No, I’m dashed if we do! Don’t you remember? It was the time you read us the old man’s letter. I liked the letter and I might like the old man, but I’m dashed if I like his daughter! She doesn’t take after her father, I’ll be bound.”
“Not unless he is very much changed,” admitted David sadly. “Still, I think you are rather hard upon her, John William.”
“Hard upon her! Haven’t I been watching her? Haven’t I ears and eyes in my head, like everybody else? It’s only one meal I’ve set down to beside her, so far, but one’ll do for me! With her nasty supercilious smile, and her no-thank-you this and no-thank-you that! I never did know anybody take such a delight in refusing things. Look at her about that hare!”
“Yes; and your mother had spent all morning at it. I’m very much afraid she’s knocked herself up over it, for she’s lying down, too. Your mother is not so strong as she was, John William. I’m very much afraid that matter of Missy has been preying on her nerves.”
“I’d rather have Missy than this here Miriam,” said John William, after a pause, and all at once his voice was full of weariness.
The same thought was in Mr. Teesdale’s mind, but he did not give expression to it. Presently he said, still pacing the room with his long-legged, weak-kneed stride:
“I wonder what Mr. Oliver meant when he hinted that I should find Miriam so different from the girls of our day? Where are the tricks and habits that he alluded to? Poor Missy had plenty, but I can’t see any in Miriam.”
“Can’t you? Then I can. Ways of another kind altogether. Did the girls in your day turn up their noses at things before people’s faces?”
“No.”
“Did they sneer when they talked to their elders and betters?”
“No; but we are only Miriam’s elders, mind — not her betters.”
“Could they smile without looking supercilious, and could they open their mouths without showing their superiority?”
“Of course they could.”
“There you are then! One more question — about Mr. Oliver this time. When you left the old country he hadn’t the position he has now, had he?”
“No, no; very far from it. He was just beginning business, and in a small way, too. Now he is a very wealthy man.”
“Then he hadn’t got as good an education as he’s been able to give his children, I reckon?”
“No, you’re right. We went to school together, he and I,” said Mr. Teesdale simply.
“Then don’t you see?” cried his son, jumping up from the sofa where he had been sitting, while the old man still walked up and down the room. “Don’t you see, father? Mr. Oliver was warning you against what he himself had suffered from. You bet that Miss Miriam picks him up, and snubs him and sneers at him, just as she does with us!”
Which was the cleverest deduction that this unsophisticated young farmer had ever arrived at in his life; but puzzling constantly over another matter had lent a new activity to his brain, and much worry had sharpened his wits.
Old Teesdale accepted his son’s theory readily enough, but yet sorrowfully, and the more so because the more he saw of his old friend’s child, the less he liked her.
Indeed, she was not at all an agreeable young person. It appeared that she had been merely reading in her own room, so when Arabella owned to having been asleep in hers, she looked duly and consciously superior. There was something comic about that look of conscious superiority which broke out upon this young lady’s face upon the least provocation, but it is difficult to give an impression of it in words — it was so slight, and yet so plain. To be sure, she was the social as well as the intellectual superior of the simple folk at the farm, but that in itself was not so very much to be proud of, and at any rate one would not have expected a tolerably well-educated girl to exhale superiority with every breath. But this was the special weakness of Miss Miriam Oliver. Even the fact that some of the Teesdales read the Family Cherub was an opportunity which she could not resist. She took up a number and satirised the Family Cherub most unmercifully. Then she was queer about the poor old piano in the best parlour. She played a few bars upon it — she could play very well — and then jumped up shuddering. Certainly the piano was terribly out of tune; but not more so than this young Englishwoman’s manners. In conversation with the Teesdales there was only one subject that really interested her.
It was a subject which had been fully dealt with at supper on the Saturday night, when Mrs. Teesdale had waxed very warm thereon. Old Teesdale and Arabella had listened in silence because to them it was not quite such a genial topic. John William had not been there; the misfortune was that he did sit down to the Sunday supper, when Miss Oliver brought up this subject again.
“Did my under-study like cocoa, then?” she inquired, having herself refused to take any, much to Mrs. T.’s discomfiture.
“You mean that impudent baggage?” said the latter. “Ay, she was the opposite extreme to you, Miriam. She took all she could get, you may be sure! She made the best use of her time!”
“Do tell me some more about her,” said Miss Oliver. “It is most interesting.”
“Nay, I would rather not speak of her,” replied Mrs. Teesdale, who was only too delighted to do so when sure of a sympathetic hearing. “It was the most impudent piece of wickedness that ever I heard tell of in my life.”
“The queer thing to me,” remarked Miss Oliver, “is that you ever should have believed her. Fancy taking such a creature for me! It was scarcely a compliment, Mrs. Teesdale. A more utterly vulgar person one could hardly wish to see.”
“My dear,” began Mr. Teesdale nervously, “she behaved very badly, we know; yet she had her good points—”
“Hold your tongue, David!” cried his wife, whom nothing incensed more than a good word for Missy. “She curry-favoured with you, so you try to whitewash her. I wonder what Miriam will think of you? However, Miriam, I can tell you that I never believed in her — never once! A brazen, shameless, lying, thieving hussy, that’s what she—”
A heavy fist had banged the table at the lower end, so that every cup danced in its saucer, and all eyes were turned upon John William, who sat in his place — trembling a little — very pale — but with eyes that glared alarmingly, first at his mother, then at the guest.
“What did she steal?” he thundered out. “You may be ashamed of yourself, mother, trying to make the girl out worse than she was. And you, Miss Oliver — I wonder you couldn’t find something better to talk about — something in better taste!”
Miss Oliver put up her pale eyebrows.
“This is interesting!” she exclaimed. “To think that one should come here to learn what is, and what is not good taste! Perhaps you preferred my — my predecessor to me, Mr. Teesdale?”
“I did so!” said John William stoutly.
“Ah, I thought as much. She was, of course, rather more in your line.”
“By the Lord,” answered the young man, forgetting himself entirely, “if you were more in hers it would be the better for them that have to do with you. She could have taught you common civility, at any rate, and common kindness, and two or three other common things that you seem never to have been taught in your life!” There was a moment’s complete silence. Then Miss Oliver got steadily to her feet.
“After that,” she said to David, “I think my room is the best place for me — and the safest too.”
She proceeded to the door without let or hindrance. All save herself were too much startled to speak or to act. Mr. Teesdale was gazing through the gun-room window with a weary face; his wife held her side as if it were a physical trouble with her; while Arabella looked in terror at John William, who was staring unflinchingly at the first woman he had lived to insult. The latter had reached the threshold, where, however, she turned to leave them something to keep.
“It serves me right,” she said. “I might have known what to expect if I came here.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE WAY OF ALL F
LESH.
“AY, it’s been a bad job,” said David. “But it’s over and done with now — that’s one thing.”
He meant the whole matter, from Mr. Oliver’s letter about Miriam to this young lady’s ultimate depressing visit; but in his heart he was thinking more of things and a person that came in between; and he glanced in wonder at his wife, who for once had missed an opening to loosen her lips and rail at that person and those things.
They were driving into Melbourne, the old couple together, and such a thing was rare. Moreover, the proposal had been Mrs. Teesdale’s, which was rarer still. But rarest of all was her reason, namely, that there were several little odds and ends which she wanted to buy for herself. They had been married thirty-five years, but she had never been known deliberately to buy herself any odds or ends before.
“Fal-lals?” said David chuckling.
“No such thing; you know nothing about it, David.”
“Ribbons?”
“Rubbish,” said Mrs. Teesdale; and David looked at her again, for there was no edge on the word, and, after thirty-five years, there was a something in the woman which was new and puzzling to the man.
What was it? A week and more had passed since Miriam Oliver left them, with undisguised relief in her eyes and the coldest of cold farewells upon her lips, which not even Mrs. Teesdale, who half attempted it, was allowed to kiss in memory of her parents. Since that day Mrs. T. had not been herself; but David was only now beginning to perceive it. When one has lived thirty-five years with another the master-spirit of the pair, it must be hard indeed for the weaker to discern the first false ring, telling of the first flaw in the stronger vessel. And the weaker vessel need not necessarily be the woman, that is the worst of it; in the Teesdales’ case it was certainly plain enough which, was which. So the feeble and indolent old man was slow to see infirmity in the active, energetic body, his wife; indeed, the infirmity did not show itself as such quite immediately. It came out first of all in snapping and storming, in continual irritation, culminating in furies as insane as the rage of babes and sucklings. In this stage she would take and tear the unforgotten Missy into little pieces when other irritating matter chanced to flag; and once boxed Arabella’s ears for daring to hint that the ways of the genuine Miriam were themselves not absolutely perfect. The name of Missy, whom she could not abuse too roundly, had the excellent effect upon her of taking off the steam; that of Miriam caused certain explosion, because for her Mrs. Teesdale would stick up with her lips while resenting most bitterly in her secret heart every remembered word and look of this young lady. The memory of both girls was gall and wormwood to her. There was only this difference, that she lost her temper in defending Miriam, and found it again in reviling Missy. But now, after not many days, that temper was much less readily lost and found; the sharpness was gone from the tongue to the face; all at once the woman was grown old; and he who had aged before her, though by her side, was the last to realise that she had caught him up.
She could milk no longer. One afternoon she got up from her stool with a very white face and left the shed, walking unsteadily. She never went back to it. She had ceased to be a wonderful woman. It was the very next day that she made David drive her into Melbourne to buy those little odds and ends.
On the way, in the buggy, under a merciless sun, the husband, looking often at his wife, saw at last what manner of changes had taken place. They were outward and visible; they made her look old and ill. It was the worry of recent events, no more, no less. David had been worried himself, he truly said; but there was no sense in anybody’s worrying any more about what couldn’t be helped, being over and done with, for good and all.
“It’s been a bad job,” he said again before they got to Melbourne; “a very bad job, as it is. If you let it make you ill, my dear, with thinking about what can’t be mended, it’ll be a worse job than ever.”
He wanted to accompany Mrs. T. upon her unwonted little flutter among the shops. They had put up the mare at their old servant’s inn. The landlord had remarked of his former mistress, and to her face, that she was not looking at all well, but, in fact, very poorly. And as David now thought the same, he was very anxious indeed to go with her and hold the odds while she bought the ends. She would not hear of it; but instead of sharply ordering, she entreated him to mind his own business and stay at the inn; so he stayed there, marvelling, for a time. Then a thought struck him.
He went to the pawnbroker’s and saw his watch. It was all right. He had it in his hands, and wound it up, and set it right, and listened to its tick as to the beating of some loving heart, while his own went loud and quick with emotion. Then he left, and wandered along the street with eyes that were absent and distraught until they rested for a moment upon a passing face full of misery. He looked again — it was his wife.
They met with a mutual guilty start — hers the guiltier of the two — so that all the questioning came from him.
“Where have you been, my dear?”
“Collins Street.”
“And what have you bought, and where is it?”
“Nowhere; I’ve bought nothing at all. I — I couldn’t find what I wanted.”
“Not find what you wanted? Not in Melbourne? Nonsense, my dear! You’ve been to the wrong places; you must take me with you after all. What was it that you wanted most particularly?”
“Nothing, David; I want nothing now. I only want to go home to the farm — only home now, David. There were little things, but — but I couldn’t get ‘em, and now they don’t matter. I am disappointed, but that doesn’t matter either. Yes, I am disappointed; but now I only want to get home — to get home!”
She was so disappointed, this tough old woman with the weather-beaten face that was now and suddenly so aged and haggard, that her eyes were full of tears even there in the street; and she let them run over when David forged ahead to push the way; and wiped them up before she took his arm again. This taking of his arm, too, was done more tenderly, more dependently, than ever, perhaps, in their married life before. And David must have felt this himself, for he held up his head and shouldered his way through the crowd like a very brave old gentleman, and drove back to the farm for once the lord and master of his wife — he who had quitted it with less authority than their children.
He was not, of course, exactly aware of it He was conscious of something, but not so much as all that. He did not know enough to keep him awake that night. But the window-blind took shape out of the darkness, and the wife at David’s side saw it with eyes that had never closed. And the gray dawn filled the room: and daylight whitened the face and beard of the sleeping man: and the wife at his side raised herself in the bed and looked long upon David, and wept, and kissed the bedclothes where they covered him, because she was frightened of his waking if she kissed him. But he went on sleeping like a child.
Then Mrs. Teesdale lay back and stared at the ceiling, thinking hard. She thought of their long married life together; and had she been a good wife to David? She thought of the easy-going, sweet-tempered young man who had made laughing love to her long ago in some Yorkshire lane; of the middle-aged philosopher who had found it rather amusing than otherwise to watch worse men making their fortunes while he stood still and chuckled; of the frail, white-haired sleeper who would presently awake with a smile to one day more of indolence and unsuccess. She still envied that sweet temperament, as she had envied it when a girl, though she knew now what no girl could have dreamt, that two such natures linked together would have found themselves hand in hand at the poor-house door in very much shorter time than thirty-five years. He had had no vices, this poor dear David of hers. Neither drink nor cards, nor the racecourse, nor another woman, had ever tempted him from their own hearthstone, which was the place he had loved best through all the years. Through all the years he had never spoken a harsh word to wife or child. He was full of affection and incapable of unkindness; but he was equally incapable of making a strong man’s way in the world. Therefore sh
e had played the man’s part, which had been thrust upon her; and if this had hardened her could she help it? Was it not natural? Hard labour hardens not the hands alone, but the mind, the eye, the face, the tongue, and the heart most of all. It had hardened her; she realised that now, when the strength was gone out of her, and she at last knew what it was to feel soft, and weak, and to need the support which she had hitherto given.
She tried to be just, however. Perhaps the support had not been all on her side through all the years. Perhaps with his even-minded placidity, his unfailing philosophy, David had all along done very nearly as much for her as she for him. Certainly he had never complained, and the life they had led would have been impossible with a complaining man. In their greatest straits he had stood up to her with a smile and a kiss; he had never depressed her with his own depression. That kiss and smile might have seemed impertinent to her at the time, in the actual circumstances, but now she knew how they had helped her by freeing her mind of special care on his account. So after all he had been a good husband to her; nay, the very best; for what other would have borne with her temper as he had done? What other would have been as calm, and kind, and contented? But he was not fit to be by himself. That was the dreadful part of it. He was not fit to be left alone.
To be sure, there were the children. They were still children to their mother, and young children, too; their minds seemed to have grown no older for so many years. Their mother saw the possibility of their marrying one day — as though that day might not have come any time those ten years and more. She saw it still; and what would become of David then? Arabella would not so much matter; she was just such another as her poor father; but John William —
Here Mrs. Teesdale’s thoughts left the main track for a very ugly turning indeed. She had taken this turning once or twice before, but it was so ugly that she had never followed it very far. Now, however, she followed it until not another moment could she lie in bed, but must jump up and speak to her son with the matter hot in her head.
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 64
