Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Seed Time/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
"There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail, nor no railing in a discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove."
We may not be a very uncommon family, I do not say we are; and we may be a very handsome family (with one or two exceptions), I do not say we are not; but I defy our worst enemy to accuse us of being a sociable family. We care for nobody, no, not we, and nobody cares for us! If we ever had any friends, which I strongly doubt, they have betaken themselves to foreign parts, or melted like snow, or died of a "waste" or—something; and as we have no relations—uncles, aunts, or cousins—we never see a soul. The truth is, papa quarrels with every man and woman he knows, on principle, and has come to the very end of his acquaintance, being (I think) heartily sorry that there is no one left that he can get a chance of being rude to.
Once a year or so, some determinately peaceful neighbour, who is fond of mother, and wishes to know how she fares, drives through our hospitable gates, and in fear and trembling pulls the creaking body of our front-door bell, rusty with disuse as was ever that one belonging to poor, down-trodden, cowardly Mariana, who, in my opinion, was never worthy of the honour of being sung in verse. The sound of that bell when it does ring strikes as much consternation to our souls as the last trump might; from far and near we gather to see the fun—doors open, heads are popped round corners, the footman rushes hither and thither, seeking to ascertain the whereabouts of "master," lest, unhappily, he usher the daring intruder into that awful presence, and thereby secure his own instant dismissal. In the distance is seen papa furiously dashing his hat upon his head, and rushing out of the house by some back door, while the air is pleasingly filled with his shouts of welcome. (It is needless to say that he hates callers even worse than his friends, and with an intensity that you will find nowhere, save in the breast of a well-born, well-educated English gentleman, whose house and family are all that could be wished, and who has nothing in the world to be ashamed of.) Meanwhile, the cause of the commotion cools her heels upon the door-step, and is at last admitted, much as though she were something dangerous, or had come from a fever hospital, or was suspected of having intentions on the spoons.
Once in every three months the Skipworths are invited to dinner, and there our entertainments end, for no other strangers eat of our salt from January to December. How is it papa has not succeeded in quarrelling with the reverend gentleman, I cannot imagine, for goodness knows he has tried hard enough. Mr. Skipworth, however, is one of those dear affectionate souls who find it absolutely impossible to quarrel with any one who has it in his power to bestow certain substantial gifts; and when the governor slaps him on the one cheek, he is Christian enough to offer to him the other, and what is more, look as if he liked it. He is talking to mother now; a stout, sleek, pear-shaped man, whose legs always seem to me to have been swallowed up by his body, as the lesser rods were by Aaron's. He has a smile that would butter the whole neighbourhood; a smile that Jack and I hate, and would wipe off his face with a duster if we could. Papa is talking to Mrs. Skipworth. How the broad June sun is flooding her purple gown and purpler face! How hot and kind and uneasy she looks, for her dress is stretched across her tight as a drum! Poor soul, she squints; not harmlessly, wonderingly, inoffensively, but diabolically, while one eye appears to be surveying the person she addresses, the other is firmly fixed on some one the other side of the room. Jack and I have worn ourselves out in speculations as to whether she can see with both eyes at once, or only one; whether she is literally able to keep her eye on two people at once, or whether she makes up her mind which eye she means to look out of, and drops that one and takes up the other at a moment's notice; in short, shifts the seeing power at will; whether—but our marvellings are not worth the writing down, Plain as she is, there is yet something very unique and interesting about her—she has no children! And as she is probably the only parson's wife on record who has not half a dozen, she deserves to be chronicled as an amazing and historical fact. Greatness has its drawbacks, however, and she is not satisfied with her childless home, her husband does not like it either, and I have seen him glance at our overflowing numbers with a scarcely concealed bitter envy that sends a pang, I am sure, to the womanly heart beating so warmly under the gorgeous satin yonder, that would never be on her back if little feet were gathered about her, little voices clamouring for milk and bread and butter. And now we are walking in to dinner, and Jack, taking an unfair advantage of my proximity to him, trips me up in such wise that I take a header into my pastor's ample back, and am only saved from ignominious disgrace by the fact that the governor is too far ahead to notice the slight scuffle.
I wonder why people always feel so much more hungry on Sundays than any other day! Is it the sermon, or is it because we have kept our mouths shut so long that we have not taken in enough air? Any way, we settle to our dinner in earnest, and there is a long satisfied silence. I come to the surface first and glance around me, thinking how very like animals we all look though we do use knives and forks and dinner-napkins.
Mrs. Skipworth looks uneasy; her dress certainly is tighter than it was in the drawing-room. Surely there will be an explosion soon. There is! She lays down her knife and fork, gives a mighty sneeze—a loud crack, as of hooks and eyes being violently divorced, is heard, then she settles herself in her chair and looks relieved. It is very strange, but there is no gaping fissure visible in front, therefore there must surely be one behind; yet James, who is at her back, has no speculation in his eye, and he does not offer to fetch a shawl to hide her ruins, so it can't be there. It is certainly very mysterious. How delightful it is to sit still and to know that we shall not be called upon to provide conversation; for of all the hard tasks the governor sets us, that is the hardest. When we were small children we were ordered to be silent, and bade never to open our lips in his presence. We never went to him in any of our childish joys or troubles, he took no interest in us; and we, who would have loved him if he had let us, came to have no feeling for him save that of fear. Now that we are growing up we are not afraid of him, but the old restraint lies heavy about us, and upon his bidding us to talk, lo! we find that the fountain is dry, and the harder we pump the less we bring up, and it is the daily puzzle of our lives to find "something to say," or to hit upon some safe subject concerning which we may furbish up a few remarks. We are not afraid of him; but, nevertheless, it is a degrading and mortifying fact that whereas, behind his back, we are as bold as lions, before his face we are meek as lambs, while our voices remain obstinately in our boots. If our lives depended on it we could not give one such Whoop! in his presence as we utter a hundred times a day when he is out of earshot.
The butler and footman hurry hither and thither, executing impromptu slides in their flights across country, that move us to admiration; but woe betide them if, in their slavish haste, they clink one plate against another, or fail to appear at papa's elbow, vegetable or sauce laden, the very moment he is ready for a fresh supply; while, as to the dishes, if as soon as one disappears another does not instantly take its place, his face becomes such a study of scorn and disgust as any living actor might seek in vain to imitate. We all sit round and watch him with a never-ending amazement not unmingled with admiration, and wonder how on earth he does it. His face seems to be made of india-rubber, and takes every inflection and shade of ill-temper and uncharitableness. I believe if we watched him till doomsday we should see some fresh contortion every day. He does not confine himself to looks though—he acts. A dish-cover in his hand becomes a shuttle-cock that the battledore of his wrath may send into the grate, or out of the window, or after James's rapidly vanishing calves; it is impossible to tell where, we can only watch his eye and speculate as to the probable direction it will take. To-day, however, there are no such compliments flying; and, if Mr. Skipworth does now and then intercept a diabolical look intended for Simpkins, what then? He is used to the governor's little ways.
And now dessert is on the table, and papa is telling the reverend gentleman (who occasionally hunts on a cob as fat as himself) a pleasing little anecdote about a parson who came to grief last winter in ———shire. Taking an awkward jump, he rolled off his horse into a pond, from whence he piteously besought a passing squire to extricate him. "D—n you!" cried the squire dashing his rowels into his horse's sides, "lie where you are! You won't be wanted till next Sunday."
Mr. Skipworth, who, in his travels across country, has explored every pond, ditch, and brook for ten miles round, utters a feeble "Ha, ha, ha!" at which the governor, who is one of the pluckiest and hardest riders in the county chuckles unkindly. Blessed hunting, that in winter takes him from the bosom of his family twice a week; and oh! long-tarrying first of September, when will you come and set his feet among the stubble? We are eating strawberries, that, to my fancy, always smell and look so much more delicious than they taste. A jerk of papa's thumb presently dismisses us with our mouths half filled, and we walk decorously past his chair, but once outside the shut door, scamper away like the wind to vent the spirits that have been so tightly bottled up for the last two hours. We all go our different ways—Alice and Milly to stroll about the garden, Dolly and Alan to some mysterious haunt known only to themselves, Jack and I to our birds and beasts. They are a rascally lot, consisting of the lame, the halt, and the blind, and in any eyes but ours would not be worth a pinch of snuff. We have a dog without a tail, a canary without an eye, a raven without a leg, a crippled rabbit, and various other poor wretches who have been compelled by the force of circumstances to part with one or another of their natural appendages.
Papa is safe for another two hours. He and Skippy will tell tales one against the other that would beat Munchausen into fits and make him green with envy; so we let out the rabbits, the parrot, and the raven, and they follow behind as we take our way through the garden and paddock into the orchard.
"Don't you feel rather patriarchal, Jack?" I asked, looking over my shoulder to see that the rabbits are not nibbling at the raven, "like Noah?"
"No, I can't say I do," says Jack. "How he would grin if he could hear you comparing our measly little menagerie to his. "Why, he had thousands of 'em!"
"So he had," I say, considering; “and how they all managed in the ark I can't imagine. They went in two and two, but of course they all had families; and, there was only just room at first, they must have found it a tight fit after a bit."
"Very," says Jack absently. "I say, Nell, will you get up early to-morrow morning?"
"I don't know," I answer doubtfully. "You don't want me to go fishing, do you?" On such occasions I enjoy the proud distinction of fixing wriggling worms on the hooks, while he has all the honour and glory of the undertaking, and eats the fish afterwards.
"No, you little silly, I don't! It's something much better. Can you keep a secret?" (holding my arm tight).
"Of course I can!" I say indignantly; and, extraordinary as such an assertion may appear from a female, I can.
"Well," says Jack deliberately, "if you're not nervous, you know, or squeamish, like other girls, I'll take you with me; but you must not call out or scream, or anything of that kind, or we shall be caught, and there will be a shine in the tents of Shem."
"I won't scream," I say eagerly; "and you know I am not a bit like a real girl. You always say I am more than half a boy."
"I'm going," says Jack, eyeing me closely, "to see a pig killed."
"A pig?—oh, Jack!—you don't mean it! They squeak so dreadfully! I'm sure it must hurt them very much!"
"Nonsense!" says Jack philosophically. "They are noisy brutes, and always make a fearful row over everything: besides it's a very good thing they do squeak; for, if you happened to be frightened and called out, you know—for you are only a girl—the men would think it was the pig, not you."
"Oh!" I say dubiously, for the idea that my voice cannot be mistaken from that of an expiring pig has not before occurred to me.
"The fact is, Nell," says Jack, glancing sharply at my face "you're afraid, and I didn't think it of you—no, I didn't. However, I'll let you have till to-morrow to think it over; and if, when I throw a handful of gravel up at your window at five o'clock, you are not dressed and ready, I shall know you are a coward."
"No you won't," I say, rebelling against this injustice, "if I don't go it won't be because I am afraid, but because I don't want to see the—the—mess."
"Make up your mind one way or the other," says Jack carelessly! "if you don't come, I shan't say anything to you about it, but I shall know."
We fall into a silence, and sit down under a tree, and the parrot who has been gravely walking behind with the rest of the riffraff, hops on to Jack's shoulder and swears fluently. His name is Paul Pry, and he is a sharp and ungodly bird, who has picked up many wicked sayings but never a good one. Jack brought him from school, and we are obliged to keep him dark for fear the governor should overhear his talk, and make his head pay the penalty of his manners. He gets very drunk when he has a chance, and reels about in his cage like a very disreputable, tipsy old man, muttering "Polly very drunk," in a boozy voice. He is smart, but he never said anything half as clever as that parrot of which Jack told me, who attended a show of his brethren, held for the purpose of giving a prize to the owner of the cleverest bird present. He arrived last of all, looked round at the collection of feathered bipeds, cocked his eye at the company, and ejaculated, "What a d—d lot of parrots!" Alas! for morality, he won the prize, or so says Jack.
Under the trees it is very cool, very quiet. The sunbeams flicker faintly through the screen of green leaves and unripe fruit overhead; the gnats whirl giddily round and round, spending their one summer's day in ceaseless revolutions; the birds are singing their blithe clear song, and though they sing all at once and each in a different key, there is not one note of discord in the whole concert. The sky is one stretch of deep intense blue, flecked with clouds that show white as snow against its vivid colour; a rustling, creeping little breeze, warm with the breath of new-mown hay and dog-roses, is stealing about us, frolicking softly with our hair and lips; and as I lie flat on the grass that makes so yielding and luxurious a couch for our young bodies, I am lulled into an exquisite dreamy sensation of delight at the mere fact of existing on this bountiful, rich-hued, glorious June day. The parrot ceases to make naughty remarks, he puts his head on one side and appears to be thinking; perhaps he is remembering the days of his youth, perhaps he too enjoys the perfect day and hour, who can tell? The rabbits wander about, the raven stands motionless on the one slender leg that must ache so often; Jack is silent, but for some prosaic reason I am certain, not because his soul his filled with pleasure.
"Nell," he says presently, while I am wondering why the clouds fall into grotesque likenesses of earthly things, not heavenly—human faces, castles, cities, hills—"I'm going to the top of Inky Field, will you come?"
Never yet did I disobey Jack's behest, so I sit up, but very unwillingly. "The governor will see us," I say suggestively; "Inky Field is right before the dining-room windows, you know."
But Jack takes no heed to my caution, so we return to the garden by the way that we came, and inveigle all our animals into their abodes, save our crippled rabbit, who escapes to a verbena bed and there disports himself. A rabbit is an aggravating beast to catch: he has a way of remaining perfectly still till one's hand almost touches him, and then starting suddenly off in a jiggetty jog fashion highly impertinent, while the pursuer measures his length upon the green sward, angry and empty-handed. At last, however, he is caught, and Jack carries him away, while I sit down on an adjacent seat, and fan myself with the top of my double skirt, which I use as duster, fan, or for ornament indiscriminately.
Mother and Mrs. Skipworth have just gone in, but every one else is walking about in a leisurely way; Alice and Milly under the south wall, Dolly and Alan sitting close together in the sun like two plump little partridges, dogs straying about, and fry dimly visible in the distance, everything, in short, looks peaceful and comfortable, when from the verandah issue two black figures. Can it be?—Yes, it is Skippy and the governor! Is the wine corked, or have their stories run dry? I am too close to them to escape; not so, however, the rest, who vanish round corners, behind trees, over palings, anywhere, and the garden, that a moment ago was full, is now empty.
Papa's approach may usually be known by the flight of everybody else in an opposite direction; and I think he has a vague suspicion of the fact, for he looks about him sharply, as he approaches. Jack, lucky fellow, has hidden himself in the rabbit-hutch, and from a well-known loophole, I see his eye fixed upon me with a mixture of pity and self-gratulation. I have pulled my hat straight, set my feet in the first position, and am doing my utmost to look modest, sabbatical, and cool. The last is the most difficult of all, and papa stops short and surveys me with the admiration that any new or particularly startling phase of my ugliness always evokes from him.
"What a mawk!" he says contemptuously, "can't you keep your mouth shut?"
I close it with a snap and a rebellious glance that he is about to call me to account for, when an unwary fry, venturing into the open, attracts his attention, and away he goes like a shot; horribly active is he, as any one can aver to whom he has given chase. I heave a deep sigh of relief, and turn away to make good my escape, when Mr. Skipworth lays a fat and detaining hand on my arm, and in an unctuous voice bids me sit down. He has got me into the seat, and wedged me in with his overflowing body before I get my breath back and recognise the fact that I am in for a sermon, and that he will presently come back and finish me off. I cast a despairing glance at Jack, who is close prisoner as well as I, but oh! the rabbits won't stand up on their hind legs and preach him a sermon.
"My dear," says Mr. Skipworth, closing his eyes slightly, whether overcome by the sun or Madeira it would be hard to say (how I hate being "my deared"), "did you hear the sermon to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what did I say?"
"Something or other about Methuselah."
"No. I spoke of grace, the effects of grace. Without grace," he continues, folding his fat hands, and simmering gently in the hot sunshine like a seal, "we are lost, vile, miserable creatures, lower than the beasts of the field."
"You and I may be," I say stoutly, "but mother isn't, she is much more like an angel."
"You are a wicked girl," he says, turning slowly and surveying me, "you are also ignorant. Do you not know that all mankind is born in sin, and that even a new-born babe is tainted with evil? It would appear that the infant is aware of that fact, for what is the first thing it does on coming into the world?"
"It howls," I say briefly.
"It weeps," says Mr. Skipworth rebukingly; "and why does it weep?"
"Because it's hungry," I say promptly.
"It does nothing of the sort," he says irately, "it weeps because it knows it is born in sin."
"Oh, poor little soul," I say, laughing immoderately, "I—I—beg your pardon, Mr. Skipworth, but—but it's such a ridiculous idea, as if it knew anything."
"Your levity is exceedingly unbecoming, miss," says my pastor, in a voice that reminds me of vinegar tasting through oil.
"I beg your pardon, I do really," I say again, stifling my mirth as well as can, "but when you were a baby—I suppose you were a baby once, Mr. Skipworth?"
"I suppose so," he says stiffly.
"Did you ever cry?"
"I have always been told," he says pompously, "that I was an unusually reasonable infant, and that my voice was seldom heard."
"Then you could not have been born in sin," I say triumphantly, "for you said just now babies cried because they were sinful and of course if they don't cry they can't be sinful; don't you see, sir?"
But Mr. Skipworth does not see; my impudence has at last had the desired effect of making him turn his back upon me, and as he stiffly rises I make my escape, barely in time, though, for I am scarcely hidden when the governor appears round the corner, looking red and heated, and as though the fry had led him a chase for which there will be a heavy reckoning to pay by-and-by.