“Fresh decoration and repainting must wait until I get the children to London for the winter,” thought Aunt Sophia.
But notwithstanding the fact that paint and paper were almost non-existent by this time at The Dales, the house assumed quite a new air. As to Betty, she was in the most extraordinary way brought over absolutely to Miss Tredgold’s part of the establishment. Miss Tredgold not only raised her wages on the spot, but paid her every farthing that was due in the past. She spoke to her a good deal about her duty, and of what she owed to the family, and of what she, Miss Tredgold, would do for her if she proved equal to the present emergency. Betty began to regard Miss Tredgold as a sort of marchioness in disguise. So interested was she in her, and so sure that one of the real “haristocrats” resided on the premises, that she ceased to read the Family Paper except at long intervals. She served up quite good dinners, and by the end of the fortnight few people would have known The Dales. For not only was the house clean and sweet—the drawing-room quite a charming old room, with its long Gothic windows, its tracery of ivy outside, and its peep into the distant rose-garden; the hall bright with great pots of flowers standing about—but the girls themselves were no longer in rags. The furniture dealer’s was not the only shop which Miss Tredgold had visited at Southampton. She had also gone to a linen draper’s, and had bought many nice clothes for the young folks.
The house being so much improved, and the girls being clothed afresh, a sufficient staff of servants arrived from a neighboring town. Betty was helped in the kitchen by a neat kitchen-maid; there were two housemaids and a parlor-maid; and John had a boy to help in the garden.
“Now, Verena,” said Miss Tredgold on the evening of the day when the new servants were pronounced a great success, “what do you think of everything?”
“You have made the place quite pretty, Aunt Sophia.”
“And you like it?”
“I think you mean to be very kind.”
“My dear Verena, do talk sense. Don’t tell me that you don’t feel more comfortable in that pale-gray, nicely fitting dress, with the blush-rose in your belt, and that exceedingly pretty white hat on your head, than you did when you rushed up to welcome me, little savage that you were, a fortnight ago.”
“I was so happy as a savage!”
“And you are not happy now?”