Читать книгу Not Like Other Girls - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 20

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It was hard work to tranquillize Dulce.

“I never, never will be a nurse!” she sobbed out at intervals.

“You little goose, who ever thought of such a thing? Why will you misunderstand me so?” sighed Phillis, almost in despair at her sister’s impracticability. “I am only trying to prove to you and Nan that we are not fit for governesses.”

“No, indeed; I fear you are right there,” replied poor Nan, who had never realized her deficiences before. They were all bright, taking girls, with plenty to say for themselves, lady-like, and well-bred. Who would have thought that, when weighed in the balance, they would have been found so wanting? “I always knew I was a very stupid person; but you are different—you are so clever, Phil.”

“Nonsense, Nanny! It is a sort of cleverness for which there is 56 no market. I am fond of reading. I remember things, and do a great deal of thinking; but I am destitute of accomplishments: my knowledge of languages is purely superficial. We are equal to other girls—just young ladies, and nothing more; but when it comes to earning our bread-and-butter––” Here Phillis paused, and threw out her hands with a little gesture of despair.

“But you work so beautifully; and so does Nan,” interrupted Dulce, who was a little comforted, now she knew Phillis had no prospective nurse-maid theory in view. “I am good at it myself,” she continued, modestly, feeling that, in this case, self-praise was allowable. “We might be companions—some nice old lady who wants her caps made, and requires some one to read to her,” faltered Dulce, with her child-like pleading look.

Nan gave her a little hug; but she left the answer to Phillis, who went at once into a brown study, and only woke up after a long interval.

“I am looking at it all round,” she said, when Nan at last pressed for her opinion; “it is not a bad idea. I think it very possible that either you or I, Nan—or both, perhaps—might find something in that line to suit us. There are old ladies everywhere; and some of them are rich and lonely and want companions.”

“You have forgotten me?” exclaimed Dulce, with natural jealousy, and a dislike to be overlooked, inherent in most young people. “And it is I who have always made mammy’s caps and you know how Lady Fitzroy praised the last one.”

“Yes, yes; we know all that,” returned Phillis, impatiently. “You are as clever as possible with your fingers; but one of us must stop with mother, and you are the youngest, Dulce; that is what I meant by looking at it all round. If Nan and I were away, it would never do for you and mother to live at the Friary. We could not afford a servant, and we should want the forty pounds a year to pay for bare necessaries; for our salary would not be very great. You would have to live in lodgings—two little rooms, that is all; and even then I am afraid you and mother would be dreadfully pinched, for we should have to dress ourselves properly in other people’s houses.”

“Oh, Phillis, that would not do at all!” exclaimed Nan, in a voice of despair. She was very pale by this time: full realization of all this trouble was coming to her, as it had come to Phillis. “What shall we do? Who will help us to any decision? How are you and I to go away and live luxuriously in other people’s houses, and leave mother and Dulce pining in two shabby little rooms, with nothing to do, and perhaps not enough to eat, and mother fretting herself ill, and Dulce losing her bloom? I could not rest; I could not sleep for thinking of it. I would rather take in plain needlework, and live on dry bread if we could only be together, and help each other.”

“So would I,” returned Phillis, in an odd, muffled voice.

“And I too,” rather hesitatingly from Dulce. 57

“If we could only live at the Friary, and have Dorothy to do all the rough work,” sighed Nan, with a sudden yearning towards even that very shabby ark of refuge: “if we could only be together, and see each other every day, things would not be quite so dreadful.”

“I am quite of your opinion,” was Phillis’s curt observation: but there was a sudden gleam in her eyes.

“I have heard of ladies working for fancy-shops; do you think we could do something of that kind?” asked Nan, anxiously. “Even mother could help us in that; and Dulce does work so beautifully. It is all very well to say we have no accomplishments,” went on Nan, with apathetic little laugh, “but you know that no other girls work as we do. We have always made our own dresses. And Lady Fitzroy asked me once who was our dressmaker, because she fitted us so exquisitely; and I was so proud of telling her that we always did our own, with Dorothy to help––”

“Nan,” interrupted Phillis, eagerly, and there was a great softness in her whole mien, and her eyes were glistening—“dear Nan, do you love us all so that you could give up the whole world for our sakes—for the sake of living together, I mean?”

Nan hesitated. Did the whole world involve Dick, and could even her love for her sisters induce her voluntarily to give him up? Phillis, who was quick-witted, read the doubt in a moment, and hastened to qualify her words:

“The outside world, I mean—mere conventional acquaintances, not friends. Do you think you could bear to set society at defiance, to submit to be sent to Coventry for our sakes; to do without it, in fact to live in a little world of our own and make ourselves happy in it?”

“Ah, Phillis, you are so clever, and I don’t understand you,” faltered Nan. It was not Dick she was to give up; but what could Phillis mean? “We are all fond of society; we are like other girls, I suppose. But if we are to be poor and work for our living, I dare say people will give us up.”

“I am not meaning that,” returned her sister, earnestly; “it is something far harder, something far more difficult, something that will be a great sacrifice and cost us all tremendous efforts. But if we are to keep a roof over our heads, if we are to live together in anything like comfort, I don’t see what else we can do, unless we go out as companions and leave mother and Dulce in lodgings.”

“Oh, no, no; pray don’t leave us!” implored Dulce, feeling that all her strength and comfort lay near Nan.

“I will not leave you, dear, if I can possibly help it,” returned Nan, gently. “Tell us what you mean, Phillis, for I see you have some sort of plan in your head. There is nothing—nothing,” she continued, more firmly, “that I would not do to make mother and Dulce happy. Speak out; you are half afraid that I shall prove a coward, but you shall see.” 58

“Dear Nan, no; you are as brave as possible. I am rather a coward myself. Yes; I have a plan; but you have yourself put it into my head by saying what you did about Lady Fitzroy.”

“About Lady Fitzroy?”

“Yes; your telling her about our making our own dresses. Nan, you are right: needlework is our forte; nothing is a trouble to us. Few girls have such clever fingers, I believe; and then you and Dulce have such taste. Mrs. Paine once told me that we were the best-dressed girls in the neighborhood, and she wished Carrie looked half as well. I am telling you this, not from vanity, but because I do believe we can turn our one talent to account. We should be miserable governesses; we do not want to separate and seek situations as lady helps or companions; we do not mean to fail in letting lodgings; but if we do not succeed as good dressmakers, never believe me again.”

“Dressmakers!” almost shrieked Dulce. But Nan, who had expressed herself willing to take in plain needlework, only looked at her sister with mute gravity; her little world was turned so completely upside down, everything was so unreal, that nothing at this moment could have surprised her.

“Dressmakers!” she repeated, vaguely.

“Yes, yes,” replied Phillis, still more eagerly. The inspiration had come to her in a moment, full-fledged and grown up, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter. Just from those chance words of Nan’s she had grasped the whole thing in a moment. Now, indeed she felt that she was clever; here at least was something striking and original; she took no notice of Dulce’s shocked exclamation; she fixed her eyes solemnly on Nan. “Yes, yes; what does it matter what the outside world says? We are not like other girls; we never were; people always said we were so original. Necessity strikes out strange paths some times. We could not do such a thing here; no, no, I never could submit to that myself,” as Nan involuntarily shuddered; “but at Hadleigh, where no one knows us, where we shall be among strangers. And then, you see, Miss Monks is dead.”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! what does she mean?” cried Dulce, despairingly; “and what do we care about Miss Monks, if the creature be dead, or about Miss Anybody, if we have got to do such dreadful things?”

“My dear,” returned Phillis, with compassionate irony, “if we had to depend upon you for ideas––” and here she made an eloquent pause. “Our last tenant for the Friary was Miss Monks, and Miss Monks was a dressmaker; and, though perhaps I ought not to say it, it does seem a direct leading of Providence, putting such a thought into my head.”

“I am afraid Dulce and I are very slow and stupid,” returned Nan, putting her hair rather wearily from her face: her pretty color had quite faded during the last half-hour. “I 59 think if you would tell us plainly, exactly what you mean, Phillis, we should be able to understand everything better.”

“My notion is this,” began Phillis, slowly: “remember, I have not thought it quite out, but I will give you my ideas just as they occur to me. We will not say anything to mother just yet, until we have thoroughly digested our plan. You and I, Nan, will run down to the Friary, and reconnoitre the place, judge of its capabilities, and so forth; and when we come back we will hold a family council.”

“That will be best,” agreed Nan, who remembered, with sudden feelings of relief, that Dick and his belongings would be safe in the Engadine by that time. “But, Phillis, do you really and truly believe that we could carry out such a scheme?”

“Why not?” was the bold answer. “If we can work for ourselves, we can for other people. I have a presentiment that we shall achieve a striking success. We will make the old Friary as comfortable as possible,” she continued, cheerfully. “The good folk of Hadleigh will be rather surprised when they see our pretty rooms. No horse-hair sofa; no crochet antimacassars or hideous wax flowers; none of the usual stock-in-trade. Dorothy will manage the house for us; and we will all sit and work together, and mother will help us, and read to us. Aren’t you glad, Nan, that we all saved up for that splendid sewing-machine?”

“I do believe there is something, after all, in what you say,” was Nan’s response; but Dulce was not so easily won over.

“Do you mean to say that we shall put up a brass plate on the door, with ‘Challoner, dressmaker,’ on it?” she observed, indignantly. A red glow mounted to Nan’s forehead; and even Phillis looked disconcerted.

“I never thought of that: well, perhaps not. We might advertise at the Library, or put cards in the shops. I do not think mother would ever cross the threshold if she saw a brass plate.”

“No, no; I could not bear that,” said Nan, faintly. A dim vision of Dick standing at the gate, ruefully contemplating their name—her name—in juxtaposition with “dressmaker,” crossed her mind directly.

“But we should have to carry parcels, and stand in people’s halls, and perhaps fit Mrs. Squails, the grocer’s wife—that fat old thing, you know. How would you like to make a dress for Mrs. Squails, Phil?” asked Dulce, with the malevolent desire of making Phillis as uncomfortable as possible; but Phillis, who had rallied from her momentary discomfiture, was not to be again worsted.

“Dulce, you talk like a child; you are really a very silly little thing. Do you think any work can degrade us or that we shall not be as much gentlewomen at Hadleigh as we are here?” 60

“But the parcels?” persisted Dulce.

“I do not intend to carry any,” was the imperturbable reply, “Dorothy will do that; or we will hire a boy. As for waiting in halls, I don’t think any one will ask me to do that, as I should desire to be shown into a room at once; and as for Mrs. Squails, if the poor old woman honors me with her custom, I will turn her out a gown that shall be the envy of Hadleigh.”

Dulce did not answer this, but the droop of her lip was piteous; it melted Phillis at once.

“Oh, do cheer up, you silly girl!” she said, with a coaxing face. “What is the good of making ourselves more miserable than we need? If you prefer the two little rooms with mother, say so; and Nan and I will look out for old ladies at once.”

“No! no! Oh, pray don’t leave me!” still more piteously.

“Well, what will you have us do? we cannot starve; and we don’t mean to beg. Pluck up a little spirit, Dulce; see how good Nan is! You have no idea how comfortable we should be!” she went on, with judicious word-painting. “We should all be together—that is the great thing. Then we could talk over our work; and in the afternoon, when we felt dreary, mother could read some interesting novel to us,”—a tremulous sigh from Nan at this point.

What a contrast to the afternoons at Glen Cottage—tennis, and five-o’clock tea, and the company of their young friends! Phillis understood the sigh, and hurried on.

“It will not be always work. We will have long country walks in the evening; and then, there will be the garden and the sea-shore. Of course we must have exercise and recreation, I am afraid we shall have to do without society, for no one will visit ladies under such circumstances; but I would rather do without people than without each other, and so would Nan.”

“Yes, indeed!” broke in Nan; and now the tears were in her eyes.

Dulce grew suddenly ashamed of herself. She got up in a little flurry, and kissed them both.

“I was very naughty; but I did not mean to be unkind. I would rather carry parcels, and stand in halls—yes, and even make gowns for Mrs. Squails—than lose you both. I will be good. I will not worry you any more, Phil, with my nonsense; and I will work; you will see how I will work,” finished Dulce, breathlessly.

“There’s a darling!” said Nan; and then she added, in a tired voice, “But it is two o’clock; and Dick is coming this morning to say good-bye; and I want to ask you both particularly not to say a word to him about this. Let him go away and enjoy himself, and think we are going on as usual; it would spoil his holiday; and there is always time enough for bad news,” went on Nan, with a little tremble of her lip.

“Dear Nan, we understand,” returned Phillis, gently; “and you are right, as you always are. And now to bed—to bed,” 61 she continued, in a voice of enforced cheerfulness; and then they all kissed each other very quietly and solemnly, and crept up as noiselessly as possible to their rooms.

Phillis and Dulce shared the same room; but Nan had a little chamber to herself very near her mother’s: a door connected the two rooms. Nan closed this carefully, when she had ascertained that Mrs. Challoner was still sleeping, and then sat down by the window, and looked out into the gray glimmering light that preceded the dawn.

Sleep; how could she sleep with all these thoughts surging through her mind, and knowing that in a few hours Dick would come and say good-bye? and here Nan broke down, and had such a fit of crying as she had not had since her father died—nervous, uncontrollable tears, that it was useless to stem in her tired, overwrought state.

They exhausted her, and disposed her for sleep. She was so chilled and weary that she was glad to lie down in bed at last and close her eyes; and she had scarcely done so before drowsiness crept over her, and she knew no more until she found the sunshine flooding her little room, and Dorothy standing by her bed asking rather crossly why no one seemed disposed to wake this beautiful morning.

“Am I late? Oh, I hope I am not late!” exclaimed Nan, springing up in a moment. She dressed herself in quite a flurry, for fear she should keep any one waiting. It was only at the last moment she remembered the outburst of the previous night, and wondered with some dismay what Dick would think of her pale cheeks and the reddened lines round her eyes, and only hoped that he would not attribute them to his going away. Nan was only just in time, for as she entered the breakfast-room Dick came through the veranda and put in his head at the window.

“Not at breakfast yet? and where are the others?” he asked in some surprise, for the Challoners were early people, and very regular in their habits.

“We sat up rather late last night, talking,” returned Nan, giving him her hand without looking at him, and yet Dick showed to advantage this morning in his new tweed travelling suit.

“Well, I have only got ten minutes. I managed to give the pater the slip: he will be coming after me, I believe, if I stay longer. This is first-rate, having you all to myself this last morning. But what’s up, Nan? you don’t seem quite up to the mark. You are palish, you know, and––” here Dick paused in pained embarrassment. Were those traces of tears? had Nan really been crying? was she sorry about his going away? And now there was an odd lump in Dick’s throat.

Nan understood the pause and got frightened.

“It is nothing. I have a slight headache; there was a little domestic worry that wanted putting to right,” stammered 62 Nan; “it worried me, for I am stupid at such things, you know.”

She was explaining herself somewhat lamely, and to no purpose, for Dick did not believe her in the least. “Domestic worry!” as though she cared for such rubbish as that; as though any amount could make her cry—her, his bright, high spirited Nan! No; she had been fretting about their long separation, and his father’s unkindness, and the difficulties ahead of them.

“I want you to give me a rose,” he said, suddenly, a propos of nothing, as it seemed; but looking up, Nan caught a wistful gleam in his eyes, and hesitated. Was it not Dick who had told her that anecdote about the queen, or was it Lothair? and did not a certain meaning attach to this gift? Dick was forever picking roses for her; but he had never given her one, except with that meaning look on his face.

“You are hesitating,” he said, reproachfully; “and on my last morning, when we shall not see each other for months;” And Nan moved towards the veranda slowly, and gathered a crimson one without a word, and put it in his hand.

“Thank you,” he said, quite quietly; but he detained the hand as well as the rose for a moment. “One day I will show you this again, and tell you what it means if you do not know; and then we shall see, ah, Nan, my––” He paused as Phillis’s step entered the room, and said hurriedly, in a low voice, “Good-bye; I will not go in again. I don’t want to see any of them, only you—only you. Good-bye: take care of yourself for my sake, Nan.” And Dick looked at her wistfully, and dropped her hand.

“Has he gone?” asked Phillis, looking up in surprise as her sister came through the open window; “has he gone without finding anything out?”

“Yes, he has gone, and he does not know anything,” replied Nan, in a subdued voice, as she seated herself behind the urn. It was over now, and she was ready for anything. “Take care of yourself for my sake, Nan!”—that was ringing in her ears; but she had not said a word in reply. Only the rose lay in his hand—her parting gift, and perhaps her parting pledge.