MRS. MOSS.
"It did not move my grief, to see The trace of human step departed, Because the garden was deserted, The blither place for me!
"Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward: We draw the moral afterward-- We feel the gladness then."
E. BARRETT BROWNING.
"I remember," said Mrs. Overtheway, "old as I am, I rememberdistinctly many of the unrecognized vexations, longings, anddisappointments of childhood. By unrecognized, I mean those vexations,longings, and disappointments which could not be understood by nurses,are not confided even to mothers, and through which, even in ourcradles, we become subject to that law of humanity which gives toevery heart its own secret bitterness to be endured alone. These arethey which sometimes outlive weightier memories, and produce life-longimpressions disproportionate to their value; but oftener, perhaps, arewashed away by the advancing tide of time--the vexations, longings,and disappointments of the next period of our lives. These are theywhich are apt to be forgotten too soon to benefit our children, andwhich in the forgetting make childhood all bright to look back upon,and foster that happy fancy that there is one division of mortal lifein which greedy desire, unfulfilled purpose, envy, sorrow, wearinessand satiety, have no part, by which every man believes himself atleast to have been happy as a child.
"My childhood, on the whole, was a very happy one. The story that I amabout to relate is only a fragment of it.
"As I look into the fire, and the hot coals shape themselves into athousand memories of the past, I seem to be staring with childish eyesat a board that stares back at me out of a larch plantation, and givesnotice that 'This House is to Let.' Then, again, I seem to peepthrough rusty iron gates at the house itself--an old red house, withlarge windows, through which one could see the white shutters thatwere always closed. To look at this house, though only with my mind'seye, recalls the feeling of mysterious interest with which I looked atit fifty years ago, and brings back the almost oppressive happiness ofa certain day, when Sarah, having business with the couple who keptthe empty manor, took me with her, and left me to explore the groundswhilst she visited her friends.
"Next to a companion with that rare sympathy of mind to mind, thatexceptional coincidence of tastes, which binds some few friendships ina chain of mesmeric links, supplanting all the complacencies of loveby intuition, is a companion whose desires and occupations are inharmony, if not in unison, with one's own. That friend whom the longpatience of the angler does not chafe, the protracted pleasures of thesketcher do not weary, because time flies as swiftly with him whilsthe pores over his book, or devoutly seeks botanical specimens throughthe artist's middle distance; that friend, in short--that valuablefriend--who is blessed with the great and good quality of riding ahobby of his own, and the greater and better quality of allowing otherpeople to ride theirs.
"I did not think out all this fifty years ago, neither were the tastesof that excellent housemaid, Sarah, quite on a level with those ofwhich I have spoken; but I remember feeling the full comfort of thefact that Sarah's love for friendly gossip was quite as ardent as minefor romantic discovery; that she was disposed to linger quite as longto chat as I to explore; and that she no more expected me to sitwearily through her kitchen confidences, than I imagined that shewould give a long afternoon to sharing my day-dreams in the gardens ofthe deserted manor.
"We had ridden our respective hobbies till nearly tea-time before sheappeared.
"'I'm afraid you must be tired of waiting, Miss Mary,' said she.
"'Tired!' I exclaimed, 'not in the least. I have been so happy, and Iam so much obliged to you, Sarah.'
"Need I say why I was so happy that afternoon? Surely most people havefelt--at least in childhood--the fascination of deserted gardens,uninhabited houses, ruined churches. They have that advantage overwhat is familiar and in use that undiscovered regions have over thecomfortable one that the traveller leaves to explore them, that thesecret which does not concern me has over the facts which do, thatwhat we wish for has over what we possess.
"If you, my dear, were to open one of those drawers, and find Nurse'sSunday dress folded up in the corner, it would hardly amuse you; butif, instead thereof, you found a dress with a long stiff bodice,square at the neck, and ruffled round the sleeves, such as you haveseen in old pictures, no matter how old or useless it might be, itwould shed round it an atmosphere of delightful and mysteriousspeculations. This curiosity, these fancies, roused by the ancientdress, whose wearer has passed away, are awakened equally by emptyhouses where someone must once have lived, though his place knows himno more. It was so with the manor. How often had I peeped through thegates, catching sight of garden walks, and wondering whither they led,and who had walked in them; seeing that the shutters behind one windowwere partly open, and longing to look in.
"To-day I had been in the walks and peeped through the window. Thiswas the happiness.
"Through the window I had seen a large hall with a marble floor andbroad stone stairs winding upwards into unknown regions. By the walksI had arrived at the locked door of the kitchen garden, at a smallwood or wilderness of endless delights (including a broken swing), andat a dilapidated summer-house. I had wandered over the spongy lawn,which was cut into a long green promenade by high clipt yew-hedges,walking between which, in olden times, the ladies grew erect andstately, as plants among brushwood stretch up to air and light.
"Finally, I had brought away such relics as it seemed to me thathonesty would allow. I had found half a rusty pair of scissors in thesummer-house. Perhaps some fair lady of former days had lost themhere, and swept distractedly up and down the long walks seeking them.Perhaps they were a present, and she had given a luck-penny for them,lest they should cut love. Sarah said the housekeeper might havedropped them there; but Sarah was not a person of sentiment. I did notshow her the marble I found by the hedge, the acorn I picked up in thepark, nor a puny pansy which, half way back to a wild heartsease, hadtouched me as a pathetic memorial of better days. When I got home, Iput the scissors, the marble, and the pansy into a box. The acorn Ihung in a bottle of water--it was to be an oak tree.
"Properly speaking, I was not at home just then, but on a visit to mygrandmother and a married aunt without children who lived with her. Afever had broken out in my own home, and my visit here had beenprolonged to keep me out of the way of infection. I was very happy andcomfortable except for one single vexation, which was this:
"I slept on a little bed in what had once been the nursery, a largeroom which was now used as a workroom. A great deal of sewing was donein my grandmother's house, and the sewing-maid and at least one otherof the servants sat there every evening. A red silk screen was putbefore my bed to shield me from the candlelight, and I was supposedto be asleep when they came upstairs. But I never remember to havebeen otherwise than wide awake, nervously awake, wearily awake. Thiswas the vexation. I was not a strong child, and had a very excitablebrain; and the torture that it was to hear those maids gossiping onthe other side of the dim red light of my screen I cannot welldescribe, but I do most distinctly remember. I tossed till the clothesgot hot, and threw them off till I got cold, and stopped my ears, andpulled the sheet over my face, and tried not to listen, and listenedin spite of all. They told long stories, and made many jokes that Icouldn't understand; sometimes I heard names that I knew, and fanciedI had learnt some wonderful secret. Sometimes, on the contrary, I madenoises to intimate that I was awake, when one of them would rearrangemy glaring screen, and advise me to go to sleep; and then they talkedin whispers, which was more distracting still.
"One evening--some months after my ramble round the manor--the maidswent out to tea, and I lay in peaceful silence watching the shadowswhich crept noiselessly about the room as the fire blazed, and wishingSarah and her colleagues nothing less than a month of uninterruptedtea-parties. I was almost asleep when Aunt Harriet came into the room.She brought a candle, put up my screen (the red screen again!)
, andwent to the work-table. She had not been rustling with the work thingsfor many minutes when my grandmother followed her, and shut the doorwith an air which seemed to promise a long stay. She also gave ashove to my screen, and then the following conversation began:
"'I have been to Lady Sutfield's to-day, Harriet.'
"'Indeed, ma'am.' But my aunt respectfully continued her work, as Icould hear by the scraping of the scissors along the table.
"'I heard some news there. The manor is let.'
"I almost jumped in my bed, and Aunt Harriet's scissors paused.
"'Let, ma'am! To whom!'
"'To a Mrs. Moss. You must have heard me speak of her. I knew heryears ago, when we were both young women. Anastatia Eden, she wasthen.'
"I could hear my aunt move to the fire, and sit down.
"'The beautiful Miss Eden? Whom did she marry at last? Was there notsome love-affair of hers that you knew about?'
"'Her love-affairs were endless. But you mean Mr. Sandford. Shetreated him very ill--very ill.'
"There was a pause, while the fire crackled in the silence; and then,to the infinite satisfaction of my curiosity, Aunt Harriet said:
"'I've forgotten the story, ma'am. He was poor, was he not?'
"'He had quite enough to marry on,' my grandmother answered,energetically; 'but he was not a great match. It was an old story, mydear. The world! The world! The world! I remember sitting up withAnastatia after a ball, where he had been at her side all the evening.We sipped hot posset, and talked of our partners. Ah, dear!' and heremy grandmother heaved a sigh; partly, perhaps, because of the folliesof youth, and partly, perhaps, because youth had gone, and could comeback no more.
"'Anastatia talked of him,' she continued. 'I remember her asking meif "her man" were not a pretty fellow, and if he had not sweet blueeyes and the greatest simplicity I ever knew but in a child. It wastrue enough; and he was a great deal more than that--a great deal morethan she ever understood. Poor Anastatia! I advised her to marry him,but she seemed to look on that as impossible. I remember her sayingthat it would be different if she were not an acknowledged beauty; butit was expected that she would marry well, and he was comparativelypoor, and not even singular. He was accomplished, and the soul ofhonour, but simple, provokingly simple, with no pretensions to carryoff the toast of a county. My dear, if he had been notorious in anyway--for dissipation, for brawling, for extravagance--I believe itwould have satisfied the gaping world, and he would have had a chance.But there was nothing to talk about, and Anastatia had not the courageto take him for himself. She had the world at her feet, and paid forit by being bound by its opinion.'
"Here my grandmother, who was apt to moralize, especially whenrelating biographies of young ladies, gave another sigh.
"'Then why did she encourage him?' inquired Aunt Harriet; who alsomoralized, but with more of indignation and less of philosophy.
"'I believe she loved him in spite of herself; but at the last, whenhe offered, she turned prudent and refused him.'
"'Poor man! Did he ever marry?'
"'Yes, and very happily--a charming woman. But the strange part of thestory is, that he came quite unexpectedly into a large property thatwas in his family.'
"'Did he? Then he would have been as good a match as most of heradmirers?'
"'Better. It was a fine estate. Poor Anastatia!'
"'Serve her right,' said my aunt, shortly.
"'She was very beautiful,' my grandmother gently recommenced. She saidthis, not precisely as an excuse, but with something of the sort inher tone. 'Very beautiful! How stately she did look that night, to besure! She did not paint, and her complexion (a shade too high by day)was perfection by candlelight. I can see her now, my dear, as shestood up for a minuet with him. We wore hoops, then; and she had awhite brocade petticoat, embroidered with pink rosebuds, and a trainand bodice of pea-green satin, and green satin shoes with pink heels.You never saw anything more lovely than that brocade. A rich old aunthad given it to her. The shades of the rosebuds were exquisite. Iembroidered the rosebuds on that salmon-coloured cushion downstairsfrom a piece that Anastatia gave me as a pattern. Dear me! What adress it was, and how lovely she looked in it! Her eyes were black, athing you rarely see, and they shone and glittered under her powderedhair. She had a delicately curved nose; splendid teeth, too, andshowed them when she smiled. Then such a lovely throat, andbeautifully-shaped arms! I don't know how it is, my dear Harriet,'added my grandmother, thoughtfully, 'but you don't see the splendidwomen now-a-days that there were when I was young. There are plenty ofpretty, lively girls (rather too lively, in my old-fashionedjudgment), but not the real stately beauty that it was worth a twentymiles' drive there and back, just to see, at one of the old countyballs.'
"My aunt sniffed, partly from a depressing consciousness of being oneof a degenerate generation, and of a limited experience in the matterof county balls; partly also to express her conviction that principleis above beauty. She said:
"'Then Miss Eden married, ma'am?'
"'Yes, rather late, Mr. Moss; a wealthy Indian merchant, I believe.She lost all her children, I know, one after another, and then hedied. Poor Anastatia! It seems like yesterday. And to think she shouldbe coming here!'
"My grandmother sighed again, and I held my breath, hoping for somefurther particulars of the lovely heroine of this romance. But I wasdisappointed. My uncle's voice at this moment called loudly frombelow, and Aunt Harriet hurried off with a conscious meritoriousnessabout her, becoming a lady who had married the right man, and tookgreat care of him.
"'Supper, ma'am. I think,' she said, as she left the room.
"My grandmother sat still by the fire, sighing gently now and then,and I lay making up my mind to brave all and tell her that I wasawake. In the first place (although I was not intentionallyeavesdropping, and my being awake was certainly not my fault), I feltrather uneasy at having overheard what I knew was not intended for myhearing. Besides this, I wanted to hear some more stories of thelovely Mrs. Moss, and to ask how soon she would come to the manor.After a few seconds my grandmother rose and toddled across the room.I made an effort, and spoke just above my breath:
"'Granny!'
"But my grandmother was rather deaf. Moreover, my voice may have beendrowned in the heavy sigh with which she closed the nursery door.
"The room was empty again; the glare of the red screen was tenderlysubdued in the firelight; but for all this I did not go to sleep. Itook advantage of my freedom to sit up in bed, toss my hair from myforehead, and clasping my knees with my arms, to rock myself andthink. My thoughts had one object; my whole mind was filled with oneimage--Mrs. Moss. The future inhabitant of my dear deserted manorwould, in any circumstances, have been an interesting subject for myfancies. The favoured individual whose daily walk might be between theyew-hedges on that elastic lawn; who should eat, drink, and sleepthrough the commonplace hours of this present time behind thosemystical white shutters! But when the individual added to thisfelicitous dispensation of fortune the personal attributes ofunparalleled beauty and pea-green satin; of having worn hoops, highheels, and powder; of countless lovers, and white brocade with pinkrosebuds--well might I sit, my brain whirling with anticipation, as Ithought: 'She is coming here: I shall see her!' For though, ofcourse, I knew that having lived in those (so to speak) pre-historictimes when my grandmother was young, Mrs. Moss must now be an oldwoman; yet, strange as it may seem, my dear, I do assure you that Inever realized the fact. I thought of her as I had heard of her--youngand beautiful--and modelled my hopes accordingly.
"Most people's day-dreams take, sooner or later, a selfish turn. Iseemed to identify myself with the beautiful Anastatia. I thought ofthe ball as one looks back to the past. I fancied myself movingthrough the _minuet de la cour_, whose stately paces scarcely made thesilken rosebuds rustle. I rejected _en masse_ countless suitors offabulous wealth and nobility; but when it came to Mr. Sandford, Icould feel with Miss Eden no more. My grandmother had said that sheloved him, that sh
e encouraged him, and that she gave him up formoney. It was a mystery! In her place, I thought, I would have dancedevery dance with him! I would have knitted for him in winter, andgathered flowers for him in the summer hedges. To whom should one bemost kind, if not to those whom one most loves? To love, and takepleasure in giving pain--to balance a true heart and clear blue eyesagainst money, and prefer money--was not at that time comprehensibleby me. I pondered, and (so to speak) spread out the subject before mymind, and sat in judgment upon it.
"Money--that is, golden guineas (my grandmother had given me one onmy birthday), crowns, shillings, sixpences, pennies, halfpennies,farthings; and when you come to consider how many things a guineajudiciously expended in a toy-shop will procure, you see that money isa great thing, especially if you have the full control of it, and arenot obliged to spend it on anything useful.
"On the other hand, those whom you love and who love you--not inchildhood, thank God, the smallest part of one's acquaintance.
"I made a list on my own account. It began with my mother, and endedwith my yellow cat. (It included a crusty old gardener, who was attimes, especially in the spring, so particularly cross that I _might_have been tempted to exchange _him_ for the undisputed possession ofthat stock of seeds, tools, and flower-pots which formed our chiefsubject of dispute. But this is a digression.) I took the lowest.Could I part with Sandy Tom for any money, or for anything that moneycould buy? I thought of a speaking doll, a miniature piano, a tinycarriage drawn by four yellow mastiffs, of a fairy purse that shouldnever be empty, with all that might thereby be given to others or keptfor oneself: and then I thought of Sandy Tom--of his large, round,soft head; his fine eyes (they were yellow, not blue, and glared withinfinite tenderness); his melodious purr; his expressive whiskers; hisincomparable tail.
"Love rose up as an impulse, an instinct; it would not be doubted, itutterly refused to be spread out to question.
"'Oh, Puss?' I thought, 'if you could but leap on to the bed at thismoment I would explain it all to our mutual comprehension andsatisfaction. My dear Sandy,' I would say, 'with you to lie on thecushioned seat, a nice little carriage, and four yellow mastiffs,would be perfection; but as to comparing what I love--to wit, you,Sandy!--with what I want--to wit, four yellow mastiffs and a greatmany other things besides--I should as soon think of cutting off yourtail to dust the dolls' house with.' Alas! Sandy Tom was at home; Icould only imagine the gentle rub of the head with which he would haveassented. Meanwhile, I made up my mind firmly on one point. Mygrandmother was wrong. Miss Anastatia Eden had not loved Mr. Sandford.
"Smash! The fire, which had been gradually becoming hollow, fell in atthis moment, and I started to find myself chilly and cramped, and solay down. Then my thoughts took another turn. I wondered if I shouldgrow up beautiful, like Mrs. Moss. It was a serious question. I hadoften looked at myself in the glass, but I had a general idea that Ilooked much like other little girls of my age. I began gravely toexamine myself in detail, beginning from the top of my head. My hairwas light, and cropped on a level with the lobes of my ears; this,however, would amend itself with time; and I had long intended that myhair should be of raven blackness, and touch the ground at least; 'butthat will not be till I am grown up,' thought I. Then my eyes: theywere large; in fact, the undue proportions they assumed when I lookedill or tired formed a family joke. If size were all that one requiresin eyes, mine would certainly pass muster. Moreover, they had longcurly lashes. I fingered these slowly, and thought of Sandy'swhiskers. At this point I nearly fell asleep, but roused myself toexamine my nose. My grandmother had said that Mrs. Moss's nose wasdelicately curved. Now, it is certainly true that a curve may beeither concave or convex; but I had heard of the bridge of a nose, andknew well enough which way the curve should go; and I had a shrewdsuspicion that if so very short a nose as mine, with so much and soround a tip, could be said to be curved at all, the curve went thewrong way; at the same time I could not feel sure. For I must tell youthat to lie in a comfortable bed, at an hour long beyond the time whenone ought naturally to be asleep, and to stroke one's nose, is aproceeding not favourable to forming a clear judgment on so importanta point as one's personal appearance. The very shadows were still aswell as silent, the fire had ceased to flicker, a delicious quietudepervaded the room, as I stroked my nose and dozed, and dozed andstroked my nose, and lost all sense of its shape, and fancied it ahuge lump growing under my fingers. The extreme unpleasantness of thisidea just prevented my falling asleep; and I roused myself and sat upagain.
"'It's no use feeling,' I thought, 'I'll look in the glass.'
"There was one mirror in the room. It hung above the mantelpiece. Itwas old, deeply framed in dark wood, and was so hung as to slopeforwards into the room.
"In front of the fire stood an old-fashioned, cushioned arm-chair,with a very high back, and a many-frilled chintz cover. A footstoollay near it. It was here that my grandmother had been sitting. Ijumped out of bed, put the footstool into the chair that I might getto a level with the glass, and climbed on to it. Thanks to the slopeof the mirror, I could now see my reflection as well as the dimfirelight would permit.
"'What a silly child!' you will say, Ida. Very silly, indeed, my dear.And how one remembers one's follies! At the end of half a century, Irecall my reflection in that old nursery mirror more clearly than Iremember how I looked in the glass before which I put on my bonnetthis evening to come to tea with you: the weird, startled glance of myeyes, which, in their most prominent stage of weariness, gazed at meout of the shadows of the looking glass, the tumbled tufts of hair,the ghostly effect of my white night-dress. As to my nose, I couldabsolutely see nothing of its shape; the firelight just caught theround tip, which shone like a little white toadstool from the gloom,and this was all.
"'One can't see the shape, full face,' I thought. 'If I had onlyanother looking-glass.'
"But there was not another. I knew it, and yet involuntarily lookedround the room. Suddenly I exclaimed aloud, 'Mr. Joseph will do!'
"Who was Mr. Joseph?--you will ask. My dear Ida, I really do not know.I have not the least idea. I had heard him called Mr. Joseph, and Ifancy he was a connection of the family. All I knew of him was hisportrait, a _silhouette_, elegantly glazed and framed in black wood,which hung against the nursery wall. I was ignorant of his surname andhistory. I had never examined his features. But I knew that happily hehad been very stout, since his ample coat and waistcoat, cut out inblack paper, converted the glass which covered them into an excellentmirror for my dolls.
"Worthy Mr. Joseph! Here he was coming in useful again. How much weowe to our forefathers! I soon unhooked him, and climbing back intothe chair, commenced an examination of my profile by the process ofdouble reflection. But all in vain! Whether owing to the dusty stateof the mirror, or to the dim light, or to the unobliging shapelinessof Mr. Joseph's person, I cannot say, but, turn and twist as I would,I could not get a view of my profile sufficiently clear and completeto form a correct judgment upon. I held Mr. Joseph, now high, now low;I stooped, I stood on tiptoe, I moved forward, I leant backward. Itwas this latest manoeuvre that aggravated the natural topheavinessof the chair, and endangered its balance. The fore-legs rose, myspasmodic struggle was made in the wrong direction, and I, thearm-chair, and Mr. Joseph fell backwards together.
"Two of us were light enough, and happily escaped unhurt. It was thearm-chair which fell with such an appalling crash, and whether it wereany the worse or no, I could not tell as it lay. As soon as I had alittle recovered from the shock, therefore, I struggled to raise it,whilst Mr. Joseph lay helplessly upon the ground, with his waistcoatturned up to the ceiling.
"It was thus that my aunt found us.
"If only Mr. Joseph and I had fallen together, no one need have beenthe wiser; but that lumbering arm-chair had come down with a bump thatstartled the sober trio at supper in the dining-room below.
"'What _is_ the matter?' said Aunt Harriet.
"I was speechless.
"'What have you
been doing?'
"I couldn't speak; but accumulating misfortune was graduallyoverpowering me, and I began to cry.
"'Get into bed,' said Aunt Harriet.
"I willingly obeyed, and Aunt Harriet seated herself at the foot.
"'Now, think before you speak, Mary,' she said quietly, 'and then tellme the truth. What have you been doing?'
"One large tear rolled over my nose and off the tip as I feeblybegan--
"'I got into the chair--'
"'Well?' said Aunt Harriet.
"'--to look in the glass.'
"'What for?' said Aunt Harriet.
"Tears flowed unrestrainedly over my face as I howled in self-abasement--
"'To look at the shape of my nose.'
"At this point Aunt Harriet rose, and, turning her back ratherabruptly, crossed the room, and picked up Mr. Joseph. (I have sincehad reason to believe that she was with difficulty concealing a fit oflaughter.)
"'What have you had this picture down for?' she inquired, still withher back to me.
"'I couldn't see,' I sobbed, 'and I got Mr. Joseph to help me.'
"My aunt made no reply, and, still carefully concealing her face,restored Mr. Joseph to his brass nail with great deliberation.
"There is nothing like full confession. I broke the silence.
"'Aunt Harriet, I was awake when you and Granny were here, and heardwhat you said.'
"'You are a very silly, naughty child,' my aunt severely returned.'Why don't you go to sleep when you are sent to bed?'
"'I can't,' I sobbed, 'with talking and candles.'
"'You've got the screen,' said Aunt Harriet; and I cannot tell why,but somehow I lacked courage to say that the red screen was the chiefinstrument of torture!
"'Well, go to sleep now,' she concluded, 'and be thankful you're nothurt. You might have killed yourself.'
"Encouraged by the gracious manner in which she tucked me up, I took ashort cut to the information which I had failed to attain through Mr.Joseph.
"'Aunt Harriet,' I said, 'do you think I shall ever be as beautiful asMrs. Moss?'
"'I'm ashamed of you,' said Aunt Harriet.
"I climbed no more into the treacherous arm-chair. I eschewed themirror. I left Mr. Joseph in peace upon the wall. I took no furthertrouble about the future prospects of my nose. But night and day Ithought of Mrs. Moss. I found the old cushion, and sat by it, gazingat the faded tints of the rosebuds, till I imagined the stiff brocadein all its beauty and freshness. I took a vigorous drawing fit; but itwas only to fill my little book with innumerable sketches of Mrs.Moss. My uncle lent me his paint-box, as he was wont; and if the fancyportraits that I made were not satisfactory even to myself, theyfailed in spite of cheeks blushing with vermilion, in spite of eyes aslarge and brilliant as lamp-black could make them, and in spite of themost accurately curved noses that my pencil could produce. The amountof gamboge and Prussian blue that I wasted in vain efforts to producea satisfactory pea-green, leaves me at this day an astonished admirerof my uncle's patience. At this time I wished to walk along no otherroad than that which led to my dear manor, where the iron gates werebeing painted, the garden made tidy, and the shutters opened; but,above all, the chief object of my desires was to accompany mygrandmother and aunt in their first visit to Mrs. Moss.
"Once I petitioned Aunt Harriet on this subject. Her answer was--
"'My dear, there would be nothing to amuse you; Mrs. Moss is an oldwoman.'
"'Granny said she was so beautiful,' I suggested.
"'So she was, my dear, when your grandmother was young.'
"These and similar remarks I heard and heeded not. They did not addone wrinkle to my ideal of Mrs. Moss: they in no way whatever lessenedmy desire of seeing her. I had never seen my grandmother young, andher having ever been so seemed to me at the most a matter oftradition; on the other hand, Mrs. Moss had been presented to myimagination in the bloom of youth and beauty, and, say what theywould, in the bloom of youth and beauty I expected to see her still.
"One afternoon, about a week after the arrival of Mrs. Moss, I wasbusy in the garden, where I had been working for an hour or more, whenI heard carriage wheels drive up and stop at our door. Could it beMrs. Moss? I stole gently round to a position where I could seewithout being seen, and discovered that the carriage was not that ofany caller, but my uncle's. Then Granny and Aunt Harriet were goingout. I rushed up to the coachman, and asked where they were going. Heseemed in no way overpowered by having to reply--'To the manor, Miss.'
"That was to Mrs. Moss, and I was to be left behind! I stoodspeechless in bitter disappointment, as my grandmother rustled out inher best silk dress, followed by Aunt Harriet and my uncle, who, whenhe saw me, exclaimed:
"'Why, there's my little Mary! Why don't you take her? I'll be boundshe wants to go.'
"'I do, indeed!' I exclaimed, in Cinderella-like tones.
"'But Mrs. Moss is such an old lady,' said Aunt Harriet, whose ideasupon children were purely theoretical, and who could imagine nointerests for them apart from other children, from toys or definiteamusements--'What could the child do with herself?'
"'Do!' said my uncle, who took a rough and cheery view of life, 'why,look about her, to be sure. And if Mrs. M. is an old lady, there'll beall the more Indian cabinets and screens, and japanned tables, andknick-knacks, and lap-dogs. Keep your eyes open, Miss Mary. I've neverseen the good lady or her belongings, but I'll stake my best hat onthe japan ware and the lap-dog. Now, how soon can you be dressed?'
"Later in life the selfish element mixes more largely with ouradmirations. A few years thence, and in a first interview with theobject of so many fancies, I should have thought as much of my ownappearance on the occasion, as of what I was myself to see. I shouldhave taken some pains with my toilette. At that time, the desire tosee Mrs. Moss was too absorbing to admit of any purely personalconsiderations. I dashed into the nursery, scrubbed my hands and faceto a raw red complexion, brushed my hair in three strokes, and securedmy things with one sweep. I hastily pocketed a pincushion of redcloth, worked with yellow silk spots, in the likeness of a strawberry.It was a pet treasure of mine, and I intended it as an offering toMrs. Moss. I tied my hood at the top of the stairs, fastened my tippetin the hall, and reached the family coach by about three of thosebounds common to all young animals.
"'Halloa!' said my uncle, with his face through the carriage door.'You've not thanked me yet.'
"I flung my arms round his starched neck-cloth.
"'You're a darling!' I exclaimed, with an emphatic squeeze.
"'You're another,' he replied, returning the embrace upon my hood.
"With this mutual understanding we parted, and I thought that if Mrs.Moss were not certain to fulfil my ideal, I should have wished her tobe as nearly like Uncle James as the circumstances of the case wouldpermit. I watched his yellow waistcoat and waving hands till theycould be seen no longer, and then I settled myself primly upon theback seat, and ventured upon a shy conciliating promise to be 'verygood.'
"'You're quite welcome to come, child,' said Aunt Harriet; 'but as Isaid, there are neither children nor playthings for you.'
"Children or playthings! What did I want with either? I put my armthrough the loop by the window and watched the fields as they came andvanished, with vacant eyes, and thought of Mrs. Moss. A dozen timeshad I gone through the whole scene in my mind before we drove throughthe iron gates. I fancied myself in the bare, spacious hall, at whichI had peeped; I seemed to hear a light laugh, and to see the beautifulface of Mrs. Moss look over the banisters; to hear a rustle, and thescraping of the stiff brocade, as the pink rosebuds shimmered, and thegreen satin shoes peeped out, and tap, tap, tap, the high pink heelsresounded from the shallow stairs.
"I had dreamed this day-dream many times over before the carriagestopped with a shake, and Aunt Harriet roused me, asking if I wereasleep. In another minute or so we were in the hall, and here I metwith my first disappointment.
"To begin with, I had seen the hall unfur
nished, and had not imaginedit otherwise. I had pictured Mrs. Moss in her beauty and rose brocade,the sole ornament of its cold emptiness. Then (though I knew that mygrandmother and aunt must both be present) I had really fancied myselfthe chief character in this interview with Mrs. Moss. I had thought ofmyself as rushing up the stairs to meet her, and laying the pincushionat her green satin feet. And now that at last I was really in thehall, I should not have known it again. It was carpeted from end toend. Fragrant orange-trees stood in tubs, large hunting-pictures hungupon the walls, below which stood cases of stuffed birds, and over allpresided a footman in livery, who himself looked like a stuffedspecimen of the human race with unusually bright plumage.
"No face peeped over the banisters, and when we went upstairs, thefootman went first (as seemed due to him), then my grandmother,followed by my aunt, and lastly I, in the humblest insignificance,behind them. My feet sank into the soft stair-carpets, I vacantlyadmired the elegant luxury around me, with an odd sensation ofheartache. Everything was beautiful, but I had wanted nothing to bebeautiful but Mrs. Moss.
"Already the vision began to fade. That full-fed footman troubled myfancies. His scarlet plush killed the tender tints of the rosebuds inmy thoughts, and the streaky powder upon his hair seemed a mockery ofthe _toupee_ I hoped to see, whose whiteness should enhance the lustreof rare black eyes. He opened the drawing-room door and announced mygrandmother and aunt. I followed, and (so far as one may be said toface anything when one stands behind the skirts of two interveningelders) I was face to face with Mrs. Moss.
"That is, I was face to face with a tall, dark, old woman, withstooping shoulders, a hooked nose, black eyes that smouldered in theirsunken sockets, and a distinct growth of beard upon her chin. Mr. Mosshad been dead many years, and his widow had laid aside her weeds. Shewore a dress of _feuille-morte_ satin, and a black lace shawl. She hada rather elaborate cap, with a tendency to get on one side, perhapsbecause it would not fit comfortably on the brown front with bunchycurls which was fastened into its place by a band of broad blackvelvet.
"And this was Mrs. Moss! This was the end of all my fancies! There wasnothing astonishing in the disappointment; the only marvel was that Ishould have indulged in so foolish a fancy for so long. I had beentold more than once that Mrs. Moss was nearly as old as mygrandmother. As it was, she looked older. Why--I could not tell then,though I know now.
"My grandmother, though never a beauty, had a sweet smile of her own,and a certain occasional kindling of the eyes, the outward signs of acharacter full of sentiment and intelligence; and these had outlastedyouth. She had always been what is called 'pleasing,' and she waspleasing still. But in Mrs. Moss no strength, no sentiment, nointellect filled the place of the beauty that was gone. Features thatwere powerful without character, and eyes that glowed withoutexpression, formed a wreck with little to recall the loveliness thathad bewildered Mr. Sandford--and me.
"There is not much more to tell, Ida. This was the disappointment.This is the cause of my dislike for a certain shade of _feuille-morte_satin. It disappointed me of that rose brocade which I was never tosee. You shall hear how I got through the visit, however. Thismeeting, which (like so many meetings) had proved the very reverse ofwhat was hoped.
"Through an angle of Aunt Harriet's pelisse, I watched the meetingbetween my grandmother and Mrs. Moss. They kissed and then drew backand looked at each other, still holding hands. I wondered if mygrandmother felt as I felt. I could not tell. With one of her smiles,she bent forward, and, kissing Mrs. Moss again, said:
"'God bless you, Anastatia.'
"'God bless you, Elizabeth.'
"It was the first time Mrs. Moss had spoken, and her voice was rathergruff. Then both ladies sat down, and my grandmother drew out herpocket-handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Mrs. Moss began (as I thought)to look for hers, and, not finding it, called,
"'Metcalfe!'
on which a faded little woman, with a forefinger in a faded-lookingbook, came out from behind some window-curtains, and, rummaging Mrs.Moss's chair with a practised hand, produced a large silversnuff-box, from which Mrs. Moss took a pinch, and then offered it toGranny, who shook her head. Mrs. Moss took another and a larger pinch.It was evident what made her voice so gruff.
"Aunt Harriet was introduced as 'My daughter Harriet,' and made astiff curtsey as Mrs. Moss smiled, and nodded, and bade her 'sit down,my dear.' Throughout the whole interview she seemed to be looked uponby both ladies as a child, and played the part so well, sitting primand silent on her chair, that I could hardly help humming as I lookedat her:
'Hold up your head, Turn out your toes, Speak when you're spoken to, Mend your clothes.'
I was introduced, too, as 'a grandchild,' made a curtsey the shadow ofAunt Harriet's, received a nod, the shadow of that bestowed upon her,and got out of the way as soon as I could, behind my aunt's chair,where, coming unexpectedly upon three fat pug-dogs on a mat, I satdown among them and felt quite at home.
"The sight of the pugs brought Uncle James to my mind, and when Ilooked round the room, it seemed to me that he must be a conjuror atleast, so true was everything he had said. A large Indian screen hidthe door; japanned boxes stood on a little table to correspond infront of it, and there were two cabinets having shallow drawers withdecorated handles, and a great deal of glass, through which oddteacups, green dragons, Indian gods, and Dresden shepherdesses werevisible upon the shelves. The room was filled with knick-knacks, andhere were the pug-dogs, no less than three of them! They were veryfat, and had little beauty except as to their round heads and blackwrinkled snouts, which I kissed over and over again.
"'Do you mind Mrs. Moss's being old, and dressing in that hideousbrown dress?' I asked in a whisper at the ear of one of these roundheads. 'Think of the rosebuds on the brocade, and the pea-green satin,and the high-heeled shoes. Ah!' I added, 'you are only a pug, and pugsdon't think.' Nevertheless, I pulled out the pincushion, and showed itto each dog in turn, and the sight of it so forcibly reminded me of myvain hopes, that I could not help crying. A hot tear fell upon thenose of the oldest and fattest pug, which so offended him that hemoved away to another mat at some distance, and as both the othersfell fast asleep, I took refuge in my own thoughts.
"The question arose why should not Mrs. Moss have the pincushionafter all? I had expected her to be young and beautiful, and she hadproved old and ugly, it is true; but there is no reason why old andugly people should not have cushions to keep their pins in. It was astruggle to part with my dear strawberry pincushion in thecircumstances, but I had fairly resolved to do so, when the rustle ofleave-taking began, and I had to come out of my corner.
"'Bid Mrs. Moss good-day, Mary,' said my grandmother; and added, 'thechild has been wild to come and see you, Anastatia.'
"Mrs. Moss held out her hand good-naturedly. 'So you wanted to see me,my dear?' said she.
"I took my hand out of my pocket, where I had been holding thepincushion, and put both into Mrs. Moss's palm.
"'I brought this for you ma'am,' I said. 'It is not a real strawberry;it is emery; I made it myself.'
"And the fact of having sacrificed something for Mrs. Moss made mealmost fond of her. Moreover, there was an expression in her eyes atthat moment which gave them beauty. She looked at my grandmother andlaid her hand on my head.
"'I lost all mine, Elizabeth.'
"I thought she was speaking of her pincushions, and being in agenerous mood, said hastily,
"When that is worn out, ma'am, I will make you another.'
"But she was speaking of her children. Poor Mrs. Moss! She tookanother huge pinch of snuff, and called, 'Metcalfe.'
"The faded little woman appeared once more.
"'I must give you a keepsake in return, my dear,' said Mrs. Moss. 'Thechina pug, Metcalfe!'
"Metcalfe (whose face always wore a smile that looked as if it werejust about to disappear, and who, indeed, for that matter, alwayslooked as if she were just about to disappear herself) opened one ofthe cabinets, and
brought out a little toy pug in china, verydelicately coloured, and looking just like one of my friends on themat. I fell in love with it at once, and it was certainly a handsomeexchange for the strawberry pincushion.
"'You will send the child to see me now and then, Elizabeth?' saidMrs. Moss as we retired.
"In the end Mrs. Moss and I became great friends. I put aside my dreamamong the 'vain fancies' of life, and took very kindly to the manor inits new aspect. Even the stuffed footman became familiar, and learntto welcome me with a smile. The real Mrs. Moss was a more agreeableperson than I have, I fear, represented her. She had failed to graspsolid happiness in life, because she had chosen with the cowardice ofan inferior mind; but she had borne disappointment with dignity, andsubmitted to heavy sorrows with patience; and a greater nature couldnot have done more. She was the soul of good humour, and the love ofsmall chat, which contrasted so oddly with her fierce appearance, wasa fund of entertainment for me, as I fed my imagination and stored mymemory with anecdotes of the good old times in the many quiet eveningswe spent together. I learnt to love her more heartily, I confess, whenshe bought a new gown and gave the _feuille-morte_ satin to Mrs.Metcalfe.
"Mrs. Metcalfe was 'humble companion' to Mrs. Moss. She was in realitysingle, but she exacted the married title as a point of respect. Atthe beginning of our acquaintance I called her 'Miss Metcalfe,' andthis occasioned the only check our friendship ever received. Now Iwould, with the greatest pleasure, have addressed her as 'My LordArchbishop,' or in any other style to which she was not entitled, itbeing a matter of profound indifference to me. But the question was aserious one to her, and very serious she made it, till I almostdespaired of our ever coming to an understanding on the subject.
"On every other point she was unassuming almost to non-entity. She wasweak-minded to the verge of mental palsy. She was more benevolent indeed, and more wandering in conversation, than any one I have met withsince. That is, in ordinary life. In the greenhouse or garden (withwhich she and the head-gardener alone had any real acquaintance) heraccurate and profound knowledge would put to shame many professedgarden botanists I have met with since. From her I learnt what littleI know of the science of horticulture, and with her I spent many happyhours over the fine botanical works in the manor library, which shealone ever opened.
"And so I became reconciled to things as they were, though to this dayI connect with that shade of _feuille-morte_ satin a disappointmentnot to be forgotten."
* * * * *
"It is a dull story, is it not, Ida?" said the little old lady,pausing here. She had not told it in precisely these words, but thiswas the sum and substance of it.
Ida nodded. Not that she had thought the story dull, so far as she hadheard it, and whilst she was awake; but she had fallen asleep, and soshe nodded.
Mrs. Overtheway looked back at the fire, to which, indeed, she hadbeen talking for some time past.
"A child's story?" she thought. "A tale of the blind, wilful folly ofchildhood? Ah, my soul! Alas, my grown-up friends! Does the moralbelong to childhood alone? Have manhood and womanhood no passionate,foolish longings, for which we blind ourselves to obvious truth, andof which the vanity does not lessen the disappointment? Do we notstill toil after rosebuds, to find _feuilles-mortes_?"
No voice answered Mrs. Overtheway's fanciful questions. The hyacinthnodded fragrantly on its stalk, and Ida nodded in her chair. She wasfast asleep--happily asleep--with a smile upon her face.
The shadows nodded gently on the walls, and like a shadow the littleold lady stole quietly away.
When Ida awoke, she found herself lying partly in the arm-chair, andpartly in the arms of Nurse, who was lifting her up. A candle flaredupon the table, by the fire stood an empty chair, and the heavy scentthat filled the room was as sweet as the remembrance of pasthappiness. The little old lady had vanished, and, but for thehyacinth, Ida would almost have doubted whether her visit had not beena dream.
"Has Mrs. Overtheway been long gone, Nursey?" she asked, keeping hereyes upon the flowerpot.
"Ever so long!" said Nurse, "and here you've been snoring away, andthe old lady's been downstairs, telling me how comfortably you wereasleep, and she's coming again to-morrow evening, if you're good."
It was precisely twelve minutes since Mrs. Overtheway left the house,but Nurse was of a slightly exaggerative turn of mind, and few peoplespeak exactly on the subject of time, especially when there is anopportunity of triumphing over someone who has been asleep beforebed-time. The condition of Ida's being good was also the work ofNurse's own instructive fancy, but Ida caught eagerly at the welcomenews of another visit.
"Then she is not angry with me for falling asleep, Nursey? I was socomfortable, and she has such a nice voice, I couldn't help it; Ithink I left off about the pugs. I wish I had a pug with a wrinkledblack snout, don't you, Nursey?"
"I'm sure I don't, Miss Ida. My father kept all sorts of pigs, and weused to have one with a black snout and black spots, but it was asugly as ugly could be; and I never could fancy the bacon would be fitto eat. You must have been dreaming, I'm sure; the old lady wouldnever tell you about such rubbish, I know."
"It's pugs, not pigs, Nursey; and they're dogs, you know," said Ida,laughing. "How funny you are! And indeed she did tell me, I couldn'thave dreamt it; I never dreamt anything so nice in my life."
"And never will, most likely," said Nurse, who was very skilful inconcluding a subject which she did not want to discuss, and who wasapt to do so by a rapid twist in the line of argument, which Ida wouldfind somewhat bewildering. "But, dear Miss Ida," she continued, "doleave off clutching at that chair-arm, when I'm lifting you up; andyour eyes 'll drop out of your head, if you go on staring like that."
Ida relaxed the nervous grasp, to which she had been impelled by herenergy on the subject of the pugs, let down her eyebrows, andsubmitted to be undressed. The least pleasant part of this ceremonymay be comprised in the word curl-papers. Ida's hair was dark, andsoft, and smooth, but other little girls wore ringlets, and so thislittle girl must wear ringlets too. To that end her hair was everynight put into curl-papers, with much tight twisting and sharpjerking, and Ida slept upon an irregular layer of small paper parcels,which made pillows a mockery. With all this, however, a damp day, or agood romp, would sometimes undo the night's work, to the great disgustof Nurse. In her last place, the young lady's hair had curled with adamp brush, as Ida well knew, and Nurse made so much of her owngrievance, in having to use the curl-papers, that no place was leftfor Ida's grievance in having to sleep upon them. She submitted thisnight therefore, as other nights, in patience, and sat swinging herfeet and accommodating her head to the sharp tugs, which always seemedto come from unexpected quarters. Perhaps, however, her mind may havebeen running a little upon grievances, which made her say:
"You know, Nursey, how you are always telling me I ought to bethankful for having things, and not having things, and--"
"I wish you'd talk sense, and not give way with your head so when Ipull, Miss Ida," retorted Nurse, "having things, and not havingthings; I don't know what you mean."
"Well, you know, Nursey, the other day when I said I didn't likebread-and-treacle treacled so long before, and soaked in, and you saidI ought to be thankful that I had bread-and-treacle at all, and that Ihadn't a wooden leg, and to eat anything I could get, like the oldsailor man at the corner; well, do you know, I've thought of somethingI _am_ so thankful for, and that is that I haven't a red screen to mybed."
"I really do think, Miss Ida," said Nurse, "that you'll go out of yourmind some day, with your outlandish fancies. And where you get them, Ican't think. I'm sure _I_ never put such things into your head."
Ida laughed again.
"Never mind, Nursey, it all belongs to the pug story. Am I done now?And when you've tucked me up, please, would you mind remembering toput the flower where I can see it when I wake?"
Nurse did as she was asked, and Ida watched the hyacinth till she fellasleep; and she
slept well.
In the morning she took her old post at the window. The little oldlady had never seemed so long in making her appearance, nor the bellsso slow to begin. Chim! chime! chim! chime! There they were at last,and there was Mrs. Overtheway. She looked up, waved a bunch ofsnowdrops, and went after the bells. Ida kissed her hand, and waved itover and over again, long after the little old lady was out of sight.
"There's a kiss for you, dear Mrs. Overtheway," she cried, "and kissesfor your flowers, and your house, and everything belonging to you, andfor the bells and the church, and everybody in it this morning, and--"
But, at this point of universal benevolence, Nurse carried her off tobreakfast.
The little old lady came to tea as before. She looked as well as ever,and Nurse was equally generous in the matter of tea and toast. Mrs.Overtheway told over again what Ida had missed in the story of Mrs.Moss, and Ida apologized, with earnest distress, for her uncivilconduct in falling asleep.
"There I was snoring away, when you were telling me such a delightfulstory!" she exclaimed, penitently.
"Not snoring exactly, my dear," smiled the little old lady, "but youlooked very happy."
"I thought Nursey said so," said Ida. "Well, I'm very glad. It wouldhave been too rude. And you know I don't know how it was, for I _am_so fond of stories; I like nothing so well."
"Well, shall I try again?" said Mrs. Overtheway. "Perhaps I may find amore amusing one, and if it does put you to sleep, it won't do anyharm. Indeed, I think the doctor will say I'm very good company foryou."
"You are very good! That _I_ can tell him," said Ida, fervently, "andplease let it be about yourself again, if you can remember anything. Ilike true stories."
"Talking of snoring," said Mrs. Overtheway, "reminds me of somethingthat happened in my youth, and it is true, though, do you know, it isa ghost story."
Ida danced in her chair.
"That is just what I should like!" she exclaimed. "Nurse has a ghoststory, belonging to a farm-house, which she tells the housemaid, butshe says she can't tell me till I am older, and I should so like tohear a ghost story, if it isn't too horrid."
"This ghost story isn't too horrid, I think," laughed the little oldlady, "and if you will let me think a few minutes, and then forgive myprosy way of telling it, you shall have it at once."
There was a pause. The little old lady sat silent, and so sat Idaalso, with her eyes intently fixed on Mrs. Overtheway's face, overwhich an occasional smile was passing.
"It's about a ghost who snored," said the little old lady, doubtfully.
"Delicious!" responded Ida. The two friends settled themselvescomfortably, and in some such words as these was told the followingstory:--
Mrs. Overtheway's Remembrances Page 2