The Complete Works. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
Miss Wilson gave her warning almost fiercely to quit the college next day. This excepted, no ill-will was shown to the refugees. The young ladies were then requested to return to bed.
Meanwhile the man, having laid his wife in a chamber palatial in comparison with that which the storm had blown about her ears, was congratulating her on her luck, and threatening the children with the most violent chastisement if they failed to behave themselves with strict propriety whilst they remained in that house. Before leaving them he kissed his wife; and she, reviving, asked him to look at the baby. He did so, and pensively apostrophized it with a shocking epithet in anticipation of the time when its appetite must be satisfied from the provision shop instead of from its mother’s breast. She laughed and cried shame on him; and so they parted cheerfully. When he returned to the hall with Smilash they found two mugs of beer waiting for them. The girls had retired, and only Miss Wilson and the housekeeper remained.
“Here’s your health, mum,” said the man, before drinking; “and may you find such another as yourself to help you when you’re in trouble, which Lord send may never come!”
“Is your house quite destroyed?” said Miss Wilson. “Where will you spend the night?”
“Don’t you think of me, mum. Master Smilash here will kindly put me up ‘til morning.”
“His health!” said Smilash, touching the mug with his lips.
“The roof and south wall is browed right away,” continued the man, after pausing for a moment to puzzle over Smilash’s meaning. “I doubt if there’s a stone of it standing by this.”
“But Sir John will build it for you again. You are one of his herds, are you not?”
“I am, Miss. But not he; he’ll be glad it’s down. He don’t like people livin’ on the land. I have told him time and again that the place was ready to fall; but he said I couldn’t expect him to lay out money on a house that he got no rent for. You see, Miss, I didn’t pay any rent. I took low wages; and the bit of a hut was a sort of set-off again’ what I was paid short of the other men. I couldn’t afford to have it repaired, though I did what I could to patch and prop it. And now most like I shall be blamed for letting it be blew down, and shall have to live in half a room in the town and pay two or three shillin’s a week, besides walkin’ three miles to and from my work every day. A gentleman like Sir John don’t hardly know what the value of a penny is to us laborin’ folk, nor how cruel hard his estate rules and the like comes on us.”
“Sir John’s health!” said Smilash, touching the mug as before. The man drank a mouthful humbly, and Smilash continued, “Here’s to the glorious landed gentry of old England: bless ‘em!”
“Master Smilash is only jokin’,” said the man apologetically. “It’s his way.”
“You should not bring a family into the world if you are so poor,” said Miss Wilson severely. “Can you not see that you impoverish yourself by doing so — to put the matter on no higher grounds.”
“Reverend Mr. Malthus’s health!” remarked Smilash, repeating his pantomime.
“Some say it’s the children, and some say it’s the drink, Miss,” said the man submissively. “But from what I see, family or no family, drunk or sober, the poor gets poorer and the rich richer every day.”
“Ain’t it disgustin’ to hear a man so ignorant of the improvement in the condition of his class?” said Smilash, appealing to Miss Wilson.
“If you intend to take this man home with you,” she said, turning sharply on him, “you had better do it at once.”
“I take it kind on your part that you ask me to do anythink, after your up and telling Mr. Wickens that I am the last person in Lyvern you would trust with a job.”
“So you are — the very last. Why don’t you drink your beer?”
“Not in scorn of your brewing, lady; but because, bein’ a common man, water is good enough for me.”
“I wish you goodnight, Miss,” said the man; “and thank you kindly for Bess and the children.”
“Goodnight,” she replied, stepping aside to avoid any salutation from Smilash. But he went up to her and said in a low voice, and with the Trefusis manner and accent:
“Goodnight, Miss Wilson. If you should ever be in want of the services of a dog, a man, or a domestic engineer, remind Smilash of Bess and the children, and he will act for you in any of those capacities.”
They opened the door cautiously, and found that the wind, conquered by the rain, had abated. Miss Wilson’s candle, though it flickered in the draught, was not extinguished this time; and she was presently left with the housekeeper, bolting and chaining the door, and listening to the crunching of feet on the gravel outside dying away through the steady pattering of the rain.
CHAPTER VII
Agatha was at this time in her seventeenth year. She had a lively perception of the foibles of others, and no reverence for her seniors, whom she thought dull, cautious, and ridiculously amenable by commonplaces. But she was subject to the illusion which disables youth in spite of its superiority to age. She thought herself an exception. Crediting Mr. Jansenius and the general mob of mankind with nothing but a grovelling consciousness of some few material facts, she felt in herself an exquisite sense and all-embracing conception of nature, shared only by her favorite poets and heroes of romance and history. Hence she was in the common youthful case of being a much better judge of other people’s affairs than of her own. At the fellow-student who adored some Henry or Augustus, not from the drivelling sentimentality which the world calls love, but because this particular Henry or Augustus was a phoenix to whom the laws that govern the relations of ordinary lads and lasses did not apply, Agatha laughed in her sleeve. The more she saw of this weakness in her fellows, the more satisfied she was that, being forewarned, she was also forearmed against an attack of it on herself, much as if a doctor were to conclude that he could not catch smallpox because he had seen many cases of it; or as if a master mariner, knowing that many ships are wrecked in the British channel, should venture there without a pilot, thinking that he knew its perils too well to run any risk of them. Yet, as the doctor might hold such an opinion if he believed himself to be constituted differently from ordinary men; or the shipmaster adopt such a course under the impression that his vessel was a star, Agatha found false security in the subjective difference between her fellows seen from without and herself known from within. When, for instance, she fell in love with Mr. Jefferson Smilash (a step upon which she resolved the day after the storm), her imagination invested the pleasing emotion with a sacredness which, to her, set it far apart and distinct from the frivolous fancies of which Henry and Augustus had been the subject, and she the confidant.
“I can look at him quite coolly and dispassionately,” she said to herself. “Though his face has a strange influence that must, I know, correspond to some unexplained power within me, yet it is not a perfect face. I have seen many men who are, strictly speaking, far handsomer. If the light that never was on sea or land is in his eyes, yet they are not pretty eyes — not half so clear as mine. Though he wears his common clothes with a nameless grace that betrays his true breeding at every step, yet he is not tall, dark, and melancholy, as my ideal hero would be if I were as great a fool as girls of my age usually are. If I am in love, I have sense enough not to let my love blind my judgment.”
She did not tell anyone of her new interest in life. Strongest in that student community, she had used her power with goodnature enough to win the popularity of a school leader, and occasionally with unscrupulousness enough to secure the privileges of a school bully. Popularity and privilege, however, only satisfied her when she was in the mood for them. Girls, like men, want to be petted, pitied, and made much of, when they are diffident, in low spirits, or in unrequited love. These are services which the weak cannot render to the strong and which the strong will not