NURSE BUNDLE IS MAGNANIMOUS--MR. GRAY--AN EXPLANATION WITH MY FATHER
Naturally enough, I did my best to give Nurse Bundle a faithful
account of my attempt to realize her idea of "dropping in," with all
that came of it. My garden projects, the arrival of my father, and all
that he said and did on the occasion. From my childish and confused
account, I fancy that Nurse Bundle made out pretty correctly the state
of the case. Being a "grown-up person," she probably guessed, without
difficulty, the meaning of my father's concluding remarks. I think a
good, faithful, tender-hearted nurse, such as she was, must suffer
with some of a mother's feelings, when it is first decided that "her
boy" is beyond petticoat government. Nurse Bundle cried so bitterly
over this matter, that my most chivalrous feelings were roused, and I
vowed that "Papa shouldn't say things to vex my dear Nursey." But Mrs.
Bundle was very loyal.
"My dear," said she, wiping her eyes with her apron, "depend upon it,
whatever your papa settles on is right. He knows what's suitable for a
young gentleman; and it's only likely as a young gentleman born and
bred should outgrow to be beyond what an old woman like me can do for
him. Though there's no tutors nor none of them will ever love you
better than poor Nurse Bundle, my deary. And there's no one ever has
loved you better, my dear, nor ever will--always excepting your dear
mamma, dead and gone."
All this stirred my feelings to the uttermost, and I wept too, and
vowed unconquerable fidelity to Nurse Bundle, and (despite her
remonstrances) unconquerable aversion from the tutor that was to be. I
furthermore renewed my proposals of marriage to Mrs. Bundle,--the
wedding to take place "when I should be old enough."
This set her off into fits of laughing; and having regained her good
spirits, she declared that "she wouldn't have, no, not a young squire
himself, unless he were eddicated accordingly;" and this, it was
evident could only be brought about through the good offices of a
tutor. And to the prospective tutor (though he was to be her rival)
she was magnanimously favourable, whilst I, for my part, warmly
opposed the very thought of him. But neither her magnanimity nor my
unreasonable objections were put to the test just then.
Several days had passed since I and Rubens "dropped in" at the
Rectory, and I was one morning labouring diligently at my garden, when
I saw Mr. Andrewes, in his canonical coat and shoes, coming along the
drive, carrying something in his hand which puzzled me. As he came
nearer, however, I perceived that it was a small wheelbarrow, gaily
painted red within and green without. At a respectful distance behind
him walked Jones, carrying a garden-basket full of plants on his head.
Both the wheelbarrow and the plants were for me--a present from the
good-natured parson. He was helping me to plant the flower-roots, and
giving me a lecture on the sparing use of the wheelbarrow, when my
father joined us, and I heard him say to Mr. Andrewes, "I should like
a word with you, when you are at liberty."
I do not know what made me think that they were talking about me. I
did, however, and watched them anxiously, as they passed up and down
the drive in close consultation. At last I heard Mr. Andrewes say--
"The afternoon would suit me best; say an hour after luncheon."
This remark closed the conversation, and they came back to me. But I
had overheard another sentence from Mr. Andrewes' lips, which filled
me with disquiet,
"I know of one that will just suit you; a capital little fellow."
So the tutor was actually decided upon. "'A capital little fellow.'
That means a nasty fussy little man!" I cried to myself. "I hate him!"
For the rest of that day, and all the next, I worried myself with
thoughts of the new tutor. On the following morning, I was standing
near one of the lodges with my father, looking at some silver
pheasants, when Mr. Andrewes rode by, and called to my father.
Now, living as I did, chiefly with servants, and spending much more of
my leisure than was at all desirable between the stables and the
housekeeper's room, my sense of honour on certain subjects was not
quite so delicate as it ought to have been. With all their many
merits, uneducated people and servants have not--as a class--strict
ideas on absolute truthfulness and honourable trustworthiness in all
matters. A large part of the plans, hopes, fears, and quarrels of
uneducated people are founded on what has been overheard by folk who
were not intended to hear it, and on what has been told again by those
to whom a matter was told in confidence. Nothing is a surer mark of
good breeding and careful "upbringing" (as the Scotch call it) than
delicacy on those little points which are trusted to one's honour. But
refinement in such matters is easily blunted if one lives much with
people who think any little meanness fair that is not found out. I
really saw no harm in trying to overhear all that I could of the
conversation between my father and Mr. Andrewes, though I was aware,
from their manner, that I was not meant to hear it. I lingered near my
father, therefore, and pretended to be watching the pheasants, for a
certain instinct made me feel that I should not like my father to see
me listening. He was one of those highly, scrupulously honourable
gentlemen, before whose face it was impossible to do or say anything
unworthy or mean.
He spoke in low tones, so that I lost most of what he said; but the
parson's voice was a peculiarly clear one, and though he lowered it, I
heard a good deal.
"I saw him yesterday," was Mr. Andrewes' first remark.
("That's the tutor," thought I.)
My father's answer I lost; but I caught fragments of Mr. Andrewes'
next remarks, which were full of information on this important matter.
"Quite young, good-tempered--little boy so fond of him, nothing would
have induced them to part with him; but they were going abroad."
Which sounded well; but I suspected the parson of a good deal of
officious advice in a long sentence, of which I only caught the words,
"Can't begin too early."
I felt convinced, too, that I heard something about the "use of the
whip," which put me into a fever of indignation. Just as Mr. Andrewes
was riding off, my father asked some question, to which the reply
was--"Gray."
My head was so full of the tutor that I could not enjoy the stroll
with my father as usual, and was not sorry to get back to Nurse
Bundle, to whom I confided all that I had heard about my future
teacher.
"He's a nasty little man," said I, "not a nice tall gentleman like
Papa or Mr. Andrewes. And Mr. Andrewes saw him yesterday. And Mr.
Andrewes says he's young. And he says he's good-natured; but then what
makes him use whips? And his name is Mr. Gray. And he says the other
little boy was very fond of him, but I don't believe it," I continued,
breaking down at this point into tears, "and they've gone abroad
(sobs) and I wish--boohoo! boohoo--they'd taken _him_!"
With some trouble Nurse Bundle found out the meaning of my rather
obscure speech. Her wrath at the thought of a whip in connection with
her darling was quite as great as my own. But she persisted in taking
a hopeful view of Mr. Gray, and trusting loyally to my father's
judgment, and she succeeded in softening my grief for the time.
When I came down to dessert that evening I pretended to be quite happy
and comfortable, and to have nothing on my mind. But happily few
children are clever at pretending what is not true, and as I was
constantly thinking about "that dreadful tutor," and puzzling over the
scraps of conversation I had heard to see if anything more could be
made out of them, my father soon found out that something was amiss.
"What is the matter, Regie?" he asked.
"Nothing, Father," I replied, with a very poor imitation of
cheerfulness and no approach to truth.
"My dear boy," said my father, frowning slightly (a thing I always
dreaded), "do not say what is untrue, for any reason. If you do not
want to tell me what troubles you, say, 'I'd rather not tell you,
please,' like a man, and I will not persecute you about it. But don't
say there is nothing the matter when your little head is quite full of
something that bothers you very much. As I said, I will not press you,
but as I love you, and wish to help you in every way I can, I think
you had better tell me."
Now, though I had really not thought I was doing wrong in listening to
the conversation I was not meant to hear, a _something_ which one
calls conscience made me feel ashamed of the whole matter. I had a
feeling of being in the wrong, which is apt to make one vexed and
fretful, and it was this, quite as much as fear of my grave father,
which made the colour rush to my face, and the tears into my eyes.
"Come, Regie," he said, "out with it. Don't cry, whatever you do;
that's like a baby. Have you been doing something wrong? Tell me all
about it. Confession is half way to forgiveness. Don't be afraid of
me. For heaven's sake, don't be afraid of me!" added my father, with
impatient sadness, and the frown deepening so rapidly on his face that
my tears flowed in proportion.
(How sad are the helpless struggles of a widowed father with young
children, I could not then appreciate. How seldom successful is the
alternative of a second marriage, has become proverbial in excess of
the truth.)
My father was more patient than many men. He did not dismiss me and my
tears to the nursery in despair. With the insight and tenderness of a
mother he restrained himself, and unknitting his brows, held out both
his hands and said very kindly,
"Come and tell poor Papa all about it, my darling."
On which I jumped from my chair, and rushing up to him, threw my arms
about his neck and sobbed out, "Oh, Papa! Papa! I don't want him."
"Don't want _whom_, my boy?"
"M-m-m-m-r. Gray," I sobbed.
"And who on earth is Mr. Gray, Regie?" inquired my perplexed parent.
"The tutor--the new tutor," I explained.
"But _whose_ new tutor?" cried the distracted gentleman, whose
confusion seemed in no way lessened when I added,
"Mine, Papa; the one you're going to get for me." And as no gleam of
intelligence yet brightened his puzzled face, I added, doubtfully,
"You are going to get one, aren't you, Papa?"
"What put this idea into your head, Regie?" asked my father, after a
pause.
And then I had to explain, feeling very uncomfortable as I did so, how
I had overheard a few words at the Rectory, and a few words more at
the lodge, and how I had patched my hearsays together and made out
that a certain little man was coming to be my tutor, who had
previously been tutor somewhere else, and that his name was Gray. And
all this time my father did not help me out a bit by word or sign. By
the time I had got to the end of my story of what I had heard, and
what I had guessed, and what Nurse Bundle and I had made out, I did
not need any one to tell me that to listen to what one is not intended
to hear is a thing to be ashamed of. My cheeks and ears were very red,
and I felt very small indeed.
"Now, Regie," said my father, "I won't say what I think about your
listening to Mr. Andrewes and me, in order to find out what I did not
choose to tell you. You shall tell me what you think, my boy. Do you
think it is a nice thing, a gentlemanly thing, upright, and honest,
and worthy of Papa's only son, to sneak about listening to what you
were not meant to hear. Now don't begin to cry, Reginald," he added,
rather sharply; "you have nothing to cry for, and it's either silly or
ill-tempered to whimper because I show you that you've done wrong.
Anybody may do wrong; and if you think that you have, why say you're
sorry, like a man, and don't do so any more."
I made a strong effort to restrain my tears of shame and vexation, and
said very heartily--
"I'm very sorry, Papa. I didn't think of it's being wrong."
"I quite believe that, my boy. But you see that it's not right now,
don't you?"
"Oh yes!" I exclaimed, "and I won't listen any more, father." We made
it up lovingly, Rubens flying frantically at our heads to join in the
kisses and reconciliation. He had been anxiously watching us, being
well aware that something was amiss.
"I don't mean to tell you what Mr. Andrewes and I _were_ talking
about," said my father, "because I did not wish you to hear. But I
will tell you that you made a very bad guess at the secret. We were
not talking of a tutor, or dreaming of one, and you have vexed
yourself for nothing. However, I think it serves you right for
listening. But we won't talk of that any more."
I do not think Nurse Bundle was disposed to blame me as much as I now
blamed myself; but she was invariably loyal to my father's decisions,
and never magnified her own indulgence in the nursery by pitying me if
I got into scrapes in the drawing-room.
"My dear," said she, "your Pa's a gentleman, every inch of him. You
listen to him, and try and do as he does, and you'll grow up just such
another, and be a pride and blessing to all about you."
But we both rejoiced that at any rate our fears were unfounded in
reference to the much-dreaded Mr. Gray.