Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

“It’s always bin me dream,” she said affably, “to be a young lady in a shop. And flowers is so toney, ain’t they?”

  She handled the flowers lightly and carefully, and conversed with customers in a way which set Lucilla and Jane trembling for the welfare of the business. But most of the customers seemed to enjoy Gladys’s conversation, and to the few who did not Gladys smiled that wonderful wide smile of hers that made you think of collie dogs, and they forgave her.

  Then she went off on her afternoon out and came back full of information.

  “You give too much for the money, Mss Jane,” she said. “I bin looking at the shops and prizing the flowers. If they didn’t like me asking and then not buying they can lump it. I don’t know what else they expect, with them prices and the flowers not half so fresh as what yours are.

  Them big white lily flowers yer give away in the sixpenny mixed bunches, they’re charging threepence the piece for, and putting them in funeral wreaths with made-in-hair ferns and big pinks something beautiful. Why don’t you sell wreaths for funerals, miss? Now that’s a thing I really could enjoy making up, them funeral wreaths. I could easy learn how. There was a young man at it in one of the shops. I could see by the way he looked at me with one eye he’d be only too pleased to show me how, if I was to encourage him.”

  “Now, Gladys,” said Jane firmly, “you really must not begin encouraging young men.”

  And she explained carefully how important it is for business girls to think only of business and not of young men, and how courting and love’s young dream should be left till later on. Gladys listened kindly, smoothing out the many-coloured feather-flowers of her best hat, and when Jane had quite ended the little sermon she said:

  “Yes, miss; but your ‘art’s your ‘art, ain’t it? And there’s so much competition too. If you let your chances go when you’re young you may find yourself an old maid all of a sudden, and wish you’d acted different. Now what I say is, you should always have two or three of them anxious for you to say ‘Yes,’ and go on not saying it, and being taken to fairs and the pictures, and chocs, and cigs and something to look forward to on your evening out. And if you find any time that you’re getting old — why, then there’s always someone ready for you to say ‘Yes’ to, and you can try how you like being a married lady.”

  “Well,” said Jane, “all I insist on is that you don’t bring them here.”

  “Not me, you may rely,” Gladys assured her earnestly. “Why, they’d get talking together! Keep ’em well apart’s my rule.”

  Jane was not sorry to get away from the subject. She felt that in her life too there were two young men who were best apart. And she perceived that Gladys might not unreasonably defend herself by a tu quoque. But Gladys’s tact, though all her own, still was tact. She knew to a hair what you might and might not say to your mistress.

  Gladys approved highly of Mr. Dix.

  “He’s a goer. You’ve got a fair treasure in him, Miss Lucy,” she said, as she was taking over the shop — for now she served there every afternoon, the two girls taking charge in the mornings. Mr. Dix had just brought in a sheaf of white iris and Canterbury bell and scarlet geum, and also a list of trivialities — bast, labels, wire, quassia, soft-soap — to be ordered at the Stores.

  “His feet don’t stick to the ground like that Mrs. Veale’s. Veale by name and Veale by nature. And beautiful manners Took off his hat to me in the street, he did really; and always gets up when I come along when he’s sitting down, as respectful as though I was a duchess. Ah, that ‘ud be the gentleman for me, if I was a lady.”

  “No doubt some lady will think so in good time,” said Lucilla.

  “Let’s hope she won’t think so too late,” said Gladys darkly. “A gentleman like that is just the one to get snapped up by some designing hussy: one of them vampire women you see on the films, or a woman with five other husbands like that Mrs. Doria de Vere, as she calls herself, in the paper last Sunday.”

  * * * * * * *

  It was Gladys who secured the two maids, experienced, expensive, and so competent that they seemed scarcely human. She sniffed at Labour Exchanges, bought the Morning Post on the advice of Mr. Dix, and made a journey to a registry office in Baker Street. —

  “There’s plenty of servants if you know how to intrap them,” she explained. “I did it telling them what nice young innocents you two was, not knowing a thing about housekeeping, so they’d have it all their own way. But a cook I couldn’t get. I see plenty, but they wants their weight in gold afore they’ll come, and a tidy weight it ‘ud be with some of ‘em. Why not advertise for cook-housekeeper; suit widow, one child not objected to? That’ll fetch someone, and the little gell’ll be handy to run errands and feed the rabbit. You ought to get some more rabbits. One rabbit don’t pay.”

  “But suppose it’s a little boy?” suggested Jane.

  “It won’t be a boy,” said Gladys; “if their letters says ‘ boy,’ don’t you answer them. That’s easy.”

  It was this suggestion which led to the advent of Mrs. Dadd — Adela Dadd was her full and incredible name — a thin, pale person with admirable testimonials from the superior clergy. She had been housekeeper to a rector and, before her marriage, nursery governess to a dean. Her daughter was seven — a lumpish child with an open mouth, an unconquerable stickiness of hands and face, and stockings that were always wrinkled. Mrs. Dadd simpered, she bridled, and she languished. She called her employers by their names every time she spoke to them, so as to make it quite plain that she did not belong to the class which says “Miss” or Ma’am.” Neither Mrs nor Miss Dadd really pleased anyone, but time was getting on. The house was ready, the servants were there, eating their heads off, and it was high time that the paying guests should begin to pay. Mrs. Dadd left much to be desired, but she was better than the bouncing lady with the almost grown-up daughter who had lived in the best families in garrison towns and wore more jewellery in the morning than most ladies would care to wear at night. She was also more possible than the trembling old lady of seventy who owned to forty-eight, and had dyed her poor white hair and powdered her wrinkled old cheeks, and put on a necklace of big pearl beads, all in the effort to find work that she could not do and wages that she could not earn.

  “It makes your blood run cold,” said Jane. “Poor old thing! And she ought to be in the best arm chair, with a dozen children always running to Granny. That’s what I like about the Chinese. They do look after old people. But we couldn’t have taken her — now, could we, Luce?”

  “Bless your heart, no, miss,” said Gladys, who was present; “and I daresay if the truth was known she’s only had a tiff with her son’s wife that she lives with and started out to get a situation just to show her independence.”

  “Let’s hope so, anyhow,” said Jane. “What do you think of Mrs. Dadd, Gladys? Adela Dadd! What a name!”

  “I think she’ll be an addler, if you ask me,” said Gladys. “Ad’la by name and addler by nature. I lay she’ll try to do all her work with the tips of her fingers. But you can but try.”

  So they tried. Mrs. Dadd was not a good cook, but the food she prepared was not uneatable. A design of getting Mrs. Doveton to give her a few lessons in cookery was negatived by both with unexpected firmness.

  “I couldn’t take it on me, miss,” said Mrs. Doveton.

  “I’m not a child to be taught things,” said Mrs. Dadd. “I’ve lived in the best families, where six was kept, besides a Buttons. No, thank you, Miss Quested. There’s enough of the boiled mutton to do cold for to-day. It’ll save cooking, Miss Quested. And the suet pudding warmed up with a nice potato, and there’s your dinner.”

  And there, as she said, their dinner was.

  A carefully-worded advertisement setting forth the advantages of residence at Cedar Court was inserted in three papers, and in a sort of ordered hush Cedar Court awaited applicants. There was a certain restfulness. Only the shop in the morning. In the afternoon leisure, then tea and tennis.
/>   Gladys seemed to have come as a liberator. The shop no longer claimed the whole day. And tennis is a very agreeable game. “If only we could go on like this!” said Jane. “How nice it is to have servants and everything going by clockwork — at least, Addler Dadd certainly doesn’t, but Stanley and Forbes do. I almost wish we hadn’t advertised for the Pigs.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to go through the accounts,” said Lucilla threateningly. But they went down to the tennis-court instead. Mr. Rochester was able to play tennis almost every evening, and Mr. Dix, of course, was always glad of a game after working hours.

  “What a life!” said Gladys, when they came in. “Not but what I daresay it’s good for your inside, all that hopping about. And Mr. Dix, he deserves a bit of fun, working as he does. But that Mr. Rochester! Ain’t he got nothing to do? ‘As he got an independent income? Ain’t he got no trade?”

  “He’s an engineer, I believe,” Jane told her.

  “Then why doesn’t he enginee? No, you mark my words: he’s got a reason of his own for hanging about here; are you sure he ain’t a detective?”

  “There wouldn’t be anything for him to detect here,” said Lucilla.

  “I’m not so sure. There’s people with pasts. Where’s Addler’s husband?”

  “Dead,” said Lucilla.

  “So she says,” said Gladys. And Jane had to say, “That’ll do,” very firmly and end the conversation.

  You know how elastic time is, and how some days seem to have no time in them at all, and other days seem as though there was time in them for everything. These days were full of time — time to go from room to room, touching up the flowers, changing the position of a chair or a table, followed by little Addie Dadd, always flagrantly sticky but faithfully keeping her promise “not to touch.” The girls tried very hard to like poor little Addie, who plainly adored them, but you cannot really love a child unless you can embrace it, and Addie was always much too sticky for that, except just after her bath, and then, of course, Mrs. Dadd was always there to say, “Thank Miss Quested and Miss Craye, Addie, for being so kind,” and then, of course, Addie said, “Thank you,” and nothing more could be said on either side.

  They had to get rid of the child before settling to their sewing, of which they did an incredible amount. Aunt Lucy’s old sprigged muslins and striped bareges made the most delicious frocks and jumpers, and Jane had a sage-green, soft-satin gown for evening with little pink and white rosebuds embroidered all over it. “By hand, too, none of your machine-made stuff”; and Lucilla had a mignonette-coloured shot silk with a short waist and wonderful gathered trimming.

  “When we get enough P.G.’s together we’ll have a dance,” said Jane.

  “Rather,” said Lucilla, and their imagination peopled the big, silent rooms of Cedar Court with a little crowd of strangers, all young, all good-looking and good-tempered, all ready to please and be pleased. It was a radiant prospect and kept them well amused.

  Then the answers to the advertisement began to arrive, and the days become darkened with correspondence. There are no letters so dull as the letters in which you demand or supply what are called “ references.”

  Out of the cloud of ink three human figures presently emerged, clothed with testimonials almost as glowing as Mrs. Dadd’s — an officer’s widow and her unmarried sisters. The terms were satisfactory, the date of the arrival was fixed, the rooms were got ready.

  “Towels and soap and fresh flowers and pincushions with real pins in them,” said Jane. “The P.G. who can’t be happy here doesn’t deserve to be happy anywhere.”

  “Perhaps they aren’t,” said Lucilla.

  “I only hope the dinner will be all right. The tinned mock turtle and tinned peas and tinned asparagus and tinned peaches. That only leaves the mutton for Mrs. Dadd to cook, and potatoes. Oh, if only we had Mrs. Doveton here!”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Smale won’t mind what she eats. Officers’ widows following the regiment all over the world must get used to having odd sorts of meals. After puppy-dog pie and birds-nest soup I daresay even Mrs. Dadd’s cooking would seem all right.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jane, but without conviction. “Was that the gate? Oh, what have I done?”

  What she had done was to knock a vase of pinks off a table and flood the hearthrug. Lucilla flew to the bell, and they heard it clanging through the house. But they heard nothing else. No coming of footsteps. They rang again, and then Jane sped down to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Dadd was snatching a moment’s rest with her feet on a chair. She often snatched moments’ rest. Little Addie was trying to feed the cat with a jammy spoon.

  “Why doesn’t someone answer the bell?”

  “Forbes has gone to post with a letter, Miss Quested,” said Mrs. Dadd in leisurely explanation, while Jane almost danced with impatience. “ It’s Stanley’s day out, and Gladys is always in the shop, I understand, of an afternoon.”

  “Well,” said Jane, “I think you might have come.”

  “I couldn’t undertake to answer bells, Miss Quested,” j said Mrs. Dadd; “that’s the servants’ place.”

  “But, good gracious me! — when there’s no one else? We might have been on fire or being murdered!”

  “Oh no,” said Mrs. Dadd, “not that, I think, Miss Quested.”

  “Well, I’ve upset a lot of water, and I want you to come at once and mop it up. Bring a pail, please, and a cloth, and j do be quick. It’s soaking into the rug and the carpet. Please make haste, Mrs. Dadd.”

  But Mrs. Dadd was shaking her head slowly and calmly. “Oh no, Miss Quested,” she said, “I couldn’t do that.

  I couldn’t undertake to do anything menial.”

  “But there’s nothing menial about mopping up some water. I’d do it myself.”

  “People feel differently about things, I know,” Mrs. Dadd conceded.

  “But who cleans the kitchen floor?” asked Jane.

  “I don’t know, Miss Quested,” was the unforgettable reply. “Addie, come here and leave the cat alone.”

  “Do you mean,” said Jane incredulously, “that you aren’t going to mop up that water?”

  “You’ll excuse me, Miss Quested, I’m sure. I’ve come down in the world, but not so low as that,” she simpered.

  “Oh no!”

  Jane completely and suddenly lost her temper.

  “You refuse to do it?”

  “I’m afraid I must say yes to that,” said Mrs. Dadd, with a sort of defiant archness.

  “Then you’d better go. Go now,” said Jane.

  “Certainly,” said Mrs. Dadd, with some alacrity. “I should like my month’s money, Miss Quested, and I’ll leave at once. Come, Addie darling, and help Mummy to pack.”

  “Where’s the pail?” Jane asked.

  “In the back kitchen, I believe. Come, Addie.”

  Jane got the pail and the floor-cloth and, carrying them, reached the hall just as the front-door bell rang. She then perceived that if she did not open the door no one would. Besides, it might be Forbes.

  So she opened it. The doorstep was occupied by three large ladies.

  The captain’s widow and her sisters had chosen this fortunate moment for their début at Cedar Court.

  CHAPTER XXI

  “THERE were three of them, but they looked as big as a crowd. They’ve got great, pale faces like potatoes, and they’re all exactly alike. I’ve taken them up to their rooms, and one of them said hers had a north aspect; and another one said her room was like an oven with the afternoon sun — and the third one just turned up her nose without a word. Pigs!” Thus Jane to Lucilla, having shown the guests to their rooms.

  “And they want hot water and their luggage carried up. The porter brought it and he’s out there now, grumbling at what they paid him. You can hear him going on like a gramophone before it really begins. And they want someone to carry up the luggage; and both the maids are out; and Mrs. Dadd was cheeky, and I’ve told her to go — and she’s going. She’s going now, th
is minute, while we’re chattering.”

  “I’m not chattering,” said Lucilla.

  “No,” said Jane, “you’re always right. You’re always cool and calm and collected and — and — blameless. And I’m always in the soup. And then you rub it in.” And she burst into tears.

  “It’s not that,” she sobbed, when Lucilla had come to her and had put her arm round her and had said, “Don’t, darling,” and “Never mind,” and “There, dear, there,” and all the things that girls do say to each other when one of them is weeping. “It’s not unhappiness. It’s rage. I could kill Mrs. Dadd. I could. I should like to. And Addie was rubbing the cat all over with a jammy spoon and it’ll go all over the drawing-room cushions. And Mrs. Dadd! Hateful woman! No, there’s no time to tell you about her. There’ll be no dinner. And those potato-faced pigs will be grunting for their swill. I don’t care if I am coarse. Even now they’re expecting hot water. Who’s to take it up?”

  “I will,” said Lucilla soothingly; “and Mr. Dix will take up the luggage, and then we’ll see about the dinner.”

  “I’ll fetch him,” said Jane. “No, it’s all right. I’ve finished snivelling. I feel much better. Catch the cat if you can and shut her up. I must bathe my eyes. I’ll fetch Mr. Dix in a jiff. But I don’t suppose there is any hot water. Mrs. Dadd was sprawling about on the furniture with her legs up. She always is.”

  “Well, she won’t any more — at least, not here,” said Lucilla. “Don’t worry; we’ll pull through somehow. It’s all rather a lark though, isn’t it?”

  “Rub it in,” said Jane, plunging her face into cold water. “I’m all right now,” she went on through the towel. “It is rather exciting, as you say.” And with eyelids still very pink she went in search of Mr. Dix. She did not find him, because in the hall she found Mr. Rochester, just leaving his labours in the library.

  “Hullo,” he said softly, “the Pigs have come then? I heard their loved voices announcing themselves and asking for Miss Quested. I expect they thought she was forty — and an experienced letter of lodgings.”