with my yellow cat. (It included a crusty old gardener, who was at
times, especially in the spring, so particularly cross that I _might_
have been tempted to exchange _him_ for the undisputed possession of
that stock of seeds, tools, and flower-pots which formed our chief
subject of dispute. But this is a digression.) I took the lowest.
Could I part with Sandy Tom for any money, or for anything that money
could buy? I thought of a speaking doll, a miniature piano, a tiny
carriage drawn by four yellow mastiffs, of a fairy purse that should
never be empty, with all that might thereby be given to others or kept
for oneself: and then I thought of Sandy Tom--of his large, round,
soft head; his fine eyes (they were yellow, not blue, and glared with
infinite tenderness); his melodious purr; his expressive whiskers; his
incomparable tail.
"Love rose up as an impulse, an instinct; it would not be doubted, it
utterly refused to be spread out to question.
"'Oh, Puss?' I thought, 'if you could but leap on to the bed at this
moment I would explain it all to our mutual comprehension and
satisfaction. 'My dear Sandy,' I would say, 'with you to lie on the
cushioned seat, a nice little carriage, and four yellow mastiffs,
would be perfection; but as to comparing what I love--to wit, you,
Sandy!--with what I want--to wit, four yellow mastiffs and a great
many other things besides--I should as soon think of cutting off your
tail to dust the dolls' house with.' Alas! Sandy Tom was at home; I
could only imagine the gentle rub of the head with which he would have
assented. Meanwhile, I made up my mind firmly on one point. My
grandmother was wrong. Miss Anastatia Eden had not loved Mr. Sandford.
"Smash! The fire, which had been gradually becoming hollow, fell in at
this moment, and I started to find myself chilly and cramped, and so
lay down. Then my thoughts took another turn. I wondered if I should
grow up beautiful, like Mrs. Moss. It was a serious question. I had
often looked at myself in the glass, but I had a general idea that I
looked much like other little girls of my age. I began gravely to
examine myself in detail, beginning from the top of my head. My hair
was light, and cropped on a level with the lobes of my ears; this,
however, would amend itself with time; and I had long intended that my
hair should be of raven blackness, and touch the ground at least; 'but
that will not be till I am grown up,' thought I. Then my eyes: they
were large; in fact, the undue proportions they assumed when I looked
ill or tired formed a family joke. If size were all that one requires
in eyes, mine would certainly pass muster. Moreover, they had long
curly lashes. I fingered these slowly, and thought of Sandy's
whiskers. At this point I nearly fell asleep, but roused myself to
examine my nose. My grandmother had said that Mrs. Moss's nose was
delicately curved. Now, it is certainly true that a curve may be
either concave or convex; but I had heard of the bridge of a nose, and
knew well enough which way the curve should go; and I had a shrewd
suspicion that if so very short a nose as mine, with so much and so
round a tip, could be said to be curved at all, the curve went the
wrong way; at the same time I could not feel sure. For I must tell you
that to lie in a comfortable bed, at an hour long beyond the time when
one ought naturally to be asleep, and to stroke one's nose, is a
proceeding not favourable to forming a clear judgment on so important
a point as one's personal appearance. The very shadows were still as
well as silent, the fire had ceased to flicker, a delicious quietude
pervaded the room, as I stroked my nose and dozed, and dozed and
stroked my nose, and lost all sense of its shape, and fancied it a
huge lump growing under my fingers. The extreme unpleasantness of this
idea just prevented my falling asleep; and I roused myself and sat up
again.
"'It's no use feeling,' I thought, 'I'll look in the glass.'
"There was one mirror in the room. It hung above the mantelpiece. It
was old, deeply framed in dark wood, and was so hung as to slope
forwards into the room.
"In front of the fire stood an old-fashioned, cushioned arm-chair,
with a very high back, and a many-frilled chintz cover. A footstool
lay near it. It was here that my grandmother had been sitting. I
jumped out of bed, put the footstool into the chair that I might get
to a level with the glass, and climbed on to it. Thanks to the slope
of the mirror, I could now see my reflection as well as the dim
firelight would permit.
"'What a silly child!' you will say, Ida. Very silly, indeed, my dear.
And how one remembers one's follies! At the end of half a century, I
recall my reflection in that old nursery mirror more clearly than I
remember how I looked in the glass before which I put on my bonnet
this evening to come to tea with you: the weird, startled glance of my
eyes, which, in their most prominent stage of weariness, gazed at me
out of the shadows of the looking glass, the tumbled tufts of hair,
the ghostly effect of my white night-dress. As to my nose, I could
absolutely see nothing of its shape; the firelight just caught the
round tip, which shone like a little white toadstool from the gloom,
and this was all.
"'One can't see the shape, full face,' I thought. 'If I had only
another looking-glass.'
"But there was not another. I knew it, and yet involuntarily looked
round the room. Suddenly I exclaimed aloud, 'Mr. Joseph will do!'
"Who was Mr. Joseph?--you will ask. My dear Ida, I really do not know.
I have not the least idea. I had heard him called Mr. Joseph, and I
fancy he was a connection of the family. All I knew of him was his
portrait, a _silhouette_, elegantly glazed and framed in black wood,
which hung against the nursery wall. I was ignorant of his surname and
history. I had never examined his features. But I knew that happily he
had been very stout, since his ample coat and waistcoat, cut out in
black paper, converted the glass which covered them into an excellent
mirror for my dolls.
"Worthy Mr. Joseph! Here he was coming in useful again. How much we
owe to our forefathers! I soon unhooked him, and climbing back into
the chair, commenced an examination of my profile by the process of
double reflection. But all in vain! Whether owing to the dusty state
of the mirror, or to the dim light, or to the unobliging shapeliness
of Mr. Joseph's person, I cannot say, but, turn and twist as I would,
I could not get a view of my profile sufficiently clear and complete
to form a correct judgment upon. I held Mr. Joseph, now high, now low;
I stooped, I stood on tiptoe, I moved forward, I leant backward. It
was this latest manoeuvre that aggravated the natural topheaviness
of the chair, and endangered its balance. The fore-legs rose, my
spasmodic struggle was made in the wrong direction, and I, the
arm-chair, and Mr. Joseph fell backwards together.
"Two of us were light enough, and happily escaped unhurt. It was the
arm-chair which fell with such an appalling crash, and whether it were
any the worse or no, I could not tell as it lay. As soon as I had a
little recovered from the shock, therefore, I struggled to raise it,
whilst Mr. Joseph lay helplessly upon the ground, with his waistcoat
turned up to the ceiling.
"It was thus that my aunt found us.
"If only Mr. Joseph and I had fallen together, no one need have been
the wiser; but that lumbering arm-chair had come down with a bump that
startled the sober trio at supper in the dining-room below.
"'What _is_ the matter?' said Aunt Harriet.
"I was speechless.
"'What have you been doing?'
"I couldn't speak; but accumulating misfortune was gradually
overpowering me, and I began to cry.
"'Get into bed,' said Aunt Harriet.
"I willingly obeyed, and Aunt Harriet seated herself at the foot.
"'Now, think before you speak, Mary,' she said quietly, 'and then tell
me the truth. What have you been doing?'
"One large tear rolled over my nose and off the tip as I feebly
began--
"'I got into the chair--'
"'Well?' said Aunt Harriet.
"'--to look in the glass.'
"'What for?' said Aunt Harriet.
"Tears flowed unrestrainedly over my face as I howled in self-abasement--
"'To look at the shape of my nose.'
"At this point Aunt Harriet rose, and, turning her back rather
abruptly, crossed the room, and picked up Mr. Joseph. (I have since
had reason to believe that she was with difficulty concealing a fit of
laughter.)
"'What have you had this picture down for?' she inquired, still with
her back to me.
"'I couldn't see,' I sobbed, 'and I got Mr. Joseph to help me.'
"My aunt made no reply, and, still carefully concealing her face,
restored Mr. Joseph to his brass nail with great deliberation.
"There is nothing like full confession. I broke the silence.
"'Aunt Harriet, I was awake when you and Granny were here, and heard
what you said.'
"'You are a very silly, naughty child,' my aunt severely returned.
'Why don't you go to sleep when you are sent to bed?'
"'I can't,' I sobbed, 'with talking and candles.'
"'You've got the screen,' said Aunt Harriet; and I cannot tell why,
but somehow I lacked courage to say that the red screen was the chief
instrument of torture!
"'Well, go to sleep now,' she concluded, 'and be thankful you're not
hurt. You might have killed yourself.'
"Encouraged by the gracious manner in which she tucked me up, I took a
short cut to the information which I had failed to attain through Mr.
Joseph.
"'Aunt Harriet,' I said, 'do you think I shall ever be as beautiful as
Mrs. Moss?'
"'I'm ashamed of you,' said Aunt Harriet.
"I climbed no more into the treacherous arm-chair. I eschewed the
mirror. I left Mr. Joseph in peace upon the wall. I took no further
trouble about the future prospects of my nose. But night and day I
thought of Mrs. Moss. I found the old cushion, and sat by it, gazing
at the faded tints of the rosebuds, till I imagined the stiff brocade
in all its beauty and freshness. I took a vigorous drawing fit; but it
was only to fill my little book with innumerable sketches of Mrs.
Moss. My uncle lent me his paint-box, as he was wont; and if the fancy
portraits that I made were not satisfactory even to myself, they
failed in spite of cheeks blushing with vermilion, in spite of eyes as
large and brilliant as lamp-black could make them, and in spite of the
most accurately curved noses that my pencil could produce. The amount
of gamboge and Prussian blue that I wasted in vain efforts to produce
a satisfactory pea-green, leaves me at this day an astonished admirer
of my uncle's patience. At this time I wished to walk along no other
road than that which led to my dear manor, where the iron gates were
being painted, the garden made tidy, and the shutters opened; but,
above all, the chief object of my desires was to accompany my
grandmother and aunt in their first visit to Mrs. Moss.
"Once I petitioned Aunt Harriet on this subject. Her answer was--
"'My dear, there would be nothing to amuse you; Mrs. Moss is an old
woman.'
"'Granny said she was so beautiful,' I suggested.
"'So she was, my dear, when your grandmother was young.'
"These and similar remarks I heard and heeded not. They did not add
one wrinkle to my ideal of Mrs. Moss: they in no way whatever lessened
my desire of seeing her. I had never seen my grandmother young, and
her having ever been so seemed to me at the most a matter of
tradition; on the other hand, Mrs. Moss had been presented to my
imagination in the bloom of youth and beauty, and, say what they
would, in the bloom of youth and beauty I expected to see her still.
"One afternoon, about a week after the arrival of Mrs. Moss, I was
busy in the garden, where I had been working for an hour or more, when
I heard carriage wheels drive up and stop at our door. Could it be
Mrs. Moss? I stole gently round to a position where I could see
without being seen, and discovered that the carriage was not that of
any caller, but my uncle's. Then Granny and Aunt Harriet were going
out. I rushed up to the coachman, and asked where they were going. He
seemed in no way overpowered by having to reply--'To the manor, Miss.'
"That was to Mrs. Moss, and I was to be left behind! I stood
speechless in bitter disappointment, as my grandmother rustled out in
her best silk dress, followed by Aunt Harriet and my uncle, who, when
he saw me, exclaimed:
"'Why, there's my little Mary! Why don't you take her? I'll be bound
she wants to go.'
"'I do, indeed!' I exclaimed, in Cinderella-like tones.
"'But Mrs. Moss is such an old lady,' said Aunt Harriet, whose ideas
upon children were purely theoretical, and who could imagine no
interests for them apart from other children, from toys or definite
amusements--'What could the child do with herself?'
"'Do!' said my uncle, who took a rough and cheery view of life, 'why,
look about her, to be sure. And if Mrs. M. is an old lady, there'll be
all the more Indian cabinets and screens, and japanned tables, and
knick-knacks, and lap-dogs. Keep your eyes open, Miss Mary. I've never
seen the good lady or her belongings, but I'll stake my best hat on
the japan ware and the lap-dog. Now, how soon can you be dressed?'
"Later in life the selfish element mixes more largely with our
admirations. A few years thence, and in a first interview with the
object of so many fancies, I should have thought as much of my own
appearance on the occasion, as of what I was myself to see. I should
have taken some pains with my toilette. At that time, the desire to
see Mrs. Moss was too absorbing to admit of any purely personal
considerations. I dashed into the nursery, scrubbed my hands and face
to a raw red complexion, brushed my hair in three strokes, and secured
my things with one sweep. I hastily pocketed a pincushion of red
cloth, worked with yellow silk spots, in the likeness of a strawberry.
It was a pet treasure of mine, and I intended it as an offering to
Mrs. Moss. I tied my hood at the top of the stairs, fastened my tippet
in the hall, and reached the family coach by about three of those
bounds common to all young animals.
"'Halloa!' said my uncle, with his face through the carriage door.
'You've not thanked me yet.'
"I flung my arms round his starched neck-cloth.
"'You're a darling!' I exclaimed, with an emphatic squeeze.
"'You're another,' he replied, returning the embrace upon my hood.
"With this mutual understanding we parted, and I thought that if Mrs.
Moss were not certain to fulfil my ideal, I should have wished her to
be as nearly like Uncle James as the circumstances of the case would
permit. I watched his yellow waistcoat and waving hands till they
could be seen no longer, and then I settled myself primly upon the
back seat, and ventured upon a shy conciliating promise to be 'very
good.'
"'You're quite welcome to come, child,' said Aunt Harriet; 'but as I
said, there are neither children nor playthings for you.'
"Children or playthings! What did I want with either? I put my arm
through the loop by the window and watched the fields as they came and
vanished, with vacant eyes, and thought of Mrs. Moss. A dozen times
had I gone through the whole scene in my mind before we drove through
the iron gates. I fancied myself in the bare, spacious hall, at which
I had peeped; I seemed to hear a light laugh, and to see the beautiful
face of Mrs. Moss look over the banisters; to hear a rustle, and the
scraping of the stiff brocade, as the pink rosebuds shimmered, and the
green satin shoes peeped out, and tap, tap, tap, the high pink heels
resounded from the shallow stairs.
"I had dreamed this day-dream many times over before the carriage
stopped with a shake, and Aunt Harriet roused me, asking if I were
asleep. In another minute or so we were in the hall, and here I met
with my first disappointment.
"To begin with, I had seen the hall unfurnished, and had not imagined
it otherwise. I had pictured Mrs. Moss in her beauty and rose brocade,
the sole ornament of its cold emptiness. Then (though I knew that my
grandmother and aunt must both be present) I had really fancied myself
the chief character in this interview with Mrs. Moss. I had thought of
myself as rushing up the stairs to meet her, and laying the pincushion
at her green satin feet. And now that at last I was really in the
hall, I should not have known it again. It was carpeted from end to
end. Fragrant orange-trees stood in tubs, large hunting-pictures hung
upon the walls, below which stood cases of stuffed birds, and over all
presided a footman in livery, who himself looked like a stuffed
specimen of the human race with unusually bright plumage.
"No face peeped over the banisters, and when we went upstairs, the
footman went first (as seemed due to him), then my grandmother,
followed by my aunt, and lastly I, in the humblest insignificance,
behind them. My feet sank into the soft stair-carpets, I vacantly
admired the elegant luxury around me, with an odd sensation of
heartache. Everything was beautiful, but I had wanted nothing to be
beautiful but Mrs. Moss.
"Already the vision began to fade. That full-fed footman troubled my
fancies. His scarlet plush killed the tender tints of the rosebuds in
my thoughts, and the streaky powder upon his hair seemed a mockery of
the _toupee_ I hoped to see, whose whiteness should enhance the lustre
of rare black eyes. He opened the drawing-room door and announced my
grandmother and aunt. I followed, and (so far as one may be said to
face anything when one stands behind the skirts of two intervening
elders) I was face to face with Mrs. Moss.
"That is, I was face to face with a tall, dark, old woman, with
stooping shoulders, a hooked nose, black eyes that smouldered in their
sunken sockets, and a distinct growth of beard upon her chin. Mr. Moss
had been dead many years, and his widow had laid aside her weeds. She
wore a dress of _feuille-morte_ satin, and a black lace shawl. She had
a rather elaborate cap, with a tendency to get on one side, perhaps
because it would not fit comfortably on the brown front with bunchy
curls which was fastened into its place by a band of broad black
velvet.
"And this was Mrs. Moss! This was the end of all my fancies! There was
nothing astonishing in the disappointment; the only marvel was that I
should have indulged in so foolish a fancy for so long. I had been
told more than once that Mrs. Moss was nearly as old as my
grandmother. As it was, she looked older. Why--I could not tell then,
though I know now.
"My grandmother, though never a beauty, had a sweet smile of her own,
and a certain occasional kindling of the eyes, the outward signs of a
character full of sentiment and intelligence; and these had outlasted
youth. She had always been what is called 'pleasing,' and she was
pleasing still. But in Mrs. Moss no strength, no sentiment, no
intellect filled the place of the beauty that was gone. Features that
were powerful without character, and eyes that glowed without
expression, formed a wreck with little to recall the loveliness that
had bewildered Mr. Sandford--and me.
"There is not much more to tell, Ida. This was the disappointment.
This is the cause of my dislike for a certain shade of _feuille-morte_
satin. It disappointed me of that rose brocade which I was never to
see. You shall hear how I got through the visit, however. This
meeting, which (like so many meetings) had proved the very reverse of
what was hoped.
"Through an angle of Aunt Harriet's pelisse, I watched the meeting
between my grandmother and Mrs. Moss. They kissed and then drew back
and looked at each other, still holding hands. I wondered if my
grandmother felt as I felt. I could not tell. With one of her smiles,
she bent forward, and, kissing Mrs. Moss again, said:
"'God bless you, Anastatia.'
"'God bless you, Elizabeth.'
"It was the first time Mrs. Moss had spoken, and her voice was rather
gruff. Then both ladies sat down, and my grandmother drew out her
pocket-handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Mrs. Moss began (as I thought)
to look for hers, and, not finding it, called,
"'Metcalfe!'
on which a faded little woman, with a forefinger in a faded-looking
book, came out from behind some window-curtains, and, rummaging Mrs.
Moss's chair with a practised hand, produced a large silver
snuff-box, from which Mrs. Moss took a pinch, and then offered it to
Granny, who shook her head. Mrs. Moss took another and a larger pinch.
It was evident what made her voice so gruff.
"Aunt Harriet was introduced as 'My daughter Harriet,' and made a
stiff curtsey as Mrs. Moss smiled, and nodded, and bade her 'sit down,
my dear.' Throughout the whole interview she seemed to be looked upon
by both ladies as a child, and played the part so well, sitting prim
and silent on her chair, that I could hardly help humming as I looked
at her:
'Hold up your head,
Turn out your toes,
Speak when you're spoken to,
Mend your clothes.'
I was introduced, too, as 'a grandchild,' made a curtsey the shadow of
Aunt Harriet's, received a nod, the shadow of that bestowed upon her,
and got out of the way as soon as I could, behind my aunt's chair,
where, coming unexpectedly upon three fat pug-dogs on a mat, I sat
down among them and felt quite at home.
"The sight of the pugs brought Uncle James to my mind, and when I
looked round the room, it seemed to me that he must be a conjuror at
least, so true was everything he had said. A large Indian screen hid
the door; japanned boxes stood on a little table to correspond in
front of it, and there were two cabinets having shallow drawers with
decorated handles, and a great deal of glass, through which odd
teacups, green dragons, Indian gods, and Dresden shepherdesses were
visible upon the shelves. The room was filled with knick-knacks, and
here were the pug-dogs, no less than three of them! They were very
fat, and had little beauty except as to their round heads and black
wrinkled snouts, which I kissed over and over again.
"'Do you mind Mrs. Moss's being old, and dressing in that hideous
brown dress?' I asked in a whisper at the ear of one of these round
heads. 'Think of the rosebuds on the brocade, and the pea-green satin,
and the high-heeled shoes. Ah!' I added, 'you are only a pug, and pugs
don't think.' Nevertheless, I pulled out the pincushion, and showed it
to each dog in turn, and the sight of it so forcibly reminded me of my
vain hopes, that I could not help crying. A hot tear fell upon the
nose of the oldest and fattest pug, which so offended him that he
moved away to another mat at some distance, and as both the others
fell fast asleep, I took refuge in my own thoughts.
"The question arose why should not Mrs. Moss have the pincushion
after all? I had expected her to be young and beautiful, and she had
proved old and ugly, it is true; but there is no reason why old and
ugly people should not have cushions to keep their pins in. It was a
struggle to part with my dear strawberry pincushion in the
circumstances, but I had fairly resolved to do so, when the rustle of
leave-taking began, and I had to come out of my corner.
"'Bid Mrs. Moss good-day, Mary,' said my grandmother; and added, 'the
child has been wild to come and see you, Anastatia.'
"Mrs. Moss held out her hand good-naturedly. 'So you wanted to see me,
my dear?' said she.
"I took my hand out of my pocket, where I had been holding the
pincushion, and put both into Mrs. Moss's palm.
"'I brought this for you ma'am,' I said. 'It is not a real strawberry;
it is emery; I made it myself.'
"And the fact of having sacrificed something for Mrs. Moss made me
almost fond of her. Moreover, there was an expression in her eyes at
that moment which gave them beauty. She looked at my grandmother and
laid her hand on my head.
"'I lost all mine, Elizabeth.'
"I thought she was speaking of her pincushions, and being in a
generous mood, said hastily,
"When that is worn out, ma'am, I will make you another.'
"But she was speaking of her children. Poor Mrs. Moss! She took
another huge pinch of snuff, and called, 'Metcalfe.'
"The faded little woman appeared once more.
"'I must give you a keepsake in return, my dear,' said Mrs. Moss. 'The
china pug, Metcalfe!'