The Clever Woman of the Family. Yonge Charlotte Mary

sense, Rachel paced the platform till the engine rushed up, and she looked along the line of windows, suddenly bewildered. Doors opened, but gentlemen alone met her disappointed eye, until close to her a soft voice said, “Rachel!” and she saw a figure in deep black close to her; but her hand had been hardly clasped before the face was turned eagerly to a tall, bearded man, who was lifting out little boy after little boy, apparently in an endless stream, till at last a sleeping baby was brought out in the arms of a nurse.

      “Good-bye. Thank you, oh, thank you. You will come soon. Oh, do come on now.”

      “Do come on now,” was echoed by many voices.

      “I leave you in good hands. Good-bye.”

      “Good-bye. Conrade dear, see what Cyril is doing; never mind, Wilfred, the Major will come and see us; run on with Coombe.” This last was a respectable military-looking servant, who picked up a small child in one hand and a dressing-case in the other, and awaited orders.

      There was a clinging to the Major by all the children, only ended by his finally precipitating himself into the carriage, and being borne off. Then came a chorus—“Mamma, let me go with you;” “I’ll go with mamma;” “Me go with mamma;” according to the gradations of age.

      While Coombe and mamma decided the question by lifting the lesser ones into the fly, Rachel counted heads. Her mission exceeded her expectations. Here was a pair of boys in knickerbockers, a pair in petticoats, a pair in pelisses, besides the thing in arms. When the fly had been nearly crammed, the two knickerbockers and one pelisse remained for the carriage, quite against Rachel’s opinion, but “Little Wilfred can sit on my lap, he has not been well, poor little man,” was quite conclusive; and when Rachel suggested lying back to rest, there was a sweet, low laugh, and, “Oh, no thank you, Wilfred never tires me.”

      Rachel’s first satisfaction was in seeing the veil disclose the face of eight years back, the same soft, clear, olive skin, delicate, oval face, and pretty deep-brown eyes, with the same imploring, earnest sweetness; no signs of having grown older, no sign of wear and tear, climate, or exertion, only the widow’s dress and the presence of the great boys enhancing her soft youthfulness. The smile was certainly changed; it was graver, sadder, tenderer, and only conjured up by maternal affection or in grateful reply, and the blitheness of the young brow had changed to quiet pensiveness, but more than ever there was an air of dependence almost beseeching protection, and Rachel’s heart throbbed with Britomart’s devotion to her Amoret.

      “Why wouldn’t the Major come, mamma?”

      “He will soon come, I hope, my dear.”

      Those few words gave Rachel a strong antipathy to the Major.

      Then began a conversation under difficulties, Fanny trying to inquire after her aunt, and Rachel to detail the arrangements made for her at Myrtlewood, while the two boys were each accommodated with a window; but each moment they were claiming their mother’s attention, or rushing across the ladies’ feet to each other’s window, treating Rachel’s knees as a pivot, and vouchsafing not the slightest heed to her attempts at intelligent pointing out of the new scenes.

      And Fanny made no apology, but seemed pleased, ready with answers and with eyes, apparently ignorant that Rachel’s toes were less insensible than her own, and her heavy three-years-old Wilfred asleep on her lap all the time.

      “She feeble, helpless, sickly!” thought Rachel, “I should have been less tired had I walked the twenty miles!”

      She gave up talking in despair, and by the time the young gentlemen had tired themselves into quiescence, and began to eat the provisions, both ladies were glad to be allowed a little silence.

      Coming over the last hill, Conrade roused at his mother’s summons to look out at “home,” and every word between them showed how fondly Avonmouth had been remembered far away.

      “The sea!” said Fanny, leaning forwards to catch sight of the long grey line; “it is hard to believe we have been on it so long, this seems so much more my own.”

      “Yes,” cried Rachel, “you are come to your own home, for us to take care of you.”

      “I take care of mamma! Major Keith said so,” indignantly exclaimed Conrade.

      “There’s plenty of care for you both to take,” said Fanny, half-smiling, half-sobbing. “The Major says I need not be a poor creature, and I will try. But I am afraid I shall be on all your hands.”

      Both boys drummed on her knee in wrath at her presuming to call herself a poor creature—Conrade glaring at Rachel as if to accuse her of the calumny.

      “See the church,” said Lady Temple, glad to divert the storm, and eagerly looking at the slender spire surmounting the bell-turret of a small building in early-decorated style, new, but somewhat stained by sea-wind, without having as yet acquired the tender tints of time. “How beautiful!” was her cry. “You were beginning the collection for it when I went away! How we used to wish for it.”

      “Yes, we did,” said Rachel, with a significant sigh; but her cousin had no time to attend, for they were turning in a pepper-box lodge. The boys were told that they were arrived, and they were at the door of a sort of overgrown Swiss cottage, where Mrs. Curtis and Grace stood ready to receive them.

      There was a confusion of embraces, fondlings, and tears, as Fanny clung to the aunt who had been a mother to her—perhaps a more tender one than the ruling, managing spirit, whom she had hardly known in her childhood; but it was only for a moment, for Wilfred shrieked out in an access of shyness at Grace’s attempt to make acquaintance with him; Francis was demanding, “Where’s the orderly?” and Conrade looking brimful of wrath at any one who made his mother cry. Moreover, the fly had arrived, and the remainder had to be produced, named, and kissed—Conrade and Francis, Leoline and Hubert, Wilfred and Cyril, and little Stephana the baby. Really the names were a study in themselves, and the cousins felt as if it would be hopeless to endeavour to apply them.

      Servants had been engaged conditionally, and the house was fully ready, but the young mother could hardly listen to her aunt’s explanations in her anxiety that the little ones should be rested and fed, and she responded with semi-comprehending thanks, while moving on with her youngest in her arms, and as many hanging to her dress as could get hold of it. Her thanks grew more emphatic at the sight of cribs in inviting order, and all things ready for a meal.

      “I don’t drink tea with nurse,” was Conrade’s cry, the signal for another general outcry, untranquillized by soothings and persuasions, till the door was shut on the younger half of the family, and those who could not open it remained to be comforted by nurse, a soldier’s widow, who had been with them from the birth of Conrade.

      The Temple form of shyness seemed to consist in ignoring strangers, but being neither abashed nor silenced, only resenting or avoiding all attempts at intercourse, and as the boys rushed in and out of the rooms, exploring, exclaiming, and calling mamma, to the interruption of all that was going on, only checked for a few minutes by her uplifted hand and gentle hush, Grace saw her mother so stunned and bewildered that she rejoiced in the fear of cold that had decided that Rachel alone should spend the evening there. Fanny made some excuses; she longed to see more of her aunt, but when they were a little more settled,—and as a fresh shout broke out, she was afraid they were rather unruly,—she must come and talk to her at the dear Homestead. So kind of Rachel to stay—not that the boys seemed to think so, as they went racing in and out, stretching their ship-bound legs, and taking possession of the minute shrubbery, which they scorned for the want of gum-trees and parrots.

      “You won’t mind, Rachel dear, I must first see about baby;” and Rachel was left to reflect on her mission, while the boys’ feet cantered up and down the house, and one or other of them would look in, and burst away in search of mamma.

      Little more satisfactory was the rest of the evening, for the boys took a great deal of waiting on at tea, and then some of the party would not go to sleep in strange beds without long persuasions and comfortings, till Fanny looked so weary that it was plain that no conversation could have been hoped from her, even if the baby had been less vociferous. All that could be done for her was to wish her good-night,