Kitabı oku: «Modern Broods; Or, Developments Unlooked For», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XXII—ANGEL AND BEAR
“Enough of science and of art!
Close up those barren leaves,
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.”
—Wordsworth.
A telegram had been handed to Mr. Mayor, which he kept to himself, smiling over it, and he—at least—was not taken utterly by surprise at the sight of a tall handsome man, who stepped forward with something like a shout.
“Angel! Lance! Why, is it Robin, too?”
“Bear, Bear, old Bear, how did you come?”
“I couldn’t stop when I heard at Clipstone that Angel was here, so I left Phyllis and the kid with her mother. Oh, Angel, Angel, to meet at Bexley after all!”
They clung together almost as they had done when they were the riotous elements of the household, while Lance opened the front door, and Robina, mindful of appearances, impelled them into the hall, Bernard exclaiming, “Pratt’s room! Whose teeth is it?”
“Don’t you want Wilmet to hold your hands and make you open your mouth?” said Lance, laughing.
Gertrude, who had already received the Indian arrival, met Angela, who was bounding up to see to her charge, with, “Not come in yet! She is gone out with the children quite happily, with Awdrey’s doll in her arms. Come and enjoy each other in peace.”
“In the office, please,” said Angela. “That is home. We shall be our four old selves.”
Lance opened the office door, and gave a hint to Mr. Lamb, while they looked at each other by the fire.
Bernard was by far the most altered. The others were slightly changed, but still their “old selves,” while he was a grave responsible man, looking older than Lancelot, partly from the effects of climate; but Angela saw enough to make her exclaim, “Here we are! Don’t you feel as if we were had down to Felix to be blown up?”
“Not a bit altered,” said Bernard, looking at the desks and shelves of ledgers, with the photographs over the mantelpiece—Felix, Mr. Froggatt, the old foreman, and a print of Garofalo’s Vision of St. Augustine, hung up long ago by Felix, as Lance explained, as a token of the faith to which all human science and learning should be subordinated.
“A declaration of the Pursuivant,” said Angela. “How Fulbert did look out for Pur! I believe it was his only literature.”
“Phyllis declares,” said Bernard, “that nothing so upsets me as a failure in Pur’s arrival.”
“And this is Pur’s heart and centre!” said Robina.
“Only,” added Angela, “I miss the smell of burnt clay that used to pervade the place, and that Alda so hated.”
“Happily the clay is used up,” said Lance. “I could not have brought Gertrude and the children here if the ceramic art, as they call it, had not departed. Cherry was so delighted at our coming to live here. She loved the old struggling days.”
“Fulbert said he never felt as if he had been at home till he came here. He never took to Vale Leston.”
“Clement and Cherry have settled in very happily,” said Robina, “with convalescent clergy in the Vicarage.”
“I say, Angel, let us have a run over there,” cried Bernard, “you and I together, for a bit of mischief.”
“Do, do let us! Though this is real home, our first waking to perception and naughtiness, it is more than Vale Leston. We seem to have been up in a balloon all those five happy years.”
“A balloon?” said Bernard. “Nay, it seems to me that till they were over, I never thought at all except how to get the most rollicking and the finest rowing out of life. It seems to me that I had about as much sense as a green monkey.”
“Something sank in, though,” said Lance; “you did not drift off like poor Edgar.”
“Some one must have done so,” said Angela. “I wanted to ask you, Lancey, about advertising for my little Lena’s people; the Bishop said I ought.”
“I say,” exclaimed Bernard, “was it her father that was Fulbert’s mate? I thought he was afraid of your taking up with him. You didn’t?”
“No, no. Let me tell you, I want you to know. Field and a little wife came over from Melbourne prospecting for a place to sit down in. They had capital, but the poor wife was worn out and ill, and after taking them in for a night, Fulbert liked them. Field was an educated man and a gentleman, and Ful offered them to stay there in partnership. So they stayed, and by and by this child was born, and the poor mother died. The two great bearded men came galloping over to Albertstown from Carrigaboola, with this new born baby, smaller than even Theodore was, and I had the care of her from the very first, and Field used to ride over and see the little thing.”
“And—?” said Bernard, in a rather teasing voice, as his eyes actually looked at Angela’s left hand.
“I’ll own it did tempt me. I had had some great disappointments with my native women, running wild again, and I could not bear my child having a horrid stepmother; and there was the glorious free bush life, and the horses and the sheep! But then I thought of you all saying Angel had broken out again; and by and by Fulbert came and told me that he was sure there was some ugly mystery, and spoke to Mother Constance, and they made me promise not to take him unless it was cleared up. Then, as you know, dear Ful’s horse fell with him; Field came and fetched me to their hut, and I was there to the last. Ful told each of us again that all must be plain and explained before we thought of anything in the future. He, Henry Field, said he had great hopes that he should be able to set it right. Then, as you know, there was no saving dear Fulbert, and after that Mother Constance’s illness began. Oh! Bear, do you recollect her coming in and mothering us in the little sitting-room? I could not stir from her, of course, while she was with us. And after that, Harry Field came and said he had written a letter to England, and when the answer came, he would tell me all, and I should judge! But I don’t think the answer ever did come, and he went to Brisbane to see if it was at the bank; and there he caught a delirious fever, and there was an end of it!”
At that moment something between a whine or a call of “sister” was heard. Up leapt Angela and hurried away, while Lance observed, “Well! That’s averted, but I am sorry for her.”
“It was not love,” said Robina.
“Or only for the child,” said Bernard; “and that would have been a dangerous speculation.”
“The child or something else has been very good for her,” said Lance; “I never saw her so gentle and quiet.”
“And with the same charm about her as ever,” said Bernard. “I don’t wonder that all the fellows fall in love with her. I hope she won’t make havoc among Clement’s sick clergy.”
“I suppose we ought to go up and fulfil the duties of society,” said Robina, rising. “But first, Bear, tell me how is Phyllis?”
“Pretty fair,” he answered. “Resting with her mother, but she has never been quite the thing of late. I almost hope Sir Ferdinand will see his way to keeping us at home, or we shall have to leave our little Lily.”
Interruption occurred as a necessary summons to “Mr. Mayor,” and the paternal conclave was broken up, and had to adjourn to Gertrude’s tea in the old sitting-room.
“I see!” exclaimed Agatha, as she looked at the party of children at their supplementary table. “I see what the likeness is in that child. Don’t you, Dolores? Is it not to Wilfred Merrifield?”
“There is very apt to be a likeness between sandy people, begging your pardon, Angel,” said Gertrude.
“Yes, the carroty strain is apt to crop up in families,” said Lance, “like golden tabbies, as you ladies call your stable cats.”
“All the Mohuns are dark,” said Dolores, “and all Aunt Lily’s children, except Wilfred; and is not your Phyllis of that colour?”
“Phyllis’s hair is not red, but dark auburn,” said Bernard, in a tone like offence.
“I never saw Phyllis,” said dark-browed Dolores, “but I have heard the aunts talk over the source of the—the fair variety, and trace it to the Merrifields. Uncle Jasper is brown, and so is Bessie; but Susan is, to put it politely, just a golden tabby, and David’s baby promises to be, to her great delight, as she says he will be a real Merrifield. So much for family feeling!”
“Sister, Sister!” came in a bright tone, “may I go with Pearl and get a stick for Ben? He wants something to play with! He is eating his perch.”
Ben, it appeared, was the pink cockatoo, who was biting his perch with his hooked beak. The children had finished their meal, and consent was given. “Only, Lena, come here,” said Angela, fastening a silk handkerchief round her neck, and adding, “Don’t let Lena go on the dew, Pearl; she is not used to early English autumn, I must get her a pair of thicker boots.”
“What is her name?” asked Agatha, catching the sound.
“Magdalen Susanna. Her father made a point of it, instead of his wife’s name, which, I think, was Caroline.”
“I don’t think I ever knew a Magdalen except my own elder sister,” said Agatha, “and Susanna! Did you say Miss Merrifield had a sister Susan?”
“An excellent, sober-sided, dear old Susan! Yes, Susanna was their mother’s name,” said Dolores “and now that you have put it into my head, little Lena, when she is animated, puts me more in mind of Bessie than even of Wilfred, though the colouring is different. Why?”
“Did you never hear,” said Agatha, “that there was one of the brothers who was a bad lot, and ran away. My sister says Wilfred is like him. I believe,” she added, “that he was her romance!”
“Ha!” exclaimed Bernard, “that’s queer! We had a clerk in the bank who gave his name as Meriton, and who cut and ran the very day he heard that Sir Jasper Merrifield was coming out as Commandant. Yes, he was carroty. I rarely saw Wilfred at Clipstone, but this might very well have been the fellow, afraid to face his uncle.”
Angela did not look delighted. “She is not destitute, you know,” she said, “I am her guardian, and she will have about two hundred a year.”
“Is there a will?” asked Lance.
“Oh, yes, I have it upstairs! It is all right. It was at the bank at Brisbane, and they kept a copy. I brought her because the Bishop said it was my duty to find out whether there were any relations.”
“Certainly,” said Bernard. “In our own case, remember what joy Travis’s letter was!”
Angela was silent, and presently said, “You shall see the will when I have unpacked it, but there is no doubt about my being guardian.”
“Probably not,” said Bernard, rather drily.
“If it be a valid will, signed by his proper name,” said Lance.
Whereupon the two brothers fell into a discussion on points of law, not unlike the editor of the Pursuivant, as he had become known to his family, but most unlike the Bernard they had known before his departure for the East. At any rate it dissipated the emotional tone of the party; and by and by, when Bernard and Angela had agreed to make a bicycle rush to Minsterham the next day, “that is,” said Angela “if Lena is happy enough to spare me,” the Harewoods took leave.
When the children had gone to bed, and Angela had stayed upstairs so long that Gertrude augured that she was waiting till her charge had gone to sleep, and that they should have no more of her henceforth but “Lena’s baulked stepmother,” she came down, bringing a document with her, which she displayed before her brothers.
There was no question but that it was a will drawn up in due form, and very short, bequeathing his property at Carrigaboola, Queensland, to his daughter, Magdalen Susanna, and appointing Fulbert Underwood and Angela Margaret Underwood and “my brother Samuel” her guardian. It was dated the year after his daughter’s birth, and was signed Henry Field, with a word interposed, which, as Lance said, might be anything, but was certainly the right length for the first syllables of Merrifield. Bernard looked at it, and declared it was, to the best of his belief, the same signature as his former clerk used to write.
“And this,” he said, looking at the seal, “is the crest of the Merrifield’s—the demi lion. I know it well on Sir Jasper’s seal ring.”
“Have you nothing else, Angel?” asked Lance.
“Here is the certificate of her baptism, but that will tell you nothing.”
No more it did, it only called the child the daughter of Henry and Caroline Field, and the surname was omitted in the bequest.
“Who was the mother?” asked Lance.
“I never exactly knew. Fulbert thought she had been a person whom Field had met in America or somewhere, and married in a hurry. Fulbert said she was rather pretty, but she was a poor helpless, bewildered thing, and very poorly. He wanted to bring her to Albertstown for fit help and nursing; but she cried so much at the idea of either horse or wagon over the-no-roads, that it was put off and off and she had only his shepherd’s housekeeper, so it was no wonder she did not live! Field was dreadfully cut up, and blamed himself extremely for having given way to her; but it is as likely as not the journey would have been just as fatal.”
“Poor thing!”
“You never heard her surname?”
“No, it did not signify.”
“He did not name his child after her?”
“No. I remember Fulbert saying he supposed she should be called Caroline; and he exclaimed, ‘No, no, I always said it should be Magdalen and Susanna.’”
“My sister’s name,” repeated Agatha.
“And Susan Merrifield,” added Dolores.
“But she is mine, mine!” cried Angela, with a tone like herself, of a sort of triumphant jealousy. “They can’t take her away from me!”
“Gently, Angela, my dear,” said Lance, in a tone so like Felix of old, that it almost startled her. “Tell me what arrangement is this about the property. Your share of Fulbert’s has never been taken out, I think?”
“No, Macpherson, the purchaser, you know, of Fulbert’s share, pays me my amount out of it, and agreed to do the same by Lena. I don’t think the value is quite what it used to be. It rather went down under Field; but Macpherson is all there, and it has been a better season. I could sell it all to him, hers and mine both; but I have thought how it would be, as it is her native country, and I have not parted with my own to go out again to Carrigaboola, and bring her up there. I assure you I am up to it,” she added, meeting an amused look. “I know a good deal more about sheep farming than either of you gentlemen. I can ride anything but a buckjumper, and boss the shepherds, and I do love the life, no stifling in fields and copses! I only wish you would come too, Bear; it would do you ever so much good to get a little red paint on those white banker’s hands of yours.”
“Well done, sister Angel!” And the brothers both burst out laughing.
“But really,” proceeded Angela, “it is by far the best hope of keeping up Christianity among those hands. Fulbert had a sort of little hut for a chapel, and once a month one of the clergy from Albertstown came over there; I used to ride with him when I could, and if I were there, I could keep a good deal going till the place is more peopled, and we can get a cleric. It is a great opportunity, not to be thrown away. I can catch those cockatoos better than a parson. And there are the blacks.”
The brothers had not the least doubt of it. Angela was Angela still, for better or for worse. Or was it for worse? Yet she went up to bed chanting—
“His sister she went beyond the seas,
And died an old maid among black savagees.”
CHAPTER XXIII—WILLOW WIDOWS
“Set your heart at rest.
The fairyland buys not that child of me.”
—“Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
An expedition to Minsterham finished the visit of Dolores and her faithful “Nag,” whose abilities as an assistant were highly appreciated, and who came home brilliantly happy to keep her remaining holiday with Magdalen; while Dolores repaired to Clipstone. Bernard had been obliged to go to London, to report himself to Sir Ferdinand Travis Underwood, but his wife and little girl were the reigning joy at Clipstone. Phyllis looked very white, much changed from the buxom girl who had gone out with her father two years ago. She had never recovered the loss of the little boy, and suffered the more from her husband’s inability to bear expression, and it was an immense comfort to her to speak freely of her little one to her mother.
The little Lilias looked frail, but was healthy, happy, and as advanced as a well-trained companion child of six could well be, and the darling of the young aunts, who expected Dolores to echo their raptures, and declare the infinite superiority of the Ceylonese to “that little cornstalk,” as Valetta said.
“There’s no difficulty as to that,” said Dolores, laughing. “The poor little cornstalk looks as if she had grown up under a blight.”
“It is a grand romance though,” said Mysie; “only I wish that Cousin Harry had had any constancy in him.”
“I wonder if Magdalen will adopt her!” was Valetta’s bold suggestion.
“Poor Magdalen has had quite adopting enough to do,” said Mysie.
“Besides,” said Dolores, “Sister Angela will never let her go. And certainly I never saw any one more taking than Sister Angela. She is so full of life, and of a certain unexpectedness, and one knows she has done such noble work. I want to see more of her.”
“You will,” said Mysie. “Mamma is going to ask her to come, for Phyllis says there is no one that Bernard cares for so much. She was his own companion sister.”
“Magdalen might have the little cornstalk,” said Valetta.
“Well,” said Mysie, “it is rather funny to have two—what shall I say?—willow widows, and a child that is neither of theirs! How will they settle it?”
Magdalen had heard from Agatha on the first evening of the arrival of the sister, and the probability of the identification of little Lena’s father with the Henry Merrifield of her former years, and she was deeply touched by the bestowal of her name—so much that Nag avoided saying more, but only kissed her and went to bed.
The Merrifields discussed the subject dispassionately.
Sir Jasper recollected what his brother had written to him of his anxieties and disappointment in his son Henry, and of his absconding from Manitoba, since which time all trace of him had been lost, except in the restoration to the two brothers in Canada. To the surprise and indignation of Sir Jasper, there had been no attempt to follow it up.
“If my poor brother Edgar had done anything of the kind,” said Bernard, “none of us would have rested.”
So far as they could put recollections together this act of restitution must have been made soon after the connection with Fulbert Underwood began, perhaps at the time of the wife’s death. If there had been another letter, as Sister Angela thought, it was more recent, certainly within the last two years.
Captain Samuel Merrifield, of Stokesley, had been on a voyage for four years, and had not long been at home. His wife had been charged with the forwarding of the letters that she thought of immediate interest, and there was an accumulation of those that had been left for his return, as yet not looked over.
Of course, Sir Jasper impelled him to plunge into these, and by and by one came to light, which Mrs. Merrifield had taken “for only some Australian gold mines,” and left to wait, especially as it was directed to his father instead of himself.
It was a letter full of repentance, and entreaties for forgiveness, describing in part poor Henry’s past life, and adding that the best thing that had ever befallen him was his association with “such a fellow as Underwood.”
It was to be gathered that Fulbert’s uprightness of mind had led him to the first impulse of restitution, and he went on to mention his first hasty marriage and the loss of his wife, with the kindness of the Carrigaboola Sisterhood; above all, of Sister Angela, and declaring his love and admiration for her, and his sense that she was the one person who could keep him straight now that her brother was gone.
He had more than once offered to her, but he found that her brother had solemnly charged her not to accept him till he had made all his past clear before her, and could show her that he was acknowledged by his family, and had his father’s forgiveness, and for this he humbly craved, as one deeply sensible of his own demerits.
It was piteous to think of the poor fellow waiting and hoping for an answer to such a letter as this, and dying without one, while all the time it was lying unread in the Captain’s desk, and no one even knew of the changed life and fresh hopes. Sir Jasper was much moved by it; but Sam said, “Ay, ay! poor Harry always was a plausible fellow!” and his wife was chiefly concerned to show that the suppression was not by her fault. Sir Jasper had brought the will with him, and the certificate of the child’s baptism.
Both were met with a little hesitation. So little had been said in the letter about the marriage that the Captain wanted to know more, and also whether the will had been properly proved in Australia, and whether it had force in England. In that case he was surely the right person to have the custody of his brother’s child. His wife, who had been bred up in a different school, was not by any means satisfied that she should be consigned to a member of a Sisterhood.
David came to Stokesley, saw the letter, and agreed with his brother on the expediency of obtaining full proof of the validity of the will in both Queensland and England, and put in hand the writing of inquiries for the purpose, from the legal authorities at Brisbane, for which purpose Angela had to be consulted.
She had been (having left the budgerigars to the delight of Pearl and Awdrey), in the meantime, at Vale Leston, enjoying the atmosphere of peace that prevailed wherever were Clement and Geraldine, and hailed with delight by all her old village friends, as well as Lady Vanderkist and her somewhat thinned flock.
She won Adrian’s heart by skating or golfing with him, and even, on one or two hunting days, joining in his pursuit of the chase, being altogether, as he said, ever so much better a fellow than even his youngest sister Joan, and entrancing them all with tales of kangaroos. Lena had really a tame kangaroo at Carrigaboola. Oh, why did they not bring it home as well as Ben, the polly? She quite pined for it, and had tears in her eyes when it was spoken of.
Indeed the joyous young Vanderkists were too much for the delicate little girl, and sorry as Angela was to leave Vale Leston, she was not ungrateful for an invitation to the Goyle, where there was more room for them than at Clipstone in the holidays, and with the Bernard Underwoods making it their headquarters.
Lena and she were much better and happier with “Sister” always at her service, and Paula and Thekla were delighted to amuse her. Paula was in a state of delight with Sister Angela, only a little puzzled by the irregularity of her course, though it was carefully explained that she had never been under any vows. To hear of her doings among the Australian women was a romance, often as there had been disappointment. “Paula is a born Sister,” said Angela, “a much truer one than I have ever been, for there does not seem to be any demon of waywardness to drive her wild.”
These talks with Magdalen, often prolonged hours after the young people had gone to bed, were a great solace to both the elders. Girls like Mysie Merrifield and Phyllis Devereux thought sitting up to converse a propensity peculiar to themselves, and to their own age, of new experiences and speculations; but the two “old girls,” whose experiences were not new, and whose speculations had a certain material foundation, they were equally fascinating.
There were no small jealousies in either of them—“willow widows”—though Mysie’s name stuck. There was nothing but comfort to Magdalen in the certainty of the ultimate “coming home” of one who had finished a delusive dream of her younger days, and been yearned after with a heartache now quenched; and Angela, who had never been the least in love with Henry Merrifield, could quite afford her interest in the scanty records of his younger days, and fill up all she knew of the measure of the latter and better days. There was another bond, for Mrs. Best’s daughter was, “as distances go,” a neighbour to Carrigaboola, and resorted thither on great occasions.
Angela’s vision began to be, to take Magdalen and her sisters out to Carrigaboola, where a superior school for colonists’ daughters was much needed, and where Paula might enter the Sisterhood. She longed all the more when she saw how much better Magdalen could deal with Lena as to teaching and restraint than she could. The child was very backward, and could hardly read words of one syllable, though she knew any amount of Scripture history and legends of Saints, and was very fairly intelligent; but though she was devoted to “Sister,” always hanging on her, and never quite happy when out of sight of her, she had hardly any notion of prompt obedience or of giving up her own way.
Angela’s visit to Vale Leston had been partly spoilt by the little girl’s fretful worry at the elder children, and by the somewhat uncalled for fears that all the Vanderkists were hard on the poor little colonial damsel; but whether it was the air of Rock Quay, or the quiet influence of Miss Prescott, Lena certainly improved in health at the Goyle, and was much more amenable, and less rudely shy. But her guardian trembled at hearing that, pending Captain Merrifield’s correspondence with Brisbane, the sisters, Susan and Elizabeth, were coming to Miss Mohun’s to see their niece, there being no room for them at Clipstone.
They came—Susan, plump, comfortable and good-natured looking, as like an apricot as ever, with an air many years more than three above her sister Bessie, who as ever was brisk and bright, scarcely middle aged in face, dress or demeanour. They arrived too late for visiting, and only dined at Clipstone to be introduced to Bernard Underwood, and see their cousin Phyllis, whom they had once met when all were small children. Dolores was much amused, as she told her Aunt Jane, to see how gratified they were at the “sanguine” colouring of Phyllis and Wilfred, quite Merrifields, they said, though Phyllis with auburn eyes and hair was far handsomer than any other of the clan had ever been; and Wilfred had simply commonplace carrots and freckles.
“The fun is,” said Jane, “to remember how some of us Mohuns have sighed at Lily’s having any yellow children, and, till we saw Stokesley specimens, wondering where the strain came from! As if it signified!”
“It does in some degree,” said Dolores; “something hereditary goes with the complexion.”
“I don’t know,” said Jane. “I believe too much is made in these days of heredity, and by those who believe least in the Bible indications on the effect, forgetting the counteracting grace.”
“Well,” said Dolores, “Wilfred was always a bête noire to me—no, not noire—in my younger days, and I can’t help being glad he is not of our strain! Though you know the likeness was the first step to identifying that poor little girl.”
“Poor child! I am afraid she will be a bone of contention.”
The two aunts were at Clipstone early; and might be satisfied with the true Merrifield tints of Magdalen Susanna, but perhaps she had been over much warned to be gracious, for the very contrary was the effect. She had been very civil to her great-aunt Lilias, and had allowed both her uncles to take her up in their arms; but she retreated upon Angela, planted an elbow on the well-known lap, turned her back, and put a skinny little finger in her mouth by way of answer to Susan’s advances, advances which had hardly ever before been repelled even by the most untamable of infants.
Angela tried to coax, lift her up and turn her round; but this only led to the shoulder being the hiding-place, and it might be suspected that there was a lurking perception that these strangers asserted a closer claim than the beloved “Sister.” She would not even respond to Susan’s doll or Bessie’s picture book; and Bessie advised leaving her alone, and turned to the window with Agatha, who was nothing loth to tell of her Bexley and Minsterham experiences.
Angela tried to talk about the voyage, or any thing that might save the child from being discussed or courted; but Susan’s heart was in the subject, and she had not enough tact or knowledge of the world to turn away from it. Regret for the past was strong within her, and she could not keep from asking how much “little Magdalen” (at full length) remembered of her father, how much she had been with him, whether he had much altered, whether there were a photograph of him, and a great deal more, with tears in her eyes and a trembling in her voice which made Angela feel much for her, even while vexed at her pertinacity, for the child was by no means the baby she looked like, but perfectly well able to listen and understand, and this consciousness made her own communications much briefer and more reserved than otherwise they would have been.
Bessie, with more perception, saw the embarrassment, turned round from Agatha, went up to the cockatoo in his cage, and asked in a pleasant voice if Magdalen would show him to her, and tell her his name. Angela was glad enough to break off poor Susan’s questioning, and come forward, with the child still clinging, to incite the bird to display the rose colour under his crest, put up a grey claw to shake hands, and show off his vocabulary, laughing herself and acting merriment as she did so, in hopes to inspire Lena.
“Come, Ben, tell how you were picked up under a gum tree, quite a baby, a little grey ball, and brought over in the shepherd’s pocket for a present to the little Boss, and how we fed you and nursed you till you turned all rose-colour and lovely! There! put up your crest and make red revelations. Can’t you speak? Fetch him a banana, Lena. That will open his mouth.”
At sight of the banana, the bird put his head on one side and croaked in a hoarse whisper, “Yo ho!”
“No, you need not be afraid of any more sailors’ language,” said Angela. “They were as careful as possible on board. I overheard once, ‘Hold hard, Tom, Polly Pink is up there, and she’s a regular lady born!”
