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CHAPTER III
One of the professors at Alton College was a Mrs. Miller, an
old-fashioned schoolmistress who did not believe in Miss Wilson's
system of government by moral force, and carried it out under
protest. Though not ill-natured, she was narrow-minded enough to
be in some degree contemptible, and was consequently prone to
suspect others of despising her. She suspected Agatha in
particular, and treated her with disdainful curtness in such
intercourse as they had--it was fortunately little. Agatha was
not hurt by this, for Mrs. Miller was an unsympathetic woman, who
made no friends among the girls, and satisfied her affectionate
impulses by petting a large cat named Gracchus, but generally
called Bacchus by an endearing modification of the harsh initial
consonant.
One evening Mrs. Miller, seated with Miss Wilson in the study,
correcting examination papers, heard in the distance a cry like
that of a cat in distress. She ran to the door and listened.
Presently there arose a prolonged wail, slurring up through two
octaves, and subsiding again. It was a true feline screech,
impossible to localize; but it was interrupted by a sob, a snarl,
a fierce spitting, and a scuffling, coming unmistakably from a
room on the floor beneath, in which, at that hour, the older
girls assembled for study.
"My poor Gracchy!" exclaimed Mrs. Miller, running downstairs as
fast as she could. She found the room unusually quiet. Every girl
was deep in study except Miss Carpenter, who, pretending to pick
up a fallen book, was purple with suppressed laughter and the
congestion caused by stooping.
"Where is Miss Ward?" demanded Mrs. Miller.
"Miss Ward has gone for some astronomical diagrams in which we
are interested," said Agatha, looking up gravely. Just then Miss
Ward, diagrams in hand, entered.
"Has that cat been in here?" she said, not seeing Mrs. Miller,
and speaking in a tone expressive of antipathy to Gracchus.
Agatha started and drew up her ankles, as if fearful of having
them bitten. Then, looking apprehensively under the desk, she
replied, "There is no cat here, Miss Ward."
"There is one somewhere; I heard it," said Miss Ward carelessly,
unrolling her diagrams, which she began to explain without
further parley. Mrs. Miller, anxious for her pet, hastened to
seek it elsewhere. In the hall she met one of the housemaids.
"Susan," she said, "have you seen Gracchus?"
"He's asleep on the hearthrug in your room, ma'am. But I heard
him crying down here a moment ago. I feel sure that another cat
has got in, and that they are fighting."
Susan smiled compassionately. "Lor' bless you, ma'am," she said,
"that was Miss Wylie. It's a sort of play-acting that she goes
through. There is the bee on the window-pane, and the soldier up
the chimley, and the cat under the dresser. She does them all
like life."
"The soldier in the chimney!" repeated Mrs. Miller, shocked.
"Yes, ma'am. Like as it were a follower that had hid there when
he heard the mistress coming."
Mrs. Miller's face set determinedly. She returned to the study
and related what had just occurred, adding some sarcastic
comments on the efficacy of moral force in maintaining collegiate
discipline. Miss Wilson looked grave; considered for some time;
and at last said: "I must think over this. Would you mind leaving
it in my hands for the present?"
Mrs. Miller said that she did not care in whose hands it remained
provided her own were washed of it, and resumed her work at the
papers. Miss Wilson then, wishing to be alone, went into the
empty classroom at the other side of the landing. She took the
Fault Book from its shelf and sat down before it. Its record
closed with the announcement, in Agatha's handwriting:
"Miss Wilson has called me impertinent, and has written to my
uncle that I have refused to obey the rules. I was not
impertinent; and I never refused to obey the rules. So much for
Moral Force!"
Miss Wilson rose vigorously, exclaiming: "I will soon let her
know whether--" She checked herself, and looked round hastily,
superstitiously fancying that Agatha might have stolen into the
room unobserved. Reassured that she was alone, she examined her
conscience as to whether she had done wrong in calling Agatha
impertinent, justifying herself by the reflection that Agatha
had, in fact, been impertinent. Yet she recollected that she had
refused to admit this plea on a recent occasion when Jane
Carpenter had advanced it in extenuation of having called a
fellow-student a liar. Had she then been unjust to Jane, or
inconsiderate to Agatha?
Her casuistry was interrupted by some one softly whistling a
theme from the overture to Masaniello, popular at the college in
the form of an arrangement for six pianofortes and twelve hands.
There was only one student unladylike and musical enough to
whistle; and Miss Wilson was ashamed to find herself growing
nervous at the prospect of an encounter with Agatha, who entered
whistling sweetly, but with a lugubrious countenance. When she
saw in whose presence she stood, she begged pardon politely, and
was about to withdraw, when Miss Wilson, summoning all her
Judgment and tact, and hoping that they would--contrary to their
custom in emergencies--respond to the summons, said:
"Agatha, come here. I want to speak to you."
Agatha closed her lips, drew in a long breath through her
nostrils, and marched to within a few feet of Miss Wilson, where
she halted with her hands clasped before her.
"Sit down."
Agatha sat down with a single movement, like a doll.
"I don't understand that, Agatha," said Miss Wilson, pointing to
the entry in the Recording Angel. "What does it mean?"
"I am unfairly treated," said Agatha, with signs of agitation.
"In what way?"
"In every way. I am expected to be something more than mortal.
Everyone else is encouraged to complain, and to be weak and
silly. But I must have no feeling. I must be always in the right.
Everyone else may be home-sick, or huffed, or in low spirits. I
must have no nerves, and must keep others laughing all day long.
Everyone else may sulk when a word of reproach is addressed to
them, and may make the professors afraid to find fault with them.
I have to bear with the insults of teachers who have less
self-control than I, a girl of seventeen! and must coax them out
of the difficulties they make for themselves by their own ill
temper."
"But, Agatha--"
"Oh, I know I am talking nonsense, Miss Wilson; but can you
expect me to be always sensible--to be infallible?"
"Yes, Agatha; I do not think it is too much to expect you to be
always sensible; and--"
"Then you have neither sense nor sympathy yourself," said Agatha.
There was an awful pause. Neither could have told how long it
lasted. Then Agatha, feeling that she must do or say something
desperate, or else fly, made a distracted gesture and ran out of
the room.
She rejoined her companions in the great hall of the mansion,
where they were assembled after study for "recreation," a noisy
process which always set in spontaneously when the professors
withdrew. She usually sat with her two favorite associates on a
high window seat near the hearth. That place was now occupied by
a little girl with flaxen hair, whom Agatha, regardless of moral
force, lifted by the shoulders and deposited on the floor. Then
she sat down and said:
"Oh, such a piece of news!"
Miss Carpenter opened her eyes eagerly. Gertrude Lindsay affected
indifference.
"Someone is going to be expelled," said Agatha.
"Expelled! Who?"
"You will know soon enough, Jane," replied Agatha, suddenly
grave. "It is someone who made an impudent entry in the Recording
Angel."
Fear stole upon Jane, and she became very red. "Agatha," she
said, "it was you who told me what to write. You know you did,
and you can't deny it."
"I can't deny it, can't I? I am ready to swear that I never
dictated a word to you in my life."
"Gertrude knows you did," exclaimed Jane, appalled, and almost in
tears.
"There," said Agatha, petting her as if she were a vast baby. "It
shall not be expelled, so it shan't. Have you seen the Recording
Angel lately, either of you?"
"Not since our last entry," said Gertrude.
"Chips," said Agatha, calling to the flaxen-haired child, "go
upstairs to No. 6, and, if Miss Wilson isn't there, fetch me the
Recording Angel."
The little girl grumbled inarticulately and did not stir.
"Chips," resumed Agatha, "did you ever wish that you had never
been born?"
"Why don't you go yourself?" said the child pettishly, but
evidently alarmed.
"Because," continued Agatha, ignoring the question, "you shall
wish yourself dead and buried under the blackest flag in the coal
cellar if you don't bring me the book before I count sixteen.
One--two--"
"Go at once and do as you are told, you disagreeable little
thing," said Gertrude sharply. "How dare you be so disobliging?"
"--nine--ten--eleven--" pursued Agatha.
The child quailed, went out, and presently returned, hugging the
Recording Angel in her arms.
"You are a good little darling--when your better qualities are
brought out by a judicious application of moral force," said
Agatha, good-humoredly. "Remind me to save the raisins out of my
pudding for you to-morrow. Now, Jane, you shall see the entry for
which the best-hearted girl in the college is to be expelled.
Voila!"
The two girls read and were awestruck; Jane opening her mouth and
gasping, Gertrude closing hers and looking very serious.
"Do you mean to say that you had the dreadful cheek to let the
Lady Abbess see that?" said Jane.
"Pooh! she would have forgiven that. You should have heard what I
said to her! She fainted three times."
"That's a story," said Gertrude gravely.
"I beg your pardon," said Agatha, swiftly grasping Gertrude's
knee.
"Nothing," cried Gertrude, flinching hysterically. "Don't,
Agatha."
"How many times did Miss Wilson faint?"
"Three times. I will scream, Agatha; I will indeed."
"Three times, as you say. And I wonder that a girl brought up as
you have been, by moral force, should be capable of repeating
such a falsehood. But we had an awful row, really and truly. She
lost her temper. Fortunately, I never lose mine."
"Well, I'm browed!" exclaimed Jane incredulously. "I like that."
"For a girl of county family, you are inexcusably vulgar, Jane. I
don't know what I said; but she will never forgive me for
profaning her pet book. I shall be expelled as certainly as I am
sitting here."
"And do you mean to say that you are going away?" said Jane,
faltering as she began to realize the consequences.
"I do. And what is to become of you when I am not here to get you
out of your scrapes, or of Gertrude without me to check her
inveterate snobbishness, is more than I can foresee."
"I am not snobbish," said Gertrude, " although I do not choose to
make friends with everyone. But I never objected to you, Agatha."
"No; I should like to catch you at it. Hallo, Jane!" (who had
suddenly burst into tears): "what's the matter? I trust you are
not permitting yourself to take the liberty of crying for me."
"Indeed," sobbed Jane indignantly, "I know that I am a f--fool
for my pains. You have no heart."
"You certainly are a f--fool, as you aptly express it," said
Agatha, passing her arm round Jane, and disregarding an angry
attempt to shake it off; "but if I had any heart it would be
touched by this proof of your attachment."
"I never said you had no heart," protested Jane; "but I hate when
you speak like a book."
"You hate when I speak like a book, do you? My dear, silly old
Jane! I shall miss you greatly."
"Yes, I dare say," said Jane, with tearful sarcasm. "At least my
snoring will never keep you awake again."
"You don't snore, Jane. We have been in a conspiracy to make you
believe that you do, that's all. Isn't it good of me to tell
you?"
Jane was overcome by this revelation. After a long pause, she
said with deep conviction, "I always knew that I didn't. Oh, the
way you kept it up! I solemnly declare that from this time forth
I will believe nobody."
"Well, and what do you think of it all?" said Agatha,
transferring her attention to Gertrude, who was very grave.
"I think--I am now speaking seriously, Agatha--I think you are in
the wrong."
"Why do you think that, pray?" demanded Agatha, a little roused.
"You must be, or Miss Wilson would not be angry with you. Of
course, according to your own account, you are always in the
right, and everyone else is always wrong; but you shouldn't have
written that in the book. You know I speak as your friend."
"And pray what does your wretched little soul know of my motives
and feelings?"
"It is easy enough to understand you," retorted Gertrude,
nettled. "Self-conceit is not so uncommon that one need be at a
loss to recognize it. And mind, Agatha Wylie," she continued, as
if goaded by some unbearable reminiscence, "if you are really
going, I don't care whether we part friends or not. I have not
forgotten the day when you called me a spiteful cat."
"I have repented," said Agatha, unmoved. "One day I sat down and
watched Bacchus seated on the hearthrug, with his moony eyes
looking into space so thoughtfully and patiently that I
apologized for comparing you to him. If I were to call him a
spiteful cat he would only not believe me."
"Because he is a cat," said Jane, with the giggle which was
seldom far behind her tears.
"No; but because he is not spiteful. Gertrude keeps a recording
angel inside her little head, and it is so full of other people's
faults, written in large hand and read through a magnifying
glass, that there is no room to enter her own."
"You are very poetic," said Gertrude; "but I understand what you
mean, and shall not forget it."
"You ungrateful wretch," exclaimed Agatha, turning upon her so
suddenly and imperiously that she involuntarily shrank aside:
"how often, when you have tried to be insolent and false with me,
have I not driven away your bad angel--by tickling you? Had you a
friend in the college, except half-a-dozen toadies, until I came?
And now, because I have sometimes, for your own good, shown you
your faults, you bear malice against me, and say that you don't
care whether we part friends or not!"
"I didn't say so."
"Oh, Gertrude, you know you did," said Jane.
"You seem to think that I have no conscience," said Gertrude
querulously.
"I wish you hadn't," said Agatha. "Look at me! I have no
conscience, and see how much pleasanter I am!"
"You care for no one but yourself," said Gertrude. "You never
think that other people have feelings too. No one ever considers
me."
"Oh, I like to hear you talk," cried Jane ironically. "You are
considered a great deal more than is good for you; and the more
you are considered the more you want to be considered."
"As if," declaimed Agatha theatrically, "increase of appetite did
grow by what it fed on. Shakespeare!"
"Bother Shakespeare," said Jane, impetuously, "--old fool that
expects credit for saying things that everybody knows! But if you
complain of not being considered, Gertrude, how would you like to
be me, whom everybody sets down as a fool? But I am not such a
fool as--"
"As you look," interposed Agatha. "I have told you so scores of
times, Jane; and I am glad that you have adopted my opinion at
last. Which would you rather be, a greater fool than y--"
"Oh, shut up," said Jane, impatiently; "you have asked me that
twice this week already."
The three were silent for some seconds after this: Agatha
meditating, Gertrude moody, Jane vacant and restless. At last
Agatha said:
"And are you two also smarting under a sense of the
inconsiderateness and selfishness of the rest of the world--both
misunderstood--everything expected from you, and no allowances
made for you?"
"I don't know what you mean by both of us," said Gertrude coldly.
"Neither do I," said Jane angrily. "That is just the way people
treat me. You may laugh, Agatha; and she may turn up her nose as
much as she likes; you know it's true. But the idea of Gertrude
wanting to make out that she isn't considered is nothing but
sentimentality, and vanity, and nonsense."
"You are exceedingly rude, Miss Carpenter," said Gertrude.
"My manners are as good as yours, and perhaps better," retorted
Jane. "My family is as good, anyhow."
"Children, children," said Agatha, admonitorily, "do not forget
that you are sworn friends."
"We didn't swear," said Jane. "We were to have been three sworn
friends, and Gertrude and I were willing, but you wouldn't swear,
and so the bargain was cried off."
"Just so," said Agatha; "and the result is that I spend all my
time in keeping peace between you. And now, to go back to our
subject, may I ask whether it has ever occurred to you that no
one ever considers me?"
"I suppose you think that very funny. You take good care to make
yourself considered," sneered Jane.
"You cannot say that I do not consider you," said Gertrude
reproachfully.
"Not when I tickle you, dear."
"I consider you, and I am not ticklesome," said Jane tenderly.
"Indeed! Let me try," said Agatha, slipping her arm about Jane's
ample waist, and eliciting a piercing combination of laugh and
scream from her.
"Sh--sh," whispered Gertrude quickly. "Don't you see the Lady
Abbess?"
Miss Wilson had just entered the room. Agatha, without appearing
to be aware of her presence, stealthily withdrew her arm, and
said aloud:
"How can you make such a noise, Jane? You will disturb the whole
house."
Jane reddened with indignation, but had to remain silent, for the
eyes of the principal were upon her. Miss Wilson had her bonnet
on. She announced that she was going to walk to Lyvern, the
nearest village. Did any of the sixth form young ladies wish to
accompany her?
Agatha jumped from her seat at once, and Jane smothered a laugh.
"Miss Wilson said the sixth form, Miss Wylie," said Miss Ward,
who had entered also. "You are not in the sixth form."
"No," said Agatha sweetly, "but I want to go, if I may."
Miss Wilson looked round. The sixth form consisted of four
studious young ladies, whose goal in life for the present was an
examination by one of the Universities, or, as the college phrase
was, "the Cambridge Local." None of them responded.
"Fifth form, then," said Miss Wilson.
Jane, Gertrude, and four others rose and stood with Agatha.
"Very well," said Miss Wilson. "Do not be long dressing."
They left the room quietly, and dashed at the staircase the
moment they were out of sight. Agatha, though void of emulation
for the Cambridge Local, always competed with ardor for the honor
of being first up or down stairs.
They soon returned, clad for walking, and left the college in
procession, two by two, Jane and Agatha leading, Gertrude and
Miss Wilson coming last. The road to Lyvern lay through acres of
pasture land, formerly arable, now abandoned to cattle, which
made more money for the landlord than the men whom they had
displaced. Miss Wilson's young ladies, being instructed in
economics, knew that this proved that the land was being used to
produce what was most wanted from it; and if all the advantage
went to the landlord, that was but natural, as he was the chief
gentleman in the neighborhood. Still the arrangement had its
disagreeable side; for it involved a great many cows, which made
them afraid to cross the fields; a great many tramps, who made
them afraid to walk the roads; and a scarcity of gentlemen
subjects for the maiden art of fascination.
The sky was cloudy. Agatha, reckless of dusty stockings, waded
through the heaps of fallen leaves with the delight of a child
paddling in the sea; Gertrude picked her steps carefully, and the
rest tramped along, chatting subduedly, occasionally making some
scientific or philosophical remark in a louder tone, in order
that Miss Wilson might overhear and give them due credit. Save a
herdsman, who seemed to have caught something of the nature and
expression of the beasts he tended, they met no one until they
approached the village, where, on the brow of an acclivity,
masculine humanity appeared in the shape of two curates: one
tall, thin, close-shaven, with a book under his arm, and his neck
craned forward; the other middle-sized, robust, upright, and
aggressive, with short black whiskers, and an air of protest
against such notions as that a clergyman may not marry, hunt,
play cricket, or share the sports of honest laymen. The shaven
one was Mr. Josephs, his companion Mr. Fairholme. Obvious
scriptural perversions of this brace of names had been introduced
by Agatha.
"Here come Pharaoh and Joseph," she said to Jane. "Joseph will
blush when you look at him. Pharaoh won't blush until he passes
Gertrude, so we shall lose that."
"Josephs, indeed!" said Jane scornfully.
"He loves you, Jane. Thin persons like a fine armful of a woman.
Pharaoh, who is a cad, likes blue blood on the same principle of
the attraction of opposites. That is why he is captivated by
Gertrude's aristocratic air."
"If he only knew how she despises him!"
"He is too vain to suspect it. Besides, Gertrude despises
everyone, even us. Or, rather, she doesn't despise anyone in
particular, but is contemptuous by nature, just as you are
stout."
"Me! I had rather be stout than stuck-up. Ought we to bow?"
"I will, certainly. I want to make Pharoah blush, if I can."
The two parsons had been simulating an interest in the cloudy
firmament as an excuse for not looking at the girls until close
at hand. Jane sent an eyeflash at Josephs with a skill which
proved her favorite assertion that she was not so stupid as
people thought. He blushed and took off his soft, low-crowned
felt hat. Fairholme saluted very solemnly, for Agatha bowed to
him with marked seriousness. But when his gravity and his stiff
silk hat were at their highest point she darted a mocking smile
at him, and he too blushed, all the deeper because he was enraged
with himself for doing so.
"Did you ever see such a pair of fools?" whispered Jane,
giggling.
"They cannot help their sex. They say women are fools, and so
they are; but thank Heaven they are not quite so bad as men! I
should like to look back and see Pharaoh passing Gertrude; but if
he saw me he would think I was admiring him; and he is conceited
enough already without that."
The two curates became redder and redder as they passed the
column of young ladies. Miss Lindsay would not look to their side
of the road, and Miss Wilson's nod and smile were not quite
sincere. She never spoke to curates, and kept up no more
intercourse with the vicar than she could not avoid. He suspected
her of being an infidel, though neither he nor any other mortal
in Lyvern had ever heard a word from her on the subject of her
religious opinions. But he knew that "moral science" was taught
secularly at the college; and he felt that where morals were made
a department of science the demand for religion must fall off
proportionately.
"What a life to lead and what a place to live in!" exclaimed
Agatha. "We meet two creatures, more like suits of black than
men; and that is an incident --a startling incident--in our
existence!"
"I think they're awful fun," said Jane, "except that Josephs has
such large ears."
The girls now came to a place where the road dipped through a
plantation of sombre sycamore and horsechestnut trees. As they
passed down into it, a little wind sprang up, the fallen leaves
stirred, and the branches heaved a long, rustling sigh.
"I hate this bit of road," said Jane, hurrying on. "It's just the
sort of place that people get robbed and murdered in."
"It is not such a bad place to shelter in if we get caught in the
rain, as I expect we shall before we get back," said Agatha,
feeling the fitful breeze strike ominously on her cheek. "A nice
pickle I shall be in with these light shoes on! I wish I had put
on my strong boots. If it rains much I will go into the old
chalet."
"Miss Wilson won't let you. It's trespassing."
"What matter! Nobody lives in it, and the gate is off its hinges.
I only want to stand under the veranda--not to break into the
wretched place. Besides, the landlord knows Miss Wilson; he won't
mind. There's a drop."
Miss Carpenter looked up, and immediately received a heavy
raindrop in her eye.
"Oh!" she cried. "It's pouring. We shall be drenched."
Agatha stopped, and the column broke into a group about her.
"Miss Wilson," she said, "it is going to rain in torrents, and
Jane and I have only our shoes on."
Miss Wilson paused to consider the situation. Someone suggested
that if they hurried on they might reach Lyvern before the rain
came down.
"More than a mile," said Agatha scornfully, "and the rain coming
down already!"
Someone else suggested returning to the college.
"More than two miles," said Agatha. "We should be drowned."
"There is nothing for it but to wait here under the trees," said
Miss Wilson.
"The branches are very bare," said Gertrude anxiously. "If it
should come down heavily they will drip worse than the rain
itself."
"Much worse," said Agatha. "I think we had better get under the
veranda of the old chalet. It is not half a minute's walk from
here."
"But we have no right--" Here the sky darkened threateningly.
Miss Wilson checked herself and said, "I suppose it is still
empty."
"Of course," replied Agatha, impatient to be moving. "It is
almost a ruin."
"Then let us go there, by all means," said Miss Wilson, not
disposed to stand on trifles at the risk of a bad cold.
They hurried on, and came presently to a green hill by the
wayside. On the slope was a dilapidated Swiss cottage, surrounded
by a veranda on slender wooden pillars, about which clung a few
tendrils of withered creeper, their stray ends still swinging
from the recent wind, now momentarily hushed as if listening for
the coming of the rain. Access from the roadway was by a rough
wooden gate in the hedge. To the surprise of Agatha, who had last
seen this gate off its hinges and only attached to the post by a
rusty chain and padlock, it was now rehung and fastened by a new
hasp. The weather admitting of no delay to consider these
repairs, she opened the gate and hastened up the slope, followed
by the troop of girls. Their ascent ended with a rush, for the
rain suddenly came down in torrents.
When they were safe under the veranda, panting, laughing,
grumbling, or congratulating themselves on having been so close
to a place of shelter, Miss Wilson observed, with some
uneasiness, a spade--new, like the hasp of the gate--sticking
upright in a patch of ground that someone had evidently been
digging lately. She was about to comment on this sign of
habitation, when the door of the chalet was flung open, and Jane
screamed as a man darted out to the spade, which he was about to
carry in out of the wet, when he perceived the company under the
veranda, and stood still in amazement. He was a young laborer
with a reddish-brown beard of a week's growth. He wore corduroy
trousers and a linen-sleeved corduroy vest; both, like the hasp
and spade, new. A coarse blue shirt, with a vulgar red-and-orange
neckerchief, also new, completed his dress; and, to shield
himself from the rain, he held up a silk umbrella with a
silver-mounted ebony handle, which he seemed unlikely to have
come by honestly. Miss Wilson felt like a boy caught robbing an
orchard, but she put a bold face on the matter and said:
"Will you allow us to take shelter here until the rain is over?"
"For certain, your ladyship," he replied, respectfully applying
the spade handle to his hair, which was combed down to his
eyebrows. "Your ladyship does me proud to take refuge from the
onclemency of the yallovrments beneath my 'umble rooftree." His
accent was barbarous; and he, like a low comedian, seemed to
relish its vulgarity. As he spoke he came in among them for
shelter, and propped his spade against the wall of the chalet,
kicking the soil from his hobnailed blucher boots, which were
new.
"I came out, honored lady," he resumed, much at his ease, "to
house my spade, whereby I earn my living. What the pen is to the
poet, such is the spade to the working man." He took the kerchief
from his neck, wiped his temples as if the sweat of honest toil
were there, and calmly tied it on again.
"If you'll 'scuse a remark from a common man," he observed, "your
ladyship has a fine family of daughters."
"They are not my daughters," said Miss Wilson, rather shortly.
"Sisters, mebbe?"
"No."
"I thought they mout be, acause I have a sister myself. Not that
I would make bold for to dror comparisons, even in my own mind,
for she's only a common woman--as common a one as ever you see.
But few women rise above the common. Last Sunday, in yon village
church, I heard the minister read out that one man in a thousand
had he found, 'but one woman in all these,' he says, 'have I not
found,' and I thinks to myself, 'Right you are!' But I warrant he
never met your ladyship."
A laugh, thinly disguised as a cough, escaped from Miss
Carpenter.
"Young lady a-ketchin' cold, I'm afeerd," he said, with
respectful solicitude.
"Do you think the rain will last long?" said Agatha politely.
The man examined the sky with a weather-wise air for some
moments. Then he turned to Agatha, and replied humbly: "The Lord
only knows, Miss. It is not for a common man like me to say."
Silence ensued, during which Agatha, furtively scrutinizing the
tenant of the chalet, noticed that his face and neck were cleaner
and less sunburnt than those of the ordinary toilers of Lyvern.
His hands were hidden by large gardening gloves stained with coal
dust. Lyvern laborers, as a rule, had little objection to soil
their hands; they never wore gloves. Still, she thought, there
was no reason why an eccentric workman, insufferably talkative,
and capable of an allusion to the pen of the poet, should not
indulge himself with cheap gloves. But then the silk,
silvermounted umbrella--
"The young lady's hi," he said suddenly, holding out the
umbrella, "is fixed on this here. I am well aware that it is not
for the lowest of the low to carry a gentleman's brolly, and I
ask your ladyship's pardon for the liberty. I come by it
accidental-like, and should be glad of a reasonable offer from
any gentleman in want of a honest article."
As he spoke two gentlemen, much in want of the article, as their
clinging wet coats showed, ran through the gateway and made for
the chalet. Fairholme arrived first, exclaiming: "Fearful
shower!" and briskly turned his back to the ladies in order to
stand at the edge of the veranda and shake the water out of his
hat. Josephs came next, shrinking from the damp contact of his
own garments. He cringed to Miss Wilson, and hoped that she had
escaped a wetting.
"So far I have," she replied. "The question is, how are we to get
home?"
"Oh, it's only a shower," said Josephs, looking up cheerfully at
the unbroken curtain of cloud. "It will clear up presently."
"It ain't for a common man to set up his opinion again' a
gentleman wot have profesh'nal knowledge of the heavens, as one
may say," said the man, "but I would 'umbly offer to bet my
umbrellar to his wideawake that it don't cease raining this side
of seven o'clock."
"That man lives here," whispered Miss Wilson, "and I suppose he
wants to get rid of us."
"H'm!" said Fairholme. Then, turning to the strange laborer with
the air of a person not to be trifled with, he raised his voice,
and said: "You live here, do you, my man?"
"I do, sir, by your good leave, if I may make so bold."
"What's your name?"
"Jeff Smilash, sir, at your service."
"Where do you come from?"
"Brixtonbury, sir."
"Brixtonbury! Where's that?"
"Well, sir, I don't rightly know. If a gentleman like you,
knowing jography and such, can't tell, how can I?"
"You ought to know where you were born, man. Haven't you got
common sense?"
"Where could such a one as me get common sense, sir? Besides, I
was only a foundling. Mebbe I warn's born at all."
"Did I see you at church last Sunday?"
"No, sir. I only come o' Wensday."
"Well, let me see you there next Sunday," said Fairholme shortly,
turning away from him.
Miss Wilson looked at the weather, at Josephs, who was conversing
with Jane, and finally at Smilash, who knuckled his forehead
without waiting to be addressed.
"Have you a boy whom you can send to Lyvern to get us a
conveyance--a carriage? I will give him a shilling for his
trouble."
"A shilling!" said Smilash joyfully. "Your ladyship is a noble
lady. Two four-wheeled cabs. There's eight on you."
"There is only one cab in Lyvern," said Miss Wilson. "Take this
card to Mr. Marsh, the jotmaster, and tell him the predicament we
are in. He will send vehicles."
Smilash took the card and read it at a glance. He then went into
the chalet. Reappearing presently in a sou'wester and oilskins,
he ran off through the rain and vaulted over the gate with
ridiculous elegance. No sooner had he vanished than, as often
happens to remarkable men, he became the subject of conversation.
"A decent workman," said Josephs. "A well-mannered man,
considering his class."
"A born fool, though," said Fairholme.
"Or a rogue," said Agatha, emphasizing the suggestion by a
glitter of her eyes and teeth, whilst her schoolfellows, rather
disapproving of her freedom, stood stiffly dumb. "He told Miss
Wilson that he had a sister, and that he had been to church last
Sunday, and he has just told you that he is a foundling, and that
he only came last Wednesday. His accent is put on, and he can
read, and I don't believe he is a workman at all. Perhaps he is a
burglar, come down to steal the college plate."
"Agatha," said Miss Wilson gravely, "you must be very careful how
you say things of that kind."
"But it is so obvious. His explanation about the umbrella was
made up to disarm suspicion. He handled it and leaned on it in a
way that showed how much more familiar it was to him than that
new spade he was so anxious about. And all his clothes are new."
"True," said Fairholme, "but there is not much in all that.
Workmen nowadays ape gentlemen in everything. However, I will
keep an eye on him."
"Oh, thank you so much," said Agatha. Fairholme, suspecting
mockery, frowned, and Miss Wilson looked severely at the mocker.
Little more was said, except as to the chances--manifestly
small--of the rain ceasing, until the tops of a cab, a decayed
mourning coach, and three dripping hats were seen over the hedge.
Smilash sat on the box of the coach, beside the driver. When it
stopped, he alighted, re-entered the chalet without speaking,
came out with the umbrella, spread it above Miss Wilson's head,
and said:
"Now, if your ladyship will come with me, I will see you dry into
the stray, and then I'll bring your honored nieces one by one."
"I shall come last," said Miss Wilson, irritated by his
assumption that the party was a family one. "Gertrude, you had
better go first."
"Allow me," said Fairholme, stepping forward, and attempting to
take the umbrella.
"Thank you, I shall not trouble you," she said frostily, and
tripped away over the oozing field with Smilash, who held the
umbrella over her with ostentatious solicitude. In the same
manner he led the rest to the vehicles, in which they packed
themselves with some difficulty. Agatha, who came last but one,
gave him threepence.
"You have a noble 'art and an expressive hi, Miss," he said,
apparently much moved. "Blessings on both! Blessings on both!"
He went back for Jane, who slipped on the wet grass and fell. He
had to put forth his strength as he helped her to rise. "Hope you
ain't sopped up much of the rainfall, Miss," he said. "You are a
fine young lady for your age. Nigh on twelve stone, I should
think."
She reddened and hurried to the cab, where Agatha was. But it was
full; and Jane, much against her will, had to get into the coach,
considerably diminishing the space left for Miss Wilson, to whom
Smilash had returned.
"Now, dear lady," he said, "take care you don't slip. Come
along."
Miss Wilson, ignoring the invitation, took a shilling from her
purse.
"No, lady," said Smilash with a virtuous air. "I am an honest man
and have never seen the inside of a jail except four times, and
only twice for stealing. Your youngest daughter--her with the
expressive hi--have paid me far beyond what is proper."
"I have told you that these young ladies are not my daughters,"
said Miss Wilson sharply. "Why do you not listen to what is said
to you?"
"Don't be too hard on a common man, lady," said Smilash
submissively. "The young lady have just given me three
'arf-crowns."
"Three half-crowns!" exclaimed Miss Wilson, angered at such
extravagance.
"Bless her innocence, she don't know what is proper to give to a
low sort like me! But I will not rob the young lady. 'Arf-a-crown
is no more nor is fair for the job, and arf-a-crown will I keep,
if agreeable to your noble ladyship. But I give you back the five
bob in trust for her. Have you ever noticed her expressive hi?"
"Nonsense, sir. You had better keep the money now that you have
got it."
"Wot! Sell for five bob the high opinion your ladyship has of me!
No, dear lady; not likely. My father's very last words to me
was--"
"You said just now that you were a foundling," said Fairholme.
"What are we to believe? Eh?"
"So I were, sir; but by mother's side alone. Her ladyship will
please to take back the money, for keep it I will not. I am of
the lower orders, and therefore not a man of my word; but when I
do stick to it, I stick like wax."
"Take it," said Fairholme to Miss Wilson. "Take it, of course.
Seven and sixpence is a ridiculous sum to give him for what he
has done. It would only set him drinking."
"His reverence says true, lady. The one 'arfcrown will keep me
comfortably tight until Sunday morning; and more I do not
desire."
"Just a little less of your tongue, my man," said Fairholme,
taking the two coins from him and handing them to Miss Wilson,
who bade the clergymen good afternoon, and went to the coach
under the umbrella.
"If your ladyship should want a handy man to do an odd job up at
the college I hope you will remember me," Smilash said as they
went down the slope.
"Oh, you know who I am, do you?" said Miss Wilson drily.
"All the country knows you, Miss, and worships you. I have few
equals as a coiner, and if you should require a medal struck to
give away for good behavior or the like, I think I could strike
one to your satisfaction. And if your ladyship should want a
trifle of smuggled lace--"
"You had better be careful or you will get into trouble, I
think," said Miss Wilson sternly. "Tell him to drive on."
The vehicles started, and Smilash took the liberty of waving his
hat after them. Then he returned to the chalet, left the umbrella
within, came out again, locked the door, put the key in his
pocket, and walked off through the rain across the hill without
taking the least notice of the astonished parsons.
In the meantime Miss Wilson, unable to contain her annoyance at
Agatha's extravagance, spoke of it to the girls who shared the
coach with her. But Jane declared that Agatha only possessed
threepence in the world, and therefore could not possibly have
given the man thirty times that sum. When they reached the
college, Agatha, confronted with Miss Wilson, opened her eyes in
wonder, and exclaimed, laughing: "I only gave him threepence. He
has sent me a present of four and ninepence!"
Content of CHAPTER III [George Bernard Shaw's novel: An Unsocial Socialist]
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