A Flat Iron for a Farthing | Page 6

"capital
towns of Europe," though we studied them together under the same oak
tree.
We had a happy two years of it together under the Bundle dynasty, and
then trouble came.

I was never fond of demonstrative affection from strangers. The ladies
who lavish kisses and flattery upon one's youthful head after eating
papa's good dinner--keeping a sharp protective eye on their own silk
dresses, and perchance pricking one with a brooch or pushing a curl
into one eye with a kid-gloved finger--I held in unfeigned abhorrence.
But over and above my natural instinct against the unloving fondling of
drawing-room visitors, I had a special and peculiar antipathy to Miss
Eliza Burton.
At first, I think I rather admired her. Her rolling eyes, the black hair
plastered low upon her forehead,--the colour high, but never
changeable or delicate--the amplitude and rustle of her skirts, the
impressiveness of her manner, her very positive matureness, were just
what the crude taste of childhood is apt to be fascinated by. She was the
sister of my father's man of business; and she and her brother were
visiting at my home. She really looked well in the morning, "toned
down" by a fresh, summer muslin, and all womanly anxiety to relieve
my father of the trouble of making the tea for breakfast.
"Dear Mr. Dacre, do let me relieve you of that task," she cried, her
ribbons fluttering over the sugar-basin. "I never like to see a gentleman
sacrificing himself for his guests at breakfast. You have enough to do at
dinner, carving large joints, and jointing those terrible birds. At
breakfast a gentleman should have no trouble but the cracking of his
own egg and the reading of his own newspaper. Now do let me!"
Miss Burton's long fingers were almost on the tea-caddy; but at that
moment my father quietly opened it, and began to measure out the tea.
"I never trouble my lady visitors with this," he said, quietly. "I am only
too well accustomed to it."
Child as I was, I felt well satisfied that my father would let no one fill
my mother's place. For so it was, and all Miss Burton's efforts failed to
put her, even for a moment, at the head of his table.
I do not quite know how or when it was that I began to realize that such
was her effort. I remember once hearing a scrap of conversation

between our most respectable and respectful butler and the
housekeeper--"behind the scenes"--as the former worthy came from the
breakfast-room.
"And how's the new missis this morning, Mr. Smith?" asked the
housekeeper, with a bitterness not softened by the prospect of possible
dethronement.
"Another try for the tea-tray, ma'am," replied Smith, "but it's no go."
"A brazen, black-haired old maid!" cried the housekeeper. "To think of
her taking the place of that sweet angel, Mrs. Dacre (and she barely two
years in her grave), and pretending to act a mother's part by the poor
boy and all. I've no patience!"
On one excuse or another, the Burtons contrived to extend their visit;
and the prospect of a marriage between my father and Miss Burton was
now discussed too openly behind his back for me to fail to hear it. Then
Nurse Bundle on this subject hardly exercised her usual discretion in
withholding me from servants' gossip, and servants' gossip from me.
Her own indignation was strongly aroused, and I had no difficulty in
connecting her tearful embraces, and her allusions to my dead mother,
with the misfortune we all believed to be impending.
[Illustration: The lank lawyer wagged my hand of a morning, and said,
"And how is Miss Eliza's little beau?"]
At first I had admired Miss Burton's bouncing looks. Then my head had
been turned to some extent by her flattery, and by the establishment of
that most objectionable of domestic jokes, the parody of love affairs in
connection with children. Miss Burton called me her little sweetheart,
and sent me messages, and vowed that I was quite a little man of the
world, and then was sure that I was a desperate flirt. The lank lawyer
wagged my hand of a morning, and said, "And how is Miss Eliza's little
beau?" And I laughed, and looked important, and talked rather louder,
and escaped as often as I could from the nursery, and endeavoured to
act up to the character assigned me with about as much grace as Æsop's
donkey trying to dance. I must have become a perfect nuisance to any

sensible person at this period, and indeed my father had an interview
with Nurse Bundle on the subject.
"Master Reginald seems to me to be more troublesome than he used to
be, nurse," said my father.
"Indeed you say true, sir," said Mrs. Bundle,