“Why, my two girls, to be sure. Rebecca and Rachel are their right names; but that’s what they get called at home. Lydia is married, and so is my eldest boy, Tom. He went off to Australia, and is doing well. But we have four at home still—the two girls and two boys, North and Cyril. North (he was called after his mother’s family name) is my right hand at the works. He’s a good steady fellow is North, and works hard. Cyril is the fine gentleman of the family. Nothing would serve him but a university education. He has been at Cambridge, and took his degree at Christmas. He can’t quite make up his mind now between the Church and the Bar. He’s having a spell at home to think about it. You’ll get on with Cyril, you two; he’s quite your style, you’ll see.”
Mr. Tom Cossart spoke with evident pride of this son. Oscar and Sheila were both interested in hearing of their cousins and the home that awaited them in Isingford. Sheila saw that there was no chance of getting taken in at Uncle Tom’s with Oscar. Everything had plainly been settled with a view to her being companion and sister to Effie. She tried to think it would be pleasant to have a sister, and consoled herself with the promise that Oscar should come and see her regularly on Saturdays, and perhaps stay for the Sunday too. It was plain that the Cossarts meant to be kind to them, although they intended to arrange their lives for them in their own fashion.
The days which followed were very busy and rather sorrowful. It was one long good-bye to familiar persons and possessions.
The more closely Mr. Cholmondeley’s affairs were looked into, the less satisfactory they proved to be; and it was soon evident that almost everything would have to be sold before all the claims upon the estate could be cleared off.
Mr. Tom Cossart strove to avoid making severe remarks upon the shiftless methods of the dead man; but Oscar felt his disapproval, and could not be blind himself to the selfishness of the long course of indolent procrastination which had marked his father’s rule. The son and daughter would have been left almost penniless had it not been for the small fortune of their mother; and that was a mere pittance to the son and daughter reared in every luxury. The girl and boy were allowed to select such things as they specially treasured from the plenishings of the house; but the bulk must go to the hammer.
Everything was being wound up as quickly as possible; and Sheila soon began to wish it were all over. It was so trying and sorrowful; and she could not bear to see her uncle’s grim face as he looked about him and made arrangements. She knew he was feeling how hard it was that a fine property had been allowed to go to rack and ruin for want of a strong hand on the reins, and a managing and unselfish heart to dictate reforms and retrenchment in times of depression.
Sheila was not one who attached herself very greatly to inanimate objects; but she was devoted to her live pets. And her uncle found her in tears in the stable once, with her arms about the neck of her little mare Shamrock, who had been broken on the place, and had carried her young mistress ever since she had been a colt. She was quite young still, and a very pretty creature. The thought of parting from her was heartbreaking to Sheila.
“I would almost rather she was shot, Uncle Tom,” she said, with a little sob in her voice. “I can’t bear to think what may become of her. She will have a good home, I daresay, whilst she is young and handsome; but when she grows old she may be so badly treated. I can’t bear to think of it!”
“Tut, tut, my dear, don’t cry! Why, I don’t see why you and your horse shouldn’t go together. There is plenty of room at Cossart Place; and it would do Effie a world of good to put her on horseback. We’re not much of riders ourselves, we Cossarts; but Effie did have a pony once. She would take to it again. There, there, my dear, don’t smother me. You shall have your horse right enough. I’ll make that all square here, and with your uncle and aunt yonder.”
“Oh, Uncle Tom, you’re a darling!” cried Sheila in her impulsive way with her arms about his neck; and though Mr. Tom Cossart had probably never been called a darling since his babyhood, and was not at all used to being hugged, he found it amazingly pleasant to be so treated by his pretty little niece. Not that Sheila was really little; but she seemed so from her childlike appealing ways; and her uncle had slipped into the way of calling her “Baby,” which from him she did not mind a bit.