Nancy Of Paradise Cottage Part 8

Miss Bancroft accepted his hand and pressed it affectionately.

"Well, then, good-bye. No, don't bother to open the door for me; I'll go this way."

He smiled at her again as she went down the steps.

"I always feel lonely when you have gone, even when we have been quarrelling," he remarked, with a wistful look.

"Of course you feel lonely. You roll around in that huge house of yours like a hazelnut in a shoe," returned Miss Bancroft, quickly. He caught her meaning, and as quickly replied:

"Nonsense--I like plenty of room. Never could bear to have a lot of people hanging around. No man can accomplish anything with an army of women and things hanging to his coat-tails!"

"Tst!" observed Miss Bancroft, and because there was no answer to that, she could retire with the satisfaction of having had the last word.

CHAPTER VII

A MAN OF "PRINCIPLES"

"One dozen stockings--six woolen and six silk--imagine owning six pairs of silk stockings---six nighties--don't they look luxurious, all beribboned and fluffy? One thick sweater, one pair of stout boots--I hope these boots are stout enough; they look as if they could kick a hole through the side of a battle-s.h.i.+p. One mackintosh--now where under the sun can I put this mackintosh?"

"Oh, just roll it up in a bundle and slam it in that corner near your shoes. It'll keep 'em from b.u.mping around. My dear, you look as if you'd been in a tornado."

"_In_ a tornado! I _am_ a tornado." Nancy lifted a flushed face, and gazed at Alma through a haze of tumbled hair. Then she sat back on her heels in front of the open trunk, and seizing her locks near the temples, pulled them frenziedly. "Alma Prescott, if you sit there another moment looking calm, I'll throw this shoe-horn at you. Do anything, scream, run around in circles, pant, anything, but _don't_ look calm. Every minute I'm forgetting something vital. Let me see, nail-brush, tooth-brush, cold-cream----"

"If you go over that formula again, I'll be a mopping, mowing idiot,"

observed Alma serenely, from the window-seat. "I wonder how one mops and mows--it sounds awfully idiotic, doesn't it? I saw you put the nail-brush _and_ the tooth-brush _and_ the cold-cream in the tray there--left-hand corner. Now, for goodness' sake, forget about them--it's just little things like that that unhinge the greatest minds. You're horribly bad company while you're packing a trunk."

"Well, anyhow, it's nearly done now--and yours is ready."

"You're a lamb for doing mine for me--I haven't been a bit of help, I know. Oh, you _know_ it's going to be glorious fun--at boarding school. I've always longed to go to boarding school. And it isn't awfully strict at Miss Leland's, Elise Porterbridge says. They have midnight feasts, and all sorts of things--and then, you know, Frank Barrows is at Harvard, and he asked me up there for some dance near Christmas. Don't you think Frank is very nice, Nancy?" This was what Alma had been leading around to, and Nancy knew it. Personally she thought Frank rather an affected youth, but she had sense enough not to air this opinion before Alma just then.

"Why, yes, he seems very nice," she replied, with very mild interest.

"I think he has sort of more to him than most men of his age," pursued Alma, affecting a judicial air.

"Probably he has."

"He dances beautifully. Goodness, I had a wonderful time the other night. I know that you probably think it's wrong of me, but I'd like nothing more than to go to a party like that every night in the week."

"_I_ don't think it's wrong at all--only I think you'd probably get awfully sick of it in a little while. And--and the chief trouble as far as we are concerned is that it's so dreadfully expensive. I know you think I'm always harping on the same string--but do you remember the motto of Mr. Micawber--'Income one pound--expenditure nineteen s.h.i.+llings and sixpence--product, happiness; income one pound, expenditure one pound and sixpence, product, misery----'"

"Well, I know that's very sensible, but there's lots of sense to 'eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die,'" returned Alma, with a gay laugh. "You're thinking about my dress and slippers--I could have killed that person who spilt their fruit punch all over my skirt, but there was nothing to do about it, and besides I'm sure I can hide the stain with a sash or something. I don't believe in worrying." With this, Madame Optimist turned and, pressing her short nose against the window pane, drummed with her little pink nails against the wet gla.s.s.

The rain was falling again in a monotonous drenching downpour, stripping the trees of the few, brown, s.h.i.+vering leaves that clung to the dripping branches. The promise of Indian summer seemed to have been definitely broken for reasons of Dame Nature's own, and the weather was having a tantrum about it. But inside, the little bedroom was all the cosier in contrast to the woebegone gloom of the early dusk. The chintz window curtains of Nancy's making were faded by many was.h.i.+ngs, it is true, and the two white iron bedsteads might have looked sprucer for a coat of paint, but with a fire glowing in the grate, and sending out an almost affectionate glint upon all the familiar objects, the little room had an air of motherly cheerfulness and comfort. A shabby but inviting armchair stood in front of the hearth. In a corner, a white bookcase harbored a family of well-worn volumes, ranging from "Grimm's Fairy Tales," and "Stepping Stones to English Literature" to "The Three Musketeers" and "Jane Eyre," all tattered and thumbed, and seeming to wear the happy, weary expression of a rag doll that has been "loved to death."

"Well," Nancy was saying, in reply to Alma's observation, "I don't believe in worrying, but I do believe in having an umbrella if you live in a rainy climate. Then you don't have to worry about the--rain.

_Comprenez-vous_?"

"I comprenez--you are talking in symbols, aren't you? Where's Mother?"

"Here I am, darling," replied Mrs. Prescott from the doorway. "Dear me, the trunks are all packed, aren't they? Nancy, what a wonderful child you are. Oh, whatever am I going to do without my daughters!"

"This time to-morrow night we'll all be dying of the blues. Thank goodness, here's Hannah with some tea--I'm starving," said Nancy, springing up to take the tray from the hands of the fat old woman, who had just made her appearance, her full, solemn red face looming behind the teapot.

They all gathered around the fire, Nancy and Alma settling cross-legged on the floor, and immediately opening a disastrous attack on the plate of chocolate cake--Hannah's prize contribution to this farewell feast.

"This time to-morrow night we'll probably be regaling ourselves on baked beans and cold rice-pudding," added Alma, cramming chocolate cake into her mouth like a greedy child. "That's an awful thought."

"Now, miss, ye don't suppose they'll be feedin' ye bad," exclaimed Hannah in great concern. The old woman had taken her stand respectfully near the doorway, loath to lose the last few glimpses of her adored young mistresses. "If ye think that now, I can send ye a box of jellies and the like any time ye say."

"Well, they'll probably give us something more than bread and water--but not much," replied Nancy, seriously. "They don't believe in giving students much to eat, because it hampers their brains."

"Is that so, now?" marvelled Hannah.

"It is indeed--it's a scientific fact, Hannah. When we come back for the Christmas holidays, we'll probably be so pale and wan that we won't even cast a shadow. But goodness, how clever we'll be."

"I'm a great believer in good feedin'," commented Hannah dubiously.

"And I don't cotton much to scientifics, if you'll pardon me, miss.

Lord, what an empty house 'twill be without ye."

"I hope you aren't insinuating that we take up much room," laughed Nancy; she was teasing Hannah to cover up her own growing sensation of homesickness and uneasiness. "Take good care of Mother, Hannah, and don't let her go out without her rubbers on, and--and make her write to us every single day. It's ridiculous, I suppose, to talk as if we were going twelve hundred instead of twelve miles, but we've never been even twelve miles away from home before."

"Yes, and there's nothing like seeing something of the world to broaden a person," observed Alma, sagely. "When I'm grown up, I shall certainly travel. I intend to make a tour of the world. Egypt especially--goodness, I'd like to go to Egypt. That Edith Palliser was a lucky girl--her guardian took her to Paris and Rome and Cairo and even to Algiers, and she met all kinds of interesting people--a Spanish prince and a Russian count, and loads of artists and writers and things. I'm afraid that we must be terribly provincial."

"Ah, now, don't say that," remonstrated Hannah, who had no idea what "provincial" meant, and was consequently convinced that it must mean something very bad indeed. "Bless my soul! There's the bell--now who could be comin' here on a day like this?"

The door-bell had indeed been rung fiercely, and a second ring followed impatiently upon the first. Hannah vanished.

"Who in the world----" wondered Nancy.

"s.h.!.+ It's some man."

Alma sprang up, and running out into the hall leaned curiously over the bannister. In a moment she returned, looking as if she had seen a ghost, her mouth open, and her eyes popping.

"Nancy! Mother! I think it's _Uncle Thomas_!"

"Nonsense!" But Nancy too scrambled to her feet and stood listening with suspended breath. "Mother----!"

"No, my dear--it--it _couldn't_ be!" Mrs. Prescott had turned quite pale. "It must be just some tradesman. See--there's Hannah now."

But Hannah's face confirmed the dazing suspicion. Without even announcing the stupifying news, she leaned weakly against the doorway, and pressed her hand to her ample bosom, signifying an overwhelming agitation.

"Who is it, Hannah?"

"The saints protect us, miss--ma'am! Sure, it's the old gentleman himself--as large as life, indeed. 'Is the missis home?' says he, and before I can draw breath--'Tell her Mr. Prescott is waitin' on her, and would like to see the young ladies,' says he. And he sticks his soakin' umbrella in the corner, and without takin' off his overshoes, stalks into the livin'-room. 'Humph!' says he, seein' the hole in the carpet, 'that's dangerous. I like to have broken me neck. Be good enough to hurry, ma'am,' says he, 'an' don't stand gawpin' at me like a simpleton.' 'Will ye have a seat, sir?' says I. 'I will, when I want one,' says he, short-like, and there he stands standin' and starin'

around him, and suckin' at his lips, and kinda talkin' to hisself.

What shall I be tellin' him, ma'am?"