With the departure of my summer visitors, a gloom fell upon us all at
Larkhall. Mrs. Ellmer missed her admirers and grew petulant; Babiole
had discovered some new haunt and was never to be found; while I felt
the wanderer's fever growing strong upon me again. Fabian Scott had
cleared up the little mystery concerning the husband and father of my
tenants. It appeared that Mr. Ellmer, while neglecting and ill-using
his wife without scruple when she was under the same roof with him,
was subject to strong fits of conjugal devotion when two or three
months of hard work, away from him, gave him reason to think that she
would be in possession of a few pounds of carefully-gleaned savings,
while he, her lawful and once adored husband, did not know where to
turn for a glass of beer. During the winter before I found them in
Aberdeen some friends with whom both mother and child had taken refuge
from his drunken fury had had to pay him a heavy ransom for their
kindness, besides exposing themselves to the inconvenience of having
their house mobbed and their windows broken whenever the tender
husband and father, having exhausted the tribute paid to keep him in
the public-house, bethought himself of this new way of calling
attention to his wrongs.
Fabian told me that a few weeks back he had been accosted in the
Strand by Mr. Ellmer, who was looking more tattered and dissipated
than ever. This gentleman had experienced great concern at the total
disappearance of his wife, had asked Fabian's advice as to the best
means of finding her, and had finally let out his conviction that she
was 'doing well for herself,' in a tone of bitter indignation. Fabian
had said nothing of this meeting to Mrs. Ellmer, being, both for her
sake and for mine, anxious not to touch those strings of sentiment
which, in the better kind of women, sound so readily for the most
good-for-nothing of husbands.
Already Mrs. Ellmer had begun to allude with irritating frequency to
the talents and noble qualities of her 'poor husband,' whom it was the
fashion among us all to consider as the 'victim of art,' as if art had
been a chronic disease. This fiction had gone on expanding and
developing until the illustrious artist, to whom absence was so
becoming, had eclipsed the entire Royal Academy, and had become to his
wife a source of legitimate pride which, if touching by its naivete,
was also wearisome by its excess.
Between proud reminiscences of her husband and happy memories of her
late flirtations with Mr. Fussell and Mr. Browne, Mrs. Ellmer was
rather disposed to treat me and my modest friendship as of small
account. So the worm turned at last, by which I mean that I spent my
days deer-stalking, grouse-shooting, and salmon-fishing, and my
evenings with To-to, Ta-ta, and my books. This estrangement helped me
to make up my mind to leave Larkhall for Italy before the winter came
on, and a sharp frost in the last days of October sent me off to
Aberdeen to make inquiries about my proposed journey. I would install
Mrs. Ellmer and her daughter at the Hall, if they cared to remain, so
that, at any rate, they would be housed out of harm's--that is, Mr.
Ellmer's--way for the winter.
Janet had particularly entreated me to be back early, as there had
been ghostly noises of late in the region of the drawing-room; and
though her braw laddie, John, was ample protection against bodily
intruders, yet, in the case of wraiths, though I only rented the
place, and therefore could have no family influence with the spirits
of departed owners, I was likely, through my superior social standing,
to get a better hearing from the phantoms of gentlefolk than the
staunchest man-servant could hope to do.
It was past six, and already dark, when I came back and went into the
study, attracted by sounds of a very elementary performance on the
piano. But there was perfect silence as I entered, and no human
creature to be seen. Ta-ta, however, was hovering about near the
piano, now replaced in its original position in a corner against the
wall. I suspected the identity of the musical ghost, and quietly
seated myself by the fireplace to see what would happen. First, Ta-ta
ran excitedly backwards and forwards between me and the other side of
the table; then slight sounds as of stealthy creeping feet and hands
were followed by a fleeting apparition of a female figure on all fours
between the table and the screen.
'What are you running away for?' I asked, very gently.
Babiole was so much startled by the voice that she reappeared
involuntarily, on her feet this time, from behind the screen.
'I beg your pardon, Mr. Maude, indeed I'm very sorry,' she began, 'I
didn't think you would be in so soon.'
'And what have I done that you should be so sorry to see me?'
'Oh no, I didn't mean that. I'm not sorry to see you, I'm always glad
to, only we never do now, you know, and I thought perhaps you would
be angry at my coming into your study,' said she, recovering
confidence, as she saw that I was not displeased.
'Oh, so you took advantage of my being away to do what you thought I
should not like?'
I spoke playfully, but Babiole hung her head.
'Well, what have you got to say for yourself?'
After a few moments' silence she raised her head, staring before her
with the fixed and desperate earnestness of a sensitive young creature
who thinks the slightest blame a terrible thing to bear.
'I don't believe it was so very wrong,' she said at last. 'I was so
very careful; I took off my boots that I had been out on the hills in,
and put on clean shoes, not to hurt the carpet; and I just put down
the notes so lightly I could not have hurt the piano, and I washed my
hands before touching the books.'
'The books! What books have you been touching?'
'Oh, I took down several; but I couldn't read all, because they were
not English.'
This was satisfactory as far as it went; but then the best English
authors are considered scarcely more suitable reading for 'the young
person' than the worst French ones.
'And which do you like best of the English ones?'
'I like one I found yesterday, all letters from different people, with
the s's like f's.'
I poked the fire into a blaze, and led the girl back to the
book-shelves.
'Now, show me which one you mean.'
She hesitated, and looked at me, at first suspecting some trap. As I
waited quietly, she at last timidly touched a volume of _The Tattler_.
I pointed to a modern 'popular novel,' with a picture-cover and
popular title, which was among the lumber of the shelves.
'Have you read that?'
'Yes,' indifferently.
'Didn't you like that better than _The Tattler_?'
'Oh no!' indignantly.
'Why not? It is all about an actress.'
'An actress!' contemptuously. 'It isn't like any of the actresses I've
ever met. It's a silly book.'
'Is there any other book you like?'
'Oh yes. I like these.' She passed her hand lovingly over a row--not
an unbroken row, of course--of solid-looking calf-bound volumes, full
of old-fashioned line engravings of British scenery, the text
containing a discursive account of the places illustrated, enlivened
by much historical information, apocryphal anecdote, and old-world
scandal. 'And _Jane Eyre_, and this.' 'This' was an illustrated
translation of _Don Quixote_. 'Oh, and I like _Clarissa Harlowe_ and
that book with the red cover.'
'_Ivanhoe?_'
'Oh yes, _Ivanhoe_,' she repeated carefully after me. Evidently, as in
the case of _Don Quixote_, she had been uncertain how to pronounce the
title.
'And these?' I pointed, one by one, to some modern novels. 'Don't you
like any of these?' Already I began to be alarmed at the extent of her
reading.
'Yes, I like some of them--pretty well.'
'Why do you like _Don Quixote_ and _Ivanhoe_ better?'
She considered for a long time, her blue eyes fixed thoughtfully on
the shelves.
'I think I feel more as if they'd really happened.'
'But when you were reading _Armadale_, didn't you feel as if that had
happened?'
'Oh yes,' with a flash of excitement. 'One night I couldn't sleep,
because I thought of it so much.'
'Then you thought as much about it as about _Ivanhoe_?'
'Ye-es, but----' A pause. 'I thought about _Ivanhoe_ because I wanted
to, and I thought about _Armadale_ because I couldn't help it.'
I went on asking her what she had read, and I own that I dare not give
the list. But her frank young mind had absorbed no evil, and when I
asked her how she liked one famous peccant hero, she answered quite
simply--
'I liked him very much--part of the book. And when he did wrong
things, I was always wanting to go to him, and tell him not to be so
wicked and silly; and then, oh! I was so glad when he reformed and
married Sophia.'
'But he wasn't good enough for her.'
'Ah, but then he was a man!' Her tone implied '_only_ a man.'
'Then you think women are better than men?'
'I think they ought to be.'
'Why?'
'Well, men have to work, and women have only to be good.'
I was surprised at this answer.
'That is not true always. Your mother is a very good woman, and has
had to work very hard indeed.'
'But mamma's an exception; she says so. And she says it's very hard to
work as she does, and be good too.'
I could scarcely help laughing, though it was pretty to see how
innocently the young girl had taken the querulous speech.
'Well, and then I'm a man, and I don't have to work.'
'Perhaps that's why you're so good.'
I was so utterly astonished at this naive speech that I had nothing to
say. The blood rushed to the girl's face; she was afraid she had been
rude.
'How do you know that I am good, Babiole?' I asked gently.
But this was taxing her penetration too much.
'I don't know,' she answered shyly.
'Why do you think people are better when they don't work?'
She looked at me, and was reassured that I was not offended.
'Well, sometimes when mamma has been working very hard--not now, you
know; but it used to be like that--she used to say things that hurt
me, and made me want to cry. And then I used to look at her poor tired
face and say to myself, "It's the hard work and not mamma that says
those things;" and then, of course, I did not mind. And when you have
once had to work too hard, you never get over it as you do over other
things.'
'What other things?'
'Oh--fancies and--and things like that.'
'Love troubles?'
She looked up at me with a shy, sideways glance that was full of the
most perfectly unconscious witchery.
'Yes, mamma says they're nonsense.'
'She liked nonsense, too, once.'
Babiole looked up at me with the delight of a common perception.
'Yes, I've often thought that. And then all men are not like----'
She stopped short.
'Papa?'
She shook her head. 'One mustn't say that. One must make allowances
for clever people, mamma says.'
'You will be clever, too, some day, if you go on reading and thinking
about what you read.'
'No, I don't want to be clever; it makes people so selfish. But,' with
a sigh, 'I wish I knew something, and could play and sing and read all
those books that are not English.'
'Shall I teach you French?'
'Will you? Oh, Mr. Maude!'
I think she was going to clap her hands with delight, but remembered
in time the impropriety of such a proceeding. Four o'clock next day
was fixed as the hour for the first lesson, and in the meantime I made
another journey to Aberdeen to provide myself with a whole library of
French grammars and other elementary works.
At four o'clock Babiole made her appearance, very scrupulously combed
and washed, and wearing the air of intense seriousness befitting such
a matter as the beginning of one's education. This almost broke down,
however, under the glowing excitement of taking a phrase-book into
one's hand, and repeating after me, 'Good-day, _bon-jour_; How do you
do? _Comment vous portezvous?_' and a couple of pages of the same
kind. Then she wrote out the verb 'To have' in French and English; and
her appetite for knowledge not being yet quenched, she then learnt and
wrote down the names of different objects round us, some of which, I
regret to say, her master had to find out in the dictionary, not being
prepared to give off-hand the French for 'hearthrug,' letter-weight,'
and 'wainscoting.' We then went through the names of the months and
the seasons of the year, after which, surfeited with information, she
gave a little sigh of completed bliss, and, looking up at me, said
simply that she thought that was as much as she could learn perfectly
by to-morrow. I thought it was a great deal more, but did not like to
discourage her by saying so. I had much doubt about my teaching,
having been plunged into it suddenly without having had time to
formulate a method; but then I was convinced that by the time I felt
more sure of my powers my pupil's zeal would have melted away, and I
should have no one to experimentalise upon. As soon as I had assured
her that she had done quite enough for the first lesson, Babiole rose,
collected the formidable pile of books, her exercise-book, and the pen
I had consecrated to her use, and asked me where she should keep them.
We decided upon a corner of the piano as being a place where they
would not be in my way, Babiole having a charmingly feminine reverence
for the importance of even the most frivolous occupations of the
stronger sex. After this she thanked me very gravely and prettily for
my kindness in teaching her, and hastened away, evidently in the
innocent belief that I must be anxious to be alone.
What a light the bright child seemed to have left in the musty room! I
began to smile to myself at the remembrance of her preternatural
gravity, and Ta-ta put her forepaws on my knees and wagged her tail
for sympathy. I thought it very probable that Mrs. Ellmer would
interfere to prevent the girl's coming again, or that Babiole's
enthusiasm for learning would die out in a day or two, and I should be
left waiting for my pupil with my grammars and dictionaries on my
hands.
However, she reappeared next day, absolutely perfect in the verb
_avoir_, the months, the seasons, and the pages out of the
phrase-book. When I praised her she said, with much warmth--
'I could have learnt twice as many phrases if I'd known how to
pronounce them!'
In fact, beginning to learn at an age when she was able to understand,
and impelled by a strong sense of her own deficiencies, she learnt so
fast and so well that her education soon became the strongest interest
of my life, and when my fear that she would tire had worn away, I gave
whole hours to considering what I should teach her, and to preparing
myself for her lessons. As winter drew on, the darkening days gave us
both the excuse we wanted for longer working hours. From three to
half-past six we now sat together in the study, reading, writing,
translating. When I found her willing I had added Latin to her
studies, and we diligently plodded through a course of reading
arbitrarily marked out by me, and followed by my pupil with
enthusiastic docility.
All thoughts of leaving Ballater for the winter had now disappeared
from my mind. I was happier in my new occupation than I remembered to
have been before, and as I saw spring approaching, I regretted the
short days, which had been brighter to me than midsummer.
'I mustn't keep you indoors so long now, Babiole,' I said to her one
afternoon in the first days of April. 'I have been making you work too
hard lately, and you must go and get back your roses on the hills.'
I saw the light come over the girl's face as she looked out of the
window, and, with a pang of self-reproach, I felt that, in spite of
herself, the earnest little student had been waiting eagerly for some
such words as these.
'O--h--h,' she whispered, in a long-drawn breath of pleasure, 'it must
be lovely up among the pine-woods now!'
I said nothing, and she turned round to me with a mistrustful
inquiring face. I went on looking over an exercise she had written, as
if absorbed in that occupation. But the little one's perceptions were
too keen for me. She was down on her knees on the floor beside my
chair in a moment, with a most downcast face, her eyes full of tears.
'Oh, Mr. Maude, what an ungrateful little wretch you must think me!'
I was so much moved that I could not take her pretty apology quietly.
I burst out into a shout of laughter.
'Why, Babiole, you must think me an ogre! You don't really imagine I
wanted to keep you chained to the desk all the summer!'
She took my hand in both of hers and stroked it gently.
'I would rather never go on the hills again than seem ungrateful to
you, Mr. Maude.'
'Ungrateful, child! You don't know how your little sunbeam face has
brightened this old room.'
'Has it, really?' She seemed pleased, but rather puzzled. 'Well, I'm
very glad, but that doesn't make it any the less kind of you to teach
me.'
'There has been no kindness at all on my side, I assure you.'
She shook her head, and her curly hair touched my shoulder.
'Yes, there has, and I like to think that there has. Nobody knows how
good you are but Ta-ta and me; we often talk about you when we're out
together, don't we, Ta-ta?'
The collie wagged her tail violently, taking this little bit of
affectionate conversation as a welcome relief to the monotony of our
studies.
'Well, I shall leave Ta-ta with you, then, to keep my memory green
while I'm away.'
'Away! Are you going away?'
'Yes. I am going to Norway for the summer.'
I could not tell exactly when I made up my mind to this, but I know
that I had had no intention of the kind when Babiole came into my
study that afternoon. She remained quite silent for a few minutes.
Then she asked softly--
'When will you come back, Mr. Maude?'
'Oh, about--September, I think.'
'The place won't seem the same without you.'
'Why, child, when you are about on the hills I never see you.'
'No, but--but I always have a feeling that the good genius is about,
and--do you know, I think I shall be afraid to take such long walks
alone with Ta-ta when you're not here!'
My heart went out to the child. With a passionate joy in the innocent
trust one little human creature felt towards me, the outcast, I was on
the point of telling her, as carelessly as I could, that I had not
quite made up my mind yet, when she broke the spell as unwittingly as
she had woven it.
'Oh, Mr. Maude,' she cried, with fervent disappointment; 'then your
friends--Mr. Scott--and the rest--they won't come here this year?'
'No,' said I coolly, but with no sign of the sudden chill her words
had given me, 'I shall invite them to Norway this year.'
Before April was over I had installed Mrs. Ellmer as caretaker at
Larkhall, and, with Ferguson at my heels, had set out on my wanderings
again.