Princess Puck

Theresa was a conscientious person, and really had Bill’s welfare at heart. Miss Brownlow said she exercised a good influence over her young cousin. Theresa was rather doubtful on the subject herself, but she felt the responsibility of her aunt’s expectations, and determined to fulfil them if possible; only she did not quite know how to set about it. Bill proved so very mild; there seemed no occasion for a preventive and negative influence, and a positive one Theresa found difficult to compass. The only definite suggestion she had as yet made for Bill’s mental and moral benefit was the invitation to the prayer-meeting. That, both in its religious and social aspects, was good; the religious side, Theresa felt, must benefit her charge, though she did not stop to consider how, religion being to her much what charms were to her forebears, good and protective, though operating in methods neither understood nor questioned. The social side of the prayer-meeting was obviously beneficial, for it was in every way desirable that Bill should mix with her elders, it would help her to grow up. Altogether the prayer-meeting was a good thing, and to it, accordingly, Theresa took her cousin on Friday evening.

They drove in the dog-cart: “We can walk home,” Theresa had said; “it is not far.”

So Robert, who did not affect prayer-meetings, drove them and took the cart home again; and as Theresa disliked driving very much, this arrangement suited her better than any other. It suited Bill also, for she sat on the back seat, and was as entirely oblivious of the two in front as if she had been alone in her silent survey of the country. It was still very black and white, she found, though a day of showers and sunshine would alter the whole face of the land now. She was conscious of the coming change; there was a feeling of waiting in the air, as though the unconscious earth stood patient on the threshold of life. There were no leaves as yet among the elms, no blade in the dry, crumbling fields, no hint of green in the close-cut hedge, so black by contrast with the white road. So white the road was, so hard, stretching before them, stretching behind them; Bill looked at it and thought what a long way it could be seen in the pale strong light. Every thing could be seen, the heap of faggots, the pump by the road, the old man working in a cottage-garden,—she could even see what kind of belt he wore; she could see everything near and far,—truly a March evening was a beautiful thing. She drew in deep breaths of the thin air; it seemed like wine within her, making the young blood dance and throb in her veins. She felt, though she hardly knew it, that it was a splendid thing to be alive: “I should like to live as long as the world lasts,” she thought.

Just then they turned in at a gateway. The short drive beyond sloped down rapidly and the dog-cart entered with a jerk which nearly unseated the back passenger, who, however, was examining the garden too intently to be troubled by that. There was a large raised flower-bed in the centre of the gravel sweep, the drive dividing right and left of it. It was a circular bed planted in a geometrical pattern with Dutch bulbs; as yet the hyacinths and tulips were only green shoots, but the crocuses were in full flower and wound like a coloured ribbon across the intricate design. Bill was wondering how it was that none of the crocuses had gone blind, when the cart stopped before a square, ivy-covered house.

“T.,” she said, as she got down, “every single one of those crocuses has come up; they must be a good sort.”

“I dare say. Mr. Perry is fond of his garden, and he has plenty of money.”

Bill’s acquaintance with people possessing plenty of money was limited; indeed, she could not recall anyone she knew who was in that affluent state. She looked at the Perry’s house critically to see how “plenty of money” looked when it was translated into furniture and fittings. There were lots of white curtains, three or four at every window. “That is expensive,” she thought; “it means so much washing.” There were thick carpets on the floors, old-fashioned in design, excellent in preservation, and prodigiously ugly; the furniture in the drawing-room was rosewood, the chairs as like as peas in a pod and all neatly covered in chintz. “I shall tell Polly our things are all right,” Bill mentally determined as she sat down in a retired corner. She had been duly presented to the host and hostess, had duly made an inaudible answer to their polite remarks, and had then sunk into her corner, still safe under her cousin’s wing, as became one of her youth and shyness. No one in Mrs. Perry’s drawing-room expected anything different; indeed all would have been surprised if she had shown greater forwardness of demeanour. Her nearest neighbour, a little old lady with a cheerful countenance and a great mosaic brooch, spoke to her; but at first Bill could not catch what she said, for she lowered her voice out of deference to the more important persons present, until it was little more than a sigh in her listener’s ear. But after a word or two Bill became used to the sound and made out, as she might have guessed, that the subject of conversation was the weather.

“Dry evening,” was the first she heard, and then “a nice walk from Ashelton.”

Bill did not catch the connecting words, but she answered what she heard, although she did not know that she had come beyond the boundary of Ashelton that evening, and contented herself with saying that they had not walked.

“Driven?” suggested the old lady. “I expect Mr. Morton drove you and took the pony home again; such a good arrangement, and much safer than for Mrs. Morton to drive those spirited horses herself. I’m sure I wonder she has never had an accident; I quite thought there would be one when I saw her go by on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Did you see us then?” Bill asked, and her neighbour explained that she lived at the house at the corner where the roads divided. Then Bill knew that this must be Miss Minchin, the lady who, Theresa said, made ample use of the opportunities for observation offered by the commanding position of her house. At that moment the entrance of some fresh arrivals caused such a buzz of conversation that Miss Minchin ventured to inquire in quite a loud voice whether Bill herself could manage a horse.

“I never tried until I came here,” she answered; “I only came on Tuesday, but I have done a little since then. I drove a waggon of straw home yesterday. Tom Griggs told me he thought I should soon be able to handle most things on four legs, but I don’t suppose he knows.”

“You are learning to drive?” Miss Minchin asked, somewhat mystified. “Mr. Morton is teaching you? But, my dear, do be careful, he has such mettlesome horses; gentlemen seem all alike for that; there’s Mr. Harborough, now, he’s nearly as bad. You know Mr. Harborough?” Before Bill could answer the old lady went on: “Hush! Mr. Perry is going to speak. You must come with Mrs. Morton to see me to-morrow; I have a cat and a canary, and several things that will interest you.” The last words were spoken in a shrill whisper in Bill’s ear as the company settled themselves, and Mr. Perry, a trim little man some years retired from the grocery trade, called attention to the fact that the reading was about to begin. When he had made this announcement in a redundancy of words (for he was not averse to speech-making and had few opportunities), the proceedings commenced.

The subject for the evening was faith. Mr. Johnson was giving a course of Christian virtues during that Lent, and faith happened to be the one under consideration on the evening when Bill was present. She was very much interested, though it was not a matter in which she had erred greatly hitherto; she believed largely, had much imagination, and as yet had thought little and felt less; consequently Mr. Johnson’s flowery periods slid harmlessly off her still unconscious mind. She was interested, at first a little in the words, afterwards entirely by the man. Mr. Johnson was a fair man with a tendency towards the sandy, smooth, slightly florid, and with more than a tendency towards plumpness. He had for many years been curate at Ashelton, and, though he was now past middle life, it seemed that he was likely to remain curate at Ashelton, for it appeared that the Church dignitaries had not the same opinion of his worth as had some other people who need not be named. After all, curate at the three Asheltons was on the whole well enough. There was not too much work in the big straggling parish, and there was much sociability of a sort well suited to a man who had a nice taste in tea and pale sherry, and more fancy for being a whale among minnows than a minnow among whales. At Ashelton, though perhaps not exactly a whale, he could pass as a very tolerably sized fish among others of congenial dimensions, at all events when the rector was not there. As for the rector—well, poor man, he was eccentric, he had had trouble—Mr. Johnson said so leniently without any idea as to what the trouble was. For the eccentricity he could vouch: the rector had a cousin who was a bishop, in a genuine, important bishopric, and another, it was hinted, who was a peer. What man, not eccentric, would have remained all these years in a little country parish when he possessed these advantages? Then there was his passion for music, and also his inability to appreciate Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson had at last come to the conclusion that this inability did exist; yet even now he was not sure that it was not partly the expression of a not unnatural jealousy of his own social and parochial triumphs.

On that particular March evening Mr. Johnson knew that he had added one more to the long list of those triumphs. It was a small matter, of course, but, as he told his wife, trifles like that showed how easily he could have influenced a larger audience, had he been in command of one. The trifle in question was Bill Alardy, whose face showed how deeply interested she was in Mr. Johnson’s words. She had the most expressive face imaginable, and that evening it was alive with interest. She had never taken her eyes off the speaker; she listened to every word, the tell-tale face expressing the keenest enjoyment and appreciation. So marked was this that after supper, when all were leaving, Mr. Johnson came to Theresa and shook hands with her and Bill, telling the latter impressively that he was very glad to see her at the reading.

To this Bill answered with equal impressiveness, “I am very glad I came.”

Mr. Johnson smiled encouragingly. “I shall be happy if at any time I can be of help to you,” he said; “I am always pleased to help any one.”

Bill thanked him vaguely and went out with Theresa. She did not know what he meant, but it did not matter, as she did not feel conscious of wanting his help. In her opinion he could not improve upon that evening’s performance, which had been perfectly delightful; so delightful that when she went to her room she thought about him until it became too much for her, and turning to the little wooden bed and the chair which stood beside it, she addressed them, inanimate though they were. “My brothers and sisters,” she said—and her flexible voice, far more flexible even than her face, rolled out in unctuous tones—“my brothers and sisters, faith is the substance of things hoped for, the only evidence we can present to our spiritual senses, the only evidence they need. It is the be-all and end-all, the beginning and the end of all things.” She rolled the words lovingly on her tongue, swelling her face until it became almost Johnsonian in size. “Everything is faith, faith is everything.” Here she stretched out a persuasive hand to the quaint little bed. “In it we live and move and have our being; being dead, we die not if in faith, being alive, we live not without it. Whatever is, is not, whatever is not, is, was and shall be, world without end, amen.”

But Theresa did not hear this, and held to her first opinion as to the kind of spiritual good Bill derived from the prayer-meeting. Of the social good she was not so sure, until her young cousin came to her on Saturday morning and suggested that they should go and see Miss Minchin in the afternoon. “Let us go,” she said; “she promised to show me her cat and bird and other things.”

Theresa acceded to the request, feeling that last night’s meeting was not without results since it had introduced Miss Minchin, and implanted a desire to visit in Bill’s mind.

Miss Minchin’s house was set at the corner where the high road from Wrugglesby divided, the one way to go through Ashelton to the church, the other to the lanes and so to the more distant village of Sales Green. “It is a terribly public place,” Miss Gruet, Miss Minchin’s particular friend, always said with commiseration. Her own house was privacy itself, the lower windows looking solely on the laurel bushes tall and elderly, the upper as effectually screened by a great horse-chestnut tree. “It was most secluded,” Miss Gruet said, and, out of pity no doubt, she often left her seclusion to cheer her friend in the publicity which had fallen to her share. She did so on the afternoon when Theresa and Bill made their call, but did not arrive until Miss Minchin had duly shown her treasures. Bill was interested in them all,—in the cat asleep on the violet bed, only dislodged with the end of an umbrella, and the canary before the window in a green cage with a piece of grey paper neatly tacked round the lower part to keep the seeds in and the draughts out. This piece of paper was often changed, varying in colour with the Church festivals and other important events, always going into mourning on the death of royalty; at least, the cage did. Black paper Miss Minchin found difficult to obtain, as she explained to Bill.

“When the poor dear Duke of Clarence died,” she said, “I could not get a scrap. I put a piece of black cashmere round the cage, but the little fellow (it was not this canary then but another one) did not like it a bit.”

The subject of discussion here gave a short burst of song. When he ceased Miss Minchin encouraged him to continue. “Swee-e-t!” she said; “go on, my pretty, swee-e-t! He likes someone to whistle to him, but of course I can’t do that.”

“I can,” said Bill, and gave a trilling imitation of the caged singer.

“I declare,” exclaimed Miss Minchin, “it’s quite charming! I’m sure if girls had whistled like that in my young days no one would have thought it unladylike. They did think so, then, my dear, but now, to be sure, things are quite changed; everyone can do as they like, and more besides.”

It was just then that Miss Gruet came in. “I thought you must be coming here,” Miss Minchin said briskly. “I said so to Mrs. Morton just now, when I saw you coming down the road.”

“You can see everyone from your window,” Miss Gruet said with a touch of severity. “I do believe from your back bedroom you could almost see the field-path that leads to the rectory.”

“Yes,” Miss Minchin admitted, “I can if I move the toilet-glass. Of course I never do move it, unless it happens that the blind goes wrong, as it does sometimes. It is such a tiresome blind; I remember I had to see to it the day Tom Davies went to put his banns up; he thought no one saw him go sneaking to the rectory, but I did, for I was mending my blind.”

Miss Gruet professed herself properly shocked—and interested. “There is no telling what you might not see,” she said, “and Mr. Dane a bachelor too!”

Miss Minchin hastened to assure the company that she had never seen anything bad; indeed, only yesterday morning, when the troublesome blind went wrong again, she had seen quite a pleasant sight—Mr. Dane and young Mr. Harborough in earnest conversation. “So nice,” she said, “for a young man like that to be such friends with the rector.”

The others agreed with her, and talked over this item of intelligence in all its aspects. A little later, Theresa and Miss Gruet being at the time deep in a discussion of the difficulty of preventing mice from eating cheese-mats, Bill led the conversation back to Harborough.

“The Harboroughs of Gurnett,” she said; “does this Mr. Harborough belong to them?”

“No, indeed,” Miss Minchin answered, almost shocked at the idea. “The Harboroughs of Gurnett are the Harboroughs of Wood Hall, one of the oldest families of the county, just as Wood Hall is one of the finest places. At least, it used to be, but times are sadly changed from what they were. The Harboroughs are poor now and cannot afford to keep the place up; not but what it is fine still,—have you ever seen it?”

“No, but I have heard about it,” Bill said eagerly. “There is a room there, the library I think, with a fireplace so big that a quadrille could be danced on the hearth; and the great hall is so wide that a coach and four could turn in it without touching the wall on either side.”

“Yes, my dear, yes.” The old lady’s tone was sad, as of one who remembers departed greatness. “Yes; so they say; they say many things about the place. It is sad to think of the way in which it is being left, sad to think of the Harboroughs, a good old family.”

“I thought they were bad,” Bill remarked, remembering the common report of the district.

“So they were, bad and extravagant too; they nearly all were, and that is why they are so poor now.”

Bill did not express any opinion on good old families which were also bad; she only remarked meditatively, “I think I shall go to Wood Hall.”

“You can’t,” Miss Minchin said; “Mr. Harborough lives there now.”

“Yes; but parts of the grounds are open, are they not? I could see them, as much as can be seen.”

“I would not, if I were you.” Miss Minchin’s voice was a solemn warning.

“Why not?”

“Because,—it does not seem exactly right for a young girl to go into those grounds.”

“But why?”

Miss Minchin dropped her voice half a tone lower. “Mr. Harborough is a bad old man,” she said, “a very wicked old man. It does not become me to speak ill of one in his station, belonging to this county too; still facts are facts and they are terrible.”

“What has he done?”

Bill showed, or Miss Minchin thought she showed, too much interest in the subject, and, either because she would not, or else because she could not, she gave no further information. Whereupon Bill, failing to hear anything about the one Mr. Harborough turned to the other.

“Is he related to the Wood Hall people?” she asked.

“No, oh dear, no,” Miss Minchin answered. “He is an Australian, or a New Zealander, or something American and colonial; I am rather uncertain about those places, but he comes from one of them. Besides, my dear, consider, he is a farmer, nothing but a farmer,—a very good profession; I am not saying anything against it,” she added, hastily remembering Theresa’s husband; “indeed, I should be very sorry to, seeing that all the patriarchs were farmers, so to say. Still, you must admit it is not quite suitable to a member of the county-families. I know old families are not respected as they used to be, but no one would think of classing them with farmers even now.”

Bill acquiesced and then observed: “It is queer he should have the same name.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Miss Minchin said, bridling a little. “It is not such an uncommon name; besides the old families spread so. Long ago they were, no doubt, much larger than they now are; there is no telling where all the younger branches go.”

“You think he is a younger branch? Then he should be as good as the others.”

“Certainly not: for one reason he has not lived in the same place so long; he and his forebears have gone out from among the family; they have not kept up the family traditions. There are many traditions in a family like that, many, and much property too. Why, do you know the side chapel in our parish church is the property of the Harboroughs?”

Bill did not know it, neither did she see the force of it as an argument; nevertheless she was interested. “The whole chapel?” she asked.

“Yes, the little chapel and the little altar and all complete. Of course they never go there, for they are Catholics. I sometimes think perhaps if Mr. Harborough had not been a Catholic—but there! We mustn’t be uncharitable. Do you like reading? Yes? Then I should advise you to read the history of the county; you will find all about Wood Hall there and many other things you will like. I don’t think Mrs. Morton has a history, but Miss Gruet has a very nice book of Selections, which I have no doubt she will lend to you; I do believe I have it in the house now.” She had borrowed it when Harborough first came and had not yet returned it. “We can ask her to allow you to take it home with you; I’m sure she will.”

This Miss Gruet expressed herself happy to do, and Bill carried the book away with her when she left with Theresa a few minutes later.