So it was settled that Mrs Carbonel should write about a widow at her old home, who had once been a servant in the family. She was known to be a good religious person, who could read, and write, and cast accounts quite well enough for any possibly advanced scholars, as well as being a beautiful needlewoman. An old friend went to see her, explain the situation to her, and ascertain if she were willing to undertake the school for twenty pounds a year, and what the children could pay.
A cottage belonging to Captain Carbonel might have a room added to it to receive the scholars, by the end of harvest, by which time they might be got together, and Mrs Verdon was to be induced to resign by a pension of half-a-crown a week, a sum then supposed to be ample, and which, indeed, was so for her wants, which were much less than in these days. Captain Carbonel looked over the cottage, and worked out an estimate of the cost with old Hewlett, whose notions of paper work were of the kind shown in his Midsummer bill.
+===========================+=========+=====+ | |shillings|pence| +--------------+-----+---+ |1 ooden barrer a oodnt soot| 9| 6| +--------------+-----+---+ |1 ooden barrer a ood soot | 9| 6| +===========================+=========+=====+
The result of the calculations, conjectural and otherwise, was this.
"Mary, look here. This is an expensive year, and if we do the thing this year, we must put off making the drive through the fields-your approach, madam."
Mary came and looked at his figures. "How will it be after harvest?" she said.
"Harvest is an inappreciable quantity, especially to novices," he said. "If you believe Farmer Goodenough, the finest weather will not save me from finding myself out of pocket."
"Farmer Goodenough is an old croaker, after his kind," said Mary.
"It won't do to reckon thereupon. I must be secure of capital enough to fall back upon. Think it over well, Mary, and answer me to-morrow; and you had better say nothing to your sisters till your own mind is made up. I own that I should be very glad of the road. It would save us and old Major a good deal, to say nothing of our friends' bones."
"Do you mean that you wish it, Edmund?"
"I wish to leave it entirely to you."
Dora and Sophy had gone across the fields, a four miles' walk to Poppleby, and were to be brought home in the evening, and Mary was left to wander about the old road and the field-path, and meditate on the ruts and quagmires that would beset the way in the winter, and shut them up from visiting, perhaps even from church. Besides, there were appearances!
There was an old gentleman, a far-away connection of Edmund's, who had been in the navy, and now lived at Poppleby, and went about collecting all the chatter to be heard in one house, and retailing it all in another, and he thought himself licensed to tell Edmund and Mary everything personal. One thing was-
"My dear fellow, you should really put a check on your wife's Methodistical ways!"
"I didn't know she had any."
"I have been told, on good authority, that she has a meeting every Sunday in the wash-house."
Edmund laughed. "A dozen children for Sunday School, with the President's full consent."
"It won't do, Edmund. You'll find it won't do! Why, old Selby told me she was a pretty creature, only just like your good pious ladies, running into all the dirtiest cottages."
And to Mary it was, "Let me give you a hint, my dear Mrs Carbonel. The Duchess saw you in Poppleby, and asked who you were, and she said she would like to visit you, if you did not live in such a hole."
"I don't think I want her," said Mary.
"Now, my dear, don't you be foolish! It would be so much to Edmund's advantage! He was in the same regiment with Lord Henry, and you might have the best society in the county, if only you would make your new drive! Why, even Lady Hartman says she can't take her horses again through that lane, or into the farm court. Miss Yates said it was quite disgusting."
Mary Carbonel might laugh. She did not care for her own dignity, but she did for Edmund's; and though she had been amused at Lady Hartman's four horses entangled in the narrow sweep, and did not quite believe old Captain Caiger, the lady herself had been very charming, and Mary did not like to cut her husband and sisters off from the pleasantest houses in the country.
But the words, "Love not the world," came up into her mind, and the battle ended by her saying to her husband-
"Don't let us have the ap_proach this year, dear Edmund. I don't want it to be Mary's re_proach."
"You are quite sure? In spite of Caiger?"
"Indeed I am; though I am afraid it is asking you to give up something."
"Not while I have my merry faces at home, Mary. And indeed, little woman, I am glad of your decision. It is right."
"I am so glad!"
CHAPTER NINE. THE SCREEN.
"There is no honesty in such dealing."-Shakespeare.
One day when Sophy had been trusted to go out alone to carry a few veal cutlets from luncheon to Judith, she found the door on the latch, but no one in the room downstairs, the chair empty, the fire out, and all more dreary than usual, only a voice from above called out, "Please come up."
Sophy, pleased with the adventure, mounted the dark and rickety stairs, and found herself in the open space above, cut off from the stairs by a screen, and containing a press-bed, where Judith lay, covered by an elaborate patchwork quilt. There was a tiny dressing-table under the narrow lattice window, and one chair, also a big trunk-box, with a waggon-shaped lid, such as servants used to have in those days, covered with paper, where big purple spots of paint concealed the old print of some story or newspaper. On the wall hung a few black profiles, and all was very fairly neat, whatever the room might be shut off by a wooden partition, whence came a peculiar sour smell.
"Oh, it is Miss Sophia!" exclaimed Judith. "I beg your pardon, ma'am, I thought it was Dame Spurrell, who said she would come and look in on me, or I would not have troubled you to come up."
"I am glad I did, Judith; I like to see where you live. Only, are you worse?"
"No, miss, only as my back is sometimes, and my sister and all the children are gone to the hiring fair, so it was not handy to get me up."
"And this is your room!" said Sophy, looking about her. "Isn't it very cold?"
"Johnnie heats me a brick to keep me warm at night; but my feet are always cold downstairs. It does not make much difference."
"Oh dear! And you have a screen, I see. Oh! Why, that is our drawing-room paper."
She sat transfixed at the recognition, while Judith observed, quite innocently, with a free conscience-
"Yes, miss, my brother-in-law brought it home, and told me it was just a scrap that was left over, and he was free to have, though I said I did wonder the lady did not want to keep it in case of an accident happening."
"Yes," said Sophy, "I don't think he had any business to have it, for all one division of the paper is put on upside down. The laburnums point up instead of hanging down, and I am sure Mary would have altered it if she could. It was beautiful French paper that Edmund brought home from Paris and laid up for the furnishing their house."
This, of course, Mrs Carbonel and Dora would never have told poor Judith, but Sophy was young and unguarded, and apt to talk when she had better have held her tongue.
"I am sorry to hear it, miss, indeed I am. I am afraid one could not take it off the screen to put it back again where it did ought to be."
Sophy looked, but it was manifestly impossible. Spoiling the screen would not mend the wall of the drawing-room.
"Perhaps Molly might have another bit left," she said, only thinking of the triumph of carrying home the means of repairing the deficiency by her own unassisted sagacity.
"I will ask her, miss. I am sure I never thought Dan would go for to do such a thing," mourned Judith, though, even as she spoke, there came back on her recollections of times when she had tried to be blind and deaf. "But if Mrs Carbonel would let me pay for it, miss, I should be easier in my mind. I have a shilling, though no doubt that is
not the worth of it." And she began feeling for a little box under her pillow, never mentioning that she had already paid Dan a shilling for it.
"No, no; nonsense, Judith! Of course my sister would not take it for the world; but if any one could find another bit, just to patch up the part above the book-case, it would be nice."
"I will do what in me lays, Miss Sophy," answered Judith.
So Sophy took her leave and trotted home, very proud of her discovery, which she communicated in an eager voice as the phaeton drew up at the front door.
"Oh, Edmund, I have found the rest of the drawing-room paper!"
"Hush! not so loud, my dear," said Dora, getting out of the back seat, and Edmund, being busy in telling the groom to attend to something in the harness, did not heed at first.
"Did you know, Dora?" asked Sophy, in a lower voice, being struck by something in her repressive manner.
"Yes; but I did not tell, because Edmund was so much vexed, and it was of no use now."
Dora really hoped no one had heard, as Mary was busy with her parcels, and she was too fond of Judith not to wish to shield her family; but it was too late. The captain came in with, "What's this about the drawing-room paper?"
Sophy was delighted to pour out the history of her discovery, and tell how it appeared on the screen that sheltered poor Judith Grey.
"Exactly as I supposed," said Captain Carbonel. "I always believed that fellow was a thief."
"But it is not poor Judith's fault," exclaimed the sisters, with one voice.
"She knew nothing about it. She wanted to pay the shilling for it," said Sophia.
The captain laughed a little.
"And she is going to search for a bit to go up there!" continued the girl more vehemently; and he laughed again.
"Yes," said Mary, "if you only saw something of her, you would be convinced that her whole character is very different from that of the rest of the family."
"Don't you be taken in by plausibility," said the captain. "I know that fellow Dan is a thief. I meant to tell his relation, George, that I won't allow him to be employed on the new schoolroom. I shall do so now."
"Would it not be better to forget what happened so long ago?" Mary ventured to say.
"And suppose Judith restores it," added Sophia.
"Pshaw!" said the captain; but Mary followed him to the study, and what she did with him there her sisters did not know, but it resulted in his allowing that Dan might have another trial, with a sharp eye over him.
So unused was Uphill to the visits of ladies, that when the piece of French paper was sold to Judith, no one had thought of her being sought out in her bedroom. Molly came home with the children in the evening, tired out but excited-for all had had rather more beer than was good for them, and the children a great many more sweets. Jem and Judy were quarrelling over a wooden horse covered with white spots, but whose mane had already disappeared, Lizzie was sick, cross, and stupid, Polly had broken the string of her new yellow necklace, and was crying about it, and nobody had recollected the aunt except Johnnie, who presented her with a piece of thin gingerbread representing King George the Fourth, in white, pink, and gilt! Molly herself was very tired, though she said it was all very fine, and she had seen a lot of people, and the big sleeves they wore were quite a wonder. Then she scolded Polly with all her might for crying and never setting the tea, nor boiling the kettle; and, after all, it was Johnnie who made up the fire, fetched water, and set the kettle boiling. They all wrangled together over their purchases, and the sights they had seen, or not seen, while Judith was glad to be out of the way of seeing, though not of hearing. Then the girls trailed themselves upstairs. Judy slept with her aunt, Polly and Lizzie had a kind of shake-down on a mattress of chaff or hulls, as she called it, by her side. Judith always insisted on their prayers, but they said they were much too tired to-night, and could not say anything but "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," which was all they knew except the Lord's Prayer. Judith had taught them this, but they thought the repeating it a very difficult ceremony, far too hard when they were tired.
Their mother went to bed soon afterwards, taking Jem with her, and so did Johnnie, all being anxious to get what sleep they could before the dreaded moment of father's return. Public-houses were not obliged to close at any special time in those days, and the home-coming, especially on a fair day, was apt to be a terrible affair. It was not till past one o'clock that shouts, broken bursts of singing, and howls of quarrelling announced the break-up of the riotous party, and presently the door bounced open, and with oaths at the darkness, though there was bright moonlight, Dan stumbled in and staggered upstairs, overturning the unlucky screen upon Polly as he did so, cursing and swearing at them all, and ordering his wife to get up and open the door, which he was past finding. He did not attack Judith, though he almost fell over her bed, and the two girls lay trembling, not daring to lift off the screen till the door of the bedroom was shut on them; and then came the only too well-known sound of their mother scolding and crying, and his swearing and beating her.
They were only too much used to such disturbance, and were asleep again before it was over; but Judith could only lie on, shaking with terror- not personal-but at the awful words she heard, and praying that they might not be visited on that unhappy household, but that God would forgive.
It was not till the next day when the house was tolerably quiet, and Molly, rather fretful and grumbling, had helped Judith down to her place by the fire, that she ventured the question, "Molly, you have not a bit more of that pretty wall-paper you gave me for my screen?"
"Did it get broke last night in Dan's drunken tantrums?"
"Not more than I can mend, but little Miss Sophia, she says that the paper in the Greenhow drawing-room is quite spoilt for want of a piece to cover up a bit that was put on wrong."
"My patience! And how did Miss Sophia come to know anything about it?"
"She came up to see me, and bring those cutlets that you are warming up now."
"Bless me! Well, Dan will be vexed," said Molly. "Such mean folk as they are, a-peeping and a-prying after everything! They knows how to look after whatever they chooses to say is their own; and the captain, he made a row before about that there trumpery yard or two of paper that was the parkisit of them that hung it."
"Miss Sophy says it spoilt the room."
"Sp'ilt it! They've little to vex 'em that is terrified about that!"
"But have you got the bit, Molly?"
"I never had it! Dan kept it in the outhouse. He may have a scrap left, that he used to make caps for the Christmas boys when he used the rest to paper Mrs Hunter's closet with down at Downhill. Your piece was left over of that, and may be there was half-a-yard more; but he locks that there workshop of his, so as one can't get in to get a bit of shavings to light the fire. So you must ask him. I am sure I dare not do it. He's that angry if one does but look into his shop."
"I must try and get it!" said Judith.
"Not now, I wouldn't," entreated Molly. "What is it to the ladies? And father, he will be fit to tear the place down if he hears of it! Them Gobblealls is set again him already, and 'tis just taking away our bread to say a bit more about it to them folks. George Hewlett is particular enough already, without having a work about this."
Poor Judith, she felt as if she could never be at peace with her conscience, while she had those yellow laburnums in sight in her room, and she did not see how restitution and confession could injure her brother-in-law; but her code of right and wrong was very different from that of either husband or wife.
Molly went on maundering about the hardship of having taken in a poor helpless thing, and having stood between her and the workhouse, only that she should turn a viper and a spy, and take her poor children's bread out of their mouths, forgetting that Jem was at the very moment eating up the piece of apple-pie that had come with the cutlets.
Judith tried to get her thoughts together, and decided that, however much she might dread Dan's ange
r, and care for his interest and family peace, it was her duty to do her best to recover whatever remnant was possible of his booty. So when he came home to dinner she ventured to ask him if he had a piece left of that paper of her screen.
"Why?" he asked, turning on her, as if he hoped to make more of whatever he had.
She told him timidly, and it was as she had feared. He began abusing her violently for letting spies up into her room, and turning against him, that let her have her house-room, and "worriting" them all with her hypocritical ways. He could tell her there was nothing between her and the workhouse, and all was interspersed with oaths, terrible to hear.
Molly began taking her part, and declaring that Judith could not help it if little miss would come into her room; but Dan, who had qualified last night's revel with another mug of ale, was quite past all reason, and declared that Judith called the girl up on purpose to bring him into trouble, and that nothing but harm had ever come of her canting, Methody ways, and he had a good mind to kick her out at once to the workhouse, and would do so, if she brought them Gobblealls down on him again. There had been nothing but plague ever since they came into the parish, and he wouldn't have them come poll-prying about his house. No, he wouldn't.
Judith knew this was a vain threat, for he was always out of the house when they came, and she also knew that he was the last man to give up the small payment that she was in the habit of making quarterly, or what was begged from her besides, so she was not afraid of any such measure; but she was much shaken, and felt quite ill afterwards, and Molly did not stint her blame and lamentations. Nothing happened in consequence, except that, from that time forward, Dan's incipient dislike to "they Gobblealls" was increased, and they could do nothing which he did not find fault with; though his wife, grumbling at them all the time, was quite willing to get everything possible out of them.
The Carbonels Page 6