Modern Broods; Or, Developments Unlooked For. Charlotte M. Yonge
tyre in two,” said Mysie.
“Like your tongue, eh, Mysie?”
“Well, you did not do it! That is a comfort. You would not let her transgress, and ruin her sister’s good bicycle.”
“She is an uncommonly pretty little sprite, and the selfish hag of a sister only left orders that I was to take care of the bike! I could see where there was a stone as well as anybody else.”
“Hag!” angrily cried Mysie, “she is the only nice one of the whole lot. Vera is a nasty little thing, or she would never think of meddling with what does not belong to her, or trying to persuade you to allow it.”
“I call it abominable selfishness, dog in the mangerish, to shut up such a machine as that, and condemn her sisters to one great lumbering one.”
“That’s one account,” said Valetta. “Paula said it was only till they had learnt to ride properly, and till the stones have a little worn in.”
“Yes,” said Mysie, “I could see Vera is an exaggerating monkey, just talking over and deluding Will, just as men like when they get a silly fit.”
By this time Wilfred had thought it expedient to put his bicycle to greater speed, and indulge in a long whistle to show how contemptible he thought his sisters as he went out of hearing.
“Paulina is nice and good,” said Valetta, “she has heard all about St. Kenelm’s, and wants to go there. Yes, and she means to be a Sister of Charity, only she is afraid her sister is narrow and low church.”
“That is stuff and nonsense,” said Mysie. “I have had a great deal of talk with Miss Prescott. She loves all the same books that we do. She is going to have G. F. S. and Mothers’ Union, and all at poor Arnscombe, and she told me to call her Magdalen.”
With which proofs of congeniality Valetta could not choose but be impressed.
CHAPTER VI—THE FRESCOES OF ST. KENELM’S
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay.—Tennyson.
The deferred expedition to Rockquay also began, Magdalen driving Vera and Thekla. She was pleased with her visitors, and hoped that the girls would feel the same, but Vera began by declaring that that Miss Merrifield was not pretty.
“Not exactly, but it is an honest, winning face.”
“So broad, and such a wide mouth, and no style at all, as I should have expected after all that about lords and ladies! An old blue serge and sailor hat!”
“You don’t expect people to drive about the country in silk attire?”
“Well, perhaps she is not out! Sister, do you know I am seventeen?”
“Yes, my dear, certainly.”
“Oh, look, look, there’s a dear little calf!” broke in Thekla, “and, oh! what horns the cows have. I shall be afraid to go near them! Was it only a sham mad bull when the little girl ran into the pond?”
“It was the railway whistle, and she had never heard it in the fields. She rushed away in a great fright and ran into the pond, full of horrible black mud. The gentlemen heard the scream and dragged her out, and it would have all been fun and a good story if she had not been so much afraid of the French lady’s maid. It is curious how the sight of those brown eyes brought the whole scene back to me. We all grew so fond of Mysie Merrifield in the few days we spent together, and she is very little altered.”
“Is she out?” asked Vera once more.
“Oh, yes, she cannot be less than twenty.”
“And I am seventeen,” said Vera, returning to the charge. “I ought to be out.”
“If there are nice invitations, I shall be quite ready to accept them for you.”
“But I am too old for the schoolroom and lessons and masters.”
“Too old or too wise?” said Magdalen laughing.
“I have got into the highest form in everything. Every one at Filston of my age is leaving off all the bother.”
“Not Agatha.”
“Oh, but Agatha is—!”
“Is what?
“Agatha is awfully clever, and wants to be something!”
“Something? But do you want to evaporate? To be nothing at all, I mean,” said Magdalen, seeing her first word was bewildering, and Thekla put in—
“Flapsy couldn’t go off in steam, could she? Isn’t that evaporating?”
“I think what she wants is to be a young lady at large! Eh, Vera? Only I don’t quite see how that is to be managed, even if it is quite a worthy ambition. But we will talk that over another time. Do you see how pretty those sails are crossing the bay?”
Neither girl seemed to have eyes for the lovely blue of the sea in the spring sunshine, nor the striking forms of ruddy peaks of rock that enclosed it. Uneducated eyes, she thought, as she slowly manœuvred the pony down the steep hill before coming to the Rockstone Cliff Road. The other two girls were following her direction across field and road, and making their observations.
“A dose of lords and ladies,” said Agatha.
“I thought they were rather nice,” said Paula.
“I see how it will be,” said Agatha. “They will patronise the M.A. as Lady Somebody’s old governess, and she will fawn upon them and run after them, and we shall be on those terms.”
“But I thought you meant to be a governess?”
“I shall make my own line. I know how swells look on a governess of the ancien régime, and how they will introduce her as the kindly old goody who mends my little lady’s frock!”
“The girl had not any airs,” said Paula. “She told me about the churches down there in the town—not the ones we went to on Sunday; but there’s one that is very low indeed, and St. Andrew’s, which is their parish church, was suiting the moderate high church folk; and there is St. Kenelm’s, very high indeed, Mr. Flight’s, I think I have heard of him, and it is just the right thing, I am sure.”
“Don’t flatter yourself that the M.A. will let you have much pleasure in it. It is just what people of her sort think dangerous.”
“But do you know, Nag, I do believe that it is the church that Hubert Delrio was sent down to study and make a design for.”
“Whew! There will be a pretty kettle of fish if he comes down about it! That is, if he and Flapsy have not forgotten all about the ice and the forfeits at Warner’s Grange, as is devoutly to be hoped.”
“Do you hope it really, Nag, for Flapsy really was very much—did care very much.”
“I have no great faith in Flapsy’s affections surviving the contact with greater swells.”
“Poor Hubert!”
“Perhaps his will not survive common sense. I am sure I hope not for both their sakes.”
“But, Nag, it would be very horrid of them if they had no constancy,” declared the more romantic Paula.
“It will be a regular mess if they do have it, and bring on horrid scrapes with the M.A. Just think. It is all very well to say she has known Hubert all his life; but she can’t treat him as a gentleman, or she won’t. She has a position to keep up with all these swells, and he will be only the man who paints the church! I only hope he will