CHAPTER IV.THE LIFE OF MISRULE.
Dinner went off better than the girls had expected. But to Miss Tredgold it was, and ever would be, the most awful meal she had eaten in the whole course of her existence. The table was devoid of all those things which she, as a refined lady, considered essential. The beautiful old silver spoons were dirty, and several of them bent almost out of recognition. A like fate had befallen the forks; the knives were rusty, the handles disgracefully dirty; and the tablecloth, of the finest damask, was almost gray in color, and adorned with several large holes. The use of serviettes had been long abolished from The Dales.
The girls, in honor of the occasion, had put on their best frocks, and Verena looked fairly pretty in a skimpy white muslin made in an obsolete style. The other girls each presented a slightly worse appearance than their elder sister, for each had on a somewhat shabbier frock, a little more old-fashioned and more outgrown. As to Mr. Dale, it had been necessary to remind him at least three times of his sister-in-law’s arrival; and finally Verena had herself to put him into his very old evening-coat, to brush him down afterwards, and to smooth his hair, and then lead him into the dining-room.
Miss Tredgold, in contradistinction to the rest of the family, was dressed correctly. She wore a black lace dress slightly open at the neck, and with elbow sleeves. The children thought that she looked dazzlingly fashionable. Verena seemed to remember that she had seen figures very like Aunt Sophia’s in the fashion books. Aunt Sophia’s hair in particular absorbed the attention of four of her nieces. How had she managed to turn it into so many rolls and spirals and twists? How did she manage the wavy short hair on her forehead? It seemed to sit quite tight to her head, andlooked as if even a gale of wind would not blow it out of place. Aunt Sophia’s hands were thin and very white, and the fingers were half-covered with sparkling rings, which shone and glittered so much that Penelope dropped her choicest peas all over her frock as she gazed at them.
John was requisitioned to wait at table, and John had no livery for the purpose. The family as a rule never required attendance at meals. On this occasion it was supposed to be essential, and as Betty refused point-blank to stir from the kitchen, John had to come to the fore.
“No, no, Miss Renny,” said Betty when poor Verena begged and implored of the good woman to put in an appearance. “No, you don’t. No, you certain sure don’t. Because you looked pretty and a bit coaxing I gave up Miss Dunstable and the Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton two hours ago, but not another minute will I spare from them. It’s in their select society that I spend my haristocratic evening.”
Verena knew that it would be useless to coax Betty any further. So John appeared with the potatoes in a large dish on a rusty tray, each potato having, as Betty expressed it, a stone inside. This she declared was the proper way to cook them. The peas presently followed the potatoes. They were yellow with age, for they ought to have been eaten at least a week ago. The lamb was terribly underdone, and the mint sauce was like no mint sauce that Miss Tredgold had ever dreamed of. The pudding which followed was a pudding that only Betty knew the recipe for, and that recipe was certainly not likely to be popular in fashionable circles. But the strawberry-jam was fairly good, and the cream was excellent; and when, finally, Miss Tredgold rose to the occasion and said that she would make some coffee, which she had brought down from town, in her own coffee-pot on her own etna, the girls became quite excited.
The coffee was made, and shed a delicious aroma over the room. Mr. Dale was so far interested that he was seen to sniff twice, and was found to be observing the coffee as though he were a moth approaching a candle. He even forgot his Virgil in his desire to partake of the delicious stimulant. Miss Tredgold handed him a cup.
“There,” she said. “If you were ever young, and if there was ever a time when you cared to act as a gentleman, this will remind you of those occasions.—And now, children, I introduce you to ‘Open sesame;’ and I hope, my dear nieces, by means of these simple cups of coffee you will enter a different world from that which you have hitherto known.”
The girls all drank their coffee, and each pronounced it the nicest drink they had ever taken.
Presently Miss Tredgold went into the garden. She invited Verena and Pauline to accompany her.
“The rest of you can stay behind,” she said. “You can talk about me to each other as much as you like. I give you leave to discuss me freely, knowing that, even if I did not do so, you would discuss me all the same. I am quite aware that you all hate me for the present, but I do not think this state of things will long continue. Come, Verena; come, Pauline. The night is lovely. We will discuss nature a little, and common sense a great deal.”
The two girls selected to walk with Miss Tredgold looked behind at the seven girls left in the dining-room, and the seven girls looked back at them with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
“Never mind your sisters now,” said Miss Tredgold. “We want to talk over many things. But before we enter into any discussion I wish to ask a question.”
“Yes,” said Verena in her gentle voice.
“Verena,” said her aunt suddenly, “how old are you?”
“Fifteen,” said Verena.
“Precisely. And on your next birthday you will be sixteen, and on the following seventeen, and on the next one again eighteen. You have, therefore, nearly three years in which to be transformed from a little savage into a lady. The question I now want to ask you is: Do you prefer to remain a savage all your days, uneducated, uncultured, your will uncontrolled, your aspirations for good undeveloped; or do you wish to become a beautiful and gracious lady, kind, sympathetic, learned, full of grace? Tell me, my dear.”
“How can I?” replied Verena. “I like my life here; we all suit each other, and we like The Dales just as it is. Yes, we all suit each other, and we don’t mind being barbarians.”
Miss Tredgold sighed.
“I perceive,” she said, “that I shall have uphill work before me. For you of all the young people, Verena, are the easiest to deal with. I know that without your telling me. I know it by your face. You are naturally gentle, courteous, and kind. You are easy to manage. You are also the most important of all to be brought round to my views, for whatever you do the others will do. It is on you, therefore, that I mean to exercise my greatest influence and to expend my heaviest forces.”
“I don’t quite understand you, Aunt Sophia. I know, of course, you mean kindly, but I would much rather——”
“That I went away? That I left you in the disgraceful state in which I have found you?”
“Well, I don’t consider it disgraceful; and——”
“Yes? You would rather I went?”
Verena nodded. After a moment she spoke.
“It seems unkind,” she said—“and I don’t wish to be unkind—but Iwouldrather you went.”
“And so would I, please, Aunt Sophia,” said Pauline.
Miss Tredgold looked straight before her. Her face became a little pinched, a little white round her lips.
“Once,” she said slowly, “I had a sister—a sister whom I loved. She was my half-sister, but I never thought of that. She was to me sister and mother in one. She brought me up from the time I was a little child. She was good to me, and she instilled into me certain principles. One of these principles can be expressed in the following words: God put us into the world to rise, not to sink. Another of her principles was that God put us into the world to be good, to be unselfish. Another one, again, was as follows: We must give account for our talents. Now, to allow the talent of beauty, for instance, to degenerate into what it is likely to do in your case, Verena, is distinctly wicked. To allow you to sink when you might rise is sinful. To allow you to be selfish when you might be unselfish is also wrong. Your talents, and the talents of Pauline, and the talents of your other sisters must be cultivated and brought to the fore. I want to tell you now, my dear girls, that for years I have longed to help you; that since your mother’s death you have scarcely ever been out of my mind. But circumstances over which I had no control kept me away from you. At last I am free, and the children of my sister Alice are the ones I think most about. I have come here prepared for your rebellion, prepared for your dislike, and determined not to be discouraged by either the one or the other. I have come to The Dales, Verena and Pauline, and I mean to remain here for at least three months. If at the end of the three months you ask me to go, I will; although even then I will not give you up. But until three months have expired you can only turn me out by force. I don’t think you will do that. It is best that we should understand each other clearly; is it not, Verena?”
Verena’s face was very white; her big brown eyes were full of tears.
“I ought to be glad and to say ‘Welcome.’ But I am not glad, and I don’t welcome you, Aunt Sophia. We like our own way; we don’t mind being savages, and it is untrue that we are selfish. We are not. Each would give up anything, I think, for the other. But we like our poverty and our rough ways and our freedom, and we—we don’t want you, Aunt Sophia.”
“Nevertheless you will have to put up with me,” said Miss Tredgold. “And now, to start matters, please tell me exactly how you spend your day.”
“Our life is not yours, Aunt Sophia. It would not interest you to know how we spend our day.”
“To-morrow, Verena, when the life of rule succeeds the life of misrule, I should take umbrage at your remark, but to-night I take no umbrage. I but repeat my question.”
“And I will tell you,” said Pauline in her brisk voice.“We get up just when we like. We have breakfast when we choose—sometimes in the garden on the grass, sometimes not at all. We walk where we please, and lose ourselves in the Forest, and gather wild strawberries and wild flowers, and watch the squirrels, and climb the beech-trees. When it is fine we spend the whole day out, just coming back for meals, and sometimes not even then, if Betty gives us a little milk and some bread. Sometimes we are lazy and lie on the grass all day. We do what we like always, and always just when we like. Don’t we, Renny?”
“Yes,” said Verena. “We do what we like, and in our own way.”
“In future,” said Miss Tredgold, “you will do things in my way. I hope you will not dislike my way; but whether you like or dislike it, you will have to submit.”
“But, Aunt Sophia,” said Verena, “what authority have you over us? I am exceedingly sorry to seem rude, but I really want to know. Father, of course, has authority over us, but have you? Has anybody but father? That is what I want to know.”
“I thought you might ask something of that sort,” said Miss Tredgold—“or, even if you did not ask it, you might think it—and I am prepared with my answer. I quite recognize that in the case of girls like you I have no authority, and I cannot act fairly by you until I have. Now, my dear girls, please understand that before I go to bed to-night I get that authority. I shall get it m writing, too, so that you can none of you gainsay it, or slip past it, or avoid it. When the authority comes, then will also come the happy life of rule, for the life of misrule can never be really happy—never for long. Believe me, I am right.”
Pauline pulled her hand away from Aunt Sophia’s. She ran to the other side of Verena.
“I don’t like you, Aunt Sophia,” she said, “and I don’t want you to stay. Renny, you don’t like her either, and you don’t want her to stay. We don’t believe all the things you are saying, Aunt Sophia. You can’t look into our hearts, and although you are clever, you can’t know all about us. Why shouldn’t we be wild in our own fashion? We are very happy. To be happy is everything. We have only been unhappy since we knew you were coming. Please go away; please do.”
“You cannot influence me, Pauline. I love you too well to desert you. Now I am going into the house. You can discuss me then with your sister to your heart’s content.”
Miss Tredgold went very slowly towards the old and dilapidated house. When she reached the hall door she turned and looked around her.
“I certainly have tough work before me. How am I to manage? If I were not thinking so much of Alice, I should leave these impertinent, neglected, silly girls to their fate.But no—I seem to see my sister’s eyes, to hear her voice. I can so well understand what she would really want me to do. I owe a great debt of gratitude to my beloved sister. I am free, hampered by no ties. I will reform these wild young nieces. I will not be easily deterred.”
Miss Tredgold clasped her hands before her. The moon was rising in a silvery bow in the sky; the air was deliciously fresh and balmy.
“The place is healthy, and the children are strong,” she thought, “notwithstanding their bad food and their disreputable, worn-out clothes. They are healthy, fresh, good-looking girls. But this is summer-time, and in summer-time one puts up with discomforts for the sake of air like this. But what about winter? I have no doubt they have scarcely any fires, and the house must be damp. As the children grow older they will develop rheumatism and all kinds of troubles. Yes, my duty is plain. I must look after my nieces, both soul and body, for the future.”
As Miss Tredgold thought these last thoughts she re-entered the house. She walked through the desolate rooms. It was now twilight, but no one thought of lighting lamps, or drawing curtains, or shutting windows. Miss Tredgold stumbled as she walked. Presently she found that she had wandered in the neighborhood of the kitchen. She had no intention of bearding Betty in her den—she had no idea that there was a Betty—but as she was near the kitchen, and as under that doorway alone there streamed a light, she opened the door.
“Is there any one inside?” she asked.
A grunt in the far distance came by way of response. The fire was out in the stove, and as Miss Tredgold grew accustomed to the gloom she saw in the farthest corner something that resembled the stout form of a woman, whose legs rested on one chair and her body on another. A guttering dip candle was close to her side, and a paper book was held almost under her nose.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” said Miss Tredgold, “but I have come for a light. Will you kindly inform me where I can get a candle?”
“There ain’t none in the house.”
The book was put down, and the angry face of Betty appeared to view.
“Then I fear I must trouble you to resign the one you yourself are using. I must have a light to see my way to my bedroom.”
“There ain’t no candles. We don’t have ’em in summer. This one I bought with my own money, and I don’t give it up to nobody, laidy or no laidy.”
“Am I addressing the cook?”
“You are, ma’am. And I may as well say I am cook and housemaid and parlor-maid and kitchen-maid and scullery-maidall in one; and I does the laundry, too, whenever it’s done at all. You may gather from my words, ma’am, that I have a deal to do, so I’ll thank you to walk out of my kitchen; for if I am resting after my day of hard work, I have a right to rest, and my own candle shall light me, and my own book shall amuse me. So have the goodness to go, ma’am, and at once.”
“I will go,” replied Miss Tredgold very quietly, “exactly when I please, and not a moment before. I wish to say now that I require breakfast to be on the table at nine o’clock, and there must be plenty of good food. Do you mean to say that you have not got food in the house? You can, I presume, send out for it. Here is a half-sovereign. Spend it in what is necessary in order to provide an abundant meal on the table to-morrow morning for the use of Mr. Dale, myself, and my nieces.”
What Betty would have said had there been no half-sovereign forthcoming history will never relate. But half-sovereigns were very few and very precious at The Dales. It was almost impossible to get any money out of Mr. Dale; he did not seem to know that there was such a thing as money. If it was put into his hand by any chance, he spent it on books. Betty’s wages were terribly in arrears. She wanted her wages, but she was too generous, with all her faults, to press for them. But, all the same, the touch of the gold in her hand was distinctly soothing, and Miss Tredgold immediately rose in her estimation. A lady who produced at will golden half-sovereigns, and who was reckless enough to declare that one of these treasures might be spent on a single meal, was surely not a person to be sniffed at. Betty therefore stumbled to her feet.
“I beg your pardon, I’m sure, ma’am; and it’s badly we does want some things here. I’ll get what I can, although the notice is short, and the dook’s nuptials, so to speak, at the door.”
“What!” said Miss Tredgold.
“I beg your pardon again, ma’am, but my head aches and I’m a bit confused. I’m reading a most wonderful account of the wedding of the Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton.”
“I never heard of him.”
“He’s marrying a young girl quite in my own station of life—one that was riz from the cottage to the governess-ship, and from the governess-ship to the ducal chair. My head is full of Her Grace, ma’am, and you’ll excuse me if I didn’t rightly know to whom I had the honor of talking. I’ll do what I can. And perhaps you’d like to borrow one of my dip candles for the present night.”
“I should very much,” said Miss Tredgold. “And please understand, Betty—I think you said your name was Betty—please understand that if you are on my side I shall be on your side. I have come here meaning to stay, and in futurethere will be a complete change in this establishment. You will receive good wages, paid on the day they are due. There will be plenty of money and plenty of food in the house, and the cook who pleases me stays, and the cook who displeases me goes. You understand?”
“Sakes!” muttered Betty, “it’s nearly as exciting as the doocal romance.—Well, ma’am, I’m of your way of thinking; and here’s your candle.”
CHAPTER V.IN THE STUDY.
Miss Tredgold was the sort of woman who never let the grass grow under her feet. She felt, therefore, altogether out of place at The Dales, for at The Dales there was time for everything. “Time enough” was the motto of the establishment: time enough for breakfast, time enough for dinner, time enough for supper, time enough for bed, time enough for getting up, time enough for mending torn garments; surely, above all things, time enough for learning. To judge by the manner in which the family at The Dales went on, life was to last for ever and a day. They never hurried; they put things off when it pleased them; they stopped in the middle of one pursuit and turned to something else when the fancy took them; they were unruffled by the worries of life; they were, on the whole, gay, daring, indifferent. There was no money—or very little—for the future of these girls; they were absolutely uneducated; they were all but unclothed, and their food was poor and often insufficient. Nevertheless they were fairly happy. “Let well alone” was also their motto. “Never may care” was another. As to the rush and toil and strain of modern life, they could not even comprehend it. The idea of not being able to put off an engagement for a week, a month, or a year seemed to them too extraordinary to be believed. They were too young, too healthy, too happy to need to kill time; for time presented itself to them with an agreeable face, and the hours were never too long.
But although they were so indifferent to weighty matters, they had their own enthusiasms, and in their idle way they were busy always and forever. To have, therefore, a person like Aunt Sophia put suddenly into the middle of their gay and butterfly lives was something which was enough to madden the eight healthy girls who lived at The Dales. Aunt Sophia was, in their opinion, all crotchets, all nervousness, all fads. She had no tact whatsoever; at least, such was their first opinion of her. She put her foot downon this little crotchet, and pressed this passing desire out of sight. She brought new rules of life into their everyday existence, and, what is more, she insisted on being obeyed. With all their cleverness they were not half so clever as Aunt Sophia; they were no match for this good lady, who was still young at heart, who had been highly educated, who was full of enthusiasm, full of method, and full of determination. Aunt Sophia brought two very strong essentials with her to The Dales, and there was certainly little chance of the girls getting the victory over her. One thing which she brought was determination, joined to authority; the other thing was money. With these two weapons in her hand, what chance had the girls?
It might have been supposed that Miss Tredgold had done enough on the first night of her arrival. She had to a great extent vanquished the cook; and she had, further, told Verena and Pauline what lay before them. Surely she might have been contented, and have taken her dip candle in its tin candlestick and retired to her own room. But that was not Aunt Sophia’s way. She discovered a light stealing from under another door, and she made for that door.
Now, no one entered Mr. Dale’s room without knocking. None of the girls would have ventured to do so. But Aunt Sophia was made of sterner stuff. She did not knock. She opened the door and entered. The scholar was seated at the far end of the room. A large reading-lamp stood on the table. It spread a wide circle of light on the papers and books, and on his own silvery head and thin aquiline features. The rest of the room was in shadow. Miss Tredgold entered and stood a few feet away from Mr. Dale. Mr. Dale had already forgotten that such a person as Miss Sophia existed. It was his habit to work for a great many hours each night. It was during the hours of darkness that he most thoroughly absorbed himself in his darling occupation. His dinner had been better than usual, and that delicious coffee had stimulated his brain. He had not tasted coffee like that for years. His brain, therefore, being better nourished, was keener than usual to go on with his accustomed work. As Miss Sophia advanced to his side he uttered one or two sighs of rapture, for again a fresh rendering of a much-disputed passage occurred to him. Light was, in short, flooding the pages of his translation.
“The whole classical world will bless me,” murmured Mr. Dale. “I am doing a vast service.”
“I am sorry to interrupt you, Henry,” said the sharp, incisive tones of his sister-in-law.
At Miss Tredgold’s words he dropped his pen. It made a blot on the page, which further irritated him; for, untidy as he was in most things, his classical work was exquisitely neat.
“Do go away,” he said. “I am busy. Go away at once.”
“I am sorry, Henry, but I must stay. You know me, don’t you? Your sister-in-law, Sophia Tredgold.”
“Go away, Sophia. I don’t want to be rude, but I never see any one at this hour.”
“Henry, you are forced to see me. I shall go when I choose, not before.”
“Madam!”
Mr. Dale sprang to his feet.
“Madam!” he repeated, almost sputtering out his words, “you surely don’t wish me to expel you. You don’t intend to stand there all night. I can’t have it. I don’t allow people in my study. I am sorry to be discourteous to a lady, but I state a fact; you must go immediately. You don’t realize what it is to have a brain like mine, nor to have undertaken such a herculean task. Ah! the beautiful thought which meant so much has vanished. Madam, you are responsible.”
“Stop!” interrupted Miss Tredgold. “I will go the moment you do what I want.”
“Will you? I’ll do anything—anything that keeps you out of this room.”
“That is precisely what I require. I don’t wish to come into this room—that is, for the present. By-and-by it must be cleaned, for I decline to live in a dirty house; but I give you a fortnight’s grace.”
“And the rendering of the passage is beyond doubt, according to Clericus—— I beg your pardon; are you still speaking?”
“Yes, Henry. I am annoying you, I know; and, all things considered, I am glad, for you need rousing. I intend to sit or stand in this room, close to you, until morning if necessary. Ah! here is a chair.”
As Miss Tredgold spoke she drew forward an unwieldy arm-chair, which was piled up with books and papers. These she was calmly about to remove, when a shriek from the anguished scholar stopped her.
“Don’t touch them,” he exclaimed. “You destroy the work of months. If you must have a chair, take mine.”
Miss Tredgold did take it. She now found herself seated within a few yards of the scholar’s desk. The bright light from the lamp fell on her face; it looked pale, calm, and determined. Mr. Dale was in shadow; the agony on his face was therefore not perceptible.
“Take anything you want; only go, woman,” he said.
“Henry, you are a difficult person to deal with, and I am sorry to have to speak to you as I do. I am sorry to have to take, as it were, advantage of you; but I intend to stay in this house.”
“You are not wanted, Sophia.”
“I am not wished for, Henry; but as to being wanted, no woman was ever more wanted.”
“That you are not.”
“I say I am; and, what is more, I intend to remain. We need not discuss this point, for it is settled. I take up my sojourn in this house for three months.”
“Three months!” said Mr. Dale. “Oh, my word! And this is only June. From June to July, from July to August, from August to September! It is very cruel of you, Sophia. I did not think my poor wife’s sister would torture me like this.”
“For the sake of your family I intend to stay, Henry. You will have to submit. I do not leave this room until you submit. What is more, you have to do something further. I want you to give me authority over your children. The moment I have it—I want it in writing, remember—I will leave you; and I will trouble you in the future as little as woman can trouble man. You will have better meals; but that you won’t care about.”
“The coffee,” murmured Mr. Dale.
“Yes, you will have plenty of that delicious coffee. You will also have cleaner rooms.”
“This room is not to be touched; you understand?”
“For the present we will let that matter lie in abeyance. Come, give me your authority in writing, and I leave the room; but if you don’t, I stay in this chair—your chair, Henry Dale—all night if necessary.”
If ever there was a poor, bewildered man, it was Mr. Dale at that moment. He did not give many thoughts to anything on earth but his beloved studies; but, all the same, when he had time for a momentary reflection that he possessed girls, he felt that he quite liked them. In his own fashion he was fond of Verena; and once when Briar had a very bad cold he sat with her for a very few minutes, and recommended her to try snuff. He did not wish to make his children unhappy, and he thought that the advent of Miss Tredgold would have that effect on them. But, after all, a determined woman like her must be humored; and what were the children compared to his own most valuable work? In the days to come they would be proud to own him. He would be spoken of as the very great English scholar whose rendering of Virgil was the most perfect that had ever been put into English prose. Oh! it was impossible to hesitate another moment. The woman was in his chair, and his thoughts were leaving him.
“Madam,” he said, “you have taken me at a cruel disadvantage. I am seriously sorry for my poor children.”
“Never mind about that now, Henry. You are, I perceive, a wise man. You can rest assured that I will do what is best both for you and for them.”
“Very well, madam, I yield.”
“You give me absolute authority to do what I think best for your children?”
“Ye—s.”
“To reorganize this household?”
“Not this room.”
“With the exception of this room.”
“I suppose so.”
“You will uphold my authority when the girls come to you, as perhaps they will, and ask you to interfere?”
“Oh, Sophia, you won’t be hard on the poor children?”
“I will be just to them. You will uphold my authority?”
“Ye—s.”
“If I think it necessary to punish them, you won’t condemn the punishment?”
“Oh, please, Sophia, do go away! The night is passing quickly. I never think well by daylight.”
“Put it on paper, Henry. Or stay! that will take too long. Give me a sheet of paper; I will write what I require. I only want your signature.”
Poor Mr. Dale had to search among his papers for a blank sheet. Miss Sophia seized his special stylographic pen, pressed very hard on the nib, and wrote what she required. Mr. Dale felt certain he would find it quite spoilt when he came to use it again. But at last all her requirements were on paper, and Henry Dale wrote his signature at the end.
“Thank you, Henry; you have acted wisely. You have your study now to yourself.”
Miss Tredgold bowed as she left the room.
CHAPTER VI.TOPSY-TURVYDOM.
The fortnight that followed was not likely to be forgotten by the young Dales. It would live in the remembrance of each child old enough to notice. Even Penelope found the course of events interesting—sometimes irritating, it is true; sometimes also delightful; but at least always exciting. Miss Tredgold never did things by halves. She had got the absolute authority which she required from the master of the house, and having got it she refrained from annoying him, in any way whatsoever. His meals were served with punctuality, and were far more comfortable than they had ever been before. He was always presented with a cup of strong, fragrant, delicious coffee after his dinner. This coffee enabled him to pursue his translation with great clearness and accuracy. His study up to the present was left undisturbed. His papers were allowed to remain thick with dust; his chairs were allowed to be laden with books and papers; the carpet was allowed to remain full ofholes; the windows were left exactly as the scholar liked them—namely, tightly screwed down so that not even the faintest breath of heaven’s air could come in and disarrange the terrible disorder.
But the rest of the house was truly turned topsy-turvy. It was necessary, Miss Tredgold assured the girls, to have topsy-turvydom before the reign of order could begin.
At first the young Dales were very angry. For the whole of the first day Verena wept at intervals. Pauline sulked. Briar wept one minute and laughed the next. The other children followed in the footsteps of their elders. Penelope was now openly and defiantly a grown-up child. She belonged to the schoolroom, although no schoolroom as yet existed at The Dales. She defied nurse; she took her meals with her sisters, and pinched baby whenever she found her alone. Miss Tredgold, however, took no notice of the tears or smiles or groans or discontented looks. She had a great deal to do, and she performed her tasks with rectitude and skill and despatch. New furniture was ordered from Southampton. She drove to Lyndhurst Road with Verena in the shabby trap which had first brought her to The Dales. She went from there to Southampton and chose new furniture. Verena could not help opening her eyes in amazement. Such very pretty white bedsteads; such charming chests of drawers; such nice, clean-looking carpets!
“Surely, Aunt Sophia,” she said, “these things are not for us?”
“They certainly are, my dear,” replied her aunt; “for in future I hope you will live as a lady and a Christian, and no longer as a savage.”
The furniture arrived, and was put into the rooms. Pretty white curtains were placed at the windows; the paint was washed, and the paper rubbed down with bread.
“Fresh decoration and repainting must wait until I get the children to London for the winter,” thought Aunt Sophia.
But notwithstanding the fact that paint and paper were almost non-existent by this time at The Dales, the house assumed quite a new air. As to Betty, she was in the most extraordinary way brought over absolutely to Miss Tredgold’s part of the establishment. Miss Tredgold not only raised her wages on the spot, but paid her every farthing that was due in the past. She spoke to her a good deal about her duty, and of what she owed to the family, and of what she, Miss Tredgold, would do for her if she proved equal to the present emergency. Betty began to regard Miss Tredgold as a sort of marchioness in disguise. So interested was she in her, and so sure that one of the real “haristocrats” resided on the premises, that she ceased to read theFamily Paperexcept at long intervals. She served up quite good dinners, and by the end of the fortnight few people wouldhave known The Dales. For not only was the house clean and sweet—the drawing-room quite a charming old room, with its long Gothic windows, its tracery of ivy outside, and its peep into the distant rose-garden; the hall bright with great pots of flowers standing about—but the girls themselves were no longer in rags. The furniture dealer’s was not the only shop which Miss Tredgold had visited at Southampton. She had also gone to a linen draper’s, and had bought many nice clothes for the young folks.
The house being so much improved, and the girls being clothed afresh, a sufficient staff of servants arrived from a neighboring town. Betty was helped in the kitchen by a neat kitchen-maid; there were two housemaids and a parlor-maid; and John had a boy to help in the garden.
“Now, Verena,” said Miss Tredgold on the evening of the day when the new servants were pronounced a great success, “what do you think of everything?”
“You have made the place quite pretty, Aunt Sophia.”
“And you like it?”
“I think you mean to be very kind.”
“My dear Verena, do talk sense. Don’t tell me that you don’t feel more comfortable in that pale-gray, nicely fitting dress, with the blush-rose in your belt, and that exceedingly pretty white hat on your head, than you did when you rushed up to welcome me, little savage that you were, a fortnight ago.”
“I was so happy as a savage!”
“And you are not happy now?”
“I think you are kind, Aunt Sophia, and perhaps—I shall get accustomed to it.”
Her aunt whisked round with some impatience.
“I hope so,” she said; “for, whether you like it or not, you will have to put up with it. I fully intend to be kind, but I also mean to be very firm. I have now got the home in which you live into decent order, and you yourselves are respectably clothed. But I have not yet tackled the most important part of my duties, my dear Verena.”
“Oh, please, Aunt Sophia, what else is necessary?”
Miss Tredgold threw up her hands.
“A great, great deal more,” she cried. “I have not yet touched your minds; and I fear, from the way you speak, that I have scarcely touched your hearts. Well, your bodies at least are attended to, and now come your minds. Lastly, I hope to reach the most important of all—your hearts. Verena, I must probe your ignorance in order to stimulate you to learn. You, my dear, will be grown up in three years, so that you in particular have a vast lot to do.”
“But I hate learning, and I shouldn’t like to be a learned woman,” said Verena. “Mother knew a lot of things, but she wasn’t learned like father.”
“Good gracious, child! I don’t want you to be like yourfather. To tell the truth, a bookworm such as he is is one of the most irritating persons in existence. But there! What am I saying? I oughtn’t to speak against him in your presence. And your poor mother loved him, oh, so much! Now then, dear, to return to yourself and your sisters. I presume that you would like to be a useful and valuable member of society—a woman who has been trained to do her best, and to exercise the highest influence over all those with whom she comes in contact. Influence, which springs from character, my dear Verena, is the highest power that any one can get. Now, an ignorant person has little or no influence; therefore, to be kind and sympathetic and useful in the future, you must know many things. You have not a minute to lose. I appeal to you for your mother’s sake; for my dear, dear sister would have liked her eldest child to be—ah, Verena!—so good and so true!”
“You touch me, Aunt Sophy,” said Verena, “when you talk of mother. You touch me more than words can say. Yes, I will try to be good; but you must bear with me if I don’t take the yoke too kindly at first.”
“Poor child! I will try to make it light for you. Now what is the matter, Penelope?”
“Please, please, Aunt Sophy,” said that young person, rushing up at the moment.
“Hold yourself erect, my dear; don’t run quite so fast. There! you have got a rent already in your new frock. Now what do you want?”
“May I be a schoolroom little girl in the future?”
“What are you now?”
“Nursey says I’m nursery. But I don’t want to be nursery; I want to stay always with my own good Aunty Sophy. That is what I want. May I be a schoolroom child?”
“In the first place, you are not to call me ‘aunty.’ I am Aunt Sophia to you. I dislike abbreviations.”
“What’s them?”
“Say, ‘What are they?’”
“What are they?”
“I will tell you another time. How old are you, Penelope?”
“I wor seven my last birthday, one month agone.”
“Your grammar is disgraceful, child. Please understand that the schoolroom has its penalties.”
“What’s them?”
“Again I shall have to correct you. ‘What are they?’ is the sentence you ought to use. But now, my dear, I don’t approve of little girls learning much when they are only seven years old; but if you wish to be a schoolroom girl you will have to take your place in the schoolroom, and you will have to learn to submit. You will have to be under more discipline than you are now with nurse.”
“All the same, I’ll be with my own aunt,” said Penelope,raising her bold black eyes and fixing them on Miss Sophia’s face.
But Miss Tredgold was not the sort of person to be influenced by soft words. “Deeds, not words,” was her motto.
“You have said enough, Penelope,” she said. “Take your choice; you may be a schoolroom child for a month if you like.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, Pen,” said Josephine.
“But I will,” said Penelope.
In her heart of hearts she was terrified at the thought of the schoolroom, but even more did she fear the knowledge that nurse would laugh at her if she returned to the nursery.
“I will stay,” she said. “I am a schoolroom child;” and she pirouetted round and round Aunt Sophia.
“But, please, Aunt Sophia,” said Verena, “who is going to teach us?”
“I intend to have that honor,” said Miss Tredgold.
If there were no outward groans among her assembled nieces at these words, there were certainly spirit groans, for the girls did not look forward to lessons with Aunt Sophia.
“You are all displeased,” she said; “and I am scarcely surprised. The fact is, I have not got any efficient teacher to come here just yet. The person I should wish for is not easy to find. I myself know a great deal more than you do, and I have my own ideas with regard to instruction. I may as well tell you at once that I am a very severe teacher, and somewhat cranky, too. A girl who does not know her lessons is apt to find herself seated at my left side. Now, my right side is sunshiny and pleasant; but my left side faces due northeast. I think that will explain everything to you. We will meet in the schoolroom to-morrow at nine o’clock sharp. Now I must go.”
When Miss Tredgold had vanished the girls looked at each other.
“Her northeast side!” said Pauline. “It makes me shudder even to think of it.”
But notwithstanding these remarks the girls did feel a certain amount of interest at the thought of the new life that lay before them. Everything had changed from that sunny, languorous,dolce far nientetime a fortnight back. Now the girls felt keen and brisk, and they knew well that each moment in the future would be spent in active employment.
The next day, sharp at nine o’clock, the young people who were to form Miss Tredgold’s school entered the new schoolroom. It was suitably and prettily furnished, and had a charming appearance. Large maps were hung on the walls; there was a long line of bookshelves filled partly with story books, partly with history books, and partly with ordinary lesson books. The windows were draped with white muslin,and stood wide open. As the girls took their seats at the baize-covered table they could see out into the garden. A moment after they had arrived in the schoolroom Miss Tredgold made her appearance.
“We will begin with prayers,” she said.
She read a portion from the Bible, made a few remarks, and then they all knelt as she repeated the Lord’s prayer.
“Now, my dears,” said their new governess as they rose from their knees, “lessons will begin. I hope we shall proceed happily and quietly. It will be uphill work at first; but if we each help the other, uphill work will prove to have its own pleasures. It’s a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together that masters difficulties. If we are all united we can accomplish anything; but if there is mutiny in the camp, then things may be difficult. I warn you all, however, that under any circumstances I mean to win the victory. It will be much easier, therefore, to submit at first. There will be no use in sulkiness, in laziness, in inattention. Make a brave effort now, all of you, and you will never regret this day. Now, Verena, you and I will have some conversation together. The rest of you children will read this page in the History of England, and tell me afterwards what you can remember about it.”
Here Miss Tredgold placed a primer before each child, and she and Verena retired into the bay-window. They came out again at the end of ten minutes. Verena’s cheeks were crimson, and Miss Tredgold decidedly wore a little of her northeast air. Pauline, on the whole, had a more successful interview with her new governess than her sister. She was smarter and brighter than Verena in many ways. But before the morning was over Miss Tredgold announced that all her pupils were shamefully ignorant.
“I know more about you now than I did,” she said. “You will all have to work hard. Verena, you cannot even read properly. As to your writing, it is straggling, uneven, and faulty in spelling.”