_SCHOOL-DAYS AT CAEN._
One morning Bessie Fairfax rose to a new sensation. "To-day the classes
open, and there is an end of treats," cried Janey Fricker with a
despairing resignation. "You will soon see the day-scholars, and by
degrees the boarders will arrive. Madame was to come late last night,
and the next news will be of Miss Hiloe. Perhaps they will appear
to-morrow. Heigh-ho!"
"You are not to care for Miss Hiloe; I shall stand up for you. I have no
notion of tyrants," said Bessie in a spirited way. But her feelings were
very mixed, very far from comfortable. This morning it seemed more than
ever cruel to have sent her to school at her age, ignorant as she was of
school ways. She shuddered in anticipation of the dreadful moment when
it would be publicly revealed that she could neither play on the piano
nor speak a word of French. Her deficiencies had been confided to Janey
in a shy, shamefaced way, and Janey, who could chatter fluently in
French and play ten tunes at least, had betrayed amazement. Afterward
she had given consolation. There was one boarder who made no pretence of
learning music, and several day-scholars; of course, being French, they
spoke French, but not a girl of them all, not madame herself, could
frame three consecutive sentences in English to be understood.
In the novelty of the situation Janey was patroness for the day. Madame
Fournier had to be encountered after breakfast, and proved to be a
perfectly small lady, of most intelligent countenance and kind
conciliatory speech. She kissed Janey on both cheeks, and bent a
penetrating pair of brown eyes on Bessie's face, which looked intensely
proud in her blushing shyness. Madame had received from Mrs. Wiley (a
former pupil and temporary teacher) instructions that Bessie's education
and training had been of the most desultory kind, and that it was
imperatively necessary to remedy her deficiencies, and give her a
veneering of cultivation and a polish to fit her for the station of life
to which she was called. Madame was able to judge for herself in such
matters. Bessie impressed her favorably, and no humiliation was
inflicted on her even as touching her ignorance of French and the piano.
It was decreed that as Bessie professed no enthusiasm for music, it
would be wasting time that might be more profitably employed to teach
her; and a recommendation to the considerate indulgence of Mademoiselle
Adelaide, who was in charge of the junior class, saved her from huffs
and ridicule while going through the preliminary paces of French.
At recreation-time in the garden Janey ran up to ask how she had got on.
"_J'ai, tu as, il a_," said Bessie, and laughed with radiant audacity.
Her phantoms were already vanishing into thin air.
Not many French girls were yet present. The next noon-day they were
doubled. By Saturday all were come, and answered to their names when the
roll was called, the great and dreadful Miss Hiloe amongst them. They
were two, Mademoiselle Ada and Mademoiselle Ellen. The younger sister
was a cipher--an echo of the elder, and an example of how she ought to
be worshipped. Mademoiselle Ada would be a personage wherever she was.
Already her _rôle_ in the world was adopted. She had a pale Greek face,
a lofty look, and a proud spirit. She was not rude to those who paid
her the homage that was her due--she was, indeed, helpful and
patronizing to the humble--but for a small Mordecai like Janey Fricker
she had nothing but insolence and rough words. Janey would not bow down
to her; in her own way Janey was as stubborn and proud as her tyrant,
but she was not as strong. She was a waif by herself, and Mademoiselle
Ada was obeyed, served, and honored by a large following of admirers.
Bessie Fairfax did not feel drawn to enroll herself amongst them, and
before the classes had been a month assembled she had rejoiced the heart
of the master-mariner's little daughter with many warm, affectionate
assurances that there was no one else in all the school that she loved
so well as herself.
By degrees, and very quick degrees, Bessie's tremors for how she should
succeed at school wore off. What fantastic distresses she would have
been saved if she had known beforehand that she possessed a gift of
beauty, more precious in the sight of girls than the first place in the
first class, than the utmost eloquence of tongues, and the most
brilliant execution on the piano! It came early to be disputed whether
Mademoiselle Ada or Mademoiselle Bessie was the _belle des belles_; and
Bessie, too, soon had her court of devoted partisans, who extolled her
fair roseate complexion, blue eyes, and golden hair as lovelier far than
Mademoiselle Ada's cold, severe perfection of feature. Bessie took their
praises very coolly, and learnt her verbs, wrote her _dictées_, and
labored at her _thêmes_ with the solid perseverance of a girl who has
her charms to acquire. The Miss Hiloes were not unwilling to be on good
terms with her, but that, she told them, was impossible while they were
so ostentatiously discourteous to her friend, Janey Fricker. When to her
armor of beauty Bessie added the weapon of fearless, incisive speech,
the risk of affronts was much abated. Mr. Carnegie had prophesied wisely
when he said for his wife's consolation that character tells more in the
long-run than talking French or playing on the piano. Her companions
might like Bessie Fairfax, or they might let liking alone, but very few
would venture a second time on ill-natured demonstrations either towards
herself or towards any one she protected.
Bessie's position in the community was established when the tug of work
began. Her health and complexion triumphed over the coarse, hard fare;
her habits of industry made application easy; but the dulness and
monotony were sickening to her, the routine and confinement were hateful
yoke and bondage. Saving one march on Sunday to the Temple under Miss
Foster's escort, she went nowhere beyond the garden for weeks together.
Both French and English girls were in the same case, unless some friend
residing in the town or visiting it obtained leave to take them out. And
nobody came for Bessie. That she should go home to Beechhurst for a
Christmas holiday she had taken for granted; and while abiding the
narrow discipline, and toiling at her unaccustomed tasks with
conscientious diligence, that flattering anticipation made sunshine in
the distance. Every falling leaf, every chill breath of advancing
winter, brought it nearer. Janey and she used to talk of it half their
recreation-time--by the stagnant, weedy fountain in the garden at noon,
and in the twilight windows of the _classe_, when thoughts of the absent
are sweetest. For the Petrel had not come into port at Caen since the
autumn, and Janey was still left at school in daily expectation and
uncertainty.
"I am only sorry, Janey, that you are not sure of going home too," said
Bessie, one day, commiserating her.
"If I am not sailing with father I would rather be here. _I_ am not so
lonely since you came," responded Janey.
Then Bessie dilated on the pleasantness of the doctor's house, the
excellent kindness of her father and mother, the goodness of the boys,
the rejoicing there would be at her return, both amongst friends at
Beechhurst and friends at Brook. Each day, after she had indulged her
memory and imagination in this strain, her heart swelled with loving
expectancy, and when the recess was spoken of as beginning "next week,"
she could hardly contain herself for joy.
What a cruel pity that such natural delightsome hopes must all collapse,
all fall to the ground! It was ruled by Mr. Fairfax that his
granddaughter had been absent so short a time that she need not go to
England this winter season. Came a letter from Mrs. Carnegie to express
the infinite disappointment at home. And there an end.
"I cried for three days," Bessie afterward confessed. "It seemed that
there never could befall me such another misery."
It was indeed terrible. In a day the big house was empty of scholars.
Madame Fournier adjourned to Bayeux. Miss Foster went to her mother. The
masters, the other teachers disappeared, all except Mademoiselle
Adelaide, who was to stay in charge of the two girls for a fortnight,
and then to resign her office for the same period to Miss Foster. There
was a month of this heartless solitude before Bessie and Janey.
Mademoiselle Adelaide bemoaned herself as their jailer, as much in
prison as they. They had good grounds of complaint. A deserted school at
Christmas-time is not a cheerful place.
But there was compensation preparing for Bessie.
* * * * *
"And when does Bessie Fairfax come?" was almost the first question of
Harry Musgrave when he arrived from Oxford.
"Bessie is not to come at all," was the answer.
What was that for? He proceeded to an investigation. There was a streak
of lively, strong perversity in Harry Musgrave. Remarks had been passed
on his accompanying Mr. Carnegie when he conveyed Bessie to
school--quite uncalled-for remarks, which had originated at Fairfield
and the rectory. The impertinence of them roused Harry's temper, and,
boy-like, he instantly resolved that if his dear little Bessie was kept
away from home and punished on his account, he would give her meddlesome
friends something to talk about by going to Caen again and seeing her in
spite of them. He made out with clearness enough to satisfy his
conscience that Lady Latimer and Mrs. Wiley gave themselves unnecessary
anxiety about Mr. Fairfax's granddaughter, and that he was perfectly
justified in circumventing their cautious tactics. He did not speak of
his intention to the Carnegies, lest he should meet with a remonstrance
that he would be forced to yield to; but he told his sympathizing mother
that he was going to spend five pounds of his pocket-money in a run
across to Normandy to see Bessie Fairfax. Mrs. Musgrave asked if it was
quite wise, quite kind, for Bessie's sake. He was sure that Bessie would
be glad, and he did not care who was vexed.
Harry Musgrave gave himself no leisure to reconsider the matter, but
went off to Hampton, to Havre, to Caen, with the lightest heart and most
buoyant spirit in the world. He put up at Thunby's, and in the frosty
sunshine of the next morning marched with the airs and sensations of a
lover in mischief to the Rue St. Jean. Louise, that sage portress,
recognized the bold young cousin of the English _belle des belles_, and
announced him to Mademoiselle Adelaide. After a parley Bessie was
permitted to receive him, to go out with him, to be as happy as three
days were long. Harry told her how and why he had come, and Bessie was
furiously indignant at the Wileys pretending to any concern in her
affairs. Towards Lady Latimer she was more indulgent. They spent many
hours in company, and told all their experiences. Harry talked of dons
and proctors, of work and play, of hopes and projects, of rivals and
friends. Bessie had not so much to tell: she showed him the _classe_ and
her place there, and introduced him to Janey. They visited all the
public gardens and river-side walks. They were beautiful young people,
and were the observed of many observers. The sagacious _curé_ of St.
Jean's, the confessor and director at the school, saw them by chance on
the morning of a day when he had a mission to Bayeux. What more natural
than that he should call upon Madame Fournier at her uncle the canon's
house? and what more simple than that he should mention having met the
English _belle_ and her cousin of the dangerous sex?
Bessie Fairfax and Janey Fricker attended vespers regularly on Sunday
afternoons at the church of St. Jean; but they were not amongst the fair
penitents who whispered their peccadilloes once a fortnight in the
_curé's_ ear--he secluded in an edifice of chintz like a shower-bath,
they kneeling outside the curtain with the blank eyes of the Holy Mother
upon them, and the remote presence of a guardian-teacher out of hearing.
But he took an interest in them. No overt act of proselytism was
permitted in the school, but if an English girl liked vespers instead of
the second service at the Temple, her preference was not discouraged.
Bessie attended the Protestant ordinances at stated seasons, and went to
vespers and benediction besides. The _curé_ approved of her ingenuous
devotion. Once upon a time there had been Fairfaxes faithful children
of the Church: this young lady was an off-set of that house, its heiress
and hope in this generation; it would be a holy deed to bring her, the
mother perhaps of a new line, within its sacred pale.
Madame Fournier heard his communication with alarm. Already, by her
ex-teacher Mrs. Wiley, this young Musgrave had been spoken against with
voice of warning. Madame returned to Caen with her worthy pastor. The
enterprising lover was just flown. Bessie had a sunshine face.
Mademoiselle Adelaide wept that night because of the reproaches madame
made her, and the following morning Bessie was invited to resume her
lessons, and was mulcted of every holiday indulgence. Janey Fricker
suffered with her, and for nearly a week they were all _en penitence_.
Then Miss Foster came; madame vanished without leave-taking, as if
liable to reappear at any instant, and lessons lapsed back into leisure.
Bessie felt that she had been an innocent scapegrace, and Harry very
venturesome; but she had so much enjoyed her "treat," and felt so much
the happier for it, that, all madame's grave displeasure
notwithstanding, she never was properly sorry.
Harry Musgrave returned to England as jubilant as he left Bessie. The
trip, winter though it was, exhilarated him. But it behooved him to be
serious when Mr. Carnegie was angry, and Mrs. Carnegie declared that she
did not know how to forgive him. If his escapade were made known to Mr.
Fairfax, the upshot might be a refusal to let Bessie revisit them at
Beechhurst throughout the whole continuance of her school-days. And that
was what came of it. Of course his escapade was communicated to Mr.
Fairfax, and Madame Fournier received a letter from Abbotsmead with the
intimation that the youth who had presented himself in the Rue St. Jean
as a cousin of Miss Fairfax was nothing akin to her, and that if she
could not be secured from his presumptuous intrusions there, she must be
removed from madame's custody. They had associated together as children,
but it was desirable to stay the progress of their unequal friendship as
they grew up; for the youth, though well conducted and clever, was of
mean origin and poor condition; so Mr. Fairfax was credibly informed.
And he trusted that Madame Fournier would see the necessity of a
decisive separation between them.
Madame did see the necessity. With Mr. Fairfax's letter came to her
hand another, a letter from the "youth" himself, but addressed to his
dear Bessie. That it should ever reach her was improbable. There was the
strictest quarantine for letters in the Rue St. Jean. Even letters to
and from parents passed through madame's private office. She opened and
read Harry Musgrave's as an obvious necessity, smiled over its boyish
exaggeration, and relished its fun at her own expense, for madame was a
woman of wisdom and humor. Little by little she had learnt the whole of
Bessie's life and conversation from her own lips; and she felt that
there was nothing to be feared from a lover of young Musgrave's type,
unless he was set on mischief by the premature interposition of
obstacles, of which this denial to Bessie of her Christmas holiday was
an example.
However, madame had not to judge, but to act. She returned Harry
Musgrave his letter, with a polite warning that such a correspondence
with a girl at school was silly and not to be thought of. Harry blushed
a little, felt foolish, and put the document into the fire. Madame made
him confess to himself that he had gone to Caen as much for bravado as
for love of Bessie. Bessie never knew of the letter, but she cherished
her pretty romance in her heart, and when she was melancholy she thought
of the garden at Brook, and of the beeches by the stream where they had
sat and told their secrets on their farewell afternoon; and in her
imagination her dear Harry was a perfect friend and lover.
* * * * *
That episode passed out of date. Bessie gave her mind to improvement.
Discovery was made that she had a sweet singing voice, and, late in the
day as it seemed to begin, she undertook to learn the piano, on the plea
that it would be useful if she could only play enough to accompany
herself in a song. She had her dancing-lessons, her drawing-lessons, and
as much study of grammars, dictionaries, histories, geographies, and
sciences-made-easy as was good for her, and every day showed her more
and more what a dunce she was. Madame, however, treated her as a girl
who had _des moyens_, and she was encouraged to believe that when she
had done with school she would make as creditable a figure in the world
as most of her contemporaries.
How far off her _début_ might be no one had yet inquired. Since her late
experiences there was little certainty in Bessie's expectations of going
to Beechhurst for the long vacation which began in July. And it was
salutary that she entertained a doubt, for it mitigated disappointment
when it came. About a fortnight before the breaking up madame sent for
her one evening in to the _salon_, and with much consideration informed
her that it was arranged she should go with her to Bayeux and to the
sea, instead of going to England. Bessie had acquired the art of
controlling her feelings, and she accepted the fiat in silence. But she
felt a throb of vindictive rage against her grandfather, and said in her
heart that to live in a world where such men were masters, women ought
to be made of machinery. She refused to write to him, but she wrote home
to Beechhurst, and asked if any of them were coming to see her. But the
loving joint reply of her father and mother was that they thought it
better not.
Madame Fournier was indulgent in holiday-time, and Bessie was better
pleased at Bayeux than she had thought it possible to be. The canon
proved to be the most genial of old clergymen. He knew all the romance
of French history, and gave Bessie more instruction in their peripatetic
lectures about that drowsy, ancient city than she could have learnt in a
year of dull books. Then there was Queen Matilda's famous tapestry to
study in the museum, a very retired, rustic nook, all embowered in
vines. Bessie also practised sketching, for Bayeux is rich in bits of
street scenery--gables, queer windows, gateways, flowery balconies. And
she was asked into society with madame, and met the gentlefolks who kept
their simple, retired state about the magnificent cathedral. Before
Bayeux palled she was carried off to Luc-sur-Mer, the canon going too,
also in the care of madame his niece.
Bessie's regret next to that for home was for the loneliness of Janey
Fricker, left with Miss Foster in the Rue St. Jean. She wished for Janey
to walk with her in the rough sea-wind, to bathe with her, and talk with
her. One morning when the sun was glorious on the dancing waves, she
cried out her longing for her little friend. The next day Janey arrived
by the diligence. Mr. Fairfax had given madame _carte blanche_ for the
holiday entertainment of his granddaughter, and madame was glad to be
able to content her so easily. Luc-sur-Mer is not a place to be
enthusiastic about. Its beauty is moderate--a shelving beach, a
background of sand-hills, and the rocky reef of Calvados. The canon took
his gentle paces with a broad-brimmed abbé from Avranches, and madame
was happy in the society of a married sister from Paris. The two girls
did as they pleased. They were very fond of one another, and this
sentiment is enough for perfect bliss at their age. Bessie had never
wavered in her protecting kindness to Janey, and Janey served her now
with devotion, and promised eternal remembrance and gratitude.
When a fortnight came to an end at Luc-sur-Mer, Bessie returned to
Bayeux, and Janey went back to the Rue St. Jean. Before the school
reopened came into port at Caen the Petrel, and John Fricker, the
master-mariner, carried away his daughter. Janey left six lines of
hasty, tender adieu with Miss Foster for her friend, but no address. She
only said that she was "Going to sail with father."