Chapter Four.
The New Home.
Some days passed. Mr Fortescue was detained in the country longer than he had expected, and us it was impossible for their mother to decide things very definitely without him, especially as regarded the future home of the family, the children’s daily lives went on much as usual.
“You could almost fancy it was all a dream,” said Leila to her sister.
“You could, I daresay,” Christabel replied, “for you’re never doing anything but dreaming; but I don’t feel like that at all. It’s enough to see Nurse’s red eyes, and the servants stepping about as if there was straw all over the place, like when people are very ill, and Miss Earle’s never been so kind before. It really almost makes me try to please her.”
“I think it’s rather nice of them all,” Leila remarked. The “romantic” side of the position quite took her fancy, and she felt as if she really was some thing of a heroine. “I shan’t mind being poor, if people are so sorry for us—so-so respectful, you know, Chrissie.”
But Chrissie was made of different stuff.
“I don’t agree with you at all,” she said, tossing her proud little head, so that her thick reddish-brown hair fell over her face like a shaggy mane. “Sorry for us! No indeed, I don’t want people to be sorry for us. Almost the worst part of it is everybody having to know. I can’t understand Mummy thinking that a good thing. I don’t mind Miss Earle,” she went on, softening a little, “she’s different somehow. But I’m not going to pretend, any way not to you, Lell, you sleepy, dreaming thing, I’m not going to pretend that I don’t think it’s all perfectly horrid, for I do.”
“If we could go to live in the country,” said Leila; “a pretty quaint cottage, thatched perhaps, any way covered with roses—”
“Yes, especially in winter,” interrupted Chrissie. “What a donkey you are, Lell! Better say thistles.”
“We could have roses a good part of the year, and I know there are some creepers that are evergreens. Ivy, for instance. No, a cottage wouldn’t be so bad, however tiny it was,” Leila maintained.
“You’d have to be cook, then, and I’d have to be housemaid, for where would you put servants in your tiny cottage I’d like to know? It would be freezing in winter—no bathroom or hot water—and in summer all insecty. Horrible! However, we needn’t fight about it. We’re going to stay in London. Mums says we must, if Dads is ever to get any work to do—or in the suburbs close to. I think that would be almost worse. The sort of place with rows and rows of little houses all exactly like each other, you know, with horrid scraps of garden in front.”
“No,” said Leila, “I think any sort, of a garden would make it better. We could grow things.”
“I’d like to see you gardening,” said Chrissie. “I know what it would be. If there was any sort of a summer-house, or even a bench, you’d be settled there with a book, calling out, ‘Chrissie, Chrissie, do come and rake that border for me. I’m so tired.’”
“I might call,” retorted Leila coolly, “but most certainly the border wouldn’t get raked if I had no one to call to but you.”
“I’d rake it, Lelly,” said Jasper. They had not noticed that he was in the room, for he was busied in a corner, as quiet as a mouse, as was often the case.
“I believe you would,” said Leila. “We’re not a very good-natured family, but I think you’re about the best, poor old Jap.”
“Nonsense,” said Christabel. “He’s just a baby. Shall we toss up, Lell?” she went on recklessly. “Heads or tails? I’ve got two halfpennies—heads for a house with a garden six feet square, tails for a dirty little pig of a house in—oh, I don’t know where to say.”
“I know,” said Jasper; “that place where Nurse’s cousin lives what makes dresses. I’ve been there with Nurse. Mummy said I might go. It’s quite clean, and there’s a sort of gardeny place in the middle, where the children was playin’. They didn’t look—not very dirty,” for if Jasper was anything, he was exceedingly “accurate.”
“Really, Jasper,” began Leila. Then she turned to Christabel, “You don’t think it could be as bad as that, Chrissie?” and the alarm in her soft dark eyes was piteous. “Living in a slum, that would be.” Just then Nurse came into the room.
“What were you saying, Miss Leila, my dear?” she inquired. “Something about a ‘slum’?”
“It’s what Jasper was saying,” said Leila, and she went on to explain.
Nurse got rather red.
“It can’t be called a slum where my cousin lives,” she said. “She’s a respectable dressmaker in a small way, and suchlike don’t live in slums. Still it won’t be as poor a place as that where,” she hesitated, and then went on, “where the new house will be.”
“Jasper’s so vulgar,” said Chrissie, “the minute you speak of being poor, he thinks it means leaving off being ladies and gentlemen.”
“I doesn’t,” exclaimed the boy indignantly. “Nothin’d made Dads and Mums not be ladies and gentlemen—and us too,” but the last words somewhat less confidently.
Both the girls laughed.
“Thank you, Jap,” said Leila, “though I don’t wonder he doesn’t feel quite sure of you, Chrissie. You really needn’t talk of ‘vulgar,’ with your ‘heads and tails,’ like a street boy.”
A sharp retort was on Christabel’s lips, but Nurse hastened to interrupt it.
“What are you so busy about, my dear little boy?” she said, turning to Jasper, which made the others look at him also.
“I’se packin’,” was the reply, and then they saw that he was surrounded by his special treasures, in various stages of newness and oldness, completeness and brokenness. “Mums said I might divide them, and the old ones are to go to the ill children; and I’m goin’ to pack the others very caref’ly, for you see they’ll have to last me now till I’m big,” and he gave a little sigh, for in his unselfish, yet childish heart, there had been visions of what future Christmases might bring in the shape of a new stable and stud—“still splendider nor the one I got two birfdays ago,” as he thought to himself.
Leila drew near him.
“Shall I help you?” she said. “I’ve finished my book,” she went on, “and I’ve nothing to do,” as if half-ashamed of her unusual good-nature. “I say, Japs, you do keep some of your toys a long time. I don’t see many bad enough for the Children’s Hospital.”
Jasper’s serious blue eyes slowly reviewed his spread-out treasures, but for a minute or two he did not speak.
Then he said gravely—
“There’s isn’t many broken, but I’d like to give some of the others too. Mumsey won’t mind—and pr’aps, you know, I can’t send many more, for these’ll have to last me, and I’ll get fonder and fonder of them. So I think I’d better send a good lot now—don’t you think so too, Lelly?”
His hands strayed lovingly over his beloved horses and dogs, squirrels and rabbits, each one of which was known to him individually.
“It’s my aminals I care most for,” he said. “I want to divide them quick, Lelly, for fear I get greedy and want to keep them all.”
“You can’t do that, any way,” said Chrissie, who had joined the group. “You won’t have room in the new house. I daresay there’ll be no nursery at all. Look here, Japs, Nurse can give us one of the clothes-baskets, and we’ll put all for the hospital in it for Mums to look over, and then you can pack quite comf’ably for yourself,” and with the quickness and good sense she had plenty of when she chose to use them, she helped the little fellow in his rather painful task. And once the division was made, and the old favourites out of sight, Jasper grew more cheerful again, as he murmured to himself, “I daresay they’ll be quite happy with the ill children. They have such nice little white beds.”
How proud Chrissie felt of herself! It was just to be regretted that Nurse could not help saying—
“Dear me, what a pity you can’t always be so kind and helping, Miss Chrissie,” for immediately came the toss of the haughty little head and the pert reply—
“I shall do as I choose always, Nurse. You might know that, by this time, I should think.”
“Your father writes that he is coming home to-morrow,” said Mrs Fortescue, the next day. “I am so glad to be feeling better and stronger than when I first got back, for now house-hunting will start in good earnest. The agents have several chances of letting this, I hear, and we must not lose any.”
“How horrible it is,” exclaimed Christabel, and though Leila did not speak, her face grew very gloomy. Their mother glanced at them with disappointment.
“Dears,” she said, “I hoped you were going to be so brave and help me to meet Daddy cheerfully.”
“Really, Mummy,” said Chrissie, “I don’t see why you should scold us before we’ve done anything naughty.”
“Scold you,” repeated their mother. “I don’t think you have the least idea of what the word means, my poor little girl,” and she could not help smiling a little.
“Well,” persisted the child, “you can’t expect us to like going to live in some horrible poky place.”
Mrs Fortescue thought it best not to answer. She knew too well what Chrissie could be, once a “contrary” fit was on her.
“Is Aunt Margaret coming too?” asked Leila.
Her mother shook her head.
“Not yet,” she said. “Poor Aunt Margaret has to stay to see the last of things at Fareham. I don’t want her to come till we are at least a little settled. Children,” she went on, rousing herself to a new appeal, “my darlings, I know it is hard for you, and it is still harder for your father and me, because we feel it for all of you; but it is hardest of all for Aunt Margaret to have to leave the place where she has spent all her life, where she loves every tree and bush as if they were living things; never to have the joy of welcoming us all there, and arranging our rooms for us, and making us so happy. ‘The delight of her life,’ she called our visits the other day. It is awfully hard on her. Uncle Percy’s death would have been a sad blow at any time, but the way it came made it ten times sadder. And she is an old woman now, though a good deal younger than he was. Yet I cannot tell you how unselfish she is—how determined to see the bright side of things, how thankful for the blessings we still have.”
The children did not speak. Their mother’s words could not but impress them.
Then said Chrissie, still with a touch of defiance—“I know she’s awfully good, Mumsey, and we do love her, but you see I don’t pretend to be good and unselfish and all that. Pr’aps when I get to be old, it’ll come somehow.”
Mrs Fortescue smiled a little.
“I don’t want you to ‘pretend,’ Chrissie, most certainly not. I want you to be. And the longer you put off trying, the harder you will find it. Goodness does not come all of itself like one’s hair getting grey. And though it may sometimes seem as if God left us to ourselves, it is not really so. Sorrows and trials may have to be our teachers if we allow happiness and prosperity to make us selfish and thoughtless.”
“Well,” said Leila gloomily, “perhaps they’re beginning now—it doesn’t look as if there was much to be cheerful about;” and, as often happened, Christabel turned upon her sister, though Leila was only expressing her own discontent in different words.
“I call that selfish, if you like,” she said. “Mumsey has enough to be worried about without your grumbling.”
“Hush, Chrissie,” said their mother, rather wearily. “I think you will both try to help your father and me, but I cannot say any more. I have a great many letters to write, and Miss Earle has kindly offered to stay later to do some for me. I do want to get them done before to-morrow when Daddy comes. So run off now, dears.”
All the children loved their father, though perhaps in a different way from their sweet mother. But he was a very busy man, much engaged in public matters, and till now he had seen but little of them, comparatively speaking, especially of his daughters. But for this, possibly their faults, so greatly owing to over-indulgence and over-gentleness, would not have been allowed to have taken such root. And just at first, on his return home, Mr Fortescue was pleased with them all, Roland, of course, in particular, for the boy showed great good feeling and consideration for his parents.
“And Leila and Chrissie, too,” said their father, when speaking about them to their mother, “they seem rather subdued, naturally enough, but they will be plucky and sensible and do all they can to help us, I hope.”
“Yes, I hope so,” she agreed, and Mr Fortescue was too busy about other things to notice the want of confidence and cheerfulness in her tone.
Then followed a week or two of extreme “busyness” for the children’s parents. Strange men were constantly coming to the house, with note-books, in which they made long lists of the furniture, and pictures, and ornaments—what were to be sold and what to be kept. House agents, too, and several times, parties of ladies and gentlemen to be shown over all the rooms—some of whom were already friends or acquaintances of the Fortescues, some complete strangers.
It was all very queer, but there was a certain kind of excitement about it, though once or twice Chrissie grew red and angry at hearing some murmured expressions of pity, such as—“Poor people, isn’t it sad for them?” or, “I do feel so for them all.”
“Impertinent things,” muttered the child, though fortunately in a whisper.
Then at last came the day on which their mother with a little touch of relief in her voice, told them that the new house was chosen and decided upon.
“We shall move into it in about a fortnight,” she said, “and it will not be so very difficult to manage. A great deal of the furniture has been bought by the people who have taken this house, and as they are not coming in here for a month or more, we can send off all that we shall require at Spenser Terrace next week, and have it fairly in order before we go ourselves.”
“Spenser Terrace,” repeated Leila, “I never heard of it. Where is it, Mummy?”
“Some way out, of course,” was the reply. “Still, not in the suburbs, which I am glad of. It will be easier in many ways, especially for Daddy and Roland coming and going. Daddy has got a post, my dears—nothing very much, but we are very thankful. We shall just be able to get on with great care, for Aunt Margaret insists on joining the little income left to her, to ours. And I hope and think we can manage Roley’s school,” she added as she hurried off.
“Of course,” said Christabel, when she and Leila were alone, “of course Roland is the one they care about. You and I are to be educated anyhow or nohow, I suppose, so long as he goes to Winton. Why, we shan’t even be able to be governesses!”
“What’s the good of your saying those horrid things to me,” replied Leila, almost in tears. “You’d better say them to Dads.”
To this there was no response. Even Chrissie’s audacity would have failed her at such an idea.
Notwithstanding their mother’s continued cheerfulness, and Nurse’s assurances that they were not going to live in so poor a place as Jasper’s “quite nice and clean” row of houses, the imaginations of both little girls had been running riot, almost without their knowing it, on the subject of their new home, and on the whole they were rather pleasantly surprised when the day came for the move to it.
It was, of course, at a considerable distance from the first-rate part of the West End where they had hitherto lived, and as the rumbling four-wheeler made its slow way along, it seemed to Chrissie, with the boxes outside and packages inside, as if all that had happened in the last few weeks must be a dream, and that they were on their way to King’s Cross Station, to travel down for one of their happy visits to Fareham!
“Doesn’t it seem just like that?” she said to the others. “You know we’ve often gone with Nurse and Jap in a four-wheeler, when Daddy and Mummy were in the carriage.”
Leila gave a little shiver.
“Don’t, Chrissie,” she exclaimed. “It only makes things worse thinking of it all like that.”
Jasper slipped his hand into hers.
“Pr’aps we’ll be very happy in the new house,” he said. “I’d not mind if only Nursie was going to stay.”
For, alas! Nurse was only to be a few days longer with them—“just to see you a little bit settled,” she had pleaded with Mrs Fortescue. Her remaining permanently would have been impossible in the changed circumstances of the family, and as she was looking forward to being married in two or three years, it was of importance for her to save what she could of her wages. But she had done all in her power to help; it was a cousin of hers who was one of the two servants which were all Mrs Fortescue could afford to have, and she had privately begged this girl to be very patient with the young ladies if they were sometimes troublesome and thoughtless.
“It will all be such a change for them, you see,” she explained, and Harriet, who was good-natured and willing, delighted to come to London, and not troubled with nerves, promised to do her very best.
Hers was the face which met them as the cab at last drew up at one of a row of houses in a quiet, rather dull, but by no means “slummy” side-street.
“It isn’t so very bad,” said Chrissie, “and that new servant looks rather nice. I suppose she’ll be instead of Fanny.”
“Of course not,” said Leila, “there’ll be no Fanny and no Nurse and no anybody except a cook and housemaid. You certainly will have to put on your own shoes and stockings now!”
And Chrissie’s face, which had brightened a little, clouded over again. But it was not in human nature, above all not in child, even spoilt-child nature, not to try to smile and look pleased, when at the open door of the little drawing-room the sisters caught sight of their mother, and heard Jasper’s joyful cry, “Oh Mumsey, what a sweet little room.”
“Come in, darlings. I’ve been longing so for you,” she exclaimed, “and tea is all ready in the dining-room. Nurse, you must have it with us. Daddy, darlings, won’t be back till seven, but Roley is here.” It was a pretty little room. Mrs Fortescue had wisely kept only such furniture as was really suitable, especially as to size, so there was no look of crowding or “not-at-home-ness” about it. And as the whole house had been freshly painted and papered, there was nothing dark or dingy.
“If I could fancy it was a little house we had got for a few weeks at the seaside somewhere, I’d think it was quite nice,” thought Christabel. “I wonder how many rooms there are. We really need one each if we’re not to be always knocking against each other!”
Chapter Five.
A Stormy Morning.
Small as the dining-room was in comparison with the spacious one “at home,” as, more than once, the children caught themselves saying, still, they all settled round the table quite comfortably, and on the whole they were a more cheerful party than might have been expected. Chrissie, even, was graciously pleased to express her approval of the hot buttered scones which their kind mother had specially ordered for the occasion.
“They are quite as good as Mrs Williams’s,” she said when she had eaten, I am afraid to say how many of them. “May we have them often, Mummy? The new cook will have lots of time, as there’ll never be dinner-parties, or luncheon-parties, or—or anything like that, of course,” and she gave a deep sigh.
“The new cook, as you call her,” said Mrs Fortescue, “is no other than Mrs Williams’ niece, Susan, who till now has been the kitchen-maid. So it is not surprising that her scones are good. But as for having lots of time, you must remember that, now we have only two servants, she will have to do many things besides cooking. We mustn’t expect scones except as a treat.”
“Oh, of course,” murmured Chrissie, “we mustn’t expect anything nice. I see how it’s going to be.” But either she spoke too low for her words to be heard, or her mother thought it wiser to take no notice of them, and she went on talking about other things.
“Yes,” she said, in reply to a question of little Jasper’s, “there is a tiny garden behind, as you see, and, besides the back-door, there is an entrance to it out of Daddy’s study, through a French window. I daresay you will be able to grow some pretty hardy things in it.”
Jasper’s face flushed with pleasure.
“Oh, I do hope Aunt Margaret will remember to bring my new garden-tools what are at Fareham,” he exclaimed.
“I will ask her about them when I write to-morrow,” said his mother.
“Daddy’s study,” repeated Leila, “then there is a third sitting-room. I was just wondering what we’d do for a schoolroom.”
“You will have to use this room a good deal,” said Mrs Fortescue, “but in warmer weather, when you don’t need fires, you can prepare your lessons in your own room upstairs, as you will see. Now, if we’ve all finished, I am anxious to take you over the house, Roley has seen it all,” with a glance at him.
“Yes,” Roland answered, “and I think it’s quite wonderful what you’ve made of it, Mums, really wonderful. The rooms couldn’t be nicer.”
And as the little girls followed their mother upstairs, in their heart they could not but agree with him. A nice airy room, not large of course, but as large as any in the house, had been furnished for them, with their own little beds and toilet-table, and as many of their favourite belongings as it was possible to find room for, including two bookcases with glass doors, on the wall, and a small writing-table in front of the fireplace.
“It’s really very nice, Mumsey dear,” said Leila, delighted at the sight of her low straw chair in one corner; “I don’t believe I’d ever be too cold up here—not with a shawl on. It seems so nice and peaceful, if only—” she stopped and hesitated and glanced at her sister.
“You’d better finish,” said Chrissie sharply. “I know it’s something horrid about me.”
“No, it isn’t horrid,” Leila replied. “It’s only if you could be tidy.”
”‘Tidy,’ indeed,” repeated Chrissie scornfully.
“I’m quite as tidy as you, and tidier. Am I not, Nurse?” she went on, turning to her.
Nurse, in spite of her extreme anxiety to make the best of things and to keep all smooth, could scarcely help smiling.
“I’m afraid, my dear, that there isn’t much to be said as to tidiness,” she replied. “Perhaps it’s been partly my fault, ma’am,” she went on to Mrs Fortescue, “I’ve not left off feeling as if the young ladies were still the tiny little fairies I remember them when I first came. But now they’re so much bigger, and with things being so different, I’m sure Miss Leila and Miss Chrissie will do their very best to help in every way.”
“She’s not at all sure of anything of the kind,” thought Christabel, “and that’s why she says she is. I wish people wouldn’t be humbugs.”
Poor Nurse herself certainly did her very best during the two or three days she remained at Spenser Terrace. And there was, of course, still a great deal to do. For, notwithstanding the careful choice of furniture and such things for the little house, when the trunks and boxes came to be unpacked, it was by no means easy to find room for all that had been brought. But for Nurse, I much doubt if the children’s possessions would ever have been properly arranged! She managed to interest the girls—Chrissie especially, who was naturally quick and active—in her plans about cupboards and shelves and chests of drawers, and before she left she glanced round with satisfaction at the result.
“If only they will try now to be thoughtful and methodical,” she said to herself.
These first few days had passed not unpleasantly. With Nurse still there, the great difference to themselves personally had not, of course, been very much felt by the little girls, and there is always, I think, to all children—and to many grown-up people too—a curious charm in novelty. It was a nice change to breakfast downstairs with their father and mother, to have tea also in the dining-room, and no lessons. Then, fortunately, just then the weather was fine and bright and dry. They went out with Mrs Fortescue or Nurse two or three times to explore their new neighbourhood, and found it rather amusing. They even thought it would be great fun to have expeditions in omnibuses, though at present there was still too much to do indoors for anything of that kind.
Mr Fortescue was pleased with them, and said so to their mother.
“I think we have worried ourselves unnecessarily about Leila and Chrissie,” he said, “they seem to be settling down all right.”
“I hope so,” she replied. “But of course the real test will come when Nurse goes and Aunt Margaret comes. In some ways she must be my first thought, when we remember all she is doing to help us.”
“But she is a miracle of unselfishness. I am only afraid of her spoiling the children,” he said.
“She is too wise to do so,” said Mrs Fortescue. “I earnestly hope they may learn to follow her example,” but still she sighed, and Mr Fortescue thought that anxiety and overwork were probably making her rather downhearted, though he did not say so.
Nurse left on a Saturday, and Aunt Margaret was expected to arrive on the Monday. I don’t think this was a very good arrangement, and if I had been consulted I should have said so. Sundays are, and should be, rather different from other days, but to make them thus in a happy way takes some method and planning, as the heads of all households, large and small, know well. And in a family accustomed to twelve or fifteen servants, suddenly obliged to manage with only two, of course the difficulties were much increased.
“We must begin rightly at once, or we shall get into wrong ways,” thought Mrs Fortescue. “The servants must both go to church; one in the morning, and one in the evening, turn about. And we must have a cold meal once a day. Let me see—if Harriet goes to-morrow morning, we can have a hot luncheon and cold supper this first Sunday, and tea all together in the afternoon,” and she lay awake half the night thinking about it, which was not very wise, I must allow, as it made her sleep later than usual the next morning.
But she dressed quickly, and on her way downstairs to breakfast, glanced in at the little girls’ room, expecting to find them ready.
Alas! What was the spectacle that met her view?
Leila in bed reading—a candle still alight on the little table by her side, though the room was, of course, in full daylight. Christabel, half dressed, standing in front of the looking-glass, tearing wildly at her hair, and scolding furiously at her sister, who was calmly paying no attention to her. And the room! Its state may be imagined when I say that it looked as if every article of clothing the children possessed had been dragged out of wardrobe and drawers and flung pell-mell on beds, chairs, and floor. It was really difficult to believe that such confusion was possible in the same room that Nurse had left in perfect order the very afternoon before.
Mrs Fortescue’s heart sank. For a moment or two she stood there speechless—unobserved by Leila, absorbed in her book, or by Chrissie, in the noise and excitement of her temper. And when at last their mother spoke, it was only by raising her voice that she gained their attention.
“Leila,” she said, and her tone was more severe than either of the girls had ever before heard it, “Leila, get up at once. I am completely ashamed of you;” and Leila started up. She attempted no excuse.
“Christabel,” Mrs Fortescue went on, “be silent.”
“I can’t be, I won’t be,” stormed Chrissie. “It is all Leila’s fault. I got up very soon after that stupid Harriet brought the hot water, and she said she’d come back to help me to tie my hair, and I would have been ready, but Leila wouldn’t get up, and at last I threw a pillow at her, and it overturned the chair with her clothes on, and then she said I’d got out her Sunday frock instead of mine, and I hadn’t, and then she went on so, that I did get out hers and threw it on the floor, and her jacket and hat too, just to show her, and—”
“Christabel be silent,” repeated her mother, and this time the child, though with flaming cheeks and really shaking with anger, did obey her.
“And this,” said Mrs Fortescue, “this is the first Sunday in our new little home; the first day you have really had an opportunity of—I won’t even say helping me—but of showing yourselves sensible and trustworthy. It might and should have been a peaceful and happy morning. Stand still, Christabel,” as the little girl was flouncing about, “stand still while I tie your hair. It is very good-natured of Harriet to offer to do it, but you and Leila are perfectly able to help each other.”
“She’s not good-natural,” muttered Christabel: “when I told her to come back in ten minutes, she said she couldn’t. She’s very impertinent.”
“Be silent,” was her mother’s only reply. Then, turning to Leila, she went on, “Give me that book,” and Leila did so. Mrs Fortescue glanced at it. It was one of Mrs Ewing’s. “I cannot let you have it again to-day,” she said, “nor to-morrow, unless you are dressed and downstairs by half-past eight, and properly dressed, remember,” and so saying she left the room, and with a very heavy heart slowly made her way downstairs.
It was a dull, grey day, not yet raining, but with small promise of lightening or brightening, and Mrs Fortescue, accustomed to a well-warmed and luxurious house, felt it very chilly. And when she opened the little dining-room door, she felt even chillier, and no wonder, for the window was pushed up as far as it would go, evidently to get rid of smoke, some remains of which was still hanging about. There was only one person in the room, and that person not only a very small one, but so crouched down in a little bundle on the hearth-rug, that for a moment or so Mrs Fortescue really did not see him. Then the bundle stirred, and a small face, rather red and with smutty marks on its cheeks, looked up.
“Jasper,” his mother exclaimed, “what are you doing? Not playing with the fire, surely!” in anxiety, for indeed if Jasper were going to turn mischievous or disobedient, where would she be?
“Playin’, Mummy,” he repeated, with a touch of very excusable indignation, “in course not. It wouldn’t flame up nicely, and I’ve been down a long time. Roley buttoned my waistcoat before he got up, but he’s just comin’. So Susan gave me the bellowses,” and he held them up in triumph, “and it’s burnin’ beautifly now,” and so it was. “I think we might shut the window,” he added, with a glance of consideration.
“My darling,” said his mother, “I hope you haven’t caught cold,” and having closed the window, she turned to this brownie in a sailor suit with some anxiety.
“Oh no, I’m quite hot,” he replied. “Shall I take the bellowses back to Susan?” he went on. “Daddy wouldn’t like to see them here, and you don’t mind us goin’ to the kitchen if it’s a real message, now we mustn’t ring the bells often, do you, Mumsey?”
“No, my boy, take the bellows back by all means,” said his mother, and on he went, murmuring us he did so, “Susan will think I’m handy and clever.”
The funny little scene had cheered Mrs Fortescue again, and she was looking quite calm and happy when Roland and his father made their appearance.
“Breakfast is all ready. The things have just come in—everything is nice and hot,” she said brightly.
“That’s all right,” Mr Fortescue replied. “I’m quite hungry. Change of air—eh?” but he smiled as he said it. Then with a glance round the table—“Where are the others?” he went on, “Leila and Chris—There is a gong, isn’t there?”
“Yes, I brought the small one, but I haven’t taught Harriet to strike it yet. Perhaps they—”
But almost before she had got as far as this in her sentence Jasper was at the door.
“I’ll run up and tell them. I won’t be a minute,” he said. Nor was he. He was down again almost at once, but Mrs Fortescue’s quick eyes saw that his small face looked troubled. And several minutes passed before the door opened to admit first Christabel, and a moment or two later, Leila.
“Hurry up, young ladies,” said their father. “Why, Mummy has been down for ever so long, and the rest of us not far behind. I’m afraid you overslept yourselves.”
“I didn’t,” said Chrissie; “you’d better ask Leila, Daddy, why we’re late.”
Her father, who had spoken quite cheerfully, glanced at her, for something in her tone struck him as slightly sullen. And the expression of her face did not reassure him. Still he spoke kindly and brightly.
“Well, here you are, better late than never,” he went on. “Will you have bacon and eggs—or bacon alone—or egg alone, Leila?” but before she replied he caught sight of her strange appearance. “What’s the matter with you, child?” he exclaimed. “Have you forgotten to do your hair?” and certainly there was every reason for the inquiry, for Leila’s dark locks were in an extraordinary state of confusion. She had evidently tried to tie them up herself, and had only succeeded in perching a very dilapidated bow of ribbon in a wild way over one ear, where it was dangling about as if on the point of falling. And her face hardly looked as if she had washed it at all.
She grew scarlet when she felt all eyes upon her.
“I can’t tie up my hair myself,” she said. “I have brushed it and combed it, and it would have been all right if Chrissie had helped me a little, instead of standing mocking at me and throwing all my things about and—” here her voice broke, she was evidently on the point of bursting into tears.
“Christabel, will you have bacon and eggs?” asked her father.
“Yes, please, Daddy,” she replied calmly, though she darted a look at Leila that was not good to see.
“And you, Leila?” he continued, turning again to the older girl.
“Nothing, thank you,” she murmured. “I’ll have some bread and butter.”
“As you please,” Mr Fortescue said. Then he helped Chrissie, and when her plate was before her, he looked at both children.
“This is our first Sunday morning in the new little home which your mother and I are doing our best to make a happy one for you. If you choose, wilfully and foolishly, to quarrel, do so. I shall not pity either of you. But one thing I will not allow, and that is, that your tempers are to upset the comfort of the rest of the family. So I give you fair warning. You must behave properly when you are at table with us.”
Neither answered. Christabel went on eating, though with a slightly contemptuous expression which her father and mother thought it wiser to pretend not to see. Leila choked down her tears and munched away at what would have been dry bread, had not Jasper quietly put a pat of butter on her plate.
And Roland and his father began talking about the weather, the fors and againsts of frost setting in and the chances of skating, as if no such silly, disagreeable little girls as Leila and Christabel were in existence. And Mrs Fortescue made little jokes with Jasper, and poured out second cups of coffee in a most matter-of-fact way. For once, I think, both the foolish, ungrateful children began to feel themselves rather small, and the rest of the day passed fairly well, though, but for their mother’s hurrying through with her own dressing, so as to be able to superintend theirs, I much doubt if either Leila or Christabel would have been ready for church, or fit to be seen when their father called them.
Mrs Fortescue did not speak till she was leaving their room, then she said quietly—
“Leila and Chrissie, I have helped you to dress this morning because I could not bear to have another scene, especially as it is Sunday. But from now, I warn you, I cannot and will not do for you what you are perfectly able to do for yourselves. When you do need help, you shall have it, and I can make allowance for things being difficult for you just now, but I will not help you to make them more difficult for yourselves. When you come in from church, you must put away your out-of-doors things and make the room perfectly neat,” and so saying, she left them, without giving them time to reply.
“I hope you’re pleased,” said Christabel to her sister, as soon as the door had closed. “You know it all began with your refusing to get up.”
Leila did not answer. She was naturally more timid and less high-spirited than Christabel, but in some ways more difficult to manage, owing to her indolence and dreaminess.
“Oh, well,” continued Chrissie, “if you like to be sulky I’m sure I don’t mind. Any way, it is a satisfaction to learn that you won’t have any story-book all to-day.”
Her tone was most provoking; Leila would have liked to turn upon her, but she was afraid of beginning to cry, so with some difficulty she remained silent till Chrissie had flung out of the room.
“I wish they would let me go to school,” she said to herself when she was alone. “I don’t mind lessons, I only want to be left in peace. I’m sure they might find some cheap school, and when I’m old enough I’d ask to be kept on as a governess. I will ask Mummy about it. If Roland’s the eldest boy, I’m the eldest girl, and if they pay hundreds of pounds for him to go to Winton, they might pay something for me.”
The idea seized her fancy. There was a touch of “romance” about it. She pictured herself working hard at school, becoming a teacher herself at an extraordinarily early age, earning enough to be no longer a burden on her unnatural family, whom she would only visit at rare intervals and for a very short time.
“Perhaps they would begin to wish they had treated me differently,” she thought. “Perhaps even Chrissie would find out that everything wrong was not my fault—yes, when it was too late,” and with her usual habit of fanciful dreaming, she occupied her thoughts almost the whole of church-time, I fear, by picturing herself as the heroine of this touching and romantic story. And poor Mrs Fortescue, catching sight of her little daughter’s charming face, her dark eyes gleaming with interest, said to herself that Leila was really very open to good impressions. “I am sure she is making all sorts of excellent resolutions. Poor dear, I must not be hard upon her, nor upon Chrissie either,” though Christabel’s face still looked resentful and obstinate.
Chapter Six.
Dusters.
Monday morning brought considerable improvement. That is to say, Leila, having no book to read, and in her secret heart still faithful to the character of innocent and unappreciated martyr which she had imagined for herself, got out of bed almost as soon as she was awakened, dressed herself in silent dignity, and even offered to help Christabel.
“No thank you,” Chrissie replied loftily, “I don’t want any one to do anything for me except tying my hair, and Harriet can do that much, I suppose.”
“Mother has told her to come for ten minutes, at eight,” Leila replied meekly, glancing at Chrissie, and at the little bee-clock on the mantelpiece, which told that eight o’clock was fast approaching; much nearer at hand, according to present appearances, than the completion of Chrissie’s toilet.
“And you think I won’t be ready,” replied Chrissie. “Well then, you’ll just see,” and she rushed at her clothes in a rapid but very helter-skelter fashion, stopping, however, with her skirt half over her head, to have another fling at Leila. “What’s the matter with you this morning?” she said. “Why do you say ‘mother,’” and she copied her sister’s subdued tone of voice in a very irritating way, “like that? What a prig you can be, Leila! For my part I’d rather you were as lazy as a dormouse, staying in bed all day if you like, than to be so affected and lackadaisical.”
No answer to this tirade was vouchsafed, and just then Harriet knocked at the door.
“All right,” called Chrissie, “I’m ready—readier than Miss Leila, Harriet,—she hasn’t fastened her belt yet, and nowadays it’s got to be first come, first served, so here’s my comb—hurry up.”
Harriet was young and countrified, and, to tell the truth, rather in awe of “the young ladies,” whom hitherto she had only heard of in her aunt’s letters as beings not far removed from little princesses. So she gave a half-nervous laugh, and set to work at Christabel’s thick curls, Leila—her belt fastened by this time—standing by with a solemn, resigned expression of face.
As a rule it was no easy task to “do” Miss Chrissie’s hair, the owner of it being given to amusing little excursions about the room during the process, dragging her unfortunate attendant after her, in spite of all remonstrances. But this morning, out of sheer contradiction I fear, she stood like a lamb, and as soon as the ribbons were tied, dashed off, shouting, “Who’s first—who’s first? Who’ll be first downstairs after all?”
“Chrissie, Chrissie,” Leila called out, and this time she really meant well, and had forgotten for the moment all about being an innocent martyr, “Chrissie, you haven’t said your prayers, and your—”
But a whistle from the staircase—plainly heard, though it was not a very successful one, as Christabel had been true to her rule of not shutting the door—was the only reply, and Leila sighed.
“Miss Chrissie do be a high-spirited young lady,” quoth Harriet with a respectful little cough.
“What did you say?” asked Leila, as if awaking from a dream. “Oh yes—you wouldn’t think I was only a year and a half older than she is, would you?”
“No indeed, Miss,” was the reply in an awe-struck tone, and again Leila sighed and retreated to her self-chosen character of unappreciated heroine.
It was rather provoking, though entirely her own fault, that, in spite of her prompt getting up and irreproachable behaviour, she was not down early. For only when her little brother tapped at the door did she again glance at the clock, and started to see that it was already twenty-five minutes to nine.
“Lelly, Lelly, Mumsey’s sent me for you. We’re all down ’cept you.”
Leila opened the door.
“Oh dear, it’s too bad!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been ready ever so long. I got up ages before Chrissie.”
“Never mind, poor Lelly,” said Jasper consolingly. “You’se not really late. Nobody’s vexed wif you. And you do look so neat,” he went on admiringly, as hand-in-hand they hastened downstairs. “Chrissie seems all—all in a muddle,” he added anxiously. “I saw Daddy lookin’ at her rather funnily, though he didn’t say nothin’.”
“It’s her own fault. I shan’t be sorry for her if she gets scolded,” said Leila. “She only hurried down to be before me.”
And when she caught sight of her sister at table, she really felt surprised that her father’s annoyance had been only shown by “funny” looks. Christabel—except that, thanks to Harriet, her hair was fairly tidy—might have passed for a well-to-do scarecrow. Her collar was all on one side, her blouse buttoned crookedly, her face far from clean—her hands and nails—but perhaps it is better not to enter into particulars as to these! She seemed quite pleased with herself, however, and mixed in the conversation even more than was called for.
“It is going to be a very wet day, I fear. It is such a pity. I had so hoped it would be bright and clear,” said Mrs Fortescue.
“Why do you mind, Mumsey?” asked Christabel. “It’s hotter than if it had been yesterday and we’d had to paddle to church in the rain. I think it’s much the worst for us now when it’s wet—with nowhere proper to play in.”
“Your mother was not asking your opinion,” said Mr Fortescue drily, and Chrissie’s face darkened. She hated being “snubbed” more, I think, than anything else in the world, but no one took any notice of her annoyance, and her father went on speaking to her mother as if there had been no interruption.
“You must not think of coming to the station,” he said. “You would probably catch cold, for—” and for once, poor man, he sighed a little, “you would come in an omnibus, I am sure, and on a day like this you might have to wait some time to get a seat. Much better stay quietly at home, and have everything ready and comfortable for her when she arrives.” He hesitated a little. He was on the point of adding a word or two, almost of appeal, to the two girls, but Christabel’s cross expression and Leila’s air of dreamy self absorption were not encouraging.
“Very well, then,” Mrs Fortescue replied, though with evident regret. “Perhaps you are wiser about it. Then we may expect you about—when—four o’clock?”
“Yes, or a little later,” was the reply, as Mr Fortescue rose to go, Roland having already hurried off.
“And mayn’t I help you, Mumsey?” whispered Jasper, edging up to his mother. “If only there was some flowers in the garden to put in her room!”
“Perhaps she will bring—” Mrs Fortescue was beginning, when Chrissie interrupted.
“What are you talking about, Japs?” she said pertly. “Flowers—in the middle of winter, even if there was a garden, which there isn’t. What does he want them for, Mums?”
Her mother looked at her in silence for a moment. She had stood up and was holding Jasper’s hand tightly in her own, almost as if the touch of it strengthened and cheered her. Then she said quietly—
“You cannot have forgotten surely, or if you have you should not have done so, that Aunt Margaret is expected to-day, and naturally we want to make her coming to us—the only home she has now—as bright and happy as possible.” Christabel tossed her head. “I was going to say, Japs dear,” she added to the child, “that very likely there will be some flowers from the Fareham conservatories. The last we can have! But it will be nice if there are.”
“Mayn’t we have some in our room?” asked Leila suddenly. The word “flowers coming” had caught her ears, though she had heard nothing else.
“I cannot say till I see what there are,” replied Mrs Fortescue, and Leila relapsed into silence, and turning to the window, stood gazing out at the rainswept street.
“Even a few flowers grudged me,” she thought. “I wish I hadn’t asked for them,” and indeed the doing so had been an impulse not at all of a piece with her attitude of “suffering saint.”
“Chrissie,” Mrs Fortescue began again, “did you look at yourself in the glass before you came down? you had better do so now. You are inexcusably untidy.”
“Am I?” said Christabel airily. “Well, yes, my collar’s crooked, I feel.” She gave a tug to it, but in the wrong direction, which did not improve matters. “It was all.”
“You’re not to say I had anything to do with it, or you, this morning,” snapped out Leila.
“Hush,” said their mother. “Go upstairs, Christabel, and dress yourself properly, and above all, wash your face and hands carefully.”
“I did wash them—at least I think I did, after I got out of my bath,” Chrissie replied. “They can’t have been very bad or Dads would have noticed them.”
“I am quite sure he did, but we did not want another breakfast upset by you children, like yesterday,” said Mrs Fortescue. “Go now and do as I have told you,” and Chrissie went off, pretending to whistle. “Leila,” she continued, “what are you intending to do this morning?”
“Mayn’t I have my book back?” asked Leila, “I did get up early.”
“It is in the drawing-room,” her mother replied. “Yes, you may have it, but in the first place I want you and Chrissie to help a little in the house. I am thinking of leaving the dusting of the drawing-room every morning to you, if you will be very careful with the ornaments. Harriet sweeps and brushes and does the fire of course, early, but the dusting takes time, and she is very busy in the mornings.” Leila stared.
“Us dust—like housemaids,” she said, and a sharp pang of disappointment went through her mother, for she had really expected that the little girls would have felt interest, and even pride, in taking upon them the charge she proposed—a far from difficult or disagreeable one.
Leila, not observing her mother’s change of expression, went on coolly.
“What’s the hurry with the drawing-room?” she said. “The fire’s not to be lighted first thing, I suppose. Harriet can surely dust it before the middle of the day.”
“No,” replied Mrs Fortescue, “I do not think she can. Certainly she could not do it properly. At your age I should have been very proud of being trusted with a little work of the kind; besides—”
“I daresay, Mummy, you were an angelic child, and certainly neither Chrissie nor I pretend to be anything of the sort; it seems to me that fathers and mothers always were pieces of perfection by what one hears them say of themselves.”
Her words were almost impertinent, but her tone sounded as if she were half in fun, so her mother took no notice of the interruption: “besides,” she went on, “the drawing-room from now must be ready early for Aunt Margaret. She must have all the comfort we can give her.”
“Aunt Margaret,” repeated Leila, opening her eyes very wide. “But it’s not fixed about her coming, is it?”
Then Mrs Fortescue’s patience began to give way.
“Leila, you are too bad,” she exclaimed. “What have you been thinking of all this time? You heard your father talking of going to the station? You yourself asked if you could have some of the flowers? You must have understood that Aunt Margaret is coming to-day—this afternoon.”
Leila looked rather foolish.
“To-day,” she repeated lamely. “I—well, yes, I remember about the flowers, but I thought they were being sent up from Fareham as usual.”
Perhaps for peace’ sake it was as well that just then Harriet came in to clear the breakfast-table, and Mrs Fortescue hurried off to her morning interview with Susan in the kitchen, leaving Leila still staring out of the window. But the clatter and bustle of Harriet’s rather clumsy movements fidgeted her. She turned to the door and made her way slowly into the drawing-room.
“I may as well get my book,” she said to herself, though I hope that in her heart there was some faint intention of fulfilling the task her mother had spoken of. Arrived in the drawing-room, she stood still and looked round her.
“So this, the only decent room in the house, is to be given up to Aunt Margaret,” she thought, “and we’re to be her servants! Well—it’s all of a piece: but Chrissie won’t stand it, and it will all fall upon me, no doubt, like everything else disagreeable. Yes I would far, far rather be a governess, or even what they call a pupil-teacher, in a school, than be treated like a servant in my own home. If only I were a little older.”
Then her eyes fell on her book. She took it up and sat down, fingering the pages.
“I can’t dust without a towel or a cloth or whatever they call it, and I don’t know where to get one. I may as well read till Chrissie comes down,” and in two moments she was lost to everything outside her story.
Luckily, however, as she probably would have caught cold from sitting still in a fireless room where the window was still slightly open at the top, and the door, of course, ajar—luckily, she was not long left in peace. A clatter and dash down the staircase, and Christabel’s voice—
“Where are you, Lell? Answer, can’t you?” as she dived in and out of the dining-room, without finding her sister. “Oh, there you are! You can’t be hidden for long in this cupboard of a house.”
Her good-humour seemed restored, and as Leila, unwillingly enough, glanced up in response to this summons, she saw that Christabel, if not very tidy as yet, still looked better than at the breakfast-table.
“What are you doing? Oh, reading of course. I say, it’s freezing in here. Don’t you see the window’s half open and there’s no fire. Why don’t you stay in the dining-room? There’s no one there,” Chrissie went on.
“Mother will be coming there directly, and I don’t want her to see me just now,” said Leila. “Chrissie,” she went on, feeling too much in need of sympathy to keep up her rôle of solitary martyrdom. “Chrissie, what do you think Mummy’s just been telling me? Shut the window, can’t you, if you don’t like it open. I’m sure I don’t care whether it’s open or shut—I’m far too miserable;” and Chrissie, her curiosity aroused, for once obeyed without a murmur, and then turned eagerly to Leila.
“What?” she asked, “are we to be sent to school?”
Leila shrugged her shoulders.
“I only wish it was that,” she said. “No—of course they’d say a good school would cost too much, and they couldn’t send us to a common one. No, it’s nothing about lessons. I daresay we shan’t be taught any more—it doesn’t seem as if we’d need to be! No—it’s this—you and I are to be housemaids!”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Christabel, “you are talking nonsense.”
Leila explained, but to her chagrin she did not meet with the sympathy she expected. On the contrary, Christabel’s eyes sparkled.
“Dusting the drawing-room,” she repeated. “Oh, I don’t mind that. It will be fun. I shall like it, at least,” she added candidly, “till I yet tired of it. I’d much rather do it than tidy up our own room.”
“You may be quite sure you’ll have to do both,” said Leila gloomily, “and you’d better not talk about getting tired of it.”
“Well, any way, I’m quite ready to begin at once,” said Chrissie. “Where are the things—dusters—and soft brushes—feather brushes; I’ve seen them using them for china ornaments, haven’t I?”
“I don’t know,” groaned Leila, without moving; and with a contemptuous “you are a lazy idiot,” Chrissie darted off. But she was brought to a sudden standstill in the doorway by running against Jasper, who was making his way in, carrying some cloths, and one or two brushes, among them a feather one, which he evidently much admired, as he held it aloft. It was of several colours.
“Isn’t it pretty?” he said. “It’s to stay in the droind-room, Mumsey says, just to be used a werry little—for the bestest orniments, I s’pose. But here’s another one, and lots of dustiners for us all.”
“Dusters, you silly,” corrected Chrissie, “but, they’re for Lell and me, Japs. You can’t dust.”
“Mumsey says I might ’elp,” he exclaimed, for his “h’s,” like those of all young children, still sometimes deserted him, when he was very eager. “I’ll be werry careful—Mums said I might do the tiny iv’ry figures—what Dads brought from Inja, you know,” and he pointed to some curious and valuable little carvings, which Mr Fortescue had not found it in his heart to part with.
Chrissie glanced at them.
“Well, you couldn’t very easily break those, I suppose,” she said. “Give me a duster: and Lell, wake up, can’t you?”
Leila slowly rose and looked about her. There was really not very much fear of the amateur housemaids doing any damage, for Mrs Fortescue had taken care to place the few ornaments of value in a glazed cabinet, and only left out several pretty but not very rare or irreplaceable things, just to give the room a bright and homelike look. And one side-table was left quite bare.
“We must put some things—books any way,”—said Leila, “on that table—it looks so silly with nothing at all;” and she was on the point of doing so, for, in spite of herself, she was beginning to enter into the spirit of their new occupation a little, when Jasper stopped her.
“That table’s to be for Aunt Margaret,” he said. “She’ll keep her books and things there. And there’s a nice deep drawer—that goes down quite low, you see,” he opened it as he spoke, “for her work, Mums says.”
“How do you know about it?” asked his sisters, rather sharply. “You are such a prig,” added Chrissie.
“Mumsey showed it me when we was settlin’ about the dustin’ this mornin’,” he replied calmly.
Leila and Chrissie looked at each other.
“Really,” said the former, though in a low voice, “I do think mother should talk to us about what she is going to make us do before she discusses it all with a baby like Jasper.”
Christabel did not at once answer. She was less of a self-deceiver than Leila, and she knew that neither she nor her sister had behaved in such a way as to let it be easy or pleasant for their mother to consult them about the new state of things.
“I don’t suppose she said much to him,” she replied, “and he’s not a bit a tell-tale—he never makes mischief. He’s really a good little fellow—much better than we were at his age, or than—”
“Speak for yourself, if you please,” interrupted Leila crossly. She had a very shrewd suspicion what the end of the sentence was going to be and she did not want to hear it.
Christabel set to work in her usual energetic way. Jasper had already been at his corner steadily for some minutes. He rubbed at the chairs as if they were ponies that he was grooming, calling out to his sisters to look how he had made the wood shine, and seeing him, and Chrissie too, so active, Leila caught the infection, and being the tallest of the three, took the mantelpiece ornaments as her special department, and found to her surprise that she really enjoyed “housemaiding.”
So that the dusting proved quite a success, and when Mrs Fortescue, having given her orders downstairs and seen to the last arrangements for their expected guest upstairs, glanced in, to see what they were all about, she was pleased and surprised to hear cheerful voices and to be met by bright faces.
“We’ve done it, Mummy—all, splendidly. I don’t believe you could find a speck of dust if you looked for it with a microscope,” cried Chrissie.
“That’s very nice—very nice indeed,” replied her mother. “I hope you haven’t felt cold. From now, the fire will always be lighted early, and you can come straight in here immediately after breakfast.”
“Or before,” said Chrissie, with overflowing zeal. “I’m not afraid of cold—when you’re bustling about you never feel it.”
“Well,” said her mother, smiling, “if Harriet gets her part done early, you may certainly follow her as soon as you like.”
“You may safely say so to Chrissie,” said Leila. “I think it’s better to promise less and keep to what you undertake. I don’t see that I can do my part any earlier, and you know, Mummy, Chrissie tires of everything much quicker than I do.”
“Then you must keep her up to the mark,” said Mrs Fortescue. “With enthusiasm in one and steadiness in the other, things should go on very well, I think,” and this pleasant little speech was fortunately in time to stop a burst of indignation from Chrissie.
“And I’ll always make the chairs shine, Mummy. I’ll never forget,” said Jasper.
“I’m sure you won’t, my boy,” replied his mother.
But as she was just leaving the room as she spoke, it is to be hoped she did not hear Leila’s muttered—
“Spoilt little prig that he is—”