Chapter 4: Mr. Charles Worth
From my discourse with Dr. Charnock, and from the conversation between Agatha and Eva, I gathered enough of hope to suffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed near,—I desired and waited for it in silence. It delayed, however: days and weeks passed: I had regained my normal state of health, but no new allusion was made to the subject over which I brooded. Aunt Yule observed me with a speculative eye, but rarely spoke to me: since my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation than ever between me and her own children; giving me a small room to sleep in by myself, condemning me to take my meals alone, and pass all my time in the nursery, while my cousins were constantly in the living room. However, she was silent about sending me to school: still I felt an instinctive certainty that it wouldn't be long before she couldn't stand having me under the same roof; her glance, now more than ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuperable and rooted aversion.
Adelaide and Jeanette, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to me as little as possible: Marc thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly turned against him, roused by the same sentiment of deep aversion and desperate revolt which had stirred my corruption before, retreated, and ran away, and vowing I had burst his nose. I really did hit as hard as my knuckles could inflict. I heard him in a blubbering tone tell the tale of how "that nasty Zoe Barton" had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly—
"Don't talk to me about her, Marc: I told you not to go near her; she is not worthy of attention; I do not want either you or your sisters to associate with her."
Here, leaning over the banister of the staircase, I cried out suddenly, and without even deliberating on my words—
"They are not fit to associate with me."
aunt Yule was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing this strange and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stairs, swept me like a whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of the seat, dared me in an emphatic voice to get up from that place, or utter one syllable during the remainder of the day.
"What would Uncle Yule say, if he were alive?" was my scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, because the words flew out of my mouth before I could understand what I was saying.
"What?" Aunt Yule said under her breath: her usually cold composed grey eye became troubled with a look like fear; she let go of my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was now in for it.
"Uncle Yule is in heaven, and can see everything you do and think; and so can mom and dad: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish I was dead."
Aunt Yule soon rallied her spirits: she shook me with great force, she covered both my ears, and then left me without a word.
November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated at Yule Mansion with the usual festive cheer; presents had been exchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From all this enjoyment, I was, of course, excluded: my share of the festivities consisted of witnessing the daily dressing of Adelaide and Jeanette, and seeing them descend to the living room, dressed in silk cocktail dresses appropriate for their age, with hair in elaborate updos; and afterwards, listening to the sound of the CD player paying the recent new album that came out by Christina Aguilera, the passing to and fro of the butler and maids, the jingling of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the dining room door opened and closed. Finally tired of this occupation, I went back to the solitary and silent nursery: there, though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To be honest, I really didn't want to join the party, I was very rarely noticed anyways; and if Agatha had but been kind and companionable, I would have been glad to spend the evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under the formidable eye of Aunt Yule, in a room full of guests. But Agatha, as soon as she dressed her young ladies, would go into the kitchen where it was lively. I sat with my doll on my knee till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my bed. The mansion was old, and didn't have a heater everywhere, so the only warmth I got was from the dying fire in the fireplace and my blanket.
The hours seemed long while I waited for the guests to leave, and listened for the sound of Agatha's step on the stairs: sometimes she would come up in the interval to look for her her thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to bring me something to eat—a sandwich or bagel—then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had finished, she would tuck the blankets round me, and kess me twice on my forehead, and said, "Good night, Zoe." This gentle, Agatha seemed to be the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; and I wished that she would always be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me aside, or scold. Agatha Trotter must be a girl of good natural capacity, for she was smart and skilled, and had a remarkable knack of stories and songs. She was pretty too, if my recollections of her face and person are correct. I remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair, dark eyes, very nice features, and good, clear complexion; but she had a capricious and hasty temper, but still I preferred her to any one else at Yule Mansion.
It was January 15, about nine o'clock in the morning: Agatha was at breakfast; my cousins weren't called by Aunt Yule yet; Adelaide was putting on her pale pink Emilyan Standing collar coat w/ fur trim, a pale pink fox fur hat, John Lewis silk lined leather gloves, and pale pink lace up ankle boots, to take a walk to the pond behind the mansion, a daily routine no matter the weather.
Jeanette sat by the mirror, brushing her hair, and interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and ribbons. I was making my bed, having received strict orders from Agatha to get it arranged before she returned. Having spread the quilt and folded my night gown, I went to the window-seat to stack the books in a neat pile and pick up the scattered furniture of the doll house; an abrupt command from Jeanette to let her playthings alone stopped me; and then, with nothing to do, I sat staring at the frost-bitten windows seeing nothing.
My gaze focused, when I was the gates open, and a black Toyota Camry drove through toward the house. I watched it drive closer with indifference; such cars often came to Yule mansion, but never had any visitors that interested me; it stopped in front of the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. All this meant nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near the shed. The remains of my breakfast of waffles and milk stood on the table, I was about to open the window and give the bird my food, when Agatha came running upstairs into the nursery.
"Zoe, what are you doing there? Have you washed your hands and face this morning?"
"No, Agatha; I just finished dusting."
"Troublesome, child! and what are you doing now?"
I was spared the trouble of answering, Agatha seemed in too great a hurry to listen to explanations; she hauled me to the nursery bathroom, inflicted a merciless, but happily brief scrub on my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel; brushed by hair with a bristly brush putting it in a pony tail, dressed me in a clover print skirt hooded dress, white tights, pink fir slipper boots, and then hurrying me to the top of the stairs, told me to hurry, as I was wanted in the breakfast room.
I wanted to ask who wanted me: I thought it was Aunt Yule, but I was dressed too fancy. I turned to ask, but Bessie was already gone, and had closed the nursery-door behind me. I slowly descended. For nearly three months, I had never been called by Aunt Yule; restricted so long to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and living rooms were forbidden.
I now stood in the empty hall; the breakfast room door in front of me, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling. I was afraid to go back to the nursery, and afraid to go into to the breakfast room; I stood in agitated hesitation for ten minutes; the vehement ringing of the breakfast room bell decided for me; I must enter.
"Who could want me?" I asked inwardly, and with both hands I turned the stiff door-knob, which, for a second or two, resisted my efforts. "Who else beside Aunt Yule wants to see me here?" The handle turned, the door opened, and passing through I looked up at—a black pillar!—at least, it appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug: the grim face at the top was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft.
Aunt Yule sat in her usual seat by the fireplace; she signaled for me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stony stranger with the words: "This is the little girl that I applied."
He, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass voice, "She's quite tiny: how old is she?"
"Ten."
"Really?" was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny for a couple more minutes. Then he addressed me—"What is your name?"
"Zoe Barton"
In uttering these words I looked up: he seemed to me a tall gentleman; but then I was very little; his features were large, and they and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim.
"Well, Zoe Barton, are you a good child?"
Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: my little world held a contrary opinion: I was silent. Aunt Yule answered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, "Let's not touch that subject, Mr. Worth."
"Sorry to hear it! We will have to talk;" and bending from the perpendicular, he sat in the arm-chair opposite Aunt Yule's. "Come here," he said.
I walked across the rug; he placed me square and straight in front of him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth!
"There's nothing more sad than a disobedient child," he began, "especially a disobedient little girl. Do you know where the bad go after death?"
"They go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer.
"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?"
"A pit full of fire."
"And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?"
"No."
"What must you do to avoid it?"
I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: "I should stay healthy, and not die."
He shook his head doubtfully.
I looked down at the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing I was far away.
"I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent for being a discomfort to your excellent benefactress."
"Benefactress! benefactress!" I shouted inwardly: "they all call Aunt Yule my benefactress; if it was so, a benefactress would never had acted like she did toward me."
"Do you say your prayers at night and in the morning?" continued my interrogator.
"Yes."
"Do you read your Bible?"
"Sometimes."
"With pleasure? Are you fond of it?"
"I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah."
"And the Psalms? I hope you like them?"
"No."
"No? how shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six Psalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would rather have, a pice of apple pie to eat or a verse of a Psalm to learn, he says: 'Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms.'"
"Psalms are not interesting," I remarked.
"That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh."
I was about to ask a question, touching the manner in which that operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Aunt Reed interrupted, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to carry on the conversation herself.
"Mr. Worth, I believe I wrote in the letter, that this girl is not as well behaved as I wished: if you admit her into Versailles Academy, I would ask that the superintendent and teachers keep a strict eye on her, and, above all, to guard against her worst fault, a tendency to lie. I mention this in your presence, Zoe, so that you won't impose on Mr. Worth."
The uttered the accusation cut me to the heart; I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating hope from the new phase of existence which she destined me to enter; I felt like she was paving the way to my worst part of life; I saw myself transformed under Mr. Worth's eye into an artful, noxious child, and what could I do to remedy the injury?
"Nothing," I thought, as I struggled to repress a sob, and hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish.
"Lying is definitely a sad part of a child's actions," said Mr. Worth; "she be watched, Mrs. Yule. I will speak to Miss Murrell and the other teachers."
"I really hope she will be educated," continued my benefactress; "to be useful, to be humble: as for the vacations, she will, with your permission, always spend them at the academy."
"I agree with you completely Mrs. Yule."
"I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Worth."
"I shall send Miss Murrell a notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mr. Worth."
"Zoe, here is a book entitled the 'Child's Guide,' read it with prayer, especially that part containing 'An account of the awfully sudden death of Anna Fisher---, a naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit.'"
With these words Mr. Worth handed me a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and sat in his car, he departed.
Aunt Yule and I were left alone: minutes passed in silence; she was reading, I was watching her. Aunt Yule was in her late thirties; she was a woman of robust frame, square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not obese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being much developed and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; under her light eyebrows glimmered; her skin was dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as a bell—illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever manager; her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control; her children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn; she dressed well.
Sitting on the couch, a few yards from her arm-chair, I examined her figure. In my hand I held the tract containing the sudden death of the Liar.
Aunt Yule looked up from her book; her eyes settled on mine.
"Go to the nursery," was her mandate. My expression must have been offensive to her, for she spoke with extreme though suppressed irritation. I got up, I went to the door; I came back again; I walked to the window, across the room, then to her.
I had to speak up. I gathered my will and launched them in this blunt sentence—
"I am not a liar: if I was, I would say I loved you; but I can openly say I don't love you: I hate you as much as I hate Marc; and this book about the liar, you should give it to your daughter, Jeanette, because she is the is the one that lies, not me."
Aunt Yule's book lay in her lap: she glared at me.
"Is there anything else you want to say?" she asked, rather in the tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.
Though shaking with fear and anger, I continued—
"I am glad you are not my relative: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I grow up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say that the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable cruelty."
"How dare you say that, Zoe Barton?"
"How dare I, Mrs. Yule? How dare I? Because it's the truth. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I can't live like that: and you have no pity. I will remember how you thrust me back—roughly and violently thrust me back—into the red-room, and locked me up there, to the day I die; though I was in agony; though I cried out, while suffocating with distress, 'Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Yule!' And that punishment you made me suffer because your evil son struck me—knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions, the same thing. People think of you as a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. You are deceitful!"
As soon as I finished, I felt a load being taken off my shoulders. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhoped-for liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Yule looked frightened; her book slipped to the floor with a low thud; she lifted her hands, rocking herself back and forth, and even twisting her face as if she would cry.
"Zoe, you are mistaken: what is the matter with you? Why are you trembling so violently? Would you like to drink some water?"
"No, Mrs. Yule."
"Is there anything else you want, Zoe? I assure you, I want to be your friend."
"Not you. You told Mr. Worth I had a bad character, a deceitful disposition; and I'll let everybody at Versailles Academy know what you are, and what you have done."
"Zoe, you don't understand: children must be corrected for their faults."
"Lying is not my fault!" I cried out in a savage, high voice.
"But you are passionate, Zoe, that you must agree with: now return to the nursery—be a dear—and lie down for a bit."
"I am not your dear; I will not lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Yule, for I hate to live here."
"I will send her to school soon," Mrs. Yule muttered under her breath; and picking up her book, she abruptly left the room.
I was left alone—winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained: I stood on the rug, where Mr. Worth had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror's solitude. First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce pleasure subsided . A child shouldn't quarrel with its elders, as I had done.
The taste of vengeance sent a thrill through my body. It was like the aroma of the best wine.
I opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the shrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned, unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I covered my head and arms with shawl, and went out to walk in a part of the plantation which was quite segregated; but I found no pleasure in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones, the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past winds in heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against a gate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the short grass was nipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a most opaque sky.
Suddenly I heard a clear voice call, "Zoe! where are you? Come eat lunch!"
It was Agatha, I knew well enough; but I didn't move; her light steps came tripping down the path.
"You naughty little thing!" she said. "Why don't you come when you are called?"
I put my two arms round her in a hug and said, "Oh Agatha, don't scold me."
The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated to indulge in: somehow it pleased her.
"You are a strange child, Zoe," she said, as she looked down at me; "a little trouble maker: and you are going to school, I suppose?"
I nodded.
"And won't you be sorry to leave poor Agatha?"
"You don't care for me? you always scold me."
"Because you're such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. You should be bolder."
"What! to get into more trouble?"
"Nonsense! But you are rather a trouble magnet. My mother said, when she came to see me last week, that she would not like any child of hers to be in your place.—Now, come in, and I've some good news for you."
"No you don't."
"What do you mean? Mrs. Yule, young ladies and Master Marc are going out to lunch this afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I'll ask cook to bake you a little cake, and then you will help me pack your things; I need to have your suitcase ready soon. Mrs. Yule says you will leave in a day or two, and you can choose what toys you want to take with you."
"Agatha, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go."
"I promise; don't be afraid of me."
"I don't think I will ever be afraid of you again, Agatha, because I got used to you, and soon, I'll have another group of people to dread."
"If you dread them they'll dislike you."
"Like you?"
"I don't dislike you, Zoe; I believe I am fonder of you than of all the others."
"You don't show it."
"You sharp little thing. Where did all this boldness come from?"
"Well, I will soon be leaving you, and besides"—I was going to say something about what happened between me and Mrs. Yule, but on second thought I considered it was better to remain silent on that subhect.
"And so you're glad to leave me?"
"No. I'm actually really sorry."
"If I asked you to kiss me, would you?."
"I'll kiss you: bend your head down." Agatha stooped and I kissed her cheek; we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Agatha told me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.