CHAPTER VI--PICKING UP MISS KIMMEENS {1}
The day was by this time waning, when the gate again opened, and,
with the brilliant golden light that streamed from the declining sun
and touched the very bars of the sooty creature's den, there passed
in a little child; a little girl with beautiful bright hair. She
wore a plain straw hat, had a door-key in her hand, and tripped
towards Mr. Traveller as if she were pleased to see him and were
going to repose some childish confidence in him, when she caught
sight of the figure behind the bars, and started back in terror.
"Don't be alarmed, darling!" said Mr. Traveller, taking her by the
hand.
"Oh, but I don't like it!" urged the shrinking child; "it's
dreadful."
"Well! I don't like it either," said Mr. Traveller.
"Who has put it there?" asked the little girl. "Does it bite?"
"No,--only barks. But can't you make up your mind to see it, my
dear?" For she was covering her eyes.
"O no no no!" returned the child. "I cannot bear to look at it!"
Mr. Traveller turned his head towards his friend in there, as much
as to ask him how he liked that instance of his success, and then
took the child out at the still open gate, and stood talking to her
for some half an hour in the mellow sunlight. At length he
returned, encouraging her as she held his arm with both her hands;
and laying his protecting hand upon her head and smoothing her
pretty hair, he addressed his friend behind the bars as follows:
Miss Pupford's establishment for six young ladies of tender years,
is an establishment of a compact nature, an establishment in
miniature, quite a pocket establishment. Miss Pupford, Miss
Pupford's assistant with the Parisian accent, Miss Pupford's cook,
and Miss Pupford's housemaid, complete what Miss Pupford calls the
educational and domestic staff of her Lilliputian College.
Miss Pupford is one of the most amiable of her sex; it necessarily
follows that she possesses a sweet temper, and would own to the
possession of a great deal of sentiment if she considered it quite
reconcilable with her duty to parents. Deeming it not in the bond,
Miss Pupford keeps it as far out of sight as she can--which (God
bless her!) is not very far.
Miss Pupford's assistant with the Parisian accent, may be regarded
as in some sort an inspired lady, for she never conversed with a
Parisian, and was never out of England--except once in the pleasure-
boat Lively, in the foreign waters that ebb and flow two miles off
Margate at high water. Even under those geographically favourable
circumstances for the acquisition of the French language in its
utmost politeness and purity, Miss Pupford's assistant did not fully
profit by the opportunity; for the pleasure-boat, Lively, so
strongly asserted its title to its name on that occasion, that she
was reduced to the condition of lying in the bottom of the boat
pickling in brine--as if she were being salted down for the use of
the Navy--undergoing at the same time great mental alarm, corporeal
distress, and clear-starching derangement.
When Miss Pupford and her assistant first foregathered, is not known
to men, or pupils. But, it was long ago. A belief would have
established itself among pupils that the two once went to school
together, were it not for the difficulty and audacity of imagining
Miss Pupford born without mittens, and without a front, and without
a bit of gold wire among her front teeth, and without little dabs of
powder on her neat little face and nose. Indeed, whenever Miss
Pupford gives a little lecture on the mythology of the misguided
heathens (always carefully excluding Cupid from recognition), and
tells how Minerva sprang, perfectly equipped, from the brain of
Jupiter, she is half supposed to hint, "So I myself came into the
world, completely up in Pinnock, Mangnall, Tables, and the use of
the Globes."
Howbeit, Miss Pupford and Miss Pupford's assistant are old old
friends. And it is thought by pupils that, after pupils are gone to
bed, they even call one another by their christian names in the
quiet little parlour. For, once upon a time on a thunderous
afternoon, when Miss Pupford fainted away without notice, Miss
Pupford's assistant (never heard, before or since, to address her
otherwise than as Miss Pupford) ran to her, crying out, "My dearest
Euphemia!" And Euphemia is Miss Pupford's christian name on the
sampler (date picked out) hanging up in the College-hall, where the
two peacocks, terrified to death by some German text that is
waddling down-hill after them out of a cottage, are scuttling away
to hide their profiles in two immense bean-stalks growing out of
flower-pots.
Also, there is a notion latent among pupils, that Miss Pupford was
once in love, and that the beloved object still moves upon this
ball. Also, that he is a public character, and a personage of vast
consequence. Also, that Miss Pupford's assistant knows all about
it. For, sometimes of an afternoon when Miss Pupford has been
reading the paper through her little gold eye-glass (it is necessary
to read it on the spot, as the boy calls for it, with ill-
conditioned punctuality, in an hour), she has become agitated, and
has said to her assistant "G!" Then Miss Pupford's assistant has
gone to Miss Pupford, and Miss Pupford has pointed out, with her
eye-glass, G in the paper, and then Miss Pupford's assistant has
read about G, and has shown sympathy. So stimulated has the pupil-
mind been in its time to curiosity on the subject of G, that once,
under temporary circumstances favourable to the bold sally, one
fearless pupil did actually obtain possession of the paper, and
range all over it in search of G, who had been discovered therein by
Miss Pupford not ten minutes before. But no G could be identified,
except one capital offender who had been executed in a state of
great hardihood, and it was not to be supposed that Miss Pupford
could ever have loved HIM. Besides, he couldn't be always being
executed. Besides, he got into the paper again, alive, within a
month.
On the whole, it is suspected by the pupil-mind that G is a short
chubby old gentleman, with little black sealing-wax boots up to his
knees, whom a sharply observant pupil, Miss Linx, when she once went
to Tunbridge Wells with Miss Pupford for the holidays, reported on
her return (privately and confidentially) to have seen come capering
up to Miss Pupford on the Promenade, and to have detected in the act
of squeezing Miss Pupford's hand, and to have heard pronounce the
words, "Cruel Euphemia, ever thine!"--or something like that. Miss
Linx hazarded a guess that he might be House of Commons, or Money
Market, or Court Circular, or Fashionable Movements; which would
account for his getting into the paper so often. But, it was
fatally objected by the pupil-mind, that none of those notabilities
could possibly be spelt with a G.
There are other occasions, closely watched and perfectly
comprehended by the pupil-mind, when Miss Pupford imparts with
mystery to her assistant that there is special excitement in the
morning paper. These occasions are, when Miss Pupford finds an old
pupil coming out under the head of Births, or Marriages.
Affectionate tears are invariably seen in Miss Pupford's meek little
eyes when this is the case; and the pupil-mind, perceiving that its
order has distinguished itself--though the fact is never mentioned
by Miss Pupford--becomes elevated, and feels that it likewise is
reserved for greatness.
Miss Pupford's assistant with the Parisian accent has a little more
bone than Miss Pupford, but is of the same trim orderly diminutive
cast, and, from long contemplation, admiration, and imitation of
Miss Pupford, has grown like her. Being entirely devoted to Miss
Pupford, and having a pretty talent for pencil-drawing, she once
made a portrait of that lady: which was so instantly identified and
hailed by the pupils, that it was done on stone at five shillings.
Surely the softest and milkiest stone that ever was quarried,
received that likeness of Miss Pupford! The lines of her placid
little nose are so undecided in it that strangers to the work of art
are observed to be exceedingly perplexed as to where the nose goes
to, and involuntarily feel their own noses in a disconcerted manner.
Miss Pupford being represented in a state of dejection at an open
window, ruminating over a bowl of gold fish, the pupil-mind has
settled that the bowl was presented by G, and that he wreathed the
bowl with flowers of soul, and that Miss Pupford is depicted as
waiting for him on a memorable occasion when he was behind his time.
The approach of the last Midsummer holidays had a particular
interest for the pupil-mind, by reason of its knowing that Miss
Pupford was bidden, on the second day of those holidays, to the
nuptials of a former pupil. As it was impossible to conceal the
fact--so extensive were the dress-making preparations--Miss Pupford
openly announced it. But, she held it due to parents to make the
announcement with an air of gentle melancholy, as if marriage were
(as indeed it exceptionally has been) rather a calamity. With an
air of softened resignation and pity, therefore, Miss Pupford went
on with her preparations: and meanwhile no pupil ever went up-
stairs, or came down, without peeping in at the door of Miss
Pupford's bedroom (when Miss Pupford wasn't there), and bringing
back some surprising intelligence concerning the bonnet.
The extensive preparations being completed on the day before the
holidays, an unanimous entreaty was preferred to Miss Pupford by the
pupil-mind--finding expression through Miss Pupford's assistant--
that she would deign to appear in all her splendour. Miss Pupford
consenting, presented a lovely spectacle. And although the oldest
pupil was barely thirteen, every one of the six became in two
minutes perfect in the shape, cut, colour, price, and quality, of
every article Miss Pupford wore.
Thus delightfully ushered in, the holidays began. Five of the six
pupils kissed little Kitty Kimmeens twenty times over (round total,
one hundred times, for she was very popular), and so went home.
Miss Kitty Kimmeens remained behind, for her relations and friends
were all in India, far away. A self-helpful steady little child is
Miss Kitty Kimmeens: a dimpled child too, and a loving.
So, the great marriage-day came, and Miss Pupford, quite as much
fluttered as any bride could be (G! thought Miss Kitty Kimmeens),
went away, splendid to behold, in the carriage that was sent for
her. But not Miss Pupford only went away; for Miss Pupford's
assistant went away with her, on a dutiful visit to an aged uncle--
though surely the venerable gentleman couldn't live in the gallery
of the church where the marriage was to be, thought Miss Kitty
Kimmeens--and yet Miss Pupford's assistant had let out that she was
going there. Where the cook was going, didn't appear, but she
generally conveyed to Miss Kimmeens that she was bound, rather
against her will, on a pilgrimage to perform some pious office that
rendered new ribbons necessary to her best bonnet, and also sandals
to her shoes.
"So you see," said the housemaid, when they were all gone, "there's
nobody left in the house but you and me, Miss Kimmeens."
"Nobody else," said Miss Kitty Kimmeens, shaking her curls a little
sadly. "Nobody!"
"And you wouldn't like your Bella to go too; would you, Miss
Kimmeens?" said the housemaid. (She being Bella.)
"N-no," answered little Miss Kimmeens.
"Your poor Bella is forced to stay with you, whether she likes it or
not; ain't she, Miss Kimmeens?"
"DON'T you like it?" inquired Kitty.
"Why, you're such a darling, Miss, that it would be unkind of your
Bella to make objections. Yet my brother-in-law has been took
unexpected bad by this morning's post. And your poor Bella is much
attached to him, letting alone her favourite sister, Miss Kimmeens."
"Is he very ill?" asked little Kitty.
"Your poor Bella has her fears so, Miss Kimmeens," returned the
housemaid, with her apron at her eyes. "It was but his inside, it
is true, but it might mount, and the doctor said that if it mounted
he wouldn't answer." Here the housemaid was so overcome that Kitty
administered the only comfort she had ready: which was a kiss.
"If it hadn't been for disappointing Cook, dear Miss Kimmeens," said
the housemaid, "your Bella would have asked her to stay with you.
For Cook is sweet company, Miss Kimmeens, much more so than your own
poor Bella."
"But you are very nice, Bella."
"Your Bella could wish to be so, Miss Kimmeens," returned the
housemaid, "but she knows full well that it do not lay in her power
this day."
With which despondent conviction, the housemaid drew a heavy sigh,
and shook her head, and dropped it on one side.
"If it had been anyways right to disappoint Cook," she pursued, in a
contemplative and abstracted manner, "it might have been so easy
done! I could have got to my brother-in-law's, and had the best
part of the day there, and got back, long before our ladies come
home at night, and neither the one nor the other of them need never
have known it. Not that Miss Pupford would at all object, but that
it might put her out, being tender-hearted. Hows'ever, your own
poor Bella, Miss Kimmeens," said the housemaid, rousing herself, "is
forced to stay with you, and you're a precious love, if not a
liberty."
"Bella," said little Kitty, after a short silence.
"Call your own poor Bella, your Bella, dear," the housemaid besought
her.
"My Bella, then."
"Bless your considerate heart!" said the housemaid.
"If you would not mind leaving me, I should not mind being left. I
am not afraid to stay in the house alone. And you need not be
uneasy on my account, for I would be very careful to do no harm."
"O! As to harm, you more than sweetest, if not a liberty,"
exclaimed the housemaid, in a rapture, "your Bella could trust you
anywhere, being so steady, and so answerable. The oldest head in
this house (me and Cook says), but for its bright hair, is Miss
Kimmeens. But no, I will not leave you; for you would think your
Bella unkind."
"But if you are my Bella, you MUST go," returned the child.
"Must I?" said the housemaid, rising, on the whole with alacrity.
"What must be, must be, Miss Kimmeens. Your own poor Bella acts
according, though unwilling. But go or stay, your own poor Bella
loves you, Miss Kimmeens."
It was certainly go, and not stay, for within five minutes Miss
Kimmeens's own poor Bella--so much improved in point of spirits as
to have grown almost sanguine on the subject of her brother-in-law--
went her way, in apparel that seemed to have been expressly prepared
for some festive occasion. Such are the changes of this fleeting
world, and so short-sighted are we poor mortals!
When the house door closed with a bang and a shake, it seemed to
Miss Kimmeens to be a very heavy house door, shutting her up in a
wilderness of a house. But, Miss Kimmeens being, as before stated,
of a self-reliant and methodical character, presently began to
parcel out the long summer-day before her.
And first she thought she would go all over the house, to make quite
sure that nobody with a great-coat on and a carving-knife in it, had
got under one of the beds or into one of the cupboards. Not that
she had ever before been troubled by the image of anybody armed with
a great-coat and a carving-knife, but that it seemed to have been
shaken into existence by the shake and the bang of the great street-
door, reverberating through the solitary house. So, little Miss
Kimmeens looked under the five empty beds of the five departed
pupils, and looked, under her own bed, and looked under Miss
Pupford's bed, and looked under Miss Pupford's assistants bed. And
when she had done this, and was making the tour of the cupboards,
the disagreeable thought came into her young head, What a very
alarming thing it would be to find somebody with a mask on, like Guy
Fawkes, hiding bolt upright in a corner and pretending not to be
alive! However, Miss Kimmeens having finished her inspection
without making any such uncomfortable discovery, sat down in her
tidy little manner to needlework, and began stitching away at a
great rate.
The silence all about her soon grew very oppressive, and the more so
because of the odd inconsistency that the more silent it was, the
more noises there were. The noise of her own needle and thread as
she stitched, was infinitely louder in her ears than the stitching
of all the six pupils, and of Miss Pupford, and of Miss Pupford's
assistant, all stitching away at once on a highly emulative
afternoon. Then, the schoolroom clock conducted itself in a way in
which it had never conducted itself before--fell lame, somehow, and
yet persisted in running on as hard and as loud as it could: the
consequence of which behaviour was, that it staggered among the
minutes in a state of the greatest confusion, and knocked them about
in all directions without appearing to get on with its regular work.
Perhaps this alarmed the stairs; but be that as it might, they began
to creak in a most unusual manner, and then the furniture began to
crack, and then poor little Miss Kimmeens, not liking the furtive
aspect of things in general, began to sing as she stitched. But, it
was not her own voice that she heard--it was somebody else making
believe to be Kitty, and singing excessively flat, without any
heart--so as that would never mend matters, she left off again.
By-and-by the stitching became so palpable a failure that Miss Kitty
Kimmeens folded her work neatly, and put it away in its box, and
gave it up. Then the question arose about reading. But no; the
book that was so delightful when there was somebody she loved for
her eyes to fall on when they rose from the page, had not more heart
in it than her own singing now. The book went to its shelf as the
needlework had gone to its box, and, since something MUST be done--
thought the child, "I'll go put my room to rights."
She shared her room with her dearest little friend among the other
five pupils, and why then should she now conceive a lurking dread of
the little friend's bedstead? But she did. There was a stealthy
air about its innocent white curtains, and there were even dark
hints of a dead girl lying under the coverlet. The great want of
human company, the great need of a human face, began now to express
itself in the facility with which the furniture put on strange
exaggerated resemblances to human looks. A chair with a menacing
frown was horribly out of temper in a corner; a most vicious chest
of drawers snarled at her from between the windows. It was no
relief to escape from those monsters to the looking-glass, for the
reflection said, "What? Is that you all alone there? How you
stare!" And the background was all a great void stare as well.
The day dragged on, dragging Kitty with it very slowly by the hair
of her head, until it was time to eat. There were good provisions
in the pantry, but their right flavour and relish had evaporated
with the five pupils, and Miss Pupford, and Miss Pupford's
assistant, and the cook and housemaid. Where was the use of laying
the cloth symmetrically for one small guest, who had gone on ever
since the morning growing smaller and smaller, while the empty house
had gone on swelling larger and larger? The very Grace came out
wrong, for who were "we" who were going to receive and be thankful?
So, Miss Kimmeens was NOT thankful, and found herself taking her
dinner in very slovenly style--gobbling it up, in short, rather
after the manner of the lower animals, not to particularise the
pigs.
But, this was by no means the worst of the change wrought out in the
naturally loving and cheery little creature as the solitary day wore
on. She began to brood and be suspicious. She discovered that she
was full of wrongs and injuries. All the people she knew, got
tainted by her lonely thoughts and turned bad.
It was all very well for Papa, a widower in India, to send her home
to be educated, and to pay a handsome round sum every year for her
to Miss Pupford, and to write charming letters to his darling little
daughter; but what did he care for her being left by herself, when
he was (as no doubt he always was) enjoying himself in company from
morning till night? Perhaps he only sent her here, after all, to
get her out of the way. It looked like it--looked like it to-day,
that is, for she had never dreamed of such a thing before.
And this old pupil who was being married. It was unsupportably
conceited and selfish in the old pupil to be married. She was very
vain, and very glad to show off; but it was highly probable that she
wasn't pretty; and even if she were pretty (which Miss Kimmeens now
totally denied), she had no business to be married; and, even if
marriage were conceded, she had no business to ask Miss Pupford to
her wedding. As to Miss Pupford, she was too old to go to any
wedding. She ought to know that. She had much better attend to her
business. She had thought she looked nice in the morning, but she
didn't look nice. She was a stupid old thing. G was another stupid
old thing. Miss Pupford's assistant was another. They were all
stupid old things together.
More than that: it began to be obvious that this was a plot. They
had said to one another, "Never mind Kitty; you get off, and I'll
get off; and we'll leave Kitty to look after herself. Who cares for
her?" To be sure they were right in that question; for who DID care
for her, a poor little lonely thing against whom they all planned
and plotted? Nobody, nobody! Here Kitty sobbed.
At all other times she was the pet of the whole house, and loved her
five companions in return with a child's tenderest and most
ingenuous attachment; but now, the five companions put on ugly
colours, and appeared for the first time under a sullen cloud.
There they were, all at their homes that day, being made much of,
being taken out, being spoilt and made disagreeable, and caring
nothing for her. It was like their artful selfishness always to
tell her when they came back, under pretence of confidence and
friendship, all those details about where they had been, and what
they had done and seen, and how often they had said, "O! If we had
only darling little Kitty here!" Here indeed! I dare say! When
they came back after the holidays, they were used to being received
by Kitty, and to saying that coming to Kitty was like coming to
another home. Very well then, why did they go away? If the meant
it, why did they go away? Let them answer that. But they didn't
mean it, and couldn't answer that, and they didn't tell the truth,
and people who didn't tell the truth were hateful. When they came
back next time, they should be received in a new manner; they should
be avoided and shunned.
And there, the while she sat all alone revolving how ill she was
used, and how much better she was than the people who were not
alone, the wedding breakfast was going on: no question of it! With
a nasty great bride-cake, and with those ridiculous orange-flowers,
and with that conceited bride, and that hideous bridegroom, and
those heartless bridesmaids, and Miss Pupford stuck up at the table!
They thought they were enjoying themselves, but it would come home
to them one day to have thought so. They would all be dead in a few
years, let them enjoy themselves ever so much. It was a religious
comfort to know that.
It was such a comfort to know it, that little Miss Kitty Kimmeens
suddenly sprang from the chair in which she had been musing in a
corner, and cried out, "O those envious thoughts are not mine, O
this wicked creature isn't me! Help me, somebody! I go wrong,
alone by my weak self! Help me, anybody!"
"--Miss Kimmeens is not a professed philosopher, sir," said Mr.
Traveller, presenting her at the barred window, and smoothing her
shining hair, "but I apprehend there was some tincture of philosophy
in her words, and in the prompt action with which she followed them.
That action was, to emerge from her unnatural solitude, and look
abroad for wholesome sympathy, to bestow and to receive. Her
footsteps strayed to this gate, bringing her here by chance, as an
apposite contrast to you. The child came out, sir. If you have the
wisdom to learn from a child (but I doubt it, for that requires more
wisdom than one in your condition would seem to possess), you cannot
do better than imitate the child, and come out too--from that very
demoralising hutch of yours."
