The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls, L. T. Meade [fun books to read for adults txt] 📗

my sisters and I will certainly not adopt." CHAPTER XII. THEY WOULD NOT BE PARTED.

Primrose walked down the street, passing by the little cottage which for so many years had been her home. Her sisters did not expect her to return to dinner, and her heart was too full to allow her to go in just then.

So they were to be parted—this was the advice of those who called themselves their friends. Primrose, Jasmine, and Daisy, her three flowers, as mother had called them, were no longer to grow sweetly in one garden together. They were to be parted—Primrose was to go one way, and the little ones another. Impulsive Jasmine would no longer cry out her griefs on Primrose's neck, or tell her joys and griefs, her hopes and aspirations, to the calm and elder sister. Daisy—their baby, as Primrose called her—might be ill or sad, or lonely, and she, Primrose, would no longer be there to comfort her.

Parted! No, they should not be parted—all their young lives they had lived together, and whether they starved, or whether they feasted, they would live together still. Thank God, no one had any real control over them—their very loneliness would now, therefore, be their safety—they might sketch out their own career, and no one could prevent them.

Primrose said to herself—

"After all, I am glad I know the very worst. People mean to be kind; but, oh! how can they understand what we three girls are to one another?"

She walked quickly in her agitation, and passing the village green, came suddenly upon Poppy Jenkins, who was hurrying home to her mother's cottage.

"Well, Miss Primrose, I'm off to-morrow," said Poppy, dropping one of her quick curtseys, and a more vivid red than usual coming into her bright cheeks.

"Yes, Poppy," answered Primrose; "I hope you will be very happy in London"—then a sudden thought occurring to her, she ran after the young girl and laid her hand on her shoulder.

"Poppy, give me your London address—I may want it."

"Oh law! Miss Primrose, do you think you'd be saving out of the thirty pounds regular income and coming up to London on a visit?"

"We may come to London, Poppy—I can't say," answered Primrose in a sad voice—"anyhow, I should like to have your address—may I have it?"

"Surely, miss—aunt lives in a part they call central—she says the rents are very high, but it's all done for the convenience of the beautiful ladies who boards with her. Aunt's address is Penelope Mansion—Wright Street, off the Edgware Road. It's a beautiful sounding address, isn't it, Miss Primrose?"

Primrose smiled again—a smile, however, which made poor little Poppy feel rather down-hearted, and then she continued her walk.

"It is very difficult to know what to do," she said to herself—"it makes one feel quite old and careworn. If only that brother who was lost long ago was now living, how nice it would be for us girls. I wonder if he is really dead—I suppose he is, or mamma would have heard something about him. Twenty years ago since it happened—longer than my whole life. Poor mother! poor, dear mother! what she must have suffered! I understand now why her pretty sweet face looked so sad, and why her hair was grey before her time. What a pity my brother has not lived—he certainly would not wish us girls to be parted."

Primrose walked on a little farther, then she retraced her steps and went home. She found Jasmine and Daisy in a state of the greatest excitement. Mrs. Ellsworthy had called, and had been nicer and sweeter and more charming than ever—she had brought Daisy a doll of the most perfect description, and had presented the flower-loving Jasmine with a great bouquet of exotics, which looked almost out of place in the humble little cottage.

"And there is a long letter for you, Primrose," continued Jasmine; "and she says she hopes you will read it very quickly, and that she may come down to-morrow morning to talk it over with you. She says there is a plan in the letter, and that it is a delightful plan—I wonder what it can be? Will you read the letter now, Primrose?—shall I break the seal and read it aloud to you?"

"No," answered Primrose, almost shortly for her—"Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter can keep," and then she slipped the thick white envelope into her pocket.

"Why sister darling, how pale you look!—are you tired?"

"A little," said Primrose—"I had no dinner—I should like a cup of tea."

Jasmine flew out of the room to get it for her, and Daisy nestled up to her elder sister's side.

"Primrose," she whispered, "Jasmine and I read that letter in the garden together. Oh! we were so surprised to know we had a little baby brother long ago. We went to Hannah and asked her about him, and Hannah cried—I never saw Hannah cry so long and so hard. She said he was the sweetest baby. Oh, how I wish we had him now!—he would be much, much nicer than my new doll."

"But if he were with us now he would be a man, Eyebright—a big, brave man, able to help us poor girls."

Daisy considered—

"I can only think of him as a baby," she said. "Hannah said he was lost in London. How I wish we could go to London and find our brother!"

CHAPTER XIII. MRS. ELLSWORTHY'S LETTER.

The girls had finished tea, and Hannah had removed all traces of the evening meal before Primrose would even glance at the thick letter which was addressed to her. She did so at last, at the earnest entreaties of her two sisters—for Daisy climbed on the sofa beside her, and put her arms round her neck, and coaxed her to read what dear Mrs. Ellsworthy had written, and Jasmine took the letter and placed it in her lap, and seated herself on a footstool at her feet, and the two young girls looked interested and excited, and their eyes were bright with anticipation, and even some impatience.

Primrose, on the contrary, appeared indifferent. She broke the seal of the thick letter languidly, and began to read its contents aloud, in an almost apathetic voice.

This was what Mrs. Ellsworthy had written:

"MY DEAR PRIMROSE,

"(You remember our compact that I was to call you Primrose.) I had not courage to say to you the other day all that was in my heart. My dear child, it seems rather absurd to say it, but I felt afraid of you. In the eyes of the world I am considered a great lady—for I have riches, and my husband holds a good position—whereas you, Primrose, would be considered by that same world nothing but a simple village maid. Nevertheless, the innocent and unsophisticated girl contrived to keep the woman of the world at a distance, and to let her see very plainly that she thought her curious questions impertinent. When I read this expression of opinion so plainly in your eyes, Primrose, I felt afraid, and questioned no further. My dear, it is a fact that cowards always resort to pen and ink when they want to express a frank opinion. I am now going to say on paper what I feared to put into so many words the other night. First of all, you are mistaken about me. I am not what you think me.

"Oh, yes! I know very well what that proud little heart of yours tells you about me. It says, 'She is great and rich, and she is curious about us girls, and she wants to patronize us—'"

Here Primrose had to put down her letter, for she was interrupted by an exclamation from Daisy—

"But we don't think like that of our darling, pretty Mrs. Ellsworthy—do we, Jasmine?"

"Go on reading, Primrose," said Jasmine.

Primrose continued—

"You are all wrong about me, my dear, dear girls, and yet, after a measure, you are right; for in a certain sense I am curious about you; and most undoubtedly I want to help you. I know already a certain portion of your story, and already I can partly read your characters. The part of your story I know is this: You are ladies by birth—you are very ignorant of the world—and you have not at all sufficient money to live on. Your characters are as follows:

"Primrose, I am not at all afraid of you on paper. You, Primrose, are proud and independent. You are also sadly obstinate, and it is extremely probable that you will take your own way, which I can see beforehand will not be a wise one."

"Oh! oh! oh!" came interruption No. 2 to the reading of the letter, and Jasmine's arms were flung tightly round Primrose's neck.

"How can she talk of you like that? How little she knows you, my 'queen of roses.'"

Primrose smiled, kissed Jasmine between her eyebrows and went on reading.

"Jasmine's character," continued Mrs. Ellsworthy in her letter, "is as yet unformed. She has high aspirations and generous impulses—if she is well managed, and if you don't spoil her, Primrose, she will probably develop into a very noble woman. I love Jasmine very dearly already.

"As to your little sister, she is as fresh, and innocent, and dainty as her name; but take warning, Primrose, she is not over strong—there is a look about the little one which makes me dread the thought of her encountering any of the roughnesses of life.

"Now, my dear girl, I have read my little bit of a lecture; you are probably extremely angry with me, but I don't care. I now come to the practical part of my letter; I am desirous to help you three, and I want to help you in the way most suited to your individual characters. The sad fact cannot be gain-said—you must give up your home—you must earn your livings. May I help you to find a way to put bread into your mouths? I have thought it all out, and I think I know a plan. If you will agree to it, you may keep your independence, Primrose; Jasmine may be developed into the kind of woman God meant her to become; and little Daisy need not fear the rude blasts of adverse fate."

Here Daisy, who only partly understood the letter, burst into tears, and Primrose, taking her in her arms, allowed the closely written sheets to fall on the floor.

"I know what it means," she exclaimed, speaking with sudden fire and passion; "the same thing has been said to me by two different people already to-day. Mr. Danesfield said it after his fashion, Miss Martineau after hers, and now Mrs. Ellsworthy repeats the words. Oh, yes, I know what it means—separation—I will never consent to it!"

Jasmine had been kneeling on the floor and picking up the scattered sheets of Mrs. Ellsworthy's letter; she now raised her eyes in utter astonishment to her elder sister's face. Primrose was not accustomed to giving utterance to strong feelings. Primrose's words were wont to be calm and somewhat measured. Jasmine knew that she herself flew into tempests of grief, or anger, or excitement—she was always being chided for not restraining her feelings—she was always being gently lectured for using too strong expressions. What did Primrose mean by throwing down this kind though somewhat mysterious, letter, and by making use of so ghastly a word as "separation?" Who was going to divide them? Certainly not kind Mrs. Ellsworthy.

"Had we not better hear what she says, even though you don't seem quite to like her, Primrose?" asked Jasmine, holding up the sheets.

"There are two sheets more, quite full of writing—shall I read them aloud to you and Daisy?"

But Primrose had not got over the excitement which was growing within her all day; she took the letter out of Jasmine's hands, folded it, and returned it to its envelope.

"I must speak," she said; "we can finish that letter afterwards—the letter does not greatly matter, after all. Do you know, Jasmine, and do you know, Daisy, that these people who all mean to be so kind, and who, I suppose, really feel good-natured towards us, are trying to take our lives into their own hands? They are not our guardians, but they want to rule us—they say we cannot live on our income, and they will show us how we are to live. Mr. Danesfield will give money, if needed; Miss Martineau will give us heaps and oceans of advice; and Mrs. Ellsworthy will give patronage, and perhaps money too. They mean to be kind, as I said, and they think they ought to guide our lives. Of course, they consider us very young and very ignorant, and so they say they will provide for me in one way, and Jasmine in another, and Daisy in another. Now what I say is this; let us choose our own lives, Jasmine and Daisy; don't let us do anything rude to our friends,