Arabella

THE SCHOOLROOM in the Parsonage at Heythram was not a large apartment

THE SCHOOLROOM in the Parsonage at Heythram was not a large apartment, but on a bleak January day, in a household where the consumption of

coals was a consideration, this was not felt by its occupants to be a disadvantage.

Quite a modest fire in the high, barred grate made it unnecessary for all but one

of the four young ladies present to huddle shawls round their shoulders. But

Elizabeth, the youngest of the Reverend Henry Tallant’s handsome daughters, was

suffering from the ear-ache, and, besides stuffing a roasted onion into the afflicted

orifice, had swathed her head and neck in an old Cashmere shawl. She lay curled

up on an aged sofa, with her head on a worn red cushion, and from time to time

uttered a long-suffering sigh, to which none of her sisters paid any heed. Betsy was

known to be sickly. It was thought that the climate of Yorkshire did not agree with

her constitution, and since she spent the greater part of the winter suffering from a

variety of minor ills her delicacy was regarded by all but her Mama as a

commonplace.

There were abundant signs, littered over the table in the centre of the room,

that the young ladies had retired to this cosy, shabby apartment to hem shirts, but

only one of them, the eldest, was thus engaged. In a chair on one side of the

fireplace, Miss Margaret Tallant, a buxom fifteen-year old, was devouring the

serial story in a bound volume of The Ladies’ Monthly Museum, with her fingers

stuffed in her ears, and seated opposite to Miss Arabella, her stitchery lying

neglected on the table before, sat Miss Sophia, reading aloud from another

volume of this instructive periodical

“I must say, Bella,” she remarked, momentarily lowering the book, “I find

this most perplexing! Only listen to what it says here! We have presented our

subscribers with fashions of the newest pattern, not such as shall violate the law of

propriety and decorum, but such as shall assist the smile of good humour, and

give an additional charm to the carriage of benevolence. Economy ought to be

the order of the day—And then, if you please, there is a picture of the most

ravishing evening-gown—Do but look at it, Bella!—and it says that the Russian

bodice is of blue satin, fastened in front with diamonds! Well!”

Her sister obediently raised her eyes from the wristband she was hemming,

and critically scanned the willowy giantess depicted amongst the Fashion Notes.

Then she sighed, and once more bent her dark head over her work. “Well, if that

is their notion of economy, I am sure I couldn’t go to London, even if my

godmother invited me. And I know she won’t,” she said fatalistically.

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