CHAPTER XXVIIIThe New Home.It was not until March, when Paddy had been in London over two months, that her mother and Eileen joined her. By that time she and the doctor had the furniture all in place and everything ready. A letter Paddy received the last day rather surprised her.“Do not meet us,” Eileen wrote, “nor wait at uncle’s for us. We particularly want to receive you in our own little home, and shall be eagerly watching for you about six o’clock.”Paddy thought it rather queer, but fell in with their wishes, and went off as usual to her classes. When she reached home in the evening Eileen was watching at the little front bow-window and flew to the door, her mother following closely, and none of the three knew quite whether to laugh or cry, they were all so glad and so sad together.“It’s just good to have a home again,” said Paddy, and bustled into the little sitting-room while her mother and Eileen exchanged glances. No sooner had she entered than she gave a cry of delight, for there, on each side of the fireplace, in their usual manner, sat the two aunties. The next moment they were both pleading for mercy in stifled tones beneath her vigorous hugs.“You dear,dear, dear aunties!” she cried; “to come all this long way at such a cold time of year. How I just love you both! I shall have to go on hugging you all the evening. However did you make up your minds to come?”“Well, you see, dear,” said Aunt Jane, “we could never have rested content without being quite sure you were all as comfortable as circumstances would permit, and so we felt the only thing to do was to come and see for ourselves.”“Yes,” nodded little Miss Mary, “we have come to see for ourselves.”The tea-table caught Paddy’s eye then, and she had to go into raptures over again.“Omeath eggs!” she cried. “Omeath ham!—cream! honey!—marmalade!—parsonage tea cakes!—parsonage scones—parsonage apple pie! Oh, goodness! how ill I shall be to-morrow! Was ever such a delicious-looking meal! I shall be practising dispensing upon the whole household, I expect, in a few hours.” And then, just to relieve her feelings, she started hugging everybody over again, until the two poor little ladies’ caps were at such an impossible angle they were obliged to retire to put them straight.“If only Jack were here,” Paddy said longingly, as they sat down, “what a lovely occasion for a scramble it would be!”“We have had a letter from him,” said Miss Jane, in a glad voice. “You shall see it afterward. He has reached Buenos Aires safely and had a good voyage, and he gives a wonderful description of the flowers and loveliness of Montevideo. It is nice to think that the boy is seeing something of the world at last. We ought to have sent him abroad before. I am afraid we were very selfish.” And little Miss Mary chimed in with mournful agreement.“Oh, no, you weren’t,” asserted Paddy; “nothing of the kind. Jack was lazy, and I encouraged him, and it just serves us both right to have to work hard now.”They asked her how she was getting on with her studying, and she looked gravely mischievous and said, “Pretty middling.”“You see,” she continued, “medicines are very confusing. They’re nearly all water, with a little colouring, but the various colourings have long Latin names to give them an air of importance, and it’s very hard to remember which high-sounding name belongs to which colouring. I have to study a very learned book called the ‘Materia Medica,’ but I haven’t yet succeeded in making any sense of a single page and I have my doubts whether there is really any sense in the whole book. But I like going to the hospital,” she ran on. “The matron is nice and the nurses are jolly. The dispenser and I generally contrive to get tea in the dispensary in the afternoon, and whichever of them can manage it slips down and has a cup with us. Both the tea and bread and butter usually get flavoured with the nastiest drug lying about, but that is a mere detail.”“What is Aunt Edith like, and how do you get on with Basil?” they asked.“Aunt Edith is like Mrs Masterman, and looks as if she was left over from a hundred years ago. She always speaks of Basil as ‘dearBasil’ or ‘poor dearBasil,’ according as he has been over-working or over-spending, and she spends a great deal of time in church, and talks about the ‘poor dear clergyman’ and the ‘poor dear choir boys,’ and discusses a different guild every evening in the week. She has only two real ideas in the world—one is the church and the other is Basil; and they agree in one thing—they never stop asking her for money. Uncle is a sort of fixture, like the blinds or the kitchen range, but he doesn’t seem to mind so long as he can follow his profession in peace, and he is just the dearest and kindest man in the world.”“And how do you get on with Basil?” they asked again.“Well, I don’t get on at all,” and Paddy looked amused. “I don’t think we’re on speaking terms just now—we are not as a rule. Before I had been there a month I told him he was not fitted for anything but a dressed-up mummy in a tailor’s window, and a few other similar things, and for a time our relations were very strained. We indulge in home truths concerning each other so often that I find it difficult to remember when we are on speaking terms and when not. He is rather fond of making sarcastic reflections upon Irish dressmakers and countrified style, and of course I have to hit back from the shoulder for the sake of the old country.”They could not help laughing, but her mother quickly grew grave and looked a little anxious.“I hope you don’t carry it too far, my dear,” she said. “I would not like to hurt your uncle’s and aunt’s feelings after all their kindness.”“Don’t you be afraid, mother,” cheerfully. “Uncle enjoys it, and aunt doesn’t understand half we say. She generally misses the point, you see, and thinks I am paying Basil compliments. Uncle, on the other hand, sees that it is only his welfare I have at heart.”She then went on to tell them about Ted Masterman—all except the incident of the coin—and the doctor at the classes, and her friends the ’bus drivers, chattering away like her old self again for very happiness at having them all round her. They sat in a semicircle over the fire until late into the night, and finally went to bed too tired after their long day, and too pleased at being together again, to have time to be miserable.Only when they were alone Paddy asked Eileen if she had heard from Lawrence, and with a faint blush Eileen acknowledged that she had. After a moment’s hesitation she produced the letter and gave it to Paddy to read.“It is a nice one,” was all Paddy said, as she folded it up afterward. “He could always be nice if it happened to please him.”Eileen made no reply. It was not a subject she could discuss, and she knew, moreover, that it was one upon which she and Paddy could never agree. For she had not forgotten Lawrence at all, and still, deep down in her heart, lived a hope that she could not extinguish. When we desire a thing with a great and terrible longing, it is very hard to honestly and squarely face the fact that it can never be ours. If there is any possible chance of fitting in a “perhaps,” that “perhaps” is pretty sure to be there. Eileen had managed to find more than one chance, and the really nice letter that Lawrence had written her directly he heard of the General’s death, and while the news still had a softening effect upon him, had only more firmly entrenched them.It was unfortunate, but it was the way of the world. The fine-strung nervous system that holds the deepest capacity for suffering is oftenest jarred upon and hurt by rough, careless hands and cold, selfish hearts. And always, too, are these the sufferers who hope and remember the longest in spite of all.Paddy felt vaguely that Eileen still loved and still hoped and her loyal heart was furious with Lawrence. But she was obliged to content herself with scathingly picking his letter to pieces in her own mind, for she recognised that no good could some of saying these kind of things to Eileen, and she would just have to stand aside and let matters take their own course.“I suppose he might come back,” she reasoned, with a worried feeling; “but it is not very likely, and a very questionable benefit if he did.”Yet, when, as the days went by, she saw the quiet sadness still paramount in Eileen’s eyes, and knew that all her happiness was forced, she felt a great longing to have it settled one way or another for all their sakes. The shadow hung heavily upon the mother also, and Paddy easily saw that it was not London and her loss only that kept her so worn and ill-looking.It was just when things were in this state, by a most strange coincidence, that Paddy heard news of Lawrence partly through her cousin Basil. Now that they did not five under the same roof, they managed to keep better friends, though Paddy never missed the smallest opportunity of a taunt at Basil’s effeminacy, and Basil still persisted in veiled hints at her general lack of elegance. However, as both were already profiting by the other’s plain speaking, it was very harmless. Paddy, on her part, had become very friendly with another girl student, who, in the matter of appearance, was the exact opposite of herself, and she was beginning to benefit by the friendship. Ethel Matheson was a true Londoner of the modern type, which represents a girl quite as fond of outdoor games as a country girl, but at the same time having the unmistakable cut of London about her clothes. Well-cut tailor-mades, simple, smart hats, hair well dressed, gloves and boots always neat, made Ethel a pleasing picture in any weather and at any time, and before long Paddy began to envy her. After a time she got so far as to mention it, and from that day the change commenced. Ethel took her in hand altogether, and guaranteed that in a few months, if Paddy would give her mind to it seriously, she would turn her out as neat and smart as herself, and only spend a fraction more money. Consequently, when the spring was well advanced, Paddy invested in her first smart “tailor-made,” a very pretty hat, and began to take pains with her hair. The very first time she was out in them, feeling not a little conscious, but on the whole well pleased with herself, she ran into Basil going home on the top of a ’bus.“By Jove!” said Basil. “If it isn’t Paddy!—all in new clothes!”“Well, there’s no occasion to be rude,” retorted Paddy. “Any one would think you were not accustomed to new clothes instead of dreaming and thinking of little else.”Two men, who, unknown to her, were accompanying Basil, began to laugh, and Paddy blushed a fiery red when her cousin, with considerable enjoyment, proceeded to introduce them to her.
It was not until March, when Paddy had been in London over two months, that her mother and Eileen joined her. By that time she and the doctor had the furniture all in place and everything ready. A letter Paddy received the last day rather surprised her.
“Do not meet us,” Eileen wrote, “nor wait at uncle’s for us. We particularly want to receive you in our own little home, and shall be eagerly watching for you about six o’clock.”
Paddy thought it rather queer, but fell in with their wishes, and went off as usual to her classes. When she reached home in the evening Eileen was watching at the little front bow-window and flew to the door, her mother following closely, and none of the three knew quite whether to laugh or cry, they were all so glad and so sad together.
“It’s just good to have a home again,” said Paddy, and bustled into the little sitting-room while her mother and Eileen exchanged glances. No sooner had she entered than she gave a cry of delight, for there, on each side of the fireplace, in their usual manner, sat the two aunties. The next moment they were both pleading for mercy in stifled tones beneath her vigorous hugs.
“You dear,dear, dear aunties!” she cried; “to come all this long way at such a cold time of year. How I just love you both! I shall have to go on hugging you all the evening. However did you make up your minds to come?”
“Well, you see, dear,” said Aunt Jane, “we could never have rested content without being quite sure you were all as comfortable as circumstances would permit, and so we felt the only thing to do was to come and see for ourselves.”
“Yes,” nodded little Miss Mary, “we have come to see for ourselves.”
The tea-table caught Paddy’s eye then, and she had to go into raptures over again.
“Omeath eggs!” she cried. “Omeath ham!—cream! honey!—marmalade!—parsonage tea cakes!—parsonage scones—parsonage apple pie! Oh, goodness! how ill I shall be to-morrow! Was ever such a delicious-looking meal! I shall be practising dispensing upon the whole household, I expect, in a few hours.” And then, just to relieve her feelings, she started hugging everybody over again, until the two poor little ladies’ caps were at such an impossible angle they were obliged to retire to put them straight.
“If only Jack were here,” Paddy said longingly, as they sat down, “what a lovely occasion for a scramble it would be!”
“We have had a letter from him,” said Miss Jane, in a glad voice. “You shall see it afterward. He has reached Buenos Aires safely and had a good voyage, and he gives a wonderful description of the flowers and loveliness of Montevideo. It is nice to think that the boy is seeing something of the world at last. We ought to have sent him abroad before. I am afraid we were very selfish.” And little Miss Mary chimed in with mournful agreement.
“Oh, no, you weren’t,” asserted Paddy; “nothing of the kind. Jack was lazy, and I encouraged him, and it just serves us both right to have to work hard now.”
They asked her how she was getting on with her studying, and she looked gravely mischievous and said, “Pretty middling.”
“You see,” she continued, “medicines are very confusing. They’re nearly all water, with a little colouring, but the various colourings have long Latin names to give them an air of importance, and it’s very hard to remember which high-sounding name belongs to which colouring. I have to study a very learned book called the ‘Materia Medica,’ but I haven’t yet succeeded in making any sense of a single page and I have my doubts whether there is really any sense in the whole book. But I like going to the hospital,” she ran on. “The matron is nice and the nurses are jolly. The dispenser and I generally contrive to get tea in the dispensary in the afternoon, and whichever of them can manage it slips down and has a cup with us. Both the tea and bread and butter usually get flavoured with the nastiest drug lying about, but that is a mere detail.”
“What is Aunt Edith like, and how do you get on with Basil?” they asked.
“Aunt Edith is like Mrs Masterman, and looks as if she was left over from a hundred years ago. She always speaks of Basil as ‘dearBasil’ or ‘poor dearBasil,’ according as he has been over-working or over-spending, and she spends a great deal of time in church, and talks about the ‘poor dear clergyman’ and the ‘poor dear choir boys,’ and discusses a different guild every evening in the week. She has only two real ideas in the world—one is the church and the other is Basil; and they agree in one thing—they never stop asking her for money. Uncle is a sort of fixture, like the blinds or the kitchen range, but he doesn’t seem to mind so long as he can follow his profession in peace, and he is just the dearest and kindest man in the world.”
“And how do you get on with Basil?” they asked again.
“Well, I don’t get on at all,” and Paddy looked amused. “I don’t think we’re on speaking terms just now—we are not as a rule. Before I had been there a month I told him he was not fitted for anything but a dressed-up mummy in a tailor’s window, and a few other similar things, and for a time our relations were very strained. We indulge in home truths concerning each other so often that I find it difficult to remember when we are on speaking terms and when not. He is rather fond of making sarcastic reflections upon Irish dressmakers and countrified style, and of course I have to hit back from the shoulder for the sake of the old country.”
They could not help laughing, but her mother quickly grew grave and looked a little anxious.
“I hope you don’t carry it too far, my dear,” she said. “I would not like to hurt your uncle’s and aunt’s feelings after all their kindness.”
“Don’t you be afraid, mother,” cheerfully. “Uncle enjoys it, and aunt doesn’t understand half we say. She generally misses the point, you see, and thinks I am paying Basil compliments. Uncle, on the other hand, sees that it is only his welfare I have at heart.”
She then went on to tell them about Ted Masterman—all except the incident of the coin—and the doctor at the classes, and her friends the ’bus drivers, chattering away like her old self again for very happiness at having them all round her. They sat in a semicircle over the fire until late into the night, and finally went to bed too tired after their long day, and too pleased at being together again, to have time to be miserable.
Only when they were alone Paddy asked Eileen if she had heard from Lawrence, and with a faint blush Eileen acknowledged that she had. After a moment’s hesitation she produced the letter and gave it to Paddy to read.
“It is a nice one,” was all Paddy said, as she folded it up afterward. “He could always be nice if it happened to please him.”
Eileen made no reply. It was not a subject she could discuss, and she knew, moreover, that it was one upon which she and Paddy could never agree. For she had not forgotten Lawrence at all, and still, deep down in her heart, lived a hope that she could not extinguish. When we desire a thing with a great and terrible longing, it is very hard to honestly and squarely face the fact that it can never be ours. If there is any possible chance of fitting in a “perhaps,” that “perhaps” is pretty sure to be there. Eileen had managed to find more than one chance, and the really nice letter that Lawrence had written her directly he heard of the General’s death, and while the news still had a softening effect upon him, had only more firmly entrenched them.
It was unfortunate, but it was the way of the world. The fine-strung nervous system that holds the deepest capacity for suffering is oftenest jarred upon and hurt by rough, careless hands and cold, selfish hearts. And always, too, are these the sufferers who hope and remember the longest in spite of all.
Paddy felt vaguely that Eileen still loved and still hoped and her loyal heart was furious with Lawrence. But she was obliged to content herself with scathingly picking his letter to pieces in her own mind, for she recognised that no good could some of saying these kind of things to Eileen, and she would just have to stand aside and let matters take their own course.
“I suppose he might come back,” she reasoned, with a worried feeling; “but it is not very likely, and a very questionable benefit if he did.”
Yet, when, as the days went by, she saw the quiet sadness still paramount in Eileen’s eyes, and knew that all her happiness was forced, she felt a great longing to have it settled one way or another for all their sakes. The shadow hung heavily upon the mother also, and Paddy easily saw that it was not London and her loss only that kept her so worn and ill-looking.
It was just when things were in this state, by a most strange coincidence, that Paddy heard news of Lawrence partly through her cousin Basil. Now that they did not five under the same roof, they managed to keep better friends, though Paddy never missed the smallest opportunity of a taunt at Basil’s effeminacy, and Basil still persisted in veiled hints at her general lack of elegance. However, as both were already profiting by the other’s plain speaking, it was very harmless. Paddy, on her part, had become very friendly with another girl student, who, in the matter of appearance, was the exact opposite of herself, and she was beginning to benefit by the friendship. Ethel Matheson was a true Londoner of the modern type, which represents a girl quite as fond of outdoor games as a country girl, but at the same time having the unmistakable cut of London about her clothes. Well-cut tailor-mades, simple, smart hats, hair well dressed, gloves and boots always neat, made Ethel a pleasing picture in any weather and at any time, and before long Paddy began to envy her. After a time she got so far as to mention it, and from that day the change commenced. Ethel took her in hand altogether, and guaranteed that in a few months, if Paddy would give her mind to it seriously, she would turn her out as neat and smart as herself, and only spend a fraction more money. Consequently, when the spring was well advanced, Paddy invested in her first smart “tailor-made,” a very pretty hat, and began to take pains with her hair. The very first time she was out in them, feeling not a little conscious, but on the whole well pleased with herself, she ran into Basil going home on the top of a ’bus.
“By Jove!” said Basil. “If it isn’t Paddy!—all in new clothes!”
“Well, there’s no occasion to be rude,” retorted Paddy. “Any one would think you were not accustomed to new clothes instead of dreaming and thinking of little else.”
Two men, who, unknown to her, were accompanying Basil, began to laugh, and Paddy blushed a fiery red when her cousin, with considerable enjoyment, proceeded to introduce them to her.