“Father, I should like to go to school—I long to go—I want to get on with my music, and Miss Briggs can’t teach me any more.”
“Father, when girls are at boarding-schools they have parties and theatricals, and go to concerts, and have all sorts of fun. We never have anything like that.”
“Father, I am not a child; I am nearly eighteen. Chrystabel Maynard was only seventeen at the beginning of the book?”
Mr. Bertrand stirred uneasily, and brushed the hair from his forehead. Chrystabel Maynard was one of his own heroines, and the allusion brought home the reality of his daughter’s age as nothing else could have done. His glance passed by Norah and Lettice and lingered musingly on Hilary’s face.
“Ha, what’s this? The revolt of the daughters!” he cried. “Well, dears, you are quite right to be honest. If you have any grievances on your little minds, speak out for goodness’ sake, and let me hear all about them. I am not an ogre of a father, who does not care what happens to his children so long as he gets his own way. I want to see you happy.—So you are seventeen, Hilary! I never realised it before. You are old enough to hear my reason for keeping you down here, and to judge if I am right. When your mother died, three years ago, I was left in London with seven children on my hands. You were fourteen then, a miserable, anaemic creature, with a face like a tallow candle, and lips as white as paper. The boys came home from school and ran wild about the streets. I could not get on with my work for worrying about you all, and a man must work to keep seven children. I saw an advertisement of this house in the papers one day, and took it on the impulse of the moment. It seemed to me that you would all grow strong in this fine, mountain air, and that I could work in peace, knowing that you were out of the way of mischief. So far as the boys and myself are concerned, the plan has worked well. I get on with my work, and they enjoy running wild in their holidays; but the little lasses have pined, have they? Poor little lasses! I am sorry to hear that. Now come—the post brought me some cheques this morning, and I am inclined to be generous. Next week, or the week after, I must run up to London on business, and I will bring you each a nice present on my return. Choose what it shall be, and I will get it for you if it is to be found in the length and breadth of the city. Now then, wish in turns. What will you have?”
“It’s exactly like the father in Beauty and the Beast, before he starts on his travels! I am sure Lettice would like a white moss rose!” cried Norah roguishly. “As for me, I am afraid it’s no use. There is only one thing I want—lessons from the very best violin master in London!”
“Three servants who could work by electricity, and not keep me running after them all day long!”
“Half a dozen big country houses near to us, with sons and daughters in each, who would be our friends.”
They were all breathless with eagerness, and Mr. Bertrand listened with wrinkled brow. He had expected to be asked for articles of jewellery or finery, and the replies distressed him, as showing that the discontent was more deepseated than he had imagined. For several moments he sat in silence, as though puzzling out a difficult problem. Then his brow cleared, and he smiled, his own, cheery smile.
“Hilary, pack your boxes, and get ready to go up to London with me on Monday week. If you are seventeen, you are old enough to pay visits, and we will stay for a fortnight with my old friend Miss Carr, in Kensington. She is a clever woman, and I will talk to her and see what can be done. I can’t work miracles, but I will do what I can to please you. May I be allowed to have another cup of tea, Miss Seventeen?”
“Poor, dear, old father! Don’t look so subdued. You may have a dozen if you like. Monday next! How lovely! You are the dearest father in all the world!”
Mr. Bertrand shrugged his shoulders.
“When I give you your own way,” he said drily. “Pass the cake, Lettice. If I have three grown-up daughters on my hands, I must make every effort to keep up my strength.”
Lettice and Norah had a little conversation on the stairs as they went upstairs to change their dresses for dinner.
“It’s very nice for Hilary, this going up to London; but it doesn’t do us any good. When is something going to happen for us?”
“I suppose we shall have to wait for our turn,” sighed Lettice dolefully; but that very same evening an unexpected excitement took place in the quiet household, and though the Mouse’s prophecy was fulfilled, inasmuch as it could hardly be called an incident of a cheerful nature, it was yet fated to lead to great and far-reaching results.
Chapter Three.
An Unexpected Guest.
The old grandfather’s clock was just striking six o’clock when Raymond and Bob, the two public schoolboys, came home from their afternoon excursion. They walked slowly up the drive, supporting between them the figure of a young fellow a few years older than themselves, who hopped painfully on one foot, and was no sooner seated on the oak bench in the hall, than he rested his head against the rails, and went off into a dead faint. The boys shouted at the pitch of their voices, whereupon Mr. Bertrand rushed out of his sanctum, followed by every other member of his household.
“Good gracious! Who is it? What is the matter? Where did he come from? Has he had an accident?” cried the girls in chorus, while Miss Briggs ran off for sal volatile and other remedies.
The stranger was a tall, lanky youth, about eighteen years of age, with curly brown hair and well-cut features, and he made a pathetic figure leaning back in the big oak seat.
“He’s the son of old Freer, the Squire of Brantmere,” explained Raymond, as he busied himself unloosing the lad’s collar and tie. “We have met him several times when we have been walking. Decent fellow—Harrow—reading at home for college, and hates it like poison. We were coming a short cut over the mountains, when he slipped on a bit of ice, and twisted his ankle trying to keep up. We had an awful time getting him back. He meant to stay at the inn to-night, as his people are away, and it was too dark to go on, but he looks precious bad. Couldn’t we put him up here?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Better carry him straight to bed and get off that boot,” said Mr. Bertrand cordially. “It will be a painful job, and if we can get it done before he comes round, so much the better. Here, you boys, we’ll carry him upstairs between us, and be careful not to trip as you go. Someone bring up hot water, and bandages from the medicine chest. I will doctor him myself. I have had a fair experience of sprained ankles in my day, and don’t need anyone to show me what to do.”
The procession wended its way up the staircase, and for the greater part of the evening father and brothers were alike invisible. Fomentations and douches were carried on with gusto by Mr. Bertrand, who was never more happy than when he was playing the part of amateur surgeon; then Miss Briggs had her innings, and carried a tray upstairs laden with all the dainties the house could supply, after partaking of which the invalid was so far recovered that he was glad of his friends’ company, and kept them laughing and chatting in his room until it was time to go to bed.
The next morning the ankle was much better, but, at his host’s instigation, the young fellow despatched a note to his mother, telling her not to expect him home for a few days, as Mr. Bertrand wished him to stay until he was better able to bear the long, hilly drive.
The girls discussed the situation as they settled down to finish the much disliked mending in the afternoon. “It’s very annoying,” Hilary said. “I do hope he won’t be long in getting better. We were going to London on Monday week,