Preparation.
The next morning, Mr. Byerley, who was a bad sleeper, was wakened very
early by the murmur of voices from the next room, which was occupied by
his daughters. Though the partition between the chambers was very
slight, he was not usually disturbed by noise; for the girls were asleep
before he retired to rest, and he arose as early as they in the morning.
Now, however, he heard the never-ceasing sound of low tones from four
o’clock till six; but not a single word could he distinguish of all that
was said. The girls could not be learning lessons, for it was Sunday
morning; and, as he heard no tread, he thought they could not have left
their beds. They were evidently stirring, however, as soon as he had
rung his bell; and from behind his blind he saw them afterwards in the
garden, not running or gathering flowers, as usual, but in earnest
consultation. They stood before a certain balcony, looking at it from
all sides, and presently from all distances; for Mary would have walked
backwards into the fishpond, if her sister had not caught hold of her.
Then, with each a bough, they attempted to disperse the chickweed which
had overspread the pond; and then they repaired to the arbour where the
honeysuckle trailed on the ground, and a film of gossamer overspread the
entrance. When they met their father at breakfast, they looked heated
and exhausted. He told them there was no occasion to toil so hard, as he
should give direction to John, the gardener, to put the garden and court
in good order before the arrival of their expected guests. Part of their
weighty business was taken off the girls’ hands, but apparently no great
deal; for they were found, more than once that day, in the little
parlour which opened upon the balcony, as eager in consultation as they
had been before breakfast. This parlour was so small that it might
almost have been called a closet; but the balcony was larger than the
room, and communicated so easily with it, by means of a French window,
that the deficiency of size was a small objection. The parlour would
just contain Mr. Byerley, his daughters, and a tea-table; and when they
had guests with them, the balcony held the visitors and their host, and
the green parlour the young tea-maker and her apparatus. It was a
favourite place, the view from it being particularly pretty, and its
retirement complete. The simple ornaments of the dwelling were all
collected there; Mary’s harp-lute, Anna’s flower stands, and the
precious picture of their mother. The room was so darkened by the colour
of its furniture, by the roof of the balcony, and the creepers which
hung thickly about it, that the picture conveyed no very distinct
impression to strangers. Mr. Byerley, however, liked it better in this
obscurity than in a fuller light: the girls had long been too familiar
with its features not to feel as if they had been equally familiar with
the original.
While they were drinking tea in this place on the Sunday evening of
which I speak, Mr. Byerley told the girls that he was going, in the
morning, to London, to attend a public meeting, and that he should not
return till the Tuesday night, or perhaps the Wednesday morning; but
that he would take care to be at home when their guests arrived. Mary
asked what should be done for their entertainment; for she thought the
house must be very dull to strangers. Her father thought not, as their
friends came to see and talk with friends, and not to see sights and be
entertained as they might be in the house of any stranger. Mary knew her
father’s dislike of bustle, and of any interruption of his daily plans
which was not caused by public business; but she felt quite sure that
Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher and their daughters would enjoy seeing more of the
pretty country near, than could be brought within the limits of a walk;
and she therefore pressed the point. “You shall have no trouble, papa,
but just to get on your horse and go with us.”
“Where, my dear? I will go to the world’s end if you show me that it
will do any good; but you know I dislike frolicking.”
“It will do a great deal of good to make Mrs. Fletcher admire Audley
bridge and the castle; and you need not call it frolicking, but only a
morning’s ride.”
“A morning’s ride stretched out till near midnight! Think of the
distance, my dear.”
“Suppose it should be past midnight,” said Anna; “it would still be a
morning’s ride.”
“We will be home as early as you please, papa, if we can but set out
early enough; and we have planned it all so completely——.”
“Well, well; don’t talk to me any more about it, but settle it all your
own way. I have no time for such nonsense.” So saying, Mr. Byerley took
out of his pocket his list of resolutions for the public meeting, and
began to read very attentively. He soon seemed sorry, however, for his
hastiness; for he folded up his paper, drew his girls to him, and put an
arm round each of them as they stood.
“I hope, my dears,” said he, “that your heads have not been quite full
of these little plans all this day.”
“No, papa, not quite full; not at church-time, nor while Tommy Rickham
was saying his lessons; but yet——.”
“Are you quite sure what you were thinking of when Tommy was reading?”
asked Anna. “Did you make no mistake that you remember?”
“Mistake! What mistake?”
“When he was reading about little Will’s giving all he had to the old
beggar, he stopped at the word _penny_, and you told him it was _pony:_
the little fellow stared, and I dare say he wondered how little Will
could toss his pony into the old man’s hat.”
“I must have been thinking of the pony you are to ride; but you should
have told me.”
“I set it right with Tommy afterwards; but I did not want to make Kitty
laugh, so I let it pass at the time.”
“Then, papa,” said Mary, “I am afraid I can’t answer for not having had
any silly thoughts about this at church.”
“It is always wisest not to answer for any such thing, Mary; for the
wisest and best of us are troubled with vain thoughts at the most solemn
times, and in the most sacred employments.”
“The very wisest and best, papa?” said Mary, looking at her mother’s
picture.
“Your mother used to say so,” said Mr. Byerley, as his eyes followed
Mary’s and rested on the picture. “If ever there was an example of
entire self-command, it was she; and if ever there was one who fully
understood and felt the blessings of this day, it was she: and yet she
used to make the same complaint that we have made.”
“I remember,” said Mary, in a low voice, “that I thought she looked
differently on a Sunday from every other day; and I felt differently.
The feeling comes over me now, of those bright summer mornings when I
used to be taken up earlier than on weekdays; and the washing, and the
clean frock and pinafore, and mamma making breakfast, in her neat white
gown. And then, after breakfast, she used to take me into the garden,
and let me gather a flower for her. I don’t know what makes me remember
crocuses so particularly; but I never see a gay crocus bed without
thinking of one of those bright old Sunday mornings.”
“She loved to make you particularly happy on Sundays, because she
thought the feeling of pleasure might last through life, as it did with
her. Her parents made her love the Sabbath, and the power of the feeling
was once shown very remarkably——.”
He stopped, but the girls looked at him so earnestly that he soon went
on.
“You know, though you cannot remember, that you once had a little
brother: nurse often tells you about him, I know, and how he died.
Nothing could be more sudden than the accident, and, of course, neither
your mother nor any body else could be at all prepared for such a shock;
for a heartier child could not be. It happened on a Friday afternoon,
and all that night and the next day the struggle which your mother
underwent was fearful. Early on the Sunday morning, she slept for the
first time since the accident, and I would not have her wakened when it
was broad day. She started up, at last, with the confused feeling of
something very dreadful having happened; but when the tide of grief was
just flowing in upon her again, the church-bells rang out. She was calm
instantly; and that day did more towards restoring the tone of her mind
than any previous exertion, though she had striven hard for composure.
She walked in the garden with me, and sat by this very window, sometimes
reading, and sometimes listening to the chimes; but looking so like
herself that I was no longer anxious about her.”
“She was ill then, nurse says.”
“Yes; her strength had declined very much, and that was the reason why I
was so uneasy about her. While she was in health, she was the one to
give, not to need, support; and, to the last, the strength of her mind
never failed.”
“Nurse told us once what mamma said the day before she died, about us,
and about every body who depended on her for any thing.”
“I gave nurse leave to repeat it to you when she thought you could
understand and feel it properly; and I am glad she has, because Mrs.
Fletcher can tell you much more which you are now prepared to hear. She
will tell you how your mother and she used to study together; perhaps
she will show you the bible, marked by themselves for their own use.”
“I have often wanted to know,” said Mary, “what parts my mother was most
fond of, and read the oftenest; but I never asked you, because I thought
you would tell me when the right time came.”
“It is the right time now,” said her father, kissing them both; “bring
the bible from below, and we will read a portion to which she used to
turn perpetually when she was in any trouble.”
* * * * *
The next morning, the girls were ready dressed to make breakfast early
for their father, that he might be in time for the coach to London. But
anxious as they were to make him comfortable on all occasions, they did
not understand the way, and knew nothing about the many little niceties
on which domestic comfort depends. How should they, when there was
nobody but servants to teach them? They were very quick of observation,
and if their father had allowed them to visit his friends, and to see
what was done in other houses, their wish to learn, and their affection
for him, would have enabled them to improve their domestic notions and
habits; but Mr. Byerley was, as we have said, sadly prejudiced in some
respects; and he would allow of no intercourse between his daughters and
any of their neighbours. The neighbours thought it very odd, of course.
Mr. Wilkins was wont to shake his head when he told his wife how poor
Byerley’s children were being spoiled for life by being so shut up as
they were; and Miss Pratt, their opposite neighbour, was much
scandalized at their method of romping with Nurse Rickham’s children;
and the young Grants, who, to the number of eight, were boating, riding,
and driving every day and all day long, supposed that the poor Miss
Byerley’s were intended to be very learned, as they could read Latin, it
was understood, and had been seen, one day when the blind was open,
poring over a globe. It did not, of course, signify what such neighbours
as these thought of Mr. Byerley’s method of education; but there were
two or three families of a better class as to sense and merit, with whom
the girls might have associated with great advantage to themselves; and
the very commonest circumstances which take place in a tolerably
well-regulated family would have conveyed much instruction to these
motherless children, which could in no other way be supplied. Mrs.
Rickham had taught them to sew, and that well; but about the management
of the kitchen and larder she knew little, and next to nothing of the
customs of the parlour. Their father often sighed when he contrasted the
appearance and manners of his children at table, with what they would
have been if their mother had lived; and sometimes he sent them to
smooth their hair or change their frocks before he would sit down with
them; but it was beyond his power to establish regular habits of
neatness and method, and he trusted that this would be done by their own
observation and care when they should, at length, see something of the
world. He found that the servants grew more and more awkward and remiss
from the inability of the young ladies to direct them steadily and with
propriety, as children as young as themselves are able to do when well
taught. He was partly to blame himself, for his habits were, in some
respects, eccentric.
On this morning, he called from his chamber-door to desire the servant
to run and take his place in the coach. This ought to have been done on
the Saturday; and the maid was obliged to leave the fire, which had been
badly lighted, and could not be coaxed into a blaze. Mary saw that the
kettle would not boil in time unless she took the bellows, while the
cook dusted the parlour-furniture, and Anna brought up the bread and the
eggs and the butter from the larder. When their father came down, he
looked displeased to see them so employed, and wondered why, with two
servants in the house, breakfast could not be prepared without so much
confusion. After all, the kettle would not quite boil, so the tea was
not fit to be drunk, nor the egg to be eaten; and there had been so much
delay, that the horn sounded at the end of the street before Mr. Byerley
had half finished breakfast. He stuffed his papers into his pockets;
pulled on the boots for which he had waited till the last moment, and
which were only half cleaned after all; pushed aside the umbrella which
Anna offered him, with “Pshaw, child! where’s the ring? I can’t carry it
unfastened in that manner;” kissed his daughters hastily, and ran off
just in time to overtake the coach, which had been driven on in
disregard of the maid’s protestations that her master was coming.
When she came back, she sat down to make a comfortable cup of tea for
herself and the cook, while the young ladies finished the cool beverage
in the parlour. They were not long in doing so; for they were eager
about the schemes which were next to be undertaken. They heard John, the
gardener, whetting his scythe; so they went first to see how the garden
could be beautified. When they had ranged the walks with John, shaken
their heads over the weedy pond, got their shoes thoroughly wet in the
dewy, new-mown grass, and then thoroughly soiled on the flower-beds,
they came in again, and mounted to the lumber-garret, leaving in the
housemaid’s eyes very strong evidence where they had gone. She followed
them with dry shoes, and found them trying to bring down, from a high
shelf, a looking-glass which was placed with its face to the wall.
“Stop, Miss Mary,” cried the maid; “you will be down, and the glass
after you. Let me reach it, or whatever else you want.”
“We want only the glass, thank you. There, down it comes, safe. But, O
dear, what a tarnished, battered old frame it has!”
“You can never use that glass, Miss Mary. It cannot have been used these
fifty years.”
“Not quite,” said Mary; “for I remember nurse’s dandling Anna before it.
But I had no idea it was so shabby. Let us take it down and dust it,
however: it may look better then.”
Just as they reached the head of the stairs, the maid holding one end,
and the girls the other, the part of the frame which they held gave way,
and it was a wonder the glass was not broken.
“I had like to have fallen down stairs, glass and all,” exclaimed the
maid. “Here’s an end of the matter, young ladies; so let us put it where
we found it.”
No: Mary thought it would answer their purpose better than ever now; so
she pulled off the rest of the frame, which split with a touch. She
desired the maid to rub up the glass, while she and Anna went back into
the lumber-room to find some paper, the same as the hangings of the
green parlour. This they found; and when they had called John in to nail
up the glass in the little room, opposite the balcony, and sufficiently
low to reflect the landscape beyond, and sent down into the kitchen for
some paste, they began to cut out the trailing pattern of the paper, and
so fixed it on the edge of the glass as to make a very pretty border,
and one more corresponding with the rest of the furniture than a gilt
frame would have been. Even the maid admired what she thought, at first,
a mere fancy; and the girls saw their own faces oftener that day than on
any preceding day of their lives. Mary thought that one ornament more
was wanted to make all complete: she asked Anna if a white cast of some
sort—a vase or a bust—would not look very well in the corner where the
harp-lute rested. Anna agreed, and inclined for a vase, which they might
fill with flowers. Mary thought the head of a poet or a musician would
be more suitable. Who should it be? The only musician she remembered to
have seen on the Italian’s board was Handel; and Handel was sadly fat
and ugly. She did not know who it could be but Milton; and that face,
beautiful as it was, was known to every body by this time. It reminded
her, however, that she might perhaps get some hints about ornamenting
their bower from “Paradise Lost;” for she liked what she had read of
Eve’s preparation of a repast for the angel. So, while Anna ran to the
window to watch for the Italian with his image-board, who was sure to
pass, Mary settled herself in the balcony to read about Paradise.
As soon as she was fairly lost to all outward things, and present only
with Adam and Eve, seeing how
“raised of grassy turf
Their table was, and mossy seats had round,”
she was roused by somebody standing before her. It was Mrs. Rickham, who
came to ask something about clean sheets for the best bed.
“Clean sheets!” exclaimed Mary. “Oh, ask Anna to give Susan the keys,
and then you can find what you want.”
“Very well, Miss. But there wants a new ewer and basin for the room the
young ladies are to have; and I doubt if there are towels enough.”
“We will see about that to-morrow, nurse. I must make this room complete
now I am about it.”
“Perhaps that will do as well to-morrow, Miss Mary, if indeed it wants
any thing more; but the first thing to be done is to make the
sleeping-rooms comfortable, and to see what condition your frocks are
in, Miss.”
This was too true to be denied; so Mary left her book in the balcony
till her provision for the comforts of her guests should leave her at
leisure to plan luxuries for them.
There was time, however, for all; and the manifold luxuries of an
excursion in search of the picturesque were duly cared for. The fowls,
the cakes, the wine, the sketch-books, the telescope, were appointed and
hunted up; and Anna put on her habit and went to the farm, to try the
grey pony which the farmer was to lend her. The pony carried her round
the twelve-acre field, and up the green lane, and down the mill-lane,
with the utmost propriety, and promised to be a great ornament to the
cavalcade.
On Tuesday night the girls sat up for their father till the last coach
had passed through the town at eleven o’clock. They were a little
disappointed at not seeing him, but had no doubt of his arrival before
noon the next day.