THERE ARE FOUR SEASONS, page 6
She’d go to the nursery now. She’d break all the cups in the nursery cupboard. Or should she break a window? Yes, she thought she’d break a window.
She opened the nursery door and stopped, catching her breath with surprise. A small cot stood in a corner by the fire, with curtains of frilled muslin, tied back with bows of blue ribbon. She went to it and peeped between the curtains. Blue eyes in a tiny face stared up at her. A hand no bigger than a rose petal lay on the coverlet Vicky slipped her finger into it and the tiny fingers tightened about it. Vicky smiled and said “Hello” rather shyly.
No, she wouldn’t break a window here, after all.
The door opened and Nurse Tanner entered.
“We didn’t expect you home to-day, Miss Vicky,” she said.
Vicky gave her a hard unchildlike stare.
“When did you expect me home?” she said defiantly.
Nurse Tanner did not answer the question.
“Take your things off, and wash your hands. It’s nearly tea-time.”
Vicky looked at her. She was still upheld by that intoxication of lawlessness, that wild white flame of anger. And her whole being thrilled to the sudden knowledge that she wasn’t afraid of Nurse Tanner any longer. She was nothing, nothing at all, compared with Miss Amelia.
“No, I won’t,” she said, “and I don’t want any tea either.”
Nurse Tanner shrugged her shoulders and went to the cot without speaking. Little Celia was her job, not Miss Vicky. She’d said from the beginning that she wouldn’t be responsible for Miss Vicky when the baby came. Especially after she’d gone to boarding-school. Boarding-school ruined children. She’d noticed it again and again. They came back little heathens with no respect for anyone or anything. She always refused to be responsible for a child once it had gone to boarding-school. She’d never been fond of Miss Vicky, with her airs and graces and ready tears. And she looked as if she’d turned into a proper little termagant on top of it all. They’d have to get a holiday governess for her or send her away for the holidays. She wasn‘t going to have her in the nursery upsetting everything, and she’d tell Mrs. Carothers so straight.
She lifted the baby from the cot and held it in the crook of her arm, looking down at it, her grim face softened to tenderness. For babies in their first few months of helplessness Nurse Tanner felt an affection of which she was half ashamed.
Vicky walked slowly downstairs and out into the garden. Andrew was in one of the greenhouses.
“Hello, Andrew,” she said.
She grinned at him as she spoke, the defiant exultant grin of the outlaw.
“Hello, Miss Vicky,” said Andrew.
“I’ve broken all Mama’s glass in the drawing-room and in her bedroom,” said Vicky.
Andrew’s freckled face was grave.
“You shouldn’t have broke your mama’s things,” he said. “You’ll get into trouble for that.”
“I don’t care,” said Vicky. “I’m never going to do what anyone tells me ever again.”
Chapter Five
VICKY stayed for four years at Tarnaway Towers. She was not unhappy there. Children do not resent discipline, as long as it is administered without malice, and certainly the pupils of Tarnaway Towers were never dull.
During Vicky’s second term one of the new girls took her place by general tacit consent as the most unpopular girl in the school, and Vicky, rather to her surprise, found herself accepted and even liked by her school-fellows.
School life had taught her a good deal, apart from the official curriculum—to adapt herself to her surroundings, to give and take, to receive punishment and rewards lightly, without undue distress or exaltation. At Tarnaway Towers they succeeded each other so quickly that it afforded an excellent object lesson on the instability of human affairs. Miss Amelia considered it her duty to see that the proverbial fall trod closely on the heels of pride and vice versa, and would follow punishment by reward and reward by punishment with bewildering rapidity. Though prim and majestic outwardly, she was driven by a demon of inexhaustible vitality that must find outlet every moment of the day, and her passion of anger or approbation hovered over her pupils incessantly.
Though Vicky was now comparatively well-behaved at school, she continued her outlaw career during the holidays, becoming a reckless little firebrand the minute she set foot in the Hall. By this means, and this means alone, could she force her father to notice her. He could ignore her when she made timid attempts to win his love, but he could not ignore her when she turned the place upside down, caused the servants to give notice, and disobeyed his every order.
He was cold and distant when he reproved her, speaking in a tone of icy displeasure, looking at her with a revulsion of dislike that sent a wave of physical sickness through her, though she stared at him defiantly, and never cried till she was alone in her bedroom, and, even as she cried, was planning further ways of annoying him.
Once or twice she went to him to say that she was sorry, hoping against hope for the miracle of some dramatic reconciliation, some, sudden irrefutable evidence of his love. But he told her coldly, without even looking at her, that he hoped she would prove her sorrow by her conduct and brought the interview to an abrupt end.
Mrs. Carothers shrugged her handsome shoulders and went her way. The child was impossible, but she was determined not to fill the role of cruel stepmother (as, she shrewdly guessed, Vicky would have liked her to) and left her to the charge of a succession of holiday governesses, none of whom would ever take the position a second time, and some of whom left before the holidays were over.
Little Celia now complicated the situation. She was a plump, good-tempered little girl of four, adored by both father and mother. It wasn’t easy, of course, for Vicky to see the child filling the position that she herself had longed for so passionately, to watch her father smile at her tenderly and take her on his knee, the servants and villagers pay court to her.
At first she did not know how to retaliate, for despite her naughtiness she was too kind-hearted to wish to hurt the child. Then Celia herself showed the way. For Celia, as she grew from baby to little girl, conceived a passionate affection for her elder sister. She was never so happy as when she could toddle by Vicky’s side, holding her hand. She would struggle out of her father’s and mother’s arms to go to Vicky. She sobbed inconsolably on the days when Vicky went back to school.
It was indescribably galling to Mr. and Mrs. Carothers, and Vicky made full use of her advantage, deliberately leading the child into mischief, inciting her to rudeness and disobedience.
“It isn’t poor little Celia’s fault,” they said, and punished Vicky, but Vicky was hardened to punishment and delighted at having found the chink in her parents’ armour.
Nurse Tanner, driven to despair, would give notice regularly each holiday, and Mrs. Carothers would implore her to stay. “It’s only for a short time now, Nurse, you know. She’ll be as good as gold once Miss Vicky’s gone back.”
They complained to Miss Amelia, but Miss Amelia never took much notice of complaints from parents. She had a profound contempt for them as a class, and considered them wholly unfitted to be entrusted with the care of children.
One afternoon, as Vicky was going through the hall from her music lesson to her dancing class, she saw Mama’s parasol in the umbrella-stand. Mama, then, had come to see Miss Amelia, to tell her, probably, how naughty Vicky had been in the holidays. . . . A grin played about Vicky’s mouth as she slipped back to her classroom for a penknife, then, taking the parasol from the stand, slit the rich flounced silk in half a dozen places.
Miss Amelia fixed a stern eye upon her that evening, but asked her no questions, for Mrs. Carothers had been to tell Miss Amelia that they had decided to take Vicky away from Tarnaway Towers and send her to a school in Switzerland, where she would spend the holidays. Miss Amelia had assented grimly. She despised Mrs. Carothers for not being able to manage the child.
“Vicky is very little trouble here,” she said.
Mrs. Carothers had sighed.
“She’s completely unmanageable at home, and she has a very bad influence on her little sister.”
“How old is the other child?” asked Miss Amelia.
“Four,” said Mrs. Carothers.
She spoke shortly. It was useless for Miss Amelia to take an interest in Celia. Celia was far too precious to be sent away from home. Why, her papa was restless if the child was out of his sight even for a few hours. He had moved his study so that he could watch her at play in the garden. He would go into the nursery to look at her in her cot. “Papa’s sweetheart,” he called her. Her affection for Vicky hurt him inexpressibly, though he tried to ignore it.
Vicky left Tarnaway Towers in good company. Both Miss Gilbert and Miss Irene left it at the same time. Miss Gilbert’s secret had at last come to light. One of the pupils’ brothers patronised the Gilbert tailoring establishment, and the man had told his customer that his sister was a mistress at a select Academy for young ladies called Tarnaway Towers, adding naively that, of course, it wouldn’t do for the young ladies to know about his shop, so his sister had always kept it dark. The brother told his sister; the sister, a good-natured girl, told a few special friends as a great secret; and one fatal night Miss Jessica overheard them discussing it in the dormitory and reported the matter to Miss Amelia. Miss Amelia sent for Miss Gilbert the next morning and summarily dismissed her.
“A school of this standing,” said Miss Amelia, “cannot afford to have any association with Trade. I have made the most searching enquiries in the case of all my pupils, and I cannot, in justice to the parents to whom I am responsible, be less particular in the case of my governesses.”
Miss Gilbert accepted her dismissal meekly enough (she considered it quite just and reasonable) and spent the rest of the term trying to ingratiate herself with the more important pupils in the hope that it might “lead to something,” and bullying the less important ones as an outlet to her feelings. Her toadying led to nothing, however, and she set off at the end of the term to the tailor’s shop, her eyes red and her mouth grimly set.
Miss Irene was married to the Vicar in the last week of the term. The Vicar had begun to propose again, and Miss Amelia, who had dominated her all her life (her only gesture of independence had been her desperate flight with her lover), had now decided that she must accept him. Amelia had tried conscientiously to turn her into a successful schoolmistress, but at last even she recognised failure. Irene was only fit to be a wife, and if she married the Vicar Amelia would still be able to keep an eye on her.
She was married from the school, wearing a black silk hat and jacket over a grey silk dress and carrying a bouquet of roses. Her eyes held that far-away look that they had held ever since her elopement, with an added something of fear.
Miss Jessica bustled about, making jellies and trifles for the wedding-breakfast, crying at intervals and feeling pleasantly sentimental and maternal, and Miss Amelia gave vent to whatever feelings she had by putting more girls into disgrace than had ever been known to happen before in the history of the school.
As the term drew to its close, Vicky found that she was sorry to leave Tarnaway Towers. She would miss the rambling old garden and the pleasant comradeship of schoolroom and dormitory.
Miss Amelia shook her head over her sadly as she said good-bye. Something might have been made of the child if she had stayed, but Miss Amelia regarded all other educational establishments than Tarnaway Towers as places where children were ruined by excessive pampering.
Vicky was unusually quiet and subdued at the beginning of the holidays. She felt depressed at the prospect of leaving the world she knew and going to a new world where she must stay till she was grown-up. Moreover, it didn’t seem worth while defying authority any longer. She had given it a good trial, and it had been only partially successful. It had certainly forced Papa to notice her, but it had ended in her banishment from him and the home she loved.
She did not entirely abandon the fight, however, and she still used Celia as her chief weapon, now in a more subtle way. She did not lead Celia into mischief, but she paraded her power over the child, wielding it deliberately so as to hurt her father as much as possible. She was kinder to Celia than she had ever been before, and Celia’s devotion increased.
“No, no,” she would say, when her father offered to take her out with him or invited her down to his study. “I want to be with Vicky.”
Celia was delighted that her birthday fell in the holidays.
“Vicky will be home for it!” she cried gleefully. “Vicky will be home for it! Isn’t that lovely?”
Mr. Carothers said nothing. If the event had taken place in the term-time he would have instituted himself its presiding genius, for he loved to watch his darling’s pleasure, but, as it was, he decided to ignore it. He would not share the place of honour with Vicky. Though he was ashamed of his dislike of the child, he found it impossible to overcome. And Vicky’s behaviour certainly justified it to his conscience.
The birthday party was to consist of Celia, Vicky, the Vicarage children, and the doctor’s little girl—a fat pale child called Dorothea, with a mass of tightly crimped hair, bandy legs, and a habit of falling asleep anywhere and at any time.
She arrived with her nurse at about half-past three and was committed to Nurse Tanner’s charge with instructions not to take off the white shoulder shawl she was wearing till she was “warmed up.”
The Vicarage children arrived in charge of Violet a few moments later. Roger seemed taller and thinner than ever. He was still quiet and grave and responsible, conscientiously snubbing Mark and keeping a protective eye on Mabs. Mark still shouted “Look at me,” occasionally, but he was learning less direct methods of self-advertisement, acquiring a pretence of modesty that he was finding much more effective.
“Oh yes, I came in first,” he would say, describing some race at school, “but it was just a fluke.”
Mabs had lost a good deal of her shyness and was inclined to exploit her position as the only girl of the family by ordering the two boys about. Mark resisted strenuously, but Roger had got into the habit of waiting on her when she was a baby and did it as a matter of course.
Violet handed over her charges to Nurse Tanner.
“What a walk!” she panted. “I’m just about done up.”
“It oughtn’t to be anything to a great healthy girl like you,” snapped Nurse Tanner.
“Maybe I’m not as healthy as I look,” said Violet darkly. “I’ve often wondered if I am.”
“Come back for them at six,” said Nurse Tanner.
Violet lingered.
“You got Miss Vicky back,” she said. “I hear she’s a proper little devil.”
“At six,” repeated Nurse Tanner firmly.
Violet shrugged sulkily and took her departure. She’d never met anyone like that Nurse Tanner for jumping down your throat before you’d opened your mouth.
Roger and Mark and Mabs took their things off and went to the nursery, where Celia stood surrounded by her presents. She had had a doll’s house from Papa and Mama, a picture book from Vicky, a doll from Nurse Tanner, some building bricks from the other servants, and a wooden horse from Andrew, carved and painted by himself.
Vicky had examined the wooden horse silently. Andrew had never given her anything for her birthday, but her birthdays had always fallen in term-time since that unlucky one four years ago. Her thoughts went back to that and she compared it with this birthday of Celia’s—Celia, the petted feted darling. She couldn’t dislike Celia, but she felt surging up within her the old resentment and with it the old reckless defiance.
The Vicarage children had brought a dolls’ tea-set, which Roger presented to Celia with a ceremonial air.
“From all of us,” he said, “with our love.”
“Thank you very much indeed,” said Celia, holding up her face to each of them for a kiss.
The tea was laid on the nursery table. There were jellies, sugared biscuits, and a large iced cake with “Celia, aged four” on it.
Nurse Tanner put on Celia’s feeder, and settled them at the table, hovering over them with the usual stream of admonitions and reproofs.
“No, you finish that bread and butter, Miss Celia, or you’ll have no jelly.”—“I didn’t hear you say Thank you, Miss Vicky.” She did not exclude the visitors from her attentions. “Don’t drink with your mouth full, Miss Mabs.”—“That’ll do, Master Mark.”—“Get on with your tea, Miss Dorothea.”
They ate and drank busily, chattering over the bread and butter on which Nurse Tanner insisted, becoming silent as they reached the more engrossing stage of jelly and sugared biscuits.
Nurse Tanner, seeing them so quietly occupied, thought that she might seize the opportunity to go down to the kitchen and get her own tea in peace.
“You can each have one slice of birthday cake,” she said, “and mind you don’t talk with your mouths full or make a noise while I’m away, or there’ll be no Blind-man’s-buff for you afterwards.”
They finished their platefuls of jelly in silence, then Celia stood up and took hold of the glass cake-stand. Her round rosy face was shining with pleasure above her frilled white pinafore and embroidered feeder. Her neat golden-brown fringe hung just above her eyes. Her curls fell over her shoulders.
“There’s a piece for each of us and one over,” she said. “I’m going to give the one over to Andrew. My darling Andrew,” she added affectionately.
A sudden gust of anger swept over Vicky.
“He’s not your Andrew,” she said.
“He is,” said Celia. “He gives me rides in his wheel-barrow, and he lets me help him plant the flowers.”
“He’s mine,” Vicky persisted. “I knew him before you were born. Why, I—I—I engaged him.”
“All right, he’s your Andrew, Vicky,” said Celia pacifically. “He’s not mine. He’s yours.”
