Part 28 (1/2)

Hannah gave a sniff of disapproval, but she was always very careful to do whatever Meg asked her at once and ungrudgingly. It was partly an expression of her extreme disapproval of the uniform. But Meg thought it was prompted entirely by Hannah's fine feeling, and loved her dearly in consequence.

Nearly all the bedrooms at Wren's End had dressing-rooms. Tony slept in Jan's, with the door between left open. Fay's little cot was drawn up close to Meg's bed. William and his basket occupied the dressing-room, and here, also, the door was left open.

While Meg undressed, William was quite still and quiet, but when she knelt down to say her prayers he was overcome with curiosity, and, getting out of his basket, lurched over to her to see what she was about. Could she be crying that she covered her face? William couldn't bear people to cry.

He thrust his head under her elbow. She put her arm round his neck and he sat perfectly still.

”Pray for your master, William,” Meg whispered.

”I like to look at it,” said Tony.

”Oh, London may be very gay, but it's nothing to the countryside,” sang Meg.

”What nelse?” inquired little Fay, who could never be content with a mere s.n.a.t.c.h of song.

”Oh, there's heaps and heaps of nelse,” Jan answered. ”Come along, chicks, we'll go and see everything. This is home, you know, where dear Mummy wanted you to be.”

It was their first day at Wren's End, and the weather was kind. They were all four in the drive, looking back at the comfortable stone-fronted Georgian house. The sun was s.h.i.+ning, a cheerful April sun that had little warmth in it but much tender light; and this showed how all around the hedges were getting green; that buds were bursting from brown twigs, as if the kind spring had covered the bare trees with a thin green veil; and that all sorts of green spears were thrusting up in the garden beds.

Down the drive they all four ran, accompanied by a joyfully galumphing William, who was in such good spirits that he occasionally gave vent to a solemn deep-chested bark.

When they came to the squat grey lodge, there was Mrs. Earley standing in her doorway to welcome them. Mrs. Earley was Earley's mother, and Earley was gardener and general factotum at Wren's End. Mrs. Earley looked after the chickens, and when she had exchanged the news with Jan, and rather tearfully admired ”poor Mrs. Tancred's little 'uns,” she escorted them all to the orchard to see the c.o.c.ks and hens and chickens.

Then they visited the stable, where Placid, the pony, was sole occupant.

In former years Placid had been kept for the girls to drive in the governess-cart and to pull the heavy lawn-mower over the lawns. And Hannah had been wont to drive him into Amesberrow every Sunday, that she might attend the Presbyterian church there. She put him up at a livery-stable near her church and always paid for him herself. Anthony Ross usually had hired a motor for the summer months. Now they would depend entirely on Placid and a couple of bicycles for getting about.

All round the walled garden did they go, and Meg played horses with the children up and down the broad paths while Jan discussed vegetables with Earley. And last of all they went to the back door to ask Hannah for milk and scones, for the keen, fresh air had made them all hungry.

Refreshed and very crumby, they were starting out again when Hannah laid a detaining hand on Jan's arm: ”Could you speak a minute, Miss Jan?”

The children and Meg gone, Hannah led the way into the kitchen with an air of great mystery; but she did not shut the doors, as Anne Chitt was busy upstairs.

”What is it, Hannah?” Jan asked nervously, for she saw that this summons portended something serious.

”It's about Miss Morton I want to speak, Miss Jan. I was in hopes she'd never wear they play-acting claes down here ...” (when Hannah was deeply earnest she always became very Scotch), ”but it seems I hoped in vain.

And what am I to say to ither folk when they ask me about her?”

”What is there to say, Hannah, except that she is my dear friend, and by her own wish is acting as nurse to my sister's children?”

”I ken that; I'm no sayin' a word against that; but first of all she goes and crops her hair--fine hair she had too, though an awfu-like colour--and not content with flying in the face of Providence that way, she must needs dress like a servant. And no a weiss-like servant, either, but one o' they besoms ye see on the h.o.a.rdings in London wha act in plays. Haven't I seen the pictures mysel'? 'The Quaker Gerrl,' or some such buddy.”

”Oh, I a.s.sure you, Hannah, Miss Morton in no way resembles those ladies, and I can't see that it's any business of ours what she wears. You know that she certainly does what she has undertaken to do in the best way possible.”

”I'm no saying a word against her wi' the children, and there never was a young lady who gave less trouble, save in the way o' tobacco ash, and was more ready to help--but yon haverals is very difficult to explain.

_You_ may understand, Miss Jan. I may _say_ I understand--though I don't--but who's to make the like o' that Anne Chitt understand? Only this morning she keeps on at me wi' her questions like the clapper o' a bell. 'Is she a servant? If she's no, why does she wear servants' claes?

Why does she have hair like a boy? Has she had a fever or something wrong wi' her heid? Is she one of they suffragette buddies and been in prison?'--till I was fair deeved and bade the la.s.sie hold her tongue.

But so it will be wherever Miss Morton goes in they fantastic claes.

Now, Miss Jan, tell me the honest truth--did you ever see a self-respecting, respectable servant in the like o' yon? Does she _look_ like any servant you've ever heard tell of out of a stage-play?”