‘Did you know my father, Mrs. Brown?’
‘My dear, I told you I have known all sorts of people. I knew them all, more or less, in Paris. There was always plenty going on; and I love to be where a great many things are going on. I will tell you how I know your cousin Jim. I am in a very frank humour to-day—in a coming on mood like Rosalind. I had met him in Oxford, when I was not as I am now, at a very gay, noisy party indeed, where I was with some people—whom I would not name in your hearing. I spoke to him here out of prudence, thinking he might say to his father, the Rector, or his mother, the Rectoress—I have seen that woman before, and she is not fit to have charge of your school. So for a selfish motive I made friends with him. It took away his breath at first; but he is a lamb, poor innocent, like yourself, and was very sorry to think I should have so come down in the world.’
‘Mrs. Brown!’ cried Mab. She was put at a dreadful disadvantage by that apple, which was very good, especially with the little pot of cream poured over it in the most lavish hospitable way. When you have once accepted such a thing, and are in the middle of it with the spoon in your hand, and the sweetness melting in your mouth, it is very difficult to express your consternation, or indignation, or dismay.
‘And my opinion is,’ said the schoolmistress, ‘that he can be stopped and brought back, if anybody will take the trouble—judiciously—not in the driving and nagging way. I’m glad to see the curate has stepped in, though he is no friend of mine. Well! but you would like to hear a little more of my history. Do you know what a Bohemian is? You must have seen the word in books. Well, then, I was a Bohemian born. We were both so; but the other, who was the great lady, settled, as great ladies do, and had her irregularities about her, in her own kingdom, don’t you know; but I went out to seek mine. I never did very much harm, however, or I would not talk to a little girl like you about it. I looked on at other people’s fun, and that was fun enough for me. There is always mud about it in the end, and it sticks. I like best to look on——’
Mab had finished her apple by dint of taking large mouthfuls. She had felt that it would be something dreadful, ungrateful, uncivil beyond description to put it down and run away. So, though she was much troubled, she only hurried the more over the consumption of what was on her plate. When it was finished she put down the plate, thankful to have it over, yet feeling that even now she could not be so beggarly as to jump up at once and go away. ‘I wish,’ she said, faltering, ‘please, Mrs. Brown—that you would not tell me any more——’
‘Oh, don’t be afraid,’ cried Mrs. Brown, with a laugh; ‘I shall not bring a blush upon that cheek. I have always been in mischief, but I have not done much harm. I go wherever the whim takes me. I am sometimes in the heart of the demi-monde—though you don’t know where that is—and sometimes in a great lady’s boudoir, and sometimes in a girls’ school. You may wonder how I got here; but my certificates were perfectly good, and no one had a word to say against me. The demi-monde, you know, either in London or Paris, has no connection with Watcham School.’
‘Oh, I wish you would not tell me any more—please don’t tell me any more!’ cried Mab, rising up (though still deeply sensible that it was too abrupt after the apple), ‘for,’ she added, in her trouble, ‘I don’t know at all what you mean.’
‘But my dear young lady,’ said Mrs. Brown, ‘you have neither told me how you liked my apple, nor what you wanted me to do.’
‘Oh,’ cried Mab, arrested and feeling all the weight of that sin against the hospitality she had accepted. Her honest little face grew crimson-red, and her eyes sank for the moment before those bold and keen ones that seemed to read her very soul. ‘The apple was very nice, thank you,’ she said, faltering, ‘I—never tasted any like it: but—mother will be waiting for me for her dinner—I—think I must go.’
‘Tell me first,’ said Mrs. Brown, ‘what you wanted me to do.’