Robin Redbreast: A Story for Girls

'If you like,' Frances replied.

'It's about the Harpers – Bessie and Margaret – not coming back again to school,' said her sister.

'How did you know about it?' inquired Frances. 'They didn't tell even me – not really. But I know they were very sad about their father being so much worse, and once, a few days ago, Bessie said it was almost settled they were going to let their house at that place where they live, and that their father and mother were going to be a long time in London, and of course that will cost a lot of money – the going to London, I mean. And – I could tell,' and Frances's voice sounded rather suspicious – 'I could tell – by the way, they kissed me – when – when they said good-bye – I could tell they weren't coming back,' and here the choking down of a sob was very audible.

For a wonder Jacinth did not seem at all irritated. Truth to tell, she, too, had felt very sorry for the Harper girls – Bessie especially – and as we know, though she did not allow it to herself, her conscience was not entirely at ease about them. Something had touched her, too, in Bessie's manner when they bade each other good-bye.

'Will you kiss me, Jacinth?' Bessie had said. 'I have been so glad to know you.'

'I have not felt sorry enough for them perhaps,' Jacinth had allowed to herself. 'But really, there are so many sad things in the world, one would wear one's self out with being sorry for everybody.'

'How did you know about it?' Frances repeated.

'I heard something a good while ago from Honor Falmouth; don't you remember?' said Jacinth. 'And last week she told me more, only she said they didn't want any fuss made about it. She heard it from friends. But Frances, do try and cheer up. You've been as kind – at least as affectionate – as you could be to the Harpers. We hadn't it in our power to ask them here or anything like that. I'm sure you tried to get Aunt Alison to ask them, over and over again. And you won't do them any good by crying about their troubles, you know, dear. Perhaps they may come back to school some time or other, even if they're away next term.'

'Thank you, dear Jass,' said Frances, wiping her eyes. 'You're very kind. I'll try and not be dull.'

She would perhaps have been less grateful for Jacinth's sympathy had she understood the relief it was to her sister, notwithstanding her genuine pity for them, to know that the Harpers were not likely to be associated with them any more. Their presence at Ivy Lodge, ever since the acquaintance with Lady Myrtle – more especially since Jacinth herself had become fully informed as to the whole history – had been a perpetual irritation and almost a reproach to her. And the pertinacity with which she repeated to herself that it was not her business to take up the cudgels in the Harpers' behalf, of itself suggested a weak point somewhere – a touch of the self-excusing which tries to whiten over the unacknowledged self-blame.

Now, Jacinth could afford to let herself feel sorry for Bessie and Margaret and their family – could even picture to herself ways in which some day, in some vague future, she and Frances might show kindness to their former school-fellows.

'If I were rich,' thought Jacinth, 'they're just the sort of people I'd love to be good to; of course one would have to do it very carefully, so as not to offend them.'

Frances was still looking somewhat lugubrious when the door opened and Miss Mildmay senior came in. It was not very often that their aunt paid the girls a visit in their own little sitting-room, and they both looked up with some curiosity.

'I had a letter from Lady Myrtle this morning,' she said. 'I did not want to speak about it before Eugene' – for Eugene had lately been promoted to breakfast down-stairs – 'as I was not sure what you and Frances would wish about it. It is an invitation for you all – Eugene too – to spend Christmas at Robin Redbreast. Christmas time, I should say. Lady Myrtle invites you all three for a week, and Jacinth for a fortnight. What do you say?'

Frances said nothing, but Jacinth looked up quickly.

'I think it would be unnatural for us all to go away from you for Christmas, Aunt Alison,' she said.

Miss Mildmay smiled.

'A lonely Christmas would be nothing new to me, my dear child,' she said; but she spoke without any bitterness.

'I'll stay with you, Aunt Alison,' said Frances, eagerly. 'I really don't care about going to Robin Redbreast, and it's Jacinth Lady Myrtle wants. Do let me and Eugene stay here; Eugene needn't be told about it at all.'

'Thank you, my dear,' said their aunt. 'Thank you both. But – do not think me ungracious – when I spoke of a lonely Christmas, I only meant that I have not been used to a family party. I am always very happy and very busy on Christmas – and I think I should be missed if I were not here. I should have told you that Lady Myrtle very kindly invites me too – for Christmas Day – but that would not suit me at all. I must be here in the evening, and indeed I am wanted all day; but I was trying to arrange to do less, so as to be with you three in the afternoon at least.'

'Then – to put it plainly – it would be rather a relief to you for us all to be away?' asked Jacinth.

'Well, yes – in a sense it would. That is to say, if I knew you were happy and well looked after,' said Miss Mildmay, smiling again.

'There, Francie,' said Jacinth, 'you see it is much the best thing that could have happened. And of course you and Eugene must come. I suppose we shall take Phebe, Aunt Alison?'

'Certainly, my dear.'

The mention of Phebe seemed to cheer Frances. 'I shouldn't mind so much, if Eugene and I could go walks,' she said. 'But you know, Aunt Alison, Jass must be a great deal with Lady Myrtle, and I shouldn't know what to do all day, and Eugene wouldn't either.'

'It'll be all right, you'll see,' said Jacinth, who, now that she was satisfied as to her aunt, felt in high spirits. 'You can go about just as you like with Phebe, and it's only for a week. I don't think I should stay more than a week, Aunt Alison?'

'I cannot say,' her aunt replied. 'I almost think you should, if Lady Myrtle wishes it. That week – the week after Christmas week – I think I could help to amuse Frances and Eugene. We shall be having our children's feasts, and they could be very useful.'

'I should like that!' said Frances eagerly.

So all seemed satisfactory, and Miss Mildmay left them, to write her answer to Lady Myrtle. Human nature is very inconsistent. The maiden lady of a certain age could not repress a sigh as she sat down at her desk: she had not realised till now that all was changed; how she had been looking forward to something like an orthodox Christmas for once, in her prim old house – how she had been planning about the plum-puddings and cakes, even while groaning a little over the reversal of her usual habits!

'But it is much better as it is,' she decided. 'They will be quite happy, and poor old Lady Myrtle will be less lonely than for many years. She may be a good friend to Eugenia and the children in the future. And as for me, I don't know how they would have managed without me at St Blaise's, after all.'

And the young Mildmays – Frances included —were very happy at Robin Redbreast.

Things settled themselves very much as Jacinth had foreseen. Under Phebe's care the two younger ones were left free to run about as they chose during such parts of the day as Jacinth found that their hostess liked to have her with herself. And the children were much more accustomed to this sort of life than if they had ever known thorough home care. For even at Stannesley Mrs Denison's age and fragile health had often made it impossible for them to be with her as much as she would have liked: they had early learned to be 'very good at amusing themselves.'

On Christmas Day the large landau, quite roomy enough for half a dozen instead of four, took them all to Elvedon church, where they sat with Lady Myrtle in the square, be-curtained pew – one of those appropriated to the Court, which was kept for the lady from Robin Redbreast.

'It felt very like Stannesley,' was the verdict of the two younger ones, who had not been at Elvedon before, which seemed to please Lady Myrtle.

'Yes,' she said. 'I think you will feel more at home than if you spent the day at Thetford.'

And the prettily decorated rooms, and the old folk who came in for dinner in the servants' hall, and the roast turkey and flaming plum-pudding and snapdragon afterwards – yes, though they were only such a very small party, just they three and the old lady instead of their own granny, and no Uncle Marmy to make his jokes – still it was much more homelike than No. 9 Market Square Place could possibly have been. And when Frances went to bed that night, glancing with pleasure at the pretty presents so thoughtfully provided for her – a dear little gold pencil-case in a bracelet from Lady Myrtle, a pair of gloves from Aunt Alison, and a handkerchief with a red embroidered border from Jacinth and Eugene – the child felt that she had indeed a great many 'good things' to be thankful for.

'If only' – she thought. 'Oh, how I would like to think that Bessie and Margaret are happy too! I am so afraid that they are very, very sad about their father.'

Christmas Day was a Thursday. It was always considered a lucky coincidence by the young Mildmays when letters from their far-off parents reached them on the very day of any anniversary. But this year the Christmas budget only arrived the morning before Frances and Eugene were returning to Thetford. Miss Mildmay sent it on by a special messenger, knowing how anxious her nieces would be to get their letters. And a mysterious allusion in the little note from her which accompanied them made Jacinth start and call out to Frances.

'Look at what Aunt Alison says, before you read your letter, Francie. What can she mean?'

This was what Jacinth pointed to: 'I have heard from your father and mother also,' wrote Miss Mildmay. 'The great piece of news will surprise you as much as it has surprised me. I shall be glad to have you back again to talk it all over.' The sisters stared at each other, their lips parted and their breath coming quickly.

Then said Jacinth at last: 'It can't be anything wrong, Francie. Aunt Alison never would have written of it like that, if it had been.'

'No,' said Frances, though her voice was rather tremulous; 'of course it can't be.'

'And,' continued Jacinth, 'how silly we are to sit here wondering about it, when we've only to look at our letters to know! Here goes, Francie!' and she tore open her own envelope; 'let's see which of us will get at it first.'

Frances unfastened her letter more deliberately. It was a much shorter one than Jacinth's, and she had scarcely glanced at the first few lines when she sprang from her seat with a sort of shriek.

'They're coming home, Jass! that's the secret. Oh Jass, Jass, listen: "As I may hope to see you before long, my darling, I won't attempt to write very much." That's it. Oh Jassie, sweet, they're coming home!'

Jacinth's face had grown pink, then white again, whiter than usual, as she rapidly ran through her own letter.

'Yes,' she said at last, 'it's – no, it's not quite so good as that. Mamma's coming first: she'll be here in the spring; but papa's not coming for some months later. He's got to go somewhere for some kind of inspection, where mamma couldn't go with him, and after that, he's got six months' leave, which may or may not – I don't quite understand. Listen, Francie: "During this leave your father will have time to decide as to the future. It is possible he may have the offer of an appointment in England, which would obviate the necessity of our returning to India. But even if he has this chance, there are fors and againsts to consider: the appointment is not in some ways a very desirable one; it would oblige us to live for some, perhaps for several years in a large manufacturing town in the north of England, and it would be very hard work for your father. Still, we might – we should be all together."'

Frances heaved a deep sigh of intense longing.

'Oh yes,' she said, 'that would be everything.'

'No, I don't see that it would be,' said Jacinth. 'I should hate living in a place like that; and then think of the hard work for papa. When he does come home I want him to be quite his own master, and, and – to be rather grand, you know. I should not mind his having an appointment in London, or some county thing that wouldn't give him much to do, about here perhaps. But to go and slave in some horrid dirty place where there would be no one we could speak to; that would be a come-down after the position he has had in India.'