XIV
MISS SIBSON'S MISTAKE
It was perhaps fortunate for Miss Hilhouse that she did not hazard anyremarks on that second escapade in the Square. Whether this amendmentin her manners was due to Miss Sibson's apothegms, or to the generaldesire of the school to see the new teacher's new pelisse--which couldonly be gratified by favour--or to a threatening rigidity in MarySmith's bearing must remain a question. But children are keenobservers. Their senses are as sharp as their tongues are cruel. Andit is certain that Miss Smith had not read four lines of the fifthchapter of The Fairchild Family before a certain sternness in her tonewas noted by those who had not already marked the danger signal in hereyes. For the gentlest eyes can dart lightnings on occasion. The sheepwill turn in defence of its lamb. Nor ever walked woman who could notfight for her secret and her pride.
So Miss Hilhouse bit her tongue and kept silence, the girls behavedbeautifully, and Mary read The Fairchild Family to them in a tone ofmonotony that perfectly reflected the future as she saw it. She hadbeen very foolish, and very weak, but she was not without excuse. Hehad saved her life, she could plead that. True, brought up as she hadbeen at Clapham, shielded from all dealings with the other sex, taughtto regard them as wolves, or at best as a race with which she couldhave no safe parley, she should have known better. She should haveknown that handsome, courteous, masterful-eyed, as they were--and witha way with them that made poor girls' hearts throb at one moment andstand still at another--she should have known that they meant nothing.That they were still men, and that she must not trust them, must notthink of them, must not expect to find them more steadfast to a pointthan the weather-cock on St. Mary's at Redcliffe.
The weather-cock? Ah!
She had no sooner framed the thought in the middle of the reading thanshe was aware of a sensation; and a child, one of the youngest, raisedher hand. "Please--"
Mary paused.
"Yes?" she asked. "What is it?"
"Please, Miss Smith, did the weather-cock speak?"
Mary reddened violently.
"Speak? The weather-cock? What do you mean, child?"
"Please, Miss Smith, you said that the weather-cock told Lucy thetruth, the truth, and all the truth."
"Impossible!" Mary stammered. "I--I should have said, the coachman."And Mary resumed the story, but with a hot face; a face that blushedmore painfully and more intolerably because she was conscious thatevery eye was upon it, and that a score of small minds were gropingfor the cause of her confusion.
She remembered, oh, how well she remembered, that the schoolmistressat Clapham had told her that she had every good quality exceptstrength of will. And how thoroughly, how rapidly had she proved thetruth of the exception! Freed from control for only twenty-four hours,left for that time to her own devices, she had listened to the firstvoice that addressed her, believed the first flattering look that fellon her, taken the most ordinary attentions--attentions at which anygirl with knowledge of the world or strength of will would havesmiled--for gold, real red gold! So that a light look without a spokenword had drawn her heart from her. How it behoved her to despiseherself, loathe herself, discipline herself! How she ought to guardherself in the future! Above all, how thankful should she be for thedull but safe routine that fenced, and henceforth would fence, herlife from such dangers!
True. Yet how dreary to her young eyes seemed that routine stretchedbefore her! How her courage fainted at the prospect of morning addedto morning, formal walk to formal walk, lesson to lesson, onegeneration of pupils to another! For generation would followgeneration, one chubby face would give place to another, and still shewould be there, plodding through the stale task, listening with anaching head to the strumming on the harpsichord, saying the samethings, finding the same faults, growing slowly into a correcting,scolding, punishing machine. By and by she would know The FairchildFamily by heart, and she would sicken at the "Letters on theImprovement of the Mind." The children would still be young, but greyhairs would come to her, she would grow stout and dull; and thoseslender hands, those dainty fingers still white and fine, still meetfor love, would be seared by a million needle-pricks and roughened bythe wear and tear of ten thousand hours of plain sewing.
She was ungrateful, oh, she was ungrateful to think such thoughts! Forin what was her lot worse than the lot of others? Or worse than it hadbeen a week before when, who more humble-minded or contented, morecheerful or helpful than Mary Smith? When her only fault had been aweakness of character which her old schoolmistress hoped would becured by time? When, though the shadow of an unknown Miss Sibsonloomed formidable before her, she had faced her fate bravely andhopefully, supported not a little by the love and good wishes--won bya thousand kind offices--which went with her into the unknown world.
What had happened in the meantime? A little thing, oh, a very littlething. But to think of it under the childrens' eyes made her face burnagain. She had lost her heart--to a man. To a man! The very wordseemed improper in that company. How much more improper when the mancared nothing for her, but tossing her a smile for guerdon, had takenher peace of mind and gone his way, with a laugh. At the best, if hehad ever dreamt seriously of her, ever done more than deem her aninnocent, easily flattered and as lightly to be won, he had changedhis mind as quickly as a weather-cock shifts in April. And he hadtalked--that hurt her, that hurt her most! He had talked of herfreely, boasted of her silliness, told his companions what he woulddo, or what he would not do; made her common to them!
She got away for a few minutes at tea-time. But twenty pairs of eyesfollowed her from the room and seized on her as she returned. And"Miss Smith, ain't you well?" piped a tiny treble.
She was controlling her voice to answer--that she was quite well, whenMiss Sibson intervened. "Miss Fripp," she said sombrely, "write 'Areyou not,' twenty times on your slate after tea! Miss Hilhouse, if youstare in that fashion you will be goggle-eyed. Young ladies, elbows,elbows! Have I not told you a score of times that the art ofdeportment consists in the right use of the elbow? Now, Miss Claxton,in what does the art of deportment consist?"
"In the right use of the elbow, Ma'am."
"And what is the right use of the elbow?"
"To efface it, Ma'am."
"That is better," Miss Sibson replied, somewhat mollified. "Understoodis half done. Miss Smith," looking about her with benevolence, "hadyou occasion to commend any young lady's needle this afternoon?"
Miss Smith looked unhappy: conscious that she had not been asattentive to her duties as became her. "I had no occasion to findfault, Ma'am," she said timidly.
"Very good. Then every fourth young lady beginning at my right handmay take a piece of currant cake. I see that Miss Burges is wearingthe silver medal for good conduct. She may take a piece, and give apiece to a friend. When you have eaten your cake you may go to theschoolroom and play for half an hour at Blind Man's Buff. But--elbows!Elbows, young ladies," gazing austerely at them over her glasses. "Inall your frolics let deportment be your first consideration."
The girls trooped out and Mary Smith rose to go with them. But MissSibson bade her remain. "I wish to speak to you," she said.
Poor Mary trembled. For Miss Sibson was still in some measure anunknown quantity, a perplexing mixture of severity and benevolence,sound sense and Mrs. Chapone.
"I wish to speak to you," Miss Sibson continued when they were alone.And then after a pause during which she poured herself out a third cupof tea, "My dear," she said soberly, "the sooner a false step isretraced the better. I took a false step yesterday--I blame myself forit--when I allowed you--in spite of my rule to the contrary--to see agentleman. I made that exception partly out of respect to the notewhich the parcel contained; the affair was strange and out of theordinary. And partly because I liked the gentleman's face. I thoughthim a gentleman; he told me that he had an independence: I had noreason to think him more than that. But I have heard to-day, mydear--I thought it right to make some enquiry i
n view of thepossibility of a second visit--that he is a gentleman of largeexpectations, who will one day be very rich and a man of standing inthe country. That alters the position," Miss Sibson continued gravely."Had I known it"--she rubbed her nose thoughtfully with the handle ofher teaspoon--"I should not have permitted the interview." And thenafter a few seconds of silence, "You understand me, I think, my dear?"she asked.
"Yes," Mary said in a low voice. She spoke with perfect composure.
"Just so, just so," Miss Sibson answered, pleased to see that the girlwas too proud to give way before her--though she was sure that shewould cry by and by. "I am glad to think that there is no harm done.As I have said, the sooner a false step is retraced, the better; andtherefore if he calls again I shall not permit him to see you."
"I do not wish to see him," Mary said with dignity.
"Very good. Then that is understood."
But strangely enough, the words had barely fallen from Miss Sibson'slips when there came a knock at the house door, and the same thoughtleapt to the mind of each; and to Mary's cheek a sudden vivid blushthat, fading as quickly as it came, left her paler than before. MissSibson saw the girl's distress, and she was about to suggest, inwords equivalent to a command, that she should retire, when the dooropened and the neat maidservant announced--with poorly maskedexcitement--that a gentleman wished to see Miss Smith.
Miss Sibson frowned.
"Where is he?" she asked, with majesty; as if she already scented thefray.
"In the parlour, Ma'am."
"Very good. Very good. I will see him." But not until the maid hadretired did the schoolmistress rise to her feet. "You had better stayhere," she said, looking at her companion, "until my return. It is ofcourse your wish that I should dismiss him?"
Mary shivered. Those dreams of something brighter, something higher,something fuller than the daily round; of a life in the sunshine, ofeyes that looked into hers--this was their end! But she said "Yes,"bravely.
"Good girl," said Miss Sibson, feeling, good, honest creature, morethan she showed. "I will do so." And she swam forth.
Poor Mary! The door was barely shut before her heart whispered thatshe had only to cross the hall and she would see him; that, on theother hand, if she did not cross the hall, she would never, never,never see him again! She would stay here for all time, bound hand andfoot to the unchanging round of petty duties, a blind slave in themill, no longer a woman--though her woman's heart hungered forlove--but a dull, formal, old maid, growing more stiff and angularwith every year! No farther away than the other side of the hall werelove and freedom. And she dared not, she dared not open the door!
And then she bethought her, that he was no weathercock, for he hadcome again! He had come! And it must be for something. For what?
She heard the door open on the parlour side of the hall, and she knewthat he was going. And she stood listening, waiting with blanchedcheeks.
The door opened and Miss Sibson came in, met her look--and started.
"Oh!" the schoolmistress exclaimed; and for a moment she stood,looking strangely at the girl, as if she did not know what to say toher. Then, "We were mistaken," she said, with a serious face. "It isnot the gentleman you were expecting, my dear. On the contrary, it's astranger who wishes to see you on business."
Mary tried to gain command of herself. "I had rather not," she saidfaintly. "I don't think I can."
"I fear--you must," Miss Sibson rejoined, with unusual gravity."Still, there is no hurry. He can wait a few minutes. He can awaityour leisure. Do you sit down and compose yourself. You have no reasonto be disturbed. The gentleman"--she continued, with an odd inflectionin her voice--"is old enough to be your father."