Priscilla and Charybdis: A Story of Alternatives

by Frank Frankfort Moore

He felt very bitterly on the subject of his daughter’s refusal to wear mourning; and now that the local papers had dealt so fully with the leading incident of the wreck, recognizing the popular element that it contained, he was angrier than ever. He asked her if she had any idea what the people would think of her if she were to appear among them without even a hint at the “weeds”; and when she replied that she had never thought of the people of Framsby and did not intend to begin now, he expressed himself as being ready to accept a compromise from her on this point. He tried to suggest to her the possibility of adopting such a costume as would make it plain that, while she deplored the past errors of her husband, she fully appreciated the elements of distinction associated with his last act.

That was what he had in his mind, but he did not quite succeed in giving definition to it with sufficient clearness to enforce its appeal to her sense of proportion; and when she told him so, he stalked away from her.

And that “romance of the sea,” as one newspaper termed it, had apparently attracted the attention of the lady who had been responsible for Priscilla’s meeting with the man, for the young widow received a long letter from her Aunt Emily the purport of which was to convince her that, in spite of what had been said at the time of her marriage, she, Aunt Emily, had been quite correct in the estimate she had formed of the character of Marcus Blaydon: he had shown himself to be a fine and noble gentleman—Aunt Emily harped on the word “gentleman,” as usual. She ended her letter with a sentence which, reduced to the plainest English, was in effect: “Since I did so well for you once before, if you come to me now you may depend on my doing as much for you again.”

Her father thought she should visit her aunt and give her another trial. (He wanted to get her as far away as possible from the observation of Framsby—to get her removed to some place where the absence of those distinguishing “weeds” would not arouse comment.)

Priscilla threw the letter, torn into shreds, out of the window, and some of the choicest paragraphs became the lining of a blackbird’s nest that was being hastily papered and plastered for the coming of a new brood.

She did not hasten to show herself in the street of Framsby. What was Framsby to her that she should flaunt in its face her feeling in regard to her position? She had no occasion to go into the town, and she took care that she did not create an artificial necessity for the sake of displaying her unconventionality. Her friend Rosa paid her a visit, accompanied by her mother, who really liked Priscilla. Now Rosa’s visit was one of congratulation, whereas her mother’s was one of condolence, so that she had no reason to complain on any score. She did not complain. She took the congratulations with the condolences in the spirit in which they were offered, and so every one was satisfied.

At the end of a fortnight she began to have a longing for some traffic with the outer world. She was becoming as melancholy as the Lady of Shalott; and the Daily Mirror, in which she gazed every morning to find a reflection of the incidents of life, only caused her longings to be increased. The things of the farm, the incidents of the orchard, the promise of the crops, the “likely” calves, the multiplying of the lambs, now ceased to interest her. Neither her father nor her mother had encouraged her to take any interest in the great money-making farm; they gave her to understand that her part in connection with the farm was to spend the money that it made for the family. She was to be a “lady,” and this involved laziness in all matters that mattered in connection with the farm. She was to give all her attention to her piano, to her painting, to her dressing, all these being accomplishments as essential to the development of a “lady” as an acquaintance with the methods of the farm was detrimental to the effecting of this end—the great end of life.

But Priscilla had, without any desire to go against the will of her parents, come to perceive how infinitely more interesting were the things of the farm than the working of tea cloths and the embroidering of teapot cosies—the eminently ladylike occupations which her mother encouraged her to pursue. The consequence was that, in the course of a year or two, she knew a great deal about the farm, and several times she had detected errors made by the men responsible for at least two of the departments; but having only communicated her knowledge to the men themselves, and not to her father, she had not hurt the susceptibilities of either the former or the latter.

But now, as the month of May went on, and she remained watching how all living things around her were full of the delights of companionship, she had a sense of loneliness—of isolation. She felt keenly just now the cruelty of her position in respect of the “sets” at Framsby. She knew that the Tennis and Croquet Club was in full swing, but she was not a member. Rosa Caffyn had been made to understand by Mrs. Gifford, the lady who practically ran the club, that she need not put up Miss Wadhurst’s name, for she would have no chance of being admitted. Then there were two cricket matches being played on the county ground, but she had no one with whom she could go, though she took great interest in cricket, and all Framsby would be there.

She felt very lonely in her isolation on the Downs, and began to go for long walks in the company only of Douglas, her Scotch collie, keeping as remote as possible from the motor tracks, for the month was turning out dusty dry. But in spite of her intentions in this direction, she detected the aroma of burning petrol when she was on her way home through a rather steep brambly lane, the surface of which retained the cart ruts of the previous winter—perhaps of an earlier winter still. The scent seemed warm, so she was not surprised to come upon the fons et origo when she had followed the bend of the lane toward the old coach road. The machine was standing with one wheel up on the ditch, and its engine was silent. Two men were on their knees in front of the exposed machinery, but it was plain that their posture was not devotional—in fact, from the character of a word or two that strayed to her ears, she gathered that it was just the opposite.