Gillian Merrifield was indulged with a kiss and smile from the heroine of her worship, and Anna found herself in the midst of a garland of bright girls. She was a contrast to them, with her fair Underwood complexion, her short plump Vanderkist figure, and the mourning she still wore for the fatherly Uncle Grinstead; while the Merrifield party were all in different shades of the brunette, and wore bright spring raiment.
They had only just come down the steps when they were greeted by a young clergyman, who said he was on his way to inquire for Mr. Underwood, and as he looked as if he expected a reply from Miss Vanderkist, she said her uncle was better, and would be glad to see Mr. Brownlow when he had rested after his journey.
“I hope he will not bother him,” she added; “I know who he is now. He was at Whittingtonia for a little while, but broke down. There’s no remembering all the curates there. My aunt likes his mother. Does he belong to this St. Andrew’s Church?”
“No, to the old one. You begin to see the tower.”
“Is that where you go?”
“To the old one in the morning, but we have a dear little old chapel at Clipstone, where Mr. Brownlow comes for the afternoon. It is all a good deal mixed up together.”
Then another voice—
“Do you think Mr. Underwood would preach to us? Mr. Brownlow says he never heard any one like him.”
Anna stood still.
“Nobody is to dare to mention preaching to Uncle Clement for the next six months, or they will deserve never to hear another sermon in their lives.”
“What an awful penalty!”
“For shame, Dolores! Now,” as the short remainder of a steep street was surmounted, “here, as you may see, is the great hotel, and next beyond is Aunt Jane’s, Beechcroft. On beyond, where you see that queer tower, is Cliff House, Mr. White’s, who married our Aunt Adeline, only they are in Italy; and then comes Carrara, Captain Henderson’s—”
“You are expected to rave about Mrs. Henderson’s beauty,” said the cousin, Dolores Mohun, as she opened Miss Mohun’s gate, between two copper beeches, while Anna listened to the merry tongues, almost bewildered by the chatter, so unlike the seclusion and silent watching of the last month; but when Mysie Merrifield asked, “Is it not quite overwhelming?” she said—
“Oh no! it is like being among them all at Vale Leston. My sisters always tell me my tongue wants greasing when I come down.”
Her tongue was to have exercise enough among the bevy of damsels who surrounded her in Miss Mohun’s drawing-room—four Merrifields, ranging from twenty-two to twelve years old, and one cousin, Dolores Mohun, with a father in New Zealand.
“Won’t you be in the Mouse-trap?” presently asked number three, by name Valetta.
“If I did not know that she would drag it in!” cried Dolores.
“What may it be?” asked Anna.
“An essay society and not an essay society,” was the lucid answer. “Gillian said you would be sure to belong to it.”
“I am afraid I can’t if it takes much time,” said Anna in a pleading tone. “My uncle is very far from well, and I have a good deal to do in the way of reading to him, and my little brother is coming to go to school with yours.”
“Mr. Underwood brought his little boy,” said Gillian. “Fergus said he was one of the jolliest little chaps he had ever seen.”
“Uncle Reginald quite lost his heart to him,” said Mysie, “and Aunt Jane says he is a charming little fellow.”
“Oh, Felix Underwood!” said Anna. “Adrian is much more manly. You should see him ride and climb trees.”
The comparative value of brothers and cousins was very apparent. However, it was fixed that Anna should attend the Mouse-trap, and hear and contribute as she could find time.
“I did the Erl King,” said Valetta.
“‘Who rideth so late in the forest so wild?
It is the fond father and his loving child.’”
“Oh, spare us, Val,” cried her sister Gillian. “Every one has done that.”
“Gerald parodied mine,” said Anna.
“‘Who trampeth so late in a shocking bad hat?
‘Tis the tipsy old father a-hugging his brat.”
“Oh, go on.”
“I can’t recollect any more, but the Erl King’s daughter is a beggar-woman, and it ends with—
“I’ll give thee a tanner and make him a bait,
So in the gin palace was settled his fate.”
Some of the party were scandalized, others laughed as much or more than the effusion deserved.
“We accept drawings,” added another voice, “and if any one does anything extraordinarily good in that way, or in writing, it makes a little book.”
“We have higher designs than that,” said Gillian. “We want to print the cream.”
“For the benefit of the school board—no, the board school.”
“Oh! oh! Valetta!” cried the general voice.
“The thing is,” explained Gillian, “that we must build a new school for the out-liers of St. Kenelm’s, or ‘my lords’ will be down on us, and we shall be swamped by board schools.”
“Aunt Jane is frantic about it,” said Dolores Mohun.
“There’s no escape from school board worries!” exclaimed Anna. “They helped to demolish Uncle Clement.”
“There is to be a sale of work, and a concert, and all sorts of jolly larks,” added Valetta.
“Larks! Oh, Val!”
“Larks aren’t slang. They are in the dictionary,” declared Valetta.
“By the bye, she has not heard the rules of the Mice,” put in Mysie.
“I’ll say them,” volunteered Valetta the irrepressible. “Members of the Mouse-trap never utter slang expressions, never wear live birds—I mean dead ones—in their hats.”
“Is an ostrich feather a live bird or a dead?” demanded Anna.
“And,” said Dolores, “what of the feather screens that the old Miss Smiths have been making all the winter-circles of pheasants’ feathers and peacocks’ eyes outside a border of drakes’ curls?”
“Oh, like ostriches they don’t count, since peacocks don’t die, and drakes and pheasants must,” said Gillian.
“We have been getting ready for this sale ever so long,” said Mysie. “Aunt Jane has a working party every Friday for it.”
“The fit day,” said Dolores, “for she is a perfect victim to other people’s bad work, and spends the evening in stitching up and making presentable the wretched garments they turn out.”
“The next rule—” began Valetta, but Gillian mercilessly cut her short.
“You know clever people, Anna. Do you know how to manage about our Mouse-trap book? Our bookseller here is a school-board man, all on the wrong side, and when I tried to feel our way, he made out that the printing and getting it up would cost a great deal more than we could risk.”
“It is a pity that Uncle Lance is gone home,” said Anna. “He could tell you all about it.”
“Could you not write to him?”
“Oh, yes, but I know he will want to see a specimen before he can make any estimate.”
It