IT is not necessary to make a room snug with curtains drawn and the draught shut out, in the month of April as it is in early March, so that it was some time even after the lamp was brought in before the wistful clearness in the east, and that gleam of yellow, ‘the daffodil sky’ of the other quarter, which turns to ethereal tints of green, and has so many gradations of colour all its own, was shut out. Lady William liked to see the sky when she was in a cheerful or excited, not a sad mood. Such moods came to her as to every one by times; but she was angry and active to-night. Mab was not much used to such moments of commotion, to her mother’s slightly disturbed condition, and the scolding which had made Patty cry. Scolding was very infrequent in the cottage. Now and then Lady William would launch a fiery arrow; she would throw a distinct terrible light of displeasure upon dusty corners and silver badly cleaned. Sometimes even Mab would be brought to a sudden perception that her faults were quite visible and apparent, notwithstanding all her mother’s love and indulgence. But a moment like this, when all was disturbed and broken without any apparent motive, was astonishing to the girl. It was not for some time that Mab felt even the courage to inquire: only after tea when Lady William’s hasty ejaculations and movements of anger had almost died away.
‘But, mother, now that we are cool,’ said Mab——
‘Cool? I have never been anything but cool.’
‘Now,’ continued the girl, ‘that it is over, what was there so very bad in letting Mr. Leo come in to wait?’
‘And not his mother?’ said Lady William. ‘There would have been nothing particular, though very absurd if everybody who called had been asked in to wait. Fancy coming back to find the room crowded like a dentist’s waiting-room! But to bring in one and leave out another! Though I confess,’ said Lady William, with an angry flush, ‘that if the little goose had done so, and brought in Mrs. Swinford to find her son waiting, I should have been still more uncomfortable.’
‘Then you scolded her, mother, for what it was best to do?’
‘Nothing of the sort; her sin was inviting a gentleman to come in and wait for us who—— Oh, it is too horrid altogether, and if Mrs. Swinford had found him——’
‘Mother, what then?’ cried Mab, a little alarmed.
Her limpid gaze, so full of innocent surprise, seemed to bring back all Lady William’s annoyance. ‘You must take it for granted, Mab, that there are some things I know better than you do,’ she said. ‘By-the-bye, give me her card; let us see what message she left.’
The card did not seem to afford Lady William any more satisfaction. It was a very highly-polished card, and the pencil had cut into it, and the writing was difficult to read. She put it down with a heightened colour, throwing it from her hand. ‘I wonder if she thinks I put any faith in her câlineries,’ she said.
‘What are câlineries, mother?’ said Mab, taking up the card, which was inscribed as follows: ‘Chère Petite,—Much regret not to find you. Come to see me to-morrow; I have something important for your welfare to say.’ ‘Chère Petite,’ repeated Mab, ‘that is a câlinerie, I suppose. It seems queer to call you Petite—but I suppose she knew you when you were quite little.’
‘She knew me, certainly, when the title was more appropriate than it is now.’
‘That must be the reason; and perhaps she thought you might like it. Some ladies,’ said Mab, with her serious, almost childish, face, ‘like to be thought young.’
‘I don’t think she can have thought I would like it, Mab,’ said Lady William, with a little shiver. ‘Close the window and draw the curtain, please. I have a sort of uncomfortable feeling of somebody looking in.’
‘You are uncomfortable altogether to-night, mother.’
‘Yes, I suppose it’s my nerves; it’s—that woman. I never thought I had any nerves before.’
‘Oh, but you have,’ cried Mab; ‘I know better than that. Not nerves, perhaps, like Aunt Jane, but—— There is somebody in the garden. Shall I go and see who it is?’
Lady William started up and looked over Mab’s shoulder. Whether she thought it might be Leo come again, or what other intruder at this untimely hour, I cannot tell. But she said, in a tone that was half relief and half annoyance: ‘Your Aunt Jane in person, Mab, and the girls. What can they want now?’ Her tone was a little fretful. They were in the way of wanting a great many things from her at the Rectory, and frequently her advice on one subject or another, which they did not generally take.
‘It will be about their dresses for the FitzStephens’ party,’ said Mab, to whom the ladies outside were beckoning that she should open the door to them. But Lady William shook her head.
‘Run and let them in, at all events. They have not rung the bell,’ she said, drawing the curtains with an impatient movement. The little room looked so full that it could contain no more when the three ladies came in; but they knew all its accommodations, and settled themselves in their places at as great a distance as possible from the little bright fire. ‘It is such a mild night there is no occasion for it,’ said Mrs. Plowden, ‘but you always keep up fires, Emily, later than any one.’
‘Do I? It’s cheerful at least.’
‘And the window open! That’s rather wasteful, don’t you think? I like to do either one thing or another; to shut up the house and keep all the heat in, as one does on winter nights, or else to throw up all the windows, and get the full advantage of the air. But I don’t see the good of dispersing all the heat outside, as if it could warm the garden. That would be a very good idea; but I’m afraid it would not be a success if you were to try it ever so much.’
‘I suppose,’ said Lady William, ‘you have come to tell me something; not to talk about the fire.’
‘I don’t know. We came over just to see you. It’s such a lovely night I thought I should like a walk. I said to Emmy, after James had gone back to his study, I think I’d like to have a little run; it’s so sweet to-night, not cold at all. Let’s run out and see your Aunt Emily, I said. I knew you were sure to be in.’
‘Oh, yes, we are always sure to be in.’
‘And, except ourselves, you are the only person of whom that can be said; for the FitzStephens are always dining with the Kendals or the Kendals with the FitzStephens; and Miss Grey, she goes in later to tea, not to put the table out, or she is at one of Mr. Osborne’s meetings, or has some parish tea party of her own. We are never sure to find anybody but you; and it is such a thing in a little place like this to know somebody you can depend upon to be in, if you find it dull or want a little run.’
‘I am afraid that Mab and I can’t do much to help your dulness.’
‘Oh, yes, you can. You can always talk nicely, Emily, on almost any subject; and I always say it is such a good thing for the girls only to hear you talk. And Mab is the most sensible little thing that ever was. I always tell the girls it’s quite a treat to hear her; no nonsense, but so sensible, and taking up things so quick!’
‘It is very kind of you, Jane, to have so good an opinion of my little girl.’
‘Oh, it is merely the truth, Emily. I have always heard the Marquis was a very sensible man, and we all know there was once a Prime Minister in the family. Of course that’s a great thing to begin with. I can’t boast anything like that on my side, and I can’t say I think the Plowdens are remarkable for common sense, do you? Our children have other qualities. My poor Jim complains that his father is always at him because he does not stick to his Greek, and how can you expect a young man to stick to his Greek when it is only in that interrupted broken way? James thinks he gives him his full attention. But you know what a parish is, Emily. Sometimes it’s a christening, or some sick person to see, or a funeral. And then James has to tell him, “I can’t hear you, Jim, to-day.” Now, I ask you, Emily, honestly, do you think a boy can be expected to stick to his Greek like that?’
‘I quite agree with you, Jane; it is very hard upon him.’
‘Of course it is hard; everything’s hard. And he doesn’t know what’s the good of it, or what it’s for. He cannot go into the Church, and it requires so much, all the technicalities, you know, to be a schoolmaster; and if James makes up his mind at the end to put him into an office, or to send him—which is terrible to think of,’ cried poor Mrs. Plowden, putting her handkerchief to her eyes—‘abroad—what use would all that Greek be?’
‘It is quite true,’ said Lady William, ‘and I wish we could persuade James to make up his mind. Do you know what friends Jim has in the parish; where he goes; who are his companions? Some one said something to me——’
‘Oh, what did they say to you? Who spoke to you? Tell me what any one has to say about my boy.’
‘It was nothing, after all; it was Mr. Osborne. He said Jim went to some house where it would be better he should not go.’
‘Mr. Osborne!’ cried the Rector’s wife. ‘Oh, Emily, that one who belongs to Jim should listen to that man! There is a man,’ cried the troubled mother, ‘who, if he liked, might have done almost anything with Jim. Not preaching to him; that’s not what I mean. But he is a young man, only five years older; a University man, a man wishing to have good influence. Where does he go to exercise this good influence, Emily? To Riverside; to the men who don’t care, who laugh at him behind his back—and to get the old women to give up their glass of beer, and the little children, that know nothing, to take his blue ribbon. Oh, and there was Jim in his way,’ said the poor mother, ‘Jim at his door, a University man, too; his Rector’s son, his own kind. Did he ever try to get a good influence over Jim? to ask him of an evening, to take him for walks, to give him an interest? Never, never, never! He goes about the parish and makes the poor women promise to give up their drop of beer. What does he know about what they need, about their innocent drop of beer, him a strong young man, well fed, wanting nothing? But my Jim, that was what he wanted, a strong man of his own kind; a young man that he had no suspicion of; that didn’t need to preach. That’s what the boy wants, Emily; not his father, that is angry, or me that only cries, but one like himself. Is it better to gain a good influence over poor old Mrs. Lloyd than over Jim, or to hold temperance meetings when he might do a brother’s part to get hold of that boy?’
‘Oh, mamma, what are you saying?’ said Emmy, still anxious to save appearances. ‘Aunt Emily will think that dear Jim——’
Florence said nothing, but sat staring into the vacant air with wide open eyes full of trouble, while Mrs. Plowden, altogether broken down, put her head upon Lady William’s shoulder and cried.
‘It’s mamma’s nerves,’ said Emmy again; ‘she has been upset to-day. You are not to think, Aunt Emily, that anything dreadful has happened. Nothing is wrong with Jim; it is only that papa is angry with him, and mamma has got it on her nerves, and—mamma, this was not what you came to talk of, you know.’
Mrs. Plowden raised her head after a minute with a piteous smile. ‘Thank you, Emily, you’re always kind,’ she said; ‘and it’s only my nerves, as Emmy says. I get agitated, and then everything looks black, as if it never would come right again. It isn’t that there’s anything to be frightened about, and you know what a true good heart my Jim has, and that’s everything, isn’t it? That’s everything,’ the poor lady said.
‘What mamma really wanted to ask you, Aunt Emily,’ said Emmy, ‘was whether you had seen Mrs. Swinford. She has been to call at the Rectory.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs. Plowden; ‘that was what we wanted, to be sure. Emily, you won’t think anything more of the little fuss I’ve made about Mr. Osborne, will you? You would think I meant that he intended to slight my son. You know I couldn’t mean that. And he is a very good curate, and James puts great confidence in him. It’s my nerves that get the better of me. But Emmy always brings me up to the mark. Yes, about Mrs. Swinford, that was it; did she come here, too?’
‘I believe so; but before we came in. She left a card with a message—— ’
‘My dear Emily, I don’t think Mrs. Swinford is a very nice woman,’ said Mrs. Plowden solemnly.
‘Don’t you?’ said Lady William, with a faint smile.
‘You see, girls,’ said the Rector’s wife, ‘your aunt will never say anything. Perhaps it is prudent, but it’s a little confusing. One doesn’t know what to say.’
‘If you think you will hurt my feelings, Jane, by speaking plainly, don’t let that weigh upon your mind. I know very well what Mrs. Swinford is, and I don’t care to make myself her champion.’
‘I don’t think she’s a nice woman,’ repeated the Rector’s wife; ‘I don’t think she’s a good woman. She looks to me—notwithstanding that she professes to be so fond of you, and Emily this and Emily that—as if she would like to do you a bad turn.’
Lady William took this alarming statement quite calmly. ‘Indeed I should not be surprised,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think it is in her power.’
‘We must try and make sure that it is not in her power. Don’t you think she could perhaps do you harm with the family? It occurred to me, and you will wonder to hear that it occurred to James. He said to me, “If that woman can injure Emily she will.” Dear Emily, you have never been such very good friends with the family, and they have never seen Mab. You know I’ve always wanted you to do something. If you were to put yourself forward a little——’
‘You are very kind, Jane, and James too. I don’t think the family can do us much harm; we have what they chose to give us, and they will not give us anything more, nor do I wish it. I have my pride, too.’
‘But their countenance, Emily!’
‘Their countenance!’ cried Lady William, rising to her feet with a quick start of indignation. ‘To me! I want none of their countenance; I can’t help bearing their name, and they cannot take it from me.’
‘Oh, my dear, my dear, there can be no question of that! They can’t take away your rank, nor Mrs. Swinford either, whatever she may do. My conviction,’ said Mrs. Plowden, nodding her head, ‘is that she can’t bear the thought of your rank. If you should meet anywhere out, and you were to pass before her, Emily—that’s the thought that she can’t bear.’
A gleam of light passed over Lady William’s face. ‘That would be a little compensation,’ she said, half to herself. ‘But don’t put such hopes in my head,’ she added laughing; ‘she and I will never meet out, alas!’
‘If it was only for that I should like to give a dinner party at the Rectory and ask her, Emily—just to show her. Oh, I should like that! It might look strange, James giving his arm to his own sister, but I should never mind how it looked. And it would be a kind of duty, by way of welcoming them back. But you know, Emily, though Mary Jane is an excellent parlourmaid, she is not equal to a formal party. We should require to have a butler, or some one who would look like a butler. And the dinner-service is very shabby and a great many pieces broken. I am sure I would do it with the greatest pleasure, and, indeed, would think it a duty; but only——’
‘No, my kindest Jane, you will do nothing of the sort for me. As for Mrs. Swinford, she will go out to no parties in the village. Don’t imagine for a moment that I want to be avenged upon her in that very small way.’
‘Avenged! I did not think of it in that light. And do you know James was very cool to her to-day, scarcely civil. I thought she had been very nice to you in the old times.’
‘Don’t let us talk of the Swinfords for ever,’ said Lady William, ‘we have had enough of them for one day. Let me know what the girls are going to wear at the FitzStephens’, and who is to be there——’
This new subject, notwithstanding that Mrs. Plowden had her head full of graver matters, was too interesting to be dropped quickly, and there ensued a long conversation, which Lady William, having set it going, left to be carried on by the others. Mrs. Plowden had naturally a great deal to say, and Emmy, whose heart was full of the consciousness that any social occasion where she could see and be seen was more important now in her life than it had ever been before, lent her attention with great earnestness to her mother’s view, to Mab’s remarks, and to the occasional word with which Lady William kept up the talk. Only Florence took no part in it. She had taken up a book, and so appeared to have her attention fixed; I don’t know if she held it upside down, but I am very sure that she did not read a page. Her mind was occupied with affairs of her own.