"Is there much distress?"
"There ought not to be, for old Dr Fogram and my father send down a
handsome sum for blankets and coals every Christmas, and Uphill takes
care to get its share!" He laughed. "No sinecure distributing!"
"We have not been to see the school yet."
"A decrepit old crone, poor old body! She will soon have to give in.
She can't even keep the children from pulling off her spectacles."
"And Sunday School?"
"Well, my father doesn't approve of cramming the poor children. I
believe the Methodists have something of the kind at Downhill; but there
is no one to attend to one here, and the place is quite free of
dissent."
"Cause and effect?" said Captain Carbonel, drily.
"Would you object if we tried to teach the poor children something?"
asked Mrs Carbonel, cautiously.
"Oh no, not at all. All the good ladies are taking it up, I believe.
Mrs Grantley, of Poppleby, is great at it, and I see no harm in it; but
you'll have to reckon with my father. He says there will soon be no
ploughmen, and my mother says there will be no more cooks or housemaids.
You'd better write to old Fogram, he'll back you up."
Mary had it on her lips to ask him about Widow Mole, but he had turned
to Edmund to discuss the hunting and the shooting of the neighbourhood.
They discovered, partly at this time, and partly from other visitors,
that he was the younger son of the squire of Downhill, who had been made
to take Holy Orders without any special fitness for it, because there
was a living likely soon to be ready for him, and in the meantime he was
living at home, an amiable, harmless young man, but bred up so as to
have no idea of the duties of his vocation, and sharing freely in the
sports of his family, acting as if he believed, like his father, that
they were the most important obligations of man; and accepting the
general household belief that only the Methodistical could wish for more
religious practice.
Be it understood that all this happened in the earlier years of the
century, and would be impossible under the revival of the Church that
has since taken place. No one now can hold more than one piece of
preferment at a time, so that parishes cannot be left unprovided. Nor
could Ashley Selby be ordained without a preparation and examination
which would have given him a true idea of what he undertook, or would
have prevented his ordination. This, however, was at a time when the
work of the church had grown very slack, and when a better spirit was
beginning to revive. The father of Mary and Dora had been a zealous and
earnest man, and both they and Edmund had really serious ideas of duty
and of the means of carrying them out. In London they had heard sermons
which had widened and deepened their views, but they had done no work,
as the relation with whom they lived thought it impossible and improper
for young ladies there. Thus they were exceedingly desirous of doing
what they could to help the place where their lot was cast, and they set
forth to reconnoitre. First, they found their way to the school, which
stood on the border of the village green, a picturesque thatched
cottage, with a honeysuckle and two tall poplars outside. But strange
sounds guided them on their way, and the first thing they saw was a
stout boy of four or five years old in petticoats bellowing loudly
outside, and trying to climb the wicket gate which was firmly secured by
a rusty chain. Mary tried to undo the gate, speaking meanwhile to the
urchin, but he rushed away headlong back into the school, and they heard
him howling, "They bees a-coming!"
A big girl in a checkered pinafore came out and made a curtsey,
assisting to undo the chain.
"What has he been doing?" asked Dora.
"He be a mortial bad boy!" answered the girl. "He've been getting at
Dame Verdon's sugar."
"And what is your name?" asked Mrs Carbonel.
"Lizzie Verdon, ma'am. I helps Grannie."
Grannie did seem in need of help. There she sat in a big wooden chair
by the fire, the very picture of an old dame, with a black bonnet,
high-crowned and crescent shaped in front, with a white muslin cap
below, a buff handkerchief crossed over her shoulders, a dark
short-sleeved gown, long mittens covering her arms, and a checkered
apron; a regular orthodox birch-rod by her side, and a black cat at her
feet. But her head was shaking with palsy, and she hardly seemed to
understand what Lizzie screamed into her ear that, "Here was the
ladies."
But the door which they had shut in the face of their spaniel was thrust
open. Up went the cat's back, bristle went her tail, her eyes shot
sparks, and she bounded to the top of her mistress's chair. Dandy
barked defiance, all the children shouted or screamed and danced about,
and the old woman gasped and shook more. Lizzie alone was almost equal
to the occasion. She flew at the cat who was standing on tiptoe on the
tall back of the chair, with huge tail and eyes like green lamps,
swearing, hissing, and spitting, and, regardless of scratches, caught
him up by the scruff of his neck and disposed of him behind the
staircase door; while Dora at the same moment secured Dandy by the
collar, and rushing out, put him over the garden gate and shut both that
and the door. Mary, afraid that the old lady was going to have a fit,
went up to her with soothing apologies, but the unwonted sight seemed to
confuse her the more, and she began crying. Lizzie, however, came to
the rescue. She evidently had all her wits about her. First she called
out: "Order, children. Don't you see the ladies? Sit down, Jem
Hewlett, or I'll after you with the stick!" Then, as the children
ranged themselves, she stamped at some to enforce her orders, shook the
rod at others, and set up the smallest like so many ninepins, handling
them by the shoulder on one small bench, interspersing the work with
consolations to granny and explanations to the ladies, who were about to
defer their visit.
"Granny, now never you mind. Tip is all right upstairs. Benny, you bad
boy, I'll be at you. Don't go, please, lady. Bet, what be doin' to
Jim? Never mind, granny! Susan Pucklechurch, you'll read to the lady,
so pretty."
About five children, more tidily dressed than the others, had a whole
and sound form to themselves near the fire and the mistress. The other
two benches were propped, the one on two blocks of wood, the other on
two sound and two infirm legs, and this was only balanced by a child at
each end, so that when one got up the whole tumbled down or flew up, but
the seat was very low, and the catastrophe generally produced mirth.
Susan Pucklechurch, granddaughter to the old bailiff and his Betty, was
evidently the show scholar. "She be in her Testament, ma'am," explained
Lizzie; and accordingly a terribly thumbed and dilapidated New Testament
was put into the child's hand, from which she proceeded to bawl out,
with long pauses between the words, and spelling the longest, a piece of
the Sermon on the Mount, selected because there were no names in it. It
was a painful performance to reverent ears, and as soon as practicable
Mrs Carbonel stopped it with "Good child!" and a penny, and asked what
the others read. Those who were not "in the Testament" read the
"Universal Spelling-book," provided at their own expense, but not in
much better condition, and from this George Hewlett, son and heir to the
carpenter, and a very different person from his cousin Jem, read the
history of the defence of that city where each trade offered its own
commodity for the defence, even to the cobbler, who proposed to lay in a
stock of good l-e-a-t-h-e-r--lather!
These, and three little maidens who had picture spelling-books not going
beyond monosyllables, were the aristocracy, and sat apart, shielded from
the claws and teeth of their neighbours in consideration of paying
fourpence, instead of twopence, a week. The boy was supposed to write
large letters on a slate, and the bigger girls did some needlework, and
not badly--indeed, it was the best of their performances. The dame went
on mumbling and shaking all the time, and it was quite evident that she
was entirely past the work, and that Lizzie was the real mistress;
indeed, Mrs Carbonel was inclined to give her credit for a certain
talent for teaching and keeping order, when the sisters emerged from the
close little oven of a place, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry,
but full of great designs.
Captain Carbonel, however, to their disappointment, advised them to wait
to set anything on foot till Dr Fogram, the President of Saint Cyril's,
came down in the summer holidays, when counsel could be taken with him,
and there would be more knowledge of the subject. Dora did not like
this at all. She was sure that the Son of Mist, as she was naughty
enough to call the doctor, would only hamper them, and she was only half
consoled by being told that there was no objection to her collecting a
few of the children on Sunday and trying to teach them, and in the
meantime acquaintance might be made with the mothers.