WHAT an entirely different set of beings were those Stokesley children in
lesson-time and out of it! Talk of the change of an old thorn in winter
to a May-bush in spring! that was nothing to it!
Poor, listless, stolid, deplorable logs, with bowed backs and crossed
ankles, pipy voices and heavy eyes! Who would believe that these were
the merry, capering, noisy creatures, full of fun and riot, clattering
and screeching, and dancing about with ecstasy at Sam’s information that
there was a bonfire by the potato-house!
“A bonfire!” said the London governess, thinking of illuminations; “what
can that be for?”
“Oh, it is not _for_ anything,” said Susan; “it is Purday burning weeds.
Don’t you smell them? How nice they are! I was afraid it was only
Farmer Smith burning couch.”
All the noses were elevated to scent from afar a certain smoky odour,
usually to be detected in July breezes, and which reminded Miss Fosbrook
of a brick-field.
“Potatoes! Potatoes! We’ll roast some potatoes, and have them for tea!”
bellowed all the voices; so that Miss Fosbrook could hardly find a space
for very unwillingly saying,
“But, my dears, I don’t know whether I ought to let you play with fire.”
“Oh, we always do,” roared the children; and Susan added,
“We always roast potatoes when there’s a bonfire. Mamma always lets us;
it is only Purday that is cross.”
“Yes, yes; Mamma lets us.”
“Well, if Sam and Susan say it is right, I trust to them,” said Miss
Fosbrook gladly; “only you must let me come out and see what it is. I am
too much of a Londoner to know.”
“Oh yes; and we’ll roast you some potatoes.”
So the uproarious population tumbled upstairs, there to be invested with
rougher brown-holland garments than those that already concealed the
sprigged cottons of the girls; and when the five came down again, they
were so much alike in dress, that it was not easy to tell girls from
boys. Susan brought little George down with her, and off the party set.
Sam and Hal, who had been waiting in the hall, took Miss Fosbrook between
them, as if they thought it their duty to do the honours of the bonfire,
and conducted her across the garden, through the kitchen-garden, across
which lay a long sluggish bar of heavy and very odorous smoke, to a gate
in a quickset hedge. Here were some sheds and cart-houses, a fagot pile,
various logs of timber, a grindstone, and—that towards which all the
eight children rushed with whoops of ecstasy—a heap of smoking rubbish,
chiefly dry leaves, and peas and potato haulm, with a large allowance of
cabbage stumps—all extremely earthy, and looking as if the smouldering
smoke were a wonder from so mere a heap of dirt.
No matter! There were all the children round it, some on their knees,
some jumping; and voices were crying on all sides,
“O jolly, jolly!” “I’ll get some potatoes!” “Oh, you must have some
sticks first, and make some ashes.” “There’s no flame—not a bit!” “Get
out of the way, can’t you? I’ll make a hot place.” “We’ll each have our
own oven, and roast our own potatoes!” “Don’t, Sam; you’re pushing me
into the smoke!”
This of course was from Elizabeth; and there followed, “Don’t, Bessie,
you will tread upon Georgie.—Yes, Georgie, you _shall_ have a place.”
“Sticks, sticks!” shouted Henry; while Sam was on his knees, poking out a
species of cavern in the fire, where some symptoms of red embers
appeared, which he diligently puffed with his mouth, feeding it with
leaves and smaller chips in a very well practised way. “Sticks, Annie!
Johnnie! Davy! get sticks, I say, and we’ll make an oven.”
Annie obeyed; but the two little boys were intent on imitating Sam on
another side of the fire, and Johnnie uttered a gruff “Get ’em yourself,”
while David took no notice at all.
Perhaps Hal would have betaken himself to no gentle means if Susan had
not hastily put in his way a plentiful supply of dead wood, which she had
been letting little George think he picked up all himself; and there was
keen excitement, which Christabel could not help sharing, while under
Sam’s breath the red edges of the half-burnt chip glowed, flushed,
widened, then went sparkling doubtfully, slowly, to the light bit of
potato-stalk that he held to it, glowing as he blew—fading, smoking, when
he took breath. Try again—puff, puff, puff diligently; the fire
evidently has a taste for the delicate little shaving that Annie has
found for it; it seizes on it; another—another; a flame at last. Hurrah!
pile on more; not too much. “Don’t put it out!” Oh, there! strong
flame—coming crackling up through those smothering heaps of stick and
haulm; it won’t be kept down; it rises in the wind; it is a red flaring
banner. The children shriek in transports of admiration, little George
loudest of all, because Susan is holding him tight, lest he should run
into the brilliant flame. Miss Fosbrook is rather appalled, but the
children are all safe on the windward side, and seem used to it; so she
supposes it is all right, and the flame dies down faster than it rose.
It is again an innocent smouldering heap, like a volcano after an
eruption.
“We must not let it blaze again just yet,” said Sam; “keep it down well
with sticks, to make some nice white ashes for the potatoes. See, I’ll
make an oven.”
They were all stooping round this precious hot corner, some kneeling,
some sitting on the ground, David with hands on his sturdy knees—all
intent on nursing that creeping red spark, as it smouldered from chip to
chip, leaving a black trace wherever it went, when through the thick
smoke, that was like an absolute curtain hiding everything on the farther
side, came headlong a huge bundle of weeds launched overwhelmingly on the
fire, and falling on the children’s heads in an absolute shower, knocking
Johnnie down, but on a soft and innocent side of the fire among the
cabbage-stumps, and seeming likely to bury Sam, who leant over to shelter
his precious oven, and puffed away as if nothing was happening, amid the
various shouts around him, in which “Purday” was the most audible word.
“Ah, so you’ve got at he, after all,” said Purday, leaning on the fork
with which he had thrown on the weeds. “Nothing is safe from you.”
“What, you thought you had a new place, Purday, and circumvented us!”
cried Hal; “but we smelt you out, you old rogue; we weren’t going to be
baulked of our bonfire.”
Miss Fosbrook here ventured on asking if they were doing mischief; and
Purday answered with an odd gruff noise, “Mischief enough—ay, to be
sure—hucking the fire all abroad. It’s what they’re always after. I did
think I’d got it safe out of their way this time.”
“Then,” in rather a frightened voice, for she felt that it would be a
tremendous trial of her powers, “should I make them come away?”
“Catch her!” muttered Hal.
There was horror and disapprobation on Susan’s face. Annie stood with
her mouth open; while John, throwing himself on the ground with fury,
rolled over, crying out something about, “I won’t,” and “very cross;” and
David lay flat on his face, puffing at his own particular oven, like a
little Wind in an old picture. Sam waited, leaning on the ashen stick
that served him as a poker. It was the most audacious thing he had ever
heard. Rob them of their bonfire! Would that old traitor of a Purday
abet her?
Perhaps Purday was as much astonished as the rest; but, after all, much
as the children tormented his bonfires, overset his haycocks, and
disturbed his wood-pile, he did not like anyone to scold them but
himself, much less the new London Lady; so he made up an odd sort of
grin, and said, “No, no, Ma’am, it ain’t that they do so much harm; let
’em bide;” and he proceeded to shake on the rest of his barrowful,
tumbling the weeds down over David’s cherished oven in utter disregard;
but the children cried with one voice, “Hurrah! hurrah! Purday, we don’t
do any harm, so don’t ever grumble again. Hurrah!”
“And I don’t care for _her_, the crosspatch,” said Johnnie to Annie,
never hearing or heeding Miss Fosbrook’s fervent “I am so glad!”
And as long as the foolish boy remembered it, he always did believe that
Miss Fosbrook was so cross as to want to hinder them from their bonfire,
only Purday would not let her.
Miss Fosbrook did not trouble herself to be understood; she was relieved
to have done her duty, and be free to rejoice in and share the pleasure.
She ran about and collected materials for Sam till she was out of breath,
and joined in all the excitement as the fire showed symptoms of reviving,
after being apparently crushed out by Purday. Sam and Susan, at least,
believed that she had only spoken to Purday because she thought it right;
but even for them to forgive interference with their bonfire privileges
was a great stretch.
At last she thought it time to leave them to their own devices, and seize
the moment for some quiet reading; but she had not reached the house
before little steps came after her, and she saw Elizabeth running fast.
“They are so tiresome,” she said. “Sam won’t let me stand anywhere but
where the smoke gets into my eyes, and George plagues so! May I come in
with you, dear Christabel?”
“You are very welcome,” said Miss Fosbrook, “but I am sorry to hear so
many complaints.”
“They are so cross to me,” said Bessie; “they always are.”
“You must try to be cheerful and good-humoured with them, and they will
leave off vexing you.”
“But may I come in? It will be a nice time for my secret.”
Christabel saw little hope for her intended reading, but she was always
glad of a space for making Bessie happy, so she kindly consented to the
bringing out of the little girl’s treasury, and the dismal face grew
happy and eager. The subjects of the drawings were all clear in her
head; that was not the difficulty, but the cardboard, the ribbon, the
real good paints. One little slip of card Miss Fosbrook hunted out of
her portfolio; she cut a pencil of her own, and advised the first attempt
to be made upon a piece of paper. The little bird that Bessie produced
was really not at all bad, and her performance was quite fair enough to
make it worth while to go on, since Miss Fosbrook well knew that mammas
are pleased with works of their children, showing more good-will than
skill. For why? Their value is in the love and thought they show.
The little bird was made into a robin with the colours in a paint-box
that Bessie had long ago bought; but they were so weak and muddy, that
the result was far from good enough for a present, and it was agreed that
real paints must be procured as well as ribbon. Miss Fosbrook offered to
commission her sisters to buy the Prussian blue, lake, and gamboge in
London, and send them in a letter. This was a new idea to Bessie, and
she was only not quite decided between the certainty that London paints
must be better than country ones, and the desire of the walk to Bonchamp
to buy some; but the thought that the ribbon, after all, might be
procured there, satisfied her. The little doleful maid was changed into
an eager, happy, chattering child, full of intelligence and contrivance,
and showing many pretty fancies, since there was no one to tease her and
laugh at her; and her governess listened kindly and helpfully.
Miss Fosbrook could not help thinking how much happier her little
companion would have been as an only child, or with one sister, and
parents who would have made the most of her love of taste and refinement,
instead of the hearty busy parents, and the rude brothers and sisters,
who held her cheap for being unlike themselves. But then she bethought
her, that perhaps Bessie might have grown up vain and affected, had all
these tastes been petted and fostered, and that perhaps her little
hardships might make her the stronger, steadier, more useful woman,
instead of living in fancies. It was the unkindness on one side, and the
temper on the other, that made Miss Fosbrook uneasy.
The work had gone on happily for nearly an hour, and Bessie was copying a
forget-me-not off a little painted card-board pincushion of her own, when
steps were heard, little trotting steps, and Susan came in with little
George. He had been pushed down by Johnnie, and was rather in a fretful
mood; and Susan had left all her happy play to bring him in to rest and
comfort him, coming to the school-room because Nurse Freeman was out.
Before Elizabeth had time to hide away her doings, George had seen the
bright pincushion, and was holding out his hands for it. Bessie hastily
pocketed it. George burst out crying; and Susan, without more ado, threw
herself on her sister, and, pinioning Bessie’s slight arm by the greater
strength of her firm one, was diving into her pocket in spite of her
struggles.
“Susan, leave off,” said Miss Fosbrook; “let your sister alone. She has
a right to do what she likes with her own.”
“It is so cross in her,” said Susan, obeying however, but only to snatch
up little George, and hug and kiss him. “Poor dear little man! is Betty
cross to him? There! there! come with Sue, and _she’ll_ get him
something pretty.”
“Susie, Susie, indeed it’s only that I don’t want him to spoil it,” said
Elizabeth, distressed.
“A foolish thing like that! Why, the only use of it is to please the
children; but you are just such a baby as he is,” said Susan, still
pitying George.
“You had better put your things away, Bessie,” said Miss Fosbrook,
interfering to stop the dispute; and as soon as Elizabeth was gone, and
George a little pacified by an ivory ribbon-measure out of Miss
Fosbrook’s work-box, she observed to Susan, “My dear, you must not let
your love for the little ones make you unjust and unkind to Bessie.”
“She always is so unkind to them,” said Susan resentfully.
“I don’t think she feels unkindly; but if you tyrannize over her, and
force her to give way to them, you cannot expect her to like it.”
“Mamma says the elder must give way to the younger,” said Susan.
“You did not try whether she would give way.”
“No, because I knew she wouldn’t; and I could not have my little Georgie
vexed.”
“And I could not see my little Susie violent and unjust,” said Miss
Fosbrook cheerfully. “Justice first, Susan; you had no right to rob
Bessie for George, any more than I should have to give away a dinner of
your papa’s because he had refused a beggar.”
“Papa never would,” said Susan, rather going off from the point.
“Very likely; but do you understand me, Susan? I will not have Bessie
_forced_ out of her rights for the little ones. Not Bessie only, but
nobody is to be tyrannized over; it is not right.”
“Bessie is so nonsensical,” was all Susan said, looking glum.
“Very likely she may seem so to you; but if you knew more, you would see
that all is not nonsense that seems so to you. Some people would admire
her ways.”
“Yes, I know,” said Susan. “Mrs. Greville told Mrs. Brownlow that Bessie
was the only one among us that was capable of civilisation; but Mrs.
Greville is a fine lady, and we always laugh at her.”
“And now,” as Bessie returned, “you want to go out to your play again, my
dear. Will you leave Georgie with us?”
Susan was a little doubtful about trusting her darling with anyone,
especially one who could take Bessie’s part against him; but she wished
exceedingly to be present at the interesting moment of seeing whether the
potatoes were done enough, and George was perfectly contented with
measuring everything on the ribbon, so she ran quickly off, without the
manners to thank Miss Fosbrook, but to assure the rest of the party that
the governess really was very good-natured, and that she would save her
biggest and best potato for Miss Fosbrook’s tea.
Christabel managed very happily with little George, though not quite
without offending Elizabeth, who thought it very hard to be desired to
put away her painting instead of tantalizing her little brother with the
sight of what he must not have. Miss Fosbrook could not draw her into
the merry game with little George, which made his shouts of glee ring out
through the house, and meet Nurse Freeman’s ear as she came in-doors with
the baby, and calling at the school-room door, summoned him off to his
tea, as if she were in a pet with Miss Fosbrook for daring to meddle with
one of _her_ own nursery children.
Nothing more was heard of the others, and Christabel and Elizabeth both
read in peace till the tea-bell rang, and they went down and waited and
waited, till Miss Fosbrook accepted Bessie’s offer of going out to call
the rest. But Bessie returned no more than the rest; and the governess
set forth herself, but had not made many steps before the voices of the
rabble rout were heard, and they all were dancing and clattering about
her, while Susan and Hal each carried aloft a plate containing articles
once brown, now black, and thickly powdered with white ashes, as were the
children themselves up to their very hair.
As a slight concession to grown-up people’s prejudices, they did, at the
risk of their dear potatoes getting cold, scamper up to perform a species
of toilette, and then sat down round the tea-table, Susie, David, and Sam
each vociferous that Miss Fosbrook should eat “my potato that I did on
purpose for her.” Poor Miss Fosbrook! she would nearly as soon have
eaten the bonfire itself as those cinder-coated things, tough as leather
outside, and within like solid smoke. Indeed the children, who had been
bathing in smoke all day, had brought in the air of it with them; but
their tongues ran fast on their adventures, and their taste had no doubt
that their own bonfire potatoes were the most perfect cookery in art!
Miss Fosbrook picked out the most eatable bits of each of the three, and
managed to satisfy the three cooks, all zealous for their own. Other
people’s potatoes might be smoky, but each one’s own was delicious—“quite
worthy of the pig when he was bought,” thought Miss Fosbrook; but she
made her real pleasure at the kind feeling to cover her dislike of the
black potatoes, and thus pleased the children without being untrue.
“Line upon line, precept upon precept; here a little, and there a
little.” That is the way habits are formed and characters made; not all
at once. So there had been an opportunity for Susan to grow confirmed in
her kindness and unselfishness, as well as to learn that tyranny is
wrong, even on behalf of the weak; and Bessie, if she would take home the
lesson, had received one in readiness to be cheerful, and to turn from
her own pursuits to oblige others. Something had been attempted toward
breaking her habit of being fretful, and thinking herself injured. It
remained to be seen whether the many little things that were yet to
happen to the two girls would be so used as to strengthen their good
habits or their bad ones.