"THE DAILY ROUND--THE COMMON TASK"
Betty's boots and stockings were on once more, and her school frock
exchanged for one whose school days lay far behind it. In spite of
"lettings down" and repeated patchings and mendings it was in what its
small wearer called the "ragetty tagetty" stage of its existence, and
was donned only when she was about the dirty part of "cleaning up."
It was Saturday morning now, and she was very busy. Her mother could
never capably wield a broom, or scrub, or dust, or cook--she had done
all four, but the results were pathetic. Even Nancy knew the story of
her life, which began with "once upon a time, almost twenty years ago,"
and was told in varying fragments whenever a story was begged for.
There was the story of the jolly sea-captain and his one wee
daughter--their own mother--and of how they had sailed the seas and seen
many people and many lands. There was the story of the old house within
the iron gates--built by convicts more than fifty years ago--and of how
the sea-captain had bought it and built a tower and spiral staircase and
a roof promenade, which he called his "deck." And of how he and his
small daughter settled down in the great house together; and how her
wardrobe was always full of beautiful clothes and her purse full of real
sovereigns; and two ponies she had to her name, and a great dog that was
the terror of the neighbourhood, and a little dog that lived as much as
it could in her lap. There was the story of her garden full of rare
flowers, and her ferneries of rare ferns, and her aviary of rare birds.
Then there was the story of the little girl "grown up," with hair done
on the top of her head, and long sweeping dresses, and a lover chosen by
her father himself--by name John Brown; and of the pale young author
who lived beyond the iron gates, in a small weather-board cottage with
an iron roof who wrote dainty little sonnets and ballads, which he read
to her under the old gum trees.
And lastly, there was the story of the captain's pretty daughter
slipping away from the great house--to become mistress of the wee
cottage behind the pine trees. And of how the captain returned all
letters unopened and sailed away to other lands for five years; of how
afterwards the poor author lay ill unto death, and the little
wife--"mother" now--carried pretty Dorothy to the great house and sent
her trotting into the library, saying "grandpa" as she ran; and of how
the little girl had been lifted outside the house by a servant, who had
civilly stated the orders he had received, never to allow any one from
the author's house to "cross the threshold" of that other great one.
And now it was to-day--and besides Dorothea there were the twins (Cyril
and Elizabeth), Nancy and the baby; a goodly number for the small
weather-board cottage to shelter and for the author, who had only had
one book published, to bring up.
So it fell out that there was only a rough state girl to do the work of
the cottage, and much sweeping and dusting was Elizabeth's "share"; much
"washing-up" and tidying. To Nancy belonged the task of setting the
tables and amusing the baby; and Cyril was engaged at a penny a week to
stock the barrel in the kitchen with firewood and chips, and bits of
bark to coax contrary fires. He was the only one who received payment
for his work, and no one demurred, for was he not the only boy of the
family and in the eyes of them all a sort of king!
So Betty was dressed in working garb and was bestowing her usual
Saturday morning attention upon the "living-room"--drawing-room they had
none. The little room that had evidently been destined by its builder to
fulfil such a mission, had been seized and occupied by the author in the
beginning of his residence at The Gunyah.
The living-room was a low-ceiled room with French windows leading to the
verandah. It had a centre table, several cane chairs, a small piano, a
rocking-chair and a dilapidated sofa. Its floor was oilclothed and its
windows uncurtained--only Dorothea had arrived at the stage that sighed
for prettinesses.
Betty was quite happy when she had swept the floor, shaken the cloth,
put all the chairs with their backs to the wall, and polished the piano.
She was surveying the room with pride when Dorothea walked in. Dorothea
in the frock she had worn for five mornings during the week, and which
was still clean and fresh; with her wonderful hair in a shining mass
down her back, and a serviette in her hand (an extempore duster). It
always took her the better part of Saturday to even find her own niche
in the home.
"I was going to dust this room, Betty," she said--"someway, everything I
am going to do, I find you've done."
Elizabeth smiled drily. She could not even sweep a room and be just
Elizabeth Bruce. Saturdays usually found her in imagination Cinderella;
and consequently harsh words from Dorothea, who in her eyes was a cruel
step-sister, would have found more favour with her than kind ones.
"There is the kitchen to be swept," said Betty; "the ashes are thick on
the hearth and the breakfast things are not washed up."
Dorothea looked startled. Betty's voice sounded tired and resigned.
"Oh dear!" said Dorothea, "I do so _hate_ doing kitchen work. It makes
my hands so red and rough, and just spoils my dress."
"The work is there and must be done," remarked Betty.
Mrs. Bruce looked in at the door. Her face was just Dorothea's grown
older, and without its roses; her hair was Dorothea's with its gold
grown dull; her very voice and dimples were Dorothea's. A large
poppy-trimmed hat adorned her head, and a basket with an old pair of
scissors in it was swung over her arm.
"Of course you'll not do kitchen work, my chicken," she said gaily;
"slip on your hat and come and gather roses with me. It's little enough
of you home your get--that little shall not be spoilt by ashes and dust.
"It's Mary's work, and Betty can see that she does it well."
Betty stalked into the kitchen and regarded the fireplace in gleeful
gloom, sitting down in front of it and staring into the heart of the
small wood fire.
Mary, the maid-of-all-work, took her duties in a very haphazard way. She
had no particular time for doing anything, and no particular place for
keeping anything. And alas! it is to be regretted her mistress was the
last woman in the world to train her in the way she should go.
To-day she had taken it into her head to try the effect of a few bows of
blue ribbon upon her cherry-coloured straw hat, before the breakfast
things were washed or the sweeping and scrubbing done. But the
washing-up belonged to Betty.
Outside in the garden Mrs. Bruce was drawing Dorothea's attention to the
scent of the violets and mignonette, and her gay voice caused Betty to
sigh heavily.
"If my own mother had lived," she said gloomily, "I too might gather
flowers. But what am I?--the family drudge!"
Cyril entered the back door, his arms piled up with firewood.
"I'm getting sick of chopping wood," he said grumblingly, "it's all very
well to be you and stay in a nice cool kitchen. How'd you like it if you
had to be me and stay chopping in the hot sun? I know what _I_ wish."
"What?" asked Betty, glancing round her "nice cool kitchen" without any
appreciation of it lighting her eyes.
"Why, I wish mother had never run away and made grandfather mad. And I
wish he'd suddenly think he was going to die, and say he wanted to adopt
me."
"How about me? Why shouldn't he adopt me?" demanded Betty.
"'Cause I'm the only son," said Cyril. "He's got his pick of four girls,
but if he wants a boy there's only me."
He went outside and loaded himself with wood once more.
"Cecil Duncan's father gives him threepence a week, and he doesn't have
to do anything to earn it," he said when he came in again. "He says
every Monday morning his father gives him a threepenny bit and his
mother's _always_ giving him pennies."
"H'em," said Cinderella, and fell to work sweeping up the hearth
vigorously. Her own grievances faded away, as she looked at
Cyril's--which was a way they had.
"And he's not the only boy neither," said Cyril. He threw the wood
angrily into the barrel. "There's Harry and Jim besides. I suppose they
get threepence each as well. What's a penny a week? You can't do
anything with it."
Elizabeth lifted down a tin bowl and filled it with water; placed in it
a piece of yellow soap, a piece of sand soap and a scrubbing brush, and
then began to roll up her sleeves. She was no longer Cinderella. A new
and wonderful thought had flashed into her mind even as she listened to
Cyril's plaint. It certainly _was_ hard for him, her heart admitted,
very hard.
"How would you like to be rich, Cywil?" she asked, turning a shining
face to him.
Cyril thought a reply was one of those many things that could be
dispensed with--he merely showered a little extra vindictiveness upon
the firewood and kicked the cask with a shabby copper-toed boot.
Betty danced across to him and put her sun-tanned face close to his fair
freckled one.
"How would you like to be _very_ rich?" she said, "and to have a pony of
your own, and jelly and things to eat, and a lovely house to live in,
and----"
"Don't be so silly, Betty," said the boy irritably.
Betty wagged her head. "I've got a thought," she said.
"Your silly-old pearl-seeking is no good. There are no pearls, so
there," said Cyril crossly. "You needn't go thinking you really take me
in. It's only a game--bah!"
Betty was still dancing around him in a convincing, yet aggravating way.
"How'd you like to be adopted, Cywil?" she asked--"really adopted, not
pretending? Oh, I've got a very big thought, and it wants a lot of
thinking. You go on getting your wood while I think."
And Cyril gave her one of his old respectful looks as he went out of the
kitchen door.