The Lark (Nesbit)/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI
And then with the most graceful self-possession, lying pale and interesting under the Paisley shawl, Jane told the master of Cedar Court all about it, Lucilla uttering timid confirmatory noises.
"So you see," Jane wound up, "if we'd had the least idea that you were—at all like you are, we should have come and asked you. . . ."
"Butter," said the old gentleman shortly.
"It's the best butter," quoted Jane. "I mean that it's quite true; and I wish we had asked you."
"You mean to tell me, then," he said, looking very straight at her, "that you crept into that house and explored it by candlelight merely because you thought it a suitable residence for two young ladies who wish to sell flowers?"
"Well," said Jane handsomely, "of course there were other reasons, but I've given you the best ones. The others aren't so respectable. Of course there was curiosity, and the-soul-of-romance feeling that there is about old houses; and . . . and . . . well, I suppose the sort of idea that we weren't going to let a silly old board keep us out if we wanted to get in."
"I admire your candour," said the visitor, and he quite evidently did; "but suppose the house had been locked up for some really romantic reason—because someone had lived there so dear that no one else was good enough to live there after her?"
"We never would have," said Jane indignantly. "Of course we wouldn't. You see, we knew it was only temper . . . distemper, I mean. . . . I mean paint. . ."
The visitor laughed. Jane, cold with excitement and rigid to the ends of her fingers and feet with the stress of the struggle, relaxed a little.
"And what does the other young lady say?" He turned to the still inarticulate Lucilla.
"I say what Jane says," she answered, still fluttered.
"Do you always?"
"No, of course she doesn't," Jane put in, "but she can't say anything true without blaming me, because the whole thing was entirely my fault."
"And you're paying for it, eh?"
He glanced at the hump that her bandaged foot made under the shawl.
"Well, a little, perhaps," said Jane. And Lucilla said, "It was really my fault quite as much. I wanted to, just as badly, only I shouldn't have had the pluck. Jane's so brave."
"Yes," he said musingly, "so it appears. And your relations, how do they regard these heroic exploits?"
"We haven't any relations," said Lucilla, and explained their position.
He listened, and when she had done, said: "That guardian ought to be shot. And you're left like that, with only a few hundred pounds and this little house between you and destitution?"
"It's a dear little house," said Lucilla, gaining courage, "but you see it is so little. We can't grow enough flowers to sell; and all the flowers in your garden . . . We couldn't help gloating over them and wishing we could sell them. We've sold quite a lot even here. And we absolutely must do something before all our money is gone. You see, Jane might be an artist, or I might go on the stage, but we should have to learn how—and that takes time; and you have to have meals every day, don't you? So you see we must begin to earn money at once. If it wasn't for that, how lovely to live in this dear little house and learn how to paint and act!"
"I am glad you appreciate the house," he said; "it is a lady's house. The lady from whom you inherited it was one of my very oldest friends."
"You knew my Aunt Lucy?" cried Lucilla. "How splendid!"
"Yes. I have often been in this house—when I was a boy your aunt and her mother lived here. Your great-aunt, she must have been, by the way. I am pleased to see that you haven't altered anything."
"Oh no," said Jane; "how could we, when everything's so absolutely right?"
"That's true, and I compliment you on your clear sight in perceiving it. Now, Miss—Jane, you've told your tale admirably. And Miss Lucy has come up well in support. What do you expect me to do?"
"I hope you'll forgive us."
"Butter, butter, butter!" he said warningiy—"and not the best either. It isn't my forgiveness you covet. It's my forget-me-nots. Now I tell you candidly, I'm not going to play the part of the benevolent uncle and hand over Cedar Court to you to play the fool with."
"No, I suppose not," said Jane regretfully.
"But I'll tell you what I will do."
Jane clasped her hands and sat bolt upright on the sofa. "Oh, what?" she cried. "Tell us what you will do!"
"I will let you use the garden and cut the flowers. You may even employ a gardener if you like. I shall be the gainer by that."
"And we can cut all the flowers we like and bring them home here and sell them? Oh, thank you, thank you! How perfectly glorious!" Both girls took part in this spirited reception of the old gentleman's offer.
"Very glorious," he said drily, " having to buy a hand-cart or a barrow and lugging the flowers here in all weathers, dragging your petticoats through the rain, and spoiling the blooms. And nowhere to display them when you've got them here; besides destroying the whole atmosphere of Hope Cottage. No, I'll do better than that, young ladies. You shall have the run of the gardens and you shall have the key of the garden room. That's the room you tumbled into," he explained, turning to Jane, "only of course you didn't see it. It's painted gas-green. Perhaps it will show off the flowers. You can put a board up at the gate: 'The Misses Jane and Lucy, Florists.' By the way, what are your full names?"
"Jane Quested—Lucilla Craye," they told him.
"Well, as a matter of fact, I shouldn't put up your names if I were you. Just put 'Cut Flowers, Fresh Vegetables and Fruit. Oh yes, there'll be vegetables if you employ a gardener. And there'll be fruit in any case. The garden room is at the end of that wing that comes nearly to the gate, so it will be quite convenient for all purposes,"
"You are good!" said Lucilla. "Oh, you are! And I was so frightened of you!"
But Jane said, "It is very, very good of you. And what rent are we to pay?"
He looked at her curiously.
"I hadn't thought about that," he said. "Suppose we say ten per cent. on your sales?"
"How much exactly is that?" she asked. "I mean, if we sold a pound's worth of flowers, what would the rent be?"
"Two shillings," he told her, smiling.
"Then thank you," said Jane; "that seems quite fair, because, of course, we shall have to pay the gardener and to spend most of our time there if we're to make anything out of it."
"I think you will make something out of it," he said. "You seem to me to have some aptitude for business. Well, my name is Rochester—James Rochester. I'll send you the keys of the gate and the garden room, and a letter giving you formal permission to sell the garden produce. I am just off to Madrid. There is a book in the library there which I have to consult. And now I'll wish you good afternoon, and good luck!"
"We've had that," said Jane, beaming at him. And again he said, "Butter!" But he said it quite gently.
When he was gone the two girls fell into each other's arms.
"Who says we weren't born under a lucky star?" said Lucilla, rocking to and fro with her head on Jane's lean shoulder.
"Yes; but," said Jane, "it's all turned out very well as it happens, but what about your young man with the nice face? Treacherous dog! He must have gone straight away and told the old gentleman."
"He didn't look as if he would," said Lucilla. "Perhaps he found out in some other way."
"That's so likely, isn't it? Put not your trust in young men with nice, kind faces, Lucy. Well, I'm only thankful that we found him out in time."
"In time?"
"Yes. Mr. James Rochester might have called later on, after we'd received that nice, kind-faced young viper and given him tea and cake and gratitude and cream sandwiches. Whereas now! . . . Just tell Mrs. Doveton we're not at home to anyone, will you, Luce?"
"But surely you'll give him an opportunity to . . ."
"To what? To tell us that he deceived us? Give him the chance to do it again? Not much. If you like to see him and listen to his lies, do. I'll go to my room."
She moved on the sofa as if to get up.
"Oh, don't!" said Lucilla. "Of course I'll do as you like. But I don't care what you say—I believe it's somehow not his fault."
"If it's any comfort to you to believe it, go on believing by all means. Meantime tell Mrs. Doveton. Death to all traitors. If you can't behead them you can at least cut them dead."
Thus it happened that the helpful young man with the nice, kind face, coming to call on two ladies from whom he had parted on quite friendly terms, was met at the door by a neat, drab-haired woman who entirely filled the doorway and said stolidly:
"Not at home, sir."
"But," he said, "I am expected."
"Not at home, sir," was the reply.
"I was to call at five."
"Not at home," said Mrs. Doveton monotonously, faithful to her trust.
"very well," said the young man, and went down the white steps of Hope Cottage.
"He does look furious," Lucilla said, peeping round the yellow damask curtains; "and well he may! Oh!" she added, drawing back hastily.
"What's the matter?" said Jane.
"He turned round," said Lucilla.
"And saw you, of course. Well, you've done it thoroughly this time, Lucy."
"Done it?" said Lucilla, bewildered.
"Yes—we can never make it up with him now, whatever explanations he gives."
But you don't want to make it up with him. You said he couldn't have any explanations," Lucilla urged.
"Still, there's such a thing as manners. Saying not at home is one thing, but looking out of the window and putting out your tongue at him is another."
"I didn't."
"Well, the principle's the same. Don't let's weep over him. We shall never see him again, or know how he came to have the keys, or why he isn't the owner, or how he dared to burgle the cellar for that port wine—or any single thing."
"But you don't want to know."
"Of course I don't. He's dead and done with. But Cedar Court, Lucy—Cedar Court. Don't let's talk of silly young men with kind faces and black, false, knavish hearts. Let's talk about Cedar Court. Our Cedar Court. Aren't I tactful? Don't I always do the right thing? Hbw extraordinarily clever it was of me to fall down those stairs, wasn't it? If I hadn't done that, Mr. James Rochester would never have come to see us, and we should never have got our heart's desire. Our Cedar Court."
"It isn't ours," said Lucilla—"only the garden and one room."
"Ah—but that garden and that room—don't you see what that is? It's the thin end of the wedge, my dear. And not such a very thin wedge either. And on second thoughts we won't talk about Cedar Court, because I want you to slip on your bonnet and pop up street, as cook used to say at school. What a long time ago that seems, doesn't it?"
"What do you want 'up street'?"
"Why, a bath-chair, of course," said Jane. "You don't suppose I can keep away from Cedar Court? And a carriage couldn't go all over the place. And a bath-chair can. And you can push it, can't you? We won't have any wheezy old pug of a bath-chair man spying on us. We'll take possession of Cedar Court all by ourselves—just us two."
They did. The key and the note from Mr, Rochester were duly brought that very evening by a sober-faced man-servant. The bath chair was found, with some difficulty. It was the only one in the district, Lucilla was assured—and the chickens had unfortunately taken to roosting on it, in the outhouse where it had spent its later years. But it should be well cleaned, miss, you might be sure, and brought round to Hope Cottage at ten to the minute. And it was.
It was, as Jane said, a moment worth living for, when, the big key having unlocked the wrought-iron gate, Jane and Lucilla and the bath-chair passed through.
"Lock the gate," said Jane. "We'll not leave it open till we've got our board up. We'll paint that to-night. What a lovely lot of things we've got to do."
"Garden first?" Lucilla asked, pushing the wicker bath-chair up the mossy drive.
"Rather—we'll keep the gas-green room for the last. Oh, look at the hyacinths 1 And the daffodils! And the narcissus! And the forget-me-nots just coming out!"
They had turned the corner of the house and, passing close to the yew hedge, now rough and, as it were, hairy, instead of close-shaved, as yew hedges should be, came upon a lawn surrounded by trees and shrubs.
At the end of the lawn two tall cedars stood like king and queen. On each side a weeping ash, its long branches trained over iron hoops, stood, as Jane said, like crinolined ladies-in-waiting. Round the lawn were grouped the courtiers-all in court mourning for last summer, but with the promise of new green suits already displayed. Lilac, broom, gueldrerose, American currant, and almond trees like pretty girls in their coming-out dresses. And all among the grass and along the edges of the shrubberies were flowers, and flowers, and more flowers again.
"It's like the field of the Cloth of Gold," said Jane. "Why, what's the matter, Lucy?"
"It's all too perfect," said Lucilla, sniffing. "Look at the trees and the grass and the quiet. What on earth can we have done to deserve this?"
"Nothing," said Jane. "Let's hope we shall do something to deserve it before we die."