CHAPTER I.

AUNT MARY.

In one of those very pretty suburban villas which are to be seen in the neighbourhood of all our large towns, Aunt Mary lived, at the time when my tale commences.

Indeed she had lived there the greater part of her life, for her father, Mr. Livesay, who had been a highly respected merchant in London for a great many years, had, unlike the generality of this prosperous class, retired from business as soon as he had secured a moderate competency for himself, his wife, and their four daughters, of whom our Aunt Mary was the eldest.

Mr. Livesay had purchased the pretty house, to which he had retreated from the hurry and bustle of the great city, but before doing so, he had taken care to ascertain that the inhabitants of the adjoining villa were likely to prove agreeable neighbours; and this he had done to his[Pg 6] entire satisfaction, as Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, with their two sweet little children, gave promise of pleasurable society.

At the time of his retirement from business, the four daughters of Mr. Livesay were grown up to woman's estate; though perhaps that can hardly be said of the youngest, Irene, who was only sixteen, while her two sisters, Ada and Alice, were of the respective ages of eighteen and twenty.

Great pains had been taken in the real education of these young ladies, for their excellent mother had spared no pains in their early training; and as they were all quick and clever children, the task of 'teaching the young idea how to shoot,' in their case, proved 'delightful.' We wish this were oftener the case; but to proceed: Aunt Mary, as we have said, was the eldest of these young ladies; she was at the discreet age of four-and-twenty—indeed, she might have been thirty, for the aptitude she displayed in household matters, taking all the care of housekeeping off her good mother's hands, and being looked up to, and appealed to, in all doubtful matters by her sisters.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Livesay considered their daughter Mary their chief treasure; indeed, she was everything that a daughter ought to be.

There was one thing, however, lacking that her[Pg 7] three sisters possessed: she was not beautiful. Aunt Mary, if she had been pretty in infancy, had been spoiled by that dreadful ravager, the small-pox, which she had caught, through the carelessness of a nurse, when she was five years old.

It had not, however, left her entirely without good looks; for the kindly feelings of her heart beamed forth in the eloquent dark eyes and the sweet smile that almost invariably lighted up her face.

Laughingly, she used to say to her sisters, 'Well, you may all get married, and I shall live at home with my mother and father.'

And even as Aunt Mary said, so it came to pass: her sisters all married, and she remained at home, the loving daughter, the tender nurse, the deepest mourner for the loss of their dear parents, whom she had so dutifully cherished in their old age.

At the death of Mr. and Mrs. Livesay, which happened about ten years after the marriage of their two daughters, Ada and Alice—whom I must now introduce to the reader as Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Beaumont—Aunt Mary was warmly entreated to give up housekeeping, and go and reside with one or other of her sisters, especially as Irene, the youngest, who had for the last twelve months undertaken the task of governess[Pg 8] to the two Miss Maitlands, their next-door neighbours, was now engaged to be married, and the house, it was urged, would be too large and too lonely for Aunt Mary to reside in with any comfort.

This proposition, however, did not at all suit one who had for so many years acted independently; nor, although she was fond of children, would she on any account undertake a partial teaching of them. 'Let me have all the say, or none,' was Aunt Mary's maxim, so she decided to remain where she was, promising however, that when her sister Irene should marry Captain Gordon, she would take into serious consideration Mr. and Mrs. Maitland's earnest request, that she would continue the education of their two dear girls at her own house.

This, after the lapse of six months, Miss Livesay had agreed to, and had also sent for the eldest daughter of her sister Mrs. Beaumont, who was now a widow, with three children, though she had been left very well off, and could have sent her daughter Clara to a first-rate school, had she been so disposed. Mrs. Beaumont, however, knew too well the benefit her child was likely to derive from the real education she would receive from her sister Mary, to hesitate for a moment as to putting her under that lady's exclusive care; and thus at the same time that Oak Villa received[Pg 9] Mrs. Maitland's two little girls, Annie and Dora, it became also the pleasant home of Clara Beaumont, who although she was the youngest of the trio, was certainly the most seriously disposed; perhaps, poor child, on account of the loss of her dear papa, who had died very unexpectedly, in the prime of life, from neglected cold, which terminated in acute bronchitis. This, though it had occurred six months previous to Clara's advent at Oak Villa, was an event still deeply felt

and lamented by the sensitive child, and produced a seriousness of character seldom seen in children of her age; but the change was likely to prove very beneficial both to her health and spirits, and it was not long before Aunt Mary saw, with much pleasure, that her niece gladly entered upon her studies, and appeared very desirous to overtake her young companions in their several lessons, which, as she was exceedingly industrious, she was very likely to do before many weeks had passed away.

We must now, however, look after Aunt Mary's second sister, Mrs. Ellis, whose eldest daughter, Mabel, was only a few months older than Clara Beaumont, but whose character at this time was as unlike that of her young cousin as could possibly be imagined, which the reader will soon perceive when we introduce her in the next chapter, associated as she will be with the[Pg 10] gentle and amiable daughters of Mrs. Maitland, who, together with her niece Clara, had been Aunt Mary's pupils for some months, though at present it was holiday-time.

CHAPTER II.

A GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT.

'Mamma dear,' said Dora Maitland, the eldest of that lady's two daughters, a sweet gentle-looking girl about twelve years of age, 'may Annie and I go and ask Mabel and Julia Ellis to take a walk with us this afternoon? We are going to see John Hutton's beehives; he has got some new glass ones, and he says it is so interesting to watch the little creatures at work. I am sure we should all like to see them, and I do so wish that Clara was here, to go with us, she is such a dear girl.'

While this request was making, Dora's younger sister, Annie, stood looking with beseeching eyes at mamma, evidently very anxious for that lady's reply, which was not immediately given, for Mrs. Maitland was apparently debating in her own mind whether it were desirable, or not, to attend to Dora's request.

'May we, mamma?' urged the young pleader timidly. 'You are not afraid to let us go, are you?' she inquired.[Pg 11]

'Oh no, not afraid,' replied Mrs. Maitland; 'at least, not afraid of your going alone; but what I am afraid of is, that it may be inconvenient to Mrs. Ellis to let your young friends accompany you, as at present I know that their nurse is away, and—and she herself is not at all well.'

'Then do you think, mamma, that we may ask Julia to go with us? We like her best, and Mabel could stay at home and take care of the children, as she is the eldest.'

'Not a bad suggestion, my dear Dora,' replied her mother, 'only I fear there would be some objection on Mabel's part to such an arrangement. From what I have observed in that young lady,' continued Mrs. Maitland, 'she is not very loving, nor very tractable, and I fear she has been spoiled by over indulgence. However, if you will promise not to press the matter, should you see that it is likely to be inconvenient to Mrs. Ellis, you may go; it is a lovely afternoon, and I hope you will enjoy yourselves.'

With light hearts and buoyant footsteps, the two fair girls set off on their errand of inquiry to Camden Terrace, where Mr. Ellis resided, meeting with a very kind reception from Mrs. Ellis, and a joyful greeting from Mabel and Julia, who, to say the truth, were getting rather tired of the monotony of home, especially as, the nursemaid being away for a fortnight, and mamma not[Pg 12] being well, they were under the necessity of taking care of the children, if care it could be called, where neither love nor forbearance were in exercise; but the little ones were only prevented from doing mischief, or hurting each other.

As the engagements of Mr. Ellis kept him from home all day, he had very little time, and I am sorry to say that he had very little inclination, to attend to his children, though we must do him the justice to say that he wished sincerely for their proper training; but he thought, as I fear too many papas do, that this duty belonged exclusively to his wife. This we think is a grave mistake. Children cannot be taught too early the lesson of obedience; and often it happens that the weakness or tenderness of a mother prevents her from enforcing this very salutary precept.

But I return to our young friends, who were under the necessity of making their request in the presence of both Mabel and Julia, though they had agreed between themselves not to do so, but to ask their mamma alone, so that if it were inconvenient to her they would not press the matter.

Without waiting for their mamma's answer, both the girls immediately begged to be allowed to go, indeed using every entreaty, so that poor Mrs. Ellis appeared quite distressed; and the[Pg 13] young Maitlands were no less so, for they remembered what their mamma had said to them.

'I really scarcely know what to do,' said Mrs. Ellis, at last; 'I should be sorry to deprive you of any pleasure, but you know, Mabel, I am not well, and nurse is not with us: besides which, your papa made a particular request this morning that I would not let you go out to-day.'

'Oh, that is always the way with papa,' broke in Mabel, impetuously. 'I believe he would never let us go even for a walk, if he were at home.'

'Hush, hush, Mabel!' said her mother; 'I wonder you are not ashamed to speak of your papa in this disrespectful manner. Besides, you know that you are not speaking the truth.'

'Don't let them go, Mrs. Ellis, if it is inconvenient to you,' said Dora Maitland; 'we will call another day. I am sure mamma would be very sorry to hear that our coming brought any trouble to you.'

'It is not a trouble, of course,' again broke in the impetuous Mabel, without waiting her mamma's reply; 'and we shall be home long before papa, so nothing need be said to him about our having been out.'

The two young visitors looked at each other, and appeared quite distressed at this suggestion. They had been, and rightly so, taught to consider[Pg 14] deception of any kind as falsehood; but Mrs. Ellis did not appear to be of the same opinion, and though she still urged her own ill health and the absence of the nurse, she was evidently inclined to yield to the continued and earnest request of her daughters.

'We will promise you not to be away more than an hour, dear mamma,' said Julia, who was certainly the best of the two girls; and this promise being seconded by Mabel very earnestly, poor Mrs. Ellis foolishly gave her consent to their going, which consent had no sooner been obtained, than the selfish girls darted off to make ready for their walk, leaving Dora and Annie very much concerned about what had passed, and determined in their own minds to forego the anticipated pleasure of seeing the glass beehives till a more convenient season, for fear they should not be back at the appointed time.

Mrs. Ellis, as I think I have before stated, had long been very delicate; she was of a nervous temperament, and nothing appeared to affect her health so much as excitement of any kind. She had been ordered lately to be kept perfectly quiet, but this is one of those rules that are more easily made than complied with by the mistress of a house, and the mother of a family; and, unfortunately for Mrs. Ellis, she had no strength of mind to aid her in the discharge of the duties[Pg 15] that devolved upon her, for she was weakly indulgent both to her children, and her servants, and thus she was too often the slave of the one, and the dupe of the other.

After the young people had set off for their walk, she sat down to consider whether she had done right in letting them go; and remembering her husband's prohibition, and the uncertainty of the time at which he would return home, she evidently came to an unfavourable conclusion in the matter, as she exclaimed aloud; 'I wish I had not let them go!'

Wishing, however, now, was of no avail, and as sundry screams from the nursery betokened a misfortune of some kind, the bell was rung for the cook to go, and ascertain the cause of the tumult. Fortunately, there was no great harm done: poor little Willie had contrived to mount on two boxes, which stood side by side, but not close enough together to prevent the chubby fat legs from slipping between them; and as Freddy and Gertrude in vain attempted to extricate the little fellow from his awkward position, they set up a simultaneous scream in token of their distress.

Kind-hearted Susan, however, soon set all to rights, for she was well-known to carry in her pocket sundry mysterious little sweet balls, which, if they were not over-clean, had a remark[Pg 16]able tendency to soothe, insomuch that sagacious Master Fred, seeing his sister Mabel one day crying with passion, inquired if he should go and ask Susan for one of her sugar balls, to do her good; a proposition which that young lady highly resented, though the very mention of the said sweets had stopped the crying.

But we must return to poor mamma, who had in vain endeavoured to follow Susan upstairs, she trembled so violently. When, however, Willie was placed on her knee, and she saw the slight nature of the hurt he had sustained, she began to feel more composed, for there was really no harm done.

The poor lady, however, was not suffered to calm down thus easily, for before Susan had time to quit the room, the sound of a key in the front door betokened the dreaded return of her husband, and again excited all her nervous fears.

'Why have you got the children with you, Ada?' said Mr. Ellis to his wife, reproachfully. 'You know that the doctor has told you to keep quiet.'

'Yes, I know,' replied Mrs. Ellis, meekly, 'but poor Willie has hurt his leg, so Susan brought him down to me.'

'But what has Susan to do with the children?' inquired Mr. Ellis. 'Surely Mabel and Julia are quite old enough to take care of them, without[Pg 17] calling Susan from her work in the kitchen! Where are the girls?' demanded Mr. Ellis, sharply; 'I hope you have not let them go out after what I said this morning.'

'Mrs. Maitland's little girls came to ask them to take a walk, and I did not like to refuse them,' said Mrs. Ellis, timidly.

'Then I can only tell you, Ada,' said her husband, with suppressed passion, 'that by your foolish weakness you have deprived them of a great pleasure. It is not often that I can spare time to go out with them, but as I have had some tickets given me to go to a panorama, I have, at great inconvenience, come home, in order to take them, and you tell me that they are gone out.'

Poor Mrs. Ellis! This was a terrible mortification to her; she felt for her husband, and she felt for the disappointment of the girls, though they certainly deserved it.

'I am very sorry I let them go, dear Arthur,' she said, 'but they pressed me so much that I did not like to refuse.'

'Yes, yes,' said Mr. Ellis, 'I know; it is the old story: you are too weak-minded to refuse, and our children are to be ruined for want of proper restraint, or else I am to be appealed to in case of punishment, and so must be considered by them harsh and unkind. I cannot help saying[Pg 18] that it is very cruel of you, Ada, to give way to this nervous weakness of yours,' continued Mr. Ellis, as he saw the poor lady begin to cry; 'the only way will be, I suppose, to send the girls to a boarding-school, before you have quite spoiled them.'

Having thus delivered his opinion, Mr. Ellis walked out of the room; and soon the rather violent shutting of the front door gave token that he had left the house, to the really great sorrow of his wife, who now heartily repented having given her consent to what had been the cause of so much trouble. But we must leave her to repent at leisure, and follow the gay young party, who, notwithstanding some few qualms of conscience on their first setting out, soon found plenty to interest them in the surrounding villas and gardens, where such diversity of taste is displayed.

CHAPTER III.

THE LOST BROOCH.

It was a lovely afternoon in the beginning of August. Some few fleecy clouds occasionally intercepted the rather too warm beams of the sun, from which our young friends intended to take shelter under the trees in the Regent's Park; for Dora and Annie Maitland had wisely deter[Pg 19]mined not to mention Thomas Hutton and his glass beehives after what they had seen and heard at Camden Terrace, for they well knew that it would be impossible to walk that distance, and back again, in an hour.

'I have a beautiful book that my papa gave me yesterday,' said Dora Maitland; 'I thought you would like to see it, so I brought it with me. We can look at it while we sit to rest in the Park.'

'Oh yes, that will be delightful,' said Mabel; but she almost immediately added, 'I think I would rather look at the gay dresses of the ladies; we can look at books when we are at home.'

'Mabel is always talking about dress,' said her sister, laughing. 'I'm sure I don't care how I am dressed, if I am only clean and neat; it is such a trouble to be afraid of spoiling what one has on.'

Julia's opinion was echoed by Dora and Annie Maitland, so Mabel found she had no seconder; and they tripped along silently until they arrived at the desired spot for resting, a nice seat under the shade of a large tree. Here they were just going to seat themselves, when an exclamation from Mabel attracted the attention of the others, who inquired eagerly what was the matter.

'Oh, the brooch—mamma's beautiful brooch!' said the excited girl, in great distress; 'it is gone out of my necktie. Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do? It is mamma's favourite brooch; the[Pg 20] one that papa gave her many years ago. Oh, I cannot go home without it!' continued Mabel, in a state of great distress.

'How could you be so foolish as to put it on, when you were only going for a country walk?' said Dora Maitland.

'I can't think why you should wear your mamma's brooch at all,' remarked Annie, 'unless she gave you leave.'

'But mamma did not give her leave; mamma has forbidden us to wear it,' said Julia, 'and I begged Mabel not to put it into her necktie to-day, for fear she should lose it; but she would do it, and now all our pleasure is spoilt.'

'You need not talk in that way,' angrily retorted her sister; 'you are fond enough of putting on mamma's gold chain when she leaves it out of the box, though she has often told you not to do so.'

'Hush, hush!' said Dora Maitland; 'quarrelling won't find the brooch; and see, there are a lady and gentleman coming toward us. Let us return home at once, the same way that we came: there were not many people on the road, and if we all look diligently we may find it, though I am much afraid that we shall not.'