Miss Farrell came home next day from her visit. She was a little old
lady of the period when people became old early, and assumed the dress
and the habits of age before it was at all necessary. She was about
sixty, but she had been distinctly an old lady for ten years. She wore a
cap coming close round her face, and tied under her chin. Whenever she
had the least excuse for doing so, she wore a shawl, an article the
putting on of which she considered to afford one of many proofs whether
or not the wearer was “a lady,” which was to Miss Farrell something more
than a mere question of birth. She was very neat, very small, very
light-hearted, seeing the best in everything. Even Mr. Chester, though
she saw as little of him as possible, she was able to talk about as
“your dear father” to her pupil; for, to be sure, whatever might be the
opinion of other people, every father ought to be dear to his own child.
Miss Farrell had gone on living at Bedloe since Winifred’s education was
finished, for no particular reason,--at least, for no reason but love.
She was a person full of prejudices in favour of aristocracy and against
persons of low birth, but she was sufficiently natural to be quite
inconsistent, and contradict herself whenever it pleased her--for, as a
matter of fact, she preferred Winifred Chester, who was of no family at
all, to several young ladies of the caste of Vere de Vere, whom she had
formerly had under her care. How she had managed to “get on” with Mr.
Chester was a problem to many people, and why she could choose to stay
in the house of an individual so little congenial. As a matter of fact,
it was not so difficult as people supposed. She was a woman who
systematically put the best interpretation upon everything, moved
thereto not only by natural inclination, but by profound policy; for it
did not consist with Miss Farrell’s dignity ever to suppose, or to allow
any one to suppose, that it was possible for her to be slighted. She
would permit no possibility of offence to herself. It occasionally
happened that people had bad manners, which was so very much worse for
themselves than for any one else. Miss Farrell had made up her mind from
the beginning of her career never to accept a slight, nor to look upon
herself as a dependant. If offence was so thrust upon her that she could
not refuse to be aware of it, she left the house at once; but on less
serious occasions presented a serene obtuseness, apologising to others
for the peculiarities which were “such a pity,” or the “want of tact”
which was so unfortunate. In this way she had overawed persons more
confident in their own _savoir faire_ than Mr. Chester. She had always
been admirable in her own sphere, and the alarm of an anxious mother who
had obtained such a treasure, lest the peace of the house should be
endangered by the sudden departure of the governess, may be supposed.
Once it had occurred to her in her life to be compelled to take this
strong step. She never required to do it again. As for Winifred, it was
long since the relation of pupil and teacher had been over between them;
but the motherless girl of the _parvenu_, to whom she went with
reluctance, and chiefly out of compassion, had entirely gained the heart
of the proud and tender little woman. She did not hesitate to say that
Winifred was beyond all rules.
“It does not matter who her father was--I have always thought the mother
must have been a lady,” Miss Farrell said, with a conception of the case
very different from that of the master of the house. “But at all events
Winifred is--born. I never said I insisted upon a number of quarterings.
I don’t care who was her great-grandfather--nothing could be worse than
the father, if you come to that; but she is a lady--as good as the
Queen.”
“You have made her so,” said the wife of the Rector, who was her
confidante.
“No one can make a lady, except the Almighty. It is a thing that has to
be born,” was the prompt reply.
But, notwithstanding, Miss Farrell was able to speak to Winifred about
“your dear father,” and to look upon all the proceedings of the boys
with an indulgence which sometimes almost exasperated their sister, yet
was an unspeakable consolation and support to her in the troubles of
the past years. For to have some one who will not believe any evil, who
will never appear conscious of the existence of anything that needs
concealing, who will know exactly how not to ask too many questions, yet
not to refrain from questions altogether, is, in the midst of family
trouble, a help and comfort unspeakable. Winifred’s mind was full to
overflowing when her friend came back. She had felt that it was almost
impossible to exist without speaking to some one, delivering herself of
the burden that weighed upon her. It had been a relief to have Miss
Farrell away at the moment of Tom’s visit, and to feel that no eye but
her own had looked upon her brother’s discomfiture, but it was a relief
now to meet her frank look and unhesitating question--
“Well, my dear, and how about poor Tom?”
“He is gone,” Winifred said, the tears coming to her eyes. “He is to
sail from Liverpool to-day.”
“My dear,” said Miss Farrell, “it is very natural for you to feel it,
but do you know it is the very best thing that could have happened for
him? It will no doubt be the making of him. He has never had any need to
rely on himself, he has always felt his father behind him. Now that he
is sent into the world on his own account, it will rouse all his
strength. Yes, cry, my dear, it will do you good. But I approve, for my
part. Your dear father has been very wise. He has done what was the best
for Tom.”
“Do you think so? Perhaps if that were all--But it does not seem to have
been the best thing for George, and how can we tell if it will answer
with Tom?”
“George, you see, has married, which brings in a new element--a great
deal more comfortable for him, but still what the gentlemen call a new
factor, you know, that we are not acquainted with. Besides, he is a
different kind of boy. But Tom wants to be thrown on his own resources.
Depend upon it, my dear, it is the very best thing for him. I should
have thought that you would have seen that with your good sense.”
“Oh, Miss Farrell, if that were all!”
“And is there something more? Don’t tell me unless you like; but you
know you take a darker view than I do.”
“There is but one view to take,” Winifred said. “It makes me miserable.
My father--I hope he does not intend it to be known, but I cannot
tell--anyhow you must know everything. My father says he has made up his
mind to cut off both the boys, and to leave everything to me.”
Miss Farrell grew a little pale. She was old-fashioned and strong upon
the rights of sons and the inferior importance of girls. She paused
before she spoke, and then said, with a little catching of her breath,
“If it is because you are the most worthy, my dear, I can’t say but he
is right. A girl of your age is always more worthy than the boys. You
have never been exposed to any temptation.”
“But that is no virtue of mine. Think what it is for me--the boys that
were brought up to think everything was theirs--and now cast away, one
after another, and everything fixed upon me.”
“My dear,” said Miss Farrell, recovering her courage, “you must not
disturb yourself too soon. Your father will live to change the
disposition of his property a hundred times. It is a sort of thing that
only wants a beginning.”
“But don’t you see,” said Winifred, with great seriousness, “that is
poor comfort; for he may be displeased with me next, and leave it all
to some stranger. And then, who would care for George and Tom?”
“I see what you mean--you are going to share with them, Winnie. My dear,
you may take my word for it, that will be better for them, far better
than if they got your father’s immense fortune into their hands.”
“But injustice can never be best,” she said.
They were in Miss Farrell’s pretty sitting-room, seated together upon
the sofa, and here Winifred, losing courage altogether, threw her arms
round her old friend, and put her head down upon the breast that had
always sympathy for her in all her troubles.
“I am very unhappy,” she said. “I do not see any end to it. My brothers
both gone and I alone left, and nothing but difficulty before me
wherever I move. How can I tell how my father’s mind may change in other
ways, now that he has made up his mind to put me in this changed
position--and how can I tell--even if that were not so”--
These broken expressions would have conveyed little enlightenment to any
stranger, but Miss Farrell understood them well enough. She pressed
Winifred in her arms, and kissed the cheek which was so near her own.
“Has anything been said about Edward?” she asked in a low tone.
“Nothing yet; but how can I tell? Oh yes! there was something. I can’t
remember exactly what--only a sort of hint; but enough to show--Miss
Farrell, you always think the best of every one. What can make him do
it? He must love us--a little--I suppose?”
The doubt in her tone was full of pathos and wondering bewilderment.
Winnie, though she had already many experiences, had not reached the
length of understanding that love itself can sometimes torture.
“Love you, my dear? why, of course he loves you! Whom has he else to
love? You must not let such foolish thoughts get into your mind. Thank
Heaven, since you were a child you have never had any doubt that I loved
you, Winnie, and yet I often made you do things you didn’t like, and
refused to let you do things you did like. Don’t you remember? Oh, I
could tell you a hundred instances. A man like your dear father, who has
been a great deal in the world, naturally forms his own ideas. And I can
tell you, Winnie, it is very, very difficult when one has the power, and
when one sees that young people are silly, not to take matters into
one’s own hand, and do for them what one knows to be best. But,
unfortunately, one never can get the young people to see it--they prefer
their own way. If they went according to the ideas of their fathers and
mothers, perhaps there would be less trouble in the world.”
“You don’t really think so,” cried Winnie, indignant. “You would never
have one go against one’s own heart.”
“I say perhaps, my dear,” said Miss Farrell mildly,--“only perhaps. It
is a thing no one can be arbitrary about. To have one’s own way is the
most satisfactory thing, so long as it lasts, but often ‘thereof comes
in the end perplexity and madness.’ Then one thinks, if one had but
taken the other turn! Nobody knows, till time shows, which is for the
best.”
“Is that a proverb?” asked Winnie, with some youthful scorn.
“It sounds a little like it,” said the cheerful old lady, with a little
laugh, “but, the rhyme was quite unintentional; and, as a matter of
fact, we know that whatever happens to us in God’s providence is for the
best.”
“Is my father’s hardheartedness God’s providence?” said Winifred, her
face becoming almost severe in youthful gravity.
It was not a question easy to answer. She scarcely listened to the
little lecture Miss Farrell gave, as to the wickedness of condemning her
father, or calling that hardheartedness which probably was the highest
exercise of watchful tenderness. “I don’t know that I should have had
the strength of mind to carry it out; but, my dear,” she said, “I have
not the very slightest doubt that this is by far the best thing for Tom.
He will come home a better man; he will have found out that life is
different from what he thinks. It may be the making of him. Your dear
father, who is stronger-minded than we are, does it, you may be sure,
for the best.”
“And if I am ordered to give up everything I care for, perhaps you will
think that for the best too,” said the girl, withdrawing, half
sorrowful, half indignant. The elder woman gave her a look full of love
and sorrow. Behind the smiling of her cheerful little countenance there
was that consciousness which belongs to experience, that teaching of a
long life which at her age throws confusing lights upon much that is
plain and simple to the uninstructed. Miss Farrell in her heart answered
this last indignant question in a manner which would have confounded
Winifred; but she said nothing. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof.”