Chapter 3 The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls by L. T. Meade
MISS MARTINEAU
Primrose was the soul of hospitality; having decided that Miss Martineau was to be admitted that evening, it occurred to her that she might as well make things pleasant for this angular, good-humored, and somewhat hungry personage. Primrose could cook charmingly, and when dinner was over she turned to her sisters, and said in her usual rather slow way—
"I am going to make some cream-cakes for tea; and Jasmine, dear, you might put some fresh flowers in the vases; and Daisy—"; she paused as she looked at her sister—the child's blue eyes were fixed on her, she noticed with a pang that the little face was pale, and the dimpled mouth looked sad.
"Daisy," she said, suddenly, "you can go into the garden, and have a romp with the Pink."
"The Pink" was Daisy's favorite kitten.
Daisy laughed aloud, Jasmine started up briskly from the dinner-table, and Primrose, feeling that she had done well, went into the kitchen to consult with Hannah, the old cook, over the making of the cream-cakes.
The result of all this was that when Miss Martineau, sharp at four o'clock (the hours were very primitive at Rosebury), arrived at the Mainwarings' door, the outward aspect of the house bore no tokens of violent grief on the part of its inmates—the blinds were drawn up, not quite to the top, for that would have been ugly, and Jasmine was full of artistic instincts, but they were drawn up to let in plenty of sunlight, the white muslin curtains were draped gracefully, some pots of fresh flowers could be seen on the window-ledge, and a canary in a rather battered cage hung from a hook above, and disported himself cheerfully in the sunlight.
Miss Martineau was very old-fashioned in her ideas, and she did not much like the look of the bay window.
She comforted herself, however, with the reflection that even under the direst afflictions blinds must be drawn up some time, and that she would doubtless find the poor dear girls in a state of tempestuous grief within. She imagined herself soothing Jasmine, holding Primrose's hand, and allowing Daisy to sit on her knee. Miss Martineau was most kind-hearted, and would have done anything for the three girls, whom she dearly loved, only, like many another good-hearted person, she would wish to do that anything or something in her own way.
"Good evening, Hannah," she said, as the old cook opened the door; "you have had a sad affliction—a terrible affliction. I hope the dear young ladies are—" Miss Martineau paused for a word, then she said—"tranquil."
"Oh yes, miss," answered Hannah. "Walk in, please, Miss Martineau—this way—the young ladies is hoping you'll take a cup of tea with them, miss." Miss Martineau found herself the next instant in one of the most cheerful sitting-rooms to be found at Rosebury—it had always been a pretty room—furnished daintily with the odds and ends of rich and choice furniture which had belonged to Mrs. Mainwaring in her wealthy days. Now it was bright with flowers, and the western sun poured in at one angle of the wide bay window. The three girls, in their very simple black dresses, with no crape, came forward in a little group to meet her. In their hearts they were slightly excited and upset, but rather than give way they put on an air of extra cheerfulness. Miss Martineau, fond as she was of them, felt absolutely scandalized—to keep her out of the house for a whole month, and then to admit her in this fashion—such a lot of sunlight—such a heap of flowers, no crape on the black dresses, and Jasmine's face quite bright and her hair as curly as usual. Miss Martineau began a little set speech, but Jasmine interrupted her.
"Do come, and have some tea," she said. "Primrose has made some delicious cream-cakes, and we are all so hungry, aren't we, Eyebright?" turning to her little sister as she spoke.
"Yes," replied Daisy; "Pink is hungry, too—I chased Pink about fifty times round the garden, and she's quite starving. May Pink have some cream in a saucer for her tea, Primrose?"
Primrose nodded, took Miss Martineau's hand, and led her to the place of honor at the table, and sitting down herself, began to pour out the fragrant tea.
If Miss Martineau had a weakness, it was for really good tea and for cream-cakes. She took off her gloves now, arranged her bonnet-strings, put back her veil, and prepared to enjoy herself. Instead of talking common-place condolences, she chatted on little matters of local interest with the sisters. Jasmine took care to supply Miss Martineau with plenty of cream-cakes—Primrose saw that her cup was well replenished. Miss Martineau was poor and very saving, and it occurred to her, as she partook of the Mainwaring's nice tea, that she might do without much supper by-and-by. This reflection put her into an excellent humor.
When the tea was over Primrose led her to a comfortable seat by the window.
"My dear," she said, "it is well that I should sit just here, within full view of the street?—your window is, well, a little too like seeing company, my loves, and if my bonnet is seen by passers-by you'll have everybody calling directly."
"Oh, we mean to see everybody now," said Jasmine "we—we—we think it best, don't we, Primrose?"
"Yes," said Primrose, in her gentle tones. "It does not make us think less of dear mamma to see people—and—and—we have decided to go on much as usual now."
"You might have admitted me before, dears," replied Miss Martineau—"I felt so intensely for you—I could never get you out of my head. I was a good deal hurt by your refusing to admit me, my dear girls, for in all respects I would have wished to be a mother to you."
"Please, don't," said Jasmine.
"We couldn't have another mother," said little Daisy, clinging close to Primrose, and looking up into her sister's sweet face.
Primrose stooped and kissed her.
"You may run into the garden, darling, and take the Pink," she said.
Miss Martineau had no intention of leaving the Mainwarings without speaking out her mind. It was one of this good lady's essential privileges to speak out her mind to the younger generation of the Rosebury world. Who had a better right to do this than she? for had she not educated most of them? had she not given them of the best of her French and her music? and was she not even at this present moment Jasmine's and Daisy's instructress? Primrose she considered her finished and accomplished pupil. Surely the girls, even though they had refused to admit her for a month, would turn to her now with full confidence. She settled herself comfortably in the arm-chair in which Primrose had placed her, and saying, in her high-pitched and thin voice—
"Now, my dears, you will take seats close to me—not too close, loves, for I dislike being crushed, and I have on my Sunday silk. My dear girls, I want us now to have a really comfortable talk. There is a great deal that needs discussion, and I think there is nothing like facing a difficult subject resolutely, and going through it with system. I approve of your sending Daisy into the garden, Primrose. She is too young to listen to all that we must go into. I purpose dears, after the manner of our school-hours, to divide our discourse into heads—two heads will probably be sufficient for this evening. First, the severe loss you have just sustained—that we will talk over, and no doubt mingle our tears together over; take courage, my dear children, such an unburdening will relieve your young hearts. Second—Jasmine, you need not get so very red, my dear—second, we will discuss something also of importance; how are you three dear girls going to live?"
Here Miss Martineau paused, took off her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again. She felt really very kindly, and would have worked herself to a skeleton, if need be, for the sake of the Mainwarings, whom she sincerely loved. Jasmine's red face, however, grew still redder.
"Please, Miss Martineau—yes, Primrose, I will speak—please, Miss Martineau, we cannot discuss dear mamma with you. There is nothing to discuss, and nothing to tell—I won't—I can't—Primrose, I won't listen, and I won't talk."
Miss Martineau shook her head, and looked really angrily at Jasmine.
"Nothing to tell," she said, sorrowfully. "Is your poor dear mother then so soon forgotten? I could not have believed it. Alas! alas! how little children appreciate their parents."
"You are not a parent yourself, and you know nothing about it," said Jasmine, now feeling very angry, and speaking in her rudest tone.
Primrose's quiet voice interposed.
"I think, Miss Martineau," she began, "that the first subject will be more than Jasmine and I can quite bear—you must forgive us, even if you fail quite to understand us. It is no question of forgetting—our mother will never be forgotten—it is just that we would rather not. You must allow us to judge for ourselves on this point," concluded Primrose, with that dignity that suited her so well. Primrose, for all her extreme quietness and simplicity of manner and bearing, could look like a young princess when she chose, and Miss Martineau, who would have quarrelled fiercely with Jasmine, submitted.
"Very well," she said, in a tone of some slight offence; "I came here with a heart brimful of sympathy; it is repulsed; it goes back as it came, but I bear no offence."
"Shall we discuss your second subject, dear Miss Martineau?" continued Primrose. "I know that you have a great deal of sense and experience, and I know that you have a knack of making money go very far indeed. You ask us what our plans are—well, I really don't think we have got any, have we, Jasmine?"
"No," said Jasmine, in her shortest tones. "We mean to live as we always did. Why can't people leave us in peace?"
Miss Martineau cleared her throat, looked with some compassion at Jasmine, whom she thought it best to treat as a spoilt child, and then turned her attention to Primrose.
"My dear," she said, "I am willing to waive my first head, to cast it aside, to pass it over, and consider my second. My dear Primrose, the first thing to consider in making your plans—I take no notice of Jasmine's somewhat childish remarks—is on what you have to live."
Primrose knit her brows.
"I suppose," she said slowly, "we shall have what we always had—we spent very little money in the past, and, of course, we shall require still less now. We are fond of Rosebury; I think we shall do for the present at least just what Jasmine says, and stay on quietly here."
Miss Martineau cleared her throat again.
"My dear girl," she said, "even to live here you must have something to live on. Now, are you aware that your mother's annuity as a captain's widow ceases with her death? I believe something very trifling will still be allowed to you, as his orphans, but on that point I'm rather in the dark."
"Mother always did get ten pounds a year apiece for us," said Primrose.
"Well, yes, my dear, we will suppose, and trust, and hope that that small sum will still be continued; but even at Rosebury you three girls cannot live on thirty pounds a year."
"But there is the money in the bank," said Jasmine speaking in a more interested tone. "You remember Primrose dear, how whenever mother wanted some money she just wrote a cheque, and we took it down to Mr. Danesfield, and he gave us nice shining gold for it. Sometimes it was ten pounds, sometimes it was five pounds, and sometimes it was only two pounds; but whenever we went to Mr. Danesfield's bank with mother's cheque he gave us the money. I suppose, Primrose, you can have a cheque-book now, and Mr. Danesfield can give you the money."
"Yes," said Primrose, in a cheerful tone, "I forgot about the money in the bank; mother often told me there was plenty. Even if we can't quite live on our thirty pounds a year, we can manage with what money dear mamma had in the bank."
Miss Martineau's face had become extremely lined and anxious.
"My dears," she said, "I fear I've done a rude thing; I fear I've taken a liberty; but the fact is, you are so alone, poor darlings, and Mr. Danesfield is an old friend of mine—and—and—I took the liberty of asking him what your mother's balance was. He said, my dears—my poor dears—that it was not quite two hundred pounds."