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The Palace Beautiful by L. T. Meade

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"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."




CHAPTER IV.

TO THE RESCUE.


Miss Martineau told her news with considerable agitation. She
considered it a terrible revelation. It seemed to her a very fearful
and disastrous thing that three girls brought up like the Mainwarings,
three girls still almost children, should be thrown on the world
without any means for their support.

Simple and primitive as their lives had been at Rosebury, they still
had been tenderly nurtured and warmly sheltered--no cold blast of
unkindness or neglect had visited them--they had been surrounded ever
by both love and respect. The love came principally from their mother
and from one another, but the respect came from all who knew them. The
Mainwaring girls, in their plain dresses and with their
unsophisticated manners, looked like ladies, and invariably acted as
such.

Soon after making her communication Miss Martineau took her leave; she
hurried home, and sitting down in her dingy little parlor, began to
think.

"No, thank you, Susan," she said to her little maid-of-all-work, "I
shan't want any supper to-night. I have been at tea with my dear
pupils, the Misses Mainwaring. You may bring the lamp presently,
Susan, but not quite yet; it is a pity to waste the daylight, and
there is quite another quarter of an hour in which I can see to knit.
Yes, give me my knitting-basket; I can get on with Widow Joseph's
mittens."

"And, if you please, ma'am," asked Susan, lingering for a moment at
the door, "may I ask how, all things considering, the dear young
ladies is?"

"On the whole, tranquil, Susan--yes, I may say it with confidence; my
dear pupils may be considered in a resigned state of mind."

Susan closed the door after her, and Miss Martineau took up her
knitting. Knitting woollen mittens is an occupation which harmonizes
very well with reflection and while the old lady's active fingers
moved her thoughts were busy.

"Thirty pounds a year," she said softly to herself, "thirty pounds
certain, and a lump sum of two hundred in the bank. Doubtless they owe
some of that for their mother's funeral and their own mourning. They
probably owe quite thirty pounds of that, and to make it safe, I had
better say forty. That leaves a balance of one hundred and sixty;
just enough to put away for emergencies, illness, and so forth. My
dear girls, my dear Primrose, and Jasmine, and my pretty little pet
Daisy, you cannot touch your little capital; you may get a few pounds
a year for it, or you may not--Mr. Danesfield must decide that--but
all the money you can certainly reckon on for your expenses is thirty
pounds per annum, and on that you cannot live."

Here Miss Martineau threw down her knitting, and began with some
agitation to pace up and down her tiny room.

"What was to be done with these lonely and defenceless girls? how were
they to meet the world? how were they to earn their living?"

Miss Martineau had never before found herself propounding so painful
and interesting a problem; her mind worked round it, and tried to
grapple with it, but though she stayed up far into the night, and even
had recourse to figures, and marked down on paper the very lowest sum
a girl could possibly exist on, she went to bed, having found no
solution to this vexed question.

Even Miss Martineau, ignorant and narrow-minded as she was, could
scarcely pronounce Primrose fit to do much in the educational world;
Jasmine's, of course, was only a little giddy pate, and she required a
vast amount of teaching herself; and pretty Daisy was still but a
young child.

Miss Martineau went to bed and to sleep; she dreamed troubled dreams,
but in the morning she awoke strengthened and restored, even by such
restless slumbers, and quite resolved to do something.

"Sophia Martineau," she said--for living quite alone she was fond of
holding conversations with herself--"Sophia Martineau, those girls are
placed, to put it figuratively, at your door, and take them up you
must. Gold you have none to bestow, but you can give interest; you
can, in short, rouse others to help the helpless. This is your bounden
duty, and you had better see to it at once."

Miss Martineau went briskly downstairs, ate her frugal breakfast, and
then made her plans. These plans were decisive enough. At Rosebury no
one thought of being so silly as to be over-educated. None of the
young brains of the rising generation were over-forced or
over-stimulated, and Miss Martineau felt no compunction whatever in
writing a short note to each of six little pupils, and telling them
that they need not come to her that morning, for she meant to give
them a holiday.

Having done this, and sent Susan out with the notes, she went
upstairs, and once more put on her black silk dress, her old-fashioned
mantle, and her high poke bonnet. Thus attired, she started on an
expedition which she trusted would lead to many happy results for the
Mainwarings.




CHAPTER V.

THE CONTENTS OF THE CABINET.


The uneasiness Miss Martineau felt was by no means shared by the
girls. Primrose had in reality a very practical nature; she could
housekeep well, and no baker or butcher who ventured to show his face
in Rosebury would dream of cheating this bright young lady. No one
could make half-a-crown, or even a shilling, go farther than Primrose
could. No one could more cleverly convert an old dress into a new, but
her little experiences ended here. She had kept the house for her
mother, and been both thrifty and saving, but real responsibility had
never been hers. The overpowering sensation of knowing that she must
make so much money meet so many absolute necessities had never touched
her young life. Miss Martineau's words had made her a little
thoughtful, but by no means anxious. If she and her sisters could not
live on thirty pounds a year there was still the money in the bank.

Primrose thought two hundred pounds, if not a large, at least a very
comfortable sum. The only real effect that her old governess's words
had on her was to make her a little extra saving.

Jasmine never liked Primrose when she was in a saving mood, and she
grumbled audibly when, the morning after Miss Martineau's visit, her
elder sister suggested that they should do without some black cotton
dresses which the day before they had decided to buy and to make for
themselves.

"Such nonsense!" said Jasmine, stamping her little foot impatiently;
"you know we want the dresses, Primrose. You know poor Daisy can't run
and play in the garden in her black cashmere frock, and I can't dig or
weed. You know, when we decided to go on just as usual, just as if
mamma--was--was--"

Here Jasmine paused, gulped down a sob, and said, hastily, "We want
our print dresses, and we can't do without them. You are just
frightened, Primrose, by what Miss Martineau said."

"I am not at all frightened," answered Primrose, calmly; "only I think
we ought to be careful."

"And we are so rich, too," said Jasmine. "I never thought we had two
hundred pounds in the bank. Why it's heaps and lots of money.
Primrose, what are you so grave about?"

"Only," said Primrose, in her slow voice, "only Miss Martineau thought
it very, very little money. She looked so grave when she spoke about
it--indeed, she seemed almost sad. Jasmine, I really think Miss
Martineau quite loves us."

"Perhaps," said Jasmine, in an indifferent tone. "Well, Rose, if you
are quite determined to be shabby and saving, I may as well join Daisy
in the garden."

Jasmine stooped down, kissed her sister lightly on the forehead, and
then ran out of the room. A moment or two later Primrose heard
laughing voices floating in through the open window. She was glad in
her heart that Jasmine and Daisy were beginning to do things just as
usual, and yet somehow their laughter gave her a pang.

The little cottage was a tiny place; it consisted downstairs of one
long low room, with a bay window at the extreme end. This room the
Mainwarings called the drawing-room, and it was really furnished with
great daintiness and care. At one end was the bay window, at the other
were glass doors which opened directly into the garden. The kitchen
was at the other end of the narrow hall, and this also looked on the
garden. Hannah, the one servant, was often heard to object to this
arrangement. She gave solid reasons for her objections, declaring
roundly that human nature was far more agreeable to her than any part
of the vegetable kingdom; but though Hannah found her small kitchen
rather dull, and never during the years she stayed with them developed
the slightest taste for the beauties of Nature, she was sincerely
attached to the Mainwaring girls, and took care to serve them well.

Upstairs were two bedrooms--one looking to the street, in which the
girls slept, the prettiest room with the garden view being reserved
for Mrs. Mainwaring. Hannah occupied a small and attic-like apartment
over the kitchen.

When Jasmine ran into the garden Primrose slowly rose from her seat
and went upstairs. It occurred to her that this was a fitting
opportunity to do something which she longed and dreaded to
accomplish.

Since her mother's death, since the moment when the three young girls
had bent over the coffin and strewed flowers over the form they loved,
the sisters had not gone near this room.

Hannah had dusted it and kept it tidy, but the blinds had been drawn
down and the sun excluded. The girls had shrunk from entering this
chamber; it seemed to them like a grave. They passed it with reverent
steps, and spoke in whispers as they stole on tiptoe by the closed
door.

It occurred, however, to Primrose that now was an opportunity when she
might come into the room and put some of her mother's treasures
straight. She unlocked the door and entered; a chill, cold feeling
struck on her. Had she been Jasmine she would have turned and fled,
but being Primrose, she instantly did what her clear common sense told
her was the sensible course.

"We have made up our minds to go on as usual," she said to herself;
"and letting in the sunlight and the daylight is not forgetting our
dear mother."

Then she pulled up the blinds, and threw the window-sashes wide open.

A breath of soft warm air from the garden instantly filled the dreary
chamber, and Primrose, sitting down by an old-fashioned little
cabinet, slipped a key into the lock of the centre drawer, and opened
it.

Mrs. Mainwaring had been by no means a tidy or careful person--she
hated locks, and seemed to have a regular aversion to neatly-kept
drawers or wardrobes, but this one little cabinet, which had belonged
to the girls' father, was a remarkable exception to the general rule.

Mrs. Mainwaring never, even to Primrose, parted with the key of this
cabinet. Whenever the girls were present it was locked--even Daisy
could not coax mother to show her the contents of any of those
tempting little drawers--"only mementoes, darling--only mementoes,"
the lady would say, but the girls knew that mother herself often in
the dead of night looked into the locked drawers, and they generally
noticed that the next day she was weaker and sadder than usual.

On the top of the cabinet a miniature painting of Captain Mainwaring
was always to be found, and the girls used to love to keep a vase of
the choicest flowers close to father's picture.

When Mrs. Mainwaring died, Jasmine cried nearly the whole of one night
at the thought of the little old-fashioned cabinet--for now she felt
quite sure that no one would ever dare to open it, "and I don't like
to think of the mementoes being never seen again," she sobbed: "It
seems cruel to them."

Then Primrose promised to undertake this dreaded task, and here was
her opportunity.

Primrose was not at all a nervous girl, and with the soft summer air
filling the chamber, and driving out all the ghosts of solitude and
gloom, she commenced her task. She determined to look through the
contents of the little cabinet with method, and she resolved to begin
with the large centre drawer. She pulled it open, and was surprised to
find that it was nearly empty.

A few papers, on which verses and quotations from Books of Sermons
were copied in her mother's hand-writing, lay about; these, and one
parcel which was carefully wrapped up in soft white tissue-paper, were
the sole contents of the centre drawer. Primrose pulled the parcel
from where it lay half-hidden at the back of the drawer. She felt
self-possessed, but her fingers trembled slightly as she touched it.
It was folded up most carefully--the wrappings were kept in their
place by white satin ribbon, and on a slip of white paper which had
been placed on the top of the parcel, and secured by the ribbon,
Primrose read a few words:

"Arthur's little desk--for Primrose now."

She felt her color coming high, and her heart beating. Who was
Arthur?--she had never heard of him--her father's name had been John.
Who was the unknown Arthur, whose desk was now given to her?

She untied the parcel slowly, but with shaking fingers.

The little desk was a battered one, ink-stained, and of a slight and
cheap construction. Inside it contained one treasure, a thick letter,
with the words "For Primrose" written in her mother's writing on the
envelope.

An unexpected message from those who are dead will set the strongest
nerves quivering. At sight of this letter Primrose laid her pretty
yellow head down on the little old cabinet, and sobbed long and
bitterly.

How long she might have wept she could never say, but her tears were
suddenly brought to an abrupt termination. When she entered her
mother's room she had not locked the door, and now a voice sounded at
her elbow:

"Eh!--my word--dear, dear, deary me! Now, Miss Primrose, to think of
you creeping up like this, and 'worriting' yourself over the secrets
in the little bit of a cabinet. Your poor mamma knew what she was
about when she kept that cabinet locked, and for all the good they'll
ever do, she might well have burnt the bits of fallals she kept there.
There, darling, don't spoil your pretty eyes crying over what's dead
and gone, and can never be put right again--never. Shut up the
cabinet, Miss Primrose, and put your hair a bit straight, for Mrs.
Ellsworthy, from Shortlands, is down in the drawing-room, and wanting
to see you most particular 'bad.'"




CHAPTER VI.

MANY VISITORS.


Miss Martineau's plans had been full of directness. Having made up her
mind, she wasted no precious moments. The girls must be helped; she
could only give them counsel, but others could do more. Miss Martineau
determined to go at once to the fountainhead. In short, she would
attack the one and only rich person who lived in the neighborhood of
Rosebury. Shortlands was a big place, and the Ellsworthys were
undoubtedly big people. Money with them was plentiful. They considered
themselves county folk; they lived in what the Rosebury people
believed to be royal style.

Miss Martineau had for one short blissful week of her life spent the
time at Shortlands. She had been sent for in an emergency, to take the
place of a nursery governess who was ill. Her French had been of
little account in this great house, and her music had not been
tolerated. The poor old lady had indeed been rather snubbed. But what
of that? She was able to go back to her own intimate friends, and
entertain them with accounts of powdered footmen, of richly-dressed
London ladies, of a world of fashion which these people believed to be
Paradise.

Twice during her week's sojourn she had been addressed by Mrs.
Ellsworthy. No matter; from that day she considered herself one of the
great lady's acquaintances. Miss Martineau could be heroic when she
pleased, and there was certainly something of the heroic element about
her when she ventured to storm so mighty a citadel at eleven o'clock
in the morning.

Her very boldness, however, won her cause. The footman who opened the
door might look as supercilious as he pleased, but he was obliged to
deliver her messages, and Mrs. Ellsworthy, with a good-humored smile,
consented to see her.

Their interview was short, but Miss Martineau, when she launched on
her theme, quite forgot that she was poor and her auditor rich. Mrs.
Ellsworthy, too, after a few glances into the thin and earnest face of
the governess, ceased to think of that antiquated poke bonnet, or the
absurdly old-fashioned cut of that ugly mantle.

The two who talked so earnestly were women--women with kind and large
hearts, and their theme was engrossing.

Mrs. Ellsworthy bound herself by no promises, but she contrived to
send the governess away with a heart full of hope.

Mrs. Ellsworthy had never yet called on any of the people who lived in
the straggling village of Rosebury. Therefore, when her carriage, with
its prancing horses and perfect appointments, drew up at the
Mainwarings' door, the old-fashioned little place felt quite a flutter
through its heart.

Poppy Jenkins, the laundress's pretty daughter, came out into the
street, and stared with all her eyes. The doctor's wife, who lived at
the opposite side of the street, gazed furtively and enviously from
behind her muslin blinds. The baker and the butcher neglected their
usual morning orders; and Hannah, the Mainwarings' servant, felt
herself, as she expressed it, all of a tremble from top to toe.

"Let me brush your hair, Miss Primrose," she said, when she had at
last succeeded in inducing her young lady to dry her tears; "and are
your hands nice and clean, Miss Primrose? and your collar, is it neat?
It's very condescending of Mrs. Ellsworthy to call."

"I wonder what she has come about," said Primrose; "she never knew my
mother."

Primrose felt at that moment the great lady's visit to be an
intrusion.

"I'll just run into the garden and stop Miss Jasmine and Miss Daisy
rushing into the drawing-room all in a mess," said Hannah. "Oh! sakes
alive! why, the young ladies will be seen anyhow from the French
window."

Hannah hurried off, wondering if she could smuggle these troublesome
members of her flock out of sight through the kitchen.

Alas! she was too late--when Primrose, slim and graceful, and with her
pretty eyes only slightly reddened by her crying fit, entered the
drawing-room, she saw the French doors open, and her guest pacing
tranquilly round the garden, hold the Pink in her arms, while Daisy
danced in front of her, and Jasmine, chattering volubly, walked by her
side.

"I'm so glad you like those carnations," Jasmine was saying. "Mamma
was very fond of them. Shall I set some slips for you? I will with
pleasure."

"If Pink ever has a kitten you shall have it," said Daisy solemnly.

At this moment Primrose joined her sisters.

"Oh, Primrose--something so delightful!" began Jasmine.

"She thinks the Pink a perfect beauty. She wants another pussy just
like it," burst from Daisy's pretty dimpled lips.

Mrs. Ellsworthy, still keeping the Pink in her arms, held out her
other hand to Primrose.

"I have introduced myself to your sisters, dear Miss Mainwaring. I am
Mrs. Ellsworthy, of Shortlands--a near neighbor. You must not consider
my visit an intrusion."

Before Primrose could reply Jasmine exclaimed volubly--

"Indeed we don't--we are quite delighted; we were feeling ourselves
awfully dull. Miss Martineau said every one would call now she had
been. We did not want to see every one, but you are different."

"You are delightful," echoed Daisy.

Primrose felt herself almost cross. "Girls, do stop chattering," she
said. "Mrs. Ellsworthy, I hope you will excuse my sisters; and won't
you come into the drawing-room?"

"I am charmed with your sisters," answered the great lady--"they are
fresh, they are original. Dear Miss Mainwaring, why need we leave this
delightful garden? can we not have our little talk here?"

"With pleasure," said Primrose, but her stiffness did not disappear;
she still had a slightly sore feeling at the bottom of her heart, and
the thought that Mrs. Ellsworthy never took the trouble to know dear
mamma kept recurring.

Mrs. Ellsworthy was quite woman of the world enough to read Primrose,
and to guess what was in her heart. She saw at a glance that the girls
were ladies, and would not be patronized. Her task had seemed easy
enough when she assured Miss Martineau that the poor young Mainwarings
must be helped. When she ordered her carriage and drove into Rosebury
she made up her mind to discuss their affairs boldly with them, and to
offer them practical advice, and, if necessary, substantial
assistance. The eldest girl, if she was at all presentable, might be
got into some family as a nursery governess or companion, and she felt
quite sure that she had sufficient interest to procure admissions for
Jasmine and Daisy into some of the schools especially started to
educate the orphan daughters of army men.

But in the garden, although it was a very shabby little garden, this
programme did not seem quite so easy. Jasmine and Daisy were
delightful children; they hailed her instantly as a comrade; they
thought nothing whatever of her wealth or her position. Shortlands
conveyed no meaning to their unsophisticated minds; they fully
believed that Mrs. Ellsworthy envied them their carnations, and would
have been made happy by the possession of a kitten similar to the
Pink. Primrose, on the contrary, was proud and shy, and had no idea of
treating any stranger in a confidential manner.

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