The House of Hardie

by Anne Melville

  A third contradiction in his personality was not revealed at once. On the day of his arrival, Mr Witney spoke in the formal voice of a man accustomed to conversing with the aristocracy. Although he did not imitate their accent, he used the same cadences and grammatical constructions as his customers. But as Midge came to know him better, she discovered that he had another way of speaking – an easy and unaffected manner, hinting at a sense of humour that he was always ready to turn against himself, and liable at any moment to explode into vigorous Cockney; not so much reverting to the natural speech of his childhood as parodying it. The grin which accompanied this lighter style of conversation transformed his face into that of a young man: he was only a year or two older than Midge herself.

  This free and easy manner, though, was to be a later discovery. When he moved into the house as a lodger, it was inevitable that he should at first be treated with an excess of politeness, and should reply in kind. On the one hand, enquiries were made as to his tastes; on the other, he was anxious to discover how the life of the family proceeded as a rule, so that he could fit in without disturbing its routines.

  It was Midge herself who broke the ice of this over-elaborate consideration. On what seemed set to be the hottest day of June, she appeared at breakfast wearing a high-necked white blouse and a severe black skirt instead of the bright colours and light materials which were her usual summer choice. Rising to his feet as she entered the dining room, Mr Witney was so amazed by her appearance that he remained frozen in an awkwardly bent position, staring at her.

  Midge burst out laughing. During the past two months she had been working so hard and worrying so much that her normal merriment had deserted her. But now the strain of revision was over and the new stress of putting her views and knowledge on to paper had not yet begun. She was able to smile as she explained to their lodger.

  ‘This is a day of doom for me,’ she said, although the brightness of her eyes seemed to contradict the words. ‘The first day of the Final Schools Examination. A lamb would be decked for the slaughter with garlands, but we sacrificial victims are expected to dress ourselves appropriately for our own funerals. I shall be apparelled in this hideous fashion for twelve days, and I shall expect your undivided sympathy for the whole of that period.’

  ‘Of course you shall have it, Miss Hardie.’ Mr Witney bowed, and spoke in his dignified voice. ‘Although surely you should be triumphant rather than downcast. I understand that for a good many years now women have been demanding the right to take the same examinations as men, so that their abilities can be truly measured. This is also a day of privilege for you, is it not?’

  It could almost have been her brother Gordon speaking, so well did the gravity of his voice conceal the teasing choice of words. It was difficult not to compare the speed of his understanding with Archie Yates’s plodding attempt to understand the importance of the examinations to her.

  Midge reminded herself that she was trying not to think about Archie, and gave Mr Witney a light-hearted grin.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ she agreed. ‘I must regard it as an opportunity to demonstrate my brilliance rather than as an ordeal in which all my weaknesses will be probed. It will become a disaster only if I prove not to be brilliant after all.’

  There were moments during the next few days when she was forced to recognize that she did indeed lack brilliance. She had worked hard at her studies, and possessed a retentive memory and a well-ordered mind. But it was not, in the Oxford sense, a first-class mind. In conversation she was able to develop an argument in ways which were sometimes wild but often imaginatively effective: But in writing, when she became anxious to stay close to fact and eschew fantasy, her theories were expressed more cautiously and, although accurate, were dull. Reading through her answers at the end of each examination, she was clear-minded enough to recognize that they would earn her a place only in the Second Class.

  Well, that would be respectable enough, if not exactly what she had hoped for in the beginning. To someone like Archie, a Second would represent an unattainable height; more probably he would have to be content, when the time came, with a mere pass degree. Once again Midge reminded herself that she was not to think about Archie.

  For as long as her Finals were in progress, she refused to allow herself any feeling of tiredness. But as the last word was written, the last paper handed in, she was overcome by a combination of exhaustion and depression. Outside the Examination Schools, exuberant groups of undergraduates would be waiting to welcome the prisoners released from their ordeal. All the male examinees would be swept off to celebrate; and even amongst the very much smaller number of women, those who lived in a hall could expect to be met by their fellow-residents. Only Midge herself would emerge alone to a day which no longer had any purpose. Lonely and weary, she dragged herself outside.

  ‘Cor blimey, Miss Hardie,’ said a Cockney voice in her ear. ‘You look proper done in, and that’s a fact.’ Mr Witney raised his hat to reveal that ludicrous bristle of ginger hair. His mouth was grinning, but his eyes were concerned as he offered her his arm.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Midge was sufficiently pleased by his unexpected appearance to shake off some of her apathy.

  ‘All over Oxford,’ said Mr Witney, his Cockney accent fading away into earnestness, ‘the young toffs are celebrating the end of their examinations with an orgy of the champagne which they’ve obtained from The House of Hardie but almost certainly haven’t paid for. Is the daughter of the House, I asked myself, to be the only one of the lot of them who goes home sober?’ He was steering her gently in the direction of The House of Hardie, which was not far from the Examination Schools, on the other side of the High. In the parlour, set out as though for a wine tasting, a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket of ice stood between two glasses.

  Mr Witney pulled out a chair for her. He had left the door of the parlour open, Midge noticed. Perhaps so that he could keep an eye on the staff working in the shop; perhaps also so that they should not suspect him of planning a tête-à-tête with their employer’s daughter.

  ‘Your father’s in London and your brother’s in Cambridge,’ he told her, opening the bottle. ‘I had a word with Mrs Hardie after breakfast. The chaise will be here for you in half an hour. I hope I’m not presuming. But I didn’t like to think of you going home as though it were an ordinary day.’

  ‘It was very thoughtful of you.’ Midge never allowed herself to feel tired for more than a moment or two and, as the bubbles touched her lips for the first sip at this unaccustomed time of day, she forced herself into good spirits again. Her smile of appreciation, in fact, was even warmer than it would normally have been, just because of the effort needed to shake off the feeling of anticlimax.

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Witney, noticing this. ‘You really did look a picture of misery when you came out on to the steps there. I was afraid something must have gone wrong. There was a nightmare I used to have before the tests I took with my night study classes – that I’d turn over the paper and find I’d prepared quite the wrong subject – French when it should have been Chinese, or something like that.’ He was chattering to spare her the effort of talking. ‘Here’s to your First.’ He raised his glass.

  Midge shook her head. ‘No chance of that, I’m afraid. And what would it signify, in any case? Although I’m allowed to take the examinations, I shan’t be awarded a degree.’

  ‘Do I hear a trace of resentment in your voice there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘It rankles that women are allowed to do only what men permit. A married woman may own her own property if a wholly male parliament graciously gives her permission to do so. If women are ever allowed to vote, it will be because that same group of men has reluctantly conceded the right to them.’

  Mr Witney’s voice changed as he considered her view seriously. ‘Do you propose to raise your banner in that cause?’

  ‘No,’ said Midge. ‘It’s too early. So many of the arguments used by bi
goted men are true, in fact. The first battle must be fought on the field of education. Only when there’s a generation of women who are able to manage their own affairs and understand the affairs of the nation shall we be justified in talking about rights.’

  ‘Yet you yourself –’

  ‘I was more fortunate than most girls. My father, as I’m sure you know, is generous and fair-minded. He was willing to allow me the same chance of education as my brother, if I seemed able to profit by it. I’ve done better, indeed, because I was never expected to work in the family business. But there was an element of luck about it. The Oxford High School for Girls opened its doors just in time to help me qualify for university education – and the greatest good fortune is that of living in Oxford, so that I’ve been able to study without leaving home.’

  ‘And so –?’

  ‘And so I hope to become a schoolteacher. An assistant teacher to start with, of course, but as soon as I have sufficient experience I shall do my best to find a post as headmistress, so that I can choose my own pupils – and, indeed, go out to find them. Drag them away from their embroidery and their piano lessons, and educate them as thoroughly as their brothers.’

  Fleetingly, as she spoke, she remembered the conversation she had had with Archie on this subject a year earlier. Her views, imperceptibly, had changed. Then she had expected to train future governesses in order that girls from good families might in future be better taught at home. Now she planned to bring such girls directly under her own influence and help them qualify to study at Oxford or Cambridge. Perhaps in time the present barriers of masculine prejudice would crumble beneath the weight of numbers.

  Comparing this conversation with the earlier one, she recognized that a second ingredient was also different. Archie had been offered the best education that money could buy, and Midge suspected that it had left him with a feeling of contempt for the ‘beaks’ who were so obviously his social inferiors. Her ambitions must have seemed second-rate to him, so that he could discuss them only as a joke. Mr Witney, in contrast, had wasted his own chance of elementary schooling, such as it was. But he had made up for it since then, discovering what he needed to know and applying himself in his limited free time to making good the deficiencies in his knowledge. He, like herself, must recognize that it was education which could offer an escape from the handicaps of birth. He would understand, with such a background, why she thought her work could be important. As he refilled her glass, she felt her spirits bubbling as lightly as the champagne.

  ‘I hope you’ll choose to work in Oxford,’ he said. ‘The High School –’

  Midge interrupted the suggestion with a shake of her head. ‘I wouldn’t want to work as a colleague with teachers who still think of me as a pupil,’ she said. ‘I shall apply to the Ladies’ College at Cheltenham as soon as I hear my examination results. But, of course, I’m not the one who will do the choosing.’

  ‘You’ll be at home at least for the vacation, I hope. These past few weeks – you’ve been working so hard – I’ve been looking forward to the chance to get better acquainted now that you have more time to relax.’

  ‘I hope to be in Oxford in three weeks’ time for the viva voce examination,’ Midge told him. ‘Until then, I’m going to stay with a friend of mine. Her family owns a holiday home in the Lake District. We shall be able to walk the fells. After all this time at my books, I need to take some exercise.’

  She smiled with all the pleasure of anticipation at the thought of striding out freely in the mountain air. But there was a different expression in the eyes of Mr Witney, who made no attempt to conceal his disappointment. As though … Once before, in the middle of a conversation with a young man, she had seen such a look. Archie Yates, grovelling on the ground in mock apology, had acted a part, laughing; and then without warning had looked at her as though for the first time – and seemed to like what he saw.

  Was she allowing her imagination to be ruled by conceit in believing that Mr Witney was making the same kind of silent appeal? If so, she must pretend, for his sake, not to notice. She drained her glass and stood up, thanking him for the kindness of his thought in meeting and cheering her. The words were sincere, but meant no more than she said. She had burned her fingers once by allowing a young man’s entreaties to melt her heart. The consequences, fortunately, had been no more than a short period of extreme anxiety lest she should find herself pregnant, followed by the humiliation and unhappiness which Archie’s letter had inflicted on her. It had been a lesson to teach her how quickly an infatuation could rage out of hand like a forest fire. She did not propose to make the same mistake again.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Congratulations!’ exclaimed Gordon. The examination results were out: Midge had been placed in the Second Class. Her smile of pleasure seemed genuine enough; it was impossible for him to tell whether she had secretly expected a First.

  ‘We should celebrate,’ he decided. ‘A day on the river. We’ll take a picnic and I’ll row you to Godstow.’ Now that all the undergraduates had gone down for the Long Vacation there would be no difficulty in hiring a boat.

  ‘I may not have to work, but surely you must,’ said Midge.

  Gordon laughed. ‘Business is always slow in August,’ he reminded her. ‘And I can’t persuade Will – Mr Witney – to let me do a full day’s work. He’s been so quick to pick up his new responsibilities that I’ve been able to leave him in charge while I searched for patrons; and now that I’m back in Oxford and prepared to pull my weight for a few more weeks, I find that there’s no room for me. He’s a sound chap, to be sure. I shall be able to travel with an easy conscience, knowing that the Oxford shop is in good hands. So, the river?’

  Midge smiled in agreement and went off to discuss a picnic hamper with the cook, leaving Gordon to wonder how best to introduce the subject which had nagged at his mind for several weeks. Now that Midge need neither work nor worry, his questions would not distract her – but they might be hurtful unless he could express them tactfully.

  While he was rowing, he wasted no breath on conversation, for the distance was a long one with no one to share the work against the current. Only when he had moored the boat and helped his sister to spread out a cloth in a low-lying meadow, did he open the conversation with a casual comment.

  ‘This is something you’ve missed this summer. Last year, I remember, you spent a good deal of time on the river.’

  ‘Last year I was a second-year student. Quite a different person from the harassed third-year approaching Finals.’

  ‘And has it been the same with dances?’

  ‘Even less possible,’ said Midge briefly. ‘A ball may last for only five or six hours. But there’s all the distraction of choosing clothes. And resting beforehand and recovering afterwards. A whole week’s work can disappear into the programme of a single ball. I told myself at the beginning of the year that there would be other summers, other chances of social distraction. It’s been no great sacrifice to devote just these few months to my studies. Shall I cut you a piece of pie, or will you serve yourself?’

  ‘A small piece, thank you.’ But Gordon did not allow himself to be distracted by the change of subject. ‘I would have thought, though, that you might have allowed yourself an occasional short break. To celebrate Mr Yates’s coming-of-age, for example, since you and he are friends.’

  ‘We were friends.’ Midge’s colour rose as she made the correction. ‘The friendship has come to an end. If that’s what you were trying to discover, you could have asked more directly.’

  ‘I’ve no right to intrude into your private affairs. Though I must say, I think you’ve been wise –’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t I who was wise. If we’re going to discuss this tedious subject, you might as well hear the truth of it. I was the fool you always thought me. And Mr Yates behaved precisely as you anticipated. I award you a First Class for intelligent prophecy.’

  ‘How did it come about?’ It was easy to tell that Midge
was angry, but her anger seemed to be with herself rather than with Gordon’s prying.

  ‘He wrote to me at the beginning of the Easter vacation. His tutors’ report on his work had been unfavourable. The Dean himself had opinions to be expressed on the subject. There was a strong suggestion that Mr Yates was allowing himself too many distractions. The Marquess of Ross, I gather, expressed some displeasure on reading these opinions. Since it was not to be expected that Mr Yates should abandon his rowing or his games or his dining companions, it was clear that I was the distraction most easily surrendered.’

  ‘Did the marquess know of your friendship?’

  ‘I gathered that he knew and disapproved. Not necessarily of myself as an individual. My impression was that any entanglement with a female person would be frowned on at least until Mr Yates had taken his degree. But an exception might, I suppose, have been made for an heiress. It’s of no consequence.’

  ‘I think it’s of great consequence.’ Gordon, thoroughly indignant on his sister’s behalf, would have continued, but she put up a hand to stop him.

  ‘I’ve had time to think about it, Gordon. I was upset for a day or two, certainly, but since then … I asked myself why I’d decided to study at the university. It wasn’t because I propose to spend the rest of my life trying to discover something that no one has ever known before. I’m not a true scholar in that sense. The reason I chose to take a degree – or, at least, to pass the examinations – was because there was a job I wanted to do, and still want to. Now then; if I get married, my husband will not allow me to work.’

  She paused for her brother’s agreement to this statement, and he nodded his head. No husband could allow it to be thought that he was unable to support his wife.

  ‘So I must choose between work and marriage. I’ve always known this. It’s just that because neither a post nor a husband has been immediately on offer in the past, it proved too tempting when the first one came along – or seemed to. I was swept off my feet. Now that I can think about it reasonably, I see that Mr Yates has done me a very good turn. If my first suitor had been a gentleman who was in all respects suitable, someone I loved and continued to love, someone who was steadfast in his wish to marry me – well, I might still have been swept off my feet, but this time with no safety barrier to hold me back while I considered deeply what was best for me.’