Lesbia Newman (1889)/Chapter 1
LESBIA NEWMAN.
CHAPTER I.
The Inmates of Dulham Vicarage.
‘Really, my dear brother, I can’t at all agree with you; I don’t think you are doing your duty either by society or by your niece herself. A girl who is brought up so differently from other girls can only end in being a martyr, besides causing a great deal of annoyance and discomfort to those about her.’
‘Well, Jane,’ replied the person addressed, ‘since we can’t agree, we had better agree to differ; in any case, I shall just go on as I have done with Lesbia; that is my duty to society, and it must be held to outweigh individual prejudices. As for making a martyr of my niece, would that be anything new? Are not all women, more or less, made, or make themselves, martyrs to hollow idols? If my influence should result in making one of Lesbia, it shall at all events be for something worth the martyrdom. She shall not be a martyr to ‘weakervesselism,’ as you and others are.’
‘Hallo! what’s that about martyrs?’ exclaimed a young girl of about thirteen or fourteen, bursting into the room as the last speaker finished his sentence. ‘A dispute over me, as usual, I suppose. Never mind; you stick to your colours, Uncle Spines, and I won’t mind being martyred by people I despise. And happily the world is not made up entirely of old fogies.’
‘Thank you, Lesbia,’ said her mother; ‘you are very complimentary.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean you, mamma, of course. I mean the people who preach maidenly femininity and womanly nimminy-pimminity, and all that stuff.’
‘But I’m afraid I must plead guilty to liking that stuff myself.’
‘So much the worse, mamma, dear; you insist that the cap shall fit you, which I did not intend.’
‘Perhaps you will think differently when you are older, Lesbie,’ said her mother sorrowfully.
‘Not very likely, Jane,’ put in the uncle. ‘Not so long as she and I are within reach of each other.’
‘That’s right, uncle,’ said the girl; ‘you are the only sensible man I know.’
‘I may be the only one you know, Lesbie, because your experience of the world is not wide as yet; but you would over-rate me and under-rate others if you imagined that there are not at this day plenty of men who share my views on the education of girls, and would do as well by you as I can.’
‘Now to change the subject,’ said the young girl; ‘how about that machine; when’s it coming?’
‘What, the bicycle? It’s come, and I told Fenrake to have it all ready by eleven this morning. It’s about that now, I think.’
‘That’s all right; then I’ll run up and get on my ‘bikes’; the road looks quite dried up.’
No sooner was she gone than the old gardener knocked at the door.
The foregoing conversation took place in the library of a small but comfortable country parsonage in one of the eastern counties, situated, with a southern aspect, on an eminence a little removed from the highroad which, emerging from a broad avenue of fine elms on the right of the parsonage, passed the bottom of its garden into the hamlet of Dulham on the left. The view from the library window on that fine June morning, the brighter for a night’s rain, extended over a wide range of flat grass land, bounded by gentle undulations in the distance; and the east breeze was bringing brine from the sea coast, distant about twenty miles.
The occupants of the room were the Reverend Spinosa Theodore Bristley, B.D., Vicar of Dulham, near Frogmore, Eastshire, a spare, tall, intellectual-looking man of about forty, with sharp features, a high open forehead, and thick glossy black hair; his widowed sister, Mrs Newman, and her daughter Lesbia. Mr Bristley had been married some years, but his wife had borne no children; she was a mild-mannered, amiable person, with no great natural gifts, and hardly as intelligent in conversation as might have been expected from one living with a man of her husband’s stamp. Her sister-in-law, Mrs Newman, was of a different style, but not enough so to prevent the two women agreeing upon the point of bitter opposition to the scheme upon which the vicar—a very original character—was bent, that of bringing up a girl to take her proper place in the world, untrammelled by the habits of studied littleness, fashion-serving, mischief-making, mean rivalry and general unsoundness, which society—at least, so said this eccentric parson—considers essentials of the perfect lady. Hence a chronic feud existed upon that one subject in the otherwise harmonious family, the girl being already old enough and quick enough to perceive that her female relatives wanted to bolster up the moribund old slavery of women, while her uncle was determined to give her freedom and power. He was never tired of disseminating the doctrine that if girls were brought up more like boys, in what is called manliness, and boys more like girls, in refinement and delicacy of mind, they would, as grown women and men, lead happier and nobler lives; society would be less injured by brutality in men and by the really greater though more plausible evil of “weakervesselism” in women. However, as financial and other practical considerations had brought about the arrangement whereby Mrs Newman kept house with her brother and his wife, and as all parties were too sensible to suppose that perfect union is to be looked for anywhere, they made the best of their dogmatical differences and on the whole got on comfortably together.
About Mr Bristley’s religious views, whether as clergyman or otherwise, all his professional brethren and their friends and belongings agreed that the less said the better. But he made up by works of charity, which, having some private fortune, he was well able to do; and his wife was constant in her ministrations to the sick and poor in the village. She was, in fact, out on her usual rounds on the morning when this story opens, and she appeared in the library about an hour after her niece had left it.
‘Upon my word, Theo, the neighbours will think we’re all crazy here. There’s that girl careering up and down the public road astride of a high bicycle, with old Fenrake running by her side and trying to keep her from tipping over, which I saw her do twice. She is covered with mud—I only hope not with bruises too. And such a costume too—dark blue knickers, stockings, and short jacket to match, and billycock hat; in short, every vestige of her sex carefully rubbed out—it really passes belief, my dearest—’
‘Why, that’s all right; it’s her bathing-dress; what better could she wear to begin learning in? You wouldn’t have a young lady mount a bicycle in flowing robes, would you, Kit?’
‘No, I wouldn’t have a young lady mount a bicycle at all. But it seems to be your mission in life, Theo, to outrage its proprieties.’
‘On the whole, I am disposed to agree with that remark,’ returned Mr Bristley coolly.
Before his wife could reply, Lesbia presented herself at the door, in her muddy costume, with a healthy glow on her face and her eyes sparkling.
‘Well, how did you get on?’ asked her uncle.
‘Oh, capitally; I rode about twenty yards by myself several times before tipping down. I haven’t learnt a proper dismount yet. I got one cropper, but not what you may call the real orthodox straight dive over the head.’
‘Enough to shake you though, I’m afraid. Feel any headache?’
‘Nothing to signify. I shall get used to it after a few more.
‘And, pray,’ inquired her mother ceremoniously, ‘did the—the public volunteer any observations?’
‘They were quite welcome to,’ answered the girl; ‘but I saw no public except three gentlemen—of the Frogmore club, it seems—who happened to pass on high bicycles just as I got my cropper. They called out ‘Bravo!’ and dismounted. One of them picked up my prostrate machine, and we had some general chat about bicycles and roads and makers and prices before they went on.’ She paused, and added,—‘They want me to join the club and rode about with the members, half-a-dozen or so at a time. What do you say, Uncle Spines?’
‘And didn’t they sing in chorus, ‘For she’s a jolly good fellow?’ asked her mother, in the same manner as before.
‘They didn’t sing it, but I have no doubt they thought it,’ retorted Lesbia. ‘If they didn’t, I do.’
‘Capital idea to ride with them, eh, Kitty?’ said Mr Bristley, appealing maliciously to his wife.
‘You don’t mean it, Theo?’
‘Mean it? Decidedly I do. Why shouldn’t she? She'll be safer with them than alone, and it'll give a famous blow to the proprieties, which you say is my mission.’
‘Well, anyhow, I suppose you’re going to put on your dress for luncheon, Miss Bravo,’ said her mother. ‘If so, you've not too much time.’