I do say, thou art quick in answers:
Thou heatest my blood.--Love’s Labours Lost.
Kem’ster, as county tradition pronounced what was spelt Kenminster, a
name meaning St. Kenelm’s minster, had a grand collegiate church and a
foundation-school which, in the hands of the Commissioners, had of
late years passed into the rule of David Ogilvie, Esq., a spare, pale,
nervous, sensitive-looking man of eight or nine and twenty, who sat one
April evening under his lamp, with his sister at work a little way off,
listening with some amusement to his sighs and groans at the holiday
tasks that lay before him.
“Here’s an answer, Mary. What was Magna Charta? The first map of the
world.”
“Who’s that ingenious person?”
“Brownlow Major, of course; and here’s French, who says it was a new
sort of cow invented by Henry VIII.--a happy feminine, I suppose, to
the Papal Bull. Here’s a third! The French fleet defeated by Queen
Elizabeth. Most have passed it over entirely.”
“Well, you know this is the first time you have tried such an
examination, and boys never do learn history.”
“Nor anything else in this happy town,” was the answer, accompanied by a
ruffling over of the papers.
“For shame, David! The first day of the term!”
“It is the dead weight of Brownlows, my dear. Only think! There’s
another lot coming! A set of duplicates. They haven’t even the sense to
vary the Christian names. Three more to be admitted to-morrow.”
“That accounts for a good deal!”
“You are laughing at me, Mary; but did you never know what it is to feel
like Sisyphus? Whenever you think you have rolled it a little way,
down it comes, a regular dead weight again, down the slope of utter
indifference and dulness, till it seems to crush the very heart out of
you!”
“Have you really nobody that is hopeful?”
“Nobody who does not regard me as his worst enemy, and treat all my
approaches with distrust and hostility. Mary, how am I to live it down?”
“You speak as if it were a crime!”
“I feel as if it were one. Not of mine, but of the pedagogic race before
me, who have spoilt the relations between man and boy; so that I cannot
even get one to act as a medium.”
“That would be contrary to esprit de corps.”
“Exactly; and the worst of it is, I am not one of those genial fellows,
half boys themselves, who can join in the sports con amore; I should
only make a mountebank of myself if I tried, and the boys would distrust
me the more.”
“Quite true. The only way is to be oneself, and one’s best self, and the
rest will come.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Some people mistake their vocation.”
“Well, when you have given it a fair trial, you can turn to something
else. You are getting the school up again, which is at least one
testimony.”
David Ogilvie made a sound as if this were very base kind of solace,
and his sister did not wonder when she remembered the bright hopes and
elaborate theories with which he had undertaken the mastership only
nine months ago. He was then fresh from the university, and the loss
of constant intercourse with congenial minds had perhaps contributed
as much as the dulness of the Kenminster youth to bring him into a
depressed state of health and spirits, which had made his elder sister
contrive to spend her Easter at the seaside with him, and give him a few
days at the beginning of the term. Indeed, she was anxious enough
about him, when he went down to the old grammar-school, to revolve the
possibility of acceding to his earnest wish, and coming to live with
him, instead of continuing in her situation as governess.
He came back to luncheon next day with a brightened face, that made his
sister say, “Well, have you struck some sparks?”
“I’ve got some new material, and am come home saying, ‘What’s in a
name?’”
“Eh! Is it those very new Brownlows, that seemed yesterday to be the
last straw on the camel’s back?”
“I wish you could have seen the whole scene, Mary. There were
half-a-dozen new boys to be admitted, four Brownlows! Think of that!
Well, there stood manifestly one of the old stock, with the same oval
face and sleepy brown eyes, and the very same drawl I know so well in
the ‘No--a--’ to the vain question, ‘Have you done any Latin?’ And how
shall I do justice to the long, dragging drawl of his reading?
Aye, here’s the sentence I set him on:
‘The--Gowls--had--con--sen--ted--to--accept--a--sum--of--gold--and--retire.
They were en--gagged--in--wag--ging out the sum--required, and--’ I had
to tell him what to call Brennus, and he proceeded to cast the sword
into the scale, exclaiming, just as to a cart-horse, ‘Woh! To the
Worsted’ (pronounced like yarn). After that you may suppose the feelings
with which I called his ditto, another Joseph Armine Brownlow; and forth
came the smallest sprite, with a white face and great black eyes, all
eagerness, but much too wee for this place. ‘Begun Latin?’ ‘Oh, yes;’
and he rattled off a declension and a tense with as much ease as if he
had been born speaking Latin. I gave him Phaedrus to see whether that
would stump him, and I don’t think it would have done so if he had not
made os a mouth instead of a bone, in dealing with the ‘Wolf and the
Lamb.’ He was almost crying, so I put the Roman history into his hand,
and his reading was something refreshing to hear. I asked if he knew
what the sentence meant, and he answered, ‘Isn’t it when the geese
cackled?’ trying to turn round the page. ‘What do you know about the
geese?’ said I. To which the answer was, ‘We played at it on the stairs!
Jock and I were the Romans, and Mother Carey and Babie were the geese.’”
“Poor little fellow! I hope no boys were there to listen, or he will
never hear the last of those geese.”
“I hope no one was within earshot but his brothers, who certainly did
look daggers at him. He did very well in summing and in writing, except
that he went out of his way to spell fish, p h y c h, and shy, s c h y;
and at last, I could not resist the impulse to ask him what Magna Charta
is. Out came the answer, ‘It is yellow, and all crumpled up, and you
can’t read it, but it has a bit of a great red seal hanging to it.’”
“What, he had seen it?”
“Yes, or a facsimile, and what was more, he knew who signed it. Whoever
taught that child knew how to teach, and it is a pity he should be
swamped among such a set as ours.”
“I thought you would be delighted.”
“I should be, if I had him alone, but he must be put with a crew who
will make it their object to bully him out of his superiority, and the
more I do for him, the worse it will be for him, poor little fellow; and
he looks too delicate to stand the ordeal. It is sheer cruelty to send
him.”
“Hasn’t he brothers?”
“Oh, yes! I was going to tell you, two bigger boys, another Robert and
John Brownlow--about eleven and nine years old. The younger one is
a sort of black spider monkey, wanting the tail. We shall have some
trouble with that gentleman, I expect.”
“But not the old trouble?”
“No, indeed; unless the atmosphere affects him. He answered as no boy
of twelve can do here; and as to the elder one, I must take him at once
into the fifth form, such as it is.”
“Where have they been at school?”
“At a day school in London. They are Colonel Brownlow’s nephews. Their
father was a medical man in London, who died last summer, leaving a
young widow and these boys, and they have just come down to live in
Kenminster. But it can’t be owing to the school. No school would
give all three that kind of--what shall I call it?--culture, and
intelligence, that they all have; besides, the little one has been
entirely taught at home.”
“I wonder whether it is their mother’s doing?”
“I am afraid it is their father’s. The Colonel spoke of her as a poor
helpless little thing, who was thrown on his hands with all her family.”
After the morning’s examination and placing of the boys, there was a
half-holiday; and the brother and sister set forth to enjoy it together,
for Kenminster was a place with special facilities for enjoyment. It was
built as it were within a crescent, formed by low hills sloping down to
the river; the Church, school, and other remnants of the old collegiate
buildings lying in the flat at the bottom, and the rest of the town, one
of the small decayed wool staples of Somerset, being in terraces on
the hill-side, with steep streets dividing the rows. These were of very
mixed quality and architecture, but, as a general rule, improved the
higher they rose, and were all interspersed with gardens running up or
down, and with a fair sprinkling of trees, whose budding green looked
well amid the yellow stone.
On the summit were some more ornamental villa-like houses, and grey
stone buildings with dark tiled roofs, but the expansion on that side
had been checked by extensive private grounds. There were very beautiful
woods coming almost close to the town, and in the absence of the owner,
a great moneyed man, they were open to all those who did not make
themselves obnoxious to the keepers; and these, under an absentee
proprietor, gave a free interpretation to rights of way. Thither were
the Ogilvies bound, in search of primrose banks, but their way led
them past two or three houses on the hill-top, one of which, being
constructed on supposed Chinese principles of architecture, was known
to its friends as “the Pagoda,” to its foes as “the Folly.” It had been
long untenanted, but this winter it had been put into complete repair,
and two rooms, showing a sublime indifference to consistency of
architecture, had been lately built out with sash windows and a slated
roof, contrasting oddly with the frilled and fluted tiles of the tower
from which it jutted.
Suddenly there sounded close to their ears the words--“School time, my
dear!”
Starting and looking round for some impertinent street boy, Mr. Ogilvie
exclaimed, “What’s that?”
“Mother Carey! We are all Mother Carey’s chickens.”
“See, there,” exclaimed Mary, and a great parrot was visible on the
branch of a sumach, which stretched over the railings of the low wall of
the pagoda garden. “O you appropriate bird,--you surely ought not to be
here!”
To which the parrot replied, “Hic, haec, hoc!” and burst out in a wild
scream of laughing, spreading her grey wings, and showing intentions of
flying away; but Mr. Ogilvie caught hold of the chain that hung from her
leg.
Just then voices broke out--
“That’s Polly! Where is she? That’s you, Jock, you horrid boy.”
“Well, I didn’t see why she shouldn’t enjoy herself.”
“Now you’ve been and lost her. Poll, Poll!”
“I have her!” called back Mr. Ogilvie. “I’ll bring her to the gate.”
Thanks came through the hedge, and the brother and sister walked on.
“It’s old Ogre. Cut!” growled in what was meant to be an aside, a voice
the master knew full well, and there was a rushing off of feet, like
ponies in a field.
When the sheep gate was reached, a great furniture van was seen standing
at the door of the “Folly,” and there appeared a troop of boys and girls
in black, eager to welcome their pet.
“Thank you, sir; thank you very much. Come, Polly,” said the eldest boy,
taking possession of the bird.
“I think we have met before,” said the schoolmaster to the younger ones,
glad to see that two--i.e. the new Robert and Armine Brownlow--had not
joined in the sauve qui peut.
Nay, Robert turned and said, “Mother, it is Mr. Ogilvie.”
Then that gentleman was aware that one of the black figures had a
widow’s cap, with streamers flying behind her in the breeze, but while
he was taking off his hat and beginning, “Mrs. Brownlow,” she held out
her hands to his sister, crying, “Mary, Mary Ogilvie,” and there was an
equally fervent response. “Is it? Is it really Caroline Allen?” and
the two friends linked eager hands in glad pressure, turning, after the
first moment, towards the house, while Mary said, “David, it is my dear
old schoolfellow; Carey, this is my brother.”
“You were very kind to these boys,” said Carey, warmly shaking hands
with him. “The name sounded friendly, but I little thought you were
Mary’s brother. Are you living here, Mary? How delightful!”
“Alas, no; I am only keeping holiday with David. I go back to-morrow.”
“Then stay now, stay and let me get all I can of you, in this frightful
muddle,” entreated Caroline. “Chaos is come again, but you won’t mind.”
“I’ll come and help you,” said Mary. “David, you must go on alone and
come back for me.”
“Can’t I be of use?” offered David, feeling rather shut out in the cold;
“I see a bookcase. Isn’t that in my line?”
“And here’s the box with its books,” said Janet. “Oh! mother, do let
that be finished off at least! Bobus, there are the shelves, and I have
all their pegs in my basket.”
The case was happily in its place against the wall, and Janet had seized
on her recruit to hold the shelves while she pegged them, while the two
friends were still exchanging their first inquiries, Carey exclaiming,
“Now, you naughty Mary, where have you been, and why didn’t you write?”
“I have been in Russia, and I didn’t write, because nobody answered, and
I didn’t know where anybody was.”
“In Russia! I thought you were with a Scottish family, and wrote to you
to the care of some laird with an unearthly name.”
“But you knew that they took me abroad.”
“And Alice Brown told me that letters sent to the place in Scotland
would find you. I wrote three times, and when you did not answer my
last--” and Caroline broke off with things unutterable in her face.
“I never had any but the first when you were going to London. I answered
that. Yes, I did! Don’t look incredulous. I wrote from Sorrento.”
“That must have miscarried. Where did you address it.”
“To the old place, inside a letter to Mrs. Mercer.”
“I see! Poor Mrs. Mercer went away ill, and did not live long after, and
I suppose her people never troubled themselves about her letters. But
why did not you get ours.”
“Mrs. McIan died at Venice, and the aunts came out, and considering me
too young to go on with the laird and his girls, they fairly made me
over to a Russian family whom we had met. Unluckily, as I see now, I
wrote to Mrs. Mercer, and as I never heard more I gave up writing. Then
the Crimean War cut me off entirely even from David. I had only one
letter all that time.”
“How is it that you are a governess? I thought one was sure of a pension
from a Russian grandee!”
“These were not very grand grandees, only counts, and though they paid
liberally, they could not pension one. So when I had done with the
youngest daughter, I came to England and found a situation in London. I
tried to look up our old set, but could not get on the track of anyone
except Emily Collins, who told me you had married very soon, but was not
even sure of your name. Very soon! Why, Caroline, your daughter looks as
old as yourself.”
“I sometimes think she is older! And have you seen my Eton boy?”
“Was it he who received the delightful popinjay, who ‘Up and spak’ so
much to the purpose?” asked Mr. Ogilvie.
“Yes, it was Allen. He is the only one you did not see in the morning.
Did they do tolerably?”
“I only wish I had any boys who did half as well,” said Mr. Ogilvie, the
lads being gone for more books.
“I was afraid for John and Armine, for we have been unsettled, and I
could not go on so steadily with them as before,” she said eagerly, but
faltering a little. “Armine told me he blundered in Phaedrus, but I hope
he did fairly on the whole.”
“So well that if you ask my advice, I should say keep him to yourself
two years more.”
“Oh! I am so glad,” with a little start of joy. “You’ll tell his uncle?
He insisted--he had some impression that they were very naughty boys,
whom I could not cope with, poor little fellows.”
“I can decidedly say he is learning more from you than he would in
school among those with whom, at his age, I must place him.”
“Thank you, thank you. Then Babie won’t lose her companion. She wanted
to go to school with Armie, having always gone on with him. And the
other two--what of them? Bobus is sure to work for the mere pleasure of
it--but Jock?”
“I don’t promise that he may not let himself down to the standard of his
age and develop a capacity for idleness, but even he has time to spare,
and he is at that time of life when boys do for one another what no one
else can do for them.”
“The Colonel said the boys were a good set and gentlemanly,” said Carey
wistfully.
“I think I may say that for them,” returned their master. “They are not
bad boys as boys go. There is as much honour and kindliness among them
as you would find anywhere. Besides, to boys like yours this would be
only a preparatory school. They are sure to fly off to scholarships.”
“I don’t know,” said Carey. “I want them to be where physical science is
an object. Or do you think that thorough classical training is a better
preparation than taking up any individual line?”
“I believe it is easier to learn how to learn through languages than
through anything else.”
“And to be taught how to learn is a much greater thing than to be
crammed,” said Carey. “Of course when one begins to teach oneself,
the world has become “mine oyster,” and one has the dagger. The point
becomes how to sharpen the dagger.”
At that moment three or four young people rushed in with arms full of
books, and announcing that the uncle and aunt were coming. The next
moment they appeared, and stood amazed at the accession of volunteer
auxiliaries. Mr. Ogilvie introduced his sister, while Caroline explained
that she was an old friend,--meanwhile putting up a hand to feel for her
cap, as she detected in Ellen’s eyes those words, “Caroline, your cap.”
“We came to see how you were getting on,” said the Colonel, kindly.
“Thank you, we are getting on capitally. And oh, Robert, Mr. Ogilvie
will tell you; he thinks Armine too--too--I mean he thinks he had better
not go into school yet,” she added, thankful that she had not said “too
clever for the school.”
The Colonel turned aside with the master to discuss the matter, and the
ladies went into the drawing-room, the new room opening on the lawn,
under a verandah, with French windows. It was full of furniture in the
most dire confusion. Mrs. Robert Brownlow wanted to clear off at once
the desks and other things that seemed school-room properties, saying
that a little room downstairs had always served the purpose.
“That must be nurse’s sitting-room,” said Carey.
“Old nurse! She can be of no use, my dear!”
“Oh yes, she is; she has lived with us ever since dear grandmamma
married, and has no home, and no relations. We could not get on without
dear old nursey!”
“Well, my dear, I hope you will find it answer to keep her on. But as
to this room! It is such a pity not to keep it nice, when you have such
handsome furniture too.”
“I want to keep it nice with habitation,” said Caroline. “That’s the
only way to do it. I can’t bear fusty, shut-up smart rooms, and I think
the family room ought to be the pleasantest and prettiest in the house
for the children’s sake.”
“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Brownlow, with a serene good nature, contrasting
with the heat with which Caroline spoke, “it is your affair, my dear,
but my boys would not thank me for shutting them in with my pretty
things, and I should be sorry to have them there. Healthy country boys
like to have their fun, and I would not coop them up.”
“Oh, but there’s the studio to run riot in, Ellen,” said Carey. “Didn’t
you see? The upper story of the tower. We have put the boy’s tools
there, and I can do my modelling there, and make messes and all that’s
nice,” she said, smiling to Mary, and to Allen, who had just come in.
“Do you model, Carey?” Mary asked, and Allen volunteered to show his
mother’s groups and bas-reliefs, thereby much increasing the litter
on the floor, and delighting Mary a good deal more than his aunt, who
asked, “What will you do for a store-room then?”
“Put up a few cupboards and shelves anywhere.”
It is not easy to describe the sort of air with which Mrs. Robert
Brownlow received this answer. She said nothing but “Oh,” and
was perfectly unruffled in a sort of sublime contempt, as to the
hopelessness of doing anything with such a being on her own ground.
There did not seem overt provocation, but poor Caroline, used to petting
and approval, chafed and reasoned: “I don’t think anything so important
as a happy home for the boys, where they can have their pursuits, and
enjoy themselves.”
Mrs. Brownlow seemed to think this totally irrelevant, and observed,
“When I have nice things, I like to keep them nice.”
“I like nice boys better than nice things,” cried Carey.
Ellen smiled as though to say she hoped she was not an unnatural mother,
and again said “Oh!”
Mary Ogilvie was very glad to see the two gentlemen come in from the
hall, the Colonel saying, “Mr. Ogilvie tells me he thinks Armine too
small at present for school, Caroline.”
“You know I am very glad of it, Robert,” she said, smiling gratefully,
and Ellen compassionately observed, “Poor little fellow, he is very
small, but country air and food will soon make a man of him if he is not
overdone with books. I make it a point never to force my children.”
“No, that you don’t,” said Caroline, with a dangerous smile about the
corners of her mouth.
“And my boys do quite as well as if they had their heads stuffed and
their growth stunted,” said Ellen. “Joe is only two months older than
Armine, and you are quite satisfied with him, are you not, Mr. Ogilvie?”
“He is more on a level with the others,” said Mr. Ogilvie politely; “but
I wish they were all as forward as this little fellow.”
“Schoolmasters and mammas don’t always agree on those points,” said the
Colonel good-humouredly.
“Very true,” responded his wife. “I never was one for teasing the poor
boys with study and all that. I had rather see them strong and well
grown. They’ll have quite worry enough when they go to school.”
“I’m sorry you look at me in that aspect,” said Mr. Ogilvie.
“Oh, I know you can’t help it,” said the lady.
“Any more than Trois Echelles and Petit Andre,” said Carey, in a low
voice, giving the two Ogilvies the strongest desire to laugh.
Just then out burst a cry of wrath and consternation, making everyone
hurry out into the hall, where, through a perfect cloud of white powder,
loomed certain figures, and a scandalised voice cried “Aunt Caroline,
Jock and Armine have been and let all the arrowroot fly about.”
“You told me to be useful and open parcels,” cried Jock.
“Oh, jolly, jolly! first-rate!” shouted Armine in ecstasy. “It’s just
like Paris in the cloud! More, more, Babie. You are Venus, you know.”
“Master Armine, Miss Barbara! For shame,” exclaimed the nurse’s voice.
“All getting into the carpet, and in your clothes, I do declare! A whole
case of best arrowroot wasted, and worse.”
“‘Twas Jessie’s doing,” replied Jock. “She told me.”
Jessie, decidedly the most like Venus of the party, being a very pretty
girl, with an oval face and brown eyes, had retreated, and was with
infinite disgust brushing the white powder out of her dress, only in
answer ejaculating, “Those boys!”
Jock had not only opened the case, but had opened it upside down, and
the classical performances of Armine and Barbara had powdered themselves
and everything around, while the draught that was rushing through all
the wide open doors and windows dispersed the mischief far and wide.
“Can you do nothing but laugh, Caroline?” gravely said Mrs. Brownlow.
“Janet, shut that window. Children, out of the way! If you were mine, I
should send you to bed.”
“There’s no bed to be sent to,” muttered Jock, running round to give a
sly puff to the white heap, diffusing a sprinkling of white powder over
his aunt’s dress.
“Jock,” said his mother with real firmness and indignation in her voice,
“that is not the way to behave. Beg your aunt’s pardon this instant.”
And to everyone’s surprise the imp obeyed the hand she had laid on
him, and muttered something like, “beg pardon,” though it made his face
crimson.
His uncle exclaimed, “That’s right, my boy,” and his aunt said, with
dignity, “Very well, we’ll say no more about it.”
Mary Ogilvie was in the meantime getting some of the powder back into
the tin, and Janet running in from the kitchen with a maid, a soup
tureen, and sundry spoons, everyone became busy in rescuing the
remains--in the midst of which there was a smash of glass.
“Jock again!” quoth Janet.
“Oh, mother!” called out Jock. “It’s so long! I thought I’d get the
feather-brush to sweep it up with, and the other end of it has been and
gone through this stupid lamp.”
“Things are not unapt to be and go through, where you are concerned, Mr.
Jock, I suspect,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “Suppose you were to come with me,
and your brothers too, and be introduced to the swans on the lake at
Belforest.”
The boys brightened up, the mother said, “Thank you most heartily, if
they will not be a trouble,” and Babie put her hand entreatingly into
the schoolmaster’s, and said, “Me too?”
“What, Venus herself! I thought she had disappeared in the cloud! Let
her come, pray, Mrs. Brownlow.”
“I thought the children would have been with their cousins,” observed
the aunt.
“So we were,” returned Armine; “but Johnnie and Joe ran away when they
saw Mr. Ogilvie coming.”
Babie having by this time had a little black hat tied on, and as
much arrowroot as possible brushed out of her frock; Carey warned the
schoolmaster not to let himself be chattered to death, and he walked off
with the three younger ones.
Caroline would have kept her friend, but Mary, seeing that little good
could be gained by staying with her at present, replied that she would
take the walk now, and return to her friend in a couple of hours’ time;
and Carey was fain to consent, though with a very wistful look in her
eyes.
At the end of that time, or more, Janet met the party at the garden
gate. “You are to go down to my uncle’s, children,” she said; “mother
has one of her very bad headaches.”
There was an outcry that they must take her the flowers, of which their
hands and arms were full; but Janet was resolute, though Babie was very
near tears.
“To-morrow--to-morrow,” she said. “She must lie still now, or she won’t
be able to do anything. Run away, Babie, they’ll be waiting tea for you.
Allen’s there. He’ll take care of you.”
“I want to give Mother Carey those dear white flowers,” still entreated
Babie.
“I’ll give them, my dear. They want you down there--Ellie and Esther.”
“I don’t want to play with Ellie and Essie,” sturdily declared Barbara.
“They say it is telling falsehoods when one wants to play at anything.”
“They don’t understand pretending,” said Armine. “Do let us stay, Janet,
we’ll not make one smallest little atom of noise, if Jock doesn’t stay.”
“You can’t,” said Janet, “for there’s nothing for you to eat, and nurse
and Susan are as savage as Carribee islanders.”
This last argument was convincing. The children threw their flowers into
Janet’s arms, gave their hands to Miss Ogilvie, and Babie between her
two brothers, scampered off, while Miss Ogilvie uttered her griefs and
regrets.
“My mother would like to see you,” said Janet; “indeed, I think it will
do her good. She told me to bring you in.”
“Such a day of fatigue,” began Mary.
“That and all the rest of it,” said Janet moodily.
“Is she subject to headaches?”
“No, she never had one, till--” Janet broke off, for they had reached
her mother’s door.
“Bring her in,” said a weary voice, and Mary found herself beside a low
iron bed, where Carey, shaking off the handkerchief steeped in vinegar
and water on her brow, and showing a tear-stained, swollen-eyed face,
threw herself into her friend’s arms.
But she did not cry now, her tears all came when she was alone, and when
Mary said something of being so sorry for her headache, she said, “Oh!
it’s only with knocking one’s head against a mattress like mad people,”
in such a matter-of-fact voice, that Mary for a moment wondered whether
she had really knocked her head.
Mary doubted what to say, and wetted the kerchief afresh with the
vinegar and water.
“Oh, Mary, I wish you were going to stay here.”
“I wish! I wish I could, my dear!”
“I think I could be good if you were here!” she sighed. “Oh, Mary, why
do they say that troubles make one good?”
“They ought,” said Mary.
“They don’t,” said Carey. “They make me wicked!” and she hid her face in
the pillow with a great gasp.
“My poor Carey!” said the gentle voice.
“Oh! I want to tell you all about it. Oh! Mary, we have been so happy!”
and what a wail there was in the tone. “But I can’t talk,” she added
faintly, “it makes me sick, and that’s all her doing too.”
“Don’t try,” said Mary tenderly. “We know where to find each other now,
and you can write to me.”
“I will,” said Caroline; “I can write much better than tell. And you
will come back, Mary?”
“As soon as I can get a holiday, my dear, indeed I will.”
Carey was too much worn out not to repose on the promise, and though she
was unwilling to let her friend go, she said very little more.
Mary longed to give her a cup of strong coffee, and suggested it to
Janet; but headaches were so new in the family, that domestic remedies
had not become well-known. Janet instantly rushed down to order it, but
in the state of the house at that moment, it was nearly as easy to get a
draught of pearls.
“But she shall have it, Miss Ogilvie,” said Janet, putting on her hat.
“Where’s the nearest grocer?”
“Oh, never mind, my dear,” sighed the patient. “It will go off of
itself, when I can get to sleep.”
“You shall have it,” returned Janet.
And Mary having taken as tender a farewell as Caroline was able to bear,
they walked off together; but the girl did not respond to the kindness
of Miss Ogilvie.
She was too miserable not to be glum, too reserved to be open to a
stranger. Mary guessed a little of the feeling, though she feared that
an uncomfortable daughter might be one of poor Carey’s troubles, and
she could not guess the girl’s sense of banishment from all that she had
enjoyed, society, classes, everything, or her feeling that the Magnum
Bonum itself was imperilled by exile into the land of dulness, which
of course the poor child exaggerated in her imagination. Her only
consolation was to feel herself the Masterman Ready of the shipwreck.