The Spanish Chest Part 1

The Spanish Chest.

by Edna A. Brown.

FOREWORD

Once upon a time a clever j.a.panese artist drew a sketch of a man who sat industriously painting, when, to his great amazement, all the little figures on his canvas came to life and began to walk out of the picture.

Something like that happened to this book. Books grow, you know, because somebody thinks so hard about the different characters that gradually they turn into lifelike people, who often insist on doing things that weren't expected. When this especial book began to grow, two persons who hadn't been invited, came and wanted to be in the story.

The author politely remarked that they were grown-up and couldn't expect to be in a book for young people.

They said that they were not so very grown-up, only twenty-three and a half and that they still knew how to play.

Connie said that her home was in the Island of Jersey where the story was going to be, and if she came in, she could make things much more pleasant for the other characters.

Max said that the story would go to smash without him, because he should be needed at an important moment.

So, because they looked most wistful and promised very earnestly to behave as though they were nice children, and not be silly, the author said they might have a share in the story.

Connie at once offered to lend her collie. So that is how the beach dog happens to be in the book.

THE SPANISH CHEST

CHAPTER I

AT ROSE VILLA

The silence in the little drawing-room had lasted for some moments before being broken by the man seated in the big wicker chair. His dress indicated a clergyman of the Church of England, his face betrayed lines of kindliness and forbearance, but its present expression showed a perplexity not unmixed with disapproval.

"I suppose, Miss Pearce," he said at length, "there is no use in trying further to dissuade you from your plan, and of course it may work out for the best. But--you will excuse me, my dear, for I have daughters of my own--you seem too young to undertake a lodging-house. Now a position as governess in a nice family--"

Estelle Pearce interrupted him quickly.

"There is Edith, you know. Should I try teaching, it would mean separation from her. And I _must_ keep Edith with me. We have only each other now. No, Mr. Angus, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your interest in us, but I am sure it is best to try my plan. You see I have the house on my hands. When we came to Jersey, Father leased it for the winter and I can't afford to forfeit thirty pounds. And there is Nurse as well as Annette.

Surely Nurse lends dignity to any family. But I am older than you think," she ended with a smile and a pretty blush. "I am twenty- four, Mr. Angus."

A kindly look came into the eyes bent on her slender, black-robed figure. "You do not look it, my dear," her visitor said after a pause. "Well, with two good servants, the plan may be successful.

Much depends on what cla.s.s of lodgers comes your way. I am told that Americans are rather desirable inmates, that they pay well and are not exacting. If you could let your rooms to some refined American ladies, things might adjust themselves very satisfactorily.

To be sure, few Americans visit the Channel Islands; they are given to wandering farther afield. But I will speak of your plans to the postmaster and one or two others. It might be advisable to put a card in the circulating library at St. Helier's. Rest a.s.sured that both Mrs. Angus and I will do all we can for your father's girls.

Lionel and I were good friends at Oxford though we saw so little of each other afterwards. I did not think when he wrote me scarcely six weeks ago that it was to be Hail and Farewell.

"I must go," he added quickly, seeing that Estelle's eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g. "Where is Edith? I hoped to see her also."

"She has gone to the sands," replied Estelle. "It is dull for her, moping here, so I sent her for an errand and told her to run down and see whether the tide had turned. She begins school on Monday."

Mr. Angus took his leave, and still looking doubtful, went down the steps of Rose Villa, a quaint little house, covered with tinted plaster, as is the pretty custom of the Channel Islands, and appearing even to a masculine ignorance of details much more neat and attractive than its neighbors.

So Mr. Angus thought, as he turned from his puzzled survey of its exterior, to walk slowly down the short street at the end of which glittered the waters of the English Channel.

The tide was on the turn but the expanse of sandy beach lay yet broad. Far toward St. Helier's the curve of the port showed the high sea-wall, for this same innocent-looking tide that ebbs and leaves behind miles of sandy stretches and rocks, can return with force sufficient to dash over even the lofty breakwater and surprise the placid Jerseymen at times, by scattering large stones in the esplanade.

But here at St. Aubin's the curve of Noirmont Point sheltered the little town from the full force of the waves. Dr. Angus looked from the end of Noirmont Terrace straight down to the sands and saw in the distance the sunset air filled with wheeling gulls, a group of boys playing football on the wide level, and somewhat nearer, a slender girl of fourteen, dressed in black, with long fair hair floating over her shoulders.

She was walking slowly and the kind clergyman attributed her leisurely pace to dejection, but as a matter of fact, Edith was feeling quite happy and much interested in the tiny bright yellow snail sh.e.l.ls the beach was providing for entertainment. She had been spared all that was possible of the depression and sorrow of the past weeks. Daddy had been poorly for years and Edith could not remember him as ever well and strong. His loss affected her more because it grieved Estelle, the only mother she had known.

There had been a few sad confused days when nothing seemed real, and strangers had been kind in a way that Estelle accepted with a sort of resentful patience, plain even to Edith. But since then, life had been rather cheerful, with a great deal of attention from Nurse, and Estelle's time almost wholly given to her. It was gratifying to share Sister's confidence and to help arrange the rooms attractively for the possible delightful people who ought to come to lodge with them.

That they might not be delightful, Sister would not admit for a moment, so of course they would be. St. Aubin's itself was far more desirable as a place of residence than the noisy Exeter street where Edith had spent much of her life. Far back in the past she could just remember a charming Surrey village with a pretty vine-covered church where Daddy used to preach. She could recall exactly how her fat legs dangled helplessly from the high pew seat. Directly behind sat a stout farmer with four sons. The boys made faces at Edith on the sly; their mother sometimes gave her peppermints.

Edith's thoughts had wandered rather far afield, though still alert for any gleam of the yellow sh.e.l.ls, when she arrived opposite Noirmont Terrace and reluctantly left the sands. A light shone from the drawing-room and she knew that Annette would be bringing in supper, and Sister would be found poring over a little account book with a "don't speak just now" look in her eyes.

But Estelle proved to be waiting at the open door and as Edith began to run on catching sight of her, she thought that Sister somehow looked happier.

"Did you meet Mr. Angus?" Estelle inquired. "He went toward the sands."

"I saw him in the distance," replied Edith. "Why, Star, you look like--like a star," she ended laughing. "Was Mr. Angus agreeable?

Did he say you oughtn't to take people?"

"I think he doesn't wholly disapprove now," answered Estelle gently. "And he is going to do what he can toward sending pleasant lodgers. Wouldn't it be nice if some dear old ladies should come and want to stay with us all winter?"

"Just ladies?" queried Edith. "Do they have to be old?"

"I shouldn't take gentlemen," said Estelle. "Nurse wouldn't approve, and ladies would be pleasanter. Perhaps there might be a young mother and some ducky little children. How would you like that?"

"Much better," responded Edith. "I don't want any fussy old freaks with false fronts and shawls. They'd expect to be read aloud to and waited on within an inch of their lives. I'd like some babies to take down to dig and paddle. Do say you'll have children, Sister."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I think we'll have to take the people who want to come," replied Estelle sensibly. "Let's just hope that somebody very nice will think we'd be nice to stay with. Come in now, Edith. Annette has shrimps for supper and after we are finished, we will put a card in the window and see what happens next."

But the little white card that most modestly announced "Lodgings"

remained in the drawing-room cas.e.m.e.nt for a week, and every day as Edith came from school, she looked anxiously to see whether it was gone. Its absence would mean that some one had looked at the rooms with approval.

One afternoon as she came up the Terrace, the sight of an unknown face at an upper window sent a thrill down her back. The card was yet in evidence but the presence of strangers indicated that some one had felt attracted by Rose Villa. Yes, there was a cab at the door.

As Edith entered quietly a voice struck her ear, struck it unpleasantly, an English voice, high-pitched and rather supercilious.

"I should require to see your kitchen, Miss Pearce, and your servants. I am most particular. In fact, I must be free at any time to inspect the scullery. There must be a definite arrangement about Marmaduke's meals. He likes a light breakfast with plenty of cream, and for dinner a chop or a bit of chicken. His dinner must be served with my luncheon. Then for tea--"

"I am afraid my servants would be unwilling to cook especially for a dog," interposed Estelle's voice, courteous but with a chilling tone Edith had never suspected it possessed. "It is useless for you to consider the lodgings."

"Oh, your rooms are very pa.s.sable," said the voice. "Small, of course, and underfurnished, but some pictures and antimaca.s.sars would take off that bare look. And Marmaduke is adorable. Your cook would soon be devotion itself. Why, at my last lodgings--"

"I really cannot undertake the care of a pet animal," said Estelle firmly. "I hope to have other lodgers and his presence might be objectionable to them. You will excuse me now, as I have an engagement. I will ring for Nurse to show you out."

"Well, really, Miss Pearce," began the voice, but Nurse appeared on the scene so promptly that one might have suspected her of being all the time within hearing distance. Edith scuttled into the drawing-room, just avoiding a very large, over-dressed person, who came ponderously down the stairs, a moppy white dog festooned over one arm. Her face was red and perspiring and she seemed to be indignantly struggling with feelings too strong for words. Edith could not suppress a stifled laugh as she was ushered from the house in Nurse's grandest manner.

Emerging from her refuge, Edith saw Estelle on the landing, her face pale except for a tiny red spot on either cheek, her eyes unnaturally bright.