Part 14 (1/2)
Oh the relief in such case when the top of the hill was reached, and the driver stirred up his horses to a canter, and the heavy 'bus covered the level ground quickly and rumbled down the next steep hill at a good pace. How Kitty did hate it all now, and how she did love it ordinarily! Winter and summer, hitherto, she had always gone to and fro mounted high up on the front seat, and knew every curve and corner, and hill and dip; but best of all, perhaps, did she love that quick run down the steep hill, when the horses cantered along at their smartest, and the 'bus came rumbling and swaying after them, as though at any moment it would break loose entirely and go its own wild way. And then would come the demurer pace as they came to the town, and the narrow streets where sharp corners had to be turned carefully, and where, from the high 'bus-top, one could quite easily see into the funny little rooms of the old houses on either side. Then came the main street--to the Trenire children fit to vie in breadth and beauty with any street in any city in the world--and then home!
To Kitty it had always been the greatest joy to come home. No matter where she had stayed, or how delightful the visit had been, she had always been glad to get home again, and her heart beat faster, and her breath caught with something that was not merely excitement or pleasure, at the sight of the low, broad old house in the bare, wind-swept street, that was the only home she had known, or wanted to know. But now, for the first time, she felt no joy, only misery and indignation, and a sense of hopeless, helpless resentment that all the old joy and freedom was ended, that everything was to be altered and spoiled for them.
By degrees the 'bus emptied of all pa.s.sengers but themselves, and Aunt Pike drew nearer to Kitty. ”I hope,” she said, ”that things have gone on nicely while I have been away, and that the house has been kept in a neat and orderly fas.h.i.+on.”
Kitty did not answer for a moment, for the simple reason that she had no answer to give. They had all been too much occupied in making the most of their spell of freedom to observe how the house was kept. ”I--I believe so,” she stammered at last.
”And I hope you have arranged a nice little meal for us,” went on Mrs.
Pike, ”to welcome Anna on her first arrival in her new home. I did not say anything about it, as I thought it would be so good for you to have the arranging of it.”
At this Kitty really did jump in her seat, and her heart beat fast with shame and dismay, for she had not only not arranged a ”nice little meal,” but had never given a thought to any meal at all.
It is fair to say she had never been told that it was left to her to do so. When first her aunt had come Kitty had handed over to her the reins of government, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, and she had not thought it her duty to take them up again in Mrs. Pike's absence; but it is to be feared that in any case she would not have prepared a feast of welcome for Anna. And the result was that they would arrive tired and hungry after their long, hot journey, and probably find no preparations at all made for them, no welcome, not even food enough for a meal--certainly no special feast.
Kitty had not been wilfully careless. She would have seen to things had she thought of it; but the obstinate fact remained that, if not wilfully, she had been culpably careless, and her heart sank with shame.
She hoped--oh, how devoutly she hoped--that f.a.n.n.y had been more thoughtful; but the prospect was slight, and for the rest of the way she sat in a perfect panic of dread and shame.
The very moment the omnibus drew up before the house she sprang out of it, and, regardless of what her aunt might think, rushed in and through the house to the kitchen.
”O f.a.n.n.y,” she cried, desperation in face and voice; but even in that distressful moment she remembered a former occasion when Aunt Pike's arrival had thrown her into just such a frantic state, ”what about supper? Aunt Pike has asked about it, and I hadn't even thought about it; and--oh, what _can_ I do? I suppose there is nothing in the house?”
For a second or two f.a.n.n.y went on calmly and deliberately with what she was about. ”Well, miss,” she said at last in her severest tone, ”there is something, and a plenty, thanks to me and Miss Betty. If there 'adn't a been, it wouldn't 'ave been no manner of use to come rus.h.i.+ng out to me now, when it's time for it to be on the table. Of course, when folks comes unexpected that's one thing, but--”
Kitty in her great relief did not heed f.a.n.n.y's lecture in the least.
”O f.a.n.n.y, you are a dear,” she cried joyfully. ”I will do something for you some day.--Hullo! Betty,” for Betty at that moment came tiptoeing into the kitchen.
”'Twas Miss Betty as first thought of it,” said f.a.n.n.y honestly.
”I s'pose 'twould 'ave come into my 'ead some time, but I'm bound to say it 'adn't till Miss Betty mentioned it.”
Betty beamed with pleased importance, but tried to look indifferent.
”I wanted Aunt Pike to see that we do know how to do things. What is Anna like?” she broke off to ask anxiously.
”She is like Anna exactly,” said Kitty bluntly, ”and no one else; she never could be. She'll never change, not if she lives to be eighty.
Come along up, and get ready. Oh, I _am_ so glad you thought about the supper, Betty dear. How clever you are! Aunt Pike would have thought worse of me than ever if you hadn't, and--”
”Um!” responded Betty, with a toss of her head, ”perhaps if Aunt Pike knew that if it hadn't been for me she'd have had no supper, she wouldn't say rude things about me again. I think it's awfully hard.
If you don't do things you are scolded, and if you _do_ do them you are called too self--self-confidential.”
”I wouldn't mind what I was called,” said Kitty, as she hurried away to get ready, ”as long as I could manage to do the right thing sometimes, and not always forget till too late.”
CHAPTER X.
LESSONS, ALARMS, AND WARNINGS.
The days that followed were strange and very trying. It was not at all easy for any of them to settle down to the new life. Kitty, though, did not feel the giving up of the keys and the _role_ of housekeeper as much as she had expected to; for, in the first place, the keys had generally been lost, and in the second, she had never really ”kept house” in the true meaning of the term, and it really was a great relief to find the meals appearing regularly and satisfactorily without any effort on her part, or, perhaps, one should say, without any remorse, or occasion for remorse, for not having made any effort.
It was really a comfort, too, not to have to try to manage the servants, or blame herself for not doing so. But, on the other hand, they all missed their freedom dreadfully--their freedom of speech and act, their freedom in getting up and going to bed, in their goings and comings; for Aunt Pike believed, quite rightly, of course, in punctuality and early rising, and keeping oneself profitably employed, and she disapproved strongly of their roaming the country over, as they had done, as strongly as she disapproved of their sitting on garden walls, wandering in and out of stables, coach-house, and kitchen, talking to the servants, or teasing Jabez.
Jabez grew quite moped during the weeks that followed, for he was not even allowed to come into the kitchen for a comforting cup of tea as of old. ”And if anybody can't have a bit of a clack sometimes,” groaned poor Jabez, ”nor a cup of tea neither, why he might so well be dumb to once. I've ackshally got to talk to the 'orses and the cat to keep my powers of speech from leaving me.”