Nancy

Nancy, by Rhoda Broughton

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Title: Nancy
Author: Rhoda Broughton
Release Date: May 9, 2004 [EBook #12304]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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NANCY:
A NOVEL.
BY RHODA BROUGHTON.

AUTHOR OF "'GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART!'" "RED AS A ROSE
IS SHE," ETC., ETC.

"As through the land at eve we went, And plucked the ripened ears, We
fell out, my wife and I, Oh, we fell out, I know not why, And kissed
again with tears."
1874

NANCY.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
"Put into a small preserving pan three ounces of fresh butter, and, as
soon as it is just melted, add one pound of brown sugar of moderate
quality--"
"Not moderate; the browner the better," interpolates Algy.
"Cannot say I agree with you. I hate brown sugar--filthy stuff!" says
Bobby, contradictiously.
"Not half so filthy as white, if you come to that," retorts Algy, loftily,
looking up from the lemon he is grating to extinguish his brother.
"They clear white sugar with but--"
"Keep these stirred gently over a clear fire for about fifteen minutes,"
interrupt I, beginning to read again very fast, in a loud, dull recitative,
to hinder further argument, "or until a little of the mixture dipped into
cold water breaks clear between the teeth without sticking to them.
When it is boiled to this point it must be poured out immediately or it
will burn."

Having galloped jovially along, scorning stops, I here pause out of
breath. We are a large family, we Greys, and we are all making taffy.
Yes, every one of us. It would take all the fingers of one hand, and the
thumb of the other, to count us, O reader. Six! Yes, six. A Frenchman
might well hold up his hands in astonied horror at the insane
prolificness--the foolhardy fertility--of British householders. We come
very improbably close together, except Tou Tou, who was an
after-thought. There are no two of us, I am proud to say, exactly
simultaneous, but we have come tumbling on each other's heels into the
world in so hot a hurry that we evidently expect to find it a pleasant
place when we get there. Perhaps we do--perhaps we do not; friends,
you will hear and judge for yourselves.
A few years ago when we were little, people used to say that we were
quite a pretty sight, like little steps one above another. We are big steps
now, and no one any longer hazards the suggestion of our being pretty.
On the other hand, nobody denies that we are each as well furnished
with legs, arms, and other etceteras, as our neighbors, nor can affirm
that we are notably more deficient in wits than those of our friends who
have arrived in twos and threes.
We are in the school-room, the big bare school-room, that has seen us
all--that is still seeing some of us--unwillingly dragged, and painfully
goaded up the steep slopes of book-learning. Outside, the March wind
is roughly hustling the dry, brown trees and pinching the diffident
green shoots, while the round and rayless sun of late afternoon is
staring, from behind the elm-twigs in at the long maps on the wall, in at
the high chairs--tall of back, cruelly tiny of seat, off whose rungs we
have kicked all the paint--in at the green baize table, richly freaked with
splashes. Hardly less red than the sun's, are our burnt faces gathered
about the fire.
This fire has no flame--only a glowing, ruddy heart, on which the
bright brass saucepan sits; and kneeling before it, stirring the mess with
a long iron spoon, is Barbara. Algy, as I have before remarked, is
grating a lemon. Bobby is buttering soup-plates. The Brat--the Brat
always takes his ease if he can--is peeling almonds, fishing delicately

for them in a cup of hot water with his finger and thumb; and I, Nancy,
am reading aloud the receipt at the top of my voice, out of a greasy,
dog's-eared cookery-book, which, since it came into our hands, has
been the innocent father of many a hideous compound. Tou Tou alone,
in consideration of her youth, is allowed to be a spectator. She sits on
the edge of the table, swinging her thin legs, and kicking her feet
together.
Certainly we deteriorate in looks as we go downward. In Barbara we