Robin Redbreast: A Story for Girls

'I cannot quite say that,' she answered at last. 'There are times when I am afraid to say what I would not accept, for your father's sake. I feel as if I would consent to anything not wrong or sinful that could save him. And remember, we must be just. As things are, Lady Myrtle knows nothing of us except that we are poor. And there is every excuse for her deep-seated prepossessions against her brother Bernard's family. Pride must not blind our fair judgment, Camilla.'

The girl did not reply. She felt the reasonableness of her mother's argument.

'But oh,' she thought to herself, 'I should hate to be indebted to Lady Myrtle for any help. What would I not do – what would we all not do, rather than that!'

Her feelings might almost have been written on her face, for Fitz, who had been listening silently, though intently, to the conversation, here made a remark which might have been a remonstrance with her unspoken protest.

'There's one thing to be said,' began the boy. 'Even though it's all Lady Myrtle's by law, it came to her from father's own grandfather. If our grandfather had been good, his share would have been his and then father's and then ours. There's a sort of right about it. It isn't as if it was all Lady Myrtle's own in any other way – through her husband, for instance – and that she did anything for us just out of pity, because we were relations. That would be horrid.'

Fitz was only fifteen, but he and Margaret seemed older than their years, as is not unusual with the youngest members of a large family. Besides, all the Harpers had grown up in full knowledge of and sympathy with their parents' anxieties. Living as they did, in closest family union, it would have been all but impossible to prevent its being so, save by some forced and unnatural reticence, the evil of which would have been greater than the risk of saddening the children by premature cares.

So neither Mrs Harper nor her daughter felt the least inclined to 'snub' the boy for his observation, which contained a strong element of common-sense.

'Lady Myrtle's wealth comes in part from her husband,' said Mrs Harper. 'That makes one feel the more strongly that the Harper portion should to some extent return to where it is so needed. But your father has told me that the Elvedons are sure to inherit some of it, and that is quite right.'

'And,' said Camilla, with a little effort, anxious to show her mother that she did wish to be quite 'fair-judging,' 'you know, Fitz, as we have often said, if our grandfather, being what he was, had got his share, it is most improbable that any of it would have come to father. After all,' she added with an honest smile that lighted up her quiet face and made it almost as bright as Bessie's – 'after all, it was better for the money to be kept together by Lady Myrtle, than for it to be thrown away and nobody to have any good of it. She is a generous old woman, too, in outside ways. I see her name in connection with several philanthropic institutions.'

'And really good and well-managed things, your father says. She must be a wise and considerate woman,' said Mrs Harper.

'All the more pity, then, that she and father have never come together,' said Camilla with a sigh. 'She would be able to appreciate him. I never could imagine any one wiser and juster than father – though you come pretty near him sometimes, I must say, mother;' and she smiled again. 'Neither of you is ever the least bit unfair to any one, and it does take such a lot of self-control and – and – a wonderfully well-balanced mind, I suppose, to be like that.'

'I have only learned it – if I have learned it – from your father,' replied Mrs Harper. 'At your age I was dreadfully impetuous and hasty. I often wonder, dear child, how you can be so thoughtful and helpful as you are.'

Camilla's eyes sparkled with pleasure.

'Mother,' she said, 'we mustn't degenerate into a mutual admiration society. I shall tell father how we've been buttering each other up all breakfast-time. It will amuse him. I'm going to see if he will have some more tea.'

And she ran off.

By mid-day Captain Harper was established on his sofa in the little drawing-room, which his wife and daughters still strove so very hard to keep fresh and pretty. From this sofa, alas! especially now that winter was in the ascendant even at sheltered Southcliff, the invalid was but seldom able to move. For walking had become exceedingly painful and difficult, and so slow that even a little fresh air at the best part of the day could only be procured at the risk of chill and cold – a risk great and dangerous. And barely six months ago the tap of his crutch had been one of the most familiar sounds in the little town; he had been able to walk two or three miles with perfect ease and the hearty enjoyment which his happy nature seemed to find under all circumstances. It had not proved untrue to itself even now. There was a smile on his somewhat worn face – a smile that was seen in the eyes too, as real smiles should always be – as his daughter came into the room to see that he had everything he wanted about him.

'It is really getting colder at last, father,' she said. 'At Thetford, Bessie writes, they have had some snow. And Margaret was delighted because it made her think of Christmas, and Christmas means coming home.'

'Poor old Mag!' said Captain Harper. 'Mag' was his own special name for his youngest daughter; and no one else was allowed to use it. 'Poor old Mag! I really think she's very happy at school, though – don't you, Camilla? Bessie, I knew, would be all right, but I had my misgivings about Mag. And it is in every way such a splendid chance for them. It would be' – And he hesitated.

'What, father?'

'Such a pity to break it up,' he said, 'as – we have almost come to think must be done.'

'They would be perfectly miserable to stay there, if they understood – as indeed they do now,' Camilla replied, 'that it would be only at the cost of what you must have, father dear.'

Her voice, though low, was very resolute. Captain Harper glanced at her half-wistfully.

'I wish you didn't all see things that way,' he said. 'You see it's this, Camilla. If I go up to London to be under Maclean for three months, it may set me up again to a certain point, but unless it be followed by the "kur" at the baths, and then by that other "massage" business within a year or so, it would be just the old story, just what it was before, only that I am three or four years older than I was, and – certainly not stronger. So this is the question – is it worth while? It will be at such a cost – stopping Bessie and Mag's schooling, wearing out your mother and you – for what will be more trying than letting this house for the spring, as must be done, and moving you girls into poky lodgings. That, at least, we have hitherto managed not to do. And then the strain on your poor mother being up alone with me in London – so dreary for her too. And at best to think that a partial, temporary cure is all we can hope for. No, my child, I cannot see that it is worth it. I am happy at home, and more than content to bear what must be, after all not so very bad. And I may not get worse. Do, darling, try to make your mother see it my way.'

It was not often – very, very seldom indeed – that Captain Harper talked so much or so long of himself. Now he lay back half-exhausted, his face, which had been somewhat flushed, growing paler than before.

Camilla wound her arms round him and hid her face on his shoulder.

'Father dearest,' she whispered, doing her best to hide any sign of tears in her voice, 'don't be vexed or disappointed, but I can't see it that way. It seems presumptuous for me to argue with you, but don't you see? – the first duty seems so clear, to do what we can. Surely there can be no doubt at all about that? And who knows —something may happen to make the rest of what is prescribed for you possible. And even if not, and if the three months in London only do a little good, at least we should all feel we had tried everything. Father dearest, if we didn't do it, do you think mother and Bessie and I – and the boys when they hear of it, and even the two little ones – do you think we should ever again feel one moment's peace of mind? Every time you looked paler or feebler, every time we saw you give the least little wince of pain – why, I think we should go out of our minds. It would be unendurable.'

Captain Harper stroked her fair soft hair fondly.

'But, dear, suppose it doesn't do any good, or much? Suppose' – and his voice grew very low and tender – 'suppose all this increased suffering and weakness is only the beginning of the end – and sometimes I cannot help thinking it would be best so – my darling, it would have to be endured.'

Camilla raised her tear-stained face and looked at her father bravely.

'I know,' she said quietly. 'It may be. Mother and I don't deceive ourselves, though it is no use dwelling upon terrible possibilities. But even then, don't you see the difference? We should feel that we had done our best, and – and that more was not God's will.'

'Yes,' said her father, 'I see how you mean. I suppose I should feel the same if it were about your mother or one of you.'

'And father,' Camilla went on more cheerfully, 'don't worry about the girls leaving school; it won't do them lasting harm. They have got a good start, and they are still very young. Some time or other they may have another opportunity, as I had. And Margaret is such a delicate little creature. Father, I wouldn't have said it if they had been going to stay at Thetford, but I have had my misgivings about her being fit to be so far away. I fear she is very homesick sometimes.'

'Do you really think so?' said Captain Harper with a start. 'Poor little soul! If I thought so – ah dear, my home was not much, but still while my mother lived it was home, and oh how I remember what I suffered when I left it! Who is it that speaks of "the fiend homesickness?" The mere dread of it would reconcile me to having them back again.'

'Then I am very thankful I told you,' said the girl. 'And father, is it not nice to know that in spite of everything we girls have not come off badly? Bessie and Margaret took good places at once, and I did too, you know. Indeed, Miss Scarlett said that if I had thought of being a governess, she would have been very glad to have me.'

'I know,' said her father. 'Well, there is no necessity for that as yet, except for governessing the younger ones as you used to do. And if things go better with me, even if I'm only not worse, when we come home again I can take you all three for Latin and German and mathematics.'

Camilla's eyes sparkled. She was so delighted to have talked him into acquiescence and hopefulness.

'We shall work so hard the three months we are by ourselves that you will be quite astonished,' she said. 'And old Mrs Newing will make us very comfortable; it's there we're to live, you know. It will really be great fun.'

So from this time the move to London was decided upon for Captain and Mrs Harper.

And when Bessie and Margaret bade their companions good-bye at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, they knew, though it had been thought best to say little about it, and the good Misses Scarlett refused to look upon it as anything but a temporary break, that it was good-bye for much longer than was supposed – good-bye perhaps and not improbably for always, to Ivy Lodge and Thetford and all their friends.

Bessie felt it sorely. Little Margaret was all absorbed in the delight of going 'home' again. But both were at one in the real sorrow with which they parted from their companions, among whom no one had won a more lasting place in their affection than blunt, warm-hearted, honest Frances Mildmay.

CHAPTER XI.

GREAT NEWS

The first Christmas at a strange place or in a new home is always full of mingled feelings. Even when the change has been a happy one, not brought about by sorrows of any kind, the old associations give a sort of melancholy to the thankfulness and joy we all wish to feel at this time. And for the young Mildmays it was more than natural that the sadness should predominate.

'Only a year ago how different it was!' sighed Frances, the first morning of the holidays, when there was no school to hurry off to – nothing particular to do or look forward to. 'I shall be very glad when it's time to begin lessons again.'

'I don't see why you should feel so particularly gloomy just now,' said Jacinth, not unkindly. 'Things might have been a good deal worse than they are.'

'People can always say that,' replied Frances. 'If you've got to have a leg cut off, you can say to yourself it might have been both legs. I daresay having Robin Redbreast to go to makes it much nicer for you; I suppose you'll go there a good deal during the holidays. But it doesn't make much difference to me. Lady Myrtle doesn't ask me often, and I don't want her to. I'm quite glad for you to go there, but it's not the same for me.'

And again she sighed.

'What would make you happier, then?' asked Jacinth.

'Oh, I don't know. Nothing that could be, I suppose. Nothing will make very much difference till papa and mamma come home. There are one or two things that are making me particularly unhappy, besides the thinking it's Christmas and how changed everything is, but – I daresay it's no good speaking of them.'

'I know what one of them is,' said Jacinth. 'I can guess it: shall I tell you what it is?'