Chrystabel

"Do stand still, there's a dear young lady," said Miss Pinkerton, the dressmaker, with her mouth full of pins, while she "tried on" my new black paramatta frock, with crape tucks nearly up to the waist, crape folds on the bosom and on the sleeves, and crape frilling round the neck. Mantie, our old servant, and Mrs. Brunt, commonly called Nurse Brunt, stood by criticising and admiring.

"There ought to be another fold on the sleeve, I think," said Miss Pinkerton, as she turned me round and about, just as if I had been a dummy in a milliner's show-room. Then she fell back in artist fashion, to get the general effect "Yes, another fold," she said, returning, and laying hands on me once more, "and, as the tucks are graduated, I am not sure but that another, a very narrow one, just here, Mrs. Mantie--"

But I shook myself free, and before Mantie could answer, said, "No! I will not have another inch of the horrible black stuff put upon me. I dare say I shall get a lot of this off to-morrow."

Miss Pinkerton exclaimed with horror.

"And I do not like the smell of black, and I do not see why I should wear it."

"And your dear pa' carried to his last earthly resting-place this very day! Oh, Miss Chryssie!" interposed the dressmaker.

"I don't see what that has to do with it If papa is dead, why should I have a nasty, fusty-smelling, hideous frock?"

"It's extremely handsome and suitable mourning," said Miss Pinkerton, severely; "and the blackness, especially the blackness of the crape, testifies your respect for your father's memory, and your deep sorrow for his loss."

"I am not sure that I do feel deep sorrow," I said, meditatively, and more to myself than to my audience, for whose opinion I cared little. "It will not make much difference to me. I scarcely ever saw papa, and I am sure I do not know when I spoke to him last. I think it was one day last winter, when I met him on the stairs, and he asked me what I was doing there."

Which statement was literally correct. I knew as little about the man whom I called papa, and he knew as little about me, as it was possible to know, considering that we lived under the same roof, and that he was actually my father, and I his daughter and only child. I never took a meal with him; I never intruded upon him. The part of the house he occupied I systematically avoided. Queer, grim old greybeards of men sometimes came to see him; and dry, dusty-looking human animals, elderly, and of the male sex, reminding me strongly of some of the mummies and stuffed creatures in the Museum, hard by, came and inquired if Professor Tyndale were at home; they were literary and scientific people I was told, but they were nothing to me, nor I to them. I dare say they did not know of my existence, for I watched them from afar, and never dreamed of making their acquaintance. They all seemed to be hundreds of years old. I did wonder, as I looked at them over the balustrade of the upper landing-place, whether they had ever been little boys, trundling their hoops, and shouting, and plaguing their sisters, like those I saw every day in the square. No! I really did not see that it could make much difference to me whether I had a papa or not! Why, I could go all over the house now! And--a new light broke in upon me--surely it was my house! There was no one else; and I knew quite well that when parents died, their property belonged to the children they left behind them. I could go into the library now if I liked. I could ransack the museum, which I had often wished to do--the private museum in the house, I mean, not the British Museum, with which I was quite familiar, for we lived in Bloomsbury Square. And I resolved that I would not allow Mantie to dictate to me any longer. But even, as I complacently regarded myself--myself, not my frock--and I felt that I was mistress of all I surveyed, Mantie replied, severely, "You'll please not talk in that way to me, Miss Chryssie; a child like you can't understand, and it's most unbecoming, and very naughty. Your pa' was your pa', when all's said and done."

"I never thought he was not," I answered, coolly; "if he hadn't been, he would never have let me live here. He never wanted me."

"Perhaps you did not want him, miss," said Nurse Brunt, gravely.

"Well," I said," I don't know that I did! I am sure I do not, now. I am certain of one thing--he would have been better pleased if I had never been born, so why should I mind that he died?"

"Fie, fie, miss!" said Nurse Brunt.

"Hard little thing! dreadful, unnatural little creature!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, her nose red with indignation. "Why, Miss Chrystabel, don't you know your pa' was a learned, studious gentleman, not likely to concern himself with little girls--especially naughty little girls, that won't shed even one tributary tear over his grave in Highgate Cemetery! And who paid for your food, I wonder, and your frocks that I've had the making of these four years, and everything you've worn since you were born, and the--"

"But," I interrupted her, "what nonsense, Miss Pinkerton! Of course papa paid for all I had; if people have children, they always do pay for the things they want. He couldn't do anything else, you know; now, I shall pay for my own things."

"I hope somebody will pay for them," remarked Miss Pinkerton, with a sniff; and then I saw that she, Mrs. Brunt, and Mantie exchanged significant glances. Did Mantie mean to keep all the money? I wondered. I thought there was treason in those expressive looks; I knew that they telegraphed from mind to mind some idea, some secret, probably, from which I was excluded. Feeling displeased, I turned away and ran up to the room still called the nursery, and began to tidy up the cat's bed, and at the same time to reflect upon my own position as mistress of No. 155, Bloomsbury Square.

I had not long to reflect. I had not had time to arrange any part of the programme of my future life when I heard a stir below, and knew that they were come back from the funeral.

I had heard only suppressed whispers and softest footsteps as the dark procession passed out on its way to Highgate; now loud tones rang through the hall, people trod briskly on the floor-cloth, doors were slammed; once I thought I even heard a laugh. I listened, and peered over the railing, recognising in the depths beneath me some of the animated mummies who used to come to visit the Professor. I say used, because for a long time, or what seemed to me a long time, no visitors, save importunate or insolent tradesmen, and greasy, unpleasant-looking individuals, who refused to go away, although they were told the Professor was "not at home,"--had come to our front door. Once a bull-necked, red-faced, bandy-legged man declared that he was come to stay, and he actually did stay, to my intense surprise and disgust, for nearly three days. And he smoked villainous tobacco in the little parlour which he made his abode, and called for beer, and told the maid Fanny he would give her a kiss if she would get him rump-steak and onions for his supper. This had occurred about a year ago, and I had almost forgotten the circumstance till something, I know not what, brought it back most vividly and disagreeably to my remembrance.

I had not been long at my post on the landing, when Mantie came up to me: "Miss Chryssie, the gentlemen wish to see you."

"What gentlemen?" For I resolved I would not see the old mummies and megatheriums who had come to the funeral.

"Mr. Crabb and Mr. Silke; they are waiting for you in the dining-room."

Now I knew that Mr. Crabb and Mr. Silke were lawyers, and they had had dealings with my father, or he with them, ever since I could recollect. I had spoken to them both several times. I rather liked Mr. Crabb, though he was an ugly, gruff old gentleman with no teeth; and I detested Mr. Silke, who spoke suavely, and smiled sweetly, and had a mouthful of gleaming ivories, for which he must have paid his dentist a considerable sum.

I found these gentlemen in the dining-room. The blinds were drawn up, the shutters thrown back, and there was sherry on the table, and rich cake, and plenty of finger biscuits. Of course they uttered a few consolatory speeches, to which I did not reply, for I knew they did not mean them, and I did not want anybody to console me. When Mr. Crabb first began to talk to me he called me "my dear"; and very soon he stiffened into Miss Chryssie, and finally into Miss Tyndale.

"How old are you, Miss Tyndale?"

"I shall be ten next birthday," I replied.

"You have some relations, I believe?"

"I have heard that I have some."

"You know nothing about them, then?"

"Nothing."

"You can tell if they are on your mother's side or on your father's, I suppose?"

"No, I cannot; I know nothing. I do not know how I came to know I had relations. I suppose Mantie told me."

"Did you never hear your poor papa speak of them?" asked Mr. Silke. "Did he never say whether they were Clarendons or Tyndales, or in what degree they were related?"

"Never. Papa never talked to me; he did not like talking."

"Most unfortunate," said Mr. Silke, turning to his colleague. "It leaves us no clue, you see; and really something must be done."

Then they conferred awhile together in what I suppose was technical parlance. It was as unintelligible to me as if it were not English. Besides, it was not entertaining, and I soon ceased to listen, and determined to have a great piece of the cake as soon as they were gone. I should not ask Mantie for it; I should take it; for was it not my own cake?

Presently Mr. Crabb came up to where I was sitting. He came quite close, and in a low voice that rather awed me said, "My dear Miss Tyndale, you are quite too young to understand business. I could not possibly explain to you the state of your late father's affairs; still I think it right to tell you that he has been for many years seriously hampered and involved, and that now--I am afraid--I am sadly afraid--It may be better than we anticipate--but I am afraid-that--"

"Papa has not left me a great deal of money," I interrupted, coolly.

"I am very much afraid that he has left you none."

"None at all!" I exclaimed, in astonishment "But I must have money to pay for things. There must be some money for me somewhere."

"I fear there is none."

This was a state of things I had never contemplated, and I did not relish it at all. Why, if I had no money, how was I to get dinners, and teas, and clothes, and books? And if papa had really used up all his money before he died, who was to pay the doctor's bill, and the undertaker's bill, which I had heard Mantie say would be a heavy one? And who would pay for my black frocks, and all that nasty crape, and that great cake, that only came from the confectioner's early that morning? I had four-and-sixpence of my own upstairs in my pretty bead purse, and Mantie had two sovereigns that belonged to me. How I came by them I cannot tell, but Mantie said they were mine, and I believed her, for Mantie never told untruths. I wondered how far two sovereigns, a half-crown, and two shillings, to say nothing of a few odd pence, would go in liquidating the cost of my father's illness and funeral and my own current expenses.

I went to bed early that night, for I had thought and thought till I had a headache. I slept in a little curtained bed in a corner of the room which was once my nursery, and where I still kept my own especial treasures--live stock and all; for I had a pet cat and kitten, and an elderly canary bird that was never known to sing, and was always under medical treatment for bronchitis. I woke up, as it appeared to me, hours after falling asleep, and I thought it was morning, for the room was quite light, and Mrs. Brunt and Mantie were busy talking, so busy that they never perceived that I was awake.

It was candlelight, not daylight, and the fire had been made up, and it cast a cheerful glow over the large, bare room. Mantie and Mrs. Brunt were at supper. They had bread and cheese, pickled onions, bloaters, and a pot of stout on the table before them. I did not want to be spoken to, so I shut my eyes again, though I was as wide awake as if it were time to get up and dress.

"I wish they would not talk," I said to myself, very crossly. "What a buzz-buzz they are making."

The minute afterwards Mrs. Brunt said emphatically, "And what will be done with her?"

That I was the "her" specified I did not doubt. I half opened my eyes, and saw that Mrs. Brunt was pointing a steel fork, with a pickled onion on one of the prongs, in the direction of my bed.

"Heaven knows!" said Mantie, shaking her head dolorously. "I don't, I'm sure."

"Do you think there will be nothing?"

"There will be less than nothing, for there are debts; the last two years has been dreadful. I would not live it over again for all the Ingies and all the mines of Peru put together. No money, no credit, no anything but duns. If I hadn't served the master these thirty years, and been sorry for the child, I would not have stayed. Bless you, I've had no regular wages these seven years."

"You don't say so! But there's this house--it will let for something decent."

"Mortgaged long ago!"

How I wondered what "mortgaged" meant! To think that I had lived all my life in a house that was mortgaged, whatever that might be! Did it mean that the foundations were insecure--that any day it might come tumbling down about our ears?

"You were very fond of Mrs. Tyndale I think I've heard you say?"

"Fond of her? I loved the air she breathed. Such a sweet creature--so young, so simple, so innocent, so tender-hearted!"

"What made her marry the master?"

"You may well ask; it is a queer story."

"Do tell if it's no secrets."

"No, it's no secrets; I don't mind if I do tell; I don't care to go to bed just yet. Well, you see, Mrs. Brunt, I came here full thirty years ago, when I was just twenty years old, and now I'm fifty. There was a housekeeper when I first came, and a cook, and I was housemaid, and there was a butler, or something of the sort--now there's only Fanny and me! I needn't tell you how I rose to be housekeeper, and cook, and butler all in one; but I did after about fifteen years' service, and things went on smooth and dull till one morning the Professor sent for me to say that his friend Mr. Clarendon was dead, and had left him guardian to his little girl; 'and I suppose,' says he, 'she must come here, at least for the present; you must see about a school for her, for she's got a little money of her own.' Well, I liked the idea of a child in the house, for I was dead sick of the dulness, though I had it all my own way in everything, and I said I would get ready for little Miss Clarendon. A few days afterwards the Professor told me I was to go to the railway-station to meet the child, who was coming from Switzerland; she had been at school at Geneva it seemed. A friend of her father's would bring her to Folkestone, and the guard was to see her safe up to town. Well, Mrs. Brunt, I got to the station, and the train came in, but no little girl in black could I see! Only one child came out of the train, and she was in sky blue. But I saw the guard talking to a pretty young lady who looked tired and anxious, and I went and asked him if he hadn't had a little girl from Folkestone under his care. 'No,' says he, 'but I've had this young lady, who crossed early this morning.' 'Bless me,' I says, 'you're not Miss Clarendon, ma'am?' 'Indeed, but I am,' says she. 'Did you expect a little girl? Well, I am only just eighteen, and I've always been called little Belle!"

"I cannot tell you how astonished the Professor was, nor how annoyed when I brought Miss Clarendon home. 'What shall we do with her, Mantie?' he says; 'I know more about the extinct species than young ladies.' 'Never you mind, master,' I said; 'trust me, I'll make her happy.' And happy she was, and the house wasn't like itself, for she had her piano, and she sang and played, and chatted to me, and we went out walking together, and we were as happy as birds. I wondered how I had borne the dulness before she came. More than a twelve-month went by, and Miss Isabelle began to know people, and to go out, for there were friends of her father in London; and by-and-by came lovers, as might have been expected, to a sweet, pretty girl, with a nice little fortune of her own. Then the Professor got vexed. I shall never forget how angry he was with one young man in Tavistock Square, who wanted our Miss Isabelle. 'I can't have this sort of thing going on, Mantie,' says he, as cross as if I was to blame. 'I only see one way--' But he went off, and said no more. Next day Miss Isabelle came to me, and sat down in her low chair, and said, 'Mantie, I have great news for you; I am going to be married.' My heart sank like lead; it was selfish I know, but I could not bear to part with her, and I told her so. 'But you will not have to part with me,' she says, laughing. 'Mind I do not have to part with you, Mantie, for I'm going to be your mistress.'

"'Whatever do you mean?' I asked, all of a tremble like; 'you don't mean that the Professor--' 'Yes, I do; I am going to be Mrs. Professor. He says it will be the best thing for me, and I shall do as I like, and have everything I want.' 'Oh, don't! don't!' I cried. I couldn't help it. I knew it wouldn't do. Why, he was sixty if he was a day, and he had never troubled himself about a wife before. I was right mad with him, and I'm afraid I called him an old fool for going philandering after young ladies at his age. But I wouldn't have cared if it hadn't been my Miss Isabelle. Well, to make a long story short, Mrs. Brunt, in three months from that time they married, and I hoped it would be all for the best; but it was not."

"Why wasn't it, Mrs. Mantie?"

"That I can't tell you; I know when to speak and when to keep a still tongue in my head. It stands to sense that a fusty old bachelor past sixty, as had been married to science, chemistry, geology, and gases, and all that for forty years, would never make a good husband to a lovely, loving, blooming little creature that might have been his granddaughter. I've no more to tell you, Mrs. Brunt, except that her health soon became delicate; and when she had been Mrs. Tyndale just a year Miss Chryssie was born. The Professor did not seem to care a bit about his baby. When I told him he had a little girl he only frowned and said, 'Very well, don't bother.' The child grew and prospered, for all her father didn't want her; but the mother just quietly faded away. She never came downstairs again, and when the baby was eight weeks old she died."

"And didn't the Professor care?"

"Perhaps he did; he looked glum enough, and shut himself up with his gases and messes; then he wrote a paper for the Royal Society."

"But the young lady's fortune? That ought to be Miss Chrystabel's."

"It wasn't properly settled; it's all gone long ago; the child hasn't a penny nor a friend, and she isn't a nice child either. She's more like her father than her mother."

They went away, supper being concluded; and I was left to my own meditations. Truly they were not of the brightest; I did not at all like the prospect before me; and for hours I lay listening to the loud ticking of an alarum clock upon the landing that seemed to say, "Not a penny, not a penny." I wished it would say something else, but it did not, and at last I fell asleep.