AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL
We hurried across the common--it was still daylight though the sun had
set some little time. The red and gold were still lingering in the sky
and casting a beautiful glow on the heather and the gorse bushes. For
Brayling Common is not like what the word makes most people think
of--there's no grass at all--it's all heather and gorse, and here and
there clumps of brambles, and low down on the sandy soil all sorts of
hardy, running, clinging little plants that ask for nothing but sunshine
and air. For of moisture there's but scanty supply; it no sooner rains
than it dries up again. But oh it is beautiful--the colours of it I've
never seen equalled--not even in Italy or Switzerland, where I went with
my first ladies, as I said before. The heather seems to change its shade
a dozen times a day, as well as with every season--according as the sky
is cloudy or bright, or the sun overhead or on his way up or down. I
cannot say it the right way, but I know that many far cleverer than me
would feel the same; you may travel far before you'd see a sweeter piece
of nature than our common, with its wonderful changefulness and yet
always beautiful.
There's little footpaths in all directions, as well as a few wider
tracks. It takes strangers some time to learn their way, I can tell you.
The footpaths are seldom wide enough for two, so it's a queer sort of
backwards and forwards talking one has to be content with. And we walked
too fast to have breath for much, only Widow Nutfold would now and then
throw back to me, so to say, some odds and ends of explaining about the
children that she thought I'd best know.
'They're dear young ladies,' she said, 'though Miss Elisabeth is a bit
masterful and Miss Baby--Augusta's her proper name--a bit spoilt. Take
them all together, I think Miss Lally's my favourite, or would be if she
was a little happier, poor child! I can't stand whiney children.'
I smiled to myself--I knew that the good woman's experience of children
was not great--she had married late and never had one of her own. It
was real goodness that made her take such an interest in the little
Penroses.
'Poor child,' I said, 'perhaps the cross nurse has made her so,' at
which Sarah gave a sort of grunt. 'What is her real name--the middle
young lady's, I mean?'
'Oh, bless you, I couldn't take upon me to say it--it's too outlandish.
Miss Lally we call her--' and I could hear that Mrs. Nutfold's breath
was getting short--she was stout in her later years--and that she was a
little cross. 'You must ask for yourself, Martha.'
So I said no more, though I had wanted to hear about the boy, who had
spoken of their mother as his aunty, and how he had come to be so
delicate and lame. And in a few minutes more we found ourselves at the
door of Clover Cottage; that was Mrs. Nutfold's house, though 'Bramble
Cottage' would have suited it better, standing where it did.
She took the key out of her pocket.
'I locked them in,' she said, nodding her head, 'though they didn't know
it.'
'Gracious,' says I, 'you don't mean as the children are all alone?'
'To be sure--who'd be with them? I wasn't going to make a chatter all
over the place about that impident woman a-goin' off. And Bella, my
girl, goes home at five. 'Twas after she left there was all the upset.'
I felt rather startled at hearing this. Suppose they had set themselves
on fire! But old Sarah seemed quite easy in her mind, as she opened the
door and went in, me following.
'Twas a nice roomy cottage, and so clean. Besides the large kitchen at
one side, with a good back-kitchen behind it, and a tidy bedroom for
Mrs. Nutfold, there was a fair-sized parlour, with casement windows and
deep window-seats--all old-fashioned, but roomy and airy. And upstairs
two nice bed-rooms and a small one. I knew it well, having been there
off and on to help Mrs. Nutfold with her lodgers at the busy season
before I went away to a regular place. So I was a little surprised when
she turned to the kitchen, instead of opening the parlour door. And at
first, what with coming out of the half-light and the red glow still in
my eyes, and what with that there Fusser setting upon me with such a
barking and jumping--all meant for a welcome, I soon found--as never
was, I scarce could see or hear. But I soon got myself together again.
'Down Fusser, naughty Fuss,' said the children, and, 'he won't bite,
it's only meant for "How do you do?"' said the eldest girl. And then she
turned to me as pretty as might be. 'Is this Martha?' says she, holding
out her little hand. 'I _am_ pleased to see you. It's very good of you,
and oh, Mrs. Nutfold, I'm so glad you've come back. Baby is getting so
sleepy.'
Poor little soul--so she was. They had set her up on Sarah's old
rocking-chair near the fire as well as they could, to keep her warm
because of her cold, and it was a chilly evening rather. But it was past
her bed-time, and she was fractious with all the upset. I just was
stooping down to look at her when she gave a little cry and held out her
arms to me. 'Baby so tired,' she said, 'want to go to bed.'
'And so you shall, my love,' I said. 'I'll have off my bonnet in a
moment, and then Martha will put Miss Baby to bed all nice and snug.'
'Marfa,' said a little voice beside me. It was the middle young lady. 'I
like that name, don't you, Francie?'
That was the boy--they were all there, poor dears. Old Sarah had thought
they'd be cosier in the kitchen while she was out. I smiled back at
Miss Lally, as they called her. She was standing by Master Francis; both
looking up at me, with a kind of mixture of hope and fear, a sort of
asking, 'Will she be good to us?' in their faces, which touched me very
much. Master Francis was not a pretty child like the others. He was pale
and thin, and his eyes looked too dark for his face. He was small too,
no taller than Miss Bess, and with none of her upright hearty look. But
when he smiled his expression was very sweet. He smiled now, with a sort
of relief and pleasure, and I saw that he gave a little squeeze to Miss
Lally's hand, which he was holding.
'Yes,' he said, 'it's a nice name. The other nurse was called "Sharp;"
it suited her too,' with a twinkle in his eyes I was pleased to see.
'Lally can't say her "th's" properly,' he went on, as if he was excusing
her a little, 'nor her "r's" sometimes, though Bess and I are trying to
teach her.'
'It's so babyish at _her_ age, nearly six, not to speak properly,' said
Miss Bess, with her little toss of the head, at which Miss Lally's face
puckered up, and the corners of her mouth went down, and I saw what
Sarah Nutfold meant by saying she was rather a 'whiney' child. I didn't
give her time for more just then. I had got Miss Baby up in my arms,
where she was leaning her sleepy head on my shoulder in her pretty baby
way. I felt quite in my right place again.
'Come along, Miss Lally, dear,' I said. 'It must be your bed-time too,
and if you'll come upstairs with Miss Baby and me, you'll be able to
show me all the things--the baths, and the sponges, and
everything--won't that be nice?'
She brightened up in a moment--dear child, it's always been like that
with her. Give her a hint of anything she could do for others, and she'd
forget her own troubles--fancy or real ones--that minute.
'The hot water's all ready,' said Mrs. Nutfold. 'I kep' the fire up, so
as you shouldn't have no trouble I could help, Martha, my dear.'
And then the three of us went upstairs to the big room at the back,
where I was to sleep with Miss Baby in her cot, and which we called the
night nursery. Miss Lally was as bright as a child could be, and that
handy and helpful. But more than once I heard a sigh come from the very
depths of her little heart, it seemed.
'Sharp never lettened me help wif Baby going to bed, this nice way,' she
said, and sighed again.
'Never mind about Sharp, my dear,' I said. 'She had her ways, and Martha
has hers. What are you sighing about?'
'I'm so fwightened her'll come back and you go, Marfa,' she said,
nestling up to me. Baby was safe in bed by now, prayers said and all.
'And--I'm sleepy, but I don't like going to bed till Queen comes.'
'Who may she be, my dear?' I asked, and then I remembered their talking
that day in the street. 'Oh, it's Miss Bess, you mean.'
'Yes--it's in the English hist_ory_,' said the child, making a great
effort over the 'r.' 'There was a queen they called "Good Queen Bess,"
so I made that my name for Bess. But mamma laughed one day and said that
queen wasn't "good." I was so sorry. So I just call Bess "Queen" for
short. And I say "good" to myself, for my Bess _is_ good; only I wish
she wouldn't be vexed when I don't speak words right,' and again the
little creature sighed as if all the burdens of this weary world were on
her shoulders.
'It's that Miss Bess wants you to speak as cleverly as she does, I
suppose. It'll come in time, no fear. When I was a little girl I
couldn't say the letter "l," try as I might. I used to leave it out
altogether--I remember one day telling mother I had seen such a sweet
"ittie 'amb"--I meant "little lamb."'
'Oh, how funny,' said Miss Lally laughing. She was always ready to
laugh. 'It's a good thing I can say "l's," isn't it? My name wouldn't
be--nothing--would it?--without the "l's."'
'But it's only a short, isn't it, Missy?' I said.
'Yes, my _weal_ name is "Lalage." Do you fink it's a pretty name?' she
said. She was getting sleepy, and it was too much trouble to worry about
her speaking.
'Yes, indeed, I think it's a sweet name. So soft and gentle like,' I
said, which pleased her, I could see.
'Papa says so too--but mamma doesn't like it so much. It was Francie's
mamma's name, but she's dead. And poor Francie's papa's dead too. He was
papa's brother,' said Miss Lally, in her old-fashioned way. There was a
funny mixture of old-fashionedness and simple, almost baby ways about
all those children. I've never known any quite like them. No doubt it
came in part from their being brought up so much by themselves, and
having no other companions than each other. But from the first I always
felt they were dear children, and more than common interesting.
A few days passed--very quiet and peaceful, and yet full of life too
they seemed to me. I felt more like myself again, as folks say, than
since my great trouble. It _was_ sweet to have real little ones to see
to again--if Miss Baby had only known it, that first evening's bathing
her and tucking her up in bed brought tears of pleasure to my eyes.
'Come now,' I said, to myself, 'this'll never do. You mustn't let
yourself go for to get so fond of these young ladies and gentleman that
you're only with for a day or two at most,' but I knew all the same I
couldn't help it, and I settled in my own mind that as soon as I could I
would look out for a place again. I wasn't afraid of what some would
count a hardish place--indeed, I rather liked it. I've always been that
fond of children that whatever I have to do for them comes right--what
does try my temper is to see things half done, or left undone by silly
upsetting girls who haven't a grain of the real nurse's spirit in them.
My lady wrote at once on hearing from Mrs. Nutfold. She was very angry
indeed about Sharp's behaviour, and at first was by way of coming down
immediately to see to things. But by the next day, when she had got a
second letter saying how old Sarah had fetched me, and that I was
willing to stay for the time, she wrote again, putting off for a few
days, and glad to do so, seeing how cleverly her good Mrs. Nutfold had
managed. That was how she put it--my lady always had a gracious way with
her, I will say--and I was to be thanked for my obligingness; she was
sure her little dears would be happy with any one so well thought of by
the dame. They were very busy indeed just then, she and Sir Hulbert, she
said, and very gay. But when I came to know her better I did her
justice, and saw she was not the butterfly I was inclined to think her.
She was just frantic to get her husband forward, so to speak, and far
more ambitious for him than caring about anything for herself. He had
had a trying and disappointing life of it in some ways, had Sir Hulbert,
and it had not soured him. He was a right-down high-minded gentleman,
though not so clever as my lady, perhaps. And she adored him. They
adored each other--seldom have I heard of a happier couple: only on one
point was there ever disunion between them, as I shall explain, all in
good time.
A week therefore--fully a week--had gone by before my little ladies'
mother came to see them. And when she did come it was at short notice
enough--a letter by the post--and Mayne, the postman, never passed our
way much before ten in the morning. So the dame told as how she'd be
down by the first train, and get to Clover Cottage by eleven, or soon
after. We were just setting off on our morning walk when Sarah came
calling after us to tell. She was for us not going, and stopping in till
her ladyship arrived; but when I put it to her that the children would
get so excited, hanging about and nothing to do, she gave in.
'I'll bring them back before eleven,' I said. 'They'll be looking fresh
and rosy, and with us out of the way you and the girl can get the rooms
all tidied up as you'd like for my lady to find them.'
And Sarah allowed it was a good thought.
'You've a head on your shoulders, my girl,' was how she put it.
So off we set--our usual way, over the common to the firwoods. There's
many a pretty walk about Brayling, and a great variety; but none took
the young ladies' and Master Francie's fancy like the firwoods. They had
never seen anything of the kind before, their home being by the
seashore was maybe the reason--or one reason. For I feel much the same
myself about loving firwoods, though, so to say, I was born and bred
among them. There's a charm one can't quite explain about them--the
sameness and the stillness and the great tops so high up, and yet the
bareness and openness down below, though always in the shade. And the
scent, and the feel of the crisp crunching soil one treads on, soil made
of the millions of the fir needles, with here and there the cones as
they have fallen.
'It's like fairy stories,' Miss Lally used to say, with her funny little
sigh.
But we couldn't linger long in the woods that morning, though a
beautiful morning it was. Miss Bess and Miss Baby were in the greatest
delight about 'mamma' coming, and always asking me if I didn't think it
must be eleven o'clock. Miss Lally was pleased too, in her quiet way,
only I noticed that she was a good deal taken up with Master Francie,
who seemed to have something on his mind, and at last they both called
to Miss Bess, and said something to her which I didn't hear, evidently
asking her opinion.
'Nonsense,' said Miss Bess, in her quick decided way; 'I have no
patience with you being so silly. As if mamma would be so unjust.'
'But,' said Master Francis hesitatingly, 'you know, Bess--sometimes----'
'Yes,' put in Miss Lally, 'she might think it had been partly Francie's
fault.'
'Nonsense,' said Miss Bess again; 'mamma knows well enough that Sharp
was horrid. I am sure Francie has been as good as good for ever so long,
and old Mrs. Nutfold will tell mamma so, even if possibly she did not
understand.'
Their faces grew a little lighter after this, and by the time we had got
home and I had tidied them all up, I really felt that my lady would be
difficult to please if she didn't think all four looking as bright and
well as she could wish.
I kept myself out of the way when I heard the carriage driving up,
though the children would have dragged me forward. But I was a complete
stranger to Lady Penrose, and things having happened as they had, I felt
that she might like to be alone with the children, at first, and that no
doubt Sarah Nutfold would be eager to have a talk with her. I sat down
to my sewing quietly--there was plenty of mending on hand, Sharp's
service having been but eye-service in every way--and I won't deny but
that my heart was a little heavy thinking how soon, how very soon, most
likely, I should have to leave these children, whom already, in these
few days, I had grown to love so dearly.
I was not left very long to my meditations, however; before an hour had
passed there came a clear voice up the old staircase, 'Martha, Martha,
come quick, mamma wants you,' and hastening out I met Miss Bess at the
door. She turned and ran down again, I following her more slowly.
How well I remember the group I saw as I opened the parlour door! It was
like a picture. Lady Penrose herself was more than pretty--beautiful, I
have heard her called, and I think it was no exaggeration. She was
sitting in the dame's old-fashioned armchair, in the window of the
little room; the bright summer sunshine streaming in behind her and
lighting up her fair hair--hair for all the world like Miss Lally's,
though perhaps a thought darker. Miss Baby was on her knee and Miss Bess
on a stool at her feet, holding one of her hands. Miss Lally and Master
Francie were a little bit apart, close together as usual.
'Come in,' said my lady. 'Come in, Martha,' as I hesitated a little in
the doorway. 'I am very pleased to see you and to thank you for all your
kindness to these little people.'
She half rose from her chair as I drew near, and shook hands with me in
the pretty gracious way she had.
'I am sure it has been a pleasure to me, my lady,' I said. 'I've been
used to children for so long that I was feeling quite lost at home doing
nothing.'
'And you are very fond of children, truly fond of them,' my lady went
on, glancing up at me with a quick observant look, that somehow reminded
me of Miss Bess; 'so at least Mrs. Nutfold tells me, and I think I
should have known it for myself even if she had not said so. I have to
go back to town this afternoon--supposing you all run out into the
garden for a few minutes, children; I want to talk to Martha a little,
and it will soon be your dinner time.'
She got up as she spoke, putting Miss Baby down gently; the child began
grumbling a little--but, 'No, no, Baby, you must do as I tell you,'
checked her in a moment.
'Take her out with you, Bess,' she added. I could see that my lady was
not one to be trifled with.
When they had all left the room she turned to me again. 'Sit down,
Martha, for a minute or two. One can always talk so much more
comfortably sitting,' she said pleasantly. 'And I have no doubt the
children have given you plenty of exercise lately, though you don't look
delicate,' she added, with again the little look of inquiry.
'Thank you, my lady; no, I am not delicate; as a rule I am strong and
well, though this last year has brought me troubles and upsets, and I
haven't felt quite myself.'
'Naturally,' she said. 'Mrs. Nutfold has told me about you. I was
talking to her just now when I first arrived.' Truly my lady was not one
to let the grass grow under the feet. 'She says you will be looking for
a situation again before long. Is there any chance of your being able to
take one at once, that is to say if mine seems likely to suit you.'
She spoke so quick and it was so unexpected that I felt for a moment
half stupid and dazed-like.
'Are you sure, my lady, that I should suit you?' I managed to say at
last. 'I have only been in one place in my life, and you might want more
experience.'
'You were with Mrs. Wyngate, in ----shire, I believe? I know her sister
and can easily hear any particulars I want, but I feel sure you would
suit me.'
She went on to give me a good many particulars, all in the same clear
decided way. 'The Wyngates are very rich,' she said, as she ended. 'You
must have seen a great deal of luxury there. Now we are not rich--not at
all rich--though we have a large country place that has belonged to the
family for many hundreds of years; but we are obliged to live plainly
and the place is rather lonely. I don't want you to decide all at once.
Think it all over, and consult your parents, and let me have your answer
when I come down again.'
'That will be the difficulty,' I replied; 'my parents wanted me to stay
on some time with them. There is nothing about the work or the wages I
should object to, and though Mrs. Wyngate was very kind, I have never
cared for much luxury in the nursery--indeed, I should have liked
plainer ways; and I love the country, and as for the young ladies and
gentleman, my lady, if it isn't taking a liberty to say so, I love them
dearly already. But it is father and mother----'
'Well, well,' said my lady, 'we must see. The children are very happy
with you, and I hope it may be arranged, but of course you must consult
your parents.'
She went back to London that same afternoon, and that very evening, when
they were all in bed, I slipped on my bonnet and ran home to talk it
over with father and mother.