The Late Miss Hollingford | Page 9

large enough to cook a dinner. We kept it filled with logs,
and in the evenings, after we had drawn the curtains in the parlour, set
the tea-table, and made Mrs. Hollingford comfortable on the sofa for an
hour's rest, we three retreated to our school-room for a chat in the
firelight. Here John joined us when he happened to come home early,
and many a happy hour we passed, four of us sitting round the blazing
logs, talking and roasting apples. We told stories, tales of the outer
world, and legends of the country around us. We described places and
people we had seen, and our fancies about others we had not seen. John,
who had travelled, was the most frequent speaker; and as I was a
wonder of experience to his sisters, just so was he a wonder to me. We
laughed, cried, or listened in breathless silence, all as he willed, while
the purple and yellow lingered in the sky behind the lattice, and the
moaning of the wind through the forlorn fields, the hissing of the
roasting apples, and the crackling of the burning wood, kept up an
accompaniment to his voice.
There were other evenings, too, when John was late, and Mopsie,
having grown tired of serious talk, tripped off to hear the lasses singing
Bold Robin Hood in the kitchen. Then Jane used to open her heart to
me, and talk about the troubles of the family. Her heart was stern and
bitter against her father. Well had she said she was proud; well had her
mother wished to humble her, if that could be done. She had, I believe,
a great intellect, and she had much personal beauty of a grand character.
I do not think she thought much about the latter, but she felt her mental
powers. She knew she was fitted to move in a high sphere, and chafed
against her fate; still more against the fate of her brother.
I can see her now, on her low seat before the fire, her hands clasping
one knee, her dark head thrown back, and her eyes fixed on the dancing
shadows above the chimney.
"To think of John settling down as a farmer!" she said; "John, who for

cleverness might be prime minister. And there is no hope of his getting
away from it; none whatever."
I could not but agree to this, though the thought occurred to me that the
farm might not be so pleasant a home if John had to go away and be
prime minister. All I could say I said to combat her rebellious
despondency as to her own future.
"If you knew the emptiness and foolishness of the gay world," I said in
a sage manner, "you would be thankful for our quiet life at Hillsbro'."
"It is not the gay world I think of," she said. "It is the world of thought,
of genius."
"Well, Jane," said I, cheerfully, "you may pierce your way to that yet."
"No!" she said. "If I had a clean name I would try to do it. As it is, I
will not hold up my head only to be pointed at. But I will not spend my
life at Hillsbro', moping. I will go away and work, teach, or write, if I
can."
I saw her eyes beginning to flash, and I did not like these fierce moods
for Jane. I was turning over a book at the time, and, to divert her
attention, I read aloud the name written on the title-page.
"Mary Hollingford," I said. "Was not she your elder sister?"
Jane started. "Yes," she said. "Who mentioned her to you?"
"Your mother," I said, "used to tell me of her little Mary, who was at
school in France. I cannot recollect who told me of her death. Do you
remember her?"
"Oh yes," said Jane, "perfectly. We did not lose her till after--my father
went away."
"I suppose she took the trouble to heart," I said, reflectively; and then
was sorry I had said it. But Jane answered,

"Yes," readily; then dropped her face between her hands, and remained
plunged in one of her motionless fits of abstraction for half an hour.
I never alluded to this subject again to Jane, but one evening when
Mopsie and I were alone together, the child spoke of it herself.
"Margery," she said, "you are holding me now just as sister Mary used
to hold me with both her arms round my waist, when I was a tiny little
thing, and she used to play with me in our nursery in London."
"You remember her, then?" I said.
"Yes," said Mopsie. "I remember her like a dream. She used to come
home for the holidays, and a handsome French lady with