CHAPTER II
AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL
We hurried across the common--it was still daylight though the sun hadset some little time. The red and gold were still lingering in the skyand casting a beautiful glow on the heather and the gorse bushes. ForBrayling Common is not like what the word makes most people thinkof--there's no grass at all--it's all heather and gorse, and here andthere clumps of brambles, and low down on the sandy soil all sorts ofhardy, running, clinging little plants that ask for nothing but sunshineand air. For of moisture there's but scanty supply; it no sooner rainsthan it dries up again. But oh it is beautiful--the colours of it I'venever seen equalled--not even in Italy or Switzerland, where I went withmy first ladies, as I said before. The heather seems to change its shadea dozen times a day, as well as with every season--according as the skyis cloudy or bright, or the sun overhead or on his way up or down. Icannot say it the right way, but I know that many far cleverer than mewould feel the same; you may travel far before you'd see a sweeter pieceof nature than our common, with its wonderful changefulness and yetalways beautiful.
There's little footpaths in all directions, as well as a few widertracks. It takes strangers some time to learn their way, I can tell you.The footpaths are seldom wide enough for two, so it's a queer sort ofbackwards and forwards talking one has to be content with. And we walkedtoo fast to have breath for much, only Widow Nutfold would now and thenthrow back to me, so to say, some odds and ends of explaining about thechildren that she thought I'd best know.
'They're dear young ladies,' she said, 'though Miss Elisabeth is a bitmasterful and Miss Baby--Augusta's her proper name--a bit spoilt. Takethem all together, I think Miss Lally's my favourite, or would be if shewas a little happier, poor child! I can't stand whiney children.'
I smiled to myself--I knew that the good woman's experience of childrenwas not great--she had married late and never had one of her own. Itwas real goodness that made her take such an interest in the littlePenroses.
'Poor child,' I said, 'perhaps the cross nurse has made her so,' atwhich Sarah gave a sort of grunt. 'What is her real name--the middleyoung lady's, I mean?'
'Oh, bless you, I couldn't take upon me to say it--it's too outlandish.Miss Lally we call her--' and I could hear that Mrs. Nutfold's breathwas getting short--she was stout in her later years--and that she was alittle cross. 'You must ask for yourself, Martha.'
So I said no more, though I had wanted to hear about the boy, who hadspoken of their mother as his aunty, and how he had come to be sodelicate and lame. And in a few minutes more we found ourselves at thedoor of Clover Cottage; that was Mrs. Nutfold's house, though 'BrambleCottage' would have suited it better, standing where it did.
She took the key out of her pocket.
'I locked them in,' she said, nodding her head, 'though they didn't knowit.'
'Gracious,' says I, 'you don't mean as the children are all alone?'
'To be sure--who'd be with them? I wasn't going to make a chatter allover the place about that impident woman a-goin' off. And Bella, mygirl, goes home at five. 'Twas after she left there was all the upset.'
I felt rather startled at hearing this. Suppose they had set themselveson fire! But old Sarah seemed quite easy in her mind, as she opened thedoor and went in, me following.
'Twas a nice roomy cottage, and so clean. Besides the large kitchen atone side, with a good back-kitchen behind it, and a tidy bedroom forMrs. Nutfold, there was a fair-sized parlour, with casement windows anddeep window-seats--all old-fashioned, but roomy and airy. And upstairstwo nice bed-rooms and a small one. I knew it well, having been thereoff and on to help Mrs. Nutfold with her lodgers at the busy seasonbefore I went away to a regular place. So I was a little surprised whenshe turned to the kitchen, instead of opening the parlour door. And atfirst, what with coming out of the half-light and the red glow still inmy eyes, and what with that there Fusser setting upon me with such abarking and jumping--all meant for a welcome, I soon found--as neverwas, I scarce could see or hear. But I soon got myself together again.
'Down Fusser, naughty Fuss,' said the children, and, 'he won't bite,it's only meant for "How do you do?"' said the eldest girl. And then sheturned to me as pretty as might be. 'Is this Martha?' says she, holdingout her little hand. 'I _am_ pleased to see you. It's very good of you,and oh, Mrs. Nutfold, I'm so glad you've come back. Baby is getting sosleepy.'
Poor little soul--so she was. They had set her up on Sarah's oldrocking-chair near the fire as well as they could, to keep her warmbecause of her cold, and it was a chilly evening rather. But it was pasther bed-time, and she was fractious with all the upset. I just wasstooping down to look at her when she gave a little cry and held out herarms to me. 'Baby so tired,' she said, 'want to go to bed.'
'And so you shall, my love,' I said. 'I'll have off my bonnet in amoment, and then Martha will put Miss Baby to bed all nice and snug.'
'Marfa,' said a little voice beside me. It was the middle young lady. 'Ilike that name, don't you, Francie?'
That was the boy--they were all there, poor dears. Old Sarah had thoughtthey'd be cosier in the kitchen while she was out. I smiled back atMiss Lally, as they called her. She was standing by Master Francis; bothlooking up at me, with a kind of mixture of hope and fear, a sort ofasking, 'Will she be good to us?' in their faces, which touched me verymuch. Master Francis was not a pretty child like the others. He was paleand thin, and his eyes looked too dark for his face. He was small too,no taller than Miss Bess, and with none of her upright hearty look. Butwhen he smiled his expression was very sweet. He smiled now, with a sortof relief and pleasure, and I saw that he gave a little squeeze to MissLally's hand, which he was holding.
'Yes,' he said, 'it's a nice name. The other nurse was called "Sharp;"it suited her too,' with a twinkle in his eyes I was pleased to see.'Lally can't say her "th's" properly,' he went on, as if he was excusingher a little, 'nor her "r's" sometimes, though Bess and I are trying toteach her.'
'It's so babyish at _her_ age, nearly six, not to speak properly,' saidMiss Bess, with her little toss of the head, at which Miss Lally's facepuckered up, and the corners of her mouth went down, and I saw whatSarah Nutfold meant by saying she was rather a 'whiney' child. I didn'tgive her time for more just then. I had got Miss Baby up in my arms,where she was leaning her sleepy head on my shoulder in her pretty babyway. I felt quite in my right place again.
'Come along, Miss Lally, dear,' I said. 'It must be your bed-time too,and if you'll come upstairs with Miss Baby and me, you'll be able toshow me all the things--the baths, and the sponges, andeverything--won't that be nice?'
She brightened up in a moment--dear child, it's always been like thatwith her. Give her a hint of anything she could do for others, and she'dforget her own troubles--fancy or real ones--that minute.
'The hot water's all ready,' said Mrs. Nutfold. 'I kep' the fire up, soas you shouldn't have no trouble I could help, Martha, my dear.'
And then the three of us went upstairs to the big room at the back,where I was to sleep with Miss Baby in her cot, and which we called thenight nursery. Miss Lally was as bright as a child could be, and thathandy and helpful. But more than once I heard a sigh come from the verydepths of her little heart, it seemed.
'Sharp never lettened me help wif Baby going to bed, this nice way,' shesaid, and sighed again.
'Never mind about Sharp, my dear,' I said. 'She had her ways, and Marthahas hers. What are you sighing about?'
'I'm so fwightened her'll come back and you go, Marfa,' she said,nestling up to me. Baby was safe in bed by now, prayers said and all.'And--I'm sleepy, but I don't like going to bed till Queen comes.'
'Who may she be, my dear?' I asked, and then I remembered their talkingthat day in the street. 'Oh, it's Miss Bess, you mean.'
'Yes--it's in the English hist_ory_,' said the child, making a greateffort over the 'r.' 'There was a queen they called "Good Queen Bess,"so I made that my name for Bess. But mamma laughed one day and said thatqueen w
asn't "good." I was so sorry. So I just call Bess "Queen" forshort. And I say "good" to myself, for my Bess _is_ good; only I wishshe wouldn't be vexed when I don't speak words right,' and again thelittle creature sighed as if all the burdens of this weary world were onher shoulders.
'It's that Miss Bess wants you to speak as cleverly as she does, Isuppose. It'll come in time, no fear. When I was a little girl Icouldn't say the letter "l," try as I might. I used to leave it outaltogether--I remember one day telling mother I had seen such a sweet"ittie 'amb"--I meant "little lamb."'
'Oh, how funny,' said Miss Lally laughing. She was always ready tolaugh. 'It's a good thing I can say "l's," isn't it? My name wouldn'tbe--nothing--would it?--without the "l's."'
'But it's only a short, isn't it, Missy?' I said.
'Yes, my _weal_ name is "Lalage." Do you fink it's a pretty name?' shesaid. She was getting sleepy, and it was too much trouble to worry abouther speaking.
'Yes, indeed, I think it's a sweet name. So soft and gentle like,' Isaid, which pleased her, I could see.
'Papa says so too--but mamma doesn't like it so much. It was Francie'smamma's name, but she's dead. And poor Francie's papa's dead too. He waspapa's brother,' said Miss Lally, in her old-fashioned way. There was afunny mixture of old-fashionedness and simple, almost baby ways aboutall those children. I've never known any quite like them. No doubt itcame in part from their being brought up so much by themselves, andhaving no other companions than each other. But from the first I alwaysfelt they were dear children, and more than common interesting.
A few days passed--very quiet and peaceful, and yet full of life toothey seemed to me. I felt more like myself again, as folks say, thansince my great trouble. It _was_ sweet to have real little ones to seeto again--if Miss Baby had only known it, that first evening's bathingher and tucking her up in bed brought tears of pleasure to my eyes.
'Come now,' I said, to myself, 'this'll never do. You mustn't letyourself go for to get so fond of these young ladies and gentleman thatyou're only with for a day or two at most,' but I knew all the same Icouldn't help it, and I settled in my own mind that as soon as I could Iwould look out for a place again. I wasn't afraid of what some wouldcount a hardish place--indeed, I rather liked it. I've always been thatfond of children that whatever I have to do for them comes right--whatdoes try my temper is to see things half done, or left undone by sillyupsetting girls who haven't a grain of the real nurse's spirit in them.
My lady wrote at once on hearing from Mrs. Nutfold. She was very angryindeed about Sharp's behaviour, and at first was by way of coming downimmediately to see to things. But by the next day, when she had got asecond letter saying how old Sarah had fetched me, and that I waswilling to stay for the time, she wrote again, putting off for a fewdays, and glad to do so, seeing how cleverly her good Mrs. Nutfold hadmanaged. That was how she put it--my lady always had a gracious way withher, I will say--and I was to be thanked for my obligingness; she wassure her little dears would be happy with any one so well thought of bythe dame. They were very busy indeed just then, she and Sir Hulbert, shesaid, and very gay. But when I came to know her better I did herjustice, and saw she was not the butterfly I was inclined to think her.She was just frantic to get her husband forward, so to speak, and farmore ambitious for him than caring about anything for herself. He hadhad a trying and disappointing life of it in some ways, had Sir Hulbert,and it had not soured him. He was a right-down high-minded gentleman,though not so clever as my lady, perhaps. And she adored him. Theyadored each other--seldom have I heard of a happier couple: only on onepoint was there ever disunion between them, as I shall explain, all ingood time.
A week therefore--fully a week--had gone by before my little ladies'mother came to see them. And when she did come it was at short noticeenough--a letter by the post--and Mayne, the postman, never passed ourway much before ten in the morning. So the dame told as how she'd bedown by the first train, and get to Clover Cottage by eleven, or soonafter. We were just setting off on our morning walk when Sarah camecalling after us to tell. She was for us not going, and stopping in tillher ladyship arrived; but when I put it to her that the children wouldget so excited, hanging about and nothing to do, she gave in.
'I'll bring them back before eleven,' I said. 'They'll be looking freshand rosy, and with us out of the way you and the girl can get the roomsall tidied up as you'd like for my lady to find them.'
And Sarah allowed it was a good thought.
'You've a head on your shoulders, my girl,' was how she put it.
So off we set--our usual way, over the common to the firwoods. There'smany a pretty walk about Brayling, and a great variety; but none tookthe young ladies' and Master Francie's fancy like the firwoods. They hadnever seen anything of the kind before, their home being by theseashore was maybe the reason--or one reason. For I feel much the samemyself about loving firwoods, though, so to say, I was born and bredamong them. There's a charm one can't quite explain about them--thesameness and the stillness and the great tops so high up, and yet thebareness and openness down below, though always in the shade. And thescent, and the feel of the crisp crunching soil one treads on, soil madeof the millions of the fir needles, with here and there the cones asthey have fallen.
'It's like fairy stories,' Miss Lally used to say, with her funny littlesigh.
But we couldn't linger long in the woods that morning, though abeautiful morning it was. Miss Bess and Miss Baby were in the greatestdelight about 'mamma' coming, and always asking me if I didn't think itmust be eleven o'clock. Miss Lally was pleased too, in her quiet way,only I noticed that she was a good deal taken up with Master Francie,who seemed to have something on his mind, and at last they both calledto Miss Bess, and said something to her which I didn't hear, evidentlyasking her opinion.
'Nonsense,' said Miss Bess, in her quick decided way; 'I have nopatience with you being so silly. As if mamma would be so unjust.'
'But,' said Master Francis hesitatingly, 'you know, Bess--sometimes----'
'Yes,' put in Miss Lally, 'she might think it had been partly Francie'sfault.'
'Nonsense,' said Miss Bess again; 'mamma knows well enough that Sharpwas horrid. I am sure Francie has been as good as good for ever so long,and old Mrs. Nutfold will tell mamma so, even if possibly she did notunderstand.'
Their faces grew a little lighter after this, and by the time we had gothome and I had tidied them all up, I really felt that my lady would bedifficult to please if she didn't think all four looking as bright andwell as she could wish.
I kept myself out of the way when I heard the carriage driving up,though the children would have dragged me forward. But I was a completestranger to Lady Penrose, and things having happened as they had, I feltthat she might like to be alone with the children, at first, and that nodoubt Sarah Nutfold would be eager to have a talk with her. I sat downto my sewing quietly--there was plenty of mending on hand, Sharp'sservice having been but eye-service in every way--and I won't deny butthat my heart was a little heavy thinking how soon, how very soon, mostlikely, I should have to leave these children, whom already, in thesefew days, I had grown to love so dearly.
I was not left very long to my meditations, however; before an hour hadpassed there came a clear voice up the old staircase, 'Martha, Martha,come quick, mamma wants you,' and hastening out I met Miss Bess at thedoor. She turned and ran down again, I following her more slowly.
How well I remember the group I saw as I opened the parlour door! It waslike a picture. Lady Penrose herself was more than pretty--beautiful, Ihave heard her called, and I think it was no exaggeration. She wassitting in the dame's old-fashioned armchair, in the window of thelittle room; the bright summer sunshine streaming in behind her andlighting up her fair hair--hair for all the world like Miss Lally's,though perhaps a thought darker. Miss Baby was on her knee and Miss Besson a stool at her feet, holding one of her hands. Miss Lally and MasterFrancie were a little bit apart, close together as usual.
'Come in,' said my lad
y. 'Come in, Martha,' as I hesitated a little inthe doorway. 'I am very pleased to see you and to thank you for all yourkindness to these little people.'
She half rose from her chair as I drew near, and shook hands with me inthe pretty gracious way she had.
'I am sure it has been a pleasure to me, my lady,' I said. 'I've beenused to children for so long that I was feeling quite lost at home doingnothing.'
'And you are very fond of children, truly fond of them,' my lady wenton, glancing up at me with a quick observant look, that somehow remindedme of Miss Bess; 'so at least Mrs. Nutfold tells me, and I think Ishould have known it for myself even if she had not said so. I have togo back to town this afternoon--supposing you all run out into thegarden for a few minutes, children; I want to talk to Martha a little,and it will soon be your dinner time.'
She got up as she spoke, putting Miss Baby down gently; the child begangrumbling a little--but, 'No, no, Baby, you must do as I tell you,'checked her in a moment.
'Take her out with you, Bess,' she added. I could see that my lady wasnot one to be trifled with.
When they had all left the room she turned to me again. 'Sit down,Martha, for a minute or two. One can always talk so much morecomfortably sitting,' she said pleasantly. 'And I have no doubt thechildren have given you plenty of exercise lately, though you don't lookdelicate,' she added, with again the little look of inquiry.
'Thank you, my lady; no, I am not delicate; as a rule I am strong andwell, though this last year has brought me troubles and upsets, and Ihaven't felt quite myself.'
'Naturally,' she said. 'Mrs. Nutfold has told me about you. I wastalking to her just now when I first arrived.' Truly my lady was not oneto let the grass grow under the feet. 'She says you will be looking fora situation again before long. Is there any chance of your being able totake one at once, that is to say if mine seems likely to suit you.'
She spoke so quick and it was so unexpected that I felt for a momenthalf stupid and dazed-like.
'Are you sure, my lady, that I should suit you?' I managed to say atlast. 'I have only been in one place in my life, and you might want moreexperience.'
'You were with Mrs. Wyngate, in ----shire, I believe? I know her sisterand can easily hear any particulars I want, but I feel sure you wouldsuit me.'
She went on to give me a good many particulars, all in the same cleardecided way. 'The Wyngates are very rich,' she said, as she ended. 'Youmust have seen a great deal of luxury there. Now we are not rich--not atall rich--though we have a large country place that has belonged to thefamily for many hundreds of years; but we are obliged to live plainlyand the place is rather lonely. I don't want you to decide all at once.Think it all over, and consult your parents, and let me have your answerwhen I come down again.'
'That will be the difficulty,' I replied; 'my parents wanted me to stayon some time with them. There is nothing about the work or the wages Ishould object to, and though Mrs. Wyngate was very kind, I have nevercared for much luxury in the nursery--indeed, I should have likedplainer ways; and I love the country, and as for the young ladies andgentleman, my lady, if it isn't taking a liberty to say so, I love themdearly already. But it is father and mother----'
'Well, well,' said my lady, 'we must see. The children are very happywith you, and I hope it may be arranged, but of course you must consultyour parents.'
She went back to London that same afternoon, and that very evening, whenthey were all in bed, I slipped on my bonnet and ran home to talk itover with father and mother.
Nurse Heatherdale's Story Page 2
