Etheldreda the Ready Part 13

"Is that what you contemplate doing yourself beneath the persecution of the people, or person, to whom you so eloquently refer? I must give you a lesson in nominatives to-morrow, my dear. They are evidently another point which is misunderstood," retorted Rowena with cutting composure.

It was one of the little encounters which was daily, almost hourly, taking place between the two sisters, whose widely differing dispositions seemed to jar more than ever in the close relationship of teacher and pupil. Mrs Saxon was greatly troubled by the continual friction, and she, like her daughter, had been anxiously looking forward to Dreda's visit as a healthful enlivening influence which could not fail to do good. And now Dreda was so mysteriously subdued and silent!

What had happened to change the child so strangely in six short weeks?

As for Miss Dreda herself, she was not only conscious of, but felt an acute enjoyment in observing the anxiety of her relatives on her behalf, and, like a true actress, warmed to her part under the consciousness of an audience. The more intently did her mother's eyes regard her, the more meek and downcast became her air; she figuratively turned the other cheek to Maud's tactless sallies, and played humble handmaid to Rowena's lightest wish. For one whole day--and then of a sudden weariness fell upon her. She reflected with horror that only two more days of the exeat remained, and determined to waste not another moment in repining.

Within five minutes' time from the forming of this decision Maud was dumbfounded to find herself brutally snubbed, while a request from Rowena was received with a callous exhortation to "Do it yourself!"

"I was wondering how long it would last," said Rowena, with a smile.

"It was really an admirable impersonation, but what was the idea, Dreda?

I can't quite see what you were driving at, but I suppose there was some reason behind!"

"Yes, there was; several reasons! I've recovered, Rowena, because I am young and elastic, and time is a wonderful healer--but I've been through awful difficulties! Treachery and humiliation, and things turning to dust and ashes when you expected to enjoy them most. Talk of martyrdoms!"--Dreda rolled her eyes to the ceiling--"I look back, my dear, to the time when I lived quietly at home, and I can't believe it was the same person!"

"Rubbish! Bunk.u.m! Bosh! What high-falutin' you talk, Dreda! You're not changed a bit, and I'm glad of it, for, oh, my dear, I _have_ missed you! I've been _so_ dull! Come down from your stilts and talk sensibly. I'm aching for a good old talk."

Dreda beamed with delight. Here was appreciation! No sign of superiority, no condescension from a young lady in long frocks and done- up hair towards a schoolgirl fledgling, but an open avowal of need, an invitation to a heart-to-heart talk on a basis of affectionate equality.

She clasped her hands together in the intensity of her delight, and hitched her chair nearer her sister.

"Yes, yes, let's talk, let's--let's _grumble_! We're both in the dumps, and it's so cheering to grumble and get it off your mind. Go on, you're the eldest--you've the first turn. Is it Maud?"

"Oh, Maud! Maud is enough to drive anyone crazy; but she's only a part."

"What's the rest?"

Rowena leant her head on her hand and stared out of the window. The garden was dank and deserted, the country beyond showed no sign of habitation; the wind moaned among the tall, bare trees.

"Dreda," she asked unexpectedly, "am I pretty?"

Dreda's grey eyes widened with surprise.

"What in the world has that to do with it?" she asked curiously.

"Pretty? Yes, of course. Awfully, when you're in a good temper. We all are. It's in the family. Do you know what Susan calls us?--the youngest Currant Bun, you know--`The Story-Book Saxons.' Isn't it a jolly name? Because, she says, we look as if things would happen to us like they do to people in a book."

"Well, they don't to me, anyway. That's just it! What's the use of being pretty if one is buried alive? Think of it, Dreda! nothing has happened all these six long weeks, except old ladies coming to call, and going to tea with mother at the vicarage. I should think there never was such a dull place. We didn't notice before, because it was holiday time, and the house was full, but it's awful for a permanency. The nearest interesting girl lives four miles off, the others are too boring for words. I asked one of them if there were ever any dances, and she laughed and asked whom we should dance with. There are only three young men within a radius of miles. There might perhaps be a Hunt Ball at C-- next autumn. ... And I thought I should have a London season!"

Dreda meditated, hunched up in her chair, her chin resting upon her hand. For the moment the scarcity of dances did not affect herself, but she loyally endeavoured to regard the situation from her sister's point of view.

"Are the three young men _nice_?"

"Oh, my dear, what does it matter? There aren't enough of them to count. Bob Ainslie is one; he used to come over to umpire for the boys'

cricket matches. You remember him--freckles and stick-out ears. He has a moustache now. I expect he's quite nice, but he is _not_ exciting.

Another is Frank Ross, at the Manor House--I believe he is generally in town. And that nice old Mrs Seton has a son, too. He's handsome; I've seen him riding along the lanes; but, of course, he doesn't pay afternoon calls. What are you to do in a neighbourhood where there are no nice girls, and two and a half young men?"

"Improve your mind!" returned Dreda glibly. "Providence evidently doesn't mean you to move in the social round. Perhaps if you had, you'd have grown proud and worldly. I think myself you _would_, for I saw symptoms of it before we left town. Perhaps you've got to be chastened--" Dreda stopped short with a hasty remembrance that she had promised to sympathise, not exhort, and added hurriedly: "Maud's enough to chasten anyone! It's sickening for you, dear, for you would have had lots of fun, and been the belle wherever you went. Let's pretend the Hunt Ball is to-night, and you are going to make your _debut_, a radiant vision in white satin--no, satin's too stiff!--silver tissue. Yes, yes!

Silver tissue--how perfectly lovely!--and a parure of matchless diamonds flashing like a river of light upon your snowy neck."

"_Debutantes_ don't wear diamonds, and it's not snowy. These boned collar bands leave horrid red marks. An antique medallion of crystal and pearl swung on a silver chain--"

Dreda pranced up and down on her chair in delighted appreciation.

"Yes! Yes! You're splendid, Ro; you know just what to say! And a feather fan, with a tiny mirror let into the sticks; dear little silver shoes with buckles, and a single white rosebud tucked in your hair below your ear. That's the place they always put it in books. It would fall out before the first waltz was over, but no matter! Then your opera cloak. That must be white, too--ermine, I think, or perhaps white fox, worth hundreds and hundreds, that a Russian prince had sent you in token of his devotion. Oh, my dear, my dear; what an _angel_ you would look!"

Rowena laughed gaily. Her cheeks had grown pink, and her blue eyes sparkled with enjoyment.

"Dreda, Dreda! What a mad hatter you are! Where _did_ you get such ridiculous ideas?"

But it was evident that the ideas, ridiculous though they might be, were by no means unpleasing, and Dreda was about to venture forth on a fresh flight of imagination when, to the annoyance of the sisters, the door opened and Maud, the stolid and unimaginative, stood on the threshold.

"No admittance, Maud. Go away! We're having a private talk."

"I can't go away. It's business. Something awful's happened!"

announced Maud calmly. "A man's called, and Mason said mother was in, and she's out, and he's in the drawing-room, and it's rude to send him away. I came to tell you."

"A _man_! What man?"

"The Seton man. The young one with the nose."

The two elder girls exchanged quick, eloquent glances.

"Are you _sure_ mother is out? She was in half an hour ago."

"She's out now. She went across the fields to bandage the hand of the baby that the kettle scalded in the white cottage in the dip. You'll have to see him instead."

Rowena turned a face of despairing resignation upon her sister.

"In this blouse! A flannel blouse. Oh, Dreda--the contrast. Think of the silver tissue!"

Dreda looked, and her face was eloquent. Truth to tell, the flannel blouse, though neat and tidy, as were all Rowena's garments, could by no manner of means be called becoming. It did seem tragic to appear to an interesting stranger under such disadvantageous circ.u.mstances.

"You must change it!" she cried hastily. "Put on your blue dress; you look ripping in that. I'll go in for a minute, and tell him to stay while I run for mother; by that time you'll be ready, and can talk till she gets back. I'll tell Mason to get tea. Fly! You are so quick, you can be ready in five minutes."

Rowena flew, and Dreda smoothed her hair with her hands and prepared to leave the room in her wake, but Maud's square figure blocked the way, and Maud's voice demanded instantly:

"And what shall _I_ do?"

"You? Nothing! It's not your affair. Go up to the nursery and keep quiet."

Maud gurgled with indignation. Not her business, indeed! She who had been first on the scene, and had carried the message! Dreda was hateful! Simply hateful! After pretending to be so good, too.

"Nursery, indeed! _I'll_ show her!" growled Maud eloquently.

Guy Seton was standing before the fire as the door opened in Etheldreda's impetuous hand, and the man and the girl stared at each other in mutual admiration and approval. "Fair hair, clean shaven, twinkly eyes, big shoulders, Norfolk suit, gaiters. I do _love_ men in country clothes," decided Dreda in a mental flash. "Halloa! whom have we here? A schoolgirl daughter. What a pretty, bright-looking girl!"

thought the young man almost as quickly. Then they shook hands and Dreda plunged into explanations.

"How do you do? It's so stupid. Mother's out! The maid didn't know, but she has gone across the fields to see a little boy who upset the kettle. Burnt, you know! Mother dresses it. If you will sit down and wait a few minutes, I'll run and bring her back."

Mr Seton smiled, a delightful twinkly smile.

"Oh, please don't hurry her. I should be so sorry. You mustn't trouble about me. I can call another day."