"I don't know what has come to Henry," said Miss Lambent. "If I had
been in his place I should have immediately called a meeting of the
governors of the school, paid Miss Thorne, and let her seek for an
engagement elsewhere."
"I quite agree with you, Rebecca," replied Miss Beatrice. "Henry is
behaving weakly and foolishly in all these matters. But we cannot be
surprised. He is so profound a thinker and so deeply immersed in his
studies that these little matters escape him."
"I think it unpardonable. Here is a strange girl--for she is a mere
girl, and far too young, in my estimation--appointed to the school, and
just because she has rather a genteel appearance, everybody is paying
her deference. Henry is really absurd. He says that Miss Thorne is
quite a lady, and that allowances should be made. No allowances are
made for me."
"Don't be angry, Rebecca."
"I am not angry, Beatrice. I never am angry: but in a case like this I
feel bound to speak. There is that absurd Miss Burge ready to praise
her to one's very face, and Mr William Forth Burge actually told me
yesterday, when I went up to him to talk about the preparations, that we
ought to congratulate ourselves upon having found so excellent a
mistress. I haven't patience with him."
"Are the Canninges coming?" said Miss Beatrice, changing the
conversation; and as she spoke, standing in the vicarage drawing-room,
with her eyes half-closed, a faint flush came into her cheeks, and she
looked for the moment a very handsome, graceful woman. A connoisseur
would have said that she was too thin, but granted that it showed
breeding and refinement while her dress was in perfect taste.
"Yes; Mrs Canninge told me yesterday that she should certainly drive
over, and that she would persuade George Canninge to come. He ought not
to want any persuasion, Beatrice," and Rebecca accompanied her words
with a very meaning look.
"Nonsense, dear! What attraction can a school-treat have to a gentleman
like George Canninge?"
"He might find pleasure in proceedings that are watched over by his
friends. And now look here, Beatrice, I am never angry, I never
quarrel, and I never say cruel things, but I must say that I do not
think George Canninge is so attentive to you as he used to be."
"Hush, Rebecca," cried Beatrice; "how can you speak like that? There is
no engagement between us."
"But there ought to be," said Miss Lambent tartly. "Marriage is a
subject upon which I have never thought for myself."
"Rebecca!"
"Well, not directly," replied the lady. "I may perhaps have given such
a matter a thought indirectly, but in your case I have thought about it
a great deal."
"Pray say no more, Rebecca."
"I must say more, Beatrice, for in a case like this, your welfare is at
stake, and for my part, I do not see how George Canninge could do better
than by making you mistress of Ardley."
"My dear Rebecca!"
"It would be rather stooping on our side, for the Canninges are little
better than traders; but Mrs Canninge is very nice, and I said to her,
yesterday--"
"Surely, Rebecca, you did not allude to--to--"
"George Canninge and yourself? Indeed, I did, my dear. Mrs Canninge
and I thoroughly understand one another, and I feel sure that nothing
would please her better than for George Canninge to propose to you."
Miss Beatrice sighed softly, and soon after the sisters went up to
dress.
For it was a festival day at Plumton All Saints, being that of the
annual school feast.
This school feast or treat was rather an ancient institution, and was
coeval with the schools, but it had altered very much in its proportions
since its earlier days, when the schoolmaster invested in a penny
memorandum-book, and went round to all the principal inhabitants for
subscriptions, which rarely exceeded a shilling, and had to be lectured
by each donor upon the best way of teaching the children under his
charge. Those treats first consisted of a ride in one of the farmers'
waggons as far as a field, where the children were regaled with very
thin milk and water, and slices of large loaves spotted with currants,
which slices were duly baptised in the milk and water, and called by the
children--"cake."
Then there was a great advance to a real tea in a barn, and again a more
generous affair through the generosity of one vicar, who had the
children all up to the vicarage, and after they had done no little
mischief to his flower-beds, sent them home loaded with fruity cakes,
and toys.
Then there was a decadence with a tendency towards thin milk and water
and country buns, followed by a tremendous rise when Mr William Forth
Burge came upon the scene; and the present was the second feast over
which he had been presiding genius.
In preparation for this festival, probably for reasons of his own, the
patron had gone about smiling a great deal, and rubbing his hands. He
had obtained _carte blanche_ from the vicar to do as he pleased, and it
had pleased him to say to Miss Burge:
"Betsy, we'll do the thing 'andsome this time, and no mistake. Money
shan't stand in the way, and I want Miss Thorne--and Mr Chute," he
added hastily, "to see that we know how to do things at Plumton."
The result was that for a whole week the children nearly ran mad, and
attention to object, or any other lessons, was a thing impossible to
secure; and once every day--sometimes twice--Mr Chute was obliged to go
into the girls' school and confide to Miss Thorne the fact that he
should be heartily glad when it was all over.
Hazel Thorne participated in his feelings, but she did not feel bound to
go to the boys' school to impart her troubles, having terrible work to
keep her scholars to their tasks.
For to a little place like Plumton the preparations were tremendously
exciting, and between school hours, and afterwards, the entrance to Mr
William Forth Burge's garden was besieged with anxious sightseers, the
wildest rumours getting abroad amongst the children, who were ready to
believe a great deal more than they saw, though they had ocular
demonstration that a large marquee was being erected, that ropes were
stretched between the trees for flags, that four large swings had been
made; and as for the contents of that marquee the most extravagant
rumours were afloat.
One thing was notable in spite of the inattention, and that was the fact
that the schools were wonderfully well filled by children, who came in
good time, and who duly paid their pence, many of the scholars having
been absentees for months, some since the last school-treat, but who
were coming "regular now, please, teacher."
The morning had arrived when, after receiving strict orders to be at the
schools punctually at eleven, fully half the expected number were at the
gates by nine, clamouring for admittance; and at last the noise grew so
loud that Mrs Thorne cast an appealing look at her daughter, and
sighed.
"Ah, Hazel," she murmured, "if you had only listened to poor Mr
Geringer, we should have been spared this degradation."
"Oh, hush, dear," whispered Hazel. "Pray say no more. Indeed I don't
mind, and the poor children seem so happy."
"But I mind it, Hazel," sighed Mrs Thorne. "It is a degradation
indeed. Of course you will not be expected to walk with the children as
far as those people's?"
"Oh, yes," said Hazel, trying to speak lightly. "They are all going in
procession with flags and banners."
"Flags _and_ banners, Hazel?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne, with a horrified
look.
"Yes, dear. Mr Burge wants to give the children a great treat, and
there is to be a brass band that he has engaged on purpose. I have just
had a note from Miss Burge. She says her brother wished to keep it a
secret to the last."
"But not a regular brass band, Hazel?"
"Yes, dear. It will be at the head of the procession, and the children
are to be marched all round the town."
"But not a brass band with a big drum, my dear? Surely not. Don't say
with a big drum?"
"Really, mother, dear, I don't know," replied Hazel, bending down and
kissing her. "I suppose so."
"Thank Heaven, that my poor husband was spared all this!"
"Oh, hush, dear," whispered Hazel piteously.
"But you will not stoop to walk round the town with them, Hazel? And
surely you are never going to put that ridiculous bunch of cowslips in
your dress?"
"Mother, dear," said Hazel quietly, "I am the mistress of the girls'
school, and it is my duty to walk with them. I am going to wear the
bunch of spring flowers, for they were brought for me by the girls, who
will all wear a bunch like it. Here is a bouquet, though, that Mr
Burge has sent for the mistress out of his greenhouse. I suppose I must
carry that in my hand."
"Oh, my poor girl! my poor girl!"
"Now, mother, dear mother, do not be so foolish," said Hazel. "Why
should I be ashamed to walk with my girls? Are we not living an
honourable and independent life, and is it not ten thousand times better
than eating the bread of charity?"
"Ah me! ah me!" sighed Mrs Thorne.
"Now, dear, you will dress and come up to the treaty and I will see that
you are comfortable."
"I come? No, no, no!"
"Yes, dear, Mr Burge begs that you will. Come, girls."
This was called up the stairs to her little sisters, who came running
down, dressed in white with blue sashes for the first time since their
father's death.
"What does this mean?" exclaimed Mrs Thorne.
"They are coming with me, dear, each carrying a great bouquet."
"Never! I forbid it!" cried the poor woman.
"It was Mr Burge's particular request," said Hazel gently; "and, mother
dear, you will nearly break their hearts if you forbid them now."
"There, there, there," sobbed Mrs Thorne; "it's time I died and was
taken out of your way. I'm only a nuisance and a burden to you."
"Mother!"
Only that one word, but the way in which it was uttered, and the
graceful form that went down upon its knees before her to draw the head
she kept rocking to and fro down upon her breast proved sufficient to
calm the weak woman. Her sobs grew less frequent, and she at last began
to wipe her eyes, after kissing Hazel again and again.
"I suppose we must accept our fate, my dear," she said at last. "I'm
sure I do mine. And now mind this. Cissy--Mabel!"
"Yes, mamma! Oh, sister Hazel, isn't it time to go?"
"I say you will mind this. Cissy--Mabel, you are to--But must they walk
in procession with those terrible children, Hazel?"
"Why not, dear? They will be with me, and what can be more innocent and
pleasant than this treat to the poor girls? There, there, I know, for
my sake, you will come up and lend your countenance to their sports."
"Well, well," sighed Mrs Thorne. "I'll try. But mind me, Hazel," she
exclaimed sharply, "I'm not coming up with that dreadful woman, Mrs
Chute. I am coming by myself."
"Yes, dear, I would," said Hazel.
"And mind this. Cissy and Mabel, though you are going to walk behind
the school children and carry flowers, you are not to forget that you
are young ladies. Mind that."
"No, mamma!" in duet.
"And--Oh dear me, Hazel, there is some one at the front door, and I've
only got on my old cap. I really cannot be seen; I--Good gracious _me_,
Hazel, don't let any one in."
Too late. Hazel had already opened the door and admitted little Miss
Burge, who came trotting in with her face all smiles.
"I thought I should never get through the children," she panted; "and
ain't it 'ot? How well you do look, my dear! Lavender muslin suits you
exactly. And how are you, my bonny little ones?" she cried, kissing the
two girls. "But there, I've no time to lose. The band will be here
directly, and my brother is with the boys; and, Mrs Thorne, he sends
his compliments to you."
Mrs Thorne had drawn herself up very stiffly in her chair, and was
preserving a dignified silence, feeling offended at their visitor's want
of recognition; but Mr Burge's compliments taught her that this patron
of the school acknowledged her status in society, and she smiled and
bowed.
"And he said that he hoped you would excuse his not calling to invite
you himself, but--now, bless my heart, what was the rest of it?"
She looked in a perplexed way at Hazel, and then at the ceiling, as if
expecting to read it there.
"Oh, I know--but he had been so busy over the preparations, and he hoped
you would come and look on; and the pony carriage will be here to fetch
you at twelve."
"I'm sure--really--I am greatly obliged to Mr Burge--"
"Mr William Forth Burge," said Miss Burge correctively.
"To Mr William Forth Burge for his kindness, and of course I shall be
most happy."
Hazel's eyes had filled with tears at the quiet unassuming kindness of
these people, and she looked her gratitude at their visitor.
"My brother's in such spirits, my dear, and he's next door; and he said
at breakfast that he was proud to say he came to Plumton Schools himself
when he was a boy, and nobody should say he was too proud to march round
the town with them to-day."
"And--and is he going to walk in the procession. Miss Burge?" asked
Mrs Thorne.
"That he is, ma'am," said the little lady. "So I said to him at
breakfast, `well, Bill,' I said--you see I always call him `Bill,' Mrs
Thorne, though he has grown to be such a rich and great man. It seems
more natural so--`well, Bill,' I said, `if with all your money and
position you're not too proud to walk with the boys, I won't be too
proud to walk with the girls.'"
"And--and are you going to walk with them, Miss Burge?" said Mrs
Thorne, with trembling eagerness.
"That I am, ma'am," cried Miss Burge, rustling her voluminous blue silk
dress, "and I've come down to ask Miss Thorne if she would allow me to
walk with her, and--Oh, my gracious! How it did make me jump!"
The cause of Miss Burge's start was the preliminary _boom boom, boom_ of
Mrs Thorne's horror, the big drum, for the band had been marched up
silently to the front of the schools, and the next moment the place was
echoing with the brazen strains.