Читать книгу The Manor School - L. T. Meade - Страница 6

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Christian had, on the whole, a very interesting day. She had never been so captivated by Italian children before. She watched and watched the pretty movements, the quick gestures, the gleam of the white teeth, the shining dark eyes. The little monkeys, too, were all that was pathetic. She quite made up her mind that she and Rosy would earn their living in the future as Italian girls—that they would have a monkey and a tambourine each, and go about and dance and beg for money, and have a happy time.

"Only we must not do it near home," thought Christian, "for we might be discovered. It would be indeed too terrible a fate if, when father and mother are away in Persia, Miss Neil should catch sight of us. I should be punished then; and poor, poor Rosy—her mother would half kill her."

Christian's thoughts were so full of keen interest that morning that Miss Thompson began to consider her a very delightful girl. She was startled, however, in the midst of lunch, which they were both enjoying immensely, by the young girl bending forward and saying in an emphatic voice:

"If it was necessary for your career, would you greatly mind being dyed with walnut-juice?"

"My dear Christian, what a strange remark!"

"But I wish you'd answer it," said Christian emphatically.

"I can't understand. It could not be necessary for my career."

"But if it was. If it made all the difference between success and failure, between prison and liberty, which would you choose?"

"Oh, the walnut-juice, of course," said Miss Thompson. "But, all the same, I fail to understand."

"I don't want you to understand any more, dear Thompson; and you know you are quite a darling. You are coming out in the very nicest character. I hope I shall have more and more holidays, for I do like going about with you."

Miss Thompson was to remember Christian's remarks later on, but certainly at the present juncture they had no meaning for her.

When the young girl came back late that evening she was informed by nurse that Mrs. Mitford had sent her an invitation.

"You are to put on your very best company frock, Miss Christian, and to look as nice as ever you can, for you are to go down to sit with your mamma in her boudoir this evening. Mr. Mitford will be out, and you are to have supper with her. She means to have supper in her boudoir, and she says that you are to keep her company."

Nurse expected Christian to shout with delight, but she was silent and looked rather grave.

"Aint you glad, my darling?" said the old woman.

"Nursey," said Christian, "did you ever have the feeling that you were too glad and yet too sorry to be able to say what you felt? On the whole, I'd rather not see too much of mumsy at present; but if I must I must, and if I go I'd like to look nice. Make me very, very nice, please, nursey dear."

Nurse set herself willingly to accomplish this task, and Christian in her white silk frock, with its many ruchings and ribbons and soft laces, and with her fair hair hanging down her back, made as interesting and pretty a picture as the heart of mother could desire.

"There, darling!" said the old woman; "you are like no one else, my own Miss Christian. Kiss me and go."

Christian ran up first to her attic. She had secured a broken looking-glass, rather a large one, which she had placed in such a position that she could see herself when she acted the parts of her different heroes and heroines. From time to time she had induced the housemaids to give her candle-ends, and she possessed a large box of these interesting remnants. She lit a couple of dozen now, put them in different positions, and was at last able to get a good view of her own young figure. She was a rather tall and very upright girl, and she looked her best to-night.

"Is it I or is it another girl?" thought Christian.

Her quick imagination pictured the different heroines of history. Which should she select as her own rôle to-night? Finally, after a steadfast glance into her face, she decided to belong to the army of martyrs, and to imagine herself back in the time when people died for their faith. It seemed to her that she read resolution, determination, and unflinching self-sacrifice in her eyes.

She blew out the candles, gave a little sigh of relief, and ran downstairs. Her mother was waiting for her. Mrs. Mitford was very prettily dressed, the boudoir looked charming, the fire burned brightly, the lamps were pretty with their shaded globes, but Christian could not help giving a guilty glance towards that window behind whose thick, soft curtains she had listened to the story of her proposed fate.

"Only it isn't my fate," thought the child, "for I am determined—quite determined—to choose the life of the free."

Supper was already on the table, and Christian had to take her place.

"I hope you will like the meal I have had prepared for you, Chris," said her mother. "Johnston, you need not wait," she continued, turning to the footman; "we will ring when we want anything: I have quite thought about this little meal with you, Chris," continued Mrs. Mitford, "and I ordered soles. You love soles, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, mumsy; we never have anything nice and tasty of that sort in the schoolroom."

"They have got so terribly expensive," said Mrs. Mitford in a fretful tone. "After the soles we will have pheasant; you are fond of pheasant. And you shall pour out the coffee by-and-by. As the sweets—children always adore sweets—I hate them myself, but I suppose there will be something brought up for you. I ordered a savory for myself, but left your sweets to cook."

"And I'd ever so much rather eat a bit of your savory, mother; I don't so specially care for sweets," said Christian.

She was somewhat depressed, and yet she was happy. The delicately served meal was quite to her taste. She said to herself:

"This will be something to remember by-and-by when Rosy and I are eating red herrings and stale bread. I'll often talk to Rosy about this meal. I feel to-night as though I wasn't Christian Mitford at all, but someone else; not a poor martyr, but a sort of queen. How pretty mother looks! I shall never be pretty like her. Yes, she has a darling, sweet face, but——"

Christian did not follow up this "but," only it lay like a weight near her heart.

The meal came to an end, the savory was disposed of, coffee appeared and vanished, and presently Mrs. Mitford and her daughter were alone.

"Now, mumsy," said Christian, "come and sit on this deep sofa and let me cuddle up to you. Let me think that I am a very little girl once more; I want you to pet me and stroke my face. I want to put my head on your shoulder. You don't mind, do you, darling?"

"Oh, Christian!" said Mrs. Mitford, the tears rushing to her eyes, "I only wish you were a little, little girl. Big girls don't suit me half as well. I used to pet you such a lot, and you were so pretty. Don't you remember the time when I took you out driving in your dark-blue velvet pelisse and your blue hat? Don't you remember how the people used to remark on my very pretty little girl?"

"Yes, mumsy," said Christian; "but you can imagine I am your very pretty little girl again, can't you, mumsy?"

Mrs. Mitford said she could; but she was small and Christian was big, and the weight of the child's head on her shoulder tired her. Presently she sat up restlessly and said:

"We are wasting our time; I have a great deal to talk to you about. I don't often see you; I am so busy, you know."

"Yes, mother," said Christian; "but it seems a pity, doesn't it?"

"It can't be helped, dear. Your father is a man of great importance, and I am obliged to be with him all I can. And this is the time for your education. I want you to be a very accomplished girl. I don't care a bit about learning or anything of that sort, but I do want you to play well—so well that people will talk and look at you, and remark on the brilliancy of your touch. And I want you to have a lovely voice. When you are old enough you must have the very best instruction for that. And then I want you to paint a little, and recite; recitations are very popular, only they must be well done. And I want you, of course, to be a good linguist; your French must be perfect. By-and-by you shall go to Paris to get a proper accent. German is nice too, but not so important as French. Italian would be useful; you are sure to spend a few years in Italy. You must dance beautifully; but then there is no doubt on that point, for you dance well already."

Christian sat very upright; she did not speak.

"Well," said her mother, "does my list of accomplishments appeal to you? Do you want to be all that your mother could desire?"

"You leave out some things," said Christian—"the story part—all about history and the lovely, lovely things that happened long ago. I don't want just to be——"

"Just to be what, dear?"

"I can't explain myself; but when I think—oh, mumsy! I will tell you. You mustn't be angry with me, but I don't want to be a brilliant, accomplished girl; I want to be a heroine."

"You silly, silly child! A heroine! What do you mean?"

"I want to be the sort of girl who would do great things—who would——"

But Mrs. Mitford interrupted her with a little scream.

"You want to be an oddity," she said, "an eccentric horror. Don't come to me and expect my approbation if you are anything of that sort."

Just at that moment the room door was opened, and who should come in but Mr. Mitford. His wife gave a start when she saw him.

"I found I could get away earlier than I expected," was his remark. "I fancied Chris would be with you, and I thought we could have a talk. You both look very charming."

Christian sat close to her mother.

"What a contrast you both are!—you so dark and piquant, and Christian so tall and fair and blonde. You are very like your grandmother, Chris, and she was a very beautiful and noble woman."