I am seventeen--not sweet seventeen; there is nothing sweet about
_me_. I am neither fair nor dark, nor tall nor short, nor indeed
anything in particular that might distinguish me from the common
herd. This is rather hard upon me, as all the rest of us can lay
claim to beauty in one form or another. Thus, Roland, my eldest
brother, is tall, very aristocratic in appearance, and extremely
good to look at; Dora, who comes next, is small and exquisitely
pretty, in a fresh fairy-like style; while Billy, the youngest
born, has one of the handsomest faces imaginable, with liquid
brown eyes of a gentle, pleading expression, that smile
continually, and utterly belie the character of their owner.
Why I was born at all, or why, my creation being a settled
matter, I was not given to the world as a boy, has puzzled and
vexed me for many years. I am entirely without any of the little
graceful kittenish blandishments of manner that go far to make
Dora the charming creature she is; I have too much of Billy's
recklessness, mixed up with a natural carelessness of my own, to
make me a success in the family circle. To quote papa in his
mildest form, I am a "sad mistake," and one not easy to be
rectified, while mother, who is the gentlest soul alive, reproves
and comforts me from morning until night, without any result to
speak of.
I am something over five feet two, with brown hair and a brown
skin, and eyes that might be blue or gray, according to fancy. My
feet are small and well shaped, and so are my hands; but as for
seventeen years I have borne an undying hatred towards gloves,
these latter cannot be regarded with admiration. My mouth is of
goodly size, and rather determined in expression; while as to my
figure, if Roland is to be believed, it resembles nothing so much
as a fishing-rod. But my nose--that at least is presentable and
worthy of a better resting-place; it is indeed a most desirable
nose in every way, and, being my only redeeming point, is one of
which I am justly proud.
Nevertheless, as one swallow makes no summer, so one feature will
not beautify a plain face; and in spite of my Grecian treasure I
still remain obscure. If not ornamental, however, I manage to be
useful; I am an excellent foil to my sister Dora. She is beyond
dispute our bright particular star, and revels in that knowledge.
To be admired is sun and air and life to Dora, who resembles
nothing in the world so much as an exquisite little Dresden
figure, so delicate, so pink and white, so yellow-haired, and
always so bewitchingly attired. She never gets into a passion, is
never unduly excited. She is too pretty and too fragile for the
idea, else I might be tempted to say that on rare occasions she
sulks. Still, she is notably good-tempered, and has a positive
talent for evading all unpleasant topics that may affect her own
peace of mind.
Papa is a person to be feared; mother is not; consequently, we
all love mother best. In appearance the head of our family is
tall, lean, and unspeakably severe. With him a spade is always a
spade, and his _nay_ is indeed nay. According to a tradition
among us, that has grown with our growth, in his nose--which is
singularly large and obtrusive--lies all the harshness that
characterizes his every action. Indeed, many a time and oft have
Billy and I speculated as to whether, were he suddenly shorn of
his proboscis, he would also find himself deprived of his
strength of mind. He is calm, and decidedly well-bred, both in
manner and expression--two charms we do not appreciate, as, on
such frequent occasions as when disgrace falls upon one or all of
the household, the calmness and breeding become so terrible that,
without so much as a frown, he can wither us beyond recognition.
I am his particular _bete noire_; my hoydenish ways jar every
hour of the day upon his sensitive nerves. He never tires of
contrasting me unfavorably with his gentle elegant Dora. He
detests gushing people, and I, unhappily for myself, am naturally
very affectionate. I feel not only a desire to love, but at times
an unconquerable longing to openly declare my love; and as Roland
is generally with his regiment, and Dora is a sort of person who
would die if violently embraced, I am perforce obliged to expend
all my superfluous affection upon our darling mother and Billy.
Strict economy prevails among us; more through necessity, indeed,
than from any unholy desire to save. Our annual income of eight
hundred pounds goes but a short way under any circumstances, and
the hundred pounds a year out of this we allow Roland (who is
always in a state of insolvency) leaves us "poor indeed." A new
dress is, therefore, a rarity--not perhaps so strange a thing to
Dora as it is to me--and any amusement that costs money would be
an unheard of luxury. Out-door conveyances we have none, unless
one is compelled to mention a startling vehicle that lies in the
coach-house, and was bought no one remembers when and where. It
is probably an heirloom, and is popularly supposed to have cost a
fabulous sum in the days of its youth and beauty, but it is now
ancient and sadly disreputable, and not one of us but feels low
and dejected when, tucked into it on Sunday mornings, we are
driven by papa to attend the parish church. I even remember Dora
shedding tears now and then as this ordeal drew nigh; but that
was when the Desmonds or the Cuppaidges had a young man staying
with them, who might reasonably be expected to put in an
appearance during the service, and who would be sure to linger
and witness our disgraceful retreat afterwards.
Of course papa has his two hunters. We have been taught that no
gentleman could possibly get on without them in a stupid country
place, and that it is more from a noble desire to sustain the
respectability of the family than from any pleasure that may be
derived from them, that they are kept. We try to believe
this--but we don't.
We see very few neighbors, for the simple reason that there are
very few to see. This limits dinner parties, and saves expense in
many ways, but rather throws us younger fry upon our own
resources. No outsiders come to disturb our uninteresting calm;
we have no companions, no friends beyond our hearthstone. No
alarming incidents occur to season our deadened existence; no one
ever elopes with the wife of his bosom friend. All is flat, stale
and unprofitable.
It is, then, with mingled feelings of fear and delight that we
hear of Strangemore being put in readiness to receive its master.
Mr. Carrington, our new landlord--our old one died about five
years ago--has at length wearied of a foreign sojourn, and is
hastening to the land of his fathers. So ran report three weeks
before my story opens, and for once truly. He came, he saw,
he--No, we have all arranged ages ago--it is Dora who is to
conquer.
"He is exceedingly to be liked," says mamma that night at dinner,
addressing papa, and alluding to our landlord, "and so very
distinguished-looking. I rather think he admired Dora; he never
removed his eyes from her face the entire time he stayed." And
mother nods and smiles approvingly at my sister.
"That must have been rather embarrassing," says papa, in his even
way; but I know by his tone he too is secretly pleased at Mr.
Carrington's rudeness.
Dora blushes, utters a faint disclaimer, and then laughs--her own
low cooing laugh, that is such a wonderful piece of performance.
I have spent hours in my bedroom endeavoring patiently to copy
that laugh of Dora's, with failure as the only result.
"And he is so good-natured!" I break in, eagerly. "The very
moment I mentioned the subject, he gave us permission to go to
Brinsley Wood as often as ever we choose, and seemed quite
pleased at my asking him if we might; didn't he, mother?"
"Yes, dear."
"Could you find no more interesting topic to discuss with him
than that?" asked papa with contemptuous displeasure. "Was his
first visit a fitting opportunity to demand a favor of him? It is
a pity, Phyllis, you cannot put yourself and your own amusements
out of sight, even on an occasion. There is no vice so detestable
as selfishness."
I think of the two hunters, and of how long mother's last black
silk has been her best gown, and feel rebellious; but, long and
early training having taught me to subdue my emotions, I accept
the snub dutifully and relapse into taciturnity.
"It was not he turned out poor old Mother Haggard after all,
papa," puts in Billy; "It was Simmons; and he is to be dismissed
immediately."
"I am glad of that," says papa, viciously. "A more thorough going
rascal never disgraced a neighborhood. He will be doing a really
sensible thing if he sends that fellow adrift. I am gratified to
find Carrington capable of acting with such sound common sense.
None of the absurd worn-out prejudices in favor of old servants
about him. I have no doubt he will prove an acquisition to the
county."
Altogether, it is plainly to be seen, we every one of us intend
approving of our new neighbor.
"Yes, indeed," says mother, "it is quite delightful to think of a
young man being anywhere near. We are sadly in want of cheerful
society. What a pity he did not come home directly his uncle died
and left him the property, instead of wasting these last five
years abroad!"
"I think he was right," returns papa, gracefully "there is
nothing like seeing life. When hampered with a wife and children,
he will regret he did not enjoy more of it before tying himself
down irretrievably."
An uncomfortable silence follows this speech. We all feel
guiltily conscious that we are hampering our father--that but for
our unwelcome existence he might at the present hour be enjoying
all the goods and gayeties of life: all that is, except Billy,
who is insensible to innuendoes, and never sees or feels anything
that is not put before him in the plainest terms. He cheerfully
puts an end now to the awkward silence.
"I can tell you, if you marry Mr. Carrington, you will be on the
pig's back," he says, knowingly addressing Dora. Billy is not
choice in his expressions. "He has no end of tin, and the gamest
lot of horses in his stables to be seen anywhere. Brewster was
telling me about it."
Nobody says anything.
"You will be on the pig's back, I can tell you," repeats Billy,
with emphasis. Now, this is more than rashness, it is madness on
Billy's part; he is ignorantly offering himself to the knife. The
fact that his vulgarity has been passed by unnoticed once is no
reason why leniency should be shown towards him a second time.
Papa looks up blandly.
"May I ask what you mean by being 'on the pig's back'?" he asks,
with a suspicious thirst for information.
"Oh, it means being in luck, I suppose," returns Billy, only
slightly taken aback.
"I do not think I should consider it a lucky thing if I found
myself on a pig's back," says papa, still apparently abroad,
still desirous of having his ignorance enlightened.
"I don't suppose you would," responds Billy, gruffly; and, being
an English boy, abhorrent of irony, he makes a most unnecessary
clatter with his fork and spoon.
"_I_ know what papa means," says Dora, sweetly, coming prettily
to the rescue. One of Dora's favorite _roles_ is to act as
peacemaker on such public occasions as the present, when the
innate goodness of her disposition can be successfully paraded.
"It is that he wishes you to see how unmeaning are your words,
and how vulgar are all hackneyed expressions. Besides"--running
back to Billy's former speech--"you should not believe all
Brewster tells you; he is only a groom, and probably says a good
deal more than--than he ought."
"There!" cries Billy, with wrathful triumph, "you were just going
to say 'more than his prayers,' and if _that_ isn't a 'hackneyed
expression,' I don't know what's what. You ought to correct
yourself, Miss Dora, before you begin correcting other people."
"I was _not_ going to say that," declares Dora, in a rather
sharper tone.
"Yes, you were, though. It was on the very tip of your tongue."
"I was _not_," reiterates Dora, her pretty oval cheeks growing
pink as the heart of a rose, while her liquid blue eyes changed
to steel gray.
"That's a---"
"William, be silent," interrupts papa, with authority, and so for
a time puts a stop to the family feud.