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Table of contents
- HOME ALONE WITH THE MAN OF THE HOUSE by Dixie Duke
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I wonder if there ever was another girl who had to make up her own pet name, and then had nobody who would use it except herself? When I talk to myself I always say 'Barrie,' in different tones of voice, to hear how it sounds. I try to say it as if I loved myself, because no one else loves me—unless maybe you do; just a tiny, tiny bit.
Do you, Heppie? And she stood two years of Grandma and this house!
HOME ALONE WITH THE MAN OF THE HOUSE by Dixie Duke
Twenty—twenty-one; that's what she was when she—went away! Could even you blame her for wanting to run away from this awful house, and she an Irish girl?
Anyhow, I don't blame her—not one bit. He didn't to me. I can remember that. I used to be afraid of him and glad to escape. Perhaps he made her feel like that too—oh, without meaning it. I'm sure he was good.
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But so is Grandma good—horribly good. There's something about this house that spoils goodness, and turns it to a kind of poison. It must have been awfully depressing to be married to father if one had any fun in one, and loved to laugh. As for the 'helpless child,' I dare say I was a horrid little squalling brat with scarlet hair and a crimson face and a vile temper, that no one could possibly love.
At least, so I have always been taught. Personally, of course," Heppie hastened to add, "I know nothing of motherhood and its duties. Grandma let me keep it because it came from him, and I did love it dearly! I do still.
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I learned just how to be a mother, playing with it. I know I shall be a perfectly sweet mother when I have a child. But I won't be unmaidenly any more, dear Heppie—at least, if I can help it—if you'll only do me one great favour. Oh, you needn't be afraid! Grandma let it out that she's alive. She's not even old yet—not so very old. You must tell me what's happened to her. I always skip news of the theatre in reading the papers aloud to Mrs. I wish I'd known!
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I'd have got at the papers somehow before they were cremated. Now I understand why Grandma tries to keep them out of my hands. They are full of wickedness. There is much I have to miss out. MacDonald's greatest trial—except your father's death. To think that the name of her son—the name of his great ancestors—should be bandied about in the theatres!
But now it will be useless asking me any more questions, for I shall not answer them.
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Will you let me see you begin your supper? Thank you so much for talking to me, and being so kind. I believe you'd often like to be kind when you daren't.
Miss Hepburn looked slightly surprised. She had expected to be teased for further information, rather than thanked cordially for that already doled out. MacDonald considers the punishment over. You must be careful to come down the minute you hear the bell, and not be late for prayers. Janet actually started, and a blush produced itself in a way peculiar to her face, appearing mostly upon the nose, where it lingered rosily at the end. Kisses were not exchanged under Mrs. MacDonald's roof. Barrie's was a most disquieting suggestion, and sounded as if she had a presentiment that she was about to die or, at the best, be very ill.
Still, there was no real impropriety in an ex-governess kissing her late pupil; and possibly the desire revealed a spirit of repentance and meekness on the part of Barribel, which deserved to be encouraged. Without spoken questions, therefore, Miss Hepburn pecked with her unkissed virgin lips the firm pink satin of Barrie's cheek. The deed seemed curiously epoch-making, and stirred her oddly. She was ashamed of the feeling she had, rather like a bird waking up from sleep and fluttering its wings in her breast.
Her nose burned; and she hastened her departure lest Barribel should notice some undignified difference in manner or expression. Instantly the girl began making a sandwich of the bread and cheese, which she wrapped up in a clean handkerchief. She would not take the napkin, because that belonged to Grandma.
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Hanging up in the wardrobe was a long cloak of the MacDonald hunting tartan, which looked as if it had been fashioned out of a man's plaid. On each side was a pocket; and into one of these Barrie slipped her little package. Already made up and lying on the floor of the wardrobe was another parcel, very much bigger, rolled in dark green baize which might have been a small table cover.
From a shelf Barrie snatched a tam-o'-shanter, also a dark green in colour. Absent-mindedly she pulled it over her head, and the green brightened the copper red of her hair. Slipping her arms into the sleeves of the queer cloak, she caught up her bundle, turned down the gas, and peeped cautiously out into the corridor. No one was there.
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The house was very still. Grandma's bell for reading and prayer would not ring yet for twenty minutes or more. The girl tiptoed out, locked the door behind her, and slipped the key into the pocket with the sandwiches. If any one came to call her to prayers, it would appear that she had shut herself in and was refusing to answer.
So far from this being the case, however, not more than six men and half as many women, one with two sleepy, whimpering children, obeyed the siren call. Five of the men looked for porters, and eventually culled them, like stiff-stemmed wayside plants; but the sixth man had not set his foot on the platform before he was accosted by two would-be helpers. What there was about him so different from, and so superior to, his fellow-travellers that it was visible to the naked eye at night, in a not too brilliantly lighted railway station, could be explained only by experts in the art of deciding at a glance where the best financial results are to be obtained.
The man was not richly dressed, was not decked out with watch-chains and scarf-pins and rings, nor had he a shape to hint that the possession of millions had led to self-indulgence.