"MY DEAR MOTHER-FRIEND,
"The most curious thing has happened. I came accidentally to-day across the three girls about whom you were so interested. I met them at St. Paul's, and could not help speaking to the second one. The brightness, and yet the melancholy3, of her little face attracted my attention. She was not with the rest of her party, but sat for some of the time on one of the chairs, and then knelt down and covered her face. Poor little soul! I think she was crying. My sympathies were roused by her, and I spoke4. She flashed up a very bright glance at me, and we became friends on the spot. I took her about the cathedral, and showed her one or two objects of interest. She was full of intelligence. Then her sisters joined her, and your boy came up, and, of course, his name came out; and there was confusion and wondering glances, and the girl whom I had spoken to turned first crimson5, and then white, and her dark grey eyes became full of tears. 'I know the Ellsworthys; they are my dear, dear friends!' she exclaimed.
"I found out where the three lived before I left them. They were accompanied by a prim-looking maiden6 lady, who was introduced to me as a Miss Slowcum, and who appeared to be taking excellent care of the pretty creatures. All three are delightful7, and I have lost my heart to them all.
"Can I do anything for them? Of course you have already told me what perverse8 creatures they are, and Miss Jasmine confirmed your story, only, of course, she put her own coloring on it. I pity them, and yet, to a certain extent—forgive me, mother-friend—I admire their spirit. That eldest9 girl had a look about her face which will certainly keep every one from being rude to her. Such an expression of innocence10 and dignity combined I have seldom come across. Now, can I help them? It is an extraordinary thing, but I have a wonderful fellow-feeling for them. I can never forget the old days when I too was alone in London, and you took me up. Do you remember how you met me, and took my thin and dirty hands in yours, and looked into my face and said: 'Surely this is a gentleman's son, although he is clothed in rags?' I could just remember that I was a gentleman's son, and that I used to put my arms round a beautiful lady's neck and kiss her, and call her mother. Between her face and me there was a great horror of darkness, and suffering, and ill-usage; and my memories were feeble and dream-like. I don't even now recall them more vividly11. You took me up, and—you know the rest of my history.
"Well, it is a strange thing, but those girls, especially that little Jasmine, brought back the memory of the lady whose sweet face I used to kiss. Can I do anything for your girls? There are a thousand ways in which I could help them without hurting their proud spirits.
"Yours affectionately,
"ARTHUR NOEL."
In a very short time Mr. Noel received a brief communication from Mrs. Ellsworthy:—
MY DEAR ARTHUR,
"Your letter has been an untold12 relief. It was a special and good Providence13 that directed your steps to St. Paul's on that afternoon. My dear little Jasmine!—she is my pet of all the three. My dear Arthur, pray call on the girls at that dreadful Penelope Mansion14; they are so naughty and so obstinate15 that they simply must be caught by guile16. You must use your influence to get them out of that dreadful place. Look for respectable and nice lodgings17, and go beforehand to the landlady18. If she is very nice, confide19 in her, and tell her she is to look to me for payment, but she is on no account to let out this fact to the girls. Kensington is a nice, quiet, respectable neighborhood; you might take the drawing-room floor of a very quiet, nice house, and ask the landlady to offer it to the girls for five shillings a week, or something nominal20 of that sort. Primrose21 is so innocent at present that she will think five shillings quite a large sum; but tell the lady of the house to let it include all extras—I mean such as gas and firing. I suppose you could not get a house with the electric light?—no, of course not; it is not used yet in private dwellings—gas is so unwholesome, but the girls might use candles. Tell the landlady to provide them with the best candles, and tell her I'll pay her something handsome if she'll go out with them. And, my dear Arthur, don't let them go in omnibuses. Do your best, and, above all things, take them away from that awful mansion as soon as possible.
"Your affectionate Mother-Friend,
"KATE ELLSWORTHY."
But alas22! when Arthur Noel, in accordance with Mrs. Ellsworthy's instructions, went to see the girls, he was confronted first by Mrs. Flint, who assured him in her soft and cushion-like style that the young ladies had left, and as they had been undutiful enough not to confide in her she could furnish him with no address. As he was leaving the mansion Poppy Jenkins rushed up to him.
"I heard you asking for my young ladies, sir, but it ain't no use, for they're gone. Flowers of beauty they was—beautiful in manner and in face—but they ain't to be found here no more. The Mansion didn't suit them, and the people in the Mansion didn't suit them, and that isn't to be wondered at. I suppose they has gone to a more congenial place, but the address is hid from me; no, sir, I know nothing at all about them. Yes, sir, it's quite true—I misses them most bitter!"
Here poor Poppy, covering her face with her hands, burst into tears and disappeared down the back staircase.
Noel wrote to Mrs. Ellsworthy, and Mrs. Ellsworthy wrote back to him, and between them they made many inquiries23, and took many steps, which they felt quite sure must lead to discovery, but notwithstanding all their efforts they obtained no clue to the whereabouts of the Mainwaring girls.
CHAPTER XXIII.
DARK DAYS.
"How bitterly cold it is, Primrose!"
The speaker was Jasmine; she sat huddled24 up to a small, but bright fire, which burned in the sitting-room25 grate.
The girls had now been several months in Eden Street, and all the summer weather and the summer flowers had departed, and the evening in question was a very dull and foggy one in late November.
The little sitting-room still wore its rose-tinted paper, but the white curtains at the windows had assumed a decided27 and permanent tint26 of yellow, and the fog found its way in through the badly-fitting attic28 windows, and made the whole room look cloudy. The girls' faces, too, had altered with the months. Jasmine had lost a good deal of her vivacity29, her expression was slightly fretful, and she no longer looked the spruce and sparkling little lass who had gone away from Rosebury in the summer. Primrose had lost the faint color which used to tinge31 her cheeks; they were now almost too white for beauty, but her eyes were still clear, calm, and sweet; her dress was still the essence of simplicity32 and neatness, and her bearing was gentle and dignified33 as of old. The alteration34 in Daisy was less apparent at this moment, for she was stretched on two cushions in one corner of the sitting-room, and with a warm rug thrown over her, and with the Pink curled up in her arms, was fast asleep.
"How cold it is, Primrose," repeated Jasmine; then, as her sister made no reply, but went on calmly darning some stockings, she continued, "I think you have really grown stingy. Why can't we have some more coal? this is much too small a fire for weather with snow on the ground, and a horrid35, odious36 fog filling every corner."
"Hush37!" said Primrose, laying down her work, and stooping towards her younger sister, who sat on the hearthrug, "I am keeping the coal to put on until Daisy wakes. You know, Jasmine, we resolved not to run up any bills, and I cannot get in any coal until Mr. Danesfield sends us our next quarter's allowance—wrap my fur cloak round you, darling, and then you will be quite warm."
Jasmine shivered, but rising slowly, she went into the bedroom, and returned in a moment, not with the fur cloak, but with a white woolly shawl. "The day for Mr. Danesfield's money will arrive in less than a week," she said. "Oh, Primrose! I thought you were going to be a good manager; I did not think you were going to bring us to this."
Primrose smiled.
"Jasmine, dear," she said, "you are not quite brave to-night, or you would not speak to me in that tone. You forget that we should not have been short of money had not that five-pound note been stolen from us. When Mr. Danesfield's allowance comes in we shall be able to go on as usual, and then you need not suffer from a short allowance of fire. Jasmine, I know what is the matter with you; you did not eat half enough dinner to-day. When I was out this afternoon I called to see Miss Egerton, and she gave me three delicious new-laid eggs—really new-laid—we'll have them for supper."
"No, we won't," said Jasmine, her eyes suddenly filling with tears, and her pettish38 mood changing to a tender and very sad one—"those eggs were given for Daisy, and no one else shall eat them. Do you know, Primrose, that Miss Egerton does not think Daisy at all strong?"
"Oh, she is mistaken," said Primrose. "No one who does not know her thinks Daisy strong; she has a fragile look, but it is only her look. All my courage would go if I thought Daisy were ill—she is not ill; look at her now, what a sweet color she has on her cheeks."
"Miss Egerton says she is like a little sister of her own," continued Jasmine. Then she stopped suddenly. "Oh! Primrose, you are not going to cry? oh, don't; it would be dreadful if you gave way! No, Primrose, she is not like little Constance Egerton; she is just our own Daisy, who never looks strong, but who is very strong—she shall never be cold, and she shall have all the nourishment—you and I don't mind how plainly we live, do we, Queen Rose?"
Primrose had quickly wiped away her sudden tears. She rose to her feet, and, going up to Jasmine, gave her a hasty kiss.
"We'll remember our good old resolution," she said brightly, "not to grumble39, not to fret30, not to cry. Ah! here is our dear little birdie waking from her sleep. Now, Jasmine on with the coals, and let us have a merry blaze while I see to the supper—porridge for you and me, and a nice fresh egg and a cup of warm milk for the Daisy-flower."
"The Pink must have some milk too," said Daisy, as she tumbled lazily out of her soft nest of cushions; "the Pink isn't half as fat as she used to be—I can feel all the bones down her spine—I know she wants cream. Oh, Primrose! I had such a darling dream—I thought the Prince came and found us!"
"The Prince, Daisy?"
"Yes; and he had the look of the gentleman we met long, long, long ago at St. Paul's Cathedral! Oh, Primrose, I'm so tired of London!"
"Never mind, darling," answered Primrose; "I'm always telling you you are only seeing the shady side at present. Only wait till Christmas comes, and Mr. Danesfield sends us our money."
"I wrote another poem last night," said Jasmine; "I called it 'The Uses of Adversity.' It was very mournful indeed; it was a sort of story in blank verse of people who were cold and hungry, and I mixed up London fogs, and attic rooms, and curtains that were once white, and had now turned yellow, and sloppy40 streets covered with snow, with the story. It was really very sad, and I cried a great deal over it. I am looking out now for a journal which likes melancholy things to send it to. I have not ventured to submit it to Miss Egerton, for she is so dreadfully severe, and I don't think much of her taste. She will never praise anything I do unless it is so simple as to be almost babyish. Now 'The Uses of Adversity' is as far as possible formed on the model of Milton's 'Paradise Lost'—it is strong, but gloomy. Shall I read it to you after supper, Primrose?"
"If you like, dear," answered Primrose; "but why do you try to write such very sad things, Jasmine?"
"Oh, I don't know; they suit me. Primrose, do you know of a very, very melancholy periodical?"
"Several of the periodicals seem to me rather melancholy," answered Primrose; "there is one I sometimes see on Mrs. Dove's table—it is called The Watch. I glanced at it one day, and I thought it seemed very morbid41."
"Oh, I know," answered Jasmine; "but there is a worse one than that—Mrs. Dove showed it to me. Mrs. Dove is very fond of reading, and she told me that she would not give a farthing for any literature that could not draw forth42 the salt and bitter tear; she says the magazine she likes best at present is a new one called The Downfall. She says it is very little known, but its melancholy is profound. Shall I send my verses to The Downfall, Primrose?"
"If you like, dear; but I don't at all admire the name, and I really do not think Mrs. Dove ought to be your guide in such matters, Jasmine."
"Oh, she has very good taste," answered Jasmine; "she says that only real talent is admitted on the staff of The Downfall. Of course I'd rather write for one of the shilling magazines. Well, if you like, I'll send my poem to one of them first."
Before Primrose could answer Jasmine on this weighty point there came a knock on the sitting-room door, and Mrs. Dove, with her face wrapped up in a thick woollen shawl, entered the room.
"Very sorry to disturb you, young ladies," she said, "but could you oblige me with the loan of three and tenpence-halfpenny. Dove has put in no appearance, and unless I can pay three and tenpence-halfpenny on account to the baker43 he refuses positive to allow me sufficient bread to see Sunday through."
When Mrs. Dove made this request Primrose's face became intensely pale. She was silent for half a minute, then she said—
"I will lend you the money this time, Mrs. Dove, but please don't ask me again; you know that at this present moment you owe me very nearly two pounds."
"Thank you, my dear Miss Mainwaring," answered Mrs. Dove, in a very suave44 voice, as she hastily pocketed poor Primrose's few shillings. "You are always obliging, and this, with the other trifle due, shall be returned the moment Dove comes in—Dove is on a very good piece of work just at present, and the money is as safe as safe. Oh, Miss Jasmine, I have brought you this week's copy of The Downfall—the serial45 in it is really of the most powerful order. I have shed a deluge46 of tears over it. The lowest person of rank in the pages is a marquess; but the story mostly deals in ducal families. It was a terrible blow to come down to the baker from the duke's ancestral halls—you read it, Miss Jasmine; you'll be very much overcome."
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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4
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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12
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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