Chapter Three.
A Family Conclave.
Mr and Mrs Loftus arrived by the morning train, and drove up to The Cottage in the ancient village fly. Uncle Edward wore a black band round his hat; Aunt Gertrude an elaborately trimmed black gown, which had obviously not been bought for mourning. They stared curiously at the house as they approached, and from behind the blind in the front bedroom four pairs of eyes stared even more curiously at them.
“Thin lips and a sharp nose! Face like a hatchet. No love lost between us, my dear!” cried Madge shrewdly. “Nice old fellow, Uncle Edward! Looks as if he would be kind if he had the chance.”
“Isn’t she smart? She has taken the flowers out of an ordinary bonnet to make us think she is in mourning. I could swear there were once pink roses where that jet is now,” said Theo of the sharp eyes, the while she glanced complacently at her own careful toilet. “I am glad I dressed up the drawing-room. Don’t hurry down, Phil. Let them have time to look round and realise that we don’t live in a hovel.”
“I suppose I ought to fly to meet them at the door, but I don’t feel in the least inclined. Now Steve is going out. He looks so nervous! I’m sure he wishes that he had not written. Do you think Aunt Gertrude looks more determined than I do? I expect we shall have an awful battle. You must come down with me, girls, and be introduced before we begin. I wish my heart wouldn’t thud; I don’t want to give myself away by looking nervous.”
Then came a quick review before the glass, a creeping downstairs, and the entrance of four girls, one after the other, to greet the unknown relatives as they stood in the middle of the low, sunny-windowed drawing-room. Mrs Loftus put up her pince-nez and stared at each in turn—Philippa, stately and dignified; pretty, soft-eyed Hope; Theo, with her air of distinction and clever, interesting face; Madge of the long, sagacious chin and quick, light movements—and even as she looked she realised that these were no nonentities, but young women who would insist upon having a definite vote in the matter of their own destiny. They sat down and talked company talk, the little handmaid appeared and offered light refreshments to the travellers, Uncle Loftus made complimentary remarks, and everything was quite proper and orthodox, just like a scene in a book, until presently Stephen began to fidget and glance at the clock, and Philippa looked at her uncle and said, “Shall we have our talk now? The girls will leave us alone for an hour, and Stephen will tell you exactly what our position is, and what we are thinking of doing.”
“Perhaps it would be as well. I am feeling so tired after the journey that I should like to go to bed early this evening, and have ordered dinner at the inn at seven o’clock. I hope that is convenient to you. I didn’t know what your arrangements might be, or whether it would be convenient to have us here.”
“Whichever you prefer. We hoped you would spend the evening with us, but I can quite understand that you must be tired,” said Philippa, resolutely avoiding meeting Theo’s eye lest she should be obliged to smile at the thought of the wasted culinary efforts over which that poor victim had been groaning the whole of the morning. Then the door closed, the two men automatically moved their chairs nearer the table, and Stephen nervously began his story:
“You know, of course, that my father was in bad health for some years before he died. His work was of the kind which was peculiarly dependent on health, for he had the artistic temperament and could do nothing to order. He was in chronic low spirits, and had not the energy to compose. In former years he made a very fair income; though, of course, it was always uncertain, and he could never tell from month to month what would come in. Sometimes he made a hit, and one or two of his songs bring in a fair royalty still. He was able to save a little, now and again, but the last two years he was constantly having to draw on his capital, until we find that there is practically none left. There is, however, an insurance which is intact. It seems that on his marriage my mother’s people insisted on this as a provision for her in the event of his death; and as the premiums were paid up some years ago, it has not lapsed. It amounts to two thousand pounds, and is left to Philippa and myself in trust for the family, with full discretion to use it as seems best to us for our mutual benefit and advancement in life. There are six of us altogether. My brother Barnard is still at school, but we have given notice for him to leave at the end of the term, as he is sixteen, and must begin to work for himself. Two thousand pounds is not a large provision for six people.”
Mrs Loftus drew in her lips and stared fixedly at a corner of the ceiling; her husband drummed upon the table and looked unaffectedly distressed.
“So bad as that! Tut, tut! Sorry to hear it—sorry indeed. And this house? You have made it very pretty—charming little bijou residence. Is the house your own?”
“No. We have it at a very low rental in consideration of the improvements which father made from time to time, but it is not our own. We think we should have no difficulty in letting it; for, as you say, it is pretty in its way. In fact, we know of a possible tenant already, and I think it quite likely that he may take the lease from us at Michaelmas if we decide to move.”
There was a rustle of silken skirts as Mrs Loftus sat upright in her chair and gave a short preliminary cough before entering into the conversation.
“But if you get it cheaply, why should you move at all? I think it would be a fatal mistake. Living must be very cheap in this out-of-the-world place; and you have a garden, I see, which must keep you supplied with vegetables. If you kept fowls you might sell the eggs, and make a little extra money in that way. Quite a number of people go in for poultry-farming in these days. There is nothing infra dig. about it. I was saying to your uncle as we came down that it was quite likely that you could get paying guests if you went to work in the right way. Many people prefer living in the country in summer-time, and you could quote reasonable terms. Then there must surely be some teaching to be found in the neighbourhood, which would employ the girls who were not needed at home. Really I think, with a hundred a year assured, besides what you earn—you are in a solicitor’s office, I believe, Stephen—you might get along very comfortably.”
Philippa’s eyes flashed, but her lips twitched at the same time, for it was too absurd to hear a stranger settling the destinies of a family in this swift, casual fashion. She dared not meet Stephen’s eye; and even Mr Loftus seemed conscious of something wrong, for he said testily:
“Not so quick, my dear; not so quick, if you please! We have not heard what plans Stephen and Philippa have made for themselves.—I should like to hear your own ideas; for, of course, you have thought over the matter from all points of view. Let us hear what are your plans.”
The brother and sister looked at one another, and there was a dead silence. Stephen was afraid to speak. Philippa was anxious not to monopolise the rôle of leader. She waited a full moment, but when she began there was no hesitation in her voice.
“We intend to go up to London to seek our fortunes. I agree with Aunt Gertrude that if we stayed here we should be able to earn enough money to provide bread-and-butter, and for the time being it would be the easier course. But we don’t want to think of the present only; we want to provide for the future. I believe—and Stephen agrees with me—that if we settle here now it will practically mean vegetating for the rest of our lives. He will remain in the same sleepy office, where if he worked for twenty years he could never gain more than a few hundreds a year. Barney would come home and go into the bank. There is no other place to put him, and he is too lively and high-spirited a boy to trust by himself in a big town. Then there are the girls. They are all clever, and father was very particular about their training. He realised that he himself had made a mistake in trying too many things at once, so he made them each choose one hobby and stick to that alone. Hope is musical. She plays charmingly, can read music as easily as a book, and has already had one song published. She ought to study harmony under a clever master, and hear plenty of really good music. Father said that that was what she wanted most of all—to hear good music. She has gone through the drudgery; what she needs now is confidence and style; but it is impossible to give it to her here. Theo wishes to write. She is always scribbling, and father thought she would do well some day. There are one or two editors in London who knew him, and who would take an interest in her for his sake. She has a narrow life here, with very few friends. It would be the best training for her to have more varied experience. Madge is an artist. It is her ambition in life to go to a studio and work hard. She is very original, and has already quite a distinctive style of her own. Father was very proud of her, and used to say she was the cleverest of the family. Now that he is gone there is no one within miles who can help her with her work. It seems to me a very sad thing to turn these girls into governesses and household drudges when they have real gifts to cultivate.”
“Quite so—quite so. I can understand your feelings; but you mustn’t be angry with me, my dear, if I say that you must allow some discount for sisterly partiality. You think your sisters geniuses, but whether the public will agree with you is a very different question.” Uncle Loftus was beginning to feel vaguely uncomfortable, and to scent a coming request for a loan of money, to be repaid at that indefinite period when the aforesaid geniuses should be recognised by the world. He was a good-natured man, and was quite ready to help these pretty, attractive nieces by an occasional present of a dress or a five-pound note; but his recollection of school bills paid for his own daughter made him shrink from the prospect of finishing the education of three ambitious and aspiring young “women.” “Music and pictures are at a discount in these hard times, and half the artists, by their own account, are starving. A poor fellow brought me a couple of water-colours only last month. Wanted fifteen pounds for them, but was thankful to take five. Very good pictures, too! I don’t pretend to understand these things, but they look very well in my smoke-room. As for story-writing, there are half-a-dozen stars who make a fortune in literature, but the vast majority of authors have a hard fight to earn a living. Many of them fail altogether and throw it up in despair, like that poor poet fellow—Chatterton, wasn’t it? I never can remember names. Women aren’t made to fight their way, especially country girls, as you are, who have no idea of life in a great world like London. Depend upon it, my dear, you would be far happier and safer where you are.”
“For the present—yes. I said so myself. If we go to town we shall have a hard fight for the first few years; but we have faith to believe that we should succeed in the end, and we would rather fight our battles while we are young. If you were beginning life, Uncle Loftus, would you be content to settle down to lifelong obscurity and poverty, or would you feel that, come what might, you must go down into the arena and win a crown for yourself?”
Philippa threw back her head and looked at him with challenging eyes. So young, so brave, so ignorant, poor child, of the real meaning of the fight which lay before her, what wonder that the man’s heart softened, and that he laid his hand on hers with a quick movement of sympathy. Mrs Loftus spied the movement with her cold blue eyes, and hastened to turn on the tap of cold common-sense.
“Perhaps you will kindly tell us in plain words exactly what it is that you intend to do. Your ideas sound very charming and romantic, but I do not understand how they are to be carried out. Education is a costly business, and it is your duty to save rather than to spend. How can you reconcile the need of earning money with the programme which you have drawn out?”
“I don’t try,” said Philippa boldly. “I know it is impossible. You will think our scheme very daring, Aunt Gertrude, but in plain words it is this: to take a flat in town in as central a position as we can afford, and to invest our capital in apprenticing Barney to a firm where he would have a chance of getting on, and in giving the girls the lessons and opportunities which they require. We know quite well that we could not possibly do this on our tiny income, but we believe that it is the wisest way of using our capital, and that the time will come when we shall be thankful that we had the courage to do it. Th-that’s all; that’s our scheme,” faltered Philippa, feeling that she had launched a bombshell, indeed, as her uncle fell back in his chair overcome with amazement, and her aunt raised protesting eyes to the ceiling as though calling Heaven to witness that she was no party to this mad folly.
“And—er—Stephen would, of course, give up his situation! He would—er—hope to find more lucrative employment in London?” she inquired, with a thinly veiled satire which roused the head of the family to dignified response.
“I have every reason to do so. In that respect at least we should not be reckoning in the dark, Aunt Gertrude. The solicitor’s office here is but a small branch of an important one in the City, and my chief has been anxious for some time that I should remove to the head-office. He realised that there could be no promotion for me here, and has been a most kind friend—anxious to help us in every way. So far I have refused to move, for I like a country life, and—”
“He doesn’t like it a bit. He longs to go to town, but he stayed with us because he knew we couldn’t do without him,” cried Philippa, with a loving glance, at which Stephen flushed and darkly scowled an order to be silent. Mr Loftus thought the byplay very pretty and creditable to both the actors, but his business instinct had been shocked, and he felt it his duty to protest.
“Spend your capital! Break into your capital! My dear girl, that is against all laws of prudence and business. I really—as you have asked my advice—I really could not sanction such a step as that. Your income, taking everything together, will not amount to over three hundred a year, I suppose? No! I thought not. Well then, remember that you would have to pay a high London rent, to feed and clothe six people, exclusive of a servant, to pay coals and gas, and constant travelling to and fro, and a hundred extra expenses, before you begin to think of lessons and concert-going and payment of premiums. It would cost you at least twice as much, and I doubt if you could do it on that. Consider what you are doing. It is a risk which I could never sanction—a big risk, a serious risk.”
“I believe in risks,” cried Philippa gallantly. “‘There is a tide in the affairs of men’—Risk—deliberate, thoughtful risk—is only another name for courage and enterprise and faith. What would become of the world if no one was willing to take a risk? What battle would be won if soldiers did not risk everything—health, limbs, life itself—to overcome the enemy! We know it is a risk; we have faced it with our eyes open; but we feel it is the right thing to do. It is our chance; we ought to take it. We are not acting thoughtlessly or lightly; we mean to work hard, and to ask God to help us and give us strength not to be discouraged—”
“We are not going to squander our capital, uncle,” said Stephen; “we are going to invest it. Surely if you can equip six people with the means of getting on in the world, it is a better return for money than a wretched three and a half per cent. We mean to practise every possible economy in food and dress and amusements, and to be extravagant in one way only: the girls shall have no second-rate masters; Barney shall have a good start. They realise the responsibility which we are taking upon ourselves, and are prepared to work hard and shorten the period of probation as much as possible.”
“Yes, yes—of course! Young things are always eager for change, and are ready to promise anything in advance. But suppose they don’t make their way? Suppose your scheme is a failure? The money is left to you and to Philippa to spend as you think wise for the good of the family, so that legally there would be no claim upon you for what was gone. But you might find yourself in a most unpleasant position, all the same. If you spend it all within the next few years, Barnard may think himself ill-used when he grows up and feels the need of a few hundred pounds. The girls may want a trifle to buy a trousseau, or help in other ways, and may blame you for influencing them when they were too young to know their own minds. Do you ever think, my dears, of what would happen if your scheme were to fail?”
Did she ever think! Poor Philippa! How many scores—nay, hundreds—of times had the nightmare seized her in its grip! How often had she lain awake shuddering with dread, seeing the workhouse loom large in the foreground, and the reproachful faces of brothers and sisters turned mutely upon her! She shivered even now, and clasped her hands beneath the tablecloth; but she showed a brave face to the enemy, and refused to be cast down in his presence.
“It is no use beginning a fight with the expectation of being beaten, uncle. I should have no courage left if I did that. I have enough faith in my brothers and sisters to believe that they will not reproach us, whatever happens; and at the worst we could come back and try your plan in the country. We are strong and capable, and could always earn enough to live on, even if we had to separate and go out as cooks and housemaids. I am not in the least afraid of starving. We shall manage to keep ourselves without either asking or expecting help from outsiders.”
“Come, come, my dear! there is such a thing as being too independent. What is the use of relations if they can’t help each other at a pinch? If you are really determined to try this scheme we must help you all we can. You must come to see us when we are in town, and we may be able to give you useful introductions. Avice will be pleased to make your acquaintance, and so shall we all.—We must do what we can for Edgar’s children, mustn’t we, mamma?”
“I cannot promise anything which would be an encouragement to what appears to me a piece of preposterous folly,” said Mrs Loftus coldly. “It is flying in the face of Providence to leave a comfortable home and deliberately court danger in this fashion. With your inexperience you will be ruined before a year is over, and who is to pay your debts I don’t know. You can’t expect any help from us if you act in defiance of our wishes. If you had already made up your minds, as appears to be the case, I must say it was very inconsiderate to inflict this long journey upon your uncle and myself for the mere farce of asking our opinion.—We had better get back to the hotel now, Edward. I am tired, and shall be glad of a rest.”
Mr Loftus rose obediently and followed his wife’s lead to the door, but on his way he managed to whisper a few conciliatory words into Philippa’s burning ear.
“Take no notice, my dear—no notice! Your aunt is hasty, but she will come round. I will see you again this evening when she has gone to bed, and to-morrow we will both come up again before we leave. Can’t approve, you know—can’t approve; but you are a brave girl. You mean well. Wish you good luck!”
Philippa’s eyes swept over him with an expression of magnanimous superiority.
“Poor little down-trodden, trembling worm!” she was saying to herself. “Afraid to assert yourself and be your natural self for fear of what a woman might say! Oh, if I were a man! Oh, if I were your husband, my dear! I’d keep you in order; I’d tell you straight out what I thought of you.” Then aloud: “Good-afternoon, Aunt Gertrude! Mind the door-step. So awkward! Hope you will not be too tired. Good-bye!”
The door closed, and brother and sister drew back and gazed at one another with bright, excited eyes. “Well?” queried one. “Well,” answered the other. Then came the rush of feet on the floor, and down hurried the girls, one after the other, questioning, staring, agape with curiosity.
“Well—well—well—what did they say? Were they furious? Were they amiable? Did you stick to your point? Are they coming again? What is decided? Tell us quickly! Tell us at once!”
“It is quite decided,” said Stephen gravely. “We are going to London.” He put his arm round his sister’s waist, and looked down at her with admiration. “Phil, you were glorious! You convinced me, at least, if you failed with the others. My last lingering doubt has disappeared. I’ll begin preparations this very day.”
“Here endeth the first volume!” chanted Madge shrilly. “Now for excitement; now for romance; now for the third volume, with its honour and glory!”
But Philippa shivered and was silent. The moment of reaction had come, and in her heart she said: “But the second volume lies between, and in the second volume are all the trials and difficulties. Oh, it may be a long, long fight before we get to the happy ending!”