Chapter Six.
Enter Miggles.
Three days later the two girls were ensconced in their country quarters, and Jean was beginning to suffer from the effects of reaction. Her impressionable nature was capable of generous impulses, which found vent in such actions of self-abnegation as the present flight from town, but long-continued effort was too heavy a trial. Once settled down in the quiet house by the sea, and past the excitement of the first arrival, she began to droop and to fret, and to demand of herself and every one with whom she came in contact why she had been so foolish as to abandon her last weeks in town.
“To-night is the Listers’ ball. I was going to wear the new white. At this very moment I should have been preening before the glass. I feel a horrid conviction that it would have suited me to distraction, that I should have had the night of my life. I can’t think what you were dreaming about, Vanna, to let me rush off in that undignified way. I’m impulsive; but a word from you would have kept me straight. And you never spoke it. I don’t think I can ever forgive you. If you hadn’t any consideration for me, you might have thought of Edith. For her sake I should have stayed in town and been as nice as possible to Robert Gloucester. If a man can’t run the gauntlet of other women, he would make a poor sort of husband. When I fall in love, I shall make a point of introducing the man to the most charming women of my acquaintance, and if he shows any sign of being attracted by a special one, I’ll throw them together. I will! You see if I don’t! If he didn’t like me better than them all put together, I should be glad, thankful, delighted to let him go. Any girl would, who had a spirit. I feel that I have behaved very meanly and unkindly to poor dear Edith. Why don’t you speak? What’s the good of sitting there like a mummy? Can’t you hear?”
“Perfectly, thank you. I am listening with great interest and attention. Being of a generous nature, I refrain from repeating the remarks which you made when I did venture to expostulate, but if you will cast back your thoughts—”
“Oh, well,” interrupted Jean naughtily, “I shall just flirt with Piers. I deserve some distraction after being such a monument of virtue, and I’ll have it, or know the reason why. I wrote to tell him we were here, so he’ll come over this afternoon, and we’ll go for a walk by the sad sea waves. You might twist your ankle on the pebbles, a little innocent twist, you know, just enough to make it wise to sit down and rest while we have our tête-à-tête. Since you’ve brought me here against my will, it’s the least you can do. Piers shall have tea with us before we start. Miggles adores Piers.”
“Miggles,” formally known as Miss Miggs, was a well-known character in the Goring ménage, having been in succession, governess to Jean, housekeeper during the period of Mr Goring’s widowerhood, and afterwards governess to the two sons of the second marriage. After so many years of faithful service it seemed impossible to dispense with Miggles’s services, and in truth no one wished to do so, for she was one of the cheery souls who carry sunshine as an atmosphere. According to ordinary ideas, Miggles might have grumbled with the best, and demanded a universal toll of sympathy, for she was the most solitary of units—a woman who could not claim relationship with a angle soul in her own hemisphere. She had passed her sixtieth birthday, and despite rigid economies, possessed only a few hundred pounds between herself and want; her health, never strong, showed signs of growing more precarious, and an affection of the eyes shut her off from her loved pastimes of reading and needlework. Nevertheless, Miggles was so far from being depressed by such circumstances, that it had not even occurred to her that she deserved to be pitied. This blessed state of mind had been achieved by no conflict and struggle of the soul—no noble effort of will; religion itself had contributed little towards it. Miggles’s disposition was a birthright for which she was seemingly as little responsible as for the colour of her hair. As a child, when circumstances had offered a choice between smiles and tears, she had instinctively elected to smile; as a girl, the mere facts of life and movement had seemed sufficient to ensure complete happiness; while later on she had been so much occupied with being thankful for silver linings that the clouds themselves flitted by attracting but scanty attention. In cheery, non-consequent fashion, she would discourse of her blessings by the hour together.
“Now, would you believe it, my dear, not a soul belonging to me nearer than Australia—my nephew Henry, dear boy, but rash—such a pity! always was, from a child. Thomas now—the elder brother—he would always save. My mother was so particular about bringing us up to save. ‘Instil good principles from the beginning’ she would say. But however—what was I talking about? Ah, yes! not a soul nearer than Australia, and three letters by this morning’s post. Isn’t it wonderful? People are so kind. Really, except Monday, when there was a fashion-book from a shop—I do like seeing the fashions—there’s been something on my plate every morning. That’s so cheering to begin the day. You know some one has been thinking of you, and caring enough to sit down and write.”