“Shut up, silly,” said Trivvie in a stage whisper. “What an owl you are! D’you want to be turned out of here?”
“She better try,” retorted the boy, without rancor.
Trivvie looked at him with scorn; he was silly, Ambrose was. Couldn’t he see that they had better suck up to Mrs. Abbott? It was no good arguing with him now, because he could be frightfully stubborn when he liked—Trivvie knew it to her cost—but afterward he should hear of it. Meanwhile a change of subject might be diplomatic.
“You never come down here, do you?” she remarked politely.
“Not often,” Barbara admitted.
“Fancy having a stream of your own and not coming down to look at it, even,” remarked Ambrose scornfully.
“Perhaps she’s busy,” Trivvie pointed out. “What d’you do all day?” she added, turning back to Barbara, and asking the question as if she were a visitor from the moon and had just arrived upon the earth that very day.
“How do you mean?” inquired Barbara, somewhat taken aback.
“I mean whatever do you do? You don’t paint like Daddy, and you don’t sit and be painted like Mummy, and you’ve got servants so you don’t have to cook or make the beds, and you don’t have lessons and play like us, so whatever do you do?”
Barbara tried to give an account of her activities; she knew she had been busy all day, but it sounded very little when it was told.
Trivvie listened with growing pity to the stumbling narrative—grown-ups were odd, she thought (not for the first time). Here was a perfectly strong and healthy grown-up with the whole day to do what she liked with, and nobody to say she mustn’t do this or that or the other, and look at what she did—it was really pitiable. “How dull!” she said at last, sadly shaking her untidy head. “Doesn’t it sound dull, Amby?”
Ambrose was squatting by the stream. “I wasn’t listening,” he said, “but I don’t suppose it’s any duller than what we have to do.”
“But she doesn’t have to,” Trivvie complained. “Don’t you see, Amby? She can do what she likes.”
Barbara found it rather embarrassing to be discussed in this frank manner—just as if I wasn’t here at all, she thought vaguely.
“P’raps she can’t do what she likes,” Ambrose objected, “and anyhow it can’t be any sillier than what you do.”
“I didn’t say it was silly,” Trivvie pointed out. “I said it was dull—and it was dull—what are you doing, Amby?” she shrieked suddenly. “Leave my boat alone, you’ve swamped my boat—you beastly fat-faced baboon!” With a sudden lightning dart she was across the stream, and had seized the unsuspecting Ambrose by the collar of his jersey. The next moment they were rolling on the turf, kicking and squealing, a jumble of brown and blue, fat legs and thin legs all mixed up in inextricable confusion.
“Stop!” cried Barbara, picking her way across the stream. “Stop it at once; you’ll kill each other—”
They stopped as suddenly as they started, and Trivvie sat up, shaking her hair out of her eyes with a characteristic toss.
“We won’t kill each other,” she said scornfully. “I wouldn’t hurt Amby—at least not badly—it does him good to be hurt a little.”
Ambrose sat up too, and gazed quietly round the little grove. He seemed to bear no malice for the sudden attack that he had endured—he rarely bore malice, for he was of a philosophical disposition, and took what came to him as natural manifestations of fate. In appearance as well as by nature the two young Marvells were as different as children could be—Trivvie was quicksilver, easily moved to wrath or repentance; Ambrose was stolid and stubborn as a mule; Trivvie was a brown elfin creature, thin and wiry; Ambrose was plump and chubby with rosy cheeks and fair hair.
“Trivvie’s got a demon,” said Ambrose in a conversational tone. “Like Socrates, you know. Was that your demon, Trivvie?”
“No, it wasn’t,” replied Trivvie promptly. “It was me. My demon doesn’t go for people—it’s not that kind of demon at all. It tells me things, it’s more—more like a familiar spirit, really.” She drew up her bare knees, almost to her chin, and stretched the very short skirt of her blue overall over the knobby bones: “There are lots of different kinds of demons, you know,” she added dreamily.
“I don’t like your demon,” Ambrose said. “I think it’s silly.”
“My demon doesn’t mind a bit,” retorted Trivvie defiantly.
Barbara thought it was time to change the subject. “You haven’t told me what you do all day,” she said, “what do you do?”
“Lessons, mostly,” Trivvie replied, “we have to, you see.”
“We don’t do them all day,” Ambrose put in.
“Do you go to school?” inquired Barbara.
“No, Froggy gives us lessons.”
“You’re lucky not to go to school.”
“We aren’t lucky,” said Ambrose, contradicting her in a calm, indifferent sort of way. “We’d learn more if we went to school—Lanky says so.”
“I don’t think Froggy’s bad—” began Trivvie.
“She’s no good,” said Ambrose gloomily. “She doesn’t even know arithmetic properly. I asked her how many different kinds of fives there were, and she said all fives were alike.”
“She said your fives were like nothing on earth.”
“Shut up,” said Ambrose, treating this irrelevant remark with the indifference it deserved. “Can’t you see there are different kinds of fives? You can make a five with five ones, or with four and one, or with three and two—they’re all different aren’t they?”
“They all look the same,” argued Trivvie.
“Not to me—they look quite different to me,” maintained Ambrose stubbornly.
“Well, why did you ask her if you knew?”
“To see what she’d say, of course, and she didn’t say what you said she said. She said my fives were extrable.” He got up and tried to brush the wet mud off his shorts. “Girls don’t understand,” he said, frowning fiercely at nothing. “Girls don’t understand—I ought to be at school—with boys.”
“Oh Amby, I understand,” said Trivvie anxiously. “You know I do—I do really, I was only teasing. I’m just like a boy, Amby. I can climb trees better than you.”
“You’re not like a boy,” Ambrose told her firmly.
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“Why aren’t I? I can climb—”
“You know why,” he said. “You know as well as I do, your—”
Barbara felt it was time to interrupt the discussion—it seemed to be taking a somewhat dangerous turn—“I think that’s somebody calling you,” she said quickly.
They listened for a moment in silence, and Barbara heard the cries again, nearer this time. “Trivona—Ambrose.” It was like a lost spirit wailing among the trees.
“It’s Froggy,” Trivvie exclaimed. “She’s coming this way—”
With a sudden glance backward, and a whispered injunction, “Don’t tell her,” the two slid into the bushes and were lost to view.
Barbara was amazed at the suddenness of their departure, it left her in the air; one moment the children had been there, talking to her, and the next moment they were gone. The stream flowed by, chuckling over the stones; the branches of the bare trees rose and fell gently as the wind sighed past; and the little grove was silent and deserted. Barbara stood there for a moment, bewildered, helpless, baffled; and, during that pause, Miss Foddy hove into view, her pince-nez flashing in the sun.
Miss Foddy was small and slight, with grayish-brown hair, and very brown eyes behind the flashing glasses. She gave you the impression of a brown mouse—small and timorous. But, in spite of her mouse-like looks, Barbara was taken aback at her appearance on the scene; it would have been better if Barbara had vanished li
ke the children—had gone while the going was good. Barbara was taken aback at the sight of Miss Foddy, but Miss Foddy was positively overwhelmed at the sight of Barbara.
“Oh!” she said aghast. “Oh—I’m trespassing—”
“It’s all right,” Barbara assured her.
“Pray forgive me,” continued Miss Foddy, positively trembling with agitation. “You are Mrs. Abbott, I presume—pray forgive me. I am not in the habit of trespassing upon your property, I assure you.”
“It’s really quite all right,” said Barbara again.
“I am looking for the children,” Miss Foddy told her, casting her eyes to left and right as she spoke. “You have not, by any chance, seen the children—my charges—the Marvell children? I am Mrs. Marvell’s governess.”
“How do you do,” said Barbara solemnly.
“How do you do,” repeated Miss Foddy, greatly pleased.
They shook hands.
The conventions having been observed, Miss Foddy inquired again about her charges, and Barbara realized that she was in a most uncomfortable predicament, and wished again, more fervently than before, that she had had the presence of mind to follow the children’s example and disappear. Was she to take sides with Trivvie and Ambrose, as they had obviously expected, and deceive the wretched Miss Foddy as to their movements? Or was she to side with the law, and indicate the route that the fugitives had taken? Barbara was practically certain that the children had not gone far, they were probably hidden in the bushes, within earshot, listening intently to every word that was being said. How could she give them away?
Barbara gazed at Miss Foddy in perplexity and distress.
“Ah, I understand, you have not seen them,” Miss Foddy said, taking Barbara’s embarrassment for a sign of ignorance. “No wonder you are surprised that I should have to search for the children in your grounds, Mrs. Abbott, no wonder you are surprised; but the truth is [she continued] the truth is that they have no regard for the property of others, and, what is even more lamentable, I have not been able to inculcate in them the spirit of obedience so necessary to the discipline of the young mind. I confess this with some shame, Mrs. Abbott,” continued the wretched woman, whose small, grayish-brown face had gone pink to the ears. “I confess this with some shame, for I have now had the Marvell children under my care for two years, and two years should be sufficiently long to mold such young and plastic natures, but the truth is the Marvell children are a little beyond me, Mrs. Abbott. I have not been able to gain their confidence, nor even, I greatly fear, their respect. You are asking yourself,” she continued, quite mistaken as to the reason for Barbara’s silence, “you are asking yourself why I have not resigned my post, since I am unable to carry out my duties to my own satisfaction, but the truth is, Mrs. Abbott, that it is so extremely difficult for a woman of my age and uncertified qualifications to find a post in the present-day congestion of the teaching profession, that I shrink—I positively shrink—from the consideration of such a course.”
“I don’t suppose anybody could manage them,” said Barbara comfortingly—nor did she, when she thought of the amazing behavior of the young Marvells.
Miss Foddy was much too pleased with the most acceptable view of the case to wonder how Mrs. Abbott could have formed such a true opinion of her charges without having seen them. She smiled at Barbara, and the smile changed her entirely; it lighted up her worn little face, and took years off her age.
“How kind you are!” she exclaimed. “How kind you are, Mrs. Abbott, and—yes—I really believe there is a great deal in what you say. Strangely enough Mrs. Marvell was good enough to make the same observation—in different words, of course—when I hinted to her, as tactfully as possible, that I found the high spirits of her children a trifle difficult to control.”
“Well, you needn’t worry then, need you?” said Barbara sensibly. “I mean if Mrs. Marvell herself—”
“One would imagine so,” agreed Miss Foddy. “But the case is not so simple as it may seem upon the surface. Mrs. Marvell is not a very good judge of what is, or is not, the best upbringing for her children. It seems a very extraordinary allegation for me to make against the children’s mother, but it is nonetheless true. And I cannot help feeling that the reason she is anxious to retain my services is not so much because she thinks I am the best mentor for the children, as because I am able to be of service to her in various small matters connected with the house. Mrs. Marvell is obliged to help her husband, you must understand. Her husband is somewhat exacting, and I am able to take a certain amount of routine work off her hands—routine work such as counting the washing, dusting the drawing-room, keeping the accounts, and answering any letters which are not of a strictly private nature. These duties are not, of course, the duties to which I have been accustomed, but I have never found it advisable to refuse my aid when it was asked for. So long as these duties do not encroach upon the hours devoted to the children’s study (and they do not, for I rise early and perform them before breakfast), I am only too happy to be able to undertake them, and to carry them out to the best of my ability. But sometimes,” said Miss Foddy (gazing at Barbara with her sad brown eyes, which reminded Barbara of the sad brown eyes of a spaniel belonging to Colonel Carter, the son of old Mrs. Carter, who had lived next door to her at Silverstream), “sometimes, Mrs. Abbott, I cannot help feeling that it is all too much for me, and that I should have more chance of dealing firmly with the children, if my energy were not dissipated in dealing with matters of minor importance. My task is none the easier this term owing to the fact that Lancreste—Mrs. Marvell’s elder son—has not returned to his preparatory school. He was unfortunate enough to contract an exceedingly virulent form of whooping cough during the summer holidays, and the disease has left him with a small catarrhal patch at the base of the right lung. Doctor Wrench, while not anticipating any permanent injury to the organ, is still a trifle anxious, and definitely vetoes any suggestion of Lancreste returning to Rugton Hall until the symptom has completely disappeared. I am therefore taking Lancreste for history and mathematics, a duty which usurps a great deal of my time and energy. But this is by no means the most serious of my troubles with Lancreste. I do not grudge a moment of the time spent in helping him with his lessons—no—my most serious trouble with Lancreste is the influence he possesses over the younger children, and which he uses to incite them to behave like savages. This is all the more remarkable, because Lancreste, himself, seems quiet and well-mannered in comparison with Trivona and Ambrose, but his influence is deplorable—quite deplorable. The children are always more troublesome and difficult when Lancreste is at home.”
Barbara was extremely sorry for Miss Foddy. It seemed dreadful (Barbara thought) that a clever woman like Miss Foddy should be badgered and annoyed by the Marvell children, and worked like a slave by Mrs. Marvell until she was brought to such a pitch of desperation that she was forced to confide her troubles to the first stranger she met. Miss Foddy was obviously frightfully clever (nobody who was not frightfully clever could talk like that. Barbara couldn’t have talked like that to save her life—and we always admire in others the qualities and attributes which we lack ourselves), Barbara could no more have expressed her troubles in the flowing and erudite English employed by Miss Foddy than she could have flown to the moon.
The truth was (as Miss Foddy would have said), the truth was that things had come to a crisis for the Marvells’ governess. Her position had been growing more and more difficult for weeks and she had nobody with whom she could discuss it—no confidante of any sort or kind. Poor Miss Foddy was neither fish nor flesh, she was not one of the family, and not—most certainly not—one of the servants and, today, with the mysterious disappearance of her charges, everything had boiled up, and she suddenly felt that she must tell somebody all about it—or burst. It was at this dangerous—not to say critical—moment that Barbara had appeared on the scene and had shown her symp
athy with Miss Foddy’s troubles. She had listened with interest, and had made one most penetrating and sympathetic remark. It was quite enough. Instead of bursting with a terrific explosion, Miss Foddy had poured out her troubles to Barbara’s willing and sympathetic ear. But, although she had been pouring them out for about ten minutes without ceasing, she had not done yet, there was more to come. And, as Mrs. Abbott’s attention showed no signs of wandering, Miss Foddy was encouraged to continue.
Miss Foddy was very lonely at the Marvells’—so she told Barbara, still in that clever and cultured English which her hearer so admired—she had never been so lonely in any of her numerous posts. When she was at Mrs. Benton’s she had been like one of the family, sharing in all their interests and amusements; Mrs. Winkworth’s husband had been unkind to her and Miss Foddy had sympathized and upheld her in her vicissitudes; and at the Redmonds’ the eldest girl was grown up—a delightful girl—and had been wont to discuss her various love affairs with her young sister’s governess. In all these houses Miss Foddy had had somebody to talk to, somebody to help, somebody who sought her out and desired her company as a human being, but at the Marvells’ she had nobody—nobody at all. Mr. and Mrs. Marvell completed each other’s lives—or at least they wanted no outside interference in their affairs—and the children only bore Miss Foddy’s company when they were obliged to do so—they, too, were completely self-satisfied and self-contained. Miss Foddy was naturally very glad that Mr. Marvell did not ill-treat his wife, did not neglect her, or drink, or stray after younger and more attractive women like the too-amiable Mr. Winkworth, but she rather wished that Mr. Marvell were not always at home, filling the house with his overpowering personality, because, if he hadn’t been, Mrs. Marvell might have talked to her occasionally, and discussed modern conditions, or the children’s health and progress. Miss Foddy wouldn’t have minded what it was, as long as it was something.
All this Miss Foddy poured out to Barbara—all this and more—and Barbara stood and listened to it all with careful and sympathetic attention.
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