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The Floating Press - Louisa Molesworth Mary

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80 pages

English

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British author Mary Louisa Molesworth rose to acclaim as the Jane Austen for Victorian tweens. Like most of her novels, Nurse Heatherdale's Story is packed with romance, adventure and important life lessons for girls on the brink of maturity. Young readers will delight in this whimsical, engaging tale.

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Children's

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mars 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775456148
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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NURSE HEATHERDALE'S STORY
* * *
MARY LOUISA MOLESWORTH

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Nurse Heatherdale's Story First published in 1891 ISBN 978-1-77545-614-8 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Love at First Sight Chapter II - An Unexpected Proposal Chapter III - Treluan Chapter IV - A Nursery Tea Chapter V - The Shop in the Village Chapter VI - The Smugglers' Caves Chapter VII - A Rainy Day Chapter VIII - The Old Latin Grammar Chapter IX - Upset Plans Chapter X - The New Baby Chapter XI - In Disgrace Again Chapter XII - Lost Chapter XIII - 'Old Sir David's' Secret
Chapter I - Love at First Sight
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I could fancy it was only yesterday! That first time I saw them. And tothink how many years ago it is really! And how many times I have toldthe story—or, perhaps, I should say the stories , for after all it isonly a string of simple day-by-day events I have to tell, though to meand to the children about me they seem so interesting and, in some ways,I think I may say, rather out of the common. So that now that I amgetting old, or 'beginning to think just a tiny bit about some daygetting old,' which is the only way Miss Erica will let me say it, andknowing that nobody else can know all the ins and outs which make thewhole just as I do, and having a nice quiet time to myself most days(specially since dear tiresome little Master Ramsey is off to schoolwith his brothers), I am going to try to put it down as well as I can.My 'as well as I can' won't be anything very scholarly or fine, I knowwell; but if one knows what one wants to say it seems to me the wordswill come. And the story will be there for the dear children, who arenever sharp judging of old Heather—and for their children after them,maybe.
I was standing at our cottage door that afternoon—a beautiful summerafternoon it was, early in June. I was looking idly enough across thecommon, for our cottage stood—stands still, perhaps—I have not beenthere for many a year—just at the edge of Brayling Common, where itskirts the pine-woods, when I saw them pass. Quite a little troop theylooked, though they were scarcely near enough for me to see themplainly. There was the donkey, old Larkins's donkey, which they hadhired for the time, with a tot of a girl riding on it, the page-boyleading it, and a nursemaid walking on one side, and on the other anolder little lady—somewhere about ten years old she looked, though shewas really only eight. What an air she had, to be sure! What a grandway of holding herself and stepping along like a little princess, forall that she and her sisters were dressed as simple as simple. Pinkcotton frocks, if I remember right, a bit longer in the skirts than ouryoung ladies wear them now, and nice white cotton stockings,—it waslong before black silk ones were the fashion for children,—andankle-strap shoes, and white sun-bonnets, made with casers and cords,nice and shady for the complexions, though you really had to be close tobefore you could see a child's face inside of them. And some way behind,another little lady, a good bit shorter than Miss Bess—I meant to giveall their names in order later on, but it seems strange-like not to sayit—and looking quite three years younger, though there was really nottwo between them. And alongside of her a boy, thin and pale anddarkish-haired—that, I could see, as he had no sun-bonnet of course,only a cap of some kind. He too was a good bit taller than Miss —,the middle young lady I mean, though short for his age, which was elevenpast. They were walking together, these two—they were mostly alwaystogether, and I saw that the boy was a little lame, just a touch, butenough to take the spring out of his step that one likes to see in ayoung thing. And though I couldn't see her face, only some long faircurls, long enough to come below the cape of her bonnet, a feeling cameover me that the child beside him was walking slow, keeping back as itwere, on purpose to bear him company. There was something gentle andpitying-like in her little figure, in the way she went closer to the boyand took his hand when the nurse turned round and called backsomething—I couldn't hear the words but I fancied the tone wassharp—to the two children behind, which made them press forward alittle. The other young lady turned as they came nearer and saidsomething with a sort of toss-up of her proud little head to the nurse.And then I saw that she held out her hand to her younger sister, whokept hold all the same of the boy's hand on the other side. And that washow they were walking when they went in among the trees and were lost tomy sight.
But I still stood looking after them, even when there was nothing moreof them to be seen. Not even the dog—oh, I forgot about him—he was thevery last of the party—a brisk, shortish haired, wiry-looking roughterrier, who, just as he got to the entrance of the wood, turned roundand stood for a moment barking, for all the world as if he might besaying, 'My young ladies have gone a-walking in the wood now, andnobody's to come a-troubling of them. So I give you fair notice.' He didthink, did Fusser, that was his name, that he managed all the affairsof the family. Many a time we've laughed at him for it.
'Dear me,' thought I to myself, 'I could almost make a story out ofthose young ladies and gentleman, though I've only seen them for aminute, or two at the most.'
For I was very fond of children even then, and knew a good deal abouttheir ways, though not so much—no, nor nothing like—what I do now! ButI was in rather a dreamy sort of humour. I had just left my firstplace,—that of nursery-maid with the family where my mother had beenbefore me, and where I had stayed on older than I should have done byrights, because of thinking I was going to be married. And six monthsbefore, my poor Charles had died suddenly, or so at least it had seemedto us all. For he caught cold, and it went to his chest, and he was gonein a fortnight. The doctor said for all he looked strong, he was reallysadly delicate, and it was bound to be sooner or later. It may have beentrue, leastways the doctor meant to comfort me by saying so, though Idon't know that I found much comfort in the thought. Not so much anyhowas in mother's simple words that it was God's will, and so it must beright. And in thinking how happy we had been. Never a word or a coldnessall the four years we were plighted. But it was hard to bear, and itchanged all my life for me. I never could bring myself to think ofanother.
Still I was only twenty-one, and after I'd been at home a bit, the youngladies would have me back to cheer me up, they said. I travelled withthem that spring; but when they all went up to London, and Miss Marianwas to be married, and the two little ones were all day with thegoverness, I really couldn't for shame stay on when there was no need ofme. So, though with many tears, I came home, and was casting about in mymind what I had best do—mother being hale and hearty, and no call fordress-making of a plain kind in our village—that afternoon, when Istood watching the stranger little gentry and old Larkins's donkey andthe dog, as they crossed the common into the firwood.
It was mother's voice that woke me up, so to say.
'Martha,' she called out in her cheery way, 'what's thee doing, child?I'm about tidied up; come and get thy work, and let's sit down a bitcomfortable. I don't like to see thee so down-like, and such brightsummer weather, though mayhap the very sunshine makes it harder forthee, poor dear.'
And she gave a little sigh, which was a good deal for her, for she wasnot one as made much talk of feelings and sorrows. It seemed to spiritme up somehow.
'I wasn't like that just now, mother,' I said cheerfully. 'I've beenwatching some children—gentry—going over the common—three littleyoung ladies and a boy, and Larkins's donkey. They made me think of MissCharlotte and Miss Marian when first I went there, though plainerdressed a good deal than our young ladies were. But real gentry, Ishould say.'
'And you'd say right,' mother answered. 'They are lodging at WidowNutfold's, quite a party of them. Their father's Sir—; dear, dear,I've forgot the name, but he's a barrowknight, and the family's name isPenrose. They come from somewhere far off, near by the sea—quite furrinparts, I take it.'
'Not out of England, you don't mean, do you?' I asked. For mother, ofcourse, kept all her old country talk, while I, with having been so manyyears with Miss Marian and her sisters, and treated more like a friendthan a servant, and great pains taken with my reading and writing, hadcome to speak less old-fashioned, so to say, and to give the propermeaning to my words. 'Foreign parts really means out of this country,where they talk French or Italian, you know, mother.'
But mother only shook her head.
'Nay,' she said, 'I mean what I say. Furrin parts is furrin parts. Iwouldn't say as they come from where the folks is nigger blacks, or fromold Boney's country neither, as they used to frighten us about when Iwas a child. But these gentry come from furrin parts. Why, I had it fromSarah Nutfold's own lips, last Saturday as never was, at Braylingmarket, and old neighbours of forty years; it's not sense to think she'dgo for to deceive me.'
Mother was just a little offended, I could see, and I thought to myselfI must take care of seeming to set her right.
'Of course not,' I said. 'You couldn't have it surer than from M