Chapter Thirty Four.Mother and Son.“I thought you would have come in, George,” said Mrs Canninge, entering her son’s library, where he was seated, looking very moody and thoughtful.“Come in? Come in where?”“To the drawing-room, dear. Beatrice Lambent called. I thought you would have known.”“I saw some one come by,” he said quietly. “I did not know it was she.”“She is in great trouble, poor girl!” continued Mrs Canninge; “or, I should say, they are all in great trouble at the Vicarage.”“Indeed! I’m very sorry. What is wrong!”“Nothing serious, my dear; only you know what good people they are, and when they make aprotégéeof anybody, and that body doesn’t turn out well, of course they feel it deeply.”“Of course,” said George Canninge absently; and his mother bit her lip, for she had not excited his curiosity in the least and she had wanted him to ask questions.“It seems very sad, poor girl!” she said after a pause.“My dear mother,” said the young squire rather impatiently, “Is it not rather foolish of you to speak of Beatrice Lambent as ‘poor girl’? She must be past thirty.”“I was not speaking of Beatrice Lambent, my dear,” said Mrs Canninge; “though, really, George, I do not think you ought to jump at conclusions like that about dear Beatrice’s age, which is, as she informed me herself, twenty-five. I was speaking of theirprotégéeat the Vicarage.”“I beg your pardon,” said George Canninge. “I did not know, though, that they had aprotégée.”“Well, perhaps I am not quite correct, my dear boy, in calling her theirprotégée; but they certainly have taken great interest in her, and it seems very sad for her to have turned out so badly. They took such pains about getting the right sort of person, too.”“Whom do you mean?” said the young man carelessly; “their new cook? Why, the parson was bragging about her tremendously the other day when he dined here—a woman who could make soup fit for a prince out of next to nothing.”“My dear boy, how you do run away, and how cynically and bitterly you speak!” exclaimed Mrs Canninge, laying her hands upon her son’s shoulders. “I was not speaking of Mr Lambent’s cook; I meant the new schoolmistress.”There was a pause.“I felt his heart give a great throb,” said Mrs Canninge to herself. “Calm as he is striving to be, I can understand him, and read him as easily as can be.”“Indeed!” said George Canninge at last, as soon as he could master his emotion. “I was not aware the Vicarage people thought so much of Miss—of the new schoolmistress.”“Well, you see, dear, she is only a schoolmistress, but they have been very kind and considerate to her. They found her to be a young person of prepossessing manners, and, like all country people, they took it for granted that she would be worthy of trust; and, therefore this discovery must have been a great shock to them.”It needed all George Canninge’s self-command to keep him calmly seated there while his mother, from what she considered to be a sense of duty, went on poisoning his wound. But he mastered himself, and bore it all like a stoic, denying himself the luxury of asking questions, though the suspense was maddening, and he burned to hear what his mother had to say.“I declare, George,” she said at last; “it is quite disheartening. You seem to have given up taking an interest in anything. I thought you would have liked to hear the Vicarage troubles.”“My dear mother, why should I worry myself about the ‘Vicarage troubles’?” said the young squire calmly. “I have enough of my own.”“But you are the principal landholder here, my dear, and you must learn to take an interest in parish matters for many reasons. Now, this Miss Thorne has been trusted to a great extent by Mr Lambent and it seems shocking to find one so young behaving in an unprincipled manner.”George Canninge rose.There is an end to most things; certainly there is to the forbearance of a man, and Mrs Canninge’s son could bear no more.“Unprincipled is a very hard term to apply to a young lady, mother,” he said, with the blood flushing into his cheeks.“It is, my dear boy, I grant it; and very sad it is to find one who seemed to be well educated and to possess so much superficial refinement, ready to yield to temptation.”The ruddy tint faded out of George Canninge’s cheeks, leaving him very pale; but he remained perfectly silent, while his mother went on—“It is the old story, I suppose: that terrible love of finery that we find in most young girls. I must say I have noticed myself that Miss Thorne dressed decidedly above her station.”George Canninge did not speak. His eyelids drooped over his eyes, and he stood listening, with every nerve upon the stretch; and very slowly and deliberately Mrs Canninge went on—“I am sure I am very sorry, my dear, for it seems so sad; though, really, I do not see that I need trouble myself about it. The foolish girl, I suppose, wanted money for dress, and having these school funds in her hand—children’s pence and some club money—she made use of them. So foolish, too, my dear, because she must have known that sooner or later, she would be found out.”“Who has told you this, mother!” said George Canninge sternly.“I heard it from Beatrice Lambent, my dear, just now. She is in terrible trouble about it.”“Miss Lambent has been misinformed,” said George Canninge calmly; but it cost him a tremendous effort to speak as he did.“Oh, dear me, no, my dear George!” exclaimed Mrs Canninge eagerly. “She was present when Mr Piper went to the school to receive the money, and she confessed to having spent it; and it seems that these people are terribly in debt as well.”“There is some mistake, mother,” said George Canninge again, in the same calm, judicial voice; “it cannot be true.”“But it is true, my dear boy,” persisted Mrs Canninge, who, woman of the world as she was, had not the prudence upon this occasion to leave her words to rankle in her son’s breast, but tried to drive them home with others in her eagerness to excite disgust with an object upon which George Canninge seemed to have set his mind.“I say, mother, that it cannot be true,” he said, speaking very sternly now; and he crossed the room.“You are not going out dear?” said Mrs Canninge. “I want to talk to you a little more.”“You have talked to me enough for one day, mother,” said the young man firmly; “and I must go.”“But where, dear? You are not going to the Vicarage to ask if what I have told you is true? I had it from dear Beatrice’s own lips, and she is terribly cut up about it.”“I am not going to the Vicarage, mother,” said the young man firmly. “I am going down to the school to ask Miss Thorne.”“George, my dear son!”Her answer was the loudly closing door, and directly after she heard steps upon the gravel-drive.She ran to the window, and could see that her son was walking rapidly across the park; for George Canninge was so deeply considering the words he had heard that he would not wait for his horse.“It is monstrous!” cried Mrs Canninge, stamping angrily. “It shall never be! It would be a disgrace!”The next minute she had thrown herself angrily into her son’s chair, and sat there with clenched hands and lowering brow. A minute later, and she was acting as most women do when they cannot make matters go as they wish. Mrs Canninge took out her pocket-handkerchief, and shed some bitter, mortified tears.
“I thought you would have come in, George,” said Mrs Canninge, entering her son’s library, where he was seated, looking very moody and thoughtful.
“Come in? Come in where?”
“To the drawing-room, dear. Beatrice Lambent called. I thought you would have known.”
“I saw some one come by,” he said quietly. “I did not know it was she.”
“She is in great trouble, poor girl!” continued Mrs Canninge; “or, I should say, they are all in great trouble at the Vicarage.”
“Indeed! I’m very sorry. What is wrong!”
“Nothing serious, my dear; only you know what good people they are, and when they make aprotégéeof anybody, and that body doesn’t turn out well, of course they feel it deeply.”
“Of course,” said George Canninge absently; and his mother bit her lip, for she had not excited his curiosity in the least and she had wanted him to ask questions.
“It seems very sad, poor girl!” she said after a pause.
“My dear mother,” said the young squire rather impatiently, “Is it not rather foolish of you to speak of Beatrice Lambent as ‘poor girl’? She must be past thirty.”
“I was not speaking of Beatrice Lambent, my dear,” said Mrs Canninge; “though, really, George, I do not think you ought to jump at conclusions like that about dear Beatrice’s age, which is, as she informed me herself, twenty-five. I was speaking of theirprotégéeat the Vicarage.”
“I beg your pardon,” said George Canninge. “I did not know, though, that they had aprotégée.”
“Well, perhaps I am not quite correct, my dear boy, in calling her theirprotégée; but they certainly have taken great interest in her, and it seems very sad for her to have turned out so badly. They took such pains about getting the right sort of person, too.”
“Whom do you mean?” said the young man carelessly; “their new cook? Why, the parson was bragging about her tremendously the other day when he dined here—a woman who could make soup fit for a prince out of next to nothing.”
“My dear boy, how you do run away, and how cynically and bitterly you speak!” exclaimed Mrs Canninge, laying her hands upon her son’s shoulders. “I was not speaking of Mr Lambent’s cook; I meant the new schoolmistress.”
There was a pause.
“I felt his heart give a great throb,” said Mrs Canninge to herself. “Calm as he is striving to be, I can understand him, and read him as easily as can be.”
“Indeed!” said George Canninge at last, as soon as he could master his emotion. “I was not aware the Vicarage people thought so much of Miss—of the new schoolmistress.”
“Well, you see, dear, she is only a schoolmistress, but they have been very kind and considerate to her. They found her to be a young person of prepossessing manners, and, like all country people, they took it for granted that she would be worthy of trust; and, therefore this discovery must have been a great shock to them.”
It needed all George Canninge’s self-command to keep him calmly seated there while his mother, from what she considered to be a sense of duty, went on poisoning his wound. But he mastered himself, and bore it all like a stoic, denying himself the luxury of asking questions, though the suspense was maddening, and he burned to hear what his mother had to say.
“I declare, George,” she said at last; “it is quite disheartening. You seem to have given up taking an interest in anything. I thought you would have liked to hear the Vicarage troubles.”
“My dear mother, why should I worry myself about the ‘Vicarage troubles’?” said the young squire calmly. “I have enough of my own.”
“But you are the principal landholder here, my dear, and you must learn to take an interest in parish matters for many reasons. Now, this Miss Thorne has been trusted to a great extent by Mr Lambent and it seems shocking to find one so young behaving in an unprincipled manner.”
George Canninge rose.
There is an end to most things; certainly there is to the forbearance of a man, and Mrs Canninge’s son could bear no more.
“Unprincipled is a very hard term to apply to a young lady, mother,” he said, with the blood flushing into his cheeks.
“It is, my dear boy, I grant it; and very sad it is to find one who seemed to be well educated and to possess so much superficial refinement, ready to yield to temptation.”
The ruddy tint faded out of George Canninge’s cheeks, leaving him very pale; but he remained perfectly silent, while his mother went on—
“It is the old story, I suppose: that terrible love of finery that we find in most young girls. I must say I have noticed myself that Miss Thorne dressed decidedly above her station.”
George Canninge did not speak. His eyelids drooped over his eyes, and he stood listening, with every nerve upon the stretch; and very slowly and deliberately Mrs Canninge went on—
“I am sure I am very sorry, my dear, for it seems so sad; though, really, I do not see that I need trouble myself about it. The foolish girl, I suppose, wanted money for dress, and having these school funds in her hand—children’s pence and some club money—she made use of them. So foolish, too, my dear, because she must have known that sooner or later, she would be found out.”
“Who has told you this, mother!” said George Canninge sternly.
“I heard it from Beatrice Lambent, my dear, just now. She is in terrible trouble about it.”
“Miss Lambent has been misinformed,” said George Canninge calmly; but it cost him a tremendous effort to speak as he did.
“Oh, dear me, no, my dear George!” exclaimed Mrs Canninge eagerly. “She was present when Mr Piper went to the school to receive the money, and she confessed to having spent it; and it seems that these people are terribly in debt as well.”
“There is some mistake, mother,” said George Canninge again, in the same calm, judicial voice; “it cannot be true.”
“But it is true, my dear boy,” persisted Mrs Canninge, who, woman of the world as she was, had not the prudence upon this occasion to leave her words to rankle in her son’s breast, but tried to drive them home with others in her eagerness to excite disgust with an object upon which George Canninge seemed to have set his mind.
“I say, mother, that it cannot be true,” he said, speaking very sternly now; and he crossed the room.
“You are not going out dear?” said Mrs Canninge. “I want to talk to you a little more.”
“You have talked to me enough for one day, mother,” said the young man firmly; “and I must go.”
“But where, dear? You are not going to the Vicarage to ask if what I have told you is true? I had it from dear Beatrice’s own lips, and she is terribly cut up about it.”
“I am not going to the Vicarage, mother,” said the young man firmly. “I am going down to the school to ask Miss Thorne.”
“George, my dear son!”
Her answer was the loudly closing door, and directly after she heard steps upon the gravel-drive.
She ran to the window, and could see that her son was walking rapidly across the park; for George Canninge was so deeply considering the words he had heard that he would not wait for his horse.
“It is monstrous!” cried Mrs Canninge, stamping angrily. “It shall never be! It would be a disgrace!”
The next minute she had thrown herself angrily into her son’s chair, and sat there with clenched hands and lowering brow. A minute later, and she was acting as most women do when they cannot make matters go as they wish. Mrs Canninge took out her pocket-handkerchief, and shed some bitter, mortified tears.
Chapter Thirty Five.Sister and Brother—Vulgar.“Oh, Bill!”Then an interval of panting and wiping her perspiring face and then again—“Oh, Bill!”Then a burst of piteous sobbing, for poor little Miss Burge was crying as if her heart would break.“Let it go, Betsey. Don’t try to stop it, dear. Let it go,” said Mr William Forth Burge in the most sympathising of tones; and his sister did let it go, crying vehemently for a time, while he waited patiently to know what was the matter.“That’s better, my dear,” he said, kissing her. “Now then, tell us what’s the matter.”“Oh, Bill! I’ve been down the town, and I almost ran back to tell you the news.”“And you haven’t told it to me yet,” he said, smiling affectionately at the troubled little woman, under the impression that he was doing the right thing to comfort her.“Don’t laugh, Bill dear; for you’ll be so upset when you know.”“Shall I, Betsey?” he said seriously. “Then I won’t laugh.”“You see, I went down to Piper’s to order some fresh things for the storeroom, as I’d been through this morning, when Mr Piper himself came to wait upon me, and he told me he’d been down to the schools for the children’s pence for the year, and that Mr Chute had paid, and that Miss Thorne didn’t, but owned that she had spent all the money.”“What! the school pence?”“Yes, dear; and after a time he said that the Thornes were a good deal in debt with him besides.”“More shame for him. I never went shouting it out to other folks if any one was in my debt. But, Betsey, did he say Miss Thorne had—had spent the money!”“Yes, dear; and it was so shocking.”Mr William Forth Burge stood rubbing and smoothing his fat round face over with his hand for a few moments, his sister watching him eagerly the while, like one who looks for help from the superior wisdom of another.“I don’t believe it,” said the great man at last.“You don’t believe it, Bill?”“Not a bit of it.”“Oh, I am glad!” cried Miss Burge, clapping her hands. “It would have been shocking if it had been true.”“Did you go down and see Miss Thorne?”“No, dear; I came to tell you directly.”“You ought to have gone down and asked her about it, Betsey,” said her brother stiffly.“Ought I, Bill dear? Oh, I am so sorry! I’ll go down at once.”“No, you won’t: I’ll go myself. Perhaps, poor girl! she has spent the money because it was wanted about her brother, and she’s been afraid to speak about it, when of course, if she’d just said a word to you, Betsey, you’d have let her have fifty or a hundred pound in a minute.”“No, indeed, Bill dear, for I haven’t got it,” said Miss Burge innocently.“Yes, you have, dear,” he said, screwing up his face, and opening and shutting one eye a great deal. “Of course she wouldn’t take it from me, but she would from you, you know. Don’t you see?”“Oh, Bill dear, what a one you are!” cried little Miss Burge. “I’ll go down to her at once.”“No,” he said; “I must go. It’s too late now; but another time you just mind, for you’ve got plenty of money for that I say, Betsey: I’ve got it, my dear—it’s her mother!”“What’s her mother, Bill dear?”“Spent the money, and she’s took the blame,” he cried triumphantly.“Oh! I am glad, Bill. But oh, how clever you are, dear! How did you find it out?”“It’s just knowing a thing or two; that’s all, Betsey. I’ve had jobs like this in connection with business before now. But I must be off.”“But won’t you take me with you, Bill?”He hesitated for a moment or two, and then said—“Well, you may as well come, Betsey; but mind what you’re about, and don’t get making an offer, for fear of giving offence.”“Would it give offence, Bill?”“Yes, if you didn’t mind your p’s and q’s. You hold your tongue, and leave everything to me; but if I give you a hint, you’re to take Miss Thorne aside and make her an offer.”“It’s my belief that Bill will be making her an offer one of these days,” thought little Miss Burge; “but she don’t seem to be quite the sort of wife for him, if he is going to bring one home.”Mr William Forth Burge was not long in changing his coat and he met his sister in the hall, twirling his orange silk handkerchief round and round his already too glossy hat; after which they walked down arm-in-arm to the school, to find the head pupil-teacher in charge, and the girls unusually quiet, a fact due to the vicar being in the class-room, in company with George Canninge, both having arrived together, and then shaken hands warmly, and entered to have a look round the school.Mr William Forth Burge and his sister both shook hands with the other visitors, and were then informed that Miss Thorne was suffering from a terribly bad headache. She had been very unwell, the pupil-teacher said, all the morning, and had been obliged to go and lie down.Hereupon the visitors all began to fence, the object of their call being scrupulously kept in the background, and they one and all took a great deal of interest in the girls, and ended by going away all together, expressing their sorrow that poor Miss Thorne was so unwell.The vicar and George Canninge walked up the town street together, after shaking hands with Mr and Miss Burge, and discussed politics till they parted; while Mr William Forth Burge, slowly followed with his sister, also talking politics but of a smaller kind, for they were the politics of the Plumton people, and the great man began to lay down the law according to his own ideas.“They were both down there about that school money, Betsey, as sure as a gun. But just you look here: people think I’m soft because I come out with my money for charities and that sort of thing; but they never made a bigger mistake in their lives, if they think they can do just what they like with me; so there now.”“That they never did, Bill,” assented his sister.“I look upon them schools as good as mine, and if there’s to be a row about this money, I mean to have a word in it, for I’m not a-going to have that poor young lady sat upon by no one. I’ve hit the nail on the head as sure as a gun, and if it isn’t the old lady that’s got her into a scrape, you may call me a fool.”“Which I never would, Bill,” said little Miss Burge emphatically; and together they toddled back home.
“Oh, Bill!”
Then an interval of panting and wiping her perspiring face and then again—
“Oh, Bill!”
Then a burst of piteous sobbing, for poor little Miss Burge was crying as if her heart would break.
“Let it go, Betsey. Don’t try to stop it, dear. Let it go,” said Mr William Forth Burge in the most sympathising of tones; and his sister did let it go, crying vehemently for a time, while he waited patiently to know what was the matter.
“That’s better, my dear,” he said, kissing her. “Now then, tell us what’s the matter.”
“Oh, Bill! I’ve been down the town, and I almost ran back to tell you the news.”
“And you haven’t told it to me yet,” he said, smiling affectionately at the troubled little woman, under the impression that he was doing the right thing to comfort her.
“Don’t laugh, Bill dear; for you’ll be so upset when you know.”
“Shall I, Betsey?” he said seriously. “Then I won’t laugh.”
“You see, I went down to Piper’s to order some fresh things for the storeroom, as I’d been through this morning, when Mr Piper himself came to wait upon me, and he told me he’d been down to the schools for the children’s pence for the year, and that Mr Chute had paid, and that Miss Thorne didn’t, but owned that she had spent all the money.”
“What! the school pence?”
“Yes, dear; and after a time he said that the Thornes were a good deal in debt with him besides.”
“More shame for him. I never went shouting it out to other folks if any one was in my debt. But, Betsey, did he say Miss Thorne had—had spent the money!”
“Yes, dear; and it was so shocking.”
Mr William Forth Burge stood rubbing and smoothing his fat round face over with his hand for a few moments, his sister watching him eagerly the while, like one who looks for help from the superior wisdom of another.
“I don’t believe it,” said the great man at last.
“You don’t believe it, Bill?”
“Not a bit of it.”
“Oh, I am glad!” cried Miss Burge, clapping her hands. “It would have been shocking if it had been true.”
“Did you go down and see Miss Thorne?”
“No, dear; I came to tell you directly.”
“You ought to have gone down and asked her about it, Betsey,” said her brother stiffly.
“Ought I, Bill dear? Oh, I am so sorry! I’ll go down at once.”
“No, you won’t: I’ll go myself. Perhaps, poor girl! she has spent the money because it was wanted about her brother, and she’s been afraid to speak about it, when of course, if she’d just said a word to you, Betsey, you’d have let her have fifty or a hundred pound in a minute.”
“No, indeed, Bill dear, for I haven’t got it,” said Miss Burge innocently.
“Yes, you have, dear,” he said, screwing up his face, and opening and shutting one eye a great deal. “Of course she wouldn’t take it from me, but she would from you, you know. Don’t you see?”
“Oh, Bill dear, what a one you are!” cried little Miss Burge. “I’ll go down to her at once.”
“No,” he said; “I must go. It’s too late now; but another time you just mind, for you’ve got plenty of money for that I say, Betsey: I’ve got it, my dear—it’s her mother!”
“What’s her mother, Bill dear?”
“Spent the money, and she’s took the blame,” he cried triumphantly.
“Oh! I am glad, Bill. But oh, how clever you are, dear! How did you find it out?”
“It’s just knowing a thing or two; that’s all, Betsey. I’ve had jobs like this in connection with business before now. But I must be off.”
“But won’t you take me with you, Bill?”
He hesitated for a moment or two, and then said—
“Well, you may as well come, Betsey; but mind what you’re about, and don’t get making an offer, for fear of giving offence.”
“Would it give offence, Bill?”
“Yes, if you didn’t mind your p’s and q’s. You hold your tongue, and leave everything to me; but if I give you a hint, you’re to take Miss Thorne aside and make her an offer.”
“It’s my belief that Bill will be making her an offer one of these days,” thought little Miss Burge; “but she don’t seem to be quite the sort of wife for him, if he is going to bring one home.”
Mr William Forth Burge was not long in changing his coat and he met his sister in the hall, twirling his orange silk handkerchief round and round his already too glossy hat; after which they walked down arm-in-arm to the school, to find the head pupil-teacher in charge, and the girls unusually quiet, a fact due to the vicar being in the class-room, in company with George Canninge, both having arrived together, and then shaken hands warmly, and entered to have a look round the school.
Mr William Forth Burge and his sister both shook hands with the other visitors, and were then informed that Miss Thorne was suffering from a terribly bad headache. She had been very unwell, the pupil-teacher said, all the morning, and had been obliged to go and lie down.
Hereupon the visitors all began to fence, the object of their call being scrupulously kept in the background, and they one and all took a great deal of interest in the girls, and ended by going away all together, expressing their sorrow that poor Miss Thorne was so unwell.
The vicar and George Canninge walked up the town street together, after shaking hands with Mr and Miss Burge, and discussed politics till they parted; while Mr William Forth Burge, slowly followed with his sister, also talking politics but of a smaller kind, for they were the politics of the Plumton people, and the great man began to lay down the law according to his own ideas.
“They were both down there about that school money, Betsey, as sure as a gun. But just you look here: people think I’m soft because I come out with my money for charities and that sort of thing; but they never made a bigger mistake in their lives, if they think they can do just what they like with me; so there now.”
“That they never did, Bill,” assented his sister.
“I look upon them schools as good as mine, and if there’s to be a row about this money, I mean to have a word in it, for I’m not a-going to have that poor young lady sat upon by no one. I’ve hit the nail on the head as sure as a gun, and if it isn’t the old lady that’s got her into a scrape, you may call me a fool.”
“Which I never would, Bill,” said little Miss Burge emphatically; and together they toddled back home.
Chapter Thirty Six.Something by Post.It was a most extraordinary thing, but, probably from uneasiness, Mrs Thorne was the first down next morning. Hazel had had a sleepless night, and it was not till six o’clock that she dropped off to sleep heavily, and did not awaken till past eight, when, hot, feverish, and with her head thick and throbbing, she hurriedly dressed herself and went down.Fate plays some strange tricks with us at times; and on this, the first morning for months that Hazel had not received the letters herself, Mrs Thorne was there to take them.“Three letters for Hazel,” she said to herself. “Dear me, how strange! Three letters, and all bearing the Plumton postmark!”She changed the envelopes from hand to hand, and shuffled them in a fidgety way, as if they were cards.“I feel very much displeased, for Hazel has no right to be receiving letters from gentlemen; and I am sure if Edward Geringer were here he would thoroughly approve of the course I take. She shall not have these letters at all. It is my duty as Hazel’s mamma to suppress such correspondence. Often and often have I said to her, ‘Hazel, my child, under any circumstances never forget that you are a lady.’”There was another close examination of the letters, and then Mrs Thorne went on—“No young lady in my time would have ventured upon a clandestine correspondence with a gentleman; and now, to my horror as a mamma, I wake to the fact that my daughter is corresponding with three gentlemen at once. Oh, Hazel, Hazel, Hazel! it is a bitter discovery for me to make that a child of mine has been deceiving me. I wonder who they can be from.”Mrs Thorne laid the envelopes before her with the addresses uppermost.“‘Miss Thorne, The Schools, Plumton All Saints,’ all addressed the same. This, then, is the reason why poor Edward Geringer has been refused.”Here there was another examination of the postmarks.“Three gentlemen, and all living at Plumton. Now, really, Hazel, it is not proper. It is not ladylike. One gentleman would have been bad enough, in clandestine correspondence; though, perhaps, if there had been two it would be because she had not quite made up her mind. But three gentlemen! It is positively disgraceful, and I shall stop it at once!”This time, in changing the position of the letters, Mrs Thorne turned them upside down.“I remember at the time poor Thorne was paying me attentions how Mr Deputy Cheaply and Mr Meriton, of the Common Council, both wished to pay me attentions as well; but, no: I said it would not be correct. And I little thought, after all my efforts, that a child of mine would be so utterly forgetful of her self-respect as to behave like this. Ah, Hazel! Hazel! It is no wonder that the silver threads begin to appear fast in my poor hair.”Mrs Thorne placed the envelopes beneath her apron as the two children came bustling in, one with the cloth, and the other with the bread-trencher, to prepare the breakfast.“Hazel’s fast asleep, ma, and we’re going to get breakfast ready ourselves.”“I’m sure I don’t know why your sister can’t come down, my dears,” said Mrs Thorne pettishly. “It is very thoughtless of her, knowing, as she does, how poorly I am.”“Sis Hazy has got a very bad headache, mamma; and we dressed quietly and came down and lit the fire quite early.”“Oh, it was you lit the fire, was it!” said Mrs Thorne. “I thought it was one of the schoolgirls.”“No; it was us, ma dear; and when we’ve made the tea we’re going to take poor Hazy a cup in bed.”“Whoever can these letters be from?” said Mrs Thorne to herself, as she turned them over and over in her hands, growing quite flushed and excited the while. “I declare I don’t know when I have felt so hurt and troubled;” and going into the little parlour, leaving the children busy over the preparations, she once more examined them carefully, and ended by taking out her scissors.“I don’t care!” she exclaimed; “it is my duty as Hazel’s mamma to watch over her, and I should not be doing that duty if I did not see who are the gentlemen who correspond with her.”Mrs Thorne hesitated a few minutes longer, and then the itching sensation of curiosity proved to be too much for the poor woman, and taking the pair of finely-pointed scissors, she slit open the three envelopes, and then started guiltily, thrust them into her pocket, and went into the kitchen.“Did I hear Hazel coming down?” she said sharply.“No, ma. Mab just went up and found her fast asleep.”Mrs Thorne went back into the parlour, hesitated a few moments longer, and then opened the first letter, to find that it contained five ten-pound notes, all new and crisp, and with them a sheet of note-paper bearing the words:—“Will Miss Thorne accept the help of a very sincere friend?”That was all.“Well, I am sure!” exclaimed Mrs Thorne, staring at the crisp notes, re-reading the words upon the note-paper, and then hurriedly replacing notes and paper in the envelope. “Now, who can that be from?”The second envelope was then opened, and, to Mrs Thorne’s intense astonishment, it contained ten five-pound notes, also crisp and new, and with them the simple words:—“With the hope that they may be useful. From a friend.”“I never did in all my life!” exclaimed Mrs Thorne, now beginning to perspire profusely, as she hurriedly replaced the second batch of notes, and then with trembling fingers opened the last envelope, which contained six five-pound notes, carefully enclosed in a second envelope, but without a word.“Only thirty pounds,” said Mrs Thorne, “only thirty, and without a word. Well, all I can say is, that whoever sent it is rather mean. Now, who can have sent these banknotes? Well, of course, it is on account of that paltry sum in school pence being required, and it is very kind, but I don’t think I ought to allow Hazel to receive money like this. Really, it is a very puzzling thing, and I wish Edward Geringer was here.”The notes were returned to the third envelope, and Mrs Thorne sat there very thoughtful, and looking extremely perplexed.“No; I certainly shall not let Hazel have this money. A girl at her time of life might be tempted into a great many follies of dress if she had it and I shall certainly keep it from her.”With a quiet self-satisfied smile, she placed the notes in her pocket and was in the act of rising, when she turned and saw Cissy at the door.“Well, what is it?” said Mrs Thorne sharply.“Breakfast’s ready, ma dear; and I can hear Hazy dressing in such a hurry. Come and sit down, and let’s all be waiting for her. It will be such fun. She will be so surprised when she comes down.”Mrs Thorne felt relieved, for she was afraid that the child had seen her with the notes, and that might have interfered with her plans.“I’m sure it is quite time your sister was down, my dear,” said the lady indignantly. “I don’t know how she expects the wretched children she teaches to be punctual, if she is so late herself.” And assuming an aspect of dignified, injured state, she seated herself at the table, the children smothering their mirth as they also sat down, one on either side, and watched the door.Hazel hurried down directly after, to come hastily into the little kitchen, where, reading the children’s faces, she felt the tears rush into her eyes with the emotion caused by the pleasant innocent surprise, and went and kissed them both before saluting her mother, who kept up her childish, injured air.“Really, Hazel, my dear, I think when I do come down that you might study me a little, and not leave everything to these poor children. It comes very hard upon me, to see them driven to such menial duties, when their sister might place us all in a state of opulence. It seems very hard—very hard indeed.”Hazel glanced at her, but did not speak. There was that, however, in her eyes which told of mingled reproach and pity, emotions that the weak woman could not read, as she took the tea handed to her, sipping it slowly with an injured sigh.“Were there any letters, mother!” said Hazel, when breakfast was half over and she had glanced at the clock, for Feelier Potts had been for the schoolroom key, and already there were distant echoing sounds of voices and footsteps in the great room, which told of the arrival of the scholars.Mrs Thorne did not reply.“Were there any letters, mother dear?” said Hazel again.“Pass me the bread and butter, Mab, my child,” said Mrs Thorne, colouring slightly, while Hazel looked at her with wonder.“There were three letters for you, Hazy,” cried Cissy sharply.“Cissy! How dare you say such a thing?” cried Mrs Thorne.“Please, ma, I met the postman when I went for the milk, and the postman told me so, and I saw him afterwards showing them to Mr Chute.”“You wicked—Oh, of course, yes. I forgot,” said Mrs Thorne hastily, as she encountered her daughter’s eye fixed upon her with such a look of reproach that she shivered, and in her abject weakness coloured like a detected schoolgirl.“Will you give me the letters, mamma?” said Hazel, holding out her hand.“Don’t call me mamma like that, Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne, with a weak attempt at holding her position; but her daughter’s outstretched hand was sufficient to make her tremblingly take the letters from her pocket and pass them across the table.“You have opened them, mamma!” said Hazel.“Once more, Hazel, I must beg of you not to call memammalike that!” exclaimed Mrs Thorne. “I have always noticed that it is done when you are angry.”“I said you have opened them, mamma!”“Of course I have, my dear. I should not be doing my duty as your mother if I did not see for myself who are the class of people with whom you hold clandestine correspondence.”“You know, mother,” said Hazel firmly, “that I should never think of corresponding with any one without your approval.”“Then, pray, what do those letters mean?”“I do not know,” said Hazel quietly; and she opened them one by one, saw their contents, read the notes that accompanied two, and then, letting her face go down upon her hands she uttered a loud sob.“Now, that is being foolish, Hazel,” cried her mother. “Children, leave the table! Or, no, it will be better that your sister and I should retire. No; take your breakfasts into the other room, children, and I will talk to your sister here.”“Don’t cry, Hazy,” whispered Cissy, clinging to her sister affectionately.“Don’t speak cross to Hazel, please ma,” whispered Mab.“Silence, disobedient children!” cried the poor woman in tragic tones. “Leave the room, I desire.”Hazel felt cut to the heart with sorrow, misery, and despair. The increasing mental weakness of her mother, and her growing lack of moral appreciation of right and wrong, were agonising to her; and at that moment she felt as if this new trouble about the letters was a judgment upon her for opening those addressed to her mother, though it was done to save her from pain. To some people the airs and assumptions of Mrs Thorne would have been food for mirth; but to Hazel the mental pain was intense. Knowing what the poor woman had been previous to her troubles, this childishness was another pang; and often and often, when ready to utter words of reproach, she changed them to those of tenderness and consideration.“Now, Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne with dignity, “I am waiting for an explanation.”“An explanation, dear?” said Hazel, leaving her seat to place her arm affectionately round her mother’s neck.“Not yet, Hazel,” said the poor woman, shrinking away. “I cannot accept your caresses till I have had a proper explanation about those letters.”“My dear mother, I can give you no explanation.”“What! do you deny that you are corresponding with three different gentlemen at once?”“Yes, mother dear. Is it likely?” said Hazel, smiling.“Don’t treat the matter with levity, Hazel. I cannot bear it! Who are those letters from?”“I do not know, dear; though I think I could guess.”“Then I insist upon knowing.”“My dear mother, I can only think they are from people who know of my trouble about the school.”“You did not write and ask for help, Hazel?”“No, mother. No; I should not have done such a thing.”“Then tell me at once who would send to you like that.”“Mother dear, can you not spare me this?”“I never did see such a strange girl in my life as you are, Hazel. Well, never mind; I dare say I can bear another slight or two if you will not tell me. There, I suppose you must pay that wretched school money out of those notes.”“Out of these, mother?”“Of course, child. Why, what are you thinking now?”“Mother dear, it is impossible.”“Impossible, child! Why, what romantic notion have you taken into your head now?”“It is no romance, mother; it is reality,” sighed Hazel.“Then what are you going to do?”“Return the money to the givers as soon as I can be certain where to send.”“Return it? What! that money, when you know how urgently it is needed at home?”“Yes, dear.”“And how is that school money to be paid?”Hazel was silent.“I declare, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne, “your behaviour is quite preposterous, and the absurdity of your ideas beyond belief. Do, pray, leave off these foolish ways and try to behave like a sensible—There now, I declare her conduct is quite shocking: running off like that without saying ‘Good morning,’ or ‘May I leave the room, mamma?’ Dear, dear me, I have come down in the world indeed.”For Hazel had suddenly left the room—nine o’clock striking—and the idea strongly impressing itself upon her mind that so sure as she happened to be late some one or another would kindly inform Miss Lambent if she did not realise it for herself.
It was a most extraordinary thing, but, probably from uneasiness, Mrs Thorne was the first down next morning. Hazel had had a sleepless night, and it was not till six o’clock that she dropped off to sleep heavily, and did not awaken till past eight, when, hot, feverish, and with her head thick and throbbing, she hurriedly dressed herself and went down.
Fate plays some strange tricks with us at times; and on this, the first morning for months that Hazel had not received the letters herself, Mrs Thorne was there to take them.
“Three letters for Hazel,” she said to herself. “Dear me, how strange! Three letters, and all bearing the Plumton postmark!”
She changed the envelopes from hand to hand, and shuffled them in a fidgety way, as if they were cards.
“I feel very much displeased, for Hazel has no right to be receiving letters from gentlemen; and I am sure if Edward Geringer were here he would thoroughly approve of the course I take. She shall not have these letters at all. It is my duty as Hazel’s mamma to suppress such correspondence. Often and often have I said to her, ‘Hazel, my child, under any circumstances never forget that you are a lady.’”
There was another close examination of the letters, and then Mrs Thorne went on—
“No young lady in my time would have ventured upon a clandestine correspondence with a gentleman; and now, to my horror as a mamma, I wake to the fact that my daughter is corresponding with three gentlemen at once. Oh, Hazel, Hazel, Hazel! it is a bitter discovery for me to make that a child of mine has been deceiving me. I wonder who they can be from.”
Mrs Thorne laid the envelopes before her with the addresses uppermost.
“‘Miss Thorne, The Schools, Plumton All Saints,’ all addressed the same. This, then, is the reason why poor Edward Geringer has been refused.”
Here there was another examination of the postmarks.
“Three gentlemen, and all living at Plumton. Now, really, Hazel, it is not proper. It is not ladylike. One gentleman would have been bad enough, in clandestine correspondence; though, perhaps, if there had been two it would be because she had not quite made up her mind. But three gentlemen! It is positively disgraceful, and I shall stop it at once!”
This time, in changing the position of the letters, Mrs Thorne turned them upside down.
“I remember at the time poor Thorne was paying me attentions how Mr Deputy Cheaply and Mr Meriton, of the Common Council, both wished to pay me attentions as well; but, no: I said it would not be correct. And I little thought, after all my efforts, that a child of mine would be so utterly forgetful of her self-respect as to behave like this. Ah, Hazel! Hazel! It is no wonder that the silver threads begin to appear fast in my poor hair.”
Mrs Thorne placed the envelopes beneath her apron as the two children came bustling in, one with the cloth, and the other with the bread-trencher, to prepare the breakfast.
“Hazel’s fast asleep, ma, and we’re going to get breakfast ready ourselves.”
“I’m sure I don’t know why your sister can’t come down, my dears,” said Mrs Thorne pettishly. “It is very thoughtless of her, knowing, as she does, how poorly I am.”
“Sis Hazy has got a very bad headache, mamma; and we dressed quietly and came down and lit the fire quite early.”
“Oh, it was you lit the fire, was it!” said Mrs Thorne. “I thought it was one of the schoolgirls.”
“No; it was us, ma dear; and when we’ve made the tea we’re going to take poor Hazy a cup in bed.”
“Whoever can these letters be from?” said Mrs Thorne to herself, as she turned them over and over in her hands, growing quite flushed and excited the while. “I declare I don’t know when I have felt so hurt and troubled;” and going into the little parlour, leaving the children busy over the preparations, she once more examined them carefully, and ended by taking out her scissors.
“I don’t care!” she exclaimed; “it is my duty as Hazel’s mamma to watch over her, and I should not be doing that duty if I did not see who are the gentlemen who correspond with her.”
Mrs Thorne hesitated a few minutes longer, and then the itching sensation of curiosity proved to be too much for the poor woman, and taking the pair of finely-pointed scissors, she slit open the three envelopes, and then started guiltily, thrust them into her pocket, and went into the kitchen.
“Did I hear Hazel coming down?” she said sharply.
“No, ma. Mab just went up and found her fast asleep.”
Mrs Thorne went back into the parlour, hesitated a few moments longer, and then opened the first letter, to find that it contained five ten-pound notes, all new and crisp, and with them a sheet of note-paper bearing the words:—
“Will Miss Thorne accept the help of a very sincere friend?”
That was all.
“Well, I am sure!” exclaimed Mrs Thorne, staring at the crisp notes, re-reading the words upon the note-paper, and then hurriedly replacing notes and paper in the envelope. “Now, who can that be from?”
The second envelope was then opened, and, to Mrs Thorne’s intense astonishment, it contained ten five-pound notes, also crisp and new, and with them the simple words:—
“With the hope that they may be useful. From a friend.”
“I never did in all my life!” exclaimed Mrs Thorne, now beginning to perspire profusely, as she hurriedly replaced the second batch of notes, and then with trembling fingers opened the last envelope, which contained six five-pound notes, carefully enclosed in a second envelope, but without a word.
“Only thirty pounds,” said Mrs Thorne, “only thirty, and without a word. Well, all I can say is, that whoever sent it is rather mean. Now, who can have sent these banknotes? Well, of course, it is on account of that paltry sum in school pence being required, and it is very kind, but I don’t think I ought to allow Hazel to receive money like this. Really, it is a very puzzling thing, and I wish Edward Geringer was here.”
The notes were returned to the third envelope, and Mrs Thorne sat there very thoughtful, and looking extremely perplexed.
“No; I certainly shall not let Hazel have this money. A girl at her time of life might be tempted into a great many follies of dress if she had it and I shall certainly keep it from her.”
With a quiet self-satisfied smile, she placed the notes in her pocket and was in the act of rising, when she turned and saw Cissy at the door.
“Well, what is it?” said Mrs Thorne sharply.
“Breakfast’s ready, ma dear; and I can hear Hazy dressing in such a hurry. Come and sit down, and let’s all be waiting for her. It will be such fun. She will be so surprised when she comes down.”
Mrs Thorne felt relieved, for she was afraid that the child had seen her with the notes, and that might have interfered with her plans.
“I’m sure it is quite time your sister was down, my dear,” said the lady indignantly. “I don’t know how she expects the wretched children she teaches to be punctual, if she is so late herself.” And assuming an aspect of dignified, injured state, she seated herself at the table, the children smothering their mirth as they also sat down, one on either side, and watched the door.
Hazel hurried down directly after, to come hastily into the little kitchen, where, reading the children’s faces, she felt the tears rush into her eyes with the emotion caused by the pleasant innocent surprise, and went and kissed them both before saluting her mother, who kept up her childish, injured air.
“Really, Hazel, my dear, I think when I do come down that you might study me a little, and not leave everything to these poor children. It comes very hard upon me, to see them driven to such menial duties, when their sister might place us all in a state of opulence. It seems very hard—very hard indeed.”
Hazel glanced at her, but did not speak. There was that, however, in her eyes which told of mingled reproach and pity, emotions that the weak woman could not read, as she took the tea handed to her, sipping it slowly with an injured sigh.
“Were there any letters, mother!” said Hazel, when breakfast was half over and she had glanced at the clock, for Feelier Potts had been for the schoolroom key, and already there were distant echoing sounds of voices and footsteps in the great room, which told of the arrival of the scholars.
Mrs Thorne did not reply.
“Were there any letters, mother dear?” said Hazel again.
“Pass me the bread and butter, Mab, my child,” said Mrs Thorne, colouring slightly, while Hazel looked at her with wonder.
“There were three letters for you, Hazy,” cried Cissy sharply.
“Cissy! How dare you say such a thing?” cried Mrs Thorne.
“Please, ma, I met the postman when I went for the milk, and the postman told me so, and I saw him afterwards showing them to Mr Chute.”
“You wicked—Oh, of course, yes. I forgot,” said Mrs Thorne hastily, as she encountered her daughter’s eye fixed upon her with such a look of reproach that she shivered, and in her abject weakness coloured like a detected schoolgirl.
“Will you give me the letters, mamma?” said Hazel, holding out her hand.
“Don’t call me mamma like that, Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne, with a weak attempt at holding her position; but her daughter’s outstretched hand was sufficient to make her tremblingly take the letters from her pocket and pass them across the table.
“You have opened them, mamma!” said Hazel.
“Once more, Hazel, I must beg of you not to call memammalike that!” exclaimed Mrs Thorne. “I have always noticed that it is done when you are angry.”
“I said you have opened them, mamma!”
“Of course I have, my dear. I should not be doing my duty as your mother if I did not see for myself who are the class of people with whom you hold clandestine correspondence.”
“You know, mother,” said Hazel firmly, “that I should never think of corresponding with any one without your approval.”
“Then, pray, what do those letters mean?”
“I do not know,” said Hazel quietly; and she opened them one by one, saw their contents, read the notes that accompanied two, and then, letting her face go down upon her hands she uttered a loud sob.
“Now, that is being foolish, Hazel,” cried her mother. “Children, leave the table! Or, no, it will be better that your sister and I should retire. No; take your breakfasts into the other room, children, and I will talk to your sister here.”
“Don’t cry, Hazy,” whispered Cissy, clinging to her sister affectionately.
“Don’t speak cross to Hazel, please ma,” whispered Mab.
“Silence, disobedient children!” cried the poor woman in tragic tones. “Leave the room, I desire.”
Hazel felt cut to the heart with sorrow, misery, and despair. The increasing mental weakness of her mother, and her growing lack of moral appreciation of right and wrong, were agonising to her; and at that moment she felt as if this new trouble about the letters was a judgment upon her for opening those addressed to her mother, though it was done to save her from pain. To some people the airs and assumptions of Mrs Thorne would have been food for mirth; but to Hazel the mental pain was intense. Knowing what the poor woman had been previous to her troubles, this childishness was another pang; and often and often, when ready to utter words of reproach, she changed them to those of tenderness and consideration.
“Now, Hazel,” said Mrs Thorne with dignity, “I am waiting for an explanation.”
“An explanation, dear?” said Hazel, leaving her seat to place her arm affectionately round her mother’s neck.
“Not yet, Hazel,” said the poor woman, shrinking away. “I cannot accept your caresses till I have had a proper explanation about those letters.”
“My dear mother, I can give you no explanation.”
“What! do you deny that you are corresponding with three different gentlemen at once?”
“Yes, mother dear. Is it likely?” said Hazel, smiling.
“Don’t treat the matter with levity, Hazel. I cannot bear it! Who are those letters from?”
“I do not know, dear; though I think I could guess.”
“Then I insist upon knowing.”
“My dear mother, I can only think they are from people who know of my trouble about the school.”
“You did not write and ask for help, Hazel?”
“No, mother. No; I should not have done such a thing.”
“Then tell me at once who would send to you like that.”
“Mother dear, can you not spare me this?”
“I never did see such a strange girl in my life as you are, Hazel. Well, never mind; I dare say I can bear another slight or two if you will not tell me. There, I suppose you must pay that wretched school money out of those notes.”
“Out of these, mother?”
“Of course, child. Why, what are you thinking now?”
“Mother dear, it is impossible.”
“Impossible, child! Why, what romantic notion have you taken into your head now?”
“It is no romance, mother; it is reality,” sighed Hazel.
“Then what are you going to do?”
“Return the money to the givers as soon as I can be certain where to send.”
“Return it? What! that money, when you know how urgently it is needed at home?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And how is that school money to be paid?”
Hazel was silent.
“I declare, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne, “your behaviour is quite preposterous, and the absurdity of your ideas beyond belief. Do, pray, leave off these foolish ways and try to behave like a sensible—There now, I declare her conduct is quite shocking: running off like that without saying ‘Good morning,’ or ‘May I leave the room, mamma?’ Dear, dear me, I have come down in the world indeed.”
For Hazel had suddenly left the room—nine o’clock striking—and the idea strongly impressing itself upon her mind that so sure as she happened to be late some one or another would kindly inform Miss Lambent if she did not realise it for herself.
Chapter Thirty Seven.Hazel Thorne Seeks Help.As soon as Hazel Thorne had fairly started the school that morning, she took out the envelopes and studied each handwriting fairly to see if she could make out who were the senders of the letters.That she found she could not do, but in her own mind she set down the writers aright, and a bitter feeling of shame and humiliation came upon her as she felt that those who sent would never have dreamed of making such a present to any one they respected. It looked to her like charity, and her face burned as she indignantly longed to return the envelopes and notes to their senders.She knew that there had been the three gentlemen visitors to the school while she was absent upon the previous afternoon, and though it was possible that they might have been down to speak to her respecting her failure of trust, her heart told her that it was not; and now her mother’s strong desire to leave the place seemed to have come upon her in turn, and she felt that she would give anything to be a hundred miles away from Plumton and at peace.She tried to win forgetfulness by devoting herself to the various classes, but in vain; every step she heard seemed to be a visitor coming to ask her about the money not paid, and every subject she took up suggested the notes now lying in her pocket.Twice over she went to her desk and there wrote a brief letter of thanks to Mr William Forth Burge, but she tore it up directly; and she dared not write one to George Canninge, nor yet to the vicar, from whom she was sure the other amounts had come.Just in the middle of one of her greatest fits of depression there was a knock at the door, and she dreaded that it might be the vicar, while if it had been George Canninge she felt that she dared not have faced him.Her heart gave a throb of relief as she heard the familiar tones of Mr William Forth Burge, and the next throb was one of gratitude as she knew that he had had the delicacy to bring his sister with him. Then there was a depressing feeling as she felt that they would show by their manner how displeased and disappointed they were at her breach of trust.Here she was wrong again, for her visitors’ greeting was warm in the extreme, and with the reaction a sensation of oppression robbed her of the power of speech; while had she not tried hard she would have burst into a passionate flood of tears.“We were so sorry to hear of your bad headache, my dear,” said little Miss Burge affectionately, “and really I don’t think you ought to be here now. Your poor eyes look as red as red, and you are quite pale and feverish.”“So she is,” said Mr William Forth Burge. “Why, Betsey, there ought to be a holiday, so that Miss Thorne could take a day or two’s rest.”“No, no, Mr Burge; I am better,” said Hazel, speaking excitedly; for the kindly consideration of these people had taken away all resentment, all pride, and she felt that she was with friends. “Mr William Forth Burge—”“No, no; plain Mr Burge or William Burge to me, Miss Thorne. I don’t want a long name from you.”“Mr Burge—Miss Burge, yesterday I could not have spoken to you upon this subject, but your kindness—”“There, there, there; don’t say a word about it,” he replied quickly. “I know all, and it was an accident.”“An accident?”“Yes, my dear,” broke in little Miss Burge. “Bill talked it over to me last night, and—Now, you won’t be offended, my dear?”“Nothing you could say would offend me,” cried Hazel eagerly.“No, of course not, my dear. Well, my brother said to me, ‘depend upon it, Betsey, her poor ma wanted the money for housekeeping or something, and just used it. That’s all.’”“And he has humiliated me by this letter that I received by post.”“Don’t call it humiliation, my dear,” cried Miss Burge; “it was only sent out of civility to you as one of our neighbours whom we like, and that’s what it means.”Hazel hesitated for a few moments, and then, in her loneliness and isolation, she clung to the hands outstretched to help her.“Mr Burge—Miss Burge, I am so lonely and helpless here. You have heard about the school pence, but I cannot tell you why the amount was wanting. Give me your help and counsel.”“Then will you let me help you?”“I shall be most grateful if you will,” cried Hazel.“Hullo!” shouted Burge, staring up at the partition. “What are you a-doing there?”“The shutter slipped down a little, sir,” said Mr Chute loudly. “Trying to close it, sir. That’s it!” and the shutter closed with a snap.“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Mr William Forth Burge angrily. “I don’t know as that is it, Mr Chute.” But Mr Chute had by this time fastened the shutter, and had descended from his coign of vantage, looking very red and feeling terribly mortified at having been detected. “He was listening; that’s about what he was doing.”There was a buzz of excitement amongst the children, but it subsided directly, and Hazel placed at a venture the envelope which she believed to have come from her visitor in his hands.“You sent that to me, Mr Burge,” said Hazel firmly.“Well, it was me, as you know, Miss Thorne; and you won’t hurt our feelings by refusing it, will you?”“I could not take it, sir; but I do appreciate your goodness all the same. Now help me to decide who sent me these letters.”Hazel’s visitors looked at each other, then at the envelopes, and then back at Hazel.“Do you want me to say who sent those two letters?” said Mr William Forth Burge gloomily.“I should be very grateful if you could, sir.”“This one’s from Mr Canninge, at Ardley, I should say; and the other’s the parson’s writing, I feel sure. If they’ve sent you money, Miss Thorne, of course you won’t want mine—ours.”It was an endorsement of her own opinion, and for the moment Hazel did not notice the dull, heavy look on her visitor’s face as she exclaimed—“I have no doubt these gentlemen had kindly intentions, but I cannot take their help, and I want to see whether I might risk a mistake in returning the notes.”“Oh, I think I’d return ’em,” said Mr William Forth Burge eagerly. “I’d risk its being a mistake. Even if itwas, your conduct would be right.”Hazel looked at him intently, and then bowed her head in acquiescence.“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I will risk its being a mistake. Or no: Mr Burge, will you be my friend in my present helpless state? I ask you to return the notes on my behalf.”“That’s just what I will do,” he cried excitedly, for it seemed to him that he had won the day.
As soon as Hazel Thorne had fairly started the school that morning, she took out the envelopes and studied each handwriting fairly to see if she could make out who were the senders of the letters.
That she found she could not do, but in her own mind she set down the writers aright, and a bitter feeling of shame and humiliation came upon her as she felt that those who sent would never have dreamed of making such a present to any one they respected. It looked to her like charity, and her face burned as she indignantly longed to return the envelopes and notes to their senders.
She knew that there had been the three gentlemen visitors to the school while she was absent upon the previous afternoon, and though it was possible that they might have been down to speak to her respecting her failure of trust, her heart told her that it was not; and now her mother’s strong desire to leave the place seemed to have come upon her in turn, and she felt that she would give anything to be a hundred miles away from Plumton and at peace.
She tried to win forgetfulness by devoting herself to the various classes, but in vain; every step she heard seemed to be a visitor coming to ask her about the money not paid, and every subject she took up suggested the notes now lying in her pocket.
Twice over she went to her desk and there wrote a brief letter of thanks to Mr William Forth Burge, but she tore it up directly; and she dared not write one to George Canninge, nor yet to the vicar, from whom she was sure the other amounts had come.
Just in the middle of one of her greatest fits of depression there was a knock at the door, and she dreaded that it might be the vicar, while if it had been George Canninge she felt that she dared not have faced him.
Her heart gave a throb of relief as she heard the familiar tones of Mr William Forth Burge, and the next throb was one of gratitude as she knew that he had had the delicacy to bring his sister with him. Then there was a depressing feeling as she felt that they would show by their manner how displeased and disappointed they were at her breach of trust.
Here she was wrong again, for her visitors’ greeting was warm in the extreme, and with the reaction a sensation of oppression robbed her of the power of speech; while had she not tried hard she would have burst into a passionate flood of tears.
“We were so sorry to hear of your bad headache, my dear,” said little Miss Burge affectionately, “and really I don’t think you ought to be here now. Your poor eyes look as red as red, and you are quite pale and feverish.”
“So she is,” said Mr William Forth Burge. “Why, Betsey, there ought to be a holiday, so that Miss Thorne could take a day or two’s rest.”
“No, no, Mr Burge; I am better,” said Hazel, speaking excitedly; for the kindly consideration of these people had taken away all resentment, all pride, and she felt that she was with friends. “Mr William Forth Burge—”
“No, no; plain Mr Burge or William Burge to me, Miss Thorne. I don’t want a long name from you.”
“Mr Burge—Miss Burge, yesterday I could not have spoken to you upon this subject, but your kindness—”
“There, there, there; don’t say a word about it,” he replied quickly. “I know all, and it was an accident.”
“An accident?”
“Yes, my dear,” broke in little Miss Burge. “Bill talked it over to me last night, and—Now, you won’t be offended, my dear?”
“Nothing you could say would offend me,” cried Hazel eagerly.
“No, of course not, my dear. Well, my brother said to me, ‘depend upon it, Betsey, her poor ma wanted the money for housekeeping or something, and just used it. That’s all.’”
“And he has humiliated me by this letter that I received by post.”
“Don’t call it humiliation, my dear,” cried Miss Burge; “it was only sent out of civility to you as one of our neighbours whom we like, and that’s what it means.”
Hazel hesitated for a few moments, and then, in her loneliness and isolation, she clung to the hands outstretched to help her.
“Mr Burge—Miss Burge, I am so lonely and helpless here. You have heard about the school pence, but I cannot tell you why the amount was wanting. Give me your help and counsel.”
“Then will you let me help you?”
“I shall be most grateful if you will,” cried Hazel.
“Hullo!” shouted Burge, staring up at the partition. “What are you a-doing there?”
“The shutter slipped down a little, sir,” said Mr Chute loudly. “Trying to close it, sir. That’s it!” and the shutter closed with a snap.
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Mr William Forth Burge angrily. “I don’t know as that is it, Mr Chute.” But Mr Chute had by this time fastened the shutter, and had descended from his coign of vantage, looking very red and feeling terribly mortified at having been detected. “He was listening; that’s about what he was doing.”
There was a buzz of excitement amongst the children, but it subsided directly, and Hazel placed at a venture the envelope which she believed to have come from her visitor in his hands.
“You sent that to me, Mr Burge,” said Hazel firmly.
“Well, it was me, as you know, Miss Thorne; and you won’t hurt our feelings by refusing it, will you?”
“I could not take it, sir; but I do appreciate your goodness all the same. Now help me to decide who sent me these letters.”
Hazel’s visitors looked at each other, then at the envelopes, and then back at Hazel.
“Do you want me to say who sent those two letters?” said Mr William Forth Burge gloomily.
“I should be very grateful if you could, sir.”
“This one’s from Mr Canninge, at Ardley, I should say; and the other’s the parson’s writing, I feel sure. If they’ve sent you money, Miss Thorne, of course you won’t want mine—ours.”
It was an endorsement of her own opinion, and for the moment Hazel did not notice the dull, heavy look on her visitor’s face as she exclaimed—
“I have no doubt these gentlemen had kindly intentions, but I cannot take their help, and I want to see whether I might risk a mistake in returning the notes.”
“Oh, I think I’d return ’em,” said Mr William Forth Burge eagerly. “I’d risk its being a mistake. Even if itwas, your conduct would be right.”
Hazel looked at him intently, and then bowed her head in acquiescence.
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I will risk its being a mistake. Or no: Mr Burge, will you be my friend in my present helpless state? I ask you to return the notes on my behalf.”
“That’s just what I will do,” he cried excitedly, for it seemed to him that he had won the day.
Chapter Thirty Eight.Mr William Forth Burge is Indignant.You may make money, and you may turn philanthropist giving right and left, letting not either hand know what the other doeth; but if you think you are going to make innumerable friends by so doing, you are mistaken, for you will most likely make enemies.You will excite jealousy amongst your equals, because you have passed them in the race; your superiors, as they call themselves, will condemn you, and hold you in contempt for trying, as they say, to climb to their level; and even the recipients of your bounty will be offended.Mrs Dilly will think that Miss Bolly’s half-pound of tea was better than hers, and old Tom Dibley will be sure to consider the piece of beef his neighbour, Joe Stocks, received “a better cut” than his own.It was so with Mr William Forth Burge, who gave a great deal of beef to the poor—it was in his way—and who was constantly giving offence by presenting one poor family with better “cuts” than others; and he knew it, too.“I tell you what, Betsey,” he said, rubbing his ear with vexation, one day, “it’s my full belief that nature made a regular mistake in bullocks. There ought to be no legs and shins, or clods or stickings, my dear, but every beast ought to be all sirloin; though it’s my belief, old girl, that if it was, and you let ’em have it full of gravy, and sprinkled with nice white scraped horse-radish on the top, they wouldn’t be satisfied, but would say the quality was bad.”“There, never mind, Bill dear,” said his comforter; “some people always would be ungrateful. Old Granny Jinkins is just as bad. She said yesterday that the nice, warm, soft, new flannel jacket I made for her myself was not half so nice and warm as one I gave to Nancy Dean.”“Yes, that’s just the way,” said Mr William Forth Burge. “The more you help people, the more they turns again’ you. I often wish I’d never made a penny; for what’s the good of it all but to help other people, and be grumbled at afterwards for not helping ’em more?”“Oh, but all people ain’t the same, dear.”“There ain’t much difference, Betsey. Here’s old Mrs Thorne quite hates me; that boy thinks I’m a reg’lar cad; and Miss Thorne’s turning the same way.”“That I’m sure she’s not!” cried little Miss Burge, starting up and speaking angrily, with her face flushed, “Miss Hazel Thorne’s as good as gold, and she thinks you the best of men; and I declare, Bill, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I don’t know what you don’t deserve. It’s too bad. There!”“Thanky, Betsey, my dear. That seems to do me good. I like to hear you speak out like that. But do you really think she likes me?”“I’m sure she does, Bill, and there ain’t no think in the matter; and there, for goodness’ sake, don’t you settle down into a grumbler, Bill, because you’ve got no cause to be, I’m sure.”“Well, I don’t know, Betsey,” he said, stirring his tea slowly. “Things don’t seem to go right. I thought, seeing what I’d done for the schools, I ought to have a pretty good voice in everything, but because I’ve spent hundreds and hundreds over ’em it seems just why I’m to be opposed. Here’s Chute: I showed the committee that he was a miserable spy of a fellow, not content with watching Miss Thorne, but putting it about that she was carrying on with different people in the place and gentlemen from town, just out of spite like, as Lambent agrees with me, because the poor gal wouldn’t notice him. Well, I want him dismissed or made to resign.”“Well, and isn’t he to go?”“Go! Lor’ bless you! Why, the committee’s up in arms to keep him; and just on account of that school-pence job, as the poor gal couldn’t help at all, they’d have dismissed her if she hadn’t said she’d resign.”“Oh, Bill, it’s much too bad!”“Bad ain’t nothing to it, my dear. I’ve been fighting hard for her stopping, and sending her resignation back; but neither Lambent nor Squire George Canninge won’t interfere, and I’m left to fight it all out, and they’re beating me.”“And why didn’t you tell me all this before, Bill?” said Miss Burge.“Oh, I hadn’t the heart to talk about it, my dear,” replied her brother. “It’s all worry and vexation, that it is, and I wish I’d never done nothing for the schools at all.”“Don’t say that, Bill, when you’ve done so much good.”“But I do say it,” he cried angrily. “Here is everybody setting themselves again’ me, and it’s all jealousy because I’ve got on. I never asked no favours of ’em before; it’s all been give, give; and now they show what they’re all made of. It’s all horse-leeches’ daughters with ’em, that’s what it is, and I wish Plumton All Saints was burnt. All Saints indeed!” he cried indignantly; “it’s all devils, and no saints in it at all.”“But can’t Mr Lambent settle it?”“No, he couldn’t if he’d moved; and those two cats—there, I can’t call ’em anything else—who are always going about preaching charity and love to the poor people, and giving ’em ‘Dairyman’s Daughters’ instead of beef or tea, have been setting every one again’ the poor gal, and they’re at the bottom of it all I know. They hate her like poison.”“Well, I don’t know about as bad as poison,” said little Miss Burge thoughtfully; “but they don’t like her, and I don’t think that Mrs Canninge likes her either.”“No, I’m sure she don’t; but I don’t care,” said Mr William Forth Burge furiously. “I’m not beaten, and if that poor girl will stand by us, I’ll stand by her, to the last shilling I’ve got.”“That’s right, Bill!” cried little Miss Burge enthusiastically, “for I do like her ever so; and the good, patient way in which she puts up with the fine airs and silly ways of her ma makes me like her more and more. I haven’t got a very bad temper, have I, Bill?”“I think you’ve got a regular downright good ’un, Betsey,” said her brother, looking at her admiringly.“Well, Bill, do you know if I was to go there much, Mrs Thorne would make me a regular spitfire. She gives me the hot creeps with her condescending, high-and-mighty ways. She’s come down in the world. Well, suppose she has. So’s thousands more, but they don’t—they don’t—”“Howl,” said Mr William Forth Burge, “that’s it; they don’t howl. Lor a mussy me, what difference do it make? Do you know, Betsey, I believe I was just as happy when I first started business on my own account; and I’m sure I thought a deal more of my first new cart, with brass boxes and patent axles, painted chocklit—it was picked out with yallar—than I did of our new carriage, here, and pair. Ah! and my first mare, as I only give fifteen pun for, could get over the ground better than either of these for which I give two hundred because they was such a match.”“There, now, you’re beginning to grumble again, Bill, and I won’t have it. You’ve grown to be a rich man, all out of your own cleverness, and you ought to be very proud of of it; and if you’re not, I am.”“But, you see, Betsey, I ain’t so happy as I thought I should be.”“Then you ought to be, seeing how happy you can make other folks; and oh, Bill, by-the-way, them Potts’s are in trouble.”“Well, that ain’t nothing new. Potts always is in trouble. He ought to have been christened Beer Potts or Pewter Potts, though they don’t know what a pewter pot is down in this part of the world.”“That’s better, Bill; now you’re beginning to joke,” said little Miss Burge, smiling, “But you’ll do something for the Potts’s?”“I’ll never do nothing for anybody else again in the place,” said Mr William Forth Burge; “a set of ungrateful beggars. What’s the matter with Potts? Been tipsy again?”“I’m afraid he has, Bill; but that isn’t it. They’ve got the fever there; that big, saucy girl, Feelier, is down with it and the poor mother wants money badly.”“Why don’t she work for it, then?”“Oh, she do, Bill; she’s the most hard-working woman in the place.”Mr William Forth Burge’s hand went into his pocket, and he brought out five pounds, to place them in his sister’s hand.“I wouldn’t give it her all at once, dear,” he said; “but a pound at a time like. It makes it do more good.”Little Miss Burge had the tears in her eyes as she gave her brother a sounding smack on either cheek.“Now, don’t you pretend again, Bill, that you ain’t happy here,” she said, “for ain’t it nice to be able to do a bit of good like this now and then?”“Of course it is,” he replied, “but they only jumps on you afterwards. Here we’re going to do this, and p’r’aps save that child’s life; and as soon as she gets well the first thing she’ll do will be to make faces at your back in the school, as I’ve seen her do on Sundays over and over again.”“Oh, I don’t mind, Bill.”“But you’re not going to the house where that gal’s ill?”“Oh no, Bill dear; I won’t go down. Don’t you be afraid about that. And look here; you make a big fight of it, and beat ’em about Miss Thorne.”“I’m going to,” he replied. “But I say, Betsey,” he continued, half turning away his face.“Yes, Bill.”“Should—should—”Mr William Forth Burge’s collar seemed to be very tight, for he thrust, one finger between it and his neck, and gave it a tug before continuing hoarsely—“I never keep anything from you, Betsey?”“No, Bill, you don’t. You always was a good brother.”“Should—should you mind it much, Betsey, if I was to—to—get married?”Little Miss Burge stood gazing at him silently for some minutes, and then she said softly—“No, Bill; I don’t think I should. Not if it was some one nice, who would make you very happy.”“She is very nice, and she would make me very happy,” he said slowly. “But, Betsey—my—dear—do—you—think—she’d—have me?”Mr William Forth Burge’s words came very slowly indeed at last, and he rested his arms upon his knees and sat in a bent position, looking down at the carpet as if waiting to hear what was a sentence of great moment to his life.“Bill dear, I know who you mean, of course,” said the little woman at last, tearfully. “I don’t know. She likes you, for she told me she did; but I shouldn’t be your own true sister if I didn’t say that p’r’aps it’s only as a friend; and that ain’t love, you know, Bill, is it?”“No,” he said softly; “no, Betsey; you’re quite right, dear. But I’m going to try, and—and I’m only a common sort of a chap, dear—if she says no, I’m going to try and bear it like a man.”“That’s my own dear—dear—O Bill, look; if there she isn’t coming up to the house!”And little Miss Burge ran off to hide her tears.
You may make money, and you may turn philanthropist giving right and left, letting not either hand know what the other doeth; but if you think you are going to make innumerable friends by so doing, you are mistaken, for you will most likely make enemies.
You will excite jealousy amongst your equals, because you have passed them in the race; your superiors, as they call themselves, will condemn you, and hold you in contempt for trying, as they say, to climb to their level; and even the recipients of your bounty will be offended.
Mrs Dilly will think that Miss Bolly’s half-pound of tea was better than hers, and old Tom Dibley will be sure to consider the piece of beef his neighbour, Joe Stocks, received “a better cut” than his own.
It was so with Mr William Forth Burge, who gave a great deal of beef to the poor—it was in his way—and who was constantly giving offence by presenting one poor family with better “cuts” than others; and he knew it, too.
“I tell you what, Betsey,” he said, rubbing his ear with vexation, one day, “it’s my full belief that nature made a regular mistake in bullocks. There ought to be no legs and shins, or clods or stickings, my dear, but every beast ought to be all sirloin; though it’s my belief, old girl, that if it was, and you let ’em have it full of gravy, and sprinkled with nice white scraped horse-radish on the top, they wouldn’t be satisfied, but would say the quality was bad.”
“There, never mind, Bill dear,” said his comforter; “some people always would be ungrateful. Old Granny Jinkins is just as bad. She said yesterday that the nice, warm, soft, new flannel jacket I made for her myself was not half so nice and warm as one I gave to Nancy Dean.”
“Yes, that’s just the way,” said Mr William Forth Burge. “The more you help people, the more they turns again’ you. I often wish I’d never made a penny; for what’s the good of it all but to help other people, and be grumbled at afterwards for not helping ’em more?”
“Oh, but all people ain’t the same, dear.”
“There ain’t much difference, Betsey. Here’s old Mrs Thorne quite hates me; that boy thinks I’m a reg’lar cad; and Miss Thorne’s turning the same way.”
“That I’m sure she’s not!” cried little Miss Burge, starting up and speaking angrily, with her face flushed, “Miss Hazel Thorne’s as good as gold, and she thinks you the best of men; and I declare, Bill, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I don’t know what you don’t deserve. It’s too bad. There!”
“Thanky, Betsey, my dear. That seems to do me good. I like to hear you speak out like that. But do you really think she likes me?”
“I’m sure she does, Bill, and there ain’t no think in the matter; and there, for goodness’ sake, don’t you settle down into a grumbler, Bill, because you’ve got no cause to be, I’m sure.”
“Well, I don’t know, Betsey,” he said, stirring his tea slowly. “Things don’t seem to go right. I thought, seeing what I’d done for the schools, I ought to have a pretty good voice in everything, but because I’ve spent hundreds and hundreds over ’em it seems just why I’m to be opposed. Here’s Chute: I showed the committee that he was a miserable spy of a fellow, not content with watching Miss Thorne, but putting it about that she was carrying on with different people in the place and gentlemen from town, just out of spite like, as Lambent agrees with me, because the poor gal wouldn’t notice him. Well, I want him dismissed or made to resign.”
“Well, and isn’t he to go?”
“Go! Lor’ bless you! Why, the committee’s up in arms to keep him; and just on account of that school-pence job, as the poor gal couldn’t help at all, they’d have dismissed her if she hadn’t said she’d resign.”
“Oh, Bill, it’s much too bad!”
“Bad ain’t nothing to it, my dear. I’ve been fighting hard for her stopping, and sending her resignation back; but neither Lambent nor Squire George Canninge won’t interfere, and I’m left to fight it all out, and they’re beating me.”
“And why didn’t you tell me all this before, Bill?” said Miss Burge.
“Oh, I hadn’t the heart to talk about it, my dear,” replied her brother. “It’s all worry and vexation, that it is, and I wish I’d never done nothing for the schools at all.”
“Don’t say that, Bill, when you’ve done so much good.”
“But I do say it,” he cried angrily. “Here is everybody setting themselves again’ me, and it’s all jealousy because I’ve got on. I never asked no favours of ’em before; it’s all been give, give; and now they show what they’re all made of. It’s all horse-leeches’ daughters with ’em, that’s what it is, and I wish Plumton All Saints was burnt. All Saints indeed!” he cried indignantly; “it’s all devils, and no saints in it at all.”
“But can’t Mr Lambent settle it?”
“No, he couldn’t if he’d moved; and those two cats—there, I can’t call ’em anything else—who are always going about preaching charity and love to the poor people, and giving ’em ‘Dairyman’s Daughters’ instead of beef or tea, have been setting every one again’ the poor gal, and they’re at the bottom of it all I know. They hate her like poison.”
“Well, I don’t know about as bad as poison,” said little Miss Burge thoughtfully; “but they don’t like her, and I don’t think that Mrs Canninge likes her either.”
“No, I’m sure she don’t; but I don’t care,” said Mr William Forth Burge furiously. “I’m not beaten, and if that poor girl will stand by us, I’ll stand by her, to the last shilling I’ve got.”
“That’s right, Bill!” cried little Miss Burge enthusiastically, “for I do like her ever so; and the good, patient way in which she puts up with the fine airs and silly ways of her ma makes me like her more and more. I haven’t got a very bad temper, have I, Bill?”
“I think you’ve got a regular downright good ’un, Betsey,” said her brother, looking at her admiringly.
“Well, Bill, do you know if I was to go there much, Mrs Thorne would make me a regular spitfire. She gives me the hot creeps with her condescending, high-and-mighty ways. She’s come down in the world. Well, suppose she has. So’s thousands more, but they don’t—they don’t—”
“Howl,” said Mr William Forth Burge, “that’s it; they don’t howl. Lor a mussy me, what difference do it make? Do you know, Betsey, I believe I was just as happy when I first started business on my own account; and I’m sure I thought a deal more of my first new cart, with brass boxes and patent axles, painted chocklit—it was picked out with yallar—than I did of our new carriage, here, and pair. Ah! and my first mare, as I only give fifteen pun for, could get over the ground better than either of these for which I give two hundred because they was such a match.”
“There, now, you’re beginning to grumble again, Bill, and I won’t have it. You’ve grown to be a rich man, all out of your own cleverness, and you ought to be very proud of of it; and if you’re not, I am.”
“But, you see, Betsey, I ain’t so happy as I thought I should be.”
“Then you ought to be, seeing how happy you can make other folks; and oh, Bill, by-the-way, them Potts’s are in trouble.”
“Well, that ain’t nothing new. Potts always is in trouble. He ought to have been christened Beer Potts or Pewter Potts, though they don’t know what a pewter pot is down in this part of the world.”
“That’s better, Bill; now you’re beginning to joke,” said little Miss Burge, smiling, “But you’ll do something for the Potts’s?”
“I’ll never do nothing for anybody else again in the place,” said Mr William Forth Burge; “a set of ungrateful beggars. What’s the matter with Potts? Been tipsy again?”
“I’m afraid he has, Bill; but that isn’t it. They’ve got the fever there; that big, saucy girl, Feelier, is down with it and the poor mother wants money badly.”
“Why don’t she work for it, then?”
“Oh, she do, Bill; she’s the most hard-working woman in the place.”
Mr William Forth Burge’s hand went into his pocket, and he brought out five pounds, to place them in his sister’s hand.
“I wouldn’t give it her all at once, dear,” he said; “but a pound at a time like. It makes it do more good.”
Little Miss Burge had the tears in her eyes as she gave her brother a sounding smack on either cheek.
“Now, don’t you pretend again, Bill, that you ain’t happy here,” she said, “for ain’t it nice to be able to do a bit of good like this now and then?”
“Of course it is,” he replied, “but they only jumps on you afterwards. Here we’re going to do this, and p’r’aps save that child’s life; and as soon as she gets well the first thing she’ll do will be to make faces at your back in the school, as I’ve seen her do on Sundays over and over again.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, Bill.”
“But you’re not going to the house where that gal’s ill?”
“Oh no, Bill dear; I won’t go down. Don’t you be afraid about that. And look here; you make a big fight of it, and beat ’em about Miss Thorne.”
“I’m going to,” he replied. “But I say, Betsey,” he continued, half turning away his face.
“Yes, Bill.”
“Should—should—”
Mr William Forth Burge’s collar seemed to be very tight, for he thrust, one finger between it and his neck, and gave it a tug before continuing hoarsely—
“I never keep anything from you, Betsey?”
“No, Bill, you don’t. You always was a good brother.”
“Should—should you mind it much, Betsey, if I was to—to—get married?”
Little Miss Burge stood gazing at him silently for some minutes, and then she said softly—
“No, Bill; I don’t think I should. Not if it was some one nice, who would make you very happy.”
“She is very nice, and she would make me very happy,” he said slowly. “But, Betsey—my—dear—do—you—think—she’d—have me?”
Mr William Forth Burge’s words came very slowly indeed at last, and he rested his arms upon his knees and sat in a bent position, looking down at the carpet as if waiting to hear what was a sentence of great moment to his life.
“Bill dear, I know who you mean, of course,” said the little woman at last, tearfully. “I don’t know. She likes you, for she told me she did; but I shouldn’t be your own true sister if I didn’t say that p’r’aps it’s only as a friend; and that ain’t love, you know, Bill, is it?”
“No,” he said softly; “no, Betsey; you’re quite right, dear. But I’m going to try, and—and I’m only a common sort of a chap, dear—if she says no, I’m going to try and bear it like a man.”
“That’s my own dear—dear—O Bill, look; if there she isn’t coming up to the house!”
And little Miss Burge ran off to hide her tears.
Chapter Thirty Nine.William Forth Burge Makes Love.Mr William Forth Burge’s heart gave a big throb, and his red face assumed a mottled aspect as he went out to the front to welcome Hazel Thorne, who shook hands warmly; and her pale face lit up with a pleasant smile as he drew her hand through his arm and led her into the handsome breakfast-room, his heart big with what he wished to say, while he asked himself how he was to say it, and shrank trembling from the task.“Yes, my sister’s quite well,” he said, in answer to a question. “She’ll be here directly; and I hope the little girls are quite well. When may they come and spend the day?”“It is very kind of you, Mr Burge,” said Hazel, giving him a grateful look; “but I think they had better not come.”“Oh! I say, don’t talk like that,” he cried. “My dear Miss Thorne—”He could get no farther. He had made up his mind to declare his love, but his heart failed as he mentally told himself it would be madness to ask such a thing of one so different to himself.“She’ll go away again, and I shall have said nothing,” he thought. “It can’t never be, for she’s too young and nice for me.” And then, as is often the case, the opportunity came, and, to his own astonishment, William Forth Burge said, simply and honestly, all that was in his heart leaving him wondering, in spite of his pain, that he had spoken so truthfully and well.“You have always been so kind, Mr Burge,” began Hazel, “that I shrink from letting you think I impose upon your good nature; but one of my girls is down with a very serious illness, and I have come to ask you to help her poor mother in her time of trial.”“Help her? Why, of course,” he cried, leaving his chair and crossing to take Hazel’s hands. “Is there anything I wouldn’t do if you asked me, Miss Thorne? My dear, don’t think I’m purse-proud—because I tell you I’m a rich man; for I only say it so as you may know there’s plenty to do good with; and if you’ll come to me, my dear, and let it be yours or ours, or whatever you like to call it—there it is. You shall do as you like, and I’ll try, and I know Betsey will, to make you as happy as we can.”“Mr Burge!” cried Hazel piteously as she rose to her feet.“Just a minute,” he pleaded. “It isn’t nothing new. It’s been growing ever since you come down here. Don’t be offended with me. I know I’m twice as old as you, and more, and I’m very ordinary; but that don’t keep me from loving you very, very dear.”“Don’t—pray don’t say any more, Mr Burge,” cried Hazel appealingly. “I—I cannot bear it.”“No, no; don’t go yet, my dear,” he cried. “If you only knew what a job it has been to work myself up to say this, you wouldn’t be so hard as to stop me.”“Hard! Pray don’t call it hard, Mr Burge. I grieve to stop you, for you have been so truly kind to me ever since I came.”“Well, that isn’t saying much; my dear. Betsey and me was kind—I say that ain’t right, is it? I know now—Betsey and I was kind because we always liked you, and I thought it would be so nice if some day or other you could think me good enough to be your husband.”“Dear Mr Burge, you cut me to the heart, for I seem as if I were so ungrateful to you after all that you have done.”“Oh, no!” he said quickly; “you’re not ungrateful. You’re too pretty and good to do anything unkind.”“Mr Burge!”“You see, it is like this, my dear. I’m not much of a fellow; I never was.”“You have been the truest and kindest of friends, Mr Burge; and I esteem you very much.”“No! Do you, though?” he cried, brightening up and smiling. “Well, that does me good. I like to hear you say that, because I know you wouldn’t say anything that was not true.”“Indeed, I would not Mr Burge,” said Hazel, laying her hand upon his arm; and he took it quietly, and held it between both of his.“All the same, though,” he went on dolefully, “I am not much of a fellow, though I’ve been a very lucky one. I never used to think anything about the gals—the ladies, and they never took no notice of me, and I went on making money quite fast. I used to think of how prime it would be to have a grand house and gardeners down here at Plumton, and how Betsey would enjoy it; and then what a happy time I should have; but somehow it hasn’t turned out so well as I thought it would. You see, I’ve been a butcher—not a killing butcher, you know, but a selling butcher; and though the gentry’s very kind and patronising, and make speeches and no end of fuss about everything I do or say, I know all the time that they think I’m a tradesman, and always will be, no matter how rich I am.”“But I’m sure people esteem you very much, Mr Burge.”“No,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “they don’t. It’s the money they think of. You esteem me, my dear, because you’ve just told me so, and nothing but the truth never came out of those pretty little lips. They don’t think much of me. Why should they, seeing what a common-looking sort of fellow I am? No: don’t shake your head, because you know it as well as I do. I ain’t a gentleman, and if I’d twenty million times as much money it wouldn’t make a gentleman of me.”“And I say you are a gentleman, Mr Burge—a true, honest, nature’s gentleman, such as no birth, position, or appearance could make.”“No, no, no, my dear,” he said sadly; “I’m only a common man, who has been lucky and grown rich—that’s all.”“I say that you are a true gentleman, Mr Burge,” she cried again, “and that you are showing it by your tender respect and consideration for a poor, helpless, friendless girl.”“No: that you ain’t, my dear,” he cried with spirit; “not friendless; for as long as God lets William Forth Burge breathe on this earth, with money or without money, you’ve got a friend as’ll never forsake you, or say an unkind—lor’, just as if one could say an unkind word to you; I couldn’t even give you an unkind look. Why, I don’t, even now, when what you’ve said has cut me to the heart.”“I couldn’t—I couldn’t help it, Mr Burge,” she cried.“I suppose you couldn’t, my dear; but if you could have saidyesto me, and been my little wife—it isn’t money as I care to talk about to you—but the way in which I’d reglar downright worship you, and care for them as belongs to you, and the way in which you should do everything you liked, and have what you liked—There, I get lost with trying to think about it,” he said dolefully, “and I go all awkward over my grammar, as you, being a schoolmistress, must see, and make myself worse and worse in your eyes, and ten times more common than ever.”“No, no, no!” she cried excitedly; “I never, never thought half so much of you before, Mr Burge, as I do now. I never realised how true a gentleman you were, and how painful it would be to say to you what I now say. I do appreciate it—I do know how kind and generous you are to wish to make me your wife—now, in this time of bitter disgrace.”“Tchah!” he cried contemptuously; “who cares for the disgrace? I’d just as soon believe that the sun and moon had run up again’ one another in the night as that you had taken the beggarly school pence. Don’t say another word about it, my dear: it makes me mad, as I told Miss Rebecca and Miss Beatrice yesterday. I said it was a pack of humbugging lies, and they ought to be ashamed of themselves for believing it. I know who had—”“Hush! oh, pray hush!” cried Hazel piteously.“All right, my dear, mum’s the word; but don’t you never say no word to me again about you having taken the money. It’s insulting William Forth Burge, that’s what it is.”Hazel looked up sadly in his face, which was now scarlet with excitement.“I thank you, Mr Burge,” she said simply; and then, smiling, “Am I not right in saying that you are a true gentleman?”“No, no no, my dear; you are not right,” he replied sorrowfully.“But I am!” she cried.“No, my dear, no; but I know you think you are; and if—if you could go on thinking that I was just a little like a gentleman, you’d make me very happy indeed, for I do think a deal of you.”“It is no thought—no fancy, Mr Burge; but the truth.”“And if some day—say some day ever so far off—though it would be a pity to put it off long, for a fellow at my age don’t improve by keeping—I say if by-and-by—”“Mr Burge—dear Mr Burge—”“I say—say that again.”“Mr Burge,” said Hazel, laying her hands in his; “you have told me you loved me, and asked me to be your wife.”“Yes,” he said, kissing her hand reverently, “and it’s been like going out of my sphere.”“It would be cruel of me not to speak plainly to you.”“Yes,” he said dejectedly, “it would; though it’s very hard when a man’s been filling himself full of hope to find it all go—right off at once.”“It is my fate to bring misery and trouble amongst people,” she sobbed, “and I would have given anything to have spared you this. I respect and esteem you, Mr Burge, more than I can find words to say; but I could never love you as your wife.”He dropped the hand he held, and turned slowly away that she might not see the workings of his face; and then, laying his arms upon the mantelpiece, he let his head go down, and for the next few minutes he stood there, with his chest heaving, crying softly like a broken-hearted child.“I cannot bear it,” muttered Hazel, as she wrung her hands and gazed wildly about the sumptuously furnished room, as if in search of help; for the troubles of the past had told upon her nerves. She felt hysterical, and could not keep back her own tears, which at last burst forth in a wild fit of passionate sobbing, as she sank into the nearest chair and covered her face with her hands.This roused her suitor, who took out his flaming orange handkerchief, and used it freely and simply, finishing off, after he had wiped his eyes, with a loud and sonorous blow of his nose.“’Tain’t being a man!” he said, in a low tone. “I’m ’bout ashamed of myself. It’s weak and stoopid, and what will she think?”His face was very red now, but a bright, honest glow came into his eyes, and his next act showed how truly Hazel had judged his character and seen beneath the surface of the man. For, giving himself a sounding blow upon the chest, he pulled himself together, and the odd appearance, the vulgarity, all passed away as he crossed to where Hazel sat, weeping and sobbing bitterly.“Don’t you cry, my dear,” he said softly, as he stretched out one heavy hand and touched her gently and reverently upon the arm. “I beg your pardon for what I’ve said, though I’m not sorry; for it’s made us understand one another, and wakened me up from a foolish dream.”There was something in his voice that soothed Hazel, and the sobs grew less violent.“It wasn’t natural or right, and I ought to have known better than to have expected it; but they say every man gets his foolish fit some time or other in his life, and though mine was a long time coming, it came very strong at last. It’s all quite over, my dear, and I know better now, and I’m going to ask you to say once more that common, vulgar sort of fellow as I am, you are going to look upon me as your friend.”“Common!” cried Hazel hysterically, for the bonds that she had maintained for weeks had given way at last, and her woman’s weakness had resulted in tears and sobs. “Common!—vulgar! No, no!”She caught his hands in hers and pressed them to her lips. Then she would have sunk upon her knees and asked his pardon for the pain she had unwittingly caused, but he caught her in his arms and held her helplessly sobbing to his breast.They neither of them were aware that the drawing-room door was opened, and that Miss Burge and Rebecca Lambent had entered, the former to look tearfully on, the latter indignant as she muttered, “Shameless creature!” between her teeth.“What! have you made matters up, then, Bill?” cried Miss Burge excitedly as she ran forward. “Oh, my dear, my dear!”Her tears were flowing fast as she paused before them, trying to extricate her handkerchief from an awkward pocket and arrested by her brother’s words.“Yes, Betsey, we’ve made it up all right,” he said.“I—I didn’t think it,” sobbed Miss Burge.“No,” he said; “and it isn’t as you think, for this is our very, very dear young friend, Betsey, and—and as I’m plenty old enough to be her father, Hazel Thorne’s going to let me act by her like one, and stand by her through thick and thin, in spite of all that the world may say, including you, Miss Lambent.” He spoke proudly, as he drew Hazel closer to his breast, and stood there softly stroking her hair, with so frank and honest a light shining out of his eyes that it brightened the whole man.“Sir!” exclaimed Rebecca.“Madam!” he cried, “I don’t want to be rude; but, as your company can’t be pleasant to Miss Hazel Thorne, I’d take it kindly if you’d go.”“And I was ready to forget my position and marry a man like this,” muttered Rebecca as she walked down to the gate. “Oh, that creature! She came upon Plumton like a curse.”“Betsey, my dear,” said Mr William Forth Burge, speaking to his sister, but speaking at Hazel, “you and me never had anything kept from one another, and please God we never will, so I’ll tell you. I’ve been asking Miss Hazel Thorne here to be my wife.”“Yes, Bill dear, I know—I know,” sobbed little Miss Burge.“And while I’ve been asking her, it came over me like that I was wrong to ask her, and that it wouldn’t be natural and right.”“Oh, Bill dear!”“She’s been so good and tender, and kind and sensible, that it’s been like taking the scales from before my eyes, and been a sort of lesson to me; and somehow, my dear, I feel as if I was a different sort of man to what I was before. I’m not a speaker, and I can’t express myself as I should like to; but what I want to say is, that I feel as if I was more of a man and a bit wiser than I was.”“Oh, Bill dear!”“I’m getting on fast for fifty, Betsey dear, and Miss Thorne here—I should like to say Hazel Thorne here—is only two-and-twenty or thereabouts, and she’s going to be like our own child from now, if she will, and we’re going to try and keep away troubles for the future till she wants to go away. And now we won’t say any more about it, but let things settle down. Stop a minute, though, Hazel Thorne, my dear; you’ve made me a gentleman, and we shall be friends.”For answer Hazel left Miss Burge, who had been sitting by her with her arm round her waist, and, placing her hand in his, she looked him full in the eyes, seeing no longer the homeliness of the man, hearing no more his illiterate speech, but gazing as it were straight into his simple honest kindly heart. She hesitated for a moment, and then, reaching up she kissed, him as a child would kiss one she loved.
Mr William Forth Burge’s heart gave a big throb, and his red face assumed a mottled aspect as he went out to the front to welcome Hazel Thorne, who shook hands warmly; and her pale face lit up with a pleasant smile as he drew her hand through his arm and led her into the handsome breakfast-room, his heart big with what he wished to say, while he asked himself how he was to say it, and shrank trembling from the task.
“Yes, my sister’s quite well,” he said, in answer to a question. “She’ll be here directly; and I hope the little girls are quite well. When may they come and spend the day?”
“It is very kind of you, Mr Burge,” said Hazel, giving him a grateful look; “but I think they had better not come.”
“Oh! I say, don’t talk like that,” he cried. “My dear Miss Thorne—”
He could get no farther. He had made up his mind to declare his love, but his heart failed as he mentally told himself it would be madness to ask such a thing of one so different to himself.
“She’ll go away again, and I shall have said nothing,” he thought. “It can’t never be, for she’s too young and nice for me.” And then, as is often the case, the opportunity came, and, to his own astonishment, William Forth Burge said, simply and honestly, all that was in his heart leaving him wondering, in spite of his pain, that he had spoken so truthfully and well.
“You have always been so kind, Mr Burge,” began Hazel, “that I shrink from letting you think I impose upon your good nature; but one of my girls is down with a very serious illness, and I have come to ask you to help her poor mother in her time of trial.”
“Help her? Why, of course,” he cried, leaving his chair and crossing to take Hazel’s hands. “Is there anything I wouldn’t do if you asked me, Miss Thorne? My dear, don’t think I’m purse-proud—because I tell you I’m a rich man; for I only say it so as you may know there’s plenty to do good with; and if you’ll come to me, my dear, and let it be yours or ours, or whatever you like to call it—there it is. You shall do as you like, and I’ll try, and I know Betsey will, to make you as happy as we can.”
“Mr Burge!” cried Hazel piteously as she rose to her feet.
“Just a minute,” he pleaded. “It isn’t nothing new. It’s been growing ever since you come down here. Don’t be offended with me. I know I’m twice as old as you, and more, and I’m very ordinary; but that don’t keep me from loving you very, very dear.”
“Don’t—pray don’t say any more, Mr Burge,” cried Hazel appealingly. “I—I cannot bear it.”
“No, no; don’t go yet, my dear,” he cried. “If you only knew what a job it has been to work myself up to say this, you wouldn’t be so hard as to stop me.”
“Hard! Pray don’t call it hard, Mr Burge. I grieve to stop you, for you have been so truly kind to me ever since I came.”
“Well, that isn’t saying much; my dear. Betsey and me was kind—I say that ain’t right, is it? I know now—Betsey and I was kind because we always liked you, and I thought it would be so nice if some day or other you could think me good enough to be your husband.”
“Dear Mr Burge, you cut me to the heart, for I seem as if I were so ungrateful to you after all that you have done.”
“Oh, no!” he said quickly; “you’re not ungrateful. You’re too pretty and good to do anything unkind.”
“Mr Burge!”
“You see, it is like this, my dear. I’m not much of a fellow; I never was.”
“You have been the truest and kindest of friends, Mr Burge; and I esteem you very much.”
“No! Do you, though?” he cried, brightening up and smiling. “Well, that does me good. I like to hear you say that, because I know you wouldn’t say anything that was not true.”
“Indeed, I would not Mr Burge,” said Hazel, laying her hand upon his arm; and he took it quietly, and held it between both of his.
“All the same, though,” he went on dolefully, “I am not much of a fellow, though I’ve been a very lucky one. I never used to think anything about the gals—the ladies, and they never took no notice of me, and I went on making money quite fast. I used to think of how prime it would be to have a grand house and gardeners down here at Plumton, and how Betsey would enjoy it; and then what a happy time I should have; but somehow it hasn’t turned out so well as I thought it would. You see, I’ve been a butcher—not a killing butcher, you know, but a selling butcher; and though the gentry’s very kind and patronising, and make speeches and no end of fuss about everything I do or say, I know all the time that they think I’m a tradesman, and always will be, no matter how rich I am.”
“But I’m sure people esteem you very much, Mr Burge.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “they don’t. It’s the money they think of. You esteem me, my dear, because you’ve just told me so, and nothing but the truth never came out of those pretty little lips. They don’t think much of me. Why should they, seeing what a common-looking sort of fellow I am? No: don’t shake your head, because you know it as well as I do. I ain’t a gentleman, and if I’d twenty million times as much money it wouldn’t make a gentleman of me.”
“And I say you are a gentleman, Mr Burge—a true, honest, nature’s gentleman, such as no birth, position, or appearance could make.”
“No, no, no, my dear,” he said sadly; “I’m only a common man, who has been lucky and grown rich—that’s all.”
“I say that you are a true gentleman, Mr Burge,” she cried again, “and that you are showing it by your tender respect and consideration for a poor, helpless, friendless girl.”
“No: that you ain’t, my dear,” he cried with spirit; “not friendless; for as long as God lets William Forth Burge breathe on this earth, with money or without money, you’ve got a friend as’ll never forsake you, or say an unkind—lor’, just as if one could say an unkind word to you; I couldn’t even give you an unkind look. Why, I don’t, even now, when what you’ve said has cut me to the heart.”
“I couldn’t—I couldn’t help it, Mr Burge,” she cried.
“I suppose you couldn’t, my dear; but if you could have saidyesto me, and been my little wife—it isn’t money as I care to talk about to you—but the way in which I’d reglar downright worship you, and care for them as belongs to you, and the way in which you should do everything you liked, and have what you liked—There, I get lost with trying to think about it,” he said dolefully, “and I go all awkward over my grammar, as you, being a schoolmistress, must see, and make myself worse and worse in your eyes, and ten times more common than ever.”
“No, no, no!” she cried excitedly; “I never, never thought half so much of you before, Mr Burge, as I do now. I never realised how true a gentleman you were, and how painful it would be to say to you what I now say. I do appreciate it—I do know how kind and generous you are to wish to make me your wife—now, in this time of bitter disgrace.”
“Tchah!” he cried contemptuously; “who cares for the disgrace? I’d just as soon believe that the sun and moon had run up again’ one another in the night as that you had taken the beggarly school pence. Don’t say another word about it, my dear: it makes me mad, as I told Miss Rebecca and Miss Beatrice yesterday. I said it was a pack of humbugging lies, and they ought to be ashamed of themselves for believing it. I know who had—”
“Hush! oh, pray hush!” cried Hazel piteously.
“All right, my dear, mum’s the word; but don’t you never say no word to me again about you having taken the money. It’s insulting William Forth Burge, that’s what it is.”
Hazel looked up sadly in his face, which was now scarlet with excitement.
“I thank you, Mr Burge,” she said simply; and then, smiling, “Am I not right in saying that you are a true gentleman?”
“No, no no, my dear; you are not right,” he replied sorrowfully.
“But I am!” she cried.
“No, my dear, no; but I know you think you are; and if—if you could go on thinking that I was just a little like a gentleman, you’d make me very happy indeed, for I do think a deal of you.”
“It is no thought—no fancy, Mr Burge; but the truth.”
“And if some day—say some day ever so far off—though it would be a pity to put it off long, for a fellow at my age don’t improve by keeping—I say if by-and-by—”
“Mr Burge—dear Mr Burge—”
“I say—say that again.”
“Mr Burge,” said Hazel, laying her hands in his; “you have told me you loved me, and asked me to be your wife.”
“Yes,” he said, kissing her hand reverently, “and it’s been like going out of my sphere.”
“It would be cruel of me not to speak plainly to you.”
“Yes,” he said dejectedly, “it would; though it’s very hard when a man’s been filling himself full of hope to find it all go—right off at once.”
“It is my fate to bring misery and trouble amongst people,” she sobbed, “and I would have given anything to have spared you this. I respect and esteem you, Mr Burge, more than I can find words to say; but I could never love you as your wife.”
He dropped the hand he held, and turned slowly away that she might not see the workings of his face; and then, laying his arms upon the mantelpiece, he let his head go down, and for the next few minutes he stood there, with his chest heaving, crying softly like a broken-hearted child.
“I cannot bear it,” muttered Hazel, as she wrung her hands and gazed wildly about the sumptuously furnished room, as if in search of help; for the troubles of the past had told upon her nerves. She felt hysterical, and could not keep back her own tears, which at last burst forth in a wild fit of passionate sobbing, as she sank into the nearest chair and covered her face with her hands.
This roused her suitor, who took out his flaming orange handkerchief, and used it freely and simply, finishing off, after he had wiped his eyes, with a loud and sonorous blow of his nose.
“’Tain’t being a man!” he said, in a low tone. “I’m ’bout ashamed of myself. It’s weak and stoopid, and what will she think?”
His face was very red now, but a bright, honest glow came into his eyes, and his next act showed how truly Hazel had judged his character and seen beneath the surface of the man. For, giving himself a sounding blow upon the chest, he pulled himself together, and the odd appearance, the vulgarity, all passed away as he crossed to where Hazel sat, weeping and sobbing bitterly.
“Don’t you cry, my dear,” he said softly, as he stretched out one heavy hand and touched her gently and reverently upon the arm. “I beg your pardon for what I’ve said, though I’m not sorry; for it’s made us understand one another, and wakened me up from a foolish dream.”
There was something in his voice that soothed Hazel, and the sobs grew less violent.
“It wasn’t natural or right, and I ought to have known better than to have expected it; but they say every man gets his foolish fit some time or other in his life, and though mine was a long time coming, it came very strong at last. It’s all quite over, my dear, and I know better now, and I’m going to ask you to say once more that common, vulgar sort of fellow as I am, you are going to look upon me as your friend.”
“Common!” cried Hazel hysterically, for the bonds that she had maintained for weeks had given way at last, and her woman’s weakness had resulted in tears and sobs. “Common!—vulgar! No, no!”
She caught his hands in hers and pressed them to her lips. Then she would have sunk upon her knees and asked his pardon for the pain she had unwittingly caused, but he caught her in his arms and held her helplessly sobbing to his breast.
They neither of them were aware that the drawing-room door was opened, and that Miss Burge and Rebecca Lambent had entered, the former to look tearfully on, the latter indignant as she muttered, “Shameless creature!” between her teeth.
“What! have you made matters up, then, Bill?” cried Miss Burge excitedly as she ran forward. “Oh, my dear, my dear!”
Her tears were flowing fast as she paused before them, trying to extricate her handkerchief from an awkward pocket and arrested by her brother’s words.
“Yes, Betsey, we’ve made it up all right,” he said.
“I—I didn’t think it,” sobbed Miss Burge.
“No,” he said; “and it isn’t as you think, for this is our very, very dear young friend, Betsey, and—and as I’m plenty old enough to be her father, Hazel Thorne’s going to let me act by her like one, and stand by her through thick and thin, in spite of all that the world may say, including you, Miss Lambent.” He spoke proudly, as he drew Hazel closer to his breast, and stood there softly stroking her hair, with so frank and honest a light shining out of his eyes that it brightened the whole man.
“Sir!” exclaimed Rebecca.
“Madam!” he cried, “I don’t want to be rude; but, as your company can’t be pleasant to Miss Hazel Thorne, I’d take it kindly if you’d go.”
“And I was ready to forget my position and marry a man like this,” muttered Rebecca as she walked down to the gate. “Oh, that creature! She came upon Plumton like a curse.”
“Betsey, my dear,” said Mr William Forth Burge, speaking to his sister, but speaking at Hazel, “you and me never had anything kept from one another, and please God we never will, so I’ll tell you. I’ve been asking Miss Hazel Thorne here to be my wife.”
“Yes, Bill dear, I know—I know,” sobbed little Miss Burge.
“And while I’ve been asking her, it came over me like that I was wrong to ask her, and that it wouldn’t be natural and right.”
“Oh, Bill dear!”
“She’s been so good and tender, and kind and sensible, that it’s been like taking the scales from before my eyes, and been a sort of lesson to me; and somehow, my dear, I feel as if I was a different sort of man to what I was before. I’m not a speaker, and I can’t express myself as I should like to; but what I want to say is, that I feel as if I was more of a man and a bit wiser than I was.”
“Oh, Bill dear!”
“I’m getting on fast for fifty, Betsey dear, and Miss Thorne here—I should like to say Hazel Thorne here—is only two-and-twenty or thereabouts, and she’s going to be like our own child from now, if she will, and we’re going to try and keep away troubles for the future till she wants to go away. And now we won’t say any more about it, but let things settle down. Stop a minute, though, Hazel Thorne, my dear; you’ve made me a gentleman, and we shall be friends.”
For answer Hazel left Miss Burge, who had been sitting by her with her arm round her waist, and, placing her hand in his, she looked him full in the eyes, seeing no longer the homeliness of the man, hearing no more his illiterate speech, but gazing as it were straight into his simple honest kindly heart. She hesitated for a moment, and then, reaching up she kissed, him as a child would kiss one she loved.