The children were still at tea and poor Miss Steet sat between them,
consoling herself with strong cups, crunching melancholy morsels of
toast and dropping an absent gaze on her little companions as they
exchanged small, loud remarks. She always sighed when Laura came in--it
was her way of expressing appreciation of the visit--and she was the one
person whom the girl frequently saw who seemed to her more unhappy than
herself. But Laura envied her--she thought her position had more dignity
than that of her employer's dependent sister. Miss Steet had related her
life to the children's pretty young aunt and this personage knew that
though it had had painful elements nothing so disagreeable had ever
befallen her or was likely to befall her as the odious possibility of
her sister's making a scandal. She had two sisters (Laura knew all about
them) and one of them was married to a clergyman in Staffordshire (a
very ugly part) and had seven children and four hundred a year; while
the other, the eldest, was enormously stout and filled (it was a good
deal of a squeeze) a position as matron in an orphanage at Liverpool.
Neither of them seemed destined to go into the English divorce-court,
and such a circumstance on the part of one's near relations struck
Laura as in itself almost sufficient to constitute happiness. Miss Steet
never lived in a state of nervous anxiety--everything about her was
respectable. She made the girl almost angry sometimes, by her drooping,
martyr-like air: Laura was near breaking out at her with, 'Dear me, what
have you got to complain of? Don't you earn your living like an honest
girl and are you obliged to see things going on about you that you
hate?'
But she could not say things like that to her, because she had promised
Selina, who made a great point of this, that she would never be too
familiar with her. Selina was not without her ideas of decorum--very far
from it indeed; only she erected them in such queer places. She was not
familiar with her children's governess; she was not even familiar with
the children themselves. That was why after all it was impossible to
address much of a remonstrance to Miss Steet when she sat as if she were
tied to the stake and the fagots were being lighted. If martyrs in this
situation had tea and cold meat served them they would strikingly have
resembled the provoking young woman in the schoolroom at Mellows. Laura
could not have denied that it was natural she should have liked it
better if Mrs. Berrington would _sometimes_ just look in and give a sign
that she was pleased with her system; but poor Miss Steet only knew by
the servants or by Laura whether Mrs. Berrington were at home or not:
she was for the most part not, and the governess had a way of silently
intimating (it was the manner she put her head on one side when she
looked at Scratch and Parson--of course _she_ called them Geordie and
Ferdy) that she was immensely handicapped and even that they were.
Perhaps they were, though they certainly showed it little in their
appearance and manner, and Laura was at least sure that if Selina had
been perpetually dropping in Miss Steet would have taken that discomfort
even more tragically. The sight of this young woman's either real or
fancied wrongs did not diminish her conviction that she herself would
have found courage to become a governess. She would have had to teach
very young children, for she believed she was too ignorant for higher
flights. But Selina would never have consented to that--she would have
considered it a disgrace or even worse--a _pose_. Laura had proposed to
her six months before that she should dispense with a paid governess and
suffer _her_ to take charge of the little boys: in that way she should
not feel so completely dependent--she should be doing something in
return. 'And pray what would happen when you came to dinner? Who would
look after them then?' Mrs. Berrington had demanded, with a very shocked
air. Laura had replied that perhaps it was not absolutely necessary that
she should come to dinner--she could dine early, with the children; and
that if her presence in the drawing-room should be required the children
had their nurse--and what did they have their nurse for? Selina looked
at her as if she was deplorably superficial and told her that they had
their nurse to dress them and look after their clothes--did she wish the
poor little ducks to go in rags? She had her own ideas of thoroughness
and when Laura hinted that after all at that hour the children were in
bed she declared that even when they were asleep she desired the
governess to be at hand--that was the way a mother felt who really took
an interest. Selina was wonderfully thorough; she said something about
the evening hours in the quiet schoolroom being the proper time for the
governess to 'get up' the children's lessons for the next day. Laura
Wing was conscious of her own ignorance; nevertheless she presumed to
believe that she could have taught Geordie and Ferdy the alphabet
without anticipatory nocturnal researches. She wondered what her sister
supposed Miss Steet taught them--whether she had a cheap theory that
they were in Latin and algebra.
The governess's evening hours in the quiet schoolroom would have suited
Laura well--so at least she believed; by touches of her own she would
make the place even prettier than it was already, and in the winter
nights, near the bright fire, she would get through a delightful course
of reading. There was the question of a new piano (the old one was
pretty bad--Miss Steet had a finger!) and perhaps she should have to ask
Selina for that--but it would be all. The schoolroom at Mellows was not
a charmless place and the girl often wished that she might have spent
her own early years in so dear a scene. It was a sort of panelled
parlour, in a wing, and looked out on the great cushiony lawns and a
part of the terrace where the peacocks used most to spread their tails.
There were quaint old maps on the wall, and 'collections'--birds and
shells--under glass cases, and there was a wonderful pictured screen
which old Mrs. Berrington had made when Lionel was young out of
primitive woodcuts illustrative of nursery-tales. The place was a
setting for rosy childhood, and Laura believed her sister never knew
how delightful Scratch and Parson looked there. Old Mrs. Berrington had
known in the case of Lionel--it had all been arranged for him. That was
the story told by ever so many other things in the house, which betrayed
the full perception of a comfortable, liberal, deeply domestic effect,
addressed to eternities of possession, characteristic thirty years
before of the unquestioned and unquestioning old lady whose sofas and
'corners' (she had perhaps been the first person in England to have
corners) demonstrated the most of her cleverness.
Laura Wing envied English children, the boys at least, and even her own
chubby nephews, in spite of the cloud that hung over them; but she had
already noted the incongruity that appeared to-day between Lionel
Berrington at thirty-five and the influences that had surrounded his
younger years. She did not dislike her brother-in-law, though she
admired him scantily, and she pitied him; but she marvelled at the waste
involved in some human institutions (the English country gentry for
instance) when she perceived that it had taken so much to produce so
little. The sweet old wainscoted parlour, the view of the garden that
reminded her of scenes in Shakespeare's comedies, all that was exquisite
in the home of his forefathers--what visible reference was there to
these fine things in poor Lionel's stable-stamped composition? When she
came in this evening and saw his small sons making competitive noises in
their mugs (Miss Steet checked this impropriety on her entrance) she
asked herself what _they_ would have to show twenty years later for the
frame that made them just then a picture. Would they be wonderfully ripe
and noble, the perfection of human culture? The contrast was before her
again, the sense of the same curious duplicity (in the literal meaning
of the word) that she had felt at Plash--the way the genius of such an
old house was all peace and decorum and the spirit that prevailed there,
outside of the schoolroom, was contentious and impure. She had often
been struck with it before--with that perfection of machinery which can
still at certain times make English life go on of itself with a stately
rhythm long after there is corruption within it.
She had half a purpose of asking Miss Steet to dine with her that
evening downstairs, so absurd did it seem to her that two young women
who had so much in common (enough at least for that) should sit feeding
alone at opposite ends of the big empty house, melancholy on such a
night. She would not have cared just now whether Selina did think such a
course familiar: she indulged sometimes in a kind of angry humility,
placing herself near to those who were laborious and sordid. But when
she observed how much cold meat the governess had already consumed she
felt that it would be a vain form to propose to her another repast. She
sat down with her and presently, in the firelight, the two children had
placed themselves in position for a story. They were dressed like the
mariners of England and they smelt of the ablutions to which they had
been condemned before tea and the odour of which was but partly overlaid
by that of bread and butter. Scratch wanted an old story and Parson a
new, and they exchanged from side to side a good many powerful
arguments. While they were so engaged Miss Steet narrated at her
visitor's invitation the walk she had taken with them and revealed that
she had been thinking for a long time of asking Mrs. Berrington--if she
only had an opportunity--whether she should approve of her giving them a
few elementary notions of botany. But the opportunity had not come--she
had had the idea for a long time past. She was rather fond of the study
herself; she had gone into it a little--she seemed to intimate that
there had been times when she extracted a needed comfort from it. Laura
suggested that botany might be a little dry for such young children in
winter, from text-books--that the better way would be perhaps to wait
till the spring and show them out of doors, in the garden, some of the
peculiarities of plants. To this Miss Steet rejoined that her idea had
been to teach some of the general facts slowly--it would take a long
time--and then they would be all ready for the spring. She spoke of the
spring as if it would not arrive for a terribly long time. She had hoped
to lay the question before Mrs. Berrington that week--but was it not
already Thursday? Laura said, 'Oh yes, you had better do anything with
the children that will keep them profitably occupied;' she came very
near saying anything that would occupy the governess herself.
She had rather a dread of new stories--it took the little boys so long
to get initiated and the first steps were so terribly bestrewn with
questions. Receptive silence, broken only by an occasional rectification
on the part of the listener, never descended until after the tale had
been told a dozen times. The matter was settled for 'Riquet with the
Tuft,' but on this occasion the girl's heart was not much in the
entertainment. The children stood on either side of her, leaning against
her, and she had an arm round each; their little bodies were thick and
strong and their voices had the quality of silver bells. Their mother
had certainly gone too far; but there was nevertheless a limit to the
tenderness one could feel for the neglected, compromised bairns. It was
difficult to take a sentimental view of them--they would never take such
a view of themselves. Geordie would grow up to be a master-hand at polo
and care more for that pastime than for anything in life, and Ferdy
perhaps would develop into 'the best shot in England.' Laura felt these
possibilities stirring within them; they were in the things they said to
her, in the things they said to each other. At any rate they would never
reflect upon anything in the world. They contradicted each other on a
question of ancestral history to which their attention apparently had
been drawn by their nurse, whose people had been tenants for
generations. Their grandfather had had the hounds for fifteen
years--Ferdy maintained that he had always had them. Geordie ridiculed
this idea, like a man of the world; he had had them till he went into
volunteering--then he had got up a magnificent regiment, he had spent
thousands of pounds on it. Ferdy was of the opinion that this was wasted
money--he himself intended to have a real regiment, to be a colonel in
the Guards. Geordie looked as if he thought that a superficial ambition
and could see beyond it; his own most definite view was that he would
have back the hounds. He didn't see why papa didn't have them--unless it
was because he wouldn't take the trouble.
'I know--it's because mamma is an American!' Ferdy announced, with
confidence.
'And what has that to do with it?' asked Laura.
'Mamma spends so much money--there isn't any more for anything!'
This startling speech elicited an alarmed protest from Miss Steet; she
blushed and assured Laura that she couldn't imagine where the child
could have picked up such an extraordinary idea. 'I'll look into it--you
may be sure I'll look into it,' she said; while Laura told Ferdy that he
must never, never, never, under any circumstances, either utter or
listen to a word that should be wanting in respect to his mother.
'If any one should say anything against any of my people I would give
him a good one!' Geordie shouted, with his hands in his little blue
pockets.
'I'd hit him in the eye!' cried Ferdy, with cheerful inconsequence.
'Perhaps you don't care to come to dinner at half-past seven,' the girl
said to Miss Steet; 'but I should be very glad--I'm all alone.'
'Thank you so much. All alone, really?' murmured the governess.
'Why don't you get married? then you wouldn't be alone,' Geordie
interposed, with ingenuity.
'Children, you are really too dreadful this evening!' Miss Steet
exclaimed.
'I shan't get married--I want to have the hounds,' proclaimed Geordie,
who had apparently been much struck with his brother's explanation.
'I will come down afterwards, about half-past eight, if you will allow
me,' said Miss Steet, looking conscious and responsible.
'Very well--perhaps we can have some music; we will try something
together.'
'Oh, music--_we_ don't go in for music!' said Geordie, with clear
superiority; and while he spoke Laura saw Miss Steet get up suddenly,
looking even less alleviated than usual. The door of the room had been
pushed open and Lionel Berrington stood there. He had his hat on and a
cigar in his mouth and his face was red, which was its common condition.
He took off his hat as he came into the room, but he did not stop
smoking and he turned a little redder than before. There were several
ways in which his sister-in-law often wished he had been very different,
but she had never disliked him for a certain boyish shyness that was in
him, which came out in his dealings with almost all women. The governess
of his children made him uncomfortable and Laura had already noticed
that he had the same effect upon Miss Steet. He was fond of his
children, but he saw them hardly more frequently than their mother and
they never knew whether he were at home or away. Indeed his goings and
comings were so frequent that Laura herself scarcely knew: it was an
accident that on this occasion his absence had been marked for her.
Selina had had her reasons for wishing not to go up to town while her
husband was still at Mellows, and she cherished the irritating belief
that he stayed at home on purpose to watch her--to keep her from going
away. It was her theory that she herself was perpetually at home--that
few women were more domestic, more glued to the fireside and absorbed in
the duties belonging to it; and unreasonable as she was she recognised
the fact that for her to establish this theory she must make her
husband sometimes see her at Mellows. It was not enough for her to
maintain that he would see her if he were sometimes there himself.
Therefore she disliked to be caught in the crude fact of absence--to go
away under his nose; what she preferred was to take the next train after
his own and return an hour or two before him. She managed this often
with great ability, in spite of her not being able to be sure when he
_would_ return. Of late however she had ceased to take so much trouble,
and Laura, by no desire of the girl's own, was enough in the confidence
of her impatiences and perversities to know that for her to have wished
(four days before the moment I write of) to put him on a wrong scent--or
to keep him at least off the right one--she must have had something more
dreadful than usual in her head. This was why the girl had been so
nervous and why the sense of an impending catastrophe, which had lately
gathered strength in her mind, was at present almost intolerably
pressing: she knew how little Selina could afford to be more dreadful
than usual.
Lionel startled her by turning up in that unexpected way, though she
could not have told herself when it would have been natural to expect
him. This attitude, at Mellows, was left to the servants, most of them
inscrutable and incommunicative and erect in a wisdom that was founded
upon telegrams--you couldn't speak to the butler but he pulled one out
of his pocket. It was a house of telegrams; they crossed each other a
dozen times an hour, coming and going, and Selina in particular lived in
a cloud of them. Laura had but vague ideas as to what they were all
about; once in a while, when they fell under her eyes, she either failed
to understand them or judged them to be about horses. There were an
immense number of horses, in one way and another, in Mrs. Berrington's
life. Then she had so many friends, who were always rushing about like
herself and making appointments and putting them off and wanting to know
if she were going to certain places or whether she would go if they did
or whether she would come up to town and dine and 'do a theatre.' There
were also a good many theatres in the existence of this busy lady. Laura
remembered how fond their poor father had been of telegraphing, but it
was never about the theatre: at all events she tried to give her sister
the benefit or the excuse of heredity. Selina had her own opinions,
which were superior to this--she once remarked to Laura that it was
idiotic for a woman to write--to telegraph was the only way not to get
into trouble. If doing so sufficed to keep a lady out of it Mrs.
Berrington's life should have flowed like the rivers of Eden.