Not Like Other Girls Part 14

"What a dull, shut-in place! I think the name of Friary suits it exactly," observed Nan, disconsolately, as they went up the little flagged path, bordered with lilac-bushes. "It feels like a miniature convent or prison: we might have a grating in the door, and answer all outsiders through it."

"Nonsense!" returned Phillis, who was determined to take a bright view of things. "Don't go into the house just yet, I want to see the garden." And she led the way down a gloomy side-path, with unclipped box and yews, that made it dark and decidedly damp. This brought them to a little lawn, with tall, rank gra.s.s that might have been mown for hay, and some side-beds full of old fas.h.i.+oned flowers, such as lupins and monkshood, pinks and small pansies; a dreary little greenhouse, with a few empty flower-pots and a turned-up box was in one corner, and an attempt at a rockery, with a periwinkle climbing over it, and an undesirable number of oyster-sh.e.l.ls.

An old medlar tree, very warped and gnarled, was at the bottom of the lawn, and beyond this a small kitchen-garden, with abundance of gooseberry and currant-bushes, and vast resources in the shape of mint, marjoram, and lavender.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a wretched little place after our dear old Glen Cottage garden!" And in spite of her good resolutions, Nan's eyes grew misty.

"Comparisons are odious," retorted Phillis, briskly. "We have just to make the best of things,--and I don't deny they are horrid,--and put all the rest away, between lavender, on the shelves of our memory."

And she smiled grimly as she picked one of the gray spiky flowers.

And then, as they walked round the weedy paths, she pointed out how different it would look when the lawn was mown, and all the weeds and oyster-sh.e.l.ls removed, and the box and yews clipped, and a little paint put on the greenhouse.

"And look at that splendid pa.s.sion-flower, growing like a weed over the back of the cottage," she remarked, with a wave of her hand: "it only wants training and nailing up. Poor Miss Monks has neglected the garden shamefully; but then she was always ailing."

They went into the cottage after this. The entry was rather small and dark. The kitchen came first: it was a tolerable-sized apartment, with two windows looking out on the lilacs and the green door and the blank wall.

"I am afraid Dorothy will find it a little dull," Nan observed, rather ruefully. And again she thought the name of Friary was well given to this gruesome cottage; but she cheered up when Phillis opened cupboards and showed her a light little scullery, and thought that perhaps they could make it comfortable for Dorothy.

The other two rooms looked upon the garden: one had three windows, and was really a very pleasant parlor.

"This must be our work-room," began Phillis, solemnly, as she stood in the centre of the empty room, looking round her with bright knowing glances. "Oh, what an ugly paper, Nan! but we can easily put up a prettier one. The smaller room must be where we live and take our meals: it is not quite so cheerful as this. It is so nice having this side-window; it will give us more light, and we shall be able to see who comes in at the door."

"Yes, that is an advantage," a.s.sented Nan. She was agreeably surprised to find such a good-sized room in the cottage; it was decidedly low, and the windows were not plate-gla.s.s, but she thought that on summer mornings they might sit there very comfortably looking out at the lawn and the medlar-tree.

"We shall be glad of these cupboards," she suggested, after a pause, while Phillis, took out sundry pieces of tape from her pocket and commenced making measurements in a business-like manner. "Our work will make such a litter, and I should like things to be as tidy as possible. I am thinking," she continued, "we might have mother's great carved wardrobe in the recess behind the door. It is really a magnificent piece of furniture, and in a work-room it would not be so out of place; we could hang up the finished and unfinished dresses in it out of the dust. And we could have the little drawing-room chiffonnier between the windows for our pieces, and odds and ends in the cupboards. It is a pity our table is round; but perhaps it will look all the more comfortable. The sewing-machine must be in the side-window," added Nan, who was quite in her element now, for she loved all housewifely arrangements; "and mother's easy-chair and little table must stand by the fireplace. My davenport will be useful for papers and accounts."

"It is really a very convenient room," returned Phillis, in a satisfied voice, when they had exhausted its capabilities; and, though the second parlor was small and dull in comparison, even Nan dropped no disparaging word.

Both of them agreed it would do very well. There was a place for the large roomy couch that their mother so much affected, and their favorite chairs and knick-knacks would soon make it look cosey: and after this they went upstairs hand in hand.

There were only four bedrooms, and two of these were not large; the most cheerful one was, of course, allotted to their mother, and the next in size must be for Phillis and Dulce. Nan was to have a small one next to her mother.

The evening was drawing on by the time they had finished their measurements and left the cottage. Nan, who was tired and wanted her tea, was for hurrying on to Beach House; but Phillis insisted on calling at the Library. She wanted to put some questions to Miss Milner. To-morrow they would have the paper-hanger, and look out for a gardener, and there was Mrs. Crump to interview about cleaning down the cottage.

"Oh, very well," returned Nan, wearily, and she followed Phillis into the shop, where good-natured bustling Miss Milner came to them at once.

Phillis put the question to her in a low voice, for there were other customers exchanging books over the counter. The same young clergyman they had before noticed had just bought a local paper, and was waiting evidently for a young lady who was turning over some magazines quite close to them.

"Do we know of a good dressmaker in the place?" repeated Miss Milner, in her loud cheerful voice, very much to Nan's discomfort, for the clergyman looked up from his paper at once. "Miss Monks was a tolerable fit, but, poor thing! she died a few weeks ago; and Mrs.

Slasher, who lives over Viner's the haberdasher's, cannot hold a candle to her. Miss Masham there,"--pointing to a smart ringleted young person, evidently her a.s.sistant,--"had her gown ruined by her: hadn't you, Miss Masham?"

Miss Masham simpered, but her reply was inaudible; but the young lady who was standing near them suddenly turned round:

"There is Mrs. Langley, who lives just by. I shall be very happy to give these ladies her address, for she is a widow with little children, and I am anxious to procure her work--" and then she looked at Nan, and hesitated; "that is, if you are not very particular," she added, with sudden embarra.s.sment, for even in her morning dress there was a certain style about Nan that distinguished her from other people.

"Thank you, Miss Drummond," returned Miss Milner, gratefully. "Shall I write down the address for you, ma'am?"

"Yes,--no,--thank you very much, but perhaps it does not matter,"

returned Nan, hurriedly, feeling awkward for the first time in her life. But Phillis, who realized all the humor of the situation, interposed:

"The address will do us no harm, and we may as well have it, although we should not trouble Mrs. Langley. I will call in again, Miss Milner, to-morrow morning, and then I will explain what it is we really want.

We are in a hurry now," continued Phillis, loftily, turning away with a dignified inclination of her head toward the officious stranger.

Phillis was not prepossessed in her favor. She was a dark, wiry little person, not exactly plain, but with an odd, comical face; and she was dressed so dowdily and with such utter disregard of taste that Phillis instinctively felt Mrs. Langley was not to be dreaded.

"What a queer little body! Do you think she belongs to him?" she asked Nan, as they walked rapidly toward Beach House.

"What in the world made you strike in after that fas.h.i.+on?" demanded the young man, as he and his companion followed more slowly in the strangers' footsteps. "That is just your way, Mattie, interfering and meddling in other folks' affairs. Why cannot you mind your own business sometimes," he continued, irritably, "instead of putting your foot into other people's?"

"You are as cross as two sticks this afternoon, Archie," returned his sister, composedly. She had a sharp little pecking voice that seemed to match her, somehow; for she was not unlike a bright-eyed bird, and had quick pouncing movements. "Wait a moment: my braid has got torn, and is dragging."

"I wish you would think a little more of my position, and take greater pains with your appearance," returned her brother, in an annoyed voice. "What would Grace say to see what a fright you make of yourself? It is a sin and a shame for a woman to be untidy or careless in her dress; it is unfeminine! it is unlady-like!" hurling each separate epithet at her.

Perhaps Miss Drummond was used to these compliments, for she merely pinned her braid without seeming the least put out.

"I think I am a little shabby," she remarked, tranquilly, as they at last walked on. "Perhaps Mrs. Langley had better make me a dress too,"

with a laugh, for, in spite of her sharp voice, she was an even-tempered little body; but this last remark only added fuel to his wrath.

"You really have less sense than a child. The idea of recommending a person like Mrs. Langley to those young ladies,--a woman who works for Miss Masham!"

"They were very plainly dressed, Archie," returned poor Mattie, who felt this last snub acutely; for, if there was one thing upon which she prided herself, it was her good sense. "They had dark print dresses,--not as good as the one I have on,--and nothing could be quieter."

"Oh, you absurd little goose!" exclaimed her brother, and he burst into a laugh, for the drollery of the comparison restored him to instant good humor. "If you cannot see the difference between that frumpish gown of yours, with its little bobtails and fringes, and those pretty dresses before us, I must say you are as blind as a bat, Mattie."

"Oh, never mind my gown," returned Mattie, with a sigh.

She had had these home-thrusts to meet and parry nearly every day, ever since she had come to keep house for this fastidious brother. She was a very active, bustling little person, who had done a great deal of tough work in her day, but she never could be made to see that unless a woman add the graces of life to the cardinal virtues she is, comparatively speaking, a failure in the eyes of the other s.e.x.

So, though Mattie was a frugal housekeeper, and worked from morning to night in his service,--the veriest little drudge that was ever seen,--she was a perpetual eyesore to her brother, who loved feminine grace and repose,--whose tastes were fastidious and somewhat arbitrary. And so it was poor Mattie had more censure than praise, and wrote home piteous letters complaining that nothing she did seemed to satisfy Archie, and that her mother had made a great mistake in sending her, and not Grace, to preside over his bachelor establishment.

"Oh, Phillis, how shall we have courage to publish our plan?"

exclaimed Nan, when they were at last discussing the much-needed tea and chops in the little parlor at Beach House.

The window was wide open. The returning tide was coming in with a pleasant ripple and wash over the s.h.i.+ngle. The Parade was nearly empty; but some children's voices sounded from the green s.p.a.ce before the houses. The brown sail of a fis.h.i.+ng craft dipped into the horizon.

It was so cool, so quiet, so restful; but Nan's eyes were weary, and she put the question wistfully.

Phillis looked into the teapot to gain a moment's reprieve; the corners of her mouth had an odd pucker in them.

"I never said it was not hard," she burst out at last. "I felt like a fool myself while I was speaking to Miss Milner; but then that clergyman was peeping at us between the folds of his paper. He seemed a nice-looking, gentlemanly sort of man. Do you think that queer little lady in the plaid dress could be his wife? Oh, no; I remember Miss Milner addressed her as Miss Drummond. Then she must be his sister: how odd!"

"Why should it be odd?" remarked Nan, absently, who had not particularly noticed them.

"Oh, she was such a dowdy little thing, not a bit nice-looking, and he was quite handsome, and looked rather distinguished. You know I always take stock of people, and make up my mind about them at once. And then we are to be such close neighbors."

"I don't suppose we shall see much of them," was Nan's somewhat depressed reply; and then, as they had finished their tea they placed themselves at the open window, and began to talk about the business of next day; and, in discussing cupboards and new papers, Nan forgot her fatigue, and grew so interested that it was quite late before they thought of retiring to rest.