Modern Broods; Or, Developments Unlooked For. Yonge Charlotte Mary

abstained from meeting them at the station, having respect to the capacities of the horse, even upon his native hills, and she had hired a farmer’s cart to meet them and bring their luggage.  Already she had a glimpse of the carriage, toiling up one hill, then disappearing between the hedges, and it was long before her gate, already open, was reached, and at her own own door, she received her little sister, followed by the others.  And the first word she heard even before she had time to pay the driver was, “My dear Magdalen, what a road!”

      Poor Mrs. Best! as the payment was put into the man’s hand, Magdalen looked round and saw she looked quite worn out.

      “Yes,” said Paulina, “bumped to pieces and tired to death.”

      “I was afraid they had been mending the roads,” said Magdalen.

      “Mending!  Strewing them with rocks, if you please,” said Agatha.

      “And such a distance!” added Paulina.

      “Not quite three miles,” replied Magdalen.  “Here is some tea to repair you.”

      “My dear Magdalen”—in a chorus—“that really is quite impossible.  It must be five, at least.”

      “Your nearest town ten miles off!” sighed Vera.

      “Your nearest church,” cried Paulina.

      “Up in the wilds,” said Agatha.

      Magdalen felt as if these speeches were so many drops of water in her face and that of her beautiful Goyle, but she rose in its defence.

      “It actually is less than three miles,” she said.  “I have walked it several times, and the cabs only charge three.”

      “That is testimony,” said Mrs. Best, smiling; “but hills, perhaps, reckon for miles in one’s feelings!”

      “Particularly before you are rested,” said Magdalen, setting her down in a comfortable wicker chair.  “You will think little of it on your own feet, Vera, and the church is much nearer, Paulina, only on the other side of the hill.”

      “May I have a bicycle of my own?” burst in Thekla, again; while every one began laughing, and Agatha told her that Sister would think her brains were cycling.

      “With centric and concentric scribbled o’er

      Cycle and epicycle orb in orb.”

      “Epicycle?” cried Vera.  “I saw it advertised in the Queen.  A splendid one.”

      “Ah!  Magdalen, you will think I have not taught them their Milton,” said Mrs. Best, as both elders burst out laughing; and Agatha said, in an undertone, “Don’t make yourself such a goose, Vera.”

      “I should think it rather rough sailing for bikes,” said Paulina.

      “I should have thought so, myself,” returned Magdalen; “but the Clipstone girls do not seem to think so.  I see them sailing merrily into Rockstone.”

      “You have neighbours, then?” said Vera.

      “Certainly.  Rockstone supplies a good deal.  Here are various cards of people whose visits are yet to be returned.  Clipstone is further off; but the daughters will be nice friends for you.  I met one of them before, when she was staying at Lord Rotherwood’s.  But I am afraid your boxes are hardly come yet.  Still, you will like to take off your things before dinner, even if you cannot unpack.”

      She led the way, and disposed of each girl in her new quarters, explaining to Agatha that her’s and her little lodger were only temporary; but it struck upon her rather painfully that the only word of approbation or comfort came from Mrs. Best, and there were no notes at all of admiration of the scenery.

      “Well,” she said to herself, “much is not to be expected from people who have been tired and shaken up in a station cab over newly-mended roads!  Were they as bad when I came?  But then I could look out, and did not hear poor Sophy’s groans all the way.  I rather wish she had not come with them, though I am glad to see her again for this last time.”

      Meantime the four girls had congregated in the room appropriated to Vera and Paulina.  “Here are the necessaries of life,” said Agatha, handing out a brush and comb.  “That slow wain may roll its course in utter darkness before it comes here.”

      “To the other end of nowhere,” said Vera.

      “And I am so tired,” whined Thekla.  “These tight boots do hurt me so!  I want to go to bed.”

      Paulina was already on her knees, removing the boots and accommodating a pair of slippers to the little feet.

      “We might as well be in a desert island,” continued Vera, “shut up from everything with an old frump.”

      “Take care,” said Agatha, in warning, signing towards Thekla.

      “I am sure she looks jolly and good-natured,” said Paulina.

      “But did you hear what Elsie Lee always calls her, ‘our maiden aunt’?”

      All three laughed, and Vera added, “All the girls say she can’t be less than fifty.”

      “Topsy!  You know she is only sixteen years older than I am.”

      “Well, that’s half a hundred!”

      “Sixteen and nineteen, what do they make?”

      “Oh, never mind your sums.  She has got the face and look of half a hundred!”

      “Now, I thought her face and her dress like a girl’s,” said Paulina.

      “Yes,” said Vera, “that’s just the way with old maids.  They dress themselves up youthfully and affect girlish airs, and are all the more horrid.”

      “That’s your experience!” said Agatha.  “But there’s the waggon creeping up at a snail’s pace.  Let us run down and see after our things.”

      CHAPTER III—THE FIRST SUNDAY

      “Speed on, speed on, the footpath way,

      And merrily hunt the stile-a;

      A merry heart goes all the way,

      A sad tires in a mile-a.”

—Shakespeare.

      Sunday morning rose with new and bright hopes.  The girls looked out at their window, and saw that it was a beautiful morning, and that the spring sunshine glowed upon the purple summits of the hills.  Agatha supposed there would be a pleasant walk to church; Paulina said she had heard good accounts of the services in that part of the country; Vera hoped that they would see what their neighbours were like, and Thekla was delighted with the jolly garden and places to scramble in.

      On this first Sunday they were let alone to explore the garden before the walk to church, which Magdalen foresaw would be a long affair with Mrs. Best.  After their decorous stillness at breakfast, it was a contrast to hear the merry voices and laughter outside, but it subsided as soon as she approached, though she did not hear the murmured ripple, “Here comes maiden aunt!  Behold—Quite a spicy hat!”

      In truth, Magdalen’s hat was a pretty new one, not by any means unsuitable to her age and appearance, and altogether her air was more stylish than the country town breeding was accustomed to; her dress perfectly plain, but well made.

      Vera was perhaps the most sensible of the perfection of the turn-out; Agatha chiefly felt that her more decorated skirt and mantle had their inconveniences in walking through the red mud of the lanes, impeded by books and umbrella, which left no leisure to admire the primroses that studded the deep banks and which delighted Thekla in the freedom of short skirts.

      Magdalen herself had enough to do in steering along such a substantial craft as poor Mrs. Best, used to church-going along a street, and shrouded under a squirrel mantle of many pounds weight.

      Barely in time was the convoy when at last the exhausted lady was helped over the stone stile that led to the churchyard.  Highly picturesque