Part 6 (1/2)
”Mr. Arthur Wilton! Poor gentleman. I saw his death in the paper, and thought it must be the doctor's brother. He has left a long family, hasn't he?”
”Yes; that is, shorter than my niece's; but six are enough to provide for when there is nothing left but debts and difficulties.”
Ruth was an old married servant of Dr. Wilton's, one of the innumerable young cooks who had been under Miss c.o.x, and had basely deserted her as soon as she could _cook_--send up a dinner fit to be eaten--to dress the dinner of the baker's boy who had served 6 Edinburgh Crescent with bread.
”Dear me! I thought Mr. Wilton was a very rich gentleman. I have heard the young ladies talk of the fine country place. How was it?”
”He had misfortunes and losses, Ruth; and his family are coming here to live in furnished lodgings. But I can meet with none. Can you help me?”
Ruth looked right and left, as if she expected to see some one coming up or down the road with the news of lodgings in their hands, and was silent. At last a light seemed to break over her rosy face. ”If they don't mind being next to our shop, I believe I do know the very place.
Will you come and see? The house belongs to my mother-in-law, and she has got it nicely furnished. It is not far; will you come, Miss c.o.x?”
”Is it quite near, Ruth? for I must be back for the children's dinner, and I am so tired.”
”You can take a tram from the Three Stars, and that will get you home in no time. It is not far, Miss c.o.x.”
”Well, I will come, Ruth; but I don't feel sure about engaging the lodgings. Your mother-in-law won't mind my looking at them?”
”Oh no, ma'am, not a bit. She was an old servant, you know, of some real gentry at Whitelands, and the old lady died last fall twelvemonth, and left mother--I always calls her mother--a nice little sum and some real valuable furniture.”
”Oh! then she won't take children,” said Miss c.o.x despairingly. ”She won't take boys?”
”That she will, if you like the apartments; there won't be no difficulties,” said Ruth in a rea.s.suring voice. ”You see, my Frank's father died when he was an infant, and mother went back to her old place, where she lived till two years ago, when the mistress died. Then she took this little business for Frank, and the house next. It is quite a private house, and was built by a gentleman. She thought she should be near us and help us on a bit, and so she has. And she put the furniture in it, and has added a bit here and there; and she let it all last winter to the curate and his mother; and here we are, Miss c.o.x. Look straight before you.”
Miss c.o.x looked straight before her as she was told, and there, at the end of the road, stood a neat white house with a pretty good-sized baker's shop on the lower floor, and two windows above. There was a wing with a bake-house, and then a tall elm tree, left of its brethren which had once stood there in a stately group, either by accident or by design, and given their name to the locality--Elm Fields.
”There's my Frank at the door,” Ruth said, nodding; ”he wonders what I am come back for.”
”I remember him,” said Miss c.o.x; ”he used to take an hour to deliver the bread. Ah, Ruth, you should not have married such a boy.”
”Shouldn't I? Then, Miss c.o.x, you and I don't agree there. If I am a bit older, Frank is the best husband that ever lived.--This way, ma'am.”
Ruth opened a wooden gate and went up a narrow path to the door of a small house, built of old-fas.h.i.+oned brick, with a porch at the side, and a trellis covered with clematis.
”Quite like country, isn't it, ma'am?--Mother,” Ruth called. And then from the back of the house Mrs. Pryor emerged, a thin, pale, respectable-looking woman, but with a sad expression on her face.
”Here's a lady, mother, come to look at your apartments, for a family--Dr. Wilton's brother, you know, mother, where I lived when I first saw Frank.”
”Ah! indeed; will you please to look round, ma'am? It is a tidy place; I do all I can to keep it neat and clean; and there's some good furniture in it, left me by my dear blessed mistress.” And Mrs. Pryor raised her ap.r.o.n to her eyes, and spoke in a low voice, like one on the brink of tears.
”Well then, mother, when ladies come to be in their eighty-sevens, one can't wish or expect them to live. It is only natural; we can't all live to be a hundred.”
”I don't like such flighty talk, Ruth,” said Mrs. Pryor reprovingly. ”It hurts me.--This way, ma'am.”
Aunt Betha followed Mrs. Pryor into a sitting-room on the ground floor, square and very neat,--the table in the middle of the room, a large mahogany chiffonier, with a gla.s.s of wax flowers on it, and two old china cups. Miss c.o.x went to the square window and looked out. The ground sloped away from the strip of garden, and the hamlet of Elm Fields, consisting of the cottages and small houses where Frank now delivered his own bread, was seen from it. There was nothing offensive to the eye, and beyond was a line of hills. Harstone lay to the right.
Another room of the same proportions, and four bed-rooms, all very neat, and in one, the pride of Mrs. Pryor's heart, a large four-post bed with carved posts and heavy curtains, the very chief of the dear mistress's gifts and legacies.
Aunt Betha felt it would do--that it must do; and there was a little room for the servant which Mrs. Pryor would throw in, and all for the prescribed two pounds a week.