Wives and Daughters: An Every-Day Story - Page 124/572

"I'm sure I don't know anything about it, my dear. It seems to me

that what Dorothy was saying was very true--very true indeed; and I

think, love, you misunderstood her; or, perhaps, she misunderstood

you; or I may be misunderstanding it altogether; so we'd better not

talk any more about it. What price did you say you were going to give

for the drugget in Mr. Gibson's dining-room, sister?"

So Miss Browning and Molly went on till evening, each chafed and

angry with the other. They wished each other good-night, going

through the usual forms in the coolest manner possible. Molly went

up to her little bedroom, clean and neat as a bedroom could be, with

draperies of small delicate patchwork--bed-curtains, window-curtains,

and counterpane; a japanned toilette-table, full of little boxes,

with a small looking-glass affixed to it, that distorted every face

that was so unwise as to look in it. This room had been to the child

one of the most dainty and luxurious places ever seen, in comparison

with her own bare, white-dimity bedroom; and now she was sleeping in

it, as a guest, and all the quaint adornments she had once peeped at

as a great favour, as they were carefully wrapped up in cap-paper,

were set out for her use. And yet how little she had deserved this

hospitable care; how impertinent she had been; how cross she had felt

ever since! She was crying tears of penitence and youthful misery

when there came a low tap to the door. Molly opened it, and there

stood Miss Browning, in a wonderful erection of a nightcap, and

scantily attired in a coloured calico jacket over her scrimpy and

short white petticoat.

"I was afraid you were asleep, child," said she, coming in and

shutting the door. "But I wanted to say to you we've got wrong

to-day, somehow; and I think it was perhaps my doing. It's as well

Phoebe shouldn't know, for she thinks me perfect; and when there's

only two of us, we get along better if one of us thinks the other

can do no wrong. But I rather think I was a little cross. We'll not

say any more about it, Molly; only we'll go to sleep friends,--and

friends we'll always be, child, won't we? Now give me a kiss,

and don't cry and swell your eyes up;--and put out your candle

carefully."

"I was wrong--it was my fault," said Molly, kissing her.

"Fiddlestick-ends! Don't contradict me! I say it was my fault, and

I won't hear another word about it."

The next day Molly went with Miss Browning to see the changes going

on in her father's house. To her they were but dismal improvements.

The faint grey of the dining-room walls, which had harmonized well

enough with the deep crimson of the moreen curtains, and which

when well cleaned looked thinly coated rather than dirty, was now

exchanged for a pink salmon-colour of a very glowing hue; and the

new curtains were of that pale sea-green just coming into fashion.

"Very bright and pretty," Miss Browning called it; and in the first

renewing of their love Molly could not bear to contradict her. She

could only hope that the green and brown drugget would tone down the

brightness and prettiness. There was scaffolding here, scaffolding

there, and Betty scolding everywhere.