Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Two.A Lesson in Teaching.After the plain manner in which the Reverend Henry Lambent had shown himself disposed to take the part of the young schoolmistress against his sisters, the attacks made by Rebecca and Beatrice were not so open; but they found many little ways of displaying in a petty spirit that they were by no means her friends.Ladies by birth, it was hardly to be expected that they should stoop to pettiness, but years of residence in a little country place with few people of their own class for associates, and that mutual friction which is an imperceptible popular educator in manners, had made them what they were, and disposed to grow more little of mind as the years went on. Their lives were too smooth and regular, too uneventful. A school examination, a blanket club, and a harvest festival, were the great points of their existence, and though they visited in the parish, and were supposed to make themselves acquainted with the cares and sorrows of the poor, their calls were made in a perfunctory spirit, and they did not possess that simple power of appealing to the heart which wins the confidence of rich and poor. Unfortunately, then, they grew narrower as their years became more, and, at the same time, from the want of some good, genuine, honest troubles to take them out of themselves, acidity began to cark and corrode their natures, and work a considerable change. If Rebecca Lambent had met with a man who possessed good firm qualities and been married, she would doubtless have turned out a quiet matronly body, ready to smile at trifles, and make the best of things; but unfortunately the righthehad never presented himself, and Rebecca had become a thorough district-visiting old maid, as narrow as could be, and ready to look upon a child who had not read “The Pilgrim’s Progress” as on the high road to destruction.Beatrice Lambent’s heart was still tender. Rebecca said that she quite hated men. Beatrice thought the declaration quite suitable, as far as her sister was concerned, but her own hatreds were directed at the other sex, and Hazel Thorne was made the scapegoat in her eyes to bear the sins of others. For as the days glided by, she felt a growing dislike to the young schoolmistress, who was always committing some grievous error, her last being that of accepting the glass of water offered to her by George Canninge.It would be going far to say that Beatrice Lambent would gladly have put poison in that water had she dared, but certainly she would gladly have dashed it in the recipient’s face.It was terrible to her that George Canninge—the hope to which her somewhat ardent imagination was now clinging as probably the last likely to come in her way—should take so much notice of this stranger girl, finding in her an attraction that asked from him the attentions he would in an ordinary way have paid to the vicar’s sister; and more than once she had shed tears on Mrs Canninge’s breast, when that lady bade her be of good cheer, and not to take any notice of these acts.“It is a mere nothing, my dear Beatrice,” said Mrs Canninge. “George is naturally very chivalrous, and he seems to have taken it into his head that this girl needs his help and protection.”“But it is so cruel to me,” sighed Beatrice. “If you could let him think it caused me pain, he might not act so again.”“My dear child,” replied Mrs Canninge, “you do not know my son so well as I. Poor boy, he is very headstrong, and fond of asserting himself. Depend upon it if I were to attempt to lead him towards you, the consequences would be disastrous. We should be setting him from sheer obstinacy towards this girl, who by-the-way appears to me to be either very innocent and weak, or else crafty and clever to a degree.”“But surely you cannot think she dare aspire to a thought of your son wishing to be attentive to her.”“Oh no, my dear child. That would be impossible. But there, do not trouble yourself about it. You will see that George has forgotten all about her in a few weeks.”Beatrice promised that she would not trouble, but went on growing more exercised in spirit day by day. She took herself to task also about several little acts of pettiness in which she had detected herself, and made a vow that she would not be so contemptible again, but preserve towards Hazel Thorne a ladylike dignity of manner that would be more in keeping with her position as sister of the vicar of Plumton All Saints.Human nature is, however, very weak, and the nature of Beatrice Lambent was a little weaker. She had always her sister Rebecca at her elbow—a lady who was rapidly becoming the incarnation of old-maidish pettiness and narrow-minded local policies—and strive how she would, Rebecca’s constant droppings kept wearing a nature which, though desirous of being firm, was not hardened like unto stone.The sisters attended the schools with their old readiness and every now and then, as if something within prompted her to be constantly watching for a chance of attack, Beatrice found herself making unpleasant remarks to or of Hazel Thorne and then going home angry and bitter, as she realised how ladylike and quiet the schoolmistress remained under every attack.For, calling up the whole strength of her character, Hazel had determined to persevere. She had several times been so cruelly mortified by the treatment of the sisters that she felt that she must go; but this was her first school, and she knew that she was bound to stay there a sufficient time to obtain good testimonials for a second.The vicar came down on the day following the examination, and told her that the inspector had expressed himself greatly disappointed at the state of the school.“I am sorry to say, Miss Thorne, that he casually let drop his intention of speaking rather hardly respecting our state, which—I am afraid I must tell you his exact words.”“If you please, sir,” said Hazel quietly; and she raised her eyes with the strange effect of making him lower his, and speak in a quick, indirect way.“He said that the state the school was the more to be deplored from the fact that we had secured a young lady of evident power of teaching. The object lesson, he said, was most masterly, and therefore—”The vicar stopped and raised his eyes for a moment to meet the dear, candid look that seemed to search his soul.“Pray tell me all, sir.”“I—I hesitate. Miss Thorne,” he said, “because I do not think the inspector’s opinion was just.”“I thank you, sir,” said Hazel gravely.“He—he suggested that you could not be giving your heart to your work, and that in consequence the children were far more backward than in either of the neighbouring schools.”“It must be from want of ability, sir,” said Hazel; “for I cannot charge myself with neglecting my duties in the slightest degree.”“Exactly. I am sure of it. I know you have not, Miss Thorne. I merely repeat the inspector’s words as a kind of duty, and I leave it to you to make any alterations you may think best in the direction of your teaching, for I sincerely hope that we may have a better account to show on Mr Barracombe’s next visit.”He smiled gravely, bowed, and went away with a longing desire to shake hands, but this he kept down, and walked hurriedly home.The vicar’s sisters were not so agreeable in their remarks upon their first visit after the inspection. They did not attack Hazel with rebuke upon the poor way in which the girls had shown up, but condoled with her in that peculiarly aggravating manner adopted by some women towards those they do not admire.“We were so sorry for you, Miss Thorne,” said Rebecca; “my heart quite bled to see how badly the children answered.”“And it seemed to me such a pity,” said Beatrice, “that they will be so inattentive to the many orders you must have given them about their needlework. Did it not strike you as being exceedingly grubby?”That word “grubby” was brought out in a way that was absolutely wonderful. The pronunciation was decidedly Parisian in the rolling of the r, and Miss Beatrice seemed to keep the word upon her tongue, turning it about so as to thoroughly taste how nasty it was before she allowed it to pass forth into the open air.“The girls do make their work exceedingly dirty before it is done,” said Hazel quietly. “I deeply regretted, too, that they should have answered so badly. I am afraid that it was often from their not understanding the questions.”“Oh, I don’t think that, Miss Thorne,” said Rebecca, with a kind of snap. “You’ll excuse me, I set it down to their ignorance.”“And yet, Miss Lambent, I next day asked the girls as many of the inspector’s questions as I could recall, and they answered them with the greatest ease.”“Oh, really, Miss Thorne, I cannot agree with you there,” said Beatrice, with an unpleasant smile. “If they could answer you, why could they not answer the inspector?”“From inability to understand him, ma’am.”“I could understand every question. Rebecca, could not you!”“Every word, sister. I thought Mr Barracombe singularly clear and perspicuous. The very model of a school inspector.”Hazel bowed.“I shall try very hard to make them more ready in their answers by another time,” she said with humility.“I hope you will, I am sure, Miss Thorne,” said Beatrice, “for it must have been very painful to you, even as it is to us, to know that you have had a bad report of your school. May we—do you object to our taking a class each for a very little while?”“Which class would you like, ma’am?” said Hazel gravely, in reply.“Oh, whichever you please, Miss Thorne; we never like interfering between the mistress and her pupils, and wish to be of help so as to get the children on—do we not, Rebecca?”“Decidedly, Beatrice. To help you. Miss Thorne: certainly not to usurp your position. I thought if we could take a class for you now and then in Scripture history it might be useful to you. Perhaps—I say it with all deference. Miss Thorne, to one who has been trained—you are not so strong in Scripture history as we are.”“I feel my weakness in many subjects, Miss Lambent,” replied Hazel.“Oh no, don’t say that,” said Beatrice, with a flash of her cold blue eyes. “You are so very clever. Miss Thorne. We were quite struck by your object lesson. But Scripture history, you know. We have been always with our brother, and we have made it so deep a study that it has come natural to us to have all these theological matters at our tongues’ ends. Catechism, too—I think, Rebecca, we remarked that the girls were much behind in ‘Duty towards my Neighbour’ and ‘I desire.’”“Very much so, Beatrice; and ‘Death unto Sin’ was dreadful.”“So was ‘To examine themselves,’” said Beatrice. “I think, Miss Thorne, we might be of some assistance there.”“I shall be very glad of your help. Miss Lambent,” said Hazel, who was quite unmoved. “Pray do not think I resent or should resent your coming at any time. No amount of time could be too much to spend upon the children.”“That’s her nasty, cunning assumption of humility,” thought Beatrice. “She hates our coming, but she dare not say so.”“Is there any other branch where we might assist you, Miss Thorne?” asked Rebecca. “There are so many girls, and you are—you will excuse me for saying so—you are very young, and I could not help noticing—pray before I go any farther fully understand that we would not on any account interfere. As you must have seen, our brother the vicar objects to the proper duties of the schoolmistress being interfered with.”Hazel hid her mortification, bowed, and Rebecca went on—“I could not, I say, help noticing that the girls displayed a want of discipline.”“Yes; I noticed that with sorrow,” said Beatrice, giving Hazel a look of tender regret.“And I thought if we could help you to impress upon the children more of the spirit of that beautiful lesson in the Catechism—”Miss Lambent drew herself up stiffly, closed her eyes, stretched out one hand in a remarkably baggy glove, and recited loudly enough for the girls to hear—“‘To submit myself to all my governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters. To order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters.’ Would you object, Miss Thorne, to the girls all repeating that aloud?”Hazel signed to the girls to stand, when there was a rush up like a human wave, and in all pitches of voice the familiar portion of “My duty towards my Neighbour” was repeated several times over after Miss Lambent who waved her hands like a musical conductor, and gave peculiar cadences to her voice as she went on over the sentences again and again, in happy unconsciousness that Feelier Potts was saying, “Oh, Goody me! Oh, Goody me!” in constant iteration, instead of the prescribed forms, and making Ann Straggalls laugh.“I think that will do,” said Miss Lambent, smiling. “If we can make the children thoroughly take to heart, and then digest mentally the beauty of those orderly words, the discipline of the school will be greatly improved.—Sit!”The order coming from fresh lips, some of the girls sat down, while some remained standing, and, just as Miss Lambent repeated her command with a shrill intonation, Hazel made a sign with her hand, and every girl resumed her place.“Now, once more,” cried Miss Lambent; “stand!”The girls rose readily, and the lady who strongly objected to any interference with the mistress, shook her head, and cried—“Sit!”The girls resumed their seats this time pretty well, and rose at the word of command.“There, you see. Miss Thorne, it is soon done. I think you will be able to get them well in order in time. Oh, by-the-way, Beatrice, did you say anything to Miss Thorne about punishing Potts?”“No; I thought you meant to mention it. Will you do so now?”“You will speak to her upon the subject, I will go and take the juvenile class.”As she spoke, Rebecca went off to the lower end of the schoolroom, while Beatricehemmedto clear her voice.“My sister thinks that Ophelia Potts ought to be severely punished, and held up as an example to the whole school, Miss Thorne. Of course you have punished her?”“No, I have not punished her, Miss Lambent; but I have talked to her a great deal.”“Not punished her, Miss Thorne! Dear me, I am surprised. The girl was most rude and impertinent on the inspection day. I really wonder that you have not punished her severely. She sets a bad example to the whole school.”At that very moment the young lady in question was behaving most dramatically, copying every motion of Miss Lambent, who was gesticulating and shaking her head a good deal while teaching the juvenile class; but catching Hazel’s eye, the girl bent at once over her slate.“Ophelia Potts.”“A most absurd name, Miss Thorne! Why could not they call her Jane or Sarah?”“Parents have curious fancies in the names they give their children, ma’am,” replied Hazel. “This girl is of a singular disposition, and I cannot help thinking that punishment would harden her.”“But you saw how she behaved, Miss Thorne. Why do you say that?”“The girl is of a very affectionate disposition, and I think I can win her over by kindness. She is very clever, and one of my best pupils, and I think in time she will be all I could desire.”“I must beg to differ from you. Miss Thorne,” said Beatrice, shaking her head. “I have known Ophelia Potts four years, and I am perfectly sure that nothing but severe castigation will ever work a change in her. But of course that is for you to decide. My sister and I could not think of interfering. We only wish, as you are so young, to offer you a few suggestions, and to be of whatever service we can.”“I am very grateful. Miss Lambent—”“Miss Beatrice Lambent, if you please,” said the lady in corrective tones. “My sister is Miss Lambent.”“Miss Beatrice Lambent,” said Hazel gravely; “and I shall always strive to avail myself in every way of your and your sister’s assistance.”“She is as deceitful as can be,” said Beatrice spitefully, as they were walking home. “That abominable humility makes me feel as if I could box her ears, for it is all as false as false.”“Henry is perfectly stupid about her,” replied Rebecca. “He thinks her a prodigy; but mark my words, Beatrice, he’ll find her out before long, and bitterly repent not having sent her about her business at once.”“I can’t imagine what Henry is thinking about,” sighed Beatrice; “but he will find out his mistake.”Somewhere about this time Hazel had dismissed the girls, and told Feelier Potts to stop back, an order which that young lady obeyed for a few moments and then made a rush for the door.“Ophelia!”The girl’s hand was already on the latch, and in another moment she would have darted through; but Hazel Thorne’s quiet voice seemed to affect her in a way that she could not understand, and letting her hand fall to her side, she hesitated and turned.“Come here, Ophelia.”The girl hung back for a moment, and then, as if drawn to the speaker, she approached in a slow, half-sulky, defiant way, gazing sideways at her teacher, and seeming ready to dart off at a word.“She’d better not hit me,” thought Feelier. “I won’t never come no more if she do. I’ll soon let her know, see if I don’t.”By this time she was close up to Hazel, who, instead of looking at her in a mending way, smiled at the girl’s awkward approach and suspicious gaze.“You think I am going to punish you, Ophelia, do you not?”“Yes, teacher; Miss Lambent told you to.”“Miss Lambent said that you deserved punishment for behaving badly in school, but I told her that there was no need, for I am going to ask you to help me, Ophelia, and not give me more work to do. There are so many girls, and if they are tiresome, my work grows very, very hard.”“The girls are very tiresome, please, teacher.”“Then why don’t you help me in trying to keep them quiet? You do know so much better.”The girl looked up at her with one eye, and a general aspect as if some progenitor had been a magpie.“I mean it, Ophelia. You are a quick, clever girl, and know so much better. It grieves me when you will play tricks, and make my work so hard.”“Please, teacher, may I go now? Mother wants me.”“You shall go directly, Ophelia; but I want you to promise me that you will be a better girl.”“Please, teacher, mother leathers the boys if they don’t get home in time for dinner, and dinner must be ready now.”“You shall go directly, my child; but will you promise me?”“If I don’t get home to dinner, teacher, I shan’t be ’lowed to come ’safternoon.”“Then you will not promise me, Ophelia?”The girl gave a half-sulky, half-cunning look at the speaker, and then, taking a weary nod of the head to mean permission, she darted away, and the schoolroom door closed after her with a loud bang.

After the plain manner in which the Reverend Henry Lambent had shown himself disposed to take the part of the young schoolmistress against his sisters, the attacks made by Rebecca and Beatrice were not so open; but they found many little ways of displaying in a petty spirit that they were by no means her friends.

Ladies by birth, it was hardly to be expected that they should stoop to pettiness, but years of residence in a little country place with few people of their own class for associates, and that mutual friction which is an imperceptible popular educator in manners, had made them what they were, and disposed to grow more little of mind as the years went on. Their lives were too smooth and regular, too uneventful. A school examination, a blanket club, and a harvest festival, were the great points of their existence, and though they visited in the parish, and were supposed to make themselves acquainted with the cares and sorrows of the poor, their calls were made in a perfunctory spirit, and they did not possess that simple power of appealing to the heart which wins the confidence of rich and poor. Unfortunately, then, they grew narrower as their years became more, and, at the same time, from the want of some good, genuine, honest troubles to take them out of themselves, acidity began to cark and corrode their natures, and work a considerable change. If Rebecca Lambent had met with a man who possessed good firm qualities and been married, she would doubtless have turned out a quiet matronly body, ready to smile at trifles, and make the best of things; but unfortunately the righthehad never presented himself, and Rebecca had become a thorough district-visiting old maid, as narrow as could be, and ready to look upon a child who had not read “The Pilgrim’s Progress” as on the high road to destruction.

Beatrice Lambent’s heart was still tender. Rebecca said that she quite hated men. Beatrice thought the declaration quite suitable, as far as her sister was concerned, but her own hatreds were directed at the other sex, and Hazel Thorne was made the scapegoat in her eyes to bear the sins of others. For as the days glided by, she felt a growing dislike to the young schoolmistress, who was always committing some grievous error, her last being that of accepting the glass of water offered to her by George Canninge.

It would be going far to say that Beatrice Lambent would gladly have put poison in that water had she dared, but certainly she would gladly have dashed it in the recipient’s face.

It was terrible to her that George Canninge—the hope to which her somewhat ardent imagination was now clinging as probably the last likely to come in her way—should take so much notice of this stranger girl, finding in her an attraction that asked from him the attentions he would in an ordinary way have paid to the vicar’s sister; and more than once she had shed tears on Mrs Canninge’s breast, when that lady bade her be of good cheer, and not to take any notice of these acts.

“It is a mere nothing, my dear Beatrice,” said Mrs Canninge. “George is naturally very chivalrous, and he seems to have taken it into his head that this girl needs his help and protection.”

“But it is so cruel to me,” sighed Beatrice. “If you could let him think it caused me pain, he might not act so again.”

“My dear child,” replied Mrs Canninge, “you do not know my son so well as I. Poor boy, he is very headstrong, and fond of asserting himself. Depend upon it if I were to attempt to lead him towards you, the consequences would be disastrous. We should be setting him from sheer obstinacy towards this girl, who by-the-way appears to me to be either very innocent and weak, or else crafty and clever to a degree.”

“But surely you cannot think she dare aspire to a thought of your son wishing to be attentive to her.”

“Oh no, my dear child. That would be impossible. But there, do not trouble yourself about it. You will see that George has forgotten all about her in a few weeks.”

Beatrice promised that she would not trouble, but went on growing more exercised in spirit day by day. She took herself to task also about several little acts of pettiness in which she had detected herself, and made a vow that she would not be so contemptible again, but preserve towards Hazel Thorne a ladylike dignity of manner that would be more in keeping with her position as sister of the vicar of Plumton All Saints.

Human nature is, however, very weak, and the nature of Beatrice Lambent was a little weaker. She had always her sister Rebecca at her elbow—a lady who was rapidly becoming the incarnation of old-maidish pettiness and narrow-minded local policies—and strive how she would, Rebecca’s constant droppings kept wearing a nature which, though desirous of being firm, was not hardened like unto stone.

The sisters attended the schools with their old readiness and every now and then, as if something within prompted her to be constantly watching for a chance of attack, Beatrice found herself making unpleasant remarks to or of Hazel Thorne and then going home angry and bitter, as she realised how ladylike and quiet the schoolmistress remained under every attack.

For, calling up the whole strength of her character, Hazel had determined to persevere. She had several times been so cruelly mortified by the treatment of the sisters that she felt that she must go; but this was her first school, and she knew that she was bound to stay there a sufficient time to obtain good testimonials for a second.

The vicar came down on the day following the examination, and told her that the inspector had expressed himself greatly disappointed at the state of the school.

“I am sorry to say, Miss Thorne, that he casually let drop his intention of speaking rather hardly respecting our state, which—I am afraid I must tell you his exact words.”

“If you please, sir,” said Hazel quietly; and she raised her eyes with the strange effect of making him lower his, and speak in a quick, indirect way.

“He said that the state the school was the more to be deplored from the fact that we had secured a young lady of evident power of teaching. The object lesson, he said, was most masterly, and therefore—”

The vicar stopped and raised his eyes for a moment to meet the dear, candid look that seemed to search his soul.

“Pray tell me all, sir.”

“I—I hesitate. Miss Thorne,” he said, “because I do not think the inspector’s opinion was just.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Hazel gravely.

“He—he suggested that you could not be giving your heart to your work, and that in consequence the children were far more backward than in either of the neighbouring schools.”

“It must be from want of ability, sir,” said Hazel; “for I cannot charge myself with neglecting my duties in the slightest degree.”

“Exactly. I am sure of it. I know you have not, Miss Thorne. I merely repeat the inspector’s words as a kind of duty, and I leave it to you to make any alterations you may think best in the direction of your teaching, for I sincerely hope that we may have a better account to show on Mr Barracombe’s next visit.”

He smiled gravely, bowed, and went away with a longing desire to shake hands, but this he kept down, and walked hurriedly home.

The vicar’s sisters were not so agreeable in their remarks upon their first visit after the inspection. They did not attack Hazel with rebuke upon the poor way in which the girls had shown up, but condoled with her in that peculiarly aggravating manner adopted by some women towards those they do not admire.

“We were so sorry for you, Miss Thorne,” said Rebecca; “my heart quite bled to see how badly the children answered.”

“And it seemed to me such a pity,” said Beatrice, “that they will be so inattentive to the many orders you must have given them about their needlework. Did it not strike you as being exceedingly grubby?”

That word “grubby” was brought out in a way that was absolutely wonderful. The pronunciation was decidedly Parisian in the rolling of the r, and Miss Beatrice seemed to keep the word upon her tongue, turning it about so as to thoroughly taste how nasty it was before she allowed it to pass forth into the open air.

“The girls do make their work exceedingly dirty before it is done,” said Hazel quietly. “I deeply regretted, too, that they should have answered so badly. I am afraid that it was often from their not understanding the questions.”

“Oh, I don’t think that, Miss Thorne,” said Rebecca, with a kind of snap. “You’ll excuse me, I set it down to their ignorance.”

“And yet, Miss Lambent, I next day asked the girls as many of the inspector’s questions as I could recall, and they answered them with the greatest ease.”

“Oh, really, Miss Thorne, I cannot agree with you there,” said Beatrice, with an unpleasant smile. “If they could answer you, why could they not answer the inspector?”

“From inability to understand him, ma’am.”

“I could understand every question. Rebecca, could not you!”

“Every word, sister. I thought Mr Barracombe singularly clear and perspicuous. The very model of a school inspector.”

Hazel bowed.

“I shall try very hard to make them more ready in their answers by another time,” she said with humility.

“I hope you will, I am sure, Miss Thorne,” said Beatrice, “for it must have been very painful to you, even as it is to us, to know that you have had a bad report of your school. May we—do you object to our taking a class each for a very little while?”

“Which class would you like, ma’am?” said Hazel gravely, in reply.

“Oh, whichever you please, Miss Thorne; we never like interfering between the mistress and her pupils, and wish to be of help so as to get the children on—do we not, Rebecca?”

“Decidedly, Beatrice. To help you. Miss Thorne: certainly not to usurp your position. I thought if we could take a class for you now and then in Scripture history it might be useful to you. Perhaps—I say it with all deference. Miss Thorne, to one who has been trained—you are not so strong in Scripture history as we are.”

“I feel my weakness in many subjects, Miss Lambent,” replied Hazel.

“Oh no, don’t say that,” said Beatrice, with a flash of her cold blue eyes. “You are so very clever. Miss Thorne. We were quite struck by your object lesson. But Scripture history, you know. We have been always with our brother, and we have made it so deep a study that it has come natural to us to have all these theological matters at our tongues’ ends. Catechism, too—I think, Rebecca, we remarked that the girls were much behind in ‘Duty towards my Neighbour’ and ‘I desire.’”

“Very much so, Beatrice; and ‘Death unto Sin’ was dreadful.”

“So was ‘To examine themselves,’” said Beatrice. “I think, Miss Thorne, we might be of some assistance there.”

“I shall be very glad of your help. Miss Lambent,” said Hazel, who was quite unmoved. “Pray do not think I resent or should resent your coming at any time. No amount of time could be too much to spend upon the children.”

“That’s her nasty, cunning assumption of humility,” thought Beatrice. “She hates our coming, but she dare not say so.”

“Is there any other branch where we might assist you, Miss Thorne?” asked Rebecca. “There are so many girls, and you are—you will excuse me for saying so—you are very young, and I could not help noticing—pray before I go any farther fully understand that we would not on any account interfere. As you must have seen, our brother the vicar objects to the proper duties of the schoolmistress being interfered with.”

Hazel hid her mortification, bowed, and Rebecca went on—

“I could not, I say, help noticing that the girls displayed a want of discipline.”

“Yes; I noticed that with sorrow,” said Beatrice, giving Hazel a look of tender regret.

“And I thought if we could help you to impress upon the children more of the spirit of that beautiful lesson in the Catechism—”

Miss Lambent drew herself up stiffly, closed her eyes, stretched out one hand in a remarkably baggy glove, and recited loudly enough for the girls to hear—

“‘To submit myself to all my governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters. To order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters.’ Would you object, Miss Thorne, to the girls all repeating that aloud?”

Hazel signed to the girls to stand, when there was a rush up like a human wave, and in all pitches of voice the familiar portion of “My duty towards my Neighbour” was repeated several times over after Miss Lambent who waved her hands like a musical conductor, and gave peculiar cadences to her voice as she went on over the sentences again and again, in happy unconsciousness that Feelier Potts was saying, “Oh, Goody me! Oh, Goody me!” in constant iteration, instead of the prescribed forms, and making Ann Straggalls laugh.

“I think that will do,” said Miss Lambent, smiling. “If we can make the children thoroughly take to heart, and then digest mentally the beauty of those orderly words, the discipline of the school will be greatly improved.—Sit!”

The order coming from fresh lips, some of the girls sat down, while some remained standing, and, just as Miss Lambent repeated her command with a shrill intonation, Hazel made a sign with her hand, and every girl resumed her place.

“Now, once more,” cried Miss Lambent; “stand!”

The girls rose readily, and the lady who strongly objected to any interference with the mistress, shook her head, and cried—

“Sit!”

The girls resumed their seats this time pretty well, and rose at the word of command.

“There, you see. Miss Thorne, it is soon done. I think you will be able to get them well in order in time. Oh, by-the-way, Beatrice, did you say anything to Miss Thorne about punishing Potts?”

“No; I thought you meant to mention it. Will you do so now?”

“You will speak to her upon the subject, I will go and take the juvenile class.”

As she spoke, Rebecca went off to the lower end of the schoolroom, while Beatricehemmedto clear her voice.

“My sister thinks that Ophelia Potts ought to be severely punished, and held up as an example to the whole school, Miss Thorne. Of course you have punished her?”

“No, I have not punished her, Miss Lambent; but I have talked to her a great deal.”

“Not punished her, Miss Thorne! Dear me, I am surprised. The girl was most rude and impertinent on the inspection day. I really wonder that you have not punished her severely. She sets a bad example to the whole school.”

At that very moment the young lady in question was behaving most dramatically, copying every motion of Miss Lambent, who was gesticulating and shaking her head a good deal while teaching the juvenile class; but catching Hazel’s eye, the girl bent at once over her slate.

“Ophelia Potts.”

“A most absurd name, Miss Thorne! Why could not they call her Jane or Sarah?”

“Parents have curious fancies in the names they give their children, ma’am,” replied Hazel. “This girl is of a singular disposition, and I cannot help thinking that punishment would harden her.”

“But you saw how she behaved, Miss Thorne. Why do you say that?”

“The girl is of a very affectionate disposition, and I think I can win her over by kindness. She is very clever, and one of my best pupils, and I think in time she will be all I could desire.”

“I must beg to differ from you. Miss Thorne,” said Beatrice, shaking her head. “I have known Ophelia Potts four years, and I am perfectly sure that nothing but severe castigation will ever work a change in her. But of course that is for you to decide. My sister and I could not think of interfering. We only wish, as you are so young, to offer you a few suggestions, and to be of whatever service we can.”

“I am very grateful. Miss Lambent—”

“Miss Beatrice Lambent, if you please,” said the lady in corrective tones. “My sister is Miss Lambent.”

“Miss Beatrice Lambent,” said Hazel gravely; “and I shall always strive to avail myself in every way of your and your sister’s assistance.”

“She is as deceitful as can be,” said Beatrice spitefully, as they were walking home. “That abominable humility makes me feel as if I could box her ears, for it is all as false as false.”

“Henry is perfectly stupid about her,” replied Rebecca. “He thinks her a prodigy; but mark my words, Beatrice, he’ll find her out before long, and bitterly repent not having sent her about her business at once.”

“I can’t imagine what Henry is thinking about,” sighed Beatrice; “but he will find out his mistake.”

Somewhere about this time Hazel had dismissed the girls, and told Feelier Potts to stop back, an order which that young lady obeyed for a few moments and then made a rush for the door.

“Ophelia!”

The girl’s hand was already on the latch, and in another moment she would have darted through; but Hazel Thorne’s quiet voice seemed to affect her in a way that she could not understand, and letting her hand fall to her side, she hesitated and turned.

“Come here, Ophelia.”

The girl hung back for a moment, and then, as if drawn to the speaker, she approached in a slow, half-sulky, defiant way, gazing sideways at her teacher, and seeming ready to dart off at a word.

“She’d better not hit me,” thought Feelier. “I won’t never come no more if she do. I’ll soon let her know, see if I don’t.”

By this time she was close up to Hazel, who, instead of looking at her in a mending way, smiled at the girl’s awkward approach and suspicious gaze.

“You think I am going to punish you, Ophelia, do you not?”

“Yes, teacher; Miss Lambent told you to.”

“Miss Lambent said that you deserved punishment for behaving badly in school, but I told her that there was no need, for I am going to ask you to help me, Ophelia, and not give me more work to do. There are so many girls, and if they are tiresome, my work grows very, very hard.”

“The girls are very tiresome, please, teacher.”

“Then why don’t you help me in trying to keep them quiet? You do know so much better.”

The girl looked up at her with one eye, and a general aspect as if some progenitor had been a magpie.

“I mean it, Ophelia. You are a quick, clever girl, and know so much better. It grieves me when you will play tricks, and make my work so hard.”

“Please, teacher, may I go now? Mother wants me.”

“You shall go directly, Ophelia; but I want you to promise me that you will be a better girl.”

“Please, teacher, mother leathers the boys if they don’t get home in time for dinner, and dinner must be ready now.”

“You shall go directly, my child; but will you promise me?”

“If I don’t get home to dinner, teacher, I shan’t be ’lowed to come ’safternoon.”

“Then you will not promise me, Ophelia?”

The girl gave a half-sulky, half-cunning look at the speaker, and then, taking a weary nod of the head to mean permission, she darted away, and the schoolroom door closed after her with a loud bang.

Chapter Twenty Three.Nosegays are not always Sweet.“Please, teacher, I’ve brought you some flowers.”Hazel Thorne turned round, to find that the speaker was Feelier Potts, who was holding up a goodly bunch of roses, snapdragons, rose bay, and other homely flowers tied up with some considerable amount of taste, save that the band which held the blossoms against a good background of ribbon grass was a long strip of flannel list, that made the bunch bulky and strange.There was a curious, half-defiant, half-smiling look in the girl’s face, as she handed the nosegay, and Hazel hesitated for a moment, and looked severe, for it was as if the flowers were meant as a peace-offering or bribe, to act as a passport in connection with Miss Feelier Potts’ evasion on the previous day.Feelier saw the look, and was drawing back the nosegay with her expressive young face full of chagrin, but she brightened directly as her teacher smiled, took the flowers, smelt them, and said—“How sweet! Thank you, Ophelia. Will you be kind enough to go indoors for me, and ask for a jug of water to place them in?”“Yes, teacher,” cried the girl excitedly, and she rushed off, to come back with the jug, into which the flowers, after being relieved of their flannel outer garment, were placed, and then stood upon the corner of the desk, while from time to time that morning Feelier’s eyes twinkled as she glanced at the post of honour occupied by her present, and then gazed triumphantly round at her fellow-pupils, whispering every now and then—“I gave teacher them flowers.”Mr Samuel Chute also saw those flowers through the opening between two shutters, and he noted how from time to time Hazel went to her desk and smelt the roses. This fired him with the idea that he must make Hazel the offer of another bouquet himself, and he concluded that, by the way in which those flowers were received, he might tell how his love affairs were likely to prosper.For they did not seem to progress so well as he could wish. Time back he had determined that the last person in the world for him to marry would be a schoolmistress. His idea was to “marry money,” as he termed it, a notion highly applauded by Mrs Chute, who gave it as her opinion that her son was a match for any lady in the land. But when the new mistress rose upon the horizon of his view he altered his mind, and concluded not only that he would marry a schoolmistress, but thattheschoolmistress he would marry was Hazel Thorne.“You do as you like, Samuel, of course,” said Mrs Chute; “but to my mind she’s not good enough for you. But you do as you like.”Mr Chute made up his mind that he would do as he liked, and among the things he determined to do as he liked about was the giving of a bouquet, only he did not know how to compass it; for flowers of a superior kind were not plentiful at Plumton All Saints, and the only way to obtain anything at all chaste was to apply to Mr Canninge’s gardeners at Ardley, or to Mr William Forth Burge’s, or the rectory.This was awkward but unavoidable, and, besides, he said to himself. Hazel Thorne would never know whence they came.So Mr Chute made a mental notereflowers, and then went on with his lesson-giving, while Feelier Potts, who was wonderfully quiet and well-behaved, went on dilating about her present and rejoicing in the grand position of donor of flowers to the manager of the school.How quickly passing are our greatest joys. Just as Feelier was confiding to a girl in the second class, now seated back to back, that she gave teacher them flowers, there was a loud dab at the panel of the door, and directly after a rattling of the latch, as a fierce-looking woman walked straight in, exclaiming loudly—“Where’s my gal? I want that gal of mine.”Feelier Potts saw the stout fierce-looking woman, whose aspect indicated that she had been washing, enter the schoolroom, and knew perfectly well who she was and what she wanted, but Feelier sat perfectly still, and ready to disown all relationship, probably from a faint hope that she might rest unseen; but it was not to be, for, as the stout woman raised her voice and exclaimed again, “Where’s my gal?” fat Ann Straggalls, with the most amiable of intentions, and prompted by a notable desire to do the best she could to oblige, exclaimed loudly—“Please, Mrs Potts, Feelier’s here. Oh—oh! Please, teacher, Feelier—oh my! oh!”Ann Straggalls was howling loudly, for, just as she finished her announcement of Feelier’s whereabouts, that young lady threw out one youthful leg, and delivered a sharp kick on Ann Straggalls’ shin, the kick being the sharper from the fact that the class of boot worn by the Potts family was that known as “stout” and furnished with nails.“What is the matter here?” exclaimed Hazel, hurrying to the spot.“Oh, it’s that gal of mine,” said Mrs Potts, also hurrying up from another direction. “You just come here, miss.”“Please, teacher, Ann Straggalls’s been telling tales.”“Please, teacher, she ki-ki-kicked me.”“You come here, miss,” cried Mrs Potts, who had not the slightest veneration in her nature; and she made a grab at her daughter, who avoided it by a backward bound over the form upon which she had been seated, and keeping several girls between her young person and her irate mamma.“Mrs Potts, I presume?” said Hazel.“Yes, my name’s Potts, and I’m not ashamed of it neither,” said the woman. “I want my gal.”“Will you have the goodness to come to the door and speak to me?” said Hazel. “I cannot have the discipline of the school interrupted like this, Mrs Potts.”The irate lady was about to make an angry retort, but that word “discipline” was too much for her. Mrs Potts had a husband whose weakness it was to have “bad breakings out” at times. Not varieties of eczema, or any other skin disease, but fits of drunkenness, when he seemed to look upon the various branches of his family as large or small kinds of mats, which it was his duty to beat, and, from his wife downwards, he beat them accordingly whenever they came within his reach. The consequence was, that from time to time he was haled before the magistrates, and cautioned, and even imprisoned, the justices of the peace telling him that as he was so fond of disciplining he must receive wholesome discipline himself, and considerately upon the last occasion giving him a month.Now Mrs Potts objected to marital punishment, but it was short if not sweet, and when it was over Potts went to work. She objected, however, much more to magisterial punishment, because it fell upon her. If Potts was fined, she suffered in the housekeeping money by running short, and if on the other hand he was sent to prison, while he was lying at ease and fed on bread and water, a pleasantly lowering diet for a man of his inflammatory nature, she had to set to work and earn by the hard use of soap, soda, hot water, and much rubbing, the necessary funds to buy food for the youngsters’ mouths.Discipline, then, had a very important ring to her ears, and she became amenable directly to the quiet words of authority, following Hazel meekly to the door, going through the process of wiping a pair of very crinkly, water-soaked hands upon her apron the while.“Another time, Mrs Potts, if you will knock at the door, I will come and talk to you, for, as the mother of children, you must know how necessary it is to preserve discipline amongst the young.”“Which well I know it, miss; but I’m that aggravated with that limb of a gal, that if I don’t take it out of her I shall be ill.”“What is the matter, then!” cried Hazel.“Matter, nuss? Why, everything’s the matter when that gal’s got her own way. Here did I tell her, only this morning, that, as I’d got to stop at the wash-tub all day, she must stay at home and look after the little bairn, and what does she do but take my scissors and cut off every flower there was, and tie ’em up and slip off. I didn’t know where she’d gone to, till all of a sudden I thought it might be to school; and here she is. And now I would like to know what she did with them flowers.”“Flowers!” said Hazel, as a thought flashed across her mind.“Well, there now, if that ain’t them upon your desk, nuss! That’s my love-lies-bleeding, and London-tuft, and roses. Oh, just wait till I get hold on her. Did she bring ’em to you, miss?”“Yes, Mrs Potts; she brought me the nosegay. I am very sorry that she should have done such a thing without asking leave.”“I ain’t got much about the house that’s nice to look at,” said the woman, gazing wistfully at the flowers; “and she’s been and cutten it all away. But only just wait till I get her home.”“Don’t punish the girl, Mrs Potts,” said Hazel quietly. “I think it was from thoughtlessness. Ophelia knew I was fond of flowers, and brought them for me. I will talk to her about it. Indeed I am very sorry that she should do such a thing.”“Well, miss, if so be as you’re fond o’ flowers, and will give her a good talking to, why I won’t say no more about it. Ah, you bad gal!”This was accompanied by a threatening gesture from the stout lady’s fist, which, however, did not seem to cause Miss Feelier Potts much alarm, that young personage only looking half defiantly at her parent, and as soon as the latter’s eyes were removed, indulging herself by making a few derisive gestures.“You will take the flowers back with you, Mrs Potts. I am very sorry.”“Which I just won’t, miss, so now then,” said the woman sharply. “If you like flowers, miss, you shall have ’em; and if you could make a better gal of that Feelier, I’m sure there ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do for you. And now, as my water’s all getting cold, I must be off!”“But you said that you wished Ophelia to come home and help you. I don’t like the girls being kept away, but of course it is her duty to help you at a time like this. Ophelia Potts.”“Yes, teacher; please I wasn’t talking,” said Feelier sharply.“Come here.”“No, no, miss, you let her ’bide, and when I’m gone just you give her a good talking to.”“And you will not punish her, Mrs Potts?”“No, miss, I’ll leave it all to you;” and, quite tamed down by the quiet dignity of the young mistress, Mrs Potts returned to her soap and soda, and the little “bairn” that Feelier was to attend enjoyed itself upon the doorstep, off which it fell on an average about once every quarter of an hour, and yelled till it was lifted up by its mother’s wet hands, shaken, and bumped down again, when it returned to its former sport with its playthings, which consisted of four pebbles and an old shoe, the former being placed in the latter with solemn care, and shaken out again with steady persistency, the greatest gratification being obtained therefrom.Meanwhile Hazel had an interview with Feelier, who listened attentively to “teacher’s” remarks anent the objectionable plan of stealing other people’s goods when a present is intended in another direction, all of which Miss Feelier quietly imbibed, and, mentally quoting the words of common use with her brothers, she said, “She’d be blowed if she’d bring teacher any more flowers, so there now!” while on being allowed to go back to her place she solaced herself by giving Ann Straggalls a severe pinch on the arm, and making her utter a loud cry.

“Please, teacher, I’ve brought you some flowers.”

Hazel Thorne turned round, to find that the speaker was Feelier Potts, who was holding up a goodly bunch of roses, snapdragons, rose bay, and other homely flowers tied up with some considerable amount of taste, save that the band which held the blossoms against a good background of ribbon grass was a long strip of flannel list, that made the bunch bulky and strange.

There was a curious, half-defiant, half-smiling look in the girl’s face, as she handed the nosegay, and Hazel hesitated for a moment, and looked severe, for it was as if the flowers were meant as a peace-offering or bribe, to act as a passport in connection with Miss Feelier Potts’ evasion on the previous day.

Feelier saw the look, and was drawing back the nosegay with her expressive young face full of chagrin, but she brightened directly as her teacher smiled, took the flowers, smelt them, and said—

“How sweet! Thank you, Ophelia. Will you be kind enough to go indoors for me, and ask for a jug of water to place them in?”

“Yes, teacher,” cried the girl excitedly, and she rushed off, to come back with the jug, into which the flowers, after being relieved of their flannel outer garment, were placed, and then stood upon the corner of the desk, while from time to time that morning Feelier’s eyes twinkled as she glanced at the post of honour occupied by her present, and then gazed triumphantly round at her fellow-pupils, whispering every now and then—

“I gave teacher them flowers.”

Mr Samuel Chute also saw those flowers through the opening between two shutters, and he noted how from time to time Hazel went to her desk and smelt the roses. This fired him with the idea that he must make Hazel the offer of another bouquet himself, and he concluded that, by the way in which those flowers were received, he might tell how his love affairs were likely to prosper.

For they did not seem to progress so well as he could wish. Time back he had determined that the last person in the world for him to marry would be a schoolmistress. His idea was to “marry money,” as he termed it, a notion highly applauded by Mrs Chute, who gave it as her opinion that her son was a match for any lady in the land. But when the new mistress rose upon the horizon of his view he altered his mind, and concluded not only that he would marry a schoolmistress, but thattheschoolmistress he would marry was Hazel Thorne.

“You do as you like, Samuel, of course,” said Mrs Chute; “but to my mind she’s not good enough for you. But you do as you like.”

Mr Chute made up his mind that he would do as he liked, and among the things he determined to do as he liked about was the giving of a bouquet, only he did not know how to compass it; for flowers of a superior kind were not plentiful at Plumton All Saints, and the only way to obtain anything at all chaste was to apply to Mr Canninge’s gardeners at Ardley, or to Mr William Forth Burge’s, or the rectory.

This was awkward but unavoidable, and, besides, he said to himself. Hazel Thorne would never know whence they came.

So Mr Chute made a mental notereflowers, and then went on with his lesson-giving, while Feelier Potts, who was wonderfully quiet and well-behaved, went on dilating about her present and rejoicing in the grand position of donor of flowers to the manager of the school.

How quickly passing are our greatest joys. Just as Feelier was confiding to a girl in the second class, now seated back to back, that she gave teacher them flowers, there was a loud dab at the panel of the door, and directly after a rattling of the latch, as a fierce-looking woman walked straight in, exclaiming loudly—

“Where’s my gal? I want that gal of mine.”

Feelier Potts saw the stout fierce-looking woman, whose aspect indicated that she had been washing, enter the schoolroom, and knew perfectly well who she was and what she wanted, but Feelier sat perfectly still, and ready to disown all relationship, probably from a faint hope that she might rest unseen; but it was not to be, for, as the stout woman raised her voice and exclaimed again, “Where’s my gal?” fat Ann Straggalls, with the most amiable of intentions, and prompted by a notable desire to do the best she could to oblige, exclaimed loudly—

“Please, Mrs Potts, Feelier’s here. Oh—oh! Please, teacher, Feelier—oh my! oh!”

Ann Straggalls was howling loudly, for, just as she finished her announcement of Feelier’s whereabouts, that young lady threw out one youthful leg, and delivered a sharp kick on Ann Straggalls’ shin, the kick being the sharper from the fact that the class of boot worn by the Potts family was that known as “stout” and furnished with nails.

“What is the matter here?” exclaimed Hazel, hurrying to the spot.

“Oh, it’s that gal of mine,” said Mrs Potts, also hurrying up from another direction. “You just come here, miss.”

“Please, teacher, Ann Straggalls’s been telling tales.”

“Please, teacher, she ki-ki-kicked me.”

“You come here, miss,” cried Mrs Potts, who had not the slightest veneration in her nature; and she made a grab at her daughter, who avoided it by a backward bound over the form upon which she had been seated, and keeping several girls between her young person and her irate mamma.

“Mrs Potts, I presume?” said Hazel.

“Yes, my name’s Potts, and I’m not ashamed of it neither,” said the woman. “I want my gal.”

“Will you have the goodness to come to the door and speak to me?” said Hazel. “I cannot have the discipline of the school interrupted like this, Mrs Potts.”

The irate lady was about to make an angry retort, but that word “discipline” was too much for her. Mrs Potts had a husband whose weakness it was to have “bad breakings out” at times. Not varieties of eczema, or any other skin disease, but fits of drunkenness, when he seemed to look upon the various branches of his family as large or small kinds of mats, which it was his duty to beat, and, from his wife downwards, he beat them accordingly whenever they came within his reach. The consequence was, that from time to time he was haled before the magistrates, and cautioned, and even imprisoned, the justices of the peace telling him that as he was so fond of disciplining he must receive wholesome discipline himself, and considerately upon the last occasion giving him a month.

Now Mrs Potts objected to marital punishment, but it was short if not sweet, and when it was over Potts went to work. She objected, however, much more to magisterial punishment, because it fell upon her. If Potts was fined, she suffered in the housekeeping money by running short, and if on the other hand he was sent to prison, while he was lying at ease and fed on bread and water, a pleasantly lowering diet for a man of his inflammatory nature, she had to set to work and earn by the hard use of soap, soda, hot water, and much rubbing, the necessary funds to buy food for the youngsters’ mouths.

Discipline, then, had a very important ring to her ears, and she became amenable directly to the quiet words of authority, following Hazel meekly to the door, going through the process of wiping a pair of very crinkly, water-soaked hands upon her apron the while.

“Another time, Mrs Potts, if you will knock at the door, I will come and talk to you, for, as the mother of children, you must know how necessary it is to preserve discipline amongst the young.”

“Which well I know it, miss; but I’m that aggravated with that limb of a gal, that if I don’t take it out of her I shall be ill.”

“What is the matter, then!” cried Hazel.

“Matter, nuss? Why, everything’s the matter when that gal’s got her own way. Here did I tell her, only this morning, that, as I’d got to stop at the wash-tub all day, she must stay at home and look after the little bairn, and what does she do but take my scissors and cut off every flower there was, and tie ’em up and slip off. I didn’t know where she’d gone to, till all of a sudden I thought it might be to school; and here she is. And now I would like to know what she did with them flowers.”

“Flowers!” said Hazel, as a thought flashed across her mind.

“Well, there now, if that ain’t them upon your desk, nuss! That’s my love-lies-bleeding, and London-tuft, and roses. Oh, just wait till I get hold on her. Did she bring ’em to you, miss?”

“Yes, Mrs Potts; she brought me the nosegay. I am very sorry that she should have done such a thing without asking leave.”

“I ain’t got much about the house that’s nice to look at,” said the woman, gazing wistfully at the flowers; “and she’s been and cutten it all away. But only just wait till I get her home.”

“Don’t punish the girl, Mrs Potts,” said Hazel quietly. “I think it was from thoughtlessness. Ophelia knew I was fond of flowers, and brought them for me. I will talk to her about it. Indeed I am very sorry that she should do such a thing.”

“Well, miss, if so be as you’re fond o’ flowers, and will give her a good talking to, why I won’t say no more about it. Ah, you bad gal!”

This was accompanied by a threatening gesture from the stout lady’s fist, which, however, did not seem to cause Miss Feelier Potts much alarm, that young personage only looking half defiantly at her parent, and as soon as the latter’s eyes were removed, indulging herself by making a few derisive gestures.

“You will take the flowers back with you, Mrs Potts. I am very sorry.”

“Which I just won’t, miss, so now then,” said the woman sharply. “If you like flowers, miss, you shall have ’em; and if you could make a better gal of that Feelier, I’m sure there ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do for you. And now, as my water’s all getting cold, I must be off!”

“But you said that you wished Ophelia to come home and help you. I don’t like the girls being kept away, but of course it is her duty to help you at a time like this. Ophelia Potts.”

“Yes, teacher; please I wasn’t talking,” said Feelier sharply.

“Come here.”

“No, no, miss, you let her ’bide, and when I’m gone just you give her a good talking to.”

“And you will not punish her, Mrs Potts?”

“No, miss, I’ll leave it all to you;” and, quite tamed down by the quiet dignity of the young mistress, Mrs Potts returned to her soap and soda, and the little “bairn” that Feelier was to attend enjoyed itself upon the doorstep, off which it fell on an average about once every quarter of an hour, and yelled till it was lifted up by its mother’s wet hands, shaken, and bumped down again, when it returned to its former sport with its playthings, which consisted of four pebbles and an old shoe, the former being placed in the latter with solemn care, and shaken out again with steady persistency, the greatest gratification being obtained therefrom.

Meanwhile Hazel had an interview with Feelier, who listened attentively to “teacher’s” remarks anent the objectionable plan of stealing other people’s goods when a present is intended in another direction, all of which Miss Feelier quietly imbibed, and, mentally quoting the words of common use with her brothers, she said, “She’d be blowed if she’d bring teacher any more flowers, so there now!” while on being allowed to go back to her place she solaced herself by giving Ann Straggalls a severe pinch on the arm, and making her utter a loud cry.

Chapter Twenty Four.Mrs Thorne Discourses.“Ah, my child, when will you grow wise?” said Mrs Thorne one day when Hazel, making an effort to master her weariness, was bustling in and out of the room with an apron on, her dress pinned up, and her sleeves drawn up over her elbows, leaving her white arms bare.“Grow wise, dear! What do you mean?”“Leave off doing work like a charwoman day after day, when you might be riding in your carriage, as I told Mrs Chute only this afternoon.”“You told Mrs Chute so this afternoon, mother! Has she been here?”“Of course she has, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne with asperity. “Do you suppose because I am humbled in my position in life I am going to give up all society? Of course I look upon it as a degradation to have to associate with a woman like Mrs Chute—a very vulgar woman indeed; but if my daughter chooses to place me in such a position as this I must be amiable and kind to my neighbours. She is a very good sort of woman in her way, but I let her know the differences in our position, and—yes, of course I did—told her that my daughter might be riding in her carriage now if she liked, instead of drudging at her school; for I’m sure, though he did not say so, Edward Geringer would have kept a brougham for you at least, if you would only consent, even now, to be his wife. Why, only last week he said—”“Mother, have you heard from Mr Geringer again?” cried Hazel, whose cheeks were crimsoning.“Of course I have, my dear child. Why should I not hear from so old a friend? He said that if you would reconsider your determination he should be very, very glad.”“But you did not write back, mother?”“Indeed I did, my dear. Do you suppose I should ever forget that I am a lady? I wrote back to him, telling him that I thought adversity was softening your pride, and that, though I would promise nothing, still, if I were a man, I said, in his position, I should not banish hope.”“O mother, mother! how could you write to him like that?” cried Hazel piteously.“Because I thought it to be my duty,” said Mrs Thorne with dignity. “Young people do not always know their own minds.”Hazel turned away to busy herself over some domestic task, so that her mother should not read the annoyance in her face.“Mrs Chute is a very weak, silly woman, Hazel, and I feel it to be my duty to warn you against her, and—and her son.”Hazel could not trust herself to speak, but went on working with her fingers trembling from agitation, and the tears dimming her eyes.“She has been in here a good deal lately during school-hours, and she has got the idea into her head that you have taken a fancy to Mr Samuel Chute.”The little milk jug that Hazel was wiping fell to the floor with a crash.“Oh, for goodness’ sake, do be more careful, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne angrily. “There’s that broken now, and, what with your breakages and those of the children, it is quite dreadful. Of course she owned that her son was very much attached to you; but that I knew.”“You knew that, mother!” said Hazel, who was very pale now; and any one but the weak woman who was speaking would have understood the conflict between anger, shame, and duty going on in her breast.“Of course I did, my dear. Do you suppose I do not know what men are, or that I am blind, I have not reached my years without being able to read men like a book,” she continued with complacency. “I have seen Master Chute’s looks and ways, and poppings into the girls’ school; but as soon as his mother spoke I let her know that she need not expect anything of that sort, for I told her that my daughter would look far higher than to a national schoolmaster for her husband.”Hazel felt that she must rush out of the room and go upstairs to give free vent to the sobs that were struggling for exit, but making an effort to master the mortification from which she suffered, she stayed and listened as her mother prattled on with a quiet assumption of dignity.“No, ‘my dear Mrs Chute,’ I said—and I must give the poor woman credit for receiving my quiet reproof with due submission and a proper sense of respect for me—‘no, my dear Mrs Chute,’ I said, ‘you have been very kind to me, and my child is most grateful to your son for his attentions and the help he has been to her in giving her hints about the school and the children. Friends we may continue, but your son must never think of anything more. He must,’ I told her, ‘see for himself that a young lady of my daughter’s position and personal attractions might look anywhere for a husband, and that already there were several who, even if they had not spoken, evidently were upon the point of doing so. Mr William Forth Burge was certainly very much taken by your ladylike manner; and that I had noticed several peculiar little advances made by the vicar; while a little bird told me that there were more impossible things than that Mr George Canninge might propose for your hand.’ I would not stoop to mention what I had seen in several of the tradespeople here, but either of those three would be an eligible match for my daughter, and therefore I said, ‘Mr Samuel Chute must, as a man full of common-sense, largely increased by education’—I said that, Hazel, as a stroke of diplomacy to soften the blow—‘Mr Samuel Chute must see that such an alliance as he was ready to propose would be impossible.’“It is a great responsibility, a family,” said Mrs Thorne, lying back in her chair and gazing meditatively at her fingertips. “Percy is a great anxiety—he is always wanting money, and I am only too glad to keep on good terms with Mr Geringer, who really does keep the boy somewhat in order. Though certainly, Hazel, you might do worse than marry Edward Geringer. Perhaps he would be wiser if he married me,” she said with a simper; “but of course middle-aged men prefer young girls. Yes, Hazel, you might do worse than many Edward Geringer. He is not young; in fact, he is growing elderly. But he would leave you all his money; and a handsome young widow with a nice fortune and no incumbrances can marry again as soon as she pleases.“Ah, dear me! dear me!” she went on with a sigh, “what a different fate mine might have been if you had not been so squeamish, Hazel, and I had had better health! But there, I will not murmur and repine. I have only one thought, and that is to see my children happy. By the way, it is of no use for you to make any opposition: those two girls must have new frocks and hats—I am quite ashamed to see them go out—and Percy wants five pounds. What in the world he can want five pounds for, I’m sure I don’t know; but he says I cannot understand a young fellow’s wants in a busy place like London. I’ve had—let me see—five and seven are twelve, and five are seventeen, and ten are twenty-seven, and ten are thirty-seven—thirty-seven pounds of Edward Geringer on purpose for that boy, and I hardly like to ask him for more. Percy is a very great anxiety to me, Hazel; and if Mr George Canninge should take it into his head to propose for you, my dear, he could so easily place your brother in some good post. He might make him his private secretary, and give him charge of his estates. Who knows? And—Bless the child, what is the matter?”Matter enough: Hazel had sunk in a chair by the little side-table, her face bowed down into her hands, and she was weeping bitterly for her shame and degradation, as she silently sobbed forth an appeal to Heaven to give her strength to bear the troubles that seemed to grow thicker day by day.

“Ah, my child, when will you grow wise?” said Mrs Thorne one day when Hazel, making an effort to master her weariness, was bustling in and out of the room with an apron on, her dress pinned up, and her sleeves drawn up over her elbows, leaving her white arms bare.

“Grow wise, dear! What do you mean?”

“Leave off doing work like a charwoman day after day, when you might be riding in your carriage, as I told Mrs Chute only this afternoon.”

“You told Mrs Chute so this afternoon, mother! Has she been here?”

“Of course she has, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne with asperity. “Do you suppose because I am humbled in my position in life I am going to give up all society? Of course I look upon it as a degradation to have to associate with a woman like Mrs Chute—a very vulgar woman indeed; but if my daughter chooses to place me in such a position as this I must be amiable and kind to my neighbours. She is a very good sort of woman in her way, but I let her know the differences in our position, and—yes, of course I did—told her that my daughter might be riding in her carriage now if she liked, instead of drudging at her school; for I’m sure, though he did not say so, Edward Geringer would have kept a brougham for you at least, if you would only consent, even now, to be his wife. Why, only last week he said—”

“Mother, have you heard from Mr Geringer again?” cried Hazel, whose cheeks were crimsoning.

“Of course I have, my dear child. Why should I not hear from so old a friend? He said that if you would reconsider your determination he should be very, very glad.”

“But you did not write back, mother?”

“Indeed I did, my dear. Do you suppose I should ever forget that I am a lady? I wrote back to him, telling him that I thought adversity was softening your pride, and that, though I would promise nothing, still, if I were a man, I said, in his position, I should not banish hope.”

“O mother, mother! how could you write to him like that?” cried Hazel piteously.

“Because I thought it to be my duty,” said Mrs Thorne with dignity. “Young people do not always know their own minds.”

Hazel turned away to busy herself over some domestic task, so that her mother should not read the annoyance in her face.

“Mrs Chute is a very weak, silly woman, Hazel, and I feel it to be my duty to warn you against her, and—and her son.”

Hazel could not trust herself to speak, but went on working with her fingers trembling from agitation, and the tears dimming her eyes.

“She has been in here a good deal lately during school-hours, and she has got the idea into her head that you have taken a fancy to Mr Samuel Chute.”

The little milk jug that Hazel was wiping fell to the floor with a crash.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, do be more careful, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne angrily. “There’s that broken now, and, what with your breakages and those of the children, it is quite dreadful. Of course she owned that her son was very much attached to you; but that I knew.”

“You knew that, mother!” said Hazel, who was very pale now; and any one but the weak woman who was speaking would have understood the conflict between anger, shame, and duty going on in her breast.

“Of course I did, my dear. Do you suppose I do not know what men are, or that I am blind, I have not reached my years without being able to read men like a book,” she continued with complacency. “I have seen Master Chute’s looks and ways, and poppings into the girls’ school; but as soon as his mother spoke I let her know that she need not expect anything of that sort, for I told her that my daughter would look far higher than to a national schoolmaster for her husband.”

Hazel felt that she must rush out of the room and go upstairs to give free vent to the sobs that were struggling for exit, but making an effort to master the mortification from which she suffered, she stayed and listened as her mother prattled on with a quiet assumption of dignity.

“No, ‘my dear Mrs Chute,’ I said—and I must give the poor woman credit for receiving my quiet reproof with due submission and a proper sense of respect for me—‘no, my dear Mrs Chute,’ I said, ‘you have been very kind to me, and my child is most grateful to your son for his attentions and the help he has been to her in giving her hints about the school and the children. Friends we may continue, but your son must never think of anything more. He must,’ I told her, ‘see for himself that a young lady of my daughter’s position and personal attractions might look anywhere for a husband, and that already there were several who, even if they had not spoken, evidently were upon the point of doing so. Mr William Forth Burge was certainly very much taken by your ladylike manner; and that I had noticed several peculiar little advances made by the vicar; while a little bird told me that there were more impossible things than that Mr George Canninge might propose for your hand.’ I would not stoop to mention what I had seen in several of the tradespeople here, but either of those three would be an eligible match for my daughter, and therefore I said, ‘Mr Samuel Chute must, as a man full of common-sense, largely increased by education’—I said that, Hazel, as a stroke of diplomacy to soften the blow—‘Mr Samuel Chute must see that such an alliance as he was ready to propose would be impossible.’

“It is a great responsibility, a family,” said Mrs Thorne, lying back in her chair and gazing meditatively at her fingertips. “Percy is a great anxiety—he is always wanting money, and I am only too glad to keep on good terms with Mr Geringer, who really does keep the boy somewhat in order. Though certainly, Hazel, you might do worse than marry Edward Geringer. Perhaps he would be wiser if he married me,” she said with a simper; “but of course middle-aged men prefer young girls. Yes, Hazel, you might do worse than many Edward Geringer. He is not young; in fact, he is growing elderly. But he would leave you all his money; and a handsome young widow with a nice fortune and no incumbrances can marry again as soon as she pleases.

“Ah, dear me! dear me!” she went on with a sigh, “what a different fate mine might have been if you had not been so squeamish, Hazel, and I had had better health! But there, I will not murmur and repine. I have only one thought, and that is to see my children happy. By the way, it is of no use for you to make any opposition: those two girls must have new frocks and hats—I am quite ashamed to see them go out—and Percy wants five pounds. What in the world he can want five pounds for, I’m sure I don’t know; but he says I cannot understand a young fellow’s wants in a busy place like London. I’ve had—let me see—five and seven are twelve, and five are seventeen, and ten are twenty-seven, and ten are thirty-seven—thirty-seven pounds of Edward Geringer on purpose for that boy, and I hardly like to ask him for more. Percy is a very great anxiety to me, Hazel; and if Mr George Canninge should take it into his head to propose for you, my dear, he could so easily place your brother in some good post. He might make him his private secretary, and give him charge of his estates. Who knows? And—Bless the child, what is the matter?”

Matter enough: Hazel had sunk in a chair by the little side-table, her face bowed down into her hands, and she was weeping bitterly for her shame and degradation, as she silently sobbed forth an appeal to Heaven to give her strength to bear the troubles that seemed to grow thicker day by day.

Chapter Twenty Five.The Vicar is Sympathetic.Faint, pale, and utterly prostrate after a long and wearisome day in the school, heartsick at finding how vain her efforts were in spite of everything she could do to keep the attention of her pupils, Hazel Thorne gladly closed her desk, and left the great blank room, where three of the girls were beginning to sprinkle and sweep so as to have the place tidy for the following day.The air had been hot and oppressive, and a great longing had come over the fainting mistress for that homely restorative, a cup of tea; but in spite of herself, a feeling of bitterness would creep in, reminding her that no such comfort would be ready for her, leaving her at liberty to enjoy it restfully and then go and take a pleasant walk somewhere in the fields. For she knew that the probabilities were that she would find the little fire out, and the dinner-things placed untidily upon the dresser, awaiting her busy hands to put away, after she had lit the fire and prepared the evening meal.There would be no opportunity for walking; the household drudgery would take up her time till she was glad to go to bed and prepare herself for the tasks of another day.To make matters worse, Mrs Thorne would keep up a doleful dirge of repining.“Ah, Hazel!” she would say, “it cuts me to the heart to see you compelled to go through all this degrading toil—a miserable cottage, no servant, and work—work—work like that dreadful poor woman who sewed herself to death in a bare garret. Oh, I’d give anything to be able to help you; but I’m past all that.”“I don’t mind it a bit, dear,” Hazel would cry cheerfully, “I like to be busy;” and if ever the thought crossed her mind that her mother might at least have kept the little house tidy, and the children from mischief, or even have taught them to perform a few domestic offices for the benefit of all concerned, she crushed it down.All the same her life was one of slavery, and needed no embittering by her mother’s reproaches and plaints. Of late she had grown very cold and reserved, feeling that only by such conduct could she escape the criticism of the many watchful eyes by which she was environed. There was very little vanity in her composition, but she could not help realising the truth of her mother’s remarks, and this induced her to walk as circumspectly as she possibly could.Turning languidly, then, from the school on this particular afternoon, she was about to enter her own gate, when she became aware of the presence of Mr Chute who hurried up with—“You haven’t given me your pence to change for you lately. Miss Thorne. I haven’t offended you, have I?”“Offended me, Mr Chute? Oh no,” she replied. “I will count them up to-morrow, and send in the bag to your school.”“Oh, no; don’t do that,” he said hastily. “Girls are honest enough, I dare say, but you shouldn’t put temptation in their way. I’ll come in and fetch them. I say, what a lovely afternoon it is!”“Yes, lovely indeed!” replied Hazel, “but the weather seems tiring.”“Oh, no, it ain’t,” he said sharply. “That’s because you’re not well.”“I’m afraid I’m not very well,” said Hazel; “I so soon get tired now.”“Of course you do. That’s because you don’t go out enough. You ought to have a good walk every day.”“Yes; I believe I ought,” replied Hazel.“It’s going to be a lovely evening,” said Mr Chute.“Is it?” said Hazel wearily.“Yes, that it is. I say—it’s to do you good, you know—come and have a nice walk to-night.”“Come—and have a walk!” said Hazel wonderingly.“Yes,” he said excitedly, for he had been screwing himself up to this for days; “come and let’s have a walk together. I—that is—you know—I—’pon my soul, Miss Hazel, I can’t hardly say what I mean, but I’m very miserable about you, and if you’d go for a walk along with me to-night, it would do me no end of good.”“Mr Chute, I could not. It is impossible,” cried Hazel quickly.“Oh no; it ain’t impossible,” he said quickly; “it’s because you’re so particular you won’t. Look here, then—but don’t go.”“I must go, Mr Chute; I am tired, and I cannot stay to talk.”“Look here: will you go for a walk to-night, if I take mother too!”Hazel had hard work to repress a shudder as she shook her head.“It is very kind of you,” she said quietly; “but I cannot go. Good afternoon, Mr Chute.”“You’re going in like that because you can see Lambent coming,” he said in a loud voice, and with his whole manner changing; “but don’t you get setting your cap at him, for you shan’t have him. I’d hang first; and, look here, you’ve put me up now—haven’t I been ever since you came all that is patient and attentive?”“You have been very kind to me, Mr Chute,” said Hazel, standing her ground now, and determined that he should not see her hurry in because the vicar was coming down the street.“Yes, I’ve been very kind, and you’ve done nothing but trifle and play with me ever since you saw how I loved you.”“Mr Chute, you know this is not the truth!” cried Hazel indignantly. “I have tried to behave to you in accordance with my position as your fellow-teacher.”“Then you haven’t, that’s all,” he cried fiercely. “But you don’t know me yet. I’m not one to be trifled with, and there ain’t time to say more now, only this—you’ve led me on and made me love you, and have you I will—there now! Don’t you think you’re going to hook Lambent, or Canninge, or old Burge; because you won’t. It’s friends or enemies here, so I tell you, and I’ll watch you from this day, so that you shan’t stir a step without my knowing it. I’m near enough,” he added with a sneer, “and when I’m off duty I’ll put mother on.—Oh, I say, Hazel, Iamsorry I spoke like that.”“Good-day. Miss Thorne,” said the vicar, coming slowly up with a disturbed look in his face. “Good-day, Mr Chute.”“’Day, sir,” said Chute, standing his ground, while the vicar waited for him to go.“You need not wait, Mr Chute,” said the vicar at last; and the schoolmaster’s eyes flashed, and he was about to make an angry retort; but there was something in the cold, stern gaze of the clergyman that was too much for him, and, grinding his teeth together, he turned upon his heel and walked away.“Mr Chute is disposed to be rude, Miss Thorne,” said the vicar with a grave smile, as he laid his gloved hand upon the oak fence and seemed to be deeply interested in the way in which the grain carved round one knot. “I beg that you will not think me impertinent, but I take a great interest in your welfare. Miss Thorne.”“I do not think you impertinent, sir,” she replied; “and I have to thank you for much kindness and consideration.”“Then I may say a few words to you,” he said gravely; and there was an intensity in his manner that alarmed her.“I beg—I must ask”—she began.“A few words as a friend. Miss Thorne,” he said in a low, deep voice, and the grain of the oak paling seemed to attract him more than ever, for, save giving her a quick glance now and then, he did not look at her. “You are very young. Miss Thorne, and yours is a responsible position. It is my duty, as the head of this parish, to watch over the schools and those who have them in charge. In short,” he continued, changing from his slow, hesitating way, “I feel bound to tell you that I could not help noticing Mr Chute’s very marked attentions to you.”“Mr Lambent,” began Hazel imploringly.“Pray hear me out,” he said. “I feel it my duty to speak, and to ask you if it is wise of you—if it is your wish—to encourage these attentions? It is quite natural, I know—I do not blame you; but—but after that which I saw as I came up, I should be grateful, Miss Thorne, if you would speak to me candidly.”Hazel longed to turn and flee, but she was driven to bay, and, after a few moments’ pause to command her voice, she said firmly—“Mr Chute’s attentions to me, sir, have been, I own, very marked, and have given me much anxiety.”“Have given you much anxiety?” he said softly, as if to himself.“When you came up, Mr Chute had been making certain proposals to me, which, as kindly as I could, I had declined. Mr Lambent,” she added hastily, “you said just now that I was very young. I am, and this avowal is very painful to me. Will you excuse me if I go in now?”He raised his eyes to hers at this, and she saw his pale handsome face light up; and then she trembled at the look of joy that darted from his eyes, as, drawing himself up in his old, stiff way, he raised his hat and saluted her gravely, drawing back and opening the gate to allow her to go in, parting from her then without another word.

Faint, pale, and utterly prostrate after a long and wearisome day in the school, heartsick at finding how vain her efforts were in spite of everything she could do to keep the attention of her pupils, Hazel Thorne gladly closed her desk, and left the great blank room, where three of the girls were beginning to sprinkle and sweep so as to have the place tidy for the following day.

The air had been hot and oppressive, and a great longing had come over the fainting mistress for that homely restorative, a cup of tea; but in spite of herself, a feeling of bitterness would creep in, reminding her that no such comfort would be ready for her, leaving her at liberty to enjoy it restfully and then go and take a pleasant walk somewhere in the fields. For she knew that the probabilities were that she would find the little fire out, and the dinner-things placed untidily upon the dresser, awaiting her busy hands to put away, after she had lit the fire and prepared the evening meal.

There would be no opportunity for walking; the household drudgery would take up her time till she was glad to go to bed and prepare herself for the tasks of another day.

To make matters worse, Mrs Thorne would keep up a doleful dirge of repining.

“Ah, Hazel!” she would say, “it cuts me to the heart to see you compelled to go through all this degrading toil—a miserable cottage, no servant, and work—work—work like that dreadful poor woman who sewed herself to death in a bare garret. Oh, I’d give anything to be able to help you; but I’m past all that.”

“I don’t mind it a bit, dear,” Hazel would cry cheerfully, “I like to be busy;” and if ever the thought crossed her mind that her mother might at least have kept the little house tidy, and the children from mischief, or even have taught them to perform a few domestic offices for the benefit of all concerned, she crushed it down.

All the same her life was one of slavery, and needed no embittering by her mother’s reproaches and plaints. Of late she had grown very cold and reserved, feeling that only by such conduct could she escape the criticism of the many watchful eyes by which she was environed. There was very little vanity in her composition, but she could not help realising the truth of her mother’s remarks, and this induced her to walk as circumspectly as she possibly could.

Turning languidly, then, from the school on this particular afternoon, she was about to enter her own gate, when she became aware of the presence of Mr Chute who hurried up with—

“You haven’t given me your pence to change for you lately. Miss Thorne. I haven’t offended you, have I?”

“Offended me, Mr Chute? Oh no,” she replied. “I will count them up to-morrow, and send in the bag to your school.”

“Oh, no; don’t do that,” he said hastily. “Girls are honest enough, I dare say, but you shouldn’t put temptation in their way. I’ll come in and fetch them. I say, what a lovely afternoon it is!”

“Yes, lovely indeed!” replied Hazel, “but the weather seems tiring.”

“Oh, no, it ain’t,” he said sharply. “That’s because you’re not well.”

“I’m afraid I’m not very well,” said Hazel; “I so soon get tired now.”

“Of course you do. That’s because you don’t go out enough. You ought to have a good walk every day.”

“Yes; I believe I ought,” replied Hazel.

“It’s going to be a lovely evening,” said Mr Chute.

“Is it?” said Hazel wearily.

“Yes, that it is. I say—it’s to do you good, you know—come and have a nice walk to-night.”

“Come—and have a walk!” said Hazel wonderingly.

“Yes,” he said excitedly, for he had been screwing himself up to this for days; “come and let’s have a walk together. I—that is—you know—I—’pon my soul, Miss Hazel, I can’t hardly say what I mean, but I’m very miserable about you, and if you’d go for a walk along with me to-night, it would do me no end of good.”

“Mr Chute, I could not. It is impossible,” cried Hazel quickly.

“Oh no; it ain’t impossible,” he said quickly; “it’s because you’re so particular you won’t. Look here, then—but don’t go.”

“I must go, Mr Chute; I am tired, and I cannot stay to talk.”

“Look here: will you go for a walk to-night, if I take mother too!”

Hazel had hard work to repress a shudder as she shook her head.

“It is very kind of you,” she said quietly; “but I cannot go. Good afternoon, Mr Chute.”

“You’re going in like that because you can see Lambent coming,” he said in a loud voice, and with his whole manner changing; “but don’t you get setting your cap at him, for you shan’t have him. I’d hang first; and, look here, you’ve put me up now—haven’t I been ever since you came all that is patient and attentive?”

“You have been very kind to me, Mr Chute,” said Hazel, standing her ground now, and determined that he should not see her hurry in because the vicar was coming down the street.

“Yes, I’ve been very kind, and you’ve done nothing but trifle and play with me ever since you saw how I loved you.”

“Mr Chute, you know this is not the truth!” cried Hazel indignantly. “I have tried to behave to you in accordance with my position as your fellow-teacher.”

“Then you haven’t, that’s all,” he cried fiercely. “But you don’t know me yet. I’m not one to be trifled with, and there ain’t time to say more now, only this—you’ve led me on and made me love you, and have you I will—there now! Don’t you think you’re going to hook Lambent, or Canninge, or old Burge; because you won’t. It’s friends or enemies here, so I tell you, and I’ll watch you from this day, so that you shan’t stir a step without my knowing it. I’m near enough,” he added with a sneer, “and when I’m off duty I’ll put mother on.—Oh, I say, Hazel, Iamsorry I spoke like that.”

“Good-day. Miss Thorne,” said the vicar, coming slowly up with a disturbed look in his face. “Good-day, Mr Chute.”

“’Day, sir,” said Chute, standing his ground, while the vicar waited for him to go.

“You need not wait, Mr Chute,” said the vicar at last; and the schoolmaster’s eyes flashed, and he was about to make an angry retort; but there was something in the cold, stern gaze of the clergyman that was too much for him, and, grinding his teeth together, he turned upon his heel and walked away.

“Mr Chute is disposed to be rude, Miss Thorne,” said the vicar with a grave smile, as he laid his gloved hand upon the oak fence and seemed to be deeply interested in the way in which the grain carved round one knot. “I beg that you will not think me impertinent, but I take a great interest in your welfare. Miss Thorne.”

“I do not think you impertinent, sir,” she replied; “and I have to thank you for much kindness and consideration.”

“Then I may say a few words to you,” he said gravely; and there was an intensity in his manner that alarmed her.

“I beg—I must ask”—she began.

“A few words as a friend. Miss Thorne,” he said in a low, deep voice, and the grain of the oak paling seemed to attract him more than ever, for, save giving her a quick glance now and then, he did not look at her. “You are very young. Miss Thorne, and yours is a responsible position. It is my duty, as the head of this parish, to watch over the schools and those who have them in charge. In short,” he continued, changing from his slow, hesitating way, “I feel bound to tell you that I could not help noticing Mr Chute’s very marked attentions to you.”

“Mr Lambent,” began Hazel imploringly.

“Pray hear me out,” he said. “I feel it my duty to speak, and to ask you if it is wise of you—if it is your wish—to encourage these attentions? It is quite natural, I know—I do not blame you; but—but after that which I saw as I came up, I should be grateful, Miss Thorne, if you would speak to me candidly.”

Hazel longed to turn and flee, but she was driven to bay, and, after a few moments’ pause to command her voice, she said firmly—

“Mr Chute’s attentions to me, sir, have been, I own, very marked, and have given me much anxiety.”

“Have given you much anxiety?” he said softly, as if to himself.

“When you came up, Mr Chute had been making certain proposals to me, which, as kindly as I could, I had declined. Mr Lambent,” she added hastily, “you said just now that I was very young. I am, and this avowal is very painful to me. Will you excuse me if I go in now?”

He raised his eyes to hers at this, and she saw his pale handsome face light up; and then she trembled at the look of joy that darted from his eyes, as, drawing himself up in his old, stiff way, he raised his hat and saluted her gravely, drawing back and opening the gate to allow her to go in, parting from her then without another word.

Chapter Twenty Six.A Surprise.Hazel’s first impulse was to hurry up to her room, but to her astonishment, she became aware of the fact that her mother had been watching both interviews, by her manner, for she was standing inside the room door, and throwing her arms round her daughter she kissed her on both cheeks.There was another surprise for Hazel though, for a loud voice exclaimed—“Oh, I say, Hazel, ar’n’t you going it? I shall tell Geringer you’re going to marry the parson.”“Percy! You here!” she cried, completely ignoring his words.“Looks like it, don’t it? I say, how jolly white you’ve got.”“Have you asked for a holiday, Percy!” she said, responding to his caress, and noting at the same time how tall and manly he was growing, for he was passing from the tall, thin boy into the big, bony, ill-shaped young man, with a hoarse voice and a faint trace of down upon his lip and chin.At the same time she noted a peculiarly fast, flashy style of dress that he had adopted, his trousers fitting tightly to his legs, his hair being cut short, and his throat wrapped in a common, showy-looking tie, fastened with a horseshoe pin.“Have I asked for a what?” he said, changing countenance a little—“a holiday? Well, yes, I suppose I have—a long one. Eh, ma?”He looked at Mrs Thorne as if asking for help, and she responded at once.“I wouldn’t let Percy come into the school, my dear, but let him wait till you came out,” she said. “The fact is, Hazel, my dear, the poor boy has been so put upon and ill-used at the place where he consented to act as clerk, that at last, in spite of his earnest desire to stay there for both our sakes, my dear—I think I am expressing your feelings, Percy?”“Right as the mail!” he replied quickly.“He felt that as a gentleman he could submit no longer, and so he has left and come down.”“Left and come down?” said Hazel mechanically, as she thought of the narrowness of her present income, and the impracticability of making it feed another hearty appetite as well as those at home.“Yes; they were such a set of cads, you know,” said Percy, sticking a cheap glass in one eye and holding it there by the brow. “Regular set of cads, from the foreman down to the lowest clerk.”“Did you have a quarrel with your employer, Percy?” said Hazel gravely.“I don’t know what you mean by having a quarrel with my employer, Hazel,” replied the boy. “I told him that he was a confounded cad, and that I wouldn’t stand any more of his nonsense.”“What had you been doing, Percy?”“Doing?—doing? Why, nothing at all. It was impossible to get on with such a set of cads.”“There must have been some reason for the quarrel,” said Hazel.“Really, my dear, this is very foolish of you,” cried Mrs Thorne quickly. “You do not understand these things. For my part, I think Percy has done quite right. It was bad enough for the poor boy to have to submit to the degradation of going to work, without putting up with the insults of a—of a—a—”“Set of cads, ma,” said the lad.“Yes, my boy—cads,” said Mrs Thorne, getting rid of the word with no little show of distaste.“I think, mamma, that out of respect to Mr Geringer, who has been so kind to us, you ought to write to Percy’s employer.”“Haven’t got an employer now, so you can’t write to him,” said the boy sharply. “Nice sort of a welcome, this, from one’s own sister. If I’d known it was coming to this, I’d have jolly soon gone down Charles Street.”“Charles Street! Oh, my dear Percy, pray, pray don’t think of going there!” cried Mrs Thorne. “What is going down Charles Street?”“Going to enlist, mamma—taking the shilling.”“Oh, my boy!—oh, Percy!”“Well, what’s the good of coming down here to have your own sister turn dead against you, like the confounded cads at the office.”“I do not turn against you, Percy,” said Hazel; “but I cannot help thinking there is something wrong.”“That’s right; go it. Nice opinion you’ve got of your brother. Something wrong, indeed! Why, what do you suppose is wrong?”“For shame, Hazel! How dare you!” cried Mrs Thorne. “It is cruel to him, and an insult to me. Why do you think such things of your poor orphaned brother? If your father had been alive, you would never have dared to speak so harshly. Oh, Hazel, Hazel, you make my life a burden to me, indeed, indeed.”“My dear mother, those words are uncalled for. I only asked Percy for some explanation of his conduct. We have had no warning of this; not one of his letters has hinted at the possibility of his leaving his situation; but we do know that he has been extravagant.”“Go it,” cried Percy sulkily; and he began to rummage in his pockets.“Really, Hazel, I think he has managed on very little,” said Mrs Thorne indignantly.“I differ from you, mother; for I had hoped that my brother would have striven to help us, and not found himself compelled to drain our resources more and more.”“Look here,” cried Percy, “I sha’n’t stand this. There’s plenty more posts to be obtained, I dare say, and then I shall be a burden to no one.”“Don’t talk like that, my dear,” cried Mrs Thorne. “Hazel is only a little tired and cross, and she’ll be as different as can be, when she has had her meal. There, I won’t be angry with you, my dear; sit down and have some tea. Poor Percy was nearly starved, and I got some ready for him myself. I was afraid you would not like to be called out of the school.”Hazel glanced at the little table where the remains of the tea were standing, with empty egg-shells, a fragment of bacon, the dirty cups, and a large array of crumbs.“I made him a good cup, poor fellow! he was so worn out; so if you fill up the pot, my dear, I dare say you’ll find it all right.”This was the first time that Mrs Thorne had attempted to prepare the tea, and when she had performed her task it was in an untidy way. Now that the meal was over, everything looked wretchedly untempting to a weary person seeking to be refreshed.Hazel looked at Percy, but he avoided her eye, and sitting down with his back to her, he began to fill a little cutty pipe from an indiarubber pouch.“My dear Percy, what are you about?” cried Mrs Thorne.“Only going to have a pipe,” he said, striking a vesuvian and holding it to the bowl; “a fellow can’t get on without his weed.”Hazel’s eyes flashed as she saw the thick puffs of smoke emitted from her brother’s lips, but she did not speak; she waited for her mother, whose forehead looked troubled, but who made no remark.“If I speak now,” thought Hazel, “it will only make more unpleasantness.” So she filled up the teapot which was half full of leaves, and then sat down to her comfortless meal.Finding that she was silent, Percy took it that she had repented, so he assumed the offensive as he sat and smoked, showing himself an adept at the practice, and soon half-filling the little room with the pungent vapour.“Precious mean little place this for you to have to live in, mamma,” he said contemptuously.“Yes, it is, my boy, and I feel it very deeply,” said Mrs Thorne in a lachrymose tone.“Ah, just you wait a bit,” he said. “I’ve left that old office, but don’t you be afraid. A fellow I know has put me up to a few things, and perhaps I shall astonish you one of these days.”“You mean you will get on well, my dear?”“That’s it. Only you wait. There’s plenty of money to be picked up by any one withnous. Ten times as much as any one can get by keeping his nose to a desk and trying to please a set of cads.”“Yes, dear, I suppose so.”“Some people have no more spirit than a fly,” continued Percy. “Fancy a girl like our Hazel settling down in a bit of a hut like this, when she might have been the making of us all.”“Ah, yes, my dear,” sighed Mrs Thorne, “that is what I often tell your sister, who might, if she had liked, have married—”“My dear mother, will you kindly discuss that with Percy when I am not here!”“Oh, of course, if you wish it, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne. “I am not mistress here, Percy. This is Hazel’s home, where I and your poor little sisters are allowed to live on sufferance and—”Sob—sob—sob.“Oh, I say, Hazy, it’s too bad,” cried Percy. “You know how weak and ill poor mamma has been, and yet you treat her like this.”“Yes, my boy; I’m a mere nonentity now, and the sooner I am dead and put beneath the sod the better. I’m only a useless burden to my children now.”“Don’t talk like that, ma dear,” cried the lad. “You only wait a bit, and as soon as I’ve got my plans in order I’ll make you a regular jolly home.”“That you will, I know, my dear boy,” cried Mrs Thorne; “and I hope you will try hard to do something to redeem our lost position.”“What are your plans, Percy?” said Hazel suddenly.“Oh, nothing that you could understand,” he said haughtily. “I don’t wonder at poor ma being miserable, if you treat her as you are treating me!”“Percy,” said Hazel gently, “only a few months ago you had no secrets from me, and we planned together how we would work and make mamma a happy home.”“And nicely you’ve done it,” cried the lad ungraciously.“You declared, upon your honour as a gentleman, that you would never turn from me, but that you would strive to take poor papa’s place, and be a help and protector to your mother and sisters. I ask you, how are you keeping your word?”Percy fidgeted about in his chair, glanced at his mother, and then began playing with his pipe.“If you have made some grievous mistake, dear, tell us at once, so that we may join with you in trying to repair it; but do not weakly take umbrage at my asking you rather searchingly what you have been doing.”“I don’t know what you mean,” said the boy sulkily.“Tell me exactly how you came to leave your office?”“I did tell you. A set of cads!”“Then I shall write to Mr Geringer, and ask him to send me the full particulars. Perhaps we can make peace for you so that you can go back.”“Go back, Hazy?”“Yes: go back. I do not wish to seem unkind, Percy, but you will not be able to stop here.”“And why not, pray?” cried the lad defiantly.“There is one reason why not,” said Hazel, pointing to the pipe. “You ought not to have lit that here, Percy. This is not my house, but the cottage attached to the school, in which, while I teach the children, I am allowed to live.”“Now you’re beginning about my bit of tobacco,” cried the lad. “You’re as bad as old Geringer!”“Really, Hazel, you are in a very, very cruel frame of mind to-night,” said Mrs Thorne, whimpering; “but never mind, my boy, you shall share my home as long as your poor mamma has one. Perhaps Hazel will give us a refuge here to-night—to-morrow we will seek one elsewhere.”“You will do no such foolish thing, mamma,” said Hazel with spirit; “and as for you, Percy, I insist upon knowing the whole truth.”The boy flushed and threw up his head defiantly; but Hazel rose from her place, crossed to him, and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Then, bending down, she kissed him, and stood by him with her arm round his neck.“Tell me everything, dear,” she said; “it is your sister who asks.”For answer Percy dashed his pipe beneath the grate, laid his arms upon the table, his head went down, and he began to cry like a great girl.“Oh, Hazel, Hazel, what have you done?” cried Mrs Thorne. “Percy, Percy, my boy, come here.”“Hush, mother!” said Hazel sternly; and, kneeling down, she drew the boy’s unresisting head upon her shoulder, and held it there, smoothing his hair the while.“Oh, Hazy, Hazy,” he sobbed at last. “I’m a beast—a brute—a wretch; and I wish I was dead.”“There—there! Hazel, see what you have done!” cried Mrs Thorne angrily. “Oh, my boy, my boy! Come here to me, Percy; I will stand by you whatever comes.”But Percy seemed to be quite satisfied to stay where he was, for he made no movement beyond that of yielding himself more and more to his sister’s embrace.“Hush, dear!” she said tenderly. “If you have done wrong, be frank and outspoken. Let us hear the truth.”For answer, the lad, approaching manhood in stature, but with his child-nature still greatly in the ascendant, wept more bitterly; but at last, perfectly heedless of his mother’s plaints and appeals, he raised his head, wiped his eyes, and, flinging his arms round his sister, kissed her passionately again and again.“There; now you will tell us all, Percy,” said Hazel, responding to his caresses.“You’ll turn your back on me if I do,” he groaned.“Is it likely that I should, Percy! There, speak out frankly—is it something about money!”“Yes,” said the lad, hanging his head.“You have been getting in debt!”“Well, not much. Hazy—not more than I could soon pay off,” said the boy, looking timidly in her face, and then shrinking from her searching eyes.“There is something more?”“Ye-es,” he faltered; and then, desperately, after a few moments’ hesitation, “It was all Tom Short’s fault.”“Who is Tom Short?” asked Hazel.“A fellow in our office. He won seventy pounds by putting money on horses, and it seemed so easy; and I thought it would be so nice to get some money together so as to be able to help poor mamma.”“There, Hazel, you hear!” cried Mrs Thorne triumphantly.“And so you began betting on horse-races, Percy—a habit poor papa used to say was one of the greatest follies under the sun.”“Well, no, dear, it wasn’t exactly betting, but going to a bookmaker and putting money on any horse you chose. He did the betting. You only give him your money and wait.”“Till you know it is lost, Percy!”“Well, yes; it was so with me, because I was so terribly unlucky. Some fellows win no end that way.”“And you have always lost, Percy?”“Yes, Hazy; and it does lead you on so,” he cried earnestly, “you lose, and then you think your luck must turn, and you try again, because one winning means making up for no end of losses.”“Yes, I suppose so,” said Hazel sadly.“And so I kept on and kept on, trying so hard; but the luck hasn’t turned yet. I’m sure it would, though, if I had been able to keep on.”“That is what all gamblers think, Percy.”“Don’t call me a gambler, Hazel, because I’m not that.”“And that is where the money went that poor mamma borrowed for you, Percy?”“Yes,” he said despondently; “but I mean to get it all back again some day, and to pay it, and interest too.”“That is quite right, Percy; but not by betting.”“I don’t see why not,” he said. “Other fellows do.”“Let them,” replied Hazel; “but it is not a course to be followed by my brother. Tell me, did your employers find out that you were engaged in betting?”“Ye-es,” faltered Percy; “and it was all through that sneak, Tom Short.”“And they dismissed you?”“Well, I think I dismissed myself; I resigned, you know.”“Call things by their right names, Percy. Well, I am glad you have told us. We will say no more now. But to-morrow we must begin to take steps to get you another engagement.”“But look here, Hazel,” cried the lad, “if you and mamma could knock together twenty pounds for me to start with, I feel as sure as sure that I could make no end by putting it on horses at some of the big races. You’ve no idea what a pot of money some fellows handle that way. Ah, you may smile, but you are only a girl, and very ignorant of such things. You wouldn’t laugh if I was to turn twenty pounds into a thousand.”“No, Percy, I should not laugh if you turned twenty pounds into a thousand,” said Hazel. “But there, we will say no more now; only promise me this,—that you will not smoke again in this cottage, nor yet make any more bets.”“Yes, I’ll promise,” said the boy sulkily. “I suppose I must.”“I’m sure no one could have behaved better than Percy has, my dear,” said Mrs Thorne. “He has been perfectly open and frank. All that you can find against him is that he has been unlucky. Poor boy! If your father had been alive!”Here Mrs Thorne entered into the performance of a prose dirge upon her sufferings, and the cruelty of fate—of what would have happened if Mr Thorne had lived, and finished up during arésuméof her prospects when she was Hazel’s age by finding that Percy had gone fast asleep, Hazel being upstairs, making arrangements for the accommodation of this addition to their family, a task of no small difficulty to people with their limited means.

Hazel’s first impulse was to hurry up to her room, but to her astonishment, she became aware of the fact that her mother had been watching both interviews, by her manner, for she was standing inside the room door, and throwing her arms round her daughter she kissed her on both cheeks.

There was another surprise for Hazel though, for a loud voice exclaimed—

“Oh, I say, Hazel, ar’n’t you going it? I shall tell Geringer you’re going to marry the parson.”

“Percy! You here!” she cried, completely ignoring his words.

“Looks like it, don’t it? I say, how jolly white you’ve got.”

“Have you asked for a holiday, Percy!” she said, responding to his caress, and noting at the same time how tall and manly he was growing, for he was passing from the tall, thin boy into the big, bony, ill-shaped young man, with a hoarse voice and a faint trace of down upon his lip and chin.

At the same time she noted a peculiarly fast, flashy style of dress that he had adopted, his trousers fitting tightly to his legs, his hair being cut short, and his throat wrapped in a common, showy-looking tie, fastened with a horseshoe pin.

“Have I asked for a what?” he said, changing countenance a little—“a holiday? Well, yes, I suppose I have—a long one. Eh, ma?”

He looked at Mrs Thorne as if asking for help, and she responded at once.

“I wouldn’t let Percy come into the school, my dear, but let him wait till you came out,” she said. “The fact is, Hazel, my dear, the poor boy has been so put upon and ill-used at the place where he consented to act as clerk, that at last, in spite of his earnest desire to stay there for both our sakes, my dear—I think I am expressing your feelings, Percy?”

“Right as the mail!” he replied quickly.

“He felt that as a gentleman he could submit no longer, and so he has left and come down.”

“Left and come down?” said Hazel mechanically, as she thought of the narrowness of her present income, and the impracticability of making it feed another hearty appetite as well as those at home.

“Yes; they were such a set of cads, you know,” said Percy, sticking a cheap glass in one eye and holding it there by the brow. “Regular set of cads, from the foreman down to the lowest clerk.”

“Did you have a quarrel with your employer, Percy?” said Hazel gravely.

“I don’t know what you mean by having a quarrel with my employer, Hazel,” replied the boy. “I told him that he was a confounded cad, and that I wouldn’t stand any more of his nonsense.”

“What had you been doing, Percy?”

“Doing?—doing? Why, nothing at all. It was impossible to get on with such a set of cads.”

“There must have been some reason for the quarrel,” said Hazel.

“Really, my dear, this is very foolish of you,” cried Mrs Thorne quickly. “You do not understand these things. For my part, I think Percy has done quite right. It was bad enough for the poor boy to have to submit to the degradation of going to work, without putting up with the insults of a—of a—a—”

“Set of cads, ma,” said the lad.

“Yes, my boy—cads,” said Mrs Thorne, getting rid of the word with no little show of distaste.

“I think, mamma, that out of respect to Mr Geringer, who has been so kind to us, you ought to write to Percy’s employer.”

“Haven’t got an employer now, so you can’t write to him,” said the boy sharply. “Nice sort of a welcome, this, from one’s own sister. If I’d known it was coming to this, I’d have jolly soon gone down Charles Street.”

“Charles Street! Oh, my dear Percy, pray, pray don’t think of going there!” cried Mrs Thorne. “What is going down Charles Street?”

“Going to enlist, mamma—taking the shilling.”

“Oh, my boy!—oh, Percy!”

“Well, what’s the good of coming down here to have your own sister turn dead against you, like the confounded cads at the office.”

“I do not turn against you, Percy,” said Hazel; “but I cannot help thinking there is something wrong.”

“That’s right; go it. Nice opinion you’ve got of your brother. Something wrong, indeed! Why, what do you suppose is wrong?”

“For shame, Hazel! How dare you!” cried Mrs Thorne. “It is cruel to him, and an insult to me. Why do you think such things of your poor orphaned brother? If your father had been alive, you would never have dared to speak so harshly. Oh, Hazel, Hazel, you make my life a burden to me, indeed, indeed.”

“My dear mother, those words are uncalled for. I only asked Percy for some explanation of his conduct. We have had no warning of this; not one of his letters has hinted at the possibility of his leaving his situation; but we do know that he has been extravagant.”

“Go it,” cried Percy sulkily; and he began to rummage in his pockets.

“Really, Hazel, I think he has managed on very little,” said Mrs Thorne indignantly.

“I differ from you, mother; for I had hoped that my brother would have striven to help us, and not found himself compelled to drain our resources more and more.”

“Look here,” cried Percy, “I sha’n’t stand this. There’s plenty more posts to be obtained, I dare say, and then I shall be a burden to no one.”

“Don’t talk like that, my dear,” cried Mrs Thorne. “Hazel is only a little tired and cross, and she’ll be as different as can be, when she has had her meal. There, I won’t be angry with you, my dear; sit down and have some tea. Poor Percy was nearly starved, and I got some ready for him myself. I was afraid you would not like to be called out of the school.”

Hazel glanced at the little table where the remains of the tea were standing, with empty egg-shells, a fragment of bacon, the dirty cups, and a large array of crumbs.

“I made him a good cup, poor fellow! he was so worn out; so if you fill up the pot, my dear, I dare say you’ll find it all right.”

This was the first time that Mrs Thorne had attempted to prepare the tea, and when she had performed her task it was in an untidy way. Now that the meal was over, everything looked wretchedly untempting to a weary person seeking to be refreshed.

Hazel looked at Percy, but he avoided her eye, and sitting down with his back to her, he began to fill a little cutty pipe from an indiarubber pouch.

“My dear Percy, what are you about?” cried Mrs Thorne.

“Only going to have a pipe,” he said, striking a vesuvian and holding it to the bowl; “a fellow can’t get on without his weed.”

Hazel’s eyes flashed as she saw the thick puffs of smoke emitted from her brother’s lips, but she did not speak; she waited for her mother, whose forehead looked troubled, but who made no remark.

“If I speak now,” thought Hazel, “it will only make more unpleasantness.” So she filled up the teapot which was half full of leaves, and then sat down to her comfortless meal.

Finding that she was silent, Percy took it that she had repented, so he assumed the offensive as he sat and smoked, showing himself an adept at the practice, and soon half-filling the little room with the pungent vapour.

“Precious mean little place this for you to have to live in, mamma,” he said contemptuously.

“Yes, it is, my boy, and I feel it very deeply,” said Mrs Thorne in a lachrymose tone.

“Ah, just you wait a bit,” he said. “I’ve left that old office, but don’t you be afraid. A fellow I know has put me up to a few things, and perhaps I shall astonish you one of these days.”

“You mean you will get on well, my dear?”

“That’s it. Only you wait. There’s plenty of money to be picked up by any one withnous. Ten times as much as any one can get by keeping his nose to a desk and trying to please a set of cads.”

“Yes, dear, I suppose so.”

“Some people have no more spirit than a fly,” continued Percy. “Fancy a girl like our Hazel settling down in a bit of a hut like this, when she might have been the making of us all.”

“Ah, yes, my dear,” sighed Mrs Thorne, “that is what I often tell your sister, who might, if she had liked, have married—”

“My dear mother, will you kindly discuss that with Percy when I am not here!”

“Oh, of course, if you wish it, Hazel,” cried Mrs Thorne. “I am not mistress here, Percy. This is Hazel’s home, where I and your poor little sisters are allowed to live on sufferance and—”

Sob—sob—sob.

“Oh, I say, Hazy, it’s too bad,” cried Percy. “You know how weak and ill poor mamma has been, and yet you treat her like this.”

“Yes, my boy; I’m a mere nonentity now, and the sooner I am dead and put beneath the sod the better. I’m only a useless burden to my children now.”

“Don’t talk like that, ma dear,” cried the lad. “You only wait a bit, and as soon as I’ve got my plans in order I’ll make you a regular jolly home.”

“That you will, I know, my dear boy,” cried Mrs Thorne; “and I hope you will try hard to do something to redeem our lost position.”

“What are your plans, Percy?” said Hazel suddenly.

“Oh, nothing that you could understand,” he said haughtily. “I don’t wonder at poor ma being miserable, if you treat her as you are treating me!”

“Percy,” said Hazel gently, “only a few months ago you had no secrets from me, and we planned together how we would work and make mamma a happy home.”

“And nicely you’ve done it,” cried the lad ungraciously.

“You declared, upon your honour as a gentleman, that you would never turn from me, but that you would strive to take poor papa’s place, and be a help and protector to your mother and sisters. I ask you, how are you keeping your word?”

Percy fidgeted about in his chair, glanced at his mother, and then began playing with his pipe.

“If you have made some grievous mistake, dear, tell us at once, so that we may join with you in trying to repair it; but do not weakly take umbrage at my asking you rather searchingly what you have been doing.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the boy sulkily.

“Tell me exactly how you came to leave your office?”

“I did tell you. A set of cads!”

“Then I shall write to Mr Geringer, and ask him to send me the full particulars. Perhaps we can make peace for you so that you can go back.”

“Go back, Hazy?”

“Yes: go back. I do not wish to seem unkind, Percy, but you will not be able to stop here.”

“And why not, pray?” cried the lad defiantly.

“There is one reason why not,” said Hazel, pointing to the pipe. “You ought not to have lit that here, Percy. This is not my house, but the cottage attached to the school, in which, while I teach the children, I am allowed to live.”

“Now you’re beginning about my bit of tobacco,” cried the lad. “You’re as bad as old Geringer!”

“Really, Hazel, you are in a very, very cruel frame of mind to-night,” said Mrs Thorne, whimpering; “but never mind, my boy, you shall share my home as long as your poor mamma has one. Perhaps Hazel will give us a refuge here to-night—to-morrow we will seek one elsewhere.”

“You will do no such foolish thing, mamma,” said Hazel with spirit; “and as for you, Percy, I insist upon knowing the whole truth.”

The boy flushed and threw up his head defiantly; but Hazel rose from her place, crossed to him, and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Then, bending down, she kissed him, and stood by him with her arm round his neck.

“Tell me everything, dear,” she said; “it is your sister who asks.”

For answer Percy dashed his pipe beneath the grate, laid his arms upon the table, his head went down, and he began to cry like a great girl.

“Oh, Hazel, Hazel, what have you done?” cried Mrs Thorne. “Percy, Percy, my boy, come here.”

“Hush, mother!” said Hazel sternly; and, kneeling down, she drew the boy’s unresisting head upon her shoulder, and held it there, smoothing his hair the while.

“Oh, Hazy, Hazy,” he sobbed at last. “I’m a beast—a brute—a wretch; and I wish I was dead.”

“There—there! Hazel, see what you have done!” cried Mrs Thorne angrily. “Oh, my boy, my boy! Come here to me, Percy; I will stand by you whatever comes.”

But Percy seemed to be quite satisfied to stay where he was, for he made no movement beyond that of yielding himself more and more to his sister’s embrace.

“Hush, dear!” she said tenderly. “If you have done wrong, be frank and outspoken. Let us hear the truth.”

For answer, the lad, approaching manhood in stature, but with his child-nature still greatly in the ascendant, wept more bitterly; but at last, perfectly heedless of his mother’s plaints and appeals, he raised his head, wiped his eyes, and, flinging his arms round his sister, kissed her passionately again and again.

“There; now you will tell us all, Percy,” said Hazel, responding to his caresses.

“You’ll turn your back on me if I do,” he groaned.

“Is it likely that I should, Percy! There, speak out frankly—is it something about money!”

“Yes,” said the lad, hanging his head.

“You have been getting in debt!”

“Well, not much. Hazy—not more than I could soon pay off,” said the boy, looking timidly in her face, and then shrinking from her searching eyes.

“There is something more?”

“Ye-es,” he faltered; and then, desperately, after a few moments’ hesitation, “It was all Tom Short’s fault.”

“Who is Tom Short?” asked Hazel.

“A fellow in our office. He won seventy pounds by putting money on horses, and it seemed so easy; and I thought it would be so nice to get some money together so as to be able to help poor mamma.”

“There, Hazel, you hear!” cried Mrs Thorne triumphantly.

“And so you began betting on horse-races, Percy—a habit poor papa used to say was one of the greatest follies under the sun.”

“Well, no, dear, it wasn’t exactly betting, but going to a bookmaker and putting money on any horse you chose. He did the betting. You only give him your money and wait.”

“Till you know it is lost, Percy!”

“Well, yes; it was so with me, because I was so terribly unlucky. Some fellows win no end that way.”

“And you have always lost, Percy?”

“Yes, Hazy; and it does lead you on so,” he cried earnestly, “you lose, and then you think your luck must turn, and you try again, because one winning means making up for no end of losses.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Hazel sadly.

“And so I kept on and kept on, trying so hard; but the luck hasn’t turned yet. I’m sure it would, though, if I had been able to keep on.”

“That is what all gamblers think, Percy.”

“Don’t call me a gambler, Hazel, because I’m not that.”

“And that is where the money went that poor mamma borrowed for you, Percy?”

“Yes,” he said despondently; “but I mean to get it all back again some day, and to pay it, and interest too.”

“That is quite right, Percy; but not by betting.”

“I don’t see why not,” he said. “Other fellows do.”

“Let them,” replied Hazel; “but it is not a course to be followed by my brother. Tell me, did your employers find out that you were engaged in betting?”

“Ye-es,” faltered Percy; “and it was all through that sneak, Tom Short.”

“And they dismissed you?”

“Well, I think I dismissed myself; I resigned, you know.”

“Call things by their right names, Percy. Well, I am glad you have told us. We will say no more now. But to-morrow we must begin to take steps to get you another engagement.”

“But look here, Hazel,” cried the lad, “if you and mamma could knock together twenty pounds for me to start with, I feel as sure as sure that I could make no end by putting it on horses at some of the big races. You’ve no idea what a pot of money some fellows handle that way. Ah, you may smile, but you are only a girl, and very ignorant of such things. You wouldn’t laugh if I was to turn twenty pounds into a thousand.”

“No, Percy, I should not laugh if you turned twenty pounds into a thousand,” said Hazel. “But there, we will say no more now; only promise me this,—that you will not smoke again in this cottage, nor yet make any more bets.”

“Yes, I’ll promise,” said the boy sulkily. “I suppose I must.”

“I’m sure no one could have behaved better than Percy has, my dear,” said Mrs Thorne. “He has been perfectly open and frank. All that you can find against him is that he has been unlucky. Poor boy! If your father had been alive!”

Here Mrs Thorne entered into the performance of a prose dirge upon her sufferings, and the cruelty of fate—of what would have happened if Mr Thorne had lived, and finished up during arésuméof her prospects when she was Hazel’s age by finding that Percy had gone fast asleep, Hazel being upstairs, making arrangements for the accommodation of this addition to their family, a task of no small difficulty to people with their limited means.

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