# The Family at Misrule/Chapter 16

CHAPTER XVI.
MORE MUTINY.
"Gently scan your brother man. Still gentlier sister woman, An' if they gang a trifle wrang To step aside is human."
THAT was the first battle; another followed quickly on its heels; and then there came a long and sorrowful peace.
Meg had been exceedingly angry about it—and with justice. She marvelled, not only at Nellie's rebellion, but that she should care to mix with such "impossible" people, as she called them.
"It isn't as if they were merely homely and uneducated," she said; "but their vulgarity and pretentiousness are enough to make any one sick!"
However, as Nellie was very quiet—docile even—after the one outbreak, and as it was not possible to keep up an unfriendly spirit for ever, she thought she had better overlook it as a first and last offence; more especially as she remembered her own mad infatuation for Aldith MacCarthy, when she had been even older than Nell was now.
But she warned her with much resolution in her tone.
"You only leave me one course, Nellie," she said. "I have been left in charge, and if you won't obey orders—I'm sure I try to give as few as possible—I shall be compelled to write to Mr. Hassal and ask him either to send you to school till father comes back or else to let some one come here whose authority you will respect."
Then she softened, and put her arms round her sister.
"Don't make it so hard for me, Nell," she said, almost with tears in her eyes; "there's nothing in moderation I'd try to stop you, but you really must see I can't let you grow intimate with these people."
But Nellie had not responded with her usual sisterly hug and kiss. She wriggled away from the encircling arms and gave a little impatient toss of her head.
"What a fuss you make about things, Meg!" she said pettishly. "I do wish you'd leave me alone! I'm not a child, and I'm not going to be ordered about like one."
Then came the next war.
Cards for a dinner-party arrived from the "unsnubbable" Brownes—Bunty's adjective.
"Put them in the fire," Pip said. "No answer is the best for such people."
If there had been some pretty faces among the feminine portion of the Browne household Pip would not have been so scornful of the overtures, but the girls were each and all undeniably plain. For the days that intervened between the arrival of the cards and the date of the dinner-party Meg was exceedingly busy.
She had a dressmaker in the house making winter frocks for Poppet and Essie; that took up much of her time. Besides this, two great cases of quinces and apples had been sent to them from Yarrahappini, and, with Martha's help, she was converting them into jam and jelly.
Bunty also had been unwell, and from school a day or two, and Peter had one of his perverse fits upon him. She had not had time to give the Fitzroy-Brownes as much as a passing thought; and as the new daily governess made no complaint about Nellie's morning studies she concluded all was going on well.
Judge therefore her immeasurable amaze when, going up to the bedroom on the date of the dinner-party, and just after nursery tea was over, she discovered Nellie again in the act of making a "toilette." She had the white crepon dress on; it nearly touched the ground in front, and trailed a little behind. There was soft lace in the neck and sleeves of it, and on her bosom a cluster of the exquisite pink roses that climbed all over the tool-shed. She had white suède gloves and black pretty shoes, both new, as the gap in her small allowance testified.
Excitement had lent a brilliant colour to her cheeks; her eyes, with their thick, curled lashes, were like stars. For one second Meg paused, struck with the wondrous, exceeding beauty of her young sister; the next she realised what she was dressed for.
"Where are you going?" she said, merely as a matter of form—of course she knew.
"I'm going to the Fitzroy-Brownes at Trafalgar House for a small dinner-party,—seven to ten, carriages at half-past," Nellie said, with elaborate attention to detail. "Is there anything else you would like to know?"
Meg went a little white.
"You don't move from this house, Nellie!" she said, and her lips set themselves firmly. "You can take off that dress as soon as you like!"
Nellie twisted a long lace scarf round her beautiful shining head.
"It's no use making a bother," she said; "I've made up my mind to go, and I'm going!"
"I refused the invitation," Meg said, catching at a straw.
"But I accepted," was Nellie's answer. "I met Isabel yesterday and promised."
For ten long minutes did Meg argue, reason, coax, and appeal to Nellie's better judgment: the fear of Isabel's sneers, together with the thought of the cost of her shoes and gloves, were of more avail. The girl was quietly obdurate; Meg found she was not even listening to her.
"They are sending a brougham down to pick me up at the Bentleys," she said, when Meg was almost exhausted; "I shall miss them if I wait any longer." She moved to the door.
But a flame of righteous anger sprang up in Meg's eyes. She hastened down the corridor to Pip's room, and laid the case in a few words before him.
Offended as he was with his sister, he could not refuse to uphold her in a matter like this—especially as he had such a vast contempt for the "mushrooms."
He caught Nellie on the staircase.
"Don't be such a little idiot!" he said. "Go and take that frippery off at once!"
"Go and mind your own business, Philip Woolcot!" retorted Nellie.
"Well, of all little donkeys!" he said. "Do you actually mean to say, Meg, she was going off on her own hook, without you or me or any one?"
"I certainly do think she's losing her senses!" Meg said in exasperation.
Philip surveyed her in silence for a minute—her exquisite, childish, unformed beauty even appealed to his coldly fraternal eyes. He smiled almost benignly.
"Be a good little chicken," he said; "wait three or four years, and you shall revel in this sort of thing till you find it's all vanity."
Three or four years! Nellie's eyes flashed defiance at them both.
"I'm going," she said, in a low, very determined voice. She brushed past Meg and went down five stairs.
But "Are you, my lady?" quoth Pip. He jumped the steps, caught her, and held her fast.
She struggled violently—anger and excitement lent her unnatural strength—and she freed herself at length, and fled in wild, mad haste down the stairs and to the front door. Once in the brougham, which was only a little way off, and she knew she could bid defiance to all the Megs and Pips in the world!
But Pip's blood was up. He had no intention of letting a little chit like Nellie get the upper hand of him, even if there were no real object at stake. As it was, the thought of his pretty, innocent little sister in the company of the "off crowd" of men he had seen young Fitzroy-Browne take home, and the loud women with whom he felt instinctively the girls consorted, made him shudder.
"Are you going to stay at home quietly?" he said, fire in his dark eyes as he caught her by the arms just as she was pulling the door handle back.
"No, I'm not!" she said stormily.
For answer he picked her right up in his arms as if she had been Poppet.
"Where shall I put her, Meg? I'm going to lock her up," he called breathlessly; she was not fragilely light.
Meg was a little startled at such a summary proceeding; then she decided rapidly it was the only thing to be done at the juncture.
"Here!" she cried, "in her own bedroom." She flung open the door, and he strode down the passage with his struggling burden in its dainty dress and sweet, crushed roses.
They left her the light. There was a shelf of books to occupy her if so she liked, also her work-basket, with a fleecy cloud she was crocheting; she would be able to fill the time. But they locked the door very carefully, and took the key downstairs with them.
"You must have been exceedingly careless, Meg, to let her get to know them," Pip said, with masculine inclination to locate blame.
Meg told of the introduction and subsequent meetings—how it seemed impossible to get the people to accept the frequent if delicately-conveyed hints that their acquaintance was not desired. She kept the tennis episode to herself, for she feared it would only make him more harsh and overbearing to Nellie, and do no good.
When they were separating some time later she looked wistfully up at him.
"Dear Pip, aren't you ever going to forgive me?" she said; "can't you see I only did it for your good? Do let us kiss and be friends again."
He looked at her very coldly and sternly; the old bitter curve showed at his mouth.
"No," he said, "I shall never forgive you while I live, Meg." Then he turned and went out of the room.
Meg went upstairs, tired, dispirited. Tears smarted in her eyes from her rebuff. Nellie, she knew, was thinking hard thoughts of her; Alan had not written to-day, for some reason or other; and all the world seemed wrong. She went into her room and sat down, with a sob and some splashing tears, in the dark by the window.
[Illustration: "HER DESCENT FROM HER OWN BEDROOM WAS ALMOST EASY."]
Such a great calm sky of pale, sweet stars; such a hushed, faint breath in the tall gum trees; such a low, soothing lapping of little river waves!
In an hour she was very strong again; her eyes were dry and calm and brave; there was a great, sweet peace in her heart.
She thought she would read for a little time, and grow still calmer. There was her Browning on the writing table—he had strengthened her often since she had begun to know him; and there were a couple of books Alan had lent her: "At the Roots of the Mountains," and something of Pierre Loti's. She fingered them a moment.
But first she would go and speak to Nellie, who would be calmer too by now,—poor pretty Nellie, with her childish defiance and longings for "other things." She went down the passage, softly, by Peter's room and Bunty's. The light was shining beneath Nellie's door; the poor little prisoner was not asleep, then.
She stopped and inserted the key with a flush of shame: how ignominious it must feel to be locked in!
"Dear Nell——" she began, and then stopped aghast.
The room was empty.