The Gypsy in the Parlour (19 page)

“Not if he'm to wed Fanny Davis,” said Grace.

So we talked, in grave unhappy tones, my Aunts Grace and Rachel and myself, round the remainder-cluttered breakfast-table, my Aunt Charlotte still saying nothing; until presently, as from all our talk no more emerged than the catastrophe's completeness—diagnosis, not remedy—we too fell silent. Grace could take the lead only so far; my Aunt Rachel follow only in lamentation. So we fell silent.

—And so, incredibly, heard the parlour-clock strike. It hadn't struck for two years, its chimes stopped to spare Fanny's nerves. It was a piece of sheer impishness on her part, to pause and set them off again, on her way downstairs.

2

She entered with a light and sprightly step: cool and trim, her short hair neatly combed over her forehead, her dress, mysteriously less limp, freshened by a little white lace collar.—There was nothing grand in all this, it was no more than any clever woman could have done for herself. The effect produced was disproportionate. As my aunts, three big, aproned women, rose instinctively to their feet, Fanny might have been the mistress of the house visiting her kitchen.

“Good morning,” said she, smiling. “You see I practise my powers.… I suppose they all know, Charlotte?”

This was the first time, I noticed it, she ever called my Aunt Charlotte anything but Mrs. Toby. If Charlotte noticed too, she gave no sign.

“All know,” she agreed. “Us have just been discussing 'ee; 'ee and Charlie.” She turned back to the table, and from it carried a pile of plates to the washing-up bowl. The china clinked as she moved; and Fanny Davis, looking after her, smiled again.

“And what all know, all don't quite like?” she suggested lightly. “In time no doubt I shall have gratitude, for bringing Charles home again!” She sat down: all my aunts being on their feet, this gave her more than ever the air of the mistress; in kind, explanatory tones, she continued. “For it's quite obvious things can't go on here as they are,” said Fanny Davis. “But for my illness, I must have acted
long
since!—you good creatures growing more toil-worn every day, and the farm on its rapid way to ruin!”

Across the stillness, for no one immediately spoke, anger rippled like a catspaw over water. I saw my Aunt Rachel lift up her head incredulously, the colour flame in Grace's cheek; while Fanny sat and smiled.

Grace found speech first.

“Leaving we for the moment aside,” said she, “and what do
'ee
know of the farm, may I ask?”

“Only what all Frampton knows,” said Fanny Davis carelessly—but with what deadly aim! “As to general mismanagement, you know, and bad judgment, and all that. As to Luke and Matthew spending
rather
much time in the George, on market-day; Tobias such a sad lack! I'm told old Mr. Sylvester went quite the same way,” sighed Fanny Davis, “but
he
, of course, could lean on Tobias.…”

This no one answered. There was no answer. What Fanny had gleaned from her gossips was no more than my aunts must long have known, though without ever openly admitting it; even I had perceived the life of the farm as it were slowing down, losing momentum. Fanny Davis couldn't be answered because she spoke the truth—and not least as to my aunts themselves. They did now seem toil-worn, old and patient and toil-worn, slow-moving and silent, with no more laughter in them … But only since Fanny came!—I nearly cried this revelation aloud, as I suddenly perceived the whole sequence of events since she first set foot in my aunts' parlour. That I had been most beguiled of all made my disillusion but completer. “Only since
she
came!” I wanted to cry; but what was the use? She had come. She sat amongst us now, small, trim and composed, fronting the three big Sylvester women with utter assurance; smiling at them.

“So you see why you owe me gratitude,” said she. “For if Charles doesn't soon return to take command, I for one can't conceive what's to become of you all.—Dear me, you'd need a whole almshouse!” cried Fanny gaily. “It might be called the Sylvester Arms!”

It was a dangerous moment, while she laughed. But it passed. Grace had moved only one angry step when a sound from Charlotte halted her. Charlotte had but broken a cup, she did not speak; still, the momentary check gave Fanny time to skim prettily, safely on.

“But Charles
shall
return,” she assured them, “and for your part you mustn't, you really mustn't think too hardly of me. Hearts, alas, can't be controlled!”

“Nor appetite?” said my Aunt Grace—a little danger still in her voice. “Nor appetite, Fanny Davis? I b'aint speaking of the lusts of the flesh, Fanny Davis; but of the lust, or appetite, for mastery; which I in my time have striven with, to its casting out.…”

Fanny's response to this last challenge was unhesitating. With a most smooth, engaging motion she rose and dipped over upon Charlotte.

“Be cross as you like!” she cried vivaciously. “
This
is where
I
find understanding, in my good Charlotte!” Charlotte stood passive, merely knocking the handle off a cup. “See even the lightest task too much for her!” cried Fanny Davis compassionately. “The first thing
I
shall do, as mistress here, will be to hire some young local girl to relieve her at the sink. For shame, Charlotte!” fluted Fanny Davis. “If I've no servant for you yet, at least let Grace or Rachel take her turn!”

—I still, to-day, cannot believe my Aunt Charlotte capable of deliberate false-dealing; yet while she stood there so humbly, fumbling about her humble task, she had undoubtedly disguised from us all her true formidableness.
My
heart was torn for her; Grace and Rachel watched her anxiously. What we had all forgotten was the Sylvester inability to do two things at once. (Yet how often had I remarked on it, in my uncles!) Charlotte, now Sylvester to the marrow, had been thinking. She had been thinking steadily, as we were soon to discover, for the last hour. The bread-knife slipped because she was thinking, not of bread; thinking of something else, she let even her blood flow unstanched.… I do not know who was the more startled, ourselves or Fanny Davis, when Charlotte, most placidly cracking a last plate clean across, finally ceased to think, and presented the result of her thought.

“Grace and Rachel will take their turn sure enough,” said she, “while I be at London.”

CHAPTER XXI

1

It is extraordinarily difficult to convey, so long after, and now that running up to London has become in all parts of England no more than an excursion-commonplace, the impact of my Aunt Charlotte's placid reply. (The impact all the greater for the placidity.) To-day, Mothers' Unions, Women's Institutes, members of the Women's Voluntary Service, descend on London in amiable hordes: conveyed by chartered coaches to inspect royal wedding-gifts, applaud local choirs, or just for the ride. Individual women resort thither no less freely, to meet friends or fight a sale. Native Londoners, if not of absolutely sinister appearance, can hardly cross Whitehall without directing some pleasant countrywoman to the Army and Navy Stores. But at the time of which I write, to visit London was a considerable undertaking—and this though the train-services were already excellent. The adventure was rather moral. To simpler, remoter communities, (amongst which ours about Frampton must be counted), London and Babylon still called cousins. Even setting foot to platform at Paddington, our own West Country terminus, one forded a dubious stream. At the Great Exhibition of 1851, (the last occasion of any widespread venturing), several well-known local personalities had their pockets picked. One went to London to a death-bed—if one had a relative so misguided as to die there—or, if one was a more than usually important farmer, to the Fat Stock Show. That
I
travelled regularly back and forth was a local wonder, productive of prestige to the Sylvesters, an exaggerated estimate of my parents' income, and equally exaggerated prophecies of my own early demise.…

Thus to hear Charlotte speak so placidly of going to London naturally astounded us all. Fanny Davis recovered her wits first.

“To London!” cried she. “You go to London? Dear Charlotte, but why?”

“To have a word wi' my son Charlie,” returned Charlotte calmly. Still calmly—how we had under-estimated her!—she surveyed the china-wreckage about the sink, and with a casual gesture intimated that Rachel might put all away. “Naturally save what be damaged,” said she, with a lightness to rival Fanny's. “That throw out, bor; Sylvesters b'aint used to mended crockery.… Yes, b'aint it true,” said my Aunt Charlotte, “only thought brings wisdom how to act? So my thoughts be come to their issue: all 'ee tells of you and he do still seem so astounding, and so full of import moreover to all of we, and so unvouched for moreover by Charlie's own self, I've a mind to seek he out in London, if but to set my own thoughts at rest.”

“Charlotte!” breathed my Aunt Rachel. “Oh, Charlotte, b'aint 'ee the masterpiece!—and 'ee shall have my beaver muff.”

2

It took five days to get my Aunt Charlotte and Fanny off to London.—For Fanny went too. Upon this she was absolutely determined, her pretext being to take care of Charlotte on the journey; and though all strongly suspected the more interested motive of aiming to stiffen Charlie's neck, there were reasons why no one attempted to stop her. Charlotte was by no means averse from company, even in her heyday a trip to London would have seemed a very venturesome act, and from a practical point of view Fanny was obviously best spared at the farm. (I spent all my eloquence begging Charlotte to take
me
—pressing my claims as native Londoner, seasoned train-catcher, friend of Clara Blow. To no avail. It was not a matter for children.) In addition my Aunts Grace and Rachel wanted to turn out the parlour, which they could do far best in Fanny's absence. They were so in love with this project I believe they would actually have
pressed
Fanny's going, had she needed it; oblivious of the situation's irony. For quite possibly they would be readying the same chamber to receive again, after two years, a same bride, but different groom.…

It took five days to get Charlotte and Fanny off, because there was so much to prepare.

In the first place, they took their food.

Neither I believe contemplated a stay of more than two or three nights at most. They still took food. All knew there was food to be had, in London; I myself, for example, somehow subsisted through each winter; still, they took provisions.

We baked. Large pasties, in form borrowed from our Cornish neighbours, we acknowledged the most nourishing food portable. We therefore baked pasties. My Aunt Charlotte, I think with some idea of bearing gifts, ordained cakes also: the kitchen smelled like Christmas. There was also the matter of breakfast; so they took eggs, and a tea-caddy.

There was, also, the matter of their costumes. My Aunt Charlotte's wardrobe was perfectly adequate to her station, and Rachel lent her beaver muff; certain froggings of black braid were nonetheless transferred from a mantle of Grace's to Charlotte's Sunday-best; the whole presenting a rather military, hussar-like effect, on Charlotte's tall figure undeniably impressive. All the flowers were cut from her best bonnet, steamed, and re-attached; the strings were treated similarly, also ironed. Her skirt and bodice were sponged with vinegar. Her under-linen required no attention at all, the store was so great and so immaculate we had but to pick out the best: two of each, and one dozen cambric handkerchieves, still bearing her maiden-cypher.…

My aunts were wonderfully fair-minded women. Thoroughly as they now disliked and distrusted her, everything that could be done was done for Fanny also.—Or was this but one more manifestation of the Sylvester pride? Looking back, I think it may have been; I cannot recall anything they did for Fanny with their own hands, as they so eagerly laboured for Charlotte. What I do recall is the point of irony in Grace's voice as she remarked—Fanny possessing no mantle at all, only a shawl—'twas pity Charlotte spent all on a ball-gown.… They allowed her, however, full turn at the ironing-board, and the use of a kettle to steam her black straw hat—only it was too far gone to respond—and the use of their work-baskets; which Fanny, with a small smile, accepted. She withdrew, during these days, a great deal of her pretensions:
I
thought biding her time. So far as millinery went, she could have none: it appeared that the contents of her carpet-bag had never been augmented by so much as a shift from the first-class dressmaker in Plymouth. Fanny possessed the dress she stood up in, and two limp dresses more, and a peacock silk ball-gown.
Her
underlinen all charitably agreed to ignore.

My Aunt Charlotte, in all this bustle, was rejuvenated.

I can see now that bustle, during the last two years, had been precisely what she lacked: quietude was more than unnatural, it was unwholesome to her. The bare effort of keeping her voice down, so as not to upset Fanny's nerves, had worked seriously upon Charlotte's: the necessity of avoiding all housework-noise made her natural avocation a burden almost unendurable. Like Clara Blow, Charlotte needed to bang about; but let bang could throw off two women's work with one hand, and play ‘Chopsticks' with me after supper. Undoubtedly, over the past two years, all female within-door work had been properly done; but unless they made their usual noise about it, unless their own particular racket accompanied their labours, all three of my aunts were left, at the day's end, with too much unexpended energy … Now, cooking for the journey, dressmaking till all hours, re-trimming bonnets and sorting linen—vociferous again from one end of the house to the other, because if Fanny was on her feet why should she be treated as an invalid?—my aunts released a two-years' accumulation of noise. To Charlotte, it was like water to a plant. In five days, she looked five years younger.