Chapter 3

THE NEW NURSE.

In looking back on those days, I simply wonder at my own audacity. Am I really and truly the same Merle Fenton who rang at the bell at Prince's Gate and informed the astonished footman that I was the person applying for the nurse's situation? I recall that scene now with a laugh, but I frankly own that that moment was not the pleasantest in my life. True, it had its ludicrous side; but how is one to enjoy the humour of an amusing situation alone? and, to tell the truth, the six foot of plush and powder before me was somewhat alarming to my female timidity. I hear now the man's startled "I beg your pardon, ma'am."

"I have come by appointment," I returned, with as much dignity as I could summon under the trying circumstances; "will you inform your mistress, Mrs. Morton, that I have come about the nurse's situation?"

Of course, he was looking at me from head to foot. In spite of the disguising plainness of my dress, I suppose the word gentlewoman was clearly stamped upon me. Heaven forbid that under any circumstances that brand, sole heritage of my dead parents, should ever be effaced. Then he opened the door of a charming little waiting-room, and civilly enough bade me seat myself, and for some minutes I was left alone. I think nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before he reappeared with the message that his mistress was now disengaged and would see me. I followed the man as closely as I could through the long hall and up the wide staircase; not for worlds would I have owned that a certain shortness of breath, unusual in youth, seemed to impede me. At the top, I found myself in a handsome corridor, communicating with two drawing-rooms of noble dimensions, as they call them in advertisements, and certainly it was a princely apartment that I entered. A lady was writing busily at a small table at the further end of the room. As the man spoke to her, she did not at once raise her head or turn round; she was evidently finishing a note. A minute later she laid aside her pen and came towards me.

"I am sorry that I could not attend to you at once, and yet you were very punctual," she began, in a pleasant, well-modulated voice, and then she stopped and regarded me with unfeigned surprise.

She was a very lovely young woman, with an indescribable matronly air about her that spoke of the mother. She would have been really quite beautiful but for a certain worn look, often seen in women of fashion; and when she spoke there was a sweetness and simplicity of manner that was most winning.

"Pardon me," with a shade of perplexity in her eyes, "but I suppose my servant was right in stating that you had come by appointment in answer to my advertisement?"

"Yes, madam," I returned, readily; for her slight nervousness put me at my ease. "I have your letter here."

"And you are really applying for the nurse's situation--the upper nurse, I mean; for, of course, there is an under nurse kept. I hope" (colouring a little) "that you will not think me rude if I say that I was not prepared for the sort of person I was to see."

I could have groaned as I thought of my note. Was it possible that I had spelt "advertisement" wrongly, and yet I had the paper before me; my handwriting was neat and legible, but evidently Mrs. Morton was drawing some comparison between my letter and appearance, and I did not doubt that the former had not prepossessed her in my favour.

I became confused in my turn.

"I hope to prove to you," I began, in a very small voice, "that I am a fit person to apply for your situation. I am very fond of children; I never lose my patience with them as other people do, or think anything a trouble; I wish to take up this work from love as well as necessity--I mean," correcting myself, for she looked still more astonished, "that though I am obliged to work for my living, I would rather be a nurse than anything else."

"Will you answer a few questions?" and, as though by an afterthought, "will you sit down?" for she had been standing to keep me company out of deference to my superior appearance.

"I will answer any question you like to put to me, madam."

"You have never been in service you tell me in your letter. Have you ever filled any kind of situation?"

I shook my head.

"You are quite young I should say?"

"Two and twenty last Christmas."

"I should hardly have thought you so old. Will you oblige me with your name?"

"Merle Fenton."

A half smile crossed her beautiful mouth. It was evident that she found the name somewhat incongruous, and then she continued a little hastily, "If you have never filled any sort of situation, it will be somewhat difficult to judge of your capacity. Of course you have good references; can you tell me a little about yourself and your circumstances?"

I was fast losing my nervousness by this time. In a few minutes I had given her a concise account of myself and my belongings. Once or twice she interrupted me by a question, such as, for example, when I spoke of Aunt Agatha, she asked the names of the families where she had lived as a governess; and once she looked a little surprised at my answer.

"I knew the Curzons before I was married," she observed, quietly; "they have often talked to me of their old governess, Miss Fenton; her name is Keith now, you say; she was a great favourite with her pupils. Well, is it not a pity that you should not follow your aunt's example? If you are not clever, would not the situation of a nursery governess be more fitting for you? Forgive me; I am only speaking for your good; one feels a little uncomfortable at seeing a gentlewoman desert the ranks to which she belongs."

My face was burning by this time; of course it must all come out--that miserable defect of mine, and everything else; but raising my eyes at that moment I saw such a kind look on Mrs. Morton's face, such quietly expressed sympathy for my very evident confusion, that in a moment my reserve broke down. I do not know what I said, but I believe I must have been very eloquent. I could hear her say to herself, "How very strange--what a misfortune!" when I frankly mentioned my inability to spell, but I did not linger long on this point.

Warmed by her strong interest, I detailed boldly what I called my theory. I told her of my love for little children, my longing to work amongst them, how deeply I felt that this would indeed be a gentlewoman's work, that I did not fear my want of experience. I told her that once I had stayed for some weeks at the house of one of my schoolfellows, and that every night and morning I had gone up to the nursery to help the nurse wash and dress the babies, and that at the end of a week I had learned to do it as well as the woman herself, and that she had told my schoolfellow that she had never seen any young lady so handy and patient with children, and that they were happier with me than with their own sister.

"The second child had the croup one night," I continued; "the mother was away, and nurse was too frightened to be of any use. When the doctor came he praised her very much for her prompt remedies; he said they had probably saved the boy's life, as the attack was a severe one. Nurse cried when he said that, and owned it was not she who had thought of everything, but Miss Fenton. I tell you this," I continued, "that you may understand that I am reliable. I was only nineteen then, and now I am two and twenty."

She looked at me again in a gentle, scrutinising way; I could feel that I was making way in her good opinion. Her curiosity was piqued; her interest strongly excited. She made no attempt to check me as I launched out into further defence of my theory, but she only smiled and said, "Very true, I agree with you there," as I spoke of the advantage of having an educated person to superintend the nursery. Indeed, I found myself retailing all my pet arguments in a perfectly fearless way, until I looked up and saw there were tears in her beautiful brown eyes.

"How well you talk," she said, with a sort of sigh. "You have thought it all out, I can see. I wonder what my husband would say. He is a member of Parliament, you know, and we are very busy people, and society has such claims on us that I cannot be much with my children. I have only two; Joyce is three years old, and my boy is nearly eighteen months. Oh, he is so lovely, and to think I can only see him for a few minutes at a time, that I lose all his pretty ways; it is such a trouble to me. His nurse is leaving to be married, and I am so anxious to find someone who will watch over my darlings and make them happy."

She paused, as the sound of approaching footsteps were audible in the corridor, and rose hastily as an impatient, "Violet, where are you, my dear?" was distinctly audible.

"That is Mr. Morton; will you excuse me a moment?" And the next moment I could hear her say, "I was in the blue drawing-room, Alick. I have sent off the letters, and now I want to speak to you a moment," and her voice died away as they moved farther down the corridor.

I felt a keen anxiety as to the result of that conversation. I was very impulsive by nature, and I had fallen in love with Mrs. Morton. The worn look on the beautiful young face had touched me somehow. One of my queer visionary ideas came over me as I recalled her expression. I thought that if I were an artist, and that my subject was the "Massacre of the Innocents," that the mother's face in the foreground should be Mrs. Morton's. "Rachel Weeping for her Children;" something of the pathetic maternal agony, as for a lost babe, had seemed to cross her face as she spoke of her little ones. I found out afterwards that, though she wore no mourning, Mrs. Morton had lost a beautiful infant about four months ago. It had not been more than six weeks old, but the mother's heart was still bleeding. Many months afterwards she told me that she often dreamed of her little Muriel--she had only been baptised the day before her death--and woke trying to stifle her sobs that she might not disturb her husband. I sat cogitating this imaginary picture of mine, and shuddering over the sanguinary details, until Mrs. Morton returned, and, to my embarrassment, her husband was with her.

I gave him a frightened glance as he crossed the room with rapid footsteps. He was a quiet-looking man, with a dark moustache, some years older than his wife. His being slightly bald added somewhat to his appearance of age. In reality he was not more than five and thirty. I thought him a little cool and critical in manner, but his voice was pleasant. He looked at me keenly as he spoke; it was my opinion at that moment that not an article of my dress escaped his observation. I had selected purposely a pair of mended gloves, and I am convinced the finger ends were at once under his inspection. He was a man who thought no details beneath him, but would bring his masculine intellect even to the point of discovering the fitness of his children's nurse.

"Mrs. Morton tells me that you have applied for the situation of upper nurse," he began, not abruptly, but in the quick tones of a busy man who has scant leisure. "I have heard all you have told her; she seems desirous of testing your abilities, but I must warn you that I distrust theories myself. My dear," turning to his wife, "I must say that this young person looks hardly old enough for the position, and you own she has no real experience. Would not a more elderly person be more suitable, considering that you are so seldom in your nursery? Of course, this is your department, but since you ask my advice----" with a little shrug that seemed to dismiss me and the whole subject.

A wistful, disappointed look came over his wife's face. I was too great a stranger to understand the real position of affairs, only my intuition guided me at that moment. It was not until much later that I found out that Mrs. Morton never disputed her husband's will, even in trifles; that he ordered the plan of her life as well as his own; that her passionate love for her children was restrained in order that her wifely and social duties should be carried out; that she was so perfectly obedient to him, not from fear, but from an excess of womanly devotion, that she seldom even contested an opinion. My fate was very nearly sealed at that moment, but a hasty impulse prompted me to speak. Looking Mr. Morton full in the face, I said, a little piteously, "Do not dismiss me because of my youth, for that is a fault that time will mend. Want of experience is a greater obstacle, but it will only make me more careful to observe every direction and carry out every wish. If you consent to try me, I am sure neither you nor Mrs. Morton will repent it."

He looked at me very keenly again as I spoke; indeed, his eyes seemed to search me through and through, and then his whole manner changed.

I have been told that Nature had been kind to me in one respect by endowing me with a pleasant voice. I believe that I was freer from vanity than most girls of my age, but I was glad in my inmost heart to know that no tone of mine would ever jar upon a human ear, but I was more than glad now when I saw Mr. Morton's grave face relax.

"You speak confidently," he returned. "You seem to have a strange faith in your own theory, and plenty of self-reliance, but I am afraid that, like most young people, you have only regarded it from one point of view. Are you aware of the unpleasantness of such a situation? If you came to us you might have nothing of which to complain from Mrs. Morton or myself, but we could not answer for the rest of my household; the servants would regard you as a sort of hybrid, belonging to no special sphere; they might show you scant respect, and manifest a great deal of jealousy."

"I have faced all that," I returned, with a smile, "but I think the difficulties would be like Bunyan's lions--they were chained, you know. I do not believe these sort of things would hurt me. I should never be away from the children in the nursery; I should be unmolested and at home."

"Alick!" I could hear a whole petition breathed into that softly uttered word. Mr. Morton heard it too, for he turned at once and then looked at his wife.

"Do you really wish to try this young person, Violet, my dear? It is for you to decide; this is your province, as I said before."

"If she will love our children and watch over them in our absence," she whispered, but I caught the words. Then aloud, "Yes, thank you, Alick, I should like to try her. I think she would make Joyce happy. I can go and see Mrs. Keith this afternoon when I am out driving, and perhaps I could arrange for her to come soon."

"Very well," he returned, briefly, but he spoke in the old dry manner, as though he were not quite pleased. "When you are disengaged will you join me in the library? I have some more letters I want copied."

"I will be ready soon," she said, with a sweet grateful glance at him, as though she had received some unexpected bounty at his hands, and as he wished me good morning, and left the room, she continued, eagerly, "Will you come with me now and make acquaintance with the children. I have seen them already this morning, so they will not expect me, and it will be such a surprise. My little girl is always with me while I dress. I have so little time to devote to them; but I snatch every moment."

She sighed as she spoke, and I began to understand, in a dim, groping sort of way, that fate is not so unequal after all, that even this beautiful creature had unsatisfied wants in her life, that it was possible that wealth and position were to her only tiresome barriers dividing her from her little ones. Her sweetest pleasures only came to her by snatches. Most likely she envied humble mothers, and did not pity them because their arms ached with carrying a heavy infant, aching limbs being more bearable than an aching heart.

A flight of broad, handsomely-carpeted stairs brought us to a long shut-in corridor, fitted up prettily with plants and statuettes. A rocking-horse stood in one corner; the nursery door was open. It was a long, cheerful room, with three windows, looking over the public garden, and fitted up with a degree of comfort that bordered on luxury. Some canaries were singing in a green cage, a grey Persian kitten was curled up in the doll's bassinette, a little girl was kneeling on the cushioned window-seat, peeping between the bars at some children who were playing below. As Mrs. Morton said, softly, "Joyce, darling," she turned round with quite a startled air, and then clambered down hastily and ran to her mother.

"Why, it is my mother," in quite an incredulous voice, and then she caught hold of her mother's gown, and peeped at me from between the folds.

She was a pretty, demure-looking child, only somewhat thin and fragile in appearance, not in the least like her mother, but I could trace instantly the strongest resemblance to her father. She had the straight, uncurling hair like his, and her dark eyes were a little sunken under the finely-arched brows. It was rather a bewitching little face, only too thin and sallow for health, and with an intelligent expression, almost amounting to precocity.

"And where is your brother, my darling?" asked her mother, stooping to kiss her, and at this moment a pleasant-looking young woman came from the inner room with a small, curly-haired boy in her arms.

As she set him down on the floor, and he came toddling over the carpet, I forgot Mrs. Morton's presence, and knelt down and held out my arms to him. "Oh, you beauty!" I exclaimed, in a coaxing voice, "will you come to me?" for I quite forgot myself at the sight of the perfect baby features.

Baby pointed a small finger at me, "O' ook, gurgle-da," he said, in the friendliest way; and I sealed our compact with many kisses.

"Dear me, ma'am," observed nurse, eyeing me in a dubious manner, for probably the news of my advent had preceded me to the upper regions, "this is very singular; I never saw Master Baby take such a fancy to anyone before; he always beats them off with his dear little hand."

"Gurgle-da, ook ook," was baby's unexpected response to this, as he burst into a shout of laughter, and he made signs for me to carry him to the canaries.

I do not know what Mrs. Morton said to nurse, but she came up after a minute or two and watched us, smiling.

"He does seem very friendly; more so than my shy pet here," for Joyce was still holding her mother's gown.

"She will be friends with me too," I returned, confidently; "children are so easily won." And then, as Mrs. Morton held out her arms for her boy, I parted with him reluctantly.

There was no need for me to stay any longer then. Mrs. Morton reiterated her intention of calling on Aunt Agatha that afternoon, after which she promised to speak to me again, and feeling that things were in a fair way of being settled according to my wishes, I left the house with a lighter heart than I had entered it.

(_To be continued._)

AMONG THE HOLLYHOCKS.

BY CLARA THWAITES.

Sing among the hollyhocks, "Summer, fare thee well!" Ring the drooping blossoms For a passing bell.

Droop the sunflowers, heavy discs Totter to their fall. Up the valley creep the mists For a funeral pall.

Lingering roses woefully In the cold expire. Heap the dead and dying For a funeral pyre.

While the gale is sighing, While the wind makes moan, Sigh among the hollyhocks Of the summer flown.

NOTICES OF NEW MUSIC.

STANLEY LUCAS AND CO.

_O, hur vidgas ej ditt bröst. Liebe, liebe._ Two Lieder. By Maude V. White.--The first, from the Swedish, has also an English set of words; the setting of the second is in German only, being a translation into that language from the Hungarian.--There is a dreamy charm pervading both of these little ballads, which will be best appreciated by truly musical and well-educated singers.

_Two Locks of Hair._ Song to Longfellow's poetry. By Sabine E. Barwell.--Very simple. The music is dedicated to Charles Santley, our great baritone singer.

_Alone with thee._ Song by Gilbert R. Betjemann. Compass E to F sharp.--An ambitious song, full of striking modulations and really dramatic effects. The accompaniments are charming.

_Ivy Green._ A good song for basses or baritones. The words by Charles Dickens, the music by Arthur C. Stericker.--Plenty of go about it, and quite the song for strong, manly voices.

_Wandering Wishes._ Poetry by Lady Charlotte Elliot (from "Medusa" and other poems). Music by Robert B. Addison.--A very poetical setting of a very fanciful poem.

_Our Darling._ Ballad by Robert Reece, with music by Berthold Tours.--This justly favourite composer has written the simplest, most touching, and melodious music to a very touching and sad story. It is a compliment to this ballad to recommend it to all who wish for a good cry. It has this advantage over the maudlin griefs of the discontented folk to whom we have called attention in previous notices, that the poor bereaved parents who miss their little darling from the chair in which he used to listen to their fairy stories and tales of distant lands over the sea, are content to regard him as at rest in the heavenly country, and in the angels' care. After all, if you do get the song, your tears will be happy ones.

EDWIN ASHDOWN.

_Inez._ _Zamora._ Two Spanish dances for the pianoforte by Michael Watson.--The first is a Habanera, and is redolent of _Carmen_ and Spanish want of energy. It is more characteristic than the second, although that is a very good reproduction of the typical peasant dance of all districts of the Peninsula.

_Daphne._ Valse brillante. _Celadon._ Gavotte. Two drawing-room pieces of more than ordinary merit by J. H. Wallis.--Fairly easy to learn, and effective when learnt.

_May-Dew._ By Sir Sterndale Bennett; transcribed for the pianoforte by Jules Brissac.--We complained a few months back of someone having converted this lovely song into a part-song; we can only say of the present transformation, that when the voice part is at work all goes fairly well, and from a piano point of view represents the original; but the two bars of symphony before the first and second verses of the song are stripped of all their original life, and a very mangled substitute is offered.

LONDON MUSIC PUBLISHING CO.

_The Broken Strings of a Mandoline._ Words and music by Edith Frances Prideaux.--The story of a little Italian street-player. The compass is for sopranos; the melody is simple and not very original.

_Sketches in Dance Rhythms._ 1. Waltz; 2. Minuet; 3. Tarantella. By Erskine Allon.--We have before alluded to these sketches, of which Mr. Allon has composed such excellent examples. We prefer No. 1 of the present series, but do not consider these to be equal to former numbers.

WEEKES AND CO.

_Abendlied._ _Im Rosenbusch._ Two songs by J. H. le Breton Girdlestone; the words, by Hoffman von Fallersleben, being translated into English by Dr. Baskerville.--Most interesting little songs, and sure to give pleasure by their sweet simplicity.

_Andante._ Varied for the pianoforte, and composed by Henry A. Toase. A very quiet, harmless production. Only three variations, and those not so much of the andante as of its accompaniment.

J. AND J. HOPKINSON.

_Intermezzo and Minuet for Pianoforte._ By George A. Lovell.--Two very nicely-written little pieces. The minuet is especially attractive.

_Barcarole for Pianoforte._ By Carl Hause.--A good drawing-room piece. The middle movement in F minor makes an effective contrast to the first part.

HUTCHINGS AND ROMER.

_The Little Sweep._ Song. Written and composed by James C. Beazley, R.A.M.--There is no such title as R.A.M. A.R.A.M. and M.R.A.M. we know, but we must protest against this unlawful use of the name of our oldest academy of music. The song is a stirring and dramatic account of how a lost child was recovered by his mother. It is to be declaimed by a contralto.

HUTCHINGS AND CO.

_The Christian's Armour._ Oratorio. By Joseph L. Roeckel; the text compiled by Mrs. Alexander Roberts from Ephesians vi.; interspersed with hymns from several sources.--A useful work for services of song or chapel festivities. There is a sameness about the work, and it suggests a weary feeling towards the close. The choruses are mostly rather weak chorale. Occasionally an evidently fugal subject is announced, which is never destined to form the subject for a fugue. However, the story is well put together, the music is quite easy, and many choirs, unable to conquer greater difficulties, will feel at home in this so-called "oratorio."

_Six Morceaux de Salon._ Pour violin, avec accompagnement de piano. Par Guido Papini. Op. 66.--The author of "La Mécanisme du jeune Violiniste" has given us in these little pieces a charming addition to the _répertoire_ of the amateur violinist. Specially tender and expressive is No. 4. The piano shares with the violin both the difficulties and the interests of each of the _morceaux_.

_Victoria Gavotte._ For piano. By Tito Mattei.--A capital piano piece. We presume from the title that this is Signor Mattei's contribution to the Jubilee Commemoration.

ROBERT COCKS AND CO.

_Gladys._ Rustic Dance. Composed for the pianoforte by Howard Talbot.--A bright, telling piece. It would be very useful as an _entr'acte_ in your Christmas charades.

_For Old Sake's Sake._ Song for contraltos. By Behrend.

W. MORLEY AND CO.

_Watching the Embers._ Song. Composed by Ciro Pinsuti to Weatherly's words.--With a pretty refrain, but for the most part made up of a series of common phrases. It is to be obtained in B flat, C, and D minors.

_Childie._ Song. By Behrend. Published in keys to suit all voices.--The song is very similar to all his others. An old lady advising a child to die young.

_The Biter Bit._ Song. Words and music by Henry Pontet.--A warning to any who would marry for money, and not for love. In learning the above three songs I am sure that singers will be as much distracted as I have been by little squares like lottery coupons announcing that somebody else's song cost £250. If this statement could appear elsewhere--say on separate slips--the songs would be more pleasant to read.

HENRY KLEIN.

_The Land of Song._ Song for tenors and sopranos by that clever composer, Franz Leideritz. Not so original as "Flowers from Home," the memory of which still delights us.

ORSBORN AND TUCKWOOD.

_Sailing Across the Sea._ Song. By Vernon Rey.--Prettily told and easy to learn.

_Merry Melodies._ A series of duets for two violins for schools and classes, arranged by Arthur Graham. We see from the title-page that there are to be arrangements of the works of eminent composers, but the names are not given.

W. J. WILLCOCKS AND CO.

_Offertoire and Fugue in B flat._ _Grand Offertoire, founded upon subjects in Schumann's Quintet, op. 44._--These are two finely-written organ solos by George F. Vincent. Valuable additions to our stock of English organ music.

MARRIOTT AND WILLIAMS.

_Twenty Miles to London Town._ Song. Written and composed by Gerald M. Lane.--Mr. Lane is more fortunate in his music than in his words. The ballad--for genuine English ballad it is--is of the "Bailiff's Daughter of Islington" type, and is published in F, G, and A.

_Captor and Captive._ A song of Araby. By Edwin J. Quance.--A good stirring song for baritones.

BOWERMAN AND CO.

_Deuxième Nocturne pour Piano._ Par G. J. Rubini.--An unpretending piano piece of the Gustave Lange type.

EXPLANATION OF FRENCH AND OTHER TERMS USED IN MODERN COOKERY.