CHAPTER VI.MR. TRINDER’S VISIT.
The next few days passed far too quickly for Nan’s pleasure, and Dick’s last morning arrived. The very next day the Maynes were to start for Switzerland, and Longmead was to stand empty for the remainder of the summer. It was a dreary prospect for Nan, and in spite of her high spirits her courage grew somewhat low. Six months! who could know what might happen before they met again? Nan was not the least bit superstitious, neither was it her wont to indulge in useless speculations or forebodings; but she could not shake off this morning a strange uncanny feeling that haunted her in spite of herself—a presentiment that things were not going to be just as she would have them,—that Dick and she would not meet again in exactly the same manner.
“How silly I am!” she thought, for the twentieth time, as she brushed out her glossy brown hair and arranged it in her usual simple fashion.
Nan and her sisters were a little behind the times in some ways; they had never thought fit to curl their hairen garcon, or to mount a pyramid of tangled curls in imitation of a poodle; no pruning scissors had touched the light-springing locks that grew so prettily about their temples; in this, as in much else, they were unlike other girls, for they dared to put individuality before fashion, and good taste and a sense of beauty against the specious arguments of the multitude.
“How silly I am!” again repeated Nan. “What can happen, what should happen, except that I shall have a dull summer, and shall be very glad when Christmas and Dick come together;”42and then she shook her little basket of housekeeping keys until they jingled merrily, and ran downstairs with a countenance she meant to keep bright for the rest of the day.
They were to play tennis at the Paines’ that afternoon, and afterwards the three girls were to dine at Longmead. Mrs. Challoner had been invited also; but she had made some excuse, and pleaded for a quiet evening. She was never very ready to accept these invitations; there was nothing in common between her and Mrs. Mayne; and in her heart she agreed with Lady Fitzroy in thinking the master of Longmead odious.
It was Mr. Mayne who had tendered this parting hospitality to his neighbors, and he chose to be much offended at Mrs. Challoner’s refusal.
“I think it is very unfriendly of your mother, when we are such old neighbors, and on our last evening, too,” he said to Nan, as she entered the drawing-room that evening bringing her mother’s excuses wrapped up in the prettiest words she could find.
“Mother is not quite well; she does not feel up to the exertion of dining out to-night,” returned Nan, trying to put a good face on it, but feeling as though things were too much for her this evening. It was bad enough for Mr. Mayne to insist on them all coming up to a long formal dinner, and spoiling their chances of a twilight stroll; but it was still worse for her mother to abandon them after this fashion.
The new novel must have had something to do with this sudden indisposition; but when Mrs. Challoner had wrapped herself up in her white shawl, always a bad sign with her, and had declared herself unfit for any exertion, what could a dutiful daughter do but deliver her excuses as gracefully as she could? Nevertheless, Mr. Mayne frowned and expressed himself ill pleased.
“I should have thought an effort could have been made on such an occasion,” was his final thrust, as he gave his arm ungraciously to Nan, and conducted her with ominous solemnity to the table.
It was not a festive meal, in spite of all Mrs. Mayne’s efforts. Dick looked glum. He was separated from Nan by a vast silver epergne, that fully screened her from view. Another time she would have peeped merrily round at him and given him a sprightly nod or two; but how was she to do it when Mr. Mayne never relaxed his gloomy muscles, and when he insisted on keeping up a ceremonious flow of conversation with her on the subjects of the day?
When Dick tried to strike into their talk, he got so visibly snubbed that he was obliged to take refuge with Phillis.
“You young fellows never know what you are talking about,” observed Mr. Mayne, sharply, when Dick had hazarded a remark about the Premier’s policy; “you are a Radical one day, and a Conservative another. That comes of your debating societies. You take contrary sides, and mix up a balderdash of ideas, until43you don’t know whether you are standing on your head or your heels;” and it was after this that Dick found his refuge with Phillis.
It was little better when they were all in the drawing-room together. If Mr. Mayne had invited them there for the purpose of keeping them all under his own eyes and making them uncomfortable, he could not have managed better. When Dick suggested a stroll in the garden, he said,—
“Pshaw! what nonsense proposing such a thing, when the dews are heavy and the girls will catch their deaths of cold!”
“We do it every evening of our life,” observed Nan, hardily; but even she dared not persevere in the face of this protest, though she exchanged a rebellious look with Dick that did him good and put him in a better humor.
They found their way into the conservatory after that, but were hunted out on pretence of having a little music; at least Nan would have it that it was pretence.
“Your father does not care much for music, I know,” she whispered, as she placed herself at the grand piano, while Dick leaned against it and watched her. It was naughty of Nan, but there was no denying that she found Mr. Mayne more aggravating than usual this evening.
“Come, come, Miss Nancy!” he called out,—he always called her that when he wished to annoy her, for Nan had a special dislike to her quaint, old-fashioned name; it had been her mother’s and grandmother’s name; in every generation there had been a Nancy Challoner,—“come, come, Miss Nancy! we cannot have you playing at hide-and-seek in this fashion. We want some music. Give us something rousing, to keep us all awake.” And Nan had reluctantly placed herself at the piano.
She did her little best according to orders, for she dared not offend Dick’s father. None of the Challoners were accomplished girls. Dulce sang a little, and so did Nan, but Phillis could not play the simplest piece without bungling and her uncertain little warblings, which were sweet but hardly true, were reserved for church.
Dulce sang very prettily, but she could only manage her own accompaniments or a sprightly valse. Nan, who did most of the execution of the family, was a very fair performer from a young lady’s point of view, and that is not saying much. She always had her piece ready if people wanted her to play. She sat down without nervousness and rose without haste. She had a choice little repertory of old songs and ballads, that she could produce without hesitation from memory,—“My mother bids me bind my hair,” or “Bid your faithful Ariel fly,” and such-like old songs, in which there is more melody than in a hundred new ones, and which she sang in a simple, artless fashion that pleased the elder people greatly. Dulce could do more than this, but her voice had never been properly tutored, and she sang her bird-music in bird-fashion, rather wildly and shrilly, with small44respect to rule and art, nevertheless making a pleasing noise, a young foreigner once told her.
When Nan had exhausted her little stock, Mr. Mayne peremptorily invited them to a round game; and the rest of the evening was spent in trying to master the mysteries of a new game, over the involved rules of which Mr. Mayne as usual, wrangled fiercely with everybody, while Dick shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his cards with such evident ill-humor that Nan hurried her sisters away half an hour before the usual time, in terror of an outbreak.
It was an utterly disappointing evening; and, to make matters worse, Mr. Mayne actually lit his cigar and strolled down the garden-paths, keeping quite close to Nan, and showing such obvious intention of accompanying them to the very gate of the cottage that there could be no thought of any sweet lingering in the dusk.
“I will be even with him,” growled Dick, who was in a state of suppressed irritation under this unexpected surveillance; and in the darkest part of the road he twitched Nan’s sleeve to attract her attention, and whispered, in so low a voice that his father could not hear him, “This is not good-bye. I will be round at the cottage to-morrow morning;” and Nan nodded hurriedly, and then turned her head to answer Mr. Mayne’s last question.
If Dick had put all his feelings in his hand-shake, it could not have spoken to Nan more eloquently of the young man’s wrath and chagrin and concealed tenderness. Nan shot him one of her swift straightforward looks in answer.
“Nevermind,” it seemed to say; “we shall have to-morrow;” and then she bade them cheerfully good-night.
Dorothy met her in the hall, and put down her chamber-candlestick.
“Has the mother gone to bed yet, Dorothy?” questioned the young mistress, speaking still with that enforced cheerfulness.
“No, Miss Nan; she is still in there,” jerking her head in the direction of the drawing-room. “Mr. Trinder called, and was with her a long time. I thought she seemed a bit poorly when I took in the lamp.”
“Mamsie is never fit for anything when that old ogre has been,” broke in Dulce, impatiently. “He always comes and tells her some nightmare tale or other to prevent her sleeping. Now we shall not have the new gowns we set our hearts on, Nan.”
“Oh, never mind the gowns,” returned Nan, rather wearily.
What did it matter if they had to wear their old ones when Dick would not be there to see them? And Dorothy, who was contemplating her favorite nursling with the privileged tenderness of an old servant, chimed in with the utmost cheerfulness:
“It does not matter what she wears; does it, Miss Nan? She45looks just as nice in an old gown as a new one; that is what I say of all my young ladies; dress does not matter a bit to them.”
“How long are you all going to stand chattering with Dorothy?” interrupted Phillis, in her clear decided voice. “Mother will wonder what conspiracy we are hatching, and why we leave her so long alone.” And then Dorothy took up her candlestick, grumbling a little, as she often did, over Miss Phillis’s masterful ways, and the girls went laughingly into their mother’s presence.
Though it was summer-time, Mrs. Challoner’s easy-chair was drawn up in front of the rug, and she sat wrapped in her white shawl, with her eyes fixed on the pretty painted fire-screen that hid the blackness of the coals. She did not turn her head or move as her daughters entered; indeed, so motionless was her attitude that Dulce thought she was asleep, and went on tiptoe round her chair to steal a kiss. But Nan, who had caught sight of her mother’s face, put her quickly aside.
“Don’t, Dulce; mother is not well. What is the matter, mammie, darling?” kneeling down and bringing her bright face on a level with her mother’s. She would have taken her into her vigorous young arms, but Mrs. Challoner almost pushed her away.
“Hush, children! Do be quiet, Nan; I cannot talk to you. I cannot answer questions to-night.” And then she shivered, and drew her shawl closer round her, and put away Nan’s caressing hands, and looked at them all with a face that seemed to have grown pinched and old all at once, and eyes full of misery.
“Mammie, you must speak to us,” returned Nan, not a whit daunted by this rebuff, but horribly frightened all the time. “Of course, Dorothy told us that Mr. Trinder has been here, and of course we know that it is some trouble about money.” Then, at the mention of Mr. Trinder’s name, Mrs. Challoner shivered again.
Nan waited a moment for an answer: but, as none came, she went on in coaxing voice:
“Don’t be afraid to tell us, mother darling; we can all bear a little trouble, I hope. We have had such happy lives, and we cannot go on being happy always,” continued the girl, with the painful conviction coming suddenly into her mind that the brightness of these days was over. “Money is very nice, and one cannot do without it, I suppose; but as long as we are together and love each other––”
Then Mrs. Challoner fixed her heavy eyes on her daughter and took up the unfinished sentence:
“Ah, if we could only be together!—if I were not to be separated from my children! it is that—that is crushing me!” and then she pressed her dry lips together, and folded her hands with a gesture of despair; “but I know that it must be, for46Mr. Trinder has told me everything. It is no use shutting our eyes and struggling on any longer; for we are ruined—ruined!” her voice sinking into indistinctness.
Nan grew a little pale. If they were ruined, how would it be with her and Dick! And then she thought of Mr. Mayne, and her heart felt faint within her. Nan, who had Dick added to her perplexities, was hardly equal to the emergency; but it was Phillis who took the domestic helm as it fell from her sister’s hand.
“If we be ruined, mother,” she said, briskly, “it is not half so bad as having you ill. Nan, why don’t you rub her hands! she is shivering with cold, or with the bad news, or something. I mean to set Dorothy at defiance, and to light a nice little fire, in spite of the clean muslin curtains. When one is ill or unhappy, there is nothing so soothing as a fire,” continued Phillis as she removed the screen and kindled the dry wood, not heeding Mrs. Challoner’s feeble remonstrances.
“Don’t, Phillis: we shall not be able to afford fires now;” and then she became a little hysterical. But Phillis persisted, and the red glow was soon coaxed into a cheerful blaze.
“That looks more comfortable. I feel chilly myself; these summer nights are sometimes deceptive. I wonder what Dorothy will say to us; I mean to ask her to make us all some tea. No, mamma, you are not to interfere; it will do you good, and we don’t mean to have you ill if we can help it.” And then she looked meaningly at Nan, and withdrew.
There was no boiling water, of course, and the kitchen fire was raked out; and Dorothy was sitting in solitary state, looking very grim.
“It is time for folks to be in their beds, Miss Phillis,” she said, very crossly. “I don’t hold with tea myself so late: it excites people, and keeps them awake.”
“Mother is not just the thing, and a cup of tea will do her good. Don’t let us keep you up, Dorothy,” replied Phillis, blandly. “I have lighted the drawing-room-fire, and I can boil the kettle in there. If mother has got a chill, I would not answer for the consequences.”
Dorothy grew huffy at the mention of the fire, and would not aid or abet her young lady’s “fad,” as she called it.
“If you don’t want me, I think I will go to bed, Miss Phillis. Susan went off a long time ago.” And, as Phillis cheerfully acquiesced in this arrangement, Dorothy decamped with a frown on her brow, and left Phillis mistress of the situation.
“There, now, I have got rid of the cross old thing,” she observed, in a tone of relief, as she filled the kettle and arranged the little tea-tray.
She carried them both into the room, poising the tray skilfully in her hand. Nan looked up in a relieved way as she entered. Mrs. Challoner was stretching out her chilled hands to the blaze. Her face had lost its pinched unnatural expression; it was as47though the presence of her girls fenced her in securely, and her misfortune grew more shadowy and faded into the background. She drank the tea when it was given to her, and even begged Nan to follow her example. Nan took a little to please her, though she hardly believed its solace would be great; but Phillis and Dulce drank theirs in a business-like way, as though they needed support and were not ashamed to own it. It was Nan who put down her cup first, and leaned her cheek against her mother’s hand.
“Now, mother dear, we want to hear all about it. Does Mr. Trinder say we are really so dreadfully poor?”
“We have been getting poorer for along time,” returned her mother, mournfully; “but if we had only a little left us I would not complain. You see, your father would persist in these investments in spite of all Mr. Trinder could say, and now his words have come true.” But this vague statement did not satisfy Nan; and patiently, and with difficulty, she drew from her mother all that the lawyer had told her.
Mr. Challoner had been called to the bar early in life, but his career had hardly been a successful one. He had held few briefs, and, though he worked hard, and had good capabilities, he had never achieved fortune; and as he lived up to his income, and was rather fond of the good things of this life, he got through most of his wife’s money, and, contrary to the advice of older and wiser heads, invested the remainder in the business of a connection who only wanted capital to make his fortune and Mr. Challoner’s too.
It was a grievous error; and yet, if Mr. Challoner had lived, those few thousands would hardly have been so sorely missed. He was young in his profession, and if he had been spared, success would have come to him as to other men; but he was cut off unexpectedly in the prime of life, and Mrs. Challoner gave up her large house at Kensington, and settled at Glen Cottage with her three daughters, understanding that life was changed for her, and that they should have to be content with small means and few wants.
Hitherto they had had sufficient; but of late there had been dark whispers concerning that invested money; things were not quite square and above-board; the integrity of the firm was doubted. Mr. Trinder, almost with tears in his eyes, begged Mrs. Challoner to be prudent and spend less. The crash which he had foreseen, and had vainly tried to avert, had come to-night. Gardiner & Fowler were bankrupt, and their greatest creditor, Mrs. Challoner, was ruined.
“We cannot get our money. Mr. Trinder says we never shall. They have been paying their dividends correctly, keeping it up as a sort of blind, he says: but all the capital is eaten away. George Gardiner, too, your father’s cousin, the man he trusted above every one,—he to defraud the widow and the fatherless, to take our money—my children’s only portion—and48to leave us beggared.” And Mrs. Challoner, made tragical by this great blow, clasped her hands and looked at her girls with two large tears rolling down her face.
“Mother, are you sure? is it quite as bad as that?” asked Nan; and then she kissed away the tears, and said something rather brokenly about having faith, and trying not to lose courage; then her voice failed her, and they all sat quiet together.
CHAPTER VII.PHILLIS’S CATECHISM.
A veil of silence fell over the little party. After the first few moments of dismay, conjecture, and exclamation, there did not seem to be much that any one could say. Each girl was busy with her own thoughts and private interpretation of a most sorrowful enigma. What were they to do? How were they to live without separation, and without taking a solitary plunge into an unknown and most terrifying world?
Nan’s frame of mind was slightly monotonous. What would Dick say, and how would this affect certain vague hopes she had lately cherished? Then she thought of Mr. Mayne, and shivered, and a sense of coldness and remote fear stole over her.
One could hardly blame her for this sweet dual selfishness, that was not selfishness. She was thinking less of herself than of a certain vigorous young life that was becoming strongly entwined with hers. It was all very well to say that Dick was Dick; but what could the most obstinate will of even that most obstinate young man avail against such a miserable combination of adverse influences,—“when the stars in their courses fought against Sisera”? And at this juncture of her thoughts she could feel Phillis’s hand folding softly over hers with a most sisterly pressure of full understanding and sympathy. Phillis had no Dick to stand sentinel over her private thoughts; she was free to be alert and vigilant for others. Nevertheless, her forehead was puckered up with hard thinking, and her silence was so very expressive that Dulce sat and looked at her with grave unsmiling eyes, the innocent child-look in them growing very pathetic at the speechlessness that had overtaken them. As for Mrs. Challoner, she still moaned feebly from time to time, as she stretched her numb hands towards the comforting warmth. They were fine delicate hands, with the polished look of old ivory, and there were diamond rings on them that twinkled and shone as she moved them in her restlessness.
“They shall all go; I will keep nothing,” she said, regarding49them plaintively; for they were heirlooms, and highly valued as relics of a wealthy past. “It is not this sort of thing that I mind. I would live on a crust thankfully, if I could only keep my children with me.” And she looked round at the blooming faces of her girls with eyes brimming over with maternal fondness.
Poor Dulce’s lips quivered, and she made a horrified gesture.
“Oh, mamsie, don’t talk so. I never could bear crusts, unless they were well buttered. I like everything to be nice, and to have plenty of it,—plenty of sunshine, and fun, and holiday-making, and friends; and—and now you are talking as though we must starve, and never have anything to wear, and go nowhere and be miserable forever?” And here Dulce broke into actual sobs; for was she not the petted darling? and had she not had a life so gilded by sunshine that she had never seen the dark edge of a single cloud? So that even Nan forgot Dick for a moment, and looked at her young sister pityingly; but Phillis interposed with bracing severity:
“Don’t talk such nonsense, Dulce. Of course we must eat to live, and of course we must have clothes to wear. Aren’t Nan and I thinking ourselves into headaches by trying to contrive how even the crusts you so despise are to be bought?” which was hardly true as far as Nan was concerned, for she blushed guiltily over this telling point in Phillis’s eloquence. “It only upsets mother to talk like this.” And then she touched the coals skilfully, till they spluttered and blazed into fury. “There is the Friary, you know,” she continued, looking calmly round on them, as though she felt herself full of resources. “If Dulce chooses to make herself miserable about the crusts, we have, at least, a roof to shelter us.”
“I forgot the Friary,” murmured Nan, looking at her sister with admiration; and, though Mrs. Challoner said nothing, she started a little as though she had forgotten it too. But Dulce was not to be comforted.
“That horrid, dismal, pokey old cottage!” she returned, with a shrill rendering of each adjective. “You would have us go and live in that damp, musty, fusty place?”
Phillis gave a succession of quick little nods.
“I don’t think it particularly dismal, or Nan either,” she returned, in her brisk way. Phillis always answered for Nan, and was never contradicted. “It is not dear Glen Cottage, of course, but we could not begin munching our crusts here,” she continued, with a certain grim humor. Things were apparently at their worst; but at least she,—Phillis,—the clever one, as she had heard herself called, would do her best to keep the heads of the little family above water. “It is a nice little place enough if we were only humble enough to see it; and it is not damp, and it is our own,” running up the advantages as well as she could.
“The Friary!” commented her mother, in some surprise: “to think of that queer old cottage coming into your head!50And it so seldom lets. And people say it is dear at forty pounds a year; and it is so dull that they do not care to stay.”
“Never mind all that, mammy,” returned Phillis, with a grave business-like face. “A cottage, rent-free, that will hold us, is not to be despised; and Hadleigh is a nice place, and the sea always suits you. There is the house, and the furniture, that belongs to us; and we have plenty of clothes for the present. How much did Mr. Trinder think we should have in hand?”
Then her mother told her, but still mournfully, that they might possibly have about a hundred pounds. “But there are my rings and that piece of point-lace that Lady Fitzroy admired so––” but Phillis waved away that proposition with an impatient frown.
“There is plenty of time for that when we have got through all the money. Not that a hundred pounds would last long, with moving, and paying off the servants, and all that sort of thing.”
Then Nan, who had worn all along an expression of admiring confidence in Phillis’s resources, originated an idea of her own.
“The mother might write to Uncle Francis, perhaps;” but at this proposition Mrs. Challoner sat upright and looked almost offended.
“My dear Nan, what a preposterous idea! Your uncle Francis!”
“Well, mammy, he is our uncle; and I am sure he would be sorry if his only brother’s children were to starve.”
“You are too young to know any better,” returned Mrs. Challoner, relapsing into alarmed feebleness; “you are not able to judge. But I never liked my brother-in-law,—never; he was not a good man. He was not a person whom one could trust,” continued the poor lady, trying to soften down certain facts to her innocent young daughters.
Sir Francis Challoner had been a black sheep,—a very black sheep indeed: one who had dyed himself certainly to a most sable hue; and though, for such prodigals, there may be a late repentance and much killing of fatted calves, still Mrs. Challoner was right in refusing to intrust herself and her children to the uncertain mercies of such a sinner.
Now, Nan knew nothing about the sin; but she did think that an uncle who was a baronet threw a certain reflected glory or brightness over them. Sir Francis might be that very suspicious character, a black sheep; he might be landless, with the exception of that ruined tenement in the North; nevertheless, Nan loved to know that he was of their kith and kin. It seemed to settle their claims to respectability, and held Mr. Mayne in some degree of awe; and he knew that his own progenitors had not the faintest trace of blue blood, and numbered more aldermen than baronets.
It would have surprised and grieved Nan, especially just now, if she had known that no such glory remained to her,—that Sir51Francis Challoner had long filled the cup of his iniquities, and lay in his wife’s tomb in some distant cemetery, leaving a certain red-headed Sir Harry to reign in his stead.
“I don’t think we had better talk anymore,” observed Phillis, somewhat brusquely: and then she exchanged meaning looks with Nan. The two girls were somewhat dismayed at their mother’s wan looks; her feebleness and uncertainty of speech, the very vagueness of her lamentations, filled them with sad forebodings for the future. How were they to leave her, when they commenced that little fight with the world? She had leaned on them so long that her helplessness had become a matter of habit.
Nan understood her sister’s warning glance, and she made no further allusion to Sir Francis; she only rose with assumed briskness, and took her mother in charge.
“Now I am going to help you to bed, mammy darling,” she said, cheerfully. “Phillis is quite right: we will not talk any more to-night; we shall want all our strength for to-morrow. We will just say our prayers, and try and go to sleep, and hope that things may turn out better than we expect.” And, as Mrs. Challoner was too utterly spent to resist this wise counsel, Nan achieved her pious mission with some success. She sat down by the bedside and leaned her head against her mother’s pillow, and soon had the satisfaction of hearing the even breathing that proved that the sleeper had forgotten her troubles for a little while.
“Poor dear mother! how exhausted she must have been!” thought Nan, as she closed the door softly. She was far too anxious and wide awake herself to dream of retiring to rest. She was somewhat surprised to find her sisters’ room dark and empty as she passed. They must be still downstairs, talking over things in the firelight: they were as little inclined for sleep as she was. Phillis’s carefully decocted tea must have stimulated them to wakefulness.
The room was still bright with firelight. Dulce was curled up in her mother’s chair, and had evidently been indulging in what she called “a good cry.” Phillis, sombre and thoughtful, was pacing the room, with her hands clasped behind her head,—a favorite attitude of hers when she was in any perplexity. She stopped short as Nan regarded her with some astonishment from the threshold.
“Oh, come in, Nan: it will be such a relief to talk to a sensible person. Dulce is so silly, she does nothing but cry.”
“I can’t help it,” returned Dulce, with another sob; “everything is so horrible, and Phillis will say such dreadful things.”
“Poor little soul!” said Nan, in a sympathetic voice, sitting down on the arm of the chair and stroking Dulce’s hair; “it is very hard for her and for us all,” with a pent-up sigh.
“Of course it is hard,” retorted Phillis, confronting them52rather impatiently from the hearth-rug; “it is bitterly hard. But it is not worse for Dulce than for the rest of us. Crying will not mend matters, and it is a sheer waste of tears. As I tell her, what we have to do now is to make the best of things, and see what is to be done under the circumstances.”
“Yes, indeed,” repeated Nan, meekly; but she put her arm round Dulce, and drew her head against her shoulder. The action comforted Dulce, and her tears soon ceased to flow.
“I am thinking about mother,” went on Phillis, pondering her words slowly as she spoke; “she does look so ill and weak. I do not see how we are to leave her.”
Mrs. Challoner’s moral helplessness and dread of responsibility were so sacred in her daughters’ eyes that they rarely alluded to them except in this vague fashion. For years they had shielded and petted her, and given way to her little fads and fancies, until she had developed into a sort of gentle hypochondriac.
“Mother cannot bear this; we always keep these little worries from her,” Nan had been accustomed to say; and the others had followed her example.
The unspoken thought lay heavy upon them now. How were they to prevent the rough winds of adversity from blowing too roughly upon their cherished charge? The roof, and perhaps the crust, might be theirs; but how were they to contrive that she should not miss her little comforts? They would gladly work; but how, and after what fashion?
Phillis was the first to plunge into the unwelcome topic, for Nan felt almost as helpless and bewildered as Dulce.
“We must go into the thing thoroughly,” began Phillis, drawing a chair opposite to her sisters. She was very pale, but her eyes had a certain brightness of determination. She looked too young for that quiet care-worn look that had come so suddenly to her; but one felt she could be equal to any emergency. “We are down-hearted, of course; but we have plenty of time for all that sort of thing. The question is, how are we to live?”
“Just so,” observed Nan, rather dubiously; and Dulce gave a little gasp.
“There is the Friary standing empty; and there is the furniture; and there will be about fifty pounds, perhaps less, when every thing is settled. And we have clothes enough to last some time, and––” here Dulce put her hands together pleadingly, but Phillis looked at her severely, and went on: “Forty or fifty pounds will soon be spent, and then we shall be absolutely penniless; we have no one to help us. Mother will not hear of writing to Uncle Francis; we must work ourselves or starve.”
“Couldn’t we let lodgings?” hazarded Dulce, with quavering voice; but Phillis smiled grimly.
“Let lodgings at the Friary! why, it is only big enough to hold us. We might get a larger house in Hadleigh; but no, it53would be ruinous to fail, and perhaps we should not make it answer. I cannot fancy mother living in the basement story; she would make herself wretched over it. We are too young. I don’t think that would answer, Nan: do you?”
Nan replied faintly that she did not think it would. The mere proposition took her breath away. What would Mr. Mayne say to that? Then she plucked up spirit and went into the question vigorously.
There were too many lodging-houses in Hadleigh now; it would be a hazardous speculation, and one likely to fail; they had not sufficient furniture for such a purpose, and they dare not use up their little capital too quickly. They were too young, too, to carry out such a thing, Nan did not add “and too pretty,” though she colored and hesitated here. Their mother could not help them; she was not strong enough for housework or cooking. She thought that plan must be given up.
“We might be daily governesses, and live at home,” suggested Dulce, who found a sort of relief in throwing out feelers in every direction. Nan brightened up visibly at this, but Phillis’s moody brow did not relax for a moment.
“That would be nice,” acquiesced Nan, “and then mother would not find the day so long if we came home in the evening; she could busy herself about the house, and we could leave her little things to do, and she would not find the hours so heavy. I like that idea of yours, Dulce; and we are all so fond of children.”
“The idea is as nice as possible,” replied Phillis, with an ominous stress on the noun, “if we could only make it practicable.”
“Phil is going to find fault,” pouted Dulce, who knew every inflection of Phillis’s voice.
“Oh, dear, no, nothing of the kind!” she retorted, briskly. “Nan is quite right: we all dote on children. I should dearly like to be a governess myself; it would be more play than work; but I am only wondering who would engage us.”
“Who?—oh, anybody!” returned Nan, feeling puzzled by the smothered satire of Phillis’s speech. “Of course we are not certificated, and I for one could only teach young children; but––” here Phillis interrupted her:
“Don’t think me horrid if I ask you and Dulce some questions, but do—do answer me just as though I were going through the Catechism: we are only girls, but we must sift the whole thing thoroughly. Are we fit for governesses? what can you and I and Dulce teach?”
“Oh, anything!” returned Nan, still more vaguely.
“My dear Nanny, anything won’t do. Come, I am really in earnest; I mean to catechise you both thoroughly.”
“Very well,” returned Nan, in a resigned voice; but Dulce looked a little frightened. As for Phillis, she sat erect, with her finger pointed at them in a severely ominous fashion.54
“How about history, Nan? I thought you could never remember dates; you used to jumble facts in the most marvellous manner. I remember your insisting that Anne of Cleves was Louis XII.’s second wife; and you shocked Miss Martin dreadfully by declaring that one of Marlborough’s victories was fought at Cressy.”
“I never could remember historical facts,” returned Nan, humbly. “Dulce always did better than I; and so did you, Phillis. When I teach the children I can have the book before me.” But Phillis only shook her head at this, and went on:
“Dulce was a shade better, but I don’t believe she could tell me the names of the English sovereigns in proper sequence;” but Dulce disdained to answer. “You were better at arithmetic, Nan. Dulce never got through her rule of three; but you were not very advanced even at that. You write a pretty hand, and you used to talk French very fluently.”
“Oh, I have forgotten my French!” exclaimed Nan, in a panic-stricken voice. “Dulce, don’t you remember me quite settled to talk in French over our work three times a week, and we have always forgotten it; and we were reading Madame de Sevigne’s ‘Letters’ together, and I found the book the other day quite covered with dust.”
“I hate French,” retuned Dulce, rebelliously. “I began German with Phillis, and like it much better.”
“True, but we are only beginners,” returned the remorseless Phillis: “it was very nice, of course, and the Taugenichts’ was delicious; but think how many words in every sentence you had to hunt out in the dictionary. I am glad you feel so competent, Dulce; but I could not teach German myself, or French either. I don’t remember enough of the grammar; and I do not believe Nan does either, though she used to chatter so to Miss Martin.”
“Did I not say she would pick our idea to pieces?” returned Dulce, with tears in her eyes.
“My dear little sister don’t look so dreadfully pathetic. I am quite as disheartened and disappointed as you are. Nan says she has forgotten her French, and she will have to teach history with an open book before her; we none of us draw—no, Dulce please let me finish our scanty stock of accomplishments. I only know my notes,—for no one cares to hear me lumber through my pieces,—and I sing at church. You have the sweetest voice Dulce, but it is not trained; and I cannot compliment you on your playing. Nan sings and plays very nicely, and it is a pleasure to listen to her; but I am afraid she knows little about the theory of music, harmony and thorough-bass: you never did anything in that way, did you, Nan?”
Nan shook her head sadly. She was too discomfited for speech. Phillis looked at them both thoughtfully; her trouble was very real, but she could not help a triumphant inflection in her voice.55
“Dear Nan, please do not look so unhappy. Dulce, you shall not begin to cry again. Don’t you remember what mother was reading to us the other day, about the country being flooded with incompetent governesses,—half-educated girls turned loose on the world to earn their living? I can remember one sentence of that writer, word for word: ‘The standard of education is so high at the present day, and the number of certificated reliable teachers so much increased, that we can afford to discourage the crude efforts to teach, or un-teach, our children.’ And then he goes on to ask, ‘What has become of womanly conscientiousness, when such ignorance presses forward to assume such sacred responsibilities? Better the competent nurse than the incompetent governess.’ ‘Why do not these girls,’ he asks, ‘who, through their own fault or the fault of circumstances, are not sufficiently advanced to educate others—why do they not rather discharge the exquisitely feminine duties of the nursery? What an advantage to parents to have their little ones brought into the earliest contact with refined speech and cultivated manners,—their infant ears not inoculated by barbarous English!’” but here Phillis was arrested in her torrent of reflected wisdom by an impatient exclamation from Dulce.
“Oh, Nan, do ask her to be quiet! She never stops when she once begins. How can we listen to such rubbish, when we are so wretched? You may talk for hours, Phil, but I never, never will be a nurse!” And Dulce hid her face on Nan’s shoulder in such undisguised distress that her sisters had much ado to comfort her.
CHAPTER VIII.“WE SHOULD HAVE TO CARRY PARCELS.”
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 is56no 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. “I59think 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,”61she 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,” stammered62Nan; “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 proposof 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.