Chapter 3: Two of Them

TALKING to father and me, Mr. Russell grew lively; and once mother came to the kitchen door, with her finger up, and a “Hush!” for Mr. Russell had raised his voice too much. I wondered a little that he could forget so soon, when he was so fond of his sister. And yet I liked him. I could not help liking him.

Now and then he seemed quite young; and then, again, he spoke as if he was older. I was puzzled; but after a time he told us he was twenty-four, and his sister was thirty-two; so that settled the matter.

“She’s a good sister to me—always has been. I shouldn’t think a chap ever had a better sister,” he said, and a sort of cloud came over his face, as if all at once he remembered something that he had managed to forget.

“Then I hope you’re a good brother to her,” father said.

Mr. Russell sighed at this, and looked melancholy, but he didn’t explain why, nor answer what father said.

Then father had to go back into the station, for a train was nearly due; and I could see he wanted to take Mr. Russell with him, while Mr. Russell wasn’t at all in haste to go.

Perhaps that was natural enough, his sister being ill in our cottage, and he having no other home in the place.

He was to sleep, I had found, at Mrs. Bowman’s. For Mrs. Bowman had a spare room, and was glad any time of a lodger. That would be cheaper than going to the inn; and it was plain they had to think about expenses.

I wondered how Rupert would like him being there.

Father offered to point out the way to Mrs. Bowman’s, and Mr. Russell said, “Yes—presently; but might he have just one more cup of tea first?” So father had to go off, leaving him and me together. I didn’t think he half liked it, though mother was close by, just across the passage. Father was always so careful of his “little wild rose,” as he called me; and of course he didn’t know anything much of Mr. Russell yet.

I poured out the tea for Mr. Russell, and then waited for him to finish, getting out the grey sock which I was knitting at odd times for my father. Mother never liked to see me nor anybody sitting idle. She always said tongues went faster when fingers went slower; and, to be sure, I didn’t get as much work done as I might, when I was set off talking.

Mr. Russell seemed in no haste to be done. He sipped his tea, and set it down to cool. Then he leaned back, looking melancholy again, and said, “Poor Mary! The best of sisters!”

“I am sure, from her face, she is good,” I said.

“She is too good,” said Mr. Russell, with a sort of smile which I didn’t understand.

“I don’t see how anybody can be too good,” I said, and I spoke timidly, for I thought Mr. Russell wonderfully clever.

“There are different kinds of goodness,” says Mr. Russell; and that was a new notion to me. I couldn’t think what he meant; for, to be sure, the Bible don’t tell of two kinds.

“I should think your sister’s was the right kind,” I said.

“Well—yes,” says he. “I didn’t mean a ‘wrong’ kind, you see, when I spoke of different kinds. I only meant that people might be good in too exalted a way for everyday life. That is Mary’s tendency, perhaps. Poor dear Mary!” He sighed again, and then he reached out his cup, saying, “Might he have a little more sugar?”

I couldn’t help a sort of amused feeling at his being able to think about sugar; and yet I was half vexed with myself for being amused. After all, it takes a lot of trouble to bring a man to such a pass that he don’t care what he eats or drinks. Women mostly come to that point sooner; and yet not women of the weak and faddy sort; for the worse trouble they are in, the more faddy and complaining they get.

Mr. Russell helped himself to the sugar, and then he stirred his tea round and round with the spoon, till it got to look like a whirlpool with a hole in the middle. Presently he sipped it again, and told me it was “perfect,” and after that he went on with what he was saying.

“Yes, Mary is a most excellent creature—too good for common life. One can’t help admiring, of course—but still—” and he shook his head, as much as to say that it wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all!

“Perhaps it would be better if everybody was the same,” I said, thinking how father would speak and how mother would look in my place. I felt that there was something out of joint in what he was saying; and yet I did not want to feel anything that was not in his favour.

“The world would be at a standstill,” says he. “People must have common sense if they are to get on in life.”

I didn’t know what he meant then; I know better now. He meant that we had to serve Mammon as well as God; and that, in matters of business, Mammon must come first, God second. He would not have put it so plain as that, of course, but it came to nothing less. Yes, and it always does end in that, when we try to do what our Lord said couldn’t be done—when we try to serve Mammon and God too. Mr. Russell’s “Mammon” was “getting on in life,” and making money. He wouldn’t put the service of God before that, and his sister would. That was why he called her “too good” for common life. But perhaps I ought not to say all this now. Perhaps I ought to leave it to be found out later.

Mr. Russell all at once turned the talk to something different.

“By-the-bye,” said he, “I’m told the Earl gave you his own watch and chain.”

“Yes,” I said, and I got rather red.

“I don’t wonder your father is proud.”

“Was he proud about it?” I said. “Then he didn’t show what he felt.”

“Might I,” Mr. Russell went on— “might I see the watch?”

I didn’t see how to refuse or why I need: so I ran upstairs and brought down the gold watch and chain, laying them on the table in front of Mr. Russell. He took them up and examined both closely, letting his tea get cold, he was so interested.

“You’ll have to mind you keep them in a safe place,” he said after a while. “The Earl knows how to do things in a princely style. You’re in luck, I can tell you. It’s a thirty-guinea watch if it’s worth a penny, and the chain half as much again!”

I was rather startled to hear this.

“First-rate article,” says Mr. Russell. “Look, here’s where you wind up.” I came nearer to be shown, and at the sound of a step outside the window he just lifted his eyes for a moment, and asked in a careless way, “Who is that gawky young fellow? I saw him at the station.”

“Oh, that is Rupert Bowman, our ticket-collector,” I said, foolishly ashamed that anybody so plain and awkward should be a friend of ours.

Rupert walked straight in at the open door, as he always did. When he saw Mr. Russell sitting at our table, holding the gold watch, and me standing near, his face grew as black as midnight. He scowled at Mr. Russell, and shuffled more than ever.

What a contrast the two were, to be sure!

“I say, Kitty—” he burst out.

Then he stopped. I knew why. I didn’t like him to speak so to me before Mr. Russell. It sounded rude; and, besides, I did not like him to seem so much at home—calling me by my name, and putting on that angry manner, as if I was a child to be scolded! Well, I was but a silly lass, and my head had been pretty well turned that day.