“A little girl! Oh! goodness me!”
This second exclamation was wrung from Mr. Smythe about a year after his
marriage, at the announcement of an unexpected, yet not astonishing
event. A smiling doctor entered his library, and congratulated him on
being the father of a young daughter. Dim visions of the possible
occurrence of such an event had of late once or twice floated before his
eyes, but he had banished manfully the horrible thought, and the
announcement did truly take him by surprise. His wife had been too
timid, Mrs. Ratcliffe too knowing, to mention it. His housekeeper knew
him well--knew that the dread of the anxiety and trouble consequent on
such an arrival in his quiet abode might drive him mad; but that if all
was taken calmly, he might be reconciled to it. She therefore took upon
herself the arrangement of the affair in its minutest particulars; and
it so chanced that, until the event was safely and happily over, no
reference to him was needed.
It was an hour or two before dinner, while engaged with some intricate
business, that the news was borne to him, and that he thus expressed
himself.
“Yes, sir; a young lady is, I fear, on her first arrival, generally a
disappointment; but no doubt it will be a son next time.”
Mr. Smythe put on his sourest face, and made no reply. After assuring
him that both mother and child were perfectly well, the doctor
withdrew; having indeed been instructed so to behave himself by Mrs.
Ratcliffe.
As soon as he had disappeared, Mr. Smythe, with a kind of dogged
determination not to be a father, say what they might, re-seated himself
at his table, and endeavoured to give his mind to his business. But he
was not left in peace. Mrs. Ratcliffe appeared, and told him it was
customary for a good husband to visit his wife on such an occasion, and
she thought Mrs. Smythe would not rest easy until she had heard that he
was pleased with the baby. The conscience of the poor husband was now
touched, and with a look of abject misery he placed himself in the hands
of his housekeeper, and prepared to do her bidding. She conducted him to
his wife’s bedroom, where she lay, pretty and peaceful and happy, with
her baby beside her. It was an emergency for which he was totally
unfitted, but his kind heart prompted him how to act.
“So that is the little girl!” he exclaimed; “well, my dear, it seems a
very nice little thing, and I hope it will be a comfort to you.”
He patted the hand that lay on the child, and by that means appeared to
take the child also under his protection, and the trusting young mother
was satisfied.
“Thank you, sir,” she said gently; “and indeed it shall never be a
trouble to you.”
“No, no, my dear, of course it won’t. And now rest easy and get well.
Good night.” He patted her hand again, and returned to his solitude. His
conscience was easy; his house seemed peaceful and quiet, and he drove
away all anxious thoughts and vexations from his mind.
The marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Smythe had been a very peaceful one. She
had obeyed him, and had made it the study of her life not to bother him;
to submit to all his whims and wishes, to refrain from any intrusion on
the solitude he loved. At the same time she trusted him entirely, and if
she had a desire for anything which required his permission to obtain,
she fearlessly asked it. For smaller things she placed herself in the
hands of Mrs. Ratcliffe, and her mind was so constituted, that with
these two authorities to guide her, and with birds and flowers to occupy
her, she was happy. Now that a child was come, happiness would be
complete.
And Mr. Smythe, too, had been at peace. After the cares of guardianship,
the care of a submissive young wife had made a great calm in his mind.
One or two decided steps he took, such as, to his views, were incumbent
on every husband, viz., dining in company with his wife, and walking
with her to church on a Sunday; but with these, and a very few other
exceptions, he lived his old solitary life, and resumed his old peace of
mind. The dining in company instead of alone had cost him a struggle,
but the conscience of the husband insisted on the sacrifice being made,
and it was done. A solitary evening and a solitary breakfast were still
permitted, and on the whole he had lived as tranquil a life with his
wife as he had done without her.
Shortly after his marriage that implacable enemy of his, his conscience,
had suggested to him that the young man whom he had baffled was now a
connection of his own, and ought to be looked after. This worried him
for a time. At last he proposed to his wife to receive him, and be kind
to him. But she expressed so decided an aversion and disinclination to
his society, that he thankfully put aside the idea of cultivating his
acquaintance. He sent for him, however, and told him he wished to
befriend him, and help him, if he so pleased, upward in life; finally
offering to procure for him a clerkship in a counting-house. The young
man, James Field by name, sullen and mortified by disappointment, would
not be touched by his kindness, but was at the same time willing to
profit by it. His master had said truly that he never could be a
gentleman, and so Mr. Smythe perceived. Having procured for him,
therefore, a place suited to his abilities, and in which diligence and
good conduct would be sure to advance him, he felt satisfied; and this
care was banished with the rest of the cares that had led to his
marriage.
On this peaceful life the prospect of the cares of a family now broke.
In vain was his determination to ignore the event that had occurred; in
vain his resolution to keep himself aloof from nurses and a nursery.
Mrs. Ratcliffe’s words that his wife would not rest easy unless she
thought he was pleased with the baby, were a perpetual thorn in his
couch, a hoarse whisper in his ear. They forced his legs up twice a day
to his wife’s room; and when there, forced him to act a kindly and
fatherly part, patting her hand, and patting the bundle of linen which
generally lay by her side.
But all he did was done as a matter of duty. In many men the fatherly
instincts awake in the mere fact of possessing a child. But it was not
so with him. He had relieved his conscience by taking under his
protection, as best he could, the weak being entrusted to his care; but
he remained the same man, loving only his own solitary business--forced
into kindliness only by the inexorable heart within.
Towards the end of the month of his wife’s seclusion, he went one
morning to pay his visit, and found her up and well, with a real baby,
and no longer a bundle on her knee. She was looking very pretty in her
invalid costume, and the tenderness with which she bent over the child
gave an interesting cast to her impassive and inexpressive countenance.
Most people would have admired the picture of maternal love; but Mr.
Smythe had no eye for beauty. He groaned in his inward man as he
pictured to himself the days to come, when day by day, and week after
week, he should be expected to notice the baby.
He sat down, however, and composed himself to do what was necessary on
this occasion; said he was glad to see her so well, and observed that
her child was growing fast.
He then asked her if she had anything she wanted, and a few other
customary questions, and then patting her shoulder, and the arm of the
baby, he rose up.
But she arrested him timidly.
“Oh! sir, could you sit down for a minute? I want very much to speak to
you.”
He sighed and sat down.
“Anything you like, my dear.”
“It is about the baby. I suppose it must have a name.”
“I suppose it must. I had forgotten that. What shall you call her?”
“I want you to help me, sir. There are two names I want to have, and I
cannot decide which I like best.”
She spoke in a tone of childish vexation and perplexity.
“Oh! well, my dear, let me choose,” he said kindly.
“One is Pamela,” she said, “and the other is Clarissa.”
“Pamela and Clarissa!” and his shaggy brows seemed to shake as he knit
them. “No, indeed, no child of mine shall ever bear such names as those.
Let us have a decent Christian name, and be content.”
She trembled, and opened wide her eyes.
“What is your name, my dear?”
“Only Ann, sir.”
“A very good name. My mother’s name, too, was Ann. Let the child be
called Ann.”
“Oh! sir.” And a large tear fell from each eye.
But he was inexorable.
“I will have her called Ann, my dear, and nothing else,” he said
sternly, and he left the room.
He did not mean to be unkind to his wife. His view was to secure to his
daughter a decent Christian name, and his conscience made him no
reproaches.
The following morning Mrs. Ratcliffe knocked at his door. For the sake
of her docile young mistress she was always bold. She came to tell him
that Mrs. Smythe had had a restless night, and was not very well; and
she feared it was owing to the fact that she had fretted a good bit,
poor thing, about her child’s name.
“Could not----”
But here her master interrupted her. He was an obstinate man, and a fit
of righteous obstinacy was now upon him.
“The little girl shall be called Ann,” he said, pressing his thin lips
together. “Don’t let me be bothered any more.”
Mrs. Ratcliffe disappeared, and he remained with his obstinacy. He
carried it about triumphantly all the day, but when in the evening he
visited his wife, and saw her pale cheeks and red eyes, it began to melt
in his heart. He almost hoped she would attack him on the subject, but
she did not. She was too timid to say more.
The next morning, however, the strife recommenced. Mrs. Ratcliffe again
entered his room, and this time with a big book--a kind of dictionary of
names. She said she had been trying to make out a name that would
please both parents, and she had found one with which her mistress was
quite delighted--Annora. She could be Ann to her father and at home, if
he pleased, but she would be something prettier than Ann to the world.
Obstinacy seized Mr. Smythe as she spoke. His senses shivered and
quivered at the idea of possessing a daughter Annora. He pressed his
lips together, and was about to repeat that the little girl should be
called Ann, and nothing else, when his tyrant conscience gave him such a
sudden stab that he quailed under it. He saw a vision of the timid wife
with her pale cheeks and red eyes, and he melted.
“Poor little fool!” he said bitterly. “Get along, Mrs. Ratcliffe, and
let her have the name she pleases.”
Thus it was settled, and thus the child was baptized. It was the only
matrimonial strife in which the fatherly husband and childlike wife were
ever engaged. The little Annora was baptized, but her father did not
think it necessary to attend her baptism. She lived and grew, was
short-coated, and cut her teeth, and still he paid her no attention. She
was, as all who saw her said, a fine handsome child, the image of
himself; but his likeness made no impression on his heart. He returned
to his old life, dining with his wife, and walking with her to church on
a Sunday; and sometimes, when he found the child on her knee, patting it
for her sake, but he took no interest in it.
Mrs. Smythe was very happy with her baby, and if she did sometimes wish
that he would notice how much it was grown, she remembered her promise
not to bother him, and restrained her wishes. But there was one person
who was not grateful. The head nurse, who received very high wages, was
quite unused to such treatment of her charges. She felt it was incumbent
on her to vanquish this cold-hearted father, and she set herself to the
task. Who could tell what might happen if he did not take to the child?
Why, he might will all his money away, and go and die, and where should
they all be? She watched his movements, met him on the stairs, met him
in the streets, and on every occasion flourished the child in his view;
but all in vain. He passed on with his own thoughts, and took no heed to
nurse or baby.
At length the first anniversary of the birth of a Miss Smythe came
round. On the morning of that day the nurse washed her with extra care,
put on the very best of best frocks, blue bows on her shoulders, and
the most exquisite blue kid shoes on her tiny feet. No baby had ever
seemed more able to soften an obdurate heart.
Bearing her in her arms, and entering the room of her master with the
air of a princess, the nurse approached him.
“Miss Smythe is a year old, sir, to-day. I thought you would be
expecting to see her.” Not quite the truth.
But vain were her efforts; vain the blue sash, and even the blue kid
shoes. For a moment the old man was dismayed, and looked up bashfully
from his breakfast; but the next moment he felt “now or never.”
“I am glad to see the little girl is well,” he said; “but you may take
her away, and I will ring when I want her.”
The nurse was in her turn abashed; but she also recovered herself.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, with presence of mind. “Now, my dear,
say ‘bye-bye’ to your papa,” and she raised the child, and held it in an
attitude towards him.
In some mute expectation of hearing “bye-bye” from those infant lips, he
gazed up in wonder. No “bye-bye” came, but the child, as if
instinctively attracted by the kind heart that was hid under that
ungainly face, stretched out towards him her little fat arms and smiled.
A thrill shivered through his frame, a strange feeling of paternal love
leaped into his heart; he half rose from his seat to gratify it. Then he
composed himself, and though he did slowly rise, he spoke gravely.
“She’s a nice little girl,” and he softly patted her arm; “but you may
take her away now, and I will send when I want her.”
The nurse did not quite understand. She had not seen the smile which
had achieved the conquest of his heart, and uncertain whether or not the
conquest was achieved, she withdrew. But she guessed it before long. Mr.
Smythe would not acknowledge, even to himself, that he pined and
thirsted to have those fat arms round his neck; but it was the case, and
he plotted for that gratification with deep-laid schemes. He began to
note the hours of the day when she took her walks. Sometimes concealed
behind his door, and sometimes concealed at the end of the street, he
would watch for her coming forth, and would go forward to meet her. He
would then stop and pat her, receive the smile, and pass on, still
plotting for other days, when the moment for receiving her into his arms
might naturally come. It was some weeks before it came, but when it came
the victory was complete. From the day when first she took her place on
his knee, she ruled over him with absolute power, and gradually
transformed his crusty attentions into a soft and benign tenderness.