One Maid's Mischief. George Manville Fenn
then he put about ten lumps of sugar in it, ma’am.”
“How many Betsey?”
“Ten big lumps, mum, and tasted; and while I was clearing away he said, ‘Hambrosher!’ I don’t know what he meant, but that’s what he said, mum.”
“That will do, Betsey,” whispered Miss Mary. “Mind that the heater is very hot. I’ll come and cut the bread and butter myself.”
Betsey went her way, and Miss Mary returned to the little drawing-room, uttering a sigh of satisfaction; and it is worthy of record, that before closing the door she sniffed twice, and thought that at a distance the smell of cigars was after all not so very bad.
Meanwhile the conversation had been continued in the dining-room.
“What do I mean by intermediate, Arthur? Well, I don’t want to take those girls at one jump from the conventual seclusion of their school to what would seem to them like the wild gaiety of one of the great steamers of the Messageries Maritimes. I should like to give them a little society first.”
“Exactly; very wisely,” assented the Reverend Arthur.
“So I thought if your sister would call on the Misses Twettenham with you, and you would have them here two or three times to spend the day, and a little of that sort of thing, do you see?”
“Certainly. We will talk to Mary about it when we go in to tea. I am sure she would be very pleased.”
“That’s right; and now what do you say to a trot in the garden?”
“I shall be delighted!” was the reply; and they went out of the French window into the warm glow of the soft spring evening, the doctor throwing away the stump of his cigar as they came in sight of Miss Mary with a handkerchief tied lightly over her head, busy at work with scissors and basket cutting some flowers; and for the next hour they were walking up and down listening to the doctor’s account of Malaya—its heat, its thunder-storms, and tropic rains; the beauties of the vegetation; the glories of its nights when the fire-flies were scintillating amidst the trees and shrubs that overhung the river, and so on, for the doctor never seemed to tire.
“How anxious you must be to return, doctor!” said little Miss Rosebury at last.
“No,” he said, frankly. “No, I am not. I am very happy here in this charming little home; but when I go back, I hope to be as happy there, for I shall be busy, and work has its pleasures.”
Brother and sister assented, and soon after they went in to tea, over which the visiting question was broached, and after looking rather severe, little Miss Rosebury readily assented to call and invite the young ladies to spend a day.
The evening glided away like magic; and before the doctor could credit that it was so late, he had to say “good-night,” and was ushered into his bedroom.
“Hah!” ejaculated the little man as he sank into a soft easy-chair, covered with snow-white dimity, and gazed at the white hangings, the pretty paper, the spotless furniture, and breathed in the pleasant scent of fresh flowers, of which there was a large bunch upon his dressing table. “Hah!” he ejaculated again, and rising softly, he went to the table and looked at the blossoms.
“Why, those are the flowers she was cutting when we went down the garden,” he said to himself; and he went back to his chair and became very thoughtful.
At the end of a quarter of an hour he wound up his watch and placed it beneath his pillow, and then stood thinking for a few minutes before slowly pulling off his boots.
As he took off one, he took it up meditatively, gazed at the sole, and then at the interior, saying softly:
“She is really a very nice little woman!”
Then he took off the other boot, and whispered the same sentiment in that, and all in the most serious manner; while just before dropping off into a pleasant, restful sleep, he said, quite aloud this time:
“A very nice little woman indeed!”
Volume One—Chapter Six.
Visitors at the Rectory.
The fact of its being the wish of the appointed guardian of the young ladies was sufficient to make the Misses Twettenham readily acquiesce to an invitation being accepted; and before many days had passed little Miss Rosebury drove over in the pony-carriage, into the front seat of which Helen Perowne, in the richest dress she possessed, glided with a grace and dignity that seemed to say she was conferring a favour.
“I wish you could drive, my dear,” said little Miss Rosebury, smiling in Grey Stuart’s face, for there was something in the fair young countenance which attracted her.
“May I ask why?” replied Grey.
“Because it seems so rude to make you take the back seat.”
For answer Grey nimbly took her place behind; while, as Helen Perowne settled herself in a graceful, reclining attitude, Miss Rosebury took her seat, the round fat pony tossed its head, hands were waved, and away the little carriage spun along the ten miles’ drive between Mayleyfield and the Rectory.
Helen was languid and quiet, leaning back with her eyes half closed, while Grey bent forward between them and chatted with Miss Rosebury, the little lady seeming to be at home with her at once.
Before they had gone a mile, though, the observant charioteer noticed that Grey started and coloured vividly at the sight of a tall, thin youth with a downy moustache, who eagerly raised his hat, as if to show his fair curly hair as they passed.
“Then she has a lover too,” said Miss Rosebury to herself; for Helen Perowne sat unmoved, and did not appear to see the tall youth as they drove by him, but kept her eyes half closed, the long lashes drooping almost to her cheeks.
Little Miss Rosebury darted a keen glance at both the girls in turn, to see Grey Stuart colour more deeply still beneath her scrutiny; while Helen Perowne raised her eyes on finding Miss Rosebury looking at her, and smiled, her face wearing an enquiring look the while.
Dr. Bolter had gone to town on business, so it had been decided that the visitors should stay for a couple of nights at the Rectory, where the Reverend Arthur, trowel in one hand, basket in the other, was busy at work filling the beds with geraniums when the pony-carriage drew up.
He slowly placed basket and trowel upon the grass as the carriage stopped, and forgetful of the state of his hands, helped the ladies to alight, leaving the imprint of his earthy fingers upon Helen’s delicate gloves.
Grey saw what took place, and expected an angry show of impatience on her companion’s part; but on the contrary, Helen held up her hands and laughed in quite a merry way.
“Oh, Arthur,” exclaimed Miss Rosebury, “how thoughtless you are!”
The Reverend Arthur looked in dismay at the mischief he had done, and taking out his pocket-handkerchief—one that had evidently been used for wiping earthy fingers before—he deliberately took first one and then the other of Helen Perowne’s hands to try and remove the marks he had made upon her gloves.
“I am very sorry, Miss Perowne,” he said, in his quiet, deliberate way. “It was very thoughtless of me; I have been planting geraniums.”
To the amazement of Grey Stuart, Helen gazed full in the curate’s face, smilingly surrendering her hands to the tender dusting they received.
Miss Rosebury was evidently annoyed, for she turned from surrendering the reins to the gardener, who was waiting to lead away the pony, and exclaimed:
“Oh, Arthur, you foolish man, what are you doing? Miss Perowne’s hands are not