Kitabı oku: «More Bywords», sayfa 10

The Admiral promised that none of his family should mention the matter, and that he would do his best to silence Mrs. Rudden, who for that matter probably believed the whole letter to have been forged, and would not enter into the enthusiasm of autographs.

‘Oh, thank you!  It is so kind,’ said the mother; and Arthurine, who looked as if she had not slept all night, and was ready to burst into tears on the least provocation, murmured something to the same effect, which the Admiral answered, half hearing—

‘Never mind, my dear, you will be wiser another time; young people will be inexperienced.’

‘Is that the cruellest cut of all?’ thought Miss Elmore, as she beheld her former pupil scarcely restraining herself enough for the farewell civilities, and then breaking down into a flood of tears.

Her mother hovered over her with, ‘What is it?  Oh! my dear child, you need not be afraid; he is so kind!’

‘I hate people to be kind, that is the very thing,’ said Arthurine,—‘Oh!  Miss Elmore, don’t go!—while he is meaning all the time that I have made such a fool of myself!  And he is glad, I know he is, he and his hateful, stupid, stolid daughters.’

‘My dear! my dear!’ exclaimed her mother.

‘Well, haven’t they done nothing but thwart me, whatever I wanted to do, and aren’t they triumphing now in this abominable man’s treachery, and my being taken in?  I shall go away, and sell the place, and never come back again.’

‘I should think that was the most decided way of confessing a failure,’ said Miss Elmore; and as Mrs. Arthuret was called away by the imperative summons to the butcher, she spoke more freely.  ‘Your mother looks terrified at being so routed up again.’

‘Oh, mother will be happy anywhere; and how can I stay with these stick-in-the-mud people, just like what I have read about?’

‘And have gibbeted!  Really, Arthurine, I should call them very generous!’

‘It is their thick skins,’ muttered she; ‘at least so the Myttons said; but, indeed, I did not mean to be so personal as it was thought.’

‘But tell me.  Why did you not get on with Mesa?’

‘That was a regular take-in.  Not to tell one!  When I began my German class, she put me out with useless explanations.’

‘What kind of explanations?’

‘Oh, about the Swiss being under the Empire, or something, and she would go into parallels of Saxon words, and English poetry, such as our Fraülein never troubled us with.  But I showed her it would not do.’

‘So instead of learning what you had not sense to appreciate, you wanted to teach your old routine.’

‘But, indeed, she could not pronounce at all well, and she looked ever so long at difficult bits, and then she even tried to correct me.’

‘Did she go on coming after you silenced her?’

‘Yes, and never tried to interfere again.’

‘I am afraid she drew her own conclusions about High Schools.’

‘Oh, Miss Elmore, you used to like us to be thorough and not discursive, and how could anybody brought up in this stultifying place, ages ago, know what will tell in an exam?’

‘Oh! Arthurine.  How often have I told you that examinations are not education.  I never saw so plainly that I have not educated you.’

‘I wanted to prepare Daisy and Pansy, and they didn’t care about her prosing when we wanted to get on with the book.’

‘Which would have been the best education for them, poor girls, an example of courtesy, patience, and humility, or getting on, as you call it?’

‘Oh! Miss Elmore, you are very hard on me, when I have just been so cruelly disappointed.’

‘My dear child, it is only because I want you to discover why you have been so cruelly disappointed.’

It would be wearisome to relate all that Arthurine finally told of those thwartings by the Merrifields which had thrown her into the arms of the Mytton family, nor how Miss Elmore brought her to confess that each scheme was either impracticable, or might have been injurious, and that a little grain of humility might have made her see things very differently.  Yet it must be owned that the good lady felt rather like bending a bow that would spring back again.

Bessie Merrifield had, like her family, been inclined to conclude that all was the fault of High Schools.  She did not see Miss Elmore at first, thinking the Arthurets not likely to wish to be intruded upon, and having besides a good deal to think over.  For she and her father had talked over the proposal, which pecuniarily was so tempting, and he, without prejudice, but on principle, had concurred with her in deciding that it was her duty not to add one touch of attractiveness to aught which supported a cause contrary to their strongest convictions.  Her father’s approbation was the crowning pleasure, though she felt the external testimony to her abilities, quite enough to sympathise with such intoxication of success as to make any compliment seem possible.  Miss Elmore had one long talk with her, beginning by saying—

‘I wish to consult you about my poor, foolish child.’

‘Ah!  I am afraid we have not helped her enough!’ said Bessie.  ‘If we had been more sympathetic she might have trusted us more.’

‘Then you are good enough to believe that it was not all folly and presumption.’

‘I am sure it was not,’ said Bessie.  ‘None of us ever thought it more than inexperience and a little exaltation, with immense good intention at the bottom.  Of course, our dear old habits did look dull, coming from life and activity, and we rather resented her contempt for them; but I am quite sure that after a little while, every one will forget all about this, or only recollect it as one does a girlish scrape.’

‘Yes.  To suppose all the neighbourhood occupied in laughing at her is only another phase of self-importance.  You see, the poor child necessarily lived in a very narrow world, where examinations came, whatever I could do, to seem everything, and she only knew things beyond by books.  She had success enough there to turn her head, and not going to Cambridge, never had fair measure of her abilities.  Then came prosperity—’

‘Quite enough to upset any one’s balance,’ said Bessie.  ‘In fact, only a very sober, not to say stolid, nature would have stood it.’

‘Poor things!  They were so happy—so open-hearted.  I did long to caution them.  “Pull cup, steady hand.”’

‘It will all come right now,’ said Bessie.  ‘Mrs Arthuret spoke of their going away for the winter; I do not think it will be a bad plan, for then we can start quite fresh with them; and the intimacy with the Myttons will be broken, though I am sorry for the poor girls.  They have no harm in them, and Arthurine was doing them good.’

‘A whisper to you, Miss Merrifield—they are going back with me, to be prepared for governesses at Arthurine’s expense.  It is the only thing for them in the crash that young man has brought on the family.’

‘Dear, good Arthurine!  She only needed to learn how to carry her cup.’

MRS. BATSEYES

I. FATHER AND DAUGHTER

SCENE.—The drawing-room of Darkglade Vicarage.  Mr. Aveland, an elderly clergyman.  Mrs. Moldwarp, widow on the verge of middle age.

Mr. A.  So, my dear good child, you will come back to me, and do what you can for the lonely old man!

Mrs. M.  I know nothing can really make up—

Mr. A.  Ah! my dear, you know only too well by your own experience, but if any one could, it would be you.  And at least you will let nothing drop in the parish work.  You and Cicely together will be able to take that up when Euphrasia is gone too.

Mrs. M.  It will be delightful to me to come back to it!  You know I was to the manner born.  Nothing seems to be so natural!

Mr. A.  I am only afraid you are giving up a great deal.  I don’t know that I could accept it—except for the parish and these poor children.

Mrs. M.  Now, dear father, you are not to talk so!  Is not this my home, my first home, and though it has lost its very dearest centre, what can be so dear to me when my own has long been broken?

Mr. A.  But the young folks—young Londoners are apt to feel such a change a great sacrifice.

Mrs. M.  Lucius always longs to be here whenever he is on shore, and Cicely.  Oh! it will be so good for Cicely to be with you, dear father.  I know some day you will be able to enjoy her.  And I do look forward to having her to myself, as I have never had before since she was a little creature in the nursery.  It is so fortunate that I had not closed the treaty for the house at Brompton, so that I can come whenever Phrasie decides on leaving you.

Mr. A.  And she must not be long delayed.  She and Holland have waited for each other quite long enough.  Your dear mother begged that there should be no delay; and neither you nor I, Mary, could bear to shorten the time of happiness together that may be granted them.  She will have no scruple about leaving George’s children now you and Cicely will see to them—poor little things!

Mrs. M.  Cicely has always longed for a sphere, and between the children and the parish she will be quite happy.  You need have no fears for her, father!

II.  BROTHER AND SISTER

SCENE—The broad walk under the Vicarage garden wall, Lucius Moldwarp, a lieutenant in the Navy.  Cicely Moldwarp.

C.  Isn’t it disgusting, Lucius?

L.  What is?

C.  This proceeding of the mother’s.

L.  Do you mean coming down here to live?

C.  Of course I do!  Without so much as consulting me.

L.  The captain does not ordinarily consult the crew.

C.  Bosh, Lucius.  That habit of discipline makes you quite stupid.  Now, haven’t I the right to be consulted?

L.  (A whistle)

C.  (A stamp)

L.  Pray, what would your sagacity have proposed for grandpapa and the small children?

C.  (Hesitation.)

L.  (A slight laugh.)

C.  I do think it is quite shocking of Aunt Phrasie to be in such haste to marry!

L.  After eleven years—eh? or twelve, is it?

C.  I mean of course so soon after her mother’s death.

L.  You know dear granny herself begged that the wedding might not be put off on that account.

C.  Mr. Holland might come and live here.

L.  Perhaps he thinks he has a right to be consulted.

C.  Then she might take those children away with her.

L.  Leaving grandpapa alone.

C.  The Curate might live in the house.

L.  Lively and satisfactory to mother.  Come now, Cis, why are you so dead set against this plan?  It is only because your august consent has not been asked?

C.  I should have minded less if the pros and cons had been set before me, instead of being treated like a chattel; but I do not think my education should be sacrificed.

L.  Not educated!  At twenty!

C.  Don’t be so silly, Lucius.  This is the time when the most important brain work is to be done.  There are the art classes at the Slade, and the lectures I am down for, and the Senior Cambridge and cookery and nursing.  Yes, I see you make faces!  You sailors think women are only meant for you to play with when you are on shore; but I must work.

L.  Work enough here!

C.  Goody-goody!  Babies, school-children, and old women!  I’m meant for something beyond that, or what are intellect and artistic faculty given for?

L.  You could read for Cambridge exam. all the same.  Here are tons of books, and grandpapa would help you.  Why not?  He is not a bit of a dull man.  He is up to everything.

C.  So far as you know.  Oh no, he is not naturally dense.  He is a dear old man; but you know clerics of his date, especially when they have vegetated in the country, never know anything but the Fathers and church architecture.

L.  Hum!  I should have said the old gentleman had a pretty good intelligence of his own.  I know he set me on my legs for my exam. as none of the masters at old Coade’s ever did.  What has made you take such a mortal aversion to the place?  We used to think it next door to Paradise when we were small children.

C.  Of course, when country freedom was everything, and we knew nothing of rational intercourse; but when all the most intellectual houses are open to me, it is intolerable to be buried alive here with nothing to talk of but clerical shop, and nothing to do but read to old women, and cram the unfortunate children with the catechism.  And mother and Aunt Phrasie expect me to be in raptures!

L.  Whereas you seem to be meditating a demonstration.

C.  I shall tell mother that if she must needs come down to wallow in her native goodiness, it is due to let me board in Kensington till my courses are completed.

L.  Since she won’t be an unnatural daughter, she is to leave the part to you.  Well, I suppose it will be for the general peace.

C.  Now, Lucius, you speak out of the remains of the old tyrannical barbarism, when the daughters were nothing but goods and chattels.

L.  Goods, yes, indeed, and betters.

C.  No doubt the men liked it!  But won’t you stand by me, Lucius?  You say it would be for the general peace.

L.  I only said you would be better away than making yourself obnoxious.  I can’t think how you can have the heart, Cis, such a pet as you always were.

C.  I would not hurt their feelings for the world, only my improvement is too important to be sacrificed, and if no one else will stand up for me, I must stand up for myself.

III.  BRIDE-ELECT AND FATHER

SCENE.—Three weeks later.  Breakfast table at Darkglade Vicarage, Mr. Aveland and Euphrasia reading their letters.  Three little children eating bread and milk.

E.  There!  Mary has got the house at Brompton off her hands and can come for good on the 11th.  That is the greatest possible comfort.  She wants to bring her piano; it has a better tone than ours.

Mr. A.  Certainly!  Little Miss Hilda there will soon be strumming her scales on the old one, and Mary and Cis will send me to sleep in the evening with hers.

E.  Oh!

Mr. A.  Why, Phrasie, what’s the matter?

E.  This is a blow!  Cicely is only coming to be bridesmaid, and then going back to board at Kensington and go on with her studies.

Mr. A.  To board?  All alone?

E.  Oh! that’s the way with young ladies!

Mr. A.  Mary cannot have consented.

E.  Have you done, little folks?  Then say grace, Hilda, and run out till the lesson bell rings.  Yes, poor Mary, I am afraid she thinks all that Cecilia decrees is right; or if she does not naturally believe so, she is made to.

Mr. A.  Come, come, Phrasie, I always thought Mary a model mother.

E.  So did I, and so she was while the children were small, except that they were more free and easy with her than was the way in our time.  And I think she is all that is to be desired to her son; but when last I was in London, I cannot say I was satisfied, I thought Cissy had got beyond her.

Mr. A.  For want of a father?

E.  Not entirely.  You know I could not think Charles Moldwarp quite worthy of Mary, though she never saw it.

Mr. A.  Latterly we saw so little of him!  He liked to spend his holiday in mountain climbing, and Mary made her visits here alone.

E.  Exactly so.  Sympathy faded out between them, though she, poor dear, never betrayed it, if she realised it, which I doubt.  And as Cissy took after her father, this may have weakened her allegiance to her mother.  At any rate, as soon as she was thought to have outgrown her mother’s teaching, those greater things, mother’s influence and culture, were not thought of, and she went to school and had her companions and interests apart; while Mary, good soul, filled up the vacancy with good works, and if once you get into the swing of that sort of thing in town, there’s no end to the demands upon your time.  I don’t think she ever let them bore her husband.  He was out all day, and didn’t want her; but I am afraid they do bore her daughter, and absorb attention and time, so as to hinder full companionship, till Cissy has grown up an extraneous creature, not formed by her.  Mary thinks, in her humility, dear old thing, that it is a much superior creature; but I don’t like it as well as the old sort.

Mr. A.  The old barndoor hen hatched her eggs and bred up her chicks better than the fine prize fowl.  Eh?

E.  So that incubator-hatched chicks, with a hot-bed instead of a hovering wing and tender cluck-cluck, are the fashion!  I was in hopes that coming down to the old coop, with no professors to run after, and you to lead them both, all would right itself, but it seems my young lady wants more improving.

Mr. A.  Well, my dear, it must be mortifying to a clever girl to have her studies cut short.

E.  Certainly; but in my time we held that studies were subordinate to duties; and that there were other kinds of improvement than in model-drawing and all the rest of it.

Mr. A.  It will not be for long, and Cissy will find the people, or has found them, and Mary will accept them.

E.  If her native instinct objects, she will be cajoled or bullied into seeing with Cissy’s eyes.

Mr. A.  Well, Euphrasia, my dear, let us trust that people are the best judges of their own affairs, and remember that the world has got beyond us.  Mary was always a sensible, right-minded girl, and I cannot believe her as blind as you would make out.

E.  At any rate, dear papa, you never have to say to her as to me, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’

IV.  MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

SCENE.—Darkglade Vicarage drawing-room.

Mrs. M.  So, my dear, you think it impossible to be happy here?

C.  Little Mamsey, why will you never understand?  It is not a question of happiness, but of duty to myself.

Mrs. M.  And that is—

C.  Not to throw away all my chances of self-improvement by burrowing into this hole.

Mrs. M.  Oh, my dear, I don’t like to hear you call it so.

C.  Yes, I know you care for it.  You were bred up here, and know nothing better, poor old Mamsey, and pottering suits you exactly; but it is too much to ask me to sacrifice my wider fields of culture and usefulness.

Mrs. M.  Grandpapa would enjoy nothing so much as reading with you.  He said so.

C.  Oxford half a century old and wearing off ever since.  No, I thank you!  Besides, it is not only physical science, but art.

Mrs. M.  There’s the School of Art at Holbrook.

C.  My dear mother, I am far past country schools of art!

Mrs. M.  It is not as if you intended to take up art as a profession.

C.  Mother! will nothing ever make you understand?  Nothing ought to be half-studied, merely to pass away the time as an accomplishment (uttered with infinite scorn, accentuated on the second syllable), just to do things to sell at bazaars.  No!  Art with me means work worthy of exhibition, with a market-price, and founded on a thorough knowledge of the secrets of the human frame.

Mrs. M.  Those classes!  I don’t like all I hear of them, or their attendants.

C.  If you will listen to all the gossip of all the old women of both sexes, I can’t help it!  Can’t you trust to innocence and earnestness?

Mrs. M.  I wish it was the Art College at Wimbledon.  Then I should be quite comfortable about you.

C.  Have not we gone into all that already?  You know I must go to the fountain-head, and not be put off with mere feminine, lady-like studies!  Pah!  Besides, in lodgings I can be useful.  I shall give two evenings in the week to the East End, to the Society for the Diversion and Civilisation of the Poor.

Mrs. M.  Surely there is room for usefulness here!  Think of the children!  And for diversion and civilisation, how glad we should be of your fresh life and brightness among poor people!

C.  Such poor!  Why, even if grandpapa would let me give a lecture on geology, or a reading from Dickens, old Prudence Blake would go about saying it hadn’t done nothing for her poor soul.

Mrs. M.  Grandpapa wanted last winter to have penny readings, only there was nobody to do it.  He would give you full scope for that, or for lectures.

C.  Yes; about vaccination and fresh air! or a reading of John Gilpin or the Pied Piper.  Mamsey, you know a model parish stifles me.  I can’t stand your prim school-children, drilled in the Catechism, and your old women who get out the Bible and the clean apron when they see you a quarter of a mile off.  Free air and open minds for me!  No, I won’t have you sighing, mother.  You have returned to your native element, and you must let me return to mine.

Mrs. M.  Very well, my dear.  Perhaps a year or two of study in town may be due to you, though this is a great disappointment to grandpapa and me.  I know Mrs. Payne will make a pleasant and safe home for you, if you must be boarded.

C.  Too late for that.  I always meant to be with Betty Thurston at Mrs. Kaye’s.  In fact, I have written to engage my room.  So there’s an end of it.  Come, come, don’t look vexed.  It is better to make an end of it at once.  There are things that one must decide for oneself.