Kitabı oku: «Robin Redbreast: A Story for Girls», sayfa 16

CHAPTER XVII.
TWO DEGREES OF HONESTY

Barmettle is not an attractive place; though like most places in this varied world it has its interests and even no doubt its charm for many of its inhabitants – its bright and happy homes, as well as its thousands of hard, if not overworked, pale-faced artisans, men and women, of many grades and classes.

And the sun can shine there sometimes; and not so many miles from the very centre of the town, you can escape from the heavy pall of smoke-filled air, into fresh and picturesque country, whose beauties, to my thinking, strike one all the more vividly from the force of contrast with the ugliness and griminess which you cannot forget are so near.

There had been some talk – when the Mildmay family first contemplated the pitching of their tent in this unknown land – there had been some talk of a house in the neighbourhood of the town, a few miles out, where a garden and a field or two would have been possible, to reconcile the children and their mother, to some extent, to the great change from all their former experiences. But Colonel Mildmay had been obliged to give up hopes of this. There were several difficulties in the way, and the house which sometimes at such crises turns up with such undeniable advantages as to over-ride the less immediate objections, had not offered itself. So, considering the inconvenience of scanty communication between the barracks and the 'pretty' side of the outskirts, the impossibility of day-school arrangements for Eugene, and a very certain amount of loneliness and isolation, especially in the winter months, the fairly desirable house in St Wilfred's Place which did offer itself carried the day.

It was but five minutes' walk from Colonel Mildmay's official quarters, and conveniently near Eugene's school; it was very much in the minds of the teachers who now replaced the Misses Scarlett's institution as regarded the girls; it was not duller as to outlook and surroundings than had to be at Barmettle, for it faced St Wilfred's Church, one of the oldest and most interesting structures in the modern town, which had once been a pleasant straggling north-country village; and last, though not least, its rent was moderate.

And Mrs Mildmay, unspoilt by her long residence in the East – as full of energy and resources as when she arranged the drawing-rooms at Stannesley in her careless girlish days, and laughed merrily at her kind step-mother's old-fashioned notions – exerted herself to make the house as pretty as she possibly could.

'I am glad it is cheap,' she said to her husband, 'for we can afford to spend rather more in making it comfortable and nice, especially for Jassie.'

And Jacinth's room was all a girl could wish, and at night, when the outer world was shut off, and the dark square hall and wide quaint staircase, which had attracted the new tenants in their house-hunting, were lighted up, looking bright and cheerful with the crimson carpets and curtains which Barmettle smoke had not as yet had time to dull, Frances's expression of approval, 'Really it looks so nice that you might fancy it wasn't Barmettle at all,' could scarcely be contradicted.

But Frances, like her mother, was born with the happy faculty for seeing the best side of things. It was all, naturally, much harder on Jacinth. And as Jacinth stood one morning in November looking out into the dreary street, where rain had been pouring down ever since daybreak, and was still dripping monotonously, she did feel that her lines had not of late fallen in pleasant places. Yet she was not so selfish as this sounds. She had made a struggle to see things as her parents did, and in this she had not been entirely unsuccessful, and the constant love and watchful sympathy which were now a part of her daily life, unconsciously influenced her in good and gentle ways which she scarcely realised.

Some ground she had gained. She had come to see that if her father and mother felt about the Harper family as they did, they could not have acted otherwise. And her own conscience was not, it will be remembered, entirely clear. 'Of course,' she said to herself, 'if Lady Myrtle had been left to do as she wished, I should have felt it my duty to do something for the Harpers. I'm sure I should have found some way of managing it.' But no doubt there was a kind of relief in feeling it was taken out of her hands, for Jacinth was growing gradually less confident in her own powers: for the first time in her life she was realising the delight and privilege of having others wiser than herself to whom she could look up.

'Mamma,' she said, on the morning in question, 'do you think there really are places where it rains ever so much more than at others? or is it only that we notice it more at some? I really could almost think that it rains here every day.'

Mrs Mildmay smiled.

'No, dear, it really does not. I don't think the rainfall here is much greater than in London or at Thetford, but the heavy air and the grayness make us, as you say, notice it more. In many places where there actually is more rain than the average, the country is peculiarly bright and fresh. Think of the grass in Ireland.'

But Jacinth's thoughts were already wandering elsewhere.

'Mamma,' she began again, 'do you think we shall have to stay here for Christmas?'

'I suppose so,' replied Mrs Mildmay. 'Even if Lady Myrtle wished it – as indeed I am sure she does – it would hardly be worth while for us to go to her for only two or three days, which is all the leave your father could get. And there are a good many things we have to see to here.'

'Yes,' said Frances, 'there's the Christmas treat for the barracks children. It's never been properly done. And Miss Lettice Piers is going to invite us to their treat at St Wilfred's first, so that we may see. I'd like best to have our visits to Robin Redbreast in the summer, except that it must be rather dull for Lady Myrtle. She was so pleased to have us there last Christmas.'

'I wish we could have her here,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'But she would never be allowed to come up north in the winter.'

Jacinth sighed.

'It seems a good while since we heard from Lady Myrtle,' she said. 'I hope she's not ill. I did think she would have tried to get us there for Christmas.'

'I don't think she can be ill,' said Mrs Mildmay, 'for your aunt would have known it. She goes to see Lady Myrtle regularly. I shall be hearing from Alison in a day or two, however.'

'Jassie,' said Frances, a moment or two later, when their mother had left the room, 'I wish you wouldn't look so melancholy. Just think what a lot of nice things have come to us, as well as the sad ones. Just fancy how we should have been ready to jump out of our skins for joy if we had known, when we left Stannesley, how soon papa and mamma would be at home with us.'

'I know,' said Jacinth. 'I do try to think of all that. But I do so dislike this gloomy place, Francie, and I think papa looks so fagged, and we have scarcely any friends we care for; the people are all so stupid, and so' —

'So what?'

'So rich,' said Jacinth, rather at a loss apparently what crime to lay at the doors of the good folk of the manufacturing town who had incurred her displeasure.

Frances laughed.

'That's not a sin,' she said. 'Lady Myrtle's rich, and so in a way, I suppose, is Uncle Marmy.'

'I mean they seem to think of it so. Once or twice, when I've paid calls with mamma, they were so fussy and show-off. You know how I mean,' said Jacinth.

'Well, there are plenty of poor too, if that would make you like Barmettle any better. Amy Piers says there are some dreadfully poor, and she says that even the ones who get very big wages don't save at all, and then if there comes a bad time – a bad time for trade, when some of the people have to be turned off: it does come like that now and then, she says, though I don't understand why – they are really starving.'

'They should be taught to save, then,' said Jacinth. 'Why don't the Piers teach them? If I were the vicar, I'd preach sermons about it. If people are so silly, they must expect to suffer for it.'

'But think of the poor little children!' said Frances, whose sympathy was readier than her sister's. 'It isn't their fault, and they suffer the most. Amy says it's a good deal owing to the people spending so much on beer and brandy and horrid tipsifying things. I'm sure the Piers do all they possibly can, and you know how papa says that, even with all the strict rules in the army, it's awfully difficult to keep the men sober. If I were the Queen, Jass, I'd make a law against having so many public-houses; I would indeed.'

'The Queen can't make laws all by herself like that, Frances. You don't understand. If the people were taught how horrid it is to get drunk, they'd leave off wanting to buy too much beer and things like that, and then the public-houses would have to give up because they wouldn't have customers enough. That's the best way.'

'Well, I think it should be done both ways,' said Frances. 'If there weren't so many public-houses, there wouldn't be so much temptation;' and the little reformer nodded her head sagely.

Just then Mrs Mildmay re-entered the room.

'Jassie dear,' she said, 'it's Saturday morning. You have no lessons, and though it's so rainy I know you're not afraid of the weather. Frances has a cold, so she mustn't come out. Will you wrap yourself up well, and come a little way with me to help me to carry some things to Mrs Wake? She has gone to stay with her mother, you know, for a little change, but they are very poor people, and I must help them as much as I can.'

Jacinth sprang to her feet eagerly.

'Oh yes, mamma,' she exclaimed, 'I should like very much to come. I'll be ready directly. I'll put on a thick jacket and my waterproof cape over that.'

And in a few minutes the mother and daughter were making their way, each laden with some parcels as well as the unavoidable umbrella, along the muddy pavement in the direction of a poorer part of the town. Mrs Wake was the wife of one of Colonel Mildmay's soldier servants; she happened to belong to a Barmettle family, which was just now very fortunate for her, as she had had a most serious illness in the barracks, and had lately been moved for greater quiet to her own old home.

'Francie and I were just talking about the poor people here,' said Jacinth. 'Amy Piers tells her about them. I shall be very glad to see one of the homes they live in.'

'It will be rather a good specimen, though they are very poor people,' said Mrs Mildmay; 'for they are thrifty and most respectable. But for many years the father has not been able to earn full wages, as he was crippled by an accident. Indeed, but for the kindness of the head of the factory where he worked, he would have been turned off altogether on a very small pension. It was true kindness to let him stay on to do what work he could, for it kept up his spirits.'

'The master must be a good man,' said Jacinth.

'I believe he is – one of the best in Barmettle,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'But here we are, Jassie,' and as she spoke she turned down a small passage, not wide enough to be called by a more important name, leading out of the already poor and narrow street they were in, and knocked at a door a few steps on.

It was quickly opened. A rather gaunt and careworn, but clean and honest-looking, elderly woman stood before them. Her eyes were red with crying, but she welcomed Mrs Mildmay very civilly, though with a sort of reserve of manner which struck Jacinth as very different from the extremely hearty, though respectful, deference with which, as her grandmother's messenger, she used to be received by their own villagers at Stannesley.

'You'll be come to ask for my daughter,' said the woman. She had been a domestic servant, and had but little north-country accent. 'You're welcome, I'm sure, and she'll take it kindly. Take a seat,' and she led them into the little kitchen, tidy and clean, though encumbered with some pieces of treasured furniture decidedly too big for it. 'Yes, she's fairly – th' doctor's main content.'

'Oh,' said Mrs Mildmay, 'I am glad to hear it. I was afraid when I saw you' – But she stopped suddenly, for before she could say more the old woman had sunk into a chair, and, flinging her apron over her head, was giving way to bitter weeping. Jacinth felt both distressed and alarmed. Like her mother she had noticed the signs of tears on Mrs Burton's face.

'I am so sorry,' said Mrs Mildmay, getting up as she said the words, and standing beside the woman, she gently laid her hand on her arm. 'Is it some new trouble – your husband?'

'Nay, nay,' sobbed the poor thing. 'Burton is finely – for him, that's to say. But have ye not heard th' ill news?' and she raised her head in surprise. 'Th' measter,' and as she grew absorbed in what she had to tell, she fell back into the kind of talk she had accustomed herself to discard when with 'gentry.' 'He's gone!' and her sobs broke out again.

'What! good Mr Fairfield,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'No, I had not heard it. What a loss he will be! Was it very sudden?'

And Jacinth standing by, listened eagerly to all Mrs Burton told.

He had been struck by paralysis – the kind friend of so many years – only two days before, and had never rallied. And the grief was widespread and deep. It would throw many into sorrow and anxiety too, the old woman said; for though he left two sons to succeed him, it remained to be seen if they would follow in his footsteps.

'They will be very rich; they may not care to carry on the business, of course,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'No doubt Mr Fairfield has left a large fortune.'

But Mrs Burton shook her head. It was far from the case. The business was doing well, as it deserved to do, but beyond its good prospects he left but little. And then she went on to explain why it was so; thus entering into the circumstances which had so specially endeared the dead man to his workpeople. A good many years ago, she related, when Mr Fairfield had first inherited the 'works,' a terrible accident had occurred, in which, with several others, Burton had suffered. The accident, though in those days such inquiries were less searching, had revealed a certain danger in a part of the machinery recently introduced at great expense, as a wonderful improvement. The danger was remote; it was perfectly possible no damage might ever again occur from the same cause; no pressure of any kind was put upon the master, no suggestion even, of change; his own workpeople would not have blamed him had he 'let things be.' But such was not Mr Fairfield's way of viewing a master's responsibilities. He had almost all the machinery changed, for the one alteration he deemed absolutely necessary involved others. And the outlay had been something immense, especially as a run of bad years had followed it. And even when times improved again, and he began to feel his head above water, he never himself benefited by the profits as most would have done.

''Twas always summat for his people, as he called 'em, bless him. Reading-rooms, or clubs, or schools. Year in, year out, 'twas his first thought and his last. What else was he there for? he'd say, mony's the time. Ah, well; he's gone where his Master'll have good thought for him,' the old woman added quaintly, 'the master he served so faithful. For ye see, ma'am,' she went on, forgetting for the moment her grief in her earnestness, 'I take it as it's this way. There's honesty to God as well as honesty to men. None would 'a blamed Measter Fairfield if he'd let things be; no man could 'a done so. But he looked higher nor the judging o' men.'

'Yes, truly,' Mrs Mildmay heartily agreed, 'that was the secret, Mrs Burton.'

'But, oh dear, dear;' cried the poor woman, relapsing again into the tears which did her credit, 'it's mony a sore heart he'll leave behind him.'

'Mamma,' said Jacinth softly and half timidly, when a quarter of an hour or so later they were wending their way home relieved of their packages, through the muddy streets – 'mamma, do you know that what she said – old Mrs Burton, I mean – about the two kinds of honesty has helped to – to make me understand better than I did before what papa felt, and you too, of course, about – about Lady Myrtle and the Harpers, you know.'

Mrs Mildmay, in spite of the rain and her umbrella, managed to give Jacinth's arm a little loving squeeze.

'I am so glad, so very glad, dear,' she said.

'Mamma,' said Jacinth, again, after a little silence, in a more assured voice this time, 'if papa had been in Mr Fairfield's place, he would have done just like him, wouldn't he?'

'I am quite sure he would,' agreed her mother.

And notwithstanding the cold and the rain and the grimness of everything, I think Jacinth felt happier that day than since they had come to Barmettle.

A day or two later another little event helped to confirm Jacinth's better and truer views of her great disappointment. This was the arrival of a letter for Frances, forwarded from Thetford by their Aunt Alison.

'A letter for me!' exclaimed the little girl, when at the breakfast-table her mother handed it to her. 'Whom can it be from? I hardly ever get any letters.' But as her eye fell on the address her face flushed and brightened.

'Oh, I do believe,' she said, 'I do believe it's from Bessie – Bessie Harper. And of course she'd have to send it to Aunt Alison's; she doesn't know we've left Thetford.'

'I'm not so sure of that,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'When I wrote to Mrs Lyle some time ago, I told her we were coming to Barmettle, but very likely she did not think of sending our address to her nieces, for they have not been in the habit of writing to you or Jacinth.'

'No,' Frances replied, rather incoherently, for she was already buried in her letter, 'that's what she says. "Aunt Flora" – is that Mrs Lyle, mamma? – "Aunt Flora told us you had gone to live up in the north. I am afraid it can't be as bright and pretty there as at Thetford, but still it must be lovely to have your father and mother with you for always now. I think I can understand far better than ever what a very great trouble it must have been to you and your sister to be without them all those years, for oh, we did so miss father and mother when they were in London for six months, and then in Germany. They took Margaret with them to Germany, and it did her such a lot of good. I have wanted to write to you ever so often, and so has Camilla, but mother wasn't quite sure how we could say what we wished. But now she has had another letter from Aunt Flora, and this has made her give me leave to write and tell you all our beautiful news. Just fancy, dear Francie, father is almost quite well. Of course he will always be lame, but he counts that nothing, and it's really not so bad nearly as it was. All he had done at the London hospital and then the German baths has turned out so well, and now to make it – the cure, I mean – quite lasting, we are all– though I write it, I can scarcely believe it – going abroad to some mild place for the winter. We have not quite fixed where; but we have let Hedge End till next May, and we shall start very soon. If you write to me, please address it to Hedge End. And now I want to say something that is rather difficult to say. What has made everything come right has been the goodness of father's aunt, Lady Myrtle Goodacre. Just when we were almost in despair, and it seemed as if nothing could save father, she sent mother a lot of money: she said it was a present, but we all count it a loan. It was enough to do everything, and more than enough, and we can never, never thank her too much. But in our hearts we all feel sure that, though you kept exactly to what mother and Camilla asked, yet some of you, somehow, have been our good fairies. Perhaps it was your sister Jacinth, perhaps it was Mrs Mildmay; and I am sure, dear Francie, that if ever you had a chance you spoke kindly of us; perhaps we shall never know exactly who did it, or how it was done, so wisely and carefully as it must have been. But oh, we do thank you; if you could see the difference in everything about us now, how we are all as happy as the day's long, you would all feel happy just to see it. Nearly every night, when we say our prayers, Margaret and I thank God for having sent you and Jacinth to be our school-fellows at Miss Scarlett's, and for the wonderful way things have come right."'

Then followed a few details more interesting to Frances than of consequence in themselves, about the lessons Bessie and Margaret had been doing, and how well Camilla managed to teach them, and hopes that 'some day' the former school-fellows might meet again; ending up with repetitions of the gratitude they felt sure they owed to somebody, and 'much love' from 'your affectionate friend, Elizabeth Vandeleur Harper.'

'"Vandeleur" was Bessie's mother's name. She's very proud of it,' said Frances, gazing admiringly at the pretty writing. Then she looked up with glistening eyes. 'Mamma, Jass, isn't it beautiful? Isn't it lovely to think they're so much happier?'

Mrs Mildmay's own face was nearly as bright as Francie's.

'I cannot tell you how glad and thankful I am,' she said. And she took hold gently of Jacinth's hand. 'Doesn't it seem to follow up what we were saying the other day after we had been at old Mrs Burton's?' she whispered.

But Jacinth's face looked pale, and her eyes had tears in them.

'Mamma,' she said, 'I suppose you thought I wouldn't have been nice about it, but I think you might have told me that you did get Lady Myrtle to do something to help the Harpers. I can see that Francie knew about it, and it is horrid to be in a way thanked by them, when – when I have really been more a sort of enemy to them than a friend.'

Mrs Mildmay had started a little at Jacinth's first words, for she had in fact forgotten, in the consciousness of increasing sympathy between her elder daughter and herself, how, at the time of her first appeal to Lady Myrtle, she had judged it wiser to say nothing about it to Jacinth. And now to her candid and naturally confiding nature this reticence gave her almost a guilty feeling. But as Jacinth went on speaking, her mother realised that she had done wisely.

'Dear Jassie,' she said quietly, 'at that time I did think it better not to tell you that I had interfered. I wanted to avoid all possibilities of irritation till you got to know me better. And I did see that you were prejudiced to some extent. But now I feel quite differently about it, and I wish I had thought of telling you lately, though you must take my not having done so as a proof of my feeling at one with you. For till this minute I thought you did know. At least I forgot you did not. I will tell you exactly how it came about.' And she did so, adding rather sadly, as she concluded, 'And after all, dear, you see I was able to do very little. Lady Myrtle will not think of them as her relations, and grateful though they are for this present help, of course it is not anything lasting; not what we would like to make sure of for their future.'

'No,' Jacinth agreed, 'I understand how you mean. Still, it is a very good thing their father is so much better. I think they have a great deal to thank you for, mamma – you, and Francie too, in her way. I think they should know I have not helped at all; it makes me feel almost – dishonest. If Francie writes to Bessie, couldn't she say something?'

'Whatever she says about the matter at all must only be very slight and vague,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'And, Jassie dear, you do feel kindly to them now?'

'I want to feel whatever's right,' Jacinth replied, and her tone was wonderfully humble.

'Then there is no need to enter into any explanations,' said Mrs Mildmay. 'It would only hurt poor Bessie if you made any sort of disclaimer of the friendliness they credit us all with. The only thing you could ever do might perhaps be' – She hesitated.

'What, mamma?' asked Jacinth.

'Some day,' said her mother, 'you may have an opportunity of saying to Lady Myrtle that you think you were a little prejudiced against them.'

'Yes,' Jacinth agreed, 'perhaps it would be right. For, you see, mamma, she thought I avoided speaking of them because I did not want to annoy her, and I think I made myself believe that too. But now I see it wasn't only that. It was partly a – I feel ashamed to think of it – a sort of horrid jealousy, I am afraid, mamma.'

And though she reddened as she made what to her was really a painful confession, Jacinth's heart felt lighter from that moment. There was now no shadow of misunderstanding between her mother and herself.