Part 61 (2/2)
”No; but if she knew about Johnnie and Francie falling into the water, and about the chickens, and how Alfred and I let Farmer Smith's cow into the potato-field, and the other things, she might not understand that I am going to be different; and I shall be different--I shall indeed, papa.”
”Yes, Edith, it is time you began to be more thoughtful, and to remember that there are things in the world, even for boys and girls, far more important than play. If it will be any comfort to you, I will readily promise not to mention the cow, or the chickens, or even that famous water escapade. But I shall trust to your own good sense and knowledge of what is right, and shall expect you to make for yourself a good character with your aunt. You may be sure she will, from the first, be influenced much more by your behaviour than by anything I can say.”
”Yes, I know,” murmured Edith. ”I will do my very best.”
She would have liked to say something about helping her father in his difficulties, but the shyness that generally overcame her when she talked to him prevented any further words on the subject; and Dr. Harley began to draw her attention to the objects of interest they were pa.s.sing, and to remark that in another twenty minutes they would be half-way to Silchester.
It seemed a long while to Edith before the train drew up in the large, gla.s.s-roofed station, so different from the little platform at Winchcomb, with the station-master's white cottage and fragrant flower-borders. Silchester is not a very large town, but to the country-bred girl the noise and bustle of the station, and of the first two or three streets through which they were driven in the cab Dr.
Harley had called, seemed almost bewildering.
Very soon, however, they began to leave shops and busy pavements behind, and to pa.s.s pretty, fancifully-built villas, with very high-sounding names, and trim flower-gardens in front. Even these ceased after a while, and there were first some extensive nursery grounds, and then green open fields on each hand.
”It will be quite the country after all, papa!” exclaimed Edith, surprised.
”Not quite, Edith. You will only be two or three miles out of Silchester, instead of twenty miles from everywhere, as we are at Winchcomb. Look! that is Aunt Rachel's house, just where the old Milford Lane turns out of the road--that house at the corner, I mean.”
”Where?” said Edith, half-bewildered. Her unaccustomed eyes could see nothing but greenery and flowers at first, for Miss Harley's long, low, two-storey cottage was entirely overgrown with dense ma.s.ses of ivy and other creeping plants. It stood well back from the road, in a gra.s.sy, old-fas.h.i.+oned garden, shaded by some fine elms; and one magnificent pear-tree, just now glorious in a robe of white blossoms, grew beside the entrance-gate.
”Oh, papa, what a lovely old house!” cried the girl involuntarily. ”Did you know it was like this?”
Dr. Harley smiled.
”I suppose you think it lovely, Edith. I have often wondered, for my own part, why your aunt should bury herself here. But come--jump out; there she is at the door. The King's Majesty would not draw her to the garden gate, I think.”
Edith got out of the cab, feeling like a girl in a dream, and followed her father up the gravel walk, noting mechanically the gorgeous colouring of tulips and hyacinths that filled the flower-beds on either hand.
A tall, grey-haired lady, well advanced in life, came slowly forward, holding out a thin, cold hand, and saying in a frigid tone, ”Well, brother, so we meet again after these ten years. I hope you are well, and have left your wife and family well also.”
[Sidenote: A Doubtful Welcome]
”Quite well, thank you, Rachel, excepting Maria, who is never very well, you know,” said the doctor heartily, taking the half-proffered hand in both his. ”And how are you, after all this long time? You don't look a day older than when we parted.”
”I am sorry I cannot return the compliment,” remarked the lady, with a grim smile. ”I suppose it is all the care and worry of your great family of children that have aged you so. And Maria was always such a poor, s.h.i.+ftless creature. I daresay, now, with all that your boys and girls cost you, you have two or three servants to keep, instead of making the girls work, and saving the wages and the endless waste that the best of servants make.”
”We have but two,” said the doctor, in a slightly irritated tone of voice. ”My girls and their mother are ladies, Rachel, if they are poor.
I can't let them do the rough work. For the rest, they have their hands pretty full, I can a.s.sure you. You have little idea, living here as you do, how much there is to be done for a family of nine children.”
”No, I am thankful to say I have not. But you had better come in, and bring the girl with you.”
With these ungracious words Aunt Rachel cast her eyes for the first time upon Edith, who had stood a silent and uncomfortable listener while her father and aunt were talking.
”Humph!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Miss Harley, after looking her niece over from top to toe with a piercing, scrutinising gaze, that seemed to take in every detail of figure, face, and toilette, and to disapprove of all; ”humph!
The child looks healthy, and that is all I can say for her. But bring her in, Henry--Stimson and the boy can see to her box. I suppose you will stay yourself for to-night?”
”I should not be able to go home to-night, as you know,” replied Dr.
Harley. ”But if my staying would be at all inconvenient, I can go to one of the Silchester hotels.”
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