Chapter IV: Family Cares

ABOUT a year passed without any change, unless the change which made the girl Honora into a woman—graver, perhaps, than before, but not with Marian. For her sake, all was gay and cheery when she came home. And her work was as well done as ever. She became a most valuable teacher as she grew well acquainted with the real requirements of the girls she taught. Having plenty to do, and a real home, she was not unhappy, and loved the place in spite of the winter storms which made her daily journey rather hard to accomplish.

Marian, poor girl, had never been so happy in her life since her mother's death. She and Stasy kept house after a fashion; and as they were neither of them clever at it, that is all I can say for them. Honora bought a cookery book, and often prepared little dishes for Marian; for herself she did not take that trouble, and perhaps Stasy's cooking accounted for the fact that Honora was very thin.

Being thus fully occupied, Honora left all the correspondence with the rest of the family to Marian, who indeed had always been the connecting link between them all. Since they had come to S. Canice, Frances had never answered her letters. But as she was a very irregular correspondent, Marian was not alarmed. But she was alarmed about Annie, who was by no means given to grumbling, and who wrote now that she was far from well, and that the "Misses Simpson" were very hard upon her, and "really, I may say, unkind." And just as spring was making S. Canice lovely, there came a letter from Annie which distressed Marian greatly.

When Honora came home, bringing a bunch of primroses from a sheltered spot near the College, Marian said—

"I'm very uneasy about Annie, Honourbright."

"Have you had a letter from her?"

"Yes. And only think, Miss Simpson told her that morning that if she had such constant headaches, they must look out for another housekeeper!"

"Horrid people!" cried Honora. "They half work her to death, and then threaten to dismiss her for being ill. Marian, write to her to leave them at once and come here for a good rest. A summer here would make her quite strong again, and we can well afford to have her as a visitor for a few months. She will not make much difference in our weekly bills."

"I was wondering if you would object to my doing this," said Marian.

"My dear Miss Vandeleur, the castle is yours. How could I presume?"

"My dear Miss Honora, you earn what makes it possible to have her here, for the poor thing has not saved a penny, or she would have left them sooner."

"But how is that? She has thirty pounds a year and her salary. One would say she could not well spend it."

"If she had a hundred a year, it would all go. I am going to tell you, Honora, though Annie will be angry, but I feel you ought to know before we ask her here. It is Ernest Wilkinson; you know they grew up together. I fear he is an idle fellow, but Annie says that he is only heedless and unfortunate. But he loses one situation after another, and his father won't help him any more. He is married again, and—"

"And cares no more for his first wife's children," put in Honora. "There ought to be a law against marrying again. People who do ought to be hanged, I think. But maybe that is too severe. Flogged twice a year. Marian, is she engaged to this heedless and unfortunate youth?"

"I think so. But Annie has never told me so."

"And her money goes to him? But he must be a 'fainéant—a poor, poor creature!"

"I believe there is no harm in him," said Marian.

"He would be worth more if there were. I suppose the truth is, there is nothing in him. But we need have nothing to say to him. I think we ought to ask Annie to come."

"Suppose he comes after her?"

"Oh, dear, that would never do! But surely, Marian, you could say that he must 'not.' Say that we are unprotected females, and that while she is here, he must be perseveringly elsewhere."

"Oh, Honourbright, I could never say that!"

"Not in that way; you must wrap it up nicely—thus: there is no inn here where people could stay, and so she must tell her friends not to come to see her, as though your house is large, it is almost unfurnished. And indeed, as it is, we must get another bed. You say that, and she will understand."

"I might try to say that," said Marian, doubtfully.

"You must not only try, Miss Vandeleur, but you must say it, and you must let me see that you have said it; for I suspect that soft heart of yours might soften these very mild and necessary remarks quite too much. And imagine a long-legged, idle young man marching in and eating up our week's provisions in a day! So write to Annie, and I will post it at once. Poor, dear Annie, we must be very good to her!"

The letter found Annie in just the mood to accept the invitation, for she was feeling "run down" and over-tired, and was naturally hurt that those for whom she had worked so long and so faithfully had no sympathy with her when she felt so ill. Moreover, she had money enough for the journey. Ernest had kept a place for the unexampled term of four months, and she would see him as she passed through London. So she forthwith informed Miss Simpson that she wished to leave her, to the dismay and wrath of all the Simpsons, who had been under the impression that she had no choice but to remain where she was.

Mr. Wilkinson, however, came to Annie's help, and obliged them to give her a very good character, which they knew she deserved, but had declined to write.

Mr. Wilkinson put her into the train for London, and his parting words were—

"Take a good long rest, my dear child, and let me hear how you get on. And now, Annie, make Ernest distinctly understand that he is not to go to Cornwall. I wish I could persuade you to break with him altogether for a time; he would do better if he knew he had no one to fall back upon."

"He is doing very well now, father—" Annie had always called Mr. Wilkinson father—"and he will not go where he would not be welcome."

"What! Do you mean to tell me that Marian said she would not have him? She has more sense and courage than I gave her credit for."

"To tell you the truth," said Annie, laughing, "I suspect that sentence came from Honora. But I know she is right. I shall tell Ernest."

Ernest met her at the station in London in a state of virtuous self-content about his steady conduct, and he was indignant at the hint about going to Cornwall.

"As if I could get leave to go travelling about," said he. "I think you might have spared me this, Annie. But maybe you, like my father, wish to hear no more of me."

"Your father does not wish that, Ernie, but he wishes you to learn to stand alone like the other boys. As to me—well, I am not going to defend myself."

"If I keep on at this place for a year, Annie, I do think you might—think things over. It's being so lonely that does it. If I had you, dear, I should be as steady as Bob himself, or any of them. If you really care to keep me steady, just marry me out of hand."

But though Annie was really rather silly where this long-legged Ernest was concerned, she had some sense, and only shook her head in reply.

She reached Heyward Station by the five-o'clock train, and there on the little rickety platform, stood a younger, fairer, brighter presentation of herself, for she and Honora were very like each other and Marian.

"Are you Annie?" asked this young lady at the window. "Here, Steve, open this door for me, please. Dear Annie, I am so glad to see you. I am Honora, you know. You look very tired, but we shall be at home soon, and Marian and Stasy will have some dinner ready. Marian is longing for you."

"It is very kind of her and of you to ask me here. I really want a rest, and I will not stay too long. It makes such a difference to me being made to feel that I have a home."

"And such a pleasant home! I feel that too, Annie. And it is good for even three of us poor waifs and strays to know each other. Here we are at S. Canice. Where is your trunk?"

The trunk being produced, the stationmaster, who was also the ticket-collector, the traffic manager, and the porter—being, in fact, in charge of this primitive terminus (Honora called him the "conglomerate")—promised to "fetch it to the castle when he was through with the fish." And the girls went off together.

"Surely, Honora, the village was not so large when we lived there?

"I do not know, for I do not remember it at all."

"But Marian must remember."

"Marian—she has never seen it. You know it was dark when we arrived, and she was too ill to notice anything. She does not leave the castle, but I hope some day she may, for she is certainly stronger."

"Oh, Honora, what a sad life!"

"Wait a few days before you say that. Marian is the happiest person I ever knew. I sometimes think what a very dreadful woman that Miss Drury must have been to make my dear Marian so miserable."

"But it seems impossible, Honora."

"You will see for yourself; and she will tell you why it is so better than I could. But, Annie, be very careful never to startle her, nor to let her move—walk, I mean—without help. The least exertion hurts her back, and the terrible spasms of pain increase the weakness of her heart. Now, here we are at the gate, and there is Marian waiting for us."

Annie proved a very pleasant addition to the little family. She and Marian were soon happy together, and she took the housekeeping off Marian's hands as soon as she discovered that it would be a welcome change. And she was a splendid housekeeper and a very clever cook; she spent less money than Marian and Stasy had found necessary, and she gave them all simple, well-cooked food. Stasy set herself to learn her methods, but I cannot say that the dear old soul ever became a good cook.

As Annie grew stronger, she and Honora had many pleasant walks together, and at a very early hour in the morning, they used to go to what they called their bathing-creek, to reach which they had to scramble over rocks and stones, just where the road that ran past the castle left the shore-line and went up to the moor. Beyond this place, there was a nice sheltered nook and safe bathing, which they could not have close to their home.

Summer came, and the College, which promised to be a great success, was very full, and Honora very busy. Sometimes she could not get home until quite late, and as there was no train that suited her, she got leave from the stationmaster at Heyward's to walk back by the railroad. There was a narrow path at one side, and the distance was much less than by the moor. Annie used to meet her about halfway sometimes, when her household cares permitted. But one evening when the sisters met, Annie had a letter in her hand.

"There will be no train till nine o'clock," she said. "Let us climb up the bank and sit down; I want to tell you something."

Honora scrambled up, and found a stone to sit upon, for she declared she was so tired that if she sat on the ground, Annie would never get her up again.

"What is it, Annie?"

"A letter from Mr. Wilkinson about Daisy and Violet. I have not told Marian yet, for I'm afraid she will be worried."

"Are they ill? I did not quite hear what you said."

"They're not ill. That noise is only some one on a bicycle coming along the path. It is Dr. Egerton, I think. Why, Honora, I did not know that you were nervous."

"I am not—not in the least, but I am very tired."

Here Dr. Egerton came just opposite them, and suddenly sprang off his bicycle and climbed up the steep bank.

"I hope nothing has happened," he said. "Are you hurt, Miss Honora?"

"Not at all, thank you. My sister and I came here to rest a little."

"But," he said anxiously, "you are surely very pale."

"I have been since nine this morning getting up my classes for the examination, and am very tired," Honora replied.

And Annie added, "Don't say anything to Marian about thinking Honora pale. She is very easily made anxious, and I must tell her something about our younger sisters that will vex her."

He looked inquiringly, but Honora said quietly, seeing Annie about to reply to his glance—

"It would not interest Dr. Egerton in the least, Annie. And we must be getting home, for I think there's going to be a heavy dew."

With this she rose, sprang lightly down the few feet up which they had climbed, and waited on the path for the other two.

"Good evening," said she, and walked off towards S. Canice.

Dr. Egerton mounted his iron horse, and fled along the straight path towards Heyward's.

"Why, Honora, you were very stiff with the poor young man; and he is so very kind and friendly with Marian and me when he comes to see her."

"Yes, but you see, I am not there at those times. Now, about the children?"

"The difficulty is that they are no longer children. Mr. Wilkinson says that he has not been to York since the time that Violet left the orphanage; she is nearly three years older than Daisy, and now Daisy must leave, being sixteen. And he got a letter from the committee saying that she is quite unfit for even a nursery governess, and in fact, must go out as nursery-maid or sewing-maid. He was luckily able to leave home, and he went at once to York; and there he discovered that the orphanage is not what it used to be, and has had an inferior person as both schoolmistress and manager, instead of two very competent ones. And he finds Daisy is very ignorant, and she is not at all clever. Violet is better as to education, but for some reason which he has not discovered, Mrs. Armstrong will not keep her. What are we to do?"

"Why did not Mr. Wilkinson let Marian know that the girls were not being well educated?"

"He did not know it himself."

"But he ought to have known."

"Well, remember, when we were all left helpless, he took endless trouble about us all, and to me was like a father. And the York orphanage used to be a first-rate place, but the funds have been falling off, he says."

"But still, I think— Oh, well, there is no use in going back to that. We must tell Marian, for we cannot let our sisters sink into being servants without a struggle for them."

"But poor Marian, she—"

"We can do nothing, you and I, without her. The house is hers, and if our income is insufficient, it will run away with her reserve fund—not that she will grudge that. My only fear is that her life will not be so quiet, and quiet is so good for her. You and I must do our part, Annie. I must give more towards the housekeeping, and you must stay with us, for I could never leave Marian alone with such young things. Besides, you do manage so well. But I don't think either of us will grudge trouble or expense for our sisters."

"No, indeed; and I should be very sorry to leave you now. We are so happy together. And, remember, the girls will bring their little income with them."

"Yes, of course; I did not think of that. And they can, if they like, attend classes at Heyward's. I'll speak to Miss Webb about it. And you will see that Marian will be eager to have them."

Annie, knowing how dear the quiet of her home was to Marian, was inclined to doubt this, but Honora was right. And the matter was settled in a very few days.

And the girls arrived safely at S. Canice one Saturday afternoon. Honora met them and accompanied them home, and Marian took them to her heart all the sooner because they were very shy, and apparently in great dread of their elder sisters. Violet was tall and awkward and rather plain, save for her eyes. Daisy was a little creature, with a pretty, innocent, round face—very pretty, but not at all intellectual-looking. Both spoke with a most horrible accent, and neither of them looked like a lady.

"Oh, Honourbright," Annie said, a day or so after their arrival, "what 'is' to be done with these children?"

"I have been thinking about them. If they begin attending classes now, they will never improve; for you know the girls at Heyward's are not ladies. And it must mortify the poor things to feel so different from their sisters. I really think we had better keep them at home for a time, and you might take them in hand and teach them all you can in the time. Being with you and Marian will do a good deal for them. 'Did' you hear Violet say,—

"'Oi thought Oi should doy!'

"And then the poor thing got quite red, and did not speak again all dinner-time."

"I did not remark that. It is funny, for Daisy never seems aware of any difference. Marian was trying to get her to say I, not Oi, and she declared she did not understand."

"You see, Violet has a good ear; she sings very sweetly."

The little family settled down very harmoniously, Annie giving the girls lessons in various branches of learning, and finding that they were about as advanced as most girls of eleven or twelve, and that Daisy was so idle that there was no teaching her anything. They were both very obedient. I do not know whether it was experience or native wit that made Honora fancy that they obeyed from long habit, and that they had not yet opened their eyes to the fact that their elder sisters neither could nor would enforce their authority.

After a while, Annie declared that she gave Daisy up as a hopeless case, so far as her pronunciation was concerned.

Honora remarked—

"I'll cure her for you. I cured a girl—English girl—at Dinar, who 'could' not hear any difference between her French and Madame André's."

"Oh, Honora, what did you do to her?" asked little Daisy apprehensively.

"Oi caned her, moy dear! She gave up all her mistakes between 'eu' and 'u' in a week; and never asked for 'pang' when she meant bread. Oi felt proud of her after a toime."

Violet laughed, and Daisy reddened.

"Voy—let, what are you laughing at?" inquired Honora.

And in a week, Daisy knew the difference between I and Oi.

August brought holidays, and Miss Webb came for a couple of weeks to S. Canice before going abroad. She thought that Honora wanted a change, and asked her to go with her, promising that her share of the expenses should be very small. But Honora said—

"Do not say a word about it to Marian or Annie; I could not afford it, really. These poor children have no clothes fit to be seen, and I want them to look nice when they begin to attend classes at Heyward's. And I must do most of the making up, for Annie is only a good worker; she cannot cut out. I am going to Plymouth when your visit is over to buy materials."

One day, towards the close of Miss Webb's visit, she and Honora indulged themselves in a long walk together. And as they walked, Honora said—

"Miss Webb, those two girls puzzle me. They never seem much pleased, and they never object to anything. It was quite by accident that I discovered the other day that Annie's favourite breakfast dish, oatmeal porridge, makes Violet almost sick. She took it, and ate it without a word."

"I always think that in orphanages and places of that kind, the necessary discipline is likely to make machines of the girls. They are all treated exactly the same, they are never given a choice or asked to express an opinion, they are dressed all alike. And really, unless a girl is very clever, she is only one of the crowd. Be on your guard, Honora. Do not think me unkind, but I doubt if Violet is as submissive as she seems, or as simple. Daisy is a good little thing, but I fear you may have trouble with the other."

"It is very odd, but I have the same feeling myself. Well, we must do our best. But when Marian and I set up together, we little expected to have the cares of a family on our shoulders. As long as it does not hurt Marian—Oh, Dr. Egerton, I did not see you coming!"

"It is not because of the crowds on the road," Egerton replied, "for I have come from a farmhouse near Redruth, and I have not met a human being until now."

"We may as well turn now, Honora," said Miss Webb, "and give Dr. Egerton the benefit of our company."

Honora turned at once. She had been rather startled by Annie's observation that her manner to Piers Egerton was cold and stiff, and had ever since been longing for an opportunity of being gay and careless in talking to him. So she was specially bright and pleasant; and when they reached the castle, she invited him in to tea.

And the little room was gay with girlish chatter and laughter. Once even the two girls laughed at a story Dr. Egerton told—a sudden, nervous laugh, quickly silenced.

When every one had had tea, Marian beckoned to Dr. Egerton to come to her, where she sat at her post at the little table.

"It's hardly fair to trouble you," she said, "but please tell me, is it good for a person to bathe when it makes them as cold as a stone, and they cannot get warm again all day?"

"You've not been bathing, Miss Vandeleur? I hope—"

"I don't bathe; I could not get so far as the bathing-place. It is my sister Violet. They were all bathing this morning, and she has been quite shivery all day. I never remarked it before, but she says it is always so."

"Miss Violet, you must resign all idea of being a mermaid. Some people never ought to bathe, and it is by no means safe to go on if it does not agree with you."

"I like bathing," Violet said; "it's very good fun."

"It might be very poor fun for you," the young doctor said, quietly taking the girl's hand in his. He let it go after a minute, saying, "No bathing for you, young lady. Forbid it, Miss Vandeleur."

"Why, of course she won't do it again," said Marian. "Thank you very much, Dr. Egerton."

Here Honora came in with a tiny brown teapot in her hand.

"I caught this sinful Marian at her old tricks, not one drop of tea had she had—just lavished it all away, and brought herself to penury." And going to the table, she poured out a perfect cup of tea. "Drink that, Miss Vandeleur, and eat some bread-and-butter. You've no idea what a wicked creature she is, Dr. Egerton! I spend my life in bullying her."

"Bullying her?" he said, laughing.

"Yes. You are surprised at my proficiency in English, are you not? I did not know that beautiful word when I met you in dear old Dinar."

"No, you spoke very pure and prim English in those days," he answered.

Honora felt satisfied that she had quite done away with any remembrance of the evening when she had been stiff.

And Piers Egerton thought, "I was right. I may make my mind easy about it. But—the time will come."

He rose to go. Generally Honora went with a visitor to shut the hall door, but on this occasion she asked Daisy to go. Altogether she was pleased with herself that evening.

"I am so glad Dr. Egerton happened to come here to-day," said Marian, "for he says that Violet must not bathe again. Don't forget, Violet dear, you must not do it."

"Very well, Marian," replied the girl in her usual expressionless voice.

"But I may, I suppose?" said Daisy.

"Yes, if you feel warm and well afterwards," said Annie. "I think I was very dull not to see that it did not agree with Violet."