[73]CHAPTER VIIA WAY TO WEALTH“Do all that you know and try all that you don’t,Not a chance must be wasted to-day.”Thevery day after that winter Sunday’s talk Phyl and Dolly were most mysteriously busy, and nothing Weenie could urge would make them allow her to join them.“We are not playing at all,” they said severely; “run away at once, Weenie, we are doing something very important indeed.”“You’re playing fairies, Iknowyou are,” contended Weenie. “Iwillplay with you.” She rushed after Dolly and hung on to her waist.Dolly shook her off.“Take no notice of her,” she whispered to Phyl; “she can’t guess what we’re doing, and she’ll soon get tired and go away.”They continued their work.A disinterested observer would have imagined they were pretending they were blind, for they were moving[74]slowly up and down the room close to the wall with their finger-tips feeling carefully all over the paper. Sometimes one of them would rap on it with her knuckles, and the other put her ear close to the place and listen carefully.Weenie watched them enviously all the time.“I know,” she said, “you’re playing you’re painting the house!”When they had treated all four walls in this strange fashion they began on the stuffed chairs—they were in the drawing-room—and kneeling down in front of the two large ones and the sofa, they pushed their hands down the part where the backs joined the seats. Strange things too they brought up—buttons, several hairpins, a tiny pair of scissors lost for months, quantities of fluff and dust, and a silver sixpence. Weenie was quite excited at the various finds, but the elder girls took little notice and continued their work. They pulled a little table up close to the wall, climbed on it and peered behind every picture; they lifted two or three rugs and looked underneath; Phyl even poked her arms up the chimney, felt about and withdrew them black with soot.As Dolly had foretold, Weenie’s patience was not equal to her curiosity, and after a time she wandered away. But when the same strange proceedings began again in the afternoon, and all that time neither of her sisters would join in a single game, she became quite frantic to discover the mystery.[75]At four o’clock in the afternoon their mother was lying down in a bedroom with a headache.Phyl and Dolly had treated every room in the house but that large front bedroom in the same way as the drawing-room, and now they stood on the threshold of that with pale lips but determined eyes.“I don’t think we can do this one,” Dolly faltered, cold thrills running through her at the remembrance that it was through this door they had gone, slowly, and on tip-toe, two months ago, to kiss that cold, quiet face on the pillow, and lay white roses and snowdrops on the still breast.Phyl’s eyes were drenched with tears at the same memory, and her sensitive lips all a-quiver. But she turned the handle with a firm hand and they went in.Through the windows a cold spring wind was blowing, it was the only thing of life in the quiet room. The bed was covered as of old with the blue silk eiderdown quilt; the book-table, that had always been disorderly with books and magazines and papers, was quite bare; the great cushioned chair stretched out its empty arms as if bemoaning its vacancy.Dolly sobbed aloud and ran to a big bookcase that had been brought here during the last long illness. Phyl, her tears falling like rain, followed. They began at one end, and taking down the books,[76]one after the other, opened the covers, looked in them carefully, and then, holding them by their backs, shook them gently. They put the finished ones on the floor in stacks. Soon there were piles of them everywhere, big dusty books long unopened, hard-worked volumes with their covers dropping off, gaily bound new ones, dull thick ones with scientific names; the stacks were three feet high in places, the atmosphere was full of dust, but the sorrowful-faced, earnest-eyed little girls worked on steadily with never a moment’s rest.Then there came Weenie in search of them—Weenie, round-eyed, open-mouthed at the terrible sacrilege in this quiet, strange room where her father had lain dead.“Oh!” she gasped.“Go away,” said Dolly.“G—go away at once,” said Phyl; “we’re not playing,Weenie.”Weenie could see they were not; at all events it must be a very strange game if they were, for their eyes still streamed.She ran away, right down the passage to their own room where the mother lay asleep.“Oh, mama!” she cried, climbing up on the bed and patting her mother’s cheeks to wake her.Mrs. Conway’s eyes sprang open, and Weenie tugged vigorously at her sleeve.“Come on quickerly,” she said; “oh, ever so[77]quickerly; naughty Phyl and Dolly’s in dadda’s room, makin’ it awful drefful.”The mother rose up and followed her, though her blinding headache would hardly allow her to keep her eyelids open.When she saw the havoc in the quiet place, she leaned against the doorpost quite overcome.[Illustration]“We’re not playing, Weenie.”“How could you?” she cried, her voice thrilling with pain—“how could you?—howcouldyou?”She gathered up her strength and tottered across the room; she began on one of the heaps, replacing feverishly book after book.“Oh, go away,” she said; “go away all of you.”[78]“Mama!” cried Dolly, catching at her hands, “oh, what is it, mama?”“This room!” moaned the mother. “Oh, howcouldyou come here?”She began to work at another heap—her trembling hands seized the top book—Martin Chuzzlewitit was. A paper-knife was stuck into the pages enshrining Augustus Moddle’s proposal to Charity Pecksniff.Not three months ago she had brought a smile to her husband’s face by reading it to him one sleepless night. The memory was too much for her, she dropped the volume and sank into a chair, her heart breaking afresh.Phyl and Dolly rushed to her, knelt by her side, clasped her, kissed her a thousand times, called her by tender names. When she saw their passionate grief she calmed herself with a strong effort and sat up again.“There,” she said, with woful eyes, “there, my dear ones: hush, Phyl; hush, hush, Dolly—I might have known my darlings did not mean to be unkind,—they forgot where they were playing, didn’t they?”Phyl’s very breath seemed to go.“Playing?” she echoed in a strange voice.“Oh!” cried Dolly, her sobs breaking forth afresh; “did you weally think we were playing, mama?”“Why,” faltered the mother, glancing round,[79]“what were you doing then? Tidying the book-shelves? Tell me, darlings.”Phyl lifted her poor little golden head. “We were looking for the lost will,” she whispered.“The what?” said the mother, mystified.“The will that is hidden,” whispered Phyl.“But there isn’t such a thing,” the mother said; “it was safely put away in father’s desk; the day uncle and Mr. Bright and all those people came it was read.”“But the other will,” said Dolly, “the one that was made before, leaving lots of money to you.”“My little sweethearts,” said the mother wearily, “what is it you mean? I can’t understand you in the least.”Phyl made an effort to be intelligible. “We thought,” she said, “if we found another will that we needn’t be poor at all. People often hide them in strange places, behind wainscotching and secret panels and things, or in the loose covers of books. We’ve looked in all the other rooms, but we thought it was most likely to be here, so—so we looked.”The mother, with all the calls there had been on her time, had no idea of the miscellaneous reading of her daughters; she would have been amazed to know of the scores of stories they had read in Harriet’sBow Bells, andYoung Ladies’ Magazines, and Penny Weeklies. Of course, therefore, they were acquainted with all the delightful ways lost wills were discovered[80]in strange hiding-places, and immense properties thereby restored to the heroes and heroines of the tales.“Very likely there’s a secret back to father’s desk,” Dolly said; “won’t you please look, mama? wedidn’t like to touch that.”Mrs. Conway’s head was too bad for her to fully enjoy the absurdity of the serious-eyed children at the time, though she often smiled over it in later years.“You can put the books all back,” she said; “if fifty more wills were discovered there would be no more money, dear ones, for the simple reason there was nothing to leave.”They went back to the nursery, sadness in their eyes at this summary wrecking of all the romantic castles they had built.
“Do all that you know and try all that you don’t,Not a chance must be wasted to-day.”
“Do all that you know and try all that you don’t,Not a chance must be wasted to-day.”
“Do all that you know and try all that you don’t,Not a chance must be wasted to-day.”
“Do all that you know and try all that you don’t,
Not a chance must be wasted to-day.”
Thevery day after that winter Sunday’s talk Phyl and Dolly were most mysteriously busy, and nothing Weenie could urge would make them allow her to join them.
“We are not playing at all,” they said severely; “run away at once, Weenie, we are doing something very important indeed.”
“You’re playing fairies, Iknowyou are,” contended Weenie. “Iwillplay with you.” She rushed after Dolly and hung on to her waist.
Dolly shook her off.
“Take no notice of her,” she whispered to Phyl; “she can’t guess what we’re doing, and she’ll soon get tired and go away.”
They continued their work.
A disinterested observer would have imagined they were pretending they were blind, for they were moving[74]slowly up and down the room close to the wall with their finger-tips feeling carefully all over the paper. Sometimes one of them would rap on it with her knuckles, and the other put her ear close to the place and listen carefully.
Weenie watched them enviously all the time.
“I know,” she said, “you’re playing you’re painting the house!”
When they had treated all four walls in this strange fashion they began on the stuffed chairs—they were in the drawing-room—and kneeling down in front of the two large ones and the sofa, they pushed their hands down the part where the backs joined the seats. Strange things too they brought up—buttons, several hairpins, a tiny pair of scissors lost for months, quantities of fluff and dust, and a silver sixpence. Weenie was quite excited at the various finds, but the elder girls took little notice and continued their work. They pulled a little table up close to the wall, climbed on it and peered behind every picture; they lifted two or three rugs and looked underneath; Phyl even poked her arms up the chimney, felt about and withdrew them black with soot.
As Dolly had foretold, Weenie’s patience was not equal to her curiosity, and after a time she wandered away. But when the same strange proceedings began again in the afternoon, and all that time neither of her sisters would join in a single game, she became quite frantic to discover the mystery.
[75]At four o’clock in the afternoon their mother was lying down in a bedroom with a headache.
Phyl and Dolly had treated every room in the house but that large front bedroom in the same way as the drawing-room, and now they stood on the threshold of that with pale lips but determined eyes.
“I don’t think we can do this one,” Dolly faltered, cold thrills running through her at the remembrance that it was through this door they had gone, slowly, and on tip-toe, two months ago, to kiss that cold, quiet face on the pillow, and lay white roses and snowdrops on the still breast.
Phyl’s eyes were drenched with tears at the same memory, and her sensitive lips all a-quiver. But she turned the handle with a firm hand and they went in.
Through the windows a cold spring wind was blowing, it was the only thing of life in the quiet room. The bed was covered as of old with the blue silk eiderdown quilt; the book-table, that had always been disorderly with books and magazines and papers, was quite bare; the great cushioned chair stretched out its empty arms as if bemoaning its vacancy.
Dolly sobbed aloud and ran to a big bookcase that had been brought here during the last long illness. Phyl, her tears falling like rain, followed. They began at one end, and taking down the books,[76]one after the other, opened the covers, looked in them carefully, and then, holding them by their backs, shook them gently. They put the finished ones on the floor in stacks. Soon there were piles of them everywhere, big dusty books long unopened, hard-worked volumes with their covers dropping off, gaily bound new ones, dull thick ones with scientific names; the stacks were three feet high in places, the atmosphere was full of dust, but the sorrowful-faced, earnest-eyed little girls worked on steadily with never a moment’s rest.
Then there came Weenie in search of them—Weenie, round-eyed, open-mouthed at the terrible sacrilege in this quiet, strange room where her father had lain dead.
“Oh!” she gasped.
“Go away,” said Dolly.
“G—go away at once,” said Phyl; “we’re not playing,Weenie.”
Weenie could see they were not; at all events it must be a very strange game if they were, for their eyes still streamed.
She ran away, right down the passage to their own room where the mother lay asleep.
“Oh, mama!” she cried, climbing up on the bed and patting her mother’s cheeks to wake her.
Mrs. Conway’s eyes sprang open, and Weenie tugged vigorously at her sleeve.
“Come on quickerly,” she said; “oh, ever so[77]quickerly; naughty Phyl and Dolly’s in dadda’s room, makin’ it awful drefful.”
The mother rose up and followed her, though her blinding headache would hardly allow her to keep her eyelids open.
When she saw the havoc in the quiet place, she leaned against the doorpost quite overcome.
[Illustration]“We’re not playing, Weenie.”
“We’re not playing, Weenie.”
“How could you?” she cried, her voice thrilling with pain—“how could you?—howcouldyou?”
She gathered up her strength and tottered across the room; she began on one of the heaps, replacing feverishly book after book.
“Oh, go away,” she said; “go away all of you.”
[78]“Mama!” cried Dolly, catching at her hands, “oh, what is it, mama?”
“This room!” moaned the mother. “Oh, howcouldyou come here?”
She began to work at another heap—her trembling hands seized the top book—Martin Chuzzlewitit was. A paper-knife was stuck into the pages enshrining Augustus Moddle’s proposal to Charity Pecksniff.
Not three months ago she had brought a smile to her husband’s face by reading it to him one sleepless night. The memory was too much for her, she dropped the volume and sank into a chair, her heart breaking afresh.
Phyl and Dolly rushed to her, knelt by her side, clasped her, kissed her a thousand times, called her by tender names. When she saw their passionate grief she calmed herself with a strong effort and sat up again.
“There,” she said, with woful eyes, “there, my dear ones: hush, Phyl; hush, hush, Dolly—I might have known my darlings did not mean to be unkind,—they forgot where they were playing, didn’t they?”
Phyl’s very breath seemed to go.
“Playing?” she echoed in a strange voice.
“Oh!” cried Dolly, her sobs breaking forth afresh; “did you weally think we were playing, mama?”
“Why,” faltered the mother, glancing round,[79]“what were you doing then? Tidying the book-shelves? Tell me, darlings.”
Phyl lifted her poor little golden head. “We were looking for the lost will,” she whispered.
“The what?” said the mother, mystified.
“The will that is hidden,” whispered Phyl.
“But there isn’t such a thing,” the mother said; “it was safely put away in father’s desk; the day uncle and Mr. Bright and all those people came it was read.”
“But the other will,” said Dolly, “the one that was made before, leaving lots of money to you.”
“My little sweethearts,” said the mother wearily, “what is it you mean? I can’t understand you in the least.”
Phyl made an effort to be intelligible. “We thought,” she said, “if we found another will that we needn’t be poor at all. People often hide them in strange places, behind wainscotching and secret panels and things, or in the loose covers of books. We’ve looked in all the other rooms, but we thought it was most likely to be here, so—so we looked.”
The mother, with all the calls there had been on her time, had no idea of the miscellaneous reading of her daughters; she would have been amazed to know of the scores of stories they had read in Harriet’sBow Bells, andYoung Ladies’ Magazines, and Penny Weeklies. Of course, therefore, they were acquainted with all the delightful ways lost wills were discovered[80]in strange hiding-places, and immense properties thereby restored to the heroes and heroines of the tales.
“Very likely there’s a secret back to father’s desk,” Dolly said; “won’t you please look, mama? wedidn’t like to touch that.”
Mrs. Conway’s head was too bad for her to fully enjoy the absurdity of the serious-eyed children at the time, though she often smiled over it in later years.
“You can put the books all back,” she said; “if fifty more wills were discovered there would be no more money, dear ones, for the simple reason there was nothing to leave.”
They went back to the nursery, sadness in their eyes at this summary wrecking of all the romantic castles they had built.