“Thou didst refuse the daily round
Of useful, patient love,
And longedst for some great emprise
Thy spirit high to prove.”—C. M. N.
“Che mi sedea con l’antica Rachele.”—DANTE.
“It is very kind in the dear mother.”
“But what, Rachel? Don’t you like it? She so enjoyed choosing it for
you.”
“Oh yes, it is a perfect thing in its way. Don’t say a word to her; but
if you are consulted for my next birthday present, Grace, couldn’t you
suggest that one does cease to be a girl.”
“Only try it on, Rachel dear, she will be pleased to see you in it.”
“Oh yes, I will bedizen myself to oblige her. I do assure you I am not
ungrateful. It is beautiful in itself, and shows how well nature can be
imitated; but it is meant for a mere girl, and this is the very day I
had fixed for hauling down the flag of youth.”
“Oh, Rachel.”
“Ah, ha! If Rachel be an old maid, what is Grace? Come, my dear, resign
yourself! There is nothing more unbecoming than want of perception of
the close of young-ladyhood.”
“Of course I know we are not quite young girls now,” said Grace, half
perplexed, half annoyed.
“Exactly, from this moment we are established as the maiden sisters of
Avonmouth, husband and wife to one another, as maiden pairs always are.”
“Then thus let me crown, our bridal,” quoth Grace, placing on her
sister’s head the wreath of white roses.
“Treacherous child!” cried Rachel, putting up her hands and tossing her
head, but her sister held her still.
“You know brides always take liberties. Please, dear, let it stay till
the mother has been in, and pray don’t talk before her of being so very
old.”
“No, I’ll not be a shock to her. We will silently assume our immunities,
and she will acquiesce if they come upon her gradually.”
Grace looked somewhat alarmed, being perhaps in some dread of
immunities, and aware that Rachel’s silence would in any one else have
been talkativeness.
“Ah, mother dear, good morning,” as a pleasant placid-looking lady
entered, dressed in black, with an air of feeble health, but of comely
middle age.
Birthday greetings, congratulations, and thanks followed, and the mother
looked critically at the position of the wreath, and Rachel for the
first time turned to the glass and met a set of features of an
irregular, characteristic cast, brow low and broad, nose retroussé, with
large, singularly sensitive nostrils quivering like those of a high-bred
horse at any emotion, full pouting lips, round cheeks glowing with
the freshest red, eyes widely opened, dark deep grey and decidedly
prominent, though curtained with thick black lashes. The glossy chestnut
hair partook of the redundance and vigour of the whole being, and the
roses hung on it gracefully though not in congruity with the thick
winter dress of blue and black tartan, still looped up over the dark
petticoat and hose, and stout high-heeled boots, that like the grey
cloak and felt hat bore witness to the early walk. Grace’s countenance
and figure were in the same style, though without so much of mark or
animation; and her dress was of like description, but less severely
plain.
“Yes, my dear, it looks very well; and now you will oblige me by not
wearing that black lace thing, that looks fit for your grandmother.”
“Poor Lovedy Kelland’s aunt made it, mother, and it was very expensive,
and wouldn’t sell.”
“No wonder, I am sure, and it was very kind in you to take it off their
hands; but now it is paid for, it can’t make much difference whether you
disfigure yourself with it or not.”
“Oh yes, dear mother, I’ll bind my hair when you bid me do it and really
these buds do credit to the makers. I wonder whether they cost them
as dear in health as lace does,” she added, taking off the flowers and
examining them with a grave sad look.
“I chose white roses,” proceeded the well-pleased mother, “because I
thought they would suit either of the silks you have now, though I own I
should like to see you in another white muslin.”
“I have done with white muslin,” said Rachel, rousing from her reverie.
“It is an affectation of girlish simplicity not becoming at our age.”
“Oh Rachel!” thought Grace in despair; but to her great relief in at
that moment filed the five maids, the coachman, and butler, and the
mother began to read prayers.
Breakfast over, Rachel gathered up her various gifts, and betook herself
to a room on the ground floor with all the appliances of an ancient
schoolroom. Rather dreamily she took out a number of copy-books, and
began to write copies in them in large text hand.
“And this is all I am doing for my fellow-creatures,” she muttered half
aloud. “One class of half-grown lads, and those grudged to me! Here is
the world around one mass of misery and evil! Not a paper do I take up
but I see something about wretchedness and crime, and here I sit with
health, strength, and knowledge, and able to do nothing, nothing—at the
risk of breaking my mother’s heart! I have pottered about cottages and
taught at schools in the dilettante way of the young lady who thinks it
her duty to be charitable; and I am told that it is my duty, and that
I may be satisfied. Satisfied, when I see children cramped in soul,
destroyed in body, that fine ladies may wear lace trimmings! Satisfied
with the blight of the most promising buds! Satisfied, when I know that
every alley and lane of town or country reeks with vice and corruption,
and that there is one cry for workers with brains and with purses!
And here am I, able and willing, only longing to task myself to the
uttermost, yet tethered down to the merest mockery of usefulness by
conventionalities. I am a young lady forsooth!—I must not be out late,
I must not put forth my views; I must not choose my acquaintance, I must
be a mere helpless, useless being, growing old in a ridiculous fiction
of prolonged childhood, affecting those graces of so-called sweet
seventeen that I never had—because, because why? Is it for any better
reason than because no mother can bear to believe her daughter no longer
on the lists for matrimony? Our dear mother does not tell herself that
this is the reason, but she is unconsciously actuated by it. And I have
hitherto given way to her wish. I mean to give way still in a measure;
but I am five and twenty, and I will no longer be withheld from some
path of usefulness! I will judge for myself, and when my mission has
declared itself, I will not be withheld from it by any scruple that does
not approve itself to my reason and conscience. If it be only a domestic
mission—say the care of Fanny, poor dear helpless Fanny, I would that
I knew she was safe,—I would not despise it, I would throw myself into
it, and regard the training her and forming her boys as a most sacred
office. It would not be too homely for me. But I had far rather become
the founder of some establishment that might relieve women from the
oppressive task-work thrown on them in all their branches of labour. Oh,
what a worthy ambition!”
“Rachel!” called Grace. “Come, there’s a letter, a letter from Fanny
herself for you. Make haste, mamma is so nervous till you read it.”
No exhortation was needed to make Rachel hurry to the drawing-room, and
tear open the black-edged letter with the Australian stamp.
“All is right, mamma. She has been very ill, but is fast recovering, and
was to sail by the Voluta. Why, she may be here any day.”
“Any day! My dear Grace, see that the nurseries are well aired.”
“No, mother, she says her party is too large, and wants us to take a
furnished house for her to come into at once—Myrtlewood if possible. Is
it let, Grace?”
“I think I saw the notice in the window yesterday.”
“Then, I’ll go and see about it at once.”
“But, my dear, you don’t really mean that poor dear Fanny thinks of
coming anywhere but to us?” said her mother, anxiously.
“It is very considerate of her,” said Grace, “with so many little
children. You would find them too much for you, dear mother. It is just
like Fanny to have thought of it. How many are there, Rachel?”
“Oh! I can’t tell. They got past my reckoning long ago. I only know they
are all boys, and that this baby is a girl.”
“Baby! Ah, poor Fanny, I feared that was the reason the did not come
sooner.”
“Yes, and she has been very ill; she always is, I believe, but there
is very little about it. Fanny never could write letters; she only just
says: ‘I have not been able to attempt a letter sooner, though my dear
little girl is five weeks old to-day. Think of the daughter coming at
last, too late for her dear father, who had so wished for one. She is
very healthy, I am thankful to say; and I am now so much better, that
the doctor says I may sail next week. Major Keith has taken our cabins,
in the Voluta, and soon after you receive this, I hope to be showing you
my dear boys. They are such good, affectionate fellows; but I am afraid
they would be too much for my dear aunt, and our party is so large, so
the Major and I both think it will be the best way for you to take a
house for me for six months. I should like Myrtlewood best, if it is to
be had. I have told Conrade all about it, and how pretty it is, and it
is so near you that I think there I can be happy as ever I can be again
in this world, and have your advice for the dear children.’”
“Poor darling! she seems but a child herself.”
“My age—five and twenty,” returned Rachel. “Well I shall go and ask
about the house. Remember, mother, this influx is to bring no trouble or
care on you; Fanny Temple is my charge from henceforth. My mission has
come to seek me,” she added as she quitted the room, in eager excitement
of affection, emotion, and importance, for Fanny had been more like a
sister than a cousin.
Grace and Rachel Curtis were the daughters of the squire of the
Homestead; Fanny, of his brother, an officer in the army. Left at home
for education, the little girl had spent her life, from her seventh to
her sixteenth year, as absolutely one with her cousins, until she was
summoned to meet her father at the Cape, under the escort of his old
friend, General Sir Stephen Temple. She found Colonel Curtis sinking
under fatal disease, and while his relations were preparing to receive,
almost to maintain, his widow and daughter, they were electrified by the
tidings that the gentle little Fanny, at sixteen, had become the wife of
Sir Stephen Temple, at sixty.
From that time little had been known about her; her mother had continued
with her, but the two Mrs. Curtises had never been congenial or
intimate; and Fanny was never a full nor willing correspondent, feeling
perhaps the difficulty of writing under changed circumstances. Her
husband had been in various commands in the colonies, without returning
to England; and all that was known of her was a general impression that
she had much ill-health and numerous children, and was tended like an
infant by her bustling mother and doting husband. More than half a year
back, tidings had come of the almost sudden death of her mother; and
about three months subsequently, one of the officers of Sir Stephen’s
staff had written to announce that the good old general had been killed
by a fall from his horse, while on a round of inspection at a distance
from home. The widow was then completely prostrated by the shock, but
promised to write as soon as she was able, and this was the fulfilment
of that promise, bringing the assurance that Fanny was coming back with
her little ones to the home of her childhood.
Of that home, Grace and Rachel were the joint-heiresses, though it was
owned by the mother for her life. It was an estate of farm and moorland,
worth some three or four thousand a year, and the house was perched on
a beautiful promontory, running out into the sea, and inclosing one side
of a bay, where a small fishing-village had recently expanded into a
quiet watering-place, esteemed by some for its remoteness from railways,
and for the calm and simplicity that were yearly diminished by its
increasing popularity. It was the family fashion to look down from
their crag at the new esplanade with pity and contempt for the ruined
loneliness of the pebbly beach; and as Mrs. Curtis had not health to go
often into society, she had been the more careful where she trusted her
daughters. They belonged to the county by birth and tradition, and were
not to be mixed up with the fleeting residents of the watering-place, on
whom they never called, unless by special recommendation from a mutual
friend; and the few permanent inhabitants chanced to be such, that a
visit to them was in some degree a condescension. Perhaps there was more
of timidity and caution than of pride in the mother’s exclusiveness, and
Grace had always acquiesced in it as the natural and established state
of affairs, without any sense of superiority, but rather of being
protected. She had a few alarms as to the results of Rachel’s new
immunities of age, and though never questioning the wisdom of her clever
sister’s conclusions, dreaded the effect on the mother, whom she
had been forbidden to call mamma. “At their age it was affecting an
interesting childishness.”
Rachel had had the palm of cleverness conceded to her ever since she
could recollect, when she read better at three years old than her sister
at five, and ever after, through the days of education, had enjoyed, and
excelled in, the studies that were a toil to Grace. Subsequently, while
Grace had contented herself with the ordinary course of unambitious
feminine life, Rachel had thrown herself into the process of
self-education with all her natural energy, and carried on her favourite
studies by every means within her reach, until she considerably
surpassed in acquirements and reflection all the persons with whom she
came in frequent contact. It was a homely neighbourhood, a society well
born, but of circumscribed interests and habits, and little connected
with the great progressive world, where, however, Rachel’s sympathies
all lay, necessarily fed, however, by periodical literature, instead of
by conversation or commerce with living minds.
She began by being stranded on the ignorance of those who surrounded
her, and found herself isolated as a sort of pedant; and as time went
on, the narrowness of interests chafed her, and in like manner left
her alone. As she grew past girlhood, the cui bono question had come to
interfere with her ardour in study for its own sake, and she felt the
influence of an age eminently practical and sifting, but with small
powers of acting. The quiet Lady Bountiful duties that had sufficed her
mother and sister were too small and easy to satisfy a soul burning at
the report of the great cry going up to heaven from a world of sin and
woe. The examples of successful workers stimulated her longings to be up
and doing, and yet the ever difficult question between charitable works
and filial deference necessarily detained her, and perhaps all the more
because it was not so much the fear of her mother’s authority as of her
horror and despair, that withheld her from the decisive and eccentric
steps that she was always feeling impelled to take. Gentle Mrs. Curtis
had never been a visible power in her house, and it was through their
desire to avoid paining her that her government had been exercised over
her two daughters ever since their father’s death, which had taken place
in Grace’s seventeenth year. Both she and Grace implicitly accepted
Rachel’s superiority as an unquestionable fact, and the mother, when
traversing any of her clever daughter’s schemes, never disputed either
her opinions or principles, only entreated that these particular
developments might be conceded to her own weakness; and Rachel generally
did concede. She could not act; but she could talk uncontradicted, and
she hated herself for the enforced submission to a state of things that
she despised.
This twenty-fifth birthday had long been anticipated as the
turning-point when this submissive girlhood ought to close, and the
privileges of acting as well as thinking for herself ought to be
assumed. Something to do was her cry, and on this very day that
something seemed to be cast in her way. It was not ameliorating the
condition of the masses, but it was educating those who might ameliorate
them; and Rachel gladly hailed the prospect of a vocation that might be
conducted without pain to her mother.
Young children of her own class were not exactly what her dream
of usefulness had devised; but she had already a decided theory of
education, and began to read up with all her might, whilst taking the
lead in all the details of house taking, servant hiring, &c., to which
her regular occupations of night school in the evening and reading to
the lacemakers by day, became almost secondary. In due time the arrival
of the ship was telegraphed, a hurried and affectionate note followed,
and, on a bright east-windy afternoon, Rachel Curtis set forth to take
up her mission. A telegram had announced the arrival of the Voluta, and
the train which would bring the travellers to Avonchester. The Homestead
carriage was sent to meet them, and Rachel in it, to give her helpless
cousin assistance in this beginning of English habits. A roomy fly had
been engaged for nurses and children, and Mrs. Curtis had put under the
coachman’s charge a parcel of sandwiches, and instructed him to offer
all the appliances for making her own into an invalid carriage.
Full of warm tenderness to those who were to be dependent on her
exertions, led by her good sense, Rachel paced the platform till the
engine rushed up, and she looked along the line of windows, suddenly
bewildered. Doors opened, but gentlemen alone met her disappointed eye,
until close to her a soft voice said, “Rachel!” and she saw a figure in
deep black close to her; but her hand had been hardly clasped before
the face was turned eagerly to a tall, bearded man, who was lifting out
little boy after little boy, apparently in an endless stream, till at
last a sleeping baby was brought out in the arms of a nurse.
“Good-bye. Thank you, oh, thank you. You will come soon. Oh, do come on
now.”
“Do come on now,” was echoed by many voices.
“I leave you in good hands. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye. Conrade dear, see what Cyril is doing; never mind, Wilfred,
the Major will come and see us; run on with Coombe.” This last was a
respectable military-looking servant, who picked up a small child in one
hand and a dressing-case in the other, and awaited orders.
There was a clinging to the Major by all the children, only ended by his
finally precipitating himself into the carriage, and being borne off.
Then came a chorus—“Mamma, let me go with you;” “I’ll go with mamma;”
“Me go with mamma;” according to the gradations of age.
While Coombe and mamma decided the question by lifting the lesser
ones into the fly, Rachel counted heads. Her mission exceeded her
expectations. Here was a pair of boys in knickerbockers, a pair in
petticoats, a pair in pelisses, besides the thing in arms. When the fly
had been nearly crammed, the two knickerbockers and one pelisse remained
for the carriage, quite against Rachel’s opinion, but “Little Wilfred
can sit on my lap, he has not been well, poor little man,” was quite
conclusive; and when Rachel suggested lying back to rest, there was a
sweet, low laugh, and, “Oh, no thank you, Wilfred never tires me.”
Rachel’s first satisfaction was in seeing the veil disclose the face of
eight years back, the same soft, clear, olive skin, delicate, oval face,
and pretty deep-brown eyes, with the same imploring, earnest sweetness;
no signs of having grown older, no sign of wear and tear, climate, or
exertion, only the widow’s dress and the presence of the great boys
enhancing her soft youthfulness. The smile was certainly changed; it was
graver, sadder, tenderer, and only conjured up by maternal affection or
in grateful reply, and the blitheness of the young brow had changed to
quiet pensiveness, but more than ever there was an air of dependence
almost beseeching protection, and Rachel’s heart throbbed with
Britomart’s devotion to her Amoret.
“Why wouldn’t the Major come, mamma?”
“He will soon come, I hope, my dear.”
Those few words gave Rachel a strong antipathy to the Major.
Then began a conversation under difficulties, Fanny trying to inquire
after her aunt, and Rachel to detail the arrangements made for her at
Myrtlewood, while the two boys were each accommodated with a window;
but each moment they were claiming their mother’s attention, or rushing
across the ladies’ feet to each other’s window, treating Rachel’s knees
as a pivot, and vouchsafing not the slightest heed to her attempts at
intelligent pointing out of the new scenes.
And Fanny made no apology, but seemed pleased, ready with answers and
with eyes, apparently ignorant that Rachel’s toes were less insensible
than her own, and her heavy three-years-old Wilfred asleep on her lap
all the time.
“She feeble, helpless, sickly!” thought Rachel, “I should have been less
tired had I walked the twenty miles!”
She gave up talking in despair, and by the time the young gentlemen had
tired themselves into quiescence, and began to eat the provisions, both
ladies were glad to be allowed a little silence.
Coming over the last hill, Conrade roused at his mother’s summons
to look out at “home,” and every word between them showed how fondly
Avonmouth had been remembered far away.
“The sea!” said Fanny, leaning forwards to catch sight of the long grey
line; “it is hard to believe we have been on it so long, this seems so
much more my own.”
“Yes,” cried Rachel, “you are come to your own home, for us to take care
of you.”
“I take care of mamma! Major Keith said so,” indignantly exclaimed
Conrade.
“There’s plenty of care for you both to take,” said Fanny, half-smiling,
half-sobbing. “The Major says I need not be a poor creature, and I will
try. But I am afraid I shall be on all your hands.”
Both boys drummed on her knee in wrath at her presuming to call herself
a poor creature—Conrade glaring at Rachel as if to accuse her of the
calumny.
“See the church,” said Lady Temple, glad to divert the storm, and
eagerly looking at the slender spire surmounting the bell-turret of a
small building in early-decorated style, new, but somewhat stained by
sea-wind, without having as yet acquired the tender tints of time. “How
beautiful!” was her cry. “You were beginning the collection for it when
I went away! How we used to wish for it.”
“Yes, we did,” said Rachel, with a significant sigh; but her cousin had
no time to attend, for they were turning in a pepper-box lodge. The boys
were told that they were arrived, and they were at the door of a sort
of overgrown Swiss cottage, where Mrs. Curtis and Grace stood ready to
receive them.
There was a confusion of embraces, fondlings, and tears, as Fanny clung
to the aunt who had been a mother to her—perhaps a more tender one than
the ruling, managing spirit, whom she had hardly known in her childhood;
but it was only for a moment, for Wilfred shrieked out in an access of
shyness at Grace’s attempt to make acquaintance with him; Francis was
demanding, “Where’s the orderly?” and Conrade looking brimful of wrath
at any one who made his mother cry. Moreover, the fly had arrived,
and the remainder had to be produced, named, and kissed—Conrade and
Francis, Leoline and Hubert, Wilfred and Cyril, and little Stephana the
baby. Really the names were a study in themselves, and the cousins felt
as if it would be hopeless to endeavour to apply them.
Servants had been engaged conditionally, and the house was fully ready,
but the young mother could hardly listen to her aunt’s explanations
in her anxiety that the little ones should be rested and fed, and she
responded with semi-comprehending thanks, while moving on with her
youngest in her arms, and as many hanging to her dress as could get hold
of it. Her thanks grew more emphatic at the sight of cribs in inviting
order, and all things ready for a meal.
“I don’t drink tea with nurse,” was Conrade’s cry, the signal for
another general outcry, untranquillized by soothings and persuasions,
till the door was shut on the younger half of the family, and those who
could not open it remained to be comforted by nurse, a soldier’s widow,
who had been with them from the birth of Conrade.
The Temple form of shyness seemed to consist in ignoring strangers,
but being neither abashed nor silenced, only resenting or avoiding all
attempts at intercourse, and as the boys rushed in and out of the rooms,
exploring, exclaiming, and calling mamma, to the interruption of all
that was going on, only checked for a few minutes by her uplifted hand
and gentle hush, Grace saw her mother so stunned and bewildered that she
rejoiced in the fear of cold that had decided that Rachel alone should
spend the evening there. Fanny made some excuses; she longed to see more
of her aunt, but when they were a little more settled,—and as a fresh
shout broke out, she was afraid they were rather unruly,—she must come
and talk to her at the dear Homestead. So kind of Rachel to stay—not
that the boys seemed to think so, as they went racing in and out,
stretching their ship-bound legs, and taking possession of the minute
shrubbery, which they scorned for the want of gum-trees and parrots.
“You won’t mind, Rachel dear, I must first see about baby;” and Rachel
was left to reflect on her mission, while the boys’ feet cantered up and
down the house, and one or other of them would look in, and burst away
in search of mamma.
Little more satisfactory was the rest of the evening, for the boys took
a great deal of waiting on at tea, and then some of the party would not
go to sleep in strange beds without long persuasions and comfortings,
till Fanny looked so weary that it was plain that no conversation could
have been hoped from her, even if the baby had been less vociferous. All
that could be done for her was to wish her good-night, and promise to
come down early.
Come early! Yes, Rachel might come, but what was the use of that when
Fanny was at the mercy of so many claimants? She looked much better
than the day before, and her sweet, soft welcome was most cordial and
clinging. “Dear Rachel, it is like a dream to have you so near. I felt
like the old life come back again to hear the surge of the sea all
night, and know I should see you all so soon again.”
“Yes, it is a great satisfaction to have you back in your old home,
under our wing. I have a great deal to tell you about the arrangements.”
“Oh yes; thank you—”
“Mamma!” roared two or three voices.
“I wanted to explain to you—” But Fanny’s eye was roaming, and just
then in burst two boys. “Mamma, nurse won’t undo the tin box, and my
ship is in it that the Major gave me.”
“Yes, and my stuffed duck-bill, and I want it, mamma.”
“My dear Con, the Major would not let you shout so loud about it, and
you have not spoken to Aunt Rachel.”
The boys did present their hands, and then returned to the charge.
“Please order nurse to unpack it, mamma, and then Coombe will help us to
sail it.”
“Excuse me, dear Rachel,” said Fanny, “I will first see about this.”
And a very long seeing it was, probably meaning that she unpacked the
box herself, whilst Rachel was deciding on the terrible spoiling of the
children, and preparing a remonstrance.
“Dear Rachel, you have been left a long time.”
“Oh, never mind that, but, Fanny, you must not give way to those
children too much; they will be always—Hark! was that the door-bell?”
It was, and the visitor was announced as “Mr. Touchett;” a small, dark,
thin young clergyman he was, of a nervous manner, which, growing more
nervous as he shook hands with Rachel, became abrupt and hesitating.
“My call is—is early, Lady Temple; but I always pay my respects at
once to any new parishioner—resident, I mean—in case I can be of any
service.”
“Thank you, I am very much obliged,” said Fanny, with a sweet, gracious
smile and manner that would have made him more at ease at once, if
Rachel had not added, “My cousin is quite at home here, Mr. Touchett.”
“Oh yes,” he said, “so—so I understood.”
“I know no place in England so well; it is quite a home to me, so
beautiful it is,” continued Fanny.
“And you see great changes here.”
“Changes so much for the better,” said Fanny, smiling her winning smile
again.
“One always expects more from improvements than they effect,” put in
Rachel, severely.
“You have a large young party,” said Mr. Touchett, looking uneasily
towards Lady Temple.
“Yes, I have half a dozen boys and one little girl.”
“Seven!” Mr. Touchett looked up half incredulous at the girlish contour
of the gentle face, then cast down his eyes as if afraid he had been
rude. “Seven! It is—it is a great charge.”
“Yes, indeed it is,” she said earnestly; “and I am sure you will be kind
enough to give your influence to help me with them—poor boys.”
“Oh! oh!” he exclaimed, “anything I can do—” in such a transport of
eager helpfulness that Rachel coldly said, “We are all anxious to assist
in the care of the children.” He coloured up, and with a sort of effort
at self-assertion, blurted out, “As the clergyman of the parish—,” and
there halted, and was beginning to look foolish, when Lady Temple took
him up in her soft, persuasive way. “Of course we shall look to you so
much, and you will be so kind as to let me know if there is any one I
can send any broth to at anytime.”
“Thank you; you are very good;” and he was quite himself again. “I shall
have the pleasure of sending you down a few names.”
“I never did approve the broken victual system,” began Rachel, “it
creates dependence.”
“Come here, Hubert,” said Fanny, beckoning a boy she saw at a distance,
“come and shake hands with Mr. Touchett.” It was from instinct rather
than reason; there was a fencing between Rachel and the curate that
made her uncomfortable, and led her to break it off by any means in her
power; and though Mr. Touchett was not much at his ease with the little
boy, this discussion was staged off. But again Mr. Touchett made bold to
say that in case Lady Temple wished for a daily governess, he knew of a
very desirable young person, a most admirable pair of sisters, who had
met with great reverses, but Rachel snapped him off shorter than ever.
“We can decide nothing yet; I have made up my mind to teach the little
boys at present.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“It is very kind,” said the perplexed Lady Temple.
“I beg your pardon, I only thought, in case you were wishing for some
one, that Miss Williams will be at liberty shortly.”
“I do not imagine Miss Williams is the person to deal with little boys,”
said Rachel. “In fact, I think that home teaching is always better than
hired.”
“I am so much obliged,” said Fanny, as Mr. Touchett, after this defeat,
rose up to take leave, and she held out her hand, smiled, thanked, and
sent him away so much sweetened and gratified, that Rachel would have
instantly begun dissecting him, but that a whole rush of boys broke in,
and again engrossed their mother, and in the next lull, the uppermost
necessity was of explaining about the servants who had been hired for
the time, one of whom was a young woman whose health had given way over
her lace pillow, and Rachel was eloquent over the crying evils of the
system (everything was a system with Rachel) that chained girls to an
unhealthy occupation in their early childhood, and made an overstocked
market and underpaid workers—holding Fanny fast to listen by a sort
of fascination in her overpowering earnestness, and great fixed eyes,
which, when once their grasp was taken, would not release the victim;
and this was a matter of daily occurrence on which Rachel felt keenly
and spoke strongly.
“It is very sad. If you want to help the poor things, I will give
anything I can.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, but it is doleful merely to help them to linger out
the remnant of a life consumed upon these cobwebs of vanity. It is the
fountainhead that must be reached—the root of the system!”
Fanny saw, or rather felt, a boy making signs at the window, but durst
not withdraw her eyes from the fascination of those eager ones. “Lace
and lacemakers are facts,” continued Rachel; “but if the middle men
were exploded, and the excess of workers drafted off by some wholesome
outlet, the price would rise, so that the remainder would be at leisure
to fulfil the domestic offices of womanhood.”
There was a great uproar above.
“I beg your pardon, dear Rachel,” and away went Fanny.
“I do declare,” cried Rachel, when Grace, having despatched her
home-cares, entered the room a quarter of an hour after; “poor Fanny’s a
perfect slave. One can’t get in a word edgeways.”
Fanny at last returned, but with her baby; and there was no chance for
even Rachel to assert herself while this small queen was in presence.
Grace was devoted to infants, and there was a whole court of brothers
vying with one another in picking up her constantly dropped toys, and in
performing antics for her amusement. Rachel, desirous to be gracious and
resigned, attempted conversation with one of the eldest pair, but the
baby had but to look towards him, and he was at her feet.
On her departure, Rachel resumed the needful details of the arrangements
respecting the house and servants, and found Lady Temple as grateful and
submissive as ever, except that, when advised to take Myrtlewood for a
term of seven years, she replied, that the Major had advised her not to
bind herself down at once.
“Did you let him think we should quarrel?”
“Oh, no, my dear; but it might not agree with the children.”
“Avonmouth! Grace, do you hear what heresy Fanny has been learning? Why,
the proportion of ozone in the air here has been calculated to be five
times that of even Aveton!”
“Yes, dearest,” said poor Fanny, very humbly, and rather scared, “there
is no place like Avonmouth, and I am sure the Major will think so when
he has seen it.”
“But what has he to do with your movements?”
“Sir Stephen wished—” murmured Fanny.
“The Major is military secretary, and always settles our head-quarters,
and no one interferes with him,” shouted Conrade.
Rachel, suspicious and jealous of her rival, was obliged to let Fanny
pass on to the next item, where her eager acceptance of all that
was prescribed to her was evidently meant as compensation for her
refractoriness about the house.
Grace had meanwhile applied herself to keeping off the boys, and was
making some progress in their good graces, and in distinguishing between
their sallow faces, dark eyes, and crisp, black heads. Conrade was
individualized, not only by superior height, but by soldierly bearing,
bright pride glancing in his eyes, his quick gestures, bold, decided
words, and imperious tone towards all, save his mother—and whatever he
was doing, his keen, black eye was always turning in search of her, he
was ever ready to spring to her side to wait on her, to maintain her
cause in rough championship, or to claim her attention to himself.
Francis was thick-set, round-shouldered, bullet-headed and dull-eyed,
in comparison, not aggressive, but holding his own, and not
very approachable; Leoline, thin, white-cheeked, large-eyed and
fretful-lipped, was ready to whine at Conrade’s tyranny and Francis’s
appropriations, but was grateful for Grace’s protection, and more easy
of access than his elders; and Hubert was a handsome, placid child, the
good boy, as well as the beauty of the family. The pair in the nursery
hardly came on the stage, and the two elders would be quite sufficient
for Mrs. Curtis, with whom the afternoon was to be spent.
The mother, evidently, considered it a very long absence, but she was
anxious to see both her aunt and her own home, and set out, leaning
on Rachel’s arm, and smiling pleased though sad recognition of the
esplanade, the pebbly beach, bathing machines and fishing boats, and
pointing them out to her sons, who, on their side, would only talk of
the much greater extent of Melbourne.
Within the gates of the Homestead, there was a steep, sharp bit of road,
cut out in the red sandstone rock, and after a few paces she paused to
rest with a sigh that brought Conrade to her side, when she put her arm
round his neck, and leant on his shoulder; but even her two supporters
could not prevent her from looking pale and exhausted.
“Never mind,” she said, “this salt wind is delightful. How like old
times it is!” and she stood gazing across the little steep lawn at
the grey sea, the line of houses following the curve of the bay,
and straggling up the valley in the rear, and the purple headlands
projecting point beyond point, showing them to her boys, and telling
their names.
“It is all ugly and cold,” said Francis, with an ungracious shiver. “I
shall go home to Melbourne when I’m a man.”
“And you will come, mamma?” added Conrade.
He had no answer, for Fanny was in her aunt’s arms; and, like mother and
daughter, they clung to each other—more able to sympathize, more truly
one together, than the young widow could be with either of the girls.
As soon as Fanny had rested and enjoyed the home atmosphere downstairs,
she begged to visit the dear old rooms, and carried Conrade through a
course of recognitions through the scarcely altered apartments. Only one
had been much changed, namely, the schoolroom, which had been stripped
of the kindly old shabby furniture that Fanny tenderly recollected, and
was decidedly bare; but a mahogany box stood on a stand on one side;
there was a great accession of books, and writing implements occupied
the plain deal table in the centre.
“What have you done to the dear old room—do you not use it still?”
asked Fanny.
“Yes, I work here,” said Rachel.
Vainly did Lady Temple look for that which women call work.
“I have hitherto ground on at after-education and self-improvement,”
said Rachel; “now I trust to make my preparation available for others. I
will undertake any of your boys if you wish it.”
“Thank you; but what is that box?”—in obedience to a curious push and
pull from Conrade.
“It is her dispensary,” said Grace.
“Yes,” said Rachel, “you are weak and nervous, and I have just the thing
for you.”
“Is it homoeopathy?”
“Yes, here is my book. I have done great things in my district, and
should do more but for prejudice. There, this globule is the very thing
for your case; I made it out last night in my book. That is right, and I
wanted to ask you some questions about little Wilfred.”
Fanny had obediently swallowed her own globule, but little Wilfred was
a different matter, and she retreated from the large eyes and open book,
saying that he was better, and that Mr. Frampton should look at him; but
Rachel was not to be eluded, and was in full career of elucidation to
the meanest capacity, when a sharp skirmish between the boys ended
the conversation, and it appeared that Conrade had caught Francis
just commencing an onslaught on the globules, taking them for English
sweetmeats of a minute description.
The afternoon passed with the strange heaviness well known to those who
find it hard to resume broken threads after long parting. There was much
affection, but not full certainty what to talk about, and the
presence of the boys would have hindered confidence, even had they not
incessantly occupied their mother. Conrade, indeed, betook himself to
a book, but Francis was only kept out of mischief by his constantly
turning over pictures with him; however, at dark, Coombe came to convey
them home, and the ladies of the Homestead experienced a sense of
relief. Rachel immediately began to talk of an excellent preparatory
school.
“I was thinking of asking you,” said Fanny, “if there is any one here
who would come as a daily governess.”
“Oh!” cried Rachel, “these two would be much better at school, and I
would form the little ones, who are still manageable.”
“Conrade is not eight years old yet,” said his mother in an imploring
tone, “and the Major said I need not part with him till he has grown a
little more used to English ways.”
“He can read, I see,” said Grace, “and he told me he had done some Latin
with the Major.”
“Yes, he has picked up a vast deal of information, and on the voyage the
Major used to teach him out of a little pocket Virgil. The Major said it
would not be of much use at school, as there was no dictionary; but
that the discipline and occupation would be useful, and so they were.
Conrade, will do anything for the Major, and indeed so will they all.”
Three Majors in one speech, thought Rachel; and by way of counteraction
she enunciated, “I could undertake the next pair of boys easily, but
these two are evidently wanting school discipline.”
Lady Temple feathered up like a mother dove over her nest.
“You do not know Conrade. He is so trustworthy and affectionate, dear
boy, and they are both always good with me. The Major said it often
hurts boys to send them too young.”
“They are very young, poor little fellows,” said Mrs. Curtis.
“And if they are forward in some things they are backward in others,”
said Fanny. “What Major Keith recommended was a governess, who would
know what is generally expected of little boys.”
“I don’t like half measures,” muttered Rachel. “I do not approve
of encouraging young women to crowd the overstocked profession of
governesses.”
Fanny opened her brown eyes, and awaited the words of wisdom.
“Is it not a flagrant abuse,” continued Rachel, “that whether she have
a vocation or not, every woman of a certain rank, who wishes to gain her
own livelihood, must needs become a governess? A nursery maid must have
a vocation, but an educated or half-educated woman has no choice;
and educator she must become, to her own detriment, and that of her
victims.”
“I always did think governesses often much to be pitied,” said Fanny,
finding something was expected of her.
“What’s the use of pity if one runs on in the old groove? We must
prevent the market from being drugged, by diverting the supply into new
lines.”
“Are there any new lines?” asked Fanny, surprised at the progress of
society in her absence.
“Homoeopathic doctresses,” whispered Grace; who, dutiful as she was,
sometimes indulged in a little fun, which Rachel would affably receive
unless she took it in earnest, as in the present instance.
“Why not—I ask why not? Some women have broken through prejudice, and
why should not others? Do you not agree with me, Fanny, that female
medical men—I mean medical women—would be an infinite boon?”
“It would be very nice if they would never be nervous.”
“Nerves are merely a matter of training. Think of the numbers that might
be removed from the responsibility of incompetently educating! I declare
that to tempt a person into the office of governess, instead of opening
a new field to her, is the most short-sighted indolence.”
“I don’t want to tempt any one,” said Fanny. “She ought to have been
out before and be experienced, only she most be kind to the poor boys. I
wanted the Major to inquire in London, but he said perhaps I might hear
of some one here.”
“That was right, my dear,” returned her aunt. “A gentleman, an officer,
could not do much in such a matter.”
“He always does manage whatever one wants.”
At which speech Rachel cast a glance towards her mother, and saw her
look questioning and perplexed.
“I was thinking,” said Grace, “that I believe the people at the Cliff
Cottages are going away, and that Miss Williams might be at liberty.”
“Didn’t I know that Grace would come out with Miss Williams?” exclaimed
Rachel. “A regular eruption of the Touchettomania. We have had him
already advertising her.”
“Miss Williams!” said Mrs. Curtis. “Yes, she might suit you very well.
I believe they are very respectable young women, poor things! I have
always wished that we could do more for them.”
“Who?” asked Fanny.
“Certain pets of Mr. Touchett’s,” said Rachel; “some of the numerous
ladies whose mission is that curatolatry into which Grace would lapse
but for my strenuous efforts.”
“I don’t quite know why you call them his pets,” said Grace, “except
that he knew their antecedents, and told us about them.”
“Exactly, that was enough, for me. I perfectly understand the meaning of
Mr. Touchett’s recommendations, and if what Fanny wants is a commonplace
sort of upper nursemaid, I dare say it would do.” And Rachel leant back,
applied herself to her wood carving, and virtually retired from the
discussion.
“One sister is a great invalid,” said Grace, “quite a cripple, and the
other goes out as a daily governess. They are a clergyman’s daughters,
and once were very well off, but they lost everything through some
speculation of their brother. I believe he fled the country under some
terrible suspicion of dishonesty; and though no one thought they had
anything to do with it, their friends dropped them because they would
not give him up, nor believe him guilty, and a little girl of his lives
with them.”
“Poor things!” exclaimed Lady Temple. “I should very much like to employ
this one. How very sad.”
“Mrs. Grey told me that her children had never done so well with any
one,” said Mrs. Curtis. “She wanted to engage Miss Williams permanently,
but could not induce her to leave her sister, or even to remove her to
London, on account of her health.”
“Do you know her, Grace?” asked Fanny.
“I have called once or twice, and have been very much pleased with the
sick sister; but Rachel does not fancy that set, you see. I meet the
other at the Sunday school, I like her looks and manner very much, and
she is always at the early service before her work.”
“Just like a little mauve book!” muttered Rachel.
Fanny absolutely stared. “You go, don’t you, Rachel? How we used to wish
for it!”
“You have wished and we have tried,” said Rachel, with a sigh.
“Yes, Rachel,” said Grace; “but with all drawbacks, all disappointments
in ourselves, it is a great blessing. We would not be without it.”
“I could not be satisfied in relinquishing it voluntarily,” said Rachel,
“but I am necessarily one of the idle. Were I one of the occupied,
laborare est orare would satisfy me, and that poor governess ought to
feel the same. Think of the physical reaction of body on mind, and tell
me if you could have the barbarity of depriving that poor jaded thing
of an hour’s sleep, giving her an additional walk, fasting, in all
weathers, and preparing her to be savage with the children.”
“Perhaps it refreshes her, and hinders her from being cross.”
“Maybe she thinks so; but if she have either sense or ear, nothing
would so predispose her to be cross as the squeaking of Mr. Touchett’s
penny-whistle choir.”
“Poor Mr. Touchett,” sighed Mrs. Curtis; “I wish he would not make such
ambitious attempts.”
“But you like the choral service,” said Fanny, feeling as if everything
had turned round. “When all the men of a regiment chant together you
cannot think how grand it is, almost finer than the cathedral.”
“Yes, where you can do it,” said Rachel, “but not where you can’t.”
“I wish you would not talk about it,” said Grace.
“I must, or Fanny will not understand the state of parties at
Avonmouth.”
“Parties! Oh, I hope not.”
“My dear child, party spirit is another word for vitality. So you
thought the church we sighed for had made the place all we sighed to see
it, and ourselves too. Oh! Fanny is this what you have been across the
world for?”
“What is wrong?” asked Fanny, alarmed.
“Do you remember our axiom? Build your church, and the rest will take
care of itself. You remember our scraping and begging, and how that good
Mr. Davison helped us out and brought the endowment up to the needful
point for consecration, on condition the incumbency was given to him.
He held it just a year, and was rich, and could help out his bad health
with a curate. But first he went to Madeira, and then he died, and
there we are, a perpetual curacy of £70 a year, no resident gentry but
ourselves, a fluctuating population mostly sick, our poor demoralized
by them, and either crazed by dissent, or heathenized by their former
distance from church. Who would take us? No more Mr. Davisons! There was
no more novelty, and too much smartness to invite self-devotion. So
we were driven from pillar to post till we settled down into this Mr.
Touchett, as good a being as ever lived, working as hard as any two, and
sparing neither himself nor any one else.”
Fanny looked up prepared to admire.
“But he has two misfortunes. He was not born a gentleman, and his mind
does not measure an inch across.”
“Rachel, my dear, it is not fair to prejudice Fanny; I am sure the poor
man is very well-behaved.”
“Mother! would you be calling the ideal Anglican priest, poor man?”
“I thought he was quite gentlemanlike,” added Fanny.
“Gentlemanlike! ay, that’s it,” said Rachel, “just so like as to delight
the born curatolatress, like Grace and Miss Williams.”
“Would it hurt the children?” asked Fanny, hardly comprehending the
tremendous term.
“Yes, if it infected you,” said Rachel, intending some playfullness. “A
mother of contracted mind forfeits the allegiance of her sons.”
“Oh, Rachel, I know I am weak and silly,” said the gentle young widow,
terrified, “but the Major said if I only tried to do my duty by them I
should be helped.”
“And I will help you, Fanny,” said Rachel. “All that is requisite is
good sense and firmness, and a thorough sense of responsibility.”
“That is what is so dreadful. The responsibility of all those dear
fatherless boys, and if—if I should do wrong by them.”
Poor Fanny fell into an uncontrollable fit of weeping at the sense of
her own desolation and helplessness, and Mrs. Curtis came to comfort
her, and tell her affectionately of having gone through the like
feelings, and of the repeated but most comfortable words of promise to
the fatherless and the widow—words that had constantly come before the
sufferer, but which had by no means lost their virtue by repetition, and
Fanny was soothed with hearing instances of the special Providence over
orphaned sons, and their love and deference for their mother. Rachel,
shocked and distressed at the effect of her sense, retired out of the
conversation, till at the announcement of the carriage for Lady Temple,
her gentle cousin cheered up, and feeling herself to blame for having
grieved one who only meant aid and kindness, came to her and fondly
kissed her forehead, saying, “I am not vexed, dear Rachel, I know you
are right. I am not clever enough to bring them up properly, but if I
try hard, and pray for them, it may be made up to them. And you will
help me, Rachel dear,” she added, as her readiest woe-offering for her
tears, and it was the most effectual, for Rachel was perfectly contented
as long as Fanny was dependent on her, and allowed her to assume her
mission, provided only that the counter influence could be averted,
and this Major, this universal referee, be eradicated from her foolish
clinging habits of reliance before her spirits were enough recovered to
lay her heart open to danger.
But the more Rachel saw of her cousin, the more she realized this peril.
When she went down on Monday morning to complete the matters of business
that had been slurred over on the Saturday, she found that Fanny had
not the slightest notion what her own income was to be. All she knew
was that her General had left everything unreservedly to herself, except
£100 and one of his swords to Major Keith, who was executor to the
will, and had gone to London to “see about it,” by which word poor Fanny
expressed all the business that her maintenance depended on. If an
old general wished to put a major in temptation, could he have found a
better means of doing so? Rachel even thought that Fanny’s incapacity to
understand business had made her mistake the terms of the bequest, and
that Sir Stephen must have secured his property to his children; but
Fanny was absolutely certain that this was not the case, for she said
the Major had made her at once sign a will dividing the property among
them, and appointing himself and her Aunt Curtis their guardians. “I did
not like putting such a charge on my dear aunt,” said Fanny, “but the
Major said I ought to appoint a relation, and I had no one else! And I
knew you would all be good to them, if they had lost me too, when baby
was born.”
“We would have tried,” said Rachel, a little humbly, “but oh! I am glad
you are here, Fanny!”
Nothing could of course be fixed till the Major had “seen about it.”
After which he was to come to let Lady Temple know the result; but she
believed he would first go to Scotland to see his brother. He and his
brother were the only survivors of a large family, and he had been on
foreign service for twelve years, so that it would be very selfish to
wish him not to take full time at home. “Selfish,” thought Rachel; “if
he will only stay away long enough, you shall learn, my dear, how well
you can do without him!”
The boys had interrupted the conversation less than the previous one,
because the lesser ones were asleep, or walking out, and the elder ones
having learnt that a new week was to be begun steadily with lessons,
thought it advisable to bring themselves as little into notice as
possible; but fate was sure to pursue them sooner or later, for Rachel
had come down resolved on testing their acquirements, and deciding
on the method to be pursued with them; and though their mamma, with a
curtain instinctive shrinking both for them and for herself, had put
off the ordeal to the utmost by listening to all the counsel about her
affairs, it was not to be averted.
“Now, Fanny, since it seems that more cannot be done at present, let us
see about the children’s education. Where are their books?”
“We have very few books,” said Fanny, hesitating; “we had not much
choice where we were.”
“You should have written to me for a selection.”
“Why—so we would, but there was always a talk of sending Conrade
and Francis home. I am afraid you will think them very backward, dear
Rachel, especially Francie; but it is not their fault, dear children,
and they are not used to strangers,” added Fanny, nervously.
“I do not mean to be a stranger,” said Rachel.
And while Fanny, in confusion, made loving protestations about not
meaning that, Rachel stepped out upon the lawn, and in her clear voice
called “Conrade, Francis!” No answer. She called “Conrade” again, and
louder, then turned round with “where can they be—not gone down on the
beach?”
“Oh, dear no, I trust not,” said the mother, flurried, and coming to
the window with a call that seemed to Rachel’s ears like the roar of a
sucking dove.
But from behind the bushes forth came the two young gentlemen, their
black garments considerably streaked with the green marks of laurel
climbing.
“Oh, my dears, what figures you are! Go to Coombe and get yourselves
brushed, and wash your hands, and then come down, and bring your lesson
books.”
Rachel prognosticated that these preparations would be made the
occasion, of much waste of time; but she was answered, and with rather
surprised eyes, that they had never been allowed to come into the
drawing-room without looking like little gentlemen.
“But you are not living in state here,” said Rachel; “I never could
enter into the cult some people, mamma especially, pay to their
drawing-room.”
“The Major used to be very particular about their not coming to sit down
untidy,” said Fanny. “He said it was not good for anybody.”
Martinet! thought Rachel, nearly ready to advocate the boys making no
toilette at any time; and the present was made to consume so much time
that, urged by her, Fanny once more was obliged to summon her boys and
their books.
It was not an extensive school library—a Latin grammar an extremely
dilapidated spelling-book, and the fourth volume of Mrs. Marcet’s
“Little Willie.” The other three—one was unaccounted for, but Cyril
had torn up the second, and Francis had thrown the first overboard in
a passion. Rachel looked in dismay. “I don’t know what can be done with
these!” she said.
“Oh, then we’ll have holidays till we have got books, mamma,” said
Conrade, putting his hands on the sofa, and imitating a kicking horse.
“It is very necessary to see what kind of books you ought to have,”
returned Rachel. “How far have you gone in this?”
“I say, mamma,” reiterated Conrade, “we can’t do lessons without books.”
“Attend to what your Aunt Rachel says, my dear; she wants to find out
what books you should have.”
“Yes, let me examine you.”
Conrade came most inconveniently close to her; she pushed her chair
back; he came after her. His mother uttered a remonstrating, “My dear!”
“I thought she wanted to examine me,” quoth Conrade. “When Dr. M’Vicar
examines a thing, he puts it under a microscope.”
It was said gravely, and whether it were malice or simplicity, Rachel
was perfectly unable to divine, but she thought anyway that Fanny had
no business to laugh, and explaining the species of examination that she
intended, she went to work. In her younger days she had worked much
at schools, and was really an able and spirited teacher, liking the
occupation; and laying hold of the first book in her way, she requested
Conrade to read. He obeyed, but in such a detestable gabble that she
looked up appealingly to Fanny, who suggested, “My dear, you can read
better than that.” He read four lines, not badly, but then broke off,
“Mamma, are not we to have ponies? Coombe heard of a pony this morning;
it is to be seen at the ‘Jolly Mariner,’ and he will take us to look at
it.”
“The ‘Jolly Mariner!’ It is a dreadful place, Fanny, you never will let
them go there?”
“My dear, the Major will see about your ponies when he comes.”
“We will send the coachman down to inquire,” added Rachel.
“He is only a civilian, and the Major always chooses our horses,” said
Conrade.
“And I am to have one too, mamma,” added Francis. “You know I have been
out four times with the staff, and the Major said I could ride as well
as Con!”
“Reading is what is wanted now, my dear, go on.”
Five lines more; but Francis and his mother were whispering together,
and of course Conrade stopped to listen. Rachel saw there was no hope
but in getting him alone, and at his mother’s reluctant desire,
he followed her to the dining-room; but there he turned dogged and
indifferent, made a sort of feint of doing what he was told, but whether
she tried him in arithmetic, Latin, or dictation, he made such ludicrous
blunders as to leave her in perplexity whether they arose from ignorance
or impertinence. His spelling was phonetic to the highest degree, and
though he owned to having done sums, he would not, or did not answer the
simplest question in mental arithmetic. “Five apples and eight apples,
come, Conrade, what will they make?”
“A pie.”
That was the hopeful way in which the examination proceeded, and when
Rachel attempted to say that his mother would be much displeased, he
proceeded to tumble head over heels all round the room, as if he knew
better; which performance broke up the seance, with a resolve on her
part that when she had the books she would not be so beaten. She tried
Francis, but he really did know next to nothing, and whenever he came to
a word above five letters long stopped short, and when told to spell
it, said, “Mamma never made him spell;” also muttering something
depreciating about civilians.
Rachel was a woman of perseverance. She went to the bookseller’s, and
obtained a fair amount of books, which she ordered to be sent to Lady
Temple’s. But when she came down the next morning, the parcel was
nowhere to be found. There was a grand interrogation, and at last it
turned out to have been safely deposited in an empty dog-kennel in
the back yard. It was very hard on Rachel that Fanny giggled like a
school-girl, and even though ashamed of herself and her sons, could
not find voice to scold them respectably. No wonder, after such
encouragement, that Rachel found her mission no sinecure, and felt at
the end of her morning’s work much as if she had been driving pigs to
market, though the repetition was imposing on the boys a sort of sense
of fate and obedience, and there was less active resistance, though
learning it was not, only letting teaching be thrown at them. All the
rest of the day, except those two hours, they ran wild about the house,
garden, and beach—the latter place under the inspection of Coombe,
whom, since the “Jolly Mariner” proposal, Rachel did not in the
least trust; all the less when she heard that Major Keith, whose
soldier-servant he had originally been, thought very highly of him.
A call at Myrtlewood was formidable from the bear-garden sounds, and
delicate as Lady Temple was considered to be, unable to walk or bear
fatigue, she never appeared to be incommoded by the uproar in which she
lived, and had even been seen careering about the nursery, or running
about the garden, in a way that Grace and Rachel thought would tire
a strong woman. As to a tete-a-tete with her, it was never secured by
anything short of Rachel’s strong will, for the children were always
with her, and she went to bed, or at any rate to her own room, when they
did, and she was so perfectly able to play and laugh with them that her
cousins scarcely thought her sufficiently depressed, and comparing her
with what their own mother had been after ten months’ widowhood, agreed
that after all “she had been very young, and Sir Stephen very old, and
perhaps too much must not be expected of her.”
“The grand passion of her life is yet to come,” said Rachel.
“I hope not,” said Grace.
“You may be certain of that,” said Rachel. “Feminine women always have
it one time or other in their lives; only superior ones are exempt. But
I hope I may have influence enough to carry her past it, and prevent her
taking any step that might be injurious to the children.”