'Take care! Oh, take care!'
Whisk, swish, click, click, through the little crowd at Stokesley on
a fine April afternoon, of jocund children just let loose from
school, and mothers emerging from their meeting, collecting their
progeny after the fashion of old ewes with their lambs; Susan
Merrifield in a huge, carefully preserved brown mushroom hat, with a
big basket under one arm, and a roll of calico under the other; her
sister Elizabeth with a book in one hand, and a packet of ambulance
illustrations; the Vicar, Mr. Doyle, and his sister likewise loaded,
talking to them about the farmer's wedding of the morning, for which
the bells had been ringing fitfully all day, and had just burst out
again. Such was the scene, through which, like a flash, spun a
tricycle, from which a tiny curly-haired being in knickerbockers was
barely saved by his mother's seizing him by one arm.
'A tricycle!' exclaimed the Vicar.
'A woman! Oh!' cried Susan in horror, 'and she's stopping--at the
Gap. Oh!'
'My dear Susie, you must have seen ladies on tricycles before,'
whispered her sister.
'No, indeed, I am thankful to say I have not! If it should be Miss
Arthuret!' said Susan, with inexpressible tones in her voice.
'She was bowing right and left,' said the Vicar, a little
maliciously; 'depend upon it, she thought this was a welcome from
the rural population.'
'Hark! here's something coming.'
The Bonchamp fly came rattling up, loaded with luggage, and with a
quiet lady in black seated in it, which stopped at the same gate.
'The obedient mother, no doubt,' said Elizabeth. 'She looks like a
lady.'
There had been a good deal of excitement at Stokesley about the
property known by the pleasing name of the Gap. An old gentleman
had lived there for many years, always in a secluded state, and
latterly imbecile, and on his death in the previous year no one had
for some time appeared as heir; but it became known that the
inheritrix was a young lady, a great-niece, living with a widowed
mother in one of the large manufacturing towns in the north of
England. Her father had been a clergyman and had died when she was
an infant. That was all that was known, and as the house had become
almost uninhabitable, the necessary repairs had prevented the
heiress from taking possession all this time. It was not a very
large inheritance, only comprising a small farm, the substantial
village shop, four or five cottages, and a moderate-sized house and
grounds, where the neglected trees had grown to strange irregular
proportions, equally with the income, which, owing to the outgoings
being small, had increased to about 800 or 900 pounds a year, and of
course it was a subject of much anxiety with Admiral Merrifield's
family to know what sort of people the newcomers would prove.
Of the large family only the two eldest daughters were at home;
Susan, now nearly forty, had never left it, but had been the
daughter-of-all-work at home and lady-of-all-work to the parish ever
since she had emerged from the schoolroom; her apricot complexion
showing hardly any change, and such as there was never perceived by
her parents. The Admiral, still a light, wiry, hale man, as active
as ever, with his hands full of county, parish, and farming
business; an invalid for many years, but getting into that health
which is LA JEUNESSE DE LA VIEILLESSE.
Elizabeth had, from twenty-five to thirty-two, been spared from home
by her father to take care of his stepmother in London, where she
had beguiled her time with a certain amount of authorship under a
NOM DE PLUME, and had been introduced to some choice society both
through her literary abilities and her family connections.
Four years previous the old lady had died, leaving her a legacy,
which, together with her gains, would have enabled her to keep such
a home in town as to remain in touch with the world to which she had
been introduced; but she had never lost her Stokesley heart enough
for the temptation to outweigh the disappointment she would have
caused at home, and the satisfaction and rest of being among her own
people. So she only went up for an occasional visit, and had become
the brightness of the house, and Susan's beloved partner in all her
works.
Her father, who understood better than did her mother and sister
what she had given up, had insisted on her having a sitting-room to
herself, which she embellished with the personal possessions she had
accumulated, and where she pursued her own avocations in the
forenoon, often indeed interrupted, but never showing, and not often
feeling, that it was to her hindrance, and indeed the family looked
on her work sufficiently as a profession, not only to acquiesce, but
to have a certain complacency in it, though it was a kind of
transparent fiction that MESA was an anagram of her initials and
that of Stokesley. Her mother at any rate believed that none of the
neighbours guessed at any such thing.
Stokesley was a good deal out of the world, five miles from the
station at Bonchamp, over hilly, stony roads, so that the cyclist
movement had barely reached it; the neighbourhood was sparse, and
Mrs. Merrifield's health had not been conducive to visiting, any
more than was her inclination, so that there was a little agitation
about first calls.
The newcomers appeared at church on Sunday at all the services. A
bright-faced girl of one-and-twenty, with little black eyes like
coals of fire, a tight ulster, like a riding habit, and a small
billycock hat, rather dismayed those who still held that bonnets
ought to be the Sunday gear of all beyond childhood; but the mother,
in rich black silk, was unexceptionable.
Refusing to be marshalled up the aisle to the seat which persistent
tradition assigned to the Gap in the aristocratic quarter, daughter
and mother (it was impossible not thus to call them) sat themselves
down on the first vacant place, close to a surviving white smock-
frock, and blind to the bewildered glances of his much-bent friend
in velveteen, who, hobbling in next after, found himself displaced
and separated alike from his well-thumbed prayer and hymn book and
the companion who found the places for him.
'It ain't fitty like,' said the old man confidentially to Susan,
'nor the ladies wouldn't like it when we comes in with our old coats
all of a muck with wet.'
'The principle is right,' said Bessie, when this was repeated to
her; 'but practice ought to wait till native manners and customs are
learnt.'
The two sisters offered to save their mother the first visit--leave
her card, or make her excuses; but Mrs. Merrifield held that a card
thus left savoured of deceit, and that the deed must be womanfully
done in person. But she would not wait till the horses could be
spared, saying that for near village neighbours it was more friendly
to go down in her donkey-chair; and so she did, Bessie driving her,
and the Admiral walking with them.
The Gap had, ever since Bessie could remember, been absolutely
shrouded in trees, its encircling wall hidden in ivy bushes, over
which laburnums, lilacs, pink thorns, and horse chestnuts towered;
and the drive from the seldom-opened gate was almost obstructed by
the sweeping arms of laurels and larches.
It was obstructed now, but by these same limbs lying amputated; and
'chop, chop!' was heard in the distance.
'Oh, the Arbutus!' sighed Bessie.
'Clearing was much needed,' said her father, with a man's propensity
for the axe.
The donkey, however, thought it uncanny, 'upon the pivot of his
skull, turned round his long left ear,' and planted his feet firmly.
Mrs. Merrifield, deprecating the struggle by which her husband would
on such occasions enforce discipline, begged to get out; and while
this was going on, the ulstered young lady, with a small axe in
hand, came, as it were, to the rescue, and, while the donkey was
committed to a small boy, explained hastily, 'So overgrown, there is
nothing to be done but to let in light and air. My mother is at
home,' she added; 'she will be happy to see you,' and, conducting
them in with complete self-possession--rather, as it occurred to
Bessie, as the Queen might have led the way to the Duchess of Kent,
though there was a perfect simplicity and evident enjoyment about
her that was very prepossessing, and took off the edge of the sense
of conceit. Besides, the palace was, to London eyes at least, so
little to boast of, with the narrow little box of a wooden porch,
the odd, one-sided vestibule, and the tiny anteroom with the worn
carpet; but the drawing-room, in spite of George IV furniture, was
really pretty, with French windows opening on a well-mown lawn, and
fresh importations of knick-knacks, and vases of wild flowers, which
made it look inhabited and pleasant. There was no one there, and
the young lady proceeded to fetch her mother; and the unguarded
voice was caught by Bessie's quick ears from the window.
'Here are Admiral and Mrs. Merrifield, and one daughter. Come
along, little mammy! Worthy, homely old folks--just in your line.'
To Bessie's relief, she perceived that this was wholly unheard by
her father and mother. And there was no withstanding the eager,
happy, shy looks of the mother, whose whole face betrayed that after
many storms she had come into a haven of peace, and that she was
proud to owe it to her daughter.
A few words showed that mother and daughter were absolutely
enchanted with Stokesley, their own situation, and one another--the
young lady evidently all the more because she perceived so much to
be done.
'Everything wants improving. It is so choked up,' she said, 'one
wants to let in the light.'
'There are a good many trees,' said the Admiral, while Bessie
suspected that she meant figuratively as well as literally; and as
the damsel was evidently burning to be out at her clearing
operations again, and had never parted with her axe, the Admiral
offered to go with her and tell her about the trees, for, as he
observed, she could hardly judge of those not yet out in leaf.
She accepted him, though Bessie shrewdly suspected that the advice
would be little heeded, and, not fancying the wet grass and
branches, nor the demolition of old friends, she did not follow the
pair, but effaced herself, and listened with much interest to the
two mothers, who sat on the sofa with their heads together. Either
Mrs. Merrifield was wonderful in inspiring confidence, or it was
only too delightful to Mrs. Arthuret to find a listener of her own
standing to whom to pour forth her full heart of thankfulness and
delight in her daughter. 'Oh, it is too much!' occurred so often in
her talk that, if it had not been said with liquid eyes, choking
voice, and hands clasped in devout gratitude, it would have been
tedious; but Mrs. Merrifield thoroughly went along with it, and was
deeply touched.
The whole story, as it became known, partly in these confidences,
partly afterwards, was this. The good lady, who had struck the
family at first as a somewhat elderly mother for so young a
daughter, had been for many years a governess, engaged all the time
to a curate, who only obtained a small district incumbency in a
town, after wear and tear, waiting and anxiety, had so exhausted him
that the second winter brought on bronchitis, and he scarcely lived
to see his little daughter, Arthurine. The mother had struggled on
upon a pittance eked out with such music teaching as she could
procure, with her little girl for her sole care, joy, and pride--a
child who, as she declared, had never given her one moment's pang or
uneasiness.
'Poor mamma, could she say that of any one of her nine?' thought
Bessie; and Mrs. Merrifield made no such attempt.
Arthurine had brought home all prizes, all distinctions at the High
School, but--here was the only disappointment of her life--a low
fever had prevented her trying for a scholarship at Girton. In
consideration, however, of her great abilities and high qualities,
as well as out of the great kindness of the committee, she had been
made an assistant to one of the class mistresses, and had worked on
with her own studies, till the wonderful tidings came of the
inheritance that had fallen to her quite unexpectedly; for since her
husband's death Mrs. Arthuret had known nothing of his family, and
while he was alive there were too many between him and the
succession for the chance to occur to him as possible. The relief
and blessing were more than the good lady could utter. All things
are comparative, and to one whose assured income had been 70 pounds
a year, 800 pounds was unbounded wealth; to one who had spent her
life in schoolrooms and lodgings, the Gap was a lordly demesne.
'And what do you think was the first thing my sweet child said?'
added Mrs. Arthuret, with her eyes glittering through tears.
'Mammy, you shall never hear the scales again, and you shall have
the best Mocha coffee every day of your life.'
Bessie felt that after this she must like the sweet child, though
sweetness did not seem to her the predominant feature in Arthurine.
After the pathos to which she had listened there was somewhat of a
comedy to come, for the ladies had spent the autumn abroad, and had
seen and enjoyed much. 'It was a perfect feast to see how Arthurine
entered into it all,' said the mother. 'She was never at a loss,
and explained it all to me. Besides, perhaps you have seen her
article?'
'I beg your pardon.'
'Her article in the KENSINGTON. It attracted a great deal of
attention, and she has had many compliments.'
'Oh! the KENSINGTON MAGAZINE,' said Mrs. Merrifield, rather
uneasily, for she was as anxious that Bessie should not be suspected
of writing in the said periodical as the other mother was that
Arthurine should have the fame of her contributions.
'Do you take it?' asked Mrs. Arthuret, 'for we should be very glad
to lend it to you.'
A whole pile was on the table, and Mrs. Merrifield looked at them
with feeble thanks and an odd sort of conscious dread, though she
could with perfect truth have denied either 'taking it' or reading
it.
Bessie came to her relief. 'Thank you,' she said; 'we do; some of
us have it. Is your daughter's article signed A. A., and doesn't it
describe a boarding-house on the Italian lakes? I thought it very
clever and amusing.'
Mrs. Arthuret's face lighted up. 'Oh yes, my dear,' slipped out in
her delight. 'And do you know, it all came of her letter to one of
the High School ladies, who is sister to the sub-editor, such a
clever, superior girl! She read it to the headmistress and all, and
they agreed that it was too good to be lost, and Arthurine copied it
out and added to it, and he--Mr. Jarrett--said it was just what he
wanted--so full of information and liveliness--and she is writing
some more for him.'
Mrs. Merrifield was rather shocked, but she felt that she herself
was in a glass house, was, in fact, keeping a literary daughter, so
she only committed herself to, 'She is very young.'
'Only one-and-twenty,' returned Mrs. Arthuret triumphantly; 'but
then she has had such advantages, and made such use of them.
Everything seems to come at once, though, perhaps, it is unthankful
to say so. Of course, it is no object now, but I could not help
thinking what it would have been to us to have discovered this
talent of hers at the time when we could hardly make both ends
meet.'
'She will find plenty of use for it,' said Mrs. Merrifield, who, as
the wife of a country squire and the mother of nine children, did
not find it too easy to make her ends meet upon a larger income.
'Oh yes! indeed she will, the generous child. She is full of plans
for the regeneration of the village.'
Poor Mrs. Merrifield! this was quite too much for her. She thought
it irreverent to apply the word in any save an ecclesiastical sense;
nor did she at all desire to have the parish, which was considered
to be admirably worked by the constituted authorities,
'regenerated,' whatever that might mean, by a young lady of one-and-
twenty. She rose up and observed to her daughter that she saw papa
out upon the lawn, and she thought it was time to go home.
Mrs. Arthuret came out with them, and found what Bessie could only
regard as a scene of desolation. Though gentlemen, as a rule, have
no mercy on trees, and ladies are equally inclined to cry, 'Woodman,
spare that tree,' the rule was reversed, for Miss Arthuret was
cutting, and ordering cutting all round her ruthlessly with
something of the pleasure of a child in breaking a new toy to prove
that it is his own, scarcely listening when the Admiral told her
what the trees were, and how beautiful in their season; while even
as to the evergreens, she did not know a yew from a cedar, and
declared that she must get rid of this horrid old laurustinus, while
she lopped away at a Portugal laurel. Her one idea seemed to be
that it was very unwholesome to live in a house surrounded with
trees; and the united influence of the Merrifields, working on her
mother by representing what would be the absence of shade in a few
months' time, barely availed to save the life of the big cedar;
while the great rhododendron, wont to present a mountain of shining
leaves and pale purple blossoms every summer, was hewn down without
remorse as an awful old laurel, and left a desolate brown patch in
its stead.
'Is it an emblem,' thought Bessie, 'of what she would like to do to
all of us poor old obstructions?'
After all, Mrs. Merrifield could not help liking the gentle mother,
by force of sympathy; and the Admiral was somewhat fascinated by the
freshness and impetuosity of the damsel, as elderly men are wont to
be with young girls who amuse them with what they are apt to view as
an original form of the silliness common to the whole female world
except their own wives, and perhaps their daughters; and Bessie was
extremely amused, and held her peace, as she had been used to do in
London. Susan was perhaps the most annoyed and indignant. She was
presiding over seams and button-holes the next afternoon at school,
when the mother and daughter walked in; and the whole troop started
to their feet and curtsied.
'Don't make them stand! I hate adulation. Sit down, please.
Where's the master?'
'In the boys' school, ma'am,' said the mistress, uncomfortably
indicating the presence of Miss Merrifield, who felt herself obliged
to come forward and shake hands.
'Oh! so you have separate schools. Is not that a needless expense?'
'It has always been so,' returned Susan quietly.
'Board? No? Well, no doubt you are right; but I suppose it is at a
sacrifice of efficiency. Have you cookery classes?'
'We have not apparatus, and the girls go out too early for it to be
of much use.'
'Ah, that's a mistake. Drawing?'
'The boys draw.'
'I shall go and see them. Not the girls? They look orderly enough;
but are they intelligent? Well, I shall look in and examine them on
their special subjects, if they have any. I suppose not.'
'Only class. Grammar and needlework.'
'I see, the old routine. Quite the village school.'
'It is very nice work,' put in Mrs. Arthuret, who had been looking
at it.
'Oh yes, it always is when everything is sacrificed to it. Good-
morning, I shall see more of you, Mrs.--ahem.'
'Please, ma'am, should I tell her that she is not a school manager?'
inquired the mistress, somewhat indignantly, when the two ladies had
departed.
'You had better ask the Vicar what to do,' responded Susan.
The schoolmaster, on his side, seemed to have had so much advice and
offers of assistance in lessons on history, geography, and physical
science, that he had been obliged to refer her to the managers, and
explain that till the next inspection he was bound to abide by the
time-table.
'Ah, well, I will be one of the managers another year.'