# The Lark (Nesbit)/Chapter 19

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CHAPTER XIX
And, sure enough, when they went over the house again, the two girls found their enthusiasm reviving. It was, as Jane said, just the place for Pigs. If it had been designed for the accommodation of paying guests it could not have been designed better. The large sitting-rooms; the many bed-rooms, most of them with their own dressing-rooms, or at least powdering-rooms, attached; the big, cool kitchen where meals could be prepared without fuss or confusion; the really excellent larders, dairies, and pantries all promised success in the new venture. Two maids would be needed, or perhaps three, and a cook. Mrs. Doveton was a beautiful cook, and there were such heaps of rooms that it would be quite easy to let her have her son with her, and then she could give up the maisonette, whose inconveniences haunted her conversation, and live as she constantly said she wanted to live—where there was a bit of green to look out on. The girls closed the shop early so as to catch Mrs. Doveton before she left Hope Cottage and bring her to see the house. She said wouldn't to-morrow do, there was a bit of ironing she rather wanted to get on with, but when they said that to-morrow wouldn't do, and she must come then and there to see their beautiful new house, she said she supposed young ladies must be humoured, took the irons off, put on her hat and jacket—she always wore a jacket in the street—and came with them. They took her all over Cedar Court, asking her many times if it wasn't perfectly lovely, and she said as many times that it was very nice, she was sure.
Then they took her to the garden room and made tea for ​her, which she said she didn't really feel to need, thanking them all the same, and they unfolded their plan. And then after all Mrs. Doveton wouldn't!
"It's very kind of you, miss, I'm sure," she said, "and offering to make a home for the boy and all, but I couldn't do justice to it—no, I couldn't. All them stairs, and the dining-room all that way from the kitchen, and no hot water laid on to the sink. No, there isn't, miss, for I looked; only one tap besides the rain-water, which is a convenience, of course, but no good for greasy plates and pans. Twenty years ago I don't say. But I'm too old for it now, miss, again thanking you kindly."
She spoke with her usual gentle monotony. And when she had finished speaking she sat and stroked her smooth old wrinkled knuckly hands with the worn wedding-ring on one, and sailor's silver ring with two hands joined over a heart on the other, and looked out on the lawn where the cedars were.
"But you said you'd like to be where there was a garden," said Jane.
"A bit of garden," she said gently, but very firmly, "not grounds."
"And you'd have two maids, you know, to do all the housework, and help in the washing-up and all that."
"That settles it then," said Mrs, Doveton unexpectedly. "I was just wondering whether I couldn't make a shift to do for you till winter come on, with grates and coals and that, if you could shut up most of the rooms; but with two girls to look after, and girls what they are nowadays, keeping out of work as long as they can and living on Mr. Lord Joyge's bounty—no, miss, no—not for a king's hansom, I wouldn't."
"Oh dear," said Jane, "and we thought it would be so nice for you! And now we shan't be living at Hope Cottage, what will you do? You said the other day it's so hard to get work. What will you do?"
"Providence will provide, miss," said Mrs. Doveton. "It ​always has and it always will. What I say is, don't go to meet trouble half way, and then as like as not you won't meet it at all."
"That's just what I think," said Jane eagerly. "Oh, Mrs. Doveton, we're so fond of you! I hate to think of parting—and you know you like us too."
"I've been very comfortable with you, miss, I'm sure," said Mrs. Doveton temperately. "Don't you worry about me. We shall meet again, no doubt, if it's for the best."
It was then that Jane leaped up and clapped her hands, startling Mrs. Doveton to something that was almost a jump.
"I've got it!" she shouted. "Oh, hooray! Look here, Mrs. Doveton. Hope Cottage is not going to be let. It's to be kept just as it is, only spick and span, with none of our untidy rubbish lying about. Of course someone will have to keep it like that. Would you like to live there, with your son, of course, and have the kitchen and the two back bedrooms and the little back parlour, and just keep the house tidy?"
But even that suggestion Mrs. Doveton did not grasp at. She merely asked what the rent would be.
"Why, nothing!" said Jane. "We lend you half the house in return for your keeping the other half tidy. And there's the bit of garden and everything."
"It's rather a large garden—more like a pleasure-garden, miss, isn't it? But there, thank you for the offer, I'm sure. I'll talk it over with Herb to-night and let you know to-morrow, if that will do. And perhaps I'd better be moving on."
And she did.
"Heigho!" said Lucilla, stretching her arms. "How disappointing people are! I did think she'd love it. But no! And not even half Hope Cottage, rent free, for that's what it comes to. She isn't pleased. She'll only talk it over with Herb. It's rather disheartening, isn't it?"
"It's exactly like us for not being pleased when we got Cedar Court," said Jane. "Hear the words of wisdom—wonderful in one so young, isn't it? But it was a facer! ​I simply didn't dare to tell her it wasn't going to be simply us. What would she have said if we'd told her we meant to have Pigs?—I say, we must drop calling them that or we shall do it when they're here. How many could we have? Eight at least, and Mr. Dix said this morning we ought to charge three guineas a week. Three times eight is twenty-four—twenty-five with the guineas shillings. How much a year is that?"
"Oh, more than a thousand pounds, I should think. But then think of the maids' wages and the cook's wages and all the things to eat—and . . ."
"Well, that's all, isn't it?"
"Oh, I could think of heaps of other things—oh yes, having the piano tuned; and laundry; and gas; and there's water rates, I suppose, and things like that. And then all the rooms wouldn't always be full."
"Mr. Dix said we ought to make enough out of the house and garden to keep us comfortably."
"It's my belief it's going to be a very tight fit. And do you see us watching the marmalade and counting the lumps of sugar and locking up the tea? Because I don't. There's one thing: Mr. Dix was saying we shall have all our vegetables and fruit free—I mean we shan't have to buy them—and we must make our own jam. Look here, Jane, we've sometimes thought the shop rather a fag. It's nothing to what this is going to be. And don't you see we shall have to get a girl for the shop? Another expense."
"Glorious!" said Jane. "I hadn't thought of that. We shall get out of the shop, anyhow. Doing one thing all day and every day and wearing nothing but Indian pinafores—I don't know how girls stand it in factories. Selling flowers is pretty work, after all. Suppose we worked in a rubber factory. Mr. Dix was saying that you eat, drink, smell, and breathe rubber and naphtha. You can't get away from it, and when you go home you take it home with you. Oh, we 're very lucky, Luce. First the shop—and then the moment we're tired of that we find it's our positive duty to get ​one to take it on while we go and play at something else. And I suppose if we have Pigs—I mean paying guests—we shall have to have late dinners and dress for it. I don't know why, but that's quite a blissful thought. Don't you think we ought to buy some new clothes?"
"No," said Lucilla, "we shall want all our money for food. There are heaps of lovely things of Aunt Lucy's—far lovelier than we could begin to afford to buy."
"That grey silk," said Jane.
"With the embroidered roses," said Lucilla, and the conversation wandered in a pleasant maze of stuffs and silks and shapes and styles till Jane haled it back to life's highroad by the remark that an advertisement ought to be written out for a cook.
"Mr, Dix said we ought to advertise at once. And we'll post it as we go home," she said.
"You do that and I'll write to Gladys and send her the money to send us some cream. That's the worst of being at school in Devonshire. I suppose Middlesex girls would never even think of wasting their money on cream."
"Mr. Dix said it was a pity we couldn't keep a cow," said Jane. You will observe that already Mr. Dix was quoted as an authority.
That evening a youth knocked at Hope Cottage—a youth in more than tidy clothes and a necktie so evidently the Sunday one that it was difficult to look at anything else. His wrists were red and lumpy and his ears were red. His eyes were down-dropped, and his shyness was such that at first he could say nothing but:
"I thought I'd just call round."
"Yes," said Lucilla, with a wild wonder whether the news of Cedar Court's need of paying guests and of an under-gardener could possibly already be common talk in the neighbourhood, and, if so, whether this was come to offer itself in one of those capacities. Jane came out to the door. This gave him a fresh start.
​"Good evening," he said. "I thought I'd just call round."
"Come in," said Lucilla. Gardener or guest, one could not forbid him the parlour. Once in it, he sat down obediently when he was told to, and said for the third time:
"I thought I'd just call round."
"Yes," said Jane helpfully, and, as a sudden inspiration came to her, "Are you Mr. Herbert Doveton?"
"Oh yes, thank you," he answered gratefully, and still his eyes followed the intricacies, of the Brussels carpet's floral garlands. "My mother told me about what you'd offered us, and I give you my word I couldn't hardly—I mean I could hardly believe my ears. And when she told me that she hadn't accepted of your kind offer on the nail—I mean immediately—but wanted to talk it over with me. So I said, 'Oh, mother! . . .' But I mean I thought I'd better come round and say at once that we accept your kind offer and thank you most kindly."
"You thought you'd like to get the matter settled?" said Jane, rather cruelly, but not so cruelly as you might think, because she did not dream that the youth would understand the little sneer. But he did; he blushed a heavy crimson and bit his lip. Then he said:
"I don't wonder you thinking it was just me wanting to snap up a good thing."
"Oh no," said Jane, herself blushing miserably.
"But really it wasn't. It was only . . . I thought it looked so, mother not saying yes at once. I thought you'd think she didn't appreciate you being so kind and thoughtful. But mother is like that. It doesn't mean anything. As often as not if I buy her some trifle, or make her a fretwork bracket or what-not, or bring home a bit of relish for supper, as often as not she don't hardly seem to notice it, or says she doesn't know where it's to hang, and the fire's out, and so on. And then weeks after she'll let drop a word showing she's laid it up and pondered on it in her heart and thought much more of it than it was worth. And the same with you. And that's all, and I beg your pardon for troubling you, but——"
​"But you don't like to think of anyone not understanding that Mrs. Doveton is the best of mothers?—we quite understand. It was quite natural she should want to talk it over with you."
"Always has done," said he, "ever since I was quite a little nipper, my dad being brought home a corpse owing to the capsizing of a crane, and she hadn't anyone else to talk things over with. And you must talk to someone."
"Yes, indeed," said Jane cordially. "Well, I'm very glad you and your mother are coming to take care of our house. And we should never think anything of her that wasn't good. We know well enough that she's a dear."
"Then that's all," he said, and got up suddenly as a Jack-in-the-box. "I only wanted to be sure you didn't think mother didn't care. And you don't. Good-night, miss—I mean good-night and thank you," and with that he at last raised his eyes, and they were beautiful eyes. Clear and grey and bright, and they looked straight at you, as a man's eyes ought to look. And when the girls shook hands with him he grasped their hands as a man should grasp a hand, and he no longer seemed clumsy or awkward as he said: "And if there's any little repairs required in the house I'm quite competent. I'll begin by oiling your gate. I'm attending evening classes at the Polytechnic. I'm a clerk at present, but I'm going to be an engineer; and I mustn't waste your time, miss. I mean I mustn't waste your time. Good-night, I'm sure."
And he went out, stumbling over the red sheepskin slip-mat and stumbling again over the front-door mat that said "Salve."
"Well," said Lucilla, as they heard the gate creak to behind him.
"Yes, I know," said Jane. "Don't rub it in. I'm going to write a book about life, and the first thing in it will be, 'Far more people are nice to you than you've any right to expect.'"
"And there's another young man to add to our collection," said Lucilla.
​Mr. Dix gardened in a sort of fury of enthusiasm; by Saturday it was possible to knock the balls about. Mr. Rochester investigated the fountain, attended to the gas-burners and the taps, and then very humbly asked whether he might try to get the paint oft the library. This kept him busy and kept him near: but he was careful not to be too near or too often. It was quite pleasant. By Monday Mr. Dix had an under-gardener of surly demeanour and flaming testimonials, and a boy who only opened his mouth once in the presence of Jane and Lucilla, and then he asked when the apples would be ripe. No candidate for the position of shop assistant had, however, presented herself. Nor had the cook advertisement brought a single answer.
The original beer-seeking charwoman, Mrs. Veale, having been found by Mr. Rochester and reinstated, Lucilla and Jane had to take it in turns to keep shop and to superintend her labours. Trade was brisk, for the time of roses was beginning, and the roses, though not of the finest shape and quite ineligible as show blooms, were yet plentiful, fresh, sweet, and eminently saleable. And the syringa was out, with its cheap, sweet mockery of bridal garlands. And there were lettuces to sell—and spring onions, but they were kept outside. And cabbage and celery and broccoli plants. And parsley for people who had cold beef. And mint for people who had lamb.
The house was gradually being cleaned and in the close inspection that the superintendence of such cleaning involved more charms were daily discovered. Jane and Lucilla, heroically reserving the best bedrooms for the paying guests, had chosen for their own two smaller rooms communicating by a door. The windows were not fifteen feet from a high, flat wall of clipped yew—at least, it ought to have been clipped, and would be next year: this year it was too late to do anything but admire the soft, vivid blue-green of its new shoots.
An animated discussion as to whether these chosen rooms must, or need not, this year at least, be re-papered led to the ​discovery of a secret door, or at any rate a door that had been boarded up and used as a cupboard. This opened into the first storey of the round tower. What could be more ideal? Bedrooms and boudoir altogether.
"And it's to be a boudoir, too," said Jane. "A place for you and me to sulk in. No one else admitted on any pretence."
This was a Sunday afternoon. How blessed a day is Sunday to those who serve in shops, or, in any of the walks of commerce, earn their living!
"This is a most lovely room," said Jane. "The window looks out at the front, it's true, but when you're sitting down you only see the ilex and the horse-chestnut and the copper beech. Hullo . . . who on earth . . ."
A figure at once dowdy and resplendent, with a sports coat of a flannellettish pink and a large rust-red hat surrounded by jazz flowers was creeping slowly up the drive. It carried a tin hat-box and several large, straggling brown-paper parcels. It walked with a sort of tired determination; it disappeared in the porch and then the bell echoed through the house.
"It can't be a cook come about the place, on a Sunday afternoon."
"You'd think not," said Lucilla, noncommittally.
They went down and opened the door to a very hot and rather grubby girl, who instantly threw her bundles from her on to the hall table and said:
"Phew!"
It was Gladys.
"Yes," she said, "I come directly I got your letter. When I read what Miss Lucy put in about the big house you'd got and no servants yet, me mind was made up in a flash. That's the service for me, I says, and I slips off by the morning train. But what a caution them Sunday trains is—stop everywhere and people in and out on yer toes for hours and hours. Now don't say you ain't glad to see me after all."
​"But we are," said Jane, resolutely stifling a mixed litter of conflicting emotions. "Very glad indeed."
"Thank them as be for that!" said Gladys heartily, "for if you hadn't a-bin, after what I've gone through, I don't think flesh and blood could have borne it. I've brought the cream."