Arabella (6 page)

“Mama!” said Arabella faintly. “
Mama!
”

“Good gracious, my love, what is it?”

Arabella dumbly proffered the Squire’s banknote. Mrs. Tallant took it from her, saying: “You would like me to take care of it for you, would you? Very well, I will do so, my dear, or you would be squandering it on presents for your brothers and sisters, perhaps!”

“Mama, it is a bill for
fifty pounds!
”

“No!” gasped Sophia.

“Well, that is certainly very generous of your uncle,” said Mrs. Tallant. “If I were you, Arabella, I would embroider a pair of slippers for him before you go away, for you will not like to be backward in any little attention.”

“Oh, no! But I never dreamed—I am sure I did not thank him half enough! Mama, will you take it for my dresses, please?”

“Certainly not.
That
is all provided for. You will find it very much more comfortable in London to have this money by you—indeed, I had hoped your uncle might give you something to spend! There will be little things you may want to purchase, and vails to the servants, you know, and so on. And although your Papa would not like you to
gamble
precisely, there may be loo-parties, and naturally you would wish to play. In fact, it would be awkward if you did not.”

Sophia opened her eyes at this. “Papa does not like any of us to play gambling games, ma’am, does he? He says that cards are to blame for many of the evils—”

“Yes, my dear, very likely! But a loo-party is quite a different thing!” said Mrs. Tallant, somewhat obscurely. She fidgeted with her reticule for a moment, and then added, a little consciously: “I should not tease Papa with telling him the whole history of our doings today, girls. Gentlemen do not take the same interest in such things as we do, and I am sure he has very much more important things to think of.”

Her daughters did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Oh, I would not breathe a word to him!” said Sophia.

“No,” agreed Arabella. “And
particularly
not about the fifty pounds, for I am sure he would say it was too much, and I must give it back to my uncle! And I don’t think I
could!
”

III

in the end, it was not until after the middle of February that Arabella set out to accomplish the long journey to London. Not only had Mme. Dupont taken more time to make the necessary gowns than had been anticipated, but there had been many details to arrange besides; and Betsy had not failed to delay preparations by contracting a putrid sore throat, and low fever. It was felt to be typical of her.

While Mrs. Tallant still had her hands full, nursing her, Bertram, succumbing to temptation, took French leave of his books and his Papa, and enjoyed a splendid day with the hounds, which culminated in his return to the Parsonage on a farm wagon, with a broken collar-bone. A gloom was thrown over the house for quite a week by this mishap, because the Vicar was not only vexed, but deeply grieved as well. It was not the accident which upset him, for although he did not hunt himself now he had done so regularly in his youth, but (he said) the want of openness in Bertram which had led him to go off without asking permission, or, indeed, even telling his father what he meant to do. The Vicar could not understand such conduct at all, for surely he was not a harsh parent, and surely his sons must know that he did not wish to deprive them of rational enjoyment? He was bewildered, and disturbed, and begged Bertram to explain why he had behaved in such a manner. But it was quite impossible to explain to Papa why one chose rather to play truant, and afterwards take the consequences, than to ask his leave to do something of which one knew well he would not approve.

“How
can
you explain anything to my father?” Bertram demanded of his sisters, in a despairing tone. “He would only be more hurt than ever, and give one a thundering jaw, and make one feel like the greatest beast in nature!”

“I know,” said Arabella feelingly. “I think what makes him look so displeased and sad is that he believes you must be afraid of him, and so dared not ask his leave to go. And, of course, one
can’t
explain that it isn’t
that!
”

“He wouldn’t understand if you did,” remarked Sophia.

“Well, exactly so!” said Bertram. “Besides, you couldn’t do it! A pretty botch I should make of telling him that I didn’t ask leave because I knew he would look grave, and say I must decide for myself, but did I feel it to be right to go pleasuring when I have examinations to pass—oh, you know the way he talks! The end of it would be that I shouldn’t have gone at all! I hate moralizing!”

“Yes,” agreed Sophia, “but the worst of it is that whenever one of us vexes him he very likely falls into the most dreadful dejection, and worries himself with thinking that we are all of us heedless and spoilt, and himself much to blame. I wish he may not forbid you to go to London because of Bertram’s wretched folly, Bella!”

“What a bag of moonshine!” exclaimed Bertram scornfully. “Why the deuce should he, pray?”

It certainly seemed a trifle unreasonable, but when his children next encountered the Vicar, which was at the dinner-table, his countenance wore an expression of settled melancholy, and it was plain that he derived no comfort from the young people’s cheerful conversation. A somewhat thoughtless enquiry from Margaret about the exact colour of the ribbons chosen for Arabella’s second-best ball dress provoked him to say that it seemed to him that amongst all his children only James was not wholly given over to levity and frivolity. Unsteadiness of character was what he perceived about him; when he considered that the mere prospect of a visit to London sent all his daughters fashion-mad he must ask himself whether he was not doing very wrong to permit Arabella to go.

A moment’s reflection would have convinced Arabella that this was the merest irritation of nerves, but her besetting sin, as her Mama had frequently told her, was the impetuosity which led her into so many scrapes. Alarm at the Vicar’s words for an instant suspended every faculty; then she exclaimed hotly: “Papa! You are unjust! It is too bad!”

The Vicar had never been a severe parent; indeed, he was thought by some to allow his children a shocking degree of licence; but such a speech as this went beyond the bounds of what he would tolerate. His face stiffened to an expression of queuing austerity; he replied in a voice of ice: “The unwarrantable language you have used, Arabella; the uncontrolled violence of your manner; the want of respect you have shown me—all these betray clearly how unfit you are to be sent into the world!”

Under the table, Sophia’s foot kicked Arabella’s ankle; across it, Mama’s eyes met hers in a warning, reproving look. The colour surged up into her cheeks; her eyes filled; and she stammered: “I beg your p-pardon, P-papa!”

He returned no answer. Mama broke the uneasy silence by calmly desiring Harry not to eat so fast; and then, just as though nothing untoward had occurred, began to talk to the Vicar about some parish business.

“What a dust you made!” Harry said presently, when the young people had fled to Mama’s dressing-room, and poured out the whole story to Bertram, who had had his dinner brought to him there, on the sofa.

“I am
sick
with apprehension!” Arabella said tragically. “He means to forbid me!”

“Fudge! It was only one of his scolds! Girls are such fools!”

“Ought I to go down and beg his pardon? Oh, no, I dare not! He has shut himself up in the study! What shall I do?”

“Leave it to Mama!” said Bertram, yawning. “She’s as shrewd as she can hold together, and if she means you to go to London, go you will!”

“I would not go to him now, if I were you,” said Sophia. “You are in such an agitation of spirits that you would be bound to say something unbecoming, or start to cry. And you know how much he dislikes an excess of sensibility! Speak to him in the morning, after prayers!”

This course was decided on. And then, as Arabella afterwards confided to Bertram, it was more dreadful than all the rest! Mama had done her work too well: before the Vicar’s erring daughter could utter a word of her carefully rehearsed apology, he had taken her hand, and said with his sweet, wistful smile: “My child, you must forgive your father. Indeed, I spoke to you with grave injustice yesterday! Alas, that I, who preach moderation to my children, should have so little control over my own temper!”

“Bertram, I had rather by far he had
beaten
me!” said Arabella earnestly.

“Lord, yes!” agreed Bertram, shuddering. “What a shocking thing! I’m glad I wasn’t downstairs! It makes me feel like the devil when he gets to blaming himself. What did you say?”

“I could not utter a word! My voice was
wholly
suspended by tears, as you may imagine, and I was so afraid that he would be vexed with me for not being able to contain my feelings better! But he was not. Only fancy! he took me in his arms, and kissed me, and said I was his dear, good daughter, and oh, Bertram, I’m
not!
”

“Well, you need not put yourself in a pucker for that,” recommended her matter-of-fact brother. “He won’t think it above a day or two. The thing is that his dejected fit is at an end.”

“Oh, yes! But it was much, much worse at breakfast! He would keep on talking to me about the London scheme—teasing me, you know, about the giddy life I should lead there, and saying that I must be sure to write very long letters home, even if I cannot get a frank for them, for he would be so much interested to hear of all my doings!”

Bertram stared at her in undisguised horror. “He did not!”

“But he did! And in the kindest way, only with that sad look in his eyes—you know! until I was ready to give up the whole scheme!”

“My God, I don’t wonder at it!”

“No, and to crown all—as though I had not borne enough!” disclosed Arabella, hunting wildly for her handkerchief, “he said I should want something pretty to wear in London, and he would have a pearl pin he wore when he was a young man made into a ring for me!”

This staggering intelligence made Bertram’s jaw drop. After a moment’s stupefaction, he said resolutely: “That settles it! I shan’t come downstairs today after all. Ten to one, if he saw me he would start to blame himself for my frisk, and I should be driven into running away to enlist, or something, because, you know, a fellow can’t stand that kind of thing!”

“No, indeed! I am sure all
my
pleasure has been quite cut up!”

Since Papa’s tender mood of forbearance showed every sign of continuance, Arabella fell into such an abyss of despondency that she was only saved from renouncing the London scheme by the timely intervention of Mama, who gave her thoughts a more cheerful direction by calling her into her bedroom one morning, and saying with a smile: “I have something to show you, my love, which I think you will like.”

There was a box lying open upon Mama’s dressing-table. Arabella blinked at the flash of diamonds, and uttered a long-drawn: “Oh-h!”

“My father gave them to me,” said Mrs. Tallant, sighing faintly. “Of course I have never worn them of late years, for I have no occasion to. Besides, they are scarcely suitable for a clergyman’s wife. But I have had them cleaned, and I mean to lend them to you to take with you to London. And I have asked Papa if he thinks I might give you Grandmama Tallant’s pearl necklet, and he sees no objection to it. Your Papa has never cared for sparkling stones, you know, but he thinks pearls both modest and becoming to a female. However, if Lady Bridlington takes you to any dress-parties, which I am sure she will, the diamond set would be just the thing. You see, there is the crescent to set in your hair, and a brooch, and the bracelet as well. Nothing pretentious or vulgar, such as Papa would dislike, but I know the stones are of the finest water.”

It was impossible to be dejected after this, or even to contemplate abandoning the London scheme. What with the trimming of hats, hemming of handkerchiefs, embroidering of slippers for the Squire, the arrival of her gowns from Harrowgate, and the knitting of a new purse for Papa, together with all the ordinary duties which fell to her lot, Arabella had no time to indulge in morbid reflections. Everything went on prosperously: the Caterhams’ retiring governess expressed herself all willingness to chaperon Arabella on the journey; the Squire discovered that by driving only a few miles out of the way she could spend a day or two with her Aunt Emma, at Arksey, and so rest the horses; Bertram’s collar-bone knit itself again; and even Betsy recovered from her sore throat. Not until the Squire’s carriage actually stood at the Parsonage gate, waiting to take up the travellers, with all the trunks strapped securely behind it, and Mama’s dressing-case (also lent for the occasion) placed tenderly within the vehicle, did the mood of depression again descend upon Arabella. Whether it was Mama’s embrace, or Papa’s blessing, or Baby Jack’s fat little hand waving farewell which overcame her, it would have been hard to say, but her feelings were quite overset, and it was a lady dissolved in tears whom Bertram thrust forcibly into the carriage. It was long before she could be composed again, nor was her companion of much support to her, since an excessive sympathy, coupled perhaps with the natural melancholy of a female obliged by circumstances to seek a new post, caused her to weep quite as bitterly in her comer of the capacious carriage.

While familiar landmarks were still to be observed out of the windows, Arabella’s tears continued to flow, but by the time the carriage had reached an unknown countryside they had ceased, and after sniffing cautiously at the vinaigrette, proffered in a trembling hand by Miss Blackburn, she was able to dry her wet cheeks, and even to derive a sensible degree of comfort from the opulence of the huge sealskin pillow-muff lying on her lap. This, with the tippet round her throat, had been sent to her with her Aunt Eliza’s love—the same who had once given Mama a set of pink Indian muslin underwear. Even though one had never left one’s home before, one could not be wholly given over to wretchedness when one’s hands were tucked into a muff as large as any depicted in
La Belle Assemblee.
So large, indeed, was it, that Papa—But it would be wiser not to think of Papa, or any of the dear ones at home, perhaps. Better to fix one’s attention on the countryside, and one’s thoughts on the delights ahead.