Princess Puck

Mr. James Brownlow was a busy man; a hard-working solicitor, partner in an old firm, and a good firm though scarcely a rich one. He was not rich himself; he had worked hard all his life to attain moderate comfort, and he continued to work hard, though he was now past middle-age, partly to maintain the same standard of comfort, and partly because he cherished a delusion that nothing in the firm could go on without him. But, in spite of his business and its importance, he felt bound to devote a certain amount of time to the affairs of the late Miss Isabella Brownlow. It is true she was not a very near relation, but he had been legal adviser as well as relation, and moreover, the nieces she left seemed to be in a particularly solitary condition.

“But one is married, I thought,” Mrs. Brownlow objected from the further end of the dinner-table. The train from Wrugglesby had been late, and made the dinner late too; accordingly the lamb was overcooked, and the clockwork regularity of the household disturbed. Mrs. Brownlow felt slightly annoyed; also she considered that if one of the nieces was married her husband should have taken over the affairs of the family, instead of troubling somebody else’s husband,—and, incidentally, somebody else’s excellent cook.

Mr. Brownlow probably knew these sentiments, but he was not disturbed by them that night for the importance of business was great in his eyes; moreover, he had been discreetly handled earlier in the day. “Yes,” he said, “yes, one is married, comfortably married, I should say; but a man is not bound to take over his wife’s family. He has professed himself quite ready to give a home to the youngest girl; the others will carry on the school.”

“A wise plan, I should think,” Mrs. Brownlow said, with a sigh. She was always sadly affected by the delinquencies of the present age, which she possessed great abilities for discovering. “It is liberal of him,” she went on. “I suppose he will be repaid by the girl finding out one day that she is unable to bear a dependent position and must make her own way in the world, after having had a long training for it at somebody else’s expense. Girls usually get such ideas nowadays.”

Mr. Brownlow agreed with the general sentiment, but defended this particular girl. “I don’t think she is that sort at all,” he said. “She is very young, a plain, quiet little thing; she looked docile; Miss Hains spoke of her as if she were a child.”

“There is no family?” Mrs. Brownlow asked. “I mean the married one,—Mrs. Morton, didn’t you say the name was—has no family?”

“No.”

“But if she has by-and-bye, what will become of this girl? Can they afford to keep her? Is it wise, do you think?”

“I have talked it all over with Miss Hains who really is a sensible woman. She is five and thirty, I dare say, and a sensible, clever woman.” Polly might have been considered clever in some senses of the word; that she had certain claims to ability was proved by the opinion she had produced in Mr. Brownlow’s mind. “She and I,” went on the worthy gentleman unconsciously placing the persons in their right order of importance, “she and I have decided that her cousin Wilhelmina had better return home with Mrs. Morton for the present. The school is not larger than she herself, with the assistance of Miss Waring, can manage. In the course of time they hope to increase it, when Wilhelmina can come back to help them with the younger pupils.”

Mrs. Brownlow thought this an excellent arrangement and asked for personal details of its originator.

“Miss Hains? No, she is not handsome,” her husband said in answer to her question, “but a sensible, practical woman. Really it is quite surprising how business-like she is when you come to think that she has lived so long in that little country town,—how business-like and yet how very womanly, how essentially feminine, not in the least self-assertive and opinionated.”

Such were the golden opinions Polly had won from Mr. Brownlow. Hardly so flattering was her opinion of him, which she was at that same time expressing to Bella and Bill as they sat together in the twilight.

The first shock of their grief was now over. It is true there was an aching blank left in their lives by the death of this kindly, not over-wise aunt, but the first sharpness was over, the first ache a little dulled. Bella and Theresa had lost their own mother not so many years ago, and though they had dearly loved their aunt, the loss of her was not what the earlier grief had been, nor yet what it was to Bill who could remember no mother. Bill’s loss was greatest, and greatest also to her was the shock, for this was the first time real sorrow had touched her life. She had, too, more time and opportunity to think about it, having, as the youngest, but little to do with all the plans and work consequent upon Miss Brownlow’s death. Polly, of course, was very busy: mourning alone offered a large field for her energies, for the cousins could not afford to employ even the local milliner and dressmaker.

“We must let them dress us for the funeral,” Polly had said, but added, “I hardly think we need get Bill’s hat there; I will do that myself, for we must save wherever we can. As for other clothes, we must manage somehow; one good dress apiece is all we can afford.”

And she had sighed; extensive mourning would have compensated her somewhat for a much heavier bereavement. Not but that she did mourn for Miss Brownlow; her grief was real, though perhaps not quite so deep as theirs, thought Bella and Theresa. As for Bill, when she had cried herself sick with the abandonment of childhood, she felt an hysterical inclination to laugh as she watched the perfection of Polly’s sorrow. It was real, as real as any other of Polly’s feelings; she felt it after her fashion, but principally because it was the fashion to feel it.

By the May evening when Mr. Brownlow so much commended Polly, that “sensible and practical woman” considered it time to abate the first intensity of her grief. She had been abating it by degrees, and during Mr. Brownlow’s visit had shown a demeanour of subdued sorrow blent with practical common-sense. After his departure she subdued her sorrow still more, and when the cousins sat together that evening she discussed matters with the air of one who, having paid off the funeral cortège, now opens the shutters and prepares to return to the normal condition of things. Theresa had gone home to Haylands; she had been obliged to go back there some time before, but had driven to Wrugglesby with Robert that day so as to be present during Mr. Brownlow’s visit. The school was to re-open at the beginning of the next week, the holidays on account of Miss Brownlow’s death being deducted from the midsummer vacation; an unavoidable arrangement not much to Polly’s taste.

“We are too poor to afford sorrow,” she observed; “at least comfortable sorrow.”

“As if comfort mattered at such a time!” Bella replied with scorn. She was leaning with her elbows on the sill, looking through the open window into the street.

Polly was of opinion that it did matter, but she did not explain her views at length, for she wanted to talk over Mr. Brownlow’s suggestion.

“You and I,” she said to Bella, “are to keep on this school for the rest of our lives. We must move into a smaller house to do it when the lease of this one is up. How would Chestnut Villa do? It is empty now, and I don’t expect anyone will take it before then; it is too mouldy.”

“Yes,” acquiesced Bella in a spiritless voice. She looked across the empty, darkening street to the doctor’s prim house opposite; the scent of the laburnums came to her from his garden, the sound of a wheel-barrow from a neighbour’s close by. It was all very dull and narrow and small—and the prospect offered? It is hard to be young and fair and told at two-and-twenty that to live at Chestnut Villa (too mouldy for anyone else) and teach small girls is one’s fate beyond redemption.

“We are to keep on with the school,” Polly was saying.

“I suppose so.” Bella did not look round.

“Do you?” Polly retorted. “I don’t then! For one thing, I don’t suppose the school will keep on with us.”

Bella did look round now. “It will, it must!” she exclaimed. “What else are we to do?”

“It won’t,” Polly affirmed with confidence. “Look how it has gone down even while poor Aunt, whom everyone knew, was here. If she,—and people sent their children to her out of friendship or because their cousins or someone used to come—if she could not keep it together, what are we likely to do? You can teach, but you have not passed many examinations, and you are young and not at all imposing; as for me, I have no certificates at all.”

“But, Polly, you are clever in your own way; surely you could get pupils?”

Polly did not think so, and she proceeded to make a statement of the case,—which girls were leaving, which likely to leave, and which among those living in the district were likely to come to Langford House, the last appearing to be very few. The case as set forth by her was not inspiriting.

“But,” said Bella at last, “why did you not tell Mr. Brownlow this? You seemed to think it all satisfactory when you were talking to him.”

“Mr. Brownlow!” Polly replied contemptuously. “What would be the good of telling a person like that?”

“We have no one else to advise or help us, no one at all; Robert does not know and I am sure you don’t think much of his opinion.”

Seeing Bella in real consternation, Bill shut her book. It was A Midsummer-Night’s Dream, recommended by Mr. Dane, and she had found a great delight in it during those days. “What is your plan?” she asked Polly, as she put the book away and seated herself on the table.

“I cannot say I have a plan,” Polly answered slowly, “not exactly a plan,—I may not do it; it depends on several things.”

“Several persons?” Bill suggested; “persons or a person?” Polly did not answer, and Bill followed up her suspicions: “A person who you are not sure will do what you want?”

Polly shifted uneasily; she seldom reckoned persons as obstacles to her plans, but in this case Bill was right, for she herself was the person in question, and Polly was not at all sure of the worth of her own authority over her ward—she and Theresa had been appointed guardians.

“It is all very perplexing,” she said with a sigh. “I hardly know what will be best to do for you and me. It principally concerns you and me, as poor Aunt said, for Bella has a little money of her own, and, even if she does not marry, she is never likely to want a home with Theresa living so near.”

“Neither is Bill,” Bella said. “Robert has offered it to Bill; I don’t see how you can expect him to take us both. I am very glad he has offered it to her; she wants it much more than I do.”

Polly agreed. “But,” she added, “I should not think Bill would like to quarter herself on Robert and Theresa for the rest of her life; that is what it would amount to, for she could never be a governess and come and go as you could. It was very kind of them to offer it, but I should not think Bill would take it, except, of course, just for the present. I know I should not.”

“You will mostly take all you can get,” Bill observed not without truth. Before Polly could deny the charge she asked: “On whom does your plan depend? Not on Bella; she evidently has nothing to do with it; have I?”

“Yes, Bill,” Polly said severely; “it is for your good as well as mine. You don’t deserve to be considered, but I have a sense of responsibility.”

“What can I do that is any good to you?” Bill speculated. “What is it, Polly? Something you hardly expect me to do?”

“Nothing of the sort! I should always expect you to do as I wished, especially as I am your guardian.”

An audience of two was quite sufficient for Polly, who even when alone could hardly refrain from taking a part. Bill knew the value of her efforts. “What is your plan?” she asked simply, and Polly, after a few more preliminary flourishes, set it forth. Briefly it was this: to let things remain as arranged with Mr. Brownlow until Christmas, when the lease of the house expired; then to give up the school,—sell it if there was anything to sell—Bella to obtain a situation as resident governess, making Haylands her home in the holidays; Polly and Bill to move to London or the suburbs—

“And take lodgers!” cried Bill.

“Yes, probably,” Polly said; “we should not have enough to live on without doing something, and that would be the best we could do. I have thought about boarders, but that won’t do; you want more capital for a boarding house; besides boarders are a nuisance, nor do they really pay so well as lodgers, though of course they sound much better. We need not tell people about here that we are letting lodgings; we can say we are taking a few paying guests, because we could not get a house small enough for just our two selves.”

This plan, except for the unnecessary deception, met with Bella’s entire approval. Bill, to Polly’s annoyance, did not give an opinion, but sat thinking, probably of what part she was to play and why she, rather than Bella, had been chosen for the venture. The same question occurred to Bella. “Why should not you and I do this?” she asked. “I should do just as well as Bill, and besides, we should have more capital as I could put my money into it. And then there would be no need to upset Robert’s arrangement; I am sure he really meant Bill to make Haylands her home.”

“My dear Bella”—Polly was motherly—“there are two or three reasons why it should not be you. To begin with, you are too pretty; our lodgers will probably be men, very likely young city men,—you understand? To go on with, why should not Bill be independent? If she puts her share of the money in and helps me she would be independent in a measure, and I certainly know of no other way in which she could be.”

Bella was not altogether satisfied; but Bill was, for she had solved the problem on her own account. “There is going to be no servant kept in that house!” she exclaimed.

“What nonsense!” Bella said, and Polly explained that she should have a girl. Then they talked the plan over afresh, Bill remaining aggravatingly silent. At last, Bella going into the kitchen to speak to the maid, Polly turned angrily to the table where the small figure was almost lost in the darkness. “I suppose,” she said sharply, “you are going to oppose me?”

Bill laughed softly. “Fancy you being afraid of me and my opposition,” she said half to herself.

Polly did not attempt to deny the fact. “You are the most obstinate, contrary, silly little creature in the world,” was her only answer.

Bill seemed still more amused. “Why did you let me know you were afraid?” she asked.

“What is the good of pretending?” was Polly’s only answer, and Bill quoted some past words of her cousin’s in reply. “‘Truth is a luxury poor people cannot always afford;’ I have heard you give that to somebody as an excuse for your pretending. I don’t think it a very good one myself, but I have heard you make it. I suppose you can afford to be truthful with me?”

“I am not going to pretend with you,” Polly said. “Look here, Bill, you are only a child and you are very ignorant and not at all clever,—I hope you don’t mind me saying these things, I am only telling the plain truth—you are all this, but in some respects you have much more sense than Bella and Theresa; you have more vitality, more—I don’t know what—but more backbone; you are not so much a Brownlow, not a Brownlow at all.”

“Thank you.” Bill did not seem overwhelmed with the flattery.

“What is your objection?” Polly asked after a pause: “I suppose you think you would have to work too hard.”

“No I don’t. Oh, no I don’t at all; we should share the work out fairly, Polly, very fairly.”

Just then Bella came back, and the discussion was dropped, but Polly was not altogether dissatisfied, concluding from Bill’s manner then, and later, that she would probably fall in with the plan when the time came. As for Bill there was no hesitation in her mind about accepting the proposition; there was nothing else she could do, for she could not live with Robert and Theresa permanently, unless they would let her work their garden for a profit and look upon the proceeds as payment from her. They would not let her do this, so, though she would have preferred the garden to the lodgings, she was quite willing to accept the latter, since the former was unattainable. Live with Theresa without the garden she would not, for she had discovered, or rather she had gradually come to know of certain things which led her to believe that Theresa and Robert could not afford to offer her a permanent home. “I don’t believe Theresa knows,” she said to herself, “or if she does, she does not realise how things are. I wonder if Robert does? He was always telling me separate bits; I wonder if he looks at things whole; but he must, of course he must do so.”

These thoughts occupied Bill’s mind a good deal, and another was added to them at this time, surprise at her own power over Polly. Either openly or covertly Polly’s will had been supreme at Langford House; she had always planned and decided for them all; it was a strange and wonderful thing that she should have considered Bill in this plan, feared her opposition even while she sought her help—strange yet perhaps not altogether unreasonable. Bill felt a childish amusement in the novelty of the situation, and also a sense of responsibility. But of course she had, and she knew she had, a certain compelling power over Polly, else why had she taken her to Wood Hall? Shrewd, unprincipled Polly! To be sure, Bill did not call her that: she did not think about her principles, but, true to her nature, accepted her cousin as she found her, and never judged her at all.

What with one thing and another Bill seemed to be fast growing older: when she went back to Ashelton at the end of May she felt that years instead of weeks had elapsed since she had left it. A month makes a difference to the country in the spring-time, and she noticed many changes during the drive to Haylands. The grass had grown: in some of the fields it had come up into little billows, where a patch of more fertile soil had caused some part to rise above the rest; in other fields it was all long and soft, spiked here and there with the shafts of its unopened flowers. Everywhere there were butter-cups, a golden cloth of butter-cups; everywhere hawthorn, each hedge snow-powdered with its blossom, each thorn-bush a bride in its white veil. The earth had been busy, Bill felt, very busy; the early fruit was set in the orchard, the blossom was off the apples, the oaks fully in leaf, the cow-parsley, waist-high, made every ditch a fairy-land.

It had all changed very much, and Bill felt that she had changed too; then she turned to the garden, and in a sudden rebound from the trouble of the past weeks forgot about herself and her changes. There was so much, so very much to be done, to have lost a month at this time of year was a sad thing. She worked desperately, enthusiastically, to make up for it; and at dusk she struck work and forgot all about her age and her responsibilities, wandering forth with Shakespeare’s fairies (she knew them all by heart now) into the orchard and the fields and the deep, grass-grown ditches almost as if she expected to find the fairy-folk there.

And thus it was that Gilchrist Harborough found her. During her absence at Wrugglesby he had debated his problem of natural selection more than once, and had at last decided to let matters drift. He did not phrase his decision thus; he put it that, since he was not likely to see her again for a long time, it was not worth thinking about it any more. So he did not think; indeed, he thought so little that, when he saw Bill again, he forgot the problem and never for an instant thought of her as an integral part of it, or as a practical farmer’s wife, or anything else practical. He himself on that occasion could hardly be regarded as a practical person seeking a wife in a cool and reasonable manner. There was no suggestion of a carefully thought out plan about it; it was just man and woman, and the dewy fragrance of trodden grass in the dusk of an evening when May and June meet to make it neither spring nor summer but a mid-heaven between.

He heard Bill’s curious many-noted voice as he passed down the lane where he had talked with her on the day they first spoke of Robert Morton. She had been in the orchard then, as she was now. She had discovered an echo in the orchard,—the back of some barns, the end of an old wall, something caused it; it pleased her, and she sang softly, pausing to hear the repeated sound. “Fearest to love me”—and “love me” came the echo distinctly. “Love me,” she cried again to the clear repetition, “love me—me!” answering the sound as it answered her, till the twilight seemed filled with passionate whispering melody.

Harborough stopped abruptly. If he had been wise he would have gone on, but he forgot to be wise; we are none of us always wise. The old love-song had wooed another on a summer night long ago; it held him now, it roused something in him, and he could not go. The singer ceased; she must have felt his presence, for she turned where she stood knee-deep in the coarse grasses and white-flowered weeds, and saw him leaning against the gate.

“Go on,” he said; “finish it.”

It was perhaps not a polite form of greeting after her weeks of absence and trouble, but he had forgotten that; he had forgotten everything in his desire to hear the words that he knew should follow. The natural man in him was urging him to leap the gate, to stand beside her, and to make her say those words for him.

She hesitated in silence for a moment. In the dusk she could not see his face very clearly, yet she must have known that the self in him to which she appealed was in the ascendant; she wanted to play and to make him play, yet she was half afraid. “No,” she said standing still among the grasses.

“Yes,” he answered, “yes—I will come and make you!”

Then the witchcraft of the night took possession of her, and the unnamed, irresistible impulses, thought of our simple ancestry to be born of the elfin-folk, came upon her. “Come then!” she cried.

In an instant he was over the gate, under the green twilight of the apple-trees, among the grasses where she stood. But she, now wild as a kitten at evening, had fled; from the denser shadow of the nut-bushes she called to him, yet when he reached their shade her voice came from a far corner of the orchard—“Fearest to love me—fearest”—and because she was now in the best possible position for her echo the answer came back “Fearest,” “fearest!” till it was hard to say which was the fickle varying voice and which the repeated sound.

It was like hunting a shadow, about as easy, about as wise, but—but he was young and she was younger still, and the earth redecked was young too, young with eternal youth. The fragrance of its breath was like wine to them, the scent of the falling laburnum and lilac in the garden, the smell of the hawthorn in the hedge, the trodden grass under foot, the dew that was upon the ground, the wind that whispered in the darkness of the trees. He was intoxicated with it, intoxicated with the chase; an instinct of the days when man wooed maid with swiftness of foot and strength of arm was upon him. He was—ah, well, it did not matter, there was no explanation; only when suddenly he startled her all unawares among the tall weeds, he completed the line which surprise had stayed on her lips. “Fearest,” she had called thinking him far away; and “To love me?” he finished, crushing her to silence in his arms.

For a moment she was still in his arms; it might have been her will, it might not;—then, with a sudden effort she wrenched herself free, and he was alone in the darkening orchard.