“That was like Charles the First,” said Pennie; “don’t you remember just before they cut off his head—”
“Oh, don’t!” said Nancy; “pray, don’t talk about Charles the First out of lesson time.”
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!”