The Tower Rooms

by Mary Grant Bruce

My responsibilities were varied. It was mine to superintend the early toilet of Judith and Jack: mine to keep a watchful eye on the vagaries of the parlourmaid, who was given to dreaming when laying the table, and possessed a disregard, curious in one of her calling, for the placing of correct spoons and forks. She admitted her limitations, but nevertheless deeply resented my existence. I arranged flowers in all the sitting-rooms, gave out linen, prepared picnic luncheons and teas, cut sandwiches, helped to pick fruit, saw that trains were met whenever necessary, wrote letters for Mrs. McNab, played accompaniments or dance-music when desired, did odd jobs of mending, and, in short, was required to be always on hand and never in evidence. Incidentally and invariably, there were Judith and Jack.

They were a curious pair, alike in appearance and character; untamed young savages in many ways, but with a kind of rough honesty that did much to redeem their pranks. I used to wonder what was their attitude towards their father; it would have been a comfort to think that they paid him any reverence, for it was a quality conspicuously lacking in their dealings with anyone else. Their mother made spasmodic efforts to control them, generally ending with a resigned shrug and a sigh. For the greater part of each day they pursued their own sweet will, unchecked. Never had I met two youngsters so urgently needing the common sense discipline of a good boarding-school, and it rejoiced me to learn that after the holidays this was to be their portion; since their governess, after leaving for her holidays, had decided that she was not equal to the task of facing them again, and had written to resign her position. Judy and Jack rejoiced openly. I inferred, indeed, that they had deliberately laboured towards this end.

That the pair had a reputation for evil ways, and were determined to uphold it, was plain to me from my first evening in the house. They regarded every one as fair game: but the “holiday governess” was their especial prey, and, so far as I could gather, their treatment of the species partook of the nature of vivisection. Ostensibly, we were supposed to be a good deal together, for I found that I was invariably expected to know where they were; but as my duties kept me busy for the greater part of the day, and the children were wont to follow their own devices, we seldom foregathered much before afternoon tea, for which function I wildly endeavoured to produce them seemly clad. We dined together in the schoolroom at night, and afterwards descended decorously to the drawing-room for an hour—if they did not give me the slip; and Mrs. McNab had conveyed to me that there was no need for me to sit up after their bed-time. It was this considerate hint that made me realize what my employer meant by “rest and change.”

On that first evening I had my introduction to the merry characteristics of Judy and Jack. Mrs. McNab had excused us from attendance in the drawing-room, at which they had uttered yells of joy, forthwith racing down the kitchen stairs to parts unknown. It did not seem worth while to follow them, so I sat in the schoolroom, writing a letter to Colin and Madge. I spread myself on description in that letter: Madge told me later on that my eye for scenery had amazed them both. I hoped the letter sounded more cheerful than I felt. But the writing of it made me more homesick than ever, and when I had finished there seemed nothing worth doing except to go to bed.

The sight of my room brought me up all standing. My luggage had come up too late for me to do more than begin unpacking: and Judy and Jack had been before me to complete the task. The engaging pair had literally “made hay” of my possessions. My trunk stood empty, its contents littering the floor; the bedposts were dressed in my raiment and crowned with my hats, my shoes were knotted and buckled together in a wild heap on the bed. On the table stood my three photographs—Father, Colin, and Madge; each turned upside down in its frame. There was no actual damage: merely everything that an impish ingenuity could suggest. It was apparent that they had enjoyed themselves very much.

I was very tired, and my first impulse was of wild wrath, followed swiftly by an almost uncontrollable desire to cry. Happily, I had sufficient backbone left to check myself. I walked across the room, rescued a petticoat which fluttered, flag-wise, from the window, attached to my umbrella, and began to reverse the photographs. As I did so, I heard a low giggle at the door.

“Come in,” I said politely. “Don’t be frightened.”

There was a moment’s pause, a whispered colloquy, and two flushed faces appeared.

“We’re not frightened,” said Judy defiantly.

“So glad—why should you be?” I asked cheerfully. “Sit down, won’t you?—if you can find a space.” I took up Colin’s outraged photograph and adjusted it with fingers that itched for a cane, and for power to use it.