ANOTHER MISTAKE.
BARBARA saw Mr. Coyshe into her father’s room, and then went upstairs
to Eve, caught her by the arm, and drew her into her own room. Barbara
had now completely made up her mind that her sister was to become
Mrs. Coyshe. Eve was a child, never would be other, never capable of
deciding reasonably for herself. Those who loved her, those who had
care of her must decide for her. Barbara and her father had grievously
erred hitherto in humouring all Eve’s caprices, now they must be
peremptory with her, and arrange for her what was best, and force her
to accept the provision made for her.
What are love matches but miserable disappointments? Not quite so
bad as pictured by Mr. Coyshe. The reality would not differ from the
ideal as thoroughly as the seal from the painted mermaid; but there
was truth in what he said. A love match was entered into by two young
people who have idealised each other, and before the first week is out
of the honeymoon they find the ideal shattered, and a very prosaic
reality standing in its place. Then follow disappointment, discontent,
rebellion. Far better the foreign system of parents choosing partners
for their children; they are best able to discover the real qualities
of the suitor because they study them dispassionately, and they know
the characters of their daughters. Who can love a child more than a
parent, and therefore who is better qualified to match her suitably?
So Barbara argued with herself. Certainly Eve must not be left to
select her husband. She was a creature of impulse, without a grain of
common-sense in her whole nature.
Barbara drew Eve down beside her on the sofa at the foot of her bed,
and put her arm round her waist. Eve was pouting, and had red eyes; for
her sister had scolded her that morning sharply for her conduct the
preceding night, and her father had been excited, and for the first
time in his life had spoken angrily to her, and bidden her cast off and
never resume the costume in which she had dressed and bedizened herself.
Eve had retired to her room in a sulk, and in a rebellious frame
of mind. She cried and called herself an ill-treated girl, and was
overcome with immense pity for the hardships she had to undergo among
people who could not understand and would not humour her.
Eve’s lips were screwed up, and her brow as nearly contracted into a
frown as it could be, and her sweet cheeks were kindled with fiery
temper-spots.
‘Eve dear,’ said Barbara, ‘Mr. Coyshe is come.’
Eve made no answer, her lips took another screw, and her brows
contracted a little more.
‘Eve, he is closeted now with papa, and I know he has come to ask for
the hand of the dearest little girl in the whole world.’
‘Stuff!’ said Eve peevishly.
‘Not stuff at all,’ argued Barbara, ‘nor’—intercepting another
exclamation—’no, dear, nor fiddlesticks. He has been talking to me in
the parlour. He is sincerely attached to you. He is an odd man, and
views things in quite a different way from others, but I think I made
out that he wanted you to be his wife.’
‘Barbara,’ said Eve, with great emphasis, ‘nothing in the world would
induce me to submit to be called Mrs. Squash.’
‘My dear, if the name is the only objection, I think he will not mind
changing it. Indeed, it is only proper that he should. As he and you
will have Morwell, it is of course right that a Jordan should be here,
and—to please the Duke and you—he will, I feel sure, gladly assume our
name. I agree with you that, though Coyshe is not a bad name, it is not
a pretty one. It lends itself to corruption.’
‘Babb is worse,’ said Eve, still sulky.
‘Yes, darling, Babb is ugly, and it is the pet name you give me, as
short for Barbara. I have often told you that I do not like it.’
‘You never said a word against it till Jasper came.’
‘Well, dear, I may not have done so. When he did settle here, and we
knew his name, it was not, of course, seemly to call me by it. That is
to say,’ said Barbara, colouring, ‘it led to confusion—in calling for
me, for instance, he might have thought you were addressing him.’
‘Not at all,’ said Eve, still filled with a perverse spirit. ‘I never
called him Babb at all, I always called him Jasper.’ Then she took up
her little apron and pulled at the embroidered ends, and twisted and
tortured them into horns. ‘It would be queer, sister, if you were to
marry Jasper, you would become double Babb.’
‘Don’t,’ exclaimed Barbara, bridling; ‘this is unworthy of you, Eve;
you are trying to turn your arms against me, when I am attacking you.’
‘May I not defend myself?’
Then Barbara drew her arm tighter round her sister, kissed her pretty
neck under the delicate shell-like ear, and said, ‘Sweetest! we never
fight. I never would raise a hand against you. I would run a pair of
scissors into my own heart rather than snip a corner off this dear
little ear. There, no more fencing even with wadded foils. We were
talking of Mr. Coyshe.’
Eve shrugged her shoulders.
‘_Revenons à nos moutons_,’ she said, ‘though I cannot say old Coyshe
is a sheep; he strikes me rather as a jackdaw.’
‘Old Coyshe! how can you exaggerate so, Eve! He is not more than five
or six-and-twenty.’
‘He is wise and learned enough to be regarded as old. I hate wise and
learned men.’
‘What is there that you do not hate which is not light and frivolous?’
asked Barbara a little pettishly. ‘You have no serious interests in
anything.’
‘I have no interests in anything here,’ said Eve, ‘because there is
nothing here to interest me. I do not care for turnips and mangold,
and what are the pigs and poultry to me? Can I be enthusiastic over
draining? Can the price of bark make my pulses dance? No, Barbie (Bab
you object to), I am sick of a country life in a poky corner of the
most out-of-the-way county in England except Cornwall. Really, Barbie,
I believe I would marry any man who would take me to London, and
let me go to the theatre and to balls, and concerts and shows. Why,
Barbara! I’d rather travel round the country in a caravan and dance on
a tight-rope than be moped up here in Morwell, an old fusty, mouldering
monk’s cell.’
‘My dear Eve!’
Barbara was so shocked, she could say no more.
I am in earnest. Papa is ill, and that makes the place more dull than
ever. Jasper was some fun, he played the violin, and taught me music,
but now you have meddled, and deprived me of that amusement; I am
sick of the monotony here. It is only a shade better than Lanherne
convent, and you know papa took me away from that; I fell ill with the
restraint.’
‘You have no restraint here.’
‘No—but I have nothing to interest me. I feel always as if I was hungry
for something I could not get. Why should I have “Don Giovanni,” and
“Figaro,” and the “Barber of Seville” on my music-stand, and strum
at them? I want to see them, and hear them alive, acting, singing,
particularly amid lights and scenery, and in proper costume. I cannot
bear this dull existence any longer. If Doctor Squash will take me to a
theatre or an opera I’ll marry him, just for that alone—that is my last
word.’
Barbara was accustomed to hear Eve talk extravagantly, and had not been
accustomed to lay much weight on what she said; but this was spoken so
vehemently, and was so prodigiously extravagant, that Barbara could
only loosen her hold of her sister, draw back to the far end of the
sofa, and stare at her dismayedly. In her present state of distress
about Eve she thought more seriously of Eve’s words than they deserved.
Eve was angry, discontented, and said what came uppermost, so as to
annoy her sister.
‘Eve dear,’ said Barbara gravely, ‘I pray you not to talk in this
manner, as if you had said good-bye to all right principle and sound
sense. Mr. Coyshe is downstairs. We must decide on an answer, and that
a definite one.’
‘_We!_’ repeated Eve; ‘I suppose it concerns me only.’
‘What concerns you concerns me; you know that very well, Eve.’
‘I am not at liberty, I suppose, to choose for myself?’
‘You are a dear good girl, who will elect what is most pleasing to your
father and sister, and promises greatest happiness to yourself.’
Eve sat pouting and playing with the ends of her apron. Then she took
one end which she had twisted into a horn, and put it between her
pearly teeth, whilst she looked furtively and mischievously at her
sister, who sat with her hands on her lap, tapping the floor with her
feet.
‘Barbie!’ said Eve slily.
‘Well, dear!’
‘Do lend me your pocket-handkerchief. I have been crying and made mine
wet. Papa was so cross and you scolded me so sharply.’
Barbara, without looking at her sister, held out her handkerchief to
her. Eve took it, pulled it out by the two ends, twirled it round,
folded, knotted it, worked diligently at it, got it into the compact
shape she desired, laid it in her arms, with the fingers under it, and
then, without Barbara seeing what she was about—’Hist!’ said Eve, and
away shot the white rabbit she had manufactured into Barbara’s lap.
Then she burst into a merry laugh. The clouds had rolled away. The sun
was shining.
‘How can you! How can you be so childish!’ burst from Barbara, as she
started up, and let the white rabbit fall at her feet. ‘Here we are,’
said Barbara, with some anger, ‘here we are discussing your future,
and deciding your happiness or sorrow, and you—you are making white
rabbits! You really, Eve, are no better than a child. You are not fit
to choose for yourself. Come along with me. We must go down. Papa and
I will settle for you as is best. You want a master who will bring you
into order, and, if possible, force you to think.’