A NEW HOME.
It was a bright morning in the early spring when Florence Heriton,
accompanied by her father, left the dull, dirty street in Brompton to
pay her first visit to the busy and pleasantly situated market town of
Kirton-on-the-Thames.
Mr. Heriton, clinging to his daughter’s arm for support and guidance,
was childishly gratified by the prospect of a railway journey. He began
to complain of the porter for putting him into a second-class carriage,
but Florence slipping a daily paper into his hand, all other grievances
were forgotten in an eager inspection of the state of the money market.
When they were fairly out of sight of the tall rows of houses, amid
which she had been so long immured, Florence began to breathe more
freely, and her spirits to recover their natural elasticity. Work would
not seem so toilsome, privations so hard to endure, when the green
fields and trees were once more around her; and when they alighted at
the Kirton Station, and her father began to complain of the length of
the walk that followed, her smiles and merry sallies wiled him into
forgetfulness of his fatigue.
Near the summit of a gentle acclivity, some two miles from the town,
stood the cottage to which Susan Denham had directed them. It was
close to the highroad, but no other habitation stood within some
considerable distance, and a fine clump of elm trees growing in an
adjacent field sheltered it from the shrill blasts of the northerly
wind. It was a most unpretending building, but the ivy that had crept
over the front and side, twining its tendrils even around the old brick
chimney, gave it an air of comfort; and the lozenge-shaped panes of the
little casements shone brightly in the morning sun.
But what most attracted the eyes of Florence were the trimly kept beds
in the small forecourt or garden. Early as it was, they were gay with
the gayest of spring flowers. The crocus, in its every variety of hue,
from orange purple and to the palest of blue, sprang up everywhere;
large clusters of snowdrops, mingled with hepaticas and early tulips;
and the air was redolent with the perfume of the white and blue violets
which peeped from every sheltered corner.
As Florence pressed forward to gaze upon the bright blossoms she saw
that the owner of the cottage had become aware of her approach, and was
standing at the gate peering at her curiously. From the description she
had received, it was easy to recognize directly the good woman of whose
kindness of heart Susan Denham had spoken so warmly; yet so queer was
her appearance that it was scarcely possible to resist a smile.
Mrs. Bick was so tall and largely framed that she looked out of all
proportion with her tiny dwelling, and her list-slippered feet, which
the curtness of her narrow skirts well displayed, were positively
enormous. Her only sacrifice to the Graces consisted of two bunches
of bright-brown curls, which were surmounted by a net cap, surrounded
by double quillings of lace. As these borders were very limp, and
the curls had a tendency to slip over Mrs. Bick’s forehead whenever
she stooped, they were generally awry, and the gray hairs they were
intended to conceal stuck out in little fuzzy bunches above or below
them.
Florence introduced herself by presenting Susan’s note. It was turned
over and over dubiously, and then thrust back into her hand.
“Just read it, will ye? Dannle’s out at work, and my speckittles is
indoors.”
Mrs. Bick nodded her head gravely when she had heard the contents of
the missive.
“Susan Denham! Ha! that’s the quiet un. A decent young woman she was,
too--very different to that highty-flighty cousin that used to pluck
Dannle’s best flowers with never a ‘by your leave,’ at all. So you
wants my rooms, do ye?”
“I should like to look at them and see whether they would suit me,”
answered Florence, a little perplexed between the easy familiarity of
Mrs. Bick’s address and the gathering frowns with which Mr. Heriton was
listening to it.
“Look and welcome. My place is clean if ’tain’t nothing else. Have ye
got ere a pin about ye to pin up them long skirts? For Dannle’s ginger
(Virginia) stock is a-coming out in the borders, and he can’t abide to
see it broken off.”
Florence humored the woman by drawing her dress carefully around her as
she followed her tall form up the narrow pathway.
“It’s a silly fancy, them flowers, for poor folks like we,” said Mrs.
Bick, turning round when she reached the porch and confidentially
addressing her visitors, “and so I’ve told Dannle times out o’ mind.
If he took to anything, he might ha’ took to a pig or fowls; or even
rabbits’d been better than nothing, for there’s many a good meal to be
had off of them; but there’s neither vittles nor drink in flowers, and
they’re here to-day and gone to-morrow, aren’t they? Such rubbidge for
poor folk like we to take up wi’, ain’t it?”
She saved them the trouble of replying by throwing open the door of a
small and sparely furnished but exquisitely clean sitting room. The sun
shone in pleasantly, the broad window seats were filled with luxuriant
and choice plants, and the little parlor wore altogether such a snug,
cheerful aspect that Mr. Heriton seated himself in a chintz-covered
easy-chair in the sunniest corner, and smiled contentedly.
The chambers above were equally neat, and Mrs. Bick’s terms so
unusually moderate that Florence closed with her at once. It would be
easier to begin her new life in this secluded spot than in the dense
atmosphere and depressing influences of town lodgings; and even Mrs.
Bick’s rustic familiarity galled her far less than the vulgar sympathy
of the London landlady, who never brought up her bill or receipted it
without telling Florence that she had known what it was to be better
off herself, and so she could feel for other people.
“Then I shall expect ye to-morrow,” said Mrs. Bick, with a nod that
brought her brown curls nearly into her eyebrows. “The old gentleman
don’t look very strong. Wait while I fetches him a drop o’ my currant
wine to set him up afore he goes.”
Mr. Heriton graciously accepted the simple refreshment. And while their
hostess again strode away to cut him a slice of plain cake his daughter
fondly asked:
“Dear papa, do you think you can be happy here for a little while?”
“Well, yes, child,” he answered briskly. “While you were looking at the
rooms above I have been talking to a laborer at work in the adjoining
ground, and I learn that it is the property of a building society, and
that the members are willing to dispose of it on reasonable terms.”
“But this is nothing to us, dear papa,” said Florence, her spirits
sinking, “nothing to us, remember.”
“Nonsense, child! Don’t you see what an excellent speculation it will
be to take this ground on a long lease, and build a terrace of handsome
houses upon it?”
For a few minutes his daughter was inclined to give up all thought of
coming here to reside, lest he should really attempt to carry out this
new idea. But remembering that his utterly penniless condition rendered
it an impossibility, she took heart again, and contented herself with
observing:
“This must be an after consideration, papa. Remember that we are not
provided with the requisite cash for such an undertaking.”
He answered her peevishly:
“Of course--of course; I remember all this. But something will turn up,
or I shall find a friend to advance the money. You shall sketch me your
idea of the frontage, Florence. I’ll go and pace the ground while you
finish your chat with the good woman.”
It was a comfort to learn in answer to her inquiries that the property
in question was in the hands of a wary lawyer, not likely to be easily
persuaded into parting with it; and, reminding herself that Mr.
Heriton’s ruling passion was likely to crop out, go wherever she would,
Florence concluded her arrangements, and prepared to depart.
As she waited at the gate for her father, who was immersed in
measurements and calculations, Mrs. Bick nodded the brown ringlets in
the direction of a very feeble little old man who was tottering toward
them.
“That’s my Dannle. Poor old chap! He be a’most past work, and yet he
will potter about his garden every spare minute. Dannle,” she shrieked,
as soon as he came within hearing, “I’ve let the rooms to miss here and
her pa; and there’s two buds on the white rangium; I seen ’em just now
for the first time.”
Daniel Bick took off his hat to the young lady, and smiled pleasantly
at his wife’s information. But he was a man of few words; and his
gratification at Florence’s gentle commendation of his flowers was
only shown by his gathering a lovely little bouquet of violets and
snowdrops, and silently putting them into her hand.
“Well, now,” was his wife’s comment, “’tain’t often Dannle does that
for anybody. I reckon he likes you a’ready. I’ll have the beds well
aired, trust me; and now I must go and see to my old man’s dinner.”
As Florence turned at the foot of the hill to nod another adieu to the
old man, who still stood at the gate watching her graceful figure, a
gentleman rode rapidly toward them on a spirited bay mare.
Mr. Heriton was so deeply absorbed in his contemplation of the eligible
investment that as he walked backward he would have been run over but
for his daughter’s warning cry and the promptness of the rider, who
sharply wheeled his animal aside as soon as he saw the danger.
As, with a polite expression of regret, he lifted his hat, their eyes
met, and Florence recognized the bearded stranger of the Albany. He,
too, knew her again, and seemed disposed to address her; but, checking
the impulse, he bowed low, and rode on again more rapidly than before.