why?’
‘It is the most shocking thing!’ Phoebe declared, looking quite distracted. ‘If it were anyone but Mama I should think it a take-in! But Mama —! Oh dear, I am utterly confounded! I feel as though my senses won’t be straight again for a twelvemonth!’
‘Not so loud!’ said Miss Battery. ‘Tell me in your bedchamber! Try to recover your composure, my dear.’
Thus adjured, Phoebe followed her meekly along the corridor to her bedchamber. Since one of Lady Marlow’s favourite economies was to allow no fires to be kindled in any bedchamber but her own, her lord’s, and those occupied by such guests as were hardy enough to visit Austerby during the winter months, this apartment might have been considered singularly unsuitable for a tete-a-tete .Phoebe, however, was inured to its rigours. Miss Battery, stalking over to the wardrobe, and unearthing from it a large shawl, wrapped this round her pupil’s thin shoulders, saying as she did so: ‘I collect you don’t wish for this match. Can’t deny that it’s a flattering one, or that I should like to see you so well-established. Now, tell me this, child: have you got some silly notion in your head about that scheme of yours to set up for yourself with me to bear you company? Because if so don’t give it a thought! I shan’t. Never supposed it would come to pass—or wished for it, if you received an agreeable offer.’
‘No, no, it’s not that!’ Phoebe said. ‘For if I were to be married who but you should I want to instruct my children? Sibby, do you know who Salford is?’
Miss Battery frowned at her in a puzzled way. ‘Who he is?’ she repeated. ‘You said he was a duke.’
Phoebe began to laugh a little hysterically. ‘He is Count Ugolino!’ she said.
It might have been expected that this extraordinary announcement would have still further bewildered .Miss Battery, but although she was certainly startled by it, she found it perfectly intelligible. Ejaculating: ‘Merciful heavens!’ she sat down limply, and stared at Phoebe in great perturbation. She was well-acquainted with the Count: indeed, she might have been said to have been present at his birth, an event for which she was, in some measure, responsible, since she had for several years shared with Phoebe the romantic novels which were the solace of her own leisure hours. Her only extravagance was a subscription to a Bath lending library; her only conscious sin was that she encouraged Lady Marlow to suppose that the package delivered weekly by the carrier contained only works of an erudite or an elevating character. So strong was Lady Marlow’s disapproval of fiction that even Miss Edgeworth’s moral tales were forbidden to her daughters. Her rule was so absolute that it never occurred to her to doubt that she was obeyed to the letter; and as she was as imperceptive as she was despotic no suspicion had ever crossed her mind that Miss Battery was by no means the rigid disciplinarian she appeared.
In none of Lady Marlow’s own daughters did Miss Battery discover the imaginative turn of mind so much deprecated by, her ladyship; in Phoebe it was pronounced, and Miss Battery, loving her and deeply pitying her, fostered it, knowing how much her own joyless existence was lightened by excursions into a world of pure make-believe. From the little girl who scribbled fairy stories for the rapt delectation of Susan and Mary, Phoebe had developed into a real authoress, and one, moreover, who had written a stirring romance worthy of being published.
She had written it after her London season. It had come white-hot from her ready pen, and Miss Battery had been quick to see that it was far in advance of her earlier attempts at novel-writing. Its plot was as extravagant as anything that came from the Minerva Press; the behaviour of its characters was for the most part wildly improbable; the scene was laid in an unidentifiable country; and the entire story was rich in absurdity. But Phoebe’s
‘It is the most shocking thing!’ Phoebe declared, looking quite distracted. ‘If it were anyone but Mama I should think it a take-in! But Mama —! Oh dear, I am utterly confounded! I feel as though my senses won’t be straight again for a twelvemonth!’
‘Not so loud!’ said Miss Battery. ‘Tell me in your bedchamber! Try to recover your composure, my dear.’
Thus adjured, Phoebe followed her meekly along the corridor to her bedchamber. Since one of Lady Marlow’s favourite economies was to allow no fires to be kindled in any bedchamber but her own, her lord’s, and those occupied by such guests as were hardy enough to visit Austerby during the winter months, this apartment might have been considered singularly unsuitable for a tete-a-tete .Phoebe, however, was inured to its rigours. Miss Battery, stalking over to the wardrobe, and unearthing from it a large shawl, wrapped this round her pupil’s thin shoulders, saying as she did so: ‘I collect you don’t wish for this match. Can’t deny that it’s a flattering one, or that I should like to see you so well-established. Now, tell me this, child: have you got some silly notion in your head about that scheme of yours to set up for yourself with me to bear you company? Because if so don’t give it a thought! I shan’t. Never supposed it would come to pass—or wished for it, if you received an agreeable offer.’
‘No, no, it’s not that!’ Phoebe said. ‘For if I were to be married who but you should I want to instruct my children? Sibby, do you know who Salford is?’
Miss Battery frowned at her in a puzzled way. ‘Who he is?’ she repeated. ‘You said he was a duke.’
Phoebe began to laugh a little hysterically. ‘He is Count Ugolino!’ she said.
It might have been expected that this extraordinary announcement would have still further bewildered .Miss Battery, but although she was certainly startled by it, she found it perfectly intelligible. Ejaculating: ‘Merciful heavens!’ she sat down limply, and stared at Phoebe in great perturbation. She was well-acquainted with the Count: indeed, she might have been said to have been present at his birth, an event for which she was, in some measure, responsible, since she had for several years shared with Phoebe the romantic novels which were the solace of her own leisure hours. Her only extravagance was a subscription to a Bath lending library; her only conscious sin was that she encouraged Lady Marlow to suppose that the package delivered weekly by the carrier contained only works of an erudite or an elevating character. So strong was Lady Marlow’s disapproval of fiction that even Miss Edgeworth’s moral tales were forbidden to her daughters. Her rule was so absolute that it never occurred to her to doubt that she was obeyed to the letter; and as she was as imperceptive as she was despotic no suspicion had ever crossed her mind that Miss Battery was by no means the rigid disciplinarian she appeared.
In none of Lady Marlow’s own daughters did Miss Battery discover the imaginative turn of mind so much deprecated by, her ladyship; in Phoebe it was pronounced, and Miss Battery, loving her and deeply pitying her, fostered it, knowing how much her own joyless existence was lightened by excursions into a world of pure make-believe. From the little girl who scribbled fairy stories for the rapt delectation of Susan and Mary, Phoebe had developed into a real authoress, and one, moreover, who had written a stirring romance worthy of being published.
She had written it after her London season. It had come white-hot from her ready pen, and Miss Battery had been quick to see that it was far in advance of her earlier attempts at novel-writing. Its plot was as extravagant as anything that came from the Minerva Press; the behaviour of its characters was for the most part wildly improbable; the scene was laid in an unidentifiable country; and the entire story was rich in absurdity. But Phoebe’s
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