Robin Redbreast: A Story for Girls

Then she started, grew crimson, and looked round in affright: had she said something she should not have said? A strange, silly, nervous feeling came over her; as if she must, in another moment, burst into tears.

'Frances,' said Jacinth, 'what are you looking so terrified about? There's no harm in what you said. It's no secret; Aunt Alison said it herself first.'

Her tone was not unkindly, though slightly sharp. But a look of relief overspread her sister's face.

'No, of course not. I'm very silly,' she murmured.

'I think you must be a little over-tired,' said Miss Mildmay vaguely. She had not specially noticed Frances's expression. 'I wonder,' she went on, 'I wonder if those Harpers are any relation to the Elvedons? I can't quite remember what Miss Scarlett said about them. It was their mother she was interested in, though – not their father. If they were Elvedon Harpers, Lady Myrtle would know about them; at least' —

'Harper isn't at all an uncommon name,' interrupted Jacinth.

But Miss Mildmay did not resent the little discourtesy – her mind was pursuing its own train of thought. 'I don't know that it would follow that she could know anything of them,' she said. 'Some of the last generation of Harpers were sadly unsatisfactory, and I believe the old man, Lady Myrtle's father, disinherited one or more of his sons. So if you ever go to Robin Redbreast, girls, I think it would be just as well not to mention your school-fellows of the name.'

Jacinth shot a rather triumphant glance at her sister.

'It is generally better, and more well-bred, not to begin about "Are you related to the so-and-so's?" or "I have friends of your name," and remarks like that; isn't it, Aunt Alison?' she said. 'I was telling Frances so, only yesterday.'

Frances reddened again.

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

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

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

Then she rose from the table.

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

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

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

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

'I didn't mean' – began Frances.

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

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

'Then what are you crying about?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What's that?' said Jacinth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But on Friday morning came a thaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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