The Deputation
It was well for Nealie Plumstead that
she could mostly laugh in spite of troubles, for her
life had been shadowed by a great disaster which had
brought in its turn a battalion of cares, worries,
and responsibilities.
Until she was almost twelve years
old life had been one unbroken happiness. She
had been at the head of an ever-increasing nursery,
and she had governed her small kingdom to the very
best of her ability. Then had come a cloud of
black trouble, the exact nature of which she did not
understand even now, only vaguely she had gathered
that it was something professional.
Then Ducky, whose name was Hilda Grace,
had been born, and the dear mother had sunk out of
life, leaving a distracted husband and seven children
to mourn their loss.
Following this came the long journey
from the busy manufacturing town, where they had always
lived, to Beechleigh and the home of Miss Judith Webber.
Dr. Plumstead had come with them to see them safely
settled, but on the day that Ducky was one month old,
he had kissed them all round, in a heartbreaking goodbye,
and had set off on the voyage to Australia.
Sometimes he used to write to Aunt
Judith and send her money for the children’s
keep, when he had any to send; but he almost never
wrote to his children, although they simply pelted
him with letters of the most affectionate description.
Two years ago, however, a great weakness
had fallen upon Aunt Judith; she could write no letters
nor do any business at all, and another nephew of
hers, a Mr. Runciman, undertook the administration
of her affairs.
The seven hated him in a hearty, downright
fashion, for he always made himself as disagreeable
as possible to them, and certainly seemed to resent
their existence.
It was soon after Aunt Judith had
been taken ill that a letter coming from Australia,
directed to Miss Webber, had been opened by Nealie
in all good faith, for she never supposed that her
father would write anything to her aunt that she might
not read; but to her dismay she learned that the numerous
letters of the children, instead of bringing pleasure
to the heart of the exile, gave him so much pain that
he begged Miss Webber not to let them write to him,
because it reminded him too sadly of all that he had
lost in the past, and was missing in the present.
It was such a sad, dreadful sort of letter that Nealie
had cried herself nearly blind over it, and then had
gathered the others for a solemn council. The
elders had no secrets from the younger ones, so Billykins
and Ducky had as much to say on the subject as their
seniors; and in the end it was resolved that Nealie
and Rupert should write a letter to their father and
tell him that they would worry him with no more letters
until he expressed a desire to have them.
A year and a half had passed since
that time, but although the children watched for the
mails with pathetic eagerness, there had come no letter
from their father for them. He did not write to
Aunt Judith either, after he had been told how ill
she was; but he wrote to Mr. Runciman sometimes, they
knew, because Mr. Runciman had spoken of having letters
from him.
This long silence would have made
them very miserable, if it had not been that they
were so sorry for him that it never occurred to them
to be sorry for themselves. They had each other,
but he was alone, and so, of course, he was to be
pitied.
Inspired by the great idea, the seven
woke in riotous spirits next morning, which not even
the near prospect of an interview with Mr. Runciman
could daunt, although he was quite sufficiently formidable
at close quarters to make any ordinary person afraid.
Rupert and Rumple cleaned the boots,
while Nealie and Sylvia got breakfast ready, the three
juniors having to make themselves useful in any direction
where help was most needed.
They had all learned to wait on themselves
during the long illness of Aunt Judith, for Mrs. Puffin
had her hands full with nursing, while since the death
of the old lady she had been in such poor health that
Nealie and Sylvia had done all the cooking and most
of the housework, with a great deal of help from the
others.
Breakfast consisted of big plates
of porridge and slices of home-made bread spread with
damson jam. There were two trees in Aunt Judith’s
small garden, and they had borne a record crop this
year.
There was no lingering over their
food this morning, but directly the meal was dispatched
the boys washed up the breakfast crockery, while the
girls made the beds and put the rooms tidy. Then
Nealie asked Mrs. Puffin to make them a suet pudding
and bake them some potatoes for dinner, after which
they brushed themselves into a fine state of neatness,
and then, bringing the bath chair from the shed, Rupert
and Ducky were packed into it and the expedition set
out on the five miles’ journey to The Paddock,
Smethwick, where Mr. Runciman lived.
It was still quite early, and Mr.
Runciman, having dealt with the morning’s letters,
was sitting in his library looking through the daily
paper before going out to interview his steward and
settling the other business of the day, when the butler
entered the room and announced:
“The seven Misses and Masters Plumstead to see
you, sir.”
“Goodness gracious, what next?”
exclaimed Mr. Runciman in a tone of positive alarm.
“Shall I show them in, if you
please, sir?” asked the butler in a sympathetic
fashion, looking as if he really felt sorry for the
perturbed gentleman.
“All seven of them? Yes,
I suppose you must, and see here, Roberts, just ask
the housekeeper to have some cakes and cocoa, or something
of that kind, ready for them to have before they go
back to Beechleigh, for I suppose that they are walking?”
“Yes, sir; that is to say, some
of them are, but the lame young gentleman and the
little girl rode down in a bath chair,” replied
the butler, and then permitted himself a grin of pure
amusement as he retired from the room to usher in
the visitors, for the harassed master of the house
fairly groaned at the thought of having callers arrive
in such a fashion.
“The Misses and Masters Plumstead,”
announced the butler, throwing open the door with
the grand flourish which was worth at least ten pounds
a year to him in salary.
Nealie and Ducky entered first, followed
by Rupert, walking alone, then came Sylvia and Rumple,
while Don and Billykins brought up the rear.
Mr. Runciman rose at once and came
forward to greet them, trying very hard to infuse
as much cordiality as possible into his manner.
“My dear children, what an unexpected
pleasure! Why, Cornelia, you are positively blooming,
and my little friend Hilda is as charming as always.
Ah, Rupert, my boy, how goes the Latin? Nothing
like the dead languages for training the mind.
Sylvia, you grow so fast that there is no keeping
up with you. Dalrymple, you will have to use the
dumb-bells more or you will positively have Donald
and William beat you in the matter of height.”
It was one of Mr. Runciman’s
vices in the eyes of the seven that he would always
give them the full benefit of their baptismal names,
although he knew, because they had told him so, that
they simply hated the formal mode of address, which
no one used except himself. It always had the
effect of making them stiff and self-conscious; so
now Rupert limped more than usual, Sylvia dropped
her gloves, which she was carrying because they had
too many holes to be wearable, and Rumple lurched
against a pile of books that lay at the edge of the
table and brought the whole lot to the floor with
a crash.
“Sorry,” murmured Rumple,
diving hastily to recover the volumes, and promptly
knocking his head against that of Billykins, who was
also grovelling for the same purpose, while Nealie
plunged into the business of their visit, hoping to
divert the attention of the master of the house from
the awkwardness of the boys, poor things; but Sylvia
giggled in quite a disgraceful fashion, then blinked
hard at a bust of Apollo which stood on a bookshelf
opposite, and tried to look as if she were appreciating
the admirable way in which it was sculptured.
“We have come down to see you
to-day to ask you if you will please send us out to
New South Wales to our father,” said Nealie,
holding her head at an extremely haughty angle, just
because she was so very nervous.
“Good gracious! I wonder
what you will want next?” gasped Mr. Runciman,
who had probably not been so much astonished for a
very long time.
“It would really be taking a
great load of worry from you, sir,” put in Rupert
eagerly, thrusting himself abreast of Nealie and leaning
on his stick while he talked. “A large
family, as we are, would be a valuable asset in a
new country, while here we are only an encumbrance
and a nuisance. Besides, we should like to be
with our father.”
“Quite so, quite so; but think
of the expense!” murmured Mr. Runciman, as he
rubbed his hands together in a nervous manner.
He said the first thing which came into his head for
the sake of gaining time. The proposition was
sufficiently staggering, but on the other hand it might
be worth consideration.
“I am afraid that we must be
a heavy expense to you now, sir, seeing that we have
to be fed and clothed,” replied Rupert, with
a deference that was really soothing to Mr. Runciman,
who smiled graciously and waved his hand as much as
to say that the matter was too trifling to be considered.
“You will let us go, won’t
you, air, because we want to build the Empire?”
burst out Billykins, thrusting himself in between his
elders and looking so flushed and excited that Mr.
Runciman, who had no son of his own, could not be
so repressive as he felt he ought to have been.
“Eh, what? And how do you
expect you are going to set about it, young man?”
he demanded, while Billykins went suddenly red in the
face, because Sylvia had tweaked his jacket, which
was the signal that he was overstepping the mark.
“I don’t know, but I expect
we will find out when we get there. Don and I
mostly find out how to do things, and Nealie says we
are going to be the business men of the family.
Rupert and Rumple have got the brains, but there is
practical perseverance in us
The small boy came to a sudden pause,
for Sylvia, fearing what he might say next, had dragged
him into the background, leaving Nealie to speak.
“We should be very glad to go
to Australia, if you please; for now that Aunt Judith
is dead no one wants us here, and we might be a very
great comfort to our father when he got used to having
us.” Her voice broke a little on the last
words; she was remembering the letter which she had
so innocently opened and read, and the wonder whether
he would be quite glad to see them at first crept
in to spoil her joy at the thought that perhaps Mr.
Runciman was for once going to do the thing they wanted
so badly.
Her words brought a frown to his face,
and when he spoke his voice had an apologetic ring
which sounded strangely in the ears of the seven.
“I am sorry that you should
feel that no one wants you here. Of course Mrs.
Runciman and my daughters have so many engagements
that it is not easy for them to go as far as Beechleigh
very often; but we have certainly tried to take care
of you since your great-aunt passed away.”
“You have been most kind,”
said Nealie hastily, divining in a vague fashion that
she had somehow said something to hurt his feelings,
which was certainly outside her intentions. “But
we hate to be a continual burden upon our connections,
and there seems no way in which we can earn money
here.”
“Don and I could keep pigs on
the stubble fields, only Nealie won’t let us.
We could earn half a crown a week at it too,”
burst out Billykins, thrusting himself to the front
like a jack-in-the-box and disappearing as suddenly,
being again dragged back by Sylvia.
There was a troubled look on the face
of Mr. Runciman as his gaze rested upon Nealie, who
was the living image of her dead mother. There
was a secret chamber in his heart that was tenanted
by the mournful memory of a dead love. He had
loved the mother of the seven, but she had passed
him by to marry Dr. Plumstead, and so the secret chamber
had held nothing but a shrine ever since, only it
made him a little kinder to the motherless children
than he otherwise might have been.
“It would be a tremendous expense
to send you all such a long distance,” he said,
still speaking for the sake of gaining time, yet disposed
to regard the proposal as a really practical way in
which to solve the problem of their future.
“It could be done for about
seventy pounds, I think, if we went steerage; and
it is quite comfortable for people who do not mind
roughing it, and as we have not been used to any sort
of luxury, of course we shall not miss it,”
said Sylvia.
“I could not allow you to go
as steerage passengers,” replied Mr. Runciman.
“We would much rather go as
steerage passengers than not go at all,” murmured
Nealie.
“I will think about it and let
you know,” he said, but with so much giving
way in his tone that they burst into a chorus of imploring.
“Please, please decide now and
write to tell Father that we are coming. We are
quite ready to start by the next boat, and it is so
lonely living at Beechleigh now that Aunt Judith is
dead,” pleaded Nealie, silencing the others
with a wave of her hand.
If one of the others had spoken then,
Mr. Runciman would certainly have refused, but because
of her likeness to the dead he had to give way.
He reflected, too, that if he wrote the letter now
it would be impossible for him to draw back from his
word, however angry his wife might be when she heard
what he had done.
“Very well, I will write to
your father to-night,” he said.
“Do not leave it until this
evening; you might forget; there are so many other
things for you to remember,” said Nealie softly.
“If you will write the letter now we will post
it as we go through Braybrook Lees; then it will be
just in time for the outgoing mail. Tell dear
Father that we are coming by the next boat. We
will be ready somehow.”
“Yes, please, please, dear Mr.
Runciman, write now,” said Sylvia, leaning forward
in her most engaging manner, while even Ducky smiled
upon him, clasping her hands entreatingly, just as
Sylvia and Nealie were doing.
“Very well; but it will have
to be a short letter, for the cart is coming round
in twenty minutes to take me over to Aldington,”
he said, giving way before their entreaties and pulling
out his watch to see what the time was; and then he
touched the bell at his side, saying to Nealie, as
Roberts appeared in answer to the summons: “My
dear, if you and the others will go into the housekeeper’s
room for a little refreshment I will get the letter
written, and you shall have it to take with you; then
I will write to London about your passage to-night.”
“Oh, you are a dear, a most
kind dear!” burst out Sylvia, flinging her arms
round his neck and kissing him on the cheek a
liberty she had never in her life ventured upon before,
and which considerably shocked Nealie, who was afraid
it would make him angry, and was agreeably surprised
to find that he only seemed to be startled by it.
Then they all trooped off to the housekeeper’s
room, where they made a tremendous onslaught upon
a big and very plummy cake; and they were still drinking
cups of steaming cocoa when Roberts appeared again,
this time bringing a letter on a silver salver, which
he handed to Nealie with a grave bow, saying that
Mr. Runciman wished her to read it and then to post
it, and he would ride over to Beechleigh on the day
after to-morrow to tell them what arrangements he
had been able to make for their journey.
“It is jolly decent of him!”
muttered Rupert, who had looked over Nealie’s
shoulder while she read the letter.
“Oh, he is not half bad at the
bottom, I should say!” remarked Rumple, who
was wondering if Mr. Runciman would feel flattered
if he were to make a short poem about this most gracious
concession to their wishes. The worst of it was
that Mr. Runciman did not exactly lend himself to
poetry, that is, he was by no means an inspiring subject.
The housekeeper looked on in smiling
amusement at their frank criticism of the master of
the house; but she was a kindly soul, and it was only
human to feel sorry for these poor young people, whom
no one seemed to want, now that old Miss Webber was
dead. There had been a good deal of wondering
comment in the servants’ hall and the housekeeper’s
room at The Paddock as to what would be done with
the family. Everyone was quite sure that Mrs.
Runciman would never consent to receive them, even
temporarily, and it was because of her refusal to in
any way recognize their claim upon her kindness that
they had been left for Mrs. Puffin to look after since
the death of their great-aunt.
When they could eat no more cake they
bade a cordial goodbye to the housekeeper, shook hands
all round with the dignified Roberts, and then trooped
off in the highest spirits, talking eagerly of the
voyage and the wonderful things they would do when
they reached the other side of the world.
“It is almost too good to be
true!” cried Sylvia, dancing along on the tips
of her toes. “Race me to the gate, Rumple,
so that I may get some of this excitement out of my
brain, for I am sure that it can’t be good for
me, and it will never do to fall ill at this juncture.”
“I can’t run; I’m
thinking,” replied Rumple, with a heavy frown.
He was finding difficulties at the very outset in
his poem, because of the seeming impossibility of
finding any word which would rhyme with Runciman.
“We will race you,” shouted
Don and Billykins together, and, dropping the handle
of the bath chair, they set off at full tear, while
Sylvia came helter-skelter after them, her long legs
helping not a little in overhauling the small boys,
who had a distinct advantage by getting away so smartly
at the first.
Rupert and Ducky clapped, cheered,
and shouted encouragements to all the competitors,
while Nealie and Rumple hurried the chair along so
that they might view the finish from a distance; and
they all were too much engrossed to notice a discontented
lady who was approaching the drive from a side alley,
and who was not a little scandalized at the noise and
commotion caused by the seven in their departure.
The lady was Mrs. Runciman, and she
walked on to the house, feeling very much annoyed,
her thin lips screwed into a disagreeable pucker and
her eyes flashing angrily.
“I thought that I told you I
did not care to have those Plumstead children hanging
about the place,” she remarked in an acid tone
to her husband, whom she met in the hall as she entered
by the big front door.
“You will not see them here
many more times. I am sending them out to their
father,” he answered briefly, adding hastily:
“I think that the money Aunt Judith left behind
her to be used for their benefit will about cover
the expense, and it will mean the solving of a good
many problems.”
“I hope it will,” she said as she turned
away.
It had never occurred to her to look
upon the seven in any other light than that of a burden
to be ignored, or got rid of as speedily as possible.
And because she did not like them, the children, as
a matter of course, did not like her.
They did not particularly care for
Mr. Runciman, but he at least always treated them
properly, and they guessed that he would have been
kinder still if only Mrs. Runciman had permitted it.
But when he went back to his library,
and with pencil and paper began to estimate the probable
cost of sending the seven to New South Wales, he soon
found that the little fund left by Aunt Judith would
need a lot of supplementing.
“Ah, well, something must be
done for the poor things, and if that is what they
want, they shall have it,” he muttered, as he
shook his head in a thoughtful fashion.