Chapter VII

In the latter end of August, Nora was to take possession. The old part of the house, repaired, papered, and painted, but in its inward form and arrangements left unaltered, had been made ready for her. The rest of the building was unfurnished and uninhabitable, with the exception of one room. This was a drawing-room. The rooms in the old part of the house were low, and were, for the most part, intended for offices. One pretty little room, however, opening on the garden, had been chosen by Nora for her boudoir; but, as it was small and low, she had requested that it might open into the drawing-room, the first room in the new front. This it now did, and as she was to take possession in the summer, the drawing-room had been to a degree made ready for her also.

Mrs. Ratcliffe had arrived early in the month. She was now past seventy, but had more work in her, as she said, than many a young woman “nowadays.” She was accompanied by a widowed niece and her little girl. The niece was to be, for the present, cook and house-keeper under her directions, and the little girl, Sophy Brook, about nine years old, was to be brought up under Mrs. Ratcliffe’s eye, instructed in the mysteries of household work, and made such a servant “as there used to be.”

It was a pleasant, homelike arrangement for the old and attached servant; it had delighted Nora to make it, and she also looked forward to a share in the joy of instructing little Sophy.

Henry busied himself extremely in the inner arrangements of the house. He had not seen much of beauty or comfort in his own home; but he had passed a great part of his life in visiting, and in his visits he had not only seen, but, owing to the want of such attractions at home, had particularly noticed the thousand small things which make a room pretty and comfortable. Many men suppose such things grow as they are, like the wild flowers of a field; but others see and notice, and have a taste for arrangement fully equal to that of women. Henry’s new-fashioned taste differed considerably from that of Mrs. Ratcliffe, and many a fight was the consequence; but, although he was not always as patient or as courteous in enforcing his will as might be, she forgave him all offences, and took him to her heart. Since the day when she first longed to eat him, she had never forgotten him, and, in spite of his whims, she would still have eaten him with great pleasure.

She forgave him even a greater offence. Two or three days before Nora’s arrival, he insisted on having Mrs. Elliott over to see all that had been done.

“Now, don’t do it, sir. What’s the good? I know better what Miss Smith likes than a strange lady can.”

“She may not know what Miss Smith likes, but she knows what ladies in general like. Most of them probably like the same things.”

“Not a bit of it, sir. Miss Smith is no more like common ladies than I am like a cowslip.”

Henry laughed.

“I shall have my way, Mrs. Ratcliffe,” he said, pertinaciously. “I can’t believe in any extraordinary difference; and I want to know what a lady thinks.”

“He’s a wilful young man,” observed Mrs. Ratcliffe to Mrs. Brook, “but he’s a nice young gentleman, so I let him do as he pleased. Now, for that Mr. Field that goes creeping about, I would have fought him with the broomstick before I would have allowed him to bring a strange lady in.”

Mrs. Elliott came over at Henry’s summons. She had seen the plan and the early part of the building, but, having broken her leg in the spring, had not since been over. After approving all within, she walked out, though still lame, into the garden.

The garden was a thing of the future, not the present. It was all rough grass, and so was to be left till the building was over. The long, low front looking south faced the garden; the little boudoir opened to the west side, and the new drawing-room to the south front.

They stood at a distance, looking back, and Mrs. Elliott said,

“Well, yes, I like it now. I must own I thought the plan horrible. I thought it would look like one of the new poor-houses; but I give up. It is odd, but well managed. I wonder if Miss Smith will be pleased. When does she come?”

“The day after to-morrow--Thursday, as we understand at present.”

“Let me know if she puts off. I must come on Friday to welcome her. I am glad for your sake she is coming. You must have had a lonely time of it.”

“I don’t suppose her coming will make much difference to me,” Henry said, colouring as he spoke.

“It must make a difference. It will make a difference to me; much more to you on the spot.”

“That does not follow,” Henry replied gravely. “It may make a difference to you, because you will associate with her on intimate terms. But that can never be the case with me.”

“And why?”

“You know very well, Mrs. Elliott. We are not enemies; I will not say that--I try not to say it after the manner in which she has behaved to me; but we cannot be friends.”

“And why not, I say? Do not be so foolish. Is it that old offence of the money?”

“No, it is _not_ the money!” he cried passionately, switching a little tree with his stick. “Let the money go to the bottom of the Jordan if it pleases. But such things as have passed between us and our families can never be forgotten. Would to heaven they could!” he added, still more vehemently; “but they can’t.”

Mrs. Elliott longed to say “What things?” and it might have been of use to Henry’s mind if she had, to force him to express in plain terms what he had to complain of. But she felt afraid, and there was a pause. She then rallied, and said,

“How, then, do you mean to behave?”

“As her faithful servant,” he replied, and with a dignity that made her bite her lip to suppress a smile.

“Who is that?” she asked, as, passing within view of the boudoir, a little head, with short fair curls hanging round it, peeped out of the window.

“It’s that little mischievous girl, Mrs. Ratcliffe’s grand-daughter, or some complicated relationship of the kind. I say, Sophy, come here!” he called, authoritatively.

Sophy Brook was a pretty little girl, not ill-disposed, but very vain, and fond of praise and notice. If she was to be the valuable servant Mrs. Ratcliffe intended, much would have to be learned and unlearned. A good deal of supervision was exercised over her by her two guardians, but a good deal of freedom was also allowed; and they did not know how often in those hours of freedom she stole about among the workmen, in the hope of getting a little notice. Any notice was welcome, but the one that was coveted was Henry’s. He would indeed, if she intruded when he was busy, push her away most unceremoniously; but if he was in the mood, he would talk to her with that genuine sympathy in her childish pleasures which children are quick to appreciate.

She came now at his call, frightened, yet holding down her head with a coquettish air.

“What are you doing in there, Miss Sophy?” he said. “Did your mother give you leave to go in?”

Sophy only hung her head, blushing.

“I thought how it was. Now, mind, you are _not_ to go in now the things are set out. If you disobey and anything should be broken--” he did not finish his sentence, but he looked very fierce, and shook his fist most menacingly.

The little girl began to cry--she could never bear to be blamed; on which Henry, mollified, patted her head, pulled out her little soft curls, and told her not to spoil such a pretty face with crying. Sophy, delighted, blushed again, dried her tears with her pinafore, gave one look at him with her pretty blue eyes, and then bounded away.

“What excellent education!” said Mrs. Elliott, satirically.

“Oh! hang education!” he replied; “if there is a thing I hate it is that. Why not please a poor little mortal? Don’t you see how she likes to hear she is pretty?”

“I do indeed,” she replied drily; but what was the use of talking to Henry on the subject; and she said no more.