The Little Missis. Charlotte Skinner

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СКАЧАТЬ Marchant was sitting at the table working out a sum on his slate. "Why, it's the 'Dead March.' Is her kitten dead?"

      "That girl will be the death of me. Bessie, do you hear, stop that noise, will you? Haven't you one spark of human kindness left?"

      "No, mother," still going on playing, "I gave all the sparks to Phill."

      "Stop playing, will you? or I'll box your ears! It's perfectly cruel. The poor thing will have enough to put up with, without you worrying her with that bad omen."

      Bessie suddenly stopped, not because she was afraid of her ears being boxed, but deep down in her heart, where a good big piece of human kindness was thriving splendidly, in spite of her mother's fears, questionings had arisen lest she might not be defeating her own object.

      "I don't want to worry her; you know that. It is a funny world to live in if you cannot play the 'Dead March' when you like!"

      "You just march off and water the plants in the greenhouse, and don't interfere with what isn't your business."

      "All right, but I'll——" What exactly Miss Bessie was going still further to do, her mother did not catch, and it was not Miss Bessie's intention that she should.

      It was a drizzling wet night when Phebe Waring arrived at her new home. According to strict economical household arrangements, there was no bright fire in the back parlour to make the room look cosy, because it was near the end of June. The floor was covered with oil-cloth, no rug anywhere, and a table, small sideboard, and six small chairs with American leather cushions made up the whole of the furniture.

      "Not very homelike," Phebe thought, "but there, how could I expect bachelor's quarters to look anything different?"

      For supper the little maid had placed on the table a large white jug of lemon water, a piece of cheese, and some bread and butter.

      "There's a hamper for you, ma'am, from your father's: came about an hour ago."

      Quickly taking off her hat and jacket Phebe opened the hamper, and when she looked inside the tears came into her eyes; it was the first glimpse of anything homelike she had seen for a fortnight.

      A bunch of wallflowers came first, then a large pat of butter, a home-made cake, a roasted chicken, a piece of ham, and a large box of little gooseberry pies. "Dear old Sis, how thoughtful of her!" Soon the table was spread with the feast the loving sister in the old home had prepared, and to make the room look still further homelike Phebe got Janie, the maid, to light a fire in the empty, rusty grate.

      "It was quite fortunate I did not order anything further into the house," said Ralph.

      In the morning the room looked as cheerless as it did the night before, and Phebe's heart seemed to shrink as she noticed that the window looked into a yard, surrounded with high walls, and that nothing was growing in it but grass and dandelions. How different from the outlook over the well-kept garden at home! "But I'll soon make it look different," said the hopeful Phebe to herself.

      The only bright spot in the room was a bunch of beautiful pansies lying on the table; the wallflowers had been taken upstairs. As Phebe picked them up she noticed a slip of paper pushed beneath the string with which they were tied, and on it was written:

      "From Neighbour Bessie. I do hope you will be my friend."

      "Ah, that must be Mrs. Marchant's daughter, next door," thought Phebe, "I have heard Ralph speak of her. Of course we shall be friends. What beautiful flowers! Pansies—see, they mean 'heart's ease.' Did Bessie think—but of course she did not. She would not know their meaning."

      During breakfast Ralph put into her hand a black-edged envelope, saying, "See what I have had sent me. A funny sort of congratulation!"

      Inside the envelope was a card, bordered with ink lines, and in the centre, in letters to imitate printing, were the words:

      "Sacred to the Memory of

       SWEET LIBERTY,

       Who ceased to be on June 10th, 18—,

       And was interred in the residence of

       Ralph Waring, Draper, etc., Hadley."

      "Somebody thinks I'm going to be a poor martyr," said Ralph, putting on a very solemn look. Phebe also looked solemn, but her solemnity seemed real.

      "I don't know about that," she replied, "it seems to me it is my liberty which is referred to. If your liberty is interred in your house it is still yours."

      "Oh, dear, no; everybody knows women always have their own way—they never lose their liberty," and a slight tone of anger was in the voice, which made Phebe look up in surprise. "But there, it is only somebody's stupid joke; not worth thinking about," and he tore the card into shreds, feeling a trifle sorry he had spoken in the way he had done.

      Breakfast over, Ralph said: "And now, dearest, I should like a little business talk with you, if you can spare the time. You know we have had so much lovemaking to do we have had no opportunity of talking together about our business."

      "'Our business,'" thought Phebe, "that sounds nice."

      "The fact is," said Ralph, when the breakfast table had been cleared and they were alone, "I want to enlarge the business. I want to throw this room into the shop, take the house next door, which is to let, and start a grocery trade, too. Then my idea is to have a horse and cart and go into the villages for orders—many of them are growing considerably, and I think I could work up a splendid connection. Later on I should try to sell the whole affair, and start somewhere different from this sleepy place."

      "Somewhere different! I should never like to leave Hadley."

      "Of course not, women are never ambitious."

      "But I am very ambitious, and should like you to have a large business. How could you possibly leave all your public work here? and I could never leave Hadley while my poor old sick father lives."

      "We'll not worry about that," said Ralph, fearing he had gone too far. "We need not discuss that for years. I am glad to hear you say you would like me to have a big business; but how, without more capital, am I going to manage it?"

      "That certainly is a very difficult question."

      There was silence for a minute, and then Ralph, evidently disappointed she had not said more, asked: "Can you not suggest anything?"

      "No, I cannot; but if it is God's will He will show you how it can be done."

      "God won't do for us what we can do for ourselves," he answered a little impatiently. "I hardly like mentioning it, but haven't you some money in the bank?"

      "Yes."

      "How much?"

      "Three hundred pounds. It was my mother's money; and the interest has helped to buy my clothes, because father could not afford to give us much pocket-money."

      "Couldn't I have that money? Of course, I shall give you pocket-money enough."

      "You can have some of it, most certainly."

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