Parents and Children (7 page)

James joined his sisters on such days as a recurring and undefined indisposition kept him from school, occasions which did not involve his dispensing with education. They were actually the only ones when he did not do so, as he was a boy who could only learn from a woman in his home. The stage at which he could learn, but only under certain conditions, had never received attention. He was a boy of twelve, with liquid, brown eyes like Nevill's, features regarded as pretty and childish, and vaguely deprecated on that ground, and a responsive, innocent, sometimes suddenly sophisticated expression. His dependence on Hatton at Nevill's age had exceeded his brother's, and still went beyond anyone else's. If Hatton could have betrayed a preference, it would have been for him; and it sent a ray of light
through his rather shadowed life to remember that at heart she had one.

Isabel was a short, pale girl of fifteen, with a face that was a gentle edition of Fulbert's, delicate hands like Honor's, a humorous expression of her own, and near-sighted, penetrating eyes; and Venetia, known as Venice, was a large, dark, handsome child a year and a half younger, with a steady, high colour and fine, closely-set, hazel eyes, and an amiability covering a resolute self-esteem, which was beginning to show in her expression, though only Isabel was aware of it. The two sisters lived for each other, as did Honor and Gavin; and James lived to himself like Nevill, but with less support, so that his life had a certain pathos. He would remedy matters by repairing to the nursery, where Hat-ton's welcome and Honor's inclination to a senior brought Nevill to open, and Gavin to secret despair. The suffering of his brothers was pleasant to James, not because he was a malicious or hostile, but because the evidence of sadness in other lives made him feel a being less apart. He showed no aptitude for books, and this in his sex was condemned; and he carried a sense of guilt, which it did not occur to him was unmerited. It was a time when endeavour in children was rated below success, an error which in later years has hardly yet been corrected, so that childhood was a more accurate foretaste of life than it is now.

‘So you are not at school, my boy?' said Eleanor.

‘No,' said James, giving a little start and looking at Isabel.

‘He does not feel well,' said the latter.

‘Doesn't he?' said Eleanor, with rather dubious sympathy, as if not quite sure of the authenticity of the condition. ‘The unwellness seems to come rather often. It is kind of Miss Mitford to let you be in here. Have you thanked her ?'

‘No.'

‘Then do it, my dear.'

‘Thank you,' said James, without loss of composure, having no objection to being treated as a child, indeed finding it his natural treatment.

‘He is not much above the average, is he, Miss Mitford?' said Eleanor, not entertaining the possibility of an absolutely ordinary child.

‘No, I don't think he is.'

‘You think he is up to it at any rate?'

‘Well, I did not say so. Perhaps it was you who did.'

‘Do you think he would learn more with his sisters at home?'

‘You mean with their governess, don't you? Well, a good many boys would.'

‘But I suppose we cannot arrange it?'

‘No, you must be the slave of convention.'

‘I suppose most boys are backward.'

‘Well, some are forward.'

‘You must make Miss Mitford think better of you, James.'

‘I hope you do not think I take an ungenerous view,' said Miss Mitford.

‘Do you never alter your opinions?' said Eleanor, with a faint sting in her tone.

‘I seldom need to. My judgement is swift and strong,' said Miss Mitford, with no loss of gravity.

‘Could you not help James, Isabel?'

‘Not as well as Miss Mitford.'

‘Could you, Venice? You are nearer his age.'

‘Is that a qualification?' said Isabel.

‘It would help her to see his point of view.'

‘It might make her share it.'

‘You think the girls are intelligent at any rate, Miss Mitford?' said Eleanor, seeking to turn this readiness to account.

‘It is a good sign that they think so.'

‘Do you never praise anyone?'

‘I am rather grudging in that way. It is a sort of shyness.'

Venice gave a giggle.

‘Are you not going to say a word to me, Venice?' said Eleanor.

‘Yes,' said Venice, in a bright, conscious tone, turning wide eyes on her mother. ‘I was thinking about the sea. I should like to go next year.'

‘And so you shall, my dear. I wish I had arranged it. I ought to have thought of a change for you. And I could have sent James with Hatton. It would have done him good. Don't you think it would, Miss Mitford?'

‘Yes.'

‘But you did not suggest it.'

‘No.'

‘Miss Mitford knows that suggestions cost money,' said Isabel.

‘They cost nothing, my child. I am always pleased to have them. It is carrying them out that costs.'

‘My suggestions are not any good, when they are not carried out,' said Miss Mitford, in a faintly plaintive tone.

‘Well, I hope you will make them another time. Good-bye, my dears; I will come up again and see you. James, do you forget again to open the door?'

James could not deny it.

‘Does he generally, Miss Mitford?'

‘Yes.'

‘Does he not open the door for you?'

‘No.'

‘You must remember you are not a baby, mustn't you, James?'

‘Yes,' said James, who had little chance of thinking he was, as the family steadily combated the supposed conviction.

‘Could you remember to tell him, Miss Mitford?'

‘Well, my memory is no better than his.'

‘Then the girls must remember. Will you think of it, my dears? Now, my boy, if you are to be at home today, you must have tea in the nursery and go early to bed. When we are not well, we must not behave quite like well people, must we?'

‘No,' said James, who had no great leaning towards the routine of the healthy, which he found a strain.

‘Why is he to have tea in the nursery?' said Miss Mitford, as the door closed.

‘The tea there is earlier than ours,' said Venice.

‘Mother hasn't a favourite in this room,' said Isabel.

‘I somehow feel it is not me,' said Miss Mitford. ‘And my instinct is generally right in those ways.'

‘I don't want to be one of her favoured ones,' said Venice, who had a familiar sense of meeting too little esteem.

‘She only likes two people in the house, Daniel and Gavin,' said Isabel.

‘And I like so many,' said Miss Mitford. ‘I must have a more affectionate nature.'

‘She likes Father and Luce,' said James, just looking up from his book.

‘That is true,' said Miss Mitford, ‘I hope it is the history book that you are reading, James.'

‘Yes,' said James, who was perusing a more human portion of this volume, indeed an intensely human one, as it dealt with the elaborate execution of a familiar character. When any trouble or constraint was over, he allowed it to drift from his mind.

‘What is the time?' said Venice.

‘Two minutes to your break for luncheon,' said Miss Mitford, in an encouraging tone.

‘You like your luncheon too, Mitta.'

‘You must not call me Mitta except in a spirit of affection. And it is not often affectionate to tell people they like their food.'

‘Here it comes!' said James, throwing his book on the table and himself into a chair.

‘I am punctual today,' said Mullet, entering in understanding of the life she interrupted, and viewed with sympathy as inferior to that of the nursery. ‘And Hatton says, if Master James has a headache, he may ask Miss Mitford to excuse his lessons this morning.'

James at once rose, selected some biscuits and a book and arranged a table and the sofa for the reception of them and himself. He did not look at Miss Mitford nor she at him. Hatton's word was law in the schoolroom, as Miss Mitford chose to accept it as such, pursuing with it the opposite course to that she took with other people's.

‘Miss Isabel, look at your hair,' said Mullet, as if the vigour of the enjoinder rendered it possible.

‘Hatton said I was not to touch it myself, because I tear at it.'

‘Then you should come upstairs to have it done. I wonder the mistress did not notice it.'

‘How do you know she did not?' said Miss Mitford.

‘She would have sent her up to have it done,' said Venice, who managed her own with care and competence.

‘Perhaps that is why it is shorter than Venice's, because you pull it,' said James, turning a serious eye from the sofa.

‘You pull it often enough yourself,' said Isabel.

‘I never pull any out,' said James, in defence of his own course, returning to his book.

‘Why should we go down to dessert twice a day?' said Venice.

‘Just to make the household as odd as possible,' said Isabel.

‘You get twice as much dessert,' said Miss Mitford.

‘Will you have tea or coffee after your dinner, ma'am?' said Mullet.

‘I think coffee is more sustaining, as I don't have dessert.'

Mullet laughed, and the children did so with more abandonment, taking the chance of venting their mirth over Miss Mit-ford's practice of broaching private stores while they were downstairs. It merely made her meal correspond with theirs, but they thought it a habit of a certain grossness and never alluded to it to her face.

‘Shall I tell Cook to send up the things you like?' said Mullet.

‘It might be suspected that we had asked,' said Isabel.

James raised his eyes in survey of the situation.

‘The little ones are going down before their dinner, so you won't have them,' said Mullet, in encouraging sympathy with intolerance of the creatures to whom her own life was given. ‘The nursery dinner is late. And now I must take my tray.'

‘I will go up to Hatton about my hair,' said Isabel.

‘Don't put off your lessons longer than you must,' said Miss Mitford, in a tone of rejoinder.

‘There is only one book,' said Isabel, implying a sacrifice of opportunity to her sister.

‘Why don't they do different lessons at the same time?' said James, without moving his eyes.

‘We might find it a strain,' said Miss Mitford.

Mullet went to fetch the children from the garden, and Eleanor met her coming up the stairs, with the three of them clinging to her.

‘Dear, dear, can't any of you walk alone? Mullet will need to have several pairs of arms and legs.'

‘Mullet help him,' said Nevill, with a note of defiance.

‘She seems to be helping the others too. I think you must all have a rest this morning,'

‘Hatton sit on his little bed,' said Nevill, as he entered the nursery.

‘I have not time this morning. Mullet will stay with you for a while.'

‘Mother likes us to be alone while we go to sleep,' said Gavin.

‘Her standard is too high for Nevill,' said Hatton. ‘And I notice it sometimes is for you.'

Honor broke into mirth.

‘Don't you mind what she says?' said Gavin, with a note of respect.

‘Hatton doesn't mind,' said Nevill, with tenderness and pride.

‘The mistress said they were all to rest,' said Mullet.

‘Well, that is not beyond us,' said Hatton. ‘And there need be no delay.'

Presently Gavin awoke with a cry, and Eleanor came to his bedside. She found him sitting up, in the act of receiving a glass of water from Hatton, his demeanour accepting his situation as serious, and this view of it in others.

‘What is it, my boy?'

‘I want Honor to wake.'

‘Did you have a dream?'

‘No.'

‘Tell Mother what it is.'

‘It is nothing.'

‘Is it burglars?' said Honor, suddenly sitting up straight.

‘No, Gavin has had a dream and wants to tell you.'

‘I don't,' said Gavin, turning away his head.

‘What is it?' said his sister, in a rough tone that cleared his face.

‘It was a sort of a dream.'

‘Were you afraid?'

‘No.'

‘Will you tell me after dinner?'

‘Yes.'

‘It was kind of Honor to wake,' said Eleanor.

Gavin did not reply.

‘Don't you think it was?'

‘She thought it was burglars,' said Gavin, and turned on his side.

‘What is wrong with them, Hatton?' said Eleanor.

‘Only the journey, madam. They will be themselves tomorrow.'

‘I wonder the human race has been so fond of migrations, when the young take so hardly to travelling,' said Eleanor, with her occasional dryness.

Mullet fell into laughter and hastily left the room, as though feeling it familiar to meet an employer's jest with the equal response of mirth. Honor looked at her mother and laughed in her turn, and Gavin surveyed them with a frown.

Eleanor went downstairs to the dining-room, where her husband, his parents and his three eldest children were assembled for luncheon.

‘Hatton continues to manage the little ones in her own way. I suppose it would do no good to interfere.'

‘What is wrong with the method?' said Fulbert, seeming to gather himself together for judgement.

‘A good many things that only a mother would see.'

‘Then we cannot expect Hatton to be aware of them.'

‘Nor the rest of us, Mother dear,' said Luce. ‘You must not look for sympathy. I am always thankful that I had the same nurse when I was young. It takes any anxiety for the children simply off me.'

‘Hatton will rule the house in the end,' said Eleanor.

‘A good many of you seem to be doing that,' said Sir Jesse. ‘But if too many cooks spoil the broth, the right number make it very good.'