How Gillian might have enjoyed all this, and yet she could not, except so far that she told herself that thus there could be no reasonable objection made by her aunts to intercourse with those whom they so much admired.
Yet perhaps even then she would have told all, but that, after having bound over Kalliope to secrecy, it would be awkward to confess that she had told all. It would be like owning herself in the wrong, and for that she was not prepared. Besides, where would be the secrecy of her ‘great thing’?
CHAPTER IX. – GAUGING AJEE
Without exactly practising to deceive, Gillian began to find that concealment involved her in a tangled web; all the more since Aunt Jane had become thoroughly interested in the Whites, and was inquiring right and left about schools and scholarships for the little boys.
She asked their master about them, and heard that they were among his best scholars, and that their home lessons had always been carefully attended to by their elder brother and sister. In fact, he was most anxious to retain Theodore, to be trained for a pupil-teacher, the best testimony to his value! Aunt Jane came home full of the subject, relating what the master said of Alexis White, and that he had begun by working with him at Latin and mathematics; but that they had not had time to go on with what needed so much study and preparation.
‘In fact, said Miss Mohun, ‘I have a suspicion that if a certificated schoolmaster could own any such thing, the pupil knew more than the teacher. When your father comes home, I hope he will find some way of helping that lad.’
Gillian began to crimson, but bethought herself of the grandeur of its being found that she was the youth’s helper. ‘I am glad you have been lending him books,’ added Aunt Jane.
What business had she to know what had not been told her? The sense of offence drove back any disposition to consult her. Yet to teach Alexis was no slight task, for, though he had not gone far in Greek, his inquiries were searching, and explaining to him was a different thing from satisfying even Mr. Pollock. Besides, Gillian had her own studies on hand. The Cambridge examinations were beginning to assume larger proportions in the Rockquay mind, and ‘the General Screw Company,’ as Mr. Grant observed, was prevailing.
Gillian’s knowledge was rather discursive, and the concentration required by an examination was hard work to her, and the time for it was shortened by the necessity of doing all Alexis’s Greek exercises and translations beforehand, and of being able to satisfy him why an error was not right, for, in all politeness, he always would know why it did not look right. And there was Valetta, twisting and groaning. The screw was on her form, who, unless especially exempted, were to compete for a prize for language examination.
Valetta had begun by despising Kitty Varley for being excepted by her mother’s desire and for not learning Latin; but now she envied any one who had not to work double tides at the book of Caesar that was to be taken up, and Vercingetorix and his Arverni got vituperated in a way that would have made the hair of her hero-worshipping mother fairly stand on end.
But then Lilias Mohun had studied him for love of himself, not for dread of failure.
Gillian had been displeased when Fergus deserted her for Aunt Jane as an assistant, but she would not have been sorry if Valetta had been off her hands, when she was interrupted in researches after an idiom in St. John’s Gospel by the sigh that this abominable dictionary had no verb oblo, or in the intricacies of a double equation by despair at this horrid Caesar always hiding away his nominatives out of spite.
Valetta, like the American child, evidently regarded the Great Julius in no other light than as writer of a book for beginners in Latin, and, moreover, a very unkind one; and she fully reciprocated the sentiment that it was no wonder that the Romans conquered the world, since they knew the Latin grammar by nature.
Nor was Gillian’s hasty and sometimes petulant assistance very satisfactory to the poor child, since it often involved hearing ‘Wait a minute,’ and a very long one, ‘How can you be so stupid?’ ‘I told you so long ago’; and sometimes consisted of a gabbling translation, with rapidly pointed finger, very hard to follow, and not quite so painstaking as when Alexis deferentially and politely pointed out the difficulties, with a strong sense of the favour that she was doing him.
Not that these personal lessons often took place. Kalliope never permitted them without dire necessity, and besides, there was always an uncertainty when Gillian might come down, or when Alexis might be able to come in.
One day when Aunt Jane had come home with a story of how one of her ‘business girls’ had confessed to Miss White’s counsel having only just saved her from an act of folly, it occurred to Aunt Adeline to say—
‘It is a great pity you have not her help in the G.F.S.’
‘I did not understand enough about her before, and mixed her up with the ordinary class of business girls. I had rather have her a member for the sake of example; but if not, she would be a valuable associate. Could not you explain this to her without hurting her feelings, as I am afraid I did, Gill? I did not understand enough about her when I spoke to her before.’
Gillian started. The conversation that should have been so pleasant to her was making her strangely uncomfortable.
‘I do not see how Gill is to get at her,’ objected the other aunt. ‘It would be of no great use to call on her in the nest of the Queen of the White Ants. I can’t help recollecting the name, it was so descriptive.’
‘Yes; it was on her mother’s account that she refused, and of course her office must not be invaded in business hours.’
‘I might call on her there before she goes home,’ suggested Gillian, seeing daylight.
‘You cannot be walking down there at dusk, just as the workmen come away’ exclaimed Aunt Ada, making the colour so rush into Gillian’s cheeks that she was glad to catch up a screen.
‘No,’ said Miss Mohun emphatically; ‘but I could leave her there at five o’clock, and go to Tideshole to take old Jemmy Burnet his jersey, and call for her on the way back.’
‘Or she could walk home with me,’ murmured the voice behind the screen.
Gillian felt with dismay that all these precautions as to her escort would render her friend more scrupulous than ever as to her visits. To have said, ‘I have several times been at the office,’ would have been a happy clearance of the ground, but her pride would not bend to possible blame, nor would she run the risk of a prohibition. ‘It would be the ruin of hope to Alexis, and mamma knows all,’ said she to herself.
It was decided that she should trust to Kalliope to go back with her, for when once Aunt Jane get into the very fishy hamlet of Tideshole, which lay beyond the quarries, there was no knowing when she might get away, since
‘Alike to her were time and tide,
November’s snow or July’s pride.’
So after a few days, too wet and tempestuous for any expedition, they set forth accompanied by Fergus, who rushed in from school in time to treat his aunt as a peripatetic ‘Joyce’s scientific dialogues.’ Valetta had not arrived, and Gillian was in haste to elude her, knowing that her aunt would certainly not take her on to Tideshole, and that there would be no comfort in talking before her; but it was a new thing to have to regard her little sister in the light of a spy, and again she had to reason down a sense of guiltiness. However, her aunt wanted Valetta as little as she did; and she had never so rejoiced in Fergus’s monologue, ‘Then this small fly-wheel catches into the Targe one, and so—Don’t you see?’—only pausing for a sound of assent.
Unacquainted with the private door, Miss Mohun entered the office through the showroom, exchanging greetings with the young saleswomen, and finding Miss White putting away her materials.
Shaking hands, Miss Mohun said—
‘I have brought your friend to make a visit to you while I go on to Tideshole. She tells me that you will be kind enough to see her on her way home, if you are going back at the same time.’
‘I shall be delighted,’ said Kalliope, with eyes as well as tongue, and no sooner were she and Gillian alone together than she joyfully exclaimed—
‘Then Miss Mohun knows! You have told her.
‘No—’
‘Oh!’ and there were volumes in the intonation. ‘I was alarmed when she came in, and then so glad if it was all over. Dear Miss Merrifield—’
‘Call me Gillian; I have told you to do so before! Phyllis is Miss Merrifield, and I won’t be so before my time,’ said Gillian, interrupting in a tone more cross than affectionate.
‘I was going to say,’ pursued Kalliope, ‘that the shock her entrance gave to me proved all the more that we cannot be treating her properly.
‘Never mind that! I did not come about that. She is quite taken with you, Kally, and wants you more than ever to be a Friendly Girl, because she thinks it would be so good for the others who are under you.’
‘They have told me something about it,’ said Kalliope thoughtfully.
‘She fancied’ added Gillian, ‘that perhaps she did not make you understand the rights of it, not knowing that you were different from the others.’
‘Oh no, it was not that,’ said Kalliope. ‘Indeed, I hope there is no such nonsense in me. It was what my dear father always warned us against; only poor mamma always gets vexed if she does not think we are keeping ourselves up, and she had just been annoyed at—something, and we did not know then that it was Lady Merrifield’s sister.’
This was contradictory, but it was evident that, while Kalliope disowned conceit of station for herself, she could not always cross her mother’s wishes. It was further elicited that if Lady Flight had taken up the matter there would have been no difficulty. Half a year ago the Flights had seemed to the young Whites angelic and infallible, and perhaps expectations had been founded on their patronage; but there had since been a shadow of disappointment, and altogether Kalliope was less disposed to believe that my Lady was correct in pronouncing Miss Mohun’s cherished society as ‘dissentish,’ and only calculated for low servant girls and ladies who wished to meddle in families.
Clanship made Gillian’s indignation almost bring down the office, and her eloquence was scarcely needed, since Kalliope had seen the value to some of her ‘hands’ from the class, the library, the recreation-room, and the influence of the ladies, above all, the showing them that it was possible to have variety and amusement free from vulgar and perilous dissipation; but still she hesitated. She had no time, she said; she could not attend classes, and she was absolutely necessary at home in the evenings; but Gillian assured her that nothing was expected from her but a certain influence in the right direction, and the showing the younger and giddier that she did not think the Society beneath her.
‘I see all that,’ said Kalliope; ‘I wish I had not been mistaken at first; but, Miss Mer—Gillian, I do not see how I can join it now.’
‘Why not? What do you mean?’
Kalliope was very unwilling to speak, but at last it came.
‘How can I do this to please your aunt, who thinks better of me than I deserve, when—Oh! excuse me—I know it is all your kindness—but when I am allowing you to deceive her—almost, I mean—’
‘Deceive! I never spoke an untrue word to my aunt in my life,’ said Gillian, in proud anger; ‘but if you think so, Miss White, I had better have no more to do with it.’
‘I feel,’ said Kalliope, with tears in her eyes, ‘as if it might be better so, unless Miss Mohun knew all about it.’
‘Well, if you think so, and like to upset all your brother’s hopes—’
‘It would be a terrible grief to him, I know, and I don’t undervalue your kindness, indeed I don’t; but I cannot be happy about it while Miss Mohun does not know. I don’t understand why you do not tell her.’
‘Because I know there would be a worry and a fuss. Either she would say we must wait for letters from mamma, or else that Alexis must come to Beechcroft, and all the comfort would be over, and it would be gossiped about all over the place. Can’t you trust me, when I tell you I have written it all to my own father and mother, and surely I know my own family best?’
Kalliope looked half convinced, but she persisted—
‘I suppose you do; only please, till there is a letter from Lady Merrifield, I had rather not go into this Society.’
‘But, Kally, you don’t consider. What am I to say to my aunt? What will she think of you?’
‘I can’t help that! I cannot do this while she could feel I was conniving at what she might not like. Indeed, I cannot. I beg your pardon, but it goes against me. When shall you be able to hear from Lady Merrifield?’
‘I wrote three weeks ago. I suppose I shall hear about half-way through December, and you know they could telegraph if they wanted to stop it, so I think you might be satisfied.’
Still Kalliope could not be persuaded, and finally, as a sort of compromise, Gillian decided on saying that she would think about it and give her answer at Christmas; to which she gave a reluctant assent, with one more protest that if there were no objection to the lessons, she could not see why Miss Mohun should not know of them.
Peace was barely restored before voices were heard, and in came Fergus, bringing Alexis with him. They had met on the beach road in front of the works, and Fergus, being as usual full of questions about a crane that was swinging blocks of stone into a vessel close to the little pier, his aunt had allowed him to stay to see the work finished, after which Alexis would take him to join his sister.
So it came about that they all walked home together very cheerfully, though Gillian was still much vexed under the surface at Kalliope’s old-maidish particularity.
However, the aunts were not as annoyed at the delay as she expected. Miss Mohun said she would look out some papers that would be convincing and persuasive, and that it might be as well not to enrol Miss White too immediately before the Christmas festivities, but to wait till the books were begun next year. Plans began to prevail for the Christmas diversions and entertainments, but the young Merrifields expected to have nothing to do with these, as they were to meet the rest of the family at their eldest uncle’s house at Beechcroft; all except Harry, who was to be ordained in the Advent Ember week, and at once begin work with his cousin David Merrifield in the Black Country. Their aunts would not go with them, as Beechcroft breezes, though her native air, were too cold for Adeline in the winter, and Jane could leave neither her, nor her various occupations, and the festivities of all Rockstone.
It is not easy to say which Gillian most looked forward to: Mysie’s presence, or the absence of the supervision which she imagined herself to suffer from, because she had set herself to shirk it. She knew she should feel more free. But behold! a sudden change, produced by one morning’s letters.
‘It is a beastly shame!’
‘Oh, Fergus! That’s not a thing to say,’ cried Valetta.
‘I don’t care! It is a beastly shame not to go to Beechcroft, and be poked up here all the holidays.’
‘But you can’t when Primrose has got the whooping-cough.’
‘Bother the whooping-cough.’
‘And welcome; but you would find it bother you, I believe.’
‘I shouldn’t catch it. I want Wilfred, and to ride the pony, and see the sluice that Uncle Maurice made.’
‘You couldn’t if you had the cough.’
‘Then I should stay there instead of coming back to school! I say it is horrid, and beastly, and abominable, and—’
‘Come, come, Fergus,’ here put in Gillian, ‘that is very wrong.’
‘You don’t hear Gill and me fly out in that way,’ added Valetta, ‘though we are so sorry about Mysie and Fly.’
‘Oh, you are girls, and don’t know what is worth doing. I will say it is beast—’
‘Now don’t, Fergus; it is very rude and ungrateful to the aunts. None of us like having to stay here and lose our holiday; but it is very improper to say so in their own house, and I thought you were so fond of Aunt Jane.’
‘Aunt Jane knows a thing or two, but she isn’t Wilfred.’
‘And Wilfred is always teasing you.’
‘Fergus is quite right,’ said Miss Mohun, who had been taking off her galoshes in the vestibule while this colloquy was ending in the dining-room; ‘it is much better to be bullied by a brother than made much of by an aunt, and you know I am very sorry for you all under the infliction.’
‘Oh, Aunt Jane, we know you are very kind, and—’ began Gillian.
‘Never mind, my dear; I know you are making the best of us, and I am very much obliged to you for standing up for us. It is a great disappointment, but I was going to give Fergus a note that I think will console him.’
And out of an envelope which she had just taken from the letter-box she handed him a note, which he pulled open and then burst out, ‘Cousin David! Hurrah! Scrumptious!’ commencing a war-dance at the same moment.
‘What is it? Has David asked you?’ demanded both his sisters at the same moment.
‘Hurrah! Yes, it is from him. “My dear Fergus, I hope”—hurrah—“Harry, mm—mm—mm—brothers, 20th mm—mm. Your affectionate cousin, David Merrifield.”’
‘Let me read it to you,’ volunteered Gillian.
‘Wouldn’t you like it?’
‘How can you be so silly, Ferg? You can’t read it yourself. You don’t know whether he really asks you.’
Fergus made a face, and bolted upstairs to gloat, and perhaps peruse the letter, while Valetta rushed after him, whether to be teased or permitted to assist might be doubtful.
‘He really does ask him,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘Your cousin David, I mean. He says that he and Harry can put up all the three boys between them, and that they will be very useful in the Christmas festivities of Coalham.’
‘It is very kind of him,’ said Gillian in a depressed tone.
‘Fergus will be very happy.’
‘I only hope he will not be bent on finding a coal mine in the garden when he comes back,’ said Aunt Jane, smiling; ‘but it is rather dreary for you, my dear. I had been hoping to have Jasper here for at least a few days. Could he not come and fetch Fergus?’
Gillian’s eyes sparkled at the notion; but they fell at once, for Jasper would be detained by examinations until so late that he would only just be able to reach Coalham before Christmas Day. Harry was to be ordained in a fortnight’s time to work under his cousin, Mr. David Merrifield, and his young brothers were to meet him immediately after.
‘I wish I could go too,’ sighed Gillian, as a hungry yearning for Jasper or for Mysie took possession of her.
‘I wish you could,’ said Miss Mohun sympathetically; ‘but I am afraid you must resign yourself to helping us instead.’
‘Oh, Aunt Jane, I did not mean to grumble. It can’t be helped, and you are very kind.’
‘Oh, dear!’ said poor Miss Jane afterwards in private to her sister, ‘how I hate being told I am very kind! It just means, “You are a not quite intolerable jailor and despot,” with fairly good intentions.’
‘I am sure you are kindness itself, dear Jenny,’ responded Miss Adeline. ‘I am glad they own it! But it is very inconvenient and unlucky that that unjustifiable mother should have sent her child to the party to carry the whooping-cough to poor little Primrose, and Mysie, and Phyllis.’
‘All at one fell swoop! As for Primrose, the worthy Halfpenny is quite enough for her, and Lily is well out of it; but Fly is a little shrimp, overdone all round, and I don’t like the notion of it for her.’
‘And Rotherwood is so wrapped up in her. Poor dear fellow, I hope all will go well with her.’
‘There is no reason it should not. Delicate children often have it the most lightly. But I am sorry for Gillian, though, if she would let us, I think we could make her happy.’
Gillian meantime, after her first fit of sick longing for her brother and sister, and sense of disappointment, was finding some consolation in the reflection that had Jasper discovered her instructions to Alexis White, he would certainly have ‘made no end of a row about it,’ and have laughed to scorn the bare notion of her teaching Greek to a counting-house clerk! But then Jasper was wont to grumble and chafe at all employments—especially beneficent ones—that interfered with devotion to his lordly self, and on the whole, perhaps he was safer out of the way, as he might have set on the aunts to put a stop to her proceedings. Of Mysie’s sympathy she was sure, yet she would have her scruples about the aunts, and she was a sturdy person, hard to answer—poor Mysie, whooping away helplessly in the schoolroom at Rotherwood! Gillian felt herself heroically good-humoured and resigned. Moreover, here was the Indian letter so long looked for, likely by its date to be an answer to the information as to Alexis White’s studies. Behold, it did not appear to touch on the subject at all! It was all about preparations for the double wedding, written in scraps by different hands, at different times, evidently snatched from many avocations and much interruption. Of mamma there was really least of all; but squeezed into a corner, scarcely legible, Gillian read, ‘As to lessons, if At. J. approves.’ It was evidently an afterthought; and Gillian could, and chose to refer it to a certain inquiry about learning the violin, which had never been answered—for the confusion that reigned at Columbo was plainly unfavourable to attending to minute details in home letters.
The longest portions of the despatch were papa’s, since he was still unable to move about. He wrote:—‘Our two “young men” think it probable you will have invitations from their kith and kin. If this comes to pass, you had better accept them, though you will not like to break up the Christmas party at Beechcroft Court.’
There being no Christmas party at Beechcroft Court, Gillian, in spite of her distaste to new people, was not altogether sorry to receive a couple of notes by the same post, the first enclosed in the second, both forwarded from thence.
‘VALE LESTON PRIORY,
‘9th December.
‘MY DEAR MISS MERRIFIELD—We are very anxious to make acquaintance with my brother Bernard’s new belongings, since we cannot greet our new sister Phyllis ourselves. We always have a family gathering at Christmas between this house and the Vicarage, and we much hope that you and your brother will join it. Could you not meet my sister, Mrs. Grinstead, in London, and travel down with her on the 23rd? I am sending this note to her, as I think she has some such proposal to make.—Yours very sincerely,
‘WILMET U. HAREWOOD.’
The other letter was thus—
‘BROMPTON, 10th December.
‘MY DEAR GILLIAN—It is more natural to call you thus, as you are becoming a sort of relation—very unwillingly, I dare say—for “in this storm I too have lost a brother.” However, we will make the best of it, and please don’t hate us more than you can help. Since your own home is dispersed for the present, it seems less outrageous to ask you to spend a Christmas Day among new people, and I hope we may make you feel at home with us, and that you will enjoy our beautiful church at Vale Leston. We are so many that we may be less alarming if you take us by driblets, so perhaps it will be the best way if you will come up to us on the 18th or 19th, and go down with us on the 23rd. You will find no one with us but my nephew—almost son—Gerald Underwood, and my niece, Anna Vanderkist, who will be delighted to make friends with your brother Jasper, who might perhaps meet you here. You must tell me all about Phyllis, and what she would like best for her Cingalese home.—Yours affectionately,
GERALDINE GRINSTEAD.
Thus then affairs shaped themselves. Gillian was to take Fergus to London, where Jasper would meet them at the station, and put the little boy into the train for Coalham, whither his brother Wilfred had preceded him by a day or two.
Jasper and Gillian would then repair to Brompton for two or three days before going down with Mr. and Mrs. Grinstead to Vale Leston, and they were to take care to pay their respects to old Mrs. Merrifield, who had become too infirm to spend Christmas at Stokesley.
What was to happen later was uncertain, whether they were to go to Stokesley, or whether Jasper would join his brothers at Coalham, or come down to Rockstone with his sister for the rest of the holidays. Valetta must remain there, and it did not seem greatly to distress her; and whereas nothing had been said about children, she was better satisfied to stay within reach of Kitty and mamma, and the Christmas-trees that began to dawn on the horizon, than to be carried into an unknown region of ‘grown-ups.’
While Gillian was not only delighted at the prospect of meeting Jasper, her own especial brother, but was heartily glad to make a change, and defer the entire question of lessons, confessions, and G.F.S. for six whole weeks. She might get a more definite answer from her parents, or something might happen to make explanation to her aunt either unnecessary or much more easy—and she was safe from discovery. But examinations had yet to be passed.