The New Home.
It was not until March, when Paddy had been in London over two months,
that her mother and Eileen joined her. By that time she and the doctor
had the furniture all in place and everything ready. A letter Paddy
received the last day rather surprised her.
“Do not meet us,” Eileen wrote, “nor wait at uncle’s for us. We
particularly want to receive you in our own little home, and shall be
eagerly watching for you about six o’clock.”
Paddy thought it rather queer, but fell in with their wishes, and went
off as usual to her classes. When she reached home in the evening
Eileen was watching at the little front bow-window and flew to the
door, her mother following closely, and none of the three knew quite
whether to laugh or cry, they were all so glad and so sad together.
“It’s just good to have a home again,” said Paddy, and bustled into the
little sitting-room while her mother and Eileen exchanged glances. No
sooner had she entered than she gave a cry of delight, for there, on
each side of the fireplace, in their usual manner, sat the two aunties.
The next moment they were both pleading for mercy in stifled tones
beneath her vigorous hugs.
“You dear, _dear_, dear aunties!” she cried; “to come all this long way
at such a cold time of year. How I just love you both! I shall have to
go on hugging you all the evening. However did you make up your minds
to come?”
“Well, you see, dear,” said Aunt Jane, “we could never have rested
content without being quite sure you were all as comfortable as
circumstances would permit, and so we felt the only thing to do was to
come and see for ourselves.”
“Yes,” nodded little Miss Mary, “we have come to see for ourselves.”
The tea-table caught Paddy’s eye then, and she had to go into raptures
over again.
“Omeath eggs!” she cried. “Omeath ham!—cream!
honey!—marmalade!—parsonage tea cakes!—parsonage scones—parsonage apple
pie! Oh, goodness! how ill I shall be to-morrow! Was ever such a
delicious-looking meal! I shall be practising dispensing upon the whole
household, I expect, in a few hours.” And then, just to relieve her
feelings, she started hugging everybody over again, until the two poor
little ladies’ caps were at such an impossible angle they were obliged
to retire to put them straight.
“If only Jack were here,” Paddy said longingly, as they sat down, “what
a lovely occasion for a scramble it would be!”
“We have had a letter from him,” said Miss Jane, in a glad voice. “You
shall see it afterward. He has reached Buenos Aires safely and had a
good voyage, and he gives a wonderful description of the flowers and
loveliness of Montevideo. It is nice to think that the boy is seeing
something of the world at last. We ought to have sent him abroad
before. I am afraid we were very selfish.” And little Miss Mary chimed
in with mournful agreement.
“Oh, no, you weren’t,” asserted Paddy; “nothing of the kind. Jack was
lazy, and I encouraged him, and it just serves us both right to have to
work hard now.”
They asked her how she was getting on with her studying, and she looked
gravely mischievous and said, “Pretty middling.”
“You see,” she continued, “medicines are very confusing. They’re nearly
all water, with a little colouring, but the various colourings have
long Latin names to give them an air of importance, and it’s very hard
to remember which high-sounding name belongs to which colouring. I have
to study a very learned book called the ‘Materia Medica,’ but I haven’t
yet succeeded in making any sense of a single page and I have my doubts
whether there is really any sense in the whole book. But I like going
to the hospital,” she ran on. “The matron is nice and the nurses are
jolly. The dispenser and I generally contrive to get tea in the
dispensary in the afternoon, and whichever of them can manage it slips
down and has a cup with us. Both the tea and bread and butter usually
get flavoured with the nastiest drug lying about, but that is a mere
detail.”
“What is Aunt Edith like, and how do you get on with Basil?” they
asked.
“Aunt Edith is like Mrs Masterman, and looks as if she was left over
from a hundred years ago. She always speaks of Basil as ‘_dear_ Basil’
or ‘_poor dear_ Basil,’ according as he has been over-working or
over-spending, and she spends a great deal of time in church, and talks
about the ‘poor dear clergyman’ and the ‘poor dear choir boys,’ and
discusses a different guild every evening in the week. She has only two
real ideas in the world—one is the church and the other is Basil; and
they agree in one thing—they never stop asking her for money. Uncle is
a sort of fixture, like the blinds or the kitchen range, but he doesn’t
seem to mind so long as he can follow his profession in peace, and he
is just the dearest and kindest man in the world.”
“And how do you get on with Basil?” they asked again.
“Well, I don’t get on at all,” and Paddy looked amused. “I don’t think
we’re on speaking terms just now—we are not as a rule. Before I had
been there a month I told him he was not fitted for anything but a
dressed-up mummy in a tailor’s window, and a few other similar things,
and for a time our relations were very strained. We indulge in home
truths concerning each other so often that I find it difficult to
remember when we are on speaking terms and when not. He is rather fond
of making sarcastic reflections upon Irish dressmakers and countrified
style, and of course I have to hit back from the shoulder for the sake
of the old country.”
They could not help laughing, but her mother quickly grew grave and
looked a little anxious.
“I hope you don’t carry it too far, my dear,” she said. “I would not
like to hurt your uncle’s and aunt’s feelings after all their
kindness.”
“Don’t you be afraid, mother,” cheerfully. “Uncle enjoys it, and aunt
doesn’t understand half we say. She generally misses the point, you
see, and thinks I am paying Basil compliments. Uncle, on the other
hand, sees that it is only his welfare I have at heart.”
She then went on to tell them about Ted Masterman—all except the
incident of the coin—and the doctor at the classes, and her friends the
’bus drivers, chattering away like her old self again for very
happiness at having them all round her. They sat in a semicircle over
the fire until late into the night, and finally went to bed too tired
after their long day, and too pleased at being together again, to have
time to be miserable.
Only when they were alone Paddy asked Eileen if she had heard from
Lawrence, and with a faint blush Eileen acknowledged that she had.
After a moment’s hesitation she produced the letter and gave it to
Paddy to read.
“It is a nice one,” was all Paddy said, as she folded it up afterward.
“He could always be nice if it happened to please him.”
Eileen made no reply. It was not a subject she could discuss, and she
knew, moreover, that it was one upon which she and Paddy could never
agree. For she had not forgotten Lawrence at all, and still, deep down
in her heart, lived a hope that she could not extinguish. When we
desire a thing with a great and terrible longing, it is very hard to
honestly and squarely face the fact that it can never be ours. If there
is any possible chance of fitting in a “perhaps,” that “perhaps” is
pretty sure to be there. Eileen had managed to find more than one
chance, and the really nice letter that Lawrence had written her
directly he heard of the General’s death, and while the news still had
a softening effect upon him, had only more firmly entrenched them.
It was unfortunate, but it was the way of the world. The fine-strung
nervous system that holds the deepest capacity for suffering is
oftenest jarred upon and hurt by rough, careless hands and cold,
selfish hearts. And always, too, are these the sufferers who hope and
remember the longest in spite of all.
Paddy felt vaguely that Eileen still loved and still hoped and her
loyal heart was furious with Lawrence. But she was obliged to content
herself with scathingly picking his letter to pieces in her own mind,
for she recognised that no good could some of saying these kind of
things to Eileen, and she would just have to stand aside and let
matters take their own course.
“I suppose he might come back,” she reasoned, with a worried feeling;
“but it is not very likely, and a very questionable benefit if he did.”
Yet, when, as the days went by, she saw the quiet sadness still
paramount in Eileen’s eyes, and knew that all her happiness was forced,
she felt a great longing to have it settled one way or another for all
their sakes. The shadow hung heavily upon the mother also, and Paddy
easily saw that it was not London and her loss only that kept her so
worn and ill-looking.
It was just when things were in this state, by a most strange
coincidence, that Paddy heard news of Lawrence partly through her
cousin Basil. Now that they did not five under the same roof, they
managed to keep better friends, though Paddy never missed the smallest
opportunity of a taunt at Basil’s effeminacy, and Basil still persisted
in veiled hints at her general lack of elegance. However, as both were
already profiting by the other’s plain speaking, it was very harmless.
Paddy, on her part, had become very friendly with another girl student,
who, in the matter of appearance, was the exact opposite of herself,
and she was beginning to benefit by the friendship. Ethel Matheson was
a true Londoner of the modern type, which represents a girl quite as
fond of outdoor games as a country girl, but at the same time having
the unmistakable cut of London about her clothes. Well-cut
tailor-mades, simple, smart hats, hair well dressed, gloves and boots
always neat, made Ethel a pleasing picture in any weather and at any
time, and before long Paddy began to envy her. After a time she got so
far as to mention it, and from that day the change commenced. Ethel
took her in hand altogether, and guaranteed that in a few months, if
Paddy would give her mind to it seriously, she would turn her out as
neat and smart as herself, and only spend a fraction more money.
Consequently, when the spring was well advanced, Paddy invested in her
first smart “tailor-made,” a very pretty hat, and began to take pains
with her hair. The very first time she was out in them, feeling not a
little conscious, but on the whole well pleased with herself, she ran
into Basil going home on the top of a ’bus.
“By Jove!” said Basil. “If it isn’t Paddy!—all in new clothes!”
“Well, there’s no occasion to be rude,” retorted Paddy. “Any one would
think you were not accustomed to new clothes instead of dreaming and
thinking of little else.”
Two men, who, unknown to her, were accompanying Basil, began to laugh,
and Paddy blushed a fiery red when her cousin, with considerable
enjoyment, proceeded to introduce them to her.