Maud Florence Nellie; or, Don't care!

by L. T. Meade

management on his hearers. He would have been almost asmuch put out with Martha for wanting what she had not got as he had beenwith the one of his children who had brought him into disrepute.Florrie's misdemeanours had never come across him, and she did not knowwhat his displeasure would be like. She knew quite well what that ofher brother George could be, and enjoyed provoking it. George was anirreproachable youth, and aimed at being a gentleman. He was of thedark and slender type, like Martha, and cultivated a quiet style ofdress and manner. He sang in the choir of another church in the town,and was friendly with the clergy and church officials. It was a newline of departure for the Whittakers, and an excellent one; but somehowGeorge rather liked to keep it to himself, and did not encourage hissisters to attend his church, or follow his example in religiousmatters.

  Florrie came in, and as soon as tea was over, and her father and auntwere out of hearing, she amused herself with scandalising George andMartha by boasting of how she had shocked Carrie and Ada throughstopping to talk to Liza and Polly. She omitted to mention either MrsLee or the cause of the walk by the river. There were limits to thehome endurance, and even Florence, when not worked up to delightfuldefiance, was aware of their existence.

  CHAPTER THREE.

  DON'T CARE!

  Mrs Lee was a widow. She kept a small, but very superior, `FancyRepository' in a good street in Rapley. Her daughter helped her tomanage the business, and Florence Whittaker was being trained up as anassistant. Idleness was not one of Florrie's failings, and, as she wasquick, neat-handed, and willing, she gave tolerable satisfaction, thoughMrs Lee considered her lively, free and easy manners to pleasantcustomers, and her short replies to troublesome ones, as decidedly"inferior," and not what was to be expected in such an establishment ashers. Florence, however, was gradually acquiring a professional manner,which she kept for business hours, as too many girls do, apparentlyregarding refinement and gentleness as out of place when she was offduty.

  She presented herself as usual on Monday morning, in a nice dark frockand hat, and with her flying hair tied in a neat tail, and begancheerfully to set about her duties, which were not at all distasteful toher. But she wondered all the time what Mrs Lee was going to say.Perhaps, if that lady had been a keen student of human nature, she wouldhave disappointed the saucy girl by saying little or nothing. But sheknew that most girls disliked being found fault with, and had notdiscovered that Florrie Whittaker rather enjoyed it. She believed, too,in the impressiveness of her own manner, and presently, summoningFlorence into the parlour, said majestically:

  "Miss Whittaker, it is not my intention to say much of what I witnessedyesterday, except that it was altogether unworthy of any young lady in_my_ employment. Should it occur again I shall be obliged to take othermeasures."

  "I'm very sorry, ma'am, I'm sure," said Florence meekly, and hangingdown her head.

  "No one can say more. I will not detain you from your duties."

  "Thank you, ma'am. I'll remember," said Florrie, retreating, andleaving Mrs Lee much pleased with the result of her admonitions. MissLee, who caught sight of the young lady's face as she passed behind thecounter, did not feel quite so well satisfied.

  There was, however, very little fault to be found with Florence inbusiness hours; and all went well till about twelve o'clock, when, therebeing several customers in the shop, Miss Lee became aware of an unusualbustle at one end of it, and beheld Florence opening boxes, spreadingout fine pieces of needlework, and showing off plush and silk, with thegreatest civility and a perfectly unmoved countenance, to a shabbylittle girl in an old hat and a dirty apron, while a boy with a basketon his arm stood just inside the door, open-mouthed with rapturousadmiration.

  "What are you doing, Florence Whittaker?" whispered Miss Lee in anundertone.

  "Waiting on this young lady, Miss Lee. This peacock plush, miss, workedwith gold thread is very much the fashion; but some ladies prefer theolive--"

  "What do you want here?" said Miss Lee to the customer, as her mother,suddenly perceiving what was going on, paused with a ball of knittingsilk in her hand and unutterable things in her face. "Have you amessage?"

  But Polly fled at the first sound of her voice, and was out of sight ina moment, while the errand-boy's loud laugh sounded as he ran after her.

  "Put those things up, Miss Whittaker," said Mrs Lee, turning blandly toher customer. "Some mistake, ma'am."

  "Why, Miss Lee," said Florence, "I thought I was to be civil just thesame to everyone, and show as many articles as the customers wish."

  "You had better not be impertinent," said Miss Lee. "Wait till mymother is at leisure."

  In the almost vacant hour at one o'clock Mrs Lee turned round to herassistant, and demanded what she meant by her extraordinary behaviour.

  Florrie looked at her. She did feel a little frightened, but theintense delight of carrying the sensation a stage farther mastered her,and she said:

  "The boy there, yesterday, when you saw us down by the river, dared meto show Polly the fine things in the shop, or to notice her up here. SoI said, `Let her come and try.' And she came just now, so I kept myword. There ain't no harm done."

  It was the absolute truth, but telling the truth under thecircumstances, with never a blush or an excuse, was hardly a virtue.

  "Do you mean to say you have dared to play a practical joke on me and myestablishment--that you have been that audacious?" exclaimed Mrs Lee.

  "I didn't know it was a joke," said Florrie. "You didn't laugh."

  "No, Florence Whittaker, I did not. I am much more likely to cry. Ihave a regard for your father, but there have been too many practicaljokes in your family. It is your brother Harry over again, and I couldnot--could not continue to employ you if _that_ kind of spirit is to bedisplayed."

  "There's other occupations," said Florrie. "I ain't so fond of fancywork."

  "Oh, Florrie, don't be such a silly girl," said Miss Lee. "Ask mother'spardon, and have done with it. Then maybe she'll overlook it this time,as you've never done such a thing before."

  "I don't know what I've done now," said Florrie. "I only showed thearticles to a customer."

  Mrs Lee looked at her. If she had appeared tearful or sulky she wouldhave sent her away to think the matter over. But Florrie looked quitecool, and as if she rather enjoyed the situation.

  "Well," said Mrs Lee, "I must speak to your father."

  "I don't care if you do," said Florence.

  "Then, Florence Whittaker, I _shall_," said Mrs Lee with severeemphasis. "Go back now and attend to your business."

  Florence revenged herself by doing nothing but what she was told.

  "Why didn't you show the Berlin wools to that lady?"

  "I didn't know as I might, Miss Lee."

  Towards the end of the afternoon Mrs Lee went out, and her daughter wasso quiet a person that Florrie had very little opportunity of beingsaucy to her.

  She came up as the girl was putting on her hat to go home.

  "Florence," she said, in a rather hesitating voice, "tell mother you'resorry. She'll not be hard on you. Don't be like your poor brother, andthrow all your chances away. You _are_ like him, but there's no need tofollow in his steps."

  "If Harry was like me he must have been a deal nicer than George," saidFlorrie, who knew nothing about her eldest brother's history.

  "I don't care," she said to herself as she walked home. "I ain't donenothing, and I won't stay to be put upon. If she've gone to father!"

  The guess was too true. When Florence opened the parlour door, theresat Mrs Lee, her father, and Martha, all looking disturbed and worried.

  "Oh," said Florence, "if you please, father, I was just coming home totell you as how I'd rather leave Mrs Lee's shop, as she ain't satisfiedwith me, and I ain't done nothing at all."

  "You've taken a great liberty, Florence, as I understand," said herfather, "and you will certainly not leave if Mrs Lee is good enough togive you another trial."

  "If Florence
will express herself sorry," said Mrs Lee.

  "I ain't sorry," said Florence coolly.

  "And I shall put a stop to your Bible class at once, and forbid you togo out without your sister if I hear of such behaviour as yours onSunday afternoon."

  "Martha'd have a time of it," said Florence. "Well, Mr Whittaker,"said Mrs Lee, rising, "I know what girls' tempers are, and if Florencehas come to a better mind by to-morrow, and will come down and tell meso, I will overlook it this once, but no more."

  "Bless me, Florrie," said little Ethel, as her father took Mrs Lee out,"what a piece of work to make! It ain't much to say you're sorry andhave done with it."

  "I ain't sorry, and I mean to have done with it. I'm tired of the shop,and I'm tired of the Lees. Mrs Lee's an old cat and Miss Lee's a youngone! She ain't so very young neither."

  "Oh my, Florrie!" repeated Ethel. "What a deal you'll have to sayyou're sorry for before you've done! For you'll have to say it first orlast."

  "Why?" said Florence.

  "Why, one always has to."

  "You'll see."

  Florence remained stubborn. She did not look passionate or sulky, butsay she was sorry she would not. She was tired of the business, and shedidn't care for losing her situation. She didn't care at all.

  "Don't care came to a bad end," said Matty angrily.

  "Don't care if he did," said Florence.

  George had come back from his walk by this time, and had added his voiceto the family conclave. Now he gave an odd, half-startled look at hisfather, and to the supreme astonishment of the naughty girl her sallywas received in silence. Nobody spoke.

  Back on Martha's mind came an evening long ago, and the sound of asharp, aggravating, provoking whistle, a boy's face, too like Florrie's,peeping in first at the door and then at the window, and a voicerepeating, "Don't care--don't care--don't care!" in more and more saucyaccents, as the speaker ran off across the forbidden turf of thecemetery, jumping over the graves as he came to them. That night hadbrought the explosion of mischief which had resulted in Harry'sdeparture from home and in his final banishment. Where was that saucylad now? And had he learnt to care out in the wide world by himself?But Florence was a girl and if _she_ said "Don't care" once too oftenher father could not say to her, "Obey me, or you shall do for yourselfin future."

  And she had no sense of responsibility sufficient to give her a goodreason for conquering herself. She had a child's confidence in the careshe was childishly defying. People so proud and so respectable as theWhittakers could not even send their girl to a rough place where shewould "learn the difference" between Mrs Lee's "fancy shop" and generalservice. Poor Martha felt that to have Florence at home, doing nothingbut give trouble, would be nearly intolerable; while what she would doif Mrs Stroud's suggestion was adopted, and she was sent to stay withher, passed the wildest imagination to conceive.

  "You'll be very sorry, Florrie," she said, "when it's too late."

  "No, I shan't," said Florence; "I like a change. I'm tired of servingin the shop. Dear me! there's a many situations in the world. I'll geta new one some time."

  Florence got her way, and though she was supposed to be in disgrace, shedeclined to recognise the fact. She fell back into the position of anidle child at home, worried Matty, set her little sisters a very poorexample, and enjoyed as much half-stolen, half-defiant freedom as shecould. When she found that Carrie and Ada had been forbidden by theirrespective mothers to "go with her," as they expressed it, she made ither delight to tease and trap them into enduring her company, andfinally, after about a fortnight, walked coolly down to see Mrs Lee andask how she got on with the new assistant!

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  ASHCROFT.

  Some twenty miles away from Rapley, in a less flat and dull and morerichly wooded landscape, was the little village of Ashcroft, where MrWhittaker's cousin, Charles Warren, was head keeper to Mr Cunningham,of Ashcroft Hall.

  The keeper's lodge was a large, substantial cottage, with a thatchedroof and whitewashed walls, standing all alone in a wide clearing in themidst of the woods that surrounded the Hall. It was nearly a mile fromthe great house, and had no other cottages very near it, being situatedin what was sometimes grandly called "the Forest"--a piece of unenclosedwoodland, where the great ash-trees that gave their name to the placegrew up, tall and magnificent, with hardly any copse or brushwood attheir feet--only ferns, brambles, and short green turf! Right out onthis turf the keeper's cottage lay, with never a bit of garden groundabout it, the idea being that, as the rabbits and hares could not bekept out of the way of temptation, temptation had better be kept out ofthe way of the rabbits and hares.

  There were no flowers, except in the sitting-room window, but there weretribes of young live things instead--broods of little pheasants, rarevarieties of game and poultry, and puppies of different kinds undertraining. The barking, twittering, and active movements of all theselittle creatures made the place cheerful, and took off from the lonelysolemnity of the great woodland glades, stretching out from the clearingas far as eye could reach.

  It was a very beautiful place, but "it weren't over populated," as MrsStroud remarked one fine July evening, as she sat at the door lookingout at the wood, having come to spend a couple of nights with hercousins.

  "We don't find it lonesome," said Mrs Warren. "It's not above half amile down that path to the village, and there's a good many of usscattered about in the lodges and gardens to make company for eachother."

  Mrs Warren was a pleasant-looking woman, well spoken, with a refinedaccent and manner, being indeed the daughter of a former gardener atAshcroft Hall.

  "Well," said Mrs Stroud, "there's something about them glades as Ishould find depressing. With a street, if you don't see the end of it,at least you know there's fellow-creatures there, if you did see it; butthere's no saying what may be down among those green alleys. To saynothing that one does associate overhanging trees with damp."

  "Well, we have to keep good fires, but, you see, there's plenty of fuelclose by. And how did you leave your brother and his young family?I've often thought I'd like to renew the acquaintance."

  "Well, they have their health," said Mrs Stroud. "But there,Charlotte, young people are always an anxiety, and them girls do want amother's eye."

  "No doubt they do, poor things. Why, the eldest must be quite a youngwoman."

  "I don't know that there's much to be said against Martha Jane," saidMrs Stroud. "She's a good girl enough in her way, though too much seton her book, and keeps herself to herself _too_ much, to my thinking.If that girl ever settles in life, she'll take the crooked stick atlast, mark my word for it."

  "Has she any prospects?" asked Mrs Warren.

  "She _might_," said Mrs Stroud with emphasis. "Undertaking is anexcellent trade, and she sees young Mr Clements frequent at funerals--or might if she looked his way, as I'm certain sure he looks hers."

  "Well, girls will have their feelings," said Mrs Warren. "And isn'tthe next one growing up too?"

  "Ah," said Mrs Stroud, with a profound sigh.

  "There's worse faults than being too backward after all, and that thereFlorence is indeed a trial. I tell my brother that good service is theonly chance for her, and that I should consult you about it."

  "I thought she was in a shop."

  "She _were_. But she've thrown up an excellent chance."

  Here Mrs Stroud entered on a long account of Florence's appearance,character, and recent history, ending with: "So, Charlotte, seeing thatshe's that flouncy and that flighty that she'll come to no good as sheis, I thought if you could get her under the housekeeper here for a bitit would be a real kindness to my poor brother."

  "But Mrs Hay would never look at a girl that was flighty and flouncy.The servants are kept as strict and old-fashioned as possible--plainstraw bonnets on Sunday, and as little liberty as can be. No doubt theylearn their business well, but I do think if there was a lady at thehead she might see her way to making thi
ngs a bit pleasanter for youngpeople. 'Tis a dull house, even for Miss Geraldine herself, and hasbeen ever since the time you know of."

  "Ay," said Mrs Stroud mysteriously, "and it's that there unlucky Harrythat Florence takes after--more's the pity. Well, tell me about youryoung folk."

  "Well, Ned, you know, is under his father--his wife is a very nicesteady girl--and Bessie's got the Roseberry school; she got afirst-class certificate, and is doing well. And Wyn--we're ratherunsettled in our minds about Wyn. He don't seem quite the build, thefather thinks, for a keeper, and he don't do much but lead about poorMr Edgar's pony chaise and attend to his birds and beasts for him. MrEdgar seems to fancy him, and we're glad to do anything for the pooryoung gentleman. But Bessie, she says that it's all very well for thepresent, but it leads to nothing. Wyn declares he'll be Mr Edgar'sservant when he grows up. But there, poor