Part 61 (1/2)

”Very well, then; I shall try my best to do as you and papa wish.”

That was all Edith said, and Mrs. Harley was quite surprised. She had expected tears and protests, stormy and pa.s.sionate remonstrances--not this quiet submission so unlike Edith.

Perhaps no one understood the girl less than her own mother. It might have helped Mrs. Harley to know something of her daughter's inner nature if she could have seen her, after their talk together, steal quietly up to the nursery, where there were only the little ones at play, and, throwing her arms round little Francie, burst into a fit of quiet sobbing that fairly frightened the child.

”What is it, Edie? Don't cry, Edie! Francie'll give you a kiss, twenty kisses, if you won't cry,” said the pretty baby voice.

”Your poor Edie's going away, and it will break her heart to leave you, my pet,” said the girl through her tears, straining the child in a pa.s.sionate embrace. Presently she grew calmer, and put the wondering little one down.

”There, Francie, I've done crying now, and you needn't mind. You'll always love Edie, won't you, if she does go away?”

”Yes, always, always love Edie,” said the child; and Johnnie chimed in too, ”And me--me always love Edie.”

But there were the boys to be told after that--Alfred and Claude, the two bright boys of ten and eight years, who had been her own especial playmates; and loud was their outcry when they heard that Edith was going.

”We might as well have no sisters,” said the ungrateful young rascals.

”Maude and Jessie don't care for us. They only think we're in the way.

They're always telling us to wipe our feet, and not make such a noise; and Francie's too little for anything. We'd only got Edith, and now she's to go. It's too bad, that it is!”

But their protest availed nothing. The very same night Dr. Harley wrote to his sister, thanking her for her kind offer, and adding that, if convenient, he would bring his daughter Edith, fifteen years of age, to her aunt's home at Silchester in a week's time.

There was much to do in that short week in getting Edith's wardrobe into something like order. Each of the elder sisters sacrificed one of their limited number of dresses to be cut down and altered for the younger one.

The May suns.h.i.+ne of a rather late spring was beginning to grow warm and genial at last, and the girl really must have a new hat and gloves and shoes, and one or two print frocks, before she could possibly put in an appearance at Aunt Rachel's.

Almost anything had done for running about the lanes at Winchcomb, where every one knew the Harleys, and respected them far more for not going beyond their means, than they would have done for any quant.i.ty of fine apparel.

[Sidenote: Goodbye!]

But the preparations were finished at last, the goodbyes were said, and Edith, leaving home for the first time in her life, sat gravely by her father's side in the train that was timed to reach Silchester by six in the evening.

She had been up very early that morning, before any of the others were astir; and when she was dressed, went out into the garden, where she could be alone, to think her last thoughts of the wonderful change in her life.

She had gone on always so carelessly and happily, that the new turn of affairs sobered and startled her. She seemed to herself to say goodbye, not only to her home, but to the long, bright, happy childhood that had been spent there. And her thoughts were full of the few words Mrs.

Harley had spoken about her papa's expenses and worries.

”If I had only known,” she said to herself; ”if I had only thought about things, I would have tried to learn more, and be some help while I was here. But it is no use grieving about that now; it seems to me I am come to what our rector calls a 'turning point.' I can begin from to-day to act in a different way, and I will. I will just think in everything how I can help them all at home. I will try to please Aunt Rachel, and get her to like me, and then perhaps I shall grow in time to bear the thought of staying with her for a long, long while. Only, my poor boys and my dear little Johnnie and Francie--I did think I should have had you always. But it will be good for you, too, if I get on well at Silchester.”

When she had gone so far, Nancy, the housemaid, came out with broom and bucket, and the mingled sounds of laughing and crying, and babel of many voices that floated out through the opened windows, told Edith that the family were rising for the last breakfast together.

It was a good thing when all the farewells were over, and for the first few miles of the journey she was thankful to sit in silence in the stuffy second-cla.s.s carriage, and use all her strength of will to keep back the tears that would try to come.

”Papa,” she said shyly, as her father laid down his newspaper, and woke up to the fact that the two ladies who had begun the journey with them had got out at the last station--”papa, I want you to promise me something, please.”

”Well, Edith, what is it?”

”I want you to promise not to tell Aunt Rachel about all the things that I have done--while I was at home, I mean.”

”You have never done anything very dreadful, child,” said the doctor with a smile. ”Your Aunt Rachel has not been accustomed to little girls, it is true; but I suppose she won't expect you to be quite like an old woman.”

[Sidenote: ”I will do my very best”]