Part 6 (1/2)

Silently and with careful fingers she first removes her hat, then her jacket, then she induces her to stand up, and, taking off her dress, throws round her a white wrapper taken from a trunk, and prepares to brush the silky yellow hair that for eighteen years has been her own to dress and tend and admire.

”Eh, Miss Lilian, child, but it's a lovely place!” she says, presently, this speech being intended as a part of the cheering process.

”It seems a fine place,” says the ”child,” indifferently.

”Fine it is indeed. Grander even than the Park, I'm thinking.”

”'Grander than the Park'!” says Miss Chesney, rousing to unexpected fervor. ”How can you say that? Have you grown fickle, nurse? There is no place to be compared to the Park, not one in all the world. You can think as you please, of course,”--with reproachful scorn,--”but it is _not_ grander than the Park.”

”I meant larger, ninny,” soothingly.

”It is not larger.”

”But, darling, how can you say so when you haven't been round it?”

”How can _you_ say so when _you_ haven't been round it?”

This is a poser. Nurse meditates a minute and then says:

”Thomas--that's the groom that drove me--says it is.”

”Thomas!”--with a look that, had the wretched Thomas been on the spot, would infallibly have reduced him to ashes; ”and what does Thomas know about it? It is _not_ larger.”

Silence.

”Indeed, my bairn, I think you might well be happy here,” says nurse, tenderly returning to the charge.

”I don't want you to think about me at all,” says Miss Chesney, in trembling tones. ”You agreed with Aunt Priscilla that I ought to leave my dear, dear home, and I shall never forgive you for it. I am not happy here. I shall never be happy here. I shall die of fretting for the Park, and when I am _dead_ you will perhaps be satisfied.”

”Miss Lilian!”

”You shan't brush my hair any more,” says Miss Lilian, dexterously evading the descent of the brush. ”I can do it for myself very well. You are a traitor.”

”I am sorry, Miss Chesney, if I have displeased you,” says nurse, with much dignity tempered with distress: only when deeply grieved and offended does she give her mistress her full t.i.tle.

”How dare you call me Miss Chesney!” cries the young lady, springing to her feet. ”It is very unkind of you, and just now too, when I am all alone in a strange house. Oh, nurse!” throwing her arms round the neck of that devoted and long-suffering woman, and forgetful of her resentment, which indeed was born only of her regret, ”I am so unhappy, and lonely, and sorry! What shall I do?”

”How can I tell you, my lamb?”--caressing with infinite affection the golden head that lies upon her bosom. ”All that I say only vexes you.”

”No, it doesn't: I am wicked when I make you think that. After all,”--raising her face--”I am not quite forsaken; I have you still, and you will never leave me.”

”Not unless I die, my dear,” says nurse, earnestly. ”And, Miss Lilian, how can you look at her ladys.h.i.+p without knowing her to be a real friend. And Mr. Chetwoode too; and perhaps Sir Guy will be as nice, when you see him.”

”Perhaps he won't,” ruefully.

”That's nonsense, my dear. Let us look at the bright side of things always. And by and by Master Taffy will come here on a visit, and then it will be like old times. Come, now, be reasonable, child of my heart,”

says nurse, ”and tell me, won't you look forward to having Master Taffy here?”

”I wish he was here now,” says Lilian, visibly brightening. ”Yes; perhaps they will ask him. But, nurse, do you remember when last I saw Taffy it was at----”