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[Illustration: Mrs. Bundle (see p. 3).]
A FLAT IRON FOR A
FARTHING
or
Some Passages in the Life of
an only Son
by
Juliana Horatia Ewing
Illustrated by
M. V. Wheelhouse
George Bell & Sons
London
1908.
* * * * *
Dedicated
TO MY DEAR FATHER,
AND TO HIS SISTER, MY DEAR AUNT MARY,
IN MEMORY OF
THEIR GOOD FRIEND AND NURSE,
E. B.
OBIT 3 MARCH, 1872, ÆT. 83.
J. H. E.
* * * * *
PREFACE
An apology is a sorry Preface to any book, however insignificant, and
yet I am anxious to apologise for the title of this little tale. The
story grew after the title had been (hastily) given, and so many other
incidents gathered round the incident of the purchase of the flat iron
as to make it no longer important enough to appear upon the title
page. It would, however, be dishonest to change the name of a tale
which is reprinted from a Magazine; and I can only apologise for an
appearance of affectation in it which was not intended.
As the Dedication may seem to suggest that the character of Mrs.
Bundle is a portrait, I may be allowed to say that, except in
faithfulness, and tenderness, and high principle, she bears no
likeness to my father's dear old nurse.
It may interest some of my child readers to know that the steep street
and the farthing wares are real remembrances out of my own childhood.
Though whether in these days of "advanced prices," the flat irons, the
gridirons with the three fish upon them, and all those other valuable
accessories to doll's housekeeping, which I once delighted to
purchase, can still be obtained for a farthing each, I have lived too
long out of the world of toys to be able to tell.
J. H. E.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. MOTHERLESS
II. "THE LOOK"--RUBENS--MRS. BUNDLE AGAIN
III. THE DARK LADY--TROUBLE IMPENDING--BEAUTIFUL, GOLDEN MAMMA
IV. AUNT MARIA--THE ENEMY ROUTED--LONDON TOWN
V. MY COUSINS--MISS BLOMFIELD--THE BOY IN BLACK
VI. THE LITTLE BARONET--DOLLS--CINDER PARCELS--THE OLD GENTLEMAN NEXT
DOOR--THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS
VII. POLLY AND I RESOLVE TO BE "VERY RELIGIOUS"--DR. PEPJOHN--THE
ALMS-BOX--THE BLIND BEGGAR
VIII. VISITING THE SICK
IX. "PEACE BE TO THIS HOUSE"
X. CONVALESCENCE--MATRIMONIAL INTENTIONS--THE JOURNEY TO OAKFORD--OUR
WELCOME
XI. THE TINSMITH'S--THE BEAVER BONNETS--A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING--I
FAIL TO SECURE A SISTER--RUBENS AND THE DOLL
XII. THE LITTLE LADIES AGAIN--THE MEADS--THE DROWNED DOLL
XIII. POLLY--THE PEW AND THE PULPIT--THE FATE OF THE FLAT IRON
XIV. RUBENS AND I "DROP IN" AT THE RECTORY--GARDENS AND GARDENERS--MY
FATHER COMES FOR ME
XV. NURSE BUNDLE IS MAGNANIMOUS--MR. GRAY--AN EXPLANATION WITH MY
FATHER
XVI. THE REAL MR. GRAY--NURSE BUNDLE REGARDS HIM WITH DISFAVOUR
XVII. I FAIL TO TEACH LATIN TO MRS. BUNDLE--THE RECTOR TEACHES ME
XVIII. THE ASTHMATIC OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS RIDDLES--I PLAY TRUANT
AGAIN--IN THE BIG GARDEN
XIX. THE TUTOR--THE PARISH--A NEW CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ALMS-BOX
XX. THE TUTOR'S PROPOSAL--A TEACHERS' MEETING
XXI. OAKFORD ONCE MORE--THE SATIN CHAIRS--THE HOUSEKEEPER--THE LITTLE
LADIES AGAIN--FAMILY MONUMENTS
XXII. NURSE BUNDLE FINDS A VOCATION--RAGGED ROBIN'S WIFE--MRS.
BUNDLE'S IDEAS ON HUSBANDS AND PUBLIC-HOUSES
XXIII. I GO TO ETON--MY MASTER--I SERVE HIM WELL
XXIV. COLLECTIONS--LEO'S LETTER--NURSE BUNDLE AND SIR LIONEL
XXV. THE DEATH OF RUBENS--POLLY'S NEWS--LAST TIMES
XXVI. I HEAR FROM MR. JONATHAN ANDREWES--YORKSHIRE--ALATHEA _alias_
BETTY--WE BURY OUR DEAD OUT OF OUR SIGHT--VOICES OF THE NORTH
XXVII. THE NEW RECTOR--AUNT MARIA TRIES TO FIND HIM A WIFE--MY FATHER
HAS A SIMILAR CARE FOR ME
XXVIII. I BELIEVE MYSELF TO BE BROKEN-HEARTED--MARIA IN LOVE--I MAKE
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE, WHICH IS NEITHER ACCEPTED NOR REFUSED
XXIX. THE FUTURE LADY DAMER--POLLY HAS A SECRET--UNDER THE
MULBERRY-TREE
XXX. I MEET THE HEIRESS--I FIND MYSELF MISTAKEN ON MANY POINTS--A NEW
KNOT IN THE FAMILY COMPLICATIONS
XXXI. MY LADY FRANCES--THE FUTURE LADY DAMER--WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER
AT LAST
XXXII. WE COME HOME--MRS. BUNDLE QUITS SERVICE
* * * * *
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
MRS. BUNDLE _Frontispiece_
THE LANK LAWYER WAGGED MY HAND OF A MORNING, AND SAID, "AND HOW IS
MISS ELIZA'S LITTLE BEAU?"
"BLESS ME, THERE'S THAT DOG!"
"MR. BUCKLE, I BELIEVE?"
SHE ROLLED ABRUPTLY OVER ON HER SEAT AND SCRAMBLED OFF BACKWARDS
POLLY AND REGIE IN THE "PULPIT" AND THE "PEW"
"ALL TOGETHER, IF YOU PLEASE!"
IT WAS ONLY A QUIET DINNER PARTY, AND MISS CHISLETT HAD BROUGHT OUT
HER NEEDLEWORK
* * * * *
A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING
CHAPTER I
MOTHERLESS
When the children clamour for a story, my wife says to me, "Tell them
how you bought a flat iron for a farthing." Which I very gladly do;
for three reasons. In the first place, it is about myself, and so I
take an interest in it. Secondly, it is about some one very dear to
me, as will appear hereafter. Thirdly, it is the only original story
in my somewhat limited collection, and I am naturally rather proud of
the favour with which it is invariably received. I think it was the
foolish fancy of my dear wife and children combined that this most
veracious history should be committed to paper. It was either
because--being so unused to authorship--I had no notion of
composition, and was troubled by a tyro tendency to stray from my
subject; or because the part played by the flat iron, though
important, was small; or because I and my affairs were most chiefly
interesting to myself as writer, and my family as readers; or from a
combination of all these reasons together, that my tale outgrew its
first title and we had to add a second, and call it "Some Passages in
the Life of an only Son."
Yes, I was an only son. I was an only child also, speaking as the
world speaks, and not as Wordsworth's "simple child" spoke. But let me
rather use the "little maid's" reckoning, and say that I have, rather
than that I had, a sister. "Her grave is green, it may be seen." She
peeped into the world, and we called her Alice; then she went away
again and took my mother with her. It was my first great, bitter
grief.
I remember well the day when I was led with much mysterious solemnity
to see my new sister. She was then a week old.
"You must be quiet, sir," said Mrs. Bundle, a new member of our
establishment, "and not on no account make no noise to disturb your
dear, pretty mamma."
Repressed by this accumulation of negatives, as well as by the size
and dignity of Mrs. Bundle's outward woman, I went a-tiptoe under her
large shadow to see my new acquisition.
Very young children are not always pretty, but my sister was beautiful
beyond the wont of babies. It is an old simile, but she was like a
beautiful painting of a cherub. Her little face wore an expression
seldom seen except on a few faces of those who have but lately come
into this world, or those who are about to go from it. The hair that
just gilded the pink head I was allowed to kiss was one shade paler
than that which made a great aureole on the pillow about the pale face
of my "dear, pretty" mother.
Years afterwards--in Belgium--I bought an old mediæval painting of a
Madonna. That Madonna had a stiffness, a deadly pallor, a thinness of
face incompatible with strict beauty. But on the thin lips there was a
smile for which no word is lovely enough; and in the eyes was a pure
and far-seeing look, hardly to be imagined except by one who painted
(like Fra Angelico) upon his knees. The background (like that of many
religious paintings of the date) was gilt. With such a look and such a
smile my mother's face shone out of the mass of her golden hair the
day she died. For this I bought the picture; for this I keep it still.
But to go back.
I liked Mrs. Bundle. I had taken to her from the evening when she
arrived in a red shawl, with several bandboxes. My affection for her
was established next day, when she washed my face before dinner. My
own nurse was bony, her hands were all knuckles, and she washed my
face as she scrubbed the nursery floor on Saturdays. Mrs. Bundle's
plump palms were like pincushions, and she washed my face as if it had
been a baby's.
On the evening of the day when I first saw Sister Alice, I took tea in
the housekeeper's room. My nurse was out for the evening, but Mrs.
Cadman from the village was of the party, and neither cakes nor
conversation flagged. Mrs. Cadman had hollow eyes, and (on occasion) a
hollow voice, which was very impressive. She wore curl-papers
continually, which once caused me to ask my nurse if she ever took
them out.
"On Sundays she do," said Nurse.
"She's very religious then, I suppose," said I; and I did really think
it a great compliment that she paid to the first day of the week.
I was only just four years old at this time--an age when one is apt to
ask inconvenient questions and to make strange observations--when one
is struggling to understand life through the mist of novelties about
one, and the additional confusion of falsehood which it is so common
to speak or to insinuate without scruple to very young children.
The housekeeper and Mrs. Cadman had conversed for some time after tea
without diverting my attention from the new box of bricks which Mrs.
Bundle (commissioned by my father) had brought from the town for me;
but when I had put all the round arches on the pairs of pillars, and
had made a very successful "Tower of Babel" with cross layers of the
bricks tapering towards the top, I had leisure to look round and
listen.
"I never know'd one with that look as lived," Mrs. Cadman was saying,
in her hollow tone. "It took notice from the first. Mark my words,
ma'am, a sweeter child I never saw, but it's _too_ good and _too_
pretty to be long for this world."
It is difficult to say exactly how much one understands at four years
old, or rather how far one quite comprehends the things one perceives
in part. I understood, or felt, enough of what I heard, and of the
sympathetic sighs that followed Mrs. Cadman's speech, to make me
stumble over the Tower of Babel, and present myself at Mrs. Cadman's
knee with the question--
"Is mamma too pretty and good for this world, Mrs. Cadman?"
I caught her elderly wink as quickly as the housekeeper, to whom it
was directed. I was not completely deceived by her answer.
"Why, bless his dear heart, Master Reginald. Who did he think I was
talking about, love?"
"My new baby sister," said I, without hesitation.
"No such thing, lovey," said the audacious Mrs. Cadman; "housekeeper
and me was talking about Mrs. Jones's little boy."
"Where does Mrs. Jones live?" I asked.
"In London town, my dear."
I sighed. I knew nothing of London town, and could not prove that Mrs.
Jones had no existence. But I felt dimly dissatisfied, in spite of a
slice of sponge-cake, and being put to bed (for a treat) in papa's
dressing-room. My sleep was broken by uneasy dreams, in which Mrs.
Jones figured with the face of Mrs. Cadman and her hollow voice. I had
a sensation that that night the house never went to rest. People came
in and out with a pretentious purpose of not awaking me. My father
never came to bed. I felt convinced that I heard the doctor's voice in
the passage. At last, while it was yet dark, and when I seemed to have
been sleeping and waking, waking and falling asleep again in my crib
for weeks, my father came in with a strange look upon his face, and
took me up in his arms, and wrapped a blanket round me, saying mamma
wanted to kiss me, but I must be very good and make no noise. There
was little fear of that! I gazed in utter silence at the sweet face
that was whiter than the sheet below it, the hair that shone brighter
than ever in the candlelight. Only when I kissed her, and she had laid
her wan hand on my head, I whispered to my father, "Why is mamma so
cold?"
With a smothered groan he carried me back to bed, and I cried myself
to sleep. It was too true, then. She was too good and too pretty for
this world, and before sunrise she was gone.
Before the day was ended Sister Alice left us also. She never knew a
harder resting-place than our mother's arms.