Dinner went off better than the girls had expected. But to Miss Tredgold it was, and ever would be, the most awful meal she had eaten in the whole course of her existence. The table was devoid¹ of all those things which she, as a refined lady, considered essential. The beautiful old silver spoons were dirty, and several of them bent² almost out of recognition. A like fate had befallen the forks; the knives were rusty³, the handles disgracefully dirty; and the tablecloth⁴, of the finest damask, was almost gray in color, and adorned⁵ with several large holes. The use of serviettes had been long abolished from The Dales.  
The girls, in honor of the occasion, had put on their best frocks, and Verena looked fairly pretty in a skimpy white muslin made in an obsolete⁶ style. The other girls each presented a slightly worse appearance than their elder sister, for each had on a somewhat shabbier frock, a little more old-fashioned and more outgrown⁷. As to Mr. Dale, it had been necessary to remind him at least three times of his sister-in-law’s arrival; and finally Verena had herself to put him into his very old evening-coat, to brush him down afterwards, and to smooth his hair, and then lead him into the dining-room.
 
Miss Tredgold, in contradistinction to the rest of the family, was dressed correctly. She wore a black lace dress slightly open at the neck, and with elbow sleeves. The children thought that she looked dazzlingly fashionable. Verena seemed to remember that she had seen figures very like Aunt Sophia’s in the fashion books. Aunt Sophia’s hair in particular absorbed the attention of four of her nieces. How had she managed to turn it into so many rolls and spirals and twists? How did she manage the wavy⁸ short hair on her forehead? It seemed to sit quite tight to her head, and 22looked as if even a gale¹⁰ of wind would not blow it out of place. Aunt Sophia’s hands were thin and very white, and the fingers were half-covered with sparkling rings, which shone and glittered so much that Penelope dropped her choicest peas all over her frock as she gazed at them.
 
John was requisitioned to wait at table, and John had no livery for the purpose. The family as a rule never required attendance at meals. On this occasion it was supposed to be essential, and as Betty refused point-blank to stir from the kitchen, John had to come to the fore⁹.
 
“No, no, Miss Renny,” said Betty when poor Verena begged and implored¹¹ of the good woman to put in an appearance. “No, you don’t. No, you certain sure don’t. Because you looked pretty and a bit coaxing¹³ I gave up Miss Dunstable and the Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton two hours ago, but not another minute will I spare from them. It’s in their select society that I spend my haristocratic evening.”
 
Verena knew that it would be useless to coax¹² Betty any further. So John appeared with the potatoes in a large dish on a rusty tray, each potato having, as Betty expressed it, a stone inside. This she declared was the proper way to cook them. The peas presently followed the potatoes. They were yellow with age, for they ought to have been eaten at least a week ago. The lamb was terribly underdone, and the mint sauce was like no mint sauce that Miss Tredgold had ever dreamed of. The pudding which followed was a pudding that only Betty knew the recipe for, and that recipe was certainly not likely to be popular in fashionable circles. But the strawberry-jam was fairly good, and the cream was excellent; and when, finally, Miss Tredgold rose to the occasion and said that she would make some coffee, which she had brought down from town, in her own coffee-pot on her own etna, the girls became quite excited.
 
The coffee was made, and shed a delicious aroma¹⁴ over the room. Mr. Dale was so far interested that he was seen to sniff¹⁵ twice, and was found to be observing the coffee as though he were a moth¹⁶ approaching a candle. He even forgot his Virgil in his desire to partake of the delicious stimulant¹⁷. Miss Tredgold handed him a cup.
 
“There,” she said. “If you were ever young, and if there was ever a time when you cared to act as a gentleman, this will remind you of those occasions.—And now, children, I introduce you to ‘Open sesame;’ and I hope, my dear nieces, by means of these simple cups of coffee you will enter a different world from that which you have hitherto known.”
 
The girls all drank their coffee, and each pronounced it the nicest drink they had ever taken.
 
Presently Miss Tredgold went into the garden. She invited Verena and Pauline to accompany her.23
 
“The rest of you can stay behind,” she said. “You can talk about me to each other as much as you like. I give you leave to discuss me freely, knowing that, even if I did not do so, you would discuss me all the same. I am quite aware that you all hate me for the present, but I do not think this state of things will long continue. Come, Verena; come, Pauline. The night is lovely. We will discuss nature a little, and common sense a great deal.”
 
The two girls selected to walk with Miss Tredgold looked behind at the seven girls left in the dining-room, and the seven girls looked back at them with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
 
“Never mind your sisters now,” said Miss Tredgold. “We want to talk over many things. But before we enter into any discussion I wish to ask a question.”
 
“Yes,” said Verena in her gentle voice.
 
“Verena,” said her aunt suddenly, “how old are you?”
 
“Fifteen,” said Verena.
 
“Precisely. And on your next birthday you will be sixteen, and on the following seventeen, and on the next one again eighteen. You have, therefore, nearly three years in which to be transformed from a little savage¹⁸ into a lady. The question I now want to ask you is: Do you prefer to remain a savage all your days, uneducated, uncultured, your will uncontrolled, your aspirations¹⁹ for good undeveloped; or do you wish to become a beautiful and gracious lady, kind, sympathetic, learned, full of grace? Tell me, my dear.”
 
“How can I?” replied Verena. “I like my life here; we all suit each other, and we like The Dales just as it is. Yes, we all suit each other, and we don’t mind being barbarians²⁰.”
 
Miss Tredgold sighed.
 
“I perceive,” she said, “that I shall have uphill work before me. For you of all the young people, Verena, are the easiest to deal with. I know that without your telling me. I know it by your face. You are naturally gentle, courteous²¹, and kind. You are easy to manage. You are also the most important of all to be brought round to my views, for whatever you do the others will do. It is on you, therefore, that I mean to exercise my greatest influence and to expend²² my heaviest forces.”
 
“I don’t quite understand you, Aunt Sophia. I know, of course, you mean kindly²³, but I would much rather——”
 
“That I went away? That I left you in the disgraceful state in which I have found you?”
 
“Well, I don’t consider it disgraceful; and——”
 
“Yes? You would rather I went?”
 
Verena nodded. After a moment she spoke²⁴.
 
“It seems unkind,” she said—“and I don’t wish to be unkind—but I would rather you went.”
 
“And so would I, please, Aunt Sophia,” said Pauline.24
 
Miss Tredgold looked straight before her. Her face became a little pinched, a little white round her lips.
 
“Once,” she said slowly, “I had a sister—a sister whom I loved. She was my half-sister, but I never thought of that. She was to me sister and mother in one. She brought me up from the time I was a little child. She was good to me, and she instilled²⁵ into me certain principles. One of these principles can be expressed in the following words: God put us into the world to rise, not to sink. Another of her principles was that God put us into the world to be good, to be unselfish. Another one, again, was as follows: We must give account for our talents. Now, to allow the talent of beauty, for instance, to degenerate²⁶ into what it is likely to do in your case, Verena, is distinctly wicked. To allow you to sink when you might rise is sinful. To allow you to be selfish when you might be unselfish is also wrong. Your talents, and the talents of Pauline, and the talents of your other sisters must be cultivated and brought to the fore. I want to tell you now, my dear girls, that for years I have longed to help you; that since your mother’s death you have scarcely ever been out of my mind. But circumstances over which I had no control kept me away from you. At last I am free, and the children of my sister Alice are the ones I think most about. I have come here prepared for your rebellion, prepared for your dislike, and determined²⁷ not to be discouraged by either the one or the other. I have come to The Dales, Verena and Pauline, and I mean to remain here for at least three months. If at the end of the three months you ask me to go, I will; although even then I will not give you up. But until three months have expired you can only turn me out by force. I don’t think you will do that. It is best that we should understand each other clearly; is it not, Verena?”
 
Verena’s face was very white; her big brown eyes were full of tears.
 
“I ought to be glad and to say ‘Welcome.’ But I am not glad, and I don’t welcome you, Aunt Sophia. We like our own way; we don’t mind being savages²⁸, and it is untrue that we are selfish. We are not. Each would give up anything, I think, for the other. But we like our poverty and our rough ways and our freedom, and we—we don’t want you, Aunt Sophia.”
 
“Nevertheless you will have to put up with me,” said Miss Tredgold. “And now, to start matters, please tell me exactly how you spend your day.”
 
“Our life is not yours, Aunt Sophia. It would not interest you to know how we spend our day.”
 
“To-morrow, Verena, when the life of rule succeeds the life of misrule, I should take umbrage²⁹ at your remark, but to-night I take no umbrage. I but repeat my question.”
 
“And I will tell you,” said Pauline in her brisk voice. 25“We get up just when we like. We have breakfast when we choose—sometimes in the garden on the grass, sometimes not at all. We walk where we please, and lose ourselves in the Forest, and gather wild strawberries and wild flowers, and watch the squirrels, and climb the beech-trees. When it is fine we spend the whole day out, just coming back for meals, and sometimes not even then, if Betty gives us a little milk and some bread. Sometimes we are lazy and lie on the grass all day. We do what we like always, and always just when we like. Don’t we, Renny?”
 
“Yes,” said Verena. “We do what we like, and in our own way.”
 
“In future,” said Miss Tredgold, “you will do things in my way. I hope you will not dislike my way; but whether you like or dislike it, you will have to submit.”
 
“But, Aunt Sophia,” said Verena, “what authority have you over us? I am exceedingly sorry to seem rude, but I really want to know. Father, of course, has authority over us, but have you? Has anybody but father? That is what I want to know.”
 
“I thought you might ask something of that sort,” said Miss Tredgold—“or, even if you did not ask it, you might think it—and I am prepared with my answer. I quite recognize that in the case of girls like you I have no authority, and I cannot act fairly by you until I have. Now, my dear girls, please understand that before I go to bed to-night I get that authority. I shall get it m writing, too, so that you can none of you gainsay³⁰ it, or slip past it, or avoid it. When the authority comes, then will also come the happy life of rule, for the life of misrule can never be really happy—never for long. Believe me, I am right.”
 
Pauline pulled her hand away from Aunt Sophia’s. She ran to the other side of Verena.
 
“I don’t like you, Aunt Sophia,” she said, “and I don’t want you to stay. Renny, you don’t like her either, and you don’t want her to stay. We don’t believe all the things you are saying, Aunt Sophia. You can’t look into our hearts, and although you are clever, you can’t know all about us. Why shouldn’t we be wild in our own fashion? We are very happy. To be happy is everything. We have only been unhappy since we knew you were coming. Please go away; please do.”
 
“You cannot influence me, Pauline. I love you too well to desert you. Now I am going into the house. You can discuss me then with your sister to your heart’s content.”
 
Miss Tredgold went very slowly towards the old and dilapidated house. When she reached the hall door she turned and looked around her.
 
“I certainly have tough work before me. How am I to manage? If I were not thinking so much of Alice, I should leave these impertinent, neglected, silly girls to their fate. 26But no—I seem to see my sister’s eyes, to hear her voice. I can so well understand what she would really want me to do. I owe a great debt of gratitude³¹ to my beloved sister. I am free, hampered³² by no ties. I will reform these wild young nieces. I will not be easily deterred³³.”
 
Miss Tredgold clasped her hands before her. The moon was rising in a silvery bow in the sky; the air was deliciously fresh and balmy.
 
“The place is healthy, and the children are strong,” she thought, “notwithstanding their bad food and their disreputable, worn-out clothes. They are healthy, fresh, good-looking girls. But this is summer-time, and in summer-time one puts up with discomforts³⁴ for the sake of air like this. But what about winter? I have no doubt they have scarcely any fires, and the house must be damp. As the children grow older they will develop rheumatism³⁵ and all kinds of troubles. Yes, my duty is plain. I must look after my nieces, both soul and body, for the future.”
 
As Miss Tredgold thought these last thoughts she re-entered the house. She walked through the desolate³⁶ rooms. It was now twilight³⁷, but no one thought of lighting³⁸ lamps, or drawing curtains, or shutting windows. Miss Tredgold stumbled as she walked. Presently she found that she had wandered in the neighborhood of the kitchen. She had no intention of bearding Betty in her den—she had no idea that there was a Betty—but as she was near the kitchen, and as under that doorway³⁹ alone there streamed a light, she opened the door.
 
“Is there any one inside?” she asked.
 
A grunt⁴⁰ in the far distance came by way of response. The fire was out in the stove, and as Miss Tredgold grew accustomed to the gloom she saw in the farthest corner something that resembled the stout⁴¹ form of a woman, whose legs rested on one chair and her body on another. A guttering⁴² dip candle was close to her side, and a paper book was held almost under her nose.
 
“I am sorry to disturb you,” said Miss Tredgold, “but I have come for a light. Will you kindly inform me where I can get a candle?”
 
“There ain’t none in the house.”
 
The book was put down, and the angry face of Betty appeared to view.
 
“Then I fear I must trouble you to resign the one you yourself are using. I must have a light to see my way to my bedroom.”
 
“There ain’t no candles. We don’t have ’em in summer. This one I bought with my own money, and I don’t give it up to nobody, laidy or no laidy.”
 
“Am I addressing the cook?”
 
“You are, ma’am. And I may as well say I am cook and housemaid and parlor-maid and kitchen-maid and scullery-maid 27all in one; and I does the laundry, too, whenever it’s done at all. You may gather from my words, ma’am, that I have a deal to do, so I’ll thank you to walk out of my kitchen; for if I am resting after my day of hard work, I have a right to rest, and my own candle shall light me, and my own book shall amuse me. So have the goodness to go, ma’am, and at once.”
 
“I will go,” replied Miss Tredgold very quietly, “exactly when I please, and not a moment before. I wish to say now that I require breakfast to be on the table at nine o’clock, and there must be plenty of good food. Do you mean to say that you have not got food in the house? You can, I presume, send out for it. Here is a half-sovereign. Spend it in what is necessary in order to provide an abundant meal on the table to-morrow morning for the use of Mr. Dale, myself, and my nieces.”
 
What Betty would have said had there been no half-sovereign forthcoming history will never relate. But half-sovereigns were very few and very precious at The Dales. It was almost impossible to get any money out of Mr. Dale; he did not seem to know that there was such a thing as money. If it was put into his hand by any chance, he spent it on books. Betty’s wages were terribly in arrears⁴³. She wanted her wages, but she was too generous, with all her faults, to press for them. But, all the same, the touch of the gold in her hand was distinctly soothing⁴⁴, and Miss Tredgold immediately rose in her estimation. A lady who produced at will golden half-sovereigns, and who was reckless enough to declare that one of these treasures might be spent on a single meal, was surely not a person to be sniffed⁴⁵ at. Betty therefore stumbled to her feet.
 
“I beg your pardon, I’m sure, ma’am; and it’s badly we does want some things here. I’ll get what I can, although the notice is short, and the dook’s nuptials⁴⁶, so to speak, at the door.”
 
“What!” said Miss Tredgold.
 
“I beg your pardon again, ma’am, but my head aches and I’m a bit confused. I’m reading a most wonderful account of the wedding of the Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton.”
 
“I never heard of him.”
 
“He’s marrying a young girl quite in my own station of life—one that was riz from the cottage to the governess-ship, and from the governess-ship to the ducal chair. My head is full of Her Grace, ma’am, and you’ll excuse me if I didn’t rightly know to whom I had the honor of talking. I’ll do what I can. And perhaps you’d like to borrow one of my dip candles for the present night.”
 
“I should very much,” said Miss Tredgold. “And please understand, Betty—I think you said your name was Betty—please understand that if you are on my side I shall be on your side. I have come here meaning to stay, and in future 28there will be a complete change in this establishment. You will receive good wages, paid on the day they are due. There will be plenty of money and plenty of food in the house, and the cook who pleases me stays, and the cook who displeases⁴⁷ me goes. You understand?”
 
“Sakes!” muttered Betty, “it’s nearly as exciting as the doocal romance.—Well, ma’am, I’m of your way of thinking; and here’s your candle.”