The day was by this time waning, when the gate again opened, and, with
the brilliant golden light that streamed from the declining sun and
touched the very bars of the sooty creature's den, there passed in a
little child; a little girl with beautiful bright hair. She wore a plain
straw hat, had a door-key in her hand, and tripped towards Mr. Traveller
as if she were pleased to see him and were going to repose some childish
confidence in him, when she caught sight of the figure behind the bars,
and started back in terror.
"Don't be alarmed, darling!" said Mr. Traveller, taking her by the hand.
"Oh, but I don't like it!" urged the shrinking child; "it's dreadful."
"Well! I don't like it either," said Mr. Traveller.
"Who has put it there?" asked the little girl. "Does it bite?"
"No,--only barks. But can't you make up your mind to see it, my dear?"
For she was covering her eyes.
"O no no no!" returned the child. "I cannot bear to look at it!"
Mr. Traveller turned his head towards his friend in there, as much as to
ask him how he liked that instance of his success, and then took the
child out at the still open gate, and stood talking to her for some half
an hour in the mellow sunlight. At length he returned, encouraging her
as she held his arm with both her hands; and laying his protecting hand
upon her head and smoothing her pretty hair, he addressed his friend
behind the bars as follows:
* * * * *
Miss Pupford's establishment for six young ladies of tender years, is an
establishment of a compact nature, an establishment in miniature, quite a
pocket establishment. Miss Pupford, Miss Pupford's assistant with the
Parisian accent, Miss Pupford's cook, and Miss Pupford's housemaid,
complete what Miss Pupford calls the educational and domestic staff of
her Lilliputian College.
Miss Pupford is one of the most amiable of her sex; it necessarily
follows that she possesses a sweet temper, and would own to the
possession of a great deal of sentiment if she considered it quite
reconcilable with her duty to parents. Deeming it not in the bond, Miss
Pupford keeps it as far out of sight as she can--which (God bless her!)
is not very far.
Miss Pupford's assistant with the Parisian accent, may be regarded as in
some sort an inspired lady, for she never conversed with a Parisian, and
was never out of England--except once in the pleasure-boat Lively, in the
foreign waters that ebb and flow two miles off Margate at high water.
Even under those geographically favourable circumstances for the
acquisition of the French language in its utmost politeness and purity,
Miss Pupford's assistant did not fully profit by the opportunity; for the
pleasure-boat, Lively, so strongly asserted its title to its name on that
occasion, that she was reduced to the condition of lying in the bottom of
the boat pickling in brine--as if she were being salted down for the use
of the Navy--undergoing at the same time great mental alarm, corporeal
distress, and clear-starching derangement.
When Miss Pupford and her assistant first foregathered, is not known to
men, or pupils. But, it was long ago. A belief would have established
itself among pupils that the two once went to school together, were it
not for the difficulty and audacity of imagining Miss Pupford born
without mittens, and without a front, and without a bit of gold wire
among her front teeth, and without little dabs of powder on her neat
little face and nose. Indeed, whenever Miss Pupford gives a little
lecture on the mythology of the misguided heathens (always carefully
excluding Cupid from recognition), and tells how Minerva sprang,
perfectly equipped, from the brain of Jupiter, she is half supposed to
hint, "So I myself came into the world, completely up in Pinnock,
Mangnall, Tables, and the use of the Globes."
Howbeit, Miss Pupford and Miss Pupford's assistant are old old friends.
And it is thought by pupils that, after pupils are gone to bed, they even
call one another by their christian names in the quiet little parlour.
For, once upon a time on a thunderous afternoon, when Miss Pupford
fainted away without notice, Miss Pupford's assistant (never heard,
before or since, to address her otherwise than as Miss Pupford) ran to
her, crying out, "My dearest Euphemia!" And Euphemia is Miss Pupford's
christian name on the sampler (date picked out) hanging up in the College-
hall, where the two peacocks, terrified to death by some German text that
is waddling down-hill after them out of a cottage, are scuttling away to
hide their profiles in two immense bean-stalks growing out of
flower-pots.
Also, there is a notion latent among pupils, that Miss Pupford was once
in love, and that the beloved object still moves upon this ball. Also,
that he is a public character, and a personage of vast consequence. Also,
that Miss Pupford's assistant knows all about it. For, sometimes of an
afternoon when Miss Pupford has been reading the paper through her little
gold eye-glass (it is necessary to read it on the spot, as the boy calls
for it, with ill-conditioned punctuality, in an hour), she has become
agitated, and has said to her assistant "G!" Then Miss Pupford's
assistant has gone to Miss Pupford, and Miss Pupford has pointed out,
with her eye-glass, G in the paper, and then Miss Pupford's assistant has
read about G, and has shown sympathy. So stimulated has the pupil-mind
been in its time to curiosity on the subject of G, that once, under
temporary circumstances favourable to the bold sally, one fearless pupil
did actually obtain possession of the paper, and range all over it in
search of G, who had been discovered therein by Miss Pupford not ten
minutes before. But no G could be identified, except one capital
offender who had been executed in a state of great hardihood, and it was
not to be supposed that Miss Pupford could ever have loved _him_.
Besides, he couldn't be always being executed. Besides, he got into the
paper again, alive, within a month.
On the whole, it is suspected by the pupil-mind that G is a short chubby
old gentleman, with little black sealing-wax boots up to his knees, whom
a sharply observant pupil, Miss Linx, when she once went to Tunbridge
Wells with Miss Pupford for the holidays, reported on her return
(privately and confidentially) to have seen come capering up to Miss
Pupford on the Promenade, and to have detected in the act of squeezing
Miss Pupford's hand, and to have heard pronounce the words, "Cruel
Euphemia, ever thine!"--or something like that. Miss Linx hazarded a
guess that he might be House of Commons, or Money Market, or Court
Circular, or Fashionable Movements; which would account for his getting
into the paper so often. But, it was fatally objected by the pupil-mind,
that none of those notabilities could possibly be spelt with a G.
There are other occasions, closely watched and perfectly comprehended by
the pupil-mind, when Miss Pupford imparts with mystery to her assistant
that there is special excitement in the morning paper. These occasions
are, when Miss Pupford finds an old pupil coming out under the head of
Births, or Marriages. Affectionate tears are invariably seen in Miss
Pupford's meek little eyes when this is the case; and the pupil-mind,
perceiving that its order has distinguished itself--though the fact is
never mentioned by Miss Pupford--becomes elevated, and feels that it
likewise is reserved for greatness.
Miss Pupford's assistant with the Parisian accent has a little more bone
than Miss Pupford, but is of the same trim orderly diminutive cast, and,
from long contemplation, admiration, and imitation of Miss Pupford, has
grown like her. Being entirely devoted to Miss Pupford, and having a
pretty talent for pencil-drawing, she once made a portrait of that lady:
which was so instantly identified and hailed by the pupils, that it was
done on stone at five shillings. Surely the softest and milkiest stone
that ever was quarried, received that likeness of Miss Pupford! The
lines of her placid little nose are so undecided in it that strangers to
the work of art are observed to be exceedingly perplexed as to where the
nose goes to, and involuntarily feel their own noses in a disconcerted
manner. Miss Pupford being represented in a state of dejection at an
open window, ruminating over a bowl of gold fish, the pupil-mind has
settled that the bowl was presented by G, and that he wreathed the bowl
with flowers of soul, and that Miss Pupford is depicted as waiting for
him on a memorable occasion when he was behind his time.
The approach of the last Midsummer holidays had a particular interest for
the pupil-mind, by reason of its knowing that Miss Pupford was bidden, on
the second day of those holidays, to the nuptials of a former pupil. As
it was impossible to conceal the fact--so extensive were the dress-making
preparations--Miss Pupford openly announced it. But, she held it due to
parents to make the announcement with an air of gentle melancholy, as if
marriage were (as indeed it exceptionally has been) rather a calamity.
With an air of softened resignation and pity, therefore, Miss Pupford
went on with her preparations: and meanwhile no pupil ever went
up-stairs, or came down, without peeping in at the door of Miss Pupford's
bedroom (when Miss Pupford wasn't there), and bringing back some
surprising intelligence concerning the bonnet.
The extensive preparations being completed on the day before the
holidays, an unanimous entreaty was preferred to Miss Pupford by the
pupil-mind--finding expression through Miss Pupford's assistant--that she
would deign to appear in all her splendour. Miss Pupford consenting,
presented a lovely spectacle. And although the oldest pupil was barely
thirteen, every one of the six became in two minutes perfect in the
shape, cut, colour, price, and quality, of every article Miss Pupford
wore.
Thus delightfully ushered in, the holidays began. Five of the six pupils
kissed little Kitty Kimmeens twenty times over (round total, one hundred
times, for she was very popular), and so went home. Miss Kitty Kimmeens
remained behind, for her relations and friends were all in India, far
away. A self-helpful steady little child is Miss Kitty Kimmeens: a
dimpled child too, and a loving.
So, the great marriage-day came, and Miss Pupford, quite as much
fluttered as any bride could be (G! thought Miss Kitty Kimmeens), went
away, splendid to behold, in the carriage that was sent for her. But not
Miss Pupford only went away; for Miss Pupford's assistant went away with
her, on a dutiful visit to an aged uncle--though surely the venerable
gentleman couldn't live in the gallery of the church where the marriage
was to be, thought Miss Kitty Kimmeens--and yet Miss Pupford's assistant
had let out that she was going there. Where the cook was going, didn't
appear, but she generally conveyed to Miss Kimmeens that she was bound,
rather against her will, on a pilgrimage to perform some pious office
that rendered new ribbons necessary to her best bonnet, and also sandals
to her shoes.
"So you see," said the housemaid, when they were all gone, "there's
nobody left in the house but you and me, Miss Kimmeens."
"Nobody else," said Miss Kitty Kimmeens, shaking her curls a little
sadly. "Nobody!"
"And you wouldn't like your Bella to go too; would you, Miss Kimmeens?"
said the housemaid. (She being Bella.)
"N-no," answered little Miss Kimmeens.
"Your poor Bella is forced to stay with you, whether she likes it or not;
ain't she, Miss Kimmeens?"
"_Don't_ you like it?" inquired Kitty.
"Why, you're such a darling, Miss, that it would be unkind of your Bella
to make objections. Yet my brother-in-law has been took unexpected bad
by this morning's post. And your poor Bella is much attached to him,
letting alone her favourite sister, Miss Kimmeens."
"Is he very ill?" asked little Kitty.
"Your poor Bella has her fears so, Miss Kimmeens," returned the
housemaid, with her apron at her eyes. "It was but his inside, it is
true, but it might mount, and the doctor said that if it mounted he
wouldn't answer." Here the housemaid was so overcome that Kitty
administered the only comfort she had ready: which was a kiss.
"If it hadn't been for disappointing Cook, dear Miss Kimmeens," said the
housemaid, "your Bella would have asked her to stay with you. For Cook
is sweet company, Miss Kimmeens, much more so than your own poor Bella."
"But you are very nice, Bella."
"Your Bella could wish to be so, Miss Kimmeens," returned the housemaid,
"but she knows full well that it do not lay in her power this day."
With which despondent conviction, the housemaid drew a heavy sigh, and
shook her head, and dropped it on one side.
"If it had been anyways right to disappoint Cook," she pursued, in a
contemplative and abstracted manner, "it might have been so easy done! I
could have got to my brother-in-law's, and had the best part of the day
there, and got back, long before our ladies come home at night, and
neither the one nor the other of them need never have known it. Not that
Miss Pupford would at all object, but that it might put her out, being
tender-hearted. Hows'ever, your own poor Bella, Miss Kimmeens," said the
housemaid, rousing herself, "is forced to stay with you, and you're a
precious love, if not a liberty."
"Bella," said little Kitty, after a short silence.
"Call your own poor Bella, your Bella, dear," the housemaid besought her.
"My Bella, then."
"Bless your considerate heart!" said the housemaid.
"If you would not mind leaving me, I should not mind being left. I am
not afraid to stay in the house alone. And you need not be uneasy on my
account, for I would be very careful to do no harm."
"O! As to harm, you more than sweetest, if not a liberty," exclaimed the
housemaid, in a rapture, "your Bella could trust you anywhere, being so
steady, and so answerable. The oldest head in this house (me and Cook
says), but for its bright hair, is Miss Kimmeens. But no, I will not
leave you; for you would think your Bella unkind."
"But if you are my Bella, you _must_ go," returned the child.
"Must I?" said the housemaid, rising, on the whole with alacrity. "What
must be, must be, Miss Kimmeens. Your own poor Bella acts according,
though unwilling. But go or stay, your own poor Bella loves you, Miss
Kimmeens."
It was certainly go, and not stay, for within five minutes Miss
Kimmeens's own poor Bella--so much improved in point of spirits as to
have grown almost sanguine on the subject of her brother-in-law--went her
way, in apparel that seemed to have been expressly prepared for some
festive occasion. Such are the changes of this fleeting world, and so
short-sighted are we poor mortals!
When the house door closed with a bang and a shake, it seemed to Miss
Kimmeens to be a very heavy house door, shutting her up in a wilderness
of a house. But, Miss Kimmeens being, as before stated, of a
self-reliant and methodical character, presently began to parcel out the
long summer-day before her.
And first she thought she would go all over the house, to make quite sure
that nobody with a great-coat on and a carving-knife in it, had got under
one of the beds or into one of the cupboards. Not that she had ever
before been troubled by the image of anybody armed with a great-coat and
a carving-knife, but that it seemed to have been shaken into existence by
the shake and the bang of the great street-door, reverberating through
the solitary house. So, little Miss Kimmeens looked under the five empty
beds of the five departed pupils, and looked, under her own bed, and
looked under Miss Pupford's bed, and looked under Miss Pupford's
assistants bed. And when she had done this, and was making the tour of
the cupboards, the disagreeable thought came into her young head, What a
very alarming thing it would be to find somebody with a mask on, like Guy
Fawkes, hiding bolt upright in a corner and pretending not to be alive!
However, Miss Kimmeens having finished her inspection without making any
such uncomfortable discovery, sat down in her tidy little manner to
needlework, and began stitching away at a great rate.
The silence all about her soon grew very oppressive, and the more so
because of the odd inconsistency that the more silent it was, the more
noises there were. The noise of her own needle and thread as she
stitched, was infinitely louder in her ears than the stitching of all the
six pupils, and of Miss Pupford, and of Miss Pupford's assistant, all
stitching away at once on a highly emulative afternoon. Then, the
schoolroom clock conducted itself in a way in which it had never
conducted itself before--fell lame, somehow, and yet persisted in running
on as hard and as loud as it could: the consequence of which behaviour
was, that it staggered among the minutes in a state of the greatest
confusion, and knocked them about in all directions without appearing to
get on with its regular work. Perhaps this alarmed the stairs; but be
that as it might, they began to creak in a most unusual manner, and then
the furniture began to crack, and then poor little Miss Kimmeens, not
liking the furtive aspect of things in general, began to sing as she
stitched. But, it was not her own voice that she heard--it was somebody
else making believe to be Kitty, and singing excessively flat, without
any heart--so as that would never mend matters, she left off again.
By-and-by the stitching became so palpable a failure that Miss Kitty
Kimmeens folded her work neatly, and put it away in its box, and gave it
up. Then the question arose about reading. But no; the book that was so
delightful when there was somebody she loved for her eyes to fall on when
they rose from the page, had not more heart in it than her own singing
now. The book went to its shelf as the needlework had gone to its box,
and, since something _must_ be done--thought the child, "I'll go put my
room to rights."
She shared her room with her dearest little friend among the other five
pupils, and why then should she now conceive a lurking dread of the
little friend's bedstead? But she did. There was a stealthy air about
its innocent white curtains, and there were even dark hints of a dead
girl lying under the coverlet. The great want of human company, the
great need of a human face, began now to express itself in the facility
with which the furniture put on strange exaggerated resemblances to human
looks. A chair with a menacing frown was horribly out of temper in a
corner; a most vicious chest of drawers snarled at her from between the
windows. It was no relief to escape from those monsters to the looking-
glass, for the reflection said, "What? Is that you all alone there? How
you stare!" And the background was all a great void stare as well.
The day dragged on, dragging Kitty with it very slowly by the hair of her
head, until it was time to eat. There were good provisions in the
pantry, but their right flavour and relish had evaporated with the five
pupils, and Miss Pupford, and Miss Pupford's assistant, and the cook and
housemaid. Where was the use of laying the cloth symmetrically for one
small guest, who had gone on ever since the morning growing smaller and
smaller, while the empty house had gone on swelling larger and larger?
The very Grace came out wrong, for who were "we" who were going to
receive and be thankful? So, Miss Kimmeens was _not_ thankful, and found
herself taking her dinner in very slovenly style--gobbling it up, in
short, rather after the manner of the lower animals, not to particularise
the pigs.
But, this was by no means the worst of the change wrought out in the
naturally loving and cheery little creature as the solitary day wore on.
She began to brood and be suspicious. She discovered that she was full
of wrongs and injuries. All the people she knew, got tainted by her
lonely thoughts and turned bad.
It was all very well for Papa, a widower in India, to send her home to be
educated, and to pay a handsome round sum every year for her to Miss
Pupford, and to write charming letters to his darling little daughter;
but what did he care for her being left by herself, when he was (as no
doubt he always was) enjoying himself in company from morning till night?
Perhaps he only sent her here, after all, to get her out of the way. It
looked like it--looked like it to-day, that is, for she had never dreamed
of such a thing before.
And this old pupil who was being married. It was unsupportably conceited
and selfish in the old pupil to be married. She was very vain, and very
glad to show off; but it was highly probable that she wasn't pretty; and
even if she were pretty (which Miss Kimmeens now totally denied), she had
no business to be married; and, even if marriage were conceded, she had
no business to ask Miss Pupford to her wedding. As to Miss Pupford, she
was too old to go to any wedding. She ought to know that. She had much
better attend to her business. She had thought she looked nice in the
morning, but she didn't look nice. She was a stupid old thing. G was
another stupid old thing. Miss Pupford's assistant was another. They
were all stupid old things together.
More than that: it began to be obvious that this was a plot. They had
said to one another, "Never mind Kitty; you get off, and I'll get off;
and we'll leave Kitty to look after herself. Who cares for her?" To be
sure they were right in that question; for who _did_ care for her, a poor
little lonely thing against whom they all planned and plotted? Nobody,
nobody! Here Kitty sobbed.
At all other times she was the pet of the whole house, and loved her five
companions in return with a child's tenderest and most ingenuous
attachment; but now, the five companions put on ugly colours, and
appeared for the first time under a sullen cloud. There they were, all
at their homes that day, being made much of, being taken out, being
spoilt and made disagreeable, and caring nothing for her. It was like
their artful selfishness always to tell her when they came back, under
pretence of confidence and friendship, all those details about where they
had been, and what they had done and seen, and how often they had said,
"O! If we had only darling little Kitty here!" Here indeed! I dare
say! When they came back after the holidays, they were used to being
received by Kitty, and to saying that coming to Kitty was like coming to
another home. Very well then, why did they go away? If the meant it,
why did they go away? Let them answer that. But they didn't mean it,
and couldn't answer that, and they didn't tell the truth, and people who
didn't tell the truth were hateful. When they came back next time, they
should be received in a new manner; they should be avoided and shunned.
And there, the while she sat all alone revolving how ill she was used,
and how much better she was than the people who were not alone, the
wedding breakfast was going on: no question of it! With a nasty great
bride-cake, and with those ridiculous orange-flowers, and with that
conceited bride, and that hideous bridegroom, and those heartless
bridesmaids, and Miss Pupford stuck up at the table! They thought they
were enjoying themselves, but it would come home to them one day to have
thought so. They would all be dead in a few years, let them enjoy
themselves ever so much. It was a religious comfort to know that.
It was such a comfort to know it, that little Miss Kitty Kimmeens
suddenly sprang from the chair in which she had been musing in a corner,
and cried out, "O those envious thoughts are not mine, O this wicked
creature isn't me! Help me, somebody! I go wrong, alone by my weak
self! Help me, anybody!"
* * * * *
"--Miss Kimmeens is not a professed philosopher, sir," said Mr.
Traveller, presenting her at the barred window, and smoothing her shining
hair, "but I apprehend there was some tincture of philosophy in her
words, and in the prompt action with which she followed them. That
action was, to emerge from her unnatural solitude, and look abroad for
wholesome sympathy, to bestow and to receive. Her footsteps strayed to
this gate, bringing her here by chance, as an apposite contrast to you.
The child came out, sir. If you have the wisdom to learn from a child
(but I doubt it, for that requires more wisdom than one in your condition
would seem to possess), you cannot do better than imitate the child, and
come out too--from that very demoralising hutch of yours."