Читать книгу Not Like Other Girls - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 24

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Oldfield was rather mystified by the Challoners’ movements. There were absolutely three afternoons during which Nan and her sisters were invisible. There was a tennis-party at the Paines’ on one of these days, but at the last minute they had excused themselves. Nan’s prettily-worded note was declared very vague and unsatisfactory, and on the following afternoon there was a regular invasion of the cottage—Carrie Paine, and two of the Twentyman girls, and Adelaide Sartoris and her young brother Albert. 69

They found Dulce alone, looking very sad and forlorn.

Nan and Phillis had gone down to Hadleigh that morning, she explained in rather a confused way: they were not expected back until the following evening.

On being pressed by Miss Sartoris as to the reason of this sudden trip, she added, rather awkwardly, that it was on business; her mother was not well—oh, very far from well; and they had to look at a house that belonged to them, as the tenant had lately died.

This was all very plausible; but Dulce’s manner was so constrained, and she spoke with such hesitation, that Miss Sartoris was convinced that something lay behind. They went out in the garden, however, and chose sides for their game of tennis; and, though Dulce had never played so badly in her life, the fresh air and exercise did her good, and at the end of the afternoon she looked a little less drooping.

It was felt to be a failure, however, by the whole party; and when tea was over, there was no mention of a second game. “No, we will not stay any longer,” observed Isabella Twentyman, kissing the girl with much affection. “Of course we understand that you will be wanting to sit with your mother.”

“Yes, and if you do not come in to-morrow we shall quite know how it is,” added Miss Sartoris, good-naturedly, for which Dulce thanked her and looked relieved.

She stood at the hall door watching them as they walked down the village street, swinging their racquets and talking merrily.

“What happy girls!” she thought, with a sigh. Miss Sartoris was an heiress, and the Twentymans were rich, and every one knew that Carrie and Sophy Paine would have money. “None of them will have to work,” said poor Dulce sorrowfully to herself: “they can go on playing tennis and driving and riding and dancing as long as they like.” And then she went up to her mother’s room with lagging footsteps and a cloudy brow.

“You may depend upon it there is something amiss with those Challoners,” said Miss Sartoris, as soon as they were out of sight of the cottage; “no one has seen anything of them for the last three or four days, and I never saw Dulce so unlike herself.”

“Oh, I hope not,” returned Carrie, gravely, who had heard enough from her father to guess that there was pecuniary embarrassment at the bottom. “Poor little thing, she did seem rather subdued. How many people do you expect to muster to-morrow, Adelaide?” and then Miss Sartoris understood that the subject was to be changed.

While Dulce was trying to entertain her friends, Nan and Phillis were reconnoitring the Friary.

They had taken an early train to London, and had contrived to reach Hadleigh a little before three. They went first to 70 Beach House—a small unpretending house on the Parade, kept by a certain Mrs. Mozley, with whom they had once lodged after Dulce had the measles.

The good woman received them with the utmost cordiality. Her place was pretty nearly filled, she told them proudly; the drawing-room had been taken for three months, and an elderly couple were in the dining-room.

“But there is a bedroom I could let you have for one night,” finished Mrs. Mozley, “and there is the little side parlor where you could have your tea and breakfast.” And when Nan had thanked her, and suggested the addition of chops to their evening meal, they left their modest luggage and set out for the Friary.

Phillis would have gone direct to their destination, but Nan pleaded for one turn on the Parade. She wanted a glimpse of the sea, and it was such a beautiful afternoon.

The tide was out, and the long black breakwaters were uncovered; the sun was shining on the wet shingles and narrow strip of yellow sand. The sea looked blue and unruffled, with little sparkles and gleams of light, and white sails glimmered on the horizon. Some boatmen were dragging a boat down the beach; it grated noisily over the pebbles. A merry party were about to embark—a tall man in a straw hat, and two boys in knickerbockers. Their sisters were watching them. “Oh, Reggie, do be careful!” Nan heard one of the girls say, as he waded knee-deep into the water.

“Come, Nan, we ought not to dawdle like this!” exclaimed Phillis, impatiently; and they went on quickly, past the long row of old-fashioned white houses with the green before them and that sweet Sussex border of soft feathery tamarisk, and then past the cricket-field, and down to the whitewashed cottage of the Preventive Station; and then they turned back and walked towards the Steyne, and after that Nan declared herself satisfied.

There were plenty of people on the Parade, and most of them looked after the two girls as they passed. Nan’s sweet bloom and graceful carriage always attracted notice; and Phillis, although she generally suffered from comparison with her sister, was still very uncommon-looking.

“I should like to know who those young ladies are,” observed a military-looking man with a white moustache, who was standing at the Library door waiting for his daughter to make some purchases. “Look at them, Elizabeth: one of them is such a pretty girl, and they walk so well.”

“Dear father, I suppose they are only some new-comers: we shall see their names down in the visitors’ list by and by;” and Miss Middleton smiled as she took her father’s arm, for she was slightly lame. She knew strangers always interested him, and that he would make it his business for the next few days to find out everything about them. 71

“Did you see that nice-looking woman?” asked Phillis, when they had passed. “She was quite young, only her hair was gray: fancy, a gray-haired girl!”

“Oh, she must be older than she looks,” returned Nan, indifferently.

She was not looking at people: she was far too busily engaged identifying each well-remembered spot.

There was the shabby little cottage, where she and her mother had once stayed after an illness of Mrs. Challoner’s. What odd little rooms they had occupied, looking over a strip of garden-ground full of marigolds! “Marigolds-all-in-a-row Cottage,” she had named it in her home letters. It was nearly opposite the White House where Mrs. Cheyne lived. Nan remembered her—a handsome, sad-looking woman, who always wore black, and drove out in such handsome carriages.

“Always alone; how sad!” Nan thought; and she wondered, as they walked past the low stone walls with grassy mounds slopping from them, and a belt of shrubbery shutting out views of the house, whether Mrs. Cheyne lived there still.

They had reached a quiet country corner now; there was a clump of trees, guarded by posts and chains; a white house stood far back. There were two or three other houses, and a cottage dotted down here and there. The road looked shady and inviting. Nan began to look about her more cheerfully.

“I am glad it is so quiet, and so far away from the town, and that our neighbors will not be able to overlook us.”

“I was just thinking of that as a disadvantage,” returned Phillis, with placid opposition. “It is a pity, under the circumstances, that we are not nearer the town.” And after that Nan held her peace.

They were passing an old-fashioned house with a green door in the wall, when it suddenly opened, and a tall, grave looking young man, in clerical attire, came out quickly upon them, and then drew back to let them pass.

“I suppose that is the new vicar?” whispered Phillis, when they had gone a few steps. “You know poor old Dr. Musgrave is dead, and most likely that is his successor.”

“I forgot that was the vicarage,” returned Nan. But happily she did not turn round to look at it again; if she had done so, she would have seen the young clergyman still standing by the green door watching them. “It is a shabby, dull old house in front; but I remember that when mother and I returned Mrs. Musgrave’s call we were shown into such a dear old-fashioned drawing-room, with windows looking out on such a pleasant garden. I quite fell in love with it.”

“Well, we shall be near neighbors,” observed Phillis, somewhat shortly, as she paused before another green door, set in a long blank wall; “for here we are at the Friary, and I had better just run over the way and get the key from Mrs. Crump.”

Nan nodded, and then stood like an image of patience before 72 the shabby green door. Would it open and let them into a new untried life? What sort of fading hopes, of dim regrets, would be left outside when they crossed the threshold? The thought of the empty rooms, not yet swept and garnished, made her shiver: the upper windows looked blankly at her, like blind, unrecognizing eyes. She was quite glad when Phillis joined her again, swinging the key on her little finger, and humming a tune in forced cheerfulness.

“What a dull, shut-in place! I think the name of Friary suits it exactly,” observed Nan, disconsolately, as they went up the little flagged path, bordered with lilac-bushes. “It feels like a miniature convent or prison: we might have a grating in the door, and answer all outsiders through it.”

“Nonsense!” returned Phillis, who was determined to take a bright view of things. “Don’t go into the house just yet, I want to see the garden.” And she led the way down a gloomy side-path, with unclipped box and yews, that made it dark and decidedly damp. This brought them to a little lawn, with tall, rank grass that might have been mown for hay, and some side-beds full of old fashioned flowers, such as lupins and monkshood, pinks and small pansies; a dreary little greenhouse, with a few empty flower-pots and a turned-up box was in one corner, and an attempt at a rockery, with a periwinkle climbing over it, and an undesirable number of oyster-shells.

An old medlar tree, very warped and gnarled, was at the bottom of the lawn, and beyond this a small kitchen-garden, with abundance of gooseberry and currant-bushes, and vast resources in the shape of mint, marjoram, and lavender.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a wretched little place after our dear old Glen Cottage garden!” And in spite of her good resolutions, Nan’s eyes grew misty.

“Comparisons are odious,” retorted Phillis, briskly. “We have just to make the best of things—and I don’t deny they are horrid—and put all the rest away, between lavender, on the shelves of our memory.” And she smiled grimly as she picked one of the gray spiky flowers.

And then, as they walked round the weedy paths, she pointed out how different it would look when the lawn was mown, and all the weeds and oyster-shells removed, and the box and yews clipped, and a little paint put on the greenhouse.

“And look at that splendid passion-flower, growing like a weed over the back of the cottage,” she remarked, with a wave of her hand: “it only wants training and nailing up. Poor Miss Monks has neglected the garden shamefully; but then she was always ailing.”

They went into the cottage after this. The entry was rather small and dark. The kitchen came first: it was a tolerable-sized apartment, with two windows looking out on the lilacs and the green door and the blank wall.

“I am afraid Dorothy will find it a little dull,” Nan observed, 73 rather ruefully. And again she thought the name of Friary was well given to this gruesome cottage; but she cheered up when Phillis opened cupboards and showed her a light little scullery, and thought that perhaps they could make it comfortable for Dorothy.

The other two rooms looked upon the garden: one had three windows, and was really a very pleasant parlor.

“This must be our work-room,” began Phillis, solemnly, as she stood in the centre of the empty room, looking round her with bright knowing glances. “Oh, what an ugly paper, Nan! but we can easily put up a prettier one. The smaller room must be where we live and take our meals: it is not quite so cheerful as this. It is so nice having this side-window; it will give us more light, and we shall be able to see who comes in at the door.”

“Yes, that is an advantage,” assented Nan. She was agreeably surprised to find such a good-sized room in the cottage; it was decidedly low, and the windows were not plate-glass, but she thought that on summer mornings they might sit there very comfortably looking out at the lawn and the medlar-tree.

“We shall be glad of these cupboards,” she suggested, after a pause, while Phillis, took out sundry pieces of tape from her pocket and commenced making measurements in a business-like manner. “Our work will make such a litter, and I should like things to be as tidy as possible. I am thinking,” she continued, “we might have mother’s great carved wardrobe in the recess behind the door. It is really a magnificent piece of furniture, and in a work-room it would not be so out of place; we could hang up the finished and unfinished dresses in it out of the dust. And we could have the little drawing-room chiffonnier between the windows for our pieces, and odds and ends in the cupboards. It is a pity our table is round; but perhaps it will look all the more comfortable. The sewing-machine must be in the side-window,” added Nan, who was quite in her element now, for she loved all housewifely arrangements; “and mother’s easy-chair and little table must stand by the fireplace. My davenport will be useful for papers and accounts.”

“It is really a very convenient room,” returned Phillis, in a satisfied voice, when they had exhausted its capabilities; and, though the second parlor was small and dull in comparison, even Nan dropped no disparaging word.

Both of them agreed it would do very well. There was a place for the large roomy couch that their mother so much affected, and their favorite chairs and knick-knacks would soon make it look cosey: and after this they went upstairs hand in hand.

There were only four bedrooms, and two of these were not large; the most cheerful one was, of course, allotted to their mother, and the next in size must be for Phillis and Dulce. Nan was to have a small one next to her mother.

The evening was drawing on by the time they had finished 74 their measurements and left the cottage. Nan, who was tired and wanted her tea, was for hurrying on to Beach House; but Phillis insisted on calling at the Library. She wanted to put some questions to Miss Milner. To-morrow they would have the paper-hanger, and look out for a gardener, and there was Mrs. Crump to interview about cleaning down the cottage.

“Oh, very well,” returned Nan, wearily, and she followed Phillis into the shop, where good-natured bustling Miss Milner came to them at once.

Phillis put the question to her in a low voice, for there were other customers exchanging books over the counter. The same young clergyman they had before noticed had just bought a local paper, and was waiting evidently for a young lady who was turning over some magazines quite close to them.

“Do we know of a good dressmaker in the place?” repeated Miss Milner, in her loud cheerful voice, very much to Nan’s discomfort, for the clergyman looked up from his paper at once. “Miss Monks was a tolerable fit, but, poor thing! she died a few weeks ago; and Mrs. Slasher, who lives over Viner’s the haberdasher’s, cannot hold a candle to her. Miss Masham there,”—pointing to a smart ringleted young person, evidently her assistant—“had her gown ruined by her: hadn’t you, Miss Masham?”

Miss Masham simpered, but her reply was inaudible; but the young lady who was standing near them suddenly turned round:

“There is Mrs. Langley, who lives just by. I shall be very happy to give these ladies her address, for she is a widow with little children, and I am anxious to procure her work—” and then she looked at Nan, and hesitated; “that is, if you are not very particular,” she added, with sudden embarrassment, for even in her morning dress there was a certain style about Nan that distinguished her from other people.

“Thank you, Miss Drummond,” returned Miss Milner, gratefully. “Shall I write down the address for you, ma’am?”

“Yes—no—thank you very much, but perhaps it does not matter,” returned Nan, hurriedly, feeling awkward for the first time in her life. But Phillis, who realized all the humor of the situation, interposed:

“The address will do us no harm, and we may as well have it, although we should not trouble Mrs. Langley. I will call in again, Miss Milner, to-morrow morning, and then I will explain what it is we really want. We are in a hurry now,” continued Phillis, loftily, turning away with a dignified inclination of her head toward the officious stranger.

Phillis was not prepossessed in her favor. She was a dark, wiry little person, not exactly plain, but with an odd, comical face; and she was dressed so dowdily and with such utter disregard of taste that Phillis instinctively felt Mrs. Langley was not to be dreaded. 75

“What a queer little body! Do you think she belongs to him?” she asked Nan, as they walked rapidly toward Beach House.

“What in the world made you strike in after that fashion?” demanded the young man, as he and his companion followed more slowly in the strangers’ footsteps. “That is just your way, Mattie, interfering and meddling in other folks’ affairs. Why cannot you mind your own business sometimes,” he continued, irritably, “instead of putting your foot into other people’s?”

“You are as cross as two sticks this afternoon, Archie,” returned his sister, composedly. She had a sharp little pecking voice that seemed to match her, somehow; for she was not unlike a bright-eyed bird, and had quick pouncing movements. “Wait a moment: my braid has got torn, and is dragging.”

“I wish you would think a little more of my position, and take greater pains with your appearance,” returned her brother, in an annoyed voice. “What would Grace say to see what a fright you make of yourself? It is a sin and a shame for a woman to be untidy or careless in her dress; it is unfeminine! it is unlady-like!” hurling each separate epithet at her.

Perhaps Miss Drummond was used to these compliments, for she merely pinned her braid without seeming the least put out.

“I think I am a little shabby,” she remarked, tranquilly, as they at last walked on. “Perhaps Mrs. Langley had better make me a dress too,” with a laugh, for, in spite of her sharp voice, she was an even-tempered little body; but this last remark only added fuel to his wrath.

“You really have less sense than a child. The idea of recommending a person like Mrs. Langley to those young ladies—a woman who works for Miss Masham!”

“They were very plainly dressed, Archie,” returned poor Mattie, who felt this last snub acutely; for, if there was one thing upon which she prided herself, it was her good sense. “They had dark print dresses—not as good as the one I have on—and nothing could be quieter.”

“Oh, you absurd little goose!” exclaimed her brother, and he burst into a laugh, for the drollery of the comparison restored him to instant good humor. “If you cannot see the difference between that frumpish gown of yours, with its little bobtails and fringes, and those pretty dresses before us, I must say you are as blind as a bat, Mattie.”

“Oh, never mind my gown,” returned Mattie, with a sigh.

She had had these home-thrusts to meet and parry nearly every day, ever since she had come to keep house for this fastidious brother. She was a very active, bustling little person, who had done a great deal of tough work in her day, but she never could be made to see that unless a woman add the graces of life to the cardinal virtues she is, comparatively speaking, a failure in the eyes of the other sex. 76

So, though Mattie was a frugal housekeeper, and worked from morning to night in his service—the veriest little drudge that was ever seen—she was a perpetual eyesore to her brother, who loved feminine grace and repose—whose tastes were fastidious and somewhat arbitrary. And so it was poor Mattie had more censure than praise, and wrote home piteous letters complaining that nothing she did seemed to satisfy Archie, and that her mother had made a great mistake in sending her, and not Grace, to preside over his bachelor establishment.

“Oh, Phillis, how shall we have courage to publish our plan?” exclaimed Nan, when they were at last discussing the much-needed tea and chops in the little parlor at Beach House.

The window was wide open. The returning tide was coming in with a pleasant ripple and wash over the shingle. The Parade was nearly empty; but some children’s voices sounded from the green space before the houses. The brown sail of a fishing craft dipped into the horizon. It was so cool, so quiet, so restful; but Nan’s eyes were weary, and she put the question wistfully.

Phillis looked into the teapot to gain a moment’s reprieve; the corners of her mouth had an odd pucker in them.

“I never said it was not hard,” she burst out at last. “I felt like a fool myself while I was speaking to Miss Milner; but then that clergyman was peeping at us between the folds of his paper. He seemed a nice-looking, gentlemanly sort of man. Do you think that queer little lady in the plaid dress could be his wife? Oh, no; I remember Miss Milner addressed her as Miss Drummond. Then she must be his sister: how odd!”

“Why should it be odd?” remarked Nan, absently, who had not particularly noticed them.

“Oh, she was such a dowdy little thing, not a bit nice-looking, and he was quite handsome, and looked rather distinguished. You know I always take stock of people, and make up my mind about them at once. And then we are to be such close neighbors.”

“I don’t suppose we shall see much of them,” was Nan’s somewhat depressed reply; and then, as they had finished their tea they placed themselves at the open window, and began to talk about the business of next day; and, in discussing cupboards and new papers, Nan forgot her fatigue, and grew so interested that it was quite late before they thought of retiring to rest.

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