When the young ladies at the Manor House did not get their dresses from
London, a dressmaker came from Brighton to help them, and all together
they sat sewing and chattering in the work-room. Maggie would take a
bow or a flower, and moving it quickly, guided by the instinct of a bird
building its nest, would find the place where it decorated the hat or
bonnet best. Neither Sally nor Grace could do this, nor could they drape
a skirt or fit a bodice, but they could work well and enjoy their
work. But what they enjoyed more was the opportunity these working days
afforded for gossip. Mrs. Wood had the Brighton scandal at her tongue's
tip, and what she would not tell, her niece told them when her aunt left
the room. Secrecy was enjoined, but sometimes they forgot, and in Mrs.
Wood's presence alluded too pointedly to stories that had not yet found
their way beyond the precincts of the servants' hall, and then the
dressmaker raised her mild eyes, and looked through large spectacles at
Susan, who sat biting her lips. Susan told the young ladies of her love
affairs; they told Susan of theirs; and the different codes of etiquette
gave added zest to the anecdotes, in themselves interesting. The story
of the young man who had said, “I am afraid that parcel is too heavy for
you, miss,” and had been promised a walk in the twilight on the cliff,
evoked visions of liberty, and the story of the officer at the Henfield
ball, with whom Sally had discovered a room that none knew of, did not
fail to impress the little dressmaker. They talked a great deal
about Frank. His face and manner called up the name, and after a few
hesitations they used his Christian name as they did when he came to see
them years ago.
“He is a very good fellow--I don't say he isn't. No one could say he
wasn't nice-looking, but somehow he doesn't make you feel--you know,
right down, you know, through and through.”
“Electricity,” said Maggie, with a low, subtle laugh, and her thread
cracked through the straw of the hat.
“Yes,” cried Sally boisterously. “Electricity, I never heard it called
that before; but it isn't a bad name for it; it is like electricity.
When a man looks at you--you know, in a peculiar way, it goes right down
your back from the very crown of your head.”
“No, not down my back; I feel it down my chest, just like forked
lightning. Isn't it horrid? You know that it is coming and you can't
help it. Some men fix their eyes on you.”
“It is just when you meet a man's eyes--a man you like, but haven't seen
much of.”
“I don't think liking has anything to do with it. I hate it; don't you?”
“No, I don't know that I do. I can't see anything so disagreeable as
that in it. 'Tis rather a shock, a sort of pang.”
Mrs. Wood raised her mild face and looked surprised through her thick
spectacles; the merry niece bit her lips, and strove to stay her
laughter. Then Maggie said: “Sue, have you ever felt electricity?”
“Oh, miss! I don't think I understand,” and she glanced at her aunt over
the hem she was running.
“Now, come, tell the truth. You mean to say you never felt electricity?”
“I don't think I ever did, miss.”
“I don't believe you. Not when that nice young man you were telling us
about looked at you? Come, now, tell the truth.”
“Well, miss, I don't know--I thought it was very revolting.”
Mrs. Wood said nothing; with her hand in suspended gesture and her
spectacles a-glimmer with round surprise, she sat looking at Miss
Maggie. Her reveries, however, were soon cut short, for Sally not
only asked her if she had ever experienced the doubtful pleasure of
electricity, but advised her when she returned home to try if her
husband's looks could thrill her.
“I don't think the conversation at all nice,” said Grace, who had up to
the present taken no part either by looks, or words, or laughter.
“Who cares what you think? You used to be fond enough of sitting out
dances with him. You mean to say he never gave you electricity?”
“No, never.”
“Then I hope Berkins will,” said Sally, with a coarse laugh.
The association of Berkins with electricity proved so generally
ludicrous that Mrs. Wood, conscious of the respect she owed Miss
Brookes, pretended to look for her handkerchief, and it was for a moment
doubtful if the spectacles would preserve their gravity. Tears started
to Grace's eyes, and she bent over her work to hide them from her
sisters, which was unnecessary, for Maggie and Sally were absorbed in
past experiences.
“What about Frank?” Sally asked, and Susan looked up curious to hear
Maggie's answer.
“Well,” said Maggie, staring at the window, “Frank is very good-looking,
but I don't think that he electrifies one... he did once.”
“And when was that?” said Sally.
“You remember the first time he came to stay here? Willy brought him
down from London. We went to bed early and left them playing billiards;
I lay awake waiting to hear them come up the stairs, and as he passed my
room Frank stopped and I thought he was coming in. I felt it all down my
spine, but never afterwards. You see, I didn't know him much then.”
“And Jimmy?”
“I never liked Jimmy.”
“If you don't like him why trouble about him?” Sally replied in her
usually defiant manner. “You always take good care to trouble about my
men. You tried all you could to get Jimmy away from me, yet you pretend
to father that you never flirted with him.”
“I didn't flirt with him; once a young man looks at you you think no one
must speak to him but yourself. If young Meason asks me to dance with
him, I cannot refuse; I am not going to make myself ridiculous though
you were to look all the daggers in the world at me, but as for flirting
with him, I never cared enough about him.”
“And what about meeting him in London?”
Maggie coloured a little, and repudiated the accusation.
“You told him you were going to London, and you asked him if he were
going, and what he would be doing that day. I don't know what more you
could say.”
“I never said any such thing.”
“I have it from his own lips.”
“It isn't true; I will ask him to your face if he ever said such a
thing; I will tell father that.”
“Well, there's no use in quarrelling,” said Grace, “and I wouldn't
advise you to worry father about it. You know he can't stand the name
of Meason. It seems to me that neither of you care much whom you flirt
with, you like so many young men.”
“It is better to like a dozen young men than one old one.”
“I shan't marry Mr. Berkins, no matter what you say. However, you can't
accuse me of interfering in your affairs.”
“No, _you_ don't.”
“No more do I. If you want Frank, take him, only don't come sneaking
after Charley. I don't want Frank; I don't care twopence about him. If
you want to see it out with him, I shan't interfere; only don't you come
interfering with me and Jimmy, or Charley either.”
Maggie did not like the idea of Sally getting two to her one. She would
have liked to have introduced a proviso about Alfred, but the title
Mount Rorke slipped between her thoughts, and she refrained. She knew
the present treaty secured her immunity from Sally only so long as
the affections and attentions of Jimmy and Charley showed no signs of
declension, and she was aware that her promise would only hold good so
long as Frank interested and Charley remained away in London.
The canary that had been twittering, now burst forth into long and
prolonged shrillings. Grace folded up her work along her knees; and
holding it in her hand like a roll of music, she said that they would
never hear the end of this tennis party.
“I don't see why father should ever know anything about it, he has taken
that horrid old Joseph with him, he never says more than a few words
to the footman, and he never sees the cook or housemaid. We have all
to-morrow to get the house straight.”
“It is not certain that he is going to stay the night in London.”
“Yes it is. Don't fidget. Have you got the wine out? We should have a
dozen of champagne. Mind you make no mistake; '80, that is the wine you
must get. Jimmy is most particular what he drinks, and Alfred has the
most frightful headaches if he drinks anything but the very best. I hope
he'll find the '80 all right.”
“That's father's favourite wine; you mean to say that he won't miss
it? Then the port and Burgundy and cherry brandy--I won't take the
responsibility.”
“Nobody asked you. All you have to do is to return the keys to Maggie
that you took from her.”
“I don't think father will be as angry as you think, Grace; besides
there's no drawing back now the invitations are out. I think it would be
better to tell him that we had a few friends in for tennis. We needn't
tell him who was there--we will suppress the name of the Southdown Road
people; and we can take the bottles out from the back. The wine won't
be missed for a long time, and we will invent some better excuse before
then. We will say that two bottles were drunk at this party and three at
that; and further than that we can't remember.”
“And what about the peaches? There are only a few ripe, and Sally says
she'll want them all. Father has been looking forward to them for weeks
and weeks.”
“He'll have to do without them; if he wants peaches, he had better bring
some down from Covent Garden.”
A knock was heard at the door. “Please Miss, Mr. Escott is in the
drawing-room.”
“Tell him I will be downstairs in a moment,” cried Maggie.
“Now off you go, my Lady Mount Rorke,” said Sally, who had already begun
to regret her promises, and to consider if she had not better break
them.
Maggie asked him what train he came down by, then she called the dog;
“Come here, my beautiful boy, come and kiss me.” The bull-dog growled
and wagged his tail.
“He won't hurt you; 'tis only his way of talking.”
Maggie laughed, and they walked out on the green sward. “I suppose
you've been to a great many balls this season?”
“I don't know that I have; a few, perhaps. I am glad to get away from
town. I like no place like this. I don't know if it is the place or the
associations.”
“You are used to much finer places. I can fancy Mount Rorke--the lakes
and the mountains; somehow I think I can see it. Isn't it strange,
there are certain things and places you can realise so much better than
others, and for no very understandable reason?”
“Yes, that is so,” said Frank, obviously pleased by the remark. Then,
after a pause, “Mount Rorke is a pretty place, and I don't think I could
live long away from it. After a time I always find myself sighing for
the bleakness and barrenness of the West. The hedgerows of England are
pretty enough; but I hate the brick buildings.”
“What kind of buildings do you have in Ireland?”
“Everything is built of grey stone, a cold grey tint on a background of
green pasture lands and blue mountains. I daresay you wouldn't like it.
It would recall nothing to you, but when I think of it, much less see
it, I re-live my childhood all over again. I am a great person for old
times. That is the reason I like coming down here. I knew you all so
long ago; how well I can remember you--three dark little things. You
used to sit on my knee.”
“And do you find nothing nice in the present?”
“Of course I do; it is nice to walk in the garden with you, but it seems
to me you have all moved away from me a little. Grace is engaged, you
are engaged--”
“Who said I was engaged?”
“Ha, ha, you see I hear everything. What is his name--Alfred?”
“I suppose Sally told you.”
“I won't tell you who told me, I never betray secrets. You had a
desperate flirtation two years ago, and the man had to go away, and you
promised to wait for him.”
“I don't mind telling you--I did meet a man about two years ago whom I
rather liked; I used to see a great deal of him at tennis parties and
balls; he used to ask me to marry him. He wanted me to engage myself to
him, and I told him it would be much better to wait and see what father
would say.”
“And what did your father say?”
“Father, he never knew anything about it. You may as well tell me, I
know it was Sally. I suppose she told you I was very much in love with
him?”
“She said, at least, the person who told me said, that you would never
care for any one else.”
“So you've been talking about me though you promised you wouldn't talk
any more,” Maggie said to herself, “All right, my lady--very well, we
shall see.”
“Grace is waving her parasol to us. Lunch must be ready.”
Maggie and Grace had calculated that if they could limit the champagne
to half a dozen bottles they would be able to hide the deficit from
their father's scrutiny; but the servants seemed to be always filling
the glasses of the Southdown Road people, and lunch was not half over
when they heard the fourth bottle go pop. Maggie looked at Sally across
the pile of peaches, but Sally had no ears for the report, only for
Jimmy's voice. Her head wagged as she talked, and Maggie wondered if
they were exchanging napkins or rings beneath the table.
At that moment the servant handed a letter on a salver to Maggie,
saying, “From Mrs. Horlock; the servant is waiting an answer, miss.”
Grace trembled. Sally whispered to Jimmy, “What can she want?” In a
reassuring voice Maggie said, “She has heard we are having a few people
in to tennis, and she wants to know if she may send us round a young
man; she will come round herself with the General some time during the
afternoon.” At the mention of a young man many eyes gleamed, and Sally
said, “You had better go at once and write a note and say that we shall
be delighted.” When they went into the verandah coffee was handed
round, and Maggie, as the gentlemen lit their cigarettes, said to Grace,
“Nothing could have happened better; father is sure to hear of this,
we couldn't have kept it from him: now we can say Mrs. Horlock was our
chaperon. None will know when she came, or when she went away.” Then
turning to her company, Maggie said, “Now gentlemen, as soon as you have
finished your cigarettes we will begin.”
Sally not only insisted on playing, but on playing with Jimmy; and
Grace, who was striving to struggle into the position of Miss Brookes,
could do nothing but set the girl in the florid dress and the man who
stood next to her to play against them. The garden seemed to absorb the
girls, but Maggie, catching sight of Mrs. Horlock, went to meet her.
Mrs. Horlock was sixty, but her figure was like a girl's. She led a
blind pug in a complicated leading apparatus, and several other pugs
in various stages of fat and decrepitude followed her. It was not long
before she raised a discussion on hydrophobia, defending the disease
from all the charges of horror and contagion that had been urged against
it, narrating vehemently how a mad dog had died in her arms licking her
hands and face, and appealing to the General, who denounced muzzling;
but when the mangy mastiff came near him he whispered to Frank, “I wish
they were all shot. You must come and see us; you must come and see us;
I have a pretty little place in the Southdown Road (dreadful place to
mention here, they don't like it; of course the people there aren't
all quite the thing, but what are you to do, you know?). Lunch at two,
dinner at eight--old Indians, you know. I have everything I want. Too
many animals, perhaps, but that can't be helped.”
“Do you live here all the year?”
“Yes, all the year round. We don't go away much. We have everything
here--coach-houses, horses, you'll see when you come. The only thing
I want is a little occupation, a little something to bring me out,
you know. I read the _Morning Post_ every morning, and I have the _St
James's_ in the evening; but then there is the middle of the day,” and,
with laughter full of genial kindness and goodwill, the General repeated
this phrase: “I want a little something to bring me out, you know.”
Forty years of Indian sun! Balls in the Government House in Calcutta!
Viceroys, tigers, horse-racing, elephants, jealousies, flirtations,
deaths, all now forgotten, and if not forgotten, at rest; and now glad
to watch life unfolding itself again in an English village, this old
couple sat in the calm sunlight of an English garden, relics of another
generation, emblems of an England drawing to a close.
At five o'clock Grace was busy at the tea-table; and very hot and moist
Sally threw herself into a cane chair. Maggie, who had suddenly appeared
upon the scene, arranged some fresh sets in which she and Frank did not
take part--she having promised to walk with him; and they went towards
the shade of the sycamores. She had neglected him nearly the whole day,
and he was vexed with her. But she excused herself volubly, accusing
Sally of indifference to all things except her own pleasures, and
impressed upon him that it was her duty to show some politeness to Mrs.
Horlock's friend.
“Sally would play tennis, she played two sets, three if I am not
mistaken, and she never left Jimmy's side. She took no notice of any
one; for that reason I hate having people to the house when she is here;
everything devolves upon Grace and me. It is really too bad. Father
wouldn't mind our giving this party at all, if it weren't for him. If he
hears that he was here, well, I don't know what will happen.”
“He doesn't look quite a gentleman, does he? He is a ship's mate, isn't
he?”
“Yes, but it isn't that; father cannot bear those Southdown Road people.
A lot of young men live there--quite as good as ourselves, no doubt, but
they are all so poor, and father thinks of nothing but money. And Sally
meets them. When she goes out driving in the cart she picks them up, and
they go off together. Father doesn't know any of them, and he says they
laugh at him when he goes to the station in the morning. 'Tisn't
true, it is only his imagination; but I can quite well understand his
feelings. You know Sally won't give way in anything. Once she ran into
the kitchen, and told cook to put back the dinner, so that she might run
down the slonk to finish her conversation with him. Of course father
was mad at that, coming home tired from the City, and finding that his
dinner had been put back. You saw the way they went on at lunch, sitting
close together.”
“We were all sitting close together.”
“Yes, but not like they were. And all that nonsense with their napkins
under the table. If you didn't see it, so much the better. I thought
everybody saw it. I wish Sally wouldn't do it. Father, as you know, has
a lot of money to leave, and if she did really go too far, I fear he
would cut her off.”
“But she never would go too far.”
“No, I don't think so; I am sure Sally wouldn't do anything that was
really wrong, but she is very imprudent.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don't know that I ought to tell you.”
“I promise not to tell any one--you know you can trust me.”
“Well, she brings people up to her room.”
“You don't mean to her bedroom?”
“She says you can't call it a bedroom, but she sleeps there for all
that. She covers up the bed and makes it look like a couch; she keeps
birds and dogs there; Flossie had her puppies there. That's her room,”
said Maggie, lifting one of the boughs. “I shouldn't be surprised if
Jimmy were there with her now.”
The foliage glinted in the sunset, and as Maggie stood pointing, still
holding the bough, the picture flashed upon Frank, and he said: “Oh, how
pretty you are now! How I should like to paint you!” And a moment
after he said, interested, solely interested in sentimental affection,
“Sally's ideas of love seem to me very funny; if she really loves
Meason, why doesn't she marry him?”
“He has no money, and father would never hear of it.”
“Never hear of it! If I loved a girl, nothing in the world would prevent
my marrying her.”
“I wonder if that's true,” said Maggie, and she let go the bough and
stood facing him, her hands clasped behind her back.
“Of course it is. What is life for if it isn't to get the woman we
love?”
“It is nice to hear you say so; but I am afraid very few young men think
like you nowadays. One woman is the same as another to them.”
“I cannot understand any one thinking so. If it were so, the whole charm
would be lost.”
So the young people talked, and lost in the charm of each thrilling
minute, they walked through the shadows and darkening leaves. The soft
garden echoed with the sound of a girl's voice crying, “Cuckoo, cuckoo,”
and the white dresses flew over the sward, and the young men ran after
them and caught them. They were playing hide and seek. Excited
beyond endurance, Triss barked loudly, and forms were seen flying
precipitately.
“Tie him up to this tree,” said Maggie.
“No, no, better take him to the house,” said Frank; “it would make him
savage to tie him up.”
When the ninth bottle of champagne had been opened, and the supper table
was noisy, Frank whispered to Maggie, “Did you ever see _Macbeth_?”
“Yes, but why?”
“Because I can't help thinking what a splendid occasion it would be for
Banquo's ghost to appear.”
Maggie pressed his hand and laughed.
Soon after the sound of wheels was heard. Grace turned pale, Sally said:
“Who would have thought it?” A moment after Mr. Brookes, with Berkins
and Willy behind him, entered. He stood amazed, and seeing that the
tears were mounting to his eyes, Maggie said: “Father, how tired and
faint you look. We thought you wouldn't be coming home to-night. Do sit
down and have a glass of wine.” But neither winning words nor ways could
soothe this storm, and in reply to a question from Berkins, Mr. Brookes
declared passionately that he knew none of the young men who came to his
house.
V
“Father's just gone downstairs. I think we had better wait a minute or
two. In that way we shall escape a scolding. Father won't miss the ten
o'clock.”
“Not a bad idea. You are always up to some cunning dodge. What's the
time?”
“Twenty minutes to nine. I'll slip down the passage and tell Grace to go
down and give him his breakfast. He won't say anything to her; he knows
well that since Fatty went to India she wouldn't see a soul if she could
help it.”
“Father never says anything to you either; you tell him a lot of lies,
and leave him to understand that I do everything.”
“That's not true; I never speak against you to father; but at the same
time I must say that if it weren't for you we could do as we liked. You
don't try to manage father.”
“Manage him, indeed! that's what I can't bear in you, you're always
trying to manage some one; I hate the word.”
“You got out of bed the wrong side this morning. However, I must go and
tell Grace to go down at once, or father will be ringing for us.”
“What did she say?” said Sally, when Maggie returned.
“'Tis all right; I got her to go, and she said she was always being made
a cat's-paw of. I assure you it wasn't easy to persuade her to go down
to father, but I told her she might be the means of averting a very
serious row.”
“I suppose you said there was no counting on what answers I might make
to father?”
This was exactly what Maggie had said.
“Very well; you are always objecting to what I do, and the way I do it.
I wish you would go and do things yourself. You think of nothing but
yourself, or some young man you are after. I wouldn't do what you did
yesterday. I wouldn't go sneaking round the garden with a young man I
had never seen before.”
Maggie shrugged her shoulders and went on dressing. Sally, who had taken
a seat on the bed, watched her. She thought how she might best pursue
the quarrel, but her stomach called her thoughts from her sister, and
she said: “I don't know how you feel, but I am dying of hunger. What
time is it now?”
“Nine o'clock.”
“Another half-hour. I suppose he won't start before the half-hour.”
“Miss,” said the maid, knocking at the door, “Mr. Brookes wants to know
if you are coming down to breakfast.”
“Say that we are not nearly ready; that there's no use waiting for us.”
“I think I had better go back to my room,” said Sally.
“I think you had. I wish you wouldn't bring that horrid little dog into
my room. She made a mess here the other day.”
“That I am sure she didn't. Flossie is the cleanest dog in the world.”
“Clean or unclean, I would rather not have her in my room. There she is
trying to drink out of my jug. Get away, you little beast!”
Sally caught up her dog, and marched out of the room, slamming the door
after her.
“At last I have got rid of her,” thought Maggie, and she rolled and
pinned up the last plait of her black hair, but she did not go down to
breakfast until the wheels grated on the gravel and the carriage was
heard moving away. Then she begged Grace to tell her what her father had
said.
“He said his children were persecuting him, that he had not had an
hour's peace since their poor mother died.”
“Fudge! Mother knew how to keep him in order. Do you remember when she
threw the carving knife?”
“Sally, for shame! How can you speak of poor mother so?”
“You know it is true, Hypocrisy. There is no harm in coming to the
point.”
“It was very nearly coming to the point,” said Maggie, giggling.
“Well, what else did he say?”
“He said he didn't know what course he should adopt, but that things
couldn't go on as they were; he thought he should write to Aunts Mary
and Hester, and just as he was going out of the door he said that he'd
prefer to sell the whole place up than continue living here and be the
laughing-stock of the neighbourhood.”
At these words all looked frightened, even Sally. She flaunted her head,
however, and said disdainfully: “I wonder he didn't speak of marrying
again.”
“Did he say nothing more?” asked Maggie, who determined to know how
matters stood.
“He spoke of Sally; he said it must be put a stop to. I don't know what
he has found out, but I am sure he has found out something.”
“Why didn't you ask him?”
“I did. He said the way you were carrying on with young Meason was
something too disgraceful, and that every one was talking of it; he said
that you had been seen crossing the canal locks, and that you had spent
hours with him on the beach, and he spoke about the cart and Bamber--I
don't know if you ever drove there to meet him; I couldn't get anything
more out of him, for he began to cry.”
“Didn't he speak of the party?”
“Oh, yes, a great deal. He said that henceforth he would have none of
the Southdown Road people, male or female, at the Manor House. I thought
he was going to curse the Horlocks; but I reminded him of the Viceroys.
As for the Measons, I don't know what he would have said if he hadn't
been crying.”
“The Measons are just as good as we are, though they mayn't be so rich.
I should like to know who has been talking to him about me; I wonder
who told him I spent hours on the beach with Jimmy; I met him once there
quite by accident, and we sat down for ten minutes. I daresay it was
Berkins.”
“No, Sally, don't,” said Grace, clasping her hands. “Father said that
Maggie was nearly as bad, and was a great deal too much disposed towards
young men.”
“I should think she is indeed; I wonder what father would say if he had
seen her walking round the garden out of sight of every one with that
fellow, a man she had never seen before.”
“There is no harm in walking round the garden with a man, but I should
like to know what father would say if he knew that you brought Jimmy up
to your bed-room.”
“My bed-room isn't a bed-room. How dare you make such accusations, how
dare you? I should not be surprised if you were at the bottom of all
this. I know you are mad with jealousy. Do you think I don't know how
you flirted with Jimmy? Do you think I didn't see how you shifted Frank
on to me so that you might walk with Jimmy to the station? But I'll tell
you what, I'll not stand it, and if you try to come between me and him
I'll knock you down.”
Sally sprang from her place and raised her fist. Maggie rushed from the
room, or, more correctly speaking, into the arms of Willy.
“What the deuce are you up to?” cried this staid young man, who had been
twisted round and thrown against the wall.
“Oh, save me! Sally says she'll knock me down,” cried the girl, clinging
for a moment to her brother's shoulder, but as if conscious of the
dubiousness of his protection, she loosed him and fled upstairs to her
room.
“What damned nonsense this is! The trouble young girls are in a
house!--Nothing but pleasure; from one year's end to another, it is
nothing but pleasure. I am sick of it.”
Having by such unusual emphasis of manner reduced his sisters to
silence, Willy sat down, and chewed with gravity and deliberation. Grace
and Sally watched him. After a long and elaborate silence he put some
brief questions, and appeared to devote to them the small part of his
attention not already engaged in the judicious breaking of his bread.
He did not answer nor did he comment; and when he had finished eating he
commenced packing up his diary and letters in a brown paper parcel, and
for three-quarters of an hour he walked up and down stairs collecting
and forgetting; finally he left the house with many parcels.
As some days are sweet and fugitive, others are obtuse, complex, and
tortuous as nightmares--difficult to understand and well-nigh impossible
to relate. And the day after the tennis party was such a day in the
Brookes household, nor did its tumult cease when the lights were turned
out in the billiard-room. It was revived with fierce gusts of passion
and despair during several succeeding days.
In the afternoon both Sally and Maggie wanted to go out in the cart. The
wrangle was a long one, but the argument of the fist eventually brought
it to a close, and Maggie was obliged again to shut herself into her
room. Thence Grace's solicitations could not move her, and she remained
there until she saw her father coming up the drive; then she ran down to
meet him, and made a frank accusation of Sally's treatment of her.
But he was enthralled by his own woes, and without even promising her
protection and immunity, at least from her sister's right arm, the old
gentleman launched forth into more than usual lamentations.
He had had a stormy interview with Berkins going up in the train, and
Berkins had so upset him that he had not been able to get through any
business in the City. Berkins admitted of no equivocation. He had told
him that he would not allow the young lady that was going to be his
wife to spend her days feasting and skylarking with a lot of vulgar and
penniless young men from the Southdown Road. He had declared that it was
time to settle definitely the terms and the day of the marriage. He had
been engaged now more than two months, and was prepared to do his share;
Mr. Brookes must be prepared to do his, viz., to settle four hundred a
year on his daughter.
The idea of parting for ever with so much of his money convulsed Mr.
Brookes. He burst into tears, and their bitterness was neither assuaged
nor softened by Grace's rather haughty statement that she didn't care at
all for Mr. Berkins, and was not at all sure whether she would have him
or not.
“So, father, you may be able to keep your money.”
“But did any one ever know me to think of myself?” and he drew his silk
handkerchief forth. In the new trouble, suddenly created, all
other considerations were lost, and Grace became the centre of many
conflicting interests; everybody asked if this marriage so long looked
forward to was going to tumble into ruin among so many ruins? At dinner
Willy seemed to consider himself called from the problem of perfect
mastication, and he said a few words intended to allay this new family
excitement; but his efforts were vain, for it had occurred to Mr.
Brookes that he might find calm in a bottle of '34 port. There were a
few bottles left which he appreciated at their right value. He rang
for the wine, and old Joseph announced, with all the intolerable
indifference of a well-trained servant, that the young gentleman had
drunk it all up yesterday. Mr. Brookes kept his temper better than
the girls anticipated, and it was not until he had drunk a bottle of a
latter-day wine that he seemed to realise the wrong that had been
done to him. He begged of Willy to listen to him, and he talked so
vehemently, and cried so bitterly, and laughed so joyously, and declared
so often that it would be all the same a hundred years hence, that
letters and diary had to be packed away in the brown paper parcel, and
all work abandoned for that evening. The next day and the next passed
in continual quarrel and argument, and at the end of the week the aunts
were summoned.
Aunt Mary's features were sharp, her eyes were bright and she sat bolt
upright on the sofa, her hands crossed over a shawl drawn tightly about
her.
“Now, my dear James,” she said, “I am very sorry for you; of course
I am. I know it is very trying, but there is no use in sitting there
lamenting. Put up your silk handkerchief and come to the point. We all
know it will be the same a hundred years hence, but in the meantime
you don't want your dinner put back, so that Sally may continue her
flirtations in the slonk,” and Aunt Mary burst into a merry peal of
laughter.
“You are most unsympathetic, I never knew one so unsympathetic; you were
always so, you'll never change.”
“Unsympathetic,” said Aunt Mary, shaking with laughter; “how can you
say so? I have never done anything all my life but listen to you and
sympathise with you. When you were a boy and sold my books to the boys
at your school, and when you were a young man and took my poor husband
to oyster shops--you remember the stories you used to tell me?”
Mr. Brookes waved his handkerchief, and Aunt Hester, who was a spinster,
cast down her eyes and fidgeted with some papers which she had taken
from her hand-basket.
“Of course, if my afflictions are only a subject for laughter--”
“I am not laughing at your afflictions, my dear James. I laughed because
you said I was not a sympathetic listener. You used to think me so
once.” Then becoming instantly serious, Aunt Mary said: “Of course I
think this is a matter of great importance--the health, the welfare of
my dear nieces, and your happiness.”
“And their salvation,” murmured Aunt Hester.
“If I did not think it important, do you think I would have left home,
and at such a time, when I am most wanted? I always said that that big
place would kill me, I never wanted to leave the Poplars; a little place
like that is no trouble--my greenhouse, a few servants, and just as I
had got everything to look nice--I could do it all in a few hours; but
now I am never still, there is always something to be done. No one can
take up my work. I am behindhand; oh, I assure you when I go back I
shall be afraid to go into the greenhouse. I am worn out, I really am;
it never ends. In a big house like Woborn one is always behindhand. The
days aren't long enough, that's the fact of it; when one thinks one is
getting through one thing one is called away to another. 'Please, mum,
the cook would like to speak with you for a moment.' 'There is no tea in
the house, mum.' 'What! is all the tea I gave out last week gone?' 'Yes,
mum. There was, you remember, the dressmaker here three days, and we had
Mrs. Jones in to help. And we shall want another piece of cheese for
the servants' hall.' I don't know how it is with you, but at Woborn the
cloth is never off the table in the servants' hall. They have five meals
a day--breakfast at eight, and they won't eat cold bacon, they must have
it hot; of course the waste is something fearful; at eleven they have
beer and cheese; at one there is dinner; at five they have tea; and at
nine supper. Five meals a day--it really is terrible, it is wicked,
it really is! You have had none of these troubles, Hester, and you may
think yourself very lucky.
“We have just got rid of our cook; the trouble she gave us, it really
is beyond words. She said she was troubled with fits, hysteria, or
something of that sort--at least that is the reason she gave for her
conduct. I knew there was something wrong, I could see it in her eyes.
I said: 'This is not right; it can't be right.' One night she left the
dinner half cooked and went roaming all over the country; she came back
the next afternoon, and I found her baking. Then there was Robinson. Do
you remember the pretty housemaid? You saw her when you were at Woborn.
I am sure she must have had gentle blood in her veins; she wasn't a bit
like a servant, so elegant and graceful. Those soft blue eyes of hers. I
often used to look at them and think how beautiful they were. Well, she
fell madly in love with West. Notwithstanding his bandy legs, there
was something fascinating about him. He had a way about him that
the maid-servants used to like; Robinson wasn't the first. Well, she
completely lost her head, perfectly frantic--frantic; her eyes on fire.
I saw it at once; you know I am pretty sharp. I just look round, one
look round; I see it all, I take it all in. I said: 'This is not right;
this cannot be right. Robinson is a respectable girl.' Her people I knew
to be most respectable people in Chichester; I had heard all about them
through the Eastwicks. I said, 'Robinson, you must go, I will give you
a month's wages, but you must go back to your people. You know why I am
sending you away; it is for your own good, otherwise I am sorry to part
with you; but you must go.'
“Robinson didn't say much, she was always rather haughty, a reserved
sort of girl; but soon after--I always hear everything--I heard that she
had not gone back to her people, but was living in lodgings in Brighton,
and that West used to go and see her. I didn't say anything about it to
West, but he saw there was something wrong. When I told him to put the
carriage to, he said, 'Yes, mum, where to, mum?' 'Brighton.' I could
see he saw there was something wrong, and when I told him not to put the
carriage up, but to drive up and down the King's Road, and that I would
meet him in about an hour at the bottom of West Street, he looked so
frightened that I could hardly help laughing; he did look so comical,
for he knew now that I was going to see Robinson. (Here the remembrance
of West proved too much for Aunt Mary, and she shook with laughter.)
Of course if I had let him put up the horses he would have run round to
Robinson's and warned her that I was coming. Oh, I shall never forget
that day! It was broiling, the sun came down on the flagstones in those
narrow little back streets, and there was I toiling, toiling up that
dreadful hill, inquiring out the way. I found the street, it was on the
very top of the hill: such a poor, miserable place you never saw. Such a
dreadful old woman opened the door to me, and I said, 'Is Miss Robinson
in?' She said, 'Yes.' I could hear Robinson whispering over the
banisters, saying, 'No, no, no, say I am out.' And then I said, 'It is
no use, Robinson, I must see you, and I will not leave this place until
I have seen you.' I went upstairs to her room. At first she was rather
haughty, rather inclined to impertinence. She said, 'Mum, you have no
right to come after me--you sent me away; I am looking out for a place
in Brighton--I don't want to go back to my people.' I said, 'Robinson,
it is no use trying to deceive me, I know very well why you are in
Brighton; no good can come of this, it is nothing but wickedness.
You must try to be good, Robinson. West has, as you know, a wife and
children, and you must not think of him any more. You have taken this
lodging so that you may see him. You must think of your future; this
can't last.'”
“No, indeed, this life is but a moment,” sighed Aunt Hester. “I wish you
had had one of these books to give her.”
“I did better, Hester. I told her some plain truths, and she put off her
high and mighty airs and began to cry. I shall never forget it. Oh, how
hot it was in that little room just under the slates, with one garret
window and the sun pouring in. There was scarcely any furniture, and I
was sitting on her bed. I said, 'Now, Robinson, you must give me back
the presents West made you, and you must promise me to go back to
Chichester.' And I didn't leave her until she promised me to go home
next day.
“When I stepped into the carriage you should have seen West's face. He
didn't know what had happened; I didn't speak to him till next day. As
I was going into the garden I called him. I said, 'West, I want to speak
to you.' 'Yes, mum.' We went into the back garden; I was planting there.
Edward was out riding, so I knew we shouldn't be disturbed. I said,
'West, I saw Robinson yesterday, and I have a parcel for you; she has
promised me not to see you, and you must promise me not to see her.'
'Very well, mum, since you say it.' 'This is a very sad affair, West.'
'A bad business, mum--a bad business, mum.' There was always something
in West's stolid face that used to amuse me. You should have heard him.
'I don't think she could help it, mum; she never loved another man--I
really don't. But I was going to tell you, mum, I once knew a servant,
a married man, he was in love with a young woman, and they waited long
years, and when the wife died they married, mum.' 'That was all very
well long ago, West, but wives don't die nowadays.'”
So Aunt Mary talked, realising and giving expression to both the pathos
and the comedy of her story. Then, feeling that she wasdigressing at
too great length, she strove to generalise from the particular incident
which she had related, and get back to the theme of the conversation.
“I don't know what we shall do, I don't know what we are coming to;
servants are getting too strong for us. My last cook gave us no end of
trouble; the butler used to have to lock himself up in the pantry; and
yet I had to give her a character. Of course it was very wrong of me to
enable her to thrust herself upon another family, but what was I to do?
I couldn't deprive her of the means of earning her living. She'll give
trouble wherever she goes. There is no remedy, there really isn't; I
don't know what's to be done unless we ladies combine and refuse to give
them characters.”
Here Aunt Mary's thoughts and words began to fail her, for she felt she
was not getting back to the point where she had entered on her various
digressions, and without further ado, and quite undisconcerted, she
said, “But I forget where I was; what were we talking about?”
“We were talking about dear Sally and Maggie, and the need they stand of
counsel and help. Their conduct is to be deeply regretted; but theirs is
only youthful folly. They have not done anything, I am sure, that--”
“Quite so, Hester; of course. But at the same time a stop must be put
to all this nonsense; it cannot be allowed. I have only to look round
to take it all in. They are worrying their father into his grave. His
position is a very trying one. He has no one whom he can depend on--no
one.”
“I am alone since poor Julia--”
Aunt Mary and Aunt Hester looked at each other, and they wondered if the
terrors of the carving knife were completely forgotten.
“Poor James,” said Aunt Mary, recrossing her hands, “is obliged to go to
London every morning, from ten till, I may say, half-past six.”
“I am never home before seven.”
“These girls are their own mistresses; they go out when they like, they
order the carriage whenever they like, and they invite here every one it
pleases their fancy to invite without consulting their father. I believe
he doesn't even--”
“I know none of the young men who come to my house. All I know of them
is that they come from the Southdown Road.”
“Don't be so silly, James, put up that handkerchief. Of course, the
Southdown Road is one of the great disadvantages of the place. Those
villa residences have brought into Southwick a host of people that a man
living in a big place like the Manor House cannot know--little people
who have--”
“Not two hundred pounds invested--no, nor yet a hundred.”
“Well, I don't wish to offend them, I'll say small incomes. They are all
devoured with envy, and all they think of is what goes on at the Manor
House.”
“A lot of penniless young jackanapeses. Every morning I see them at the
station watching me over the tops of their newspapers.”
“You must understand, Hester, poor James up in London, toiling, not
knowing what is going on in his own home; feasting and pleasure going
on morning, noon, and, I may say, night, for when James returned home
unexpectedly about ten o'clock at night, he found them--how many were
there?”
“About a dozen, the others had gone.”
“Feasting, drinking his champagne--his very best.”
“The last few bottles of '34 port were drunk; the peaches, that the
gardener has been forcing so carefully for months past, were all eaten.
I returned home unexpectedly; I had intended to spend the night in
London--you know I went there to see about starting Willy on the Stock
Exchange; he has drawn three thousand more out of the distillery; I hope
he won't lose it. Well, I met Berkins in Pall Mall, and he said if I
would return by the late train that he would spend the night here, and
we would go up to town together in the morning. I suspected nothing; I
went into my dining-room, and there I found them all at supper. Had it
not been for Berkins it wouldn't have mattered. He was indignant when
he saw one of those jackanapeses with his arm round the back of Grace's
chair; he says that such company is not fit for the lady that is going
to be his wife; and he now insists on fixing the day, the settlements,
and everything, or of breaking off the match.”
“Then why don't you fix the day and the settlements?”
“Grace is not willing; she is quite undecided. She says she doesn't know
whether she will have him or not. Sally tries to set her against him;
she laughs at him, says he is pompous, and imitates him. Of course, it
is quite true that he thinks everything he has is betterthan anybody
else's. She says he is old, and says that kissing him would be like
rubbing your face in a mattress.”
“The fact is,” said Aunt Mary, “Sally ought to have been a man; had she
been a man, it would have been all right.”
Aunt Hester, who had spent her life in a vicarage, glanced uneasily at
her sister, and fidgeted with the papers in her satchel.
“I suppose it will be all the same a hundred years hence.”
“No, James, it will not,” replied Aunt Hester, with unusual
determination.
The conversation dropped, and the speakers stared at each other at a
loss how to proceed.
“She is a very difficult girl to manage. If it were not for her we could
get on very well; it is she who upsets everything. She can't agree
with Maggie; they are always quarrelling. The day after the party she
threatened to knock her down if she interfered with her young man.”
“Is it possible! Did she say that? Well, when it comes to young ladies
knocking each other down! Young ladies were very different in my young
days. It only proves what I said about Sally--she ought to have been a
man, she really ought to have been a man. I see it all; I have only to
give one look round to take it all in one glance. When she came to meet
me in Brighton I understood it all at once; I saw she could not restrain
herself, no powers of self-restraint. Her eyes fixed on every man as
if she couldn't see enough of him; her black eyes flashing. I wanted no
telling--I saw it all; the moment a young man went by her eyes flashed.
Here she was--'Aunt Mary, Aunt Mary, there's Meason, there's Meason,
Aunt Mary, Meason, Meason, Aunt Mary.' It is not right, it can't be
right; and to my thinking Maggie is just as bad--a little more sly
perhaps.”
“No, not dear Maggie.”
“I say it is not right; girls in good health could not go on like
that. If I were you, James, I would take them up to a first-rate London
physician, the very best that can be had for money. Those girls are
highly organised, highly sensitive; their nerves are highly strung. They
want something to bring them down,” said Aunt Mary; but catching at that
moment sight of her sister's face, she laughed consumedly, and, speaking
through her laughter, said, “So-and-so, a first-rate man, I can't think
of his name--he will give you the very best advice.”
“I think if our dear nieces could be brought to understand the
sinfulness of their disobedience. I have here one or two little books
which I think it would be advisable for them to read.”
“Later on, my dear Hester; the best thing that James can do is to see
to their health. No girls in good health could act as they do; it is
radically impossible.”
“I suppose that is what I must do; I don't know if I shall succeed, but
I will try to get them to come up to London and have medical advice.
Since the death of poor Julia I have been all alone; my position is a
very hard one. I have no one to talk to, to assist me, to take my place
in any way. I am obliged to go to London every day, and I assure you my
heart is all of a flutter in the morning when I take the train, for I
don't know what may happen before I return. The girls can do what they
like; they are mistresses of this big house, they take the carriage into
Brighton when they like, Sally takes the cart. I have thought of getting
rid of that cart.”
Although passionately fond of talking, Aunt Mary would with patience,
and even with pleasure, cross her hands and settle herself down to
listen to one of Uncle James's interminable lamentations, but Aunt
Hester, a nervous and timid creature who talked but little, not only
declared that she could not bear to hear the same stories over and over
again, but interrupted her brother with firmness and determination.
Indeed, it was only on occasion of Uncle James's soliloquies that she
had ever shown any strength of will.
“We know very well, James, that your position is a trying one--that
since the death of poor Julia you have no one whom you can look to.
There is no use in telling us this over again; it is mere waste of time.
What we have to do now is by all means in our power to convince dear
Sally of the sinfulness of her conduct, and so strive to bring her back
to a state of grace.”
“Her spirit must be broken, she must be subdued,” interjected Aunt Mary.
“Christ is the real healer, prayer is the true medicine, and by it alone
is the troubled spirit soothed.”
It being impossible to contravene these opinions, the conversation came
to a pause, which was at length interrupted by Mr. Brookes, who through
the folds of his handkerchief declared again that it would be all the
same a hundred years hence. Even Aunt Mary's realism did not offend Aunt
Hester as did this un-Christian philosophy; she gathered her strength
for a grave reproof, but was cut short by her sister's laughter. All the
teeth were glittering now, and peal after peal of laughter came. Aunt
Hester's courage died, and her long, freckled face drooped like a sad
flower.
“Now let us hear something about Grace. What about this marriage?
Is Berkins as amorous as ever? That man does amuse me--his waistcoat
buttons are better than any other man's.”
“Mary, Mary, I beg of you to remember Mr. Berkins is a man of eight
thousand a-year.”
“He may make eight thousand a-year, but he has very little money
invested,” said Aunt Mary.
“That is true,” Mr. Brookes replied reflectively, and he was about to
rush off into a long financial statement when his sister, who already
regretted her joke, checked him with an abrupt question.
“My dear James, is this marriage to be or not to be? That is what I want
to know.”
“I really can't say, Mary; Sally has contrived to upset her sister; she
would have been, I feel sure, glad to marry Mr. Berkins if she had not
been upset by Sally.”
“Upset by Sally, what do you mean?”
“I told you that Sally tries to turn Berkins into ridicule, laughs at
his beard among other things.”
“I must see Grace about this,” said Aunt Mary; “you must excuse my
laughing, but Sally is often very droll.”
Choosing the first occasion when Maggie and Sally were absent from the
room, Aunt Mary said, “Come, Gracie, dear, tell me about this marriage.
I hear that your mind is not made up--that you are not at all decided.
This is not acting fairly towards your father. You are placing him in a
very false position.”
“I don't think so, aunty. No one, so far as I can make out, is either
decided or satisfied. Mr. Berkins is not satisfied with the society we
see.”
“The Southdown Road you mean,” interrupted Mr. Brookes, “and very
properly, too.”
“And father and he cannot agree upon money matters, and I don't like a
beard--”
“You never objected to a beard until Sally put you against it.”
“Yes, I did, father; I always told you--”
“Never mind the beard, tell me about the money matters that your father
and Mr. Berkins can't agree upon.”
“Mr. Berkins has offered to settle twelve thousand pounds upon me if
father will settle the same amount. But father won't agree to this; he
wants Mr. Berkins to settle twelve, but does not want to settle more
than seven himself upon me.”
“Is this so, James?” asked Aunt Mary.
Mr. Brookes avoided answering the question, and entered into a long and
garrulous statement concerning himself and his money: he had made it
all himself! he spoke of his investments with pride, and pathetically
declared that he would not marry again because he would not deprive his
dear children of anything. Aunt Mary crossed her hands over her shawl,
and set herself to listen to the old gentleman's rigmarole. Aunt Hester
tried several times to cut him short, but this time he would not be
silenced.
Then Aunt Mary started the story of a girl whom she had known intimately
in early life, which she no doubt thought would help Grace to a better
comprehension of her difficulties; but the dear lady lost herself in
the domestic entanglement of many families, on the subject of which she
contributed much curious information, without, however, elucidating the
matter in hand. She wandered so far that at length all hope of return
became impossible, and she was obliged to pull up suddenly and ask what
she had been talking about.
“What was I talking about, James; you have been listening to me--what
was I talking about?”
Mr. Brookes made no attempt to give the information necessary for the
blending of her many narratives, and she was forced to seek unaided for
the lost thread. Soon after the girls came in with their gin and water.
They drank their grog, kissed their relations, and retired to bed.
And the next evening, and the next, and the next, so long as Aunt Mary
and Aunt Hester remained at the Manor House, the evenings passed in
a similar fashion; and, notwithstanding the doleful faces they
occasionally assumed, they found pleasure in lamenting the follies of
the young people. The same stories were told, almost the same words
were uttered. The only malcontent was Willy. He had no interest in
his sisters, and the hours after dinner in the billiard-room when
his sisters were in the drawing-room were those he devoted to looking
through his letters and filling up his diary; so when Sally's name was
mentioned he caught at his short crisp hair and gnashed his teeth.