CHAPTER XII.
GAY CHERITON.
was afraid Mrs. Markham did not understand children. Nothing would induce Reggie to let her kiss him; he beat her off in his usual fashion, with a sulky “go, go,” and hid his face on my shoulder. I could see this vexed her immensely, for she had praised his beauty in most extravagant terms.
Joyce listened with a perplexed expression on her face.
“Have you ever seed an angel, Aunt Adda?” this being her childish abbreviation of Adelaide.
“Dear me, nurse! how badly the child speaks. She is more than six years old, you say. Why my Rolf is only seven, and speaks beautifully! What did you say, Joyce?”—very sharply—“seen an angel? What unhealthy nonsense to put into a child’s head! This comes of new-fangled ideas on your mother’s part”—with a glance in my direction. “No, child! of course not. No one has seen an angel.”
Joyce looked so shocked at this that I hastened to interpret Mrs. Markham’s speech.
“No one sees angels now, Joyce; not as the good people in the Bible used to see them; perhaps we are not good enough. But what put angels into your head, my dear?”
“Only Aunt Adda said Reggie was like an angel, and I thought she had seed one. What is a cherub, nurse, dear? Something good to eat?”
I saw a smile hovering on Mrs. Markham’s thin lips. Evidently she found Joyce amusing, but just then a loud peevish voice was distinctly audible in the passage.
“Mother, mother, I say! Go away, Juddy, I tell you. You are a nasty disagreeable old cat—and I will go to mother”—this accompanied by ominous kicks.
I signed to Hannah to take the children into the adjoining room. It was Reggie’s bedtime, and Joyce was tired with her journey. The door was scarcely closed upon them before the same violent kicking was heard against the nursery door.
“It is only Rolf. I am afraid he is very cross,” observed Mrs. Markham, placidly, shivering a little after the fashion of people who have lived in India, as she moved away from the open window, and drew a lace scarf round her. “Judson is such a bad manager. She never does contrive to amuse him, or keep him quiet.”
“He will frighten Reggie,” I remonstrated, for she did not offer to stop the noise, and I went quickly to the door.
There was a regular scuffle going on in the passage. A little boy in Highland dress was endeavouring to escape from a young woman, who was holding him back from the door with some difficulty.
“Master Rolf—Master Rolf, what will your mamma say? You will make her head ache, and then you will be sorry.”
“I shan’t be a bit sorry, Juddy, I tell you! I will go in, and——” Here he stopped and stared up in my face. He was a pale, sickly-looking child, rather plain, as Miss Cheriton had said, but he had beautiful grey eyes, only they were sparkling with anger. The young woman who held him by the arm had a thin, careworn face—probably her post was a harassing one, with an exacting mistress and that spoilt boy.
“Who are you?” demanded the boy, rudely.
“I am Miss Fenton, the nurse,” I returned. “Your little cousins are just going to bed, and I cannot have that noise to disturb them.”
“I shall kick again, unless you let me come in and see them.”
“For shame, Master Rolf. Whatever makes you so naughty to-night?”
“I mean to be naughty. Hold your stupid old tongue, Juddy. You are a silly woman. That is what mother calls you. I am a gentleman, and shall be naughty if I like. Now then, Mrs. Nurse, may I come in?”
“Not to-night, Master Rolf. To-morrow, if you are good.”
“Nurse,” interrupted Mrs. Markham’s voice, behind me, “I do not know what right you have to exclude my boy. Let him come in and bid good-night to his cousins. You will behave prettily, Rolf, will you not?”
One look at the surly face before me made me incredulous of any pretty behaviour on Rolf’s part. I knew Joyce was a nervous child, and easily frightened, and already the loud voices were upsetting Reggie. I could hear him crying, in spite of Hannah’s coaxing. I felt I must be firm. The nursery was my private domain. I was determined Rolf should not cross the threshold to-night.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Markham,” I returned quickly, “I cannot have the children disturbed at bedtime; it is against Mrs. Morton’s rules. Master Rolf may pay us a visit to-morrow, if he be good”—laying a stress on good—“but I cannot admit him to-night.”
She looked at me with haughty incredulity.
“I consider this very impertinent,” she muttered, half to herself. But Judson must have heard her.
“Come with me, Rolf darling. Never mind about your cousins. I daresay we shall find something nice downstairs,” and she held out her hand to him, but he pushed it away.
“Bring him to the drawing-room, Judson,” she said, coolly, not at all discomposed by his rudeness; but I could see my firmness had offended her. She would not soon forgive my excluding Rolf.
Rolf waited till she was out of sight, and then he recommenced his kicks. I exchanged a glance with Judson; her harassed face seemed to appeal to me for help.
“Master Rolf,” I said, indignantly, “you call yourself a gentleman, but you are acting like an ill-tempered baby, and I shall treat you like one,” and to his intense astonishment I lifted him off the ground, and, being pretty strong, managed to carry him, in spite of his kicks and pinches, down to the hall, followed by Judson. Probably he had never been so summarily dealt with, for his kicks diminished as we descended the stairs; and I left him on the hall mat, looking rather subdued and ashamed of himself.
I had gained my point, but I felt out of heart as I went back to the nursery. I had entered the house prejudiced against Mrs. Markham, and our first interview had ended badly. My conscience justified me in my refusal to admit Rolf; but all the same, I felt I had made Mrs. Markham my enemy. Her cold eyes had measured me superciliously from the first moment. Very probably she disapproved of my appearance. With women of this calibre—cold, critical, and domineering—poor gentlewomen would have a chance of being sent to the wall.
When the children were asleep I seated myself rather disconsolately by the low nursery window. Hannah had been summoned to the housekeeper’s room to see her sister Molly, and had left me alone.
I felt too tired and dispirited to settle to my work or book; besides, it was a shame to shut out the moonlight. The garden seemed transformed into a fairy scene. A broad silvery pathway stretched across the park; curious shadows lurked under the elms; an indescribable stillness and peace seemed to pervade everything; the flowers and birds were asleep; nothing stirred but a night moth, stretching its dusky wings in the scented air, and in the distance the soft wash of waves against the shore.
I laid my head against the window frame, and let the summer breeze blow over my face, and soon forgot my worries in a long, delicious day-dream. Were my thoughts foolish, I wonder!—mere cobwebs of girls’ fancies woven together with moonbeams and rose scents!
“A girl’s imagination,” as Aunt Agatha once said, “resembles an unbroken colt, that must be disciplined and trained, or it will run away with her.” I have a notion that my Pegasus soared pretty high and far that night. I imagined myself an old woman with wrinkles and grey hair, and cap border that seemed to touch my face, and I was sitting alone by a fire reviewing my past life. “It has not been so long, after all,” I thought; “with the day’s work came the day’s strength. The manna pot was never empty, and never overflowed. Who is it said, ‘Life is just a patchwork?’ I have read it somewhere. I like that idea. ‘How badly the children sew in their little bits—a square here and a star there. We work better as we go on.’ Yes, that queer comparison is true. The beauty and intricacy of the pattern seem to engross our interest as the years go on. When rest-time comes we fold up our work. Well done or badly done, there will be no time for unpicking false stitches then. Shall I be satisfied with my life’s work, I wonder? Will death be to me only the merciful nurse that call us to rest?”
“Why, Miss Fenton, are you asleep? I have knocked and knocked until I was tired.”
I started up in some confusion. Had I fallen asleep, I wonder? for there was Miss Cheriton standing near me, with an oddly-shaped Roman lamp in her hand, and there was a gleam of fun in her eyes, as though she were pleased to catch me napping.
“You must have been tired,” she said, smiling. “The room looked quite eerie as I entered it, with streaks of moonlight everywhere. Dinner is just over, and I slipped away to see if you are comfortable. I am afraid you are rather dull.”
But I would not allow that, for what business has a nurse to be subject to moods like idle people? but I could not deny that it was very pleasant to see Miss Cheriton. She was certainly very pretty—a good type of a fresh, healthy, happy English girl, and there is nothing in the world to equal that. The creamy Indian muslin gown suited her perfectly, and so did the knot of crimson roses and maidenhair, against the full white throat; and the small head, with its coil of dark shiny hair, was almost classical in its simplicity. A curious idea came to me as I looked at her. She reminded me of a picture I had seen of one of the ten virgins—ready or unready, I wonder which! The bright-speaking face, the festive garb, the quaint lamp, recalled to me the figure in the foreground, but in a moment the vague image faded away.
“How I wonder what you do with yourself in the evening, when the children are asleep!” observed Gay, glancing at me curiously. Then, as I looked surprised at that, she continued, sitting down beside me in the window-seat, in the most friendly way imaginable:
“Oh, Violet has told me all about you. I am quite interested, I assure you. I know you are not just an ordinary nurse, but have taken up the work from terribly good motives. Now I like that; it interests me dreadfully to see people in earnest, and yet I am never in earnest myself.”
“I shall find it difficult to believe that, Miss Cheriton.”
“Oh, please don’t call me Miss Cheriton; I am Miss Gay to everyone. People never think me quite grown-up, in spite of my nineteen years. Adelaide treats me like a child, and father makes a pet of me. By the bye, you have contrived to offend Adelaide. Now, don’t look shocked—I think you were quite right. Rolf is insufferable; but you see no one has mastered him before.”
“I was very sorry to contradict Mrs. Markham, but I am obliged to be so careful of Joyce—she is so nervous and excitable; I should not have liked her to see Rolf in that passion.”
“Of course you were quite right; I am glad you acted as you did; but you see Rolf is his mother’s idol—her ‘golden image,’ and she expects us all to bow down to him. Rolf can be a nice little fellow when he is not in his tantrums; but he is fearfully mismanaged, and so he is more of a plague than a pleasure to us.”
“What a pity!” I observed; but Gay broke into a laugh at my grave face.
“Yes, but it cannot be helped, and his mother will have to answer for it. He will be a horribly disagreeable man when he grows up, as I tell Adelaide when I want to make her cross. Don’t trouble yourself about Rolf, Miss Fenton; we shall all forgive you if you do box his ears.”
“But I should not forgive myself,” I returned, smiling; “the blow would do Rolf more harm than good.” But she shrugged her shoulders and changed the subject, chattering to me a little while about the house and the garden, and her several pets, treating me just as though she felt I was a girl of her own age.
“It is nice to have someone in the house to whom one can talk,” she said at last, very frankly; “Adelaide is so much older, and our tastes do not agree. Now, though you are so dreadfully sensible and matter-of-fact, I like what I have heard of you from Violet, and I mean to come and talk to you very often. I told Adelaide that it was an awfully plucky thing of you to do; for of course we can see in a moment you have not been used to this sort of thing.”
“All dependent positions have their peculiar trials,” I replied. “I am beginning to think that in some ways my lot is superior to many governesses. Perhaps I am more isolated, but I gain largely in independence. I live alone, perhaps, but then no one interferes with me.”
“Don’t be too sure of that when Adelaide is in the house.”
“The work is full of interest,” I continued, warming to my subject, as Gay’s face wore an expression of intelligent curiosity and sympathy. “The children grow, and one’s love grows also. It is beautiful to watch the baby natures developing, like seedlings, in the early summer; it is not only ministering to their physical wants, a nurse has higher work than that. Forgive me if I am wearying you,” breaking off from my subject with manifest effort, “one must not ride a hobby to death, and this is my hobby.”
“You are a strange girl,” she said, slowly, looking at me with large puzzled eyes. “I did not know before that girls could be so dreadfully in earnest, but I like to listen to you. I am afraid my life will shock you, Miss Fenton; not that I do any harm—oh, no harm at all—only I am always amusing myself. Life is such a delicious thing, you see, and we cannot be young for ever.”
“Surely it is not wrong to amuse yourself.”
“Not wrong, perhaps,” with a little laugh; “but I lead a butterfly existence, and yet I am always busy, too. How is one to find time for reading and improving oneself or working for the poor, when there are all my pets to feed, and the flower vases to fill, and the bees and the garden; and in the afternoon I ride with father; and there is tennis, or archery or boating; and in the evening if I did not sing to him—well, he would be so dull, for Adelaide always reads to herself; and if I do not sing I talk to him, or play at chess; and then there is no time for anything; and so the days go on.”
“Miss Gay, I do not consider you are leading a perfectly useless life,” I observed, when she had finished.
“Not useless; but look at Violet’s life beside mine.”
“In my opinion your sister works too much; she is using up health and energy most recklessly. Perhaps you might do more with your time, but it cannot be a useless life if you are your father’s companion. By your own account you ride with him, sing to him, and talk to him. This may be your work as much as being a nurse is mine.”
“You are very merciful in your judgment,” she said, with a crisp laugh, as she rose from the window-seat. “What a strange conversation we have had! What would Adelaide have thought of it! She is always scolding me for being irresponsible and wasting time, and even father calls me his ‘humming bird.’ You have comforted me a little, though I must confess my conscience endorses their opinion. Good night, Miss Fenton. Violet calls you Merle, does she not? and it is such a pretty name. The other sounds dreadfully stiff.” And she took up her lamp and left the room, humming a Scotch ballad as she went, leaving me to take up my neglected work, and ponder over our conversation.
“Were they right in condemning her as a frivolous idler?” I wondered; but I knew too little of Gay Cheriton to answer that question. Only in creation one sees beautiful butterflies and humming birds as well as working bees. All are not called upon to labour. A happy few live in the sunshine, like gauzy-winged insects in the ambient air. Surely to cultivate cheerfulness; to be happy with innocent happiness; to love and minister to those we love, may be work of another grade. We must be careful not to point out our own narrow groove as the general footway. The All-Father has diversity of work for us to do, and all is not of the same pattern.
(To be continued.)