MISS FOSBROOK soon knew what Mrs. Merrifield meant by saying that visits
at the Park unsettled the children. Susan indeed, though liking anything
that shortened lessons by an hour, and made a change, was not so fond of
being on her good behaviour at the Park as to be greatly exalted at the
prospect; but Elizabeth and Annie were changed beings. They were
constantly breaking out with some new variety of wonder. They wondered
whether they should dine in the school-room, or at Mrs. Greville’s
luncheon; they wondered if Mr. Greville would speak to them; they
wondered whether Fräulein Munsterthal would be cross; they wondered if
Ida still played with dolls; and they looked as if they thought
themselves wonderful, too, for going out for a day!
Nay, the wonders were at their tongues’ end even when lessons began, and
put their farthings in great peril; and when they had nothing else to
wonder at, they wondered when it would be twelve o’clock, and took no
pains to swallow enormous yawns. Once, over her copy, Elizabeth
exclaimed, “Now! yes, this is necessary, Miss Fosbrook! May not we wear
our white frocks?”
“They are not ironed,” answered Susan.
“Oh, do let me go and tell Mary! There’s lots of time,” said Bessie, who
had lately thought it cruel of the clock to point only to half-past ten,
and never bethought herself how Mary would like to be called off from her
scrubbing to iron three white frocks.
“Would your Mamma wish it?” asked Christabel.
“Oh dear no,” was Susan’s answer; “we always wear clean ones of our
every-day frocks. Our white ones are only for dinner-parties and
Christmas-trees.”
Bessie grumbled. “How cross! I hate those nasty old spotty cottons;”
and Johnnie returned to the old story—“Little vain pussy-cat.”
Up went Miss Fosbrook’s warning pencil, she shook her head, and held out
her hand for two fines. Elizabeth began to gulp and sob.
“Oh, don’t, Betty!” cried Susan. “Stop while you can. You won’t like
going up with red eyes. There, I’ll pay your fine; and there’s another
for my speaking.”
“No, Susie; that was not foolish speaking, but kind words,” said Miss
Fosbrook; “but no more now; go on, Annie.”
But Annie, who was reading a little history of St. Paul, would call
Cilicia, Cicilia, and when told to spell it she began to cry too
decidedly for Susan’s good-nature to check her tears. And not only did
Elizabeth’s copy look as if she had written it with claws instead of
fingers, but she was grieving over her spotted cotton instead of really
seeking for places in her map. Thus the Moselle obstinately hid itself;
and she absolutely shed tears because Miss Fosbrook declared that
Frankfort _was_ on the Maine. For the first time she had her grammar
turned back upon her hands. How many mistakes Annie made would be really
past telling; for these two little girls had their whole minds quite
upset by the thought of a day’s pleasure; and as they never tried to
restrain themselves, and to “be sober, be vigilant,” they gave way before
all the little trials in their paths—were first careless, and then
fractious. Perhaps when they were older they would find out that this
uplifted sense of excited expectation is the very warning to be heedful.
If Miss Fosbrook had been a strict governess, she would have told them
they did not deserve to go at all; or at any rate, that Bessie must
repeat her grammar better, and re-write her copy, and that Annie’s
unlucky addition sum must be made to prove; but she had seen her little
sisters nearly as bad in prospect of a pantomime, so she was merciful,
and sent them in good time to brush their hair, put on their spotted
cottons, and wash off as much as possible of the red mottling left by
those foolish tears.
Their spirits rose again as fast as they had sunk; and it was a lively
walk through the park to the great house, with a good deal of skipping
and jumping at first, and then, near the door, a little awe and gravity.
They were taken through a side-door of the hall to the school-room, where
Ida and her governess received them. It was the first time that
Christabel had seen her out of her beplumed hat, and she thought her a
pleasant, bright-looking little girl, not at all set up or conceited.
Her mauve muslin, flounced though it was up to her waist, showed that it
had been wise to withstand Bessie’s desire for the white muslins; but
Miss Fosbrook had enough to do on her own account with the endeavour to
understand the German governess’s foreign accent, without attending to
the children more than was necessary.
It was not a very remarkable day, and the pleasures of it seemed hardly
enough to justify the little girls’ great excitement. There was first
the dinner at the luncheon of the parents, where the children sat up
rather formal and subdued, and not quite certain what all the dishes
might contain, a little afraid of getting what they _could_ not eat,
though desirous of making experiments in this land of wonders. None of
them had forgotten, and they thought no one else had, how Bessie had once
come to disgrace by bursting out crying over the impossibility of
finishing some terrible rice-bordered greenish yellow stuff that burnt
her mouth beyond bearing, and which Ida called curry, and said people in
the East Indies liked. However, that was when Bessie had been a very
little girl; and she still continued adventurous, saying, “Yes, if you
please,” to cutlets set round in a wreath, with all their bones sticking
up, and covered with a reddish incrustation that Susan and Annie thought
so unnatural, that they preferred the boiled chicken that at least they
could understand, though it had funny-hooking accompaniments in the
sauce. And Hal’s report of some savoury jelly which he had once
encountered would have deterred them from the pink transparency in the
shape of a shell, if they had not seen Bessie getting on very well with
it, Miss Fosbrook happily perceiving and cutting short Annie’s intended
inquiry whether it were nice. To her great relief, this was the only
want of manners betrayed by her little savages, and she was able to keep
her attention tolerably free from them, so as to look at the pictures on
the walls, observe the two boys, Hal’s friends, and talk to Mrs.
Greville, who made conversation with her very pleasantly.
She was much grieved to perceive, from what that lady said, that Mrs.
Merrifield was thought to be much more ill, and in a far more alarming
state, than she had at all understood. The girls were too young to enter
into the tone of sad sympathy with which Mrs. Greville spoke, and the
manner in which a doubt was expressed whether the Captain would be able
to sail with Admiral Penrose if he should have the offer; and as soon as
she saw that they and their governess were in ignorance, she turned it
off; but she had said enough to fill Christabel with anxiety and desire
to know more; and as soon as the dinner was over, and the little girls
had run off together to visit Ida’s beautiful cockatoo in the
conservatory, she turned to Fräulein Munsterthal, and begged to hear
whether she knew more than had been said.
Fräulein Munsterthal did not quite know that such a person as Mrs.
Merrifield was in existence; but she was very amiable and warm-hearted,
and said how sad it was to think of the trouble that hung over “these so
careless children,” and was doubly kind to the girls when they came back
from their conversation with pretty “Cocky,” who set up his
lemon-coloured crest, coughed, sneezed, and said “Cocky want a biscuit!”
to admiration, till the boys were seen approaching; when Ida, knowing
that some torment would follow, took herself and her visitors back to the
protection of the governesses in time to prevent the cockatoo from being
made to fly at the girls, and powder them with the white dust under his
feathers.
The afternoon was spent in the garden, the little girls betaking
themselves to a pretty moss-covered arbour, where there was a grand
doll’s feast. Ida had no less than twenty-three dolls, ranging from the
magnificent Rosalind, who had real hair that could be brushed, and was as
large as little Sally at home, down to poor little china Mildred, whose
proper dwelling-place was a bath, and who had with great difficulty been
put into petticoats enough to make her fit to be seen out of it. Now
nobody at home could have saved the life of a doll for a single day, and
Susan and Elizabeth were both thought far above them; but these
beautifully arrayed young ladies had always been the admiration of the
heart of Bessie as well as of Annie, and they were not too old for
extreme satisfaction in handling their elegant ladyships, and still more
their beautiful dinner and tea-service of pink and white ware.
Susan, though she could not write a note, or do lessons like Ida, was
older in the ways of life, and played rather as she did with the little
ones at home than for her own amusement. She would much rather have had
the fun of “cats and mice” with her brothers; and but for the honour of
the thing, so perhaps would Annie. However, they were all very happy,
getting the dolls up in the morning, giving Mildred washing enough for
all the twenty-three, making them breakfast, hearing lessons, in which
Ida was governess, and made them talk so many languages that Annie was
alarmed. Of course one of the young ladies was very naughty, and was
treated with extreme severity; then there was dinner, a walk, an illness,
and a dinner-party. While all the time the two real governesses sat in
the shade outside, and talked in English or German as best they might,
the Fräulein understanding Christabel’s English the best, as did
Christabel the Fräulein’s German. They began to make friends, and to
wish to see more of one another.
There was a walk round the garden, and admiration of the beautiful
flowers, and the fountain and pond of gold-fish, till the boys came home,
and got hold of the garden-engine for watering, crying out, “Fire! fire!”
and squirting out the showers of water very much in the direction of the
girls.
Ida became quite crimson red, and got hold of Susan’s hand to drag her
away; then, as the foremost drops of another shower touched her, she
faced about, and said, “Osmond! don’t, or I’ll tell Mamma.” There was a
great rude laugh, as of boys who well knew the threat was never put in
execution; and poor Fräulein Munsterthal only shook her head at Miss
Fosbrook’s look of amaze, and said in German that “_die Knaben_” were far
too _unartig_ for her to keep in order. She pitied Miss Fosbrook for
having so many in charge as to destroy all peace. And if Sam and Hal had
been like these two, Christabel felt that she could have done nothing
with them. To her dismay, Osmond and Martin came in to the school-room
tea; and she never had thought to feel so thankful for poor dear Susan’s
slowness of comprehension, for, from their whispers among themselves, and
from their poor tormented sister’s blushes, she was clear that the “fire”
was a piece of bad wit on Susan’s red hair. Boys who could so basely
insult a guest, and that a girl, she was sure must be bad companions for
Sam and Henry. Such little gentlemen as they had been at dinner too, so
polite and well-behaved before their father and mother! There could be
no doubt that something must be very wrong about them, or they would not
change so entirely when out of sight. It is not always true that a child
must be deceitful who is less good in the absence of the authorities;
because their presence is a help and a restraint, checking the beginning
of mischief, and removing temptation; but one who does not fall by
weakness, but intentionally alters his conduct the instant the elder is
gone, shows that his will has been disobedient all along.
By and by Mr. Greville’s voice was heard calling, “Martin! Osmond!” As
they went out to meet him in the passage, Miss Fosbrook clearly
overheard, “Here is the spring of the garden-engine spoilt. Do you know
anything about it?”
“No.”
“You have not been meddling with it?”
“No.” And they ran downstairs.
The colour flushed into Christabel’s cheeks with horror. She was glad
that her little girls were all in Ida’s room, listening to a musical-box,
and well out of hearing of such fearfully direct falsehoods, as it seemed
to her, not knowing that the boys excused it to their own minds by the
notion that it was not the _spring_ of the engine that they had been
meddling with, and that so they did not know how the harm had been
done—as if it made it any better that they lied to themselves as well as
their father! The German saw her dismay, and began to say how unlike her
Ida was to her brothers—so truthful, so gentle, and courteous; but poor
Christabel could not get over the thought of the ease and readiness with
which deceit came to these boys. Could their daily companions, Samuel
and Henry, have learnt the same effrontery, and be deceiving her all this
time? No, no, she could not, would not think it! Assuredly not of Sam!
She was very glad not to see the boys again, and went home with her
pupils, rather heavy-hearted, at eight o’clock, just as Ida was to put on
her white muslin and pink ribbons, and go down after dinner for half an
hour.
There were many kisses at parting, and a whole box of sweets, done up in
beautifully coloured and gold and silver paper, presented to the little
visitors; but it might be supposed that the girls were tired, for there
was a fretful snarling all the way across the park, because Elizabeth
insisted that the gifts should be called _bon-bons_, and the others would
hear of nothing but goodies. Nobody looked at the beautiful evening sky,
nor at the round red moon coming up like a lamp behind the trees, nor at
the first stars peeping out, nor even at the green light of the
glow-worm—all which were more beautiful than anything Ida had shown them,
except perhaps the hothouse flowers; and at last two such cross
ill-tempered voices sounded from Bessie and Annie, that Christabel turned
round and declared that she should not let the sugar-plums be touched for
a week if another word were said about them.
She hoped that when the visit was over it would be done with; but no such
thing. Though Susan was her own good hearty self, Elizabeth had not
recovered either on that day of the next from the effects of the
pleasuring. On each she cried over her lessons, and was cross at
whatever the boys said to her, made a fuss about keeping the ornamental
cases of the _bon-bons_, and went about round-backed, peevish, and
discontented, finding everything flat and ugly after her one peep at the
luxuries of the Park. Her farthings melted away fast; but she seemed to
think this her misfortune, not her fault. She did not try to talk to
Miss Fosbrook, feeling perhaps that she was in a naughty mood, which she
would not try to shake off; and she made no attempt to go on with her
present for her Mamma, it looked so poor and trumpery after the beautiful
things she had seen.
Nor did Christabel like to remind her of it, fearing that the occasion
for giving it might never come; but she did feel that it was a mournful
thing to see the child, who was in danger of so fearful a sorrow, wasting
her grief in pining after foolish fancies, and turning what should have
been a refreshing holiday into an occasion of longing after what she thus
made into pomps and vanities of this wicked world. Christabel had heard
that people who murmur among blessings often have those blessings
snatched away, and this made her tremble for poor little discontented
Elizabeth.