Part 19 (1/2)

”I believe Miss Nannie is in the garden,” was the reply.

So Rosalind led the maestro out into the garden, where they soon espied Nannie curled up in a big chair, with Yummy in her arms. She did not notice their approach; indeed, she was almost asleep, worn out by the violence of her grief at the coming parting with Yummy, and was lying with her eyes closed, her cheek resting against the dog's satin-smooth head.

Rosalind flung herself down upon her knees before the chair, and took child and dog into her arms.

”My own precious little sister, my unselfish darling,” she cried; ”as if I would let you part with the dear doggy for my sake! I couldn't, Nannie, my dear, I couldn't--I couldn't part with Yummy myself. But I shall never forget it, Nannie--my dear, unselfish Nannie.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”My own precious little sister, my unselfish darling,”

she cried.]

Nannie looked past her sister towards the tall old painter standing behind her.

”Your lessons,” she faltered, with quivering lips.

”My little heroine,” said the old painter tenderly, ”your sister is my favourite among all my pupils. I would rather,” he went on, laying his hand on Rosalind's shoulder--”I would rather teach one real worker such as she is for love, than fifty of the usual kind who come to me. She is just the real worker one might expect with such a sister.”

”You will go on teaching Rosalind,” Nannie cried in a bewildered way, ”for nothing?”

”I will, gladly,” the maestro answered; ”and, in return, you shall come one day, and bring the pug, and let me paint a picture of you both.”

And then the old man went away, leaving the sisters, in the fulness of their joy, together.

For him this had been somewhat of a new experience--a pleasant one.

They were young, and he was old; but he went back to his pictures with a heart fresh and young as it had not been for years, asking of himself a question out of the pages of a favourite poet: ”Shall I thank G.o.d for the green summer, and the mild air, and the flowers, and the stars, and all that makes the world so beautiful, and not for the good and beautiful beings I have known in it?”

Our Ada Elizabeth

”The sublime mystery of Providence goes on in silence, and gives no explanation of itself, no answer to our impatient questionings.”--_Hyperion_.

CHAPTER I

The d.i.c.ki'sons lived in Blankhampton. Not in the fas.h.i.+onable suburb of Greater Gate, for the d.i.c.ki'sons were not fas.h.i.+onable people--far from it, indeed. Nor yet in that exclusive part which immediately surrounds the cathedral, which Blankhampton folk familiarly call ”the Parish.”

No; they lived in neither of these, but away on the poorer side of the town and in the narrowest of narrow lanes--so narrow, indeed, that if a cart came along the pa.s.ser-by was glad to get into a doorway, and stand there trembling until the danger was past and the road free again.

I must tell you that, although they were always _called_ the d.i.c.ki'sons, their name was spelt in the usual way, with an ”n” in the middle and without an apostrophe; but, as their neighbours made an invariable rule of p.r.o.nouncing the word, as they did themselves, in the way in which I have written it, I will take the liberty of continuing the custom in this story.

For their position, they were rather well-to-do. Mr. d.i.c.ki'son, the father of the family, was a plumber and glazier--not in business for himself, but the foreman of a business of some importance in the town; and Mr. d.i.c.ki'son was a plain man of somewhat reserved disposition.

There were ill-natured and rude persons in that neighbourhood who did not hesitate to describe Mr. d.i.c.ki'son as ”a sulky beast”; but then the opinion of such was scarcely worth having, and even they had not a word to say against him beyond a general complaint of his unsociable temper.

They were lively people who lived round about Gardener's Lane. The fathers worked hard all the week, and mostly got frightfully drunk on Sat.u.r.day nights, when they went home and knocked their dirty, slipshod wives about, just by way of letting them know their duty to their lords and masters. And after this sort of thing had subsided, the wives generally gave the children a good cuffing all round, just by way of letting them know that they need not hope to take any liberties with their mothers because of their fathers' little ways; and then they all got quieted down for the night, and got up late on Sunday morning with headaches. If the day was fine, the men sat dull and sodden in the suns.h.i.+ne on the pavement in the wide street out of which Gardener's Lane ran, propping their backs against the wall and stretching their legs out, greatly to the danger and annoyance of pa.s.sers-by; and while the men thus smoked the pipe of peace, the women stood in groups at their doorways, scratching their elbows and comparing their bruises; and the children, who had gone to sleep the previous night in tears and tribulation, found keen enjoyment in watching for the parson and the few people who went to the church round the corner, and called names and uncomplimentary terms after them as they turned in at the gates which led thereto.

Now, as Mr. d.i.c.ki'son was a person of a reserved and taciturn disposition, who was distinctly respectable in all his doings, who never got drunk, and openly despised any one else who did, it will readily be believed that he was not popular in the neighbourhood of Gardener's Lane. He was not anxious to be popular, and had it not been that the house in which he lived was his own, and that it suited his family as a home, Gardener's Lane would not have counted him among its inhabitants.

Mrs. d.i.c.ki'son was a good deal younger than her husband--a pretty, weak, sentimental woman, rather gus.h.i.+ng in disposition, and very injudicious.