GEORGE SHAW - Collected Works

At a quarter past the hour a message came from Miss Wilson, requesting Miss Wylie’s attendance. The visitors were at a loss to account for the sudden distraction of the young ladies’ attention which ensued. Jane almost burst into tears, and answered Josephs rudely when he innocently asked what the matter was. Agatha went away apparently unconcerned, though her hand shook as she put aside her racket.

In a spacious drawing-room at the north side of the college she found her mother, a slight woman in widow’s weeds, with faded brown hair, and tearful eyes. With her were Mrs. Jansenius and her daughter. The two elder ladies kept severely silent whilst Agatha kissed them, and Mrs. Wylie sniffed. Henrietta embraced Agatha effusively.

“Where’s Uncle John?” said Agatha. “Hasn’t he come?”

“He is in the next room with Miss Wilson,” said Mrs. Jansenius coldly. “They want you in there.”

“I thought somebody was dead,” said Agatha, “you all look so funereal. Now, mamma, put your handkerchief back again. If you cry I will give Miss Wilson a piece of my mind for worrying you.”

“No, no,” said Mrs. Wylie, alarmed. “She has been so nice!”

“So good!” said Henrietta.

“She has been perfectly reasonable and kind,” said Mrs. Jansenius.

“She always is,” said Agatha complacently. “You didn’t expect to find her in hysterics, did you?”

“Agatha,” pleaded Mrs. Wylie, “don’t be headstrong and foolish.”

“Oh, she won’t; I know she won’t,” said Henrietta coaxingly. “Will you, dear Agatha?”

“You may do as you like, as far as I am concerned,” said Mrs. Jansenius. “But I hope you have more sense than to throw away your education for nothing.”

“Your aunt is quite right,” said Mrs. Wylie. “And your Uncle John is very angry with you. He will never speak to you again if you quarrel with Miss Wilson.”

“He is not angry,” said Henrietta, “but he is so anxious that you should get on well.”

“He will naturally be disappointed if you persist in making a fool of yourself,” said Mrs. Jansenius.

“All Miss Wilson wants is an apology for the dreadful things you wrote in her book,” said Mrs. Wylie. “You’ll apologize, dear, won’t you?”

“Of course she will,” said Henrietta.

“I think you had better,” said Mrs. Jansenius.

“Perhaps I will,” said Agatha.

“That’s my own darling,” said Mrs. Wylie, catching her hand.

“And perhaps, again, I won’t.”

“You will, dear,” urged Mrs. Wylie, trying to draw Agatha, who passively resisted, closer to her. “For my sake. To oblige your mother, Agatha. You won’t refuse me, dearest?”

Agatha laughed indulgently at her parent, who had long ago worn out this form of appeal. Then she turned to Henrietta, and said, “How is your caro sposo? I think it was hard that I was not a bridesmaid.”

The red in Henrietta’s cheeks brightened. Mrs. Jansenius hastened to interpose a dry reminder that Miss Wilson was waiting.

“Oh, she does not mind waiting,” said Agatha, “because she thinks you are all at work getting me into a proper frame of mind. That was the arrangement she made with you before she left the room. Mamma knows that I have a little bird that tells me these things. I must say that you have not made me feel any goody-goodier so far. However, as poor Uncle John must be dreadfully frightened and uncomfortable, it is only kind to put an end to his suspense. Good-bye!” And she went out leisurely. But she looked in again to say in a low voice: “Prepare for something thrilling. I feel just in the humor to say the most awful things.” She vanished, and immediately they heard her tapping at the door of the next room.

Mr. Jansenius was indeed awaiting her with misgiving. Having discovered early in his career that his dignified person and fine voice caused people to stand in some awe of him, and to move him into the chair at public meetings, he had grown so accustomed to deference that any approach to familiarity or irreverence disconcerted him exceedingly. Agatha, on the other hand, having from her childhood heard Uncle John quoted as wisdom and authority incarnate, had begun in her tender years to scoff at him as a pompous and purseproud city merchant, whose sordid mind was unable to cope with her transcendental affairs. She had habitually terrified her mother by ridiculing him with an absolute contempt of which only childhood and extreme ignorance are capable. She had felt humiliated by his kindness to her (he was a generous giver of presents), and, with the instinct of an anarchist, had taken disparagement of his advice and defiance of his authority as the signs wherefrom she might infer surely that her face was turned to the light. The result was that he was a little tired of her without being quite conscious of it; and she not at all afraid of him, and a little too conscious of it.

When she entered with her brightest smile in full play, Miss Wilson and Mr. Jansenius, seated at the table, looked somewhat like two culprits about to be indicted. Miss Wilson waited for him to speak, deferring to his imposing presence. But he was not ready, so she invited Agatha to sit down.

“Thank you,” said Agatha sweetly. “Well, Uncle John, don’t you know me?”

“I have heard with regret from Miss Wilson that you have been very troublesome here,” he said, ignoring her remark, though secretly put out by it.

“Yes,” said Agatha contritely. “I am so very sorry.”

Mr. Jansenius, who had been led by Miss Wilson to expect the utmost contumacy, looked to her in surprise.

“You seem to think,” said Miss Wilson, conscious of Mr. Jansenius’s movement, and annoyed by it, “that you may transgress over and over again, and then set yourself right with us,” (Miss Wilson never spoke of offences as against her individual authority, but as against the school community) “by saying that you are sorry. You spoke in a very different tone at our last meeting.”

“I was angry then, Miss Wilson. And I thought I had a grievance—everybody thinks they have the same one. Besides, we were quarrelling—at least I was; and I always behave badly when I quarrel. I am so very sorry.”

“The book was a serious matter,” said Miss Wilson gravely. “You do not seem to think so.”

“I understand Agatha to say that she is now sensible of the folly of her conduct with regard to the book, and that she is sorry for it,” said Mr. Jansenius, instinctively inclining to Agatha’s party as the stronger one and the least dependent on him in a pecuniary sense.

“Have you seen the book?” said Agatha eagerly.

“No. Miss Wilson has described what has occurred.”

“Oh, do let me get it,” she cried, rising. “It will make Uncle John scream with laughing. May I, Miss Wilson?”

“There!” said Miss Wilson, indignantly. “It is this incorrigible flippancy of which I have to complain. Miss Wylie only varies it by downright insubordination.”

Mr. Jansenius too was scandalized. His fine color mounted at the idea of his screaming. “Tut, tut!” he said, “you must be serious, and more respectful to Miss Wilson. You are old enough to know better now, Agatha—quite old enough.”

Agatha’s mirth vanished. “What have I said What have I done?” she asked, a faint purple spot appearing in her cheeks.

“You have spoken triflingly of—of the volume by which Miss Wilson sets great store, and properly so.”

“If properly so, then why do you find fault with me?”

“Come, come,” roared Mr. Jansenius, deliberately losing his temper as a last expedient to subdue her, “don’t be impertinent, Miss.”

Agatha’s eyes dilated; evanescent flushes played upon her cheeks and neck; she stamped with her heel. “Uncle John,” she cried, “if you dare to address me like that, I will never look at you, never speak to you, nor ever enter your house again. What do you know about good manners, that you should call me impertinent? I will not submit to intentional rudeness; that was the beginning of my quarrel with Miss Wilson. She told me I was impertinent, and I went away and told her that she was wrong by writing it in the fault book. She has been wrong all through, and I would have said so before but that I wanted to be reconciled to her and to let bygones be bygones. But if she insists on quarrelling, I cannot help it.”