Six Girls Part 16

"Only the weather, I fancy," answered Mrs. Dering; but Bea saw that she looked uneasy, and that all that evening she watched Ernestine, who lay on the lounge, more lively than she had been for several days, with a sparkling light in her eyes, and a rich color in her face, that made her more beautiful than mother or sisters had ever seen her before. Bea watched her mother with some anxiety and no little curiosity. How sad and troubled her eyes looked, as they rested on Ernestine's radiant face, while every now and then a tremble seized her lips, even while she smiled at the continual merry nonsense that seemed to possess the girls that night.

"Ernestine's going to run away," announced Kittie, presently, with some abruptness; but no one but Bea, who was on the alert, saw how her mother started, with a force that ran her needle clear under her thumb nail, or how excessively pale she was as she wiped off the little drops of blood.

"That I am," laughed Ernestine gayly. "Some of these fine mornings I'll be gone, and you'll find a touching little note on my pin-cushion; and after I've earned piles of glory and money, I'll come back in an elegant carriage, and set you all up in luxury."

Everybody laughed, and professed much impatience for the delightful time to arrive; but Mrs. Dering pushed her sewing aside with an impatient hand that trembled, and proposed that Ernestine sing for them, which she immediately did, with a bewildering bird-like witchery, that held them all entranced, and made the girls sigh more than once, that some of the flute-like tones had not been given to them, as their talent.

Mrs. Dering's last look and words, when she left next morning, were for Ernestine, who looked languid and pale in the sunshine, with all her radiant sparkle and color gone, and no sound or look of song about her lips; and after the hack had gone, and the girls returned to the house, Kat said to Kittie, with much resentment in her voice:

"Ernestine always was the petted one in this family. Just see how anxious mama is about her having a little spring fever, and what an easy time she has, anyhow. Only two music scholars! I guess we've got the spring fever just as bad as she has, but we have to work just as hard as ever, and I don't think it is fair."

And Kittie, notwithstanding she had some such thoughts herself, answered promptly:

"Well, I suppose there's a reason of some kind, because you know Kat, mama never would do anything unfair. Perhaps she thinks Ernestine is more delicate than we are."

"Delicate--fiddlesticks! I've three minds to believe it's because she's got such big brown eyes and yellow hair, and is so--well--so--"

"Ain't you ashamed," interrupted Kittie, slamming down her dishes. "To hint at such a thing, Kat Dering!"

The very next evening that brought Mrs. Dering home, brought her with a proposition for Ernestine to go into the country for a week or two, giving her two pupils a vacation for that length of time. Perhaps it occurred to each of the girls that they needed the rest just as much, if not a little more than Ernestine, and perhaps Mrs. Dering detected the look in their faces, for she sighed, and Bea discovered that the same sad look, only deepened and more anxious, lingered in her eyes; and to show her repentance for a moment's complaining thought, she entered heartily into Ernestine's selfish joy.

"Just think how I will ride horseback," cried Ernestine, gayly. "I must fix out a habit some way, mama, and girls, you must let me have all your pretty things, because Mrs. Raymond's girls dress beautifully, and entertain a great deal."

"But my dear," spoke her mother, "I am sending you out there to rest, to enjoy their lovely home, and to grow stronger on country air, not to frolic and waste all your strength."

"Oh, mama, what an idea!" laughed Ernestine. "Why, I'm not sick, I don't need rest, all I want is a little fun and something gay. Look at Bea; she's as pale as a little ghost; you might talk about sending her out to the country to be quiet, and drink milk, but not me. I don't need it."

And Ernestine nodded gayly to her own radiant reflection in the gla.s.s opposite; then without waiting for any answer, jumped up and waltzed around the room.

"What a blessing it is that Uncle Ridley gave us the dresses. My purple is just as stylish as can be, only I do wish, mama, you'd have let me had a train to it; I'm so tall, and plenty old enough. Bea, will you let me have that pretty gilt b.u.t.terfly that you fixed for your hair, and your gold cuff pins? I've lost one of mine, and they are always such an addition to one's dress. Olive, you never wore your new black kids much; let me take them, will you? mine look worn, and I do love nice gloves; they always mark a lady. And your new dress. I do need a black one dreadfully, and you say you never will wear yours, so you might just as well give it to me,--loan it, anyhow."

"You may have it, for all I care," answered Olive. "But my gloves are one of the things that I cannot loan."

"Nor the dress," said Mrs. Dering, quickly. "You have quite enough dresses, Ernestine, and besides, Olive's is from her Uncle Ridley, and she cannot give it away."

Ernestine couldn't see any sense of having it lay upstairs in the drawer, though she did not say so; and privately thought that perhaps she could coax her mother around, since Olive was so willing. It proved quite a vain idea, however, though she made it her last request in the morning, before her mother left.

"No, Ernestine, I spoke quite as decidedly the first time you asked me.

Be all ready to go by this day week, you have not much sewing to do.

Good-bye, once more, my girls; be careful of the lights, take good care of yourselves and do not get sick. Write to Jean to-morrow, a nice long letter and tell her everything. Good-bye."

So she went away again, and nothing discouraged at her inability to secure Olive's dress, Ernestine danced gayly into the house and off to her room, to overlook, for the dozenth time, her little collection of trinkets, and to sing blithely over her dresses; for she did possess the spirit of coming down cheerfully to any thing inevitable excepting work, and then, perhaps, mama would relent at the final moment, when she saw how much a black dress was really needed.

"It's as lonesome as a desert, and Ernestine is selfish as a pig,"

declared Kittie, subsiding gloomily on to the stairs as the hack rattled out of sight.

"Two solemn facts, but they won't wash the dishes," rejoined Kat, balancing over the bannisters, in a way that threatened immediate perpendicularity, with a change of base from what was customary.

"I hate dishes and dish-pans and everything," exclaimed Kittie with much vehemence. "Any how, this is your week to wash, and mine to wipe; go along and get the old things ready, and I'll be out in a minute."

"I'll change with you next week," said Beatrice turning from the door, where she had stood contemplatively. "You and Kat may tend to all the sweeping, and dusting, and keeping the house in order, and I'll do the kitchen work."

"Hurrah, will you?" cried Kittie, flying up from her despondent att.i.tude. "You're a jewel, Bea, shake hands."

Bea surrendered her hand with some misgiving, rightfully conjecturing that it would receive a shake and twist of over-powering heartiness in the high tide of Kittie's spirits; and that young lady, having done her best to dislocate that useful member, rushed off to impart the news to Kat, and swing her dish rag jubilantly.

The change of instruments, as the girls said, took place Monday morning.

Bea awoke, to find her bed-posts ornamented variously, with a dish-pan, a flaunting rag and two scrupulously neat towels, while there was a sound of revelry in the lower hall, which would indicate that the twins were up, and at their new branch of work, with a vigor which novelty always imparts to labor. Not that there was anything so novel to a broom or dust-pan, but they were so tired of their work, that Bea's really seemed delightful and easy and much to be envied.

"You must have been anxious to get to work," said that sister, coming down the stairs with her post ornaments, and interrupting a lively skirmish, where brooms flew around through the air, with a cheerful disregard for the swinging lamp, or any one's head.

"Anxious to get through, you mean," laughed Kat, throwing down her weapon, and tumbling her dishevelled hair into a net. "Hollo, Kittie, your corners are swept cleaner'n mine."

"Of course," answered Kittie complacently, and turning her broom right end up, in a spasm of housewifely care. "You better go to work and do yours over; that's in the bargain, isn't it, Bea?"

"Work to be done well," said Bea, surveying Kat's corners with a critical eye. "And those are not clean; you've slipped right by them."

"Just as well," a.s.serted Kat, whisking her broom about and scattering the dust that disgraced a small corner over such extent of surface that it could not be noticed. "That's the way. What's the use of being so particular?"

Bea shook her head and declared it wouldn't do, then gave to Kittie the overwhelming responsibility of keeping Kat straight, and departed for the kitchen.

"Set the blind to lead the blind," laughed Kat, spinning about on her heels, and finishing up with a hearty hug for Kittie, and the penitent remark: "You are getting lots better than I, that's a fact; and I must begin to brush up and sober down, or I'll be the black sheep of the flock,--as if I wasn't always that. But you really are getting terrible good, Kittie; I've seen it for a long time and it makes me uncomfortable; spin around and be gay like you used to."

"Nonsense," laughed Kittie, then looked sober, and sat down upon the stairs suddenly. "I'm not good, Kat, it isn't that; I don't know how to be; but some way, I can't be as terribly wild and gay as I used to be, there seems to be so much more to think about now, and seems to me we ought to help think as much as the others, and besides, I don't think we ought to be so wild any more; why, Kat, we're in our teens!"

"Suppose we are, dear me!" cried Kat, standing off and surveying her sister with a sort of vague alarm, "what ever is the matter with this family? Olive is getting so pleasant, and wears ribbons, and you're not going to be wild any more, and have gone to thinking; you'll both die next thing, good people always die; and anyhow, my fun's all up. I never can be gay if you sit around so solemn and goody-goody;" and Kat rumpled up her hair and looked desperate.

"The idea, what a speech!" exclaimed Kittie, looking as if her new resolutions had received a shock. "As if I couldn't be sensible without being goody-goody, whatever that is. Pick up your broom and don't worry, my dear. I'll never die of being too good."

Nevertheless, Kat looked forlorn all the rest of the day, and had spells of solemnly surveying Kittie, as though some wonderful change had taken place, and a pair of wings, or some equally astonishing thing might be the result. Next morning was as beautiful as a spring morning ever could be, and Kat took much comfort in the fact, that, in her haste to get out to the pond, Kittie flew about the sitting-room in a hurry, whisked the dirt under the stove, didn't stop to dust, except a rapid skim over the top, left the piano shut, neglected to put fresh flowers under father's portrait, and shut the blinds so as to hide all defects under a comfortable shielding gloom. Kat looked on and felt relieved. Kittie wasn't going to be so dreadfully good and proper after all, and much consoled, Kat put on her hat, and dashed out to the pond, where Kittie was already sailing about, with her head still ornamented in a dust-cap.

Bea had watched their early departure from the field of work, with some misgiving, and decided to go and take a view of the house as soon as she got the dishes put away, but just at that moment, the door bell rang; and dear me, what should she do? The twins were at the farthest end of the pond, yelling like bedlamites, Bea declared. Ernestine had finished her small share of work, then put on her c.o.c.ked-up hat with a blue bow, and gone down town; so there was no one left to see to the door, and smoothing down her hair, Bea hurried through the hall with flushed cheeks and some anxiety.

True to a prophetic feeling which possessed her, the opening of the door disclosed to view the last person to be desired, on that or any other morning: Miss Strong, a regular d.i.c.kensonian old maid.

"Good morning, sweet child!" she exclaimed, the moment Bea's dismayed face presented itself.

"Good morning, Miss Strong; will you come in?"

"Come in? Surely, dear. I want to see you all; and then I hear that you and your sisters are such model little housekeepers, and I think it is so lovely that you all, in your heart-rending afflictions, should bow so meekly beneath G.o.d's chastening rod, and put your shoulders to the wheel."

Bea opened the sitting-room door in fear and trembling, and blinded by the spring sunshine, Miss Strong walked into the dark room, in her girlish, hasty way, and immediately stumbled over a footstool, and landed at full length on the lounge, with such force that she dropped her beaded reticule, and knocked her bonnet off.

"Oh, I am so sorry," cried Bea, running to pick up the things, and return them to the startled and scarlet-faced spinster. "I don't know why Kittie shut the blinds, she oughtn't to."

"No, I should say she hadn't, I should, indeed," returned Miss Strong, putting on her bonnet with a jerk, and snapping her reticule. "It's a sinful shame, the way some people keep their houses dark as dungeons, to hide dirt and dust. I have heard that you were neat housekeepers, but I can't help having my opinion of people who shut out every speck of light, and trip up respectable people in this way."

Poor Bea's face burned and burned, and her heart throbbed faster as she went to the window, to open the blinds, feeling that her reputation was at stake, and that the first ray of light would kindle the f.a.ggots. Not a speck of dust, from the ceiling down, would escape Miss Strong's eagle eyes, and oh, how she would talk about it! Well, it was done; she threw them open, and turned around in the calmness of despair. The glaring sunshine came boldly in, and danced over the dusty table, over the top of the piano, where you might have written your name, right under the stove where the dirt lay thick, all around the corners, into Miss Strong's scornful, roving eyes, and into Bea's burning face. Miss Strong was angry. She never liked to be seen or heard under a disadvantage, and she surely had received an unreconcilable insult just now. Besides, she always went about seeking whom she might devour; she wore little spit-curls all over her sallow, wrinkled forehead, had a hooked nose, a long, sharp chin, a dried-apple mouth, and two fiercely bright eyes, that looked clear through you, and plainly indicated that she thought you all wrong, and at fault. Whenever she heard any one praised, she immediately set about finding a flaw somewhere, and heralded it to the world, as soon as found. She knew the Dering family were not as nice and worthy of praise and sympathy, as people seemed to think, and she had come this morning on purpose to find out, and then correct the deluded public mind. She was quite satisfied, and the "I-told-you-so" spirit was so jubilant within her, that she could hardly keep from flaunting it before Bea's distressed face. She satisfied herself, however, with looking at each dusty article with great care, brushing some imaginary specks from her dress, settling her bonnet, and asking abruptly:

"How's your mother? I haven't long to stay."