AUNT AND NIECE.
NOT more than five minutes' walk from the entrance to the grounds of
the Moat House was a six-roomed, thatched cottage, called Home Vale,
standing back from the high road, from which it was divided by a long
strip of garden and a thick privet hedge. It was a picturesque little
home, looking at it from the outside, with its windows hung with
spotless white lace curtains, its porch covered with clematis, and
its front door posted invitingly open to admit the May sunshine, and
the fresh breeze scented with lilies-of-the-valley and jonquils.
Inside, everything was in apple-pie order. The brass face of the
tall, eight-day clock in the little entrance hall shone brightly;
the furniture in the parlour, which looked out on the flower-garden
and the strip of high road beyond, was arranged with evident care;
whilst upstairs, the three small bedrooms with their latticed windows
were pictures of neatness and freshness, their beds hung with white
dimity curtains, and their dressing-tables draped in white, starched
muslin petticoats looped up with coloured ribbons to match the shades
of the wall papers.
But, perhaps, the prettiest room in the cottage was the front
kitchen, with its red-tiled floor and white-washed walls, against
which the copper warming-pan and brass and tin cooking utensils
showed off so well. A canary sung gaily in a cage hanging in the
window, from which was an uninterrupted view of the kitchen garden,
where the mistress of Home Vale was at work on this sunny May
morning, industriously turning up a piece of ground with a spade,
handling the tool with almost the strength and dexterity of a man.
A tall, muscular, middle-aged woman was the mistress of Home Vale,
clad at present in short, drab, serge skirt; thick laced-up boots;
a washed-out cotton blouse; a broad-rimmed straw hat; and a pair of
gardening gloves. A small knot of iron-grey hair was visible beneath
the brim of the hat behind; and when she paused for a minute or so to
rest, and glanced up at a lark carolling high overhead, she revealed
a dark, sunburnt countenance, with large, irregular features, and a
pair of bright, brown eyes.
Such to outward appearances was Miss Pring, who had lived at Home
Vale, as Sir Jasper Amery's tenant, for the past ten years. Formerly,
she had been a rich woman; but, owing to the failure of a bank,
she had lost most of her money, and finding herself in really poor
circumstances, she had sought about for a country cottage, with a
large garden which she could turn to some account. Once Miss Pring
had gardened for pleasure; now she laboured for profit as well, and
grew quantities of vegetable and flowers for sale in the neighbouring
market town of T—.
At first when she had settled at Home Vale, people had looked at her
rather askance; but, slowly it had dawned on her neighbours—none of
whom lived very near, by-the-by, with the exception of Sir Jasper
Amery—that careless of appearances though she was, and living without
a servant, of which fact she was not a whit ashamed, there was no
truer lady at heart than Miss Pring. A year previously she had locked
up her cottage for a couple of days, and started on a journey. On her
return she had brought with her a pale, weary-looking girl, evidently
in very bad health, whom she had introduced to her acquaintances as
her niece, Mary Pring. The girl had been a governess in a large town
in the midlands, where she been underpaid, and, at the same time, so
greatly overworked that she had broken down altogether, and being
homeless, had been in dire distress of mind as to how to act when her
aunt had appeared upon the scene, and insisted on carrying her home
with her to Devon.
Now, Mary's health was completely restored, and she had been on the
look-out for another situation for some weeks, when, only yesterday
she had received a note from Sir Jasper Amery, asking her to call the
following morning at the Moat House, as his niece, Mrs. Wallis, who
had come to pay him a long visit, required a governess for her two
little girls, and he thought she might prove suitable for the post.
Mary had accordingly started for the Moat House that morning in high
spirits, whilst her aunt had betaken herself to the kitchen garden
to pass the time of her niece's absence in hard work, to keep her
from thinking, as she told herself. Miss Pring was very anxious
for Mary to remain with her, for she realised how lonely she would
feel if the girl was forced to leave her, and she could not afford
to keep her at Home Vale in idleness. She watched the lark till,
its song finished, it sank to the ground in an adjacent field, then
resumed her work, turning up the rich, red mould with a will.
"I hope the child will get the situation," she thought; "she appeared
very sanguine about it herself. How I should miss companionship if we
had to part! We suit each other, for all we're so unlike. I'm glad
I spoke of her to Sir Jasper when I saw him last. Poor old man!
It will be a great change for him to have young people at the Moat
House. Oh, here's Mary at last!"
Mary came swiftly down the garden path towards her aunt. She was a
tall, slight young woman, brown-haired and brown-eyed, with a face
which, possessing not one perfect feature, was nevertheless
wonderfully pleasing and attractive, and now wore an expression
so bright and joyous that Miss Pring knew at once that her heart's
desire was to granted, and that Mary had obtained the much coveted
situation.
"Well?" the elder woman said, interrogatively, in a deep, somewhat
gruff voice.
"It is well, Aunt Esther," Mary replied, putting her arm around her
aunt's waist, and imprinting a hearty kiss on her sunburnt cheek.
"Everything is settled, and I am to commence my duties to-morrow.
And what salary do you think I am to have?"
Miss Pring shook her head, and her niece continued:
"Forty pounds a year! I never dreamt it would be so much. Yes, indeed
it is true. Now I shall be able to pay you for my living here.
We shall be quite rich, shan't we? I am to be at the Moat House
from ten to four."
"Then you will dine there?"
"Oh, yes. I saw my pupils; they appeared nice little girls, and
one—the elder, who is fourteen—is so pretty. I was quite taken with
her. And her manners are charming! Her name is Celia. The other child
is younger by a couple of years."
"What like is the mother?" Miss Pring questioned.
"She is a handsome woman, but worn-looking. She was very genial, and
said she would like to make your acquaintance, Aunt Esther. I told
her all about you and how kind you have been to me."
"Pooh! you shouldn't have mentioned that. I've done nothing more than
my duty towards you, child. I couldn't leave you to be sent to a
hospital to be nursed back to health, could I, when I'd a home in the
country all ready for your reception?"
"A great many aunts would have done so but not you, though."
"I should hope not."
Miss Pring never saw but one path in life open to her, the straight,
narrow path, which is often so difficult to tread. She was an
undemonstrative woman, with a very warm heart hidden beneath a
somewhat masculine exterior. She hated shams or make-believe of any
kind, and it was her niece's open straightforward disposition which
had met with her approval and won her affection, when, after hearing
of her illness, she had gone to her assistance. Miss Pring had rich
relations whom she seldom mentioned, for their ways were not her
ways. Mary was the only child of a ne'er-do-well brother who had died
some years previously, leaving his wife and daughter unprovided for.
His wife had not survived him long, so Mary had found herself alone
in the world, for the rich relations had not come forward with any
offer of assistance, and it had devolved upon Miss Pring to help the
girl in her hour of need.
"I feel so very glad that I have obtained this situation, for I am
sure it will suit me, and that I shall give satisfaction," Mary said,
confidently. "I was getting quite low-spirited at the thought of
leaving you, Aunt Esther, and I prayed earnestly that God would give
me work to do here, so that we might not be parted, and you see He
has. It is just as though these great-nieces of Sir Jasper's had been
brought to the Moat House especially for me to teach."
"Things work wheel within wheel," Miss Pring replied, gravely. "Did
you see Sir Jasper?" she inquired.
"Yes. He came into the room when Wallis was telling me what my duties
would be, but he did not remain many minutes. He spoke to me very
kindly, though, and asked for you. What a feeble old man he looks!
I wonder if he means to leave Mrs. Wallis his property?"
Miss Pring shook her head, and said she had not the least idea what
his intentions were. She was actually very curious to meet
Sir Jasper's niece, whom he had mentioned to her in very affectionate
terms. Sir Jasper never visited his tenant at Home Vale; but she went
to see her landlord on every quarter day to pay her rent, and since
his son's death she had waived ceremony at his request, and had
called upon him on several occasions in a friendly fashion. The
master of the Moat House had a sincere liking and respect for his
plain-spoken neighbour, who went her own way, irrespective of public
opinion.
"It will be such happiness to be at work again," Mary proceeded,
as Miss Pring turned her attention once more to her labours, and
having finished spading up the earth, raked it until it was quite
smooth and fine. "Let me see, Aunt Esther, you are going to put
kidney beans here, are you not?"
"Yes," was the response, "I shall soon till the beans now the earth
is prepared for them; and in the meantime you may get dinner ready—
cold beef, and there's a baked custard in the oven."
Mary nodded comprehendingly, and ran back to the house to do her
aunt's bidding, whilst Miss Pring tilled her beans, humming a song
the while, for she felt particularly light of heart. She had not a
musical voice—it sounded rather like a bee in a pitcher—but there was
a jubilant note discernible in it, nevertheless, very pleasant
to hear. Not even Mary guessed the depth of her aunt's joy that she
had obtained the situation as governess at the Moat House, for Miss
Pring had never confessed to living soul the sense of loneliness
she had often experienced before she had brought her niece to Home
Vale. Her work satisfactorily completed at length, the gardener
carefully cleaned and put away her tools, and then went indoors, and
upstairs to her own room, where she changed her gardening attire
for a neat black gown with white linen cuffs and collar, subsequently
joining her niece at dinner. They spent the afternoon sewing in the
little parlour, Mary talking light-heartedly of her coming duties;
and after an early cup of tea they started for a walk.
It was in a shady lane where the branches of the hazel bushes almost
met overhead that they encountered Celia and Joy Wallis, who had been
finding treasures—wild hyacinths and anemones—in the mossy hedge
rows. The two girls were pleased to meet their new governess, who
introduced them to her aunt.
"You must come and see me at Home Vale," said Miss Pring, hospitably.
"Mary," she added, turning to her niece, "you must bring your pupils
to have tea with me one day."
"Oh, thank you!" Celia exclaimed. "We should like that, shouldn't we,
Joy?"
"Yes," her sister nodded.
"You have an unusual name," Miss Pring remarked, transferring her
attention to Joy. "Is it an abbreviation!"
"Yes, I am really called Joyce. Everyone seems struck with my name,"
Joy said, gravely; "Uncle Jasper was—I am not sure he liked it."
"I like it," Miss Pring declared, decidedly, whereupon Joy smiled
up into the dark plain face of her new governess's aunt, and met an
answering smile in return. "We shall be friends, I foresee,"
Miss Pring continued; "you and I will soon learn to understand
each other."
"Are you coming to the Moat House to call on mother?" Joy asked,
eagerly. "Oh, I hope you are!"
"I will come very soon," Miss Pring replied, suddenly making up
her mind. "How do you like the Moat House?"
"Very much. We have been there a week, you know, and Uncle Jasper is
very kind, but we don't see much of him. He likes to talk to mother
best. We are going to begin lessons to-morrow, and I think I am
glad."
"Joy," interposed Celia, "I have been telling Miss Pring— I mean this
Miss Pring," she said, indicating Mary with a smiling glance, "that
as her surname is the same as her aunt's, we might call her
Miss Mary, and she says she has no objection to our doing so."
"Very well," Joy agreed readily.
After that, good-byes were exchanged, the children turned homewards,
and aunt and niece proceeded in the opposite direction.
"Well, what do you think of our governess's relation?" Celia asked,
as soon as she and her sister were safely out of earshot of the
others. "Did you ever see such an ugly old frump before?"
"Oh, Celia!" Joy cried, reproachfully, "I thought she seemed so very
nice, and I didn't think her ugly at all."
"Well, all I can say is that if Miss Mary was like her aunt
in appearance, I should be sorry she was going to be our governess,"
Celia remarked, meditatively. "I do like people to be pretty and
well-dressed," she admitted; adding, "I don't call Miss Mary pretty
exactly, but she's nice-looking, and as mother says, anyone can see
she's a lady."
"I heard Uncle Jasper tell mother he has a very high opinion of Miss
Pring," Joy said, eagerly; "he said she was a good woman, as straight
as a line, and as true as steel."
"I daresay," Celia replied, carelessly, "but she isn't any the better
looking on that account."
"Perhaps she is rather plain," Joy admitted truthfully; "but,"
she summed up with some warmth, "I'd rather be good than pretty
any day." To which sentiment Celia vouchsafed no answer, and when she
spoke again, changed the conversation into an entirely different
channel.