Erema; Or, My Father's Sin

by R. D. Blackmore

  CHAPTER XXI

  LISTLESS

  It seemed an unfortunate thing for me, and unfavorable to my purpose,that my host, and even my hostess too, should be so engrossed with theirnew estate, its beauties and capabilities. Mrs. Hockin devoted herselfat once to fowls and pigs and the like extravagant economies, havingbought, at some ill-starred moment, a book which proved that hens oughtto lay eggs in a manner to support themselves, their families, and thefamily they belonged to, at the price of one penny a dozen. Eggs beingtwo shillings a dozen in Bruntsea, here was a margin for profit--no lessthan two thousand per cent, to be made, allowing for all accidents.The lady also found another book, divulging for a shilling the author'spurely invaluable secret--how to work an acre of ground, pay house rent,supply the house grandly, and give away a barrow-load of vegetablesevery day to the poor of the parish, by keeping a pig--if that pig werekept properly. And after that, pork and ham and bacon came of him, whileanother golden pig went on.

  Mrs. Hockin was very soft-hearted, and said that she never could makebacon of a pig like that; and I answered that if she ever got him itwould be unwise to do so. However, the law was laid down in both booksthat golden fowls and diamondic pigs must die the death before theybegin to overeat production; and the Major said, "To be sure. Yes, yes.Let them come to good meat, and then off with their heads." And his wifesaid that she was sure she could do it. When it comes to a question oftare and tret, false sentiment must be excluded.

  At the moment, these things went by me as trifles, yet made me moreimpatient. Being older now, and beholding what happens with toleranceand complacence, I am only surprised that my good friends were sotolerant of me and so complacent. For I must have been a great annoyanceto them, with my hurry and my one idea. Happily they made allowance forme, which I was not old enough to make for them.

  "Go to London, indeed! Go to London by yourself!" cried the Major, witha red face, and his glasses up, when I told him one morning that I couldstop no longer without doing something. "Mary, my dear, when you havedone out there, will you come in and reason--if you can--with Miss Wood.She vows that she is going to London, all alone."

  "Oh, Major Hockin--oh, Nicholas dear, such a thing has happened!" Mrs.Hockin had scarcely any breath to tell us, as she came in through thewindow. "You know that they have only had three bushels, or, at anyrate, not more than five, almost ever since they came. Erema, you knowas well as I do."

  "Seven and three-quarter bushels of barley, at five and ninepence abushel, Mary," said the Major, pulling out a pocket-book; "besidesIndian corn, chopped meat, and potatoes."

  "And fourteen pounds of paddy," I said--which was a paltry thing of me;"not to mention a cake of graves, three sacks of brewers' grains, andthen--I forget what next."

  "You are too bad, all of you. Erema, I never thought you would turnagainst me so. And you made me get nearly all of it. But please to lookhere. What do you call this? Is this no reward? Is this not enough?Major, if you please, what do you call this? What a pity you have hadyour breakfast!"

  "A blessing--if this was to be my breakfast. I call that, my dear, thevery smallest egg I have seen since I took sparrows' nests. No wonderthey sell them at twelve a penny. I congratulate you upon your firstegg, my dear Mary."

  "Well, I don't care," replied Mrs. Hockin, who had the sweetest temperin the world. "Small beginnings make large endings; and an egg must bealways small at one end. You scorn my first egg, and Erema should havehad it if she had been good. But she was very wicked, and I know notwhat to do with it."

  "Blow it!" cried the Major. "I mean no harm, ladies. I never use lowlanguage. What I mean is, make a pinhole at each end, give a puff, andaway goes two pennyworth, and you have a cabinet specimen, which youregg is quite fitted by its cost to be. But now, Mary, talk to Miss Wood,if you please. It is useless for me to say any thing, and I have threeappointments in the town"--he always called it "the town" now--"threeappointments, if not four; yes, I may certainly say four. Talk to MissWood, my dear, if you please. She wants to go to London, which would beabsurd. Ladies seem to enter into ladies' logic. They seem to be able toappreciate it better, to see all the turns, and the ins and outs, whichno man has intellect enough to see, or at least to make head or tail of.Good-by for the present; I had better be off."

  "I should think you had," exclaimed Mrs. Hockin, as her husbandmarched off, with his side-lights on, and his short, quick step, andwell-satisfied glance at the hill which belonged to him, and the beach,over which he had rights of plunder--or, at least, Uncle Sam would havecalled them so, strictly as he stood up for his own.

  "Now come and talk quietly to me, my dear," Mrs. Hockin began, mostkindly, forgetting all the marvel of her first-born egg. "I have noticedhow restless you are, and devoid of all healthy interest in any thing.'Listless' is the word. 'Listless' is exactly what I mean, Erema. WhenI was at your time of life, I could never have gone about caring fornothing. I wonder that you knew that I even had a fowl; much more howmuch they had eaten!"

  "I really do try to do all I can, and that is a proof of it," I said."I am not quite so listless as you think. But those things do seem solittle to me."

  "My dear, if you were happy, they would seem quite large, as, after allthe anxieties of my life, I am able now to think them. It is a power tobe thankful for, or, at least, I often think so. Look at my husband! Hehas outlived and outlasted more trouble than any one but myself couldreckon up to him; and yet he is as brisk, as full of life, as readyto begin a new thing to-morrow--when, at our age, there may be noto-morrow, except in that better world, my dear, of which it is hightime for him and me to think, as I truly hope we may spare the time todo."

  "Oh, don't talk like that," I cried. "Please, Mrs. Hockin, to talk ofyour hens and chicks--at least there will be chicks by-and-by. I amalmost sure there will, if you only persevere. It seems unfair to setour minds on any other world till justice has been done in this."

  "You are very young, my child, or you would know that in that casewe never should think of it at all. But I don't want to preach you asermon, Erema, even if I could do so. I only just want you to tell mewhat you think, what good you imagine that you can do."

  "It is no imagination. I am sure that I can right my father's wrongs.And I never shall rest till I do so."

  "Are you sure that there is any wrong to right?" she asked, in thewarmth of the moment; and then, seeing perhaps how my color changed, shelooked at me sadly, and kissed my forehead.

  "Oh, if you had only once seen him," I said; "without any exaggeration,you would have been satisfied at once. That he could ever have done anyharm was impossible--utterly impossible. I am not as I was. I can listento almost any thing now quite calmly. But never let me hear such awicked thing again."

  "You must not go on like that, Erema, unless you wish to lose all yourfriends. No one can help being sorry for you. Very few girls have beenplaced as you are. I am sure when I think of my own daughters I cannever be too thankful. But the very first thing you have to learn, aboveall things, is to control yourself."

  "I know it--I know it, of course," I said; "and I keep on trying my verybest. I am thoroughly ashamed of what I said, and I hope you will try toforgive me."

  "A very slight exertion is enough for that. But now, my dear, what Iwant to know is this--and you will excuse me if I ask too much--whatgood do you expect to get by going thus to London? Have you any friendthere, any body to trust, any thing settled as to what you are to do?"

  "Yes, every thing is settled in my own mind," I answered, very bravely:"I have the address of a very good woman, found among my father'spapers, who nursed his children and understood his nature, and alwayskept her faith in him. There must be a great many more who do the same,and she will be sure to know them and introduce me to them; and I shallbe guided by their advice."

  "But suppose that this excellent woman is dead, or not to be found, orhas changed her opinion?"

  "Her opinion she never could change. But if she is not to be found, Ishall find her
husband, or her children, or somebody; and besides that,I have a hundred things to do. I have the address of the agent throughwhom my father drew his income, though Uncle Sam let me know as littleas he could. And I know who his bankers were (when he had a bank), andhe may have left important papers there."

  "Come, that looks a little more sensible, my dear; bankers may alwaysbe relied upon. And there may be some valuable plate, Erema. But why notlet the Major go with you? His advice is so invaluable."

  "I know that it is, in all ordinary things. But I can not have himnow, for a very simple reason. He has made up his mind about my dearfather--horribly, horribly; I can't speak of it. And he never changeshis mind; and sometimes when I look at him I hate him."

  "Erema, you are quite a violent girl, although you so seldom show it.Is the whole world divided, then, into two camps--those who think as youwish and those who are led by their judgment to think otherwise? And areyou to hate all who do not think as you wish?"

  "No, because I do not hate you," I said; "I love you, though you do notthink as I wish. But that is only because you think your husband must beright of course. But I can not like those who have made up their mindsaccording to their own coldness."

  "Major Hockin is not cold at all. On the contrary, he is a warm-heartedman--I might almost say hot-hearted."

  "Yes, I know he is. And that makes it ten times worse. He takes up everybody's case--but mine."

  "Sad as it is, you almost make me smile," my hostess answered, gravely;"and yet it must be very bitter for you, knowing how just and kindmy husband is. I am sure that you will give him credit for at leastdesiring to take your part. And doing so, at least you might let him gowith you, if only as a good protection."

  "I have no fear of any one; and I might take him into society that hewould not like. In a good cause he would go any where, I know. But in mycause, of course he would be scrupulous. Your kindness I always can relyupon, and I hope in the end to earn his as well."

  "My dear, he has never been unkind to you. I am certain that you nevercan say that of him. Major Hockin unkind to a poor girl like you!"

  "The last thing I wish to claim is any body's pity," I answered, lesshumbly than I should have spoken, though the pride was only in my tone,perhaps. "If people choose to pity me, they are very good, and I am notat all offended, because--because they can not help it, perhaps, fromnot knowing any thing about me. I have nothing whatever to be pitiedfor, except that I have lost my father, and have nobody left to care forme, except Uncle Sam in America."

  "Your Uncle Sam, as you call him, seems to be a very wonderful man,Erema," said Mrs. Hockin, craftily, so far as there could be any craftin her; "I never saw him--a great loss on my part. But the Major wentup to meet him somewhere, and came home with the stock of his best tiebroken, and two buttons gone from his waistcoat. Does Uncle Sam makepeople laugh so much? or is it that he has some extraordinary gift ofinducing people to taste whiskey? My husband is a very--most abstemiousman, as you must be well aware, Miss Wood, or we never should have beenas we are, I am sure. But, for the first time in all my life, Idoubted his discretion on the following day, when he had--what shall Isay?--when he had been exchanging sentiments with Uncle Sam."

  "Uncle Sam never takes too much in any way," I replied to this newattack; "he knows what he ought to take, and then he stops. Do you thinkthat it may have been his 'sentiments,' perhaps, that were too strongand large for the Major?"

  "Erema!" cried Mrs. Hockin, with amazement, as if I had no right tothink or express my thoughts on life so early; "if you can talk politicsat eighteen, you are quite fit to go any where. I have heard a greatdeal of American ladies, and seen not a little of them, as you know.But I thought that you called yourself an English girl, and insistedparticularly upon it."

  "Yes, that I do; and I have good reason. I am born of an old Englishfamily, and I hope to be no disgrace to it. But being brought up in anumber of ways, as I have been without thinking of it, and being quitedifferent from the fashionable girls Major Hockin likes to walk with--"

  "My dear, he never walks with any body but myself!"

  "Oh yes, I remember! I was thinking of the deck. There are nofashionable girls here yet. Till the terrace is built, and theesplanade--"

  "There shall be neither terrace nor esplanade if the Major is to do suchthings upon them."

  "I am sure that he never would," I replied; "it was only their dressesthat he liked at all, and that very, to my mind, extraordinary style,as well as unbecoming. You know what I mean, Mrs. Hockin, thatwonderful--what shall I call it?--way of looping up."

  "Call me 'Aunt Mary,' my dear, as you did when the waves were sodreadful. You mean that hideous Mexican poncho, as they called it, stuckup here, and going down there. Erema, what observation you have! Nothingever seems to escape you. Did you ever see any thing so indecorous?"

  "It made me feel just as if I ought not to look at them," I answered,with perfect truth, for so it did; "I have never been accustomed tosuch things. But seeing how the Major approved of them, and liked tobe walking up and down between them, I knew that they must be not onlydecorous, but attractive. There is no appeal from his judgment, isthere?"

  "I agree with him upon every point, my dear child; but I have alwayslonged to say a few words about that. For I can not help thinking thathe went too far."