The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls by L. T. Meade (free reads .TXT) 📕

young creatures put on their new black dresses, and went down a long, rambling, charming country lane. The air was delicious—Jasmine refused to cover her hot little face with a crape veil—they came back after their ramble soothed and refreshed. As they were walking up the village street a girl of the name of Poppy, their laundress's child, stepped out of a little cottage, dropped a courtesy, and said, in a tone of delight—

"Oh, Miss Mainwaring, I'm glad to see you out; and Miss Jasmine, darling, the little canary is all reared and ready for you. I took a sight of pains with him, and he'll sing beautiful before long. Shall I bring him round in the morning, Miss Jasmine?"

"Yes, of course, Poppy; and I'm greatly obliged to you," answered Jasmine, in her old bright tones. Then she colored high, felt a good deal ashamed of herself, and hurried after Primrose, who had pulled down her crape veil, and was holding Daisy's hand tightly.

That night the sisters all slept well; they were the better for the fresh air, and also for the thought of seeing Poppy and the canary which she had reared for Jasmine in the morning.

Sharp to the hour Poppy arrived with her gift; she was a pretty little village girl, who adored the Misses Mainwaring.

"The bird will want a heap of sunshine," she said; "he's young, and my mother says that all young things want lots and lots of sun. May I pull up the blind in the bay window, Miss Primrose; and may I hang Jimmy's cage just here?"

Primrose nodded. She forgot, in her interest over Jimmy, to remember that the bay window looked directly on to the village street.

"And please, miss," said Poppy, as she was preparing to return home, "Miss Martineau says she'll look in this evening, and that she was glad when she saw you out last night, young ladies, and acting sensible again."

Primrose had always a very faint color; at Poppy's words it deepened slightly.

"We've tried to act in a sensible way all through," she said, with gentle dignity. "Perhaps Miss Martineau does not quite understand. We love one another very much; we are not going to be foolish, but we cannot help grieving for our mother."

At these words Jasmine rushed out of the room and Poppy's round eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, Miss Primrose—," she began.

"Never mind, Poppy," said Primrose; "we'll see Miss Martineau to-night. I am glad you told us she was coming."

The neighbors at Rosebury were all of the most sociable type; the Mainwaring girls knew every soul in the place, and when their mother died there was quite a rush of sympathy for them, and the little cottage might have been full from morning till night. Primrose, however, would not have it; even Miss Martineau, who was their teacher, and perhaps their warmest friend, was refused admittance. The neighbors wondered, and thought the girls very extraordinary and a little stuck-up, and their sympathy, thrown back on themselves, began to cool.

The real facts of the case, however, were these: Primrose, Jasmine and Daisy would have been very pleased to see Poppy Jenkins, or old Mrs. Jones, who sometimes came in to do choring, or even the nice little Misses Price, who kept a grocery shop at the other end of the village street; they would also have not objected to a visit from good, hearty Mrs. Fry, the doctor's wife, but had they admitted any of these neighbors they must have seen Miss Martineau, and Miss Martineau, once she got a footing in the house, would have been there morning, noon and night.

Poor Jasmine would not have at all objected to crying away some of her sorrow on kind Mrs. Fry's motherly breast; Primrose could have had some really interesting talk which would have done her good with the Misses Price; they were very religious people, and their brother was a clergyman, and they might have said some things which would comfort the sore hearts of the young girls. Little Daisy could have asked some of her unceasing questions of Poppy Jenkins, and the three would really have been the better for the visits and the sympathy of the neighbors did not these visits and sympathy also mean Miss Martineau. But Miss Martineau at breakfast, dinner, and tea—Miss Martineau, with her never-ending advice, her good-natured but still unceasingly correcting tone, was felt just at first to be unendurable. She was sincerely fond of the girls, whom she had taught to play incorrectly, and to read French with an accent unrecognized in Paris, but Miss Martineau was a worry, was a great deal too officious, and so the girls shut themselves away from her and from all other neighbors for the first month after their mother's death.

CHAPTER III. 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