GRANDMOTHER'S DINNER
Christian had, on the whole, a very interesting day. She had never been
so captivated by Italian children before. She watched and watched the
pretty movements, the quick gestures, the gleam of the white teeth, the
shining dark eyes. The little monkeys, too, were all that was pathetic.
She quite made up her mind that she and Rosy would earn their living
in the future as Italian girls--that they would have a monkey and a
tambourine each, and go about and dance and beg for money, and have a
happy time.
"Only we must not do it near home," thought Christian, "for we might be
discovered. It would be indeed too terrible a fate if, when father and
mother are away in Persia, Miss Neil should catch sight of us. I should
be punished then; and poor, poor Rosy--her mother would half kill her."
Christian's thoughts were so full of keen interest that morning that
Miss Thompson began to consider her a very delightful girl. She was
startled, however, in the midst of lunch, which they were both enjoying
immensely, by the young girl bending forward and saying in an emphatic
voice:
"If it was necessary for your career, would you greatly mind being dyed
with walnut-juice?"
"My dear Christian, what a strange remark!"
"But I wish you'd answer it," said Christian emphatically.
"I can't understand. It could not be necessary for my career."
"But if it was. If it made all the difference between success and
failure, between prison and liberty, which would you choose?"
"Oh, the walnut-juice, of course," said Miss Thompson. "But, all the
same, I fail to understand."
"I don't want you to understand any more, dear Thompson; and you
know you are quite a darling. You are coming out in the very nicest
character. I hope I shall have more and more holidays, for I do like
going about with you."
Miss Thompson was to remember Christian's remarks later on, but
certainly at the present juncture they had no meaning for her.
When the young girl came back late that evening she was informed by
nurse that Mrs. Mitford had sent her an invitation.
"You are to put on your very best company frock, Miss Christian, and to
look as nice as ever you can, for you are to go down to sit with your
mamma in her boudoir this evening. Mr. Mitford will be out, and you are
to have supper with her. She means to have supper in her boudoir, and
she says that you are to keep her company."
Nurse expected Christian to shout with delight, but she was silent and
looked rather grave.
"Aint you glad, my darling?" said the old woman.
"Nursey," said Christian, "did you ever have the feeling that you were
too glad and yet too sorry to be able to say what you felt? On the
whole, I'd rather not see too much of mumsy at present; but if I must
I must, and if I go I'd like to look nice. Make me very, very nice,
please, nursey dear."
Nurse set herself willingly to accomplish this task, and Christian
in her white silk frock, with its many ruchings and ribbons and
soft laces, and with her fair hair hanging down her back, made as
interesting and pretty a picture as the heart of mother could desire.
"There, darling!" said the old woman; "you are like no one else, my own
Miss Christian. Kiss me and go."
Christian ran up first to her attic. She had secured a broken
looking-glass, rather a large one, which she had placed in such a
position that she could see herself when she acted the parts of her
different heroes and heroines. From time to time she had induced the
housemaids to give her candle-ends, and she possessed a large box of
these interesting remnants. She lit a couple of dozen now, put them in
different positions, and was at last able to get a good view of her
own young figure. She was a rather tall and very upright girl, and she
looked her best to-night.
"Is it I or is it another girl?" thought Christian.
Her quick imagination pictured the different heroines of history. Which
should she select as her own rôle to-night? Finally, after a steadfast
glance into her face, she decided to belong to the army of martyrs,
and to imagine herself back in the time when people died for their
faith. It seemed to her that she read resolution, determination, and
unflinching self-sacrifice in her eyes.
She blew out the candles, gave a little sigh of relief, and ran
downstairs. Her mother was waiting for her. Mrs. Mitford was very
prettily dressed, the boudoir looked charming, the fire burned
brightly, the lamps were pretty with their shaded globes, but Christian
could not help giving a guilty glance towards that window behind whose
thick, soft curtains she had listened to the story of her proposed fate.
"Only it isn't my fate," thought the child, "for I am determined--quite
determined--to choose the life of the free."
Supper was already on the table, and Christian had to take her place.
"I hope you will like the meal I have had prepared for you, Chris,"
said her mother. "Johnston, you need not wait," she continued, turning
to the footman; "we will ring when we want anything: I have quite
thought about this little meal with you, Chris," continued Mrs.
Mitford, "and I ordered soles. You love soles, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, mumsy; we never have anything nice and tasty of that sort in
the schoolroom."
"They have got so terribly expensive," said Mrs. Mitford in a fretful
tone. "After the soles we will have pheasant; you are fond of pheasant.
And you shall pour out the coffee by-and-by. As the sweets--children
always adore sweets--I hate them myself, but I suppose there will be
something brought up for you. I ordered a savory for myself, but left
your sweets to cook."
"And I'd ever so much rather eat a bit of your savory, mother; I don't
so specially care for sweets," said Christian.
She was somewhat depressed, and yet she was happy. The delicately
served meal was quite to her taste. She said to herself:
"This will be something to remember by-and-by when Rosy and I are
eating red herrings and stale bread. I'll often talk to Rosy about this
meal. I feel to-night as though I wasn't Christian Mitford at all, but
someone else; not a poor martyr, but a sort of queen. How pretty mother
looks! I shall never be pretty like her. Yes, she has a darling, sweet
face, but----"
Christian did not follow up this "but," only it lay like a weight near
her heart.
The meal came to an end, the savory was disposed of, coffee appeared
and vanished, and presently Mrs. Mitford and her daughter were alone.
"Now, mumsy," said Christian, "come and sit on this deep sofa and let
me cuddle up to you. Let me think that I am a very little girl once
more; I want you to pet me and stroke my face. I want to put my head on
your shoulder. You don't mind, do you, darling?"
"Oh, Christian!" said Mrs. Mitford, the tears rushing to her eyes, "I
only wish you were a little, little girl. Big girls don't suit me half
as well. I used to pet you such a lot, and you were so pretty. Don't
you remember the time when I took you out driving in your dark-blue
velvet pelisse and your blue hat? Don't you remember how the people
used to remark on my very pretty little girl?"
"Yes, mumsy," said Christian; "but you can imagine I am your very
pretty little girl again, can't you, mumsy?"
Mrs. Mitford said she could; but she was small and Christian was big,
and the weight of the child's head on her shoulder tired her. Presently
she sat up restlessly and said:
"We are wasting our time; I have a great deal to talk to you about. I
don't often see you; I am so busy, you know."
"Yes, mother," said Christian; "but it seems a pity, doesn't it?"
"It can't be helped, dear. Your father is a man of great importance,
and I am obliged to be with him all I can. And this is the time for
your education. I want you to be a very accomplished girl. I don't care
a bit about learning or anything of that sort, but I do want you to
play well--so well that people will talk and look at you, and remark on
the brilliancy of your touch. And I want you to have a lovely voice.
When you are old enough you must have the very best instruction for
that. And then I want you to paint a little, and recite; recitations
are very popular, only they must be well done. And I want you, of
course, to be a good linguist; your French must be perfect. By-and-by
you shall go to Paris to get a proper accent. German is nice too, but
not so important as French. Italian would be useful; you are sure to
spend a few years in Italy. You must dance beautifully; but then there
is no doubt on that point, for you dance well already."
Christian sat very upright; she did not speak.
"Well," said her mother, "does my list of accomplishments appeal to
you? Do you want to be all that your mother could desire?"
"You leave out some things," said Christian--"the story part--all about
history and the lovely, lovely things that happened long ago. I don't
want just to be----"
"Just to be what, dear?"
"I can't explain myself; but when I think--oh, mumsy! I will tell you.
You mustn't be angry with me, but I don't want to be a brilliant,
accomplished girl; I want to be a heroine."
"You silly, silly child! A heroine! What do you mean?"
"I want to be the sort of girl who would do great things--who would----"
But Mrs. Mitford interrupted her with a little scream.
"You want to be an oddity," she said, "an eccentric horror. Don't come
to me and expect my approbation if you are anything of that sort."
Just at that moment the room door was opened, and who should come in
but Mr. Mitford. His wife gave a start when she saw him.
"I found I could get away earlier than I expected," was his remark. "I
fancied Chris would be with you, and I thought we could have a talk.
You both look very charming."
Christian sat close to her mother.
"What a contrast you both are!--you so dark and piquant, and Christian
so tall and fair and blonde. You are very like your grandmother, Chris,
and she was a very beautiful and noble woman."
Mrs. Mitford sighed. The color deepened in her cheeks.
"I believe," she said, with a laugh, "that Christian will resemble her
grandmother in more ways than one. You know what an eccentric woman she
was."
"She was a very good woman, you mean," said Mr. Mitford.
"Yes, Patrick; but eccentric--very eccentric. Do you remember when she
insisted on giving up her own dinner to send it to the invalid who
lived on the other side of the street? It was ridiculous of her."
"Do tell me!" said Christian suddenly. "Did granny give her dinner to a
sick person at the opposite side of the street?"
Mr. Mitford laughed. His dark eyes fixed themselves on Christian's
animated face. He stepped up to her, and putting his hand under her
chin, looked down at the speaking, bright features.
"You are like her," he said, with a sigh, "the same eyes, the same
determined chin, the same expression. Well, my child, I can wish you
nothing better than to be as good as your grandmother."
"But tell me about the dinner, father."
Mr. Mitford laughed; then his face grew grave.
"We kept a most perfect cook, for your grandmother was singularly
particular with regard to her food. She had a very small appetite, but
she always wanted the very best prepared for her, and she could not
worry herself about ordering her own food; she liked it to come as a
surprise. Now, Adams suited your grandmother's palate to perfection.
Day by day the most delicious little dinners were served up. Well,
one evening, I don't exactly know how she discovered it, but your
grandmother happened to know that there was a poor lady in the
opposite house who refused to eat anything. She was poor, and the house
she lived in was nothing like as large and expensive as ours. Your
grandmother feared that Mrs. Stirling had not a cook to her taste, so
that evening she sent her own special dinner to her. When she found she
liked it she sent it again every night."
"But why couldn't she have more dinner cooked for the sick woman?"
interrupted Christian.
"Ah, that was the point. Adams would only prepare this very special and
choice dinner for your grandmother. She could not be worried to do it
for anyone else. Had your grandmother told her that the special meals
were to go to Mrs. Stirling they would not have been worth eating, so
she gave her own dinner and went hungry. The thing lasted for three
weeks."
"And then?" asked Christian.
"Mrs. Stirling died. The people said afterwards that your grandmother's
dinners kept her alive for ten days, and that she enjoyed them so much
that she used to think about them all day long until they came. The
thing was just like your dear old grandmother; she was an oddity, but
most unselfish."
"It was a splendid thing to do," said Christian. "It was exactly
the very thing I mean to do. I always thought granny looked nice--I
mean from her picture--but now I am certain about it. She is a great
heroine, and I mean to copy her."
"There, Patrick!" cried his wife; "what mischief you have done by
telling Christian that absurd story! There always was a vein of oddity
in Christian. I hope you will speak seriously to her, and tell her that
during our abs---- I mean henceforward we wish her to attend to her
accomplishments, that when she is grown up, and--we have time, we will
take her out and be proud of her."
Mr. Mitford continued to stand near Christian, and once again he looked
into her face; then he said, with a sigh:
"A girl such as your mother has described would be quite acceptable to
me. But come, Chris, what have you got in your head?"
"Only that I want to be a heroine," she said.
She stood up as she spoke. Her face looked tired.
"I want to do something big; I want people to remember me when I
am dead. I'd like to have a great big obelisk put up over me, and
words written on it. And I'd like it to be pointed to, and people
to say, 'The woman in memory of whom that obelisk was erected was a
benefactress.' That is what I'd like to be, but mother wants me to
be----"
"Yes," said her father, who was frowning as well as smiling, and
looking with intense earnestness at the child, "and what does mother
want you to be?"
"A musician, and to be able to dance; a linguist, and a fine singer.
Oh! she wants common, common things----"
"They're admirable things," said the father sternly. "I agree with
your mother. But why, my dear child, should not a benefactress be able
to sing and dance, and make the world brighter all round? Don't get
confused in your mind, Christian. You can be as accomplished as anyone
in the world and yet be a noble woman."
Christian looked puzzled. "I didn't think of that," she said. "I do so
want to do something--to be a heroine--and I care so little about being
just accomplished."
"You had better go to bed now, Christian," said her mother, beginning
to yawn. "Always do your duty; that is the main thing. Here is a
sovereign for you, pet. You can go out to-morrow and buy something."
Christian looked at it. Her face grew scarlet. Suddenly she said:
"But may I keep it? If I don't really want to spend it, may I keep it?"
"Of course you may, if you wish; but what a funny child!"
Mr. Mitford kissed his daughter with much more consideration than he
was wont to give to her. Mrs. Mitford gave her a passionate hug.
"Good-night, darling," she said.
When she left the room Christian's parents looked at each other.
"Upon my word," said Mr. Mitford, "Christian astonished me to-night."
"I do trust she won't grow up odd!" was Mrs. Mitford's answer.
"My dear," said her husband, "don't you see that the child is a budding
genius? I always thought so, but to-night I am sure of it. I wish I
hadn't accepted that appointment, Mary. It is very sad to be parted
from that young creature, the only child we have, for six long years."
Mrs. Mitford began to cry.
"Don't, Mary," said her husband in a distressed voice. "It is worse for
me to see you mope even than to see Christian moping."
"What I feel so awful," said Mrs. Mitford, "is her not knowing--her
thinking that we are to go on as usual. Poor Christian!"
"It is best," said her husband in a decided voice. "I could not stand
her tears; I am afraid I am a sad coward, but it's a fact. Of course,
she will get over it."
"Get over it," said Mrs. Mitford, with a laugh. "Of course she will.
She'll just fret for a bit at first. But that is a splendid school,
isn't it?"
"Yes; I went to see it. I liked everything about it. Miss Peacock is a
woman in a thousand."
"She will be very happy," said Mrs. Mitford. "She wants companions,
and Miss Neil will be nice to her when she takes her there. She won't
have time to fret. Time flies when you are young. She'll be too busy to
fret; don't you think so, Patrick?"
"I hope so," he answered; "but I don't believe she is an ordinary
child. There, Mary! don't let us talk about her now any more. We must
settle other matters to-night."
He pulled some papers out of his pocket, and soon husband and wife were
absorbed in abstruse calculations.
Meanwhile Christian put her treasured sovereign into the box which
contained all her money.
"Certainly fortune seems to favor me," thought the child. "I shall have
eight sovereigns now. Won't Rosy and I have a time!"
She sat down near the fire and began to think. Presently nurse came in.
"Tut, tut, Miss Christian!" she said; "you aint to be dreaming there
any longer. You're to go to bed."
"Nursey, I love you," said Christian suddenly.
She ran to the old woman and put her arms round her neck.
"Nursey, did you ever hear that wonderful story about my granny?"
"What story, darling?"
"About her giving her nice, lovely dinner to the dying woman."
"It was like her," said nurse.
"Did you know my granny, nurse?"
"Know her?" exclaimed nurse. "Rather! There weren't her like anywhere
to be found. She was always too good for----"
Nurse drew herself up abruptly. She had meant to say, "Too good for the
present Mrs. Mitford," but she restrained herself.
"There wasn't her like in God's world," she continued. "Dear, it were a
sorrowful day when she died."
"Was she very old?" asked Christian.
"No, lovey, not specially--a little past sixty."
"That sounds very old," exclaimed Christian.
"It aint when you come up to it," said nurse. "I'm sixty-five, and I
don't count myself such an old woman. It's wonderful what a different
view you take of sixty when you are, so to speak, nigh to it."
Christian did not find this an interesting subject. She said after a
moment:
"Was granny like me--in appearance, I mean?"
"Well, now, darling, sometimes it has come over me that you have got
her build; but you being young and she old, it's difficult to say.
Still, I own that you have got her build."
"Father thinks that perhaps I have got her spirit."
"God be thanked if that is so, Miss Christian. It was her wish that
you should be called Christian. It was her own name; she inherited it
from the Quakers. Her grandfather was a Quaker, and a very strict one;
and her mother was called Christian, and then you were, darling. She
thought a sight of the name. She said the one thing that fretted her
in not having a daughter of her own was not being able to call her
Christian."
"Was she fond of me when I came?" asked Christian.
"Yes; she'd often take you in her arms and kiss you, and say that she
hoped the spirit of her grandfather, Quaker Joseph Bunn, would descend
upon you. But there! you aint to be stopping up any more, so up to bed
you go."
Christian went to bed. She felt very thoughtful. Her conscience did
not prick her at the thought of running away. She was still firmly
convinced that even her father, who had seemed much nicer than usual
to-night, would not mind when once she was out of sight.
"'Out of sight, out of mind' with father and mother," thought the
little girl. "And I could never, never live in a strict-discipline
school."
Nevertheless Christian knew as she dropped asleep that her grandmother
would not have acted as she was going to do. Having always held herself
in strict discipline, she would not run away from it. She would obey;
she would subdue herself.
"Then I can't be like granny," thought Christian, turning restlessly
from side to side on her pillow, "for I want my own way; and I won't go
to school, for the school mother has described is a sort of prison."
With an effort she turned her thoughts from her granny and her own
secret desire to resemble her, and she thought, until sleep visited
her, of Rosy. For the very next day Rosy was to come, and Rosy was to
tell her all she had discovered; and they were finally to make their
plans, for the time when Christian would run away from Russell Square
was close at hand.