The Little School-Mothers

“There is nothing at all I wouldn’t do for you.”

Harriet longed to say: “Love me better than Robina, and I will have obtained my heart’s desire.” But she did not think the time for this speech had come yet; and as, in reality, notwithstanding her affection for Ralph, she found herself from time to time rather worried by his presence, she now requested him to leave her, and the little boy ran downstairs and out into the open air.

There the first person he saw was his father.

“Oh, dad!” said the boy, dancing up to his parent, and putting his little hand in his.

“Well Ralph, old man,” said the great traveller, lifting the boy to his shoulder, “and how are you this afternoon?”

“Werry well,” said Ralph, “nearly quite well,” he added.

“And how is our other invalid, Harriet Lane?”

“She is better, father. Dear Harriet has been awfu’ bad. Did you guess, father, how bad she was?”

“No, my son: and I don’t think she was as bad as all that, for the doctor did not tell me so.”

“But she telled me her own self. She wouldn’t tell a lie, would Harriet.”

“Only, Ralph, when people are ill, they imagine they are much worse than they really are. That was the case with Harriet. She will be all right now in a day or two, and you can enjoy yourself as soon as possible.”

“Oh yes; oh yes!” said Ralph. He clasped one arm round his father’s neck. “Why has you got such a big brown neck?”

“Because, I suppose, I am a big brown man.”

“I love brown men ever so,” said Ralph.

“That is right.”

“And I love you best of all; and – and Harriet, and Robina. I has got three very great special friends – you, and Harriet, and Robina.”

“Why do you put them like that, Ralph?” answered his father, a certain uneasiness in his tone. “You mean it this way: you love father first – that is quite right – then comes Robina, then Harriet.”

“It used to be like that,” said Ralph, in a very low tone.

“And it is still, my son; it is still.”

Ralph fidgetted, and was silent. After a time he said:

“Put me down please, father.”

Mr Durrant obeyed.

“Take my hand, father,” said Ralph, “I want to lead you somewhere.”

Mr Durrant took the little hand. Ralph conducted his father to the edge of the round pond.

“Does you see the water over there?” said Ralph, “just over there where the lilies grow?”

“Of course, my dear boy.”

“And does you see the branch of the willow tree?”

“Well, yes, Ralph; having eyes, I see both the lilies and the willow tree.”

“Could you make a great, great guess, father, about how deep the water is there?”

“Roughly speaking,” said Mr Durrant, “I should say the water in that part was from seven to eight feet deep.”

Ralph straightened himself and looked full up at his father.

“I isn’t eight feet high, is I?”

Mr Durrant laughed.

“You little man,” he said, “you are not four feet yet.”

“Then if I was to stand bolt upright in that water where the lilies grow, I’d be drownded dead as dead could be?”

“Were such a thing to happen, you would be.”

“But if somebody swimmed out, somebody very, very brave, and clutched me, and brought me back to shore, I wouldn’t be a drownded boy; I’d be a saved boy,” said Ralph.

“That is true.”

“I’d most likely,” continued Ralph, “love that person very much.”

“It would be a brave thing to do, certainly,” said Mr Durrant. “But then it has not happened, Ralph, so don’t let your imagination run away with you.”

“No father,” said Ralph; “I won’t let my ’magination run ’way with me. I don’t quite know what it means, father; but – I won’t let it, – ’cause then I shouldn’t be close to you, father; and I love you best, and then Harriet, and then Robina.”

“Robina is a very fine girl,” said his parent. “I like her very much; I am glad she is your friend.”

“So does I like her: she was my school-mother. I like Harriet too, father: I like her awfu’ much. I mustn’t tell you nothing at all, but I like Harriet best of all my school-mothers.”

Mr Durrant thought for a short time over Ralph’s little speech to him. It puzzled the good man not a little. He did not, however, lay it deeply to heart. The boy was under the influence of Harriet, and, truth to tell, Mr Durrant did not take to that young lady. He was, however, sufficiently interested in her to pay her a visit that same evening in her own room.

She was a good deal startled and somewhat nonplussed when he first knocked at the door, then bent his tall head and entered the room.

“Well, Harriet,” he said, “I thought I would find out for myself how you are. I hope you are progressing well, and will soon be able to join the rest of us. It was strange how you and Ralph both caught cold the same day: it was very unlucky. How are you to-night, my dear girl?”

“Better,” said Harriet, changing colour as she spoke, for she was rather weak from her illness and was much excited by Mr Durrant’s visit. “I am better,” she continued; “I hope to be quite well by next week.”

“So do I hope you will be quite well, for time is speeding very fast, Harriet: the summer holidays go almost before we know they are with us. Now I have many expeditions in my mind’s eye – expeditions in which I want you and Ralph to join. This is Saturday night. To-morrow is Sunday. To-morrow, I am going to leave home for a day or two, but on Monday I shall be back again. I hope by then to find you quite well and enjoying yourself with the rest of your school-fellows. Everything that man can do will be done for your pleasure, and I trust I shall find my little party without any invalids amongst them waiting to welcome me back on Monday evening at the latest.”

“And what is going to happen on Tuesday?” asked Harriet, whose eyes began to sparkle now, for she had suddenly lost her fear of Mr Durrant.

“The weather is so fine at present,” was his reply, “that I have chartered a yacht and am going to take you all for a cruise. What do you say to that? You are not likely to be sea-sick, are you?”

“Never was sea-sick in the whole course of my life,” said Harriet, dimpling all over her face now with anticipation.

“I thought I’d discovered something to please you. The sea breezes will put colour into those pale cheeks. Ponies, donkeys, governess carts will all be left behind, and for one long perfect week we shall coast round the Isle of Wight, and other parts of this perfect country. What do you say? I have already mentioned the matter to the others, and I find that they are, without a single exception, good sailors.”

“I will be well enough, whoever else isn’t,” said Harriet, stoutly. “It’ll be lovely, lovely. You know I have spent all my early days at the seaside.”

“Have you? Then of course you are accustomed to yachting.”

“I am accustomed to going out in the fishing boats: I often did so at Yarmouth: I used to make great friends with the sailors.”

“Then that will be capital, my dear. Now I am leaving early to-morrow. You won’t guess where I am going, will you?”

“How can I guess, Mr Durrant?”

“To no less a place than Robina’s home.”

“Robina’s home,” said Harriet. She felt herself turning red, and one of her hands which had been lying idle on her lap, clenched itself tightly. “Why to Robina’s home?” she asked.

“That is just it. I have a little scheme in my head; why should not I tell you? I have told her – why should not you also be in the secret?”

“Oh, please, please tell me?” said Harriet. “I love secrets,” she added.

“Most girls do. Well, this is the state of things. You know that my first intention was to send Ralph back to Mrs Burton’s school with you and the other school-mothers. He was to be primarily under Robina’s care, and the rest of you were of course to be good to him. Dear, kind Mrs Burton had consented to the arrangement, and everything was going well, when, lo and behold! I was obliged to change my plans.”

“Oh!” said Harriet: “to change your plans – how? why?”

“I will tell you why, dear Harriet, and I am sure you will sympathise with me. I know you have a great regard for my little boy, and I believe he returns your regard; therefore anything connected with his future will be of interest to you. Mrs Burton cannot receive Ralph at her school as she at first promised to do. She will herself give you her reasons for this, but I need not trouble you about them at the present moment. Suffice it to say that Ralph cannot go back to Abbeyfield, and therefore I have to make other arrangements for him.”

“Yes,” said Harriet, in a breathless sort of voice. “Dear Ralph! He is such a sweet little boy. Have you made your arrangements, Mr Durrant?”

“I am going to South Africa early in October,” was his reply, “and cannot take my dear little son with me: he must remain in England. Now, this house is quite to my liking. It is large, and airy and well drained and not far from the seaside. I know a lady, a special friend of mine, who will come to look after Ralph, and he can have the best masters at Eastbourne and a daily tutor who will come out here to instruct him. But all these advantages are not sufficient. He must have a companion. There is in my opinion no companion so suitable for all that Ralph requires as Robina Starling; and I am going to see her father to-morrow in order to make arrangements for her to remain with him.”

“And not go back to Abbeyfield?” said Harriet.

Her voice was low. It was getting dusk too, and Mr Durrant could not very well see her face.

“Robina would not go back to school?” she repeated.

“In that case, no; but she would lose nothing thereby; for I should make it a personal matter, and would see that her education was thoroughly finished at my expense. She is a clever girl, and I can give her not only the very best masters, to develop what talent she possesses, but would eventually send her to Girton, where I understand she greatly longs to go.” Harriet was quite silent. “You approve, don’t you?” said Mr Durrant, scarcely knowing why he asked the question.

Harriet gave a little gasp.

“You are very, very good,” she said: “you have done a great deal for the girl that Ralph likes best. Is the girl who is to stay with him while you are away to be the girl he likes best, or the girl you like best? Hitherto, it has been the girl he likes best. Is that to be the case still?”

“I hope so, indeed I trust that he will like Robina best.”

“Because you do,” said Harriet.

“Yes, Harriet,” said Mr Durrant. “I like her; she is honest, and honourable. She has never, to my knowledge, done an underhand thing: I could not stand underhand ways in the companion who has to be so much in the society of my little son. I love honour before all things – honour and truth: they are the pillars in which the whole character must be raised to any sort of strength or perfection. I believe Robina to be both honourable and truthful.”

“Yes,” said Harriet: “you would not let her have the charge of Ralph if she had not these qualities.”

“Certainly not: but she has. I will wish you good-night now. I hope you will be quite well on Monday evening when I return from my visit to the Brown House.”

Mr Durrant left the room, and Harriet lay back in her deep, easy chair, lost in thought. Once again she said to herself:

“That horrid girl is about to supplant me. I wonder, oh, I wonder!”

She thought long and hard.

Book Two – Chapter Eight

Mr Durrant Visits Brown House

Mr Durrant arrived at the Brown House on Sunday afternoon. It was a day when few visitors were expected. Mr Starling, having gone to church in the morning, invariably spent the afternoon lying back in a cosy corner of the green-house, smoking and reading a Sunday newspaper. He was by no means an irreligious man, but he liked his ease on Sunday, being under the supposition that he worked extremely hard during the week days. Mrs Starling spent Sunday afternoon lying down and imagining herself a little worse than usual. Miss Felicia sat in the drawing-room, and Violet and Rose played on the lawn.

They were quite good little children and never made any unruly noise – that is, except when Robina was at home. Robina brought a disturbing element into their young lives: but now that she was gone, and Bo-peep was gone, the entire Starling family had settled down into their ordinary habits.

The day was an intensely hot one, and when Mr Durrant appeared on the scene, he stood still for a minute to wipe the moisture from his brow.

“Hallo, little ’un!” he said to Rose who, not at all shy, toddled up to him.

“What’s ’oo want, g’ate big man?” was her inquiry.

“I want your father, or your mother, or your aunt,” was Malcolm Durrant’s reply. “I want some one who can tell me something. Now I know you can’t, because you’re too small.”

“There’s my auntie in the drawing-room,” said Violet at that moment. Violet by no means wished Rose to monopolise the stranger. “She’ll say ‘Don’t’ if you has mud on your boots: but you hasn’t, they is quite clean.”

“Only dusty,” said Rose. “Let’s dust ’em.”

She knelt down as she spoke, and, taking the skirt of her little white frock, began to remove the dust from the stranger’s boots.

“Don’t, Rose! Rose, how dare you!” called a shrill voice from the drawing-room, and Miss Felicia made her appearance through the open window. “How do you do, sir,” she said. “I must apologise for my niece. Really, Rose, your conduct is disgraceful. Go away at once to the nursery and get your frock changed; what a dreadful mess you are in!”

“Poor little one!” said Malcolm Durrant. “She but did what her sex did before her for the Saviour of all the world. Forgive her, madam.”

He spoke in a very courteous tone, and, raising his hat, exhibited a noble brow and features which at once puzzled Miss Felicia and caused her heart to beat. “Won’t you come indoors, sir?” she said.

“And don’t ‘don’t’ him, please auntie!” said Violet.

But Miss Felicia, agitated, she knew not why, did not even hear her. She conducted the stranger into the little drawing-room.

“Sit down, sir,” she said. “And now, may I ask your name. You have, of course, come to see my brother-in-law on business. I can call him in a moment; but first, would you not like something to drink?”

“Very much, indeed,” said the stranger. “The fact is, I was never in such a thirsty place in the whole course of my life. A cup of tea or – or lemonade or – or – water – in fact, anything except spirits.”

“Dear sir, I am glad you are a teetotaller.”

“Dear madam, I drink wine in moderation; but that is neither here nor there. I should not like it at the present moment. You want to know my name? Malcolm Durrant. Your niece – for surely you are Miss Felicia Jennings – is at present honouring me by residing under my roof.”

“So you are the great traveller,” said Miss Felicia. She felt herself turning quite pale. “Sir,” she said, in a low reverent tone, “I honour you. It is a great, great privilege to have you under this roof. I will presently tell my brother-in-law and my sister of your arrival. My poor sister is a sad invalid; but to see you – I have not the slightest doubt – she will make an effort to come downstairs.”

“And I earnestly beg,” said Durrant, “she will do nothing of the kind. My business can be confided to you, madam. You can acquaint your sister and your brother-in-law with my desires, and they can either accept or refuse. But first of all – your hospitality was very much to the fore, dear madam, a minute ago; and I am terribly thirsty.”

Never did Miss Felicia Jennings in the whole course of her life feel happier than now. She tripped eagerly from the room, knocking against a chair as she did so. In a few minutes, she conveyed in her own fair hands a large glass of cool lemonade to her guest. He drank it off to the last drop, put down the empty glass, and told Miss Felicia in the most courteous language that she was a good Samaritan.

“Ah! my dear sir,” was her reply. “Who would not be a good Samaritan to you?”

Durrant settled himself comfortably in his easy chair.

“You have a nice little place here,” he said, “and a pretty out-look. How many sweet and peaceful homes there are in England! – and those two dear little maids to welcome me on the lawn. I only wish that they belonged to my party of young people who are at present enjoying life at Sunshine Lodge.”

“They are too young to leave home at present,” said Miss Felicia; “although I doubt not that being in your presence would do them a great deal of good. May I ask, my dear sir, how that precious little animal, Bo-peep, is progressing?”

“Bo-peep is, I believe, in admirable health, and so is Robina. You have not asked yet after the welfare of your niece.”

“Robina is a strong child: she never ails anything,” replied Miss Felicia.

“I am glad to be able to inform you that she remains in her normal, health,” answered Durrant. “And now for the purpose of this visit. I have, as you know, a little son.”

“I have heard of him; a child after your own heart – in fact, your Benjamin.”

“My little son; my only child,” said Durrant. “He is young – not yet quite six years old. I do not care to send children of such a tender age to school. I have many schemes for his future while I, alas! am forced to part from him, and my final desire is to leave him in his present home with a trustworthy lady whom I know, and who was my late dear wife’s relation – and with one young girl to be his constant companion. The girl I particularly wish to be with Ralph during my absence is, madam, your niece, Robina Starling.”

“Indeed!” said Miss Felicia. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘Don’t,’ but the word did not come.

“You look surprised,” said the traveller.

“Well,” said Miss Felicia, “I know you admire Robina, or you would not have given her that pony in such an extraordinary and munificent way. But surely, she is a little – a little rough – if I may so express it.”

“Hers is an upright character: she is upright, honest, truthful. My boy cares for her, and she cares for him: he cannot be under better influence. In short, if her father and mother consent, I want to make them an offer with regard to their child, Robina.”

“And what is that offer, Mr Durrant?”

“I want to take her from her present school, making arrangements with Mrs Burton, so that Mr Starling may be put to no expense by her transfer. I want to give her all the possible advantages of a good education. These can partly be supplied by Mrs Temple, who is a very polished and accomplished lady, and partly by masters and mistresses who visit Eastbourne weekly from London. Eventually, if she so desires it, I would pay all her expenses at Girton or Newnham.”

“It is a great chance for Robina: to be honest with you,” continued Miss Felicia, “we sent her from home because she was a little noisy, and upset her poor dear mother, who is a sad invalid; but she is a good girl on the whole.”

“I find her an excellent girl: I like her very much.”

“Well, sir,” said Miss Felicia; “I thank you for what you have told me. I will now go and acquaint my brother-in-law with the fact that he is deeply honoured by your visit to our humble roof.”

“Don’t put it in that way, I beg of you, madam. Try, please, and remember that when I am at home I may be just an ordinary individual, and in no sense wish to be lionised. You will oblige me by bearing this fact in mind.”

“I will endeavour to do so,” said Miss Felicia. She left the room, nodding many times to herself.

“Now he is under our roof – I have looked at him: I have heard his voice. I wonder if he will write his name in my birthday book. I should so prize it. I have not had one real celebrity to write in my book yet. Malcolm Durrant! How that great name would stand out amongst the inferior signatures of the people in our small neighbourhood. Oh, what a chance for Robina! Of course she will go. And her expenses lifted from her father’s head. He will grab at it. I can’t imagine myself what such a great man as Malcolm Durrant finds in the child. Still, these great people are very odd now and then in their preferences. I must go to wake Edward. Dear, dear! what a lot of sleep that man does require!”

She burst open the green-house door.

“Edward; how you are snoring! Do rouse yourself. Who do you think is in the drawing-room?”

“Dear me, Felicia! How can I tell,” replied Edward Starling, rubbing his eyes and looking at his sister-in-law in a dazed way. “You know perfectly well that I don’t see visitors on Sunday. It is my one day of rest after a week of toil.”

“A week of toil, indeed! Why, you do nothing. But rouse yourself now, if you don’t want your child to lose her golden chance in life. There is no less a person waiting for you in the drawing-room than the great traveller, Malcolm Durrant!”

Now the fame of this very great person had penetrated even to Edward Starling’s ears, and he roused himself at the news, fixing his eyes in some amazement on his sister-in-law.

“You must be dreaming,” he said. “It is quite impossible that Durrant should come here.”

“But he has come here! It is about Robina; he wants to settle her in life, to do everything for her. You had best go and clinch the bargain. What he sees in her is more than I can tell. If I had my way, and could speak honestly to the poor dear man, I would say ‘Don’t’ fast enough. But there – these geniuses always take strange fancies – do let me pull your collar down, Edward, and smooth that long lock of your front hair. It looks so queer half hanging down your back. Now then, you look better. Go in: make yourself agreeable. I will follow in a few minutes just to see that you don’t make a fool of yourself.”

Book Two – Chapter Nine

A Discovery

Malcolm Durrant might be a great traveller, and doubtless was; but all the same, Mr Starling felt annoyed at being disturbed in his Sunday nap. Great people did not raise enthusiasm within his breast: he believed in them, of course, and would have been quite interested to hear some of the said Malcolm Durrant’s adventures, had that gentleman been kind enough to tell them. But on a hot August afternoon, sleep was more refreshing than anything else, and he was not in the best of humours, when he entered the room where his guest was waiting for him.

Robina – Something was about to happen which would be to Robina’s advantage. As a matter of fact, she was his favourite child. He had a much better time when she was at home than when she was at school. She suited him, as he himself expressed it, down to the ground. She “ragged” him, as she called it. She was not at all afraid of him. She made him laugh. She encouraged him to be more noisy at meals than Miss Felicia thought was seemly in the house with a great invalid. He had yielded to Miss Felicia’s representations that school was necessary for Robina. She had gone to school, and some one else had discovered her virtues, for she had come back accompanied by a very valuable adjunct – no less a thing than a live pony, a spirited animal which could gallop and canter and trot and look all that was bright and intelligent. This animal, provided with a side-saddle and attendant groom whose wages were paid by some one else was a great addition to the ménage at the Brown House. When Robina went away to Sunshine Lodge, accompanied by the pony and the groom and the side-saddle, Edward Starling had missed his child and her belongings a great deal. He wondered what else was to be expected of him, and nodded curtly now to the stranger as he entered the room.

“Glad to see you, of course, sir,” he said. “How is Robina?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Durrant.

“You are a great person, Mr Durrant,” said Starling: “that is, you have made a great name for yourself. But be that as it may, I hold with the words, ‘A man’s a man for a’ that.’ You are a man, sir, and I am another, and Robina is my child. Now, my sister-in-law, who between ourselves is a right good sort but a bit of a goose, considers you not a man, but an archangel, with a halo round you. Now I see neither the archangel nor the halo, but a person who at present is enjoying the society of my pleasing young daughter. I understand that you have come to say something to me about her. What, Mr Durrant, may that something be?”

“A very outspoken something,” replied Durrant. “I am exceedingly glad, Mr Starling, that you speak to me as you do. I am not an archangel, and I wear no halo. I am an ordinary man. Circumstances have placed me, on several occasions, in positions of extreme danger where, if I had not used an Englishman’s pluck, I should have been worsted in the battle. I only did, sir, what you or any other man would have done under the circumstances. But now – to come to your child. I want to know if you will grant me a very great favour.”