LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

with its little windows like the eyes in needles, and its little doors like the covers of school-books, was very observant indeed of the object of her quiet affections. Love, though said to be afflicted with blindness, is a vigilant watchman, and Miss Peecher kept him on double duty over Mr Bradley Headstone. It was not that she was naturally given to playing the spy—it was not that she was at all secret, plotting, or mean—it was simply that she loved the irresponsive Bradley with all the primitive and homely stock of love that had never been examined or certificated out of her. If her faithful slate had had the latent qualities of sympathetic paper, and its pencil those of invisible ink, many a little treatise calculated to astonish the pupils would have come bursting through the dry sums in school-time under the warming influence of Miss Peecher’s bosom. For, oftentimes when school was not, and her calm leisure and calm little house were her own, Miss Peecher would commit to the confidential slate an imaginary description of how, upon a balmy evening at dusk, two figures might have been observed in the market-garden ground round the corner, of whom one, being a manly form, bent over the other, being a womanly form of short stature and some compactness, and breathed in a low voice the words, ‘Emma Peecher, wilt thou be my own?’ after which the womanly form’s head reposed upon the manly form’s shoulder, and the nightingales tuned up. Though all unseen, and unsuspected by the pupils, Bradley Headstone even pervaded the school exercises. Was Geography in question? He would come triumphantly flying out of Vesuvius and Aetna ahead of the lava, and would boil unharmed in the hot springs of Iceland, and would float majestically down the Ganges and the Nile. Did History chronicle a king of men? Behold him in pepper-and-salt pantaloons, with his watch-guard round his neck. Were copies to be written? In capital B’s and H’s most of the girls under Miss Peecher’s tuition were half a year ahead of every other letter in the alphabet. And Mental Arithmetic, administered by Miss Peecher, often devoted itself to providing Bradley Headstone with a wardrobe of fabulous extent: fourscore and four neck-ties at two and ninepence-halfpenny, two gross of silver watches at four pounds fifteen and sixpence, seventy-four black hats at eighteen shillings; and many similar superfluities.

      The vigilant watchman, using his daily opportunities of turning his eyes in Bradley’s direction, soon apprized Miss Peecher that Bradley was more preoccupied than had been his wont, and more given to strolling about with a downcast and reserved face, turning something difficult in his mind that was not in the scholastic syllabus. Putting this and that together—combining under the head ‘this,’ present appearances and the intimacy with Charley Hexam, and ranging under the head ‘that’ the visit to his sister, the watchman reported to Miss Peecher his strong suspicions that the sister was at the bottom of it.

      ‘I wonder,’ said Miss Peecher, as she sat making up her weekly report on a half-holiday afternoon, ‘what they call Hexam’s sister?’

      Mary Anne, at her needlework, attendant and attentive, held her arm up.

      ‘Well, Mary Anne?’

      ‘She is named Lizzie, ma’am.’

      ‘She can hardly be named Lizzie, I think, Mary Anne,’ returned Miss Peecher, in a tunefully instructive voice. ‘Is Lizzie a Christian name, Mary Anne?’

      Mary Anne laid down her work, rose, hooked herself behind, as being under catechization, and replied: ‘No, it is a corruption, Miss Peecher.’

      ‘Who gave her that name?’ Miss Peecher was going on, from the mere force of habit, when she checked herself; on Mary Anne’s evincing theological impatience to strike in with her godfathers and her godmothers, and said: ‘I mean of what name is it a corruption?’

      ‘Elizabeth, or Eliza, Miss Peecher.’

      ‘Right, Mary Anne. Whether there were any Lizzies in the early Christian Church must be considered very doubtful, very doubtful.’ Miss Peecher was exceedingly sage here. ‘Speaking correctly, we say, then, that Hexam’s sister is called Lizzie; not that she is named so. Do we not, Mary Anne?’

      ‘We do, Miss Peecher.’

      ‘And where,’ pursued Miss Peecher, complacent in her little transparent fiction of conducting the examination in a semiofficial manner for Mary Anne’s benefit, not her own, ‘where does this young woman, who is called but not named Lizzie, live? Think, now, before answering.’

      ‘In Church Street, Smith Square, by Mill Bank, ma’am.’

      ‘In Church Street, Smith Square, by Mill Bank,’ repeated Miss Peecher, as if possessed beforehand of the book in which it was written. Exactly so. And what occupation does this young woman pursue, Mary Anne? Take time.’

      ‘She has a place of trust at an outfitter’s in the City, ma’am.’

      ‘Oh!’ said Miss Peecher, pondering on it; but smoothly added, in a confirmatory tone, ‘At an outfitter’s in the City. Ye-es?’

      ‘And Charley—’ Mary Anne was proceeding, when Miss Peecher stared.

      ‘I mean Hexam, Miss Peecher.’

      ‘I should think you did, Mary Anne. I am glad to hear you do. And Hexam—’

      ‘Says,’ Mary Anne went on, ‘that he is not pleased with his sister, and that his sister won’t be guided by his advice, and persists in being guided by somebody else’s; and that—’

      ‘Mr Headstone coming across the garden!’ exclaimed Miss Peecher, with a flushed glance at the looking-glass. ‘You have answered very well, Mary Anne. You are forming an excellent habit of arranging your thoughts clearly. That will do.’

      The discreet Mary Anne resumed her seat and her silence, and stitched, and stitched, and was stitching when the schoolmaster’s shadow came in before him, announcing that he might be instantly expected.

      ‘Good evening, Miss Peecher,’ he said, pursuing the shadow, and taking its place.

      ‘Good evening, Mr Headstone. Mary Anne, a chair.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Bradley, seating himself in his constrained manner. ‘This is but a flying visit. I have looked in, on my way, to ask a kindness of you as a neighbour.’

      ‘Did you say on your way, Mr Headstone?’ asked Miss Peecher.

      ‘On my way to—where I am going.’

      ‘Church Street, Smith Square, by Mill Bank,’ repeated Miss Peecher, in her own thoughts.

      ‘Charley Hexam has gone to get a book or two he wants, and will probably be back before me. As we leave my house empty, I took the liberty of telling him I would leave the key here. Would you kindly allow me to do so?’

      ‘Certainly, Mr Headstone. Going for an evening walk, sir?’

      ‘Partly for a walk, and partly for—on business.’

      ‘Business in Church Street, Smith Square, by Mill Bank,’ repeated Miss Peecher to herself.

      ‘Having said which,’ pursued Bradley, laying his door-key on the table, ‘I must be already going. There is nothing I can do for you, Miss Peecher?’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Headstone. In which direction?’

      ‘In the direction of Westminster.’

      ‘Mill Bank,’ Miss Peecher repeated in her own thoughts once again. ‘No, thank you, Mr Headstone; I’ll not trouble you.’

      ‘You couldn’t trouble me,’ said the schoolmaster.

      ‘Ah!’ returned Miss Peecher, though not aloud; ‘but you can trouble me!’ And for all her quiet manner, and her quiet smile, she was full of trouble as he went his way.

      She was right touching his destination. He held as straight a course for the house of the dolls’ dressmaker as the wisdom of his ancestors, exemplified in the construction of the intervening streets, would let him, and walked with a bent head hammering at one fixed idea. It had been an immoveable idea since he first set eyes upon her. It seemed to him as if all that he could suppress in himself he had suppressed, as if all that he could restrain

Скачать книгу