Читать книгу Englefield Grange; or, Mary Armstrong's Troubles - Mrs. H. B. Paull - Страница 16

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"Mamma, oh, do come to the window, there is such a dear little pony standing at the door, and father is talking to the groom."

Mrs. Armstrong advanced to the drawing-room window at her daughter's request, and joined with her in admiration of the shiny black coat, and long mane and tail of Bucephalus, whose purchase had on that morning been completed.

Some idea of the truth occurred to both mother and daughter when Rowland appeared and led the pony away. In a very few minutes Mr. Armstrong himself entered the room, startling Mary by the question—"Well, my daughter, how do like your new pony?"

"Mine, father?" (one of Mr. Armstrong's peculiar fancies made him object to be called "papa," considering it another form of "aping the gentry"). How the blue eyes glittered and the face lighted up with pleasure and astonishment as Mary spoke.

"Yes, my dear, it is yours on the conditions I spoke of yesterday," replied her father, seating himself and drawing his daughter to his side; "will you be able to fulfil them?"

"I will try, father," she replied, glancing at her mother.

"Your mother will not object, I know," he said, noticing the glance; "but now listen, and I will tell you more clearly what I expect you to do, and your reward will be riding lessons for three months at the Riding School, Albany Street, and the attendance of Rowland while you canter round the Parks, any morning you like, before breakfast—hear me out, Mary," he continued, interrupting her expressions of delight—"Rowland will have orders from me to be here at seven in summer, and eight in winter, and if you are not ready for your ride within five minutes of the time, he is to take the ponies back to the stable, and you will lose your ride."

"Oh, I don't think that will ever happen, dear father," she replied. "I am so delighted I hardly know how to thank you enough."

"I don't want thanks, my child, if my gift make you an early riser, which I am very anxious you should be; and you will not forget that I wish you to spend two hours every morning in learning domestic duties."

"Mary has done this already, Edward," Mrs. Armstrong ventured to remark.

"I know it, my dear," he replied, "but not to the extent I wish. Although she may never be in a position to require such knowledge, excepting as the mistress of a house, yet those women make the best mistresses who know the time, the labour, and the skill required in every form of domestic work."

"I think you degrade your daughter by this strange request," said Mrs. Armstrong, whose opinions of what a lady might do without compromising her dignity and refinement were thoroughly shocked.

"Nothing done by a lady," replied Mr. Armstrong, with an emphasis on the word, "will ever degrade her, if it can be done by a woman without disgrace."

In spite of what were called his singular notions, there was no doubt perfect truth in this remark. We are reminded by it of George Herbert's lines:—

"Who sweeps a room, as in God's laws,

Makes that and the action fine."

Mary seemed to have the same impression; for after a pause she said—"Father, I am quite willing to do as you wish, only——"

"Only what, my child?"

"I was going to say, it would take away the time from my studies, but I must work all the harder, I suppose, and I don't mind if mamma does not."

And so in this, at that period unusual association of domestic duties with refined studies, and the fashionable accomplishment of riding, Mary Armstrong passed the next two years of her life. Then occurred another phase in her father's opinion of what his daughter's education should be.

During the two years to which we have referred, partly as an additional reward for her efforts to please him, he had provided her with masters for French and music, and partly to relieve her mother, whose health had lately been rather uncertain. Mary's young brothers were high-spirited boys, and soon proved themselves too much for their mother's management.

The two elder were sent to school early, and the youngest, now five years old, was to accompany them after Midsummer. This was the opportunity for which Mr. Armstrong waited. He at once put a stop to the domestic duties, and took his daughter into his counting-house for two hours daily to act as his clerk; her love of arithmetic he knew would make this a pleasure to her.

But now worldly opinion interfered. One or two business men connected with the Corn Exchange, started with surprise at the appearance of a young girl writing at the desk when introduced to Mr. Armstrong's counting-house, and when alone with him spoke plainly on the subject.

Not all the domestic work, nor it must be confessed, the occasional coarseness of her father when angry, could counteract the influence of her mother on Mary's manner and appearance.

She was growing daily more like her, and the gentle graceful girl was in every respect a lady, and far superior in manners and appearance to the daughters of tradesmen in her father's position. Indeed, she knew nothing of any society but that of her mother's relations. The words which at last startled Mr. Armstrong were really needed to show him his error.

"Who is that young lady writing at the desk in your counting-house, Armstrong?"

"My daughter," he replied, proudly. "I wish her to acquire business habits, and this is the only plan I can adopt for the purpose."

"Then the sooner you discontinue it the better; nothing can be more unwise. Do your clerks have access to your counting-house?"

Mr. Armstrong was not without a certain degree of pride in his wife's connexions, and he flushed high as he replied—"Mrs. Armstrong's daughter is not likely to notice one of her father's clerks."

His friend shrugged his shoulders as he said—"Well, Armstrong, you know best; but if I had such a beautiful girl for my daughter, I would not degrade her by placing her in a position on a level with those whom I considered her inferiors."

Half offended as he was, Mr. Armstrong yet took the hint. He returned to his counting-house and furtively examined the beautiful profile as Mary, con amore, leaned over her task. Her auburn hair hung in massive curls to her waist, and though braided on her forehead and thrown behind her ears, the curls drooped over the lower part of her face even to the paper on which she wrote.

"She's growing more like her mother than ever," was the father's thought. "I believe it is that profusion of hair which makes her so attractive; suppose it were cut off or rolled up in some way, I could insist——" He paused. "No; I should have mother, and aunts, and uncles all against me. I've had my way in most things, I suppose I must give up now and put a stop to this."

And so ended Mary's days in the counting-house. The time came when also for this short insight into business matters she could thank her father's peculiarities.

Mrs. Armstrong's sisters were, of course, duly informed of all these eccentric arrangements on the part of her husband, but they knew it was useless to interfere. They knew also that his influence over his daughter was too great for them to attempt to counteract it.

"Fancy, Helen," said Mrs. Armstrong one day to her sister, "Mary has not only to make beds and dust rooms, but actually spends an hour in the kitchen every morning learning to make pies and puddings, and even how to roast and boil meat!"

Mrs. Herbert shrugged her shoulders as she replied—"Well, if all this nonsense about teaching her the duties of servants and such degrading employment does not eventually destroy all refinement of feeling and manners in Mary I shall be very much surprised."

But the two years passed, and the relatives of Mrs. Armstrong were obliged to own that no such terrible result had happened to their niece. She appeared at their social gatherings, she rode with her uncle and cousin Charles on horseback, and drove round the Park with her aunts in an open carriage, showing plainly both in person, dress, and manners, that the study of domestic duties had not unfitted her for good society.

Charles Herbert, the colonel's only child, was not only fond of his cousin Mary, but also a great admirer of his uncle Armstrong. Although scarcely old enough to retain a correct remembrance of the time when this uncle had snatched him from a watery grave, yet his mother had spoken of it to him so often that the impression made on his mind at four years of age had never been effaced. He once encountered Mary coming from the kitchen department with her curls tucked up beneath a white handkerchief, a large coarse apron before her, and her hands covered with flour.

"Why, Mary," exclaimed the youth of nineteen, "what ever will you do? there is mamma at the door in her carriage wailing to take you for a drive!"

"Come to the drawing-room, Charles, and wait for me," she said; "I will be ready to go with you and aunt in five minutes."

"Then you must be Cinderella," he replied, as he followed her upstairs as far as the drawing-room, "and have a fairy to help you!"

"So I have, and more than one," she replied, laughing, as she continued her flight upward.

Mary's fairies were Neatness, Quickness, Order, and Method. Therefore in very few minutes more than the time she had named she presented herself in the drawing-room ready for her drive.

All fear that domestic duties would make Mrs. Armstrong's daughter coarse or unrefined must have vanished at her appearance. She was simply attired in a pale violet silk dress and cape, with close-fitting gloves, lace collar and cuffs, and a broad-brimmed hat partly concealing her face, but not the profusion of auburn ringlets that fell around her shoulders.

"How like you grow to your mother, my dear," said her aunt, as Mary, with the softness and refinement of that mother's manner, advanced to welcome her. And as she rose to accompany her niece to the carriage she said to herself, "Well, perhaps after all Edward is right—a woman is none the worse for understanding the management of household duties."

One evening Mary was present at a family dinner-party at her uncle Sir James Elston's house in Portland Place. Very little had been said to the old sailor about what Mrs. Armstrong's sisters called the peculiar manner in which Edward Armstrong was educating his daughter, but that little had been met by him with a remark that silenced them—

"Making his girl domestic, is he? Wise man, wise man; that's all I can say."

On this family gathering, Mary, who was now in her sixteenth year, gave sufficient proof that learning to be domestic had not prevented her from becoming accomplished. A young French lady was present with whom Mary conversed with ease in her own tongue.

"You speak with a pure accent, mademoiselle," said the young lady; "have you resided in France?"

"No," was the reply; "but mamma was at school in Paris for years, and she has spoken French to me from my infancy."

In the course of the evening Mary was called upon to accompany her aunt Herbert in a duet for the harp and piano, and in this she succeeded so well as to gain approbation from every one present.

Another unexpected success awaited her. She had attempted to copy on ivory a miniature of her mother painted by Sir George Hayter. It was in truth only the effort of a learner, and by no means so deserving of praise as her studies of heads and landscapes; yet when Mr. Armstrong produced it, framed and reposing in a velvet-lined morocco case, it obtained for her great commendation.

"Oh, papa," said Mary, blushing deeply when she saw it in his hand, "my painting is not worth all that expense."

"I have had it done to show my approval of your conduct, Mary," said her father, in a low voice.

The flush on her face deepened at the words. Mary Armstrong sought for no greater reward than her father's approving smile.

"Well, brother Armstrong," said Colonel Herbert an hour afterwards, when the party were about to separate, "I must congratulate you on the success of your plans. If you are as much satisfied with Mary's exploits in the domestic line as we are with her in other respects, you have no reason to complain of failure."

And thus armed at all points but one for contact with the world, Mary Armstrong passed from girlhood to womanhood without a care for the future.