THE FRIARY.
Oldfield was rather mystified by the Challoners' movements. There were
absolutely three afternoons during which Nan and her sisters were
invisible. There was a tennis-party at the Paines' on one of these
days, but at the last minute they had excused themselves. Nan's
prettily-worded note was declared very vague and unsatisfactory, and
on the following afternoon there was a regular invasion of the
cottage,--Carrie Paine, and two of the Twentyman girls, and Adelaide
Sartoris and her young brother Albert.
They found Dulce alone, looking very sad and forlorn.
Nan and Phillis had gone down to Hadleigh that morning, she explained
in rather a confused way: they were not expected back until the
following evening.
On being pressed by Miss Sartoris as to the reason of this sudden
trip, she added, rather awkwardly, that it was on business; her mother
was not well,--oh, very far from well; and they had to look at a house
that belonged to them, as the tenant had lately died.
This was all very plausible; but Dulce's manner was so constrained,
and she spoke with such hesitation, that Miss Sartoris was convinced
that something lay behind. They went out in the garden, however, and
chose sides for their game of tennis; and, though Dulce had never
played so badly in her life, the fresh air and exercise did her good,
and at the end of the afternoon she looked a little less drooping.
It was felt to be a failure, however, by the whole party; and when tea
was over, there was no mention of a second game. "No, we will not stay
any longer," observed Isabella Twentyman, kissing the girl with much
affection. "Of course we understand that you will be wanting to sit
with your mother."
"Yes, and if you do not come in to-morrow we shall quite know how it
is," added Miss Sartoris, good-naturedly, for which Dulce thanked her
and looked relieved.
She stood at the hall door watching them as they walked down the
village street, swinging their racquets and talking merrily.
"What happy girls!" she thought, with a sigh. Miss Sartoris was an
heiress, and the Twentymans were rich, and every one knew that Carrie
and Sophy Paine would have money. "None of them will have to work,"
said poor Dulce sorrowfully to herself: "they can go on playing tennis
and driving and riding and dancing as long as they like." And then she
went up to her mother's room with lagging footsteps and a cloudy
brow.
"You may depend upon it there is something amiss with those
Challoners," said Miss Sartoris, as soon as they were out of sight of
the cottage; "no one has seen anything of them for the last three or
four days, and I never saw Dulce so unlike herself."
"Oh, I hope not," returned Carrie, gravely, who had heard enough from
her father to guess that there was pecuniary embarrassment at the
bottom. "Poor little thing, she did seem rather subdued. How many
people do you expect to muster to-morrow, Adelaide?" and then Miss
Sartoris understood that the subject was to be changed.
While Dulce was trying to entertain her friends, Nan and Phillis were
reconnoitring the Friary.
They had taken an early train to London, and had contrived to reach
Hadleigh a little before three. They went first to Beach House,--a
small unpretending house on the Parade, kept by a certain Mrs. Mozley,
with whom they had once lodged after Dulce had the measles.
The good woman received them with the utmost cordiality. Her place was
pretty nearly filled, she told them proudly; the drawing-room had been
taken for three months, and an elderly couple were in the
dining-room.
"But there is a bedroom I could let you have for one night," finished
Mrs. Mozley, "and there is the little side parlor where you could have
your tea and breakfast." And when Nan had thanked her, and suggested
the addition of chops to their evening meal, they left their modest
luggage and set out for the Friary.
Phillis would have gone direct to their destination, but Nan pleaded
for one turn on the Parade. She wanted a glimpse of the sea, and it
was such a beautiful afternoon.
The tide was out, and the long black breakwaters were uncovered; the
sun was shining on the wet shingles and narrow strip of yellow sand.
The sea looked blue and unruffled, with little sparkles and gleams of
light, and white sails glimmered on the horizon. Some boatmen were
dragging a boat down the beach; it grated noisily over the pebbles. A
merry party were about to embark,--a tall man in a straw hat, and two
boys in knickerbockers. Their sisters were watching them. "Oh, Reggie,
do be careful!" Nan heard one of the girls say, as he waded knee-deep
into the water.
"Come, Nan, we ought not to dawdle like this!" exclaimed Phillis,
impatiently; and they went on quickly, past the long row of
old-fashioned white houses with the green before them and that sweet
Sussex border of soft feathery tamarisk, and then past the
cricket-field, and down to the whitewashed cottage of the Preventive
Station; and then they turned back and walked towards the Steyne, and
after that Nan declared herself satisfied.
There were plenty of people on the Parade, and most of them looked
after the two girls as they passed. Nan's sweet bloom and graceful
carriage always attracted notice; and Phillis, although she generally
suffered from comparison with her sister, was still very
uncommon-looking.
"I should like to know who those young ladies are," observed a
military-looking man with a white moustache, who was standing at the
Library door waiting for his daughter to make some purchases. "Look at
them, Elizabeth: one of them is such a pretty girl, and they walk so
well."
"Dear father, I suppose they are only some new-comers: we shall see
their names down in the visitors' list by and by;" and Miss Middleton
smiled as she took her father's arm, for she was slightly lame. She
knew strangers always interested him, and that he would make it his
business for the next few days to find out everything about them.
"Did you see that nice-looking woman?" asked Phillis, when they had
passed. "She was quite young, only her hair was gray: fancy, a
gray-haired girl!"
"Oh, she must be older than she looks," returned Nan, indifferently.
She was not looking at people: she was far too busily engaged
identifying each well-remembered spot.
There was the shabby little cottage, where she and her mother had once
stayed after an illness of Mrs. Challoner's. What odd little rooms
they had occupied, looking over a strip of garden-ground full of
marigolds! "Marigolds-all-in-a-row Cottage," she had named it in her
home letters. It was nearly opposite the White House where Mrs. Cheyne
lived. Nan remembered her,--a handsome, sad-looking woman, who always
wore black, and drove out in such handsome carriages.
"Always alone; how sad!" Nan thought; and she wondered, as they walked
past the low stone walls with grassy mounds slopping from them, and a
belt of shrubbery shutting out views of the house, whether Mrs. Cheyne
lived there still.
They had reached a quiet country corner now; there was a clump of
trees, guarded by posts and chains; a white house stood far back.
There were two or three other houses, and a cottage dotted down here
and there. The road looked shady and inviting. Nan began to look about
her more cheerfully.
"I am glad it is so quiet, and so far away from the town, and that our
neighbors will not be able to overlook us."
"I was just thinking of that as a disadvantage," returned Phillis,
with placid opposition. "It is a pity, under the circumstances, that
we are not nearer the town." And after that Nan held her peace.
They were passing an old-fashioned house with a green door in the
wall, when it suddenly opened, and a tall, grave looking young man, in
clerical attire, came out quickly upon them, and then drew back to let
them pass.
"I suppose that is the new vicar?" whispered Phillis, when they had
gone a few steps. "You know poor old Dr. Musgrave is dead, and most
likely that is his successor."
"I forgot that was the vicarage," returned Nan. But happily she did
not turn round to look at it again; if she had done so, she would have
seen the young clergyman still standing by the green door watching
them. "It is a shabby, dull old house in front; but I remember that
when mother and I returned Mrs. Musgrave's call we were shown into
such a dear old-fashioned drawing-room, with windows looking out on
such a pleasant garden. I quite fell in love with it."
"Well, we shall be near neighbors," observed Phillis, somewhat
shortly, as she paused before another green door, set in a long blank
wall; "for here we are at the Friary, and I had better just run over
the way and get the key from Mrs. Crump."
Nan nodded, and then stood like an image of patience before the
shabby green door. Would it open and let them into a new untried life?
What sort of fading hopes, of dim regrets, would be left outside when
they crossed the threshold? The thought of the empty rooms, not yet
swept and garnished, made her shiver: the upper windows looked blankly
at her, like blind, unrecognizing eyes. She was quite glad when
Phillis joined her again, swinging the key on her little finger, and
humming a tune in forced cheerfulness.
"What a dull, shut-in place! I think the name of Friary suits it
exactly," observed Nan, disconsolately, as they went up the little
flagged path, bordered with lilac-bushes. "It feels like a miniature
convent or prison: we might have a grating in the door, and answer all
outsiders through it."
"Nonsense!" returned Phillis, who was determined to take a bright view
of things. "Don't go into the house just yet, I want to see the
garden." And she led the way down a gloomy side-path, with unclipped
box and yews, that made it dark and decidedly damp. This brought them
to a little lawn, with tall, rank grass that might have been mown for
hay, and some side-beds full of old fashioned flowers, such as lupins
and monkshood, pinks and small pansies; a dreary little greenhouse,
with a few empty flower-pots and a turned-up box was in one corner,
and an attempt at a rockery, with a periwinkle climbing over it, and
an undesirable number of oyster-shells.
An old medlar tree, very warped and gnarled, was at the bottom of the
lawn, and beyond this a small kitchen-garden, with abundance of
gooseberry and currant-bushes, and vast resources in the shape of
mint, marjoram, and lavender.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a wretched little place after our dear old
Glen Cottage garden!" And in spite of her good resolutions, Nan's eyes
grew misty.
"Comparisons are odious," retorted Phillis, briskly. "We have just to
make the best of things,--and I don't deny they are horrid,--and put
all the rest away, between lavender, on the shelves of our memory."
And she smiled grimly as she picked one of the gray spiky flowers.
And then, as they walked round the weedy paths, she pointed out how
different it would look when the lawn was mown, and all the weeds and
oyster-shells removed, and the box and yews clipped, and a little
paint put on the greenhouse.
"And look at that splendid passion-flower, growing like a weed over
the back of the cottage," she remarked, with a wave of her hand: "it
only wants training and nailing up. Poor Miss Monks has neglected the
garden shamefully; but then she was always ailing."
They went into the cottage after this. The entry was rather small and
dark. The kitchen came first: it was a tolerable-sized apartment, with
two windows looking out on the lilacs and the green door and the blank
wall.
"I am afraid Dorothy will find it a little dull," Nan observed,
rather ruefully. And again she thought the name of Friary was well
given to this gruesome cottage; but she cheered up when Phillis opened
cupboards and showed her a light little scullery, and thought that
perhaps they could make it comfortable for Dorothy.
The other two rooms looked upon the garden: one had three windows, and
was really a very pleasant parlor.
"This must be our work-room," began Phillis, solemnly, as she stood in
the centre of the empty room, looking round her with bright knowing
glances. "Oh, what an ugly paper, Nan! but we can easily put up a
prettier one. The smaller room must be where we live and take our
meals: it is not quite so cheerful as this. It is so nice having this
side-window; it will give us more light, and we shall be able to see
who comes in at the door."
"Yes, that is an advantage," assented Nan. She was agreeably surprised
to find such a good-sized room in the cottage; it was decidedly low,
and the windows were not plate-glass, but she thought that on summer
mornings they might sit there very comfortably looking out at the lawn
and the medlar-tree.
"We shall be glad of these cupboards," she suggested, after a pause,
while Phillis, took out sundry pieces of tape from her pocket and
commenced making measurements in a business-like manner. "Our work
will make such a litter, and I should like things to be as tidy as
possible. I am thinking," she continued, "we might have mother's great
carved wardrobe in the recess behind the door. It is really a
magnificent piece of furniture, and in a work-room it would not be so
out of place; we could hang up the finished and unfinished dresses in
it out of the dust. And we could have the little drawing-room
chiffonnier between the windows for our pieces, and odds and ends in
the cupboards. It is a pity our table is round; but perhaps it will
look all the more comfortable. The sewing-machine must be in the
side-window," added Nan, who was quite in her element now, for she
loved all housewifely arrangements; "and mother's easy-chair and
little table must stand by the fireplace. My davenport will be useful
for papers and accounts."
"It is really a very convenient room," returned Phillis, in a
satisfied voice, when they had exhausted its capabilities; and, though
the second parlor was small and dull in comparison, even Nan dropped
no disparaging word.
Both of them agreed it would do very well. There was a place for the
large roomy couch that their mother so much affected, and their
favorite chairs and knick-knacks would soon make it look cosey: and
after this they went upstairs hand in hand.
There were only four bedrooms, and two of these were not large; the
most cheerful one was, of course, allotted to their mother, and the
next in size must be for Phillis and Dulce. Nan was to have a small
one next to her mother.
The evening was drawing on by the time they had finished their
measurements and left the cottage. Nan, who was tired and wanted her
tea, was for hurrying on to Beach House; but Phillis insisted on
calling at the Library. She wanted to put some questions to Miss
Milner. To-morrow they would have the paper-hanger, and look out for a
gardener, and there was Mrs. Crump to interview about cleaning down
the cottage.
"Oh, very well," returned Nan, wearily, and she followed Phillis into
the shop, where good-natured bustling Miss Milner came to them at
once.
Phillis put the question to her in a low voice, for there were other
customers exchanging books over the counter. The same young clergyman
they had before noticed had just bought a local paper, and was waiting
evidently for a young lady who was turning over some magazines quite
close to them.
"Do we know of a good dressmaker in the place?" repeated Miss Milner,
in her loud cheerful voice, very much to Nan's discomfort, for the
clergyman looked up from his paper at once. "Miss Monks was a
tolerable fit, but, poor thing! she died a few weeks ago; and Mrs.
Slasher, who lives over Viner's the haberdasher's, cannot hold a
candle to her. Miss Masham there,"--pointing to a smart ringleted
young person, evidently her assistant,--"had her gown ruined by her:
hadn't you, Miss Masham?"
Miss Masham simpered, but her reply was inaudible; but the young lady
who was standing near them suddenly turned round:
"There is Mrs. Langley, who lives just by. I shall be very happy to
give these ladies her address, for she is a widow with little
children, and I am anxious to procure her work--" and then she looked
at Nan, and hesitated; "that is, if you are not very particular," she
added, with sudden embarrassment, for even in her morning dress there
was a certain style about Nan that distinguished her from other
people.
"Thank you, Miss Drummond," returned Miss Milner, gratefully. "Shall I
write down the address for you, ma'am?"
"Yes,--no,--thank you very much, but perhaps it does not matter,"
returned Nan, hurriedly, feeling awkward for the first time in her
life. But Phillis, who realized all the humor of the situation,
interposed:
"The address will do us no harm, and we may as well have it, although
we should not trouble Mrs. Langley. I will call in again, Miss Milner,
to-morrow morning, and then I will explain what it is we really want.
We are in a hurry now," continued Phillis, loftily, turning away with
a dignified inclination of her head toward the officious stranger.
Phillis was not prepossessed in her favor. She was a dark, wiry little
person, not exactly plain, but with an odd, comical face; and she was
dressed so dowdily and with such utter disregard of taste that Phillis
instinctively felt Mrs. Langley was not to be dreaded.
"What a queer little body! Do you think she belongs to him?" she asked
Nan, as they walked rapidly toward Beach House.
"What in the world made you strike in after that fashion?" demanded
the young man, as he and his companion followed more slowly in the
strangers' footsteps. "That is just your way, Mattie, interfering and
meddling in other folks' affairs. Why cannot you mind your own
business sometimes," he continued, irritably, "instead of putting your
foot into other people's?"
"You are as cross as two sticks this afternoon, Archie," returned his
sister, composedly. She had a sharp little pecking voice that seemed
to match her, somehow; for she was not unlike a bright-eyed bird, and
had quick pouncing movements. "Wait a moment: my braid has got torn,
and is dragging."
"I wish you would think a little more of my position, and take greater
pains with your appearance," returned her brother, in an annoyed
voice. "What would Grace say to see what a fright you make of
yourself? It is a sin and a shame for a woman to be untidy or careless
in her dress; it is unfeminine! it is unlady-like!" hurling each
separate epithet at her.
Perhaps Miss Drummond was used to these compliments, for she merely
pinned her braid without seeming the least put out.
"I think I am a little shabby," she remarked, tranquilly, as they at
last walked on. "Perhaps Mrs. Langley had better make me a dress too,"
with a laugh, for, in spite of her sharp voice, she was an
even-tempered little body; but this last remark only added fuel to his
wrath.
"You really have less sense than a child. The idea of recommending a
person like Mrs. Langley to those young ladies,--a woman who works for
Miss Masham!"
"They were very plainly dressed, Archie," returned poor Mattie, who
felt this last snub acutely; for, if there was one thing upon which
she prided herself, it was her good sense. "They had dark print
dresses,--not as good as the one I have on,--and nothing could be
quieter."
"Oh, you absurd little goose!" exclaimed her brother, and he burst
into a laugh, for the drollery of the comparison restored him to
instant good humor. "If you cannot see the difference between that
frumpish gown of yours, with its little bobtails and fringes, and
those pretty dresses before us, I must say you are as blind as a bat,
Mattie."
"Oh, never mind my gown," returned Mattie, with a sigh.
She had had these home-thrusts to meet and parry nearly every day,
ever since she had come to keep house for this fastidious brother. She
was a very active, bustling little person, who had done a great deal
of tough work in her day, but she never could be made to see that
unless a woman add the graces of life to the cardinal virtues she is,
comparatively speaking, a failure in the eyes of the other sex.
So, though Mattie was a frugal housekeeper, and worked from morning to
night in his service,--the veriest little drudge that was ever
seen,--she was a perpetual eyesore to her brother, who loved feminine
grace and repose,--whose tastes were fastidious and somewhat
arbitrary. And so it was poor Mattie had more censure than praise, and
wrote home piteous letters complaining that nothing she did seemed to
satisfy Archie, and that her mother had made a great mistake in
sending her, and not Grace, to preside over his bachelor
establishment.
"Oh, Phillis, how shall we have courage to publish our plan?"
exclaimed Nan, when they were at last discussing the much-needed tea
and chops in the little parlor at Beach House.
The window was wide open. The returning tide was coming in with a
pleasant ripple and wash over the shingle. The Parade was nearly
empty; but some children's voices sounded from the green space before
the houses. The brown sail of a fishing craft dipped into the horizon.
It was so cool, so quiet, so restful; but Nan's eyes were weary, and
she put the question wistfully.
Phillis looked into the teapot to gain a moment's reprieve; the
corners of her mouth had an odd pucker in them.
"I never said it was not hard," she burst out at last. "I felt like a
fool myself while I was speaking to Miss Milner; but then that
clergyman was peeping at us between the folds of his paper. He seemed
a nice-looking, gentlemanly sort of man. Do you think that queer
little lady in the plaid dress could be his wife? Oh, no; I remember
Miss Milner addressed her as Miss Drummond. Then she must be his
sister: how odd!"
"Why should it be odd?" remarked Nan, absently, who had not
particularly noticed them.
"Oh, she was such a dowdy little thing, not a bit nice-looking, and he
was quite handsome, and looked rather distinguished. You know I always
take stock of people, and make up my mind about them at once. And then
we are to be such close neighbors."
"I don't suppose we shall see much of them," was Nan's somewhat
depressed reply; and then, as they had finished their tea they placed
themselves at the open window, and began to talk about the business of
next day; and, in discussing cupboards and new papers, Nan forgot her
fatigue, and grew so interested that it was quite late before they
thought of retiring to rest.