"A most extraordinary thing has happened," said Mrs. Ellsworthy that evening to her husband. "We have lived for several years at Shortlands, and except when we have people in the house I have actually been without any society. My dear Joseph, you will forgive my counting you as nobody at all. Well, we have lived here, and I have often been dull beyond words, and yet the nicest creatures have been within a stone's throw of me."
Mr. Ellsworthy was at least twenty years older than his wife—a reserved individual, with a rather long and melancholy face. Mrs. Ellsworthy was plump, and round, and pretty—kittenish some people called her.
She was certainly fond of emphasizing her words, and of going into raptures, and her husband now only raised his eyebrows, and said, "Well, Kate?" in a somewhat lethargic voice.
Mrs. Ellsworthy left her seat, and drew a small easy-chair close to the fire, for though the weather was hot Mrs. Ellsworthy always insisted on indulging in this evening luxury.
Planting herself luxuriously in this chair, the little lady began her narrative.
"Now, Joseph, I will tell you my story. Do you remember that outlandish-looking governess who came up here for a week to try to keep Frankie in order before we sent him to school? Oh, what a blessing it is to have that boy at school! Do you remember Miss Martineau, Joseph?"
"There was an authoress of the name, my love; but surely she died before we came to Shortlands?"
"Joseph, how stupid you are! I mean a dear, obsolete creature in the village. However, it is not the slightest matter whether you remember her or not. She came here again this morning, and begged of me to interest myself in the cause of three destitute orphans who lived in a little house in the village. She spoke most kindly about them, but said they were a little unfinished, and not, in her opinion, very capable; but she described them as pretty and young, and, oh, so appallingly poor! And somehow the good old creature touched my heart, and I said I would certainly help them. I ordered the carriage and drove into the village. I expected to see—well, you know, the sort of girl who is likely to be found in a little village like Rosebury, Joseph—the awkward and shy young miss. I imagined them as being so grateful for my notice; indeed, a little overpowered; for, you know, I don't know the Rosebury folk. Well, my dear, what do you think I found?"
"It is really difficult to tell, Kate. I should judge, however, from your excited manner and your unusual enthusiasm, that you found young ladies."
"Joseph, you are a genius. I did. In the funniest, pokiest, queerest little house that you can possibly imagine; I discovered three charming, well-bred girls. The two youngest made friends with me in their shabby little garden. They greeted me, I assure you, with the most delightful frankness and ease. I told them who I was, and they were not the least impressed; on the contrary, the one they called Jasmine—oh! she is a pretty creature—fancied I was dying for some carnations like hers, and the little one holds out hopes that some day I may possess a kitten similar to the one she thrust into my arms. They were as shabbily dressed as possible, but who could look at them, dear pets, and think twice about their dresses? We got on most pleasantly, and found we had many interests in common, for the little one shared my love for animals, and the elder my passion for flowers. On this scene the eldest sister made her appearance. I assure you, Joseph, it is almost too absurd, but it is a fact; she actually contrived to snub me. I read as plainly as possible in those pretty, serene eyes of hers the question, 'How is it that you, who never condescended to know my mother, intrude upon us now, in our loss?' She was most gentle and most dignified, but I could as soon take liberties with her as with—with—you, Joseph, when you choose to exert your authority. After Miss Mainwaring came, I thought it best to run away; but before I went I extracted a promise from the three darlings to come and spend the day here to-morrow. Really, Joseph, I have had a surprising day; but I remember now that Miss Martineau did say something about these children being well born."
Mr. Ellsworthy again raised his eyebrows.
"I had an acquaintance once of the name," he said, "but I lost sight of him years ago. It is a good name. Well, Kate, you will do what you can for your protegées. I am glad you have found some objects of interest close to your own gates."
Here Mrs. Ellsworthy dropped her slightly frivolous tone, and rising from her seat, went up to her husband.
"Joseph," she said, "I want you to contrive to be at home for lunch to-morrow. I want you to see my girls, and to advise me how best to help them. Primrose is so proud and so inexperienced; the two younger ones, of course, know nothing of either poverty or riches; they live as the flowers live, and are happy for the same reason. Do you know, Joseph, that the eldest of these sisters is not seventeen, and the youngest only ten; that they seem to be absolutely without relations, almost without friends, and that between them they have only a Government grant of thirty pounds a year."
Here Mrs. Ellsworthy's pretty bright blue eyes filled with tears, and her husband, stooping down, kissed her.
"I will make a point of seeing those girls to-morrow Kate," he said. "I am glad you have come across them."
Then he went off to his library, where he sat, and read, and lost himself in great thoughts far into the night. It is to be feared that during these hours he forgot the Mainwarings and their troubles.
Mrs. Ellsworthy had appointed noon the next day to receive her young guests, and punctual to the moment the three walked into her drawing-room.
Daisy instantly commented on this fact. "There's the last stroke of twelve striking from the church clock," she exclaimed. "Oh, please! where's the Persian kitten?"
"I have brought you all the carnations that were in flower," said Jasmine. "Smell them; aren't they delicious? Mamma used to love them so—I would not give them to any one but you."
Mrs. Ellsworthy stooped and kissed Jasmine, and taking her hand, gave it a little squeeze. "Thank you, my love," she said—"I value your beautiful flowers—you shall arrange them yourself in this amber vase."
"They are such a vivid crimson, they would look best against white," answered Jasmine, raising her eyes a little anxiously. "I like to arrange flowers to look like a picture. Mamma always allowed me to arrange the flowers, and Primrose will in the future." Here Jasmine went up to Primrose, and took her hand, and the elder sister smiled at her with great affection, and said, looking at Mrs. Ellsworthy, "We call Jasmine our artist at home."
"And our poet—she makes poetry about the Pink at home," said Daisy. "Oh, dear!" she continued, giving a deep sigh, "I can't see the Persian kitten anywhere. I do hope what Miss Martineau said is not true."
"What did she say, my dear?" asked the lady of Shortlands.
"Oh, a lot of nonsense—that this was a great house, and we were to sit on chairs, and not speak unless you spoke to us, and we were not to play with the Persian kitten, nor see the dogs. She said you were a very grand lady, and that was the proper way to go on—we didn't agree with her, did we, Jasmine?"
"No, of course we didn't," said Jasmine; "we knew better."
"We said you were a romp," continued Daisy. "You seemed like it in our garden. I wouldn't have come if I thought you were one of those ladies who wanted little girls to sit on chairs. Oh! do say you are a romp."
Here there was a laugh heard behind them, and Mr. Ellsworthy came up and joined the group. He greeted the girls kindly, and very soon discovered that their father had been the old acquaintance whom he had known of the name. Then he and Primrose went off together, and Mrs. Ellsworthy took the two young girls' hands.
"My darling," she said, "with the single exception of my only son, Frankie, who is at present at school, I am the greatest romp in existence. Now let us come out into the sunshine and enjoy ourselves."
The few hours the girls spent at Shortlands passed only too quickly for Jasmine and Daisy. Mrs. Ellsworthy laid herself out to be charming, and no one could be more charming than she when she chose. She had naturally a good deal of sympathy, and taking her cue from the little ones, she entered into their lives, and became one with them. Jasmine and Daisy became quite merry. An indiscriminating observer would have said: "How shocking to hear such merry laughter—their mother has only been dead a month." But Mrs. Ellsworthy had far too kind a heart to do these children such an injustice. She knew that the dark lines under Jasmine's bright eyes were caused by the passion of a great grief; but she also knew that with such a nature sunshine must follow storm. Daisy in the midst of her play, too, began suddenly to cry.
"What is the matter, my little one?" asked the lady of the house. The child put her arms round her neck, and whispered through sobs: "I am so happy now; but I know I'll be miserable bye-and-bye. I'll want so badly to tell mamma about you, and mamma won't be there."
Primrose was also serenely happy—she was glad to hear her sisters' laughter, and she liked to walk about the beautiful place, and to feel the soft summer air on her cheeks.
The village of Rosebury lay low; but Shortlands stood on rising ground, and the more bracing air did Primrose good. When she saw how happy Mrs. Ellsworthy made her sisters she forgave her for not calling on her mother.
Mr. Ellsworthy took a good deal of notice of Primrose, and showed her some of his pet books, and talked to her in a sensible grown-up way. Jasmine and Daisy were young for their years, but Primrose was old, and she liked to ask practical questions. Had she known Mr. Ellsworthy a little better she might have even consulted him as to the best way of laying out thirty pounds per annum, so as to cover all the expenses of three girls who wished to live as ladies; but she was both shy and reserved; and when Mr. Ellsworthy, goaded on by certain looks from his wife, referred to the subject of money, Primrose started aside from it like any frightened young fawn.
The day, the happy day for all three, passed only too quickly, and it was Mrs. Ellsworthy at last who determined to plunge boldly into the heart of the subject which was uppermost in her thoughts.
"Primrose," she said, taking the elder sister aside, "you must forgive me for speaking plainly to you, dear. I call you Primrose, because you do not seem to me altogether a stranger, and my husband knew your father. I may call you Primrose, may I not, love?"
"Please, do," said Primrose, with that sweet smile which came only rarely to her quiet face; "I like it—it is my name. When people say Miss Mainwaring I feel—lonely."
"You are Primrose, then, to me, dear. Now, Primrose, take my hand, and sit quietly in this chair. I am going to confess something to you. I called to see you and your sisters yesterday morning, intending to patronize you."
"To patronize us—why?" asked Primrose.
Mrs. Ellsworthy laughed in a slightly nervous manner.
"My dear child, we won't go into the whys and the wherefores. I found I could not do it, that is all. I have not, however, half finished my confession. I called to see you because Miss Martineau asked me to."
Here Primrose flushed a very rosy pink, and Mrs. Ellsworthy saw a displeased look fill her eyes.
"You must not be angry with Miss Martineau, Primrose. She loves you three girls very much. She is most anxious about you. She—my dear, she told me of your poverty."
Here Primrose rose from her seat and said, in the quietest tone—
"We are certainly poor, but I don't think that is anybody's concern. We don't mind it ourselves—at least, not much. You see, we have never known riches, and we cannot miss what we have never had. It would be a great pity for people to try to make us discontented. I think it was ill-bred of Miss Martineau to mention our private affairs to you; but still, as we have got to know you through these means, I forgive her. You are a very delightful friend. Mrs. Ellsworthy, I think you must let us go home now—Daisy is not accustomed to being up so late."
"Of all the tiresome, hard-to-be-understood young people I ever came across, Primrose Mainwaring beats them," thought Mrs. Ellsworthy to herself; but aloud she said very sweetly—
"Yes, dear—and you shall drive home in the carriage I could not hear of your walking."
Miss Ellsworthy thought Primrose both tiresome and obtuse, but here she was mistaken.
Miss Martineau's solemn looks, Mr. Danesfield's emphatic injunctions to make the most of their visit to Shortlands, and, above all, the expression of deep distress on Mrs. Ellsworthy's charming face when she spoke of their poverty, were by no means thrown away on her.
She felt very grave as the three sisters were driven home in the Ellsworthys' luxurious carriage. She scarcely joined at all in Jasmine's chatter, nor did she notice Daisy's raptures over a tiny white pup—Mrs. Ellsworthy's parting gift.
On their arrival at home the Pink greeted this unlooked-for addition to the family with a furious assault; and Jasmine, Daisy, and Hannah were all intensely excited over the task of dividing the combatants; but Primrose felt but small interest, and owned that she had a slight headache.
Nevertheless, when the younger girls retired to bed she sat up, and, taking out an account-book, began an impossible task. Even all the resources of this young and vigorous brain could not make thirty pounds cover a year's expenses. Again and again Primrose tried. The rent of the cottage was twelve pounds a year. She pronounced this extravagant, and wondered if they could possibly get a cheaper dwelling.
Then there were Hannah's wages. Well, of course, they could do without Hannah—it would be very painful to part with her, but anything would be better than the humiliating conclusion that Mrs. Ellsworthy and Miss Martineau considered them too poor to live. Then, of course, they could do without meat—what did healthy girls want with meat? Only—and here Primrose sighed deeply—Daisy was not very strong. Eggs were cheap enough in Rosebury, and so was butter, and they could bake their own bread; and as to clothes, they would not want any more for a long time. Here Primrose again felt herself pulled up short, for Jasmine's walking-shoes were nearly worn through.
She went to bed at last, feeling very depressed and anxious. Thirty pounds was really a much smaller sum of money than she had given it credit for being. Try as she might, it would not stretch itself over the expenses of even the humblest establishment of three. She was much comforted, however, by the reflection that there remained a large sum to their credit in the bank. Primrose found her faith shaken in the capacities of an income of thirty pounds a year; but a sum total of two hundred pounds she still believed to be almost inexhaustible. She resolved to go and consult Mr. Danesfield on the morrow.
Mr. Danesfield was generally to be found in his private room at the bank by ten o'clock in the morning. Very soon after that hour on the following day a clerk came to say that one of the young ladies from Woodbine Cottage wanted to see him. "The eldest young lady, and she says her business is very pressing," continued the man.
The bank at Rosebury was only a branch office of a large establishment in the nearest town. It happened that that morning Mr. Danesfield was particularly busy, and anxious to get away to the large bank at an early hour. For more reasons than one, therefore he felt annoyed at Primrose's visit.
"Poor child," he said to himself, "I have certainly nothing very good to tell her; and I have undoubtedly no time to waste over her this morning."
Aloud, however, he said to his clerk—
"Ask Miss Mainwaring to step this way—and, Dawson, order my trap to be at the door in ten minutes."
"I won't keep you very long, Mr. Danesfield," began Primrose, in a quick and rather nervous manner for her.
Mr. Danesfield was always the soul of politeness, however irritable he might feel.
"Sit down, my dear young lady," he said; "I am delighted to see you, and I can give you exactly five minutes."
"I want to ask you two questions," began Primrose. "The questions are short. They are about money; and you understand all about that."
"Not all, my dear girl—money is far too great a theme to be wholly comprehended by one single individual."
Primrose tapped her foot impatiently—then, after a brief pause, she raised her clear brown eyes, and looked full at the banker.
"How much money have we in the bank, Mr. Danesfield?"
"My dear child, not much—very little, scarcely anything. 'Pon my word, I am sorry for you, but your entire capital does not amount to quite two hundred pounds."
Primrose received this information calmly.
"Thank you," she said—"I just wanted to know from yourself. Now, I have one other question to ask you, and then I will go. My sisters and I have thirty pounds a year to live on. By drawing a little on our capital, say, taking ten or fifteen pounds a year from it, can we live, Mr. Danesfield?"
Mr. Danesfield rose from his seat, and coming over to Primrose, laid his hand on her shoulder—
"Live! my poor, dear child; you and your sisters would starve. No, Miss Mainwaring, there is nothing for you three girls to do but to turn to and earn your living. Your friends, I doubt not, will help, and you must take their help. I shall be delighted to give advice. Now, my dear child, my trap is at the door, and I must go. Good morning—good morning."
Primrose was always direct in her movements—she made up her mind quickly; from her earliest childhood she was in the habit of acting with decision.
After her short interview with Mr. Danesfield she went straight home, and without paying any attention to the clear voice of her pet Daisy, who called to her from the garden, or to Jasmine's little impatient—"Sister, I want you to help me to arrange the trimming on my new black skirt," she ran upstairs, and locked herself into her mother's room.
There she once more opened the old davenport, and took from it the thick packet, which contained a shabby little desk, inside of which lay a letter directed to herself.
Now at last she opened the letter, and in her own great perplexity read the message from the grave.
The letter was dated about three months back, and was in her mother's neatest and most easily read writing.
"My dear daughter," it began, "I have no present reason to suppose that my life will be cut short, therefore I cannot tell whether this letter will be read by you now, while you are young, or years hence, when your youth is over.
"One thing I have resolved—you shall not know the little secret it contains during my lifetime. I keep it from you, my darling, because I could not bear you to speak of it to me, because at the time it gave me such agony that I have locked it up in my heart, and no one, not even my own child, must open the doors where my dead secret lies.
"Primrose, whenever I die, this letter will reach you—you will find it in the ordinary course of things in my cabinet; but even in this letter I cannot tell you all the story—you must go to Hannah for particulars—she has been with me all my married life, and knows as much as I do.
"Once, when you were a little child of only six years old, I came into the room where you slept, and I heard her saying to you, as she tucked you up for the night—
"You must be very good to your mamma, Miss Primrose, for she has known trouble."
"Neither you nor she saw me, and you raised your dear eyes to her face, and I heard you say—
"'What is trouble, nursey Hannah?'
"'Trouble is a burden too heavy to be borne,' Hannah answered, 'but when you came, Missy, it went away—you were like the spring to my missus, and that is why she called you Primrose.'
"That night I called Hannah aside, and I made the faithful creature promise that she would never again allude to my trouble to any of my children. She promised, and kept her word.
"Now, darling, you shall learn what nearly broke my heart; what would have quite broken it had God not sent me my three girls.
"Primrose, something more bitter than death came to your mother. Your father is dead—I know where his bones lie—I know that I shall meet him again, and I don't rebel. My other trouble was far, far worse than that—
"Darling, you are not my eldest child—you are not the first bonny baby who lay in my arms. Years before you were born I had a son. Oh! how can I speak of him?—he seemed to be more beautiful than any other child—he had ways—he had looks—Primrose, I can't go on, you must ask Hannah to tell you what my boy was like. I had him for five years, then I lost him; he did not die—he was stolen from me. Can you wonder now that your mother sometimes looks sad, and that even you and Jasmine and Daisy fail now and then to make me smile?
"My bonny boy was stolen. I never saw him dead; I never could go to his grave to put flowers there—twenty years ago now he was taken from me, and I have had neither trace nor tidings of him.
"Hannah will tell you particulars, Primrose, for I cannot. My trouble far surpassed the bitterness of death. Only for you three, I could not have lived—
"Your mother,
"Constance Mainwaring."
Primrose had scarcely finished reading this letter, and had by no means taken in the full meaning of its contents, when light, soft footsteps paused outside the room, and she heard the handle of the door being very softly turned.
Cramming the letter into her pocket, and shutting the lid of the little cabinet, she ran and unlocked the door. Jasmine was standing without.
"I looked for you everywhere, Primrose, and I did not mean really to disturb you here; I thought you might be here, and I tried the handle very softly, meaning to steal away again. Are you very busy, Primrose?"
"I can come with you if you want me for anything, Jasmine," answered Primrose, putting her hand to her head in a dazed sort of way.
Jasmine's brow cleared, and her face grew bright instantly.
"It's rather exciting," she said; "I'm so glad you can come. It is about Poppy Jenkins—Poppy is downstairs—she is going away—she has come to say good-bye. Do you know, Primrose, that she is actually going to London?"
Jasmine looked so delighted and eager that Primrose could not help smiling, and taking her sister's hand, they ran downstairs together.
Poppy, who had very black eyes, cheeks with a brilliant color, and hair like a raven's wing, was standing in the drawing-room twisting her apron strings and chatting volubly to Daisy. She had known the girls all her life, and not only loved them dearly, but respected them much. To Poppy Jenkins there never were three such beautiful and altogether charming young ladies as the Misses Mainwaring.
When Primrose appeared she dropped her a curtsey—perhaps she respected Primrose the most, and loved her the least.
"It's to say good-bye, miss," she began, "I called in, hoping for last words with you three dear young ladies. I is summoned to London, Miss Primrose."
Nothing could exceed the air of modest pride with which Poppy made this declaration; she quite expected Primrose to be both startled and dazzled, and said afterwards that it was rather like a little stream of cold water trickling down her back when Miss Mainwaring replied quietly—
"London is a long way off, Poppy—why are you going there?"
"I has an aunt in the boarding-house way, Miss Primrose—she keeps a very select establishment; and most particular; don't admit no gentlemen. It's for ladies only, aunt's boarding-house is, miss, and she wrote to mother that it's a flourishing concern, and she wants a girl who will be honest, and handy, and country-bred, to help wait on the ladies. She has offered the situation to me, miss, as in duty bound, I being her own niece, and mother is pleased to accept. I calls it a dazzling prospect, Miss Primrose."
"I am delighted," began Primrose; but Jasmine interrupted her. "Dazzling," she repeated, "of course it is dazzling, Poppy. I am so very glad you are going. I only wish I were going. If there is a wonderful, delightful, charming place, it is London. I have read about it, and I have dreamed about it, and I have pictured it. What fun you will have! Of course your aunt will take you to see all the sights. Oh, do sit down. Primrose, we ought to tell her about the places she should see, ought we not?"
Primrose nodded, and Poppy dropped on to the edge of the nearest chair, and, clasping her red and hard-worked hands in front of her, prepared herself to listen.
"First of all, Poppy," began Jasmine, after waiting for her sister to speak; but Primrose was strangely silent.
"First of all, Poppy, you must go to the places which improve your mind; now, I do hope you are not going to be giddy, running just after pretty things; but I suppose your aunt, who is so wise, and who keeps the boarding-house, will see to that. Well, first of all you had better go to Westminster Abbey. Oh, Poppy! I have read such glorious descriptions of it—the lights from the painted windows—the wonderfully ancient look of the old pillars, and then the music; it peals down the aisles and echoes through the fretted roofs; you will be greatly overpowered at Westminster Abbey, Poppy; but you must remember that you are a very privileged person, and be thankful for being permitted to see with your own eyes such a lovely, lovely, glorious place!"
"It do sound, from your description, very awe-inspiring, Miss Jasmine," answered Poppy. "Is there no other place where one might get more, so to speak, into the festive mood, miss?"
"Oh yes, you silly Poppy, lots and lots; but we'll come to those presently. You'll have to see the Houses of Parliament, where our laws are made—if you don't feel grave there, you ought. Then you must visit the Tower, where people's heads were cut off—it's very solemn indeed at the Tower; and, of course, you will pay a visit to the Zoo, and you can see the lions fed, and you can look at the monkey-house."
"I likes monkeys," said Poppy, whose face had been growing graver and graver while Jasmine was talking; "and if you'll throw in a little bit of gazing into shop windows, Miss Jasmine, and learning the newest cuts of a bonnet, and the most genteel fit of a mantle, why, then, I'll do even that dreadful Tower, as in duty bound. My mother calls London a vast sea and a world of temptation, and nothing but vanity from end to end; but when I thinks of the beautiful ladies in aunt's boarding-house, and of the shop windows I feels that it is dazzling."
"I wish that I were going," repeated Jasmine, whose cheeks were flushed, and her starry eyes brighter than usual; "I wish I were going. Oh, Primrose, think of you, and Daisy, and me saying our prayers in the Abbey!"
"We must not think of it," said Primrose; "God hears our prayers wherever we say them, Jasmine, darling."
"Yes," answered Jasmine; "and I am not going to complain. Well, Poppy, you are a very lucky girl, and I hope you'll be as good as gold, and as happy as the day is long."
"And if ever you does come to London, Miss Jasmine," said Poppy, rising to her feet, "you'll remember aunt's boarding-house, for ladies only; and proud I'll be to wait on you, miss."
"But we can't come, Poppy dear—we are very poor now—we have only got thirty pounds a year to live on."
To Poppy, who had never been known in her life to possess thirty pence, this sum sounded by no means modest.
"Might I make bold to inquire, miss," she asked, "if the thirty pounds is once for all, or if it's a yearly recurrence?"
"Oh, it's an income, Poppy—how stupid you are!"
"Then I'll consult my aunt in town, miss, and try to find out if you three dear young ladies couldn't contrive a London visit out of part of the savings."
After this sapient speech Poppy bade the Mainwarings good-bye. They looked after her retreating form down the street with many regrets, for they were very fond of her, and Jasmine at least envied her.
That night, after her sisters were in bed, Primrose again sat up late—once again she read her mother's letter; then burying her face in her hands, she sat for a long, long time lost in thought.
Jasmine and Daisy, all unconcerned and unconscious, slept overhead, but Hannah was anxious about her young mistress, and stepped into the drawing-room, and said in her kind voice—
"Hadn't you better be getting your beauty sleep, missie?"
"Oh, Hannah! I am so anxious," said Primrose.
"Now, deary, whatever for?" asked the old servant.
Primrose hesitated. She wanted to talk to Hannah about her mother's letter; she half took it out of her pocket, then she restrained herself.
"Another time," she whispered to herself. Aloud she said—
"Hannah, Mrs. Ellsworthy and Miss Martineau hinted to me what Mr. Danesfield said plainly to-day—we three girls have not got money enough to live on."
"Eh, dear!" answered Hannah, dropping on to the nearest chair, "and are you putting yourself out about that, my pretty? Why, tisn't likely that you three young ladies could support yourselves. Don't you fret about that, Miss Primrose; why, you'll get quite old with fretting, and lose all your nice looks. You go to bed, my darling—there's a Providence over us, and he'll find ways and means to help you."
Primrose rose to her feet, some tears came to her eyes, and taking Hannah's hard old hand, she stooped and kissed her.
"I won't fret, Hannah," she said, "and I'll go to bed instantly. Thank you for reminding me about God." Then she lit her bedroom candle and went very gently up the stairs to her bedroom, but as she laid her head on the pillow she said to herself—"Even Hannah sees that we can't live on our income."
The next morning early Primrose said rather abruptly to her two sisters—
"I have found out the meaning of Miss Martineau's fussiness and Mrs. Ellsworthy's kindness. They are both sorry for us girls, for they know we can't live on thirty pounds a year."
"Oh, what nonsense!" said Jasmine; "any one can live on thirty pounds a year. Didn't you see how Poppy opened her eyes when we mentioned it;—she thought it quite a lot of money, and said we could come to London out of the savings. I am sure, Primrose, if any one ought to know, it is Poppy, for her mother is really very poor."
"Mr. Danesfield, too, says we can't live on it," continued Primrose; "and when I asked Hannah last night, she said 'Of course not'—that no one expected us to. Now look here, Jasmine, this is all quite fresh to you and Daisy, but I'm accustomed to it, for I have known it for twenty-four hours, and what I say is this, if we can't live on our income we have got to make some more income to live on. If thirty pounds a year is not enough for us at the end, neither is it enough for us at the beginning, so we had better see about earning an income at once, or we'll get into debt, which will be quite awful. Jasmine, I am afraid the days of our merry childhood are over, and I am so sorry for you and Daisy, for you are both very young."
"Oh, I don't mind," said Jasmine—"I—I—I'd do anything—I fancy I could make dresses best, or—Oh, suppose I wrote poetry, and sold it? You know you and Daisy do like my poems. Do you remember how you cried over the one I called 'An Ode to the Swallow?'"
"No, I didn't cry over that one," interrupted Daisy. "I thought that one rather stupid—I cried over the one in which you spoke about my darling Pink being caught in a trap, and having her leg broken."
"Oh, that one," repeated Jasmine—"I thought that one a little vulgar. I only made it up to please you, Daisy. Primrose, don't you notice what a lot of poems there are in all the magazines, and of course, somebody must write them. I should not be a bit surprised if I could add to our income by writing poetry, Primrose. All the books, nearly all the magazines and newspapers, come from London. Poppy will not be going to London until to-morrow—I'll run round this morning and ask her to try and find out for me which of the publishers want poems like my 'Ode to the Swallow.' Perhaps they'd like it in the —— Review; only the —— Review is so horribly deep. My ode is deep too, for Daisy cannot understand it. Perhaps I could send my poem about Pink to one of the other magazines. Oh, Primrose! may I run round to Poppy, and see if she can help us?"
Primrose smiled very faintly, and it dawned across her again in rather a painful manner what a mere child her little sister was.
"I think I wouldn't, darling," she said. "Poppy could not really help you about publishers. Look here, Jasmine and Daisy; here is a letter I found in mamma's cabinet yesterday—it is directed to me, but the news it contains is for us all; will you and Daisy go out into the garden and read it together. You will be very much astonished when you read the letter—poor mamma, what she must have suffered! While you are reading I will go out. Mr. Danesfield says I may consult him, and as I know he is a wise man, I will do so."
"Would you like to take my ode with you?" inquired Jasmine.
"No, not to-day, dear—if I am not in to dinner, don't wait for me."
"I know one thing; we'll be very saving about that dinner," remarked Jasmine, shaking back her curly locks. "If you are not in, Primrose, Daisy and I will divide an egg between us—I read somewhere that eggs were very nourishing, and half a one each will do fine. Come into the garden now, Eyebright. Oh, Primrose! I don't feel a bit low about adding to our income. If we choose we can eat so very little, and then if the —— Review likes my poetry, I can spin it off by the yard."
Primrose, her head a little more erect than usual, her step firm, and a proud bright light in her eyes, went quickly down the little rambling village street. The plain black dress she wore set off her yellow hair and extremely fair complexion to the best advantage. She had never looked sweeter or more independent than at this moment, when, for the first time in her young life, she was about to ask for help.
Mr. Danesfield was not so busy this morning, and he saw his young visitor without delay.
"Sit down, my dear," he said; "I am very pleased to see you. You want to ask for my advice? I will give it with the greatest pleasure."
Primrose raised her head slowly. "I have been thinking over what you said yesterday," she began. "As it is quite impossible for my sisters and me to live on our little income, even with the help of what you have in the bank, we must try to help ourselves, must we not?"
"This is a brave thought, my dear—of course you must help yourselves, and you will be none the worse for doing so."
"We must earn money," continued Primrose. "How can girls like us, who are not educated—for I know we are not really educated—add to our incomes?"
Mr. Danesfield knit his brows. "Child," he said, "you ask me a puzzler. I have no children of my own, and I know very little about young folk. Of one thing, however, I am quite certain; Daisy can earn no money, nor can Jasmine. You, Primrose, might with some difficulty get a little place as a nursery governess; you are a nice, presentable-looking girl, my dear."
Primrose flushed, and the tears, wrung from great pain, came into her eyes.
"There is just one thing," she said, in a tremulous voice; "whatever happens, we three girls won't be parted. On that point I have quite firmly made up my mind."
Mr. Danesfield again knit his brows, and this time he fidgeted uneasily on his chair.
"Look here, Primrose," he said: "I am an old bachelor, and I don't know half nor a quarter the ways in which a woman may earn her living. I have always been told that a woman is a creature of resources. Now it is a well-known fact that an old bachelor has no resources. You go and put your question to Miss Martineau, my dear. Miss Martineau is a kind soul—'pon my word, now, a very kind soul—and she has managed wonderfully to exist herself on absolutely nothing. You go to Miss Martineau, Primrose, and get some secrets from her. Everything in my power you may depend on my doing. I will exert my interest, and my purse is at your service."
Here Primrose got up.
"Good-bye, Mr. Danesfield," she said. "I know you mean to be very kind, but we three must keep together, and we must be independent." Then she left the office, and went again down the street.
Mr. Danesfield looked after her as she walked away.
"Poor, proud young thing!" he said to himself. "Life will be a tussle for her, or I am much mistaken. She is really growing wonderfully nice-looking, too. How she flushed up when I said she was presentable—poor child! poor child! That mother of theirs might have done something to provide for those girls—lady-like girls—distinguished-looking. I expect the mother was a weak, poor soul. Well, I hope Miss Martineau will think of something. I must call and see Miss Martineau; 'pon my word I don't know what to suggest for the children to do."
When Primrose arrived at Miss Martineau's, that lady was just dismissing the last of her morning pupils. She was standing on her steps in her neat brown alpaca dress, over which she wore a large black apron of the same material with a bib to it. This apron had capacious pockets, which at the present moment were stuffed with her pupils' French exercises. On her head she had an antique-looking cap, made of black lace and rusty black velvet, and ornamented with queer little devices of colored beads.
She was delighted to see Primrose, and took her at once into her little sitting-room. "Now my dear, you will stay and have dinner with me. You don't mind having no meat, dear. My middle-day meal to-day consists of a salad and a rice soufflée. You are welcome to share it with me, Primrose."
"Thank you," said Primrose, "but I am not at all hungry. If you do not mind, I will talk to you while you dine. Miss Martineau, I have come to ask your advice."
Miss Martineau came up instantly and kissed the young girl on both cheeks.
"My love, I am delighted. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to give counsel to the young and inexperienced. Have you come from Mrs. Ellsworthy, dearest?"
"Not at all," answered Primrose. "Mrs. Ellsworthy has nothing to say to me. She is only a friend, nothing more. Miss Martineau, we have discovered that we cannot live on our little income. Please will you tell me how we can add to it, so that we three can keep together?"
"Keep together—impossible!" replied Miss Martineau. "There is nothing whatever before you, Primrose, but to face the inevitable. The inevitable means that you must break up your home—that you obtain, through the kind patronage of the Ellsworthys, a situation as governess, or companion, or something of that sort—and that the little girls, Jasmine and Daisy, are put into a good school for the orphan daughters of military men. The Ellsworthys will use their influence toward this end. They are very kind—they have taken up your cause warmly. Primrose, my dear, it sounds hard, but plain speaking is best. You must be parted from your sisters. This is inevitable. You have got to face it."
"It is not inevitable," answered Primrose—then she paused, and her face turned very white.
"It is not inevitable," she repeated, "for this reason because neither you nor Mrs. Ellsworthy have the smallest control over my sisters or myself. I asked for your advice, but if this is the best you can give, it is useless. Mrs. Ellsworthy never cared to know my mother, and she is not going to part my mother's children now. Good-bye, Miss Martineau—no, I am not hungry, I have a headache. Oh, I am not offended—people mean to be kind, but there are things which one cannot bear. No, Miss Martineau, the inevitable course you and Mrs. Ellsworthy have been kind enough to sketch out, my sisters and I will certainly not adopt."
Primrose walked down the street, passing by the little cottage which for so many years had been her home. Her sisters did not expect her to return to dinner, and her heart was too full to allow her to go in just then.
So they were to be parted—this was the advice of those who called themselves their friends. Primrose, Jasmine, and Daisy, her three flowers, as mother had called them, were no longer to grow sweetly in one garden together. They were to be parted—Primrose was to go one way, and the little ones another. Impulsive Jasmine would no longer cry out her griefs on Primrose's neck, or tell her joys and griefs, her hopes and aspirations, to the calm and elder sister. Daisy—their baby, as Primrose called her—might be ill or sad, or lonely, and she, Primrose, would no longer be there to comfort her.
Parted! No, they should not be parted—all their young lives they had lived together, and whether they starved, or whether they feasted, they would live together still. Thank God, no one had any real control over them—their very loneliness would now, therefore, be their safety—they might sketch out their own career, and no one could prevent them.
Primrose said to herself—
"After all, I am glad I know the very worst. People mean to be kind; but, oh! how can they understand what we three girls are to one another?"
She walked quickly in her agitation, and passing the village green, came suddenly upon Poppy Jenkins, who was hurrying home to her mother's cottage.
"Well, Miss Primrose, I'm off to-morrow," said Poppy, dropping one of her quick curtseys, and a more vivid red than usual coming into her bright cheeks.
"Yes, Poppy," answered Primrose; "I hope you will be very happy in London"—then a sudden thought occurring to her, she ran after the young girl and laid her hand on her shoulder.
"Poppy, give me your London address—I may want it."
"Oh law! Miss Primrose, do you think you'd be saving out of the thirty pounds regular income and coming up to London on a visit?"
"We may come to London, Poppy—I can't say," answered Primrose in a sad voice—"anyhow, I should like to have your address—may I have it?"
"Surely, miss—aunt lives in a part they call central—she says the rents are very high, but it's all done for the convenience of the beautiful ladies who boards with her. Aunt's address is Penelope Mansion—Wright Street, off the Edgware Road. It's a beautiful sounding address, isn't it, Miss Primrose?"
Primrose smiled again—a smile, however, which made poor little Poppy feel rather down-hearted, and then she continued her walk.
"It is very difficult to know what to do," she said to herself—"it makes one feel quite old and careworn. If only that brother who was lost long ago was now living, how nice it would be for us girls. I wonder if he is really dead—I suppose he is, or mamma would have heard something about him. Twenty years ago since it happened—longer than my whole life. Poor mother! poor, dear mother! what she must have suffered! I understand now why her pretty sweet face looked so sad, and why her hair was grey before her time. What a pity my brother has not lived—he certainly would not wish us girls to be parted."
Primrose walked on a little farther, then she retraced her steps and went home. She found Jasmine and Daisy in a state of the greatest excitement. Mrs. Ellsworthy had called, and had been nicer and sweeter and more charming than ever—she had brought Daisy a doll of the most perfect description, and had presented the flower-loving Jasmine with a great bouquet of exotics, which looked almost out of place in the humble little cottage.
"And there is a long letter for you, Primrose," continued Jasmine; "and she says she hopes you will read it very quickly, and that she may come down to-morrow morning to talk it over with you. She says there is a plan in the letter, and that it is a delightful plan—I wonder what it can be? Will you read the letter now, Primrose?—shall I break the seal and read it aloud to you?"
"No," answered Primrose, almost shortly for her—"Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter can keep," and then she slipped the thick white envelope into her pocket.
"Why sister darling, how pale you look!—are you tired?"
"A little," said Primrose—"I had no dinner—I should like a cup of tea."
Jasmine flew out of the room to get it for her, and Daisy nestled up to her elder sister's side.
"Primrose," she whispered, "Jasmine and I read that letter in the garden together. Oh! we were so surprised to know we had a little baby brother long ago. We went to Hannah and asked her about him, and Hannah cried—I never saw Hannah cry so long and so hard. She said he was the sweetest baby. Oh, how I wish we had him now!—he would be much, much nicer than my new doll."
"But if he were with us now he would be a man, Eyebright—a big, brave man, able to help us poor girls."
Daisy considered—
"I can only think of him as a baby," she said. "Hannah said he was lost in London. How I wish we could go to London and find our brother!"
The girls had finished tea, and Hannah had removed all traces of the evening meal before Primrose would even glance at the thick letter which was addressed to her. She did so at last, at the earnest entreaties of her two sisters—for Daisy climbed on the sofa beside her, and put her arms round her neck, and coaxed her to read what dear Mrs. Ellsworthy had written, and Jasmine took the letter and placed it in her lap, and seated herself on a footstool at her feet, and the two young girls looked interested and excited, and their eyes were bright with anticipation, and even some impatience.
Primrose, on the contrary, appeared indifferent. She broke the seal of the thick letter languidly, and began to read its contents aloud, in an almost apathetic voice.
This was what Mrs. Ellsworthy had written:
"MY DEAR PRIMROSE,
"(You remember our compact that I was to call you Primrose.) I had not courage to say to you the other day all that was in my heart. My dear child, it seems rather absurd to say it, but I felt afraid of you. In the eyes of the world I am considered a great lady—for I have riches, and my husband holds a good position—whereas you, Primrose, would be considered by that same world nothing but a simple village maid. Nevertheless, the innocent and unsophisticated girl contrived to keep the woman of the world at a distance, and to let her see very plainly that she thought her curious questions impertinent. When I read this expression of opinion so plainly in your eyes, Primrose, I felt afraid, and questioned no further. My dear, it is a fact that cowards always resort to pen and ink when they want to express a frank opinion. I am now going to say on paper what I feared to put into so many words the other night. First of all, you are mistaken about me. I am not what you think me.
"Oh, yes! I know very well what that proud little heart of yours tells you about me. It says, 'She is great and rich, and she is curious about us girls, and she wants to patronize us—'"
Here Primrose had to put down her letter, for she was interrupted by an exclamation from Daisy—
"But we don't think like that of our darling, pretty Mrs. Ellsworthy—do we, Jasmine?"
"Go on reading, Primrose," said Jasmine.
Primrose continued—
"You are all wrong about me, my dear, dear girls, and yet, after a measure, you are right; for in a certain sense I am curious about you; and most undoubtedly I want to help you. I know already a certain portion of your story, and already I can partly read your characters. The part of your story I know is this: You are ladies by birth—you are very ignorant of the world—and you have not at all sufficient money to live on. Your characters are as follows:
"Primrose, I am not at all afraid of you on paper. You, Primrose, are proud and independent. You are also sadly obstinate, and it is extremely probable that you will take your own way, which I can see beforehand will not be a wise one."
"Oh! oh! oh!" came interruption No. 2 to the reading of the letter, and Jasmine's arms were flung tightly round Primrose's neck.
"How can she talk of you like that? How little she knows you, my 'queen of roses.'"
Primrose smiled, kissed Jasmine between her eyebrows and went on reading.
"Jasmine's character," continued Mrs. Ellsworthy in her letter, "is as yet unformed. She has high aspirations and generous impulses—if she is well managed, and if you don't spoil her, Primrose, she will probably develop into a very noble woman. I love Jasmine very dearly already.
"As to your little sister, she is as fresh, and innocent, and dainty as her name; but take warning, Primrose, she is not over strong—there is a look about the little one which makes me dread the thought of her encountering any of the roughnesses of life.
"Now, my dear girl, I have read my little bit of a lecture; you are probably extremely angry with me, but I don't care. I now come to the practical part of my letter; I am desirous to help you three, and I want to help you in the way most suited to your individual characters. The sad fact cannot be gain-said—you must give up your home—you must earn your livings. May I help you to find a way to put bread into your mouths? I have thought it all out, and I think I know a plan. If you will agree to it, you may keep your independence, Primrose; Jasmine may be developed into the kind of woman God meant her to become; and little Daisy need not fear the rude blasts of adverse fate."
Here Daisy, who only partly understood the letter, burst into tears, and Primrose, taking her in her arms, allowed the closely written sheets to fall on the floor.
"I know what it means," she exclaimed, speaking with sudden fire and passion; "the same thing has been said to me by two different people already to-day. Mr. Danesfield said it after his fashion, Miss Martineau after hers, and now Mrs. Ellsworthy repeats the words. Oh, yes, I know what it means—separation—I will never consent to it!"
Jasmine had been kneeling on the floor and picking up the scattered sheets of Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter; she now raised her eyes in utter astonishment to her elder sister's face. Primrose was not accustomed to giving utterance to strong feelings. Primrose's words were wont to be calm and somewhat measured. Jasmine knew that she herself flew into tempests of grief, or anger, or excitement—she was always being chided for not restraining her feelings—she was always being gently lectured for using too strong expressions. What did Primrose mean by throwing down this kind though somewhat mysterious, letter, and by making use of so ghastly a word as "separation?" Who was going to divide them? Certainly not kind Mrs. Ellsworthy.
"Had we not better hear what she says, even though you don't seem quite to like her, Primrose?" asked Jasmine, holding up the sheets.
"There are two sheets more, quite full of writing—shall I read them aloud to you and Daisy?"
But Primrose had not got over the excitement which was growing within her all day; she took the letter out of Jasmine's hands, folded it, and returned it to its envelope.
"I must speak," she said; "we can finish that letter afterwards—the letter does not greatly matter, after all. Do you know, Jasmine, and do you know, Daisy, that these people who all mean to be so kind, and who, I suppose, really feel good-natured towards us, are trying to take our lives into their own hands? They are not our guardians, but they want to rule us—they say we cannot live on our income, and they will show us how we are to live. Mr. Danesfield will give money, if needed; Miss Martineau will give us heaps and oceans of advice; and Mrs. Ellsworthy will give patronage, and perhaps money too. They mean to be kind, as I said, and they think they ought to guide our lives. Of course, they consider us very young and very ignorant, and so they say they will provide for me in one way, and Jasmine in another, and Daisy in another. Now what I say is this; let us choose our own lives, Jasmine and Daisy; don't let us do anything rude to our friends, for I know they are our friends, but let us be firm and keep together. These people want to divide us; I say, let us keep together."
"Of course," said Jasmine; "is that really what the letter means—separation? Here, give it to me—" She snatched it from her sister, and flung it with energy to the other end of the apartment. Daisy nestled her soft little face up close to her eldest sister's—Daisy was still feeling things incomprehensible, and was also a little frightened.
"Go on," continued Jasmine, "go on talking, Primrose—we are quite with you, Daisy and I—what nonsense the people must have in their heads if they think we three are going to part!"
"But we are in a very painful and difficult position," continued Primrose. "We have certainly got to earn our bread, and we don't at all know how to earn it. We are not educated enough to go anywhere as governesses, although Miss Martineau did say that I might perhaps get a little place in the nursery; but in any case people would not want three governesses in one family, and, of course, Daisy is too young to earn anything for many a long day. Jasmine, I have been thinking over all this most seriously—I have been thinking over it for some hours, and it seems to me there is nothing at all for us to do but to go to London."
"Where Poppy is going?" interrupted Jasmine; "delicious—lovely—my dream of dreams! Go on, Primrose darling; I could listen to you all night."
"But we mustn't go only for pleasure," continued Primrose; "indeed, we must not go at all for pleasure. We must go to work hard, and to learn, so that bye-and-bye we may be really able to support ourselves. Now, there is only one way in which we can do that. We must take that two hundred pounds which Mr. Danesfield has in the bank, and we must live on it while we are being educated. We can go to a cheap part of London, and find poor lodgings—we won't mind how poor they are, if only they are very clean, with white curtains, and dimity round the beds. We'll be quite happy there, and we'll make our two hundred pounds go very far. With great care, and with our thirty pounds a year, it might last for four or five years, and by that time Daisy will have grown big, and you, Jasmine, will have grown up, and—and—perhaps you will have found a magazine to take your poems."
"Oh! oh! I never heard of anything so delicious!" exclaimed Jasmine. "Long before the five years are out I'll be on the pinnacle of fame. London will inspire me; oh, it is the home of beauty and delight! Where is Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter?—we will never finish it? I am going to burn it on the spot rather than allow any other idea to be put into your head, Primrose?"
Primrose smiled again, and before she could prevent her, her impetuous sister had torn Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter into ribbons, and had set fire to it in the empty grate.
"We must not be too sanguine about London," she said; "only it does seem the only independent thing to do. Then, too, there is that letter of dear mamma's and all that sad account of the little baby brother who was lost so long ago. Hannah says that he was lost in London—he must be a man now; perhaps we shall meet him in London. It certainly does seem as if it were right for us to go."
"I have done it, my dear Joseph," said Mrs. Ellsworthy. "I went to see the children, and I wrote to that little proud princess Primrose. It will be really very nice if they all come here. We have such heaps and heaps of money, more than we know what to do with; money becomes uninteresting when you have so much. I think I have tried most of the pleasures that money can buy. I have heaps of dresses, and quantities of jewels, and my lovely country home, and my season in town, but what I have never yet had, and what I have earnestly longed for, was a daughter. A boy, after all, has to go to school, and to fight his way in the world—our boy is at school, and a very good place for him—but a woman wants a girl of her own to quite satisfy her heart.
"Now it seems to me that I may have three girls. We must keep up the fiction of Primrose being useful to you in your library, Joseph—you must give her letters to write, and you must be very patient with her when she makes mistakes, for the dear child has not been educated, and will probably make the worst of secretaries. Never mind, you must try to appear delighted, and to seem as if you never could have got on until Primrose Mainwaring came to help you.
"Then the little ones—of course they are coming under the supposition that they are only to stay until I have found them berths in one of those horrid charity schools for the orphan daughters of military men—but I promise you those berths shall be hard to find. The three will insensibly consider themselves our adopted children. Oh, what a delightful plan it is! and how picturesque I shall feel with my girls! Joseph, did you ever see a brighter or more bewitching little soul than our Jasmine?"
"Our Jasmine?" repeated Mr. Ellsworthy; "she is by no means ours yet, my love. Well, I trust your plan will succeed—they are nice girls, and I like to feel I am doing a kindness to poor Mainwaring's daughters. I shall be very pleased indeed if they make your life any happier, Kate."
Mrs. Ellsworthy stooped down and kissed her husband's brow—she was all impatience for the morning to arrive, for surely early then would come an answer to the letter she had written.
But Mrs. Ellsworthy was doomed to disappointment. The next day brought no answer from the Mainwaring girls. The good little lady bore her suspense as best she could until noon, then she ordered her carriage and drove into the village.
Jasmine herself opened the cottage door for her. Jasmine was looking excited, and there were red rings round her eyes as if she had been crying, and yet at the same time those bright eyes of hers were shining, and her lips were quivering between smiles and tears.
"Oh, you have come!" she exclaimed; "Primrose is in the village—she has gone to Mr. Danesfield about our money. Please come into the drawing-room. We are rather upset, for we are beginning to pack, and Hannah is washing out the anti-macassars and the white muslin curtains, for we think the muslin curtains will look so nice in our cheap lodgings. We are very busy, awfully busy, but do come in and sit down. Eyebright, here is Mrs. Ellsworthy. Mrs. Ellsworthy, isn't Eyebright a silly?—she is quite fretting because she won't see those last seeds of hers come up in the garden. Now, if she was asked to leave the Pink I would say nothing, but of course the Pink comes too."
"Yes, dear, and Daisy shall have plenty of garden ground for fresh seeds. Oh! my dear children," continued Mrs. Ellsworthy, "I shall be so delighted to welcome you all to Shortlands, only I think you might have replied to my letter."
Mrs. Ellsworthy was by this time seated in a low arm-chair by the window, and Jasmine was standing before her, while Daisy sat demurely on the floor, and folded up the anti-macassars.
"We might have answered your letter?" repeated Jasmine. "Well now, do you know, to be quite frank and open, your letter was a little bit of a lecture. You did give it to darling old Primrose, and somehow or other you made Daisy cry. You spoke about a plan, and you said it was a delightful plan, but—but before we read that part of your letter Primrose thought of another plan of her own, and it was so exquisite, so perfect, that we tore up your plan for fear we should be tempted by it. We don't know your plan, Mrs. Ellsworthy, and we don't want it, for we have made our own, and ours is—yes, ours is lovely!"
Mrs. Ellsworthy had an expressive face, and while Jasmine was talking it changed and grew anxious; her husband's words, "She is not our Jasmine yet," returned to her. Like many rich and pretty women, she was unaccustomed to opposition, and when it came it but whetted her desire, and made her also feel irritable.
"It is rude to tear up the letters of kind friends," she said. "I made a proposal which would have been in every way suitable to you girls, and you did not even trouble yourselves to read it. No, my loves, I am not angry. Daisy, come and give me a kiss; Jasmine, hold my hand. Now shall I tell you the little plan which you would not read about last night?"
"Oh, we would not be rude to you for the world," said Jasmine. "Daisy, come here, and give Mrs. Ellsworthy one of your sweetest kisses. Of course I will hold your hand—I love you, and so does Daisy, and so does—"
"No, so does not Primrose," answered Mrs. Ellsworthy. "Primrose is the opposing element—still I trust I may conquer her. Now, my children, may I tell the plan?"
"Oh yes, do tell us," they both answered; but Jasmine added, "It will not be of the slightest use, for we have made our own."
"Well, dear, plans of girls as young as you are made to be altered. Now listen to my scheme.
"Mr. Ellsworthy writes for the papers and for one or two magazines. He has scientific tastes, and writing in this way gives interest to his life; but his eyes are not very strong, and he has for some time been wishing for some nice girl to whom he can dictate his thoughts. It seems to him, and to me too, that Primrose is just the sort of girl he wants, and if she will come and live with us at Shortlands, he will pay her something for giving him a couple of her hours daily—thus, you see, she will be earning her living and will be quite independent. You and Daisy, Jasmine, are to come to us on a visit, until we can find a school where, for your father's sake, your education may be finished."
"You mean a school for the orphan daughters of army men," said Jasmine, "I know. Well, thank you very much, but I'm afraid your plan won't answer. Neither Daisy nor I would at all like to go to a school for orphans. We don't fancy the idea of school, and dear mamma once said that she would never allow her girls to be taught at school, so, of course, that point is settled. Then you know we could not always remain with you on a visit, for we are no relations of yours—you never heard of us at all until a few days ago, although we have lived here most of our lives. Of course you don't mean to keep us always on a visit, so it would be very silly to begin a thing which could not go on. Then about Primrose—may I be quite honest with you about Primrose?"
"Oh yes, my dear."
"Well now, she doesn't write well—not really—her hand moves so slowly, and I have seen some spelling mistakes now and then in her letters—I fly over the page myself, but then I only can read my own writing. I am greatly afraid that poor Mr. Ellsworthy would find Primrose a bad secretary. No, no, no; ours is a much, much better plan. You see, Mrs. Ellsworthy, you must not be angry with us—we love you very much—we are greatly obliged to you, but we have quite made up our minds—we will not be separated. Ah! here comes Primrose. Primrose, darling, here is Mrs. Ellsworthy—she is just going to listen to our plan—she has told us hers, and I have been explaining to her that it will not answer, for Daisy and I are determined not to go to school, and you know, Primrose, you are really stupid with your pen."
"How do you do, Mrs. Ellsworthy?" said Primrose—she came in looking fagged and tired, and with a worried expression between her eyebrows. "Mrs. Ellsworthy," she said, "I am most grateful to you for being so kind to us. I know you won't approve at all of our plan—you will agree with Mr. Danesfield, who said he thought we had taken leave of our senses, but I think we have made up our minds, and as we have no guardian, there is no one to prevent us doing as we please."
"Oh, Primrose, how sad you look!" said Jasmine. "Has Mr. Danesfield been disagreeable to you? Well, I know our darling Mrs. Ellsworthy won't. Tell her our plan quickly. Primrose, she says you don't love her—tell her you do love her. Oh, she is sweet and dear and kind—tell her our plan—she won't throw cold water on what we wish to do—she won't think it wrong that we three girls should wish to keep together."
"Our plan is this," said Primrose, "I have asked Mr. Danesfield to give us what money he has of ours, and then we three are going to sell our furniture here, and to give up the cottage, and say good-bye to dear Hannah, and we are going to London. In London we shall learn. I am going to have lessons in painting, and Jasmine shall study English composition, and she shall be taught how to write properly; and Daisy, too, must be taught, and we will do that with our money which is now in the bank, and when it is spent we shall be able to support ourselves. After all, it is a very simple plan, and the best thing about it is that it will keep us together."
When Primrose began to talk Mrs. Ellsworthy threw down her hands in her lap with a gesture of great impatience. Now she asked in a short dry voice, "May I ask what money you have in the bank?"
"Yes, certainly—we have two hundred pounds—a little of that must be spent in paying one or two small accounts, but then we shall have the money as well from the sale of our furniture. Yes, I think we shall have quite two hundred pounds to take to London."
"And we are going to be very economical," interposed Jasmine. "We are going at first for a couple of nights to a boarding-house for ladies only. It is called Penelope Mansion, and is in a street off the Edgware Road—we have a friend, she is only a village girl, but we call her our friend—her name is Poppy Jenkins, who has just gone to Penelope Mansion to help her aunt, who is the owner of the boarding-house. While we are there we will see the sights, for of course that must be part of our education. We will go to Westminster Abbey to be solemnized, and we will go to the Tower to perfect our knowledge of the tragical part of English history, and we must take Daisy to the Zoo, for she has always longed to see a lot of monkeys all together. I don't think we'll have any time for looking in at the shop windows, for we shall be very busy, and very, very earnest, but these places we must see. I daresay Poppy and her aunt, and some of the nice ladies in the boarding-house, will go with us. When Poppy has dusted up and put things straight in the morning, of course she'll have lots and lots of time. Oh, it does seem such an easy, sensible plan."
"My poor, poor children!" exclaimed Mrs. Ellsworthy, "my poor, deluded, silly, obstinate children!" and then the good little woman burst into tears.