In the Mist of the Mountains Part 8

CHAPTER VII

LETTERS TO A MOTHER

One morning, not long after this, there came to Miss Bibby at "Greenways" a letter from Thomas Bibby in the city.

Thomas was the sole male member of the family of Bibby, and was a hard-headed young clerk in the commercial department of a big evening newspaper. He had been brought up by his sisters;--there were three more Misses Bibby scattered about the State, teaching, or in similar positions of trust to the "Greenways" Miss Bibby. And they were all inclined to be literary. Clara Bibby wrote verse; if you happened to be a reader of obscure country newspapers you would frequently come across a poem ent.i.tled _Australia--my Country_, or _Wattle Blossom_, with the signature "Clara L. C. Bibby" beneath it. Alice, the quietest, gentlest little person in the world, wrote vehement articles in the suburban _Woman's Political Organ_. And Grace had actually brought out a book. A publisher had been touched at her despair when he handed her back her useless MS., and suggested she should compile a cookery book for him, which after a little time of dignified sulking she did; and the book came out and, there being room for it, had a most successful sale. And Grace, quite pleased and surprised, positively taught herself to cook from it, and found the subject so full of interest that she abandoned her heroines and started a second volume of _Cookery Hints for Busy Housewives_. But it galled the pride of Agnes, the "Greenways" Miss Bibby, and Clara, the poetess, and Alice, the _Woman's Voice_, that she signed it with her own name. They were confronted everywhere with _Bibby's Cookery Book._

Thomas, after he had finished being brought up by these ladies, surprised every one by his faculty for business. They took him in his eighteenth year to the editor of an evening paper who was known to them, and begged that he should be received into the office to gain an insight into literary life, as they hoped in a few more years he would become a novelist.

"Suppose I'll have to give you a trial," growled the editor to the sulky-looking novelist-to-be, when the ladies had fluttered away. "Here you are, here's a bank manager made a mess of his accounts--no roguery about it, simple confusion, and he goes and shoots himself and his wife--can you turn that into a novel of two hundred words?"

"No, I can't," said Thomas, who hated all things literary. Then his sulky look vanished and his eyes brightened. "But I tell you what I _could_ do--go and straighten out the poor chap's accounts."

"Here," said the editor, "you'd better go downstairs, my fine fellow, and ask Mr. Gates to give you a stool in the office."

So Thomas became a valued clerk in the counting-house. And presently when a foolish, feminine speculation swept away the income of the sisters, Thomas established himself as guardian of their bank-books, and general business man of the family.

The sisters, though a little money was still left, decided to take situations as governesses and companions, telling each other it would widen their outlook on life, and give them experiences that might prove invaluable in their literary work. Judge and Mrs. Lomax felt themselves fortunate when Miss Agnes Bibby, with such unquestionable credentials, appeared in answer to their advertis.e.m.e.nt for some one to take charge of their family during their absence.

And now came a letter from Thomas in the city to Agnes at "Greenways":--

"Dear old Ag.--

"Here's a chance for you if you can only take it. We've just heard that writing chap, Hugh Kinross, has gone to Burunda for a holiday. The beggar has dodged every attempt at an interview, though we and every other paper, for the matter of that, have lain for him in every possible place. Well, I was talking to the editor the other day--he's no end affable to me, and often has a chat--and I happened to say you were at Burunda. And he said, 'Burunda! why that's where Kinross is taking a holiday. Tell her to get any interesting information she can about him, and I'll pay her well for it. If she can manage an interview--a woman can rush in sometimes where a man fears to tread--I'll give her six guineas. Yes, and take one of the stories with which she is always bombarding me, hanged if I won't!'

"You can see it's worth trying for, old girl. Six guineas down for the interview, and say another four for a short story, not counting getting into print at last. Go in and win, say I. I'm sending with this an English mag. or two, with interviews in to show you the style of thing they need.

"You can easily find him out; he's sure to be at one of the hotels. Dog him on a walk some day, and then when you've got him cornered somewhere where he can't escape, whip out your note-book and make him hold up his arms. b.u.t.ter him up a bit, and he'll give in; he's not been famous long enough not to feel inclined to purr if you rub him the right way.

"He's written two or three books; _Liars All_ is one of them. They're not in your line, of course, but I must say they're not at all bad.

Well, go in and win.

"Yours,

"Tom.

"PS.--I banked thirteen pounds six to-day for Grace--more royalties from the _Cookery Book._ Why don't you try something in the same line?

_Poultry Keeping for Retrenched Incomes_, for instance; it would sell like penny ice creams on a heat-wave day."

Miss Bibby, after reading this letter for the third time that day, hastened into the dining-room where the children were awaiting her, a red spot on her cheek, and a hole burning inside her sleeve near her elbow, where, being pocketless as any modern woman, she had tucked the letter.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "She exacted half-an-hour a day at the piano, from each of the little girls."]

She kept her thoughts away from it only by desperate expedients, such as sternly reminding herself that her time at present was paid for by Judge Lomax, and therefore belonged absolutely to him. Later in the day it would be a different matter, but now to her duties,--

"Pauline, Lynn, get out your pens this moment;--no, m.u.f.fie, you must write in pencil, you have spoiled the cloth with the ink you have spilled;--yes, yes, in a minute; Max, you sit here, dear, on the nice high chair, and then you can reach beautifully."

Max firmly refused the nice high chair, which he long had considered beneath the dignity of a man with a pocket, and had to be established as usual on two or three fat music books placed on a "grown-up" chair.

There were no regular lessons during the holidays, but Mrs. Lomax having said vaguely, at leaving, that she hoped the little girls would not have quite forgotten their scales, and how to write and read, before the governess returned, Miss Bibby had considered it her duty to see to these things.

So she exacted half an hour a day at the piano from each of the little girls, and faithfully sat beside them saying: "One, two, three, four, don't droop your wrists, Lynn; one, two, three, four, count, Pauline; one, two, three, four, thumb under, m.u.f.fie."

And she established two letter hours a week, and saw to it that the children wrote to their parents in their best hand for one page, though she allowed a "go-as-you-please" for the other pages, judging that that would give most pleasure across the wash of the Pacific seas.

"My dearest Mummie and Dad," wrote Pauline this afternoon, "I played my Serenade through yesterday without one single solitary mistake."

Then she looked up with trouble in her eyes.

"Miss Bibby," she said, "you know just where you turn over and the chords begin, are you _sure_ I didn't play D flat there, instead of D natural?"

Miss Bibby started guiltily; as silence had settled slowly down over the room her thoughts began to drop nearer and nearer to her elbow.

"I don't remember, dear," she said; "didn't I praise you--didn't we say you could tell mother that you had it quite correct at last? Yes, I remember quite well."

Pauline sighed. There was no help for her spiritual difficulty here.

That doubtful D flat had made her toss restlessly for half an hour before she slept last night. She was consumed by the desire to write the glorious news to her mother, and even Miss Bibby, exigent Miss Bibby, had said the piece was perfect. But Pauline herself had a lurking, miserable doubt in her mind; she seemed to recollect just one mistake, just one tiresome finger jumping up to a black note, when it should have played a white one with a slur. She stared wretchedly at the written statement before her. Suppose it were not true--think of writing a lie, an actual lie to mother! But, indeed, if she really knew for certain that she had played D flat she would not dream of writing so. It was the doubt that tormented. She had better not write so certainly--yes, she would add something that would leave the question more open. "Perhaps"

was the word, of course,--"perhaps" excused many, many things. She read over the beginning once more, imagining it to be her mother's eye perusing.

"'My dearest Mummie and Dad,--I played my Serenade through this morning without one single solitary mistake perhaps.'" Oh, how the wretched word pulled one up, tarnished the brilliant achievement!

"Pauline, you cannot have finished; sit down," said Miss Bibby.

Pauline shook her head gloomily. "I can't write yet," she said; "I think I'll just go and play it over once more to be certain. That might have been D flat."

"Oh," said Miss Bibby excusingly, for the Serenade was long, like the lay of the Last Minstrel. "Mother won't mind, dear--just say you played it very well, and I was much pleased."

But Pauline shook her head wretchedly.

"I think I'll play it again," she said, and crossed over to the piano with melancholy eyes.

Lynn was wrestling with her first page.

"'Dearie mother, we don't cough so mush' (how do you spell cough, Miss Bibby? There's a horrid g or q in it somewhere, I know)--'I don't smudg so mush.' I wish (Oh, dear, you said we oughtn't to say we wished she'd come back, didn't you, Miss Bibby, cause she might stop enjoying herself? What else could I put after 'I wish'? I've got that written)."

"Suppose you say you wish you could write better," suggested Miss Bibby.

"I suppose that will have to do," said the little girl sadly. "No, I'll tell you, 'cause I don't _much_ want to write better, I'll say I wish words would ryum better. Look at beauty, nothing will go with it but duty, and duty is such a ugly word in a song, isn't it?"

"No, I think it is a beautiful word," said Miss Bibby; she expected herself to say this, and was not disappointed.

"Well, I don't," sighed Lynn. "I could have made a lovely song this morning. It began--