Thrown together : a story

Preface

The following Story, like its predecessor * Misunderstood/ is not intended for cMldreij. Even less so since, in the course of the narrative, the Author is obliged, now and then, to side, as it were, witli the children aa^ainst the parents.

The Story, though not devoid of ' grown-up ' characters, is mainly founded on the lives of children ; and so appeals only to those who are interested in the subject.

Contents

I. The Heroine's Home 1

H. Children's Lives in the Summer Season 28

Mrs. Middleton's Rules and Regulations 53

CHAPTER I. THE heroine's HOME

Five o'clock on a July afternoon in a London school-room, and tlie depressing sound of tlie scale of 0.

Would not such a combination make tlie least frivolous rejoice tliat their education was completed ?

Cecily Middleton, aged seven, is toiling up and down tlie piano, witli liot heavy fingers, giving her wrist and arm a tremendous jerk every time it is her thumb's turn to go under ; for which clumsy manoeuvre she i& every time pulled up by the governess at her side, and compelled to return to the bottom of the piano, and begin the ascent again.

Nina Middleton, some years her senior, is sitting at the table, limp and listless, by way of doing a rule-ofthree sum. "With her hair all pushed back from her hot face, and her chin resting on her hands, she is determining in her own mind that it is far too hot for any sum to come right; and she feels profoundly indifferent as to workmen and the rate of their wages.

which is the problem she has been given to consider. What can it matter ? Whether the answer will be in money or in workmen she feels incapable of hazarding an opinion, and it seems to her so very unimportant.

Thus suddenly rebuked, Mna roused herself, and proceeded with a long-drawn sigh to multiply the first and second terms together, and to divide by the third, producing thereby a hideous confusion. Seeing her mistake, she, with another sigh of weariness and boredom, rubbed out what she had done, and began again ; but the melancholy intonation of the scale of C, combined with the state of the atmosphere, seemed to render calculation impossible, and she found herself reducing pence to shillings, and allowing for forty-eight farthings in a pound. Growing desperate at last, with heat and incapacity, she rubbed out the whole sum — question and all ; and then, in despair at what she had done, she drew her pencil down the slate with a terrific squeak, which brought upon her the wrath of Mademoiselle, and elicited shrieks of delight and amusement from Cecily.

Of course anything that created a momentary diversion from the scale of C was hailed as a relief by Cecily ; and it took Mademoiselle some minutes, first to reprove Nina, and then to rise and reset the sum.

But this was no solitary instance of Cecily's power of deriving amusement from the trifling events of every, day life. The squeak of a pencil was quite sufficient, in lesson- time, to evoke her mirth; and any of the

THE HEROINE'S HOME.

hundred little accidents to whicli we are all more or less exposed in our daily patli could send her into fits of laughter at any moment. If Mademoiselle knocked her funny-bone, or caught her gown in the fender, upset a cup of tea into her lap, or stumbled over a stool, Cecily was off, and there was no stopping her.

She enjoyed the few minutes of leisure at the piano to the full ; and, after having recovered from the laughter produced by the squeak, she prbceeded to swing her legs backwards and forwards to cool herself. Tn so doing, she made the startling discovery that by kicking the piano above the pedal, a vibration could be produced, and was immensely delighted. But, on attempting to bring the discovery to greater perfection by a somewhat more violent kick. Mademoiselle remonstrated from the table, and put an end at once to any further experiments. An attempt at ' hot-cross buns * with one finger met with a similar reception, and she was reduced to twisting round and round on t:he music-stool, till Mademoiselle once more returned to her side.

But opportunities for amusement were not quite over yet ; for, as Mademoiselle reseated herself, she contrived to knock her finger against the notes, and raised that wounded member to her mouth vdth an exclamation of pain. Peal upon peal from Cecily — truly dehghted was she ! She rolled about on her seat till she nearly fell off the music-stool ; and Mademoiselle, in an injured and somewhat huffy tone, desired her to resume her b2

THROWN TOGETHER.

practice ; and soon laughter and amusement were lost in the intricacies of the scale of C.

Meanwhile Nina worked away at her snm, and finished it ; pnt away her slate, and went to the open window, where she arrived just in time to see a hansom drive up to the door, and her father jump out of it.

This was rather an unusual event, and Nina felt puzzled to account for it. It was very seldom that he came home at this hour. He generally went straight to the park from his club, and she thought something particular must have brought him home, which opinion was confirmed by her hearing him call out to the footman at the door, in a tone of unwonted excitement, * Has Mrs. Middleton come home from her drive ? '

Nina felt very curious to know what could make him in such a hurry, and was just about to lean out of the window, in order to make herself still further mistress of what was going on below, when Cecily's music-lesson came to an end ; and Mademoiselle, having betaken herself to her bed-room to prepare for tea, the emancipated captive came running to the window, exclaiming eagerly, 'Didn't I hear a hansom drive up?'

Nina instantly drew in her head, and came away from the window. Cecily's childish excitement over the hansom made her feel ashamed of her curiosity about it, and she answered, in an uninterested tone of voice, * Yes, it was papa.'

Nina was a good deal older than her sister by years,

THE HEROINE'S HOME.

and many years older by disposition and temperament, for Cecily was childisli and backward for her age. Moreover, Nina was a very prond cbild, and made tlie most of tbe years between Ciiem. Cecily was always so over-excited and over-interested in everything, that JS'ina often felt lowered in ber own estimation by being interested in the tbings at all.

' Papa ! ' exclaimed Cecily ; ' ob ! perbaps be's come to take us out in tbe park. Wbat fun ! what fun ! '

And, in spite of tbe state of tbe tbermometer, Cecily capered about, and clapped ber bands witb deligbt.

Tbese transports were cbildisb, and Nina could not demean berself by joining in tbem. So sbe remarked carelessly tbat sbe didn't suppose be bad ; be might only bave come to get a pocket-bandkercbief, or perbaps to fetcb bis cards.

Presently Cecily said, *Here comes mamma in tbe carriage, and papa is standing on tbe door-step, waiting to speak to ber.'

Nina's curiosity overcame ber pride, and sbe jumped up and joined ber sister at tbe window.

Tbe carriage drove up to tbe door. Colonel Middleton advanced eagerly, and tbe children beard him say, ^ Lydia, it is all settled ! Come into my room and read Magdalen's letter.'

' Oh, Nina, did you bear ? ' exiclaimed Cecily ; * it was about Aunt Magdalen again. There's some secret about ber, I am sure. This is tbe second or third time papa and mamma bave talked about ber to-day. Wbat can it be e '

THROWN TOGETHER.

Nina answered indifferently that she did not know ; but the expression in her eyes was not so uninterested as she would have her voice to sound. For her Aunt Magdalen, and her Aunt Magdalen's boy, Mervyn Lyndsay, were objects of deep interest to her ; and she was inwardly quite as anxious as Cecily to discover what the news could be that seemed to have reference to them. She leaned out of the window still further^ to see what was going on below ; but there was little more to be seen. Colonel and Mrs. Middleton entered the house, the footman took books and parcels out of the carriage, the coachman drove round to the stables, and the two little girls were left wondering, each in her different way, what it could all mean.

Leaving them in their perplexity, let us descend to the hall- door ; and, going back a few minutes, let ua stand with Colonel Middleton on the door- step, while the carriage drives up to the door.

* Lydia, it is all settled ! Come into my room and read Magdalen's letter.' So saying Colonel Middleton. led the way to the smoking-room, and shut the door.

* I am so glad, I can't tell you,' he said, as he handed his wife the letter, and watched her while she read it.

* Magdalen deserves to be happy, if anyone does ; and after all, in spite of her many years of widowhood, she is still quite a girl. I can't say how glad I am she has come to this conclusion.' He went on, walking up and down the room, every now and then glancing at his wife's face as she went on with the letter. * I was still half afraid she would not make up her mind to the

THE HEROINE'S HOME.

step, in spite of my last letter. But it is that that has done it, of course.'

And Colonel Middleton continued his walk, in a high state of self-glorification and excitement.

'A very nice sensible letter,' said Mrs. Middleton. * I am, indeed, delighted that she should have arrived at such a wise determination ; I suppose one of her reasons for hesitating was Mervyn. But it would have been absurd to sacrifice herself for his sake. Besides he is getting such a big boy now that it will not make much difference to him, as he will be going to school.'

All this was said in a very decided tone.

' Of course, of course,' answered Colonel Middleton, in the easy way in which people make up their minds for others, and reconcile themselves to matters that do not concern them. ' He will . . . Who's there r Say not at home ! '

This was spoken sharply, as some one tapped at the door ; for Colonel Middleton was in great excitement over his news, and he wanted to talk it over with his wife. Therefore he greatly resented the interruption. It was too late, however ; the door opened, and a gentleman was aimounced. Mrs. Middleton went out by another door, and Colonel Middleton advanced to greet the new arrival. He was much too full of his subject to talk long on any other, and at the first pause in the conversation he introduced it.

* My sister, Mrs. Lyndsay, is going to marry Lord Wardlaw.'

* I am delighted to hear it ! I heard rumours of the kind, but as I was told it was not settled, I did not like to congratulate you. Mrs. Ljndsay has only one child, I think ? '

* Only one ; a boy. It was on his account chiefly that she hesitated. Her husband died when the boy was a baby, and mother and son have lived so much alone, and been thrown so entirely on each other's companionship, that he has been treated more as a friend and equal than boys of his age generally are; and so I suppose she felt a second marriage was a little hard upon him. Indeed I doubt if she would have done it, had it not been that Mervyn is old enough to go to school. However, we have just heard from her that it is all settled, and the marriage will take place almost immediately. Wardlaw is a charming fellow, and he and Magdalen were great Mends in old days ; so it is quite a romantic story.'

' Ah ! that is just what I was told ; that there was some misunderstanding between them in their early days, otherwise they would have married years ago.'

* It hardly amounted to that. Wardlaw was then far too poor to think of marrying, and he had no prospects, as he had two elder brothers at that time. But I know what you are alluding to. They got him appointed to the Spanish Embassy, when they thought he was falling in love with Magdalen.'

* Who do you mean by " they ? " '

* My father and old Lyndsay, afterwards Magdalen's husband. Wardlaw was in the diplomatic service, waiting for an appointment, and was meanwhile in

London, where lie was constantly in Magdalen's society. Old Lyndsay was my father's dearest friend, and was also a great deal in the house. When he saw how matters were going on, he came to my father, and asked him if he wished his daughter to marry a pauper. My dear old father, who would never have noticed anything, however palpable, that was going on right under his •eyes, took fright directly ; put himself at once into Lyndsay's hands, and begged him to help him out of the scrape. Acting upon his friend's advice, he immediately left town with my sister, on the plea of feeling ill himself and needing change of air.

' Meantime Lyndsay, who had interest just then with the Foreign Office, got Wardlaw this appointment, which he was too poor to refuse ; and he proceeded at once to Madrid.

* Shortly afterwards my father died, and my sister found herself alone and penniless, dependent on me, who had already a wife and several children. It was then that Lyndsay stepped forward and laid himself and his fortune at her feet. Hers is a very grateful nature, and she had received nothing but kindness all her life from her father's friend.

* During her father's short illness, too, Lyndsay had been her right hand. All unconscious of the wrong he had done her, she became his wife.*

* Did you know of it ? '

* Believe me, no ; or I should not have allowed her to take such a step without at least opening her eyes.'

* Then how do you know it now ? *

10 THROWN TOGETHEB.

* I am coming to that presently. Let me tell mj story my own way. Well ! Lyndsay only lived eighteen months after his marriage.'

* Was she happy with him ? '

* I believe she was happy enough, but she must have been very dull. To begin with, a man of fifty cannot be much of a companion for a girl of nineteen; and then they lived almost entirely at Grlen-Mervyn, his wild out-of-the-way place in Wales. So I saw very little of them. They came to London to see a doctor for Lyndsay about eleven months after their marriage. That was the beginning of the illness that ended with his death.'

* I wonder why Wardlaw did not come back when he found she was free ? '

*You must remember that nothing had passed between them, and that he had no reason to suppose she cared for him. Quite the contrary. Eor almost the first thing he heard of her after he arrived in Madrid, was the report of her intended marriage. Also he may have been too proud to marry her when she was a rich widow, or he may have resented her marriage, or a hundred things. Anyhow, as we know, he didn't ; and it is only a year ago that, by the successive deaths of his father and brothers, he became Lord Wardlaw, with wealth sufficient to enable him to give up his diplomatic career, and to return to England.

* He and Magdalen met again this spring in London » I must own my wife and I secretly hoped that the old intimacy might be renewed, and that we might see her rewarded for her long years of devotion to others. Imagine our disappointment wlien she left town at the end of June, and returned with her boy to Wales. Rumour, however, was not so silent on the subject as she ; and we soon heard that she had refused Lord "Wardlaw. Upon this I wrote to her, urging her to reconsider her determination. I urged her not to throw away such a chance of happiness, and my wife added her entreaties to mine.

' Magdalen answered both letters in her usual gentle way, thanking us most gratefully for our interest in her, but saying at the same time very decidedly that she had given the matter a great deal of consideration, and that the conclusion she had arrived at was final.

' As my sister's only relation, I sent for Lord Wardlaw, and spoke to him on the subject. In the course of our conversation we referred to the past, and somehow or other the truth oozed out ; and I, for the first time, discovered that both had been victims of a plot between my father and old Lyndsay. Lord Wardlaw himself had only dimly suspected it till his return to England, and Mrs. Lyndsay, he said, had evidently no idea who had got him the appointment, nor why it was done. These are his own words. " At the time we were mutually hurt at each other's inexpHcable conduct, and both felt we had been mistaken in supposing ourselves cared for. She judged by my accepting an appointment without telling her, or coming to wish her good-bye ; and I judged by what Mr. Lyndsay told me, which was that she had begged her father to take her out of town.

as she was tired of London and its gaieties. I left England in a state of pique, and the announcement of her intended marriage fell under my eyes very shortly. It seemed to confirm my original impression, which was, that in spite of the disparity of years between them, it was Lyndsay she cared for, and not me at all. I beheve I should have enlightened her as to all this ; but I could not make up my mind to be the one to lower her son's father in her eyes. Besides, she might have resented it, and I might have done my own cause more harm than good. After all he was her husband afterwards ; and probably in that relation he behaved himself so as to wipe out any early offences, and I should have been sorry to tarnish his memory."

' After this conversation I wrote again to my sister, laying the facts of the case plainly before her. I feared that, besides the difficulty about the step-father, she might be hampered by some foolish idea of being true, to her husband's memory, or something of that sort ; and I did not think it necessary she should be true to the memory of anyone who had used her so ill. Also I saw that in withholding from her the truth of the old misunderstanding. Lord Wardlaw was removing one of the strongest arguments in his own. favour. 1 honoured him for his reticence, but was troubled with no such scruples myself.

* I told her exactly how it had all come about, feeling all the while what a powerful advocate I was, my sister's sense of justice being so strong. For the answer to this letter I cannot tell you how auxiously I waited. But here it is, and a most satisfactory one ; for tliongli I cannot say it is exactly an answer — ^for my dear generous sister does not make the slightest or most distant allusion to her husband's conduct — ^yet she tells me decidedly she has accepted Lord Wardlaw, and that is all I care about.'

Colonel Middleton drew a long breath, and waited to receive his friend's renewed congratulations. The conversation then branched off to other subjects, and shortly afterwards his friend took his leave, and Colonel Middleton went up into the drawing-room to seek his wife.

He found her surrounded by five o'clock visitors, and saw there was not a chance of speaking to her ; so, after talking over his sister's engagement with one or two ladies who knew her, he strolled out of the room, and bethought himself of what he would do next. This was his life. He was always wondering what he would do next.

Rowland Middleton was a man who * hung about ' all day. He had nothing to do. If he had had, he would not have done it. He was an easy-going indolent man, who left everything to other people, and found it answered very well. He lived on his wife's fortune, and had no employment of his own. He had sold out of the army on his marriage, and had ever since congratulated himself on having done with the trouble and worry of a constantly recurring occupation.

He was a kind good sort of man, not without a certain degree of cleverness, for he was agreeable and amusing in society ; but there it began and en^ed, for lie never opened a book or cultivated his mind in any way. But he was fond of his wife, fond of his children, and had never done or said an unkind thing in his life.

Such was the man to whom Providence had assigned the care and responsibility of eight children — five sons and three daughters.

He had married young a woman older than himself, and perhaps his wife was a little too much for him. She was an only child and an heiress, and had always been accustomed to have her own way, and been spoilt and made much of. She had all the energy, all the strength of purpose, and all the fortune that he lacked. The place in Shropshire was hers, the house in London was hers, and she was capable of managing it all, and of managing him likewise. He left everything to her ; it saved him trouble, and she liked it. This was particularly the case with the children. Mrs. Middleton was full of theories on the subject of education. Her children were suffering under the reaction that always follows an excess of any kind. The reaction from despotism is anarchy, and again from anarchy it will always be despotism, and so on for ever.

Mrs. Middleton, as a child, had been brought up on the new system of education — where children are, and know they are, the chief objects in the house ; are always in their parents' society, and join as they please in every conversation. Mrs. Middleton, as a mother, had reverted to the system on which her parents had been educated, and brought up her children strictly, assigning to them their school-rooms and their nurseries as their places of abode, and only admitting them to their parents' society at stated times. No child of Mrs. Middleton's ever strolled into the drawing-room at promiscuous hours. There was never any danger of the door opening slowly, and a small head protruding itself somewhere below the handle of the door, while the owner of the head delivered itself of some little remark invented as an excuse for getting into her society. But as Mna Middleton is the heroine of this story, we shall hear more of Mrs. Middleton' s system and its results hereafter, and so need not animadvert upon it now, except in so far as it affected her husband, of whom we were speaking.

He had never been encouraged to break in upon his children's lesson hours, either by paying them visits in the school-room, or by taking them out walking with him.

By degrees he had ceased to expect much companionship in his children after their school-room life had fairly begun, especially since his three eldest boys had gone to school, and the school-room party consisted of the two little girls of whom this story has already spoken. It always seemed to him that it was too early or too late when he wanted to send for them. They had either just begun their lessons, or just sat down to their tea. So he contented himself with playing with the little ones in the nursery, and seeing the others at stated times, i.e. luncheon, and for a few minutes before dressing for dinner. That is, if he felt inclined. He was not a man wlio wonld give up a pleasanter engagement for the sake of being with his children. And so it often happened that if he was out at luncheon, or late in dressing for dinner, he and his little girls did not meet all day. Sometimes — but this was very rarely — ^he would take them for a walk, and on the hope of this walk the sanguine Cecily lived from day to day.

Mrs. Middleton always had the school-room party down to luncheon. It was the exception she made to the rules of the old system. She considered it a good thing, lest the children should grow shy in their manners or awkward in their ways.

These London luncheons were a great penance to th© little girls. Their shut-up school-room life made them shy and sensitive, and their parents' ways with them during that meal were not calculated to help them, diametrically opposed as those ways were. For their mother never lost an opportunity of finding fault with them, and pointing out their failings, no matter who was there ; while Colonel Middleton's way of noticing them was by a kind of fatherly teasing, which, highly amusing to him, was a great, though unexpressed, terror to them, for they never knew what he was going to say next. It was often convenient to him to be * funny ' at their expense, but the wit which made him a favourite in society was a constant source of dread to his little daughters. Still they were very fond of him ; indeed, there could be no doubt that if the question elder girls are so fond of putting to their youngers, 'Which do you like best, your papa or your mamma ? ' had been put to the little

Middletons, the answer would have been very decidedly in Colonel Middle ton's favour.

He never scolded them, or interfered with them in any way ; he left all that to his wife. As long as they were nicely dressed and looked pleased to see him, that was all he cared for. They were pretty little girls, and he was proud of them, and quite satisfied with them. He didn't bother his head about their characters, or listen much when his wife complained of Mna's being ' an odd child,' and Cecily ' very childish and backward.' Neither was he at all concerned when told that the governesses said Nina was proud and obstinate and Cecily lazy and inattentive. * Children must be naughty sometimes,' he said, ' and it was quite right they should show it in the school-room, and keep their good behaviour for downstairs.'

Taking his wife's tone, he called Nina * a queer customer,' but he himself seldom saw anything in her to justify his saying so. He noticed certainly that she often flushed angrily, and tossed her head at luncheon when her mother found fault with her, but this he rather admired ; he thought it showed she had ' a spirit of her own,' and he liked it : it became her so well. He had an idea sometimes that she took things rather too strongly. He thought it a pity ; he always took things so easy himself ; but he supposed she would find out her mistake as life went on.

Nina was what is called 'an odd child.' She was silent and reserved, singularly undemonstrative, and rather obstinate and self-willed. The nurses called her

c

* hanglity,' and the governesses called her * cold.' Her mother never professed to understand her, and often expressed it as her opinion that she would grow np a very disagreeable woman. But her father, though he could not get her to chatter to him as Cecily did, did not discover all this in her, or think of her otherwise than as rather a character. He was proud of her beauty, pleased that he could discover in her face a strong likeness to his sister. Also she was his first daughter, the three eldest being boys. With Cecily, his younger girl, he was certainly more at his ease, but he had not the same pride in her. She was a winning little thing, very shy and timid ; but when alone with him, away from her mother's dreaded eye, and relieved from the fear of his joking her in company, she would chatter to him as freely as possible. He teased her a great deal ; he couldn't help it. She was just the sort of child to be teased, because she was always so affected by it. Her tears came so readily that her mother called her a cry-baby. This was a very sore point vnth poor Httle Cecily. Her father sometimes converted her name into ' Silly-ly,' or * Silly-Billy,' and the fear that he would do so at luncheon before visitors kept the child in a constant state of anxiety during that meal.