Читать книгу Not Like Other Girls - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 22

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Nan never recalled the memory of that “long gray day,” as she inwardly termed it, without a shiver of discomfort.

Never but once in her bright young life had she known such a day, and that was when her dead father lay in the darkened house, and her widowed mother had crept weeping into her 63 arms as to her only remaining refuge; but that stretched so far back into the past that it had grown into a vague remembrance.

It was not only that Dick was gone, though the pain of that separation was far greater than she would have believed possible, but a moral earthquake had shattered their little world, involving them in utter chaos.

It was only yesterday that she was singing ballads in the Longmead drawing-room—only yesterday; but to-day everything was changed. The sun shone, the birds sang, every one ate and drank and moved about as usual. Nan talked and smiled, and no stranger would have guessed that much was amiss; nevertheless, a weight lay heavy on her spirits, and Nan knew in her secret heart that she could never be again the same light-hearted, easy-going creature that she was yesterday.

Later on, the sisters confessed to each other that the day had been perfectly interminable; the hours dragged on slowly; the sun seemed as though it never meant to set; and to add to their trouble, their mother looked so ill when she came downstairs, wrapped in her soft white shawl in spite of the heat, that Nan thought of sending for a doctor, and only refrained at the remembrance that they had no right to such luxuries now except in cases of necessity.

Then Dorothy was in one of her impracticable moods, throwing cold water on all her young mistress’s suggestions, and doing her best to disarrange the domestic machinery. Dorothy suspected a mystery somewhere; her young ladies had sat up half the night, and looked pale and owlish in the morning. If they chose to keep her in the dark and not take her into their confidence, it was their affair; but she meant to show them what she thought of their conduct. So she contradicted and snapped, until Nan told her wearily that she was a disagreeable old thing, and left her and Susan to do as they liked. She knew Mr. Trinder was waiting for her in the dining-room, and, as Mrs. Challoner was not well enough to see him, she and Phillis must entertain him.

He had slept at a friend’s house a few miles from Oldfield, and was to lunch at Glen Cottage and take the afternoon train to London.

He was not sorry when he heard that Mrs. Challoner was too indisposed to receive him. In spite of his polite expressions of regret, he had found the poor lady terribly trying on the previous evening. She was a bad manager, and had muddled her affairs, and she did not seem to understand half of what he told her; and her tears and lamentations when she had realized the truth had been too much for the soft hearted old bachelor, though people did call him a woman-hater.

“But I never could bear to see a woman cry; it is as bad as watching an animal in pain,” he half growled, as he drew out his red pocket-handkerchief and used it rather noisily. 64

It was easier work to explain everything to these two bright, sensible girls. Phillis listened and asked judicious questions; but Nan sat with downcast face, plaiting the table-cloth between her restless fingers, and thinking of Dick at odd intervals.

She took it all in, however, and roused up in earnest when Mr. Trinder had finished his explanations, and Phillis began to talk in her turn; she was actually taking the old lawyer into her confidence, and detailing their scheme in the most business-like way.

“The mother does not know yet—this is all in confidence; but Nan and I have made up our minds to take this step,” finished the young philosopher, calmly.

“Bless my soul,” ejaculated Mr. Trinder—he had given vent to this expression at various intervals, but had not further interrupted her. “Bless my soul! my dear young ladies, I think—but excuse me if I am too abrupt, but you must be dreaming.”

Phillis shook her head smilingly; and as Dorothy came into the room that moment to lay the luncheon, she proposed a turn in the garden, and fetched Mr. Trinder’s hat herself, and guided him to a side-walk, where they could not be seen from the drawing-room windows. Nan followed them, and tried to keep step with Mr. Trinder’s shambling footsteps, as he walked between the girls with a hot perplexed face, and still muttering to himself at intervals.

“It is all in confidence,” repeated Phillis, in the same calm voice.

“And you are actually serious? you are not joking?”

“Do your clients generally joke when they are ruined?” returned Phillis, with natural exasperation. “Do you think Nan and I are in such excellent spirits that we could originate such a piece of drollery? Excuse me, Mr. Trinder, but I must say I do not think your remark quite well timed.” And Phillis turned away with a little dignity.

“No, no! now you are put out, and no wonder!” returned Mr. Trinder, soothingly; and he stood quite still on the gravel path, and fixed his keen little eyes on the two young creatures before him—Nan, with her pale cheeks and sad eyes, and Phillis, alert, irritated, full of repressed energy. “Dear, dear! what a pity!” groaned the old man; “two such bonnie lasses and to think a little management and listening to my advice would have kept the house over your heads, if only your mother would have hearkened to me!”

“It is too late for all that now, Mr. Trinder,” replied Phillis, impatiently: “isn’t it waste of time crying over spilt milk when we must be taking our goods to market? We must make the best of our little commodities,” sighed the girl. “If we were only clever and accomplished, we might do better; but now––” and Phillis left her sentence unfinished, which was a way she had, and which people thought very telling. 65

“But, my dear young lady, with all your advantages, and––” Here Phillis interrupted him rather brusquely.

“What advantages? do you mean we had a governess? Well, we had three, one after the other; and they were none of them likely to turn out first-rate pupils. Oh, we are well enough, compared to other girls: if we had not to earn our own living, we should not be so much amiss. But, Nan, why don’t you speak? why do you leave me all the hard work? Did you not tell us last night that you were not fit for a governess?”

Nan felt rather ashamed of her silence after this. It was true that she was leaving all the onus of their plan on Phillis, and it was certainly time for her to come to her rescue. So she quietly but rather shyly endorsed her sister’s speech, and assured Mr. Trinder that they had carefully considered the matter from every point of view, and, though it was a very poor prospect and involved a great deal of work and self-sacrifice, she, Nan, thought that Phillis was right, and that it was the best—indeed the only—thing they could do under the circumstances.

“For myself, I prefer it infinitely to letting lodgings,” finished Nan: and Phillis looked at her gratefully.

But Mr. Trinder was obstinate and had old-fashioned views, and argued the whole thing in his dictatorial masculine way. They sat down to luncheon, and presently sent Dorothy away—a piece of independence that bitterly offended that crabbed but faithful individual—and wrangled busily through the whole of the meal.

Mr. Trinder never could remember afterwards whether it was lamb or mutton he had eaten; he had a vague idea that Dulce had handed him the mint-sauce, and that he had declined it and helped himself to salad. The doubt disturbed him for the first twenty miles of his homeward journey. “Good gracious! for a man not to know whether he is eating lamb or mutton!” he soliloquized, as he vainly tried to enjoy his usual nap; “but then I never was so upset in my life. Those pretty creatures, and Challoners too—bless my soul!” And here the lawyer’s cogitations became confused and misty.

Nan, who had more than once seen tears in the lawyer’s shrewd little gray eyes, had been very gentle and tolerant over the old man’s irritability; but Phillis had resented his caustic speeches somewhat hotly. Dulce, who was on her best behavior, was determined not to interfere or say a word to thwart her sisters: she even went so far as to explain to Mr. Trinder that they would not have to carry parcels, as Phillis meant to hire a boy. She had no idea that this magnanimous speech was in a figurative manner the last straw that broke the camel’s back. Mr. Trinder pushed back his chair hastily, made some excuse that his train must be due, and beat a retreat an hour before the time, unable to pursue such a painful subject any longer.

Nan rose, with a sigh of relief, as soon as the door closed upon their visitors, and took refuge in the shady drawing-room with 66 her mother, whom she found in a very tearful, querulous state, requiring a great deal of soothing. They had decided that no visitors were to be admitted that afternoon.

“You may say your mistress is indisposed with a bad headache, Dorothy, and that we are keeping the house quiet,” Nan remarked, with a little dignity, with the remembrance of that late passage of arms.

“Very well, Miss Nan,” returned the old servant. However, she was a little cowed by Nan’s manner: such an order had never before been given in the cottage. Mrs. Challoner’s headaches were common events in every-day life, and had never been known before to interfere with their afternoon receptions. A little eau de Cologne and extra petting, a stronger cup of tea served up to her in her bedroom, had been the only remedies; the girls had always had their tennis as usual, and the sound of their voices and laughter had been as music in their mother’s ears.

“Very well, Miss Nan,” was all Dorothy ventured to answer; but she withdrew with a face puckered up with anxiety. She took in the tea-tray unbidden at an earlier hour than usual; there were Dulce’s favorite hot cakes, and some rounds of delicately-buttered toast, “for the young ladies have not eaten above a morsel at luncheon,” said Dorothy in explanation to her mistress.

“Never mind us,” returned Nan, with a friendly nod at the old woman: “it has been so hot to-day,” And then she coaxed her mother to eat, and made believe herself to enjoy the repast while she wondered how many more evenings they would spend in the pretty drawing-room on which they had expended so much labor.

Nan had countermanded the late dinner, which they all felt would be a pretence and mockery; and as Mrs. Challoner’s headache refused to yield to the usual remedies, she was obliged to retire to bed as soon as the sun set, and the three girls went out in the garden, and walked up and down the lawn with their arms interlaced, while Dorothy watched them from the pantry window, and wiped away a tear or two, as she washed up the tea-things.

“How I should like a long walk?” exclaimed Dulce, impatiently. “It is so narrow and confined here; but it would never do: we should meet people.”

“No, it would never do,” agreed her sisters, feeling a fresh pang that such avoidance was necessary. They had never hidden anything before, and the thought that this mystery lay between them and their friends was exquisitely painful.

“I feel as though I never cared to see one of them again!” sighed poor Nan, for which speech she was rather sharply rebuked by Phillis.

They settled a fair amount of business before they went to bed that night; and when Dorothy brought in the supper-tray, bearing a little covered dish in triumph, which she set down before 67 Nan, Nan looked at her with grave, reproachful eyes, in there was a great deal of kindness.

“You should not do this, Dorothy,” she said, very gently: “we cannot afford such delicacies now.”

“It is your favorite dish, Miss Nan,” returned Dorothy, quite ignoring this remark. “Susan has cooked it to a nicety; but it will be spoiled if it is not eaten hot.” And she stood over them, while Nan dispensed the dainty. “You must eat it while it is hot,” she kept saying, as she fidgeted about the room, taking up things and putting them down again. Phillis looked at Nan with a comical expression of dismay.

“Dorothy, come here,” she exclaimed, at last, pushing away her plate. “Don’t you see that Susan is wasting all her talents on us, and that we can’t eat to-day?”

“Every one can eat if they try, Miss Phillis,” replied Dorothy, oracularly. “But a thing like that must be hot, or it is spoiled.”

“Oh, never mind about it being hot,” returned Phillis, beginning to laugh. She was so tired, and Dorothy was such a droll old thing; and how were even stewed pigeons to be appetizing under the circumstances?

“Oh, you may laugh,” began Dorothy, in an offended tone; but Phillis took hold of her and nearly shook her.

“Oh, what a stupid old thing you are! Don’t you know what a silly, aggravating old creature you can be when you like? If I laugh, it is because everything is so ludicrous and wretched. Nan and Dulce are not laughing.”

“No, indeed,” put in Dulce; “we are far, far too unhappy!”

“What is it, Miss Nan?” asked Dorothy, sidling up to her in a coaxing manner. “I am only an old servant, but it was me that put Miss Dulce in her father’s arms—‘the pretty lamb,’ as he called her, and she with a skin like a lily. If there is trouble, you would not keep it from her old nurse, surely?”

“No, indeed, Dorothy: we want to tell you,” returned Nan touched by this appeal; and then she quietly recapitulated the main points that concerned their difficulties—their mother’s loss, their future poverty, the necessity for leaving Glen Cottage and settling down at the Friary.

“We shall all have to work,” finished Nan, with prudent vagueness, not daring to intrust their plan to Dorothy: “the cottage is small, and, of course, we can only keep one servant.”

“I dare say I shall be able to manage if you will help me a little,” returned Dorothy, drying her old eyes with the corner of her apron. “Dear, dear! to think of such an affliction coming upon my mistress and the dear young ladies! It is like an earthquake or a flood, or something sudden and unexpected—Lord deliver us! And to think of my speaking crossly to you Miss Nan, and you with all this worry on your mind!”

“We will not think of that,” returned Nan, soothingly. “Susan’s quarter will be up shortly, and we must get her away 68 as soon as possible. My great fear is that the work may be too much for you, poor Dorothy; and that—that—we may have to keep you waiting sometimes for your wages,” she added, rather hesitatingly fearing to offend Dorothy’s touchy temper, and yet determined to put the whole matter clearly before her.

“I don’t think we need talk about that,” returned Dorothy, with dignity. “I have not saved up my wages for nineteen years without having a nest-egg laid up for rainy days. Wages—when I mention the word, Miss Nan,” went on Dorothy, waxing somewhat irate, “it will be time enough to enter upon that subject. I haven’t deserved such a speech; no, that I haven’t,” went on Dorothy, with a sob. “Wages, indeed!”

“Now, nursey, you shan’t be cross with Nan,” cried Dulce, throwing her arms round the old woman; for, in spite of her eighteen years, she was still Dorothy’s special charge. “She’s quite right; it may be an unpleasant subject, but we will not have you working for us for nothing.”

“Very well, Miss Dulce,” returned Dorothy, in a choked voice preparing to withdraw; but Nan caught hold of the hard work-worn hand, and held her fast.

“Oh, Dorothy, you would not add to our trouble now, when we are so terribly unhappy! I never meant to hurt your feelings by what I said. If you will only go to the Friary and help us to make the dear mother comfortable, I, for one, will be deeply grateful.”

“And you will not talk of wages?” asked Dorothy, mollified by Nan’s sweet, pleading tones.

“Not until we can afford to do so,” returned Nan, hastily, feeling that this was a safe compromise, and that they should be eked out somehow. And then, the stewed pigeons being regarded as a failure, Dorothy consented to remove the supper tray, and the long day was declared at an end.