Chapter Five.
Miss Unity.
It was a lonely life which Miss Unity Cheffins lived at Nearminster, but she had become so used to it that it did not occur to her to wish for any other. Far far in the distance she could remember a time when everything had not been so quiet and still round her—when she was one of a group of children who had made the old house in the Close echo with their little hurrying footsteps and laughing voices. One by one those voices had become silent and the footsteps had hastened away, and Miss Unity was left alone to fill the empty rooms as she best might with the memories of the past. That was long long ago, and now her days were all just alike, as formal and even as the trimly-kept Close outside her door. And she liked them to be so; any variety or change would have been irksome to her. She liked to know that exactly as eight o’clock sounded from the cathedral Bridget would bring her a cup of tea, would pull up her blind to a certain height, and would remark, “A fine morning, ma’am,” or “A dull morning,” as the case might be. At eleven o’clock, wet or dry, she would sally forth into the town to do the light part of her marketing and cast a thoughtful eye on the price of vegetables; after which, girt with a large linen apron, and her head protected by a mob-cap, she would proceed to dust and wash her cherished china. From much loneliness she had formed a habit of talking quietly to herself during these operations; but no one could have understood her, for she only uttered the fag-ends of her thoughts aloud.
The Chinese mandarin which Nancy admired was the object of Miss Unity’s fondest care; some bygone association was doubtless connected with him, for she seldom failed to utter some husky little sentences of endearment while she lingered over his grotesque person with tender touches of her feather brush. So the day went on. After her dinner, if the weather were fair, she would perhaps deck herself with a black silk mantilla and a tall bonnet with nodding flowers, and go out to visit some old friend. A muffin, a cup of tea, and perhaps a little cathedral gossip would follow; and then Miss Unity, stepping primly across the Close, reached the dull shelter of her own home again, and was alone for the rest of the evening. At ten o’clock she read prayers to Bridget and the little maid, and so to bed.
The even course of these days was only disturbed twice in the year—once by Mr and Mrs Hawthorn’s visit to Nearminster, and once by Miss Unity’s visit to Easney. These were important events to her, anticipated for months, not exactly with pleasure; for, though she was really fond of her friends, she was shy, and to be put out of her usual habits was, besides, a positive torture to her. Then there were the children! Troublesome little riddles Miss Unity often found them, impossible to understand; and it is a question whether she or they were the more uncomfortable when they were together. For she had an idea, gathered from some dim recollection of the past, that children needed constant correction and reproof; and she felt sure Mary Hawthorn neglected her duty in this respect and was over-indulgent. So, being a most conscientious woman, she tried to supply this shortcoming, and the result was not a happy one.
She was ill at ease with all the children, but of Dickie she was fairly frightened, for Dickie had disgraced herself at her very first introduction. Seeing Miss Unity’s grim face framed by the nodding bonnet bending down to kiss her, the child looked up and said with a sweet smile, “Ugly lady!”
There was no disguising it, for Dickie’s utterance had the clearness of a bell, and a horrified silence fell on the assembly.
“Don’t be naughty, Dickie,” said Mrs Hawthorn reprovingly; “say, ‘How do you do?’ directly.”
But Miss Unity had straightened herself up and turned away with an odd look in her eyes.
“Don’t scold the child, Mary,” she said; “she’s not naughty, she’s only honest.”
From that time Pennie never considered Miss Unity quite ugly, and indeed her features were not so much ugly as rugged and immovable. When her feelings were stirred she was not ugly at all; for they were good, kind feelings, and made her whole face look pleasant. So little happened in her life, however, that they generally remained shut up as in a sort of prison and were seldom called forth; people, therefore, who did not know her often thought her cross. But Miss Unity was not cross—she was only lonely and dull because she had so little to love. Nothing could have passed off better than the Hawthorns’ visit on this particular occasion, and indeed when David was with her Mrs Hawthorn never feared the unlucky accidents which were apt to occur with the other children. He was so deliberate and careful by nature that there was no risk of his knocking down the china, or treading on the cat’s tail, or on the train of Miss Unity’s gown. Nancy did all these things frequently, however hard she tried to be good, and was besides very restive under reproof and ready to answer pertly.
On the whole Miss Unity liked to have the grave little David with her better than the other children, though she sometimes felt when she found his solemn and disapproving gaze fixed upon her. David on his side had his opinions, though he said little, and he had long ago made up his mind that he did not like Miss Unity at all. So he was sorry to find, when the day came for leaving Nearminster, that she was going back to Easney with them instead of making her visit later in the year. It would not be nearly as pleasant as driving alone with his father and mother, he thought; for now he could not ask questions on the way, unless he talked to Andrew, and he was always so silent.
When the wagonette came round there were so many little packages belonging to Miss Unity that it was quite difficult to stow them away, and as fast as that was done Bridget brought out more. Not that there was much luggage altogether, but it consisted in such a number of oddly-shaped parcels and small boxes that it was both puzzling and distracting to know where to put them. Mr Hawthorn was busy for a good quarter of an hour disposing of Miss Unity’s property; while David looked on, keenly interested, and full of faith in his father’s capacity.
“That’s all, I think,” said Mr Hawthorn triumphantly at last, as he emerged from the depths of the wagonette, and surveyed his labours; “there’s not much room left for us, certainly, but I daresay we shall manage.”
As he spoke Bridget came out of the house carrying a waterproof bundle, bristling with umbrellas and parasols.
“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed the vicar in a discouraged voice, “is that to go? Does your mistress want all those umbrellas?”
“She wouldn’t like to go without ’em, sir,” replied Bridget.
“Where shall you put them, father?” asked David in quite an excited manner.
That was indeed a question, but it was at length solved by Mr Hawthorn deciding to walk, and the wagonette was ready to proceed, David sitting in front as usual. After several efforts to make Andrew talk he fell back for amusement on his own thoughts, and in recognising all the well-known objects they passed on the road. Presently they came to a certain little grey cottage, and then he knew they were halfway home. It had honeysuckle growing over the porch, and a row of bee-hives in the garden, which was generally bright and gay with flowers; just now, however, it all looked withered and unattractive, except that on one tree there still hung some very red apples, though it was the beginning of November. That reminded David of Antony, who had a great weakness for apples. He smiled to himself, and felt glad that he should see his pet so soon.
After this cottage there was a long steep hill to go up, and here Ruby the horse always waited for Andrew to get down and walk. David might really drive now, and even flick at Ruby’s fat sides with the whip, which was pleasant, but did not make the least difference to his speed.
When they had reached the top of the hill, the little square tower of Easney church could just be seen, and the chimneys of the vicarage, but though they looked near, there were still nearly four miles to drive. Now it was all downhill, and Ruby pounded along at an even trot, which seemed to make a sort of accompaniment to David’s thoughts—
To market, to market,
To buy a fat pig;
Home again, home again,
Jig a jig, jig!
it said, over and over again. “I wonder whether Antony will know me!” thought David.
Five minutes more and the carriage stopped at the white gate, and Andrew getting down to open it, David drove in a masterly manner up to the front door, where Ambrose, Pennie, and Dickie were assembled to welcome the return. Amidst the bustle which followed, while Miss Unity’s belongings were being unpacked and carried indoors under the watchful eye of their owner, David slipped down from his perch and hurried away towards the kitchen-garden; Antony lived there, and he would go and see him first of all. As he ran along the narrow path, bordered with fruit-trees, he stooped to pick up a wrinkled red apple which had fallen. “He’s so fond of ’em!” thought he, as he put it in his pocket. There was the sty, and now he should soon hear the low grunt so delightful to his ears. All was silent, however, and he went on more slowly, with a slight feeling of dread, for somehow the sty had a strangely empty look about it. “He’s eating,” said David encouragingly to himself; but even as he said so he stood still, quite afraid to go any nearer. Then he called gently: “Choug, choug, choug.” No sign of life. No inquiring black snout peering over the edge. Unable to bear the uncertainty, he rushed forward and looked into the sty.
Empty! Yes, quite empty—Antony’s straw bed was there, and the remains of some food in his trough, but no Antony!
David stood staring at the desolate dwelling for some minutes, hardly able to believe his eyes; then with a thrill of hope he said to himself:
“He must have got out. He must be somewhere in the garden;” and he turned round to go and search for him. As he did so, he saw a small dejected figure coming down the path towards him with downcast face and lagging step. It was Nancy—grief in every feature, and guilt in every movement. One glance was enough for David; he understood it all now, and he flushed angrily, and turned his back upon her, clenching his fists tightly. She came slowly up and stood close to him; she was crying.
“Oh, Davie,” she said. “I am so sorry.”
“Where’s Antony?” said David in a muffled voice without looking at her.
“He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“Back to the farm.”
“Why?”
“Andrew took him. He found him eating the spinach, and he said he must obey orders. And I asked Miss Grey to stop him, and she said she couldn’t interfere—”
Nancy stopped and gasped.
“Then,” said David sternly, “you didn’t fasten his gate.”
“Oh, I thought I did,” said Nancy, beginning to sob again in an agonised manner; “but I forgot to put that stick through the staple, and he must have pushed it open. I am so sorry.”
“That’s no good at all,” said David with a trembling lip; “Antony’s gone.”
“I’ll give you anything of mine to make up,” said Nancy eagerly—“my bantam hen, or my dormouse, or my white kitten.”
“I don’t want anything of yours,” said David, “I want my own pig.”
Nancy was silent, except for some little convulsive sobs. Presently she made a last effort.
“Please, Davie,” she said humbly, “won’t you forgive me? I am so sorry.”
David turned round. His face was very red, but he spoke slowly and quietly:
“No,” he said, “I won’t forgive you. I never mean to. You promised to take care of Antony, and you haven’t. You’re very wicked.”
Then he went away and left Nancy in floods of tears by the empty sty.
Everyone sympathised with David at first, and was sorry for his loss, though perhaps no one quite understood what a great one it was to him; but there was another feeling mingled with his grief for Antony, which was even stronger, and that was anger towards his sister. David had a deep sense of justice, and it seemed hard to him that he alone should suffer for Nancy’s wrong-doing. When he saw her after a time as merry and gay as though Antony had never existed, he felt as hard as stone, and would neither speak to her nor join in any game in which she took part. She ought to be punished, he thought, and made to feel as unhappy as he did. Poor little Davie! he was very miserable in those days, and sadly changed, for his once loving heart was torn with grief and anger, which are both hard to bear, but anger far the worse of the two. So he moped about mournfully alone, and no one took much notice of him, for people got tired of trying to comfort him and persuade him to forgive. Even his mother was unsuccessful:
“You ought to forgive and forget, Davie,” said she.
“I can’t forget Antony,” replied David, “and I don’t want to forgive Nancy. I’d rather not.”
“But she would be the first to forget any wrong thing you did to her,” continued Mrs Hawthorn.
“Nancy always forgets,” said David, “wrong things and right things too.”
Mrs Hawthorn was silenced, for this was strictly true.
“I don’t know what to make of David,” she said to her husband afterwards. “I would ask you to let him have the pig back, but I don’t think he ought to have it while he shows this unforgiving spirit.”
“Let him alone,” said the vicar. “Leave it to time.”
So David was left alone; but time went on and did not seem to soften his feelings in the least, and this was at last brought about by a very unexpected person.
One morning Miss Unity, who had now been staying some time at Easney, went out to take a little air in the garden: it was rather damp under foot, for it had rained in the night, but now the sun shone brightly, and she stepped forth, well protected by over-shoes and thick shawl, with the intention of taking exercise for exactly a quarter of an hour.
From the direction of the Wilderness she heard shouts and laughter which warned her of the children’s whereabouts, and she turned at once into another path which led to the kitchen-garden.
“How Mary does let those children run wild!” she said to herself, “and Pennie getting a great girl, too. As for Miss Grey, she’s a perfect cipher, and doesn’t look after them a bit. If they were my children—”
But here Miss Unity’s reflections were checked. Lifting her eyes she saw at the end of the narrow path a low shed which looked like a pig-sty; by it was a plank, raised at each end on a stone, so as to form a rough bench, and on this there crouched a small disconsolate figure. It was bent nearly double, and had its face buried in its hands, so that only a rough shock of very light hair was visible; but though she could not see any features Miss Unity knew at once that it was David mourning for his pig.
Her first impulse was to turn round and go quickly away, for she had gathered from what she had heard of the affair that he was a very naughty, sulky little boy; as she looked, however, she saw by a slight heaving movement of the shoulder that he was crying quietly, and her heart was stirred with sudden pity:
“It’s a real grief to the child, that’s evident, though it’s only about a pig,” she said to herself, and, yielding to another impulse, she walked on towards him instead of going back. But after all it was a difficult situation when she got close to him, for she did not know what to say, although she felt an increasing desire to give him comfort. At any rate it was useless to stand there in silence looking at that little bowed head; would it be better to sit down by him, perhaps? she wondered, casting a doubtful eye on the decidedly dirty plank. Miss Unity was delicately particular, and her whole soul recoiled from dirt and dust, so it was really with heroic resolution that she suddenly folded her nice grey gown closely about her and took a seat, stiffly erect, by David’s side. When there she felt impelled to pat his head gently with two long fingers, and say softly: “Poor little boy!”
David had watched all Miss Unity’s movements narrowly through a chink in his fingers, though he kept his face closely hidden, and when she sat down beside him he was so surprised that he stopped crying. He wondered what she was going to say. She would scold him, of course, everyone scolded him now, and he set his teeth sullenly and prepared to defend himself. Then the unexpected kind words fell on his ear, and he could not help bursting into fresh tears, and sobbed as if his heart would break. It was partly for Antony, partly for Nancy, partly for himself that he was crying; he was so tired of being naughty, and he wanted so much to be made good again.
Miss Unity was sadly perplexed by the result of her efforts; she seemed to have made matters worse instead of better, and she sat for some minutes in silent dismay by the side of the sobbing David. But having begun she felt she must go on, and taking advantage of a little lull she presently said:
“Was it a nice pig, David?”
“B–b–beautiful.”
“And you miss it?”
This was so evident a fact that David seemed to think it needed no answer, and Miss Unity continued:
“It’s sad to lose anything we know and love. Very hard to bear. It’s quite natural and right to be sorry.”
David took his hands away from his face, which was curiously marked by dirty fingers and tears, and lifted a pair of blurred blue eyes to Miss Unity. He was listening, and she felt encouraged to proceed:
“But though it’s hard, there is something else that is much worse; do you know what that is?”
“No,” said David.
“To be angry with anyone we love,” said Miss Unity solemnly; “that is a very bitter feeling, and hurts us very much. All the while we have it in our hearts we can’t be happy, because anger and love are fighting together.”
David’s eyes grew rounder and larger. Could this really be Miss Unity? He was deeply impressed.
“And they fight,” she went on, “until one is killed. Very often love is stronger, but sometimes it is anger that conquers, and then sad things follow. In this way, David, much evil has happened in the world from time to time.”
Miss Unity paused. She felt that she was getting on very well, and was surprised at her own success, for David had stopped crying, and was staring at her with absorbed interest. She went on:
“When once we let anger drive love quite out of our hearts all manner of bad things enter; but we don’t often succeed in doing it, because love is so great and strong. Do you know why you’re so unhappy just now?”
“Because I’ve lost Antony,” said David at once.
“Yes, that is one reason, but there is a bigger one. It is because you are angry with Nancy.”
David hung his head.
“You’re fond of Nancy, Davie? I’ve heard your mother say that you and she are favourite playfellows.”
“No,” said David, “not now. She promised to shut Antony’s gate—and she forgot.”
Miss Unity stopped a moment to think; then she said:
“Would you be happier, David, if Nancy were to be punished?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be fair.”
“Well—you know it’s Nancy’s birthday soon, and she has to choose what present I shall give her?”
David nodded his head. He knew it very well; and not only that, he knew what Nancy was going to choose, for she had confided to him as a great secret that her heart was set on a kitchen-range for the doll’s house.
“When she chooses, would you like me to say: ‘No, Nancy. Because you were careless and forgot David’s pig I shall give you nothing this year?’”
Miss Unity waited eagerly for the answer. How she hoped it would be “No.” She had not been so anxious for anything for a long time.
But David raised his head, gazed at her calmly, and said quite distinctly:
“Yes.”
Miss Unity sighed as she got up from her lowly seat.
“Very well, David,” she said, “it shall be so; but I am sorry you will not forgive your sister.”
She went sadly back to the house, thinking to herself:
“Of course I could not persuade where others have failed. It was foolish to try. I have no influence with children. I ought to have remembered that.”
But she was mistaken. That night when she was dressing for dinner there was a little knock at her door, very low down as though from somebody of short stature. She opened it, and there was David.
“If you please,” he said, “I’ve come to say that I’d rather you gave Nancy the kitchen-range—I mean, whatever she chooses for her birthday.”
“Then you’ve forgiven her?” asked Miss Unity excitedly.
“Yes,” said David. “Good-night, because it’s bed-time. Nurse said I was to go back directly.”
He held out his hand, and also raised a pursed-up mouth towards Miss Unity, which meant that he wished to be kissed.
Feeling the honour deeply she stooped and kissed him, and her eyes followed the little square figure wistfully as it trotted down the passage to the nursery; when it disappeared she turned into her room again with a warmer feeling about her heart than she had known for many a day.
Three days after this was Nancy’s birthday, and although the kitchen-range did not appear she hopped and skipped and looked so brimful of delight that David could not help asking: “What are you so pleased about?”
“Come with me,” was Nancy’s reply, “and I’ll show you Miss Unity’s birthday present. It’s the best of all.”
She hurried David into the garden, and up to the pig-sty—empty no longer! There was Antony as lively as ever, and ready to greet his master with a cheerful grunt!
“There,” she said, in the intervals of a dance of triumph, “I and Andrew fetched him home. Father said we might. I asked Miss Unity to ask him to have him back for a birthday present. And she did. She was so kind; and I don’t think she’s ugly now at all.”
Nor did David; and he never said again that the thing he liked least at Nearminster was Miss Unity, for he had a long memory for benefits as well as for injuries.