Part I Chapter 14 Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade
AUNT MARIA
“Ef you please, Miss Helen,” said Alice, the neat housemaid, putting in her head at the nursery door, “there’s a lady downstairs, and a heap of luggage, and the nastiest little dog I ever saw. He has almost killed the Persian kitten, Miss, and he is snarling and snapping at every one. See, he took this bit out of my apron, miss. The old lady says as her name is Mrs. Cameron, and she has come to stay; and she’d be glad if you’d go down to her immediately, Miss Helen.”
“Aunt Maria!” said Helen, in an aghast voice. “Aunt Maria absolutely come—and father away! Nursie, I must fly down—you will understand about those flannels. Oh! I am sorry Aunt Maria has come. What will Polly say?”
Helen felt a curious sinking at her heart as she descended the stairs; but she was a very polite and well-mannered girl, and when she went up to Mrs. Cameron she said some pretty words of welcome, which were really not overdone. Mrs. Cameron was a short, stout person; she always wore black, and her black was always rusty. She stood now in the middle of the drawing-room, holding Scorpion in her arms, with her bonnet-strings untied, and her full, round face somewhat flushed.
“No, my dear, you are not particularly glad to see me,” she said, in answer to Helen’s gentle dignified greeting. “I don’t expect it, child, nor look for it; and you need not waste untruths upon me, for I always see through them. You are not glad to see me, and I am not surprised, for I assure you I intend to make myself disagreeable. Helen, your father is a perfect fool. Now, my dear, you need not fire up; you would say so if you were as old as me, and had received as idiotic an epistle from him.”
“But I am not as old as you, and he is my father,” said Helen, steadily. “I don’t tell untruths, Aunt Maria, and I am glad to see you because—because you were fond of mother. Will you come into the dining-room now, and let me get you some tea?”
Helen’s lips were quivering, and her dark blue eyes were slightly lowered, so that Aunt Maria should not notice the tears that filled them. The old lady, however, had noticed these signs of emotion, and brave words always pleased her.
“You aren’t a patch on your mother, child,” she said. “But you remind me of her. Yes, take me to my room first, and then get me a good substantial meal, for I can tell you I am starving.”
Helen rang the bell.
“Alice,” she said to the parlor maid, who speedily answered the summons, “will you get the rose room ready as quickly as possible? My aunt, Mrs. Cameron, will stay here for the night. And please lay supper in the dining-room. Tell Mrs. Power—oh, I forgot—see and get as nice a supper as you can, Alice. You had better speak to Miss Polly.”
“Yes, Miss,” said Alice. Then she paused, hesitated, colored slightly, and said, in a dubious manner, “Is it the rose room you mean, Miss Helen? That’s the room Miss Polly is getting ready for Miss Virginy, and there ain’t no curtains to the window nor to the bed at present.”
“Then I won’t sleep in that bed,” said Mrs. Cameron. “I must have a four-poster with curtains all round, and plenty of dark drapery to the windows. My eyes are weak, and I don’t intend to have them injured with the cold morning light off the moor.”
“Oh, Aunt Maria, the mornings aren’t very light now,” answered Helen. “They are——”
But Mrs. Cameron interrupted her.
“Don’t talk nonsense, child. In a decent place like Bath I own the day may break gradually, but I expect everything contrary to civilized existence here. The very thought of those awful commons makes me shiver. Now, have you, or have you not, a four-poster, in which I can sleep?”
Helen smothered a slight sigh. She turned once again to Alice.
“Will you get my father’s room ready for Mrs. Cameron,” she said, “and then see about supper as quickly as possible? Father is away for a few days,” she added, turning to the good lady. “Please will you come up to Polly’s and my room now to take off your things?”
“And where is Polly?” said Mrs. Cameron. “And why doesn’t she come to speak to her aunt? There’s Kate, too, she must be a well-grown girl by now, and scarcely gone to bed yet. The rest of the family are, I presume, asleep; that is, if there’s a grain of sense left in the household.”
“Yes, most of the children are in bed,” replied Helen. “You will see Polly and Katie, and perhaps the twins, later on, but first of all I want to make you comfortable. You must be very tired; you have had a long journey.”
“I’m beat out, child, and that’s the truth. Here, I’ll lay Scorpion down in the middle of your bed; he has been a great worry to me all day, and he wants his sleep. He likes to get between the sheets, so if you don’t mind I’ll open the bed and let him slip down.”
“If you want me to be truthful, I do mind very much,” said Helen. “Oh, you are putting him into Polly’s bed. Well, I suppose he must stay there for the present.”
Mrs. Cameron was never considered an unamiable person; she was well spoken of by her friends and relations, for she was rich, and gave away a great deal of money to various charities and benevolent institutions. But if ever any one expected her to depart in the smallest particular from her own way they were vastly mistaken. Whatever her goal, whatever her faintest desire, she rode roughshod over all prejudices until she obtained it. Therefore it was that, notwithstanding poor Helen’s protest, Scorpion curled down comfortably between Polly’s sheets, and Mrs. Cameron, well pleased at having won her point, went down to supper.
Alas, and alas! the supper provided for the good lady was severe in its simplicity. Alice, blushing and uncomfortable, called Helen out of the room, and then informed her that neither Polly nor Maggie could be found, and that there was literally nothing, or next to nothing, in the larder.
“But that can’t be the case,” said Helen, “for there was a large piece of cold roast beef brought up for my tea, and a great plate of hot cakes, and an uncut plum cake. Surely, Alice, you must be mistaken.”
“No, Miss, there’s nothing downstairs. Not a joint, nor a cake, nor nothing. If it wasn’t that I found some new-laid eggs in the hen-house, and cut some slices from the uncooked ham, I couldn’t have had nothing at all for supper—and—and——”
“Tut, tut!” suddenly exclaimed a voice in the dining-room. “What’s all this whispering about? It is very rude of little girls to whisper outside doors, and not to attend to their aunts when they come a long way to see them. If you don’t come in at once, Miss Helen, and give me my tea, I shall help myself.”
“Find Polly, then, as quick as you can, Alice,” exclaimed poor, perplexed Helen, “and tell her that Aunt Maria Cameron has come and is going to stay.”
Alice went away, and Helen, returning to the dining-room, poured out tea, and cut bread-and-butter, and saw her aunt demolishing with appetite three new-laid eggs, and two generous slices of fried ham.
“Your meal was plain; but I am satisfied with it,” she said in conclusion. “I am glad you live frugally, Helen; waste is always sinful, and in your case peculiarly so. You don’t mind my telling you, my dear, that I think it is a sad extravagance wearing crape every day, but of course you don’t know any better. You are nothing in the world but an overgrown child. Now that I have come, my dear, I shall put this and many other matters to rights. Tell me, Helen, how long does your father intend to be away?”
“Until Monday, I think, Aunt Maria.”
“Very well; then you and I will begin our reforms to-morrow. I’ll take you round with me, and we’ll look into everything. Your father won’t know the house when he comes back. I’ve got a treasure of a woman in my eye for him—a Miss Grinsted. She is fifty, and a strict disciplinarian. She will soon manage matters, and put this house into something like order. I had a great mind to bring her with me; but I can send for her. She can be here by Monday or Tuesday. I told her to be in readiness, and to have her boxes packed. My dear, I wish you would not poke out your chin so much. How old are you? Oh, sixteen—a very gawky age. Now then, that I am refreshed and rested, I think that we’ll just go round the house.”
“Will you not wait until to-morrow, Aunt Maria? The children are all asleep and in bed now, and Nurse never likes them to be disturbed.”
“My dear, Nurse’s likes or dislikes are not of the smallest importance to me. I wish to see the children asleep, so if you will have the goodness to light a candle, Helen, and lead the way, I will follow.”
Helen, again stifling a sigh, obeyed. She felt full of trepidation and uneasiness. Why did not Polly come in? Why had all the supper disappeared? Where were Katie and the twins? How strangely silent the house was.
“I will see the baby first,” said Mrs. Cameron. “In bed? Well, no matter, I wish to look at the little dear. Ah, this is the nursery; a nice, cheerful room, but too much light in it, and no curtains to the windows. Very bad for the dear baby’s eyes. How do you do, Nurse? I have come to see baby. I am her aunt, her dear mother’s sister, Maria Cameron.”
Nurse curtseyed.
“Baby is asleep, ma‘am,” she said. “I have just settled her in her little crib for the night. She’s a good, healthy child, and no trouble to any one. Yes, ma‘am, she has a look of her dear blessed ma. I’ll just hold down the sheet, and you’ll see. Please, ma‘am, don’t hold the light full in the babe’s eyes, you’ll wake her.”
“My good woman, I handled babies before you did. I had this child’s mother in my arms when she was a baby. Yes, the infant is well enough; you’re mistaken in there being any likeness to your late mistress in her. She seems a plain child, but healthy. If you don’t watch her sight, she may get delicate eyes, however. I should recommend curtains being put up immediately to these windows, and you’re only using night-lights when she sleeps. It is not I that am likely to injure the baby with too much light. Good evening, Nurse.”
Nurse muttered something, her brow growing black.
“Now, Helen,” continued Mrs. Cameron, “we will visit the other children. This is the boys’ room, I presume. I am fond of boys. What are your brothers’ names, my dear?”
“We call them Bob and Bunny.”
“Utterly ridiculous! I ask for their baptismal names, not for anything so silly. Ah! oh—I thought you said they were in bed: these beds are empty.”
So they were; tossed about, no doubt, but with no occupants, and the bedclothes no longer warm; so that it could not have been quite lately that the truants had departed from their nightly places of rest. On further investigation, Firefly’s bed was also found in a sad state of déshabillé, and it was clearly proved, on visiting their apartments, that the twins and Katie had not gone to bed at all.
“Then, my dear, where are the family?” said Mrs. Cameron. “You and that little babe are the only ones I have yet seen. Where is Mary? where is Katharine? Where are your brothers? My dear Helen, this is awful; your brothers and sisters are evidently playing midnight pranks. Oh, there is not a doubt of it, you need not tell me. What a good thing it is that I came! Oh! my poor dear sister; what a state her orphans have been reduced to! There is nothing whatever for it but to telegraph for Miss Grinsted in the morning.”
“But, my dear auntie, I am sure, oh! I am sure you are mistaken,” began poor Helen. “The children are always very well behaved—they are, indeed they are. They don’t play pranks, Aunt Maria.”
“Allow me to use my own eyesight, Helen. The beds are empty—not a child is to be found. Come, we must search the house!”
Helen never to her dying day forgot that eerie journey through the deserted house, accompanied by Aunt Maria. She never forgot the sickening fear which oppressed her, and the certainty which came over her that Polly, poor, excitable Polly, was up to some mischief.
Sleepy Hollow was a large and rambling old place, and it was some time before the searchers reached the neighborhood of the festive garret. When they did, however, there was no longer any room for doubt. Wild laughter, and high-pitched voices singing many favorite nursery airs and school-room songs made noise enough to reach the ears even of the deafest. “John Peel” was having a frantic chorus as Helen and her aunt ascended the step-ladder.
“For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed,
And the cry of his hounds which he ofttimes led,
Peel’s ‘View Hulloo!’ would awaken the dead,
Or the fox from his lair in the morning.”
“Very nice, indeed,” said Aunt Maria, as she burst open the garret door. “Very nice and respectful to the memory of your dear mother! I am glad, children, that I have come to create decent order in this establishment. I am your aunt, Maria Cameron.”