By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.
CHAPTER XIII.
STARTLED!

hen once Lucy’s work began at the Institute her days were very full. She rose early, gave her simple household orders, and prepared Hugh for the Kindergarten, where she left him while she held her classes. Hugh took his lunch with him, for he stayed at the Kindergarten rather longer than the other children, so as to wait till his mother fetched him. Lucy had explained her peculiar position to the Kindergarten governess, a Miss Foster, and that lady had readily entered into this arrangement.
It was a great relief to Lucy to find that Hugh was soon quite happy among his new surroundings, returning home with plenty of wonders to tell, and being always eager for next day’s start. Miss Foster often came to the door to see Lucy and to deliver over her pupil. She was loud in praise of the little boy, confiding to Lucy that his state of mental development was so different from that of too many of her pupils. They had generally been left so much in the care of servants and nurses.
“A little one who is generally in the company of its mother, or of somebody who really cares for it, may be said to enjoy all the advantages of kindergarten from its very cradle,” she remarked. “Its education has been going on happily and unconsciously all the while. Its little brain and hands have found occupation in imitating the work or doings it sees. It is not left to gape and stare at the things around—all wonders to it—but it is encouraged to ask questions, and it gets its questions cheerfully and patiently answered.”
“I suppose that is a very important item,” said Lucy.
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Foster. “A careless nurse may often answer a question, but she does this snappily, perhaps with a hasty shake or a cross remark that the child is ‘a silly, little worrit.’ That encourages no further inquiry, and the baby-mind often closes over ridiculously wrong impressions, which can only confuse and blur its mind and all its processes.”
Lucy smiled.
“Yes,” she answered, “I can understand that, for children generally want a second answer to explain the first. I remember Hugh once asked me as we walked past some burial ground what it was used for. I told him ‘to put people’s bodies in when they die.’ He said ‘Oh!’ and walked along quietly, but looking puzzled. I felt sure he had some afterthought, so I said, ‘You have learned what a burial ground is now, Hughie, haven’t you? To put people’s bodies in when they die.’ Hughie snuggled up to me and whispered the confidential question, ‘If they only put their bodies there, what do they do with their heads?’ What an idea he would have carried away if his second question had not been drawn out!”
Miss Foster laughed.
“Such things occur constantly,” she said. “I daresay we have all heard the story of the little girl who said she liked to go to church when they sang the hymn about the bear. No? Well, it runs that she made this remark to her mother, who was more interested in her child’s preferences than it is likely any servant would have been. So she asked, ‘Which hymn is that, my dear?’ ‘Oh, the one about the bear that squints.’ ‘The bear that squints!’ said the mother, surprised, and knowing at once that something was wrong. ‘What does this mean?’ She could not ask the child to show the hymn, for she could not yet read. But instead of saying ‘Don’t be silly!’ she pursued the inquiry. ‘What makes you think there is anything about a bear that squints?’ ‘Oh, I’ve heard you sing it often,’ replied the child. ‘You sing “the consecrated cross-eye bear!”’”
They both laughed.
“That may be apocryphal,” commented Miss Foster, “but if so it is a fable which covers a great deal of fact.”
“It need not be apocryphal,” returned Lucy. “A distinguished preacher once told me that as a child he learned the lines—
“‘Satan trembles when he sees
The weakest saint upon his knees.’
Surely a beautiful image, and one which to the adult mind it seems impossible to misunderstand. But from the standpoint of the child, accustomed himself constantly to sit on people’s knees, the idea presented itself differently. He fancied that it was the saint’s sitting on Satan’s knees which caused Satan’s agitation! It never occurred to him that there could be any other meaning, and his puzzle was not over any doubt on that head, but only concerning what, in such a circumstance, was the cause of Satan’s dismay, for he knew that if he himself sat on anybody’s knees, he was rather in that person’s power, and could be easily got rid of. He went on saying and singing that hymn for years, the wonderment always recurring. He told me that the truth did not dawn on him till he was a grown youth attending theological classes. Then he said it came with such a lightning-flash that it nearly made him cry out in chapel!”
“There is even a more serious aspect of this kind of misunderstanding,” said Miss Foster, “which may really lead to a wrong stratum of character if children are not encouraged to speak out and show how they take things. Grown-up people sometimes say hasty or playful words which no other ‘grown-up’ would take literally, but children do. It often seems to me as if, though the little folk are themselves ready to ‘make believe’ to any extent, yet they cannot credit any ‘make believe’ in others. Let me tell you a story in illustration.
“A friend has lately bought a house, on whose staircase is a beautiful stained glass window; but its value is rather spoiled for her by the fact that in its centre are the initials of the late owners of the house, not interesting people in any way, but very commonplace folk who made money by speculations. One day a little boy-visitor was admiring the window, and asked about the initials. My friend explained them to him, and then, turning to another visitor, laughingly said, ‘We must get somebody to throw a stone through that pane.’ Presently she noticed that the little boy kept very closely to her side, and by-and-by he whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray, I can hit very well. I’ll throw a stone at that window. I’ll do it to-day if you like.’ ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, ‘that would never do at all. We must get it done properly some other time.’ He was disappointed, but said no more then. When he was taking leave, however, he whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray, when do you want that stone thrown? You’ll ask me, won’t you? You won’t let anybody else do it?’ Now if he had not been a child accustomed to free speech, he might have taken that lady’s jest in earnest and have thrown the stone, which would likely have missed its aim and done incalculable mischief. Mrs. Gray would have quite forgotten her remark. Overwhelmed by his failure and by censures unaccountable to him which would have fallen upon him, he would, according to all the precedents of childish criminals, have ‘reserved his defence,’ and he would have been set down as a mischievous monkey, if not a malignant little wretch, for making such return for pleasant hospitality.”
“I suppose too,” said Lucy, “that every time we let a child talk a matter out and help it to follow the explanations we give, we are really unconsciously training its mind to think out things for itself, and not to rest content at any point where it is not really satisfied.”
“Exactly so,” answered Miss Foster. “The facts which a child learns are always of little importance compared with the exercise of its mind in grasping them. That is why learning anything by rote is useless save as an exercise of memory, and that explains, too, why some people who are said to have ‘no book-learning’ are far keener observers and arrive at more judicious conclusions
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 than do pedants. The plainer folk have probably learned to use their minds upon the work of their hands. It is with minds as it is with bodies: unless the digestion is in order, food does not nourish, is not assimilated, and only results in disease. So though there is more ‘knowledge’ in the world to-day than ever before, and though it is more widely distributed, yet at every turn the public mind—with its violent prejudices, its unreasonable fluctuations, and its inability to look below any surface conclusions that are offered to it—proves that the Hebrew prophet’s complaint ‘that the people do not consider’ is as true as ever it was. Probably in face of present day opportunities and issues it is even truer. I often think that it will remain so till parents take more interest in their children’s society before they are eight years old.”
“I hear that many school children have so many home lessons that they can’t have much time for home talk,” said Lucy.
“That is so,” consented Miss Foster, “and in my opinion, during the regular school age home lessons ought to be almost unknown. All the time at home is needed for home society and home usefulness if the child is to have a good all-round development. The worst cases I have known of this kind of loss and defect have been among the children of modish women, who had ‘social duties’ which they preferred to walking out and talking with their little ones. If women can’t have patience and pleasure in their own children, why should they expect it in their nursemaids? And they don’t get it. I have often seen children dragging along, silent, listless, gaping, with an irritable or indifferent nurse, and a few minutes after I have met ‘mamma’ driving out to pay her calls.”
“I am always so sorry for widows who have to leave their children to others simply that they may discharge other duties to their children themselves,” observed Lucy. “A woman cannot at once play with her babies and earn their bread. I’m afraid we don’t think enough about the hardships which beset some lives. Perhaps they seldom press on our attention till we feel a touch of them ourselves.”
“I think a crèche is a very useful form of charity,” answered Miss Foster, “provided that rules are carefully made not to encourage married women to think of becoming wage-earners as if that was the proper thing when their husbands can and should be working for them.”
Lucy smiled a little sadly.
“I am not thinking only of the class who can be helped by a crèche,” she said. “I was thinking of another type of widowed women who uphold their homes by being authors or artists, or by managing shops or businesses. They are forced to leave their children so much under other influences, and it is so sad if, after bravely playing a father’s part for years, it ends in the disappointment of their mother-heart and the frustration of their best hopes.”
“Ay, I quite agree with you!” cried Miss Foster heartily, “and I congratulate you warmly on being one of those whose light affliction, lasting but a little while, suffices to open new and wider sympathies. I hope you are always getting the best news of Mr. Challoner?” she added. For Lucy had told the little teacher how she was placed at the present time.
“The very best of news, thank you,” Lucy answered. For Charlie’s ship letter had been followed by others, posted at various ports, and all telling the same good tidings of revived health and strength. Indeed, the very last letter had hinted that the improvement was so marked and so stable that Charlie was sorely tempted to shorten his absence and return home by steamer. He wrote that he had suggested this to Grant, who “seemed very much cut up about it, but had raised no difficulty.”
In reply to that letter Lucy had written at once, urging her husband not to think of such a thing. The better he was, the better reason was there for carrying through the original plan. “Because the foundation is so good, there is the brighter prospect in building on it,” she said. And besides, Lucy confided to Charlie that Captain Grant’s wife, in writing to her, had said that the fee for Charlie’s trip would just enable her husband to pay off the last of his father’s debts, which he had honestly taken upon himself. “And when they have brought us such good luck in enabling you to take this voyage,” wrote Lucy, “we must not spoil any good luck that our share in the matter may have brought them. Let us be wise and patient,” wrote Lucy, crushing back a sneaking hope that Charlie might even have started homeward before he could get her reply to his letter. “In that case we must pay the Grants all the same,” she reflected, “though I am afraid they would not take it.” Then she proved to herself the sincerity of her counsels to Charlie by still resolutely withholding the story of her domestic changes, which she had meant to tell him at this time when she had pulled through so far. But if she did so, it might add the last link to the yearning that was pulling him home, and she would do nothing to strengthen a temptation whose force was revealed in her own heart.
She walked home rather soberly after her little conversation with the Kindergarten mistress. Certainly it strengthened her in the resolutions she had formed and had steadily carried out. But she could not refuse to know that she was living under considerable strain. Her teaching at the Institute was strenuous and exacting. Apart from the mental exertion, she was on her feet all the time. By the time she reached home, she was thoroughly exhausted, and was really fit for nothing but a nap, or at least an afternoon’s repose on the sofa, half dreaming over some simple book. But there could be no such rest for her. For this was the only time when Hugh could have a walk, and so off they went together. She often wondered whether he noticed that she was not quite so lively as she used to be, not so ready for a run, or so good at a game of ball. But a little child takes much on trust. Then they came home to tea, which generally refreshed her considerably. After that, Hugh sat at her side, with his bricks, his picture books, or his “transparent slate,” while she did all the household mending. Jane Smith never put a finger to this, not because she refused to do so, but because when she attempted it on one occasion, she ruined a pair of fine grey woollen hand-knitted stockings, by drawing a slightly-worn heel together with coarse white worsted, showing that she had not the most rudimentary idea of what darning should be.
Now this is just the kind of household work for which it would be a waste of time and power to hire help, especially in such a small family. Then as the washing was no longer done at home, Lucy had to prepare the account for the laundry, and to see that the things were sent home correctly, which as they scarcely ever were, led to correspondence and general worry.
By the time all these inevitable little tasks were accomplished, it was generally time for Hugh to go to bed. After that Lucy was free. Of course, in the winter nights, painting was impossible. But through the art dealers, Lucy had heard of an opening for pen-and-ink sketches, and it was this eventide that she had hoped to give to this work. She could reckon on about two hours’ solitude, and yet retire to rest early. She soon found out, however, that leisure is of little avail for such pursuits if energies and spirits are exhausted beforehand.
Yet Jane Smith was the very last person with whom Lucy could relax her vigilance in keeping Hugh to herself. She often shuddered to think how, had Mrs. Morison’s fair appearances held out a little longer, she might have been tempted to trust her boy with the nice motherly-looking widow—a misplaced confidence which might have ended in a terrible catastrophe. But Jane Smith offered no such temptation. She was so plainly nothing but the common professional servant, who does her work as well as any work can be done without genuine interest or any sense of what is fitting or pretty. After she had spread a tablecloth Mrs. Challoner generally had to straighten it; she drew the blinds up askew; she never noticed when a stair-rod slipped from its socket. Lucy herself always had to be watchful that clean sheets were well aired. Once she found them put quite damp upon the beds. Pollie had always fed the cat in the kitchen, and so had Mrs. Morison, and certainly the poor animal had thriven well under her brief régime, till that day of disgrace, when she dropped boiling gravy on it! But Lucy remarked that pussy, who had always come upstairs for “company,” now often came up mewing. Puss seemed getting thin, so Lucy took its meals into her own care. She asked Jane Smith if she neglected her. Jane Smith said “No,” but owned she “might have forgotten it sometimes.”
That was Jane Smith all over. She
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 took her wages and did her work, but it was without any “head,” and also, Lucy was forced to admit, without any heart.
There was not much definite fault to be found with this Jane. The kitchen was fairly clean and tidy; it had only ceased to look snug and inviting. The public rooms were presentable—after Lucy had gone round everywhere, shaking out a curtain here, removing a chair from grazing the wall there, and lifting china bowls from perilous positions on the very edge of a shelf. As for the bedrooms, Jane did not seem to know how to make a bed comfortably, and did not seem able to learn. Lucy generally had much adjustment to do before she could happily court slumber.
Still Jane carried on what may be called “the ruck” of household labour after a fashion. Lucy did not dream of giving her notice to leave, not being one of those mistresses with whom that possibility is for ever present. Indeed with her strained nerves and strength it seemed really far easier to supplement Jane’s perfunctory work than to entertain any thought of once more facing change and a wrestle with the unknown.
Jane’s lover, the young carpenter, came regularly once a week, and stayed about two hours. Mrs. Challoner saw him once or twice, when household business took her to the kitchen, during his visits. He looked a dull, decent young man, with a shock of red hair and a smooth boyish face. He sat close beside the fire, even when the spring evenings had grown warm. Lucy addressed him with a cheerful “Good evening,” and made one or two slight remarks about the weather, to which he made little response save a movement of the lips, and a glance towards the area-window. He did not rise when Lucy entered the kitchen, but that rudeness seemed due only to shyness or slowness, for he always rose a few minutes afterwards and remained standing for the rest of her stay. Altogether, Lucy decided that he was not very bright; he was by no means one of those young working men who come to the front at evening colleges and clubs, and are the moving spirits of their trades’ union. All the more, he seemed a fit enough match for Jane, who would have been indeed a hopeless drag on the life of any rising man.
Sitting in her dining-room, Lucy could hear through its floor the sound of the voices in the kitchen, though the words, of course, were inaudible. The conversation of these courting evenings did not seem very lively. Jane said a few words, and the gruffer voice replied with a monosyllable, and then there would be a long pause, and presently the performance would be repeated.
But one evening a week or two after Easter, the conversation seemed to have grown much livelier. It was the man who had the most to say, and he spoke faster and in a higher key than before.
“Is he waking up at last?” thought unsuspicious Lucy, “or is it possible that they have had a little tiff, and that he is defending himself or scolding her? Perhaps he does not like her new bonnet.”
For Lucy had seen Jane go out on the previous Sunday evening in fresh and gorgeous spring attire, her neat brown dress and black jacket crowned by an incompatible hat, round whose crown pink, green and blue roses, feathers and rosettes “screamed” loudly at each other. Lucy had thought to herself that her mother, in the old days, would at once have “put her foot down” on such headgear, but Lucy’s own sense of fairness rebelled against any arbitrary interference with a girl’s taste in dress (when going about her own business) simply because the girl was in her wage-paid service at other times.
“I have seen Florence in hats I have liked as little, though they were different,” thought Lucy. “I know many mistresses can’t bear their servants to copy their style of dress—dear mother would have regarded it as an unpardonable impertinence—but I should be only too proud and happy if my servants would copy mine! Pollie was turning in that direction—with just a few extra bows and flowers, and silk velvet ribbon where I put modest braid!”
But next week, when the courting evening came round, the hitherto silent lover was again voluble. Even sounds of laughter arose—a thing unprecedented! Lucy was always watchful to hear the kitchen door close and the manly step mount the area steps at the precise hour she had named. She had never had any reason to complain on this score. The carpenter had taken his departure with painful punctuality. But to-night, the nearest church-clock chimed nine, and the chat in the kitchen went gaily on. Presently Lucy looked at her watch—it was half-past nine. She hated to begin fault-finding for any trifling accidental lapse. Still it was time the supper-tray was brought up.
She had her hand on the bell when there was quite a lively stampede in the kitchen, the area door closed with a hilarious bang, fleet feet mounted the area steps as if by two at a time, and the area gate clanged to the sound of a merry whistle.
Jane, with the supper-tray, seemed more alert than usual, almost officious in her endeavour to do of her own accord little things of which Mrs. Challoner generally had to remind her.
Next week, when the same evening came round, and the kitchen voices were again audible, it chanced that Lucy found she had left her housekeeping book on the kitchen dresser. She thought to herself that she would not ring for it, but would fetch it herself, and so take opportunity of keeping in touch with the domestic idyll whose new developments were beginning to interest her.
But when she opened the kitchen door she started and almost cried out.
(To be continued.)