She did not see, or at least did not notice, but hastening on, entered the fields. In coming to town that morning she had seen everything; now, returning in her anger and annoyance, she took no heed of anything; she was so absorbed that when a man—one of those she met going to the fair for the evening—turned back and followed her some way, she did not observe him. Finding that she walked steadily on, the fellow soon ceased to pursue.
The gloom had settled when she reached home, and the candles were lit. She gave her father the sovereign, and was leaving the room, hoping to escape questioning, when Mrs. Iden asked who had the prize-guinea.
“I did,” said Amaryllis, very quietly and reluctantly.
“Where is it? Why didn’t you say so? Let me see,” said Mrs. Iden.
“I—I—I lost it,” said Amaryllis.
“You lost it! Lost a guinea! A spade-guinea!”
“What!” said Iden in his sternest tones. “Show it immediately.”
“I can’t; I lost it.”
“Lost it!”
And they poured upon her a crossfire of anger: a careless, wasteful hussy, an idle wretch; what did she do for her living that she could throw away spade-guineas? what would her grandfather say? how did she suppose they were to keep her, and she not earn the value of a bonnet-string? time she was apprenticed to a dressmaker; the quantity she ate, and never could touch any fat—dear me, so fine—bacon was not good enough for her—she could throw away spade-guineas.
Poor Amaryllis stood by the half-open door, her hat in her hand, her bosom heaving, her lips apart and pouting, not with indignation but sheer misery; her head drooped, her form seemed to lose its firmness and sink till she stooped; she could not face them as she would have done others, because you see she loved them, and she had done her best that day till too sorely tried.
The storm raged on; finally Iden growled “Better get out of sight.” Then she went to her bedroom, and sat on the bed; presently she lay down, and sobbed silently on the pillow, after which she fell asleep, quite worn out, dark circles under her eyes. In the silence of the house, the tom-tom and blare of brazen instruments blown at the fair two miles away was audible.
XIX
So there was tribulation in three houses. Next morning she scarcely dared come in to breakfast, and opened the door timidly, expecting heavy looks, and to be snapped up if she spoke. Instead of which, on taking her place, Iden carefully cut for her the most delicate slice of ham he could find, and removed the superfluous fat before putting it on her plate. Mrs. Iden had a special jug of cream ready for her—Amaryllis was fond of cream—and enriched the tea with it generously.
“And what did you see at the fair?” asked Iden in his kindest voice, lifting up his saucer—from which he always drank—by putting his thumb under it instead of over, so that his thick little finger projected. He always sipped his tea in this way.
“You had plenty of fun, didn’t you?” said Mrs. Iden, still more kindly.
“I—I don’t know; I did not see much of the fair,” said Amaryllis, at a loss to understand the change of manner.
Iden smiled at his wife and nodded; Mrs. Iden picked up a letter from the tea-tray and gave it to her daughter:
“Read.”
Amaryllis read—it was from Grandfather Iden, furiously upbraiding Iden for neglecting his daughter’s education; she had no reverence, no manners—an undutiful, vulgar girl; she had better not show her face in his house again till she had been taught to know her position; her conduct was not fit for the kitchen; she had not the slightest idea how to behave herself in the presence of persons of quality.
She put it down before she had finished the tirade of abuse; she did not look up, her face was scarlet.
Iden laughed.
“Horrid old wretch! Served him right!” said Mrs. Iden. “So glad you vexed him, dear!”
Amaryllis last night a wretch was this morning a heroine. The grandfather’s letter had done this.
Iden never complained—never mentioned his father—but of course in his heart he bitterly felt the harsh neglect shown towards him and his wife and their child. He was a man who said the less the more he was moved; he gossiped freely with the men at the stile, or even with a hamlet old woman. Not a word ever dropped from him of his own difficulties—he kept his mind to himself. His wife knew nothing of his intentions—he was over-secretive, especially about money matters, in which he affected the most profound mystery, as if everyone in Coombe was not perfectly aware they could hardly get a pound of sugar on credit.
All the more bitterly he resented the manner in which Grandfather Iden treated him, giving away half-crowns, crown-pieces, shillings, and fourpenny bits to anyone who would flatter his peculiarities, leaving his own descendants to struggle daily with debt and insult.
Iden was in reality a very proud man, and the insults of his petty creditors fretted him.
He would have been glad if Amaryllis had become her grandfather’s favourite; as the grandfather had thrown savage words at the girl, so much the more was added to the score against the grandfather.
Mrs. Iden hated the grandfather with every drop of Flamma blood in her veins—hated him above all for his pseudo-Flamma relationship, for old Iden had in his youth been connected with the Flammas in business—hated him for his veneration of the aristocratic and medieval Pamments.
She was always impressing upon Amaryllis the necessity of cultivating her grandfather’s goodwill, and always abusing him—contradicting herself in the most natural manner.
This letter had given
