FLURRY AND FLOSSY.
What a funny little name! I could not help saying so to Miss Lucas as I
followed her up the old oak staircase with its beautifully carved
balustrades.
"It is her own baby abbreviation of Florence," she returned, pausing on
the landing to take breath, for even that slight ascent seemed to weary
her. She was quite pale and panting by the time we arrived at our
destination. "It is nice to be young and strong," she observed,
wistfully. "I am not very old, it is true"--she could not have been
more than eight-and-twenty--"but I have never enjoyed good health, and
Dr. Cameron says I never can hope to do so; but what can you expect of
a crooked little creature like me?" with a smile that was quite natural
and humorous, and seemed to ask no pity.
Miss Ruth was perfectly content with her life. I found out afterward
she evoked rare beauty out of its quiet every-day monotony, storing up
precious treasures in homely vessels.
Life was to her full of infinite possibilities, a gradual dawning and
brightening of hopes that would meet their full fruition hereafter.
"Some people have strength to work," she said once to me, "and then
plenty of work is given to them; and some must just keep quiet and
watch others work, and give them a bright word of encouragement now and
then. I am one of those wayside loiterers," she finished, with a laugh;
but all the same every one knew how much Miss Ruth did to help others,
in spite of her failing strength.
The schoolroom, or nursery, as I believe it was called, was a large
pleasant room just over the drawing-room, and commanding the same view
of the garden and cedar-tree. It had three windows, only they were
rather high up, and had cushioned window-seats. In one of them there
was a little girl curled up in company with a large brown and white
spaniel.
"Well, Flurry, what mischief are you and Flossy concocting?" asked Miss
Lucas, in a playful voice, for the child was too busily engaged to
notice our entrance.
"Why, it is my little auntie," exclaimed Flurry, joyously, and she
scrambled down, while Flossy wagged his tail and barked. Evidently Miss
Ruth was not a frequent visitor to the nursery.
Flurry was about six, not a pretty child by any means, though there
might be a promise of future beauty in her face. She was a thin,
serious-looking little creature, more like the father than the mother,
and no one could call Mr. Lucas handsome. Her dark eyes--nearly black
they were--matched oddly, in my opinion, with her long fair hair; such
pretty fluffy hair it was, falling over her black frock. When her aunt
bade her come and speak to the lady who was kind enough to promise to
teach her, she stood for a moment regarding me gravely with childish
inquisitiveness before she gave me her hand.
"What are you going to teach me?" she asked. "I don't think I want to
be taught, auntie; I can read, I have been reading to Flossy, and I can
write, and hem father's handkerchiefs. Ask nursie."
"But you would like to play to dear father, and to learn all sorts of
pretty hymns to say to him, would you not, my darling! There are many
things you will have to know before you are a woman."
"I don't mean to be a woman ever, I think," observed Flurry; "I like
being a child better. Nursie is a woman, and nursie won't play; she
says she is old and stupid."
A happy inspiration came to me. "If you are good and learn your
lessons, I will play with you," I said, rather timidly; "that is, if
you care for a grown-up playfellow."
I was only seventeen, in spite of my _pronounce_ features, and I could
still enter into the delights of a good drawn battle of battledore and
shuttlecock. Perhaps it was the repressed enthusiasm of my tone, for I
really meant what I said; but Flurry's brief coldness vanished, and she
caught at my hand at once.
"Come and see them," she said; "I did not know you liked dolls, but you
shall have one of your own if you like;" and she led me to a corner of
the nursery where a quantity of dolls in odd costumes and wonderfully
constrained attitudes were arranged round an inverted basket.
"Joseph and his brethren," whispered Flurry. "I am going to put him in
the pit directly, only I wondered what I should do for the camels--this
is Issachar, and this Gad. Look at Gad's turban."
It was almost impossible to retain my gravity. I could see Miss Lucas
smiling in the window seat. Joseph and his brethren--what a droll idea
for a child! But I did not know then that Flurry's dolls had to sustain
a variety of bewildering parts. When I next saw them the smart turbans
were all taken off the flaxen heads, a few dejected sawdust bodies hung
limply round a miller's cart. "Ancient Britons," whispered Flurry.
"Nurse would not let me paint them blue, but they did not wear clothes
then, you know." In fact, our history lesson was generally followed by
a series of touching _tableaux vivants_, the dolls sustaining their
parts in several moving scenes of "Alfred and the Cakes," "Hubert and
Arthur," and once "the Battle of Cressy."
Flurry and I parted the best of friends; and when we joined Uncle
Geoffrey in the drawing-room I was quite ready to enter on my duties at
once.
Miss Lucas stipulated for my services from ten till five; a few simple
lessons in the morning were to be followed by a walk, I was to lunch
with them, and in the afternoon I was to amuse Flurry or teach her a
little--just as I liked.
"The fact is," observed Miss Lucas, as I looked a little surprised at
this programme, "Nurse is a worthy woman, and we are all very much
attached to her; but she is very ignorant, and my brother will not have
Flurry thrown too much on her companionship. He wishes me to find some
one who will take the sole charge of the child through the day; in the
evening she always comes down to her father and sits with him until her
bedtime." And then she named what seemed to me a surprisingly large sum
for services. What! all that for playing with Flurry, and giving her a
few baby lessons; poor Carrie could not have more for teaching the
little Thornes. But when I hinted this to Uncle Geoffrey, he said
quietly that they were rich people and could well afford it.
"Don't rate yourself so low, little woman," he added, good-humoredly;
"you are giving plenty of time and interest, and surely that is worth
something." And then he went on to say that Jack must go to school, he
knew a very good one just by; some ladies who were patients of his
would take her at easy terms, he knew. He would call that very
afternoon and speak to Miss Martin.
Poor mother shed a few tears when I told her our plans. It was sad for
her to see her girls reduced to work for themselves; but she cheered up
after a little while, and begged me not to think her ungrateful and
foolish. "For we have so many blessings, Esther," she went on, in her
patient way. "We are all together, except poor Fred, and but for your
uncle's goodness we might have been separated."
"And we shall have such nice cozy evenings," I returned, "when the
day's work is over. I shall feel like a day laborer, mother, bringing
home my wages in my pocket. I shall be thinking of you and Dot all day,
and longing to get back to you."
But though I spoke and felt so cheerfully, I knew that the evenings
would not be idle. There would be mending to do and linen to make, for
we could not afford to buy our things ready-made; but, with mother's
clever fingers and Carrie's help, I thought we should do very well. I
must utilize every spare minute, I thought. I must get up early and
help Deborah, so that things might go on smoothly for the rest of the
day. There was Dot to dress, and mother was ailing, and had her
breakfast in bed--there would be a hundred little things to set right
before I started off for the Cedars, as Mr. Lucas' house was called.
"Never mind, it is better to wear out than to rust out," I said to
myself. And then I picked up Jack's gloves from the floor, hung up her
hat in its place, and tried to efface the marks of her muddy boots from
the carpet (I cannot deny Jack was a thorn in my side just now), and
then there came a tap at my door, and Carrie came in.
She looked so pretty and bright, that I could not help admiring her
afresh. I am sure people must have called her beautiful.
"How happy you look, Carrie, in spite of your three little Thornes," I
said rather mischievously. "Has mother told you about Miss Lucas?"
"Yes, I heard all about that," she returned, absently. "You are very
fortunate, Esther, to find work in which you can take an interest. I am
glad--very glad about that."
"I wish, for your sake, that we could exchange," I returned, feeling
myself very generous in intention, but all the same delighted that my
unselfishness should not be put to the proof.
"Oh, no, I have no wish of that sort," she replied, hastily; "I could
not quite bring myself to play with children in the nursery." I suppose
mother had told her about the dolls. "Well, we both start on our
separate treadmill on Monday--Black Monday, eh, Esther?"
"Not at all," I retorted, for I was far too pleased and excited with my
prospects to be damped by Carrie's want of enthusiasm. I thought I
would sit down and write to Jessie, and tell her all about it, but here
was Carrie preparing herself for one of her chats.
"Did you see me talking to Mr. Smedley, Esther?" she began; and as I
nodded she went on. "I had never spoken to him before since Uncle
Geoffrey introduced us to him. He is such a nice, practical sort of
man. He took me into the vicarage, and introduced me to his wife. She
is very plain and homely, but so sensible."
I held my peace. I had rather a terror of Mrs. Smedley. She was one of
those bustling workers whom one dreads by instinct. She had a habit of
pouncing upon people, especially young ones, and driving them to work.
Before many days were over she had made poor mother promise to do some
cutting out for the clothing club, as though mother had not work enough
for us all at home. I thought it very inconsiderate of Mrs. Smedley.
"I took to them at once," went on Carrie, "and indeed they were
exceedingly kind. Mr. Smedley seemed to understand everything in a
moment, how I wanted work, and----"
"But, Carrie," I demanded, aghast at this, "you have work: you have the
little Thornes."
"Oh, don't drag them in at every word," she answered, pettishly--at
least pettishly for her; "of course, I have my brick-making, and so
have you. I am thinking of other things now, Esther; I have promised
Mr. Smedley to be one of his district visitors."
I almost jumped off my chair at that, I was so startled and so
indignant.
"Oh, Carrie! and when you know mother does not approve of girls of our
age undertaking such work--she has said so over and over again--how can
you go against her wishes?"
Carrie looked at me mildly, but she was not in the least discomposed at
my words.
"Listen to me, you silly child," she said, good-humoredly; "this is one
of mother's fancies; you cannot expect me with my settled views to
agree with her in this."
I don't know what Carrie meant by her views, unless they consisted in a
determination to make herself and every one else uncomfortable by an
overstrained sense of duty.
"Middle-aged people are timid sometimes. Mother has never visited the
poor herself, so she does not see the necessity for my doing it; but I
am of a different opinion," continued Carrie, with a mild obstinacy
that astonished me too much for any reply.
"When mother cried about it just now, and begged me to let her speak to
Mr. Smedley, I told her that I was old enough to judge for myself, and
that I thought one's conscience ought not to be slavishly bound even to
one's parent. I was trying to do my duty to her and to every one, but I
must not neglect the higher part of my vocation."
"Oh, Carrie, how could you? You will make her so unhappy."
"No; she only cried a good deal, and begged me to be prudent and not
overtax my strength; and then she talked about you, and hoped I should
help you as much as possible, as though I meant to shirk any part of my
duty. I do not think she really disapproved, only she seemed nervous
and timid about it; but I ask you, Esther, how I could help offering my
services, when Mrs. Smedley told me about the neglected state of the
parish, and how few ladies came forward to help?"
"But how will you find time?" I remonstrated; though what was the good
of remonstrating when Carrie had once made up her mind?
"I have the whole of Saturday afternoon, and an hour on Wednesday, and
now the evenings are light I might utilize them a little. I am to have
Nightingale lane and the whole of Rowley street, so one afternoon in
the week will scarcely be sufficient."
"Oh, Carrie," I groaned; but, actually, though the mending lay on my
mind like a waking nightmare, I could not expostulate with her. I only
looked at her in a dim, hopeless way and shook my head; if these were
her views I must differ from them entirely. Not that I did not wish
good--heavenly good--to the poor, but that I felt home duties would
have to be left undone; and after all that uncle had done for us!
"And then I promised Mrs. Smedley that I would help in the
Sunday-school," she continued, cheerfully. "She was so pleased, and
kissed me quite gratefully. She says she and Mr. Smedley have had such
up-hill work since they came to Milnthorpe--and there is so much
lukewarmness and worldliness in the place. Even Miss Lucas, in spite of
her goodness--and she owned she was very good, Esther--will not take
their advice about things."
"I told her," she went on, hesitating, "that I would speak to you, and
ask you to take a Sunday class in the infant school. You are so fond of
children, I thought you would be sure to consent."
"So I would, and gladly too, if you would take my place at home," I
returned, quickly; "but if you do so much yourself, you will prevent me
from doing anything. Why not let me take the Sunday school class, while
you stop with mother and Dot?"
"What nonsense!" she replied, flushing a little, for my proposition did
not please her; "that is so like you, Esther, to raise obstacles for
nothing. Why cannot we both teach; surely you can give one afternoon a
week to God's work?"
"I hope I am giving not one afternoon, but every afternoon to it," I
returned, and the tears rushed to my eyes, for her speech wounded me.
"Oh, Carrie, why will you not understand that I think that all work
that is given us to do is God's work? It is just as right for me to
play with Flurry as it is to teach in the Sunday school."
"You can do both if you choose," she answered, coolly.
"Not unless you take my place," I returned, decidedly, for I had the
Cameron spirit, and would not yield my point; "for in that case Dot
would lose his Sunday lessons, and Jack would be listless and fret
mother."
"Very well," was Carrie's response; but I could see she was displeased
with my plain speaking; and I went downstairs very tired and
dispirited, to find mother had cried herself into a bad headache.
"If I could only talk to your dear father about it," she whispered,
when she had opened her heart to me on the subject of Carrie. "I am
old-fashioned, as Carrie says, and it is still my creed that parents
know best for their children; but she thinks differently, and she is so
good that, perhaps, one ought to leave her to judge for herself. If I
could only know what your father would say," she went on, plaintively.
I could give her no comfort, for I was only a girl myself, and my
opinions were still immature and unfledged, and then I never had been
as good as Carrie. But what I said seemed to console mother a little,
for she drew down my face and kissed it.
"Always my good, sensible Esther," she said, and then Uncle Geoffrey
came in and prescribed for the headache, and the subject dropped.