soon as they are ready. My brother is waiting for them.”
“I’ll bring them up, sir,” replied Rachel.
Frederick Massingbird passed through the passages to the hall, and then proceeded up-stairs to the bed-room occupied by his brother. A sufficiently spacious room for any ordinary purpose, but which did not look half large enough now for the litter that was in it. Wardrobes and drawers were standing open, their contents half out, half in; chairs, tables, bed were strewed, and boxes and portmanteaus were gaping open on the floor. John Massingbird, the elder brother, was stowing away some of this litter into the boxes; not all sixes and sevens, like it looked as it lay, but compactly and artistically. John Massingbird possessed a ready hand at packing and arranging; and, therefore, he preferred doing it himself, to deputing it to others. He was one year older than his brother, and there was a great likeness between them in figure and in feature. Not in expression: in that, they were widely different. They were about the same height, and there was the same stoop observable in the shoulders; the features also were similar in cast, and sallow in hue; the same the black eyes and hair. John had large whiskers, otherwise the likeness would have been more striking; and his face was not disfigured by the strange black mark. He was the best looking of the two: his face wore an easy, good-natured, free expression; while Frederick’s was cold and reserved. Many people called John Massingbird a handsome man. In character they were widely different. John was a harem-scarem chap, up to every scrape; Fred was cautious and steady as old time.
Seated in the only free chair in the room—free from litter—was a tall, stout lady. But that she had so much crimson about her, she would have borne a remarkable resemblance to those two young men, her sons. She wore a silk dress, gold in one light, green in another, with broad crimson stripes running across it: her cap was of white lace garnished with crimson ribbons, and her cheeks and nose were crimson to match. As if this were not enough, she wore crimson streamers at her wrists, and a crimson bow to the front of her gown. Had you been outside, you might have seen that the burnished gold on the window-panes had turned to crimson, for the setting sun had changed its hue: but the panes could not look more brightly, deeply crimson, than did Mrs. Verner. It seemed that you might light a match at her face. In that particular, there was a contrast between her, and the perfectly pale, sallow faces of her sons: otherwise the resemblance was great.
“Fred,” said Mrs. Verner, “I wish you would see what they are at with the shirts and things. I sent Rachel after them, but she does not come back, and then I sent Mary Tynn, and she does not come. And here’s John as impatient as he can be.”
She spoke in a slow, somewhat indifferent tone, as if she did not care to put herself out of the way about it. Indeed it was not Mrs. Verner’s custom to put herself out of the way for anything. She liked to eat, drink, and sleep, in undisturbed peace: and she generally did so.
“John’s impatient because he wants to get it over,” spoke up that gentleman himself in a merry voice. “Fifty thousand things I have to do, between now and to-morrow night. If they don’t bring the clothes soon, I shall close the boxes without them, and leave them a legacy for Fred.”
“You have only yourself to thank, John,” said his mother. “You never gave the things out till after breakfast this morning, and then required them to be done by the afternoon. Such nonsense, to say they had grown yellow in the drawers! They’ll be yellower by the time you get there. It is just like you! driving off everything till the last moment. You have known of going some days now.”
John was stamping upon a box to get down the lid, and did not attend to the reproach. “See if it will lock, Fred, will you?” said he.
Frederick Massingbird stooped and essayed to turn the key. And just then Mrs. Tynn entered with a tray of clean linen, which she set down. Rachel followed; a contrivance in her hand, made of silk, for the holding of needles, threads, and pins, all in one.
She looked positively beautiful as she held it out before Mrs. Verner. The evening rays fell upon her exquisite face, with its soft dark eyes and its changing colour; they fell upon her silk dress, a relic of Mrs. Verner’s,—but it had not crimson stripes across it; upon her lace collar, upon the little edge of lace at her wrists. Nature had certainly intended Rachel for a lady, with her graceful form, her charming manners, and her delicate hands.
“Will this do, ma’am?” she inquired. “Is it the sort of thing you meant?”
“Ay, that will do, Rachel,” replied Mrs. Verner. “John, here’s a huswife for you!”
“A what?” asked John Massingbird, arresting his stamping.
“A needle book to hold your needles and thread. Rachel has made it nicely. Shan’t you want a thimble?”
“Goodness knows,” replied John. “That’s it, Fred! that’s it! Give it a turn.”
Frederick Massingbird locked the box, and then left the room. His mother followed him, telling John she had a large steel thimble somewhere, and would try and find it for him. Rachel began filling the huswife with needles, and John went on with his packing.
“Halloa!” he presently exclaimed. And Rachel looked up.
“What’s the matter, sir?”
“I have pulled one of the strings off this green case. You must sew it on again, Rachel.”
He brought a piece of green baize to her and a broken string. It looked something like the cover of a pocket-book or of a small case of instruments. Rachel’s nimble fingers soon repaired the damage. John stood before her, looking on.
Looking not only at the progress of the work, but at her. Mr. John Massingbird was one who had an eye for beauty: he had not seen much in his life that could match with that before him. As Rachel held the case up to him, the
