The Clever Woman of the Family
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“Perhaps they have made you cherish it all the more.”
“As if I wanted that! Please will you tell me how I could have been more guarded. I don’t mind your knowing about this; indeed you ought, for Sir Stephen trusted me to you, but I can’t ask my aunt or any one else. I can’t talk about it, and I would not have them know that Sir Stephen’s wife can’t get his memory more respected.”
She did not speak with anger as the first time, but with most touching sadness.
“I don’t think any one could answer,” he said.
“I did take my aunt’s advice about the officers being here. I have not had them nearly as much as Bessie would have liked, not even Alick. I have been sorry it was so dull for her, but I thought it could not be wrong to be intimate with one’s clergyman, and Rachel was always so hard upon him.”
“You did nothing but what was kind and right. The only possible thing that could have been wished otherwise was the making a regular habit of his playing croquet here.”
“Ah! but the boys and Bessie liked it so much. However, I dare say it was wrong. Alick never did like it.”
“Not wrong, only a little overdone. You ladies want sometimes to be put in mind that, because a clergyman has to manage his own time, he is not a whit more really at liberty than a soldier or a lawyer, whose hours are fixed for him. You do not do him or his parish any kindness by engrossing him constantly in pastimes that are all very well once in a way, but which he cannot make habitual without detriment to his higher duties.”
“But I thought he would have known when he had time.”
“I am afraid curates are but bits of human nature after all.”
“And what ought I to have done?”
“If you had been an exceedingly prudent woman who knew the world, you would have done just as you did about the officers, been friendly, and fairly intimate, but instead of ratifying the daily appointments for croquet, have given a special invitation now and then, and so shown that you did not expect him without one.”
“I see. Oh, if I had only thought in time, I need not have driven him away from his parish! I hope he won’t go on being unhappy long! Oh, I wish there may be some very nice young lady where he is going. If he only would come back married!”
“We would give him a vote of thanks.”
“What a wedding present I would make her,” proceeded Fanny, brightening perceptibly; “I would give her my best Indian table, only I always meant that for Ermine. I think she must have the emu’s egg set in Australian gold.”
“If she were to be induced by the bribe,” said Colonel Keith, laughing, “I think Ermine would be sufficiently provided for by the emu’s egg. Do you know,” he added, after a pause, “I think I have made a great step in that direction.”
She clasped her hands with delighted sympathy. “She has given me leave to mention the matter,” he continued, “and I take that as a sign that her resistance will give way.”
“Oh, I am very glad,” said Fanny, “I have so wished them to know at the Homestead,” and her deepened colour revealed, against her will, that she had not been insensible to the awkwardness of the secrecy.
“I should rather like to tell your cousin Rachel myself,” said the Colonel; “she has always been very kind to Ermine, and appreciated her more than I should have expected. But she is not easily to be seen now.”
“Her whole heart is in her orphan asylum,” said Fanny. “I hope you will soon go with us and see it; the little girls look so nice.”
The brightening of his prospects seemed to have quite consoled her for her own perplexities.
That Avonmouth should have no suspicion of the cause of the sudden change of pastor could hardly be hoped; but at least Lady Temple did not know how much talk was expended upon her, how quietly Lord Keith hugged himself, how many comical stories Bessie detailed in her letters to her Clare cousins, nor how Mrs. Curtis resented the presumption; and while she shrank from a lecture, more especially as she did not see how dear Fanny was to blame, flattered herself and Grace that, for the future, Colonel Keith and Rachel would take better care of her.
Rachel did not dwell much on the subject, it was only the climax of conceit, croquet, and mere womanhood; and she was chiefly anxious to know whether Mr. Mitchell, the temporary clergyman, would support the F. U. E. E., and be liberal enough to tolerate Mr. Mauleverer. She had great hopes from a London incumbent, and, besides, Bessie Keith knew him, and spoke of him as a very sensible, agreeable, earnest man.
“Earnest enough for you, Rachel,” she said, laughing.
“Is he a party man?”
“Oh, parties are getting obsolete! He works too hard for fighting battles outside.”
The Sunday showed a spare, vigorous face, and a voice and pronunciation far more refined than poor Mr. Touchett’s; also the sermons were far more interesting, and even Rachel granted that there were ideas in it. The change was effected with unusual celerity, for it was as needful to Mrs. Mitchell to be speedily established in a warm climate, as it was desirable to Mr. Touchett to throw himself into other scenes; and the little parsonage soon had the unusual ornaments of tiny children with small spades and wheelbarrows.
The father and mother were evidently very shy people, with a great deal beneath their timidity, and were much delighted to have an old acquaintance like Miss Keith to help them through their introductions, an office which she managed with all her usual bright tact. The discovery that Stephana Temple and Lucy Mitchell had been born within two days of one another, was the first link of a warm friendship between the two mammas; and Mr. Mitchell fell at once into friendly intercourse with Ermine Williams, to whom Bessie herself conducted him for his first visit, when they at once discovered all manner of mutual acquaintance among his college friends; and his next step was to make the very arrangement for Ermine’s church-going, for which she had long been wishing in secret, but which never having occurred to poor Mr. Touchett, she had not dared to propose, lest there should be some great inconvenience in the way.
Colonel Keith was the person, however, with whom the new comers chiefly fraternized, and he was amused with their sense of the space for breathing compared with the lanes and alleys of their own district. The schools and cottages seemed to them so wonderfully large, the children so clean, even their fishiness a form of poetical purity, the people ridiculously well off, and even Mrs. Kelland’s lace-school a palace of the free maids that weave their thread with bones. Mr. Mitchell seemed almost to grudge the elbow room, as he talked of the number of cubic feet that held a dozen of his own parishioners; and needful as the change had been for the health of both husband and wife, they almost reproached themselves for having fled and left so many pining for want of pure air, dwelling upon impossible castles for the importation of favourite patients to enjoy the balmy breezes of Avonmouth.
Rachel talked to them about the F. U. E. E., and was delighted by the flush of eager interest on Mrs. Mitchell’s thin face. “Objects” swarmed in their parish, but where were the seven shillings per week to come from? At any rate Mr. Mitchell would, the first leisure day, come over to St. Herbert’s with her, and inspect. He did not fly off at the first hint of Mr. Mauleverer’s “opinions,” but said he would talk to him, and thereby rose steps untold in Rachel’s estimation. The fact of change is dangerously pleasant to the human mind; Mr. Mitchell walked at once into popularity, and Lady Temple had almost conferred a public benefit by what she so little liked to remember. At any rate she had secured an unexceptionable companion, and many a time resorted to his wing, leaving Bessie to amuse Lord Keith, who seemed to be reduced to carry on his courtship to the widow by attentions to her guest.
CHAPTER XIII. THE FOX AND THE CROW
“She just gave one squall, When the cheese she let fall, And the fox ran away with his prize.”JANE TAYLOR.“My dear,” said Mrs. Curtis, one Monday morning, “I offered Colonel Keith a seat in the carriage to go to the annual book-club meeting with us. Mr. Spicer is going to propose him as a member of the club, you know, and I thought the close carriage would be better for him. I suppose you will be ready by eleven; we ought to set out by that time, not to hurry the horses.”
“I am not going,” returned Rachel, an announcement that electrified her auditors, for the family quota of books being quite insufficient for her insatiable appetite, she was a subscriber on her own account, and besides, this was the grand annual gathering for disposing of old books, when she was relied on for purchasing all the nuts that nobody else would crack. The whole affair was one of the few social gatherings that she really tolerated and enjoyed, and her mother gazed at her in amazement.
“I wrote to Mrs. Spicer a month ago to take my name off. I have no superfluous money to spend on my selfish amusement.”
“But Rachel,” said Grace, “did you not particularly want—oh! that fat red book which came to us uncut?”
“I did, but I must do without it.”
“Poor Mr. Spicer, he reckoned on you to take it; indeed, he thought you had promised him.”
“If there is anything like a promise, I suppose it must be done, but I do not believe there is. I trust to you, Grace, you know I have nothing to waste.”
“You had better go yourself, my dear, and then you would be able to judge. It would be more civil by the society, too.”
“No matter, indeed I cannot; in fact, Mr. Mauleverer is coming this morning to give his report and arrange our building plans. I want to introduce him to Mr. Mitchell, and fix a day for going over.”
Mrs. Curtis gave up in despair, and consulted her eldest daughter in private whether there could have been any misunderstanding with Colonel Keith to lead Rachel to avoid him in a manner that was becoming pointed. Grace deemed it nothing but absorption into the F. U. E. E., and poor Mrs. Curtis sighed over this fleeting away of her sole chance of seeing Rachel like other people. Of Mr. Mauleverer personally she had no fears, he was in her eyes like a drawing or music-master, and had never pretended to be on equal terms in society with her daughters, and she had no doubts or scruples in leaving Rachel to her business interview with him, though she much regretted this further lapse from the ordinary paths of sociability.
Rachel, on the other hand, felt calmly magnanimous in the completion of a veritable sacrifice, for those books had afforded her much enjoyment, and she would much like to have possessed many of those that would be tossed aside at a cheap rate. But the constant small expenses entailed by the first setting on foot such an establishment as the F. U. E. E. were a heavy drain on her private purse, as she insisted on all accounts being brought to her, and then could not bear that these small nondescript matters should be charged upon the general fund, which having already paid the first half-year’s rent in advance, and furnished the house, must be recruited by some extraordinary supply before she could build. The thing could not be done at all but by rigid economy, and she was ready to exercise it, and happy in so doing. And the Colonel? She thought the pain of her resolution was passing. After all, it was not so dreadful as people would have one believe, it was no such wrench as novels described to make up one’s mind to prefer a systematically useful life to an agreeable man.
Mr. Mauleverer came, with a good report of the children’s progress, and talking quite enthusiastically of Lovedy’s sweetness and intelligence. Perhaps she would turn out a superior artist, now that chill penury no longer repressed her noble rage, and he further brought a small demand for drawing materials and blocks for engraving, to the amount of five pounds, which Rachel defrayed from the general fund, but sighed over its diminution.
“If I could only make the Barnaby bargain available,” she said; “it is cruel to have it tied up to mere apprenticeships, which in the present state of things are absolutely useless, or worse.”
“Can nothing be done?”
“You shall hear. Dame Rachel Curtis, in 1605, just when this place was taking up lace-making, an art learnt, I believe, from some poor nuns that were turned out of St. Mary’s, at Avoncester, thought she did an immense benefit to the place by buying the bit of land known as Burnaby’s Bargain, and making the rents go yearly to apprentice two poor girls born of honest parents. The rent is fourteen pounds, and so the fees are so small that only the small lace-makers here will accept them. I cannot get the girls apprenticed to anything better in the towns except for a much larger premium.”
“Do I understand you that such a premium is at present to be bestowed?”
“No, not till next June. The two victims for this year have been sacrificed. But perhaps another time it might be possible to bind them to you as a wood engraver or printer!” cried Rachel, joyfully.
“I should be most happy. But who would be the persons concerned?”
“The trustees are the representative of our family and the rector of the parish—not Mr. Touchett (this is only a district), but poor old Mr. Linton at Avonbridge, who is barely able to sign the papers, so that practically it all comes to me.”
“Extremely fortunate for the objects of the charity.”
“I wish it were so; but if it could only be made available in such a cause as ours, I am sure my good namesake’s intentions would be much better carried out than by binding these poor girls down to their cushions. I did once ask about it, but I was told it could only be altered by Act of Parliament.”
“Great facilities have of late been given,” said Mr. Mauleverer, “many old endowments have most beneficially extended their scope. May I ask where the land in question is?”
“It is the level bit of meadow just by the river, and all the slope down to the mouth; it has always been in our hands, and paid rent as part of the farm. You know how well it looks from the garden-seat, but it always grieves me when people admire it, for I feel as if it were thrown away.”
“Ah! I understand. Perhaps if I could see the papers I could judge of the feasibility of some change.”
Rachel gladly assented, and knowing where to find the keys of the strong box, she returned in a short space with a parcel tied up with, red tape, and labelled “Barnaby’s Bargain.”
“I have been thinking,” she exclaimed, as she came in, “that that piece of land must have grown much more valuable since this rent was set on it! Fourteen pounds a year, why we never thought of it; but surely in such a situation, it would be worth very much more for building purposes.”
“There can be no doubt. But your approach, Miss Curtis?”
“If it is a matter of justice to the charity, of course that could not be weighed a moment. But we must consider what is to be done. Get the land valued, and pay rent for it accordingly? I would give it up to its fate, and let it for what it would bring, but it would break my mother’s heart to see it built on.”
“Perhaps I had better take the papers and look over them. I see they will need much consideration.”
“Very well, that will be the best way, but we will say nothing about it till we have come to some conclusion, or we shall only startle and distress my mother. After all, then, I do believe we have the real income of the F. U. E. E. within our very hands! It might be ten times what it is now.”
Rachel was in higher spirits than ever. To oblige the estate to pay £140 a year to the F. U. E. E. was beyond measure delightful, and though it would be in fact only taking out of the family pocket, yet that was a pocket she could not otherwise get at. The only thing for which she was sorry was that Mr. Mauleverer had an appointment, and could not come with her to call on Mr. Mitchell; but instead of this introduction, as she had sworn herself to secrecy rather than worry her mother till the ways and means were matured, she resolved, by way of compensation, upon going down to impart to Ermine Williams this grave reformation of abuses, since this was an afternoon when there was no chance of meeting the Colonel.
Very happy did she feel in the hope that had come to crown her efforts at the very moment when she had actually and tangibly given up a pleasure, and closed a door opening into worldly life, and she was walking along with a sense of almost consecrated usefulness, to seek her companion in the path of maiden devotion, when in passing the gates of Myrtlewood, she was greeted by Captain Keith and his bright-eyed sister, just coming forth together.
A few words told that they were all bound for Mackarel Lane, actuated by the same probability of finding Miss Williams alone, the Colonel being absent.
“Wonderfully kind to her he is,” said Rachel, glad to praise him to convince herself that she did not feel bitter; “he takes that little girl out walking with him every morning.”
“I wonder if his constancy will ever be rewarded?” said Bessie, lightly; then, as Rachel looked at her in wonder and almost rebuke for so direct and impertinent a jest, she exclaimed, “Surely you are not in ignorance! What have I done? I thought all the world knew—all the inner world, that is, that revels in a secret.”
“Knew what?” said Rachel, unavoidable intolerable colour rushing into her face.
“Why the romance of Colin and Ermine! To live on the verge of such a—a tragi-comedy, is it? and not be aware of it, I do pity you.”
“The only wonder is how you knew it,” said her brother, in a tone of repression.
“I! Oh, it is a fine thing to be a long-eared little pitcher when one’s elders imagine one hears nothing but what is addressed to oneself. There I sat, supposed to be at my lessons, when the English letters came in, and I heard papa communicating to mamma how he had a letter from old Lord Keith—not this one but one older still—the father of him—about his son’s exchange—wanted papa to know that he was exemplary and all that, and hoped he would be kind to him, but just insinuated that leave was not desirable—in fact it was to break off an affair at home. And then, while I was all on fire to see what a lover looked like, comes another letter, this time to mamma, from Lady Alison something, who could not help recommending to her kindness her dear nephew Colin, going out broken-hearted at what was feared would prove a fatal accident, to the dearest, noblest girl in the world, for so she must call Ermine Williams. Ermine was a name to stick in one’s memory if Williams was not, and so I assumed sufficient certainty to draw it all out of dear Lady Temple.”
“She knows then?” said Rachel, breathlessly, but on her guard.
“Know? Yes, or she could hardly make such a brother of the Colonel. In fact, I think it is a bit of treachery to us all to keep such an affair concealed, don’t you?” with a vivid flash out of the corner of her eyes.
“Treachery not to post up a list of all one’s—”
“One’s conquests?” said Bessie, snatching the word out of her brother’s mouth. “Did you ever hear a more ingenious intimation of the number one has to boast?”
“Only in character,” calmly returned Alick.
“But do not laugh,” said Rachel, who had by this time collected herself; “if this is so, it must be far too sad and melancholy to be laughed about.”
“So it is,” said Alick, with a tone of feeling. “It has been a mournful business from the first, and I do not see how it is to end.”
“Why, I suppose Colonel Colin is his own master now,” said Bessie; “and if he has no objection I do not see who else can make any.”
“There are people in the world who are what Tennyson calls ‘selfless,’” returned Alick.
“Then the objection comes from her?” said Rachel, anxiously.
“So saith Lady Temple,” returned Bessie.
They were by this time in Mackarel Lane. Rachel would have given much to have been able to turn back and look this strange news in the face, but consciousness and fear of the construction that might be put on her change of purpose forced her on, and in a few moments the three were in the little parlour, where Ermine’s station was now by the fire. There could be no doubt, as Rachel owned to herself instantly, that there was a change since she first had studied that face. The bright colouring, and far more, the active intellect and lively spirit, had always obviated any expression of pining or invalidism; but to the air of cheerfulness was added a look of freshened health and thorough happiness, that rendered the always striking features absolutely beautiful; more so, perhaps, than in their earliest bloom; and the hair and dress, though always neat, and still as simply arranged as possible, had an indescribable air of care and taste that added to the effect of grace and pleasantness, and made Rachel feel convinced in a moment that the wonder would have been not in constancy to such a creature but in inconstancy. The notion that any one could turn from that brilliant, beaming, refined face to her own, struck her with a sudden humiliation. There was plenty of conversation, and her voice was not immediately wanted; indeed, she hardly attended to what was passing, and really dreaded outstaying the brother and sister. When Ermine turned to her, and asked after Lovedy Kelland in her new home, she replied like one in a dream, then gathered herself up and answered to the point, but feeling the restraint intolerable, soon rose to take leave.
“So soon?” said Ermine; “I have not seen you for a long time.”
“I—I was afraid of being in the way,” said Rachel, the first time probably that such a fear had ever suggested itself to her, and blushing as Ermine did not blush.
“We are sure to be alone after twilight,” said Ermine, “if that is not too late for you, but I know you are much occupied now.”
Somehow that invalid in her chair had the dignity of a queen appointing her levee, and Rachel followed the impulse of thanking and promising, but then quickly made her escape to her own thoughts.
“Her whole soul is in that asylum,” said Ermine, smiling as she went. “I should like to hear that it is going on satisfactorily, but she does not seem to have time even to talk.”
“The most wonderful consummation of all,” observed Bessie.
“No,” said Ermine, “the previous talk was not chatter, but real effervescence from the unsatisfied craving for something to do.”
“And has she anything to do now?” said Bessie.
“That is exactly what I want to know. It would be a great pity if all this real self-devotion were thrown away.”
“It cannot be thrown away,” said Alick.
“Not on herself,” said Ermine, “but one would not see it misdirected, both for the waste of good energy and the bitter disappointment.”
“Well,” said Bessie, “I can’t bear people to be so dreadfully in earnest!”
“You are accountable for the introduction, are not you?” said Ermine.
“I’m quite willing! I think a good downfall plump would be the most wholesome thing that could happen to her; and besides, I never told her to take the man for her almoner and counsellor! I may have pointed to the gulf, but I never bade Curtia leap into it.”
“I wish there were any one to make inquiries about this person,” said Ermine; “but when Colonel Keith came it was too late. I hoped she might consult him, but she has been so much absorbed that she really has never come in his way.”
“She would never consult any one,” said Bessie.
“I am not sure of that,” replied Ermine. “I think that her real simplicity is what makes her appear so opinionated. I verily believe that there is a great capability of humility at the bottom.”
“Of the gulf,” laughed Bessie; but her brother said, “Quite true. She has always been told she is the clever woman of the family, and what can she do but accept the position?”
“Exactly,” said Ermine; “every one has given way to her, and, of course, she walks over their bodies, but there is something so noble about her that I cannot but believe that she will one day shake herself clear of her little absurdities.”
“That is contrary to the usual destiny of strong-minded women,” said Bessie.
“She is not a strong-minded woman, she only has been made to believe herself one,” said Ermine, warmly.
With this last encounter, Bessie and her brother took leave, and the last at once exclaimed, in sentimental tones, “Generous rivals! I never saw so good a comedy in all my days! To disclose the fatal truth, and then bring the rival fair ones face to face!”