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

Mainwaring to step this way—and, Dawson, order my trap to be at the door in ten minutes."

"I won't keep you very long, Mr. Danesfield," began Primrose, in a quick and rather nervous manner for her.

Mr. Danesfield was always the soul of politeness, however irritable he might feel.

"Sit down, my dear young lady," he said; "I am delighted to see you, and I can give you exactly five minutes."

"I want to ask you two questions," began Primrose. "The questions are short. They are about money; and you understand all about that."

"Not all, my dear girl—money is far too great a theme to be wholly comprehended by one single individual."

Primrose tapped her foot impatiently—then, after a brief pause, she raised her clear brown eyes, and looked full at the banker.

"How much money have we in the bank, Mr. Danesfield?"

"My dear child, not much—very little, scarcely anything. 'Pon my word, I am sorry for you, but your entire capital does not amount to quite two hundred pounds."

Primrose received this information calmly.

"Thank you," she said—"I just wanted to know from yourself. Now, I have one other question to ask you, and then I will go. My sisters and I have thirty pounds a year to live on. By drawing a little on our capital, say, taking ten or fifteen pounds a year from it, can we live, Mr. Danesfield?"

Mr. Danesfield rose from his seat, and coming over to Primrose, laid his hand on her shoulder—

"Live! my poor, dear child; you and your sisters would starve. No, Miss Mainwaring, there is nothing for you three girls to do but to turn to and earn your living. Your friends, I doubt not, will help, and you must take their help. I shall be delighted to give advice. Now, my dear child, my trap is at the door, and I must go. Good morning—good morning."

CHAPTER IX. A STRANGE LETTER AND A PROPOSED VISIT TO LONDON.

Primrose was always direct in her movements—she made up her mind quickly; from her earliest childhood she was in the habit of acting with decision.

After her short interview with Mr. Danesfield she went straight home, and without paying any attention to the clear voice of her pet Daisy, who called to her from the garden, or to Jasmine's little impatient—"Sister, I want you to help me to arrange the trimming on my new black skirt," she ran upstairs, and locked herself into her mother's room.

There she once more opened the old davenport, and took from it the thick packet, which contained a shabby little desk, inside of which lay a letter directed to herself.

Now at last she opened the letter, and in her own great perplexity read the message from the grave.

The letter was dated about three months back, and was in her mother's neatest and most easily read writing.

"My dear daughter," it began, "I have no present reason to suppose that my life will be cut short, therefore I cannot tell whether this letter will be read by you now, while you are young, or years hence, when your youth is over.

"One thing I have resolved—you shall not know the little secret it contains during my lifetime. I keep it from you, my darling, because I could not bear you to speak of it to me, because at the time it gave me such agony that I have locked it up in my heart, and no one, not even my own child, must open the doors where my dead secret lies.

"Primrose, whenever I die, this letter will reach you—you will find it in the ordinary course of things in my cabinet; but even in this letter I cannot tell you all the story—you must go to Hannah for particulars—she has been with me all my married life, and knows as much as I do.

"Once, when you were a little child of only six years old, I came into the room where you slept, and I heard her saying to you, as she tucked you up for the night—

"You must be very good to your mamma, Miss Primrose, for she has known trouble."

"Neither you nor she saw me, and you raised your dear eyes to her face, and I heard you say—

"'What is trouble, nursey Hannah?'

"'Trouble is a burden too heavy to be borne,' Hannah answered, 'but when you came, Missy, it went away—you were like the spring to my missus, and that is why she called you Primrose.'

"That night I called Hannah aside, and I made the faithful creature promise that she would never again allude to my trouble to any of my children. She promised, and kept her word.

"Now, darling, you shall learn what nearly broke my heart; what would have quite broken it had God not sent me my three girls.

"Primrose, something more bitter than death came to your mother. Your father is dead—I know where his bones lie—I know that I shall meet him again, and I don't rebel. My other trouble was far, far worse than that—

"Darling, you are not my eldest child—you are not the first bonny baby who lay in my arms. Years before you were born I had a son. Oh! how can I speak of him?—he seemed to be more beautiful than any other child—he had ways—he had looks—Primrose, I can't go on, you must ask Hannah to tell you what my boy was like. I had him for five years, then I lost him; he did not die—he was stolen from me. Can you wonder now that your mother sometimes looks sad, and that even you and Jasmine and Daisy fail now and then to make me smile?

"My bonny boy was stolen. I never saw him dead; I never could go to his grave to put flowers there—twenty years ago now he was taken from me, and I have had neither trace nor tidings of him.

"Hannah will tell you particulars, Primrose, for I cannot. My trouble far surpassed the bitterness of death. Only for you three, I could not have lived—

"Your mother,
"Constance Mainwaring."

Primrose had scarcely finished reading this letter, and had by no means taken in the full meaning of its contents, when light, soft footsteps paused outside the room, and she heard the handle of the door being very softly turned.

Cramming the letter into her pocket, and shutting the lid of the little cabinet, she ran and unlocked the door. Jasmine was standing without.

"I looked for you everywhere, Primrose, and I did not mean really to disturb you here; I thought you might be here, and I tried the handle very softly, meaning to steal away again. Are you very busy, Primrose?"

"I can come with you if you want me for anything, Jasmine," answered Primrose, putting her hand to her head in a dazed sort of way.

Jasmine's brow cleared, and her face grew bright instantly.

"It's rather exciting," she said; "I'm so glad you can come. It is about Poppy Jenkins—Poppy is downstairs—she is going away—she has come to say good-bye. Do you know, Primrose, that she is actually going to London?"

Jasmine looked so delighted and eager that Primrose could not help smiling, and taking her sister's hand, they ran downstairs together.

Poppy, who had very black eyes, cheeks with a brilliant color, and hair like a raven's wing, was standing in the drawing-room twisting her apron strings and chatting volubly to Daisy. She had known the girls all her life, and not only loved them dearly, but respected them much. To Poppy Jenkins there never were three such beautiful and altogether charming young ladies as the Misses Mainwaring.

When Primrose appeared she dropped her a curtsey—perhaps she respected Primrose the most, and loved her the least.

"It's to say good-bye, miss," she began, "I called in, hoping for last words with you three dear young ladies. I is summoned to London, Miss Primrose."

Nothing could exceed the air of modest pride with which Poppy made this declaration; she quite expected Primrose to be both startled and dazzled, and said afterwards that it was rather like a little stream of cold water trickling down her back when Miss Mainwaring replied quietly—

"London is a long way off, Poppy—why are you going there?"

"I has an aunt in the boarding-house way, Miss Primrose—she keeps a very select establishment; and most particular; don't admit no gentlemen. It's for ladies only, aunt's boarding-house is, miss, and she wrote to mother that it's a flourishing concern, and she wants a girl who will be honest, and handy, and country-bred, to help wait on the ladies. She has offered the situation to me, miss, as in duty bound, I being her own niece, and mother is pleased to accept. I calls it a dazzling prospect, Miss Primrose."

"I am delighted," began Primrose; but Jasmine interrupted her. "Dazzling," she repeated, "of course it is dazzling, Poppy. I am so very glad you are going. I only wish I were going. If there is a wonderful, delightful, charming place, it is London. I have read about it, and I have dreamed about it, and I have pictured it. What fun you will have! Of course your aunt will take you to see all the sights. Oh, do sit down. Primrose, we ought to tell her about the places she should see, ought we not?"

Primrose nodded, and Poppy dropped on to the edge of the nearest chair, and, clasping her red and hard-worked hands in front of her, prepared herself to listen.

"First of all, Poppy," began Jasmine, after waiting for her sister to speak; but Primrose was strangely silent.

"First of all, Poppy, you must go to the places which improve your mind; now, I do hope you are not going to be giddy, running just after pretty things; but I suppose your aunt, who is so wise, and who keeps the boarding-house, will see to that. Well, first of all you had better go to Westminster Abbey. Oh, Poppy! I have read such glorious descriptions of it—the lights from the painted windows—the wonderfully ancient look of the old pillars, and then the music; it peals down the aisles and echoes through the fretted roofs; you will be greatly overpowered at Westminster Abbey, Poppy; but you must remember that you are a very privileged person, and be thankful for being permitted to see with your own eyes such a lovely, lovely, glorious place!"

"It do sound, from your description, very awe-inspiring, Miss Jasmine," answered Poppy. "Is there no other place where one might get more, so to speak, into the festive mood, miss?"

"Oh yes, you silly Poppy, lots and lots; but we'll come to those presently. You'll have to see the Houses of Parliament, where our laws are made—if you don't feel grave there, you ought. Then you must visit the Tower, where people's heads were cut off—it's very solemn indeed at the Tower; and, of course, you will pay a visit to the Zoo, and you can see the lions fed, and you can look at the monkey-house."

"I likes monkeys," said Poppy, whose face had been growing graver and graver while Jasmine was talking; "and if you'll throw in a little bit of gazing into shop windows, Miss Jasmine, and learning the newest cuts of a bonnet, and the most genteel fit of a mantle, why, then, I'll do even that dreadful Tower, as in duty bound. My mother calls London a vast sea and a world of temptation, and nothing but vanity from end to end; but when I thinks of the beautiful ladies in aunt's boarding-house, and of the shop windows I feels that it is dazzling."

"I wish that I were going," repeated Jasmine, whose cheeks were flushed, and her starry eyes brighter than usual; "I wish I were going. Oh, Primrose, think of you, and Daisy, and me saying our prayers in the Abbey!"

"We must not think of it," said Primrose; "God hears our prayers wherever we say them, Jasmine, darling."

"Yes," answered Jasmine; "and I am not going to complain. Well, Poppy, you are a very lucky girl, and I hope you'll be as good as gold, and as happy as the day is long."

"And if ever you does come to London, Miss Jasmine," said Poppy, rising to her feet, "you'll remember aunt's boarding-house, for ladies only; and proud I'll be to wait on you, miss."

"But we can't come, Poppy dear—we are very poor now—we have only got thirty pounds a year to live on."

To Poppy, who had never been known in her life to possess thirty pence, this sum sounded by no means modest.

"Might I make bold to inquire, miss," she asked, "if the thirty pounds is once for all, or if it's a yearly recurrence?"

"Oh, it's an income, Poppy—how stupid you are!"

"Then I'll consult my aunt in town, miss, and try to find out if you three dear young ladies couldn't contrive a London visit out of