THE LIFE OF MISRULE.
Dinner went off better than the girls had expected. But to Miss Tredgold
it was, and ever would be, the most awful meal she had eaten in the whole
course of her existence. The table was devoid of all those things which
she, as a refined lady, considered essential. The beautiful old silver
spoons were dirty, and several of them bent almost out of recognition. A
like fate had befallen the forks; the knives were rusty, the handles
disgracefully dirty; and the tablecloth, of the finest damask, was almost
gray in color, and adorned with several large holes. The use of
serviettes had been long abolished from The Dales.
The girls, in honor of the occasion, had put on their best frocks, and
Verena looked fairly pretty in a skimpy white muslin made in an obsolete
style. The other girls each presented a slightly worse appearance than
their elder sister, for each had on a somewhat shabbier frock, a little
more old-fashioned and more outgrown. As to Mr. Dale, it had been
necessary to remind him at least three times of his sister-in-law's
arrival; and finally Verena had herself to put him into his very old
evening-coat, to brush him down afterwards, and to smooth his hair, and
then lead him into the dining-room.
Miss Tredgold, in contradistinction to the rest of the family, was
dressed correctly. She wore a black lace dress slightly open at the neck,
and with elbow sleeves. The children thought that she looked dazzlingly
fashionable. Verena seemed to remember that she had seen figures very
like Aunt Sophia's in the fashion books. Aunt Sophia's hair in particular
absorbed the attention of four of her nieces. How had she managed to turn
it into so many rolls and spirals and twists? How did she manage the wavy
short hair on her forehead? It seemed to sit quite tight to her head, and
looked as if even a gale of wind would not blow it out of place. Aunt
Sophia's hands were thin and very white, and the fingers were
half-covered with sparkling rings, which shone and glittered so much that
Penelope dropped her choicest peas all over her frock as she gazed at
them.
John was requisitioned to wait at table, and John had no livery for the
purpose. The family as a rule never required attendance at meals. On this
occasion it was supposed to be essential, and as Betty refused
point-blank to stir from the kitchen, John had to come to the fore.
"No, no, Miss Renny," said Betty when poor Verena begged and implored of
the good woman to put in an appearance. "No, you don't. No, you certain
sure don't. Because you looked pretty and a bit coaxing I gave up Miss
Dunstable and the Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton two hours ago, but not
another minute will I spare from them. It's in their select society that
I spend my haristocratic evening."
Verena knew that it would be useless to coax Betty any further. So John
appeared with the potatoes in a large dish on a rusty tray, each potato
having, as Betty expressed it, a stone inside. This she declared was the
proper way to cook them. The peas presently followed the potatoes. They
were yellow with age, for they ought to have been eaten at least a week
ago. The lamb was terribly underdone, and the mint sauce was like no mint
sauce that Miss Tredgold had ever dreamed of. The pudding which followed
was a pudding that only Betty knew the recipe for, and that recipe was
certainly not likely to be popular in fashionable circles. But the
strawberry-jam was fairly good, and the cream was excellent; and when,
finally, Miss Tredgold rose to the occasion and said that she would make
some coffee, which she had brought down from town, in her own coffee-pot
on her own etna, the girls became quite excited.
The coffee was made, and shed a delicious aroma over the room. Mr. Dale
was so far interested that he was seen to sniff twice, and was found to
be observing the coffee as though he were a moth approaching a candle. He
even forgot his Virgil in his desire to partake of the delicious
stimulant. Miss Tredgold handed him a cup.
"There," she said. "If you were ever young, and if there was ever a time
when you cared to act as a gentleman, this will remind you of those
occasions.--And now, children, I introduce you to 'Open sesame;' and I
hope, my dear nieces, by means of these simple cups of coffee you will
enter a different world from that which you have hitherto known."
The girls all drank their coffee, and each pronounced it the nicest drink
they had ever taken.
Presently Miss Tredgold went into the garden. She invited Verena and
Pauline to accompany her.
"The rest of you can stay behind," she said. "You can talk about me to
each other as much as you like. I give you leave to discuss me freely,
knowing that, even if I did not do so, you would discuss me all the same.
I am quite aware that you all hate me for the present, but I do not think
this state of things will long continue. Come, Verena; come, Pauline. The
night is lovely. We will discuss nature a little, and common sense a
great deal."
The two girls selected to walk with Miss Tredgold looked behind at the
seven girls left in the dining-room, and the seven girls looked back at
them with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
"Never mind your sisters now," said Miss Tredgold. "We want to talk over
many things. But before we enter into any discussion I wish to ask a
question."
"Yes," said Verena in her gentle voice.
"Verena," said her aunt suddenly, "how old are you?"
"Fifteen," said Verena.
"Precisely. And on your next birthday you will be sixteen, and on the
following seventeen, and on the next one again eighteen. You have,
therefore, nearly three years in which to be transformed from a little
savage into a lady. The question I now want to ask you is: Do you prefer
to remain a savage all your days, uneducated, uncultured, your will
uncontrolled, your aspirations for good undeveloped; or do you wish to
become a beautiful and gracious lady, kind, sympathetic, learned, full of
grace? Tell me, my dear."
"How can I?" replied Verena. "I like my life here; we all suit each
other, and we like The Dales just as it is. Yes, we all suit each other,
and we don't mind being barbarians."
Miss Tredgold sighed.
"I perceive," she said, "that I shall have uphill work before me. For you
of all the young people, Verena, are the easiest to deal with. I know
that without your telling me. I know it by your face. You are naturally
gentle, courteous, and kind. You are easy to manage. You are also the
most important of all to be brought round to my views, for whatever you
do the others will do. It is on you, therefore, that I mean to exercise
my greatest influence and to expend my heaviest forces."
"I don't quite understand you, Aunt Sophia. I know, of course, you mean
kindly, but I would much rather----"
"That I went away? That I left you in the disgraceful state in which I
have found you?"
"Well, I don't consider it disgraceful; and----"
"Yes? You would rather I went?"
Verena nodded. After a moment she spoke.
"It seems unkind," she said--"and I don't wish to be unkind--but I
_would_ rather you went."
"And so would I, please, Aunt Sophia," said Pauline.
Miss Tredgold looked straight before her. Her face became a little
pinched, a little white round her lips.
"Once," she said slowly, "I had a sister--a sister whom I loved. She was
my half-sister, but I never thought of that. She was to me sister and
mother in one. She brought me up from the time I was a little child. She
was good to me, and she instilled into me certain principles. One of
these principles can be expressed in the following words: God put us into
the world to rise, not to sink. Another of her principles was that God
put us into the world to be good, to be unselfish. Another one, again,
was as follows: We must give account for our talents. Now, to allow the
talent of beauty, for instance, to degenerate into what it is likely to
do in your case, Verena, is distinctly wicked. To allow you to sink when
you might rise is sinful. To allow you to be selfish when you might be
unselfish is also wrong. Your talents, and the talents of Pauline, and
the talents of your other sisters must be cultivated and brought to the
fore. I want to tell you now, my dear girls, that for years I have longed
to help you; that since your mother's death you have scarcely ever been
out of my mind. But circumstances over which I had no control kept me
away from you. At last I am free, and the children of my sister Alice are
the ones I think most about. I have come here prepared for your
rebellion, prepared for your dislike, and determined not to be
discouraged by either the one or the other. I have come to The Dales,
Verena and Pauline, and I mean to remain here for at least three months.
If at the end of the three months you ask me to go, I will; although even
then I will not give you up. But until three months have expired you can
only turn me out by force. I don't think you will do that. It is best
that we should understand each other clearly; is it not, Verena?"
Verena's face was very white; her big brown eyes were full of tears.
"I ought to be glad and to say 'Welcome.' But I am not glad, and I don't
welcome you, Aunt Sophia. We like our own way; we don't mind being
savages, and it is untrue that we are selfish. We are not. Each would
give up anything, I think, for the other. But we like our poverty and our
rough ways and our freedom, and we--we don't want you, Aunt Sophia."
"Nevertheless you will have to put up with me," said Miss Tredgold. "And
now, to start matters, please tell me exactly how you spend your day."
"Our life is not yours, Aunt Sophia. It would not interest you to know
how we spend our day."
"To-morrow, Verena, when the life of rule succeeds the life of misrule, I
should take umbrage at your remark, but to-night I take no umbrage. I but
repeat my question."
"And I will tell you," said Pauline in her brisk voice. "We get up just
when we like. We have breakfast when we choose--sometimes in the garden
on the grass, sometimes not at all. We walk where we please, and lose
ourselves in the Forest, and gather wild strawberries and wild flowers,
and watch the squirrels, and climb the beech-trees. When it is fine we
spend the whole day out, just coming back for meals, and sometimes not
even then, if Betty gives us a little milk and some bread. Sometimes we
are lazy and lie on the grass all day. We do what we like always, and
always just when we like. Don't we, Renny?"
"Yes," said Verena. "We do what we like, and in our own way."
"In future," said Miss Tredgold, "you will do things in my way. I hope
you will not dislike my way; but whether you like or dislike it, you will
have to submit."
"But, Aunt Sophia," said Verena, "what authority have you over us? I am
exceedingly sorry to seem rude, but I really want to know. Father, of
course, has authority over us, but have you? Has anybody but father? That
is what I want to know."
"I thought you might ask something of that sort," said Miss Tredgold--"or,
even if you did not ask it, you might think it--and I am prepared with my
answer. I quite recognize that in the case of girls like you I have no
authority, and I cannot act fairly by you until I have. Now, my dear
girls, please understand that before I go to bed to-night I get that
authority. I shall get it m writing, too, so that you can none of you
gainsay it, or slip past it, or avoid it. When the authority comes, then
will also come the happy life of rule, for the life of misrule can never
be really happy--never for long. Believe me, I am right."
Pauline pulled her hand away from Aunt Sophia's. She ran to the other
side of Verena.
"I don't like you, Aunt Sophia," she said, "and I don't want you to stay.
Renny, you don't like her either, and you don't want her to stay. We
don't believe all the things you are saying, Aunt Sophia. You can't look
into our hearts, and although you are clever, you can't know all about
us. Why shouldn't we be wild in our own fashion? We are very happy. To be
happy is everything. We have only been unhappy since we knew you were
coming. Please go away; please do."
"You cannot influence me, Pauline. I love you too well to desert you. Now
I am going into the house. You can discuss me then with your sister to
your heart's content."
Miss Tredgold went very slowly towards the old and dilapidated house.
When she reached the hall door she turned and looked around her.
"I certainly have tough work before me. How am I to manage? If I were not
thinking so much of Alice, I should leave these impertinent, neglected,
silly girls to their fate. But no--I seem to see my sister's eyes, to
hear her voice. I can so well understand what she would really want me to
do. I owe a great debt of gratitude to my beloved sister. I am free,
hampered by no ties. I will reform these wild young nieces. I will not be
easily deterred."
Miss Tredgold clasped her hands before her. The moon was rising in a
silvery bow in the sky; the air was deliciously fresh and balmy.
"The place is healthy, and the children are strong," she thought,
"notwithstanding their bad food and their disreputable, worn-out clothes.
They are healthy, fresh, good-looking girls. But this is summer-time, and
in summer-time one puts up with discomforts for the sake of air like
this. But what about winter? I have no doubt they have scarcely any
fires, and the house must be damp. As the children grow older they will
develop rheumatism and all kinds of troubles. Yes, my duty is plain. I
must look after my nieces, both soul and body, for the future."
As Miss Tredgold thought these last thoughts she re-entered the house.
She walked through the desolate rooms. It was now twilight, but no one
thought of lighting lamps, or drawing curtains, or shutting windows. Miss
Tredgold stumbled as she walked. Presently she found that she had
wandered in the neighborhood of the kitchen. She had no intention of
bearding Betty in her den--she had no idea that there was a Betty--but as
she was near the kitchen, and as under that doorway alone there streamed
a light, she opened the door.
"Is there any one inside?" she asked.
A grunt in the far distance came by way of response. The fire was out in
the stove, and as Miss Tredgold grew accustomed to the gloom she saw in
the farthest corner something that resembled the stout form of a woman,
whose legs rested on one chair and her body on another. A guttering dip
candle was close to her side, and a paper book was held almost under her
nose.
"I am sorry to disturb you," said Miss Tredgold, "but I have come for a
light. Will you kindly inform me where I can get a candle?"
"There ain't none in the house."
The book was put down, and the angry face of Betty appeared to view.
"Then I fear I must trouble you to resign the one you yourself are using.
I must have a light to see my way to my bedroom."
"There ain't no candles. We don't have 'em in summer. This one I bought
with my own money, and I don't give it up to nobody, laidy or no laidy."
"Am I addressing the cook?"
"You are, ma'am. And I may as well say I am cook and housemaid and
parlor-maid and kitchen-maid and scullery-maid all in one; and I does the
laundry, too, whenever it's done at all. You may gather from my words,
ma'am, that I have a deal to do, so I'll thank you to walk out of my
kitchen; for if I am resting after my day of hard work, I have a right to
rest, and my own candle shall light me, and my own book shall amuse me.
So have the goodness to go, ma'am, and at once."
"I will go," replied Miss Tredgold very quietly, "exactly when I please,
and not a moment before. I wish to say now that I require breakfast to be
on the table at nine o'clock, and there must be plenty of good food. Do
you mean to say that you have not got food in the house? You can, I
presume, send out for it. Here is a half-sovereign. Spend it in what is
necessary in order to provide an abundant meal on the table to-morrow
morning for the use of Mr. Dale, myself, and my nieces."
What Betty would have said had there been no half-sovereign forthcoming
history will never relate. But half-sovereigns were very few and very
precious at The Dales. It was almost impossible to get any money out of
Mr. Dale; he did not seem to know that there was such a thing as money.
If it was put into his hand by any chance, he spent it on books. Betty's
wages were terribly in arrears. She wanted her wages, but she was too
generous, with all her faults, to press for them. But, all the same, the
touch of the gold in her hand was distinctly soothing, and Miss Tredgold
immediately rose in her estimation. A lady who produced at will golden
half-sovereigns, and who was reckless enough to declare that one of these
treasures might be spent on a single meal, was surely not a person to be
sniffed at. Betty therefore stumbled to her feet.
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure, ma'am; and it's badly we does want some
things here. I'll get what I can, although the notice is short, and the
dook's nuptials, so to speak, at the door."
"What!" said Miss Tredgold.
"I beg your pardon again, ma'am, but my head aches and I'm a bit
confused. I'm reading a most wonderful account of the wedding of the Dook
of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton."
"I never heard of him."
"He's marrying a young girl quite in my own station of life--one that was
riz from the cottage to the governess-ship, and from the governess-ship
to the ducal chair. My head is full of Her Grace, ma'am, and you'll
excuse me if I didn't rightly know to whom I had the honor of talking.
I'll do what I can. And perhaps you'd like to borrow one of my dip
candles for the present night."
"I should very much," said Miss Tredgold. "And please understand, Betty--I
think you said your name was Betty--please understand that if you are on
my side I shall be on your side. I have come here meaning to stay, and in
future there will be a complete change in this establishment. You will
receive good wages, paid on the day they are due. There will be plenty of
money and plenty of food in the house, and the cook who pleases me stays,
and the cook who displeases me goes. You understand?"
"Sakes!" muttered Betty, "it's nearly as exciting as the doocal
romance.--Well, ma'am, I'm of your way of thinking; and here's your
candle."