The education of Annora was not conducted on the most approved plans.
She had four persons devoted to her service, bidding for her favour, and
competing with each other in making her a princess. Her nurse attended
to her body, her governess to her mind; her mother was her playfellow,
and Mrs. Ratcliffe her friend. With a quick intellect and a strong will
she soon learned how to manage them all as she pleased.
With these four persons she passed the greater part of her time.
Occasionally young companions were met with; but as the deference
exacted at home was not as cheerfully paid abroad, Annora made little
effort to secure their affections.
Neither her nurse nor her governess was blest with brains. They each did
their duty, but they exercised no influence on the mind. Mrs. Smythe had
no brains at all, and had it not been for Mrs. Ratcliffe, Annora’s case
would have been a hard one. Mrs. Ratcliffe, however, although
uneducated, and although as conscientiously bent on doing her duty to
her late master by spoiling his child as the rest of the house, was
gifted not only with good sense, but with a religious mind. Her
conversation was imbued with these two properties--a natural wisdom and
a more than natural sense of the importance of heavenly things; and they
fell on the young mind that clung to her, and sowed in the soil many a
good seed.
The guardians of the little girl made occasional inquiries after her
welfare, but it was not till she was eleven years old that she began to
be a person in their eyes. At that age a reference was made to them by
her desire. At that age Annora and her mother began to disagree. So long
as her child was satisfied to play, and could be amused with games and
annals of the lives and deaths of canary birds and bullfinches, the
mother and daughter amused themselves together; but Annora had a quick
intellect, and no sooner did she begin to exercise it freely than she
began to feel her mother’s deficiences. She found that she could silence
her in an argument, that she could make her cry by teasing, that she
understood nothing of the questions that occupied her precocious
intellect. The child used her power in general mercifully, but when she
was set on a whim she knew how to obtain her purpose.
In her alarm at losing her authority, a thing very dear to a weak mind,
Mrs. Smythe put forward the guardians, and, whenever she could not rule
her child, threatened her with them. For a time the plan succeeded, but
at eleven Annora began to wish to rule her guardians also. It was an
exciting idea, and at length, to her mother’s surprise, on an occasion
of disagreement a reference to them was proposed. The disagreement was
regarding her name. Annora took a dislike to it, and one day perplexed
her mother by asking her why she gave it? Mrs. Smythe did not wish to
tell. She beat about the bush, saying people must have some name, and
other wise observations; but as these were not accepted, at last said,
peevishly,
“I am sure I hope you are not going to be like your poor father.”
“Why, mamma, did _he_ not like it?” For the little girl could put two
and two together; and, with tears in her eyes, her mother was then
forced to make a full confession. “And what did he want me to be?”
Annora said, resolvedly. “I should like to be his name.”
“He wanted you to be Ann,” whimpered the poor mother; “but I tell you,
if you make yourself Ann, you will break my heart.”
Annora’s face became very long. She did not like Ann. She felt abashed
and conquered. After a short reflection, however, her ready wit helped
her.
“Ann is half my name, mamma?”
Her mother nodded.
“Then I will be like papa, and have half. I will take Nora, and,” with
determination, “henceforward I will be Nora, and nothing else.”
It was on this point that a reference to the guardians was made. Mrs.
Smythe thought even the Queen could not permit a change of name, and
Mrs. Ratcliffe had serious doubt whether it would not imperil the
property. But no assurances that it was dangerous to tamper with names
would satisfy the young lady, who, the more she was opposed, became the
more resolute on the subject. She desired her mother to write and ask
permission of her guardians, and, had they refused to sanction the
change, would probably have appealed to the Queen in person. The
guardians, however, gave free permission for Annora to do as she
pleased, observing only that it might sometimes be necessary for her to
sign with the larger name. This gave her a very exalted opinion of their
capacity, and she determined to make the Mr. Fanshawe who had written
her friend.
In two years she had occasion to trouble them again.
When they arrived at Geneva, the governess who had hitherto instructed
Nora left her to be married. She had done her duty, as was said,
tolerably well, but she had failed to obtain influence over her pupil;
and such being the case, instruction had proved tedious. Nora wished to
learn, but only when and as she pleased. She therefore now announced her
intention to do without a governess.
Mrs. Smythe was paralyzed, Mrs. Ratcliffe dismayed. The guardians were
threatened. At the first word, Nora took the affair into her own heads,
and wrote a letter of appeal to Mr. Fanshawe.
He laughed heartily when he received her letter, and said she was quite
right; a governess was a bore. Nevertheless, mindful of his duty, he
wrote a letter of persuasive good sense on the subject.
To this Nora replied:--
“MY DEAR GUARDIAN,
“I liked your letter very much. Perhaps it would be good for most
people to do as you say. But it will not be good for me.
Governesses wish to be submitted to and obeyed. I suppose it is
right for them to wish it; but I can’t submit. It would be no use
for me to promise to do it, because I _can’t_. I should like very
much to talk to you, and I know I should persuade you; but I don’t
like to trouble you with a long letter, because, of course, you
are busy. I must only ask you, therefore, to trust me that I know
what is best when I say a governess will not be good for _me_. I
will have as many masters as mamma pleases, but I _cannot_ consent
to have a governess.
“Your affectionate ward,
“NORA SMYTHE.”
Mr. Fanshawe laughed again and gave way.
“For if she won’t, she won’t,
And there’s an end on ’t,”
he said to his son, quoting the well-known lines.
Mrs. Smythe missed the society of the governess; that is to say, she
missed the presence of the third person who had hitherto supported her
in her efforts to entertain Nora. The poor woman had been very happy
with her child while she was a little child; but now that her daughter
was growing up strong and clever, and indifferent to games and stories,
she was happy no longer. Had it been possible to her to think and to
make observations on her child’s disposition, she would, however, have
known how to be happy again.
She would have seen that Nora was essentially a lover of duty, and that
though haughty, she had a generous disposition, which would have made
the protection of the weak a natural inclination. Could Mrs. Smythe have
put herself into her daughter’s hands, and trusted to her guidance, they
might have been very happy together; Nora the mother, and the mother the
child.
But a weak intellect cannot reason, and a mother may be pardoned who
fails to discover that _her_ wisdom is to submit to a child of tender
years. A jealousy of her rights as mother took hold of Mrs. Smythe’s
weak nature, and even while shedding tears over her incapacity to guide
or influence, she still clung to her rights tenaciously.
Nora had discovered her mother’s weakness. She felt it, but had not
reasoned upon it. When, therefore, the weak mother attempted petty
tyrannies, the child, who felt her own superiority, rebelled.
Thus it was that the mother and daughter were not happy together. Nora,
finding a book more entertaining than the feeble twaddle which was all
her mother had in store, preferred to pass the evening in reading; and
this reading was the plague of Mrs. Smythe’s life.
It was in desperation at her own powerlessness to attract her daughter,
that on one dull rainy day Mrs. Smythe told Nora of her prospects in
life; that she was rich, independent, and to be of age at sixteen. This
secret had been preserved as a treasure. While she had it, she felt a
certain superiority. It was something in store; it was something Nora
had not.
Nora knew well that they were rich; that, as in the days of King
Solomon, silver was little thought of in her house. She knew too, and
could not fail to know, that she was a person of importance; but of her
history she knew nothing; of an existence independent of her mother she
had never dreamed.
This secret and one other had lain deep in Mrs. Smythe’s mind. The other
was the story of the enemies. By Mrs. Ratcliffe’s advice this had been
buried. “The young people will grow up very nicely, I don’t doubt,
ma’am; and it would be a thousand pities to prevent their being friends
together.” So she had observed, when Mrs. Smythe had once consulted her
on the subject, and the woman of amiable character though weak intellect
had submitted with cheerful obedience. This other secret she had no wish
to tell; but the secret of the enormous riches and the independent
position was brought out on this rainy day.
Nora was now between fourteen and fifteen. She was lying on the floor,
wrapt in “Le Robinson Suisse.” No observations could draw her eyes away
from her book. In desperation the secret was told; and its effects had
not been too highly pictured. The book was tossed away. With sparkling
eyes and eager ears Nora came and sat like a child at her mother’s feet,
while she heard the tale of the position she was to hold.
“But be of age at sixteen, mamma! How can I? To be of age is to be
twenty-one. Papa could not alter that.”
“I don’t know how he did it. I only know it is true. I have often
wondered why he settled it. _I_ should have thought a girl of sixteen
ought not to do everything she pleased; but he was very wise, and I am
sure it is right.”
“And how rich shall I be, mamma?”
“I am sure I don’t know. I should think from all I heard more than could
be counted. Perhaps hundreds of thousands a-year.”
“Oh! mamma, but what shall I do with it?” And Nora opened wide her large
brown eyes.
“There is plenty to do with money,” said her mother, sagely. “Of course
you must eat and drink and wear clothes, and take houses, and all this
costs a good deal more than young people think. And then, besides, you
must give away. Your poor father gave away a great deal to poor people,
I always heard.”
“Did he, mamma?” and Nora’s face and voice softened; “and do we?”
“We would if we could; but we have got no beggars here,” and Mrs. Smythe
spoke as if she was sorely aggrieved. “But then, Nora, there is one
dreadful thing about being rich, people will always be wanting to marry
you for your money.”
“Marry me, mamma! But they shall not. I shall take good care of that.”
“It is no use your taking care; depend upon it that is what will happen.
That was what happened to me; and if your poor father had not married
me, I am sure I don’t know what I should have done. However, of course
I shall take care of you if I am alive.”
There was no lack of conversation on that day, nor for many days after;
and Mrs. Smythe exulted at the success of her experiment.
Three days after the announcement, Nora told her mother that she had
decided on returning to England as soon as she was sixteen, and that her
first act would be to buy a large house in the country, and live like a
queen; and when once this idea took possession of her mind, there was no
end to the imaginative powers exercised. It was like a baby-house to a
child of four, who can alter the rooms for ever at her pleasure. On this
tangible castle in the air, the young girl’s mind could expatiate
without ceasing. No details too small; no fancy too exalted. And her
mother listened and sympathised, and was able occasionally to make a
humble suggestion of her own regarding the fittings of the new mansion.