Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

“I think him very nice and genuine,” said Julia, quietly.

“But you mustn’t fall in love with him, Ju. He’s too old. But I say, what was the real reason of our being away from Lawford so much?”

“Money matters,” said her sister. “Papa got to be very much behindhand through Frank and Cyril.”

“Oh, I wish I were a man!” cried Cynthia, with her pretty fair young face flushing. “How I would have whipped those two fellows and made good boys of them! They’ve half broken poor mamma’s heart.”

“I’m afraid papa indulged them too much,” said Julia, quietly, and the two girls walked on for some little distance in silence, enjoying the briskness of the morning air.

“Now where are we going?” cried Cynthia suddenly. “Oh, I know. Down that lane leads to the ford, where the wheelwright’s is. Let’s go and see Polly Morrison.”

“Shall we?” said her sister, smiling.

“Oh, yes. It will be a parochial visit all the same. Only fancy, Polly with a baby! What a little stupid she was to leave us to come back here and marry a wheelwright!”

“I don’t know,” said Julia quietly; “perhaps she is very happy.”

“Oh, of course. People are when they get married. Come along; I want to see Polly’s baby. I wish she had not left us. She was such a clever maid.”

“I was very glad she went,” said Julia gravely.

“Glad? Why?”

“Because of Cyril. He was always following her about. She complained to me several times.”

“Cyril is a wretch!” said Cynthia, with heightened colour. “Papa ought to whip him. He always would look at pretty girls. I say, Ju, did you see Miss Portlock, the schoolmistress, on Monday? Was she nice?”

“Yes, I thought her very nice and superior. She is the churchwarden’s niece. Hush! here is Mr Paulby.”

“Good-morning, ladies,” said a little plump man, raising his hat and showing his slightly-bald head. “What a lovely morning! I think I dare prophesy where you are going.”

“If you prophesy Morrison’s cottage, Mr Paulby, you are right,” said Cynthia, merrily.

“Then I am right,” said the curate. “I have just come from there, and Mrs Morrison has been chatting about old times, and how she went all over the Continent with you.”

“She didn’t tell you about Cyril, I know,” said Cynthia to herself.

“I’m really very, very glad, ladies, that the rectory is inhabited again,” said the curate, “and I hope you will help me a great deal.”

“That indeed we will, Mr Paulby,” said Julia.

“Yes, and visit, and do needlework, and help in the schools, and everything,” said Cynthia, quickly. “And now we must say good-morning, Mr Paulby. Come, Julia.”

There was the customary hand-shaking and raising of the curate’s hat, and then they separated, the little plump rosy man looking very thoughtful as he made some observation to himself, and that observation was “Hah!” a remark that evidently meant a great deal.

“I’m not going to allow that, Ju,” said Cynthia, decidedly. “The little man is quite smitten with you, and if Frank or Cyril were to know – ”

“Don’t be absurd!” said her sister, colouring a little.

“That would be as bad as Perry-Morton. Oh, here we are. Why, what a pretty little place Polly has got!”

The sisters stopped at the road-side to gaze at the long low ivy-covered cottage, with a broad patch of green in front, upon which was a lumber of broken carts and waggons waiting to be doctored. There was a shed at one end, from which came the sound of sawing, for which job there was a good-sized pit, while farther on the road dipped suddenly down and passed through a little river, which foamed and bubbled and sparkled as it turned the gravelly shallows into liquid silver in the morning sun.

“Oh, what a funny little thing!” cried Cynthia, as they were welcomed into the neat cottage. “Look at its little button-hole of a mouth. Let me take it, Polly.”

The young mother, quite a rustic beauty, with a touch of refinement in her appearance, picked up during her stay on the Continent as maid to the rector’s daughters, handed her plump little baby to the extended arms; watchfully, though, and as if afraid the treasure might be dropped upon the red-brick floor.

“And how are you, Polly?” said Julia, looking rather searchingly at the young wife as she set chairs for her visitors. “I hope you are very happy?”

“Oh, as happy, Miss Julia, as the day is long, and I’m so busy that the days are never long enough.”

“Cooey, cooey, cooey, cooey!” cried Cynthia to the baby in a very dove-like manner, as she kissed and fondled it, laughing merrily the while.

“I was so surprised, Miss, to hear that you had come back to the rectory.”

“Not going to stop very long this time, Polly – I mean Mrs Morrison,” said Cynthia, without raising her face from the baby. “We are going to town for the season. Oh, you, you, you funny little thing! There’s a wet mouth. Oh, I say, Ju, I wonder whether I shall ever have a baby of my own.”

“Cynthia!” cried her sister, reproachfully.

“It would be such fun. I say, Polly, is it good?”

“Oh, there never was such a good baby, Miss, and Tom worships it. She’s as good as gold.”

“She?” cried Cynthia. “Is it a she?”

“Oh, yes, Miss,” cried the young mother, proudly.

“How funny!” said Cynthia. “It might be anything, it is so round and soft.”

“Would you mind feeling how heavy she grows, Miss Julia?” said the young mother and the baby was duly handed to Julia, who held it to her cheek, and then gazed lovingly at the little thing, her eyes wearing a curious wistful aspect, full of tenderness, while the young mothers face lit up with pleasure.

“Isn’t it heavy, Miss?” she said.

“Wonderfully,” replied Julia quietly, and with as much decision as if her life had been spent in the management of babies.

“She don’t know!” laughed Cynthia. “I don’t believe she ever had hold of one before. Here, give it to me.”

“No; let it stay,” said Julia softly, and to the young mother’s great satisfaction, for she seemed rather scared lest Cynthia should let it fall in tossing it up and down.

“She gets heavier every day, Miss, and Tom says it’s wonderful now for a baby a month old.”

“You must introduce us to your husband, Polly.”

“Yes, Miss, I’ll call him in. Or no, Miss, not this morning,” said the young wife, rather hurriedly; “he is very busy.”

“Some other time then,” said Julia. “I suppose you are very fond of it, Polly?”

“Fond of it, Miss Julia? Oh, you can’t think how I love it.”