow by post, and that was all.
Annette's dreams were pleasant ones for that night, but the waking was less agreeable. The morning brought the promised letter, with detailed instructions as to certain matters for the house and the boys, and a cheque to meet the expenditure involved by their coming journey, and the domestic supplies alluded to. But for Annette herself there was nothing, not even a hint as to possible wants. The girl thought she must be mistaken, that there must be another enclosure; but a further examination revealed the fact that the envelope contained nothing more.
"How can I go?" she exclaimed. "Mamma knows that I need at least a couple of new gowns to make me fairly presentable, and it would be a dreadful scramble to get one in the short time there is. Besides, Laura's last are unpaid for, and I will not go for more on credit, though I suppose that is what she must have meant me to do. Mamma must feel that I cannot go away without even the means to pay my travelling expenses, or a spare pound in my pocket."
Annette's self-communings had reached this point when Mrs. Worsley entered the den, where breakfast awaited her coming.
"I thought you were still asleep, aunty," said the girl. "I have been twice to your door, but everything was so quiet that I stole softly down again. The boys had to go, you know, to be in time for school, so I shall have you all to myself. Have you rested well?"
"Delightfully, Nettie, and I am quite ready for breakfast, and work to follow, for we must begin our preparations for the journey without an hour's delay."
Annette's face flushed and paled as she turned her mother's letter round in her fingers in an absent fashion. Then she said, "I am afraid I can make none. Mamma has written about everyone but me. She must know that I need more than her permission to go with you."
"My dear, I am sorry that you have had a moment's anxiety on that score, which I might have prevented by a word. Your mother and I arranged everything on your behalf when we met at Scarborough. This is for you, Nettie, to meet any minor expenses, and after breakfast we will see what sort of a substitute for the fairy godmother I shall make in providing the more substantial portion of your outfit." Mrs. Worsley handed Annette an envelope addressed in her mother's handwriting, and on opening it she found, to her utter amazement, a ten-pound note.
"For me, aunty? How has mamma spared it? Did she really send it?" asked Annette, half ashamed of her question.
"I saw Mrs. Clifford place the note in the envelope, which she addressed, and then handed to me, for your sole use, my dear, if that is what you mean. And she sent her love, and hoped you would spend it judiciously."
The young face brightened again at these words.
"Mamma is very kind; I did not expect this," she said. "Now I can manage quite nicely; but how disgracefully selfish I am to keep you talking about my concerns when you must be famishing for your breakfast!"
"Not famishing, dear, but with a good healthy appetite to enjoy this tempting breakfast," replied Mrs. Worsley. "But, Nettie, you have not asked whither we are bound when we leave Heydon Hill."
"I thought I was going home with you, aunty."
"Home, in one sense, dear, but not to the one I call my very own. We are going to my brother's."
"To Broadlands! You cannot mean it?"
"I am quite in earnest. My brother and his wife have given you a warm corner in their warm hearts, Nettie; your last year's visit established you as first favourite with them and the children, and I believe if I were to make my appearance alone, I should be sent back to fetch you. The people at Ferndene are having a large party of young guests, too. I believe almost the same who were there twelve months ago, so you will meet a host of old young acquaintances."
Mrs. Worsley was looking straight at Nettie as she spoke, and, lo! Across the girl's face stole a look of indescribable gladness, along with a rich rosy glow that spread from cheek to brow; a sort of dancing, happy light, the reflex of some deep-seated joy, brought to the innocent young heart by her friend's words.
Nettie turned away quickly and shyly, as if afraid that secret of hers should be read, and she could not have borne a significant look just then, much less a jesting word. That expression, however, set Mrs. Worsley thinking and wondering whether, amongst the guests at Ferndene, Cinderella might have met her prince. Truly the girl was very young in her ways and simple in her tastes, as innocent of flirting and coquetry as the most loving mother could desire her child to be. But time had not been standing still with Nettie any more than others; she would keep her nineteenth birthday during the visit to Broadlands.
CHAPTER III.
BREAKFAST was over, and Nettie was standing in Mrs. Worsley's bedroom, speechless and overwhelmed at the sight which met her view. Spread around her were the contents of one of those large boxes which she had assisted Sarah Jane to carry up-stairs on the preceding evening. There were braveries of all kinds suited to a girl like herself, and fit for wear in such a home as Broadlands. Nothing very costly, but all beautiful, dainty, and suggestive of refined taste and a sweet, pure-minded girl wearer.
It was not the first time that Mrs. Worsley had supplied deficiencies in Nettie's wardrobe, and the measures taken a year before would, she knew, still be near enough to go by. She shrewdly suspected that her request for the girl's company would be cheerfully acceded to if no demand were made on the mother's purse to furnish the needed outfit. Even that ten-pound note which had called forth such fervent gratitude, though nominally sent by her mother, had first been given to Mrs. Clifford by Mrs. Worsley for the purpose.
"She is rich, and has neither chick nor child. All her own relatives are richer still, so why should not Nettie be the better for having a wealthy sponsor?" said Mrs. Clifford to her eldest daughter. "Besides, by having nothing to buy for Nettie, I shall be able the better to supply your wants."
So Laura, too, had cause to rejoice, for she benefited indirectly by Mrs. Worsley's gifts, in having money spent upon her wardrobe, some of which must otherwise have gone for Nettie's.
Standing amidst a wealth of pretty things, Nettie said—"These are all far too handsome, and you are much too kind, aunty, darling. I cannot thank you as I ought. I feel that I shall be a grand sham myself amongst the dear friends at Broadlands—'a daw with borrowed feathers.'"
"Not borrowed, Nettie; these things are truly your own. Not shams any more than you are, my dear, honest-hearted lassie. They are fashioned by human fingers, not transformed by the touch of a fairy's wand, so you can wear them without fear that they will resume some uncanny shape. And they come from one who loves you dearly, Nettie, and who has too much of this world's gear, and no kindred of her own who need to share it. I settled about these trifles before I even saw your mother. I never dreamed that I might find you too proud to accept at once, and without misgivings, your godmother's little gift."
Nettie burst into tears, and flinging her arms round her friend's neck, begged to be forgiven.
"Of course it is hateful pride and horrid ingratitude," she cried. "But I did not see it in that way before; I only felt overwhelmed with your kindness, and that it was all too much for you to do for my sake. I have had shamefully ungrateful thoughts about being left here, and have felt angry at mamma and Laura, and generally rebellious on account of my lot, instead of just accepting it as from God's hand, and making the best of it. And all the while He was ordering everything for my good, putting it into your heart to be so kind to me, and planning that I should be invited to the place I longed to visit above every other in the world. I am ashamed of myself."
"That is right, darling," replied Mrs. Worsley. "Now you are looking at things in a proper light, and there is nothing to be done but to continue our preparations."
After this the hours seemed to fly, so much had to be done; but further help was obtained to sustain the "reed." Williams returned in due time, the boys set out for Cumberland in the highest of spirits, and a couple of hours later Mrs. Worsley carried off Nettie, and arrived in the early afternoon at the station nearest to Broadlands.
On the platform were three or four of Mrs. Worsley's nephews and nieces, wild with delight at seeing her with Nettie in charge, and at the cry of the first, "Here's Nettie! Hurrah!" The shout was taken up by the others, who each cheered in a different key, and made the station resound with their shrill young voices.
There was another person who met the train, and handed the ladies out, and who, though he did not join in the cheer raised by the juniors, managed to express his pleasure at sight of the travellers in no less eloquent language. Truly if ever eyes spoke of gladness, the fine grey ones of Arthur Boyd told Nettie Clifford that the sight of her bright, blushing face had vastly increased his present feeling of happiness.
What halcyon days followed! Broadlands itself, with just its regular inmates, would have been a paradise to Nettie, nestling, as it did, among glorious woods which sheltered without hiding it, and yet within walking distance of the sea on one side and a lovely undulating country on the other three. There were endless drives and plenty of pleasant neighbours within reach, nearest of all Ferndene, the residence of old Sir Henry Boyd, Arthur's uncle, with whom Nettie was a prime favourite. He and his dear old wife were deeply attached to their nephew and heir, very anxious for him to marry, and yet in great dread lest he should fall a victim to a mere pretty face.
They had a horror of fastness and flirtation. They believed in one true, ever-growing holy love which should become stronger and more self-devoting through each year of wedded life, as theirs had done. Their nephew would be independent of money considerations; they wanted him to have a fortune in the wife herself; and so, when twelve months before they thought their nephew was learning to care for Nettie Clifford, they were ready to give their hearty consent if he would only ask it.
"Just the girl for Arthur," they had said to each other. Well born and educated, with good health, good looks, a pure mind, and habits untainted by fashion and folly, yet as bright as a bird; one in whose society young and old found pleasure. What could they desire better? Yet the girl's visit had come to an end, and Arthur had not spoken. The hopes of the old couple had died away, and twelve months had come and gone in the meanwhile.
Now Nettie was again at Broadlands, and day by day she and Arthur met. Lookers-on began to whisper, and some that had hoped Sir Henry's heir would seek a wife in a different direction lost hope.
At last a day came when the young man opened his heart to the relatives who had been as father and mother to him, and asked their consent and blessing on his union with Nettie Clifford, provided he could win hers.
They answered him together: "May God bless you as we do, and speed your wooing! 'A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband.' We could desire no better fortune for our boy than to win such a wife as Annette Clifford."
With a light heart Arthur set out for Broadlands. There was to be a garden party in the lovely grounds that afternoon, and he had no doubt that he should find an opportunity of telling Nettie all that was in his mind. He did not, however, see her immediately on his arrival. The grounds were extensive, and before Arthur Boyd made one amid the crowd of guests who kept pouring through the wide gateway, Nettie had been pounced upon and carried off to take part in a game at tennis.
The decisive set was just at an end when he caught sight of her, flushed and smiling, after a hard-won victory. But bright as was the colour on the girl's cheek, it deepened at his approach, and it was with a look of frank pleasure that she laid her hand in his and bade him welcome.
But while Nettie's roses deepened, those on Arthur's face died away, and he became deadly pale as he glanced at the girl's extended hand, for there, glittering on her "engaged finger," was a superb diamond, a beautiful single stone of bluish white, a stone of great value, as the merest ignoramus could tell. Surely the presence of such a jewel in such a place could have only one meaning.
Arthur hardly knew what he said. He knew that Nettie looked half frightened, and asked if he were ill, and that he had answered in the negative, and got away out of sight. True, she seemed to look wistfully after him, and her lips moved, as if she were begging him to stay. Probably she was shocked at what she had done, and wished to deprecate the grief and resentment his face must have expressed.
All their happy hours, all her sweet girlish ways, all the tell-tale blushes at his coming, all that he had thought he read in the shy eyes that were wont to droop when he looked too steadily in their direction, all these things were as nothing to him any more than others. Someone—Arthur thought he knew who—had offered, and been promptly accepted by the portionless girl, who was bound to marry well, whether true love were included in the bargain or not.
Arthur could not leave Broadlands at once, as he longed to do, for his aunt and uncle, with other friends, were to come later, and he had promised to wait for and return with them. So he strolled away to a lonely part of the grounds, and having passed a miserable hour there, once more bent towards the entrance-gates, where he met Nettie.
Surely the girl must have been miserable too, for she looked pale and troubled, and there were signs about her usually bright eyes that were suggestive of recent tears. And lo! As he glanced at her hand which hold up a parasol, he saw that it was unadorned. The ring was gone.
"There must have been some stupid mistake," he thought. "I have taken for granted what had probably no reality. Only Nettie's own lips shall convince me that she is other than the pure, true-hearted girl I have ever judged her to be."
To think was to act. There was no one else very near, so Arthur joined Nettie, and a new light came to her sweet face, and new roses sprang into being on her cheeks. He began to tell his tale, strolling the while into a by-path, and had got as far as the ring.
"I came on purpose to speak to you to-day, Nettie, bringing with me the blessing and approval of my dear aunt and uncle, who would welcome you with open arms as my wife," he said. "There was only one person for me amongst all the guests, and when I saw you, darling, sweet, and fair, and true, I longed to clasp you to my heart and tell you that I gave you my whole best love a year ago. And then I looked at something sparkling on your finger, and saw a ring, and feared that someone had been beforehand with me, so went away miserable, without a word. What did the ring mean, dear, for you wear it no longer?"
Nettie glanced at her hand as Arthur alluded to the ring, and gave a cry of horror.
"What shall I do?" she cried. "I did not know it was gone. I would not lose it for anything. Please do not stop me!"
Away fled Nettie towards the house, leaving Arthur with his love story unfinished, and to put what construction he chose upon her precipitate retreat. To pursue the girl would have been to cause remark, and Arthur went more slowly in the direction taken by Nettie, his mind full of half-formed plans for an immediate voyage to the Antipodes.
Mrs. Worsley was sitting on the terrace, and Annette must have passed her on her way to the house. Arthur stood by her for a little while, talking of the party, the lovely weather, and the manifest enjoyment of the guests, but his manner was constrained, and his answers often irrelevant. He was on the point of turning away, when Annette once more appeared, tripping lightly towards them, with a radiant face.
"Aunty, dear aunty, please take this back with my best thanks, and never, if you love me, ask me to wear borrowed feathers again. I have been in dreadful trouble. I missed it from my finger, or rather Mr. Boyd did, and I thought I had lost it in the park. Then I remembered I had been to my room to wash my hands after preparing some fruit for the children, and I left Mr. Boyd very unceremoniously, to see if I had laid it on the dressing-table. It was not there, and I was almost in despair, when where do you think I found it? Exactly fitted into the centre hole of the drainer which covers the sponge bowl. How glad I was! I am not fit to be trusted with valuables, you see, for, being unaccustomed to them, I forget that I have them. Thank you a thousand times for the loan of the ring, aunty, and most of all for freeing me from the awful responsibility of having valuables not my own to take care of. I will never wear borrowed feathers again as long as I live."
As Nettie spoke, she placed the ring which had caused Arthur's misery in Mrs. Worsley's hand, and then gave a sweet, shy, upward glance at the young man, which seemed to say that the story he had begun to tell would now find an attentive listener.
Mrs. Worsley, with a laughing face, told Arthur how she had insisted on Nettie's wearing one of her rings because the girl possessed scarcely any ornaments of her own. "It will be hers some day," she added, "but I must take care of it until she is fit to be trusted with the custody of valuables."
Arthur mentally dissented from Mrs. Worsley's statement that Nettie possessed few ornaments. He thought that truth, modesty, unselfishness, a pure, tender nature, and a warm, faithful heart were better adornments and possessions than all the jewels in the world. But he did not trouble to tell her so, for some friends were approaching, whom Mrs. Worsley joined. And Arthur told his thoughts to Nettie instead, and completed the story begun a little while before.
He must have had faith, too, in Nettie's powers to take care Of a ring, for when the young people met the party from Ferndene, there glittered on the girl's engaged finger a most beautiful specimen of the jeweller's art, the diamonds in which were worthy to follow the borrowed gem.
Thus Arthur Boyd won Nettie for a wife; and the dear old couple at Ferndene rejoiced that their adopted son would soon give them the daughter they coveted above all others. And there was rejoicing at Scarborough, and Mrs. Clifford wrote that her darling Nettie had more than fulfilled her most cherished hopes by making so wise a choice.
That Mrs. Worsley played the true mother's part to her goddaughter need hardly be told, or that it was on her breast that the girl shed the glad tears which came from a heart almost too full of happiness as she said, "How can I be thankful enough for God's great goodness to me? How be ashamed enough of my old want of faith, my repinings, and discontent?"
Mrs. Arthur Boyd has no lack of jewels now, and has long since been accustomed to the charge of articles of value of her very own. But if she had never possessed any, her friends think that those better ornaments which her husband valued most would have been conspicuous in her life and actions. Also that the one lesson would have sufficed to prevent her from ever making a second appearance in "borrowed feathers."
A STORY OF AN ANGLE WINDOW
CHAPTER I.
"STEPBROTHER DICK."
"You will have to be father, mother, and brother to the girls, Dick. It is a great charge, but you will not shirk it. I know what you are, dear boy, and now, more than ever, I thank God, who took my only son, that He left me you."
The speaker had not long to live, and she knew it. She had four girls to leave motherless, and she had been ten years a widow. He to whom she spoke was her stepson, Richard Maynard Whitmore, who was sitting by her bed and looking in her wan face with loving, troubled eyes. His answer was not long in coming. Holding the invalid's thin hand in a gentle, caressing clasp, the young man replied, "As you have been a true mother to me, so will I be to the girls all you say, as God shall enable me."
A beautiful glad light overspread Mrs. Whitmore's face as the words fell on her ear. Dick's honest eyes were turned towards her, and though he spoke quietly, his tone was solemn and earnest, as befitted the occasion and the responsibility he was taking upon himself.
"Kiss me, dear Dick."
Richard rose and bent his tall figure until his lips touched those of his stepmother. She made an effort to clasp her thin arms round his neck, and after kissing him again and again, she held him for a few moments in a close embrace. Thus was the compact sealed.
Mrs. Whitmore knew well what a noble nature was covered under Dick's quiet, undemonstrative manner. The few words he had just spoken were quite enough to remove every anxious thought from her mind—save one.
Even before they were spoken the mother had said to herself, "The girls will be safe so long as they are sheltered by Dick's roof. He will be a true guardian, and will watch over and guide them aright, if they will be guided. He is good and wise beyond his years, and so unselfish."
"The three will be manageable enough, for they love him. My only fear is for Gertrude, and I dread her influence over the rest."
It seemed strange and sad that at such a time Mrs. Whitmore's thoughts should be disturbed by anxiety about her eldest daughter, and that her whole trust should be placed on the only one of her husband's children who was not also her very own son.
It was evident that Richard Whitmore read a story of hidden trouble in his mother's face, for, after her arms released him, he noted that the glad look called forth by his assurance had faded, and given place to a different expression. There was something yet unsaid, and he asked her, gently, "What is it, dear mother?"
"You read me like a book almost, Dick. I have been hesitating whether to say any more or no, but it is due to your goodness that I should withhold no thought from you which has relation to your sisters. Indeed, I have no wish to do it. My anxiety is on Gertrude's account. She has never been like the rest, especially to you, and never treated you as she ought to have done since that miserable visit. When I am gone it may be that she will try to prejudice the younger ones, and that they will listen to her, and then—"
Tears began to flow down the wan cheeks, and the speaker was unable to continue.
"I know all, and I have no fear. We will not trouble ourselves about 'maybes,'" returned Richard, in a cheery, hopeful tone, though he was not wholly without forebodings on the same account.
"Do not think I have made my promise to you without asking for help to enable me to keep it. That is enough for to-day. As future days pass one by one into the present, I shall seek strength for each as it comes. Let this thought comfort you, dear mother, when you are inclined to remember how young I am to undertake such a responsibility. Say to yourself, 'Dick does not stand alone. His father's God is his God also, and trusting in Him for strength according to his day, he can never be desolate or in doubt as to the course he should take.'"
"May that God bless you abundantly, my dear boy!" replied Mrs. Whitmore, fervently. "As I lie here weak and helpless, I feel that if I had only you to thank Him for, my heart would be filled with gratitude. He took my only boy, but left me one of the best of sons in you. I cannot fret or trouble about the future. It seems to me that in the solemn last days of life a clearer understanding of our Father's dealings with us is vouchsafed, to make up for the fading away of earthly interests. I see how kindly I have been dealt with through ten years of widowhood, and how I have been spared till the youngest of the girls is past mere childhood, and you are grown old enough for them to look up to as brother, guardian, friend."
Richard answered by a few more loving words, and then, after tenderly kissing his stepmother, left her to rest.
Mrs. Whitmore might well think much of Dick, and he of her in return. She was the only mother he could remember, having become his father's second wife when the boy was barely three years old.
She had come to the home a fair young creature, who had, happily for herself and the child, been brought up in an atmosphere of love, and was ready to pour a whole wealth of affection upon little Dick.
From the very day that she entered Mr. Whitmore's house as his wife, she brightened the life of her tiny stepson in every possible way. She was so young herself—very little over twenty—and to Dick, who had been under the charge of a faithful but somewhat prim nurse, her lovely face was like that of an angel.
The loss of her first baby, the only boy born of this second marriage, drew the loving bonds between her husband's child and herself closer still. It was such a comfort to feel his little arms round her neck, to have him for her companion, and to hear his childish prattle as he coaxed her out into the garden and fields, and persuaded her to join again in his baby games, as she did before the little one came and went.
Dick was only six years old when Gertrude, the eldest of the girls, was born, so that there was no great difference between his age and theirs, and all seemed to belong to one family on both sides. A looker-on could not have distinguished which of the five was Mrs. Whitmore's own child, either when all were little ones, or when they were comparatively grown-up.
Before Mr. Whitmore brought his second wife home, he had wisely explained to her his position and that of Dick with regard to the property on which they lived.
"Most of it came with my wife," he said, "and will eventually go to the boy, though while I live two-thirds of the income from the estate will be mine. Until he is of age, the whole of it passes through my hands, though, of course, a liberal portion is to be expended on his maintenance and education. When Richard is twenty-one, he will have a third for his own absolute use and until my death, when all his mother's property will be his. As his future is thus amply provided for, all that I have shall be yours for life, if you survive me, and afterwards go to our children, if we have others beside Dick. It will not be much in comparison, but would keep you in a modest way."
Pretty Amy Christie had been accustomed to simple surroundings, and was willing to trust her future in the hands of Mr. Whitmore. She was transplanted to a luxurious home, but as she looked around her, from the first she accustomed herself to think, "We owe the greater part of the good things we enjoy to little Dick's mother, and they are really held in trust for the boy."
There was no envious feeling in Mrs. Whitmore's mind as she thought of this. On the contrary, she rejoiced that the boy whom she had been privileged to train was daily developing into a noble character: true, loving, brave, unselfish. A little too quiet if anything, save to those who had the key to his inmost heart; and perhaps even more than to the father whom he loved and reverenced, did Richard Whitmore reveal it to his stepmother.
He was only sixteen when his father died, and the four girls were mere children: Gertrude ten, Mina (short for Wilhelmina) eight, Josephine six, and Florence Mary, or Molly, as everybody called her, only four.
With Mr. Whitmore's death went a large portion of the income, to accumulate and make Dick richer still, when he should come of age. What the husband had the power to bequeath to his widow seemed a mere pittance in comparison with what had been spent on the household, though he had saved out of it and left a little nest-egg, in the shape of ready money thus accumulated, absolutely to his widow.
The father had faith in Dick, though he was but a lad of sixteen, and to him, he commended his still young stepmother and the girls.
The trustees consented that Dick's home should still be shared by them, and made a liberal allowance. The ready money alluded to helped to tide over the time until he came of age, so that the interval was passed without much change in the surroundings of Mrs. Whitmore and her children. Only there was one unfortunate incident, which helped to spoil the perfect unity which had hitherto subsisted in the little family.
When Gertrude was about seventeen, she paid a visit to the home of a schoolfellow who lived at no very great distance. Whilst there, and as the girls strolled in the sweet spring sunshine, exchanging confidences, Gertrude's friend began to talk to her of the home she had lately left.
"I think Mere Side is just the most charmingly-situated house, and altogether the loveliest spot I ever saw. I always envied you your home until I knew."
"Knew what?" asked Gertrude, turning sharply round with an expression of utter astonishment on her handsome face. It was reflected on that of her friend, Pauline Tindall, who had spoken without having an idea that she was trenching on forbidden ground.
"You must know what I mean, dear," she replied, "and surely you are not angry at me for alluding to it. I would not pain or annoy you for the world," and she clung coaxingly to Gertrude, who was a full head above her in height.
"I do not understand you. I was surprised, not angry, when you said those words, 'until I knew,' and I want to know the meaning of them also. Tell me, Pauline, if you are really my friend!"
"If! Oh, Gertrude, can you doubt me? I am and shall always be your true friend, I hope. It is impossible that you should not know already far more than I can tell. I was only thinking that if Mr. Richard—I should say Mr. Whitmore now, as he is the only gentleman in the family—were to marry, how sad it would be for you all. If I lived at Mere Side on the same terms, I should be haunted with a perpetual dread of receiving notice to gait, and should feel as if a sword were hanging over my head whenever my brother spoke to a girl."
Still there was a look of perplexity and bewilderment on Gertrude Whitmore's face, and at last it dawned on her friend's mind that facts which were known to all the country round must be unknown to her.
It was perfectly true. No outsider had ever spoken to these Whitmore girls about the difference between Dick's worldly circumstances and their own. Everybody knew that the main portion of the money and the whole of the estate had come by Dick's mother, and that Mr. Whitmore had only a life interest in these. Of course, all had belonged to the young man himself since he came of age, and that was two years ago, when Gertrude was fifteen.
And everybody took it for granted that what was so generally known outside was equally so to the young people who lived so comfortably with stepbrother Dick. It was of no use alluding to such matters. The girls were happy and well cared for, and Richard Whitmore was the best of sons to his charming stepmother, and of brothers to the quartet of bonnie lasses at Mere Side. No doubt they would marry in good time, or if he married, he would do something towards increasing the slender income of one to whom he gave a son's affection.
If outsiders failed to speak of the position, Richard Whitmore was still less likely to name it. It was this lad of sixteen, who, when his father died, had gone quietly to the trustees, that father's old friends, and pleaded with them for the largest allowance that they dared take the responsibility of granting during his minority. Not for himself, but that Mrs. Whitmore might not want any luxury to which she had been accustomed, or the girls feel that a needless shadow had fallen on their young lives.
It was Richard who had said to the mother, "Do not be afraid of spending from your own store. It will be replenished in due time," meaning when he should have legal power to do what he chose with his own. And, lastly, it was he who had persuaded Mrs. Whitmore to keep the girls in ignorance of what they owed to him.
"We are children of the same parents, for you are the only mother I can remember," he said to her. "Do not let them think that Fortune has made any difference in the shares she has severally allotted to us. Why should they know? I am not likely to marry for years and years to come, if ever, and what would my home be, without the girls and you?"
So it was Dick's doing that Gertrude first listened in such amazement to Pauline Tindall's sympathetic remarks, and then insisted on an explanation.
"Then, from what you tell me, I am to understand that my sisters and I are to a great extent dependent on Richard. That, but for him, we must live in some little poky place with one, or at most two servants, if indeed we could afford so much. That I, but for my—" she had always said brother before—"stepbrother's generosity—is that the right word, Pauline?—would have to go out as a governess, or companion, or something of the kind."
"I did not say so, dear Gertrude. I never dreamed of such a thing. I only alluded to what I thought you knew as well as myself. Mr. Richard is good and generous, splendidly generous. Everybody says so, and I should think that the very fact of your having no knowledge of what he has done, will show you what a delicate mind he must have."
There was a hard, set look on Gertrude's face as she answered, "True, Pauline, you said nothing of the going out as a governess, or the consequences which might follow if Richard Whitmore were to marry. But you showed me plainly enough that, were he to bring home a wife, there would no longer be room for the rest of us under his roof. The remainder of the blanks were easy to fill in, and my imagination did that quickly enough."
Again Pauline spoke soothingly and tenderly to her friend. She felt that she had unwittingly done mischief, and was distressed beyond measure at the impression produced on Gertrude. She pleaded again that she could not have imagined that she was touching on a forbidden subject, when it was one so well-known. That it was her own enthusiastic admiration for Mere Side, which had made her express what would be her feelings were she in Gertrude's place, at the very possibility of having to leave it.
Then she added, "Knowing how often you have spoken of your brother in such affectionate terms, and that he is honoured and respected by everyone, I thought you would love to know how his beautiful unselfishness is spoken of."
"I suppose I should appreciate it too in somebody else," replied Gertrude, trying to repress her angry feelings, or to prevent their being noticed. "But it has been a rude awakening for me. I have lived in a dream of comforts, luxuries, beautiful surroundings, to a share of which I thought I had as good a personal right as anyone who enjoyed them with me. I have been shaken out of my pleasant sleep to find that I can claim only a share in a mere pittance, and that I am a species of genteel pauper—a dependant on the charity of my stepbrother."
Poor Pauline! She attempted no further explanations. She was a little, tender, clinging creature, but withal an enthusiastic admirer of all that was generous or noble. Richard Whitmore's had seemed to her one of the most beautiful and unselfish of characters—a hero to be worshipped, though he was not externally suggestive of one.
Now she had done harm, both to Gertrude and to him. She was overwhelmed with distress, and, unable to think of anything else to say or do, she sat down and cried bitterly.
This was more than Gertrude bargained for when she used such harsh words, and now she found herself compelled to try and comfort Pauline.
"Dry your tears, you dear little thing," she said. "Pray do not take my hasty words for more than they are worth. Of course I was annoyed at first. Who would not be when they felt what they had looked on as firm ground crumbling away beneath their feet? It was a shock to me to hear such news for the first time, but no doubt Dick is the finest, dearest old darling in the world, and the best of brothers. Have I not cause to say so?"
"Oh, I am so glad you are not angry, and that you are taking things rightly, Gertrude. You make me quite frightened. But I understand. It was likely you should feel surprised, even angry, at the first look, as it were. Promise now that you will not repeat what I have said, but let all pass as if you had never heard it."
The childlike pleading tone and tearful eyes drew a smile from the stronger-minded girl. She put her arm caressingly round Pauline, and said, "I will promise not to say a word more about this matter until to-morrow morning, and then only to you. And you must promise that you will not repeat either my hasty expressions or anything that we have been talking about, until the same time."
Pauline promised gladly enough, and then retreated to her own room to try and remove the traces of tears, which were only too visible.
Gertrude walked slowly backwards and forwards in the grounds for some time before she returned to the house. Then the sound of the dressing bell reached her, and she went in to prepare for dinner. It was not often that she was betrayed into such an exhibition of feeling, and she was now angry at herself for not having shown more self-control. She wanted time to think over what she had heard, and it was for that purpose she had given to, and obtained from, Pauline the promise that, until the next day, no allusion should be made to the subject which had so agitated her.
For a girl of seventeen, Gertrude had no small amount of worldly wisdom. People said that Miss Whitmore had great individuality of character, she thought and decided so largely for herself, and often got her own way by dint of steady determination. And it was a remarkable fact that whilst each of the younger sisters had her pet name, and were Mina, Jo, and Molly, no one would ever have presumed to call the eldest Gerty.
CHAPTER II.
"SILENCE IS GOLDEN."
GERTRUDE went early to bed that evening. She wanted to think over her conversation with Pauline, and felt that for such a purpose there could be nothing like the quiet of her own room. She was, beside, of an eminently practical turn of mind, and had no desire to look weary and hollow-eyed on the morrow, when there was to be a picnic specially got up in her honour, as the guest of the Tindalls.
"I am just a little tired," she said to Mrs. Tindall, "and as I want to look my best and be ready for any amount of rambling, I will say good-night now."
"This is very early, my dear, but I am sure you are wise, and Pauline will do well to follow your example. If only young people would believe it, there is no better preserver of good looks than early hours," replied Mrs. Tindall.
Gertrude assented, and managed to get her thinking done soon enough to allow of some "beauty sleep." She came down in the morning in a charming but simple dress, looking as gay and bright as though nothing had occurred to disturb her on the preceding day.
She was especially affectionate to Pauline, and answered her friend's inquiring look with a frank smile. A little later, amid the bustle of preparation for starting, she whispered in her friend's ear, "Pauline, I was very cross and stupid yesterday. I took an altogether wrong view of things. Forgive my ill-tempers, darling, and, if you can, forget them, as I want to forget what caused them."
Pauline's face brightened. "I am so glad," she replied. "I felt quite distressed last night, because I had been the cause of the trouble. I never meant it. I could not have guessed that you—"
"Hush, darling!" and Gertrude placed her hand playfully on Pauline's lips. "Do not let us go over the ground again. The only thing I ask is that you will not say another word about it. You could only suppose I knew all as well as yourself. I understand the kindness which kept my position and that of the girls at home a secret from ourselves. I was a very naughty child, and you the sweet, sympathetic little friend you always are."
"And shall you not say a word at home—I mean to your mother, or Mr. Richard?"
"Not a word. I decided last night, before I went to sleep even, that since my mother and stepbrother had not chosen to speak about money matters, neither would I. Do you not think I may be well content to go on as I have hitherto done, enjoying the good things of this world without troubling to ask myself who paid for them?"
"I think so, Gertrude, dear—that is, in one sense. When the good things are given by such a kind hand as that of your brother, there can be no painful feeling of obligation in taking. I do believe he is just one of those whose 'heart grows rich in giving,' and that he delights in making everybody happy—most of all his mother and sisters."
"My mother, not his, really," replied Gertrude.
"That makes it all the nicer, does it not? Who could tell that they were not really mother and son? Why think about the fact at all, when he so willingly forgets it, and Mrs. Whitmore loves him as her own? Do you know, Gertrude, you called him your 'stepbrother' to-day. I never heard you use the term before, and to me it sounded horribly harsh, seeing you are all children of one father."
"Did I?" replied Gertrude. "Ah, well, only one heard it; and, if you please, we will now have done with this matter, once and for all. Mrs. Tindall is wanting our help. It is shocking to desert her, even for a few moments."
Gertrude hastened to offer her assistance in packing some sweets which required careful handling, and soon she and the rest of the party were on their way to the place selected for the picnic.
Never had Pauline seen her friend more apparently gay and light-hearted, and the girl rejoiced that the impression produced by her unfortunate allusions had already passed away. She was, however, mistaken.
Gertrude did not, and could not, forget. Through that day and after came again and again the haunting thought, "I am only a pensioner on Richard's bounty. Only one of the second wife's children—the portionless wife of a man who had little to leave for her and his daughters. It is plain what people think. How grateful we ought to be that we are allowed to live as if we were rich, when we have next to nothing! I wish, how I wish, that I, at any rate, had been justly dealt with, and brought up with a full knowledge that I am a poor girl, who may at any time, be sent out into the world to battle for my daily bread."
In spite of these bitter thoughts, Gertrude was quite in earnest when she told Pauline that she should say nothing of what she had learned through her words. The girl liked her life of luxury, her beautiful surroundings, her freedom from present care. She was not prepared to give up these, even while she inwardly rebelled against receiving as her brother's gift what she had always deemed her own by right of being her father's daughter, as Richard was his son. So she shut up all these thoughts in her own mind, and returned home to live the old life and enjoy as best she might the sweets of it, though sometimes the one bitter drop would partly spoil the flavour of the rest.
Much, however, as Gertrude might strive to conceal what she felt, everyone noticed a change in her manner towards her brother, though none could account for it. "Brother Dick" was the term hitherto used by all the girls in speaking of him, but the bare "Richard" became Gertrude's substitute for the more endearing expression, ever after her return home.
Once, to Mrs. Whitmore's intense surprise, she called him her stepbrother to some visitors at Mere Side.
"Gertrude, why did you speak of Dick by that name?" asked her mother, with a pained look on her face.
"It is right, is it not? Surely there was no harm in using the correct term for once!" she replied in half-jesting, half-defiant tone. "Richard is my stepbrother."
"Undoubtedly he is. But, dear child, consider what he has been to me, to us all. I could not bear to call him my stepson. I rejoice, I am proud, thankful that I have had one like him to stand by me and give to me a mother's name and a son's love. I would not have him hear you speak of him as you did to-day for the world."
"I did not mean to trouble you, mother; you may be sure of that. I will always call him Richard; and I am sure I wish he were my real brother, instead of being only half and half."
The words jarred on Mrs. Whitmore's ear, though she echoed Gertrude's wish without realising its double meaning. But the sarcastic laugh which the girl gave, and a certain hardness of manner when Richard was spoken of, alike grieved and puzzled her mother. She hardly knew how to speak on the subject, but kept hoping that if during Gertrude's absence from home she had received some undesirable impression, it would be best removed by time and the absence of any allusion to it.
But three years passed, and still an unseen barrier stood between Richard and his eldest sister; yet though everyone felt its existence, and dated it from Gertrude's visit to the Tindalls, she had adhered to her resolve, and never named the cause of her changed manner. Indeed, she would have felt ashamed to lay bare her thoughts, even to her mother. She could not help being conscious of her unreasonableness in feeling indignant at Richard, simply because he had alike the power and the will to shower good things upon them all, and did it with a large-hearted affection which never allowed the thought to intrude itself, that they had no legal claim to share equally with him.
Selfishness would not permit Gertrude to relinquish what she so thoroughly enjoyed, but her appreciation did not stir her to thankfulness to God or gratitude to her brother. Often, instead of these, she would shed bitter tears at the thought of her dependence on Richard's pleasure, and call herself a mere pauper in the sight of the world.
If ever there was a time when the nobility of Richard Whitmore's character shone out with greater lustre than at others, it was in his dealings with his sister Gertrude. He could not be unconscious that she regarded him with less affection than of old; and if he guessed the cause of the change, he said nothing. He simply met it with unvarying kindness, snaking no difference between one and another of the girls, except that she, as the eldest, had in some respects more and handsomer dresses than the younger ones, as became a lady after her introduction to society.
So three years passed, and brought about little change in the relations between the two, but at the end of the time came the day when Richard stood beside Mrs. Whitmore, and soothed her last hours by the promise, "As you have been a true mother to me, so will I be to the girls all that you say—God helping me." Then he had driven away her anxieties about the future by brave and trustful words, and Mrs. Whitmore put from her mind the last anxious thought by repeating to herself what he had bidden her remember, "Dick does not stand alone. His father's God is his God also, and trusting in Him for strength, according to his day, he can never be desolate, or in doubt as to the course which is right."
Yet it was a solemn responsibility for so young a man to take upon himself. Dick was just twenty-six and Gertrude twenty, the others following at intervals of two years each, so that Molly, his special darling, was fourteen when left without father and mother.
She was a warm-hearted, impulsive creature, to whom Dick had been from her earliest days playfellow, friend, confidant, and protector, as well as brother. To Molly there was no one in the world like Richard. As a child she would have left any person or thing only to be by his side, to wait his leisure, or to trot patiently up and down after or for him.
It was to him she fled for comfort in trouble at all times, and especially when this crowning sorrow of her young life came upon her. The three elder girls wept together. Molly stole into the library, where Dick sat alone after he had given the needful orders and spoken a few loving words to the rest. She did not trouble him with passionate tears or outbreaks of wailing and sobbing, but in truly unselfish fashion tried to repress these for his sake.
Dick drew the child on his knee, and, clasping her in his arms, the two sat in silence in a great low chair in the library. Many a time had she coiled herself up in it, and fallen asleep by his side, when he was busy or deep in study, and could not give her immediate attention; for, while nominally of no profession, and leading the life of a country gentleman, his time was fully and usefully employed.
In the depths of Molly's favourite chair and encircled by Dick's loving arms, the child found the best of earthly comfort. As her head rested on his breast, he could note the effort she made to suppress her sobs, while little guessing that Dick was also exercising equal self-control for her sake. He could feel the heaving of her breast as they thus sat in silence, and from time to time, as she clung more closely to him, he would smooth back the shining curls and kiss her tenderly.
At last Molly could no longer restrain her tears.
"We did so love her, Dick, didn't we?" she said, as if in excuse for breaking down.
"We did, darling Molly, and we do, for the end of life here is not the end of all things for us. We shall meet our dear mother again. But it is natural to weep, because we are left outside, whilst mother has passed through the golden gates before us."
And then he spoke to his favourite of the Father's home above, and happy meetings there, and the absence of sorrow and tears for all those who had been taught by the Holy Spirit to trust in Jesus as a precious Saviour. He pictured their joy in meeting Him who had loved them and given Himself for them, until at last Molly was carried away from the sad realities of present bereavement to picture in her mind also what Dick was telling her about. At last, wearied with all she had gone through, the child fell asleep, and sooner than disturb her, Richard sat on until the room was dark, and his limbs cramped with keeping them in the same position for so long a time.
The others found them at last, and even Gertrude's heart was touched as she looked at the pair of true friends—one watching, the other sleeping profoundly.
"Oh, Richard, we have wondered where you could be!" she said. "There was no light, or we should have looked for you here, but we knew wherever you were we should find Molly. How tired you must be holding that great girl in your arms asleep."
"I could not bear to wake her," said Dick, simply. "Whilst the dear child sleeps, she forgets."
CHAPTER III.
RICHARD'S WARDS.
RICHARD WHITMORE was left sole executor and guardian to his sisters. This was to be expected, as Mrs. Whitmore had the power to appoint, in accordance with the will of her late husband. And who could be so fit for such a trust as Dick? Indeed, the mother was beyond measure thankful that he was of an age to undertake it.
As to the little property which their father had it in his power to bequeath, that was to be equally divided amongst the girls after the mother's death, each taking her share as she came of age.
The division would present no difficulty, as the property was purely personal, and had been carefully invested during Mr. Whitmore's lifetime. In the meanwhile, outsiders who knew the circumstances of the younger members of the family, wondered what arrangements Richard would make for the girls. Would all go on as before, or would a difference be made now the mother was gone? So long as Richard remained a bachelor it might answer very well to keep the girls about him, to brighten the home as of old. But were he to marry, how would a young wife like to come amongst such a tribe of sisters? And seven years must pass before Molly, the youngest of them, would be of age.
They were fine, handsome, and intellectual girls, and some of them might soon marry, for Gertrude was now twenty and Mina eighteen. But they had not much to bring in the way of dowry, and girls brought up as they had been—"shamefully indulged," said one lady of vinegarish aspect—were no wives for poor men.
"Perhaps Mr. Richard will do something more for his sisters," suggested a listener, little Miss Pease.
"Better teach them to do with less, and especially Miss Gertrude; not to act as if they were heiresses, and could carry all before them. Remember, they have no claim on Richard Maynard Whitmore. All he has, came from the Maynards, and through his mother. To be sure, they are children of the same father, but from Mr. Whitmore Dick does not get a penny-piece. They have his share of the father's little property to swell their portions, seeing it is divided into four parts instead of five. Richard's property has been taxed enough already, for they have all lived upon it from the time of his mother's marriage until now. It was not what Mr. Whitmore had that kept the family in princely style at Mere Side. They have had no trifle out of Richard Whitmore," retorted Miss Sharp, the keen-visaged lady alluded to.
"I do not believe he ever made such a calculation in his life," replied the other. "He only considers how much happiness he can give to others, and especially his sisters."
"They are only half-sisters," persisted Miss Sharp.
"It would be a pity to remind him of the fact. He would feel so much the poorer," answered Miss Pease, with a smile. She understood Richard Whitmore.
"What an extraordinary remark! I should think that he would be much poorer in reality, for having that tribe of girls hanging on him. Besides, he knows they have no claim on him, and that they are half-sisters, whatever you or anybody else may say."
"Happily for them and himself, he does not give them a half share of brotherly love. I believe he would be deeply wounded if they, or anyone else, alluded to him as their stepbrother. You see they have been so entirely brought up together, and Richard's own mother died so soon, that she seemed to have slipped out of the family, so to speak, before there was any question of calculating kinship."
"What an absurd speech, my dear Miss Pease, if you will forgive my saying so! Of course the first Mrs. Whitmore was gone, or there could not have been a second. And a very good thing for Amy Christie that her husband did not marry her first, and that Miss Maynard that was, Dick's mother, could not take her money with her. But do you think things will go on just in the old way at Mere Side? I do not envy Dick the guardianship of Miss Gertrude. That girl will plague him yet."
"I cannot tell," replied Miss Pease. "Though we are great friends, Richard has not mentioned his plans to me, probably because he has made none. Knowing him as I do, I should think he will try to make the home all that it has hitherto been to the girls, only without the mother, and that his great sorrow will be that he has her the less to love and care for."
Miss Pease was right in her judgment of Richard. As to three out of the four girls their minds were disturbed by no anxieties. So far, their lives had been as happy as love could make them. They could have no fears for the future, when they thought of what Richard had been in the past.
"We cannot bring our dear mother back by our tears and sorrow," said Dick, his voice trembling and his kind eyes moist with tears, for he was so manly that he was not ashamed to weep with the rest. "All we can do is to remember the beautiful example she set us, her loving ways and wise words, and to love each other all the more for her dear sake."
They kissed him and each other, Gertrude amongst the rest, and were thankful, oh, so thankful that they had Dick—no one but Dick—to look up to in the place of the parents who were gone.
If Miss Sharp could have read his thoughts, she would have found that, instead of calculating how long it would be before Molly's majority would enable him to wash his hands of all legal responsibility about "that tribe of girls," he was rejoicing that for seven years to come he could claim the precious privilege of watching over the youngest darling. As to the others, this was what Dick said in his heart—
"In the nature of things, I must part with them by degrees. They are sure to be sought after for their own sakes, and I can easily save, to increase their little portions. We shall live very quietly for the next twelve months, at any rate. What a blessing it is that families are scattered by degrees I can hardly lose more than one at a time; and as for Molly, seven years is a good while to look forward to."
After the first days of sorrow were over, Gertrude's mind was much exercised as to what would be her own position in the family. Would Richard allow her to sit in her mother's seat and act as mistress? If he did this then she would acknowledge him as a brother indeed, though conscience told her that she did not deserve such confidence.
Richard, however, had no intention of placing his sister in such a position. He felt that she was too young to be looked up to by the girls nearest in age to herself, or to guide the reins of a large establishment like that at Mere Side, and he frankly told her so.
"If it were a matter of looking graceful and pouring out tea, or doing a host of feminine matters, I know of no one who would do better than yourself. But the housekeeping would be too heavy a weight for such young shoulders. Wait a moment, dear—" for Gertrude was about to protest that she was able for all, if he would trust her. "I am not old enough or wise enough to be father and mother. I can only be the big brother to you girls. We must have a good woman in the house for all our sakes."
Then Richard told her that he had thought of Miss Pease, their mother's friend, and of similar age, but he had not spoken to her as yet.
"I want you girls to think if there is any one whom we could all like better. You are the eldest, Gertrude, and so I have named this to you first, that you may talk it over with the rest. You know there must be some motherly lady to act as your chaperone and my friend, but I will not ask Miss Pease unless there is a unanimous vote in her favour."
There was such a vote. Miss Pease was invited to come to Mere Side, and, as Richard put it to herself, "to be as much of a mother to all of us as you possibly can."
The little lady almost said "No" to begin with, but she was persuaded to take time, and finally said "Yes."
Miss Sharp found plenty to occupy her in criticising this arrangement, since she could not alter it, and declared that she could now understand Miss Pease's persistent praise of Richard Whitmore. Mrs. Whitmore had long been delicate, and no doubt she had reckoned on being asked to fill her shoes after a fashion.
"She has fawned on Mrs. Whitmore and praised up Richard in the most bare-faced manner," said Miss Sharp. "What a pity it is that the owner of Mere Side is such a young man, and that Miss Pease is old enough to be his mother, or else she might perhaps have hung up her bonnet there once and for altogether."
There are always Miss Sharps in the world, ready to misjudge their neighbours, and to attribute motives for the conduct of those who are better than themselves, which would never have entered into the minds of those they criticise. The speaker was as unable to understand Miss Pease as she was to appreciate Richard Whitmore. Little did she guess that, so far from being eager to take such a responsibility on herself, it was with fear and trembling, and after much thought and many prayers, that she consented to live at Mere Side as a friend and companion to the family.
Gertrude consented to the arrangement, not because she wished it, but because she was convinced from Richard's manner that it would either be Miss Pease or somebody else, and she know of no one whom she would prefer to her mother's friend.
"I am sure I could have managed the housekeeping," she said, "with Wharton's help. She has spent most of her life in the family, and really does all the practical part, Richard."
"But, my dear, you forget, just as I am apt to do, that after all I am a young man and a bachelor. How could you have your young girl friends here if there were no older lady to beam propriety over the domestic circle?"
"I thought of that at once, Dick," said Mina. "Of course, there must be some one who will be a little like the dear mother, and to whom we can go as we used to do to her. Jo and I thank you very much for Miss Pease, and if mother could have chosen for us, she would have said the same."
"Perhaps she did choose," replied Dick. "Only I wanted to know how you felt as well. You may like her all the better for being told that our mother, foreseeing that she would have to leave us, herself suggested the friend she loved as most suitable to fill the place in one sense. I had to tell Miss Pease this before she agreed to come. What do you think about it, Molly?"—to the girl who was clinging to his arm.
"That what mother and you settled must be the very best thing," she replied, squeezing the arm a little more closely.
There was only one discordant echo, and that was not in word, but in thought. Gertrude said to herself—
"I shall not put Miss Pease in my mother's place, or consult her and make her a confidante. She will be housekeeper and chaperone, if needs must, but that will be all. As to other girls coming here, I want none of them."
It was after some deliberation in her own room that Gertrude spied her brother in the garden, and asked for a few moments' quiet talk with him, and she found it rather difficult to begin when they both met in his little room; but Richard's kindly, "What is it, dear?" and the way in which he sat down beside her, so as to take away all appearance of formality from their talk, emboldened her to speak.
"I thought," she said, "that we should be told something about our circumstances. I know my mother had no need to make a will, but we girls are quite ignorant about our father's affairs, and as to what means we shall have of our very own. I wish you would tell us."