_THE COMMUNITY OF BEECHHURST._
The lawyer's letter from Norminster had thrust aside all minor
interests. Even the school-feast that was to be at the rectory that
afternoon was forgotten, until the boys reminded their mother of it at
dinner-time. "Bessie will take you," said Mrs. Carnegie, and Bessie
acquiesced. The one thing she found impossible to-day was to sit still.
We will go to the school-feast with the children. The opportunity will
be good for introducing to the reader a few persons of chief
consideration in the rural community where Bessie Fairfax acquired some
of her permanent views of life.
Beechhurst Rectory was the most charming rectory-house on the Forest. It
would be delightful to add that the rector was as charming as his abode;
but Beechhurst did not call itself happy in its pastor at this
moment--the Rev. Askew Wiley. Mr. Wiley's immediate predecessor--the
Rev. John Hutton--had been a pattern for country parsons. Hale, hearty,
honest as the daylight; knowing in sport, in farming, in gardening; bred
at Westminster and Oxford; the third son of a family distinguished in
the Church; happily married, having sons of his own, and sufficient
private fortune to make life easy both in the present and the future.
Unluckily for Beechhurst, he preferred the north to the south country,
and, after holding the benefice a little over one year, he exchanged it
against Otterburn, a moorland border parish of Cumberland, whence Mr.
Wiley had for some time past been making strenuous efforts to escape.
Both were crown livings, but Otterburn stood for twice as much in the
king's books as Beechhurst. Mr. Wiley was, however, willing to pay the
forfeiture of half his income to get away from it. He had failed to make
friends with the farmers, his principal parishioners, and the vulgar
squabbles of Otterburn had grown into such a notorious scandal that the
bishop was only too thankful to promote his removal. Mrs. Wiley's health
was the ostensible reason, and though Otterburn knew better, Beechhurst
accepted it in good faith, and gave its new rector a cordial
welcome--none the less cordial that his wife came on the scene a robust
and capable woman, ready and fit for parish work, and with no air of the
fragile invalid it had been led to expect.
But men are shrewd on the Forest as on the Border, and the Rev. Askew
Wiley was soon at a discount. His appearance was eminently clerical, but
no two of his congregation formed the same opinion of what he was
besides, unless the opinion that they did not like him. It was a clear
case of Dr. Fell; for there was nothing in his life to except to, and
in his character only a deficiency of courage. _Only?_ But
stay--consider what a crop of servile faults spring from a deficiency of
courage.
"He do so beat the devil about the bush that there is no knowing where
to have him," was the dictum early enunciated by a village Solomon,
which went on to be verified more and more, until the new rector was as
much despised on the Forest as on the Border. But he had a different
race to deal with. At Otterburn the rude statesmen provoked and defied
him with loud contempt; at Beechhurst his congregation dwindled down to
the gentlefolks, who tolerated him out of respect to his office, and to
the aged poor, who received a weekly dole of bread, bequeathed by some
long-ago benefactor; and these were mostly women. Mr. Carnegie was a
fair sample of the men, and he made no secret of his aversion.
The Reverend Askew Wiley, see him as he paces the lawn, his supple back
writhed just a little towards my lady deferentially, his head just a
little on one side, lending her an ear. By the gait of him he is looking
another way. Yes; for now my lady turns, he turns too, and they halt
front to front; his pallid visage half averted from her observation, his
glittering eyes roving with bold stealth over the populous garden, and
his thin-lipped, scarlet mouth working and twisting incessantly in the
covert of his thick-set beard.
My lady speaks with an impatience scarcely controlled. She is the great
lady of Beechhurst, the Dowager Lady Latimer, in the local estimation a
very great lady indeed; once a leader in society, now retired from it,
and living obscurely on her rich dower in the Forest, with almsdeeds and
works of patronage and improvement for her pleasure and her occupation.
My lady always loved her own way, but she had worked harmoniously with
Mr. Hutton through his year's incumbency. He was sufficient for his
duties, and gave her no opportunity for the exercise of unlawful
authority, no ground for encroachments, no room for interference. But it
was very different with poor Mr. Wiley. Everybody knew that he was a
trial to her. He could not hold his own against her propensity to
dictate. He deferred to her, and contrived to thwart her, to do the very
thing she would not have done, and to do it in the most obnoxious way.
The puzzle was--could he help it? Was he one of those tactless persons
who are for ever blundering, or had he the will to assert himself, and
not the pluck to do it boldly? His refuge was in round-about
manoeuvres, and my lady felt towards him as those intolerant
Cumberland statesmen felt before their enmity made the bleak moorland
too hot for him. He was called an able man, but his foibles were
precisely of the sort to create in the large-hearted of the gentle sex
an almost masculine antipathy to their spiritual pastor. Bessie Fairfax
could not bear him, and she could render a reason. Mr. Wiley received
pupils to read at his house, and he had refused to receive a dear
comrade of hers. It was his rule to receive none but the sons of
gentlemen. Young Musgrave was the son of a farmer on the Forest, who
called cousins with the young Carnegies. As the connection was wide,
perhaps the vigorous dislike of more important persons than Bessie
Fairfax is sufficiently accounted for. All the world is agreed that a
slight wound to men's self-love rankles much longer than a mortal
injury.
It is not, however, to be supposed that the Beechhurst people spited
themselves so far as to keep away from the rector's school-treat because
they did not love the rector. (By the by, it was not his treat, but only
buns and tea by subscription distributed in his grounds, with the
privilege of admittance to the subscribers.) The orthodox gentility of
the neighborhood assembled in force for the occasion when the sun shone
upon it as it shone to-day, and the entertainment was an event for
children of all classes. If the richer sort did not care for buns, they
did for games; and the Carnegie boys were so eager to lose none of the
sport that they coaxed Bessie to take time by the forelock, and
presented themselves almost first on the scene. Mrs. Wiley, ready and
waiting out of doors to welcome her more distinguished guests, met a
trio of the little folks, in Bessie's charge, trotting round the end of
the house to reach the lawn.
"Always in good time, Bessie Carnegie," said she. "But is not your
mother coming?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Wiley," said Bessie with prim decorum.
"By the by, that is not your name. What is your name, Bessie?"
"Elizabeth Fairfax."
"Ah! yes; now I remember--Elizabeth Fairfax. And is your uncle pretty
well? I suppose we shall see him later in the day? He ought to look in
upon us before we break up. There! run away to the children in the
orchard, and leave the lawn clear."
Bessie accepted her dismissal gladly, thankful to escape the
catechetical ordeal that would have ensued had there been leisure for
it. She was almost as shy of the rector's wife as of the rector. Mrs.
Wiley had a brusque, absent manner, and it was a trick of hers to expose
her young acquaintance to a fire of questions, of which she as regularly
forgot the answers. She had often affronted Bessie Fairfax by asking her
real name, and in the next breath calling her affably Bessie Carnegie,
the doctor's step-daughter, niece or other little kinswoman whom he kept
as a help in his house for charity's sake.
Bessie had but faint recollections of the rectory as her home, for since
her father's death she had never gone there except as a visitor on
public days. But the tradition was always in her memory that once she
had lived in those pleasant rooms, had run up and down those broad sunny
stairs, and played on the spacious lawns of that mossy, tree-shadowed
garden. In the orchard had assembled, besides the children, a group of
their ex-teachers--Miss Semple and her sister, the village dressmakers,
Miss Genet, the daughter at the post-office, and the two Miss
Mittens--well-behaved and well-instructed young persons whom Mr. Wiley's
predecessors had been pleased to employ, but for whom Mrs. Wiley found
no encouragement. She had the ordering of the school, and preferred
gentlewomen for her lay-sisters. She had them, and only herself knew
what trouble in keeping them punctual to their duty and in keeping the
peace amongst them. There was dear fat Miss Buff, who had been right
hand in succession to Mr. Fairfax, Mr. Roebuck and Mr. Hutton, who
adored supremacy, and exercised it with the easy sway of long usage; she
felt herself pushed on one side by that ardent young Irish recruit, Miss
Thusy O'Flynn, whose peculiar temper no one cared to provoke, and who
ruled by the terror of it with a caprice that was trying in the last
degree. Miss Buff gave way to her, but not without grumbling, appealing,
and threatening to withdraw her services. But she loved her work in the
school and in the choir, and could not bear to punish herself or let
Miss Thusy triumph to the extent of driving her into private life; so
she adhered to her charge in the hope of better days, when she would
again be mistress paramount. And the same did Miss Wort--also one of the
old governing body--but from higher motives, which she was not afraid to
publish: she distrusted Mr. Wiley's doctrine, and she feared that he was
inclined to truckle to the taste for ecclesiastical decoration
manifested by certain lambs of his flock who doted on private
theatricals and saw no harm in balls. She adhered to her post, that the
truth might not suffer for want of a witness; and if the rising
generation of girls in preposterous hats had taken her for their pattern
of a laborious teacher, true to time as the school-bell itself, Mrs.
Wiley's preference for young ladies over young persons would have been
better justified, and Lady Latimer would not have been able to find
fault with the irregular attendance of the children, to express her
opinion that the school was not what it might be, and to throw out hints
that she must set about reforming it unless it soon reformed itself.
Bessie Fairfax was on speaking terms with nearly everybody, and Miss
Mitten called her the moment she appeared to help in setting a ring for
"drop hankercher." Two of the little Carnegies merrily joined hands with
the rest, and they were just about to begin, Jack being unanimously
nominated as first chase for his dexterous running, when a shrill voice
called to them peremptorily to desist.
"Why have you fallen out of rank? You ought to have kept your ranks
until you had sung grace before tea. Get into line again quickly, for
here come the buns;" and there was Miss Thusy O'Flynn, perched on a
mole-hill, in an attitude of command, waving her parasol and
demonstrating how they were to stand.
"The buns, indeed! It is time, I'm sure," muttered Miss Buff,
substantial in purple silk and a black lace bonnet. Her rival was a
pretty, red-haired, resolute little girl, very prettily dressed, who
showed to no disadvantage on the mole-hill. But Miss Buff could see no
charm she had; she it was who had given leave for a game, to pass the
time before tea. The children had been an hour in the orchard, and the
feast was still delayed.
"Perhaps the kettle does not boil," suggested Miss Wort, indulgently.
"We are kept waiting for Miss O'Flynn's aunt," rejoined Miss Buff. "Here
she comes, with our angelical parson, and Lady Latimer, out in the cold,
walking behind them."
Bessie Fairfax looked up. Lady Latimer was her supreme admiration. She
did not think that another lady so good, so gracious, so beautiful,
enriched the world. If there did, that lady was not the Viscountess
Poldoody. Bessie had a lively sense of fun, and the Irish dame was a
figure to call a smile to a more guarded face than hers--a short squab
figure that waddled, and was surmounted by a negative visage composed of
pulpy, formless features, and a brown wig of false curls--glaringly
false, for they were the first thing about her that fixed the eye,
though there were many matters besides to fascinate an observer with
leisure to look again. She seemed, however, a most free and cheerful old
lady, and talked in a loud, mellow voice, with a pleasant touch of the
brogue. She had been a popular Dublin singer and actress in her day--a
day some forty years ago--but only Lady Latimer and herself in the
rectory garden that afternoon were aware of the fact.
Grand people possessed an irresistible attraction for Mr. Wiley. The
Viscountess Poldoody had taken a house in his parish for the fine
season, and came to his church with her niece; he had called upon her,
and now escorted her to the orchard with a fulsome assiduity which was
betrayed to those who followed by the uneasy writhing of his back and
shoulders. With many complimentary words he invited her to distribute
the prizes to the children.
"If your ladyship will so honor them, it will be a day in their lives to
remember."
"Give away the prizes? Oh yes, if ye'll show me which choild to give 'em
to," replied the viscountess with a good-humored readiness. Then, with
a propriety of feeling which was thought very nice in her, she added, in
the same natural, distinct manner, standing and looking round as she
spoke:
"But is it not my Lady Latimer's right? What should I know of your
children, who am only a summer visitor?"
Lady Latimer acknowledged the courteous disclaimer with that exquisite
smile which had been the magic of her loveliness always. The children
would appreciate the kindness of a stranger, she said; and with a
perfect grace yielded the precedence, and at the same time resigned the
opportunity she had always enjoyed before of giving the children a
monition once a year on their duty to God, their parents, their pastors
and masters, elders and betters, and neighbors in general. Whether my
lady felt aggrieved or not nobody could discern; but the people about
were aggrieved for her, and Miss Buff confided to a friend, in a
semi-audible whisper of intense exasperation, that the rector was the
biggest muff and toady that ever it had been her misfortune to know.
Miss Buff, it will be perceived, liked strong terms; but, as she justly
pleaded in extenuation of a taste for which she was reproached, what was
the use of there being strong terms in the language if they were not to
be applied on suitable occasions?
The person, however, on whom this incident made the deepest impression
was Bessie Fairfax. Bessie admired Lady Latimer because she was
admirable. She had listened too often to Mr. Carnegie's radical talk to
have any reverence for rank and title unadorned; but her love of beauty
and goodness made her look up with enthusiastic respect to the one noble
lady she knew, of whom even the doctor spoke as "a great woman." The
children sang their grace and sat down to tea, and Lady Latimer stood
looking on, her countenance changed to a stern gravity; and Bessie,
quite diverted from the active business of the feast, stood looking at
her and feeling sorry. The child's long abstracted gaze ended by drawing
my lady's attention. She spoke to her, and Bessie started out of her
reverie, wide-awake in an instant.
"Is there nothing for you to do, Bessie Fairfax, that you stand musing?
Bring me a chair into the shade of the old walnut tree over yonder. I
have something to say to you. Do you remember what we talked about that
wet morning last winter at my house?"
"Yes, my lady," replied Bessie, and brought the chair with prompt
obedience.
On the occasion alluded to Bessie had been caught in a heavy rain while
riding with the doctor. He had deposited her in Lady Latimer's kitchen,
to be dried and comforted by the housekeeper while he went on his
farther way; and my lady coming into the culinary quarter while Bessie
was there, had given her a delicious cheese-cake from a tin just hot out
of the oven, and had then entered into conversation with her about her
likes and dislikes, concluding with the remark that she had in her the
making of an excellent National School mistress, and ought to be trained
for that special walk in life. Bessie had carried home a report of what
Lady Latimer had said; but neither her father nor mother admired the
suggestion, and it had not been mentioned again. Now, however, being
comfortably seated, my lady revived it in a serious, methodical way,
Bessie standing before her listening and blushing with a confusion that
increased every moment. She was thinking of the letter from Norminster,
but she did not venture yet to arrest Lady Latimer's flow of advice. My
lady did not discern that anything was amiss. She was accustomed to have
her counsels heard with deference. From advice she passed into
exhortation, assuming that Bessie was, of course, destined to some sort
of work for a living--to dressmaking, teaching or service in some
shape--and encouraging her to make advances for her future, that it
might not overtake her unprepared. Lady Latimer had not come into the
Forest until some years after the Reverend Geoffry Fairfax's death, and
she had no knowledge of Bessie's birth, parentage and connections; but
she had a principle against poor women pining in the shadow of gentility
when they could help themselves by honest endeavors; and also, she had a
plan for raising the quality of National School teaching by introducing
into the ranks of the teachers young gentlewomen unprovided by fortune.
She advised no more than she would have done, and all she said was good,
if Bessie's circumstances had been what she assumed. But Bessie,
conscious that they were about to suffer a change, felt impelled at
last to set Lady Latimer right. Her shy face mitigated the effect of her
speech.
"I have kindred in Woldshire, my lady, who want me. I am the only child
in this generation, and my grandfather Fairfax says that it is necessary
for me to go back to my own people."
Lady Latimer's face suddenly reflected a tint of Bessie's. But no
after-thought was in Bessie's mind, her simplicity was genuine. She
esteemed it praise to be selected as a fit child to teach children; and,
besides, whatever my lady had said at this period would have sounded
right in Bessie's ears. When she had uttered her statement, she waited
till Lady Latimer spoke.
"Do you belong to the Fairfaxes of Kirkham? Is your grandfather Richard
Fairfax of Abbotsmead?" she said in a quick voice, with an inflection of
surprise.
"Yes, my lady. My father was Geoffry, the third son; my mother was
Elizabeth Bulmer."
"I knew Abbotsmead many years ago. It will be a great change for you.
How old are you, Bessie? Fourteen, fifteen?"
"Fifteen, my lady, last birthday, the fourth of March."
Lady Latimer thought to herself, "Here is an exact little girl!" Then
she said aloud, "It would have been better for you if your grandfather
had recalled you when you were younger."
Bessie was prepared to hear this style of remark, and to repudiate the
implication. She replied almost with warmth, "My lady, I have lost
nothing by being left here. Beechhurst will always be home to me. If I
had my choice I would not go to Kirkham."
Lady Latimer thought again what a nice voice Bessie had, and regarded
her with a growing interest, that arose in part out of her own
recollections. She questioned her concerning her father's death, and the
circumstances of her adoption by Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie, and reflected
that, happily, she was too simple, too much of a child yet, for any but
family attachments--happily, because, though Bessie had no experience to
measure it by, there would be a wide difference between her position as
the doctor's adopted daughter amongst a house full of children, and as
heiress presumptive of Mr. Fairfax of Abbotsmead.
"Have you ever seen Abbotsmead, Bessie?" she said.
"No, my lady, I have never been in Woldshire since I was a baby. I was
born at Kirkham vicarage, my grandfather Bulmer's house, but I was not a
year old when we came away. I have a drawing of Abbotsmead that my
mother made--it is not beautiful."
"But Abbotsmead is very beautiful--the country round about is not so
delicious as the Forest, for it has less variety: it is out of sight of
the sea, and the trees are not so grand, but Abbotsmead itself is a
lovely spot. The house stands on a peninsula formed by a little brawling
river, and in the park are the ruins that give the place its name. I
remember the garden at Abbotsmead as a garden where the sun always
shone."
Bessie was much cheered. "How glad I am! In my picture the sun does not
shine at all. It is the color of a dark day in November."
The concise simplicity of Bessie's talk pleased Lady Latimer. She
decided that Mrs. Carnegie must be a gentlewoman, and that Bessie had
qualities capable of taking a fine polish. She would have held the child
in conversation longer had not Mrs. Wiley come up, and after a word or
two about the success of the feast, bade Bessie run away and see that
her little brothers were not getting into mischief. Lady Latimer nodded
her a kind dismissal, and off she went.
Six o'clock struck. By that time the buns were all eaten, the prizes
were all distributed, and the cream of the company had driven or walked
away, but cricket still went on in the meadow, and children's games in
the orchard. One or two gentlemen had come on the scene since the fervor
of the afternoon abated. Admiral Parkins, who governed Beechhurst under
Lady Latimer, was taking a walk round the garden with his brother
church-warden, Mr. Musgrave, and Mr. Carnegie had made his bow to the
rector's wife, who was not included in his aversion for the rector. Mr.
Phipps, also a gentleman of no great account in society, but a liberal
supporter of the parish charities, was there--a small, grotesque man to
look at, who had always an objection in his mouth. Was any one praised,
he mentioned a qualification; was any one blamed, he interposed a plea.
He had a character for making shrewd, incisive remarks, and was called
ironical, because he had a habit of dispersing flattering delusions and
wilful pretences by bringing the dry light of truth to bear upon them--a
gratuitous disagreeableness which was perhaps the reason why he was now
perched on a tree-stump alone, casting shy, bird-like glances hither and
thither--at two children quarrelling over a cracked tea-cup, at the
rector halting about uncomfortably amongst the "secondary people," at
his wife being instructed by Lady Latimer, at Lady Latimer herself,
tired but loath to go, at Bessie Fairfax, full of spirit and
forgetfulness, running at speed over the grass, a vociferous, noisy
troop of children after her.
"Stop, stop, you are not to cross the lawn!" cried Mrs. Wiley. "Bessie
Carnegie, what a tomboy you are! We might be sure if there was any
roughness you were at the head of it."
Lady Latimer also looked austere at the infringement of respect. Bessie
did not hear, and sped on till she reached the tree-stump where Mr.
Phipps was resting, and touched it--the game was "tiggy-touch-wood."
There she halted to take breath, her round cheeks flushed, her carnation
mouth open, and her pursuers baffled.
"You are a pretty young lady!" said Mr. Phipps, not alluding to Bessie's
beauty, but to her manner sarcastically. Bessie paid no heed. They were
very good friends, and she cared nothing for his sharp observations. But
she perceived that the rout of children was being turned back to the
orchard, and made haste to follow them.
Admiral Parkins and Mr. Musgrave had foregathered with Mr. Carnegie to
discuss some matters of parish finance. They drew near to Mr. Phipps and
took him into the debate. It was concerning a new organ for the church,
a proposed extension of the school-buildings, an addition to the
master's salary, and a change of master. The present man was
old-fashioned, and the spirit of educational reform had reached
Beechhurst.
"If we wait until Wiley moves in the business, we may wait till
doomsday. The money will be forthcoming when it is shown that it is
wanted," said the admiral, whose heart was larger than his income.
"Lady Latimer will not be to ask twice," said Mr. Musgrave. "Nor Mr.
Phipps."
"We must invite her ladyship to take the lead," said Mr. Carnegie.
"Let us begin by remembering that, as a poor community, we have no right
to perfection," said Mr. Phipps. "The voluntary taxes of the locality
are increasing too fast. It is a point of social honor for all to
subscribe to public improvements, and all are not gifted with a
superfluity of riches. If honor is to be rendered where honor is due,
let Miss Wort take the lead. Having regard to her means, she is by far
the most generous donor in Beechhurst."
Mr. Phipps's proposal was felt to need no refutation. The widow's mite
is such a very old story--not at all applicable to the immense
operations of modern philanthropy. Besides, Miss Wort had no ambition
for the glory of a leader, nor had she the figure for the post. Mr.
Phipps was not speaking to be contradicted, only to be heard.
Lady Latimer, on her way to depart, came near the place where the
gentlemen were grouped, and turned aside to join them, as if a sudden
thought had struck her. "You are discussing our plans?" she said. "A
certificated master to supersede poor old Rivett must be the first
consideration in our rearrangement of the schools. The children have
been sacrificed too long to his incompetence. We must be on the look-out
for a superior man, and make up our minds to pay him well."
"Poor old Rivett! he has done good work in his day, but he has the fault
that overtakes all of us in time," said Mr. Phipps. "For the master of a
rural school like ours, I would choose just such another man--of rough
common-sense, born and bred in a cottage, and with an experimental
knowledge of the life of the boys he has to educate. Certificated if you
please, but the less conventionalized the better."
Lady Latimer did not like Mr. Phipps--she thought there was something of
the spy in his nature. She gazed beyond him, and was peremptory about
her superior man--so peremptory that she had probably already fixed on
the fortunate individual who would enjoy her countenance. Half an hour
later, when Bessie Fairfax was carrying off her reluctant brothers to
supper and to bed, my lady had not said all she had to say. She was
still projecting, dissenting, deciding and undoing, and the gentlemen
were still listening with patient deference. She had made magnificent
offers of help for the furtherance of their schemes, and had received
warm acknowledgments.
"Her ladyship is bountiful as usual--for a consideration," said Mr.
Phipps, emitting a long suppressed groan of weariness, when her gracious
good-evening released them. Mr. Phipps revolted against my lady's yoke,
the others wore it with grace. Admiral Parkins said Beechhurst would be
in a poor way without her. Mr. Musgrave looked at his watch, and avowed
the same opinion. Mr. Carnegie said nothing. He knew so much good of
Lady Latimer that he had an almost unlimited indulgence for her. It was
his disposition, indeed, to be indulgent to women, to give them all the
homage and sympathy they require.
Mr. Phipps and Mr. Carnegie quitted the rectory-garden, and crossed the
road to the doctor's house in company. Bessie Fairfax, worn out with the
emotions and fatigues of the day, had left the children to their mother
and stout Irish nurse, and had collapsed into her father's great chair
in the parlor. She sprang up as the gentlemen entered, and was about to
run away, when Mr. Phipps spread out his arms to arrest her flight.
"Well, Cinderella, the pumpkin-coach has not come yet to fetch you
away?" said he. The application of the parable of Cinderella to her case
was Mr. Phipps's favorite joke against Bessie Fairfax.
"No, but it is on the road. I hear the roll of the wheels and the crack
of Raton's whip," said she with a prodigious sigh.
"So it is, Phipps--that's true! We are going to lose our Bessie," said
Mr. Carnegie, drawing her upon his knee as he sat down.
"Poor little tomboy! A nice name Mrs. Wiley has fitted her with! And she
is going to be a lady? I should not wonder if she liked it," said Mr.
Phipps.
"As if ladies were not tomboys too!" said she with wise scorn, half
laughing, half pouting. Then with wistfulness: "Will it be so very
different? Why should it? I hate the idea of going away from
Beechhurst!" and she laid her cheek against the doctor's rough whisker
with the caressing, confiding affection that made her so inexpressibly
dear to him.
"Here is my big baby," said he. "A little more, and she will persuade me
to say I won't part with her."
Bessie flashed out impetuously: "Do say so! do say so! If you won't part
with me, I won't go. Who can make us?"
Mrs. Carnegie came into the room, serious and reasonable. She had caught
Bessie's last words, and said: "If we were to let you have your own way
now, Bessie dear, ten to one that you would live to reproach us with not
having done our duty by you. My conscience is clear that we ought to
give you up. What is your opinion, Mr. Phipps?"
"My opinion is, Mrs. Carnegie, that when the pumpkin-coach calls for
Cinderella, she will jump in, kiss her hand to all friends in the
Forest, and drive off to Woldshire in a delicious commotion of tearful
joy and impossible expectation."
Bessie cried out vehemently against this.
"There, there!" said the doctor, as if he were tired, "that is enough.
Let us proclaim a truce. I forbid the subject to be mentioned again
unless I mention it. And let my word be law."
Mr. Carnegie's word, in that house, was law.