Fifty-Two Stories For Girls Part 42

"I am. I have been telling Patty about the invitation."

"Poor Patty!" said Rose, and she put her arm sympathetically round Patty's neck. "Aunt Glendower is most unkind, I think."

"It can't be helped," murmured Patty, choking back the rising sob. "If I had been born a sweet maiden who did nothing but st.i.tch at fancy-work all day long perhaps she would have invited me, but I can't give up my cricket, my riding my horse bare-backed, my shooting, just for the sake of a ball or two that Aunt Glendower feels inclined to give once a year.

Much as I love dancing, I can't give up all these pleasures for an occasional dance."

"Rose has pleasures too," said her father quietly, "but they are of the womanly kind--music, painting, reading, tending flowers."

Rose laughed gaily as Patty turned up her pretty nose scornfully.

"Let Patty alone, dad. You know very well that you would grow tired of too much sameness if Patty showed the same tastes that I have."

Colonel Bingham glanced fondly at her and then at Patty, whose face, in spite of her brave words, was still very tearful-looking. He knew that in his heart he loved his two daughters equally--his "two motherless girls," as he was wont to call them--and although he belonged to the old school of those who abhor masculine pursuits for women, yet he felt that Rose's words were true, and for that very dissimilarity did he love them.

"Heigho," said Patty, jumping off her chair, "I am not going to grieve any more. Let's talk of Rose's dress, and when she is going."

"We both start to-morrow."

"To-morrow? And do you go too, dad?"

"Yes, Patty. I have business in town with my lawyer, which I have been putting off from day to day, but now I feel I shall take the opportunity of transacting it with him on the occasion of taking Rose up with me.

Besides, I can't let her go to her first ball without being there to see how she looks."

"And what about the dress?"

"Aunt says she will see to that, so we have to start a few days before the ball takes place for Celine to get a dress ready for me," said Rose, looking tenderly at Patty as she spoke, for the two girls loved each other, and it hurt her to think that Patty must be left behind.

"You won't be nervous, child?" asked her father.

"Nervous, father! dear me, no, a tomboy nervous? Why, I have Mrs.

Tucker, cook, and f.a.n.n.y to bear me company, and if you take the groom we shall still have the stable boy," returned Patty triumphantly.

"I am glad you sent away that new coachman, dad," said Rose earnestly.

"I never liked his face, it always looked so sly and sneaking."

"Yes, I am glad too, and we must endeavour to find one when we are in town, and perhaps bring him back with us, Rose--the place is a lonely one without a man when I am away." He spoke the last words to himself, but the girls heard him and laughed. They knew no fear. Why should they?

Nothing had ever come near to harm them during the short years of their existence in their country home.

Colonel Bingham had of late questioned the wisdom of continuing to live with his daughters in his beautiful, isolated house. It was three miles from the nearest village, post-office, and church, and there was not another habitation within that distance; it was five miles from the nearest market town. But his heart clung to it. Hadn't he and his bride, twenty years before, chosen this beautiful spot of all others to build their house upon and make it their home? Had not his wife loved every nook and cranny, every stick and stone of the home they had beautified within and without? And therein lay the colonel's two chief objections to leaving the place--it was beautiful--and--his wife had loved it.

So did his daughters too, for that matter; but they were growing up, and newer scenes and livelier surroundings were now needed for them. The colonel often caught himself pondering over the matter, and one of the reasons for his wis.h.i.+ng to visit his sister was that of laying the matter open before her, and hearing her opinion from her own lips.

At an early hour the next morning Colonel Bingham, Rose, and the groom, with two of the horses, had left the house.

There was nothing to alarm Patty. The beautiful home with its peaceful surroundings was perfectly quiet for the two days that followed, and if Patty, in spite of her brave heart, had felt any qualms of fear, they had vanished on the morning of the third day, which dawned so brilliantly bright that she was eager to take her rifle and begin practising at the target she herself had set up at the end of the short wood to the left of the house.

Meanwhile, the housekeeper had set both maids to work in turning out several unused rooms, and a great amount of brisk work was going on. The trim housemaid, f.a.n.n.y, who was the housekeeper's niece, had come down the back stairs with an armful of carpets, and had brushed into the flagged yard before she noticed a pedlar-like-looking man standing before the back door with a pack upon his back.

"What do you do here?" she called out sharply.

The man appeared weighted down with his bundle, which looked to f.a.n.n.y's eyes a good deal bigger than most of the pedlars' packs that she had seen.

"I am on my way through the country-side selling what maids most love--a bit of ribbon, a tie, a good serviceable ap.r.o.n, a feather for the hat, and many a pretty gown; but on my way from the village I met a friend from my own part of the country, which is not in this county, but two counties up north, who tells me that my wife is lying dangerously ill.

If I wish to see her alive I must needs travel fast, and a man can scarce do that with as heavy a pack on his back as I bear. What I venture to ask most respectfully is that I may place my pack in one corner of this house, and I will return to fetch it as soon as ever I can."

He gave a furtive dab to his eyes with the corner of a blue-checked handkerchief he held in one hand, and hoisted his bundle up higher with apparent difficulty.

f.a.n.n.y looked gravely at him "Why didn't you leave your pack at the village inn?" was all she said.

"I would have done so had I met my friend before leaving the village, but I met him just at the entrance to the wood, and it seemed hopeless to trudge all that way back with not only a heavy burden to bear, but a still heavier heart."

He sighed miserably as he spoke, and f.a.n.n.y's soft heart was touched.

The man spoke well--better than many pedlars that f.a.n.n.y had met with, and his tone was respectful, albeit very pleading. f.a.n.n.y's heart was growing softer and softer. He looked faint and weary himself, she thought, and oh! so very sad----

"f.a.n.n.y, f.a.n.n.y, what are you about? Ain't those carpets finished yet?"

The housekeeper's voice sounded sharply at the top of the back staircase.

The pedlar looked scared. f.a.n.n.y beckoned him with one finger to follow her.

"Coming, aunt," she called back. And, still silently beckoning, she conducted the pedlar into the small breakfast-room.

"Put it down in this corner," she said, "and come for it as soon as you can."

"May I beg that it will remain untouched," said the pedlar humbly. "It contains many valuables--at least to me--for it comprises nearly all that I possess in the world."

"No one will touch it in here, for this room is never used."

"I cannot thank you enough for your compa.s.sion----" began the pedlar, when the sharp voice was heard again.

"f.a.n.n.y, cook's waitin' for you to help her move some things. Are you comin' or not?"

"Coming now," was f.a.n.n.y's answer, and, shutting the breakfast-room door, she hustled the pedlar out into the flagged yard without ceremony.

With a deferential lifting of his cap the pedlar again murmured his grateful thanks, and made his way out the way he had come in. f.a.n.n.y waited to lock the yard gate after him, murmuring to herself: "That gate didn't ought to have been left open--it's just like that lazy boy Sam to think that now Britton's gone off with the horses he can do as he likes."

It was not until the furniture in the room had been moved about to her satisfaction that the housekeeper demanded to know the reason for f.a.n.n.y's delay downstairs.

"It isn't cook's business to be waitin' about for you," she said sharply, "she's got her other duties to perform. What kept you?"

Then f.a.n.n.y told what had caused the delay, and was aghast at the effect it produced upon her aunt.

"I wouldn't have had it happen just now for all my year's wages," the housekeeper exclaimed hotly. "What do we know about the man and his pack?"

"He looked so white and quiet-like, and so sad," pleaded her niece half tearfully.

"That's nothin' to us. I promised the master before he went away that I wouldn't let a strange foot pa.s.s over the doorway while he was away. And here you--a mere chit of a housemaid--go, without sayin', 'With your leave,' or, 'By your leave,' and let a dirty pedlar with his pack straight into the breakfast-room. He's sure to have scented the silver lyin' on the sideboard for cleanin' this afternoon. If I didn't think he'd gone a long way from here by this I would send you after him to tell him to take it away again."