Читать книгу Deerbrook - Harriet Martineau - Страница 10

Table of Contents

The afternoon arrived when the children were to have their feast in the summer-house. From the hour of dinner the little people were as busy as aldermen’s cooks, spreading their table. Sydney thought himself too old for such play. He was hard at work, filling up the pond he had dug in his garden, having tried experiments with it for several weeks, and found that it never held water but in a pouring rain. While he was occupied with his spade, his sisters and the little Rowlands were arranging their dishes, and brewing their cowslip-tea.

“Our mamma is coming,” said Fanny to Matilda: “is yours?”

“No; she says she can’t come—but papa will.”

“So will our papa. It was so funny at dinner. Mr. Paxton came in, and asked whether papa would ride with him; and papa said it was out of the question; it must be to-morrow; for he had an engagement this afternoon.”

“A very particular engagement, he said,” observed Mary: “and he smiled at me so, I could not help laughing. Fanny, do look at Matilda’s dish of strawberries! How pretty!”

“There’s somebody coming,” observed little Anna, who, being too young to help, and liable to be tempted to put her fingers into the good things, was sent to amuse herself with jumping up and down the steps.

“There now! That is always the way, is not it, Miss Young?” cried Fanny. “Who is it, George? Mr. Enderby? Oh, do not let him come in yet! Tell him he must not come this half-hour.”

Mr. Enderby chose to enter, however, and all opposition gave way before him.

“Pray don’t send me back,” said he, “till you know what I am come for. Now, who will pick my pockets?”

Little Anna was most on a level with the coat pocket. She almost buried her face in it as she dived, the whole length of her arm, to the very bottom. George attacked its fellow, while the waistcoat pockets were at the mercy of the taller children. A number of white parcels made their appearance, and the little girls screamed with delight.

“Miss Young!” cried Fanny, “do come and help us to pick Mr. Enderby’s pockets. See what I have got—the very largest of all!”

When every pocket had been thoroughly picked without Miss Young’s assistance, the table did indeed show a goodly pile of white cornucopia—that most agitating form of paper to children’s eyes. When opened, there was found such a store of sweet things as the little girls had seldom before seen out of the confectioner’s shop. Difficulties are apt to come with good fortune; and the anxious question was now asked, how all these dainties were to be dished up. Miss Young was, as usual, the friend in need. She had before lent two small china plates of her own; and she now supplied the further want. She knew how to make pretty square boxes out of writing-paper; and her nimble scissors and neat fingers now provided a sufficiency of these in a trice. Uncle Philip was called upon, as each was finished, to admire her skill; and admire he did, to the children’s entire content.

“Is this our feast, Mr. Enderby?” inquired Mary, finally, when Anna had been sent to summon the company. “May we say it is ours?”

“To be sure,” cried Fanny. “Whose else should it be?”

“It is all your own, I assure you,” said Mr. Enderby. “Now, you two should stand at the head of the table, and Matilda at the foot.”

“I think I had better take this place,” said Sydney, who had made his appearance, and who thought much better of the affair now that he saw Mr. Enderby so much interested in it. “There should always be a gentleman at the bottom of the table.”

“No, no, Sydney,” protested Mr. Enderby; “not when he has had no cost nor trouble about the feast. March off. You are only one of the company. Stand there, Matilda, and remember you must look very polite. I shall hide behind the acacia there, and come in with the ladies.”

A sudden and pelting shower was now falling, however; and instead of hiding behind a tree, Mr. Enderby had to run between the house and the schoolroom, holding umbrellas over the ladies’ heads, setting clogs for them, and assuring Mrs. Grey at each return that the feast could not be deferred, and that nobody should catch cold. Mr. Grey was on the spot; to give his arm to Mrs. Enderby, who had luckily chanced to look in—a thing which “she really never did after dinner.” Mr. Hope had been seen riding by, and Mrs. Grey had sent after him to beg he would come in. Mr. Rowland made a point of being present: and thus the summer-house was quite full—really crowded.

“I am glad Mrs. Rowland keeps away,” whispered Mrs. Grey to Sophia. “She would say it is insufferably hot.”

“Yes; that she would. Do not you think we might have that window open? The rain does not come in on that side. Did you ever see such a feast as the children have got? I am sure poor Elizabeth and I never managed such a one. It is really a pity Mrs. Rowland should not see it. Mr. Rowland should have made her come. It looks so odd, her being the only one to stay away!”

The room resounded with exclamations, and admiration, and grave jokes upon the children. Notwithstanding all Uncle Philip could do, the ingenuous little girls answered to every compliment—that Mr. Enderby brought his, and that that and the other came out of Uncle Philip’s pocket. They stood in their places, blushing and laughing, and served out their dainties with hands trembling with delight.

Maria’s pleasure was, as usual, in observing all that went on.

She could do this while replying, quite to the purpose, to Mrs. Enderby’s praise of her management of the dear children, and to George’s pressing offers of cake; and to Mr. Rowland’s suspicions that the children would never have accomplished this achievement without her, as indeed he might say of all their achievements; and to Anna’s entreaty that she would eat a pink comfit, and then a yellow one, and then a green one; and to Mrs. Grey’s wonder where she could have put away all her books and things, to make so much room for the children. She could see Mr. Hope’s look of delight when Margaret declined a cup of chocolate, and said she preferred tasting some of the cowslip-tea. She saw how he helped Mary to pour out the tea, and how quietly he took the opportunity of getting rid of it through the window behind Margaret, when she could not pretend to say that she liked it. She observed Mr. Rowland’s somewhat stiff politeness to Hester, and Mr. Enderby’s equal partition of his attentions between the two sisters. She could see Mrs. Grey watching every strawberry and sugar-plum that went down the throats of the little Rowlands, and her care, seconded by Sophia’s, that her own children should have an exactly equal portion of the good things. She believed, but was not quite sure, that she saw Hester’s colour and manner change as Mr. Hope came and went, in the course of his service about the table; and that once, upon receiving some slight attention from him, she threw a hasty glance towards her sister, and turned quite away upon meeting her eye.

The rain had not prevented the servants from trying to amuse themselves with witnessing the amusement of the family. They were clustered together under umbrellas at the window nearest the stables, where they thought they should be least observed. Some commotion took place among them, at the same moment that an extraordinary sound became audible, from a distance, above the clatter of plates, and the mingling of voices, in the summer-house.

“What in the world is that noise?” asked Margaret.

“Only somebody killing a pig,” replied Sydney, decidedly.

“Do not believe him,” said Mr. Enderby. “The Deerbrook people have better manners than to kill their pigs in the hearing of ladies on summer afternoons.”

“But what is it? It seems coming nearer.”

“I once told you,” said Mr. Enderby, “that we possess an inhabitant, whose voice you might know before her name. I suspect it is that same voice which we hear now.”

“A human voice! Impossible!”

“What is the matter, Alice?” Mrs. Grey asked of her maid out of the window.

“Oh, ma’am, it is Mrs. Plumstead! And she is coming this way, ma’am. She will be upon us before we can get to the house. Oh, ma’am, what shall we do?”

Mrs. Grey entreated permission of the ladies to allow the maid-servants to come into the summer-house. Their caps might be torn from their heads before they could defend themselves, she said, if they remained outside. Of course, leave was given instantly, and the maids crowded in, with chattering teeth and many a tale of deeds done by Mrs. Plumstead, in her paroxysms of rage.

The children shared the panic, more or less: and not only they. Mr. Grey proposed to put up the shutters of the windows nearest to the scene of action; but it was thought that this might draw on an attack from the virago, who might let the party alone if she were left unnoticed by them. She was now full in sight, as, with half Deerbrook at her heels, she pursued the object of her rage through the falling shower, and amidst the puddles in front of the stables. Her widow’s cap was at the back of her head, her hair hanging from beneath it, wet in the rain: her black gown was splashed to the shoulders; her hands were clenched; her face was white as her apron, and her vociferations were dreadful to hear. She was hunting a poor terrified young countrywoman, who, between fright and running, looked ready to sink.

“We must put a stop to this,” cried Mr. Grey and Mr. Rowland, each speaking to the other. It ended with their issuing forth together, looking as dignified as they could, and placing themselves between the scold and her victim. It would not do. They could not make themselves heard; and when she shook her fist in their faces, they retired backwards, and took refuge among their party, bringing the victim in with them, however. Mr. Enderby declared this retreat too bad, and was gone before the entreaties of his little nieces could stop him. He held his ground longer; and the dumb show he made was so energetic as to cause a laugh in the summer-house, in the midst of the uneasiness of his friends, and to call forth shouts of mirth from the crowd at the virago’s heels.

“That will not do. It will only exasperate her the more,” said Mr. Hope, pressing his way to the door. “Let me pass, will you?”

“Oh, Mr. Hope! Oh, sir!” said Alice, “don’t go! Don’t think of going, sir! She does not mind killing anybody, I assure you, sir.”

“Oh, Mr. Hope, don’t go!” cried almost everybody. Maria was sure she heard Hester’s voice among the rest. The young countrywoman and the children grasped the skirts of his coat; but he shook them off, laughing, and went. Little Mary loved Mr. Hope very dearly. She shot out at the door with him, and clasped her hands before Mrs. Plumstead, looking up piteously, as if to implore her to do Mr. Hope no harm. Already, however, the vixen’s mood had changed. At the first glimpse of Mr. Hope, her voice sank from being a squall into some resemblance to human utterance. She pulled her cap forward, and a tinge of colour returned to her white lips. Mr. Enderby caught up little Mary and carried her to her mamma, crying bitterly. Mr. Hope might safely be left to finish his conquest of the otherwise unconquerable scold. He stood still till he could make himself heard, looking her full in the face; and it was not long before she would listen to his remonstrance, and even at length take his advice, to go home and compose herself. He went with her, to ensure the good behaviour of her neighbours, and had the satisfaction of seeing her lock herself into her house alone before he returned to his party.

“It is as you told me,” said Margaret to Mr. Enderby; “Mr. Hope’s power extends even to the temper of the Deerbrook scold. How she began to grow quiet directly! It was like magic.”

Mr. Enderby smiled; but there was some uneasiness in his smile.

The countrywoman was commended to the servants, to be refreshed, and dismissed another way. There was no further reason for detaining her when it appeared that she really could give no account of how she had offended Mrs. Plumstead in selling her a pound of butter. It remained to console little Mary, who was still crying—more from grief for Mrs. Plumstead than from fear, Maria thought, though Mrs. Grey was profuse in assurances to the child that Mrs. Plumstead should not be allowed to frighten her any more. All the children seemed so depressed and confounded, that their guests exerted themselves to be merry again, and to efface, as far as was possible, the impression of the late scene. When Mr. Hope returned, he found Mr. Grey singing his single ditty, about Dame Dumshire and her crockery-ware, amidst great mirth and unbounded applause. Then Mrs. Enderby was fluttered, and somewhat flattered, by an entreaty that she would favour the company with one of the ballads for which she had been famous in her time. She could not refuse on such an occasion—if indeed she had ever been able to refuse what she was told would give pleasure. She made her son choose for her what she should sing; and then followed a wonderful story of Giles Collins, who loved a lady: Giles and the lady both died of true love; Giles was laid in the lower chancel, and the lady in the higher; from the one grave grew a milk-white rose, and from the other a briar, both of which climbed up to the church top, and there tied themselves into a true-lover’s knot, which made all the parish admire. At this part, Anna was seen looking up at the ceiling; but the rest had no eyes but for Mrs. Enderby, as she gazed full at the opposite wall, and the shrill, quavering notes of the monotonous air were poured out, and the words were as distinct as if they were spoken.

“Is that true, grandmamma?” asked Anna, when all was over.

“You had better ask the person who made the song, my dear. I did not make it.”

“But did you ever see that church with the briar growing in it, before the sexton cut it down?”

“Do not let us talk any more about it,” said Philip, solemnly. “I wonder grandmamma dares sing such a sad song.”

“Why, you asked her, Uncle Philip.”

“Oh, ay, so I did. Well, we are much obliged to her; and now we will have something that is not quite so terrible.—Miss Grey, you will favour us with a song?”

Sophia’s music-books were all in the house, and she could not sing without. Mr. Enderby would fetch some, if she would give him directions what to bring. No; she could not sing without the piano. As it was clearly impossible to bring that, Philip feared the company must wait for the pleasure of hearing Miss Grey till another time. Mr. Grey would have Hester and Margaret sing; and sing they did, very simply and sweetly, and much to the satisfaction of all present. One thing led on to another; they sang together—with Mr. Grey—with Mr. Enderby; Mr. Hope listening with an unlearned eagerness, which made Mrs. Grey wink at her husband, and nod at Sophia, and exchange smiles with Mrs. Enderby. They proceeded to catches at last; and when people really fond of music get to singing catches in a summer-house, who can foresee the end?

“ ‘Fair Enslaver!’ ” cried Mr. Enderby. “You must know ‘Fair Enslaver:’ there is not a sweeter catch than that. Come, Miss Ibbotson, begin; your sister will follow, and I—”

But it so happened that Miss Ibbotson had never heard ‘Fair Enslaver.’ Margaret knew it, she believed; but she did not. With a gay eagerness, Mr. Enderby turned round to Maria, saying that he knew she could sing this catch; and everybody was aware that when she had the power of doing a kindness, she never wanted the will;—he remembered that she could sing ‘Fair Enslaver.’ He might well remember this, for often had they sung it together. While several of the company were saying they did not know Miss Young could sing, and the children were explaining that she often sang at her work, Mr. Enderby observed some signs of agitation in Maria, and hastened to say—“You had rather not, perhaps. Pray do not think of it. I will find something else in a moment. I beg your pardon: I was very inconsiderate.”

But Maria thought she had rather not accept the consideration; and besides, the children were anxious that she should sing. She bore her part in a way which made Mr. Rowland and Mrs. Grey agree that she was a very superior young woman indeed; that they were singularly fortunate to have secured her for their children; and that she was much to be pitied.

“I think Miss Young has got a little cold, though,” observed Sydney. “Her voice is not in the least husky when she sits singing here by herself.—Father! look there! there are all the servants huddled together under the window again, to listen to the singing.”

This was true; and the rain was over. It was presently settled that the schoolroom should be evacuated by the present party; that the children should be allowed to invite the servants in, to dispense to them the remains of the feast; and that Miss Young must favour Mrs. Grey with her company this evening.

Mr. Rowland was obliged to return home to business; but, before his friends dispersed, he must just say that Mrs. Rowland and he had never, for a moment, given up the hope of the pleasure of entertaining them at dinner in the Dingleford woods; and, as the rains were now daily abating, he might perhaps be allowed to name Wednesday of the next week as the day of the excursion. He hoped to see the whole of the present company, from the oldest to the youngest—bowing, as he spoke, to Mrs. Enderby and to his own little daughter Anna. This was one of Mr. Rowland’s pieces of independent action. His lady had given him no commission to bring the affair to an issue; and he returned home, involuntarily planning what kind of an unconcerned face and manner he should put on, while he told her what he had done.