“That is Miss Lucy Wodehouse—one of our Carlingford beauties,” said Dr. Rider.
“Do you know her very well?” asked the inquisitive Nettie. “How she stares—why does she stare, do you suppose? Is there anything absurd about my dress? Look here—don’t they wear bonnets just like this in England?”
“So far as I am able to judge,” said the doctor, looking at the tiny head overladen with hair, from which the bonnet had fallen half off.
“I suppose she is surprised to see me here. Drive on faster, Dr. Edward, I want to talk to you. I see Fred has been telling us a parcel of stories. It would be cruel to tell Susan, you know, for she believes in him; but you may quite trust me. Is your brother good for anything, Dr. Edward, do you suppose?”
“Not very much now, I fear,” said the doctor.
“Not very much now. I suppose he never was good for much,” said the indignant Nettie; “but he was said to be very clever when he first came out to the colony. I can’t tell why Susan married him. She is very self-willed, though you would fancy her so submissive. She is one of those people, you know, who fall ill when they are crossed, and threaten to die, so that one daren’t cross her. Now, then, what is to be done with them? He will not go back to the colony, and I don’t care to do it myself. Must I keep them here?”
“Miss Underwood—” began the perplexed doctor.
“It would save trouble to call me Nettie—everybody does,” said his strange companion; “besides, you are my brother in a kind of a way, and the only person I can consult with; for, of course, it would not do to tell one’s difficulties to strangers. Fred may not be very much to depend upon, you know, but still he is Fred.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, with a little self-reproach, “still he is Fred; but pardon me, the name suggests long aggravations. You can’t tell how often I have had to put up with affronts and injuries because it was Fred. I shouldn’t like to grieve you—”
“Never mind about grieving me;—I am not in love with him;—let me hear all about it!” said Nettie.
Dr. Rider paused a little; seeing the abyss upon the brink of which this brave little girl was standing, he had not the heart to aggravate her by telling the failures of the past. Better to soften the inevitable discovery if possible. But his hesitation was quite apparent to Nettie. With considerable impatience she turned round upon him.
“If you think I don’t know what I am doing, but have gone into this business like a fool, you are quite mistaken, Dr. Edward,” she said, a little sharply. “I see how it is as well as anybody can do. I knew how it was when I left the colony. Don’t be alarmed about me. Do you think I am to be turned against my own flesh and blood by finding out their follies; or to grumble at the place God put me in?—Nothing of the sort! I know the kind of situation perfectly—but one may make the best of it, you know: and for that reason tell me everything, please.”
“But, Miss Underwood, consider,” cried the doctor, in consternation. “You are taking responsibilities upon yourself which nobody could lay upon you; you! young—tender” (the doctor paused for a word, afraid to be too complimentary)—“delicate! Why, the whole burden of this family will come upon you. There is not one able to help himself in the whole bundle! I am shocked!—I am alarmed!—I don’t know what to say to you—”
“Don’t say anything, please,” said Nettie. “I know what I am about. Do you call this a street or a lane, or what do you call it? Oh, such nice houses! shouldn’t I like to be able to afford to have one of them, and nurses, and governesses, and everything proper for the children! I should like to dress them so nicely, and give them such a good education. I don’t know anything particular to speak of, myself—I shall never be able to teach them when they grow older. If Fred, now, was only to be trusted, and would go and work like a man and make something for the children, I daresay I could keep up the house;—but if he won’t do anything, you know, it will take us every farthing just to live. Look here, Dr. Edward: I have two hundred a-year;—Susan had the same, you know, but Fred got all the money when they were married, and muddled it away. Now, how much can one do in Carlingford with three children upon two hundred a-year?”
“Fred will be the meanest blackguard in existence,” cried the doctor, “if he takes his living from you.”
“He took his living from you, it appears,” said Nettie, coolly, “and did not thank you much. We must make the best of him. We can’t help ourselves. Now, there is the pretty church, and there is our little house. Come in with me and answer for me, Dr. Edward. You can say I am your sister-in-law, you know, and then, perhaps, we can get into possession at once; for,” said Nettie, suddenly turning round upon the doctor with her brilliant eyes shining out quaintly under the little brow all puckered into curves of foresight, “it is so sadly expensive living where we are now.”
To look at the creature thus flashing those shining eyes, not without a smile lurking in their depths, upon him—to see the triumphant, undaunted, undoubting youthfulness which never dreamt of failure—to note that pretty anxiety, the look which might have become a bride in
