Nell, of Shorne Mills Part 1

Nell, of Shorne Mills.

by Charles Garvice.

CHAPTER I.

"d.i.c.k, how many are twenty-seven and eight?"

The girl looked up, with narrow eyes and puckered brow, from the butcher's book, which she was laboriously "checking," at the boy who leaned back on the window seat picking out a tune on a banjo.

"Thirty-nine," he replied lazily but promptly, without ceasing to peck, peck at the strings.

She nodded her thanks, and traveled slowly up the column, counting with the end of her pencil and jotting down the result with a perplexed face.

They were brother and sister, Nell and d.i.c.k Lorton, and they made an extremely pretty picture in the sunny room. The boy was fair with the fairness of the pure Saxon; the girl was dark--dark hair with the sheen of silk in it, dark, straight brows that looked all the darker for the clear gray of the eyes which shone like stars beneath them. But the eyes were almost violet at this moment with the intensity of her mental effort, and presently, as she raised them, they flashed with a mixture of irritation and sweet indignation.

"d.i.c.k, if you don't put that banjo down I'll come over and make you.

It's bad enough at most times; but the 'Old Folks at Home' on one string, while I'm trying to check this wretched book, is intolerable, and not to be endured. Put it down, d.i.c.k, or I'll come over and smash both of you!"

He struck a chord, an exasperating chord, and then resumed the more exasperating peck, peck.

"'Twas ever thus," he said, addressing the ceiling with sad reproach.

"Women are born ungrateful, and continue so. Here am I, wasting this delightful afternoon in attempting to soothe a sister's savage breast by sweet strains of heavenly music, and she----"

With a laugh, she sprang from her seat and went for him. There was a short and fierce struggle, during which the banjo was whirled hither and thither; then he got her down on the floor, sat upon her, and deliberately resumed pecking out the "Old Folks at Home."

"Let me get up, d.i.c.k! Let me get up this instant!" she cried indignantly and breathlessly. "The man's waiting for the book. d.i.c.k, do you hear?

I'll pinch you--I'll crumple your collar! I'll burn that beast of a banjo directly you've gone out. d.i.c.k, I'm sure you're hurting me seriously. Di-ck! I've got a pain! Oh, you wait until you've gone out!

I'll light the fire with that thing! Get up!"

Without a change of countenance, as if he were deaf to her entreaties and threats, he tuned up the banjo, and played a breakdown.

"Comfortable, Nell? That's right. Always strive for contentment, whatever your lot may be. At present your lot is to provide me with a nice, springy seat, and it will so continue to be until you promise--on your honor, mind--that you will not lay a destructive hand on this sweetest of instruments."

"Oh, let me get up, d.i.c.k!"

"Until I receive that promise, and an abject apology, it is a case of _j'y suis, j'y reste_, my child," he responded blandly.

She panted and struggled for a moment or two, then she gasped:

"I--I promise!"

"On your word of honor?"

"Yes, yes! d.i.c.k, you are breaking my ribs or something."

"Corset, perhaps," he suggested. "And the apology? A verbal one will suffice on this occasion, accompanied by the sum of one shilling for the purchase of cigarettes."

"I shan't! You never said a word about a shilling!"

"I did not--I hadn't time; but I shall now have time to make it two."

The door opened, and a servant with a moon-shaped face and prominent eyes looked in. She did not seem at all surprised at the state of affairs--did not even smile.

"The butcher's man says shall he wait any longer, miss?"

"Yes, tell him to wait, Molly," said the boy. "Miss Nell is tired, and is lying down for a little while; resting, you know."

"I--I promise! I apologize! You--you shall have the shilling!" gasped the girl, half angrily, half haughtily.

He rose in a leisurely fashion, got back to his window seat, and held out his long, shapely hand.

She shook herself, put up one hand to her hair, and took a shilling from her pocket with the other.

"Tiresome boy!" she exclaimed. "If I live to be a hundred, I shall never know why boys were invented."

"There are lots of other things, simpler things, that you will never know, though you live to be a Methuselah, my dear Nell," he said; "one of them being that twenty-seven and eight do not make thirty-nine."

"Thirty-nine? Why, of course not; thirty-five!" she retorted. "That's where I was wrong. d.i.c.k, you are a beast. There's the book, Molly, and there's the money----Oh, give me back that shilling, d.i.c.k; I want it!

I've only just got enough. Give it me back at once; you shall have it again, I swear--I mean, I promise."

"Simple child!" he murmured sweetly. "So young, so simple! She really thinks I shall give it to her! Such innocence is indeed touching! Excuse these tears. It will soon pa.s.s!"

He mopped his eyes with his handkerchief, as if overcome by emotion, and the exasperated Nell looked at him as if she meant another fight; but she resisted the temptation, and, with a shrug of her shoulders, pushed the book and money toward the patient and unmoved Molly.

"There you are, Molly, all but the shilling. Tell him to add that to the next account."

"Yes, miss. And the missis' chocklut; it's just the time?"

Nell glanced at the clock.

"So it is! There'll be a row. It's all your fault, d.i.c.k. Why don't you go for a sail, or shrimping, or something? A boy's always a nuisance in the house. I'll come at once, Molly. There!" she exclaimed, as a woman's thin voice was heard calling in a languid and injured tone:

"Molly!"

"''Twas the voice of the sluggard----'" d.i.c.k began to quote; but Nell, with a hissed "Hush! she'll hear you!" ran out, struggling with her laughter. Five minutes later, she went up the stairs with a salver on which were a dainty chocolate service and a plate of thin bread and b.u.t.ter, and entering the best bedroom of the cottage, carried the salver to a faded-looking woman who, in a short dressing jacket of dingy pink, sat up in the bed.

She was Mrs. Lorton, the stepmother of the boy and girl. She had been pretty once, and had not forgotten the fact--it is on the cards that she thought herself pretty still, though the weak face was thin and hollow, the once bright eyes dim and querulous, the lips drawn into a dissatisfied curve.

"Here is your chocolate, mamma," said the girl. She hated the word "mamma"; but from the first moment of her introduction to Mrs. Lorton, she had declined to call her by the sacred name of "mother." "I'm afraid I'm late."

"It is ten minutes past the time," said Mrs. Lorton; "but I do not complain. I never complain, Eleanor. A Wolfer should at least know how to suffer in silence. I hope it is hot--really hot; yesterday it was cold--quite cold, and it caused me that acute indigestion which, I trust, Eleanor, it will never be your lot to experience."

"I'm sorry, mamma; but yesterday morning you were asleep when I brought it in, and I did not like to wake you."

"Not asleep, Eleanor," said Mrs. Lorton, with an air of long-suffering patience--"no, alas! not asleep. My eyes were closed, I have no doubt; but I was merely thinking. I heard you come in----Surely that is not all the cream! I have few fancies, Heaven knows; but I have always been accustomed to half cream and half chocolate, and an invalid suffers acutely from these deprivations, slight and trifling though they may appear to one in your robust, I had almost said savage state of health."

"Isn't there as much as usual? I will go and see if there is some more," said the girl, deftly arranging the tray. "See, it is quite hot this morning."