THE PANZY ROOM AND COSY NOOK.
"There is rosemary, that is for remembrance....
And there is pansies that's for thoughts."
SHAKESPEARE.
"That way madness lies; let me shun that."
_King Lear._
It was impossible for Waveney not to be amused by Nurse Marks' quaint
tales; her sense of humour was too strong, and the atmosphere of the
Cubby-house was so full of comfort that, in spite of herself, her sad
face began to brighten.
"If you knew Sergeant McGill," she said, presently, "perhaps you knew
his sweetheart, Sheila, too." Then Nurse Marks smiled and nodded, as she
cut another appetising slice of bread-and-butter, and laid it on
Waveney's plate--such sweet home-made bread and fresh, creamy butter!
"Aye, dearie, I knew Sheila McTavish well, for when I was a slip of a
girl I had a bad illness, and my mother's cousin, Effie Stuart, took me
back with her to the Highlands to bide with her for more than a year.
The McTavish cottage was next to ours, and not a day passed that I did
not see Sheila coming up from the loch-side with her creel, with her
bare feet and red petticoat, and maybe a plaid over her bonnie brown
hair. I was always a homely body, even in my young days, but never
before or since have I seen a lovelier face than Sheila McTavish, 'the
Flower of the Deeside'--that was what they called her."
"Was she engaged to McGill then?"
"Aye, my dearie. She had broken the sixpence with him, but he was away
in India then. I remember one day, as I sat on the churchyard wall,
Sheila came over the moor, and she had a sprig of white heather in her
hand. She held it up to me with a smile. 'It is good luck, Kezia,' she
said, and her eyes seemed full of brown sunshine, 'and this morning I
have heard from Fergus McGill himself, and it is he who is the guid lad
with his letters. He is coming home, he says, and then we are to be wed,
and it is the white heather that will bring us luck.' Ah, dearie, before
three weeks were over, Sheila, our sweet Flower of the Deeside, lay in
her coffin, and they put the white heather on her dead breast; and when
Fergus McGill came home there was only the grave under the rowan tree.
There, there, it is a queer world," finished Nurse Marks, "and there is
many a love-story left unfinished, for 'man' (and woman, too) 'is born
into trouble,' and I know that the women get the worst of it sometimes;
for it stands to reason," continued the old woman, garrulously, "that
they think a deal more of a love tale. Now, as we have finished tea,
shall I take you to your room, my dearie? It is called the Pansy Room,
and is close to mine. Miss Althea is a grand one for giving names. All
the bedrooms are called after flowers, to match the paper and cretonne.
There is the Rose Room and the Forget-me-not and the Pink Room, and the
Leafy Room, and the Marigold Room, where they put gentlemen."
"Which is Miss Althea's?" asked Waveney, quickly.
"Oh, the Rose Room. Miss Althea has a passion for roses. Miss Doreen
sleeps in the Forget-me-not Room; everything is blue there. The other
rooms are for their guests, but near the servants' quarters there are
two pretty little attics called 'Faith' and 'Charity,' where they put
shop-girls who have broken down and need a rest; and these are never
empty all the year round. There is a little sitting-room attached, where
they take their meals. There, they are crossing the tennis-lawn this
moment from the Porch House. The tall one is Laura Cairns; she has had
an operation and has only just left the hospital, and the little fat one
is Ellen Sturt; there is not much the matter with her except hard work
and too much standing."
"Oh, how good they are!" thought Waveney, as Nurse Marks bundled down
the passage before her. "Every one seems to have something to say in
their praise, even the cab-driver;" and then she looked round the Pansy
Room well pleased. It was so fresh, and dainty, and pretty, and, after
her room at Cleveland Terrace, so luxuriously comfortable.
For there was actually a cosy-looking couch, and an easy-chair, and
beautiful flowers on the toilet-table, and some hanging book-shelves
full of interesting books.
The window looked over the tennis-lawn with the Porch House, where the
girls were pacing arm-in-arm. One of them looked up at the window, and
smiled a little as Waveney gazed down at her. Nurse Marks, who was
already beginning to unpack, went on talking briskly.
"It was Miss Althea's thought, but Miss Doreen helped her to carry it
out. It is always like that with my ladies, they are just the two halves
of a pair of scissors, but they work together finely. What one says the
other does. It is like the precious ointment, that's what it is, Miss
Ward, my dear! and never a misunderstanding or a contrary word between
them.
"The girls come for a month, and sometimes they stay longer; and if they
are well enough they wait on themselves, or if not, Reynolds, the under
housemaid, sees to them; and when the weather permits they are in the
garden, or on the common the whole day long, and they have the run of
the Porch House, too, and help themselves to books from the library;
they are no trouble and fall in with our ways, and the blessing the Red
House is to some of those poor things is past my telling. Now, dearie,
shall I hang these things in the wardrobe for you--there is plenty of
room and to spare. And then I will go back, and finish a bit of mending
for Miss Althea."
Waveney was not sorry to be left alone; she wanted to begin a letter to
Mollie. She had so much already to tell her. So she sat down at the
writing-table, and her pen flew over the paper, until a quick, light tap
at her door roused her, and Miss Althea entered.
Waveney gave a vivid description of her to Mollie afterwards. "She
looked so grand and stately that I felt quite shy; but her dress was
charming. It was a soft, cloudy grey, but it shimmered as though it were
streaked with silver, and she had a close little bonnet that looked like
silver too, and a ruff of fine cobwebby lace round her long neck. I
fancy she always wears a ruff, and she looked more like Queen Bess than
ever. Somehow she is oddly picturesque, and makes other people look
commonplace beside her. But there, you must see her one day for
yourself."
Althea came up to the writing table as Waveney rose, a little confused,
and held out her hand to the girl with one of her winning smiles.
"I was so sorry to be out when you arrived," she said, kindly, "but my
aunt, Mrs. Mainwaring, sent for me most unexpectedly. I hope Nurse Marks
took good care of you."
"Oh, yes," returned Waveney, shyly, "she was very kind."
"Oh, my dear old nurse is the kindest creature in the world. She
literally bubbles over with benevolence. Is not the Cubby-house
delightful? Did you see the toy cupboard, where all our dear old dolls
and toys are stored? Marks won't part with one of them; she is quite
huffy if we propose to give them away. When children come to the house,
she lets them play with them under her own eye. One day she came into
the library with a long face to tell me that little Audrey Neale had
broken Bopeep's arm;" and Althea laughed quite merrily; then she looked
at the clock on the mantelpiece, and uttered an exclamation: "Half-past
seven, and I am not dressed. What will Peachey say? I will come back and
fetch you directly the gong sounds;" and then Waveney was left to finish
her letter.
She did not see Miss Doreen until they entered the dining-room, and then
she welcomed her very cordially. To Waveney the dinner-table was a
revelation. She had never taken a meal out of her own home, and the
soft, shaded lights, the hot-house fruits and flowers, the handsome
silver, and the fineness of the damask, excited her wonderment. The
servant moved so noiselessly over the thick carpets, and then she
thought of Ann stumping round the table in her heavy boots.
Ah, they would be just sitting down to supper, and Mollie would be
mixing the salad as usual; for Everard Ward had learnt to enjoy a salad
in his Paris days, and would sup contentedly on bread-and-cheese or even
bread-and-butter, if only he could have a handful of cress, or a stalk
or two of endive, to give it a relish.
Doreen and Althea were quite aware that the forlorn little stranger was
not at her ease. The small, childish face looked subdued and thoughtful,
and the dark, _spirituelle_ eyes were sad in their wistfulness; but with
their usual tact and kindness they left her alone, and talked to each
other in their cheerful way.
Althea gave a description of her afternoon party, which was full of
gentle humour; and Doreen had a great deal to say about the Home. She
had had tea with old Mrs. Wheeler--and as usual the poor old soul was
full of her grievances against Miss Mason.
"She is a cantankerous, east-windy sort of body," went on Doreen, with a
laugh, as she helped herself to some grapes, "and she leads poor Miss
Mason a life. But there! one must not judge her, she has led a hard,
grinding sort of existence. Althea, these grapes are unusually fine;
don't you think Laura Cairns would enjoy some? Ellen likes pears
better;" and then Doreen heaped up a plate with fine fruit and bade
Mitchell take it to the Brown Parlour.
When the sisters rose from the table Althea touched Waveney's arm.
"Come with me to the library," she said, in a kind voice. "We shall sit
there this evening. We do not often use the drawing-room--it is a very
big room, and we always feel rather lost in it."
"I call this big, too," remarked Waveney, in rather an awed voice. She
had never seen such a beautiful room in her life; it was better than any
of the dream rooms at Kitlands.
The grand oriel window, with its cushioned seat; the carved oak
furniture, and bookcases filled with handsomely-bound books; the fine
engravings on the walls;--all excited her admiration. But when Althea
drew back a curtain and showed her a tiny room hidden away behind it,
with a glass-door opening on the terrace, she could not refrain from an
exclamation of delight.
"Oh, what a dear little room!" she said, quite naturally.
"Yes, I call it my cosy nook. But it is not really a room, it is merely
a recess." And Waveney thought how well Miss Althea's name suited it.
There was a small writing-table prettily fitted-up, an easy-chair, and a
work-table.
"I am so glad you have taken a fancy to it," went on Miss Althea--and
she looked very much pleased--"because this is to be your little
sanctum. You see, it would never do for me to have my reader and
companion far away from me. And yet I imagine we should both find it
irksome to be always together--even my sister and I could not stand
that; but, you see, when the curtain is dropped, you will be quite
private."
"And it is really for me!" and Waveney's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
Then Miss Althea smiled, and put her hand kindly on the girl's arm.
"I want you to be happy with us, my dear, and not to look upon us as
strangers, because in the old days your father was a dear friend of
ours. Last night an idea struck me. Do you think you would feel more at
home with us if we were to call you by your Christian name? You have
such a pretty name, and it is so uncommon."
"Oh, please do," returned Waveney, flushing with shy pleasure. "It was
silly of me, but I was so dreading that 'Miss Ward;'" and somehow a load
seemed lifted off her at that moment.
"She is such a little childish thing," observed Miss Althea afterwards;
"and yet she has plenty of character. We are very unconventional people,
Doreen, you and I; but I never could endure these artificial barriers.
My dignity, such as it is, is innate; it does not need bolstering up. I
could not be stiff and proper with Everard Ward's daughter;" and then a
strangely sad look came into Althea's eyes, as though some ghost from
the past had crossed her path; "no, certainly not to Everard Ward's
daughter;" and Doreen smiled as though she understood her.
Doreen's world was inhabited by warm-blooded human beings; no ghostly
visitants ever haunted her. "I am a woman without a story," she would
say. "Most people have some sort of romance in their lives--even
unmarried women have their unfinished idylls; but my life has been bare
prose." But she always laughed when she made these speeches, for there
was nothing morbid in Doreen's character.
Althea proposed, as the evening was mild and balmy, that they should
take a turn in the garden.
"It will be very pleasant on the terrace, and in the kitchen-garden,"
she remarked, "but, of course, we must avoid the grass. Are not these
shut-in lawns pretty? Through that arch, if it were light enough, you
would have a glimpse of my flower-garden. I call it mine, because I give
it my special supervision. Doreen takes more interest in the
kitchen-garden, and when I boast of my roses and begonias, she is
dilating on the excellence of her strawberries and tomatoes."
"I think I should care most for the flower-garden," observed Waveney.
And then, of her own accord, she began telling Miss Althea about the
pensioners' little gardens, and the corporal's flowers.
Althea listened with much interest, and then, little by little, her
quiet questions and sympathetic manner induced Waveney to break through
her shy reserve, and speak of her home. Althea soon found out all she
wanted to know: the home that was so perfect in Waveney's eyes, the
little warm nest that held all her dear ones, seemed meagre and bare to
the elder woman, who had been used to luxury all her life, and had never
had a want ungratified.
As the girl talked on in a _naive_ way, all at once a vision rose before
Althea's eyes of a brilliantly-lighted ball-room, and of a fair,
boyish-looking man, with stephanotis in his buttonhole, standing before
her with eager looks.
"It is our valse, Althea, and I have been looking forward to it all the
evening." And then--and then----But she started from her reverie with a
quick feeling of shame. Why had these thoughts come to her? He was
Dorothy's lover, not hers. Had he ever cared for her really? "It was all
a mistake. It was not he who was to blame, it was I--I!" and even in the
September darkness she smote her hands angrily together. The love had
been in her imagination; it had never existed--never. She had bartered
her warm woman's heart for a shadow, and alas, alas! it was not in
Althea's nature to change. "If I love once, I love for ever," she had
once said in a bitter moment to Doreen. How she repented that speech
afterwards! "No; you do not understand, neither do I; but I think it is
my nature to be faithful."
When Althea roused from her brooding, she found that Waveney had become
silent. "You were speaking of your sister, were you not?" she said,
gently. "Some one told me," she continued, a little vaguely, "that she
was very pretty."
"Oh, yes," returned Waveney, eagerly, "everyone thinks Mollie quite
lovely. It is such a pity she is lame. It spoils things so much for her,
poor darling! But people admire her just the same--in the street they
turn round and stare at her; but Mollie never seems to notice them a
bit. That reminds me of such a funny speech"--and here Waveney began to
laugh. "An old Irishwoman who works for us sometimes, once said to her,
'It is my belief, Miss Mollie darlint, that the Powers above were after
fashioning an angel, and then they thought better of it, and changed it
into a flesh-and-blood woman. For the angel still laughs out of your
eyes, mavourneen.' And would you believe it, Miss Harford, that Mollie
only burst out laughing when Biddy said that, but I think it was
beautiful."
"I must see your pretty Mollie," returned Althea, thoughtfully; "but we
must go in now."
"I think I must tell Moritz that," she said to herself, with a smile.
"'The angel still laughs out of your eyes, mavourneen.' How very like an
Irishwoman!"