AUNT GEORGE
It would be hard for me to tell of all the joys and pleasures which
Brighton gave to the Stubbs family and to Sarah in particular. To the
younger of the Stubbs children all was joy and delight, though they had
been there several times before; to Miss Clark it was rest and peace,
because she was not much troubled with Tom; and Flossie, too, was
allowed to go about with him and Johnnie a great deal more freely than
she ever was at home. May--always Miss Clark's favourite--spent much of
her time beside her, though she went shopping sometimes with her mother,
and also driving. But, on the whole, Mrs. Stubbs did not give up very
much of her time just then to her children.
For Mr. Stubbs was taking his holiday, and Mr. Stubbs was troubled with
a threatened fit of the gout, and do with the sound of the children's
racket and bustle he simply could not. He was often threatened with the
gout, though the threatenings seldom came to anything more than temper.
So, whilst they were at Brighton, Mrs. Stubbs--who was as good a wife as
she was a mother--devoted herself to him, and left the children to take
care of themselves a good deal.
Their life was naturally quite a different one to what it was in town.
They had a furnished house in which they slept and took their meals, but
which at other times they did not much affect--they had early dinner
there, and a high tea at seven o'clock, at which they all ate like
ravenous wolves, Sarah amongst the number. This was a very happy,
free-and-easy meal; for, though Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs joined in the early
dinner, and called it lunch, they did not go in for the high tea but
invariably went to the Grand Hotel and had dinner there.
Oh, what happy, happy days they were! There was the early run out on
the Parade or the Sea Wall before breakfast; then the delicious seaside
breakfast, with fresh whitings every morning. There was the daily dip in
the sea, and the daily donkey ride or goat-chaise drive. There was the
ever new and delightful shingle, on which they played and skipped, and
dug and delved to their hearts' content. There were the niggers, and
the blind man who sang to his own accompaniment on a sort of hand-organ,
and wore a smart blue necktie, and a flower in his button-hole. There
was a sweet little child, too, wearing a big sun-bonnet, whom they used
to watch for every morning, who came with toddling three-year-old
gravity with a penny for the niggers, to the infinite amusement of the
bystanders.
"Here, black man."
"Thank you, my little Snowdrop," was the invariable reply of the nigger
minstrel; and then the little wee "Snowdrop" would make a stately bow.
The nigger would take off his hat with a bow to match it, and the little
scene was over till the morrow.
Then there was the Aquarium, and the delightful shop, which they called
"The Creameries," a little way past Mutton's; and once or twice they
all, except Mr. Stubbs, went for a trip in the steamer, when Mrs. Stubbs
took chief charge, and Miss Clark was so horribly ill that she thought
she would have died.
And once Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs went to Newhaven, and thence to Dieppe,
taking Tom with them--not at all because Tom wanted to go, but because
May represented to her mother that neither she nor Miss Clark were
feeling very well, and that without "Pa's" restraining influence she was
sure Tom would not only worry them all to death, but would also incite
Flossie into all manner of dreadful pranks, the consequences of which
might be dire and terrible.
So Tom went with them over the water on to French soil, and May
remarked, triumphantly, to the governess, "I've got rid of him, Miss
Clark, so now we shall have a little peace, and enjoy ourselves."
And so they did. To be without Tom was like the enjoyment of the calm
which comes after a storm; and they, one and all, with the exception of
Flossie, enjoyed it to the full. Flossie was very much aggrieved at
being thus deprived of her playfellow.
"It is too bad that Tom should have to go with Pa and Ma," she
complained. "He won't have a soul to speak to or a boy to play with, or
anything, except some stupid little French boy, perhaps, who can't speak
a word of anything but gibberish. I call it a beastly shame. I suppose
it's old Clark's doing, and that she was just afraid Tom would get an
extra good time while they were away. Nasty old cat!"
"Miss Clark had no more to do with it than you had," May replied. "Ma
chose to take him, and that's enough."
As Tom was actually gone, there was not the smallest use in grumbling.
So Flossie, thus left idle, turned her attention upon Sarah. It is
needless to say that very, very soon Flossie also began to tease her,
and, in consequence, Sarah's life became more or less of a burden to
her. In this way Sarah, who was a singularly uncomplaining child, crept
nearer and nearer to Miss Clark and May, as there she was safe from
Flossie's taunts and jeers; and it was in this way that some notice was
taken of her by one of the great lights of the Stubbs family, Mrs.
George Stubbs, the corn-factor's wife, who lived in great style at
Brighton.
It happened that one morning Sarah and May were waiting for Miss Clark
to come out with the younger children, when Mrs. George came slowly
along in a bath-chair. As she passed by them she called to the man to
stop. "Dear me, is that you, May?" she remarked; "how you've grown.
Your papa and mamma came to see us the other day, but I was not at home.
I was out."
"They have gone over to Dieppe," said May, "and Tom with them. This is
our cousin, Sarah, Aunt George."
"Oh! is it? Yes, your mamma told me when she wrote last that she was
coming to live with you. How do you do, Sarah?"
All this was uttered in a languid tone, as if, on the whole, life was
too much trouble to be lived at all. Sarah had met with nothing of this
kind in all her life before, and looked only impressed; in truth, she
looked a good deal more impressed than she was, or rather she looked
_differently_ impressed to what she was, and Mrs. George Stubbs was
pleased to be a little flattered thereby.
"You must come and have tea with me," she observed graciously to May.
"I have not been able to get out except the day your mamma called--my
unfortunate neuralgia has been so very trying. You may bring Sarah.
Would you like to come to-night?
"Very much indeed, thank you, Aunt George," responded May.
"Very much indeed," echoed Sarah.
"Your cousins are, of course, all at school in Paris, and your uncle is
in London, so we will have high tea at seven o'clock. Bring your music
with you."
"Sarah plays the violin," said May, who hated playing in company
herself. "She plays it beautifully. She's going to have lessons."
"Then bring your violin and let me hear you," said Mrs. George to Sarah;
"it is a most stylish instrument."
"I will," said Sarah.
"Oh, is Flossie to come, Aunt George?" asked May, as they shook hands.
"Flossie? No. I can-_not_ do with Flossie," replied Mrs. George, in a
tone which was enough to remind May that the very last time they had
visited their aunt, Flossie had been clever enough to break a beautiful
Venetian glass, which was, as Mrs. George had remarked pathetically over
the fragments, simply of priceless value.