Chapter Five.Disturbing Influences.Hazel Thorne felt giddy as she took her seat in the front of the gallery, the seat with a little square patchy cushion close to the red curtains in front of the organist’s pew. Beside and behind her the school children sat in rows, with ample room for three times the number; but the seats were never filled save upon the two Sundays before the annual school feast when somehow the Wesleyan and Congregational Sunday-schools were almost empty, and the church school thronged.It was precisely the same on Mr Chute’s side of the organ, with his boys beside and behind, and so situated that he could lean a little forward and get a glimpse of Hazel’s profile, and also so that he could leave his seat, go round by the back of the organ, and give the new mistress the hymn-book, and the music used, with all the hymns, chants, and tunes carefully turned down.It was a pleasant little attention to a stranger, and Hazel turned and thanked him with a smile that was not at all necessary, as Miss Rebecca who played the organ, and saw this through an opening in the red curtains, afterwards said to her brother the Reverend Henry Lambent, while at the time she said:—“Sh! sh!” For Ann Straggalls was fighting down a desire to laugh, consequent upon Feelier Potts whining sharply:—“Oh, Goody, me!”“Like her impudence,” Mr Chute said to himself, in allusion to Miss Rebecca’s interference with the duties of the new mistress. “She’d better not try it on with my boys,” and he went back to think of Hazel Thorne’s sweet sad smile.And all the time the object of his thoughts felt giddy.Archibald Graves down there, when she had believed that he had forgotten her; and the more she thought, the more agitated and indignant she grew. At times she felt as if she must leave the church, for there, plainly in view, sat the disturber of her peace, one whom she had put behind her with the past; and when at last they stood up to sing the first hymn, to her horror she found that it was the custom in the old country church for the audience all to turn and face the organ, when Archibald Graves stood gazing up at her, and, strive how she would, she could not help once or twice meeting his eyes.“It is cruel and unmanly,” she thought, as she resumed her seat, feeling half distracted by the flood of emotion that seemed to sweep away the present.Fortunately there was an audible “Sh! sh!” from behind the red curtains just then; and this drew Hazel’s attention to the fact that Feelier Potts was, if not “tiddling,” at all events making Ann Straggalls laugh, just when, in a high-pitched drawl, the Reverend Henry Lambent was going on with the service, as if he felt it a great act of condescension to make appeals on behalf of such a lower order of beings as the Plumtonites. What time the round smooth face of Mr William Forth Burge was looking over the edge of his pew, where he always knelt down standing up as Feelier Potts said, and always smelt his hat inside when he came into church. And while this gentleman forgot all about the prayers in his thoughtful meditation upon the face of one who he told himself had the face of an angel, Mr Chute kept forgetting the litany, and let the boys straggle in the responses, for he felt impelled to glance round the front of the organ pew at the soft white forehead he could just contrive to see.“Those girls never behaved worse,” said Miss Rebecca to herself. “If this is to be the way they are kept in order she will never do.”Miss Rebecca Lambent felt more sore than usual, for she was at heart aggrieved that the new schoolmistress should be so good-looking and ladylike—matters not at all in accordance with what was right for “a young person in her station in life;” and, to make matters worse, Jem Chubb, who blew the bellows, let the wind fail in the middle of the second hymn.It was fortunate, then, that the girls did behave so badly, and that Feelier Potts would keep spreading out her hands, and saying, “Oh, Goody me!” in imitation of the vicar’s tones, for it took Hazel’s attention, and her task of keeping the girls quiet stayed her thoughts from wandering away.There was no avoiding the meeting, and when at last—the service being over and the congregation going—the school children, evidently smelling dinner, having rushed off in spite of all efforts to detain them—Hazel slowly descended, it was to find Archibald Graves waiting at the foot of the stairs, and he stepped in front of Mr Chute, who, as he was so near a neighbour, aimed at walking with the new mistress home.“Let us go off along the road here somewhere, Hazel,” said Archibald Graves abruptly, “I have come down on purpose to see you. Never mind these people; come along.”What should she do? Miss Rebecca was staring—nay, glowering; the Burges were coming up, and this terrible interview, which she would have given worlds to avoid, was apparently inevitable: for, unlike some young ladies she did not feel disposed to faint. What then, should she do?The knot was untied, for just then there was a rustle of silk, and Miss Beatrice swept up over the chiselled slabs, to say, in a stern, uncompromising voice—“Miss Thorne, my brother, the vicar, wishes to speak with you in the vestry.”
Hazel Thorne felt giddy as she took her seat in the front of the gallery, the seat with a little square patchy cushion close to the red curtains in front of the organist’s pew. Beside and behind her the school children sat in rows, with ample room for three times the number; but the seats were never filled save upon the two Sundays before the annual school feast when somehow the Wesleyan and Congregational Sunday-schools were almost empty, and the church school thronged.
It was precisely the same on Mr Chute’s side of the organ, with his boys beside and behind, and so situated that he could lean a little forward and get a glimpse of Hazel’s profile, and also so that he could leave his seat, go round by the back of the organ, and give the new mistress the hymn-book, and the music used, with all the hymns, chants, and tunes carefully turned down.
It was a pleasant little attention to a stranger, and Hazel turned and thanked him with a smile that was not at all necessary, as Miss Rebecca who played the organ, and saw this through an opening in the red curtains, afterwards said to her brother the Reverend Henry Lambent, while at the time she said:—
“Sh! sh!” For Ann Straggalls was fighting down a desire to laugh, consequent upon Feelier Potts whining sharply:—
“Oh, Goody, me!”
“Like her impudence,” Mr Chute said to himself, in allusion to Miss Rebecca’s interference with the duties of the new mistress. “She’d better not try it on with my boys,” and he went back to think of Hazel Thorne’s sweet sad smile.
And all the time the object of his thoughts felt giddy.
Archibald Graves down there, when she had believed that he had forgotten her; and the more she thought, the more agitated and indignant she grew. At times she felt as if she must leave the church, for there, plainly in view, sat the disturber of her peace, one whom she had put behind her with the past; and when at last they stood up to sing the first hymn, to her horror she found that it was the custom in the old country church for the audience all to turn and face the organ, when Archibald Graves stood gazing up at her, and, strive how she would, she could not help once or twice meeting his eyes.
“It is cruel and unmanly,” she thought, as she resumed her seat, feeling half distracted by the flood of emotion that seemed to sweep away the present.
Fortunately there was an audible “Sh! sh!” from behind the red curtains just then; and this drew Hazel’s attention to the fact that Feelier Potts was, if not “tiddling,” at all events making Ann Straggalls laugh, just when, in a high-pitched drawl, the Reverend Henry Lambent was going on with the service, as if he felt it a great act of condescension to make appeals on behalf of such a lower order of beings as the Plumtonites. What time the round smooth face of Mr William Forth Burge was looking over the edge of his pew, where he always knelt down standing up as Feelier Potts said, and always smelt his hat inside when he came into church. And while this gentleman forgot all about the prayers in his thoughtful meditation upon the face of one who he told himself had the face of an angel, Mr Chute kept forgetting the litany, and let the boys straggle in the responses, for he felt impelled to glance round the front of the organ pew at the soft white forehead he could just contrive to see.
“Those girls never behaved worse,” said Miss Rebecca to herself. “If this is to be the way they are kept in order she will never do.”
Miss Rebecca Lambent felt more sore than usual, for she was at heart aggrieved that the new schoolmistress should be so good-looking and ladylike—matters not at all in accordance with what was right for “a young person in her station in life;” and, to make matters worse, Jem Chubb, who blew the bellows, let the wind fail in the middle of the second hymn.
It was fortunate, then, that the girls did behave so badly, and that Feelier Potts would keep spreading out her hands, and saying, “Oh, Goody me!” in imitation of the vicar’s tones, for it took Hazel’s attention, and her task of keeping the girls quiet stayed her thoughts from wandering away.
There was no avoiding the meeting, and when at last—the service being over and the congregation going—the school children, evidently smelling dinner, having rushed off in spite of all efforts to detain them—Hazel slowly descended, it was to find Archibald Graves waiting at the foot of the stairs, and he stepped in front of Mr Chute, who, as he was so near a neighbour, aimed at walking with the new mistress home.
“Let us go off along the road here somewhere, Hazel,” said Archibald Graves abruptly, “I have come down on purpose to see you. Never mind these people; come along.”
What should she do? Miss Rebecca was staring—nay, glowering; the Burges were coming up, and this terrible interview, which she would have given worlds to avoid, was apparently inevitable: for, unlike some young ladies she did not feel disposed to faint. What then, should she do?
The knot was untied, for just then there was a rustle of silk, and Miss Beatrice swept up over the chiselled slabs, to say, in a stern, uncompromising voice—
“Miss Thorne, my brother, the vicar, wishes to speak with you in the vestry.”
Chapter Six.The Reverend Henry Lambent.“I beg your pardon,” said Archibald Graves, rather abruptly; “I spoke to Miss Thorne before church. I think she is engaged to me.”The eyes of Beatrice Lambent opened with astonishment and she stared at this daring young man, who had the presumption to talk of interposing between the new schoolmistress and the head of the parish. She was evidently about to speak, for her lips moved, but no words came.It was Hazel who put an end to the unpleasant dilemma.“I will come at once. Miss Lambent, if you please,” she said respectfully.“Miss Beatrice Lambent, if you please,” said the lady haughtily; “Miss Lambent is now descending from the organ-loft.”“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Hazel. Then, glancing with quiet dignity at the intruder and back to Miss Beatrice: “Mr Graves was a friend of our family a year or two back. Mr Graves, my mother is at the schoolhouse; if you wish to see me, I must ask you to call there.”She followed Miss Beatrice up between the rows of pews that lady seeming to take her into moral custody; while, seeing himself the aim of several pairs of eyes, including those of Mr Chute, Mr William Forth Burge, Miss Burge, and above all, those of Miss Lambent, which literally flashed at him, Archibald Graves nodded shortly, turned upon his heel, and tried to march carelessly out of church; but his easy motions were terribly full of restraint.“I was not aware that Miss Thorne would be so soon having friends,” said Miss Lambent; but her remark elicited no reply, for Mr William Forth Burge and his sister both felt troubled, the schoolmaster angry, and all too much preoccupied with the appearance of Hazel Thorne as she passed into the chancel, and through a bar of brilliant colour cast by the sun from the new stained-glass window, which had been placed in the south end of the chancel in memory of the late vicar, the effect being very strange, seeming to etherealise Hazel; though for the matter of that the same effect would have been seen, had it been noticed, in connection with Miss Beatrice, who had led the way, drawing aside the curtain that hung in front of the vestry door, and tapping softly with her knuckles.“Come in!”Very simple words, but they set Hazel’s heart beating, as, in a whisper full of awe, but at the same time very distant and cold, Miss Beatrice said:“You may go in now.”As she spoke she drew back, holding the curtain for Hazel to pass; and trying to master her emotion, the latter raised the latch and entered the vestry.The vicar was standing with his hat in hand, gazing out of the little window at the cheerful prospect of a piece of blank old stone wall, surmounted by a large waterspout, and though he must have heard the door open and close, he did not turn, but stood there as stiff and uncompromising of aspect as his sisters.He had seen Hazel Thorne twice before, but in a gloomy room in London; and being of rather a preoccupied turn of mind, he had paid so little heed to her personal appearance that he would hardly have recognised her again. A new mistress had been required, and the customary correspondence had taken place; he had called at the institution, asked a few questions, and there was an end of the matter, the strong recommendations of the lady-principal being sufficient for the engagement to be decided on.Hazel stood waiting for him to turn round, but the Reverend Henry Lambent remained gazing at the water-pipe for some few moments before coughing slightly to clear his throat. Then, in a voice full of haughty condescension, he began:“I am glad to find that you arrived punctually. Miss Thorne, in accordance with the arrangements that were made; and I take this opportunity of saying a few words to you at this commencement of your career in Plumton.”Here he stopped, and faced slowly round, allowing his half-closed eyes to rest indifferently upon the new mistress, who was standing facing the window, and upon whose rather pale care-worn face the light fell strongly as he turned.Very plainly dressed in her well-fitting mourning, Hazel Thorne was one who could have claimed a second look from the sternest of mortals.It was not that she was surpassing beautiful, and could boast of finely-chiselled nostrils, Juno-like brow, or any of the wonderfully entrancing features with which some novelists endow their heroines; Hazel was simply a sweet-faced, thoroughly English girl, but there was an expression in her eyes, a touching look so full of appeal that it even affected the cold, unimpassioned vicar, who remained silent for some moments as if wondering, and then hastily said:“I beg your pardon. Miss Thorne, will you sit down!”He placed a chair for her, and drew another forward from where it was half hidden behind the folds of the surplice but lately hung upon its proper peg, and, astonished at himself waited till Hazel had seated herself before following suit.“That young man” seemed to have vanished from his thoughts, and the lecture he had intended to read the young schoolmistress upon the bad appearance of such meetings as those which had taken place that morning dropped from his memory, and his lips formed words that surprised him as much as his acts.“I trust that you have found everything correct at—at the schoolhouse, Miss Thorne?”“Quite, I thank you,” replied Hazel, with quiet dignity, and she entirely forgot that she was addressing her superior, and left out the “sir.”“Of course everything is very strange and new to you at first; but er—er, you will soon feel quite at home with us, I hope.”“Indeed, I hope so,” said Hazel earnestly. “The time has been so short as yet.”“Yes—of course—so very short,” replied the vicar. “My sisters will call to-morrow, I have no doubt and see Mrs Thorne. I shall be down at the school in the afternoon. You saw Miss Burge, of course, this morning?”“Oh yes. Miss Burge walked up to church with me.”“And Mr William Forth Burge too, if I mistake not. Most admirable people, Miss Thorne. Great patrons of our schools. I trust that you will—er—er—try to—er—that is, endeavour to meet them in little matters, connected with the management of the children.”“You may rely upon my trying to thoroughly fulfil my duties, Mr Lambent,” said Hazel quietly.“Of course—to be sure, Miss Thorne, no doubt,” he said hastily; and as he spoke he wondered at himself more and more; “but I must not detain you, Miss Thorne. Er—allow me one moment, the curtain is rather awkward to one unaccustomed to the place.”And, to the astonishment—the utter astonishment—of his sisters, who were standing as stiffly in the chancel as if they were a couple of monumental effigies, the Reverend Henry Lambent opened the door, passed out first, and then stood holding the curtain aside for Hazel to pass, which she did, bowing gravely and with quiet dignity to the two ladies before gliding along the nave and out of the door.Neither of the sisters spoke, but stood, like the vicar, watching the new mistress leave the church.At last Miss Beatrice turned.“What excuse did she make, Henry?” she said.“I—er—I beg your pardon, Beatrice?”“I say, what excuse did she make? Really, her conduct is very, strange.”“Excuse? Oh, of course, about her visitor,” said the vicar absently. “I er—I—on second consideration thought it would be better to ignore the matter. Perhaps she was not to blame.”“Henry!”“Beatrice, my dear,” said the vicar quietly, “I always abstain from having refreshments in the vestry, but the morning service is long and I feel faint. Let us go home to lunch.”Miss Beatrice had the first rule over the vicarage, her elder sister the second rule, and generally speaking, the vicar let them have matters entirely their own way; still, there were times when he took the reins in his own hands, and then it was dangerous to interfere.This was one of the times when the vicar showed that he had a will of his own, and consequently the sisters exchanged glances and said no more.
“I beg your pardon,” said Archibald Graves, rather abruptly; “I spoke to Miss Thorne before church. I think she is engaged to me.”
The eyes of Beatrice Lambent opened with astonishment and she stared at this daring young man, who had the presumption to talk of interposing between the new schoolmistress and the head of the parish. She was evidently about to speak, for her lips moved, but no words came.
It was Hazel who put an end to the unpleasant dilemma.
“I will come at once. Miss Lambent, if you please,” she said respectfully.
“Miss Beatrice Lambent, if you please,” said the lady haughtily; “Miss Lambent is now descending from the organ-loft.”
“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Hazel. Then, glancing with quiet dignity at the intruder and back to Miss Beatrice: “Mr Graves was a friend of our family a year or two back. Mr Graves, my mother is at the schoolhouse; if you wish to see me, I must ask you to call there.”
She followed Miss Beatrice up between the rows of pews that lady seeming to take her into moral custody; while, seeing himself the aim of several pairs of eyes, including those of Mr Chute, Mr William Forth Burge, Miss Burge, and above all, those of Miss Lambent, which literally flashed at him, Archibald Graves nodded shortly, turned upon his heel, and tried to march carelessly out of church; but his easy motions were terribly full of restraint.
“I was not aware that Miss Thorne would be so soon having friends,” said Miss Lambent; but her remark elicited no reply, for Mr William Forth Burge and his sister both felt troubled, the schoolmaster angry, and all too much preoccupied with the appearance of Hazel Thorne as she passed into the chancel, and through a bar of brilliant colour cast by the sun from the new stained-glass window, which had been placed in the south end of the chancel in memory of the late vicar, the effect being very strange, seeming to etherealise Hazel; though for the matter of that the same effect would have been seen, had it been noticed, in connection with Miss Beatrice, who had led the way, drawing aside the curtain that hung in front of the vestry door, and tapping softly with her knuckles.
“Come in!”
Very simple words, but they set Hazel’s heart beating, as, in a whisper full of awe, but at the same time very distant and cold, Miss Beatrice said:
“You may go in now.”
As she spoke she drew back, holding the curtain for Hazel to pass; and trying to master her emotion, the latter raised the latch and entered the vestry.
The vicar was standing with his hat in hand, gazing out of the little window at the cheerful prospect of a piece of blank old stone wall, surmounted by a large waterspout, and though he must have heard the door open and close, he did not turn, but stood there as stiff and uncompromising of aspect as his sisters.
He had seen Hazel Thorne twice before, but in a gloomy room in London; and being of rather a preoccupied turn of mind, he had paid so little heed to her personal appearance that he would hardly have recognised her again. A new mistress had been required, and the customary correspondence had taken place; he had called at the institution, asked a few questions, and there was an end of the matter, the strong recommendations of the lady-principal being sufficient for the engagement to be decided on.
Hazel stood waiting for him to turn round, but the Reverend Henry Lambent remained gazing at the water-pipe for some few moments before coughing slightly to clear his throat. Then, in a voice full of haughty condescension, he began:
“I am glad to find that you arrived punctually. Miss Thorne, in accordance with the arrangements that were made; and I take this opportunity of saying a few words to you at this commencement of your career in Plumton.”
Here he stopped, and faced slowly round, allowing his half-closed eyes to rest indifferently upon the new mistress, who was standing facing the window, and upon whose rather pale care-worn face the light fell strongly as he turned.
Very plainly dressed in her well-fitting mourning, Hazel Thorne was one who could have claimed a second look from the sternest of mortals.
It was not that she was surpassing beautiful, and could boast of finely-chiselled nostrils, Juno-like brow, or any of the wonderfully entrancing features with which some novelists endow their heroines; Hazel was simply a sweet-faced, thoroughly English girl, but there was an expression in her eyes, a touching look so full of appeal that it even affected the cold, unimpassioned vicar, who remained silent for some moments as if wondering, and then hastily said:
“I beg your pardon. Miss Thorne, will you sit down!”
He placed a chair for her, and drew another forward from where it was half hidden behind the folds of the surplice but lately hung upon its proper peg, and, astonished at himself waited till Hazel had seated herself before following suit.
“That young man” seemed to have vanished from his thoughts, and the lecture he had intended to read the young schoolmistress upon the bad appearance of such meetings as those which had taken place that morning dropped from his memory, and his lips formed words that surprised him as much as his acts.
“I trust that you have found everything correct at—at the schoolhouse, Miss Thorne?”
“Quite, I thank you,” replied Hazel, with quiet dignity, and she entirely forgot that she was addressing her superior, and left out the “sir.”
“Of course everything is very strange and new to you at first; but er—er, you will soon feel quite at home with us, I hope.”
“Indeed, I hope so,” said Hazel earnestly. “The time has been so short as yet.”
“Yes—of course—so very short,” replied the vicar. “My sisters will call to-morrow, I have no doubt and see Mrs Thorne. I shall be down at the school in the afternoon. You saw Miss Burge, of course, this morning?”
“Oh yes. Miss Burge walked up to church with me.”
“And Mr William Forth Burge too, if I mistake not. Most admirable people, Miss Thorne. Great patrons of our schools. I trust that you will—er—er—try to—er—that is, endeavour to meet them in little matters, connected with the management of the children.”
“You may rely upon my trying to thoroughly fulfil my duties, Mr Lambent,” said Hazel quietly.
“Of course—to be sure, Miss Thorne, no doubt,” he said hastily; and as he spoke he wondered at himself more and more; “but I must not detain you, Miss Thorne. Er—allow me one moment, the curtain is rather awkward to one unaccustomed to the place.”
And, to the astonishment—the utter astonishment—of his sisters, who were standing as stiffly in the chancel as if they were a couple of monumental effigies, the Reverend Henry Lambent opened the door, passed out first, and then stood holding the curtain aside for Hazel to pass, which she did, bowing gravely and with quiet dignity to the two ladies before gliding along the nave and out of the door.
Neither of the sisters spoke, but stood, like the vicar, watching the new mistress leave the church.
At last Miss Beatrice turned.
“What excuse did she make, Henry?” she said.
“I—er—I beg your pardon, Beatrice?”
“I say, what excuse did she make? Really, her conduct is very, strange.”
“Excuse? Oh, of course, about her visitor,” said the vicar absently. “I er—I—on second consideration thought it would be better to ignore the matter. Perhaps she was not to blame.”
“Henry!”
“Beatrice, my dear,” said the vicar quietly, “I always abstain from having refreshments in the vestry, but the morning service is long and I feel faint. Let us go home to lunch.”
Miss Beatrice had the first rule over the vicarage, her elder sister the second rule, and generally speaking, the vicar let them have matters entirely their own way; still, there were times when he took the reins in his own hands, and then it was dangerous to interfere.
This was one of the times when the vicar showed that he had a will of his own, and consequently the sisters exchanged glances and said no more.
Chapter Seven.“What did I see in this Boy?”Hazel was not destined to reach home without adventure, for before she had gone far she could see Mr Chute walking along very slowly, right at the bottom of the street, and evidently hoping that she would overtake him. But this was not the cause of the palpitation from which Hazel suffered, for, about halfway between the church and the schools, she saw Archibald Graves coming to meet her, walking very fast; and she had to prepare herself for the encounter that was now inevitable.“At last!” he cried, eagerly, as he came up. “My dear Hazel, I thought I was never to see you.”She took no notice of the proffered hand, but walked quietly on.“Won’t you take my arm, Hazel?” he exclaimed. “Oh, don’t be so hard on a fellow. What have I done?”Hazel turned her large earnest eyes upon him, and seemed to look him through and through, as, instead of answering his question, she put one to herself.“What did I see in Archibald Graves, this thoughtless boy, who can come and ask me such a question after the agony I have suffered? What did I see in this boy to make me think I loved him with all my heart?”Poor Hazel! It did not occur to her that a short two years since she was a light-hearted girl; and that since then she had grown into a deep, earnest woman, who had been baptised by sorrow, and who could only share the riches of her love with one who was all that was manly and true, and to whom she could look up with respect, even with reverence; whereas now, with his petulant boyish, injured air, Archibald Graves only filled her with something akin to disgust.“I say, you know, Hazel,” he went on, “don’t be so hard on a fellow. The governor was dead against my keeping it up, you know, and he wanted me to give him my word not to see you any more; but at last I thought I must see you again, so I found out all about what you were doing, and where you were, and followed you down here; and ’pon my soul, when I saw you leading that string of scrubs of school children to church, I did not know whether to laugh or cry.”“Then Mr Graves is not aware of your visit down here, Archibald?” said Hazel quietly.“By Jove, no! he would be in a wax if he knew.”“Then why did you come?”“Why did I come? Oh, I say Hazel,” he cried reproachfully, “I didn’t think you could be so hard upon me. You don’t know how I’ve been upset all about it. ’Pon my word, there were times when I felt almost ill.”“Has he altered?” Hazel’s heart cried out within her, “or have I become worldly and cold, and, as he says, hard?”“I say, you know, Hazel, you must give up all this wretched business. I shall tell the governor that I mean to keep to our old engagement, and he’ll come round some day; but you must give up the school teaching, as he’d never stand that, for he’s as proud as Lucifer. Come, I say, it’s all right again, isn’t it?”“What did I see in this boy?” thought Hazel, as the indignant blood flushed into her cheeks, and then flowed back painfully to her heart. “Was he always as weak and thoughtless as this?”“Oh, I say, mother, look here,” cried a shrill voice as they were passing an open cottage door; “that’s new teacher, and that’s her young man.”“There, you hear,” whispered Hazel’s companion, laughing; “it was vulgarly put, but very true.”“Archibald Graves,” said Hazel quietly, “have you not the common-sense to see that your visit here is putting me in a false position?”“I know you are in a false position here,” he retorted angrily. “Who’s that fellow, and why does he take off his hat to you, and glare at me?”“That is Mr Chute, the master of the boys’ school, and my fellow-teacher. This is my house, and I cannot ask you to come in. Do you wish me to think with a little less pain of our old acquaintanceship?”“Ourold love, you mean,” he cried.“Our old acquaintanceship, Archibald Graves,” she replied firmly. “Love is too holy a word to be spoken of in connection with our past.”“I—I don’t understand you,” he cried.“You will when you have grown older and more thoughtful,” she replied. “Now good-bye.”“Thoughtful? Older?” he blurted out. “I am old enough and thoughtful enough to know what I mean, and I won’t part like this.”“Your presence here is liable to be seriously misconstrued,” said Hazel; “do you wish to do me a serious injury in the eyes of those with whom it is of vital importance that I should stand well?”“Why, of course not. How can you ask me?”“Then say ‘good-bye’ at once, and leave this place.”“But I tell you I have come down on purpose to—”“All that is dead,” she said, in a tone that startled him.“Then you never loved me!” he cried angrily.“Heaven knows how well!” she said softly. “But you killed that love, Archibald Graves, and it can never be revived.”She had held out her hand in token of farewell, but he had not taken it; now she let it fall, and before he could frame a fresh appeal she had turned, entered the little house, and the door closed behind her.Archibald Graves remained standing gazing blankly at the closed door for a few moments, till he heard the click of a latch, and, turning sharply, he saw that the schoolmaster was leisurely walking his garden some fifty yards away. He was not watching the visitor—nothing of the kind; but the flowers in the little bed required looking to, and he remained there picking off withered leaves with his new gloves, and making himself very busy, in spite of a reminder from his mother that dinner was getting cold; and it was not until he had seen the stranger stride away that he entered his own place and sat thoughtfully down.“If she thinks I am going to be thrown over like this,” said Archibald Graves to himself, “she is mistaken. She shall give way, and she shall leave this wretched place, or I’ll know the reason why. I wonder who that round-faced fellow was, and where I can get something to eat? By Jove, though, how she has altered! she quite touches a fellow like. Here, boy, where’s the principal inn?”“Say?”“Where’s the principal inn?” cried the visitor again, as the boy addressed stared at him wonderingly, his London speech being somewhat incomprehensible to juveniles at Plumton All Saints.“Dunno.”“Where can I get something to eat, then?” said the visitor, feeling half amused, his difficulty with Hazel passing rapidly away.“Somut to ee-yut. Why don’t yer go ho-um?”“Hang the boy! Oh, here’s the round-faced chap. I beg your pardon, can you direct me to the best hotel?”“Straight past the church, sir, and round into the market-place.”“Thanks; I can get some lunch or dinner there, I suppose?”“Ye-es,” said Mr William Forth Burge. “I should think so.”“I came down from town by the mail last night, and walked over from Burtwick this morning. Strange in the place, you see.”“May I offer you a bit of dinner, sir? I know London well, though I’m a native here, and as a friend of our new schoolmistress—”“Oh, I should hardly like to intrude,” cried the young man apologetically.“Pray come,” said the ex-butcher eagerly, for he longed to get the young man under his roof. He did not know why: in fact he felt almost hurt at his coming there that morning; and again, he did not know why, but he knew one thing, and that was that he would have given ten pounds that moment to know why Archibald Graves had come down that day, and what he said to Miss Thorne, and—yes, he would have given twenty pounds to know what Hazel Thorne said to him.The result was, that he carried off the stranger to his handsome house, just outside the town, and soon after Archibald Graves was making himself quite at home, drinking the school-patron’s sherry, smoking his cigars, and getting moment by moment more fluent of tongue, and ready to lay bare the secrets of his heart, if secrets the facts could be called that he was prepared to make known to any one who would talk.“Has he gone, Bill?” said Miss Burge, entering the drawing-room about eight o’clock that evening, and finding her brother standing before a glass and sprinkling himself with scent.“Yes, he went a good hour ago.” And the speaker looked very solemn, and uttered a deep sigh.“I wouldn’t disturb you, dear, at church time, as you had company; but, Bill dear—oh, how nice you smell!” and she rested her hands on his shoulders and reached up to kiss him.“Do I, Betsey?”“Lovely, dear; but do tell me what he said about Miss Thorne.”Her brother’s forehead seemed to have gone suddenly into the corrugated iron business, as he turned his eyes upon his sister.“He said—he said—”“Yes, dear; please go on.”“He said he had been engaged to her for two or three years, and that as soon as his father left off cutting up rough—”“Cutting up rough, Bill? Did he say cutting up rough?”“Yes, Betsey. I never cut up rough in my business, never. I always made a point of having the best Sheffield knives and steels, and my steaks and chops and joints was always pictures.”“Yes, dear; but tell me: Miss Thorne is engaged to be married to this gentleman?”“I suppose so,” said Mr William Forth Burge drearily. “It was always so, Betsey. I could get on in trade, and I could save money, and I always dressed well, and I defy the world to say I wasn’t always clean shaved; but I never did see a young lady that I thought was nice, but somebody else had seen her before and thought the same.”“Oh, but we never know what might happen, Bill.”“What’s the good of being rich? What’s the good of having a fine house? What’s the good of everything, if everything’s always going to turn out disappointment? Betsey,” he continued fiercely, “that chap thinks of nothing but hisself. He’s one of your cigar-smoking, glass-o’-sherry chaps, and he ain’t got a good ’art. Why, if you’d got a young man, Betsey, and he come and sit down here and talked about you as that chap did about our young schoolmistress, I’d ha’ punched his head!”Miss Burge pressed her brother softly back into a chair, and patted his face, and smoothed his hair, and kissed him first on one cheek and then upon the other.“You’re tired, Bill dear,” she said, “and didn’t get your nap after dinner. Where’s your handkerchief? Here, let me do it dear;” and taking her brother’s flaming handkerchief from his pocket, she softly opened it over his head and face as if she were about to perform a conjuring trick and bring out bowls of gold fish or something of the kind from beneath, but she did not: she merely left it on his head and went away on tiptoe, saying to herself:“Poor Bill! he has got it again, and badly, too.”
Hazel was not destined to reach home without adventure, for before she had gone far she could see Mr Chute walking along very slowly, right at the bottom of the street, and evidently hoping that she would overtake him. But this was not the cause of the palpitation from which Hazel suffered, for, about halfway between the church and the schools, she saw Archibald Graves coming to meet her, walking very fast; and she had to prepare herself for the encounter that was now inevitable.
“At last!” he cried, eagerly, as he came up. “My dear Hazel, I thought I was never to see you.”
She took no notice of the proffered hand, but walked quietly on.
“Won’t you take my arm, Hazel?” he exclaimed. “Oh, don’t be so hard on a fellow. What have I done?”
Hazel turned her large earnest eyes upon him, and seemed to look him through and through, as, instead of answering his question, she put one to herself.
“What did I see in Archibald Graves, this thoughtless boy, who can come and ask me such a question after the agony I have suffered? What did I see in this boy to make me think I loved him with all my heart?”
Poor Hazel! It did not occur to her that a short two years since she was a light-hearted girl; and that since then she had grown into a deep, earnest woman, who had been baptised by sorrow, and who could only share the riches of her love with one who was all that was manly and true, and to whom she could look up with respect, even with reverence; whereas now, with his petulant boyish, injured air, Archibald Graves only filled her with something akin to disgust.
“I say, you know, Hazel,” he went on, “don’t be so hard on a fellow. The governor was dead against my keeping it up, you know, and he wanted me to give him my word not to see you any more; but at last I thought I must see you again, so I found out all about what you were doing, and where you were, and followed you down here; and ’pon my soul, when I saw you leading that string of scrubs of school children to church, I did not know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Then Mr Graves is not aware of your visit down here, Archibald?” said Hazel quietly.
“By Jove, no! he would be in a wax if he knew.”
“Then why did you come?”
“Why did I come? Oh, I say Hazel,” he cried reproachfully, “I didn’t think you could be so hard upon me. You don’t know how I’ve been upset all about it. ’Pon my word, there were times when I felt almost ill.”
“Has he altered?” Hazel’s heart cried out within her, “or have I become worldly and cold, and, as he says, hard?”
“I say, you know, Hazel, you must give up all this wretched business. I shall tell the governor that I mean to keep to our old engagement, and he’ll come round some day; but you must give up the school teaching, as he’d never stand that, for he’s as proud as Lucifer. Come, I say, it’s all right again, isn’t it?”
“What did I see in this boy?” thought Hazel, as the indignant blood flushed into her cheeks, and then flowed back painfully to her heart. “Was he always as weak and thoughtless as this?”
“Oh, I say, mother, look here,” cried a shrill voice as they were passing an open cottage door; “that’s new teacher, and that’s her young man.”
“There, you hear,” whispered Hazel’s companion, laughing; “it was vulgarly put, but very true.”
“Archibald Graves,” said Hazel quietly, “have you not the common-sense to see that your visit here is putting me in a false position?”
“I know you are in a false position here,” he retorted angrily. “Who’s that fellow, and why does he take off his hat to you, and glare at me?”
“That is Mr Chute, the master of the boys’ school, and my fellow-teacher. This is my house, and I cannot ask you to come in. Do you wish me to think with a little less pain of our old acquaintanceship?”
“Ourold love, you mean,” he cried.
“Our old acquaintanceship, Archibald Graves,” she replied firmly. “Love is too holy a word to be spoken of in connection with our past.”
“I—I don’t understand you,” he cried.
“You will when you have grown older and more thoughtful,” she replied. “Now good-bye.”
“Thoughtful? Older?” he blurted out. “I am old enough and thoughtful enough to know what I mean, and I won’t part like this.”
“Your presence here is liable to be seriously misconstrued,” said Hazel; “do you wish to do me a serious injury in the eyes of those with whom it is of vital importance that I should stand well?”
“Why, of course not. How can you ask me?”
“Then say ‘good-bye’ at once, and leave this place.”
“But I tell you I have come down on purpose to—”
“All that is dead,” she said, in a tone that startled him.
“Then you never loved me!” he cried angrily.
“Heaven knows how well!” she said softly. “But you killed that love, Archibald Graves, and it can never be revived.”
She had held out her hand in token of farewell, but he had not taken it; now she let it fall, and before he could frame a fresh appeal she had turned, entered the little house, and the door closed behind her.
Archibald Graves remained standing gazing blankly at the closed door for a few moments, till he heard the click of a latch, and, turning sharply, he saw that the schoolmaster was leisurely walking his garden some fifty yards away. He was not watching the visitor—nothing of the kind; but the flowers in the little bed required looking to, and he remained there picking off withered leaves with his new gloves, and making himself very busy, in spite of a reminder from his mother that dinner was getting cold; and it was not until he had seen the stranger stride away that he entered his own place and sat thoughtfully down.
“If she thinks I am going to be thrown over like this,” said Archibald Graves to himself, “she is mistaken. She shall give way, and she shall leave this wretched place, or I’ll know the reason why. I wonder who that round-faced fellow was, and where I can get something to eat? By Jove, though, how she has altered! she quite touches a fellow like. Here, boy, where’s the principal inn?”
“Say?”
“Where’s the principal inn?” cried the visitor again, as the boy addressed stared at him wonderingly, his London speech being somewhat incomprehensible to juveniles at Plumton All Saints.
“Dunno.”
“Where can I get something to eat, then?” said the visitor, feeling half amused, his difficulty with Hazel passing rapidly away.
“Somut to ee-yut. Why don’t yer go ho-um?”
“Hang the boy! Oh, here’s the round-faced chap. I beg your pardon, can you direct me to the best hotel?”
“Straight past the church, sir, and round into the market-place.”
“Thanks; I can get some lunch or dinner there, I suppose?”
“Ye-es,” said Mr William Forth Burge. “I should think so.”
“I came down from town by the mail last night, and walked over from Burtwick this morning. Strange in the place, you see.”
“May I offer you a bit of dinner, sir? I know London well, though I’m a native here, and as a friend of our new schoolmistress—”
“Oh, I should hardly like to intrude,” cried the young man apologetically.
“Pray come,” said the ex-butcher eagerly, for he longed to get the young man under his roof. He did not know why: in fact he felt almost hurt at his coming there that morning; and again, he did not know why, but he knew one thing, and that was that he would have given ten pounds that moment to know why Archibald Graves had come down that day, and what he said to Miss Thorne, and—yes, he would have given twenty pounds to know what Hazel Thorne said to him.
The result was, that he carried off the stranger to his handsome house, just outside the town, and soon after Archibald Graves was making himself quite at home, drinking the school-patron’s sherry, smoking his cigars, and getting moment by moment more fluent of tongue, and ready to lay bare the secrets of his heart, if secrets the facts could be called that he was prepared to make known to any one who would talk.
“Has he gone, Bill?” said Miss Burge, entering the drawing-room about eight o’clock that evening, and finding her brother standing before a glass and sprinkling himself with scent.
“Yes, he went a good hour ago.” And the speaker looked very solemn, and uttered a deep sigh.
“I wouldn’t disturb you, dear, at church time, as you had company; but, Bill dear—oh, how nice you smell!” and she rested her hands on his shoulders and reached up to kiss him.
“Do I, Betsey?”
“Lovely, dear; but do tell me what he said about Miss Thorne.”
Her brother’s forehead seemed to have gone suddenly into the corrugated iron business, as he turned his eyes upon his sister.
“He said—he said—”
“Yes, dear; please go on.”
“He said he had been engaged to her for two or three years, and that as soon as his father left off cutting up rough—”
“Cutting up rough, Bill? Did he say cutting up rough?”
“Yes, Betsey. I never cut up rough in my business, never. I always made a point of having the best Sheffield knives and steels, and my steaks and chops and joints was always pictures.”
“Yes, dear; but tell me: Miss Thorne is engaged to be married to this gentleman?”
“I suppose so,” said Mr William Forth Burge drearily. “It was always so, Betsey. I could get on in trade, and I could save money, and I always dressed well, and I defy the world to say I wasn’t always clean shaved; but I never did see a young lady that I thought was nice, but somebody else had seen her before and thought the same.”
“Oh, but we never know what might happen, Bill.”
“What’s the good of being rich? What’s the good of having a fine house? What’s the good of everything, if everything’s always going to turn out disappointment? Betsey,” he continued fiercely, “that chap thinks of nothing but hisself. He’s one of your cigar-smoking, glass-o’-sherry chaps, and he ain’t got a good ’art. Why, if you’d got a young man, Betsey, and he come and sit down here and talked about you as that chap did about our young schoolmistress, I’d ha’ punched his head!”
Miss Burge pressed her brother softly back into a chair, and patted his face, and smoothed his hair, and kissed him first on one cheek and then upon the other.
“You’re tired, Bill dear,” she said, “and didn’t get your nap after dinner. Where’s your handkerchief? Here, let me do it dear;” and taking her brother’s flaming handkerchief from his pocket, she softly opened it over his head and face as if she were about to perform a conjuring trick and bring out bowls of gold fish or something of the kind from beneath, but she did not: she merely left it on his head and went away on tiptoe, saying to herself:
“Poor Bill! he has got it again, and badly, too.”
Chapter Eight.Mr Chute’s Visit.It was a busy morning with Hazel Thorne as she took her place in the large schoolroom, feeling that her responsibilities had now commenced in earnest. For there were no ladies to take classes now, the assistance coming from a pupil-teacher and four or five girls as monitors, against one and all of whom Feelier Potts entertained a deadly hatred, for the simple reason that she had been passed over, and they had all been chosen in her stead.The discipline of the school had been fairly maintained, but Hazel was not long in finding out that there were plenty of young revolutionary spirits waiting their opportunity to test the strength of the new mistress, nor in seeing that Miss Feelier Potts would be one of the leaders in any small insurrectionary movement that might take place.There was plenty to do that first morning—to feel the way, as it were; to find out what had been going on; how it was done; what the girls knew, and the hundred other little difficulties that a strange mistress would have to deal with on taking possession of a new post.Monday morning too, and there were the school pence to be paid—hot, moist, sticky pennies, that had been carried generally in hot, moist, sticky hands. These had to be received and noted, and the excuses listened to as well.“Mother hadn’t got no change’s morning, teacher”—“Pay next week, teacher”—“Mother says, teacher, as there’s four on us, she oughtn’t to pay more’n thruppens”—“Mother ’ll call and pay when she comes by.” Then there was Sarah Ann Simms’ case. Sarah Ann had not brought her penny, and the book showed that she had not brought it the week before, nor the month before; in fact, it seemed as if Sarah Ann was in debt for her schooling from the time she had commenced.Upon Sarah Ann being questioned, she didn’t know nothink, only that mother—who appeared to be ready to set all school rules, regulations, and laws at defiance—said she shouldn’t pay.Hazel Thorne was pondering upon this crux, when there was a tap at the door, and Mr Samuel Chute entered, smiling to say “Good morning.”“I thought I’d just drop in, and see if there was anything I could do,” he said, upon shaking hands, after which he wiped the hand he had used upon his fair hair. “It’s very awkward coming first to a school,” he went on, “and if you’ll only send for me, or ask for anything, you shall have it directly. I hope you’ve got plenty of chalk.”Hazel believed there was plenty, and promised to send and ask for assistance if any was required, wishing heartily the while that her visitor would go; but although it was evident through the thin partition that the boys were enjoying themselves in their master’s absence, Mr Chute seemed in no hurry to depart.“You’ll have some trouble, I daresay,” he continued, rubbing his hands together, and looking contemplatively at Hazel. “Some of the girls are like their brothers in my school. The young Potts’ are a terrible nuisance.”“I daresay I shall be able to manage them by degrees,” replied Hazel—“Are you sure you have plenty of chalk?”“I think there is an abundance of school necessaries.”“Oh, no! Oh dear, no!” said Mr Chute, with a pitying smile. “You’ll find lots of things wanting. They’re very stingy over them; and if it wasn’t for old Burge, I don’t know what we should do. You are sure you have plenty of chalk?”“Please, teacher, there’s a whole boxful in the cupboard,” said Miss Potts.“Silence! How dare you speak when you are not asked?” said Mr Chute fiercely; and Miss Potts began to hurry away, terribly alarmed, back to her place, but watched her opportunity to turn and squint horribly at the visitor, to the great delight of the other girls—especially of Ann Straggalls the fat, who, poor girl, seemed to suffer from an infirmity; for no sooner did she see anything mirth-provoking than she exploded loudly, no matter where she was, into a boisterous laugh—a laugh that was a constant source of trouble to her; for which she had suffered endless punishments, besides having been ordered three times out of church by Miss Rebecca Lambent, who would rise spectrally above the red curtains of the organ-loft, and stand pointing at the door till the trembling girl had gone.Ann Straggalls horrified Hazel upon this occasion by giving vent to one of her explosions, and then turning purple as she tried to hide her face.“Ah, you’ll have to punish her,” said Mr Chute. “Oh, by-the-way, Miss Thorne—”“If he would only go!” thought Hazel, for the girls were getting very lively and boisterous, seeing their teacher’s attention taken off, and catching a little of the infection from beyond the partition shutters.“I say, you’ll have a deal of trouble over the school pence”—Mr Chute was a prophet in this case, though he did not know it—“they’ll try all sorts of plans to get out of paying—a few of them will; but don’t you be imposed upon by their excuses. It’s only a penny a week, you know. There’s the Simms’s never will pay, and they ought to be turned out of the schools, for it isn’t fair for some children to pay and some not, is it?”“Of course not,” replied Hazel. “Oh, why won’t he go? Surely he must see that my time is wanted.”Just then the noise in the boys’ school became furious, and Mr Chute made an effort to let his rebellious subjects know that, though invisible in body, he was present with them in spirit, by going on tiptoe across the school and rapping on one of the sliding shutters sharply with his knuckles.The effect was magical, and he came back triumphant.“That’s how I serve them,” he said, with a self-satisfied smirk. “They know I won’t stand any nonsense; and, I say, Miss Thorne, if you hear me using the cane, don’t you take any notice, you know. It’s good for them sometimes. You’ll have to use it yourself.”“I hope not,” said Hazel quietly; and she glanced towards the door.“Ah, but you will,” he said, laughing, and in profound ignorance of the fact that Feelier Potts was imitating his every action for the benefit of her class, even to going across and pretending to tap at the partition.“I believe in kindness and firmness combined, Mr Chute.”“So do I,” he said, as if lost in admiration. “That’s exactly what I said to Lambent; and I say, Miss Thorne, just a friendly word, you know. You back me up and I’ll back you up; don’t you stand any nonsense from Lambent and those two. They’re always meddling and interfering.”“Those two?” said Hazel, thinking of Ophelia Potts and Ann Straggalls.“Yes; Rebecca and Beatrice, Lambent’s sisters, you know. Rebel and Tricks we call them down here. They’re as smooth as can be to your face, and they go and make mischief to Lambent. You must have your eyes open, for they’re always telling tales. Beatrice is going to marry the young squire at Ardley, at least she wants to, and Rebecca wants old Burge, but he can’t see it.”“You really must excuse me now, Mr Chute,” said Hazel. “I have so much to do.”“Yes, so have I,” he said pleasantly; but he did not stir. “You are sure you have plenty of chalk?”“Oh yes, plenty.”“And slate-pencil? I believe the little wretches eat the slate-pencil, so much of it goes.”“I will send for some if I want it,” said Hazel; “I must go now to those classes.”“Yes, of course, but one minute. My mother wants to be introduced to your mother, as we are to be neighbours, you know, and if there’s anything household you want, mind you send for it.”“Yes, certainly, Mr Chute.”—Oh, I wish he would go!“May I bring my mother in to-night to see you?”“Not to-night, please, Mr Chute; we are hardly settled yet.”“No, of course not. Well, good-bye; Imustgo now.”He held out his hand.For some time past Miss Lambent and her sister had been waiting. They had entered the boys’ school to leave a message, and for a while their presence had acted as a brake upon the spirits of the young gentlemen; but waves of noise soon began to rise and fall, growing louder as the time went on.“Master’s in the girls’ school,” one of the boys had said. “Should he fetch him?”“No, boy; go on with your lessons,” said Miss Beatrice; and she exchanged glances with her sister. Then they settled themselves to wait, standing like a pair of martyrs to circumstances, listening to the increasing noise, and at last marching together out of the boys’ school and towards the girls’.“Henry had better send for Mr Chute, and give him a good talking to,” said Miss Lambent.“I formed my own impressions yesterday,” said Miss Beatrice. “These proceedings only endorse them. She will never do for Plumton.”“Never!” said Miss Rebecca; and after an inquiring look, given and taken, the sisters entered the girls’ school, to find Miss Feelier Potts standing up, gazing pensively at Ann Straggalls, as she held and pressed her hand in perfect imitation of the action of Mr Samuel Chute, who was taking a farewell of the new mistress as if he were going on a long voyage—never to return.
It was a busy morning with Hazel Thorne as she took her place in the large schoolroom, feeling that her responsibilities had now commenced in earnest. For there were no ladies to take classes now, the assistance coming from a pupil-teacher and four or five girls as monitors, against one and all of whom Feelier Potts entertained a deadly hatred, for the simple reason that she had been passed over, and they had all been chosen in her stead.
The discipline of the school had been fairly maintained, but Hazel was not long in finding out that there were plenty of young revolutionary spirits waiting their opportunity to test the strength of the new mistress, nor in seeing that Miss Feelier Potts would be one of the leaders in any small insurrectionary movement that might take place.
There was plenty to do that first morning—to feel the way, as it were; to find out what had been going on; how it was done; what the girls knew, and the hundred other little difficulties that a strange mistress would have to deal with on taking possession of a new post.
Monday morning too, and there were the school pence to be paid—hot, moist, sticky pennies, that had been carried generally in hot, moist, sticky hands. These had to be received and noted, and the excuses listened to as well.
“Mother hadn’t got no change’s morning, teacher”—“Pay next week, teacher”—“Mother says, teacher, as there’s four on us, she oughtn’t to pay more’n thruppens”—“Mother ’ll call and pay when she comes by.” Then there was Sarah Ann Simms’ case. Sarah Ann had not brought her penny, and the book showed that she had not brought it the week before, nor the month before; in fact, it seemed as if Sarah Ann was in debt for her schooling from the time she had commenced.
Upon Sarah Ann being questioned, she didn’t know nothink, only that mother—who appeared to be ready to set all school rules, regulations, and laws at defiance—said she shouldn’t pay.
Hazel Thorne was pondering upon this crux, when there was a tap at the door, and Mr Samuel Chute entered, smiling to say “Good morning.”
“I thought I’d just drop in, and see if there was anything I could do,” he said, upon shaking hands, after which he wiped the hand he had used upon his fair hair. “It’s very awkward coming first to a school,” he went on, “and if you’ll only send for me, or ask for anything, you shall have it directly. I hope you’ve got plenty of chalk.”
Hazel believed there was plenty, and promised to send and ask for assistance if any was required, wishing heartily the while that her visitor would go; but although it was evident through the thin partition that the boys were enjoying themselves in their master’s absence, Mr Chute seemed in no hurry to depart.
“You’ll have some trouble, I daresay,” he continued, rubbing his hands together, and looking contemplatively at Hazel. “Some of the girls are like their brothers in my school. The young Potts’ are a terrible nuisance.”
“I daresay I shall be able to manage them by degrees,” replied Hazel—
“Are you sure you have plenty of chalk?”
“I think there is an abundance of school necessaries.”
“Oh, no! Oh dear, no!” said Mr Chute, with a pitying smile. “You’ll find lots of things wanting. They’re very stingy over them; and if it wasn’t for old Burge, I don’t know what we should do. You are sure you have plenty of chalk?”
“Please, teacher, there’s a whole boxful in the cupboard,” said Miss Potts.
“Silence! How dare you speak when you are not asked?” said Mr Chute fiercely; and Miss Potts began to hurry away, terribly alarmed, back to her place, but watched her opportunity to turn and squint horribly at the visitor, to the great delight of the other girls—especially of Ann Straggalls the fat, who, poor girl, seemed to suffer from an infirmity; for no sooner did she see anything mirth-provoking than she exploded loudly, no matter where she was, into a boisterous laugh—a laugh that was a constant source of trouble to her; for which she had suffered endless punishments, besides having been ordered three times out of church by Miss Rebecca Lambent, who would rise spectrally above the red curtains of the organ-loft, and stand pointing at the door till the trembling girl had gone.
Ann Straggalls horrified Hazel upon this occasion by giving vent to one of her explosions, and then turning purple as she tried to hide her face.
“Ah, you’ll have to punish her,” said Mr Chute. “Oh, by-the-way, Miss Thorne—”
“If he would only go!” thought Hazel, for the girls were getting very lively and boisterous, seeing their teacher’s attention taken off, and catching a little of the infection from beyond the partition shutters.
“I say, you’ll have a deal of trouble over the school pence”—Mr Chute was a prophet in this case, though he did not know it—“they’ll try all sorts of plans to get out of paying—a few of them will; but don’t you be imposed upon by their excuses. It’s only a penny a week, you know. There’s the Simms’s never will pay, and they ought to be turned out of the schools, for it isn’t fair for some children to pay and some not, is it?”
“Of course not,” replied Hazel. “Oh, why won’t he go? Surely he must see that my time is wanted.”
Just then the noise in the boys’ school became furious, and Mr Chute made an effort to let his rebellious subjects know that, though invisible in body, he was present with them in spirit, by going on tiptoe across the school and rapping on one of the sliding shutters sharply with his knuckles.
The effect was magical, and he came back triumphant.
“That’s how I serve them,” he said, with a self-satisfied smirk. “They know I won’t stand any nonsense; and, I say, Miss Thorne, if you hear me using the cane, don’t you take any notice, you know. It’s good for them sometimes. You’ll have to use it yourself.”
“I hope not,” said Hazel quietly; and she glanced towards the door.
“Ah, but you will,” he said, laughing, and in profound ignorance of the fact that Feelier Potts was imitating his every action for the benefit of her class, even to going across and pretending to tap at the partition.
“I believe in kindness and firmness combined, Mr Chute.”
“So do I,” he said, as if lost in admiration. “That’s exactly what I said to Lambent; and I say, Miss Thorne, just a friendly word, you know. You back me up and I’ll back you up; don’t you stand any nonsense from Lambent and those two. They’re always meddling and interfering.”
“Those two?” said Hazel, thinking of Ophelia Potts and Ann Straggalls.
“Yes; Rebecca and Beatrice, Lambent’s sisters, you know. Rebel and Tricks we call them down here. They’re as smooth as can be to your face, and they go and make mischief to Lambent. You must have your eyes open, for they’re always telling tales. Beatrice is going to marry the young squire at Ardley, at least she wants to, and Rebecca wants old Burge, but he can’t see it.”
“You really must excuse me now, Mr Chute,” said Hazel. “I have so much to do.”
“Yes, so have I,” he said pleasantly; but he did not stir. “You are sure you have plenty of chalk?”
“Oh yes, plenty.”
“And slate-pencil? I believe the little wretches eat the slate-pencil, so much of it goes.”
“I will send for some if I want it,” said Hazel; “I must go now to those classes.”
“Yes, of course, but one minute. My mother wants to be introduced to your mother, as we are to be neighbours, you know, and if there’s anything household you want, mind you send for it.”
“Yes, certainly, Mr Chute.”—Oh, I wish he would go!
“May I bring my mother in to-night to see you?”
“Not to-night, please, Mr Chute; we are hardly settled yet.”
“No, of course not. Well, good-bye; Imustgo now.”
He held out his hand.
For some time past Miss Lambent and her sister had been waiting. They had entered the boys’ school to leave a message, and for a while their presence had acted as a brake upon the spirits of the young gentlemen; but waves of noise soon began to rise and fall, growing louder as the time went on.
“Master’s in the girls’ school,” one of the boys had said. “Should he fetch him?”
“No, boy; go on with your lessons,” said Miss Beatrice; and she exchanged glances with her sister. Then they settled themselves to wait, standing like a pair of martyrs to circumstances, listening to the increasing noise, and at last marching together out of the boys’ school and towards the girls’.
“Henry had better send for Mr Chute, and give him a good talking to,” said Miss Lambent.
“I formed my own impressions yesterday,” said Miss Beatrice. “These proceedings only endorse them. She will never do for Plumton.”
“Never!” said Miss Rebecca; and after an inquiring look, given and taken, the sisters entered the girls’ school, to find Miss Feelier Potts standing up, gazing pensively at Ann Straggalls, as she held and pressed her hand in perfect imitation of the action of Mr Samuel Chute, who was taking a farewell of the new mistress as if he were going on a long voyage—never to return.
Chapter Nine.Excitement at Plumton.“I don’t know what has come to Henry,” said Miss Lambent. “If I had been in his place I should have immediately called a meeting of the governors of the school, paid Miss Thorne, and let her seek for an engagement elsewhere.”“I quite agree with you, Rebecca,” replied Miss Beatrice. “Henry is behaving weakly and foolishly in all these matters. But we cannot be surprised. He is so profound a thinker and so deeply immersed in his studies that these little matters escape him.”“I think it unpardonable. Here is a strange girl—for she is a mere girl, and far too young, in my estimation—appointed to the school, and just because she has rather a genteel appearance, everybody is paying her deference. Henry is really absurd. He says that Miss Thorne is quite a lady, and that allowances should be made. No allowances are made for me.”“Don’t be angry, Rebecca.”“I am not angry, Beatrice. I never am angry: but in a case like this I feel bound to speak. There is that absurd Miss Burge ready to praise her to one’s very face, and Mr William Forth Burge actually told me yesterday, when I went up to him to talk about the preparations, that we ought to congratulate ourselves upon having found so excellent a mistress. I haven’t patience with him.”“Are the Canninges coming?” said Miss Beatrice, changing the conversation; and as she spoke, standing in the vicarage drawing-room, with her eyes half-closed, a faint flush came into her cheeks, and she looked for the moment a very handsome, graceful woman. A connoisseur would have said that she was too thin, but granted that it showed breeding and refinement while her dress was in perfect taste.“Yes; Mrs Canninge told me yesterday that she should certainly drive over, and that she would persuade George Canninge to come. He ought not to want any persuasion, Beatrice,” and Rebecca accompanied her words with a very meaning look.“Nonsense, dear! What attraction can a school-treat have to a gentleman like George Canninge?”“He might find pleasure in proceedings that are watched over by his friends. And now look here, Beatrice, I am never angry, I never quarrel, and I never say cruel things, but I must say that I do not think George Canninge is so attentive to you as he used to be.”“Hush, Rebecca,” cried Beatrice; “how can you speak like that? There is no engagement between us.”“But there ought to be,” said Miss Lambent tartly. “Marriage is a subject upon which I have never thought for myself.”“Rebecca!”“Well, not directly,” replied the lady. “I may perhaps have given such a matter a thought indirectly, but in your case I have thought about it a great deal.”“Pray say no more, Rebecca.”“I must say more, Beatrice, for in a case like this, your welfare is at stake, and for my part, I do not see how George Canninge could do better than by making you mistress of Ardley.”“My dear Rebecca!”“It would be rather stooping on our side, for the Canninges are little better than traders; but Mrs Canninge is very nice, and I said to her, yesterday—”“Surely, Rebecca, you did not allude to—to—”“George Canninge and yourself? Indeed, I did, my dear. Mrs Canninge and I thoroughly understand one another, and I feel sure that nothing would please her better than for George Canninge to propose to you.”Miss Beatrice sighed softly, and soon after the sisters went up to dress.For it was a festival day at Plumton All Saints, being that of the annual school feast.This school feast or treat was rather an ancient institution, and was coeval with the schools, but it had altered very much in its proportions since its earlier days, when the schoolmaster invested in a penny memorandum-book, and went round to all the principal inhabitants for subscriptions, which rarely exceeded a shilling, and had to be lectured by each donor upon the best way of teaching the children under his charge. Those treats first consisted of a ride in one of the farmers’ waggons as far as a field, where the children were regaled with very thin milk and water, and slices of large loaves spotted with currants, which slices were duly baptised in the milk and water, and called by the children—“cake.”Then there was a great advance to a real tea in a barn, and again a more generous affair through the generosity of one vicar, who had the children all up to the vicarage, and after they had done no little mischief to his flower-beds, sent them home loaded with fruity cakes, and toys.Then there was a decadence with a tendency towards thin milk and water and country buns, followed by a tremendous rise when Mr William Forth Burge came upon the scene; and the present was the second feast over which he had been presiding genius.In preparation for this festival, probably for reasons of his own, the patron had gone about smiling a great deal, and rubbing his hands. He had obtainedcarte blanchefrom the vicar to do as he pleased, and it had pleased him to say to Miss Burge:“Betsy, we’ll do the thing ’andsome this time, and no mistake. Money shan’t stand in the way, and I want Miss Thorne—and Mr Chute,” he added hastily, “to see that we know how to do things at Plumton.”The result was that for a whole week the children nearly ran mad, and attention to object, or any other lessons, was a thing impossible to secure; and once every day—sometimes twice—Mr Chute was obliged to go into the girls’ school and confide to Miss Thorne the fact that he should be heartily glad when it was all over.Hazel Thorne participated in his feelings, but she did not feel bound to go to the boys’ school to impart her troubles, having terrible work to keep her scholars to their tasks.For to a little place like Plumton the preparations were tremendously exciting, and between school hours, and afterwards, the entrance to Mr William Forth Burge’s garden was besieged with anxious sightseers, the wildest rumours getting abroad amongst the children, who were ready to believe a great deal more than they saw, though they had ocular demonstration that a large marquee was being erected, that ropes were stretched between the trees for flags, that four large swings had been made; and as for the contents of that marquee the most extravagant rumours were afloat.One thing was notable in spite of the inattention, and that was the fact that the schools were wonderfully well filled by children, who came in good time, and who duly paid their pence, many of the scholars having been absentees for months, some since the last school-treat, but who were coming “regular now, please, teacher.”The morning had arrived when, after receiving strict orders to be at the schools punctually at eleven, fully half the expected number were at the gates by nine, clamouring for admittance; and at last the noise grew so loud that Mrs Thorne cast an appealing look at her daughter, and sighed.“Ah, Hazel,” she murmured, “if you had only listened to poor Mr Geringer, we should have been spared this degradation.”“Oh, hush, dear,” whispered Hazel. “Pray say no more. Indeed I don’t mind, and the poor children seem so happy.”“But I mind it, Hazel,” sighed Mrs Thorne. “It is a degradation indeed. Of course you will not be expected to walk with the children as far as those people’s?”“Oh, yes,” said Hazel, trying to speak lightly. “They are all going in procession with flags and banners.”“Flagsandbanners, Hazel?” exclaimed Mrs Thorne, with a horrified look.“Yes, dear. Mr Burge wants to give the children a great treat, and there is to be a brass band that he has engaged on purpose. I have just had a note from Miss Burge. She says her brother wished to keep it a secret to the last.”“But not a regular brass band, Hazel?”“Yes, dear. It will be at the head of the procession, and the children are to be marched all round the town.”“But not a brass band with a big drum, my dear? Surely not. Don’t say with a big drum?”“Really, mother, dear, I don’t know,” replied Hazel, bending down and kissing her. “I suppose so.”“Thank Heaven, that my poor husband was spared all this!”“Oh, hush, dear,” whispered Hazel piteously.“But you will not stoop to walk round the town with them, Hazel? And surely you are never going to put that ridiculous bunch of cowslips in your dress?”“Mother, dear,” said Hazel quietly, “I am the mistress of the girls’ school, and it is my duty to walk with them. I am going to wear the bunch of spring flowers, for they were brought for me by the girls, who will all wear a bunch like it. Here is a bouquet, though, that Mr Burge has sent for the mistress out of his greenhouse. I suppose I must carry that in my hand.”“Oh, my poor girl! my poor girl!”“Now, mother, dear mother, do not be so foolish,” said Hazel. “Why should I be ashamed to walk with my girls? Are we not living an honourable and independent life, and is it not ten thousand times better than eating the bread of charity?”“Ah me! ah me!” sighed Mrs Thorne.“Now, dear, you will dress and come up to the treaty and I will see that you are comfortable.”“I come? No, no, no!”“Yes, dear, Mr Burge begs that you will. Come, girls.”This was called up the stairs to her little sisters, who came running down, dressed in white with blue sashes for the first time since their father’s death.“What does this mean?” exclaimed Mrs Thorne.“They are coming with me, dear, each carrying a great bouquet.”“Never! I forbid it!” cried the poor woman.“It was Mr Burge’s particular request,” said Hazel gently; “and, mother dear, you will nearly break their hearts if you forbid them now.”“There, there, there,” sobbed Mrs Thorne; “it’s time I died and was taken out of your way. I’m only a nuisance and a burden to you.”“Mother!”Only that one word, but the way in which it was uttered, and the graceful form that went down upon its knees before her to draw the head she kept rocking to and fro down upon her breast proved sufficient to calm the weak woman. Her sobs grew less frequent, and she at last began to wipe her eyes, after kissing Hazel again and again.“I suppose we must accept our fate, my dear,” she said at last. “I’m sure I do mine. And now mind this. Cissy—Mabel!”“Yes, mamma! Oh, sister Hazel, isn’t it time to go?”“I say you will mind this. Cissy—Mabel, you are to—But must they walk in procession with those terrible children, Hazel?”“Why not, dear? They will be with me, and what can be more innocent and pleasant than this treat to the poor girls? There, there, I know, for my sake, you will come up and lend your countenance to their sports.”“Well, well,” sighed Mrs Thorne. “I’ll try. But mind me, Hazel,” she exclaimed sharply, “I’m not coming up with that dreadful woman, Mrs Chute. I am coming by myself.”“Yes, dear, I would,” said Hazel.“And mind this. Cissy and Mabel, though you are going to walk behind the school children and carry flowers, you are not to forget that you are young ladies. Mind that.”“No, mamma!” in duet.“And—Oh dear me, Hazel, there is some one at the front door, and I’ve only got on my old cap. I really cannot be seen; I—Good graciousme, Hazel, don’t let any one in.”Too late. Hazel had already opened the door and admitted little Miss Burge, who came trotting in with her face all smiles.“I thought I should never get through the children,” she panted; “and ain’t it ’ot? How well you do look, my dear! Lavender muslin suits you exactly. And how are you, my bonny little ones?” she cried, kissing the two girls. “But there, I’ve no time to lose. The band will be here directly, and my brother is with the boys; and, Mrs Thorne, he sends his compliments to you.”Mrs Thorne had drawn herself up very stiffly in her chair, and was preserving a dignified silence, feeling offended at their visitor’s want of recognition; but Mr Burge’s compliments taught her that this patron of the school acknowledged her status in society, and she smiled and bowed.“And he said that he hoped you would excuse his not calling to invite you himself, but—now, bless my heart, what was the rest of it?”She looked in a perplexed way at Hazel, and then at the ceiling, as if expecting to read it there.“Oh, I know—but he had been so busy over the preparations, and he hoped you would come and look on; and the pony carriage will be here to fetch you at twelve.”“I’m sure—really—I am greatly obliged to Mr Burge—”“Mr William Forth Burge,” said Miss Burge correctively.“To Mr William Forth Burge for his kindness, and of course I shall be most happy.”Hazel’s eyes had filled with tears at the quiet unassuming kindness of these people, and she looked her gratitude at their visitor.“My brother’s in such spirits, my dear, and he’s next door; and he said at breakfast that he was proud to say he came to Plumton Schools himself when he was a boy, and nobody should say he was too proud to march round the town with them to-day.”“And—and is he going to walk in the procession. Miss Burge?” asked Mrs Thorne.“That he is, ma’am,” said the little lady. “So I said to him at breakfast, ‘well, Bill,’ I said—you see I always call him ‘Bill,’ Mrs Thorne, though he has grown to be such a rich and great man. It seems more natural so—‘well, Bill,’ I said, ‘if with all your money and position you’re not too proud to walk with the boys, I won’t be too proud to walk with the girls.’”“And—and are you going to walk with them, Miss Burge?” said Mrs Thorne, with trembling eagerness.“That I am, ma’am,” cried Miss Burge, rustling her voluminous blue silk dress, “and I’ve come down to ask Miss Thorne if she would allow me to walk with her, and—Oh, my gracious! How it did make me jump!”The cause of Miss Burge’s start was the preliminaryboom boom, boomof Mrs Thorne’s horror, the big drum, for the band had been marched up silently to the front of the schools, and the next moment the place was echoing with the brazen strains.
“I don’t know what has come to Henry,” said Miss Lambent. “If I had been in his place I should have immediately called a meeting of the governors of the school, paid Miss Thorne, and let her seek for an engagement elsewhere.”
“I quite agree with you, Rebecca,” replied Miss Beatrice. “Henry is behaving weakly and foolishly in all these matters. But we cannot be surprised. He is so profound a thinker and so deeply immersed in his studies that these little matters escape him.”
“I think it unpardonable. Here is a strange girl—for she is a mere girl, and far too young, in my estimation—appointed to the school, and just because she has rather a genteel appearance, everybody is paying her deference. Henry is really absurd. He says that Miss Thorne is quite a lady, and that allowances should be made. No allowances are made for me.”
“Don’t be angry, Rebecca.”
“I am not angry, Beatrice. I never am angry: but in a case like this I feel bound to speak. There is that absurd Miss Burge ready to praise her to one’s very face, and Mr William Forth Burge actually told me yesterday, when I went up to him to talk about the preparations, that we ought to congratulate ourselves upon having found so excellent a mistress. I haven’t patience with him.”
“Are the Canninges coming?” said Miss Beatrice, changing the conversation; and as she spoke, standing in the vicarage drawing-room, with her eyes half-closed, a faint flush came into her cheeks, and she looked for the moment a very handsome, graceful woman. A connoisseur would have said that she was too thin, but granted that it showed breeding and refinement while her dress was in perfect taste.
“Yes; Mrs Canninge told me yesterday that she should certainly drive over, and that she would persuade George Canninge to come. He ought not to want any persuasion, Beatrice,” and Rebecca accompanied her words with a very meaning look.
“Nonsense, dear! What attraction can a school-treat have to a gentleman like George Canninge?”
“He might find pleasure in proceedings that are watched over by his friends. And now look here, Beatrice, I am never angry, I never quarrel, and I never say cruel things, but I must say that I do not think George Canninge is so attentive to you as he used to be.”
“Hush, Rebecca,” cried Beatrice; “how can you speak like that? There is no engagement between us.”
“But there ought to be,” said Miss Lambent tartly. “Marriage is a subject upon which I have never thought for myself.”
“Rebecca!”
“Well, not directly,” replied the lady. “I may perhaps have given such a matter a thought indirectly, but in your case I have thought about it a great deal.”
“Pray say no more, Rebecca.”
“I must say more, Beatrice, for in a case like this, your welfare is at stake, and for my part, I do not see how George Canninge could do better than by making you mistress of Ardley.”
“My dear Rebecca!”
“It would be rather stooping on our side, for the Canninges are little better than traders; but Mrs Canninge is very nice, and I said to her, yesterday—”
“Surely, Rebecca, you did not allude to—to—”
“George Canninge and yourself? Indeed, I did, my dear. Mrs Canninge and I thoroughly understand one another, and I feel sure that nothing would please her better than for George Canninge to propose to you.”
Miss Beatrice sighed softly, and soon after the sisters went up to dress.
For it was a festival day at Plumton All Saints, being that of the annual school feast.
This school feast or treat was rather an ancient institution, and was coeval with the schools, but it had altered very much in its proportions since its earlier days, when the schoolmaster invested in a penny memorandum-book, and went round to all the principal inhabitants for subscriptions, which rarely exceeded a shilling, and had to be lectured by each donor upon the best way of teaching the children under his charge. Those treats first consisted of a ride in one of the farmers’ waggons as far as a field, where the children were regaled with very thin milk and water, and slices of large loaves spotted with currants, which slices were duly baptised in the milk and water, and called by the children—“cake.”
Then there was a great advance to a real tea in a barn, and again a more generous affair through the generosity of one vicar, who had the children all up to the vicarage, and after they had done no little mischief to his flower-beds, sent them home loaded with fruity cakes, and toys.
Then there was a decadence with a tendency towards thin milk and water and country buns, followed by a tremendous rise when Mr William Forth Burge came upon the scene; and the present was the second feast over which he had been presiding genius.
In preparation for this festival, probably for reasons of his own, the patron had gone about smiling a great deal, and rubbing his hands. He had obtainedcarte blanchefrom the vicar to do as he pleased, and it had pleased him to say to Miss Burge:
“Betsy, we’ll do the thing ’andsome this time, and no mistake. Money shan’t stand in the way, and I want Miss Thorne—and Mr Chute,” he added hastily, “to see that we know how to do things at Plumton.”
The result was that for a whole week the children nearly ran mad, and attention to object, or any other lessons, was a thing impossible to secure; and once every day—sometimes twice—Mr Chute was obliged to go into the girls’ school and confide to Miss Thorne the fact that he should be heartily glad when it was all over.
Hazel Thorne participated in his feelings, but she did not feel bound to go to the boys’ school to impart her troubles, having terrible work to keep her scholars to their tasks.
For to a little place like Plumton the preparations were tremendously exciting, and between school hours, and afterwards, the entrance to Mr William Forth Burge’s garden was besieged with anxious sightseers, the wildest rumours getting abroad amongst the children, who were ready to believe a great deal more than they saw, though they had ocular demonstration that a large marquee was being erected, that ropes were stretched between the trees for flags, that four large swings had been made; and as for the contents of that marquee the most extravagant rumours were afloat.
One thing was notable in spite of the inattention, and that was the fact that the schools were wonderfully well filled by children, who came in good time, and who duly paid their pence, many of the scholars having been absentees for months, some since the last school-treat, but who were coming “regular now, please, teacher.”
The morning had arrived when, after receiving strict orders to be at the schools punctually at eleven, fully half the expected number were at the gates by nine, clamouring for admittance; and at last the noise grew so loud that Mrs Thorne cast an appealing look at her daughter, and sighed.
“Ah, Hazel,” she murmured, “if you had only listened to poor Mr Geringer, we should have been spared this degradation.”
“Oh, hush, dear,” whispered Hazel. “Pray say no more. Indeed I don’t mind, and the poor children seem so happy.”
“But I mind it, Hazel,” sighed Mrs Thorne. “It is a degradation indeed. Of course you will not be expected to walk with the children as far as those people’s?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hazel, trying to speak lightly. “They are all going in procession with flags and banners.”
“Flagsandbanners, Hazel?” exclaimed Mrs Thorne, with a horrified look.
“Yes, dear. Mr Burge wants to give the children a great treat, and there is to be a brass band that he has engaged on purpose. I have just had a note from Miss Burge. She says her brother wished to keep it a secret to the last.”
“But not a regular brass band, Hazel?”
“Yes, dear. It will be at the head of the procession, and the children are to be marched all round the town.”
“But not a brass band with a big drum, my dear? Surely not. Don’t say with a big drum?”
“Really, mother, dear, I don’t know,” replied Hazel, bending down and kissing her. “I suppose so.”
“Thank Heaven, that my poor husband was spared all this!”
“Oh, hush, dear,” whispered Hazel piteously.
“But you will not stoop to walk round the town with them, Hazel? And surely you are never going to put that ridiculous bunch of cowslips in your dress?”
“Mother, dear,” said Hazel quietly, “I am the mistress of the girls’ school, and it is my duty to walk with them. I am going to wear the bunch of spring flowers, for they were brought for me by the girls, who will all wear a bunch like it. Here is a bouquet, though, that Mr Burge has sent for the mistress out of his greenhouse. I suppose I must carry that in my hand.”
“Oh, my poor girl! my poor girl!”
“Now, mother, dear mother, do not be so foolish,” said Hazel. “Why should I be ashamed to walk with my girls? Are we not living an honourable and independent life, and is it not ten thousand times better than eating the bread of charity?”
“Ah me! ah me!” sighed Mrs Thorne.
“Now, dear, you will dress and come up to the treaty and I will see that you are comfortable.”
“I come? No, no, no!”
“Yes, dear, Mr Burge begs that you will. Come, girls.”
This was called up the stairs to her little sisters, who came running down, dressed in white with blue sashes for the first time since their father’s death.
“What does this mean?” exclaimed Mrs Thorne.
“They are coming with me, dear, each carrying a great bouquet.”
“Never! I forbid it!” cried the poor woman.
“It was Mr Burge’s particular request,” said Hazel gently; “and, mother dear, you will nearly break their hearts if you forbid them now.”
“There, there, there,” sobbed Mrs Thorne; “it’s time I died and was taken out of your way. I’m only a nuisance and a burden to you.”
“Mother!”
Only that one word, but the way in which it was uttered, and the graceful form that went down upon its knees before her to draw the head she kept rocking to and fro down upon her breast proved sufficient to calm the weak woman. Her sobs grew less frequent, and she at last began to wipe her eyes, after kissing Hazel again and again.
“I suppose we must accept our fate, my dear,” she said at last. “I’m sure I do mine. And now mind this. Cissy—Mabel!”
“Yes, mamma! Oh, sister Hazel, isn’t it time to go?”
“I say you will mind this. Cissy—Mabel, you are to—But must they walk in procession with those terrible children, Hazel?”
“Why not, dear? They will be with me, and what can be more innocent and pleasant than this treat to the poor girls? There, there, I know, for my sake, you will come up and lend your countenance to their sports.”
“Well, well,” sighed Mrs Thorne. “I’ll try. But mind me, Hazel,” she exclaimed sharply, “I’m not coming up with that dreadful woman, Mrs Chute. I am coming by myself.”
“Yes, dear, I would,” said Hazel.
“And mind this. Cissy and Mabel, though you are going to walk behind the school children and carry flowers, you are not to forget that you are young ladies. Mind that.”
“No, mamma!” in duet.
“And—Oh dear me, Hazel, there is some one at the front door, and I’ve only got on my old cap. I really cannot be seen; I—Good graciousme, Hazel, don’t let any one in.”
Too late. Hazel had already opened the door and admitted little Miss Burge, who came trotting in with her face all smiles.
“I thought I should never get through the children,” she panted; “and ain’t it ’ot? How well you do look, my dear! Lavender muslin suits you exactly. And how are you, my bonny little ones?” she cried, kissing the two girls. “But there, I’ve no time to lose. The band will be here directly, and my brother is with the boys; and, Mrs Thorne, he sends his compliments to you.”
Mrs Thorne had drawn herself up very stiffly in her chair, and was preserving a dignified silence, feeling offended at their visitor’s want of recognition; but Mr Burge’s compliments taught her that this patron of the school acknowledged her status in society, and she smiled and bowed.
“And he said that he hoped you would excuse his not calling to invite you himself, but—now, bless my heart, what was the rest of it?”
She looked in a perplexed way at Hazel, and then at the ceiling, as if expecting to read it there.
“Oh, I know—but he had been so busy over the preparations, and he hoped you would come and look on; and the pony carriage will be here to fetch you at twelve.”
“I’m sure—really—I am greatly obliged to Mr Burge—”
“Mr William Forth Burge,” said Miss Burge correctively.
“To Mr William Forth Burge for his kindness, and of course I shall be most happy.”
Hazel’s eyes had filled with tears at the quiet unassuming kindness of these people, and she looked her gratitude at their visitor.
“My brother’s in such spirits, my dear, and he’s next door; and he said at breakfast that he was proud to say he came to Plumton Schools himself when he was a boy, and nobody should say he was too proud to march round the town with them to-day.”
“And—and is he going to walk in the procession. Miss Burge?” asked Mrs Thorne.
“That he is, ma’am,” said the little lady. “So I said to him at breakfast, ‘well, Bill,’ I said—you see I always call him ‘Bill,’ Mrs Thorne, though he has grown to be such a rich and great man. It seems more natural so—‘well, Bill,’ I said, ‘if with all your money and position you’re not too proud to walk with the boys, I won’t be too proud to walk with the girls.’”
“And—and are you going to walk with them, Miss Burge?” said Mrs Thorne, with trembling eagerness.
“That I am, ma’am,” cried Miss Burge, rustling her voluminous blue silk dress, “and I’ve come down to ask Miss Thorne if she would allow me to walk with her, and—Oh, my gracious! How it did make me jump!”
The cause of Miss Burge’s start was the preliminaryboom boom, boomof Mrs Thorne’s horror, the big drum, for the band had been marched up silently to the front of the schools, and the next moment the place was echoing with the brazen strains.
Chapter Ten.Mr Canninge Assists.Mr William Forth Burge was gorgeous in the newest of frock-coats and the whitest of waistcoats, as he stood outside the schools watching the marshalling of the little forces, and then, glossy hat in one hand, orange handkerchief in the other, he gave the signal to start; and, with the excellent brass band playing its loudest, and the children for the most part bearing flowers or flags, the long procession started, to march up the High Street, round the market-place, past the church, and in and out of Bush Lane and Padley’s Road, the boys cheering, the girls firing off a shrill “hurrah” now and then; and whenever the band ceased, either the boys or the girls were started in some simple school chorus, such as poor George W. Martin or Hullah wrote, to be sung ere long through the length and breadth of the land.It was a simple affair, but well worth seeing, if only to watch the faces of the mothers and fathers of the children, ready at their doors to smile at “our Mary,” or “little Jack,” or “the bairns.”Mr William Forth Burge was perspiring everywhere—now in the front to stimulate the band, now standing still on a doorstep, hat in one hand, orange handkerchief in the other, till the whole procession, boys and girls, had passed, with a word for every one in turn, and looking thoroughly happy in the simplicity of his heart.Mr Chute, on the contrary, was very dignified and stern, but ready to raise his best hat to Hazel whenever he had a chance.At last the vicarage was reached, a halt called, and the children gave a hearty cheer, which brought out the vicar, now ready to join Mr William Forth Burge and walk with the schools, the town being passed.There needed no fugleman to bring forth cheers from the children as they reached the gates of the garden, for here was a wonderful archway of evergreens and flowers, the work of the two gardeners, and beneath this they had hardly filed before numbers of the townspeople began to arrive. Then there was a carriage or two, and, assisted by the vicar’s sisters, little Miss Burge had quite a reception on the green terrace in front of the drawing-room, the wives and daughters of the neighbouring clergy, who all wished they had a William Forth Burge in their own parishes, arriving to do honour to the event.The grounds were very pretty, and only separated by a light wire fence from a large paddock, which, having been fed off by sheep, was as smooth as a lawn; and here, for the hour before dinner, the children were marched, and sang at intervals, the band taking its turn, playing popular airs.Miss Lambent and Miss Beatrice had noticed the new schoolmistress with a couple of chilly bows, and then devoted themselves to the assistance of “dear Miss Burge;” while the giver of the feast was busy in conference with Mr Chute about certain sports that were afterwards to take place.“I don’t see the Canninges carriage yet Beatrice,” said Miss Lambent, in a whisper to her sister, as the ladies were strolling about the grounds and admiring the flower-beds, the conservatory, and grape-houses in turn.“Do you think they will come?” whispered Beatrice, who looked rather flushed; but certainly the day was hot.“She said they would. Dear me, how strange of Henry!”The vicar had gone into the paddock, and, after raising his hat politely, was standing talking to Hazel at intervals between saying a few words to the boys and girls—words, by the way, which they did not wish to hear, for every eye was turned as if by a magnet towards the great tent, and the man and maidservants and assistants constantly going to and fro.“Here they are at last,” exclaimed Miss Lambent. “I told you so. Now, Beatrice, what do you say?”“Nothing,” replied her sister quietly.“Then I say something. George Canninge wouldn’t have come here to a children’s school feast unless he had expected to meet some one particular.”The object of their conversation had just helped a tall, handsome lady, with perfectly white hair, to descend from a phaeton drawn by a splendid pair of bays. He was a broad-shouldered, sparely-made man of about thirty, with dark, closely-cut whiskers—beards were an abomination then—and keen grey eyes, which took in the whole scene at a glance, and, what was more, to find satisfaction as he took off and replaced his grey felt hat, and then, from habit, took out a white handkerchief and dusted his glossy boots.“How absurd, mother! Thought I’d been walking,” he said. “Bravo, Burge! He’s doing it well. Hang it mother! I like that fellow.”“It’s a pity, dear, that he is so vulgar.”“Oh, I don’t know. He’s frank and honesty and don’t pretend to be anything more that what he is—a successful tradesman. Never saw a man less of a snob. Oh, there are the Lambents. I say, who’s the lady talking to the parson?”“I don’t know, my dear,” said Mrs Canninge, “unless it is the new schoolmistress.”“Nonsense: can’t be. Oh, here’s Burge! How are you, Burge? Glad you’ve got such a fine day for your treat.”“So am I, Mr Canninge, so am I. Thank you for coming, sir. Thank you for coming too, ma’am. My sister is up by the house, and there’s lunch in the dining-room, and you’ll excuse me, won’t you! I have such heaps to do.”“Excuse you, of course. And I say, Burge, your going to give the youngsters some fun, I hope?”“Fun, sir? I mean to let them have a jolly good lark.”“Don’t let Lambent get them together and preach at the poor little beggars.”Mr William Forth Burge’s face expanded, and he showed all his white teeth.“That’s what I like sir. That’s the genuine old English squire said that.”“Nonsense, Burge.”“Oh, but it is, Mr Canninge. I know what’s what as well as most men; and, look here, sir, I mean them to thoroughly enjoy themselves to-day.”“That’s right, and I’ll help you.”“You will, sir?” cried the giver of the feast.“To be sure I will; get up some races and that sort of thing.”“I’ve got it all down on a piece of paper here, sir; only you wait. Now, I must go.”“He is really very vulgar, George,” said the lady; “but there is a bluffness about him that I do like after all. But hadn’t we better go and speak to Miss Burge?”“Come along then. Oh, there are the Lambents with her now.”The Canninges went up to little Miss Burge, the lady saluting her graciously, and the young squire very heartily; and then salutations were being exchanged with the Misses Lambent, Beatrice looking bright and handsome as George Canninge shook hands in a frank gentlemanly way, as a deafening clamour arose behind them, and, turning, there was the host wielding a great dinner-bell with all his might.As he ceased, the children cheered, the band struck up, and the little processions were marched past the company on the terrace, the boys to one end of the marquee, the girls to the other, Hazel now at the head of her troop, looking bright and animated, excited slightly by the scene, and being admired more than she knew by those whom she passed.As she came abreast of the group, she involuntarily raised her eyes, and they encountered a grave, earnest gaze from one whom she had never before seen; and in that brief moment she was aware that she was the object of a very scrutinising examination.The next minute she had passed between the folds of the tent door, and was busy getting her girls seated at the long table on one side, the boys occupying a second long table on the other side, both being covered with well-cooked hot joints, steaming potatoes, and, dear to all children’s hearts, plenty of pies and puddings.“Well, ladies,” said Mr Canninge, “shall we adjourn to the tent?”“Did you think of going in?” said Beatrice.“To be sure,” he said gaily. “I am going to help.”“Going to help!” said Miss Lambent.“To be sure: I promised Mr Burge. Let me take you in. Miss Lambent.”Rebecca took a long breath and the squire’s arm. She liked it, but she knew that Beatrice would be out of temper for hours after.There was no cause for temper, though—for the squire, as he was always called in the neighbourhood, had no sooner led the elder Miss Lambent within the canvas walls, then he coolly forsook her, and went and placed himself behind a great sirloin of beef at one end of the girls’ table, facing Mr William Forth Burge, who had the twin joint before him, over which his round red face was smiling pleasantly. The vicar had gone to one end of the boys’ table, the master being at the other, while several of the principal tradesmen took their places in front of other joints.“Now, boys and girls,” cried the host, “are you all ready?”The chorus of “yes!” was startling.“Then silence for grace,” roared the host; and then, rapidly, “What we’re going to receive make us truly thankful. Amen. Lots of plates here!”Before he finished, his great carving-knife was playing a tune in that skilful way peculiar to butchers, upon a silver-mounted steel, while the vicar looked aghast and George Canninge stooped down to hide a smile.It was quite an insult when the vicar was present but in the innocency of his heart, Mr William Forth Burge was hoping the joints were done, and eager to begin.“Now, gentlemen, carve away, please,” he shouted. “Other ladies and gentlemen and servants, please pass the plates and ’taters. I want the youngsters to have a good dinner to-day. Now, Thomas,” he cried to his coachman, who had just set down a pile of plates, “you lay hold of that—that spoon, and do nothing but ladle out gravy to every plate.”As he spoke, he was slicing off in the most skilful way prime sirloin of beef, and, smiling with delight, he said that it was done to a turn, as he called it.“I chose every joint myself,” he said to one. “Pass the plates quick. See that they have plenty of ’taters, ladies. Eat away, girls.”The visitors, after a few moments’ awkward hesitation, turned themselves into waiters, and the carvers had a tremendous time, for quite two hundred hearty girls and boys were eating with all the enjoyment of their young healthy appetites.“More! That’s right!” cried the young squire. “I beg your pardon, Miss—I really don’t know your name; I’m afraid I’ve splashed your dress.”“Pray don’t mention it,” said Hazel quietly, for she had been busily handing plates, looking brighter and happier than she had appeared for months.“I’m quite envious of our host,” said Canninge the next time Hazel brought a plate. “He carves beautifully, and I’ve hacked my joint to pieces.”“Send your knife up here, Mr Canninge,” roared Mr W.F.B. from the other end of the table. “I’ll give it a touch on my steel.”“Will you allow me?” said Hazel, who was the only waiter near.“No, really, I could not think of—Well, if you will—”“There.”He had paused to wipe the rather greasy handle upon his white handkerchief, and then, in passing the knife, their hands just touched—a mere touch, and Hazel had gone.The meat had disappeared, the puddings and pies had followed, and, turned waiter now, the young squire had merrily passed along the plates, till the time for rising had nearly arrived, when accident once more placed him beside Hazel.“Your girls have thoroughly enjoyed themselves, Miss Thorne,” he said, for he had learned her name now from one of the elder children—Feelier Potts, to wit.“Oh, most thoroughly,” said Hazel, smiling brightly and with genuine pleasure. “It is delightful to see them so happy.”“Do you see that Beatrice?” whispered Miss Lambent from the other end of the tent.“Yes.”“Grace next I suppose? Oh, there is my mother beckoning to me, Miss Thorne,” said the squire hastily, “it is a pity to have so pleasant an affair spoiled. Would you mind hinting to Mr Burge that he should ask the vicar to say grace!”“Oh, yes, I will,” said Hazel, nodding to him.“As if he were her equal,” said Miss Lambent indignantly; while, hurrying to the end of the table. Hazel was just in time to whisper to the host.“Why, of course,” he said. “What a stupid! Thank you. Miss Thorne. Mr Lambent!” he cried aloud, “would you be kind enough to say grace?”Out in the field then, with the sun shining, the band playing, and plenty of enjoyment for the schools, which were separated by a rope stretched from one end to the other. Races were run for prizes of all kinds, and, full of animation, while the vicar stood with his hands behind him patronisingly looking on, the young squire was the life and soul of the affair, and ready with a dozen fresh ideas to suggest to the host. There were prizes for the fastest runners, prizes for the slowest, for the first in and the last in, for jumps and hops, and the best singers, and the worst singers, scramblings, blindfold-walking, sports galore.Hazel forgot her troubles, and with Miss Burge’s help she was always the centre, of some new sport or game; Cissy and Mabel being like a pair of attendant fairies, ready to be seized upon by Mr Canninge as the bearers of the prizes that were to be won.“I never saw George so full of spirits before,” said Mrs Canninge to Rebecca Lambent as they sat in a garden-chair looking on.“I should say he will have a bad headache afterwards,” replied that lady.“Oh, no, he is fond of athletics and that sort of thing. Charming young person, your new schoolmistress, Beatrice dear,” she continued. “Very ladylike and well-spoken.”“Yes, a very well educated person,” said Beatrice coldly.“The squire’s a brick, that’s what he is, Betsey,” said the host, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, about five o’clock. “I tell you what, I’m about tired out. Now, look here, you go in and get yourself a cup of tea, or you’ll be done up, and if you’re as wise as I take you to be, you’ll put just a pinch of ody-wee in the cup. It’ll be all over at six, and then well have a comfortable dinner.”“But what are you going to do, Bill!”“To do? I’m going to fetch that girl in to have a cup of tea with you. Bless her, she’s worked like a slave. No, I won’t it’s all right, I’ll take in her mother. Poor old lady, no one seemed to speak to her. Look at that now. That’s what I call a genuine English gentleman, Betsey. Here, hi! Mr Chute, that’ll do; now come up to the house, let them play by themselves. I say, Betsey, this has been a day!”A day to be remembered, for Mr Chute was tightening his fists and scowling at one of the young Potts, wishing the while that he had a cane. Not that young Potts had been behaving so very badly, but his schoolmaster was annoyed, and some people when hurt look round at once for some one as a spleen-vent. He was suffering from the same pain that had sent a sting through Beatrice Lambent, and made her sister frown.For just as Mr William Forth Burge had told his sister his determination, George Canninge, the principal landholder and personage of those parts, the newly-elected magistrate on the county bench, had gone up to Hazel Thorne, raised his hat and said quietly:“Miss Thorne, you look tired out. Will you allow me to take you into the house and get you some tea?”“And she forgot herself,” cried Beatrice Lambent passionately, as she paced her room that night Hazel Thorne’s self-forgetfulness consisted in acting, like any unconscious girl would under the circumstances. She gave the speaker a grateful look full of innocency, and, taking his proffered arm, walked with him into Miss Burge’s drawing-room, where she was received with smiles.
Mr William Forth Burge was gorgeous in the newest of frock-coats and the whitest of waistcoats, as he stood outside the schools watching the marshalling of the little forces, and then, glossy hat in one hand, orange handkerchief in the other, he gave the signal to start; and, with the excellent brass band playing its loudest, and the children for the most part bearing flowers or flags, the long procession started, to march up the High Street, round the market-place, past the church, and in and out of Bush Lane and Padley’s Road, the boys cheering, the girls firing off a shrill “hurrah” now and then; and whenever the band ceased, either the boys or the girls were started in some simple school chorus, such as poor George W. Martin or Hullah wrote, to be sung ere long through the length and breadth of the land.
It was a simple affair, but well worth seeing, if only to watch the faces of the mothers and fathers of the children, ready at their doors to smile at “our Mary,” or “little Jack,” or “the bairns.”
Mr William Forth Burge was perspiring everywhere—now in the front to stimulate the band, now standing still on a doorstep, hat in one hand, orange handkerchief in the other, till the whole procession, boys and girls, had passed, with a word for every one in turn, and looking thoroughly happy in the simplicity of his heart.
Mr Chute, on the contrary, was very dignified and stern, but ready to raise his best hat to Hazel whenever he had a chance.
At last the vicarage was reached, a halt called, and the children gave a hearty cheer, which brought out the vicar, now ready to join Mr William Forth Burge and walk with the schools, the town being passed.
There needed no fugleman to bring forth cheers from the children as they reached the gates of the garden, for here was a wonderful archway of evergreens and flowers, the work of the two gardeners, and beneath this they had hardly filed before numbers of the townspeople began to arrive. Then there was a carriage or two, and, assisted by the vicar’s sisters, little Miss Burge had quite a reception on the green terrace in front of the drawing-room, the wives and daughters of the neighbouring clergy, who all wished they had a William Forth Burge in their own parishes, arriving to do honour to the event.
The grounds were very pretty, and only separated by a light wire fence from a large paddock, which, having been fed off by sheep, was as smooth as a lawn; and here, for the hour before dinner, the children were marched, and sang at intervals, the band taking its turn, playing popular airs.
Miss Lambent and Miss Beatrice had noticed the new schoolmistress with a couple of chilly bows, and then devoted themselves to the assistance of “dear Miss Burge;” while the giver of the feast was busy in conference with Mr Chute about certain sports that were afterwards to take place.
“I don’t see the Canninges carriage yet Beatrice,” said Miss Lambent, in a whisper to her sister, as the ladies were strolling about the grounds and admiring the flower-beds, the conservatory, and grape-houses in turn.
“Do you think they will come?” whispered Beatrice, who looked rather flushed; but certainly the day was hot.
“She said they would. Dear me, how strange of Henry!”
The vicar had gone into the paddock, and, after raising his hat politely, was standing talking to Hazel at intervals between saying a few words to the boys and girls—words, by the way, which they did not wish to hear, for every eye was turned as if by a magnet towards the great tent, and the man and maidservants and assistants constantly going to and fro.
“Here they are at last,” exclaimed Miss Lambent. “I told you so. Now, Beatrice, what do you say?”
“Nothing,” replied her sister quietly.
“Then I say something. George Canninge wouldn’t have come here to a children’s school feast unless he had expected to meet some one particular.”
The object of their conversation had just helped a tall, handsome lady, with perfectly white hair, to descend from a phaeton drawn by a splendid pair of bays. He was a broad-shouldered, sparely-made man of about thirty, with dark, closely-cut whiskers—beards were an abomination then—and keen grey eyes, which took in the whole scene at a glance, and, what was more, to find satisfaction as he took off and replaced his grey felt hat, and then, from habit, took out a white handkerchief and dusted his glossy boots.
“How absurd, mother! Thought I’d been walking,” he said. “Bravo, Burge! He’s doing it well. Hang it mother! I like that fellow.”
“It’s a pity, dear, that he is so vulgar.”
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s frank and honesty and don’t pretend to be anything more that what he is—a successful tradesman. Never saw a man less of a snob. Oh, there are the Lambents. I say, who’s the lady talking to the parson?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” said Mrs Canninge, “unless it is the new schoolmistress.”
“Nonsense: can’t be. Oh, here’s Burge! How are you, Burge? Glad you’ve got such a fine day for your treat.”
“So am I, Mr Canninge, so am I. Thank you for coming, sir. Thank you for coming too, ma’am. My sister is up by the house, and there’s lunch in the dining-room, and you’ll excuse me, won’t you! I have such heaps to do.”
“Excuse you, of course. And I say, Burge, your going to give the youngsters some fun, I hope?”
“Fun, sir? I mean to let them have a jolly good lark.”
“Don’t let Lambent get them together and preach at the poor little beggars.”
Mr William Forth Burge’s face expanded, and he showed all his white teeth.
“That’s what I like sir. That’s the genuine old English squire said that.”
“Nonsense, Burge.”
“Oh, but it is, Mr Canninge. I know what’s what as well as most men; and, look here, sir, I mean them to thoroughly enjoy themselves to-day.”
“That’s right, and I’ll help you.”
“You will, sir?” cried the giver of the feast.
“To be sure I will; get up some races and that sort of thing.”
“I’ve got it all down on a piece of paper here, sir; only you wait. Now, I must go.”
“He is really very vulgar, George,” said the lady; “but there is a bluffness about him that I do like after all. But hadn’t we better go and speak to Miss Burge?”
“Come along then. Oh, there are the Lambents with her now.”
The Canninges went up to little Miss Burge, the lady saluting her graciously, and the young squire very heartily; and then salutations were being exchanged with the Misses Lambent, Beatrice looking bright and handsome as George Canninge shook hands in a frank gentlemanly way, as a deafening clamour arose behind them, and, turning, there was the host wielding a great dinner-bell with all his might.
As he ceased, the children cheered, the band struck up, and the little processions were marched past the company on the terrace, the boys to one end of the marquee, the girls to the other, Hazel now at the head of her troop, looking bright and animated, excited slightly by the scene, and being admired more than she knew by those whom she passed.
As she came abreast of the group, she involuntarily raised her eyes, and they encountered a grave, earnest gaze from one whom she had never before seen; and in that brief moment she was aware that she was the object of a very scrutinising examination.
The next minute she had passed between the folds of the tent door, and was busy getting her girls seated at the long table on one side, the boys occupying a second long table on the other side, both being covered with well-cooked hot joints, steaming potatoes, and, dear to all children’s hearts, plenty of pies and puddings.
“Well, ladies,” said Mr Canninge, “shall we adjourn to the tent?”
“Did you think of going in?” said Beatrice.
“To be sure,” he said gaily. “I am going to help.”
“Going to help!” said Miss Lambent.
“To be sure: I promised Mr Burge. Let me take you in. Miss Lambent.”
Rebecca took a long breath and the squire’s arm. She liked it, but she knew that Beatrice would be out of temper for hours after.
There was no cause for temper, though—for the squire, as he was always called in the neighbourhood, had no sooner led the elder Miss Lambent within the canvas walls, then he coolly forsook her, and went and placed himself behind a great sirloin of beef at one end of the girls’ table, facing Mr William Forth Burge, who had the twin joint before him, over which his round red face was smiling pleasantly. The vicar had gone to one end of the boys’ table, the master being at the other, while several of the principal tradesmen took their places in front of other joints.
“Now, boys and girls,” cried the host, “are you all ready?”
The chorus of “yes!” was startling.
“Then silence for grace,” roared the host; and then, rapidly, “What we’re going to receive make us truly thankful. Amen. Lots of plates here!”
Before he finished, his great carving-knife was playing a tune in that skilful way peculiar to butchers, upon a silver-mounted steel, while the vicar looked aghast and George Canninge stooped down to hide a smile.
It was quite an insult when the vicar was present but in the innocency of his heart, Mr William Forth Burge was hoping the joints were done, and eager to begin.
“Now, gentlemen, carve away, please,” he shouted. “Other ladies and gentlemen and servants, please pass the plates and ’taters. I want the youngsters to have a good dinner to-day. Now, Thomas,” he cried to his coachman, who had just set down a pile of plates, “you lay hold of that—that spoon, and do nothing but ladle out gravy to every plate.”
As he spoke, he was slicing off in the most skilful way prime sirloin of beef, and, smiling with delight, he said that it was done to a turn, as he called it.
“I chose every joint myself,” he said to one. “Pass the plates quick. See that they have plenty of ’taters, ladies. Eat away, girls.”
The visitors, after a few moments’ awkward hesitation, turned themselves into waiters, and the carvers had a tremendous time, for quite two hundred hearty girls and boys were eating with all the enjoyment of their young healthy appetites.
“More! That’s right!” cried the young squire. “I beg your pardon, Miss—I really don’t know your name; I’m afraid I’ve splashed your dress.”
“Pray don’t mention it,” said Hazel quietly, for she had been busily handing plates, looking brighter and happier than she had appeared for months.
“I’m quite envious of our host,” said Canninge the next time Hazel brought a plate. “He carves beautifully, and I’ve hacked my joint to pieces.”
“Send your knife up here, Mr Canninge,” roared Mr W.F.B. from the other end of the table. “I’ll give it a touch on my steel.”
“Will you allow me?” said Hazel, who was the only waiter near.
“No, really, I could not think of—Well, if you will—”
“There.”
He had paused to wipe the rather greasy handle upon his white handkerchief, and then, in passing the knife, their hands just touched—a mere touch, and Hazel had gone.
The meat had disappeared, the puddings and pies had followed, and, turned waiter now, the young squire had merrily passed along the plates, till the time for rising had nearly arrived, when accident once more placed him beside Hazel.
“Your girls have thoroughly enjoyed themselves, Miss Thorne,” he said, for he had learned her name now from one of the elder children—Feelier Potts, to wit.
“Oh, most thoroughly,” said Hazel, smiling brightly and with genuine pleasure. “It is delightful to see them so happy.”
“Do you see that Beatrice?” whispered Miss Lambent from the other end of the tent.
“Yes.”
“Grace next I suppose? Oh, there is my mother beckoning to me, Miss Thorne,” said the squire hastily, “it is a pity to have so pleasant an affair spoiled. Would you mind hinting to Mr Burge that he should ask the vicar to say grace!”
“Oh, yes, I will,” said Hazel, nodding to him.
“As if he were her equal,” said Miss Lambent indignantly; while, hurrying to the end of the table. Hazel was just in time to whisper to the host.
“Why, of course,” he said. “What a stupid! Thank you. Miss Thorne. Mr Lambent!” he cried aloud, “would you be kind enough to say grace?”
Out in the field then, with the sun shining, the band playing, and plenty of enjoyment for the schools, which were separated by a rope stretched from one end to the other. Races were run for prizes of all kinds, and, full of animation, while the vicar stood with his hands behind him patronisingly looking on, the young squire was the life and soul of the affair, and ready with a dozen fresh ideas to suggest to the host. There were prizes for the fastest runners, prizes for the slowest, for the first in and the last in, for jumps and hops, and the best singers, and the worst singers, scramblings, blindfold-walking, sports galore.
Hazel forgot her troubles, and with Miss Burge’s help she was always the centre, of some new sport or game; Cissy and Mabel being like a pair of attendant fairies, ready to be seized upon by Mr Canninge as the bearers of the prizes that were to be won.
“I never saw George so full of spirits before,” said Mrs Canninge to Rebecca Lambent as they sat in a garden-chair looking on.
“I should say he will have a bad headache afterwards,” replied that lady.
“Oh, no, he is fond of athletics and that sort of thing. Charming young person, your new schoolmistress, Beatrice dear,” she continued. “Very ladylike and well-spoken.”
“Yes, a very well educated person,” said Beatrice coldly.
“The squire’s a brick, that’s what he is, Betsey,” said the host, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, about five o’clock. “I tell you what, I’m about tired out. Now, look here, you go in and get yourself a cup of tea, or you’ll be done up, and if you’re as wise as I take you to be, you’ll put just a pinch of ody-wee in the cup. It’ll be all over at six, and then well have a comfortable dinner.”
“But what are you going to do, Bill!”
“To do? I’m going to fetch that girl in to have a cup of tea with you. Bless her, she’s worked like a slave. No, I won’t it’s all right, I’ll take in her mother. Poor old lady, no one seemed to speak to her. Look at that now. That’s what I call a genuine English gentleman, Betsey. Here, hi! Mr Chute, that’ll do; now come up to the house, let them play by themselves. I say, Betsey, this has been a day!”
A day to be remembered, for Mr Chute was tightening his fists and scowling at one of the young Potts, wishing the while that he had a cane. Not that young Potts had been behaving so very badly, but his schoolmaster was annoyed, and some people when hurt look round at once for some one as a spleen-vent. He was suffering from the same pain that had sent a sting through Beatrice Lambent, and made her sister frown.
For just as Mr William Forth Burge had told his sister his determination, George Canninge, the principal landholder and personage of those parts, the newly-elected magistrate on the county bench, had gone up to Hazel Thorne, raised his hat and said quietly:
“Miss Thorne, you look tired out. Will you allow me to take you into the house and get you some tea?”
“And she forgot herself,” cried Beatrice Lambent passionately, as she paced her room that night Hazel Thorne’s self-forgetfulness consisted in acting, like any unconscious girl would under the circumstances. She gave the speaker a grateful look full of innocency, and, taking his proffered arm, walked with him into Miss Burge’s drawing-room, where she was received with smiles.