Household Gods
Punctually at four-thirty Miss Quincey vanished from the light of St.
Sidwell's, Regent's Park, into the obscurity of Camden Town. Camden Town
is full of little houses standing back in side streets, houses with
porticoed front doors monstrously disproportioned to their size. Nobody
ever knocks at those front doors; nobody ever passes down those side
streets if they can possibly help it. The houses are all exactly alike;
they melt and merge into each other in dingy perspective, each with its
slag-bordered six foot of garden uttering a faint suburban protest
against the advances of the pavement. Miss Quincey lived in half of one
of them (number ninety, Camden Street North) with her old aunt Mrs. Moon
and their old servant Martha. She had lived there five-and-twenty years,
ever since the death of her uncle.
Tollington Moon had been what his family called unfortunate; that is to
say, he had mislaid the greater portion of his wife's money and the whole
of Juliana's and Louisa's; he, poor fellow, had none of his own to lose.
Uncle Tollington, being the only male representative of the family, had
been appointed to drive the family coach. He was a genial good-natured
fellow and he cheerfully agreed, declaring that there was nothing in the
world he liked better than driving; though indeed he had had but little
practice in the art. So they started with a splendid flourishing of whips
and blowing of horns; Tollington driving at a furious break-neck pace in
a manner highly diverting and exhilarating to the ladies inside. The
girls (they were girls in those days) sat tight and felt no fear, while
Mrs. Moon, with her teeth shaking, explained to them the advantages of
having so expert a driver on the box seat. Of course there came the
inevitable smash at the corner. The three climbed out of that coach more
dead than alive; but they uttered no complaints; they had had their fun;
and in accidents of this kind the poor driver generally gets the worst of
it.
Mrs. Moon at any rate found consolation in disaster by steadily ignoring
its most humiliating features. Secure in the new majesty of her
widowhood, she faced her nieces with an unflinching air and demanded of
them eternal belief in the wisdom and rectitude of their uncle
Tollington. She hoped that they would never forget him, never forget what
he had to bear, never forget all he had done for them. Her attitude
reduced Juliana to tears; in Louisa it roused the instinct of revolt, and
Louisa was for separating from Mrs. Moon. It was then, in her first
difference from Louisa, that Miss Quincey's tender and foolish little
face acquired its strangely persistent air. Hitherto the elder had served
the younger; now she took her stand. She said, "Whatever we do, we must
keep together"; and she professed her willingness to believe in her uncle
Tollington and remember him for ever.
To this Louisa, who prided herself on speaking the truth or at any rate
her mind, replied that she wasn't likely to forget him in a hurry; that
her uncle Tollington had ruined her life, and she did not want to be
reminded of him any more than she could help. Moreover, she found her
aunt Moon's society depressing. She meant to get on and be independent;
and she advised Juliana to do the same.
Juliana did not press the point, for it was a delicate one, seeing that
Louisa was earning a hundred and twenty pounds a year and she but eighty.
So she added her eighty pounds to her aunt's eighty and went to live with
her in Camden Street North, while Louisa shrugged her shoulders and
carried herself and her salary elsewhere.
There was very little room for Mrs. Moon and Juliana at number ninety.
The poor souls had crowded themselves out with relics of their past, a
pathetic salvage, dragged hap-hazard from the wreck in the first frenzy
of preservation. Dreadful things in marble and gilt and in _papier-maché_
inlaid with mother-o'-pearl, rickety work tables with pouches underneath
them, banner-screens in silk and footstools in Berlin wool-work fought
with each other and with Juliana for standing-room. For Juliana, with her
genius for collision, was always knocking up against them, always getting
in their way. In return, Juliana's place at an oblique angle of the
fireside was disputed by a truculent cabinet with bandy legs. There was a
never-ending quarrel between Juliana and that piece of furniture, in
which Mrs. Moon took the part of the furniture. Her own world had shrunk
to a square yard between the window and the fire. There she sat and
dreamed among her household gods, smiling now and then under the spell of
the dream, or watched her companion with critical disapproval. She had
accepted Juliana's devotion as a proper sacrifice to the gods; but for
Juliana, or Louisa for the matter of that, she seemed to have but little
affection. If anything Louisa was her favourite. Louisa was better
company, to begin with; and Louisa, with her cleverness and her salary
and her general air of indifference and prosperity, raised no questions.
Besides, Louisa was married.
But Juliana, toiling from morning till night for her eighty pounds a
year; Juliana, painful and persistent, growing into middle-age without a
hope, Juliana was an incarnate reproach, a perpetual monument to the
folly of Tollington Moon. Juliana disturbed her dream.
But nobody else disturbed it, for nobody ever came to their half of the
house in Camden Street North. Louisa used to come and go in a brief
perfunctory manner; but Louisa had married the Greek professor and gone
away for good, and her friends at St. Sidwell's were not likely to waste
their time in cultivating Juliana and Mrs. Moon. The thing had been tried
by one or two of the younger teachers who went in for all-round
self-development and were getting up the minor virtues. But they had met
with no encouragement and they had ceased to come. Then nobody came; not
even the doctor or the clergyman. The two ladies were of one mind on that
point; it was convenient for them to ignore their trifling ailments,
spiritual or bodily. And as soon as they saw that the world renounced
them they adopted a lofty tone and said to each other that they had
renounced the world. For they were proud, Mrs. Moon especially so.
Tollington Moon had married slightly, ever so slightly beneath him, the
Moons again marking a faint descent from the standing of the Quinceys.
But the old lady had completely identified herself, not only with the
Moons, but with the higher branch, which she always spoke of as "_my_
family." In fact she had worn her connection with the Quinceys as a
feather in her cap so long that the feather had grown, as it were, into
an entire bird of paradise. And once a bird of paradise, always a bird of
paradise, though it had turned on the world a somewhat dilapidated tail.
So the two lived on together; so they had always lived. Mrs. Moon
was an old woman before she was five-and-fifty; and before she was
five-and-twenty Juliana's youth had withered away in the sour and
sordid atmosphere born of perishing gentility and acrid personal remark.
And their household gods looked down on them, miniatures and silhouettes
of Moons and Quinceys, calm and somewhat contemptuous presences. From the
post of honour above the mantelshelf, Tollington, attired as an Early
Victorian dandy, splendid in velvet waistcoat, scarf and chain-pin,
leaned on a broken column symbolical of his fortunes, and smiled genially
on the ruin he had made.
That was how Miss Quincey came to St. Sidwell's. And now she was
five-and-forty; she had always been five-and-forty; that is to say, she
had never been young, for to be young you must be happy. And this was so
far an advantage, that when middle-age came on her she felt no
difference.