A STRANGE LETTER AND A PROPOSED VISIT TO LONDON.
Primrose was always direct in her movements--she made up her mind
quickly; from her earliest childhood she was in the habit of acting
with decision.
After her short interview with Mr. Danesfield she went straight home,
and without paying any attention to the clear voice of her pet Daisy,
who called to her from the garden, or to Jasmine's little
impatient--"Sister, I want you to help me to arrange the trimming on
my new black skirt," she ran upstairs, and locked herself into her
mother's room.
There she once more opened the old davenport, and took from it the
thick packet, which contained a shabby little desk, inside of which
lay a letter directed to herself.
Now at last she opened the letter, and in her own great perplexity
read the message from the grave.
The letter was dated about three months back, and was in her mother's
neatest and most easily read writing.
"My dear daughter," it began, "I have no present reason to suppose
that my life will be cut short, therefore I cannot tell whether this
letter will be read by you now, while you are young, or years hence,
when your youth is over.
"One thing I have resolved--you shall not know the little secret it
contains during my lifetime. I keep it from you, my darling, because I
could not bear you to speak of it to me, because at the time it gave
me such agony that I have locked it up in my heart, and no one, not
even my own child, must open the doors where my dead secret lies.
"Primrose, whenever I die, this letter will reach you--you will find
it in the ordinary course of things in my cabinet; but even in this
letter I cannot tell you all the story--you must go to Hannah for
particulars--she has been with me all my married life, and knows as
much as I do.
"Once, when you were a little child of only six years old, I came into
the room where you slept, and I heard her saying to you, as she tucked
you up for the night--
"You must be very good to your mamma, Miss Primrose, for she has known
trouble."
"Neither you nor she saw me, and you raised your dear eyes to her
face, and I heard you say--
"'What is trouble, nursey Hannah?'
"'Trouble is a burden too heavy to be borne,' Hannah answered, 'but
when you came, Missy, it went away--you were like the spring to my
missus, and that is why she called you Primrose.'
"That night I called Hannah aside, and I made the faithful creature
promise that she would never again allude to my trouble to any of my
children. She promised, and kept her word.
"Now, darling, you shall learn what nearly broke my heart; what would
have quite broken it had God not sent me my three girls.
"Primrose, something more bitter than death came to your mother. Your
father is dead--I know where his bones lie--I know that I shall meet
him again, and I don't rebel. My other trouble was far, far worse than
that--
"Darling, you are not my eldest child--you are not the first bonny
baby who lay in my arms. Years before you were born I had a son. Oh!
how can I speak of him?--he seemed to be more beautiful than any other
child--he had ways--he had looks--Primrose, I can't go on, you must
ask Hannah to tell you what my boy was like. I had him for five years,
then I lost him; he did not die--he was stolen from me. Can you wonder
now that your mother sometimes looks sad, and that even you and
Jasmine and Daisy fail now and then to make me smile?
"My bonny boy was stolen. I never saw him dead; I never could go to
his grave to put flowers there--twenty years ago now he was taken from
me, and I have had neither trace nor tidings of him.
"Hannah will tell you particulars, Primrose, for I cannot. My trouble
far surpassed the bitterness of death. Only for you three, I could not
have lived--
"Your mother,
"Constance Mainwaring."
Primrose had scarcely finished reading this letter, and had by no
means taken in the full meaning of its contents, when light, soft
footsteps paused outside the room, and she heard the handle of the
door being very softly turned.
Cramming the letter into her pocket, and shutting the lid of the
little cabinet, she ran and unlocked the door. Jasmine was standing
without.
"I looked for you everywhere, Primrose, and I did not mean really to
disturb you here; I thought you might be here, and I tried the handle
very softly, meaning to steal away again. Are you very busy,
Primrose?"
"I can come with you if you want me for anything, Jasmine," answered
Primrose, putting her hand to her head in a dazed sort of way.
Jasmine's brow cleared, and her face grew bright instantly.
"It's rather exciting," she said; "I'm so glad you can come. It is
about Poppy Jenkins--Poppy is downstairs--she is going away--she has
come to say good-bye. Do you know, Primrose, that she is actually
going to London?"
Jasmine looked so delighted and eager that Primrose could not help
smiling, and taking her sister's hand, they ran downstairs together.
Poppy, who had very black eyes, cheeks with a brilliant color, and
hair like a raven's wing, was standing in the drawing-room twisting
her apron strings and chatting volubly to Daisy. She had known the
girls all her life, and not only loved them dearly, but respected them
much. To Poppy Jenkins there never were three such beautiful and
altogether charming young ladies as the Misses Mainwaring.
When Primrose appeared she dropped her a curtsey--perhaps she
respected Primrose the most, and loved her the least.
"It's to say good-bye, miss," she began, "I called in, hoping for last
words with you three dear young ladies. I is summoned to London, Miss
Primrose."
Nothing could exceed the air of modest pride with which Poppy made
this declaration; she quite expected Primrose to be both startled and
dazzled, and said afterwards that it was rather like a little stream
of cold water trickling down her back when Miss Mainwaring replied
quietly--
"London is a long way off, Poppy--why are you going there?"
"I has an aunt in the boarding-house way, Miss Primrose--she keeps a
very select establishment; and most particular; don't admit no
gentlemen. It's for ladies only, aunt's boarding-house is, miss, and
she wrote to mother that it's a flourishing concern, and she wants a
girl who will be honest, and handy, and country-bred, to help wait on
the ladies. She has offered the situation to me, miss, as in duty
bound, I being her own niece, and mother is pleased to accept. I calls
it a dazzling prospect, Miss Primrose."
"I am delighted," began Primrose; but Jasmine interrupted her.
"Dazzling," she repeated, "of course it is dazzling, Poppy. I am so
very glad you are going. I only wish I were going. If there is a
wonderful, delightful, charming place, it is London. I have read about
it, and I have dreamed about it, and I have pictured it. What fun you
will have! Of course your aunt will take you to see all the sights.
Oh, do sit down. Primrose, we ought to tell her about the places she
should see, ought we not?"
Primrose nodded, and Poppy dropped on to the edge of the nearest
chair, and, clasping her red and hard-worked hands in front of her,
prepared herself to listen.
"First of all, Poppy," began Jasmine, after waiting for her sister to
speak; but Primrose was strangely silent.
"First of all, Poppy, you must go to the places which improve your
mind; now, I do hope you are not going to be giddy, running just after
pretty things; but I suppose your aunt, who is so wise, and who keeps
the boarding-house, will see to that. Well, first of all you had
better go to Westminster Abbey. Oh, Poppy! I have read such glorious
descriptions of it--the lights from the painted windows--the
wonderfully ancient look of the old pillars, and then the music; it
peals down the aisles and echoes through the fretted roofs; you will
be greatly overpowered at Westminster Abbey, Poppy; but you must
remember that you are a very privileged person, and be thankful for
being permitted to see with your own eyes such a lovely, lovely,
glorious place!"
"It do sound, from your description, very awe-inspiring, Miss
Jasmine," answered Poppy. "Is there no other place where one might get
more, so to speak, into the festive mood, miss?"
"Oh yes, you silly Poppy, lots and lots; but we'll come to those
presently. You'll have to see the Houses of Parliament, where our laws
are made--if you don't feel grave there, you ought. Then you must
visit the Tower, where people's heads were cut off--it's very solemn
indeed at the Tower; and, of course, you will pay a visit to the Zoo,
and you can see the lions fed, and you can look at the monkey-house."
"I likes monkeys," said Poppy, whose face had been growing graver and
graver while Jasmine was talking; "and if you'll throw in a little bit
of gazing into shop windows, Miss Jasmine, and learning the newest
cuts of a bonnet, and the most genteel fit of a mantle, why, then,
I'll do even that dreadful Tower, as in duty bound. My mother calls
London a vast sea and a world of temptation, and nothing but vanity
from end to end; but when I thinks of the beautiful ladies in aunt's
boarding-house, and of the shop windows I feels that it is dazzling."
"I wish that I were going," repeated Jasmine, whose cheeks were
flushed, and her starry eyes brighter than usual; "I wish I were
going. Oh, Primrose, think of you, and Daisy, and me saying our
prayers in the Abbey!"
"We must not think of it," said Primrose; "God hears our prayers
wherever we say them, Jasmine, darling."
"Yes," answered Jasmine; "and I am not going to complain. Well, Poppy,
you are a very lucky girl, and I hope you'll be as good as gold, and
as happy as the day is long."
"And if ever you does come to London, Miss Jasmine," said Poppy, rising
to her feet, "you'll remember aunt's boarding-house, for ladies only;
and proud I'll be to wait on you, miss."
"But we can't come, Poppy dear--we are very poor now--we have only got
thirty pounds a year to live on."
To Poppy, who had never been known in her life to possess thirty
pence, this sum sounded by no means modest.
"Might I make bold to inquire, miss," she asked, "if the thirty pounds
is once for all, or if it's a yearly recurrence?"
"Oh, it's an income, Poppy--how stupid you are!"
"Then I'll consult my aunt in town, miss, and try to find out if you
three dear young ladies couldn't contrive a London visit out of part
of the savings."
After this sapient speech Poppy bade the Mainwarings good-bye. They
looked after her retreating form down the street with many regrets,
for they were very fond of her, and Jasmine at least envied her.