Chapter Two.
Stephen’s confession.
Stephen Charrington had expressed a wish to consult with his aunt and uncle less from any preconceived intention than from a feeling of helplessness which took possession of him as he penned the news of his father’s death. It had seemed to him at the moment that the advice of any one older and wiser than himself would be of value in deciding plans for the future, but no sooner was the letter irretrievably on its way than he began to tremble at the prospect of telling Philippa of what he had done. Philippa had been left co-trustee with himself, and she was not a young woman who would meekly be put on one side. What she thought, she said; what she willed, she accomplished; and anything like interference was to her as the brandishing of a red rag in the face of a bull. Stephen resolved to wait for a favourable opportunity before breaking the news of the intended visit, and to introduce it casually in the midst of a general conversation, when there would be less chance of a “scene.” On Tuesday he decided to speak on Wednesday; on Wednesday there seemed abundant reason why he should postpone the disclosure until Thursday; on Thursday his uncle’s note arrived announcing his arrival on the following day, and there could be no longer delay. Stephen betook himself to the morning-room, where his sisters sat in conclave, and hid himself behind a newspaper, awaiting his opportunity.
Despite the gloominess of the autumn day and the mournful nature of the work on hand, the scene was far from being doleful. To begin with, the background was pretty—a long, low apartment, half studio, half workroom, its walls washed a rich crimson hue, and covered with unmounted sketches, plaster casts on brackets, and a hundred quaint, artistic odds and ends. Against this background the four sisters made an interesting group as they busied themselves with the sewing on hand. There was no money forthcoming to pay dressmaking bills, and little enough to buy material, so it was necessary to use up what was in the house—to turn and twist and remake, and cover over, and patch together—an occupation which involved no little ingenuity in addition to the mere manual labour.
Philippa stood by the table, the big cutting-out scissors in her hands; a handsome girl with clearly cut aquiline features, and dark hair which rippled back in a soft, smoke-like mass, and was coiled gracefully together on the nape of her neck. Her shoulders were broad and square, and had a trick of broadening still further in dignified, self-assertive fashion when their owner was annoyed or wished to exercise her authority. Madge always declared that she looked at Philippa’s shoulders when she wished to see how the wind blew; but then Madge was so daring and inconsequent in her remarks that no one paid much attention to what she said! Behold her now, running seams on the old-fashioned treadle machine, with bent back and long, pointed chin poked forward over the needle. As often as not a jerk of the hands or an erratic movement of the feet would be followed by a jar, a knot, a breaking of the thread; and when this occurred Madge would clench both fists together and mouth dumb anathemas, the while she rolled tragic eyes to the ceiling. If there was one thing on earth which she detested more than another, it was plain sewing; but this morning she had gallantly volunteered to do the machining, and machine she would, no matter what tortures it might cost her! She was a little scrap of a thin, starved-looking creature, with a long, narrow face, plain features, and just the prettiest, happiest, most lovable pair of hazel eyes you can possibly imagine. Even to-day they looked happy, for there was a certain transparency and twinkling light in the iris which seemed independent of varying moods. Madge was eighteen, and was going to be an artist and have pictures hung on the line in the Academy or know the reason why, and in her opinion her time would have been much more profitably employed daubing in the attic than doing dull, useful work downstairs; but, as has been said, there are occasions when personal inclinations have to be laid in the dust.
Theo sat by herself, unpicking a coloured lining from a black grenadine dress, with an expression of tragic despair. It was not that she sorrowed for her father more deeply than her sisters, but it was Theo’s nature to revel in emotion and deliberately to work herself up to the height of rejoicing or down to the depths of despair. She was a tall, graceful girl, with a face which was decidedly interesting if not regularly pretty, and her broad forehead and deep-set eyes seemed to portray a greater brain-power than that possessed by the rest of the family. Theo had written stories for her own amusement since the age of ten, and was even now engaged upon a full-fledged novel with which she hoped to burst upon an astonished world. It seemed a horrible, ghoul-like proceeding to examine her own feelings in order to be able to depict what Veronica, her heroine, should feel in the hour of her desolation; and she was disgusted with herself because, despite all resolutions, she had been mentally taking notes during the whole of the past week. Now, as she sat unpicking the pretty pink lining and casting it ruthlessly on one side, her busy brain was weaving a simile by which it appeared that all the brightness of life was left behind and nothing remained but blackness and desolation.
By Philippa’s side—adviser, assistant, and architect-in-chief—stood golden-haired Hope, sweet as her name, and all unselfish anxiety for the good of others. Her white forehead was wrinkled with the strain of trying to induce two yards of silk to do duty for three, and she stood at attention, staring down at the pattern spread over the black folds, and rubbing her chin in solemn calculation as she discussed the knotty point.
“If I were to make the yoke of something else, and let the silk come from the arm-holes only, do you think we could manage it then? There is some of that old black velvet that could be used for the yoke, and it could be made to look very nice. I am afraid we couldn’t match this silk even if we tried.”
“Don’t want to try,” said Philippa shortly. “Spent quite enough as it is. Well, we shall either have to do it that way or make the sleeves of another material to match the skirt.—Theo, it’s for you. Which would you rather have?”
“Don’t care at all. Make it as you please; I take no interest in the matter,” replied Theo, turning her head elaborately in an opposite direction and speaking in a tone of implied rebuke, which brought a flash into Philippa’s eyes.
“Then you ought to take an interest! How are we to get on if no one will say what she wants? We want to do our best for you, and it’s not much trouble just to say what you like, and help us to decide.”
Theo looked round at that, and lo! her eyes were full of tears.
“I think it’s hateful to think of clothes at all,” she cried passionately. “What does it matter how they are made? Make me a sack if you like; it will make no difference to me.”
“Yes, dear, it will; you are mistaken there. We shall have to wear these things for a long time, and the day will come when it would worry you very much to wear what you did not like. I know you feel no interest just now, but it would be really unselfish to rouse yourself enough to consider the question and help us with our work,” said Hope, the peacemaker, speaking just in time to stop Philippa’s sharp retort and so avert the threatened storm. Theo, the emotional, was always ready to be swayed by a soft word; besides, she adored Hope, and was especially sensitive to her wishes. So the black skirt was dropped to the floor, and she came forward obediently to discuss the important question of sleeves versus yokes. It was wonderful how particular she became when once her attention was aroused, and what precise instructions she had to give concerning shape and size. Madge dropped her chin until it looked longer than ever, and exchanged a sly glance with Philippa; for if the two middle girls paired together, the eldest and youngest had a wonderful sympathy of feeling, and rarely failed to understand an unspoken message.
“Very well, then; that’s settled,” said Theo, in conclusion. “And when it is done you needn’t trouble to make anything more for me, for if there is any chance of going to London before winter I would rather wait and get what I want when we can shop in comfort. Did you see Mr Matthews to-day, Stephen, and tell him that this house might be to let at Michaelmas?”
Poor Stephen! He quaked behind his newspaper, knowing that his hour had come. “No-o, not to-day,” he said feebly; and then Madge must needs fall upon him in her turn, and cry:
“Oh Steve, how foolish! We told you he was looking at the Masons’ house last week, and if you put off seeing him he may take it before he knows there is a chance of getting this one. You really must go to-morrow. If we let him slip, goodness knows when we may find another tenant.”
Stephen put down the newspaper and braced himself for the fray. After all, he was the eldest of the family, the man and master, and it was cowardice to shrink from what a girl might say! “I can’t see him to-morrow, for I shall be otherwise engaged. I have had a letter from Uncle Loftus to say that he and Aunt Gertrude are coming down to-morrow to talk over arrangements with us and give us their advice as to the future. When I wrote to them last week I said I should be grateful if they would help us in this way, and it is good of them to come so far on our account. Uncle writes most kindly. He seems really interested. I think we have misjudged him in the past. At any rate, his wife was father’s nearest relative, and it seemed right that they should be consulted.”
Silence. The three girls looked fearfully at Philippa, and Philippa studied her pattern with an air of elaborate carelessness, making dainty snicks at the silk with the cutting-out scissors.
“And for how long, may I ask, have you invited them to stay? It may be necessary to make a few preparations, and as the house is hardly in a state to receive visitors, we had better begin at once.”
“They are not coming here; they are to put up at the inn. Now, Phil, come! don’t take it like that. Honestly, I never intended to do anything behind your back. I was so worried and puzzled when I wrote that I said on the impulse of the moment that I wished they would give us their help. I did not tell you about it, for, to tell the truth, I never expected that they would come. Surely you feel, as I do, that we are ignorant and inexperienced, and would be the better for advice from people who know the world. You are a sensible girl; I am sure you agree.”
“I don’t think it is a question of understanding the world so much as understanding us and our circumstances,” said Philippa, standing up suddenly and facing him with kindling eyes. She seemed about to add something sharp and stinging, but controlled herself with a visible effort, and said quietly, “You should not have done this without consulting me, Steve. If we have to work together there must be confidence between us. But let that pass. I don’t want to make unnecessary difficulties. We have enough as it is, goodness knows! I should welcome any advice that came from a reliable source, but the Loftus connection have shown so plainly of late years that they wished to have nothing to do with us, that I can’t say their opinion will have any weight with me. They are selfish, worldly creatures, who only think of their own convenience.”
“Even so, my dear, they may be useful to us. Worldly wisdom is an ingredient which has been conspicuous by its absence in our family up till now. It is time we made a reform,” said Steve, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice; for it is a heavy burden for a young fellow of twenty-five to find himself saddled with the responsibility of an impecunious young family, and it was difficult to subdue a feeling of resentment as he remembered the careless régime of the past. “When it comes to the final decision you and I must give the casting votes, but it would be an ease to my mind, at least, if a man of the world like Uncle Loftus approved of what we were going to do. Come now, Phil! it would to you too. If the worst came to the worst, and our venture proved a failure, it would be a comfort to you to feel that you had not acted alone.”
“I don’t think anything could comfort me then,” said Philippa sadly. She leant against the table and snapped unconsciously at the air with the scissors. “If it will be any satisfaction to you, Steve, I am glad that they are coming; but, honestly, they won’t alter my decision. I have thought and thought until my brain feels like a jelly, but there seems no way out of the tangle but the one we propose. If Uncle Loftus tries to dissuade me, I shall be obliged to tell him that in this matter I consider my own judgment better than his. How can he decide what is best for us? What does he know of our characters and possibilities? We are not like other families. We may be less amiable and worthy in many respects, but we are cleverer. It isn’t conceited to say so, for it’s true. We have inherited father’s gifts, and ought to be able to do something with our lives. Other girls might be content to stodge along and never see anything of the world, and teach the doctor’s children, and marry the curates, and be as poor as Job all their lives, but—”
“‘But that’s not me nor you!’” quoted Madge vigorously, stopping the machine with the usual jar and snap, and tossing her determined chin with an air of defiance. “I won’t stodge for any one. If fifty aunts and a hundred uncles came and sat in rows round the room, and besought me to be a good little girl and stay where I was, I’d snap my fingers in their faces and tell them that I had to live my own life, and I’d take jolly good care that I lived it in my own way.”
“Madge!”
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to interfere. Thought you might like to know my sentiments—that’s all. Keep me out of the room when the Loftuses are here if you don’t wish them to hear home-truths. I don’t mince my words when I’m roused, as some of you know to your cost I’ll shake hands with them when they come, and say good-bye when they go, and they will say to each other as they drive away, ‘Plain, heavy-looking girl that youngest! They will never be able to do anything with her.’ Ha, ha!” and Madge laughed in a mocking, derisive fashion, which brought an answering flicker of amusement to the anxious faces of her companions. It was evident that she fully expected an hour to come when her relatives would be stupefied to discover the genius of the age in the “plain, heavy-looking girl” whom they had despised, and it said volumes for her attainments that the prospect seemed within range of possibility to more than one of her audience.
Theo, however, had an objection to make. “I think you are very foolish if you do anything of the kind,” she said severely. “We ought to make the best of ourselves, not the worst, if we want them to agree to our plan. They know that we are poor and have lived in the country all our lives, and I suppose they imagine that we are great, awkward, clownish creatures who know nothing about society or how things should be done. I vote we surprise them. Let’s all put on our nicest things, and make the house look its very, very best, and prepare a chic little luncheon, and give them coffee afterwards; and let them see that we don’t require any patronage, and are quite able to take care of ourselves. I’m sure that’s the best plan; isn’t it, Phil?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Go your own ways. You want to appear better than you are; Madge wants to appear worse. I’m going to be myself—horribly myself! I don’t feel that I can pretend one bit. It’s all very well for you; you are only standing on the ramparts. I have to go down and fight the battle,” cried poor Philippa dismally, and Hope’s arm stole round her waist with a close, encouraging pressure.
Hope was so sorry for every one in turn that she had no time to be sorry for herself. “It will soon be over,” she whispered fondly. “Cheer up, Phil! By this time to-morrow they will have come and gone.”