Chapter 6: Breaking the Ice

Shortly after my seventeenth birthday Mr Sanford and I had a serious difference of opinion which almost amounted to a quarrel. I do not say that the fault was entirely his. But that is not the point. The point is whether, every time you happen to be not quite exactly right, you are to be treated as if you were a mere worm, and have your age thrown in your face.

It was not my fault that I was only seventeen. As Mr Pitt said--I remember reading about it at Mrs Sawyer’s--being young is a crime one grows out of. Rome was not built in a day. You cannot do everything at once. It is quite certain that you cannot be ninety in five minutes. I was perfectly aware that Mr Sanford was twenty-five. It is not a time of life against which I have a word to say. I feel sure that it is a delightful age. But I cannot understand why persons who are twenty-five should consider themselves so immensely superior to persons who are only seventeen. Or, if they are superior, and are known to be, that is no reason why they should show it.

On my birthday Mr Sanford gave me a box of gloves. Now I am five feet five and a half inches high. I know I am, because when Dick made me stand up against the wall with my hair down and a book on my head, he said he never should have thought it from the look of me. Which was not a nice thing to say. But then brothers have manners of their own. I want to know what size of hand a person who is nearly five feet six high ought to have. Because, directly I opened the box, I saw that they were lovely gloves, but that they were all six and a half.

“Oh, what a pity!” I cried. “They’ll be like boats on me! I take six and a quarter!”

Of course, I am conscious that it was not precisely a civil remark to make; and, had I reflected, I might not have made it. But it was out before I even guessed it was coming. As it was out, it was. And, anyhow, it was simply the truth. At the time, Mr Sanford was as nice as possible. He expressed his regret for the mistake which had occurred, and volunteered to change them.

He did change them. Four or five days afterwards he came with another box. It was the sixteenth of November, a Thursday. As it turned out to be a memorable day to me, I have the best of reasons for keeping the exact date in my mind. I shall never forget it--never--not if I live long enough to lose my memory. It was very cold. All the week it had been freezing. That is, off and on. Because I admit that it might occasionally have risen above freezing point. But it certainly had been freezing all the day before, and all that morning--hard. Ice was everywhere. I had made up my mind to try it, and had just finished cleaning my skates when Mr Sanford came in.

“Why,” he exclaimed, when he saw them, “what are you going to do with those?”

“I’m going to skate with them. What is one generally supposed to do with skates?”

“But, my dear Miss Boyes, it’s impossible. After two or three days’ more frost, perhaps, but at present the ice won’t bear.”

Now there was just that something about his tone which nettled me. It was the way he had of taking it for granted that, because he said a thing, the matter was necessarily at an end, since it was impossible to imagine that anyone would venture on remonstrance.

“I daresay it will be strong enough to bear me.”

“I very much doubt it.”

“Do you? Do you skate?”

“A little.”

“Then, since that sister and those brothers of mine have gone off, they alone know where, may I venture to suggest that you should come with me?”

“I shall be delighted--as far as the ice. I’m sure you’ll find that it won’t bear. And, anyhow, I’ve no skates.”

“There are a pair of Dick’s. They’re not very rusty. And I don’t suppose you’ll find them very much too small.”

He took them up--and smiled.

“As you say, they’re not very rusty, and I daresay my feet are not very much more gigantic than Dick’s, but--”

“But what?”

“I shall be very glad to come with you to examine the ice. But when you get to it you’ll find that skating is out of the question.”

“If I get to the ice I promise you that I’ll go on it. I am passionately fond of skating, and as we so seldom get any, I like to take advantage of every chance I get. Besides, I am not afraid of a little cold water, even if it does happen to be a degree or two under the usual temperature.”

He laughed. He had a way of laughing when I said things which were not meant to be comical which puzzled me and annoyed me too. Fortunately for himself he changed the subject, handing me the box he had been carrying.

“I’ve brought the gloves. This time I hope you will find that they are not like boats. I am credibly informed that they are six and a quarter.”

“Thank you so much. I really am ashamed of myself for giving you so much trouble--it’s so sweet of you. Oh, what lovely gloves. Just the shades I like. As I have brought none down with me I think I’ll put a pair on now.”

I ought to have known better. I had, as I have said, just finished cleaning my skates, and had been washing my hands, and, in consequence, they were cold. It is not, at any time, the work of only a moment to put on a brand new pair of properly-fitting gloves. Everybody knows that, who knows anything at all. They require coaxing. Especially is this the case when your hands are cold. And certainly the task is not rendered easier by the knowledge that you are being observed by critical, supercilious eyes, towards whose owner you entertain a touch of resentment. Those gloves would not go on. The consciousness that Mr Sanford was staring at me with obvious amusement made me, perhaps, more awkward than I should have been. But, whatever the cause, I do not think I ever had so much trouble with a pair of gloves either before or since.

Presently he spoke.

“Rather tight, aren’t they?”

“Tight? What do you mean? I suppose they’re six and a quarter?”

“Oh, yes, they’re six and a quarter. But don’t you think it might have been better to have kept the original six and a half for the sake of the additional ease?”

“Ease? You don’t want ease in a glove.”

“No? That’s rather a novel point of view. Do you want it to be uneasy, then?”

“A properly fitting glove never is uneasy. You are possibly not aware that a new glove always is a little difficult to get on the first time.”

“Yes--so it seems.”

Something in his tone annoyed me, particularly the impertinent suggestion which I felt sure it was intended to convey. I gave an angry try at the glove, and, behold! it split. I know I went crimson all over. Mr Sanford laughed outright.

“When you try to cram a quart into a pint pot something is bound to go.”

A ruder remark I had never had addressed to me. My own brothers could not have been more vulgar. Even they had never compared my hand with either a quart or a pint pot. An observation of that kind it was impossible that I should condescend to notice. Removing the glove, with all the dignity at my command, I replaced it in the box.

“I think that I had better wear a pair of gloves which have become adapted to the unfortunate conformation of my hands.”

“But, Molly--”

“I don’t know who has given you permission to use my Christian name, Mr Sanford. I have noticed that you have done so two or three times recently. I am not a relative of yours.”

His eyes twinkled. Although I did not look at him I knew they did, because of the peculiar way in which he spoke. When they twinkled there was always something in his voice which, to the trained ear, was unmistakable. Not that I wish it to be inferred that I had paid any attention to Mr Sanford’s oddities. It was the mere result of my tendency to notice trifles.

“But, Miss Boyes, I never could understand why a woman of reasonable and proper and delightful proportions should show a desire to be the possessor of a hand which, as regards dimensions, would be only suited to a dwarf.”

“Is it I you are calling a monster, or only my hand?”

“Neither. I should not presume to call you anything. But I would take leave to observe that you have as dainty, as well-shaped, as capable, and, I may add, as characteristic a pair of hands as I have ever seen.”

“Personal remarks are not in the best of taste, are they? I believe I have had occasion to point that out to you before.”

I took that box of gloves upstairs and I banged them on the dressing-table. When I looked into the glass I saw that my cheeks were glowing, and my eyes too. It was plain that I was in a perfect passion. The most exasperating part of it was that I knew what a fright bad temper made of me. It always does of your black sort of people.

Never did I meet anyone with a greater capacity for rubbing you the wrong way than Mr Sanford. And so autocratic! I suppose that if he is of opinion that I ought to wear six and three-quarters I shall have to. But I will give him clearly to understand that, whatever size my hands may be, I shall wear sixes if I like. I do not propose to allow him to lay down the law to me, even on the question of gloves.