The Last Chronicle of Barset. Anthony Trollope
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word, or whether he was not so minded, it would be better that she should be away from Silverbridge. If he spoke it she could only answer him by a negative; and if he were minded not to speak it, would it not be better that she should leave herself the power of thinking that his silence had been caused by her absence, and not by his coldness or indifference?
She asked, therefore, for an interview with Miss Prettyman, and was shown into the elder sister’s room, at eleven o’clock on the Tuesday morning. The elder Miss Prettyman never came into the school herself till twelve, but was in the habit of having interviews with the young ladies,—which were sometimes very awful in their nature,—for the two previous hours. During these interviews an immense amount of business was done, and the fortunes in life of some girls were said to have been there made or marred; as when, for instance, Miss Crimpton had been advised to stay at home with her uncle in England, instead of going out with her sisters to India, both of which sisters were married within three months of their landing at Bombay. The way in which she gave her counsel on such occasions was very efficacious. No one knew better than Miss Prettyman that a cock can crow most effectively in his own farmyard, and therefore all crowing intended to be effective was done by her within the shrine of her own peculiar room.
“Well, my dear, what is it?” she said to Grace. “Sit in the armchair, my dear, and we can then talk comfortably.” The teachers, when they were closeted with Miss Prettyman, were always asked to sit in the armchair, whereas a small, straight-backed, uneasy chair was kept for the use of the young ladies. And there was, too, a stool of repentance, out against the wall, very uncomfortable indeed for young ladies who had not behaved themselves so prettily as young ladies generally do.
Grace seated herself, and then began her speech very quickly. “Miss Prettyman,” she said, “I have made up my mind that I will go home, if you please.”
“And why should you go home, Grace? Did I not tell you that you should have a home here?” Miss Prettyman had weak eyes, and was very small, and had never possessed any claim to be called good-looking. And she assumed nothing of majestical awe from any adornment or studied amplification of the outward woman by means of impressive trappings. The possessor of an unobservant eye might have called her a mean-looking, little old woman. And certainly there would have been nothing awful in her to any one who came across her otherwise than as a lady having authority in her own school. But within her own precincts, she did know how to surround herself with a dignity which all felt who approached her there. Grace Crawley, as she heard the simple question which Miss Prettyman had asked, unconsciously acknowledged the strength of the woman’s manner. She already stood rebuked for having proposed a plan so ungracious, so unnecessary, and so unwise.
“I think I ought to be with mamma at present,” said Grace.
“Your mother has your sister with her.”
“Yes, Miss Prettyman; Jane is there.”
“If there be no other reason, I cannot think that that can be held to be a reason now. Of course your mother would like to have you always; unless you should be married,—but then there are reasons why this should not be so.”
“Of course there are.”
“I do not think,—that is, if I know all that there is to be known,—I do not think, I say, that there can be any good ground for your leaving us now,—just now.”
Then Grace sat silent for a moment, gathering her courage, and collecting her words; and after that she spoke. “It is because of papa, and because of this charge—”
“But, Grace—”
“I know what you are going to say, Miss Prettyman;—that is, I think I know.”
“If you will hear me, you may be sure that you know.”
“But I want you to hear me for one moment first. I beg your pardon, Miss Prettyman; I do indeed, but I want to say this before you go on. I must go home, and I know I ought. We are all disgraced, and I won’t stop here to disgrace the school. I know papa has done nothing wrong; but nevertheless we are disgraced. The police are to bring him in here on Thursday, and everybody in Silverbridge will know it. It cannot be right that I should be here teaching in the school, while it is all going on;—and I won’t. And, Miss Prettyman, I couldn’t do it,—indeed I couldn’t. I can’t bring myself to think of anything I am doing. Indeed I can’t; and then, Miss Prettyman, there are other reasons.” By the time that she had proceeded thus far, Grace Crawley’s words were nearly choked by her tears.
“And what are the other reasons, Grace?”
“I don’t know,” said Grace, struggling to speak through her tears.
“But I know,” said Miss Prettyman. “I know them all. I know all your reasons, and I tell you that in my opinion you ought to remain where you are, and not go away. The very reasons which to you are reasons for your going, to me are reasons for your remaining here.”
“I can’t remain. I am determined to go. I don’t mind you and Miss Anne, but I can’t bear to have the girls looking at me,—and the servants.”
Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking what words of wisdom would be most appropriate in the present conjuncture. But words of wisdom did not seem to come easily to her, having for the moment been banished by tenderness of heart. “Come here, my love,” she said at last. “Come here, Grace.” Slowly Grace got up from her seat and came round, and stood by Miss Prettyman’s elbow. Miss Prettyman pushed her chair a little back, and pushed herself a little forward, and stretching out one hand, placed her arm round Grace’s waist, and with the other took hold of Grace’s hand, and thus drew her down and kissed the girl’s forehead and lips. And then Grace found herself kneeling at her friend’s feet. “Grace,” she said, “do you not know that I love you? Do you not know that I love you dearly?” In answer to this Grace kissed the withered hand she held in hers, while the warm tears trickled down upon Miss Prettyman’s knuckles. “I love you as though you were my own,” exclaimed the schoolmistress; “and will you not trust me, that I know what is best for you?”
“I love you as though you were my own,” said the Schoolmistress.
“I must go home,” said Grace.
“Of course you shall, if you think it right at last; but let us talk of it. No one in this house, you know, has the slightest suspicion that your father has done anything that is in the least dishonourable.”
“I know that you have not.”
“No, nor has Anne.” Miss Prettyman said this as though no one in that house beyond herself and her sister had a right to have any opinion on any subject.
“I know that,” said Grace.
“Well, my dear. If we think so—”
“But the servants, Miss Prettyman?”
“If any servant in this house says a word to offend you, I’ll—I’ll—”
“They don’t say anything, Miss Prettyman, but they look. Indeed I’d better go home. Indeed I had!”
“Do not you think your mother has cares enough upon her, and burden enough, without having another mouth to feed, and another head to shelter? You haven’t thought of that, Grace!”
“Yes, I have.”
“And as for the work, whilst you are not quite well you shall not be troubled with teaching. I have some old papers that want copying and settling, and you shall sit here and do that just for an employment. Anne knows that I’ve long wanted to have it done, and I’ll tell her that you’ve kindly promised to do it for me.”
“No; no; no,” said Grace; “I must go home.” She was still kneeling at Miss Prettyman’s knee, and still holding Miss Prettyman’s hand. And then, at that moment, there came a tap at the door, gentle but yet not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part of the tapper, the supremacy in that room of the lady who was sitting there, but