_SYSTEM._
THE oatmeal was procured and duly prepared for breakfast. Now, to
people who like oatmeal, and with whom it agrees, it is an agreeable
and wholesome diet; but it does not agree with every one, and to those
who dislike it, it is usually downright odious. So it was to Isa.
"I can't bear it," she said to Rhoda, passionately. "It gives me the
heartburn, and the very smell is disgusting. I can hardly bear to see
you eat it."
"I wish I could eat your share and mine too," said Rhoda. "I like it
very well if I can have plenty of milk."
"I'm sure I wish you could. Do give me a piece of bread, Rhoda. I am
ready to faint away."
Rhoda cut the bread, while Isa put it into her pocket.
At that moment Mr. Ferrand came into the kitchen.
"What are you doing here, Isabella?" he asked, in evident though calm
displeasure. "May I ask what brings you into the kitchen at this time?"
"I came for some hot water," said poor Isa, seizing on the first
pretext which presented itself.
"I'll get you a pail, Miss Isa," said Rhoda, rising, but Mr. Ferrand
checked her.
"Miss Ferrand has her own vessels for hot and cold water," said he, "or
should have them. If your room is not properly furnished, Isabella, you
should speak to your mother or me, and have the deficiency rectified.
It is time you were preparing for school."
"That's just what I want the water for," said Isa, breaking out in
rebellion, as she did now and then. "Do let me get some hot water, pa.
What is the use of making such a fuss for every little thing?" And
snatching a cup from the shelf, she dipped out some hot water and ran
up the back stairs to her own room.
Mr. Ferrand looked after her with a glance which boded her no good,
and then began a minute investigation of the state of the kitchen.
Cupboards, dishes, towels, were all passed in review and commented on,
and glad was Rhoda when the survey was finished.
"You seem to have things in tolerable order, though there is not that
degree of system which—But what is this?" he exclaimed, if anything so
calm could be called an exclamation, and laying hold of Rhoda's slate
and algebra, which lay in the kitchen window. "Does Miss Ferrand leave
her books in the kitchen?"
"Those are mine," answered Rhoda, briefly.
"Yours! And may I inquire how you came by them and what use you make of
them?"
"My father bought them, and I use them to study," said Rhoda, rather
crisply, for her patience began to wax threadbare.
"Indeed! I should suppose that you might find studies more suitable to
your position than algebra," said Mr. Ferrand. "I should say your time
might be more profitably employed."
"Why should not I study algebra as well as Miss Isa—Miss Ferrand, I
mean?" asked Rhoda, who began to be more amused than angry. "I never
touch it till my work is done, and what harm does it do?"
"Miss Ferrand's position and yours are very different," answered Mr.
Ferrand, austerely. "She is, or will soon be, a young lady, and your
position is that of a servant—a very different matter. It is proper
that you should read, and I will see that you are furnished with
suitable books, but—but you must see that there is a great difference
between you and Miss Ferrand."
Rhoda thought there was this difference—that she loved study and Miss
Ferrand hated it; but she had become conscious that she was growing
angry. She therefore prudently held her peace and busied herself with
her dishes, and Mr. Ferrand, after again promising to supply her with
suitable books, left the kitchen, to Rhoda's great relief. Presently,
as she was putting away the dishes, she heard him in conversation with
his wife:
"The young person in the kitchen seems to have some strange notions,
Mrs. Ferrand. What books do you think I found hidden—that is, not
exactly hidden: I wish to do her no injustice; but lying—in the
kitchen? Nothing less than an algebra and geometry."
"Was that all?" said Mrs. Ferrand, in tone of relief. "I was afraid you
might have found some bad books, there is so much trash afloat. Yes, I
know Rhoda studies a great deal, though I must say she never neglects
her work for her books. Mrs. Mulford told me that the child was very
desirous to acquire an education, and I thought you would be interested
in her on that account."
"I am interested in all young persons who try to improve, Mrs. Ferrand,
but they must be content to improve in their proper sphere. I don't
know—I cannot even guess—what my grandmother would have said at finding
one of her maids studying mathematics," said Mr. Ferrand, whose
grandmother had been a baronet's daughter, and who therefore professed
a great love of everything English.
"Rhoda is a very good girl, and gives me more real help than almost any
servant I ever had," said Mrs. Ferrand. "She seems to make a conscience
of doing everything in the best way, and she is always so pleasant."
"I would rather hear you say that she is always respectful," said Mr.
Ferrand. "However, if you like the girl, we must try to get on with
her; only I trust you will not let yourself down by holding familiar
conversations with her. It is your place to give directions, and hers
to follow them. I am convinced that most of the multitudinous evils of
our democratic society arise from people's getting out of their proper
spheres. Especially I trust you will see that Isabella does not hold
any intercourse with her. I am mistaken if they were not talking quite
familiarly this morning when I entered the kitchen. Another thing I
wish to mention while I think of it: I met Mr. Harvey on the cars, and
he tells me that Isabella makes very little improvement in her music. I
wish you would see that she gets up in time to practise an hour before
breakfast."
"Really, Mr. Ferrand, I think that will not answer," said his wife,
roused in behalf of her child even to the point of contradicting her
husband. "Isa's eyes are weak now. She complains of headache, and of
being tired all the time. I think she should be doing less rather than
more while the warm weather lasts."
Mr. Ferrand smiled superior.
"I thought you knew by this time that my views for Isa's education
'must' be carried out," said he.
"Even if it kills her, as it did Charlie, I suppose," said Mrs. Ferrand.
"My son Charles died of a fever, and not from any over-application,"
answered Mr. Ferrand, coldly. "I have nothing to regret where he is
concerned. I expect that Isabella will rise at half-past five and
practise from six till seven hereafter."
"Then you must call her yourself, for I won't," returned his wife. "The
child has as much to do now as she can bear."
Mr. Ferrand was amazed. Surely some evil spirit had entered his home
during his absence. Never had he met with so much contradiction during
one day in his own house. He had resolved already that Isabella should
expiate her rebellion by some hours of solitary confinement and low
diet, but he could not very well shut up his wife. He began to be
scared, and thought he would try a little conciliation.
"Very well. Since you are so decidedly opposed to it, I shall say no
more. I wish nothing but our daughter's good, as you must know, and the
dearest desire of my heart is to see her well-educated, but I do not
wish her to be oppressed. One thing, however, I must insist upon—that
she shall hold no unnecessary communication with the servants in the
kitchen on any subject whatever."
And having thus saved his dignity, Mr. Ferrand turned for consolation
to his writing-table and his treatise on education—a work which had
occupied him for several years.
It was Mr. Ferrand's great misfortune that he was very rich and had
no profession. If he had been obliged to work for a living, his love
of order, accuracy, and system would have found legitimate outlets,
and might have made him an excellent master-mechanic or merchant.
As it was, the qualities which would have been a very moderate dose
if distributed among a hundred workmen were all bestowed on his own
family. No details were too small for his supervision, no neglect or
omission too trifling to annoy him.
He would talk for a week about an old towel which had been found out of
place, and made as much fuss about the mending of a latch as would be
necessary for the repairing of a steam-engine. As I have said, he liked
everything English, and was very apt to sneer at and contemn "our free
and happy country," as he was fond of saying in a contemptuous tone. He
believed in people keeping their places and being contented in them,
and he had a special horror of servants in particular "getting out of
their proper sphere."
But Mr. Ferrand's great hobby was education. On that theme he delighted
to dwell for hours, and to his great work on that subject, he gave so
much of his time as was not devoted to superintending family affairs
and acquiring useful information—that is, to storing his mind with
uninteresting facts and dates, arranged in scientific order. Accurate
enumeration, logical deduction, and rigid sequence were the sun and
moon of Mr. Ferrand's intellectual system, and he made no account of
such wandering and comet-like lights as imagination and the poetic
faculty.
True, certain poets, such as Shakespeare, Milton, Cowper, and
Wordsworth, were to be studied. They were facts in English history,
and it was needful, therefore, to have some acquaintance with them.
But stories of all kinds—"works of fiction," as he comprehensively
classed them—could do nobody any good, and were not to be tolerated for
a moment. One of his pet theories was that change of employment was
sufficient relaxation; and as his own head and nerves were as hard as
cast iron, he never found out the fallacy of his theory.
His only son had been a prodigy of learning—only he died at thirteen of
a fever which, as Doctor Morton had said at the time, ought not to have
killed a baby. Mr. Ferrand loved his son dearly and mourned for him
deeply, but neither his grief nor his love prevented him from trying
the same system over again with his daughter.
Isa was of a different stamp from her brother. Charlie had loved study
for its own sake—Isa hated it; Charlie was uncommonly and precociously
intelligent—Isa was by no means bright, and was rather young for her
age: nevertheless, both must be put through exactly the same process.
The system was everything—the individual nothing. Mr. Ferrand had begun
by teaching Isa himself, but he had found the confinement too great,
and he could not make her study unless he were over her. So he gave up
the idea of home education, and sent her to a school whose master was
a man after his own heart—a man who revelled on a plenteous diet of
"facts and figures," and looked upon Virgil and Homer, Milton, Cowper,
and Young, as so much material for parsing.
Professor Sampson certainly "got his pupils on" wonderfully fast. The
great trouble was that those of them who did not faint by the way—fall
sick and have to be taken out of school—left him with an inexpressible
disgust for books and information of all sorts.
Professor Sampson had done his best with Isa, feeling quite sure that,
however tightly he might put on the screws, her father would always
be ready to give them another turn. The consequence was that Isa, who
under proper treatment might have turned out a very good woman, with a
healthy body and a sound mind, was fast becoming morose, feverish, and
hysterical, utterly discontented, and ready to consider any change a
gain. Moreover, she became sly and deceitful.
Rhoda saw this, and it gave her a good deal of trouble. Mr. Ferrand had
said that Isa was not to associate with a servant, and had told Isa
so, yet Isa did not scruple to come to Rhoda's room for help about her
algebra, and to talk to Rhoda on every occasion.
One night, as Rhoda was getting ready for bed, Isa came round to her
room in great glee.
"Marion Campbell is coming back, and oh, ain't I glad?" said she, in a
joyous whisper.
"Who is Marion Campbell?" asked Rhoda.
"She is the Scotch cook who used to live here two years ago. She went
away because her sister was sick; and now her sister is dead, she is
coming back. Why, you don't look as if you were glad one bit."
"I can't say I am," said Rhoda.
"But why not? She is real good-natured and you won't have half so much
work to do as you have now."
"I don't mind the work—it is not hard at all," said Rhoda; "and I like
to have my room to myself. It is none too large for one."
"Oh, but Marion won't sleep in your room. She has the one on the other
side. Don't you know it's part of pa's system that every one should
have a room to themselves?"
"'Every one having a room to themselves' is a very good system, but it
isn't very good grammar," said Rhoda, smiling.
"Who cares?" returned Isa. "But I want you to like Marion; she is very
'Scotchy,' but she is awful good-natured. There! I wonder what pa would
say to such a sentence as that? I know," she added, laughing: "he would
say, 'Isabella, will you give me the definition of awful?'"
"Miss Isa, you ought not to make fun of your father," said Rhoda,
reprovingly; "and you ought not to be here. You know he does not like
it."
"He isn't home," answered Isa. "Now, Rhoda, do show me how to do these
sums. I know you understand them, and I don't the least in the world.
Come, now, be good. I know I shall fail, and I have failed twice this
week already. I believe I am growing a perfect idiot," said she,
despairingly. "I don't seem to understand anything, especially in the
morning, my head is so dizzy and confused."
"That's because you don't eat any breakfast or supper," said Rhoda.
"Well, I can't eat porridge—I fairly loathe it; and if I do eat it,
it makes me sick, so I might as well feel badly for one thing as for
another. Come, do help me, Rhoda, please."
Rhoda suffered herself to be persuaded. She knew it was not right to
help Isa in deceiving and disobeying her father, but she felt very
sorry for the poor oppressed girl, and she had not strength to resist
her pleadings. Perhaps such strength was hardly to be expected of a
girl of sixteen. Rhoda had been well drilled in common arithmetic, and
she had a natural gift for mathematics, as she had for music. She soon
made Isa's perplexities plain.
"You are the best girl that ever lived," said Isa, kissing her. "I am
sure you were born for a teacher. But there goes half-past nine, and I
must be in bed before pa comes home. I shall have to hurry."
"Don't forget your prayers, Miss Isa," said Rhoda.
And then she turned to her own devotions, but she did not find much
comfort in them. She knew she was doing wrong in keeping up this kind
of secret intercourse with Isa, and yet she could not quite make up
her mind to abandon it. She said to herself that she only did it to
help Isa, but in her secret soul she knew better. She found her own
comprehension and memory greatly assisted by going over the lessons
with another, and she hated to forego the advantage.
The truth was, Rhoda was getting into a bad way. She had one grand
object in life, and it was a very good object, but she looked at it
till it grew so large as to be in danger of eclipsing everything else.
Indeed, the atmosphere of the family where she found herself was not
favourable to truthfulness. Mrs. Ferrand, if she did not absolutely
deceive, certainly managed, her husband. Isa had no scruple about
making a false excuse or telling a tolerable sized fib to escape the
penalty of any infraction of Mr. Ferrand's numerous "rules."
Marion Campbell did not make matters any better when she came. She was
a tall, thin Scotchwoman, an excellent cook, a superlative laundress,
and neat and quick at all sorts of work. She was always good-natured,
even in the agony of dishing up a company dinner, and she was strictly
and scrupulously honest in all that pertained to her employer's
property.
But she thought it no harm to gain her own way by a little canny
management, and she had no scruple in bestowing on Isa, of whom she was
very fond, all the indulgence that came in her way. Many a delicate
sandwich and dainty cake and savoury pickle found its way into Isa's
school satchel by Marion's means.
"You would na have me send her away hungry, and she such a slender
lass?" she said, one day, when Rhoda ventured to hint a remonstrance.
"She canna thole the porridge."
"I know, and it does seem cruel," answered Rhoda, "and yet it can't be
quite right, either, to help her to deceive her father."
"It's just his ain fault, then, and no hers," said Marion, who had
slipped into Rhoda's room on her way from Isa's. "I'm no that fond of
the oatmeal myself, though I was brought up on it. Laws! How many books
ye have! Are ye fond of reading?"
"Yes, indeed, I am."
"Aweel, ye must read to me whiles. I'm fond of a book myself, but my
eyes are failed, and I canna see very well. I have a grand history of
Scotland that I bought cheap at a stall the ither day. I'll bring it
the next time I go home, and we'll have some readings. Eh! What a fine
Bible!"
"Isn't it?" asked Rhoda. "Dear Aunt Hannah gave it to me the very last
time I ever saw her." And Rhoda's eyes overflowed at the remembrance of
her last interview with Aunt Hannah.
"Ah, well, dinna greet for her, my doo," said Marion, sympathetically.
"She was a good woman, na doubt, and gane to a better place. Lass, your
room looks fine, with all these pictures and little things about it.
I ay like a young lass to be neat and dainty. I think you and I will
'gree very well."