To make all this quite credible to a doubting reader, it would be
necessary to tell Mrs. Wylder's history from girlhood. She had had a
very defective education, and what there was of it was all for show.
Then she was married far too young, and to a man unworthy of any good
woman. She indeed was not a good woman, but she was capable of being
made worse; and in the bush, where she passed years not a few, and in
cities afterward, she met women and men more lawless yet than herself or
her husband. Overbearing where her likings were concerned, and full of
a certain generosity where but her interests were in question, the
slackness of the social bonds in the colonies had favoured her abnormal
development. It is difficult to say how much man or woman is the worse
for doing, when freed from restraint, what he or she would have been
glad to do before, but for the restraint. Many who go to the colonies,
and there to the dogs, only show themselves such as they dared not
appear at home: they step on a steeper slope, and arrive, not at the
pit, for they were in that already, but at the bottom of it, so much the
faster. There were, however, in Mrs. Wylder, lovely rudimentary remnants
of a good breed. She inherited feelings which gave her a certain
intermittent and fugitive dignity, of some service to others in her
wilder times, and to herself when she came into contact with an older
civilisation. She would occasionally do a right generous thing--not
seldom give with a freedom and judge with a liberality which were mainly
rooted in carelessness.
She had much confidence in her daughter; and it said well for the mother
that, with all her experience, she yet had this confidence--and none
the less that she had never taken pains to instruct her in what was
becoming. The most she had done in this way was once to snatch from her
hand and throw in the fire a novel she had herself, a moment before,
finished with unquestioning acceptance. If she had found her behaving
like some of her acquaintance to whose conduct she did not give a second
thought, for her friends might do as they pleased so long as they did
not offend _her_, she would certainly, in some of her moods at least,
have killed her.
While compelled, from lack of service, to employ herself in house
affairs, she neither ate nor drank more than seemed good for her; but as
soon as she had but to live and be served, she began to counterbalance
_ennui_ with self-indulgence, and continued to do so until the death of
her boy, ever after which she had sought refuge from grief in narcotics.
Possibly she would not have behaved as she did in church, but that her
nervous being was a very sponge for morphia. Born to be a strong woman,
she was a slave to her impulses, and, one of the weakest of her kind,
went into a rage at the least show of opposition.
Scarcely had Mr. Wingfold left the room, when in came Barbara in her
riding-habit, with the glow of joyous motion upon her face, for she had
just ridden from Mortgrange.
“How do you do, mamma?” she said, but did not come within a couple of
yards of her. “I've had such a ride--as straight as any crow could fly,
between the two stations! I never could hit the line before. But I got a
country-fellow to point me out a landmark or two, and here I am in just
half the time I should have taken by the road! Such jumps!”
“You're a madcap!” said her mother. “You'll be brought home on a shutter
some day! Mark my words, Bab! You'll see!--or at least I shall; you'll
be past seeing! But it don't matter; it's what we're made for! Die or be
killed, it's all one! I don't care!”
“I do though, mamma! I don't want to be killed just yet--and I don't
mean to be! But I must have a second horse! I begin to suspect Miss
Brown of treating me like a child. She takes care of me! I mean to let
her see what _I_ can do if _she's_ up to it!”
“You'll do nothing of the kind! I'll have her shot if you go after any
of your old pranks! And, while I think of it, Bab--your father has set
his heart on your marrying Mr. Lestrange: I can see it perfectly, and I
won't have it! If I hear of anything of that sort between you, I'll set
a heavy foot on it.--How long have you been there this time?”
“A week.--But why shouldn't I marry Mr. Lestrange if I like?”
“Because your father has set his heart on it, I tell you! Isn't that
enough, you tiresome little wretch? I _will not_ have it--not if you
break your heart over it!--There!”
Barbara burst out in a laugh that rang like a bronze bell.
“Break my heart for Mr. Lestrange! There's not a man in the world I
would break my little finger for! But my heart! that is too funny! You
needn't be uneasy, mamma; I don't like Arthur Lestrange one bit, and
I wouldn't marry him if you and papa too wanted me. Oh, such a proper
young man! He doesn't think me fit company for his sister!”
“He said so! and you didn't give him a cut over the eyes with your whip?
My God!”
“Gracious, no! He never says anything half so amusing! He's scorchingly
polite! I would sooner fall in love with the bookbinder!”
“The bookbinder? Who's that? You mean the tutor, I suppose! I'm not up
to the slang of this old brute of a country!”
“No, mamma; there is a man binding--or mending rather, the books in the
library. He's going to teach me to shoe Miss Brown! Papa wouldn't like
me to marry a blacksmith--I mean a bookbinder--would he?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then you would, mamma?” said Bab demurely, with two catherine-wheels of
fun in her downcast eyes.
“If you go to do anything mad now, I'll--”
“Don't strain your innocent invention, mammy! I think I'll take Mr.
Lestrange! Better anger one than both of you!”
“Tease me any more with your nonsense, and I'll set your father on you!
Be off with you!”