The Clever Woman of the Family. Yonge Charlotte MaryЧитать онлайн книгу.
tame toad, that lived in a hole under a tree in the garden. Mrs. Curtis, considerate and tender-hearted, startled to find her daughter in the field, and wishing her niece to begin about her own affairs, talked common-place by way of filling up the time, and Rachel had her eyes free for a range of the apartment. The foundation was the dull, third-rate lodging-house, the superstructure told of other scenes. One end of the room was almost filled by the frameless portrait of a dignified clergyman, who would have had far more justice done to him by greater distance; a beautifully-painted miniature of a lady with short waist and small crisp curls, was the centre of a system of photographs over the mantel-piece; a large crayon sketch showed three sisters between the ages of six and sixteen, sentimentalizing over a flower-basket; a pair of water-colour drawings represented a handsome church and comfortable parsonage; and the domestic gallery was completed by two prints—one of a middle-aged county-member, the other one of Chalon’s ladylike matrons in watered-silk aprons. With some difficulty Rachel read on the one the autograph, J. T. Beauchamp, and on the other the inscription, the Lady Alison Beauchamp. The table-cover was of tasteful silk patchwork, the vase in the centre was of red earthenware, but was encircled with real ivy leaves gummed on in their freshness, and was filled with wild flowers; books filled every corner; and Rachel felt herself out of the much-loathed region of common-place, but she could not recover from her surprise at the audacity of such an independent measure on the part of her cousin; and under cover of her mother’s civil talk, said to Fanny, “I never expected to see you here.”
“My aunt thought of it,” said Fanny, “and as she seems to find the children too much—”
She broke off, for Mrs. Curtis had paused to let her introduce the subject, but poor Fanny had never taken the initiative, and Rachel did it for her by explaining that all had come on the same errand, to ask if Miss Williams would undertake the lessons of her nephews; Lady Temple softly murmured under her veil something about hopes and too much trouble; an appointment was made for the following morning, and Mrs. Curtis, with a general sensation of an oppressive multitude in a small room, took her leave, and the company departed, Fanny, all the way home, hoping that the other Miss Williams would be like her sister, pitying the cripple, wishing that the sisters were in the remotest degree military, so as to obtain the respect of the hoys, and wondering what would be the Major’s opinion.
“So many ladies!” exclaimed little Rose. “Aunt Ermine, have they made your head ache?”
“No, my dear, thank you, I am only tired. If you will pull out the rest for my feet, I will be quiet a little, and be ready for tea when Aunt Ailie comes.”
The child handily converted the chair into a couch, arranging the dress and coverings with the familiarity of long use, and by no means shocked by the contraction and helplessness of the lower limbs, to which she had been so much accustomed all her life that it never even occurred to her to pity Aunt Ermine, who never treated herself as an object of compassion. She was thanked by a tender pressure on her hair, and then saying—
“Now I shall wish Augustus good night; bring Violetta home from her play in the garden, and let her drink tea, and go to bed.”
Ah, Violetta, purchased with a silver groat, what was not your value in Mackarel Lane? Were you not one of its most considered inhabitants, scarcely less a child of Aunt Ermine and Aunt Alison than their Rosebud herself?
Murmur, murmur, rippled the child’s happy low-toned monologue directed to her silent but sufficient playmate, and so far from disturbing the aunt, that more than one smile played on her lips at the quaint fancies, and at the well of gladness in the young spirit, which made day after day of the society of a cripple and an old doll, one constant song of bliss, one dream of bright imaginings. Surely it was an equalization of blessings that rendered little lonely Rose, motherless and well nigh fatherless, poor, with no companion but a crippled aunt, a bird and a toad, with scarcely a toy, and never a party of pleasure, one of the most joyous beings under the sun, free from occasions of childish troubles, without collisions of temper, with few contradictions, and with lessons rather pleasure than toil. Perhaps Ermine did not take into account the sunshiny content and cheerfulness that made herself a delightful companion and playfellow, able to accept the child as her solace, not her burthen.
Presently Rose looked up, and meeting the bright pleasant eyes, observed—“Violetta has been very good, and said all her lessons quite perfect, and she would like to sit up till her Aunt Ailie comes home. Do you think she may?”
“Will she not be tired to-morrow?”
“Oh, then she will be lazy, and not get up when she is called, till I pull all the clothes off, and that will be fun.”
“Or she may be fretful now?”
A series of little squeaks ensued, followed by “Now, my love; that is taking a very unfair advantage of my promise. You will make your poor Aunt Ermine’s head ache, and I shall have to send you to bed.”
“Would not a story pass away the time?”
“You tell it, Aunt Ermine; your stories are always the best. And let there be a fairy in it!”
The fairy had nearly performed her part, when the arrival took place, and Rose darted forward to receive Aunt Ailie’s greeting kiss.
“Yes, Rosie—yes, Violetta; what do you think I have got for you?”
And out came a doll’s chair with a broken leg, condemned by the departing pupils, and granted with a laugh to the governess’s request to take it to her little niece; but never in its best days had the chair been so prized. It was introduced to Violetta as the reward of virtue for having controlled her fretfulness, and the repair of its infirmity was the first consideration that occupied all the three. After all, Violetta’s sitting posture was, as Alison observed, an example of the inclined plane, but that was nothing to Rose, and the seance would have been indefinitely prolonged, but for considerations for Violetta’s health.
The sisters were alike, and Alison had, like her elder, what is emphatically called countenance, but her features were less chiselled, and her dark straight brows so nearly met that, as Rose had once remarked, they made a bridge of one arch instead of two. Six years younger, in full health, and daily battling with the world, Alison had a remarkable look of concentration and vigour, her upright bearing, clear decided speech, and glance of kindness won instant respect and reliance, but her face missed the radiant beamy brightness of her sister’s; her face was sweet and winning, but it was not habitual with her, and there was about her a look as if some terrible wave of grief or suffering had swept over her ere yet the features were fully fixed, and had thus moulded her expression for life. But playfulness was the tone that reigned around Ermine’s couch at ordinary moments, and beside her the grave Alison was lively, not with effort, but by infection.
“There,” she said, holding up a cheque; “now we’ll have a jubilee, and take you down under the East cliff, and we’ll invest a shilling in ‘Ivanhoe,’ and Rose and Violetta shall open their ears!”
“And you shall have a respectable Sunday mantle.”
“Oh, I dare say Julia will send us a box.”
“Then you will have to put a label on your back, ‘Second-hand!’ or her velvet will be a scandal. I can’t wear out that at home like this flagrant, flowery thing, that I saw Miss Curtis looking at as rather a disreputable article. There’s preferment for you, Ailie! What do you think of a general’s widow with six boys? She is come after you. We had a great invasion—three Curtises and this pretty little widow, and various sons!”
“Will she stay?”
“Most likely, for she is a relation of Mrs. Curtis, and comes to be near her. You are to call for inspection at eleven o’clock tomorrow, so I fear your holiday will be short.”
“Well, the less play the less anxiety. How many drives will the six young gentlemen be worth to you?”
“I am afraid it will be at the cost of tough work to you; she looked to me too sweet a creature to have broken her sons in, but I should think she would be pleasant to deal with.”
“If she be like Miss Curtis, I am sure she will.”
“Miss Curtis?