Part 15 (1/2)

”Oh, yes, a major in the Wests.h.i.+res; but he had to leave the Army because of his health, and his pension is very small, and mother had so little money. I sometimes think it killed her trying to do everything on nothing.”

”Were you quite small when she died?” Fay asked in a sympathetic whisper.

”Oh, no; I was nearly twelve, and quite as big as I am now. Then I kept house while the boys were at Bedford, but when they went to Sandhurst poor little Papa thought I'd better get some education, too, and Uncle John's wife offered to take me for nothing, so here I am. HERE, it's too wonderful. Who could have dreamed that Ribston Hall would lead to this?”

And Meg snuggled down in Jan's kind embrace, her red hair spread around her like a veil.

”Are some of the richly-dressed relations nice?” Jan asked hopefully.

”I don't know if you'd think them nice--you seem to expect such a lot from people--but they're quite kind--only it's a different sort of kindness from yours here. They don't laugh and expect you to enjoy yourself, like _your_ father. My brothers say they are dull ... they call them--I'm afraid it's very ungrateful--the weariful rich. But I expect we're weariful to them too. I suppose poor relations _are_ boring if you're well-off yourself. But we get pretty tired, too, when they talk us over.”

”But do you mean to say they talk you over _to_ you?”

”Always,” Meg said firmly. ”How badly we manage, how improvident we are, how Papa ought to rouse himself and I ought to manage better, and how foolish it is to let the boys go into the Army instead of banks and things ... And yet, you know, it hasn't cost much for Trevor, and once he's in he'll be able to manage, and Jo said he'd enlist if there was any more talk of banks, and poor little Papa had to give in--so there it is.”

”How much older are they than you?” Jan asked.

”Trevor's nineteen and Jo's eighteen, and they are the greatest darlings in the world. They always lifted the heavy saucepans for me at Bedford, and filled the buckets and did the outsides of the windows, and carried up the coals to Papa's sitting-room before they went to school in the morning, and they very seldom grumbled at my cooking....”

”But where were the servants?” Fay asked innocently.

Meg laughed. ”Oh, we couldn't have any servants. A woman came in the morning. Papa dined at his club, and I managed for the boys and me. But, oh dear, they do eat a lot, and joints are so dear. Sheep's heads and things pall if you have them more than once a week. They're such a mixty sort of meat, so gummy.”

”_I_ can cook,” Jan announced, then added humbly, ”at least, I've been to cla.s.ses, but I don't get much practice. Cook isn't at all fond of having me messing in her kitchen.”

”It isn't the cooking that's so difficult,” said Meg; ”it's getting things to cook. It's all very well for the books to say 'Take' this and that. My experience is that you can never 'take' anything. You have to buy every single ingredient, and there's never anything like enough. We tried being fruitarians and living on dates and figs and nuts all squashed together, but it didn't seem to come a bit cheaper, for the boys were hungry again directly and said it was hog-wash.”

”Was your papa a fruitarian too?” Fay asked.

”Oh, no, he can't play those tricks; he has to be most careful. He never had his meals with us. Our meals would have been too rough for him. I got him breakfast and afternoon tea. He generally went out for the others.”

Jan and Fay looked thoughtful.

Amelia Ross-Morton was a fair judge of character. When she consented to take her husband's niece as a governess-pupil she had been dubious as to the result. She very soon discovered, however, that the small red-haired girl was absolutely trustworthy, that she had a power of keeping order quite disproportionate to her size, that she got through a perfectly amazing amount of work, and did whatever she was asked as a matter of course. Thus she became a valuable factor in the school, receiving nothing in return save her food and such clothes as Mrs. Ross-Morton considered too shabby for her own wear.

At the end of the first year Meg ceased to receive any lessons. Her day was fully occupied in teaching the younger and chaperoning the elder girls. Only one stipulation did she make at the beginning of each term--that she should be allowed to accept, on all reasonable occasions, the invitations of Anthony Ross and his daughters, and she made this condition with so much firmness that Anthony's cousin knew better than to be unreasonably domineering, as was her usual habit. Moreover, though it was against her principles to do anything to further the enjoyment of persons in a subordinate position, she was, in a way, flattered that Anthony and his girls should thus single out her ”niece by marriage” and appear to enjoy her society.

Thus it came about that Meg went a good deal to St. George's Square and nearly always spent part of each holiday with Fay and Jan wherever they happened to be.

The queer clothes were kept for wear at Ribston Hall, and by degrees--although she never had any money--she became possessed of garments more suitable to her age and colouring.

Again and again Anthony painted her. She sat for him with untiring patience and devotion. She was always entirely at her ease with him, and prattled away quite simply of the life that seemed to him so inexpressibly hard and dreary.

Only once had he interfered on her behalf at Ribston Hall, and then sorely against Meg's will. She was sitting for him one day, with her veil of flaming hair spread round her, when she said, suddenly, ”I wonder why it is incorrect to send invitations by post to people living in the same town?”

”But it isn't,” Anthony objected. ”Everybody does it.”

”Not in schools,” Meg said firmly. ”Mrs. Ross-Morton will never send invitations to people living in London through the post--she says it isn't polite. They must go by hand.”

”I never heard such nonsense,” Anthony exclaimed crossly. ”If she doesn't send 'em by post, how _does_ she send them?”