Naturalists tell us that all animals have some distinct peculiarity which marks their species. The recondite philosophy contained in the well-known fable of the cat metamorphosed into a woman is a fine illustration of this; and the manner in which my learned book-worm of a heroine, whose mode of life was more like that of the musty fellow of a college than of a notable female — the manner in which she passed the hours of this eventful morning was another.
The care which she bestowed upon superintending the arrangement of the delicate toilet-cover, and the pretty pin-cushion, the introduction of a little set of book-shelves, which, if not absolutely filled with “ladylike rhyme,” was decidedly feminine in its arrangement, the careful lining of every drawer with spotless paper, and finally the placing a dainty nosegay on the little table in the middle of the room, all clearly betrayed the fact that Mrs. Mathews, with all her learning, was still a woman.
Early on the following morning the faithful Sally Spicer was ready with her coffee, and ready, too, with her bonnet and shawl after it, to escort her mistress to the railroad station, her attendance being greatly preferred to any other for many reasons, and among others for the opportunity it afforded for a few last hints respecting a variety of minor comforts for the expected guest which suggested themselves en route.
But even when all these cares were left behind her, my heroine was very far from recovering her accustomed composure of spirits. Not only was she a woman still, and a mere woman, but as far as feeling was concerned, she was more like a young woman than an old one. For, as she thought of the approaching interview with John Anderson’s daughter, her temples throbbed, and her heart beat, till at length she became aware of her own condition, and then, to do her justice, she was very heartily ashamed of herself.
Whenever this feeling comes upon well-disposed people, they generally endeavour to become reconciled to themselves by behaving better; and this was the case with Mrs. Mathews; so that by the time she reached No. 5, John-street, London Docks, she had not only the appearance of being very sedately tranquil, but in real truth found herself sufficiently reasonable to anticipate looking for the likeness of the father in the child, without betraying any emotion that might compromise her reputation for wisdom.
On reaching the house that had been indicated to her, she found it, as she expected, of the very humblest description of decent lodging-houses; but such as it was, it was only to its tiny back parlour that she was admitted, and in that tiny back parlour, seated upon a tiny sofa bed, she found a young girl, who sprang up the moment she entered, with an eagerness of movement, which plainly showed that she had been impatiently waiting for her visitor.
But having done this, and made one step which almost brought her to the door, the poor girl suddenly stopped, and covering her face with her hands, burst into tears.
Had Mr. Mathews witnessed this, and compared it to the manner in which his beloved grandson had first greeted him, he would probably have accounted for the difference by remembering that poor dear Mrs. Mathews was very plain. He would have been mistaken, however, as he sometimes was in his interpretations of the thoughts and feelings of those about him. The plainness of Mrs. Mathews had nothing to do with the emotion of Janet Anderson.
For one moment the startled visitor paused, but advanced in the next to where the weeping girl stood motionless, and gently with both hands withdrawing both the hands of Janet from her face, affectionately kissed her.
The caress was instantly, and cordially returned, and then they each of them drew back sufficiently to let their eyes meet, and then they both smiled. But it was Janet who spoke first.
“What a letter you wrote to me!” said she, The words were very simple words, and were spoken so abruptly, and so rapidly, as not, by themselves, to convey any very precise meaning, but her dark blue eyes spoke a commentary that expressed a good deal.
“It was not a very long one, my dear,” said Mrs. Mathews, looking earnestly at her, but with a smile that, notwithstanding her plainness, it was exceedingly agreeable to Janet to contemplate.
“It was long enough, Mrs. Mathews, to conjure out of me more sad, melancholy, and despairing thoughts than you ever felt in all your life, I think. Few people, very few people, I hope are so completely miserable, and so completely helpless, as I was when I wrote to you.”
“Did your father never tell you, Janet, that you would be sure to find a friend in me?” said Mrs. Mathews.
“Yes, he did tell me so; he very often told me so, and nothing seemed to give him so much comfort, and pleasure, as saying it. But my father, Mrs. Mathews, had no knowledge, no thought, no suspicion of what was going to happen to me. If he had, I hardly think he would have written to you, or spoken to me about you at all. It was a very different thing asking you to take a little friendly notice of a young lady of fortune, who was the orphan child of an old friend, and throwing upon you, as I have dared to do, a perfectly destitute girl, whose only chance of being saved from starving rested on the possibility of your being rash enough to recommend her as a servant.”
“Well, Janet! You see I have a conscience. I am not rash enough to recommend you as a servant. And if I had any doubts before I saw you, I have none now; for I really do not think you would answer in that capacity at all.”
“But were you not rash in writing me such a letter as you did? Are you aware, Mrs. Mathews, that I have not had a single miserable, really miserable moment since I received it.”
“No, Janet, I cannot accuse myself of rashness on that account, because the effect you speak of was exactly what I intended to produce,” replied Mrs. Mathews. “The child of your father, Janet Anderson, has no right to be miserable, when within reach of one whom he honoured by calling his friend.” The light tone of the dialogue was spoiled by these words, for the violet tinted eyes of Miss Janet, began again to distil some pearly drops.
“What does one do, my dear,” said Mrs. Mathews, “when one wants to make the servant of the house hear one? I don’t see any bell.”
“No, Mrs. Mathews, my apartment has no bell,” replied Janet, cheering her own tears by a merry smile. “One opens the door, and screams.”
When Mrs. Mathews first fixed her eyes upon the bright and beautiful face of the young Janet, her judgment acknowledged her beauty, but her heart felt disappointed, for Janet was not, at first sight, like her father, but as she now answered her, there was a slight Scotch accent in her pronunciation which produced a strangely strong effect on Mrs. Mathews, considering her age and wisdom. In the smile, too, which was rather peculiar from its arch expression, she fancied, or she found a resemblance which very nearly conquered all her efforts to behave exactly as she ought to do, for she longed to throw her arms round the young girl’s neck and press her to her heart.
But notwithstanding all this folly, Mrs. Mathews was really not a silly woman, and the better part of her judgment so far prevailed, as to enable her to return Janet’s smile without embracing her, and then to say, “In that case, my dear, I must trouble you to open the door and scream.”
“I will obey instantly,” replied Janet, “but should the scream prove successful, and the mistress of the house or her little daughter appear to answer it, what must I do next? Or is there anything that I can do for you myself in case I should scream in vain?”
“In the first place tell me, Janet, if you are quite ready to set off with me? Are all your packings finished?”
“All,” replied Janet. “There was something in your letter, Mrs. Mathews, that left me in no doubt, almost incredible as its contents appeared, that it was neither a dream nor a fable, and accordingly the box you see there, and the larger one that stands outside the door, were both of them packed, locked, and corded, before. I broke my fast this morning.”
“Did you make a good breakfast, Janet?” said Mrs. Mathews.
Janet for some reason or other coloured slightly as she replied, “Oh yes, very well. But I was not very hungry. Perhaps I have not recovered my voyage yet. I was never
hungry while I was on board.”
For one short moment there was a look of tenderness in the eyes of Mrs. Mathews which it is highly probable they never expressed before. The fact is, that Janet, with all her prettiness, and even despite her merry smile, did not look well; her colour varied too readily, and, when it faded, the fair face not only looked pale, but languid.
Her new friend, however, did not deem it wise to make any observation upon her looks, but returning to the subject of her own wants and wishes, declared that while waiting for the hour at which they were to join the Weldon train, she thought by far the best way in which they could occupy themselves would be by eating luncheon.
“Alas! dear lady,” replied Janet, “I greatly fear that you have landed on a very inhospitable coast, and that you will obtain nothing here that will serve the purpose of a luncheon for you.”
“Few people who have lived for so many years as I have done, at so short a distance from the great Babylon, know so little about it as I do,” returned Mrs. Mathews, “but nevertheless I suspect that I know a great deal more about it than you do, my dear. So please to open the door, and set about the screaming forthwith.”
Janet obeyed her promptly and literally, and the result of this was the appearance of an exceedingly dirty female, who issued with a duster in her hand from the front parlour, pronouncing in no very civil tone the words, “What d’ye want?”
Janet looked round for further orders, but Mrs. Mathews seemed to think that she should manage matters best without her intervention, and she therefore extended one hand, with which she gently drew her back within the shelter of her own premises, while with the other she took her purse from her pocket.
The effect that may be produced by the appearance of a purse is too hackneyed a theme to dwell upon; it will suffice to observe that Miss Janet Anderson’s landlady, having first wiped her own hands upon her own dirty duster, made as respectful a courtesy as she knew how to perform, and looking very fixedly in Mrs. Mathews’ face, pronounced the words, “Pray, ma’am, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Why, I should think you might easily do all I want, my good woman, and I shall be happy to pay you for your trouble. In the first place, or rather the last in time, but the first in importance, I shall want a hackney-coach to be at this door in perfect good time, and without any hurrying, to convey this young lady, and her luggage, and myself into the bargain, to the Euston-square station, for the four-o’clock train. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the dirty mistress of the mansion.
“And now tell me,” resumed Mrs. Mathews, “if you have anything like a really good pastry-cook near you?”
“Why, as to very near, I can’t say we have,” replied the woman; “but if you don’t mind paying for the trouble of sending a good bit off, my lady, I know of a capital good one who would send you everything you would be pleased to order, and that of the very best.”
“And can you promise to let us have some really good fresh water?” demanded Mrs. Mathews, rather anxiously.
“Water!” repeated the woman in an accent which seemed to indicate some little diminution of zeal; “yes, ma’am, you can have water if you want it.”
“Very well, then. Send immediately to this excellent, distant pastry-cook, and order half-a-dozen patties, and half-a-dozen buns, and let them be brought here immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am, I can send, certainly, if it is your pleasure,” returned the woman, with an aspect of very meek humility; “only such a shop as that, ma’am, is not over-fond of sending out things on credit to such a poor place as this, ma’am.”
Mrs Mathews understood the hint, and drawing forth a splendid crown-piece from the purse she still held in her hand, she deposited it on the ready palm of the landlady, who instantly disappeared into her front parlour, her departure upon her errand being speedily announced by the loud slamming of the street-door.
Notwithstanding the boasted distance, the luncheon appeared with great celerity, and long before the two ladies expected it; for they were both very busily engaged, the elder one in earnestly watching the face of her companion as she talked to her, for the sake of tracing looks that might recall times past; and the younger one no less sedulously employed in a like task, for the purpose of studying the expression of one whose character and temper were likely to be so vitally important to her for the future.
It was evident that neither lady had discovered anything particularly discouraging or disagreeable, for the luncheon, when it arrived, was very gaily eaten, and it was so evident that the more they talked the more they had to say, that had not the punctual arrival of the carriage depended upon the landlady instead of upon her guests, it is highly probable that not even the fate-like certainty of railroad travelling would have sufficed to make them “break off” in proper time.
CHAPTER XIX.
NEVER, perhaps, did an acquaintance, commenced between two persons of ages and positions so different, gallop on more rapidly towards intimacy and friendship than did that between Mrs. Mathews and Janet Anderson.
Each had felt before they met that the approaching interview was an important one, and each felt when it was over, that it more than fulfilled their most sanguine hopes.
But here the parallel between them ended. Mrs. Mathews felt, as she approached her home, not only that it was her home, but that she ruled there with no disputed sway, and that she was conveying thither the young creature she so ardently desired to cherish, with the comfortable certainty that she could be to her all that she wished to be.
But, alas! far different were the feelings of poor Janet. Instead of the delightful consciousness that she had as much the power, as the will of producing a great and most favourable influence on the destiny of this new found friend, she felt more strongly every moment, as she approached the unknown spot, which she was generously permitted for the present to call her home, that the family she was about to find there might be utterly destitute of all the qualities which had so rapidly won her young heart to love Mrs. Mathews.
Not only might she dislike them, but, which was infinitely more probable, she thought they might dislike her. They might dislike her intrusion among them; they might be jealous of the affection which dear Mrs. Mathews already seemed disposed to feel for her. In short, the nearer she drew to the end of her rapid journey the more she dreaded arriving at its conclusion.
Of all this Mrs. Mathews had not the slightest suspicion, and accordingly there was nothing in any word she uttered which in any way tended to alleviate her young companion’s terrors; which she certainly might have done very easily had she had any notion of their existence.
Instead of this, the sort of carte du pays which she attempted to give her, had a very contrary effect.
“You must not expect to find us very agreeable, my dear; for you may chance to be sadly disappointed if you do,” said Mrs. Mathews, as they rushed along the last few miles which preceded their arrival at the Weldon station; and as they then happened to be alone in the carriage, she even ventured upon the following alarming particulars:
“My poor dear father is getting very old,” she said, “and you must not be vexed or surprised, my dear child, if he does not, at first, seem to make out who you are. He was very fond of your father, but all that, you know, was a great many years ago, and his memory now very often fails him.”
Even this was no very agreeable news; for poor Janet felt, by anticipation, how very awkward and disagreeable it would be to endure the poor old gentleman’s examination, which would probably end at last by her being told that he could not at all make out who she was, nor why she was there.
“And as to my husband, Janet,” resumed Mrs. Mathews, “I must beg you to take my word for it that he is, upon the whole, a very worthy good sort of man. But your father’s daughter, my poor child, may be rather likely, I am afraid, to find him dull. In fact, it will be better, perhaps, to tell you the truth at once, and confess that he does not possess, poor good man
, any very brilliant conversational powers. Moreover, if he did, my little Janet, I am rather inclined to suspect that you, my dear, would not be likely to profit very greatly thereby.”
It certainly was not very extraordinary that the young stranger should construe this last clause into a confession that the husband of Mrs. Mathews was not inclined to welcome her intrusion so kindly as that lady herself her done, and certainly the words sank deeply and heavily into her heart. Neither did she feel herself much cheered when her protectress gaily added: “But as to the other member of our domestic circle, I will not pretend to enlighten you, for I am in a state of the most profound darkness on the subject myself. This other member is, I presume, very nearly as young as yourself, my dear. But if I am not very greatly mistaken, he is greatly less backward than I suspect you to be in — how shall I express it? — in general information. He is the grandson of Mr. Mathews, and is just arrived from the West Indies, (where I believe he was born,) to pay us a visit at Weldon Grange. Very kind of him, my dear, isn’t it?”
“And I am kindly come from the East Indies to pay them a visit?” thought poor Janet, while a feeling very like choking rendered it quite impossible for her to attempt making any answer to this lively sally.
“And this clever youth,” resumed Mrs. Mathews, “is quite as handsome as he is bright-witted, and if anything could convert poor dear Mr. Mathews into a lively personage, I really think it would be the arrival of this youngster, upon whom he appears inclined to bestow all the fondest affection of father and grandfather united in one! But here we are, Janet! That is the Weldon station, and there is John the gardener, with his wheelbarrow to convey your boxes. You look pale, dear child; you are tired, Janet! I shan’t let you appear to night, little one. You will soon find out what a tyrant I am; but when you get used to it, perhaps you won’t mind it.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 392