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.