Robin Redbreast: A Story for Girls

And then Frances related the whole, Margaret listening intently till almost the end, when the little narrator, stopping for a moment to take breath, after 'So you see our grandmother was her very dearest friend, and she really seemed as if she could scarcely bear to let Jacinth go, and —isn't it like a real story?' saw, to her surprise, that her hearer's face, instead of being rosier than usual, had now grown quite pale.

'Why, Margaret, what's the matter? You look as if I had been telling you a ghost-story, you're so white,' she exclaimed.

Margaret gave a little gasp.

'It is so strange,' she said. 'I'll tell you why it has made me feel so queer. Mine is a sort of a secret, Frances; at least when we came here to school mother told us not to talk about it. But I know I can trust you, and what you've told me makes it seem as if somehow – I don't know how to say what I mean – as if we must be a sort of relation to each other, from our people long ago having been such friends. For, do you know, Frances, Lady Myrtle Goodacre is our aunt – our great-aunt, that is to say – father's own aunt?'

Frances stopped short and almost clapped her hands.

'There now,' she said, 'I had a feeling there was something like that. I wish Jacinth hadn't stopped my speaking of you, when Lady Myrtle told us her name used to be Harper.'

'Were you going to speak of us?' asked Margaret.

'Yes, it was on the very tip of my tongue. Indeed I believe I did get as far as "There are some," when Jacinth stopped me. She said afterwards that it is "common," when any one mentions a name, to say immediately, "Oh, I know somebody called that." I don't quite see why it should be common; it's rather interesting, I think. Still I daresay it's true that common people often do speak like that, when you come to think of it. They've always got an aunt, or a cousin, or a friend's friend called so-and-so, or living somewhere, if you mention a place.'

'I daresay they do,' said Margaret; but she seemed to be giving only half her attention. 'Frances,' she went on, 'I wonder what would have happened if you had spoken of us? I wonder if Lady Myrtle would have taken any notice?'

Frances stared.

'Of course she would!' she exclaimed. 'Do you mean to say she wouldn't have taken any notice of hearing that her own grand-nieces were so near her? Why, she' – But suddenly the actual state of the case struck her. 'Do you – does she not know you're here?' she went on, raising her blue eyes in bewilderment to Margaret's face. 'No, I suppose she doesn't, or of course you would be asked to Robin Redbreast on holidays and all that sort of thing.'

'No,' Margaret replied, 'she doesn't know anything about us. I'm not even sure that she knows of our existence; anyway she has never heard our names, or how many of us there are, and I can't believe she really understands how – how very poor we are. For she is very, very rich, you know, Frances, though she lives in that quiet way.'

'Is she?' said Frances. 'I do wish I had spoken of you, whether it was "common" or not.'

'She mightn't have thought that we were any relation,' said Margaret, simply. 'Harper isn't a very particular name. And you see we're not very near to the head of the family now. Lord Elvedon is only father's cousin, and they never stay near here. Father and mother see them sometimes in London, but they've got a very large family, and they're not rich – not extra rich themselves; for the one before this Lord Elvedon, the one who was father's uncle, you see, was very extravagant, though it was mostly his brother's fault – that was our grandfather. His name was Bernard Harper, and' —

'It's awfully interesting,' said Frances, 'but I'm afraid I'm getting rather muddled. Your grandfather– what was he, then, to Lady Myrtle?'

'I'll begin at the other end,' said Margaret; 'that will make it plainer. There was a Lord Elvedon who had two sons and a daughter; the daughter was Lady Myrtle. The sons were younger than the daughter, and they were both extravagant. The elder one was a weaker character than his brother, and quite led by him, and before their father died they had already wasted a lot of money, and given him a great deal of trouble, especially Bernard, the second one. So old Lord Elvedon left all he could to his daughter, Lady Myrtle; of course the estates and a good deal had to go with the title, but still the new Lord Elvedon was much less rich than he should have been, you see, and our grandfather – that was the son called Bernard – was really poor, and his children, our father and his sisters, have always been poor. Father says a good deal will go back to the title when Lady Myrtle dies, and she is quite friends with the present Lord Elvedon, her nephew. But she couldn't bear her brother Bernard – I believe he behaved very badly to her and to all his people – and she has never taken the least notice of father, though father is really a sort of an angel;' and Margaret's eyes glistened. 'You know it is like that sometimes,' she went on; 'a bad father – and I am afraid our grandfather was a bad man, though I don't quite like saying it – sometimes has very good children.'

'But Lady Myrtle can't know about you all – about your father especially,' said Frances. 'I think he should write to her, or do something. Very likely she's got quite wrong ideas about him.'

'No,' said Margaret, 'she must know he is a very good man. He was in the army, you know, like your father, and he was very brave and did lots of things, but he had to leave because of a wound, when he was only a captain. When he and mother married he hoped to stay on till he became a general, and at first they weren't so badly off, for mother had some money. But a good deal of it was lost somehow.'

'I do think Lady Myrtle should be told – I really do,' said Frances, stopping short and speaking with great energy.

But Margaret only shook her head.

'She does know a good deal,' she said. 'We are sure she does, for some years ago my aunt – that's father's only sister – the other died quite young – wrote to her about us. Aunt Flora isn't badly off in a way, for she has no children, and her husband is a judge in India. But she can't do much for us, and – you see it's her husband's money; it isn't as if it was a relation of ours.'

Frances had never thought of things in this way; she was years and years younger in mind, or rather in experience and knowledge of life, than Margaret Harper, her junior by nearly twelve months. For Margaret with her older brothers and sisters had early had to face practical difficulties and troubles, the very existence of which was unknown to her young companion.

'It's a shame – a regular shame; that's what it is!' said Frances vehemently, her face flushing with indignation, 'and something should be done.'

Just at that moment a figure came running towards them. It was Bessie, the elder of the Harper girls.

'Margaret, Frances, where have you been? what have you been doing all this time?' she exclaimed. 'We've had ever so many games, and now tea will be ready directly. What are you looking so mournful about, Margaret, and you so excited, Frances? You haven't – oh no, you couldn't have been quarrelling.'

The smile on both faces was sufficient answer – no, certainly they had not been quarrelling!

'What have you been talking about, then?' said Bessie again, and she looked at them with considerable curiosity.

Bessie was two years older than her sister. She was handsomer too, and much stronger. There was a bright, fearless, resolute look about her, very attractive and prepossessing. But she was less intellectual, less thoughtful, more joyous and confident, though tenderly and devotedly unselfish to those she loved, especially to all weak and dependent creatures.

'Margaret has been telling me such interesting things,' began Frances eagerly.

'And Frances has been telling me about – about Lady Myrtle and Robin Redbreast. Just fancy, Bessie, they know her! She was a very, very old friend of their grandmother's.'

And between them the two girls soon put the elder one in possession of all they had been discussing.

Bessie Harper's bright face grew grave; she could not blame her sister and Frances, but still, on the whole, she almost wished the discovery had not been made, though 'it was bound to come some time or other, I suppose,' she reflected.

'I call it a perfect shame!' said Frances, her cheeks flaming up again. 'To think of that horrid old woman having more money than she knows what to do with, and keeping it all to herself, when it really belongs – a good part of it, at least – to your father.'

'No, no,' said Bessie, 'we can't say that. Our great-grandfather had a right to do what he did with his money. And if he had left it to our grandfather, it would all have been wasted, most likely.'

'If he had known how good father was going to be, he'd have left it to him, I daresay,' said Margaret.

'He couldn't have known that,' said Bessie with a merry laugh. 'Father wasn't born when he died.'

'No, but just because of that, Lady Myrtle should make up for it now,' said Frances. 'I daresay I shouldn't call her "horrid," and of course she's your aunt, and I can scarcely believe she does know all about you. Perhaps she never got your other aunt's letter.'

'Oh yes, she did,' said Bessie. 'She answered it by sending it back with a note saying that none of the descendants of the late Bernard Harper were kith or kin of hers.'

'How wicked!' exclaimed Frances.

'No, no, it's not right to say that, Frances dear,' said both sisters. 'Father says,' Bessie went on, 'that no one knows what her brothers made her suffer, and how good she was to them, standing between them and her father, and devoting herself to them, and hoping against hope, even about our grandfather, till I suppose she had to give him up. It is awfully sad, and for her sake as well as ours, mother and I have often said how we wished she knew father. He would make up to her for the disappointment in her brothers.'

'Isn't Lord Elvedon nice?' asked Frances; 'that's her other nephew, isn't he?'

'Oh yes, I think he's a good sort of a man, but not clever,' said Bessie. 'Not like father.'

'And then our boys,' added Margaret. 'They are so good and so clever.'

Her pale little face flushed with rosy pleasure.

'How nice!' said Frances, with ready sympathy. 'How many brothers have you?'

'Two big – older than we are, and one little one of eleven. There are six of us,' Margaret replied.

CHAPTER VI.

BESSIE'S MISGIVINGS

But just then came the sound of approaching voices.

'Bessie, Bessie, where are you? Haven't you found them? Tea's quite ready.'