CHAPTER II

MY EQUIPMENT

FATHER was away nearly a week, for he could not leave Aunt Patty until after the funeral.

Meanwhile the day on which I had expected to go up for my examination arrived and found me in a most dismal and unhappy frame of mind. My health as yet showed no signs of improvement, and I could not face my misfortune philosophically. Having no longer any stimulus to exertion, I sank into a state of apathy and became a mere bundle of irritated nerves. Mother would not let me stay in bed; but it was torture to me to join the family circle. The children's high voices and Fred's tiresome ways almost drove me distracted. They thought me a dreadful fidget, and even Olive, I believe, would have liked to scold me; but mother seemed to understand. She had more patience with me than I had with myself, for though I really could hardly help getting cross or crying at the least thing, I was dreadfully vexed to be such a baby.

When mother saw how weak I was, she had a fire lighted early in the day in my own room, so that I could keep away from the others as much as I liked, with the result that I spent the greater part of each day there. Yet I fretted at the thought that I was thus adding to the household expenses and proving but a care to mother. The weather was very bad at this time, so no one urged me to the unwelcome exertion of taking a walk. Perhaps I should have been better if I had gone out; but I fancied I could not walk even so far as the Common.

It was late in the afternoon, and I was sitting alone by the fire in my bedroom, when I became aware from the bustle below that father had come home. I had been crying a good deal that day and felt that a very little would upset me again, so, though I longed to see father and to hear for myself what he had to say, I could not persuade myself to go downstairs. But father had not been many minutes in the house ere he found his way to my room. Tears sprang to my eyes as he kissed me and asked how I was in his grave, kindly fashion. I said as little about myself as I could, for there was nothing pleasant to say.

"How is Aunt Patty?" was my first question.

"Oh, she is bearing up bravely," he said; "but it was a terrible shock for her. Your uncle's end came so unexpectedly. The gout attacked his heart and he was gone in half-an-hour."

"Oh, poor auntie! How dreadful for her!" I replied.

"Ay; I did not like leaving her this morning. I fear she grieved sorely when I was gone. I wanted her to come with me and stay here awhile; but she said the going back to a desolate home would be too painful."

"I wish she had come," I said with all sincerity, for Aunt Patty was one whose presence I knew would not jar on my weakened nerves, and, besides, I was truly sorry for her. But my father's next words startled me considerably.

"I had a little talk with your aunt about the future yesterday, Nan, and she seems disposed to follow your advice."

"My advice, father?" I repeated in amazement. "I have never given her any advice."

"Have you forgotten what you said about her taking paying guests?" he asked.

"Oh, just that word!" I exclaimed. "Does she really think of doing so?"

"She does indeed, for she is very loath to leave 'Gay Bowers,' and that seems the only way in which she can remain there," said my father. "I doubt myself if many persons would care to visit such an out-of-the-world place; but she says a fair number of artists go to Greentree every summer, and she thinks she might make a connection. In that case she would sell or let a good part of her land, and would probably find it easy to do so, since Squire Canfield has long set covetous eyes on the meadows that adjoin his park. In short, Nan, she is inclined to make the experiment, if you will help her."

"I, father? How can I help her?" I said.

"By going to 'Gay Bowers,' of course," he replied, "and becoming her assistant in the enterprise."

"But I-Oh, father, it is impossible!" I cried. "I am not that sort of girl at all. I could not help her. Olive would be the one."

"Olive will not be the one," said my father emphatically. "Your mother could not spare her, and no doctor has ordered her off to the country. You must be the one to go, my dear Nan. It is the very thing for you."

"Oh, how can you say so?" I protested. "I am not a bit domesticated. I can't cook, and I am not fond of sewing."

"Then it is quite time you learned how to cook and look after a house," was my father's dictum. "You could not have a better teacher than your Aunt Patty. Did not Dr. Algar say you were to have some light employment that would occupy your thoughts without taxing your brain? Here it is, then. You will not be always hard at work. Your aunt will need some one to amuse her guests, to take them for walks, teach them to play croquet, and the like."

"But that is worse still!" I cried in dismay. "You don't know how stupid I am in company. Olive is the one to make herself agreeable to strangers, not I. I can never think of anything to say, unless it is the wrong thing. I am clever at saying that."

"Then you really must begin to acquire the art of being agreeable," said my father with a laugh. "It's all right, Nan, I have promised your aunt you shall go to her as soon as your mother thinks you are fit for the journey."

When father spoke in that tone I knew it was of no use to protest. He went away, leaving me to ponder this wholly unexpected solution of the problem of the future. The more I thought of it the less I liked it. I was a bookish girl, somewhat dull and absent-minded in general society, and inclined to despise people whose tastes were not intellectual. But, since books were now forbidden me, and country air was what I needed, I really had no excuse for objecting to the arrangement father had made. Mother and Olive were just as sure as he that it was the very thing for me. And when a sweet letter came from Aunt Patty, saying how sorry she was to learn from father of my ill-health, and consequent disappointment, and what a comfort it would be to her, if I would make "Gay Bowers" my home for twelve months, I felt bound to go.

A girl can seldom go anywhere without the subject of clothes demanding consideration. It did not seem that I should require an extensive wardrobe in such a quiet country house; but, while she declared she could not afford to put all her girls into black, mother feared that my aunt might be hurt if I did not make my appearance attired in mourning. The idea gave me an agreeable, though transient, sense of importance, for to have new clothes was an event in the lives of us girls.

I was rather dismayed when mother said she could only give me one new frock, but Olive came to my relief by deciding that my everyday dress of dark blue could be dyed and "done up" to look as good as new. Fortunately my winter coat was black, and I had a black felt hat in good condition. Olive said I need not wear mourning more than three months, and she promised to overhaul my summer clothes, and send me a change of raiment in the spring. Finally, she produced an elderly black chip hat of her own, which she placed on my head, and pronounced the right shape for me, and then proceeded to brush over with a black decoction, the exact nature of which I cannot pretend to explain, though I can testify that it had a remarkably renovating effect on the chip. She had set the hat to dry in front of my fire, and was turning over a box of odds and ends in the hope of finding some trimming for it, when Peggy burst into the room with the air of one who brings tidings.

I have said nothing yet of this sister. We sometimes spoke of her as the "happy medium," since she was the middle one of our band of five sisters, and "happy" was an adjective which suited her excellently. Her name had given rise to some controversy in our family circle. When she was born father wished to name her Martha, after his only sister; but mother had protested that the name was too old-fashioned. No one would call her Martha, she declared, and we did not want two Pattys in the family. So father allowed her to choose the infant's name. She bestowed on her the queenly name of Margaret, and now we all persisted in calling her "Peggy," much to mother's disgust.

Peggy was sweet seventeen. She had a round, merry face, with laughing blue eyes, and her nose tilted upwards in a way that gave a charming piquancy to her expression. She had left school a year before, and was working hard at a school of art, for she aimed at becoming a clever artist in black and white. She was rather short, and it was a trial to her that people often took her to be younger than she was.

"Oh, what do you think?" she cried as soon as she was within the room. "Aunt Clara has sent us another box of fig-leaves!"

This was our poetic way of describing the consignments of cast-off clothes Aunt Clara sent us out of her affluence from time to time. She was mother's only sister, who had married money, while mother had merely married brains. It was curious that each congratulated herself on having made the better match. Mother would speak of Mr. Redmayne somewhat contemptuously as the "Manchester man" or the "Cotton spinner." She never forgot that he was a self-made man, though she was wont to say that this fact was to his credit.

Aunt Clara and her husband occasionally came to town; but they always stayed at the Grand Hotel and seldom bestowed much of their time on us. She did not resemble mother in the least. Large and stout, and magnificently attired, she seemed to fill our small drawing-room when she condescended to pay us a visit, and to make our stairs and passages shrink as she passed along them. She would assume a pitiful air, which was very irritating, ask innumerable questions, and show clearly her belief that she could have managed in every way better than our mother