CHAPTER XXVII.

TWO DEPARTURES.

The month of June goes on auspiciously both out-of-doors and in at the Rookery. Besides having brought the rose-trees to a state of perfection, which charms and delights the Mr. Talboys beyond measure, Molly has secured not only one, but two of the retired baker's daughters for music pupils. Indeed, Mrs. Hallam is so charmed with the progress that Violet and Lilian (who are really musical by nature) are making in the hands of their clever little instructress, that she, Molly, is promised the whole family (which is numerous) in succession so soon as each one becomes old enough.

To be sure, Violet and Lilian Hallam give poor Molly a good deal of trouble between them, their tempers being anything but sweet; but she is not a girl to brook the slightest disrespect or impertinence from anyone, much less from a child who is under her own control for the time being. The consequence is, that having found this out for themselves in their very first lesson, and discovered that their usual method of treating their governess is not practicable in Miss Merivale's case, they take it out of each other. On duet days especially they often actually come to blows, and on these occasions the music, it is to be feared, sometimes obtains scant attention; Molly's whole time being taken up in preventing the sisters from doing one another an injury.

Their mother they rule with a rod of iron. The head nurse, who has been with Mrs. Hallam since the birth of her first child, is in a chronic state of giving notice, though she is generally persuaded into staying on by her master and mistress, and yet the young rebels, though such termagants in a general way, have at heart warm and affectionate natures. Not one governess has ever been known to stay beyond the first quarter, so that Mrs. Hallam, coming suddenly into the room one day and seeing her daughters hanging round Molly, to whom they have taken an immense fancy, throws up her hands in amazement.

"I cannot think how you manage them so well, Miss Merivale! You never give way to them, and yet they always seem as docile as lambs with you, and they are so fond of you too! I never can get them to attend to a word _I_ say. Their father is the only one in the house that can manage them."

Molly smiles, and while pinning on her hat mutters something about their mother being "too indulgent perhaps." She does not say what is really in her mind, however, that the very fact of her not giving way to her obstreperous pupils is probably the reason that they are better behaved with her than anyone else.

Besides the Hallams, Molly has one or two other pupils in prospect, so that before long she hopes to help very considerably with the household expenses. As it is, indeed, she contributes a nice little sum from time to time, her pride and delight being unbounded when, having completed her first course of lessons to Dolly Bolton, she brings home her first earnings and pours the little pile of money into Honor's lap.

Honor also is now making a steady little income every week by her painting on tin, which has become most popular, especially in the immediate neighbourhood. Besides the stipulated number of landscapes for Mr. Spaull, which are taken up at stated intervals by Mr. Edward Talboys with most elaborate care, Honor has a good many odd orders; for the old gentlemen were so charmed and delighted with the effect of the pretty little scenes that they immediately made a round of calls, with a view to showing their specimen to all their friends and perhaps getting some pupils for their _protégé_.

The time is now rapidly drawing near when Doris is to join her aunt in town, previous to their departure for the Continent.

The weather having taken a capricious fancy to be extremely hot, in fact more like late July or August than June, the girls sit out-of-doors a great deal with their work and their books.

Although no one speaks openly of it, there is a feeling with them all that Doris cannot be made too much of in these last few days before her long separation from them. Doris's pillow is often wet with the tears which she quietly sheds at night, when she thinks Honor is asleep, at the thought that to-morrow will bring her one day nearer to the parting she so much dreads.

Time marches on, however, in his inexorable fashion, and the last day having really come, all go about their work with an elaborately indifferent air, each one making heroic efforts to keep up for the others' sake. The whole family (with the exception of Mrs. Merivale, who has taken leave of her daughter at home quietly) is now standing by the door of a third-class compartment in the London train, in which Doris, surrounded by small packages, is standing up, with tear-bestreamed face, a large smut on her forehead, and a general limpness which extends itself to the handkerchief in her hand, which just now is doing double duty as it were, as are those of all the others.

Doris has been kissed by each one in turn several times, and the usual last questions have been asked and answered, and now the guard comes along with his key, and having locked the door quietly moves them all back a little; with no lasting result, however, for they are all crowding round again the moment he is gone.

"Are you _sure_," says Honor with a trembling voice, "that you have got everything?"

"O yes, _everything_!" answers Doris with a gasp of despair.

Honor looks round incredulously, for each one has been carrying to the station a bag, basket, or something belonging to her sister, and as her careful eye travels round she suddenly pounces on Molly, who is discovered still clinging desperately to Doris's umbrella, her thoughts being entirely taken up with the direful fact that the dreaded moment has indeed arrived at last! The umbrella is handed in through the window, and kissing being now rather a daring thing to attempt after the stentorian "Stand away there!" of the guard, Honor and Molly are reaching up their hands for a final squeeze, when Doris, first feeling wildly in the little pocket of her jacket, then diving after her purse, exclaims:

"Good gracious! my ticket; who's got it? I haven't!"

In the excitement of the search Doris overturns her little luncheon basket, and, oblivious of the fact that the cork of her travelling flask has come out, and the milk it contains is quietly spreading itself out on the cushion until it comes to a little ridge in the leather, where it collects in a nice little pool, she leans distractedly out of the window to see the result of the hurried search which they are all making in all sorts of impossible places.

But at this critical moment, and just as the guard is about to blow his whistle, Dick, who has strolled off to look at the advertisements, appears on the scene, and Honor, suddenly remembering that she had intrusted him with the money for the ticket when first they arrived at the station, rushes at him and grasps his arm wildly.

"The ticket!" she gasps; "you've forgotten to take the ticket!"

"I haven't," returns Dick, much injured. "I thought I gave it to you. Oh, here it is; better late than never!" and with supreme indifference at the anxiety depicted on every face he hands it up to Doris, and at the same moment the train moves.

They all run along beside it for a second or two, but its pace soon gets beyond theirs, and they are left disconsolately on the platform, waving their hands to a white handkerchief which is fluttering from one of the windows, and is literally all of Doris that is now to be seen.

* * * * * * * * *

That same afternoon Hugh Horton runs down to bid them all farewell before leaving for Ireland the next day. He is naturally not in the best of spirits, and looks so gloomy and melancholy while reminding Molly of her promise regarding the slippers, that that young lady tells him plainly that if he cannot look a little more cheerful over it he shall not have them at all.

"Don't be unkind, Molly," remonstrates Honor.

"I'm not," replies the girl, reddening; "besides he is not going to Kamtchatka. I said I would make them if he went there, or to some other outlandish place."

"It does not matter, Molly, _where_ one goes particularly, when leaving all one loves behind;" and Hugh sighs heavily. "It would be just as painful to me to take up my quarters in the next village merely, if I knew for certain that I should not see my mother or--or any of you for some long time to come."

Molly looks a little abashed.

"But you will have leave," she says.

"O yes, of course I shall have leave; but not very often, I suppose."

"You must write to us as often as you can," says Mrs. Merivale kindly. "You know I take just as much interest in all you boys as if you were my own."

Molly strolls down to the gate with Hugh when he has taken leave of all the others; but he is very silent, and she, thinking that perhaps she has hurt his sensitive feelings with some of her random talk, is silent also.

In a minute or two Hugh rouses himself, however, and says:

"Molly, I have never told you how awfully glad I am that you are all getting on so much better now, as to funds and all that sort of thing, you know. I do think you have all shown yourselves such good girls in having met your misfortunes so bravely; and I cannot tell you how glad I feel that you have all had your reward, and have a little more peace and comfort now than you had. Mother is always talking about you all, and saying how much she admires the spirit and unselfishness with which you turned to and made the best of everything."

"_I'm_ not unselfish!" cries Molly, looking surprised. "Why, I'd take a footstool or an easy-chair from anybody! It's no use saying I don't care about being comfortable, because I _do_!"

Hugh takes no notice of this interruption, but goes on as if nothing had been said.

"Yes, we were talking about you last night, mother and I, and what do you think she said about you, Molly, particularly?"

Molly shakes her head.

"I don't know," she says.

"She told me she considered that you had had quite as much to do with influencing me for good as she had. I told her of some of your lectures too, and she says you are a right-minded, good girl, and she admires you for what she calls your 'spirit' in taking me to task as you did."

Molly blushes up to the roots of her chestnut curls at this praise from one whose opinion is to be valued.

"Did you tell her about the _dust_?" she inquires.

"Of course I did!" replies Hugh, laughing, "and she enjoyed the story immensely. And now, Molly, you will write to me while I'm away, won't you? You can lecture and blow me up as much as you like, only let me go away thinking that my little mentor will still take the same interest in scapegrace Hugh that she has hitherto."

"Yes, I will, Hugh; here's my hand upon it. Of course it is all nonsense," she adds suddenly; "but if--if I have really been of any use in--in urging you on, you know, I am _very_ glad. And now, would you like me to tell you a secret? Well, the slippers are more than half done already! Good-bye; be a good boy!" and without waiting for another word she runs back to the house, never stopping till she has reached the steps, when she turns round and waves her hand with rather a feeble smile.

She is not _quite_ sure whether it is Hugh still standing where she left him, or whether it is only the gate-post, for there are two large tears trickling down the now saddened and softened face of plain-speaking little Molly, which seriously obstruct her vision.

There is quite a feeling of desolation all through the house after this second departure, for although not actually one of themselves, Hugh and his brothers have so often been down to see them that he is missed as much as if he were almost.

In a few days Doris's first letter arrives, and they are all relieved to find that she is less home-sick than might have been expected. Their own spirits rise in proportion therefore.

Part of Doris's letter runs thus:--

"We had a bad passage across, at least so aunt says. I didn't feel it a bit though. Uncle disappeared mysteriously, and as he looked rather pale when he reappeared on our reaching Calais, I strongly suspected he was not very flourishing either. I have made a grand discovery, however, through this bad weather. Nothing more nor less than the reason why aunt will never take off her bonnet unless she has a cap at hand to put on immediately. Aunt, I must tell you, very soon expressed her intention of going down into the cabin, so I went with her and made her as comfortable as circumstances would permit. It was such a dreadfully close, stuffy atmosphere that I was thankful to get up into the air again. After a time I thought I ought to go down and see how poor aunty was getting on; so after a good deal of stumbling and floundering (for the boat was rolling very much) I at last managed to get down, and there I found her in a truly pitiable state. She had been dreadfully ill, but so it seems had been nearly all the other people, and I suppose the stewardess could not pay much attention to so many, for I found aunt in a miserable state, half on and half off the sofa, and looking as pale as death. 'O, Doris child!' she gasped faintly, 'if ever I get out of this boat alive I will never go into another, if I have to live all my life in France!' Well, I raised her up and placed her a little more comfortably, and in doing this her bonnet fell off, and--you girls won't believe me, perhaps, but I daresay mother knows--there, as plain to see as anything, was a little bald patch, about as big as half-a-crown, on the top of her head! Poor aunt! she was in far too great misery to think about such trifles then, and only told me to put her feet a little higher and to bring her smelling-bottle. But I shall _always_ think of it whenever anyone asks her to take her bonnet off! By the by, aunt says she knows Mr. Ferrars quite well. She calls him 'A very estimable young man!' How _dreadful_! She says, too, we may meet him somewhere or other abroad. He told her he was going to 'knock about a little' on the Continent. The expression did not come spontaneously from aunt; I dragged it out of her, under protest! I wonder if we _shall_ see him!"

Mrs. Merivale folds up the letter. "I wonder if they will!" she says.