Chapter III: “A little girl! Oh! goodness me!”

This second exclamation was wrung from Mr. Smythe about a year after his marriage, at the announcement of an unexpected, yet not astonishing event. A smiling doctor entered his library, and congratulated him on being the father of a young daughter. Dim visions of the possible occurrence of such an event had of late once or twice floated before his eyes, but he had banished manfully the horrible thought, and the announcement did truly take him by surprise. His wife had been too timid, Mrs. Ratcliffe too knowing, to mention it. His housekeeper knew him well--knew that the dread of the anxiety and trouble consequent on such an arrival in his quiet abode might drive him mad; but that if all was taken calmly, he might be reconciled to it. She therefore took upon herself the arrangement of the affair in its minutest particulars; and it so chanced that, until the event was safely and happily over, no reference to him was needed.

It was an hour or two before dinner, while engaged with some intricate business, that the news was borne to him, and that he thus expressed himself.

“Yes, sir; a young lady is, I fear, on her first arrival, generally a disappointment; but no doubt it will be a son next time.”

Mr. Smythe put on his sourest face, and made no reply. After assuring him that both mother and child were perfectly well, the doctor withdrew; having indeed been instructed so to behave himself by Mrs. Ratcliffe.

As soon as he had disappeared, Mr. Smythe, with a kind of dogged determination not to be a father, say what they might, re-seated himself at his table, and endeavoured to give his mind to his business. But he was not left in peace. Mrs. Ratcliffe appeared, and told him it was customary for a good husband to visit his wife on such an occasion, and she thought Mrs. Smythe would not rest easy until she had heard that he was pleased with the baby. The conscience of the poor husband was now touched, and with a look of abject misery he placed himself in the hands of his housekeeper, and prepared to do her bidding. She conducted him to his wife’s bedroom, where she lay, pretty and peaceful and happy, with her baby beside her. It was an emergency for which he was totally unfitted, but his kind heart prompted him how to act.

“So that is the little girl!” he exclaimed; “well, my dear, it seems a very nice little thing, and I hope it will be a comfort to you.”

He patted the hand that lay on the child, and by that means appeared to take the child also under his protection, and the trusting young mother was satisfied.

“Thank you, sir,” she said gently; “and indeed it shall never be a trouble to you.”

“No, no, my dear, of course it won’t. And now rest easy and get well. Good night.” He patted her hand again, and returned to his solitude. His conscience was easy; his house seemed peaceful and quiet, and he drove away all anxious thoughts and vexations from his mind.

The marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Smythe had been a very peaceful one. She had obeyed him, and had made it the study of her life not to bother him; to submit to all his whims and wishes, to refrain from any intrusion on the solitude he loved. At the same time she trusted him entirely, and if she had a desire for anything which required his permission to obtain, she fearlessly asked it. For smaller things she placed herself in the hands of Mrs. Ratcliffe, and her mind was so constituted, that with these two authorities to guide her, and with birds and flowers to occupy her, she was happy. Now that a child was come, happiness would be complete.

And Mr. Smythe, too, had been at peace. After the cares of guardianship, the care of a submissive young wife had made a great calm in his mind. One or two decided steps he took, such as, to his views, were incumbent on every husband, viz., dining in company with his wife, and walking with her to church on a Sunday; but with these, and a very few other exceptions, he lived his old solitary life, and resumed his old peace of mind. The dining in company instead of alone had cost him a struggle, but the conscience of the husband insisted on the sacrifice being made, and it was done. A solitary evening and a solitary breakfast were still permitted, and on the whole he had lived as tranquil a life with his wife as he had done without her.

Shortly after his marriage that implacable enemy of his, his conscience, had suggested to him that the young man whom he had baffled was now a connection of his own, and ought to be looked after. This worried him for a time. At last he proposed to his wife to receive him, and be kind to him. But she expressed so decided an aversion and disinclination to his society, that he thankfully put aside the idea of cultivating his acquaintance. He sent for him, however, and told him he wished to befriend him, and help him, if he so pleased, upward in life; finally offering to procure for him a clerkship in a counting-house. The young man, James Field by name, sullen and mortified by disappointment, would not be touched by his kindness, but was at the same time willing to profit by it. His master had said truly that he never could be a gentleman, and so Mr. Smythe perceived. Having procured for him, therefore, a place suited to his abilities, and in which diligence and good conduct would be sure to advance him, he felt satisfied; and this care was banished with the rest of the cares that had led to his marriage.

On this peaceful life the prospect of the cares of a family now broke. In vain was his determination to ignore the event that had occurred; in vain his resolution to keep himself aloof from nurses and a nursery. Mrs. Ratcliffe’s words that his wife would not rest easy unless she thought he was pleased with the baby, were a perpetual thorn in his couch, a hoarse whisper in his ear. They forced his legs up twice a day to his wife’s room; and when there, forced him to act a kindly and fatherly part, patting her hand, and patting the bundle of linen which generally lay by her side.

But all he did was done as a matter of duty. In many men the fatherly instincts awake in the mere fact of possessing a child. But it was not so with him. He had relieved his conscience by taking under his protection, as best he could, the weak being entrusted to his care; but he remained the same man, loving only his own solitary business--forced into kindliness only by the inexorable heart within.

Towards the end of the month of his wife’s seclusion, he went one morning to pay his visit, and found her up and well, with a real baby, and no longer a bundle on her knee. She was looking very pretty in her invalid costume, and the tenderness with which she bent over the child gave an interesting cast to her impassive and inexpressive countenance. Most people would have admired the picture of maternal love; but Mr. Smythe had no eye for beauty. He groaned in his inward man as he pictured to himself the days to come, when day by day, and week after week, he should be expected to notice the baby.

He sat down, however, and composed himself to do what was necessary on this occasion; said he was glad to see her so well, and observed that her child was growing fast.

He then asked her if she had anything she wanted, and a few other customary questions, and then patting her shoulder, and the arm of the baby, he rose up.

But she arrested him timidly.

“Oh! sir, could you sit down for a minute? I want very much to speak to you.”

He sighed and sat down.

“Anything you like, my dear.”

“It is about the baby. I suppose it must have a name.”

“I suppose it must. I had forgotten that. What shall you call her?”

“I want you to help me, sir. There are two names I want to have, and I cannot decide which I like best.”

She spoke in a tone of childish vexation and perplexity.

“Oh! well, my dear, let me choose,” he said kindly.

“One is Pamela,” she said, “and the other is Clarissa.”

“Pamela and Clarissa!” and his shaggy brows seemed to shake as he knit them. “No, indeed, no child of mine shall ever bear such names as those. Let us have a decent Christian name, and be content.”

She trembled, and opened wide her eyes.

“What is your name, my dear?”

“Only Ann, sir.”

“A very good name. My mother’s name, too, was Ann. Let the child be called Ann.”

“Oh! sir.” And a large tear fell from each eye.

But he was inexorable.

“I will have her called Ann, my dear, and nothing else,” he said sternly, and he left the room.

He did not mean to be unkind to his wife. His view was to secure to his daughter a decent Christian name, and his conscience made him no reproaches.

The following morning Mrs. Ratcliffe knocked at his door. For the sake of her docile young mistress she was always bold. She came to tell him that Mrs. Smythe had had a restless night, and was not very well; and she feared it was owing to the fact that she had fretted a good bit, poor thing, about her child’s name.

“Could not----”

But here her master interrupted her. He was an obstinate man, and a fit of righteous obstinacy was now upon him.

“The little girl shall be called Ann,” he said, pressing his thin lips together. “Don’t let me be bothered any more.”

Mrs. Ratcliffe disappeared, and he remained with his obstinacy. He carried it about triumphantly all the day, but when in the evening he visited his wife, and saw her pale cheeks and red eyes, it began to melt in his heart. He almost hoped she would attack him on the subject, but she did not. She was too timid to say more.

The next morning, however, the strife recommenced. Mrs. Ratcliffe again entered his room, and this time with a big book--a kind of dictionary of names. She said she had been trying to make out a name that would please both parents, and she had found one with which her mistress was quite delighted--Annora. She could be Ann to her father and at home, if he pleased, but she would be something prettier than Ann to the world.

Obstinacy seized Mr. Smythe as she spoke. His senses shivered and quivered at the idea of possessing a daughter Annora. He pressed his lips together, and was about to repeat that the little girl should be called Ann, and nothing else, when his tyrant conscience gave him such a sudden stab that he quailed under it. He saw a vision of the timid wife with her pale cheeks and red eyes, and he melted.

“Poor little fool!” he said bitterly. “Get along, Mrs. Ratcliffe, and let her have the name she pleases.”

Thus it was settled, and thus the child was baptized. It was the only matrimonial strife in which the fatherly husband and childlike wife were ever engaged. The little Annora was baptized, but her father did not think it necessary to attend her baptism. She lived and grew, was short-coated, and cut her teeth, and still he paid her no attention. She was, as all who saw her said, a fine handsome child, the image of himself; but his likeness made no impression on his heart. He returned to his old life, dining with his wife, and walking with her to church on a Sunday; and sometimes, when he found the child on her knee, patting it for her sake, but he took no interest in it.

Mrs. Smythe was very happy with her baby, and if she did sometimes wish that he would notice how much it was grown, she remembered her promise not to bother him, and restrained her wishes. But there was one person who was not grateful. The head nurse, who received very high wages, was quite unused to such treatment of her charges. She felt it was incumbent on her to vanquish this cold-hearted father, and she set herself to the task. Who could tell what might happen if he did not take to the child? Why, he might will all his money away, and go and die, and where should they all be? She watched his movements, met him on the stairs, met him in the streets, and on every occasion flourished the child in his view; but all in vain. He passed on with his own thoughts, and took no heed to nurse or baby.

At length the first anniversary of the birth of a Miss Smythe came round. On the morning of that day the nurse washed her with extra care, put on the very best of best frocks, blue bows on her shoulders, and the most exquisite blue kid shoes on her tiny feet. No baby had ever seemed more able to soften an obdurate heart.

Bearing her in her arms, and entering the room of her master with the air of a princess, the nurse approached him.

“Miss Smythe is a year old, sir, to-day. I thought you would be expecting to see her.” Not quite the truth.

But vain were her efforts; vain the blue sash, and even the blue kid shoes. For a moment the old man was dismayed, and looked up bashfully from his breakfast; but the next moment he felt “now or never.”

“I am glad to see the little girl is well,” he said; “but you may take her away, and I will ring when I want her.”

The nurse was in her turn abashed; but she also recovered herself.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, with presence of mind. “Now, my dear, say ‘bye-bye’ to your papa,” and she raised the child, and held it in an attitude towards him.

In some mute expectation of hearing “bye-bye” from those infant lips, he gazed up in wonder. No “bye-bye” came, but the child, as if instinctively attracted by the kind heart that was hid under that ungainly face, stretched out towards him her little fat arms and smiled. A thrill shivered through his frame, a strange feeling of paternal love leaped into his heart; he half rose from his seat to gratify it. Then he composed himself, and though he did slowly rise, he spoke gravely.

“She’s a nice little girl,” and he softly patted her arm; “but you may take her away now, and I will send when I want her.”

The nurse did not quite understand. She had not seen the smile which had achieved the conquest of his heart, and uncertain whether or not the conquest was achieved, she withdrew. But she guessed it before long. Mr. Smythe would not acknowledge, even to himself, that he pined and thirsted to have those fat arms round his neck; but it was the case, and he plotted for that gratification with deep-laid schemes. He began to note the hours of the day when she took her walks. Sometimes concealed behind his door, and sometimes concealed at the end of the street, he would watch for her coming forth, and would go forward to meet her. He would then stop and pat her, receive the smile, and pass on, still plotting for other days, when the moment for receiving her into his arms might naturally come. It was some weeks before it came, but when it came the victory was complete. From the day when first she took her place on his knee, she ruled over him with absolute power, and gradually transformed his crusty attentions into a soft and benign tenderness.