15. AN INNER ROOM AT THE LODGE
At the Lodge at this time a discussion of some importance was inprogress. The scene was Mrs. Chickerel's bedroom, to which,unfortunately, she was confined by some spinal complaint; and here shenow appeared as an interesting woman of five-and-forty, properly dressedas far as visible, and propped up in a bed covered with a quilt whichpresented a field of little squares in many tints, looking altogetherlike a bird's-eye view of a market garden.
Mrs. Chickerel had been nurse in a nobleman's family until her marriage,and after that she played the part of wife and mother, upon the whole,affectionately and well. Among her minor differences with her husbandhad been one about the naming of the children; a matter that was at lastcompromised by an agreement under which the choice of the girls' namesbecame her prerogative, and that of the boys' her husband's, who limitedhis field of selection to strict historical precedent as a set-off toMrs. Chickerel's tendency to stray into the regions of romance.
The only grown-up daughters at home, Ethelberta and Picotee, with theirbrother Joey, were sitting near her; the two youngest children, Georginaand Myrtle, who had been strutting in and out of the room, and otherwiseendeavouring to walk, talk, and speak like the gentleman just gone away,were packed off to bed. Emmeline, of that transitional age which causesits exponent to look wistfully at the sitters when romping and at therompers when sitting, uncertain whether her position in the household isthat of child or woman, was idling in a corner. The two absent brothersand two absent sisters--eldest members of the family--completed the roundten whom Mrs. Chickerel with thoughtless readiness had presented to acrowded world, to cost Ethelberta many wakeful hours at night while sherevolved schemes how they might be decently maintained.
'I still think,' Ethelberta was saying, 'that the plan I first proposedis the best. I am convinced that it will not do to attempt to keep onthe Lodge. If we are all together in town, I can look after you muchbetter than when you are far away from me down here.'
'Shall we not interfere with you--your plans for keeping up yourconnections?' inquired her mother, glancing up towards Ethelberta bylifting the flesh of her forehead, instead of troubling to raise her facealtogether.
'Not nearly so much as by staying here.'
'But,' said Picotee, 'if you let lodgings, won't the gentlemen and ladiesknow it?'
'I have thought of that,' said Ethelberta, 'and this is how I shallmanage. In the first place, if mother is there, the lodgings can be letin her name, all bills will be receipted by her, and all tradesmen'sorders will be given as from herself. Then, we will take no Englishlodgers at all; we will advertise the rooms only in Continentalnewspapers, as suitable for a French or German gentleman or two, and bythis means there will be little danger of my acquaintance discoveringthat my house is not entirely a private one, or of any lodger being afriend of my acquaintance. I have thought over every possible way ofcombining the dignified social position I must maintain to make my story-telling attractive, with my absolute lack of money, and I can see nobetter one.'
'Then if Gwendoline is to be your cook, she must soon give notice at herpresent place?'
'Yes. Everything depends upon Gwendoline and Cornelia. But there istime enough for them to give notice--Christmas will be soon enough. Ifthey cannot or will not come as cook and housemaid, I am afraid the planwill break down. A vital condition is that I do not have a soul in thehouse (beyond the lodgers) who is not one of my own relations. When wehave put Joey into buttons, he will do very well to attend to the door.'
'But s'pose,' said Joey, after a glassy look at his future appearance inthe position alluded to, 'that any of your gentle-people come to see ye,and when I opens the door and lets 'em in a swinging big lodger stalksdownstairs. What will 'em think? Up will go their eye-glasses at oneanother till they glares each other into holes. My gracious!'
'The one who calls will only think that another visitor is leaving, Joey.But I shall have no visitors, or very few. I shall let it be well knownamong my late friends that my mother is an invalid, and that on thisaccount we receive none but the most intimate friends. These intimatefriends not existing, we receive nobody at all.'
'Except Sol and Dan, if they get a job in London? They'll have to callupon us at the back door, won't they, Berta?' said Joey.
'They must go down the area steps. But they will not mind that; theylike the idea.'
'And father, too, must he go down the steps?'
'He may come whichever way he likes. He will be glad enough to have usnear at any price. I know that he is not at all happy at leaving youdown here, and he away in London. You remember that he has only takenthe situation at Mr. Doncastle's on the supposition that you all come totown as soon as he can see an opening for getting you there; and asnothing of the sort has offered itself to him, this will be the verything. Of course, if I succeed wonderfully well in my schemes for story-tellings, readings of my ballads and poems, lectures on the art ofversification, and what not, we need have no lodgers; and then we shallall be living a happy family--all taking our share in keeping theestablishment going.'
'Except poor me!' sighed the mother.
'My dear mother, you will be necessary as a steadying power--a flywheel,in short, to the concern. I wish that father could live there, too.'
'He'll never give up his present way of life--it has grown to be a partof his nature. Poor man, he never feels at home except in somebodyelse's house, and is nervous and quite a stranger in his own. Sich isthe fatal effects of service!'
'O mother, don't!' said Ethelberta tenderly, but with her teeth on edge;and Picotee curled up her toes, fearing that her mother was going tomoralize.
'Well, what I mean is, that your father would not like to live upon yourearnings, and so forth. But in town we shall be near him--that's onecomfort, certainly.'
'And I shall not be wanted at all,' said Picotee, in a melancholy tone.
'It is much better to stay where you are,' her mother said. 'You willcome and spend the holidays with us, of course, as you do now.'
'I should like to live in London best,' murmured Picotee, her headsinking mournfully to one side. 'I HATE being in Sandbourne now!'
'Nonsense!' said Ethelberta severely. 'We are all contriving how to livemost comfortably, and it is by far the best thing for you to stay at theschool. You used to be happy enough there.'
Picotee sighed, and said no more.