THE GARDINERS.
THINGS were widely different, next door to the Dunns, from what Archie
had found in Woodbine Cottage. It is astonishing what a change comes
over the scene, if one just passes from one little cottage home into a
second, the two being separated by only a slender wall.
There was not too much religion in the Gardiner household by any means,
neither was there too much of happy children's laughter, or too much
wifely affection, or too much manliness in the head of the household.
John Gardiner had probably no intention of being unmanly. Probably,
also, he was what people call "a well-meaning man," that is, he
meant to do well, so long as doing well didn't happen to cross his
own inclinations. He was a man of very strong principle too, after a
fashion, his one leading principle being always, and on all occasions,
to do exactly what he chose, without consulting the inclinations or
wishes of anybody else.
In the workshop, this principle had of course to be in a measure
subordinate to the will of his employers. But at home it had full swing.
John Gardiner at home counted himself absolute master, and he insisted
on being so too. A wife was, in his estimation, a useful sort of
creature, fit to scour and wash and cook, fit also to be the victim
of harsh words when he pleased to bestow them. If words failed to
bring submission, he would not object to try the effect of a blow.
After which, no one could rightly speak of John Gardiner as a "manly
Englishman," much as he might desire the term. For a man who can stoop
to strike a woman has forfeited utterly all claim to "manliness."
But of course Gardiner did not see this. A coward nature seldom knows
its own cowardice. A bully is always a coward; and there was a good
deal of the bully in Gardiner's nature.
His children shrank away from him habitually, with a mixture of dread
and cunning. Not that they saw much of their father. He allowed his
wife a certain amount out of his wages for household expenses—expecting
a goodly amount of the same to be spent upon food for himself—and he
came home to eat and to sleep. That was about all.
His evenings were spent elsewhere, always. If his wife knew where
he went, it was by accident, since he rarely condescended to tell
her. Perhaps it is not too much to say that neither his wife nor his
children craved more of Gardiner's presence in the little home.
If Betsy Gardiner knew little of her husband's doings, he was not much
better acquainted with those of his wife and children. The eldest
girl, Bess, was at sixteen practically independent. She chose her own
friends, followed her own devices, and was at once blamed and sheltered
by the weak and hasty yet indulgent mother. Betsy Gardiner might
slap her children roughly, under sudden provocation; but to see them
feel the weight of their father's heavy hand was another matter. She
shrank from that; and she shrank from what might drive the elder girl
permanently from home.
The state of things could hardly be wondered at. John Gardiner was a
man who lived distinctly and solely for himself. He expected everybody
and everything in the household to bend to his pleasure. He gave no
love and he received none. The example of abject self-pleasing—for such
slavery to self is abject and contemptible—was naturally followed by
his children. How should it not be? There were no softening influences;
none of an opposite kind. The spirit of the household was a reflection
of the father's spirit—how in every way to please and indulge self,
coupled in the case of the children with a constant effort to shirk
blame at any cost.
The Gardiners and the Dunns were not disposed to be intimate. Naturally
two families of such different minds and views did not suit. Had the
Gardiners been in trouble, Susan Dunn would have been ready at once to
help them. But she did not care for the friendship of Mrs. Gardiner for
herself, or of Bess for Nancy, or of the quarrelsome shrieking children
for her own Dick and Susie.
Two girls could scarcely have been found in the place more unlike
than Nancy Dunn and Bess Gardiner: Nancy, with her sweet blue eyes,
and pretty smile, and modest dress, and gentle manner; and Bess, with
her rough bearing, her coarse laugh, her conspicuous fringe, her
gaudy dress. They were girls utterly unsuited to one another. Their
bringing-up had been different, their tastes were different, their
pursuits were different, their rules of action were different.
Yet these two girls were alike in one thing, and that was in the
possession of a naturally warm heart.
Only, with Nannie the warmth had been fostered, the tenderness had been
cherished, till it was as natural to her to give out love as for a
sunbeam to give out warmth. Bess, on the other hand, had been checked
and snubbed, fretted, neglected, and scolded, till she had grown-up
seemingly hard, and ready to fight the whole world, with all her
natural warmth hidden away beneath a tough outside crust.
The warmth was there still, however. It only needed to be set free. And
nobody would have guessed that gentle Nancy Dunn would be the one to
win her way in through this crust. Yet so it was.
At first when the Dunns came, Bess laughed at them, and said scornful
words about Nancy's "prim ways." But whenever the two girls met,
Nanny always had a little smile, and a kind passing word for Bess.
And gradually Bess ceased to sneer. The winning manner and the soft
straightforward eyes were unconsciously gaining possession of poor Bess
Gardiner's frozen-up heart.
Nancy did not know it. She guessed nothing of it yet. She only thought
it rather odd that she should so often lately have met Bess. Somehow
Bess seemed to be always coming across her path. Bess would say nothing
when they met. She only hung about sheepishly till she had had a word
of greeting, and then rushed away. And Nancy never gave more than the
passing word; for she knew that Bess' companionship would not be liked
by her mother. Nannie did not know how Bess craved for more, how Bess
watched for her coming, and feasted on the passing word, and would have
run a mile for a second word. If any one had suggested such a state of
things, Nancy would have laughed and thought the idea absurd.
Yet things had actually come to this pass, one August evening, when
Nancy Dunn had been to speak to Miss Wilmot at the Rectory, and was
walking home—things had come to such a pass that poor rough-mannered
Bess might almost be said to worship the ground on which Nancy Dunn
walked.
The evening was a lovely one, and Nancy was tempted to stroll a
short distance round on her way home. She chose a quiet lane, with a
hedge on either side, more country-like than most of the roads round
Littleburgh. And halfway through this lane, she found Bess Gardiner
standing alone doing nothing, only watching her approach.